The Romance of Vagues
the hoxca
self-released

Brooklyn is the current hotbed of hot rockers, but nuance seems to be missing from their collective vocabulary. The layered music of multi-instrumental Brooklynite Ethan Andrews' the hoxca, however, is as subtle and nuanced as a Pantone color chart. Just as good graphic designers notice the details and are certain of themselves when they use Pantone 155U instead of 156U, an attentive listener of the hoxca will unearth wonderful intricacies and refinements.

The title track, which opens the album, is a churning stew of instruments anchored by a grooved drum beat and filled with an organ and an eerie moan that pulses throughout the song's first half. It's hard to say exactly what instruments populate this music, but Tom Waits, God love his soul, always reminds the listener of the instruments he uses, while Andrews discards their quirkiness and rewards the listener with an orchestration not centered on any one device. "The hoxca" is a sample and meringue of an instrumental — it froths and pulses and moans and moves to its conclusion with handclaps and cheering crowds. It sets the stage perfectly for what's to come by introducing listeners to Andrews' varied use of instrumentation and orderly disregard of consistency.

The album then moves into "the twilight sleep," a barroom piano shuffle that bounces as much as it bites. It's a call-to-arms that bellows "can you feel your luck coming back like a fucking stranger?" and contains in-and-out lyrics like "something I said is making me think I got something to say." Then the lyrics break and the song drives on like a free-range roadtrip to its inevitable wind-down conclusion. What's interesting here is that "the twilight shuffle" contains a channeled anger (or perhaps braggadocio) coated in self-criticism. But it's the song's swing rather than its lyrics that keep it agitated.

Andrews plays all the instruments on the album, as well as handling the lyrics and vocals, an impressive feat when you think of the restraint required to pull this off. The tendency would be either to wank away on whichever instrument you were best at or to get caught up in the deafening roar of your own wonderfulness. But with a mellow organ pumping out a lullaby or a tap-tap on the cymbal, Andrews demonstrates he's beholden to the song, not his prowess, considerable though it may be. (The little "oooh ahhs" peppering "the twilight sleep" tug at my gut every time.)

The highlights of this disc are "milk truck" and "mayapple." In the former, Andrews' voice is sweet and endearing as it rides over a mellow '70s-Dylan groove and he stands on a chair to reach the high notes to sing "shaking my head when I coulda been shaking anything ... from the station back to the town." It's a good demonstration of Andrews' rawness: his hands' movement across the guitar's neck; the natural reverb of the room he recorded in; the strain of his voice. "Mayapple" is the song Radiohead should have written. It crescendos to the beat of a bass drum, an orchestral swarm of violins and a completely unironic set of la la las. It's a darn impressive feat that Andrews managed to mesh the organic and the synthetic into such a pleasurable instrumentation.

And that's the key to a lot of the hoxca. Andrews doesn't seem to believe in any one thing; there appear to be few limitations to building a song. If the song wants to be sung half in French, so be it. If it wants Casio keyboards, so be it. If it wants to go clink, clank, clunk, OK to that too. Sometimes songs want to be things you don't agree with, and Andrews has the foresight to let them. Only once does this organic style not pan out. "Here comes the whip," with its repetitive guitar rocking is a dead spot, perhaps because Andrews didn't push it hard enough. It lacks the natural complexity of the rest of the album and though the lyrics ("Kept my fingers in the finest things/ never did get those") shine through the mediocre music, it doesn't aspire (or inspire) in the same way.

Andrews knows himself enough to allow the hoxca to take note of its own conceit. It shows its stripes in instrumentation, thoughtful lyrics, and well-turned phrases and doesn't slip into musical rhetoric, which tends to manifest itself in obscurity and confusion. It's an album that pushes itself to be good and as a result winds up excellent.

The hoxca isn't something you're likely to find at your local Sam Goody. If you're interested in taking a listen or buying the album, please visit this website. A version of this review previously appeared on freewilliamsburg.com.

— Chris Gage (kiddigit at yahoo dot com)