The Narrator

Gloomy weather and early-morning temp-jobs make the narrator's first EP, youth city fire, ferocious. the foursome create angst-packed music that has the sound of urgent 17-year-olds screaming inside of sealed-up cars at 3:30 a.m., but with fewer bruises to show for it. nothing's shrugged off, everything's terrible, and the windows won't roll down. even the scratchier tunes contain an infectious energy that is responsible for carving the narrator's year-and-a-half-old sound into the grain of chicago's rock scene. recorded by greg norman (guided by voices, detachment kit, 90 day men) in 40 hours over three days, youth city fire draws its passion from patient introductions, bloody choruses, and do-or-die lyrics for "when your legs just won't work." on first listen, the vocals sound distant. on second, they reveal subtleties, and by the tenth listen, the tunes reveal watery stomachs held together by gum, shoestring, and staples. from the abrupt pauses on "we call police" to the machine-gun outbursts on "the electric slide," the keyboard hums to the human sneeze, and the double- vocal chatter to the nakedly told stories about teenagers spurned by disappointment, youth city fire hints toward an anthemic resolve. but the narrator remain unresolved, and that tension drives the recording. absent is the sound of a band with years of tour-van experience, but in time they should emerge as peers to the heroes in their record collections. that said, look around, at the ground stood on, the friends walked on, the past reflected upon, and the importance of telling lady luck to fuck herself. personally, i wish this band existed when i was seventeen years old, and wasn't tied up in my rote schedule of freelance reviews, family visits, and hapless dates. fight the winners. -- person tennis