Grizzly Bear

Veckatimest

Veckatimest isn’t a good album. It’s a beautiful album. Unhurried and effortlessly, Grizzly Bear finds a balance in which detachment and patience mix to sound worldly and wise.

It’s a sophisticated work, delicately and meticulously crafted, and its effete pleasantness lends itself as well to Late Night performances as New Yorker coverage.

Everything on Veckatimest, from the loftiest harmony to the subtlest string pluck, serves a purpose, even if there’s room for a little more.

The swirling gypsy dazzle of ”Southern Point” and ”Two Weeks,” with its lush Beach Boy melodies and jaunty piano jangle, are intoxicating. If the less immediate second half brings diminishing returns, the early glow still lingers.

Nearly every song feels like the musical equivalent of a big meal: there's lots to digest, and coming back for second (and thirds, and more) is necessary.

Even as they feature orchestras, women’s choirs, and Beach House singer Victoria Legrand on Veckatimest, the album is still an intimate, ascetic affair.

Grizzly Bear could have rested on their laurels and still brought in the plaudits, Veckatimest is a bold step forward that should finally turn those sitting on the fence while exceeding the expectations of those already converted.

The album dips and tips and ultimately soars as a result, Rossen and company having turned near-disaster into sonic triumph.

While I’m not sure Veckatimest is the huge improvement on Yellow House that some blogs claim it to be, it’s unquestionably a lovely record and it deserves to be heard on land, sea, indoors and out.

Ambitious, brooding and cerebral, Veckatimest grows on you with each listen, bathing you in choirboy vocal harmonies, softly swished drums, laid-back psychedelic guitar patterns and questioning lyrics that focus on difficult negotiations with a loved one.

The musical emphasis subtly shifts, from track to track and within tracks ... to create something that feels rather greater than the sum of its parts.

The third disc from this Brooklyn quartet has a sound that is completely its own: an opulent, intimate rumble built on churning acoustic riffs, haunted croons and precise string parts.

Their carefully orchestrated, almost minimalist chamber-pop sound is as pretty as ever, but the whole seems to sag when it should be soaring: weighed down by the scantly deserved ennui of the lyrics and the minor-key shifts that buttress them.

A piece of art that had too much pressure ascribed to it, that found its creators trying too hard to make a masterpiece when they could have followed a more natural progression.