Welcome to Dissected, where we disassemble a band’s catalog in the abstract. It’s exact science by way of a few beers.
Spencer Krug: The Man, The Myth, The Keyboardist. Many have attempted to put the 34 year old British Colombian in a classifiable box, but few have succeeded, if any. Wolf Parade, Sunset Rubdown, Moonface, Frog Eyes, Fifths of Seven, Swan Lake: these are not the names of zoo exhibits, resort massage packages, metropolitan ballets, or time signatures, but the seemingly never-ending musical outlets with which Krug is associated. Under the Wolf Parade moniker, Krug teamed up with Dan Boeckner to craft gravely, danceable, glammy, art-rock over the course of three records. Through Sunset Rubdown, Krug showcased his stream-of-consciousness art-pop, almost completely unhinged. Moonface took that concept one step deeper into the realms of his unconscious. Fifths of Seven barely existed, as a short-lived instrumental super group with members of Silver Mt. Zion and Cakelk. Swan Lake was an assembly of indie rock’s most eccentric minds– Carey Mercer, Dan Bejar, and Krug– to form wandering and lurking dream pop. And finally, Frog Eyes was just another place for Krug to sprinkle his synth-dust.
Krug is an amalgamation of the mythical and real-world beasts that he chants about; a confused, eccentric poet searching for the answers to his mind’s qualms in the deep valleys of his subconscious. He is a ranting, yelping, crazed lunatic behind a set of warbly synthesizers, masking his erratic emotions in enigmatic, cryptic narratives. He is a traveler through nightmares and dream worlds alike. For a decade, he has brought us back stories from the depths of a slain fire-breathing dragon’s heart, from all-terrain leopard rides through the folds of ex-girlfriends’ dresses, from excursions prancing between the ceiling-high lines of horror film scripts, from hunting safaris, from horse rides through hell, from haunted camping trips. He has done all of this, and, it has only added to the confusion, begged more questions. After all of these personal songs, these animal-indebted monikers, these heartbreaking anecdotes, these insanely catchy keyboard riffs, and these gravely vocal spurts, we still don’t know what to make of him. We still have no idea what it all means. We may never know, either. But hey, let’s give it one more shot.
Senior Staff Writer/Assistant Art Director