“After the Moment”
from the album Idle Labor
2011
iTunes
Working under the name Craft Spells, Stockton, Calif.’s Justin Vallesteros makes music for bedsitters who dream about being social. Though often addressed to a love interest either real or imagined, Idle Labor is above all a lonely album that rarely betrays its origin as a solo project. Sonically it recalls Wild Nothing it the way it mines a large swath of 1980s synth pop, but its clear emotional tenor gives it a distinguishing perspective and personality.
Idle Labor exists in a time frame best described by the title of its ebullient centerpiece — “After the Moment.” These are sketches of romantic problems and solutions with the wounds still fresh and the thoughts uncensored. Taken as a whole, it could be read as a narrative following Vallesteros from heartbreak to infatuation and back, a few months’ worth of romantic uncertainty boiled down to a taut and hooky album.
In a maundering yearn somewhere between Jens Lekman and Ian Curtis, Vallesteros introduces himself as a lovelorn melodramatist over sunstroked, near-Balearic pop. But as the narrative begins to hint at physical contact, the music works in lockstep, and Vallestreros builds tracks more as a dance producer than a singer-songwriter. And that’s where he hits his stride — while his vocals remain a central fixture, the post-punk mordancy is softened by locomotive arrangements that stack synth pads, ringing guitar, and primitive drum programming.
“Party Talk” starts a mid-album mini-suite with Vallesteros as a nebbishy Woody Allen character trying to decode a mutual romantic connection from casual conversation. But he leaps forward during the upbeat “From the Morning Heat,” and by the fantastic morning-after celebration “After the Moment,” something has apparently clicked; Vallesteros repeats the chorus as if he knows it’s the best he’s written.
The emotional high is predictably short-lived, and even within its brief half-hour runtime, more than a few of the melodies take detours and left turns. “The Fog Rose High” has the feel of a gothier Beach Fossils, while the anodyne dream-pop scruff of “You Should Close the Door” could have been a Radio Dept. B-side. But as with so many bedroom auteurs’ debuts, it’s tough to separate the creation from the creator, and Idle Labor shows the promise of a precocious songwriter who isn’t claiming to have anything totally figured out just yet.