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Bob Mould

Workbook 25

Rock

Jason Heller

“Sunspots”—the gentle, two-minute instrumental that opens Bob Mould’s 1989 solo debut Workbook—may be the softest, saddest “fuck you” in recorded history. Still stinging from the acrimonious breakup Hüsker Dü in 1988, the singer/guitarist formed a new trio to replace the old, this one with bassist Tony Maimone and drummer Anton Fier (who, among other accomplishments, served together briefly in Pere Ubu). That caliber of rhythm section had the potential to be at least as loud as Hüsker Dü’s. Instead, Mould turned down and turn his back on punk. “I sensed there was a part of the punk audience that would feel betrayed,” Mould writes unapologetically in his autobiography See a Little Light, “but it was important to move beyond the sound of the past eight years.” At the time, Mould was living in rural Minnesota, not far from an Amish settlement. Workbook isn’t exactly a work of entrenched technophobia—come the new millennium, Mould would even go so far as to dabble in electronica—but its hushed tone and introspective air reflects a sense of isolation that’s bucolic if not exactly idyllic. Mould was an angry young man in Hüsker Dü, and anger abounds on Workbook (which is getting an expanded reissue in honor of its 25th anniversary, Workbook 25). Here, though, it’s dispersed among empty spaces and meandering melodies. There’s a honeycombed hollowness to tracks like “Heartbreak a Stranger” and “Sinners and Their Repentances", both of them overlaid with languid jangle and Mould’s newly naked moan. After years of straining to be heard over Hüsker’s din, he sounds almost startled by the potency and range of his own voice; the same goes for the themes of his lyrics, which don’t shy away from an encroaching spirituality that would eventuality lead to Mould’s religious awakening years later. But for every folky, free-flowing rumination is a song such as “Dreaming, I Am", which veers between a driving beat, delicate guitar, and a deceptively corrosive mood. “See a Little Light,” the song after which Mould named his book, was Workbook’s lead single. Accordingly, it’s the album’s brimming cup of pop hooks. Still, it’s far more drifting and complex than it seems at first, pivoting around tangles of chords while gliding frictionlessly across the glassy playing of cellist Jane Scarpantoni (who’d appeared on R.E.M.’s Green and would go on to play with everyone from Nirvana to Bruce Springsteen to Swans). The widespread use of cello throughout Workbook is one of its more striking tonal choices; Mould originally wrote those parts for synthesizer, and their translation into chamber instrument threads the album with a haunting, melancholy warmth—especially on “Sinners", where Scarpantoni duels with Mould like a demonic temptation. Hüsker Dü was, in many ways, a massively distorted folk band—but Workbook isn’t just acoustic Mould like “Too Far Down”, Candy Apple Grey with the gunk scraped off. “Brasilia Crossed with Trenton”, which Mould says came to him one morning as a “full realized dreamsong," is seven minutes of imagistic, shanty-like folk-rock, but it’s hard to imagine its soul-spilling excess and sprawl ever fitting onto a Hüsker album, even one as ambitious as Zen Arcade. The problem is, Mould takes catharsis to a new dimension on Workbook, but that leaves subtle cuts like “Brasilia” and “Lonely Afternoon” undefended by Mould’s most formidable weapon: a walloping chorus. He still wields them on “See a Little Light”—which boasts one of most searing choruses of his career—as well as on “Poison Years”, which crams tender twang, roiling angst, anthemic stamina, and squealing showmanship into a single song. All the elements of Mould’s songwriting are on parade on “Poison Years”, but they’re lumped together in odd, lopsided combinations. “Poison Years” also shows that Mould wasn’t entirely ready to strum gentle into that good night. Along with Workbook’s darkest track, the venom-dripping “Wishing Well”, it vengefully kicks on the distortion pedal as if it were an old toy that triggered memories of a troubled childhood. The shift is more than simply sonic, as Mould himself seems equally electrified when he lets his amps to scream. One of the bonus tracks of Workbook 25 is the bouncy, catchy “All Those People Know,” the B-side of the “See a Little Light Single”—and it makes perfect sense that it was omitted from the original album release, seeing as how it could easily pass for latter-day Hüsker Dü. The rest of Workbook 25’s bonus tracks comprise a live set recorded at the Metro in Chicago in 1989. The live version of “Sunspots” is echoing and effected, sounding in that regard almost like a John Martyn song. Mould’s affinity for vintage English folk-rock is also evident in his faithful yet fiery rendition of Richard and Linda Thompson’s “Shoot Out the Lights.” (He would eventually record Richard Thompson’s “Turning of the Tide” for the 1994 tribute album Beat the Retreat). But it’s “If You’re True” that’s the hidden gem of Workbook 25. A song that Mould has admitted to being a swipe at his former Hüsker Dü bandmates Grant Hart and Greg Norton—“No more friends that lie and hide / No more games to play to get to know the answer,” he rages—the Metro version of “If You’re True” is unleashed with riotous righteousness plus a clutch of country-rock licks that come together to sound uncannily like the formula Uncle Tupelo was about to make famous. It’s far more spirited than the drum-machine-backed 1988 demo version, but Mould’s grudges didn’t fully carry over to his previous group’s music. He opens those fresh wounds long to encore with three Hüsker Dü songs: “Hardly Getting Over It”, “Celebrated Summer”, and “Makes No Sense at All”. As Mould states in See a Little Light, when Workbook came out “there was a concerted effort not only to divorce myself from my past, but also not to live off of my past accomplishments”. Yet he performs his Hüsker set reverently, intimately, almost in awe of the life they’ve taken on. While Mould seems liberated by his newfound quietude, he also strains at it. In the video for “See a Little Light” he thrashes and hammers at his strings; at one point, spit flies from his lips. It’s as though he alone can hear the noise behind his clean-toned, cello-swaddled songs, that theoretical roar that his old group would have brought to them. The pent-up force finally breaks free on Workbook’s final track, “Whichever Way the Wind Blows", a lurching, churning, borderline grungy rager full of haywire guitar and Mould’s most unhinged vocal performance since his SST days. Sure enough, Mould, Maimone,

Artist: Bob Mould, Album: Workbook 25, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "“Sunspots”—the gentle, two-minute instrumental that opens Bob Mould’s 1989 solo debut Workbook—may be the softest, saddest “fuck you” in recorded history. Still stinging from the acrimonious breakup Hüsker Dü in 1988, the singer/guitarist formed a new trio to replace the old, this one with bassist Tony Maimone and drummer Anton Fier (who, among other accomplishments, served together briefly in Pere Ubu). That caliber of rhythm section had the potential to be at least as loud as Hüsker Dü’s. Instead, Mould turned down and turn his back on punk. “I sensed there was a part of the punk audience that would feel betrayed,” Mould writes unapologetically in his autobiography See a Little Light, “but it was important to move beyond the sound of the past eight years.” At the time, Mould was living in rural Minnesota, not far from an Amish settlement. Workbook isn’t exactly a work of entrenched technophobia—come the new millennium, Mould would even go so far as to dabble in electronica—but its hushed tone and introspective air reflects a sense of isolation that’s bucolic if not exactly idyllic. Mould was an angry young man in Hüsker Dü, and anger abounds on Workbook (which is getting an expanded reissue in honor of its 25th anniversary, Workbook 25). Here, though, it’s dispersed among empty spaces and meandering melodies. There’s a honeycombed hollowness to tracks like “Heartbreak a Stranger” and “Sinners and Their Repentances", both of them overlaid with languid jangle and Mould’s newly naked moan. After years of straining to be heard over Hüsker’s din, he sounds almost startled by the potency and range of his own voice; the same goes for the themes of his lyrics, which don’t shy away from an encroaching spirituality that would eventuality lead to Mould’s religious awakening years later. But for every folky, free-flowing rumination is a song such as “Dreaming, I Am", which veers between a driving beat, delicate guitar, and a deceptively corrosive mood. “See a Little Light,” the song after which Mould named his book, was Workbook’s lead single. Accordingly, it’s the album’s brimming cup of pop hooks. Still, it’s far more drifting and complex than it seems at first, pivoting around tangles of chords while gliding frictionlessly across the glassy playing of cellist Jane Scarpantoni (who’d appeared on R.E.M.’s Green and would go on to play with everyone from Nirvana to Bruce Springsteen to Swans). The widespread use of cello throughout Workbook is one of its more striking tonal choices; Mould originally wrote those parts for synthesizer, and their translation into chamber instrument threads the album with a haunting, melancholy warmth—especially on “Sinners", where Scarpantoni duels with Mould like a demonic temptation. Hüsker Dü was, in many ways, a massively distorted folk band—but Workbook isn’t just acoustic Mould like “Too Far Down”, Candy Apple Grey with the gunk scraped off. “Brasilia Crossed with Trenton”, which Mould says came to him one morning as a “full realized dreamsong," is seven minutes of imagistic, shanty-like folk-rock, but it’s hard to imagine its soul-spilling excess and sprawl ever fitting onto a Hüsker album, even one as ambitious as Zen Arcade. The problem is, Mould takes catharsis to a new dimension on Workbook, but that leaves subtle cuts like “Brasilia” and “Lonely Afternoon” undefended by Mould’s most formidable weapon: a walloping chorus. He still wields them on “See a Little Light”—which boasts one of most searing choruses of his career—as well as on “Poison Years”, which crams tender twang, roiling angst, anthemic stamina, and squealing showmanship into a single song. All the elements of Mould’s songwriting are on parade on “Poison Years”, but they’re lumped together in odd, lopsided combinations. “Poison Years” also shows that Mould wasn’t entirely ready to strum gentle into that good night. Along with Workbook’s darkest track, the venom-dripping “Wishing Well”, it vengefully kicks on the distortion pedal as if it were an old toy that triggered memories of a troubled childhood. The shift is more than simply sonic, as Mould himself seems equally electrified when he lets his amps to scream. One of the bonus tracks of Workbook 25 is the bouncy, catchy “All Those People Know,” the B-side of the “See a Little Light Single”—and it makes perfect sense that it was omitted from the original album release, seeing as how it could easily pass for latter-day Hüsker Dü. The rest of Workbook 25’s bonus tracks comprise a live set recorded at the Metro in Chicago in 1989. The live version of “Sunspots” is echoing and effected, sounding in that regard almost like a John Martyn song. Mould’s affinity for vintage English folk-rock is also evident in his faithful yet fiery rendition of Richard and Linda Thompson’s “Shoot Out the Lights.” (He would eventually record Richard Thompson’s “Turning of the Tide” for the 1994 tribute album Beat the Retreat). But it’s “If You’re True” that’s the hidden gem of Workbook 25. A song that Mould has admitted to being a swipe at his former Hüsker Dü bandmates Grant Hart and Greg Norton—“No more friends that lie and hide / No more games to play to get to know the answer,” he rages—the Metro version of “If You’re True” is unleashed with riotous righteousness plus a clutch of country-rock licks that come together to sound uncannily like the formula Uncle Tupelo was about to make famous. It’s far more spirited than the drum-machine-backed 1988 demo version, but Mould’s grudges didn’t fully carry over to his previous group’s music. He opens those fresh wounds long to encore with three Hüsker Dü songs: “Hardly Getting Over It”, “Celebrated Summer”, and “Makes No Sense at All”. As Mould states in See a Little Light, when Workbook came out “there was a concerted effort not only to divorce myself from my past, but also not to live off of my past accomplishments”. Yet he performs his Hüsker set reverently, intimately, almost in awe of the life they’ve taken on. While Mould seems liberated by his newfound quietude, he also strains at it. In the video for “See a Little Light” he thrashes and hammers at his strings; at one point, spit flies from his lips. It’s as though he alone can hear the noise behind his clean-toned, cello-swaddled songs, that theoretical roar that his old group would have brought to them. The pent-up force finally breaks free on Workbook’s final track, “Whichever Way the Wind Blows", a lurching, churning, borderline grungy rager full of haywire guitar and Mould’s most unhinged vocal performance since his SST days. Sure enough, Mould, Maimone, "

The Black Dog

Neither/Neither

Electronic

Andy Beta

Although their Warp Records peers—Aphex Twin, Autechre, LFO—are regarded as the vanguard of "intelligent dance music," the Black Dog were as equally deft, playful, and rambunctious through the early half of the '90s. A track like "Techno Playtime", which kicked off their 1990 EP of the same name, was truth in advertising, its sleek drum programming overtaken midway by a gnarly thump like Donkey Kong let loose. But by 1995, the trio, comprised of Ken Downie, Ed Handley, and Andy Turner, split, with Handley and Turner taking the more lighthearted aspects of their sound with them when they formed Plaid. But after a decade, Downie resuscitated the Black Dog with 2005's Drexciya-inspired Silenced, teaming up with Martin and Richard Dust. Since then, there has been a slew of Black Dog albums, nearly twice as many releases as in its original incarnation. But as Stephen King's Pet Sematary once warned, a revived dog isn't necessarily the same dog. As their seventh post-Handley and Turner album, Neither/ Neither, reveals, they've gotten far darker and more negative. Or as the press release puts it: "We are all proles now; all are expected to maintain a mental state…of uncertainty and inaction." It makes sense that the Black Dog would grow more dour, in that both have roots in Psychick Warriors ov Gaia and Thee Temple ov Psychick Youth, which trace back to early industrialists Psychic TV. The first few times through Neither/ Neither, I was also reminded of fellow '90s acts like Portishead and Boards of Canada, who returned after a decade away to far sourer times, their music reflecting a heightened sense of paranoia, anxiety, and pessimism about the world. The downtempo title track here, with its skittering hi-hats and lurching heartbeat pulse, could definitely have come off of Tomorrow's Harvest, especially when—some two minutes in—its slow-moving analog melody crests and breaks. The tricky cymbals of "Them (Everyone Is a Liar But)" suggest a balance between early and present Black Dog, while "Self Organising Sealed Systems" is bracing, visceral techno that's au courant in Berlin. But ambient tracks like "B.O.O.K.S." mistake aimlessness for eeriness, and the interludes neither heighten the tension nor cast more shadow over the proceedings. As a result, most of the album drifts by without much to distinguish it from its field. Tracks like "Control Needs Time" and "Shut Eye" are indistinct to the point of anonymity, making Neither/ Neither an all too-perfect soundtrack for uncertainty and inaction.

Artist: The Black Dog, Album: Neither/Neither, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "Although their Warp Records peers—Aphex Twin, Autechre, LFO—are regarded as the vanguard of "intelligent dance music," the Black Dog were as equally deft, playful, and rambunctious through the early half of the '90s. A track like "Techno Playtime", which kicked off their 1990 EP of the same name, was truth in advertising, its sleek drum programming overtaken midway by a gnarly thump like Donkey Kong let loose. But by 1995, the trio, comprised of Ken Downie, Ed Handley, and Andy Turner, split, with Handley and Turner taking the more lighthearted aspects of their sound with them when they formed Plaid. But after a decade, Downie resuscitated the Black Dog with 2005's Drexciya-inspired Silenced, teaming up with Martin and Richard Dust. Since then, there has been a slew of Black Dog albums, nearly twice as many releases as in its original incarnation. But as Stephen King's Pet Sematary once warned, a revived dog isn't necessarily the same dog. As their seventh post-Handley and Turner album, Neither/ Neither, reveals, they've gotten far darker and more negative. Or as the press release puts it: "We are all proles now; all are expected to maintain a mental state…of uncertainty and inaction." It makes sense that the Black Dog would grow more dour, in that both have roots in Psychick Warriors ov Gaia and Thee Temple ov Psychick Youth, which trace back to early industrialists Psychic TV. The first few times through Neither/ Neither, I was also reminded of fellow '90s acts like Portishead and Boards of Canada, who returned after a decade away to far sourer times, their music reflecting a heightened sense of paranoia, anxiety, and pessimism about the world. The downtempo title track here, with its skittering hi-hats and lurching heartbeat pulse, could definitely have come off of Tomorrow's Harvest, especially when—some two minutes in—its slow-moving analog melody crests and breaks. The tricky cymbals of "Them (Everyone Is a Liar But)" suggest a balance between early and present Black Dog, while "Self Organising Sealed Systems" is bracing, visceral techno that's au courant in Berlin. But ambient tracks like "B.O.O.K.S." mistake aimlessness for eeriness, and the interludes neither heighten the tension nor cast more shadow over the proceedings. As a result, most of the album drifts by without much to distinguish it from its field. Tracks like "Control Needs Time" and "Shut Eye" are indistinct to the point of anonymity, making Neither/ Neither an all too-perfect soundtrack for uncertainty and inaction."

Van Dyke Parks

Song Cycle

Pop/R&B

Jayson Greene

If you've heard any of Van Dyke Parks' solo records in your life, your first reaction was likely some variant on "I don't get it." That's okay, you weren't supposed to. At the time of their release (the late 1960s and early 1970s), Parks was part of a crowd of mercurial genius weirdos wandering record-label halls; of this group, Parks could easily have been voted Least Likely to Succeed. (He probably would have volunteered himself for the honor.) The records he issued under his own name had a cheerful Mt. Olympus aura about them: They sat contentedly in rarefied air, budging for no one but graciously welcoming any travelers who hazarded the journey. Over the ensuing decades, this is where they've remained: known vaguely by reputation, name-checked for erudition, never playing at parties. Every five years or so, some devotee does some of Parks's publicity work for him; Joanna Newsom hired him to orchestrate Ys and spoke with awe of listening repeatedly to Parks' Song Cycle while Ys fermented in her mind. But otherwise, Parks' solo records have always seemed destined to be known more for their influence, celebrated more for the big ideas they dislodged in the minds of others rather than for themselves. Recently, however, Parks has begun attending to his own solo legacy. Last year, he put out the compilation Arrangements, Vol. 1 on his own Bananastan label; it was a reintroduction of sorts, and a prudent place to begin. Immediately ingratiating and full of pop songs, Arrangements hinted at the knottiness of Parks' vision. Still, as a primer for Song Cycle, Discover America, and Clang of the Yankee Reaper, which Parks has now reissued, Arrangements is adequate only insofar as dipping your toes in a wading pool is preparation for leaping from a cliff into a raging sea. 1968's Song Cycle is the big one, the one with the capital-R Reputation. Perfumed, florid, over-crowded, the album is Parks' attempt to synthesize 100 years' worth of American music on borrowed studio time. The album cost a staggering amount and sold next to nothing; with this gesture, he cemented his artistic reputation and sank his career like a stone. Warner Bros. heralded Song Cycle with a panicky flop-sweat flourish disguised as a marketing campaign. The standard line on Song Cycle is that it's impenetrable, and it can be. But it depends what you're listening for. If you approach it expecting a tuneful singer-songwriter album, then you're going to be continually deposited on the top of your own head. If, however, you're looking to take a midnight stroll through a Civil War memorabilia museum, where every figurine and placard suddenly springs to life and begins singing, then you'll feel right at home. Part of Song Cycle's bum rap for seriousness is earned-- the name itself suggests something too weighty to consider itself a mere "album." But once you adjust to its mannerisms, Song Cycle is a freewheeling, often goofy listen, a down-the-rabbit-hole take on American music that reimagines bluegrass on a symphony-hall stage, showtunes up in Appalachia, and the sturm-und-drang rumblings of Romantic-era classical orchestras facing off against a squeezebox. Richard Henderson, in his 33 1/3 book on Song Cycle, called the album "Charles Ives in Groucho Marx's pajamas," and it captures the antic spirit of an album whose working title, before Song Cycle, was "Looney Tunes". Parks doesn't corral all of this mess so much as rattle around cheerfully inside it. You might get lost in a thicket at some point-- maybe when the orchestra dissolves into pedal-steel guitar, which dissolves into chirping birds on "Palm Desert". Or when "Public Domain" fades out for the fourth or fifth time, or when a wobbly 78 starts playing in the middle of "By the People". But no matter where you are, Parks is ambling just around the corner, like the Cheshire Cat, offering clues. The sixth song on the album is called "Van Dyke Parks": It is a recording of the gospel hymnal "Nearer My God to Thee", accompanied by the sound of rushing water. What could this possibly mean? Would it help to know that "Nearer My God to Thee" is traditionally assumed to be the last song played by the band on the deck of the Titanic? No? This inscrutable bone-dry wit is as encoded into Parks' music as his evident love of beauty. His singing voice has a peculiar quality; high and sweet and chipper and fey and dripping with ill will, he plays the part of the wiseguy pipsqueak wandering around a grand manor, surveying the grand artifacts with skepticism. He built the place, but to hear him, you would think he not only had nothing to do with the construction but finds the whole display mildly distasteful. The lyrics of Song Cycle are full of starving artists and privation: "Widows face the future/ Factories face the poor," he remarks jauntily on "Widow's Walk". Parks is merely a bohemian with an empty refrigerator; these songs are too nice for him. This tension-- a distrust of finer things, a respect of their power; an appreciation of their beauty, an understanding that the finer things are inherently ridiculous-- gives Song Cycle its melancholy depth, corroding its sheen like acid rain on a sculpture. After Song Cycle, Parks disappeared back into his arranging work for four years. It wasn't until 1972 that he dared put out another record with his name on the sleeve. Discover America begins, as Song Cycle did, with a brief clip of someone else's music. On Song Cycle, it was Steve Young hollering the bluegrass staple "Black Jack Davy". On Discover America, it is the Trinidadian calypso artist Mighty Sparrow complaining merrily about the perseverance of aging prostitutes in a song called "Jack Palance". (As in "she got a face like.") The song fades out, and a recorded voice blurts in, dryly, "here are all of the natives of Parnassus, Pennsylvania." Whatever Parks learned from the commercial fiasco that was Song Cycle, it wasn't to tone the weirdness down. The presence of Mighty Sparrow isn't a red herring; Discover America is a Van Dyke Parks calypso record, suffused with wooden marimbas and the cheery ping of steel drums, and overlaid with at least two or three layers of distanced weirdness. Parks treats calypso with the same forensic fascination and trickster spirit he applied to Song Cycle; track four is called "Steelband Music", and Parks uses it as a "Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra" opportunity, asking us eagerly to pay attention to "the prominent notes on the tenor pan." "The Four Mills Brothers", a cover of a Depression-era standard, has more helpful, record-collector advi

Artist: Van Dyke Parks, Album: Song Cycle, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 9.0 Album review: "If you've heard any of Van Dyke Parks' solo records in your life, your first reaction was likely some variant on "I don't get it." That's okay, you weren't supposed to. At the time of their release (the late 1960s and early 1970s), Parks was part of a crowd of mercurial genius weirdos wandering record-label halls; of this group, Parks could easily have been voted Least Likely to Succeed. (He probably would have volunteered himself for the honor.) The records he issued under his own name had a cheerful Mt. Olympus aura about them: They sat contentedly in rarefied air, budging for no one but graciously welcoming any travelers who hazarded the journey. Over the ensuing decades, this is where they've remained: known vaguely by reputation, name-checked for erudition, never playing at parties. Every five years or so, some devotee does some of Parks's publicity work for him; Joanna Newsom hired him to orchestrate Ys and spoke with awe of listening repeatedly to Parks' Song Cycle while Ys fermented in her mind. But otherwise, Parks' solo records have always seemed destined to be known more for their influence, celebrated more for the big ideas they dislodged in the minds of others rather than for themselves. Recently, however, Parks has begun attending to his own solo legacy. Last year, he put out the compilation Arrangements, Vol. 1 on his own Bananastan label; it was a reintroduction of sorts, and a prudent place to begin. Immediately ingratiating and full of pop songs, Arrangements hinted at the knottiness of Parks' vision. Still, as a primer for Song Cycle, Discover America, and Clang of the Yankee Reaper, which Parks has now reissued, Arrangements is adequate only insofar as dipping your toes in a wading pool is preparation for leaping from a cliff into a raging sea. 1968's Song Cycle is the big one, the one with the capital-R Reputation. Perfumed, florid, over-crowded, the album is Parks' attempt to synthesize 100 years' worth of American music on borrowed studio time. The album cost a staggering amount and sold next to nothing; with this gesture, he cemented his artistic reputation and sank his career like a stone. Warner Bros. heralded Song Cycle with a panicky flop-sweat flourish disguised as a marketing campaign. The standard line on Song Cycle is that it's impenetrable, and it can be. But it depends what you're listening for. If you approach it expecting a tuneful singer-songwriter album, then you're going to be continually deposited on the top of your own head. If, however, you're looking to take a midnight stroll through a Civil War memorabilia museum, where every figurine and placard suddenly springs to life and begins singing, then you'll feel right at home. Part of Song Cycle's bum rap for seriousness is earned-- the name itself suggests something too weighty to consider itself a mere "album." But once you adjust to its mannerisms, Song Cycle is a freewheeling, often goofy listen, a down-the-rabbit-hole take on American music that reimagines bluegrass on a symphony-hall stage, showtunes up in Appalachia, and the sturm-und-drang rumblings of Romantic-era classical orchestras facing off against a squeezebox. Richard Henderson, in his 33 1/3 book on Song Cycle, called the album "Charles Ives in Groucho Marx's pajamas," and it captures the antic spirit of an album whose working title, before Song Cycle, was "Looney Tunes". Parks doesn't corral all of this mess so much as rattle around cheerfully inside it. You might get lost in a thicket at some point-- maybe when the orchestra dissolves into pedal-steel guitar, which dissolves into chirping birds on "Palm Desert". Or when "Public Domain" fades out for the fourth or fifth time, or when a wobbly 78 starts playing in the middle of "By the People". But no matter where you are, Parks is ambling just around the corner, like the Cheshire Cat, offering clues. The sixth song on the album is called "Van Dyke Parks": It is a recording of the gospel hymnal "Nearer My God to Thee", accompanied by the sound of rushing water. What could this possibly mean? Would it help to know that "Nearer My God to Thee" is traditionally assumed to be the last song played by the band on the deck of the Titanic? No? This inscrutable bone-dry wit is as encoded into Parks' music as his evident love of beauty. His singing voice has a peculiar quality; high and sweet and chipper and fey and dripping with ill will, he plays the part of the wiseguy pipsqueak wandering around a grand manor, surveying the grand artifacts with skepticism. He built the place, but to hear him, you would think he not only had nothing to do with the construction but finds the whole display mildly distasteful. The lyrics of Song Cycle are full of starving artists and privation: "Widows face the future/ Factories face the poor," he remarks jauntily on "Widow's Walk". Parks is merely a bohemian with an empty refrigerator; these songs are too nice for him. This tension-- a distrust of finer things, a respect of their power; an appreciation of their beauty, an understanding that the finer things are inherently ridiculous-- gives Song Cycle its melancholy depth, corroding its sheen like acid rain on a sculpture. After Song Cycle, Parks disappeared back into his arranging work for four years. It wasn't until 1972 that he dared put out another record with his name on the sleeve. Discover America begins, as Song Cycle did, with a brief clip of someone else's music. On Song Cycle, it was Steve Young hollering the bluegrass staple "Black Jack Davy". On Discover America, it is the Trinidadian calypso artist Mighty Sparrow complaining merrily about the perseverance of aging prostitutes in a song called "Jack Palance". (As in "she got a face like.") The song fades out, and a recorded voice blurts in, dryly, "here are all of the natives of Parnassus, Pennsylvania." Whatever Parks learned from the commercial fiasco that was Song Cycle, it wasn't to tone the weirdness down. The presence of Mighty Sparrow isn't a red herring; Discover America is a Van Dyke Parks calypso record, suffused with wooden marimbas and the cheery ping of steel drums, and overlaid with at least two or three layers of distanced weirdness. Parks treats calypso with the same forensic fascination and trickster spirit he applied to Song Cycle; track four is called "Steelband Music", and Parks uses it as a "Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra" opportunity, asking us eagerly to pay attention to "the prominent notes on the tenor pan." "The Four Mills Brothers", a cover of a Depression-era standard, has more helpful, record-collector advi"

St. Vincent

St. Vincent

Rock

Lindsay Zoladz

Annie Clark's bold and almost jarringly confident fourth record, St. Vincent, does not sound like it was recorded here on Earth. Its songs sprout with their own strange, squiggly lifeforms and are governed by unfamiliar laws of gravity. Check out the first one, "Rattlesnake", a song that's bare, Kraftwerky, and full of imagery that is somehow both Edenic and post-apocalyptic. Clark glances around: "Am I the only one in the only world?" She spots the title creature, gasps, and then comes this song's idea of a chorus, like melodic gagging, or distress expressed in an 8-bit video game: "AH-AH-AH-AH-AH-AH AHH AHH/ AH-AH-AH-AH-AH-AH AHH AHH." You often get the sense in a St. Vincent song that Clark has touched down on a desolate, previously unexplored planet without an air supply and is showing off the fact that—for the moment at least—she can still breathe. Given the fangs she bares on St. Vincent, it seems like Clark could take that snake, easily. Over the course of four albums, many early-career guest spots, and a 2012 collaboration with David Byrne, Clark has been focusing her vision and sharpening her music's edges; were it not for Google image search, it would be easy to convince yourself that you merely dreamed those days when she wore butterfly wings with Sufjan Stevens and blithely flowing robes with the Polyphonic Spree. With each release, Clark sounds less like anybody but herself, and more forcefully embraces a darkness that was quietly stirring in even her earliest songs. "You don't mean that, say you're sorry," she chimed in a creepy, Bride of Chucky voice on her still-magnificent debut single, "Now, Now". But the smirking overlord that stares out from the cover of St. Vincent does not apologize, not for any of the unpleasantries she utters through gritted teeth, nor the much nastier things she blurts out her fingers. St. Vincent continues Clark's run as one of the past decade's most distinct and innovative guitarists, though she's never one to showboat. Her harmonic-filled style bears the influence of jazz (she picked up a lot of her signature tricks from her uncle, the jazz guitarist Tuck Andress) and prog rock, two genres known to embrace sprawl. But Clark's freak-outs are tidy, modular and architecturally compact—like King Crimson rewritten by Le Corbusier. Even at its most spazzy, there's always something efficient about St. Vincent. The stark, spring-wound single "Birth in Reverse" doesn't waste a second on superfluous sounds, and the same goes for the corrosive crunch of "Regret", which sounds like a classic rock song pared down to its most essential elements. All the negative space in that last one makes Clark's riffs hit that much harder, especially when—in one of the most thrilling moments on the album—a solo strikes down out of nowhere like a cartoon lightning bolt. Critics of St. Vincent call her pretentious. Fair enough—these are the sorts of songs that dare take themselves seriously and tack on easy suffixes like "in America" when they want to let you know they are Making a Statement. But there's an under-appreciated playfulness about Clark's music that balances this out. I can't think of much contemporary guitar-based music that has this much fun with texture—the rubbery whiplash percussion on "Prince Johnny", the stretched-taffy vocals on "Bring Me Your Loves", the gleefully synthetic-on-purpose sheen of "Digital Witness". At best, St. Vincent has a mischievous curiosity about texture (and explosions) that feels almost childlike. Recently my 8 year-old cousin asked me, with a wicked twinkle in his eye, if I'd ever microwaved a banana. I'm terrified to try, but I'm sure whatever happens—splattering, abrupt, radioactive—sounds exactly like an Annie Clark guitar solo. "What's the point in even sleeping/ If I can't show, if you can't see me?" Clark asks on the single "Digital Witness", a rather on-the-nose critique of our hyper-transparent, Instagram-your-every-meal culture. It's tempting to label St. Vincent Clark's anti-internet album, but that wouldn't be quite right—it knows too well what a life mediated through screens feels and sounds like to be sending it up entirely. (In fact, digital life may have influenced her concise, anti-jam style: "I have some restless ears, and I now have a fractured attention span because I'm like living in the modern world," she said in a recent interview. "So I'm like, how do I make this sound interesting to myself?") "Huey Newton" is maybe one of the best songs ever written about falling down a late-night, vaguely depressive internet k-hole ("Pleasure dot loathing dot Huey dot Newton/ Oh, it was a lonely, lonely winter"); seemingly stream-of-conscious references to Black Panthers, Byzantine architecture, and the Heaven's Gate cult flicker by like puzzlingly connected Wikipedia pages. The common threads emerge if you look closely. From the self-coronated Prince Johnny to the "near-future cult leader" Clark has fashioned herself on the album cover, there's a fascination with power, faith, and mind-control running through these songs—learning how to sell yourself your own lines well enough to sell them back to other people, too. "I was reading Miles Davis' biography," Clark says of her Beyoncé-like decision to self-title a record this late in her career, "and he says that the hardest thing for a musician to do is sound like yourself." In that sense, it's a perfect title. St. Vincent is the Platonic ideal of a St. Vincent record, executing with perfect poise everything we already know she can do. But this also is why it falls just short of being her best. That honor still goes to Strange Mercy, which had a capacity to surprise and defy expectations in a way that this record does not. Strange Mercy was easier to connect to emotionally ("If I ever meet the dirty police man who roughed you up," she cooed on the title track, a line that was as jarring for its tenderness as it was for its violence) and gave Clark a little more room to stretch her legs in the grooves. The pixelated shredding on "Huey Newton" and "Regret" are great, but nothing here feels as unhinged as the borealis chaos of at the end of "Northern Lights" or the razor-sharp coda of "Surgeon". The Bowie-esque metamorphosis suggested by the cover image doesn’t mean she’s reinvented her sound. Of course it's not the worst problem for an artist to have, but Clark's become so good at being St. Vincent that, on future releases, she risks boxing herself in. You hope the next album finds her coloring outside the lines she's so meticulously drawn for herself. Still, it’s hard to

Artist: St. Vincent, Album: St. Vincent, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "Annie Clark's bold and almost jarringly confident fourth record, St. Vincent, does not sound like it was recorded here on Earth. Its songs sprout with their own strange, squiggly lifeforms and are governed by unfamiliar laws of gravity. Check out the first one, "Rattlesnake", a song that's bare, Kraftwerky, and full of imagery that is somehow both Edenic and post-apocalyptic. Clark glances around: "Am I the only one in the only world?" She spots the title creature, gasps, and then comes this song's idea of a chorus, like melodic gagging, or distress expressed in an 8-bit video game: "AH-AH-AH-AH-AH-AH AHH AHH/ AH-AH-AH-AH-AH-AH AHH AHH." You often get the sense in a St. Vincent song that Clark has touched down on a desolate, previously unexplored planet without an air supply and is showing off the fact that—for the moment at least—she can still breathe. Given the fangs she bares on St. Vincent, it seems like Clark could take that snake, easily. Over the course of four albums, many early-career guest spots, and a 2012 collaboration with David Byrne, Clark has been focusing her vision and sharpening her music's edges; were it not for Google image search, it would be easy to convince yourself that you merely dreamed those days when she wore butterfly wings with Sufjan Stevens and blithely flowing robes with the Polyphonic Spree. With each release, Clark sounds less like anybody but herself, and more forcefully embraces a darkness that was quietly stirring in even her earliest songs. "You don't mean that, say you're sorry," she chimed in a creepy, Bride of Chucky voice on her still-magnificent debut single, "Now, Now". But the smirking overlord that stares out from the cover of St. Vincent does not apologize, not for any of the unpleasantries she utters through gritted teeth, nor the much nastier things she blurts out her fingers. St. Vincent continues Clark's run as one of the past decade's most distinct and innovative guitarists, though she's never one to showboat. Her harmonic-filled style bears the influence of jazz (she picked up a lot of her signature tricks from her uncle, the jazz guitarist Tuck Andress) and prog rock, two genres known to embrace sprawl. But Clark's freak-outs are tidy, modular and architecturally compact—like King Crimson rewritten by Le Corbusier. Even at its most spazzy, there's always something efficient about St. Vincent. The stark, spring-wound single "Birth in Reverse" doesn't waste a second on superfluous sounds, and the same goes for the corrosive crunch of "Regret", which sounds like a classic rock song pared down to its most essential elements. All the negative space in that last one makes Clark's riffs hit that much harder, especially when—in one of the most thrilling moments on the album—a solo strikes down out of nowhere like a cartoon lightning bolt. Critics of St. Vincent call her pretentious. Fair enough—these are the sorts of songs that dare take themselves seriously and tack on easy suffixes like "in America" when they want to let you know they are Making a Statement. But there's an under-appreciated playfulness about Clark's music that balances this out. I can't think of much contemporary guitar-based music that has this much fun with texture—the rubbery whiplash percussion on "Prince Johnny", the stretched-taffy vocals on "Bring Me Your Loves", the gleefully synthetic-on-purpose sheen of "Digital Witness". At best, St. Vincent has a mischievous curiosity about texture (and explosions) that feels almost childlike. Recently my 8 year-old cousin asked me, with a wicked twinkle in his eye, if I'd ever microwaved a banana. I'm terrified to try, but I'm sure whatever happens—splattering, abrupt, radioactive—sounds exactly like an Annie Clark guitar solo. "What's the point in even sleeping/ If I can't show, if you can't see me?" Clark asks on the single "Digital Witness", a rather on-the-nose critique of our hyper-transparent, Instagram-your-every-meal culture. It's tempting to label St. Vincent Clark's anti-internet album, but that wouldn't be quite right—it knows too well what a life mediated through screens feels and sounds like to be sending it up entirely. (In fact, digital life may have influenced her concise, anti-jam style: "I have some restless ears, and I now have a fractured attention span because I'm like living in the modern world," she said in a recent interview. "So I'm like, how do I make this sound interesting to myself?") "Huey Newton" is maybe one of the best songs ever written about falling down a late-night, vaguely depressive internet k-hole ("Pleasure dot loathing dot Huey dot Newton/ Oh, it was a lonely, lonely winter"); seemingly stream-of-conscious references to Black Panthers, Byzantine architecture, and the Heaven's Gate cult flicker by like puzzlingly connected Wikipedia pages. The common threads emerge if you look closely. From the self-coronated Prince Johnny to the "near-future cult leader" Clark has fashioned herself on the album cover, there's a fascination with power, faith, and mind-control running through these songs—learning how to sell yourself your own lines well enough to sell them back to other people, too. "I was reading Miles Davis' biography," Clark says of her Beyoncé-like decision to self-title a record this late in her career, "and he says that the hardest thing for a musician to do is sound like yourself." In that sense, it's a perfect title. St. Vincent is the Platonic ideal of a St. Vincent record, executing with perfect poise everything we already know she can do. But this also is why it falls just short of being her best. That honor still goes to Strange Mercy, which had a capacity to surprise and defy expectations in a way that this record does not. Strange Mercy was easier to connect to emotionally ("If I ever meet the dirty police man who roughed you up," she cooed on the title track, a line that was as jarring for its tenderness as it was for its violence) and gave Clark a little more room to stretch her legs in the grooves. The pixelated shredding on "Huey Newton" and "Regret" are great, but nothing here feels as unhinged as the borealis chaos of at the end of "Northern Lights" or the razor-sharp coda of "Surgeon". The Bowie-esque metamorphosis suggested by the cover image doesn’t mean she’s reinvented her sound. Of course it's not the worst problem for an artist to have, but Clark's become so good at being St. Vincent that, on future releases, she risks boxing herself in. You hope the next album finds her coloring outside the lines she's so meticulously drawn for herself. Still, it’s hard to"

John Coltrane

Both Directions at Once: The Lost Album

Jazz

Ben Ratliff

From April 1962 to September 1965, while under contract to the record label Impulse!, John Coltrane led a more or less consistent working group with the same four musicians. After his death in 1967, this group—Coltrane on tenor and soprano saxophone, McCoy Tyner on piano, Jimmy Garrison on bass, Elvin Jones on drums—became known as Coltrane’s “classic quartet.” The group was powerful, elegant, and scarily deep. It was also a well-proportioned framing device. It made an artist with great ambitions easier to understand. It is possible to hear conviction and morality in some of the classic quartet’s best-known music—like the devotional A Love Supreme, recorded in late 1964—as clearly as you can hear melody or rhythm. As a consequence, all of it can appear set on one venerable plane. As it moves inexorably from ballads, blues, and folk songs into abstraction, the classic-quartet corpus can seem an index not only for the range of acoustic jazz but for possibly how to live, gathered and contained, as if it were always there. But the corpus is only what we have been given to hear. And then one day a closet door flies open, a stack of tapes fall out, and a dilemma begins. A fair amount of Coltrane’s music has been released after the fact, but nothing that would seem, from a distance, quite so canonical as Both Directions At Once, which is 90 minutes worth of (mostly) previously unheard recordings made at Rudy Van Gelder’s studio on March 6, 1963—the middle of the classic-quartet period. The Van Gelder studio, in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, can be considered part of the framing device. It was where the group did nearly all its studio work. For reasons of acoustics, it had a 39-foot-high, cathedral-like, vaulted wooden ceiling, fabricated by the same Oregon lumber company that made blimp hangars during World War II. Coltrane’s music during that period, possibly encouraged by the cathedral-like room, became blimpier and churchier. Why have we not heard these tapes before? It’s hard to imagine that they could have been blithely ignored or forgotten. The 2018 answer is that mono audition reels of the session were only recently found in the possession of the family of Coltrane’s first wife, Juanita Naima Coltrane. (Impulse! didn’t have the music; the label’s master tapes may have been lost in a company move from New York to Los Angeles.) The 1963 answer is unknown, and probably more complicated. Coltrane’s contract with Impulse! called for two records a year. Whether that day’s work in March was to be conceived at the time as a whole album, or most of one, is uncertain. The extent to which you believe the record’s subtitle—The Lost Album—might be the extent to which you are excited by the news of Both Directions. I can’t quite do it, but there are other reasons to be excited. It may be hard to hear as a coherent album for back then, though it is easy to hear it as one for now, in our current, expanded notion of what an album is. The music does not seem, in its context, to be a full step forward. It’s a little caught between shoring up and surging forth. (The after-the-fact title—alluding to a conversation Coltrane had with Wayne Shorter about the possibility of improvising as if starting a sentence in the middle, moving backward and forward simultaneously—helps turn a possible liability into a strength.) It can give you new respect for the rigor, compression, and balance of some of his other albums from the period. It is at times, as Coltrane’s son Ravi pointed out, surprisingly like a live session in a studio; parts of the music sound geared toward a captive audience. That may be the best thing about it. Included on the album—which comes either as a single-disc version or a double-disc with alternate takes, both including extensive liner notes by historian Ashley Kahn—is a sunny, bright-tempo melody (the theme from “Vilia,” written by the Hungarian composer Franz Lehár for the operetta The Merry Widow); a downtempo, minor-key, semi-standard (“Nature Boy,” from the book of eden ahbez, the California proto-hippie songwriter); one of Coltrane’s best original lines, in four different takes (“Impressions,” which he’d been working out in concert for several years); a couple of pieces for soprano saxophone which are representative but not stunning (“Untitled Original 11383,” minor-key and modal, and “Untitled Original 11386,” with a pentatonic melody); “One Up, One Down,” a short, wily theme as a pretext for eight minutes of hard-and-fast jamming; and “Slow Blues,” about which more in a minute. Coltrane was already building albums from disparate sessions, a practice that would soon yield 1963’s Impressions and Live at Birdland, two records that set live and studio tracks side by side. He may have been stockpiling without a clear purpose; he also had to consider what would sell. Since his recording of “My Favorite Things” in 1961—a hit by jazz terms—Coltrane had become recognizable. His subsequent working relationship with Bob Thiele, the head of Impulse!, was based on the notion that he could expand that audience, not shrink it. Six months before the Both Directions session, he’d made a record with Duke Ellington; the day after it, he’d make another with the singer Johnny Hartman. He was entering the popular artist’s paradox of striving to repeat a past success and trying not to run aground on retreads. The sense of strength and inevitability we associate with Coltrane’s music didn’t just tumble out. It was likely a byproduct of diligence, restlessness, exhausted possibilities, obsession and counter-obsession. He thought about progress. He passed through serial phases of exploring harmonic sequences, modes, and multiple rhythms; when he acknowledged one phase in an interview, he was generally looking for the next. At the height of the classic quartet, he often didn’t have the time or psychic space for study and practice. “I’m always walking around trying to keep my ear open for another ‘Favorite Things’ or something,” he told the writer Ralph Gleason in May, 1961. “I can’t get in the woodshed like I used to. I’m commercial, man.” More: “I didn’t have to worry about it, you know, making a good record, because that wasn’t important. Maybe I should just go back in the woodshed and just forget it.” At the time, a record like Both Directions might have seemed an open admission that he could have used less worry and more woodshed. What he meant by “another ‘Favorite Things’” might have been a similar act of counterintuition: a sweet, sentimental tune made paranormal, a curiosity that could break out beyond

Artist: John Coltrane, Album: Both Directions at Once: The Lost Album, Genre: Jazz, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "From April 1962 to September 1965, while under contract to the record label Impulse!, John Coltrane led a more or less consistent working group with the same four musicians. After his death in 1967, this group—Coltrane on tenor and soprano saxophone, McCoy Tyner on piano, Jimmy Garrison on bass, Elvin Jones on drums—became known as Coltrane’s “classic quartet.” The group was powerful, elegant, and scarily deep. It was also a well-proportioned framing device. It made an artist with great ambitions easier to understand. It is possible to hear conviction and morality in some of the classic quartet’s best-known music—like the devotional A Love Supreme, recorded in late 1964—as clearly as you can hear melody or rhythm. As a consequence, all of it can appear set on one venerable plane. As it moves inexorably from ballads, blues, and folk songs into abstraction, the classic-quartet corpus can seem an index not only for the range of acoustic jazz but for possibly how to live, gathered and contained, as if it were always there. But the corpus is only what we have been given to hear. And then one day a closet door flies open, a stack of tapes fall out, and a dilemma begins. A fair amount of Coltrane’s music has been released after the fact, but nothing that would seem, from a distance, quite so canonical as Both Directions At Once, which is 90 minutes worth of (mostly) previously unheard recordings made at Rudy Van Gelder’s studio on March 6, 1963—the middle of the classic-quartet period. The Van Gelder studio, in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, can be considered part of the framing device. It was where the group did nearly all its studio work. For reasons of acoustics, it had a 39-foot-high, cathedral-like, vaulted wooden ceiling, fabricated by the same Oregon lumber company that made blimp hangars during World War II. Coltrane’s music during that period, possibly encouraged by the cathedral-like room, became blimpier and churchier. Why have we not heard these tapes before? It’s hard to imagine that they could have been blithely ignored or forgotten. The 2018 answer is that mono audition reels of the session were only recently found in the possession of the family of Coltrane’s first wife, Juanita Naima Coltrane. (Impulse! didn’t have the music; the label’s master tapes may have been lost in a company move from New York to Los Angeles.) The 1963 answer is unknown, and probably more complicated. Coltrane’s contract with Impulse! called for two records a year. Whether that day’s work in March was to be conceived at the time as a whole album, or most of one, is uncertain. The extent to which you believe the record’s subtitle—The Lost Album—might be the extent to which you are excited by the news of Both Directions. I can’t quite do it, but there are other reasons to be excited. It may be hard to hear as a coherent album for back then, though it is easy to hear it as one for now, in our current, expanded notion of what an album is. The music does not seem, in its context, to be a full step forward. It’s a little caught between shoring up and surging forth. (The after-the-fact title—alluding to a conversation Coltrane had with Wayne Shorter about the possibility of improvising as if starting a sentence in the middle, moving backward and forward simultaneously—helps turn a possible liability into a strength.) It can give you new respect for the rigor, compression, and balance of some of his other albums from the period. It is at times, as Coltrane’s son Ravi pointed out, surprisingly like a live session in a studio; parts of the music sound geared toward a captive audience. That may be the best thing about it. Included on the album—which comes either as a single-disc version or a double-disc with alternate takes, both including extensive liner notes by historian Ashley Kahn—is a sunny, bright-tempo melody (the theme from “Vilia,” written by the Hungarian composer Franz Lehár for the operetta The Merry Widow); a downtempo, minor-key, semi-standard (“Nature Boy,” from the book of eden ahbez, the California proto-hippie songwriter); one of Coltrane’s best original lines, in four different takes (“Impressions,” which he’d been working out in concert for several years); a couple of pieces for soprano saxophone which are representative but not stunning (“Untitled Original 11383,” minor-key and modal, and “Untitled Original 11386,” with a pentatonic melody); “One Up, One Down,” a short, wily theme as a pretext for eight minutes of hard-and-fast jamming; and “Slow Blues,” about which more in a minute. Coltrane was already building albums from disparate sessions, a practice that would soon yield 1963’s Impressions and Live at Birdland, two records that set live and studio tracks side by side. He may have been stockpiling without a clear purpose; he also had to consider what would sell. Since his recording of “My Favorite Things” in 1961—a hit by jazz terms—Coltrane had become recognizable. His subsequent working relationship with Bob Thiele, the head of Impulse!, was based on the notion that he could expand that audience, not shrink it. Six months before the Both Directions session, he’d made a record with Duke Ellington; the day after it, he’d make another with the singer Johnny Hartman. He was entering the popular artist’s paradox of striving to repeat a past success and trying not to run aground on retreads. The sense of strength and inevitability we associate with Coltrane’s music didn’t just tumble out. It was likely a byproduct of diligence, restlessness, exhausted possibilities, obsession and counter-obsession. He thought about progress. He passed through serial phases of exploring harmonic sequences, modes, and multiple rhythms; when he acknowledged one phase in an interview, he was generally looking for the next. At the height of the classic quartet, he often didn’t have the time or psychic space for study and practice. “I’m always walking around trying to keep my ear open for another ‘Favorite Things’ or something,” he told the writer Ralph Gleason in May, 1961. “I can’t get in the woodshed like I used to. I’m commercial, man.” More: “I didn’t have to worry about it, you know, making a good record, because that wasn’t important. Maybe I should just go back in the woodshed and just forget it.” At the time, a record like Both Directions might have seemed an open admission that he could have used less worry and more woodshed. What he meant by “another ‘Favorite Things’” might have been a similar act of counterintuition: a sweet, sentimental tune made paranormal, a curiosity that could break out beyond "

Christine and the Queens

Chris

Pop/R&B

Jamieson Cox

Most of us have a hard time seeing people for who they really are. We reduce even those we love down to two-dimensional sketches so they fit into our lives neatly and without concern. Christine and the Queens’ new album Chris is remarkable for a few reasons, but this is the one that’s sticking with me: It’s impossible to deny the complexity of the person at its center. She uses masculinity like a sledgehammer to enrich her womanhood; she’s a crude, libidinous woman, but her heart is still tender; she has the courage and creativity to make a life for herself outside of the status quo, but she still feels the pain that comes with choosing a path other people don’t understand. Chris is a portrait of an instantly memorable character making utterly gleaming pop music. Chris didn’t just spring into being fully-formed. After touring in support of her 2014 debut Chaleur Humaine and its 2015 re-release in English, the French artist Hélöise Letissier felt herself changing. The rigors of dancing and performing every night made her body tougher and more athletic; she reached new levels of wealth and confidence that had until recently seemed hard to imagine. And while she was experiencing these transformations, her newfound fame granted her access to the inner sanctums of culture and celebrity. She considered the boundaries that male stars were permitted to cross while their female counterparts were held back. “They can be sexual, flawed, and incredibly charismatic,” Letissier told GQ. “Complexity and intricacy is reserved to men. Women must make it unthreatening, simplified. I wish I could be Nick Cave or Mick Jagger.” Unlocking the persona of Chris—a “horny, hungry and ambitious” woman, as Letissier told The New York Times—liberated her to step over those boundaries and more fully embrace the whole of her being. Instead of becoming Cave or Jagger, she created a seductive, slutty hero of her own. The resulting album is an electric blend of unforgettable imagery, emotional depth, and lurid, sizzling pop-funk. Dewy lead single “girlfriend” lays down the terms of engagement: Chris may not feel like your girlfriend, but she could get used to being called your lover. She’ll leave for an early workout and push you back into bed just when you’re ready to wake up: “Came back steaming in sweats in the morning,” she pants. “I muscled in, for I wanted to hold him.” (I heard it and thought about Justin Theroux jogging through the first episode of “The Leftovers” in one of this decade’s most infamous pairs of sweatpants.) “Damn (what must a woman do)” explores the “shame and isolation” women are made to feel about their lust; Chris’ cool, pointed whisper suggests Erotica-era Madonna working over production from Junior Boys. Shimmering opener “comme si” equates the act of listening with a carnal pact. The confidence Letissier draws from tapping into Chris is radiant: “There’s a pride in my singing/The thickness of a new skin/I am done with belonging.” While Chris’ vigor is intoxicating, Letissier hardly conceals the trauma and hurt women like Chris are made to endure before achieving this degree of self-possession. Her approach to conveying emotion through her singing is subtle and refined: When she opts for restraint, it says as much as when she chooses to explode. On the kinetic “doesn’t matter,” verses about overcoming suicidal thoughts and being tempted by nihilism are delivered in a controlled, distant near-monotone. She only leaps into the higher end of her range once she pulls herself back from the brink, encouraging the listener to move forward as if they “stole a shard of sunlight.” You can hear a moment of dark clarity break through the heat of a sexual transaction on “5 dollars”: “Some of us just had to fight/For even being looked at right.” The heartbreaking “what’s-her-face” is a reflection on years spent bullied and tormented, leaving wounds that are always threatening to be reopened. Here and on spare late-album highlight “make some sense”—an anguished look back at a childhood crush who morphs into an infamous, violent attacker— her voice is softer and more pliable, but it’s still anchored by a fundamental strength. It’s the sound of bending but never breaking. The song that best captures the complexities of Chris is “the walker,” which chronicles the kind of indefinite stroll you take when your blood is thundering through your veins and you need to clear your head. Chris sets out with no fixed route, and her rage is simmering just beneath the surface. She sends birds flying out of her way with concerted stomps; when she passes by other people, they “politely smile to make sure I won’t come any closer.” Her pain has no definite source or target. When enough time passes, she starts to come to terms with the feelings coursing through her body. “It hurts, I feel everything/As my sense of self’s wearing thin,” she sings, her voice feeble. Just when she’s threatening to collapse, you can hear her regaining her vitality with every new word: “Such pains can be a delight/Far from when I could drown in my shame!” Isn’t that what it means to be alive? Isn’t it better to embrace the slings and arrows launched your way than to curl yourself into a ball and settle for something less than your purest possible truth? Chris answers those questions with a resounding yes.

Artist: Christine and the Queens, Album: Chris, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Most of us have a hard time seeing people for who they really are. We reduce even those we love down to two-dimensional sketches so they fit into our lives neatly and without concern. Christine and the Queens’ new album Chris is remarkable for a few reasons, but this is the one that’s sticking with me: It’s impossible to deny the complexity of the person at its center. She uses masculinity like a sledgehammer to enrich her womanhood; she’s a crude, libidinous woman, but her heart is still tender; she has the courage and creativity to make a life for herself outside of the status quo, but she still feels the pain that comes with choosing a path other people don’t understand. Chris is a portrait of an instantly memorable character making utterly gleaming pop music. Chris didn’t just spring into being fully-formed. After touring in support of her 2014 debut Chaleur Humaine and its 2015 re-release in English, the French artist Hélöise Letissier felt herself changing. The rigors of dancing and performing every night made her body tougher and more athletic; she reached new levels of wealth and confidence that had until recently seemed hard to imagine. And while she was experiencing these transformations, her newfound fame granted her access to the inner sanctums of culture and celebrity. She considered the boundaries that male stars were permitted to cross while their female counterparts were held back. “They can be sexual, flawed, and incredibly charismatic,” Letissier told GQ. “Complexity and intricacy is reserved to men. Women must make it unthreatening, simplified. I wish I could be Nick Cave or Mick Jagger.” Unlocking the persona of Chris—a “horny, hungry and ambitious” woman, as Letissier told The New York Times—liberated her to step over those boundaries and more fully embrace the whole of her being. Instead of becoming Cave or Jagger, she created a seductive, slutty hero of her own. The resulting album is an electric blend of unforgettable imagery, emotional depth, and lurid, sizzling pop-funk. Dewy lead single “girlfriend” lays down the terms of engagement: Chris may not feel like your girlfriend, but she could get used to being called your lover. She’ll leave for an early workout and push you back into bed just when you’re ready to wake up: “Came back steaming in sweats in the morning,” she pants. “I muscled in, for I wanted to hold him.” (I heard it and thought about Justin Theroux jogging through the first episode of “The Leftovers” in one of this decade’s most infamous pairs of sweatpants.) “Damn (what must a woman do)” explores the “shame and isolation” women are made to feel about their lust; Chris’ cool, pointed whisper suggests Erotica-era Madonna working over production from Junior Boys. Shimmering opener “comme si” equates the act of listening with a carnal pact. The confidence Letissier draws from tapping into Chris is radiant: “There’s a pride in my singing/The thickness of a new skin/I am done with belonging.” While Chris’ vigor is intoxicating, Letissier hardly conceals the trauma and hurt women like Chris are made to endure before achieving this degree of self-possession. Her approach to conveying emotion through her singing is subtle and refined: When she opts for restraint, it says as much as when she chooses to explode. On the kinetic “doesn’t matter,” verses about overcoming suicidal thoughts and being tempted by nihilism are delivered in a controlled, distant near-monotone. She only leaps into the higher end of her range once she pulls herself back from the brink, encouraging the listener to move forward as if they “stole a shard of sunlight.” You can hear a moment of dark clarity break through the heat of a sexual transaction on “5 dollars”: “Some of us just had to fight/For even being looked at right.” The heartbreaking “what’s-her-face” is a reflection on years spent bullied and tormented, leaving wounds that are always threatening to be reopened. Here and on spare late-album highlight “make some sense”—an anguished look back at a childhood crush who morphs into an infamous, violent attacker— her voice is softer and more pliable, but it’s still anchored by a fundamental strength. It’s the sound of bending but never breaking. The song that best captures the complexities of Chris is “the walker,” which chronicles the kind of indefinite stroll you take when your blood is thundering through your veins and you need to clear your head. Chris sets out with no fixed route, and her rage is simmering just beneath the surface. She sends birds flying out of her way with concerted stomps; when she passes by other people, they “politely smile to make sure I won’t come any closer.” Her pain has no definite source or target. When enough time passes, she starts to come to terms with the feelings coursing through her body. “It hurts, I feel everything/As my sense of self’s wearing thin,” she sings, her voice feeble. Just when she’s threatening to collapse, you can hear her regaining her vitality with every new word: “Such pains can be a delight/Far from when I could drown in my shame!” Isn’t that what it means to be alive? Isn’t it better to embrace the slings and arrows launched your way than to curl yourself into a ball and settle for something less than your purest possible truth? Chris answers those questions with a resounding yes."

LCD Soundsystem

45:33 Remixes

Electronic,Rock

Jess Harvell

What a bizarrely tardy project, this remix comp. The original 45:33, James Murphy's contribution to Nike's intermittent series of one-artist mixes designed for exercise, is edging up on being three years old. In Internet-era time, the DFA might as well have let these producers loose on original Giorgio Moroder demos. Not that 45:33 itself sounds dated, already owing so much to classic disco and techno. Like all LCD releases, 45:33 was Murphy acting as curator of his local dance music historical society, while thrillingly (at its best) filtering it through his own mix of mordancy and guarded euphoria. Lest we forget, it contained an embryonic version of LCD's "Someone Great", sans vocals, making it more or less the debut of Murphy's more tender side, something that bloomed gorgeously on the following year's Sound of Silver. But remix comps are generally rush-to-market affairs crassly designed to capitalize on a hot release by extending its commercial value for a few more months. The presumably long gestation time of 45:33 Remixes might make you think we're getting something really special, something that took time to get just right. In reality, not so much. 45:33 Remixes is more-or-less superfluous, the depressingly common fate of the bulk of remix comps. Of the eight remixers, no less than five fix on the exact same section of the original 45:33, which starts around 18 minutes in and dissolves into brass gurgles 10 minutes later. Given that the remixers had 45 minutes worth of music to rebuild from the ground up, leaning on the most traditionally "disco" section of 45:33, complete with horns and diva, and leaving it mostly intact feels like a failure of nerve and/or imagination. Brooklyn duo Runaway add watery keyboard stabs that blow arrhythmically against the main beat, as if they were playing an Arthur Russell demo on top of the original. Akwardly. Prince Language throws on some dub wobble, but you've got to A/B the two versions closely to even gauge what he's added or subtracted, the "playing with the levels" school of remixing at its blandest. And Theo Parrish, who you'd assume could at least be relied on to add some soul-funk grit to the proceedings, comes momentarily correct with boogie bass and extra percussion. But for a guy who could squeeze so much emotion out of the minimal materials of the ruthlessly raw, repetitive "Ugly Edits" series, Parrish's remix blands out over its seven-plus minutes, despite being 10 times more overstuffed. Hey, another Walter Gibbons-aping breakdown with call-and-response drums reverbed to hell and back. It might not seem so deadeningly familiar if it rivaled Gibbons' own best work. Of the four, only Riley Reinhold does anything remotely interesting with that 10-minute slab of downtown-NYC-in-the-1970s retro. His big innovation is replacing the 4/4 disco swish with a rigid electro-breakbeat shuffle. Even given how generic and/or tentative the other three remixes sound, you can't exactly call Reinhold's remix revelatory. That leaves four remixers to try and make up for the creativity deficit. And they're good, though not one wows enough to obviate the cost of the whole collection. Prins Thomas takes the original's most feathery section, the cascade of Tangerine Dream-ish synths and wordless vocals that make up the long outro, and turns in pop ambient by adding a micro-syncopated pulse. Trus'Me's electro is the set's most playful and unexpected track, especially when it closes with twinkling mallets that could be kissing cousin to the kind you used to get on Tortoise or Nobukazu Takemura records. Padded Cell's the only remixer who thought, "Hey, maybe I can patch different sections of the original together to make something that extends the vibe, rather than adding congas and calling it a day." (A seriously missed opportunity on everyone else's part.) He takes the outro coos that also beguiled Thomas and adds the lugubrious piano house that serves as the original's warmup. And surprise, surprise, they fit perfectly together, each adding to the other's preexisting sad dreaminess for the best remix here. What 45:33 Remixes lacks most is personality, something even LCD's experimental one-offs (like the original 45:33) reliably offer. See: Pilooski's deep house pastiche. Yes, it sounds nothing like the original. It just sounds like... a deep house pastiche. It's not just that the remixes dilute Murphy's inimitable presence in his own music; 45:33 was mostly vocal-free to begin with. It's that the remixers don't add much of themselves to compensate, preferring to subtly tweak sections of the original to make them more dancefloor friendly or shove them through familiar schtick. That's the charitable view, at least. A sadder take might be that the artists were just cashing a much-needed check, whether it was cut three weeks or three years after 45:33 hit iTunes. Or worse, they blanched at the freedom to dismantle Murphy's creation to satisfy their own idiosyncratic wants, their hesitancy all the more strange considering that LCD's whole M.O., what makes the band more than a sterile realization of the gag at the heart of "Losing My Edge", is Murphy's willingness to bend or break history to make room for himself.

Artist: LCD Soundsystem, Album: 45:33 Remixes, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.1 Album review: "What a bizarrely tardy project, this remix comp. The original 45:33, James Murphy's contribution to Nike's intermittent series of one-artist mixes designed for exercise, is edging up on being three years old. In Internet-era time, the DFA might as well have let these producers loose on original Giorgio Moroder demos. Not that 45:33 itself sounds dated, already owing so much to classic disco and techno. Like all LCD releases, 45:33 was Murphy acting as curator of his local dance music historical society, while thrillingly (at its best) filtering it through his own mix of mordancy and guarded euphoria. Lest we forget, it contained an embryonic version of LCD's "Someone Great", sans vocals, making it more or less the debut of Murphy's more tender side, something that bloomed gorgeously on the following year's Sound of Silver. But remix comps are generally rush-to-market affairs crassly designed to capitalize on a hot release by extending its commercial value for a few more months. The presumably long gestation time of 45:33 Remixes might make you think we're getting something really special, something that took time to get just right. In reality, not so much. 45:33 Remixes is more-or-less superfluous, the depressingly common fate of the bulk of remix comps. Of the eight remixers, no less than five fix on the exact same section of the original 45:33, which starts around 18 minutes in and dissolves into brass gurgles 10 minutes later. Given that the remixers had 45 minutes worth of music to rebuild from the ground up, leaning on the most traditionally "disco" section of 45:33, complete with horns and diva, and leaving it mostly intact feels like a failure of nerve and/or imagination. Brooklyn duo Runaway add watery keyboard stabs that blow arrhythmically against the main beat, as if they were playing an Arthur Russell demo on top of the original. Akwardly. Prince Language throws on some dub wobble, but you've got to A/B the two versions closely to even gauge what he's added or subtracted, the "playing with the levels" school of remixing at its blandest. And Theo Parrish, who you'd assume could at least be relied on to add some soul-funk grit to the proceedings, comes momentarily correct with boogie bass and extra percussion. But for a guy who could squeeze so much emotion out of the minimal materials of the ruthlessly raw, repetitive "Ugly Edits" series, Parrish's remix blands out over its seven-plus minutes, despite being 10 times more overstuffed. Hey, another Walter Gibbons-aping breakdown with call-and-response drums reverbed to hell and back. It might not seem so deadeningly familiar if it rivaled Gibbons' own best work. Of the four, only Riley Reinhold does anything remotely interesting with that 10-minute slab of downtown-NYC-in-the-1970s retro. His big innovation is replacing the 4/4 disco swish with a rigid electro-breakbeat shuffle. Even given how generic and/or tentative the other three remixes sound, you can't exactly call Reinhold's remix revelatory. That leaves four remixers to try and make up for the creativity deficit. And they're good, though not one wows enough to obviate the cost of the whole collection. Prins Thomas takes the original's most feathery section, the cascade of Tangerine Dream-ish synths and wordless vocals that make up the long outro, and turns in pop ambient by adding a micro-syncopated pulse. Trus'Me's electro is the set's most playful and unexpected track, especially when it closes with twinkling mallets that could be kissing cousin to the kind you used to get on Tortoise or Nobukazu Takemura records. Padded Cell's the only remixer who thought, "Hey, maybe I can patch different sections of the original together to make something that extends the vibe, rather than adding congas and calling it a day." (A seriously missed opportunity on everyone else's part.) He takes the outro coos that also beguiled Thomas and adds the lugubrious piano house that serves as the original's warmup. And surprise, surprise, they fit perfectly together, each adding to the other's preexisting sad dreaminess for the best remix here. What 45:33 Remixes lacks most is personality, something even LCD's experimental one-offs (like the original 45:33) reliably offer. See: Pilooski's deep house pastiche. Yes, it sounds nothing like the original. It just sounds like... a deep house pastiche. It's not just that the remixes dilute Murphy's inimitable presence in his own music; 45:33 was mostly vocal-free to begin with. It's that the remixers don't add much of themselves to compensate, preferring to subtly tweak sections of the original to make them more dancefloor friendly or shove them through familiar schtick. That's the charitable view, at least. A sadder take might be that the artists were just cashing a much-needed check, whether it was cut three weeks or three years after 45:33 hit iTunes. Or worse, they blanched at the freedom to dismantle Murphy's creation to satisfy their own idiosyncratic wants, their hesitancy all the more strange considering that LCD's whole M.O., what makes the band more than a sterile realization of the gag at the heart of "Losing My Edge", is Murphy's willingness to bend or break history to make room for himself."

clipping.

Splendor & Misery

Rap

Mehan Jayasuriya

If there’s an animating principle that runs through all of clipping.’s work to date, it’s a willingness to challenge expectations at every turn. To recap, in the past, the L.A. rap trio have swapped out low-end—a traditional pillar of hip-hop’s sound—for high-pitched noise. They once created a drum track entirely from recordings of gunshots. They’ve forced themselves to jump through conceptual hoops—their previous full-length completely eschewed use of the pronoun “I.” And they’ve built a rap song around a power electronics sample from Whitehouse. All of this headiness makes a bit more sense when you consider the band members’ recent outside pursuits: William Hutson finished a Ph.D. dissertation on experimental music, Jonathan Snipes composed film scores, and Daveed Diggs won both a Grammy and a Tony for his performance in the runaway hit musical, Hamilton. clipping.’s latest full-length, Splendor & Misery, might just be their most challenging release yet. It’s a hip-hop space opera of sorts, one that, according to the band, “follows the sole survivor of a slave uprising on an interstellar cargo ship, and the onboard computer that falls in love with him.” Calling the album high-concept feels like an understatement. This is the rare rap release that draws inspiration in equal parts from prog-rock and P-funk. Certainly, it’s difficult to question the quality of the raw materials used here. Founding members Snipes and Hutson skillfully evoke the hum of the ship’s machinery with their bleeps, bloops, and shuddering waves of static. Though it should come as no surprise, Diggs’ rapping is technically impressive, if a bit clinical, throughout Splendor & Misery. On “The Breach,” for example, the rapper dexterously spits tongue-twisting lines for 40 straight seconds. His rapid-fire delivery brings to mind Busdriver and André 3000. Splendor & Misery’s best songs manage to succeed on their own terms, independent of the overarching narrative. “All Black” sets up the storyline in third-person: “So the danger, clear and present/Is presented as the gift of freedom/Wrapped in days of rapping to himself/Up until his vocal chords collapse.” It nods toward the familiar with turns of phrase (the “all black everything” vacuum of space) and playful anachronisms. “Air ’Em Out” is a trap anthem in zero-gravity, its gleaming synths and skittering drums floating skyward with no bassline to hold them down. Diggs allows his tightly-wound delivery to go slack here, imbuing the track with a looseness and personality that’s sorely missing from much of the album. As with much of clipping.’s work, the ambition is admirable: using a rap album for an Afrofuturist take on 2001: A Space Odyssey. Unfortunately, most of Splendor & Misery’s songs rely on the narrative to propel them forward, not the other way around. Many of these tracks lack an identifiable rhythm section and feel more like spoken-word. It’s possible to create compelling hip-hop instrumentals from shards of noise—just look at Food for Animals and Death Grips or clipping.’s previous work—but on Splendor & Misery, clipping. often prize well-placed sound effects over songcraft. In its drive for conceptual rigor, the album neglects to engage the listener musically. That puts a lot of weight on the story, which tends toward the abstract. Perhaps Splendor & Misery’s plot would be better-suited to another medium—the hip-hop musical is, after all, enjoying something of a moment on Broadway.

Artist: clipping., Album: Splendor & Misery, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 5.3 Album review: "If there’s an animating principle that runs through all of clipping.’s work to date, it’s a willingness to challenge expectations at every turn. To recap, in the past, the L.A. rap trio have swapped out low-end—a traditional pillar of hip-hop’s sound—for high-pitched noise. They once created a drum track entirely from recordings of gunshots. They’ve forced themselves to jump through conceptual hoops—their previous full-length completely eschewed use of the pronoun “I.” And they’ve built a rap song around a power electronics sample from Whitehouse. All of this headiness makes a bit more sense when you consider the band members’ recent outside pursuits: William Hutson finished a Ph.D. dissertation on experimental music, Jonathan Snipes composed film scores, and Daveed Diggs won both a Grammy and a Tony for his performance in the runaway hit musical, Hamilton. clipping.’s latest full-length, Splendor & Misery, might just be their most challenging release yet. It’s a hip-hop space opera of sorts, one that, according to the band, “follows the sole survivor of a slave uprising on an interstellar cargo ship, and the onboard computer that falls in love with him.” Calling the album high-concept feels like an understatement. This is the rare rap release that draws inspiration in equal parts from prog-rock and P-funk. Certainly, it’s difficult to question the quality of the raw materials used here. Founding members Snipes and Hutson skillfully evoke the hum of the ship’s machinery with their bleeps, bloops, and shuddering waves of static. Though it should come as no surprise, Diggs’ rapping is technically impressive, if a bit clinical, throughout Splendor & Misery. On “The Breach,” for example, the rapper dexterously spits tongue-twisting lines for 40 straight seconds. His rapid-fire delivery brings to mind Busdriver and André 3000. Splendor & Misery’s best songs manage to succeed on their own terms, independent of the overarching narrative. “All Black” sets up the storyline in third-person: “So the danger, clear and present/Is presented as the gift of freedom/Wrapped in days of rapping to himself/Up until his vocal chords collapse.” It nods toward the familiar with turns of phrase (the “all black everything” vacuum of space) and playful anachronisms. “Air ’Em Out” is a trap anthem in zero-gravity, its gleaming synths and skittering drums floating skyward with no bassline to hold them down. Diggs allows his tightly-wound delivery to go slack here, imbuing the track with a looseness and personality that’s sorely missing from much of the album. As with much of clipping.’s work, the ambition is admirable: using a rap album for an Afrofuturist take on 2001: A Space Odyssey. Unfortunately, most of Splendor & Misery’s songs rely on the narrative to propel them forward, not the other way around. Many of these tracks lack an identifiable rhythm section and feel more like spoken-word. It’s possible to create compelling hip-hop instrumentals from shards of noise—just look at Food for Animals and Death Grips or clipping.’s previous work—but on Splendor & Misery, clipping. often prize well-placed sound effects over songcraft. In its drive for conceptual rigor, the album neglects to engage the listener musically. That puts a lot of weight on the story, which tends toward the abstract. Perhaps Splendor & Misery’s plot would be better-suited to another medium—the hip-hop musical is, after all, enjoying something of a moment on Broadway."

Dan Friel

Sunburn

Experimental

Joe Tangari

Every generation has signifiers of its youth, nostalgia triggers that work almost without fail. For my parents' generation, it's hard to think of a better one than the Radio Flyer wagon. These simple red-and-white carts with oversized black rubber wheels are as emblematic of suburban childhood in the 40s and 50s as ICBMs were to the Cold War, and almost anyone who grew up in the postwar era remembers their ubiquity fondly-- they actually outsold Ford station wagons for a number of years. The Radio Flyer of my generation might be the Casio keyboard. I can remember getting one when I was a kid that had maybe three octaves and about 10 or 12 sounds along with classic preset rhythms they called "rhumba" and "bossa nova." My brother and I spent plenty of time parlaying that keyboard into extended sessions of annoyance for my parents, and I'll never get over how amazing we thought it was when we were young that you could get these little demos playing on it and then speed them up or slow them down at will. I remember a specific instance when the keyboard's batteries were dying, but still had enough juice in them to produce a sputtering, vaguely piano-ish sound when you hit the keys. Just a few months ago, I rediscovered a brief recording that I'd made of this phenomenon on a boombox, and it sounds oddly poignant, this wandering quasi-melody of wavering and decaying notes. Whatever spoke to me about the sound of that failing machine years ago apparently also captivated Parts & Labor's Dan Friel as he worked on Sunburned, his second solo EP and his first to see proper release on a label. He opens the disc with a track called "Dead Batteries", a song literally built on a foundation of an old Casio struggling to play a rhythm preset with the power provided by nearly expended C batteries. The effect is a twitching, crackling foundation for his laser-toned guitar to slice through that perfectly sets the tone for this intriguing, challenging disc. Friel has slowly been making a name for himself in Brooklyn not only with Parts & Labor, who last year split a full-length with rising avant-garde star Tyondai Braxton (now a member of Battles alongside ex-Don Caballero guitarist Ian Williams), but also with his bit parts in ensembles helmed by Damo Suzuki and Glenn Branca. In his spare time, he records with an intentionally limited setup, working to coax the best music he can from an array of electronics like remote-controlled car joysticks and walkie talkies. The squealing, dense textures he builds from those sounds form the bulk of this record, and he interacts with them with his electric guitar, pouring on layer after layer of his distinctly hued drones and distorted overtone series until the wall of sounds is complete. The music he ends up with sounds like little else out there, a heaving mass of static beats, monolithic distortion, and bending, diving tones. Most of the modulating squeals that cut through songs like "Tractorcalls" are created by amplifying the signals of the remote controls, which produce a surprisingly wide array of pitches as the trigger is manipulated. Some of the clusters this technique creates are harsh and dissonant, while others are strikingly melodic. Friel creates a manic beat and descending harmony with his keyboard on "b2bs", making what could be best described as drill 'n' bass with a Motown chord progression. The beat on closer "Quitting", created by looping various pitches of static from his guitar pedals, is far less traditional, but functions well as a backdrop for his nasty guitar improvisation, which sounds like a doo-wop group made of fluorescent lights. The queasy, noisy beat of the song nicely brings the EP full circle to its beginnings, emphasizing the disc's overall sense of cohesion and singular purpose. I hesitate to throw out the word "experimental" in most cases, but here I think it's warranted, as Friel's music is quite explicitly designed to test the sonic possibilities of a set group of objects and explore as much of that ground as is reasonably possible on an EP. In that, he succeeds beautifully, crafting a unique and uncompromising sound that ultimately transcends its limitations.

Artist: Dan Friel, Album: Sunburn, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Every generation has signifiers of its youth, nostalgia triggers that work almost without fail. For my parents' generation, it's hard to think of a better one than the Radio Flyer wagon. These simple red-and-white carts with oversized black rubber wheels are as emblematic of suburban childhood in the 40s and 50s as ICBMs were to the Cold War, and almost anyone who grew up in the postwar era remembers their ubiquity fondly-- they actually outsold Ford station wagons for a number of years. The Radio Flyer of my generation might be the Casio keyboard. I can remember getting one when I was a kid that had maybe three octaves and about 10 or 12 sounds along with classic preset rhythms they called "rhumba" and "bossa nova." My brother and I spent plenty of time parlaying that keyboard into extended sessions of annoyance for my parents, and I'll never get over how amazing we thought it was when we were young that you could get these little demos playing on it and then speed them up or slow them down at will. I remember a specific instance when the keyboard's batteries were dying, but still had enough juice in them to produce a sputtering, vaguely piano-ish sound when you hit the keys. Just a few months ago, I rediscovered a brief recording that I'd made of this phenomenon on a boombox, and it sounds oddly poignant, this wandering quasi-melody of wavering and decaying notes. Whatever spoke to me about the sound of that failing machine years ago apparently also captivated Parts & Labor's Dan Friel as he worked on Sunburned, his second solo EP and his first to see proper release on a label. He opens the disc with a track called "Dead Batteries", a song literally built on a foundation of an old Casio struggling to play a rhythm preset with the power provided by nearly expended C batteries. The effect is a twitching, crackling foundation for his laser-toned guitar to slice through that perfectly sets the tone for this intriguing, challenging disc. Friel has slowly been making a name for himself in Brooklyn not only with Parts & Labor, who last year split a full-length with rising avant-garde star Tyondai Braxton (now a member of Battles alongside ex-Don Caballero guitarist Ian Williams), but also with his bit parts in ensembles helmed by Damo Suzuki and Glenn Branca. In his spare time, he records with an intentionally limited setup, working to coax the best music he can from an array of electronics like remote-controlled car joysticks and walkie talkies. The squealing, dense textures he builds from those sounds form the bulk of this record, and he interacts with them with his electric guitar, pouring on layer after layer of his distinctly hued drones and distorted overtone series until the wall of sounds is complete. The music he ends up with sounds like little else out there, a heaving mass of static beats, monolithic distortion, and bending, diving tones. Most of the modulating squeals that cut through songs like "Tractorcalls" are created by amplifying the signals of the remote controls, which produce a surprisingly wide array of pitches as the trigger is manipulated. Some of the clusters this technique creates are harsh and dissonant, while others are strikingly melodic. Friel creates a manic beat and descending harmony with his keyboard on "b2bs", making what could be best described as drill 'n' bass with a Motown chord progression. The beat on closer "Quitting", created by looping various pitches of static from his guitar pedals, is far less traditional, but functions well as a backdrop for his nasty guitar improvisation, which sounds like a doo-wop group made of fluorescent lights. The queasy, noisy beat of the song nicely brings the EP full circle to its beginnings, emphasizing the disc's overall sense of cohesion and singular purpose. I hesitate to throw out the word "experimental" in most cases, but here I think it's warranted, as Friel's music is quite explicitly designed to test the sonic possibilities of a set group of objects and explore as much of that ground as is reasonably possible on an EP. In that, he succeeds beautifully, crafting a unique and uncompromising sound that ultimately transcends its limitations."

Arctic Monkeys

Humbug

Rock

Joe Tangari

The hype surrounding Arctic Monkeys' 2006 debut album was so monstrous it threatened to swallow the band and its music whole. And a lesser band might have been swallowed, but it should be clear by now that Arctic Monkeys weren't undone by a little media frenzy. It's no surprise: They're a skilled band that writes complex songs filled with unexpected musical turns, wit, and observational acumen. They have a level of musicianship that hasn't been fashionable since the 70s, but they employ it in a modern way, and everyone I've heard doubt the group changed their mind when I played them one of their records. Humbug, the band's third album, breaks ground in a few directions for the Arctics. It's their loosest record yet by far, following on the heels of the hyperaggressive Favourite Worst Nightmare, which at times was wound so tight it felt like it might collapse from a heart attack on the next chord change. Part of this looseness can be credited to producer Josh Homme, who brings out the darkness that often underlies Alex Turner's songwriting. The guitars in particular have a snapping, reverberant desert/surf tone that fuels the band's descent into night. It's an interesting look for them, and one that undeniably sounds much better on the third or fourth listen than the first. This perhaps reflects that the Arctics, having established and subsequently defended their place in the UK pop firmament, can now afford to make a record that grows on you rather than walloping you in the face repeatedly. First single "Crying Lightning" is among the record's loudest, most aggressive tracks. Alex Turner's Yorkshire accent and penchant for detailed writing-- he catalogs the sweets the "you" in the song ingests almost obsessively (pick'n'mix, strawberry lace, gobstoppers, and ice cream) and the song rides its overdriven bass line to a theatrical horror guitar build-up. The song's heavy hand is oddly off-putting and engaging at the same time. As an antidote, they'd do well to release "Cornerstone" as the follow-up single. The album's highlight, the song is beyond lovelorn, with Turner delivering a swooning, dreamy vocal, possibly his best to date. He makes a somewhat hokey premise-- a guy who keeps approaching women who look like his ex-girlfriend, only to strike out when he asks if he can call them by her name-- actually work through clever turns of phrase and his usual flair with detail. That song feels like a legitimate expansion of the band's songwriting arsenal, but their usual territory offers its share of good stuff as well. Matt Helders' drumming on the frenzied riff-fest "Dangerous Animals" is jaw-dropping, and it's one of things that saves the song from its spelled-out vocal hook. "Potion Approaching" threatens to turn into a cover of Nirvana's "Very Ape" on its opening riff, but the band instead opts for Zeppelin-ish start-stop passages that read like "Achilles' Last Stand" recast as a Britpop tune before it shifts completely into a seesawing, mildly psychedelic mid-section. Their riffier tendencies can get the best of them, as on "Pretty Visitors", a progged-out song that gets lost in heavy metal thunder, choral vocals (not an actual choir, but the band built up into one), and creepy organ interludes. The balance between songwriting and excess seems to hold across all three of their albums, though, and it's never undone them yet. Humbug isn't better than either of its predecessors, but it expands the group's range and makes me curious where it might go next. It also demonstrates a great deal of staying power for a band that could have imploded before it ever got this far.

Artist: Arctic Monkeys, Album: Humbug, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "The hype surrounding Arctic Monkeys' 2006 debut album was so monstrous it threatened to swallow the band and its music whole. And a lesser band might have been swallowed, but it should be clear by now that Arctic Monkeys weren't undone by a little media frenzy. It's no surprise: They're a skilled band that writes complex songs filled with unexpected musical turns, wit, and observational acumen. They have a level of musicianship that hasn't been fashionable since the 70s, but they employ it in a modern way, and everyone I've heard doubt the group changed their mind when I played them one of their records. Humbug, the band's third album, breaks ground in a few directions for the Arctics. It's their loosest record yet by far, following on the heels of the hyperaggressive Favourite Worst Nightmare, which at times was wound so tight it felt like it might collapse from a heart attack on the next chord change. Part of this looseness can be credited to producer Josh Homme, who brings out the darkness that often underlies Alex Turner's songwriting. The guitars in particular have a snapping, reverberant desert/surf tone that fuels the band's descent into night. It's an interesting look for them, and one that undeniably sounds much better on the third or fourth listen than the first. This perhaps reflects that the Arctics, having established and subsequently defended their place in the UK pop firmament, can now afford to make a record that grows on you rather than walloping you in the face repeatedly. First single "Crying Lightning" is among the record's loudest, most aggressive tracks. Alex Turner's Yorkshire accent and penchant for detailed writing-- he catalogs the sweets the "you" in the song ingests almost obsessively (pick'n'mix, strawberry lace, gobstoppers, and ice cream) and the song rides its overdriven bass line to a theatrical horror guitar build-up. The song's heavy hand is oddly off-putting and engaging at the same time. As an antidote, they'd do well to release "Cornerstone" as the follow-up single. The album's highlight, the song is beyond lovelorn, with Turner delivering a swooning, dreamy vocal, possibly his best to date. He makes a somewhat hokey premise-- a guy who keeps approaching women who look like his ex-girlfriend, only to strike out when he asks if he can call them by her name-- actually work through clever turns of phrase and his usual flair with detail. That song feels like a legitimate expansion of the band's songwriting arsenal, but their usual territory offers its share of good stuff as well. Matt Helders' drumming on the frenzied riff-fest "Dangerous Animals" is jaw-dropping, and it's one of things that saves the song from its spelled-out vocal hook. "Potion Approaching" threatens to turn into a cover of Nirvana's "Very Ape" on its opening riff, but the band instead opts for Zeppelin-ish start-stop passages that read like "Achilles' Last Stand" recast as a Britpop tune before it shifts completely into a seesawing, mildly psychedelic mid-section. Their riffier tendencies can get the best of them, as on "Pretty Visitors", a progged-out song that gets lost in heavy metal thunder, choral vocals (not an actual choir, but the band built up into one), and creepy organ interludes. The balance between songwriting and excess seems to hold across all three of their albums, though, and it's never undone them yet. Humbug isn't better than either of its predecessors, but it expands the group's range and makes me curious where it might go next. It also demonstrates a great deal of staying power for a band that could have imploded before it ever got this far."

Tom Findlay

LateNightTales Presents Music for Pleasure

Mark Richardson

Around 2005 and 2006, an online video series called "Yacht Rock" circulated around the then-immature social media. The show focused on humorously fictionalized versions of the lives of late-1970s musicians like Kenny Loggins, Michael McDonald, Toto, and Hall and Oates. Their music shared a feeling as much as a sound: this was music made by men with long, curly hair and mustaches that were flecked with recently inhaled cocaine. It was from L.A., crafted in expensive studios and played by first-call pros who could fall into a smooth groove at will. The music was rhythmic and spacious and kissed by soul and lite-funk, but it steered away from R&B grit. Though the people making the music lived decadent lives and considered themselves post-60s rebels of a kind, their aesthetic fit perfectly on adult contemporary radio. It's been soothing the souls of office drones in the break room ever since. Six years later, the LateNightTales series is releasing a yacht rock primer, created by Tom Findlay of the London duo Groove Armada, of all people. Findlay has put together 18 tracks, performed some light edits, and created some easy-going transitions so the whole thing flows like a single piece. Strictly speaking, the set bobs around the aqua-colored borders of yacht rock proper and touches on singer-songwriter balladry and something approaching true funk. But the laid-back Cali vibes are there throughout, even when the artist in question is from somewhere else entirely. As a unified collection built around an idea, the set succeeds. However, it's not perfect: The compilation's problems are twofold. Findlay generally forgoes the deep cuts and presents songs that have been on continuous loop in that office break room for 25 years plus. Steve Miller's "Fly Like an Eagle", Michael McDonald's immortal "I Keep Forgettin' (Every Time You're Near)" (the subject of a very funny episode of "Yacht Rock", which traced the song's evolution and re-emergence as the beat for Warren G's "Regulate"), Player's "Baby Come Back", Boz Scaggs' "Lowdown", Ambrosia's "You're the Only Woman (You & I)". Even if these names mean nothing to you, you'll know these tracks when they show up here, such is their ubiquity as background music. And Findlay's edits and transitions can't cover up the fact that we've simply heard these songs too much. He doesn't create a context where we can hear them with fresh ears. The second issue is that, because these tracks are mostly so well known and easily available, this edition of LateNightTales, slight re-touching aside, winds up feeling more like a Spotify playlist than a proper mix that costs money to hear. Which makes sense, given the highly functional nature of the contents: playlists exist for specific reasons and are not by and large about "expression." That said, I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy this set every time I put it on. Despite the familiarity and easily parodied context of the source material, it works; it does what it was designed to do, probably due to the fact that recording and record-making were at their technological zenith in the late 70s and early 80s. People had component stereos. They wanted music to sound good in their living rooms. The music industry was flush with cash. And multi-track tape recording had finally come into its own as a medium. All of which is to say that the bass, drums, and keyboards of virtually all of these songs are beautifully recorded and mixed, and if you're wired a certain way, hearing them rendered can be in an emotional experience in and of itself. In another few years after these tracks were cut, we'd have CDs and gated drums and the loudness wars. And the odd yacht rock revivalist track, even when enjoyable, mostly just made you think of what was missing. Say what you will about the denizens of those late 70s studios, but they knew how to record a rhythm section.

Artist: Tom Findlay, Album: LateNightTales Presents Music for Pleasure, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Around 2005 and 2006, an online video series called "Yacht Rock" circulated around the then-immature social media. The show focused on humorously fictionalized versions of the lives of late-1970s musicians like Kenny Loggins, Michael McDonald, Toto, and Hall and Oates. Their music shared a feeling as much as a sound: this was music made by men with long, curly hair and mustaches that were flecked with recently inhaled cocaine. It was from L.A., crafted in expensive studios and played by first-call pros who could fall into a smooth groove at will. The music was rhythmic and spacious and kissed by soul and lite-funk, but it steered away from R&B grit. Though the people making the music lived decadent lives and considered themselves post-60s rebels of a kind, their aesthetic fit perfectly on adult contemporary radio. It's been soothing the souls of office drones in the break room ever since. Six years later, the LateNightTales series is releasing a yacht rock primer, created by Tom Findlay of the London duo Groove Armada, of all people. Findlay has put together 18 tracks, performed some light edits, and created some easy-going transitions so the whole thing flows like a single piece. Strictly speaking, the set bobs around the aqua-colored borders of yacht rock proper and touches on singer-songwriter balladry and something approaching true funk. But the laid-back Cali vibes are there throughout, even when the artist in question is from somewhere else entirely. As a unified collection built around an idea, the set succeeds. However, it's not perfect: The compilation's problems are twofold. Findlay generally forgoes the deep cuts and presents songs that have been on continuous loop in that office break room for 25 years plus. Steve Miller's "Fly Like an Eagle", Michael McDonald's immortal "I Keep Forgettin' (Every Time You're Near)" (the subject of a very funny episode of "Yacht Rock", which traced the song's evolution and re-emergence as the beat for Warren G's "Regulate"), Player's "Baby Come Back", Boz Scaggs' "Lowdown", Ambrosia's "You're the Only Woman (You & I)". Even if these names mean nothing to you, you'll know these tracks when they show up here, such is their ubiquity as background music. And Findlay's edits and transitions can't cover up the fact that we've simply heard these songs too much. He doesn't create a context where we can hear them with fresh ears. The second issue is that, because these tracks are mostly so well known and easily available, this edition of LateNightTales, slight re-touching aside, winds up feeling more like a Spotify playlist than a proper mix that costs money to hear. Which makes sense, given the highly functional nature of the contents: playlists exist for specific reasons and are not by and large about "expression." That said, I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy this set every time I put it on. Despite the familiarity and easily parodied context of the source material, it works; it does what it was designed to do, probably due to the fact that recording and record-making were at their technological zenith in the late 70s and early 80s. People had component stereos. They wanted music to sound good in their living rooms. The music industry was flush with cash. And multi-track tape recording had finally come into its own as a medium. All of which is to say that the bass, drums, and keyboards of virtually all of these songs are beautifully recorded and mixed, and if you're wired a certain way, hearing them rendered can be in an emotional experience in and of itself. In another few years after these tracks were cut, we'd have CDs and gated drums and the loudness wars. And the odd yacht rock revivalist track, even when enjoyable, mostly just made you think of what was missing. Say what you will about the denizens of those late 70s studios, but they knew how to record a rhythm section."

Paik

Satin Black

Rock

Mark Richardson

Albums are sometimes best understood in terms of the circumstances under which you might want to listen to them. Think of Mojo magazine asking a handful of quasi-celebrities each month to pick a "Saturday Night" and "Sunday Morning" record; Loren Connors' The Departing of a Dream, for example, should only be legally available between 11 p.m. and 4 a.m., while Sam Prekop's solo record makes sense on a cheery day when the sunlight is streaming through the window. When listening to Satin Black, the fourth record by the instrumental guitar/bass/drum trio Paik, I'm struck with a paradox. This is the perfect soundtrack for a dark room in a dank basement that has been sealed off completely from a disgustingly sunny day, so it's daytime music of a different sort. Paik make the kind of slow, drop-D guitar sludge that alienated suburban kids have been getting stoned to since Black Sabbath entered the fray. Nighttime is about dreams and endless possibility and daytime is for making things happen; Satin Black is about disengaging from the cycle altogether. I mention Sabbath only as an indicator of mood; Paik are not metal, though they are certainly heavy. The touchstones of their sound are ultimately much more contemporary, as they combine Sonic Youth's experiments in tuning and atonal riffage with Bardo Pond's krautrock-channeling rhythmic thrust. Guitarist Robert Smith's instrument often seems as though it has only a couple of loosely wound strings (such is the nature of his bottom-focused stabs and endless ripples of sustain), which is amplified by the fact that he often wraps his lines completely around those of the bass guitar. The drummer focuses on a thudding style of heavy rock "groove" while making heavy use of crash and ride cymbals to maintain an air of mysticism, the sharp metal percussion connecting with our subconscious vision of the gypsy caravan. I would say that Paik chug forward like a poorly lubed steam train, but since they're from Michigan, perhaps a souped-up but rusted-out 1978 Crown Victoria would be a better metaphor. In any event, Paik construct an unpredictable ramshackle clang, always just on the verge of falling apart, around a core of serious power. The detuned three-note riff of "Jayne Field" combined with the Bonham-esque percussion stomp creates a tension that the tumbling middle refrain releases nicely. "Dirt for Driver" and the title track, meanwhile, find the guitar leaving the massive central bass riff to explore acidic upper-register runs, at times exhibiting a touching lyricism. The songs are all on the long side, of course, befitting a band that aligns itself with the Michigan space-rock scene, and Satin Black culminates in the 15-minute closer "Stellar Meltdown en el Oceano", an extended feedback drone with the drummer laying out that could be understood as a tribute to the sonic ambience of Detroit industry. Even if Satin Black is heavy and bleak music for dropping out, I'm certainly not knocking it. In fact, we need those kinds of records desperately. A few hours wallowing alone with records like this one can be cathartic in its own way, like pushing the "pause" button on your life, and it's sure a lot better for you than heroin. You can always open the curtains after you've spent some time down here working things out.

Artist: Paik, Album: Satin Black, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Albums are sometimes best understood in terms of the circumstances under which you might want to listen to them. Think of Mojo magazine asking a handful of quasi-celebrities each month to pick a "Saturday Night" and "Sunday Morning" record; Loren Connors' The Departing of a Dream, for example, should only be legally available between 11 p.m. and 4 a.m., while Sam Prekop's solo record makes sense on a cheery day when the sunlight is streaming through the window. When listening to Satin Black, the fourth record by the instrumental guitar/bass/drum trio Paik, I'm struck with a paradox. This is the perfect soundtrack for a dark room in a dank basement that has been sealed off completely from a disgustingly sunny day, so it's daytime music of a different sort. Paik make the kind of slow, drop-D guitar sludge that alienated suburban kids have been getting stoned to since Black Sabbath entered the fray. Nighttime is about dreams and endless possibility and daytime is for making things happen; Satin Black is about disengaging from the cycle altogether. I mention Sabbath only as an indicator of mood; Paik are not metal, though they are certainly heavy. The touchstones of their sound are ultimately much more contemporary, as they combine Sonic Youth's experiments in tuning and atonal riffage with Bardo Pond's krautrock-channeling rhythmic thrust. Guitarist Robert Smith's instrument often seems as though it has only a couple of loosely wound strings (such is the nature of his bottom-focused stabs and endless ripples of sustain), which is amplified by the fact that he often wraps his lines completely around those of the bass guitar. The drummer focuses on a thudding style of heavy rock "groove" while making heavy use of crash and ride cymbals to maintain an air of mysticism, the sharp metal percussion connecting with our subconscious vision of the gypsy caravan. I would say that Paik chug forward like a poorly lubed steam train, but since they're from Michigan, perhaps a souped-up but rusted-out 1978 Crown Victoria would be a better metaphor. In any event, Paik construct an unpredictable ramshackle clang, always just on the verge of falling apart, around a core of serious power. The detuned three-note riff of "Jayne Field" combined with the Bonham-esque percussion stomp creates a tension that the tumbling middle refrain releases nicely. "Dirt for Driver" and the title track, meanwhile, find the guitar leaving the massive central bass riff to explore acidic upper-register runs, at times exhibiting a touching lyricism. The songs are all on the long side, of course, befitting a band that aligns itself with the Michigan space-rock scene, and Satin Black culminates in the 15-minute closer "Stellar Meltdown en el Oceano", an extended feedback drone with the drummer laying out that could be understood as a tribute to the sonic ambience of Detroit industry. Even if Satin Black is heavy and bleak music for dropping out, I'm certainly not knocking it. In fact, we need those kinds of records desperately. A few hours wallowing alone with records like this one can be cathartic in its own way, like pushing the "pause" button on your life, and it's sure a lot better for you than heroin. You can always open the curtains after you've spent some time down here working things out."

Autistic Daughters

Uneasy Flowers

Experimental,Rock

Marc Masters

Uneasy Flowers, the second album by Autistic Daughters, is an incremental improvement over their fine 2004 debut Jealousy and Diamond. But any other degree of advancement would feel inappropriate, since this group's music deals in small steps and minute shifts. This can make for a sleepy listen-- sometimes it even sounds like the trio has drifted off into musical unconsciousness. But more often this album is like a quiet dream, filled with moods and images that linger past the end of each song. That effect combined with the fact that Autistic Daughters are on Kranky might imply their music is pure ambience. But the trio is actually a song-based entity, relying on vocals, guitars, drums, and some modest electronic effects. The seven tunes here sometimes evoke the soothing drift of Kranky stalwarts like Stars of the Lid. But they're closer sonically to the slow melodies of Low, the soft glitch of the Books, or even Wilco's mellower moments (the alluring bent of Dean Roberts' voice at times recalls Jeff Tweedy). The miniaturist feel of Uneasy Flowers is enhanced by Roberts' lyrics, which explore ideas in subtle shades. Phrases and images recur, tracing the outline of an enigmatic character named Rehana. Through clever repetitions of terms like "rain," "gin," and "value judgment," Roberts paints an impressionist portrait that makes surreal sense. On the title track, over chopped snare hits, he describes an elusive "it"-- "tell your brother it's a balancing act"; "it makes our laughter more easily stomachable"-- without ever fully revealing his subject. Later, on the sparse "Bird in the Curtain" and the minimal "Hotel Exeter Dining Room", Roberts slyly dodges meaning, singing about uncertainty and awkwardness with apt imprecision. Musically, the songs on Uneasy Flowers are skeletal, offering bare bones where more impatient bands might pile on sonic flesh. Sparse and measured, each tune forms gradually, letting its elements grow into each other like ivy on a wall. This encourages the listener to connect dots and color in shapes that may never actually be there. Not every tune rewards the effort, but enough do, especially "Gin Over Sour Milk", the album's masterful midpoint. Over a descending rhythm, Roberts whispers about a pretty obvious choice-- who wouldn't take alcohol over spoiled dairy? But as in most of Autistic Daughters' music, that simplicity hides a more complex idea lying just beneath the surface.

Artist: Autistic Daughters, Album: Uneasy Flowers, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Uneasy Flowers, the second album by Autistic Daughters, is an incremental improvement over their fine 2004 debut Jealousy and Diamond. But any other degree of advancement would feel inappropriate, since this group's music deals in small steps and minute shifts. This can make for a sleepy listen-- sometimes it even sounds like the trio has drifted off into musical unconsciousness. But more often this album is like a quiet dream, filled with moods and images that linger past the end of each song. That effect combined with the fact that Autistic Daughters are on Kranky might imply their music is pure ambience. But the trio is actually a song-based entity, relying on vocals, guitars, drums, and some modest electronic effects. The seven tunes here sometimes evoke the soothing drift of Kranky stalwarts like Stars of the Lid. But they're closer sonically to the slow melodies of Low, the soft glitch of the Books, or even Wilco's mellower moments (the alluring bent of Dean Roberts' voice at times recalls Jeff Tweedy). The miniaturist feel of Uneasy Flowers is enhanced by Roberts' lyrics, which explore ideas in subtle shades. Phrases and images recur, tracing the outline of an enigmatic character named Rehana. Through clever repetitions of terms like "rain," "gin," and "value judgment," Roberts paints an impressionist portrait that makes surreal sense. On the title track, over chopped snare hits, he describes an elusive "it"-- "tell your brother it's a balancing act"; "it makes our laughter more easily stomachable"-- without ever fully revealing his subject. Later, on the sparse "Bird in the Curtain" and the minimal "Hotel Exeter Dining Room", Roberts slyly dodges meaning, singing about uncertainty and awkwardness with apt imprecision. Musically, the songs on Uneasy Flowers are skeletal, offering bare bones where more impatient bands might pile on sonic flesh. Sparse and measured, each tune forms gradually, letting its elements grow into each other like ivy on a wall. This encourages the listener to connect dots and color in shapes that may never actually be there. Not every tune rewards the effort, but enough do, especially "Gin Over Sour Milk", the album's masterful midpoint. Over a descending rhythm, Roberts whispers about a pretty obvious choice-- who wouldn't take alcohol over spoiled dairy? But as in most of Autistic Daughters' music, that simplicity hides a more complex idea lying just beneath the surface."

Guns N' Roses

Appetite for Destruction

Rock

Maura Johnston

The video for “Welcome to the Jungle,” Appetite for Destruction’s mission statement, mirrors the journey that an unsuspecting listener might take during their first spin through Guns N’ Roses’ 1987 debut. A fresh-faced, 25-year-old Axl Rose, so country that he’s got a long stalk of wheat between his teeth, gets off a bus and enters a landscape that screams “bad side of town”; neon lights flash darkly, a shady guy perched on the corner approaches him, black-stockinged legs catch Axl’s eye. Cut to a similarly dank club where, with the aid of Aqua Net, Axl and the rest of Guns N’ Roses are barreling through the track, while TVs flicker into A Clockwork Orange-style fantasia about the bad news lurking all around. The electric opening notes, played with sputtering enthusiasm by lead guitarist Slash, only hint at the terror that’s coming; Axl’s under-his-breath “Oh my god” cranks up the tension; and then, aided by Steven Adler’s lightly swinging drums and backing vocals that recall a demon choir, the full horror is exposed—a world where every vice is for sale depending on your mood for indulgence and your tolerance for sin. The chugging breakdown, which culminates in Axl’s shrieked “You know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby! You’re gonna diiiieeeeeaagghghhhhhghghghgh,” is “Tubular Bells” through a Marshall stack, a horror movie in miniature for anyone who thought the rock’n’roll lifestyle was all fun and games. Amid the bumper crop of records from ’80s bands who graduated from Sunset Strip clubs to MTV’s newly minted “Headbangers Ball”—the self-titled debuts from glam brats Faster Pussycat and biker-bloozers L.A. Guns—Appetite stood out for how absolutely harsh it got, its chronicles of the wild life in Los Angeles plainly stated by the lye-voiced Axl while his bandmates bobbed and thrashed. The Los Angeles portrayed on Appetite inverts the ideal of Randy Newman’s ever-lovable metropolis, turning it into a place where the then-in-vogue term “drug war” meant fighting with the spectre of heroin (aka “Mr. Brownstone”), where trickle-down economics meant buying cheap hooch on the last scraps of credit, and where paranoid fantasies were always justified. Women were beautiful and you could even put the ones with less utility in their place every so often. It was the jungle, baby, and you were gonna die. Appetite for Destruction didn’t only stand out because of its storm of bad vibes, although that sure helped. The band’s stew of influences—caustic punk, sinewy funk, Aerosmith, the Stones—helped make it a switchblade-sharp statement of intent. “In the last year, I’ve spent over $1,300 on cassettes, everything from Slayer to Wham! to listen to production, vocals, melodies, this and that,” Axl told the UK music magazine Sounds in 1987, and while Mike Clink’s economical production doesn’t have the gloss of Wham!’s Make It Big, studying influences beyond the glammed-up bills at the Troubadour played a large part in the band’s sound. From the their grimy photo shoots that became Metal Edge pinups to their candid discussions of how they survived before hitting it big (“Strippers were our main source of income. They’d pay for booze, sometimes you could eat...” Slash told Rolling Stone), Guns N’ Roses were often portrayed as a clouded mass of debauchery with insatiable needs to simultaneously consume and destroy. “We are just being ourselves, but at the same time, these ’bad boy’ images tend to sell,” Axl told SPIN in 1988. Slash told Melody Maker something similar that same year: “We’re not mean, we’re not nasty, we’re decent people. We’re just out for a good time, like five teenagers on the loose.” The Parents Music Resource Center panic that took hold in the mid-’80s helped fuel GNR’s reputation as “bad boys.” The band were open about their vices on record and in interviews, but their wide-ranging appeal, despite the cluck-clucking of reactionary critics, wasn’t merely the result of them wearing their indulgences on their sleeves. They had shrewd ears and wide-ranging influences, resulting in a sound that used bouncing-ball grooves with punk’s economy that vibrated with paranoia and antipathy yet could (very occasionally) settle into romantic bliss. Bassist Duff McKagan came from the Seattle punk scene, drumming for the legendary hyper-power-poppers Fastbacks; he and drummer Steven Adler would hone their rhythm-section camaraderie by listening to Cameo and Prince LPs. Slash, the London-born son of a costumer who designed for Bowie, decided to pick up the guitar when he heard Aerosmith’s 1975 opus Rocks, telling Guitar World that the album’s “drunken, chemically induced powerhouse sound just sold me and changed me forever.” Izzy Stradlin, the band’s chief songwriter who’d escaped Indiana with Axl, had a Charlie Watts air about him, being the coolest guy in the room while he laid down riffs from which Slash’s solos could take flight. “Welcome to the Jungle,” the album’s opener, is followed by “It’s So Easy”—one of the greatest one-two punches in rock history. A snarling chronicle of the void at the center of any Dionysian orgy, it’s powered by Adler’s butterfly-bee drumming and riffs that sound like they’ve been turned into pistons. The lessons in funk taken by Adler and McKagan make the album’s most harrowing moments roll out of the speakers all throughout—the shimmying that underlies the rancid takedown of a cleaned-up bad girl on “My Michelle,” the musical portrayal of the “West Coast struttin’” by the blotto protagonist of “Nightrain.” Axl’s scorched-earth upper register is at key times doubled not just by his bandmates, but by a low-pitched version of his own voice—detailing that adds another edge to the group’s dystopian reveries. Even with Appetite’s thick layers of grime, its path to mainstream success was shoved along by songs that reflected a bit of Southern California sunshine. “Sweet Child O’Mine” was the album’s big hit, a mushy love song set aloft by Slash’s thick arpeggiating (which, as he told Rolling Stone, was a “goofy personal exercise” overheard by Axl, who decided to write lyrics to it ) and Axl’s doe-eyed lyrics. It’s not all light-hearted—his initially muttered, eventually yelped, “Where do we go? Where do we go now?” that peppers the bridge reveals his ever-present search for more as the song resolves in a minor key. The album’s most triumphant moment is the Jock-Jam-in-waiting “Paradise City,” a fever-dream anthem where green grass and lovely women abound, where everyone’s so cheerful that no one will give you shit if you add a synthesizer to the mix. The main riff is

Artist: Guns N' Roses, Album: Appetite for Destruction, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 10.0 Album review: "The video for “Welcome to the Jungle,” Appetite for Destruction’s mission statement, mirrors the journey that an unsuspecting listener might take during their first spin through Guns N’ Roses’ 1987 debut. A fresh-faced, 25-year-old Axl Rose, so country that he’s got a long stalk of wheat between his teeth, gets off a bus and enters a landscape that screams “bad side of town”; neon lights flash darkly, a shady guy perched on the corner approaches him, black-stockinged legs catch Axl’s eye. Cut to a similarly dank club where, with the aid of Aqua Net, Axl and the rest of Guns N’ Roses are barreling through the track, while TVs flicker into A Clockwork Orange-style fantasia about the bad news lurking all around. The electric opening notes, played with sputtering enthusiasm by lead guitarist Slash, only hint at the terror that’s coming; Axl’s under-his-breath “Oh my god” cranks up the tension; and then, aided by Steven Adler’s lightly swinging drums and backing vocals that recall a demon choir, the full horror is exposed—a world where every vice is for sale depending on your mood for indulgence and your tolerance for sin. The chugging breakdown, which culminates in Axl’s shrieked “You know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby! You’re gonna diiiieeeeeaagghghhhhhghghghgh,” is “Tubular Bells” through a Marshall stack, a horror movie in miniature for anyone who thought the rock’n’roll lifestyle was all fun and games. Amid the bumper crop of records from ’80s bands who graduated from Sunset Strip clubs to MTV’s newly minted “Headbangers Ball”—the self-titled debuts from glam brats Faster Pussycat and biker-bloozers L.A. Guns—Appetite stood out for how absolutely harsh it got, its chronicles of the wild life in Los Angeles plainly stated by the lye-voiced Axl while his bandmates bobbed and thrashed. The Los Angeles portrayed on Appetite inverts the ideal of Randy Newman’s ever-lovable metropolis, turning it into a place where the then-in-vogue term “drug war” meant fighting with the spectre of heroin (aka “Mr. Brownstone”), where trickle-down economics meant buying cheap hooch on the last scraps of credit, and where paranoid fantasies were always justified. Women were beautiful and you could even put the ones with less utility in their place every so often. It was the jungle, baby, and you were gonna die. Appetite for Destruction didn’t only stand out because of its storm of bad vibes, although that sure helped. The band’s stew of influences—caustic punk, sinewy funk, Aerosmith, the Stones—helped make it a switchblade-sharp statement of intent. “In the last year, I’ve spent over $1,300 on cassettes, everything from Slayer to Wham! to listen to production, vocals, melodies, this and that,” Axl told the UK music magazine Sounds in 1987, and while Mike Clink’s economical production doesn’t have the gloss of Wham!’s Make It Big, studying influences beyond the glammed-up bills at the Troubadour played a large part in the band’s sound. From the their grimy photo shoots that became Metal Edge pinups to their candid discussions of how they survived before hitting it big (“Strippers were our main source of income. They’d pay for booze, sometimes you could eat...” Slash told Rolling Stone), Guns N’ Roses were often portrayed as a clouded mass of debauchery with insatiable needs to simultaneously consume and destroy. “We are just being ourselves, but at the same time, these ’bad boy’ images tend to sell,” Axl told SPIN in 1988. Slash told Melody Maker something similar that same year: “We’re not mean, we’re not nasty, we’re decent people. We’re just out for a good time, like five teenagers on the loose.” The Parents Music Resource Center panic that took hold in the mid-’80s helped fuel GNR’s reputation as “bad boys.” The band were open about their vices on record and in interviews, but their wide-ranging appeal, despite the cluck-clucking of reactionary critics, wasn’t merely the result of them wearing their indulgences on their sleeves. They had shrewd ears and wide-ranging influences, resulting in a sound that used bouncing-ball grooves with punk’s economy that vibrated with paranoia and antipathy yet could (very occasionally) settle into romantic bliss. Bassist Duff McKagan came from the Seattle punk scene, drumming for the legendary hyper-power-poppers Fastbacks; he and drummer Steven Adler would hone their rhythm-section camaraderie by listening to Cameo and Prince LPs. Slash, the London-born son of a costumer who designed for Bowie, decided to pick up the guitar when he heard Aerosmith’s 1975 opus Rocks, telling Guitar World that the album’s “drunken, chemically induced powerhouse sound just sold me and changed me forever.” Izzy Stradlin, the band’s chief songwriter who’d escaped Indiana with Axl, had a Charlie Watts air about him, being the coolest guy in the room while he laid down riffs from which Slash’s solos could take flight. “Welcome to the Jungle,” the album’s opener, is followed by “It’s So Easy”—one of the greatest one-two punches in rock history. A snarling chronicle of the void at the center of any Dionysian orgy, it’s powered by Adler’s butterfly-bee drumming and riffs that sound like they’ve been turned into pistons. The lessons in funk taken by Adler and McKagan make the album’s most harrowing moments roll out of the speakers all throughout—the shimmying that underlies the rancid takedown of a cleaned-up bad girl on “My Michelle,” the musical portrayal of the “West Coast struttin’” by the blotto protagonist of “Nightrain.” Axl’s scorched-earth upper register is at key times doubled not just by his bandmates, but by a low-pitched version of his own voice—detailing that adds another edge to the group’s dystopian reveries. Even with Appetite’s thick layers of grime, its path to mainstream success was shoved along by songs that reflected a bit of Southern California sunshine. “Sweet Child O’Mine” was the album’s big hit, a mushy love song set aloft by Slash’s thick arpeggiating (which, as he told Rolling Stone, was a “goofy personal exercise” overheard by Axl, who decided to write lyrics to it ) and Axl’s doe-eyed lyrics. It’s not all light-hearted—his initially muttered, eventually yelped, “Where do we go? Where do we go now?” that peppers the bridge reveals his ever-present search for more as the song resolves in a minor key. The album’s most triumphant moment is the Jock-Jam-in-waiting “Paradise City,” a fever-dream anthem where green grass and lovely women abound, where everyone’s so cheerful that no one will give you shit if you add a synthesizer to the mix. The main riff is"

My Brightest Diamond

All Things Will Unwind

Rock

Amanda Petrusich

Shara Worden's output as My Brightest Diamond is largely unclassifiable, a designation that's favorable in theory but can also be deeply stunting. For years, Worden has drifted between genres and tones (assimilating bits of the opera, classical, indie rock, folk, and experimental canons), letting her vocals act as the lone narrative thread and defining principle. These songs were hers because she was the only person who could sing them, and that felt like enough. Still, while confining artists to a single sound or style might be a philistine's errand, it also gives listeners something recognizable to cling to; there are no bits of boat floating in the water here, and her third LP, All Things Will Unwind, both suffers and succeeds in relation to its scope. Already well known for her collaborations with chamber-oriented musicians (Sufjan Stevens, the National), Worden is now backed by the contemporary ensemble yMusic, who add plenty of playful bits to her oft-ethereal, shifting folk songs. Strummed opener "We Added It Up" is punctuated by various strings and toots; it unfolds like a Rube Goldberg contraption, all call and response. Worden sings about circumstantial incompatibility-- "If I was love/ Then you were shhh"-- with convincing fervor, before the track transforms into a quasi-reassuring mantra. "Love binds the world," Worden and her backing vocalists chant, but it's still hard to know (with good reason) whether those particular shackles are supposed to be a comfort or a curse. It's a pleasantly hazy refrain; Worden's best moments come when she's at her darkest and most uncertain. The excellent "Be Brave" opens quietly, with muted drums and Worden's low growls: "I'm feeling scared and I am overwhelmed," she sings. "Be brave, dear one/ Be changed, be undone," she coaxes, and like "We Added It Up", the song proffers a tiny, passing glimpse of insecurity. Although Worden's vocal performances are varied and borderline virtuosic, it's easy to find yourself wishing for her voice to crack or crumple or fail, to be fallible in a way that's just as beautiful. The carefulness of All Things Will Unwind can feel impenetrable sometimes, and while her closest musical analogue is the equally ambitious Joanna Newsom, Worden lacks Newsom's oddball vulnerability-- it's the difference between performance and possession, and while there's certainly room for both, the former comes, always, with the risk of affectation. All Things Will Unwind's theatrical bent can read as goofy, if not wholly inscrutable (the slow-but-punchy "There's a Rat" feels cartoonish, while "High Low Middle" feels showy, staged). Mostly, though, Worden's drive-- to be so many things, to harness and perfect so many disparate sounds-- makes her work feel more distant than it should.

Artist: My Brightest Diamond, Album: All Things Will Unwind, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Shara Worden's output as My Brightest Diamond is largely unclassifiable, a designation that's favorable in theory but can also be deeply stunting. For years, Worden has drifted between genres and tones (assimilating bits of the opera, classical, indie rock, folk, and experimental canons), letting her vocals act as the lone narrative thread and defining principle. These songs were hers because she was the only person who could sing them, and that felt like enough. Still, while confining artists to a single sound or style might be a philistine's errand, it also gives listeners something recognizable to cling to; there are no bits of boat floating in the water here, and her third LP, All Things Will Unwind, both suffers and succeeds in relation to its scope. Already well known for her collaborations with chamber-oriented musicians (Sufjan Stevens, the National), Worden is now backed by the contemporary ensemble yMusic, who add plenty of playful bits to her oft-ethereal, shifting folk songs. Strummed opener "We Added It Up" is punctuated by various strings and toots; it unfolds like a Rube Goldberg contraption, all call and response. Worden sings about circumstantial incompatibility-- "If I was love/ Then you were shhh"-- with convincing fervor, before the track transforms into a quasi-reassuring mantra. "Love binds the world," Worden and her backing vocalists chant, but it's still hard to know (with good reason) whether those particular shackles are supposed to be a comfort or a curse. It's a pleasantly hazy refrain; Worden's best moments come when she's at her darkest and most uncertain. The excellent "Be Brave" opens quietly, with muted drums and Worden's low growls: "I'm feeling scared and I am overwhelmed," she sings. "Be brave, dear one/ Be changed, be undone," she coaxes, and like "We Added It Up", the song proffers a tiny, passing glimpse of insecurity. Although Worden's vocal performances are varied and borderline virtuosic, it's easy to find yourself wishing for her voice to crack or crumple or fail, to be fallible in a way that's just as beautiful. The carefulness of All Things Will Unwind can feel impenetrable sometimes, and while her closest musical analogue is the equally ambitious Joanna Newsom, Worden lacks Newsom's oddball vulnerability-- it's the difference between performance and possession, and while there's certainly room for both, the former comes, always, with the risk of affectation. All Things Will Unwind's theatrical bent can read as goofy, if not wholly inscrutable (the slow-but-punchy "There's a Rat" feels cartoonish, while "High Low Middle" feels showy, staged). Mostly, though, Worden's drive-- to be so many things, to harness and perfect so many disparate sounds-- makes her work feel more distant than it should."

Raising the Fawn

The Maginot Line

Rock

Stuart Berman

Never let it be said that John Crossingham doesn't appreciate public displays of affection: In 2004, the part-time Broken Social Scene guitarist proposed to his fiancé onstage during the band's Coachella set in front of some 10,000 people. But when it comes to the math-rock lullabies he creates with his own band, Raising the Fawn, he's a much more insular soul. Unlike so many bands orbiting planet BSS, Raising the Fawn isn't just another occasion for the Arts & Crafts extended family to get together for group handclaps. There are no backup vocal turns from Feist, no guest appearances by Brendan Canning on shakers. If anything, Crossingham is a rarity among his BSS peers for favoring a less-is-more approach: Since its formation in 2000, Raising the Fawn has downsized from a four-piece to a trio, and effectively trimmed any fat inhibiting a more powerful rock approach. The band's self-titled 2001 debut was a delicate collection of porcelain pop songs that Crossingham openly admitted was one big long soppy mash note to his girl (ex-Fawn drummer Lesa Hannah); 2004's more accomplished The North Sea closely followed in Mogwai's footsteps, lamenting long-distance love and eulogizing the dead (Crossingham's grandmother and Acetone frontman Richie Lee included) in lurching 10-minute movements. But if new album The Maginot Line, the first Fawn full-length recorded as a trio, is decidedly less sentimental or cohesive in tone than its predecessors, it's all the braver for it. Following a minute of sustained feedback (generously given its own title, "Pyotr"), Maginot opens in earnest with "Carbon Paper", a flurry of crashing grandeur that, like Death Cab's "The New Year" or Trail of Dead's "Relative Ways", heralds a newfound sense of clarity and confidence. While the latter band would've seemed like a laughably incongruous reference point for the Fawn five years ago, these days both strive for a similar balance of melody and menace, elegance and ugliness. Here, the Fawn's own gradual evolution is reflected in a handful of amorphous six-minute mini-epics: The title track sends Crossingham's coo on an upward surge of Sonic Youth-ish twinkles and tribal floor-tom thumps, slowly accruing a militaristic intensity before locking into nasty gutter blues; centerpiece track "Christmastime in the Fields" begins as a faint sea shanty that hitches onto a sinister bass pulse to brace us for the turbulence to come; and "Until It Starts Again" starts like a standard-issue Slint-esque prowl, only to evolve as it hits its soul-clap chorus. Where Broken Social Scene's narcotic-pop floats effortlessly skyward, Raising the Fawn strive for the same heights through a painstaking, brick-by-brick effort: guitars short out, harmonies crack, and calloused fingers grind fretboards with each abrupt chord change. Unsurprisingly, the songs here with more modest intents-- the straight jangle ballad "The Cloak and the Veil", or the sullen, Sebadoh-like denouement "Nocturne No. 2"-- don't inspire the same degree of emotional investment, never tapping into the band's talent for subtle transformation. The Maginot Line is a suitably precarious, frequently thrilling high-wire act for a band that, back home in Toronto, can open for anybody from Mogwai to the Wrens. Still, Raising the Fawn's singular identity is truly revealed when they refuse to fully identify with either camp.

Artist: Raising the Fawn, Album: The Maginot Line, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Never let it be said that John Crossingham doesn't appreciate public displays of affection: In 2004, the part-time Broken Social Scene guitarist proposed to his fiancé onstage during the band's Coachella set in front of some 10,000 people. But when it comes to the math-rock lullabies he creates with his own band, Raising the Fawn, he's a much more insular soul. Unlike so many bands orbiting planet BSS, Raising the Fawn isn't just another occasion for the Arts & Crafts extended family to get together for group handclaps. There are no backup vocal turns from Feist, no guest appearances by Brendan Canning on shakers. If anything, Crossingham is a rarity among his BSS peers for favoring a less-is-more approach: Since its formation in 2000, Raising the Fawn has downsized from a four-piece to a trio, and effectively trimmed any fat inhibiting a more powerful rock approach. The band's self-titled 2001 debut was a delicate collection of porcelain pop songs that Crossingham openly admitted was one big long soppy mash note to his girl (ex-Fawn drummer Lesa Hannah); 2004's more accomplished The North Sea closely followed in Mogwai's footsteps, lamenting long-distance love and eulogizing the dead (Crossingham's grandmother and Acetone frontman Richie Lee included) in lurching 10-minute movements. But if new album The Maginot Line, the first Fawn full-length recorded as a trio, is decidedly less sentimental or cohesive in tone than its predecessors, it's all the braver for it. Following a minute of sustained feedback (generously given its own title, "Pyotr"), Maginot opens in earnest with "Carbon Paper", a flurry of crashing grandeur that, like Death Cab's "The New Year" or Trail of Dead's "Relative Ways", heralds a newfound sense of clarity and confidence. While the latter band would've seemed like a laughably incongruous reference point for the Fawn five years ago, these days both strive for a similar balance of melody and menace, elegance and ugliness. Here, the Fawn's own gradual evolution is reflected in a handful of amorphous six-minute mini-epics: The title track sends Crossingham's coo on an upward surge of Sonic Youth-ish twinkles and tribal floor-tom thumps, slowly accruing a militaristic intensity before locking into nasty gutter blues; centerpiece track "Christmastime in the Fields" begins as a faint sea shanty that hitches onto a sinister bass pulse to brace us for the turbulence to come; and "Until It Starts Again" starts like a standard-issue Slint-esque prowl, only to evolve as it hits its soul-clap chorus. Where Broken Social Scene's narcotic-pop floats effortlessly skyward, Raising the Fawn strive for the same heights through a painstaking, brick-by-brick effort: guitars short out, harmonies crack, and calloused fingers grind fretboards with each abrupt chord change. Unsurprisingly, the songs here with more modest intents-- the straight jangle ballad "The Cloak and the Veil", or the sullen, Sebadoh-like denouement "Nocturne No. 2"-- don't inspire the same degree of emotional investment, never tapping into the band's talent for subtle transformation. The Maginot Line is a suitably precarious, frequently thrilling high-wire act for a band that, back home in Toronto, can open for anybody from Mogwai to the Wrens. Still, Raising the Fawn's singular identity is truly revealed when they refuse to fully identify with either camp."

Joker's Daughter

The Last Laugh

Folk/Country

Stephen M. Deusner

The origins of Joker's Daughter almost sound apocryphal. In 2003, London-born, Greek-descended folkie Helena Costas struck up a transatlantic correspondence with New York-based beat-sculptor Danger Mouse-- well before The Grey Album made him internet-famous and "Crazy" cemented his reputation as a producer with a deep knowledge of pop's usable past. They planned to collaborate eventually, and six years later, they finally have: The Last Laugh, another hyped project for him but a debut for her-- is their first album under the Joker's Daughter moniker, which is based on one of Costas' many revolving stage names. Costas and Danger Mouse are, to say the least, an unlikely pair. They inhabit vastly different realms, the rift between which gapes wider than the Atlantic. Danger Mouse is a studio musician, his music created indoors, while Costas' music sounds so bucolic as to be almost pagan. A few years ago, we might have labeled her freak folk, but that designation seems meaningless these days and misleading in her case. Comparisons to Joanna Newsom and Marissa Nadler will be inevitable, but Costas places herself squarely in the British folk tradition, harking back to Fotheringay, Pentangle, Vashti Bunyan, and Fairport Convention at their most folk and least rock. It's no small wonder that she would write about talking owls or King Arthur appearing to her during a walk in the country. Her world appears too caught up in the past to make room for contemporary beats and techniques, while Mouse doesn't seem the type to truck with odes to smiling dragonflies. And yet, the unlikelihood of their collaboration makes The Last Laugh at the very least a curio: Don't you want to know how these two sound together? They sound like a spacey pastoral, a shroom trip along Hadrian's Wall. With contributions ranging from subliminal to unmistakable, Danger Mouse makes Costas' beatific folk sound even more beatific, more folksy-- kaleidoscopic, storybookish-- while she gives him a whimsical framework on which to hang his samples, beats, and synths. For Costas, this is a walk along familiar glens; for Danger Mouse, it's a sojourn to the exotic countryside. Rather than infuse her songs with his own signature sounds, he approaches the project less like a producer and more like a backing band. Nevertheless, he gets to cut loose a little more here than he did on higher-profile collaborations with the Black Keys and Beck. His playful production defines the instrumental "Chasing Ticking Crocodile" and the bouncy "The Bull Bites Back" almost completely, but to "JD Folk Blues" he adds only a subtle thudding bass and a rambling keys solo to make it sound both Bryter-er and Layter-er. The title track burbles with ominous synth cascades and racing sitar riffs, while squelchy beats drive stand-out "Lucid", reinforcing Costas' lilting melody and excitable chorus. Opener "Worm's Head" gets what sounds like a live band (including Neutral Milk Hotel bass player Scott Spillane), "Jelly Belly" is fitted with a jaunty carnival-reggae beat that almost OD's on Ren Fest, and "The Running Goblin" treads on an oompah bass line and a nervously whistled theme. In general, there's more Costas on The Last Laugh than Danger Mouse, and she proves a charming guide along these crags and gullies. Her voice, airy and textured, ranges from whispery intimations to impish collusions, although her lyrics, which are capable of impressive wordplay, too often threaten to oversell the fantastical imagery. "Where has July gone?" she asks on "Cake and July". "Is it under my pillow?" And yet, such fancies, though perhaps too tweedily twee on their own, make Danger Mouse's contributions all the more fitting-- not only demanding the animation of his production, but providing a whimsical contrast to his exacting techniques. As the Joker's Daughter, Costas and Mouse are interested in marrying organic and synthetic sounds, not in contrasting them. The resulting album may be steeped in British folk history, yet the pair still finds room to play around with those sounds and traditions. The result is a sparkling debut for her and one of his most interesting collaborations.

Artist: Joker's Daughter, Album: The Last Laugh, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "The origins of Joker's Daughter almost sound apocryphal. In 2003, London-born, Greek-descended folkie Helena Costas struck up a transatlantic correspondence with New York-based beat-sculptor Danger Mouse-- well before The Grey Album made him internet-famous and "Crazy" cemented his reputation as a producer with a deep knowledge of pop's usable past. They planned to collaborate eventually, and six years later, they finally have: The Last Laugh, another hyped project for him but a debut for her-- is their first album under the Joker's Daughter moniker, which is based on one of Costas' many revolving stage names. Costas and Danger Mouse are, to say the least, an unlikely pair. They inhabit vastly different realms, the rift between which gapes wider than the Atlantic. Danger Mouse is a studio musician, his music created indoors, while Costas' music sounds so bucolic as to be almost pagan. A few years ago, we might have labeled her freak folk, but that designation seems meaningless these days and misleading in her case. Comparisons to Joanna Newsom and Marissa Nadler will be inevitable, but Costas places herself squarely in the British folk tradition, harking back to Fotheringay, Pentangle, Vashti Bunyan, and Fairport Convention at their most folk and least rock. It's no small wonder that she would write about talking owls or King Arthur appearing to her during a walk in the country. Her world appears too caught up in the past to make room for contemporary beats and techniques, while Mouse doesn't seem the type to truck with odes to smiling dragonflies. And yet, the unlikelihood of their collaboration makes The Last Laugh at the very least a curio: Don't you want to know how these two sound together? They sound like a spacey pastoral, a shroom trip along Hadrian's Wall. With contributions ranging from subliminal to unmistakable, Danger Mouse makes Costas' beatific folk sound even more beatific, more folksy-- kaleidoscopic, storybookish-- while she gives him a whimsical framework on which to hang his samples, beats, and synths. For Costas, this is a walk along familiar glens; for Danger Mouse, it's a sojourn to the exotic countryside. Rather than infuse her songs with his own signature sounds, he approaches the project less like a producer and more like a backing band. Nevertheless, he gets to cut loose a little more here than he did on higher-profile collaborations with the Black Keys and Beck. His playful production defines the instrumental "Chasing Ticking Crocodile" and the bouncy "The Bull Bites Back" almost completely, but to "JD Folk Blues" he adds only a subtle thudding bass and a rambling keys solo to make it sound both Bryter-er and Layter-er. The title track burbles with ominous synth cascades and racing sitar riffs, while squelchy beats drive stand-out "Lucid", reinforcing Costas' lilting melody and excitable chorus. Opener "Worm's Head" gets what sounds like a live band (including Neutral Milk Hotel bass player Scott Spillane), "Jelly Belly" is fitted with a jaunty carnival-reggae beat that almost OD's on Ren Fest, and "The Running Goblin" treads on an oompah bass line and a nervously whistled theme. In general, there's more Costas on The Last Laugh than Danger Mouse, and she proves a charming guide along these crags and gullies. Her voice, airy and textured, ranges from whispery intimations to impish collusions, although her lyrics, which are capable of impressive wordplay, too often threaten to oversell the fantastical imagery. "Where has July gone?" she asks on "Cake and July". "Is it under my pillow?" And yet, such fancies, though perhaps too tweedily twee on their own, make Danger Mouse's contributions all the more fitting-- not only demanding the animation of his production, but providing a whimsical contrast to his exacting techniques. As the Joker's Daughter, Costas and Mouse are interested in marrying organic and synthetic sounds, not in contrasting them. The resulting album may be steeped in British folk history, yet the pair still finds room to play around with those sounds and traditions. The result is a sparkling debut for her and one of his most interesting collaborations."

Quinn Walker

Laughter's An Asshole/Lion Land

Pop/R&B

Joshua Klein

The cover of Quinn Walker's Laughter's an Asshole/Lion Land depicts the artist, horns sprouting from his hairy head with what appears to be rainbow colored flames shooting from his mouth. But is Walker breathing fire, or is this proverbial "Technicolor yawn" in full effect? Walker likely intended the former, but the latter is more apt. After all, Laughter's an Asshole/Lion Land is spread out over two sprawling discs, not as a double but as two albums for the price of one. Yes, Walker's amassed so much music he's basically giving it away-- at least until Walker accumulates still more music to stuff on the next release. That shouldn't be a problem, since listening to these discs it's clear that everything must come out, like a big, messy, cleansing, gut-clearing barf. You think Devendra Banhart is all Id? You ain't heard nothing yet. And yet Walker's over-the-top approach-- massed vocals, kitchen sink instrumentation-- adequately, even impressively disguises the dearth of actual songs. "Bing Bang Boom", for example, is an ace approximation of Tropicalia, but it's still really just an exercise. Similarly, "Baby Neon", "Up Here the Air Is Fresh and Sweet", and "At the Party, in the Woods" are wacky, whacked-out helium voiced indulgences; the rest of the disc is alternately beautiful, silly, fantastic, goofy, and wonderful mood pieces akin to the Animal Collective axis. It's all so unpredictable, so inherently whimsical, colorful and kaleidoscopic, that it's practically psychedelic by default. The lack of focus is the focus, and on those paradoxical terms it's a pretty wild and wooly success. That's Laughter's an Asshole, at least. Lion Land is even more homebrew, the kind of catchall that DIY allows and encourages. It makes room for Ween-y ballads like "Save Your Love For Me" and the dreamy pop collision "Heaven With You Tonight", for the 1960s-styled bad trip freakout of "Through the Skull of a Goat" and the symphonic synths of "Let Freedom Ring", and for the harmony-rich, bigger than the Beach Boys swoon of "Warm in the Sun/Worn in the Sun". Whether there's room, or even a need, for all these ideas, all at once, is another matter. These tracks were recorded by Walker, mostly alone, in his bedroom, two years ago, and only recently got issued as this 2xCD trove of a debut. In retrospect, it sounds a little ahead of the curve, or at least perfectly in tune with passing trends. But it also sounds awfully familiar in light of all the likeminded acts proliferating as of late. If an album is novel and original much the same way another album is novel and original, does that mean the album's not really novel and original? Maybe it's best to just follow Walker's example and blaze blindly straight ahead, head held high. Not all winners come in first.

Artist: Quinn Walker, Album: Laughter's An Asshole/Lion Land, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "The cover of Quinn Walker's Laughter's an Asshole/Lion Land depicts the artist, horns sprouting from his hairy head with what appears to be rainbow colored flames shooting from his mouth. But is Walker breathing fire, or is this proverbial "Technicolor yawn" in full effect? Walker likely intended the former, but the latter is more apt. After all, Laughter's an Asshole/Lion Land is spread out over two sprawling discs, not as a double but as two albums for the price of one. Yes, Walker's amassed so much music he's basically giving it away-- at least until Walker accumulates still more music to stuff on the next release. That shouldn't be a problem, since listening to these discs it's clear that everything must come out, like a big, messy, cleansing, gut-clearing barf. You think Devendra Banhart is all Id? You ain't heard nothing yet. And yet Walker's over-the-top approach-- massed vocals, kitchen sink instrumentation-- adequately, even impressively disguises the dearth of actual songs. "Bing Bang Boom", for example, is an ace approximation of Tropicalia, but it's still really just an exercise. Similarly, "Baby Neon", "Up Here the Air Is Fresh and Sweet", and "At the Party, in the Woods" are wacky, whacked-out helium voiced indulgences; the rest of the disc is alternately beautiful, silly, fantastic, goofy, and wonderful mood pieces akin to the Animal Collective axis. It's all so unpredictable, so inherently whimsical, colorful and kaleidoscopic, that it's practically psychedelic by default. The lack of focus is the focus, and on those paradoxical terms it's a pretty wild and wooly success. That's Laughter's an Asshole, at least. Lion Land is even more homebrew, the kind of catchall that DIY allows and encourages. It makes room for Ween-y ballads like "Save Your Love For Me" and the dreamy pop collision "Heaven With You Tonight", for the 1960s-styled bad trip freakout of "Through the Skull of a Goat" and the symphonic synths of "Let Freedom Ring", and for the harmony-rich, bigger than the Beach Boys swoon of "Warm in the Sun/Worn in the Sun". Whether there's room, or even a need, for all these ideas, all at once, is another matter. These tracks were recorded by Walker, mostly alone, in his bedroom, two years ago, and only recently got issued as this 2xCD trove of a debut. In retrospect, it sounds a little ahead of the curve, or at least perfectly in tune with passing trends. But it also sounds awfully familiar in light of all the likeminded acts proliferating as of late. If an album is novel and original much the same way another album is novel and original, does that mean the album's not really novel and original? Maybe it's best to just follow Walker's example and blaze blindly straight ahead, head held high. Not all winners come in first."

Ævangelist

Omen Ex Simulacra

Kim Kelly

The second LP from geographically split duo Ævangelist marks the highlight of a busy two years. It all began with a 2011 EP, spilled into a well-received 2012 debut, and saw the emergence of two shorter releases earlier this year before culminating in the unique horror that is Omen Ex Simulacra. Not a bad track record for a pair forced to surmount the distance between Oregon and Illinois in order to achieve their thoroughly apocalyptic vision, especially given the unassailable quality of their burgeoning discography. Their second album continues in the same vein as its more organic-minded predecessor, but sees the band retreat even deeper into madness. Multi-instrumentalist and noisemonger Matron Thorn (Benighted in Sodom, Bethlehem) and vocalist Ascaris (Shavasana, ex-Velnias) have ramped up the intensity to an almost uncomfortable level. At first blush, Ævangelist seem fairly straight forward; fundamentally a black/death metal band, crossing the former’s atmospheric shudder with the latter’s blunt-force approach. If only it were that simple; black/death bands are par for the extreme metal course, but a band like this one only rears its ugly head once in a long while. Anaal Nathrakh’s "Total Fucking Necro/Codex Necro era, Deathspell Omega’s atonal explorations, and even the ghost of Gorguts’ riff-mangling weirdness may serve as signposts, but ultimately, Ævangelist walk alone. From opener “Veils*”* muffled, threatening first moments of factory noise, disembodied screams, and clattering electronic drumbeats until the lurching dread of “Abysscape”, the listener is confronted by claustrophobia, fear, and naked aggression. The electronic and industrial elements are even more pronounced this time around, with the ever-present drum machine holding court over a heavily mechanized infernal soundscape. The songs bleed into one another, largely homogenous save for unexpected horrors like the violent scrapings of violin on “Seclusion” that render once-beautiful strings into wailing captives. The inhuman percussion is never far out of earshot, and blends surprisingly seamlessly with the distorted riffs to present a united, uncompromising front. Storms of harsh noise roll overtop, manipulated and orchestrated with sadistic intent. Matron Thorns’ moaning synths twist into a phantom woman’s screams roiling under animalistic growls and merciless machinery; the sound is of defilement, of a devouring. Omen Ex Simulacra attacks its hapless victim like a ravenous beast, its nostrils filled with the scent of blood, intent on nothing but destruction. The most organic aspect of the recording, the vocalist, lay buried, corpselike, beneath the surface. These vocals are impressive and commanding. Ascaris snarls and gags like a rabid animal, varying his range from subterranean guttural roars to grotesque howls. His voice, as demonic and burdened by effects as it may be, is the closest thing to humanity that Ævangelist are willing to offer. They eschew the occult ephemera of so many others in favor of the much more frightening gods of emptiness, nothingness, and despair. The hell they inhabit was created by an uncaring and blood-drunk shadow, but their end-time visions are not biblical; they prophesize that most wretched of ends, one of slow decay, sinking earth, and enfeebled dissolution wrought by man and machine. For all its intensity, the album is no short sharp shock. Your punishment is meted out in measured blasts. Meaning, alas, it is long, painfully long—the torment stretches on and on, prolonging the agony past an hour’s time, further proof that these men want you to suffer as they suffer. Hell, they probably want you to suffer far more, though some editing would've provided a more impressive display of their unique aural violence.

Artist: Ævangelist, Album: Omen Ex Simulacra, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "The second LP from geographically split duo Ævangelist marks the highlight of a busy two years. It all began with a 2011 EP, spilled into a well-received 2012 debut, and saw the emergence of two shorter releases earlier this year before culminating in the unique horror that is Omen Ex Simulacra. Not a bad track record for a pair forced to surmount the distance between Oregon and Illinois in order to achieve their thoroughly apocalyptic vision, especially given the unassailable quality of their burgeoning discography. Their second album continues in the same vein as its more organic-minded predecessor, but sees the band retreat even deeper into madness. Multi-instrumentalist and noisemonger Matron Thorn (Benighted in Sodom, Bethlehem) and vocalist Ascaris (Shavasana, ex-Velnias) have ramped up the intensity to an almost uncomfortable level. At first blush, Ævangelist seem fairly straight forward; fundamentally a black/death metal band, crossing the former’s atmospheric shudder with the latter’s blunt-force approach. If only it were that simple; black/death bands are par for the extreme metal course, but a band like this one only rears its ugly head once in a long while. Anaal Nathrakh’s "Total Fucking Necro/Codex Necro era, Deathspell Omega’s atonal explorations, and even the ghost of Gorguts’ riff-mangling weirdness may serve as signposts, but ultimately, Ævangelist walk alone. From opener “Veils*”* muffled, threatening first moments of factory noise, disembodied screams, and clattering electronic drumbeats until the lurching dread of “Abysscape”, the listener is confronted by claustrophobia, fear, and naked aggression. The electronic and industrial elements are even more pronounced this time around, with the ever-present drum machine holding court over a heavily mechanized infernal soundscape. The songs bleed into one another, largely homogenous save for unexpected horrors like the violent scrapings of violin on “Seclusion” that render once-beautiful strings into wailing captives. The inhuman percussion is never far out of earshot, and blends surprisingly seamlessly with the distorted riffs to present a united, uncompromising front. Storms of harsh noise roll overtop, manipulated and orchestrated with sadistic intent. Matron Thorns’ moaning synths twist into a phantom woman’s screams roiling under animalistic growls and merciless machinery; the sound is of defilement, of a devouring. Omen Ex Simulacra attacks its hapless victim like a ravenous beast, its nostrils filled with the scent of blood, intent on nothing but destruction. The most organic aspect of the recording, the vocalist, lay buried, corpselike, beneath the surface. These vocals are impressive and commanding. Ascaris snarls and gags like a rabid animal, varying his range from subterranean guttural roars to grotesque howls. His voice, as demonic and burdened by effects as it may be, is the closest thing to humanity that Ævangelist are willing to offer. They eschew the occult ephemera of so many others in favor of the much more frightening gods of emptiness, nothingness, and despair. The hell they inhabit was created by an uncaring and blood-drunk shadow, but their end-time visions are not biblical; they prophesize that most wretched of ends, one of slow decay, sinking earth, and enfeebled dissolution wrought by man and machine. For all its intensity, the album is no short sharp shock. Your punishment is meted out in measured blasts. Meaning, alas, it is long, painfully long—the torment stretches on and on, prolonging the agony past an hour’s time, further proof that these men want you to suffer as they suffer. Hell, they probably want you to suffer far more, though some editing would've provided a more impressive display of their unique aural violence."

Ian Brown

The Greatest

Rock

Joe Tangari

My first experience with Ian Brown's solo output came in 1998, when his debut solo LP, Unfinished Monkey Business, was still somewhat fresh. I had a program on a small college station and tried to play the instrumental title track near the end of my show, but was forced to fade it out halfway through because it was too awful for words. Still, I was a Stone Roses maniac at the time and gave it another chance a week later, spinning "Corpses in Their Mouths" (in its entirety). Lyrics like "She smokes crack/ It's off the beaten track" notwithstanding, it was a pretty cool song, with a sort of slinky vibe, spaghetti Western guitars, and stylish production, and it somewhat restored my faith that perhaps one of the members of the Stone Roses might be capable of something great outside the band. Three Ian Brown albums later (discounting a remix disc), I'm still hesitant to refer to anything he's done as "great," but he has managed a few choice tracks on each solo LP, and now some of the best are gathered in one place on The Greatest, a collection with a title that's presumably intended as a play on his reputation for arrogance (in his music if not his personal life). Also included are his two UNKLE guest spots, "Be There" and "REIGN", and obligatory new tracks, "Return of the Fisherman" and "All Ablaze". Everything is arranged chronologically, and even alternate or new versions of certain songs are slotted with tracks from the same album as the original recording. "My Star" isn't exactly the most auspicious opener, with its horrendous faux Indian music intro, tired NASA samples, and hokey lyrics about astronauts and "space exploration," but the mellow detachment of "Corpses in Their Mouths" rights things quickly. The three Golden Greats cuts included are generally a cut above the material from the first album, especially the scientifically questionable "Dolphins Were Monkeys", which rides a funky, fuzzed-over Rhodes groove and employs busy production that makes it more difficult to understand what Brown is singing. "Golden Gaze" has the kind of fuzzy electro stomp you figure Led Zeppelin might have happened upon had they continued into the mid-90s. The mid-90s are what I most think of when listening to this disc, in fact. Even the material recorded well beyond the close of that decade, like the three tracks from 2004's Solarized, sound wedded to those years, and it's pretty remarkable how consistent the production style is from album to album. This collection works almost as though the songs were all recorded in a one or two-year span-- Solarized opener "Longsight M13", for instance, with its anthemic stomp, vaguely Eastern melody, and bleepy effects, sits comfortably next to the heavily phased electro-Britpop of "Can't See Me", a song six years its senior. The two UNKLE tracks stick out for their comparatively stark musical backings, but Brown's vocals, double-tracked as always, unite them with the other material easily. "Be There", a one-off single from 1999, comes across as too repetitive, but "REIGN", from UNKLE's unheralded second album Never, Never, Land, is pretty good, with a rough beat styled from some nice breaks and a well-chosen string sample. The song serves as a nice companion to Music of the Spheres opener "F.E.A.R.", one of Brown's best solo tracks with its well-scored string arrangement and slow, churning beat. As the cherries on top, the new songs aren't terribly sweet. "Return of the Fisherman" is clumsy, stuffed with vocals that don't line up with the rhythm track and a chorus that rhymes "king" and "sing" over and over again, while "All Ablaze" is serviceable but hardly essential, closing the compilation with a bit of buzzy psychedelia overrun with wandering special-effects guitar. The Greatest is easily Brown's best solo release, as it should be, even if he doesn't always hit the mark.

Artist: Ian Brown, Album: The Greatest, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "My first experience with Ian Brown's solo output came in 1998, when his debut solo LP, Unfinished Monkey Business, was still somewhat fresh. I had a program on a small college station and tried to play the instrumental title track near the end of my show, but was forced to fade it out halfway through because it was too awful for words. Still, I was a Stone Roses maniac at the time and gave it another chance a week later, spinning "Corpses in Their Mouths" (in its entirety). Lyrics like "She smokes crack/ It's off the beaten track" notwithstanding, it was a pretty cool song, with a sort of slinky vibe, spaghetti Western guitars, and stylish production, and it somewhat restored my faith that perhaps one of the members of the Stone Roses might be capable of something great outside the band. Three Ian Brown albums later (discounting a remix disc), I'm still hesitant to refer to anything he's done as "great," but he has managed a few choice tracks on each solo LP, and now some of the best are gathered in one place on The Greatest, a collection with a title that's presumably intended as a play on his reputation for arrogance (in his music if not his personal life). Also included are his two UNKLE guest spots, "Be There" and "REIGN", and obligatory new tracks, "Return of the Fisherman" and "All Ablaze". Everything is arranged chronologically, and even alternate or new versions of certain songs are slotted with tracks from the same album as the original recording. "My Star" isn't exactly the most auspicious opener, with its horrendous faux Indian music intro, tired NASA samples, and hokey lyrics about astronauts and "space exploration," but the mellow detachment of "Corpses in Their Mouths" rights things quickly. The three Golden Greats cuts included are generally a cut above the material from the first album, especially the scientifically questionable "Dolphins Were Monkeys", which rides a funky, fuzzed-over Rhodes groove and employs busy production that makes it more difficult to understand what Brown is singing. "Golden Gaze" has the kind of fuzzy electro stomp you figure Led Zeppelin might have happened upon had they continued into the mid-90s. The mid-90s are what I most think of when listening to this disc, in fact. Even the material recorded well beyond the close of that decade, like the three tracks from 2004's Solarized, sound wedded to those years, and it's pretty remarkable how consistent the production style is from album to album. This collection works almost as though the songs were all recorded in a one or two-year span-- Solarized opener "Longsight M13", for instance, with its anthemic stomp, vaguely Eastern melody, and bleepy effects, sits comfortably next to the heavily phased electro-Britpop of "Can't See Me", a song six years its senior. The two UNKLE tracks stick out for their comparatively stark musical backings, but Brown's vocals, double-tracked as always, unite them with the other material easily. "Be There", a one-off single from 1999, comes across as too repetitive, but "REIGN", from UNKLE's unheralded second album Never, Never, Land, is pretty good, with a rough beat styled from some nice breaks and a well-chosen string sample. The song serves as a nice companion to Music of the Spheres opener "F.E.A.R.", one of Brown's best solo tracks with its well-scored string arrangement and slow, churning beat. As the cherries on top, the new songs aren't terribly sweet. "Return of the Fisherman" is clumsy, stuffed with vocals that don't line up with the rhythm track and a chorus that rhymes "king" and "sing" over and over again, while "All Ablaze" is serviceable but hardly essential, closing the compilation with a bit of buzzy psychedelia overrun with wandering special-effects guitar. The Greatest is easily Brown's best solo release, as it should be, even if he doesn't always hit the mark."

Dog Bite

Velvet Changes

Steven Hyden

Amid the flurry of chatter inspired by the sudden release of the first My Bloody Valentine album in 22 years earlier this month was half-serious speculation about how m b v would affect the legion of indie bands still drafting in Loveless' jet stream all these decades later. Now that Kevin Shields was "back" orchestrating perfect storms of ugliness and beauty, would it put dozens, if not hundreds, of ineffectual *faux­-*gazer outfits out of business? The answer is: not exactly. But it does put records like Dog Bite's new Velvet Changes in a fresh, not-so-flattering perspective. Dog Bite is an Atlanta-based group fronted by Phil Jones, an artist and musician whose most notable gig to date is playing keyboards in Washed Out's touring band. On his own in Dog Bite (which includes members of Mood Rings, Balkans, and Red Sea), Jones applies a chillwave sensibility to the late 80s/early 90s reverbed-out dream-pop template. The songs on Velvet Changes unfold more or less as expected: The tempos are languid, the guitars are chiming and luminous, the bass lines are melodic though not particularly forceful, and the drumming is tepid. Dog Bite fetishizes iconic sounds without investing them with any of the transcendent emotion-- be it fury, sorrow, exhilaration, or a mix of all three-- normally associated with those sounds. What Velvet Changes offers instead of genuine feeling is superficial prettiness that reads as callow once you venture an inch deep into the murk. The album-opening "Forever, Until" putters forward on a moderately brisk rhythm guitar strum, which contrasts with Jones' expressionless, soporific vocal. The delivery of "Forever, Until" makes it impossible to discern what exactly Jones is warbling about, though by the next track, the vaguely danceable "Supersoaker," this seems like a blessing. "Hot dream/ Warm touch/ Cool bed/ You're tough," Jones sings with a boyish sigh-- a nonsensical line that's especially vacuous given the drowsy musical surroundings. At least "Native America" has an engaging, syncopated rhythm that briefly wipes the sleep out of Dog Bite's eyes. But like the rest of Velvet Changes, "Native America" doesn't build over five minutes so much as repeat itself to the point of tedium. A lack of musical sophistication or a dearth of good songwriting-- no matter the culprit for Velvet Changes' problems, Dog Bite has little to say and a severely limited vocabulary with which to say it. Aside from the rare musical flourish, like the progged-out synth that squiggles its way into the back half of "Prettiest Pills", Velvet Changes is one long, predictable drone. The classic records that inspired Dog Bite specialize in creating an air of mystery that draws you deeper into the music and your own heart. All Velvet Changes creates is a disquieting malaise that deflects any attempt to penetrate its billowy, monochromatic, meaningless contours.

Artist: Dog Bite, Album: Velvet Changes, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 4.6 Album review: "Amid the flurry of chatter inspired by the sudden release of the first My Bloody Valentine album in 22 years earlier this month was half-serious speculation about how m b v would affect the legion of indie bands still drafting in Loveless' jet stream all these decades later. Now that Kevin Shields was "back" orchestrating perfect storms of ugliness and beauty, would it put dozens, if not hundreds, of ineffectual *faux­-*gazer outfits out of business? The answer is: not exactly. But it does put records like Dog Bite's new Velvet Changes in a fresh, not-so-flattering perspective. Dog Bite is an Atlanta-based group fronted by Phil Jones, an artist and musician whose most notable gig to date is playing keyboards in Washed Out's touring band. On his own in Dog Bite (which includes members of Mood Rings, Balkans, and Red Sea), Jones applies a chillwave sensibility to the late 80s/early 90s reverbed-out dream-pop template. The songs on Velvet Changes unfold more or less as expected: The tempos are languid, the guitars are chiming and luminous, the bass lines are melodic though not particularly forceful, and the drumming is tepid. Dog Bite fetishizes iconic sounds without investing them with any of the transcendent emotion-- be it fury, sorrow, exhilaration, or a mix of all three-- normally associated with those sounds. What Velvet Changes offers instead of genuine feeling is superficial prettiness that reads as callow once you venture an inch deep into the murk. The album-opening "Forever, Until" putters forward on a moderately brisk rhythm guitar strum, which contrasts with Jones' expressionless, soporific vocal. The delivery of "Forever, Until" makes it impossible to discern what exactly Jones is warbling about, though by the next track, the vaguely danceable "Supersoaker," this seems like a blessing. "Hot dream/ Warm touch/ Cool bed/ You're tough," Jones sings with a boyish sigh-- a nonsensical line that's especially vacuous given the drowsy musical surroundings. At least "Native America" has an engaging, syncopated rhythm that briefly wipes the sleep out of Dog Bite's eyes. But like the rest of Velvet Changes, "Native America" doesn't build over five minutes so much as repeat itself to the point of tedium. A lack of musical sophistication or a dearth of good songwriting-- no matter the culprit for Velvet Changes' problems, Dog Bite has little to say and a severely limited vocabulary with which to say it. Aside from the rare musical flourish, like the progged-out synth that squiggles its way into the back half of "Prettiest Pills", Velvet Changes is one long, predictable drone. The classic records that inspired Dog Bite specialize in creating an air of mystery that draws you deeper into the music and your own heart. All Velvet Changes creates is a disquieting malaise that deflects any attempt to penetrate its billowy, monochromatic, meaningless contours."

Hovvdy

Taster

Rock

Colin Joyce

Hovvdy never really seem in a hurry to go anywhere fast. Since 2014, the Austin duo of Will Taylor and Charlie Martin has made frill-free rock music on a shoestring budget—they’ve shouted out both the convenience and happily strange compression that comes from recording songs in their iPhone voice memos—that centered on repetition and spacey simplicity. They make quiet compositions that plumb the cavernous depths of romantic and existential disillusionment with little more than some fuzzy guitar strums as accompaniment, but to hear them tell it, that started out of necessity rather than design. Both Taylor and Martin were drummers before Hovvdy, and neither has been playing guitar all that long, which they’ve said has made their instrumentals naturally “minimal.” But after an EP and a split with the similarly minded Austin band Loafer, they’ve figured out how to make those limitations work to their advantage. Their debut album Taster—released last year on tape, but reissued in remastered form by beloved Brooklyn indie rock label Double Double Whammy—rarely accelerates past a snail’s pace, but the interlocking pieces are deceptively complex. Recalling the unpretentious efforts of bands like Bedhead, Duster, and even Yo La Tengo’s more hushed moments, they stack simple riffs in idiosyncratic ways, and in the process put together 11 songs that are far more compelling than the sum of their parts. That’s perhaps most evident on “Can’t Wait,” one of the record’s more straightforwardly catchy moments, which weaves together at least three loosely interlocking guitar riffs over the course of its three minutes. Played by a different band, it’d feel like a rip of Weezer’s across-the-sea balladry, but Hovvdy’s take is a little more austere. A lazily drawled acoustic guitar and a barely on-beat lead make the scuzzy main riff feel a little dizzier than it would otherwise. Piling uncomplicated parts on one another until it resembles something like a pop song is a surprisingly sophisticated trick—and one they’re able to keenly repeat throughout Taster. Each song seems like it should topple over under its own weight, but it never does. Lyrically, the record revels in the overwhelming confusion and regret bound up in interpersonal relations. “In My Head” tells a surreal tale of romantic pining, describing scenes in small jagged snippets, like a conversation that takes place “on the gulf in that screened-in room.” On “Try Hard,” they perform a clever autopsy of the failures of a past relationship (“You could not call your dad back then/Forgot his name again/I never did try hard”). It’s relatively standard stuff for this sort of downcast rock music, but the beauty is in its lack of resolution. All conflicts remain unsolved—there are only events, no answers. Taylor and Martin have jokingly referred to their music as “pillow core” over the years, which is fitting for Taster both in its downy sonics and fragmented lyricism. As they flit through various half memories and upsetting realizations, it feels like the thoughts that spin through your head as you lie in bed late at night, waiting for sleep to overtake you. Those liminal moments can be puzzling, filled with internal conflicts that are hard to untangle. But there’s a suggestion of how to move forward embedded in Taster: start at the beginning, go slow.

Artist: Hovvdy, Album: Taster, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Hovvdy never really seem in a hurry to go anywhere fast. Since 2014, the Austin duo of Will Taylor and Charlie Martin has made frill-free rock music on a shoestring budget—they’ve shouted out both the convenience and happily strange compression that comes from recording songs in their iPhone voice memos—that centered on repetition and spacey simplicity. They make quiet compositions that plumb the cavernous depths of romantic and existential disillusionment with little more than some fuzzy guitar strums as accompaniment, but to hear them tell it, that started out of necessity rather than design. Both Taylor and Martin were drummers before Hovvdy, and neither has been playing guitar all that long, which they’ve said has made their instrumentals naturally “minimal.” But after an EP and a split with the similarly minded Austin band Loafer, they’ve figured out how to make those limitations work to their advantage. Their debut album Taster—released last year on tape, but reissued in remastered form by beloved Brooklyn indie rock label Double Double Whammy—rarely accelerates past a snail’s pace, but the interlocking pieces are deceptively complex. Recalling the unpretentious efforts of bands like Bedhead, Duster, and even Yo La Tengo’s more hushed moments, they stack simple riffs in idiosyncratic ways, and in the process put together 11 songs that are far more compelling than the sum of their parts. That’s perhaps most evident on “Can’t Wait,” one of the record’s more straightforwardly catchy moments, which weaves together at least three loosely interlocking guitar riffs over the course of its three minutes. Played by a different band, it’d feel like a rip of Weezer’s across-the-sea balladry, but Hovvdy’s take is a little more austere. A lazily drawled acoustic guitar and a barely on-beat lead make the scuzzy main riff feel a little dizzier than it would otherwise. Piling uncomplicated parts on one another until it resembles something like a pop song is a surprisingly sophisticated trick—and one they’re able to keenly repeat throughout Taster. Each song seems like it should topple over under its own weight, but it never does. Lyrically, the record revels in the overwhelming confusion and regret bound up in interpersonal relations. “In My Head” tells a surreal tale of romantic pining, describing scenes in small jagged snippets, like a conversation that takes place “on the gulf in that screened-in room.” On “Try Hard,” they perform a clever autopsy of the failures of a past relationship (“You could not call your dad back then/Forgot his name again/I never did try hard”). It’s relatively standard stuff for this sort of downcast rock music, but the beauty is in its lack of resolution. All conflicts remain unsolved—there are only events, no answers. Taylor and Martin have jokingly referred to their music as “pillow core” over the years, which is fitting for Taster both in its downy sonics and fragmented lyricism. As they flit through various half memories and upsetting realizations, it feels like the thoughts that spin through your head as you lie in bed late at night, waiting for sleep to overtake you. Those liminal moments can be puzzling, filled with internal conflicts that are hard to untangle. But there’s a suggestion of how to move forward embedded in Taster: start at the beginning, go slow."

Nosaj Thing

Parallels

Electronic

Nina Corcoran

Los Angeles electronic producer Jason Chung was never necessarily a loner, but he’s spent the last few years using his Nosaj Thing moniker as a way to try on an extroverted lifestyle. For the first time in his career, Chung has said he decided to become more sociable, and his fourth album, Parallels, captures that change. The Parallels sessions were a chance to make opposites attract: beauty and dissonance, love and regret, soul and machine. With opener “Nowhere,” that means partnering meditative piano with a rushed phone call. The voice, presumably belonging to Chung, discusses the album title, but fittingly, the audio sounds more like a voicemail, one of the few forms of audible speech that allows someone to converse without actually interacting in real time. Few of the album’s other conjoined thematic proxies come across as clearly. Chung’s usual trademarks—savvy collaborations with indie rockers like Blonde Redhead, austere dance beats, and a distinct, personable anxiousness—are still present, but he stops centering songs around them. Instead, he tries new sounds, many of which latch onto vocalists to find their groove, like the bass-heavy pop gloss of “Way We Were” and the brooding soul of “All Points Back to U.” The prior features Zuri Marley, who Chung met while singing backup vocals during a Blood Orange show, which might explain the mellow keyboards and flirtatious tone. The latter features UK electronica artist Steve Spacek, and Chung spins the song into a dizzying soul groove with 4/4 kick drum that centers around Spacek’s neo-soul delivery. Even the collaboration with Blonde Redhead’s Kazu Makino on “How We Do” sees Chung mixing opposite flavors, dropping trap-like synth behind her raspy whispers. On Parallels, Chung sounds less concerned with deciphering his own musical identity than letting collaborators help steer him. Just look at his “Light” series—a collection of numbered tracks, ranging from “Light #1” to “Light #5,” that appeared on all three of his previous albums—which comes to a sudden halt on Parallels. In the past, this series served as a measuring stick for Chung’s stylistic growth from glitch hop to electronic minimalism. In the place of “Light,” Chung inserts a handful of subdued pieces that float aimlessly. “TM,” a muted flash of bright synth, whirrs peacefully in no particular direction. “Get Like” is primed for a rap remix, but without lyrics over it, the sobering instrumental plays out like a faceless SoundCloud beat. The malleable nature of these songs could be a plus for DJs who want a flexible album. But when Chung takes a stance, like he does with the bite-sized vocal samples used on “U G,” he can offer melodic layers to rival the flow of Caribou’s darkest dance numbers. When looking at the reserved tracks spread across Nosaj Thing’s albums, it becomes clear that the vocalists on 2013’s Home pushed Chung towards his softest songwriting, whereas the vocalists on Parallels remind Chung to up his edge—something Parallels could admittedly benefit from more of. When Chung takes the time to really carve out grand, hook-free minimalism with mesmerizing detail, it can pay off: The pitched, breathy exhales on “Sister” make it sound like a Holly Herndon B-side. But across Parallels, he seems so committed to the possibility of an open-ended project that he gets lost in the mix—where once he was a maestro of controlling space. Still, these subtle and intentional shifts suggest Chung could make a more focused album in the future, if only because it will be coming from a clearer headspace.

Artist: Nosaj Thing, Album: Parallels, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Los Angeles electronic producer Jason Chung was never necessarily a loner, but he’s spent the last few years using his Nosaj Thing moniker as a way to try on an extroverted lifestyle. For the first time in his career, Chung has said he decided to become more sociable, and his fourth album, Parallels, captures that change. The Parallels sessions were a chance to make opposites attract: beauty and dissonance, love and regret, soul and machine. With opener “Nowhere,” that means partnering meditative piano with a rushed phone call. The voice, presumably belonging to Chung, discusses the album title, but fittingly, the audio sounds more like a voicemail, one of the few forms of audible speech that allows someone to converse without actually interacting in real time. Few of the album’s other conjoined thematic proxies come across as clearly. Chung’s usual trademarks—savvy collaborations with indie rockers like Blonde Redhead, austere dance beats, and a distinct, personable anxiousness—are still present, but he stops centering songs around them. Instead, he tries new sounds, many of which latch onto vocalists to find their groove, like the bass-heavy pop gloss of “Way We Were” and the brooding soul of “All Points Back to U.” The prior features Zuri Marley, who Chung met while singing backup vocals during a Blood Orange show, which might explain the mellow keyboards and flirtatious tone. The latter features UK electronica artist Steve Spacek, and Chung spins the song into a dizzying soul groove with 4/4 kick drum that centers around Spacek’s neo-soul delivery. Even the collaboration with Blonde Redhead’s Kazu Makino on “How We Do” sees Chung mixing opposite flavors, dropping trap-like synth behind her raspy whispers. On Parallels, Chung sounds less concerned with deciphering his own musical identity than letting collaborators help steer him. Just look at his “Light” series—a collection of numbered tracks, ranging from “Light #1” to “Light #5,” that appeared on all three of his previous albums—which comes to a sudden halt on Parallels. In the past, this series served as a measuring stick for Chung’s stylistic growth from glitch hop to electronic minimalism. In the place of “Light,” Chung inserts a handful of subdued pieces that float aimlessly. “TM,” a muted flash of bright synth, whirrs peacefully in no particular direction. “Get Like” is primed for a rap remix, but without lyrics over it, the sobering instrumental plays out like a faceless SoundCloud beat. The malleable nature of these songs could be a plus for DJs who want a flexible album. But when Chung takes a stance, like he does with the bite-sized vocal samples used on “U G,” he can offer melodic layers to rival the flow of Caribou’s darkest dance numbers. When looking at the reserved tracks spread across Nosaj Thing’s albums, it becomes clear that the vocalists on 2013’s Home pushed Chung towards his softest songwriting, whereas the vocalists on Parallels remind Chung to up his edge—something Parallels could admittedly benefit from more of. When Chung takes the time to really carve out grand, hook-free minimalism with mesmerizing detail, it can pay off: The pitched, breathy exhales on “Sister” make it sound like a Holly Herndon B-side. But across Parallels, he seems so committed to the possibility of an open-ended project that he gets lost in the mix—where once he was a maestro of controlling space. Still, these subtle and intentional shifts suggest Chung could make a more focused album in the future, if only because it will be coming from a clearer headspace."

Shannon Wright

Let in the Light

Rock

Rob Mitchum

There is no more delicious experience as a music critic than being accused of sexism. It's a delight to hear via e-mail how your opinion on one particular album by one particular artist can be extrapolated to a worldview that favors the marginalization and stereotyping of an entire gender. This despite all my best efforts to avoid the common pitfalls of a community that continues to be dominated by male voices: no sexualized descriptors like "chanteuse" or condescending adjectives like "cute," no allegations that there is a male Svengali behind the curtain, no commentary on how attractive (or un-) I find the artist in question. Yet all the same, I still feel pangs of guilt when I look at my music library and see the men outnumbering the women by a healthy margin. It's better than it once was, and two of my last three year-end favorites were bands with female singers, but the disparity remains undeniable, an easily interpretable manifestation of my personal taste. It doesn't help matters that recent indie rock trending, particularly the rise of coffee-shop folk, has pushed a lot of female artists in a rather dreary direction; in other words, there are a lot more Cat Powers these days than Sleater-Kinneys. Not that there's anything wrong with Chan Marshall, though her sparse and moody sound can very easily become too slick or too dilute in the wrong hands. Shannon Wright lives dangerously on this border throughout Let in the Light, sticking close to the usual guitar and piano-centric formulas and singing in a distinct but familiar low, raspy alto. The production skews twilight, the arrangements tend to be solo, and her lyrics bend towards the poetic and the metaphorical, with a couple maybe/maybe-not Dylan references thrown in for good measure. All par for the singer-songwriter course. Wright also drifts back and forth on the casual vs. formal axis, some tracks ("Defy This Love", "Steadfast and True") built on recital-proper piano parts, while others ("When the Light Shone Down", "In the Morning") shamble along at a sleepy pace and leave the edges rough. The fancier piano numbers are more unique, but also more restrictive: Wright composes pretty instrumental melodies with a classical flourish one rarely hears from a rock artist on ivory keys, but their complexity leaves little space for her voice to navigate, even in solo arrangements. With the guitar, the opposite tends to be true, as Wright's deliberate and mellow style calls out for some caffeine and mimes Girlysound-era Liz Phair a bit too closely. The coffee theory is borne out by the more strident tracks, which tend to be album highlights, especially in contrast to the majority melancholy. "St. Pete" is built on Wright's most jagged guitar part, and requires her to go beyond her currently-preferred whisper to a slightly snotty bellow more in line with her earlier full-band sound. That welcome snarl comes back on the choruses of "Don't You Doubt Me", where an unleashed drummer and two off-kilter guitars lend the tune a discomforting urgency, and the album-closing "Everybody's Got Their Own Part to Play", a triumphant piano-rock epic with an acidic underbelly. These flashes of menace amidst the hazier surroundings make me wish they were more frequent, that Wright still favored the toothier approach of her previous records. It's these harsher moments that separate her from the indie female singer-songwriter pack, a clique that seems increasingly drawn into the dreary hypnosis of heavy atmosphere and somnambulant tempo. Ah, but perhaps I shouldn't generalize.

Artist: Shannon Wright, Album: Let in the Light, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "There is no more delicious experience as a music critic than being accused of sexism. It's a delight to hear via e-mail how your opinion on one particular album by one particular artist can be extrapolated to a worldview that favors the marginalization and stereotyping of an entire gender. This despite all my best efforts to avoid the common pitfalls of a community that continues to be dominated by male voices: no sexualized descriptors like "chanteuse" or condescending adjectives like "cute," no allegations that there is a male Svengali behind the curtain, no commentary on how attractive (or un-) I find the artist in question. Yet all the same, I still feel pangs of guilt when I look at my music library and see the men outnumbering the women by a healthy margin. It's better than it once was, and two of my last three year-end favorites were bands with female singers, but the disparity remains undeniable, an easily interpretable manifestation of my personal taste. It doesn't help matters that recent indie rock trending, particularly the rise of coffee-shop folk, has pushed a lot of female artists in a rather dreary direction; in other words, there are a lot more Cat Powers these days than Sleater-Kinneys. Not that there's anything wrong with Chan Marshall, though her sparse and moody sound can very easily become too slick or too dilute in the wrong hands. Shannon Wright lives dangerously on this border throughout Let in the Light, sticking close to the usual guitar and piano-centric formulas and singing in a distinct but familiar low, raspy alto. The production skews twilight, the arrangements tend to be solo, and her lyrics bend towards the poetic and the metaphorical, with a couple maybe/maybe-not Dylan references thrown in for good measure. All par for the singer-songwriter course. Wright also drifts back and forth on the casual vs. formal axis, some tracks ("Defy This Love", "Steadfast and True") built on recital-proper piano parts, while others ("When the Light Shone Down", "In the Morning") shamble along at a sleepy pace and leave the edges rough. The fancier piano numbers are more unique, but also more restrictive: Wright composes pretty instrumental melodies with a classical flourish one rarely hears from a rock artist on ivory keys, but their complexity leaves little space for her voice to navigate, even in solo arrangements. With the guitar, the opposite tends to be true, as Wright's deliberate and mellow style calls out for some caffeine and mimes Girlysound-era Liz Phair a bit too closely. The coffee theory is borne out by the more strident tracks, which tend to be album highlights, especially in contrast to the majority melancholy. "St. Pete" is built on Wright's most jagged guitar part, and requires her to go beyond her currently-preferred whisper to a slightly snotty bellow more in line with her earlier full-band sound. That welcome snarl comes back on the choruses of "Don't You Doubt Me", where an unleashed drummer and two off-kilter guitars lend the tune a discomforting urgency, and the album-closing "Everybody's Got Their Own Part to Play", a triumphant piano-rock epic with an acidic underbelly. These flashes of menace amidst the hazier surroundings make me wish they were more frequent, that Wright still favored the toothier approach of her previous records. It's these harsher moments that separate her from the indie female singer-songwriter pack, a clique that seems increasingly drawn into the dreary hypnosis of heavy atmosphere and somnambulant tempo. Ah, but perhaps I shouldn't generalize."

Amor De Días

The House at Sea

Pop/R&B,Rock

Ian Cohen

Alasdair MacLean's unfailingly romantic perspective and vivid imagery alone make for great poetry, and few singers ever achieve as perfect a marriage of content and tone as he did on the Clientele's early records. His voice sounds the way a good memory feels, warm, soft around the edges, lived in, and detailed enough to invite exploration for a while. But those qualities can become a liability for someone trying to live in the present; whenever the Clientele attempted to rock or sound contemporary, he sounded out of his element. With the Clientele on hiatus, his collaboration with Pipas' Lupe Nunez-Fernandez didn't exactly vouch for a change of scenery as the proper remedy; Amor de Días' 2011 debut, Street of the Love of Days, preemptively mitigated expectations with its apologetic presentation, and still managed to underwhelm. Now with The House at Sea legitimizing Amor de Días as a proper band, its predecessor seems a necessary, awkward step in transition. Though The House at Sea still comes off like a travel brochure in audio form, this time MacLean and Nunez-Fernandez at least feel like the people in it rather than those looking at it. It's a significant improvement on Love of Days, and almost all of it can be chalked up to commitment. Amor de Días' debut was more of a compilation, recorded "in secret" over three years with an open-ended personnel, flipping through 15 songs in various states of completion over its 42 minutes. The House at Sea is the result of nine days in the studio with a steady rhythm section, and each of its 12 songs feels finished and fussed over. While still mostly based in decidedly non-rock forms such as bossa nova and English and Spanish pastoral folk, the songs are considerably more defined-- certain parts even come close to rocking, such as Nunez-Fernandez's surprisingly fleet-footed "Day" and the frisky, nylon-guitar thrum powering "In the Winter Sun". Within this context, a three-chord British Invasion throwback ("Jean's Waving) that could fit on the Clientele's later, more extroverted records has an immediacy that sounds completely out of place on The House at Sea. More typical are the magic hour lullabies in both native tongues (and even if you haven't taken Spanish since high school, you can follow "Viento del Mar" or "Piedras Rotas" fairly easily) and they're certainly lovely if not a little lyrically lightweight. And while MacLean has tried to slip spoken word into Clientele albums with varying degrees of success, "The Sunlit Estate" and "Maureen" are free-form pieces that function better within Amor de Días' looser artistic restrictions. Centerpiece "Viento del Mar" hinges on a bold major chord change, and, combined with a sinister, wandering bassline and Nunez-Fernandez's nearly subliminal vocals, it's basically a shoegaze song (something along the lines of Serena-Maneesh) relieved of its distortion and reverb, at least until a coda of surprisingly doomy guitar soloing appears. That said, even with the bolstered band interplay, every instrument feels like it's being massaged rather than strummed, plucked, or hit-- MacLean's voice barely gets above a whisper, Nunez-Fernandez repeats little more than the titles of "Day" and "In The Winter Sun" like she's breathing these compositions into life, and, whatever texture you might get from individual cymbal crashes or a guitar distortions, the whole eventually becomes as gritty as a white sand beach. The House at Sea was inspired by time spent in both London and Madrid, and most of the vocals are given to MacLean, but it's still more far more Mediterranean in pace and climate. For the most part, it's "yacht rock" in the sense that The House at Sea actually makes you feel like you're on a yacht (or catamaran) as opposed to imagining a coked-out, bearded millionaire in his studio. Even if Amor de Días stands to become MacLean's main focus instead of a side project, he still gets to play the tourist, enviably relaxed and ultimately giving himself a break from the hard work. This inherently limits the overall effect: Clientele songs distinguished themselves from the scores of other nostalgists through their awareness of place, of seeing things a casual onlooker might not, or they found new ways to express the mundane. The House at Sea begins with a classic MacLean-ism ("The streets in June/ The silver moon/ Like paint on glass"), and from there onward, he's not an expert on his surroundings, just someone taking it all in. While the best work of the Clientele created worlds, The House at Sea charmingly aspires to being a photo album, something to inspire your own travels rather than serve as a substitute for them.

Artist: Amor De Días, Album: The House at Sea, Genre: Pop/R&B,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Alasdair MacLean's unfailingly romantic perspective and vivid imagery alone make for great poetry, and few singers ever achieve as perfect a marriage of content and tone as he did on the Clientele's early records. His voice sounds the way a good memory feels, warm, soft around the edges, lived in, and detailed enough to invite exploration for a while. But those qualities can become a liability for someone trying to live in the present; whenever the Clientele attempted to rock or sound contemporary, he sounded out of his element. With the Clientele on hiatus, his collaboration with Pipas' Lupe Nunez-Fernandez didn't exactly vouch for a change of scenery as the proper remedy; Amor de Días' 2011 debut, Street of the Love of Days, preemptively mitigated expectations with its apologetic presentation, and still managed to underwhelm. Now with The House at Sea legitimizing Amor de Días as a proper band, its predecessor seems a necessary, awkward step in transition. Though The House at Sea still comes off like a travel brochure in audio form, this time MacLean and Nunez-Fernandez at least feel like the people in it rather than those looking at it. It's a significant improvement on Love of Days, and almost all of it can be chalked up to commitment. Amor de Días' debut was more of a compilation, recorded "in secret" over three years with an open-ended personnel, flipping through 15 songs in various states of completion over its 42 minutes. The House at Sea is the result of nine days in the studio with a steady rhythm section, and each of its 12 songs feels finished and fussed over. While still mostly based in decidedly non-rock forms such as bossa nova and English and Spanish pastoral folk, the songs are considerably more defined-- certain parts even come close to rocking, such as Nunez-Fernandez's surprisingly fleet-footed "Day" and the frisky, nylon-guitar thrum powering "In the Winter Sun". Within this context, a three-chord British Invasion throwback ("Jean's Waving) that could fit on the Clientele's later, more extroverted records has an immediacy that sounds completely out of place on The House at Sea. More typical are the magic hour lullabies in both native tongues (and even if you haven't taken Spanish since high school, you can follow "Viento del Mar" or "Piedras Rotas" fairly easily) and they're certainly lovely if not a little lyrically lightweight. And while MacLean has tried to slip spoken word into Clientele albums with varying degrees of success, "The Sunlit Estate" and "Maureen" are free-form pieces that function better within Amor de Días' looser artistic restrictions. Centerpiece "Viento del Mar" hinges on a bold major chord change, and, combined with a sinister, wandering bassline and Nunez-Fernandez's nearly subliminal vocals, it's basically a shoegaze song (something along the lines of Serena-Maneesh) relieved of its distortion and reverb, at least until a coda of surprisingly doomy guitar soloing appears. That said, even with the bolstered band interplay, every instrument feels like it's being massaged rather than strummed, plucked, or hit-- MacLean's voice barely gets above a whisper, Nunez-Fernandez repeats little more than the titles of "Day" and "In The Winter Sun" like she's breathing these compositions into life, and, whatever texture you might get from individual cymbal crashes or a guitar distortions, the whole eventually becomes as gritty as a white sand beach. The House at Sea was inspired by time spent in both London and Madrid, and most of the vocals are given to MacLean, but it's still more far more Mediterranean in pace and climate. For the most part, it's "yacht rock" in the sense that The House at Sea actually makes you feel like you're on a yacht (or catamaran) as opposed to imagining a coked-out, bearded millionaire in his studio. Even if Amor de Días stands to become MacLean's main focus instead of a side project, he still gets to play the tourist, enviably relaxed and ultimately giving himself a break from the hard work. This inherently limits the overall effect: Clientele songs distinguished themselves from the scores of other nostalgists through their awareness of place, of seeing things a casual onlooker might not, or they found new ways to express the mundane. The House at Sea begins with a classic MacLean-ism ("The streets in June/ The silver moon/ Like paint on glass"), and from there onward, he's not an expert on his surroundings, just someone taking it all in. While the best work of the Clientele created worlds, The House at Sea charmingly aspires to being a photo album, something to inspire your own travels rather than serve as a substitute for them."

G-Side

Gz II Godz

Rap

David Turner

After Huntsville, Ala. rap duo G-Side released iSLAND in 2011, they called it quits. The separation involved no Twitter beefs or scandalous dramatics, though; rather, ST 2 Lettaz and Clova claimed that the breakup was mutual, and the amicable musical divorce comes to a close with their return, marked by the new full-length Gz II Godz. The duo pick up where they left off with their humble-focused style, suggesting that, despite the time away, they haven't changed much. In the years marked by the duo's absence, rap has undergone quite a few sonic changes; most notably, Lex Luger's booming maximalism that kicked open the decade has been replaced with the west coast minimalism of DJ Mustard. Gz II Godz sounds largely indifferent to that shift, with a majority of the album production handled by their frequent collaborators Block Beattaz. From the weightless “2004” to the sleepy bass buzz of “Bassheadz”, the album sticks closer to the trance-y, dreamy sound that the duo's gained notice for; indeed, Block Beataz’s ephemeral synths and light trunk-rattling thump make for staring into stars on a late-night drive. G-Side’s primary lyrical concern is focused, again, on achieving financial success without resorting to illicit means. ST 2 Lettaz and Clova rap about international flights, smoking weed, and fashion trends, but their moments of braggadocio are grounded in G-Side's day-to-day musical grind. On “Statue”, they rap, “Tell them build a statue/ Build a statue of a real nigga/ In the middle of the city,” which reveals them buying into their own established legacy. But Gz II Godz also finds G-Side zeroing in on preserving their name, which, for them, means striking a balance between figuring out how to pay rent and continuing to expand their fanbase. In an interview with SPIN that announced the duo separation, ST 2 Lettaz admitted, “We needed a fresh start or a fresh look—it had gotten stale,” which was perhaps a realistic view of the group's future. Honesty has always been located at the core of G-Side’s music, but they remain striving nonetheless, and Gz II Godz is the work of a duo that have only gotten wiser since they last rhymed together.

Artist: G-Side, Album: Gz II Godz, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "After Huntsville, Ala. rap duo G-Side released iSLAND in 2011, they called it quits. The separation involved no Twitter beefs or scandalous dramatics, though; rather, ST 2 Lettaz and Clova claimed that the breakup was mutual, and the amicable musical divorce comes to a close with their return, marked by the new full-length Gz II Godz. The duo pick up where they left off with their humble-focused style, suggesting that, despite the time away, they haven't changed much. In the years marked by the duo's absence, rap has undergone quite a few sonic changes; most notably, Lex Luger's booming maximalism that kicked open the decade has been replaced with the west coast minimalism of DJ Mustard. Gz II Godz sounds largely indifferent to that shift, with a majority of the album production handled by their frequent collaborators Block Beattaz. From the weightless “2004” to the sleepy bass buzz of “Bassheadz”, the album sticks closer to the trance-y, dreamy sound that the duo's gained notice for; indeed, Block Beataz’s ephemeral synths and light trunk-rattling thump make for staring into stars on a late-night drive. G-Side’s primary lyrical concern is focused, again, on achieving financial success without resorting to illicit means. ST 2 Lettaz and Clova rap about international flights, smoking weed, and fashion trends, but their moments of braggadocio are grounded in G-Side's day-to-day musical grind. On “Statue”, they rap, “Tell them build a statue/ Build a statue of a real nigga/ In the middle of the city,” which reveals them buying into their own established legacy. But Gz II Godz also finds G-Side zeroing in on preserving their name, which, for them, means striking a balance between figuring out how to pay rent and continuing to expand their fanbase. In an interview with SPIN that announced the duo separation, ST 2 Lettaz admitted, “We needed a fresh start or a fresh look—it had gotten stale,” which was perhaps a realistic view of the group's future. Honesty has always been located at the core of G-Side’s music, but they remain striving nonetheless, and Gz II Godz is the work of a duo that have only gotten wiser since they last rhymed together."

Hop Along

Bark Your Head Off, Dog

Rock

Jayson Greene

If you listen to Frances Quinlan sing long enough, you will attempt to describe her voice. This is a trap, and you should not do this. The frontwoman for Philadelphia indie rock band Hop Along doesn’t have one voice—she might have 10. Listing them would yield no insight, only a deranged sommelier’s tasting notes: cat, bugle, Rod Stewart, roaring motorcycle. Howling, hooting, crooning, cracking—the real intrigue behind these magnificent sounds isn’t how but why. Quinlan is one of rock’s great listeners, keen to the way people’s internal monologues fill a space like bad weather, and she seems to be trying to channel them all at once in her voice. She wields her empathy the way some rock singers brandish anger, and it’s a smarter tool; empathy cuts cleaner. Her singing is a reasonable response to an impossible task—you try being this many people and see how you sound. Bark Your Head Off, Dog is only Hop Along’s third studio album, but they’ve assumed so many guises, and lit on so many moods, that they have the poise and gravitas of lifers. On 2015’s Painted Shut alone, we were given the unloved old man of “Texas Funeral,” angry at California, his own memories, his uncomprehending children; the waitress frozen by the appearance of a wronged woman at her restaurant; the forgotten jazz cornetist Charles “Buddy” Bolden, thrashing and foaming in the street in front of horrified crowds. Bark Your Head Off, Dog adds new characters to this gallery, but now they are painted in abstractions. Some of them seem to be Quinlan, seen at an angle or from the third-person—“I was asleep with my mouth open the whole drive down,” she remembers on “The Fox in Motion.” Some of them are angry men, a headspace she occupies with disarming ease. Many of them are just blips of color, impossible to either discern or forget. On “Somewhere a Judge,” she sings, “There you have it, the beginning and the end/The intern’s shovel still covered in shit/Death, indiscriminate, drags off the newborn buck with the broken leg.” Like Elvis Costello, Quinlan subtracts time and place from an otherwise-specific scenario. You are left with the flavor of a story, maddening, on your tongue. “How You Got Your Limp” feels like the album in miniature. Like Painted Shut’s “Waitress,” it’s set in the fraught arena of the service industry, where your thoughts remain your own but your time is not. The lyrics detail various indignities: A bar hop on probation shows up to work on time and is arrested anyway, while a drunken professor is escorted out of the bar, shouting at his students, safe in his power. “I can hear you, the whole bar can,” Quinlan observes acidly. On previous albums, this line would be an incitement to shouting. Here, the delivery is nearly tender, suggesting that scorn and contempt foster their own kind of intimacy. The album as a whole feels warmer, more spacious. The songs on Painted Shut were doled out like 10 fist-shaped car door dents, but Bark Your Head Off, Dog moves at an agitated hum. The band softens its pugilist’s stance and pokes at some of the folk roots that showed through on Get Disowned, their first album. There are flecks of mandolin, saloon piano, and the dusty caw of some fiddles on “What the Writer Meant.” The string arrangement on “How You Got Your Limp” feels as unruly as their guitars used to. The most revelatory moments on Bark Your Head Off, Dog open up onto calmer spaces: “Not Abel” plinks and bristles with harps and pizzicato. Quinlan’s lyrics, as ever, are densely wrought, but her voice knows how to loosen them up and make them flow over the music. (“In an open field, man is guilty always/Mud is yellow, and the ground is moving/Sun is yellow, and the ground is moving.” How would you sing these lines? Quinlan will show you why your way is wrong.) Interestingly, the rockers feel a little staid this time around. The speckled rhythm guitar in “Somewhere a Judge” feels like a tentative nod towards Paramore territory, but Hop Along is a little too intense to really bounce. “How Simple” adopts a cheery lilt that feels too tucked-in, too starchy, for a heart as unruly as Quinlan’s. The thrill of this band often comes with the seething sense that they are pacing inside their own arrangements, yearning to burst free. The disappearing guitar scrapes and cymbal splashes introduce a slightly unwelcome tidiness. When Quinlan applies her acoustic guitar like a Brillo pad and the arrangements sprout into new corners, you can hear Hop Along tracing lines that will carry them forward. The album’s final third, in particular, gleams with promise, a liquid, fleet-footed, and surprising suite of songs that contain some of Quinlan’s most devastating observations. On “Look of Love,” she remembers listening with relief as a dog she doesn’t like is run over, then reckons with her lingering shame. A dead dog—who has the nerve to kill off a pooch just for the discomfited laughs? She does, and she makes us stay with it until the laughter dies. This is Quinlan’s brand of empathy; it makes your eyes water, not from sadness but pain. The dog’s bark won’t leave her alone, not for a minute, nor does she want it to, and she intends to makes you hear it.

Artist: Hop Along, Album: Bark Your Head Off, Dog, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "If you listen to Frances Quinlan sing long enough, you will attempt to describe her voice. This is a trap, and you should not do this. The frontwoman for Philadelphia indie rock band Hop Along doesn’t have one voice—she might have 10. Listing them would yield no insight, only a deranged sommelier’s tasting notes: cat, bugle, Rod Stewart, roaring motorcycle. Howling, hooting, crooning, cracking—the real intrigue behind these magnificent sounds isn’t how but why. Quinlan is one of rock’s great listeners, keen to the way people’s internal monologues fill a space like bad weather, and she seems to be trying to channel them all at once in her voice. She wields her empathy the way some rock singers brandish anger, and it’s a smarter tool; empathy cuts cleaner. Her singing is a reasonable response to an impossible task—you try being this many people and see how you sound. Bark Your Head Off, Dog is only Hop Along’s third studio album, but they’ve assumed so many guises, and lit on so many moods, that they have the poise and gravitas of lifers. On 2015’s Painted Shut alone, we were given the unloved old man of “Texas Funeral,” angry at California, his own memories, his uncomprehending children; the waitress frozen by the appearance of a wronged woman at her restaurant; the forgotten jazz cornetist Charles “Buddy” Bolden, thrashing and foaming in the street in front of horrified crowds. Bark Your Head Off, Dog adds new characters to this gallery, but now they are painted in abstractions. Some of them seem to be Quinlan, seen at an angle or from the third-person—“I was asleep with my mouth open the whole drive down,” she remembers on “The Fox in Motion.” Some of them are angry men, a headspace she occupies with disarming ease. Many of them are just blips of color, impossible to either discern or forget. On “Somewhere a Judge,” she sings, “There you have it, the beginning and the end/The intern’s shovel still covered in shit/Death, indiscriminate, drags off the newborn buck with the broken leg.” Like Elvis Costello, Quinlan subtracts time and place from an otherwise-specific scenario. You are left with the flavor of a story, maddening, on your tongue. “How You Got Your Limp” feels like the album in miniature. Like Painted Shut’s “Waitress,” it’s set in the fraught arena of the service industry, where your thoughts remain your own but your time is not. The lyrics detail various indignities: A bar hop on probation shows up to work on time and is arrested anyway, while a drunken professor is escorted out of the bar, shouting at his students, safe in his power. “I can hear you, the whole bar can,” Quinlan observes acidly. On previous albums, this line would be an incitement to shouting. Here, the delivery is nearly tender, suggesting that scorn and contempt foster their own kind of intimacy. The album as a whole feels warmer, more spacious. The songs on Painted Shut were doled out like 10 fist-shaped car door dents, but Bark Your Head Off, Dog moves at an agitated hum. The band softens its pugilist’s stance and pokes at some of the folk roots that showed through on Get Disowned, their first album. There are flecks of mandolin, saloon piano, and the dusty caw of some fiddles on “What the Writer Meant.” The string arrangement on “How You Got Your Limp” feels as unruly as their guitars used to. The most revelatory moments on Bark Your Head Off, Dog open up onto calmer spaces: “Not Abel” plinks and bristles with harps and pizzicato. Quinlan’s lyrics, as ever, are densely wrought, but her voice knows how to loosen them up and make them flow over the music. (“In an open field, man is guilty always/Mud is yellow, and the ground is moving/Sun is yellow, and the ground is moving.” How would you sing these lines? Quinlan will show you why your way is wrong.) Interestingly, the rockers feel a little staid this time around. The speckled rhythm guitar in “Somewhere a Judge” feels like a tentative nod towards Paramore territory, but Hop Along is a little too intense to really bounce. “How Simple” adopts a cheery lilt that feels too tucked-in, too starchy, for a heart as unruly as Quinlan’s. The thrill of this band often comes with the seething sense that they are pacing inside their own arrangements, yearning to burst free. The disappearing guitar scrapes and cymbal splashes introduce a slightly unwelcome tidiness. When Quinlan applies her acoustic guitar like a Brillo pad and the arrangements sprout into new corners, you can hear Hop Along tracing lines that will carry them forward. The album’s final third, in particular, gleams with promise, a liquid, fleet-footed, and surprising suite of songs that contain some of Quinlan’s most devastating observations. On “Look of Love,” she remembers listening with relief as a dog she doesn’t like is run over, then reckons with her lingering shame. A dead dog—who has the nerve to kill off a pooch just for the discomfited laughs? She does, and she makes us stay with it until the laughter dies. This is Quinlan’s brand of empathy; it makes your eyes water, not from sadness but pain. The dog’s bark won’t leave her alone, not for a minute, nor does she want it to, and she intends to makes you hear it."

Ross From Friends

The Outsiders EP

Electronic

Kevin Lozano

There’s a good chance if you leave YouTube on in the background—especially if you’re listening to house music—Ross From Friends’ 2015 song “Talk to Me You’ll Understand” will eventually surface in autoplay. This makes some users pretty happy (“Thank you YouTube for showing me this song!” reads a typical comment), and others less so (“I hate this fucking song. It always ends up in automatic play”). Whatever your reaction to it, the track was one of the first salvos in a new micro-genre that some have taken to calling lo-fi house. The style clusters together a growing roster of internet-literate, hyper-ironic, 1990s-nostalgic producers with names like DJ Seinfeld, DJ Boring, and of course Ross From Friends. Their songs are tape-hiss-filled affairs replete with cheap drum machines and sitcom-synth grooves, and they’ve angered some portion of the internet to no end, raising questions of authenticity, intention, and seriousness. Ross From Friends, aka the London producer Felix Weatherall, is one of the few who actively embraces the category and all its implications. “I’ve been trying to keep up this persona of being goofy, and people have really reacted to that,” he said in an interview last year. The Outsiders is Weatherall’s most serious and tightly produced record to date; at the same time, it demonstrates the creative limitations of lo-fi house. Opener “Crimson” is like a leaner and meaner version of his initial hit: The analog crackle, the tactile rhythm, and the overall fake-vintage sound are of a higher class than they were before. On songs like “D1RT BOX” and “Romeo, Romeo” he even highlights the idea of decaying technology that is so central to the genre by having the tracks stall out and stutter, like a VCR player that’s about gobble up an unspooled tape. And a guitar riff on “D1RT BOX” that approximates the glitchy joy of Jai Paul is a moment of small glory. But these are exceptions to the law of diminishing returns that governs the release. The problem Weatherall runs into on The Outsiders is that after showcasing how good he’s gotten, he uses up his bag of tricks. It can be painful, like the 10-minute-plus title track, a grating drum loop that spins out of control, or just plain annoying, like on “Suzinak,” where his use of Eastern-inspired strings is worthy of an eye-roll. He can’t resist the temptation of slathering on thick globs of static, and the drum programing is uninspired and wooden. These knee-jerk failings render his more sober-minded decisions in a harsher light. Listening to The Outsiders, and to lots of Weatherall’s peers, it’s easy to see what there is to hate about these guys. They are close kin to, if not the direct product of, the meme accounts, shitposting, and garbled ‘90s nostalgia that permeate the internet. Without even asking for it, Twitter stars like Seinfeld2000 now have a soundtrack perfectly suited for them: The millennial ennui that infuses this faux-vintage house is perfect background music for the mindless infinite scroll. If anything, what is most revealing about the success and failures of lo-fi house is how it shows the ongoing homogenization of digital culture. In an essay for The Verge, the writer Kyle Chayka talks about a phenomenon called “AirSpace,” which describes how glossy internet photos on Airbnb, Instagram, Pinterest, etc., have helped disseminate a certain kind aesthetic—lots of chrome and distressed wood—that’s made cafes in Bucharest indistinguishable from those in Williamsburg. Digitally rendered vinyl crackle, chintzy synths, tape warp, and the like are the musical equivalent of exposed brick. Just as our residential and public spaces can be subject to homogenization, so can our digital and musical ones. In some way, the anger the lo-fi housers have elicited in the last two years might have less to do with their alleged inauthenticity than with the anxiety that wherever you turn, the same images and sounds keep popping up. As hard as Weatherall tries on The Outsiders to take the movement (if you can call it that) seriously, he runs into a wall with his hyper-stylized effects and reference-laden tunes. Fun as it can be, it all starts to sound the same.

Artist: Ross From Friends, Album: The Outsiders EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "There’s a good chance if you leave YouTube on in the background—especially if you’re listening to house music—Ross From Friends’ 2015 song “Talk to Me You’ll Understand” will eventually surface in autoplay. This makes some users pretty happy (“Thank you YouTube for showing me this song!” reads a typical comment), and others less so (“I hate this fucking song. It always ends up in automatic play”). Whatever your reaction to it, the track was one of the first salvos in a new micro-genre that some have taken to calling lo-fi house. The style clusters together a growing roster of internet-literate, hyper-ironic, 1990s-nostalgic producers with names like DJ Seinfeld, DJ Boring, and of course Ross From Friends. Their songs are tape-hiss-filled affairs replete with cheap drum machines and sitcom-synth grooves, and they’ve angered some portion of the internet to no end, raising questions of authenticity, intention, and seriousness. Ross From Friends, aka the London producer Felix Weatherall, is one of the few who actively embraces the category and all its implications. “I’ve been trying to keep up this persona of being goofy, and people have really reacted to that,” he said in an interview last year. The Outsiders is Weatherall’s most serious and tightly produced record to date; at the same time, it demonstrates the creative limitations of lo-fi house. Opener “Crimson” is like a leaner and meaner version of his initial hit: The analog crackle, the tactile rhythm, and the overall fake-vintage sound are of a higher class than they were before. On songs like “D1RT BOX” and “Romeo, Romeo” he even highlights the idea of decaying technology that is so central to the genre by having the tracks stall out and stutter, like a VCR player that’s about gobble up an unspooled tape. And a guitar riff on “D1RT BOX” that approximates the glitchy joy of Jai Paul is a moment of small glory. But these are exceptions to the law of diminishing returns that governs the release. The problem Weatherall runs into on The Outsiders is that after showcasing how good he’s gotten, he uses up his bag of tricks. It can be painful, like the 10-minute-plus title track, a grating drum loop that spins out of control, or just plain annoying, like on “Suzinak,” where his use of Eastern-inspired strings is worthy of an eye-roll. He can’t resist the temptation of slathering on thick globs of static, and the drum programing is uninspired and wooden. These knee-jerk failings render his more sober-minded decisions in a harsher light. Listening to The Outsiders, and to lots of Weatherall’s peers, it’s easy to see what there is to hate about these guys. They are close kin to, if not the direct product of, the meme accounts, shitposting, and garbled ‘90s nostalgia that permeate the internet. Without even asking for it, Twitter stars like Seinfeld2000 now have a soundtrack perfectly suited for them: The millennial ennui that infuses this faux-vintage house is perfect background music for the mindless infinite scroll. If anything, what is most revealing about the success and failures of lo-fi house is how it shows the ongoing homogenization of digital culture. In an essay for The Verge, the writer Kyle Chayka talks about a phenomenon called “AirSpace,” which describes how glossy internet photos on Airbnb, Instagram, Pinterest, etc., have helped disseminate a certain kind aesthetic—lots of chrome and distressed wood—that’s made cafes in Bucharest indistinguishable from those in Williamsburg. Digitally rendered vinyl crackle, chintzy synths, tape warp, and the like are the musical equivalent of exposed brick. Just as our residential and public spaces can be subject to homogenization, so can our digital and musical ones. In some way, the anger the lo-fi housers have elicited in the last two years might have less to do with their alleged inauthenticity than with the anxiety that wherever you turn, the same images and sounds keep popping up. As hard as Weatherall tries on The Outsiders to take the movement (if you can call it that) seriously, he runs into a wall with his hyper-stylized effects and reference-laden tunes. Fun as it can be, it all starts to sound the same."

Crooked Fingers

Crooked Fingers

Rock

Nick Mirov

"Dig yourself into a deeper hole/ Deeper than the deepest hole you know," sings Eric Bachmann on his eponymous Crooked Fingers album. It's a line that seems less suited for his latest project than a perfect summation of his former band, onetime indie-rock heroes Archers of Loaf. Throughout their bruised and battered lifespan, it seemed as if the Archers were intent on digging their own grave, eschewing the heady guitar squall of Icky Mettle for increasingly darker tales of despair and collapse. On their final album, White Trash Heroes, they managed to achieve the kind of self-negating, black-hole sonics that few bands besides Nirvana or Radiohead have ever reached (or tried to reach). Where before the Archers' guitars would ramble and bump into each other with clumsy abandon, on White Trash Heroes they were strung with razor wire, wrapping lacerating riffs around Bachmann's ruined throat, and hurling the songs headlong into the void. You can almost hear the band itself blinking out of existence as the searing tones of the last track are cut short in mid-flight. Crooked Fingers is the sound of Bachmann finally reaching the bottom of the bottomless pit and finding that it isn't such a bad place after all. Despite his recurring lyrical themes of drinking, darkness, decay, being broken, being set on fire, creeping evil, and more drinking, the music possesses a sort of dignified grace, illuminating crumbling and bombed-out neighborhoods with a few sepia-toned rays of light. Gone are the Archers' distortion pedals and conventional guitar-rock context. They're replaced by countryish fingerpicking, chiming arpeggios, and warm, sweeping strings. It's easily the most thoughtful, cohesive work Bachmann has ever recorded. Archers albums were inventive yet haphazard affairs, with one or two tracks that felt out of place or were just plain bad; Crooked Fingers is the product of a more focused artistic vision, and thus has a welcome consistency of tone and quality. Of course, one man's consistency is another man's "repetitive and boring." And yes, Bachmann does tend to repeat himself lyrically, but at least he's rediscovered the time-honored pop-music tradition of juxtaposing his depressing lyrics with pretty melodies (a trait noticeably lacking from later Archers material-- at least the pretty melodies part). The believability factor of Crooked Fingers might also be an issue for some; while we hear Tom Waits' weathered croak of a voice and can imagine that he's lived through the songs he's written, the same voice and songs coming from an indie rocker like Bachmann are slightly less convincing. Regardless, his singing has clearly improved over the years and complements the newfound Mercury Rev-like lushness of the music well-- be it his trademark growl on rousing beer-hall singalongs like "New Drink for the Old Drunk" or a wistful falsetto on shimmery ballads such as "Crowned in Chrome" and "Broken Man." So go ahead, have another drink or three. Stay up all night wallowing in self-pity and disgust. Crooked Fingers understands; Eric Bachmann will be right beside you, waiting to greet the crack of dawn with bleary eyes and a mixture of disappointment and relief that the rest of the world hasn't yet been destroyed.

Artist: Crooked Fingers, Album: Crooked Fingers, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: ""Dig yourself into a deeper hole/ Deeper than the deepest hole you know," sings Eric Bachmann on his eponymous Crooked Fingers album. It's a line that seems less suited for his latest project than a perfect summation of his former band, onetime indie-rock heroes Archers of Loaf. Throughout their bruised and battered lifespan, it seemed as if the Archers were intent on digging their own grave, eschewing the heady guitar squall of Icky Mettle for increasingly darker tales of despair and collapse. On their final album, White Trash Heroes, they managed to achieve the kind of self-negating, black-hole sonics that few bands besides Nirvana or Radiohead have ever reached (or tried to reach). Where before the Archers' guitars would ramble and bump into each other with clumsy abandon, on White Trash Heroes they were strung with razor wire, wrapping lacerating riffs around Bachmann's ruined throat, and hurling the songs headlong into the void. You can almost hear the band itself blinking out of existence as the searing tones of the last track are cut short in mid-flight. Crooked Fingers is the sound of Bachmann finally reaching the bottom of the bottomless pit and finding that it isn't such a bad place after all. Despite his recurring lyrical themes of drinking, darkness, decay, being broken, being set on fire, creeping evil, and more drinking, the music possesses a sort of dignified grace, illuminating crumbling and bombed-out neighborhoods with a few sepia-toned rays of light. Gone are the Archers' distortion pedals and conventional guitar-rock context. They're replaced by countryish fingerpicking, chiming arpeggios, and warm, sweeping strings. It's easily the most thoughtful, cohesive work Bachmann has ever recorded. Archers albums were inventive yet haphazard affairs, with one or two tracks that felt out of place or were just plain bad; Crooked Fingers is the product of a more focused artistic vision, and thus has a welcome consistency of tone and quality. Of course, one man's consistency is another man's "repetitive and boring." And yes, Bachmann does tend to repeat himself lyrically, but at least he's rediscovered the time-honored pop-music tradition of juxtaposing his depressing lyrics with pretty melodies (a trait noticeably lacking from later Archers material-- at least the pretty melodies part). The believability factor of Crooked Fingers might also be an issue for some; while we hear Tom Waits' weathered croak of a voice and can imagine that he's lived through the songs he's written, the same voice and songs coming from an indie rocker like Bachmann are slightly less convincing. Regardless, his singing has clearly improved over the years and complements the newfound Mercury Rev-like lushness of the music well-- be it his trademark growl on rousing beer-hall singalongs like "New Drink for the Old Drunk" or a wistful falsetto on shimmery ballads such as "Crowned in Chrome" and "Broken Man." So go ahead, have another drink or three. Stay up all night wallowing in self-pity and disgust. Crooked Fingers understands; Eric Bachmann will be right beside you, waiting to greet the crack of dawn with bleary eyes and a mixture of disappointment and relief that the rest of the world hasn't yet been destroyed."

The Dresden Dolls

A Is For Accident

Rock

Michael Idov

"Cabaret-punk" is one of the most misapplied coinages floating around. You've seen dozens of musicians tagged with it, from Gavin Friday to Gogol Bordello-- all more or less in error. If the term meant delivering three-chord anthems in pancake makeup, or simply amping the theatricality, then the best current cabaret-punk act would be KISS. Boston's Dresden Dolls supply the genre's true definition: they take Weimar chords and Tin Pan Alley wordplay (the latter thematically and linguistically updated to include skateboarders and sodomy), and present them with the wide-eyed, fuck-all urgency of vintage CBGB's. Head Doll Amanda Palmer's voice can slide from shipwreck bullhorn to girly twitter and back within the same line. To gauge the confused awe she inspires in the listener, you have to think back to the first time you've heard air through the vocal cords of Polly Jean Harvey. Palmer's huge sound appears to come almost infuriatingly easy: a natural on stage, she carelessly whispers, sniffles, scat-sings, murmurs asides, and frequently cracks up at her own lyrics, all the while playing respectable piano. Mime-faced drummer Brian Viglione supplies tactful brushwork for her verses, and sets mighty tom rolls for grand finales. This is the first time I'm writing a review knowing that the act will be huge. I'm not exactly famous for clairvoyance (having shrugged off Interpol in 1999 with five lines in the Village Voice), so by no means take my word for it. But the signs are all there-- the hypnotically effective live show, the celebrity fans (among them Beck and Perry Farrell), and the long line for crappy homemade demos after each gig. For now, the fame is mostly confined to Massachusetts, where the Dresden Dolls won a battle of the bands and scored admirers at the Boston Phoenix. They have also developed an odd entourage of teenage goths who do ballroom-dancing routines at their concerts (and appear to follow the band around the Northeast). A Is For Accident is not the Dolls' proper debut: it's a shrewd feature-length trailer for it, a collection of live recordings from the last two years, a handicap to give you a general idea of what you've missed so far. This transitional status-- most songs, I'm guessing, are soon to reappear in studio versions-- is the only factor that keeps it from a higher rating here. The songs were recorded all over the Northeast, and the quality varies accordingly-- from clean soundboard mixes to what sounds like the work of a drunken groupie careening through the crowd with a MiniDisc recorder. The immediate standout is "Mrs. O", an anthem of denial in 3/4 that recalls "Hey Jupiter" (one of Tori Amos's strongest songs) in its main melody but outdoes Amos on absolutely every other level. The oblique horror of the verses ("April trains may bring strange showers") gives way to the tragic swell of the chorus ("The truth can't save you now/ The sky is falling down"). It is haunting, campy and, beyond all else, smart. "Christopher Lydon" is by all appearances a gag, and a clumsy one at that-- a lovelorn paean to the crusty NPR broadcaster who once ran for mayor of Boston. Miraculously, it manages to break your heart. "Will" is a sole studio cut-- an outtake from the upcoming album, recorded in New York with great producer Martin Bisi, who, having worked with the likes of Sonic Youth and Swans, knows better than to obscure Palmer's voice or to dilute the simplicity of the setup: the big-studio version of the Dolls' sound involves a bare minimum of trickery. Bisi adds wisps of harmony vocal, an ambient bed and a couple of vintage effect touches to Palmer's slowest and prettiest song. "Will" is clearly not a castoff but a strategic early unveiling: the pre-single single off a tentative album, by a band whose greatness is currently in previews.

Artist: The Dresden Dolls, Album: A Is For Accident, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: ""Cabaret-punk" is one of the most misapplied coinages floating around. You've seen dozens of musicians tagged with it, from Gavin Friday to Gogol Bordello-- all more or less in error. If the term meant delivering three-chord anthems in pancake makeup, or simply amping the theatricality, then the best current cabaret-punk act would be KISS. Boston's Dresden Dolls supply the genre's true definition: they take Weimar chords and Tin Pan Alley wordplay (the latter thematically and linguistically updated to include skateboarders and sodomy), and present them with the wide-eyed, fuck-all urgency of vintage CBGB's. Head Doll Amanda Palmer's voice can slide from shipwreck bullhorn to girly twitter and back within the same line. To gauge the confused awe she inspires in the listener, you have to think back to the first time you've heard air through the vocal cords of Polly Jean Harvey. Palmer's huge sound appears to come almost infuriatingly easy: a natural on stage, she carelessly whispers, sniffles, scat-sings, murmurs asides, and frequently cracks up at her own lyrics, all the while playing respectable piano. Mime-faced drummer Brian Viglione supplies tactful brushwork for her verses, and sets mighty tom rolls for grand finales. This is the first time I'm writing a review knowing that the act will be huge. I'm not exactly famous for clairvoyance (having shrugged off Interpol in 1999 with five lines in the Village Voice), so by no means take my word for it. But the signs are all there-- the hypnotically effective live show, the celebrity fans (among them Beck and Perry Farrell), and the long line for crappy homemade demos after each gig. For now, the fame is mostly confined to Massachusetts, where the Dresden Dolls won a battle of the bands and scored admirers at the Boston Phoenix. They have also developed an odd entourage of teenage goths who do ballroom-dancing routines at their concerts (and appear to follow the band around the Northeast). A Is For Accident is not the Dolls' proper debut: it's a shrewd feature-length trailer for it, a collection of live recordings from the last two years, a handicap to give you a general idea of what you've missed so far. This transitional status-- most songs, I'm guessing, are soon to reappear in studio versions-- is the only factor that keeps it from a higher rating here. The songs were recorded all over the Northeast, and the quality varies accordingly-- from clean soundboard mixes to what sounds like the work of a drunken groupie careening through the crowd with a MiniDisc recorder. The immediate standout is "Mrs. O", an anthem of denial in 3/4 that recalls "Hey Jupiter" (one of Tori Amos's strongest songs) in its main melody but outdoes Amos on absolutely every other level. The oblique horror of the verses ("April trains may bring strange showers") gives way to the tragic swell of the chorus ("The truth can't save you now/ The sky is falling down"). It is haunting, campy and, beyond all else, smart. "Christopher Lydon" is by all appearances a gag, and a clumsy one at that-- a lovelorn paean to the crusty NPR broadcaster who once ran for mayor of Boston. Miraculously, it manages to break your heart. "Will" is a sole studio cut-- an outtake from the upcoming album, recorded in New York with great producer Martin Bisi, who, having worked with the likes of Sonic Youth and Swans, knows better than to obscure Palmer's voice or to dilute the simplicity of the setup: the big-studio version of the Dolls' sound involves a bare minimum of trickery. Bisi adds wisps of harmony vocal, an ambient bed and a couple of vintage effect touches to Palmer's slowest and prettiest song. "Will" is clearly not a castoff but a strategic early unveiling: the pre-single single off a tentative album, by a band whose greatness is currently in previews."

Man or Astro-Man?

EEVIAC

Rock

Michael Sandlin

Good evening, earthlings. The dreaded Planet Sandlin here again. You may be interested to know that Man or Astroman and I have something in common. You see, I, too, am from outer space. In fact, as you'll learn from my revealing Pitchfork bio, I'm the result of my own Big Bang theory-- or in my case, the controversial Barely- Audible Poof theory. I'm my own planet, kids. Cool. Unfortunately, my dense atmosphere naturally yields noxious, gassy one- sided opinions and petty prejudices. My world is without gravity, fraught with weightless ideas floating freely around themselves-- never achieving a coherent, utilitarian message. A thick force field surrounds my outer crust, thus impairing my ability to absorb the simple absolute truths much of our universe staunchly abides by. Thus, I'm unable to nourish my dry, cracked mindscape. In short, Planet Sandlin is a horrendous blight in a galaxy otherwise filled with bright stars and shining celestial bodies. But I'll be silent now and forever, in order to eternally contemplate my intrinsic ugliness. Booming God- Like Voice- Over: While Planet Sandlin skulks around his pitiful axis, we luckily have his only earthly friend, renowned author Stephen Hawking's butler, to type a few hundred words about Man or Astroman. Mr. Butler, please proceed. Planet Sandlin? What an arsehole! I don't even know him that well. I signed my boss's book for 'im once, I think. Nevertheless, I'd just like to say that, along with Gary Numan and Peter Schilling, Man or Astroman have been one of my guilty musical pleasures for quite a long while. And let me just tell you, it's really tough to take the piss out of a band I've enjoyed for so long. I mean, these poor Astro- chaps are from prime alien abduction country, Alabama. Shouldn't they be allowed to have their fun? Oh, alright. They're not from Alabama, they're from space. Indeed, these humanoids from beyond initially landed on our fair planet years ago, sometime in the early '90s. Soon, they abducted the styles and sounds of Dick Dale, the Ventures, and Les Baxter, just to name a few. The recordings of these uncharacteristically innovative musical humans were the subjects of intense study and observation. The Man or Astroman stage act quickly became a complex aliens- posing- as- humans- posing- as- aliens vaudeville schtick borrowed heavily from other over- caffinated physics- club outcasts- posing- as- droids like Devo. Our otherworldly heroes set out to prove, as guitar prophet Joe Satriani so astutely speculated years before, that aliens really do have a deep affinity for surfing and the galvanizing music inspired by that particular recreational sport. It's one of the mysteries of the universe, much like the Black Hole. Why do aliens enjoy surf music so much? In fact, it's the subject of my latest book, "Stephen Hawking's Butler's Guide to the Universe." But enough about that. Man or Astroman show that aliens can be very musical, playful, and even have a sense of humor. They've successfully debunked the myth about aliens that Hollywood movies help to perpetuate: that space creatures can only be cruel abductors or hostile acid- spitting enormities. The Man or Astroman sense of humor borrows many camp, lowbrow ideas from American cable TV. In the case of Man or Astroman's latest effort, EEVIAC (subtitled Operational Index and Reference Guide, Including Other Non- Computational Devices), its failing isn't exactly akin to a botched chemistry experiment blowing up in one's face. Actually, the failing here resides in the band's inability to consistently conduct potentially- dangerous experiments with their music; or re- program themselves in any significant, visionary sense. Their driving percussive attack is still present, and rivals that of another futuristic favorite band of mine, Trans Am. And of course, the simple pleasures of frenetic wipeout surf guitar are always extant to some degree, and to say the least, impeccably executed. Contrary to the hi-tech blueprints gracing the album's sleeve, there is little innovative studio quackery to be found on EEVIAC. In fact, the album is much more humanized than most of the pre- programmed floppy disk claptrap that passes for music in today's society-- much of it sounding like it was conceived on some small child's Commodore 64, and then marketed by major labels as "advanced" or "futuristic" music. EEVIAC's packaging suggests an advanced technological angle that's just not really there. With "Interstellar Hardrive," EEVIAC begins predictably enough, with those familiar tsunami waves of reverb- doused surf guitar. Occasionally, our favorite martians underpin the songs with Moog burps, or maybe preface a song with sampled voice- overs that always have something appropriately scientific or nerdy to say. The album does get a tad brittle and industrial with "D:Contamination," which could pass for a legitimate fusion of trip-hop and surf. I'm also quite overwhelmed by those overbearing William Shatner- esque titles like "Within the Mainframe, Impaired Vision From Inoperable Cataracts Can Become a New Impending Nepotism," especially since the title just happens to be more interesting than the cacophonous space- junk characterizing the song itself. On "Fractionized Reception of a Scrambled Transmission," our extra- terrestrial friends show us they've finally happened upon the much- in- demand vocoder device (much like every other forward-thinking band in the solar system). As the great vocoder avatars Styx would say, I want to thank you, Mr. Roboto, thank you. Sometimes, though, on many a Man or Astroman album, our heroes just seem to put themselves on auto- pilot and coast along on a single wavelength-- mechanically churning out one similar- sounding surf instrumental after the other. And EEVIAC is no exception. On the closing track, "Myopia," they actually do attempt to deviate from familiar ground. And they do so with a mistake that could be heard as ungainly Mercury Rev referencing, or possibly, a plodding Galaxie 500- influenced instrumental that's about ten minutes too long. A monotonous, unmoving, unlistenable space jam, it rightly is, kids. The standout tracks here are the mercifully short "U-235/ PU-239," and "As Estrlelas Agora Elas Estao Mortas." The latter cut proves that, not only are these spacemen multi- lingual, but they can also successfully transcend the narrow sonic trappings of the conventional surf instrumental when they actually try. Sure, Man or Astroman's music still has its undeniable appeal. But would respectable paranormal beings allow themselves to cont

Artist: Man or Astro-Man?, Album: EEVIAC, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "Good evening, earthlings. The dreaded Planet Sandlin here again. You may be interested to know that Man or Astroman and I have something in common. You see, I, too, am from outer space. In fact, as you'll learn from my revealing Pitchfork bio, I'm the result of my own Big Bang theory-- or in my case, the controversial Barely- Audible Poof theory. I'm my own planet, kids. Cool. Unfortunately, my dense atmosphere naturally yields noxious, gassy one- sided opinions and petty prejudices. My world is without gravity, fraught with weightless ideas floating freely around themselves-- never achieving a coherent, utilitarian message. A thick force field surrounds my outer crust, thus impairing my ability to absorb the simple absolute truths much of our universe staunchly abides by. Thus, I'm unable to nourish my dry, cracked mindscape. In short, Planet Sandlin is a horrendous blight in a galaxy otherwise filled with bright stars and shining celestial bodies. But I'll be silent now and forever, in order to eternally contemplate my intrinsic ugliness. Booming God- Like Voice- Over: While Planet Sandlin skulks around his pitiful axis, we luckily have his only earthly friend, renowned author Stephen Hawking's butler, to type a few hundred words about Man or Astroman. Mr. Butler, please proceed. Planet Sandlin? What an arsehole! I don't even know him that well. I signed my boss's book for 'im once, I think. Nevertheless, I'd just like to say that, along with Gary Numan and Peter Schilling, Man or Astroman have been one of my guilty musical pleasures for quite a long while. And let me just tell you, it's really tough to take the piss out of a band I've enjoyed for so long. I mean, these poor Astro- chaps are from prime alien abduction country, Alabama. Shouldn't they be allowed to have their fun? Oh, alright. They're not from Alabama, they're from space. Indeed, these humanoids from beyond initially landed on our fair planet years ago, sometime in the early '90s. Soon, they abducted the styles and sounds of Dick Dale, the Ventures, and Les Baxter, just to name a few. The recordings of these uncharacteristically innovative musical humans were the subjects of intense study and observation. The Man or Astroman stage act quickly became a complex aliens- posing- as- humans- posing- as- aliens vaudeville schtick borrowed heavily from other over- caffinated physics- club outcasts- posing- as- droids like Devo. Our otherworldly heroes set out to prove, as guitar prophet Joe Satriani so astutely speculated years before, that aliens really do have a deep affinity for surfing and the galvanizing music inspired by that particular recreational sport. It's one of the mysteries of the universe, much like the Black Hole. Why do aliens enjoy surf music so much? In fact, it's the subject of my latest book, "Stephen Hawking's Butler's Guide to the Universe." But enough about that. Man or Astroman show that aliens can be very musical, playful, and even have a sense of humor. They've successfully debunked the myth about aliens that Hollywood movies help to perpetuate: that space creatures can only be cruel abductors or hostile acid- spitting enormities. The Man or Astroman sense of humor borrows many camp, lowbrow ideas from American cable TV. In the case of Man or Astroman's latest effort, EEVIAC (subtitled Operational Index and Reference Guide, Including Other Non- Computational Devices), its failing isn't exactly akin to a botched chemistry experiment blowing up in one's face. Actually, the failing here resides in the band's inability to consistently conduct potentially- dangerous experiments with their music; or re- program themselves in any significant, visionary sense. Their driving percussive attack is still present, and rivals that of another futuristic favorite band of mine, Trans Am. And of course, the simple pleasures of frenetic wipeout surf guitar are always extant to some degree, and to say the least, impeccably executed. Contrary to the hi-tech blueprints gracing the album's sleeve, there is little innovative studio quackery to be found on EEVIAC. In fact, the album is much more humanized than most of the pre- programmed floppy disk claptrap that passes for music in today's society-- much of it sounding like it was conceived on some small child's Commodore 64, and then marketed by major labels as "advanced" or "futuristic" music. EEVIAC's packaging suggests an advanced technological angle that's just not really there. With "Interstellar Hardrive," EEVIAC begins predictably enough, with those familiar tsunami waves of reverb- doused surf guitar. Occasionally, our favorite martians underpin the songs with Moog burps, or maybe preface a song with sampled voice- overs that always have something appropriately scientific or nerdy to say. The album does get a tad brittle and industrial with "D:Contamination," which could pass for a legitimate fusion of trip-hop and surf. I'm also quite overwhelmed by those overbearing William Shatner- esque titles like "Within the Mainframe, Impaired Vision From Inoperable Cataracts Can Become a New Impending Nepotism," especially since the title just happens to be more interesting than the cacophonous space- junk characterizing the song itself. On "Fractionized Reception of a Scrambled Transmission," our extra- terrestrial friends show us they've finally happened upon the much- in- demand vocoder device (much like every other forward-thinking band in the solar system). As the great vocoder avatars Styx would say, I want to thank you, Mr. Roboto, thank you. Sometimes, though, on many a Man or Astroman album, our heroes just seem to put themselves on auto- pilot and coast along on a single wavelength-- mechanically churning out one similar- sounding surf instrumental after the other. And EEVIAC is no exception. On the closing track, "Myopia," they actually do attempt to deviate from familiar ground. And they do so with a mistake that could be heard as ungainly Mercury Rev referencing, or possibly, a plodding Galaxie 500- influenced instrumental that's about ten minutes too long. A monotonous, unmoving, unlistenable space jam, it rightly is, kids. The standout tracks here are the mercifully short "U-235/ PU-239," and "As Estrlelas Agora Elas Estao Mortas." The latter cut proves that, not only are these spacemen multi- lingual, but they can also successfully transcend the narrow sonic trappings of the conventional surf instrumental when they actually try. Sure, Man or Astroman's music still has its undeniable appeal. But would respectable paranormal beings allow themselves to cont"

Juliana Hatfield

Made in China

Rock

Rachel Khong

Ex-Blake Baby Juliana Hatfield might whine, "Singing stupid songs/ I'm going blonde," but she hasn't gone nearly blonde enough: Angsty tinny-voiced colleague Liz Phair probably kicks more ass as a sellout than overgrown college rocker Hatfield does covering well-trodden ground on her latest self-released album-- make note of the pictorial entreaty to navel gaze. Still, everything's not lost: Made in China will find its audience-- moody high school girls with jerk boyfriends will listen to this album while scrawling lyrics on their Chucks in multi-colored ball points (probably pink). The album's main setback is its schizo-"love in the 90s is paranoid" philosophy--scuffed-up "Sex in the City" mindset, lusting after problems of girls 10 or 15 years your junior. Hatfield's going on 40 but still stuck in adolescene, complaining, "I don't want to go to school today/ I just wanna play guitar all day" on "Stay Awake". During "Digital Penetration"-- is this an 'N Sync cover?-- she protests "shiny girls with no opinions," and parties where everybody knows the words except her; "Send Money" has to break some record for most unimpassioned petition for allowance money (albeit from God). But what's she so pissed off about anyway? School hasn't been the root of her problems for years, and while retro stunts do well to remind us of comparatively jaded pseudo-punk femme fatales of yesteryear, what's past is past: "New Waif" might portend potentially catchy bulimia-rock (a 90s Bettie Serveert and Velocity Girl vomitfest, at best) but gets old quick: Hatfield has nothing new to say besides "You don't know what it's like to be perfect," and it might explain her perfect-person tendency toward carelessness-- guitar solos, grating vocals (remember that time she picked up smoking to make her voice edgier?), overdone crabbiness-- all signs that point to thinly veiled midlife crisis rock. But Hatfield doesn't care what we think-- doesn't care if we buy her records-- and the half-assedness shows. At best, the inattention doubles up as deeply felt passion; at worst-- and it's mostly always at worst-- it's self-inflicted cuts doused in lemon juice. On "What Do I Care", she's shocked when we don't sing her praises-- "I'm amazed you don't find me delicious/ Look at me, I'm a rock star!"-- and we're shocked she can't see why not.

Artist: Juliana Hatfield, Album: Made in China, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.0 Album review: "Ex-Blake Baby Juliana Hatfield might whine, "Singing stupid songs/ I'm going blonde," but she hasn't gone nearly blonde enough: Angsty tinny-voiced colleague Liz Phair probably kicks more ass as a sellout than overgrown college rocker Hatfield does covering well-trodden ground on her latest self-released album-- make note of the pictorial entreaty to navel gaze. Still, everything's not lost: Made in China will find its audience-- moody high school girls with jerk boyfriends will listen to this album while scrawling lyrics on their Chucks in multi-colored ball points (probably pink). The album's main setback is its schizo-"love in the 90s is paranoid" philosophy--scuffed-up "Sex in the City" mindset, lusting after problems of girls 10 or 15 years your junior. Hatfield's going on 40 but still stuck in adolescene, complaining, "I don't want to go to school today/ I just wanna play guitar all day" on "Stay Awake". During "Digital Penetration"-- is this an 'N Sync cover?-- she protests "shiny girls with no opinions," and parties where everybody knows the words except her; "Send Money" has to break some record for most unimpassioned petition for allowance money (albeit from God). But what's she so pissed off about anyway? School hasn't been the root of her problems for years, and while retro stunts do well to remind us of comparatively jaded pseudo-punk femme fatales of yesteryear, what's past is past: "New Waif" might portend potentially catchy bulimia-rock (a 90s Bettie Serveert and Velocity Girl vomitfest, at best) but gets old quick: Hatfield has nothing new to say besides "You don't know what it's like to be perfect," and it might explain her perfect-person tendency toward carelessness-- guitar solos, grating vocals (remember that time she picked up smoking to make her voice edgier?), overdone crabbiness-- all signs that point to thinly veiled midlife crisis rock. But Hatfield doesn't care what we think-- doesn't care if we buy her records-- and the half-assedness shows. At best, the inattention doubles up as deeply felt passion; at worst-- and it's mostly always at worst-- it's self-inflicted cuts doused in lemon juice. On "What Do I Care", she's shocked when we don't sing her praises-- "I'm amazed you don't find me delicious/ Look at me, I'm a rock star!"-- and we're shocked she can't see why not."

Twinemen

Twinemen

Rock

Chris Dahlen

The rest of the country doesn't understand what Morphine meant in Boston. To the rest of the world, they were the noir-fed band with the smoky baritone sax and massive bass that leant mood to TV crime shows and that movie about the guy who sleeps with his mom. They had a couple of minor hits, but were always known more for their sound than their singles-- Mark Sandman's basso profundo and rumbling two-string bass guitar over Dana Colley's reeds and the coolly tense drumming of Billy Conway. Sandman died unexpectedly on stage of a heart attack in 1999, and he's still an important figure here. The city of Cambridge even dedicated a square to him next to the rock clubs-- a stunning, and let's face it, bizarre honor. His bandmates also kept up his legacy, first with the Orchestra Morphine project which revived their material, and now with Twinemen. This new band isn't trapped in the shadow of Morphine; they embrace it, doing everything but wearing Sandman's black shirts and donning his sunglasses. The cover art of their debut uses his cartoon drawings, which he called "twinemen," and they recorded the album in Morphine's Hi-N-Dry studio. Husky-voiced singer Laurie Sargent has a rough tone that sinks to the level of her sidemen, lending these songs similar arrangements to the ones she gave Orchestra Morphine: drums, sax, vocals, and some 'low guitar.' It's the same moody, lead-guitar-free sound Morphine had mastered. Of course, there are also many changes, and the biggest is Sargent. She leans seductively on the line between raunchy and sexy, with lyrics about "fucking all day," or her "chose sauvage" (that's "wild thing" in English). She takes charge instantly with the opener, "Spinner," a catchy tune with the kind of deep-plowing chorus we'd been missing post-Morphine; the guest musicians on keys and bass fill out the sound around the raw meat of Colley's sax. But on the next tune, "Little by Little," they slow down the tempo, strip down the music, and just let Sargent work the mic. Conway ever so lightly plucks on a guitar while Sargent lays down a sultry, lounge-like mood, sounding looser and more expressively sexy than on the louder tracks. There's just one problem: beneath the atmosphere, Twinemen don't have the songs. After three strong tracks there's a run of tunes that simply lack any hooks or strong choruses. "Watch You Fall" and "Learn to Fly" feel like sketches, and "Harper and the Midget" only edges above those because of its freak storyline. The band throws some guitars on "Ronnie Johnson," but Sargent's desperate vocals make the song; after that, "Who's Gonna Sing" wraps the album with a slim and pretty tune, Conway taking the vocals, as Colley does on a few other tracks. Conway, though, sounds far less like Mark Sandman than Colley does on "Golden Hour"-- maybe it's the irony-free tone in his voice. It's unfair to compare Twinemen to Morphine again and again, but they invite it: they can't let go of that slim palette, that black-and-white mood. But at least they're expanding it. Every track shows a new direction they could take, new sounds to play with, and emotions that go beyond the snarky, articulate cool we've already heard from them. And who knows, if they fine-tune the writing, Twinemen could become the band that Morphine needed to grow into.

Artist: Twinemen, Album: Twinemen, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "The rest of the country doesn't understand what Morphine meant in Boston. To the rest of the world, they were the noir-fed band with the smoky baritone sax and massive bass that leant mood to TV crime shows and that movie about the guy who sleeps with his mom. They had a couple of minor hits, but were always known more for their sound than their singles-- Mark Sandman's basso profundo and rumbling two-string bass guitar over Dana Colley's reeds and the coolly tense drumming of Billy Conway. Sandman died unexpectedly on stage of a heart attack in 1999, and he's still an important figure here. The city of Cambridge even dedicated a square to him next to the rock clubs-- a stunning, and let's face it, bizarre honor. His bandmates also kept up his legacy, first with the Orchestra Morphine project which revived their material, and now with Twinemen. This new band isn't trapped in the shadow of Morphine; they embrace it, doing everything but wearing Sandman's black shirts and donning his sunglasses. The cover art of their debut uses his cartoon drawings, which he called "twinemen," and they recorded the album in Morphine's Hi-N-Dry studio. Husky-voiced singer Laurie Sargent has a rough tone that sinks to the level of her sidemen, lending these songs similar arrangements to the ones she gave Orchestra Morphine: drums, sax, vocals, and some 'low guitar.' It's the same moody, lead-guitar-free sound Morphine had mastered. Of course, there are also many changes, and the biggest is Sargent. She leans seductively on the line between raunchy and sexy, with lyrics about "fucking all day," or her "chose sauvage" (that's "wild thing" in English). She takes charge instantly with the opener, "Spinner," a catchy tune with the kind of deep-plowing chorus we'd been missing post-Morphine; the guest musicians on keys and bass fill out the sound around the raw meat of Colley's sax. But on the next tune, "Little by Little," they slow down the tempo, strip down the music, and just let Sargent work the mic. Conway ever so lightly plucks on a guitar while Sargent lays down a sultry, lounge-like mood, sounding looser and more expressively sexy than on the louder tracks. There's just one problem: beneath the atmosphere, Twinemen don't have the songs. After three strong tracks there's a run of tunes that simply lack any hooks or strong choruses. "Watch You Fall" and "Learn to Fly" feel like sketches, and "Harper and the Midget" only edges above those because of its freak storyline. The band throws some guitars on "Ronnie Johnson," but Sargent's desperate vocals make the song; after that, "Who's Gonna Sing" wraps the album with a slim and pretty tune, Conway taking the vocals, as Colley does on a few other tracks. Conway, though, sounds far less like Mark Sandman than Colley does on "Golden Hour"-- maybe it's the irony-free tone in his voice. It's unfair to compare Twinemen to Morphine again and again, but they invite it: they can't let go of that slim palette, that black-and-white mood. But at least they're expanding it. Every track shows a new direction they could take, new sounds to play with, and emotions that go beyond the snarky, articulate cool we've already heard from them. And who knows, if they fine-tune the writing, Twinemen could become the band that Morphine needed to grow into."

Various Artists

Hyperdub 10.2

Andrew Gaerig

One of the most persistent trends to emerge from the dubstep diaspora has been a growing interest with American R&B—specifically, the turn-of-century eccentricities turned in by Timbaland, the Neptunes, and their acolytes. It was always in the style's DNA: dubstep forebears and 2-step monkey-patched glossy house tunes, with the type of ornate syncopations that Timbaland improbably turned into chart-topping pop. Somewhat inevitably, the interest in the productions fostered interest in the vocalists. Zomby's Aaliyah-jacking "Float", from 2008, is one of the earlier examples, and Jacques Greene's "Another Girl" seemed to put a point on the vogue in early 2011. Hyperdub, intentionally or not, has served as one incubator of this style in its admirable quest to foster urban club music. Hyperdub 10.2 represents the second of four compilations documenting the label's first decade (but largely displaying its most recent five years). Focusing on the label's self-professed R&B offerings (the first volume having showcased the label's club music), 10.2 mixes new offerings from Kode9, Cooly G, and Jessy Lanza with older tracks from Burial, DJ Rashad, and Terror Danjah. A mixed bag, stylistically, 10.2's tracks are bound by rustling vocals, lights-low tempos, and sultry arrangements. Having grown fond of sampling vocals from R&B divas, the UK underground took the next logical step and began singing themselves. Acts like Katy B and AlunaGeorge represent a generation for whom Aaliyah and Amerie typify pop normalcy, a generation who watched the avant-garde crystalize into the mainstream. So there are large swaths of 10.2 that, in 2014 (or, frankly, 2004), scan as fairly catholic takes on minimal, electro R&B. This is where the material falters, at once hewing too closely to R&B's sonic template while pulling its emotional punches. Cooly G's "Obsessed" details an infatuation but censors itself: "Looking at me/ Watching me/ Wanna f--- me". Jessy Lanza's "5785021" turns a phone number into a chorus, tightroping the line between coy and corny. On tracks such as Terror Danjah's "You Make Me Feel" and Morgan Zarate's "Pusher Taker", the vocal performances struggle to keep pace with the tricky, intriguing productions. Too often, dubby reflections and breathy whispering are substituted for more traditional melisma and inflection; the effect isn't seduction, but apprehension. 10.2 fares better when it engages R&B on more ephemeral terms. Burial's inky transmissions dissolve the late-night, call-in loneliness of Quiet Storm R&B. The Inga Copeland tracks that bookend the album—first with Dean Blunt and then Kode9—are intoxicating, her flatlining, anti-diva voice bristling against seasick arrangements, the finest marriage of the label's avant-garde instincts with pop forms. DJ Rashad's "Only One" skirts the R&B conversation entirely: it's the rare footwork track that trades freneticism for tenderness. DVA's "Just Vybe" features Fatima, the best, most idiosyncratic singer on 10.2; she offers up a tart melody that feels like a proper UK take on welterweight R&B. Its charm exposes how labored and earnest much of 10.2 is. Electronic music's interest in R&B mirrors a more general trend in underground music, one that has recently extended further into the past, touching most recently on Jam & Lewis' glassy funk (Kelela's Cut 4 Me mixtape being the most prominent example). But it's safe to say that, as yet, the songwriting and vocal components of the genre have failed to inspire the same unbridled creativity as the productions. Hyperdub's relationship to the form is less developed and less guided than their stewardship of footwork or UK club music, and it leaves 10.2 in the lurch, lacking clear purpose. At times it feels like dabbling, on the part of both the label and the artists (see Ghostface's bolted-on guest appearance on Morgan Zarate's "Sticks & Stones"). There's enough flair on 10.2 to justify further exploration, but it's premature to label this "future R&B" when its participants seem so uneasy with the genre's past.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Hyperdub 10.2, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "One of the most persistent trends to emerge from the dubstep diaspora has been a growing interest with American R&B—specifically, the turn-of-century eccentricities turned in by Timbaland, the Neptunes, and their acolytes. It was always in the style's DNA: dubstep forebears and 2-step monkey-patched glossy house tunes, with the type of ornate syncopations that Timbaland improbably turned into chart-topping pop. Somewhat inevitably, the interest in the productions fostered interest in the vocalists. Zomby's Aaliyah-jacking "Float", from 2008, is one of the earlier examples, and Jacques Greene's "Another Girl" seemed to put a point on the vogue in early 2011. Hyperdub, intentionally or not, has served as one incubator of this style in its admirable quest to foster urban club music. Hyperdub 10.2 represents the second of four compilations documenting the label's first decade (but largely displaying its most recent five years). Focusing on the label's self-professed R&B offerings (the first volume having showcased the label's club music), 10.2 mixes new offerings from Kode9, Cooly G, and Jessy Lanza with older tracks from Burial, DJ Rashad, and Terror Danjah. A mixed bag, stylistically, 10.2's tracks are bound by rustling vocals, lights-low tempos, and sultry arrangements. Having grown fond of sampling vocals from R&B divas, the UK underground took the next logical step and began singing themselves. Acts like Katy B and AlunaGeorge represent a generation for whom Aaliyah and Amerie typify pop normalcy, a generation who watched the avant-garde crystalize into the mainstream. So there are large swaths of 10.2 that, in 2014 (or, frankly, 2004), scan as fairly catholic takes on minimal, electro R&B. This is where the material falters, at once hewing too closely to R&B's sonic template while pulling its emotional punches. Cooly G's "Obsessed" details an infatuation but censors itself: "Looking at me/ Watching me/ Wanna f--- me". Jessy Lanza's "5785021" turns a phone number into a chorus, tightroping the line between coy and corny. On tracks such as Terror Danjah's "You Make Me Feel" and Morgan Zarate's "Pusher Taker", the vocal performances struggle to keep pace with the tricky, intriguing productions. Too often, dubby reflections and breathy whispering are substituted for more traditional melisma and inflection; the effect isn't seduction, but apprehension. 10.2 fares better when it engages R&B on more ephemeral terms. Burial's inky transmissions dissolve the late-night, call-in loneliness of Quiet Storm R&B. The Inga Copeland tracks that bookend the album—first with Dean Blunt and then Kode9—are intoxicating, her flatlining, anti-diva voice bristling against seasick arrangements, the finest marriage of the label's avant-garde instincts with pop forms. DJ Rashad's "Only One" skirts the R&B conversation entirely: it's the rare footwork track that trades freneticism for tenderness. DVA's "Just Vybe" features Fatima, the best, most idiosyncratic singer on 10.2; she offers up a tart melody that feels like a proper UK take on welterweight R&B. Its charm exposes how labored and earnest much of 10.2 is. Electronic music's interest in R&B mirrors a more general trend in underground music, one that has recently extended further into the past, touching most recently on Jam & Lewis' glassy funk (Kelela's Cut 4 Me mixtape being the most prominent example). But it's safe to say that, as yet, the songwriting and vocal components of the genre have failed to inspire the same unbridled creativity as the productions. Hyperdub's relationship to the form is less developed and less guided than their stewardship of footwork or UK club music, and it leaves 10.2 in the lurch, lacking clear purpose. At times it feels like dabbling, on the part of both the label and the artists (see Ghostface's bolted-on guest appearance on Morgan Zarate's "Sticks & Stones"). There's enough flair on 10.2 to justify further exploration, but it's premature to label this "future R&B" when its participants seem so uneasy with the genre's past."

Gangrene

Gutter Water

Rock

Tom Breihan

About four years ago, I sat down with two big rap producers, Just Blaze and the Alchemist, at Baseline Studios, the old Roc-a-Fella stomping grounds, a since-shuttered hive of mainstream rap dominance. At the time, the two producers were lamenting the decline of the cinematic NYC rap they'd both made their names cranking out. But Alchemist talked with a sense of genuine excitement and wonder about a backpack-rap universe that still sounded pretty new to him: "Not to dis them, but a lot of that shit is kind of weird. But the world that they're repping, that's the world that I want to be a part of." These days, Alc still has a foot in whatever's left of the mainstream rap world; he produced "You Ain't Got Nuthin", probably the hardest track on Lil Wayne's gazillion-selling Tha Carter III, and he DJed a recent run of Eminem stadium shows. But he's also very much a part of that underground world he was talking about. And now he's teamed up with the stalwart Stones Throw rapper/producer Oh No to form the duo Gangrene and crank out a decidedly weird little record. Alchemist is probably still best-known for crafting gutpunch street-rap anthems for guys like Mobb Deep and Jadakiss, but his early-decade aesthetic is almost entirely gone from Gutter Water. Instead, he's launched himself into the ADD crate-digging style best exemplified by Oh No's older brother Madlib. The tracks on Gutter Water sputter and crackle and warp, rarely settling into a comfortable thump. Horns and strings and harps-- all seemingly drawn from moldy thrift-shop muzak platters-- always circle whatever groove the drums conjure, but the two producers rarely let them fall into the pocket. Tracks rarely come with choruses, and when those choruses are there, they're awkward enough that you wish they weren't. This is a mood piece. There's a lot of texture at work here, and there would be more if the duo didn't end nearly every track by dissolving into a sample-collage of cheesed-out film dialogue and disembodied news-anchor voices. Even if they're hell on the album's sustained momentum, those collages do pound home the album's theme: disease, squalor, infection. (One news report about people swimming in open sewage makes me want to gag every time.) But this isn't an album about the need for global health reform; the thematic stuff is there to remind you that you're dealing with two people totally uninterested in meeting you halfway. Alchemist even takes the time to remind us that he's not a "ringtone rapper," a term I haven't heard in a while. (Alc must not have got the memo that skinny-jeans rappers are everyone's favorite threat to hip-hop culture these days.) As rappers, Alc and Oh are both perfectly decent but never transcendent. Oh has a solidly loping delivery, and Alc has a raspy off-beat thing that's less technically sound but more distinctive. And Alc has a way with perfectly ridiculous, kind of dumb punchlines that nonetheless lodge themselves in your memory: "Speed on and get peed on," "Hopping out the trashcan like Oscar the Grouch," "I stay high like pussy on a giraffe is." Plenty of guests stop by, but Raekwon notwithstanding, most of them sit firmly in a willfully hardheaded West Coast underground scene: Planet Asia, Evidence, Roc C. Some of them, like Guilty Simpson, work great with the kinds of beats they're given, but nobody dazzles. But the rapping on Gutter Water is almost beside the point. Oh and Alc are producers first, and Gutter Water would work nearly as well as an instrumental album. And together, they've created a messy, impressive pile-up of half-broken piano loops and dense, clattery drum programming. It's a hazy, stoned piece of work, an expansive extended head-nod, everything it sets out to be.

Artist: Gangrene, Album: Gutter Water, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "About four years ago, I sat down with two big rap producers, Just Blaze and the Alchemist, at Baseline Studios, the old Roc-a-Fella stomping grounds, a since-shuttered hive of mainstream rap dominance. At the time, the two producers were lamenting the decline of the cinematic NYC rap they'd both made their names cranking out. But Alchemist talked with a sense of genuine excitement and wonder about a backpack-rap universe that still sounded pretty new to him: "Not to dis them, but a lot of that shit is kind of weird. But the world that they're repping, that's the world that I want to be a part of." These days, Alc still has a foot in whatever's left of the mainstream rap world; he produced "You Ain't Got Nuthin", probably the hardest track on Lil Wayne's gazillion-selling Tha Carter III, and he DJed a recent run of Eminem stadium shows. But he's also very much a part of that underground world he was talking about. And now he's teamed up with the stalwart Stones Throw rapper/producer Oh No to form the duo Gangrene and crank out a decidedly weird little record. Alchemist is probably still best-known for crafting gutpunch street-rap anthems for guys like Mobb Deep and Jadakiss, but his early-decade aesthetic is almost entirely gone from Gutter Water. Instead, he's launched himself into the ADD crate-digging style best exemplified by Oh No's older brother Madlib. The tracks on Gutter Water sputter and crackle and warp, rarely settling into a comfortable thump. Horns and strings and harps-- all seemingly drawn from moldy thrift-shop muzak platters-- always circle whatever groove the drums conjure, but the two producers rarely let them fall into the pocket. Tracks rarely come with choruses, and when those choruses are there, they're awkward enough that you wish they weren't. This is a mood piece. There's a lot of texture at work here, and there would be more if the duo didn't end nearly every track by dissolving into a sample-collage of cheesed-out film dialogue and disembodied news-anchor voices. Even if they're hell on the album's sustained momentum, those collages do pound home the album's theme: disease, squalor, infection. (One news report about people swimming in open sewage makes me want to gag every time.) But this isn't an album about the need for global health reform; the thematic stuff is there to remind you that you're dealing with two people totally uninterested in meeting you halfway. Alchemist even takes the time to remind us that he's not a "ringtone rapper," a term I haven't heard in a while. (Alc must not have got the memo that skinny-jeans rappers are everyone's favorite threat to hip-hop culture these days.) As rappers, Alc and Oh are both perfectly decent but never transcendent. Oh has a solidly loping delivery, and Alc has a raspy off-beat thing that's less technically sound but more distinctive. And Alc has a way with perfectly ridiculous, kind of dumb punchlines that nonetheless lodge themselves in your memory: "Speed on and get peed on," "Hopping out the trashcan like Oscar the Grouch," "I stay high like pussy on a giraffe is." Plenty of guests stop by, but Raekwon notwithstanding, most of them sit firmly in a willfully hardheaded West Coast underground scene: Planet Asia, Evidence, Roc C. Some of them, like Guilty Simpson, work great with the kinds of beats they're given, but nobody dazzles. But the rapping on Gutter Water is almost beside the point. Oh and Alc are producers first, and Gutter Water would work nearly as well as an instrumental album. And together, they've created a messy, impressive pile-up of half-broken piano loops and dense, clattery drum programming. It's a hazy, stoned piece of work, an expansive extended head-nod, everything it sets out to be."

Perera Elsewhere

All of This

Pop/R&B

Briana Younger

The “Elsewhere” in Sasha Perera’s stage name should be taken literally. Her music sounds as if it exists in different locations around the globe, in different times and dimensions. But beyond its physicality, it’s also a space for refuge and meditation. On her second album, All of This, Perera Elsewhere captures uncertainty, filters out all that isn’t beautiful and casts it to the universe. The London-born, Berlin-based singer, who also self-produces her albums, builds on the foundation of her debut Everlast. She spent three years watering those seeds from Turkey to Mumbai and back to Berlin, forcing herself to develop fully-formed songs that wear their international influences boldly. Where experimental music allows room for interpretation, venturing into pop is methodical. Here, there’s definitive structure that still feels spontaneous, traditional instruments—gongs and sitars—tangling themselves in otherworldly noises. Perera’s gamble on herself pays off, as she strikes a dynamic balance of harmony and discord, of aspirational pop and visceral experimentation. It peaks on “Karam,” a reimagining of 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” as a brooding nocturne where the candy shop is in the basement of a funeral home. “Karam” maintains aspects of its original seductive overtones but feels desolate and detached without the cynical irony that genre-bending covers can be given to. Such an inclusion is a warm welcome for listeners new to Perera’s music and an Easter egg of sorts for those already familiar with her remixes. All of This is marked by a similar darkness throughout, but Perera lets in light through some cracks. “Tomorrow South,” a largely instrumental track driven by shakers and animated vocalizations, is rose-colored, while the sitar and trumpet melodies on “Runaway” conjure pictures of a sunset overlooking the Arabian Sea. They’re brief glimmers of hope despite their surroundings, moments achieved only when Perera lets her instrumentation and programming do most of the talking. Lyrics aren’t necessarily the focal point in general, but her words, though minimal, are also wrought with emotion and intent. Album opener and lead single “Something’s Up” features buoyant synth arpeggios but fails to lighten the warning of “Your plans are losing weight/The crows are circling/They know something’s up.” Later, the industrial “Shoes” is equally as dour. Accented with white noise and wilting horns, she sings, “I can’t walk in these shoes/Can’t speak, I can’t move...can’t read all the signs/So deep in this mind fuck.” But even at her most morose, the backdrops become sanctuaries for her confessionals—beauty and burden wrapped in one, as they often are. Some music requires boundaries and begs for definition, but Perera revels in her own shapeshifting. Her ability to blend sounds that feel ancient and familiar with electro-futurism embodies what it means to experience music and not just hear it. Percussion makes for a compelling bridge—as on “Happened”—but it’s what she does with very little that binds the album together. On the standout title track, she lightens her usually smoldering voice into a whisp; the vocal layers are dense but the production just hovers, swirling and swelling, barely there at all. Like a subdued reverie, *All of This *sparkles as it creeps along, careful not to disturb but arresting nonetheless.

Artist: Perera Elsewhere, Album: All of This, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "The “Elsewhere” in Sasha Perera’s stage name should be taken literally. Her music sounds as if it exists in different locations around the globe, in different times and dimensions. But beyond its physicality, it’s also a space for refuge and meditation. On her second album, All of This, Perera Elsewhere captures uncertainty, filters out all that isn’t beautiful and casts it to the universe. The London-born, Berlin-based singer, who also self-produces her albums, builds on the foundation of her debut Everlast. She spent three years watering those seeds from Turkey to Mumbai and back to Berlin, forcing herself to develop fully-formed songs that wear their international influences boldly. Where experimental music allows room for interpretation, venturing into pop is methodical. Here, there’s definitive structure that still feels spontaneous, traditional instruments—gongs and sitars—tangling themselves in otherworldly noises. Perera’s gamble on herself pays off, as she strikes a dynamic balance of harmony and discord, of aspirational pop and visceral experimentation. It peaks on “Karam,” a reimagining of 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” as a brooding nocturne where the candy shop is in the basement of a funeral home. “Karam” maintains aspects of its original seductive overtones but feels desolate and detached without the cynical irony that genre-bending covers can be given to. Such an inclusion is a warm welcome for listeners new to Perera’s music and an Easter egg of sorts for those already familiar with her remixes. All of This is marked by a similar darkness throughout, but Perera lets in light through some cracks. “Tomorrow South,” a largely instrumental track driven by shakers and animated vocalizations, is rose-colored, while the sitar and trumpet melodies on “Runaway” conjure pictures of a sunset overlooking the Arabian Sea. They’re brief glimmers of hope despite their surroundings, moments achieved only when Perera lets her instrumentation and programming do most of the talking. Lyrics aren’t necessarily the focal point in general, but her words, though minimal, are also wrought with emotion and intent. Album opener and lead single “Something’s Up” features buoyant synth arpeggios but fails to lighten the warning of “Your plans are losing weight/The crows are circling/They know something’s up.” Later, the industrial “Shoes” is equally as dour. Accented with white noise and wilting horns, she sings, “I can’t walk in these shoes/Can’t speak, I can’t move...can’t read all the signs/So deep in this mind fuck.” But even at her most morose, the backdrops become sanctuaries for her confessionals—beauty and burden wrapped in one, as they often are. Some music requires boundaries and begs for definition, but Perera revels in her own shapeshifting. Her ability to blend sounds that feel ancient and familiar with electro-futurism embodies what it means to experience music and not just hear it. Percussion makes for a compelling bridge—as on “Happened”—but it’s what she does with very little that binds the album together. On the standout title track, she lightens her usually smoldering voice into a whisp; the vocal layers are dense but the production just hovers, swirling and swelling, barely there at all. Like a subdued reverie, *All of This *sparkles as it creeps along, careful not to disturb but arresting nonetheless."

A-Wax

Pullin' Strings

David Drake

California-born Aaron "A-Wax" Doppie was only 16 years old when he was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to 78 months in Washington State Penitentiary. During his time behind bars, from 1996, until 2001, he became obsessed with music. He spoke about the experience in detail with Murder Dog's Deyu Ntebya in a 2009 interview: "Early on when I first started rapping in prison I felt like I couldn’t actually word what I was trying to say," he told Ntebya. "I had been though a lot of experiences, but I couldn’t put on the paper the way I saw it." Now thirteen years deep into his career, A-Wax remains a controversial cult figure, publically defined as much by beef as music, winning converts and turning off others in equal measure. But those early struggles learning to articulate his perspective must seem distant now; if his latest album, Pullin' Strings, is not the best gangster rap album of 2014, it's certainly the most evocatively written. A-Wax is an old soul, a craftsman in a messy era of perpetual mindspray. He owes a debt to a longstanding—and long undervalued—lineage of hip-hop writers. This includes his immediate progenitors the Mob Figaz—a Pittsburg, CA-based hip-hop crew that was among the most influential in the last decade of Bay Area hip-hop—and their influences, including 2Pac, C-Bo, and Cormega. A-Wax has had beef with the Mob Figaz for years, or it's at least surfaced online in bitter accusations. A-Wax claims he's the messenger for his friends behind the walls (ask any Bay Area head about the veracity of A-Wax's claims, and you get the carefully reframed answer of an agnostic: "He thinks they're true.") But regardless of the bridges burned, A-Wax has developed his own highly personal, principled style. While he has been damaged, his eye for subjectively truthful prose has not. His conceptual focus on Pullin' Strings is loneliness. This isn't 27-problems-only-introverts-will-understand lonely or heartbroken lonely or last-man-on-earth sci-fi flick lonely—this is a much more exhaustive desolation. For A-Wax, it is an occupational hazard forced by circumstance, the consequences and paradoxes of a life lived illegally. This loneliness comes accompanied by paranoia and anxiety, fatalism and regret, each amplified by the life-or-death stakes of his (former?) profession. A-Wax's alienation isn't expressed as mere trite sadness, but through the prism of realism: calloused nonchalance, self-effacing humor, virulent bitterness, and profound melancholy, sometimes all at once. Weariness permeates the album. The betrayals and double-crosses don't sting with surprise; they are inevitable, and linger like a dull bruise. If a world populated with personalities is splashed in color, Pullin' Strings compliments its bleak isolation by drawing in high-contrast black and white. Sometimes, when the light hits just right, the backdrop takes on a sunset tinge. The production is sleek, stripped down, and often subtly melodic; the dominant sound is one of wistful somnolence. Fuzzed guitars are sanded to a smooth surface and the focus is tight. The moments that vary from this mean are still spare. Even tracks that lean belligerent gain their power from their potential for aggression, rather than the therapeutic release of it. They are often balanced by humor or conceptual wit: take "Jetsons" and its cartoon conceit ("By the time he's home as a parolee/ We'll have a robotic maid we call Rosie"), the daytime TV-referencing "Maury Dance", or album standout "No Limit" ("We just ridin' around with two K's like my name was Silkk the Shocker"). That song has one of the record's best beats, a delicate blend of low quarter-note keyboards, a descending mallet effect that skitters across the track, and what sounds like the 'fasten seatbelt' alert—as if the camera were set on a drizzling crime scene where a car door hangs ajar. Like the record as a whole, it thrives on a canvas of negative space. There are no guest rappers on the album, and A-Wax does his own choruses. His earnest, droning sing-song magnifies an underlying pathos. But the heart of the record is in its writing, which is as austere as the production. A-Wax creates an immersive narrative by locating the unlikely intersection of the direct and the oblique. He is purposeful in his use of hints and implication, understatement and aphorism. Much like his facility for hooks ("More hooks than a tackle box") it's a tactic of which he's plenty aware ("Thinking more just saying less"). Of course there are the bare bones ingredients of purist street rap, where authenticity underpins his story—you'll hear about the drugs ("She ain't spill no cake mix/Whole kitchen counter like eight bricks") and the violence ("You don't want me ridin' round thinking it's an issue/We're gon' be around still to see if people miss you"). But he's interested in something more than simple glorification ("All they see is the come-up, they don't notice the losses"). For those who've followed A-Wax's career closely, a willingness to wrestle with consequences gives him a leg up on much gangster theater, an acknowledgement of the psychological costs of the lifestyle he sells. On Pullin' Strings, the visible stitching of crime to consequence in his earlier work has been flipped to the inside of his life's broader embroidery; the record promises a seamless, uncompromised self-portrait, his lyrics elliptical and focused less on details than dynamics: "Had a plan that didn't pan out the way that I thought it would/ After everything that I put her through, I just want my mama good." He's a man of principle; on "Only Pray", he upbraids a target for lack of character: "God won't ever answer your prayers/ Because you only pray in handcuffs/ How convenient, you turn to God when you need some help." Although he's not afraid to be misanthropic, this song could as easily be turned inward, or at a past self, as at another. Who it addresses remains ambiguous. Much of the record is oriented around A-Wax's distrust of friends and foes ("Use one hand to count the people that I'm close to"). Other than his mother, women are trophies ("Broke that marriage up like kush"), as treacherous as men, and not immune to his cruelty. (A right-minded person might do some herculean compartmentalizing at the album's midsection.) Humor balances somber subject matter; on "Trainwreck", which finds A-Wax pointing the chopper at the mirror, whimsical production mocks his self-pity without undercutting his sincerity. "Trust Issues" takes a more serious tack: "I just don't know who to trust, overthink when I think it

Artist: A-Wax, Album: Pullin' Strings, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "California-born Aaron "A-Wax" Doppie was only 16 years old when he was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to 78 months in Washington State Penitentiary. During his time behind bars, from 1996, until 2001, he became obsessed with music. He spoke about the experience in detail with Murder Dog's Deyu Ntebya in a 2009 interview: "Early on when I first started rapping in prison I felt like I couldn’t actually word what I was trying to say," he told Ntebya. "I had been though a lot of experiences, but I couldn’t put on the paper the way I saw it." Now thirteen years deep into his career, A-Wax remains a controversial cult figure, publically defined as much by beef as music, winning converts and turning off others in equal measure. But those early struggles learning to articulate his perspective must seem distant now; if his latest album, Pullin' Strings, is not the best gangster rap album of 2014, it's certainly the most evocatively written. A-Wax is an old soul, a craftsman in a messy era of perpetual mindspray. He owes a debt to a longstanding—and long undervalued—lineage of hip-hop writers. This includes his immediate progenitors the Mob Figaz—a Pittsburg, CA-based hip-hop crew that was among the most influential in the last decade of Bay Area hip-hop—and their influences, including 2Pac, C-Bo, and Cormega. A-Wax has had beef with the Mob Figaz for years, or it's at least surfaced online in bitter accusations. A-Wax claims he's the messenger for his friends behind the walls (ask any Bay Area head about the veracity of A-Wax's claims, and you get the carefully reframed answer of an agnostic: "He thinks they're true.") But regardless of the bridges burned, A-Wax has developed his own highly personal, principled style. While he has been damaged, his eye for subjectively truthful prose has not. His conceptual focus on Pullin' Strings is loneliness. This isn't 27-problems-only-introverts-will-understand lonely or heartbroken lonely or last-man-on-earth sci-fi flick lonely—this is a much more exhaustive desolation. For A-Wax, it is an occupational hazard forced by circumstance, the consequences and paradoxes of a life lived illegally. This loneliness comes accompanied by paranoia and anxiety, fatalism and regret, each amplified by the life-or-death stakes of his (former?) profession. A-Wax's alienation isn't expressed as mere trite sadness, but through the prism of realism: calloused nonchalance, self-effacing humor, virulent bitterness, and profound melancholy, sometimes all at once. Weariness permeates the album. The betrayals and double-crosses don't sting with surprise; they are inevitable, and linger like a dull bruise. If a world populated with personalities is splashed in color, Pullin' Strings compliments its bleak isolation by drawing in high-contrast black and white. Sometimes, when the light hits just right, the backdrop takes on a sunset tinge. The production is sleek, stripped down, and often subtly melodic; the dominant sound is one of wistful somnolence. Fuzzed guitars are sanded to a smooth surface and the focus is tight. The moments that vary from this mean are still spare. Even tracks that lean belligerent gain their power from their potential for aggression, rather than the therapeutic release of it. They are often balanced by humor or conceptual wit: take "Jetsons" and its cartoon conceit ("By the time he's home as a parolee/ We'll have a robotic maid we call Rosie"), the daytime TV-referencing "Maury Dance", or album standout "No Limit" ("We just ridin' around with two K's like my name was Silkk the Shocker"). That song has one of the record's best beats, a delicate blend of low quarter-note keyboards, a descending mallet effect that skitters across the track, and what sounds like the 'fasten seatbelt' alert—as if the camera were set on a drizzling crime scene where a car door hangs ajar. Like the record as a whole, it thrives on a canvas of negative space. There are no guest rappers on the album, and A-Wax does his own choruses. His earnest, droning sing-song magnifies an underlying pathos. But the heart of the record is in its writing, which is as austere as the production. A-Wax creates an immersive narrative by locating the unlikely intersection of the direct and the oblique. He is purposeful in his use of hints and implication, understatement and aphorism. Much like his facility for hooks ("More hooks than a tackle box") it's a tactic of which he's plenty aware ("Thinking more just saying less"). Of course there are the bare bones ingredients of purist street rap, where authenticity underpins his story—you'll hear about the drugs ("She ain't spill no cake mix/Whole kitchen counter like eight bricks") and the violence ("You don't want me ridin' round thinking it's an issue/We're gon' be around still to see if people miss you"). But he's interested in something more than simple glorification ("All they see is the come-up, they don't notice the losses"). For those who've followed A-Wax's career closely, a willingness to wrestle with consequences gives him a leg up on much gangster theater, an acknowledgement of the psychological costs of the lifestyle he sells. On Pullin' Strings, the visible stitching of crime to consequence in his earlier work has been flipped to the inside of his life's broader embroidery; the record promises a seamless, uncompromised self-portrait, his lyrics elliptical and focused less on details than dynamics: "Had a plan that didn't pan out the way that I thought it would/ After everything that I put her through, I just want my mama good." He's a man of principle; on "Only Pray", he upbraids a target for lack of character: "God won't ever answer your prayers/ Because you only pray in handcuffs/ How convenient, you turn to God when you need some help." Although he's not afraid to be misanthropic, this song could as easily be turned inward, or at a past self, as at another. Who it addresses remains ambiguous. Much of the record is oriented around A-Wax's distrust of friends and foes ("Use one hand to count the people that I'm close to"). Other than his mother, women are trophies ("Broke that marriage up like kush"), as treacherous as men, and not immune to his cruelty. (A right-minded person might do some herculean compartmentalizing at the album's midsection.) Humor balances somber subject matter; on "Trainwreck", which finds A-Wax pointing the chopper at the mirror, whimsical production mocks his self-pity without undercutting his sincerity. "Trust Issues" takes a more serious tack: "I just don't know who to trust, overthink when I think it "

Bob Marley & the Wailers

One Love at Studio One

Global

Joe Tangari

Ask 50 Americans who they think of first when they hear the word "reggae" and there's a good chance all of them will say "Bob Marley". As Mark Richardson wrote on this website last month, the Legend compilation is ubiquitous in college dormitories and singularly likely to show up in the collections of people who only own a handful of CDs. People know his Island output, even if they only know the sliver of it presented on that disc, and for many, Marley is reggae-- most people think the Wailers were just the backing band. Well, books could and have been written on the incredible scope of Jamaican music beyond Marley, who for better or worse became its face to most of the world in the 1970s. You could also write tomes telling the story of the Wailers before Chris Blackwell took them global. The core of the Wailers was Marley, Peter Tosh, and Bunny Wailer, and several other members, including Constantine Walker, Beverly Kelso, and Junior Braithwaite came and went over the course of the 60s, when the group recorded with various backing bands for Coxsone Dodd's Studio One label. Between 1963 and 1966, the Wailers cut more than 100 tracks for Dodd, and Heartbeat's One Love at Studio One gathers 40 of them plus one interesting rehearsal onto two discs. This release is essentially a spiffing up of an earlier Heartbeat compilation of the same name, with one added track (the spiritual "Tell Them Lord") and greatly improved sound-- the mastering level on this version towers over the original, and the bass presence is kicked way up to accentuate the rhythmic thrust of the group's early ska sides. Curiosities abound on these discs. From a historical perspective, some of the most interesting tracks are their versions of the spirituals "Sinner Man", "Amen", "This Train", and "Tell Them Lord"-- impassioned takes on Christian songs that function as interesting precursors of their later embrace of Rastafarianism. Though Bob Marley was the acknowledged leader of the group from the start-- and the only one with previous recording experience-- it's important to note that the group was just called the Wailers, without the "Bob Marley &" until around 1970, and that other members sang lead on a large number of their songs. Braithwaite, an original member of the group and the first to leave, was Dodd's favorite voice in the group, and he gets his high tenor out in front of the harmonies on "Habits" and "It Hurts to Be Alone", the latter featuring an unbelievably gorgeous lead guitar part from Ernest Ranglin. The Wailers' first single, "Simmer Down", is one of the defining tracks of the ska era, addressing the violence of the Kingston slums in the patois of the people who lived there. The Skatalites provide the breathtaking rhythm track and horn arrangements, and Kelso, Tosh, Wailer, and Braithwaite harmonize the title under Marley's rough-throated verses. For a one-track recording, there's an impressive amount of detail in the mix, and the song became an instant smash when Dodd played it at his sound system dance the same night it was recorded, quickly moving 70,000 copies. If that doesn't sound like a big number, consider that in the 1960s the total population of Jamaica was less than two million. There are a ton of other great ska cuts spread out across the rest of the set, including a number of excellent rude boy tracks that helped establish the Wailers as spokesmen for the ghetto and the warring gangs of dance crashers who ultimately brought the sound systems to their demise in the late 60s. "Rude Boy", which later became the basis for "Rebel's Hop", and "Hooligan" celebrated rudie attitude, the former featuring lyrics like "the peego a-go lingua" (roughly, "the rude girls are gonna' talk"), that illustrated just how deep the slang of the ghettos could get. The group's initial phase closed with "Jailhouse", one of countless Jamaican singles of the period that extolled the fearlessness of the rude boys when confronted by the authorities-- the song also shows them transitioning to the slower rocksteady beat that formed the bridge from ska to reggae. In 1966, Bob Marley went to Delaware to earn money for a planned Wailers label, and Bunny and Peter recruited Constantine Walker to fill his place, recording numerous Wailers sides while Bob was gone. Marley's elevation to iconic status overshadowed Bunny and Peter's estimable solo output, and the Bob-less tracks here show that either one would have been capable of leading the group. The two share lead vocals on the stunning rocksteady tracks "Who Feels it Knows it" and "When the Well Runs Dry". The harmonies are noticeably sweeter in the absence of Marley, and "What Am I Supposed to Do" vies with Alton Ellis's "Why Birds Follow Spring" and the Paragons' "On the Beach" for the prettiest rocksteady song I've heard. One other remarkable thing about this compilation is the sheer number of songs that don't feature the distinctive Jamaican off-beat accent. Right into 1966, the Wailers regularly recorded straight r&b; and rock'n'roll tracks, and though their version of the Beatles' "And I Love Her" (previously unreleased) leaves much to be desired, a number of these songs are fantastic, especially Tosh's Nuggety "Can't You See" and the band's outright jaw-dropping version of Dion's "Teenager in Love". Indeed, the Wailers continued to record non-reggae songs all the way through their 1970 Island debut Soul Rebels, which features a couple of fantastic funk cuts. All these curiosities add up to very solid set, but all of the alternate takes and rarities make it one that's decidedly for fans-- of Marley and early reggae alike. For newcomers, it might be best to start with Marley's 70s material (it's more of a kick to hear the title track of this comp if you already know the version on Legend and Exodus, not to mention U2's "One") and work your way to this set via the Skatalites and some Studio One compilations. If you dig that stuff, One Love at Studio One will likely make you very happy.

Artist: Bob Marley & the Wailers, Album: One Love at Studio One, Genre: Global, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Ask 50 Americans who they think of first when they hear the word "reggae" and there's a good chance all of them will say "Bob Marley". As Mark Richardson wrote on this website last month, the Legend compilation is ubiquitous in college dormitories and singularly likely to show up in the collections of people who only own a handful of CDs. People know his Island output, even if they only know the sliver of it presented on that disc, and for many, Marley is reggae-- most people think the Wailers were just the backing band. Well, books could and have been written on the incredible scope of Jamaican music beyond Marley, who for better or worse became its face to most of the world in the 1970s. You could also write tomes telling the story of the Wailers before Chris Blackwell took them global. The core of the Wailers was Marley, Peter Tosh, and Bunny Wailer, and several other members, including Constantine Walker, Beverly Kelso, and Junior Braithwaite came and went over the course of the 60s, when the group recorded with various backing bands for Coxsone Dodd's Studio One label. Between 1963 and 1966, the Wailers cut more than 100 tracks for Dodd, and Heartbeat's One Love at Studio One gathers 40 of them plus one interesting rehearsal onto two discs. This release is essentially a spiffing up of an earlier Heartbeat compilation of the same name, with one added track (the spiritual "Tell Them Lord") and greatly improved sound-- the mastering level on this version towers over the original, and the bass presence is kicked way up to accentuate the rhythmic thrust of the group's early ska sides. Curiosities abound on these discs. From a historical perspective, some of the most interesting tracks are their versions of the spirituals "Sinner Man", "Amen", "This Train", and "Tell Them Lord"-- impassioned takes on Christian songs that function as interesting precursors of their later embrace of Rastafarianism. Though Bob Marley was the acknowledged leader of the group from the start-- and the only one with previous recording experience-- it's important to note that the group was just called the Wailers, without the "Bob Marley &" until around 1970, and that other members sang lead on a large number of their songs. Braithwaite, an original member of the group and the first to leave, was Dodd's favorite voice in the group, and he gets his high tenor out in front of the harmonies on "Habits" and "It Hurts to Be Alone", the latter featuring an unbelievably gorgeous lead guitar part from Ernest Ranglin. The Wailers' first single, "Simmer Down", is one of the defining tracks of the ska era, addressing the violence of the Kingston slums in the patois of the people who lived there. The Skatalites provide the breathtaking rhythm track and horn arrangements, and Kelso, Tosh, Wailer, and Braithwaite harmonize the title under Marley's rough-throated verses. For a one-track recording, there's an impressive amount of detail in the mix, and the song became an instant smash when Dodd played it at his sound system dance the same night it was recorded, quickly moving 70,000 copies. If that doesn't sound like a big number, consider that in the 1960s the total population of Jamaica was less than two million. There are a ton of other great ska cuts spread out across the rest of the set, including a number of excellent rude boy tracks that helped establish the Wailers as spokesmen for the ghetto and the warring gangs of dance crashers who ultimately brought the sound systems to their demise in the late 60s. "Rude Boy", which later became the basis for "Rebel's Hop", and "Hooligan" celebrated rudie attitude, the former featuring lyrics like "the peego a-go lingua" (roughly, "the rude girls are gonna' talk"), that illustrated just how deep the slang of the ghettos could get. The group's initial phase closed with "Jailhouse", one of countless Jamaican singles of the period that extolled the fearlessness of the rude boys when confronted by the authorities-- the song also shows them transitioning to the slower rocksteady beat that formed the bridge from ska to reggae. In 1966, Bob Marley went to Delaware to earn money for a planned Wailers label, and Bunny and Peter recruited Constantine Walker to fill his place, recording numerous Wailers sides while Bob was gone. Marley's elevation to iconic status overshadowed Bunny and Peter's estimable solo output, and the Bob-less tracks here show that either one would have been capable of leading the group. The two share lead vocals on the stunning rocksteady tracks "Who Feels it Knows it" and "When the Well Runs Dry". The harmonies are noticeably sweeter in the absence of Marley, and "What Am I Supposed to Do" vies with Alton Ellis's "Why Birds Follow Spring" and the Paragons' "On the Beach" for the prettiest rocksteady song I've heard. One other remarkable thing about this compilation is the sheer number of songs that don't feature the distinctive Jamaican off-beat accent. Right into 1966, the Wailers regularly recorded straight r&b; and rock'n'roll tracks, and though their version of the Beatles' "And I Love Her" (previously unreleased) leaves much to be desired, a number of these songs are fantastic, especially Tosh's Nuggety "Can't You See" and the band's outright jaw-dropping version of Dion's "Teenager in Love". Indeed, the Wailers continued to record non-reggae songs all the way through their 1970 Island debut Soul Rebels, which features a couple of fantastic funk cuts. All these curiosities add up to very solid set, but all of the alternate takes and rarities make it one that's decidedly for fans-- of Marley and early reggae alike. For newcomers, it might be best to start with Marley's 70s material (it's more of a kick to hear the title track of this comp if you already know the version on Legend and Exodus, not to mention U2's "One") and work your way to this set via the Skatalites and some Studio One compilations. If you dig that stuff, One Love at Studio One will likely make you very happy."

Charity Empressa

Charity Empressa

Joe Tangari

The first time I listened to this album, I seriously considered writing this review as a single run-on sentence. This is, after all, music that drones on and on with nary a single bit of punctuation to be found. In fact, on first listen, I didn't make it past the second track. But, as I'm duty-bound to actually listen to everything I review, I spun it again a few days later with the volume up some and it revealed itself to be, well, not so terrible I couldn't take it in one sitting. Seven listens later, I'm a bit divided on what to tell you about Charity Empressa's self-titled debut album. I suppose starting with some background couldn't hurt, so I'll offer this for you to chew on while I gather my thoughts: Charity Empressa is a two-man unit comprised of Eric Campuzano of the Lassie Foundation, assisted by a guy who goes by "The Frank Lenz Foundation." They're helped out by a wide-ranging cast of guest vocalists and instrumentalists, though it's never made very clear who contributes what, or even what some of the musicians play. In passing, I'll mention that Charity Empressa are openly and forthrightly Christian, but it barely matters, as only one moment on the whole record even evidences that fact. Charity Empressa begins with a series of layered, vacuum-packed drones and some new age keyboards that are initially rather pleasant. "This is a nice intro," you think, easing back in your chair. The only problem is that an intro needs a song to be a part of, and most introductions aren't over four minutes long. A pall of hazy reverb and drones hangs as though dead, daubed with noodling on the brightly toned keyboard. Even the programmed drum beat that comes in near the end doesn't make it more interesting. Hell, you can't even hear it if you don't have your stereo turned up loud enough. By the time they actually decide to shift the overall texture, you've stopped listening. The shift doesn't really lead to a higher gear, either, and the song just kind of evaporates. Ironically, they've chosen to title the song "Are We There Yet?" The second track, "Carew," answers that question by saying, "No, but here's a trumpet." Over basically the same foundation, guest trumpeter Matt Fronke does his best 1969 Miles Davis impression, and to his credit, it's the third most interesting thing on the entire album. The main problem occurs when you realize that he isn't really playing much of a theme-- rather, he's simply wandering in a droning wasteland of shimmery texture. Shortened to thirty seconds, this would have made a fine outro to an early Verve b-side, but here it just drags on and on. "Future King of England" adds some heavily phased vocals from Wayne Fernandez Everett. Everett's sense of key is interpretive at best, and the whole thing plays largely like a tribute to the haunting vocal break of Godspeed You Black Emperor!'s "Providence" slathered in a big, silky drone. It's pretty and all, but why it lasts over six minutes is beyond me, considering that, by then, it's exhausted its welcome three times over. This brings us to the second most interesting moment on this album: the vaguely Eastern "May the Good Lord Find You." A steady tabla beat chugs away in the background, marching through a mist of that same drone that covers everything else. Guest vocalist Raquel Munoz offers a decent melody for the first time on the record, and the song is actually short enough not to grow tiresome. Any renewed interest is quickly squelched, however, by "Give 'Em Hell," 10\xBD minutes of drone that services their own title's request. At first, the drone is mixed with some fairly neat static, and somewhat regular hand percussion moves in and out of the background at a few points, but there's virtually nothing to justify the song's length. In the end, the swelling hum comes across about as interesting as an academic demonstration of an early FM synthesizer. "The Crush of the Mountains" is only slightly more interesting, and this is due to vocalist Matt Kelly, whose multi-tracked melody saves it from all-out numbing boredom, but does little to contour it. Thankfully, it's followed by what is far and away the best thing Charity Empressa have to offer-- a unique track called "Shake Your Money Maker." The song samples a 1939 recording by the Albert Francis Trio of a song called "The Risen Savior and the Rhythm Maker," taken from the Library of Congress archives. At less than three minutes, it's the perfect length, and the backing provided by the band for the sample is unusually vibrant and rhythmic. Funky little bass figures dance around busily tapping rhythms, and the drones, though present, are kept largely to a minimum. Of the remaining four songs, only one stands out at all. "Stay Gold" follows the same drone blueprint, adding a little bit of guitar, which inevitably merges with the rest of the background. "Cool as Cranes" is an ephemeral wisp of a song buried deep in stationary drones. "Breathing is Good," which is largely the same thing with a female vocalist, is equally brief and inconsequential. Finally, closer "The Kool Kids and Rok and Roll" comes in with some strong male vocals, an actual bassline, and some maracas to keep time. Initially, there are no drones at all, and the first one to enter is provided not by big, gauzy, echoing synths, but an organ. The lyrics are quaint, referencing the MC5 and the Rolling Stones and calling on God to bless rock and roll. Of course, by the song's end, it's enveloped once again by big, drony synths, and it ends sounding much like it began-- listless and unobtrusive. And with that the disc is over, and we come to the reason I'm so divided on what to say about this album. I actually like the sound of it a lot, but it never takes that intriguing sound and does enough with it for me. Likewise, I know there are people out there who will lap this up quite enthusiastically. If you're into drone outfits like Stars of the Lid, for example, there's probably a lot to like for you about Charity Empressa. However, for me, this record simply doesn't succeed on most levels. And that's all I've got to say.

Artist: Charity Empressa, Album: Charity Empressa, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 4.9 Album review: "The first time I listened to this album, I seriously considered writing this review as a single run-on sentence. This is, after all, music that drones on and on with nary a single bit of punctuation to be found. In fact, on first listen, I didn't make it past the second track. But, as I'm duty-bound to actually listen to everything I review, I spun it again a few days later with the volume up some and it revealed itself to be, well, not so terrible I couldn't take it in one sitting. Seven listens later, I'm a bit divided on what to tell you about Charity Empressa's self-titled debut album. I suppose starting with some background couldn't hurt, so I'll offer this for you to chew on while I gather my thoughts: Charity Empressa is a two-man unit comprised of Eric Campuzano of the Lassie Foundation, assisted by a guy who goes by "The Frank Lenz Foundation." They're helped out by a wide-ranging cast of guest vocalists and instrumentalists, though it's never made very clear who contributes what, or even what some of the musicians play. In passing, I'll mention that Charity Empressa are openly and forthrightly Christian, but it barely matters, as only one moment on the whole record even evidences that fact. Charity Empressa begins with a series of layered, vacuum-packed drones and some new age keyboards that are initially rather pleasant. "This is a nice intro," you think, easing back in your chair. The only problem is that an intro needs a song to be a part of, and most introductions aren't over four minutes long. A pall of hazy reverb and drones hangs as though dead, daubed with noodling on the brightly toned keyboard. Even the programmed drum beat that comes in near the end doesn't make it more interesting. Hell, you can't even hear it if you don't have your stereo turned up loud enough. By the time they actually decide to shift the overall texture, you've stopped listening. The shift doesn't really lead to a higher gear, either, and the song just kind of evaporates. Ironically, they've chosen to title the song "Are We There Yet?" The second track, "Carew," answers that question by saying, "No, but here's a trumpet." Over basically the same foundation, guest trumpeter Matt Fronke does his best 1969 Miles Davis impression, and to his credit, it's the third most interesting thing on the entire album. The main problem occurs when you realize that he isn't really playing much of a theme-- rather, he's simply wandering in a droning wasteland of shimmery texture. Shortened to thirty seconds, this would have made a fine outro to an early Verve b-side, but here it just drags on and on. "Future King of England" adds some heavily phased vocals from Wayne Fernandez Everett. Everett's sense of key is interpretive at best, and the whole thing plays largely like a tribute to the haunting vocal break of Godspeed You Black Emperor!'s "Providence" slathered in a big, silky drone. It's pretty and all, but why it lasts over six minutes is beyond me, considering that, by then, it's exhausted its welcome three times over. This brings us to the second most interesting moment on this album: the vaguely Eastern "May the Good Lord Find You." A steady tabla beat chugs away in the background, marching through a mist of that same drone that covers everything else. Guest vocalist Raquel Munoz offers a decent melody for the first time on the record, and the song is actually short enough not to grow tiresome. Any renewed interest is quickly squelched, however, by "Give 'Em Hell," 10\xBD minutes of drone that services their own title's request. At first, the drone is mixed with some fairly neat static, and somewhat regular hand percussion moves in and out of the background at a few points, but there's virtually nothing to justify the song's length. In the end, the swelling hum comes across about as interesting as an academic demonstration of an early FM synthesizer. "The Crush of the Mountains" is only slightly more interesting, and this is due to vocalist Matt Kelly, whose multi-tracked melody saves it from all-out numbing boredom, but does little to contour it. Thankfully, it's followed by what is far and away the best thing Charity Empressa have to offer-- a unique track called "Shake Your Money Maker." The song samples a 1939 recording by the Albert Francis Trio of a song called "The Risen Savior and the Rhythm Maker," taken from the Library of Congress archives. At less than three minutes, it's the perfect length, and the backing provided by the band for the sample is unusually vibrant and rhythmic. Funky little bass figures dance around busily tapping rhythms, and the drones, though present, are kept largely to a minimum. Of the remaining four songs, only one stands out at all. "Stay Gold" follows the same drone blueprint, adding a little bit of guitar, which inevitably merges with the rest of the background. "Cool as Cranes" is an ephemeral wisp of a song buried deep in stationary drones. "Breathing is Good," which is largely the same thing with a female vocalist, is equally brief and inconsequential. Finally, closer "The Kool Kids and Rok and Roll" comes in with some strong male vocals, an actual bassline, and some maracas to keep time. Initially, there are no drones at all, and the first one to enter is provided not by big, gauzy, echoing synths, but an organ. The lyrics are quaint, referencing the MC5 and the Rolling Stones and calling on God to bless rock and roll. Of course, by the song's end, it's enveloped once again by big, drony synths, and it ends sounding much like it began-- listless and unobtrusive. And with that the disc is over, and we come to the reason I'm so divided on what to say about this album. I actually like the sound of it a lot, but it never takes that intriguing sound and does enough with it for me. Likewise, I know there are people out there who will lap this up quite enthusiastically. If you're into drone outfits like Stars of the Lid, for example, there's probably a lot to like for you about Charity Empressa. However, for me, this record simply doesn't succeed on most levels. And that's all I've got to say."

Oupa

Forget

Rock

Hari Ashurst

Listening to Yuck's debut record from earlier this year, it's hard to imagine a great deal of torment lurking beneath its carefree, youthful veneer. Yuck’s songs, rooted in 1990s slackerisms, mostly coast by on a haze of fuzzy riffs and major keys. But despite those fun vibes there have been hints at another more pensive side to the band, particularly "Automatic", a cut released last year under the Yu(c)k banner. That alias has since been fleshed out and given the name Oupa, serving essentially as a side-project for Yuck bandleader Daniel Blumberg. He strikes a different pose on Forget, planting mostly solo piano songs in an orb of bare, sensitive melancholy. At its best, as on the title track, Blumberg shows he has an ear for a big ballad, cutting a tender and compelling figure backed by a sparse, percussive piano. Rather than telling a story, Blumberg uses disconnected snatches like "I’ll be natural" and "She can’t forget me now" to evoke the feeling of trying to recall a faded memory. The song ends up feeling bigger than its minimal parts, capturing a particular emotion and letting it hang in the air for a few minutes. The problem in the context of the rest of the record is that the particular mood Blumberg captures so well on "Forget", or "Windows" later on, is repeated over and over on the record and with very little extra instrumentation to hide behind-- save a few electronic touches on "Waiting for the Car" and "New Home"-- the record becomes a bit of a drag. The slightly concealed narratives don't help either; with no big lyrical gut punches the emotional heft feels a bit too vague to really invest yourself in. The 10+ minutes of closing track "Those Are the Senses" epitomizes this, starting with a particularly cloying, wet chord progression and an obscured vocal. Those first few minutes are a chore, but the song eventually unravels quite nicely as layers of guitar and delay submerge the vocal and keys. If nothing else Forget allows Blumberg to follow breadcrumb trails he might not get the chance to explore in Yuck, and even though the result is probably too overwrought and serious, it still feels like a worthwhile endeavor. Blumberg is obviously an exciting young songwriter, but it's hard not to feel that there are just too many other people doing the sensitive-songwriter thing in more inventive, resonant ways right now for Oupa to truly stand out on its own.

Artist: Oupa, Album: Forget, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "Listening to Yuck's debut record from earlier this year, it's hard to imagine a great deal of torment lurking beneath its carefree, youthful veneer. Yuck’s songs, rooted in 1990s slackerisms, mostly coast by on a haze of fuzzy riffs and major keys. But despite those fun vibes there have been hints at another more pensive side to the band, particularly "Automatic", a cut released last year under the Yu(c)k banner. That alias has since been fleshed out and given the name Oupa, serving essentially as a side-project for Yuck bandleader Daniel Blumberg. He strikes a different pose on Forget, planting mostly solo piano songs in an orb of bare, sensitive melancholy. At its best, as on the title track, Blumberg shows he has an ear for a big ballad, cutting a tender and compelling figure backed by a sparse, percussive piano. Rather than telling a story, Blumberg uses disconnected snatches like "I’ll be natural" and "She can’t forget me now" to evoke the feeling of trying to recall a faded memory. The song ends up feeling bigger than its minimal parts, capturing a particular emotion and letting it hang in the air for a few minutes. The problem in the context of the rest of the record is that the particular mood Blumberg captures so well on "Forget", or "Windows" later on, is repeated over and over on the record and with very little extra instrumentation to hide behind-- save a few electronic touches on "Waiting for the Car" and "New Home"-- the record becomes a bit of a drag. The slightly concealed narratives don't help either; with no big lyrical gut punches the emotional heft feels a bit too vague to really invest yourself in. The 10+ minutes of closing track "Those Are the Senses" epitomizes this, starting with a particularly cloying, wet chord progression and an obscured vocal. Those first few minutes are a chore, but the song eventually unravels quite nicely as layers of guitar and delay submerge the vocal and keys. If nothing else Forget allows Blumberg to follow breadcrumb trails he might not get the chance to explore in Yuck, and even though the result is probably too overwrought and serious, it still feels like a worthwhile endeavor. Blumberg is obviously an exciting young songwriter, but it's hard not to feel that there are just too many other people doing the sensitive-songwriter thing in more inventive, resonant ways right now for Oupa to truly stand out on its own."

The Orb, Youth

Impossible Oddities

Electronic,Rock

Jess Harvell

Some of us have been waiting years for late 1980s/early 90s rave to have its moment of nostalgia-driven resurgence. For one thing, it's just seemed inevitable, as many indie bands would at some point ditch dance-punk for neo-grunge. But also we're just plain greedy to re-own some hard-to-find tunes from the era when sampling and Roland synthesizers changed the sound of radio almost overnight. And in the last few years, newer acts, from Scandinavian indie pop bands to UK house producers, many of whom were kids at the time have begun to pay homage to early rave in earnest. Impossible Oddities collects the psychedelic pop-dance singles the Orb and their sampladelic friends released on the duo's W.A.U!. Mr Modo label as the UK's late-80s "Summer of Love" gave way to the worldwide rave boom of the early 90s. If dubstep has recently picked up on early breakbeat hardcore's manic roughness, this is stuff you can hear referenced in the trippy-but-cuddly rave recreations of the Tough Alliance axis. Elements of R&B (Johnson Dean's chintzy, cheesy, pretty great "Somebody Somewhere") and reggae (Indica All Stars' "Open Our Eyes") and prog-rock (the nature-sounds overload heard on an early demo mix of the Orb's "Little Fluffy Clouds") crop up throughout. But mostly these producers were working in idioms that were, for a few years anyway, totally new: Chicago acid, the sample-heavy party records of early instrumental hip-hop, Detroit techno. To these import sounds, the W.A.U!. Mr Modo artists brought a very UK neo-hippie vibe. The track titles and producer monikers alone should give you give you an idea of the angle many of these artists (especially the Orb, informing the whole project) were working: "Ashram House", "Tripping on Sunshine", Sun Electric, Indica All Stars. Not quite right for one of Orb mainman Dr. Alex Paterson's legendary chill-out nights, but usually too whimsical for a frenzied warehouse rave, these artists operated during a brief time when it was still possible to exist somewhere in the middle. It's stoner music with a funky pulse and none of the bad-trip vibes of the harder, faster music of just a few years (or months) later. Compared to the crassest pop-dance stuff of the time-- think the huge riffs and learn-in-a-minute raps of Technotronic-- they practically have the grownup restraint of deep house. But there's still an appealing rave-minded roughness and lack of pretension to the tracks on Impossible Oddities. Not all of it's essential; there are a few too many interchangeable break-plus-synth tunes that were probably little more than DJ fodder even at the time. That's to be expected since this is a specific snapshot of one label's output. But if you've been digging the way the neo-Balearic boom has been getting rave-ier recently-- think artists like Azari & III and Tensnake-- here's a nice, unexpected opportunity to catch the original vibe without resorting to lo-fi YouTube rips.

Artist: The Orb, Youth, Album: Impossible Oddities, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Some of us have been waiting years for late 1980s/early 90s rave to have its moment of nostalgia-driven resurgence. For one thing, it's just seemed inevitable, as many indie bands would at some point ditch dance-punk for neo-grunge. But also we're just plain greedy to re-own some hard-to-find tunes from the era when sampling and Roland synthesizers changed the sound of radio almost overnight. And in the last few years, newer acts, from Scandinavian indie pop bands to UK house producers, many of whom were kids at the time have begun to pay homage to early rave in earnest. Impossible Oddities collects the psychedelic pop-dance singles the Orb and their sampladelic friends released on the duo's W.A.U!. Mr Modo label as the UK's late-80s "Summer of Love" gave way to the worldwide rave boom of the early 90s. If dubstep has recently picked up on early breakbeat hardcore's manic roughness, this is stuff you can hear referenced in the trippy-but-cuddly rave recreations of the Tough Alliance axis. Elements of R&B (Johnson Dean's chintzy, cheesy, pretty great "Somebody Somewhere") and reggae (Indica All Stars' "Open Our Eyes") and prog-rock (the nature-sounds overload heard on an early demo mix of the Orb's "Little Fluffy Clouds") crop up throughout. But mostly these producers were working in idioms that were, for a few years anyway, totally new: Chicago acid, the sample-heavy party records of early instrumental hip-hop, Detroit techno. To these import sounds, the W.A.U!. Mr Modo artists brought a very UK neo-hippie vibe. The track titles and producer monikers alone should give you give you an idea of the angle many of these artists (especially the Orb, informing the whole project) were working: "Ashram House", "Tripping on Sunshine", Sun Electric, Indica All Stars. Not quite right for one of Orb mainman Dr. Alex Paterson's legendary chill-out nights, but usually too whimsical for a frenzied warehouse rave, these artists operated during a brief time when it was still possible to exist somewhere in the middle. It's stoner music with a funky pulse and none of the bad-trip vibes of the harder, faster music of just a few years (or months) later. Compared to the crassest pop-dance stuff of the time-- think the huge riffs and learn-in-a-minute raps of Technotronic-- they practically have the grownup restraint of deep house. But there's still an appealing rave-minded roughness and lack of pretension to the tracks on Impossible Oddities. Not all of it's essential; there are a few too many interchangeable break-plus-synth tunes that were probably little more than DJ fodder even at the time. That's to be expected since this is a specific snapshot of one label's output. But if you've been digging the way the neo-Balearic boom has been getting rave-ier recently-- think artists like Azari & III and Tensnake-- here's a nice, unexpected opportunity to catch the original vibe without resorting to lo-fi YouTube rips."

Jack Peñate

Everything Is New

Joshua Klein

If there's one thing the past decade achieved, it was further emphasizing the amorphous, ambiguous meaninglessness of the word "pop." After all, every artist, no matter how outré, wants people to listen to their records, and ideally as many people as possible. Sure, some make it easier and some make it harder, but no one wants their music to be ignored. Still, those who aspire to make pop music as such presumably value accessibility, and there are any number of tricks-- studio, stylistic, marketing-- one can enlist to pull that off. Yet it's an uphill slog if you don't have the songs to begin with, and on that front the relatively under-the-radar Jack Peñate has a leg up. This being the 21st century and all, Peñate's brand of pop is predictably broad. He's a soul singer, of sorts, but his voice is closer to a charming yelp than a smooth croon-- more Edwyn Collins or Terry Hall than, say, Jamie Lidell. His music, too, references horn-drenched R&B, but it also broadens its scope to include everything from Afropop to Tropicália. Best of all, it does so naturally, rarely coming off as some cynical or awkward train-jumping exercise. In this way Peñate's second album, Everything Is New, recalls 1980s UK pop at its most blinder-free: dance music that doesn't pander, globetrotting grooves that don't over-reach, songs hardly short on hooks but not smug about them, either. The title track, with its polyrhythmic percussion, strings, harps, and copious other overdubs, could have gone the overblown route, but as busy as it may be, it's never less than down to earth in its homebrew house party vibe. "Pull My Heart Away", "So Near", and "Be the One" explore different sides of soul, the former slower and more melancholy despite its handclaps and massed backing vocals, the latter two string-laden disco but far from unctuous in their historical references. "Body Down" is down-tempo jazzbo rock that makes room for backwards vocals and a noisy space guitar breakdown. When Peñate does incorporate non-Western elements, he does so minus the usual distracting assembly seams. "Tonight's Today" and "Give Yourself Away", for example, have as much West African funk in them as London club, but they don't sound like shallow fashion-parade pastiche. And when Peñate gets moody or weird, as he does on "Every Glance" and the herky-jerk "Let's All Die", respectively, he does so in keeping with the same sense of sophistication and stylistic scope that pervades and informs the rest of the album. It's harder to pull off than it sounds, but no less easy a listen for it. It's wide-eyed pop minus the fizz, demonstrating that sizzle can still be subtle.

Artist: Jack Peñate, Album: Everything Is New, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "If there's one thing the past decade achieved, it was further emphasizing the amorphous, ambiguous meaninglessness of the word "pop." After all, every artist, no matter how outré, wants people to listen to their records, and ideally as many people as possible. Sure, some make it easier and some make it harder, but no one wants their music to be ignored. Still, those who aspire to make pop music as such presumably value accessibility, and there are any number of tricks-- studio, stylistic, marketing-- one can enlist to pull that off. Yet it's an uphill slog if you don't have the songs to begin with, and on that front the relatively under-the-radar Jack Peñate has a leg up. This being the 21st century and all, Peñate's brand of pop is predictably broad. He's a soul singer, of sorts, but his voice is closer to a charming yelp than a smooth croon-- more Edwyn Collins or Terry Hall than, say, Jamie Lidell. His music, too, references horn-drenched R&B, but it also broadens its scope to include everything from Afropop to Tropicália. Best of all, it does so naturally, rarely coming off as some cynical or awkward train-jumping exercise. In this way Peñate's second album, Everything Is New, recalls 1980s UK pop at its most blinder-free: dance music that doesn't pander, globetrotting grooves that don't over-reach, songs hardly short on hooks but not smug about them, either. The title track, with its polyrhythmic percussion, strings, harps, and copious other overdubs, could have gone the overblown route, but as busy as it may be, it's never less than down to earth in its homebrew house party vibe. "Pull My Heart Away", "So Near", and "Be the One" explore different sides of soul, the former slower and more melancholy despite its handclaps and massed backing vocals, the latter two string-laden disco but far from unctuous in their historical references. "Body Down" is down-tempo jazzbo rock that makes room for backwards vocals and a noisy space guitar breakdown. When Peñate does incorporate non-Western elements, he does so minus the usual distracting assembly seams. "Tonight's Today" and "Give Yourself Away", for example, have as much West African funk in them as London club, but they don't sound like shallow fashion-parade pastiche. And when Peñate gets moody or weird, as he does on "Every Glance" and the herky-jerk "Let's All Die", respectively, he does so in keeping with the same sense of sophistication and stylistic scope that pervades and informs the rest of the album. It's harder to pull off than it sounds, but no less easy a listen for it. It's wide-eyed pop minus the fizz, demonstrating that sizzle can still be subtle."

They Might Be Giants

Long Tall Weekend

Rock

Ryan Schreiber

I was in the ninth grade when I first discovered They Might Be Giants' Apollo 18. In retrospect, it wasn't their most shining moment, but at the time, it was the perfect blend of dark satire and catchy, quirky pop. Ah, there's that word. "Quirky." Diehard fans of this New Jersey/ New York-based duo complain that there's not a review of a They Might Be Giants album in existence without mention of the term. But y'know what? They're quirky. Sorry. I went into this one braced for horror. I mean, over the course of this decade, the band has become progressively less listenable, especially since abandoning their MIDI sequencers and keyboards for a live band setup. But even at this very moment, I sit listening, stunned. While these guys never let their irresistible pop hooks leave their sides (even on their last studio album, 1997's Factory Showroom, songs like "Till My Head Falls Off" and "How Can I Sing Like a Girl" got in your head and stuck like flypaper), the songs have lost some of the charm in favor of the attempted comeback single. The band's energy level seemed to be steadily dissipating. They quit experimenting with genres, and worse, their mix of morbid lyrics with head-bobbing pop melodies were nowhere in sight. Long Tall Weekend is set to be released strictly via MP3 by EMusic.com on July 19. It seems likely that these guys felt they could goof around a bit more because, hypothetically, no one would be listening. (This, by the way, is completely not the case. Just as Tori Amos and Morrissey still have massive rabid fanbases, They Might Be Giants fans will do anything they can to dig up unreleased tracks, be it in MP3 format or otherwise.) But whereas this might make for an unfocused and careless record for other bands, They Might Be Giants are actually at their best when they're not really trying. As it turns out, Long Tall Weekend is still not a stellar release, but is easily their best since Apollo 18. It compiles a few songs that originally debuted on their Dial-A-Song line, along with studio versions of songs they've been performing in concert for years. The album kicks off with the somewhat mediocre leadoff instrumental "Drinkin'," and is followed up the very average-- and depending on your mood, possibly annoying-- "(She Thinks She's) Edith Head." But these two numbers have nothing on "Maybe I Know," an incredibly poignant ballad whose helpless, succinct lyrics ("Maybe I know that she's been cheating/ Maybe I know that she's been untrue/ But what can I do") are strikingly effective. The brief "Token Back to Brooklyn" appears to be heavily influenced by Chicago post-rock auteurs Tortoise and the Sea and Cake with its artsy, vaguely electronic-sounding drum track. "Older" is, contrary to possible belief, not a medley of the songs from George Michael's last album, but a classic They Might Be Giants clever (but depressing) "mortality awareness" songs. The lyrics say it all: "You're older than you've ever been/ And now you're even older/ And now you're even older/ And now you're even older." Add in the memorable cartoony melody, written to emphasize every passing second, and bam!-- you've got a track that belongs on their self-titled debut or Lincoln. "Reprehensible" could only be described as "casual vaudeville." Were it not for the seriously wack lyrics, it'd fit nicely into an old Fred Astaire film. "They Got Lost" has been a live staple for what seems like forever. The standard live version appeared on last year's compilation album, Severe Tire Damage. This first-ever studio recording of the song is far more subdued than its rocking live counterpart, but the melody is so infectious, it could practically be a polka (an actual possibility with these two on the case) and it'd still be a prime cut. "Nina" is entirely a capella and sung backwards for that whole "Arm from 'Twin Peaks'" feel. And "Edison Museum" closes out the album, continuing their fascination with the famous institution, with accordions and harpsichords plinking the song's spooky tune. Long Tall Weekend has a few less- than- grand numbers, of course. The aforementioned "(She Thinks She's) Edith Head," the dorky wordplay of "Operators are Standing By," and the banjo-infested "Counterfeit Faker" are accidents gone awry. (You heard me.) I guess that's the benefit of only purchasing certain songs. But if you don't purchase them, does it mean they're not part of whole vision? Indeed not, guys. Call me an ass, but these tracks were recorded as part of the Long Tall Weekend album, and they detract from the overall quality. That said, Flansburgh and Linnell, in a rare moment of glory, have returned to their roots to create their first truly enjoyable album of the decade. But don't count on this excellence to continue. Like I said before, they're at their best when they're not trying.

Artist: They Might Be Giants, Album: Long Tall Weekend, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "I was in the ninth grade when I first discovered They Might Be Giants' Apollo 18. In retrospect, it wasn't their most shining moment, but at the time, it was the perfect blend of dark satire and catchy, quirky pop. Ah, there's that word. "Quirky." Diehard fans of this New Jersey/ New York-based duo complain that there's not a review of a They Might Be Giants album in existence without mention of the term. But y'know what? They're quirky. Sorry. I went into this one braced for horror. I mean, over the course of this decade, the band has become progressively less listenable, especially since abandoning their MIDI sequencers and keyboards for a live band setup. But even at this very moment, I sit listening, stunned. While these guys never let their irresistible pop hooks leave their sides (even on their last studio album, 1997's Factory Showroom, songs like "Till My Head Falls Off" and "How Can I Sing Like a Girl" got in your head and stuck like flypaper), the songs have lost some of the charm in favor of the attempted comeback single. The band's energy level seemed to be steadily dissipating. They quit experimenting with genres, and worse, their mix of morbid lyrics with head-bobbing pop melodies were nowhere in sight. Long Tall Weekend is set to be released strictly via MP3 by EMusic.com on July 19. It seems likely that these guys felt they could goof around a bit more because, hypothetically, no one would be listening. (This, by the way, is completely not the case. Just as Tori Amos and Morrissey still have massive rabid fanbases, They Might Be Giants fans will do anything they can to dig up unreleased tracks, be it in MP3 format or otherwise.) But whereas this might make for an unfocused and careless record for other bands, They Might Be Giants are actually at their best when they're not really trying. As it turns out, Long Tall Weekend is still not a stellar release, but is easily their best since Apollo 18. It compiles a few songs that originally debuted on their Dial-A-Song line, along with studio versions of songs they've been performing in concert for years. The album kicks off with the somewhat mediocre leadoff instrumental "Drinkin'," and is followed up the very average-- and depending on your mood, possibly annoying-- "(She Thinks She's) Edith Head." But these two numbers have nothing on "Maybe I Know," an incredibly poignant ballad whose helpless, succinct lyrics ("Maybe I know that she's been cheating/ Maybe I know that she's been untrue/ But what can I do") are strikingly effective. The brief "Token Back to Brooklyn" appears to be heavily influenced by Chicago post-rock auteurs Tortoise and the Sea and Cake with its artsy, vaguely electronic-sounding drum track. "Older" is, contrary to possible belief, not a medley of the songs from George Michael's last album, but a classic They Might Be Giants clever (but depressing) "mortality awareness" songs. The lyrics say it all: "You're older than you've ever been/ And now you're even older/ And now you're even older/ And now you're even older." Add in the memorable cartoony melody, written to emphasize every passing second, and bam!-- you've got a track that belongs on their self-titled debut or Lincoln. "Reprehensible" could only be described as "casual vaudeville." Were it not for the seriously wack lyrics, it'd fit nicely into an old Fred Astaire film. "They Got Lost" has been a live staple for what seems like forever. The standard live version appeared on last year's compilation album, Severe Tire Damage. This first-ever studio recording of the song is far more subdued than its rocking live counterpart, but the melody is so infectious, it could practically be a polka (an actual possibility with these two on the case) and it'd still be a prime cut. "Nina" is entirely a capella and sung backwards for that whole "Arm from 'Twin Peaks'" feel. And "Edison Museum" closes out the album, continuing their fascination with the famous institution, with accordions and harpsichords plinking the song's spooky tune. Long Tall Weekend has a few less- than- grand numbers, of course. The aforementioned "(She Thinks She's) Edith Head," the dorky wordplay of "Operators are Standing By," and the banjo-infested "Counterfeit Faker" are accidents gone awry. (You heard me.) I guess that's the benefit of only purchasing certain songs. But if you don't purchase them, does it mean they're not part of whole vision? Indeed not, guys. Call me an ass, but these tracks were recorded as part of the Long Tall Weekend album, and they detract from the overall quality. That said, Flansburgh and Linnell, in a rare moment of glory, have returned to their roots to create their first truly enjoyable album of the decade. But don't count on this excellence to continue. Like I said before, they're at their best when they're not trying."

Speedy Ortiz

Real Hair EP

Rock

Paul Thompson

"Well, it's not what you think," Sadie Dupuis sings a few seconds into "American Horror", kicking off Speedy Ortiz's new four-song EP, Real Hair. A lot of Speedy Ortiz songs seem to start this way, somewhere between a snicker and a shrug, like Dupuis just showed up late for class in snowboots and a swimcap. Throughout Real Hair, Dupuis keeps finding herself in some awfully precarious positions: sleepless on "American Horror", falling "for a bonebag" on "Oxygal", falling—or is it not falling—for a "bad news" waiter on "Shine Theory." But, whatever comes their way, on Real Hair, the increasingly confident Speedy Ortiz seem more than capable of figuring something out. From the start, Speedy Ortiz have fared best in the margins. Their rangy, slack-happy music is prone to wandering, but they never drift so far as to leave the hook behind. Bassist Darl Ferm and drummer Mike Falcone have tightened up tighter, while Dupuis and Matt Robidoux's dualing guitars are still perched on the precipice of stringent and slipshod. And these songs are just lousy with melody; there's distortion everywhere, but the occasional dissonance of Major Arcana's given way to a heady, fuzzed-out whoosh. As a lyricist, Dupuis is every bit as fond of the inscrutable left turn as the defense-stripping full-reveal, and the distance between the two is often a couple syllables at best. And she's a chatty, candid, elastic vocalist, taking each syllable as it comes. Dupuis, Master's candidate and Malkmus stan, is a student of words: not just what they mean, but how those meanings intersect. You can skim through Real Hair, taking pleasure in its intricate guitar fuzzbombing and the curious pleasures of Dupuis' language: peep "someone who sleeps with her neck in reverse," or try and guess at how she plans to "coax the pretty waiter from his restaurant." Dig in deeper, though, and Dupuis' tangled lines slowly start to unravel. Real Hair keeps its runtimes tight and its choruses front-and-center, pulling in some of Major Arcana's looser ends without sacrificing its fall-apart charms. Everything Speedy Ortiz do well—willful sloppiness, keep-'em-guessing lyricism, and Dupuis' sharp, knowing singing—seems turned up a couple notches on opener "American Horror". As Dupuis and Matt Robidoux pile one spiny guitar atop another, "Horror" slides from a conversational verse into a stompbox-detonating chorus. "Trust me just to my own feet," Dupuis pleads mid-explosion, "and keep me here for a whole week." You can get yourself stuck puzzling out the glue and web full of bees Dupuis sings of on "Horror", but once they punch into that chorus of "baby, you look so crazy," ambiguity's pretty much out the window. Sure enough, "Oxygal" turns up the inscrutability a few clicks. "Oxygal" is Real Hair at its most Frankensteinian, a stop-and-chop verse and woozily desperate chorus that don't seem to belong in the same tune. When it works, there's a gawky, black Chucks-and-tux elegance to Speedy Ortiz' carefully calamitous songcraft, but the jittery "Oxygal" stumbles around a bit too much to ever quite find its footing. Over shaggy "Cut Your Hair" guitars, "Everything's Bigger" finds Dupuis connecting the dots between a lion, several sets of twins, the slipperiness of regional dialects, and a quick sojourn to the Green Mountain state. It's an odd one, for sure; these red herrings and unplanned asides give Dupuis' songs a certain spontaneity, like she's working them out in real time and keeps throwing in extra embellishments to mess with you. But Dupuis isn't just jamming a bunch of words together to fill stanzas; she's clearly trying to elucidate her points while offering something a little more interesting than a point-by-point. And, for all its misdirection, "Bigger" eventually just comes right out with it: "it's hard to keep a dialect when you keep changing where you come from," Dupuis sings, a hint of bile creeping in. Musically, Speedy Ortiz still worship at the altar of early 90s indie: Pavement, Helium, Archers of Loaf, their holy trinity. But Dupuis has emerged as a distinctive voice: funny, sharp, ever-so-slightly neurotic, with a tendency to trail off. You've gotta take personality where you can get it in indie rock these days, but by reasserting her own peculiarities—and casting aspersions at those who'd change theirs to suit a scenario—Dupuis just makes herself seem more, well, herself, going through some shit, but certainly never cowering to it.Dupuis has called Major Arcana "kind of a breakup jam," framing Real Hair's deep-digging as being more about getting her own shit together. Spindly closer "Shine Theory" presents Dupuis with what, on paper, appears to be a perfectly acceptable suitor. Still, she passes; "I wanna want him so bad," she tells herself, "but I don't recognize the charms that he has." Though self-examination quickly turns to self-deprecation—as Dupuis puts her own charms under scrutiny—"Shine Theory" is hardly self-pitying; when it's over, you picture Dupuis shrugging, throwing her books in her bag, and leaving the "pretty waiter" to his other tables. It's tempting to paint Speedy Ortiz as more than they are: not just a very good band on their own terms, but an antidote to the mushmouthed, low-personality murmur blanketing much of circa-2014 indie rock. Though they seem a tad too casual for savior-types, it's hard to miss the things they're doing right. Real Hair takes the gloriously sloppy, haphazardly intricate Speedy Ortiz of Major Arcana and turns it bite-size, sharpening the focus without sanding off the edges. These songs are easy to like, but they're even better when you lean in close. And Dupuis—as a singer and lyricist alike—is only getting more precise and more peculiar. She isn't especially "confessional," but she certainly puts it all out there; these songs unwind like a long, aimless phone call with an old friend, rife with in-jokes, strange segueways, and the occasional moment of clarity. And, simply from a bookkeeping standpoint, dropping an EP in the winter dead zone, some nine months after your debut LP, is about as smart a way as any to keep your name on people's lips. When that EP's as good as Real Hair? All the better.

Artist: Speedy Ortiz, Album: Real Hair EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: ""Well, it's not what you think," Sadie Dupuis sings a few seconds into "American Horror", kicking off Speedy Ortiz's new four-song EP, Real Hair. A lot of Speedy Ortiz songs seem to start this way, somewhere between a snicker and a shrug, like Dupuis just showed up late for class in snowboots and a swimcap. Throughout Real Hair, Dupuis keeps finding herself in some awfully precarious positions: sleepless on "American Horror", falling "for a bonebag" on "Oxygal", falling—or is it not falling—for a "bad news" waiter on "Shine Theory." But, whatever comes their way, on Real Hair, the increasingly confident Speedy Ortiz seem more than capable of figuring something out. From the start, Speedy Ortiz have fared best in the margins. Their rangy, slack-happy music is prone to wandering, but they never drift so far as to leave the hook behind. Bassist Darl Ferm and drummer Mike Falcone have tightened up tighter, while Dupuis and Matt Robidoux's dualing guitars are still perched on the precipice of stringent and slipshod. And these songs are just lousy with melody; there's distortion everywhere, but the occasional dissonance of Major Arcana's given way to a heady, fuzzed-out whoosh. As a lyricist, Dupuis is every bit as fond of the inscrutable left turn as the defense-stripping full-reveal, and the distance between the two is often a couple syllables at best. And she's a chatty, candid, elastic vocalist, taking each syllable as it comes. Dupuis, Master's candidate and Malkmus stan, is a student of words: not just what they mean, but how those meanings intersect. You can skim through Real Hair, taking pleasure in its intricate guitar fuzzbombing and the curious pleasures of Dupuis' language: peep "someone who sleeps with her neck in reverse," or try and guess at how she plans to "coax the pretty waiter from his restaurant." Dig in deeper, though, and Dupuis' tangled lines slowly start to unravel. Real Hair keeps its runtimes tight and its choruses front-and-center, pulling in some of Major Arcana's looser ends without sacrificing its fall-apart charms. Everything Speedy Ortiz do well—willful sloppiness, keep-'em-guessing lyricism, and Dupuis' sharp, knowing singing—seems turned up a couple notches on opener "American Horror". As Dupuis and Matt Robidoux pile one spiny guitar atop another, "Horror" slides from a conversational verse into a stompbox-detonating chorus. "Trust me just to my own feet," Dupuis pleads mid-explosion, "and keep me here for a whole week." You can get yourself stuck puzzling out the glue and web full of bees Dupuis sings of on "Horror", but once they punch into that chorus of "baby, you look so crazy," ambiguity's pretty much out the window. Sure enough, "Oxygal" turns up the inscrutability a few clicks. "Oxygal" is Real Hair at its most Frankensteinian, a stop-and-chop verse and woozily desperate chorus that don't seem to belong in the same tune. When it works, there's a gawky, black Chucks-and-tux elegance to Speedy Ortiz' carefully calamitous songcraft, but the jittery "Oxygal" stumbles around a bit too much to ever quite find its footing. Over shaggy "Cut Your Hair" guitars, "Everything's Bigger" finds Dupuis connecting the dots between a lion, several sets of twins, the slipperiness of regional dialects, and a quick sojourn to the Green Mountain state. It's an odd one, for sure; these red herrings and unplanned asides give Dupuis' songs a certain spontaneity, like she's working them out in real time and keeps throwing in extra embellishments to mess with you. But Dupuis isn't just jamming a bunch of words together to fill stanzas; she's clearly trying to elucidate her points while offering something a little more interesting than a point-by-point. And, for all its misdirection, "Bigger" eventually just comes right out with it: "it's hard to keep a dialect when you keep changing where you come from," Dupuis sings, a hint of bile creeping in. Musically, Speedy Ortiz still worship at the altar of early 90s indie: Pavement, Helium, Archers of Loaf, their holy trinity. But Dupuis has emerged as a distinctive voice: funny, sharp, ever-so-slightly neurotic, with a tendency to trail off. You've gotta take personality where you can get it in indie rock these days, but by reasserting her own peculiarities—and casting aspersions at those who'd change theirs to suit a scenario—Dupuis just makes herself seem more, well, herself, going through some shit, but certainly never cowering to it.Dupuis has called Major Arcana "kind of a breakup jam," framing Real Hair's deep-digging as being more about getting her own shit together. Spindly closer "Shine Theory" presents Dupuis with what, on paper, appears to be a perfectly acceptable suitor. Still, she passes; "I wanna want him so bad," she tells herself, "but I don't recognize the charms that he has." Though self-examination quickly turns to self-deprecation—as Dupuis puts her own charms under scrutiny—"Shine Theory" is hardly self-pitying; when it's over, you picture Dupuis shrugging, throwing her books in her bag, and leaving the "pretty waiter" to his other tables. It's tempting to paint Speedy Ortiz as more than they are: not just a very good band on their own terms, but an antidote to the mushmouthed, low-personality murmur blanketing much of circa-2014 indie rock. Though they seem a tad too casual for savior-types, it's hard to miss the things they're doing right. Real Hair takes the gloriously sloppy, haphazardly intricate Speedy Ortiz of Major Arcana and turns it bite-size, sharpening the focus without sanding off the edges. These songs are easy to like, but they're even better when you lean in close. And Dupuis—as a singer and lyricist alike—is only getting more precise and more peculiar. She isn't especially "confessional," but she certainly puts it all out there; these songs unwind like a long, aimless phone call with an old friend, rife with in-jokes, strange segueways, and the occasional moment of clarity. And, simply from a bookkeeping standpoint, dropping an EP in the winter dead zone, some nine months after your debut LP, is about as smart a way as any to keep your name on people's lips. When that EP's as good as Real Hair? All the better."

Super Furry Animals

Phantom Phorce

Rock

Derek Miller

Super Furry Animals showed their first grey hairs on last year's Phantom Power. It wasn't quite a Humbert Humbert freakout, but the signs of aging had finally become visible. For me-- and if you check the archives here you'll find the opposing point well-represented-- Phantom Power showed a band giving into time. Continuously pushing boundaries throughout their decade-long run, it seemed the band had finally worn themselves out, and maybe grown a bit too content with their resting place. A full-fledged return from the polyester soul nadir of Rings Around the World, Power saw the band massaging their trademarked Beach Boys glow into pastoral psychedelics and warm, salty epics. But even so, its moments of unbridled experimentation and musical excursions were far less common than on their masterpiece, 1999's Guerilla. The tacked-on electronic bewitchery at the end of "The Piccolo Snare" exemplified the change: In contrast to its fellow album cuts, it was detectably forced-- just a tossed-off nugget for the tech-heads that SFA has always depended on. So, following Phantom Power, perhaps it's only proper for a band so dependent on rebirth to allow others a chance to succeed where they've failed: in distorting the past. First released last year on their own Placid Casual label, Phantom Phorce is narrated by Kurt Stern, the original's executive producer. Using glib allusions to fictional turmoil during the recording sessions-- complete with a reference to the whole debacle eventually appearing in Mojo-- Stern attempts to fuse these very separate, individual tracks together into a cohesive whole. Unfortunately, he gets in the way more than he helps, and by album's end, you're likely to consider redubbing it without his contributions. Though far less dynamic than its predecessors, Phantom Power was still home to a number of remarkable soundbytes, which offered this record's remixers plenty of manipulable material through which to embolden the original works, yet also retain the Furries' signature wit. Killa Kela turns "Golden Retriever" into a spastic funk jam, choked-up with thudding glitch-beats and carnivorous beat-boxing. High Llamas rebuild "Valet Parking" as a Beatlesque symphony, sifting past soft Day-Glo flutes and clouded strings, and channeling four orchestral transitions. Perhaps the best cut-and-paster of the lot, Four Tet, applies his apple-coring talents to "The Piccolo Snare", so that the resulting track stumbles on funky, lock-step rhythms and a repeated chime-loop to combine the moonlight-boxed psychedelics of his own work with the plump grace of the original. Yet, when the remix artists lose track of the Furries' source material, the results often bear more resemblance to faceless IDM than any of the band's untreated songs. Wauvenfold's take on "Sex, War and Robots" falls in love with its own glitch-cutting, and winds up a jarring, unrecognizable mess that makes the most frenzied Mouse on Mars' tracks seem tame by comparison. Likewise, Mego noise terrorist Massimo's "Venus and Serena" ditches every scrap of the original song except slight vocal fragments, falling flat with gurgling electro beats and a grinding guitar. Any song titled after America's favorite tennis twins can't afford to lose that sense of humor. Here, Massimo freezes it into a Martian soundscape, and thus allows it to escape his grasp in an unremarkable skyjacking. In the end, how much you make of Phantom Phorce will be related to your love for Super Furry Animals. It's the burden most remix albums have to bear. To hear the group's material tweaked into schizophrenic tantrums and hymns to the echolalia of technology is certainly worth enduring the album's more watered-down inclusions-- even Kurt Stern's boring narration. Plus, there's always the hope that seeing their material in the hands of some of the world's young contortionists might prove to be just the jolt the Furries need to send them back into the throes of prime creativity. But then, does anyone really want to hear them as inspired by Boom Bip?

Artist: Super Furry Animals, Album: Phantom Phorce, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Super Furry Animals showed their first grey hairs on last year's Phantom Power. It wasn't quite a Humbert Humbert freakout, but the signs of aging had finally become visible. For me-- and if you check the archives here you'll find the opposing point well-represented-- Phantom Power showed a band giving into time. Continuously pushing boundaries throughout their decade-long run, it seemed the band had finally worn themselves out, and maybe grown a bit too content with their resting place. A full-fledged return from the polyester soul nadir of Rings Around the World, Power saw the band massaging their trademarked Beach Boys glow into pastoral psychedelics and warm, salty epics. But even so, its moments of unbridled experimentation and musical excursions were far less common than on their masterpiece, 1999's Guerilla. The tacked-on electronic bewitchery at the end of "The Piccolo Snare" exemplified the change: In contrast to its fellow album cuts, it was detectably forced-- just a tossed-off nugget for the tech-heads that SFA has always depended on. So, following Phantom Power, perhaps it's only proper for a band so dependent on rebirth to allow others a chance to succeed where they've failed: in distorting the past. First released last year on their own Placid Casual label, Phantom Phorce is narrated by Kurt Stern, the original's executive producer. Using glib allusions to fictional turmoil during the recording sessions-- complete with a reference to the whole debacle eventually appearing in Mojo-- Stern attempts to fuse these very separate, individual tracks together into a cohesive whole. Unfortunately, he gets in the way more than he helps, and by album's end, you're likely to consider redubbing it without his contributions. Though far less dynamic than its predecessors, Phantom Power was still home to a number of remarkable soundbytes, which offered this record's remixers plenty of manipulable material through which to embolden the original works, yet also retain the Furries' signature wit. Killa Kela turns "Golden Retriever" into a spastic funk jam, choked-up with thudding glitch-beats and carnivorous beat-boxing. High Llamas rebuild "Valet Parking" as a Beatlesque symphony, sifting past soft Day-Glo flutes and clouded strings, and channeling four orchestral transitions. Perhaps the best cut-and-paster of the lot, Four Tet, applies his apple-coring talents to "The Piccolo Snare", so that the resulting track stumbles on funky, lock-step rhythms and a repeated chime-loop to combine the moonlight-boxed psychedelics of his own work with the plump grace of the original. Yet, when the remix artists lose track of the Furries' source material, the results often bear more resemblance to faceless IDM than any of the band's untreated songs. Wauvenfold's take on "Sex, War and Robots" falls in love with its own glitch-cutting, and winds up a jarring, unrecognizable mess that makes the most frenzied Mouse on Mars' tracks seem tame by comparison. Likewise, Mego noise terrorist Massimo's "Venus and Serena" ditches every scrap of the original song except slight vocal fragments, falling flat with gurgling electro beats and a grinding guitar. Any song titled after America's favorite tennis twins can't afford to lose that sense of humor. Here, Massimo freezes it into a Martian soundscape, and thus allows it to escape his grasp in an unremarkable skyjacking. In the end, how much you make of Phantom Phorce will be related to your love for Super Furry Animals. It's the burden most remix albums have to bear. To hear the group's material tweaked into schizophrenic tantrums and hymns to the echolalia of technology is certainly worth enduring the album's more watered-down inclusions-- even Kurt Stern's boring narration. Plus, there's always the hope that seeing their material in the hands of some of the world's young contortionists might prove to be just the jolt the Furries need to send them back into the throes of prime creativity. But then, does anyone really want to hear them as inspired by Boom Bip?"

Marina and the Diamonds

Electra Heart

Rock

Laura Snapes

In Marina Lambrini Diamandis' oft-cited comeback interview with Popjustice last August, she introduced the concept that would lead into her second album: that of Electra Heart, a kind of not-quite-alter-ego/character/affectation/cinematic simulacrum that would feed into the follow-up to her 2010 debut LP as Marina and the Diamonds, The Family Jewels. Representing Greek tragedy, the "loss and failure" side of the American Dream, a daddy complex, and the vacuity apparently lingering inside us all, over six months prior to the eventual release of the LP there was very much a feeling of Marina over-complicating the whole affair: trying to dress up the high-gloss record that she had made with Katy Perry's collaborators (seemingly at the behest of her major label) in layers of philosophy, mythology, artifice, and blonde wigs. (There's a babyish song here called "Hypocrates", misspelled for seemingly no good reason, and with no reference to the philosopher in the song.) It must have stung like billy-o when Lana Del Rey came along and executed precisely what Marina was aiming for, hardly having to open her much-discussed mouth in order to explain herself whilst Marina tied herself in conceptual knots. In short, Electra Heart bears no profound relationship to Greek mythology or philosophical thought beyond exploring situations of basic human pathos (or lack thereof), but its rare affecting moments are heavy with tragedy. The Family Jewels was disliked by many for its vaudevillian Sparks-like gaucheness, Marina's self-aggrandizement and cock-a-hoop vocal (though there's no doubting the chops of a song like "Hollywood"). But there was a sense of personality to the music as well as Diamandis' deep, hiccupy voice, and a promising sense of audaciousness that's been all but lost here. Working with Dr. Luke, Stargate, Greg Kurstin, and Liam Howe, the songs on Electra Heart fall into three basic categories: the bland, swampy banger (sub-category: "Lies"' Skrillex-lite), a regal, electronic strut falling somewhere between Depeche Mode at their poppiest and the Doctor Who theme tune, and very cloying, nursery rhyme music-box ballads. The campy ding-dong of "The State of Dreaming" is as close as Electra Heart gets to fun, with huge church bells whooshing from side to side in the mix like a pantomime dame testing the trajectory of her ball gown skirts. Relegating great early single "Radioactive" to the bonus tracks on the deluxe version of the LP is nearly as daft as some of the waffle that Marina comes out with here. Marina really, really wants you to know that she's into pop culture, though the lazy, meaningless strings of references that comprise a good chunk of the songs here aren't any kind of postmodern comment on the Tumblr-ification of society, but just plain bad songwriting. The bombardment of archetypes and clichés is exhausting: "Beauty queen of a silver screen" persuading someone to buy her "a big diamond ring" on "Primadonna"; the titular "Homewrecker" (where excruciatingly bad spoken word verses clash against a pretty triumphant chorus) whose "life is a mess, but I'm still looking pretty in this dress." "Teen Idle" is just horrible, a glitchy ballad that sounds as though it was recorded in a church, where she wishes to be a "virgin pure/ A 21st century whore," "a prom queen fighting for the title/ instead of being 16 and burning up a bible/ feeling super super super suicidal," a chorus of Marinas echoing "super." She wishes for "blood, guts, and angel cake" because "I'm gonna puke it anyway," a weird preoccupation of hers that also crops up in "Homewrecker" ("girls and their cosmic gourmet vomit"), continued from "Girls" on her debut. But as for ending the ego, Marina does seem obsessed with ideas of finality and death-- knowing "where I will belong/ When they blow me out" on the quavering, celestial "Fear and Loathing"-- seemingly finding solace in the reliability of microcosmic, compact celebrity tragedies, perhaps in the face of the parts of this album that ring desperately true. "You only ever touch me in the dark/ Only if we're drinking can you see my spark," she sings on "Lies". "The only time you open up is when we get undressed," she laments on "Starring Role", which glimmers like clashing porcelain before a stuttering, empowering chorus where she refuses to be a supporting cast member in an alluded-to love triangle. "Doesn't mean that I am weak," she asserts on "Power & Control", repeating, "I am weak, I am weak, I am weak" in an increasingly ephemeral voice. "Every day I feel the same/ Stuck, and I can never change/ Sucked into a black balloon/ Spat into an empty room" goes "Living Dead", a snappy, taut Soft Cell-like number. It feels like shaky ground to say that these vulnerable moments are Electra Heart's finest, catchiest, and hardest-hitting songs, Marina's soaring vocals packing some genuine emotion, picking up on themes of self-loathing that don't need blasé allusions to bulimia in order to indicate emotional emptiness; where the often transcendent states of sex and alcohol collaborate for profoundly dispiriting experiences. Her honesty, at least, is empowering. Whilst there's no getting past some of the duller and more unbearable material on this record, it's a real shame that it's come hamstrung in this unnecessary concept, ready for people to laugh when Marina fails to pull it off. If she'd made a record full of songs as unaffected as these four, Electra Heart could be one of the year's most acclaimed pop albums. Let's hope there's a next time.

Artist: Marina and the Diamonds, Album: Electra Heart, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "In Marina Lambrini Diamandis' oft-cited comeback interview with Popjustice last August, she introduced the concept that would lead into her second album: that of Electra Heart, a kind of not-quite-alter-ego/character/affectation/cinematic simulacrum that would feed into the follow-up to her 2010 debut LP as Marina and the Diamonds, The Family Jewels. Representing Greek tragedy, the "loss and failure" side of the American Dream, a daddy complex, and the vacuity apparently lingering inside us all, over six months prior to the eventual release of the LP there was very much a feeling of Marina over-complicating the whole affair: trying to dress up the high-gloss record that she had made with Katy Perry's collaborators (seemingly at the behest of her major label) in layers of philosophy, mythology, artifice, and blonde wigs. (There's a babyish song here called "Hypocrates", misspelled for seemingly no good reason, and with no reference to the philosopher in the song.) It must have stung like billy-o when Lana Del Rey came along and executed precisely what Marina was aiming for, hardly having to open her much-discussed mouth in order to explain herself whilst Marina tied herself in conceptual knots. In short, Electra Heart bears no profound relationship to Greek mythology or philosophical thought beyond exploring situations of basic human pathos (or lack thereof), but its rare affecting moments are heavy with tragedy. The Family Jewels was disliked by many for its vaudevillian Sparks-like gaucheness, Marina's self-aggrandizement and cock-a-hoop vocal (though there's no doubting the chops of a song like "Hollywood"). But there was a sense of personality to the music as well as Diamandis' deep, hiccupy voice, and a promising sense of audaciousness that's been all but lost here. Working with Dr. Luke, Stargate, Greg Kurstin, and Liam Howe, the songs on Electra Heart fall into three basic categories: the bland, swampy banger (sub-category: "Lies"' Skrillex-lite), a regal, electronic strut falling somewhere between Depeche Mode at their poppiest and the Doctor Who theme tune, and very cloying, nursery rhyme music-box ballads. The campy ding-dong of "The State of Dreaming" is as close as Electra Heart gets to fun, with huge church bells whooshing from side to side in the mix like a pantomime dame testing the trajectory of her ball gown skirts. Relegating great early single "Radioactive" to the bonus tracks on the deluxe version of the LP is nearly as daft as some of the waffle that Marina comes out with here. Marina really, really wants you to know that she's into pop culture, though the lazy, meaningless strings of references that comprise a good chunk of the songs here aren't any kind of postmodern comment on the Tumblr-ification of society, but just plain bad songwriting. The bombardment of archetypes and clichés is exhausting: "Beauty queen of a silver screen" persuading someone to buy her "a big diamond ring" on "Primadonna"; the titular "Homewrecker" (where excruciatingly bad spoken word verses clash against a pretty triumphant chorus) whose "life is a mess, but I'm still looking pretty in this dress." "Teen Idle" is just horrible, a glitchy ballad that sounds as though it was recorded in a church, where she wishes to be a "virgin pure/ A 21st century whore," "a prom queen fighting for the title/ instead of being 16 and burning up a bible/ feeling super super super suicidal," a chorus of Marinas echoing "super." She wishes for "blood, guts, and angel cake" because "I'm gonna puke it anyway," a weird preoccupation of hers that also crops up in "Homewrecker" ("girls and their cosmic gourmet vomit"), continued from "Girls" on her debut. But as for ending the ego, Marina does seem obsessed with ideas of finality and death-- knowing "where I will belong/ When they blow me out" on the quavering, celestial "Fear and Loathing"-- seemingly finding solace in the reliability of microcosmic, compact celebrity tragedies, perhaps in the face of the parts of this album that ring desperately true. "You only ever touch me in the dark/ Only if we're drinking can you see my spark," she sings on "Lies". "The only time you open up is when we get undressed," she laments on "Starring Role", which glimmers like clashing porcelain before a stuttering, empowering chorus where she refuses to be a supporting cast member in an alluded-to love triangle. "Doesn't mean that I am weak," she asserts on "Power & Control", repeating, "I am weak, I am weak, I am weak" in an increasingly ephemeral voice. "Every day I feel the same/ Stuck, and I can never change/ Sucked into a black balloon/ Spat into an empty room" goes "Living Dead", a snappy, taut Soft Cell-like number. It feels like shaky ground to say that these vulnerable moments are Electra Heart's finest, catchiest, and hardest-hitting songs, Marina's soaring vocals packing some genuine emotion, picking up on themes of self-loathing that don't need blasé allusions to bulimia in order to indicate emotional emptiness; where the often transcendent states of sex and alcohol collaborate for profoundly dispiriting experiences. Her honesty, at least, is empowering. Whilst there's no getting past some of the duller and more unbearable material on this record, it's a real shame that it's come hamstrung in this unnecessary concept, ready for people to laugh when Marina fails to pull it off. If she'd made a record full of songs as unaffected as these four, Electra Heart could be one of the year's most acclaimed pop albums. Let's hope there's a next time."

Trans Am

Volume X

Metal,Rock

Jason Heller

Nearly a quarter century has passed since the poker-faced, tongue-in-cheek trio of Trans Am began making post-rock on its own terms: synthesized, mysterious, and obsessed with classic-pop/rock kitsch. They’ve made great albums, as well as horrible albums, and sometimes it’s hard to tell which album fits in which category. They’ve remained fairly prolific, even if their music has continually shed whatever pertinence it had to the world of music at large—underground or otherwise—with the passage of time. Lacking relevance to current trends isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but the lack of focus and force on Volume X, the unkillable band’s unsatisfying tenth full-length, doesn't help their cause. One of Trans Am’s stocks in trade, new-wave pastiche, is represented in a halfhearted fashion this time around. New-wave means a lot of things to a lot of people, but in Trans Am’s case, that meaning has always been narrow and rigid: synth-pop of the icy, Kratfwerk-ian extraction. Aptly, “Night Shift” is a spacious, Giorgio Moroder-esque instrumental that also dips slightly into pinging krautrock; if placed against wallpaper, you would only notice the wallpaper. The band is far more successful on “I’ll Never”, an homage to Dazzle Ships-era OMD, albeit with hints of Suicide. With reverb-and-vocoder-chilled vocals intoning, “Come a little bit closer/ For the very last time”, the song is a 1980s prom anthem crooned by the nerdy kid who hasn't found transcendence. Unfortunately, Trans Am doesn't maintain that tender alchemy between corniness and poignancy. Singer/multi-instrumentlist Phil Manley has lately been busy with his Life Coach side project, which has veered toward the more metallic end of Trans Am’s spectrum, and that facet gets indulged on a pair of Volume X’s gravest missteps. “Anthropocene” sounds as if Uriah Heep had pioneered the use of synths—instead of stodgy old organs—in the pursuit of fantastic, early 70s proto-metal. Understandably, the result is incomprehensible, a mess of mixed signifiers that sounds like Spinal Tap trapped in an Atari. If that idea had been developed further, it could have been amazing in the hands of Trans Am; instead, “Anthropocene” is answered by “Backlash”, a possible shout-out to Metallica’s “Whiplash” that jabs jokey thrash into mock-industrial mechanization. A handful of tracks on Volume X are decent placeholders that do nothing to expand or appreciably reinforce the band’s aesthetic, but “Ice Fortress” stands out to represent everything Trans Am does right, as propulsive, arpeggiated synth chords bounce gracefully off one another while swells of bass-like waveforms rise and fall menacingly. The mood is familiar yet alien—Trans Am’s sweet spot, when it’s able to find it these days. The song’s stoned motorik pulse owes as much to Pink Floyd’s “On the Run” as it does any Neu! or Cluster track from the same era. Straddling the fence between the stadium and the obscure is where Trans Am sits proudest, and that alternate-history vision of pop is what makes “Ice Fortress” so vital—and the rest of the album limp by comparison. With Volume X, Trans Am have made it clear that they have as many chops as ever. They shouldn’t go away, nor should anyone want them to. But when they’ve persevered for so long, where so many bands of their '90s post-rock peer group haven’t, maybe a little survivor’s guilt would be a positive thing. Anything to get them making urgent, absurd, ambitious records again.

Artist: Trans Am, Album: Volume X, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.0 Album review: "Nearly a quarter century has passed since the poker-faced, tongue-in-cheek trio of Trans Am began making post-rock on its own terms: synthesized, mysterious, and obsessed with classic-pop/rock kitsch. They’ve made great albums, as well as horrible albums, and sometimes it’s hard to tell which album fits in which category. They’ve remained fairly prolific, even if their music has continually shed whatever pertinence it had to the world of music at large—underground or otherwise—with the passage of time. Lacking relevance to current trends isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but the lack of focus and force on Volume X, the unkillable band’s unsatisfying tenth full-length, doesn't help their cause. One of Trans Am’s stocks in trade, new-wave pastiche, is represented in a halfhearted fashion this time around. New-wave means a lot of things to a lot of people, but in Trans Am’s case, that meaning has always been narrow and rigid: synth-pop of the icy, Kratfwerk-ian extraction. Aptly, “Night Shift” is a spacious, Giorgio Moroder-esque instrumental that also dips slightly into pinging krautrock; if placed against wallpaper, you would only notice the wallpaper. The band is far more successful on “I’ll Never”, an homage to Dazzle Ships-era OMD, albeit with hints of Suicide. With reverb-and-vocoder-chilled vocals intoning, “Come a little bit closer/ For the very last time”, the song is a 1980s prom anthem crooned by the nerdy kid who hasn't found transcendence. Unfortunately, Trans Am doesn't maintain that tender alchemy between corniness and poignancy. Singer/multi-instrumentlist Phil Manley has lately been busy with his Life Coach side project, which has veered toward the more metallic end of Trans Am’s spectrum, and that facet gets indulged on a pair of Volume X’s gravest missteps. “Anthropocene” sounds as if Uriah Heep had pioneered the use of synths—instead of stodgy old organs—in the pursuit of fantastic, early 70s proto-metal. Understandably, the result is incomprehensible, a mess of mixed signifiers that sounds like Spinal Tap trapped in an Atari. If that idea had been developed further, it could have been amazing in the hands of Trans Am; instead, “Anthropocene” is answered by “Backlash”, a possible shout-out to Metallica’s “Whiplash” that jabs jokey thrash into mock-industrial mechanization. A handful of tracks on Volume X are decent placeholders that do nothing to expand or appreciably reinforce the band’s aesthetic, but “Ice Fortress” stands out to represent everything Trans Am does right, as propulsive, arpeggiated synth chords bounce gracefully off one another while swells of bass-like waveforms rise and fall menacingly. The mood is familiar yet alien—Trans Am’s sweet spot, when it’s able to find it these days. The song’s stoned motorik pulse owes as much to Pink Floyd’s “On the Run” as it does any Neu! or Cluster track from the same era. Straddling the fence between the stadium and the obscure is where Trans Am sits proudest, and that alternate-history vision of pop is what makes “Ice Fortress” so vital—and the rest of the album limp by comparison. With Volume X, Trans Am have made it clear that they have as many chops as ever. They shouldn’t go away, nor should anyone want them to. But when they’ve persevered for so long, where so many bands of their '90s post-rock peer group haven’t, maybe a little survivor’s guilt would be a positive thing. Anything to get them making urgent, absurd, ambitious records again."

Q and Not U

Power

Nick Sylvester

They're not a pity case, but Q & Not U have definitely had their share of shake-ups. First, bassist Matt Borlik petered out shortly after 2000's debut No Kill No Beep Beep, forcing D.C.'s great new punk band into an infinitely more limited guitar/guitar/drum configuration. As it happens, the Chinese character for "crisis" means both "danger" and "opportunity," and Q & Not U strong-armed this potential setback into a chance for growth. Guitarist/frontmen Chris Richards and Harris Klahr re-centered the band's dynamics, keeping the strings high and shooting the vocals up into the falsetto range, drummer John Davis traded brute Dischord energy for smaller, cleaner fills, and by 2002's sophomore follow-up Different Damage, Q & Not U relied more noticeably on melody to foot the bill for their high-octane rock numbers. In Spring 2003, Davis hurt his right foot-- his kickdrum foot-- playing hockey. So Q & Not U essentially lost what remained of their rhythm section, and were forced to cancel the remainder of their tour while Davis recovered. Fortunately, drummers tend to tough it out when shit goes horribly wrong (e.g. Rick Allen's missing arm or Keith Moon's broken body), and Davis took up the task of adapting his playing style to sidestep his critical injury. He healed enough to command the pointedly drum-heavy X-Polynation EP in late 2003, but a year later, something stuck from his days with his kick in a cast. On Power, Davis lays way back in the cut, keeping the math-rock runs to single digits and on some tracks sitting out entirely. So the "new" Q & Not U hardly sounds like a baby Fugazi-- they've different-damaged Different Damage, trading up its last few yelps for some supremely delicate melodies and dangerously nude a cappella falsetto. Power is, to say the least, hardly the collection of hard rockers that No Kill and Different Damage were. But with its lilt melodies, Davis' downplayed role, and the band's admission that, hey, a bassline here or there couldn't hurt, Power boasts a cohesion and distinct identity missing from Q & Not U's two previous albums. Like "Soft Pyramids" does for Different Damage, "Wonderful People" lays out the extent of Q & Not U's new musical agenda. Melodies will keep their color, drums will switch the TI-83 herky-jerks with sliderule austere, and fat synthesized basslines will slink under chicken-scratch guitars and brilliant hooks ("Water softly running, running" is an early highlight). Richards and Klahr's pasty-funk falsetto keeps the song fun and buoyant, and the extra room in the mix lets the band's straight-ahead thump blight the bright lights. Perhaps Q & Not U rely on the falsetto a little too heavily on Power but the squeaks are never purely decorative. The band has written some vocal lines here that sound straight out of church hymnals and medieval palace song books-- they're uncompromisingly childlike at times-- and the tension birthed from grown men singing beyond their range grants the tunes a new and compelling lease. "Collect the Diamonds" struggles at first (the line, "This could be serious/ It could be so deadly, deadly serious," makes me vomit), but then settles into the album's best call-and-response chorus. "Throw Back Your Head" is wholly successful, with wood flutes and an octaved melody filling out the song's space, while "District Night Prayer" opts for three parts and packs a kitschy spookout similar to Vince Guaraldi's "Christmas Time Is Here". Which is not to say that Power is a strictly regal affair; Q & Not U manages to nice up the dance here, too. "Beautiful Beats" morphs into a drum machine romp with huge synths, catcalls, and guitar clicks pinched from Archie Bell & The Drells' "Tighten Up". "Wet Work" fronts an edgy guitar lead that's undermined by Davis' snare clicks and a silly synthbass squelch. At its end, the song breaks down with a soulful snare-on-one homage to Sly & The Family Stone's "Dance to the Music", skipping the dance-punk tropes and heading straight into cold-blooded funk. Power proves Q & Not U's malleability, but perhaps just as importantly, assures they're still capable of that Dischord rock energy that defined their debut: No crowd would ever let Q & Not U finish a show without playing "A Line in the Sand". The album's closing suite (the rabid "X-Polynation", the tattered space-laser funk on "Book Of Flags", and the mercilessly monochrome "Tag-Tag") stands as a monument to the band's homegrown post-punk predisposition. Q & Not U is increasingly supple on Power, but hardly nomadic.

Artist: Q and Not U, Album: Power, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "They're not a pity case, but Q & Not U have definitely had their share of shake-ups. First, bassist Matt Borlik petered out shortly after 2000's debut No Kill No Beep Beep, forcing D.C.'s great new punk band into an infinitely more limited guitar/guitar/drum configuration. As it happens, the Chinese character for "crisis" means both "danger" and "opportunity," and Q & Not U strong-armed this potential setback into a chance for growth. Guitarist/frontmen Chris Richards and Harris Klahr re-centered the band's dynamics, keeping the strings high and shooting the vocals up into the falsetto range, drummer John Davis traded brute Dischord energy for smaller, cleaner fills, and by 2002's sophomore follow-up Different Damage, Q & Not U relied more noticeably on melody to foot the bill for their high-octane rock numbers. In Spring 2003, Davis hurt his right foot-- his kickdrum foot-- playing hockey. So Q & Not U essentially lost what remained of their rhythm section, and were forced to cancel the remainder of their tour while Davis recovered. Fortunately, drummers tend to tough it out when shit goes horribly wrong (e.g. Rick Allen's missing arm or Keith Moon's broken body), and Davis took up the task of adapting his playing style to sidestep his critical injury. He healed enough to command the pointedly drum-heavy X-Polynation EP in late 2003, but a year later, something stuck from his days with his kick in a cast. On Power, Davis lays way back in the cut, keeping the math-rock runs to single digits and on some tracks sitting out entirely. So the "new" Q & Not U hardly sounds like a baby Fugazi-- they've different-damaged Different Damage, trading up its last few yelps for some supremely delicate melodies and dangerously nude a cappella falsetto. Power is, to say the least, hardly the collection of hard rockers that No Kill and Different Damage were. But with its lilt melodies, Davis' downplayed role, and the band's admission that, hey, a bassline here or there couldn't hurt, Power boasts a cohesion and distinct identity missing from Q & Not U's two previous albums. Like "Soft Pyramids" does for Different Damage, "Wonderful People" lays out the extent of Q & Not U's new musical agenda. Melodies will keep their color, drums will switch the TI-83 herky-jerks with sliderule austere, and fat synthesized basslines will slink under chicken-scratch guitars and brilliant hooks ("Water softly running, running" is an early highlight). Richards and Klahr's pasty-funk falsetto keeps the song fun and buoyant, and the extra room in the mix lets the band's straight-ahead thump blight the bright lights. Perhaps Q & Not U rely on the falsetto a little too heavily on Power but the squeaks are never purely decorative. The band has written some vocal lines here that sound straight out of church hymnals and medieval palace song books-- they're uncompromisingly childlike at times-- and the tension birthed from grown men singing beyond their range grants the tunes a new and compelling lease. "Collect the Diamonds" struggles at first (the line, "This could be serious/ It could be so deadly, deadly serious," makes me vomit), but then settles into the album's best call-and-response chorus. "Throw Back Your Head" is wholly successful, with wood flutes and an octaved melody filling out the song's space, while "District Night Prayer" opts for three parts and packs a kitschy spookout similar to Vince Guaraldi's "Christmas Time Is Here". Which is not to say that Power is a strictly regal affair; Q & Not U manages to nice up the dance here, too. "Beautiful Beats" morphs into a drum machine romp with huge synths, catcalls, and guitar clicks pinched from Archie Bell & The Drells' "Tighten Up". "Wet Work" fronts an edgy guitar lead that's undermined by Davis' snare clicks and a silly synthbass squelch. At its end, the song breaks down with a soulful snare-on-one homage to Sly & The Family Stone's "Dance to the Music", skipping the dance-punk tropes and heading straight into cold-blooded funk. Power proves Q & Not U's malleability, but perhaps just as importantly, assures they're still capable of that Dischord rock energy that defined their debut: No crowd would ever let Q & Not U finish a show without playing "A Line in the Sand". The album's closing suite (the rabid "X-Polynation", the tattered space-laser funk on "Book Of Flags", and the mercilessly monochrome "Tag-Tag") stands as a monument to the band's homegrown post-punk predisposition. Q & Not U is increasingly supple on Power, but hardly nomadic."

Basement Jaxx

Junto

Electronic

Nate Patrin

This year is the 20th anniversary of Basement Jaxx's first release, *EP1—*and it's easy to forget how straightforward and underformed it was. But that's the case for just about anything compared to the mindbending pop-house they'd concoct throughout the late 1990s and early 2000s. Remedy, Rooty, and Kish Kash made for such a definitive early-career run that their overloaded, Frankie Knuckles-via-Tex Avery sensibility shone through even when they felt like they were starting to coast. Theirs was a sound that could find a context for Siouxsie Sioux and J.C. Chasez on the same record, hopping between indie-kid nods and marquee pop dreams in a way that highlighted just how across-the-board house music and its offspring could be. Even when 2009 releases Scars and the Zephyr EP threatened to tone them down, there was always an ambush around the corner, like the offbeat engagement with grime and dubstep on their masterful score for 2011 sci-fi cult classic Attack the Block. But house, garage, and bass music are currently crowded with new-gen acts that owe a lot of their appeal, acknowledged or otherwise, to Jaxx's precedent of sweat-flinging cartoon intensity. And with the records they dropped five years back already hinting at a long goodbye to bombast, Ratcliffe and Buxton seem content to let their heirs pick up the slack, as Jaxx themselves ease into restraint on Junto. This new album's a strange one, albeit in the sense that it's not really strange at all: the closest there is to a left-field guest is Mykki Blanco, whose one verse is played twice on the two-and-a-half-minute "Buffalo"—and if you cut out that track's fleeting hit of scattered d'n'b mayhem, Junto is easily Basement Jaxx's most conservatively minded full-length. Sure, this album is still recognizably theirs at points. The boogie-shuffle "We Are Not Alone" has some characteristically anarchic burbling squelches trickling through its boogie-shuffle churn. "What's the News" gathers together gelatin-cube bass, dizzy synth chirps, and bongo breaks into the kind of dub-disco cruise that would've fit in nicely in the back half of Remedy. There are still signs of jet-set eclecticism that incorporates pan-Latin salsa/bossa ("Mermaid of Salinas"), UK Afro-Caribbeanisms (the Shakka feature "Rock This Road"), and slickly diced-up '80s funk ("Summer Dem"). And the vocalists, while mostly semi-obscure outside dance music circles, are almost uniformly powerful—with special credit to Meleka, whose surprise-star lead turn on "We Are Not Alone" packs a sly passion that she hinted at while harmonizing with Kelis on Scars' title track. It's a fundamentally sound record as well as one that's easy to move to, never content to stay in one place for too long but not all that scattershot when it comes to going off the experimental deep end. But let's face it—Basement Jaxx is not a group that's at their best when they just bear down and focus on the fundamentals. Even when Junto showcases them at their best—that'd be the knockout "Unicorn," which is both the liveliest single on the record and their most shameless vintage house throwback since "Do Your Thing"—the sense of adventure is missing. It's a point-missing exercise to shrug at lyrics, of all things, when it comes to dance music—but when there's a precedent of hooks like "I'm too far gone, I've gone too far", "Don't let the walls cave in on you", and "Ain't nothin' goin' on but history/ But it's alright, don't panic" lending an untethered mania to earlier Jaxx classics, the titular refrains of "Power to the People" and "Never Say Never" are relatively lacking in that giddy sense of control loss. And without all the deliberate craziness and cluttered what-next noise that always threatened to overload those jams, what's left, while still danceable and upbeat, seems a little trad. Now more than ever, there needs to be something blatantly neon-bright and iconoclastic enough to offset all the midtempo, gloomy sad-boy house that's thrown current sound systems a bit out of whack. And while Junto is at least happy enough to lift spirits, it feels like they've left it to others to reintroduce anarchy to the dancefloor.

Artist: Basement Jaxx, Album: Junto, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "This year is the 20th anniversary of Basement Jaxx's first release, *EP1—*and it's easy to forget how straightforward and underformed it was. But that's the case for just about anything compared to the mindbending pop-house they'd concoct throughout the late 1990s and early 2000s. Remedy, Rooty, and Kish Kash made for such a definitive early-career run that their overloaded, Frankie Knuckles-via-Tex Avery sensibility shone through even when they felt like they were starting to coast. Theirs was a sound that could find a context for Siouxsie Sioux and J.C. Chasez on the same record, hopping between indie-kid nods and marquee pop dreams in a way that highlighted just how across-the-board house music and its offspring could be. Even when 2009 releases Scars and the Zephyr EP threatened to tone them down, there was always an ambush around the corner, like the offbeat engagement with grime and dubstep on their masterful score for 2011 sci-fi cult classic Attack the Block. But house, garage, and bass music are currently crowded with new-gen acts that owe a lot of their appeal, acknowledged or otherwise, to Jaxx's precedent of sweat-flinging cartoon intensity. And with the records they dropped five years back already hinting at a long goodbye to bombast, Ratcliffe and Buxton seem content to let their heirs pick up the slack, as Jaxx themselves ease into restraint on Junto. This new album's a strange one, albeit in the sense that it's not really strange at all: the closest there is to a left-field guest is Mykki Blanco, whose one verse is played twice on the two-and-a-half-minute "Buffalo"—and if you cut out that track's fleeting hit of scattered d'n'b mayhem, Junto is easily Basement Jaxx's most conservatively minded full-length. Sure, this album is still recognizably theirs at points. The boogie-shuffle "We Are Not Alone" has some characteristically anarchic burbling squelches trickling through its boogie-shuffle churn. "What's the News" gathers together gelatin-cube bass, dizzy synth chirps, and bongo breaks into the kind of dub-disco cruise that would've fit in nicely in the back half of Remedy. There are still signs of jet-set eclecticism that incorporates pan-Latin salsa/bossa ("Mermaid of Salinas"), UK Afro-Caribbeanisms (the Shakka feature "Rock This Road"), and slickly diced-up '80s funk ("Summer Dem"). And the vocalists, while mostly semi-obscure outside dance music circles, are almost uniformly powerful—with special credit to Meleka, whose surprise-star lead turn on "We Are Not Alone" packs a sly passion that she hinted at while harmonizing with Kelis on Scars' title track. It's a fundamentally sound record as well as one that's easy to move to, never content to stay in one place for too long but not all that scattershot when it comes to going off the experimental deep end. But let's face it—Basement Jaxx is not a group that's at their best when they just bear down and focus on the fundamentals. Even when Junto showcases them at their best—that'd be the knockout "Unicorn," which is both the liveliest single on the record and their most shameless vintage house throwback since "Do Your Thing"—the sense of adventure is missing. It's a point-missing exercise to shrug at lyrics, of all things, when it comes to dance music—but when there's a precedent of hooks like "I'm too far gone, I've gone too far", "Don't let the walls cave in on you", and "Ain't nothin' goin' on but history/ But it's alright, don't panic" lending an untethered mania to earlier Jaxx classics, the titular refrains of "Power to the People" and "Never Say Never" are relatively lacking in that giddy sense of control loss. And without all the deliberate craziness and cluttered what-next noise that always threatened to overload those jams, what's left, while still danceable and upbeat, seems a little trad. Now more than ever, there needs to be something blatantly neon-bright and iconoclastic enough to offset all the midtempo, gloomy sad-boy house that's thrown current sound systems a bit out of whack. And while Junto is at least happy enough to lift spirits, it feels like they've left it to others to reintroduce anarchy to the dancefloor."

Magic Circle

Journey Blind

Metal

Andy O'Connor

There's little better than the mixture of punk speed and metal riffs. Punk tempo supplies the adrenaline injection that metal's compositional superiority clearly needs. Massachusetts' Magic Circle are a variation on this principle: its members come from a variety of hardcore and punk bands, such as Mind Eraser, the Rival Mob, Innumerable Forms, and Doomriders, and they make traditional metal with a deceptively youthful spunk. Even as most of its members were known figures in their home state, Magic Circle's debut still came out of nowhere in a sense: who knew they were capable of this? Their second record, Journey Blind, doesn't have the mystique of the first, but it makes up by being more assertive. With its faster rhythms paying homage to that nook when NWOBHM was picking up but thrash hadn't quite emerged, the lead-off title track shows the influence of Stone Dagger, which features bassist Justin DeTore, vocalist Brendan Radigan, and guitarist Chris Corry, bleeding into Magic Circle. Don't get fooled by the Mellotron intro and think this will be a prog effort. Corry, along with Dan Ducas, turn every melody and lead into a hesher motivational speech. "The Damned Man" takes the majesty of the title track and gives it a more proto-thrash, biker-like thrust. Radigan is the ideal vocalist for this material, going in for maximum horn-raising wailing while maintaining a tough edge in most of the verses. Another spirit that Magic Circle absorb, albeit not as obvious, is that of early Pentagram. Radigan's vocal range is greater than that of Bobby Liebling's, but he is able to convey darkness with a light of hope shining through, like Liebling before he descended into the path that's been covered to death elsewhere already. "Ghost of the Southern Front" is where the Pentagram influence really emerges, with Corry and Ducas adding a macabre boogie to their riffing. Their ending solos have that purgatorial feeling of Pentagram's "Death Row", perfect for looping. Closer "Antedivullan" begins with a softer passage not unlike Black Sabbath's "After Forever", and when they rage into their standard battle charge, the song's placements gives it a do-or-die urgency. Much like Metallica's "Damage Inc.", it's a choice anthem for going down swinging. Magic Circle belong to a special group of new traditionalist bands alongside High Spirits, Crypt Sermon, Ranger, Iron Age, and (on the more progressive, much weirder end) VHÖL. All of these bands wear their influences on their battle jackets while bringing a real hunger to the table. Journey isn't just a great heavy metal record, it also dismantles the narrative that punk was put on earth to rid rock of its excesses. Hardcore kids can do something with more complicated structures too, and can draw the same sense of purpose that metal has been excellent in instilling for decades.

Artist: Magic Circle, Album: Journey Blind, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "There's little better than the mixture of punk speed and metal riffs. Punk tempo supplies the adrenaline injection that metal's compositional superiority clearly needs. Massachusetts' Magic Circle are a variation on this principle: its members come from a variety of hardcore and punk bands, such as Mind Eraser, the Rival Mob, Innumerable Forms, and Doomriders, and they make traditional metal with a deceptively youthful spunk. Even as most of its members were known figures in their home state, Magic Circle's debut still came out of nowhere in a sense: who knew they were capable of this? Their second record, Journey Blind, doesn't have the mystique of the first, but it makes up by being more assertive. With its faster rhythms paying homage to that nook when NWOBHM was picking up but thrash hadn't quite emerged, the lead-off title track shows the influence of Stone Dagger, which features bassist Justin DeTore, vocalist Brendan Radigan, and guitarist Chris Corry, bleeding into Magic Circle. Don't get fooled by the Mellotron intro and think this will be a prog effort. Corry, along with Dan Ducas, turn every melody and lead into a hesher motivational speech. "The Damned Man" takes the majesty of the title track and gives it a more proto-thrash, biker-like thrust. Radigan is the ideal vocalist for this material, going in for maximum horn-raising wailing while maintaining a tough edge in most of the verses. Another spirit that Magic Circle absorb, albeit not as obvious, is that of early Pentagram. Radigan's vocal range is greater than that of Bobby Liebling's, but he is able to convey darkness with a light of hope shining through, like Liebling before he descended into the path that's been covered to death elsewhere already. "Ghost of the Southern Front" is where the Pentagram influence really emerges, with Corry and Ducas adding a macabre boogie to their riffing. Their ending solos have that purgatorial feeling of Pentagram's "Death Row", perfect for looping. Closer "Antedivullan" begins with a softer passage not unlike Black Sabbath's "After Forever", and when they rage into their standard battle charge, the song's placements gives it a do-or-die urgency. Much like Metallica's "Damage Inc.", it's a choice anthem for going down swinging. Magic Circle belong to a special group of new traditionalist bands alongside High Spirits, Crypt Sermon, Ranger, Iron Age, and (on the more progressive, much weirder end) VHÖL. All of these bands wear their influences on their battle jackets while bringing a real hunger to the table. Journey isn't just a great heavy metal record, it also dismantles the narrative that punk was put on earth to rid rock of its excesses. Hardcore kids can do something with more complicated structures too, and can draw the same sense of purpose that metal has been excellent in instilling for decades."

Chavez

Better Days Will Haunt You

Experimental,Metal,Rock

Matt LeMay

It's a sad fact that there isn't much air-instrumentable indie rock being released these days. As bands continue to trade in broad aesthetic gestures, musical ineptitude, and countless wink-and-nod references to their canonized forebears, exuberance and musicality sometimes seem to fall by the wayside. Without question, there are bands making new and exciting music, but precious little of it doesn't contain some kind of self-aware nod to its own greatness; some attempt to escape and exceed the bare facts of the music itself. Those who have grown accustomed to indie rock of the vague and yelpy variety will likely be confused if not downright repelled by Better Days Will Haunt You. The new collection compiles Chavez's entire recorded output on two remastered, chronologically arranged CDs, implicitly tracing the band's development over their all-too-brief three-year career. Chavez never really did "evocative"-- on the band's two excellent Matador full-lengths, the sonics were loud and compressed, the arrangements were straightforward and bare-bones, and Matt Sweeney's voice was unspectacularly gravelly-nasally. Like many of their heart-on-sleeve, guitar-slinging indie rock contemporaries, Chavez were the kind of band that would likely be written off as "boring," "MOR," or even "embarrassing" by many of today's fans. It's a shame, too, because beneath the band's almost alternative rock aesthetic lie some of the most exciting rock songs of the last decade. As with many great indie rock bands, Chavez are better described as the sum of their individual players than as the sum of their influences. Sweeney and guitarist Clay Tarver trade biting, fractured top-three-strings riffs that expertly accumulate and release harmonic tension. Scott Masciarelli anchors the frenetic guitars with monolithic bass notes and well-placed silences. Drummer "The" James Lo is, as his credited nickname suggests, absolutely singular, building layer upon layer of rhythmic force and complexity without ever coming off as contrived or showy. Chavez's debut single "Repeat the Ending" and album Gone Glimmering are a bit scrappier than their sophomore opus Ride the Fader; the angularity of Sweeney and Tarver's guitars is a little more obvious, and the vocal melodies aren't quite as strong. Still, the band's energy carries most of this material. Standouts "Break Up Your Band" and "Pentagram Ring" bring to mind the best of Smashing Pumpkins, squealing and careening with just the right combination of pop and swagger. With Ride the Fader, included here on Disc Two, the band truly hits their stride. Aside fom Archers of Loaf's Icky Mettle, I'm hard pressed to think of an indie rock album that starts off stronger than the one-two punch of "Top Pocket Man" and "The Guard Attacks". Quasi-ballad "Unreal Is Here" is basically a well-recorded Guided by Voices song, all chiming guitars and off-kilter melody. "New Room" moves seamlessly from understated, minor-key guitars to one of the band's most bombastic endings, featuring some of the greatest drum fills ever laid to tape. Throughout Ride the Fader, Chavez demonstrate a remarkable degree of restraint and consideration, holding back when necessary and giving their best musical ideas room to breathe and resonate. While much of the album doesn't jump out of your speakers with the same frenzied energy as Gone Glimmering, it ultimately hits much harder. Non-album tracks are few and not terribly surprising; Schoolhouse Rocks! Rocks song "Little 12 Toes" and What's Up Matador cut "Theme From 'For Russ'" are kitschy oddities, and the previously unreleased "White Jeans" is on par with the band's less exciting album tracks. The DVD content, featuring two hilarious videos and a slightly less hilarious European tour diary, is entertaining if not particularly earth-shattering. In a sense, Chavez come off as the opposite of many of today's more career-focused indie bands, passionate and serious in their music but humorous and self-effacing in their overall approach. The box set's minimal, scrapbook-like packaging is thorough and respectful; no self-important statement from the band, no masturbatory essay by a big name rock critic, just a smattering of photos and album art. I couldn't think of a more appropriate tribute to a band that was always willing to let their music speak for itself. A decade later, it still speaks volumes.

Artist: Chavez, Album: Better Days Will Haunt You, Genre: Experimental,Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 9.4 Album review: "It's a sad fact that there isn't much air-instrumentable indie rock being released these days. As bands continue to trade in broad aesthetic gestures, musical ineptitude, and countless wink-and-nod references to their canonized forebears, exuberance and musicality sometimes seem to fall by the wayside. Without question, there are bands making new and exciting music, but precious little of it doesn't contain some kind of self-aware nod to its own greatness; some attempt to escape and exceed the bare facts of the music itself. Those who have grown accustomed to indie rock of the vague and yelpy variety will likely be confused if not downright repelled by Better Days Will Haunt You. The new collection compiles Chavez's entire recorded output on two remastered, chronologically arranged CDs, implicitly tracing the band's development over their all-too-brief three-year career. Chavez never really did "evocative"-- on the band's two excellent Matador full-lengths, the sonics were loud and compressed, the arrangements were straightforward and bare-bones, and Matt Sweeney's voice was unspectacularly gravelly-nasally. Like many of their heart-on-sleeve, guitar-slinging indie rock contemporaries, Chavez were the kind of band that would likely be written off as "boring," "MOR," or even "embarrassing" by many of today's fans. It's a shame, too, because beneath the band's almost alternative rock aesthetic lie some of the most exciting rock songs of the last decade. As with many great indie rock bands, Chavez are better described as the sum of their individual players than as the sum of their influences. Sweeney and guitarist Clay Tarver trade biting, fractured top-three-strings riffs that expertly accumulate and release harmonic tension. Scott Masciarelli anchors the frenetic guitars with monolithic bass notes and well-placed silences. Drummer "The" James Lo is, as his credited nickname suggests, absolutely singular, building layer upon layer of rhythmic force and complexity without ever coming off as contrived or showy. Chavez's debut single "Repeat the Ending" and album Gone Glimmering are a bit scrappier than their sophomore opus Ride the Fader; the angularity of Sweeney and Tarver's guitars is a little more obvious, and the vocal melodies aren't quite as strong. Still, the band's energy carries most of this material. Standouts "Break Up Your Band" and "Pentagram Ring" bring to mind the best of Smashing Pumpkins, squealing and careening with just the right combination of pop and swagger. With Ride the Fader, included here on Disc Two, the band truly hits their stride. Aside fom Archers of Loaf's Icky Mettle, I'm hard pressed to think of an indie rock album that starts off stronger than the one-two punch of "Top Pocket Man" and "The Guard Attacks". Quasi-ballad "Unreal Is Here" is basically a well-recorded Guided by Voices song, all chiming guitars and off-kilter melody. "New Room" moves seamlessly from understated, minor-key guitars to one of the band's most bombastic endings, featuring some of the greatest drum fills ever laid to tape. Throughout Ride the Fader, Chavez demonstrate a remarkable degree of restraint and consideration, holding back when necessary and giving their best musical ideas room to breathe and resonate. While much of the album doesn't jump out of your speakers with the same frenzied energy as Gone Glimmering, it ultimately hits much harder. Non-album tracks are few and not terribly surprising; Schoolhouse Rocks! Rocks song "Little 12 Toes" and What's Up Matador cut "Theme From 'For Russ'" are kitschy oddities, and the previously unreleased "White Jeans" is on par with the band's less exciting album tracks. The DVD content, featuring two hilarious videos and a slightly less hilarious European tour diary, is entertaining if not particularly earth-shattering. In a sense, Chavez come off as the opposite of many of today's more career-focused indie bands, passionate and serious in their music but humorous and self-effacing in their overall approach. The box set's minimal, scrapbook-like packaging is thorough and respectful; no self-important statement from the band, no masturbatory essay by a big name rock critic, just a smattering of photos and album art. I couldn't think of a more appropriate tribute to a band that was always willing to let their music speak for itself. A decade later, it still speaks volumes."

Tribulation

The Children of the Night

Metal

Grayson Haver Currin

The Children of the Night, the glorious third album from Swedish metal charmers Tribulation, begins with an invitation. A backdrop of cello, church organ and piano gives way to a midtempo full-band rumble, and then Johannes Andersson grunts like a mad old man curling a finger and commanding you to come along. "Beckoning the children of the night, the spirits of the undead and the lesser lights," he sings on "Strange Gateways Beckon". These first two minutes suggest the beginning of some grand adventure—a Tolkien-like walk through the woods, a Dante-like descent into depravity. And they are: A heavy metal record that wanders beyond any comfort zone, the hour-long The Children of the Night is a sprawling, compulsory tale that doesn’t turn dull. Tribulation have never made an album quite like this: More than a decade ago, most of the band played adolescent, hair-whipping trash as Hazard. Five years after a name change, they re-emerged with The Horror, a claustrophobic mixture of death metal, black metal and thrash, intertwined by arty interludes that suggested major ambition. They pursued it unapologetically and even to excess on 2013’s The Formulas of Death, which began with a tambura drone and ended with a shape-shifting 13-minute mess called "Apparitions". On The Children of the Night, Tribulation push all those influences and ideas toward the center. It’s as if they’ve pondered the relatively populist successes of their fellow countrymen—Ghost B.C., In Flames, even Watain—and rediscovered the value of concision and motion. Psych rock and prog metal, thrash and classic rock commingle in three-to-seven-minute songs, bearing echoes of not just Mercyful Fate and At the Gates but Led Zeppelin and Hawkwind, the Doors and dub. Led by brilliant guitarists Jonathan Hultén and Adam Zaars, these ten incisive songs cut away tangents and bristle with urgency. “Holy Libations”  is heroic and surging, with one seeming crescendo and dashing solo piled atop another. The racing “Melancholia” powers through death metal before cresting with a rock-god solo that feels forever on the verge of falling apart. By and large, though, it’s the band that makes these songs so stunning, not Andersson. He sings in a perpetually gruff monotone, offering morose observations and dramatic revelations. During "Holy Libations", he delivers a dense verse about the solidarity of misery and then tries his best to break his typical pace with a sort of staccato half-rap. He stumbles around the beat, straining with effort. Tribulation, then, are a little like metal’s the Hold Steady—a righteous rock band burnished by high-flying guitars and big keyboards but led by a singer who seems to have shown up late for practice with a notebook full of quips and a belly full of booze. Tribulation let Andersson’s thorny vocals stand alone, backing him only occasionally with harmonies; for a band that composes with near-classical rigor, he remains the scratch that can’t be buffed. This tension becomes apparent when it disappears. Mid-album instrumental “Själaflykt” moves from doom-like dirge to mid-tempo boogie, like The Ventures penning a summertime special for the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. But by song’s end, the action feels bloated and defanged. When his growl bullies its way into “The Motherhood of God,” the friction is newly welcome. Metal critics sometimes snipe at each other for preferring extreme or arty metal to the sort of music to which actually raise beers and fists. There is no way to arrive at a consensus artist who will satisfy everyone, of course, but The Children of the Night comes close.  On one hand, the irascible Andersson sounds like the kind of bandleader who hopes to follow you into an alley with a lead pipe. But the organ-loaded, solo-bejeweled “Strains of Horror” is an anthem. The hook of “Strange Gateways Beckon” just begs to be shouted back at the band. Sure, Andersson is a bit too brusque for complete crossover success, but the exceptional The Children of the Nightextends an open invitation to a very wide audience.

Artist: Tribulation, Album: The Children of the Night, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "The Children of the Night, the glorious third album from Swedish metal charmers Tribulation, begins with an invitation. A backdrop of cello, church organ and piano gives way to a midtempo full-band rumble, and then Johannes Andersson grunts like a mad old man curling a finger and commanding you to come along. "Beckoning the children of the night, the spirits of the undead and the lesser lights," he sings on "Strange Gateways Beckon". These first two minutes suggest the beginning of some grand adventure—a Tolkien-like walk through the woods, a Dante-like descent into depravity. And they are: A heavy metal record that wanders beyond any comfort zone, the hour-long The Children of the Night is a sprawling, compulsory tale that doesn’t turn dull. Tribulation have never made an album quite like this: More than a decade ago, most of the band played adolescent, hair-whipping trash as Hazard. Five years after a name change, they re-emerged with The Horror, a claustrophobic mixture of death metal, black metal and thrash, intertwined by arty interludes that suggested major ambition. They pursued it unapologetically and even to excess on 2013’s The Formulas of Death, which began with a tambura drone and ended with a shape-shifting 13-minute mess called "Apparitions". On The Children of the Night, Tribulation push all those influences and ideas toward the center. It’s as if they’ve pondered the relatively populist successes of their fellow countrymen—Ghost B.C., In Flames, even Watain—and rediscovered the value of concision and motion. Psych rock and prog metal, thrash and classic rock commingle in three-to-seven-minute songs, bearing echoes of not just Mercyful Fate and At the Gates but Led Zeppelin and Hawkwind, the Doors and dub. Led by brilliant guitarists Jonathan Hultén and Adam Zaars, these ten incisive songs cut away tangents and bristle with urgency. “Holy Libations”  is heroic and surging, with one seeming crescendo and dashing solo piled atop another. The racing “Melancholia” powers through death metal before cresting with a rock-god solo that feels forever on the verge of falling apart. By and large, though, it’s the band that makes these songs so stunning, not Andersson. He sings in a perpetually gruff monotone, offering morose observations and dramatic revelations. During "Holy Libations", he delivers a dense verse about the solidarity of misery and then tries his best to break his typical pace with a sort of staccato half-rap. He stumbles around the beat, straining with effort. Tribulation, then, are a little like metal’s the Hold Steady—a righteous rock band burnished by high-flying guitars and big keyboards but led by a singer who seems to have shown up late for practice with a notebook full of quips and a belly full of booze. Tribulation let Andersson’s thorny vocals stand alone, backing him only occasionally with harmonies; for a band that composes with near-classical rigor, he remains the scratch that can’t be buffed. This tension becomes apparent when it disappears. Mid-album instrumental “Själaflykt” moves from doom-like dirge to mid-tempo boogie, like The Ventures penning a summertime special for the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. But by song’s end, the action feels bloated and defanged. When his growl bullies its way into “The Motherhood of God,” the friction is newly welcome. Metal critics sometimes snipe at each other for preferring extreme or arty metal to the sort of music to which actually raise beers and fists. There is no way to arrive at a consensus artist who will satisfy everyone, of course, but The Children of the Night comes close.  On one hand, the irascible Andersson sounds like the kind of bandleader who hopes to follow you into an alley with a lead pipe. But the organ-loaded, solo-bejeweled “Strains of Horror” is an anthem. The hook of “Strange Gateways Beckon” just begs to be shouted back at the band. Sure, Andersson is a bit too brusque for complete crossover success, but the exceptional The Children of the Nightextends an open invitation to a very wide audience."

Maceo Parker

Doing Their Own Thing

Jazz,Rock

Dominique Leone

Son of a bitch. What else do you call a guy willing to sabotage the futures and success of his children, the ones he helped bring in to the world, and the ones who presumably have the most to gain from his support? Of course, there are always two sides to every story, but I figure when the tale involves even a little of the supposed foul play this one does, somebody is going to come out dirty. So, what did the kids think of father, then? No, not father-- Godfather. And it could've been a breakout success if only his reach hadn't extended so far. This is the family feud that was James Brown's scene. Sometime in the spring of 1970, big brother Maceo Parker, Brown's main sax man since '64, got the idea that living under the funky thumb of the hardest working man in show-business was perhaps not a great deal. Some say he rebelled, others say that it was simply time for a change of scenery, but whatever the case, bad deeds were done, and the only stuff to come out on the sunny end were a few sides of classic funk. Father Brown had discovered Maceo (and his little brother, drummer Melvin) during a tour stop in North Carolina. The pair was only just out of high school, but Brown knew a good feeling when he heard it and quickly snatched up the duo. The brothers Parker joined the touring band, and were also featured on Brown's hit "I Got You (I Feel Good)," before getting picked up by another charismatic unit, the U.S. Army. So, they served a different kind of tour for a few years, but returned in the late sixties (Maceo in '67, Melvin in '69). Of course, going on the road with James Brown wasn't exactly all good times. Eating from papa's bag could be an infuriating exercise in humility. Brown had the nasty habit of accepting any and all credit for the music issued under his name, despite the fact that riffs, arrangements and sometimes even entire tunes were created by his sidemen soldiers. On top of that, he was never known as the highest paying bandleader. So, it came to pass in May of 1970 that Maceo led a mini-walkout, taking almost all of JB's band with him. The first record they made was under the moniker Maceo and All the King's Men, which is a good indication of the rebellion Maceo must have known he was committing. They cut nine songs for the album Doing Their Own Thing ("Thank You for Letting Me Be Myself Again" is a bonus track here), and issued one single in 1970. Their music was tried-and-true funky soul and bar-band balladry, and not a lick of it was ever going to see the top 40 if Brown could help it. Now, I should add that there's a considerable amount of uncertainty (at least on record) as to the exact happenings regarding Brown and this band of upstarts. The prevailing story is that the Godfather actually paid disc jockeys across the land not to play tunes by Maceo's bunch. There's also the notion that the record was subject to merely bad distribution. Whatever the case, all the King's men only had the opportunity to make one more album before disbanding. Most of the guys went back to Brown, who seemingly welcomed them with open arms. It's a dicey story, but in any case, some pretty nice music was left behind by one of the best bands never to have had a chance. Fittingly, the album begins with "Maceo," a slow, churning piece of hard funk. It's basically an excuse to have this band's leader blow a few choruses of his patented razor-sharp vamp-jazz. He sticks to tenor here (Maceo didn't switch to alto until 1973), but there's no mistaking his tone and style for anyone else's. The tune features only the barest of melodies, and in fact, was probably the kind of thing that would've been stretched out to lather up a crowd in concert. "Got to Get 'Cha" is more classic groove, and is actually still in the touring book of Maceo's band today. This one actually features the sax man's distinctive vocals, owing much to Brown's guttural pounce. Brother Melvin lays down a tight, mid-tempo beat, and the horns (including L.D. Williams on tenor and trumpeters Richard Griffith and Joseph Davis) nail the punches harder than Kool's Gang or a Tower of Power ever dreamed possible. The band pays its respect to the Apollo showtune in jams like "Shake It Baby" (double time, rock-n-soul revue party fare) and "I Remember Mr. Banks" (jazzy, hard-blues ballad, in the style of Allen Toussaint's early organ trio sides). These are the kinds of tunes that sound best in a room of crowded, sweaty people. For the first, make room to shake everything you got; for the second, grab your girl and slow jam every waking second that Griffith's aching, muted trumpet wails. After the short stint on their own, most of the band's members would continue to perform with Brown, in addition to further solo ventures and stints with other acts (most notably the P-Funk mob). Today, Maceo leads his own soldiers across the world playing the same old funky music he's been playing over the course of the last few decades. And from what I've read, he doesn't hold any grudges against a certain mentor who may have stalled this initial effort. Of course, Parker has long since been given his due by a new generations of fans, but I still wonder what old JB thinks of the kids that tried to branch out into their own thing. You know what they say about payback.

Artist: Maceo Parker, Album: Doing Their Own Thing, Genre: Jazz,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Son of a bitch. What else do you call a guy willing to sabotage the futures and success of his children, the ones he helped bring in to the world, and the ones who presumably have the most to gain from his support? Of course, there are always two sides to every story, but I figure when the tale involves even a little of the supposed foul play this one does, somebody is going to come out dirty. So, what did the kids think of father, then? No, not father-- Godfather. And it could've been a breakout success if only his reach hadn't extended so far. This is the family feud that was James Brown's scene. Sometime in the spring of 1970, big brother Maceo Parker, Brown's main sax man since '64, got the idea that living under the funky thumb of the hardest working man in show-business was perhaps not a great deal. Some say he rebelled, others say that it was simply time for a change of scenery, but whatever the case, bad deeds were done, and the only stuff to come out on the sunny end were a few sides of classic funk. Father Brown had discovered Maceo (and his little brother, drummer Melvin) during a tour stop in North Carolina. The pair was only just out of high school, but Brown knew a good feeling when he heard it and quickly snatched up the duo. The brothers Parker joined the touring band, and were also featured on Brown's hit "I Got You (I Feel Good)," before getting picked up by another charismatic unit, the U.S. Army. So, they served a different kind of tour for a few years, but returned in the late sixties (Maceo in '67, Melvin in '69). Of course, going on the road with James Brown wasn't exactly all good times. Eating from papa's bag could be an infuriating exercise in humility. Brown had the nasty habit of accepting any and all credit for the music issued under his name, despite the fact that riffs, arrangements and sometimes even entire tunes were created by his sidemen soldiers. On top of that, he was never known as the highest paying bandleader. So, it came to pass in May of 1970 that Maceo led a mini-walkout, taking almost all of JB's band with him. The first record they made was under the moniker Maceo and All the King's Men, which is a good indication of the rebellion Maceo must have known he was committing. They cut nine songs for the album Doing Their Own Thing ("Thank You for Letting Me Be Myself Again" is a bonus track here), and issued one single in 1970. Their music was tried-and-true funky soul and bar-band balladry, and not a lick of it was ever going to see the top 40 if Brown could help it. Now, I should add that there's a considerable amount of uncertainty (at least on record) as to the exact happenings regarding Brown and this band of upstarts. The prevailing story is that the Godfather actually paid disc jockeys across the land not to play tunes by Maceo's bunch. There's also the notion that the record was subject to merely bad distribution. Whatever the case, all the King's men only had the opportunity to make one more album before disbanding. Most of the guys went back to Brown, who seemingly welcomed them with open arms. It's a dicey story, but in any case, some pretty nice music was left behind by one of the best bands never to have had a chance. Fittingly, the album begins with "Maceo," a slow, churning piece of hard funk. It's basically an excuse to have this band's leader blow a few choruses of his patented razor-sharp vamp-jazz. He sticks to tenor here (Maceo didn't switch to alto until 1973), but there's no mistaking his tone and style for anyone else's. The tune features only the barest of melodies, and in fact, was probably the kind of thing that would've been stretched out to lather up a crowd in concert. "Got to Get 'Cha" is more classic groove, and is actually still in the touring book of Maceo's band today. This one actually features the sax man's distinctive vocals, owing much to Brown's guttural pounce. Brother Melvin lays down a tight, mid-tempo beat, and the horns (including L.D. Williams on tenor and trumpeters Richard Griffith and Joseph Davis) nail the punches harder than Kool's Gang or a Tower of Power ever dreamed possible. The band pays its respect to the Apollo showtune in jams like "Shake It Baby" (double time, rock-n-soul revue party fare) and "I Remember Mr. Banks" (jazzy, hard-blues ballad, in the style of Allen Toussaint's early organ trio sides). These are the kinds of tunes that sound best in a room of crowded, sweaty people. For the first, make room to shake everything you got; for the second, grab your girl and slow jam every waking second that Griffith's aching, muted trumpet wails. After the short stint on their own, most of the band's members would continue to perform with Brown, in addition to further solo ventures and stints with other acts (most notably the P-Funk mob). Today, Maceo leads his own soldiers across the world playing the same old funky music he's been playing over the course of the last few decades. And from what I've read, he doesn't hold any grudges against a certain mentor who may have stalled this initial effort. Of course, Parker has long since been given his due by a new generations of fans, but I still wonder what old JB thinks of the kids that tried to branch out into their own thing. You know what they say about payback."

Cam & China

Cam & China

Rap

Paul A. Thompson

The rap duo is a delicate balance. OutKast staked itself on the player-and-the-poet duality; André and Antwan transcended because each one could animate either side of the split. When Phife Dawg passed away this year, the eulogies rightly pointed out that the five-foot assassin kept Q-Tip tethered to Queens, to Earth. But the duo doesn’t have to be a down-the-middle yin and yang (see: the Ying Yang Twins). Havoc and Prodigy made Mobb Deep great by offering slight variations on the same dead-eyed fatalism. More recently, the Clipse became critical darlings despite Pusha T and Malice trafficking in virtually identical cadences and points of view. Cam & China, twins from Inglewood and veterans of L.A.’s jerkin’ scene, carry the Mobb/Clipse approach to its natural conclusion. Even among those who share DNA, they’re uniquely attuned to one another, and their minds are melding to make some of the year’s fiercest, most viscerally exciting rap music. Their debut EP is a reintroduction of sorts: At the end of the 2000s, Cam & China—then Cammy and Cece—accounted for two-fifths of the Pink Dollaz, one of jerk’s most exciting acts. The Dollaz were making slick, provocative songs like “I’m Tasty” and accruing fans rapidly. But the group dissolved as the style itself slowed. Two summers ago, under the new monikers, Cam & China dropped “Do Dat,” a furious warning shot. It came out just a handful of months after YG’s My Krazy Life; where their former jerkin’ peer folded pieces of New Orleans and the Bay into his sound, “Do Dat” sounded as if it had been incubating and mutating strictly in Los Angeles County. And if Still Brazy* *synthesizes decades of West coast rap production, *Cam & China *strips jerkin’ for parts and refashions it into something bolder, heavier, and more menacing. But first, some misdirection: opener “Extravagant” owes as much to Atlanta as it does to L.A., like if Playaz Circle slinked into 2016 with too much Gucci on. The huge, staccato hook is designed to rattle around in your car and your skull; vocals pan and bunch up and dart across the beat. It’s virtuosic. The thematic center of the EP is the three-song run that starts with “In My Feelings.” It opens with “It’s about the power of the tongue” and unspools from there; it’s a song about sex that’s really about a slow-burning power struggle. As writers, Cam & China touch on an interesting divide, treating sex as a purely physical venture, but lingering on the more ephemeral parts of romance. So the verses on “Feelings” have you fucking on the floor and in the kitchen, but the airy hook gestures at the sort of mutual attraction that ends up being left unspoken. A remix of “Run Up,” the duo’s massive local hit from last year, appears here with a new verse from Compton’s AD. It’s lean and kinetic as ever, and shows just how technically adept the twins got in their time out of the spotlight. The layered bridge tacked onto the end bends a Master P “Uuuuhhhhhhhhh!” into a pointed threat that whole high school classes could sing along to. But for all of Cam & China’s threats and sneers, the runaway highlight is the closer, “We Gon Make It,” which grapples with their career aspirations. It teeters between certainty and desperation, the way your ego probably does when you’re sketching out your own five-year plan. The difference is you could never rap this well.

Artist: Cam & China, Album: Cam & China, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "The rap duo is a delicate balance. OutKast staked itself on the player-and-the-poet duality; André and Antwan transcended because each one could animate either side of the split. When Phife Dawg passed away this year, the eulogies rightly pointed out that the five-foot assassin kept Q-Tip tethered to Queens, to Earth. But the duo doesn’t have to be a down-the-middle yin and yang (see: the Ying Yang Twins). Havoc and Prodigy made Mobb Deep great by offering slight variations on the same dead-eyed fatalism. More recently, the Clipse became critical darlings despite Pusha T and Malice trafficking in virtually identical cadences and points of view. Cam & China, twins from Inglewood and veterans of L.A.’s jerkin’ scene, carry the Mobb/Clipse approach to its natural conclusion. Even among those who share DNA, they’re uniquely attuned to one another, and their minds are melding to make some of the year’s fiercest, most viscerally exciting rap music. Their debut EP is a reintroduction of sorts: At the end of the 2000s, Cam & China—then Cammy and Cece—accounted for two-fifths of the Pink Dollaz, one of jerk’s most exciting acts. The Dollaz were making slick, provocative songs like “I’m Tasty” and accruing fans rapidly. But the group dissolved as the style itself slowed. Two summers ago, under the new monikers, Cam & China dropped “Do Dat,” a furious warning shot. It came out just a handful of months after YG’s My Krazy Life; where their former jerkin’ peer folded pieces of New Orleans and the Bay into his sound, “Do Dat” sounded as if it had been incubating and mutating strictly in Los Angeles County. And if Still Brazy* *synthesizes decades of West coast rap production, *Cam & China *strips jerkin’ for parts and refashions it into something bolder, heavier, and more menacing. But first, some misdirection: opener “Extravagant” owes as much to Atlanta as it does to L.A., like if Playaz Circle slinked into 2016 with too much Gucci on. The huge, staccato hook is designed to rattle around in your car and your skull; vocals pan and bunch up and dart across the beat. It’s virtuosic. The thematic center of the EP is the three-song run that starts with “In My Feelings.” It opens with “It’s about the power of the tongue” and unspools from there; it’s a song about sex that’s really about a slow-burning power struggle. As writers, Cam & China touch on an interesting divide, treating sex as a purely physical venture, but lingering on the more ephemeral parts of romance. So the verses on “Feelings” have you fucking on the floor and in the kitchen, but the airy hook gestures at the sort of mutual attraction that ends up being left unspoken. A remix of “Run Up,” the duo’s massive local hit from last year, appears here with a new verse from Compton’s AD. It’s lean and kinetic as ever, and shows just how technically adept the twins got in their time out of the spotlight. The layered bridge tacked onto the end bends a Master P “Uuuuhhhhhhhhh!” into a pointed threat that whole high school classes could sing along to. But for all of Cam & China’s threats and sneers, the runaway highlight is the closer, “We Gon Make It,” which grapples with their career aspirations. It teeters between certainty and desperation, the way your ego probably does when you’re sketching out your own five-year plan. The difference is you could never rap this well."

Hem

Funnel Cloud

Folk/Country,Pop/R&B

David Raposa

Most casual listeners, and more than a few attentive folk, might consider Hem a one-note band. Yes, more often than not they are slow and sonorous and prone to the sort of overly dramatic swooning associated with silent film actresses, but they strike these poses skillfully. That doesn't make listening to an hour's worth of such posing in one setting any easier, though. If you're not in the mood, the group's attempts to establish this painstaking beauty and emotional heft will grate very quickly. For those in the audience hoping for a little more variety in Hem's diet, Funnel Cloud is the album for you. In addition to offering generous helpings of the usual Hem fare, the group delve deeper into the country side of countrypolitan. They even up their tempo from time to time, which is a nice change of pace for a group prone to drowning every song they touch in a gallon of ether. There's no doubt that it's the group's most accomplished album-- unfortunately, it's also their most disappointing. I imagine most folks would save the "most disappointing" appellation for the group's second album, Eveningland. It's overblown, over-orchestrated, bombastic, ponderous, portentous, and all that jazz. It's what Hem does best, and it's what makes the album great. At their best, Hem lay the syrup on thick, and they give themselves over to that sticky bittersweetness just enough. The melodies bloom like flowers breaking through the early spring frost, the orchestral backing swells and ebbs with tidal inevitability, and throughout it all, Sally Ellison's pristine plain-as-Jane voice acts as a tether that keeps this bombast from blowing away. Here's the rub: Despite the hokey grandeur of Hem's usual MO, it's at their most overblown that Hem sounds most true to itself. On Funnel Cloud, the strength of these grandiose moments is dispelled by these out-of-character, down-to-earth moments, and it casts both the new and the old in unflattering lights. Which is to say that while Ellison sounds at home amidst the somber piano and guitar backing of "We'll Meet Along the Way", she sounds strained and uncomfortable with the aw-shucks candor of "The Pills Stopped Working" and the awkwardly anthemic "Not California". Heart-string tugging showtunes like "Great Houses of New York" paint a beautiful, wistful portrait. The more showy arrangements of tracks like "Curtains", on the other hand, distract and detract. And this less-than-smooth style switching makes the album's modest length of forty-six minutes seem much longer than the hour-plus length of its predecessor. In this light, the title of the album's final track, "Almost Home", might be a more fitting name for this album. Ultimately, Funnel Cloud is the work of a band searching for new ways to sing. They might get where they want eventually, but, if this is any evidence, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

Artist: Hem, Album: Funnel Cloud, Genre: Folk/Country,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.1 Album review: "Most casual listeners, and more than a few attentive folk, might consider Hem a one-note band. Yes, more often than not they are slow and sonorous and prone to the sort of overly dramatic swooning associated with silent film actresses, but they strike these poses skillfully. That doesn't make listening to an hour's worth of such posing in one setting any easier, though. If you're not in the mood, the group's attempts to establish this painstaking beauty and emotional heft will grate very quickly. For those in the audience hoping for a little more variety in Hem's diet, Funnel Cloud is the album for you. In addition to offering generous helpings of the usual Hem fare, the group delve deeper into the country side of countrypolitan. They even up their tempo from time to time, which is a nice change of pace for a group prone to drowning every song they touch in a gallon of ether. There's no doubt that it's the group's most accomplished album-- unfortunately, it's also their most disappointing. I imagine most folks would save the "most disappointing" appellation for the group's second album, Eveningland. It's overblown, over-orchestrated, bombastic, ponderous, portentous, and all that jazz. It's what Hem does best, and it's what makes the album great. At their best, Hem lay the syrup on thick, and they give themselves over to that sticky bittersweetness just enough. The melodies bloom like flowers breaking through the early spring frost, the orchestral backing swells and ebbs with tidal inevitability, and throughout it all, Sally Ellison's pristine plain-as-Jane voice acts as a tether that keeps this bombast from blowing away. Here's the rub: Despite the hokey grandeur of Hem's usual MO, it's at their most overblown that Hem sounds most true to itself. On Funnel Cloud, the strength of these grandiose moments is dispelled by these out-of-character, down-to-earth moments, and it casts both the new and the old in unflattering lights. Which is to say that while Ellison sounds at home amidst the somber piano and guitar backing of "We'll Meet Along the Way", she sounds strained and uncomfortable with the aw-shucks candor of "The Pills Stopped Working" and the awkwardly anthemic "Not California". Heart-string tugging showtunes like "Great Houses of New York" paint a beautiful, wistful portrait. The more showy arrangements of tracks like "Curtains", on the other hand, distract and detract. And this less-than-smooth style switching makes the album's modest length of forty-six minutes seem much longer than the hour-plus length of its predecessor. In this light, the title of the album's final track, "Almost Home", might be a more fitting name for this album. Ultimately, Funnel Cloud is the work of a band searching for new ways to sing. They might get where they want eventually, but, if this is any evidence, it's going to be a bumpy ride."

Cerys Matthews

Cockahoop

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

Either the songs on former Catatonia frontwoman Cerys Matthews' first solo effort, Cockahoop, were recorded in tracklist order, or this album is a triumph of sequencing. It begins tentatively with "Chardonnay", an unrecorded ode to white wine by Nashville songwriter Roger Cook; gradually becomes more confident over the first half; hits its stride just before the instrumental interlude; peaks over three songs; and ends on a hopeful note with an arrangement of the traditional "All My Trials". Perhaps this progression wouldn't be so noteworthy-- or even as noticeable-- if it were assembled by any other artist. But Cockahoop is Matthews' first recorded work since Catatonia's lackluster final album, Paper Scissors Stone, which followed her stint in rehab and preceded the band's dissolution in 2001. After some time off, Matthews decamped to Nashville to work with producer and lap steel player Bucky Baxter, who helped corral an impressive roster of local country music veterans like pedal steel player Lloyd Green, former Notorious Cherry Bomb Richard Bennett, and bassist Dave Pomeroy, as well as former Wilco drummer Ken Coomer and Old Crow Medicine Show banjoist Ketcham Secor. The result is certainly influenced by Nashville country, but like some sort of exchange student program, it also incorporates British elements, including bazouki and bass flute. Lending to the international vibe, Matthews sings "La Bague" in French and the traditional hymn "Arglwydd Dyma Fi" in her native Welsh. Cockahoop dynamically reflects Matthews' re-immersion into music. The first half (before the intermission) sounds like she's dipping her toe in the water, easing into the sessions not timidly, but warily, as if disappointment looms. "Chardonnay" is a brave choice to kick off a post-rehab album, and "Caught in the Middle" and "Louisiana" are low-key excursions on which Matthews sounds like she's holding back vocally. Her delivery is whispery and subdued compared to her powerhouse vocals on Catatonia songs like "Road Rage" and "Apple Core." She sounds vulnerable here-- battered a bit by life, but still wide-eyed and hopeful. By the second half, starting with "Arglwydd Dyma Fi", her vocals have grown bolder and much more confident-- she sings "If You're Lookin' for Love" like a giddy come-on, even cracking up on the second verse as Baxter adds banjolele, bass harp, dobro, and saxophone. The rafter-raising "The Good in Good-Bye" features a fuller sound and a brassy performance that owes more to Nashville legends like Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn than to anything Catatonia recorded. The only dud comes with the Handsome Family cover "Weightless Again". Singing Rennie Sparks' lines, Matthews pretends to know the answer to "Why people O.D. on pills/ And jump from the Golden Gate Bridge." It is, of course, "to feel weightless again." But Cockahoop sounds best when Matthews doesn't pretend to have the answers, as on the closer "All My Trials," where she calmly accepts that "all my trials, lord, will soon be over."

Artist: Cerys Matthews, Album: Cockahoop, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Either the songs on former Catatonia frontwoman Cerys Matthews' first solo effort, Cockahoop, were recorded in tracklist order, or this album is a triumph of sequencing. It begins tentatively with "Chardonnay", an unrecorded ode to white wine by Nashville songwriter Roger Cook; gradually becomes more confident over the first half; hits its stride just before the instrumental interlude; peaks over three songs; and ends on a hopeful note with an arrangement of the traditional "All My Trials". Perhaps this progression wouldn't be so noteworthy-- or even as noticeable-- if it were assembled by any other artist. But Cockahoop is Matthews' first recorded work since Catatonia's lackluster final album, Paper Scissors Stone, which followed her stint in rehab and preceded the band's dissolution in 2001. After some time off, Matthews decamped to Nashville to work with producer and lap steel player Bucky Baxter, who helped corral an impressive roster of local country music veterans like pedal steel player Lloyd Green, former Notorious Cherry Bomb Richard Bennett, and bassist Dave Pomeroy, as well as former Wilco drummer Ken Coomer and Old Crow Medicine Show banjoist Ketcham Secor. The result is certainly influenced by Nashville country, but like some sort of exchange student program, it also incorporates British elements, including bazouki and bass flute. Lending to the international vibe, Matthews sings "La Bague" in French and the traditional hymn "Arglwydd Dyma Fi" in her native Welsh. Cockahoop dynamically reflects Matthews' re-immersion into music. The first half (before the intermission) sounds like she's dipping her toe in the water, easing into the sessions not timidly, but warily, as if disappointment looms. "Chardonnay" is a brave choice to kick off a post-rehab album, and "Caught in the Middle" and "Louisiana" are low-key excursions on which Matthews sounds like she's holding back vocally. Her delivery is whispery and subdued compared to her powerhouse vocals on Catatonia songs like "Road Rage" and "Apple Core." She sounds vulnerable here-- battered a bit by life, but still wide-eyed and hopeful. By the second half, starting with "Arglwydd Dyma Fi", her vocals have grown bolder and much more confident-- she sings "If You're Lookin' for Love" like a giddy come-on, even cracking up on the second verse as Baxter adds banjolele, bass harp, dobro, and saxophone. The rafter-raising "The Good in Good-Bye" features a fuller sound and a brassy performance that owes more to Nashville legends like Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn than to anything Catatonia recorded. The only dud comes with the Handsome Family cover "Weightless Again". Singing Rennie Sparks' lines, Matthews pretends to know the answer to "Why people O.D. on pills/ And jump from the Golden Gate Bridge." It is, of course, "to feel weightless again." But Cockahoop sounds best when Matthews doesn't pretend to have the answers, as on the closer "All My Trials," where she calmly accepts that "all my trials, lord, will soon be over.""

Bjørn Torske

Feil Knapp

Electronic

Mark Richardson

Oslo's Smalltown Supersound recently released a lovely and (so far) overlooked label sampler/mix CD called Sunkissed. In addition to tracks from Pitchfork favorites like Lindstrøm and Serena-Maneesh, the set features two tracks from Bergen, Norway's Bjørn Torske, both of which can be found here on his first full-length album since 2003's Trobbel. Of all the possible names for a compilation on which to find Torske, it'd be hard to think of one better than Sunkissed; though he has range as a producer and works in a fair number of different moods, everything here is crisp, bright, airy, and shot through with light. Torske is obviously in love with dub, and has a fondness for understatement. His music is often danceable and clubby, but there's never a sense of menace and it never seems like a soundtrack to hedonism. Instead, throughout Feil Knapp, Torske seem concerned with spaciness and warmth, and, above all, on creating a subtle but palpable sense of uplift. There's also a consistently engaging and playful sense of musical humor at work. "Spelunker" begins with some squeals and blips from a vaguely familiar video game-- 8-bits, maybe not even-- and then uses the sound effects to build a melody for deep, bottom-heavy, but still nimble dub. It's goofy but also terrific fun, as he essentially uses the game noises as high-pitched focus place of, say, Augustus Pablo's melodica. "Kapteinens Skjegg" is another dub excursion, but more driven and heavier, its insistent 1-3 upstrokes providing the foundation for all manner of echo and flange-laden percussion fills. Torske's palette retains roots reggae's earthiness while remaining happily unconcerned with any sense of authenticity. When Torske ups the speed, he keeps the dubby bass out front but adds jazzy chords and all manner of organic percussion untethered to the 4/4 grid. The snappy "Tur I Maskinparken" almost has a post-rock cast-- like a TNT-era Tortoise remix, say-- the way it blends elements like a quickly tapping drum machine with electric piano vamping. "Loe Bar" is much more danceable, as easy on the ears as mellow retail-ready house but far more engaging, incorporating drama with some yearning new wave synth chords and combining a hypnotic bounce with a striking tunefulness. The eight-minute "God Kveld", which was also on Sunkissed in abbreviated form, has a Miami-to-Brooklyn electro feel, with a synth melody ready to drive a Jan Hammer instrumental wedded to congas, acidic bass, and loose, rubbery drum percussion with the timbre of hand-claps. The breakdown in the song's middle is wonderfully odd and unpredictable, as Torske (or his digital proxy) seems content to bang on things just for the joy of hearing them make noise. A little while ago we highlighted "Møljekalas", the relaxed mid-tempo cut here that is both uncommonly blissful and clear-headed. On days when the sun is bright but the mercury is still reasonable and the humidity remains in check, not a whole lot from this year sounds better. Feil Knapp is a sense an easy record to overlook, since it contains little grit, zero angst, and next to no dark shading. It is, then, the perfect album for a certain kind of mood, a mood one hopes to find oneself in now and then as July turns to August here in the Northern Hemisphere.

Artist: Bjørn Torske, Album: Feil Knapp, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Oslo's Smalltown Supersound recently released a lovely and (so far) overlooked label sampler/mix CD called Sunkissed. In addition to tracks from Pitchfork favorites like Lindstrøm and Serena-Maneesh, the set features two tracks from Bergen, Norway's Bjørn Torske, both of which can be found here on his first full-length album since 2003's Trobbel. Of all the possible names for a compilation on which to find Torske, it'd be hard to think of one better than Sunkissed; though he has range as a producer and works in a fair number of different moods, everything here is crisp, bright, airy, and shot through with light. Torske is obviously in love with dub, and has a fondness for understatement. His music is often danceable and clubby, but there's never a sense of menace and it never seems like a soundtrack to hedonism. Instead, throughout Feil Knapp, Torske seem concerned with spaciness and warmth, and, above all, on creating a subtle but palpable sense of uplift. There's also a consistently engaging and playful sense of musical humor at work. "Spelunker" begins with some squeals and blips from a vaguely familiar video game-- 8-bits, maybe not even-- and then uses the sound effects to build a melody for deep, bottom-heavy, but still nimble dub. It's goofy but also terrific fun, as he essentially uses the game noises as high-pitched focus place of, say, Augustus Pablo's melodica. "Kapteinens Skjegg" is another dub excursion, but more driven and heavier, its insistent 1-3 upstrokes providing the foundation for all manner of echo and flange-laden percussion fills. Torske's palette retains roots reggae's earthiness while remaining happily unconcerned with any sense of authenticity. When Torske ups the speed, he keeps the dubby bass out front but adds jazzy chords and all manner of organic percussion untethered to the 4/4 grid. The snappy "Tur I Maskinparken" almost has a post-rock cast-- like a TNT-era Tortoise remix, say-- the way it blends elements like a quickly tapping drum machine with electric piano vamping. "Loe Bar" is much more danceable, as easy on the ears as mellow retail-ready house but far more engaging, incorporating drama with some yearning new wave synth chords and combining a hypnotic bounce with a striking tunefulness. The eight-minute "God Kveld", which was also on Sunkissed in abbreviated form, has a Miami-to-Brooklyn electro feel, with a synth melody ready to drive a Jan Hammer instrumental wedded to congas, acidic bass, and loose, rubbery drum percussion with the timbre of hand-claps. The breakdown in the song's middle is wonderfully odd and unpredictable, as Torske (or his digital proxy) seems content to bang on things just for the joy of hearing them make noise. A little while ago we highlighted "Møljekalas", the relaxed mid-tempo cut here that is both uncommonly blissful and clear-headed. On days when the sun is bright but the mercury is still reasonable and the humidity remains in check, not a whole lot from this year sounds better. Feil Knapp is a sense an easy record to overlook, since it contains little grit, zero angst, and next to no dark shading. It is, then, the perfect album for a certain kind of mood, a mood one hopes to find oneself in now and then as July turns to August here in the Northern Hemisphere."

My Gold Mask

A Thousand Voices EP

Electronic,Experimental,Pop/R&B,Rock

Brian Howe

It's hard to overstate the similarities between Chicago duo My Gold Mask and early Yeah Yeah Yeahs. MGM's Jack Armondo's nylon-stringed electric guitar has the same prickly yet supple tone, and his streamlined riffs leave behind the same glittery trails. The guitar stabs on "Fingerprints" are so Nick Zinnerishly juiced-up they actually splash. And while Gretta Rochelle may "hear a thousand voices/ Possessing me," we can usually make out only one of them. Like Karen O, she runs on a rheostat, transitioning smoothly between low-wattage sultriness and a floodlit blare. At one point, she even breaks out the clock onomatopoeia from "Tick". On the other hand, this is an entirely different kind of band. While YYYs seem intent on carrying similar influences into the future, MGM are self-aware, crafting a period homage that avoids sounding dated thanks to the band's raw primordial stomp. (Gretta Rochelle is the drummer and singer, and handles both tasks with a lot of physicality.) They seem to long for a regional heyday: There is something very "Chicago" about their 90s-rock nostalgia. Like Sybris, they salute an era when the Windy City was home to one of the world's biggest, most ambitious alt-rock bands, the Smashing Pumpkins, and they strive, in a pared-down and punked-up way, to recapture that spirit of high-stakes drama. The limply retro Blondie sing-speak Rochelle deployed on "Bitches", My Gold Mask's minor (and rather silly) 2009 hit, reappears for portions of "All Up in the Air", but the new music is much better-- generous with epic breakdowns, mini guitar symphonies, massive drum and cymbal crashes, and lusty choruses. It's referential without feeling canned; a rambunctious DIY energy mortars together the big moments. "Violet Eyes" is clearly their killer track, with one of those forehead-smackingly simple arrangements that can be so effective when delivered with enough energy: It's mainly a lean sequence of riffs, fizzy syncopated woodblocks, and an instantly memorable vocal melody. "I like shooting arrows in the dark/ I like driving nails into your heart!" Rochelle sings with bratty sweetness, the lines whizzing up and bursting like fireworks on their end words. But to say My Gold Mask are explosive is a compliment with a built-in criticism: They hit hard and fizzle quickly. Nothing else here has the impact of "Violet Eyes". "All Up in the Air" changes the tone, with off-kilter guitar sharking through all kinds of cool parts-- perhaps too many. The song gets lost in the signifiers. They shift again on "Fingerprints"-- it's a bit like the xx playing a medley of riffs from Metallica's Black Album-- to similarly blurry effect. By the reheated "Circle Mass", they seem to be out of ideas. Still, the bottled lightning of "Violet Eyes" makes My Gold Mask a band to watch-- if they begin to achieve that kind of unbridled immediacy more consistently, they'll be a powerhouse.

Artist: My Gold Mask, Album: A Thousand Voices EP, Genre: Electronic,Experimental,Pop/R&B,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "It's hard to overstate the similarities between Chicago duo My Gold Mask and early Yeah Yeah Yeahs. MGM's Jack Armondo's nylon-stringed electric guitar has the same prickly yet supple tone, and his streamlined riffs leave behind the same glittery trails. The guitar stabs on "Fingerprints" are so Nick Zinnerishly juiced-up they actually splash. And while Gretta Rochelle may "hear a thousand voices/ Possessing me," we can usually make out only one of them. Like Karen O, she runs on a rheostat, transitioning smoothly between low-wattage sultriness and a floodlit blare. At one point, she even breaks out the clock onomatopoeia from "Tick". On the other hand, this is an entirely different kind of band. While YYYs seem intent on carrying similar influences into the future, MGM are self-aware, crafting a period homage that avoids sounding dated thanks to the band's raw primordial stomp. (Gretta Rochelle is the drummer and singer, and handles both tasks with a lot of physicality.) They seem to long for a regional heyday: There is something very "Chicago" about their 90s-rock nostalgia. Like Sybris, they salute an era when the Windy City was home to one of the world's biggest, most ambitious alt-rock bands, the Smashing Pumpkins, and they strive, in a pared-down and punked-up way, to recapture that spirit of high-stakes drama. The limply retro Blondie sing-speak Rochelle deployed on "Bitches", My Gold Mask's minor (and rather silly) 2009 hit, reappears for portions of "All Up in the Air", but the new music is much better-- generous with epic breakdowns, mini guitar symphonies, massive drum and cymbal crashes, and lusty choruses. It's referential without feeling canned; a rambunctious DIY energy mortars together the big moments. "Violet Eyes" is clearly their killer track, with one of those forehead-smackingly simple arrangements that can be so effective when delivered with enough energy: It's mainly a lean sequence of riffs, fizzy syncopated woodblocks, and an instantly memorable vocal melody. "I like shooting arrows in the dark/ I like driving nails into your heart!" Rochelle sings with bratty sweetness, the lines whizzing up and bursting like fireworks on their end words. But to say My Gold Mask are explosive is a compliment with a built-in criticism: They hit hard and fizzle quickly. Nothing else here has the impact of "Violet Eyes". "All Up in the Air" changes the tone, with off-kilter guitar sharking through all kinds of cool parts-- perhaps too many. The song gets lost in the signifiers. They shift again on "Fingerprints"-- it's a bit like the xx playing a medley of riffs from Metallica's Black Album-- to similarly blurry effect. By the reheated "Circle Mass", they seem to be out of ideas. Still, the bottled lightning of "Violet Eyes" makes My Gold Mask a band to watch-- if they begin to achieve that kind of unbridled immediacy more consistently, they'll be a powerhouse."

Homelife

Guru Man Hubcap Lady

Electronic,Jazz

Jonathan Zwickel

Ninja Tune went looking for the legendary kitchen sink and found it in Homelife. Guru Man Hubcap Lady is an ingenious, overachieving experiment, a pushing away from the pack, a search for untrodden, unprecedented ground. The ever-evolving project of Manchester madman Paddy Steer, Homelife has lurked in the Ninja Tune dojo for years and still hasn't been pinned down to a formula, moving between leftfield disco jazz, digital torch song soul, and goony electronic funk. Surprisingly, in all its diffuse, foppish meandering, Guru Man leaves a sincere, wonderfully enigmatic impression, like an organic version of Wagon Christ's galactic travels as finger-painted during a cannabis-enhanced Advanced Jazz Band afterschool jam session. If playfulness is profound, then Homelife have spoken the Gospel. Steer fills out album's mix 'n' match eclecticism with a 15-strong rotating cast that includes 808 State multi-instrumentalist Graham Massey on clarinet and saxophone and co-conspirator Tony Burnside on guitar and vocals. A host of strings, keys, vocals, and cornucopia percussion keep Homelife's juicy heart beating, but Steer's intuitive, interwoven arrangements stitch it all together. The result is a kind of loopy, groove-drunk Frankenstein's monster that happily ricochets between the cerebral and the silly. The album's sequencing is shrewd, completing a graceful arc that literally starts with a bang and ends with a whimper. It all gets underway to the sound of distant fireworks that pepper the woozy, horn-smeared opener. Those lead right in to the ridiculous title track, with nearly indecipherable lyrics sung by what sound like Alvin & The Chipmunks' Swedish be-bop cousins. Backed by tub-thumping bass drums and greasy keys, and littered by shards of broken electronic bleeps, the title song sets the tone for the weirdness that follows. Well, almost. As weird as the song is, things immediately take a turn for the downright bizarre. The female-vocaled "A Casa (The House)" plays like the Tatooine Cantina Band doing Sun Ra and the Family Stoned before turning into a chime and banjo raga breakdown. Coursing along on Tony Burnside's casual vocals, "Harder" builds one of the most mesmerizing, head-swinging, caught-you-dancing workouts I've heard all year. The song is five uproarious minutes of slick, four-on-the-floor, blue-eyed Afrodisco that culminates with wiry organ and banjo tickled by choppy guitar, maracas, and a Dumbo-sized bassline. It's hard to describe, probably harder for you to imagine, and impossible to sit still to. The whole disc dips in and out of dimensions, running through the spin cycle but never rinsing out its debauched, impeccable sense of adventure. Hazy ambient musings, Flamenco-flavored balladry, junkyard jazz poetry, Spaghetti Western psychedelica, and tweaky IDM math-rock are all shuffled into Homelife's trick deck. And without sounding too fey, it does come together almost like magic-- loose but not sloppy, visionary but tangible, smart but not uptight. The emotional distance between the sassy Superfly string melody of "Lowdell Is Missing" and the loungey vocal caress of album closer "Strangers" is large, but the eclectic three-song transition that spans it is natural, logical, almost perfect. I often have a difficult time finding meaning in any work that's overtly fun, as if melancholy is the only path to enlightenment, but Homelife's crazy light reveals itself like a train. I've been hit.

Artist: Homelife, Album: Guru Man Hubcap Lady, Genre: Electronic,Jazz, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Ninja Tune went looking for the legendary kitchen sink and found it in Homelife. Guru Man Hubcap Lady is an ingenious, overachieving experiment, a pushing away from the pack, a search for untrodden, unprecedented ground. The ever-evolving project of Manchester madman Paddy Steer, Homelife has lurked in the Ninja Tune dojo for years and still hasn't been pinned down to a formula, moving between leftfield disco jazz, digital torch song soul, and goony electronic funk. Surprisingly, in all its diffuse, foppish meandering, Guru Man leaves a sincere, wonderfully enigmatic impression, like an organic version of Wagon Christ's galactic travels as finger-painted during a cannabis-enhanced Advanced Jazz Band afterschool jam session. If playfulness is profound, then Homelife have spoken the Gospel. Steer fills out album's mix 'n' match eclecticism with a 15-strong rotating cast that includes 808 State multi-instrumentalist Graham Massey on clarinet and saxophone and co-conspirator Tony Burnside on guitar and vocals. A host of strings, keys, vocals, and cornucopia percussion keep Homelife's juicy heart beating, but Steer's intuitive, interwoven arrangements stitch it all together. The result is a kind of loopy, groove-drunk Frankenstein's monster that happily ricochets between the cerebral and the silly. The album's sequencing is shrewd, completing a graceful arc that literally starts with a bang and ends with a whimper. It all gets underway to the sound of distant fireworks that pepper the woozy, horn-smeared opener. Those lead right in to the ridiculous title track, with nearly indecipherable lyrics sung by what sound like Alvin & The Chipmunks' Swedish be-bop cousins. Backed by tub-thumping bass drums and greasy keys, and littered by shards of broken electronic bleeps, the title song sets the tone for the weirdness that follows. Well, almost. As weird as the song is, things immediately take a turn for the downright bizarre. The female-vocaled "A Casa (The House)" plays like the Tatooine Cantina Band doing Sun Ra and the Family Stoned before turning into a chime and banjo raga breakdown. Coursing along on Tony Burnside's casual vocals, "Harder" builds one of the most mesmerizing, head-swinging, caught-you-dancing workouts I've heard all year. The song is five uproarious minutes of slick, four-on-the-floor, blue-eyed Afrodisco that culminates with wiry organ and banjo tickled by choppy guitar, maracas, and a Dumbo-sized bassline. It's hard to describe, probably harder for you to imagine, and impossible to sit still to. The whole disc dips in and out of dimensions, running through the spin cycle but never rinsing out its debauched, impeccable sense of adventure. Hazy ambient musings, Flamenco-flavored balladry, junkyard jazz poetry, Spaghetti Western psychedelica, and tweaky IDM math-rock are all shuffled into Homelife's trick deck. And without sounding too fey, it does come together almost like magic-- loose but not sloppy, visionary but tangible, smart but not uptight. The emotional distance between the sassy Superfly string melody of "Lowdell Is Missing" and the loungey vocal caress of album closer "Strangers" is large, but the eclectic three-song transition that spans it is natural, logical, almost perfect. I often have a difficult time finding meaning in any work that's overtly fun, as if melancholy is the only path to enlightenment, but Homelife's crazy light reveals itself like a train. I've been hit."

Jessie Ware

Devotion

Pop/R&B

Ryan Dombal

To begin to understand where Jessie Ware is coming from, let's look at her stuck between an acoustic guitarist and an MPC beat pusher in the back of a London taxi. As part of the simple, self-explanatory "Black Cab Sessions" web series, the 27-year-old British singer recently took her place in the middle seat and proceeded to offer a nuanced live take on "Wildest Moments", a slyly epic ballad from her debut album, Devotion. In such tight quarters, she's not quite sure where to look-- at her bandmates, outside to the street, or directly into the camera-- her head on a controlled swivel. She's capable of blasting the back window out with her voice, which consistently strikes blue notes somewhere between Sade and Whitney, but she holds back, well-aware of her unplugged environment. The performance is seriously moving, and yet Ware lets loose a few brief grins and a slight laugh, as if to say, "All this is quite ridiculous, don't you think?" And that's Jessie Ware: a devout realist making the most of her pop-star dreams-- and her commitment to both sides of that equation turns Devotion into a uniquely soulful masterclass. If you've half-slept through just one episode of a reality-television singing competition over the last decade, you're probably somewhat privy to Ware's trajectory. The one-time theater kid started out as a backup singer before nearly giving up her musical aspirations to be a journalist. But then, thanks to a montage-ready twist of fate, she ended up singing lead on melodic bass producer SBTRKT's 2010 single "Nervous", which led to a solo label deal, which led to Ware being forced to take the spotlight. But oftentimes backup singers are off to the side for a reason, and the hard truth is that's where they will be most productive; there are only so many lead roles in the world of pop. Considering her self-described "boringly sensible" outlook and the doubt pinging around her brain ("I had to get past the idea of, like, 'Who gives a shit about what I'm gonna fucking write a song about?'"), Ware sounds more like a supporting player on paper. But then you hear her voice, and any and all limits start to fade into the distance. Singing over futuristic electronic tracks like "Nervous" and dubstep producer Joker's "The Vision", Ware sounded strong, but also somewhat overshadowed by the showy bleeps scurrying around her. Devotion, however, marries her natural gift with throbbing instrumentation that breathes life into every single turn of phrase or sensitive vocal embellishment. The tempos bounce lightly, the drama escalates, the synth-laden ambience cascades like so many postcard waterfalls. This is smoldering music, its smoke bewitching enough to make the original fire more or less irrelevant. The record was largely produced by three men-- Dave Okumu of UK art rockers the Invisible, Bristol electronic upstart Julio Bashmore, and singer-songwriter Kid Harpoon, who co-wrote songs on Florence and the Machine's Ceremonials-- each leaving his distinct mark without distracting from the whole. Okumu's tracks, especially opener "Devotion", are dark and dense, hinting at passion's underbelly with each deep bass hit; Bashmore's are more airy and upbeat, primed for classy dancefloors worldwide; Kid Harpoon offers the most festival-ready songs-- big hooks, bigger drums-- like "Wildest Moments". Tying the disparate sounds together are Okumu, who co-produced and played many instruments on nearly every track, and of course Ware herself, who co-wrote all but one song. Her voice is a marvel throughout, often gaining power by holding back or briefly teasing its scope while staying faithful to melody over melisma. Her words are in tune with this refinement as they chronicle the in-betweenness of love, dismissing easy pleasures for feelings that are more hard-won, confusing, and frightening. Take the most classically "pop" song here: the weightless "Sweet Talk", which modernizes Whitney Houston's late-80s effervescence à la Beyoncé's "Love on Top". On its face, the track is all endless dimples and mesmerizing lips, but then the verses sink in: "Don't keep me with the kisses, there's never any there when I need," pleads Ware. She knows she's going to fall for the smooth nothings once again, though, and lets the keys try to cover the inevitable regret, which plays out on "Running", where Ware starts, "Your words alone could drive me to a thousand tears." The title track, with its foreboding murk, gives whiffs of a seance as Ware asks, "Ready to love but do you want it enough?/ Can we find a way to bring it back again?" Given the track's perfectly rendered storm clouds, you get the impression she already knows the answers. The idea of running comes up often on Devotion, and it's clear that Ware isn't interested in the sprints-- when it comes to love, she's angling for a marathon. And she knows marathons can be really fucking tough. Talking about her childhood aspirations earlier this year, Ware told me, "It's so unattainable to be a singer. I'd watch 'Top of the Pops' and think I could never do that. And I didn't look like a pop star compared to the people I used to watch on MTV like J.Lo or Destiny's Child." As a middle-class Jewish girl from South London who's closer to 30 than 20, she's still nothing close to a cookie-cutter R&B breakout. Her success thus far-- and its likely continuation thanks to Devotion-- is a testament to both her talent and budding songwriting skills, as well as the wide-open field that is modern R&B, where a sensitive soul like Frank Ocean can make a star-in-a-box like Chris Brown look about as relevant as a dial-up modem. "I'm just having fun and trying to pretend I'm a pop star," said Ware, talking about her high-style videos. And while embellishment and theatricality is still a coveted and worthwhile pursuit within the pop realm, the beautiful thing is that, in 2012, Jessie Ware doesn't need to pretend more than anyone else.

Artist: Jessie Ware, Album: Devotion, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "To begin to understand where Jessie Ware is coming from, let's look at her stuck between an acoustic guitarist and an MPC beat pusher in the back of a London taxi. As part of the simple, self-explanatory "Black Cab Sessions" web series, the 27-year-old British singer recently took her place in the middle seat and proceeded to offer a nuanced live take on "Wildest Moments", a slyly epic ballad from her debut album, Devotion. In such tight quarters, she's not quite sure where to look-- at her bandmates, outside to the street, or directly into the camera-- her head on a controlled swivel. She's capable of blasting the back window out with her voice, which consistently strikes blue notes somewhere between Sade and Whitney, but she holds back, well-aware of her unplugged environment. The performance is seriously moving, and yet Ware lets loose a few brief grins and a slight laugh, as if to say, "All this is quite ridiculous, don't you think?" And that's Jessie Ware: a devout realist making the most of her pop-star dreams-- and her commitment to both sides of that equation turns Devotion into a uniquely soulful masterclass. If you've half-slept through just one episode of a reality-television singing competition over the last decade, you're probably somewhat privy to Ware's trajectory. The one-time theater kid started out as a backup singer before nearly giving up her musical aspirations to be a journalist. But then, thanks to a montage-ready twist of fate, she ended up singing lead on melodic bass producer SBTRKT's 2010 single "Nervous", which led to a solo label deal, which led to Ware being forced to take the spotlight. But oftentimes backup singers are off to the side for a reason, and the hard truth is that's where they will be most productive; there are only so many lead roles in the world of pop. Considering her self-described "boringly sensible" outlook and the doubt pinging around her brain ("I had to get past the idea of, like, 'Who gives a shit about what I'm gonna fucking write a song about?'"), Ware sounds more like a supporting player on paper. But then you hear her voice, and any and all limits start to fade into the distance. Singing over futuristic electronic tracks like "Nervous" and dubstep producer Joker's "The Vision", Ware sounded strong, but also somewhat overshadowed by the showy bleeps scurrying around her. Devotion, however, marries her natural gift with throbbing instrumentation that breathes life into every single turn of phrase or sensitive vocal embellishment. The tempos bounce lightly, the drama escalates, the synth-laden ambience cascades like so many postcard waterfalls. This is smoldering music, its smoke bewitching enough to make the original fire more or less irrelevant. The record was largely produced by three men-- Dave Okumu of UK art rockers the Invisible, Bristol electronic upstart Julio Bashmore, and singer-songwriter Kid Harpoon, who co-wrote songs on Florence and the Machine's Ceremonials-- each leaving his distinct mark without distracting from the whole. Okumu's tracks, especially opener "Devotion", are dark and dense, hinting at passion's underbelly with each deep bass hit; Bashmore's are more airy and upbeat, primed for classy dancefloors worldwide; Kid Harpoon offers the most festival-ready songs-- big hooks, bigger drums-- like "Wildest Moments". Tying the disparate sounds together are Okumu, who co-produced and played many instruments on nearly every track, and of course Ware herself, who co-wrote all but one song. Her voice is a marvel throughout, often gaining power by holding back or briefly teasing its scope while staying faithful to melody over melisma. Her words are in tune with this refinement as they chronicle the in-betweenness of love, dismissing easy pleasures for feelings that are more hard-won, confusing, and frightening. Take the most classically "pop" song here: the weightless "Sweet Talk", which modernizes Whitney Houston's late-80s effervescence à la Beyoncé's "Love on Top". On its face, the track is all endless dimples and mesmerizing lips, but then the verses sink in: "Don't keep me with the kisses, there's never any there when I need," pleads Ware. She knows she's going to fall for the smooth nothings once again, though, and lets the keys try to cover the inevitable regret, which plays out on "Running", where Ware starts, "Your words alone could drive me to a thousand tears." The title track, with its foreboding murk, gives whiffs of a seance as Ware asks, "Ready to love but do you want it enough?/ Can we find a way to bring it back again?" Given the track's perfectly rendered storm clouds, you get the impression she already knows the answers. The idea of running comes up often on Devotion, and it's clear that Ware isn't interested in the sprints-- when it comes to love, she's angling for a marathon. And she knows marathons can be really fucking tough. Talking about her childhood aspirations earlier this year, Ware told me, "It's so unattainable to be a singer. I'd watch 'Top of the Pops' and think I could never do that. And I didn't look like a pop star compared to the people I used to watch on MTV like J.Lo or Destiny's Child." As a middle-class Jewish girl from South London who's closer to 30 than 20, she's still nothing close to a cookie-cutter R&B breakout. Her success thus far-- and its likely continuation thanks to Devotion-- is a testament to both her talent and budding songwriting skills, as well as the wide-open field that is modern R&B, where a sensitive soul like Frank Ocean can make a star-in-a-box like Chris Brown look about as relevant as a dial-up modem. "I'm just having fun and trying to pretend I'm a pop star," said Ware, talking about her high-style videos. And while embellishment and theatricality is still a coveted and worthwhile pursuit within the pop realm, the beautiful thing is that, in 2012, Jessie Ware doesn't need to pretend more than anyone else."

Kelis

Food

Rap

Nate Patrin

One of these days there'll be the definitive retrospective written about how Kelis somehow managed both a solid run of great songs and an impenetrable run of rotten luck. We're 15 years out from the cult-hit success of Kaleidoscope and “Caught Out There", more than 10 years since “Milkshake” hit #3 on the Hot 100, and four years since the ahead-of-the-curve electro/house-leaning Flesh Tone left her with a one-and-done Interscope run that remains one of pop's lingering “how did this get overlooked?” mysteries. Every few years it seems like she's had to find a new voice and a new audience to go with it. In that respect, even a move like getting Dave Sitek to produce your album on a label best known for Amon Tobin isn't excessively out-of-nowhere. The chameleonic nature of Kelis' voice and her versatility in sonic roles ranging from vintage Neptunes to Raphael Saadiq to David Guetta is her biggest strength, one that's sustained her throughout a career filled with unfair perceptions of her as a producer's plug-in. Sitek, meanwhile, gave Kelis the potential to fit her way into another side of her style and personality that could expand her repertoire—that of the contemporary NYC-native internationalist, the big-in-Europe star rerooted to the Harlem of her youth and reconciling it with the art-school upbringing that made her one of pop's likeliest indie-crossover candidates. And it should've gone so much better. Food shows Kelis in unusual form—ragged, raspy, somewhere between exhausted from effort and deep in reflection. It's definitely not the tough, coyly defiant, independently minded kick-in-the-ass that her top-flight vocal performances made famous, though there are still flashes of it for emphasis. At its best, there's a touch of Tina-in0'84 snarl to it, a seen-some-shit weariness that doubles back and draws on itself to reinforce her voice's strength. It brings out the sweetly nostalgic tint to super-earworm leadoff single “Jerk Ribs", the deeper-than-deep long-distance yearning in Labi Siffre cover/Tunde Adebimpe duet “Bless the Telephone", and the maternal lessons-learned wisdom in “Hooch” (which slyly invokes an epochal line from her ex Nas: “Like your daddy said, the world is yours/ So let it flow naturally”). Even if it's a hard sell going to some of the hooks a few too many times—especially when they're as lyrically noncommittal as the placeholder-quality “Gimme what I want/ Gimme what I need/ I'm beggin' you please/ I'm down on my knees” refrain of “Friday Fish Fry”—it's striking to hear a voice you thought might've been familiar over the previous five albums given a new rendition. If the occasional lapses in songwriting are forgivable, the backgrounding of Kelis' voice is a lot harder to overlook. That new, strange rasp of hers is subsumed under layers of Sitek studio trickery: pushed back by horn sections when it should be riffing off them, given reverb that makes her sound more blurry than ethereal, multitracked or given backup harmonies in a way that dulls the intriguing edges of her voice. Even if the “Bless the Telephone” cover isn't the most characteristic or innovative cut, it's at least the most complementary—just her, Tunde, and an acoustic guitar all meshing together in a way just as striking as her younger self careening through Pharrell's digital Tilt-a-Whirl. For most of the remainder of Food, she seems adrift, distantly in the middle of nowhere even as she's surrounded by orchestration on all sides. Sitek's smooth-Afropop and soul-adjacent palette largely lets the album down here, too. I'm not kidding when I point out that “Jerk Ribs” is as catchy a pop concoction as anything someone of the 21st Century indiesphere has done, the sort of buoyant interplay of slinky bass-percussion rapport and joyously martial brass this kind of windows-down-sunroof-open vibe demands. But the majority of the album sinks into an indistinct mellow R&B feint that falls dangerously close to a soundtrack for young attractive people beaming down at smartphones during a "Mad Men" ad break. It's to Kelis' boundless credit that she can make the twee screw of “Floyd” or the passive attack trip-hop of “Runnin” feel warmly human just by doing her best to overpower it—even as the music tries, and nearly succeeds, in overpowering her.

Artist: Kelis, Album: Food, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "One of these days there'll be the definitive retrospective written about how Kelis somehow managed both a solid run of great songs and an impenetrable run of rotten luck. We're 15 years out from the cult-hit success of Kaleidoscope and “Caught Out There", more than 10 years since “Milkshake” hit #3 on the Hot 100, and four years since the ahead-of-the-curve electro/house-leaning Flesh Tone left her with a one-and-done Interscope run that remains one of pop's lingering “how did this get overlooked?” mysteries. Every few years it seems like she's had to find a new voice and a new audience to go with it. In that respect, even a move like getting Dave Sitek to produce your album on a label best known for Amon Tobin isn't excessively out-of-nowhere. The chameleonic nature of Kelis' voice and her versatility in sonic roles ranging from vintage Neptunes to Raphael Saadiq to David Guetta is her biggest strength, one that's sustained her throughout a career filled with unfair perceptions of her as a producer's plug-in. Sitek, meanwhile, gave Kelis the potential to fit her way into another side of her style and personality that could expand her repertoire—that of the contemporary NYC-native internationalist, the big-in-Europe star rerooted to the Harlem of her youth and reconciling it with the art-school upbringing that made her one of pop's likeliest indie-crossover candidates. And it should've gone so much better. Food shows Kelis in unusual form—ragged, raspy, somewhere between exhausted from effort and deep in reflection. It's definitely not the tough, coyly defiant, independently minded kick-in-the-ass that her top-flight vocal performances made famous, though there are still flashes of it for emphasis. At its best, there's a touch of Tina-in0'84 snarl to it, a seen-some-shit weariness that doubles back and draws on itself to reinforce her voice's strength. It brings out the sweetly nostalgic tint to super-earworm leadoff single “Jerk Ribs", the deeper-than-deep long-distance yearning in Labi Siffre cover/Tunde Adebimpe duet “Bless the Telephone", and the maternal lessons-learned wisdom in “Hooch” (which slyly invokes an epochal line from her ex Nas: “Like your daddy said, the world is yours/ So let it flow naturally”). Even if it's a hard sell going to some of the hooks a few too many times—especially when they're as lyrically noncommittal as the placeholder-quality “Gimme what I want/ Gimme what I need/ I'm beggin' you please/ I'm down on my knees” refrain of “Friday Fish Fry”—it's striking to hear a voice you thought might've been familiar over the previous five albums given a new rendition. If the occasional lapses in songwriting are forgivable, the backgrounding of Kelis' voice is a lot harder to overlook. That new, strange rasp of hers is subsumed under layers of Sitek studio trickery: pushed back by horn sections when it should be riffing off them, given reverb that makes her sound more blurry than ethereal, multitracked or given backup harmonies in a way that dulls the intriguing edges of her voice. Even if the “Bless the Telephone” cover isn't the most characteristic or innovative cut, it's at least the most complementary—just her, Tunde, and an acoustic guitar all meshing together in a way just as striking as her younger self careening through Pharrell's digital Tilt-a-Whirl. For most of the remainder of Food, she seems adrift, distantly in the middle of nowhere even as she's surrounded by orchestration on all sides. Sitek's smooth-Afropop and soul-adjacent palette largely lets the album down here, too. I'm not kidding when I point out that “Jerk Ribs” is as catchy a pop concoction as anything someone of the 21st Century indiesphere has done, the sort of buoyant interplay of slinky bass-percussion rapport and joyously martial brass this kind of windows-down-sunroof-open vibe demands. But the majority of the album sinks into an indistinct mellow R&B feint that falls dangerously close to a soundtrack for young attractive people beaming down at smartphones during a "Mad Men" ad break. It's to Kelis' boundless credit that she can make the twee screw of “Floyd” or the passive attack trip-hop of “Runnin” feel warmly human just by doing her best to overpower it—even as the music tries, and nearly succeeds, in overpowering her."

Fujiya & Miyagi

Ventriloquizzing

Electronic,Rock

Stuart Berman

Fujiya & Miyagi have always been open about their admiration for Krautrock icons Can, but that influence has as much to do with methodology as mere mimicry. Using a literal interpretation of the concept of "art rock," Can famously approached recording much like sculptors, chiseling down extended, amorphous jams into more manageable forms, if not quite linear songs. Fujiya & Miyagi simply take this logic one step further, distilling the syncopated grooves and mantric incantations of Can circa Ege Bamyasi or Future Days into accessible dance pop. (Even the band's M.O.-- British guys operating under a Japanese alias to make Teutonic funk-- is redolent of Can's multicultural composition and ethos.) But there is, of course, a crucial distinction between Fujiya & Miyagi and their forebears-- F&M's preference for steely precision and sleek minimalism means that their music lacks the volatility and mercurial quality that made Can's work so eminently fascinating. And while they've enlisted a somewhat surprising choice of producer for Ventriloquizzing-- Devendra Banhart/Vetiver compatriot Thom Monahan-- the new album does little to upset their pulse-regulated tempos and hushed-voice intimations. As on the preceding Transparent Things and Lighbulbs, consumption and materialism comprise the thematic grist of Ventriloquizzing. But Fujiya & Miyagi are self-aware enough to acknowledge that their music is essentially just another lifestyle accoutrement-- in the spirit of Kraftwerk's "Showroom Dummies" and Air's "Electronic Performers", the opening title track sees F&M likening themselves to puppets, emotionally empty and easily manipulated. Ironically, this admission of their own synthetic quality marks one of the few occasions when Ventriloquizzing really catches fire, as the song's ping-pong bass line yields to a powerful burst of analog-synth drones. But for all the premium they place on motion and rhythm, Fujiya & Miyagi songs rarely take you very far away from where they begin; whether employing a live drummer or an 808, the grooves are locked in early, with only minor textural tweaks (e.g., the invigorating Suicide-style organ fuzz on "Yoyo" and "Tinsel & Glitter"; the haunting choral vocals of "Universe") to subtly increase the intensity. As a result, Ventriloquizzing places undue emphasis on David Best's sing-spiel to move the action along. While he does have a flair for understated satire-- the piano-rolled "Taiwanese Boots" cheekily itemizes food choices as a measure of status, while "Minestrone" updates an old parable about the devil positing the titular soup as the ultimate temptation-- Best tends to confuse repetition with profundity. It's no secret Fujiya & Miyagi aren't Japanese, but Best's lyrics often sound cribbed from a beginner's guidebook to common English phrases ("you don't know which side your bread is buttered on," "you go up and go down like a yo-yo"), and his sinister, admonishing delivery doesn't invest them with any more weight or meaning. Over the "Yoo Doo Right" bass pulse of the closing "Universe", Best repeats over and over again: "You love to hear the sound of your own voice." On an album that takes glee in skewering the chattering classes, at least Best is self-effacing enough to save the last shot for himself.

Artist: Fujiya & Miyagi, Album: Ventriloquizzing, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "Fujiya & Miyagi have always been open about their admiration for Krautrock icons Can, but that influence has as much to do with methodology as mere mimicry. Using a literal interpretation of the concept of "art rock," Can famously approached recording much like sculptors, chiseling down extended, amorphous jams into more manageable forms, if not quite linear songs. Fujiya & Miyagi simply take this logic one step further, distilling the syncopated grooves and mantric incantations of Can circa Ege Bamyasi or Future Days into accessible dance pop. (Even the band's M.O.-- British guys operating under a Japanese alias to make Teutonic funk-- is redolent of Can's multicultural composition and ethos.) But there is, of course, a crucial distinction between Fujiya & Miyagi and their forebears-- F&M's preference for steely precision and sleek minimalism means that their music lacks the volatility and mercurial quality that made Can's work so eminently fascinating. And while they've enlisted a somewhat surprising choice of producer for Ventriloquizzing-- Devendra Banhart/Vetiver compatriot Thom Monahan-- the new album does little to upset their pulse-regulated tempos and hushed-voice intimations. As on the preceding Transparent Things and Lighbulbs, consumption and materialism comprise the thematic grist of Ventriloquizzing. But Fujiya & Miyagi are self-aware enough to acknowledge that their music is essentially just another lifestyle accoutrement-- in the spirit of Kraftwerk's "Showroom Dummies" and Air's "Electronic Performers", the opening title track sees F&M likening themselves to puppets, emotionally empty and easily manipulated. Ironically, this admission of their own synthetic quality marks one of the few occasions when Ventriloquizzing really catches fire, as the song's ping-pong bass line yields to a powerful burst of analog-synth drones. But for all the premium they place on motion and rhythm, Fujiya & Miyagi songs rarely take you very far away from where they begin; whether employing a live drummer or an 808, the grooves are locked in early, with only minor textural tweaks (e.g., the invigorating Suicide-style organ fuzz on "Yoyo" and "Tinsel & Glitter"; the haunting choral vocals of "Universe") to subtly increase the intensity. As a result, Ventriloquizzing places undue emphasis on David Best's sing-spiel to move the action along. While he does have a flair for understated satire-- the piano-rolled "Taiwanese Boots" cheekily itemizes food choices as a measure of status, while "Minestrone" updates an old parable about the devil positing the titular soup as the ultimate temptation-- Best tends to confuse repetition with profundity. It's no secret Fujiya & Miyagi aren't Japanese, but Best's lyrics often sound cribbed from a beginner's guidebook to common English phrases ("you don't know which side your bread is buttered on," "you go up and go down like a yo-yo"), and his sinister, admonishing delivery doesn't invest them with any more weight or meaning. Over the "Yoo Doo Right" bass pulse of the closing "Universe", Best repeats over and over again: "You love to hear the sound of your own voice." On an album that takes glee in skewering the chattering classes, at least Best is self-effacing enough to save the last shot for himself."

Built to Spill

There’s Nothing Wrong With Love

Rock

Mark Richardson

It's May 1994 in Boise, Idaho—one month after the death of Kurt Cobain. Though this town is 500 miles southeast of Seattle, almost an eight-hour drive, that's not so far in this part of the country. You have your car, and everything is spread out, and you're always ready to cover ground when you need to. So despite the distance Boise could conceivably be considered part of the Pacific Northwest, if you stretch the definition a little bit, and the music scene there, such as it is, has some connections to its larger neighboring cities. There's a Boise band called Built to Spill led by Doug Martsch, who used to be in an indie rock band based in Seattle called Treepeople. Two of the stories in the Pacific Northwest rock scene in the '80s and early '90s are the ramshackle D.I.Y. scene surrounding K Records and of course grunge, which by this time had gone so far overground it was on its way to becoming a cliché. Martsch's songwriting has some parallels with the wide-eyed and playful perspective of indie pop, but his twee impulses are tempered by his epic guitar work, which is not connected to grunge proper but can be traced to one of the scene's influences, J Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. Having made one album, 1993's Ultimate Alternative Wavers, Built to Spill return to Seattle to record their follow-up, There's Nothing Wrong With Love, the record that would change everything for the band. "That was the last record when I was able to make music without thinking a lot of people would hear it," Martsch told SPIN in 1999. "It makes a difference. I'd like to think it doesn't matter, but it does." That relative anonymity, free from the nebulous expectations of what eventually became a sizable fan base, gave Martsch license to write his most personal album. There's Nothing Wrong With Love, newly reissued on vinyl after being out of print on the format for almost two decades, has come to define a certain strand of indie rock, leaving a cluster of threads picked up by Modest Mouse, Death Cab for Cutie, and many more. But beyond its influence, it captures a truly original songwriting voice at the exact moment he realized what he had to offer. It's the album as snow globe, a small place where interconnected stories happen and you can get a different perspective on them depending on your vantage point. Built to Spill had some great records ahead of them, but they would never make another album with this level of intimacy. There's Nothing Wrong With Love finds Martsch on the cusp of true adulthood (his first child was born around the time it was made, and his feelings around that are documented on "Cleo"), but the past is close enough where he sees it with tremendous clarity. The songs highlight the tiny feelings and sensations that have no obvious consequences in the moment but somehow stay with you in every detail. And Martsch has a special talent for pinpointing the tossed-off moments that others might connect to. As a kid, I was excited to learn about the constellations— where they were supposed to be, how the dots were connected, the mythology they represented—but I quickly realized the only one I could make out was the Big Dipper. I spent 20-something years with that meaningless thought pinging in my head, and then I heard a song on this album that started with the words "When I was little someone pointed out to me/ Some constellations but the Big Dipper's all I could see" ("Big Dipper") and suddenly this stray private thought became a shared experience, one wrapped inside an ultra-catchy power pop song. Nuggets like this, borne of Martsch's keen sense of introspection and emotional generosity, are the lifeblood of There's Nothing Wrong With Love. On "In the Morning" he explores the difficulty of enjoying the present moment when filled with anxiety about the future ("Today is flat beneath the weight of the next day, next day, next day, next day") and how instinct takes over in moments of uncertainty. All the album's hyper-specific lyrical details—and there are many—check out. "Seven Up I touched her thumb, she knew it was me" (from "Twin Falls") might sound impossibly precious from another songwriter, but Martsch always leavens his sweetness with self-aware humor. "My stepfather looks just like David Bowie/ But he hates David Bowie," goes a line in "Distopian Dream Girl", certainly the first time in pop music history that this particular thought has been expressed. Then he follows with "I think Bowie's cool/ I think Lodger rules, my stepdad's a fool," showing just how in touch Martsch is with the feelings of adolescence, those years when you're floating through life, a bundle of nerves, and nothing quite makes sense. The music and arrangements on the album are every bit the match of the subject matter. Built to Spill showed only hints of the explosive rock machine they'd later become. Acoustic guitar features heavily, a cello saws away in the background, serving as a sort of Greek chorus tracking the emotional arc of a given song's characters. Once in a while, Martsch hits the stomp box and unleashes a noisy solo, the distortion dusting his effortless melodicism with longing. There's plenty of open space, and his voice is much cleaner than it would be later. The sequencing and editing is brilliant, from "In the Morning"'s split-second pause after Martsch yells "Stop!" to the pause between "Twin Falls" and "Some" that makes them seem like one long song. It's a sound that is simultaneously tiny and huge, a keepsake tucked into a pocket that could at any moment magically become the size of a billboard. With its focus on childhood, the nature of existence, and the search for meaning, it's possible to hear There's Nothing Wrong With Love in the terms of "What if there was another universe in my fingernail?"-style stoner dorm-room philosophy. But Martsch's open heart keeps you on his side. There's real beauty in the fumbling exploration he describes in "Car", a song filled with lines that crystallize what it's like to be an excited-but-frightened kid learning about life in fits and starts: "You'll get the chance to take the world apart/ And figure out how it works." Listening to this album in 2014, another line in the song, "I want to see it when you get stoned on a cloudy breezy desert afternoon," kept bringing me back to the final scene in Richard Linklater's film Boyhood, when the main character we've watched grow through the years takes mushrooms and hikes through a canyon in West Texas, a landscape not unlike parts of Idaho. It reminded me that one reason young people do drugs is because they offer a

Artist: Built to Spill, Album: There’s Nothing Wrong With Love, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.3 Album review: "It's May 1994 in Boise, Idaho—one month after the death of Kurt Cobain. Though this town is 500 miles southeast of Seattle, almost an eight-hour drive, that's not so far in this part of the country. You have your car, and everything is spread out, and you're always ready to cover ground when you need to. So despite the distance Boise could conceivably be considered part of the Pacific Northwest, if you stretch the definition a little bit, and the music scene there, such as it is, has some connections to its larger neighboring cities. There's a Boise band called Built to Spill led by Doug Martsch, who used to be in an indie rock band based in Seattle called Treepeople. Two of the stories in the Pacific Northwest rock scene in the '80s and early '90s are the ramshackle D.I.Y. scene surrounding K Records and of course grunge, which by this time had gone so far overground it was on its way to becoming a cliché. Martsch's songwriting has some parallels with the wide-eyed and playful perspective of indie pop, but his twee impulses are tempered by his epic guitar work, which is not connected to grunge proper but can be traced to one of the scene's influences, J Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. Having made one album, 1993's Ultimate Alternative Wavers, Built to Spill return to Seattle to record their follow-up, There's Nothing Wrong With Love, the record that would change everything for the band. "That was the last record when I was able to make music without thinking a lot of people would hear it," Martsch told SPIN in 1999. "It makes a difference. I'd like to think it doesn't matter, but it does." That relative anonymity, free from the nebulous expectations of what eventually became a sizable fan base, gave Martsch license to write his most personal album. There's Nothing Wrong With Love, newly reissued on vinyl after being out of print on the format for almost two decades, has come to define a certain strand of indie rock, leaving a cluster of threads picked up by Modest Mouse, Death Cab for Cutie, and many more. But beyond its influence, it captures a truly original songwriting voice at the exact moment he realized what he had to offer. It's the album as snow globe, a small place where interconnected stories happen and you can get a different perspective on them depending on your vantage point. Built to Spill had some great records ahead of them, but they would never make another album with this level of intimacy. There's Nothing Wrong With Love finds Martsch on the cusp of true adulthood (his first child was born around the time it was made, and his feelings around that are documented on "Cleo"), but the past is close enough where he sees it with tremendous clarity. The songs highlight the tiny feelings and sensations that have no obvious consequences in the moment but somehow stay with you in every detail. And Martsch has a special talent for pinpointing the tossed-off moments that others might connect to. As a kid, I was excited to learn about the constellations— where they were supposed to be, how the dots were connected, the mythology they represented—but I quickly realized the only one I could make out was the Big Dipper. I spent 20-something years with that meaningless thought pinging in my head, and then I heard a song on this album that started with the words "When I was little someone pointed out to me/ Some constellations but the Big Dipper's all I could see" ("Big Dipper") and suddenly this stray private thought became a shared experience, one wrapped inside an ultra-catchy power pop song. Nuggets like this, borne of Martsch's keen sense of introspection and emotional generosity, are the lifeblood of There's Nothing Wrong With Love. On "In the Morning" he explores the difficulty of enjoying the present moment when filled with anxiety about the future ("Today is flat beneath the weight of the next day, next day, next day, next day") and how instinct takes over in moments of uncertainty. All the album's hyper-specific lyrical details—and there are many—check out. "Seven Up I touched her thumb, she knew it was me" (from "Twin Falls") might sound impossibly precious from another songwriter, but Martsch always leavens his sweetness with self-aware humor. "My stepfather looks just like David Bowie/ But he hates David Bowie," goes a line in "Distopian Dream Girl", certainly the first time in pop music history that this particular thought has been expressed. Then he follows with "I think Bowie's cool/ I think Lodger rules, my stepdad's a fool," showing just how in touch Martsch is with the feelings of adolescence, those years when you're floating through life, a bundle of nerves, and nothing quite makes sense. The music and arrangements on the album are every bit the match of the subject matter. Built to Spill showed only hints of the explosive rock machine they'd later become. Acoustic guitar features heavily, a cello saws away in the background, serving as a sort of Greek chorus tracking the emotional arc of a given song's characters. Once in a while, Martsch hits the stomp box and unleashes a noisy solo, the distortion dusting his effortless melodicism with longing. There's plenty of open space, and his voice is much cleaner than it would be later. The sequencing and editing is brilliant, from "In the Morning"'s split-second pause after Martsch yells "Stop!" to the pause between "Twin Falls" and "Some" that makes them seem like one long song. It's a sound that is simultaneously tiny and huge, a keepsake tucked into a pocket that could at any moment magically become the size of a billboard. With its focus on childhood, the nature of existence, and the search for meaning, it's possible to hear There's Nothing Wrong With Love in the terms of "What if there was another universe in my fingernail?"-style stoner dorm-room philosophy. But Martsch's open heart keeps you on his side. There's real beauty in the fumbling exploration he describes in "Car", a song filled with lines that crystallize what it's like to be an excited-but-frightened kid learning about life in fits and starts: "You'll get the chance to take the world apart/ And figure out how it works." Listening to this album in 2014, another line in the song, "I want to see it when you get stoned on a cloudy breezy desert afternoon," kept bringing me back to the final scene in Richard Linklater's film Boyhood, when the main character we've watched grow through the years takes mushrooms and hikes through a canyon in West Texas, a landscape not unlike parts of Idaho. It reminded me that one reason young people do drugs is because they offer a "

LFO

Sheath

Electronic

Dominique Leone

It was bound to happen: in all the rush to run back to 1982 for beats and patches it seems what was passing for sharp dance music a couple of years ago suddenly seemed very far from the dancefloor. It turns out glitch wasn't the future of electronica after all, and being that few had expressed a desire for a greater abundance of convulsions at the club prior to 1995, I guess it's not surprising. What's surprising is the lay of the land in 2003; the rocket scientists and bedroom punks have gone their way-- Squarepusher, Aphex, \xB5-Ziq and 808 State now seem either hopelessly in their own worlds, or consciously at odds with what hipster electro-heads are pumping. Second-generation comers ranging from Boards of Canada to Lali Puna to Hrvatski exhibit varying degrees of familiarity with dance music that actually promotes happy movement, but if anything have evolved along a path born directly of their immediate predecessors rather than connecting the dots to some grand, electronic funk party. UK techno duo LFO began life as many of their contemporaries, labeled the future of dance; the fallacy being that back then, most electronic music with a beat was "dance" music, for lack of a better non-industrial umbrella. The funny thing was, LFO was the real thing. Gez Varley and Mark Bell's 1991 debut Frequencies is one of the truly seminal documents for IDM, not just because it united electro, house, hip-hop breakbeats, and Detroit and UK techno in a vaguely experimental bent, but because it was one of the few records everyone had access to. Pre-Internet, and before the dawn of filesharing, this was as important a factor as any for young "intelligent" dance music. So, here we are many years later, and wouldn't you know, those very qualities practically brand LFO as an oldies act. Of course, this is all relatively speaking (the only kind of speak that makes much sense anymore), but Bell's tunes on Sheath-- his first record as LFO in seven years, and first without Varley-- are close to quaint. This is not to say he sounds behind the times necessarily, but possibly that he's no longer proceeding at the same velocity as many of the people he must have inspired. Sheath is a friendly, playful record-- one that will likely return as much joy as you're willing to afford it in listening time-- but it's decidedly lonely, in the same way your parents are lonely after you've left home forever. Life and LFO go on, and doubtlessly still have adventures left to uncover, though the days of having to prove themselves are probably gone. Bell's most promising work sounds as if related to his tenure working with Björk. "Blown", "Monkeylips", "Moistly", "Sleepy Chicken" and "Premacy" not only sound as if they might have been backing tracks for Vespertine at some point, most of them sound better! "Sleepy Chicken" is especially wonderful, a model of slinky grace, despite its goofy title. Bell sprinkles an arrangement of repeating jazz bassline and blurry piano with mildly distorted static-pulse, giving the song an unearthly, pixie-dust ambience, then injects a strange, elastically prone pogo-synth loop about halfway in. If ever trip-hop had a future, it is this song. The first single from the album is "Freak", a very straightforward take on the bouncy electro LFO helped define at the outset of the 90s. Unless you're not listening to any other new electro, it probably won't sound terribly distinctive, though there's hardly anything inherently unpleasant about it. However, when the chorus promises that "this is going to make you freak," perhaps something hotter than Inside Edition-assimilated bass hits should be going off. Fending a little better is "Snot" (another less than becoming title); yes, it's probably only going to sound fresh to the Fatboy Slim crowd, though it's hard to hate something so vibrantly spaz-joyous. The uptempo, big-beat motorik serves Bell's fiendishly simple, but very effective bassline well. Since LFO hardly need to be innovators to produce a good record, I don't have much problem recommending Sheath, with the caveat that when pleasant, easy-going atmospheres set in, sometimes amiable disinterest on listeners' parts follow shortly. Perhaps it's merely the fact that Bell's strength seems to reside in his softer sides that fools me into thinking his more extroverted outings are lacking. In any case, even after the wait, he's probably as close to a sure, comfortable thing as you'll find.

Artist: LFO, Album: Sheath, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "It was bound to happen: in all the rush to run back to 1982 for beats and patches it seems what was passing for sharp dance music a couple of years ago suddenly seemed very far from the dancefloor. It turns out glitch wasn't the future of electronica after all, and being that few had expressed a desire for a greater abundance of convulsions at the club prior to 1995, I guess it's not surprising. What's surprising is the lay of the land in 2003; the rocket scientists and bedroom punks have gone their way-- Squarepusher, Aphex, \xB5-Ziq and 808 State now seem either hopelessly in their own worlds, or consciously at odds with what hipster electro-heads are pumping. Second-generation comers ranging from Boards of Canada to Lali Puna to Hrvatski exhibit varying degrees of familiarity with dance music that actually promotes happy movement, but if anything have evolved along a path born directly of their immediate predecessors rather than connecting the dots to some grand, electronic funk party. UK techno duo LFO began life as many of their contemporaries, labeled the future of dance; the fallacy being that back then, most electronic music with a beat was "dance" music, for lack of a better non-industrial umbrella. The funny thing was, LFO was the real thing. Gez Varley and Mark Bell's 1991 debut Frequencies is one of the truly seminal documents for IDM, not just because it united electro, house, hip-hop breakbeats, and Detroit and UK techno in a vaguely experimental bent, but because it was one of the few records everyone had access to. Pre-Internet, and before the dawn of filesharing, this was as important a factor as any for young "intelligent" dance music. So, here we are many years later, and wouldn't you know, those very qualities practically brand LFO as an oldies act. Of course, this is all relatively speaking (the only kind of speak that makes much sense anymore), but Bell's tunes on Sheath-- his first record as LFO in seven years, and first without Varley-- are close to quaint. This is not to say he sounds behind the times necessarily, but possibly that he's no longer proceeding at the same velocity as many of the people he must have inspired. Sheath is a friendly, playful record-- one that will likely return as much joy as you're willing to afford it in listening time-- but it's decidedly lonely, in the same way your parents are lonely after you've left home forever. Life and LFO go on, and doubtlessly still have adventures left to uncover, though the days of having to prove themselves are probably gone. Bell's most promising work sounds as if related to his tenure working with Björk. "Blown", "Monkeylips", "Moistly", "Sleepy Chicken" and "Premacy" not only sound as if they might have been backing tracks for Vespertine at some point, most of them sound better! "Sleepy Chicken" is especially wonderful, a model of slinky grace, despite its goofy title. Bell sprinkles an arrangement of repeating jazz bassline and blurry piano with mildly distorted static-pulse, giving the song an unearthly, pixie-dust ambience, then injects a strange, elastically prone pogo-synth loop about halfway in. If ever trip-hop had a future, it is this song. The first single from the album is "Freak", a very straightforward take on the bouncy electro LFO helped define at the outset of the 90s. Unless you're not listening to any other new electro, it probably won't sound terribly distinctive, though there's hardly anything inherently unpleasant about it. However, when the chorus promises that "this is going to make you freak," perhaps something hotter than Inside Edition-assimilated bass hits should be going off. Fending a little better is "Snot" (another less than becoming title); yes, it's probably only going to sound fresh to the Fatboy Slim crowd, though it's hard to hate something so vibrantly spaz-joyous. The uptempo, big-beat motorik serves Bell's fiendishly simple, but very effective bassline well. Since LFO hardly need to be innovators to produce a good record, I don't have much problem recommending Sheath, with the caveat that when pleasant, easy-going atmospheres set in, sometimes amiable disinterest on listeners' parts follow shortly. Perhaps it's merely the fact that Bell's strength seems to reside in his softer sides that fools me into thinking his more extroverted outings are lacking. In any case, even after the wait, he's probably as close to a sure, comfortable thing as you'll find."

Nobukazu Takemura

Water's Suite

Electronic

Mark Richardson

After moving in a pop direction with the Sign and Mimic Robot EPs, Nobukazu Takemura returns with zeal to the noisier, more abstract territory of his Thrill Jockey debut Scope. The material on Water's Suite was originally recorded near the time of Scope, back in 1998, and as Takemura sets out in the liner notes, he had specific goals in mind for this project. The particulars are difficult to parse, due in equal measure to my middling grasp of MIDI gear and Takemura's only slightly better command of the English language. From what I gather, Takemura programmed a series of melodies and harmonies in MIDI, and then inserted randomness into the equation by heavily riding the scrub control when playing back the programmed sequence through a Yamaha MU15 sound module. Obviously, this is going to be a serious departure for those who hopped on the Takemura Train with the cutesy videogame pop of "Sign." There are no robot voices here, no Nintendo chord sequences, not even a single drum machine hit. Instead, Water's Suite is a dark, dense world of sound where, as DC Berman would say, random rules. Though you can tell that the tones on Water's Suite are in the same key and bear some relationship to each other, patterns beyond that require some downright scientific listening. It's fun to don the lab coat once in a while, though, right? Here are my findings: "Part 1" is probably my favorite music here, because it's by far the most focused. Opening with a slow fade up, "Part 1" is based around a whining drone comprised of an unsteady group of mid-range tones. Behind these drawn-out notes is a constantly flickering bed of noise, little clicks and pops that give a hint on how all the music thereafter will be constructed. It's an evocative piece of nervous atmosphere. When "Part 2" comes in, the template suggested in "Part 1" is realized: It's an endless cascade of notes from a percussive synth patch that sounds a bit like a xylophone. Earlier Takemura reference points are Scope's "Icefall" and Funfair's "The Cradle of Light", but this is far less musical. From the start of "Part 2", the stream of tones is so fast as to remain uncountable. There are probably something like 1/512 notes, thick enough to fill the space completely. Periodically, the onslaught takes on another form and a section of feedback replaces it, or else bunches of quick notes will cluster into larger patterns. This, my friends, is not an easy listen. Water's Suite is devolutionary music, sounds freed from ordered perfection. Takemura hints at this in the liner notes, where he describes being inspired by the earthquakes in Kyoto: "The strange waves of sound at that moment seem to have a rule, but there is no rule at all." Takemura's title provides another clue as to what's going on: the endless variation of water flowing over rock is another apt metaphor. Things are less hectic on "Part 3", as the rush of notes slows to a trickle and the opening drones make another appearance. Still, any possibility of relaxation is obliterated by sharp, repeating jab of a synth note that sounds like a suffering computer saying "baaap!" The 22-minute "Part 5" is the album's 'centerpiece,' I suppose, but it's mostly endless reworkings of ideas expressed earlier. While the notion of constructing a small, detailed ecosystem of sound is interesting enough, the core elements of that world have to exert some kind of tug to pull the listener in. All the way through Water's Suite, I'm intrigued by the complexity of the album's patterns, but I feel suspended on the surface, gazing in from afar instead of feeling immersed. It's an interesting album, but sometimes music this abstract still manages to carry emotional weight (I'm thinking here of something like Ovalprocess). Water's Suite is one for the musical physicists only.

Artist: Nobukazu Takemura, Album: Water's Suite, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "After moving in a pop direction with the Sign and Mimic Robot EPs, Nobukazu Takemura returns with zeal to the noisier, more abstract territory of his Thrill Jockey debut Scope. The material on Water's Suite was originally recorded near the time of Scope, back in 1998, and as Takemura sets out in the liner notes, he had specific goals in mind for this project. The particulars are difficult to parse, due in equal measure to my middling grasp of MIDI gear and Takemura's only slightly better command of the English language. From what I gather, Takemura programmed a series of melodies and harmonies in MIDI, and then inserted randomness into the equation by heavily riding the scrub control when playing back the programmed sequence through a Yamaha MU15 sound module. Obviously, this is going to be a serious departure for those who hopped on the Takemura Train with the cutesy videogame pop of "Sign." There are no robot voices here, no Nintendo chord sequences, not even a single drum machine hit. Instead, Water's Suite is a dark, dense world of sound where, as DC Berman would say, random rules. Though you can tell that the tones on Water's Suite are in the same key and bear some relationship to each other, patterns beyond that require some downright scientific listening. It's fun to don the lab coat once in a while, though, right? Here are my findings: "Part 1" is probably my favorite music here, because it's by far the most focused. Opening with a slow fade up, "Part 1" is based around a whining drone comprised of an unsteady group of mid-range tones. Behind these drawn-out notes is a constantly flickering bed of noise, little clicks and pops that give a hint on how all the music thereafter will be constructed. It's an evocative piece of nervous atmosphere. When "Part 2" comes in, the template suggested in "Part 1" is realized: It's an endless cascade of notes from a percussive synth patch that sounds a bit like a xylophone. Earlier Takemura reference points are Scope's "Icefall" and Funfair's "The Cradle of Light", but this is far less musical. From the start of "Part 2", the stream of tones is so fast as to remain uncountable. There are probably something like 1/512 notes, thick enough to fill the space completely. Periodically, the onslaught takes on another form and a section of feedback replaces it, or else bunches of quick notes will cluster into larger patterns. This, my friends, is not an easy listen. Water's Suite is devolutionary music, sounds freed from ordered perfection. Takemura hints at this in the liner notes, where he describes being inspired by the earthquakes in Kyoto: "The strange waves of sound at that moment seem to have a rule, but there is no rule at all." Takemura's title provides another clue as to what's going on: the endless variation of water flowing over rock is another apt metaphor. Things are less hectic on "Part 3", as the rush of notes slows to a trickle and the opening drones make another appearance. Still, any possibility of relaxation is obliterated by sharp, repeating jab of a synth note that sounds like a suffering computer saying "baaap!" The 22-minute "Part 5" is the album's 'centerpiece,' I suppose, but it's mostly endless reworkings of ideas expressed earlier. While the notion of constructing a small, detailed ecosystem of sound is interesting enough, the core elements of that world have to exert some kind of tug to pull the listener in. All the way through Water's Suite, I'm intrigued by the complexity of the album's patterns, but I feel suspended on the surface, gazing in from afar instead of feeling immersed. It's an interesting album, but sometimes music this abstract still manages to carry emotional weight (I'm thinking here of something like Ovalprocess). Water's Suite is one for the musical physicists only."

Nellie McKay

Normal as Blueberry Pie - A Tribute to Doris Day

Rock

Scott Plagenhoef

In one way or another, Nellie McKay has spent a decent chunk of her fruitful career paying tribute to Doris Day. Openly embracing the jazz and vocal standards of the Tin Pan Alley era, McKay, like Day, projects unaltered exuberance, shameless optimism, and brisk and effortless confidence. McKay is certainly more of an eccentric, but both singers carved out careers with a sense of control and precociousness that belied their ages. Each is also a polyglot in a way, working with a range of styles and sounds-- their understated, commanding vocals easily adaptable to a variety of sounds. All the more ironic then that most people know Day's career only from the playfully innocent films she made in the late 1950s and early 60s, particularly a trio of bedroom comedies co-starring Rock Hudson and Tony Randall. During that run of movies, Day usually portrayed a brash, independent, accomplished career woman (a union boss, a leading advertising executive, a journalism professor) who nevertheless projected both a lack of street smarts and a wholesome attitude toward sex-- she was essentially the original 40-year-old virgin. On her full-length tribute to the film and music star, Normal as Blueberry Pie, McKay redresses some of these misgivings, covering a wide range of Day's work, from her earliest hit, "Sentimental Journey", to "Send Me No Flowers", a Burt Bacharach/Hal David song that served as the title track to one of those bedroom comedies. For the most part though, McKay skips the hits, choosing instead lesser-known album and film tracks closely associated with Day along with selections from the Great American Songbook that Day tackled. Irony-free, McKay channels Day's elegance and liveliness on not only swing, Dixieland, and showtunes, but also makes detours into bossa nova and western-inspired songs. Not for nothing is the whole project named for a lyric from "(I'm in Love With) A Wonderful Guy", the South Pacific number that could double as a s [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| ummation of Day's persona: It's a song about unaltered glee, feeling overjoyed rather than cynical about love, and aiming to convince others to think the same. One of the song's phrases, "No more a smart little girl with no heart," could practically have been the tagline to most of those Day films above. To McKay, the song's aggressive optimism seems to work as a defiant personal statement to those who'd call her fixations on pre-rock music old-fashioned or a mere affection. (And as a bonus, the South Pacific character it was written for is named Nellie.) And so Day and McKay each shrug off claims of the corny or clichéd by embracing these qualities, proudly being themselves rather than playing dress-up. Similarly, their communicative, crystal-clear voices project subtlety, giving each a sense of normalcy and approachability. McKay does play with the material, often styling her voice in the sort of close-mic breathiness of the crooner era, or the wistful nouveau-cool of vocal jazz. She doesn't situate the songs in the arrangements of their time, however; instead, she typically leads with her piano and avoids the fuller, orchestral accoutrements that buffered Day's swing-era recordings. Appropriately, McKay takes the lead here-- embodying Day's time without being completely in debt to it. Her version of "Sentimental Journey" jumps immediately into the lyrics, for example, whereas Day's star-making version-- with music written, arranged, and credited to Les Brown-- allowed its creator and his Band of Renown to take center stage for almost half of its run time (as many songs of the day did). Similarly, McKay's version of the jazz standard "Crazy Rhythm" is blissfully free of the tap dancing that that dominates Day's version. Decisions like these, plus McKay's obvious affection rather than reverence for the material, make this a tribute rather than a pantomime. Normal is the rare tribute then that actually works to introduce and illuminate the songs it contains. McKay doesn't so much seize ownership of Day's songs as co-star with her hero. And with Day's having slipped from the public consciousness, McKay is presenting music that in many cases here is upwards of a half-century old. With the vogue in major American cities for speakeasy-style cocktails-- see NYC's Rye and Death & Co., Chicago's the Violet Hour and the Whistler, and San Fran's Bourbon & Branch-- it's not as old-fashioned and out of step as it may seem. Death & Co. even features a gin cocktail on its menu called the Sentimental Journey. Don't worry: If you're not ready to take the leap into Doris Day or Les Brown and the Band of Renown, they have another called the Joy Division.

Artist: Nellie McKay, Album: Normal as Blueberry Pie - A Tribute to Doris Day, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "In one way or another, Nellie McKay has spent a decent chunk of her fruitful career paying tribute to Doris Day. Openly embracing the jazz and vocal standards of the Tin Pan Alley era, McKay, like Day, projects unaltered exuberance, shameless optimism, and brisk and effortless confidence. McKay is certainly more of an eccentric, but both singers carved out careers with a sense of control and precociousness that belied their ages. Each is also a polyglot in a way, working with a range of styles and sounds-- their understated, commanding vocals easily adaptable to a variety of sounds. All the more ironic then that most people know Day's career only from the playfully innocent films she made in the late 1950s and early 60s, particularly a trio of bedroom comedies co-starring Rock Hudson and Tony Randall. During that run of movies, Day usually portrayed a brash, independent, accomplished career woman (a union boss, a leading advertising executive, a journalism professor) who nevertheless projected both a lack of street smarts and a wholesome attitude toward sex-- she was essentially the original 40-year-old virgin. On her full-length tribute to the film and music star, Normal as Blueberry Pie, McKay redresses some of these misgivings, covering a wide range of Day's work, from her earliest hit, "Sentimental Journey", to "Send Me No Flowers", a Burt Bacharach/Hal David song that served as the title track to one of those bedroom comedies. For the most part though, McKay skips the hits, choosing instead lesser-known album and film tracks closely associated with Day along with selections from the Great American Songbook that Day tackled. Irony-free, McKay channels Day's elegance and liveliness on not only swing, Dixieland, and showtunes, but also makes detours into bossa nova and western-inspired songs. Not for nothing is the whole project named for a lyric from "(I'm in Love With) A Wonderful Guy", the South Pacific number that could double as a s [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| ummation of Day's persona: It's a song about unaltered glee, feeling overjoyed rather than cynical about love, and aiming to convince others to think the same. One of the song's phrases, "No more a smart little girl with no heart," could practically have been the tagline to most of those Day films above. To McKay, the song's aggressive optimism seems to work as a defiant personal statement to those who'd call her fixations on pre-rock music old-fashioned or a mere affection. (And as a bonus, the South Pacific character it was written for is named Nellie.) And so Day and McKay each shrug off claims of the corny or clichéd by embracing these qualities, proudly being themselves rather than playing dress-up. Similarly, their communicative, crystal-clear voices project subtlety, giving each a sense of normalcy and approachability. McKay does play with the material, often styling her voice in the sort of close-mic breathiness of the crooner era, or the wistful nouveau-cool of vocal jazz. She doesn't situate the songs in the arrangements of their time, however; instead, she typically leads with her piano and avoids the fuller, orchestral accoutrements that buffered Day's swing-era recordings. Appropriately, McKay takes the lead here-- embodying Day's time without being completely in debt to it. Her version of "Sentimental Journey" jumps immediately into the lyrics, for example, whereas Day's star-making version-- with music written, arranged, and credited to Les Brown-- allowed its creator and his Band of Renown to take center stage for almost half of its run time (as many songs of the day did). Similarly, McKay's version of the jazz standard "Crazy Rhythm" is blissfully free of the tap dancing that that dominates Day's version. Decisions like these, plus McKay's obvious affection rather than reverence for the material, make this a tribute rather than a pantomime. Normal is the rare tribute then that actually works to introduce and illuminate the songs it contains. McKay doesn't so much seize ownership of Day's songs as co-star with her hero. And with Day's having slipped from the public consciousness, McKay is presenting music that in many cases here is upwards of a half-century old. With the vogue in major American cities for speakeasy-style cocktails-- see NYC's Rye and Death & Co., Chicago's the Violet Hour and the Whistler, and San Fran's Bourbon & Branch-- it's not as old-fashioned and out of step as it may seem. Death & Co. even features a gin cocktail on its menu called the Sentimental Journey. Don't worry: If you're not ready to take the leap into Doris Day or Les Brown and the Band of Renown, they have another called the Joy Division."

Hudson Mohawke

Ded Sec - Watch Dogs 2 (OST)

Electronic

Philip Sherburne

Hudson Mohawke does drama better than most. His drums move with the heft of a cruiserweight boxer—powerful but lithe, kicks and snares leaving dents where they land. His rhythms come from trap, but his atmospheres couldn't be further than that genre’s grimy, boarded-up noir: His music positively glistens with chimes and arpeggios, and his monumental horn fanfare suggests armor-plated legions battering down castle doors, or angels raving at the pearly gates. Those contradictions have made him one of the most interesting producers in pop music. His beats stud songs by Kanye, Drake, and Pusha T like luxurious expanses of diamond pavé, brilliant yet still rough to the touch. And working alongside Daniel Lopatin, aka Oneohtrix Point Never, he provided Anohni’s HOPELESSNESS with a harrowing fusion of liturgical gravitas and Hollywood blockbuster. (Despite having been labeled a maximalist, he knows when to get the hell out of the way, and the restraint he brings to Anohni’s album only serves to highlight her own larger-than-life presence.) There’s no lack of drama in his soundtrack to Ded Sec - Watch Dogs 2, which is good: It is, after all, an action-adventure open-world video game about hackers and global corruption, in which spectacular acts of anti-establishment violence play out against the backdrop of San Francisco and the Silicon Valley. HudMo’s music is a natural fit, and he brings his most effective tricks to the table: heart-in-mouth trombone blasts, blindingly bright synthesizer melodies, bruising drums. His customary sound set—a mixture of obviously synthesized brass with simulacral acoustic instruments like harpsichord and piano—complements the uncanny valley of the game world, a painstaking recreation of various Bay Area neighborhoods. If anything, he frequently upends expectations for video-game soundtracks by tilting away from purely electronic textures. Elegiac piano, strings, and choir give the opening “Shanghaied” a feel like John Williams gone trap. Loping Afro-Cuban percussion rounds out the giddily maximalist “Play N Go,” and the symphonic percussion of the regal “Haum Sweet Haum” is faintly reminiscent of Hans Zimmer’s score for Inception. Ded Sec probably shouldn’t be considered a proper follow-up to last year’s Lantern, but it actually holds up favorably in that regard. With a mixture of full-length tracks and minute-long sketches, it’s nicely varied. The short, shimmering ambient study “W4tched (Cinema)” suggests that the producer may have picked up a trick or two from Oneohtrix Point Never during their time together working on Anohni’s album, and OPN’s influence also hangs over the gorgeous, light-speed “Cyber Driver,” with its R2D2 chirps and space-elevator arps. “Amethyst” pairs dial-tone synths and horror-movie organs with scissor-handed snare-and-hi-hat acrobatics in a way that makes even the most hackneyed trap tropes feel vibrant—no easy task. And on the short, kinetic “Balance,” he continually keeps you guessing as to where the downbeat will land; his tricky programming, playing triplets off constantly shifting syncopations, reveals him as one of the most rhythmically interesting producers out there right now. In fact, despite the omnipresence of his customary blare, what might be most interesting here are the nuances that he brings to the table. In “Eye for an Eye (Reprise),” a quiet sketch for FM synths, he strips away the drums to let us see just how dexterous his timbral touch is, every note a jewel-toned liquid explosion. Before “Watch Dogs Theme” builds to its expected climax, with buzzing chords firing like illuminated jets of water, he rolls out a curious, elliptical drum pattern that seems to be pulling itself apart at the seams. Like many of the most interesting moments on Ded Sec, the real action is happening just beneath the surface of all those shiny things. It’s enough to make you wonder what a shadowier, more minimalist Hudson Mohawke might sound like. We’ve basked in the glow of his rockets’ red glare; what would it be like to taste their acrid soot?

Artist: Hudson Mohawke, Album: Ded Sec - Watch Dogs 2 (OST), Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Hudson Mohawke does drama better than most. His drums move with the heft of a cruiserweight boxer—powerful but lithe, kicks and snares leaving dents where they land. His rhythms come from trap, but his atmospheres couldn't be further than that genre’s grimy, boarded-up noir: His music positively glistens with chimes and arpeggios, and his monumental horn fanfare suggests armor-plated legions battering down castle doors, or angels raving at the pearly gates. Those contradictions have made him one of the most interesting producers in pop music. His beats stud songs by Kanye, Drake, and Pusha T like luxurious expanses of diamond pavé, brilliant yet still rough to the touch. And working alongside Daniel Lopatin, aka Oneohtrix Point Never, he provided Anohni’s HOPELESSNESS with a harrowing fusion of liturgical gravitas and Hollywood blockbuster. (Despite having been labeled a maximalist, he knows when to get the hell out of the way, and the restraint he brings to Anohni’s album only serves to highlight her own larger-than-life presence.) There’s no lack of drama in his soundtrack to Ded Sec - Watch Dogs 2, which is good: It is, after all, an action-adventure open-world video game about hackers and global corruption, in which spectacular acts of anti-establishment violence play out against the backdrop of San Francisco and the Silicon Valley. HudMo’s music is a natural fit, and he brings his most effective tricks to the table: heart-in-mouth trombone blasts, blindingly bright synthesizer melodies, bruising drums. His customary sound set—a mixture of obviously synthesized brass with simulacral acoustic instruments like harpsichord and piano—complements the uncanny valley of the game world, a painstaking recreation of various Bay Area neighborhoods. If anything, he frequently upends expectations for video-game soundtracks by tilting away from purely electronic textures. Elegiac piano, strings, and choir give the opening “Shanghaied” a feel like John Williams gone trap. Loping Afro-Cuban percussion rounds out the giddily maximalist “Play N Go,” and the symphonic percussion of the regal “Haum Sweet Haum” is faintly reminiscent of Hans Zimmer’s score for Inception. Ded Sec probably shouldn’t be considered a proper follow-up to last year’s Lantern, but it actually holds up favorably in that regard. With a mixture of full-length tracks and minute-long sketches, it’s nicely varied. The short, shimmering ambient study “W4tched (Cinema)” suggests that the producer may have picked up a trick or two from Oneohtrix Point Never during their time together working on Anohni’s album, and OPN’s influence also hangs over the gorgeous, light-speed “Cyber Driver,” with its R2D2 chirps and space-elevator arps. “Amethyst” pairs dial-tone synths and horror-movie organs with scissor-handed snare-and-hi-hat acrobatics in a way that makes even the most hackneyed trap tropes feel vibrant—no easy task. And on the short, kinetic “Balance,” he continually keeps you guessing as to where the downbeat will land; his tricky programming, playing triplets off constantly shifting syncopations, reveals him as one of the most rhythmically interesting producers out there right now. In fact, despite the omnipresence of his customary blare, what might be most interesting here are the nuances that he brings to the table. In “Eye for an Eye (Reprise),” a quiet sketch for FM synths, he strips away the drums to let us see just how dexterous his timbral touch is, every note a jewel-toned liquid explosion. Before “Watch Dogs Theme” builds to its expected climax, with buzzing chords firing like illuminated jets of water, he rolls out a curious, elliptical drum pattern that seems to be pulling itself apart at the seams. Like many of the most interesting moments on Ded Sec, the real action is happening just beneath the surface of all those shiny things. It’s enough to make you wonder what a shadowier, more minimalist Hudson Mohawke might sound like. We’ve basked in the glow of his rockets’ red glare; what would it be like to taste their acrid soot?"

Slim Thug

Already Platinum

Pop/R&B,Rap

Tom Breihan

Slim Thug is not a complicated man. The enormous Houston MC relies almost entirely on the intertwined lyrical themes of I'm Awesome and I'm Rich, sometimes dipping into I'll Kill You or I Don't Care About Women. But that's OK-- the anticipation surrounding Already Platinum, Slim's debut album, has nothing to do with the man's lyrical prowess. It has everything to do with his voice: a swollen, slurry, guttural drawl that rumbles under tracks like an earthquake and hammers vowels until any one word can rhyme with any other word. It's all hard consonants and long, luxurious vowels; he says "ball till we fall" like "bowel till we fowl." When DJs slow Slim's voice down, it barely sounds any different. Slim has bragged for years that he'd probably never record a solo album, just because no label could offer him the kind of money he made pushing mixtapes on Houston's independent circuit. "Labels musta got tires of hearing me say 'fuck a deal'/ Cuz they put something in my pocket made a nigga chill," Slim raps on the intro to Already Platinum. But when Slim signed to Geffen, the label matched him up with the resurgent superproducers the Neptunes, and it didn't seem like a good match. The Neps have had a few monster hits in the past year ("Hollaback Girl", "Drop It Like It's Hot"), but most of their tracks have lost the gleaming, clattering swagger they once had, relying instead on bloodless synth lines and itchy, nattering drums. On "Like a Boss" and "I Ain't Heard of That", the first leaked Neptunes/Slim Thug collaborations, Slim's flow sounded awkwardly shoehorned into the cold, brittle tracks, allowing the rapper none of the breathing room that he'd had on the slow, gooey Houston funk tracks that had been his bread and butter. And parts of Already Platinum have no chemistry whatsoever. "This Is My Life", the Neptunes' attempt at greasy Houston funk, is tinny and overproduced, while "Ashy to Classy" is the Neps' attempt to jack Biggie's "Juicy", the pillowy quiet-storm guitars and inspirational lyrics dispassionately falling short on every possible level. The shockingly limp love-jam "Miss Mary," produced by Cool & Dre, is even worse; nobody wants to hear Slim Thug saying "To my nose, you're smelling just as sweet as a rose/ I wasn't impressed with them others, so you the one I chose". But elsewhere on the album, Slim hits his stride. If his chemistry with the Neptunes seemed shaky at first, it comes together beautifully on dipping, floating hypnotic strut of "Click Clack" and the lighter-than-air gliding pianos and typewriter percussion of the title track, complete with a surprisingly non-shitty guest verse from Pharrell. Slim also shows impressive versatility on his work with other producers, murdering a gloomy, cinematic Sha Money XL beat on "The Interview" and a rippling, summery Jazze Pha beach-funk track on "Incredible Feelin'". But Slim still sounds best on tracks like "Diamonds" and the mixtape banger "3 Kings", both from Houston producer Mr. Lee. These tracks are classic Houston screw-- they sound like mid-90s G-Funk played on fucked-up, broken car stereos with the bass jacked up to seismic levels, the hooks coming out sick and damaged and wrong, slow and heavy drums slamming through the murk. Slim sounds perfectly at home on these tracks, making room for a jaw-dropping virtuoso Bun B guest spot, threatening crosstown rival Lil Flip, and smothering the tracks his creeping bottomless depth-charge snarl. On tracks like this, Slim sounds prehistoric, like he's always existed, like this voice has been echoing over canyons and through caves since before time began.

Artist: Slim Thug, Album: Already Platinum, Genre: Pop/R&B,Rap, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Slim Thug is not a complicated man. The enormous Houston MC relies almost entirely on the intertwined lyrical themes of I'm Awesome and I'm Rich, sometimes dipping into I'll Kill You or I Don't Care About Women. But that's OK-- the anticipation surrounding Already Platinum, Slim's debut album, has nothing to do with the man's lyrical prowess. It has everything to do with his voice: a swollen, slurry, guttural drawl that rumbles under tracks like an earthquake and hammers vowels until any one word can rhyme with any other word. It's all hard consonants and long, luxurious vowels; he says "ball till we fall" like "bowel till we fowl." When DJs slow Slim's voice down, it barely sounds any different. Slim has bragged for years that he'd probably never record a solo album, just because no label could offer him the kind of money he made pushing mixtapes on Houston's independent circuit. "Labels musta got tires of hearing me say 'fuck a deal'/ Cuz they put something in my pocket made a nigga chill," Slim raps on the intro to Already Platinum. But when Slim signed to Geffen, the label matched him up with the resurgent superproducers the Neptunes, and it didn't seem like a good match. The Neps have had a few monster hits in the past year ("Hollaback Girl", "Drop It Like It's Hot"), but most of their tracks have lost the gleaming, clattering swagger they once had, relying instead on bloodless synth lines and itchy, nattering drums. On "Like a Boss" and "I Ain't Heard of That", the first leaked Neptunes/Slim Thug collaborations, Slim's flow sounded awkwardly shoehorned into the cold, brittle tracks, allowing the rapper none of the breathing room that he'd had on the slow, gooey Houston funk tracks that had been his bread and butter. And parts of Already Platinum have no chemistry whatsoever. "This Is My Life", the Neptunes' attempt at greasy Houston funk, is tinny and overproduced, while "Ashy to Classy" is the Neps' attempt to jack Biggie's "Juicy", the pillowy quiet-storm guitars and inspirational lyrics dispassionately falling short on every possible level. The shockingly limp love-jam "Miss Mary," produced by Cool & Dre, is even worse; nobody wants to hear Slim Thug saying "To my nose, you're smelling just as sweet as a rose/ I wasn't impressed with them others, so you the one I chose". But elsewhere on the album, Slim hits his stride. If his chemistry with the Neptunes seemed shaky at first, it comes together beautifully on dipping, floating hypnotic strut of "Click Clack" and the lighter-than-air gliding pianos and typewriter percussion of the title track, complete with a surprisingly non-shitty guest verse from Pharrell. Slim also shows impressive versatility on his work with other producers, murdering a gloomy, cinematic Sha Money XL beat on "The Interview" and a rippling, summery Jazze Pha beach-funk track on "Incredible Feelin'". But Slim still sounds best on tracks like "Diamonds" and the mixtape banger "3 Kings", both from Houston producer Mr. Lee. These tracks are classic Houston screw-- they sound like mid-90s G-Funk played on fucked-up, broken car stereos with the bass jacked up to seismic levels, the hooks coming out sick and damaged and wrong, slow and heavy drums slamming through the murk. Slim sounds perfectly at home on these tracks, making room for a jaw-dropping virtuoso Bun B guest spot, threatening crosstown rival Lil Flip, and smothering the tracks his creeping bottomless depth-charge snarl. On tracks like this, Slim sounds prehistoric, like he's always existed, like this voice has been echoing over canyons and through caves since before time began."

Villagers

Darling Arithmetic

Rock

T. Cole Rachel

"It took a little time to get where I wanted/ It took a little time to get free/ It took a little time to be honest/ It took a little time to be me," sings Conor O’Brien on the first track to Villagers’ new album. As opening lines go, it’s hard to get more direct than that. It’s fitting then that the song itself is called "Courage"—a phenomenon that the Villagers’ frontman describes as "a feeling like no other, let me tell you." The song is a kind of pat on the back for O’Brien but also a way of steeling himself to open up and reveal what the album’s remaining songs have yet to say—namely, that romance is the pits no matter who you happen to fall in love with, but romantic love is not nearly as hard as coming to terms with your own mysterious and complicated self. Previous Villagers records—2010’s Becoming a Jackal and 2013’s *{Awayland}—*were much busier affairs, each Mercury Prize nominees in which O’Brien’s grandly orchestral and electronic-infused folk music is supported by a full band and a preponderance of big ideas. Darling Arithmetic, by contrast, is a radically subdued affair—nine mostly acoustic-based tracks that O’Brien recorded at home alone, playing every instrument and mixing the record on his own. It makes sense then that the record is also the most strikingly personal he’s ever made—an emotional missive about love and relationships—in which the notoriously shy Dubliner finally opens up in a more direct way about his own sexuality. Earlier this year O’Brien spoke to the Irish Times about the motivations for his new record by saying, "It’s not a news story: ‘Man is gay.’ I don’t want that to be the main focus. I wanted the album to be a human love album because everyone in the world feels those emotions at some stage. I really wanted to make sure that anyone who was listening could relate to the songs. I didn’t want to cut anyone off or make it seem as if I was only singing to my younger self." While O’Brien’s goal of speaking to the universal experience—rather than simply making what could be ostensibly pigeonholed as a specifically "coming out" record—is understandable, his lingering reticence leaves some of the material wanting. Tracks like "Dawning on Me" and "No One to Blame" are undeniably pretty—understated bits of finely distilled yearning—but they suffer from an intentional vagueness, the genderless and pronoun-free lyrics occasionally treading a fine line between charmingly sweet and frustratingly precious ("Excuse me while I die/ A million times before I meet your eyes with mine"). For an album of mostly acoustic singer/songwriter fare released only weeks after Sufjan Stevens’ stunning Carrie & Lowell, the simple loveliness of Darling Arithmetic doesn’t always feel like quite enough. O'Brien is a deft songwriter with a wonderfully emotive voice, but it’s only when his lyrics become more pointed—as they do on "Little Bigot"—that the record soars. Addressing a sort of of everyman asshole, O’Brien advises his would-be hater by singing that "It’s okay to be tired/ So take the blame, little bigot/ And throw that hatred onto the fire." Elsewhere, on "Hot Scary Summer", he charmingly recollects a lost love—"Remember kissing on the cobblestone/ In the heat of the night/ And all the pretty young homophobes/ Looking out for a fight"—before getting to the real heart of the matter: "We got good at pretending/ Then pretending got us good." For anyone who might have spent years grappling with their own idenity—or logged countless hours loving the one who didn't quite love them back the right way—the song hits every perfect bittersweet note. The need to stop pretending—to admitting one’s deepest insecurities and wants—seems central to Darling Arithmetic, an album that delivers a gorgeous, if somewhat restrained, step forward. It’s a document of quiet, if not necessarily earth-shattering, revelations. "In the darkness and the light/ I give you every side," O’Brien sings at one point, in what seems as much a promise to a lover as to the listener. Regardless of whether or not O’Brien chooses to go further down the troubadour path of working solo or will fall back into a full band scenario, one can only hope that making this record has proven to be a kind of emotional throat-clearing, a way of moving into potentially murkier and possibly even more personal waters. "How did I get here?/ Am I ever gonna get back?" he asks on the album-closing "So Naïve" as if revealing oneself so fully has stranded him in uncharted territory. That needn’t be a bad thing though. Previous Villagers records too often felt like puzzles—layers of densely-packed metaphors that, when unraveled, didn’t always add up to much. If Darling Arithmetic is the sound of someone dipping their toes into the waters and finding it to their liking, then perhaps the next Villagers record will be the sound of O’Brien diving in headfirst—even more fearlessly himself.

Artist: Villagers, Album: Darling Arithmetic, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: ""It took a little time to get where I wanted/ It took a little time to get free/ It took a little time to be honest/ It took a little time to be me," sings Conor O’Brien on the first track to Villagers’ new album. As opening lines go, it’s hard to get more direct than that. It’s fitting then that the song itself is called "Courage"—a phenomenon that the Villagers’ frontman describes as "a feeling like no other, let me tell you." The song is a kind of pat on the back for O’Brien but also a way of steeling himself to open up and reveal what the album’s remaining songs have yet to say—namely, that romance is the pits no matter who you happen to fall in love with, but romantic love is not nearly as hard as coming to terms with your own mysterious and complicated self. Previous Villagers records—2010’s Becoming a Jackal and 2013’s *{Awayland}—*were much busier affairs, each Mercury Prize nominees in which O’Brien’s grandly orchestral and electronic-infused folk music is supported by a full band and a preponderance of big ideas. Darling Arithmetic, by contrast, is a radically subdued affair—nine mostly acoustic-based tracks that O’Brien recorded at home alone, playing every instrument and mixing the record on his own. It makes sense then that the record is also the most strikingly personal he’s ever made—an emotional missive about love and relationships—in which the notoriously shy Dubliner finally opens up in a more direct way about his own sexuality. Earlier this year O’Brien spoke to the Irish Times about the motivations for his new record by saying, "It’s not a news story: ‘Man is gay.’ I don’t want that to be the main focus. I wanted the album to be a human love album because everyone in the world feels those emotions at some stage. I really wanted to make sure that anyone who was listening could relate to the songs. I didn’t want to cut anyone off or make it seem as if I was only singing to my younger self." While O’Brien’s goal of speaking to the universal experience—rather than simply making what could be ostensibly pigeonholed as a specifically "coming out" record—is understandable, his lingering reticence leaves some of the material wanting. Tracks like "Dawning on Me" and "No One to Blame" are undeniably pretty—understated bits of finely distilled yearning—but they suffer from an intentional vagueness, the genderless and pronoun-free lyrics occasionally treading a fine line between charmingly sweet and frustratingly precious ("Excuse me while I die/ A million times before I meet your eyes with mine"). For an album of mostly acoustic singer/songwriter fare released only weeks after Sufjan Stevens’ stunning Carrie & Lowell, the simple loveliness of Darling Arithmetic doesn’t always feel like quite enough. O'Brien is a deft songwriter with a wonderfully emotive voice, but it’s only when his lyrics become more pointed—as they do on "Little Bigot"—that the record soars. Addressing a sort of of everyman asshole, O’Brien advises his would-be hater by singing that "It’s okay to be tired/ So take the blame, little bigot/ And throw that hatred onto the fire." Elsewhere, on "Hot Scary Summer", he charmingly recollects a lost love—"Remember kissing on the cobblestone/ In the heat of the night/ And all the pretty young homophobes/ Looking out for a fight"—before getting to the real heart of the matter: "We got good at pretending/ Then pretending got us good." For anyone who might have spent years grappling with their own idenity—or logged countless hours loving the one who didn't quite love them back the right way—the song hits every perfect bittersweet note. The need to stop pretending—to admitting one’s deepest insecurities and wants—seems central to Darling Arithmetic, an album that delivers a gorgeous, if somewhat restrained, step forward. It’s a document of quiet, if not necessarily earth-shattering, revelations. "In the darkness and the light/ I give you every side," O’Brien sings at one point, in what seems as much a promise to a lover as to the listener. Regardless of whether or not O’Brien chooses to go further down the troubadour path of working solo or will fall back into a full band scenario, one can only hope that making this record has proven to be a kind of emotional throat-clearing, a way of moving into potentially murkier and possibly even more personal waters. "How did I get here?/ Am I ever gonna get back?" he asks on the album-closing "So Naïve" as if revealing oneself so fully has stranded him in uncharted territory. That needn’t be a bad thing though. Previous Villagers records too often felt like puzzles—layers of densely-packed metaphors that, when unraveled, didn’t always add up to much. If Darling Arithmetic is the sound of someone dipping their toes into the waters and finding it to their liking, then perhaps the next Villagers record will be the sound of O’Brien diving in headfirst—even more fearlessly himself."

Box Elders

Alice and Friends

Electronic,Pop/R&B

David Bevan

Box Elders did not take their name from an early Pavement tune. The Omaha trio honored instead the insect that infested the childhood home of two of its members, brothers Clayton and Jeremiah McIntyre. It's an easy pit for a music nerd to stumble into, but aside from the tape hiss, the McIntyres' band share little sonic DNA with Pavement. Rather, they seem to be just a few strands or family tree branches away from another set of unkempt Nuggets devotees, Black Lips. And while that comparison is awfully difficult to shake throughout much of their debut full-length, Alice and Friends, it's kind of the point. However often the lo-fi patina seems to lend what's happening musically a cozy spot in what's happening "right now," it doesn't change what's under the hood: you've no doubt heard the 1960s garage surf of Box Elders before. It just wasn't theirs. Of course, if you put together enough solid hooks, none of that would matter. But Alice and Friends doesn't produce often in that department, relying instead on the kind of raw energy that fuels a good house party. Opener "Jackie Wood" is a 75-second study in retro that toes the line between rushed and well-crafted pretty smoothly. But as soon as the McIntyres and simultaneous drummer/organist Dave Goldberg fly into the herk and jerk of the title track, they set a rhythm and pace that creates a hell of a traffic jam throughout both halves of the record. Vocals stacked on vocals, organs on drums, choruses on verses-- with the exception of some really juicy guitar runs, there's isn't much room to breathe here. "Stay", in particular, leaves little impression beyond a vague feeling of nausea. "Necro", though opening with a really beautiful conversation between clean guitar and organ, pulls itself inside out and back again in a way that typifies the experience as a frustrating whole. No consistency. The lines "Way down in New Orleans/ Beneath the weeping willow trees/ You lay waiting patiently for me" might be painfully familiar, but they're heading somewhere. What starts as just another plate of sock hop leftovers turns quickly into a sweetly macabre take on loving a dead person-- emotionally or, you know, otherwise. The chorus slays, the melody allows itself to sweat some, and the song enjoys a simple twist on a formula Box Elders seem beholden to in so many ways. Unfortunately, that sort of ingenuity comes off as a song within a song. "Talk Amongst Yourself" is a double-time disaster nearly identical to those of "Isabella" and "Cougars". Listening on headphones is a lot like getting the spins while drunk-- a bit too much of everything. The easy sway of closer "Death of Me" then is truly jamming, the staggered vocal coda, "We're going home," as comfortable and familiar as these guys were supposed to sound all along. Hangovers suck.

Artist: Box Elders, Album: Alice and Friends, Genre: Electronic,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.4 Album review: "Box Elders did not take their name from an early Pavement tune. The Omaha trio honored instead the insect that infested the childhood home of two of its members, brothers Clayton and Jeremiah McIntyre. It's an easy pit for a music nerd to stumble into, but aside from the tape hiss, the McIntyres' band share little sonic DNA with Pavement. Rather, they seem to be just a few strands or family tree branches away from another set of unkempt Nuggets devotees, Black Lips. And while that comparison is awfully difficult to shake throughout much of their debut full-length, Alice and Friends, it's kind of the point. However often the lo-fi patina seems to lend what's happening musically a cozy spot in what's happening "right now," it doesn't change what's under the hood: you've no doubt heard the 1960s garage surf of Box Elders before. It just wasn't theirs. Of course, if you put together enough solid hooks, none of that would matter. But Alice and Friends doesn't produce often in that department, relying instead on the kind of raw energy that fuels a good house party. Opener "Jackie Wood" is a 75-second study in retro that toes the line between rushed and well-crafted pretty smoothly. But as soon as the McIntyres and simultaneous drummer/organist Dave Goldberg fly into the herk and jerk of the title track, they set a rhythm and pace that creates a hell of a traffic jam throughout both halves of the record. Vocals stacked on vocals, organs on drums, choruses on verses-- with the exception of some really juicy guitar runs, there's isn't much room to breathe here. "Stay", in particular, leaves little impression beyond a vague feeling of nausea. "Necro", though opening with a really beautiful conversation between clean guitar and organ, pulls itself inside out and back again in a way that typifies the experience as a frustrating whole. No consistency. The lines "Way down in New Orleans/ Beneath the weeping willow trees/ You lay waiting patiently for me" might be painfully familiar, but they're heading somewhere. What starts as just another plate of sock hop leftovers turns quickly into a sweetly macabre take on loving a dead person-- emotionally or, you know, otherwise. The chorus slays, the melody allows itself to sweat some, and the song enjoys a simple twist on a formula Box Elders seem beholden to in so many ways. Unfortunately, that sort of ingenuity comes off as a song within a song. "Talk Amongst Yourself" is a double-time disaster nearly identical to those of "Isabella" and "Cougars". Listening on headphones is a lot like getting the spins while drunk-- a bit too much of everything. The easy sway of closer "Death of Me" then is truly jamming, the staggered vocal coda, "We're going home," as comfortable and familiar as these guys were supposed to sound all along. Hangovers suck."

Stubborn Heart

Stubborn Heart

Hari Ashurst

In spring of 2011, a curious white-label 12" started popping up in London record shops. The two very well-crafted synth-pop tunes on it belonged to a duo called Stubborn Heart-- one of the only details to be hand-stamped on the vinyl's clean, white inner label. "Need Someone" was the record's excellent A-side, clocking in at six minutes and not wasting a single second. On it, a beat stutters and ticks like early Junior Boys, rubbing up against a bell-like synth and yearning, overlapping vocals, not too far away from ideas on James Blake's eponymous debut. "Need Someone" appears again here on the duo's debut, self-titled record and it sounds as good as it ever did. Its inclusion, though, marks its third different release of 2012, which awkwardly highlights a lack of ideas elsewhere on this record. While "Need Someone" still boasts a lot of energy and curiosity, much of the material on Stubborn Heart feels a little drab and lifeless by comparison. Songs like "It's Not That Easy" and "Interpol" come across as jaded, weighed down by sluggish pace and lack of movement. The latter locks into a nice enough groove but any early promise slowly ebbs away across its five minute duration-- it feels like a relief when it finally crunches to an end. Even when Stubborn Heart do hit a stride, as on the decent-enough "Starting Block", they're let down by a lack of lyrical depth. For much of the record, singer Luca Santucci's yearning vocal obsesses over failed romance-- so much so that "Starting Block" line, "I feel like I'm repeating myself, can't write about anything else, everything else right now sounds insincere" does at least carry some weight in its honesty. There might well be sincerity to Santucci's wounded lyrics but he never moves beyond scab-picking toward the kind of emotional payoff that great break-up records all share. Stubborn Heart is like the friend who, six months after a break-up, has grown a beard, put on a few pounds, and is no fun at all to have a conversation with. There's no sense of journey to the romantic trauma and across a full hour's running time, the wallowing becomes monotonous. Fortunately, Santucci's voice can sound fairly unique and carries enough characterstic yearning that he doesn't need to over emote. There are a couple of moments of promise, but they're stuck at the front: "Penetrate" starts the record off well, contrasting laid-back vocals with busy rhythms to good effect. Its shimmering, spacious chorus is easily the prettiest moment on Stubborn Heart, too. "Better Than This" also works a succinct chorus hook nicely, its central lyric, "I can do better, you can do better, we can do so much better than this" teetering between feeling acerbic and comforting. Stubborn Heart is frustrating because the band can do so much better. There's not a lot of light to be found on this record-- the beats are heavy legged and much of the action happens in the miasmic low-end. It all sounds so serious without any real reason for it. You wish they'd snap out of the funk because when they do, Stubborn Heart are capable of making sly, futuristic pop music with real potential. There's not much of it to be found here.

Artist: Stubborn Heart, Album: Stubborn Heart, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "In spring of 2011, a curious white-label 12" started popping up in London record shops. The two very well-crafted synth-pop tunes on it belonged to a duo called Stubborn Heart-- one of the only details to be hand-stamped on the vinyl's clean, white inner label. "Need Someone" was the record's excellent A-side, clocking in at six minutes and not wasting a single second. On it, a beat stutters and ticks like early Junior Boys, rubbing up against a bell-like synth and yearning, overlapping vocals, not too far away from ideas on James Blake's eponymous debut. "Need Someone" appears again here on the duo's debut, self-titled record and it sounds as good as it ever did. Its inclusion, though, marks its third different release of 2012, which awkwardly highlights a lack of ideas elsewhere on this record. While "Need Someone" still boasts a lot of energy and curiosity, much of the material on Stubborn Heart feels a little drab and lifeless by comparison. Songs like "It's Not That Easy" and "Interpol" come across as jaded, weighed down by sluggish pace and lack of movement. The latter locks into a nice enough groove but any early promise slowly ebbs away across its five minute duration-- it feels like a relief when it finally crunches to an end. Even when Stubborn Heart do hit a stride, as on the decent-enough "Starting Block", they're let down by a lack of lyrical depth. For much of the record, singer Luca Santucci's yearning vocal obsesses over failed romance-- so much so that "Starting Block" line, "I feel like I'm repeating myself, can't write about anything else, everything else right now sounds insincere" does at least carry some weight in its honesty. There might well be sincerity to Santucci's wounded lyrics but he never moves beyond scab-picking toward the kind of emotional payoff that great break-up records all share. Stubborn Heart is like the friend who, six months after a break-up, has grown a beard, put on a few pounds, and is no fun at all to have a conversation with. There's no sense of journey to the romantic trauma and across a full hour's running time, the wallowing becomes monotonous. Fortunately, Santucci's voice can sound fairly unique and carries enough characterstic yearning that he doesn't need to over emote. There are a couple of moments of promise, but they're stuck at the front: "Penetrate" starts the record off well, contrasting laid-back vocals with busy rhythms to good effect. Its shimmering, spacious chorus is easily the prettiest moment on Stubborn Heart, too. "Better Than This" also works a succinct chorus hook nicely, its central lyric, "I can do better, you can do better, we can do so much better than this" teetering between feeling acerbic and comforting. Stubborn Heart is frustrating because the band can do so much better. There's not a lot of light to be found on this record-- the beats are heavy legged and much of the action happens in the miasmic low-end. It all sounds so serious without any real reason for it. You wish they'd snap out of the funk because when they do, Stubborn Heart are capable of making sly, futuristic pop music with real potential. There's not much of it to be found here."

Chris Walla

Field Manual

Rock

Joshua Klein

Death Cab for Cutie might have made it to a point where they'd be fine without the assistance of utility player/producer Chris Walla, but the band wouldn't likely be what it is today without his help. Not that some other producer couldn't help shape Ben Gibbard's songs and the band's performances into their just-mysterious-enough but still easy-on-the-ears albums. But Walla seems to be the perfect fit. No question, the guy knows how to make an album. One of Walla's greatest talents is his ability to step out of the way, allowing the attributes of whomever he's working with to shine through while still putting his sonic stamp on things. Maybe that's why Walla doesn't seem like the type to stew on the sidelines, or complain that his voice isn't being heard, and why anyone expecting Walla's solo album, Field Manual, to unleash some kind of pent-up ego is bound to be disappointed. Beyond the opening track "Two Fifty"-- an arty wisp that suggests the disc could have been the showy (though not flashy) producer's album some expected-- the most remarkable thing about Field Manual is how generally unremarkable the long-simmering project turns out to be. Freed from his work-for-hire commitments, Walla has made an album in line with... all his previous endeavors. In fact, with a new Death Cab album already in the pipes, it's hard to know what might have prompted Walla to push this impeccably crafted but insignificant detour through to completion. And why now? Just about every track on Field Manual would fit comfortably somewhere in Death Cab for Cutie's catalog, and Walla's singing voice even turns out to be cut from the same cloth as Ben Gibbard's. If anything, Walla's a little easier to take than Gibbard, free of some of his bandmate's more twee affectations. What hurts Walla, though, is that on Field Manual, he's hardly whispering sweet poetic nothings. Instead, as promised, there's an explicitly political undercurrent to the disc, and on paper Walla is pissed. As he sings in "Sing Again": "No, this is not a test/ Let's sing again/ Sing together without disguise/ Let's raise up a song in unrest." But the track sends a milder message, as its unconvincing mid-tempo pace, bittersweet melody, and Walla's gentle delivery hardly adds up to an anthemic rallying cry. The same holds true for the vaguely Big Star-esque (or Matthew Sweet-esque, or Pernice Brothers-esque) "Everybody On", a ballad that could be about the immigration debate. Elsewhere, he addresses the Hurricane Katrina aftermath with typically soft-spoken emo earnestness-- an oddly dissonant approach. The sensitive act is a better fit for songs like "Geometry &C", a pretty conventional alt-rocker, and the romantic ruminations of "Our Plans, Collapsing", whose pessimism is subversively paired with some of the album's most grown-up hooks. Sure, there's some muscle backing up "Archer V. Light" and "The Score"-- where finally some actual big riffing supports a bring-home-the-troops missive. Too often, though, Walla takes the easy way out. Obviously, a host of issues-- from downtime to headlines-- compelled Walla to make this record, and his effort shows. What's missing is a compelling reason to listen.

Artist: Chris Walla, Album: Field Manual, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "Death Cab for Cutie might have made it to a point where they'd be fine without the assistance of utility player/producer Chris Walla, but the band wouldn't likely be what it is today without his help. Not that some other producer couldn't help shape Ben Gibbard's songs and the band's performances into their just-mysterious-enough but still easy-on-the-ears albums. But Walla seems to be the perfect fit. No question, the guy knows how to make an album. One of Walla's greatest talents is his ability to step out of the way, allowing the attributes of whomever he's working with to shine through while still putting his sonic stamp on things. Maybe that's why Walla doesn't seem like the type to stew on the sidelines, or complain that his voice isn't being heard, and why anyone expecting Walla's solo album, Field Manual, to unleash some kind of pent-up ego is bound to be disappointed. Beyond the opening track "Two Fifty"-- an arty wisp that suggests the disc could have been the showy (though not flashy) producer's album some expected-- the most remarkable thing about Field Manual is how generally unremarkable the long-simmering project turns out to be. Freed from his work-for-hire commitments, Walla has made an album in line with... all his previous endeavors. In fact, with a new Death Cab album already in the pipes, it's hard to know what might have prompted Walla to push this impeccably crafted but insignificant detour through to completion. And why now? Just about every track on Field Manual would fit comfortably somewhere in Death Cab for Cutie's catalog, and Walla's singing voice even turns out to be cut from the same cloth as Ben Gibbard's. If anything, Walla's a little easier to take than Gibbard, free of some of his bandmate's more twee affectations. What hurts Walla, though, is that on Field Manual, he's hardly whispering sweet poetic nothings. Instead, as promised, there's an explicitly political undercurrent to the disc, and on paper Walla is pissed. As he sings in "Sing Again": "No, this is not a test/ Let's sing again/ Sing together without disguise/ Let's raise up a song in unrest." But the track sends a milder message, as its unconvincing mid-tempo pace, bittersweet melody, and Walla's gentle delivery hardly adds up to an anthemic rallying cry. The same holds true for the vaguely Big Star-esque (or Matthew Sweet-esque, or Pernice Brothers-esque) "Everybody On", a ballad that could be about the immigration debate. Elsewhere, he addresses the Hurricane Katrina aftermath with typically soft-spoken emo earnestness-- an oddly dissonant approach. The sensitive act is a better fit for songs like "Geometry &C", a pretty conventional alt-rocker, and the romantic ruminations of "Our Plans, Collapsing", whose pessimism is subversively paired with some of the album's most grown-up hooks. Sure, there's some muscle backing up "Archer V. Light" and "The Score"-- where finally some actual big riffing supports a bring-home-the-troops missive. Too often, though, Walla takes the easy way out. Obviously, a host of issues-- from downtime to headlines-- compelled Walla to make this record, and his effort shows. What's missing is a compelling reason to listen."

The Donnas

Spend the Night

Rock

Kyle Reiter

Reviewing music by all-female groups can be a bit of a tightrope walk, especially for male writers. Criticism is often misconstrued, and the mere mention that a group is comprised solely of women can generate an insatiable barrage of hateful e-mails-- ask any writer who's ever tackled a Sleater-Kinney album. I wanted to approach The Donnas without making the obvious "[70s metal group] fronted by [80s pop diva]" comparison, and more importantly, I didn't want to objectify the four Donnas as sexual and musical creatures prowling what some mysogynistic critics would refer to as "a man's jungle." But after spinning Spend the Night several times, it's clear The Donnas could objectify themselves more in 40 minutes than I could in 900 words. There's a scene in This Is Spinal Tap that I think appropriately relates to The Donnas. It's perhaps a clichéd reference, but recalling the moment Tap's manager Ian Faith explains that Duke Fame's recent album art isn't sexist because Duke's the one being victimized, there's that famous David St. Hubbins realization: "There's such a fine line between clever and stupid." Foolish artistic license overshadows any moral or sexual responsibility, regardless of gender, and while The Donnas may play the role of commanding women in a men's world, their music is too lifeless to sow any inspirational seeds. Make no mistake, Spend the Night defies any post-liberation role reversal debate: The album, both musically and lyrically, is so one-dimensional, it would be equally vapid at the hands of either sex. Sure, The Donnas have chops; Tommy Lee is a pretty fucking good drummer, but that's no reason to buy a Mötley Crüe record. The simple fact is, "Girls, Girls, Girls" would be just as pointless if it were called "Boys, Boys, Boys" and released at the height of schlock-rock's 21st century comeback. The real problem is how The Donnas limit themselves by being "fun." No one expects or wants every modern rock album to be a broody, isolated masterpiece, but the songs on Spend the Night revolve (or devolve) around three main themes: 1) Getting liquored up and makin' it with some guy; 2) Getting liquored up and running into some guy that had his chance to make it with The Donnas, but didn't; or 3) Talking trash about some girl that The Donnas don't like, usually because she keeps them from getting liquored up. All of this may sound ridiculous, but that must be the lyrical price you pay for having every couplet on the album rhyme. The "drinkin' it and makin' it" image portrayed by The Donnas may be apt due to the career they've made of constant touring, but that doesn't mean anyone wants to hear it sung over every pentatonic riff ever written, thirteen times in a row. As a result of this insipid subject matter, the only thing that came to mind while listening to Spend the Night was Dudley "Booger" Dawson's prophetic Revenge of the Nerds exclamation: "You Mu's sure can party!" The Donnas regurgitate a plethora of metal riffs, and for some that may be charming, but the music falls flat because the girls take more than just musical cues from the 70s metal-heads-- they embrace their overt use of sexual conquest (or frustration) as subject matter. Without injecting any sort of originality or voice (other than simply being women), The Donnas transform forgettable cock-rock into forgettable tit-rock. If you consider name-checking Boy Scouts, Miss Cleo, and Z. Cavaricci's entertaining, buckle up: You're in for the ride of your life. But there's an aspect of Spend the Night that's even sadder than the music on it: This is The Donnas' fifth album, and they've just now begun to receive airplay on modern rock radio and MTV, without ever changing their sound. Why? Warner Brothers. I guess if you have nowhere else to go musically, and your sound is suddenly "marketable," the only thing left to do is sign to a major label. I'm not one to cry sellout here, though, because for one, they certainly haven't changed their original sound in the name of commercialism, and two, they deserve to be soaked up by the masses. If nothing else, they've paid their dues. I honestly can't figure out if The Donnas have tapped the pure heart and soul of rock 'n' roll and it's just not poignant anymore, or if Spend the Night is one of the worst rock 'n' roll albums I've ever heard. But The Donnas know, and whether rock's dead or not, they're gonna cash a few checks, laughing (at me) all the way to the bank.

Artist: The Donnas, Album: Spend the Night, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 2.9 Album review: "Reviewing music by all-female groups can be a bit of a tightrope walk, especially for male writers. Criticism is often misconstrued, and the mere mention that a group is comprised solely of women can generate an insatiable barrage of hateful e-mails-- ask any writer who's ever tackled a Sleater-Kinney album. I wanted to approach The Donnas without making the obvious "[70s metal group] fronted by [80s pop diva]" comparison, and more importantly, I didn't want to objectify the four Donnas as sexual and musical creatures prowling what some mysogynistic critics would refer to as "a man's jungle." But after spinning Spend the Night several times, it's clear The Donnas could objectify themselves more in 40 minutes than I could in 900 words. There's a scene in This Is Spinal Tap that I think appropriately relates to The Donnas. It's perhaps a clichéd reference, but recalling the moment Tap's manager Ian Faith explains that Duke Fame's recent album art isn't sexist because Duke's the one being victimized, there's that famous David St. Hubbins realization: "There's such a fine line between clever and stupid." Foolish artistic license overshadows any moral or sexual responsibility, regardless of gender, and while The Donnas may play the role of commanding women in a men's world, their music is too lifeless to sow any inspirational seeds. Make no mistake, Spend the Night defies any post-liberation role reversal debate: The album, both musically and lyrically, is so one-dimensional, it would be equally vapid at the hands of either sex. Sure, The Donnas have chops; Tommy Lee is a pretty fucking good drummer, but that's no reason to buy a Mötley Crüe record. The simple fact is, "Girls, Girls, Girls" would be just as pointless if it were called "Boys, Boys, Boys" and released at the height of schlock-rock's 21st century comeback. The real problem is how The Donnas limit themselves by being "fun." No one expects or wants every modern rock album to be a broody, isolated masterpiece, but the songs on Spend the Night revolve (or devolve) around three main themes: 1) Getting liquored up and makin' it with some guy; 2) Getting liquored up and running into some guy that had his chance to make it with The Donnas, but didn't; or 3) Talking trash about some girl that The Donnas don't like, usually because she keeps them from getting liquored up. All of this may sound ridiculous, but that must be the lyrical price you pay for having every couplet on the album rhyme. The "drinkin' it and makin' it" image portrayed by The Donnas may be apt due to the career they've made of constant touring, but that doesn't mean anyone wants to hear it sung over every pentatonic riff ever written, thirteen times in a row. As a result of this insipid subject matter, the only thing that came to mind while listening to Spend the Night was Dudley "Booger" Dawson's prophetic Revenge of the Nerds exclamation: "You Mu's sure can party!" The Donnas regurgitate a plethora of metal riffs, and for some that may be charming, but the music falls flat because the girls take more than just musical cues from the 70s metal-heads-- they embrace their overt use of sexual conquest (or frustration) as subject matter. Without injecting any sort of originality or voice (other than simply being women), The Donnas transform forgettable cock-rock into forgettable tit-rock. If you consider name-checking Boy Scouts, Miss Cleo, and Z. Cavaricci's entertaining, buckle up: You're in for the ride of your life. But there's an aspect of Spend the Night that's even sadder than the music on it: This is The Donnas' fifth album, and they've just now begun to receive airplay on modern rock radio and MTV, without ever changing their sound. Why? Warner Brothers. I guess if you have nowhere else to go musically, and your sound is suddenly "marketable," the only thing left to do is sign to a major label. I'm not one to cry sellout here, though, because for one, they certainly haven't changed their original sound in the name of commercialism, and two, they deserve to be soaked up by the masses. If nothing else, they've paid their dues. I honestly can't figure out if The Donnas have tapped the pure heart and soul of rock 'n' roll and it's just not poignant anymore, or if Spend the Night is one of the worst rock 'n' roll albums I've ever heard. But The Donnas know, and whether rock's dead or not, they're gonna cash a few checks, laughing (at me) all the way to the bank."

Roy Orbison

The Soul of Rock And Roll

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

Roy Orbison didn't shake his hips. He didn't set his piano on fire. Didn't wear blue suede shoes. Didn't become a preacher, marry his cousin, or go to jail. He wasn't what you'd call handsome, at least not in the sublime way that Elvis wore his looks. He was neither a rebel nor a rabble-rouser. He stood stock still and kept his head up. He sang about crying over girls, and his signature shades hid the tears in his eyes. He played a mean guitar, but sang a meaner ballad. He yearned and wept, but never moped. His stoic demeanor lent his tales of heartbreak a dignity that gave them verisimilitude and told his teenage listeners that all their confusion and pain-- all part of the culture, even if shunned by adults-- were real and worthwhile. Most efforts to laud Orbison, a first-generation rock'n'roller whose earliest hits were recorded at Sun Studio alongside Elvis, Johnny Cash, and Carl Perkins, tend to appraise him as the granddaddy of some current trend, like emo, when in fact he is, like Bruce Springsteen or Tom Waits, a more singular artist. With its natural quaver and multi-octave range, his voice allowed him to do things other singers could not, and his best singles pair his stately vocals with equally ornate arrangements. However, if indie musicians wanted to shelve their copies of Pet Sounds and Born to Run for a few years and start taking notes on Orbison, not only would that make my job a whole lot more interesting, but The Soul of Rock and Roll would be the place for them to start. This 4xCD box set is the most expansive and exhaustive summary of Orbison's decades-long career, which had its share of ups (the early 1960s, the late 80s) and downs (the 70s) and ended on an impossibly high note with his 1989 best-selling album Mystery Girl and his work with the Traveling Wilburys. Most Orbison comps begin at Sun Studio, with tender teenage hits "Devil Doll" and "Ooby Dooby" (Orbison may be the only singer who can make those two syllables not sound sexual and still sound interesting), but this set finds life before Memphis. Orbison was a guitar slinger with the Teen Kings in the early 50s, drawing from vocal groups, country and western, and rockabilly without really synthesizing them. Perhaps the most revealing track is "Guitar Pull Medley", a previously unreleased nine-minute recording of Orbison, by request, ripping through covers like "I Want You, I Need You, I Love You" and "That's All Right" at a party, proving he could hold his own against his more popular labelmate Elvis. Orbison's cool and easy proficiency with so many songs contrasts with his companion's starry-eyed demeanor. It sounds like a scene from Robert Altman's Nashville. The Soul of Rock and Roll is broken down primarily by decade-- a logical organizing principle even if it doesn't actually fit his career very precisely. Still, that means the second disc is far and away the best here, with a run of hits for Nashville-based Monument Records that's about as close to perfect as possible. "Uptown", "Only the Lonely", "Blue Angel", "In Dreams", and "Running Scared" (a modified bolero) are grandiose and operatic, lushly arranged, cleverly recorded (all in one take, with no overdubs), and as genuinely moving as pop music can be. Cathedrals to heartbreak, these early Monument recordings represent not only the set's high point, but the heyday of Orbison's career and the era that defined the rest of his catalog. The rest of his 60s output follows the same template, as Orbison and producer Fred Foster give similar treatment to "All I Have to Do Is Dream", the gorgeous "Blue Bayou", and the Willie Nelson-penned "Pretty Paper". The third disc covers Orbison's 70s output, but almost all of these songs predate that decade by several years. Following the deaths of his first wife in a motorcycle accident and two of his sons in a house fire, he spent most of the 70s away from the spotlight, but The Soul of Rock and Roll uses that downtime to argue convincingly that his strengths as a balladeer were matched by his prowess as a guitarist and his power as a performer. From 1963, his cover of "Mean Woman Blues", with its relentless beat, effervescent sha-la-la backing vocals, and yakkety sax, actually swings, especially on his fiery guitar solo. And his take on Ray Charles' "What'd I Say", recorded live in Holland, stomps and shimmies like his early rockabilly material. The final chapter is far and away the most surprising, a plot twist that no one could have predicted: Instead of fading away like, say, Carl Perkins, Orbison launched an improbable late-in-life comeback that's all the more remarkable for breezily updating his signature style while sidestepping bland dinosaur rock. "You Got It" and "She's a Mystery to Me", both from his swan song Mystery Girl, show only a few new wrinkles in his voice, which add texture and authority. His new recordings of "Oh Pretty Woman" and "In Dreams", both for his 1987 greatest hits album, of course can't improve on the originals, but aren't the disasters most re-recordings turn out to be. And Orbison is perfectly at home with the Traveling Wilburys on "Not Alone Anymore", although his verse on "Handle With Care" makes that song a notable omission in this set. The worst I can say about The Soul of Rock and Roll is that the liner notes are particularly unrevealing, a missed opportunity. An artist like Orbison, who despite his success haunts the periphery of rock history, not the center, demands a more balanced and in-depth approach that can contextualize his music without resorting to namedropping and can relate meaningful commentary without resorting to anecdote. Missing that textual component, the set loses some of its impact, but Orbison's songs-- at once modest and grandiose, showy and private-- provide all the testimony he needs.

Artist: Roy Orbison, Album: The Soul of Rock And Roll, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "Roy Orbison didn't shake his hips. He didn't set his piano on fire. Didn't wear blue suede shoes. Didn't become a preacher, marry his cousin, or go to jail. He wasn't what you'd call handsome, at least not in the sublime way that Elvis wore his looks. He was neither a rebel nor a rabble-rouser. He stood stock still and kept his head up. He sang about crying over girls, and his signature shades hid the tears in his eyes. He played a mean guitar, but sang a meaner ballad. He yearned and wept, but never moped. His stoic demeanor lent his tales of heartbreak a dignity that gave them verisimilitude and told his teenage listeners that all their confusion and pain-- all part of the culture, even if shunned by adults-- were real and worthwhile. Most efforts to laud Orbison, a first-generation rock'n'roller whose earliest hits were recorded at Sun Studio alongside Elvis, Johnny Cash, and Carl Perkins, tend to appraise him as the granddaddy of some current trend, like emo, when in fact he is, like Bruce Springsteen or Tom Waits, a more singular artist. With its natural quaver and multi-octave range, his voice allowed him to do things other singers could not, and his best singles pair his stately vocals with equally ornate arrangements. However, if indie musicians wanted to shelve their copies of Pet Sounds and Born to Run for a few years and start taking notes on Orbison, not only would that make my job a whole lot more interesting, but The Soul of Rock and Roll would be the place for them to start. This 4xCD box set is the most expansive and exhaustive summary of Orbison's decades-long career, which had its share of ups (the early 1960s, the late 80s) and downs (the 70s) and ended on an impossibly high note with his 1989 best-selling album Mystery Girl and his work with the Traveling Wilburys. Most Orbison comps begin at Sun Studio, with tender teenage hits "Devil Doll" and "Ooby Dooby" (Orbison may be the only singer who can make those two syllables not sound sexual and still sound interesting), but this set finds life before Memphis. Orbison was a guitar slinger with the Teen Kings in the early 50s, drawing from vocal groups, country and western, and rockabilly without really synthesizing them. Perhaps the most revealing track is "Guitar Pull Medley", a previously unreleased nine-minute recording of Orbison, by request, ripping through covers like "I Want You, I Need You, I Love You" and "That's All Right" at a party, proving he could hold his own against his more popular labelmate Elvis. Orbison's cool and easy proficiency with so many songs contrasts with his companion's starry-eyed demeanor. It sounds like a scene from Robert Altman's Nashville. The Soul of Rock and Roll is broken down primarily by decade-- a logical organizing principle even if it doesn't actually fit his career very precisely. Still, that means the second disc is far and away the best here, with a run of hits for Nashville-based Monument Records that's about as close to perfect as possible. "Uptown", "Only the Lonely", "Blue Angel", "In Dreams", and "Running Scared" (a modified bolero) are grandiose and operatic, lushly arranged, cleverly recorded (all in one take, with no overdubs), and as genuinely moving as pop music can be. Cathedrals to heartbreak, these early Monument recordings represent not only the set's high point, but the heyday of Orbison's career and the era that defined the rest of his catalog. The rest of his 60s output follows the same template, as Orbison and producer Fred Foster give similar treatment to "All I Have to Do Is Dream", the gorgeous "Blue Bayou", and the Willie Nelson-penned "Pretty Paper". The third disc covers Orbison's 70s output, but almost all of these songs predate that decade by several years. Following the deaths of his first wife in a motorcycle accident and two of his sons in a house fire, he spent most of the 70s away from the spotlight, but The Soul of Rock and Roll uses that downtime to argue convincingly that his strengths as a balladeer were matched by his prowess as a guitarist and his power as a performer. From 1963, his cover of "Mean Woman Blues", with its relentless beat, effervescent sha-la-la backing vocals, and yakkety sax, actually swings, especially on his fiery guitar solo. And his take on Ray Charles' "What'd I Say", recorded live in Holland, stomps and shimmies like his early rockabilly material. The final chapter is far and away the most surprising, a plot twist that no one could have predicted: Instead of fading away like, say, Carl Perkins, Orbison launched an improbable late-in-life comeback that's all the more remarkable for breezily updating his signature style while sidestepping bland dinosaur rock. "You Got It" and "She's a Mystery to Me", both from his swan song Mystery Girl, show only a few new wrinkles in his voice, which add texture and authority. His new recordings of "Oh Pretty Woman" and "In Dreams", both for his 1987 greatest hits album, of course can't improve on the originals, but aren't the disasters most re-recordings turn out to be. And Orbison is perfectly at home with the Traveling Wilburys on "Not Alone Anymore", although his verse on "Handle With Care" makes that song a notable omission in this set. The worst I can say about The Soul of Rock and Roll is that the liner notes are particularly unrevealing, a missed opportunity. An artist like Orbison, who despite his success haunts the periphery of rock history, not the center, demands a more balanced and in-depth approach that can contextualize his music without resorting to namedropping and can relate meaningful commentary without resorting to anecdote. Missing that textual component, the set loses some of its impact, but Orbison's songs-- at once modest and grandiose, showy and private-- provide all the testimony he needs."

Coldplay

Kaleidoscope EP

Rock

Jamieson Cox

Coldplay are nearing the end of a restless decade, one that found them cycling through a handful of disparate creative approaches without ever losing much of their commercial momentum. The albums they made under Brian Eno’s warped wing (2008’s Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends... and, three years later, the underrated Mylo Xyloto) pushed their sound to its breaking point with detours into shoegaze, R&B, and chirping electro-pop. 2014’s morose Ghost Stories—a 40-minute shrug made in the wake of Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow’s “conscious uncoupling”—was an obvious outlier the moment it landed on virtual store shelves. And when Martin got his groove back the very next year with A Head Full of Dreams, he didn’t stop at soliciting production from Norwegian pop mercenaries Stargate or a feature from Beyoncé—he joined hands with the emo-EDM doofuses in the Chainsmokers and tag-teamed the listening public with the insipid “Something Just Like This.” Naturally, it became one of the biggest hits of Coldplay’s career. Kaleidoscope, the band’s new EP, is their first release in years that feels more like a clearing of the throat than a new, distinct statement. The obvious analogue in the Coldplay discography is the Viva La Vida companion EP Prospekt’s March, but there are some key differences separating the two minor efforts. Prospekt’s March was a clear product of the writing and recording that resulted in Viva La Vida; it was released during the same year, and featured several instances of remixed or revised material that appeared on the parent album first. Kaleidoscope is coming out more than 18 months after A Head Full of Dreams, and it largely lacks that album’s blinding sheen and radiant optimism. It’s more of a grab-bag than a coherent release: one-off collaborations and ill-fitting outtakes share space with songs that unexpectedly revisit the sound and spirit of Coldplay’s creative peak. There’s a version of “Something Just Like This” on here, though maybe not the one you’d expect. Kaleidoscope avoids the studio version for the “Tokyo Remix,” a live take from the band’s mammoth (and ongoing) tour that’s all but indistinguishable from the original in terms of intensity and instrumentation. Lesser Coldplay material can sometimes find redemption through thousands of voices singing in unison, but “Something Just Like This” is the sound of Martin at his smarmiest. A stadium full of eager fans can’t save it. Big Sean feature “Miracles (Someone Special)” fares better, if only because he and Martin are kindred spirits: charming, good-natured presences incapable of resisting their worst lyrical impulses. Kaleidoscope’s existence is ultimately justified by the two songs that reach into the band’s past. They reunite with Eno and producer Markus Dravs on “A L I E N S,” an earnest take on the European migrant crisis complicated by a jittery 5/4 rhythm. Martin’s never going to grade out as an above-average writer, but he strings together an opening verse that’s unexpectedly moving in its depiction of a family fleeing for its life. (They rush to take a few pictures on the way out so “history has some to know.”) The result is a song that would’ve fit in nicely alongside the mild experiments that made Viva La Vida so refreshing. The patient, expansive “All I Can Think About Is You” is even better, built on a premise that’s classic Coldplay: a love-drunk Martin stumbles through a world that’s crumbling around him, unable to shake the object of his affection for more than a second. He feels guilty about it, until all of a sudden he doesn’t: the skies part, the band starts rolling, and we’re treated to a stadium-scraping piano melody that’s as gorgeous as anything this side of “Clocks.” This is what Coldplay can do: a vague, familiar sentiment is rendered transcendent through the power of sheer beauty. Of course, there are plenty of listeners for whom phrases like “classic Coldplay” mean little. The band occupies a rarefied cultural space at this point in their career: they’re popular enough to play the Super Bowl halftime show and uncool enough that no one seemed excited by the prospect. The defensiveness with which Martin used to field questions about the band’s haters has been replaced with a sort of bemused acceptance: “We’re gonna do our thing,” he told Rolling Stone last year. “If you like it, wonderful, and if you don’t, I really don’t mind. There’s so many other things you can do. You can have a PlayStation!” Kaleidoscope isn’t going to kickstart Coldplay’s critical reappraisal, nor does it deserve to. But it rewards those of us who’ve stuck around with a few songs that capture the band at its best.

Artist: Coldplay, Album: Kaleidoscope EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "Coldplay are nearing the end of a restless decade, one that found them cycling through a handful of disparate creative approaches without ever losing much of their commercial momentum. The albums they made under Brian Eno’s warped wing (2008’s Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends... and, three years later, the underrated Mylo Xyloto) pushed their sound to its breaking point with detours into shoegaze, R&B, and chirping electro-pop. 2014’s morose Ghost Stories—a 40-minute shrug made in the wake of Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow’s “conscious uncoupling”—was an obvious outlier the moment it landed on virtual store shelves. And when Martin got his groove back the very next year with A Head Full of Dreams, he didn’t stop at soliciting production from Norwegian pop mercenaries Stargate or a feature from Beyoncé—he joined hands with the emo-EDM doofuses in the Chainsmokers and tag-teamed the listening public with the insipid “Something Just Like This.” Naturally, it became one of the biggest hits of Coldplay’s career. Kaleidoscope, the band’s new EP, is their first release in years that feels more like a clearing of the throat than a new, distinct statement. The obvious analogue in the Coldplay discography is the Viva La Vida companion EP Prospekt’s March, but there are some key differences separating the two minor efforts. Prospekt’s March was a clear product of the writing and recording that resulted in Viva La Vida; it was released during the same year, and featured several instances of remixed or revised material that appeared on the parent album first. Kaleidoscope is coming out more than 18 months after A Head Full of Dreams, and it largely lacks that album’s blinding sheen and radiant optimism. It’s more of a grab-bag than a coherent release: one-off collaborations and ill-fitting outtakes share space with songs that unexpectedly revisit the sound and spirit of Coldplay’s creative peak. There’s a version of “Something Just Like This” on here, though maybe not the one you’d expect. Kaleidoscope avoids the studio version for the “Tokyo Remix,” a live take from the band’s mammoth (and ongoing) tour that’s all but indistinguishable from the original in terms of intensity and instrumentation. Lesser Coldplay material can sometimes find redemption through thousands of voices singing in unison, but “Something Just Like This” is the sound of Martin at his smarmiest. A stadium full of eager fans can’t save it. Big Sean feature “Miracles (Someone Special)” fares better, if only because he and Martin are kindred spirits: charming, good-natured presences incapable of resisting their worst lyrical impulses. Kaleidoscope’s existence is ultimately justified by the two songs that reach into the band’s past. They reunite with Eno and producer Markus Dravs on “A L I E N S,” an earnest take on the European migrant crisis complicated by a jittery 5/4 rhythm. Martin’s never going to grade out as an above-average writer, but he strings together an opening verse that’s unexpectedly moving in its depiction of a family fleeing for its life. (They rush to take a few pictures on the way out so “history has some to know.”) The result is a song that would’ve fit in nicely alongside the mild experiments that made Viva La Vida so refreshing. The patient, expansive “All I Can Think About Is You” is even better, built on a premise that’s classic Coldplay: a love-drunk Martin stumbles through a world that’s crumbling around him, unable to shake the object of his affection for more than a second. He feels guilty about it, until all of a sudden he doesn’t: the skies part, the band starts rolling, and we’re treated to a stadium-scraping piano melody that’s as gorgeous as anything this side of “Clocks.” This is what Coldplay can do: a vague, familiar sentiment is rendered transcendent through the power of sheer beauty. Of course, there are plenty of listeners for whom phrases like “classic Coldplay” mean little. The band occupies a rarefied cultural space at this point in their career: they’re popular enough to play the Super Bowl halftime show and uncool enough that no one seemed excited by the prospect. The defensiveness with which Martin used to field questions about the band’s haters has been replaced with a sort of bemused acceptance: “We’re gonna do our thing,” he told Rolling Stone last year. “If you like it, wonderful, and if you don’t, I really don’t mind. There’s so many other things you can do. You can have a PlayStation!” Kaleidoscope isn’t going to kickstart Coldplay’s critical reappraisal, nor does it deserve to. But it rewards those of us who’ve stuck around with a few songs that capture the band at its best."

Saturday Looks Good to Me

All Your Summer Songs

Rock

Rob Mitchum

Possible ways to describe the music of Saturday Looks Good to Me, one of Detroit-based indie laureate Fred Thomas' approximately 38 bands: Scuffed-up transistor radio with a blown speaker beaming time-travelled frequencies from 1957-1967. What The Beach Boys might have sounded like if they recorded in an underwater cove. A warped vinyl copy of your favorite pop record played on one of those tan Fisher Price record players we all owned as kids. If such descriptions set off the alarms of your festering indie-remorse, fear not. Though indie rock once defiantly waved the banner of lo-fi production, Slanted & Enchanted setting off a four-track reverse arms race over who could broadcast their music with the most slackitude and hiss-teria, I don't mean to trumpet that the budget sound of All Your Summer Songs makes it more "real" than a similar product of modern technology. Rather, I've come to the diplomatic conclusion that intentionally beat-up production simply complements bands who are bent on re-examining time-worn musical ideas. Fred Thomas' Saturday Looks Good to Me is one of these bands, a large Michigan-based collective trying their hand at familiar oldies-station molds: walls of sound with bricks of brass and stringed instruments, arpeggio-heavy prom themes, shy soul, and surf grooves with radio-friendly ambitions. All of these songs are filtered through enough layers of reverb and ambient noise (courtesy of knob-twiddling from Thomas and His Name Is Alive's Warn Defever) to sound like they're coming from the past-their-prime speakers of Dad's old station wagon, a process that, paradoxically, strips them of their nostalgia and lends them fresh personality. Take "Meet Me by the Water" as a representative sample. Opening with snare hits that sound recorded from two rooms over and a wood block clack processed into liquidity, the song rides on piano and guitar parts that bleed reverb profusely, and stratospheric, echo chamber'd female vocals which lend an airy spaciousness that could handicap it for some as typical cassette indie-pop. At least, until the dead-sincere saxophone solo, the verse where the elements fly off and reassemble at random in dub fashion, and the warm electric blanket coda of Loveless-style guitar. All in less than 1/20th of an hour, radio standard time. Different shades of these textures are evident throughout All Your Summer Songs, with distantly familiar drum tracks being manipulated into submission and orchestral ambitions being squeezed through a four-track to come out the other side in unexpected fashion. Brass, string sections, and buzzsaw guitar fight for elbow room through the galloping "Underwater Heartbeat" and "Alcohol", while irresistibly catchy sections fly by before you even realize it, never to return. "Ambulance", a song taken from the band's self-released debut, is recast here as a duet featuring Ted Leo working out his lower register over taut guitar and Comiskey Park organ. Leo's not the only mild celebrity appearing on All Your Summer Songs; Thomas turns over the singing to a basement-show all-star cast including Tara Jane O'Neil and Ida's Karla Schickele. Given the microphone-swapping details and torch-song performances, it's easy to think of the album as an even more obscure version of Stephen Merritt's 6ths album showcases, albeit stripped of the synthesizers, showtunes, and (save the lackluster title track) creepy baritone. The liner notes, unfortunately, fail to offer beleaguered critics a key to connect the vocal dots, but I'll vouch that the women fare best: The wide-eyed vocals of "Caught" skim playfully over what sounds like my childhood church's handbell choir, and the twee breathiness of "Ultimate Stars" nests perfectly within the track's chamber take on the riff from Booker T's "Time Is Tight". The male chorus gets stuck with the ballad catalog, but Thomas himself (I think) makes showstopping, cracked performances of the starry slow-dance numbers "The Sun Doesn't Want to Shine" and "Last Hour". So while the album lags somewhat in the middle ("Typing" is a little bit Belle, a little bit Sebastian), All Your Summer Songs is unshakeable and unique enough overall to be the frontrunner for Official Rob Mitchum Warm Weather Album '03. With enough melodic chops to keep the project from falling into a pit of esoteric experimental production, and enough studio inventiveness to prevent the record from being Brian Wilson Love Letter #3451, Saturday Looks Good to Me seem poised to spring from tape-trading in dusty Ann Arbor record shops to national semi-stardom on the label emo built. Yes, Michigan!

Artist: Saturday Looks Good to Me, Album: All Your Summer Songs, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "Possible ways to describe the music of Saturday Looks Good to Me, one of Detroit-based indie laureate Fred Thomas' approximately 38 bands: Scuffed-up transistor radio with a blown speaker beaming time-travelled frequencies from 1957-1967. What The Beach Boys might have sounded like if they recorded in an underwater cove. A warped vinyl copy of your favorite pop record played on one of those tan Fisher Price record players we all owned as kids. If such descriptions set off the alarms of your festering indie-remorse, fear not. Though indie rock once defiantly waved the banner of lo-fi production, Slanted & Enchanted setting off a four-track reverse arms race over who could broadcast their music with the most slackitude and hiss-teria, I don't mean to trumpet that the budget sound of All Your Summer Songs makes it more "real" than a similar product of modern technology. Rather, I've come to the diplomatic conclusion that intentionally beat-up production simply complements bands who are bent on re-examining time-worn musical ideas. Fred Thomas' Saturday Looks Good to Me is one of these bands, a large Michigan-based collective trying their hand at familiar oldies-station molds: walls of sound with bricks of brass and stringed instruments, arpeggio-heavy prom themes, shy soul, and surf grooves with radio-friendly ambitions. All of these songs are filtered through enough layers of reverb and ambient noise (courtesy of knob-twiddling from Thomas and His Name Is Alive's Warn Defever) to sound like they're coming from the past-their-prime speakers of Dad's old station wagon, a process that, paradoxically, strips them of their nostalgia and lends them fresh personality. Take "Meet Me by the Water" as a representative sample. Opening with snare hits that sound recorded from two rooms over and a wood block clack processed into liquidity, the song rides on piano and guitar parts that bleed reverb profusely, and stratospheric, echo chamber'd female vocals which lend an airy spaciousness that could handicap it for some as typical cassette indie-pop. At least, until the dead-sincere saxophone solo, the verse where the elements fly off and reassemble at random in dub fashion, and the warm electric blanket coda of Loveless-style guitar. All in less than 1/20th of an hour, radio standard time. Different shades of these textures are evident throughout All Your Summer Songs, with distantly familiar drum tracks being manipulated into submission and orchestral ambitions being squeezed through a four-track to come out the other side in unexpected fashion. Brass, string sections, and buzzsaw guitar fight for elbow room through the galloping "Underwater Heartbeat" and "Alcohol", while irresistibly catchy sections fly by before you even realize it, never to return. "Ambulance", a song taken from the band's self-released debut, is recast here as a duet featuring Ted Leo working out his lower register over taut guitar and Comiskey Park organ. Leo's not the only mild celebrity appearing on All Your Summer Songs; Thomas turns over the singing to a basement-show all-star cast including Tara Jane O'Neil and Ida's Karla Schickele. Given the microphone-swapping details and torch-song performances, it's easy to think of the album as an even more obscure version of Stephen Merritt's 6ths album showcases, albeit stripped of the synthesizers, showtunes, and (save the lackluster title track) creepy baritone. The liner notes, unfortunately, fail to offer beleaguered critics a key to connect the vocal dots, but I'll vouch that the women fare best: The wide-eyed vocals of "Caught" skim playfully over what sounds like my childhood church's handbell choir, and the twee breathiness of "Ultimate Stars" nests perfectly within the track's chamber take on the riff from Booker T's "Time Is Tight". The male chorus gets stuck with the ballad catalog, but Thomas himself (I think) makes showstopping, cracked performances of the starry slow-dance numbers "The Sun Doesn't Want to Shine" and "Last Hour". So while the album lags somewhat in the middle ("Typing" is a little bit Belle, a little bit Sebastian), All Your Summer Songs is unshakeable and unique enough overall to be the frontrunner for Official Rob Mitchum Warm Weather Album '03. With enough melodic chops to keep the project from falling into a pit of esoteric experimental production, and enough studio inventiveness to prevent the record from being Brian Wilson Love Letter #3451, Saturday Looks Good to Me seem poised to spring from tape-trading in dusty Ann Arbor record shops to national semi-stardom on the label emo built. Yes, Michigan!"

Joker

The Mainframe

Electronic

Nate Patrin

It all seemed straightforward enough. Back in 2011, Joker's The Vision was a pop-move faceplant that squandered the momentum he'd built off his early singles. Faithful still copped the instrumentals, but a cred renewal project seemed like the best next move, and a couple fairly strong EPs on Kapsize seemed to stave off the worst fears. 2013's The Face Off and 2014's Head Top were back to the wheelhouse—heaving bass wobbles that stayed sinuous even when they sounded like groaning crushed metal, melodies that reinjected some of grime's heightened delirium into the UK bass continuum, and drums that flipped from leadfoot stomping to counter-rhythmic intricacy without stopping up the motions. If it was a comfort zone, well, more artists should be comfortable bringing stuff the caliber of "Newham Generals" or "Deserted Island". But sometimes that artistic urge to push outside those boundaries comes back, maybe in a different enough form that it feels like those previous pitfalls can be avoided. Sure, a few new ones could spring up, but that's the way it goes, right? Part of the hype around The Mainframe is that it's intended as an album-qua-album, a non-stop listen that only reveals its full meaning and breadth once you've run through its entire length without stopping. You're welcome to try, but you're also welcome to pick your own spot to give up and jump to the next track. It could be one of the moments where Joker's knack for joyously martial melody gets run through a wringer of action-blockbuster pianos-and-strings that reveals just how many of his compositional strengths actually rely on nuance and negative space—and what happens when those tendencies are crowded out. It could also very likely be the moment on "Lucy" where Sam Frank's squeaky falsetto belts out the line "let me be your little honky boy." It's a skeptic's worst case scenario, all that orchestral grandeur and the threats of Vision-ary pop-vocal overload. But it's not like Joker's forgotten how to smartly exploit the push-pull/stop-start dynamic of a two-step beat, or balance out uppercut chords with slick melodic counterpoints. Even at its most prog-bombastic, it flows well and doesn't lose sight of the need to bump: The seamless opening one-two of "Intro" and "Boss Mode" promises symphonic piano noodling and arena-filling synth arpeggios but delivers something more compactly driven to head-nods than arm sweeps. Basslines stay future-mindedly filthy in modular ways—there are these shrugging hiccups on the frantic tension of "Boss Mode" that resurface on the melancholy uplift of "Mixed Emotions"; hydraulic-press background hums bolster the high ends on moodier cuts like "Mahogany"; acidic hip-hop synth squelches that immolate lesser trap-peddlers on sight push a jumpy interplay with precision snares on "Midnight". Think of The Mainframe as his own effort to do widescreen R&B and it makes a lot more sense, even if the moments that can stand toe-to-toe with the best of that milieu are scarce. The voices that hold the most impact tend to be the ones chopped into wordless choral exclamations in the instrumentals—the oh-oh-ohs of "Midnight" rendering human ecstasy and synaptic synth jolts as the same impulse, or the recurring hum in "Mahogany" that sinks into and emerges from a parallel guitar strum. The one actual guest singer who really seems to fit is Rochelle Perts, the onetime Dutch "X Factor" winner whose lush intensity and sweet-sounding frustration on the anti-platonic "Love" stands strong in the face of dizzying seesaw bass waves. On the other hand, the pianos-and-handclaps backbone of "Wise Enough" needs more than Zak Abel overexerting his bland-in-any-octave voice and some chords from the "Psychedelic Runway" parts bin to say what the surrounding instrumentals do without vocals. And I should probably mention that aside from Sam Frank's "little honky boy" thing "Lucy" also contains the line "I'm the bear in your cave, girl," so there's that. With the gloss and brass-section pomp, The Mainframe feels like a more logical big-move progression for someone who turned heads with a flip of the Bond-pastiche theme to "Metal Gear Solid 3" on "Snake Eater" back in 2008. It might still mortify some of his more purist fans, but there's little on this record that a few instrumental-version substitutions wouldn't fix. And as another step towards finding a place in a crossover space where he could easily put his imprint on hip-hop, R&B, pop, or UK bass, it makes for a far better audition reel than The Vision. No need to regroup after this one—there's more evolutionary promise cresting ahead.

Artist: Joker, Album: The Mainframe, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "It all seemed straightforward enough. Back in 2011, Joker's The Vision was a pop-move faceplant that squandered the momentum he'd built off his early singles. Faithful still copped the instrumentals, but a cred renewal project seemed like the best next move, and a couple fairly strong EPs on Kapsize seemed to stave off the worst fears. 2013's The Face Off and 2014's Head Top were back to the wheelhouse—heaving bass wobbles that stayed sinuous even when they sounded like groaning crushed metal, melodies that reinjected some of grime's heightened delirium into the UK bass continuum, and drums that flipped from leadfoot stomping to counter-rhythmic intricacy without stopping up the motions. If it was a comfort zone, well, more artists should be comfortable bringing stuff the caliber of "Newham Generals" or "Deserted Island". But sometimes that artistic urge to push outside those boundaries comes back, maybe in a different enough form that it feels like those previous pitfalls can be avoided. Sure, a few new ones could spring up, but that's the way it goes, right? Part of the hype around The Mainframe is that it's intended as an album-qua-album, a non-stop listen that only reveals its full meaning and breadth once you've run through its entire length without stopping. You're welcome to try, but you're also welcome to pick your own spot to give up and jump to the next track. It could be one of the moments where Joker's knack for joyously martial melody gets run through a wringer of action-blockbuster pianos-and-strings that reveals just how many of his compositional strengths actually rely on nuance and negative space—and what happens when those tendencies are crowded out. It could also very likely be the moment on "Lucy" where Sam Frank's squeaky falsetto belts out the line "let me be your little honky boy." It's a skeptic's worst case scenario, all that orchestral grandeur and the threats of Vision-ary pop-vocal overload. But it's not like Joker's forgotten how to smartly exploit the push-pull/stop-start dynamic of a two-step beat, or balance out uppercut chords with slick melodic counterpoints. Even at its most prog-bombastic, it flows well and doesn't lose sight of the need to bump: The seamless opening one-two of "Intro" and "Boss Mode" promises symphonic piano noodling and arena-filling synth arpeggios but delivers something more compactly driven to head-nods than arm sweeps. Basslines stay future-mindedly filthy in modular ways—there are these shrugging hiccups on the frantic tension of "Boss Mode" that resurface on the melancholy uplift of "Mixed Emotions"; hydraulic-press background hums bolster the high ends on moodier cuts like "Mahogany"; acidic hip-hop synth squelches that immolate lesser trap-peddlers on sight push a jumpy interplay with precision snares on "Midnight". Think of The Mainframe as his own effort to do widescreen R&B and it makes a lot more sense, even if the moments that can stand toe-to-toe with the best of that milieu are scarce. The voices that hold the most impact tend to be the ones chopped into wordless choral exclamations in the instrumentals—the oh-oh-ohs of "Midnight" rendering human ecstasy and synaptic synth jolts as the same impulse, or the recurring hum in "Mahogany" that sinks into and emerges from a parallel guitar strum. The one actual guest singer who really seems to fit is Rochelle Perts, the onetime Dutch "X Factor" winner whose lush intensity and sweet-sounding frustration on the anti-platonic "Love" stands strong in the face of dizzying seesaw bass waves. On the other hand, the pianos-and-handclaps backbone of "Wise Enough" needs more than Zak Abel overexerting his bland-in-any-octave voice and some chords from the "Psychedelic Runway" parts bin to say what the surrounding instrumentals do without vocals. And I should probably mention that aside from Sam Frank's "little honky boy" thing "Lucy" also contains the line "I'm the bear in your cave, girl," so there's that. With the gloss and brass-section pomp, The Mainframe feels like a more logical big-move progression for someone who turned heads with a flip of the Bond-pastiche theme to "Metal Gear Solid 3" on "Snake Eater" back in 2008. It might still mortify some of his more purist fans, but there's little on this record that a few instrumental-version substitutions wouldn't fix. And as another step towards finding a place in a crossover space where he could easily put his imprint on hip-hop, R&B, pop, or UK bass, it makes for a far better audition reel than The Vision. No need to regroup after this one—there's more evolutionary promise cresting ahead."

Abe Vigoda

Skeleton

Experimental,Rock

David Bevan

Although albums are born and bound by them, it's never easy to find a record's core in just one specific moment. But in the very first second of Skeleton's very first song, "Dead City/Waste Wilderness", all four dudes slam their individual notes into the ropes at once, and from there, everything follows some kind of frenetic punk ballet in which those moving musical parts are hopelessly trying to find their way back to their feet. Somewhere in that fraction of a second, a safe is blown wide, wide open, and its contents are pretty gnarly. Hailing from Chino but now residing in Los Angeles, the four men of Abe Vigoda have become fixtures and disciples of that city's Smell scene, younger vibe brothers to flag-carriers No Age, HEALTH, and Mika Miko. And while those bands have begun enjoying an impact farther outside the empty of downtown L.A., Abe Vigoda sound ready to be heard everywhere all at once. The band's debut, Kid City, was reason enough to take notice, but too raw and abrasive at times to allow its more digestible parts to be, well, digested. Skeleton finds the band expanding on and beautifying a sound very much their own: lush, tropical punk that's swallowed as many strains of sound as the images it conjures. Starting with the initial transition between the album's breakneck opener and the centipede guitar parts of "Bear Face", there's little in the way of slowing down. Songs clock in anywhere between 90 seconds and three minutes, but each is fully realized-- and with the exception of the title track, well-sequenced. While the first jabs of the "The Garden" offer a relative respite from the workout, the LP quickly reverts with highlight (and should-be closer) "Endless Sleeper", which shows a band just as capable of slowing down and pacing themselves as they are at exploding. Guitarists Michael Vidal and Juan Velazquez braid stabbing guitar parts that mirror both the warmth and romance of steel drum and South American six-string traditions, but retain a rapier's point throughout. Any clear tendency to bend towards more sun-stroked vibes is hammered all the way home by not-so-secret weapon Reggie Guerrero, whose stickwork dances with but never overwhelms his bandmates' guitars. Skeleton's flaws are few and often obscured by the album's mixing: Vidal's vocal adds an additional rhythmic layer, but his lyrical work is interesting enough to be more pronounced and less muddied. That said, Skeleton's manic pacing may prove exhausting-- its rapid-fire songs sometimes feel more like fragments blurred together by hypnotic drumwork and tactile soundscaping. It should take a long time to discover yourself and your sound somewhere within 40 years of pop music, but Abe Vigoda seem to have found their noise some other way. Every triumph and every misstep of Skeleton feels as if it grew organically, removed from the discussion of genre tags, written manifestos, or aural history projects. Some kids want to make loud noises because it's fun. There are too many of those to count in Skeleton.

Artist: Abe Vigoda, Album: Skeleton, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Although albums are born and bound by them, it's never easy to find a record's core in just one specific moment. But in the very first second of Skeleton's very first song, "Dead City/Waste Wilderness", all four dudes slam their individual notes into the ropes at once, and from there, everything follows some kind of frenetic punk ballet in which those moving musical parts are hopelessly trying to find their way back to their feet. Somewhere in that fraction of a second, a safe is blown wide, wide open, and its contents are pretty gnarly. Hailing from Chino but now residing in Los Angeles, the four men of Abe Vigoda have become fixtures and disciples of that city's Smell scene, younger vibe brothers to flag-carriers No Age, HEALTH, and Mika Miko. And while those bands have begun enjoying an impact farther outside the empty of downtown L.A., Abe Vigoda sound ready to be heard everywhere all at once. The band's debut, Kid City, was reason enough to take notice, but too raw and abrasive at times to allow its more digestible parts to be, well, digested. Skeleton finds the band expanding on and beautifying a sound very much their own: lush, tropical punk that's swallowed as many strains of sound as the images it conjures. Starting with the initial transition between the album's breakneck opener and the centipede guitar parts of "Bear Face", there's little in the way of slowing down. Songs clock in anywhere between 90 seconds and three minutes, but each is fully realized-- and with the exception of the title track, well-sequenced. While the first jabs of the "The Garden" offer a relative respite from the workout, the LP quickly reverts with highlight (and should-be closer) "Endless Sleeper", which shows a band just as capable of slowing down and pacing themselves as they are at exploding. Guitarists Michael Vidal and Juan Velazquez braid stabbing guitar parts that mirror both the warmth and romance of steel drum and South American six-string traditions, but retain a rapier's point throughout. Any clear tendency to bend towards more sun-stroked vibes is hammered all the way home by not-so-secret weapon Reggie Guerrero, whose stickwork dances with but never overwhelms his bandmates' guitars. Skeleton's flaws are few and often obscured by the album's mixing: Vidal's vocal adds an additional rhythmic layer, but his lyrical work is interesting enough to be more pronounced and less muddied. That said, Skeleton's manic pacing may prove exhausting-- its rapid-fire songs sometimes feel more like fragments blurred together by hypnotic drumwork and tactile soundscaping. It should take a long time to discover yourself and your sound somewhere within 40 years of pop music, but Abe Vigoda seem to have found their noise some other way. Every triumph and every misstep of Skeleton feels as if it grew organically, removed from the discussion of genre tags, written manifestos, or aural history projects. Some kids want to make loud noises because it's fun. There are too many of those to count in Skeleton."

Kelley Stoltz

To Dreamers

Rock

Paul Thompson

Kelley Stoltz does a mean Brian Wilson, a half-decent Roger McGuinn, a spot-on Marc Bolan. He's got a Tom Petty, a Nick Drake, and a David Bowie that wouldn't get him kicked out of Vegas. Throughout Stoltz's decade-plus career, one name that hasn't always found its way into the discussion is his own; too often bedraggled by their influences, his songs-- never less than competent juxtapositions of glam, folk-rock, orchestral pop, and hints of proto-psych-- can feel like the work of a gifted stylist searching for a style to call his own. Stoltz's latest, To Dreamers, finds him dressing down the pocket symphonies that marked his two previous Sub Pop efforts, throwing a little more grease and grit at his well-oiled tunes. To Dreamers is one of Stoltz's most satisfying efforts to date, sounding bolder and more invigorated than nearly anything before it. Yet, when Stoltz sneers "Do you want to rock'n'roll with me?", exactly who's doing the asking gets a little lost in the tune's glammy shuffle. Stoltz, a San Francisco mainstay with a decidedly backward-looking sound, has watched a little like-minded scene build up around him over the last few years; the Bay Area's been hemorrhaging great psych-pop revival acts of late, many of whom Stoltz can count as friends and collaborators. Bands like Sonny & the Sunsets (for whom Stoltz has been drumming) and the Fresh & Onlys may, like Stoltz, have the dust settings in their tube amps dialed in just so, and To Dreamers' uptick in rockers slots it in nicely with this scene. But the standouts in this crowd are cutting their retro pastiche with daring, funny, distinctive songcraft that tends to obscure any notions of excessive borrowing. To Dreamers' homespun style and its uptick in straight-up rockers slots it in nicely with this thriving scene, especially as Stoltz moves away from Nick Drake delicacy and Brian Wilson idolatry towards a looser, rockier sound. But no matter who he's gunning for, the ever-adaptable Stoltz, unlike some of his newfound contemporaries, still seems uncomfortable peeling off the costumes and letting a little more of himself shine through. Like his previous work, To Dreamers is a mostly solitary pursuit, with Stoltz handling the lion's share of instrumentation and production himself. Yet even alone in the studio, Stoltz tends to get crowded out by his influences. His voice-- generally easygoing yet plenty chameleonic-- tends to adapt to the style of the music he's emulating; he drawls and draws out syllables like Petty on "Keeping the Flame", channels Ray Davies' terse early delivery on the Kinksish "Little Girl", and while he stops short of karaoke, there is a sense that this one's the Bowie song, this one's the T. Rex, and so forth. Lyrically, Stoltz isn't so much a phrase-turner as a place-setter, opting for the kind of identifiable sentiment that marks many of his influences; he may land a chorus in your head, but chances are you won't be taking the verse lyrics with you. His melodies are unwaveringly graceful, good humored, approachable; they're just not all that arresting on a case-by-case basis, and time and again, the best moves on To Dreamers seem channeled from anywhere but Stoltz's cellar. To Dreamers hinges around "Baby I've Got News For You", a cover of a shuffly 1965 number from British garage-popster "Big Boy" Pete Miller. Miller himself appears on the track, laying down some guitar through the very same amp on which he recorded the original. Perhaps in deference to his special guest, Stoltz's "Baby" is awfully faithful; it's a nice song in either context, but if you've only got one life to live, the Miller version's a little pluckier, and better for it. The tune plugs along charmingly enough until its bridge, at which point Stoltz and Miller sing, "Some folks are content to exist in a small tent/ I want a mansion with room for expansion." It's an unusually strident, ambitious statement for the modest Stoltz; no wonder he didn't write it. To Dreamers seems to suggest that Stoltz really is content in his little world, crafting elaborate, enjoyable enough mash notes to his favorite records in his basement.

Artist: Kelley Stoltz, Album: To Dreamers, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Kelley Stoltz does a mean Brian Wilson, a half-decent Roger McGuinn, a spot-on Marc Bolan. He's got a Tom Petty, a Nick Drake, and a David Bowie that wouldn't get him kicked out of Vegas. Throughout Stoltz's decade-plus career, one name that hasn't always found its way into the discussion is his own; too often bedraggled by their influences, his songs-- never less than competent juxtapositions of glam, folk-rock, orchestral pop, and hints of proto-psych-- can feel like the work of a gifted stylist searching for a style to call his own. Stoltz's latest, To Dreamers, finds him dressing down the pocket symphonies that marked his two previous Sub Pop efforts, throwing a little more grease and grit at his well-oiled tunes. To Dreamers is one of Stoltz's most satisfying efforts to date, sounding bolder and more invigorated than nearly anything before it. Yet, when Stoltz sneers "Do you want to rock'n'roll with me?", exactly who's doing the asking gets a little lost in the tune's glammy shuffle. Stoltz, a San Francisco mainstay with a decidedly backward-looking sound, has watched a little like-minded scene build up around him over the last few years; the Bay Area's been hemorrhaging great psych-pop revival acts of late, many of whom Stoltz can count as friends and collaborators. Bands like Sonny & the Sunsets (for whom Stoltz has been drumming) and the Fresh & Onlys may, like Stoltz, have the dust settings in their tube amps dialed in just so, and To Dreamers' uptick in rockers slots it in nicely with this scene. But the standouts in this crowd are cutting their retro pastiche with daring, funny, distinctive songcraft that tends to obscure any notions of excessive borrowing. To Dreamers' homespun style and its uptick in straight-up rockers slots it in nicely with this thriving scene, especially as Stoltz moves away from Nick Drake delicacy and Brian Wilson idolatry towards a looser, rockier sound. But no matter who he's gunning for, the ever-adaptable Stoltz, unlike some of his newfound contemporaries, still seems uncomfortable peeling off the costumes and letting a little more of himself shine through. Like his previous work, To Dreamers is a mostly solitary pursuit, with Stoltz handling the lion's share of instrumentation and production himself. Yet even alone in the studio, Stoltz tends to get crowded out by his influences. His voice-- generally easygoing yet plenty chameleonic-- tends to adapt to the style of the music he's emulating; he drawls and draws out syllables like Petty on "Keeping the Flame", channels Ray Davies' terse early delivery on the Kinksish "Little Girl", and while he stops short of karaoke, there is a sense that this one's the Bowie song, this one's the T. Rex, and so forth. Lyrically, Stoltz isn't so much a phrase-turner as a place-setter, opting for the kind of identifiable sentiment that marks many of his influences; he may land a chorus in your head, but chances are you won't be taking the verse lyrics with you. His melodies are unwaveringly graceful, good humored, approachable; they're just not all that arresting on a case-by-case basis, and time and again, the best moves on To Dreamers seem channeled from anywhere but Stoltz's cellar. To Dreamers hinges around "Baby I've Got News For You", a cover of a shuffly 1965 number from British garage-popster "Big Boy" Pete Miller. Miller himself appears on the track, laying down some guitar through the very same amp on which he recorded the original. Perhaps in deference to his special guest, Stoltz's "Baby" is awfully faithful; it's a nice song in either context, but if you've only got one life to live, the Miller version's a little pluckier, and better for it. The tune plugs along charmingly enough until its bridge, at which point Stoltz and Miller sing, "Some folks are content to exist in a small tent/ I want a mansion with room for expansion." It's an unusually strident, ambitious statement for the modest Stoltz; no wonder he didn't write it. To Dreamers seems to suggest that Stoltz really is content in his little world, crafting elaborate, enjoyable enough mash notes to his favorite records in his basement."

Bardo Pond

On the Ellipse

Rock

Andrew Bryant

Music Criticism 225: Understanding Psychedelic Music in the Aftermath of Post-Rock August 12th, 2003 Test Three MULTIPLE CHOICE. Read the following questions and select the best answer from the options listed below. 01. Given the following description of a track from Bardo Pond's recent ATP release On the Ellipse, indicate the song title and emotional hue in which the work metaphorically bathes you. "Beginning with a melody laid out sparingly by a somber acoustic guitar-- so intimately close you can hear nimble fingers sliding on the greased frets-- the song builds on its base with calculated, yet never forced harmonies, in part courtesy of the ethereal and omnipresent wind. After an appropriately soothing lull, the droning crash manifests as the rhythm section propels itself into the spotlight, lasting until the song's lumbering end. (a) "Killing All The Flies", no...Happy Songs For Happy People + Green. (b) "Every Man" + Black. (c) That song with the paper-thin allegory + Grey. (d) All of the above. (e) None of the above. 02. You're at a concert. A hot Earth Mother-looking woman is playing Sabbath riffs on a flute set against a wavering guitar line. Drum and bass work together to draw out overarching stomps of pure noise and energy that eventually form a blistering, dense wall. What is the name of the band you are watching, what song are they playing, and what is the concordant sexual position to accompany intimate listening to said song? (a) Fleetwood Mac + "Say You Love Me" + The Butterfly (b) Bardo Pond + "Dom's Lament" + Missionary (c) Slint + (the song the group would have made had they contracted a female band-member as advertised in the liner notes of Spiderland) + Gemini (d) I don't know. Personally, I only take note of clarinet players, what with their tighter embouchure and greater tongue control. (e) None of the above. MATCHING. Match the following artist with their band role. 1. Isobelle Sollenberger 2. Michael Gibbons 3. Clint Takeda 4. John Gibbons 5. Joe Culver (a) Guitar 1 (b) Guitar 2 (c) Vocalist/Flautist (d) Drummer (e) Bassist PASSAGE INTERPRETATION. Answer the following questions based upon analysis of the given excerpt. "...similar to Janis Joplin fronting Acid Mothers Temple buried underneath a fog of dense instrumentation. A tumultuous guitar chimes in to wonderful effect, as Isobelle's voice fluctuates from meek humility to forceful gusto, building toward a plump bass line that slides "Test" into silent acquiescence. "JD" and "Walking Clouds" both make use of the dry ambience of their recording atmosphere, the former eventually laying on thick electric reverb in lieu of its introductory acoustic sound, the latter content to muddle on the six-string like a less complex John Fahey. To this mixture "Clouds" also adds a faint human sighing/humming, acting as the constant, lesser companion to a flourishing flute melody, a tune that constantly has to fight for fresh air over the entire second half of the track. The heavy hitter comes last: "Night Of Frogs" ends the album on a deservedly high note. After a guitar- and effects-laden false intro, the song eventually begins with the light plucking and strumming of an acoustic guitar, laying the foundation for a melody that will eventually be eaten alive by song's end. Atop a full load of odd percussion, Isobelle expounds on the uneasy topic of mortality and the speed with which one's time passes on Earth, slowly leading the listener into the belly of the beast as bongos usher in the inevitable and desirable crash and crescendo of the fully orchestrated band. The frontal assault is slowly deflated until the song's relatively peaceful end, leaving one nearly as grateful for the conclusion as the experience itself. 01. What is the reviewer's general attitude of the work in question? (a) Overall distaste with strong leanings toward hatred. (b) Ambivalence-- why should such a small wrinkle in the fabric of music cause a stir one way or the other? (c) Strong regard for the composition-- album of the year material. (d) Lukewarm acceptance of an on par work, produced by a decidedly enjoyable band. 02. Based upon the above critique, would you: (a) Agree with the reviewer. Though the fusion of jam band mentality does fortuitously jell with the ebb and flow of post-rock instrumental techniques, at times this mixture can highlight the more undesirable characteristics of both musical genres. (b) Disagree with the reviewer. This is stoner-rock at its epitome; the reviewer needs to toke up or get out. (c) Strongly disagree with the reviewer. Expect a flurry of emails attempting to ridicule the haphazard opining of said miscreant. (d) Neither agree or disagree.

Artist: Bardo Pond, Album: On the Ellipse, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Music Criticism 225: Understanding Psychedelic Music in the Aftermath of Post-Rock August 12th, 2003 Test Three MULTIPLE CHOICE. Read the following questions and select the best answer from the options listed below. 01. Given the following description of a track from Bardo Pond's recent ATP release On the Ellipse, indicate the song title and emotional hue in which the work metaphorically bathes you. "Beginning with a melody laid out sparingly by a somber acoustic guitar-- so intimately close you can hear nimble fingers sliding on the greased frets-- the song builds on its base with calculated, yet never forced harmonies, in part courtesy of the ethereal and omnipresent wind. After an appropriately soothing lull, the droning crash manifests as the rhythm section propels itself into the spotlight, lasting until the song's lumbering end. (a) "Killing All The Flies", no...Happy Songs For Happy People + Green. (b) "Every Man" + Black. (c) That song with the paper-thin allegory + Grey. (d) All of the above. (e) None of the above. 02. You're at a concert. A hot Earth Mother-looking woman is playing Sabbath riffs on a flute set against a wavering guitar line. Drum and bass work together to draw out overarching stomps of pure noise and energy that eventually form a blistering, dense wall. What is the name of the band you are watching, what song are they playing, and what is the concordant sexual position to accompany intimate listening to said song? (a) Fleetwood Mac + "Say You Love Me" + The Butterfly (b) Bardo Pond + "Dom's Lament" + Missionary (c) Slint + (the song the group would have made had they contracted a female band-member as advertised in the liner notes of Spiderland) + Gemini (d) I don't know. Personally, I only take note of clarinet players, what with their tighter embouchure and greater tongue control. (e) None of the above. MATCHING. Match the following artist with their band role. 1. Isobelle Sollenberger 2. Michael Gibbons 3. Clint Takeda 4. John Gibbons 5. Joe Culver (a) Guitar 1 (b) Guitar 2 (c) Vocalist/Flautist (d) Drummer (e) Bassist PASSAGE INTERPRETATION. Answer the following questions based upon analysis of the given excerpt. "...similar to Janis Joplin fronting Acid Mothers Temple buried underneath a fog of dense instrumentation. A tumultuous guitar chimes in to wonderful effect, as Isobelle's voice fluctuates from meek humility to forceful gusto, building toward a plump bass line that slides "Test" into silent acquiescence. "JD" and "Walking Clouds" both make use of the dry ambience of their recording atmosphere, the former eventually laying on thick electric reverb in lieu of its introductory acoustic sound, the latter content to muddle on the six-string like a less complex John Fahey. To this mixture "Clouds" also adds a faint human sighing/humming, acting as the constant, lesser companion to a flourishing flute melody, a tune that constantly has to fight for fresh air over the entire second half of the track. The heavy hitter comes last: "Night Of Frogs" ends the album on a deservedly high note. After a guitar- and effects-laden false intro, the song eventually begins with the light plucking and strumming of an acoustic guitar, laying the foundation for a melody that will eventually be eaten alive by song's end. Atop a full load of odd percussion, Isobelle expounds on the uneasy topic of mortality and the speed with which one's time passes on Earth, slowly leading the listener into the belly of the beast as bongos usher in the inevitable and desirable crash and crescendo of the fully orchestrated band. The frontal assault is slowly deflated until the song's relatively peaceful end, leaving one nearly as grateful for the conclusion as the experience itself. 01. What is the reviewer's general attitude of the work in question? (a) Overall distaste with strong leanings toward hatred. (b) Ambivalence-- why should such a small wrinkle in the fabric of music cause a stir one way or the other? (c) Strong regard for the composition-- album of the year material. (d) Lukewarm acceptance of an on par work, produced by a decidedly enjoyable band. 02. Based upon the above critique, would you: (a) Agree with the reviewer. Though the fusion of jam band mentality does fortuitously jell with the ebb and flow of post-rock instrumental techniques, at times this mixture can highlight the more undesirable characteristics of both musical genres. (b) Disagree with the reviewer. This is stoner-rock at its epitome; the reviewer needs to toke up or get out. (c) Strongly disagree with the reviewer. Expect a flurry of emails attempting to ridicule the haphazard opining of said miscreant. (d) Neither agree or disagree."

The Roots

The Roots Come Alive

Rap

Taylor M. Clark

On a stormy eve in recent history, the legendary Roots crew deigned to pay a visit to the illustrious educational institution that I attend, which happens to be overwhelmingly white. The Roots, if you didn't know, are overwhelmingly black, which made for quite an interesting evening. 'Fork editor Ryan had sent me The Roots Come Alive for review, so I felt it my duty as a critic to pay far too much cash in order to bear witness to this live music phenomenon. And what a spectacle it was. As the seething throng of white bodies lurched quasi-rhythmically to the abundance of soul presented on stage, I began to wonder if The Roots really felt compelled to try very hard to impress the crowd. I would imagine that this is something of a burning question for The Roots, who play a massive 250 shows each year. They could be doing crossword puzzles up there while halfheartedly rapping, and the vast majority of the crowd would still be jumping around madly. This particular crowd was so thoroughly unfunky that when Black Thought thrust the mic toward the crowd for an exhaustively planned and explained "rock, rock on" for the tenth time, the crowd still seemed genuinely surprised and temporarily stunned. So something just seems fundamentally askew when, for example, Black Thought busts out with a "y'all wit' me, Switzerland?" after an ill groove on The Roots Come Alive. Grandmaster Flash would roll over in his grave, and he's not even dead yet. Regardless, The Roots' devastatingly funky show is represented pretty accurately on The Roots Come Alive. The problem with this record is that the group is fairly rugged and raw, replete with their live instrumentation, on their proper LPs. Thus, a live album by The Roots adds very little beyond crowd noise and many extra "y'know what I'm sayin'"s. The songs are more or less faithfully recreated, with highlights being the creative beatboxing and vocal scratching that are absent from the originals. Black Thought continues to be one of the most intelligent and skilled MCs in the business, but this is no more apparent here than on their prior works. For the amount of talent ?uestlove has, the beats he throws down are too often trite, with a hard snare hit inevitably falling on counts two and four. He does break it down for the people on "You Got Me", just as he does on the Things Fall Apart version, but such moments are too few and far between. The primary appeal of The Roots Come Alive for fanatics is the inclusion of two new studio recordings on the disc, the weaker of which also appears on the soundtrack to The Best Man. (You're about as likely to remember this Taye Diggs classic as you are to recall The Wood.) On "The Lesson-- Part III", however, The Roots are in top form, offering a promising vision of continued mastery on forthcoming records. Overall, though, a live album should be awfully exceptional in execution or reinvention to garner a high rating, regardless of the quality of the original tracks. As fresh as The Roots can be onstage, this performance resembles the majority of other live records on the shelves today-- it's merely average when held against the studio material.

Artist: The Roots, Album: The Roots Come Alive, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 5.7 Album review: "On a stormy eve in recent history, the legendary Roots crew deigned to pay a visit to the illustrious educational institution that I attend, which happens to be overwhelmingly white. The Roots, if you didn't know, are overwhelmingly black, which made for quite an interesting evening. 'Fork editor Ryan had sent me The Roots Come Alive for review, so I felt it my duty as a critic to pay far too much cash in order to bear witness to this live music phenomenon. And what a spectacle it was. As the seething throng of white bodies lurched quasi-rhythmically to the abundance of soul presented on stage, I began to wonder if The Roots really felt compelled to try very hard to impress the crowd. I would imagine that this is something of a burning question for The Roots, who play a massive 250 shows each year. They could be doing crossword puzzles up there while halfheartedly rapping, and the vast majority of the crowd would still be jumping around madly. This particular crowd was so thoroughly unfunky that when Black Thought thrust the mic toward the crowd for an exhaustively planned and explained "rock, rock on" for the tenth time, the crowd still seemed genuinely surprised and temporarily stunned. So something just seems fundamentally askew when, for example, Black Thought busts out with a "y'all wit' me, Switzerland?" after an ill groove on The Roots Come Alive. Grandmaster Flash would roll over in his grave, and he's not even dead yet. Regardless, The Roots' devastatingly funky show is represented pretty accurately on The Roots Come Alive. The problem with this record is that the group is fairly rugged and raw, replete with their live instrumentation, on their proper LPs. Thus, a live album by The Roots adds very little beyond crowd noise and many extra "y'know what I'm sayin'"s. The songs are more or less faithfully recreated, with highlights being the creative beatboxing and vocal scratching that are absent from the originals. Black Thought continues to be one of the most intelligent and skilled MCs in the business, but this is no more apparent here than on their prior works. For the amount of talent ?uestlove has, the beats he throws down are too often trite, with a hard snare hit inevitably falling on counts two and four. He does break it down for the people on "You Got Me", just as he does on the Things Fall Apart version, but such moments are too few and far between. The primary appeal of The Roots Come Alive for fanatics is the inclusion of two new studio recordings on the disc, the weaker of which also appears on the soundtrack to The Best Man. (You're about as likely to remember this Taye Diggs classic as you are to recall The Wood.) On "The Lesson-- Part III", however, The Roots are in top form, offering a promising vision of continued mastery on forthcoming records. Overall, though, a live album should be awfully exceptional in execution or reinvention to garner a high rating, regardless of the quality of the original tracks. As fresh as The Roots can be onstage, this performance resembles the majority of other live records on the shelves today-- it's merely average when held against the studio material."

Tyondai Braxton

Central Market

Electronic

Andy Battaglia

Tyondai Braxton has been making music, patiently and maybe a bit pensively, in New York for most of the past decade, both in the ecstatic prog-rock band Battles and as an occasional loop-mining solo artist who can summon the sound of several bands over. None of his music has been small, and none of it has lacked for promise. But none of it even began to foretell the scale and sweep of Central Market. Central Market is a big album for an age that has acquainted itself with thinking small about the album both as a vessel for sound and as a standard-bearer for new aesthetic vision. It's big in the sense that it's orchestral-- made in part with the Wordless Music Orchestra, a rangy New York ensemble proficient with everything from strings and xylophones to flutes and kazoos. But Central Market proves bigger in the sense that it's clearly been delivered as a statement record-- a summation of lots of ideas accrued over the years and lots of restless thinking about how best to engage those ideas in ways far from expected. Braxton came up around the start of the 2000s in the same underground folds that fostered Black Dice and Animal Collective. He wrote music that shared certain rustle-y, ritualistic traits with the early work of both, but Braxton was also more expressive from the start. Especially at startling (and all too rare) live shows that would find him sitting solo on a floor with a mess of effects and a microphone, he would layer loops upon loops of guitar sounds with vocals that he would bellow-- like some strange fusion of formless noise-music with the pent-up goth squirm of Morrissey or Robert Smith. Vocals of the sort don't wander often into Central Market, but the emotive tilt of them figures into arrangements that address many shades of meaning and mood. "Opening Bell" begins it all with an expectant piano trill that builds as it couples with gamely whistling, dark electric guitar, and golden horns, all before spreading into a bright fantasia of strings played within the deep space of the most accomplished classical music. Braxton has a conservatory background and, maybe more importantly, a well-thumbed copy of The Rest Is Noise: Listening to the Twentieth Century. Indeed, echoes of that book-- a suggestive survey of modern classical music by storied New Yorker critic Alex Ross-- linger in scores that evoke the studiousness and sonic spread of composers like Igor Stravinsky, Olivier Messiaen, György Ligeti, and many others who addressed both the state of the world and the very idea of "music" at its semiotic core. Not that stoking seriousness is Central Market's sole province. Some of the barely recognizable vocalese in tracks like "Uffe's Woodshop" plays like the kind of almost goofy voice-pitch games that Braxton has played in Battles, a band he's helped rescue from what could otherwise be a mere triumph of rock technicians. And the ways that slide whistles and kazoos dance around portentous guitar in a track like "The Duck and the Butcher" make much of their sourcing from, well, slide whistles and kazoos. Some of the album is experimental and sly, but most of Central Market is searchingly big and magnanimous. The centerpiece, "Platinum Rows", flits through stately reserve and composed chaos over 10-plus minutes, given to deep drama and comic celebration that thrive as both for not really showing their cards as either. And as the mood constricts and descends into darkness toward the end-- especially in the guitar/vocal-based "J. City", the only song that could be classed as rock at all-- Braxton stumps well for an internal logic at play from the beginning. How that logic manifests itself throughout can prove stunning at times and a bit scattered at others-- but it's always, in ways that count as an important achievement in the end, a galvanizing surprise.

Artist: Tyondai Braxton, Album: Central Market, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Tyondai Braxton has been making music, patiently and maybe a bit pensively, in New York for most of the past decade, both in the ecstatic prog-rock band Battles and as an occasional loop-mining solo artist who can summon the sound of several bands over. None of his music has been small, and none of it has lacked for promise. But none of it even began to foretell the scale and sweep of Central Market. Central Market is a big album for an age that has acquainted itself with thinking small about the album both as a vessel for sound and as a standard-bearer for new aesthetic vision. It's big in the sense that it's orchestral-- made in part with the Wordless Music Orchestra, a rangy New York ensemble proficient with everything from strings and xylophones to flutes and kazoos. But Central Market proves bigger in the sense that it's clearly been delivered as a statement record-- a summation of lots of ideas accrued over the years and lots of restless thinking about how best to engage those ideas in ways far from expected. Braxton came up around the start of the 2000s in the same underground folds that fostered Black Dice and Animal Collective. He wrote music that shared certain rustle-y, ritualistic traits with the early work of both, but Braxton was also more expressive from the start. Especially at startling (and all too rare) live shows that would find him sitting solo on a floor with a mess of effects and a microphone, he would layer loops upon loops of guitar sounds with vocals that he would bellow-- like some strange fusion of formless noise-music with the pent-up goth squirm of Morrissey or Robert Smith. Vocals of the sort don't wander often into Central Market, but the emotive tilt of them figures into arrangements that address many shades of meaning and mood. "Opening Bell" begins it all with an expectant piano trill that builds as it couples with gamely whistling, dark electric guitar, and golden horns, all before spreading into a bright fantasia of strings played within the deep space of the most accomplished classical music. Braxton has a conservatory background and, maybe more importantly, a well-thumbed copy of The Rest Is Noise: Listening to the Twentieth Century. Indeed, echoes of that book-- a suggestive survey of modern classical music by storied New Yorker critic Alex Ross-- linger in scores that evoke the studiousness and sonic spread of composers like Igor Stravinsky, Olivier Messiaen, György Ligeti, and many others who addressed both the state of the world and the very idea of "music" at its semiotic core. Not that stoking seriousness is Central Market's sole province. Some of the barely recognizable vocalese in tracks like "Uffe's Woodshop" plays like the kind of almost goofy voice-pitch games that Braxton has played in Battles, a band he's helped rescue from what could otherwise be a mere triumph of rock technicians. And the ways that slide whistles and kazoos dance around portentous guitar in a track like "The Duck and the Butcher" make much of their sourcing from, well, slide whistles and kazoos. Some of the album is experimental and sly, but most of Central Market is searchingly big and magnanimous. The centerpiece, "Platinum Rows", flits through stately reserve and composed chaos over 10-plus minutes, given to deep drama and comic celebration that thrive as both for not really showing their cards as either. And as the mood constricts and descends into darkness toward the end-- especially in the guitar/vocal-based "J. City", the only song that could be classed as rock at all-- Braxton stumps well for an internal logic at play from the beginning. How that logic manifests itself throughout can prove stunning at times and a bit scattered at others-- but it's always, in ways that count as an important achievement in the end, a galvanizing surprise."

Chance the Rapper

Acid Rap

Rap

Jeff Weiss

In another world, you can imagine Chance the Rapper lip-syncing “Twist and Shout” at Chicago’s Von Steuben Day parade, surrounded by frauleins doing the money dance. You can visualize a rap game Ferris Bueller: arms outstretched to snare a foul ball, staring stoned at Seurat, ducking fascist educators, and oblivious parents with cinematic ease. You can hear his impression of Abe Froman, sausage king of Chicago, and it’s pitch-perfect. Barely out of his teens, Chancelor Bennett has already transformed himself from a suspended high school student to the young Chicago rapper universally adored among "sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wasteoids, dweebies, and dickheads." The release of last week’s Acid Rap triggered such intense demand that it crashed both hosting site Audiomack and Windy City rap agora Fake Shore Drive. Cops recently banned Chance from two separate high school parking lots after mobs formed once kids discovered he was on campus. But life rarely parallels a John Hughes script. Unlike Bueller, Chance actually got caught skipping school, a 10-day sabbatical that inspired his first mixtape, last year’s #10Day. His neighborhood of West Chatham might not be the worst in a city whose alias is Chiraq, but it’s still South Side and far removed from baronial Highland Park. The drugs are high-velocity, the slang is crisper, and in this scenario, Cameron dies. The victim was Rodney Kyles Jr., a close friend who Chance saw get stabbed to death one gruesome night. His memory haunts Acid Rap. On “Juice”, Chance mourns his inability to “be the same since Rod passed.” On “Acid Rain”, he still hears screams and sees “his demons in empty hallways.” The circumstances aren’t necessarily unique. Last year, Chicago murders outnumbered American casualties in Afghanistan. Drill stars, King Louie, Chief Keef, and Lil Durk have given the violence a public face with videos so dark they practically resemble a first-person shooter PS3 game set in Section 8. Acid Rap isn’t trying to be an alternative; it’s an attempt to encompass everything. There are shout outs, musical or lyrical, to practically every important Chicago tradition short of Thrill Jockey. It invites elements of classic soul, juke, gospel, blues-rock, drill, acid jazz, house, ragtime scat, and R. Kelly, Twista, and a young Kanye to the same open mic poetry night, where the kid on-stage is declaiming about what’s going unreported. Its genius is that he somehow makes this work. The structure is as expansive and freewheeling as any strange trip. Acid Rap is a less about the attempt to break on through than a way of describing the hallucinatory shades, transitory revelations, and cigarette burns of the journey. You can get off or on the bus at any juncture. There is no ideology or orthodoxy. No arbitrary binaries between conscious or gangster, apostle or agnostic. Freaks and free thinkers are accepted. Chance understands that those who are frightening are often frightened, too. He comes off as a guy who could find something in common with anyone but a high school principal. Chance mixes nostalgia with a nasal tone as effectively as almost anyone since the Pharcyde. He’s only 20, but “Cocoa Butter Kisses” laments the days of bright-orange Rugrats cassettes and Chuck E. Cheese pizza. It could come off like sentimental back-in-the-day cliché, but there’s a street-smart edge that holds the cheesiness in check. He puts Visine in his eyes so his grandmother won’t know he’s high, acknowledges his addictions, and invites Twista to play the smoked-out, speed-rap, O.G. Jedi. The guest spots mirror the funhouse characters you’d expect to meet on a memorable acid excursion. Action Bronson offers instant quotables on “NaNa”, sticking out his tongue, slicking back his hair like Rick Pitino, and peeling out in an El Camino with three Japanese lesbians. Ab-Soul plays the shadowy street pharmacist in the liquor store parking lot, opening up the trunk of his Dodge to offer grass, acid, and offside soccer metaphors. Chance’s Save Money crew partner, Vic Mensa and Childish Gambino act as effective co-conspirators. Some ears won’t settle to Chance’s voice. It occasionally recalls an Animaniac playing the harmonica, a scat singer with a mean soft shoe routine, and/or Lil Wayne and Kendrick Lamar. The latter is his most obvious immediate predecessor and clearly, Chance owes him a stylistic and conceptual debt down to the parental voicemail of “Everything’s Good (Good Ass Outro)”. But Chance’s vocals are mostly modulated for effect not eccentricity. The cartoon squawk of first single “Juice” bears no resemblance to the mournful Caribbean Kaddish of “Acid Rain”. He leans on his hip-hop inspirations as homage. The intro and outro flip a Baptist hymn from an early Kanye mixtape track. The beat from A Tribe Called Quest’s “Sucka Nigga” is repurposed for “NaNa”. Slum Village’s “Fall in Love” serves as the base for “Everybody’s Something”. 2Pac gets rightful daps on “Juice”. While “Favorite Song” artfully nicks the sample from Mary J. Blige and Biggie’s “Real Love” (Remix). Even if the voice leaves you cold, you could be sold by the sheer sense of playfulness and love of language. Despite the weighty subtext, it’s often fun and life affirming. Chance stretches syllables to ToonTown lengths. He caroms them off each other like a pool hustler sinking trick shots. He’s a “tobacco-packing acrobat/packin’ bags back and forth with fifths of Jack.” You tend to get swept up in the youthful adrenaline rush like Lamar, mixtape Wayne, early Eminem, or Jay-Z in the ”22 Twos” era. To make sure he has his own spin, Chance stashes his own psychedelics and local slang (“thot,” “dino,” “hitters”). If Lamar’s good kid m.A.A.d city stoked tension through plot cliffhangers, home invasions, and ominous minor chords, Chance’s Acid Rap is a triumph of meditative moments, open-ended quests, and brass flares. The hooks are more jabs than uppercuts. None will probably bang in a club, but most will make sense live, as chanted back by a thousand fans. “Everybody dies in the summer, wanna say ya goodbyes, tell them while it’s spring,” Chance sings this with funereal drone on the second half of “Pusha Man”. It’s the line that keeps sticking in my head when I play the record on loop. It’s a requiem for those already dead and a warning about the imminent carnage coming soon. It’s this fleeting spring afternoon where Acid Rap seems to take place-- the last day off before adulthood-- after you’ve realized your mortality, but before your fate has been sealed. When you aren’t sure if you’re suppo

Artist: Chance the Rapper, Album: Acid Rap, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "In another world, you can imagine Chance the Rapper lip-syncing “Twist and Shout” at Chicago’s Von Steuben Day parade, surrounded by frauleins doing the money dance. You can visualize a rap game Ferris Bueller: arms outstretched to snare a foul ball, staring stoned at Seurat, ducking fascist educators, and oblivious parents with cinematic ease. You can hear his impression of Abe Froman, sausage king of Chicago, and it’s pitch-perfect. Barely out of his teens, Chancelor Bennett has already transformed himself from a suspended high school student to the young Chicago rapper universally adored among "sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wasteoids, dweebies, and dickheads." The release of last week’s Acid Rap triggered such intense demand that it crashed both hosting site Audiomack and Windy City rap agora Fake Shore Drive. Cops recently banned Chance from two separate high school parking lots after mobs formed once kids discovered he was on campus. But life rarely parallels a John Hughes script. Unlike Bueller, Chance actually got caught skipping school, a 10-day sabbatical that inspired his first mixtape, last year’s #10Day. His neighborhood of West Chatham might not be the worst in a city whose alias is Chiraq, but it’s still South Side and far removed from baronial Highland Park. The drugs are high-velocity, the slang is crisper, and in this scenario, Cameron dies. The victim was Rodney Kyles Jr., a close friend who Chance saw get stabbed to death one gruesome night. His memory haunts Acid Rap. On “Juice”, Chance mourns his inability to “be the same since Rod passed.” On “Acid Rain”, he still hears screams and sees “his demons in empty hallways.” The circumstances aren’t necessarily unique. Last year, Chicago murders outnumbered American casualties in Afghanistan. Drill stars, King Louie, Chief Keef, and Lil Durk have given the violence a public face with videos so dark they practically resemble a first-person shooter PS3 game set in Section 8. Acid Rap isn’t trying to be an alternative; it’s an attempt to encompass everything. There are shout outs, musical or lyrical, to practically every important Chicago tradition short of Thrill Jockey. It invites elements of classic soul, juke, gospel, blues-rock, drill, acid jazz, house, ragtime scat, and R. Kelly, Twista, and a young Kanye to the same open mic poetry night, where the kid on-stage is declaiming about what’s going unreported. Its genius is that he somehow makes this work. The structure is as expansive and freewheeling as any strange trip. Acid Rap is a less about the attempt to break on through than a way of describing the hallucinatory shades, transitory revelations, and cigarette burns of the journey. You can get off or on the bus at any juncture. There is no ideology or orthodoxy. No arbitrary binaries between conscious or gangster, apostle or agnostic. Freaks and free thinkers are accepted. Chance understands that those who are frightening are often frightened, too. He comes off as a guy who could find something in common with anyone but a high school principal. Chance mixes nostalgia with a nasal tone as effectively as almost anyone since the Pharcyde. He’s only 20, but “Cocoa Butter Kisses” laments the days of bright-orange Rugrats cassettes and Chuck E. Cheese pizza. It could come off like sentimental back-in-the-day cliché, but there’s a street-smart edge that holds the cheesiness in check. He puts Visine in his eyes so his grandmother won’t know he’s high, acknowledges his addictions, and invites Twista to play the smoked-out, speed-rap, O.G. Jedi. The guest spots mirror the funhouse characters you’d expect to meet on a memorable acid excursion. Action Bronson offers instant quotables on “NaNa”, sticking out his tongue, slicking back his hair like Rick Pitino, and peeling out in an El Camino with three Japanese lesbians. Ab-Soul plays the shadowy street pharmacist in the liquor store parking lot, opening up the trunk of his Dodge to offer grass, acid, and offside soccer metaphors. Chance’s Save Money crew partner, Vic Mensa and Childish Gambino act as effective co-conspirators. Some ears won’t settle to Chance’s voice. It occasionally recalls an Animaniac playing the harmonica, a scat singer with a mean soft shoe routine, and/or Lil Wayne and Kendrick Lamar. The latter is his most obvious immediate predecessor and clearly, Chance owes him a stylistic and conceptual debt down to the parental voicemail of “Everything’s Good (Good Ass Outro)”. But Chance’s vocals are mostly modulated for effect not eccentricity. The cartoon squawk of first single “Juice” bears no resemblance to the mournful Caribbean Kaddish of “Acid Rain”. He leans on his hip-hop inspirations as homage. The intro and outro flip a Baptist hymn from an early Kanye mixtape track. The beat from A Tribe Called Quest’s “Sucka Nigga” is repurposed for “NaNa”. Slum Village’s “Fall in Love” serves as the base for “Everybody’s Something”. 2Pac gets rightful daps on “Juice”. While “Favorite Song” artfully nicks the sample from Mary J. Blige and Biggie’s “Real Love” (Remix). Even if the voice leaves you cold, you could be sold by the sheer sense of playfulness and love of language. Despite the weighty subtext, it’s often fun and life affirming. Chance stretches syllables to ToonTown lengths. He caroms them off each other like a pool hustler sinking trick shots. He’s a “tobacco-packing acrobat/packin’ bags back and forth with fifths of Jack.” You tend to get swept up in the youthful adrenaline rush like Lamar, mixtape Wayne, early Eminem, or Jay-Z in the ”22 Twos” era. To make sure he has his own spin, Chance stashes his own psychedelics and local slang (“thot,” “dino,” “hitters”). If Lamar’s good kid m.A.A.d city stoked tension through plot cliffhangers, home invasions, and ominous minor chords, Chance’s Acid Rap is a triumph of meditative moments, open-ended quests, and brass flares. The hooks are more jabs than uppercuts. None will probably bang in a club, but most will make sense live, as chanted back by a thousand fans. “Everybody dies in the summer, wanna say ya goodbyes, tell them while it’s spring,” Chance sings this with funereal drone on the second half of “Pusha Man”. It’s the line that keeps sticking in my head when I play the record on loop. It’s a requiem for those already dead and a warning about the imminent carnage coming soon. It’s this fleeting spring afternoon where Acid Rap seems to take place-- the last day off before adulthood-- after you’ve realized your mortality, but before your fate has been sealed. When you aren’t sure if you’re suppo"

King Felix

Spring EP

Electronic

Jenn Pelly

Listen to music without someone's breakable body in mind. The Brooklyn-via-Ann Arbor electronic artist Laurel Halo recently posted this to Twitter, and after one month of listening to her precise new Spring EP, recorded under the name King Felix, the message remained lodged in my mind. The desire to distinguish one's art from the physical self could explain her move from an angelic moniker (Halo is an adopted name) to a more fierce and masculine one. And this idea is central to the new Mute imprint Liberation Technologies, a label founded to free artists of a sense of expectation, for which Spring is the premiere release. Following a pair of 12" EPs for the boutique electronic outpost Hippos in Tanks, as well as a cassette for micro-label NNA Tapes, Spring stands as Halo's most accessible and aggressive work to date, a case of masterful brain-space music that employs frightening bits of suspension at one moment and a more conventional, club-oriented 4/4 click at the next. Quickly paced, the EP is characterized partially by its movement and immediacy, with a sublime sonic build that finally harnesses the intensity of what Halo has achieved live for several years. The enormous organ samples that open "SPRING 01", reminiscent of those found on Klaus Schulze's Trancefer, pave the way for visceral beats that anchor the track's engrossing texture with jolting razor-sharp rips. On Halo's first release, the avant-pop King Felix EP, she said she used lyrics to "inject feeling" into electronic music; her voice then was widely compared to Enya. By her own standards, the instrumental Spring feels a bit less human and perhaps more mechanical. A warped vocal sample early on in "SPRING 01" seems to confirm that with its vocoded aesthetic, but it's a fleeting addition to the song, contributing just a bit of metallic mood. That the layers on Spring are so purposeful and well-edited enhances the sense of retro-futurism, sometimes bringing to mind first-wave jungle and later darkwave offshoots. This is especially apparent on "SPRING 03", an alternate version of "SPRING 01" that expands the track with added breathing room and recurring, primitive breakbeats. Because Halo is working on Spring within the context of science fiction-- "King Felix" is an allusion to the author Philip K. Dick's 1981 novel VALIS-- "SPRING 03" reminds me of a time loop, the broken-record sci-fi plot device where we re-live the same experiences (think Groundhog Day). The track's percussive focal-points emphasize that feeling of entrapment. And this sense of drama is heightened on the collection's final track, "Freak", a paranoid, experimental drone collage that presents three minutes of haunted, quavering synths. It feels not so much an afterthought as an afterword, with choral vocals lost under the noise. "SPRING 02", a classically structured ambient dance track with a futurist sheen, points to another time and place, specifically early R&S and Detroit techno. Spring, then, presents multiple personas over four tracks while still feeling coherent-- a skill that's becoming a signature across Halo's discography. The Philip K. Dick novel VALIS also deals with the shifting identities of a near-schizophrenic narrator, as well as the potential for pure, rational information to save man from the noise of everyday life. Halo said she tried to channel this "rational energy invasion" on the first King Felix release, and while Spring is a far cry from that EP's echo-laden synth pop, the connection is there, and the concept does feel newly interpreted. That clear-headed approach also makes Spring function similarly to the most accessible tracks from Oneohtrix Point Never's Replica. The hyper-feminine first track from Halo's upcoming Hyperdub debut suggests that Spring, despite its titular hints at rebirth, will likely be a standalone in her discography. And so the King Felix project is an example of an artist not afraid to toe bold new territory for the mere sake of exploration, if only for 18 minutes.

Artist: King Felix, Album: Spring EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Listen to music without someone's breakable body in mind. The Brooklyn-via-Ann Arbor electronic artist Laurel Halo recently posted this to Twitter, and after one month of listening to her precise new Spring EP, recorded under the name King Felix, the message remained lodged in my mind. The desire to distinguish one's art from the physical self could explain her move from an angelic moniker (Halo is an adopted name) to a more fierce and masculine one. And this idea is central to the new Mute imprint Liberation Technologies, a label founded to free artists of a sense of expectation, for which Spring is the premiere release. Following a pair of 12" EPs for the boutique electronic outpost Hippos in Tanks, as well as a cassette for micro-label NNA Tapes, Spring stands as Halo's most accessible and aggressive work to date, a case of masterful brain-space music that employs frightening bits of suspension at one moment and a more conventional, club-oriented 4/4 click at the next. Quickly paced, the EP is characterized partially by its movement and immediacy, with a sublime sonic build that finally harnesses the intensity of what Halo has achieved live for several years. The enormous organ samples that open "SPRING 01", reminiscent of those found on Klaus Schulze's Trancefer, pave the way for visceral beats that anchor the track's engrossing texture with jolting razor-sharp rips. On Halo's first release, the avant-pop King Felix EP, she said she used lyrics to "inject feeling" into electronic music; her voice then was widely compared to Enya. By her own standards, the instrumental Spring feels a bit less human and perhaps more mechanical. A warped vocal sample early on in "SPRING 01" seems to confirm that with its vocoded aesthetic, but it's a fleeting addition to the song, contributing just a bit of metallic mood. That the layers on Spring are so purposeful and well-edited enhances the sense of retro-futurism, sometimes bringing to mind first-wave jungle and later darkwave offshoots. This is especially apparent on "SPRING 03", an alternate version of "SPRING 01" that expands the track with added breathing room and recurring, primitive breakbeats. Because Halo is working on Spring within the context of science fiction-- "King Felix" is an allusion to the author Philip K. Dick's 1981 novel VALIS-- "SPRING 03" reminds me of a time loop, the broken-record sci-fi plot device where we re-live the same experiences (think Groundhog Day). The track's percussive focal-points emphasize that feeling of entrapment. And this sense of drama is heightened on the collection's final track, "Freak", a paranoid, experimental drone collage that presents three minutes of haunted, quavering synths. It feels not so much an afterthought as an afterword, with choral vocals lost under the noise. "SPRING 02", a classically structured ambient dance track with a futurist sheen, points to another time and place, specifically early R&S and Detroit techno. Spring, then, presents multiple personas over four tracks while still feeling coherent-- a skill that's becoming a signature across Halo's discography. The Philip K. Dick novel VALIS also deals with the shifting identities of a near-schizophrenic narrator, as well as the potential for pure, rational information to save man from the noise of everyday life. Halo said she tried to channel this "rational energy invasion" on the first King Felix release, and while Spring is a far cry from that EP's echo-laden synth pop, the connection is there, and the concept does feel newly interpreted. That clear-headed approach also makes Spring function similarly to the most accessible tracks from Oneohtrix Point Never's Replica. The hyper-feminine first track from Halo's upcoming Hyperdub debut suggests that Spring, despite its titular hints at rebirth, will likely be a standalone in her discography. And so the King Felix project is an example of an artist not afraid to toe bold new territory for the mere sake of exploration, if only for 18 minutes."

Rise Against

Siren Song of the Counter Culture

Marc Hogan

Dear Mr. Nader: I didn't understand why you were running for President again this year until I heard Chicago hardcore group Rise Against. Their major-label debut is called Siren Song for the Counter Culture, a title which seems to share your present level of subtlety and humility. As with you, their over-the-top bloviating for true believers is matched only by an eagerness to please their new corporate paymasters. Which reminds me: Do you think Ben Stein and his Republican friends could sponsor these guys, too? I'm sure you're already quite familiar with the lineage of punk rock. Nevertheless, indulge me for a moment. My Pitchfork colleague Rob Mitchum once wrote that punk split into two camps: the "goofy" punk of Green Day and Sum 41, and the political punk of Bad Religion or Propagandhi. It's a two-party system, see? That said, Rise Against are the Optimus Prime of modern punk, combining the adolescent yearning of Blink-182 with the self-righteous snare drums of Minor Threat, or something. You'll love it! Rise Against are Political! That much is clear. You can tell because the first track is called "State of the Union". A blistering hardcore number it is, too, with vocals reminiscent of the last time I forgot the all-important "liquor before beer before all-you-can-eat Chinese" rule. "Please secure your place in Hell," one of the band's two singers helpfully puke-sings. On the next track, "The First Drop", Rise Against earnestly remind us just how Political they are, with lyrics that always seem to end in exclamation points: They scream until their voice is gone! They've had enough! "Can't you listen to what we have to say?"! I'm sure somewhere in there they actually say something, but it's hard to tell. Of course, Rise Against are also Lovers! They can play the wounded adolescent just as skillfully as Saves the Day or former Fat Wreck Chords labelmates The Ataris. "Never have I felt so cold," they emote. Since you no longer have a party, Mr. Nader, I bet you're feeling lonely, too. You can imagine the sheer catharsis of "Paper Wings", with its soaring pop/punk chorus over the usual four chords from "Dammit". Apparently, there's this girl, the train isn't waiting for her, "and neither am I." The cheap teenage anguish is enough to make me want to break out my old MxPx records, until the Cheap Trick solo and gratuitous acoustic guitars remind me this song must be The Single. Nothing like greenbacks to wipe away your tears, whether caused by the green-eyed monster or just the Green Party. Rise Against are so multi-dimensional they offer a Jars-of-Clay-fronted-by-Gavin-Rossdale moment that proves what Chris Carrabba does actually takes talent: "Swing Life Away", a drearily unpoetic acoustic weeper about minimum wage and holding hands. How fucking hardcore is that, man? "Rumors of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated" swipes the perfect Morrissey song title to proclaim, "It's life that scares me to death." Whoa. But the band's true "siren song" is "Give It All", which sums up their big problem (and my main question about your candidacy). "There's a reason why I sing," they sing. "And it's these reasons that belong to me." So they're singing... why, again? I leave it to you, Mr. Nader.

Artist: Rise Against, Album: Siren Song of the Counter Culture, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 2.9 Album review: "Dear Mr. Nader: I didn't understand why you were running for President again this year until I heard Chicago hardcore group Rise Against. Their major-label debut is called Siren Song for the Counter Culture, a title which seems to share your present level of subtlety and humility. As with you, their over-the-top bloviating for true believers is matched only by an eagerness to please their new corporate paymasters. Which reminds me: Do you think Ben Stein and his Republican friends could sponsor these guys, too? I'm sure you're already quite familiar with the lineage of punk rock. Nevertheless, indulge me for a moment. My Pitchfork colleague Rob Mitchum once wrote that punk split into two camps: the "goofy" punk of Green Day and Sum 41, and the political punk of Bad Religion or Propagandhi. It's a two-party system, see? That said, Rise Against are the Optimus Prime of modern punk, combining the adolescent yearning of Blink-182 with the self-righteous snare drums of Minor Threat, or something. You'll love it! Rise Against are Political! That much is clear. You can tell because the first track is called "State of the Union". A blistering hardcore number it is, too, with vocals reminiscent of the last time I forgot the all-important "liquor before beer before all-you-can-eat Chinese" rule. "Please secure your place in Hell," one of the band's two singers helpfully puke-sings. On the next track, "The First Drop", Rise Against earnestly remind us just how Political they are, with lyrics that always seem to end in exclamation points: They scream until their voice is gone! They've had enough! "Can't you listen to what we have to say?"! I'm sure somewhere in there they actually say something, but it's hard to tell. Of course, Rise Against are also Lovers! They can play the wounded adolescent just as skillfully as Saves the Day or former Fat Wreck Chords labelmates The Ataris. "Never have I felt so cold," they emote. Since you no longer have a party, Mr. Nader, I bet you're feeling lonely, too. You can imagine the sheer catharsis of "Paper Wings", with its soaring pop/punk chorus over the usual four chords from "Dammit". Apparently, there's this girl, the train isn't waiting for her, "and neither am I." The cheap teenage anguish is enough to make me want to break out my old MxPx records, until the Cheap Trick solo and gratuitous acoustic guitars remind me this song must be The Single. Nothing like greenbacks to wipe away your tears, whether caused by the green-eyed monster or just the Green Party. Rise Against are so multi-dimensional they offer a Jars-of-Clay-fronted-by-Gavin-Rossdale moment that proves what Chris Carrabba does actually takes talent: "Swing Life Away", a drearily unpoetic acoustic weeper about minimum wage and holding hands. How fucking hardcore is that, man? "Rumors of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated" swipes the perfect Morrissey song title to proclaim, "It's life that scares me to death." Whoa. But the band's true "siren song" is "Give It All", which sums up their big problem (and my main question about your candidacy). "There's a reason why I sing," they sing. "And it's these reasons that belong to me." So they're singing... why, again? I leave it to you, Mr. Nader."

American Music Club

The Golden Age

Rock

Brian Howe

In 2004, American Music Club returned from a 10-year hiatus to release Love Songs for Patriots, an angry wartime record that occasionally abandoned their usual palette of soft grays and browns for a fiery-red crunch. On smoldering rockers like "Ladies and Gentlemen" and "Patriot's Heart", AMC's Mark Eitzel was a bar-stool prophet calling the nation to account for its moral hypocrisies and empty promises. These polemics, rendered as character sketches, were softened by the profound empathy the singer displayed toward his subjects. Four years later, we're still at war, and like many of us, Eitzel seems to have found his anger shading into weariness. There are still flashes of bile: "The Sleeping Beauty" makes time, amid its autumnal romanticism, to fire a potshot at "the bankers, the liars, and the thieves" that "want to sell you into a life of fear," while on "The Dance", a cop's sunglasses "show the world who's on the winning team." But by and large, The Golden Age is a relentlessly interior record, from the contemplative nature of its quiet arrangements to its dreamy, sentimental lyrics. Besides exceptionality and archetypal purity, golden ages are typified by brevity. As such, AMC's The Golden Age is appropriately obsessed with the hemorrhaging of time; many songs here find Eitzel grasping at the stuff even as it spurts through his fingers. "It's hard to love when you only see the dust," he mopes amid the wistful acoustic arpeggios of "All My Love". Eitzel's view of life as something one snatches from death's clutches, bit by bit, is the motif that drives the album. "Time is a current that only flows from warm hands to warm heart," he asserts on the darkly rushing "Decibels and Little Pills", after observing that "names are only good for grave stones." It's undeniable that, as a lyricist, Eitzel works in homilies and clichés. "The Sleeping Beauty" finds him driving over the dead leaves of a southern town, watching someone wave goodbye in his rearview mirror. On "The Stars", a monochromatic dirge with a prismatic rock chorus, he sings, "We marry our fear/ But what makes the night not so deep/ Is someone watching over us/ While we sleep." And on "Who You Are", he offers, "I'm stuck in my confusion/ I hope you'll go far/ You're chased by the horizon/ Because you know who you are." Frankly, these lyrics might be intolerable if melodrama were Eitzel's thing. But his gruff gentility, and his masterful command of his voice, redeems them. In going for the soft-sell, the light touch with the heavy sentiment, Eitzel doesn't try to make more of his truisms than they are, letting their time-worn wisdom carry their own weight. It's the same story with the music: AMC works a deceptively simplistic vein of shadowy Americana, characterized by seductive blurs of acoustic guitar, twinkling leads, and circular compositions that complement the album's obsession with the wheel of time. There's just enough variation to keep it from being homogeneous: "The John Berchman Victory Choir" proceeds as a series of pauses and flourishes, breaking the album's metronomic regularity; the organ-fueled "All the Lost Souls Welcome You to San Francisco" (one of a pair of picturesque odes to Eitzel's hometown) bounces instead of slinking; and "The Windows on the World", a character-driven meditation on the tourist's urge to scale great heights, sloshes woozily. American Music Club's central values-- humility, self-effacement through musical understatement, sentimental candor-- may be currently out of fashion, but The Golden Age proves that, handled with care, they never truly go out of style.

Artist: American Music Club, Album: The Golden Age, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "In 2004, American Music Club returned from a 10-year hiatus to release Love Songs for Patriots, an angry wartime record that occasionally abandoned their usual palette of soft grays and browns for a fiery-red crunch. On smoldering rockers like "Ladies and Gentlemen" and "Patriot's Heart", AMC's Mark Eitzel was a bar-stool prophet calling the nation to account for its moral hypocrisies and empty promises. These polemics, rendered as character sketches, were softened by the profound empathy the singer displayed toward his subjects. Four years later, we're still at war, and like many of us, Eitzel seems to have found his anger shading into weariness. There are still flashes of bile: "The Sleeping Beauty" makes time, amid its autumnal romanticism, to fire a potshot at "the bankers, the liars, and the thieves" that "want to sell you into a life of fear," while on "The Dance", a cop's sunglasses "show the world who's on the winning team." But by and large, The Golden Age is a relentlessly interior record, from the contemplative nature of its quiet arrangements to its dreamy, sentimental lyrics. Besides exceptionality and archetypal purity, golden ages are typified by brevity. As such, AMC's The Golden Age is appropriately obsessed with the hemorrhaging of time; many songs here find Eitzel grasping at the stuff even as it spurts through his fingers. "It's hard to love when you only see the dust," he mopes amid the wistful acoustic arpeggios of "All My Love". Eitzel's view of life as something one snatches from death's clutches, bit by bit, is the motif that drives the album. "Time is a current that only flows from warm hands to warm heart," he asserts on the darkly rushing "Decibels and Little Pills", after observing that "names are only good for grave stones." It's undeniable that, as a lyricist, Eitzel works in homilies and clichés. "The Sleeping Beauty" finds him driving over the dead leaves of a southern town, watching someone wave goodbye in his rearview mirror. On "The Stars", a monochromatic dirge with a prismatic rock chorus, he sings, "We marry our fear/ But what makes the night not so deep/ Is someone watching over us/ While we sleep." And on "Who You Are", he offers, "I'm stuck in my confusion/ I hope you'll go far/ You're chased by the horizon/ Because you know who you are." Frankly, these lyrics might be intolerable if melodrama were Eitzel's thing. But his gruff gentility, and his masterful command of his voice, redeems them. In going for the soft-sell, the light touch with the heavy sentiment, Eitzel doesn't try to make more of his truisms than they are, letting their time-worn wisdom carry their own weight. It's the same story with the music: AMC works a deceptively simplistic vein of shadowy Americana, characterized by seductive blurs of acoustic guitar, twinkling leads, and circular compositions that complement the album's obsession with the wheel of time. There's just enough variation to keep it from being homogeneous: "The John Berchman Victory Choir" proceeds as a series of pauses and flourishes, breaking the album's metronomic regularity; the organ-fueled "All the Lost Souls Welcome You to San Francisco" (one of a pair of picturesque odes to Eitzel's hometown) bounces instead of slinking; and "The Windows on the World", a character-driven meditation on the tourist's urge to scale great heights, sloshes woozily. American Music Club's central values-- humility, self-effacement through musical understatement, sentimental candor-- may be currently out of fashion, but The Golden Age proves that, handled with care, they never truly go out of style."

Psapp

The Only Thing I Ever Wanted

Electronic,Pop/R&B

Mark Richardson

Try listening to London-based duo Psapp through the ears of Alexandra Patsavas. She's the music supervisor for "The O.C.", which has had Psapp on its soundtrack, as well as for "Grey's Anatomy", which uses Psapp's "Cosy in the Rocket" as its theme song. Patsavas grew up in Chicago in the 1980s, so John Hughes' films likely informed her ideas of how pop music relates to drama. With this influence as a filter, the characteristics of the music Patsavas has helped popularize come in focus. The strand of cuddly electronic indie pop in particular-- characterized by the Postal Service and Psapp-- is being received as a tender sonic amplification of youthful angst. To my ears, the music is almost there, but something doesn't wash; I suspect technology itself, which enables so much music of this ilk, may be to blame. Sonically, the vast majority of this laptop pop is thin and brittle, a serious problem considering the desired effect. Take the home studio production of Psapp's second album, The Only Thing I Ever Wanted. Though it comes over as reasonably professional, its sound is boxy and static, which is odd since it's filled with wheezy organs and xylophones and keyboards of every stripe. All the instrumental variety is flattened somewhere inside the computer and the sounds become interchangeable. There's no dynamic range and thus the backing tracks provide no emotional cues. The "Strawberry Fields" organ and violin fills on "New Rubbers", for example, don't resonate the way they should. The problems are typical for producers whose idea of arrangement is loading samples onto the computer and dragging and dropping the various loops into place. The drab sound is a shame considering the well-constructed songs and Galia Durant's emerging strength as a vocalist. She's only 27 but she seems wise beyond her years. Her voice is knowing, confident, sly, and sexy; she's able to articulate subtle shades of mood. The tunes, though they need a couple of listens to sink in, are catchy in a very clever way. The melodies bring to mind Stereolab around the time of Dots and Loops-- accessible while accommodating diverse influences, with some surprising twists and turns. With its swoosh of strings and digital approximation of a horn section, the clever mid-tempo ballad "This Way" comes closest to the 'Lab standard. Elsewhere, Durant reminds me of Dani Siciliano, as in the way she phrases "Needle & Thread", her words artfully trailing off as she holds notes for an extra beat or two. But the stiff clatter of the production robs these fine songs of their vitality. Psapp has in the past recruited musician friends to help them present songs live; with any luck, for the next record they'll keep these musicians in the band and get together with a proper producer. Maybe ring up Sean O'Hagen to arrange some strings. This music cries out for warmth and space, and if it gets it, that classic teenflick poignancy is easily within Psapp's grasp.

Artist: Psapp, Album: The Only Thing I Ever Wanted, Genre: Electronic,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Try listening to London-based duo Psapp through the ears of Alexandra Patsavas. She's the music supervisor for "The O.C.", which has had Psapp on its soundtrack, as well as for "Grey's Anatomy", which uses Psapp's "Cosy in the Rocket" as its theme song. Patsavas grew up in Chicago in the 1980s, so John Hughes' films likely informed her ideas of how pop music relates to drama. With this influence as a filter, the characteristics of the music Patsavas has helped popularize come in focus. The strand of cuddly electronic indie pop in particular-- characterized by the Postal Service and Psapp-- is being received as a tender sonic amplification of youthful angst. To my ears, the music is almost there, but something doesn't wash; I suspect technology itself, which enables so much music of this ilk, may be to blame. Sonically, the vast majority of this laptop pop is thin and brittle, a serious problem considering the desired effect. Take the home studio production of Psapp's second album, The Only Thing I Ever Wanted. Though it comes over as reasonably professional, its sound is boxy and static, which is odd since it's filled with wheezy organs and xylophones and keyboards of every stripe. All the instrumental variety is flattened somewhere inside the computer and the sounds become interchangeable. There's no dynamic range and thus the backing tracks provide no emotional cues. The "Strawberry Fields" organ and violin fills on "New Rubbers", for example, don't resonate the way they should. The problems are typical for producers whose idea of arrangement is loading samples onto the computer and dragging and dropping the various loops into place. The drab sound is a shame considering the well-constructed songs and Galia Durant's emerging strength as a vocalist. She's only 27 but she seems wise beyond her years. Her voice is knowing, confident, sly, and sexy; she's able to articulate subtle shades of mood. The tunes, though they need a couple of listens to sink in, are catchy in a very clever way. The melodies bring to mind Stereolab around the time of Dots and Loops-- accessible while accommodating diverse influences, with some surprising twists and turns. With its swoosh of strings and digital approximation of a horn section, the clever mid-tempo ballad "This Way" comes closest to the 'Lab standard. Elsewhere, Durant reminds me of Dani Siciliano, as in the way she phrases "Needle & Thread", her words artfully trailing off as she holds notes for an extra beat or two. But the stiff clatter of the production robs these fine songs of their vitality. Psapp has in the past recruited musician friends to help them present songs live; with any luck, for the next record they'll keep these musicians in the band and get together with a proper producer. Maybe ring up Sean O'Hagen to arrange some strings. This music cries out for warmth and space, and if it gets it, that classic teenflick poignancy is easily within Psapp's grasp."

Miss Kittin & the Hacker

Two

David Raposa

Though she was working prior to this, it's safe to say Miss Kittin's career truly began with 2000's "Frank Sinatra". As career highlights go, never mind first bows, it's a pretty enviable one-- over the Hacker's brilliantly stupid rinky-dink ur-techno backdrop, Caroline Hervé speak-sings self-absorbed bon mots like "To be famous is so nice/ Suck my dick/ Kiss my ass," over and over with a dispassionate cadence. Miss Kittin's aloof sex-on-ice charisma, paired with synthesized tunes that exploited that detachment ("Stripper" and "Life on MTV" proving you can judge a book by its cover), made First Album a trailblazer for that like-it-or-lump-it music movement known as electroclash. So now, nearly a decade later, in a year that sees electroclash standard-bearers Fischerspooner and Peaches also release new albums, Miss Kittin & the Hacker reconvene for their purported follow-up to that debut, conveniently titled Two. Of course, there are some things to keep in mind when trying to paint this "reunion" as just that-- this isn't the first time Kittin & the Hacker have worked together since First Album (with the Hacker contributing beats to I Com and Batbox), and the Miss Kittin from the turn of the century isn't the same as the turn-of-the-decade version. Just look at some of the song titles from Two-- "The Womb", "Emotional Interlude", "Inutile Éternité" (French for "useless eternity"), "Suspicious Minds". And, yes, that's Elvis Presley's "Suspicious Minds" that the duo is tackling, and they're doing it in a straight-faced manner. Now given the ways and means of Kittin & the Hacker, "straight-faced" might not be the best description for this cover, but if it's possible to do a techno'd version of "Suspicious Minds" straight, then by gum they're doing it as well as they can. Which is to say, not very well at all, unless you're partial to Eurodisco karaoke. Accouterments aside, the distance between Sinatra and Presley-- as heartthrob icons, pop music iconoclasts, or Vegas showmen-- is probably minuscule. But the distance between the cultured self-aware cool of "Frank Sinatra" (or First Album as a whole) and the oblivious earnestness of "Suspicious Minds" could be measured in light years. It's a distance that's only accentuated by this record's superficial attempt to hearken back to the duo's glory days. But folks that kept up with Kittin's post-First output already know about the conflict between what she does best (the cooler-than-you kiss-off) and what she seemingly wants to be. On Two, only "PPPO" sidesteps that tar pit, mostly because Kittin's vocal input is limited to shouting four words-- "people," "pleasure," "objects," and "power"-- every so often. That the tune also features the Hacker's best block-rocking beat of the album doesn't hurt. But the Hacker's workmanlike production here can't save Kittin from herself. When she's given room to speak her mind, as on "The Womb" ("I am strong, and I'm climbing the social ladder on my own") or "Party in My Head" ("I'm so small, I'm so not individual"), she sounds like she's trying to convince herself that she's one of the little people she once enjoyed stepping on. In tracks like "Ray Ban" and "Indulgence", she makes a vain attempts to reconnect to the glitz and gaudiness of First Album-era Kittin, and sounds even more out-of-step as a result. And only die-hard Kittin fans (or folks with a severe allergy to melisma and other diva signifiers) will find anything of substance to enjoy in "1000 Dreams" or "Electronic City". As the next step in Kittin's conflicted evolution, Two is not that much different from (or more enjoyable than) what's preceded it. As a supposed remembrance of the heyday of electroclash, it's a nostalgia trip that's best left untaken.

Artist: Miss Kittin & the Hacker, Album: Two, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 4.4 Album review: "Though she was working prior to this, it's safe to say Miss Kittin's career truly began with 2000's "Frank Sinatra". As career highlights go, never mind first bows, it's a pretty enviable one-- over the Hacker's brilliantly stupid rinky-dink ur-techno backdrop, Caroline Hervé speak-sings self-absorbed bon mots like "To be famous is so nice/ Suck my dick/ Kiss my ass," over and over with a dispassionate cadence. Miss Kittin's aloof sex-on-ice charisma, paired with synthesized tunes that exploited that detachment ("Stripper" and "Life on MTV" proving you can judge a book by its cover), made First Album a trailblazer for that like-it-or-lump-it music movement known as electroclash. So now, nearly a decade later, in a year that sees electroclash standard-bearers Fischerspooner and Peaches also release new albums, Miss Kittin & the Hacker reconvene for their purported follow-up to that debut, conveniently titled Two. Of course, there are some things to keep in mind when trying to paint this "reunion" as just that-- this isn't the first time Kittin & the Hacker have worked together since First Album (with the Hacker contributing beats to I Com and Batbox), and the Miss Kittin from the turn of the century isn't the same as the turn-of-the-decade version. Just look at some of the song titles from Two-- "The Womb", "Emotional Interlude", "Inutile Éternité" (French for "useless eternity"), "Suspicious Minds". And, yes, that's Elvis Presley's "Suspicious Minds" that the duo is tackling, and they're doing it in a straight-faced manner. Now given the ways and means of Kittin & the Hacker, "straight-faced" might not be the best description for this cover, but if it's possible to do a techno'd version of "Suspicious Minds" straight, then by gum they're doing it as well as they can. Which is to say, not very well at all, unless you're partial to Eurodisco karaoke. Accouterments aside, the distance between Sinatra and Presley-- as heartthrob icons, pop music iconoclasts, or Vegas showmen-- is probably minuscule. But the distance between the cultured self-aware cool of "Frank Sinatra" (or First Album as a whole) and the oblivious earnestness of "Suspicious Minds" could be measured in light years. It's a distance that's only accentuated by this record's superficial attempt to hearken back to the duo's glory days. But folks that kept up with Kittin's post-First output already know about the conflict between what she does best (the cooler-than-you kiss-off) and what she seemingly wants to be. On Two, only "PPPO" sidesteps that tar pit, mostly because Kittin's vocal input is limited to shouting four words-- "people," "pleasure," "objects," and "power"-- every so often. That the tune also features the Hacker's best block-rocking beat of the album doesn't hurt. But the Hacker's workmanlike production here can't save Kittin from herself. When she's given room to speak her mind, as on "The Womb" ("I am strong, and I'm climbing the social ladder on my own") or "Party in My Head" ("I'm so small, I'm so not individual"), she sounds like she's trying to convince herself that she's one of the little people she once enjoyed stepping on. In tracks like "Ray Ban" and "Indulgence", she makes a vain attempts to reconnect to the glitz and gaudiness of First Album-era Kittin, and sounds even more out-of-step as a result. And only die-hard Kittin fans (or folks with a severe allergy to melisma and other diva signifiers) will find anything of substance to enjoy in "1000 Dreams" or "Electronic City". As the next step in Kittin's conflicted evolution, Two is not that much different from (or more enjoyable than) what's preceded it. As a supposed remembrance of the heyday of electroclash, it's a nostalgia trip that's best left untaken."

Living Things

Ahead of the Lions

Electronic,Rock

William Bowers

I feel weird reviewing this CD because I grew up near these guys in St. Louis and was kind of beguiled by them. The Berlin brothers lived in the manse on the hill above a huge apartment complex for divorcees. Some of the frustrated single-parent-household kids would beat up Eve, Bosh, and Lillian for delivering newspapers while wearing tight pants and makeup and for working as parking lot attendants while being lean and groovy and speaking in elliptical rants that referenced Voltaire and Iggy Pop. One Halloween, they went trick-or-treating dressed as T. Rex and got pummeled by some kids dressed as AC/DC. I remember hearing that Bosh and Eve wanted to go back for revenge, but Lillian told them that absorption was a better tactic: "We'll just sop that whole proletariat choad-rock thing into our androgynous interplanetary millionaire shtick." Okay, I made that up, but I had to, because the Living Things CD was playing, and not enough was going on with that to keep me entertained. Their energy, ambition, and audible influences, should have congealed for a knockout-- imagine the Reid brothers and Wayne Kramer uniting to form JAMC5, but hoping for radio play in the 90s. Steve Albini's recordings balance the crunch and the polish. The political lyrics are even grounded in theology (a la Dylan) to keep them from fading with the headlines. But this band that tries to be everything ends up seeming like a cipher. Maybe the Living Things' combination of sincere poses is coming too soon after the ripple of ironic hard-rock bands? Opener "Bombs Below" employs a vintage choral fist-pumpy chant that Electric Six used semi-satirically on both of their albums, right before solos done in similar guitar tones. Maybe people are momentarily finding the glitz-retro clones not much different than Elvis impersonators or Civil War re-enactors? Dopey simulacra abound; every bar scene contains a group of pretty enough dudes who are to Mott the Hoople what a McDonalds Playland is to Walt Disney World. Maybe the Los Angeles circuit inspires bands to perform with a hyperdramatic larger-than-lifeness that's hard to swallow? I just saw She Wants Revenge prance and leer and sway beyond the honey-mustard quotidian fringe in which most of us earn our rent, and I was praying for a life-size savior, even if life looked like, well, A.C. Newman. I really want to cheer their political anthems, but currently, "glam" and "international conflict" bring up Gary Glitter's indiscretions with Vietnamese tweens on my brain's Google Image search. Besides, party riffs have already been paired with anti-establishment gospel manifestoes by the Make Up, and war-on-terror already got the seventies-rawk treatment by Bobby Conn. Neither of those bravura acts won the chance to perform on all the late shows. Nor did they get a Cingular commercial for a two year-old album that, bless its heart, went through three major labels and two releases. (Ahead of the Lions is masterfully sequenced; the one-trick party moves along more smoothly than the nine of these songs did on 2004's Black Skies in Broad Daylight.) I kept thinking that these guys would blow up late like the Counting Crows did, giving this review a semi-relevant sheen, but I have a feeling that record store clerks somewhere are building girlfriends out of Living Things promos, the way I used to with a stack of August & Everything Afters before the sudden popularity of "Mr. Jones" ended the dream. Fans of handclaps, who don't mind that Berlin sings as many lines about doing lines as he does protest lines, marching lines and battle lines, will have fun pretending to be epic along with these Velvet Ramones.

Artist: Living Things, Album: Ahead of the Lions, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "I feel weird reviewing this CD because I grew up near these guys in St. Louis and was kind of beguiled by them. The Berlin brothers lived in the manse on the hill above a huge apartment complex for divorcees. Some of the frustrated single-parent-household kids would beat up Eve, Bosh, and Lillian for delivering newspapers while wearing tight pants and makeup and for working as parking lot attendants while being lean and groovy and speaking in elliptical rants that referenced Voltaire and Iggy Pop. One Halloween, they went trick-or-treating dressed as T. Rex and got pummeled by some kids dressed as AC/DC. I remember hearing that Bosh and Eve wanted to go back for revenge, but Lillian told them that absorption was a better tactic: "We'll just sop that whole proletariat choad-rock thing into our androgynous interplanetary millionaire shtick." Okay, I made that up, but I had to, because the Living Things CD was playing, and not enough was going on with that to keep me entertained. Their energy, ambition, and audible influences, should have congealed for a knockout-- imagine the Reid brothers and Wayne Kramer uniting to form JAMC5, but hoping for radio play in the 90s. Steve Albini's recordings balance the crunch and the polish. The political lyrics are even grounded in theology (a la Dylan) to keep them from fading with the headlines. But this band that tries to be everything ends up seeming like a cipher. Maybe the Living Things' combination of sincere poses is coming too soon after the ripple of ironic hard-rock bands? Opener "Bombs Below" employs a vintage choral fist-pumpy chant that Electric Six used semi-satirically on both of their albums, right before solos done in similar guitar tones. Maybe people are momentarily finding the glitz-retro clones not much different than Elvis impersonators or Civil War re-enactors? Dopey simulacra abound; every bar scene contains a group of pretty enough dudes who are to Mott the Hoople what a McDonalds Playland is to Walt Disney World. Maybe the Los Angeles circuit inspires bands to perform with a hyperdramatic larger-than-lifeness that's hard to swallow? I just saw She Wants Revenge prance and leer and sway beyond the honey-mustard quotidian fringe in which most of us earn our rent, and I was praying for a life-size savior, even if life looked like, well, A.C. Newman. I really want to cheer their political anthems, but currently, "glam" and "international conflict" bring up Gary Glitter's indiscretions with Vietnamese tweens on my brain's Google Image search. Besides, party riffs have already been paired with anti-establishment gospel manifestoes by the Make Up, and war-on-terror already got the seventies-rawk treatment by Bobby Conn. Neither of those bravura acts won the chance to perform on all the late shows. Nor did they get a Cingular commercial for a two year-old album that, bless its heart, went through three major labels and two releases. (Ahead of the Lions is masterfully sequenced; the one-trick party moves along more smoothly than the nine of these songs did on 2004's Black Skies in Broad Daylight.) I kept thinking that these guys would blow up late like the Counting Crows did, giving this review a semi-relevant sheen, but I have a feeling that record store clerks somewhere are building girlfriends out of Living Things promos, the way I used to with a stack of August & Everything Afters before the sudden popularity of "Mr. Jones" ended the dream. Fans of handclaps, who don't mind that Berlin sings as many lines about doing lines as he does protest lines, marching lines and battle lines, will have fun pretending to be epic along with these Velvet Ramones."

The Mayfair Set

Young One

Experimental,Rock

Stuart Berman

"SWM seeks female companion. Likes: obscure mid-80s British indie, home recording, BBC docu-dramas, cryptic album art. Dislikes: having picture taken, using birth name. Not opposed to LDRs." Mayfair Set principals Mike Sniper (aka Brooklyn bedroom rocker Blank Dogs) and Dee Dee (aka one-woman L.A. garage band the Dum Dum Girls) didn't come together through some makeoutclub.com-style online hub for lonely, lo-fi enthusiasts, but given the limited information available about this secretive, camera-shy outfit, it's as good an origin myth as any. Because the Mayfair Set's debut EP, Young One, feels very much like a relationship forged in separate bedrooms thousands of miles apart, with Sniper and Dee Dee's shared points of interest and strikingly similar M.O.s ultimately underscoring the distance-- both spatial and aesthetic-- between the two artists. If the eight songs here weren't actually conceived via FedExed cross-country cassette swaps, then great care has been taken to make it seem so; often Young One feels less like two people collaborating together in the same room than each taking turns dubbing their parts over one another's decaying demos, with faint traces of taped-over recordings bubbling up into the murky mix. If Blank Dogs' distorto-pop tends to soak Sniper's vocals in static, on "Already Warm" he's practically buried beneath the Earth's crust, adopting a deep, almost comical gothic warble that makes Dee Dee's corrosive coos shine like high beams on an 18-wheeler. Extreme contrast proves to be Young One's defining quality, be it the beauty-and-the-beast dynamic between the two leads on the fuzzed-out funk of "Let It Melt", or the way the chilly post-punk pulse of "Desert Fun" suddenly yields to a bright, beach-bound chorus that sells you on the promise of "fun, fun in the desert sun," as if having fun amid the opressive heat of a desert sun was a plausibility for these agoraphobes. Sonically, the Mayfair Set hew much closer to the Blank Dogs' mechanized squall than the Dum Dum Girls' garage rock, but Sniper is under no illusion as to who's got the better set of pipes, maintaining a shadowy presence while Dee Dee takes control of the liquefied C86 pop of "Junked!" and the curious, girl-group-gone-dub showcase "Three for Me". But it's on "Dark House"-- tellingly, the one track where Sniper's voice complements rather than competes with Dee Dee's-- that the Mayfair Set feels like something greater than just a casual, lo-fi lark between friends. Here they deliver a potent dose of dream-pop melancholy that conjures the surrender-to-the-sea imagery of the Cure's "Just Like Heaven", but grows more intense and despairing with each line-by-line trade-off. It's the moment where the Mayfair Set overcome the binary, back-and-forth quality of a long-distance relationship, and start to feel more like a natural, face-to-face interaction.

Artist: The Mayfair Set, Album: Young One, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: ""SWM seeks female companion. Likes: obscure mid-80s British indie, home recording, BBC docu-dramas, cryptic album art. Dislikes: having picture taken, using birth name. Not opposed to LDRs." Mayfair Set principals Mike Sniper (aka Brooklyn bedroom rocker Blank Dogs) and Dee Dee (aka one-woman L.A. garage band the Dum Dum Girls) didn't come together through some makeoutclub.com-style online hub for lonely, lo-fi enthusiasts, but given the limited information available about this secretive, camera-shy outfit, it's as good an origin myth as any. Because the Mayfair Set's debut EP, Young One, feels very much like a relationship forged in separate bedrooms thousands of miles apart, with Sniper and Dee Dee's shared points of interest and strikingly similar M.O.s ultimately underscoring the distance-- both spatial and aesthetic-- between the two artists. If the eight songs here weren't actually conceived via FedExed cross-country cassette swaps, then great care has been taken to make it seem so; often Young One feels less like two people collaborating together in the same room than each taking turns dubbing their parts over one another's decaying demos, with faint traces of taped-over recordings bubbling up into the murky mix. If Blank Dogs' distorto-pop tends to soak Sniper's vocals in static, on "Already Warm" he's practically buried beneath the Earth's crust, adopting a deep, almost comical gothic warble that makes Dee Dee's corrosive coos shine like high beams on an 18-wheeler. Extreme contrast proves to be Young One's defining quality, be it the beauty-and-the-beast dynamic between the two leads on the fuzzed-out funk of "Let It Melt", or the way the chilly post-punk pulse of "Desert Fun" suddenly yields to a bright, beach-bound chorus that sells you on the promise of "fun, fun in the desert sun," as if having fun amid the opressive heat of a desert sun was a plausibility for these agoraphobes. Sonically, the Mayfair Set hew much closer to the Blank Dogs' mechanized squall than the Dum Dum Girls' garage rock, but Sniper is under no illusion as to who's got the better set of pipes, maintaining a shadowy presence while Dee Dee takes control of the liquefied C86 pop of "Junked!" and the curious, girl-group-gone-dub showcase "Three for Me". But it's on "Dark House"-- tellingly, the one track where Sniper's voice complements rather than competes with Dee Dee's-- that the Mayfair Set feels like something greater than just a casual, lo-fi lark between friends. Here they deliver a potent dose of dream-pop melancholy that conjures the surrender-to-the-sea imagery of the Cure's "Just Like Heaven", but grows more intense and despairing with each line-by-line trade-off. It's the moment where the Mayfair Set overcome the binary, back-and-forth quality of a long-distance relationship, and start to feel more like a natural, face-to-face interaction."

Efterklang

Parades

Rock

Andrew Gaerig

On their lauded 2004 debut, Tripper, Efterklang took an "If you build it, they will come" approach to pop music. The Danish quintet manicured warm, abstracted orchestrations and nervy electronics and patiently waited for the hooks to arrive; that these hooks sometimes-- but only sometimes-- did was the album's great charm. Parades, the group's follow-up, incorporates the same elements but marks a sea change in approach and execution: downtempo indie pop ousted for ribald chants, martial percussion, and trumped-up circumstance. To Efterklang's credit, Parades comes off about as smoothly as a sea change can, inarguably the product of the same band playing with the same toys. The shift towards more boldly defined pop is real, though: Under Giant Trees, a mini-album released this spring, debuted at the top of the Danish singles chart. Even Trees, though, feels like a halfway post on the path to Parades. Where the band previously garnered comparisons to Sigur Rós and Rachel's, they now skew closer to the skyward, communal missives of Danielson or Arcade Fire. Efterklang are less visceral than those bands, though, as they privilege viscous, loopy passages over sustained momentum. Efterklang's carefully tended electronic touches are more subdued, replaced by increasingly ostentatious horns and strings. Refrains are severed and discarded, verses are obscured by a green film. Efterklang's five swell to ten and twenty, yell then scatter. Rallies, then, might've been the better title, sharing a parade's celebration but suggesting intermittent clamor rather than linear pageantry. "Mirador" slides from fevered strut into a monkish quiet before regaining its fortitude. "Caravan" is the recipient of the album's art-rockiest touch: a boys choir, whose surgical harmonies fly in the face of Parades' most rhythmically sturdy arrangement. "Cutting Ice to Snow"'s acoustic jangle and unmolested piano border on quaint, though damn if Efterklang don't use those album-closing moments as a prelude to one last huzzah. The creeping electric piano and summoning chants of "Frida Found a Friend" offer refreshing dissonance in the middle of the album's pastel overload. Each song is augmented by indiscernible-- and therefore effectively wordless-- choruses on which the band repeatedly aims for rapture. Parades is nothing if not eventful. You would think, though, that a band that trades tempos, styles, and moods as often as Efterklang would be a bit more...dynamic? Parades' recipe-- soft verse, big chant, heavenly "aaaaaaaaa", elliptical, Nordic orchestrations, stir-- is clever to avoid repetition but extremely taxing. Must every track aspire to a 12-act epic? The band would've done well to pace themselves-- "Him Poe Poe"'s Spartan repetitions and two-minute duration are an example of how Efterklang might've eased the pedal more often. Perhaps that's the point, though-- Efterklang spent most of Tripper in patient meditation. Tired of waiting for it to come to them, Efterklang unshackle themselves on Parades, a sober, decisive grasp at grandeur.

Artist: Efterklang, Album: Parades, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "On their lauded 2004 debut, Tripper, Efterklang took an "If you build it, they will come" approach to pop music. The Danish quintet manicured warm, abstracted orchestrations and nervy electronics and patiently waited for the hooks to arrive; that these hooks sometimes-- but only sometimes-- did was the album's great charm. Parades, the group's follow-up, incorporates the same elements but marks a sea change in approach and execution: downtempo indie pop ousted for ribald chants, martial percussion, and trumped-up circumstance. To Efterklang's credit, Parades comes off about as smoothly as a sea change can, inarguably the product of the same band playing with the same toys. The shift towards more boldly defined pop is real, though: Under Giant Trees, a mini-album released this spring, debuted at the top of the Danish singles chart. Even Trees, though, feels like a halfway post on the path to Parades. Where the band previously garnered comparisons to Sigur Rós and Rachel's, they now skew closer to the skyward, communal missives of Danielson or Arcade Fire. Efterklang are less visceral than those bands, though, as they privilege viscous, loopy passages over sustained momentum. Efterklang's carefully tended electronic touches are more subdued, replaced by increasingly ostentatious horns and strings. Refrains are severed and discarded, verses are obscured by a green film. Efterklang's five swell to ten and twenty, yell then scatter. Rallies, then, might've been the better title, sharing a parade's celebration but suggesting intermittent clamor rather than linear pageantry. "Mirador" slides from fevered strut into a monkish quiet before regaining its fortitude. "Caravan" is the recipient of the album's art-rockiest touch: a boys choir, whose surgical harmonies fly in the face of Parades' most rhythmically sturdy arrangement. "Cutting Ice to Snow"'s acoustic jangle and unmolested piano border on quaint, though damn if Efterklang don't use those album-closing moments as a prelude to one last huzzah. The creeping electric piano and summoning chants of "Frida Found a Friend" offer refreshing dissonance in the middle of the album's pastel overload. Each song is augmented by indiscernible-- and therefore effectively wordless-- choruses on which the band repeatedly aims for rapture. Parades is nothing if not eventful. You would think, though, that a band that trades tempos, styles, and moods as often as Efterklang would be a bit more...dynamic? Parades' recipe-- soft verse, big chant, heavenly "aaaaaaaaa", elliptical, Nordic orchestrations, stir-- is clever to avoid repetition but extremely taxing. Must every track aspire to a 12-act epic? The band would've done well to pace themselves-- "Him Poe Poe"'s Spartan repetitions and two-minute duration are an example of how Efterklang might've eased the pedal more often. Perhaps that's the point, though-- Efterklang spent most of Tripper in patient meditation. Tired of waiting for it to come to them, Efterklang unshackle themselves on Parades, a sober, decisive grasp at grandeur."

The Internet

Ego Death

Pop/R&B

Craig Jenkins

The renewed critical interest in soul and R&B music that sprung up around the rise of Miguel, Frank Ocean, and the like over the last four years has helped award some much-deserved prestige on the form after years of undue neglect, but the push broke as much as it fixed. The music commands more respect now, but the accolades are disproportionately showered on a boy’s club of talented, offbeat songwriters circuitously linked together under the banner of "alternative R&B" by little else than the fact they all had very good albums out the same year. "Alt-R&B" isn’t just circuitous, though; it’s not real. Cordoning off and lionizing an alternative quadrant of R&B dismisses gifted but traditional singers like K. Michelle as plebeian, and worse, it carries the subtle insinuation that this music can’t be—and hasn’t always been—delightfully weird. California soul collective the Internet frequently weather the alternative R&B tag, but hopefully their new album Ego Death will help shake the descriptor. It made sense around the group’s 2011 debut Purple Naked Ladies, a quiet collaboration between Odd Future affiliates Syd tha Kyd and Jet Age of Tomorrow architect Matt Martians. On Purple, Syd stepped out of her role as Odd Future’s house engineer into that of singer-songwriter for a batch of quirky, sometimes-crass tunes about the peaks and pitfalls of love and sex. Since then, Syd and Matt have expanded the project into a fully functional band. While the arrangements grew more accomplished between Purple and 2013’s Feel Good, the songwriting lagged, sultry and intimate, if, at times, not much else. Syd comes into her own as a writer on Ego Death, and the band steps up and reins Feel Good’s jazz-chords-for-jazz-chords’-sake extravagance into tight, hooky hip-hop soul. Ego Death is both spare and quietly musical, its crisp low end anchored in hip-hop as the rest of the band coolly branches out into jazz, funk, and rock. Think of it as an offspring of early neo-soul pillars like Groove Theory and Maxwell’s Urban Hang Suite, bedroomy but also lush and progressive. Ego Death is leagues too studiously retro to fit anyone’s idea of "alternative," but it’s still plenty odd. These songs frequently take hard, unexpected turns: Opener "Get Away" is a tribal bass and percussion stomp in the verses (twice as sinister live) but gossamer and pretty around the choruses. "Gabby"’s hip-hop strut melts into a psychedelic waltz-timed coda adorned with pretty, wordless melodies from Janelle Monáe. "Girl", the album’s Kaytranada-assisted centerpiece, hangs spectral keys over thick, heavy bass until the groove trails off into a spacey interlude. Ego Death’s short cuts get straight to the point, while the longer ones tease out instrumental sections without coming apart at the seams. The economic, purposeful instrumentation clears ample room to showcase Syd’s writing, and she’s got a war story here for every stage of love and loss: "Special Affair" and "Go With It" are horned-up player’s anthems ("Fuck what’s in your phone, I wanna take you home."), while "Get Away" and "Under Control" beg a suspicious lover to stop nagging about girls she’s not cheating with. "Girl" is the big syrupy cohabitation ballad, the song couples will hug and sway through at the live show, but "Partners in Crime Part Three" raises the stakes, testing our duo’s mettle with a Thelma & Louise police chase. Syd taunts an old flame on "Just Sayin/I Tried", chanting "You fucked up," but ultimately coming to peace with the break because she did everything in her power to stop it. Parsing Syd’s lyrics can feel like eavesdropping on a lover’s quarrel in a restaurant; she’s adept at tackling complex matters of the heart in a voice that’s both relatable and conversational. The Internet’s songs have always felt like scenes of salaciousness happening just out of earshot. Ego Death finally pulls us into the maelstrom.

Artist: The Internet, Album: Ego Death, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "The renewed critical interest in soul and R&B music that sprung up around the rise of Miguel, Frank Ocean, and the like over the last four years has helped award some much-deserved prestige on the form after years of undue neglect, but the push broke as much as it fixed. The music commands more respect now, but the accolades are disproportionately showered on a boy’s club of talented, offbeat songwriters circuitously linked together under the banner of "alternative R&B" by little else than the fact they all had very good albums out the same year. "Alt-R&B" isn’t just circuitous, though; it’s not real. Cordoning off and lionizing an alternative quadrant of R&B dismisses gifted but traditional singers like K. Michelle as plebeian, and worse, it carries the subtle insinuation that this music can’t be—and hasn’t always been—delightfully weird. California soul collective the Internet frequently weather the alternative R&B tag, but hopefully their new album Ego Death will help shake the descriptor. It made sense around the group’s 2011 debut Purple Naked Ladies, a quiet collaboration between Odd Future affiliates Syd tha Kyd and Jet Age of Tomorrow architect Matt Martians. On Purple, Syd stepped out of her role as Odd Future’s house engineer into that of singer-songwriter for a batch of quirky, sometimes-crass tunes about the peaks and pitfalls of love and sex. Since then, Syd and Matt have expanded the project into a fully functional band. While the arrangements grew more accomplished between Purple and 2013’s Feel Good, the songwriting lagged, sultry and intimate, if, at times, not much else. Syd comes into her own as a writer on Ego Death, and the band steps up and reins Feel Good’s jazz-chords-for-jazz-chords’-sake extravagance into tight, hooky hip-hop soul. Ego Death is both spare and quietly musical, its crisp low end anchored in hip-hop as the rest of the band coolly branches out into jazz, funk, and rock. Think of it as an offspring of early neo-soul pillars like Groove Theory and Maxwell’s Urban Hang Suite, bedroomy but also lush and progressive. Ego Death is leagues too studiously retro to fit anyone’s idea of "alternative," but it’s still plenty odd. These songs frequently take hard, unexpected turns: Opener "Get Away" is a tribal bass and percussion stomp in the verses (twice as sinister live) but gossamer and pretty around the choruses. "Gabby"’s hip-hop strut melts into a psychedelic waltz-timed coda adorned with pretty, wordless melodies from Janelle Monáe. "Girl", the album’s Kaytranada-assisted centerpiece, hangs spectral keys over thick, heavy bass until the groove trails off into a spacey interlude. Ego Death’s short cuts get straight to the point, while the longer ones tease out instrumental sections without coming apart at the seams. The economic, purposeful instrumentation clears ample room to showcase Syd’s writing, and she’s got a war story here for every stage of love and loss: "Special Affair" and "Go With It" are horned-up player’s anthems ("Fuck what’s in your phone, I wanna take you home."), while "Get Away" and "Under Control" beg a suspicious lover to stop nagging about girls she’s not cheating with. "Girl" is the big syrupy cohabitation ballad, the song couples will hug and sway through at the live show, but "Partners in Crime Part Three" raises the stakes, testing our duo’s mettle with a Thelma & Louise police chase. Syd taunts an old flame on "Just Sayin/I Tried", chanting "You fucked up," but ultimately coming to peace with the break because she did everything in her power to stop it. Parsing Syd’s lyrics can feel like eavesdropping on a lover’s quarrel in a restaurant; she’s adept at tackling complex matters of the heart in a voice that’s both relatable and conversational. The Internet’s songs have always felt like scenes of salaciousness happening just out of earshot. Ego Death finally pulls us into the maelstrom."

White Mice

ASSPhIXXXEATATESHUN

Experimental,Rock

Cory D. Byrom

On stage, the members of Providence, R.I.'s the White Mice, who go by the names Anonymouse, Euronymouse, and Mousferatu, wear mouse masks and bloodied clothes, giving off the appearance of a lab experiment gone horribly awry. Most of their pun-filled song titles are mouse-related-- either dealing with cheese, traps, or the rodents themselves. If it weren't for the disturbing barrage of noise on ASSPhIXXXEATATESHUN, the whole thing might come off as either oddly cute, blandly gimmicky, or as some sort of PETA protest. But the only things the White Mice seem to be protesting are good taste, traditional song structure, and anything remotely resembling a melody. The noise-metal miscreants use drums, bass, and an oscillator to create a gloriously god-awful racket. Most of the songs clock in at around two minutes and follow the grindcore style of relentlessly bludgeoning the listener over the head with brutal drums and distorted-beyond-recognition instruments. The vocals, which are buried in the mix, seem to consist primarily of howls and wails, at times so seamlessly blending with the squealing feedback that it's difficult to tell there's a human behind them. The songs that come closest to having a structure are the longer ones, comparatively speaking. "Limburger Baby" spends an echoing minute building up a spacey, sci-fi atmosphere before busting wide open into a full-on assault. "Mouse Trap" begins with swirling oscillator tones leading into a jerky rhythm that plays out for the bulk of the song. The title can even been heard over and over beneath the horror of alarm-clock buzz and booming bass guitar. Similarly, "Slo Poison" suits its name, creeping through three-and-a-half minutes of sludge as if it's slowly shutting down your nervous system. While everything on the disc could certainly qualify as noise, there are several tracks that wear that label more obviously than others. Opener "Foreskin Rug" utilizes sliced-and-diced rushes of buzz-saw tones on top of slo-mo rumble. "Dieorhearama" picks up this theme nine songs later and adds the swoosh of back-masked drums and squealing feedback on top. The disc's final track is "Microjackass", which spans almost 50 minutes (over twice the length of the other 10 tracks combined). Over its first four minutes the song builds in speed and intensity before fading to static; by minute five, silence has set in. It's not until 43 minutes later that we get the final burst: a quick blast of a repeating drum and bass beat, ringing oscillator tones, and a telephone operator delivering a voice-mail message. While it's been a common gag since the early 90s to include a bonus track at the tail end of a CD, forcing the listener to wear out the fast-forward button accessing the track, it seems here that the silence is a part of the song. The White Mice want you to think you've escaped harm, and at the last conceivable moment, the trap snaps down on your neck.

Artist: White Mice, Album: ASSPhIXXXEATATESHUN, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "On stage, the members of Providence, R.I.'s the White Mice, who go by the names Anonymouse, Euronymouse, and Mousferatu, wear mouse masks and bloodied clothes, giving off the appearance of a lab experiment gone horribly awry. Most of their pun-filled song titles are mouse-related-- either dealing with cheese, traps, or the rodents themselves. If it weren't for the disturbing barrage of noise on ASSPhIXXXEATATESHUN, the whole thing might come off as either oddly cute, blandly gimmicky, or as some sort of PETA protest. But the only things the White Mice seem to be protesting are good taste, traditional song structure, and anything remotely resembling a melody. The noise-metal miscreants use drums, bass, and an oscillator to create a gloriously god-awful racket. Most of the songs clock in at around two minutes and follow the grindcore style of relentlessly bludgeoning the listener over the head with brutal drums and distorted-beyond-recognition instruments. The vocals, which are buried in the mix, seem to consist primarily of howls and wails, at times so seamlessly blending with the squealing feedback that it's difficult to tell there's a human behind them. The songs that come closest to having a structure are the longer ones, comparatively speaking. "Limburger Baby" spends an echoing minute building up a spacey, sci-fi atmosphere before busting wide open into a full-on assault. "Mouse Trap" begins with swirling oscillator tones leading into a jerky rhythm that plays out for the bulk of the song. The title can even been heard over and over beneath the horror of alarm-clock buzz and booming bass guitar. Similarly, "Slo Poison" suits its name, creeping through three-and-a-half minutes of sludge as if it's slowly shutting down your nervous system. While everything on the disc could certainly qualify as noise, there are several tracks that wear that label more obviously than others. Opener "Foreskin Rug" utilizes sliced-and-diced rushes of buzz-saw tones on top of slo-mo rumble. "Dieorhearama" picks up this theme nine songs later and adds the swoosh of back-masked drums and squealing feedback on top. The disc's final track is "Microjackass", which spans almost 50 minutes (over twice the length of the other 10 tracks combined). Over its first four minutes the song builds in speed and intensity before fading to static; by minute five, silence has set in. It's not until 43 minutes later that we get the final burst: a quick blast of a repeating drum and bass beat, ringing oscillator tones, and a telephone operator delivering a voice-mail message. While it's been a common gag since the early 90s to include a bonus track at the tail end of a CD, forcing the listener to wear out the fast-forward button accessing the track, it seems here that the silence is a part of the song. The White Mice want you to think you've escaped harm, and at the last conceivable moment, the trap snaps down on your neck."

Pantha Du Prince & The Bell Laboratory

Elements of Light

Nick Neyland

The lowly bell might not figure much in the history of minimal techno-- or, indeed, much contemporary music at all-- but it's a percussive instrument that holds much attraction for German producer Hendrik Weber, aka Pantha du Prince. Strip the bells out of "Lay in a Shimmer" from the high-benchmark Pantha release Black Noise and it simultaneously loses its twinkly elegance and errs a little too close to humdrum genre fare. Back in 2011 Weber appeared at the Øya Festival in Oslo where he took his obsession up a notch by collaborating with a collection of musicians on a series of bell-oriented tracks under the name Pantha du Prince and the Bell Laboratory. The name neatly tied into Weber's fascination with the instrument and electronic music's past; the original Bell Laboratories were where Max Mathews developed one of the first computer programs to play music back in the 1950s. At Øya the group played a piece titled Elements of Light, the name given to this studio recording of their efforts. There's a lightness to it that belies the literal heaviness at the center of the album-- an instrument named the bell carillon, made up of 50 bronze bells, bearing a combined weight of three tonnes. This isn't such a great departure for Weber, instead coming across as the logical extension of an idea he's been chasing for a while. There are elements of classic minimalism worked in, as well as a healthy dose of the all-surface moves that were typical of Tortoise's transitionary work on the TNT album. On that record it felt like Tortoise were bridging between the airless electronics they leaned on during Millions Now Living Will Never Die and a space where you could sense them loosening up a little more. It's a feeling this album also taps into. The playing is incredibly tight, but there's a sense of adventure to the whole undertaking, with all the players locked into a common goal. It's an instrumental album with a tinge of narrative, particularly when they venture into mazy 10-minute-plus pieces like "Particle" and "Spectral Split". Ventures like this often end up feeling like a display of chops, a demonstration of proficiency, an exercise in technical prowess. Elements of Light is mostly the opposite; it feels like those involved were as invested in the transformative power of the music as they were in flexing their not inconsiderable talents. "Particle" is a particularly impressive example of how versatile the bell can be as an instrument, especially when it juxtaposes ominous, church-like clangs with lighter tones that skip and twist across its surface. It's positively giddy at times, never quite ending up where you expect, bringing in familiar beats and swells of bass that anchor it in Weber's world, then constantly pulling rugs out from underneath the listener. To give away too much would spoil the surprises that are crucial to making this album work, but a small glimpse of its magic can be found in the turn into Tom Waits-style pots-and-pans percussion that is unexpectedly teased out during a section of "Particle". Moments like that, rendered here as a brief snatch of creative flash, but surely the basis for an entire track in lesser hands, are the points where this album really excels. Occasionally it meanders into cyclical drifting, particularly in shorter tracks like "Photon", where the ideas run a little dry. But even that just about works as a contemplative prelude to "Spectral Split", serving as a necessary foot-off-the-gas moment before something meatier. It's in "Spectral Split" that Elements of Light flashes through all its tones, from washed out ambience to a momentum borrowed lightly from Steve Reich's Music for 18 Musicians, to the interlinking of classical and electronic textures that Weber so clearly obsesses over. It also demonstrates his astute understanding of how important anticipation is in dance music, with almost half the 17-minute runtime devoted to a slow build that explodes into color when all its spaghetti-like parts are interwoven. That sense of release surfaces sporadically throughout the album and is fundamental to making it work, but it's always delivered with a great degree of control and patience. Sometimes a stiffness emerges in the playing and it feels too mechanical, like a computer trying to figure out the meaning of joy, but even those little moments tie in perfectly with the historic wink in the name of the Bell Laboratory. It's possible that their collected devotion to precision would loosen up more in a live setting, of which more plans are afoot. Here, there's a sense of picking at a strand of inspiration and seeing how it flows toward a form of endgame, albeit one that still prickles with possibility.

Artist: Pantha Du Prince & The Bell Laboratory, Album: Elements of Light, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "The lowly bell might not figure much in the history of minimal techno-- or, indeed, much contemporary music at all-- but it's a percussive instrument that holds much attraction for German producer Hendrik Weber, aka Pantha du Prince. Strip the bells out of "Lay in a Shimmer" from the high-benchmark Pantha release Black Noise and it simultaneously loses its twinkly elegance and errs a little too close to humdrum genre fare. Back in 2011 Weber appeared at the Øya Festival in Oslo where he took his obsession up a notch by collaborating with a collection of musicians on a series of bell-oriented tracks under the name Pantha du Prince and the Bell Laboratory. The name neatly tied into Weber's fascination with the instrument and electronic music's past; the original Bell Laboratories were where Max Mathews developed one of the first computer programs to play music back in the 1950s. At Øya the group played a piece titled Elements of Light, the name given to this studio recording of their efforts. There's a lightness to it that belies the literal heaviness at the center of the album-- an instrument named the bell carillon, made up of 50 bronze bells, bearing a combined weight of three tonnes. This isn't such a great departure for Weber, instead coming across as the logical extension of an idea he's been chasing for a while. There are elements of classic minimalism worked in, as well as a healthy dose of the all-surface moves that were typical of Tortoise's transitionary work on the TNT album. On that record it felt like Tortoise were bridging between the airless electronics they leaned on during Millions Now Living Will Never Die and a space where you could sense them loosening up a little more. It's a feeling this album also taps into. The playing is incredibly tight, but there's a sense of adventure to the whole undertaking, with all the players locked into a common goal. It's an instrumental album with a tinge of narrative, particularly when they venture into mazy 10-minute-plus pieces like "Particle" and "Spectral Split". Ventures like this often end up feeling like a display of chops, a demonstration of proficiency, an exercise in technical prowess. Elements of Light is mostly the opposite; it feels like those involved were as invested in the transformative power of the music as they were in flexing their not inconsiderable talents. "Particle" is a particularly impressive example of how versatile the bell can be as an instrument, especially when it juxtaposes ominous, church-like clangs with lighter tones that skip and twist across its surface. It's positively giddy at times, never quite ending up where you expect, bringing in familiar beats and swells of bass that anchor it in Weber's world, then constantly pulling rugs out from underneath the listener. To give away too much would spoil the surprises that are crucial to making this album work, but a small glimpse of its magic can be found in the turn into Tom Waits-style pots-and-pans percussion that is unexpectedly teased out during a section of "Particle". Moments like that, rendered here as a brief snatch of creative flash, but surely the basis for an entire track in lesser hands, are the points where this album really excels. Occasionally it meanders into cyclical drifting, particularly in shorter tracks like "Photon", where the ideas run a little dry. But even that just about works as a contemplative prelude to "Spectral Split", serving as a necessary foot-off-the-gas moment before something meatier. It's in "Spectral Split" that Elements of Light flashes through all its tones, from washed out ambience to a momentum borrowed lightly from Steve Reich's Music for 18 Musicians, to the interlinking of classical and electronic textures that Weber so clearly obsesses over. It also demonstrates his astute understanding of how important anticipation is in dance music, with almost half the 17-minute runtime devoted to a slow build that explodes into color when all its spaghetti-like parts are interwoven. That sense of release surfaces sporadically throughout the album and is fundamental to making it work, but it's always delivered with a great degree of control and patience. Sometimes a stiffness emerges in the playing and it feels too mechanical, like a computer trying to figure out the meaning of joy, but even those little moments tie in perfectly with the historic wink in the name of the Bell Laboratory. It's possible that their collected devotion to precision would loosen up more in a live setting, of which more plans are afoot. Here, there's a sense of picking at a strand of inspiration and seeing how it flows toward a form of endgame, albeit one that still prickles with possibility."

Superchunk

Here's to Shutting Up

Rock

Ryan Schreiber

Twelve years is a long time to hold a job. Any elderly engineer or factory worker can attest to the banality of the same tired day-to-day routines. Eventually, wasted months trail behind like a dense fog in your hazy memory, leaving you wondering if there was even any point to it all. Fortunately for Superchunk, their job entails being a highly influential rock band with a devoted fanbase, their own record label, and a legacy that most of the nation's wealthiest 1% would trade in their multi-millions for. For Superchunk, twelve years is a dream come true. Their humble beginnings as a small-time Chapel Hill pop band in 1989 have, over the years, given way to next-big-thing status, major label bidding wars, and eight studio albums, several of which have become heralded as indie classics. Now in their 30s, the long-standing lineup of Mac McCaughan, guitarist Jim Wilbur, bassist Laura Ballance and drummer Jon Wurster is still making music with the same heart of their early records, even while time has begun to change them into a subtler incarnation of their former selves. Signs of the new, more refined Superchunk first appeared on 1999's Jim O'Rourke-produced Come Pick Me Up with tracks like "Tiny Bombs" and "Hello Hawk." But they were just signs, as raucous, infectiously upbeat songs like "Good Dreams" and "June Showers" dominated the album with anthemic bliss. On Here's to Shutting Up, though, the once-tightly wound hyper heroes have foregone the distortion in lieu of smoothed-out balladry and reflective repose. While often sung from the point of view of fictional characters, McCaughan's lyrics on Here's to Shutting Up often reveal his wist for days gone by. This is perhaps most notable in one of the album's rare rockers, "Out on the Wing," in which a person confides, "All the music that I love is out of date/ So take me to the place/ Where there's no such thing as taste," a sentiment most thirty-something ex-music fans can bitterly relate to. Several of these songs also dwell on young love and history, such as the subdued, pedal-steel-infused "Phone Sex," which addresses a teenager stood up for a date, and the despondent 7\xBD-minute-long "What Do You Look Forward To," where McCaughan recalls seeing "anticipation and a smile on the face of this girl/ And her mother through the glare on the glass of the windshield as they drove away." But even though this album exhibits a softer, more melancholy side of Superchunk, a handful of old-school rockers fill the album out nicely. It's with one of these, the not-necessarily full-force, but nonetheless aggressive "Art Class (Song for Yayoi Kusama)," that the album's clear standout comes. Amidst a pounding rhythm section, McCaughan seems to deride art schools more than that classic time-wasting high school elective with lines like, "Why so serious/ When it's only your life that's at stake/ Why so serious/ When your life is the art that you make," and, "So shit in a can but your art is not free." Elsewhere, the almost Guided by Voices-length slab of raging guitars and crashing drum fills, "Rainy Streets," provides some early relief from the album's pensive meditations. Producer Brian Paulson, who worked with the band on 1993's Foolish, is back behind the decks for Here's to Shutting Up, and despite the band's maturing songcraft, his recording techniques give the record more of a classic Superchunk feel. Jim O'Rourke may have added some meaty soundwork to Come Pick Me Up, but Paulson seems more comfortable with the guys, mixing Mac McCaughan's still-boyish tenor amongst the instrumentation rather than up in your face. It's a seemingly small touch, but an unexpected one, and it makes all the difference in the album's long-term listenability. Of course, at the end of the day, Here's to Shutting Up isn't anything spectacular. The new direction of these songs seems logical enough, and will likely sit well with longtime fans who are, by now, also growing somewhat less excitable. Still, you can't help but miss the youthful ambition of Superchunk's glory days, when they seemed so relevant shouting out simple songs of love and boredom, and blared constantly from college stations across the country. On the other hand, twelve years is a long time to hold a job. It's just nice to see that they're still inspired by what they do.

Artist: Superchunk, Album: Here's to Shutting Up, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Twelve years is a long time to hold a job. Any elderly engineer or factory worker can attest to the banality of the same tired day-to-day routines. Eventually, wasted months trail behind like a dense fog in your hazy memory, leaving you wondering if there was even any point to it all. Fortunately for Superchunk, their job entails being a highly influential rock band with a devoted fanbase, their own record label, and a legacy that most of the nation's wealthiest 1% would trade in their multi-millions for. For Superchunk, twelve years is a dream come true. Their humble beginnings as a small-time Chapel Hill pop band in 1989 have, over the years, given way to next-big-thing status, major label bidding wars, and eight studio albums, several of which have become heralded as indie classics. Now in their 30s, the long-standing lineup of Mac McCaughan, guitarist Jim Wilbur, bassist Laura Ballance and drummer Jon Wurster is still making music with the same heart of their early records, even while time has begun to change them into a subtler incarnation of their former selves. Signs of the new, more refined Superchunk first appeared on 1999's Jim O'Rourke-produced Come Pick Me Up with tracks like "Tiny Bombs" and "Hello Hawk." But they were just signs, as raucous, infectiously upbeat songs like "Good Dreams" and "June Showers" dominated the album with anthemic bliss. On Here's to Shutting Up, though, the once-tightly wound hyper heroes have foregone the distortion in lieu of smoothed-out balladry and reflective repose. While often sung from the point of view of fictional characters, McCaughan's lyrics on Here's to Shutting Up often reveal his wist for days gone by. This is perhaps most notable in one of the album's rare rockers, "Out on the Wing," in which a person confides, "All the music that I love is out of date/ So take me to the place/ Where there's no such thing as taste," a sentiment most thirty-something ex-music fans can bitterly relate to. Several of these songs also dwell on young love and history, such as the subdued, pedal-steel-infused "Phone Sex," which addresses a teenager stood up for a date, and the despondent 7\xBD-minute-long "What Do You Look Forward To," where McCaughan recalls seeing "anticipation and a smile on the face of this girl/ And her mother through the glare on the glass of the windshield as they drove away." But even though this album exhibits a softer, more melancholy side of Superchunk, a handful of old-school rockers fill the album out nicely. It's with one of these, the not-necessarily full-force, but nonetheless aggressive "Art Class (Song for Yayoi Kusama)," that the album's clear standout comes. Amidst a pounding rhythm section, McCaughan seems to deride art schools more than that classic time-wasting high school elective with lines like, "Why so serious/ When it's only your life that's at stake/ Why so serious/ When your life is the art that you make," and, "So shit in a can but your art is not free." Elsewhere, the almost Guided by Voices-length slab of raging guitars and crashing drum fills, "Rainy Streets," provides some early relief from the album's pensive meditations. Producer Brian Paulson, who worked with the band on 1993's Foolish, is back behind the decks for Here's to Shutting Up, and despite the band's maturing songcraft, his recording techniques give the record more of a classic Superchunk feel. Jim O'Rourke may have added some meaty soundwork to Come Pick Me Up, but Paulson seems more comfortable with the guys, mixing Mac McCaughan's still-boyish tenor amongst the instrumentation rather than up in your face. It's a seemingly small touch, but an unexpected one, and it makes all the difference in the album's long-term listenability. Of course, at the end of the day, Here's to Shutting Up isn't anything spectacular. The new direction of these songs seems logical enough, and will likely sit well with longtime fans who are, by now, also growing somewhat less excitable. Still, you can't help but miss the youthful ambition of Superchunk's glory days, when they seemed so relevant shouting out simple songs of love and boredom, and blared constantly from college stations across the country. On the other hand, twelve years is a long time to hold a job. It's just nice to see that they're still inspired by what they do."

Soundmurderer

Wired for Sound

Electronic

Scott Plagenhoef

Another year, another revival, and this time it's jungle being resurrected and re-evaluated. In the hands of Soundmurderer, dj/Rupture (aka Nettle) and the rest of the Broklyn Beats series contributors, and a new wave of Brazilian producers, jungle's resurgence focuses primarily on the more gruff, harsh ragga crossover, an oddly non-dancefloor-oriented revisionism that negates most connections to anything light or feminine or-- oddly-- the communal sensibility rooted in rave. Wired for Sound collects three mixes of jungle-ragga mashups. In total, there are 60 tracks here-- most of which were first released on vinyl-only in the mid-1990s-- spread over 70 minutes, although it's not necessary for one to have a sense of the song's or genre's history to enjoy it. The mix combines the moments of release-- the peaks of each track-- so there are no breakdowns and a total absence of any sort of ebb-and-flow dynamic. Instead, it's an exquisitely blended scrum, an exhausting high-speed compact consolidation of harsh rhythm and sonic sludge best listened to one mix at a time than in one 70-minute setting. Unlike many of the releases on the purposefully low-key Violent Turd (Kid606's bastard-pop label), Wired for Sound isn't a smothering of pop sensibilities in splatter beats and sonic goo. Instead, it's a flat-out denial of some of the more pop elements of jungle-- omissions that will irk some, but no doubt be welcome to others. So while Detroit-based Soundmurderer (Todd Osborn, with help from Tadd Mullinix) resurrects jungle, it does so with a very selective memory. There is certainly a bit of self-serving revisionist history on display here as Osborn is celebrating the template in which his own ragga-jungle music-- to date only available on 12-inch singles-- is rooted, but he's not passing the mixes off as a definitive compilation or even an accurate representation of the time or scene, so no bother. The three mixes focus on the infancy of jungle: the explicit influence of high-speed, sometimes Caribbean rhythms and ragga rude bwoys on hardcore rave. Like dj/Rupture's Minesweeper Suite-- also released on Violent Turd-- they draw connections between the rhythms of the ghettoized people of different cultures, placing the fruits of Jamaican soundclashes next to Nation of Islam-inspired jungle such as Kement Crew's "Truth Over Falsehood". Leaving room for ragga artists such as Barrington Levy, Cutty Ranks, Ninjaman, and Dennis Brown, Soundmurderer is mostly interested in interpretations of their rhythms and postures, a reimagination of jungle as the dark music of swaggering almost gangsta individuals rather than the domain of communality. Even though it was artists like Shy FX-- included here-- who first broke jungle in the UK charts, this bass- and dancehall-heavy style soon dissipated, replaced by the often jazz-oriented, whitewashed "intelligent" drum and bass that hastened jungle's mostly ignominious ending. So although Osborn clearly suffers tunnel vision, his focus on the paranoia and dread of darkcore is as welcome a narrow focal point as he could have chosen. And with ragga written out of too much of the unofficial history of jungle, it's a potentially crucial one as well. Yet while Soundmurderer rescues the thrill of jungle from the head music boredom of its offshoots, the velocity, ferocity, and monolithic force of his mashups makes also negates any possibility that he is making dance music. Because we're without a community or social structure with which to engage with others through jungle-- there are almost no jungle club nights in the U.S.-- that oddly makes a bit of sense. However if jungle did undergo a true renaissance, it would be a shame were it to do so through this haughty, IDM lens. On Wired for Sound, we're offered the rhythmic innovation of early jungle and ragga, but matched with the chin-stroking and quasi-art home music of ambient drum and bass. It's a wonderful, crucial reminder of why jungle was one of the 90s true high points, but-- like the work of Squarepusher or a lot of Kid606's other sonic prankster cohorts-- shows a curious unwillingness to value or even acknowledge its body-first roots. It may be a straw man's history of jungle, but it's also a solid, succinct argument for why it's so beloved; sort of a greatest breaks collection that, although you can't dance to it, has a revolutionary beat.

Artist: Soundmurderer, Album: Wired for Sound, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Another year, another revival, and this time it's jungle being resurrected and re-evaluated. In the hands of Soundmurderer, dj/Rupture (aka Nettle) and the rest of the Broklyn Beats series contributors, and a new wave of Brazilian producers, jungle's resurgence focuses primarily on the more gruff, harsh ragga crossover, an oddly non-dancefloor-oriented revisionism that negates most connections to anything light or feminine or-- oddly-- the communal sensibility rooted in rave. Wired for Sound collects three mixes of jungle-ragga mashups. In total, there are 60 tracks here-- most of which were first released on vinyl-only in the mid-1990s-- spread over 70 minutes, although it's not necessary for one to have a sense of the song's or genre's history to enjoy it. The mix combines the moments of release-- the peaks of each track-- so there are no breakdowns and a total absence of any sort of ebb-and-flow dynamic. Instead, it's an exquisitely blended scrum, an exhausting high-speed compact consolidation of harsh rhythm and sonic sludge best listened to one mix at a time than in one 70-minute setting. Unlike many of the releases on the purposefully low-key Violent Turd (Kid606's bastard-pop label), Wired for Sound isn't a smothering of pop sensibilities in splatter beats and sonic goo. Instead, it's a flat-out denial of some of the more pop elements of jungle-- omissions that will irk some, but no doubt be welcome to others. So while Detroit-based Soundmurderer (Todd Osborn, with help from Tadd Mullinix) resurrects jungle, it does so with a very selective memory. There is certainly a bit of self-serving revisionist history on display here as Osborn is celebrating the template in which his own ragga-jungle music-- to date only available on 12-inch singles-- is rooted, but he's not passing the mixes off as a definitive compilation or even an accurate representation of the time or scene, so no bother. The three mixes focus on the infancy of jungle: the explicit influence of high-speed, sometimes Caribbean rhythms and ragga rude bwoys on hardcore rave. Like dj/Rupture's Minesweeper Suite-- also released on Violent Turd-- they draw connections between the rhythms of the ghettoized people of different cultures, placing the fruits of Jamaican soundclashes next to Nation of Islam-inspired jungle such as Kement Crew's "Truth Over Falsehood". Leaving room for ragga artists such as Barrington Levy, Cutty Ranks, Ninjaman, and Dennis Brown, Soundmurderer is mostly interested in interpretations of their rhythms and postures, a reimagination of jungle as the dark music of swaggering almost gangsta individuals rather than the domain of communality. Even though it was artists like Shy FX-- included here-- who first broke jungle in the UK charts, this bass- and dancehall-heavy style soon dissipated, replaced by the often jazz-oriented, whitewashed "intelligent" drum and bass that hastened jungle's mostly ignominious ending. So although Osborn clearly suffers tunnel vision, his focus on the paranoia and dread of darkcore is as welcome a narrow focal point as he could have chosen. And with ragga written out of too much of the unofficial history of jungle, it's a potentially crucial one as well. Yet while Soundmurderer rescues the thrill of jungle from the head music boredom of its offshoots, the velocity, ferocity, and monolithic force of his mashups makes also negates any possibility that he is making dance music. Because we're without a community or social structure with which to engage with others through jungle-- there are almost no jungle club nights in the U.S.-- that oddly makes a bit of sense. However if jungle did undergo a true renaissance, it would be a shame were it to do so through this haughty, IDM lens. On Wired for Sound, we're offered the rhythmic innovation of early jungle and ragga, but matched with the chin-stroking and quasi-art home music of ambient drum and bass. It's a wonderful, crucial reminder of why jungle was one of the 90s true high points, but-- like the work of Squarepusher or a lot of Kid606's other sonic prankster cohorts-- shows a curious unwillingness to value or even acknowledge its body-first roots. It may be a straw man's history of jungle, but it's also a solid, succinct argument for why it's so beloved; sort of a greatest breaks collection that, although you can't dance to it, has a revolutionary beat."

Cate Le Bon

Me Oh My

Folk/Country

Marc Hogan

Wales is used to being overlooked. Seven centuries of English occupation will do that. Almost 15 years after Super Furry Animals, Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, Catatonia, and Manic Street Preachers drew attention to their tiny country's music scene, newer Welsh artists like Race Horses and the Joy Formidable are plugging along amid considerably less media fanfare. Now add Cate Le Bon to that list, with a bullet. On her debut album, the Cardiff-based singer/songwriter introduces a beguiling, idiosyncratic voice almost designed not to call attention to itself. No relation to Duran Duran star Simon, Le Bon is probably best known for her fembot guest spot on "I Lust U", from Super Furries frontman Gruff Rhys's Neon Neon project a couple of years ago. Yet on Me Oh My-- first released via Rhys's fledgling Irony Bored label last fall, and finally for sale in the U.S. this month-- she buries her pop hooks like the childhood animals that gave the album its working title, Pet Deaths, and lets her freak-folk flag fly half-mast instead. Me Oh My is an understated work, but by no means an underwhelming one. Le Bon's coolly enunciated vocals, resembling an earthier Nico or an eerier Victoria Bergsman, are the biggest draw. But the "Pale Blue Eyes" twang of "Sad Sad Feet" ("Baby, I'm headed for the black") or recession-era Neil Young of "Shoeing the Bone" ("These are hard times to fall in love") should earn enough repeat listens for the rest of the songs to reveal themselves. Accompanied by members of Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, Le Bon elsewhere updates the 1970s Welsh psych-folk reveries and fuzztone free-for-alls that Rhys has ably documented on his Welsh Rare Beat compilations. If side two opener "Terror of the Man" is a rare droney snoozer, rough-hewn details such as the retro-futurist synths on the title track help make up the [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| difference. "I fought the night and the night fought me," Le Bon sings. The night wins, of course. But, on a modest scale, so do we.

Artist: Cate Le Bon, Album: Me Oh My, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Wales is used to being overlooked. Seven centuries of English occupation will do that. Almost 15 years after Super Furry Animals, Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, Catatonia, and Manic Street Preachers drew attention to their tiny country's music scene, newer Welsh artists like Race Horses and the Joy Formidable are plugging along amid considerably less media fanfare. Now add Cate Le Bon to that list, with a bullet. On her debut album, the Cardiff-based singer/songwriter introduces a beguiling, idiosyncratic voice almost designed not to call attention to itself. No relation to Duran Duran star Simon, Le Bon is probably best known for her fembot guest spot on "I Lust U", from Super Furries frontman Gruff Rhys's Neon Neon project a couple of years ago. Yet on Me Oh My-- first released via Rhys's fledgling Irony Bored label last fall, and finally for sale in the U.S. this month-- she buries her pop hooks like the childhood animals that gave the album its working title, Pet Deaths, and lets her freak-folk flag fly half-mast instead. Me Oh My is an understated work, but by no means an underwhelming one. Le Bon's coolly enunciated vocals, resembling an earthier Nico or an eerier Victoria Bergsman, are the biggest draw. But the "Pale Blue Eyes" twang of "Sad Sad Feet" ("Baby, I'm headed for the black") or recession-era Neil Young of "Shoeing the Bone" ("These are hard times to fall in love") should earn enough repeat listens for the rest of the songs to reveal themselves. Accompanied by members of Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, Le Bon elsewhere updates the 1970s Welsh psych-folk reveries and fuzztone free-for-alls that Rhys has ably documented on his Welsh Rare Beat compilations. If side two opener "Terror of the Man" is a rare droney snoozer, rough-hewn details such as the retro-futurist synths on the title track help make up the [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| difference. "I fought the night and the night fought me," Le Bon sings. The night wins, of course. But, on a modest scale, so do we."

The Black Swans

Don't Blame the Stars

Rock

Paul Thompson

The Black Swans' violinist Noel Sayre died in a swimming accident in July of 2008, three months after his band had gathered in an Ohio garage to begin recording their new LP, Don't Blame the Stars. The group set aside the unfinished Stars sessions in the wake of Sayre's passing, putting together last year's limited-edition Words Are Stupid before returning to the project. Which makes sense, as hearing Sayre's mournful bow work while still grieving for the man himself might've been too much, too soon. Sayre's rippling violin, echoing and amplifying frontman Jerry DeCicca's pitch-black lyrics, was key to the sound of the Black Swans, and Don't Blame the Stars proves a fine showcase for their late bandmate. But it's also a testament to the Swans' adaptability, both as a band of survivors and an ever-changing musical unit. With its spacious pick-up arrangements and occasional shaggy-dog spoken word interludes (a tribute of sorts to Willie Nelson's Yesterday's Wine), Don't Blame the Stars is perhaps the closest the Swans have come to a straight-up country record. The gothic smear that sat underneath 2007's Change! is largely gone, and while the stripped-back remnants aren't exactly Bakersfield smooth, much of it lands somewhere between, say, Nashville Skyline and early-70s outlaw. The playing is stellar, if sparse, with apt but unobtrusive accoutrement; they leave that to Sayre, whose violin winds and weaves through much of the empty space left by DeCicca's halting delivery. It's a gorgeous sounding record, its live-in-a-room feel and tastefully-employed vintage flourishes-- the reverb-heavy guitar under its title track, the chug of the barely-there background vocals in "I Forgot to Change the Windshield Wipers in My Mind"-- lending it the same gentle charms of a beat-up gem from the C&W bin. As ever, it's the weary bemusement of DeCicca's lyrics that really sets Don't Blame the Stars apart. He begins the "woe is me" crisis of "Boo Hoo" with a bit about getting buggered by a clown; later he loses a lover in plain sight, eats cold soup, and rationalizes his way through another drink. DeCicca seems to be toying with country conventions here-- especially the earnest-seeming spoken word stuff-- but there's a deep tradition-steeped reverence to it as well. What seems a bit staid and straightforward at first reveals a subtle richness over time. DeCicca's delivery, alternately grim and genial, sometimes averages out into nonchalance, and some of the black humor in these lyrics is a bit funnier on paper than on the record itself. But he's always been sort of a tricky read as a singer, allowing Sayre's ever-present violin to hammer home the emotional content, and Don't Blame the Stars finds the two neatly complementing one another. When, on "My Brother", a sweetly descending string part wraps around DeCicca's sigh of "can't forget what we've been through," it's devastating, but quietly so. So, too, is Don't Blame the Stars.

Artist: The Black Swans, Album: Don't Blame the Stars, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "The Black Swans' violinist Noel Sayre died in a swimming accident in July of 2008, three months after his band had gathered in an Ohio garage to begin recording their new LP, Don't Blame the Stars. The group set aside the unfinished Stars sessions in the wake of Sayre's passing, putting together last year's limited-edition Words Are Stupid before returning to the project. Which makes sense, as hearing Sayre's mournful bow work while still grieving for the man himself might've been too much, too soon. Sayre's rippling violin, echoing and amplifying frontman Jerry DeCicca's pitch-black lyrics, was key to the sound of the Black Swans, and Don't Blame the Stars proves a fine showcase for their late bandmate. But it's also a testament to the Swans' adaptability, both as a band of survivors and an ever-changing musical unit. With its spacious pick-up arrangements and occasional shaggy-dog spoken word interludes (a tribute of sorts to Willie Nelson's Yesterday's Wine), Don't Blame the Stars is perhaps the closest the Swans have come to a straight-up country record. The gothic smear that sat underneath 2007's Change! is largely gone, and while the stripped-back remnants aren't exactly Bakersfield smooth, much of it lands somewhere between, say, Nashville Skyline and early-70s outlaw. The playing is stellar, if sparse, with apt but unobtrusive accoutrement; they leave that to Sayre, whose violin winds and weaves through much of the empty space left by DeCicca's halting delivery. It's a gorgeous sounding record, its live-in-a-room feel and tastefully-employed vintage flourishes-- the reverb-heavy guitar under its title track, the chug of the barely-there background vocals in "I Forgot to Change the Windshield Wipers in My Mind"-- lending it the same gentle charms of a beat-up gem from the C&W bin. As ever, it's the weary bemusement of DeCicca's lyrics that really sets Don't Blame the Stars apart. He begins the "woe is me" crisis of "Boo Hoo" with a bit about getting buggered by a clown; later he loses a lover in plain sight, eats cold soup, and rationalizes his way through another drink. DeCicca seems to be toying with country conventions here-- especially the earnest-seeming spoken word stuff-- but there's a deep tradition-steeped reverence to it as well. What seems a bit staid and straightforward at first reveals a subtle richness over time. DeCicca's delivery, alternately grim and genial, sometimes averages out into nonchalance, and some of the black humor in these lyrics is a bit funnier on paper than on the record itself. But he's always been sort of a tricky read as a singer, allowing Sayre's ever-present violin to hammer home the emotional content, and Don't Blame the Stars finds the two neatly complementing one another. When, on "My Brother", a sweetly descending string part wraps around DeCicca's sigh of "can't forget what we've been through," it's devastating, but quietly so. So, too, is Don't Blame the Stars."

Matt Suggs

Amigo Row

Rock

William Bowers

Oh God, hang on to your tar pits, because leaping out from behind the Krispy Kreme pay phone comes a selection of FUN FACTS ABOUT THIS CD! Read on! AMOUNT MERGE APPARENTLY SPENT ON THE PACKAGING: Thirty-five cents. POP ICON WHOM SUGGS MOST RESEMBLES: Matt is, fascinatingly, the lycanthropine doppelganger of the big brother from The Goonies. ARTIST THIS ALBUM MOST TRUMPS: Frank Black-- not to be confused with Black Francis or Charles Thompson. Amigo Row is the mature-but-not-boring, laid-way-back singer/songwriter album that Black's been struggling to half-make for years. Suggs' embodiment of the Pixie-cum-pooper is uncanny, down to the lisp, spaciness, and the nervous, breathy falsetto. Intimations of Black Francis' girl-name-dropping Bossanova do bubble up, though, as Suggs croons him some Clementines, Janies, and Hannahs. ARTIST MOST HAUNTING THIS ALBUM: Stephen Malkmus. Suggs' old band Butterglory (who themselves most haunt the hyper tease "Calm Down") couldn't escape Pavement Junior labels, despite their growth from a college-radio-rock-by-numbers lo-fi concern into the guiteurs of Are You Building a Temple in Heaven? and the standoffish New Zealandry of Rat-Tat-Tat. The Wedding Present even covered both bands (Pavement's "Box Elder" and Butterglory's "Waiting on the Guns"). Suggs' two solo discs have weirdly paralleled the permanent-afternoon trip-pop of Malkmus' two self-helmed excursions. This album's "Jonathan Montgomery" chugs along on a mean, Frosty-thick, mid-70s riff similar in sasstiness to SM's "Black Book", even if Suggs' track pauses for piano-bar buildups. EXTRATEXTUAL REASONS TO SAMPLE THIS DISC'S MELLOW GOLD: Contrary to Digital Underground's hardsell, no one ever invented sex packets. The department store Dillard's features a "punk" clothing section. People are using "oxycontin" as a verb, like "rollin" or "ballin." Plastic surgeons are working to get small breasts considered a medical condition ("micromastia"). FILM THIS ALBUM MOST EVOKES: Jesus' Son. Some stumbly, tragicomic, Arizonian quality in this record fits Alison Maclean's debut adaptation of Denis Johnson's overbeloved drug stories. If Maclean was male, she would have been heralded as a gawk-plex messiah. BUT YOU KNOW: All these border-town lyrics about "Tehachapi girls" have got me thinking Suggs favors an anoxeric Benicio del Torso. WORST SONG: "New Year". They's even a reference to that song that rhymes with "Mold Fang Whine". They's even a reference to resolutions. This pianode is unfortunately the closest Suggs comes to sentimentality, though his speaker is still all intoxicated and trapped and alienated. I just don't get these Gregorian-significance poses. An indie Elton Joel, anyone? Mom? Mulchpile? ALTERNATE TITLES THAT WOULD HAVE WORKED: Albuquerque Nosebleeds. Painting Ranchy Patterns in the Cojones Hotel Lobby. ACTUAL NEU-HIPPIE NAME OF BACKING BAND: Thee Higher Burning Fire. Consider an Anomoanon being dry-gulched by The Band in a world where The Band formed after The Velvet Underground had busted up. MOST MYSTERIOUS SONG: "Father". Yes! Where could a fella order a whole set of tracks like this one, which cops a Taps-tone and might be about some kind of assassination? The speaker is being tracked down by horsemen, and his father is as impotent as the dad in J.M.Coetzee's Disgrace. The lack of explanation adds so much to the song's passionate creeps. Thee Higher Burning Fire plinks and plods with such coherent grace that I must scream to you the virtues of how excellently Brian "Sure, I'll Produce It" Paulson captured the crispness of the four November days when this record became data. BEST OPENING LINES: This honor goes to "Darling Hannah", which begins, "You were rapping on and on about some hocus pocus virtue/ That carried you away to the downtown fuck scene." Wow. I told you this thing was Malkmus-haunted. The song accretes to constitute an excellent wedge of Suggs' strident saloonism, eventually abandoning the predictable plane of breakup songs and vaulting itself into the slutmosphere, or maybe the regretmosphere.

Artist: Matt Suggs, Album: Amigo Row, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Oh God, hang on to your tar pits, because leaping out from behind the Krispy Kreme pay phone comes a selection of FUN FACTS ABOUT THIS CD! Read on! AMOUNT MERGE APPARENTLY SPENT ON THE PACKAGING: Thirty-five cents. POP ICON WHOM SUGGS MOST RESEMBLES: Matt is, fascinatingly, the lycanthropine doppelganger of the big brother from The Goonies. ARTIST THIS ALBUM MOST TRUMPS: Frank Black-- not to be confused with Black Francis or Charles Thompson. Amigo Row is the mature-but-not-boring, laid-way-back singer/songwriter album that Black's been struggling to half-make for years. Suggs' embodiment of the Pixie-cum-pooper is uncanny, down to the lisp, spaciness, and the nervous, breathy falsetto. Intimations of Black Francis' girl-name-dropping Bossanova do bubble up, though, as Suggs croons him some Clementines, Janies, and Hannahs. ARTIST MOST HAUNTING THIS ALBUM: Stephen Malkmus. Suggs' old band Butterglory (who themselves most haunt the hyper tease "Calm Down") couldn't escape Pavement Junior labels, despite their growth from a college-radio-rock-by-numbers lo-fi concern into the guiteurs of Are You Building a Temple in Heaven? and the standoffish New Zealandry of Rat-Tat-Tat. The Wedding Present even covered both bands (Pavement's "Box Elder" and Butterglory's "Waiting on the Guns"). Suggs' two solo discs have weirdly paralleled the permanent-afternoon trip-pop of Malkmus' two self-helmed excursions. This album's "Jonathan Montgomery" chugs along on a mean, Frosty-thick, mid-70s riff similar in sasstiness to SM's "Black Book", even if Suggs' track pauses for piano-bar buildups. EXTRATEXTUAL REASONS TO SAMPLE THIS DISC'S MELLOW GOLD: Contrary to Digital Underground's hardsell, no one ever invented sex packets. The department store Dillard's features a "punk" clothing section. People are using "oxycontin" as a verb, like "rollin" or "ballin." Plastic surgeons are working to get small breasts considered a medical condition ("micromastia"). FILM THIS ALBUM MOST EVOKES: Jesus' Son. Some stumbly, tragicomic, Arizonian quality in this record fits Alison Maclean's debut adaptation of Denis Johnson's overbeloved drug stories. If Maclean was male, she would have been heralded as a gawk-plex messiah. BUT YOU KNOW: All these border-town lyrics about "Tehachapi girls" have got me thinking Suggs favors an anoxeric Benicio del Torso. WORST SONG: "New Year". They's even a reference to that song that rhymes with "Mold Fang Whine". They's even a reference to resolutions. This pianode is unfortunately the closest Suggs comes to sentimentality, though his speaker is still all intoxicated and trapped and alienated. I just don't get these Gregorian-significance poses. An indie Elton Joel, anyone? Mom? Mulchpile? ALTERNATE TITLES THAT WOULD HAVE WORKED: Albuquerque Nosebleeds. Painting Ranchy Patterns in the Cojones Hotel Lobby. ACTUAL NEU-HIPPIE NAME OF BACKING BAND: Thee Higher Burning Fire. Consider an Anomoanon being dry-gulched by The Band in a world where The Band formed after The Velvet Underground had busted up. MOST MYSTERIOUS SONG: "Father". Yes! Where could a fella order a whole set of tracks like this one, which cops a Taps-tone and might be about some kind of assassination? The speaker is being tracked down by horsemen, and his father is as impotent as the dad in J.M.Coetzee's Disgrace. The lack of explanation adds so much to the song's passionate creeps. Thee Higher Burning Fire plinks and plods with such coherent grace that I must scream to you the virtues of how excellently Brian "Sure, I'll Produce It" Paulson captured the crispness of the four November days when this record became data. BEST OPENING LINES: This honor goes to "Darling Hannah", which begins, "You were rapping on and on about some hocus pocus virtue/ That carried you away to the downtown fuck scene." Wow. I told you this thing was Malkmus-haunted. The song accretes to constitute an excellent wedge of Suggs' strident saloonism, eventually abandoning the predictable plane of breakup songs and vaulting itself into the slutmosphere, or maybe the regretmosphere."

The Most Serene Republic

Underwater Cinematographer

Rock

Ryan Dombal

Hand-me-down bands are well-known solely because their members are famous for being in other groups. Along with the regrettable Audioslaves and D12s of the world, this phenomenon often stretches to high and holy indie rock and, with their revolving cast of thousands, Broken Social Scene have proven to be a busy hive of (mostly decent) indie upstarts. But with nearly every BSS permutation exhausted, the collective is wisely looking outward to avoid a half-hearted hand-me-down folly. As the first non-BSS-associated signing to their Arts & Crafts label, the Most Serene Republic are an appealing, wide-eyed anti-hand-me-down sextet that may not have any concrete physical bloodlines to their crafty Canadian neighbors, but-- with their sweeping, climactic pop tendencies-- could easily sneak into a BSS family reunion and steal some BBQ'd prime ribs with few questions asked. They also risk the chance of being thrown out due to some distant-relation quirks and contrasts. Instead of the charming, shaggy stoner vibe that permeates most of the current A&C; catalog, Cinematographer shows off a nerdier, bookish quality. Along with an ambient, instrumental opening "Prologue" and closing "Epilogue", lead singer and trombonist Adrian Jewett has a thin, high-pitched delivery that sounds like an uber-stereotypical Trekkie singing latter-day Flaming Lips after one and a half Amstel Lights at the local suburban Toronto karaoke night. Live, Jewett's lanky frame sways awkwardly as he waves his hands around haphazardly, looking like an indie-pop sorcerer-wunderkind who takes pride in emptying the spit valve of his horn. The geekiness is palpable on record as well but the frontman largely avoids overt annoyance thanks to his bandmates, who conjure a string of twisty, atmospheric indie-pop ditties that sustain a polite-- if rarely astounding-- tunefulness. Awash in spacey keyboard effects and admirably varied, widescreen production, most songs go for big, emotional, full-band-chanting-something-meaningful payoffs but come up a tad short. Sometimes the problem involves too many instrumental ideas and vocal melodies packed into one track, inadvertently subverting its elusive eureka moment. "Content Was My Favourite Color" succumbs to this drawback as it combines speed-singing, a handclap breakdown, a vocal round, distorted breakbeats, and twinkle-time piano all within its 4:16-- consequently, the song is both impressive and frustrating. "Where Cedar Nouns And Adverbs Walk" has a weaker case of ADD and wisely homes in on the keyboard-bop that drives its second half, the band repeating a battle cry of "I think we all know the words" with increasing intensity. With all of the members of the Most Serene Republic around 20 (they cite Kid A as their official musical-mind-blow moment), they have an ample amount of time, energy, and bulletproof indie connections to push their "who you know" to "what you know" ratio even further into the right direction. If the group can manage to focus their youthful exuberance without losing their abundant spontaneity, their ambitions of becoming a true musical sovereign state could very well be realized.

Artist: The Most Serene Republic, Album: Underwater Cinematographer, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Hand-me-down bands are well-known solely because their members are famous for being in other groups. Along with the regrettable Audioslaves and D12s of the world, this phenomenon often stretches to high and holy indie rock and, with their revolving cast of thousands, Broken Social Scene have proven to be a busy hive of (mostly decent) indie upstarts. But with nearly every BSS permutation exhausted, the collective is wisely looking outward to avoid a half-hearted hand-me-down folly. As the first non-BSS-associated signing to their Arts & Crafts label, the Most Serene Republic are an appealing, wide-eyed anti-hand-me-down sextet that may not have any concrete physical bloodlines to their crafty Canadian neighbors, but-- with their sweeping, climactic pop tendencies-- could easily sneak into a BSS family reunion and steal some BBQ'd prime ribs with few questions asked. They also risk the chance of being thrown out due to some distant-relation quirks and contrasts. Instead of the charming, shaggy stoner vibe that permeates most of the current A&C; catalog, Cinematographer shows off a nerdier, bookish quality. Along with an ambient, instrumental opening "Prologue" and closing "Epilogue", lead singer and trombonist Adrian Jewett has a thin, high-pitched delivery that sounds like an uber-stereotypical Trekkie singing latter-day Flaming Lips after one and a half Amstel Lights at the local suburban Toronto karaoke night. Live, Jewett's lanky frame sways awkwardly as he waves his hands around haphazardly, looking like an indie-pop sorcerer-wunderkind who takes pride in emptying the spit valve of his horn. The geekiness is palpable on record as well but the frontman largely avoids overt annoyance thanks to his bandmates, who conjure a string of twisty, atmospheric indie-pop ditties that sustain a polite-- if rarely astounding-- tunefulness. Awash in spacey keyboard effects and admirably varied, widescreen production, most songs go for big, emotional, full-band-chanting-something-meaningful payoffs but come up a tad short. Sometimes the problem involves too many instrumental ideas and vocal melodies packed into one track, inadvertently subverting its elusive eureka moment. "Content Was My Favourite Color" succumbs to this drawback as it combines speed-singing, a handclap breakdown, a vocal round, distorted breakbeats, and twinkle-time piano all within its 4:16-- consequently, the song is both impressive and frustrating. "Where Cedar Nouns And Adverbs Walk" has a weaker case of ADD and wisely homes in on the keyboard-bop that drives its second half, the band repeating a battle cry of "I think we all know the words" with increasing intensity. With all of the members of the Most Serene Republic around 20 (they cite Kid A as their official musical-mind-blow moment), they have an ample amount of time, energy, and bulletproof indie connections to push their "who you know" to "what you know" ratio even further into the right direction. If the group can manage to focus their youthful exuberance without losing their abundant spontaneity, their ambitions of becoming a true musical sovereign state could very well be realized."