This may seem like an overstatement or an overdramatic reaction to the task of reviewing a record, but honestly, reviewing Malady's self-titled record is probably one of the hardest things I will ever do. This band is, to say the least, sensational.
Comprised of some of Virginia's finest dirty carefree musicians, Malady cranks out some of the catchiest, yet difficult-to-put-into-words music that I have heard in recent years. Chris Taylor, a self-proclaimed non-musician, handles vocal duties very well for this style, especially considering he doesn't see himself as a performing artist at all. I find this funny considering Taylor is a key member of Mannequin, and Malady, not to mention was an important fixture in the late Pg. 99. His unique sing/yell style isn't one that would win him a Grammy or catch him a spot in the Icelandic Choir, but it fits the depressing, droning, and melancholy sound that is Malady so well, that I don't think any other vocalist could ever fill his shoes. Too many bands try so hard to be depressed and write "sad" music, but no sad song has seemed this genuine since Elliot Smith's "Roman Candle."
Backing up Taylor are the remains of City of Caterpillar and friends, and no one could do the job better. One of Malady's strongest points in a live setting, and on recording, is their rhythm section. Malady's hard-hitting drummer is key to the overpowering almost shoe-gazer-esque wall of noisy warmth that the band delivers. Their minor key driven riffs seem to be backed by much more energy at a show than on record but either way the experience leaves you feeling drained of energy from just listening. However you experience Malady, in your car, at a show, or in your bedroom, don't do it alone. I can almost guarantee that the Prozac craving you'll be left with will be too much to handle without the help of a friend.
