This album plays like the soundtrack to Cayucas’ very own splashy ride at Disney World; except instead of watching Br’er Rabbit’s narrative unfold, it’s a series of Zach Yudin statues gushing over various musical influences as he discovers them. In the first, Yudin as a small child with a bowl cut listening to The Beach Boys on the shag carpet in his parent’s basement. He’s holding the record high above him, victorious. In the he second, he’s a pre-teen smoking stolen cigarettes behind the neighbourhood drug store when an el camino blaring Beck passes by. He is bending around the corner, his ear glued to the musical vapor stream. Next, the millennium, Yudin as a freshman, en route to school, cardboard boxes and a potted plant in the backseat. The Dandy Warhol’s So Bohemian Like You is playing on the radio. His face is rolled up in an expression of exultation, his hand cranks the volume knob. Lastly, senior year bonfire at the beach, Vampire Weekend plays over the loud speaker, Yudin is frozen mid-star jump. Full. Musical. Orgasm.
And though Yudin’s vocals are not without merit, his voice floats as easy as sea salt on the Pacific breeze; and the songs themselves are catchy, invoking images of popped-collar-wayfarer-tribal-pep-rallies; the album itself sorely lacks originality. There are no mystery’s here, no lessons; save the pitfalls of holding your musical idols too close. Bigfoot is postmodern sink hole within which no listener can escape the nagging suppositions that they know exactly who Zach Yudin is, and why he is the way he is; which is arguably this albums greatest fault.
It is the unanswered questions that gift the transcendence that all music lovers covet. It is the not knowing, the not understanding, the awe and wonder at the inexplicable that allows us to remove ourselves from our bodies and float up into the ether. In this way, Cayucas fumbles their homage. They are unable to recreate the musical ingenuity of their forefathers and so their nostalgia feels like an ill-fitted suit, a department store version of couture.
On a positive note, this album is sure to rekindle your love for the bands whose motifs are so blatant. It will steer you back towards the original creators of the vibes, those who were able to cultivate that elusive wonderment because when those bands played, the nuances were fresh and awe inspiriting; but mostly it will revive your love of hipster bonfires on Maine’s beaches.
