Genius + love + age + long marriage = Yo La Tengo

Yo La Tengo cut its teeth stealing tricks from Neil Young, and it has maintained a reverence for the bold and the beautiful noises that came from the paragons of rock excess. That is, until now. And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out, Yo La Tengo's new double album, is a curious and complete rejection of '70s rock culture. As indie wonks now know by heart, Yo La Tengo's two principals are a husband and wife, singer/guitarist/organist Ira Kaplan and singer/drummer Georgia Hubley. The album was originally scheduled for release the week before Valentine's Day, and the gesture would have been appropriately resonant. Nothing is essentially the sound of a long-married couple talking to each other—it's sweet, it's complex as hell, it rocks once in a while, and sometimes it's just really boring. We see a self-indulgence that is just as large as Kiss', but it's on the other side of the rock 'n' roll world.

Kaplan and Hubley's couples therapy sessions begin with "Our Way to Fall." He sings, "I remember before we met/And I remember sitting next to you/And I remember pretending I wasn't looking." Kaplan's narrative is—we hope—deliberately bland, and the production is—we hope—deliberately demo-quality. As Kaplan and Hubley unravel the vicissitudes of domestic life, their voices sound more vulnerable than ever—Kaplan's like a scared and squawky chicken, Hubley's simply incapable of expression. The results are captivating, but at the same time oddly insulting. Would it be so hard to demand some standard of performance from yourself, as long as this disc costs the same $16 as everyone else's?

We certainly aren't paying for Kaplan's lyrics. Nothing's nadir is Kaplan's double shot of wimp-rock, "Last Days of Disco" and "The Crying of Lot G." From the cripplingly banal "Disco": "Saw you at a party/You asked me to dance/Don't really dance much/This time I did/I was glad that I did/This time." Admittedly, quoting rock lyrics out of context has been a guaranteed sucker-punch ever since the Eisenhower era. In the song itself, Kaplan's unabashed vapidity commands attention like a car wreck, as does "Lot G"'s spoken interlude, "I wonder why we have so much trouble cheering each other up sometimes when one or the other of us is down." But it's damn hard to relate to this degree of introspection. Kaplan's anti-aphorisms have nothing to do with being young, and nothing to do with masculinity. Hubley, with the softness and subtlety of her jazz brushes, dominates the record, leaving her man to spasm like a paunchy flounder. Luckily, the next thing to dance out of the speakers is the eminently radio-worthy "You Can Have It All." Kaplan is reduced to a charming background vocal, with Hubley droning effectively over a kicking backbeat. Here, Yo La Tengo plays to its strengths, mixing the sedate with the slamming, and keeping in check Kaplan's lyrical diarrhea.

SARA EDWARD-CORBETT/YH

The remainder of Nothing is a suite of continental pop that is as unmemorable as it is sophisticated. The exception is "Cherry Chapstick," in which Hubley unleashes Kaplan for an old-fashioned avant-garde meltdown. Kaplan's ax skills, as always, are pretty terrific, and he even gets to muse, "Wonder why the girls don't look at me when I walk by." His lyrics call to mind what someone once remarked about Seinfeld's Kramer: "He's hideous, but I can't look away." In their bold incompetence, his words are captivating, as well as a lot of fun, and the second half of Nothing suffers for their relative absence. The closer, "Night Falls on Hoboken," is 18 minutes long and the aural equivalent of staring at a tree stump.

This is not a bad album—it just has a limited audience. If you're under 40, you'll probably need to be stoned to enjoy it. It was made with evident care, but the kind of care that adheres strictly to Yo La Tengo's own standards, which are now so insular and coterie-ish that it's hard to believe they still have a listener in mind.

Ten albums into an iconoclastic career, what is Yo La Tengo's real legacy? It's most likely a mixed bag: sonic innovation, mixed with a self-absorption that mainstream rockers never have the guts, time, or support to attempt. We are left thankful for the band's existence, but not quite satisfied. After all, when more mainstream pop artists bow down to the almighty dollar, at least they are respecting some external standard. Kaplan and Hub-ley are responsible to no one but each other. Ain't it sweet, ain't it impenetrable. (Matador)

—Abraham D. Levitan

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