Los Campesinos! say they're not breaking up, and that's good enough for me. There's no denying, however, that the innocently energetic indie kids who banded together four years ago at the University of Cardiff, in Wales, are no more. Oh, they're still hilarious, still capable of thrilling a packed room, but this year's glorious, enigmatic Romance Is Boring-- like don't-call-it-an-album We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed two years ago-- isn't so much twee as grotesque. The group members still perform under the Campesinos! surname, but in recent months two have left: singer/keyboardist Aleksandra, in a long-planned move, and drummer Ollie, under somewhat mysterious circumstances.
Now, in the form of a stopgap EP, comes another about-face. Los Campesinos! lyricist/shouter Gareth has let it be known that he hates acoustic performances. But All's Well That Ends-- available digitally or as a hard-to-find 10"-- is made up of pretty much those, pulling together acoustic versions of four Romance Is Boring tracks in roughly the style of the band's NPR "Tiny Desk Concerts" appearance early last month. By its nature, the release is for fans only, particularly in its expensive physical edition. That said, Los Campesinos! are hardly trying to fool anybody here, and devotees have plenty of reasons to be pleased. Like the most contemplative moments from the last two records, All's Well That Ends points a potential way forward for this constantly evolving band. It offers an early glimpse of the new lineup and sheds clearer light on some of the group's most bewilderingly complex songs, without sacrificing intricacy or exposing too many shortcomings.
I say "too many," of course, because exposing shortcomings is sort of Gareth's forte. If Romance Is Boring is in some ways the most cerebral Los Campesinos! record, it's also their most physical. Gareth is obsessed with bodies, and these new arrangements make it easier to notice the beautifully overwrought Roald Dahl vividness with which he describes them. There's a Hypercolor bruise, kept "like a pet, a private joke/ They told no others." There's a comparison of flabby bellies, an "ear to the door/ Listening to the landing floorboards" to figure out when the coast is clear to scamper from bed to bathroom. There's also a wonderfully, morbidly evocative image of a corpse dropped from a plane, so that it leaves a chalk outline capable, like something out of a children's game, of determining "the initial of who you'll marry"-- and here's a crucial difference from the kids' stuff-- "...now I'm not around." It's worth letting yourself get past the sublime, Andrew Bujalski-level awkwardness of Gareth's sexual declarations about "phallic cake" or post-rock to get to these gorgeously expressive details.