Collections of Colonies of Bees

The birds and the bees: it's rock's quintessential subject. But is it a post-rock subject? In a way, it turns out. The name Collections of Colonies of Bees may call to mind spreadsheets, microscope slides, caffeinated Poindexters in white frocks, and, of course, the honey-bearing fairies that grace Cheerios boxes and a Rimsky-Korsakov interlude. The suggestions of the scientific and the imaginative fit this Milwaukee quintet to a T. Clearly, these people pay attention to names-- words carry heavy burdens, after all, in the taciturn deserts of post-rock.
So when small winged creatures pop up on their fifth full-length, Birds, we take note. Given the name "Flocks", the record's four movements have a sense not only of flight, but of a group moving gracefully in unison. Formed in 1998, the Bees have spent a decade polishing their act and aesthetic. This is especially obvious in their renowned live sets (recently gushed over in Bon Iver's Guest List), which form the basis of Birds. These are not straightforward jam sessions. Organic and intricate as their compositions can be, the Bees clearly appreciate the emotional power of simple, thoughtfully tiered rhythms, as the opening movement "Flocks I" attests. Sometimes these rhythms are crafted out of crunchy guitar riffs, sometimes they are pieced together out of digital fragments, a technique they perfected on 2004's Customer. The amalgam falls somewhere between the drawn-out drama of Explosions in the Sky and Eno's furniture music, the concept-art relaxant.
"Flocks II" begins as a gorgeous vista snapping in and out of view. Sublimity is drawn with tiny flecks of digital noise, cut-up keyboards, and softly shimmering tides of sound, giving the impression of a misty metropolis, the frenzy of light and noise glimpsed from the top of a skyscraper. The neon-pastoral ambiance is broken by Jon Mueller's majestic kit work. Thankfully, his drumming survives the band's slice-and-dice, collage instinct-- the Bees have learned the if-it-ain't-broke principle. Later in the song, unassuming riffs and keyboard figures enter the scene, cozying up to each other and easing into soothing grooves. Capturing the band's dual loyalty to the computer's possibilities and to rock's apparatus, this movement outshines the first.
With a similarly tentative intro, "Flocks III" tiptoes in the midst of fluttery, manipulated guitars, its air of wind-chime serenity torn up by the percussion: a clockwork kick drum announcing that meditation time is over. The song picks up as the cymbals rattle, more and more violently. Abruptly at the four-minute mark, everything settles down, the silence surrendering to a few lonely plinks, then an equally lonely strum, then a jaunty and jazzily martial snare. Soon a full-blown song emerges, a moonlit wash of cymbals and guitars built on top of the drumbeat. You could say the tension between the dreamy surface and the more robotic, more rational undercurrents, marks the entire album. The interplay also links Birds back to the early avant-folk of their career, as two former members of Pele sought to update bluegrass with technology.
Airy, slack, the beginning of "Flocks IV" gives off a soft-focus, 1970s glow. As it repeats hypnotically, a squiggle of guitar, bent into a funky, Oriental shape, distracts the listener from the less interesting theatrics in the background. Two thirds into the song, as the tempo climbs upward, the Bees offer a welcome (and less literal) change of pace. A sharper-edged, ragged guitar maneuvers into the picture as a Rhodes chimes and floats above and, briefly, an army of bongos quarter noisily underneath. As this Reichian moment slips away into static, the album ends on an uplifting note. Never lapsing into the doom and gloom of their stylistic peers, the Bees have eased into a mature, mesmerizing style that is finally and wholly their own.