Illinois, What the Hell Do I Know?

If you read other reviews of What the Hell do I Know?, the debut EP by Pennsylvania indie quartet Illinois, you will find yourself barraged with a litany of comparisons to major player indie influences from the past five years or so. This is not without validity. If you find yourself hosting a foreign exchange student from some backwater nation that doesn’t have an Internet connection, and the poor kid thinks that indie-rock is Ravi Shankar playing an electric sitar, you could set him or her reasonably straight by running through these seven brief tracks. I, however, will leave the name-dropping to others and will tell you what this album sounds like, rather than whom.

This album is Dorito music. You enjoy the hell out of it while it’s on and can’t stop listening to it once the first guitar strains hit your tympanic membrane, but it’s ultimately not particularly enriching. This is not meant as a slight; not every record can be a musical-landscape-changing masterpiece, but everyone needs music that makes them smile with each listen.

The grinfest starts with the soaring guitars and scat sung intro to “Alone Again.” I know that, in light of my previous statements about name-dropping, this’ll seem hypocritically bandwagonesque, but I just love that Teenage Fanclub guitar sound. The whole thing is supported by an ingeniously simplistic drum line centered around sparse snares and rim-shots. (I have a thing for rim-shots.) Lyrically, it’s just about what you’d expect, based on the title — a commentary on isolation and disenchantment. Fortunately for all involved, it’s sung so prettily that you really don’t care what it’s about. My one complaint about this track is that there’s a vaguely annoying filtered vocal that keeps cropping up. There are a few annoying vocal tricks the band employ on this EP, and this one might not annoy me as much if not for the tendency throughout.

“Nosebleed” pairs rudimentary banjo playing stacked atop a hand-clap-inspiring backbeat, conversationally shouted lyrics, catchy bass fills, and the occasional spacey keyboard. The treated vocals, again, are fine in a vacuum but begin to nag at the edge of my annoyance horizon as their influence spreads through the songs. One thing about this song that intrigues me is the fact that, despite being fairly tame both in tempo and attack, it somehow feels like a potential riot inciter.

The light, strummy (sorry, I know that’s not a word) “Screendoor” does a good job of showcasing Chris Archibald’s ability to wear a variety of vocalist hats. Sounding like he’d be a great fit as vocalist in any Nuggets band, Archibald sheds the sensitive, vaguely emo-centric vocal style present throughout many of these tracks for this one, and though his sensitive side is pretty, this departure is a welcome contrast. Bearing the song on its back, more scat-sung backup and a good mid-song dose of rim-shot keep my grin plastered.

Despite the fact that it brings back that beautiful soaring-guitar sound I love so much, I am sad to announce that “Headphones” is my least favorite track in the bunch. It’s mostly due to those damn vocal hi-jinks. The main vocal is annoyingly shadowed by an ill-advised, filtered falsetto, and a normal register, but filtered vocal takes over primary duty after the first verse. It’s a shame, really, because aside from the vocals, this is pretty decent song. If they rewrote it as an instrumental, it might have been a contender for best track.

Album closer “Bad Day” is a nice left-field punch in the face after the annoying vocals of “Headphones.” I know, I know — it’s got filtered vocals throughout. The song is saved, though, by the incredibly fun interplay between the fuzzy bass and drums. There’s also that lovely tinnily chiming, descending lead guitar, and it’s pretty entertaining to follow Archibald’s rant.

At only seven tracks and under 20 minutes, What the Hell Do I Know? is only a small taste of what Illinois have to offer. I think it would be prudent to keep an eye, and an ear, on these boys. On the off chance that you guys see this review, do me one favor: next time, Arch, just sing. Please, no more vocal effects. All in all, though, I must say (and I apologize profusely for this in advance; my twisted brain won’t let me not write this) I feel the Illinois.