IT IS TAKEN AS GRANTED THAT the Dirty Projectors are the greatest living rock band that the sun has known and touched with love.
IT IS NOW KNOWN THAT the greatest capturers of justice and delight are the six lustrous strings played ‘neath the hands of Longstreth - forever may they tremble.
IT IS OUR JOY THAT there is nitrogen, oxygen, argon, neon, xenon, and every other element of the air so that we may receive the audible transmissions of the Dirty Projectors within space through our atmosphere.
Before there was freak folk in the form of Joanna Newsom and Devendra Banhart but after there was
- Nigerian fuzz
- Prince Palace Oldham’s austere folk, and
- Blind Thomas Fahey’s tectonic folk
there was a form of the Dirty Projectors that summoned pure joy from a simple hook and rising voices to the sky. It was powerful and simple. Before the latest, almost-greatest Swing Lo Magellan, there was The Graceful Fallen Mango, an album so simple and direct that you’d swear you almost missed its import but you didn’t: the parts were mostly all there and the feeling preceded it. It was good; it is good.
Dirty Projectors are not an occasion to spot the influences. Their historicity is simply, well probably, the easiest way to become them in a sensible way, but it’s never meant to be an interruption of the listening, which is always a pure joy.