More than the precise details of this story, Magdalena Bay invest in outfitting the in-game world, a flow state experience with a loose relationship to standard verse-chorus structure. “Watching TV” sounds like the theme song for centerpiece track “Tunnel Vision,” five minutes that seem to last longer, teasing their way to an all-out noodle-off that readily evokes Mag Bay’s own history as a left-field pop act fighting its way out from inside a former prog rock band. La-la-la-laser skronker “That’s My Floor” asks: Have you considered accessing a higher truth via the elevator? “I let it open me,” Tenenbaum coos, revolutionizing our perception of lobbies and office spaces.
They’re lucky the greater concept works because not every song totally does. Modular bubble bath “Vampire in the Corner” is more precious than sinister. The Steve Lacy whisper-funk vibe on “Love Is Everywhere” circles outer-ring cantina band territory. Maybe that’s all part of the plot? When Tenenbaum sings things that don’t make a great deal of sense, you wonder whether you’d fare any better if someone hit your brain eject. Lyrics are not necessarily the most legible part of this adventure and I don’t suggest trying to dissect them too carefully—best to keep an open mind about POV. Sometimes Tenenbaum is the voice of conscience and sometimes she’s the replicant. On “True Blue Interlude” she sounds like a spokeswoman for disc-implant procedures: “It’s here. Say hello. It’s you,” she says with the hair-raising certainty of a shampoo voiceover introducing a celebrity’s brand-new face. Later, on “Fear, Sex,” she sounds suspicious of the very idea of the computer-enhanced human: “Shoulda known those dirty bastards/Would put wires in your head.” (They’ve been listening to Pink Floyd.)
In a final wink, the story of True is based on a true story: the journey each of us take to become ourselves. With “The Ballad of Matt & Mica,” Mag Bay license some artistic self-mythology that could pass for the real-life Tenenbaum’s account of how she ended up in Los Angeles, working in show biz with Levin. It’s a fundamentally happy ending, another factor shifting the aesthetic balance toward pop. As a faintly grandiose electronic-groove-rock album with romantic, slightly overwrought bookending autobiographical set pieces, we might think of Imaginal Disk as something like the candyflipped L.A. version of Bowie’s Black Tie White Noise. (I’d go to that party.) The best part, always, is the way Mag Bay songs work simultaneously on the level of quintessentially “mindless” pop and as a tongue-in-cheek critique—call it an “alternative”—of the same.
All products featured on Pitchfork are independently selected by our editors. However, when you buy something through our retail links, we may earn an affiliate commission.
