Send "The Sea and Cake " Ringtones to your Cell 
| Popmatters |
 The Sea and Cake are one of those long-time bands, a band that doesn’t need left-field turns in their sound or wild reinventions to stay fresh. If they’re not flashy, they are still very much distinct, and though they haven’t always sounded exactly the same, they have always sounded like themselves.The Moonlight Butterfly, the bands new mini-LP, is worth noting because it does two seemingly disconnected things at once. First, it represents the bands quiet expansion over time, a representation of their strengths and a stretching of the borders of their sound. At the same time, though, it feels like a brief history of the band, a cross section of the phases it’s gone through over the years. Mostly notably, it’s emphasis on synthesizers and programming hints at the soft electronics the band ventured into on records like The Fawn and One Bedroom. The time since that, though, has seen the Sea and Cake turn into a compact and volatile band on the tight bliss of Everybody and the slight rock edge of 2009’s Car Alarm. Their recent, more direct approach shows up most clearly on the hushed power of “Up on the North Shore”. Sam Prekop’s whispery vocals drift over the understated guitars, which are always more intricate than they first appear, but it’s John McEntire’s drumming that pushes the song beautifully forward. Opener “Covers” represents a similar corner of the band’s sound, charging forward even as guitar tones melt at their edges, even as Prekop’s most urgent singing is still soft and confessional....full text |
| Consequenceofsound |
| The Sea and Cake’s newest mini-album (six songs puts it somewhere between an EP and an LP), The Moonlight Butterfly, opens with a warm deluge of ringing sound, a beat that slides in softly, and murmured vocals reminiscent of the quieter moments had by Kevin Drew of Broken Social Scene. But what makes opening track “Covers” so tranquil is the same kind of soothing monotony that ends up burdening the album as a whole. Yes, this is a collection of cerebral songs for the quiet life, the zen garden moments—a leaf changing colors, rippling pond water, a butterfly in the moonlight—but there isn’t enough heart to sustain them, and they end up feeling more like mindlessly riding in an elevator or sitting in a waiting room at the dentist’s office than contemplating life’s big questions. Coasting along for nearly 20 years, the members of The Sea and Cake have earned a fair share of indie cred for their seemingly effortless ability to master the serene art of flow, crafting their albums so that each track slides seamlessly into the next. However, Butterfly leads one to wonder if maybe these Chicago-based post-rockers haven’t taken it a step too far, sacrificing charisma and spirit for the sake of their almighty flow. Gone is the unique flavor that kept the band’s earlier music from falling flat. Gone are the unexpected moments of strangeness: bursts of steel drums, crunchy textures, and odd, little, moany background vocals. The kinds of blips and lumps that kept their sound fresh and alive have disappeared. Now the sound feels smoothed over, almost glib, like the band learned how to make a new kind of cake with half the calories and moved to Florida, where the sea has no waves....full text |
| Cokemachineglow |
| With Luna effectively defunct, there is no longer any competition: the Sea and Cake are the greatest innocuous band in America. I don’t mean to confuse their music with anything bland or boring—Sea and Cake acolytes probably don’t overlap with those of Jack Johnson or Train—but there’s really something reassuring at the heart of the intricate inoffensiveness that serves as their stock in trade. Sure I love me some Fugazi and Mission of Burma as much as the next gnarled hipster, but I can’t stomach those bands on my morning commute. At 8 AM, when caffeine has yet to ignite my senses and I’m anticipating the unmitigated dread of the next ten hours, I require quality music, yet music I can ignore. In fact, the Sea and Cake are the epitome of the morning commute band, perhaps only great for those who know exactly what I mean. And eight full-length albums, seventeen years removed from their debut, they still traffic in music tailor-made for public transportation and the day spa alike; Sam Prekop breathes sweet nothings at your temples while the mud mask is carefully applied. Which isn’t to imply they aren’t ridiculously skilled and enthusiastic musicians; drummer/producer John McEntire’s gonzo facial expressions and tattoo sleeves bear witness to this reality. But there’s something to be said for a band whose accompanying train ride can’t be experience without falling asleep—which is often exactly what I want. The Sea and Cake’s albums only rival AC/DC for interchangeability, though subtle differences, mostly contextual, abound: The Fawn (1997) possesses the most electronics, lengthier songs; Nassau (1995) sounds the most like stoned teenagers screwing around in Mom’s basement; Oui (2000) is probably the one you want on your headphones poolside in the Bahamas. If that’s something you want. But the band’s gentle consistency is really something to behold; if you like one, chances are you’ll like them all. (Personally, One Bedroom [2003] was kinda meh, though I can’t exactly remember why.)...full text |
The Sea and Cake lyrics
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