Beirut - The Flying Club Cup

By Daniel Johnson
October 1, 2007

At this point it really doesn't matter where Zach Condon gets his inspiration from. His break-out Gulag Orkestar, released under working name Beirut, boasted a back story with Condon quitting school to travel the Old World and, somewhere between the Black and Baltic seas, having an open-mouthed, heaven-lit discovery of Eastern European gypsy music. This isn't the first time Condon's swapped musical costumes though. He's been releasing records since he was 15 and they've included committed forays into doo-wop and electronica. The fact is Beirut, which he misleadingly named after an ancient Mediterranean capital and whose mariachi waltzes are more Bolero than Balkan, has a far broader sense of aesthetic locale than Condon acknowledges. It's as much about time (specifically an idealized past) than any one place on a map; a perspective nestled somewhere between the old-fashioned vibrato of Condon's baritone and the antique-y horn-and-accordian-driven ensemble he's gathered to back him up. More than anything, he's simply trying to evoke distance.

When it came time to write the next record, Condon's muse appeared in the form of a faded postcard depicting a 1910 Parisian hot air balloon convention and he nailed to the wall of his recording space as a creative guidepost. Supposedly an ode to all things French, The Flying Club Cub makes little perceptible change to the now-established Beirut sound - other than making Condon a slightly better contender to score an Amelie sequel. The only real update is one of process. The band Condon formed to tour Orkestar is now dug in and he no longer has to fake the near-orchestral pomp alone by overdubbing himself to death in his parent's basement. This time there are real group performances captured in real studios.

Not quite on the cusp of a movement, Condon's Beirut is part of a small snag in the fabric of the ethos - bands like The Arcade Fire and DeVotchKa that are more interested in the hulking, rattling sounds of epic ensembles and quaint, pre-technology instrumentation than the Siren song of software. Like all narrowly carved niches, it's also their artistic albatross. Whereas the horns never outwear their welcome, the ever-present accordion, in particular, and The Godfather wedding band vibe can wear out their welcome pretty fast. Thankfully Condon's taken steps to introduce a few new colors this time around. The use of closer, more intimate dressings like the bells and Rhodes piano intro of "La Banlieu" are a welcome contrast to the roomy distance typical of the album's production. And the percussion assault and '70s spy-thriller piano riff of "Un Dernier Verre (Pour la Route)" breaks up the general sameness of Condon's songwriting which, though evocative, can be monotonous. But Beirut's future would do well to sound more like "The Penalty," where Condon's singing momentarily breaks out of its affected stupor with a brighter energy to sing melodies with a more developed sense of pop pathos. Typical for Beirut, the track's use of chamber strings is exemplary. But, more importantly, it has hooks that Condon could hang a whole new sound on.

Whatever its limitations, Beirut's vivid nostalgia is going to be heaven on earth for old souls who see the world in dusty, leather-bound brown and dream in Fellini black and white. And though its utterly unfashionable sound suits the preternatural gravitas of Condon's voice, others might see a bit of a Rushmore effect - a Max Fischer with big ideas and a big sense of self trying to cheat his way to a prefab classic status by dyeing his art in sepia. Either way, it's hard to argue with the overall quality and persistence of vision here and, considering Beirut's three releases have all taken place in little over a year, it's really too soon to get fidgety about Condon staying in the same place for too long. Wherever that place is.