This review requires me to step back a bit.
Shone is a new supergroup, made up of figures from some of alternative rock’s biggest names. They first began generating buzz on Twitter last December 21. Bands like Thrice, mewithoutYou, Brand New and O’Brother all tweeted the same message, “be patient,” and a link to the Shone website. There, a cryptic video with hidden messages invited fans of this notoriously tight-knit music community to decode exactly what this “Heat Thing” was.
A massive viral marketing game emerged. Shone’s drummer Brian Lane, also of Brand New, sent out typewritten letters and strange clues to where the dedicated puzzle solvers would be able to go out and find thumb drives containing each of the songs from Shone’s debut album called “Heat Thing.”
Speculation flew. “Heat Thing” basically became “The DaVinci Code” for hipsters. In fact, the identities of all of the album’s contributors aren’t known for certain. That’s how cryptic this project is.
Knowing the backstory to this brutally strange album is going to help you imagine what it sounds like better than anything else.
Now, okay. The review.
Look, I’m really past that part of my life where I simply cannot comprehend it when you don’t like something I like. We all have different tastes. And that’s great.
As a reviewer, my job is to vouch for what I think has value and point out flaws where I find them so that my readers can better direct their time, attention and money.
But then there are albums like “Heat Thing.” These albums are like those magic pictures of colored splotches on the walls of dentist offices or in the backs of issues of Highlights magazine — the ones you have to look past in such a way that they trick your eyes and allow you to see the hidden shape. Some people will look at it and see exactly what I see. Others will stare and squint and still miss it entirely. There’s nothing wrong with the eyes of either viewer, but I want so badly for you to see these like I do. Otherwise, you’ll have no idea why I’m so enamored with the random color splatters.
Is the metaphor falling apart yet?
“Heat Thing” is almost impenetrably weird. The vocals are downright vaudevillian, an unsettling mix of Aaron Weiss, Morrissey and Elvis Presley on percocet. The music is a blend of acoustic, indie instrumentation and EDM production and mixing. The disturbing lyrics describe a tragic man becoming an absolute monster.
Yet “Heat Thing” just works.
The old-style vocals clash with the ultra-modern mixing treatment; the lush, U2-ish guitar licks clash over the orchestral flourishes and acoustic accents. Nothing about it should work, and yet it all falls together in this beautiful strangeness that won’t leave me for hours after listening.
If progressive, unusual music that veers more toward noise than agreeable melody isn’t your thing, then stay away.
But I want so badly for you to listen to this album and hear what I hear. The cacophonous interludes between hooks so memorable you’ll mutter them under your breath all day long — it’s magical.
And so viciously sincere. You cannot approach this album with any pretense of irony. It will strip that veneer off you so fast. Either you actually love this album, or you actually don’t. And I love that about it.
Give it a listen on Spotify; you might not like it. Feel free to tell me what you think of my stupid face in the comments if you don’t. I don’t care if you don’t agree. I just want you to see what I see in it. From the moaning saxophones on “Kin” to the anthemic, distorted guitars and gritty vocal on “Baby Shakes,” I see this records’s dramatic, atmospheric, beautiful, edgy, delicate forest for its inconsistent, complex and uninviting trees. Maybe you will too.
