Ratatat

Remember how the indie-rock masses wept with joy when the Postal Service’s Give Up spontaneously combusted onto their iPods? Classics, the second album by Brooklyn duo Ratatat, should have a similar effect, only ditch Ben Gibbard’s completely un-ironic cheeseball vocals and insert spacious arena-rock guitars spread over angular beats and keyboard nostalgia in its place. It’s the Notwist meets Daft Punk, but it’s also melancholy instrumental dance music without so much as a hint of infinite sadness. But what’s with the cocksure album title? Even if all ten songs on the album are justifiable hits — which they are — why aren’t the arrogance alarms sending domesticated animals under beds and into basements? Simple, really: irony. If you think about it, today’s indie-rock and hipster culture would be a much different beast without it. And while the seemingly ridiculous algorithm that makes up Ratatat’s music seems a bit too ironic, the term “good idea” is entirely more accurate. Weep if you need to: Everyone else will be too busy dancing to notice.