he circumstances in which I write this review are those that I am not usually in. I have just returned from the first night of Passover at my grandparents’ house, and it is the wee hours of the morning. Foolishly, I am drunk, as I decided to partake in more than the suggested five cups one is to indulge in at the Seder, and for the first time, am intoxicated in front of my extended family. I knocked over two full cups of red wine on my grandparents’ pristine shag carpeting, slipped a few times, and very loudly discussed my romantic situation in great detail with my cousins.


And now, I have a massive headache. And I was supposed to write this review more than four days ago, but I completely blew it. I’ll be lucky as hell if this even runs at all. I’m sure Todd is mad as hell at me.


I also have a formal lab report to write for Chemistry, but I don’t really care—Summer Sun, for all of its languidness and completely unnecessary flaws, is the exact record I need right now. Think of it as the perfect immediate Thursday early morning hangover stress record. This, essentially, is a non-moving record, one that for the opening half paints a slow-proceeding sonic landscape, the perfect sort of pop music nothingness you’d love to hear on your headphones while being driven home late at night, with the smell of Merlot fresh on your suit pants, and your eight-year-old brother asleep on your shoulder.


That’s the hangover part. Cool. But you’re still kind of stressed—ah ha! Yo La Tengo has a surprise in store for you, see, as the latter half is cast of irreverent, near-instrumental pop ditties that certainly wake you out of your lull. Somehow, this comes together as a wonderfully imaginative record, simply for the fact that the band dares you not to skip a track in a dense, lush mood.


Now, I’ve only heard one Yo La Tengo album before—I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One—and a handful of their singles, from "Nuclear War," to their wonderful pop opus "Tom Courtenay." I don’t have much experience, but this album does not sound like that of a vital indie rock band, constantly revered by critics.


Boy, this album is long. Nearly 63 minutes, it feels like a sort of dream that you wish you escape, but you just can’t. Album opener "Beach Party Tonight" begins the moodier first half with an ambient sweep, eccentric bongos, and birds chirping. This is the sound that will remain prevalent for seven of the album’s thirteen tracks.


As I sat listening to "Tiny Birds," I found it damn near impossible to distinguish it from the tracks around it ... but also enjoying it very much. As the song is built around a light guitar lilt, flushes of bass and timpani color the surroundings, sucking the listener into the mood. Yeah, that Kraut-lite shit, where the bass/drum groove kind of envelops you through the headphones, with subtleties popping up around the hooks. Unsurprisingly, then, the very next song, "How To Make An Elephant Float," is built off of what sounds like four xylophone notes, a slow build into a math-rock groove. This does not sound like "Let’s Save Tony Orlando’s House," folks, much less a "Sugarcube."


This review is a sprawling mess, sort of what I feel when I hear this album. This is not a pop record, you know? It’s wrong to expect that coming in here. Now, Yo La Tengo the indie pop group has now completely made the shift to textural groovemeisters, a change that I can see upsetting the Yo La faithfull also reviewing this album. But to me, the relative newbie? It’s fantastic. I found myself giving up trying to justify the album’s foggy shifts from song to song, and simply just letting myself go.


As soon as I sunk into this haze, though, out of nowhere comes "Georgia Vs. Yo La Tengo," a chamber pop piano instrumental ditty, fun enough to wake up any hipster! I could almost hear the absent monologue that should have been in this song, like it was in a movie, a romantic comedy where the hero has to spy on the girl. "So here was the plan ... set up with a bowl of popcorn across the street, flip out the camera, pose as telephone pole repair worker." Happy, kind of irreverent, but mostly irrelevant to the album’s flow. This cutesy shit is the last thing I, the hungover listener, needs when locked into a groove.


It appears, though, that Yo La Tengo quickly cuts this shit—the rest of the album becomes a pick-me-up of sorts to the listener, albeit a subtle one. The drum machine offbeats are still present, but instead of snarky basslines and slow grinds, "Winter-a-Go-Go" features a wistfully high organ stomp, and shifting tempos throughout.


Like a summer sun, the highlight—or sunset—comes at the end of the album—or day—with this record. Suddenly, it seems, the band snaps out of the lazy, meandering, ten-minute "epic" of "Let’s Be Still," a wannabe jivin’ trumpet/flute interplay number—this album’s answer to "Blue Line Swinger," but then, while "Swinger" was incandescent and over-the-top, this merely slowly moves along; perhaps summarizing the album itself?—and into their good old pop music roots.


"Take Care" is a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, like a wistful Mazzy Star or more spacy Hank Williams, but to the trendiest listeners, "The Golden Age," off Beck’s Sea Change, will come immediately to mind. For three minutes, violins slowly weep, guitars are slowly strummed, and falsetto harmonies are echoed into oblivion. I haven't heard the Big Star original—but wow. I would have a hard time imagining Alex Chilton throwing on the soft textures that dominate this song's beauty. For a record that seems to have a few ideas but not a lot of execution, this one does the trick perfectly, finally getting an out-and-out pop song on this record absolutely right. The amalgamation of ambient pop-lite and saucy swing comes together for a final resting point, and yeah, it’s a long and strange road to the end of this one. I like it.