Folk artist’s latest album yields uninspired, ‘unlistenable’ tracks

Once upon a Pitchfork Media review, there was not a worded description for the terrible nature of Jet’s second album. Instead, the writer simply imbedded a video of a chimp drinking its own urine straight from the fount.

As a respectable news outlet and a print publication, The Daily Beacon cannot run such a thing. Therefore, the next 434 words will be as close to an English language articulation of that act as possible.

Ah, Devendra Banhart. Freak-folk laureate, ingenue of the new East Side-Laurel Canyon set, unbearably blasé bastard armed with talented friends. These are all adequate descriptions of the man. Granted, in the beginning he was compelling and somewhat original. But five years of the tried-and-true formula have left Banhart’s newest album, “What Will We Be,” devoid of any spark to inspire or sign of a muse.

“Can’t Help But Smiling,” the album’s point A, is a fine basis for critique. Banhart invokes the noodliest Dead rendition since last time Dark Star Orchestra came to town. There is such a thing as a song that’s too sunny, and Banhart has written it multiple times.

One might blame it on a short attention span, or perhaps “intolerance” of mind-numbingly apprehensive-to-progress songs (all 14 of them), but the result is the same. Banhart’s latest release is almost unlistenable. Seriously, the man has made a grandiose dud of an affair that makes less sense than his daft interviews in which he denies drug usage because weed is a plant and plants are friends. His hackneyed neo-mysticism is repulsive, and the album itself would better serve if these simple steps were followed: break the disc in half, sever left ear; repeat with right; discard disc.

It is no Herculean task to say why this music may appeal to some: either they’re just listening to the groove, they are insufferably boring or perhaps, like Rob Gordon, they just want music that they can ignore.

On Banhart’s last disc, he pulled in celebrity favors from names such as Gael García Bernal, Chris Robinson (the Black Crowes) and Nick Valensi of the Strokes. Here his band is his usual cast of suspects, which only adds to the air of familiarity that smothers the album at every turn. In fact, the only time that Banhart out-sucks himself is when he tries to do something new.

On “Chin Chin & Muck Muck” he completely discards his cooing tenor for nigh-on-atonal blathering that sounds not unlike a herd of tone deaf sheep. “Rats” is like ZOSO playing the entirety of “Houses of the Holy” while too drunk to hold a competent rhythm. For brevity’s sake, such comparisons can be drawn for most of the tracks on “What Will We Be” and you can draw them on your own time and dime.

If you want a good freak-out with an other-worldly vibe, go out and buy Tom Wait’s “Nighthawks at the Diner” instead. Not only does it make more sense, though Waits is at least convincingly faux-drunk throughout, but also it’s old, which means you can buy it used.

zero stars