As indie rock survived the armageddon of stadia, and suddenly Canadians look smarter than Americans these days, hope and despair are duelling in the independent social landscape. A harmonious, civil competition within the modern, anti-war conscience.

Collectives v. loners.

Optimism v. pessimism.

Canada v. America.

Onto the scene: The Arcade Fire, a merry family of a married couple, Win and Regine, and their round table of friends and contributors. Borne in Montreal from the rival collective of Toronto’s scenesters and anti-scenesters, their second album, Funeral, paves swelled strings that tease swinging beats and vented guitars, ultimately, and often triumphantly, featuring voices that tend to come in large numbers. Funeral aims social intimacy at the reclusive scorn that antagonizes its army in these post-millennial “times of war”.

Resolute not to damn the past or curse the future as their goth/mod/anti-god opponents insist, the group rails off confessions and memories with the willingness and anxiety that comes from their support group-like confidence. Tragedy often begets poignant separation or unity, but in the circumstances that bore this album, the Family yielded a manuscript on therapeutic honesty, while diffusing their illustrative pain through channels of honest choral magnification and genuinely expressive melodies.

The conflict of the album is set up early after a Cirque du Soleil-style friendly introduction in “Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)”. “Neighborhood #2 (Laika)” ominously rolls along with the difficult functionality of a gypsy train. Voices sway and accordions shimmer with hospitality while violins, organs, and jagged reverb power licks take turns emoting relaxation and anger. The erratic mood shifts into full-blown industrial angst in “Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)”, but not before a moment of relief that chokes out some frustration before taking on more of their demanding fate.

“Wake Up” is perhaps the album’s most potent example of their notion of personal triumph, an above-the-cloud anthem spliced with grungepop guitar and desperate lyrics (”I guess we’ll just have to adjust”), later rollicking into a softly sober, carousing swingbeat, where Win realizes a successful, but difficult survival (”With my lightning bolts a-glowing/I can see where I am going”).

A requisite feature of Funeral’s message is the penchant to abruptly convert songs from despair to counterbalanced hope. “Une Annee Sans Lumiere” begins with fatigued spirit, only to end with cathartic vigor. “Crown of Love” is a 50’s-style ballad on the loss of love, but finishes as a wide-eyed, churning rant. Moods consistently change throughout the album, exposing the unique array of emotions that went into its tempered creation.

Funeral is a glowing testimony to group therapy. With this album, The Arcade Fire present accounts of natural disaster, personal failure, and somber inhumanity, yet profoundly resolves each tragedy. For every troubling moment on the album, there exists an uncommon level of comfort provided by the ability to diffuse pain among the Family.

We should all be so lucky.