Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes

The word I keep hearing for this band is "soulless." It's true that the Young Liars EP had a metallic sheen, a mechanical repetitiveness that both boosted and encased the silver-throated vocals of Tunde Adebimpe. The songs were full of distance and voyeurism, as if Adebimpe was stuck on his own satellite, watching lovers from afar. When he got close to a woman, on the stunning soliloquy "Blind", he couldn't close the deal without giving up the truth: "My love is a suckerbet." But that ain't soulless.

Another description that never rang true was the comparison of Adebimpe's voice to Peter Gabriel-- a decent match in timbre, but Adebimpe's such a different person that I just can't hear the likeness. This isn't a man who would go on stage dressed like a flower. Instead, Adebimpe sounds like a superhero-- a troubled, Batman-style superhero, who can rescue the girl but frets over whether to take the grateful French kiss when they hit safe ground. Nobody with his talents and forthrightness could also have insecurities, yet that was what the lyrics made us believe. His vocals resonate because of his identity: He towers over most vocalists, not just for his skill, but because he's so transparent behind it.

The band's full-length debut may be one of the most eagerly awaited records of the year. Until now, TV on the Radio have only flashed their talent: David Andrew Sitek's chugging beats and harsh grey textures, Adebimpe's voice, and new member Kyp Malone on vocals, guitar, and even more loops. So the final product, Desperate Youths, Blood Thirsty Babes, can't help but sound like a curveball when held against the flawless Young Liars, the monumental expectations, and the fact that they're still indulging their growing pains.

The record starts strong: On opener "The Wrong Way", the sound of a sidewalk sax blower is interrupted off the beat by a dark chugging loop, a sound that resembles refrigerators being pushed down a hole-- but also resembles human feet stomping and hands clapping. Funk and gospel enter the palette as Malone and Adebimpe harmonize on lyrics that grapple with race. TV on the Radio don't base their work on the fact that they're an interracial, mainly African-American band; unlike Living Colour or the 2 Tone bands in the 80s, there's no reason to peg them as a "black rock band" more than a rock band that happens to have black members. So when race comes up, they use it for questions more than statements. On "The Wrong Way", they pick up and dismiss a series of black icons and stereotypes, from the "soft shoe" entertainer or the gentle "magic nigger" in the movies, to the "fist up" protesters and "new negro politician"; but they're also trying out the roles, as if assessing where they stand or questioning whether they could end up "playin' the whore." If they have a message, it's mostly about themselves: TV on the Radio reflect the world they're in, but they'll never say they speak for it.

The album repeats one track from the EP, "Staring at the Sun"-- the catchiest but least introspective track on that album-- and that sets the path for the band's new style, which is alternately driving and repetitious. The guitar parts are almost as static as the beats, and no track develops with the subtlety of, say, Young Liars' "Blind". The loops and settings run out of ideas by the end of the record; "Don't Love You" chugs ahead with no progress, making the next song, "Bomb Yourself", sound more plodding than it actually is. Even "Wear You Out" seems limited when the swarthy opening picks up horns, and then plateaus right away. It isn't a climax so much as proof of how cold those textures can become.

The last third is a tough slog. But track by track, the album's songwriting is tight and often beautiful, like the harmonies on "King Eternal" and "Poppy" that scrape the sky and even overshadow the graceful a cappella "Ambulance". And the lyrics are exceptional, with not-too-cryptic images that are both surreal and frank: "All men condemned by men to die/ Damned by blind bitch in hallowed halls" is an intriguing image of the justice system, but to follow it with "Cover your balls/ 'Cause we swing kung fu" is truly the way to greatness.

The biggest improvement here is the addition of Malone. Is it even right for one band to hog two great vocalists, two singers with real personalities and no stylistic self-caging, at a time when most people just struggle to follow a template? Malone creeps through the high registers and whispers the heat that Adebimpe won't release; the two of them sound great as co-leads. My only objection is that the record sounds less intimate than when Adebimpe has the mike to himself.

The Young Liars EP was as fully realized as all the critics suggested, yet now, TV on the Radio sound like a work in progress. Still, Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes shows more strengths than mistakes. The band's best work comes out of tension, out of a dramatic setting or the sparking of elements against each other-- multi-cultures smashed together, men harnessing their voices to machines, the excitement of that saxophone cutting against a sludge-loop at the start of the record. They wrestle with these tensions instead of letting them explode, they hammer out loops and sounds as they collaborate on music that's rent with conflict. Nobody knows where it'll end, but we're lucky to get to watch.