ARTIST: The Wrens
TITLE: The Meadowlands
LABEL: Lomax Records
GENRE: Indie
TIME: 62:29 min
SIZE:  95,4 MB
RIP DATE: Jun-21-2006
RELEASE DATE: Feb-20-2006
WEBSITE: n/a

Track List:

01. The House That Guilt Built                 01:22
02. Happy                                      05:33
03. She Sends Kisses                           05:57
04. This Boy Is Exhausted                      04:18
05. Hopeless                                   05:09
06. Faster Gun                                 03:51
07. Thirteen Grand                             04:09
08. Boys, You Won't                            04:30
09. Ex-Girl Collection                         04:39
10. Per Second Second                          03:38
11. Everyone Chooses Sides                     04:40
12. 13 Months In 6 Minutes                     06:50
13. This Is Not What You Had Planned           01:47
14. Such A Pretty Lie                          04:01
15. Nervous And Not Me                         02:05

Release Notes:

Just reissued again with 2 previously unreleased
bonus tracks on Lomax Records. Enjoy.

Here's the inital Pitchforkmedia.com review:

Let me come out of the gate stating the obvious: The
summer of 1996 was a fucking long time ago. I was
fresh out of high school then, living with my
parents in the outlying suburbs of Minneapolis,
trying to craft an embryonic Pitchfork into
something respectable without any prior writing
experience. In the throes of that disgustingly
humid, buggy summer in which it seemed I would one
day die as I'd lived-- navigating the road
construction obstacle course on Hwy 5 and despising
an oppressive day job, yet forever hopeful of some
distant, supernatural delivery-- Secaucus was
sunwarmed bliss, the infinite pleasure zone I
couldn't stop hitting.

Bursting immediately at its seams with the serrated
dual guitar blast of "Yellow Number Three" and
"Built in Girls"' steam-engine roar, Secaucus
welcomes with a warm immediacy rare in even the most
revered pop treasures, and a density whose every
layer hides another secret synth melody, jagged hook
or vocal harmony. The depth of realization in this
record is unparalleled: every angle is perfected.
Its surplus of pristine pop hooks and energetic
discharge rivals the best of Built to Spill, Guided
by Voices, Pavement, or any other heralded indie
rock band, and tracks like the anthemic,
accelerating "I've Made Enough Friends", the wistful
malaise of "Won't Get Too Far", the hurtling
"Surprise, Honeycomb", and the emotive high-school
slowdance number "Jane Fakes a Hug" reveal proof in
spades: Beyond their euphoric harmonies, melodic
rapture, and marblemouthed vocals lie some of the
greatest lyrics the genre's seen yet. Respectively,
these songs contain tales of a nationwide murder
rampage ("Being good made me burst/ The killing got
worse/ It almost got fun"), a lovestruck abandonment
of social lives ("A rush of wonder/ This charm we're
under might last/ Are we too hoping/ Our years are
showing and fast"), a hopeless high school graduate
who fears he won't live up to his father's
achievements ("I can't believe I'm grown/ None of my
friends live at home/ Not since fall"), and the
harrowing play-by-play of a brutal divorce ("Our
oaths, our realty, a good job, a husband/ A husband
or what/ Christ, Jane, I'm not/ I never was").

But as long ago as all of that was for me, for The
Wrens, it's been an eternity. The band always made
themselves accessible via Internet, and as the years
passed, I would frequently email to wonder when a
follow-up was due-- and even as I knew they had
respectable careers and families, I didn't expect it
would take seven years to see release. I also hadn't
known that, at the height of their 1996 U.S. tour,
all promotion for Secaucus was, allegedly, pulled in
a huff by Grass Records labelhead Alan Melzter when
the band dared question a million-dollar contract
he'd tried to strongarm them into signing. It was
just another in a long string of sloppy breakups
that would eventually sour the band on the music
industry. After endless reassurances that their
third album would be out "in a few months, we
promise," hope began to fade that the record would
ever see light of day at all. Then came word that
they had actually finished the record, and-- to
celebrate and prevent them from further
second-guessing-- were holding a party to destroy
the master tapes.

The package finally arrived from the band
themselves: an advance, unmastered CD-R labeled The
Meadowlands with makeshift artwork and tentative
song titles. Excitedly, I threw it into the car
stereo, and waited. Waiting. Waiting. What the fuck
happened to these guys? It had been seven years,
sure-- no one was expecting anything as powerful as
Secaucus from middle-agers, but to say The Wrens had
mellowed would almost be a joke: There was little
trace of the youthful, resonant joy or ecstatic
intensity of Secaucus. This was a completely
different band. These Wrens were defeated,
miserable, hopeless, and-- in their own words--
exhausted.

Disappointed, I shelved the disc and stubbornly
refused to listen to the final pressing, even after
it arrived at the Pitchfork P.O. box loving wrapped
in Tiffany-blue ribbon and paper. Which was about
when everyone I knew began raving. People were
stunned at my reaction: Surely we'd just heard
different albums? And we had, but upon finally
listening to the finished version after heavy
persuasion from friends, it began to make more
sense. This was a completely different band,
defeated, miserable, and exhausted, absolutely, but
not hopeless. Defying the unwritten rule that any
band breaking a five-plus year hiatus must return
lethargic and sapped of inspiration before
retreating again to obscurity, here The Wrens prove
themselves even more shockingly relevant than
before-- they have survived extinction, and, fully
inspired, they are telling the tale: The Meadowlands
is a crushing confessional, documenting every
disappointment of the past seven years, every
difficult breakup, every bad gig.

If The Wrens were lyrically powerful when writing
from third-person perspectives about trivial
fantasies on Secaucus, they're devastating
delivering their own personal failures, hardships
and resignations. The breakup tracks are the least
of it, and even those are masochistically
autobiographical with recurring characters and story
arcs bridging songs. "She Sends Kisses" opens on an
acoustic strum and reflective accordion,
increasingly piling on layers of instrumentation
(electric guitar, drums, piano, vocal harmonies)
while Charles Bissell reflectively croons, "A
sophomore at Brown/ She worked lost and found/ I put
your face on her all year." "Ex-Girl Collection" is
upbeat on the surface and conflict beneath: "Ann
slams in/ Another lightning round begins.../
'Charles, I found out/ Wipe that smile off your
mouth/ I think it's tell-me time.'" "13 Months in 6
Minutes" is somber and damp-eyed, dewy guitars
drenched in wet reverb and whispered vocals at the
end of a relationship: "I'm a footnote at best/ I
envy who comes next."

But the first-hand accounts of the band's own
struggles are what really hit hard, particularly for
listeners who've waited the full seven years or who
have intimate familiarity with similar situations.
"Everyone Choose Sides"-- backed by crusty guitar
fighting determinedly through tape falloff, electric
piano, and Jerry MacDonnell's insistent, urgent
drumming-- is a notable album peak: "Bored and
rural-poor at 35/ I'm the best 17-year-old ever.../
We're losing sand/ A Wrens' ditch battle plan.../
Everyone choose sides/ The whole to-do of what to do
for money/ Poorer or not this year and hell's the
difference." And then there's "This Boy Is
Exhausted", which blends the record's brightest
hooks with its bleakest lines: Over two layers of
blaring guitars (one pulsing, the other jangling),
more of MacDonnell's colossal drumwork, and resolute
background vocals, Bissell's hardened vocal buzzes:
"I can't write what I know/ It's not worth writing/
I can't tell a hit from hell from one sing-along.../
But then once a while/ We'll play a show that makes
it worthwhile."

The Wrens are now old enough to be considered indie
rock's elder statesmen (their ages range from 33 to
40), and in trading the adolescent kick of Secaucus
for ripened resignation, meticulous refinement for
crippling maturation, they have realized their
magnum opus-- the only album to eclipse Broken
Social Scene's staggering You Forgot It in People on
my year-end list. The Meadowlands exemplifies what
every fan hopes for when a band announces a reunion
or returns from more than a half-decade of silence:
that they might have somehow improved exponentially
each year they hid from the limelight, resulting in
a payoff so cultivated it could be called their
defining achievement by consensus. It's the reason
we continue to harbor mixed feelings about a Pixies
comeback: odds are, it ends in disappointment-- it
always does-- but The Meadowlands is that one
example left standing to offer a glimmer of hope.
Black Francis, tomorrow this could be you.

-Ryan Schreiber, September 30, 2003