Ted Leo and the Pharmacists – Living with the Living

Ted Leo and the Pharmacists
Living with the Living

Ted Leo doesn’t fuck around. Never has. Never will. The man belts octaves that Mariah Carey rarely attains, knocks out ballads and punk anthems with equal aplomb, and plays guitar like a horny girl with a chainsaw dildo. Is there anything Teddy can’t do?

Yes, there is. He has not yet crafted his perfect album. Now some would argue that The Tyranny of Distance stands as Leo’s definitive statement, but they’re wrong. Sure, the songs are great, but they lack the force and power of Leo’s tremendous trio. I mean, when these three men switch on, you can’t slide a piece of paper between the bricks of rock. But still, I want perfection from the man.

But the fact that Leo isn’t perfect makes him perfect to me. He sings what he wants to, plays how he wants to, and exists entirely on his own terms. Leo may never make a perfect album. But that’s perfect, because I know Ted Leo and the Pharmacists a little better on some weird personal level every time I listen to their records. His heart’s not on his sleeve, it’s in your fucking hand. It’s uncanny. Ted Leo and his Crass T-shirt will kick your teeth in with honesty, and it hurts so good.

OK, I’ll stop sucking Leo’s dick now. The fact of the matter is Living with the Living is an excellent album (not that any Pharmacists album sinks anywhere below great). Leo, along with bassist Dave Lerner and drummer Chris Wilson, sound as together, excited, youthful, and explosive as they ever have. Clear enough to hear everything these strapping men are doing but rough enough to keep the punk edge and live sound intact, Brendan Canty’s production complements Leo’s sound quite well. Plus, with tunes like these, Living with the Living could get away with a moniker like Riff City. Damn.

To those familiar with Leo, the political themes on this album will be of no surprise. Leo ain’t above singing in grand statements and anthemic screeds on topics such as despicableness of the war. He sings in catchy, fist-pumping, sometimes simple choruses, but tempers these oversimplifications with verses that allow for reading between the lines. For instance, upon first look and listen, “Army Bound” seems to lay the blame the eighteen-year-old kids going to war. Upon closer inspection, however, little rays of Leo enlightenment shine through. With lines like, “In every cradle there’s a grave now/ In every owner there’s a slave now,” you’d have to be a piss-drinking moron to believe Leo could possibly be blaming the kids; he’s blaming their fearless leaders for UPSing them straight to death’s door, or perhaps worse, a limbless, mutilated existence. “In every garden there’s a snake now/ In every pardon there’s mistake now”- the man seethes on the page and through his veins.

But Living with the Living is no war dirge. It leaps out of the speakers starting with “The Sons of Cain,” a track equal parts punk and rodeo. “Who Do You Love?”’s staccato guitars and “The Unwanted Things”’s straight-up reggae groove and Leo falsetto mark the catchiest moments on the LP. Hope still leaks through the cracks.

A few songs sag, though. “Annunciation Day/ Born on Christmas Day” seems kind of pointless and average. “A Bottle of Buckie”, though pretty and heartfelt, comes dangerously close to “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life).” I let these songs pass, though, because Leo’s talented enough to get by on élan on these decent numbers. “The Toro and the Toreador”, however, drops in from nowhere, and, like a rabid dog, eats its own dried poop with gleeful, insane boredom. Come on, Teddy!

But these mistakes are so few and far between that forgiveness is due from me to you, Ted. Undeniably the most diverse album Leo’s ever made, Living with the Living leaves not one of Leo’s stylistic stepping-stones unturned. The band tours constantly and works hard to sharpen its sound, and the payoff is huge. Even the long songs never bore. The Pharmacists’ knack for adding every element a song needs and nothing more is rare in a pompous musical climate where bands employ members stretching into the double digits tinkering on such ear-pleasing instruments as the tin can and the blank stare. Ted Leo and the Pharmacists skate on Ockham’s razor and bust your ass up with a kindergarten equation: 2+2= fuck yeah. Rudy can’t fail.