Send "Darwin Deez " Ringtones to your Cell 
| Popmatters |
 As we continue to plod through our prolonged worldwide economic crises, it seems only natural that, as well as cutting out all the inessential expenses in our lives, we’ll find solace in music in one way or another. Yet just like out-dated department stores, car showrooms, and village pubs, recording studios around the world are feeling the pinch of reduced spending and closing their doors for the last time.On the flipside, the advent of GarageBand has meant artists—particularly those more solo-based—can record cheapily and easily at home. Chances are we’re likely to hear a lot more bedroom-recorded albums over the next few years. New York’s Darwin Deez, with his poodle perm, scruffy-indie-star sartorial tendencies, and penchant for Meher Baba-influenced ways of living (i.e. no drink, no drugs, belief in reincarnation) doesn’t actually seem like the type who’d sit on his bed, recording drum loops on his AppleMac. But then maybe he does? Because here’s Darwin Deez: ten scratchy songs that scream ‘home recording’ and sound, from the clipped guitars to the NYC drawl, like a bunch of early Strokes demos. That’s no bad thing, though, because it’s in the stripped down corners of Darwin Deez that you’ll find authentic, honest beauty—all put together by Deez himself. In fact, although there’s the odd moment (particularly on slow-paced reflective dity “The Bomb Song”, the nearest the album gets to a ballad) when you really feel the album could do benefit from more production, the truth is any more layers and Darwin Deez would lose its charm. For a start, glossing over the cracks would also come at the expense of the kooky, Bed Folds-esque lyrics—naked and unadorned, they are one of the defining elements of this album. On the poppy “Constellations”, for example, “There’s a million little lights when the sky turns black tonight / Are there patterns in our skies / Are patterns only in our eyes?” may seem twee on paper, but, on record, rarely does such quirky mysticism sound so believable....full text |
| Musicomh |
| Is Darwin Deez a man or a band? If he's a man, does he even have a band? He certainly alludes to bandmates on his website, but the Darwin Deez sound bears all the hallmarks of a soloist: a drum machine, a couple of layers of guitar, idiosyncratic lyrical turns. What is clear is that this young John C Reilly lookalike is entirely worthy of the buzz that surrounds him. Originating from the perpetually cool New York scene, the intriguing Darwin is a Baba Lover - following Meher Baba's teachings that cheerfulness has a spiritual value - and concedes with refreshing honesty that his clean lifestyle is at odds with a booze-soaked indie music movement. Far from self-righteous, however, this debut LP exudes the kind of rhythmic, enticing lo-fi that made early Beck records such potent sleeper hits. Constellations, indeed, sets out the album's stall with bright, simple aplomb: interesting chord shapes - coaxed from an even more interesting four-string, uniquely tuned electric guitar - ring out over a chirpy synthesised drum beat while Deez alternates between deadpan and falsetto like a upbeat Julian Casablancas, name-checking, among other things, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Deep Sea Divers carries the torch further, its unhurried sequence flourishing into a beautiful, delicately chiming chorus, the curiously literal lyrical content conjuring imagery of discord between two divers sat on the ocean floor: "Little yellow fish go past your sullen face / Shouldn't you smile once in a while?" It's a real standout track....full text |
| Bbc |
| Half an hour, half the package. Merely listening to Darwin Deez’s eponymous debut robs you of the bizarre and hilarious spectacle of his live show, which features this lanky vision of a hippie Sideshow Bob performing synchronised dance routines with his backing band between numbers, like a hipster-pop Diversity. And you’d be forgiven for thinking the record itself displayed a fraction of Darwin’s capabilities, with its Bontempi beats recalling the theme to Flight of the Conchords, its cheap guitars mimicking Albert Hammond Jr and its overwhelming buzz of the bedroom. Succumb to your inner Sebadoh, though, and the scratchiness of these ten home-made pop gems adds to their charm, and to the album’s making-of-a-cult status. Deez exhibits the songwriting panache of a Brendan Benson or Ben Folds, and this album acts as his DIY taster in the same way as the former’s One Mississippi and the latter’s work with Majosha. Singles like the Strokes-y Constellations and the brilliantly itchy Radar Detector – essentially Folds’s Jack and Sarah mating with Someday in the back of a Death Cab – feel like fully formed alt-disco hits, but the likes of Up in the Clouds and Bed Space hint at a luscious aesthetic waiting to have its fidelity heightened. Lyrically Deez tackles the traditional bedroom geek concerns – girls, basically, and how not to land yourself one – but with a darkly comic bent. DNA finds him refusing to acknowledge the end of a relationship at all, The Suicide Song is a cheery hand-clapper that follows him on a plunge from a tall building (“On the way down I see your face / Is laughing at one of my idiot boy mistakes”) and The Bomb revels in grotesque imagery of a post-nuclear war landscape – “The sky is green / The clouds are brown / The city’s a ghost town…” – as a backdrop to Deez convincing a girl to fancy him now that he is, quite literally, the last man on Earth. Frankly, it’s amazing the album retains its collegiate pop party feel through such tongue-in-cheek devastation....full text |
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