Pontiak

Patterns of listening are their own cumulative demographic: Some people listen for innovative music that cuts across boundaries and incorporates new elements. Other folks listen for comfort music-- old sounds given a new sheen or a new industry push. These divisions aren't always obvious, as champions of all genres and members of every social group fall unevenly and unpredictably into (and between) those dual castes. You'll find respective purists in noise and adult-contemporary pop, and you'll find teenagers and their grandparents who pine for the good ol' days. Each is bound to have a more progressive counterpart somewhere on the other side of the fence.
Don't be surprised, then, that one of the most ambitious and iconoclastic rock records of the year comes from three bearded, farm-living brothers raised in the rural hills between Washington, D.C., and Virginia's Shenandoah Mountains. Together as Pontiak, the Carneys-- Jennings, Lain, and Van-- turn Maker, their second album for Thrill Jockey, into a platform for bending elemental rock'n'roll into warped shapes. All the while, they keep the purists happy by putting the song at the center of the conquest.
Pontiak self-released their second record, Sun on Sun, in 2007 in an edition of 500 LPs. Last year, Thrill Jockey grabbed the album for a wide reissue that went largely unnoticed. Makes sense: Sun on Sun remains a somewhat indefinable quantity that erects big, brash rock songs with three-part harmonies and clangorous playing amid extended instrumental interludes, outros, and intros. United only by a slight haze of mystery and a visceral first-take buzz, the brothers mined slight funk ("White Mice"), bar-band force ("Shell Skull"), roadhouse waltzes ("Tell Me About"), and dreamy gospel-rock ("Sun on Sun") in nine weird numbers. The songs themselves were strong, but it's easy to see how the record-- blurring borders as it did-- could be written off as non-committal heavy rock.
It was easy to imagine Pontiak trimming the fat for the follow-up, editing away the instrumental excess and focusing on rock songs that could land on blogs and college charts. That might happen yet: The Maker tracks with relatively traditional structures are outstanding pan-American rock songs, aggregating blues, soul, Southern rock, and alt-rock into tunes you can, you know, sing. Opener "Laywayed" introduces its layers one at a time-- a jagged guitar line, a simple drum march, big bass sustains-- before charging into two parallel verses built so well that they're as memorable as a refrain (which the song forgoes). Above grimy guitar and bass, the Carneys present "Honey" in three-piece vocal unison, turning what sounds like a work song on its head. Pontiak grind through a series of bucolic images with resolute lethargy, suggesting a springtime Sunday where chores are abandoned for play-- booze, instruments, naps.
Overall, though, Maker is perhaps twice as divisive as its predecessor. With two more tracks and seven more minutes, it's increasingly eclectic and rangy. Still, it's more cohesive than Sun on Sun because its lopsided structure engenders a sense of propulsion. Each time a pattern begins to emerge, the Carneys destroy it: During "Laywayed", for instance, Pontiak ride a riff for the first 30 seconds. They pause, but instead of immediately ripping back into the song, they go silent for five seconds. The bait-and-switch commands attention.
And there's the album's overall structure: The first, third, and fifth tracks are lumbering rock anthems worth humming. The subsequent even-numbered tracks-- two, four, and six-- are aggressive instrumental bursts, each lasting less than two minutes. After track seven's subdued sing-along, you'd expect a return to those two-minute offensives. Instead, Pontiak unveil their instrumental epic, the 14-minute title track that builds and collapses several times over its length. Mining Om's bass-and-cymbal throb, "Maker" wallows at a mid-tempo trot. Little melodies swirl, and the tune gradually builds to the eight-minute mark. Then the pot begins to boil. Pontiak roar, but they settle again, their careful tension and release drawing more attention to riffs and rhythms than catharsis. Even at 14 minutes, "Maker" develops, moves, and feels like a song, not a long edit of a jam or exercise.
And that's the real charm of Maker. Even when Pontiak are demolishing, abbreviating, or stretching structures, they maintain an allegiance to song. "Heat Pleasure" might be 94 seconds of cymbal splatter and feedback rolling into one wide wave, but it adheres with direction and purpose. With its shifts in meter and simple key changes, the headlong burst "Headless Conference" is as memorable as "Wild Knife Night Fight", the catchy harmony-heavy bass tune that follows. Even the album's ragtag acoustic number sounds as subversive as the 14-minute trip in front of it. Pontiak, then, find ways to satisfy both castes-- the musical purists and progressives-- even as they play songs that seem designed for one or the other.
— Grayson Currin, May 14, 2009

I really love this band

check em http://www.myspace.com/pontiak