Transference

Up to this point, Spoon have employed their signature tight pocket grooves as a shorthand for authority, certainty, and swagger. It's one of the most appealing things about the band, and the sound has made even Britt Daniel's most vulnerable moments seem grounded and forthright. They've turned it all inside-out on Transference, subtly shifting the leading signifiers of Spoon-iness just so for a destabilizing effect. Their go-to trick for the first half of the album is to include bits of sound that abruptly cut off, usually sung phrases that drop entirely out of the mix mid-syllable. This may be aggravating for some listeners, but this counterintuitive move makes sense in context, indicating distraction and tongue-tied indecision. This is a perfect example of the group's genius as a studio band: They get very cerebral in arranging their material, but every clever move is entirely in the service of maximizing physical impact and gut-level response. These are not simply recordings of a top-notch rock quartet playing in a room; this is art built to hit precise emotional marks with an impressive balance of off-the-cuff improvisation and rigid discipline.

Though their previous records have opened with stylish, immediately thrilling numbers like "Small Stakes" and "The Beast and Dragon, Adored", Transference begins with "Before Destruction", a pensive slow-burner that's more of a muted prelude than a flashy entrance. We're knocked off-balance from the beginning, and the next few songs sustain a sense of confusion and disorientation. "Is Love Forever?", a jaunty cut that sounds as though Daniel were aiming to write a much dizzier version of Phoenix's "Listzomania", bumps right into "The Mystery Zone", an excellent late-night groover that hits the same sweet spot as older gems like "Don't You Evah" and "I Turn My Camera On". When that track ends suddenly, it's like walking right into a wall before "Who Makes Your Money" has you wobbling along with Daniel in a concussed haze. The album sobers up as it moves along, and the progression always makes a certain emotional sense, but it's ultimately a big pile-up of unorthodox creative decisions. On first pass, Transference seems a bit off, even somewhat sloppy for a band known for keeping things focused and snappy. However, upon closer listening it becomes obvious that these guys have made a meticulously crafted "mess" that conveys the feeling of flailing around and failing in search of meaningful connections.

The name of the album refers to the Freudian concept of unconsciously projecting feelings for one person or thing to another. It's also the term used to describe when a patient develops a romantic attachment to their analyst, mistaking the intimacy of that relationship for actual love. Transference isn't a concept album, but it's not hard to figure out why they might have chosen the title. There's a nagging desperation for "real" love at the core of this record, tangled up in a genuine cluelessness about what it is or how it works. "The Mystery Zone" finds Daniel theorizing about relationships and unknowable fates like a rambling, semi-coherent drunk, stumbling up to big ideas but trailing off or nodding out before saying anything that makes complete sense. "Written in Reverse" seethes with the bitterness of unrequited love, and Daniel's larynx-shredding vocal hits the right note of resentment and resignation as he spits out lines like, "I wanna show you how I love you, but there's nothing there."

Even the most stable tracks seem frustrated or tentative. The gorgeous "Out Go the Lights" sounds as exhausted as it is lovesick, and the scorching "Got Nuffin" confronts neuroses head-on with plucky courage, but also a chugging riff that evokes gut-churning anxiety. It's hardly uncommon for Spoon songs to deal with failed love and thwarted desire, but Daniel has rarely sounded so vulnerable and his feelings have never seemed so unresolved. Some may hear Transference and get the impression that it's an incomplete or uneven work, but its elliptical nature is ultimately the key to its charm. All through the record, Britt Daniel sounds like a guy left hanging by life, waiting around to figure out the answers to all his questions. It wouldn't make sense for him to tell you anything he doesn't know himself.

Though the band produced the album themselves, half of the songs on Transference are presented in their original "demo" form, resulting in unexpected shifts between raw and slick audio textures. Since Daniel and drummer Jim Eno are experienced engineers, almost nothing on the album could rightly be considered lo-fi, but there is a disarming immediacy to these less polished tracks that makes the record as a whole seem very relaxed and informal in comparison to their previous efforts.

"Goodnight Laura", a straightforward ballad on the album's second side, gains a lot from this approach, with an intimate "live" sound that gives the impression that you've accidentally stumbled into a Spoon rehearsal. "Trouble Comes Running" has the opposite effect with its dramatic stereo separations, but the low-key feeling of the recording preserves an energy that may have been flattened with a more full production. Both of these tracks could be considered "minor" Spoon songs, but they reveal just how high the bar has been set for Daniel and company, and how easily their skill can be taken for granted. Following the creative strides made on their last few Merge releases, the only big surprise on Transference is that they've become willing to let their hair down a bit. It can be a bit of a let down if you come in expecting another blockbuster like Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, but something of a revelation if you meet them halfway.