I guess it holds true now just as much as it did throughout history, a revolutionary idea or entity is suppressed by environmental factors; Portugal. The Man's sound is simply too progressive for the world wide web of listeners force-fed trite cookie-cutter radio hits. For this very reason, the band has unfortunately managed to remain relatively obscure thus far. And while the band members claim to be in it for the love of the music, Gourley seems jaded by the lack of success, begging any listener to "sell me, I'm a skeptical boy" on the album opener "Church Mouth". For whatever reason, whether it be the band's sequestered homeland/headquarters of Alaska or their signature abstract avant-garde pop style, Gourley and Co. are struggling to tread water in the music industry. That's not to say, however, that their novel sound went completely unappreciated. Portugal.'s first release, Waiter: You Vultures!, was an unlikely cult hit from the typically emo refuge of Fearless Records. Utilizing Gourley's biting yet appreciable falsetto, jarringly catchy riffs, a few other band members, and a drum machine, an esoteric masterpiece was born. With their second full-length release, Church Mouth, the stripped down Portugal. The Man, consisting only of Gourley, drummer Jason Sechrist and bassist Zach Carothers, continue in the vein of their debut to deliver a compelling, slightly more radio-friendly, yet truly anomalous record.

Unlike many bands nowadays, Portugal. The Man isn't trying to sell you on the fact that they've "matured" and written a "revolutionary" record; their spastic sound would be far too hard to overhaul. Like the previous album, Church Mouth's tracks are flawlessly arranged and are truly most palatable when listened to from start to finish. Though each track can be described as an individual vignette of sorts, skipping just one would be like reading the final chapter of a book immediately after the first: the experience is incomplete. The aforementioned opener, "Church Mouth", a gospel-tinged track that perceptibly benefits from the power and emotion of a flesh-and-bone drummer, ends abruptly and curtly, though it segues perfectly into the funky yet ethereal "Sugar Cinnamon". These transitions also pose easily overlooked but almost scholarly contrasts. For instance, the ironically lively instrumentation behind the fervent yet forlorn sermon "Oh Lord" ("this place is more holy when nobody goes, so show me you're still free") effortlessly gives way to the somber, White Stripes-esque orchestrations backing the notably more hopeful, "Bellies Are Full", which references the narrator's entrance into both the Garden of Eden and Heaven. "Children", another folky number complete with slide guitar to taste, possesses the same haunting and anthemic qualities of the album's closing counterparts "Sleeping Sleepers Sleep/Sun Brother", which fades out with a chilling heartbeat. Though it's a stretch, the only other artists to evoke this kind of emotion in me are Picasso and Van Gogh.

If only Portugal. The Man was from New York, the state that prides itself on more wanna-be bands than pizza pies, they'd actually be on the map by now! Maybe that's a bit pessimistic; it takes a lot of buzz and even more raw talent to carry a band's sound across a state twice the size of Texas, let alone over the Pacific Ocean (or Canada depending on which route you take) to the masses of the Continental United States.