Go-ing places

Letters to Cleo's new attractions

by Gary Susman

In pop terms, two years is an eternity. Since Letters to Cleo's last release, 1995's Wholesale Meats and Fish, the entire pop landscape has shifted tectonically. While the Cleos sat out the quarter, grunge was officially pronounced dead, lest anyone had lingering doubts. Giants like R.E.M. and U2 proved themselves fallible and out of touch. Looking for the next big scene, the industry tried to sell electronic dance music as a movement, only to discover that those crazy kids preferred neo-bubblegum from teen-idol types like Hanson and the Spice Girls.

Two years ago, the Cleos had been set to take their place on the national stage among a wave of Boston-based noise-pop acts led by singers with little-girl voices and backed by big crunchy guitars. Today, most of those acts have fallen below the radar screens of listeners outside Route 128. (Sing along: "Where have you gone, Tan-ya Do-nel-ly?/A nation turns its lonely . . . ") Today, grrrl pop is Lilith Fair performers like Jewel and Sarah McLachlan, more quiet than riot.

Where does that leave the Cleos? Their debut disc, Aurora Gory Alice, got them called up to the majors, where they hit a strong single with "Here and Now." While that song was still selling, the band capitalized on it with the release of Meats. In retrospect, it might have been wiser to release more singles from Aurora and further develop the band nationally before hitting the public with new material. Despite heavy touring and a fine single ("Awake"), Meats stiffed, the band burned out, drummer Stacy Jones left to join Veruca Salt (another now-invisible girl-fronted noise-pop band), and suddenly, two years had gone by.

But now their timing, with the release of the energetic, aptly titled Go! (Revolution), may be just right. Hub fans will be relieved to hear that the new-model Cleos (featuring drummer Tom Polce, formerly of the Gravy) aren't much different from the old Cleos, but they're playing up the elements that fit the current pop trends. Having traded in producer Mike Denneen for Peter Collins (Jewel, Sneaker Pimps, Indigo Girls), they've also traded in much of the noise of Meats for a less ragged pop sound. There's more of a groove on some tunes, thanks in large measure to dexterous bassist Scott Riebling ("It's got a good beat, and you can dance to it. I give it an 85, Dick . . . ").

That's not to say that the band have gone electronic or wussed out. It's clear from the first bars of the opening "I've Got Time" -- with Kay Hanley's voice going from whisper to scream, Polce's rumbling attack building to a machine-gun pace, and the still-Pixie-ish chunks of guitar fury from Michael Eisenstein and Greg McKenna -- that the Cleos can still rock out.

All the same, the band's music and lyrics have more focus than ever. (Yeah, "Here and Now" was a dazzling work of popcraft, but I defy anyone, even with the lyric sheet, to explain what Hanley was singing about in that torrent of syllables that made up the chorus.) The songs fit into a variety of discrete styles, many of them delightfully retro. (Hanley says she was inspired by Groovin', that late-night-TV collection of hippie bubblegum sold by two balding boomers.) Ex-Car Greg Hawkes plays '80s-ish synth arpeggios on two songs; other tracks feature two '60s cheese staples, the Farfisa organ (played by guest Jed Parrish of the Gravel Pit) and Mellotron. "Sparklegirl" is pure lava-lamp joy, and "Go!" could be an alternate, much hipper theme to Speed Racer ("You're in my car now," snarls Hanley). This trend culminates in the album's centerpiece, "Co-Pilot," a lovely, Phil Spector-ish shuffle in which Hanley pleads with a Ronette-like combination of brassy force (supplemented by horns and vocal harmonies) and irresistible seductiveness that her listener "be my co-pilot/Come be in my dream."

The band have capitulated to another current pop trend by playing up Hanley's icon appeal, taking her out of pigtails and dressing her in couture. Hanley's supple, skillful voice, with its dramatic range and variety of colors, has always been the band's chief draw; I just hope that the indispensable crack ensemble behind her won't be slighted or ignored.

In any case, Hanley's logorrhea has been streamlined. The headlong rush of words, with their diffuse, evocative meanings, that used to tumble from her lips has evolved into sharp, economical verses that make their devastating points in crystalline couplets, then move on. "If you disappear tomorrow, who would care?/It's not like the retribution would end there," Hanley coos insinuatingly in "Disappear." Other nice little knife twists: "I've got strength to move, but why should I?"; "Only God can help the one/Who put the magnets in your head"; "I won't try to slow you down/But I got to get there first or be buried." Such phrases, coupled with Hanley's ability to shift between croon and roar, and the band's intricate retro-pop arrangements, make the Cleos sound like a female-fronted Elvis Costello and the Attractions.

And the lyrical nastiness, which first surfaced back on "Awake," is a nice departure from the self-loathing that seemed to mark the writing on the first two albums -- taken to an extreme, probing introspection threatens to become narcissistic solipsism. Now the bile is directed outward, mostly at faithless lovers, though betrayal comes in many flavors on Go! In "Alouette & Me," the singer has apparently been dumped, not for another woman but for a cooler group of friends. It's a lovely acoustic ballad, though it shows there's still some of the depressed high-school poetess in Hanley. "Anchor" and "Veda Very Shining" are as obscure and inscrutable as any song the Cleos have done, but they're unstoppable rockers, so no one will notice or care. You'll be singing along to the radio, even if you have no idea what you're singing about.

There lies one more old-but-new-again pop trend that the Cleos are in tune with. In the '60s, the heroic gesture -- whether it was a sudden power chord, a transcendent shout, a sudden modulation up to the next key -- was as common as bell-bottoms. (For the Who, as common as broken guitar strings.) Musical hooks attested to the faith shared by performers and listeners that pop was more than just a product, that it could save your soul. Even the most depressing lyrics could be wedded to upbeat music via the heroic gesture -- which resulted in some patently absurd sing-along phrases at the typical Springsteen/Floyd/U2 stadium show.

In the grunge era, heroism and earnestness fell out of favor (though Nirvana were capable of heroic gestures in spite of themselves). Now, though, we have Oasis and Radiohead redeeming their tales of woe with bright hooks meant to grab the whole world by the ear.

Letters to Cleo, too, are capable of such gestures, creating hooks that burrow into your head like an earwig. Trivia like "You're in my car now" and "Be my co-pilot" will be hammered into your brainpan by the power of Hanley's voice, the air-siren guitars of Eisenstein and McKenna, the heavy stomp of Riebling and Polce. Who knows what it all means, but you'll feel happy, as if pop mattered, as if it were in good hands again.

Letters to Cleo play a free outdoor show at Downtown Crossing this Tuesday, October 7, at 12:30 p.m.