he common accusation that the Walkmen are spoiled rotten is not entirely unfounded. From its very onset, the band has been surrounded by every unfair advantage a band could ask for. Featuring ex-members of NYC almost-legends Jonathan Fire*Eater and the Recoys, the Walkmen lineage alone is enough to reduce the average garage-loving indie kid to a puddle before the first notes even sound. The band’s own Marcata Studios – paid for by the ex-Fire*Eaters ill-fated stint with Dreamworks – is a 24-track analogue facility specifically designed to capture music with all the rattle and hiss of late-70s and early-80s post-punk. Their liner notes boast a list of timeless instruments that reads like a catalog of the heavenly afterlife’s vintage equipment aisle. They have an impeccably well-groomed list of influences ranging from the Smiths to Bjork to Neil Young. They are alarmingly young, fastidiously dressed, and undeniably handsome. At this point, all the talk of bloodlines, fancy guitars, and sharp haircuts has stirred in the reader either giddy anticipation or a sense of resentment reserved for those who have actually heard the Strokes instead of just reading press releases. Fortunately, the Walkmen’s debut LP consistently meets – and often exceeds – the promise suggested by the band’s perhaps over-promising background.


Album opener “They’re Winning” offers a two-minute overture to the Walkmen’s unique and absorbing sound. The thrum of a well-reverbed guitar blends with droning organ over a bed of cymbal washes while an insistent muffled bass drum ratchets up the tension. Frontman Hamilton Leithauser marries a hipster-ish slurred indifference to cabaret flair as he traces a winding melody of equal parts subtle and stirring. Less a song than a mission statement, “They’re Winning” swells gradually to an unexpected stop followed by the echoing guitar stabs of album highlight “Wake Up.” Rattling like Gang of Four sounding from the bottom of an abandoned well, the guitar keeps steady time beneath swirls of disembodied piano flourishes and the strut of well-pounded drums. A cymbal roll introduces Leithauser, whose vocal contribution alternates between arcing elegance and theatrical growls, often within the same line. A graceful bridge precedes the soaring chorus in which Leithauser, against a backdrop of ragged guitar and bass, miraculously stays on the tasteful side of lofty Bono-isms. On their own, the parts are plenty familiar to anyone who remembers Jonathan Fire*Eater or has a fondness for the sound of Joy Division and early New Order. In combination, however, these elements put a new slant on some timeless sounds – and the sounds are a little dark, a little murky, and riddled with genuine inspiration.


True to form, Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone meets the high expectations suggested by the opening tracks. At their most energetic, the Walkmen exude youthful enthusiasm tempered by a well-earned cynicism. The title track races along on a tide of droning organ and skittering drums before exploding in a pinnacle of trebly guitar and ethereal vocals. “We’ve Been Had” floats through a dreamy haze of minimal piano loops and Broadway chord changes while Leithauser – at the peak of rock and roll swagger – laments the foolishness of his not-so-distant youth. Both “French Vacation” and “Revenge Wears No Wristwatch” demonstrate the band’s gift for developing elegant arrangements from the barest of guitar figures by weaving countless well-produced layers of organ drone, piano twinkle, and mysterious muffled tape noises. Best of all, “That’s the Punch Line” rivals “Wake Up” for the place of album highlight and as the model for the Walkmen aesthetic. Leithauser takes ironic lyrical aim at the ubiquitous fashion scene while the band spins out a backdrop of fuzzy pedal steel, galloping bass, and pointed guitar jabs. Tremolo-picked guitar buzz jars the chorus into focus while emphasizing the album’s catchiest and most immediate hook – the best example of the Walkmen’s blend of texture and melody.


The results are a little more mixed when the tempo winds down. “The Blizzard of ‘96” lilts along with a shuffling drum beat and jingle bells accompanying the album’s most operatic vocal performance. The song remains a little static melodically throughout, but the stasis is more than compensated for by Leithauser’s dreamy vocal gymnastics and the frequent shifts in texture. The woozy tape music and bass throb of “Stop Talking” provides a touching framework for the record’s most affecting lyrics – a portrait of weary antihero discontent amidst the album’s nervy bravado. The only real misstep on Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone comes with the ballad-like “It Should Take A While.” Ambling guitar and plodding bass fill out this drunken slur of a song that never quite finds its footing over the course of six and half minutes, with none of the band’s characteristic instrumental detail to salvage it. As albums nadirs go, its more than tame and hardly enough to diminish the air of confidence surrounding the Walkmen’s well-polished sound.


In the end, everyone’s with high – or low – expectations for the over-privileged kids in the Walkmen may be more than a little surprised with what they find. For those drooling with anticipation well in advance, Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone offers genuine substance above and beyond the typical crop of “featuring ex-members of (insert name here)” bands. Those already thirsting for the band’s failure may be refreshed to find a band that favors the musical goods over the mountain of hype and attitude. And when the Walkmen deliver results this good, is it really so wrong to let the spoiled guys win?