The Himalayan Bear
...Attacks the Brilliant Air by Himalayan Bear

MONDOmagazine Review
By Allana Mayer

I'll get this out of the way: The Himalayan Bear is the new Devendra Banhart. A Canadian one, no less, and with enough cred to last you a good month of name-droppery.

Sounding like so many acoustic-strumming, eerily-wailing brethren, Ryan Beattie (tour guitarist of Frog Eyes, leader of Chet, and musician-about-Victoria, BC) enlists a troupe of like-minded individuals to assist on his second album attempt. The first, Lo, Lonesome Island, was ukulelean pop, loosely gathered on the theme of Hawaii.

For ... Attacks the Brilliant Air, the old soul that is Beattie has created epics, desolate yet optimistic, most spanning past the five-minute mark. The earlier stuff is somehow both darker and more innocent than this new release, like the writings of an angry adolescent versus an experienced and dignified retiree.

It's mystifying that the kindly, bespectacled grandfather persona of The Himalayan Bear shares a tour van with a character as frenetic as Frog Eyes' Carey Mercer. As diehard about Frog Eyes as I am for any band (that is to say, some of their stuff I'll always like), their recent work has left me soured. I wanted the energy, the creepiness, but without losing the craftsmanship. Unfortunately, there's been too much weak repetition of the same old themes, a stagnation.

Luckily, The Himalayan Bear refreshes our awareness of the intelligence that's known to dwell inside those unassuming figures of west coast music. What's more, he manages to put a spin on it that warms your insides — and does it without even breaking a sweat. Over the eight minutes of "The City Wind," he manages to squeeze out lines like "The smoke from your gun has stained your soul with the smell of death" as sweetly as a serenade to a lost love. Coincidentally, in "The Lost Love," he seems to be celebrating a long-dead summer romance, with castanets, a slow mambo rhythm, and not so much as a tear shed (despite what the lyrics may say). Not only has Beattie portrayed a wisdom beyond his years, he also shows talent in the art of misdirection, as his melancholy lyrics contrast his cheery melodies without ever creating conflict.

Piddly bits of gospel-church organ or shuffled snare-brushing in the background create just enough theme and setting to conjure the image of a hushed audience, seated in the Music Gallery or a similar venue, respectfully awed by the lone figure onstage. His face probably hidden by long hair, he'd stare intently at the ground or his shoe, as an uncannily powerful, convincing voice issued from the emaciated frame.

Okay, scratch that. The Himalayan Bear is the new Antony — but no need for the Johnsons here, just arresting vocals and an endless patience, never needing to rise from the rocking chair on the porch to get us all to quiet down and pay attention.

(By the way: Chet, if you're wondering, does an alarmingly catchy and energetic resuscitation of indie-rock, which takes years off Beattie's voice.)