Beach House might be the most appropriately-named band I’ve ever heard. As soon as you’ve heard those two words, you know what the music sounds like (though a glance at photos of Alex Scally’s tousled, saltwater-washed hair and Victoria Legrand’s flowing, aqua-coloured gown won’t steer you in the wrong direction, either).
This Baltimore duo spins radiantly aching dream-pop out of cracked vintage organs and slide guitar, conjuring the bittersweet autumnal mood of a seacoast abandoned after summer vacation. Their quiet little beat sampler hums away throughout the album like a tugboat engine, thrumming with submerged reverb like the lap of waves against a pier. Their myspace page wants you to know that, “Beats are either hand-made from found sounds, xylophones, clanking bells, etc or taken from the heart of the organ when played live. There are no drum machines in Beach House.”
While their blissed-out, coastal fog-sound redefines every possible usage of words like “woozy” and “hazy”, Beach House are considerably more than just mood machines. Legrand’s throaty voice recalls all the leading ladies of nightsong (Hope Sandoval, Nico, Billie Holiday) and, coupled with her alternately groaning and sparkling keyboards, she weaves melodies that will shortly become essential to your waking and sleeping. This album is worth all your sand dollars and it’s already endorsed by the major organs, so you don’t just have to take my word for it. If you miss their show at Pat’s Pub on November 11th, you will be a very sad starfish indeed.