With the increasing popularity (among indie-yuppies and bloggers, anyway) of such bands as Modest Mouse, The Arcade Fire, Death Cab for Cutie, and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, one cannot help but wonder: has the nasal whine of "quirky" vocalists reached critical mass? What was once a mark of distinction—a kind of vocal iconoclasm, if you will—has suddenly become the indie-rock calling card du jour. Despite obvious talent and the chops that come with playing in bands for most of your life, many of today's indie it-bands are bordering on self-parody thanks primarily to singers who warble away on the tattered edges of listenability.
Some would blame Neil Young's nasal, off-key kettle whistle for pushing the envelope this far. Others, perhaps, would point fingers at the art-punk chirping of early David Byrne, Television's Tom Verlaine, and even The Only Ones' Peter Perrett. And they would, in part, be correct. But while those early pioneers of borderline-annoying singing could sometimes drive neighborhood canines to suicide or give rise to spontaneous migraines amongst the club-going faithful, they also poured on frightening heaps of brash originality.
But that ship has set sail. When 60% of the indie rock community begins to sound like a swarm of mosquitoes with a severe head cold, the originality defense flies out the window. Why, then, are we shoveling endlessly fawning reviews upon "offbeat" geniuses who make a point of sounding like shit?
There is, of course, a question of degree. Modest Mouse's Isaac Brock, for example, may spend half of his time yelping like a falsetto mental patient, but he is, for the most part, a competent middle-range singer. (The same cannot be said for his lawsuit-worthy sound-alikes in Wolf Parade and The Helio Sequence, to name only two.) And while the Shins' James Mercer certainly prefers the higher ranges, he is consistently on-key and hardly ever cringe-inducing. Indeed, as any Radiohead fan will tell you, hitting the high notes is no sin in itself.
Yet consider the varying aural offenses of Alec Ounsworth (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah), Jeff Magnum (Neutral Milk Hotel), Doug Martsch (Built to Spill), Jason Lytle (Granddaddy), Dean Wareham (Luna/Galaxie 500), an countless others. Must all our indie heroes sound like wailing babies, jerking spastics, and career cold-remedy purchasers? And why, by all that is holy, add the sin of intentional wussiness to already reedy pipes? We're looking directly at you, Ben Gibbard and Colin Meloy! If you want to sound like you've suffered a swift and emasculating kick to the codpiece, there are many heavy metal bands who would be more than willing to oblige.
Of course this has much to do with the kind of temperament that draws musicians and listeners alike to the dark rooms and faded sweaters of indie rock. We are, in fact, a wimpy lot, prone to head colds, stomach aches, alcoholism, and overwrought love letters. But this is no excuse for the sudden ubiquity of "quirky nasal guy" vocalists. Where now are warm bassoes of the Magnetic Fields? What's Calvin Johnson doing? We don't need manlier men... Christ knows trogloditic chest-pounding is never the answer. What we need is some diversity. Only when whiny wailing returns to its role as one sub-generic strain of that massive non-category we call indie rock can our ears perk back up and our nosebleeds subside.
Let's all just take it down a notch before the riot grrrl bands start taking our lunch money.
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