Diana Bueller (no relationship to Ferris) is the titular character on Bloodorama’s debut LP Who Loved Diana Bueller? having captured the infatuation of a young boy. Or so the album’s narrative goes, at least according to Bilal Krähenbühl: guitarist, lead vocalist and self-proclaimed “expert aficionado of the more absurd and uncharted regions of the human subconscious.” That may not fit tidily on a business card, but Krähenbühl (along with two others that comprise this Swiss-based group) doesn’t come across as the corporate type. Rather, he fancies himself as a master anatomizer. One who deconstructs for the sake of creative desire. And since the band counts various artists within the crosshairs of their scalpel – a collection as varied as Bruce Springsteen, Frank Zappa, Dire Straits and Lorde – there’s plenty to reconfigure.
Who Loved Diana Bueller?, the album at hand, doesn’t take itself too seriously. That isn’t a qualification for musical IQ so much as it simply makes the listening fun. Never mind that Krähenbühl appears to be sitting on the surface of Mars in the cover art. It’s all part of the semi-absurdist package spread across 33 minutes. And it seems designed to strike our jugular with the first cut. “Dream! Dream! California, Pt 1” hits out with an absent-minded rockabilly bob that almost, but not quite, has us calling out “Ready Freddie” in homage to Game-era Queen. “Dog Days” soothes the aural palette via shoegazed dream-pop, nudged along by a chugging backbeat. The clever, quippy vocals (“Tie your shoes! I’m still a fool / but I won’t pass out on kitchen booze”) are an added treat, particularly when sung with an operatic-lite effect. It isn’t quite carnival barker territory, but rather, the kind of thing teased out by The Strokes, Vampire Weekend or other Manhattan-based outfits that visually blur into images of Colin Jost. Similarly, “Hungry Love” attains the purity of pop romanticism in its chorus. 40 years ago, it likely would’ve made Marshall Crenshaw jealous. But in modern times, the craftsmanship of Max Martin would surely have elevated the piece by painting a rainbow across its expansive use of space; assuming, of course, that Krähenbühl & Co were willing to sell their souls to the Machine. “Hometown Queen” marks another notable cut. “Streets on fire, I feel so uninspired / And so damn tired of my melting desire,” Krähenbühl imparts. With more punch, this could be the perfect Gaslight Anthem-Killers mashup. And as the guitar solo grooves (or, more accurately, glides) the air-punching chorus affords an excuse for gregarious pyrotechnics. Following this template, “You Alone” breeds familiarity in the breezy chord structure. But, like many of its predecessors, it pops at the chorus, begging for a windows-down sing-along. In a change of pace, “Bleeding Town” grips the listener with piano, courtesy of Summer Woods. Unfortunately, the instrument gets buried in the mix, lacking the kind of vibrancy that could really force a last chance power drive (or whatever that feeling is when the sound of ’70s-era Springsteen adrenalizes the working man). “This muscle metal's crying,” Krähenbühl belts, channeling his finest turnpike sincerity. And with a touch of lo-fi ardor, “Diana Bueller” closes the record. It coasts like a Rivers Cuomo love letter, both imperfect and delicate. Could a brighter mix have elevated the “emotional and dreamy” intensity that the band lock down? Sure. Is its absence a dealbreaker? Absolutely not. This is a guilt free gambol through the 20th century rock canon, trading polish for authenticity on nearly every count. If only Ms. Bueller was still around to enjoy it.
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