Older, wiser, better: The New Year. photo by Allison Smith.
Each member of resides in a different city. One might assume that an arrangement like that would be catastrophic for a band’s cohesion, especially if that band was full of prancy, fedora’d young whippersnappers. Fortunately, I collected a few visual and aural clues on Monday that assured me this wasn’t the case.
I entered the already aware that I was about to watch a stageful of seasoned musicians. That’s one. Secondly, each member, once assembled, displayed a predilection for earth tones and Fenders (save for Bubba Kadane and his rogue Les Paul). Thirdly, and most importantly, the sound. Ah, the sound. This? From exchanging tapes through the mail? Now that’s a band.
The set began with a kindly tap of the snare. When the guitars sidled in, Matt Kadane’s monotone did too. His voice was very close to the ground — maybe lying on a patch of turf — as if it were singing to make the grass grow. The tune was short, sweet, and harmless — vulnerable, even, like the pasty skin just below the neck of a sweater.
I realized soon enough why they called themselves The New Year. The guitar sound, muted and full, instantly takes me to a cold afternoon, where the clock seems stopped at four and the cars, headlights on, roll slowly through the slush outside. The lyrics, too, are curled up in that moment of good-natured melancholy (“eight hours of sleep can make anything go away”), probably down in the wood-paneled basement with a nerdy friend and telling dad jokes.
Weezer, back in 1994, once wrote a song about the garage in this same house. The songs are short — succinct, if you will, capturing a moment without lingering too long. It’s yearning music, mostly for nostalgic purposes. Having feelings is something that never really goes away, even if it’s something people typically reserve for adolescence. The New Year doesn’t play the soundtrack for your depression, be it early onset or mid-life; they’re more for a mild case of seasonal affective disorder. The colors present in the voices and tones are faded and autumnal. Any fan of slowcore will tell you that these associations are typical; get ready to hunker down and have some hot soup in a boule.
Toward the end of the show, sandwiched between two-minute songs, Matt Kadane muttered into the mic, “We’re The New Year. I don’t know where my manners are, but…” His speaking voice, low and quiet, seems as if it’s been filtered through used steel wool. Could it be the altitude? Cigarettes? Age? Of the many things the band had in common, the latter was yet another. I wouldn’t damn them by calling them “OLD” in a harsh staccato; I’d just say, with a shrug towards that touch of grey, that they were “getting on in years.”
A few nooks and crannies belied their subtly fading jeunesse: their hair, eyes, shoes, their songs aimiably lingering in a different decade. You can hear the Bedhead in there still, and they won’t deny it if you ask them. I’ve always loved bands that go by the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” rule — mostly because I’m magnetically attracted to rarity. Please, if you agree, buy a copy of the new self-titled as soon as it gets very cold.
Alex Edgeworth is a Denver writer and regular Reverb contributor.
