Paris Falls, Vol. II

In general, I’ve tried to make a habit of keeping a bit of critical distance from bands that make their living by digging up the musical past. Sure, I enjoy the hell out of bands like The Redwalls or The Darkness in part because of the fact that they mine styles that evoke a certain era, or a certain memory, or what-have-you, but at the same time, I have to force myself to back it off a bit and remember that it’s almost a “fake” kind of appeal for just that reason.

Bands like Paris Falls, though, make me want to throw said habit to the winds and fall head-over-heels in love. At their core, they’re basically, well, a classic rock band. Crunchy, loud (but not too loud) guitars, an organ sound the band nearly swiped from Question Mark & the Mysterians, that raw, rock-bellower voice of Raymond Brown’s that carries hints of Eric Burdon, Phil Lynott, and even Roger Daltrey, those solid-yet-all-over-the-place drums (courtesy of Mike Deleon, ex-about a billion Houston bands), and even that “warm,” analog-like sound — the whole thing is bluesy, shuddering rock that sounds like it slipped off of one of those Nuggets comps ’60s gems. I swear to God, if you slapped these guys up on some classic rock station next to The Who, Steppenwolf, or Pink Floyd, you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference.

The latter band, in fact, is all over the place on Paris Falls’ Vol. II, from the Floyd-meets-Aerosmith (circa “Dream On,” mind you, no later) track “Repeater” on through to the trippy, soaring “White Rose.” There’s a purple-tinged neo-psychedelic rock influence splattered throughout, the music shambling along in a haze every once in a while before it crashes back into lucidity. I keep finding myself thinking of “Wish You Were Here,” in part because several of the tracks are downright sleepy, albeit in a good way. Then there’s the Beatlesque “Satellite,” which incorporates some nice strings and complex arrangements while still staying relatively low-key.

“Shelter,” on the other hand, starts off ferocious and angry but ends up stumbling to an end like a drunk getting belligerent and loud right before falling hard into bed. That track, though, is probably the most like the band’s previous release, Vol. 1, that you’re likely to find here. Most of the rest of the album feels bleak and melancholy, desperate and sad; it’s nowhere near as straight-ahead “rock” as the band’s first album, and there’s only a hint of the band’s bitter swagger left over from that album. With this outing, they’ve headed in more of an introspective, vulnerable, heart-on-the-sleeve direction. And frankly, it’s beautiful, and heartbreaking, and awesome — all of that and a heck of a lot more.

The thing about picking up elements of musical styles that are firmly rooted in days of yore is that you’ve got to be doing it for the right reasons. If you’re up there on a stage windmilling like Pete Townsend because you think it’ll make you look cool, then no, fuck you, it never will. If, on the other hand, you genuinely love a particular sound and want to use that sound to express your own thoughts, emotions, and ideas, well…you just might be golden.