Review Summary: A sense of imagination that shoots through the clouds.
Upon considering the band name Walk the Moon, I postulate that there are two options regarding its origins.
1. The band’s referring to “walking” our moon like a domesticated animal, eager to dispense energy. This denotes an acute sense of self-worth on the band’s behalf; in other words: nah.
2. It’s a silly title for silly music, for silly people to have a silly time.
Things are rarely this black and white, sure, but what does happen to be clear in this instance is that it’s futile to try and analyze
Walk the Moon with an imposing magnifying glass. There’s no deeper meaning here, no hidden clues leading to an even more hidden message that happens to be, of course, subliminally etched into the tracks at hand. If I were to dissect the closing track, “I Can Lift a Car”, and try and grasp the meaning of the at least superficially vapid chorus line of “I can lift a car up all by myself”, well then I can imagine that I could come up with some ridiculously farfetched hypothesis about how the song is alluding to self-assurance, or believing in one’s self, or insert phrase here found on the back of your nearest box of Kix. But it isn't about the specificities - what matters is what makes the group feel capable of lifting cars.
This is why I emphasize to only study the important things, such as this album’s message as a whole - it isn’t about the grandiose rhymes, despite what first impressions may suggest. It isn’t about the kinda uncomfortable anatomical comparisons found within the lyrics, either, despite what discerning music reviewers may will you to believe.
Let’s just focus on the keen sense of fun that bleeds through “Lisa Baby”. Let’s instead gather our efforts towards understanding how exactly exploding synths can fuse with electric guitar pulses so mesmerizingly. There are shimmers of brilliance at each turn, and even more glimpses of the potential actually being realized. Walk the Moon understand what tools they have at their disposal: a singer that sounds almost as delightfully rustic as
Maps & Atlases’ David Davison, a sense of imagination that shoots through the clouds, and a passion that’s comparable to, well, if
Passion Pit did all the right things. Let’s not get wrapped up in petty comparisons, though, and instead appreciate the youthful vigor that Walk the Moon display. If only all debut albums were this successful.
