by Reggie Bender (@granolabrat)
Prior to the bans on public gathering, I could fairly accurately predict that, at any given show, I would end up in an echo chamber of deserved albeit incessant praise of Spirit of the Beehive. There isn’t much to argue. The cult worship centers around seemingly the only group in indie rock to truly deliver captivating, avant-garde work when citing some iteration of “guitars just aren’t doing it for me anymore,” as opposed to their counterparts' apparent tendencies to cough up second-rate versions of Madonna’s “Live to Tell,” but I digress. Expectations are high, to say the least. Enter our champions of manicured chaos, sporting a new, leaner lineup consisting of the band’s founders, Zach Schwartz (guitar/vocals) and Rivka Ravede (bass/vocals), as well as newcomer Corey Wichlin, a multi-instrumentalist and co-producer of ENTERTAINMENT, DEATH, the trio’s shiny new record. Spirit pulls us into the funhouse, lassoing moments of clarity only to leave you wondering what it was that finally made sense.
At its dawn, ENTERTAINMENT, DEATH is a spectacle. Thrashing drums and feedback pour into smart hooks. Spirit takes further an idea explored on E, D’s predecessor, 2018’s Hypnic Jerks, opting to take challenging musical journeys, often ending up west when it seemed to be moving east. Even their press photos only come into focus for a moment, never quite having a clear view of the whole picture. Blink and you might miss it. Much of the album abandons their guitar roots entirely, feeling more akin to Childish Gambino’s world-building Because the Internet. Ravede’s thick bass lines slide into what sometimes qualify as wonderfully Wonka-esque synths or sharp carnival horrors. Schwartz and Wichlin’s production plays with the nervous system, romping around in a primitive feeling of excitement. Sometimes it's anxiety, sometimes it's arousal.
High pop points such as “GIVE UP YOUR LIFE,” a mid-record slugger, trudge through a pithy rhythm section, puckering up to noir guitars and whirling digital elements. More experimental portions like the penultimate “I SUCK THE DEVIL’S COCK,” a wicked suite of sorts, oscillates between cheap thrills and full throttle hypnosis. It embodies the album as a whole, focusing on movement. It comes together, it shies away. It sails smoothly, it fractures. Everything is liquid. Though E,D’s songs retain individual personalities, it seems to be a disservice to judge it on a track by track basis. Spirit has often been described as “dream-like.” E, D often flips to a nightmare, not for shock value, but because the record is more concerned with mood and atmosphere than a direct story. If the feeling gets across, it’s done its job.
Sometime in mid-March, I asked a friend for his opinion on the singles that had been released so far. The bastardized version of his thoughtful answer is boiled down to this: they’re an album band. E, D works best as a whole because Spirit is providing us not just with a record, but an experience. Admittedly, I didn’t like “THE SERVER IS IMMERSED,” the second single, much when I first heard it. Oftentimes I find myself still framing indie music along the same lines as pop. At the end of the day, it’s something to bop along to. For those who are up to the task--as Spirit of the Beehive has proven themselves to be--indie invites bands to challenge its audience, which, at times, means sacrificing something linear to create a more provocative listening venture. So I reframe and I go back. I walk to get a covid test. For now, public gatherings are still a thing of the past, and I’m left to assess ENTERTAINMENT, DEATH alone. About halfway through my journey down Eastern Parkway, sun getting in my eyes, the song comes on. Something clicks, it slides into focus. A warm, cloudy memory rushes over me. I don’t know what it is, but I know what it feels like.