Slacker by Oruã
Music fanatics are natural multiculturalists: we travel temporally and globally from 19th-century Czechoslovakia to 21st-century Puerto Rico just by switching from an Antonín Dvořák symphony to Bad Bunny’s newest album. It’s an easy jump to get to Oruã, a modern Brazilian band that leans back toward 1960s garage psychedelia.
On the group’s latest LP, Slacker, frontman Lê Almeida sings with a kind of shy smile, as if he’s caressing the lyrics, as if his breaths are meant to flutter the words so that they float like dandelion seeds. He also sings with knowing androgyny, as if ready to tease and seduce anyone into hearing his messages.
The other main personnel of Oruã substantially contribute to the seduction and communication. Whether the bassist is Almeida or Bigú Medine, drummer Phill Fernandes syncs up attentively at every tempo; João Casaes lays his synthesizers into the melodies and rhythms so they sound as though they were born there; and producer Jim Roth balances lysergic fuzziness with old-school punk clarity.
That clarity doesn’t get in the way of the pleasure-seeking crowd Slacker attracts whenever Oruã opens the garage door, so to speak, for guests, particularly one Grisa (whose theremin is a haunting oscillation in the crunchy “Marejar”) and Alexander Zhemchuzhnikov (a Russian whose saxophone is a lively skronk on eight of these ten tracks).
The resulting social gatherings vary in mood from the seedy street groove of “De se Envolver” and the alt-rock rolling gait and Josh Rouse vocal ease of “Casual” to the Spoon-style pop-rockin’ beat of “Marejar” and the midtempo-Nirvana wooziness of “Soft.”
At the center of each song, Almeida holds sway—or, rather, he sways as if holding confidently and loosely onto the musical reins, his voice conversational and his guitar energetic (even on the closing acoustic number, “Banguela”).
Wherever Slacker travels, Almeida knows the culture.
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