What did one Jean-Eric fan say to the other when the drugs wore off? No, the band’s sassy, minimal, class-A electro is not as bad as that old joke. In fact, it’s been doing great in New Orleans, where all a band needs in order to succeed is to be fun. It doesn’t hurt that the white chicks and skinny boys of Jean-Eric take a good photograph. They also tout perfectly recorded vocals and heavy bass drum on the band’s debut album Get It, which is as tightly produced as any Peaches record. The beats, though repetitive, grow on you, with classic techno keyboard lines fading in and out. When the beat gets tiresome though, there’s little else to distract.
“Ooh Ah Ah” kicks off the record with a coda chanting the title, and you can picture locals having hella fun out dancing to these snotty kids. The vocal comes out (almost) singing on the second track, “So Lovely,” which features beautiful vibraphone and a nice female voice warbling the vapid hook. This is followed by a great-sounding male voice rapping amateurish lyrics and the bridge, “I don’t give a shit / I don’t give a fuck”—a cliché that should be retired, especially in music where not giving a shit is its biggest flaw.
The first non-sassy track, “Real World,” has just enough melodic (not lyrical) pathos to let you know the kids do care, and that Jean-Eric’s lead dude has a damned solid indie rock voice. “Preposterous and Fun” sounds really nice—like MGMT lite—but it’s not nearly preposterous enough. In fact, nothing Jean-Eric does here goes far enough. Drugs (which, in life, are done to make things more exciting than they actually are) are mentioned a lot (“I snorted beaucoup diamonds, now I have a ruby nose”), and you can’t help but associate this music with the state of mind where one feels way more badass and talented than maybe they should.
The songs feature some clever lines (“Me and my gas tank are both rolling on E”) but not nearly enough of them. The word “shit” is used to death (“I don’t like my shit fucked up girl / I don’t like my shit fucked,” from “Bull in a China Shop,” the album’s best tune), but seemingly as a placeholder like “um” or “like.” “Pickle” is a lame female rap about a “bitch” farting, or something.
Some of the codas and chants the group hit upon are hot, and will surely bring a room together (as long as it’s a pretty young room), but when you’re alone with the music (as I am writing this), you notice the blaring dearth of meat. What some may consider a noble lack of pretension can also feel like a lack of effort. The deepest track is the last: a remix that adds tons of fun, choppy details to “Bull in a China Shop.” The whole album, though not bad, could have used this same creative upgrade. One would have to assume, however, that Jean-Eric is hoping you’re dancing too hard to notice.
