Thereâs something strangely melancholic about Ratatatâs sophomore record, Classics. Something that rests behind the dancey drum machine beats and the quirky synths, or even the alternating guitars. Outwardly itâs a fun album, triumphant and full of majestic refrains and riffs -- you could play it for your indie rock friends if you wanted to get them to dance a little and were too afraid to play Daft Punk or Juan Atkins -- but thereâs still something in it, introspection gracenoted between the intricate (but never too ornate or over-complicated or even lush) instrument layers and classical arpeggios, contemplation sitting in bittersweet descents and acoustic guitar chords, French cinema- and IDM-induced reflection, that makes it somehow all very sad. Itâs music for the soundtrack of a film in which even though the sky is clear -- there is sun, an open road perhaps -- the characters have difficulty smiling. Even the more "upbeat" songs, "Lex," "Tropicana," or "Wildcat," for example, never completely shed their pensive skins, rub off the dirt that smudges their bellies and faces. Classics is a record that demands a bit of attention, something to assure it that you hear each phrase, each contradiction, each sound as it enters and leaves. Something to assure it that you know the spaces in which little happens are as important as those that are full. There are no solos here: just the comings and goings of thoughts and feelings and sounds, and though there is a circularity to the album, itâs not boring; rather it just allows time for everything that Ratatat are trying to convey to manifest itself fully. Through its subtlety, Classics celebrates the nature and resilience of the human spirit while simultaneously acknowledging its defects, everything and anything you could ever ask an album to be, and nothing more, which is just enough.