When I reviewed Love In Reverse's Fake It single, "Assholes and Astronauts" (see July '22 post), I acknowledged the track's pleasant melody, but also its meaning: that urge to squeeze from out the dummy-assembly line and into a sublime state of being.
In many ways, "Assholes and Astronauts" epitomizes the entirety of destined-to-be-classic Fake It (released today via Dada Drumming), in that the album's thematic thread perceives life's most regimented challenges, but also grants a means to overcome them. The remedy is evident--fake it!
And Michael Ferentino, Andres Karu and Dave Halpern nail this allegorical groove right down the conceptualized line. Yes, they fake it, in a manner of speaking, but with artistic sincerity.
For one, the opening track, "Manifesto" (see March '22 post) rams against a mad rift. It begs for an quixotic awakening, a spiritual epiphany, a way to see the world as it should be. The track tells listeners to don a surreptitious guise and then make their escape from the outside in.
"Breaking Through", as a beefy follow-up, speaks of being fed up enough to commit to a revolt. With its workman splash, one can't help but rise beyond the machinery, to believe that the rebellion is worth it, that it can be won, no matter how many damn, yes-man mannequins block the way.
"Don't Believe Them" is arguably the album's most poignant piece: an essay on hope for a new tomorrow through second chances. It mirrors "Assholes and Astronauts" in its get-me-outta-here vibe, but it also requests renewal, a path toward making things at long last right, as well as serene.
The title track breaks from the prior's humble verve, to the point that all one can think is "Fake It", and why the hell not? The tune strikes in just the right spot, dangling like a magic spell, with a perfect f-you salutation to "all the shit" as one zooms through every red light; but you know, I'd argue that "Bones" (even if slower paced) pulls much the same vivacious trick, sparking swishing strums as it hammers like Thor upon one's head.
The lamenting (if not regretful) "I Hope I Never Have to Leave" and the sardonic "My Misery" each swing back to introspective modes (perhaps with a little worry, though lots of pep), but to make certain that one's inhibition fades, they each celebrate a noble, outcast state. The former track is more a yearning to grasp what little good one holds (with maybe the hope to amplify it), while the former offers bouncy cheer for the so-what status quo (with an implied trace of Nietzsche's "That which doesn't kill you..." reinforcing it).
The sorrowful "Song to Myself" and the wavering "Half of You" (the latter, the album's self-effacing conclusion) perform as buck-the-system lullabies (forms of reason after a hard day's toil), though by no means are they ever defined by complete resignation. They simply tap the necessity to punch and kick, albeit in "gentler" ways, so that over time (that is, with ample patience applied) ho-hum mass production implodes, if only in one's mind.
Ferentino's smooth-as-silk voice (and sweet, guitar accompaniment) and Karu and Halpern's astral-sweeping orchestrations (livened by swooning bass and percussion) create an experience that is as uplifting as it is philosophically grim; but then such juxtaposing is a trademark of Love In Reverse.
Fake It proves the guys haven't lost their profound, pacifying touch. In fact, they've grown more seasoned in their musical practice, and with this new masterpiece, they've chiseled a concept that knocks its observational intent way out of the park.
To experience Fake It's reflective reparations, visit
https://orcd.co/n16kved?fbclid=IwAR3H9fNebYgf-LwdasM73iFIw0iXubzD1JcbIihekyPPDfzILBB0fN0pwYU
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