I could feel it even before I saw a commercial featuring Death Cab for Cutie on some enumerable volume of NOW That's What I Call Music. The signs were clear. Indie-pop has risen to such grandiose heights that it has begun to beg for a backlash. By and large, this whole trend has gotten out of control, and that can largely be attributed to everyone with a notebook of odd lyrics and a synthesizer scrambling to set up a Myspace page. While the genre has a respectable niche of artists like Of Montreal and, of course, Ben Gibbard himself, that niche is small, and it confounds me why so many imitators have chosen to elbow in on the glory.
The music of Bumtech is not particularly trite but still comes off as a little too cute to have the sardonic charm intended by the lyrics and spaced out beats. The Portland duo has wit, but lacks enough lyrical honesty or compelling delivery for the effect to last for long. A self-release, Beware of D-G follows a simple, well-constructed format, though it lacks the nuances of an experienced producer to bring it to life. Occasionally they will brush on the garage-dwelling quality that made early Weezer so endearing, though mostly they shoot for an absurdist style of humor that is never fully captured. In a final act of oddity for an album filled with more or less mild lyrics, Bumtech concludes Beware of D-G with a juvenile sex romp more befitting a Bloodhound Gang cover. Please, may that backlash come soon.