ew genre descriptions inspire anxiety in quite the way that “post-rock” inspires anxiety. Aside from being downright nonsensical and alarmingly non-specific, the infamous “p-word” surrounds itself in more negative connotation than you can shake your genre-hating stick at. For some folks, the mere mention of Chicago conjures up aural hallucinations of bad white-boy funk, lame attempts at even lamer fusion, and the sort of endless vibraphone jams that haunt the most frightening of faux-jazz nightmares. And who can blame them? The quantity of “check-it-out-we-sound-like-like-Tortoise!” bands skyrockets, the quality of said bands plummets, and a little tinge of nervousness pricks at the collective conscience every time a sampler and some mallet percussion finds its way onstage. Such sweeping generalizations would be easier to write off if they weren’t supported by a swelling tide of bands looking to prove their pseudo-jazz or fake-classical worth with an increasingly uniform palette of worn-out signifiers. It seems like a bad rap, for sure, but there is certainly more than enough evidence to convict.


Fortunately, Chicago’s Town and Country have spent years beneath the hype radar crafting the antidote to the steamroller homogenization of their hometown. While other bands nibble at their twentieth-century classical and nick the obvious jazz signposts, the members of Town and Country exploit their classical training and improvisational abilities by getting down-and-dirty with the headier aspects of Steve Reich-ian minimalism, Morton Feldman’s quiet austerity, and the knotty harmonies of the most angular jazz. Songs are eschewed for all-acoustic mobiles of interlocking repetitions and subtle rhythmic interplay that blossom into crystal clear dances in counterpoint or thin to the most delicate single-note resonances. The result is a fragile balance of chimes and drones dancing on the blurred line between composition and improvisation and a series of sound shapes that crumble and reform with fluid ease. On C’mon , the band’s latest and best offering, Town and Country lovingly unfolds these systems with poise, confidence, and a quiet modesty befitting their uncanny knack for invention and steadfast resistance to the tides of musical fashion.


The most immediately noticeable contrast between C’mon and the band’s earlier work is the new emphasis on brevity and a tight compositional focus. The album features seven tracks occupying just over forty minutes, yet each number still possesses the same air of patience and wide-screen clarity of the band’s more meandering work. Album opener “Going to Kamakura,” for example, carefully expands a bounty of spare instrumental variations atop the gentle dissonance of an obsessive acoustic guitar ostinato. As the piece progresses, the gentle swell and ebb of harmonium and the pulse of fragmented walking bass seamlessly fades to a Feldman-esque cloud of harmonics from celeste and handchimes. “I’m Appealing” achieves a similar clarity and breadth by pitting the harp-glissandi chime of fingerpicked guitars above the pulsing overtones of a muffled bell. The track appears as an exercise in straight repetition until curious interference patterns emerge as the instruments drift out of phase with one another and pulse like ripples emanating from each surprising chord change. “Garden,” clocking in at just under four minutes, finds the acoustic guitar and string bass chasing one another through an oblique, roundabout progression before being completely unsettled by a multiphonic bass clarinet drone. Defying narrative or tension-release structures, each track follows a purely intuitive course in which the most monumental or miniscule shift is simultaneously unexpected and completely natural.


Later tracks greatly benefit from Town and Country’s increasingly varied instrumentation. “The Bells” drifts lazily on the gentle dissonant pulsations between bass clarinet and string bass while a muted cornet blows lonesome soundtrack laments. Gradually, the instruments fuse into a single repeated chord evocative of the track’s namesake, with each repetition training the ear towards the most delicate fluctuations in timbre and duration. “Palms” insinuates a similar melancholy by settling fragmented hand chime and celeste lines in a sprawling backdrop warm brass and bass clarinet. The true standouts, however, are “I am So Very Cold” and “Bookmobile,” which offer proof that the Town and Country non-formula holds up in an up tempo environment. “I am So Very Cold” is a dance of lopsided cross-rhythms between bass clarinet and guitar that gradually cools to a stately celeste-led waltz. “Bookmobile” begins with tinkling acoustics and unhinged walking bass before veering into a sort of artsy funk, replete with slap bass and handclaps in the appropriately odd time signatures. It is intricate, busy, and humorous enough to dispel the image of pouting music students nervously counting each syncopated beat – and most importantly, “Bookmobile” proves that the band genuine has a genuinely good time playing somewhat serious and beautiful music.


From the first chord to the last chime, C’mon is challenging without the burden of pretension and accomplished without the air of smugness. The instrumentation is sinewy and delicate – chosen for pure sonic appeal, with no concern for the trends of vocal-less music – and each piece brims with the intricate and intelligent structures that too many dressed-up indie jam bands lack. Furthermore, the band’s musical anchors – jazz and avant-garde classical – are subtly blended into the band’s sound and crafted into integral components instead of being left to jut out as blatant reference points. Those looking for a break from the posturing and evermore clichéd “post-rock” (gulp!) grind need look no further than Town and Country – Chicago’s secret cure for those endless vibraphone marathons.