The Wrens : Schubas; Fri 24, Sat 25

Photo: JenMaler

By the mid-’90s, the Wrens were the perfect indie rockers. They had regular-guy clothes, day jobs and downward nods to shoegazing, but still managed to deliver kick-ass shows. They stroked critics and burgeoning blogsters with pop hooks and melodies that brought to mind every hip name check in The Trouser Press Record Guide. The vocals were an indie-rock master class, sublimely balancing punk-inspired muttering, tripartite harmonies and graduate-school erudition. But they got one thing wrong—timing.

After their stellar sophomore release, Secaucus, met ridiculous label trouble (the notoriously poorly managed Grass Records was sold to become Wind-up, home of Creed), the four Jersey dudes forgot that everyone else vying for “perfect indie band” title was releasing a deluge of material. Between 1996 and 2003, haggard, aging everyman icon Robert Pollard released 23 LPs. During that time, the Wrens—earning rent as temps, secretaries and teachers—eked out about a song a year. Considering the awesomeness of Secaucus, that seemed criminal.

In 2003, the quartet regained their stride—albeit with a more somber gait—with Meadowlands, managing somehow to make unironic (and obviously firsthand) odes to failure and frustration sound joyful. But even with a solid label and rave reviews, it’s been almost the same length between albums, again. Fortunately, the fortysomethings recently jumped on this whole Internet bandwagon, unleashing a live improvisation from Abbey Road, MySpace-ing demos and virally leaking a video for a tune recorded in the basement. All sneak a peek at a forthcoming album that triumphantly sounds like the Beatles drowning.

But this Schubas two-nighter won’t be about sparse recordings or missed opportunities. It’ll be about celebrating a band with a mastery of hooks, words and guitar windmills that—be they sloppy, mopey, reflective, silly, depressed or goofy—make even the most jaded indie faces smile.

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