Comprising James Levy (vocals, guitar), Matthew Siskin (guitar/ vocals), James Broughel (bass) and drummer David Daniels, LEVY are the latest white-boy indie export from New York City, though you could have fooled me as their sublime debut album “Rotten Love” is simply immersed in the band’s Anglophile influences and sounds far more like the kind of thing to have been hailed an instant classic were it to have emanated from Manchester or Glasgow during the 1980s.
Not that this a problem where Levy are concerned as they traverse this well-travelled route with skill and panache and often make the simplest of ideas sound profound and nigh-on perfect. The fact that “Rotten Love” clocks in at a strategically brief 29 minutes is no harm either, as you come away gently intoxicated and keen to imbibe again at your earliest convenience.
Chances are you’ve probably heard “Rotten Love” itself on t’wireless of late and after the briefest of exposure it’s already sounding like a graceful, lovelorn indie guitar classic cloaked in chiming guitars. James Levy himself is clearly a charismatic figure: his vocals are angelic and edgy all at once (imagine a chorister gone bad and knocking out shots of amyl nitrate after vespers) and while stylish melancholy obviously runs through his veins, he’s also absorbed the best of Morrissey and Robert Forster: indeed the great line “I know she’s a genius, but I’ve got the brains” (“Rivka”) is pure, unadulterated Forster.
The remainder of the album resolutely refuses to disappoint either. Songs like “In The Woods”, “Rivka” (wolf whistles! Wa-hey!) and “Matthew” are all so-obvious-they’re-genius soft-boy guitar pop outings, while the wonderfully brief and blatant likes of “You Be Sweet” and “See Saw” basically ARE The Smiths/ Strokes, except that – with a Wire-like perversity – Levy decide that they say everything they have to say within 1 minute 20 seconds. And, given the evidence, it’s hard to deny they were right all along.
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The Smiths/ Strokes influence will inevitably dog Levy, though in places some of their lesser-known NYC contemporaries also rear their pretty heads. The foppish beauty of “In The Woods” (and the way Levy swoons through lines like “she told me she loves me and he’s just a friend” and doesn’t believe a word) reminds me of the under-rated Saintface, while the band’s inherent dreamy spaciness – displayed beautifully on songs like the closing “Sunday School” and the gorgeous “Rector Street” – favourably recalls the enigmatic French Kicks.
But really “Rotten Love” casts’ its’ own spells and bewitches with ease in its’ own right. The title might suggest something rancid you can’t wait to be free from, but the reality leaves you with a bittersweet aftertaste you’ll be delighted to have on your breath for days afterwards.
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