When they took the stage at Johnny Brenda's last Friday - their first ever sold-out show - the five men of Dr. Dog were appropriately West Philly in appearance. Plaid flannel shirts: 60%. Fur-lined hunter's caps: 40%. Beards: 80%. Sideburns: 100%.
Dr. Dog is a band with an oft-repeated narrative: They were an obscure local act in Philly until Jim James of My Morning Jacket heard their CD-R Toothbrush and took them on tour. With money earned on the road, they bought a new mic and recorded Easy Beat, released in the fall of 2004. Soon after, they were championed by Kelefa Sanneh in The New York Times, which led to more national press and more touring. The band's latest album, We All Belong comes out February 27.
Dr. Dog's music is often classified as psychedelic, but mind expansion doesn't seem to be their aim. Theirs is a music of comfort: classic rock licks, Beach Boys vocal harmonies, Beatles-esque melodic flourishes, heavily optimistic lyrics. Theirs is an earnest rock, an unpretentious rock, a rock that doesn't advance the state of the art and is okay with that. Dr. Dog fits like a pair of well-worn moccasins. Well-worn moccasins: 20%.
Toothbrush and Easy Beat were stripped-down affairs, home recorded on 4- and 8-track decks. The poorly miked drums and occasional missed note create a raw immediacy that accounts for a good fraction of the recordings' appeal. The music isn't revolutionary, but the sense that it was made just for the listener more than compensates for lack of new territory.
So it's a bit of a letdown - though entirely expected - that their first post-blowup album is missing the Do-It-Yourself charm of their previous work. The air of melancholy celebration is still there, but the lo-fi warmth that made their sincerity palatable in the past is notably absent. The result is pretty good - certainly listenable, but hard to get excited about.
In recording We All Belong, Dr. Dog made the switch from 8-track tape to 24-track, giving the album a slick, ornate sound. There's more piano, organ, and horns. More jingle-jangle and click-clack. More "ooh ahh" and "la la la." At some points the extra depth works, as when trumpet and disembodied voices swirl around the guitar solo in "Worst Trip." Elsewhere, like in the string-laden crescendo at the end of album closer "We All Belong," complexity gives way to bombast.
Maybe it was the sudsy atmosphere or the vibration of the ribcage or the persuasive force of 250 fans doing the full-body head nod, but at Johnny Brenda's last Friday, even the bombast was enjoyable. When I talked to guitarist and sometime singer Scott McMicken after the show, he told me, "I prefer not to think about how the music serves a greater context. I just make the music I want to hear"
