Fruit Bats, The Ruminant Band

It hit me in the car, on my way back to the house yesterday, and suddenly, it all seemed plain as day: it’s Paul McCartney. That’s who Fruit Bats’ Eric D. Johnson reminds me of, more than anyone else, at least on the band’s latest, The Ruminant Band. It was a bit of a surprisingly realization to come to, really, considering that the last time I heard anything the Bats had done, it was the awesomely eerie/beautiful “Silent Life,” off 2005’s Spelled In Bones, which was like a pastoralized Postal Service or electronicized Band of Horses.

On The Ruminant Band, though, if it weren’t for Johnson’s voice, I’d have a hard time guessing that this was the same band. They’ve ditched all the synths in favor of Elton John-esque piano, chipper-sounding ’70s AOR guitars, and warm, friendly pop-rock feel, albeit holding tight to Johnson’s always-erudite, thoughtful lyricism (which, obviously, is a very good thing). The guitars jangle and buzz nicely, at times edging towards funk and prog-rock (see the title track) or bouncing straight on down the road and dragging everyone else along with ’em (see “My Unusual Friend”).

And yeah, it really, truly does sound — with the exception of more overtly countrified tracks like the meandering hoedown of “The Hobo Girl” and the sweet acoustic gem of a story-song that is “Singing Joy to the World” — like ’70s pop reincarnated. Listening to The Ruminant Band, everybody from Harry Nilsson to the aforementioned Sir John and even Barry Manilow pop into my head unbidden, all smiles and fuzzy edges and primary-colored melodies.

Sure, The Ruminant Band is also well-informed by folks a little closer on the timeline; these days, anything vaguely earth-toned or ’70s-sounding would have a hard time not pointing a finger straight on over to, say, The Push Kings, Fleet Foxes (especially on lead-in track “Primitive Man”), Band of Horses, the gospel-psych of The Moondoggies, or even The New Pornographers. Part of the charm of bright-spot track “Tegucigalpa” lies in its rambling, literate historicism, telling the story of the protagonist’s (Johnson’s) life in verse for whoever cares to listen, and for that it comes off like a cheerier, less-bleak Okkervil River or a less-baroque Decemberists.

But again, it’s McCartney that hits me the hardest. Closing track “Flamingo” sounds for the life of me like it’s a conscious rip of “Maybe I’m Amazed” in terms of melody, and through the entirety of the disc, I keep expecting Johnson to turn a corner and start belting out “Hey Jude.” Johnson’s voice just sounds like McCartney — his phrasing, his sense of melody, the whole mess. I mean this as no slight, by the by; the man’s a hell of a songwriter, and Johnson shows similar promise, stepping upwards towards that Master Songsmith plateau alongside folks like Okkervil River’s Will Sheff.

There’s the overall feel of The Ruminant Band, as well, that pulls me back to the McCartney comparison. I can’t pinpoint why, but I’ve always had this image in my head of Paul McCartney as The Happy Beatle, the one who just can’t help but smile even when there’s pain and loss all ’round, and Fruit Bats seem to be the same way. The songs themselves aren’t uniformly bright and happy (they’d be far, far too saccharine, if they were), but Johnson and company sing and play as if they are, pushing on through the dark gloom to find the warm, hazy place on the other side.