Of course, opportunity means little if you ain't got talent, and Funeral finds Arcade Fire seemingly exhausting all of its jollies in a single brilliant record. Lots of bands overthink their tracklists, so it's nice to find one that gives us twenty minutes of the "Neighborhood" cycle (broken up by the quirky "Une Annee Sans Lumiere") before switching gears to a series of massive anthems whose sentimentality is outweighed only by their gravitas. When Funeral says something is important, you better believe it.
The first two "Neighborhoods" are good examples, the contrasting "Tunnels" - about the righteous struggle of building a community - and "Power Out" - about the perverse thrill of watching it all burn.
But, as Spike Jonze confirmed, "Wake Up" packs the biggest punch as a eulogy for childhood ("Our bodies get bigger/But our hearts get torn up") and a halting acceptance of the freedoms and responsibilities of adulthood ("I guess we'll just have to adjust").
As I mentioned, Arcade Fire traffics in the biggest and broadest of feelings but in this they are nearly unparalleled. Empathy is their strength, and emotional validation is their best promotional tool. The less specific they are, the better.
Neon Bible strays from this winning formula - a transparently conceptual record, it's also a bit too preachy in spots. However, it does score a couple direct hits on the meddlesome role of religion in modern life with the eerily calm "Neon Bible" and the reverberating "Intervention."
("Intervention," by the way, will never fail to spoil the cheerful mood on karaoke night, no matter how profundo your basso)
"Keep the Car Running" has more of the band's signature wild abandon, but I think "(Antichrist Television Blues)" is the heart of the record, and the high water mark of Arcade Fire as a "conceptual" group. The song's protagonist is admitting harsh truths about the most omnipresent forces in his life - God, family, the media - but at the same time is desperate to please these idols, pre-emptively offering up his firstborn to the TV industry. Thus, a reality star is born.
Scrutiny is also a resonant theme in Arcade Fire's body of work, including "Windowsill" from Bible and one of the first leaks from The Suburbs, "Rococo," a disturbing and dismissive evaluation of profligate hipster culture and its dangerous king-making powers.
There is some sense that Suburbs is about a twentysomething's return to the titular subdivisions, with all the attendant judgments and tut-tutting as heard in the Todd Rundgren-influenced "Modern Man." But there is no real advancement of a false dichotomy nor do they dwell on the Springsteen-lite philosophizing that they are inexplicably known for (presumably these critics have never heard of The Hold Steady). They are blessedly aware that the grass is always greener. There's time for play, too, as on "City With No Children," which puts a euphoric slant on the Stones' "Street Fighting Man."
The issue of emotional validation crops up again in "Month of May," a punkish bob-and-weave that twists Aristotelian advice into the supposition that a life unexamined by others is not worth living. Life for Gen Y is just one long, award-winning documentary ("Two thousand nine/Two thousand ten/Wanna make a record 'bout I felt then").
"We Used to Wait" saves the best for (almost) last with a bracing description of Western ennui. Along with the "Sprawl" duology, it takes aim at the complacency that's suffocating enough to inspire caustic reminiscence but comfortable enough to preclude drastic action. They know the price of stability is unfulfilled wishes ("We used to wait/Sometimes it never came").
But Arcade Fire doesn't come to bury dreams. On the contrary, they are here to celebrate them - "Wait" is sung in the past tense, ultimately a song of optimism and try-it-again from hope's House band.
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