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This story was published Febraury 24, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

Music is supposed to inspire, to enliven, to invigorate. It should also ask questions of the listener, questions like, “What if God was one of us?”, “War: what is it good for?” and “Who let the dogs out?”

They Might Be Giants’ new children’s album, Here Come the ABCs, raises its own pertinent questions, like “Who put the alphabet in alphabetical order?”

It’s a good question, and in the midst of midterms, some well-placed kid’s music works wonders.

“Alphabet of Nations” begins with Booker T-style traveling music and moves smoothly into pop-happy piano. The alphabetical list of countries includes favorites like Kazakhstan and Zimbabwe, as well as “West Xylophone.”

With twangy guitars, a muffled drum machine and syncopated background quacks, “Q U” will cue you to correctly spell tricky words.

A later track, “Who Put the Alphabet in Alphabetical Order?”, adds depth and vitality to the album with an operatic female vocalist and pounding keyboards.

“L M N O” has a base in Jamiroquai-style funk, but is crowned with what can only be classified as “spaceship noises.”

If psychedelic ’60s-style Brit-rock is your thing, then the doubled vocals, echo effects and distorted guitars in “Pictures of Pandas Painting” will blow your mind.

Tracks like “Clap Your Hands” and “E Eats Everything” are as catchy as the flu, and they pack an educational punch. For example, “C is for Conifers” offers interesting tree trivia and the philosophical “Can You Find It?” considers the linguistic difficulty created by silent letters.

Here Come the ABCs’ lyrical highpoint takes the form of a spoken sequence between the letters D and W:

D: W, you think you’re so great.

W: Well I am pretty big.

D: Yeah, you’re okay. You’re just not as great as you think you are.

W: How come I never see you around anymore, D?

D: I got this big T.V. set at home, and I like to watch the sports.

From pandas painting to sports-loving letters, Here Come the ABCs is a record with diverse musical styles and zany lyrics. And while I wouldn’t spin it at a party, They Might Be Giants’ kids’ album inspires, enlivens and invigorates, just like music should.

This story was published Febraury 3, 2005 in The Cavalier Daily, U.Va.’s student newspaper.

Each time I play The Fiery Furnaces’ EP, I wince — any charm the album offers is lost amid disjointed lyrics and a lack of musical intuition.

The EP is flaky and immature. For example, the bangy piano intro to “Duffer St. George” could have been composed by two angry five-year olds. The lyrics could have been written by their younger siblings.

Lead singer Eleanor Friedberger’s vocals in “Sullivan’s Social Slub” are high and girly, and the pronunciation of Iceland as “icy-land” is unbearable.

The incomprehensible lyrics in “Evergreen” detract from what could have been a pleasant chorus. The strange phrase, “Needle prick my spruce root,” punctures the song’s otherwise appealing qualities.

We, as students at the University of Virginia and members of an elite academic group, are trained to suss out meanings and truths from the muddy language we encounter in philosophy essays and Biochem textbooks. The lyrics on this album could stump the most scholarly students — the Furnaces create words at will and, as seen in the CD jacket, toss apostrophes into their sentences like pepper onto scrambled eggs.

In the fourth track, Matt, the male half of the Fiery Furnaces, makes a vocal appearance. He sounds like a cross between Elliot Smith and The Who’s Roger Daltrey. “Sing for Me” gets boring quickly, but boredom doesn’t offer the listener respite — there are no track breaks. This lack of recovery time taints the listening experience. It’s like ducking your head into icy water for 41 minutes.

In “Duffer St. George,” the flute and recorder orbit around each other without ever making harmonious contact. A lack of similar riffs and rhythms increases the overall obnoxiousness of the track.

In “Smelling Cigarettes,” The Who and The Beatles are in full influential force. The lilting spoken/sung lyric pattern in the subsequent track, “Cousin Chris,” is a cheerful show tune style. This song is the album’s best.

“Sweet Spots,” the ninth track, is the album’s shot at electronica. It is perky synth pop that is disoriented but not discombobulated. And while the guitar didn’t make my face melt, I think my mascara ran a little.

The second track, “Here Comes the Summer,” is the most mainstream-friendly piece on the EP. It has a drum machine, some distortion and a synthesizer bopping and blowing in the background. Synthesized trumpets lend a mystical Emerson, Lake and Palmer flavor, adding depth to the song.

This album is only for diehards. Despite their merits, listening to The Fiery Furnaces is like shaving with a really dull razor. Eventually, you just get irritated.