Dr. Dog: 'Dr. Dog' Album Review

Dr. Dog Remain True to Themselves on Eponymous Album

Dr. Dog have been at it for a long time. Formed just outside Philadelphia at the turn of the century, bassist Toby Leaman, lead guitarist Scott McMicken, rhythm guitarist Frank McElroy and keyboardist Zach Miller spent the early 2000s scuttling around the tri-state area, honing their ‘60s-inspired psych rock to as fine a point as possible. That point eventually prodded a young Jim James, a valuable friend to have at the time and one who helped Dr. Dog move onto bigger clubs, a few late night stages and a new deal with ANTI-. The 2010s saw the band settle into a pretty comfortable spot, churning out good records every few years and continuing to tour throughout the country. What’s perhaps most noteworthy about the band is how well they’ve maintained a uniquely unwavering level of uncoolness throughout their over 20 years together. While this statement comes with a whiff of backhandedness, it has actually been to the band’s benefit to remain at arm’s length to the critical evaluation cycle that plagues so many bands well into their second or third decade together. I’m happy to report their latest, Dr. Dog, is as uncool as ever.

I hate to plagiarize another writer, but I think this very magazine put it best when describing the critical consensus surrounding Dr. Dog in their early years. “Hating on the Philadelphia quintet is like beating up the neighborhood kids who spend all summer riding bikes and building forts,” said critic Justin Jacobs back in 2010. He’s right, and yet hate they did. As was often the case, Pitchfork led the way in this regard, unrelenting in their use of “Beatle-esque” as a pointed spear meant to deflate any level of hype the band had received from their one glowing New York Times profile from critic Kelefa Sanneh. They were no better than half-rate cosplayers, went the sentiment of most of those reviews, masquerading as 1960s psych-rockers with nothing more original to say than the countless bar-bands in their wake who never garnered attention from The Grey Lady.

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I wasn’t reading any of this back in 2009 but, if I had, I have no doubt I would have dismissed it outright. I cannot speak for the experiences of everyone in the larger Philadelphia area, but to me and a small group of indie-rock kids, Dr. Dog wasn’t cosplaying at rock ‘n’ roll greatness, they were embodying it. The love we had for the rollicking local rockers felt proprietary and pure. They might not have been cool in the wide world of music criticism, but to a couple of kids who had not yet traveled the 30 minutes into Philly for a club show, the legend of their raucous live-shows—one of which ended with the band ordering pizza for everyone in attendance—were worth more than any stab at their originality. When we did eventually make it down to the city for their show at the Electric Factory (now Franklin Music Hall), a group of us stayed after the show to catch the band as they exited the venue—themselves shocked that anyone would want to meet a handful of dudes in their late 20s whose stardom rarely bled beyond the borders of that night’s stage. If they were fab-four wannabes, then what did that make us, the hordes chasing the famed Liverpudlians through the streets in A Hard Day’s Night?

It’s hard to say when exactly, but slowly both the outside world or my own critical facilities began to rear their ugly head and the cracks always present in Dr. Dog’s lovable shtick became more and more evident. As I look at it now, I can understand and acknowledge the sentiment of those early reviews, if not always the increasingly dismissive and harsh tone. Dr. Dog have never been particularly innovative, even within the context of their own established sound, choosing to rehash rather than reinvent. They are also pretty unimaginative, sometimes downright cringeworthy, lyricists. And yet even with all that in mind, I will continue to defend their admittedly derivative sound as undeniable in its charms and often inspiring in its enthusiasm. The waters may not run all that deep, but they serve us all just fine. To their credit, they’ve never really pretended to be otherwise, rarely falling into the kind of highfalutin visionary speak that haunts a band’s attempts at remaining relevant six records into a stagnant career. They are who they are, even if one of their biggest fans becomes a college radio manager and himself desperately wants to identify himself with band’s on the cooler end of the spectrum.

Thankfully, I come to Dr. Dog with significantly less of that baggage. No longer the neophyte nor the cynical striver, I can finally take the band at face value. In press materials surrounding the record, Leaman talks about how the band has never really been one to chase trends and now, 20 years on, that seems truer than ever. If there was an overarching vision the band stuck to throughout Dr. Dog, it was to categorically avoid just that kind of thinking. This is a Dr. Dog record through and through and could be slotted snugly pretty much anywhere within their discography, which is ultimately both a blessing and a curse. Where album opener “Authority” is an overgrown backyard barbecue song, as amiable and rickety as ever, something like “Fat Dog” feels reheated to the point of tedium. When they do strike out in a new direction, it is with mixed but promising results. Eric Slick has been drumming with Dr. Dog for quite a while now, but “Tell Your Friends” marks the first time he has taken on full singing and songwriting duties on one of the band’s records. It’s a song that ultimately feels a bit out of place among the rest of the record, for both its relative restraint and its more evocative lyricism, but it’s far from unwelcome. “Talk Is Cheap,” on the other hand, throws a new coat of paint on the band’s familiar structure, implementing a soaring background chorus and production from jack-of-all-trades Matthew E. White.

As was always the case with the band, Dr. Dog works best when it’s at its most ramshackle. Though they are largely an egalitarian band, Scott McMicken, this time serving as producer for the record, is in many ways the voice of the group. Like fellow lead singer Toby Leaman, McMicken released his own solo effort last year—his first substantial music release outside of Dr. Dog. When I talked to him about that project, I got the sense that McMicken, who now lives in Asheville, NC, had unlocked a kind of loose playfulness that he wanted to bring back into the fold with Dr. Dog. It’s when this notion is moved to the forefront that the record works best. “Love Struck” might not have anything novel to say about a night of love-making, but its banjo-striking, fiddle-flowing hoo-haw genial charm is able to carry plenty of water for a band that is as inviting as ever—coolness be damned.

Read our recent feature on Dr. Dog here.

Dr. Dog Remain True to Themselves on Eponymous Album

The Philadelphia band’s latest LP could be slotted snugly pretty much anywhere within their discography, which is ultimately both a blessing and a curse.