Nothing Pedestrian About What Frightened Rabbit Has To Offer

Scott Hutchison, the lead singer for Scottish indie band Frightened Rabbit is one of those guys, if his lyrical content is any indication, that you'd like to cloak in a wool shawl and reassure that the dark moments of his life won't be around to bother him forever. That's kind of the good thing about moments in time. Whether it's ecstasy or agony the cosmic channel changer's working all the time. Robert Burns would bow his head in respect for what these five lads have pulled from the hat known as "Pedestrian Verse". Long on thought-provoking lyrics. Equally long on   entrancing song structure. Be warned that this band doesn't exactly hang its hat in the sweetness and light district. "Housing (In)" has to be one of the only songs where you don't sense Scott isn't weaving yarns revolving around some inches from rock bottom soul who could be blown towards total oblivion by one solid gust of wind. Scott rollicking in being on the metro liner headed for home, starchy food and the soft familiarity of bed. Brother Grant's drums don't seek to overtake him, merely set the stage for a winning reentry into his native home neighborhood stomping grounds. Track 1, "Acts of Man" merits brownie points on the basis of its unhindered honesty alone. Do you want to accuse this foursome of not packing enough shock factor into its lyrics when Scott opens his lips to expose the dickhead who's giving wine to his best girl's gloves? Have you ever gotten acquainted with a knight in shitty armor before? Guess that's what happens when the shine morphs into rust. That's full frontal disclosure on a collision course with your cerebellum. Bassist Billy Kennedy amplifies the nothing left to the imagination storyline taking shape."Backyard Skulls" ignites a nails on the blackboard attention getter in the form of soap opera melodramatic keyboards. There's a racing heart not sure whether it is better served leaping out of the chest or hiding in a protected cranny. The focus is in those secrets that have buried yet not buried deep enough to provoke an unsettling reverse peristalsis haunting aftershock."The Woodpile" is right on target for those amongst us who just want someone to be fine with the warts and all not quite complete version we're all fighting to become, some maybe more so than others.You'll likely identify with the burning building. You'll cheer the notion of having a chum with whom you can speak in secret tongues. Most of all your jaded stare at the world could be softened a little by the bright hope glimmering from Scott's flashing tonsils. Like I said, Frightened Rabbit usually wouldn't get tossed in with the poppy rainbows for days crowd of tunesmiths. Want another slice of evidence? Listen to "Nitrous Gas". If you manage not to slide over the edge of the waterfall then you're made of sterner stuff than I. Nowhere are Scott's words more depression inducing than "Suck in the bright red major key. Spit out the blue minor misery. Hand me the nitrous gas." If Scott was a member of A.A. Milne's Hundred Acre Wood he'd probably be the second coming of Eeyore after the original offed himself because the storm cloud over his troubled head just wouldn't stop producing flood waters.Still, Frightened Rabbit must be given all the credit for exposing their angst-fueled arteries to the public at large. There's not a single track in this set that isn't at least somewhat compelling. Their lyrics prove they are a brainy outfit. They dare to venture into choppy waters because they know they have the grit to pull back before they get washed out with the tide. Believe it or not there's also a pinch of humor as the final curtain descends. "The Oil Slick" is another reason to give them high marks for ballsy truth in advertising. Scott proclaims: "Only an idiot would swim through the shit I write." He charges that he has a voice like a gutter in a toxic storm. And we're coming full circle back to my suggestion Scott needs some hot chocolate to warm up the lifeless places or at least a well intentioned "There, there". On the modern musical menu, Frightened Rabbit isn't an empty calories feast of Sodom and Gomorrah proportions. It's a bountiful cornucopia of iron rich brain revitalization. You won't find fifth gear in the words. You get it from the band's commitment to pouring out facade cripplers from the heart, brain and, quite possibly the loins. These Scots are worthy of your attention.