by John Glab (@glabglabglab_)
Different instances of turmoil crowd the space in our lives. It can be found in the back and forth of questioning of am I or am I not an asshole, the stress of a rocky relationship, or the swallowing nihilism that comes from the feeling of powerlessness when confronted by the immeasurable forces that create an unfair society. Much of life is grappling with these uncomfortable realities. Some ways of doing so are better than others. One of them is to start a band and sing about what has got you down.
That’s the primary reason for any art rock band, along with just having fun. A vessel for someone to communicate their thoughts and feelings on the world, and then maybe be praised for such insights. The initial purpose of Krill, the late cult Boston based indie band, was to do the same thing. The band consisting at that time of vocalist and bassist Jonah Furman, guitarist Aaron Ratoff and drummer Luke Pyenson played together to have something to do, with a hope for the dazzle being in a band can bring. They played near the end of the peak of an East Coast indie rock scene that centered around now closed venues like Shea Stadium and the Silent Barn in Brooklyn, and Great Scott in Boston. The same place where contemporaries like Ovlov, Speedy Ortiz and LVL UP found their footing.
However, that initial purpose that guides so many indie-art rock bands unraveled for Krill. That is shown on their now decade old album Lucky Leaves, released in June of 2013. There’s an overarching feeling of self-awareness on this record, that writing songs in a band doesn’t really solve anything they’re trying to bring attention to. Furman wonders whether he’s really accomplishing anything with the album through paradoxical facetious questions. Flipping between contemplating if something’s right or wrong, and slightly changing the words in lines to flip their meaning.
On the song “Sick Dogs (For Ian),” Furman demonizes the person that lays around and takes no action, even in the face of direct turmoil. Instead, they’d rather wallow in their pain. At the end of the song, he switches the attacks into “I” statements to criticize and bash his own ineptitude to take action. The same thing is done on the track “Oppressor,” where Furman labels whoever’s having a good time, or enjoying themselves must be oppressing other people who are less well off, a theme that shows up on other Krill songs like “Happy” on their last release. It ends again with those accusations being placed on himself and reveling with the guilt of doing the same thing. This pairs with a lot of the general self-pity that shows up throughout the album, like on “Tetherball,” where in the chorus Furman exclaims how often he feels dumb for just being around.
To his credit, Furman confronted this feeling of being inconsequential towards all the hideousness that the world offered. After the band dissolved in late 2015, each member went off to do their own thing that better fit society. Ratoff became a defense attorney, and Furman has been working as a labor advocate, now for the UAW. Being in a band just wasn’t effective enough to alter the world for the better. Still, the time wasn’t wasted. Krill, especially at their peak on Lucky Leaves, made great music that touched and continues to be enjoyed by many.
Krill’s music is lively and zestful. Within songs they jump from starkly different sounding parts that slam into each other. Different emotions of deprecation interlock with time signatures switching back and forth. Bouncing bass lines and capricious drums back Ratoff’s jangly, poppy, yet mathy riffs, which glance in and out of the soundscape whenever they please. Furman’s voice is nasally, yet still exudes power. From whispers to shouts, it reverberates in true passion.
“Never a Joke” begins with the punch of a gritty drawn-out bass line. It alternates between resonating and quickly clambering behind the twangy overdriven guitars that try to keep up with the vocals. It’s hectic like a fall down the stairs. On “Purity of Heart,” light, hesitant, bright riffs accompany warbling vocals that build up to a crashing, driving riff. It has a hard-hitting punk edge with the guitar and bass pounding in tandem, before prancing around in a chaotic fashion during the song's final break. At the end of the record, “Infinite Power” gives a brief moment of triumph, with its repeated line of “How can I be humble, having learned of my infinite power?” It has an immersive feeling of confidence that stands out from the abundant amounts of dread that litter the rest of the album. It feels like flying down a meandering path on a bicycle, with no worry of danger. It all comes to a slow crash, the instrumentation being stripped back into a steady drumbeat, wistful bass part, and guitar that shows itself at odd moments before heating into something more hostile. Repeatedly, Furman mumbles the cry “If you want to feel like a failure, that’s your right” until he’s vehemently shouting it. A climax of self-loathing in an exasperated indignation.
It’s something many can emphasize with. There are plenty of unattainable perceptions of success in the world that give us the nagging feeling of not being good enough. The individual instances of turmoil are relatable and give a way to let out our anger, by realizing enough people went through the same thing, that one of them wrote a song about it. Despite the themes of not doing enough, and all the demoralized frustration, Lucky Leaves is still inherently enjoyable. It’s a mathed-out punk record that’s best soaked in while sprawled out on a bed, while through the blinds dusk yellows the surrounding walls. The radiant and aptly named “Theme From Krill” captures this vibe with its vibrant cascading riff. Furman tells a story of a character named Bug who starts a band with two of his friends, presumably a metaphor for how Krill itself started. Right away it’s a reminder of the purpose of being in a band. Despite it not mattering much in the grand scheme of the universe, it can be a great way to spend time, which can spawn something amazing that other people can enjoy. It’s made to bask in in a given moment. That’s why the iconic phrase of “Krill forever and ever” is still repeated to this day.