Smith Westerns
Dye It Blonde

It's undeniable that there are albums that hold an emotional significance for some people who might be more sensitive than others. But the concept that a reviewer must always hide their feelings in favor of a "golden mean," a proper distance to avoid being emotionally involved, above passions, is an idea that has become outdated. Hence, mine will be a "punk" review—screw the trappings and technique; if it matters, I'll put my heart into it, trying to explain what an album means to me that will forever tie me to the memories of summer 2011, to a particular moment in my life, happy, carefree, and emotionally flourishing, because two years later, listening to it again, with pain, because that magical moment has vanished, but also with affection, because the culture of contemplating a happy memory often equates to serenity, I discovered that I still think "Dye It Blonde" is a great album.

Seeing these beardless lads from Chicago (going by memory, I hope I'm not dreadfully mistaken) would make them seem like yet another incarnation of a boy band without art or part, slick hairstyles, languid looks for young girls, and all the gear to excite the Smartphone generation. The singer's vocal approach might even irritate, far from possessing objective vocal prowess, he relies on a childish falsetto, also launching into very personal vocalizations, not always pleasant for an educated ear. Two years earlier, they had released their first eponymous record, a typically lo-fi work without infamy and without praise, raw but with that something extra that convinced a renowned producer like Chris Coady to take care of them. And thus, a small miracle happens.

From the lo-fi of their debut, the band veers towards a sweet retro-flavored pop that works brilliantly, ambitiously looking at certain works by the Beatles and the Beach Boys, managing to invent and capture a distinctive sound and applying it to all the tracks of the album, with a display of maturity that's even exhilarating.

"Weekend" opens the dance with a dusty keyboard in the distance, and immediately that particular guitar sound dictates the first riff. A sound that seems to come from Abbey Road, understood both as a recording studio and as an album. Yes, it sounds like the guitar of a revived George Harrison, precise, plastic, emotional, and full of love. There goes the falsetto, there are "na na na", little choirs that in other songs might sound like insufferable fillers and here instead blend perfectly into the harmonic cycle of a song unafraid to be joyful and lively, even at the risk of seeming ridiculous.

"Still New" has a Surf drive, a sinuous melody and after a brief bridge, it languishes in one of the simplest and most effective guitar solos I've ever heard, few notes, easy harmonic scales that in the end seem to repeat endlessly without boring.

"Imagine Pt 3" offers a dangerous citation in the title, but from the first notes, it's clear the guys aren't intending to measure up with the Lennon-ian manifesto. As usual, they look to George, in this which seems to be "Weekend"'s little sister, albeit a bit more complex, but always conceived as a joyful summer dance.

"All Die Young" significantly raises the quality bar, which has already been anyway high so far. Once again, it's a dreamy keyboard that spreads its wings to land us at Pepperland airport, few bass notes, a very Ringo-esque drum, and a slide guitar that chases the singer's vocalizations, up to a sumptuous chorus to sing angelically in choir. The pace is slowed until it opens up in an ending of contagious cheerfulness, despite the very Emo title.

"Fallen In Love" is a gummy jelly, one of those you dread at first sight but then can't refuse. The guitar solo really seems stolen from the Octopus's garden and everything is so full of enthusiasm and color that it's simply impossible to find a flaw.

"End Of The Night" adds nothing to what has been said so far, except that a syncopated piano joins the party and shakes up the usual perfect pop song.

"Only One" brings with it that Beatles-like soul that so far had been relegated to a corner. McCartney’s. And in such a sugary album, the undisputed king of silly love songs could not be missed. The interlocking voice-guitar game is really charming. Sure, for a love song, the pace is dizzying and the impression you get is that of climbing ivy, voluptuous and intricate.

"Smile" among all, ties me to those happy memories mentioned above. A seaside vacation with a beloved person, that perfection achieved at the cost of great sacrifices and always lasting less than we would want, an idea of infinity that only the noble horizon of the sea and the awareness of feelings can give. When you convince yourself the sun is shining just for you, it's impossible not to fall in love with this song, with its piano mimicking gentle waves, the rarefied orange melody, the chord progression full of a rough acoustic guitar that seems played directly on the beach, the choirs with echoes of the Beach Boys (echoes? Shouts!!!), a melancholic solo and a descending finale that echoes Let It Be. What more could you want from a summer song?

"Dance Away" is so carefree it almost sounds out of tune after the previous masterpiece. It is saved by some commendable internal rhythm changes and a pop-punk flavor that if this were not an album soaked with Beatles to the core, would make the immediate comparison with early Blondie. But we are almost at the final movements, there is time for one last slow dance.

"Dye The World" supported by a wide and majestic guitar riff that sticks to you, surely more than the melody, sticky like all the rest, but perhaps less effective precisely due to the robustness of that guitar, decidedly unforgettable.

A grand finale for an exemplary record, which over time has devoured all the negative criticisms I had read at the time ("too derivative" "too for teenagers" "not for diabetics"), their third album is on the horizon, and from what little has been heard, it foresees a decided sound change. Good. Because this album, this formula, these melodies, this sound must remain a unique experience, not replicable infinitely, just like those feelings I lived also thanks to this album in that summer two years ago.

I could even call the person who was close to me at that time, ask her out, I might even persuade her to talk about the good old days spent together, but to what end? It would be pathetic and also sad. I can return to that time with this half-hour-long album, without hurting anyone, without fear of getting lost because once the last track is over, what remains on the face is a smile, the kind that helps overcome all difficulties, the kind people you meet on the street like to see, the kind that can only bring more happiness, different but the same. As I hope the next album by Smith Westerns will be.