otal administration corresponds to that historical moment when technical rationalization and instrumentality, in the service of capital, spreads beyond subject-external social and political relations to penetrate and determine at a fundamental level individual psycho-interiority."

According to the Chap's official website, the above constitutes their "moto" [sic]. Many very serious hours of art-school chin-stroking prove the moto meaningless, a hunk of Derrida/Deleuze-inspired nonsense ostensibly on the nature of capital and social relations; a collection of high-flown jargon, ripped from various contexts or invented from whole cloth, and pasted together in an order that sounds very smart and signifies nothing.

But even a cursory listen to the London foursome's second album reveals that assessment as, if not outright wrong, at least moot, and also absolutely to-the-point. Sure it's nonsense, perhaps even a snickering dig at the suede-elbow classes, but isn't everything we gorge on in our culture just a bit random? Pick a pop-song lyric, any pop-song lyric--"You make me wanna la-la?"--and parse it out in a way that makes relate-able sense. You can't, though that's hardly the point anyway, and certainly the Chap wouldn't have it any other way.

The suede-elbowed, pipe-smoking, beard-grower in me has had a field-day parsing out Ham's subtexts. They place their lyrical conceits firmly nowhere, mixing old R&B, rock, and pop tropes—"Baby I'm hurtin' / he's hurtin'!"—with music-biz capitalist smarm—"Don't break under pressure / Just work a bit harder" and "Give me a contract / Give me a sign"—with verite mundaneness—"Everyday / I will update my newsgroup." It would be a full-frontal boredom assault in normal circumstances, but the Chap keep their judgments low down in the mix, with the caveat that none of us has a monopoly on any emotional or psychological truth, not even those in the pop or academic worlds who look to hand it to us wrapped in a bow or on a silver plate.

Blah, blah, blah. None of the above speaks as any testament to how much delirious fun this album is. By the time Johannes von Weiszacker (ex-Karamasov, if that means anything to anyone outside the UK) barks out his first "Baby I'm hurtin'!" on the opener of the same name, we've already been treated to a scraping fanfare of violins (courtesy of von Weiszacker and Panos Ghikas, who both also bring us guitars and keyboards and other vocals and things), followed by a rich, elasticized disco-punk, and they're already home. Loosely speaking, dance-able (sort of) rock (-ish) is the order of things here, and drummer Keith Duncan does almost everything to keep the Chap's loose, free-flowing arrangements tethered to the ground, if only slightly. As the Kraut-rock, tiny-Mogwai swirl of "Clissold Park" builds to its stratospheric climax, Duncan's right there, keeping it all on pace. This is the one on which They Let the Girl Sing (Claire Hope, also keyboards), and her vocals comprise what amounts to a to-do list set to impossible axe-shred heights. We get "Woop Woop," which sounds remarkably like Jaime Liddell guesting on a hypothetical Justus Köhncke Italo-disco track. "Garage rock / Album launch," go some lyrics. "Loneliness / Suicide," go some more. There's a ballad, "Woop," that almost sounds like a slightly-sharper-focus Postal Service, only the song seems to consist entirely of bridges to a chorus that never happens, with lush synth shuffling-about and some lovely tinkling whatsits. "Auto Where To" starts with a plucked-guitar melody that wouldn't be out of place on your average mall-punk single, before bringing in the shuffling drums and spinning off into a sun-kissed, psychedelic high.

There's always something in these songs that isn't "supposed to be" there: the high-speed whistling in the breakdown of "Long Distance Loving," tape-chewing noises at the end of "Arizona," the ukulele in the guitar-swarm at the end of "Arts Centre." The Chap's key to success is their uncanny ability to throw it all in and place it just right, so it makes just enough sense, but not too much. While their supposed meta-peers are content to ape the past, the Chap take just what they need from whatever is on-hand, but are orders-of-magnitude more creative and inventive with those pieces than any of their supposed brethren-in-aesthetics. So there's nothing left to say? Nothing left at the bottom of that barrel? Nonsense.