Desertification

Real Estate - Real Estate

Weather: Sunshine and Heat

Time: Sunup to Sunset

Action: None

I'm in Boulder. And it is good. Three days ago, I was finishing up my second year in Phoenix and the noontime news reported a brisk 114 degrees. Only a resident of downtown Phoenix can understand how woefully inadequate such a report can be. You see, the desert wasn't hot enough. 21st century spacemen laid miles of asphalt and raised miles of reflective glass to ensure that the sun could be used to its fullest baking potential. The lethargy comes in waves. Boiling waves.

Strapping everything I own into the bed of my truck, I headed East and -- more importantly -- North. We drove through the night and the windows down in the Arizona high country let in the promise of a life more suitable to a Polish/Irish/Serbian/Welsh. But, with the sun's welcome, Boulder stood to prove a heat wave is not so easily run from. Don't get me wrong, a 20-degree drop is real glory, but come on: 102? Welcome back, exhaustion. What took you so long?

Thankfully, Boulder summer nights are as consistently comfortable as worn-out boat shoes. But, I knew I had to prepare for Saturday -- another 100-plus -- as soon as that evil ball of fire came back. I needed music that would energize me in the morning, and leave me alone when the heat started pulling on my shirttails. (I wear what I want.)

Real Estate's only full-length album belies its geographic roots. Maybe I shouldn't say that. My experience in New Jersey is limited, but it certainly hasn't left me with an impression that shimmery, indie surf-pop defines the state. Yet, that's exactly what the Garden State quartet perfects: a collection of lo-fi tracks featuring Matthew Mondanile's layered, steady guitars with a 60's west coast fuzz that corral Martin Courtney's drifting vocals. Alex Bleeker and Etienne Duguay fill their roles nicely and add time without driving the music. The effort results in a progression not unlike that from socks to jeans hanging from a clothesline.

The album's opening track draws the volume up to get you out of bed (hopefully late, and without a thing to do all day) and features a recurrent lead guitar that's enough to get you moving happily, but not to shock you out of sleep. It sounds almost as though the band is hoping you'll set your computer's timer to wake you up with their work, some time around 10:30. Assuming this was the case, I started my morning to please the artists. The next three tracks are reminders. Of the day, of the time, of the weather. Flop on the couch, or start burning breakfast, head out to the porch. And just about the time you're sipping the halfway portion of your coffee, you realize the temperature of the air is approaching that of your drink. Cue groans. And the record delivers. The first instrumental track carries an understanding like a significant other who knows you well enough to keep quiet while you silently blame the world for everything. And the lyrics resume to explain it's not that bad as you clean up to go out. What follows is one of the best drive-into-town songs in recent memory. There's a distinct difference between a roadtrip song and an errand song, and the contrast is not lost here. No matter how good your breakfast was, or whether you did a bunch of cocaine in the bathroom when you told everyone you were going to wash your hands, another long intro track and another instrumental will lure you back home to a comfortable spot in the shade. The now-Brooklyners leave you with a track called Snow Day. The point being: kick your feet up; you're not in Phoenix anymore and this will end.