Panda Bear - Tomboy

The momentum of critical consensus has given Animal Collective and its associated projects a pretty long leash, due in large part to their reputation as something more than the typical hipster-set flavor of the month. The oblique, experimental nature of their compositions belies their popularity and sets up the most onerous of critical tropes: If you don’t like it, you just don’t get it. So ever since the group changed focus from soundscaping to songwriting—an ambiguous paradigm shift that dates back either to Feels or Strawberry Jam—they’ve been lauded at every turn. Frontman Noah Lennox’s solo masterpiece as Panda Bear, Person Pitch, only intensified the perception of AnCo as indie pop’s most innovative luminaries.

So here we are with Tomboy, an album that was destined for lavish praise from its conception. On merit, it isn’t entirely undeserved. Lennox possesses a sublime talent—an angelic tenor whose blissful delivery more than compensates for its lack of expressiveness—and an undeniable dedication to texture and studio effects. Tomboy, like its predecessor, depends on these two elements, albeit to different effect. The sample-laden Beach Boys harmonies of Person Pitch (referred to more than once as the Pet Sounds of the 21st century) are out; droning guitars and an overdose of reverb are in. And there’s a lot to like about this new configuration, especially on the album’s first half. Opener “Know You Can Count on Me” plays Lennox’s refrain off of huge, doubled bass drums, which must have been recorded in a concrete box, with tremendous results. And “Tomboy” is the album’s real standout, employing the kind of texture—a buzzing, legato keyboard—that transforms Lennox’s pretty-but-pedestrian melodies into something transcendent.

His fascination with production, though, can often scan as little more than window-dressing. At his best, Lennox can make five-minute tracks like Person Pitch’s “Comfy in Nautica” disappear all too quickly. It is this same proclivity for textural layering that makes a 12-minute epic like “Bros” so approachable. But he can also make five minutes seem like an eternity, as on Tomboy’s second half, when the studio bells and whistles often appear to substitute for actual songcraft. “Friendship Bracelet” and “Drone,” like the rest of the album, are best appreciated with headphones. But the extensive panning and intricate sense of space never fully takes your attention off the distinct lack of dynamism and melody.

Ironically, one of the oft-used buzzwords for Tomboy has been “accessibility,” as though keeping tracks under seven minutes in length somehow makes the whole thing more appealing to a mass audience. But Person Pitch (actually slightly shorter in runtime) demanded the listener’s attention, even during its most drawn-out moments. Tomboy, for all its brevity, never does.