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By Adam Arrigo Photo by JB Galusha Sean
McCarthy is a really nice guy. In fact, on the surface, he might just
be one of the nicest people in Boston. Anyone who knows him personally
and has seen his band, Helms, has witnessed something fairly
remarkable: the quintessential example of the separation between artist
and art. If an artist’s work were a direct reflection of his or her
immediate personality, Helms would sound like an early Beach Boys tune;
instead, Helms’ sound could be more aptly likened to the experience of
being knifed in a telephone booth. Helms’ third release, Secret Doors,
is no exception, and finds the Allston-based trio fully immersed in the
DIY aesthetic, featuring lo-fi basement production, handmade artwork,
and a meandering yet cohesive tone. The
title alone hints at the record’s pervasive theme of secrets — or
rather, the furtive nature of emotions. The record is not only their
best to date, but also the most affirming of their characteristic
sound. McCarthy’s subtle, often talky, Pixies-esque vocals occupy a
sort of secret place in the mix, piercing the dirty array of guitars,
bass, and drums with quiet, yet poignant poetry. McCarthy’s prose is
abstractly angst-ridden, yet wields a power in depth and vision found
so rarely in alternative music, evoking anxiety with Joycean
stream-of-consciousness imagery: “So I took my mouth, clattering like a
trap, into the backyard and buried it out behind the trees / And you
could hear it flapping, like a broken bird in the dark, as I dropped it
down about four feet, and then the taste of dirt and the beautiful
quiet.” In the hands of a lesser vocalist, such content could easily be
construed as confessional or indulgent; however, McCarthy’s genius lies
in the delivery. Each
of the ten tracks off Secret Doors represents a specific means of entry
into the realm of Helms’ songwriting. Each track immediately transports
the listener into a secret space of quiet confession, where the
metaphysics of space and time are blurred and often defined by visceral
images and abstract shreds of sensory memory: “And the cigarettes on
the swing sets glow red streaks in the night / And the squeak of the
chain says they’re planning again / And the old man can’t sleep with
the noise.” While
Helms have always mixed the vocals relatively low in previous releases,
lending their records an undeniably “live” dynamic, the vocals on
Secret Doors are perhaps the lowest yet, which may frustrate some
listeners who are used to pop production. However, in the opposite way
that Spinal Tap credits both guitarists as “lead guitar,” Helms’ liner
notes credit both singers, Sean McCarthy and Tina Helms, as “backing
vocals,” seeming to reflect an intended emphasis on instruments and
de-emphasis on vocals. The actual effect, however, is paradoxical in
nature, as the vocals’ low volume and intriguing lyrical content beg
the listener to hone in on the vocals. Sean
McCarthy is a much better singer than he thinks, and while Tina Helms
and Dan McCarthy comprise an impressively strong and cohesive rhythm
section, it is Sean McCarthy’s impassioned delivery and the group’s
literary core that allow Helms to transcend classification from a
“great” to a “groundbreaking” band. With the release of Secret Doors,
it has never been clearer that Helms is, and has been for a long time
now, one of the most important — if not the most important — bands on
the Boston scene, and they have always occupied that role with quiet
humility. On some frequencies, one could dub them “the best kept
secret” of post-rock; although, after attending any sold-out Helms
show, or talking to any of their intensely devoted followers, Helms
doesn’t feel like a secret. In a city that has always been so
protective of its local bands moving on to bigger audiences, Helms
occupy the precarious position of being too good to stay local, yet not
accessible enough to easily translate into the mainstream. Listening to
Secret Doors, though, doesn’t lend one the impression that Helms is
interested in mainstream success. For Helms, making music is a
cathartic act, and the record feels nothing like manufactured fan bait.
Rather, it is a definitively honest piece of art that seems to have
come into existence out of necessity alone. It’s
a baffling concept: that people will go to the Middle East Upstairs bar
on a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday night and order a PBR from Sean
McCarthy; they’ll engage in some mundane chat, during which Sean will
exclaim, “Right on,” and the customer will leave the bar sipping his
drink, never knowing that the bartender he just spoke to writes
groundbreaking music. You can watch him on any of these nights, pouring
beer and serving falafel with a smile that says, “I have a secret.”
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