Nope, that’s not a grammatical error up there (although I’m sure there will be plenty to follow) — Moms is the new LP from Portland-based indie-rockers Justin Harris and Danny Seim of Menomena. Moms follows on the heels of Mines, a spectacular effort and one of the best albums of 2010, as well as the (perhaps unsurprising, given the band’s known tension and in-fighting) departure of one-third of the band in Brent Knopf. The question wasn’t so much if the band would continue (according to Danny Seim and Justin Harris, that was never really an issue), so much as if they could keep the momentum that they had built with Friend and Foe and Mines.

Let’s get something out of the way first: Knopf brought a lot to the table and his absence is noticeable, even if Seim and Harris are doing their best to fill the keyboard-and-soft-vocal-laden void that he’s left behind. And to their credit, they do a remarkable job of it.

Moms is an album that stands on equal footing with any of Menomena’s previous work, but it’s not a perfect album. The idea that Menomena might improve in any other way except band morale with Knopf’s departure is wishful thinking at best. But that’s beside the point. Both Seim and Harris are extraordinarily talented musicians, and if Moms has one thing going for it it’s that these guys are a blast to listen to once they find that musical sweet spot. Whereas Mines was an album born out of tension, a paranoid affair where small wounds were made whole and instruments fought with one another in inspired ways, Moms is a more appealing collection of songs. It’s an album who’s most remarkable feat is represented in two life-long friends playing off of one another with a chemistry that some bands with years more experience have yet to nail. It’s exhilarating and unpredictable, like a carnival ride where someone occasionally runs up and punches you in the dick without warning.

Looks like it’s time to get indie.

If that metaphor was a little crude, it’s not entirely unwarranted. The songwriting in this album is some of the most honest the band has yet produced and that occasionally leads to some lyrical awkwardness in more ways than one (at one point, Harris attempts to rhyme “failure” and “genitalia” to mixed results despite its emotional punch). Mind you, I’m not saying that this is always a bad thing. I love it when musicians do away with all of the poetic bullshit to just say something honest for a change. It’s refreshing to hear a band who isn’t afraid to throw around the line “like a nervous, random stranger at a glory hole” and have fun while doing it. They even make it sound oddly sweet. Then there are lines like the heartbreaking “Wish you were in person what you are in souvenirs/Wish I could remember if my last words were sincere” off of the spectacular  “Baton.” With a playful, buoyant (is that a word that can be used to describe music?) bassline and jabs of high-pitched organ, it’s a surprisingly breezy song given the disheartening lyrical content. And that’s one of the most odd and endearing things about Moms — the lyrics are frequently heavy, but the music refuses to be dragged down with them. There’s color and texture here, a carefree attitude that peppers the majority of these songs. It’s a sort of musical freedom intermingled with emotional entrapment. It’s the difference between a band knowing what they want to achieve with their sound and two musicians needing to work through some personal issues.

Future Harris and Will-be Seim?

As its title implies, much of Moms lyrical content is about family, but it’s mostly about the loss thereof than Wednesday night board games and holiday gatherings. Throughout much of the album, Harris struggles with the aftermath of a deadbeat dad, having been raised primarily by his mother. There’s more than just anger there, though — Harris seems almost fearful at the idea of becoming like his father, inheriting those same sensibilities that led to his eventual abandonment, “a failure/cursed with male genitalia/a parasitic fuck.” Seim, on the other hand, mainly writes about living without his mother after she passed away when he was still young. His lyrics are understandably the most gut-wrenching, with lines like the one above (“Baton”) or the refrain “We never talked on a cellular telephone” from “Capsule.”

It’s not all heavy hearts and hung heads, though. Occasionally, Menomena find it in themselves to just jam. Opener “Plumage” is a playful pop song, kicking the record off with handclaps and Harris’ hopeful vocals accompanied by keyboards and staccatto guitar chords. It’s a love song if Menomena has ever written one, with Harris claiming to be an animal in search of a mate, hisone and only. There’s even a hilarious throw away line in “I once was tragically hip/and beautifully fine/now my beautiful hips/are tragically wide.” Meanwhile, “Giftshoppe” sports abassline that practically oozes through speakers, an unforgivably dance-able ode to living in mobile homes and just generally growing up broke, eventually evolving into a myriad of effects and acoustic guitar/keyboard touches.

In a lot of ways, Moms plays like an extension of Menomena’s early work, namely I am the Fun Blame Monster, their debut LP. But whereas that record was unfocused and spastic, Moms is a record with driving force and clear vision behind it. It’s an album that espouses emotional devastation without becoming overly oppressive, an album that showcases Menomena’s talent for raw songwriting paired with technical muscianship. It’s a proud achievement of a record, proof positive that this band can function more than capably as a two-piece. Wherever Menomena end up from here, it sounds like they’re on the right track.

Moms is out September 18th through Barsuk records. You can pick it up here or here, although if you’re one of those “try it before you buy it” types, the album is streaming for free over at hype machine.