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The Unicorns

Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone?

Experimental,Rock

Stuart Berman

It’s a bit misleading to say the Unicorns have reunited after a 10-year absence, because they always seemed like they were barely holding it together in the first place. It wasn’t just that the band was built precariously upon the complementary-but-combative songwriting partnership between Nick “Diamonds” Thorburn and Alden “Ginger” Penner, or that their infamous live shows were liable to degenerate into a chaotic clusterfuck of broken gear and profanity-laden tantrums. For the Unicorns, this instability was embedded into their music’s root DNA; they took the term “pop music” at face-value and left us with a gooey, messy, combustible splatter. But with 2003’s Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone—their first and, to date, final widely released recording—Thorburn and Penner effectively got their shit together just long enough to herald their band’s demise. In an early-2000s Montreal music community renowned for heart-on-sleeve, shoot-for-the-moon rockestras (see: the Dears, Stars, and, of course, scene lynchpins Godspeed You! Black Emperor), the Unicorns were the odd band out. From the color-coordinated white-on-pink stage attire to their bottomless well of theme songs for imaginary cartoon characters (“Jellybones”, “Sea Ghost”) to the vintage synthesizers set on “fart,” the Unicorns seemed to be the antithesis of their more openly impassioned, stern-faced peers. And the one emergent local band with whom they initially shared a predilection for gimmicky onstage attire, vocal hysterics, and volatile performances—the Arcade Fire—would soon solidify into a model of poise and professionalism, something the Unicorns could never hope to become. Sadly, they didn’t survive long enough to divest their almost-anthem “Let’s Get Known” of its aspirational irony: After touring themselves into the ground over the course of 2004, the Unicorns would unceremoniously disband just as south-of-the-border publications like the New York Times and Spin were flying reporters up to Montreal to soak up the city’s je ne sais quoi. Eleven years may strike some as a premature anniversary for a reissue, but the Unicorns’ moment feels so much deeper in the past when you consider how slick and streamlined popular indie-rock has since become, and how few records have matched the scatterbrained unpredictability, frayed-nerve unease, and tooth-rotting tunefulness of Who Will Cut Our Hair. Throughout its 13 tracks (many of which are re-recordings of songs from two limited-run self-released discs), the Unicorns gleefully defy easy categorization as if they were a group of sneaky seventh-graders playing dodgeball: Too complex to be classified as garage-rock, too unsettled to be psychedelic, too hooky to be described as art-damaged, and too fiercely funky to lapse into twee solipsism. (The latter quality came courtesy of secret-weapon drummer Jamie Thompson, who only appears on a handful of tracks here, but who became a full-fledged member after the album’s release.) Each song seems to undergo a diagnostics check—squelching synth test patterns, random rimshots, documentary snippets about Satanism—before it’s set loose, eventually traversing enough twists and turns to rival the Who’s epic “A Quick One, While He’s Away” in half the time. And even after living with this album for over a decade, you’re still never quite sure where it’s going to take you. Unlike many songwriting foils, Thorburn and Penner have similarly peculiar voices, giving their melodic interplay a finish-each-other’s-sentences sense of intuition while lending their moments of playful in-song sparring a discomfiting tension. When the two start trading “No you’re not”/ “Yes I am” schoolyard-grade taunts on “Child Star”, it’s not unlike watching Siamese twins head-butting one another. But if that song—reportedly inspired by an unpleasant encounter with a past-his-prime Corey Haim—sees the two engaged in obvious role-play, other tracks blur the line between pretend-jousting and actual acrimony. True to their capricious nature, the band’s would-be theme-song celebration, “I Was Born (A Unicorn)”, devolves into a custody battle between Thorburn and Penner for control of the band: “I write the songs” / “I write the songs!”/ “You say I’m doing it wrong”/ “You are doing it wrong!” But while the Unicorns may act childish, their sense of nostalgia flies in the face of today’s Instagram-filtered, #tbt sentimentalism; instead, Who Will Cut Our Hair transports you back to that pivotal moment in childhood when you first realize the meaning of death, and one’s sense of naïveté and frivolity give way to confusion and terror. For all their surface silliness—this is a band whose idea of sensitivity is serenading lines like “Somewhere in the asshole of my eye/ There’s a muscle which relaxes when you cry”—the Unicorns were motivated by a genuine desire to comfort, using fantastical images of ghosts and haunted houses to temper real-life fears and anxieties. After all, an album that begins with the flustered “I Don’t Wanna Die” ends with the peaceful “Ready to Die”, suggesting that acceptance of death is the first step to truly living. That certainly seems to be the case for Thorburn, whose ambitions have since shifted into overdrive, with forays into hip-hop (Th’ Corn Gangg), Everly Brothers-style harmony-folk (Human Highway), 1950s doo-wop (Mister Heavenly), and cinemascopic art-rock (Islands). Penner, by contrast, has resurfaced only sporadically, taking a rough-hewn, deconstructionist tack with his short-lived band Clues and his recently released solo album. But the duo’s divergent post-Unicorns trajectories ultimately reemphasize the perfect, delicate balance the duo achieved together. While it remains to be seen if their recent reconciliation will yield any new material, for now, the four rarities included on this reissue function as fresh flowers at an old gravesite, offering affectionate reminders of a legacy cut short prematurely. These include two intricate-yet-immediate songs (“Evacuate the Vacuous” and “Let Me Sleep”) that fit snugly within Who Will Cut Our Hair’s prog-pop parameters, and a live recording of the never-released “Haunted House” that provides a glimpse of the Unicorns’ notoriously off-the-cuff performances and Thorburn’s cheeky banter. But perhaps the best exemplar of The Unicorns ethos can be heard in their excellent cover of “Rocket Ship” by Daniel Johnston, the Texan pop savant who first formulated the uncanny mix of innocence and horror that informs every song in the Unicorn canon. That Johnston nod further positions the Unicorns’ modest modus oper

Artist: The Unicorns, Album: Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone?, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.9 Album review: "It’s a bit misleading to say the Unicorns have reunited after a 10-year absence, because they always seemed like they were barely holding it together in the first place. It wasn’t just that the band was built precariously upon the complementary-but-combative songwriting partnership between Nick “Diamonds” Thorburn and Alden “Ginger” Penner, or that their infamous live shows were liable to degenerate into a chaotic clusterfuck of broken gear and profanity-laden tantrums. For the Unicorns, this instability was embedded into their music’s root DNA; they took the term “pop music” at face-value and left us with a gooey, messy, combustible splatter. But with 2003’s Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone—their first and, to date, final widely released recording—Thorburn and Penner effectively got their shit together just long enough to herald their band’s demise. In an early-2000s Montreal music community renowned for heart-on-sleeve, shoot-for-the-moon rockestras (see: the Dears, Stars, and, of course, scene lynchpins Godspeed You! Black Emperor), the Unicorns were the odd band out. From the color-coordinated white-on-pink stage attire to their bottomless well of theme songs for imaginary cartoon characters (“Jellybones”, “Sea Ghost”) to the vintage synthesizers set on “fart,” the Unicorns seemed to be the antithesis of their more openly impassioned, stern-faced peers. And the one emergent local band with whom they initially shared a predilection for gimmicky onstage attire, vocal hysterics, and volatile performances—the Arcade Fire—would soon solidify into a model of poise and professionalism, something the Unicorns could never hope to become. Sadly, they didn’t survive long enough to divest their almost-anthem “Let’s Get Known” of its aspirational irony: After touring themselves into the ground over the course of 2004, the Unicorns would unceremoniously disband just as south-of-the-border publications like the New York Times and Spin were flying reporters up to Montreal to soak up the city’s je ne sais quoi. Eleven years may strike some as a premature anniversary for a reissue, but the Unicorns’ moment feels so much deeper in the past when you consider how slick and streamlined popular indie-rock has since become, and how few records have matched the scatterbrained unpredictability, frayed-nerve unease, and tooth-rotting tunefulness of Who Will Cut Our Hair. Throughout its 13 tracks (many of which are re-recordings of songs from two limited-run self-released discs), the Unicorns gleefully defy easy categorization as if they were a group of sneaky seventh-graders playing dodgeball: Too complex to be classified as garage-rock, too unsettled to be psychedelic, too hooky to be described as art-damaged, and too fiercely funky to lapse into twee solipsism. (The latter quality came courtesy of secret-weapon drummer Jamie Thompson, who only appears on a handful of tracks here, but who became a full-fledged member after the album’s release.) Each song seems to undergo a diagnostics check—squelching synth test patterns, random rimshots, documentary snippets about Satanism—before it’s set loose, eventually traversing enough twists and turns to rival the Who’s epic “A Quick One, While He’s Away” in half the time. And even after living with this album for over a decade, you’re still never quite sure where it’s going to take you. Unlike many songwriting foils, Thorburn and Penner have similarly peculiar voices, giving their melodic interplay a finish-each-other’s-sentences sense of intuition while lending their moments of playful in-song sparring a discomfiting tension. When the two start trading “No you’re not”/ “Yes I am” schoolyard-grade taunts on “Child Star”, it’s not unlike watching Siamese twins head-butting one another. But if that song—reportedly inspired by an unpleasant encounter with a past-his-prime Corey Haim—sees the two engaged in obvious role-play, other tracks blur the line between pretend-jousting and actual acrimony. True to their capricious nature, the band’s would-be theme-song celebration, “I Was Born (A Unicorn)”, devolves into a custody battle between Thorburn and Penner for control of the band: “I write the songs” / “I write the songs!”/ “You say I’m doing it wrong”/ “You are doing it wrong!” But while the Unicorns may act childish, their sense of nostalgia flies in the face of today’s Instagram-filtered, #tbt sentimentalism; instead, Who Will Cut Our Hair transports you back to that pivotal moment in childhood when you first realize the meaning of death, and one’s sense of naïveté and frivolity give way to confusion and terror. For all their surface silliness—this is a band whose idea of sensitivity is serenading lines like “Somewhere in the asshole of my eye/ There’s a muscle which relaxes when you cry”—the Unicorns were motivated by a genuine desire to comfort, using fantastical images of ghosts and haunted houses to temper real-life fears and anxieties. After all, an album that begins with the flustered “I Don’t Wanna Die” ends with the peaceful “Ready to Die”, suggesting that acceptance of death is the first step to truly living. That certainly seems to be the case for Thorburn, whose ambitions have since shifted into overdrive, with forays into hip-hop (Th’ Corn Gangg), Everly Brothers-style harmony-folk (Human Highway), 1950s doo-wop (Mister Heavenly), and cinemascopic art-rock (Islands). Penner, by contrast, has resurfaced only sporadically, taking a rough-hewn, deconstructionist tack with his short-lived band Clues and his recently released solo album. But the duo’s divergent post-Unicorns trajectories ultimately reemphasize the perfect, delicate balance the duo achieved together. While it remains to be seen if their recent reconciliation will yield any new material, for now, the four rarities included on this reissue function as fresh flowers at an old gravesite, offering affectionate reminders of a legacy cut short prematurely. These include two intricate-yet-immediate songs (“Evacuate the Vacuous” and “Let Me Sleep”) that fit snugly within Who Will Cut Our Hair’s prog-pop parameters, and a live recording of the never-released “Haunted House” that provides a glimpse of the Unicorns’ notoriously off-the-cuff performances and Thorburn’s cheeky banter. But perhaps the best exemplar of The Unicorns ethos can be heard in their excellent cover of “Rocket Ship” by Daniel Johnston, the Texan pop savant who first formulated the uncanny mix of innocence and horror that informs every song in the Unicorn canon. That Johnston nod further positions the Unicorns’ modest modus oper"

Kayhan Kalhor & Brooklyn Rider

Silent City

Joe Tangari

Kayhan Kalhor is a Kurdish Iranian master of Persian music and one of the greatest living players of the kamancheh, a four-stringed, upright Persian fiddle that's tuned like a violin but has a darker tone; Brooklyn Rider is a young American string quartet in the tradition of the Kronos and Balanescu Quartets. Together, their repertoire is a mixture of classic string pieces, modern compositions, and originals composed by one of the group's violinists, Colin Jacobsen, and fleshed out by a talented bunch, equally comfortable improvising and playing complex arrangements as they are performing in concert halls and small rock clubs. Kalhor and Brooklyn Rider met as members of Yo-Yo Ma's ambitious Silk Road Ensemble, a project seeking to unite the vast range of musical traditions along the historic trade route in a way that preserves each one but casts it in the context of something broad and modern. They continue in that spirit on Silent City, finding common ground between Persian folk and modern minimalism. The album's two short pieces, "Ascending Bird" and "Parvaz", bridge those genres directly, the former by adapting a piece of folk music, and the latter by retelling the same legend with a new composition by Kalhor. "Ascending Bird" balances slow and deliberate phrases from the quartet, with Kalhor's warm, searching kamancheh and frenzied santur (Persian hammer dulcimer) from guest Siamak Aghaei. Percussionist Mark Suter and double bassist Jeff Beecher are also on hand to widen the aural palette. Colin Jacobsen's "Beloved, Do Not Let Me Be Discouraged" fuses a passage inspired by the Central-Asian Romeo & Juliet story Layla & Majnun with a 14th-century Italian song, beginning with a long, solemn meditation on the latter before swelling and finally bursting into its rhythmic second half. Engineer Jody Elff has brilliantly captured the detail and dynamic depth of the group, and this is most apparent on the half-hour centerpiece, Kalhor's magnificent composition "Silent City". It begins nearly inaudible, with a slow improvisation that gradually grows to a heaving, jaw-dropping climax around the 17-minute mark, only to break back down to an aching, kamancheh-led passage. Where the first climax comes with a sudden shift from dissonance to gorgeous consonance, the second is a cathartic, celebratory dance movement, with Suter returning to percussion. Silent City has something for nearly everyone-- classical music fans will appreciate the fine quality of the playing, world music aficionados will enjoy the cross-cultural currents, and it's very easy to see kids reared on post-rock and miminalist electronic music feeling at home here (if you've ever liked anything released on Kranky, you're almost certain to enjoy this). Experimentalism is always more rewarding when it leads to resounding emotional depth, and this is as good an example as you'll find of a group of musicians achieving that ideal balance.

Artist: Kayhan Kalhor & Brooklyn Rider, Album: Silent City, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Kayhan Kalhor is a Kurdish Iranian master of Persian music and one of the greatest living players of the kamancheh, a four-stringed, upright Persian fiddle that's tuned like a violin but has a darker tone; Brooklyn Rider is a young American string quartet in the tradition of the Kronos and Balanescu Quartets. Together, their repertoire is a mixture of classic string pieces, modern compositions, and originals composed by one of the group's violinists, Colin Jacobsen, and fleshed out by a talented bunch, equally comfortable improvising and playing complex arrangements as they are performing in concert halls and small rock clubs. Kalhor and Brooklyn Rider met as members of Yo-Yo Ma's ambitious Silk Road Ensemble, a project seeking to unite the vast range of musical traditions along the historic trade route in a way that preserves each one but casts it in the context of something broad and modern. They continue in that spirit on Silent City, finding common ground between Persian folk and modern minimalism. The album's two short pieces, "Ascending Bird" and "Parvaz", bridge those genres directly, the former by adapting a piece of folk music, and the latter by retelling the same legend with a new composition by Kalhor. "Ascending Bird" balances slow and deliberate phrases from the quartet, with Kalhor's warm, searching kamancheh and frenzied santur (Persian hammer dulcimer) from guest Siamak Aghaei. Percussionist Mark Suter and double bassist Jeff Beecher are also on hand to widen the aural palette. Colin Jacobsen's "Beloved, Do Not Let Me Be Discouraged" fuses a passage inspired by the Central-Asian Romeo & Juliet story Layla & Majnun with a 14th-century Italian song, beginning with a long, solemn meditation on the latter before swelling and finally bursting into its rhythmic second half. Engineer Jody Elff has brilliantly captured the detail and dynamic depth of the group, and this is most apparent on the half-hour centerpiece, Kalhor's magnificent composition "Silent City". It begins nearly inaudible, with a slow improvisation that gradually grows to a heaving, jaw-dropping climax around the 17-minute mark, only to break back down to an aching, kamancheh-led passage. Where the first climax comes with a sudden shift from dissonance to gorgeous consonance, the second is a cathartic, celebratory dance movement, with Suter returning to percussion. Silent City has something for nearly everyone-- classical music fans will appreciate the fine quality of the playing, world music aficionados will enjoy the cross-cultural currents, and it's very easy to see kids reared on post-rock and miminalist electronic music feeling at home here (if you've ever liked anything released on Kranky, you're almost certain to enjoy this). Experimentalism is always more rewarding when it leads to resounding emotional depth, and this is as good an example as you'll find of a group of musicians achieving that ideal balance."

John Fahey

Red Cross

Folk/Country

Eric Carr

Joey and Dee Dee, Joe Strummer... it's been a bleak stretch lately. My adolescent heroes are a vanishing breed, it seems, yet Pat Boone might as well be immortal-- where's the justice? It's a bum deal, really: you care enough about an artist's music, and somewhere down the line you end up caring about the person behind it, too. Artists give themselves up in their work, and we connect with that small part of them, though they're probably folks most of us have never even seen or known. But confronting the knowledge that suddenly there's no one on the receiving end of your myriad, tiny bonds leaves an emptiness. It's minor, sure, but to me at least, it's undeniable, and writing about it is even worse. There's little room in criticism for eulogy (and vice versa), leaving the underlying sentiment merely to seep in through the cracks. Still, the vague knowledge of loss remains. John Fahey died following a sextuple bypass on February 22nd, 2001, six days before he would turn sixty-one, after co-authoring the emancipation of acoustic guitars everywhere, freeing them from the shackles of their American roots masters. With barely more than spare, deliberately picked acoustic finger patterns and the often eerie hollowness in between, "he was the first to demonstrate that the finger-picking techniques of traditional country and blues steel-string guitar could be used to express a world of non-traditional musical ideas-- harmonies and melodies you'd associate with Bartók, Charles Ives, or maybe the music of India," in the words of (of all people) his close friend and colleague, Dr. Demento. This omnipresent restlessness with his chosen medium even led him to disown much of his early work in favor of experimental drones and extended forays into free-form musique concrete. His output is vast, and owing to the constant flux of trends it contains, quite humbling. Listening to the echoing ghosts of "Remember", Fahey's morose take on the Irving Berlin standard that opens Red Cross, it's hard not to absent-mindedly begin searching its haunting stillnesses and recesses for hidden goodbyes, or some tell-tale resolution. It casts the rest of the album in such heartbreaking shades that the need for closure (of a sort) is almost palpable. Through retrospective artifice, though, it's all too easy to see so much in little more than a title, and in the end this opening piece is more of an open question. Much of the album nods to moments throughout Fahey's career, perhaps accidentally, but nonetheless offering thin glimpses of his stylistic diversity, with "Remember" poised to prepare the listener. Although the delicate acoustic works of Red Cross are powerful, they only mimic things Fahey has accomplished a dozen times before, and better. He's been rightly accused of a lingering redundancy in his recent work, but this album seems more readily taken as a conscious overview. The memories stirred up by these compositions are very purposeful, if only half-formed. The unsettling but still beautiful hollows can't help but invite nostalgia. Fahey began to accept his more traditional material late in life, reassessing the worth of the blues and standards he had once disavowed, and Red Cross certainly shows hints of his own coming to terms. Allusions to the amorphous compositions of his later years are kept side-by-side with a minor helping of refreshingly straightforward arrangements. He approaches the classic George Gershwin tune "Summertime" in his typically painstaking fashion, realizing it as less of a warm weather romp than a ballad of bittersweet solitude. Where there was once ye olde swimmin' hole and children playing stickball in the street, the kids aren't allowed to go to the lake since some hapless child drowned last summer, and the streets and playgrounds are all disquietingly barren. Only the vague peace that comes from memories of simpler times remains. Similarly, the original composition "Charlie Bradley's Ten-Sixty-Six Blues", is also reminiscent of vintage material, not as impressive as his most concerted efforts toward country-blues form, but still breathtaking in its remarkable quietism. And it fares better than the dry, Arabian "Ananaias" or "Red Cross, Disciple of Christ Today" with its uncomfortably spare string-bending; respectively, they evoke the exotic promise of Fahey's seminal acoustic ragas and his bold forays into noise, but ultimately fail to develop fully. In a way, these meandering explorations are a hallmark of his own, and (particularly in the seven-minute expanse of "Ananaias") contain more than a few enlightening passages without necessarily forming a cohesive whole. The only real misstep is "Untitled with Rain". For six minutes, the song flows leisurely across faintly ringing organ tones and chimes, with just a few scattered notes recalling some of Fahey's concrete leanings. At that moment, the music dissipates into eighteen minutes of thoroughly impenetrable silence while the ambient noise of a deserted studio is mic'd up for, presumably, listening pleasure. Sadly, his generally keen abstract edge is at its dullest-- any similar track from City of Refuge makes this seem like a cheap gimmick. And worse, if it weren't for the (almost fittingly) unnamed tonal reverb of the track's final two minutes, the closing seconds of his final album would conclude in a vacuum. Even if Red Cross is less of a striking conclusion than a broad summation, it's a tragedy to allow the vague recognitions elicited here to evaporate into nothing. It's silence in remembrance of a talented, haunted man, but he deserves a eulogy, and his guitar speaks better than anyone ever could.

Artist: John Fahey, Album: Red Cross, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Joey and Dee Dee, Joe Strummer... it's been a bleak stretch lately. My adolescent heroes are a vanishing breed, it seems, yet Pat Boone might as well be immortal-- where's the justice? It's a bum deal, really: you care enough about an artist's music, and somewhere down the line you end up caring about the person behind it, too. Artists give themselves up in their work, and we connect with that small part of them, though they're probably folks most of us have never even seen or known. But confronting the knowledge that suddenly there's no one on the receiving end of your myriad, tiny bonds leaves an emptiness. It's minor, sure, but to me at least, it's undeniable, and writing about it is even worse. There's little room in criticism for eulogy (and vice versa), leaving the underlying sentiment merely to seep in through the cracks. Still, the vague knowledge of loss remains. John Fahey died following a sextuple bypass on February 22nd, 2001, six days before he would turn sixty-one, after co-authoring the emancipation of acoustic guitars everywhere, freeing them from the shackles of their American roots masters. With barely more than spare, deliberately picked acoustic finger patterns and the often eerie hollowness in between, "he was the first to demonstrate that the finger-picking techniques of traditional country and blues steel-string guitar could be used to express a world of non-traditional musical ideas-- harmonies and melodies you'd associate with Bartók, Charles Ives, or maybe the music of India," in the words of (of all people) his close friend and colleague, Dr. Demento. This omnipresent restlessness with his chosen medium even led him to disown much of his early work in favor of experimental drones and extended forays into free-form musique concrete. His output is vast, and owing to the constant flux of trends it contains, quite humbling. Listening to the echoing ghosts of "Remember", Fahey's morose take on the Irving Berlin standard that opens Red Cross, it's hard not to absent-mindedly begin searching its haunting stillnesses and recesses for hidden goodbyes, or some tell-tale resolution. It casts the rest of the album in such heartbreaking shades that the need for closure (of a sort) is almost palpable. Through retrospective artifice, though, it's all too easy to see so much in little more than a title, and in the end this opening piece is more of an open question. Much of the album nods to moments throughout Fahey's career, perhaps accidentally, but nonetheless offering thin glimpses of his stylistic diversity, with "Remember" poised to prepare the listener. Although the delicate acoustic works of Red Cross are powerful, they only mimic things Fahey has accomplished a dozen times before, and better. He's been rightly accused of a lingering redundancy in his recent work, but this album seems more readily taken as a conscious overview. The memories stirred up by these compositions are very purposeful, if only half-formed. The unsettling but still beautiful hollows can't help but invite nostalgia. Fahey began to accept his more traditional material late in life, reassessing the worth of the blues and standards he had once disavowed, and Red Cross certainly shows hints of his own coming to terms. Allusions to the amorphous compositions of his later years are kept side-by-side with a minor helping of refreshingly straightforward arrangements. He approaches the classic George Gershwin tune "Summertime" in his typically painstaking fashion, realizing it as less of a warm weather romp than a ballad of bittersweet solitude. Where there was once ye olde swimmin' hole and children playing stickball in the street, the kids aren't allowed to go to the lake since some hapless child drowned last summer, and the streets and playgrounds are all disquietingly barren. Only the vague peace that comes from memories of simpler times remains. Similarly, the original composition "Charlie Bradley's Ten-Sixty-Six Blues", is also reminiscent of vintage material, not as impressive as his most concerted efforts toward country-blues form, but still breathtaking in its remarkable quietism. And it fares better than the dry, Arabian "Ananaias" or "Red Cross, Disciple of Christ Today" with its uncomfortably spare string-bending; respectively, they evoke the exotic promise of Fahey's seminal acoustic ragas and his bold forays into noise, but ultimately fail to develop fully. In a way, these meandering explorations are a hallmark of his own, and (particularly in the seven-minute expanse of "Ananaias") contain more than a few enlightening passages without necessarily forming a cohesive whole. The only real misstep is "Untitled with Rain". For six minutes, the song flows leisurely across faintly ringing organ tones and chimes, with just a few scattered notes recalling some of Fahey's concrete leanings. At that moment, the music dissipates into eighteen minutes of thoroughly impenetrable silence while the ambient noise of a deserted studio is mic'd up for, presumably, listening pleasure. Sadly, his generally keen abstract edge is at its dullest-- any similar track from City of Refuge makes this seem like a cheap gimmick. And worse, if it weren't for the (almost fittingly) unnamed tonal reverb of the track's final two minutes, the closing seconds of his final album would conclude in a vacuum. Even if Red Cross is less of a striking conclusion than a broad summation, it's a tragedy to allow the vague recognitions elicited here to evaporate into nothing. It's silence in remembrance of a talented, haunted man, but he deserves a eulogy, and his guitar speaks better than anyone ever could."

Oren Ambarchi | Keiji Haino | Jim O'Rourke

Tima Formosa

Grayson Currin

Electroacoustic improvisation is an easy target for naysayers. Onstage, a handful of performers huddle over tables of gadgets, pushing buttons, twisting knobs, and adjusting sliders. They concentrate only on their corner, often not acknowledging the audience. Tempos are rare; melodies, perhaps more so. Not even a collaborative improvisation between Jim O'Rourke, Keiji Haino, and Oren Ambarchi-- three of the best sound artists in the world-- is likely to win many cynics. Tima Formosa is composed of three pieces that methodically step through webs of static, screams, feedback, percussion, and piano. One nondescript hum sometimes becomes the shared focus of each musician for several minutes. But with its generous strata of textures and its impeccably timed shifts, Tima Formosa highlights some of the best qualities of this form and, in doing so, rewards attention generously. Anything less would be a disappointment. These three improvisers boast discographies and résumés deeper and more diverse than most of their peers. On Tima Formosa, the personalities of each musician meld, creating an improvisation that's faithful to the group ideal. It's important to understand the players: Aside from his pop-rock forays and production work with Wilco, Sonic Youth, and Joanna Newsom, American expatriate and Tokyo resident O'Rourke has collaborated with what sometimes feels like everyone-- Christian Fennesz, KK Null, Carlos Giffoni, and Tony Conrad, to sample blindly. His solo electronic album, 2002's I'm Happy, and I'm Singing, and a 1,2,3,4, is a strangely human laptop essential. Haino is a psychedelic Japanese demigod with an assortment of releases more intense and exhausting than Kate Gosselin's grocery list. He's worked in jazz, noise, metal, improv, and rock and with guitar, voice, drums, drum machines, and theremins. His best records are radiant, limitless explorations of a unifying idea. Ambarchi, meanwhile, has recorded extensively with electroacoustic kingpins Günter Müller and Keith Rowe, and he's in two trios with Mayhem's Attila Csihar and members of Sunn O))). More important here, though, are his gorgeous solo albums. Like Tima Formosa, Ambarchi's overlooked solo works spot an interesting tone or timbre and explore its every surface. Such obsession is the anchor here. But this is neither a tidal drone record, where one sound consumes a side, nor a glitch record, where every sound serves simply as an introduction for the next. Rather, it's something in between, where the players cycle through themes at just the right pace, neither restless nor lazy. For its first dozen minutes, the opening take-- simply entitled "Tima Formasa 1"-- is a glow of anxiety, with bulbous bass tones, cyclical amplifier hum, and slicing cymbal passes folding nervously against one another. Haino finally turns it into hyperbole, routing his emasculated shriek through delay as the circuits click behind him. Between the 25-minute opener and the 31-minute closer, the trio offers the perfect mid-album respite. For four minutes, O'Rourke builds atonal piano clouds beneath Haino's meditative croon and above Ambarchi's monotonous squall. It distracts without absorbing, a stopgap that doesn't disrupt from the action so much as prepare for the next phase. That phase-- full of lacerated, metal-like vocals, intoxicating tribal drumming, and long, lashing tones-- again builds, burns, and bleeds into silence. It rarely sags and never suggests that these players were as isolated as they might have appeared during the recording of this album, on stage in Japan in January 2009.

Artist: Oren Ambarchi | Keiji Haino | Jim O'Rourke, Album: Tima Formosa, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Electroacoustic improvisation is an easy target for naysayers. Onstage, a handful of performers huddle over tables of gadgets, pushing buttons, twisting knobs, and adjusting sliders. They concentrate only on their corner, often not acknowledging the audience. Tempos are rare; melodies, perhaps more so. Not even a collaborative improvisation between Jim O'Rourke, Keiji Haino, and Oren Ambarchi-- three of the best sound artists in the world-- is likely to win many cynics. Tima Formosa is composed of three pieces that methodically step through webs of static, screams, feedback, percussion, and piano. One nondescript hum sometimes becomes the shared focus of each musician for several minutes. But with its generous strata of textures and its impeccably timed shifts, Tima Formosa highlights some of the best qualities of this form and, in doing so, rewards attention generously. Anything less would be a disappointment. These three improvisers boast discographies and résumés deeper and more diverse than most of their peers. On Tima Formosa, the personalities of each musician meld, creating an improvisation that's faithful to the group ideal. It's important to understand the players: Aside from his pop-rock forays and production work with Wilco, Sonic Youth, and Joanna Newsom, American expatriate and Tokyo resident O'Rourke has collaborated with what sometimes feels like everyone-- Christian Fennesz, KK Null, Carlos Giffoni, and Tony Conrad, to sample blindly. His solo electronic album, 2002's I'm Happy, and I'm Singing, and a 1,2,3,4, is a strangely human laptop essential. Haino is a psychedelic Japanese demigod with an assortment of releases more intense and exhausting than Kate Gosselin's grocery list. He's worked in jazz, noise, metal, improv, and rock and with guitar, voice, drums, drum machines, and theremins. His best records are radiant, limitless explorations of a unifying idea. Ambarchi, meanwhile, has recorded extensively with electroacoustic kingpins Günter Müller and Keith Rowe, and he's in two trios with Mayhem's Attila Csihar and members of Sunn O))). More important here, though, are his gorgeous solo albums. Like Tima Formosa, Ambarchi's overlooked solo works spot an interesting tone or timbre and explore its every surface. Such obsession is the anchor here. But this is neither a tidal drone record, where one sound consumes a side, nor a glitch record, where every sound serves simply as an introduction for the next. Rather, it's something in between, where the players cycle through themes at just the right pace, neither restless nor lazy. For its first dozen minutes, the opening take-- simply entitled "Tima Formasa 1"-- is a glow of anxiety, with bulbous bass tones, cyclical amplifier hum, and slicing cymbal passes folding nervously against one another. Haino finally turns it into hyperbole, routing his emasculated shriek through delay as the circuits click behind him. Between the 25-minute opener and the 31-minute closer, the trio offers the perfect mid-album respite. For four minutes, O'Rourke builds atonal piano clouds beneath Haino's meditative croon and above Ambarchi's monotonous squall. It distracts without absorbing, a stopgap that doesn't disrupt from the action so much as prepare for the next phase. That phase-- full of lacerated, metal-like vocals, intoxicating tribal drumming, and long, lashing tones-- again builds, burns, and bleeds into silence. It rarely sags and never suggests that these players were as isolated as they might have appeared during the recording of this album, on stage in Japan in January 2009."

YACHT

See Mystery Lights

Electronic

Rebecca Raber

Jona Bechtolt-- founding member of YACHT, former member of the Blow-- is a huge talent, something that may not have been readily apparent on any of his three previous LPs. Those albums, created largely as solo endeavors, will not have prepared listeners for See Mystery Lights. Now an official partnership between Bechtolt and Claire L. Evans, who performed on several songs on 2007's I Believe In You, Your Magic Is Real, YACHT finally feel like a full-fledged band with direction and vision, particularly given the added weight (or rather, levity) of Evans' influence. The songs on See Mystery Lights-- from the bouncy, burbling you-can't-take-it-with-you screed "The Afterlife" (which plays like a less spastic companion piece to the Mae Shi's "Run to Your Grave") to the roller rink-ready vocoder vocals of "I'm In Love With a Ripper"-- represent YACHT at their most poppy. It's a collection of stone jams that finds the band finally as hellbent on experimenting and expanding the boundaries of its sonic scope as it is on having fun. Built on electronic foundations-- laser effects, skittering computerized beats, and spacey synth lines (or guitar riffs that have been tuned or distorted to sound like synths)-- these new songs are giddy with creative freedom while remaining tethered in service of their melodies. The vocal melodies are bright and buoyant, but delivered (by either band member, or in unison) in a chanted, oftentimes detached monotone that plays up the repetitive lyrics' mantra-like feel and adds a welcome undercurrent of slacker cool to their otherwise sugary optimism. See Mystery Lights also marks the first time that YACHT are recording for DFA. Normally a label-change wouldn't be notable, as it is usually less an indicator of artistic choices than it is of financial or business ones, but moving to a label with such a distinctive aesthetic may be enough for many to reconsider their work. YACHT themselves created the track "Summer Song" as an homage to LCD Soundsystem, and LCD/DFA leader James Murphy liked it enough to release it on his label. It's no wonder that Murphy was smitten; the track, which also appears on the full-length, echoes the deadpan vocal delivery and burbling 80s krautrock synths of his own band, as well as cowbell-and-handclap percussion ripped from the Rapture's "House of Jealous Lovers", one of DFA's biggest singles. Even other tracks on the collection-- ones that weren't written specifically in homage to Murphy-- can't help but sound influenced by him. Case in point: "We Have All We've Ever Wanted", with its minimalist dance beat, heavy bass, and Bechtolt's dry, talky delivery, recalls "Losing My Edge", albeit with a lighthearted, anthemic chorus. Still, while YACHT clearly share influences with Murphy's gang (Eno, Ferry, Neu!, ESG, etc.), their positive, futuristic jams actually sound most closely related to Tom Tom Club. Perhaps that's because, like Tom Tom Club's first self-titled album, which was recorded in Barbados, See Mystery Lights was recorded in a sunny, faraway locale-- in this case, far from the band's native rainy Portland, Oregon, in Marfa, Texas. The vibe of the album is relaxed and sun-soaked-- especially "Psychic City (Voodoo City)", which features an elastic groove built on a dubby, reggae-ish keyboard melody inspired by the bassline of Althea and Donna's "Uptown Top Ranking". Regardless of influence or intent, however, See Mystery Lights is a triumph. It's a feel-good album for an era that could use a little happiness, a sweaty collection of heady, hedonistic tunes just in time for the hottest days of the year. And the best part is that one spin of this wily, sunny disc will be able to transport you back to summer vacation any day of the year.

Artist: YACHT, Album: See Mystery Lights, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "Jona Bechtolt-- founding member of YACHT, former member of the Blow-- is a huge talent, something that may not have been readily apparent on any of his three previous LPs. Those albums, created largely as solo endeavors, will not have prepared listeners for See Mystery Lights. Now an official partnership between Bechtolt and Claire L. Evans, who performed on several songs on 2007's I Believe In You, Your Magic Is Real, YACHT finally feel like a full-fledged band with direction and vision, particularly given the added weight (or rather, levity) of Evans' influence. The songs on See Mystery Lights-- from the bouncy, burbling you-can't-take-it-with-you screed "The Afterlife" (which plays like a less spastic companion piece to the Mae Shi's "Run to Your Grave") to the roller rink-ready vocoder vocals of "I'm In Love With a Ripper"-- represent YACHT at their most poppy. It's a collection of stone jams that finds the band finally as hellbent on experimenting and expanding the boundaries of its sonic scope as it is on having fun. Built on electronic foundations-- laser effects, skittering computerized beats, and spacey synth lines (or guitar riffs that have been tuned or distorted to sound like synths)-- these new songs are giddy with creative freedom while remaining tethered in service of their melodies. The vocal melodies are bright and buoyant, but delivered (by either band member, or in unison) in a chanted, oftentimes detached monotone that plays up the repetitive lyrics' mantra-like feel and adds a welcome undercurrent of slacker cool to their otherwise sugary optimism. See Mystery Lights also marks the first time that YACHT are recording for DFA. Normally a label-change wouldn't be notable, as it is usually less an indicator of artistic choices than it is of financial or business ones, but moving to a label with such a distinctive aesthetic may be enough for many to reconsider their work. YACHT themselves created the track "Summer Song" as an homage to LCD Soundsystem, and LCD/DFA leader James Murphy liked it enough to release it on his label. It's no wonder that Murphy was smitten; the track, which also appears on the full-length, echoes the deadpan vocal delivery and burbling 80s krautrock synths of his own band, as well as cowbell-and-handclap percussion ripped from the Rapture's "House of Jealous Lovers", one of DFA's biggest singles. Even other tracks on the collection-- ones that weren't written specifically in homage to Murphy-- can't help but sound influenced by him. Case in point: "We Have All We've Ever Wanted", with its minimalist dance beat, heavy bass, and Bechtolt's dry, talky delivery, recalls "Losing My Edge", albeit with a lighthearted, anthemic chorus. Still, while YACHT clearly share influences with Murphy's gang (Eno, Ferry, Neu!, ESG, etc.), their positive, futuristic jams actually sound most closely related to Tom Tom Club. Perhaps that's because, like Tom Tom Club's first self-titled album, which was recorded in Barbados, See Mystery Lights was recorded in a sunny, faraway locale-- in this case, far from the band's native rainy Portland, Oregon, in Marfa, Texas. The vibe of the album is relaxed and sun-soaked-- especially "Psychic City (Voodoo City)", which features an elastic groove built on a dubby, reggae-ish keyboard melody inspired by the bassline of Althea and Donna's "Uptown Top Ranking". Regardless of influence or intent, however, See Mystery Lights is a triumph. It's a feel-good album for an era that could use a little happiness, a sweaty collection of heady, hedonistic tunes just in time for the hottest days of the year. And the best part is that one spin of this wily, sunny disc will be able to transport you back to summer vacation any day of the year."

The Polyphonic Spree

Together We're Heavy

Rock

Rob Mitchum

If you've never witnessed the spectacle of Norman Jewison's film adaptation of Jesus Christ Superstar, by all means pop some kettle corn and make tonight an Andrew Lloyd Weber night. Proving that all The Passion needed to unite audiences was some wicked psychedelic jams, JCS told the story of Christ's last couple days in quintessential 1973 fashion: extravagant jumpsuits, limb-flailing choreography and racially encompassing cast decisions. Along with Norman Greenbaum's "Spirit in the Sky", the film is the best time capsule of that weird post-60s fallout period where the hippies that didn't turn militant turned to a bell-bottomed form of Christianity. To modern Jesuphobes, the results are both stomach-ache hilarious and strangely, sneakily moving. The Polyphonic Spree never directly lift up their myriad voices for God (except in an ancient Egyptian Sun/Ra worship sense), yet I can't help but think of their 20+ members as the direct offspring of the Jesus Christ Superstar movie cast. Whereas the film shows a schoolbus full of lax-groomed hippies driving to Israel to perform their songs amidst desert ruins, The Polyphonic Spree pack their bohemian mass into tour buses and bring their robe-clad Godspeed You Prozac Emperor sound to the dingy, beer-reeking venues of America. Though their uniform dress and Jehovah's Witness exuberance often gets them smirkily labeled as a cult, anyone who's found themselves amidst the band's live audience can tell you how difficult it is to keep your indie cynic shield intact and not get drunk on whatever jolly substance the band's audio Kool-Aid is heavily laced with. Which is all a long-winded way of explaining why I sorta like The Spree, despite lyrics like, "You gotta be good, you gotta be strong" (not a Des'ree cover), or, "It's the coolest waterslide"; you might feel suffocated by the band's optimist syrup, but it's clear that, if nothing else, they're not being calculated about it. It also helps that Together We're Heavy finds the group growing musically from the let's-start-quiet-then-GET-REAL-LOUD arrangement rut of their debut, The Beginning Stages Of, with Tim DeLaughter conducting his followers through a near-continuous hour of complex musical ebbs and flows. Following their debut album's usage of section numbers (song titles are in parentheses), and stitching eight-minute epics and one-minute fragments together into a cohesive symphony, the band's sound benefits greatly from DeLaughter's realization that not every instrument always needs to be playing at once. With tracks serving more as chapter-like divisions of an album-long piece than actual song markers, it's hard to spot which standout track will be alchemized into money for new robes by the band's formidable licensing squad. "Hold Me Now", however, has been announced as the first single, which makes sense: Its pounded piano and brassy peaks are the best candidates to sell Dell laptops or Sobe juice, which (Pitchformula take note) never even remotely detracts from its sunshiny summer party utility. "Two Thousand Places", the aforementioned Des'ree quoter, also aligns the band's swollen instrumental inventory into a joyous noise, despite being slightly marred by a lapse into the repetitiousness of the debut's songwriting (see: "Soldier Girl"). More impressively layered, if less instantaneously memorable, are the album's lengthier tracks, most bearing multiple segments and melodies and placing The Spree's sound (along with their awesome new curlicue logo) in direct lineage from Chicago Transit Authority. Opening track "A Long Day Continues/We Sound Amazed" spends its middle section enmeshed in a mellow trippy vamp that shows off the group's more restrained use of their palette, while "Suitcase Calling" works through at least five different ways to express bouncy glee. The climactic "When the Fool Becomes the King" shows the downside of this approach, with too many ambitious sections glommed together in seemingly arbitrary fashion, but even this 10-minute journey ends up with a clever reprise of the first album's "It's the Sun", locking Together We're Heavy's overarching structure into continuity with the band's previous work. Still, am I the only one slightly bothered by Tim DeLaughter's continued Single White Female-esque desire to become Wayne Coyne? The Polyphonic Spree have begun to carve out their own niche here, so it's troublesome to see their leader shaping his creative energies in transparent idol emulation; if The Flaming Lips' next album took a turn towards hip-hop, even money says DeLaughter would be interviewing MCs within hours. Fortunately, the ensemble makes up for much of this, getting by on taking their primary influence's orchestral good mood to the logical extreme. The Polyphonic Spree's gospel may not be the most original of scriptures, but their non-denominational Indiespell is good enough to flail your arms to while worshipping the planetary body of your choice.

Artist: The Polyphonic Spree, Album: Together We're Heavy, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "If you've never witnessed the spectacle of Norman Jewison's film adaptation of Jesus Christ Superstar, by all means pop some kettle corn and make tonight an Andrew Lloyd Weber night. Proving that all The Passion needed to unite audiences was some wicked psychedelic jams, JCS told the story of Christ's last couple days in quintessential 1973 fashion: extravagant jumpsuits, limb-flailing choreography and racially encompassing cast decisions. Along with Norman Greenbaum's "Spirit in the Sky", the film is the best time capsule of that weird post-60s fallout period where the hippies that didn't turn militant turned to a bell-bottomed form of Christianity. To modern Jesuphobes, the results are both stomach-ache hilarious and strangely, sneakily moving. The Polyphonic Spree never directly lift up their myriad voices for God (except in an ancient Egyptian Sun/Ra worship sense), yet I can't help but think of their 20+ members as the direct offspring of the Jesus Christ Superstar movie cast. Whereas the film shows a schoolbus full of lax-groomed hippies driving to Israel to perform their songs amidst desert ruins, The Polyphonic Spree pack their bohemian mass into tour buses and bring their robe-clad Godspeed You Prozac Emperor sound to the dingy, beer-reeking venues of America. Though their uniform dress and Jehovah's Witness exuberance often gets them smirkily labeled as a cult, anyone who's found themselves amidst the band's live audience can tell you how difficult it is to keep your indie cynic shield intact and not get drunk on whatever jolly substance the band's audio Kool-Aid is heavily laced with. Which is all a long-winded way of explaining why I sorta like The Spree, despite lyrics like, "You gotta be good, you gotta be strong" (not a Des'ree cover), or, "It's the coolest waterslide"; you might feel suffocated by the band's optimist syrup, but it's clear that, if nothing else, they're not being calculated about it. It also helps that Together We're Heavy finds the group growing musically from the let's-start-quiet-then-GET-REAL-LOUD arrangement rut of their debut, The Beginning Stages Of, with Tim DeLaughter conducting his followers through a near-continuous hour of complex musical ebbs and flows. Following their debut album's usage of section numbers (song titles are in parentheses), and stitching eight-minute epics and one-minute fragments together into a cohesive symphony, the band's sound benefits greatly from DeLaughter's realization that not every instrument always needs to be playing at once. With tracks serving more as chapter-like divisions of an album-long piece than actual song markers, it's hard to spot which standout track will be alchemized into money for new robes by the band's formidable licensing squad. "Hold Me Now", however, has been announced as the first single, which makes sense: Its pounded piano and brassy peaks are the best candidates to sell Dell laptops or Sobe juice, which (Pitchformula take note) never even remotely detracts from its sunshiny summer party utility. "Two Thousand Places", the aforementioned Des'ree quoter, also aligns the band's swollen instrumental inventory into a joyous noise, despite being slightly marred by a lapse into the repetitiousness of the debut's songwriting (see: "Soldier Girl"). More impressively layered, if less instantaneously memorable, are the album's lengthier tracks, most bearing multiple segments and melodies and placing The Spree's sound (along with their awesome new curlicue logo) in direct lineage from Chicago Transit Authority. Opening track "A Long Day Continues/We Sound Amazed" spends its middle section enmeshed in a mellow trippy vamp that shows off the group's more restrained use of their palette, while "Suitcase Calling" works through at least five different ways to express bouncy glee. The climactic "When the Fool Becomes the King" shows the downside of this approach, with too many ambitious sections glommed together in seemingly arbitrary fashion, but even this 10-minute journey ends up with a clever reprise of the first album's "It's the Sun", locking Together We're Heavy's overarching structure into continuity with the band's previous work. Still, am I the only one slightly bothered by Tim DeLaughter's continued Single White Female-esque desire to become Wayne Coyne? The Polyphonic Spree have begun to carve out their own niche here, so it's troublesome to see their leader shaping his creative energies in transparent idol emulation; if The Flaming Lips' next album took a turn towards hip-hop, even money says DeLaughter would be interviewing MCs within hours. Fortunately, the ensemble makes up for much of this, getting by on taking their primary influence's orchestral good mood to the logical extreme. The Polyphonic Spree's gospel may not be the most original of scriptures, but their non-denominational Indiespell is good enough to flail your arms to while worshipping the planetary body of your choice."

Luke Vibert

Stop the Panic

Electronic

Paul Cooper

Some things you have to be in the mood for. Personally, I am never in the mood for egg salad. Occasionally, I am in the mood for Stockhausen's Helicopter Quartet (the one where each member of a string quartet is aloft in a helicopter and skronking out bizarre musique concrete accompanied by the drone and swoop of rotorblades!). I am rarely in the mood for exotica. And Stop the Panic, sadly, is an exotica album. Ugh! The project all started when electro-acoustic egghead David Toop and veteran pedal steel guitarist BJ Cole were yakking on about Les Baxter, Yma Sumac and the other luminaries of that 50's bachelor pad sound. Toop had just published his book on the subject and was filled with the promise that what Stereolab, Plone, and Broadcast had been achieving with their fusion of exotica and Krautrock could also be accomplished in the electronic avant-garde. Toop played Cole some Plug discs and Cole decided that Wagon Christ himself, Luke Vibert, was just the beatnik he wished to get all gaudy and South Sea Islander with. Ugh! Stop the Panic, luckily enough, is not geared for a Tiki Hut experience. I'd feared that Vibert would churn out 13 versions of that wretched "Lovely" track that so marred his Tally Ho! record. Though Cole runs through the primer on the Hawaiian glide and the Nashville glissando, Vibert's straight-ahead beats cut the cheese to a tolerable minimum. As Cole blithely swoops and curls his pedal steel line on "Dischordzilla," Vibert slams down rhythmic slabs like he's trying to crush his collaborator. "Cheng Phooey" begins life as a low-rumbling 303 line before releasing a venomous burst Polynesian acid. Cole's reaction-- to use his pedal steel as a machine of avant tonal color, as if wishing to wash away the spikes of the bassline. All of this recalls Cole's work with Billie Ray Martin ("4 Ambient Tales") and starkly demonstrates that the pedal steel associations with beach huts and Nashville can be rent asunder. The duo pay another quick visit to the Land of Shriekin' N' Hollerin' on "Watery Glass Planet (Part 3)" and, as with "Cheng Phooey," the pair manage to heighten the gracious beauty of the pedal steel guitar by placing it in an atypical setting. There's a palpable watery glassiness to Cole's solos and Vibert deftly sets Cole's shimmering lines in just the right subtly spacy frame. It's clear that Vibert and Cole haven't jumped on this project as an opportunity to wank around. These talented musicians have considered the profound complexities (and negotiated the fault lines) inherent in exotica. So the big pay off of Stop the Panic is that Cole and Vibert manage to subvert the genre without shoving its most gangrenous aspects in our faces. It was no accident that during the culturally repressed and globally paranoid 1950's, the American market became susceptible to sanitized, surreal images of the peoples who lived in steamy, aboriginal or Communist climes. Exotica was the pop culture banalization of the First World condescension of Joseph "The Impenetrable" Conrad. It was such a weird time-- I mean, at what other point in history would a new design of bathing suit was named in honor of a Pacific atoll that had just been cored by the test of a U.S. A-bomb? Yes, the bikini is a memento of First World entitlement. Wear yours with pride! David Toop understands all the cultural resonances within the exotica genre, and Cole and Vibert have listened well to his sherpa-like guidance. Stop the Panic-- I hope-- will be the last word on this fusion of the avant-garde and the lei. However, a sinking feeling nags at me, and reminds me that the Stormtroopers of Marketing will surely seize this album and demand a truckload of tiki-ready platters from far less conscientious musicians. In fact, I'd start panicking now, if I were you-- but that's just the mood I'm in.

Artist: Luke Vibert, Album: Stop the Panic, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Some things you have to be in the mood for. Personally, I am never in the mood for egg salad. Occasionally, I am in the mood for Stockhausen's Helicopter Quartet (the one where each member of a string quartet is aloft in a helicopter and skronking out bizarre musique concrete accompanied by the drone and swoop of rotorblades!). I am rarely in the mood for exotica. And Stop the Panic, sadly, is an exotica album. Ugh! The project all started when electro-acoustic egghead David Toop and veteran pedal steel guitarist BJ Cole were yakking on about Les Baxter, Yma Sumac and the other luminaries of that 50's bachelor pad sound. Toop had just published his book on the subject and was filled with the promise that what Stereolab, Plone, and Broadcast had been achieving with their fusion of exotica and Krautrock could also be accomplished in the electronic avant-garde. Toop played Cole some Plug discs and Cole decided that Wagon Christ himself, Luke Vibert, was just the beatnik he wished to get all gaudy and South Sea Islander with. Ugh! Stop the Panic, luckily enough, is not geared for a Tiki Hut experience. I'd feared that Vibert would churn out 13 versions of that wretched "Lovely" track that so marred his Tally Ho! record. Though Cole runs through the primer on the Hawaiian glide and the Nashville glissando, Vibert's straight-ahead beats cut the cheese to a tolerable minimum. As Cole blithely swoops and curls his pedal steel line on "Dischordzilla," Vibert slams down rhythmic slabs like he's trying to crush his collaborator. "Cheng Phooey" begins life as a low-rumbling 303 line before releasing a venomous burst Polynesian acid. Cole's reaction-- to use his pedal steel as a machine of avant tonal color, as if wishing to wash away the spikes of the bassline. All of this recalls Cole's work with Billie Ray Martin ("4 Ambient Tales") and starkly demonstrates that the pedal steel associations with beach huts and Nashville can be rent asunder. The duo pay another quick visit to the Land of Shriekin' N' Hollerin' on "Watery Glass Planet (Part 3)" and, as with "Cheng Phooey," the pair manage to heighten the gracious beauty of the pedal steel guitar by placing it in an atypical setting. There's a palpable watery glassiness to Cole's solos and Vibert deftly sets Cole's shimmering lines in just the right subtly spacy frame. It's clear that Vibert and Cole haven't jumped on this project as an opportunity to wank around. These talented musicians have considered the profound complexities (and negotiated the fault lines) inherent in exotica. So the big pay off of Stop the Panic is that Cole and Vibert manage to subvert the genre without shoving its most gangrenous aspects in our faces. It was no accident that during the culturally repressed and globally paranoid 1950's, the American market became susceptible to sanitized, surreal images of the peoples who lived in steamy, aboriginal or Communist climes. Exotica was the pop culture banalization of the First World condescension of Joseph "The Impenetrable" Conrad. It was such a weird time-- I mean, at what other point in history would a new design of bathing suit was named in honor of a Pacific atoll that had just been cored by the test of a U.S. A-bomb? Yes, the bikini is a memento of First World entitlement. Wear yours with pride! David Toop understands all the cultural resonances within the exotica genre, and Cole and Vibert have listened well to his sherpa-like guidance. Stop the Panic-- I hope-- will be the last word on this fusion of the avant-garde and the lei. However, a sinking feeling nags at me, and reminds me that the Stormtroopers of Marketing will surely seize this album and demand a truckload of tiki-ready platters from far less conscientious musicians. In fact, I'd start panicking now, if I were you-- but that's just the mood I'm in."

Julian Casablancas, The Voidz

Tyranny

Electronic,Rock

Larry Fitzmaurice

Mystique has always been a key part of rock iconography, which might explain why Julian Casablancas has remained at arms’ length for so long. At his main act’s creative peak, the Strokes frontman had a confounding, emotionally distant aura. A notorious Rolling Stone profile from 2003—right around the time of the excellent, second-verse-same-as-the-first sophomore effort Room on Fire—portrayed him as a contradictory, besotted rascal, as he unleashed invectives against Pringles, haggled with a bootleg CD vendor over a Radiohead album, and repeatedly kissed journalist Neil Strauss on the neck before drunkenly commandeering an abandoned wheelchair. “I just don’t have anything deep to say...I’ve got nothing to hide,” he claimed in what Strauss referred to as “the worst interview ever,” and by the time the Strokes put out the career-deflating 2006 record First Impressions of Earth, he was committing the sentiment to tape. In the years that followed, Casablancas sobered up and more or less faded out of view. Near the end of the '00s, he popped up with a solo album of sugary power-pop in the form of the better-than-you-remember Phrazes for the Young, citing the Choose Your Own Adventure books as sonic inspiration; 2011 brought the Strokes’ fourth album, the curiously flat Angles, which was written and recorded without Casablancas entering the same room as his bandmates. By the time last year’s aptly named Comedown Machine saw release, the Strokes—Casablancas, especially—sounded exhausted, as mediocrity came to define the band’s second decade of existence. Instead of failing outright, the Strokes simply became boring. Regardless of their place in the rock landscape, Casablancas and the Strokes still represent a certain level of aesthetic “cool,” at home and beyond. Many acts from the early-'00s new-rock explosion have retained a considerable level of popularity in Europe, and the Strokes themselves have a distinctly French appeal. Casablancas himself reached his own Gallic pièce de résistance by appearing on Daft Punk’s year-flattening musical odyssey Random Access Memories, lending a soft-focus vocal to the metronomic, neon-melancholy single “Instant Crush”. His latest musical venture, Julian Casablancas + the Voidz, is a group comprised of session musicians and alt-rock barnacles—guitarist Jeramy Gritter was a member of the mercifully defunct, reality-show-reject outfit Whitestarr—plucked from Casablancas’ current home base of Los Angeles. The best you can say about the band’s debut, Tyranny, is that it's the most interesting thing Casablancas has done since facing off against Guided by Voices on “Family Feud”; it’s a record that's as adventurous as it is unlistenable, a spectacular failure that smacks of both fellow L.A. denizen and gonzo-pop misfit Ariel Pink’s AM-radio abstractions and “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” ne’er-do-well Charlie’s warped musical efforts. If Angles and Comedown Machine sounded like the work of a group that was running out of steam, Tyranny is a record overloaded with ideas, a palette of vibrant colors swirled together until there’s nothing left but brown. Casablancas recently told GQ that he’s optimistic about Tyranny’s commercial prospects, which is hilarious if you've actually heard the album. Clocking in at an endless 62 minutes—10 more than bloated First Impressions of Earth—with six of its 12 songs stretching well over the five-minute mark, Tyranny is designed to be impenetrable, a blaring monolith of excess. There are a few ideas buried in the unending screech, suggesting that Casablancas has a raw and unique creative mind, if not the compositional smarts to pull off something this dense. “Take Me in Your Army” and “Nintendo Blood” begin with gorgeous, digitized sighs, 8-bit renderings of the Strokes’ finest, most subtle melancholic moments, but the latter dissolves in an acid bath of guitar squeals and off-beat drum machines, while the former meanders towards a slow-hand guitar solo that smacks of a “shredding” YouTube video made specifically to mock the work of John Carpenter. “M.utally A.ssured D.estruction” packs thrash metal figures and horror movie synths into an energizing two-and-a-half minutes, while the seven-minute-plus “Father Electricity” offers a kalimba-like rhythmic backbone and, after several minutes of useless dithering, a sprightly Afro-pop melody that doubles as the record’s most pleasant surprise. On the other end of the spectrum is “Human Sadness”, the nearly 11-minute cut released as the album’s first single, ostensibly to confound the expectations of anyone who hadn’t caught Casablancas + the Voidz’s run of incompetent festival performances over the past year. The song is essentially a modern “Bohemian Rhapsody”, if Queen’s pomp-rock classic was twice as long and had only two or three distinct musical movements. After a brief bit of twinkling ambience and a vocal sample referencing the album’s vague theme of capitalistic pitfalls, Disney strings enter alongside an ambling bass line that sounds like a Strokes song played at half-tempo. Then, the song pretty much stays there, Casablancas alternating between a bedside mumble and glass-shattering vocal histrionics as a parade of sounds—a cackling, distorted laugh, ear-bleeding guitars, video game sounds, crashing drums—piles on top of the song’s dirge-like rhythm. Intentionally or not, it plays like “The Story of Everest” in musical form. “I love being weird/ It’s so weird,” Casablancas tosses off underneath the grating motifs of “Business Dog”, and this particular line speaks volumes on Tyranny’s try-hard stab at eccentricity. (Good luck hearing it without a lyric sheet, though: the words here are the most endearingly bonkers rantings Casablancas has ever put to tape and the album’s execrable production largely buries his vocals to the point where you can barely hear him.) “He must be on drugs” is a typical invective thrown at artists who flirt with career suicide in the way that Casablancas is doing here, but Tyranny is too willfully weird, too labored-sounding, too beholden to its melted-frequency artifice to be merely the product of a substance-addled mind. As that GQ article highlighted, the common assumption is that Casablancas wrote the first two Strokes albums, a rock lore factoid that suggests prodigiousness from a guy who’s spent the last 15 years looking like he’s never worked a day in his life; on Tyranny, that guy has simply worked too hard, and that sense of needless toil bleeds through in every bum lick, brick-walled sound, and garbled burst of noise shoved onto the r

Artist: Julian Casablancas, The Voidz, Album: Tyranny, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 4.9 Album review: "Mystique has always been a key part of rock iconography, which might explain why Julian Casablancas has remained at arms’ length for so long. At his main act’s creative peak, the Strokes frontman had a confounding, emotionally distant aura. A notorious Rolling Stone profile from 2003—right around the time of the excellent, second-verse-same-as-the-first sophomore effort Room on Fire—portrayed him as a contradictory, besotted rascal, as he unleashed invectives against Pringles, haggled with a bootleg CD vendor over a Radiohead album, and repeatedly kissed journalist Neil Strauss on the neck before drunkenly commandeering an abandoned wheelchair. “I just don’t have anything deep to say...I’ve got nothing to hide,” he claimed in what Strauss referred to as “the worst interview ever,” and by the time the Strokes put out the career-deflating 2006 record First Impressions of Earth, he was committing the sentiment to tape. In the years that followed, Casablancas sobered up and more or less faded out of view. Near the end of the '00s, he popped up with a solo album of sugary power-pop in the form of the better-than-you-remember Phrazes for the Young, citing the Choose Your Own Adventure books as sonic inspiration; 2011 brought the Strokes’ fourth album, the curiously flat Angles, which was written and recorded without Casablancas entering the same room as his bandmates. By the time last year’s aptly named Comedown Machine saw release, the Strokes—Casablancas, especially—sounded exhausted, as mediocrity came to define the band’s second decade of existence. Instead of failing outright, the Strokes simply became boring. Regardless of their place in the rock landscape, Casablancas and the Strokes still represent a certain level of aesthetic “cool,” at home and beyond. Many acts from the early-'00s new-rock explosion have retained a considerable level of popularity in Europe, and the Strokes themselves have a distinctly French appeal. Casablancas himself reached his own Gallic pièce de résistance by appearing on Daft Punk’s year-flattening musical odyssey Random Access Memories, lending a soft-focus vocal to the metronomic, neon-melancholy single “Instant Crush”. His latest musical venture, Julian Casablancas + the Voidz, is a group comprised of session musicians and alt-rock barnacles—guitarist Jeramy Gritter was a member of the mercifully defunct, reality-show-reject outfit Whitestarr—plucked from Casablancas’ current home base of Los Angeles. The best you can say about the band’s debut, Tyranny, is that it's the most interesting thing Casablancas has done since facing off against Guided by Voices on “Family Feud”; it’s a record that's as adventurous as it is unlistenable, a spectacular failure that smacks of both fellow L.A. denizen and gonzo-pop misfit Ariel Pink’s AM-radio abstractions and “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” ne’er-do-well Charlie’s warped musical efforts. If Angles and Comedown Machine sounded like the work of a group that was running out of steam, Tyranny is a record overloaded with ideas, a palette of vibrant colors swirled together until there’s nothing left but brown. Casablancas recently told GQ that he’s optimistic about Tyranny’s commercial prospects, which is hilarious if you've actually heard the album. Clocking in at an endless 62 minutes—10 more than bloated First Impressions of Earth—with six of its 12 songs stretching well over the five-minute mark, Tyranny is designed to be impenetrable, a blaring monolith of excess. There are a few ideas buried in the unending screech, suggesting that Casablancas has a raw and unique creative mind, if not the compositional smarts to pull off something this dense. “Take Me in Your Army” and “Nintendo Blood” begin with gorgeous, digitized sighs, 8-bit renderings of the Strokes’ finest, most subtle melancholic moments, but the latter dissolves in an acid bath of guitar squeals and off-beat drum machines, while the former meanders towards a slow-hand guitar solo that smacks of a “shredding” YouTube video made specifically to mock the work of John Carpenter. “M.utally A.ssured D.estruction” packs thrash metal figures and horror movie synths into an energizing two-and-a-half minutes, while the seven-minute-plus “Father Electricity” offers a kalimba-like rhythmic backbone and, after several minutes of useless dithering, a sprightly Afro-pop melody that doubles as the record’s most pleasant surprise. On the other end of the spectrum is “Human Sadness”, the nearly 11-minute cut released as the album’s first single, ostensibly to confound the expectations of anyone who hadn’t caught Casablancas + the Voidz’s run of incompetent festival performances over the past year. The song is essentially a modern “Bohemian Rhapsody”, if Queen’s pomp-rock classic was twice as long and had only two or three distinct musical movements. After a brief bit of twinkling ambience and a vocal sample referencing the album’s vague theme of capitalistic pitfalls, Disney strings enter alongside an ambling bass line that sounds like a Strokes song played at half-tempo. Then, the song pretty much stays there, Casablancas alternating between a bedside mumble and glass-shattering vocal histrionics as a parade of sounds—a cackling, distorted laugh, ear-bleeding guitars, video game sounds, crashing drums—piles on top of the song’s dirge-like rhythm. Intentionally or not, it plays like “The Story of Everest” in musical form. “I love being weird/ It’s so weird,” Casablancas tosses off underneath the grating motifs of “Business Dog”, and this particular line speaks volumes on Tyranny’s try-hard stab at eccentricity. (Good luck hearing it without a lyric sheet, though: the words here are the most endearingly bonkers rantings Casablancas has ever put to tape and the album’s execrable production largely buries his vocals to the point where you can barely hear him.) “He must be on drugs” is a typical invective thrown at artists who flirt with career suicide in the way that Casablancas is doing here, but Tyranny is too willfully weird, too labored-sounding, too beholden to its melted-frequency artifice to be merely the product of a substance-addled mind. As that GQ article highlighted, the common assumption is that Casablancas wrote the first two Strokes albums, a rock lore factoid that suggests prodigiousness from a guy who’s spent the last 15 years looking like he’s never worked a day in his life; on Tyranny, that guy has simply worked too hard, and that sense of needless toil bleeds through in every bum lick, brick-walled sound, and garbled burst of noise shoved onto the r"

Gayngs

Relayted

Rock

Nate Patrin

Gripe about hipster irony all you want, but was there ever any point when the indie/punk underground wasn't dealing in smartassed self-parody? There have always been artists who find humor in making certain styles into grotesque caricatures and using them to point out the absurdity, or greatness, in a genre. The punchline works best when the setup's serious enough to work without it. The problem of irony comes when you're dealing with a setup that most people will probably mistake for the punchline itself. And once you've been tipped to the tone of Relayted, the debut album from the two-dozen-plus-member supergroup Gayngs, well, good luck coming to terms with the slow-jam soft-rock pastiche that's just been dropped on you. Air had a tricky enough sell of it 12 years ago when they tried to convince indie kids that Moog-lounge AM pop was cool. And if the jet-set 1970s fromage of Moon Safari was a tricky kind of chic, imagine it dialed a decade ahead into mid-80s Lite FM fare. If you're not rolling your eyes yet, be patient: You have about 28 seconds before the album's first Skinemax saxophone wail. But Gayngs take this stuff seriously, and if you concentrate really hard, maybe you could, too. It helps that pretty much everybody involved in the band has bona fides, whether in Minneapolis' electro-pop scene (brainchild Ryan Olson of Digitata; Zack Coulter and Adam Hurlburt of Solid Gold; members of Lookbook) or North Carolina folk-rock (the Rosebuds' Ivan Howard; all three members of Megafaun). That elbow-ribbing saxophone actually comes courtesy of Michael Lewis, from much-lauded Twin Cities jazz trio Happy Apple. And there are a lot of strong voices that fade in and out of this thing, too. P.O.S. absolutely kills it on the tense, Pendergrass-gone-Portishead slow-boil of "No Sweat", with fellow Doomtree alumna Dessa providing an almost subliminal background counterpoint. And the distant, breathy vocal that sounds like it's emanating from the sunset-hued beach of some early Michael Mann film makes leadoff track "The Gaudy Side of Town" sound disarmingly earnest. That's Justin Vernon of Bon Iver. Dude apparently listens to Bone Thugs, go figure. So we're looking at a lot of serious-artist personnel for an album that might seem pretty conceptually farcical otherwise. And while some aspects of this album seem at least somewhat detrimentally tongue-in-cheek-- word has it that every track was recorded at 69 BPM, which does leaden the energy levels a bit-- Relayted doesn't stumble strictly because of its soft-rock and indie-soul leanings. Far from it: The original core trio of Olson, Coulter, and Hurlburt envisioned some kind of tribute to the legacy of 10cc, which explains all the "I'm Not in Love" vocal reverb and a straightfaced cover of 10cc vets Godley & Creme's 1985 single "Cry". And it sounds credible, even when it's transmuted into jittery, guitar-addled new wave ("Faded High") or Blade Runnerish soul-jazz ("Ride"). It's only when the extended ether-frolic vibe is rattled by some misplaced short-and-sharp pop-length numbers-- the mid-album stretch of "False Bottom", "The Beatdown", and "Crystal Rope" skews a bit too forceful-- that the seams actually start to show. So Relayted is both better than it had any right to be, given the concept, and about as good as you could expect from the musicians involved. It has all the signs of a gag that got out of hand-- three guys from Minneapolis bantering about soft-rock namedrops who eventually found themselves surrounded by enough smart, likeminded musicians that it somehow wound up destined to sound at least somewhat heartfelt. It's a joke told in reverse, with a potentially cheesy setup that often comes with a surprisingly poignant payoff. Go into this expecting irony, and it might turn your stomach. Take it sincerely, and it'll hit you about a foot higher.

Artist: Gayngs, Album: Relayted, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Gripe about hipster irony all you want, but was there ever any point when the indie/punk underground wasn't dealing in smartassed self-parody? There have always been artists who find humor in making certain styles into grotesque caricatures and using them to point out the absurdity, or greatness, in a genre. The punchline works best when the setup's serious enough to work without it. The problem of irony comes when you're dealing with a setup that most people will probably mistake for the punchline itself. And once you've been tipped to the tone of Relayted, the debut album from the two-dozen-plus-member supergroup Gayngs, well, good luck coming to terms with the slow-jam soft-rock pastiche that's just been dropped on you. Air had a tricky enough sell of it 12 years ago when they tried to convince indie kids that Moog-lounge AM pop was cool. And if the jet-set 1970s fromage of Moon Safari was a tricky kind of chic, imagine it dialed a decade ahead into mid-80s Lite FM fare. If you're not rolling your eyes yet, be patient: You have about 28 seconds before the album's first Skinemax saxophone wail. But Gayngs take this stuff seriously, and if you concentrate really hard, maybe you could, too. It helps that pretty much everybody involved in the band has bona fides, whether in Minneapolis' electro-pop scene (brainchild Ryan Olson of Digitata; Zack Coulter and Adam Hurlburt of Solid Gold; members of Lookbook) or North Carolina folk-rock (the Rosebuds' Ivan Howard; all three members of Megafaun). That elbow-ribbing saxophone actually comes courtesy of Michael Lewis, from much-lauded Twin Cities jazz trio Happy Apple. And there are a lot of strong voices that fade in and out of this thing, too. P.O.S. absolutely kills it on the tense, Pendergrass-gone-Portishead slow-boil of "No Sweat", with fellow Doomtree alumna Dessa providing an almost subliminal background counterpoint. And the distant, breathy vocal that sounds like it's emanating from the sunset-hued beach of some early Michael Mann film makes leadoff track "The Gaudy Side of Town" sound disarmingly earnest. That's Justin Vernon of Bon Iver. Dude apparently listens to Bone Thugs, go figure. So we're looking at a lot of serious-artist personnel for an album that might seem pretty conceptually farcical otherwise. And while some aspects of this album seem at least somewhat detrimentally tongue-in-cheek-- word has it that every track was recorded at 69 BPM, which does leaden the energy levels a bit-- Relayted doesn't stumble strictly because of its soft-rock and indie-soul leanings. Far from it: The original core trio of Olson, Coulter, and Hurlburt envisioned some kind of tribute to the legacy of 10cc, which explains all the "I'm Not in Love" vocal reverb and a straightfaced cover of 10cc vets Godley & Creme's 1985 single "Cry". And it sounds credible, even when it's transmuted into jittery, guitar-addled new wave ("Faded High") or Blade Runnerish soul-jazz ("Ride"). It's only when the extended ether-frolic vibe is rattled by some misplaced short-and-sharp pop-length numbers-- the mid-album stretch of "False Bottom", "The Beatdown", and "Crystal Rope" skews a bit too forceful-- that the seams actually start to show. So Relayted is both better than it had any right to be, given the concept, and about as good as you could expect from the musicians involved. It has all the signs of a gag that got out of hand-- three guys from Minneapolis bantering about soft-rock namedrops who eventually found themselves surrounded by enough smart, likeminded musicians that it somehow wound up destined to sound at least somewhat heartfelt. It's a joke told in reverse, with a potentially cheesy setup that often comes with a surprisingly poignant payoff. Go into this expecting irony, and it might turn your stomach. Take it sincerely, and it'll hit you about a foot higher."

Quilt

Held In Splendor

Rock

Steven Hyden

For a young rock band in the 60s, the opportunity to make a second LP usually meant getting trippier and more ambitious. And so it goes for Quilt, a young rock band influenced by young rock bands from the 60s. On the Massachusetts trio’s 2011 self-titled debut, the ghosts of the Byrds, Jefferson Airplane, and Mamas and the Papas were summoned via jangly, well-written pop songs that never strayed far from their harmony-rich melodies. On Quilt’s sophomore release, Held In Splendor, band members Shane Butler, Anna Fox Rochinski, and John Andrews grow more expansive in their instrumentation, blowing out their simple psych-folk ditties into strings-laden multi-part suites that build toward thrilling, guitar-heavy climaxes. It’s a clear progression that nevertheless manages to keep Quilt tucked firmly in the milieu of paisley-colored retro pop-rock. Lesser groups working the same territory tend to lose sight of their songwriting while in pursuit of just the right Rickenbacker guitar sound or the precise vintage of Farfisa organ. The strength of Quilt’s debut was that underneath all of the flower-power window dressing there were strong hooks and disciplined classicist arrangements. The members of Quilt thankfully haven’t lost those qualities on Splendor, even as many of the songs have grown in sophistication. “Tired and Buttered” begins as an aggressively driving rocker that suddenly downshifts into a dreamy shuffle, and then shifts again into a slowly building rager. The gorgeous “Just Dust” glides seamlessly into the instrumental reverie “The World is Flat”, which showcases the understated but magnetic musical interplay between Butler, Rochinski, and Andrews. The closing “I Sleep in Nature” is another shape-shifter, moving from a discombobulated prologue to a jauntily melodic mid-section that’s pure 60s pop whimsy, albeit with a darkly sinister edge. Where Splendor diverges from Quilt is in the use of three-part harmonies—while they were all over the first LP, principal singers Butler and Rochinski switch off on lead vocals here. Butler is a more conventional “60s psych-rock dude” singer, favoring an aloof croon on songs like the rather pedestrian “Eye of the Pearl”. Rochinski, on the other hand, has emerged as the band’s star*.* Her delicate and lilting alto is capable of conveying innocence (like on the album-opening “Arctic Shark”) as well as beguiling sexiness, even when she’s singing nonsense like “planetary truth is born of lightning” on “Tie Up the Tides”. As Tame Impala proved with its 2012 masterpiece Lonerism, psych-rock still has the power to communicate with listeners not already pre-disposed to care about the genre. Held in Splendor is a good example of a record that successfully executes the tropes of psych—it sounds like it could’ve been recorded in 1967 without directly ripping off any artist in particular—without every truly transcending them. In order to do that, Quilt will have to make an even more ambitious third record. Given its evolution thus far, they are well on their way.

Artist: Quilt, Album: Held In Splendor, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "For a young rock band in the 60s, the opportunity to make a second LP usually meant getting trippier and more ambitious. And so it goes for Quilt, a young rock band influenced by young rock bands from the 60s. On the Massachusetts trio’s 2011 self-titled debut, the ghosts of the Byrds, Jefferson Airplane, and Mamas and the Papas were summoned via jangly, well-written pop songs that never strayed far from their harmony-rich melodies. On Quilt’s sophomore release, Held In Splendor, band members Shane Butler, Anna Fox Rochinski, and John Andrews grow more expansive in their instrumentation, blowing out their simple psych-folk ditties into strings-laden multi-part suites that build toward thrilling, guitar-heavy climaxes. It’s a clear progression that nevertheless manages to keep Quilt tucked firmly in the milieu of paisley-colored retro pop-rock. Lesser groups working the same territory tend to lose sight of their songwriting while in pursuit of just the right Rickenbacker guitar sound or the precise vintage of Farfisa organ. The strength of Quilt’s debut was that underneath all of the flower-power window dressing there were strong hooks and disciplined classicist arrangements. The members of Quilt thankfully haven’t lost those qualities on Splendor, even as many of the songs have grown in sophistication. “Tired and Buttered” begins as an aggressively driving rocker that suddenly downshifts into a dreamy shuffle, and then shifts again into a slowly building rager. The gorgeous “Just Dust” glides seamlessly into the instrumental reverie “The World is Flat”, which showcases the understated but magnetic musical interplay between Butler, Rochinski, and Andrews. The closing “I Sleep in Nature” is another shape-shifter, moving from a discombobulated prologue to a jauntily melodic mid-section that’s pure 60s pop whimsy, albeit with a darkly sinister edge. Where Splendor diverges from Quilt is in the use of three-part harmonies—while they were all over the first LP, principal singers Butler and Rochinski switch off on lead vocals here. Butler is a more conventional “60s psych-rock dude” singer, favoring an aloof croon on songs like the rather pedestrian “Eye of the Pearl”. Rochinski, on the other hand, has emerged as the band’s star*.* Her delicate and lilting alto is capable of conveying innocence (like on the album-opening “Arctic Shark”) as well as beguiling sexiness, even when she’s singing nonsense like “planetary truth is born of lightning” on “Tie Up the Tides”. As Tame Impala proved with its 2012 masterpiece Lonerism, psych-rock still has the power to communicate with listeners not already pre-disposed to care about the genre. Held in Splendor is a good example of a record that successfully executes the tropes of psych—it sounds like it could’ve been recorded in 1967 without directly ripping off any artist in particular—without every truly transcending them. In order to do that, Quilt will have to make an even more ambitious third record. Given its evolution thus far, they are well on their way."

Françoise Hardy

Tous Les Garçons Et Les Filles

Pop/R&B

Hazel Cills

In the 1960s, French yé-yé pop stars had a particular shtick. They were teenage girls, dressed up in bows and baby doll dresses, singing flirty songs about love and adolescence penned typically by adult male songwriters. France Gall sang of swallowing "lollipops", Chantal Kelly sang of telling an older lover she’s only 15, Clothilde was forced to sing bloody fables. When the songs weren’t sexually charged jokes, they were melodramatic pop ballads about youth, from Chantal Goya’s unpredictable heartache to Sylvie Vartan’s simple dance-driven desires. And then there was Françoise Hardy. She wasn’t quite a black sheep of the genre, but she certainly complicated the formula. The Parisian singer auditioned for Vogue Records at 18 and went on to top charts with her very first release, a 1962 self-titled record now known as Tous Les Garcons Et Les Filles based on its hit song. From there, the infamously timid Hardy became one of the few French pop stars of the era to cross over, jetting from England to France to record, serving as a muse to designers like Yves Saint Laurent, and inspiring Bob Dylan and Mick Jagger. That debut showcases Hardy at her simplest, wringing rockabilly-tinged pop magic from modest jazz percussion and steel guitar. Hardy wrote most of her own material, setting her far apart from her peers, and on her debut she penned every song but two. Her lyrics would never hew this close to yé-yé traditions again: See the "whoa-oh-oh" echoing on tracks like "Il Est Tout Pour Moi" and her cover of Bobby Lee Trammell’s "Oh Oh Chéri". The title track "Tous Les Garcons Et Les Filles" remains an iconic vision of Hardy's aesthetic: frank music for romantic wallflowers. "They walk in love without fear of tomorrow," she sings in French of the young couples she watches on the street. "Yes but me, I’m single with a tormented soul, yes but me, I’m single because nobody loves me." The five albums that make up Hardy’s reissues are really compilations of four-track, seven-inch singles. Because of this, some of these records feel disjointed, a side effect from compiling songs that weren’t initially made to sit next to each other. Such is the case for her next three records, Le Premiere Bonheur Du Jour, Mon Amie La Rose, and L’Amitié. Still, each has a different story to tell about Hardy’s musical influences at the time. Le Premier Bonheur Du Jour pulls from American girl groups, echoing the Crystals and the Ronettes on "L’Amour D’Un Garçon", "Nous Tous", and "On Dit De Lui". Elsewhere, the record boasts electric organ arrangements on snappy jazz-inspired tracks like "L’Amour Ne Dure Pas Toujours" and "Comment Tant D’Autres". On Mon Amie La Rose she explores a Morricone influence that was inchoate on Tous Les Garcons Et Les Filles. "Mon Amie La Rose", based on the poem by Cecile Caulker and Jacques Lacome, and "La Nuit Est Sur La Ville" are terrifically spooky and cinematic, the latter depicting Hardy wrestling with cheating with a man on a lonely dark night. Elsewhere, she dips her toes in plucky Western country-rock on "Pas Gentille" and "Tu Ne Dis Rien". But with L’Amitié she zigzags between all these references: She’s the cowgirl guitar-heroine on her cover of "Non Ce N’est Pas Un Rêve", a dreamy wall-of-sound pop charmer on "Le Temps De Souvenirs", and folk singer on "L’Amitié". No matter her inspiration, Hardy’s music is bound together by her point of view, which is part of what makes her fascinating. Her songwriting is profoundly lonely, frequently insecure. Observers have emphasized Hardy’s anti-social nature as a celebrity, but you can hear it even in her music. Like all introverts, she seems most alone when surrounded by others, her insecurities ricocheting off those around her. On Tous Les Garçon Et Les Filles' "La Fille Avec Toi" she reaches out to an ex only to see him with another girl, bemoaning how beautiful she is. "I dream of losing myself, if only I can lose myself with you," she sings on L’Amitié’s "Tu Peux Bien". On Mon Amie La Rose’s underrated star track "Tu N’As Qu’Un Mot A Dire", she pines for an old lover, singing the verse in hushed tones like someone hugging the sidelines before rushing desperately to the forefront for the chorus, filled with shrill, swooning violins: "You just have to say the word and I’ll return," she cries, breathing urgency into a word as simple as "toi." It wasn’t until her fifth record La Maison Où J'Ai Grandi that Hardy grew into a more grown-up, baroque sound, one that matched the depth of her sorrow and its complexities. It was her most well-produced, well-written record to date, cohesive in sound and subject matter. Over harpsichord and Hardy’s own Spanish guitar, she echoes the previous four albums' worth of lip-quivering romantic longing, reflecting on what it means to lose love once you find it, or when it doesn’t live up to your fantasies. On "Si C’est Ça", her whispery voice and hushed guitar playing operate on the same frequency. "Maybe this is the moment I prefer, the moment, despite it all, where everything could suddenly switch, where life could change at last," she sings to a lover who is leaving her on "Surtout Ne Vous Retournez Pas". "So I say nothing." The girl whose greatest fantasy was once having a hand to hold now wishes to let it go. What always made Hardy’s music stand out from her yé-yé peers is how it tackled adolescent desire: Hardy was often consumed with romantic extremes. She reveled in chest-clutching longing, but her adorations came from a place entirely her own. Her obsession with love was devoid of older, male sexualization or control, a privilege not many others of her era enjoyed. Hardy’s songs feel timeless in how they emphasize a universal dream for pure love. Is this music antique in its sound? Surely. In its sentiment? Hardly. Aside from a few anachronisms ("I’m fine with the movies, for rock, the twist and the cha-cha," she sings on her first album’s track "Je Suis D’Accord") this is '60s pop devoid of vintage signifiers; nobody goes steady, nobody sings of dying an old maid, there is no cutesy, wink-filled posturing. Sometimes, especially in Hardy's choice to cover male singers, her music feels almost devoid of gender. For a genre so tethered to young women of a certain time period, this is a feat. On Le Premier Bonheur Du Jour’s quick little track "Le Sais-Tu?", Hardy finally sings directly to the object of her affections, but she’s forgotten what she yearned to express. She keeps stopping to sing, "did you know?" as if stuttering: "I so dreaded, did you know, this second, which made me think of the end

Artist: Françoise Hardy, Album: Tous Les Garçons Et Les Filles, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "In the 1960s, French yé-yé pop stars had a particular shtick. They were teenage girls, dressed up in bows and baby doll dresses, singing flirty songs about love and adolescence penned typically by adult male songwriters. France Gall sang of swallowing "lollipops", Chantal Kelly sang of telling an older lover she’s only 15, Clothilde was forced to sing bloody fables. When the songs weren’t sexually charged jokes, they were melodramatic pop ballads about youth, from Chantal Goya’s unpredictable heartache to Sylvie Vartan’s simple dance-driven desires. And then there was Françoise Hardy. She wasn’t quite a black sheep of the genre, but she certainly complicated the formula. The Parisian singer auditioned for Vogue Records at 18 and went on to top charts with her very first release, a 1962 self-titled record now known as Tous Les Garcons Et Les Filles based on its hit song. From there, the infamously timid Hardy became one of the few French pop stars of the era to cross over, jetting from England to France to record, serving as a muse to designers like Yves Saint Laurent, and inspiring Bob Dylan and Mick Jagger. That debut showcases Hardy at her simplest, wringing rockabilly-tinged pop magic from modest jazz percussion and steel guitar. Hardy wrote most of her own material, setting her far apart from her peers, and on her debut she penned every song but two. Her lyrics would never hew this close to yé-yé traditions again: See the "whoa-oh-oh" echoing on tracks like "Il Est Tout Pour Moi" and her cover of Bobby Lee Trammell’s "Oh Oh Chéri". The title track "Tous Les Garcons Et Les Filles" remains an iconic vision of Hardy's aesthetic: frank music for romantic wallflowers. "They walk in love without fear of tomorrow," she sings in French of the young couples she watches on the street. "Yes but me, I’m single with a tormented soul, yes but me, I’m single because nobody loves me." The five albums that make up Hardy’s reissues are really compilations of four-track, seven-inch singles. Because of this, some of these records feel disjointed, a side effect from compiling songs that weren’t initially made to sit next to each other. Such is the case for her next three records, Le Premiere Bonheur Du Jour, Mon Amie La Rose, and L’Amitié. Still, each has a different story to tell about Hardy’s musical influences at the time. Le Premier Bonheur Du Jour pulls from American girl groups, echoing the Crystals and the Ronettes on "L’Amour D’Un Garçon", "Nous Tous", and "On Dit De Lui". Elsewhere, the record boasts electric organ arrangements on snappy jazz-inspired tracks like "L’Amour Ne Dure Pas Toujours" and "Comment Tant D’Autres". On Mon Amie La Rose she explores a Morricone influence that was inchoate on Tous Les Garcons Et Les Filles. "Mon Amie La Rose", based on the poem by Cecile Caulker and Jacques Lacome, and "La Nuit Est Sur La Ville" are terrifically spooky and cinematic, the latter depicting Hardy wrestling with cheating with a man on a lonely dark night. Elsewhere, she dips her toes in plucky Western country-rock on "Pas Gentille" and "Tu Ne Dis Rien". But with L’Amitié she zigzags between all these references: She’s the cowgirl guitar-heroine on her cover of "Non Ce N’est Pas Un Rêve", a dreamy wall-of-sound pop charmer on "Le Temps De Souvenirs", and folk singer on "L’Amitié". No matter her inspiration, Hardy’s music is bound together by her point of view, which is part of what makes her fascinating. Her songwriting is profoundly lonely, frequently insecure. Observers have emphasized Hardy’s anti-social nature as a celebrity, but you can hear it even in her music. Like all introverts, she seems most alone when surrounded by others, her insecurities ricocheting off those around her. On Tous Les Garçon Et Les Filles' "La Fille Avec Toi" she reaches out to an ex only to see him with another girl, bemoaning how beautiful she is. "I dream of losing myself, if only I can lose myself with you," she sings on L’Amitié’s "Tu Peux Bien". On Mon Amie La Rose’s underrated star track "Tu N’As Qu’Un Mot A Dire", she pines for an old lover, singing the verse in hushed tones like someone hugging the sidelines before rushing desperately to the forefront for the chorus, filled with shrill, swooning violins: "You just have to say the word and I’ll return," she cries, breathing urgency into a word as simple as "toi." It wasn’t until her fifth record La Maison Où J'Ai Grandi that Hardy grew into a more grown-up, baroque sound, one that matched the depth of her sorrow and its complexities. It was her most well-produced, well-written record to date, cohesive in sound and subject matter. Over harpsichord and Hardy’s own Spanish guitar, she echoes the previous four albums' worth of lip-quivering romantic longing, reflecting on what it means to lose love once you find it, or when it doesn’t live up to your fantasies. On "Si C’est Ça", her whispery voice and hushed guitar playing operate on the same frequency. "Maybe this is the moment I prefer, the moment, despite it all, where everything could suddenly switch, where life could change at last," she sings to a lover who is leaving her on "Surtout Ne Vous Retournez Pas". "So I say nothing." The girl whose greatest fantasy was once having a hand to hold now wishes to let it go. What always made Hardy’s music stand out from her yé-yé peers is how it tackled adolescent desire: Hardy was often consumed with romantic extremes. She reveled in chest-clutching longing, but her adorations came from a place entirely her own. Her obsession with love was devoid of older, male sexualization or control, a privilege not many others of her era enjoyed. Hardy’s songs feel timeless in how they emphasize a universal dream for pure love. Is this music antique in its sound? Surely. In its sentiment? Hardly. Aside from a few anachronisms ("I’m fine with the movies, for rock, the twist and the cha-cha," she sings on her first album’s track "Je Suis D’Accord") this is '60s pop devoid of vintage signifiers; nobody goes steady, nobody sings of dying an old maid, there is no cutesy, wink-filled posturing. Sometimes, especially in Hardy's choice to cover male singers, her music feels almost devoid of gender. For a genre so tethered to young women of a certain time period, this is a feat. On Le Premier Bonheur Du Jour’s quick little track "Le Sais-Tu?", Hardy finally sings directly to the object of her affections, but she’s forgotten what she yearned to express. She keeps stopping to sing, "did you know?" as if stuttering: "I so dreaded, did you know, this second, which made me think of the end "

Monsters of Folk

Monsters of Folk

Rock

Grayson Currin

Here it is: Bright Eyes' Conor Oberst, My Morning Jacket's Jim James, Matt Ward, and Saddle Creek auteur Mike Mogis' much-ballyhooed entrée-- what one assumes is our era's Traveling Wilburys. During a 2004 collaboration- and cover-heavy tour billed "An Evening with Bright Eyes, Jim James, and M. Ward," the quartet committed to making an album when time permitted. Recorded in bursts in Malibu and Omaha, Monsters of Folk often took the backseat to its creators' primary concerns. Since that tour, Oberst released three successively weak albums as Bright Eyes before leaving his own label and recasting himself as a wild-eyed, globe-trotting troubadour under his own name for Merge Records. Ward, now Oberst's labelmate, has since released four albums of retro distillations, including Volume One, the debut of his project with actress Zooey Deschanel known as She & Him. James' My Morning Jacket has grown into one of the biggest American rock bands, his distinctive, reverb-heavy vocals and his band's sharp riffs and hooks putting them somewhere between, say, Wilco and the Black Crowes. Meanwhile, Mogis has produced records by Ward, Oberst, Tilly and the Wall, Cursive, and about a dozen others. In many ways, Monsters of Folk feels like a summary statement for the inconsistent careers of the musicians behind it. Like the combined output of all four, these 15 tracks-- a mix of highs and lows, stylistic risks and reservations, songs that sound either exactly or nothing like the past of the person singing it-- are as frequently frustrating as they are satisfying. An album about God and love, neighbors and friends, it's the sort of lived-in record that too often feels too comfortable to compel. Very few of the tunes here are flawless, but most of them at least deliver something interesting. Oberst's "Temazcal", for instance, fumbles through a listless decoupage of pagan and Spanish images and lands more than once on maudlin lyrics that seem like Facebook status updates. "The love we made at gunpoint wasn't love at all," he offers, besting himself with the next verse: "Blew open my mind. Now it's an empty room." But astral harmonies arch around his frail voice, ensconcing it within a warm falsetto glow. Acoustic guitars build in halos that suggest James Blackshaw with a four-track. They swell and collapse, settling against the click of programmed drums. Smart production props Ward's droopy "Slow Down Jo", too. He offers generic advice for a busy, maybe debauched friend, easing it out with a lassitude that makes you commiserate with the fast-living guy instead of the sensible one. But Mike Mogis' steel guitar stretches like a sigh. James wraps a gorgeous choir beneath Ward, and Oberst rotates between washed-out piano and steel drums. All those textures accomplish what the song itself cannot-- to make deceleration appealing. And though it takes a hackneyed stand on issues of mind control, media manipulation, and The Man over a droll, Western barroom bounce, "Baby Boomer" twists references to pirates, censors, Christopher Columbus, and big-box book stores into imprecations that are certainly clever, if not altogether provocative. If that all sounds critical of Ward and Oberst, fine: Between tracks two and 10, James takes only one lead turn, allowing the album to drift into a bland, generally mid-tempo roots-rock torpor. Ward does his nostalgic Americana best (the fragmentary "Goodway" and the Tennessee Two-tickin' "Baby Boomer"). Oberst overwrites and oversings in his overwrought way (the forced and didactic "Man Named Truth" and the staid "Ahead of the Curve"). These songs offer no surprises. But, with the exception of the aching, gorgeous closer "His Master's Voice", James' five contributions to Monsters of Folk are left turns. On "Losin Yo Head", the rock burst that finally ends the mid-album doldrums, he sings as if leading Cheap Trick, peeling back his trademark reverb to step in front of the album's most aggressive moment. Not coincidentally, it's one of the album's addictive tunes. Indeed, only James consistently works to move beyond his mold, a quality that's often defined My Morning Jacket's mixed catalog, too. On the gorgeous opener, "Dear God (Sincerely M.O.F.)", he and Mogis (the disc's stars, no question) shape a subtle soul track with harp, synthesizers, and samples drums from "Is There Any Love", a cut from the Numero Group's Good God! collection that's also been lifted by Kid Cudi. He passes the second and third verses to Ward and Oberst respectively, and they both handle their theological plea with care. Their distinctive voices bend to meet the difficult beat, and, as they ask these big questions of the universe, they sound sincere, approachable and interested. It's as if having to verbalize these misgivings-- "If your love's still around/ Why do we suffer?"-- inspired a shift in their fundamental approach. The opener is as intriguing as it is unexpected. It's just too bad, then, that the rest of the album continues to ask similar questions, but never again with the same vigor or innovation.

Artist: Monsters of Folk, Album: Monsters of Folk, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Here it is: Bright Eyes' Conor Oberst, My Morning Jacket's Jim James, Matt Ward, and Saddle Creek auteur Mike Mogis' much-ballyhooed entrée-- what one assumes is our era's Traveling Wilburys. During a 2004 collaboration- and cover-heavy tour billed "An Evening with Bright Eyes, Jim James, and M. Ward," the quartet committed to making an album when time permitted. Recorded in bursts in Malibu and Omaha, Monsters of Folk often took the backseat to its creators' primary concerns. Since that tour, Oberst released three successively weak albums as Bright Eyes before leaving his own label and recasting himself as a wild-eyed, globe-trotting troubadour under his own name for Merge Records. Ward, now Oberst's labelmate, has since released four albums of retro distillations, including Volume One, the debut of his project with actress Zooey Deschanel known as She & Him. James' My Morning Jacket has grown into one of the biggest American rock bands, his distinctive, reverb-heavy vocals and his band's sharp riffs and hooks putting them somewhere between, say, Wilco and the Black Crowes. Meanwhile, Mogis has produced records by Ward, Oberst, Tilly and the Wall, Cursive, and about a dozen others. In many ways, Monsters of Folk feels like a summary statement for the inconsistent careers of the musicians behind it. Like the combined output of all four, these 15 tracks-- a mix of highs and lows, stylistic risks and reservations, songs that sound either exactly or nothing like the past of the person singing it-- are as frequently frustrating as they are satisfying. An album about God and love, neighbors and friends, it's the sort of lived-in record that too often feels too comfortable to compel. Very few of the tunes here are flawless, but most of them at least deliver something interesting. Oberst's "Temazcal", for instance, fumbles through a listless decoupage of pagan and Spanish images and lands more than once on maudlin lyrics that seem like Facebook status updates. "The love we made at gunpoint wasn't love at all," he offers, besting himself with the next verse: "Blew open my mind. Now it's an empty room." But astral harmonies arch around his frail voice, ensconcing it within a warm falsetto glow. Acoustic guitars build in halos that suggest James Blackshaw with a four-track. They swell and collapse, settling against the click of programmed drums. Smart production props Ward's droopy "Slow Down Jo", too. He offers generic advice for a busy, maybe debauched friend, easing it out with a lassitude that makes you commiserate with the fast-living guy instead of the sensible one. But Mike Mogis' steel guitar stretches like a sigh. James wraps a gorgeous choir beneath Ward, and Oberst rotates between washed-out piano and steel drums. All those textures accomplish what the song itself cannot-- to make deceleration appealing. And though it takes a hackneyed stand on issues of mind control, media manipulation, and The Man over a droll, Western barroom bounce, "Baby Boomer" twists references to pirates, censors, Christopher Columbus, and big-box book stores into imprecations that are certainly clever, if not altogether provocative. If that all sounds critical of Ward and Oberst, fine: Between tracks two and 10, James takes only one lead turn, allowing the album to drift into a bland, generally mid-tempo roots-rock torpor. Ward does his nostalgic Americana best (the fragmentary "Goodway" and the Tennessee Two-tickin' "Baby Boomer"). Oberst overwrites and oversings in his overwrought way (the forced and didactic "Man Named Truth" and the staid "Ahead of the Curve"). These songs offer no surprises. But, with the exception of the aching, gorgeous closer "His Master's Voice", James' five contributions to Monsters of Folk are left turns. On "Losin Yo Head", the rock burst that finally ends the mid-album doldrums, he sings as if leading Cheap Trick, peeling back his trademark reverb to step in front of the album's most aggressive moment. Not coincidentally, it's one of the album's addictive tunes. Indeed, only James consistently works to move beyond his mold, a quality that's often defined My Morning Jacket's mixed catalog, too. On the gorgeous opener, "Dear God (Sincerely M.O.F.)", he and Mogis (the disc's stars, no question) shape a subtle soul track with harp, synthesizers, and samples drums from "Is There Any Love", a cut from the Numero Group's Good God! collection that's also been lifted by Kid Cudi. He passes the second and third verses to Ward and Oberst respectively, and they both handle their theological plea with care. Their distinctive voices bend to meet the difficult beat, and, as they ask these big questions of the universe, they sound sincere, approachable and interested. It's as if having to verbalize these misgivings-- "If your love's still around/ Why do we suffer?"-- inspired a shift in their fundamental approach. The opener is as intriguing as it is unexpected. It's just too bad, then, that the rest of the album continues to ask similar questions, but never again with the same vigor or innovation."

Dub Taylor

Detect

Electronic

Paul Cooper

Tech-house dub artist Alex Kruger is getting his share of attention, despite his confusing tendency to record under countless radar-eluding aliases. For his two full-length 2001 excursions, Kruger selected his Dub Taylor mask and attempted to grab some of the glory surrounding minimal maestro, Matthias Schaffhauser. Detect, Kruger-as-Taylor's second full-length in 2001, is more of a compilation than Forms and Figures, the other 2001 album Kruger released for Raum-Musik. Because of the speed at which Kruger creates his tracks, Detect doesn't sound like a fits-and-starts hodgepodge of an assembly. But it doesn't sound like a winner, either. When compared to other similarly inflected artists, the music Taylor rolls out is commonplace and merely functional-- the title track, for example, is merely a serviceable and crunchy rendition of the glitch-dub house that's characterized the Chain Reaction label for the last five years. Yes, Kruger's concession to innovation is restricted to a punchy bassline and slightly click-hop-derived percussion. "Sweet Lips" is the first vocal cut on Detect, and like the album's other four sing-songs, it suffers from a want of melody. Vocal house cuts, by my reckoning, should be hummable euphoria. And "Sweet Lips," while vaguely memorable, is hampered by a clumsy lyric about wanting "your sweet lips on mine." In a club setting, and after five pints of lager, such things might not bother me. But at home, I get to choose the music and it wouldn't hurt this song's rotation to be a little more interesting. "Observer" is a tougher version of the opener and sounds as though a tribally elated Danny Tenaglia or sleazy funked Richard Morel had embraced the white-noise dub of Berlin. "Newman" sinks the listener deep beneath an ocean of echoes where Lee Perry trades rhythmic jabs with Moritz von Oswald's Rhythm and Sound project. With vocals by Per Fourier, "Something Somewhere" and "Our Youth" launch you back to bassbin-serrating tech-house. "John Wayne" is not an homage to the Duke that I had expected, unless Wayne was really a k-hole queen who loved to squirm his butt-cheek-exposing leather-chaps into the nether regions of dancers around him. "I Can't ("...You Know)" is the closest Kruger has had to a recognizable club tune. He combines his woofer-worrying basslines with delicate Fender Rhodes noodling. Fourier unmemorably joins in with a lyric about not being able to fall in love with anyone but some dark-eyed temptress who's made off with his heart. I'd love to hear a vocal-less version, as Kruger uncuts Fourier's blankly delivered vocals with what sounds like a battling Eric Dolphy bass clarinet. Then, Detect concludes with "2scale," in which Kruger returns to his roots with the kind of echoing dub space that's influenced so much of European techno for years. As such, the record adds little new to the style, but hardly disgraces it either.

Artist: Dub Taylor, Album: Detect, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "Tech-house dub artist Alex Kruger is getting his share of attention, despite his confusing tendency to record under countless radar-eluding aliases. For his two full-length 2001 excursions, Kruger selected his Dub Taylor mask and attempted to grab some of the glory surrounding minimal maestro, Matthias Schaffhauser. Detect, Kruger-as-Taylor's second full-length in 2001, is more of a compilation than Forms and Figures, the other 2001 album Kruger released for Raum-Musik. Because of the speed at which Kruger creates his tracks, Detect doesn't sound like a fits-and-starts hodgepodge of an assembly. But it doesn't sound like a winner, either. When compared to other similarly inflected artists, the music Taylor rolls out is commonplace and merely functional-- the title track, for example, is merely a serviceable and crunchy rendition of the glitch-dub house that's characterized the Chain Reaction label for the last five years. Yes, Kruger's concession to innovation is restricted to a punchy bassline and slightly click-hop-derived percussion. "Sweet Lips" is the first vocal cut on Detect, and like the album's other four sing-songs, it suffers from a want of melody. Vocal house cuts, by my reckoning, should be hummable euphoria. And "Sweet Lips," while vaguely memorable, is hampered by a clumsy lyric about wanting "your sweet lips on mine." In a club setting, and after five pints of lager, such things might not bother me. But at home, I get to choose the music and it wouldn't hurt this song's rotation to be a little more interesting. "Observer" is a tougher version of the opener and sounds as though a tribally elated Danny Tenaglia or sleazy funked Richard Morel had embraced the white-noise dub of Berlin. "Newman" sinks the listener deep beneath an ocean of echoes where Lee Perry trades rhythmic jabs with Moritz von Oswald's Rhythm and Sound project. With vocals by Per Fourier, "Something Somewhere" and "Our Youth" launch you back to bassbin-serrating tech-house. "John Wayne" is not an homage to the Duke that I had expected, unless Wayne was really a k-hole queen who loved to squirm his butt-cheek-exposing leather-chaps into the nether regions of dancers around him. "I Can't ("...You Know)" is the closest Kruger has had to a recognizable club tune. He combines his woofer-worrying basslines with delicate Fender Rhodes noodling. Fourier unmemorably joins in with a lyric about not being able to fall in love with anyone but some dark-eyed temptress who's made off with his heart. I'd love to hear a vocal-less version, as Kruger uncuts Fourier's blankly delivered vocals with what sounds like a battling Eric Dolphy bass clarinet. Then, Detect concludes with "2scale," in which Kruger returns to his roots with the kind of echoing dub space that's influenced so much of European techno for years. As such, the record adds little new to the style, but hardly disgraces it either."

Miracle

Mercury

Rap

Andrew Ryce

It’s hard to know where to put Miracle. The self-described “boy band” are on Planet Mu, one of electronic music’s more experimental “big” labels. Steve Moore, the American behind the album’s lush bed of electronics, is a synth wizard known for his droning epics, lush dance tracks, and italo-aping band Zombi. UK singer Daniel O’Sullivan, meanwhile, has worked with any number of left-field rock outfits from Sunn O))) to Guapo (the band he fronts). Together, they make creeping synth pop that feels like Depeche Mode steeped in the fog of the Misty Mountains—there’s nothing really experimental, dance, or rock about it at all. It’s moody and serious stuff, evident from the outset with “Good Love”, where arpeggios snake at a glacial pace as O’Sullivan bellows about the “most high, all-powerful good love” with all the pomp and circumstance of a late 70s fantasy metal epic. If it wasn’t obvious from that, there’s something else running underneath Mercury than the facile synth-pop revivalist label that others will lobby at it. Let’s get this out of the way: O’Sullivan has a pleasing, resolutely British voice that recalls a higher-register Dave Gahan—he’s a dead ringer on “Something Is Wrong”, which has an existential-dread chorus (“Something is wrong/ I don’t know what it means to be in love”) that would be a long lost Black Celebration cut*.* But most of the time, O’Sullivan is his own artist in spite of superficial semblances, and his arch phrasing is more goth-inflected folk than fey synth-pop posturing. There’s also a certain muscular chug to these tracks that you wouldn’t necessarily get from mid-80s Sire Records—a propulsive crawl learned from Moore’s dance records and his work in Zombi. Those synths? They make the record, which is important, because Mercury is all synths—no guitars or anything that sounds close to a band here. It's a beautifully-produced record, with such a grasp on its machines that it doesn’t even need straight drums—the title track is a buzzing collection of cogs and whirling machinery, woodpecker woodblocks, and other strange percussive devices driving it forward in the place of lumpen drum machines. Moore’s unique sensibilities can jar with O’Sullivan’s pop ambitions as much as they elevate them, however. On “Neverending Arc”, a walk-in freezer of horror synths and creepy arpeggios, O’Sullivans leaden melody lines slide right off Moore’s icy walls, and the grand power ballad “Breathless” doesn’t have a grandiose hook to match its “Take My Breath Away” bombast. The album’s final passage offers up a glimpse at an alternate mode for the duo. Penultimate track “Wild Nights” is a windswept series of arpeggios that feels like psychedelic-era Beatles as imagined by William Orbit, and the perpetual krautrock groove is carried over into 10-minute closer “Organon”. Here, one of Moore’s characteristic long-form swirls is given over to eerie chanting by O’Sullivan, indulging in the eerie English folk tradition that he hints at elsewhere. While it’s easy enough to imagine how wonderful an LP made up entirely of these yawning ambient tracks would be, that’s not entirely fair to Moore and O’Sullivan. Mercury feels like an addition to the canon of 80s synth pop albums rather than an attempt to xerox them, mainly because of its sincerity—there’s no sly winking or irony here, period. That it such a record would come on Planet Mu and be produced by these two particular artists is a strange story indeed, but the music speaks for itself—anyone who fancies long lost synth-pop obscurities would probably find at least a few songs to like on Mercury.

Artist: Miracle, Album: Mercury, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "It’s hard to know where to put Miracle. The self-described “boy band” are on Planet Mu, one of electronic music’s more experimental “big” labels. Steve Moore, the American behind the album’s lush bed of electronics, is a synth wizard known for his droning epics, lush dance tracks, and italo-aping band Zombi. UK singer Daniel O’Sullivan, meanwhile, has worked with any number of left-field rock outfits from Sunn O))) to Guapo (the band he fronts). Together, they make creeping synth pop that feels like Depeche Mode steeped in the fog of the Misty Mountains—there’s nothing really experimental, dance, or rock about it at all. It’s moody and serious stuff, evident from the outset with “Good Love”, where arpeggios snake at a glacial pace as O’Sullivan bellows about the “most high, all-powerful good love” with all the pomp and circumstance of a late 70s fantasy metal epic. If it wasn’t obvious from that, there’s something else running underneath Mercury than the facile synth-pop revivalist label that others will lobby at it. Let’s get this out of the way: O’Sullivan has a pleasing, resolutely British voice that recalls a higher-register Dave Gahan—he’s a dead ringer on “Something Is Wrong”, which has an existential-dread chorus (“Something is wrong/ I don’t know what it means to be in love”) that would be a long lost Black Celebration cut*.* But most of the time, O’Sullivan is his own artist in spite of superficial semblances, and his arch phrasing is more goth-inflected folk than fey synth-pop posturing. There’s also a certain muscular chug to these tracks that you wouldn’t necessarily get from mid-80s Sire Records—a propulsive crawl learned from Moore’s dance records and his work in Zombi. Those synths? They make the record, which is important, because Mercury is all synths—no guitars or anything that sounds close to a band here. It's a beautifully-produced record, with such a grasp on its machines that it doesn’t even need straight drums—the title track is a buzzing collection of cogs and whirling machinery, woodpecker woodblocks, and other strange percussive devices driving it forward in the place of lumpen drum machines. Moore’s unique sensibilities can jar with O’Sullivan’s pop ambitions as much as they elevate them, however. On “Neverending Arc”, a walk-in freezer of horror synths and creepy arpeggios, O’Sullivans leaden melody lines slide right off Moore’s icy walls, and the grand power ballad “Breathless” doesn’t have a grandiose hook to match its “Take My Breath Away” bombast. The album’s final passage offers up a glimpse at an alternate mode for the duo. Penultimate track “Wild Nights” is a windswept series of arpeggios that feels like psychedelic-era Beatles as imagined by William Orbit, and the perpetual krautrock groove is carried over into 10-minute closer “Organon”. Here, one of Moore’s characteristic long-form swirls is given over to eerie chanting by O’Sullivan, indulging in the eerie English folk tradition that he hints at elsewhere. While it’s easy enough to imagine how wonderful an LP made up entirely of these yawning ambient tracks would be, that’s not entirely fair to Moore and O’Sullivan. Mercury feels like an addition to the canon of 80s synth pop albums rather than an attempt to xerox them, mainly because of its sincerity—there’s no sly winking or irony here, period. That it such a record would come on Planet Mu and be produced by these two particular artists is a strange story indeed, but the music speaks for itself—anyone who fancies long lost synth-pop obscurities would probably find at least a few songs to like on Mercury."

Weapon

Embers and Revelations

Kim Kelly

Weapon are an atypical band. Blackened death acts are a dime a dozen, but the really good ones are more difficult to find. Even among that elite group, the pickings get slimmer as ideas get staler and the same riff seems to surface almost as often as that one awkward guy from Chem class who never quite learned to take a hint. Now, enter Weapon. Even within a field populated by those who take pride in slicing against the grain, founding vocalist/guitarist Vetis Monarch and his cohorts reach as far outside the box as they can without turning their backs on the subterranean darkness from whence they came. On 2009's Drakonian Paradigm, they set their sights on greatness, with 201o's From the Devil’s Tomb they took aim, and now, on Embers and Revelations, they pull the trigger. While the highly listenable From the Devil's Tomb was a loose, depraved affair, steeped in the atmosphere and elements of its Canada-based, Bangladesh-born creator's Eastern upbringing (summed up perfectly in the serpentine "Lefthandpathyoga"), its successor is more of a challenge. It's leaner, more focused, and utterly relentless, with riffs sharpened by genuine hatred and Satanic conviction. Vetis takes the lead role when it comes to guitars and vocals, but he's now joined by second guitarist Rom Surtr, whose skill is felt in the complex, engaging structures of the songs. The drumming is inhumanly precise, executed by the Disciple (formerly of influential Canadian black metal experimentalists Rites of Thy Degringolade) and Kha Tumos' basslines sport a rich, resonating tone that menaces as much as it anchors. The chemistry between the band's members is apparent, and the attention to detail is near-fanatical. Save for the crisp, almost startlingly pretty opening salvo of "Liber Lilith", gone are the stealthy, slinky melodies and exotic scales that once served as Weapon's primary defense against being lumped in with those of a more homogenous ilk. They've replaced these elements with vitriol and venom. "Embers and Revelations" is a snarling beast, all punishing intensity and manic leads. There are moments of murky, churning simplicity, like the malevolent dirge of "Disavowing Each in Aum" or doomy middle passage on "Grotesque Carven Portal", and a few sparse but effective, not to mention beautifully rendered, moments of calm (most notably heard in the first few moments of album closer "Shahenshah"). At its core, though, the album is black/death, despite its refusal to stay shackled to such a colorless descriptor. Those genre lines blur, and those elements that belong to Weapon-- and only Weapon-- cannot be contained. To make it easy on a casual metal listener, imagine a particularly unholy blend of Belphegor, Melechesh, Nile, Watain, and Behemoth. Now add in some Master's Hammer worship and vintage Morbid Angel appreciation, tattoo it with Kali's name, hand it a knife, then leave it to die on an unnamed street corner in any hot, dusty city. Embers and Revelations revels in Satanic majesty and sensuous filth. The lyrics, delivered in Vetis' largely decipherable mid-range growl, range from pure nihilism to sexual perversion and the despoilment of the sacred. His Eastern roots and Satanic faith surface once again, and there is a strangely poetic feel to the deviance and inhumanity of Vetis' words, made all the more unsettling by how clearly they resonate. On "Liber Lilith", for example, he invokes the antithesis of feminine virtue like so: "Vile temptress, Goddess ov Drakon! Initiator of perversion in mankind!/ Let the phalli of murderers glow within Thy orifice of defecation/ O, ravishing Queen of noxious blood!/ He who repudiates Thy pulsating cunt/ Shall yield to strangulation by the severed, umbilical cord of a fetus." Weapon's Relapse debut has garnered them far more attention than their past releases, and their recent spate of touring alongside Marduk and 1349 went a long way toward raising their profile in the states, but one gets the feeling that this is only the beginning. Ember and Revelations is an addictive listen, and a dangerous one at that: In Weapon's world, Satan lives and humanity is divided into those who walk with him and those who cower before him. When's the last time you prayed?

Artist: Weapon, Album: Embers and Revelations, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Weapon are an atypical band. Blackened death acts are a dime a dozen, but the really good ones are more difficult to find. Even among that elite group, the pickings get slimmer as ideas get staler and the same riff seems to surface almost as often as that one awkward guy from Chem class who never quite learned to take a hint. Now, enter Weapon. Even within a field populated by those who take pride in slicing against the grain, founding vocalist/guitarist Vetis Monarch and his cohorts reach as far outside the box as they can without turning their backs on the subterranean darkness from whence they came. On 2009's Drakonian Paradigm, they set their sights on greatness, with 201o's From the Devil’s Tomb they took aim, and now, on Embers and Revelations, they pull the trigger. While the highly listenable From the Devil's Tomb was a loose, depraved affair, steeped in the atmosphere and elements of its Canada-based, Bangladesh-born creator's Eastern upbringing (summed up perfectly in the serpentine "Lefthandpathyoga"), its successor is more of a challenge. It's leaner, more focused, and utterly relentless, with riffs sharpened by genuine hatred and Satanic conviction. Vetis takes the lead role when it comes to guitars and vocals, but he's now joined by second guitarist Rom Surtr, whose skill is felt in the complex, engaging structures of the songs. The drumming is inhumanly precise, executed by the Disciple (formerly of influential Canadian black metal experimentalists Rites of Thy Degringolade) and Kha Tumos' basslines sport a rich, resonating tone that menaces as much as it anchors. The chemistry between the band's members is apparent, and the attention to detail is near-fanatical. Save for the crisp, almost startlingly pretty opening salvo of "Liber Lilith", gone are the stealthy, slinky melodies and exotic scales that once served as Weapon's primary defense against being lumped in with those of a more homogenous ilk. They've replaced these elements with vitriol and venom. "Embers and Revelations" is a snarling beast, all punishing intensity and manic leads. There are moments of murky, churning simplicity, like the malevolent dirge of "Disavowing Each in Aum" or doomy middle passage on "Grotesque Carven Portal", and a few sparse but effective, not to mention beautifully rendered, moments of calm (most notably heard in the first few moments of album closer "Shahenshah"). At its core, though, the album is black/death, despite its refusal to stay shackled to such a colorless descriptor. Those genre lines blur, and those elements that belong to Weapon-- and only Weapon-- cannot be contained. To make it easy on a casual metal listener, imagine a particularly unholy blend of Belphegor, Melechesh, Nile, Watain, and Behemoth. Now add in some Master's Hammer worship and vintage Morbid Angel appreciation, tattoo it with Kali's name, hand it a knife, then leave it to die on an unnamed street corner in any hot, dusty city. Embers and Revelations revels in Satanic majesty and sensuous filth. The lyrics, delivered in Vetis' largely decipherable mid-range growl, range from pure nihilism to sexual perversion and the despoilment of the sacred. His Eastern roots and Satanic faith surface once again, and there is a strangely poetic feel to the deviance and inhumanity of Vetis' words, made all the more unsettling by how clearly they resonate. On "Liber Lilith", for example, he invokes the antithesis of feminine virtue like so: "Vile temptress, Goddess ov Drakon! Initiator of perversion in mankind!/ Let the phalli of murderers glow within Thy orifice of defecation/ O, ravishing Queen of noxious blood!/ He who repudiates Thy pulsating cunt/ Shall yield to strangulation by the severed, umbilical cord of a fetus." Weapon's Relapse debut has garnered them far more attention than their past releases, and their recent spate of touring alongside Marduk and 1349 went a long way toward raising their profile in the states, but one gets the feeling that this is only the beginning. Ember and Revelations is an addictive listen, and a dangerous one at that: In Weapon's world, Satan lives and humanity is divided into those who walk with him and those who cower before him. When's the last time you prayed?"

Johnny Marr

Call the Comet

Rock

Stephen Thomas Erlewine

Like many citizens of Earth in the year 2018, Johnny Marr wishes he could live in a different world. Sorting through the political wreckage of 2016 and its twin seismic shocks, Brexit and Donald J. Trump winning the American presidency, the former Smiths guitarist wondered what it would be like to reside in an alternate universe, one that valued kindness, curiosity, and intelligence instead of crassness and cash. Marr channeled that thought experiment into Call the Comet, his third and most thematically ambitious solo album. Despite its sci-fi framing, Call the Comet isn’t a concept record, nor does it sound especially futuristic. The album comes into focus, on opening track “Rise,” via a pulsating guitar line that faintly echoes the tremolo riff that fueled “How Soon Is Now?”—and that isn’t the only moment that plays on the legacy of the Smiths. “Hi Hello,” one of three pre-release singles, threatens to slide into the comforting confines of the melody to “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out.” But these feints at the past aren’t self-aware nostalgia; they’re signs that the ever-restless Marr—a rock star who chose to spend a quarter-century as a hired gun, roaming from project to project—is starting to slow down in his middle age. Some of this settling is literal. After an extended sojourn in Portland, Oregon, Marr relocated to his native Manchester early in the current decade. The move coincided with the launch of his solo career via 2013’s The Messenger. (A decade prior, he’d released Boomslang with his short-lived band the Healers.) The album fused the muscular aspects of the Smiths with remnants of the sleek synths of his Bernard Sumner collaboration, Electronic, resulting in a signature sound that existed comfortably out of time. Evocative of pre-Nirvana, pre-Britpop college rock, the music was nonetheless too accomplished and too comfortable in its own skin to access the hunger of a young indie act desperate to prove itself. Marr stuck to this template on 2014’s Playland, and he doesn’t really shake things up on Call the Comet, either. Like its two predecessors, the album was produced by the guitarist in conjunction with James Doviak, who has been in Marr’s orbit since he joined the Boomslang tour in 2003, and their comfortable chemistry is evident in the album’s cozy familiarity. Even the electronic accents that could be characterized as left turns, like the ping-pong rhythmic loop that runs throughout “New Dominions” or the chilly New Romantic bounce of “My Eternal,” belong within Marr’s carefully cultivated lineage. However forward-thinking its lyrical content may be, Call the Comet remains anchored by his well-appointed traditionalism. That conservative approach to songwriting is buttressed by Marr’s estimable studio skills: Every harmony, riff, and cymbal splash is in its right place. Such consummate craft has its allure. Call the Comet is a towering aural monolith: It glistens and gleams, its parts so delicately fused they can be hard to untangle. The album is so densely packed that it’s easy to miss Marr’s overarching themes, a shame exacerbated by his habitual neglect to draw attention to his lyrics. A pleasantly flat, unassuming singer, he functions mostly as a conduit for his melodies, which is only a detriment on an album with so much potential thematic resonance. Only a close listen—preferably with a lyric sheet in hand—reveals the social consciousness of Call the Comet. Marr kicks off the album with “Rise,” a warning that “it’s the dawn of the dogs” delivered to a pulse that’s not a far cry from The The’s roiling Dusk. This darkness extends into “Bug,” whose shimmering, insistent surface obscures Marr’s assertion, “Everybody feels the aching/Population is sick and shaking.” The illness is cured by the titular heroes of “The Tracers,” otherworldly empaths who come to Earth because “they know we’ve lost the way.” Marr doesn’t follow a precise narrative, but his ultimate destination is “Spiral Cities,” a utopia where all the residents are united by open, observant eyes and a desire to get lost in the glow of love. Once you dig through the layers of musical gloss to unearth Marr’s message, his mild vocal performance jibes with his idealism. He’s writing with compassion, not anger on Call the Comet; this isn’t protest music so much as a plea to our better angels. Such an open heart is uncommon in these combative times, and Marr’s sincerity gives his flawed album some appeal.

Artist: Johnny Marr, Album: Call the Comet, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Like many citizens of Earth in the year 2018, Johnny Marr wishes he could live in a different world. Sorting through the political wreckage of 2016 and its twin seismic shocks, Brexit and Donald J. Trump winning the American presidency, the former Smiths guitarist wondered what it would be like to reside in an alternate universe, one that valued kindness, curiosity, and intelligence instead of crassness and cash. Marr channeled that thought experiment into Call the Comet, his third and most thematically ambitious solo album. Despite its sci-fi framing, Call the Comet isn’t a concept record, nor does it sound especially futuristic. The album comes into focus, on opening track “Rise,” via a pulsating guitar line that faintly echoes the tremolo riff that fueled “How Soon Is Now?”—and that isn’t the only moment that plays on the legacy of the Smiths. “Hi Hello,” one of three pre-release singles, threatens to slide into the comforting confines of the melody to “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out.” But these feints at the past aren’t self-aware nostalgia; they’re signs that the ever-restless Marr—a rock star who chose to spend a quarter-century as a hired gun, roaming from project to project—is starting to slow down in his middle age. Some of this settling is literal. After an extended sojourn in Portland, Oregon, Marr relocated to his native Manchester early in the current decade. The move coincided with the launch of his solo career via 2013’s The Messenger. (A decade prior, he’d released Boomslang with his short-lived band the Healers.) The album fused the muscular aspects of the Smiths with remnants of the sleek synths of his Bernard Sumner collaboration, Electronic, resulting in a signature sound that existed comfortably out of time. Evocative of pre-Nirvana, pre-Britpop college rock, the music was nonetheless too accomplished and too comfortable in its own skin to access the hunger of a young indie act desperate to prove itself. Marr stuck to this template on 2014’s Playland, and he doesn’t really shake things up on Call the Comet, either. Like its two predecessors, the album was produced by the guitarist in conjunction with James Doviak, who has been in Marr’s orbit since he joined the Boomslang tour in 2003, and their comfortable chemistry is evident in the album’s cozy familiarity. Even the electronic accents that could be characterized as left turns, like the ping-pong rhythmic loop that runs throughout “New Dominions” or the chilly New Romantic bounce of “My Eternal,” belong within Marr’s carefully cultivated lineage. However forward-thinking its lyrical content may be, Call the Comet remains anchored by his well-appointed traditionalism. That conservative approach to songwriting is buttressed by Marr’s estimable studio skills: Every harmony, riff, and cymbal splash is in its right place. Such consummate craft has its allure. Call the Comet is a towering aural monolith: It glistens and gleams, its parts so delicately fused they can be hard to untangle. The album is so densely packed that it’s easy to miss Marr’s overarching themes, a shame exacerbated by his habitual neglect to draw attention to his lyrics. A pleasantly flat, unassuming singer, he functions mostly as a conduit for his melodies, which is only a detriment on an album with so much potential thematic resonance. Only a close listen—preferably with a lyric sheet in hand—reveals the social consciousness of Call the Comet. Marr kicks off the album with “Rise,” a warning that “it’s the dawn of the dogs” delivered to a pulse that’s not a far cry from The The’s roiling Dusk. This darkness extends into “Bug,” whose shimmering, insistent surface obscures Marr’s assertion, “Everybody feels the aching/Population is sick and shaking.” The illness is cured by the titular heroes of “The Tracers,” otherworldly empaths who come to Earth because “they know we’ve lost the way.” Marr doesn’t follow a precise narrative, but his ultimate destination is “Spiral Cities,” a utopia where all the residents are united by open, observant eyes and a desire to get lost in the glow of love. Once you dig through the layers of musical gloss to unearth Marr’s message, his mild vocal performance jibes with his idealism. He’s writing with compassion, not anger on Call the Comet; this isn’t protest music so much as a plea to our better angels. Such an open heart is uncommon in these combative times, and Marr’s sincerity gives his flawed album some appeal."

Bis

Intendo

Pop/R&B

Zach Hammerman

If Manda Rin, Sci-fi Steven and John Disco (aka Bis) opened a candy shop, they'd probably stock it exclusively with bright colored, high- energy sugar goods. We're talking Nerds, Skittles, Pixy Stix, Chewy Sweetarts, and the like. Only minors would be allowed into the shop; college kids would have to be accompanied by their baby brothers and sisters. In fact, a trip to the Bis sweets shop wouldn't be much different than listening to one of their albums: an exuberant, childish, stomach ache of a sugar high-- but in a good way. This Scottish trio burst onto the American scene in 1997 with the infectious This Is Teen-C Power EP, six songs of disco- inflected, punky pop proclaiming the advent of the Teen-C Revolution. The sing- along choruses ("Kill your boyfriend/ Yeah yeah yeah!"), killer riffs and back- to- elementary school bounce gave the band instant street cred. And signing with the Beastie Boys on their coveted Grand Royal label didn't hurt, either. Unfortunately, most cool cats in the U.S. had moved on to the more "mature" post-rock scene by the time Bis released The New Transistor Heroes, a high- fructose long- player that showed the band spreading out in new directions with varying degrees of success. Intendo collects nine tracks of demos, b-sides and rarities recorded over the last two years, sandwiched between two cracks at the intro/ outro "Grand Royal With Cheese." The first proper track, "Statement of Intent," makes it known that Bis aren't about to settle for Tootsie Rolls; the song is as immediate and melodic as Bis' music has ever been, but not quite as fun to sing along to as their previous call- and- response anthems. "Clockwork Punk" rectifies this with an addictive chorus: To all the people in the east, Clockwork Punk!!! To all the people in the north, Clockwork Punk!!! To all the people in the west, Clockwork Punk!!! And all the people in the south, Clockwork Punk!!! Think Kraftwerk covering R.E.M.'s "Stand" and you'll have the idea. Elsewhere on the sampler you'll find Bis trying out new musical terrain. "Famous" and "Automatic Freestyle" border on ska, while "Kid Cut" recalls Blur at their "Chinese Bombs" punkiest (or for you Japanophiles, Melt Banana). The only track that falls flat is "Cookie Cutter Kid," which outlasts its stay, clocking in at a whopping four minutes. In the end, sheer musical and songwriting competence sets Bis apart from other progenitors of the Teen-C Revolution such as their American counterpart, the Donnas. If you only pick up Thrill Jockey releases, this probably isn't for you. (Why are you reading this?) But for all you kiddies with sweet tooths out there, don't hesitate to snatch this up. Watermelon Nerds never tasted so good.

Artist: Bis, Album: Intendo, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "If Manda Rin, Sci-fi Steven and John Disco (aka Bis) opened a candy shop, they'd probably stock it exclusively with bright colored, high- energy sugar goods. We're talking Nerds, Skittles, Pixy Stix, Chewy Sweetarts, and the like. Only minors would be allowed into the shop; college kids would have to be accompanied by their baby brothers and sisters. In fact, a trip to the Bis sweets shop wouldn't be much different than listening to one of their albums: an exuberant, childish, stomach ache of a sugar high-- but in a good way. This Scottish trio burst onto the American scene in 1997 with the infectious This Is Teen-C Power EP, six songs of disco- inflected, punky pop proclaiming the advent of the Teen-C Revolution. The sing- along choruses ("Kill your boyfriend/ Yeah yeah yeah!"), killer riffs and back- to- elementary school bounce gave the band instant street cred. And signing with the Beastie Boys on their coveted Grand Royal label didn't hurt, either. Unfortunately, most cool cats in the U.S. had moved on to the more "mature" post-rock scene by the time Bis released The New Transistor Heroes, a high- fructose long- player that showed the band spreading out in new directions with varying degrees of success. Intendo collects nine tracks of demos, b-sides and rarities recorded over the last two years, sandwiched between two cracks at the intro/ outro "Grand Royal With Cheese." The first proper track, "Statement of Intent," makes it known that Bis aren't about to settle for Tootsie Rolls; the song is as immediate and melodic as Bis' music has ever been, but not quite as fun to sing along to as their previous call- and- response anthems. "Clockwork Punk" rectifies this with an addictive chorus: To all the people in the east, Clockwork Punk!!! To all the people in the north, Clockwork Punk!!! To all the people in the west, Clockwork Punk!!! And all the people in the south, Clockwork Punk!!! Think Kraftwerk covering R.E.M.'s "Stand" and you'll have the idea. Elsewhere on the sampler you'll find Bis trying out new musical terrain. "Famous" and "Automatic Freestyle" border on ska, while "Kid Cut" recalls Blur at their "Chinese Bombs" punkiest (or for you Japanophiles, Melt Banana). The only track that falls flat is "Cookie Cutter Kid," which outlasts its stay, clocking in at a whopping four minutes. In the end, sheer musical and songwriting competence sets Bis apart from other progenitors of the Teen-C Revolution such as their American counterpart, the Donnas. If you only pick up Thrill Jockey releases, this probably isn't for you. (Why are you reading this?) But for all you kiddies with sweet tooths out there, don't hesitate to snatch this up. Watermelon Nerds never tasted so good."

Old Time Relijun

Uterus and Fire

Experimental,Rock

Michael Sandlin

I'd say Old Time Relijun's Uterus and Fire is a true innovation in modern music. I think it's the first time anyone's ever recorded an ensemble of diarrhea- afflicted Down's Syndrome chimpanzees taking a collective dump in someone's garage. They somehow managed to mic each of the chimp's asses, slip 'em each a strong laxative with a banana lunch, and then, kerblaam! Lucky for you, dear consumer, these tree- swingers squeeze out just enough smelly goods to make for an entire album of pure unadulterated shit. To continue the excrement theme, you could say that Old Time Relijun aspire to be the musical equivalent of those downtown NYC artistes that crap on a canvas, and sell their feces to pretentious art collectors for a pretty penny. Although, really, I'm the last one who'll condemn a band just because they can't "play" in a traditional technical sense. In fact, on a daily basis I enjoy all sorts of inherently filthy semi- musical crap: Pussy Galore and Jon Spencer, Jandek, the Fugs, the Stooges, the Sex Pistols, and so on. On a technical level, though, Uterus and Fire makes an album like the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's exceptionally trashy 1992 debut sound like Zeppelin II. I mean, what sort of tragically hip jerk- off would allow these inept fucks to make a CD? This audacious little twerp should be shackled to his stereo system, have headphones duct- taped to his cranium, and forced to listen to his brilliant discovery on repeat for a few days. When you get right down to it, these poor bastards don't even try. They aren't funny enough to be a joke band. They aren't offensive. Just unbelievably boring. The drummer bashes the toms like he's a seven- year- old doing a bad imitation of a handicapped John Bonham. The guitar limps along on a few repeating out- of- tune notes. The diverse lead singer gets into some ridiculous Yoko Ono vocal performance-- that's when he's not doing the muffled Jon Spencer- wannabe mouth- over- the- microphone screaming. And I guess they couldn't find a shitty enough bass player, because it sounds like there isn't any bass whatsoever. Damn that's bold, baby. Oh, and there's lots of clueless free jazz sax- blowing, too-- and, boy, it's not annoying or anything, trust me. Oh, and hey, I'm glad they didn't forget to mention my favorite part of the female anatomy in the album title. That's so cool! Ha, they said "uterus," man. Cool. Why not name the next album Fallopian Tubes on Vagina Mountain, or how 'bout Enflamed Clitoris? They could even get Adam Sandler to make a guest appearanec. Y'know, he'll cut a gurgling fart in the studio and they can sample it, or something totally cool like that. Tell ya what, I'll pay homage to these guys by taking on a similar dumbed- down Old Time Relijun posture in closing this review: If de're jus' suppose to be a big joke, I just don't get it, y'all! Ah guess dey jus' gotta show ever'body just how durn apeshit crazy an' stupid they is! And dey doin' a helluva job wid' 'dat. Keepa goin', boys. Suckin' is cool. Heh. Heh.

Artist: Old Time Relijun, Album: Uterus and Fire, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 0.3 Album review: "I'd say Old Time Relijun's Uterus and Fire is a true innovation in modern music. I think it's the first time anyone's ever recorded an ensemble of diarrhea- afflicted Down's Syndrome chimpanzees taking a collective dump in someone's garage. They somehow managed to mic each of the chimp's asses, slip 'em each a strong laxative with a banana lunch, and then, kerblaam! Lucky for you, dear consumer, these tree- swingers squeeze out just enough smelly goods to make for an entire album of pure unadulterated shit. To continue the excrement theme, you could say that Old Time Relijun aspire to be the musical equivalent of those downtown NYC artistes that crap on a canvas, and sell their feces to pretentious art collectors for a pretty penny. Although, really, I'm the last one who'll condemn a band just because they can't "play" in a traditional technical sense. In fact, on a daily basis I enjoy all sorts of inherently filthy semi- musical crap: Pussy Galore and Jon Spencer, Jandek, the Fugs, the Stooges, the Sex Pistols, and so on. On a technical level, though, Uterus and Fire makes an album like the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's exceptionally trashy 1992 debut sound like Zeppelin II. I mean, what sort of tragically hip jerk- off would allow these inept fucks to make a CD? This audacious little twerp should be shackled to his stereo system, have headphones duct- taped to his cranium, and forced to listen to his brilliant discovery on repeat for a few days. When you get right down to it, these poor bastards don't even try. They aren't funny enough to be a joke band. They aren't offensive. Just unbelievably boring. The drummer bashes the toms like he's a seven- year- old doing a bad imitation of a handicapped John Bonham. The guitar limps along on a few repeating out- of- tune notes. The diverse lead singer gets into some ridiculous Yoko Ono vocal performance-- that's when he's not doing the muffled Jon Spencer- wannabe mouth- over- the- microphone screaming. And I guess they couldn't find a shitty enough bass player, because it sounds like there isn't any bass whatsoever. Damn that's bold, baby. Oh, and there's lots of clueless free jazz sax- blowing, too-- and, boy, it's not annoying or anything, trust me. Oh, and hey, I'm glad they didn't forget to mention my favorite part of the female anatomy in the album title. That's so cool! Ha, they said "uterus," man. Cool. Why not name the next album Fallopian Tubes on Vagina Mountain, or how 'bout Enflamed Clitoris? They could even get Adam Sandler to make a guest appearanec. Y'know, he'll cut a gurgling fart in the studio and they can sample it, or something totally cool like that. Tell ya what, I'll pay homage to these guys by taking on a similar dumbed- down Old Time Relijun posture in closing this review: If de're jus' suppose to be a big joke, I just don't get it, y'all! Ah guess dey jus' gotta show ever'body just how durn apeshit crazy an' stupid they is! And dey doin' a helluva job wid' 'dat. Keepa goin', boys. Suckin' is cool. Heh. Heh."

Aki Tsuyuko

Hokane

Mark Richardson

Aki Tsuyuko's own music has been made in the shadow of Nobukazu Takemura, her more famous and connected collaborator. Tsuyuko first lent her quintessentially innocent vocals to his Child's View project in 1998, and many of Takemura's subsequent records featured at least one Tsuyuko contribution. Takemura's favored technique during this glitched-out phase was to take her flat, indeterminate coos and feed them into the silicon chipper, combining the skipping utterances with repeating melodic phrases heavily indebted to Steve Reich. It was a fruitful period for Takemura, yielding key tracks like "Meteor" and "Kepler", both of which would have been seriously diminished without Tsuyuko's contributions. Meanwhile, she quietly released her debut album Ongakushitsu in 1999. While Takemura's aesthetic depended heavily on software, Tsuyuko's could have come from any time since the development of the electric organ. She has acknowledged a debt to the piano music of Erik Satie, and while she shares his delicacy and understatement, her tunes are not especially melodic. Instead, they can be imagined as small musical sculptures, turning slowly in place without really going anywhere. The visual aspect of Tsuyuko's music is made explicit on this limited-run boutique release, which combines a CD of new music with a hardcover book she wrote and illustrated. The book and music are designed to work together, with a few pages of drawings, text, and musical notation devoted to each track. Musically, Hokane is of a piece with Tsuyuko's earlier release. Dynamic range is nonexistent; tracks develop according to a logic inspired by the loose patterns of nature, with melodies that could have been transcribed from a gently swaying wind chime. Though electronic organs remain central, Tsuyuko experiments with arrangement, scoring her music for flute, vibraphone, voice, and several other instruments. There is a strong similarity in timbre to Takemura's work circa Songbook, but Tsuyuko exhibits a patience and restraint that elevates the seemingly simple music to something more profound. She also transcends the easy poignancy of childhood references, opting instead for a removed formality, which provides ample distance for contemplation. The mood is tranquil, placid, and, at points, quite beautiful. Hokane is so unassuming it can very easily slip into the background, but I doubt Tsuyuko minds. Of greatest interest in the book is the inclusion of the written score to the album, with clefs integrated into watercolors of geometric figures, blurred street scenes, and so on. If you read music, you can get a sense of how Tsuyuko uses repetition by observing the notes laid out on paper, and "seeing" this particular album reinforces the music's ability to evoke mood and color. Still, while the book is an attractive artifact and fits well with the music, it'll probably end up on the shelf for a while after you flip through it a couple of times. The important thing is that Tsuyuko has a solid new record that builds and improves upon her debut.

Artist: Aki Tsuyuko, Album: Hokane, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Aki Tsuyuko's own music has been made in the shadow of Nobukazu Takemura, her more famous and connected collaborator. Tsuyuko first lent her quintessentially innocent vocals to his Child's View project in 1998, and many of Takemura's subsequent records featured at least one Tsuyuko contribution. Takemura's favored technique during this glitched-out phase was to take her flat, indeterminate coos and feed them into the silicon chipper, combining the skipping utterances with repeating melodic phrases heavily indebted to Steve Reich. It was a fruitful period for Takemura, yielding key tracks like "Meteor" and "Kepler", both of which would have been seriously diminished without Tsuyuko's contributions. Meanwhile, she quietly released her debut album Ongakushitsu in 1999. While Takemura's aesthetic depended heavily on software, Tsuyuko's could have come from any time since the development of the electric organ. She has acknowledged a debt to the piano music of Erik Satie, and while she shares his delicacy and understatement, her tunes are not especially melodic. Instead, they can be imagined as small musical sculptures, turning slowly in place without really going anywhere. The visual aspect of Tsuyuko's music is made explicit on this limited-run boutique release, which combines a CD of new music with a hardcover book she wrote and illustrated. The book and music are designed to work together, with a few pages of drawings, text, and musical notation devoted to each track. Musically, Hokane is of a piece with Tsuyuko's earlier release. Dynamic range is nonexistent; tracks develop according to a logic inspired by the loose patterns of nature, with melodies that could have been transcribed from a gently swaying wind chime. Though electronic organs remain central, Tsuyuko experiments with arrangement, scoring her music for flute, vibraphone, voice, and several other instruments. There is a strong similarity in timbre to Takemura's work circa Songbook, but Tsuyuko exhibits a patience and restraint that elevates the seemingly simple music to something more profound. She also transcends the easy poignancy of childhood references, opting instead for a removed formality, which provides ample distance for contemplation. The mood is tranquil, placid, and, at points, quite beautiful. Hokane is so unassuming it can very easily slip into the background, but I doubt Tsuyuko minds. Of greatest interest in the book is the inclusion of the written score to the album, with clefs integrated into watercolors of geometric figures, blurred street scenes, and so on. If you read music, you can get a sense of how Tsuyuko uses repetition by observing the notes laid out on paper, and "seeing" this particular album reinforces the music's ability to evoke mood and color. Still, while the book is an attractive artifact and fits well with the music, it'll probably end up on the shelf for a while after you flip through it a couple of times. The important thing is that Tsuyuko has a solid new record that builds and improves upon her debut."

Best Coast

Best Kids

Rock

Marc Hogan

A debate recently broke out online over whether parents should bring their children to see live music, but it’s the kids who are really in charge. Much as teenagers with money and leisure time gave rise to a new youth culture in the 1950s and ’60s, streaming and smartphones mean that kids as young as toddlers can now influence the charts without spending a single cent. The rugrat-driven musical dystopia envisioned in Jennifer Egan’s Pulitzer-winning 2010 novel A Visit From the Goon Squad was upon us the moment a couple of wise guys from Norway thought to ask, “What does the fox say?” In another sign of the tot-pocalypse, I recently heard a big-time producer brag that his new song would be on the lips of two-year-olds everywhere. To achieve that, though, he’d be best off securing a spot on the endless series of Kidz Bop compilations that have forced dippy hits by Lukas Graham and Magic! into otherwise musically upstanding homes. As a weary parent of a 6-year-old, with a baby on the way, I’ve found solace in the rare music my kid loves as much as I do—a list that has dwindled down to A Charlie Brown Christmas and 2015’s brilliant This Record Belongs To compilation. Sometimes, post-Lego Batman, it’s enough to settle for a millionth stream of Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror.” Best Coast gamely make their first foray into this fraught but potentially rewarding terrain with the Amazon exclusive Best Kids. The album works partly because Bethany Cosentino and Bobb Bruno recognize that what they’ve always done well—simple lyrics and catchy melodies, delivered from a strong emotional perspective and with a punkish beach-party energy—can be translated into children’s music with only a slight shift in themes. Unlike the indie-pop class a few years before Best Coast broke out, Cosentino’s songs of weed and heartbreak wouldn’t usually be mistaken for kids’ stuff. But this smart set of originals and covers applies the band’s peppy, sun-soaked directness to more innocent subject matter. Best Kids fills a vacant space on the Venn diagram of taste between parents predisposed to like Best Coast and their finicky, Captain Underpants-replaying offspring. After the moody disaffection of 2015’s California Nights, it’s a delight to hear Best Kids’ originals move back toward the dizzy exuberance that endeared audiences to early songs like “When I’m With You.” A standout is the appropriately sugary “Ice Cream Mountain,” which boasts a title image fit to be drooled over equally by children and amiable stoners with cats named Snack, plus an unexpected smattering of cheap synth chirps to go with its familiar surf-wax Americana. Best Coast seem to revel in this record’s lower stakes on “Cats & Dogs,” a goofy (also, woof-y and meow-y) romp that gently reminds kids that “anyone can love anyone that they want.” The clarity of vision that made 2012’s The Only Place so perfect for travel commercials serves warmer and cuddlier ends here. That approach carries over just as cleanly on the covers. Standbys like “When You Wish Upon a Star,” “Twinkle, Twinkle,” and “Rock-a-Bye Baby” get some extra music-box touches to their arrangements, but they’re still rendered as uptempo fuzz-rockers. The sound isn’t far from the spirit of Best Coast’s debut album, 2010’s Crazy for You, whose producer, Lewis Pesacov, returns for Best Kids. “Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows,” most famously performed by “You Don’t Own Me” singer Lesley Gore, isn’t traditionally a kids’ song, but Best Coast’s version deftly splits the difference between “Ice Cream Mountain” and the girl-group yearning that powers the duo’s best songs. Best Kids’ finale, a sanitized remake of “When I’m With You,” sums up both the project’s ample charm and its modest shortcomings. A spirited choir of girls who performed the song onstage with Best Coast during the all-female-identifying Girlschool L.A. festival takes the lead after the first verse, helping transform this love-it-or-hate-it indie chestnut into a road-trip-worthy family sing-along. But the lyrical switch from “sleeping alone,” in the original, to “watching TV alone” and “playing alone” is a bit awkward. As the inclusion of surf-splashed Kermit cover “Rainbow Connection”—one of the best kids’ songs ever—highlights, the truth is that kids can enjoy music that pairs deeper feelings with simple-seeming exteriors. But Best Coast can address that if they ever get to Best Kids 2. The next time the band comes through town, at least, there shouldn’t be any bickering over whether it’s OK to lug the kiddos.

Artist: Best Coast, Album: Best Kids, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "A debate recently broke out online over whether parents should bring their children to see live music, but it’s the kids who are really in charge. Much as teenagers with money and leisure time gave rise to a new youth culture in the 1950s and ’60s, streaming and smartphones mean that kids as young as toddlers can now influence the charts without spending a single cent. The rugrat-driven musical dystopia envisioned in Jennifer Egan’s Pulitzer-winning 2010 novel A Visit From the Goon Squad was upon us the moment a couple of wise guys from Norway thought to ask, “What does the fox say?” In another sign of the tot-pocalypse, I recently heard a big-time producer brag that his new song would be on the lips of two-year-olds everywhere. To achieve that, though, he’d be best off securing a spot on the endless series of Kidz Bop compilations that have forced dippy hits by Lukas Graham and Magic! into otherwise musically upstanding homes. As a weary parent of a 6-year-old, with a baby on the way, I’ve found solace in the rare music my kid loves as much as I do—a list that has dwindled down to A Charlie Brown Christmas and 2015’s brilliant This Record Belongs To compilation. Sometimes, post-Lego Batman, it’s enough to settle for a millionth stream of Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror.” Best Coast gamely make their first foray into this fraught but potentially rewarding terrain with the Amazon exclusive Best Kids. The album works partly because Bethany Cosentino and Bobb Bruno recognize that what they’ve always done well—simple lyrics and catchy melodies, delivered from a strong emotional perspective and with a punkish beach-party energy—can be translated into children’s music with only a slight shift in themes. Unlike the indie-pop class a few years before Best Coast broke out, Cosentino’s songs of weed and heartbreak wouldn’t usually be mistaken for kids’ stuff. But this smart set of originals and covers applies the band’s peppy, sun-soaked directness to more innocent subject matter. Best Kids fills a vacant space on the Venn diagram of taste between parents predisposed to like Best Coast and their finicky, Captain Underpants-replaying offspring. After the moody disaffection of 2015’s California Nights, it’s a delight to hear Best Kids’ originals move back toward the dizzy exuberance that endeared audiences to early songs like “When I’m With You.” A standout is the appropriately sugary “Ice Cream Mountain,” which boasts a title image fit to be drooled over equally by children and amiable stoners with cats named Snack, plus an unexpected smattering of cheap synth chirps to go with its familiar surf-wax Americana. Best Coast seem to revel in this record’s lower stakes on “Cats & Dogs,” a goofy (also, woof-y and meow-y) romp that gently reminds kids that “anyone can love anyone that they want.” The clarity of vision that made 2012’s The Only Place so perfect for travel commercials serves warmer and cuddlier ends here. That approach carries over just as cleanly on the covers. Standbys like “When You Wish Upon a Star,” “Twinkle, Twinkle,” and “Rock-a-Bye Baby” get some extra music-box touches to their arrangements, but they’re still rendered as uptempo fuzz-rockers. The sound isn’t far from the spirit of Best Coast’s debut album, 2010’s Crazy for You, whose producer, Lewis Pesacov, returns for Best Kids. “Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows,” most famously performed by “You Don’t Own Me” singer Lesley Gore, isn’t traditionally a kids’ song, but Best Coast’s version deftly splits the difference between “Ice Cream Mountain” and the girl-group yearning that powers the duo’s best songs. Best Kids’ finale, a sanitized remake of “When I’m With You,” sums up both the project’s ample charm and its modest shortcomings. A spirited choir of girls who performed the song onstage with Best Coast during the all-female-identifying Girlschool L.A. festival takes the lead after the first verse, helping transform this love-it-or-hate-it indie chestnut into a road-trip-worthy family sing-along. But the lyrical switch from “sleeping alone,” in the original, to “watching TV alone” and “playing alone” is a bit awkward. As the inclusion of surf-splashed Kermit cover “Rainbow Connection”—one of the best kids’ songs ever—highlights, the truth is that kids can enjoy music that pairs deeper feelings with simple-seeming exteriors. But Best Coast can address that if they ever get to Best Kids 2. The next time the band comes through town, at least, there shouldn’t be any bickering over whether it’s OK to lug the kiddos."

Zedd

True Colors

Electronic

Corban Goble

In 2013, Anton Zaslavski—who records as Zedd—went from "Who the fuck is Zedd?" to a household name thanks to two ubiquitous singles. First was "Clarity", the aural equivalent of standing under a fake waterfall at Tomorrowland, and the brain-invading Hayley Williams feature "Stay the Night". This was skyscraping stuff, and it’s a sound that the 25-year-old producer had made his name on behind the boards for artists like Lady Gaga (Zedd contributed three songs to Artpop) and Justin Bieber (Believe’s surging "Beauty and a Beat"). In 2015, Zedd is not only one of the richest men in the biz, he’s a tabloid star. Given the higher profile, it was probably no surprise that the rumored Selena Gomez collaboration bore fruit in the form of "I Want You to Know", the first, Ryan Tedder-co-written single from Zedd’s new album True Colors. For better or for worse, "I Want You to Know" is a good entry point for True Colors, a collection of songs that features Zedd consistently failing to open up the playbook or alter the formula. Many songs—opener "Addicted to a Memory", "Straight into the Fire"—feature familiar pop constructions. Not unlike his hits (including his Ariana Grande collaboration "Break Free"), Zedd routinely uses soaring synth stabs with crystal clear vocals from female singers. While it’s worked in the past, it feels like the primary colors Zedd tends to paint with feel faded. Though Zedd keeps his foot on the pedal, it comes with the cost of diminishing returns. Even changes of pace like "Beautiful Now"—male singer!—feel flat and corny ("Let’s live tonight/ Like fireflies!"). If you want vague, positive platitudes bouncing off every pocket of pixelated pomp, True Colors is a one-stop shop. Take "Transmission", a song that limply thumps around the chorus "Cause you're never too young, you're never too young, never too young to die" and features a verse from Maryland rapper Logic that makes Kalin and Myles sound like UGK. It’s tempting to paint Zedd as a singles artist, and True Colors reveals that the DJ doesn’t have much to say at an album’s length. True Colors does traverse familiar, populous formats that may be difficult to innovate on top of, but other posi-tinted, mass audience-focused projects have found success by mixing their own cocktails of EDM, soul, and of-the-minute rap production. Zedd’s True Colors, though, feels underformed and unoriginal. Basically, swipe left.

Artist: Zedd, Album: True Colors, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 4.2 Album review: "In 2013, Anton Zaslavski—who records as Zedd—went from "Who the fuck is Zedd?" to a household name thanks to two ubiquitous singles. First was "Clarity", the aural equivalent of standing under a fake waterfall at Tomorrowland, and the brain-invading Hayley Williams feature "Stay the Night". This was skyscraping stuff, and it’s a sound that the 25-year-old producer had made his name on behind the boards for artists like Lady Gaga (Zedd contributed three songs to Artpop) and Justin Bieber (Believe’s surging "Beauty and a Beat"). In 2015, Zedd is not only one of the richest men in the biz, he’s a tabloid star. Given the higher profile, it was probably no surprise that the rumored Selena Gomez collaboration bore fruit in the form of "I Want You to Know", the first, Ryan Tedder-co-written single from Zedd’s new album True Colors. For better or for worse, "I Want You to Know" is a good entry point for True Colors, a collection of songs that features Zedd consistently failing to open up the playbook or alter the formula. Many songs—opener "Addicted to a Memory", "Straight into the Fire"—feature familiar pop constructions. Not unlike his hits (including his Ariana Grande collaboration "Break Free"), Zedd routinely uses soaring synth stabs with crystal clear vocals from female singers. While it’s worked in the past, it feels like the primary colors Zedd tends to paint with feel faded. Though Zedd keeps his foot on the pedal, it comes with the cost of diminishing returns. Even changes of pace like "Beautiful Now"—male singer!—feel flat and corny ("Let’s live tonight/ Like fireflies!"). If you want vague, positive platitudes bouncing off every pocket of pixelated pomp, True Colors is a one-stop shop. Take "Transmission", a song that limply thumps around the chorus "Cause you're never too young, you're never too young, never too young to die" and features a verse from Maryland rapper Logic that makes Kalin and Myles sound like UGK. It’s tempting to paint Zedd as a singles artist, and True Colors reveals that the DJ doesn’t have much to say at an album’s length. True Colors does traverse familiar, populous formats that may be difficult to innovate on top of, but other posi-tinted, mass audience-focused projects have found success by mixing their own cocktails of EDM, soul, and of-the-minute rap production. Zedd’s True Colors, though, feels underformed and unoriginal. Basically, swipe left."

Oneida

Anthem of the Moon

Rock

Matt LeMay

I think the time has about come for us to give up the moon as a subject of mysterious fascination. No longer reliant on shaky geocentric world views, and having scientifically proven that the moon is neither home to malicious space invaders nor made of tasty green cheese, I think we're ready to move on to something new. There's a whole universe of bizarre, mysterious things out there-- black holes, dying stars, unexplored distant galaxies-- it seems kind of sad at this point that we still seem to be fascinated with a big rock that's only a few hundred thousand kilometers from earth. Anthem of the Moon, Oneida's fourth full-length album and second for Bloomington, Indiana's Jagjaguwar label, certainly carries with it some of the mystery that's often been attributed to the rocky satellite it's named after. With album art depicting odd rock formations, ancient instruments, naked guys on horses, and quasi-astrological imagery, and a sound that never seems completely settled or together, Anthem of the Moon isn't an album that gives itself away immediately. As one familiarizes oneself with the record, though, it becomes clear that there's some great, if sometimes uneven, music buried just beneath the record's surface. Oneida puts their most hectic foot forward, opening the album with "New Head," a synthesizer- and feedback-driven riff-rock number with a simple, if not particularly memorable chorus and some hints of melody buried in the song's midsection. That hint of melody is expanded upon with "All Arounder," the best track here, and the one that best manages to reconcile Oneida's frenetic, unfocused sound with their ability to write memorable songs. Like its predecessor, "All Arounder" is sonically a mess, with guitars, synthesizers, bass and drums melding together into a swirly cloud of sound. The distinct, catchy vocals on the track provide a welcome contrast to its instrumental backing, a contrast that Oneida uses to their advantage throughout Anthem of the Moon. Starting with "Geometry," Oneida also begin to utilize some heavy contrast between consonance and dissonance. The synthesizers and vocals in "Geometry" don't match up harmonically at first, and when the song later shifts into a dreamy major chord passage, the contrast is striking. If the variety and contrast of this song were held up throughout Anthem of the Moon, the album would be nothing short of spectacular. Unfortunately, the quality of songwriting on the record is far from consistent. Songs like the 5+ minute-long "Still Rememberin' Hidin' in the Stones" and the infuriatingly repetitive "Dead Worlds" just serve as reminders that effects pedals and feedback can't make a boring song good. On "Dead Worlds," in fact, the screeching guitar feedback that pops up every once in a while sounds completely out of place, bordering on annoying. Indeed, the freaky sounds that permeate Anthem of the Moon really aren't what make it good at all. Sure, they add some flavor and perhaps an air of mystery, but cool sounds aside, Oneida can write some really, really great songs. For all its strangeness, Anthem of the Moon isn't all that different from the moon itself: it's really just rock.

Artist: Oneida, Album: Anthem of the Moon, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "I think the time has about come for us to give up the moon as a subject of mysterious fascination. No longer reliant on shaky geocentric world views, and having scientifically proven that the moon is neither home to malicious space invaders nor made of tasty green cheese, I think we're ready to move on to something new. There's a whole universe of bizarre, mysterious things out there-- black holes, dying stars, unexplored distant galaxies-- it seems kind of sad at this point that we still seem to be fascinated with a big rock that's only a few hundred thousand kilometers from earth. Anthem of the Moon, Oneida's fourth full-length album and second for Bloomington, Indiana's Jagjaguwar label, certainly carries with it some of the mystery that's often been attributed to the rocky satellite it's named after. With album art depicting odd rock formations, ancient instruments, naked guys on horses, and quasi-astrological imagery, and a sound that never seems completely settled or together, Anthem of the Moon isn't an album that gives itself away immediately. As one familiarizes oneself with the record, though, it becomes clear that there's some great, if sometimes uneven, music buried just beneath the record's surface. Oneida puts their most hectic foot forward, opening the album with "New Head," a synthesizer- and feedback-driven riff-rock number with a simple, if not particularly memorable chorus and some hints of melody buried in the song's midsection. That hint of melody is expanded upon with "All Arounder," the best track here, and the one that best manages to reconcile Oneida's frenetic, unfocused sound with their ability to write memorable songs. Like its predecessor, "All Arounder" is sonically a mess, with guitars, synthesizers, bass and drums melding together into a swirly cloud of sound. The distinct, catchy vocals on the track provide a welcome contrast to its instrumental backing, a contrast that Oneida uses to their advantage throughout Anthem of the Moon. Starting with "Geometry," Oneida also begin to utilize some heavy contrast between consonance and dissonance. The synthesizers and vocals in "Geometry" don't match up harmonically at first, and when the song later shifts into a dreamy major chord passage, the contrast is striking. If the variety and contrast of this song were held up throughout Anthem of the Moon, the album would be nothing short of spectacular. Unfortunately, the quality of songwriting on the record is far from consistent. Songs like the 5+ minute-long "Still Rememberin' Hidin' in the Stones" and the infuriatingly repetitive "Dead Worlds" just serve as reminders that effects pedals and feedback can't make a boring song good. On "Dead Worlds," in fact, the screeching guitar feedback that pops up every once in a while sounds completely out of place, bordering on annoying. Indeed, the freaky sounds that permeate Anthem of the Moon really aren't what make it good at all. Sure, they add some flavor and perhaps an air of mystery, but cool sounds aside, Oneida can write some really, really great songs. For all its strangeness, Anthem of the Moon isn't all that different from the moon itself: it's really just rock."

The Old Haunts

Fallow Field

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

On the Old Haunts' first full-length, Fallow Field, the recording process informs the sound to the degree that the two seem inextricably linked. The album draws on tracks from their two eponymous EPs and supplements them with newer material, and the seams show: There are three different lineups playing on the album-- mainstays Craig Extine and Scott Seckington and three different drummersÑand Fallow Field is a hodgepodge, albeit a self-conscious one: As one drummer replaces another, the sound changes noticeably, becoming less confident and distinct as the band struggles to find a comfortable balance of jerky rhythms, garage riffs, sludgy low end, and dark, often defiant lyrics. Recorded last year, the first six songs are the most recent, with Danny Sasaki of Mocket on drums. His tight, metronomic beats propel the riffs, keeping the songs reined in but allowing the band to make full use of the short running times. At just under two minutes, "Poison Control" is a quick burst of agitated guitars, but tracks like "Clubs as Boots" draw out longer, with Extine howling his fears like Tom Verlaine and Seckington switching between muddy guitar and percolating bass. As "Deflect It" nears its end, Extine shreds the melody to tatters as the rhythm section stoically chugs along. "It's So Scandalous" jitters like the DTs, airing its paranoia in tempo changes and Sasaki's revving-motor beats. After six songs, Natalie Cox, late of Popular Music, replaces Sasaki behind the drums for a run of four tracks that were recorded in 2002, and the switch is immediately obvious. Letting Extine's guitar and Seckington's complicated bass line lead the way, she rides her high hat throughout the songs, but the real change is in range and instrumentation. Leaving behind the tight, spare punk of the first songs, "The Old World" adds piano and organ to the mix, creating a fuller, more dramatic sound to match the song's gravity. Perhaps the album's outstanding track, it's a quiet hymn to regret and resistance that ends with stark self-loathing: "If I had known what I know now I would have never left this life so slow," Extine seethes. "I was getting old, a child that's grown cold/I shut my mouth and did as I was told." Even when those ancillary instruments fall away, "Gold Light" still seems larger in scope and sound than the first section, albeit not as elemental. But the tempos slow to a trudge on "Cult Baby", and Cox's section of the album loses steam on her final song, "You Could Never Know", although this may be due as much to Extine's declining songwriting as to her drumming. For the final two songs, which were recorded in 2003, Chris Sutton of Dub Narcotic Sound System replaces Cox behind the kit. His drumming is harder and punchier, making "Out of Sight" and "Vandal Hymn" sound rawer and more aggressive than anything that precedes them. The section has the feel of an encore, as if recorded live in some smoky club, but it lacks the immediacy of the album's portion of the album and the drama of the second. If you can unspool the tangled chronology of Fallow Field, you'll discover a band in the process of finding itself, arriving at the point near where the album starts-- since these tracks were recorded, Curtis Phillips has taken over the kit from Sasaki, so who knows which of these three incarnations is most representative.

Artist: The Old Haunts, Album: Fallow Field, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "On the Old Haunts' first full-length, Fallow Field, the recording process informs the sound to the degree that the two seem inextricably linked. The album draws on tracks from their two eponymous EPs and supplements them with newer material, and the seams show: There are three different lineups playing on the album-- mainstays Craig Extine and Scott Seckington and three different drummersÑand Fallow Field is a hodgepodge, albeit a self-conscious one: As one drummer replaces another, the sound changes noticeably, becoming less confident and distinct as the band struggles to find a comfortable balance of jerky rhythms, garage riffs, sludgy low end, and dark, often defiant lyrics. Recorded last year, the first six songs are the most recent, with Danny Sasaki of Mocket on drums. His tight, metronomic beats propel the riffs, keeping the songs reined in but allowing the band to make full use of the short running times. At just under two minutes, "Poison Control" is a quick burst of agitated guitars, but tracks like "Clubs as Boots" draw out longer, with Extine howling his fears like Tom Verlaine and Seckington switching between muddy guitar and percolating bass. As "Deflect It" nears its end, Extine shreds the melody to tatters as the rhythm section stoically chugs along. "It's So Scandalous" jitters like the DTs, airing its paranoia in tempo changes and Sasaki's revving-motor beats. After six songs, Natalie Cox, late of Popular Music, replaces Sasaki behind the drums for a run of four tracks that were recorded in 2002, and the switch is immediately obvious. Letting Extine's guitar and Seckington's complicated bass line lead the way, she rides her high hat throughout the songs, but the real change is in range and instrumentation. Leaving behind the tight, spare punk of the first songs, "The Old World" adds piano and organ to the mix, creating a fuller, more dramatic sound to match the song's gravity. Perhaps the album's outstanding track, it's a quiet hymn to regret and resistance that ends with stark self-loathing: "If I had known what I know now I would have never left this life so slow," Extine seethes. "I was getting old, a child that's grown cold/I shut my mouth and did as I was told." Even when those ancillary instruments fall away, "Gold Light" still seems larger in scope and sound than the first section, albeit not as elemental. But the tempos slow to a trudge on "Cult Baby", and Cox's section of the album loses steam on her final song, "You Could Never Know", although this may be due as much to Extine's declining songwriting as to her drumming. For the final two songs, which were recorded in 2003, Chris Sutton of Dub Narcotic Sound System replaces Cox behind the kit. His drumming is harder and punchier, making "Out of Sight" and "Vandal Hymn" sound rawer and more aggressive than anything that precedes them. The section has the feel of an encore, as if recorded live in some smoky club, but it lacks the immediacy of the album's portion of the album and the drama of the second. If you can unspool the tangled chronology of Fallow Field, you'll discover a band in the process of finding itself, arriving at the point near where the album starts-- since these tracks were recorded, Curtis Phillips has taken over the kit from Sasaki, so who knows which of these three incarnations is most representative. "

The Sadies

Stories Often Told

Rock

Joe Tangari

Welcome to Sadie Ranch, where a man can be a man and there ain't a cow that can't be tamed. Later on, we'll be corralling steers into the pen, watering horses and tending to repairs-- I hope you didn't expect this to be easy work! But it ain't all backbreakin' labor out here on the range; come evenin' we'll have a good, old-fashioned cowboy campfire, eat some good Tex-Mex grub, and sing some of those good ol' prairie songs. After that, we'll drop some acid and hit the waves at high tide-- that's when the surfin's best! Toronto's Sadies see no barriers between old-fashioned country 'n' western, Duane Eddy surf rave-ups and freaky psychedelic rock. If they perceive distance between those sounds at all, they've attempted to traverse it on their fourth album, Stories Often Told. The album feels like a step toward something more complete, as though the one that follows it will deliver the fully functioning Frankenstein they're trying to animate. Stories Often Told opens up with one of several widescreen blasts of spray and sea foam, drenching the quartet's twang in deep reverb. The galloping rhythms underneath are about halfway between John Wayne and Annette Funicello, if you can imagine it. Waves wash over the record constantly, but they're most enjoyable in concentrated bursts: Tight surf instrumentals like the graceful waltz "A#1" and "Monkey & Cork" are the most easily enjoyable songs here. "Mile Over Mecca" is a change of pace, and one of the most interesting songs the Sadies have done yet, submerging a slower surf melody under Rio Grande horns and psychedelic ambience. The Sadies stumble when they sit down around the proverbial fire to crank out old-fashioned C & W. They're not bad as a country band, but the album is bogged down by the slower tempos and under-developed melodies in songs like the pedal-steel "Such a Little Word", or their limp duet "A Steep Climb". When these country leanings collide with their surf jones, the results are fantastic, especially on the loping "Oak Ridges", where Dallas Good's Johnny Cash baritone sounds right at home amongst huge twang guitars. The shuffling folk of "The Story's Often Told" works the combination more subtly, transferring the sheets of reverb over to the steel guitar, which enshrouds the dusty campfire ballad in a gossamer cloud. Their biggest departure is undoubtedly "Of Our Land", which starts with a guitar progression exactly like the beginning of "Stairway to Heaven", then cuts off a credible slice of gnomes & fairies psych-rock, served up smothered in more reverb and phaser. To call it an entirely successful detour into psychedelia would be an overstatement-- it's not quite focused enough to be truly great-- but it's certainly entertaining, not to mention entirely unexpected. Ultimately, the Sadies seem just a touch away from creating a viable, unique genre, and I'll be dead honest with you: I would buy an album of psychedelic cowboy surf rock. If you think that prospect sounds appealing-- if you were raised on the Butthole Surfers and wondered when their insanity would come home to roost-- Stories Often Told is worth a listen. Their genre synthesis isn't quite complete, but it's getting there, which is often half the fun.

Artist: The Sadies, Album: Stories Often Told, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Welcome to Sadie Ranch, where a man can be a man and there ain't a cow that can't be tamed. Later on, we'll be corralling steers into the pen, watering horses and tending to repairs-- I hope you didn't expect this to be easy work! But it ain't all backbreakin' labor out here on the range; come evenin' we'll have a good, old-fashioned cowboy campfire, eat some good Tex-Mex grub, and sing some of those good ol' prairie songs. After that, we'll drop some acid and hit the waves at high tide-- that's when the surfin's best! Toronto's Sadies see no barriers between old-fashioned country 'n' western, Duane Eddy surf rave-ups and freaky psychedelic rock. If they perceive distance between those sounds at all, they've attempted to traverse it on their fourth album, Stories Often Told. The album feels like a step toward something more complete, as though the one that follows it will deliver the fully functioning Frankenstein they're trying to animate. Stories Often Told opens up with one of several widescreen blasts of spray and sea foam, drenching the quartet's twang in deep reverb. The galloping rhythms underneath are about halfway between John Wayne and Annette Funicello, if you can imagine it. Waves wash over the record constantly, but they're most enjoyable in concentrated bursts: Tight surf instrumentals like the graceful waltz "A#1" and "Monkey & Cork" are the most easily enjoyable songs here. "Mile Over Mecca" is a change of pace, and one of the most interesting songs the Sadies have done yet, submerging a slower surf melody under Rio Grande horns and psychedelic ambience. The Sadies stumble when they sit down around the proverbial fire to crank out old-fashioned C & W. They're not bad as a country band, but the album is bogged down by the slower tempos and under-developed melodies in songs like the pedal-steel "Such a Little Word", or their limp duet "A Steep Climb". When these country leanings collide with their surf jones, the results are fantastic, especially on the loping "Oak Ridges", where Dallas Good's Johnny Cash baritone sounds right at home amongst huge twang guitars. The shuffling folk of "The Story's Often Told" works the combination more subtly, transferring the sheets of reverb over to the steel guitar, which enshrouds the dusty campfire ballad in a gossamer cloud. Their biggest departure is undoubtedly "Of Our Land", which starts with a guitar progression exactly like the beginning of "Stairway to Heaven", then cuts off a credible slice of gnomes & fairies psych-rock, served up smothered in more reverb and phaser. To call it an entirely successful detour into psychedelia would be an overstatement-- it's not quite focused enough to be truly great-- but it's certainly entertaining, not to mention entirely unexpected. Ultimately, the Sadies seem just a touch away from creating a viable, unique genre, and I'll be dead honest with you: I would buy an album of psychedelic cowboy surf rock. If you think that prospect sounds appealing-- if you were raised on the Butthole Surfers and wondered when their insanity would come home to roost-- Stories Often Told is worth a listen. Their genre synthesis isn't quite complete, but it's getting there, which is often half the fun."

Kronos Quartet, Bryce Dessner

Aheym

Experimental

Jayson Greene

Bryce Dessner's day job as a guitarist in the National requires him to work in big, sweeping rock-song arcs, but he's also a classical composer, and in his side work—working on commssions for the American Composers Orchestra, collaborating on David Lang records—you can hear a furiously complicated musical mind chattering. Dessner's sensibility as a composer is furtive, urgent, intense—nothing at all, in other words, like his rock band. The National's sound has always been mellow and rich,  a rock band as a foaming, blooming cup of pour-over coffee. Dessner's sensibility churns like stomach acid. Aheym, Dessner's collaboration with contemporary- classical hip-uncle figures the Kronos Quartet, is the result of a working relationship that dates back a few years. Three of its four pieces were written specifically for Kronos, and the title track has been a fixture of their concerts for a few years now. "Aheym" begins with all four members digging into their strings and producing hard, sinewy sforzandos, or sudden, violent accents, before subsiding quickly into an agitated, seething hum. The cello plays lopsided arpeggios, each one nervously edging forward, while pizzicato prickles tension higher. It is fierce, vivid music. The rock-friendly post-minimalism of Bang on a Can looms heavy over Dessner's work, but that's less a statement on Dessner's originality than BOAC's sheer ubiquity. BOAC's long-running All-Stars summer program is the feeder college largely responsible for populating the indie sphere with conservatory rockers like Dessner in the first place. But they aren't the only audible reference point:  "Little Blue Something" traces lightly bowed figures in the cello against warm surges from the rest of the ensemble, and the effect is like a more earthbound Arvo Pärt. Pärt's touch pops up multiple places, like in the spidery refractions of harmonics that cloud the air in the thirteenth minute of "Tenebre", or the way sobbing vibrato bowing condenses from a dry mist of harmonics on "Aheym." It's only with the final piece, "Tour Eiffel," that the tension in Dessner's work recedes. The piece is a setting of a poem by Chilean poet Vicente Huidobro, sung by the Brooklyn Youth Chorus. Opening with just the chorus, the piece nudges into dewily picked guitars and some piano, offering the only glimpse of a sound world related, however distantly, to Dessner's band. The textures glow softly, the choir coos, and the ensemble dances inventively between minimalism and something like recognizable song form. There is no obvioustime-stamp on the work, which keeps surging in new directions, making interesting new things happen. Dessner is part of a chummy coterie of musicians, like Annie Clark of St. Vincent and Dave Longstreth of Dirty Projectors, and sometimes the air inside the clubhouse can get a little thick. But Dessner's mordant vision is uniquely his; these are real, meaty works, troubling and beautiful.

Artist: Kronos Quartet, Bryce Dessner, Album: Aheym, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Bryce Dessner's day job as a guitarist in the National requires him to work in big, sweeping rock-song arcs, but he's also a classical composer, and in his side work—working on commssions for the American Composers Orchestra, collaborating on David Lang records—you can hear a furiously complicated musical mind chattering. Dessner's sensibility as a composer is furtive, urgent, intense—nothing at all, in other words, like his rock band. The National's sound has always been mellow and rich,  a rock band as a foaming, blooming cup of pour-over coffee. Dessner's sensibility churns like stomach acid. Aheym, Dessner's collaboration with contemporary- classical hip-uncle figures the Kronos Quartet, is the result of a working relationship that dates back a few years. Three of its four pieces were written specifically for Kronos, and the title track has been a fixture of their concerts for a few years now. "Aheym" begins with all four members digging into their strings and producing hard, sinewy sforzandos, or sudden, violent accents, before subsiding quickly into an agitated, seething hum. The cello plays lopsided arpeggios, each one nervously edging forward, while pizzicato prickles tension higher. It is fierce, vivid music. The rock-friendly post-minimalism of Bang on a Can looms heavy over Dessner's work, but that's less a statement on Dessner's originality than BOAC's sheer ubiquity. BOAC's long-running All-Stars summer program is the feeder college largely responsible for populating the indie sphere with conservatory rockers like Dessner in the first place. But they aren't the only audible reference point:  "Little Blue Something" traces lightly bowed figures in the cello against warm surges from the rest of the ensemble, and the effect is like a more earthbound Arvo Pärt. Pärt's touch pops up multiple places, like in the spidery refractions of harmonics that cloud the air in the thirteenth minute of "Tenebre", or the way sobbing vibrato bowing condenses from a dry mist of harmonics on "Aheym." It's only with the final piece, "Tour Eiffel," that the tension in Dessner's work recedes. The piece is a setting of a poem by Chilean poet Vicente Huidobro, sung by the Brooklyn Youth Chorus. Opening with just the chorus, the piece nudges into dewily picked guitars and some piano, offering the only glimpse of a sound world related, however distantly, to Dessner's band. The textures glow softly, the choir coos, and the ensemble dances inventively between minimalism and something like recognizable song form. There is no obvioustime-stamp on the work, which keeps surging in new directions, making interesting new things happen. Dessner is part of a chummy coterie of musicians, like Annie Clark of St. Vincent and Dave Longstreth of Dirty Projectors, and sometimes the air inside the clubhouse can get a little thick. But Dessner's mordant vision is uniquely his; these are real, meaty works, troubling and beautiful."

Dead Prez

Information Age

Metal,Rap

Jayson Greene

It's hard to remain both strident and surprising: Usually one tendency erodes the other until you get predictable or go soft.  Political radicals Dead Prez have, up to now, demonstrated a career-long instinct for landing clean hooks from unexpected angles. Do you have a song decrying the complacency of big-budget hip hop? Yours is not Dead Prez's "It's Bigger Than Hip Hop", which was set to production big-budget-sounding enough that actual Complacent Big-Budget Rapper 50 Cent hijacked it to idly jab at Diddy. Do you have a song cataloging the evils of capitalism? Yours does not go so far as to include the rallying cry, "Organize the wealth into a Socialist economy," like "Police State". In a field full of mealy-mouthed sloganeering and smug self-satisfaction, Stic.man and M1 have the courage of their convictions, and they have remained radical and unpredictable for over a decade-- no mean feat. All the courage in the world, however, could not salvage Information Age, in which the duo scraps every compelling element of its music and go full Enya. Give them credit: this, too, was anything but predictable. (Or perhaps the herbal tea, incense, and croutons of "Mind Sex" telegraphed all this to the observant years ago.) In interviews about the album, they've namechecked Afrika Bambaataa, dubbing the sound they've settled on here as "soul sonic," but the album feels like a Relaxation Spa compilation breathing softly on your neck hairs. It's a disheartening take on an old story, the one where well-established, respected artists tack bravely out into "new territory" and, well, just completely lose everyone. M1 and Stic.man shouldn't be expected to keep the same revolutionaries' glower on their faces forever; everyone deserves room to evolve. But the neutered new age crooning of the hook on "A New Beginning" isn't evolution, it's a slow-motion car wreck. The chimes and string washes of the following track "Take Me to the Future"; the billowy, oscillating synths in "Time Travel"; they are the precise sonic equivalent of the poorly photoshopped Buddha on the album's cover. Lyrically, the record is even sadder: Hearing two former firebrands and genuinely dope rappers offering Joel Osteen seminar-speak like "I want change I can live in, not just to believe in... I'mma start with the man in the mirror/ My vision getting clearer/ Feel like I'm at the dawn of a new era" is unspeakably depressing. On "A New Beginning", their rhyme patterns and messages are so rudimentary that the song skews closer to a low-budget PSA featuring public figures "rapping." It's impossible to know what M1 and Stic.man thought they were achieving by simplifying their message to this excruciating level, but it's mind-bending to consider an indefensible string of lines like "The more you know, the more you know you don't know/ And if you don't know there's more you can know, then you won't grow" or "Treat it like organic food, make it something you can chew" ("Learning Growing Changing") as the work of people who have had to dispel rumors of ghostwriting for Nas. Then of course, there's "Dirty White Girl", which finds them calling white women "the devil's daughter" and features lines like "Milk on your moustache/ Ugggh, what's that? I don't trust that, that's suspect." No one should expect artists, not even explicitly political ones, to offer coherent social platforms, or consistent rhetoric; they just have to make good art. But Information Age doesn't work as enlightenment, as rap music, or as anything else, really. You can't bob your head to it; you can't learn anything from it. This is music that fails at everything it tries to do.

Artist: Dead Prez, Album: Information Age, Genre: Metal,Rap, Score (1-10): 3.4 Album review: "It's hard to remain both strident and surprising: Usually one tendency erodes the other until you get predictable or go soft.  Political radicals Dead Prez have, up to now, demonstrated a career-long instinct for landing clean hooks from unexpected angles. Do you have a song decrying the complacency of big-budget hip hop? Yours is not Dead Prez's "It's Bigger Than Hip Hop", which was set to production big-budget-sounding enough that actual Complacent Big-Budget Rapper 50 Cent hijacked it to idly jab at Diddy. Do you have a song cataloging the evils of capitalism? Yours does not go so far as to include the rallying cry, "Organize the wealth into a Socialist economy," like "Police State". In a field full of mealy-mouthed sloganeering and smug self-satisfaction, Stic.man and M1 have the courage of their convictions, and they have remained radical and unpredictable for over a decade-- no mean feat. All the courage in the world, however, could not salvage Information Age, in which the duo scraps every compelling element of its music and go full Enya. Give them credit: this, too, was anything but predictable. (Or perhaps the herbal tea, incense, and croutons of "Mind Sex" telegraphed all this to the observant years ago.) In interviews about the album, they've namechecked Afrika Bambaataa, dubbing the sound they've settled on here as "soul sonic," but the album feels like a Relaxation Spa compilation breathing softly on your neck hairs. It's a disheartening take on an old story, the one where well-established, respected artists tack bravely out into "new territory" and, well, just completely lose everyone. M1 and Stic.man shouldn't be expected to keep the same revolutionaries' glower on their faces forever; everyone deserves room to evolve. But the neutered new age crooning of the hook on "A New Beginning" isn't evolution, it's a slow-motion car wreck. The chimes and string washes of the following track "Take Me to the Future"; the billowy, oscillating synths in "Time Travel"; they are the precise sonic equivalent of the poorly photoshopped Buddha on the album's cover. Lyrically, the record is even sadder: Hearing two former firebrands and genuinely dope rappers offering Joel Osteen seminar-speak like "I want change I can live in, not just to believe in... I'mma start with the man in the mirror/ My vision getting clearer/ Feel like I'm at the dawn of a new era" is unspeakably depressing. On "A New Beginning", their rhyme patterns and messages are so rudimentary that the song skews closer to a low-budget PSA featuring public figures "rapping." It's impossible to know what M1 and Stic.man thought they were achieving by simplifying their message to this excruciating level, but it's mind-bending to consider an indefensible string of lines like "The more you know, the more you know you don't know/ And if you don't know there's more you can know, then you won't grow" or "Treat it like organic food, make it something you can chew" ("Learning Growing Changing") as the work of people who have had to dispel rumors of ghostwriting for Nas. Then of course, there's "Dirty White Girl", which finds them calling white women "the devil's daughter" and features lines like "Milk on your moustache/ Ugggh, what's that? I don't trust that, that's suspect." No one should expect artists, not even explicitly political ones, to offer coherent social platforms, or consistent rhetoric; they just have to make good art. But Information Age doesn't work as enlightenment, as rap music, or as anything else, really. You can't bob your head to it; you can't learn anything from it. This is music that fails at everything it tries to do."

Tim Cohen

Luck Man

Pop/R&B

John S.W. MacDonald

Tim Cohen is something like the West Coast Robert Pollard. Cohen’s songwriting is earthier and darker than the work of the Guided by Voices frontman, but it is a useful comparison: Both are hugely prolific, fiercely independent rock ’n’ roll lifers—bedroom auteurs with a taste for tape hiss and eccentric pop songs. If you know Cohen at all, you likely know him as the frontman for the Fresh & Onlys—a band that, along with Thee Oh Sees, Sonny and the Sunsets, Ty Segall, and others, defined the San Francisco garage-psych explosion of a few years back. But, as is true with Pollard and GBV, Cohen’s main project can’t keep up with his bounding creative urges, so he funnels his songwriting into side bands, notably Magic Trick, which has released around four records in the last five years, and his solo work. Luck Man is Cohen’s fourth LP under his own name (if you count 2011’s Tim Cohen’s Magic Trick), and the most polished and most mature of the bunch. But compared to the wide-angle jangle pop of the last two Fresh & Onlys records—2014’s House of Spirits* *and 2012’s excellent Long Slow Dance—*Luck Man *is a decidedly bare-bones affair. Cohen is at his most modest and self-effacing here, building quiet, quirky songs out of acoustic guitars, soft percussion, and accents of piano and synth. The touchstones are early Belle and Sebastian (minus the preciousness), early Van Morrison, Smog, and the self-titled Velvet Underground record. Musically, *Luck Man *has its moments—the stark fingerpicking on “Bedfellows,” the harmonies (courtesy of Magic Trick’s Noelle Cahill) on the chorus of “John Hughes,” the bittersweet piano riff that slowly closes out the record. But ultimately the music is little more than a delivery system for Cohen’s words and ideas—as is his flat, affectless baritone. It’s Cohen’s distinct blend of whimsy, black humor, and wisdom—and his refusal to take himself too seriously—that make the record work. (Cass McCombs, it should be noted, uses similar tools to equally great affect.) Cohen is an expert at pairing genuine longing with absurdist humor, such that you can’t entirely tell the difference between the two. “I Need a Wife” is a gorgeous little ballad about love’s uncertainties—before it explodes with Cohen’s manic recitations of the song’s title: “Now I need a wife! I need a wife! I need a wife!” Does the guy actually need a wife? No idea. Does he like the way the jarring echo effect on his vocals makes his words spiral out into infinity? Most definitely. Cohen is obsessed with death, its inevitability and consistency; he knows the dirt will cover us all. But he delivers that message with levity and wit—he doesn’t want to scare us away. “Breathe and die, is all you have to do,” he reminds us on the jaunty “Breathe and Die,” hoping that we’ll take solace in such straightforward tasks. The record is suffused with the surreal and otherworldly (“I dream in melody,” Cohen told an interviewer last year). On “Wall About a Window,” Cohen hopes to escape to the “bridge of limbs” and the “forest of palms”; On “Sunshine,” he’s “throwing airplanes at the moon” against a “velvet-covered night.” Cohen suggests that a wild imagination is one of our best defenses against mortality and the ravages of time. (Pollard, age 59, would surely agree.) Darkness and anxiety threaten to overwhelm Cohen throughout. On “Meat Is Murder” he describes waking up in the middle of the night crying, his hands covered in blood. But in the end, Luck Man shows us how we can survive life’s countless indignities by reminding ourselves of its many small (and not so small) pleasures: a cloudless sky, a lazy morning, a long walk with a good friend. And the way “love can free the laughter from within [our] lungs.”

Artist: Tim Cohen, Album: Luck Man, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Tim Cohen is something like the West Coast Robert Pollard. Cohen’s songwriting is earthier and darker than the work of the Guided by Voices frontman, but it is a useful comparison: Both are hugely prolific, fiercely independent rock ’n’ roll lifers—bedroom auteurs with a taste for tape hiss and eccentric pop songs. If you know Cohen at all, you likely know him as the frontman for the Fresh & Onlys—a band that, along with Thee Oh Sees, Sonny and the Sunsets, Ty Segall, and others, defined the San Francisco garage-psych explosion of a few years back. But, as is true with Pollard and GBV, Cohen’s main project can’t keep up with his bounding creative urges, so he funnels his songwriting into side bands, notably Magic Trick, which has released around four records in the last five years, and his solo work. Luck Man is Cohen’s fourth LP under his own name (if you count 2011’s Tim Cohen’s Magic Trick), and the most polished and most mature of the bunch. But compared to the wide-angle jangle pop of the last two Fresh & Onlys records—2014’s House of Spirits* *and 2012’s excellent Long Slow Dance—*Luck Man *is a decidedly bare-bones affair. Cohen is at his most modest and self-effacing here, building quiet, quirky songs out of acoustic guitars, soft percussion, and accents of piano and synth. The touchstones are early Belle and Sebastian (minus the preciousness), early Van Morrison, Smog, and the self-titled Velvet Underground record. Musically, *Luck Man *has its moments—the stark fingerpicking on “Bedfellows,” the harmonies (courtesy of Magic Trick’s Noelle Cahill) on the chorus of “John Hughes,” the bittersweet piano riff that slowly closes out the record. But ultimately the music is little more than a delivery system for Cohen’s words and ideas—as is his flat, affectless baritone. It’s Cohen’s distinct blend of whimsy, black humor, and wisdom—and his refusal to take himself too seriously—that make the record work. (Cass McCombs, it should be noted, uses similar tools to equally great affect.) Cohen is an expert at pairing genuine longing with absurdist humor, such that you can’t entirely tell the difference between the two. “I Need a Wife” is a gorgeous little ballad about love’s uncertainties—before it explodes with Cohen’s manic recitations of the song’s title: “Now I need a wife! I need a wife! I need a wife!” Does the guy actually need a wife? No idea. Does he like the way the jarring echo effect on his vocals makes his words spiral out into infinity? Most definitely. Cohen is obsessed with death, its inevitability and consistency; he knows the dirt will cover us all. But he delivers that message with levity and wit—he doesn’t want to scare us away. “Breathe and die, is all you have to do,” he reminds us on the jaunty “Breathe and Die,” hoping that we’ll take solace in such straightforward tasks. The record is suffused with the surreal and otherworldly (“I dream in melody,” Cohen told an interviewer last year). On “Wall About a Window,” Cohen hopes to escape to the “bridge of limbs” and the “forest of palms”; On “Sunshine,” he’s “throwing airplanes at the moon” against a “velvet-covered night.” Cohen suggests that a wild imagination is one of our best defenses against mortality and the ravages of time. (Pollard, age 59, would surely agree.) Darkness and anxiety threaten to overwhelm Cohen throughout. On “Meat Is Murder” he describes waking up in the middle of the night crying, his hands covered in blood. But in the end, Luck Man shows us how we can survive life’s countless indignities by reminding ourselves of its many small (and not so small) pleasures: a cloudless sky, a lazy morning, a long walk with a good friend. And the way “love can free the laughter from within [our] lungs.”"

Lenola

Sharks and Flames

Rock

Joe Tangari

The cover of Cream's 1968 double album Wheels of Fire features one of those crazy psychedelic bubble drawings that adorned hundreds of albums in the late 60s, with one key difference: the artwork featured only two colors, black and silver, rather than the usual rainbow swirl. Proceeding beyond the gatefold, Bruce, Baker & Clapton proved on that album's two discs (one live, one studio) the seemingly illogical hypothesis that psychedelic music could be utterly monochromatic, making the odd cover art strikingly apropos. Granted, there were some great songs on that album-- their excellent versions of "Born Under a Bad Sign" and "Crossroads" (and, of course, you can't fuck with "White Room")-- but the album's rigorous overall consistency in tone and color made it remarkably dull as a whole. 35 years later, along comes Lenola, with another double album that proves psychedelic music can still be pretty monochromatic, a full generation after the term came into being. I'm not making any musical comparison between Lenola and Cream at all: Cream's brand of psychedelia sat heavily on blues for its foundation, while Lenola are the product of something altogether different, more pastoral and more modern. Since losing original bassist Scott Colan and expanding into a quintet, they seem to have been hit to death in the future head, basking in the glow of the Flaming Lips and borrowing whole chapters from the book of Mercury Rev whilst largely kicking to the curbside the UK shoegazer influences that shaped their early records. In short, they're drawing from a host of sources either directly or tangentially related to Lips producer Dave Fridmann, but the honeyed harmonies that coat each song have a certain whiff of 70s AM gold about them as well-- several of these songs could easily be in the same subdivision as "Our House". Lenola take a decidedly rockist approach to their influences, building remarkably lush sounds for a home recording but steering widely clear of the incandescent orchestration the Lips and the Rev are so taken with these days. The unfortunate thing is that the band's songwriting process churns out twenty decent tracks, but almost none of them stand out: the two discs are for the most part interchangeable. That the second disc is generally slower-paced and less memorable than the first only makes the album feel much longer than its combined 82 minutes. The opener, "Eternal", is particularly great, however, giving the guitars one last moment of complete dominance before setting them back next to the numerous keyboards that have found their way into the band's stable. The song is one of the few that employs a real climax, opening with fervent strumming and swelling harmonies and ultimately bursting into a fuller texture borne on pounding drums, all the while flaunting some nice fretboard fireworks. "Sudden Stop" stands out as well, employing a jittery rhythm, and strange, woozy modulations that throw the verses somewhat off kilter; "Gentleman Overboard" brings in luminescent keys and bells to highlight the chord structure and create a countermelody to the vocals over the album's liveliest beat. Yet, despite some good material, Sharks and Flames ultimately succumbs to that age-old double album curse: it just doesn't need to be as long as it is, and with some editorial discretion, it could have been much easier to swallow. There's no reason for a plodding song like "Traffic Lights" to stretch beyond five minutes (or make the cut at all, really), and I get the general feeling that the number at the top of this review would be higher if the cutting room floor were more cluttered. Lenola are a Good Band, but if I might borrow a sentiment from fellow scribe Matt LeMay, they've yet to make a Great Album. Sharks and Flames shows it's not for lack of trying, but, for now, Lenola remain a possibility, perhaps capable of something better.

Artist: Lenola, Album: Sharks and Flames, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "The cover of Cream's 1968 double album Wheels of Fire features one of those crazy psychedelic bubble drawings that adorned hundreds of albums in the late 60s, with one key difference: the artwork featured only two colors, black and silver, rather than the usual rainbow swirl. Proceeding beyond the gatefold, Bruce, Baker & Clapton proved on that album's two discs (one live, one studio) the seemingly illogical hypothesis that psychedelic music could be utterly monochromatic, making the odd cover art strikingly apropos. Granted, there were some great songs on that album-- their excellent versions of "Born Under a Bad Sign" and "Crossroads" (and, of course, you can't fuck with "White Room")-- but the album's rigorous overall consistency in tone and color made it remarkably dull as a whole. 35 years later, along comes Lenola, with another double album that proves psychedelic music can still be pretty monochromatic, a full generation after the term came into being. I'm not making any musical comparison between Lenola and Cream at all: Cream's brand of psychedelia sat heavily on blues for its foundation, while Lenola are the product of something altogether different, more pastoral and more modern. Since losing original bassist Scott Colan and expanding into a quintet, they seem to have been hit to death in the future head, basking in the glow of the Flaming Lips and borrowing whole chapters from the book of Mercury Rev whilst largely kicking to the curbside the UK shoegazer influences that shaped their early records. In short, they're drawing from a host of sources either directly or tangentially related to Lips producer Dave Fridmann, but the honeyed harmonies that coat each song have a certain whiff of 70s AM gold about them as well-- several of these songs could easily be in the same subdivision as "Our House". Lenola take a decidedly rockist approach to their influences, building remarkably lush sounds for a home recording but steering widely clear of the incandescent orchestration the Lips and the Rev are so taken with these days. The unfortunate thing is that the band's songwriting process churns out twenty decent tracks, but almost none of them stand out: the two discs are for the most part interchangeable. That the second disc is generally slower-paced and less memorable than the first only makes the album feel much longer than its combined 82 minutes. The opener, "Eternal", is particularly great, however, giving the guitars one last moment of complete dominance before setting them back next to the numerous keyboards that have found their way into the band's stable. The song is one of the few that employs a real climax, opening with fervent strumming and swelling harmonies and ultimately bursting into a fuller texture borne on pounding drums, all the while flaunting some nice fretboard fireworks. "Sudden Stop" stands out as well, employing a jittery rhythm, and strange, woozy modulations that throw the verses somewhat off kilter; "Gentleman Overboard" brings in luminescent keys and bells to highlight the chord structure and create a countermelody to the vocals over the album's liveliest beat. Yet, despite some good material, Sharks and Flames ultimately succumbs to that age-old double album curse: it just doesn't need to be as long as it is, and with some editorial discretion, it could have been much easier to swallow. There's no reason for a plodding song like "Traffic Lights" to stretch beyond five minutes (or make the cut at all, really), and I get the general feeling that the number at the top of this review would be higher if the cutting room floor were more cluttered. Lenola are a Good Band, but if I might borrow a sentiment from fellow scribe Matt LeMay, they've yet to make a Great Album. Sharks and Flames shows it's not for lack of trying, but, for now, Lenola remain a possibility, perhaps capable of something better."

Hella

Concentration Face / Homeboy

Experimental,Rock

Matthew Murphy

You can say one thing for Hella's Zach Hill and Spencer Heim: They're all about abundance. Just months after their generous two-disc set Church Gone Wild/ Chirpin' Hard, the duo have dropped yet another mammoth package on your doorstep: Concentration Face, the group's first live DVD, which contains a whopping three hours of footage from Hella's 2004 Japanese tour, as well as the Homeboy EP, which features four new blasts of the duo's distinctive spazz-rock mayhem. Directed by Ryan Walker Thomas, the Concentration Face DVD is divided roughly into two halves: The first is a standard, closely-edited tour film following Hella from city to city; the second presents a complete live set recorded in Tokyo. Both halves are packed with the duo's explosive instrumental music, and feature remarkably little in the way of stage banter or dialogue. As such, the collection makes no effort to introduce either of the two musicians as personalities, instead focusing resolutely on capturing Hella's fierce live show, a choice that seems rather debatable given the duo's static, minimal stage production. On record Hella have grown increasingly reliant on Nintendo-inspired electronic textures, but here they spend the bulk of their time in full metallic shredder mode, facing each other down like a couple of long-lost, hyper-adrenalized Van Halen brothers, while their attentive Japanese audiences stand and vibrate politely. For casual fans, the first half of Concentration Face will prove to be the more compelling, as it intersperses this live concert footage with a montage of Japanese city scenes, train rides, and children's television shows. The band also unselfishly includes excerpts from the sets of supporting acts like Ari Morimoto and M.A.G.O., some of whom prove intriguing enough to nearly upstage the headliner. Throughout the disc, one can't help but marvel at Hella's insane chops, and the relentless ferocity of drummer Hill in particular. It's obviously music of extreme physical demands, a point emphasized by a segment that depicts a sweat-drenched Hill examining his kit after a show, looking as though he and the entire area had just been soaked with a firehose. After more than an hour of such footage, however, the concert that comprises the DVD's second half might seem a tad redundant. Drawing heavily from 2002's Hold Your Horse Is, Hella pummel the likes of "Cafeteria Bananas" and "Biblical Violence", their sound a repetitive, delirious blur of finger-tapped fretboards and stampeding hoofbeats. Essentially presented as a real-time event, for some reason they've gone so far as to even retain several lengthy pauses between songs while the duo quietly tinker with their equipment, an inclusion that does little to relieve the set's advancing monotony. Such is Concentration Face's bountiful overkill that the 29-minute, four song Homeboy seems positively miniature in comparison. Roiling opener "Gothspel For You Not Them" is one continuous discordant crescendo, while the choppy "Madonna Approaches R&B; Blonde Wreckages" adds loopy keyboard tones for a brief swirl of Playstation-prog. The short set closes with the perfectly titled "If I Were in Hella I Would Eat Lick", a track of ridiculous density that, as with the best moments on Concentration Face, reveals Hill and Seim's almost telepathic interplay, an intense connection that can make them seem oblivious to the presence of an audience. And as Homeboy illustrates, the twosome might just be at their most effective when, for once, they're able to exercise a little portion control.

Artist: Hella, Album: Concentration Face / Homeboy, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "You can say one thing for Hella's Zach Hill and Spencer Heim: They're all about abundance. Just months after their generous two-disc set Church Gone Wild/ Chirpin' Hard, the duo have dropped yet another mammoth package on your doorstep: Concentration Face, the group's first live DVD, which contains a whopping three hours of footage from Hella's 2004 Japanese tour, as well as the Homeboy EP, which features four new blasts of the duo's distinctive spazz-rock mayhem. Directed by Ryan Walker Thomas, the Concentration Face DVD is divided roughly into two halves: The first is a standard, closely-edited tour film following Hella from city to city; the second presents a complete live set recorded in Tokyo. Both halves are packed with the duo's explosive instrumental music, and feature remarkably little in the way of stage banter or dialogue. As such, the collection makes no effort to introduce either of the two musicians as personalities, instead focusing resolutely on capturing Hella's fierce live show, a choice that seems rather debatable given the duo's static, minimal stage production. On record Hella have grown increasingly reliant on Nintendo-inspired electronic textures, but here they spend the bulk of their time in full metallic shredder mode, facing each other down like a couple of long-lost, hyper-adrenalized Van Halen brothers, while their attentive Japanese audiences stand and vibrate politely. For casual fans, the first half of Concentration Face will prove to be the more compelling, as it intersperses this live concert footage with a montage of Japanese city scenes, train rides, and children's television shows. The band also unselfishly includes excerpts from the sets of supporting acts like Ari Morimoto and M.A.G.O., some of whom prove intriguing enough to nearly upstage the headliner. Throughout the disc, one can't help but marvel at Hella's insane chops, and the relentless ferocity of drummer Hill in particular. It's obviously music of extreme physical demands, a point emphasized by a segment that depicts a sweat-drenched Hill examining his kit after a show, looking as though he and the entire area had just been soaked with a firehose. After more than an hour of such footage, however, the concert that comprises the DVD's second half might seem a tad redundant. Drawing heavily from 2002's Hold Your Horse Is, Hella pummel the likes of "Cafeteria Bananas" and "Biblical Violence", their sound a repetitive, delirious blur of finger-tapped fretboards and stampeding hoofbeats. Essentially presented as a real-time event, for some reason they've gone so far as to even retain several lengthy pauses between songs while the duo quietly tinker with their equipment, an inclusion that does little to relieve the set's advancing monotony. Such is Concentration Face's bountiful overkill that the 29-minute, four song Homeboy seems positively miniature in comparison. Roiling opener "Gothspel For You Not Them" is one continuous discordant crescendo, while the choppy "Madonna Approaches R&B; Blonde Wreckages" adds loopy keyboard tones for a brief swirl of Playstation-prog. The short set closes with the perfectly titled "If I Were in Hella I Would Eat Lick", a track of ridiculous density that, as with the best moments on Concentration Face, reveals Hill and Seim's almost telepathic interplay, an intense connection that can make them seem oblivious to the presence of an audience. And as Homeboy illustrates, the twosome might just be at their most effective when, for once, they're able to exercise a little portion control."

The Go! Team

Thunder, Lightning, Strike [U.S.]

Rock

Rob Mitchum

Human hearing is a pretty incredible thing. After millions of years of predator-avoidance natural selection, we've evolved the ability to discriminate very slight differences in frequency and to recall entire sequences of tones from memory. [NOTE: statement not applicable in Kansas and Harrisburg, Pa.] In modern times, we've harnessed this fantastic skill for truly awe-inspiring tasks, such as perfectly beat-matching LCD Soundsystem into New Order, or scowling derisively when a band's rhythm guitarist is a half-step out of tune. These wondrous abilities are what had me dreading the American reissue of the Go! Team's excellent debut Thunder, Lightning, Strike. If you haven't heard the backstory, this lawyer-stuffed country made it difficult for the Go! Team to clear the original album's samples for domestic release, forcing the band to slightly tweak the material in order to purge the recordings of legal pitfalls. In addition, the record was reportedly given a gift certificate to the remastering day spa, a process with the potential to thoughtlessly drain some of the group's messy, homemade charm in the name of fidelity. With an album that's been widely available for over a year, even the smallest changes could prove annoyingly distracting to those who've been with the Go! Team from their blog-hype birth. Fortunately, 1) Thunder, Lightning, Strike is no Paul's Boutique, and 2) Cheerleaders have crappy legal representation. To these obsessive ears, it seems that roughly 95% of the original music is intact, and the differences, where they arise, are minimally distracting. The fanfare horns that kick off "Junior Kickstart" might be slightly tweaked, "Bottle Rocket" might have a new rap from new frontwoman Ninja, they may have swapped one schmaltzy trumpet solo for another on "Everyone's a VIP to Someone", but rarely do the alterations change the character of the song. Even the EPCOT ride through girl-group history "Ladyflash", which I had most feared would go under the knife, is left unspoiled by copyright considerations, praise the courts. Equally non-intrusive is the remastering, which does a nice job of housekeeping the extraneous hisses while maintaining the band's collage and needle-in-the-red sensibilities. In fact, the remix doesn't so much clean up the songs' pools of bleedover sound so much as merely stir them up, bringing to the surface some new elements that might not have been so readily apparent on the first release. "Panther Dash", for example, seems to contain a lot more power-tool noise-guitar parts than I remembered, reinforcing my impression from their live show that Sonic Youth is just as big an influence as cop themes and Avalanches. With these factors decidedly non-intrusive, the most significant change to Thunder, Lightning, Strike is the promotion of "We Just Won't Be Defeated" and "Hold Yr Terror Close", formerly both B-sides, to the major league roster. Even this switch isn't all that disorienting, as "Defeated" adds a fresh cheerleader track to break up the mostly instrumental middle, and "Terror" offers a glimpse of the band's Children's Workshop twee side amidst the swirl of drum breaks and marching band blasts. So the main point of this comparative review is that, well, there really is no comparison to be made. The Go! Team, rather skillfully, navigated the treacherous waters of sample clearance and remastering to prepare a domestic version of Thunder, Lightning, Strike no better or worse than the charming original. As such, it's only fitting to affix the same score upon it.

Artist: The Go! Team, Album: Thunder, Lightning, Strike [U.S.], Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.7 Album review: "Human hearing is a pretty incredible thing. After millions of years of predator-avoidance natural selection, we've evolved the ability to discriminate very slight differences in frequency and to recall entire sequences of tones from memory. [NOTE: statement not applicable in Kansas and Harrisburg, Pa.] In modern times, we've harnessed this fantastic skill for truly awe-inspiring tasks, such as perfectly beat-matching LCD Soundsystem into New Order, or scowling derisively when a band's rhythm guitarist is a half-step out of tune. These wondrous abilities are what had me dreading the American reissue of the Go! Team's excellent debut Thunder, Lightning, Strike. If you haven't heard the backstory, this lawyer-stuffed country made it difficult for the Go! Team to clear the original album's samples for domestic release, forcing the band to slightly tweak the material in order to purge the recordings of legal pitfalls. In addition, the record was reportedly given a gift certificate to the remastering day spa, a process with the potential to thoughtlessly drain some of the group's messy, homemade charm in the name of fidelity. With an album that's been widely available for over a year, even the smallest changes could prove annoyingly distracting to those who've been with the Go! Team from their blog-hype birth. Fortunately, 1) Thunder, Lightning, Strike is no Paul's Boutique, and 2) Cheerleaders have crappy legal representation. To these obsessive ears, it seems that roughly 95% of the original music is intact, and the differences, where they arise, are minimally distracting. The fanfare horns that kick off "Junior Kickstart" might be slightly tweaked, "Bottle Rocket" might have a new rap from new frontwoman Ninja, they may have swapped one schmaltzy trumpet solo for another on "Everyone's a VIP to Someone", but rarely do the alterations change the character of the song. Even the EPCOT ride through girl-group history "Ladyflash", which I had most feared would go under the knife, is left unspoiled by copyright considerations, praise the courts. Equally non-intrusive is the remastering, which does a nice job of housekeeping the extraneous hisses while maintaining the band's collage and needle-in-the-red sensibilities. In fact, the remix doesn't so much clean up the songs' pools of bleedover sound so much as merely stir them up, bringing to the surface some new elements that might not have been so readily apparent on the first release. "Panther Dash", for example, seems to contain a lot more power-tool noise-guitar parts than I remembered, reinforcing my impression from their live show that Sonic Youth is just as big an influence as cop themes and Avalanches. With these factors decidedly non-intrusive, the most significant change to Thunder, Lightning, Strike is the promotion of "We Just Won't Be Defeated" and "Hold Yr Terror Close", formerly both B-sides, to the major league roster. Even this switch isn't all that disorienting, as "Defeated" adds a fresh cheerleader track to break up the mostly instrumental middle, and "Terror" offers a glimpse of the band's Children's Workshop twee side amidst the swirl of drum breaks and marching band blasts. So the main point of this comparative review is that, well, there really is no comparison to be made. The Go! Team, rather skillfully, navigated the treacherous waters of sample clearance and remastering to prepare a domestic version of Thunder, Lightning, Strike no better or worse than the charming original. As such, it's only fitting to affix the same score upon it."

The Locust

The Locust EP

Metal,Rock

Dan Lett

"I just want to change the way people look at music, or maybe just destroy it in general," reads Justin Pearson's manifesto on The Locust's official website. An impressive goal, to be sure, but he's still got some personal obstacles to navigate before he comes close to it. Like prog-rockers and avant-gardists before him, Pearson laments the prevalence of 4/4 time, sending his brief, mathy anthems through speakers in headspinning time signatures that any ordinary fool (myself included) would likely find unclockable. But interestingly, despite his aim to break free of the public's preconceptions of "what pop music ought to be," Pearson does conform nicely to all the stereotypes of underground rockers-- he even followed his indie rock contemporaries by commissioning a remix that turned his band's earlier, more "uncompromising" work into a drill-n-bass electro rave-up at the height of that particular craze. Chart The Locust against Alec Empire's superior efforts in that area and Pearson's manifesto begins to sound like the attention-seeking squeal of an underachieving sibling. Fortunately, Pearson's vocal immolation produces just the kind of hellish shrieks loud enough to drown out his irrelevant philosophies and questionable publicity ploys, and force you to understand what a juggernaut his band can be when at its best. Over the eight years since its conception, The Locust's lineup has assimilated a murky hardcore gene pool in which Cattle Decapitation's David Astor and The Album Leaf's Jimmy LaValle have soaked. These black sheep have helped to cement The Locust's status as the causes celebres of the new hardcore movement. This newly reissued early EP features none of the band's later contributors, though, and as such, offers listeners the chance to ponder which approach-- the early years, or the more refined, newer incarnation-- is more satisfyingly obnoxious. Of course, there's one big roadblock with this release: It's saddled with a remixing/remastering treatment that sands down some of the original's edges. The Locust tend to gain the most leverage when they echo Pearson's primal screams and mainline their ferocity through frayed studio wire and blown speaker cones. This edition might sound "cleaner" through your hi-fi, but it contradicts the rough-cut impulsion of the original recordings. Still, that doesn't hinder the proceedings too much: Only a chronic migraine sufferer could imagine the kind of blinding misery conjured by this disc's opening 45 seconds, a little track called "Halfway to a Worthless Ideal Arrangement (An Interlude to a Discontinued Sarcastic Harmony... Yea Whatever)". And William Burroughs would balk at the caustic cut-ups that form the lyrics of "Hairspray Suppository": "Illness is a problem, not a convenience/ Sometimes things are started and never finished/ The stitch out of time never saves nine/ Diagnosed with a fucking illness/ Rome was never built in a day." The song titles here are as base and scatological as their volatile contents; "Cattle Mutilation", "Head Hits Concrete" and "Keep Off the Tracks" read like the bleakest news report snapshots and hint at concerns deeper than Pearson's nonchalant bravado would suggest. But trying to pick through the cacophonous catharsis to explore these themes is as fruitless as attempting to transcribe the explosive guitar phrasing that rips up the mix, leaving it bleeding and sore like a fresh suture. A further textual analysis becomes pointless as well, since The Locust is best experienced as an entirely carnal, sensory experience. Purists might prefer this earlier work to the more textured approach of late, but what are purists doing listening to The Locust anyway? Contradiction and alienation are integral parts of the band's charm. The bassist is wrong, they aren't going to change anything at all, and, in fact, they hardly even seem like they're trying. But then, as any virus coder can attest, the most effective means to corrupting a system is to Trojan Horse your way in and mutate it from the inside.

Artist: The Locust, Album: The Locust EP, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: ""I just want to change the way people look at music, or maybe just destroy it in general," reads Justin Pearson's manifesto on The Locust's official website. An impressive goal, to be sure, but he's still got some personal obstacles to navigate before he comes close to it. Like prog-rockers and avant-gardists before him, Pearson laments the prevalence of 4/4 time, sending his brief, mathy anthems through speakers in headspinning time signatures that any ordinary fool (myself included) would likely find unclockable. But interestingly, despite his aim to break free of the public's preconceptions of "what pop music ought to be," Pearson does conform nicely to all the stereotypes of underground rockers-- he even followed his indie rock contemporaries by commissioning a remix that turned his band's earlier, more "uncompromising" work into a drill-n-bass electro rave-up at the height of that particular craze. Chart The Locust against Alec Empire's superior efforts in that area and Pearson's manifesto begins to sound like the attention-seeking squeal of an underachieving sibling. Fortunately, Pearson's vocal immolation produces just the kind of hellish shrieks loud enough to drown out his irrelevant philosophies and questionable publicity ploys, and force you to understand what a juggernaut his band can be when at its best. Over the eight years since its conception, The Locust's lineup has assimilated a murky hardcore gene pool in which Cattle Decapitation's David Astor and The Album Leaf's Jimmy LaValle have soaked. These black sheep have helped to cement The Locust's status as the causes celebres of the new hardcore movement. This newly reissued early EP features none of the band's later contributors, though, and as such, offers listeners the chance to ponder which approach-- the early years, or the more refined, newer incarnation-- is more satisfyingly obnoxious. Of course, there's one big roadblock with this release: It's saddled with a remixing/remastering treatment that sands down some of the original's edges. The Locust tend to gain the most leverage when they echo Pearson's primal screams and mainline their ferocity through frayed studio wire and blown speaker cones. This edition might sound "cleaner" through your hi-fi, but it contradicts the rough-cut impulsion of the original recordings. Still, that doesn't hinder the proceedings too much: Only a chronic migraine sufferer could imagine the kind of blinding misery conjured by this disc's opening 45 seconds, a little track called "Halfway to a Worthless Ideal Arrangement (An Interlude to a Discontinued Sarcastic Harmony... Yea Whatever)". And William Burroughs would balk at the caustic cut-ups that form the lyrics of "Hairspray Suppository": "Illness is a problem, not a convenience/ Sometimes things are started and never finished/ The stitch out of time never saves nine/ Diagnosed with a fucking illness/ Rome was never built in a day." The song titles here are as base and scatological as their volatile contents; "Cattle Mutilation", "Head Hits Concrete" and "Keep Off the Tracks" read like the bleakest news report snapshots and hint at concerns deeper than Pearson's nonchalant bravado would suggest. But trying to pick through the cacophonous catharsis to explore these themes is as fruitless as attempting to transcribe the explosive guitar phrasing that rips up the mix, leaving it bleeding and sore like a fresh suture. A further textual analysis becomes pointless as well, since The Locust is best experienced as an entirely carnal, sensory experience. Purists might prefer this earlier work to the more textured approach of late, but what are purists doing listening to The Locust anyway? Contradiction and alienation are integral parts of the band's charm. The bassist is wrong, they aren't going to change anything at all, and, in fact, they hardly even seem like they're trying. But then, as any virus coder can attest, the most effective means to corrupting a system is to Trojan Horse your way in and mutate it from the inside."

Wolf Alice

Visions of a Life

Rock

Jazz Monroe

By the time Wolf Alice released their debut album in 2015, the burden on Brit-rock to define epochs had all but disappeared. Even among the genre’s loyalists, whose last project had been the disastrous Viva Brother, little appetite remained for a generational voice to swoop in and erect totems to their pined-for monoculture. With revolutionary pressures lifted, the gates (and charts) opened for Wolf Alice, a more benevolent and satisfying breed. Their debut My Love Is Cool descended from the Britpop-Libertines-Arctic Monkeys lineage, but it was introspective and, in its most unorthodox moments, spiritually involving. Accusations of a ’90s throwback weren’t unfounded. But rather than a straight lift, the north London group ransacked the era’s spirit—brattiness juxtaposed against morbid obsessions—while musically patching together grunge lassitude, shoegaze magnitude, and rock’n’roll attitude. The similarly sprawling follow-up, Visions of a Life, is not full of aesthetic surprises, either. It subscribes to a necessary conception of rock as the holy site where dead metaphors and teen clichés can spring magically back to life. It’s populated by dreamers and deceivers, dimwitted bullshitters and their fed-up friends. It’s an album about anxiety and freefall, and about death, both of one’s own hypothetical death and the literal death of others. Frontwoman Ellie Rowsell’s mortal preoccupations are, for the most part, more melancholic than haunting. Wolf Alice sound best when anchored in shoegaze, the kind that suggests human forms dissolving into celestial matter. Recorded in L.A. with producer Justin Meldal-Johnsen—whose work on Paramore’s After Laughter and M83’s Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming looms large—Visions of a Life is an expansive trip. Devoutly 4/4 and unsyncopated, it nonetheless carves out raucous passages in which to burst open. The brilliant “Planet Hunter” drifts in reverie before whirling into conflict. “St. Purple and Green” revitalizes their trademark grunge-folk hybrid, its mantra-like “one step after the other” climax evoking an ascent to the astral plane. And the title track, an epic three-parter, swirls up an abyss-gazing thrash before closing the album, naturally, on a mournful utterance of the word “dead.” After My Love Is Cool, Wolf Alice starred in On the Road, Michael Winterbottom’s pseudo-documentary about a rock band—Wolf Alice—whose dull tour routine backdrops a fictional romance. “Suddenly I’m acting as myself, which makes you feel very self-conscious,” Rowsell has said of the experience. Her lyrics suggest the feeling isn’t entirely unfamiliar: Visions of a Life laments the characters we play in life and the psychic toll, particularly on women, of keeping up appearances. “Yuk Foo” petulantly skewers a mystery antagonist, affording him no personality, only a barrage of expletives: “I want to fuck all of the people I meet,” Rowsell spits. “’Cause you bore me/You bore me to death.” While her writing subsists on observation, Rowsell’s scenes are less interesting than the inscapes bubbling underneath. Now 25, she is a fairly young songwriter, but not quite as young as her characters, who do not always know how to handle themselves. To occupy their thoughts, she slips into her speaking voice, whispers wordy internal monologues, over-divulging, withdrawing into generalities, plunging back into the messy entanglements of it all. On downtempo synthpop anthem “Don’t Delete the Kisses,” she both mocks and romanticizes young-adult drift. “I’m like a teenage girl,” she sing-speaks as the protagonist. “I might as well write all over my notebook that you ‘rock my world.’” It seems a strange thing, grasping to qualify the shallow feelings of a character you created, whose thoughts it is your responsibility to populate. But clichéd romance, the song argues, is tedious and shallow only until it comes for you. Then, it’s electrifyingly real. Cliché is powerful when it identifies the profundity in common feelings, and it’s a particularly effective tool in loud, cathartic rock music. When we are young and precarious, to shut the door on sentimentality just means locking it in our bedrooms, where it’s liable to grow tentacles and start strangling people. You can feel it in “Formidable Cool,” a teen fable whose hapless lead is caught lusting after an unrepentant playboy. (When we’re introduced, he has his “hand in somebody’s knickers” at the social club.) In describing his allure, Rowsell sneaks in a caution against the perils of rock orthodoxy. “Believe in the chorus,” she teases, “Believe in love.” Taking her word, the protagonist bundles into a hasty sexual encounter with him, and is humiliated; Rowsell, an unsympathetic narrator, mercilessly taunts her for her naivety: “If you knew it was all an act/Then what are you crying for?” The moral is: watch who you mythologize. Being Brit-rock’s most tolerable flag-bearer in years, Wolf Alice are uniquely qualified to dispense it.

Artist: Wolf Alice, Album: Visions of a Life, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "By the time Wolf Alice released their debut album in 2015, the burden on Brit-rock to define epochs had all but disappeared. Even among the genre’s loyalists, whose last project had been the disastrous Viva Brother, little appetite remained for a generational voice to swoop in and erect totems to their pined-for monoculture. With revolutionary pressures lifted, the gates (and charts) opened for Wolf Alice, a more benevolent and satisfying breed. Their debut My Love Is Cool descended from the Britpop-Libertines-Arctic Monkeys lineage, but it was introspective and, in its most unorthodox moments, spiritually involving. Accusations of a ’90s throwback weren’t unfounded. But rather than a straight lift, the north London group ransacked the era’s spirit—brattiness juxtaposed against morbid obsessions—while musically patching together grunge lassitude, shoegaze magnitude, and rock’n’roll attitude. The similarly sprawling follow-up, Visions of a Life, is not full of aesthetic surprises, either. It subscribes to a necessary conception of rock as the holy site where dead metaphors and teen clichés can spring magically back to life. It’s populated by dreamers and deceivers, dimwitted bullshitters and their fed-up friends. It’s an album about anxiety and freefall, and about death, both of one’s own hypothetical death and the literal death of others. Frontwoman Ellie Rowsell’s mortal preoccupations are, for the most part, more melancholic than haunting. Wolf Alice sound best when anchored in shoegaze, the kind that suggests human forms dissolving into celestial matter. Recorded in L.A. with producer Justin Meldal-Johnsen—whose work on Paramore’s After Laughter and M83’s Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming looms large—Visions of a Life is an expansive trip. Devoutly 4/4 and unsyncopated, it nonetheless carves out raucous passages in which to burst open. The brilliant “Planet Hunter” drifts in reverie before whirling into conflict. “St. Purple and Green” revitalizes their trademark grunge-folk hybrid, its mantra-like “one step after the other” climax evoking an ascent to the astral plane. And the title track, an epic three-parter, swirls up an abyss-gazing thrash before closing the album, naturally, on a mournful utterance of the word “dead.” After My Love Is Cool, Wolf Alice starred in On the Road, Michael Winterbottom’s pseudo-documentary about a rock band—Wolf Alice—whose dull tour routine backdrops a fictional romance. “Suddenly I’m acting as myself, which makes you feel very self-conscious,” Rowsell has said of the experience. Her lyrics suggest the feeling isn’t entirely unfamiliar: Visions of a Life laments the characters we play in life and the psychic toll, particularly on women, of keeping up appearances. “Yuk Foo” petulantly skewers a mystery antagonist, affording him no personality, only a barrage of expletives: “I want to fuck all of the people I meet,” Rowsell spits. “’Cause you bore me/You bore me to death.” While her writing subsists on observation, Rowsell’s scenes are less interesting than the inscapes bubbling underneath. Now 25, she is a fairly young songwriter, but not quite as young as her characters, who do not always know how to handle themselves. To occupy their thoughts, she slips into her speaking voice, whispers wordy internal monologues, over-divulging, withdrawing into generalities, plunging back into the messy entanglements of it all. On downtempo synthpop anthem “Don’t Delete the Kisses,” she both mocks and romanticizes young-adult drift. “I’m like a teenage girl,” she sing-speaks as the protagonist. “I might as well write all over my notebook that you ‘rock my world.’” It seems a strange thing, grasping to qualify the shallow feelings of a character you created, whose thoughts it is your responsibility to populate. But clichéd romance, the song argues, is tedious and shallow only until it comes for you. Then, it’s electrifyingly real. Cliché is powerful when it identifies the profundity in common feelings, and it’s a particularly effective tool in loud, cathartic rock music. When we are young and precarious, to shut the door on sentimentality just means locking it in our bedrooms, where it’s liable to grow tentacles and start strangling people. You can feel it in “Formidable Cool,” a teen fable whose hapless lead is caught lusting after an unrepentant playboy. (When we’re introduced, he has his “hand in somebody’s knickers” at the social club.) In describing his allure, Rowsell sneaks in a caution against the perils of rock orthodoxy. “Believe in the chorus,” she teases, “Believe in love.” Taking her word, the protagonist bundles into a hasty sexual encounter with him, and is humiliated; Rowsell, an unsympathetic narrator, mercilessly taunts her for her naivety: “If you knew it was all an act/Then what are you crying for?” The moral is: watch who you mythologize. Being Brit-rock’s most tolerable flag-bearer in years, Wolf Alice are uniquely qualified to dispense it."

Various Artists

Spring Breakers OST

Corban Goble

Harmony Korine's Spring Breakers was a media phenomenon before anybody had seen so much as a promotional still. For starters, Korine, the mind behind cult classics like Gummo (his directorial debut) and Kids (he wrote the screenplay for Larry Clarke's film), cast Hollywood wildcard James Franco as the uncannily RiFF RAFF-like rapper/dealer Alien while Gucci Mane makes his screen debut as his drug kingpin rival. Meanwhile, Korine tapped Disney Channel star Selena Gomez as the conflicted Spring Breaker, Faith, and former High School Musical star Vanessa Hudgens as the reckless, dangerous Candy. An early teaser features the leads belting out Britney Spears' "…Baby One More Time" and that's not the only (nor the most memorable) Spears homage in the movie. And then, to top it all off, Korine hands the soundtrack to EDM figurehead Skrillex, a former Warped Tour band member turned posterboy for dubstep's more malignant cliches. It's clear from the opening credits of Spring Breakers-- the most cartoonishly turn't-up Spring Break scene you could possibly imagine, accompanied by the drop-heavy debauchery of Skrillex's calling card "Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites"-- that Sonny Moore was the man for the job. His music, old and new, serves as the spine of Spring Breakers, a compilation that also features carefully selected rap tracks and his remix of Birdy Nam Nam's "Goin In'" along with contributions from electronic musician and soundtrack veteran Cliff Martinez. The latter, who also steered 2011's well-received and similarly tense Drive OST, is a critical presence. Both musicians contribute their own ambient-leaning, instrumental originals to the soundtrack-- Martinez handles the curious, searching electronic interludes "Pretend It's a Video Game", "Your Friends Ain't Gonna Leave With You", and "Never Gonna Get This Pussy", while Skrillex handles the relatively more aggressive textures of "Ride Home" and "Park Smoke"-- but the fiber of Spring Breakers is the sonic influence that they have on one other. Skrillex, in particular, benefits from Martinez' presence. Though Moore has recently attempted more laid-back approaches to composition, songs like "The Reason" didn't sound as idiosyncratically him, and don't prove as captivating or recognizable as his contributions here. The new music, stitched between previously released tracks (like Skrillex's "With You, Friends (Long Drive)" and Gucci Mane's Ferrari Boyz cut "Young Niggaz"), achieves an important headspace for both the dramatic arc of the film as well as the soundtrack as a piece of music. Between the blurry revelry and the careening rush of consequence borne of violent impulse, Spring Breakers is all about the state between that original drug-fueled adrenaline burst and the depressing comedown crush. By cleverly interspersing the soundtrack with their original arrangements, Skrillex and Martinez successfully find that headspace throughout. Most importantly, Spring Breakers teases out the connections between songs that would be difficult to hear otherwise, offering new entry points. Take Waka Flocka's "Fuck This Industry"; on Flockaveli, the track comes across as repentant and desperate, a song that finds a self-doubting Flocka siphoning out his signature bellow in favor of a restrained, contemplative whisper. Here, it serves as a momentary sense-collecting pause before the chaos. By leading into Martinez pieces, Skrillex's "Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites" gains a pensive new tone, a fresh context that's only underlined by the orchestral back end redux of that track, as well as the Martinez/Skrillex sequel "Son of Scary Monsters". On Ferrari Boyz, "Young Niggaz" is known as one of the only tracks where Gucci and Waka didn't sound totally asleep, but here, it's a flag-bearer for shaking away the dark thoughts and getting back to the party; after all, it's spring break. There's a turning point of the film, where some characters decide they're overwhelmed and scared by this neon fantasy world and others find it all the more captivating. The question arises: Do we leave the party, or stay? Given its relatively seamless mesh of spiky, aggro party music and the more contemplative electronic moments created by Martinez and Moore, Spring Breakers is the rare soundtrack that covers both extremes and makes it work as a whole.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Spring Breakers OST, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Harmony Korine's Spring Breakers was a media phenomenon before anybody had seen so much as a promotional still. For starters, Korine, the mind behind cult classics like Gummo (his directorial debut) and Kids (he wrote the screenplay for Larry Clarke's film), cast Hollywood wildcard James Franco as the uncannily RiFF RAFF-like rapper/dealer Alien while Gucci Mane makes his screen debut as his drug kingpin rival. Meanwhile, Korine tapped Disney Channel star Selena Gomez as the conflicted Spring Breaker, Faith, and former High School Musical star Vanessa Hudgens as the reckless, dangerous Candy. An early teaser features the leads belting out Britney Spears' "…Baby One More Time" and that's not the only (nor the most memorable) Spears homage in the movie. And then, to top it all off, Korine hands the soundtrack to EDM figurehead Skrillex, a former Warped Tour band member turned posterboy for dubstep's more malignant cliches. It's clear from the opening credits of Spring Breakers-- the most cartoonishly turn't-up Spring Break scene you could possibly imagine, accompanied by the drop-heavy debauchery of Skrillex's calling card "Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites"-- that Sonny Moore was the man for the job. His music, old and new, serves as the spine of Spring Breakers, a compilation that also features carefully selected rap tracks and his remix of Birdy Nam Nam's "Goin In'" along with contributions from electronic musician and soundtrack veteran Cliff Martinez. The latter, who also steered 2011's well-received and similarly tense Drive OST, is a critical presence. Both musicians contribute their own ambient-leaning, instrumental originals to the soundtrack-- Martinez handles the curious, searching electronic interludes "Pretend It's a Video Game", "Your Friends Ain't Gonna Leave With You", and "Never Gonna Get This Pussy", while Skrillex handles the relatively more aggressive textures of "Ride Home" and "Park Smoke"-- but the fiber of Spring Breakers is the sonic influence that they have on one other. Skrillex, in particular, benefits from Martinez' presence. Though Moore has recently attempted more laid-back approaches to composition, songs like "The Reason" didn't sound as idiosyncratically him, and don't prove as captivating or recognizable as his contributions here. The new music, stitched between previously released tracks (like Skrillex's "With You, Friends (Long Drive)" and Gucci Mane's Ferrari Boyz cut "Young Niggaz"), achieves an important headspace for both the dramatic arc of the film as well as the soundtrack as a piece of music. Between the blurry revelry and the careening rush of consequence borne of violent impulse, Spring Breakers is all about the state between that original drug-fueled adrenaline burst and the depressing comedown crush. By cleverly interspersing the soundtrack with their original arrangements, Skrillex and Martinez successfully find that headspace throughout. Most importantly, Spring Breakers teases out the connections between songs that would be difficult to hear otherwise, offering new entry points. Take Waka Flocka's "Fuck This Industry"; on Flockaveli, the track comes across as repentant and desperate, a song that finds a self-doubting Flocka siphoning out his signature bellow in favor of a restrained, contemplative whisper. Here, it serves as a momentary sense-collecting pause before the chaos. By leading into Martinez pieces, Skrillex's "Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites" gains a pensive new tone, a fresh context that's only underlined by the orchestral back end redux of that track, as well as the Martinez/Skrillex sequel "Son of Scary Monsters". On Ferrari Boyz, "Young Niggaz" is known as one of the only tracks where Gucci and Waka didn't sound totally asleep, but here, it's a flag-bearer for shaking away the dark thoughts and getting back to the party; after all, it's spring break. There's a turning point of the film, where some characters decide they're overwhelmed and scared by this neon fantasy world and others find it all the more captivating. The question arises: Do we leave the party, or stay? Given its relatively seamless mesh of spiky, aggro party music and the more contemplative electronic moments created by Martinez and Moore, Spring Breakers is the rare soundtrack that covers both extremes and makes it work as a whole."

The Walkmen

A Hundred Miles Off

Rock

Matt LeMay

The Walkmen have a talent for playing at contrasts: Their first two albums masterfully skipped between hazy, fuzz-soaked ballads and pummeling, gravelly rockers. But while it's tempting to call these two albums "seamless," that would be selling the band short-- these records' artfully stitched transitions and interruptions are part of what makes them so great. Bows and Arrows' best tracks, "The Rat" and "Little House of Savages", are packed with the kind of unrelenting, energetic furor that rock music built its rep on-- but both are made even better in relation to their more subdued neighbors, "What's in It for Me" and "No Christmas While I'm Talking". So if anyone calls them a two-note band, at least their two notes are always posed in an interesting counterpoint. Given this reputation, it makes sense that the Walkmen would seek out a new path-- but A Hundred Miles Off is too confident for its tentativeness to be moving, and too tentative for its confidence to crystallize into any kind of sustainable momentum. Lead singer Hamilton Leithauser has apparently been studying up on the Bob Dylan guide to pronunciation (M Is for Mmphmblgmbn!), as his usual charismatic croon often gives way here to a sometimes comically Dylanesque squeal. And the rest of the band never really commit to holding back or letting loose. Sadly, there isn't much on A Hundred Miles Off that leaves a lasting impression. "This Job Is Killing Me" is all energy and no momentum; blurred sonics may have been well-suited for some of the Walkmen's more low-key songs, but for most of A Hundred Miles Off's, it's just frustrating. Drummer Matt Barrick does his best to salvage what he can, and for his part, he does lend some interesting percussive choices. Lauded for his inventive and driving beats (and bouncy stage presence), Barrick here frequently scales down his playing to straightforward galloping toms or washes of trebly hand percussion. But while this more skeletal approach adds some textural variety to A Hundred Miles Off, it also prevents many of the album's songs from congealing into memorable entities. If there's a blueprint for how the Walkmen could have pulled off an album like this, album opener "Louisiana" is it. Leithauser pushes his voice to the very top of its range, forcing out a melody that breezes over well-placed guitar chords. A Jimmy Buffett-esque horn interlude gives the song an inflection that might best be described as "festive"-- by no means pejorative, considering how few bands seem willing to even venture into such territory, let alone with so much success. This is perhaps also the one song on A Hundred Miles Off where the music effectively draws on the album's overall atmosphere, rather than working against or in spite of it. The Walkmen often take flack for putting out albums with one or two great tracks and a bunch of not so great ones. And while "Louisiana" and the closing Mazarin cover "Another One Goes By" are noticeably stronger than the rest of the album, the sonic push and pull that made the first two Walkmen records so compelling is almost entirely absent from A Hundred Miles Off. Despite occasional flashes of inspiration, much of the record blends together into a whole that is somehow much less than the sum of its parts; the ingredients are colorful, but the end result is disappointingly dull.

Artist: The Walkmen, Album: A Hundred Miles Off, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "The Walkmen have a talent for playing at contrasts: Their first two albums masterfully skipped between hazy, fuzz-soaked ballads and pummeling, gravelly rockers. But while it's tempting to call these two albums "seamless," that would be selling the band short-- these records' artfully stitched transitions and interruptions are part of what makes them so great. Bows and Arrows' best tracks, "The Rat" and "Little House of Savages", are packed with the kind of unrelenting, energetic furor that rock music built its rep on-- but both are made even better in relation to their more subdued neighbors, "What's in It for Me" and "No Christmas While I'm Talking". So if anyone calls them a two-note band, at least their two notes are always posed in an interesting counterpoint. Given this reputation, it makes sense that the Walkmen would seek out a new path-- but A Hundred Miles Off is too confident for its tentativeness to be moving, and too tentative for its confidence to crystallize into any kind of sustainable momentum. Lead singer Hamilton Leithauser has apparently been studying up on the Bob Dylan guide to pronunciation (M Is for Mmphmblgmbn!), as his usual charismatic croon often gives way here to a sometimes comically Dylanesque squeal. And the rest of the band never really commit to holding back or letting loose. Sadly, there isn't much on A Hundred Miles Off that leaves a lasting impression. "This Job Is Killing Me" is all energy and no momentum; blurred sonics may have been well-suited for some of the Walkmen's more low-key songs, but for most of A Hundred Miles Off's, it's just frustrating. Drummer Matt Barrick does his best to salvage what he can, and for his part, he does lend some interesting percussive choices. Lauded for his inventive and driving beats (and bouncy stage presence), Barrick here frequently scales down his playing to straightforward galloping toms or washes of trebly hand percussion. But while this more skeletal approach adds some textural variety to A Hundred Miles Off, it also prevents many of the album's songs from congealing into memorable entities. If there's a blueprint for how the Walkmen could have pulled off an album like this, album opener "Louisiana" is it. Leithauser pushes his voice to the very top of its range, forcing out a melody that breezes over well-placed guitar chords. A Jimmy Buffett-esque horn interlude gives the song an inflection that might best be described as "festive"-- by no means pejorative, considering how few bands seem willing to even venture into such territory, let alone with so much success. This is perhaps also the one song on A Hundred Miles Off where the music effectively draws on the album's overall atmosphere, rather than working against or in spite of it. The Walkmen often take flack for putting out albums with one or two great tracks and a bunch of not so great ones. And while "Louisiana" and the closing Mazarin cover "Another One Goes By" are noticeably stronger than the rest of the album, the sonic push and pull that made the first two Walkmen records so compelling is almost entirely absent from A Hundred Miles Off. Despite occasional flashes of inspiration, much of the record blends together into a whole that is somehow much less than the sum of its parts; the ingredients are colorful, but the end result is disappointingly dull."

Ugly Casanova

Sharpen Your Teeth

Rock

Ryan Schreiber

Isaac Brock is that rare character in an independent music world crowded with upper-class college boys and eccentric old men: a legitimate redneck. Hailing from a rural logging town thirty miles east of Seattle, Brock grew up in a rusty trailer, doomed to the blue-collar nightmare of foundry life or some other back-breaking eternity. Over the past ten years, he's seen the backwoods town's tall pines and muddy soil swallowed alive by the corporate monster and shit back out as duplexes and strip malls. What little nature remains there now is permeated with the death stench of ChemLawr yards and Wendy's drive-thrus. So, after the success of Modest Mouse's classic The Moon and Antarctica, Brock packed up and moved to Cottage Grove, Oregon, another even more remote logging town-- one whose chances of becoming a suburban hellhole are about as likely as his mother's of winning a Powerball jackpot. Brock is extremely candid in interviews about his love of drugs, particularly psychedelics and uppers. As everyone knows, there's not a lot to do out in nature but get high, and there's nothing like getting high in nature. It gets you thinking about the broader picture-- typical hippie shit like your place in the universe, and the usual depressive shit like your own mortality and irrelevance. This kind of environment can't be good for a guy who, beneath his surly exterior, is about as depressed as a motherfucker comes. But it helps him write, and when that's all you've got going for you, you go where it comes easiest. I have little doubt that Brock wrote a great deal of the lyrics for The Moon and Antarctica on psychedelics, as many of his insights were so disconnected and profound that they could only have come to him in a moment of altered consciousness. But recently, including during the recording of that album, he's spent a lot of time in stone-sober Chicago, where psychedelics are considered hideously lower-class and drink is the drug of choice. None of this affected his magnum opus-- presumably because he was still hanging mostly with his druggy bandmates-- but Brock's solo debut as Ugly Casanova reeks of mental clarity, sacrificing the great philosophical lyrics of records past for pleasantly poetic, but never revelatory, subject matter. Brock recorded Sharpen Your Teeth with Red Red Meat's Briar Deck, Califone's Tim Rutili, Pall Jenkins of Black Heart Procession, and a few random others at his Portland home studio, Glacial Pace, which he built using the advance Sub Pop offered him to record this very record. But let's consider his company here: Deck-- producer of the last Modest Mouse album and the first installment of Brock's Ugly Casanova side project-- for all his culvert reverb and glistening, interstellar software tricks, strikes me immediately as a man who has either never ingested a poisonous mushroom in his life or has long since outgrown such leanings. Rutili's work with Califone is marked by its junkyard percussion and Budweiser Americana. Jenkins sounds like he walks around in graveyards all day praying for inevitable death to just get it all over with. This is no company for abusing prescription tranquilizers. But maybe that's the purpose of this project, to step away from the pursuit of universal knowledge and convey a simpler desperation. Or maybe he just wanted a new cast of characters to collaborate with. And this is indeed a collaboration. Though the songwriting-- which all members had a hand in, right down to the lyrics-- sounds unmistakably like Modest Mouse, you can hear the distinct marks of all the other players. It's initially evident on "Spilled Milk Factory," and later on "Pacifico," both of which feature clanging percussion and sparse background peripherals echoing Califone's Roomsound. The collaborative nature of Sharpen Your Teeth, of course, yields a few missteps, the worst of which stumbles backwards and breaks it neck: "Diamonds on the Face of Evil" is an awkwardly loping experiment in which Brock recites a few lines of nonsense padded with the ceaselessly hollered refrain of "shey shaw shey shaw!" Likewise, "Parasites" comes on like some absurd postmortem parade, with blaring synth trumpets and Isaac morbidly insisting that "the parasites are excited when you're dead/ Eyes bulging, entering your head/ And all your thoughts... THEY ROT!" "Ice on the Sheets" is, at 6\xBD minutes, repetitive and overlong, and "Bee Sting," though surely intended as a segue, hinders the flow of the album-- a tuneless interlude with Isaac offering some of the least thought-provoking lyrics of his career. There are some damn fine moments here, though. Brock seems to have been born with an innate talent to impart the sourest dejection. His approach is more akin to Arlo Guthrie than to the mop-headed, crybaby adolescentry that presently dominates our rock. If he stuffed his shit with 75-cent dictionary finds, it'd be one thing, but he uses plain English to communicate complex meditations, analyses that could as easily be grasped by drunken farmhands as by world-class poets. The finest of these crops up on "Hotcha Girls," when Brock, at his most austere, sings, "Don't you know that you'll rust, and not belong so much, and then get left alone.../ Don't you know that old folks' home smells so much like my own." The opener, "Barnacles," has Brock referencing classic Rolling Stones amidst antisocial daydreams: "I don't need to see/ I don't see how you see/ Out of your window/ I don't need to see, I'll paint it black." Then there's the killer two-song punch that ends the record: "Things I Don't Remember" recalls the very best upbeat and rhythm-oriented Mouse moments, with truly propulsive percussior hitting with ferocious thwacks, as if trying to better the Pixies' "U-Mass." When the song springs to life out of the pleasantly countrified "Smoke Like Ribbons," it hits with such caffeinated urgency that its surrealist lyrics actually become incredibly fun where they might otherwise have been fatally clumsy. This guides us to the reflective closer, "So Long to the Holidays," which evokes both wistful memories of past Christmases, and going off somewhere to die-- and with just two simple lyrics. Sharpen Your Teeth was undoubtedly a therapeutic outing for Isaac Brock, giving him some time to recuperate from his band's definitive statement and temporarily alleviating the pressure of making the next one. And lucky for us, the final product fares far better than these things generally do. Rutili is an able guitarist and lyricist, as is contributor John Orth (who got his start in the Florida-based

Artist: Ugly Casanova, Album: Sharpen Your Teeth, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Isaac Brock is that rare character in an independent music world crowded with upper-class college boys and eccentric old men: a legitimate redneck. Hailing from a rural logging town thirty miles east of Seattle, Brock grew up in a rusty trailer, doomed to the blue-collar nightmare of foundry life or some other back-breaking eternity. Over the past ten years, he's seen the backwoods town's tall pines and muddy soil swallowed alive by the corporate monster and shit back out as duplexes and strip malls. What little nature remains there now is permeated with the death stench of ChemLawr yards and Wendy's drive-thrus. So, after the success of Modest Mouse's classic The Moon and Antarctica, Brock packed up and moved to Cottage Grove, Oregon, another even more remote logging town-- one whose chances of becoming a suburban hellhole are about as likely as his mother's of winning a Powerball jackpot. Brock is extremely candid in interviews about his love of drugs, particularly psychedelics and uppers. As everyone knows, there's not a lot to do out in nature but get high, and there's nothing like getting high in nature. It gets you thinking about the broader picture-- typical hippie shit like your place in the universe, and the usual depressive shit like your own mortality and irrelevance. This kind of environment can't be good for a guy who, beneath his surly exterior, is about as depressed as a motherfucker comes. But it helps him write, and when that's all you've got going for you, you go where it comes easiest. I have little doubt that Brock wrote a great deal of the lyrics for The Moon and Antarctica on psychedelics, as many of his insights were so disconnected and profound that they could only have come to him in a moment of altered consciousness. But recently, including during the recording of that album, he's spent a lot of time in stone-sober Chicago, where psychedelics are considered hideously lower-class and drink is the drug of choice. None of this affected his magnum opus-- presumably because he was still hanging mostly with his druggy bandmates-- but Brock's solo debut as Ugly Casanova reeks of mental clarity, sacrificing the great philosophical lyrics of records past for pleasantly poetic, but never revelatory, subject matter. Brock recorded Sharpen Your Teeth with Red Red Meat's Briar Deck, Califone's Tim Rutili, Pall Jenkins of Black Heart Procession, and a few random others at his Portland home studio, Glacial Pace, which he built using the advance Sub Pop offered him to record this very record. But let's consider his company here: Deck-- producer of the last Modest Mouse album and the first installment of Brock's Ugly Casanova side project-- for all his culvert reverb and glistening, interstellar software tricks, strikes me immediately as a man who has either never ingested a poisonous mushroom in his life or has long since outgrown such leanings. Rutili's work with Califone is marked by its junkyard percussion and Budweiser Americana. Jenkins sounds like he walks around in graveyards all day praying for inevitable death to just get it all over with. This is no company for abusing prescription tranquilizers. But maybe that's the purpose of this project, to step away from the pursuit of universal knowledge and convey a simpler desperation. Or maybe he just wanted a new cast of characters to collaborate with. And this is indeed a collaboration. Though the songwriting-- which all members had a hand in, right down to the lyrics-- sounds unmistakably like Modest Mouse, you can hear the distinct marks of all the other players. It's initially evident on "Spilled Milk Factory," and later on "Pacifico," both of which feature clanging percussion and sparse background peripherals echoing Califone's Roomsound. The collaborative nature of Sharpen Your Teeth, of course, yields a few missteps, the worst of which stumbles backwards and breaks it neck: "Diamonds on the Face of Evil" is an awkwardly loping experiment in which Brock recites a few lines of nonsense padded with the ceaselessly hollered refrain of "shey shaw shey shaw!" Likewise, "Parasites" comes on like some absurd postmortem parade, with blaring synth trumpets and Isaac morbidly insisting that "the parasites are excited when you're dead/ Eyes bulging, entering your head/ And all your thoughts... THEY ROT!" "Ice on the Sheets" is, at 6\xBD minutes, repetitive and overlong, and "Bee Sting," though surely intended as a segue, hinders the flow of the album-- a tuneless interlude with Isaac offering some of the least thought-provoking lyrics of his career. There are some damn fine moments here, though. Brock seems to have been born with an innate talent to impart the sourest dejection. His approach is more akin to Arlo Guthrie than to the mop-headed, crybaby adolescentry that presently dominates our rock. If he stuffed his shit with 75-cent dictionary finds, it'd be one thing, but he uses plain English to communicate complex meditations, analyses that could as easily be grasped by drunken farmhands as by world-class poets. The finest of these crops up on "Hotcha Girls," when Brock, at his most austere, sings, "Don't you know that you'll rust, and not belong so much, and then get left alone.../ Don't you know that old folks' home smells so much like my own." The opener, "Barnacles," has Brock referencing classic Rolling Stones amidst antisocial daydreams: "I don't need to see/ I don't see how you see/ Out of your window/ I don't need to see, I'll paint it black." Then there's the killer two-song punch that ends the record: "Things I Don't Remember" recalls the very best upbeat and rhythm-oriented Mouse moments, with truly propulsive percussior hitting with ferocious thwacks, as if trying to better the Pixies' "U-Mass." When the song springs to life out of the pleasantly countrified "Smoke Like Ribbons," it hits with such caffeinated urgency that its surrealist lyrics actually become incredibly fun where they might otherwise have been fatally clumsy. This guides us to the reflective closer, "So Long to the Holidays," which evokes both wistful memories of past Christmases, and going off somewhere to die-- and with just two simple lyrics. Sharpen Your Teeth was undoubtedly a therapeutic outing for Isaac Brock, giving him some time to recuperate from his band's definitive statement and temporarily alleviating the pressure of making the next one. And lucky for us, the final product fares far better than these things generally do. Rutili is an able guitarist and lyricist, as is contributor John Orth (who got his start in the Florida-based "

FKA twigs

LP1

Electronic,Pop/R&B

Philip Sherburne

FKA twigs knows a thing or two about creating an image for herself. Every song she's released so far, even the four from her self-released debut EP from 2012, has been accompanied by its own video. What these may lack in storyboarding, set design, or anything else, really—"Hide" just features her hypnotically stroking an anthurium that adorns her nude midsection—more than make up for in their ability to draw you close, hold you rapt and keep you wondering just who, exactly, this character called twigs might be. The British musician and performer born Tahliah Barnett got her start in the pop-industrial complex as a backup dancer in music videos, a career that led, for a spell, to a strange kind of almost-fame—you walk around and you get recognized, but not for being you, necessarily, just for being that girl from the video. And so, she has said, you learn to lie: "No, that's not me. No, I get that a lot." She addresses this situation on her debut album, LP1, with the song "Video Girl". It's actually one of the album's most straightforward songs, but its chorus is unequivocal in its equivocations: "Is she the girl that's from the video?/ You lie and you lie and you lie."  And all that artifice, in turn, is a way of making truth out of the lie. Because what is her music, what are her videos, if not an elaborate way of saying, "No, I'm not that girl from the video. This is who I am"? She hides in plain sight on the cover of LP1, wearing an expression that's—what? Coy? Distant? What exactly is going on there, beneath those strands of just-so curlicue and that weird, plastic sheen across one slick cheek? And that splash of red, what is that supposed to be—a blush, a bruise, a birthmark? Is she a teenybopper post-popped bubblegum, a cartoon character post-exploding cigar? The image expands upon the subtle surrealism of last year's EP2 cover, where her neck was almost imperceptibly elongated, and the more aggressive post-processing of her "Water Me" video, in which her eyes are enlarged, anime-style, until they threaten to pop like a Panic Pete Squeeze Toy. These tweaks are crucial to twigs' eerie, post-humanist, Uncanny Valley-girl aesthetic. More than anything else, the image reminds me of Björk's Alexander McQueen-designed Homogenic cover, in which the Icelandic singer hovered in the middle distance between larger-than-life pop icon and superflat fantasy gloss like a digital scan of a wax figure. Listening to LP1, it's immediately clear that twigs is aiming for similar heights—and easily capable of scaling them. Quiet as it may be, this is a huge album, a monumental debut. On a formal level, it takes the kinds of risks that few pop artists, and few "experimental" artists, for that matter, are willing to take these days. As far as the making of the artist known as FKA twigs goes, it gives us a sense of who she is without shedding any of the mystique she has developed so far. Building on her co-produced debut EP with Tic and her Arca-produced EP2, the sound throughout is a crystalline jumble of splinters and shards, of stuttering drum machines cutting against arrhythmic clatter—metronomes winding down, car alarms bleating dully into the night. Her voice, the most awe-inspiring instrument on the album, flits between Auto-Tuned artifice and raw carnality. As an acrobat, she's a natural, but she's not afraid to lean on a little digital enhancement. One minute it's a flash-frozen sigh; the next, it's a melon-balled dollop of flesh. As futuristic as her music is, no single technology dominates. Elastic digital effects brush up against 808s, and icy synth stabs share space with acoustic bass. The common denominator is the crackling sense of dread that persists when the notes go silent and the beat drops out, which is often. The overall effect is that of R&B that has been run through some kind of matter-transporting beam and put together wrong on the other end, full of glitches and hard, jutting artifacts. The most obvious reference points, aside from the spectrum of breathy, synth-heavy R&B that stretches from Ciara through the Weeknd and Beyoncé, are first-gen trip-hop acts like Portishead and Tricky, with their charcoal-streaked affect and sumptuous sense of texture. There are also clear links to contemporary UK artists working the margins between R&B and electronic music, like James Blake, the xx, and even Sophie, he of the deconstructed Saturday-morning rave choons. Her own vocal style, or at least her stratospheric range, evokes Kate Bush and even Tori Amos. More provocative, though, is the way she and her producers wrangle a whole host of unlikely references into the mix: "Two Weeks" features blushing chords reminiscent of late Cocteau Twins and a junkyard guitar lead straight out of Tom Waits' Rain Dogs. Even more incongruously, "Two Weeks" cribs a fleeting riff from Air Supply's "All Out of Love." At the same time, it's a testament to the strength of her vision that the album is as cohesive as it is, despite having so many producers involved, including Arca, Devonté Hynes, Clams Casino, and Grammy-winning journeyman Emile Haynie (Eminem's Recovery, Lana Del Rey's "Born to Die" and "Blue Jeans," Kanye West's "Runaway"). Sampha helps out on the brittle "Numbers," a Portishead-gone-footwork number that serves as the album's energetic peak, and, perhaps most surprisingly, Paul Epworth (Adele, Coldplay, the Rapture) is responsible for "Pendulum," the album's literal and emotional centerpiece. FKA twigs is not a masterful lyricist, at least not yet; some of her couplets feel clunky, like she's grasping in the dark for rhymes and coming up with the objects closest to hand ("If the flame gets blown out and you shine/ I will know that you cannot be mine"). But when she zeroes in on the essence of a thing, she hits hard. The brazen "Two Weeks" features lines as vivid as red welts: "Higher than a motherfucker", "I can fuck you better than her." (The Weeknd only wishes he could make depravity sound so soul-destroyingly desperate.) On top of that, there's a whole thing about pulling out teeth that tips the song into some kind of freaky David Cronenberg territory, making her drugged-up and tied-down fantasies all the more tantalizingly surreal. If "Two Weeks" represents the album's sensual core, "Pendulum" is the epicenter of the record's underlying sense of heartbreak, with its glum mantra, "So lonely trying to be yours." Lyrically, the song finds twigs at her most plainspoken—it's a long way off from last year's similarly devastating, but far more cryptic, "Water Me"—so it feels significant that it's

Artist: FKA twigs, Album: LP1, Genre: Electronic,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.8 Album review: "FKA twigs knows a thing or two about creating an image for herself. Every song she's released so far, even the four from her self-released debut EP from 2012, has been accompanied by its own video. What these may lack in storyboarding, set design, or anything else, really—"Hide" just features her hypnotically stroking an anthurium that adorns her nude midsection—more than make up for in their ability to draw you close, hold you rapt and keep you wondering just who, exactly, this character called twigs might be. The British musician and performer born Tahliah Barnett got her start in the pop-industrial complex as a backup dancer in music videos, a career that led, for a spell, to a strange kind of almost-fame—you walk around and you get recognized, but not for being you, necessarily, just for being that girl from the video. And so, she has said, you learn to lie: "No, that's not me. No, I get that a lot." She addresses this situation on her debut album, LP1, with the song "Video Girl". It's actually one of the album's most straightforward songs, but its chorus is unequivocal in its equivocations: "Is she the girl that's from the video?/ You lie and you lie and you lie."  And all that artifice, in turn, is a way of making truth out of the lie. Because what is her music, what are her videos, if not an elaborate way of saying, "No, I'm not that girl from the video. This is who I am"? She hides in plain sight on the cover of LP1, wearing an expression that's—what? Coy? Distant? What exactly is going on there, beneath those strands of just-so curlicue and that weird, plastic sheen across one slick cheek? And that splash of red, what is that supposed to be—a blush, a bruise, a birthmark? Is she a teenybopper post-popped bubblegum, a cartoon character post-exploding cigar? The image expands upon the subtle surrealism of last year's EP2 cover, where her neck was almost imperceptibly elongated, and the more aggressive post-processing of her "Water Me" video, in which her eyes are enlarged, anime-style, until they threaten to pop like a Panic Pete Squeeze Toy. These tweaks are crucial to twigs' eerie, post-humanist, Uncanny Valley-girl aesthetic. More than anything else, the image reminds me of Björk's Alexander McQueen-designed Homogenic cover, in which the Icelandic singer hovered in the middle distance between larger-than-life pop icon and superflat fantasy gloss like a digital scan of a wax figure. Listening to LP1, it's immediately clear that twigs is aiming for similar heights—and easily capable of scaling them. Quiet as it may be, this is a huge album, a monumental debut. On a formal level, it takes the kinds of risks that few pop artists, and few "experimental" artists, for that matter, are willing to take these days. As far as the making of the artist known as FKA twigs goes, it gives us a sense of who she is without shedding any of the mystique she has developed so far. Building on her co-produced debut EP with Tic and her Arca-produced EP2, the sound throughout is a crystalline jumble of splinters and shards, of stuttering drum machines cutting against arrhythmic clatter—metronomes winding down, car alarms bleating dully into the night. Her voice, the most awe-inspiring instrument on the album, flits between Auto-Tuned artifice and raw carnality. As an acrobat, she's a natural, but she's not afraid to lean on a little digital enhancement. One minute it's a flash-frozen sigh; the next, it's a melon-balled dollop of flesh. As futuristic as her music is, no single technology dominates. Elastic digital effects brush up against 808s, and icy synth stabs share space with acoustic bass. The common denominator is the crackling sense of dread that persists when the notes go silent and the beat drops out, which is often. The overall effect is that of R&B that has been run through some kind of matter-transporting beam and put together wrong on the other end, full of glitches and hard, jutting artifacts. The most obvious reference points, aside from the spectrum of breathy, synth-heavy R&B that stretches from Ciara through the Weeknd and Beyoncé, are first-gen trip-hop acts like Portishead and Tricky, with their charcoal-streaked affect and sumptuous sense of texture. There are also clear links to contemporary UK artists working the margins between R&B and electronic music, like James Blake, the xx, and even Sophie, he of the deconstructed Saturday-morning rave choons. Her own vocal style, or at least her stratospheric range, evokes Kate Bush and even Tori Amos. More provocative, though, is the way she and her producers wrangle a whole host of unlikely references into the mix: "Two Weeks" features blushing chords reminiscent of late Cocteau Twins and a junkyard guitar lead straight out of Tom Waits' Rain Dogs. Even more incongruously, "Two Weeks" cribs a fleeting riff from Air Supply's "All Out of Love." At the same time, it's a testament to the strength of her vision that the album is as cohesive as it is, despite having so many producers involved, including Arca, Devonté Hynes, Clams Casino, and Grammy-winning journeyman Emile Haynie (Eminem's Recovery, Lana Del Rey's "Born to Die" and "Blue Jeans," Kanye West's "Runaway"). Sampha helps out on the brittle "Numbers," a Portishead-gone-footwork number that serves as the album's energetic peak, and, perhaps most surprisingly, Paul Epworth (Adele, Coldplay, the Rapture) is responsible for "Pendulum," the album's literal and emotional centerpiece. FKA twigs is not a masterful lyricist, at least not yet; some of her couplets feel clunky, like she's grasping in the dark for rhymes and coming up with the objects closest to hand ("If the flame gets blown out and you shine/ I will know that you cannot be mine"). But when she zeroes in on the essence of a thing, she hits hard. The brazen "Two Weeks" features lines as vivid as red welts: "Higher than a motherfucker", "I can fuck you better than her." (The Weeknd only wishes he could make depravity sound so soul-destroyingly desperate.) On top of that, there's a whole thing about pulling out teeth that tips the song into some kind of freaky David Cronenberg territory, making her drugged-up and tied-down fantasies all the more tantalizingly surreal. If "Two Weeks" represents the album's sensual core, "Pendulum" is the epicenter of the record's underlying sense of heartbreak, with its glum mantra, "So lonely trying to be yours." Lyrically, the song finds twigs at her most plainspoken—it's a long way off from last year's similarly devastating, but far more cryptic, "Water Me"—so it feels significant that it's"

Curren$y

Muscle Car Chronicles

Rap

Jordan Sargent

You can just about read the entire list of non-embarrassing attempts by rappers to approach rock music in the time it takes to say "Reverend Run," and Curren$y's recently released Muscle Car Chronicles isn't about to make that list any longer. The album is the New Orleans MC's experiment with rapping over a live funk-rock band, and while the result isn't as bad as Lil Wayne's Rebirth (the contemporary gold standard for misguided rap/rock hybrids), it's only barely more pleasurable to listen to. The album is more or less a write-off-- it's Curren$y's last release through Damon Dash's BluRoc imprint, and it was recorded even before he got into the studio for his Pilot Talk series-- but it still stands as the first notable misstep of his rejuvenated career. It's hard to imagine why exactly Curren$y ever thought that Muscle Car Chronicles was a good idea, but it's not impossible to understand where he may have been coming from when he conceived it. His aesthetic is well-defined-- he is the chillest of chill stoners, with a flow that twists and tangles organically like slowly released weed smoke-- and it has also proved to be at least somewhat influential (his old pal Wiz Khalifa has ridden it and his own pop instincts to great fame). But you can see where Curren$y would feel the need to shake things up a bit, to momentarily snap himself out of a style that is so perpetually laid back. His intentions may have been good, but the resulting music is so jarringly out of step with what has proven to be a consistently winning formula that you almost wish someone had sued Dame Dash to prevent its release. So, what good can be said about the album? Well, its nine tracks span just over 19 minutes, which is short even by Curren$y's standards. Along with that merciful bit of self-editing, there's also nothing really wrong with his rapping, which is only dragged down by the vehicle he's using to deliver it. But that's about it, as nothing here is replayable after the first listen unless you want to confirm that the album is as bad and misguided as it comes off as at first blush. There are moments where you can squint and almost see where it could have worked (like on "Not So Much", which approximates decent bar-room blues), but those glimpses are more than overwhelmed by the times where it very clearly doesn't (pick anything else). Maybe the best news is that Curren$y almost certainly had little desire for the public to hear this. He wrapped the recording close to two years ago, and its release date was then pushed back 11 months to the middle of last February. Maybe most telling is that he just so happened to drop a short mixtape with Styles P two weeks after Muscle Car Chronicles walked the plank. That tape, like Curren$y's projects with producers Ski Beatz and the Alchemist, shows how good he is at picking collaborators that help build and slowly expand his aesthetic. Muscle Car Chronicles, on the other hand, quite blatantly and shockingly does not.

Artist: Curren$y, Album: Muscle Car Chronicles, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 3.8 Album review: "You can just about read the entire list of non-embarrassing attempts by rappers to approach rock music in the time it takes to say "Reverend Run," and Curren$y's recently released Muscle Car Chronicles isn't about to make that list any longer. The album is the New Orleans MC's experiment with rapping over a live funk-rock band, and while the result isn't as bad as Lil Wayne's Rebirth (the contemporary gold standard for misguided rap/rock hybrids), it's only barely more pleasurable to listen to. The album is more or less a write-off-- it's Curren$y's last release through Damon Dash's BluRoc imprint, and it was recorded even before he got into the studio for his Pilot Talk series-- but it still stands as the first notable misstep of his rejuvenated career. It's hard to imagine why exactly Curren$y ever thought that Muscle Car Chronicles was a good idea, but it's not impossible to understand where he may have been coming from when he conceived it. His aesthetic is well-defined-- he is the chillest of chill stoners, with a flow that twists and tangles organically like slowly released weed smoke-- and it has also proved to be at least somewhat influential (his old pal Wiz Khalifa has ridden it and his own pop instincts to great fame). But you can see where Curren$y would feel the need to shake things up a bit, to momentarily snap himself out of a style that is so perpetually laid back. His intentions may have been good, but the resulting music is so jarringly out of step with what has proven to be a consistently winning formula that you almost wish someone had sued Dame Dash to prevent its release. So, what good can be said about the album? Well, its nine tracks span just over 19 minutes, which is short even by Curren$y's standards. Along with that merciful bit of self-editing, there's also nothing really wrong with his rapping, which is only dragged down by the vehicle he's using to deliver it. But that's about it, as nothing here is replayable after the first listen unless you want to confirm that the album is as bad and misguided as it comes off as at first blush. There are moments where you can squint and almost see where it could have worked (like on "Not So Much", which approximates decent bar-room blues), but those glimpses are more than overwhelmed by the times where it very clearly doesn't (pick anything else). Maybe the best news is that Curren$y almost certainly had little desire for the public to hear this. He wrapped the recording close to two years ago, and its release date was then pushed back 11 months to the middle of last February. Maybe most telling is that he just so happened to drop a short mixtape with Styles P two weeks after Muscle Car Chronicles walked the plank. That tape, like Curren$y's projects with producers Ski Beatz and the Alchemist, shows how good he is at picking collaborators that help build and slowly expand his aesthetic. Muscle Car Chronicles, on the other hand, quite blatantly and shockingly does not."

GOAT

Commune

Experimental

Douglas Wolk

"All great pop music," Brian Eno once said, "is created by small groups of people misunderstanding other small groups far away." The Swedish band Goat works from the premise that compounding those misunderstandings can make pop even better. Their faraway small groups of choice are artists who've introduced the fuzz and wah of electric instruments into traditions that developed outside Western pop: Tinariwen, the Congotronics crowd, Khun Narin's Electric Phin Band, the heavier side of the Sublime Frequencies catalog. The ingenious part of Goat's act is that they've looped those artists' sounds back into drone-rock, expanding the range of tones and rhythms that most of the bands in Spacemen 3's wake have wielded at their disposal. The less exciting part is the way that Goat have couched their open-eared virtuosity in a load of pseudo-mystical play-acting: they perform in masks that look generically "exotic-ethnic" but don't actually appropriate any specific cultural associations, they claim to be inspired by the vodou tradition of the northern Swedish town of Korpilombolo (population 529), and their lyrics and titles are winkingly quasi-primitivist. (One tip-off is the title of Commune's "Gathering of Ancient Tribes": note that it's a backronym for the name of the band, and then ask yourself why it would be in English.) That said, some of Commune is pretty splendid. It's recorded through a thick veil of reverb, which makes for an improvement on the crisper tone of their debut, the 2012 LP World Music; the band's nameless singer now sounds delightfully as if she's screaming down the far end of a wind tunnel. (Goat's members still haven't revealed their identities, aside from occasional spokesperson Christian Johansson, although one of them did apparently convince an interviewer that his name was Björn Ulvaeus.) It's also frontloaded with two of the band's best songs to date: "Talk to God", a hypnotic jam built around a single fluttering guitar phrase, and "Words", a singleminded acid-rock stomp whose only nod to internationalism beyond International Artists is finger cymbals. Still, Goat seems to be running short on material on Commune. "To Travel the Path Unknown" and "Bondye" (named after a Haitian vodou god) are both undercooked instrumentals, and a few other tracks rely on one or two little riffs that repeat until not even a pedal-hopping guitar solo can keep them afloat. The band pulls it together for the closer, "Gathering of Ancient Tribes", another Tichumaren-inspired groove that gradually piles on on layers of instrumental texture, until it ends—as the album began—with the sound of a temple bell. It's easy to understand why Goat would try to frame their music as a spiritual ritual, and there's a tradition of communal mysticism even among the European roots of what they're up to here (see, for instance, the bands that came out of the Amon Düül commune). But they've also locked themselves into an act in which they have to write and dress a certain way without ever breaking character, and in which their gift for bringing together musical ideas from Mali and Lagos and Birmingham and beyond is burdened by the preposterous pretense of being an "ancient tribe," and the notion of keeping that act up is the greatest hurdle they face.

Artist: GOAT, Album: Commune, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: ""All great pop music," Brian Eno once said, "is created by small groups of people misunderstanding other small groups far away." The Swedish band Goat works from the premise that compounding those misunderstandings can make pop even better. Their faraway small groups of choice are artists who've introduced the fuzz and wah of electric instruments into traditions that developed outside Western pop: Tinariwen, the Congotronics crowd, Khun Narin's Electric Phin Band, the heavier side of the Sublime Frequencies catalog. The ingenious part of Goat's act is that they've looped those artists' sounds back into drone-rock, expanding the range of tones and rhythms that most of the bands in Spacemen 3's wake have wielded at their disposal. The less exciting part is the way that Goat have couched their open-eared virtuosity in a load of pseudo-mystical play-acting: they perform in masks that look generically "exotic-ethnic" but don't actually appropriate any specific cultural associations, they claim to be inspired by the vodou tradition of the northern Swedish town of Korpilombolo (population 529), and their lyrics and titles are winkingly quasi-primitivist. (One tip-off is the title of Commune's "Gathering of Ancient Tribes": note that it's a backronym for the name of the band, and then ask yourself why it would be in English.) That said, some of Commune is pretty splendid. It's recorded through a thick veil of reverb, which makes for an improvement on the crisper tone of their debut, the 2012 LP World Music; the band's nameless singer now sounds delightfully as if she's screaming down the far end of a wind tunnel. (Goat's members still haven't revealed their identities, aside from occasional spokesperson Christian Johansson, although one of them did apparently convince an interviewer that his name was Björn Ulvaeus.) It's also frontloaded with two of the band's best songs to date: "Talk to God", a hypnotic jam built around a single fluttering guitar phrase, and "Words", a singleminded acid-rock stomp whose only nod to internationalism beyond International Artists is finger cymbals. Still, Goat seems to be running short on material on Commune. "To Travel the Path Unknown" and "Bondye" (named after a Haitian vodou god) are both undercooked instrumentals, and a few other tracks rely on one or two little riffs that repeat until not even a pedal-hopping guitar solo can keep them afloat. The band pulls it together for the closer, "Gathering of Ancient Tribes", another Tichumaren-inspired groove that gradually piles on on layers of instrumental texture, until it ends—as the album began—with the sound of a temple bell. It's easy to understand why Goat would try to frame their music as a spiritual ritual, and there's a tradition of communal mysticism even among the European roots of what they're up to here (see, for instance, the bands that came out of the Amon Düül commune). But they've also locked themselves into an act in which they have to write and dress a certain way without ever breaking character, and in which their gift for bringing together musical ideas from Mali and Lagos and Birmingham and beyond is burdened by the preposterous pretense of being an "ancient tribe," and the notion of keeping that act up is the greatest hurdle they face."

Lil Reese

Don't Like

Rap

Jordan Sargent

"I Don't Like" made Chief Keef a star, but he wasn't the only one. Producer Young Chop got himself a deal with Warner Bros., and has moved on to do bigger (if not better) things, namely beefing with Kanye West and working with rappers like Gucci Mane and Big Sean. Then there's Lil Reese, the Keef sound-alike whose verse has been immortalized on t-shirts sponsored by the Chicago rap blog Fake Shore Drive. Reese signed to Def Jam this month, and subsequently released his debut mixtape, Don't Like, which is hosted by DJ Drama presumably as a reminder of how intensely focused the rap industry is on these kids. The mixtape will likely get Reese tagged as a Keef reincarnation, and the hallmarks of Keef's Back From the Dead are all here: the horror-score beats, the halting flow, the frighteningly emotionless invoking of violence and the absolute distrust of anyone outside the circle. But Reese isn't a Keef copycat; instead, Don't Like is an extension of their shared aesthetic, and in that sense it's a worthy follow-up to one of the most important mixtapes of the year. It's also in its own right an important document of the city of Chicago in 2012. Reese and Keef are national figures now, but it's impossible to detach Don't Like from their home city, one with a murder rate so high that Reese (and other rappers) casually refers to it as "Chiraq." That is the backdrop that the mixtape is set against, and though looking out for only yourself, your friends, and your family has long been the base worldview of gangsta rap, there is something patently different about the expression of Don't Like. Reese takes Keef's lack of emotion and turns it down a notch even further, routinely blurring the line between rapping and talking. The result are songs that are a string of survivalist mantras. Lines like, "At the top it's just us, nigga/ But I don't really trust niggas," "I lost so many niggas I turned into a savage," and "Never switch up on your niggas, that's bad for your health," hang over the tape even after Reese has moved on. This is a stirring work, powered by beats that are often densely packed with ideas, but it is at its core a group of songs strictly about Lil Reese and his crew outlasting what their environment has made them into. Rarely do they seem enlivened by the task. A distinction does need to be made, though. Reese is not Keef, and though Don't Like works as street rap zeitgeist, it isn't pop music. As the aforementioned "Fredo in the cut" shirts emphasize, Reese has a knack for popping off lines that stick until they are outright slogans. But there is nothing on Don't Like that ascends to the heights of "I Don't Like" or "3Hunna", the tracks that beamed Keef onto a national stage. His remoteness also doesn't always circle back to charisma the way that it does with Keef. Take, for instance, "Rap Shit", one of their two collaborations here. Keef murmurs a chorus that is palpably weary, but he snaps off his lines in a way that conveys  unwavering determination-- you can almost hear him fighting himself. It's the type of starring moment that Keef has a predilection for. Admittedly, though, there's no real reason to judge Lil Reese by what Chief Keef has done. Both (along with a host of other Chicago rappers) have burrowed their way into contemporary gangsta rap and sliced out their own niche, one that is on the verge of defining the year in both the genre and the city, if it hasn't already. Keef will still get most of the pub, but Don't Like proves with only 10 tracks that Reese can stand on his own.

Artist: Lil Reese, Album: Don't Like, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: ""I Don't Like" made Chief Keef a star, but he wasn't the only one. Producer Young Chop got himself a deal with Warner Bros., and has moved on to do bigger (if not better) things, namely beefing with Kanye West and working with rappers like Gucci Mane and Big Sean. Then there's Lil Reese, the Keef sound-alike whose verse has been immortalized on t-shirts sponsored by the Chicago rap blog Fake Shore Drive. Reese signed to Def Jam this month, and subsequently released his debut mixtape, Don't Like, which is hosted by DJ Drama presumably as a reminder of how intensely focused the rap industry is on these kids. The mixtape will likely get Reese tagged as a Keef reincarnation, and the hallmarks of Keef's Back From the Dead are all here: the horror-score beats, the halting flow, the frighteningly emotionless invoking of violence and the absolute distrust of anyone outside the circle. But Reese isn't a Keef copycat; instead, Don't Like is an extension of their shared aesthetic, and in that sense it's a worthy follow-up to one of the most important mixtapes of the year. It's also in its own right an important document of the city of Chicago in 2012. Reese and Keef are national figures now, but it's impossible to detach Don't Like from their home city, one with a murder rate so high that Reese (and other rappers) casually refers to it as "Chiraq." That is the backdrop that the mixtape is set against, and though looking out for only yourself, your friends, and your family has long been the base worldview of gangsta rap, there is something patently different about the expression of Don't Like. Reese takes Keef's lack of emotion and turns it down a notch even further, routinely blurring the line between rapping and talking. The result are songs that are a string of survivalist mantras. Lines like, "At the top it's just us, nigga/ But I don't really trust niggas," "I lost so many niggas I turned into a savage," and "Never switch up on your niggas, that's bad for your health," hang over the tape even after Reese has moved on. This is a stirring work, powered by beats that are often densely packed with ideas, but it is at its core a group of songs strictly about Lil Reese and his crew outlasting what their environment has made them into. Rarely do they seem enlivened by the task. A distinction does need to be made, though. Reese is not Keef, and though Don't Like works as street rap zeitgeist, it isn't pop music. As the aforementioned "Fredo in the cut" shirts emphasize, Reese has a knack for popping off lines that stick until they are outright slogans. But there is nothing on Don't Like that ascends to the heights of "I Don't Like" or "3Hunna", the tracks that beamed Keef onto a national stage. His remoteness also doesn't always circle back to charisma the way that it does with Keef. Take, for instance, "Rap Shit", one of their two collaborations here. Keef murmurs a chorus that is palpably weary, but he snaps off his lines in a way that conveys  unwavering determination-- you can almost hear him fighting himself. It's the type of starring moment that Keef has a predilection for. Admittedly, though, there's no real reason to judge Lil Reese by what Chief Keef has done. Both (along with a host of other Chicago rappers) have burrowed their way into contemporary gangsta rap and sliced out their own niche, one that is on the verge of defining the year in both the genre and the city, if it hasn't already. Keef will still get most of the pub, but Don't Like proves with only 10 tracks that Reese can stand on his own."

Ashtar Lavanda

Unsolved Mysteries

Electronic

Rachel Hahn

The eccentric producer and Detroit native Jimmy Edgar once described his label Ultramajic as a platform for “futuristic music, digital shamanism, and virtual altars.” Even its newest release, a collection of lost electro tracks from the mid-to-late-’90s, fits so well with the label’s forward-looking ethos, but the story behind Unsolved Mysteries sounds like classic Edgarian lore. In 2014, Edgar took possession of an East Detroit storage unit that contained over 1,000 vinyl records, some rare, broken recording equipment, and boxes of over 100 DAT and reel-to-reel tapes, one dusty box of which contained tapes from 1995 to 1998 inscribed in black Sharpie with the name “ASHTAR LAVANDA.” Edgar at first assumed that it was a pseudonym of an already prominent Detroit recording artist, but after two full years of searching—Google came up with no results—he tracked down the real Ashtar Lavanda, a previously unknown producer who hadn’t released any music (in a recent interview, he said that he assumed that the tapes that gave rise to Unsolved Mysteries had been tossed in the garbage long ago). Lavanda still resides in the Motor City to this day, where he apparently works in the medical industry. And while all of this sounds almost too serendipitous to be true, especially considering Ultramajic’s willfully obscure roster of artists, it’s fitting given much of the genre’s tropes: Electro has always been infused with a certain sense of mystery and myth-making. From the time when a 14-year-old Edgar would download electro tracks on GeoCities websites to the Afrofuturistic myth that Gerald Donald and James Stinson fleshed out as Drexciya, the funky sounds derived from the Roland TR-808 are frequently encased in an epic, enigmatic backstory. The provenance of these tracks aside, the six songs that make up this collection of archival recordings are undeniably fun additions to the canon, and by clocking in at only 22 minutes, it’s tight enough to not overstay its welcome. “Opulence” starts things off with a rising arpeggiated synth line and some classic 808 rhythms, and “Gratiot Shake” follows with an even funkier bassline that’s accentuated with vocoded commands to “shake it” and “get freaky” along with some sci-fi phaser sounds. The title track and closer “Marfa Lights” are the highlights—the former’s menacing refrain contrasts well with its rickety percussion, and the latter’s more atmospheric touches end things on a relatively breezy note. Lavanda himself didn’t exactly have lofty ambitions for these songs—he claims that when he was programming these tracks in the ’90s, he just wanted them to play on the “New Dance Show,” Detroit’s local, techno version of “Soul Train” (Ultramajic uploaded an Ashtar Lavanda mix to YouTube that plays alongside clips from the show, and the audio and the visuals sync up remarkably well). In light of the genre’s current renaissance, with artists like DJ Stingray and Helena Hauff leading the pack, this collection sounds surprisingly fresh. When asked what he thought about these songs finally seeing the light of day, Lavanda responded: “It would have been better as a record in the ’90s.” And while it’s not necessarily a crucial release, and Edgar’s claims that it belongs in the cultural memory alongside acts like Drexciya or Dopplereffekt are overstated, it does accomplish what Lavanda wanted—it’s a pretty playful, taut selection of songs to dance to.

Artist: Ashtar Lavanda, Album: Unsolved Mysteries, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "The eccentric producer and Detroit native Jimmy Edgar once described his label Ultramajic as a platform for “futuristic music, digital shamanism, and virtual altars.” Even its newest release, a collection of lost electro tracks from the mid-to-late-’90s, fits so well with the label’s forward-looking ethos, but the story behind Unsolved Mysteries sounds like classic Edgarian lore. In 2014, Edgar took possession of an East Detroit storage unit that contained over 1,000 vinyl records, some rare, broken recording equipment, and boxes of over 100 DAT and reel-to-reel tapes, one dusty box of which contained tapes from 1995 to 1998 inscribed in black Sharpie with the name “ASHTAR LAVANDA.” Edgar at first assumed that it was a pseudonym of an already prominent Detroit recording artist, but after two full years of searching—Google came up with no results—he tracked down the real Ashtar Lavanda, a previously unknown producer who hadn’t released any music (in a recent interview, he said that he assumed that the tapes that gave rise to Unsolved Mysteries had been tossed in the garbage long ago). Lavanda still resides in the Motor City to this day, where he apparently works in the medical industry. And while all of this sounds almost too serendipitous to be true, especially considering Ultramajic’s willfully obscure roster of artists, it’s fitting given much of the genre’s tropes: Electro has always been infused with a certain sense of mystery and myth-making. From the time when a 14-year-old Edgar would download electro tracks on GeoCities websites to the Afrofuturistic myth that Gerald Donald and James Stinson fleshed out as Drexciya, the funky sounds derived from the Roland TR-808 are frequently encased in an epic, enigmatic backstory. The provenance of these tracks aside, the six songs that make up this collection of archival recordings are undeniably fun additions to the canon, and by clocking in at only 22 minutes, it’s tight enough to not overstay its welcome. “Opulence” starts things off with a rising arpeggiated synth line and some classic 808 rhythms, and “Gratiot Shake” follows with an even funkier bassline that’s accentuated with vocoded commands to “shake it” and “get freaky” along with some sci-fi phaser sounds. The title track and closer “Marfa Lights” are the highlights—the former’s menacing refrain contrasts well with its rickety percussion, and the latter’s more atmospheric touches end things on a relatively breezy note. Lavanda himself didn’t exactly have lofty ambitions for these songs—he claims that when he was programming these tracks in the ’90s, he just wanted them to play on the “New Dance Show,” Detroit’s local, techno version of “Soul Train” (Ultramajic uploaded an Ashtar Lavanda mix to YouTube that plays alongside clips from the show, and the audio and the visuals sync up remarkably well). In light of the genre’s current renaissance, with artists like DJ Stingray and Helena Hauff leading the pack, this collection sounds surprisingly fresh. When asked what he thought about these songs finally seeing the light of day, Lavanda responded: “It would have been better as a record in the ’90s.” And while it’s not necessarily a crucial release, and Edgar’s claims that it belongs in the cultural memory alongside acts like Drexciya or Dopplereffekt are overstated, it does accomplish what Lavanda wanted—it’s a pretty playful, taut selection of songs to dance to."

Underworld

Barking

Electronic

Andrew Gaerig

It's a little ironic that, while Underworld's mid-to-late-1990s albums have aged extraordinarily well, the band itself hasn't. They lost Darren Emerson to globetrotting, Ibiza-rocking DJ glory at the beginning of the decade and they haven't quite found their stride in the two (now three) albums since. This was perhaps inevitable: Karl Hyde's wild-eyed, front-of-the-mix personality always ensured that Underworld would age more like a rock band than an electronic act. (Witness how a touch of gray has bolstered the wisdom of folks like Carl Craig and the Chemical Brothers.) My favorite song on Barking, "Diamond Jigsaw", talks about a white stretch limo and features "pre-mi-um te-qui-la" prominently in its chorus. It sounds cheesy, but it's fantastic: the world absolutely needs more songs about those nights when you're flush with cash and having a really good time. Moreover, Underworld is exactly the type of band to write these songs, because aside from aging like rock stars, they also got rich like rock stars. There are worse places to end up than "thoughtfully content headliners," and a recent, leaked live set/mix from the Privilege club in Ibiza proves that they can still transform their mid-level angst into thumping party-starters. Barking doesn't contain nearly enough of these moments, but the ones it does contain feature the kind of backlit, uplifting anthem-making that Underworld have only occasionally dabbled in (think: "Rez" or, more recently, "Two Months Off"). It's a really good fit for the band. On "Scribble", Hyde sounds reconciled: "And it's okay/ You give me everything I need." The arrangement is bright and lithe. It features the same rush-rush-rush drum programming of heyday Underworld, but it doesn't feel like the song is trying slap you in the face; it feels like it's trying to make you drive your car a little faster. It's refreshing to listen to Underworld embrace small, personal thrills. Hyde may well be the same drug-addled crazyman he was during the 1990s, but he doesn't sound like it anymore. "Grace" is a classic "the club...is dark and confusing"-track, but Hyde sounds like he's envious of Interpol's pathos, which, Jesus. "Louisiana", a slothful, album-ending ballad, immediately enters the competition for "worst ever Underworld song," so pale is Hyde's slurring. At different points on the album he talks about being "violently in love" and "quietly violent," but these sort of ominous dictums seem sapped of any real strength. It's weird to say, but Hyde just sounds so much better now when he's celebrating. Barking inhabits an odd place: half-dolorous electro-pop, half-affirming sunnyside jams. You can attribute this to some of the help they had: Underworld farmed Barking's tracks out to various producers, and it shows. "Hamburg Hotel" contains hints of Appleblim's tense nighttime wandering, and Paul van Dyk is all over "Diamond Jigsaw". These "collaborations" seem like a better marketing tool than a musical one, however, as Barking's sonic variance is truthfully no greater than that of most Underworld albums. Underworld receive a lot of credit for being a great albums band in a singles genre, but the lukewarm reception their last two albums received glossed over the fact that each has housed one or two great tracks. So Barking stays the course, with the added prospect of a fitter, happier Underworld on the horizon. It's about time.

Artist: Underworld, Album: Barking, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "It's a little ironic that, while Underworld's mid-to-late-1990s albums have aged extraordinarily well, the band itself hasn't. They lost Darren Emerson to globetrotting, Ibiza-rocking DJ glory at the beginning of the decade and they haven't quite found their stride in the two (now three) albums since. This was perhaps inevitable: Karl Hyde's wild-eyed, front-of-the-mix personality always ensured that Underworld would age more like a rock band than an electronic act. (Witness how a touch of gray has bolstered the wisdom of folks like Carl Craig and the Chemical Brothers.) My favorite song on Barking, "Diamond Jigsaw", talks about a white stretch limo and features "pre-mi-um te-qui-la" prominently in its chorus. It sounds cheesy, but it's fantastic: the world absolutely needs more songs about those nights when you're flush with cash and having a really good time. Moreover, Underworld is exactly the type of band to write these songs, because aside from aging like rock stars, they also got rich like rock stars. There are worse places to end up than "thoughtfully content headliners," and a recent, leaked live set/mix from the Privilege club in Ibiza proves that they can still transform their mid-level angst into thumping party-starters. Barking doesn't contain nearly enough of these moments, but the ones it does contain feature the kind of backlit, uplifting anthem-making that Underworld have only occasionally dabbled in (think: "Rez" or, more recently, "Two Months Off"). It's a really good fit for the band. On "Scribble", Hyde sounds reconciled: "And it's okay/ You give me everything I need." The arrangement is bright and lithe. It features the same rush-rush-rush drum programming of heyday Underworld, but it doesn't feel like the song is trying slap you in the face; it feels like it's trying to make you drive your car a little faster. It's refreshing to listen to Underworld embrace small, personal thrills. Hyde may well be the same drug-addled crazyman he was during the 1990s, but he doesn't sound like it anymore. "Grace" is a classic "the club...is dark and confusing"-track, but Hyde sounds like he's envious of Interpol's pathos, which, Jesus. "Louisiana", a slothful, album-ending ballad, immediately enters the competition for "worst ever Underworld song," so pale is Hyde's slurring. At different points on the album he talks about being "violently in love" and "quietly violent," but these sort of ominous dictums seem sapped of any real strength. It's weird to say, but Hyde just sounds so much better now when he's celebrating. Barking inhabits an odd place: half-dolorous electro-pop, half-affirming sunnyside jams. You can attribute this to some of the help they had: Underworld farmed Barking's tracks out to various producers, and it shows. "Hamburg Hotel" contains hints of Appleblim's tense nighttime wandering, and Paul van Dyk is all over "Diamond Jigsaw". These "collaborations" seem like a better marketing tool than a musical one, however, as Barking's sonic variance is truthfully no greater than that of most Underworld albums. Underworld receive a lot of credit for being a great albums band in a singles genre, but the lukewarm reception their last two albums received glossed over the fact that each has housed one or two great tracks. So Barking stays the course, with the added prospect of a fitter, happier Underworld on the horizon. It's about time."

The Cure

Three Imaginary Boys [Deluxe Edition]

Rock

Nitsuh Abebe

This review inaugurates what'll theoretically be a whole series of reviews, as Pitchfork follows Rhino's "revitalizing" the entire back catalog of the Cure-- each album wrapped in a modern package, with a bonus disc of associated rarities and a nice glossy linerful of notes and photos. Someday, as the president readjusts her bra, you'll scroll past ads for Suicide Women and find out what this publication really thinks of Bloodflowers; let's leave it to that future-critic to evaluate the Cure as a Big Historical Entity. For the time being, let's just note what this reissue program stands to remind us of: This is a band so idiosyncratic that people hardly even noticed as they remade themselves, drastically, again and again, with an ease that'd make Bowie blush. They made minimalist punk-scene oddities and great gloomy dirges; they made synthpop of both the fey new-wave and grim New Order varieties; they made strangely day-glo pop that used bongos and horns and occasionally pretended to be jazz; they made Disintegration. And all that in more or less its first decade, and all of it without sounding like anything other than The Cure just being The Cure. So we start with this-- a straight-up, sonically-tweaked edition of the group's 1979 UK debut album. Later editions in this series will have the luxury of filling their bonus discs with high-quality outtakes and demos; to this one falls the task of collecting all the wobbly-legged rough takes every band gathers up in its infancy. The result is mostly anthropological-- and, yes, it's difficult to imagine anyone but die-hards and vintage punk enthusiasts needing a live rendition of a song called "Heroin Face". But the story told by the first half of these bonuses is a fascinating one. Everyone familiar with bootlegs of a skinny 18-year-old Robert Smith and a band called the Easy Cure will recognize the sound, essentially that of the punk band that wasn't. Because no matter how much they try to sound hard, no matter how classically 1977 they get ("fiery" guitar solos!), and no matter how close they come to sounding like an Edward Gorey version of The Buzzcocks, you can hear something else bubbling up. And over the series of "home demos" that follows-- almost embarrassingly private ones, as if stolen from Lol Tolhurst's attic-- you can practically hear Smith realizing what that something is: He's interested in off-kilter pop songwriting, not the straight-ahead rush of punk; he's interested in slinky Roxy Music atmosphere and a dreamy, imaginary East, not gritty social realism. You might not spent hours relistening to a cheapy bedroom rough-draft of "10:15 Saturday Night"-- or even its first-run studio demo-- but as a chance to hear a band become itself, it's remarkable. That's particularly true when the early result is something like Three Imaginary Boys, as original a record as anything else to spin off from the tail end of punk. These recordings are spare and simple-- just three guys in a room playing clean, clear lines and letting them ring. And yet everything snaps together like clockwork, from the ingenious songwriting to the precise performances to the decades-long thrill of Smith's voice. This is the simplicity of punk gone suddenly complex and spooky and sneakily psychedelic, whether it's on the creeping tick-tock thrill of "10:15 Saturday Night" or the sneering weirdness of "So What", which has Smith yelping the text of a coupon offer from a bag of sugar. In spots such as the effortlessly, idiosyncratically gemlike "Fire in Cairo" and the bouncy, apocalyptic "Grinding Halt"-- both of which share some of the weightless charm that put "Boys Don't Cry" in the middle-school alternateen canon well into the 90s-- it's odd and quirky. In others, it spreads out the echo and gets slinky, trending toward later gloom. Is this what a new wave Wire might have sounded like, if they were better musicians and smoked opium and were interested in being sexy? Is this what a new wave Joy Division might have sounded like if they went for dreamy, guarded neurosis over the whole raw-passion thing? This is as bold as I'll get: Had The Cure retired after making this record, instead of complicating our appraisals with a whole ensuing career, this LP would be feted as an after-punk gem, a shinier oddball cousin to the current canon. And through the second half of that bonus disc, we come to the less anthropological material that backs it up: album outtakes, rarities, live tracks, singles. The dream-pretty "Winter" fills out the echo and points to the future; "World War" might be the band's last raw sneer. We'll spare the incomparably geeky discussion that could be had about the singles, running to alternate international releases and outdated collections and recent box sets: Suffice to say that you do get "Boys Don't Cry" and "Jumping Someone Else's Train", the latter one of the band's snappiest, sharpest, and most natural early tunes. Listening to "Plastic Passion" or "Killing an Arab" will, for better or worse, involve purchasing other Cure product. But this Cure product is a nice Cure product, no matter how little the casual fan needs basement-grotty demos or early live recordings. And it bodes well for a series of comparable packages, moving point by point through a catalog so broad and brilliant that it contains pockets and corners you can genuinely forget. Onward, then, until everyone's shocked and amazed to discover "The Caterpillar".

Artist: The Cure, Album: Three Imaginary Boys [Deluxe Edition], Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.7 Album review: "This review inaugurates what'll theoretically be a whole series of reviews, as Pitchfork follows Rhino's "revitalizing" the entire back catalog of the Cure-- each album wrapped in a modern package, with a bonus disc of associated rarities and a nice glossy linerful of notes and photos. Someday, as the president readjusts her bra, you'll scroll past ads for Suicide Women and find out what this publication really thinks of Bloodflowers; let's leave it to that future-critic to evaluate the Cure as a Big Historical Entity. For the time being, let's just note what this reissue program stands to remind us of: This is a band so idiosyncratic that people hardly even noticed as they remade themselves, drastically, again and again, with an ease that'd make Bowie blush. They made minimalist punk-scene oddities and great gloomy dirges; they made synthpop of both the fey new-wave and grim New Order varieties; they made strangely day-glo pop that used bongos and horns and occasionally pretended to be jazz; they made Disintegration. And all that in more or less its first decade, and all of it without sounding like anything other than The Cure just being The Cure. So we start with this-- a straight-up, sonically-tweaked edition of the group's 1979 UK debut album. Later editions in this series will have the luxury of filling their bonus discs with high-quality outtakes and demos; to this one falls the task of collecting all the wobbly-legged rough takes every band gathers up in its infancy. The result is mostly anthropological-- and, yes, it's difficult to imagine anyone but die-hards and vintage punk enthusiasts needing a live rendition of a song called "Heroin Face". But the story told by the first half of these bonuses is a fascinating one. Everyone familiar with bootlegs of a skinny 18-year-old Robert Smith and a band called the Easy Cure will recognize the sound, essentially that of the punk band that wasn't. Because no matter how much they try to sound hard, no matter how classically 1977 they get ("fiery" guitar solos!), and no matter how close they come to sounding like an Edward Gorey version of The Buzzcocks, you can hear something else bubbling up. And over the series of "home demos" that follows-- almost embarrassingly private ones, as if stolen from Lol Tolhurst's attic-- you can practically hear Smith realizing what that something is: He's interested in off-kilter pop songwriting, not the straight-ahead rush of punk; he's interested in slinky Roxy Music atmosphere and a dreamy, imaginary East, not gritty social realism. You might not spent hours relistening to a cheapy bedroom rough-draft of "10:15 Saturday Night"-- or even its first-run studio demo-- but as a chance to hear a band become itself, it's remarkable. That's particularly true when the early result is something like Three Imaginary Boys, as original a record as anything else to spin off from the tail end of punk. These recordings are spare and simple-- just three guys in a room playing clean, clear lines and letting them ring. And yet everything snaps together like clockwork, from the ingenious songwriting to the precise performances to the decades-long thrill of Smith's voice. This is the simplicity of punk gone suddenly complex and spooky and sneakily psychedelic, whether it's on the creeping tick-tock thrill of "10:15 Saturday Night" or the sneering weirdness of "So What", which has Smith yelping the text of a coupon offer from a bag of sugar. In spots such as the effortlessly, idiosyncratically gemlike "Fire in Cairo" and the bouncy, apocalyptic "Grinding Halt"-- both of which share some of the weightless charm that put "Boys Don't Cry" in the middle-school alternateen canon well into the 90s-- it's odd and quirky. In others, it spreads out the echo and gets slinky, trending toward later gloom. Is this what a new wave Wire might have sounded like, if they were better musicians and smoked opium and were interested in being sexy? Is this what a new wave Joy Division might have sounded like if they went for dreamy, guarded neurosis over the whole raw-passion thing? This is as bold as I'll get: Had The Cure retired after making this record, instead of complicating our appraisals with a whole ensuing career, this LP would be feted as an after-punk gem, a shinier oddball cousin to the current canon. And through the second half of that bonus disc, we come to the less anthropological material that backs it up: album outtakes, rarities, live tracks, singles. The dream-pretty "Winter" fills out the echo and points to the future; "World War" might be the band's last raw sneer. We'll spare the incomparably geeky discussion that could be had about the singles, running to alternate international releases and outdated collections and recent box sets: Suffice to say that you do get "Boys Don't Cry" and "Jumping Someone Else's Train", the latter one of the band's snappiest, sharpest, and most natural early tunes. Listening to "Plastic Passion" or "Killing an Arab" will, for better or worse, involve purchasing other Cure product. But this Cure product is a nice Cure product, no matter how little the casual fan needs basement-grotty demos or early live recordings. And it bodes well for a series of comparable packages, moving point by point through a catalog so broad and brilliant that it contains pockets and corners you can genuinely forget. Onward, then, until everyone's shocked and amazed to discover "The Caterpillar". "

Black Cilice

Mysteries

Metal

Grayson Haver Currin

Even if a band includes specific instructions on how to listen to its music, is there ever a "correct" way to hear anything? Of course, there are better methods for listening to certain music. You’d hate to experience the majesty of Wagner’s Ring Cycle, for instance, by playing scuffed records on a Crosley Cruiser turntable, and it would be a waste to dump a fortune into an ostentatious hi-fi system if all you really want to do is blast Mayhem’s De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas. But most music and music players fall somewhere in between, so that the differences we experience are rather incremental. Maybe a good record sounds great with a certain setup, but it should still have some payoff even through a pair of tiny white earbuds. Mysteries—the third album by the elusive, prolific Portuguese one-man black metal band Black Cilice—highlights the question of how best to hear by suggesting that there are at least two distinct and acceptable answers. Given the subgenre, you might think that it would be best to simply turn it up, and let it roar. And, yes, at high volumes, where the guitars can shriek and the agitated drums can pound, Mysteries is a monster. But you can also turn Mysteries way down, until those barreling drums recede into a heavy patter and the guitars blur into the record’s presiding distortion and feedback. It becomes a patterned sheet of sound then, where bits and pieces protrude from a singular din. Because they were so poorly recorded, early black metal records sometimes sounded like drone music: The instruments overwhelmed the devices meant to capture them. But Black Cilice take that aesthetic a step further, deploying the technique selectively so that strident guitars, bruised drums and yowled vocals move under and above that matrix, as if they’re alternating between floating and drowning. Black Cilice don’t reinvent quarter-century-old black metal structures; they just lash at them, playing hard, fast, loud and mean. "Ceremonial Energy" bursts forward, a rising-and-falling blast beat and back-and-forth riff suggesting vintage Darkthrone. "Into Morbid Trance" bounds between primitive thrash and menacing black metal, where every instrument seems to be attempting to force its counterparts out of the picture. The vocals suggest gale-force winds passing though a room of live microphones and amplifiers, creating feedback only to harmonize with it. There’s finesse to this mess, as though Black Cilice were trying to tease the border between heavy metal and experimental music. Turned up, for instance, "The Truth" is a pugnacious stomp-along; turned down, it feels strangely warm and beautiful. It suggests Rhys Chatham’s music for massed guitars, where so many instruments were played at once that it became impossible to tell where one ended and another began, or a reprise of Alvin Lucier’s I Am Sitting in a Room, where the first-person subject is actually a roughshod recording of a black metal band. This conceit may seem ridiculous, both for the suggestion that you should lower the volume on a black metal record in order to enjoy it more and for the implication that Black Cilice is some avant-garde wizard with grander intentions than badly recorded bedlam. But to date, each Black Cilice record has gotten more controlled and nuanced; the metal tantrums beneath the noise are more complicated and compelling, and the hiss and squall above it all are more engrossing and interesting. There is an arc of progress to trace in Black Cilice’s output, suggesting that the diametric results of putting Mysteries in the background or foreground are more than mere coincidence. The cover of each Black Cilice full-length has been all black, save for a centered, shrouded figure wearing corpsepaint and doing something wicked. On 2011’s A Corpse, A Temple, he reached skyward, holding a volume bearing an inverted crucifix. On Mysteries, he grimaces as he again looks upward and touches his stomach. For the last three months, I’ve tried to figure out if he’s clutching a rosary to his chest or if he’s pressing against a gushing abdomen wound. The high-contrast image makes it impossible to tell, at least to me and everyone I’ve asked. However willful or accidental, such ambiguity epitomizes the aesthetic of Black Cilice, a strange transmission responsible for one of the most intriguing intersections of black metal and sound art I’ve ever heard.

Artist: Black Cilice, Album: Mysteries, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Even if a band includes specific instructions on how to listen to its music, is there ever a "correct" way to hear anything? Of course, there are better methods for listening to certain music. You’d hate to experience the majesty of Wagner’s Ring Cycle, for instance, by playing scuffed records on a Crosley Cruiser turntable, and it would be a waste to dump a fortune into an ostentatious hi-fi system if all you really want to do is blast Mayhem’s De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas. But most music and music players fall somewhere in between, so that the differences we experience are rather incremental. Maybe a good record sounds great with a certain setup, but it should still have some payoff even through a pair of tiny white earbuds. Mysteries—the third album by the elusive, prolific Portuguese one-man black metal band Black Cilice—highlights the question of how best to hear by suggesting that there are at least two distinct and acceptable answers. Given the subgenre, you might think that it would be best to simply turn it up, and let it roar. And, yes, at high volumes, where the guitars can shriek and the agitated drums can pound, Mysteries is a monster. But you can also turn Mysteries way down, until those barreling drums recede into a heavy patter and the guitars blur into the record’s presiding distortion and feedback. It becomes a patterned sheet of sound then, where bits and pieces protrude from a singular din. Because they were so poorly recorded, early black metal records sometimes sounded like drone music: The instruments overwhelmed the devices meant to capture them. But Black Cilice take that aesthetic a step further, deploying the technique selectively so that strident guitars, bruised drums and yowled vocals move under and above that matrix, as if they’re alternating between floating and drowning. Black Cilice don’t reinvent quarter-century-old black metal structures; they just lash at them, playing hard, fast, loud and mean. "Ceremonial Energy" bursts forward, a rising-and-falling blast beat and back-and-forth riff suggesting vintage Darkthrone. "Into Morbid Trance" bounds between primitive thrash and menacing black metal, where every instrument seems to be attempting to force its counterparts out of the picture. The vocals suggest gale-force winds passing though a room of live microphones and amplifiers, creating feedback only to harmonize with it. There’s finesse to this mess, as though Black Cilice were trying to tease the border between heavy metal and experimental music. Turned up, for instance, "The Truth" is a pugnacious stomp-along; turned down, it feels strangely warm and beautiful. It suggests Rhys Chatham’s music for massed guitars, where so many instruments were played at once that it became impossible to tell where one ended and another began, or a reprise of Alvin Lucier’s I Am Sitting in a Room, where the first-person subject is actually a roughshod recording of a black metal band. This conceit may seem ridiculous, both for the suggestion that you should lower the volume on a black metal record in order to enjoy it more and for the implication that Black Cilice is some avant-garde wizard with grander intentions than badly recorded bedlam. But to date, each Black Cilice record has gotten more controlled and nuanced; the metal tantrums beneath the noise are more complicated and compelling, and the hiss and squall above it all are more engrossing and interesting. There is an arc of progress to trace in Black Cilice’s output, suggesting that the diametric results of putting Mysteries in the background or foreground are more than mere coincidence. The cover of each Black Cilice full-length has been all black, save for a centered, shrouded figure wearing corpsepaint and doing something wicked. On 2011’s A Corpse, A Temple, he reached skyward, holding a volume bearing an inverted crucifix. On Mysteries, he grimaces as he again looks upward and touches his stomach. For the last three months, I’ve tried to figure out if he’s clutching a rosary to his chest or if he’s pressing against a gushing abdomen wound. The high-contrast image makes it impossible to tell, at least to me and everyone I’ve asked. However willful or accidental, such ambiguity epitomizes the aesthetic of Black Cilice, a strange transmission responsible for one of the most intriguing intersections of black metal and sound art I’ve ever heard."

Tyvek

Origin of What

Evan Minsker

Tyvek have been going for over a decade, and at different points throughout the Detroit punks’ tenure, at least 22 people have counted among their ranks. Kevin Boyer’s voice, guitar, collaged cover artwork, and lyrics have always been at the band’s center, but he’s quick to point out the obvious—that each contributing member brings something unique to the table. “Tyvek is always changing,” Boyer told Maximum Rocknroll. “There’s always a period of relearning, half-retracing our steps, but we always find ourselves in a different place from where we left off.” They change their approach semi-regularly, but they don’t sound like a brand-new band with every release. The band’s sound is fairly well-defined. It’s loud punk music, guided by Boyer’s shouted abstract poems. Sometimes the songs are faster, sometimes they’re more anthemic, sometimes they’re choppy, and sometimes they’re all over the place. It really depends on who’s playing. Beyond the more visible albums and singles released by bigger indie labels, they’ve put out piles of CDRs and tapes. Then there’s the sprawl of music released by the members’ other bands. Mountains and Rainbows and the Intended, for example, both had strong debut albums arrive this year. Members of Protomartyr and Saturday Looks Good to Me have played in Tyvek. The list goes on like that for a while. Tyvek’s new album Origin of What is an acknowledgement of the band’s history; it features seven musicians from across the band’s lineups. Every new song shuffles the players, and other than Boyer, the only constant is Fred Thomas, who recorded the album and drums on 10 of the 12 tracks. Thomas and Boyer go way back: Thomas recorded a 2002 Boyer solo project, and more recently, worked on Tyvek’s On Triple Beams. These two anchors become important when Origin of What weaves between slower, paced material and all-out bashers. The opening two tracks “Tip to Tail” and “Can’t Exist” fall at the rowdier end of the spectrum, showing Tyvek at the height of their kinetic earworm powers. It’s also a one-two that shows a huge range in guitar tone—bleary echoing guitars linger in the background of the former while the latter is all crunch and distortion. The faster, punchier stuff is counterbalanced by songs like “Origin of What”—a six-minute track with a more gradual, dense tread that addresses U.S. Steel and the decline of the Euro. Boyer has talked about the importance of the “subtle tics” in Tyvek songs, which is true—details and texture are always key to the character of their records. There's a moment on “Choose Once” when a once-prominent vocal is suddenly swallowed beneath the song’s huge primary guitar line, as if Boyer’s mic was kicked over. Then there’s “Tyvek Chant,” a song comprised of repeated screams and guitars that seem to come through an AM radio feed, abstracted by crackles and fuzz. Several pieces on Origin of What show that the Tyvek operation is generally more subtle than their shout-along, high-speed rock‘n’roll masterworks might suggest. “Underwater Three Dub” is the most gentle point of the record—a collaboration between Boyer, Thomas, and Shelley Salant (who makes spacey, hypnotic instrumental guitar records under the name Shells). While this melody floats and shimmers, Boyer sings a mantra of sorts: “No limits. Smash limits.” Aided by the instincts of his collaborators, Boyer threads together these wordy, detail-stuffed songs that are fast and staid, intense and gentle, paranoid and curious. Punk can be uniform and boring. By spreading out and proving adept at several modes, Tyvek show that this music can be plenty inclusive—that there are no limits.

Artist: Tyvek, Album: Origin of What, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Tyvek have been going for over a decade, and at different points throughout the Detroit punks’ tenure, at least 22 people have counted among their ranks. Kevin Boyer’s voice, guitar, collaged cover artwork, and lyrics have always been at the band’s center, but he’s quick to point out the obvious—that each contributing member brings something unique to the table. “Tyvek is always changing,” Boyer told Maximum Rocknroll. “There’s always a period of relearning, half-retracing our steps, but we always find ourselves in a different place from where we left off.” They change their approach semi-regularly, but they don’t sound like a brand-new band with every release. The band’s sound is fairly well-defined. It’s loud punk music, guided by Boyer’s shouted abstract poems. Sometimes the songs are faster, sometimes they’re more anthemic, sometimes they’re choppy, and sometimes they’re all over the place. It really depends on who’s playing. Beyond the more visible albums and singles released by bigger indie labels, they’ve put out piles of CDRs and tapes. Then there’s the sprawl of music released by the members’ other bands. Mountains and Rainbows and the Intended, for example, both had strong debut albums arrive this year. Members of Protomartyr and Saturday Looks Good to Me have played in Tyvek. The list goes on like that for a while. Tyvek’s new album Origin of What is an acknowledgement of the band’s history; it features seven musicians from across the band’s lineups. Every new song shuffles the players, and other than Boyer, the only constant is Fred Thomas, who recorded the album and drums on 10 of the 12 tracks. Thomas and Boyer go way back: Thomas recorded a 2002 Boyer solo project, and more recently, worked on Tyvek’s On Triple Beams. These two anchors become important when Origin of What weaves between slower, paced material and all-out bashers. The opening two tracks “Tip to Tail” and “Can’t Exist” fall at the rowdier end of the spectrum, showing Tyvek at the height of their kinetic earworm powers. It’s also a one-two that shows a huge range in guitar tone—bleary echoing guitars linger in the background of the former while the latter is all crunch and distortion. The faster, punchier stuff is counterbalanced by songs like “Origin of What”—a six-minute track with a more gradual, dense tread that addresses U.S. Steel and the decline of the Euro. Boyer has talked about the importance of the “subtle tics” in Tyvek songs, which is true—details and texture are always key to the character of their records. There's a moment on “Choose Once” when a once-prominent vocal is suddenly swallowed beneath the song’s huge primary guitar line, as if Boyer’s mic was kicked over. Then there’s “Tyvek Chant,” a song comprised of repeated screams and guitars that seem to come through an AM radio feed, abstracted by crackles and fuzz. Several pieces on Origin of What show that the Tyvek operation is generally more subtle than their shout-along, high-speed rock‘n’roll masterworks might suggest. “Underwater Three Dub” is the most gentle point of the record—a collaboration between Boyer, Thomas, and Shelley Salant (who makes spacey, hypnotic instrumental guitar records under the name Shells). While this melody floats and shimmers, Boyer sings a mantra of sorts: “No limits. Smash limits.” Aided by the instincts of his collaborators, Boyer threads together these wordy, detail-stuffed songs that are fast and staid, intense and gentle, paranoid and curious. Punk can be uniform and boring. By spreading out and proving adept at several modes, Tyvek show that this music can be plenty inclusive—that there are no limits."

Unknown Mortal Orchestra

Multi-Love

Rock

Jeremy D. Larson

Unknown Mortal Orchestra's music is like a game of hide-and-seek, revealing one thing only to bury another. Blink and you’ll miss the guitar in the beginning of Multi-Love’s "The World Is Crowded" because a burst of synths comes in and saturates the track to a pure white hum. If you don’t catch the anxieties and heartbreaks of polyamorous love, it’s because Ruban Nielson has compressed and phased his voice down to a thin analog texture. Falling for UMO is as easy as taking time to look for what Nielson conceals in his songs. It can be a vintage Crumar synth tangled in the mix, or him pondering if someone would listen to his "silly voice" on the last day of their life; a loose hi-hat on the off-beat subtly driving the verse into the chorus, or him thinking his wife’s love for him is her "fatal flaw." For as tuned-in and specific as it is, Multi-Love is multivalent. Next to some baroque '60s beat music there’s a Zappa homage, propped up against a dance track you could find on a Giorgio Moroder record, followed by some pigeon-toed funk that you should probably do a bunch of drugs to. It’s a wunderkammer inside, cramped with hundreds of tiny gestures, musical and lyrical. Recall, this is a guy who’s obsessed with taking huge pop ideas, like "How Can You Luv Me" off his debut album, and turning them completely inward. That song could be a Bruno Mars No. 1 hit in the hands of a major label producer. But Nielson is a fussy gear-head who loves psychedelia, shredding on his guitar without a pick, and, well, making music to do a bunch of drugs to. All the pop songs are buried deep in the mossy soul of Multi-Love. Nielson produced, mixed, and engineered the entirety of Multi-Love. Some back-end teams work hard to hide in the shadows and feel that if they do their job well, the listener won’t even notice any production. Nielson is the opposite of that. The production is so central it’s almost another character on the album, corroding and tripping out the instruments, and compressing drum tracks down so they can fit in the palm of your hand. At times it feels like you’re listening to the album with un-popped ears. Once in a while, on simpler songs like the mid-tempo "Stage or Screen" or the obtuse motown-soul of "Ur Life One Night", make this vintage sheen feel like a crutch rather than a purposeful tool. Nielson's ear for how something should sound is unparalleled, and his fastidious choices behind the boards are a large part of what makes Multi-Love a joy to listen to. It's as if he tried to make Stevie Wonder’s Innervisions and Prince’s Sign ‘O’ the Times in secret, so as not to wake the kids upstairs—private celebrations and private exorcisms. The most outspoken Nielson gets is on "Can’t Keep Checking My Phone", a single worthy of Larry Levan’s crate at Paradise Garage as some one-off flamenco disco track stuck near the end of the set. Underneath the spacey dance party, Nielson lays out a bittersweet song about missing someone you love, while the other person you love is right by your side. In a recent profile, Nielson said, "Think about the two most serious relationships in your life so far, and then experiencing them simultaneously." Polyamory is an emotionally and spiritually dense topic to approach on an album, and, for someone with a third-eye tattoo, Nielson mostly avoids speaking in hempy clichés. Save for some grand overtures on the title track that actually feel more expository than anything else, his laments about these two women in his life are as finely portioned as the music below it. He ropes his feelings under universal themes on "Extreme Wealth and Casual Cruelty". Who wouldn't want to abandon it all and start over again as "just strangers" without the strictures of money or society? It's a story as old as time, only in Nielson's case, it just happens to be star-triple-cross'd lovers. This is Nielson's most accomplished album, though it's not his most direct, or brash, or explosive. Those are moods he mostly saves that for the closer, "Puzzles". The seven-minute song serves as a tacked-on coda with overdriven '70s hard rock guitar and Nielson stretching the capacity of his vocals to a bluesy peak. It will kill live, as will most of these songs which will bend into longer, louder psych forms in rock clubs. But "Puzzles" feels broad and out of place here, despite its charms. Maybe it's the "Electioneering" outlier of an album with such an evocative mood. I think there's more to be found in the horn part on the endlessly melodic "Necessary Evil", played by Nielson's father. It's soft as Muzak, a simple up-and-down melody with smooth swing rhythm. When Nielson coos the words "necessary evil," the horn line just shifts forward one beat in the measure, making it sound entirely different while actually staying the exact same. It's one small link in a long chain of moments strung together seamlessly and imbued with so much.

Artist: Unknown Mortal Orchestra, Album: Multi-Love, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Unknown Mortal Orchestra's music is like a game of hide-and-seek, revealing one thing only to bury another. Blink and you’ll miss the guitar in the beginning of Multi-Love’s "The World Is Crowded" because a burst of synths comes in and saturates the track to a pure white hum. If you don’t catch the anxieties and heartbreaks of polyamorous love, it’s because Ruban Nielson has compressed and phased his voice down to a thin analog texture. Falling for UMO is as easy as taking time to look for what Nielson conceals in his songs. It can be a vintage Crumar synth tangled in the mix, or him pondering if someone would listen to his "silly voice" on the last day of their life; a loose hi-hat on the off-beat subtly driving the verse into the chorus, or him thinking his wife’s love for him is her "fatal flaw." For as tuned-in and specific as it is, Multi-Love is multivalent. Next to some baroque '60s beat music there’s a Zappa homage, propped up against a dance track you could find on a Giorgio Moroder record, followed by some pigeon-toed funk that you should probably do a bunch of drugs to. It’s a wunderkammer inside, cramped with hundreds of tiny gestures, musical and lyrical. Recall, this is a guy who’s obsessed with taking huge pop ideas, like "How Can You Luv Me" off his debut album, and turning them completely inward. That song could be a Bruno Mars No. 1 hit in the hands of a major label producer. But Nielson is a fussy gear-head who loves psychedelia, shredding on his guitar without a pick, and, well, making music to do a bunch of drugs to. All the pop songs are buried deep in the mossy soul of Multi-Love. Nielson produced, mixed, and engineered the entirety of Multi-Love. Some back-end teams work hard to hide in the shadows and feel that if they do their job well, the listener won’t even notice any production. Nielson is the opposite of that. The production is so central it’s almost another character on the album, corroding and tripping out the instruments, and compressing drum tracks down so they can fit in the palm of your hand. At times it feels like you’re listening to the album with un-popped ears. Once in a while, on simpler songs like the mid-tempo "Stage or Screen" or the obtuse motown-soul of "Ur Life One Night", make this vintage sheen feel like a crutch rather than a purposeful tool. Nielson's ear for how something should sound is unparalleled, and his fastidious choices behind the boards are a large part of what makes Multi-Love a joy to listen to. It's as if he tried to make Stevie Wonder’s Innervisions and Prince’s Sign ‘O’ the Times in secret, so as not to wake the kids upstairs—private celebrations and private exorcisms. The most outspoken Nielson gets is on "Can’t Keep Checking My Phone", a single worthy of Larry Levan’s crate at Paradise Garage as some one-off flamenco disco track stuck near the end of the set. Underneath the spacey dance party, Nielson lays out a bittersweet song about missing someone you love, while the other person you love is right by your side. In a recent profile, Nielson said, "Think about the two most serious relationships in your life so far, and then experiencing them simultaneously." Polyamory is an emotionally and spiritually dense topic to approach on an album, and, for someone with a third-eye tattoo, Nielson mostly avoids speaking in hempy clichés. Save for some grand overtures on the title track that actually feel more expository than anything else, his laments about these two women in his life are as finely portioned as the music below it. He ropes his feelings under universal themes on "Extreme Wealth and Casual Cruelty". Who wouldn't want to abandon it all and start over again as "just strangers" without the strictures of money or society? It's a story as old as time, only in Nielson's case, it just happens to be star-triple-cross'd lovers. This is Nielson's most accomplished album, though it's not his most direct, or brash, or explosive. Those are moods he mostly saves that for the closer, "Puzzles". The seven-minute song serves as a tacked-on coda with overdriven '70s hard rock guitar and Nielson stretching the capacity of his vocals to a bluesy peak. It will kill live, as will most of these songs which will bend into longer, louder psych forms in rock clubs. But "Puzzles" feels broad and out of place here, despite its charms. Maybe it's the "Electioneering" outlier of an album with such an evocative mood. I think there's more to be found in the horn part on the endlessly melodic "Necessary Evil", played by Nielson's father. It's soft as Muzak, a simple up-and-down melody with smooth swing rhythm. When Nielson coos the words "necessary evil," the horn line just shifts forward one beat in the measure, making it sound entirely different while actually staying the exact same. It's one small link in a long chain of moments strung together seamlessly and imbued with so much."

Mat Maneri, Joe McPhee

Sustain

Experimental,Jazz

Chris Dahlen

The first time I saw violinist Mat Maneri was at the Willow Jazz Cafe, a small bar in a suburb outside Boston. He was playing in a trio with guitarist Joe Morris and, more notably, his father Joe Maneri, the great saxophonist and devout free improviser. They played an abstract, completely improvised set, with lines that could rise to flurries or insinuate themselves as lightly as paper cuts. It was an engrossing and, on the father-son side of the trio, intimate performance: even the Van Halen on the jukebox next door couldn't break the audience's total concentration. Maneri's father may be his biggest influence. Both men explore a microtonal scale that Joe invented, which takes the twelve notes of the regular octave and slivers them into seventy-two. For the listener, this means the two musicians veer into nuances of pitch but hit them with a mapmaker's precision: the subtleties are decisive and codified. This makes the music demandingly cerebral; but a more important trait they share-- and the one that makes their music more engrossing than academic-- is the absolute passion that guides their technique. In his father's case, it's the boisterous tone that burbles through his saxophone and clarinet; for Mat, it's an intensity that can be searing. He plays with the deliberateness of a cigarette burning itself out. Maneri had already appeared on some of the finest European art music labels-- ECM, Leo, and HatHut-- when he released Blue Decco for the Thirsty Ear Blue Series. That release put him on the tiny roster of America's most vital jazz imprint, and it was also his most accessible album to date, a joyful, trad-sounding jazz album that kicked off with a swinging rendition of "Hush Little Baby", before closing with a cover of Duke Ellington's "I Got It Bad", where Maneri pulled his notes so beautifully thin, he almost bled them dry. Two years later he's released his second disc on the Blue Series, and it takes a far different approach. For Sustain, he wrote abstract compositions so stretched out and/or skeletal that they almost sound formless. As on Blue Decco, Maneri works with a quartet that includes some of downtown New York's finest: Gerald Cleaver on drums, Craig Taborn on keyboards, and William Parker on bass. On soprano sax, he adds featured guest Joe McPhee, the avant-jazz legend whose career is so crucial that the HatHut label was founded specifically to document his work. This is a stellar group of improvisers, but where Blue Decco hewed close to traditional jazz forms, Sustain emphasizes seamless group interplay: the band makes slow but unyielding progress, and each track smolders. "Sustain" and "In Peace" float like clouds, while "Divine" moves in drawn-out shudders. Taborn mainly sticks to keyboards, and instead of adding blunt synth washes, he comps in subtle colors (as well as his patented deep-sea sonar pings). He melds with Maneri's electric viola, and as soloists, both men drift in and out of the spotlight: McPhee, more freewheeling, steps up assertively but doesn't disrupt the backdrop. The rhythm section only implies the beat, as Cleaver and Parker confidently circle the edges of the music. But then there's "Nerve", which resembles Miles Davis' electric fusion. Not so much fast as blaring, it features Maneri and Taborn jamming with heavy distortion; Maneri employs what might be a wah-wah pedal to make his viola sound like a guitar. McPhee plays a funky solo through the clamor, and with Cleaver and Parker crashing inwards, the piece bottlenecks like a slow car crash. Maneri separates the group tracks with five solo pieces (one per musician) that emphasize the raw sounds of each instrument. These blend into the program surprisingly well: the Maneri solo that opens the disc is engrossingly slow; Cleaver's, the most hypnotic, sounds like he's dragging a chain around his cymbal. McPhee falls short of playing actual notes, instead honing us in on the sound of his breath in his mouthpiece. Taborn's piano solo is more conventional but he lays on the sustain pedals to keep the notes hanging around him, and Parker plays an arco solo where his bowing is so deep it acquires physical girth, though his whistling overtones could etch glass. It goes without saying that capturing improvisation like this in the studio is difficult, and although none of Maneri's discs has been less than solid, his two releases on the Blue Series stand out as the tightest, most exciting, and most accessible. Of course, his recordings with his dad are also essential-- their duo Blessed on ECM is a great Father's Day gift for dads who dig free improv-- but the Blue Series deserves credit for releasing the definitive documents of a rising talent.

Artist: Mat Maneri, Joe McPhee, Album: Sustain, Genre: Experimental,Jazz, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "The first time I saw violinist Mat Maneri was at the Willow Jazz Cafe, a small bar in a suburb outside Boston. He was playing in a trio with guitarist Joe Morris and, more notably, his father Joe Maneri, the great saxophonist and devout free improviser. They played an abstract, completely improvised set, with lines that could rise to flurries or insinuate themselves as lightly as paper cuts. It was an engrossing and, on the father-son side of the trio, intimate performance: even the Van Halen on the jukebox next door couldn't break the audience's total concentration. Maneri's father may be his biggest influence. Both men explore a microtonal scale that Joe invented, which takes the twelve notes of the regular octave and slivers them into seventy-two. For the listener, this means the two musicians veer into nuances of pitch but hit them with a mapmaker's precision: the subtleties are decisive and codified. This makes the music demandingly cerebral; but a more important trait they share-- and the one that makes their music more engrossing than academic-- is the absolute passion that guides their technique. In his father's case, it's the boisterous tone that burbles through his saxophone and clarinet; for Mat, it's an intensity that can be searing. He plays with the deliberateness of a cigarette burning itself out. Maneri had already appeared on some of the finest European art music labels-- ECM, Leo, and HatHut-- when he released Blue Decco for the Thirsty Ear Blue Series. That release put him on the tiny roster of America's most vital jazz imprint, and it was also his most accessible album to date, a joyful, trad-sounding jazz album that kicked off with a swinging rendition of "Hush Little Baby", before closing with a cover of Duke Ellington's "I Got It Bad", where Maneri pulled his notes so beautifully thin, he almost bled them dry. Two years later he's released his second disc on the Blue Series, and it takes a far different approach. For Sustain, he wrote abstract compositions so stretched out and/or skeletal that they almost sound formless. As on Blue Decco, Maneri works with a quartet that includes some of downtown New York's finest: Gerald Cleaver on drums, Craig Taborn on keyboards, and William Parker on bass. On soprano sax, he adds featured guest Joe McPhee, the avant-jazz legend whose career is so crucial that the HatHut label was founded specifically to document his work. This is a stellar group of improvisers, but where Blue Decco hewed close to traditional jazz forms, Sustain emphasizes seamless group interplay: the band makes slow but unyielding progress, and each track smolders. "Sustain" and "In Peace" float like clouds, while "Divine" moves in drawn-out shudders. Taborn mainly sticks to keyboards, and instead of adding blunt synth washes, he comps in subtle colors (as well as his patented deep-sea sonar pings). He melds with Maneri's electric viola, and as soloists, both men drift in and out of the spotlight: McPhee, more freewheeling, steps up assertively but doesn't disrupt the backdrop. The rhythm section only implies the beat, as Cleaver and Parker confidently circle the edges of the music. But then there's "Nerve", which resembles Miles Davis' electric fusion. Not so much fast as blaring, it features Maneri and Taborn jamming with heavy distortion; Maneri employs what might be a wah-wah pedal to make his viola sound like a guitar. McPhee plays a funky solo through the clamor, and with Cleaver and Parker crashing inwards, the piece bottlenecks like a slow car crash. Maneri separates the group tracks with five solo pieces (one per musician) that emphasize the raw sounds of each instrument. These blend into the program surprisingly well: the Maneri solo that opens the disc is engrossingly slow; Cleaver's, the most hypnotic, sounds like he's dragging a chain around his cymbal. McPhee falls short of playing actual notes, instead honing us in on the sound of his breath in his mouthpiece. Taborn's piano solo is more conventional but he lays on the sustain pedals to keep the notes hanging around him, and Parker plays an arco solo where his bowing is so deep it acquires physical girth, though his whistling overtones could etch glass. It goes without saying that capturing improvisation like this in the studio is difficult, and although none of Maneri's discs has been less than solid, his two releases on the Blue Series stand out as the tightest, most exciting, and most accessible. Of course, his recordings with his dad are also essential-- their duo Blessed on ECM is a great Father's Day gift for dads who dig free improv-- but the Blue Series deserves credit for releasing the definitive documents of a rising talent."

Amusement Parks on Fire

Amusement Parks on Fire

Rock

Jason Crock

If you don't fall in love with Amusement Parks on Fire's self-titled debut after the first few notes of "Venus in Cancer", you never will. A throbbing dose of 4/4 overdriven pop, the song casually channels the melody from Dinosaur Jr.'s "Little Fury Things" via frontman Michael Feerick's smooth delivery, which conveys a sense of angst without over-emoting. It's an impressive feat considering Feerick recorded the album entirely on his own, but after you've heard the first two tracks-- the slow-building, piano-and-strings instrumental "23 Jewels" that leads to "Venus"-- you've pretty much heard the entire record. As the album proceeds, APOF's waves of distorted guitar continue to rise and fall and the instrumental breathers come at just the right moments, but there are no more tricks up Feerick's sleeve. "Venosa" delivers jagged guitars and a jaunty melody, and it's followed with another plodding piano-driven instrumental, "Asphalt (Interlude)". Even the moments of derivation, like the tape-recorded dialogue over the breakdown in "Eighty Eight" or the gradual crescendos and declines of the eight-minute "Wiper", seem predictable. At times, the transitions between tracks can be charming-- "The Ramones Book" is a modest, maudlin piano ballad that kicks unexpectedly into the soaring shoegaze of "Local Boy Makes God"-- but the album simply revisits the same couple of sounds. It's not just that the pacing is so methodical it nearly makes the record sterile, or that the best song just reminds me of someone else's better song, but for all of the overhwlelming guitars layered onto these songs, sentimental ballads like "The Ramones Book" are what's at the record's heart. My perception might be colored by hearing the "rustic" version of "Venus in Caner" from that song's single release, a precious acoustic rendition that stands perfectly on it's own. It was a revelation: These tracks aren't bult to bruise, they're bedroom pop in a blanket of distortion as a defense. Feerick's simple melodies sound much more apt with subtle coloration instead of overkill. Amusement Parks on Fire has undeniable focus, but it's moments like "The Ramones Book" that reveal the most.

Artist: Amusement Parks on Fire, Album: Amusement Parks on Fire, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "If you don't fall in love with Amusement Parks on Fire's self-titled debut after the first few notes of "Venus in Cancer", you never will. A throbbing dose of 4/4 overdriven pop, the song casually channels the melody from Dinosaur Jr.'s "Little Fury Things" via frontman Michael Feerick's smooth delivery, which conveys a sense of angst without over-emoting. It's an impressive feat considering Feerick recorded the album entirely on his own, but after you've heard the first two tracks-- the slow-building, piano-and-strings instrumental "23 Jewels" that leads to "Venus"-- you've pretty much heard the entire record. As the album proceeds, APOF's waves of distorted guitar continue to rise and fall and the instrumental breathers come at just the right moments, but there are no more tricks up Feerick's sleeve. "Venosa" delivers jagged guitars and a jaunty melody, and it's followed with another plodding piano-driven instrumental, "Asphalt (Interlude)". Even the moments of derivation, like the tape-recorded dialogue over the breakdown in "Eighty Eight" or the gradual crescendos and declines of the eight-minute "Wiper", seem predictable. At times, the transitions between tracks can be charming-- "The Ramones Book" is a modest, maudlin piano ballad that kicks unexpectedly into the soaring shoegaze of "Local Boy Makes God"-- but the album simply revisits the same couple of sounds. It's not just that the pacing is so methodical it nearly makes the record sterile, or that the best song just reminds me of someone else's better song, but for all of the overhwlelming guitars layered onto these songs, sentimental ballads like "The Ramones Book" are what's at the record's heart. My perception might be colored by hearing the "rustic" version of "Venus in Caner" from that song's single release, a precious acoustic rendition that stands perfectly on it's own. It was a revelation: These tracks aren't bult to bruise, they're bedroom pop in a blanket of distortion as a defense. Feerick's simple melodies sound much more apt with subtle coloration instead of overkill. Amusement Parks on Fire has undeniable focus, but it's moments like "The Ramones Book" that reveal the most."

Creedence Clearwater Revival

Cosmo’s Factory

Rock

John Lingan

The four hirsute, sheepish men of Creedence Clearwater Revival were greeted as conquerors when they arrived in London in April 1970. From humble beginnings in suburban San Francisco, the quartet had ascended, in barely a year, to the absolute height of late-’60s rock stardom. They’d headlined Woodstock, released an ongoing run of multi-platinum albums and singles, and in 1969, did what seemed impossible at the time: They outsold the Beatles. They looked hale and healthy, too, muscular but bashful dudes in Army surplus jackets and flannel shirts. They lacked any real group personality or public image beyond tough-guy smiles and ubiquitous hits. Meanwhile, the Beatles were looking lurid. Since 1968, the rumors were all about heroin and bitter interpersonal squabbles. Just as Creedence arrived to begin their first European tour, Paul McCartney released advance copies of his first solo album to the media alongside a “self-interview” that referred to his “break with the Beatles.” There was suddenly no one left to outsell. For those next two weeks in April, Creedence did what they always did: played an unchanging set for one adoring audience after another, then refused encores. (Their shows were so consistent that they famously released a “Live at the Royal Albert Hall” record that was actually recorded in Oakland). This was John Fogerty’s policy, one of an increasing number of rules that he’d created to match his total control over their group’s songs, production, and finances. His bandmates—drummer Doug “Cosmo” Clifford, bassist Stu Cook, and Fogerty’s brother Tom on rhythm guitar—went home to the Bay Area with wonderful memories of their self-taught bashing ringing out in opera houses. But they also remembered standing just offstage, thousands of new fawning converts screaming for more, and their leader expending all his clout just to deprive them of that worship for some meaningless personal code. That was Creedence Clearwater Revival in spring and summer of 1970, as they finished and released their fifth album, Cosmo’s Factory. They had started playing music together in middle school and had been slugging their way through a music career for more than a decade in various iterations. There was the studio session backing an over-the-hill doo-wop singer, the years with Tom on lead vocals, the costumed jangly years as the Golliwogs. Having now achieved hard-won but revelatory success, they were still plagued by the same stubborn-garbage, masculine hardwiring that they’d been carrying since adolescence. They were all raw nerves and personal vendettas but were operating musically like one four-limbed brain. You must remember: Literally and figuratively, they were brothers. When you hear one of those songs, you know the ones—in Vietnam movies, The Big Lebowski, classic rock radio, your uncle’s radio by the grill—you’re hearing bone-deep, childhood-borne closeness and codependency. They learned how to play instruments together, how to cultivate a discerning musical taste, how to give their music that elusive, ineffable “in-between” that their bluesman and R&B heroes had. They started with squaresville garage-band dance-party stuff, then slowly absorbed Booker T. & the M.G.’s, Bakersfield country, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Roy Orbison, Muddy Waters. John Fogerty grew into his role as bandleader while Phil Spector, Brian Wilson, and Berry Gordy were developing instantly recognizable musical brands. They had sounds as distinctive as Sun or Chess, which Fogerty also revered for their spareness and guitar tones. This was hardly in step with the psychedelic music that Creedence’s Bay Area peers were developing, but Fogerty was resolute. He was developing an entire aesthetic vision and the whole responsibility for enacting it rested on his brother and his schoolmates. Cosmo’s Factory begins with the purest expression of those varied inspirations and pressures that the band ever recorded. “Ramble Tamble” has somehow escaped the kind of classic-rock canonization of “Black Dog” or “Baba O’Riley” as an epic album opener, but it stands tall among them. It opens with a jaunty country-funk riff that sounds almost like James Brown once the band kicks in, then they instantly switch gears into roaring double-time rockabilly. Fogerty’s guitar and howling vocals are both treated with the same ghostly slap-back effect that he’d borrowed from Sun and Chess. He shout-sings one of his signature apocalyptic scenes, full of images of junk and ruin, like “Bad Moon Rising” but furious. Then the band slows down, Fogerty’s sketch of “mud in the water…bugs in the sugar” comes to a halt and is replaced with a slowly building space-rock squall unlike anything that Creedence, typically so earthbound, ever recorded. Then they dissolve that and rebuild the rockabilly section, where Fogerty returns to his angry-preacher routine. He’d written about specters and new dawns before, but this was the first time that he’d conveyed the idea in music itself. “Ramble Tamble” sounds like a band fighting its way to find new horizons, new styles, all the way past language in the title. Near the end of the record, the 11-minute take on “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” reverses the opening song’s sense of adventurousness, turning Motown’s sophisticated dance song into a droning, claustrophobic blues. The rest of Cosmo’s Factory is a hodge-podge, which was typical of Creedence’s full-lengths. Between the extended tracks and a handful of previously released hits like “Travelin’ Band” and “Long as I Can See The Light,” they included lively but inessential covers like “Ooby Dooby” and “Before You Accuse Me.” It’s not a statement record or some kind of grand step forward in the band’s evolution. It’s just an unpretentious collection of songs, named for their little San Francisco practice space and featuring one of the least affected album covers of the classic rock era. Somehow, in 1970, the year of Kent State, the My Lai massacre trial, and Let It Be, no album spent longer at No. 1 in the U.S. Creedence broke up within two years. Their roiling interpersonal difficulties explain the brevity of Creedence’s success, but what accounts for its intensity? How did a band so far apart from their peers and so untrendy become the most popular group in America—and during a time of so much unrest? Creedence never wrote a love song, barely ever used vocal harmony, never employed guest musicians, and had a strict (and mutually agreed-upon) policy against alcohol and drug use during music-making. They were not exactly the face of late-’60s youth culture, but they

Artist: Creedence Clearwater Revival, Album: Cosmo’s Factory, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.8 Album review: "The four hirsute, sheepish men of Creedence Clearwater Revival were greeted as conquerors when they arrived in London in April 1970. From humble beginnings in suburban San Francisco, the quartet had ascended, in barely a year, to the absolute height of late-’60s rock stardom. They’d headlined Woodstock, released an ongoing run of multi-platinum albums and singles, and in 1969, did what seemed impossible at the time: They outsold the Beatles. They looked hale and healthy, too, muscular but bashful dudes in Army surplus jackets and flannel shirts. They lacked any real group personality or public image beyond tough-guy smiles and ubiquitous hits. Meanwhile, the Beatles were looking lurid. Since 1968, the rumors were all about heroin and bitter interpersonal squabbles. Just as Creedence arrived to begin their first European tour, Paul McCartney released advance copies of his first solo album to the media alongside a “self-interview” that referred to his “break with the Beatles.” There was suddenly no one left to outsell. For those next two weeks in April, Creedence did what they always did: played an unchanging set for one adoring audience after another, then refused encores. (Their shows were so consistent that they famously released a “Live at the Royal Albert Hall” record that was actually recorded in Oakland). This was John Fogerty’s policy, one of an increasing number of rules that he’d created to match his total control over their group’s songs, production, and finances. His bandmates—drummer Doug “Cosmo” Clifford, bassist Stu Cook, and Fogerty’s brother Tom on rhythm guitar—went home to the Bay Area with wonderful memories of their self-taught bashing ringing out in opera houses. But they also remembered standing just offstage, thousands of new fawning converts screaming for more, and their leader expending all his clout just to deprive them of that worship for some meaningless personal code. That was Creedence Clearwater Revival in spring and summer of 1970, as they finished and released their fifth album, Cosmo’s Factory. They had started playing music together in middle school and had been slugging their way through a music career for more than a decade in various iterations. There was the studio session backing an over-the-hill doo-wop singer, the years with Tom on lead vocals, the costumed jangly years as the Golliwogs. Having now achieved hard-won but revelatory success, they were still plagued by the same stubborn-garbage, masculine hardwiring that they’d been carrying since adolescence. They were all raw nerves and personal vendettas but were operating musically like one four-limbed brain. You must remember: Literally and figuratively, they were brothers. When you hear one of those songs, you know the ones—in Vietnam movies, The Big Lebowski, classic rock radio, your uncle’s radio by the grill—you’re hearing bone-deep, childhood-borne closeness and codependency. They learned how to play instruments together, how to cultivate a discerning musical taste, how to give their music that elusive, ineffable “in-between” that their bluesman and R&B heroes had. They started with squaresville garage-band dance-party stuff, then slowly absorbed Booker T. & the M.G.’s, Bakersfield country, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Roy Orbison, Muddy Waters. John Fogerty grew into his role as bandleader while Phil Spector, Brian Wilson, and Berry Gordy were developing instantly recognizable musical brands. They had sounds as distinctive as Sun or Chess, which Fogerty also revered for their spareness and guitar tones. This was hardly in step with the psychedelic music that Creedence’s Bay Area peers were developing, but Fogerty was resolute. He was developing an entire aesthetic vision and the whole responsibility for enacting it rested on his brother and his schoolmates. Cosmo’s Factory begins with the purest expression of those varied inspirations and pressures that the band ever recorded. “Ramble Tamble” has somehow escaped the kind of classic-rock canonization of “Black Dog” or “Baba O’Riley” as an epic album opener, but it stands tall among them. It opens with a jaunty country-funk riff that sounds almost like James Brown once the band kicks in, then they instantly switch gears into roaring double-time rockabilly. Fogerty’s guitar and howling vocals are both treated with the same ghostly slap-back effect that he’d borrowed from Sun and Chess. He shout-sings one of his signature apocalyptic scenes, full of images of junk and ruin, like “Bad Moon Rising” but furious. Then the band slows down, Fogerty’s sketch of “mud in the water…bugs in the sugar” comes to a halt and is replaced with a slowly building space-rock squall unlike anything that Creedence, typically so earthbound, ever recorded. Then they dissolve that and rebuild the rockabilly section, where Fogerty returns to his angry-preacher routine. He’d written about specters and new dawns before, but this was the first time that he’d conveyed the idea in music itself. “Ramble Tamble” sounds like a band fighting its way to find new horizons, new styles, all the way past language in the title. Near the end of the record, the 11-minute take on “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” reverses the opening song’s sense of adventurousness, turning Motown’s sophisticated dance song into a droning, claustrophobic blues. The rest of Cosmo’s Factory is a hodge-podge, which was typical of Creedence’s full-lengths. Between the extended tracks and a handful of previously released hits like “Travelin’ Band” and “Long as I Can See The Light,” they included lively but inessential covers like “Ooby Dooby” and “Before You Accuse Me.” It’s not a statement record or some kind of grand step forward in the band’s evolution. It’s just an unpretentious collection of songs, named for their little San Francisco practice space and featuring one of the least affected album covers of the classic rock era. Somehow, in 1970, the year of Kent State, the My Lai massacre trial, and Let It Be, no album spent longer at No. 1 in the U.S. Creedence broke up within two years. Their roiling interpersonal difficulties explain the brevity of Creedence’s success, but what accounts for its intensity? How did a band so far apart from their peers and so untrendy become the most popular group in America—and during a time of so much unrest? Creedence never wrote a love song, barely ever used vocal harmony, never employed guest musicians, and had a strict (and mutually agreed-upon) policy against alcohol and drug use during music-making. They were not exactly the face of late-’60s youth culture, but they "

Gardens & Villa

Gardens & Villa

Rock

Stuart Berman

On their 2008 tour for Devotion, Beach House had a t-shirt for sale at their merch table featuring the album title spelled out in the sort of gothic font you see on death-metal album covers, creating a cheeky contrast between the grim presentation and the band's tranquil hazy-headed dream-pop. But those two aesthetic poles blurred into one upon hearing the striking debut single from Gardens & Villa. Ideal for summertime strolls through a cemetery, "Black Hills" pits vibraphone chimes against an icy synth pulse overtop an unnervingly steady beat. And while "Black Hills" presents magisterial images of mountains, seas, and high tides, its environment feels tensely claustrophobic, with Chris Lynch's elastic, androgynous voice projecting serenity and severity in equal measure. It's the sort of song you could easily imagine Beach House coming up with, were they to follow-up the lushness of Teen Dream with something more sinister. But the self-titled debut album that "Black Hills" opens shows Gardens & Villa to be something more complex than just a Beach Hearse. That such a moody outfit hails from sunny Santa Barbara is but a surface indication of their curious qualities. With a lyric sheet that's preoccupied with nature and mysticism-- not to mention a singer who's not afraid to whip out a flute-- Gardens & Villa could easily be pegged as hippies. But they're also keen on playing up the artificial qualities of their music, foregrounding synthesizers and mechanized, metronomic rhythms to create a peculiar hybrid of 1960s and 80s sensibilities. (One song bears the particularly apt title of "Neon Dove".) As such, the austerity of their sound can make them seem both sternly serious and, at times, rather goofy. (See: the ping-ponged synth-pop of "Spacetime", wherein the title is repeated in a comically spooky voice, as if it were the intro to some old Saturday morning cartoon.) Given their fondness for the classic and the plastic, it's no surprise Gardens & Villa feel equally at home recording their album with piano-bar bard Richard Swift as touring with hipster hype magnets Foster the People. But if the ambiguous quality of their sound sometimes makes it hard to become emotionally invested in Gardens & Villa, in Lynch, they're blessed with a singer who has remarkable presence and poise. For all the effeminate intimations in his voice, he never uses it for pure affectation or gratuitous, histrionic effect. And though the band has been quick to cite the percussive funk of Talking Heads as a driving influence, they truly excel at crafting atmospheric ballads: the Low-like hymn "Chemtrails" and, especially, the foreboding "Sunday Morning", a rainy-day requiem that favorably recalls the retro-futurist psych-pop of the United States of America or Broadcast. It's hard to predict where Gardens & Villa might go from here: bombastic, drum-circle-ready closer "Neon Dove" carries the possibility of Yeasayer-styled transition from misfits to populists, while "Orange Blossom" suggests a desire to join Wild Beasts on the art-funk fringes. But in the flute-tootin' Lynch, they've got a pied piper worth following down whichever path he takes.

Artist: Gardens & Villa, Album: Gardens & Villa, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "On their 2008 tour for Devotion, Beach House had a t-shirt for sale at their merch table featuring the album title spelled out in the sort of gothic font you see on death-metal album covers, creating a cheeky contrast between the grim presentation and the band's tranquil hazy-headed dream-pop. But those two aesthetic poles blurred into one upon hearing the striking debut single from Gardens & Villa. Ideal for summertime strolls through a cemetery, "Black Hills" pits vibraphone chimes against an icy synth pulse overtop an unnervingly steady beat. And while "Black Hills" presents magisterial images of mountains, seas, and high tides, its environment feels tensely claustrophobic, with Chris Lynch's elastic, androgynous voice projecting serenity and severity in equal measure. It's the sort of song you could easily imagine Beach House coming up with, were they to follow-up the lushness of Teen Dream with something more sinister. But the self-titled debut album that "Black Hills" opens shows Gardens & Villa to be something more complex than just a Beach Hearse. That such a moody outfit hails from sunny Santa Barbara is but a surface indication of their curious qualities. With a lyric sheet that's preoccupied with nature and mysticism-- not to mention a singer who's not afraid to whip out a flute-- Gardens & Villa could easily be pegged as hippies. But they're also keen on playing up the artificial qualities of their music, foregrounding synthesizers and mechanized, metronomic rhythms to create a peculiar hybrid of 1960s and 80s sensibilities. (One song bears the particularly apt title of "Neon Dove".) As such, the austerity of their sound can make them seem both sternly serious and, at times, rather goofy. (See: the ping-ponged synth-pop of "Spacetime", wherein the title is repeated in a comically spooky voice, as if it were the intro to some old Saturday morning cartoon.) Given their fondness for the classic and the plastic, it's no surprise Gardens & Villa feel equally at home recording their album with piano-bar bard Richard Swift as touring with hipster hype magnets Foster the People. But if the ambiguous quality of their sound sometimes makes it hard to become emotionally invested in Gardens & Villa, in Lynch, they're blessed with a singer who has remarkable presence and poise. For all the effeminate intimations in his voice, he never uses it for pure affectation or gratuitous, histrionic effect. And though the band has been quick to cite the percussive funk of Talking Heads as a driving influence, they truly excel at crafting atmospheric ballads: the Low-like hymn "Chemtrails" and, especially, the foreboding "Sunday Morning", a rainy-day requiem that favorably recalls the retro-futurist psych-pop of the United States of America or Broadcast. It's hard to predict where Gardens & Villa might go from here: bombastic, drum-circle-ready closer "Neon Dove" carries the possibility of Yeasayer-styled transition from misfits to populists, while "Orange Blossom" suggests a desire to join Wild Beasts on the art-funk fringes. But in the flute-tootin' Lynch, they've got a pied piper worth following down whichever path he takes."

Various Artists

Thumbsucker OST

Rob Mitchum

As summer turns to fall in the cinematic season, it has become traditional for studios to wheel out indie coming-of-age films. Since we've been around this block before, we know to expect certain things from the soundtracks of these films, be they focused on teenage crisis, quarter-life crisis, mid-life crisis, or some combination of these infinite crises. Any compiler knows that a delicate mix of childlike whimsy and bittersweet melancholy is a must, not to mention a dusted-off, neglected oldie that summarizes the film's themes, and maybe a few covers, for good measure. Thumbsucker is clearly aware of these requirements, and given director Mike Mills' illustrious career in music video production, his rolodex should have been more than up to the challenge of filling out the OST. He started by courting Elliott Smith, who was originally pegged to provide all of the film's music. Smith's erratic work rate delayed the proceedings, and his death halted them, forcing Mills to draft in the Polyphonic Spree, perhaps thinking he could at least save the money it would've cost to hire an orchestra. To their credit, Tim DeLaughter's robed crew are adept at the whimsy part of the recipe stated above, as anyone who's heard their relentlessly optimistic brand of sun-cult music can attest. Though the format doesn't allow the Spree to indulge their usual slow-build dynamics, the band nevertheless finds the space to use all of their many parts, handing most of the vocals to their choir and letting the strings, horns, etc. flit around the borders. But with rarely more than a minute or so to unfurl, the songs lack heft, sounding a little like jingles for correspondence art schools and new-age massage centers. However, as far as the Spree doing the melancholy part: Eh, not so much. Attempts at gravitas sound overly forced and unnatural for the band, with DeLaughter putting on his best Ben Gibbard impression for "Sourness Makes It Right" and the choral smiles being poorly hidden on "Wait and See". Fortunately, Mills was able to salvage three demo-ish songs done by Smith, tremulous takes on Big Star's "Thirteen", Cat Stevens' "Trouble", and his own "Let's Get Lost". "Thirteen" is clearly the best of these, reverently remade as it is, Smith adding another sedimental layer of sadness to undercut Alex Chilton's already-longing adolescent reminiscences. But as accompaniment to a movie about a troubled teenager and his relationships, it's not the most subtle of soundtracking gestures. Lack of subtlety is something that plagues the entire score, not surprising given the rainbow sledgehammer tactics of the Polyphonic Spree. In the end, this lack of grace is what keeps Thumbsucker's OST from joining the ranks of excellent indie soundtracks alongside The Virgin Suicides, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and anything Mark Mothersbaugh has done for Wes Anderson. The Polyphonic Spree, despite attempts to pare down their sound and numbers when appropriate, can't help but be too intrusive for cinematic usage, inserting themselves into scenes like that episode from "Scrubs", rather than providing constructive background color.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Thumbsucker OST, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.2 Album review: "As summer turns to fall in the cinematic season, it has become traditional for studios to wheel out indie coming-of-age films. Since we've been around this block before, we know to expect certain things from the soundtracks of these films, be they focused on teenage crisis, quarter-life crisis, mid-life crisis, or some combination of these infinite crises. Any compiler knows that a delicate mix of childlike whimsy and bittersweet melancholy is a must, not to mention a dusted-off, neglected oldie that summarizes the film's themes, and maybe a few covers, for good measure. Thumbsucker is clearly aware of these requirements, and given director Mike Mills' illustrious career in music video production, his rolodex should have been more than up to the challenge of filling out the OST. He started by courting Elliott Smith, who was originally pegged to provide all of the film's music. Smith's erratic work rate delayed the proceedings, and his death halted them, forcing Mills to draft in the Polyphonic Spree, perhaps thinking he could at least save the money it would've cost to hire an orchestra. To their credit, Tim DeLaughter's robed crew are adept at the whimsy part of the recipe stated above, as anyone who's heard their relentlessly optimistic brand of sun-cult music can attest. Though the format doesn't allow the Spree to indulge their usual slow-build dynamics, the band nevertheless finds the space to use all of their many parts, handing most of the vocals to their choir and letting the strings, horns, etc. flit around the borders. But with rarely more than a minute or so to unfurl, the songs lack heft, sounding a little like jingles for correspondence art schools and new-age massage centers. However, as far as the Spree doing the melancholy part: Eh, not so much. Attempts at gravitas sound overly forced and unnatural for the band, with DeLaughter putting on his best Ben Gibbard impression for "Sourness Makes It Right" and the choral smiles being poorly hidden on "Wait and See". Fortunately, Mills was able to salvage three demo-ish songs done by Smith, tremulous takes on Big Star's "Thirteen", Cat Stevens' "Trouble", and his own "Let's Get Lost". "Thirteen" is clearly the best of these, reverently remade as it is, Smith adding another sedimental layer of sadness to undercut Alex Chilton's already-longing adolescent reminiscences. But as accompaniment to a movie about a troubled teenager and his relationships, it's not the most subtle of soundtracking gestures. Lack of subtlety is something that plagues the entire score, not surprising given the rainbow sledgehammer tactics of the Polyphonic Spree. In the end, this lack of grace is what keeps Thumbsucker's OST from joining the ranks of excellent indie soundtracks alongside The Virgin Suicides, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and anything Mark Mothersbaugh has done for Wes Anderson. The Polyphonic Spree, despite attempts to pare down their sound and numbers when appropriate, can't help but be too intrusive for cinematic usage, inserting themselves into scenes like that episode from "Scrubs", rather than providing constructive background color."

Archers of Loaf

Icky Mettle

Rock

Matt LeMay

No single trend in 1990s indie rock can be traced back to Archers of Loaf. They weren't quite "lo-fi," they weren't quite "slackers," their guitars weren't quite "noisy" and their drums weren't quite "mathy." Eric Bachmann's vocals were gritty and visceral, but his lyrics were oblique and cerebral. Archers of Loaf thrived on subtle contradictions, on purposeful vagaries, on tentative gestures delivered with utmost conviction. It comes as neither a surprise nor a disappointment that this much-needed remaster of the band's 1993 debut, Icky Mettle, isn't particularly revelatory: Everything is still right there in the songs themselves. It seems fitting that Archers of Loaf's first reunion show this year was not a high-profile festival appearance, but rather an unannounced "opening" slot for now-labelmates the Love Language at a mid-sized rock club. Like fellow North Carolinians Superchunk, Archers passed on interest from a major label during the 90s "alternative" gold rush, signing instead with independent label Alias (then home to Yo La Tengo and the Loud Family). They released increasingly adventurous records for five years, and broke up with minimal drama or fanfare. This, the first in a series of planned deluxe reissues from Merge, perfectly captures the energy of the band's early days, from their slapdash first singles to the scrappy brilliance of Icky Mettle itself to the more honed recordings that followed. Released on the heels of some well-received singles and a buzzed-about performance at the CMJ Music Marathon in New York, Icky Mettle was a hotly anticipated debut for the pre-Internet age. To say it starts on a strong note would be an understatement; opener "Web in Front" is quite simply among the finest indie rock songs ever written. That a song whose lyrics are all but impossible to parse literally comes off as so immediate and relatable speaks both to Bachmann's skill with words-as-sounds, and to his bandmates' ability to put force and nuance behind his voice. Much of the credit here belongs to guitarist Eric Johnson, whose melodic and fluttery guitar parts seem to hammer the very emotional notes that Bachmann's words intentionally skirt. "Web in Front" finds its near-equal in "Wrong", B-side to the band's first single and perhaps their most compelling study in self-effacing aggression. It is only in the second half of the song's ascendant chorus that Bachmann admits, "I do not think that you could like me anyway/ Because you are superior in all aspects to me," echoing the first half of the chorus but inverting the previously uttered "inferior." This self-fulfilling fatalism is at the heart of innumerable rock songs by innumerable bitter young men, but it is rarely expressed with the introspective clarity that Bachmann displays throughout Icky Mettle. The second disc of Merge's reissue compiles the excellent Vs. the Greatest of All Time EP and the early singles that were previously included on the Speed of Cattle compilation. The five songs from Vs. the Greatest of All Time hint at the more spacious and muscular sound that the band would cultivate on their sophomore LP, Vee Vee, while early 7" versions of "Wrong" and "Web in Front" are disjointed and flaccid previews of their album counterparts. The slightly claustrophobic sonics and consistent midtempo clip of Icky Mettle can be daunting at times, and the textural variety of this bonus material makes for a welcome change of pace. The ramshackle sound of Icky Mettle earned Archers of Loaf comparisons to Pavement (and the occasional dismissal as a Pavement ripoff act), but Bachmann's earnest self-consciousness is miles away from Stephen Malkmus's arch self-awareness. The strain in Bachmann's voice as he sings "clearly, this is your loss" in prescient hipster diss "Plumb Line" is devastating, a crack of self-doubt that masterfully undermines the pointed decisiveness of Bachmann's language. Uncertainty has never sounded so much like a rallying cry.

Artist: Archers of Loaf, Album: Icky Mettle, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.0 Album review: "No single trend in 1990s indie rock can be traced back to Archers of Loaf. They weren't quite "lo-fi," they weren't quite "slackers," their guitars weren't quite "noisy" and their drums weren't quite "mathy." Eric Bachmann's vocals were gritty and visceral, but his lyrics were oblique and cerebral. Archers of Loaf thrived on subtle contradictions, on purposeful vagaries, on tentative gestures delivered with utmost conviction. It comes as neither a surprise nor a disappointment that this much-needed remaster of the band's 1993 debut, Icky Mettle, isn't particularly revelatory: Everything is still right there in the songs themselves. It seems fitting that Archers of Loaf's first reunion show this year was not a high-profile festival appearance, but rather an unannounced "opening" slot for now-labelmates the Love Language at a mid-sized rock club. Like fellow North Carolinians Superchunk, Archers passed on interest from a major label during the 90s "alternative" gold rush, signing instead with independent label Alias (then home to Yo La Tengo and the Loud Family). They released increasingly adventurous records for five years, and broke up with minimal drama or fanfare. This, the first in a series of planned deluxe reissues from Merge, perfectly captures the energy of the band's early days, from their slapdash first singles to the scrappy brilliance of Icky Mettle itself to the more honed recordings that followed. Released on the heels of some well-received singles and a buzzed-about performance at the CMJ Music Marathon in New York, Icky Mettle was a hotly anticipated debut for the pre-Internet age. To say it starts on a strong note would be an understatement; opener "Web in Front" is quite simply among the finest indie rock songs ever written. That a song whose lyrics are all but impossible to parse literally comes off as so immediate and relatable speaks both to Bachmann's skill with words-as-sounds, and to his bandmates' ability to put force and nuance behind his voice. Much of the credit here belongs to guitarist Eric Johnson, whose melodic and fluttery guitar parts seem to hammer the very emotional notes that Bachmann's words intentionally skirt. "Web in Front" finds its near-equal in "Wrong", B-side to the band's first single and perhaps their most compelling study in self-effacing aggression. It is only in the second half of the song's ascendant chorus that Bachmann admits, "I do not think that you could like me anyway/ Because you are superior in all aspects to me," echoing the first half of the chorus but inverting the previously uttered "inferior." This self-fulfilling fatalism is at the heart of innumerable rock songs by innumerable bitter young men, but it is rarely expressed with the introspective clarity that Bachmann displays throughout Icky Mettle. The second disc of Merge's reissue compiles the excellent Vs. the Greatest of All Time EP and the early singles that were previously included on the Speed of Cattle compilation. The five songs from Vs. the Greatest of All Time hint at the more spacious and muscular sound that the band would cultivate on their sophomore LP, Vee Vee, while early 7" versions of "Wrong" and "Web in Front" are disjointed and flaccid previews of their album counterparts. The slightly claustrophobic sonics and consistent midtempo clip of Icky Mettle can be daunting at times, and the textural variety of this bonus material makes for a welcome change of pace. The ramshackle sound of Icky Mettle earned Archers of Loaf comparisons to Pavement (and the occasional dismissal as a Pavement ripoff act), but Bachmann's earnest self-consciousness is miles away from Stephen Malkmus's arch self-awareness. The strain in Bachmann's voice as he sings "clearly, this is your loss" in prescient hipster diss "Plumb Line" is devastating, a crack of self-doubt that masterfully undermines the pointed decisiveness of Bachmann's language. Uncertainty has never sounded so much like a rallying cry."

James Blackshaw

Fantômas: Le Faux Magistrat

Folk/Country

Grayson Haver Currin

If you’re hoping to be a musician hidebound to a set of stylistic suppositions meant to guide your entire career, consider making your debut with an album full of acoustic guitar music. Whether it’s due to a lack of differentiating reference points (every young guitarist, mind you, recalls John Fahey) or the isolating nature of the enterprise itself, emerging guitarists often seem conscripted into that role forever. Fahey rarely gets mentioned for his fascinating musiqué concrete experiments, or Sandy Bull for his work with electronics and exotica. Is it any wonder that Rainy Day Raga—the Peter Walker album without flute, violin, and sarod—remains the only one listeners really know? As a sideman for Lambchop and Silver Jews and the head of an excellent reissue label, William Tyler has had a career as varied as his albums, which have moved increasingly at liberty between lithe electrics, plaintive acoustics, and beguiling electronics. His latest EP is a three-song rock stomp, but the handle of “acoustic guitarist,” the heritage of his earliest works, will likely remain his yoke for years to come. During the last five years, the British guitarist James Blackshaw has attempted to move beyond the restrictive reputation he gained during the first half of his career. On his early albums for Tompkins Square and Young God, Blackshaw blossomed from a majestic player into a stunning arranger, able to link his 12-string fantasies with backlit accompaniment that, though spare, doubled the guitar’s emotional payload. And on more recent works, he’s increased his time on the piano and the nylon-stringed guitar. He wrote exclusively for those instruments on Love is The Plan, The Plan is Death from 2012, an album that even included an oblong torch song with saturnine vocals from heavy metal singer Geneviève Beaulieu. Last year, he issued The Watchers, a beautiful collection of improvisations with Lubomyr Melnyk, the Ukrainian pianist who shares with Blackshaw a love of ornate, uninterrupted audio. Blackshaw’s new music is the sound of someone actively pressing against the boundaries of expectation. Fantômas: Le Faux Magistrat is Blackshaw’s most audacious attempt yet to shatter that mold. Recorded live in Paris last Halloween, the seamless 74-minute piece stemmed from a commission for a live score for the 1914 silent movie Le Faux Magistrat. The fifth film in a series of classics by Louis Feuillade, Le Faux Magistrat ended a centennial celebration of the director at the prestigious Théâtre de Châtelet. Preceded by the likes of Tim Hecker and Yann Tiersen, Blackshaw was tasked with providing accompaniment to the screening. Rather than write a long and loping guitar piece, though, Blackshaw took it as an invitation to exercise his unrest. He recruited a quartet to work through a set of a dozen interconnected movements, surprisingly filled with dissonant electronics and consonant strings, dynamic percussion and versatile saxophone. Blackshaw leads with piano, nylon-stringed guitar and an electric, but he often yields the foreground to the group, slipping into the mix like a composer watching from the wings as an ensemble goes to work. And the players he assembled are a stunning mix, capable of animating his search for inspiration in soft jazz and classical minimalism, electroacoustic luminescence and sweeping post-rock, without pause. Duane Pitre and Charlotte Glasson—American and British experimental multi-instrumentalists, respectively—serve as the utility players here, accenting the music’s range. Pitre moves between electric guitar harmonics and subdural drones, while Glasson adds bold saxophone and sweeping strings, sometimes within the span of a single minute. Slowdive’s Simon Scott shifts between light, almost incidental percussion and thundering drums. Indeed, their most powerful moment as a group comes at one of Blackshaw’s most surprising turns as a composer. While he plays what could pass for a sample of “A Love Supreme” on piano, Scott and Pitre, now on bass and synthesizer, form a punishing, doom-like rhythm section. Glasson laces the load with vibraphone whorls and saxophone sighs. She is the bait, balanced at the lip of the trap. The condition that gives moments like this their intrigue—that is, Blackshaw is actively working to outstrip his past—is also the source of Fantômas’ overall error. Blackshaw and his band return to a handful of themes and textures, such as the piano ostinato that serves as a bridge between several pieces. But it all seems a touch desultory, too, as though Blackshaw’s suddenly large toolkit tempted him to build too much too soon. Parts evolve with force, not finesse, and many moments seem undeserved and undeveloped, as when electronic washes empty into the mix like a transitional crutch. In the past, Blackshaw’s music seemed to reveal cathedrals of wonder and mystery, a quality that made it worth revisiting. But much of Fantômas seems plain and pat, the sort of structures one might make while learning the basics of a trade. Many of the piano lines here mirror Blackshaw’s guitar work, but they’re less powerful and wooing in their new, almost hesitant voice. And at worst, the nylon-string bits can feel like outright pap, cheap filler in a broad and ornate scheme. During the piece’s grand moment of high-rising action, for instance, Blackshaw takes what sounds like Europe’s “The Final Countdown” for a lap of soft-rock shuffle. Intentional or not, it’s a hilarious distraction from the music’s pensive mood, a break in the reverie that feels every bit like a growing pain. Fantômas is certainly a pleasant listen, perhaps a bit jumbled for any immersion but varied and arching enough to soundtrack household chores. Still, its most notable accomplishment is that it should emancipate Blackshaw, once and for all, from his 12-string-guitarist cloister, or from the prevailing if obsolete notion that he does only one thing. Ideas abound during Fantômas, even if the execution is lacking. That’s a happy reversal from Blackshaw’s previously pristine output—an auspicious sign for the future, even if necessitates a rather forgettable present.

Artist: James Blackshaw, Album: Fantômas: Le Faux Magistrat, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "If you’re hoping to be a musician hidebound to a set of stylistic suppositions meant to guide your entire career, consider making your debut with an album full of acoustic guitar music. Whether it’s due to a lack of differentiating reference points (every young guitarist, mind you, recalls John Fahey) or the isolating nature of the enterprise itself, emerging guitarists often seem conscripted into that role forever. Fahey rarely gets mentioned for his fascinating musiqué concrete experiments, or Sandy Bull for his work with electronics and exotica. Is it any wonder that Rainy Day Raga—the Peter Walker album without flute, violin, and sarod—remains the only one listeners really know? As a sideman for Lambchop and Silver Jews and the head of an excellent reissue label, William Tyler has had a career as varied as his albums, which have moved increasingly at liberty between lithe electrics, plaintive acoustics, and beguiling electronics. His latest EP is a three-song rock stomp, but the handle of “acoustic guitarist,” the heritage of his earliest works, will likely remain his yoke for years to come. During the last five years, the British guitarist James Blackshaw has attempted to move beyond the restrictive reputation he gained during the first half of his career. On his early albums for Tompkins Square and Young God, Blackshaw blossomed from a majestic player into a stunning arranger, able to link his 12-string fantasies with backlit accompaniment that, though spare, doubled the guitar’s emotional payload. And on more recent works, he’s increased his time on the piano and the nylon-stringed guitar. He wrote exclusively for those instruments on Love is The Plan, The Plan is Death from 2012, an album that even included an oblong torch song with saturnine vocals from heavy metal singer Geneviève Beaulieu. Last year, he issued The Watchers, a beautiful collection of improvisations with Lubomyr Melnyk, the Ukrainian pianist who shares with Blackshaw a love of ornate, uninterrupted audio. Blackshaw’s new music is the sound of someone actively pressing against the boundaries of expectation. Fantômas: Le Faux Magistrat is Blackshaw’s most audacious attempt yet to shatter that mold. Recorded live in Paris last Halloween, the seamless 74-minute piece stemmed from a commission for a live score for the 1914 silent movie Le Faux Magistrat. The fifth film in a series of classics by Louis Feuillade, Le Faux Magistrat ended a centennial celebration of the director at the prestigious Théâtre de Châtelet. Preceded by the likes of Tim Hecker and Yann Tiersen, Blackshaw was tasked with providing accompaniment to the screening. Rather than write a long and loping guitar piece, though, Blackshaw took it as an invitation to exercise his unrest. He recruited a quartet to work through a set of a dozen interconnected movements, surprisingly filled with dissonant electronics and consonant strings, dynamic percussion and versatile saxophone. Blackshaw leads with piano, nylon-stringed guitar and an electric, but he often yields the foreground to the group, slipping into the mix like a composer watching from the wings as an ensemble goes to work. And the players he assembled are a stunning mix, capable of animating his search for inspiration in soft jazz and classical minimalism, electroacoustic luminescence and sweeping post-rock, without pause. Duane Pitre and Charlotte Glasson—American and British experimental multi-instrumentalists, respectively—serve as the utility players here, accenting the music’s range. Pitre moves between electric guitar harmonics and subdural drones, while Glasson adds bold saxophone and sweeping strings, sometimes within the span of a single minute. Slowdive’s Simon Scott shifts between light, almost incidental percussion and thundering drums. Indeed, their most powerful moment as a group comes at one of Blackshaw’s most surprising turns as a composer. While he plays what could pass for a sample of “A Love Supreme” on piano, Scott and Pitre, now on bass and synthesizer, form a punishing, doom-like rhythm section. Glasson laces the load with vibraphone whorls and saxophone sighs. She is the bait, balanced at the lip of the trap. The condition that gives moments like this their intrigue—that is, Blackshaw is actively working to outstrip his past—is also the source of Fantômas’ overall error. Blackshaw and his band return to a handful of themes and textures, such as the piano ostinato that serves as a bridge between several pieces. But it all seems a touch desultory, too, as though Blackshaw’s suddenly large toolkit tempted him to build too much too soon. Parts evolve with force, not finesse, and many moments seem undeserved and undeveloped, as when electronic washes empty into the mix like a transitional crutch. In the past, Blackshaw’s music seemed to reveal cathedrals of wonder and mystery, a quality that made it worth revisiting. But much of Fantômas seems plain and pat, the sort of structures one might make while learning the basics of a trade. Many of the piano lines here mirror Blackshaw’s guitar work, but they’re less powerful and wooing in their new, almost hesitant voice. And at worst, the nylon-string bits can feel like outright pap, cheap filler in a broad and ornate scheme. During the piece’s grand moment of high-rising action, for instance, Blackshaw takes what sounds like Europe’s “The Final Countdown” for a lap of soft-rock shuffle. Intentional or not, it’s a hilarious distraction from the music’s pensive mood, a break in the reverie that feels every bit like a growing pain. Fantômas is certainly a pleasant listen, perhaps a bit jumbled for any immersion but varied and arching enough to soundtrack household chores. Still, its most notable accomplishment is that it should emancipate Blackshaw, once and for all, from his 12-string-guitarist cloister, or from the prevailing if obsolete notion that he does only one thing. Ideas abound during Fantômas, even if the execution is lacking. That’s a happy reversal from Blackshaw’s previously pristine output—an auspicious sign for the future, even if necessitates a rather forgettable present."

Starlight Mints

Built on Squares

Rock

Nicholas B. Sylvester

Album titles can become goldmines of unintended significance. Music critics jump at the opportunity to prove the name of an album is indicative of the band itself, or the songs contained within, or some radical turn the band has taken. It's like overzealous comparative lit majors who forge half-baked relationships between two entirely incongruous pieces of work: "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation was clearly informed by 12th century cave paintings of vegetarian mating rituals in South India." Ah, the Liberal Arts. We've endured a the Strokes jabs-- "No, seriously, is this it? I mean it, like, is it really?"-- or my personal favorite Microphones catcall-- "It was hot, we stayed in the water...and sucked!" Sometimes the album title is relevant to content, but all too often, these analogies are wrenched beyond reason for the sake of some pithy introduction. So humor me for second. If there were any pop band out there today "built on squares," the Starlight Mints would probably be the last you'd suspect. A square is simple, unchallenging, and utterly honest; this quirky Oklahoma ensemble, with its bizarre lyrics to its unconventional pop instrumentation, is the furthest thing from equal sides and right angles. Pop music in a strict sense, however, is very square and very simple. Ultimately, it breaks down to verse and chorus. Our reaction to it is not intelligent or analytical but visceral: we like the way it sounds, and we often judge pop based on how we feel when we listen to it, not how cleverly we see the chords fitting together or why the composer chose to follow one particular note with another. What drives pop music thex96 and what makes it so intriguing as an artform-- is the challenge of crafting (e.g. intellectualizing) a truly visceral experience. In the most timeless pop music-- and perhaps timeless music in general-- there is a symbiotic relationship between the song's visceral immediacy and the depth of its inner workings. The latter preserves the former, while the former makes the latter relevant. Immediacy is no hard thing to come by in pop music these days-- saccharine hooks are a dime a dozen. The task in front of today's pop musicians is to maintain immediacy, but to make that physical immediacy "interesting" too, which is purely on an intellectual level. The most rudimentary elements of pop-- its squares-- must be rearranged for the sake of the genre itself. Not to bill them as the saviors of pop, but the Starlight Mints-- in a vein similar to the Decemberists or the mid-90s Cardigans-- are doing just that. Built on Squares finds the band writing enjoyable and refreshingly interesting pop songs: all eleven tracks are fun, catchy and well-conceived, making this very much the logical progression from 2001's The Dream That Stuff Was Made Of. The Mints avoid the pitfall of using variety of instruments as a gimmicky substitute for carefully considered song writing, and what results is an album that comes off natural and effortless, rooted firmly in the squares of pop, where even its orchestro-pop embellishments from violin to trombone to bowling pins at the beginning of "Irene" seem uncontrived. After the opener "Black Cat", peppered with quirky string arrangements at its beginning and throughout, the catchy quasi-country romp "Brass Digger" bops around, replete with a Cake-like mariachi trumpet, blues harmonica and Alan Vest's oddball lyrics. "From the Brooklyn train to the other everglades, have you ever met a rat named the Brass Digger?" As if rats weren't bizarre enough subject matter, the spacey rocker that follows ("Goldstar") has Vest detailing a run-in with a woman "kinky like a girl from Mars" who tries to shoot him with the mysterious "goldstar gun." "Irene" is perhaps most indicative of the band's ability to conflate a wide range of seemingly incongruous influences and instrumentations, and from these elements to produce something entirely graceful and original. Fuzz bass, horn lines reminiscent of The Price Is Right, skittering Casiotone twitches, and balls-out AC/DC guitar riffs coexist harmoniously as the kitschy female voice floats atop the mix, singing the 50s bubblegum-ish "You make my world spin 'round." For its remarkable depth and business, "Irene" never chokes on its own complexity. It is a testament to the meticulous production of Built on Squares, which undoubtedly aspired to instruments not dominating each other in the mix. It is at once easy and difficult to speak of the Starlight Mints' influences, easy because they are immediately recognizable, difficult because there are so many of them. The album's latter half alone, for instance, features the Weezer-like lilt of "Zillion Eyes", a blatant aping of the Kinks' riff from "All Day and All of the Night" in "Jack In The Squares", and Vest's Bowie-like tremolo in "Jimmy Cricket". The Starlight Mints in this sense walk the fine line between sounding like no other band and like every other band before them. Such concerns, however, are neither here nor there when the album is within an earshot; Built on Squares is the fun and catchy work of talented pop musicians, writing terribly interesting songs without compromising pop's essential, visceral lure.

Artist: Starlight Mints, Album: Built on Squares, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Album titles can become goldmines of unintended significance. Music critics jump at the opportunity to prove the name of an album is indicative of the band itself, or the songs contained within, or some radical turn the band has taken. It's like overzealous comparative lit majors who forge half-baked relationships between two entirely incongruous pieces of work: "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation was clearly informed by 12th century cave paintings of vegetarian mating rituals in South India." Ah, the Liberal Arts. We've endured a the Strokes jabs-- "No, seriously, is this it? I mean it, like, is it really?"-- or my personal favorite Microphones catcall-- "It was hot, we stayed in the water...and sucked!" Sometimes the album title is relevant to content, but all too often, these analogies are wrenched beyond reason for the sake of some pithy introduction. So humor me for second. If there were any pop band out there today "built on squares," the Starlight Mints would probably be the last you'd suspect. A square is simple, unchallenging, and utterly honest; this quirky Oklahoma ensemble, with its bizarre lyrics to its unconventional pop instrumentation, is the furthest thing from equal sides and right angles. Pop music in a strict sense, however, is very square and very simple. Ultimately, it breaks down to verse and chorus. Our reaction to it is not intelligent or analytical but visceral: we like the way it sounds, and we often judge pop based on how we feel when we listen to it, not how cleverly we see the chords fitting together or why the composer chose to follow one particular note with another. What drives pop music thex96 and what makes it so intriguing as an artform-- is the challenge of crafting (e.g. intellectualizing) a truly visceral experience. In the most timeless pop music-- and perhaps timeless music in general-- there is a symbiotic relationship between the song's visceral immediacy and the depth of its inner workings. The latter preserves the former, while the former makes the latter relevant. Immediacy is no hard thing to come by in pop music these days-- saccharine hooks are a dime a dozen. The task in front of today's pop musicians is to maintain immediacy, but to make that physical immediacy "interesting" too, which is purely on an intellectual level. The most rudimentary elements of pop-- its squares-- must be rearranged for the sake of the genre itself. Not to bill them as the saviors of pop, but the Starlight Mints-- in a vein similar to the Decemberists or the mid-90s Cardigans-- are doing just that. Built on Squares finds the band writing enjoyable and refreshingly interesting pop songs: all eleven tracks are fun, catchy and well-conceived, making this very much the logical progression from 2001's The Dream That Stuff Was Made Of. The Mints avoid the pitfall of using variety of instruments as a gimmicky substitute for carefully considered song writing, and what results is an album that comes off natural and effortless, rooted firmly in the squares of pop, where even its orchestro-pop embellishments from violin to trombone to bowling pins at the beginning of "Irene" seem uncontrived. After the opener "Black Cat", peppered with quirky string arrangements at its beginning and throughout, the catchy quasi-country romp "Brass Digger" bops around, replete with a Cake-like mariachi trumpet, blues harmonica and Alan Vest's oddball lyrics. "From the Brooklyn train to the other everglades, have you ever met a rat named the Brass Digger?" As if rats weren't bizarre enough subject matter, the spacey rocker that follows ("Goldstar") has Vest detailing a run-in with a woman "kinky like a girl from Mars" who tries to shoot him with the mysterious "goldstar gun." "Irene" is perhaps most indicative of the band's ability to conflate a wide range of seemingly incongruous influences and instrumentations, and from these elements to produce something entirely graceful and original. Fuzz bass, horn lines reminiscent of The Price Is Right, skittering Casiotone twitches, and balls-out AC/DC guitar riffs coexist harmoniously as the kitschy female voice floats atop the mix, singing the 50s bubblegum-ish "You make my world spin 'round." For its remarkable depth and business, "Irene" never chokes on its own complexity. It is a testament to the meticulous production of Built on Squares, which undoubtedly aspired to instruments not dominating each other in the mix. It is at once easy and difficult to speak of the Starlight Mints' influences, easy because they are immediately recognizable, difficult because there are so many of them. The album's latter half alone, for instance, features the Weezer-like lilt of "Zillion Eyes", a blatant aping of the Kinks' riff from "All Day and All of the Night" in "Jack In The Squares", and Vest's Bowie-like tremolo in "Jimmy Cricket". The Starlight Mints in this sense walk the fine line between sounding like no other band and like every other band before them. Such concerns, however, are neither here nor there when the album is within an earshot; Built on Squares is the fun and catchy work of talented pop musicians, writing terribly interesting songs without compromising pop's essential, visceral lure."

TV Ghost

Mass Dream

Electronic,Experimental,Rock

Marc Masters

TV Ghost's 2009 debut LP, Cold Fish, is a maelstrom-- 10 hectic songs ripped out in 25 minutes. Stuffed to the seams with wiry guitars, trembling keyboards, crashing beats, and Tim Gick's mad-man warble, it has the creepy tension of a post-punk haunted house where the Cramps, the Scientists, or Pere Ubu might leap out from the shadows at any moment. The band deftly balances precision and abandon-- every moment sounds lunatic and unhinged, yet no track collapses into complete anarchy. That abandon has subsided a bit on Mass Dream, which doubles the length of its predecessor despite having only one more track. That's by design-- Gick says that his intent was to "space things out more, let the songs breathe." And while I miss Cold Fish's farther-flung moments, the band has countered that loss with songs that are deeper and more open. Now, along with all the post-punk echoes rattling around, unexpected reference points pop up. At times I hear the enervated drama of Echo & the Bunnymen's Ian McCulloch, or the stridency of Ian Svenonius during his Nation of Ulysses days. And TV Ghost prove as adept at stark dread as they are at fevered bedlam, mirroring the the spooky air of Women's Public Strain. Much of that air comes from Gick, whose vocal cracks and squalls guide each track toward a particular emotion, boldly coloring the sonic elements swirling around him. The resulting hues are often bleak-- as he puts it, "I look at the world around me, take what I don't like about it, and use that in my songs." But that desolation produces not resignation or depression, but a kind of desperate, coursing energy. Much like a scary movie, TV Ghost's stressed-out tales don't get you down, they get your heart beating. And even if the pulse of Mass Dream is not as consistently maxed-out as that of Cold Fish, it's no less excited. The example I keep coming back to is a cut buried deep into the LP, "The Degradation of Film". It opens with ominous chords that conjure a creaky organ echoing through an abandoned castle. Those chords threaten droney hypnosis, but the band pushes back against somnambulism, their guitars tracing dementia while Gick does his best Vincent-Price-on-helium shiver. Still, the chords persist, tugging at the band like quicksand. It's a tricky balance, one that TV Ghost could've easily steamrolled with speed and volume. But Mass Dream isn't that simple. Its power may sometimes be primal, but its effect is pretty complex.

Artist: TV Ghost, Album: Mass Dream, Genre: Electronic,Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "TV Ghost's 2009 debut LP, Cold Fish, is a maelstrom-- 10 hectic songs ripped out in 25 minutes. Stuffed to the seams with wiry guitars, trembling keyboards, crashing beats, and Tim Gick's mad-man warble, it has the creepy tension of a post-punk haunted house where the Cramps, the Scientists, or Pere Ubu might leap out from the shadows at any moment. The band deftly balances precision and abandon-- every moment sounds lunatic and unhinged, yet no track collapses into complete anarchy. That abandon has subsided a bit on Mass Dream, which doubles the length of its predecessor despite having only one more track. That's by design-- Gick says that his intent was to "space things out more, let the songs breathe." And while I miss Cold Fish's farther-flung moments, the band has countered that loss with songs that are deeper and more open. Now, along with all the post-punk echoes rattling around, unexpected reference points pop up. At times I hear the enervated drama of Echo & the Bunnymen's Ian McCulloch, or the stridency of Ian Svenonius during his Nation of Ulysses days. And TV Ghost prove as adept at stark dread as they are at fevered bedlam, mirroring the the spooky air of Women's Public Strain. Much of that air comes from Gick, whose vocal cracks and squalls guide each track toward a particular emotion, boldly coloring the sonic elements swirling around him. The resulting hues are often bleak-- as he puts it, "I look at the world around me, take what I don't like about it, and use that in my songs." But that desolation produces not resignation or depression, but a kind of desperate, coursing energy. Much like a scary movie, TV Ghost's stressed-out tales don't get you down, they get your heart beating. And even if the pulse of Mass Dream is not as consistently maxed-out as that of Cold Fish, it's no less excited. The example I keep coming back to is a cut buried deep into the LP, "The Degradation of Film". It opens with ominous chords that conjure a creaky organ echoing through an abandoned castle. Those chords threaten droney hypnosis, but the band pushes back against somnambulism, their guitars tracing dementia while Gick does his best Vincent-Price-on-helium shiver. Still, the chords persist, tugging at the band like quicksand. It's a tricky balance, one that TV Ghost could've easily steamrolled with speed and volume. But Mass Dream isn't that simple. Its power may sometimes be primal, but its effect is pretty complex."

Mike Swoop

New Love

Nate Patrin

The sound of Minneapolis hip-hop is a study in contrasting production styles. There's ANT as veteran Rhymesayers superproducer, Heiruspecs as the Roots-analogue live band, Doomtree as the sprawling backpacker/punk collective, and dozens of crews plying everything from bring-88-back classicism to glossy electro. An up-and-coming producer specializing in an RJD2-style blend of keyboards and breaks wouldn't be considered an anomaly in this environment, but he might not stick out, either. Not that Mike Swoop's relative (and likely temporary) underexposure holds back his ambition. New Love, his self-released debut, has a distinct stylistic focus-- cratedigger-friendly 1970s soul jazz. Swoop makes up for his lack in envelope-pushing with a fine-tuned ear for classic downtempo atmosphere. You can gauge the album's musical sensibilities by picking out some of the more recognizable samples-- flourishes drawn from Fantastic Plastic Machine's psychedelic lounge synths on "Fiend", the same slick Gato Barbieri jazz-funk that Devin the Dude's "She Useta Be" mined on "Artisan", or a skank rhythm sourced from Steely Dan's foray into reggae on "Spread It Thin". But those are mostly foundations rather than the main focus of Swoop's productions. The album's persona of relaxed intensity truly thrives where his own contributions come in. Swoop builds on vinyl-sourced samples with his own multi-tracked percussion, bass, and keyboards, which form a seamless rapport with the music he takes both loops and inspiration from. The vibraphone-tinged "Up Late" recalls Roy Ayers at his Ubiquity-era peak, while "Gain" and "On My Mind" split the difference between Marvin Gaye's more lavish productions and the underground soul and fusion artists who followed. Even then, it's not a fastidious recreation of a faded, decades-old atmosphere; clean-cut tracks like the subtly Afrobeat-indebted "No Go Die!" and the cotton-candy Bernie Worrell-isms of "No Room" still have [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| the shine of the new on them. It's compelling stuff, the kind of thing old Native Tongues fans would do themselves a favor to listen to-- and that goes double for the tracks that actually feature rapping. The artists responsible for two of the Twin Cities' best hip-hop albums of 2009 provide their own highlights, with Big Quarters' evocative daily-grind verses on "Fiend" and Toki Wright's psychological struggle between defeatism and survival lending gravity to the blunted sizzle of "Let It Go". And Kavorkian & Allpurpose, the MCs from Swoop's Diametrix crew, sound haunting over the shimmering guitars of "Where Do We Go?", a complementary study in late-night anxiety that proves Swoop can find the ideal beat to draw out a rapper's unique qualities. If there are more instrumental jams where this came from, Mike Swoop will have a deep, devoted following in Minneapolis for years to come. If there's a dedicated, full-length producer/MC teamup in his future, even better.

Artist: Mike Swoop, Album: New Love, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "The sound of Minneapolis hip-hop is a study in contrasting production styles. There's ANT as veteran Rhymesayers superproducer, Heiruspecs as the Roots-analogue live band, Doomtree as the sprawling backpacker/punk collective, and dozens of crews plying everything from bring-88-back classicism to glossy electro. An up-and-coming producer specializing in an RJD2-style blend of keyboards and breaks wouldn't be considered an anomaly in this environment, but he might not stick out, either. Not that Mike Swoop's relative (and likely temporary) underexposure holds back his ambition. New Love, his self-released debut, has a distinct stylistic focus-- cratedigger-friendly 1970s soul jazz. Swoop makes up for his lack in envelope-pushing with a fine-tuned ear for classic downtempo atmosphere. You can gauge the album's musical sensibilities by picking out some of the more recognizable samples-- flourishes drawn from Fantastic Plastic Machine's psychedelic lounge synths on "Fiend", the same slick Gato Barbieri jazz-funk that Devin the Dude's "She Useta Be" mined on "Artisan", or a skank rhythm sourced from Steely Dan's foray into reggae on "Spread It Thin". But those are mostly foundations rather than the main focus of Swoop's productions. The album's persona of relaxed intensity truly thrives where his own contributions come in. Swoop builds on vinyl-sourced samples with his own multi-tracked percussion, bass, and keyboards, which form a seamless rapport with the music he takes both loops and inspiration from. The vibraphone-tinged "Up Late" recalls Roy Ayers at his Ubiquity-era peak, while "Gain" and "On My Mind" split the difference between Marvin Gaye's more lavish productions and the underground soul and fusion artists who followed. Even then, it's not a fastidious recreation of a faded, decades-old atmosphere; clean-cut tracks like the subtly Afrobeat-indebted "No Go Die!" and the cotton-candy Bernie Worrell-isms of "No Room" still have [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| the shine of the new on them. It's compelling stuff, the kind of thing old Native Tongues fans would do themselves a favor to listen to-- and that goes double for the tracks that actually feature rapping. The artists responsible for two of the Twin Cities' best hip-hop albums of 2009 provide their own highlights, with Big Quarters' evocative daily-grind verses on "Fiend" and Toki Wright's psychological struggle between defeatism and survival lending gravity to the blunted sizzle of "Let It Go". And Kavorkian & Allpurpose, the MCs from Swoop's Diametrix crew, sound haunting over the shimmering guitars of "Where Do We Go?", a complementary study in late-night anxiety that proves Swoop can find the ideal beat to draw out a rapper's unique qualities. If there are more instrumental jams where this came from, Mike Swoop will have a deep, devoted following in Minneapolis for years to come. If there's a dedicated, full-length producer/MC teamup in his future, even better."

Snow Patrol

Songs for Polarbears

Rock

Taylor M. Clark

If a band's press kit were any indicator of merit, Snow Patrol would be one of the lamest bands in all creation. The press release opens with a claim that should not be made about anyone who is not Radiohead: "Snow Patrol are the most exciting guitar band in the U.K." When I hear that Thom Yorke blew his nose recently, it sends bolts of electricity down my spine. This is true of a great many people. Snow Patrol's PR should know this. My personal favorite error in this press kit is in reference to new Snow Patrol recruit Tom Simpson, who spins and plays keyboards at their live shows. It speaks of the "recent edition of Tom" rather than the recent addition of Tom. To be fair, maybe they did upgrade from Tom 3.1 to Tom 2000 recently. But probably not. Thankfully, the prodigious musical ability of these three Irishmen propels them past the inauspicious first impression given by their press kit. Songs for Polarbears is an impressive piece of work, made doubly so when it's considered that this is only a debut. This fact is easily forgotten while wandering through the sheer breadth of mature songwriting featured on this album, to the tune of 19 full-length songs. Snow Patrol craft very British, very smooth, very coherent guitar-based music which runs the gamut from slow, serene melodies to token sentimental ballads to "please, kind sir, don't give me a wedgie" driving rock. No song has been as overtly British as the ironically titled "NYC" in some time. The track comes complete with the quasi-nonsensical repeated chorus lyric, "I am so too," which follows its quasi-agitating repeated verse lyric, "Is this on?" But it all works, somehow. Snow Patrol seem to have an early death grip on many of the finer musical elements which seem to completely elude many other groups: the subtle, floating chorus in "The Last Shot Ringing in My Ears;" the witty, yet not juvenile song title in "Get Balsamic Vinegar... Quick You Fool;" the sing-along chorus that compliments a fast car and a sunny day perfectly in "Downhill from Here;" the brawl-inducing "Holy Cow;" even the hummed chorus in "Velocity Girl." The only miss on the album is "Absolute Gravity," with its incongruous turntable action, provided by none other than the recent edition of Tom. So do we blame Snow Patrol for not being Radiohead? Of course not. Instead, we revel in the multifarious distorted guitar splendor offered on Songs for Polarbears and chide naughty record companies who let Ted from the mail room proofread their press kits. Snow Patrol are an exciting band who could deliver a magnum opus in the not-so-distant future at their current rate of improvement. Speaking of which, one more tip for the press kit makers: never again refer to the expansion of your band's fanbase as "Viral growth." You won't be likely to win many new converts.

Artist: Snow Patrol, Album: Songs for Polarbears, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "If a band's press kit were any indicator of merit, Snow Patrol would be one of the lamest bands in all creation. The press release opens with a claim that should not be made about anyone who is not Radiohead: "Snow Patrol are the most exciting guitar band in the U.K." When I hear that Thom Yorke blew his nose recently, it sends bolts of electricity down my spine. This is true of a great many people. Snow Patrol's PR should know this. My personal favorite error in this press kit is in reference to new Snow Patrol recruit Tom Simpson, who spins and plays keyboards at their live shows. It speaks of the "recent edition of Tom" rather than the recent addition of Tom. To be fair, maybe they did upgrade from Tom 3.1 to Tom 2000 recently. But probably not. Thankfully, the prodigious musical ability of these three Irishmen propels them past the inauspicious first impression given by their press kit. Songs for Polarbears is an impressive piece of work, made doubly so when it's considered that this is only a debut. This fact is easily forgotten while wandering through the sheer breadth of mature songwriting featured on this album, to the tune of 19 full-length songs. Snow Patrol craft very British, very smooth, very coherent guitar-based music which runs the gamut from slow, serene melodies to token sentimental ballads to "please, kind sir, don't give me a wedgie" driving rock. No song has been as overtly British as the ironically titled "NYC" in some time. The track comes complete with the quasi-nonsensical repeated chorus lyric, "I am so too," which follows its quasi-agitating repeated verse lyric, "Is this on?" But it all works, somehow. Snow Patrol seem to have an early death grip on many of the finer musical elements which seem to completely elude many other groups: the subtle, floating chorus in "The Last Shot Ringing in My Ears;" the witty, yet not juvenile song title in "Get Balsamic Vinegar... Quick You Fool;" the sing-along chorus that compliments a fast car and a sunny day perfectly in "Downhill from Here;" the brawl-inducing "Holy Cow;" even the hummed chorus in "Velocity Girl." The only miss on the album is "Absolute Gravity," with its incongruous turntable action, provided by none other than the recent edition of Tom. So do we blame Snow Patrol for not being Radiohead? Of course not. Instead, we revel in the multifarious distorted guitar splendor offered on Songs for Polarbears and chide naughty record companies who let Ted from the mail room proofread their press kits. Snow Patrol are an exciting band who could deliver a magnum opus in the not-so-distant future at their current rate of improvement. Speaking of which, one more tip for the press kit makers: never again refer to the expansion of your band's fanbase as "Viral growth." You won't be likely to win many new converts."

Wussy

Forever Sounds

Rock

Jazz Monroe

Wussy’s unlikely genesis occurred in 2001, when young singer Lisa Walker was scouted by 42-year-old Chuck Cleaver, the heavily bearded Ass Ponys frontman, who would, in later years, quit his day job as a stonemason to sell antiques. Cleaver and Walker, who also dated, wrote sharply about suburban malaise and domestic grievances, with a knack for unsentimental intimacy redolent of Rilo Kiley and Secaucus-era Wrens. A breakthrough of sorts came in 2012 with Buckeye, a career-spanning compilation blending spry country, poppy postpunk, wintry emo, and shabby folk-pop. A fan base grew in their native Ohio without threatening to break the levees, but 2014’s tentatively anthemic Attica! cast a wider net. While hardly a volte-face, Forever Sounds, the quintet's sixth LP, is bleaker and more difficult than its predecessor. The album is full of darkly valiant shoegaze, swirly chords met by solos that send the narrator tumbling into the abyss. Despite the vast scale, there remains something resolutely midwestern in the delivery: Where dream-pop vocals tend to glide along with the music, Cleaver’s voice is small yet oratory, as if he has a fascinating story to tell but is startled by the volume of his microphone. Walker taps into a similar feeling–of ennui and passion constantly thwarting each other–but dials down the gravity further. On opener "Dropping Houses," she sounds eerily subdued, ready to disintegrate in the atmosphere. Forever Sounds, then, is the work of a band less interested in telling stories than smothering themselves in obscurity and noise. "Donny’s Death Scene," with its prominent pedal steel and *Big Lebowski-*referencing story, concerns mundane personal failures being reconciled on an epic scale. Walker’s lyrics ("Donny’s fading in the bright, bowling alley lights," goes the chorus) give Steve Buscemi’s meek character the sendoff John Goodman couldn’t, but like much of the album, the abiding themes are as much a product of the music as the words. It’s just as well, because the discernible lyrics, particularly Cleaver’s, are knottier than usual, and sometimes overwritten. Usually adept at incisive couplets, Cleaver seems preoccupied with sounding poetic on Forever Sounds, to mixed results: "Who robbed the wishing well?/ Looks like there’s nothing coming true," from "Better Days," is several degrees too precious. And on the psychedelically inclined "Sidewalk Sale," he observes his muse "sucking on a chili dog/ Out in the desert where the heat is hot," which is maybe a little heavy on the exposition, desert-wise. Thanks to its stately pace and generous decorative effects, the music is cozy enough to hibernate under. The words, while sometimes clumsy, can also be disarmingly poignant: On "Hello, I’m a Ghost," Cleaver laments an ex-lover who’s "undressed 700 more times and I’ve missed every one"; Walker sings, sweetly, "It’s not your failed endeavour/ That lights up your name forever" on "Majestic-12." Where Walker sings more naturally, with easier tones, Cleaver's shy, young-old voice is a reassuring presence beneath the music’s astral blanket. That they both sound overwhelmed by Forever Sounds’ vast scale is in fact the record’s saving grace; as ever, Wussy’s proximity to ordinariness is precisely what makes them lovable. Correction: The original version of this review incorrectly stated Lisa Walker’s age when Wussy was formed.

Artist: Wussy, Album: Forever Sounds, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "Wussy’s unlikely genesis occurred in 2001, when young singer Lisa Walker was scouted by 42-year-old Chuck Cleaver, the heavily bearded Ass Ponys frontman, who would, in later years, quit his day job as a stonemason to sell antiques. Cleaver and Walker, who also dated, wrote sharply about suburban malaise and domestic grievances, with a knack for unsentimental intimacy redolent of Rilo Kiley and Secaucus-era Wrens. A breakthrough of sorts came in 2012 with Buckeye, a career-spanning compilation blending spry country, poppy postpunk, wintry emo, and shabby folk-pop. A fan base grew in their native Ohio without threatening to break the levees, but 2014’s tentatively anthemic Attica! cast a wider net. While hardly a volte-face, Forever Sounds, the quintet's sixth LP, is bleaker and more difficult than its predecessor. The album is full of darkly valiant shoegaze, swirly chords met by solos that send the narrator tumbling into the abyss. Despite the vast scale, there remains something resolutely midwestern in the delivery: Where dream-pop vocals tend to glide along with the music, Cleaver’s voice is small yet oratory, as if he has a fascinating story to tell but is startled by the volume of his microphone. Walker taps into a similar feeling–of ennui and passion constantly thwarting each other–but dials down the gravity further. On opener "Dropping Houses," she sounds eerily subdued, ready to disintegrate in the atmosphere. Forever Sounds, then, is the work of a band less interested in telling stories than smothering themselves in obscurity and noise. "Donny’s Death Scene," with its prominent pedal steel and *Big Lebowski-*referencing story, concerns mundane personal failures being reconciled on an epic scale. Walker’s lyrics ("Donny’s fading in the bright, bowling alley lights," goes the chorus) give Steve Buscemi’s meek character the sendoff John Goodman couldn’t, but like much of the album, the abiding themes are as much a product of the music as the words. It’s just as well, because the discernible lyrics, particularly Cleaver’s, are knottier than usual, and sometimes overwritten. Usually adept at incisive couplets, Cleaver seems preoccupied with sounding poetic on Forever Sounds, to mixed results: "Who robbed the wishing well?/ Looks like there’s nothing coming true," from "Better Days," is several degrees too precious. And on the psychedelically inclined "Sidewalk Sale," he observes his muse "sucking on a chili dog/ Out in the desert where the heat is hot," which is maybe a little heavy on the exposition, desert-wise. Thanks to its stately pace and generous decorative effects, the music is cozy enough to hibernate under. The words, while sometimes clumsy, can also be disarmingly poignant: On "Hello, I’m a Ghost," Cleaver laments an ex-lover who’s "undressed 700 more times and I’ve missed every one"; Walker sings, sweetly, "It’s not your failed endeavour/ That lights up your name forever" on "Majestic-12." Where Walker sings more naturally, with easier tones, Cleaver's shy, young-old voice is a reassuring presence beneath the music’s astral blanket. That they both sound overwhelmed by Forever Sounds’ vast scale is in fact the record’s saving grace; as ever, Wussy’s proximity to ordinariness is precisely what makes them lovable. Correction: The original version of this review incorrectly stated Lisa Walker’s age when Wussy was formed."

French Kicks

Two Thousand

Electronic,Rock

Adam Moerder

Now more than ever, the Kicks' post-punk/garage cred hangs by a thread. Long the whipping boys of New York's revivalist clique, the dorky kids lumped in with the cool Walkmen/Strokes crowd, this foursome's only remaining link to the scene rests in its locale. Somewhere between debut One Time Bells and 2004's Trial of the Century, they morphed into a pop-rock group, about as post-punk or garage as U2's last album. Fittingly, Two Thousand sounds like a wistful, tuckered-out, twilight-of-career album for a band that never saw much daylight. In all fairness, this album tweaks its predecessor's zonked-out, adult alternative sound. Like the Walkmen's Hamilton Leithauser, French Kicks frontman Nick Stumpf often falls in love with his own croon, deflating songs and blowing potential melodies in the process. This time the Kicks pick up on one of the Walkmen's greatest tricks-- the use of pretty chord changes as hooks. "Cloche" shuffles along innocuously through a nondescript verse until waves of reverb-drenched guitar straight off of Bows + Arrows relieve Stumpf. "Keep It Amazed" inverts the formula, opening strong with catchy surf guitar only to lapse into an overly harmonized climax. Save for these focused snippets, the band cuts every song from the same cloth; only the Kicks can represent New York as somnolent and homogenous. If not for the obligatory post-punk intros of skittish percussion and spiky guitar riffs demarcating them, these songs would seamlessly mesh one into another. Furthermore, Stumpf's on an emotional merry-go-round, his cadence fluctuating minimally before returning to the starting point. The drumbeat for "Basement D.C." matches that of Phoenix's "One Time Too Many", yet the vocals somehow manage to further soften that song's already soft-rock swagger, making Steely Dan sound like a bunch of coked-out psychopaths. For all the improved minutiae, French Kicks simply can't shed the "boring" tag. Even now, with nearly every New York band under scrutiny in an anti-hype backlash, they can't even get (nor do they deserve) pity as underdogs, outsiders who did their own thing when Interpol, the Rapture and the Strokes cashed in. I don't want to hate here-- especially since the band commits no fatal errors-- but until these guys realize their potential, they'll keep sounding like 1,000 monkeys chained to 1,000 guitars in the middle of Brooklyn, each one riding a Vespa scooter.

Artist: French Kicks, Album: Two Thousand, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Now more than ever, the Kicks' post-punk/garage cred hangs by a thread. Long the whipping boys of New York's revivalist clique, the dorky kids lumped in with the cool Walkmen/Strokes crowd, this foursome's only remaining link to the scene rests in its locale. Somewhere between debut One Time Bells and 2004's Trial of the Century, they morphed into a pop-rock group, about as post-punk or garage as U2's last album. Fittingly, Two Thousand sounds like a wistful, tuckered-out, twilight-of-career album for a band that never saw much daylight. In all fairness, this album tweaks its predecessor's zonked-out, adult alternative sound. Like the Walkmen's Hamilton Leithauser, French Kicks frontman Nick Stumpf often falls in love with his own croon, deflating songs and blowing potential melodies in the process. This time the Kicks pick up on one of the Walkmen's greatest tricks-- the use of pretty chord changes as hooks. "Cloche" shuffles along innocuously through a nondescript verse until waves of reverb-drenched guitar straight off of Bows + Arrows relieve Stumpf. "Keep It Amazed" inverts the formula, opening strong with catchy surf guitar only to lapse into an overly harmonized climax. Save for these focused snippets, the band cuts every song from the same cloth; only the Kicks can represent New York as somnolent and homogenous. If not for the obligatory post-punk intros of skittish percussion and spiky guitar riffs demarcating them, these songs would seamlessly mesh one into another. Furthermore, Stumpf's on an emotional merry-go-round, his cadence fluctuating minimally before returning to the starting point. The drumbeat for "Basement D.C." matches that of Phoenix's "One Time Too Many", yet the vocals somehow manage to further soften that song's already soft-rock swagger, making Steely Dan sound like a bunch of coked-out psychopaths. For all the improved minutiae, French Kicks simply can't shed the "boring" tag. Even now, with nearly every New York band under scrutiny in an anti-hype backlash, they can't even get (nor do they deserve) pity as underdogs, outsiders who did their own thing when Interpol, the Rapture and the Strokes cashed in. I don't want to hate here-- especially since the band commits no fatal errors-- but until these guys realize their potential, they'll keep sounding like 1,000 monkeys chained to 1,000 guitars in the middle of Brooklyn, each one riding a Vespa scooter."

Stars

Set Yourself on Fire

Electronic,Rock

Sam Ubl

Stars are a pop band who sound best on a rock equalizer setting. They aren't loud and don't need to be-- their third and best album, Set Yourself on Fire, is a great example of sonic efficiency. Its songs are packed like a Geo Tracker for a cross-country road trip, yet nothing gets crushed or stuffed or buried. It might be the best orchestral pop album of the past year, only it doesn't sound orchestral, at least not according to the outsize string-and-reverb model favored by bands like Oasis or Spiritualized. If you find me a recent album that towers higher with fodder so virtuosically managed and manipulated, I'll give you 20 dollars and jump in a foreboding body of water from a height. It took me two months to plow through Heart, Stars' 2003 sophomore effort. Two songs, "What the Snowman Learned About Love" and "Elevator Love Letter", sailed so high above the rest, I demurred at the possibility of imperfection. The album relied on standout riffs and jags of cathexis; it was, in essence, a collection of rifftastic one-liners, and one-liners sometimes fall face first. Set Yourself on Fire is more full-bodied; nothing is so singular it isn't worth fleshing out or adding to, which bolsters the weaker songs without watering down the cream. The album opens with a disquieting epigram: "When there's nothing left to burn, you must set yourself on fire." A procession of lugubrious strings gives "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead" the hugely premonitory feel of Heart opener "What the Snowman Learned About Love" without its flimsy grandiloquence. Amy Millan may whisper the refrain, "live through this and you won't look back," but the song is no chore; in fact, it's an apt segue into the astonishing title track. "Set Yourself on Fire" takes Millan's mandate and soars with it. A lo-res synth arpeggio carries the song alongside a propulsive drumbeat and cascading strings. The song performs a nimble time change in its bridge before staking a final salvo-- "20 years asleep before we sleep... forever"-- over an icy coda. You might hear it on a Peter Pan bus, north of New Haven all industrial barrens, sunny cold mid-December afternoon after leaving your girlfriend, and you might cry. The subsequent two tracks defibrillate the heartbroken. "Ageless Beauty" will sell Arts & Crafts' first ringtone, just watch. Its simple changes are dusted with zippy auxiliary lines playing peek-a-boo. "Reunion"'s chorus is so bathetic it's entrancing: "All I want is one more chance," sings Torquil Campbell, "to be young and wild and free." Rather than a second refrain, they give us a spry guitar lick that could make its chorus and secede if it wished. Set Yourself on Fire is about breaking up and breaking down, and as such the album feels wontedly cathartic, like the moments right after you hit your emotional nadir and start getting your shit together. Stars handle the mood delicately with few slip-ups; my only complaint is that they never handle much of anything else. Save "The Big Fight"-- which is tame, slow and lounged-out-- there's no controversy, only half-smiles and the soggy aftermath. But even the dearest numbers have faint, nagging undercurrents. The band make no effort to avoid the inevitable charges of over-sentimentality; in fact, they indulge the calls: "The cold is a vindictive bride," reads their website bio, "she'll trap you between her thighs and turn your heart to ice if you're not careful." Despite overblown romanticism run rampant, Stars somehow remain understated. It's the "Soft Revolution", as the terrific penultimate track declaims. Hop aboard.

Artist: Stars, Album: Set Yourself on Fire, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "Stars are a pop band who sound best on a rock equalizer setting. They aren't loud and don't need to be-- their third and best album, Set Yourself on Fire, is a great example of sonic efficiency. Its songs are packed like a Geo Tracker for a cross-country road trip, yet nothing gets crushed or stuffed or buried. It might be the best orchestral pop album of the past year, only it doesn't sound orchestral, at least not according to the outsize string-and-reverb model favored by bands like Oasis or Spiritualized. If you find me a recent album that towers higher with fodder so virtuosically managed and manipulated, I'll give you 20 dollars and jump in a foreboding body of water from a height. It took me two months to plow through Heart, Stars' 2003 sophomore effort. Two songs, "What the Snowman Learned About Love" and "Elevator Love Letter", sailed so high above the rest, I demurred at the possibility of imperfection. The album relied on standout riffs and jags of cathexis; it was, in essence, a collection of rifftastic one-liners, and one-liners sometimes fall face first. Set Yourself on Fire is more full-bodied; nothing is so singular it isn't worth fleshing out or adding to, which bolsters the weaker songs without watering down the cream. The album opens with a disquieting epigram: "When there's nothing left to burn, you must set yourself on fire." A procession of lugubrious strings gives "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead" the hugely premonitory feel of Heart opener "What the Snowman Learned About Love" without its flimsy grandiloquence. Amy Millan may whisper the refrain, "live through this and you won't look back," but the song is no chore; in fact, it's an apt segue into the astonishing title track. "Set Yourself on Fire" takes Millan's mandate and soars with it. A lo-res synth arpeggio carries the song alongside a propulsive drumbeat and cascading strings. The song performs a nimble time change in its bridge before staking a final salvo-- "20 years asleep before we sleep... forever"-- over an icy coda. You might hear it on a Peter Pan bus, north of New Haven all industrial barrens, sunny cold mid-December afternoon after leaving your girlfriend, and you might cry. The subsequent two tracks defibrillate the heartbroken. "Ageless Beauty" will sell Arts & Crafts' first ringtone, just watch. Its simple changes are dusted with zippy auxiliary lines playing peek-a-boo. "Reunion"'s chorus is so bathetic it's entrancing: "All I want is one more chance," sings Torquil Campbell, "to be young and wild and free." Rather than a second refrain, they give us a spry guitar lick that could make its chorus and secede if it wished. Set Yourself on Fire is about breaking up and breaking down, and as such the album feels wontedly cathartic, like the moments right after you hit your emotional nadir and start getting your shit together. Stars handle the mood delicately with few slip-ups; my only complaint is that they never handle much of anything else. Save "The Big Fight"-- which is tame, slow and lounged-out-- there's no controversy, only half-smiles and the soggy aftermath. But even the dearest numbers have faint, nagging undercurrents. The band make no effort to avoid the inevitable charges of over-sentimentality; in fact, they indulge the calls: "The cold is a vindictive bride," reads their website bio, "she'll trap you between her thighs and turn your heart to ice if you're not careful." Despite overblown romanticism run rampant, Stars somehow remain understated. It's the "Soft Revolution", as the terrific penultimate track declaims. Hop aboard. "

The Cars

Candy-O

Rock

Stephen Thomas Erlewine

It’s a tale as old as time: A band arrives on the scene with an album so fully formed, it seems impossible that they could improve upon it, let alone escape its gravitational pull. The Cars would seem to define this trope. Their eponymous 1978 debut contains so many classic rock staples, a modern listener could mistake it for a greatest hits collection. But the band is the exception that proves the rule: They managed to move forward from The Cars with a pair of albums that both refined and expanded their tightly wound new wave. Those two records—1979’s Candy-O and 1980’s Panorama—received expanded reissues in July, 2017, roughly a year after the group’s entire catalog got boxed up by Rhino, and long after the debut received a double-disc deluxe treatment. Pairing the two helps escape the conventional wisdom that has reduced their respective reputations to a pair of blurbs. Candy-O is generally seen as the explicit sequel to The Cars, while Panorama is the dark detour that tanked on the charts. Both of these assessments have some grounding in reality, but the truth for both records is considerably more complex. Take Candy-O, which followed their debut by almost exactly a year. Superficially, the album offers another dose of stylish, detached pop with hooks so finely honed, they may have come off an assembly line. Listen closely, though, and Candy-O boasts bolder production that emphasizes the band’s heavy attack and gives plenty of space for guitarist Elliot Easton to spin out composed solos. It sounds not just like new wave—the umbrella term for any pop-oriented counterculture music that arose in the wake of punk—but album rock. Indeed, Candy-O is where the Cars set up shop in the Billboard charts: It went all the way to No. 3 on the Top 200 (The Cars went no further than No. 18), and “Let’s Go” came close to breaking the Top 10, peaking at No. 14. Despite this consolidation of mainstream success—something surely assisted by Ric Ocasek’s facility for pop hooks that feel at once icy and alluring—Candy-O pledges its allegiance to art rock and punk by slipping in salutes to the Cars’ peers on the margins. “Shoo Be Doo,” a snippet of dark, cloistered synths wedged in between two far more ebullient moments, evokes Suicide, while “Got a Lot on My Head,” assisted by the carnivalesque keyboards of Greg Hawkes, suggests the jittery, high-octane spite of Elvis Costello & the Attractions. But where Costello wears his bile on his sleeve, Ocasek and his co-lead vocalist Benjamin Orr specialize in dispassion. No matter how loud, furious, or, as in the case of “It’s All I Can Do,” lovely the band sounded, both singers—their timbres and phrasing so similar, it’s possible to play Candy-O a dozen times without realizing they’re swapping leads—rarely deign to convey anything approaching enthusiasm. This coolness gives the music a steely sexiness that suits the Alberto Vargas pin-up illustration gracing the album cover. This isn’t music for the heart: With its stylized surfaces, it appeals to the senses, offering satisfaction in its high performance. Panorama doubles down on the Cars’ inherent disaffection, ratcheting up the precision of the rhythms to the point where they almost seem robotic. The introduction of synthesized drums enhances the impression that the band prefers mechanical movement to the swing and mess of rock’n’roll, which may be the reason why Panorama underperformed commercially: It went platinum upon its release, largely based on momentum, but its single, “Touch and Go,” barely scraped the Top 40, topping out at No. 37. By stripping away the stadium-rock affectations of Candy-O—thinning the beefy bottom end created by bassist Orr and drummer David Robinson, while pushing Hawkes’ keyboards over Easton’s guitars in the mix—the Cars wind up emphasizing their artiness while staying fixated on Ocasek’s sharp pop hooks. In the context of Panorama, those hooks, whether guitar riffs or vocal melodies, don’t necessarily contribute to the kind of songs that would tear up the charts. Often, Ocasek appears to be writing meta-pop songs—“Don’t Tell Me No” and “Getting Through” even have passing lyrical allusions to oldies by Lesley Gore and Buddy Knox—as if he’s in the process of deconstructing pop to figure out how it works. That’s why Panorama feels like the logical conclusion to the Cars’ streamlined new wave: Even if it doesn’t deliver the pure pleasures of its predecessors, it captures the group running like a well-oiled machine. Rhino’s expanded editions of Candy-O and Panorama, available both on vinyl and CD, are anchored by nice remasters of the original albums, but the bonus tracks are also noteworthy. Along with “That’s It” (a chipper B-side that sounds like a B-side), Candy-O is fleshed out with alternate, earlier versions that underscore the material’s harder rock edge. Conversely, the bonus material on Panorama—three previously unreleased songs (“Shooting for You,” “Be My Baby,” “The Edge”) plus the B-side “Don’t Go to Pieces”—offers further supporting evidence for the album’s dark charms. As welcome as it is to have these extra cuts, the truly valuable thing about this round of Cars reissues is how it shifts the focus away from the band’s enduring warhorses to the music that isn’t so well known. This lesser-heard material reveals what a smart, inventive pop group they were.

Artist: The Cars, Album: Candy-O, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "It’s a tale as old as time: A band arrives on the scene with an album so fully formed, it seems impossible that they could improve upon it, let alone escape its gravitational pull. The Cars would seem to define this trope. Their eponymous 1978 debut contains so many classic rock staples, a modern listener could mistake it for a greatest hits collection. But the band is the exception that proves the rule: They managed to move forward from The Cars with a pair of albums that both refined and expanded their tightly wound new wave. Those two records—1979’s Candy-O and 1980’s Panorama—received expanded reissues in July, 2017, roughly a year after the group’s entire catalog got boxed up by Rhino, and long after the debut received a double-disc deluxe treatment. Pairing the two helps escape the conventional wisdom that has reduced their respective reputations to a pair of blurbs. Candy-O is generally seen as the explicit sequel to The Cars, while Panorama is the dark detour that tanked on the charts. Both of these assessments have some grounding in reality, but the truth for both records is considerably more complex. Take Candy-O, which followed their debut by almost exactly a year. Superficially, the album offers another dose of stylish, detached pop with hooks so finely honed, they may have come off an assembly line. Listen closely, though, and Candy-O boasts bolder production that emphasizes the band’s heavy attack and gives plenty of space for guitarist Elliot Easton to spin out composed solos. It sounds not just like new wave—the umbrella term for any pop-oriented counterculture music that arose in the wake of punk—but album rock. Indeed, Candy-O is where the Cars set up shop in the Billboard charts: It went all the way to No. 3 on the Top 200 (The Cars went no further than No. 18), and “Let’s Go” came close to breaking the Top 10, peaking at No. 14. Despite this consolidation of mainstream success—something surely assisted by Ric Ocasek’s facility for pop hooks that feel at once icy and alluring—Candy-O pledges its allegiance to art rock and punk by slipping in salutes to the Cars’ peers on the margins. “Shoo Be Doo,” a snippet of dark, cloistered synths wedged in between two far more ebullient moments, evokes Suicide, while “Got a Lot on My Head,” assisted by the carnivalesque keyboards of Greg Hawkes, suggests the jittery, high-octane spite of Elvis Costello & the Attractions. But where Costello wears his bile on his sleeve, Ocasek and his co-lead vocalist Benjamin Orr specialize in dispassion. No matter how loud, furious, or, as in the case of “It’s All I Can Do,” lovely the band sounded, both singers—their timbres and phrasing so similar, it’s possible to play Candy-O a dozen times without realizing they’re swapping leads—rarely deign to convey anything approaching enthusiasm. This coolness gives the music a steely sexiness that suits the Alberto Vargas pin-up illustration gracing the album cover. This isn’t music for the heart: With its stylized surfaces, it appeals to the senses, offering satisfaction in its high performance. Panorama doubles down on the Cars’ inherent disaffection, ratcheting up the precision of the rhythms to the point where they almost seem robotic. The introduction of synthesized drums enhances the impression that the band prefers mechanical movement to the swing and mess of rock’n’roll, which may be the reason why Panorama underperformed commercially: It went platinum upon its release, largely based on momentum, but its single, “Touch and Go,” barely scraped the Top 40, topping out at No. 37. By stripping away the stadium-rock affectations of Candy-O—thinning the beefy bottom end created by bassist Orr and drummer David Robinson, while pushing Hawkes’ keyboards over Easton’s guitars in the mix—the Cars wind up emphasizing their artiness while staying fixated on Ocasek’s sharp pop hooks. In the context of Panorama, those hooks, whether guitar riffs or vocal melodies, don’t necessarily contribute to the kind of songs that would tear up the charts. Often, Ocasek appears to be writing meta-pop songs—“Don’t Tell Me No” and “Getting Through” even have passing lyrical allusions to oldies by Lesley Gore and Buddy Knox—as if he’s in the process of deconstructing pop to figure out how it works. That’s why Panorama feels like the logical conclusion to the Cars’ streamlined new wave: Even if it doesn’t deliver the pure pleasures of its predecessors, it captures the group running like a well-oiled machine. Rhino’s expanded editions of Candy-O and Panorama, available both on vinyl and CD, are anchored by nice remasters of the original albums, but the bonus tracks are also noteworthy. Along with “That’s It” (a chipper B-side that sounds like a B-side), Candy-O is fleshed out with alternate, earlier versions that underscore the material’s harder rock edge. Conversely, the bonus material on Panorama—three previously unreleased songs (“Shooting for You,” “Be My Baby,” “The Edge”) plus the B-side “Don’t Go to Pieces”—offers further supporting evidence for the album’s dark charms. As welcome as it is to have these extra cuts, the truly valuable thing about this round of Cars reissues is how it shifts the focus away from the band’s enduring warhorses to the music that isn’t so well known. This lesser-heard material reveals what a smart, inventive pop group they were."

Luke Roberts

Big Bells and Dime Songs

Folk/Country

Amanda Petrusich

Big Bells and Dime Songs, Luke Roberts' debut LP, was released by Thurston Moore's Ecstatic Peace in the spring of 2010; after a limited run, it received a relatively grander rollout this fall via Thrill Jockey. While the record wasn't reissued, exactly, Big Bells' unveiling was gradual-- which feels like a particularly appropriate beginning for Roberts, a deliberate and unhurried folk singer from Nashville. On first listen, Big Bells and Dime Songs can seem slight-- Roberts' guitar and vocals aren't augmented by much, save the occasional snare, some bass, or a snippet of electric organ or piano-- but their sparseness only amplifies the record's pervasive, echoing sadness. Big Bells is preoccupied with failures, emotional or otherwise: These are faithless laments, dirges for the nights when your glass is empty and no one's coming over. Roberts' vocals (which contain all the cackle of J Mascis and all the plaintiveness of Townes Van Zandt) are tender and bruised, and their smallness can be legitimately heartbreaking-- like on opener "Somewhere to Run", where Roberts blithely offers himself as a kind of last-call solace ("I'll be a hand to hold/ If I'm just a drunk who can't be true," he half-sings). Although folk music is frequently defined by its focus on narrative, Roberts' lyrics can be purposefully ambiguous, if not fully absurd ("I'm on a boat/ And if I only float," he announces in "Unspotted Clothes"). Still, his oddball storytelling is unusually well-matched by his slow, methodical strums, and these songs move with purpose. The message is buried somewhere in all that empty space. "Unspotted Clothes" is the record's most unforgettable track, and also its most intricately arranged. Roberts gives each syllable its own tragic weight, while a bit of drum and piano complement his guitar; the results are wistful, mysterious. The lingering "Epcot Women" showcases Roberts' penchant for fingerpicking, with the crags of his voice providing a compelling counterpoint to the cleanness of his playing. There's only one misstep: "Just Do It Blues" contains a puzzling evocation ("Heavens to Betsy/ Nigger knocking at the door"), and if there's descriptive justification for the usage, it's not entirely self-evident here. If pressed, Roberts might flash a few Americana bona-fides-- he was born in Nashville, but ran away from home to explore the U.S. via train, settling, for a while, in Brooklyn-- but unlike the bulk of the contemporary Americana canon, Big Bells is largely placeless. These songs are fiercely internal, which also makes them remarkably hard to shake-- here, Roberts is singing about the no-place of everyplace, the desolation we all know.

Artist: Luke Roberts, Album: Big Bells and Dime Songs, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Big Bells and Dime Songs, Luke Roberts' debut LP, was released by Thurston Moore's Ecstatic Peace in the spring of 2010; after a limited run, it received a relatively grander rollout this fall via Thrill Jockey. While the record wasn't reissued, exactly, Big Bells' unveiling was gradual-- which feels like a particularly appropriate beginning for Roberts, a deliberate and unhurried folk singer from Nashville. On first listen, Big Bells and Dime Songs can seem slight-- Roberts' guitar and vocals aren't augmented by much, save the occasional snare, some bass, or a snippet of electric organ or piano-- but their sparseness only amplifies the record's pervasive, echoing sadness. Big Bells is preoccupied with failures, emotional or otherwise: These are faithless laments, dirges for the nights when your glass is empty and no one's coming over. Roberts' vocals (which contain all the cackle of J Mascis and all the plaintiveness of Townes Van Zandt) are tender and bruised, and their smallness can be legitimately heartbreaking-- like on opener "Somewhere to Run", where Roberts blithely offers himself as a kind of last-call solace ("I'll be a hand to hold/ If I'm just a drunk who can't be true," he half-sings). Although folk music is frequently defined by its focus on narrative, Roberts' lyrics can be purposefully ambiguous, if not fully absurd ("I'm on a boat/ And if I only float," he announces in "Unspotted Clothes"). Still, his oddball storytelling is unusually well-matched by his slow, methodical strums, and these songs move with purpose. The message is buried somewhere in all that empty space. "Unspotted Clothes" is the record's most unforgettable track, and also its most intricately arranged. Roberts gives each syllable its own tragic weight, while a bit of drum and piano complement his guitar; the results are wistful, mysterious. The lingering "Epcot Women" showcases Roberts' penchant for fingerpicking, with the crags of his voice providing a compelling counterpoint to the cleanness of his playing. There's only one misstep: "Just Do It Blues" contains a puzzling evocation ("Heavens to Betsy/ Nigger knocking at the door"), and if there's descriptive justification for the usage, it's not entirely self-evident here. If pressed, Roberts might flash a few Americana bona-fides-- he was born in Nashville, but ran away from home to explore the U.S. via train, settling, for a while, in Brooklyn-- but unlike the bulk of the contemporary Americana canon, Big Bells is largely placeless. These songs are fiercely internal, which also makes them remarkably hard to shake-- here, Roberts is singing about the no-place of everyplace, the desolation we all know."

Hurray for the Riff Raff

The Navigator

Rock

Matthew Ismael Ruiz

Alynda Lee Segarra, the creative force behind Hurray for the Riff Raff, spent her formative years crisscrossing the country on greyhounds and freight trains. She climbed from the streets of New Orleans to the airwaves of NPR with a washboard and a banjo, a Horatio Alger narrative for the Americana set. Her last LP, Small Town Heroes, felt like a thesis presentation from a student of American folk music. She’d spent years studying the form and its practitioners, a product of a community that helped lift her from street corners and coffee shops to international tours and a record contract. While searching for herself, she also imitated others, living inside classic folk, roots, and country songs while shaping her own powerful voice. In that sense, The Navigator represents a departure—she hasn’t abandoned those sounds, rather she’s graduated to something singular. It's roots music for the immigrant ID, a folk concept album from a Nuyorican runaway who grew up obsessed with West Side Story before being liberated by Bikini Kill. They lay bare the conceit in the album’s Playbill-themed packaging: The songs are presented in two “Acts” that follow her alter ego, a Puerto Rican street kid named Navita Milagros Negrón, who visits a bruja at the end of Act I looking for an escape from the oppressive confines of her city. When she wakes up from the bruja’s spell at the start of Act II (40 years later), everything she knew is gone, and she begins to realize what she’s lost. Navi is a character, but she’s also very much Segarra. She puts years of telling others’ stories to work telling her own; in “Living in the City,” she sets the scene for the first act, a snapshot of life in the PJs for a young girl. Navi brushes off casual harassment with a shrug, watches friends self-destruct with drug abuse, and sneaks into stairwells for fleeting moments of intimacy. The city is a thinly veiled but unnamed stand-in for New York, a city and culture Segarra fled from the day after she turned 17. The Navigator is ostensibly a rock’n’roll record, but it expands Segarra’s palette beyond the folk/country/blues lane she’s thus far occupied. Her boozy, morning-after croon is still gorgeous, but now there’s elements of Puerto Rican bomba and salsa, son cubano, doo-wop, and even the spoken-word poetry of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe she haunted as a teen. Her band has gone through a variety of lineups, but this one feels like a clean slate. Her longtime creative partners Sam Doores and Yosi Perlstein are nowhere to be seen—in their place, she’s recruited five hand percussionists, a trio of doo-wop backup singers, and Yva Las Vegass, a Venezuelan folkie from Brooklyn. She even samples the ghost of Pedro Pietri, the Nuyorican Poets Cafe co-founder whose “Puerto Rican Obituary” serves as a bridge between the two movements of her piano ballad showstopper, “Pa’lante.” In the few moments when she strips away the beer-soaked barroom blues of “Life to Save” and the acoustic spiritual “Halfway There,” she almost sounds like her old self. But when the bongos break in on “Rican Beach,” and she begins to list “our” things that “they” stole—language, names, neighbors, streets— she’s in a different place. Like many Latin-Americans, she’s somewhere in the middle, colored not just by her ancestors but the stimuli of the diaspora: The places she’s seen, the people she’s met, the music she’s loved. The Navigator, which reclaims folk’s protest roots and marries them to the sounds of the Caribbean, is a statement of that identity. Segarra speaks to a broader reconciliation with the assimilation engrained in the American Dream, an acknowledgment of the limited perspective that comes with the white history taught in schools. She never learned Spanish and admits that for years she carried an inexplicable shame of her heritage. While writing this record, she pored through the Fania records back catalog, fell in love with the Puerto Rican poets Julia de Burgos and Pedro Pietri, and learned the history of the Young Lords and their newspaper, Pa’lante. Like Navi, the city Segarra returned to after traversing the country was unrecognizable from the city she left—the culture she once took for granted now fading away. When the “Fourteen Floors” of her old project building come crashing down, she wistfully remembers her father’s tales of the long journey from Puerto Rico, a haunting whisper of “it took a million years.” It's the universal dilemma of the displaced—where do you go when you can’t go home again? Segarra’s first big foray into activism came with the feminist murder ballad “The Body Electric,” the centerpiece of Small Town Heroes; she would later re-release her 2013 Trayvon Martin tribute “Everybody Knows” as part of the Our First 100 Days project. But the most declarative statement she’s made yet came in the form of a scathing blog post admonishing the silence of her peers in the folk scene, near demanding that they use their art to join the struggle of their black and brown brothers and sisters whose bodies have been on the front lines of a civil rights movement that never really ended. The Navigator’s activist bent leans mostly towards systemic symptoms of colonization and gentrification, issues at the heart of both Navi and Segarra’s story. If the call to arms of “Pa’lante” is the spiritual heart of the album, “Rican Beach” is an angry protest, a condemnation of both the villainous and the apathetic: “Now all the politicians/They just squawk their mouths/They say ‘We’ll build a wall to keep them out’/And all the poets were dying of a silence disease/So it happened quickly and with much ease.” La gente del barrio has always had a voice, but too often it has been silenced. Not unlike Solange did on her stunning 2016 opus, Segarra uses The Navigator to demand more seats at the table for those voices that have always existed, but simply went unheard. And as she rallies the troops for the fight to come on “Pa’lante,” “From El Barrio to Arecibo…from Marble Hill to the ghost of Emmett Till” she unites the struggle of all the survivors of white supremacy, and urges them onward, together.

Artist: Hurray for the Riff Raff, Album: The Navigator, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "Alynda Lee Segarra, the creative force behind Hurray for the Riff Raff, spent her formative years crisscrossing the country on greyhounds and freight trains. She climbed from the streets of New Orleans to the airwaves of NPR with a washboard and a banjo, a Horatio Alger narrative for the Americana set. Her last LP, Small Town Heroes, felt like a thesis presentation from a student of American folk music. She’d spent years studying the form and its practitioners, a product of a community that helped lift her from street corners and coffee shops to international tours and a record contract. While searching for herself, she also imitated others, living inside classic folk, roots, and country songs while shaping her own powerful voice. In that sense, The Navigator represents a departure—she hasn’t abandoned those sounds, rather she’s graduated to something singular. It's roots music for the immigrant ID, a folk concept album from a Nuyorican runaway who grew up obsessed with West Side Story before being liberated by Bikini Kill. They lay bare the conceit in the album’s Playbill-themed packaging: The songs are presented in two “Acts” that follow her alter ego, a Puerto Rican street kid named Navita Milagros Negrón, who visits a bruja at the end of Act I looking for an escape from the oppressive confines of her city. When she wakes up from the bruja’s spell at the start of Act II (40 years later), everything she knew is gone, and she begins to realize what she’s lost. Navi is a character, but she’s also very much Segarra. She puts years of telling others’ stories to work telling her own; in “Living in the City,” she sets the scene for the first act, a snapshot of life in the PJs for a young girl. Navi brushes off casual harassment with a shrug, watches friends self-destruct with drug abuse, and sneaks into stairwells for fleeting moments of intimacy. The city is a thinly veiled but unnamed stand-in for New York, a city and culture Segarra fled from the day after she turned 17. The Navigator is ostensibly a rock’n’roll record, but it expands Segarra’s palette beyond the folk/country/blues lane she’s thus far occupied. Her boozy, morning-after croon is still gorgeous, but now there’s elements of Puerto Rican bomba and salsa, son cubano, doo-wop, and even the spoken-word poetry of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe she haunted as a teen. Her band has gone through a variety of lineups, but this one feels like a clean slate. Her longtime creative partners Sam Doores and Yosi Perlstein are nowhere to be seen—in their place, she’s recruited five hand percussionists, a trio of doo-wop backup singers, and Yva Las Vegass, a Venezuelan folkie from Brooklyn. She even samples the ghost of Pedro Pietri, the Nuyorican Poets Cafe co-founder whose “Puerto Rican Obituary” serves as a bridge between the two movements of her piano ballad showstopper, “Pa’lante.” In the few moments when she strips away the beer-soaked barroom blues of “Life to Save” and the acoustic spiritual “Halfway There,” she almost sounds like her old self. But when the bongos break in on “Rican Beach,” and she begins to list “our” things that “they” stole—language, names, neighbors, streets— she’s in a different place. Like many Latin-Americans, she’s somewhere in the middle, colored not just by her ancestors but the stimuli of the diaspora: The places she’s seen, the people she’s met, the music she’s loved. The Navigator, which reclaims folk’s protest roots and marries them to the sounds of the Caribbean, is a statement of that identity. Segarra speaks to a broader reconciliation with the assimilation engrained in the American Dream, an acknowledgment of the limited perspective that comes with the white history taught in schools. She never learned Spanish and admits that for years she carried an inexplicable shame of her heritage. While writing this record, she pored through the Fania records back catalog, fell in love with the Puerto Rican poets Julia de Burgos and Pedro Pietri, and learned the history of the Young Lords and their newspaper, Pa’lante. Like Navi, the city Segarra returned to after traversing the country was unrecognizable from the city she left—the culture she once took for granted now fading away. When the “Fourteen Floors” of her old project building come crashing down, she wistfully remembers her father’s tales of the long journey from Puerto Rico, a haunting whisper of “it took a million years.” It's the universal dilemma of the displaced—where do you go when you can’t go home again? Segarra’s first big foray into activism came with the feminist murder ballad “The Body Electric,” the centerpiece of Small Town Heroes; she would later re-release her 2013 Trayvon Martin tribute “Everybody Knows” as part of the Our First 100 Days project. But the most declarative statement she’s made yet came in the form of a scathing blog post admonishing the silence of her peers in the folk scene, near demanding that they use their art to join the struggle of their black and brown brothers and sisters whose bodies have been on the front lines of a civil rights movement that never really ended. The Navigator’s activist bent leans mostly towards systemic symptoms of colonization and gentrification, issues at the heart of both Navi and Segarra’s story. If the call to arms of “Pa’lante” is the spiritual heart of the album, “Rican Beach” is an angry protest, a condemnation of both the villainous and the apathetic: “Now all the politicians/They just squawk their mouths/They say ‘We’ll build a wall to keep them out’/And all the poets were dying of a silence disease/So it happened quickly and with much ease.” La gente del barrio has always had a voice, but too often it has been silenced. Not unlike Solange did on her stunning 2016 opus, Segarra uses The Navigator to demand more seats at the table for those voices that have always existed, but simply went unheard. And as she rallies the troops for the fight to come on “Pa’lante,” “From El Barrio to Arecibo…from Marble Hill to the ghost of Emmett Till” she unites the struggle of all the survivors of white supremacy, and urges them onward, together."

Max Richter

24 Postcards in Full Colour

Experimental

Joe Tangari

The place where art music and pop music meet is today less a border than a bridge constantly filled with traffic flowing both ways. I like to think of German-born Max Richter as standing somewhere in the middle of that bridge, a modern composer with a pop musician's sense of conceptual unity, emotional connection, and payoff. His albums to date have played like post-minimalist classical for those who follow indie rock and electronic music-- they could lead a Mogwai fan to Arvo Pärt and Gavin Bryars, or a Pärt fan to Rachel's, Stars of the Lid, and Philip Jeck. The point is that he makes art music with broad appeal, miles from the kind of process pieces that are easier to read about than listen to. Richter's latest takes a step into a part of the pop world few modern composers have approached: the ringtone. Old-school classical music has been there for a while-- I have friends with piano sonatas, Mozart snippets, and bits of Bach on their phones-- but Richter is one of the first to build an entire recording around this most ubiquitous man-made ambient noise. These 24 brief tracks (totaling around a half-hour) are theoretically all meant to tell you that Mom is calling, but don't come expecting the bassline to "Play That Funky Music", the pep of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik", or anything similarly snappy. These pieces are almost entirely in the same somber vein of Richter's other work. If you want a ringtone that could stop everyone else in the produce aisle in his or her tracks with its beauty, this is for you. The main musical aim here appears to be tonal variety. Richter places a minute of burbling, crackling ambient noise next to a painfully gorgeous minute of violins slipping in and out of harmony, or an arpeggiating electric guitar smothered in voices. The piano pieces are soft, contemplative, and a bit chilly-- they make me think of wearing a sweater while reading a thoughtfully written book by the light of a single lamp in an otherwise dark home. Autumnal is a word I occasionally see used to describe the feel of Richter's work, and it certainly applies here. These pieces are falling leaves and brisk breezes embodied in bow strokes, keystrokes, and electronic textures. Richter has discussed the possibility of performing shows using these pieces as ringtones on his audience's phones, controlling the music from the stage via text message-- I'd love to be at one of those shows to see how it feels as a droning violin or gently pulsing, organ-like tone spreads through the crowd. Setting the concept aside, this is a frequently haunting album, though it sacrifices a great deal of flow in the name of brevity and variety. Even if no one ever downloads it to a Nokia, the hair-raising violin of "A Sudden Manhattan of the Mind" makes its point just fine as part of the album. And that's the most important thing to remember about this album: the concept is strong, but the music is stronger.

Artist: Max Richter, Album: 24 Postcards in Full Colour, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "The place where art music and pop music meet is today less a border than a bridge constantly filled with traffic flowing both ways. I like to think of German-born Max Richter as standing somewhere in the middle of that bridge, a modern composer with a pop musician's sense of conceptual unity, emotional connection, and payoff. His albums to date have played like post-minimalist classical for those who follow indie rock and electronic music-- they could lead a Mogwai fan to Arvo Pärt and Gavin Bryars, or a Pärt fan to Rachel's, Stars of the Lid, and Philip Jeck. The point is that he makes art music with broad appeal, miles from the kind of process pieces that are easier to read about than listen to. Richter's latest takes a step into a part of the pop world few modern composers have approached: the ringtone. Old-school classical music has been there for a while-- I have friends with piano sonatas, Mozart snippets, and bits of Bach on their phones-- but Richter is one of the first to build an entire recording around this most ubiquitous man-made ambient noise. These 24 brief tracks (totaling around a half-hour) are theoretically all meant to tell you that Mom is calling, but don't come expecting the bassline to "Play That Funky Music", the pep of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik", or anything similarly snappy. These pieces are almost entirely in the same somber vein of Richter's other work. If you want a ringtone that could stop everyone else in the produce aisle in his or her tracks with its beauty, this is for you. The main musical aim here appears to be tonal variety. Richter places a minute of burbling, crackling ambient noise next to a painfully gorgeous minute of violins slipping in and out of harmony, or an arpeggiating electric guitar smothered in voices. The piano pieces are soft, contemplative, and a bit chilly-- they make me think of wearing a sweater while reading a thoughtfully written book by the light of a single lamp in an otherwise dark home. Autumnal is a word I occasionally see used to describe the feel of Richter's work, and it certainly applies here. These pieces are falling leaves and brisk breezes embodied in bow strokes, keystrokes, and electronic textures. Richter has discussed the possibility of performing shows using these pieces as ringtones on his audience's phones, controlling the music from the stage via text message-- I'd love to be at one of those shows to see how it feels as a droning violin or gently pulsing, organ-like tone spreads through the crowd. Setting the concept aside, this is a frequently haunting album, though it sacrifices a great deal of flow in the name of brevity and variety. Even if no one ever downloads it to a Nokia, the hair-raising violin of "A Sudden Manhattan of the Mind" makes its point just fine as part of the album. And that's the most important thing to remember about this album: the concept is strong, but the music is stronger."

Quest for Fire

Quest For Fire

Metal,Rock

Grayson Currin

"Quest for Fire", the seventh track from the fourth Iron Maiden album, Piece of Mind, is as epic as one might imagine: The guitars charge ahead and splinter for arch solos; the rhythm forms a tight battle march; singer Bruce Dickinson is on his operatic high, draping his vibrato over every little plot point. "Joined by quest for fire/ They searched all through the land/ Joined by quest for fire/ Discovery of man," he sings in his melodramatic howl, offering a summary of an early French novel and a then-recent English film of the same name. In all three quests, prehistoric tribes battle for a spark from a natural blaze, their adventures filled with animal attacks, theft, and, of course, badass triumph. Was there ever a more ready-made Iron Maiden song? Despite the handle and a self-titled debut on New York stoner-and-psychedelic syndicate Tee Pee Records, Toronto quartet Quest for Fire aren't just another metal band welding their adolescent sci-fi fantasies to British heavy metal allegiance. Quest for Fire deserve the name by maintaining the sense of grandeur of its namesakes. On Quest for Fire, finally available domestically after Montreal's Storyboard released it in 2008, the dudes stretch six songs to 43 minutes of distended riffs, patient drumming, and subtle textures. And though there are enough leaden riffs and tangential trips for the record to pass muster in the right stoner and psychedelic circles, Quest for Fire-- like the Deadly Snakes, the garage-pop bastard-greats to which two of its members once belonged-- move beyond the expectations of their form. With a two-guitar approach and mutual interests in Black Sabbath sludge and druggy dream-pop, Quest for Fire often suggest Built to Spill as much as Black Mountain or Birds of Avalon, Echo & the Bunnymen as much as Earthless. Quest for Fire generally find a good riff and grind away for five minutes or more. Sometimes they build into it and burn out in a blaze ("Strange Waves"), go straight for the throat and lash away until track's end ("Bison Eyes"), or build to and away from a roaring peak in the middle ("The Hawk That Hunts the Walking"). Quest for Fire focus more on tone and tune than technique, too, meaning that-- though the individual playing is certainly strong-- the band's a gestalt of sorts. Each song sweeps you in and moves you along, calling more attention to the general thrust than the individual performance. The solos are more functional than fantastic, working mostly to move the band from one speaker-shattering convergence to another. But there's always a little more going on than just four guys riffing in a room. Consider "You Are Always Loved", the album's most anomalous moment: A moody drifter of layers and contrast, the seven-minute tune centers on an acoustic guitar line so distant it feels like it's played by a ghost, and a tambourine that feels like too much of a burden to lift. A ragged electric guitar line and a steady march of cymbals and toms smolder around the broken ballad, washing past and pushing behind Chad Ross' forlorn, death-threshold vocals. It's not the only track here with creative juxtaposition or interesting parts, though. "Strange Waves" buries an acoustic guitar and harmonica behind its juggernaut electric lumber, adding not just texture but the sort of finesse that makes you want to listen again, to peer around the thick curtains up front. At six minutes, "I've Been Trying to Leave" is a relatively short barnburner. And as Ross sings, "Follow me to the sun," over a steely throb, it's one of the album's most riveting rock anthems. At one point, though, they shift out of the groove and riff, downshifting into a supreme bit of weird jangle that recalls vintage R.E.M. The relationship between the guitars on "Next to the Fire" seems complex enough to require a compass, map, and canteen to navigate. Sometimes, Ross and Andrew Moszynski paw away at the same riff, trying to reduce one theme to a vapor of dust. One or the other eventually separates himself simply by changing tone or spinning through unexpected variations that split the difference between Mahavishnu John McLaughlin and J. Mascis. So, yeah, epic-- just like that Iron Maiden track.

Artist: Quest for Fire, Album: Quest For Fire, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: ""Quest for Fire", the seventh track from the fourth Iron Maiden album, Piece of Mind, is as epic as one might imagine: The guitars charge ahead and splinter for arch solos; the rhythm forms a tight battle march; singer Bruce Dickinson is on his operatic high, draping his vibrato over every little plot point. "Joined by quest for fire/ They searched all through the land/ Joined by quest for fire/ Discovery of man," he sings in his melodramatic howl, offering a summary of an early French novel and a then-recent English film of the same name. In all three quests, prehistoric tribes battle for a spark from a natural blaze, their adventures filled with animal attacks, theft, and, of course, badass triumph. Was there ever a more ready-made Iron Maiden song? Despite the handle and a self-titled debut on New York stoner-and-psychedelic syndicate Tee Pee Records, Toronto quartet Quest for Fire aren't just another metal band welding their adolescent sci-fi fantasies to British heavy metal allegiance. Quest for Fire deserve the name by maintaining the sense of grandeur of its namesakes. On Quest for Fire, finally available domestically after Montreal's Storyboard released it in 2008, the dudes stretch six songs to 43 minutes of distended riffs, patient drumming, and subtle textures. And though there are enough leaden riffs and tangential trips for the record to pass muster in the right stoner and psychedelic circles, Quest for Fire-- like the Deadly Snakes, the garage-pop bastard-greats to which two of its members once belonged-- move beyond the expectations of their form. With a two-guitar approach and mutual interests in Black Sabbath sludge and druggy dream-pop, Quest for Fire often suggest Built to Spill as much as Black Mountain or Birds of Avalon, Echo & the Bunnymen as much as Earthless. Quest for Fire generally find a good riff and grind away for five minutes or more. Sometimes they build into it and burn out in a blaze ("Strange Waves"), go straight for the throat and lash away until track's end ("Bison Eyes"), or build to and away from a roaring peak in the middle ("The Hawk That Hunts the Walking"). Quest for Fire focus more on tone and tune than technique, too, meaning that-- though the individual playing is certainly strong-- the band's a gestalt of sorts. Each song sweeps you in and moves you along, calling more attention to the general thrust than the individual performance. The solos are more functional than fantastic, working mostly to move the band from one speaker-shattering convergence to another. But there's always a little more going on than just four guys riffing in a room. Consider "You Are Always Loved", the album's most anomalous moment: A moody drifter of layers and contrast, the seven-minute tune centers on an acoustic guitar line so distant it feels like it's played by a ghost, and a tambourine that feels like too much of a burden to lift. A ragged electric guitar line and a steady march of cymbals and toms smolder around the broken ballad, washing past and pushing behind Chad Ross' forlorn, death-threshold vocals. It's not the only track here with creative juxtaposition or interesting parts, though. "Strange Waves" buries an acoustic guitar and harmonica behind its juggernaut electric lumber, adding not just texture but the sort of finesse that makes you want to listen again, to peer around the thick curtains up front. At six minutes, "I've Been Trying to Leave" is a relatively short barnburner. And as Ross sings, "Follow me to the sun," over a steely throb, it's one of the album's most riveting rock anthems. At one point, though, they shift out of the groove and riff, downshifting into a supreme bit of weird jangle that recalls vintage R.E.M. The relationship between the guitars on "Next to the Fire" seems complex enough to require a compass, map, and canteen to navigate. Sometimes, Ross and Andrew Moszynski paw away at the same riff, trying to reduce one theme to a vapor of dust. One or the other eventually separates himself simply by changing tone or spinning through unexpected variations that split the difference between Mahavishnu John McLaughlin and J. Mascis. So, yeah, epic-- just like that Iron Maiden track."

Catfish Haven

Tell Me

Rock

Brian Howe

Last year, Chicago's Catfish Haven made a fine official debut with their Please Come Back EP. Pumping the energy of their punk rock youths into velvety white-boy soul and acoustic roots-rock, and with a raucous rhythm section chugging away beneath George Hunter's mellifluous howl, they managed to skirt snooty trad and revisionist indie pretensions alike by doing something obvious: charging passionately through emphatic melodies with strictly defined instrumentation. It's a simple formula they retain for their debut LP, Tell Me, which suffers from periods of drag that were absent from the tightly coiled Please Come Back. There's another terrific EP on Tell Me, and you could put together a top-slot Catfish Haven record with both discs and a little iTunes pruning. The bright, perky strum of "I Don't Worry" is just the kind of haystack-rostrum from which Hunter is meant to proselytize, climaxing in what I'm afraid I have to characterize as a bona-fide hootenanny. The swamp-gospel shimmy of the title track is infectious, and the taut, cheerful funk of "Crazy for Leaving" is good slinky fun. The flayed soul of Hunter's vocals on "All I Need is You" resonates well with the song's spindly, sprightly lilt, while "Let it Go (Got to Grow)" profits from the same frantic yet controlled strumming found on last year's EP's stand-out title track. Nevertheless, on Tell Me, Catfish Haven presents as a good band working in a format-- in this case, the long-player-- that just doesn't suit their music, at least not if it stays as circumscribed as it is now. It's built from such sparse materials-- hard-charging acoustic guitars, clattering rhythms, raspy soul vocals, and, as of this record, judicious keys and horns-- and mines such a narrow strip of musical terrain that its interest has the potential to run out before the wax does. Hunter's lyrics don't assuage this intermittent sense of monotony. The same directness that works in the short format falters in the long one; the alternately broken-hearted and platitudinous catch phrases becoming less charming and more tiresome. Nor does it help that the album is rounded out by a handful of slow burners so thin they make a scanty impression. "Down by Your Fire" and "Grey Skies" meander like they've got nowhere to go, which, it seems, they don't. Hunter and co. have plenty of talent, but unless they significantly diversify their sound, they're going to be better known for the concise, exuberant rush than the sustained concept.

Artist: Catfish Haven, Album: Tell Me, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "Last year, Chicago's Catfish Haven made a fine official debut with their Please Come Back EP. Pumping the energy of their punk rock youths into velvety white-boy soul and acoustic roots-rock, and with a raucous rhythm section chugging away beneath George Hunter's mellifluous howl, they managed to skirt snooty trad and revisionist indie pretensions alike by doing something obvious: charging passionately through emphatic melodies with strictly defined instrumentation. It's a simple formula they retain for their debut LP, Tell Me, which suffers from periods of drag that were absent from the tightly coiled Please Come Back. There's another terrific EP on Tell Me, and you could put together a top-slot Catfish Haven record with both discs and a little iTunes pruning. The bright, perky strum of "I Don't Worry" is just the kind of haystack-rostrum from which Hunter is meant to proselytize, climaxing in what I'm afraid I have to characterize as a bona-fide hootenanny. The swamp-gospel shimmy of the title track is infectious, and the taut, cheerful funk of "Crazy for Leaving" is good slinky fun. The flayed soul of Hunter's vocals on "All I Need is You" resonates well with the song's spindly, sprightly lilt, while "Let it Go (Got to Grow)" profits from the same frantic yet controlled strumming found on last year's EP's stand-out title track. Nevertheless, on Tell Me, Catfish Haven presents as a good band working in a format-- in this case, the long-player-- that just doesn't suit their music, at least not if it stays as circumscribed as it is now. It's built from such sparse materials-- hard-charging acoustic guitars, clattering rhythms, raspy soul vocals, and, as of this record, judicious keys and horns-- and mines such a narrow strip of musical terrain that its interest has the potential to run out before the wax does. Hunter's lyrics don't assuage this intermittent sense of monotony. The same directness that works in the short format falters in the long one; the alternately broken-hearted and platitudinous catch phrases becoming less charming and more tiresome. Nor does it help that the album is rounded out by a handful of slow burners so thin they make a scanty impression. "Down by Your Fire" and "Grey Skies" meander like they've got nowhere to go, which, it seems, they don't. Hunter and co. have plenty of talent, but unless they significantly diversify their sound, they're going to be better known for the concise, exuberant rush than the sustained concept."

The Chemical Brothers

Surrender

Electronic

Sarah Zupko

The poster boys of big beat, that hip amalgam of electronica and rock that has dug its way into the national consciousness via "The Rockafeller Skank," have been busy since their 1997 breakthrough, Dig Your Own Hole. Maybe last year's DJ mix album, the reasonably decent Brothers Gonna Work It Out, should have been the clue, but Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons have clearly been raiding a library- sized record collection since their last offering of "original" music. "Music: Response," the album's leadoff, starts like a ride on the Autobahn with Kraftwerk circa the mid '70s, with its analog synth blips and monotone computerwelt voices, before tossing in some ferocious beats to bring Krautrock into the new millennium. The mood carries through on "Under the Influence" with more Kraftwerk- styled noodlings. Meanwhile, their best instrumental effort is "The Sunshine Underground," an eight- and- a- half minute ride through chiming tones, wafting flute- like sounds, and sputtering and gurgling synths that intertwine with the briefest of dreamy vocals. Actually, it wouldn't have been out of place on the last Orbital album. Surrender will receive a ton of hype based on its superstar guest appearances, and none more historically relevant than "Out of Control" with New Order's Bernard Sumner on vocals. Being electronic dance music freaks from Manchester, New Order is like the holy grail to the Chemical Brothers and it's easy to see why. The Chemicals share with their Manchester predecessors an obsession with hypnotic, melodic, dance beats. "Out of Control" works so well it could be a lost track from Low Life. After his turn on "Setting Son" with the Chemicals in 1996, Oasis' terminally out- of- style Noel Gallagher returns for another psychedelic, Beatles-esque anthem on "Let Forever Be," again snagging the rhythm track from "Tomorrow Never Knows" off Revolver. Surrender is both the Chemical Brothers most immediately satisfying work and, perhaps not coincidentally, the most like a rock album of their career. Unlike a fair share of techno, these songs feel like "songs," not a collection of clever samples and a race to the fastest BPM on the planet. Yeah, you can go out and buy your jungle, your trance, your trip-hop and your ambient, but why would you when you'd be sacrificing the greatest gift of all: Surrender's love and understanding.

Artist: The Chemical Brothers, Album: Surrender, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 9.0 Album review: "The poster boys of big beat, that hip amalgam of electronica and rock that has dug its way into the national consciousness via "The Rockafeller Skank," have been busy since their 1997 breakthrough, Dig Your Own Hole. Maybe last year's DJ mix album, the reasonably decent Brothers Gonna Work It Out, should have been the clue, but Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons have clearly been raiding a library- sized record collection since their last offering of "original" music. "Music: Response," the album's leadoff, starts like a ride on the Autobahn with Kraftwerk circa the mid '70s, with its analog synth blips and monotone computerwelt voices, before tossing in some ferocious beats to bring Krautrock into the new millennium. The mood carries through on "Under the Influence" with more Kraftwerk- styled noodlings. Meanwhile, their best instrumental effort is "The Sunshine Underground," an eight- and- a- half minute ride through chiming tones, wafting flute- like sounds, and sputtering and gurgling synths that intertwine with the briefest of dreamy vocals. Actually, it wouldn't have been out of place on the last Orbital album. Surrender will receive a ton of hype based on its superstar guest appearances, and none more historically relevant than "Out of Control" with New Order's Bernard Sumner on vocals. Being electronic dance music freaks from Manchester, New Order is like the holy grail to the Chemical Brothers and it's easy to see why. The Chemicals share with their Manchester predecessors an obsession with hypnotic, melodic, dance beats. "Out of Control" works so well it could be a lost track from Low Life. After his turn on "Setting Son" with the Chemicals in 1996, Oasis' terminally out- of- style Noel Gallagher returns for another psychedelic, Beatles-esque anthem on "Let Forever Be," again snagging the rhythm track from "Tomorrow Never Knows" off Revolver. Surrender is both the Chemical Brothers most immediately satisfying work and, perhaps not coincidentally, the most like a rock album of their career. Unlike a fair share of techno, these songs feel like "songs," not a collection of clever samples and a race to the fastest BPM on the planet. Yeah, you can go out and buy your jungle, your trance, your trip-hop and your ambient, but why would you when you'd be sacrificing the greatest gift of all: Surrender's love and understanding."

Audioslave

Audioslave

Rock

Chris Dahlen & Ryan Schreiber

Us Generation X'ers never gave the world shit. We don't care about anything. We don't even care about ourselves. We blew through our dotcom cash and we're still stuck with our student loans. Our biggest political moment was turning Ralph Nader into a presidential spoiler. And now, justice comes swiftly knocking. It is time to face that which we fear the most: the second coming of Lollapalooza's grunge-rock all-stars. Recent days have seen the re-emergence of an eerie number of megacelebrity has-beens-- from Jane's Addiction backing Courtney Love on tour, to Krist Novoselic joining forces with Meat Puppeteer Curt Kirkwood in Eyes Adrift-- combining their powers in the hopes of forming one mightier superbeast. And yea, we have seen these bands and known our sins, and the discipline was just and fair. But repent we did not. And so, as further castigation, we now find ourselves faced with the ultimate grievance: Soundgarden frontman Chris Cornell assuming vocal duties for Urban Outfitters politicos Rage Against the Machine. Let the punishment fit the crime. The story goes that sometime after Zach de la Rocha dropped out of Rage, Cornell agreed to be the new singer, so long as they ditched their political bent and changed their name. And based on the evidence, losing the politics doesn't hurt the music: as Cornell proves here time and again, he can still voraciously belt the most inane lyrical tragedies with such conviction that you'd almost think they meant something were it not for such giveaways as, "Pearls and swine bereft of me," and, "Heaven waits for those who run/ Down your winter and underneath your waves/ Where you watch and wait." It's also amusing to note that after years of playing the hardcore leftist, overeducated liberator of jailed antiheroes, Tom Morello gladly dropped the message from his music in lieu of playing venues that don't hang their name on a Schlitz sign. Bassist Tom Commerford and drummer Brad Wilk fall in line, but it's Cornell that's made a bitch out of all of them-- from forcing them to cancel a slot on the Ozzfest bill, to sticking them with the most asinine bandname of the year. (It was Cornell's idea to dub this bloated masturbathon Audioslave, and the name says everything with the same exacting precision that it says nothing at all. Audioslave. It's like it was tailor-made for a Sam Goody voiceover.) It's kind of incredible how slick and lifeless the Rage band sounds without de la Rocha spitting all over everything. The guys just autopilot their way through the most generic hard rock possible behind Cornell's Dio-like wailing about highways and death and more highways. Morello tries to stick out with his wanky solos, but all his effort amounts to little more than an indulgent novelty. He, of course, is less an embarrassment than Cornell. Now, I'll freely admit being a Soundgarden fan: I remember when all the guys admired his politically correct take on machismo, and all the girls swooned at his hairy good looks and dreamed of just ripping the flannel right off him. To be fair, his voice sounds great, even after years of larynx-shredding throat-gore. The effect, unfortunately, is lost when you realize that all the lyrics are complete gibberish. "Set if off/ Set it off, my children." "I will wait for you/ Like a stone/ I will wait for you there/ Alone." Or best of all: "I am a virus!" He also rips off some pseudo-spiritual lyrics from the latest Christian grunge bands, which is ironic because... well, you know the drill: the student becomes the teacher, and they all ride the short bus together. Sure, the pulsing noises and rumbling groan that open "Set It Off" sound wicked, and "Bring 'Em Back Alive" and "Getaway Car" almost don't suck. You could even say that, technically, Audioslave "rock". But they do so emptily, predictably, and without a single new idea. Producer Rick Rubin has fashioned a synthesized rock-like product that emits no heat. It's the worst kind of studio rock album, rigorously controlled-- even undercut-- by studio gimmickry; the rare instances during which the band starts to let go (the end of "Shadow on the Sun") are incidental and abruptly cut off. At its worst, this project is just plain retarded. On "Show Me How to Live", Audioslave snatch the opening chords from Simple Minds' "Don't You (Forget About Me)"-- try keeping the "hey hey hey hey" out of your head during this thing-- and then cop the riff from Aerosmith's "Walk This Way". Top this hall-of-fame moment of classic un-inspiration with a bridge that consists solely of heavily processed violin, and the fact that the song features Cornell yelling to his creator, "You gave me life, now show me how to live!" Was it too much to ask for some effort? Were we already pressing our luck that these guys even got together? And it's so frustrating because Cornell would be better suited to virtually anything else. The man would sound more at home dueting with Shania. Listen to that! I'm in awe of his lungs. He belts these songs like they never went out of style, like he's still got that curly Louder Than Love-era mane thrown back and glistening, like he wants to shake the studio to its very foundation with the power of all his gristled fury-- when all of a sudden, the effects kick in and morph his voice into a fucking sitar! It just might be the most ridiculous and ill-timed production trick of his career. And all I can picture is Cornell high-fiving Rick Rubin and hitting the beach to play volleyball with Creed. Duck, because America's gonna vomit.

Artist: Audioslave, Album: Audioslave, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 1.7 Album review: "Us Generation X'ers never gave the world shit. We don't care about anything. We don't even care about ourselves. We blew through our dotcom cash and we're still stuck with our student loans. Our biggest political moment was turning Ralph Nader into a presidential spoiler. And now, justice comes swiftly knocking. It is time to face that which we fear the most: the second coming of Lollapalooza's grunge-rock all-stars. Recent days have seen the re-emergence of an eerie number of megacelebrity has-beens-- from Jane's Addiction backing Courtney Love on tour, to Krist Novoselic joining forces with Meat Puppeteer Curt Kirkwood in Eyes Adrift-- combining their powers in the hopes of forming one mightier superbeast. And yea, we have seen these bands and known our sins, and the discipline was just and fair. But repent we did not. And so, as further castigation, we now find ourselves faced with the ultimate grievance: Soundgarden frontman Chris Cornell assuming vocal duties for Urban Outfitters politicos Rage Against the Machine. Let the punishment fit the crime. The story goes that sometime after Zach de la Rocha dropped out of Rage, Cornell agreed to be the new singer, so long as they ditched their political bent and changed their name. And based on the evidence, losing the politics doesn't hurt the music: as Cornell proves here time and again, he can still voraciously belt the most inane lyrical tragedies with such conviction that you'd almost think they meant something were it not for such giveaways as, "Pearls and swine bereft of me," and, "Heaven waits for those who run/ Down your winter and underneath your waves/ Where you watch and wait." It's also amusing to note that after years of playing the hardcore leftist, overeducated liberator of jailed antiheroes, Tom Morello gladly dropped the message from his music in lieu of playing venues that don't hang their name on a Schlitz sign. Bassist Tom Commerford and drummer Brad Wilk fall in line, but it's Cornell that's made a bitch out of all of them-- from forcing them to cancel a slot on the Ozzfest bill, to sticking them with the most asinine bandname of the year. (It was Cornell's idea to dub this bloated masturbathon Audioslave, and the name says everything with the same exacting precision that it says nothing at all. Audioslave. It's like it was tailor-made for a Sam Goody voiceover.) It's kind of incredible how slick and lifeless the Rage band sounds without de la Rocha spitting all over everything. The guys just autopilot their way through the most generic hard rock possible behind Cornell's Dio-like wailing about highways and death and more highways. Morello tries to stick out with his wanky solos, but all his effort amounts to little more than an indulgent novelty. He, of course, is less an embarrassment than Cornell. Now, I'll freely admit being a Soundgarden fan: I remember when all the guys admired his politically correct take on machismo, and all the girls swooned at his hairy good looks and dreamed of just ripping the flannel right off him. To be fair, his voice sounds great, even after years of larynx-shredding throat-gore. The effect, unfortunately, is lost when you realize that all the lyrics are complete gibberish. "Set if off/ Set it off, my children." "I will wait for you/ Like a stone/ I will wait for you there/ Alone." Or best of all: "I am a virus!" He also rips off some pseudo-spiritual lyrics from the latest Christian grunge bands, which is ironic because... well, you know the drill: the student becomes the teacher, and they all ride the short bus together. Sure, the pulsing noises and rumbling groan that open "Set It Off" sound wicked, and "Bring 'Em Back Alive" and "Getaway Car" almost don't suck. You could even say that, technically, Audioslave "rock". But they do so emptily, predictably, and without a single new idea. Producer Rick Rubin has fashioned a synthesized rock-like product that emits no heat. It's the worst kind of studio rock album, rigorously controlled-- even undercut-- by studio gimmickry; the rare instances during which the band starts to let go (the end of "Shadow on the Sun") are incidental and abruptly cut off. At its worst, this project is just plain retarded. On "Show Me How to Live", Audioslave snatch the opening chords from Simple Minds' "Don't You (Forget About Me)"-- try keeping the "hey hey hey hey" out of your head during this thing-- and then cop the riff from Aerosmith's "Walk This Way". Top this hall-of-fame moment of classic un-inspiration with a bridge that consists solely of heavily processed violin, and the fact that the song features Cornell yelling to his creator, "You gave me life, now show me how to live!" Was it too much to ask for some effort? Were we already pressing our luck that these guys even got together? And it's so frustrating because Cornell would be better suited to virtually anything else. The man would sound more at home dueting with Shania. Listen to that! I'm in awe of his lungs. He belts these songs like they never went out of style, like he's still got that curly Louder Than Love-era mane thrown back and glistening, like he wants to shake the studio to its very foundation with the power of all his gristled fury-- when all of a sudden, the effects kick in and morph his voice into a fucking sitar! It just might be the most ridiculous and ill-timed production trick of his career. And all I can picture is Cornell high-fiving Rick Rubin and hitting the beach to play volleyball with Creed. Duck, because America's gonna vomit."

Vladislav Delay

Vantaa

Electronic

Eric Grandy

It's been more than a decade since Finnish producer Sasu Ripatti, under his Luomo alias, redefined expectations for vocal house with his micro-masterpiece Vocalcity. In the years since, as vocal house has made a comeback in more full-throated, traditionalist terms, Ripatti's kept Luomo shifting, his productions growing increasingly crisp and functional, gradually sweating off the liquid murk of his early releases to emerge as cold and bright tech-house. While Luomo's evolved, Ripatti's other best known alias, Vladislav Delay, has remained devoted to a singular vision of ambient techno and cold digital dub. With few digressions-- such as last year's exploration of acoustic space and live instrumentation with the Vladislav Delay Quartet-- Vladislav Delay's releases have progressed as a series of subtle tweaks and refinements. Ripatti's as studious and attentive a sound designer as he is a reinventer of genres, and though he saves his game-changing leaps forward for Luomo, his variations on Vladislav Delay's themes are immaculately produced and almost as engrossing. If there isn't already, there should be a rule that Vladislav Delay only put out albums in the wintertime. Whether it's the influence of Ripatti's northern longitude or merely a reflection of some internal aesthetic, Vladislav Delay's records give off a distinctly frozen feel. Synths hum and hiss white noise like cold wind, drums clatter like ice or crunch like snow underfoot, rhythms break apart from themselves like ice floes. Beyond the individually chilly elements, there's the overall sense of low light and hibernatory slowness: The tracks play out like a still landscape troubled by only the occasional moving figure. If that makes Vantaa sound more like background than foreground, fair enough. Yet rather than being dull or inhospitable, it makes for a consistently habitable environment. Some pieces gradually come together-- "Narri" coalesces into a little melody, as does "Levite", the latter teasing a skipping beat out of its soft swaying keys and evaporative sounds. Others, like the title track, seem to be carefully breaking apart as they unfold. "Lauma" might be the most unexpected track, and also the album's late climax, an initial echo turning into a rapid fan-buzzing vibration and then a pneumatic double-time drum figure not so far removed from gabber. While any given moment of the album offers a satisfying sonic foothold, you truly get a sense of Ripatti's skill and vision over the entire course of the record: Hearing any 10 seconds, you might think the stuff static, but Vantaa's glacial movements carve unpredictable channels. In a way, this music is as simultaneously functional and pleasurable as Luomo's more active house tracks, only it's for an opposite function-- and a more sedate set of pleasure centers.

Artist: Vladislav Delay, Album: Vantaa, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "It's been more than a decade since Finnish producer Sasu Ripatti, under his Luomo alias, redefined expectations for vocal house with his micro-masterpiece Vocalcity. In the years since, as vocal house has made a comeback in more full-throated, traditionalist terms, Ripatti's kept Luomo shifting, his productions growing increasingly crisp and functional, gradually sweating off the liquid murk of his early releases to emerge as cold and bright tech-house. While Luomo's evolved, Ripatti's other best known alias, Vladislav Delay, has remained devoted to a singular vision of ambient techno and cold digital dub. With few digressions-- such as last year's exploration of acoustic space and live instrumentation with the Vladislav Delay Quartet-- Vladislav Delay's releases have progressed as a series of subtle tweaks and refinements. Ripatti's as studious and attentive a sound designer as he is a reinventer of genres, and though he saves his game-changing leaps forward for Luomo, his variations on Vladislav Delay's themes are immaculately produced and almost as engrossing. If there isn't already, there should be a rule that Vladislav Delay only put out albums in the wintertime. Whether it's the influence of Ripatti's northern longitude or merely a reflection of some internal aesthetic, Vladislav Delay's records give off a distinctly frozen feel. Synths hum and hiss white noise like cold wind, drums clatter like ice or crunch like snow underfoot, rhythms break apart from themselves like ice floes. Beyond the individually chilly elements, there's the overall sense of low light and hibernatory slowness: The tracks play out like a still landscape troubled by only the occasional moving figure. If that makes Vantaa sound more like background than foreground, fair enough. Yet rather than being dull or inhospitable, it makes for a consistently habitable environment. Some pieces gradually come together-- "Narri" coalesces into a little melody, as does "Levite", the latter teasing a skipping beat out of its soft swaying keys and evaporative sounds. Others, like the title track, seem to be carefully breaking apart as they unfold. "Lauma" might be the most unexpected track, and also the album's late climax, an initial echo turning into a rapid fan-buzzing vibration and then a pneumatic double-time drum figure not so far removed from gabber. While any given moment of the album offers a satisfying sonic foothold, you truly get a sense of Ripatti's skill and vision over the entire course of the record: Hearing any 10 seconds, you might think the stuff static, but Vantaa's glacial movements carve unpredictable channels. In a way, this music is as simultaneously functional and pleasurable as Luomo's more active house tracks, only it's for an opposite function-- and a more sedate set of pleasure centers."

Various Artists

The Get Down OST

Vanessa Okoth-Obbo

In 1977, New York City was in turmoil: the crime rate was high, morale was low and a serial killer was on the loose. Yet, as the social fabric was disintegrating across the five boroughs, artistic creativity was thriving. Punk rock shows attracted crowds too large for even the scene’s most popular venues, disco music flowed into the mainstream and the nascent hip-hop movement was gaining traction in the South Bronx. This is the setting for The Get Down, the Baz Luhrmann-produced series that was reportedly ten years in the making. The show’s first six episodes premiered on Netflix on August 12 and its soundtrack was delivered on the same day, featuring a mix of disco-era classics and original compositions. These songs are woven through the episodes that retell the adventures of the protagonist (Ezekiel Figuero, played by a watchful Justice Smith) as a teenager in 1977, as narrated by his older self in 1996. Regrettably, despite a roster of all-star musicians, the album falls short as a standalone work and even shorter when considered as the accompaniment to a musical drama. It’s very frustrating when a song has all the elements for success, but you can hear them getting in each other’s way. Twice, on two different songs, Michael Kiwanuka is derailed by verses from an apathetic Nas. The first instance is “Rule The World (I Came From the City),” which starts out as a brooding ballad bookended by Kiwanuka’s dark, bluesy timbre. But the second foul, “Black Man in a White World (Ghetto Gettysburg Address),” is flagrant, because the original version would’ve been a perfect addition to this soundtrack if left untouched. Its lyrics, recounting the malaise of disenfranchised minority citizens, ring as true in 2016 as they would have in 1977. Though it’s tempting to blame the dischord on a somewhat unlikely pairing, this strategy proves quite effective effective elsewhere on the album. The tracklist smartly matches up artists who were born long after disco had died with musicians who lived through and even defined the era. Zayn and Teddy Pendergrass come together on a Grandmaster Flash-helmed rework of “You Can’t Hide From Yourself,” from Pendergrass’ debut album. Zayn commendably pushes his voice to the upper reaches of his range on the first half, but then steps aside to let Teddy P bring it home. “Telepathy,” a simple love song made grander through an arrangement of horns and strings, is one of Christina Aguilera’s best performances in recent years. The vocal is restrained by her standards, but it still comes through strong and measured—guided by the incomparable Nile Rodgers. Leon Bridges offers an amped-up tribute to “Ball of Confusion,” and he succeeds by respecting the Temptations’ 1970 hit single while somehow emulating their energy in a solo performance. Some more relief comes around the soundtrack’s midsection, in the form of five unedited grooves. Among them, Lyn Collins’ funk classic “Think (About It)” and Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls,” which you either recognize because of her long-lasting influence as the Queen of Disco or from a manic Girl Talk album. While these tracks haven’t lost any of their floor-filling lustre through the years, they are almost outdone by two original compositions from Miguel and Janelle Monáe. Miguel flips a disco beat into something much trippier on “Cadillac,” which shares a name with the sinister coked-out club owner played by relative newcomer Yahya Abdul-Mateen II. The song comes complete with an esoteric bridge (“That unicorn, that lush/That savage baby, that rush”) and a dreamlike outro that lasts for over a minute. But Monáe’s “Hum Along & Dance (Gotta Get Down)” is the showstopper, built from uplifting brass, a dirty bassline and a chorus that name checks the series title. If the show were to have an official theme song this should be it, rather than Jaden Smith’s middling “Welcome to the Get Down.” Monáe’s song is wedged between “Bad Girls” and CJ & Co.’s “Devil’s Gun” on a five-song throwback stretch that ends with Hector Lavoe’s “Que Lio,” but everything that follows feels like filler. The soundtrack is on sale as a deluxe version, a term that often foretells a sequence of unrelated bonus tracks tacked on to the end. Starting with “Just You, Not Now (Love Theme)” by Australian singer Grace, we shift away abruptly from the overarching disco theme and wade through a cluster of songs that are tough to appreciate when divorced from their context (although three of them showcase newcomer Herizen Guardiola who is definitely one to watch.) The entire thing clocks in at roughly an hour and a half—the average length of a feature film that would need to tell a much more cohesive and complete story to keep an audience engaged. It’s rare for a soundtrack to exceed the performance of the work that it’s meant to complement. Superfly and Shaft are two notable exceptions from the same decade depicted in The Get Down—Pharrell’s “Happy” is a more modern example*.* The show will go down in history for many reasons, unfortunately it doesn’t seem like this album will be one of them.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: The Get Down OST, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "In 1977, New York City was in turmoil: the crime rate was high, morale was low and a serial killer was on the loose. Yet, as the social fabric was disintegrating across the five boroughs, artistic creativity was thriving. Punk rock shows attracted crowds too large for even the scene’s most popular venues, disco music flowed into the mainstream and the nascent hip-hop movement was gaining traction in the South Bronx. This is the setting for The Get Down, the Baz Luhrmann-produced series that was reportedly ten years in the making. The show’s first six episodes premiered on Netflix on August 12 and its soundtrack was delivered on the same day, featuring a mix of disco-era classics and original compositions. These songs are woven through the episodes that retell the adventures of the protagonist (Ezekiel Figuero, played by a watchful Justice Smith) as a teenager in 1977, as narrated by his older self in 1996. Regrettably, despite a roster of all-star musicians, the album falls short as a standalone work and even shorter when considered as the accompaniment to a musical drama. It’s very frustrating when a song has all the elements for success, but you can hear them getting in each other’s way. Twice, on two different songs, Michael Kiwanuka is derailed by verses from an apathetic Nas. The first instance is “Rule The World (I Came From the City),” which starts out as a brooding ballad bookended by Kiwanuka’s dark, bluesy timbre. But the second foul, “Black Man in a White World (Ghetto Gettysburg Address),” is flagrant, because the original version would’ve been a perfect addition to this soundtrack if left untouched. Its lyrics, recounting the malaise of disenfranchised minority citizens, ring as true in 2016 as they would have in 1977. Though it’s tempting to blame the dischord on a somewhat unlikely pairing, this strategy proves quite effective effective elsewhere on the album. The tracklist smartly matches up artists who were born long after disco had died with musicians who lived through and even defined the era. Zayn and Teddy Pendergrass come together on a Grandmaster Flash-helmed rework of “You Can’t Hide From Yourself,” from Pendergrass’ debut album. Zayn commendably pushes his voice to the upper reaches of his range on the first half, but then steps aside to let Teddy P bring it home. “Telepathy,” a simple love song made grander through an arrangement of horns and strings, is one of Christina Aguilera’s best performances in recent years. The vocal is restrained by her standards, but it still comes through strong and measured—guided by the incomparable Nile Rodgers. Leon Bridges offers an amped-up tribute to “Ball of Confusion,” and he succeeds by respecting the Temptations’ 1970 hit single while somehow emulating their energy in a solo performance. Some more relief comes around the soundtrack’s midsection, in the form of five unedited grooves. Among them, Lyn Collins’ funk classic “Think (About It)” and Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls,” which you either recognize because of her long-lasting influence as the Queen of Disco or from a manic Girl Talk album. While these tracks haven’t lost any of their floor-filling lustre through the years, they are almost outdone by two original compositions from Miguel and Janelle Monáe. Miguel flips a disco beat into something much trippier on “Cadillac,” which shares a name with the sinister coked-out club owner played by relative newcomer Yahya Abdul-Mateen II. The song comes complete with an esoteric bridge (“That unicorn, that lush/That savage baby, that rush”) and a dreamlike outro that lasts for over a minute. But Monáe’s “Hum Along & Dance (Gotta Get Down)” is the showstopper, built from uplifting brass, a dirty bassline and a chorus that name checks the series title. If the show were to have an official theme song this should be it, rather than Jaden Smith’s middling “Welcome to the Get Down.” Monáe’s song is wedged between “Bad Girls” and CJ & Co.’s “Devil’s Gun” on a five-song throwback stretch that ends with Hector Lavoe’s “Que Lio,” but everything that follows feels like filler. The soundtrack is on sale as a deluxe version, a term that often foretells a sequence of unrelated bonus tracks tacked on to the end. Starting with “Just You, Not Now (Love Theme)” by Australian singer Grace, we shift away abruptly from the overarching disco theme and wade through a cluster of songs that are tough to appreciate when divorced from their context (although three of them showcase newcomer Herizen Guardiola who is definitely one to watch.) The entire thing clocks in at roughly an hour and a half—the average length of a feature film that would need to tell a much more cohesive and complete story to keep an audience engaged. It’s rare for a soundtrack to exceed the performance of the work that it’s meant to complement. Superfly and Shaft are two notable exceptions from the same decade depicted in The Get Down—Pharrell’s “Happy” is a more modern example*.* The show will go down in history for many reasons, unfortunately it doesn’t seem like this album will be one of them."

Roach Gigz

Roachy Balboa Round 3

Rap

Jayson Greene

"So I was pickin' vegetables out my cup of noodles": When David Drake zeroed in on this line, from "Goomba Pimpin'" off of Roach Gigz's breakthrough mixtape Roachy Balboa, he smartly isolated the Bay Area rapper's conversational appeal in a single line: Whatever was coming after that introduction, you absolutely needed to hear it. It's an instant tune-in, pay-attention detail, humbling and specific and funny, right down the way it starts with "So." "Goomba Pimpin" was a calling card for Roach Gigz, introducing the world at large to a young rapper with a quick mind, an eye for the small things, and an off-the-cuff flow with a heavy debt to Lil Wayne. Three years later is a long, long time in unsigned-mixtape-rapper time. Between then and now, there was Roachy Balboa 2, not quite as good, and then silence. Roachy Balboa 3, released this month is another strong tape brimming with Roachiness: rich writing, funny/sad jokes, rubbery Bay Area beats. But despite his bullish optimism ("I'm still young motherfucker/ I'm gonna be an actor when I'm done, motherfucker") RB3 still doesn't feel like the shot that will convert regional buzz to national buzz. For better or for worse, Roach seems to live in his own little self-contained universe, and the joys to be had when visiting are small ones, like a perfectly rendered image of desiccated vegetables bobbing in a cup of noodles. Roach has tapped some surrounding Bay Area talent for fresh context: The first single off the tape, "It's Lit",  features IAMSU!, a Bay Area rapper/producer who is everywhere lately, and "Crack A 40" features Kool John, another member of IAMSU!'s extended HBK Gang. Kreayshawn, post-career apocalypse, is here, for some reason, mewing the hook to "Pu$$y Magnet", doing nothing for her recording career or Roach's. A few moments on the tape's front half of the tape suffer from a generic, any-hit syndrome-- there's a song called "100 in the Fastlane" that rhymes "champagne" and "campaign" in the chorus, for instance, a combination that prompts instant brain death. The poppier moves slide off of Roach in part because he moves through them with the same hangdog slouch he brings to everything. He's not one for big poses, and his best music is built on cutting sidelong observations, little jokes, clever phrasings. Here's his version of "I'm my own boss": "Forgot to tell my boss I'm sick/ it's cool, I call my own phone and say, 'Don't even trip," ("Vertigo"). On "Actin Up," he says "I keep gas like my Grandma keep coupons/ Eat you in two lines." His rapping often does a neat trap-door trick, swinging from joke to yelp of pain in the space of one line: "I'm always losing shit, my keys and my pops missing," he cracks on "Sick American". On tape-closer "Don't Forget The Gigz," he reminds us where he's coming from: "I grew up on Weezy and Dreezy, baby/ I was eighteen before I heard some Jay-Z." The "Dreezy" is the legendary Bay Area rap godfather Mac Dre, and it's tough to say which of these two Roach owes more to (At one point, Roach quotes a generous chunk of Lil Wayne's "region haters" salvo from "Shooter," repurposing the sentiment for the Bay.) The best stuff on RB3 is the stuff neatly aligned with this worldview, a mind nurtured by the alternate universe of the Bay Area rap scene and a gimlet eye that sees everything.

Artist: Roach Gigz, Album: Roachy Balboa Round 3, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: ""So I was pickin' vegetables out my cup of noodles": When David Drake zeroed in on this line, from "Goomba Pimpin'" off of Roach Gigz's breakthrough mixtape Roachy Balboa, he smartly isolated the Bay Area rapper's conversational appeal in a single line: Whatever was coming after that introduction, you absolutely needed to hear it. It's an instant tune-in, pay-attention detail, humbling and specific and funny, right down the way it starts with "So." "Goomba Pimpin" was a calling card for Roach Gigz, introducing the world at large to a young rapper with a quick mind, an eye for the small things, and an off-the-cuff flow with a heavy debt to Lil Wayne. Three years later is a long, long time in unsigned-mixtape-rapper time. Between then and now, there was Roachy Balboa 2, not quite as good, and then silence. Roachy Balboa 3, released this month is another strong tape brimming with Roachiness: rich writing, funny/sad jokes, rubbery Bay Area beats. But despite his bullish optimism ("I'm still young motherfucker/ I'm gonna be an actor when I'm done, motherfucker") RB3 still doesn't feel like the shot that will convert regional buzz to national buzz. For better or for worse, Roach seems to live in his own little self-contained universe, and the joys to be had when visiting are small ones, like a perfectly rendered image of desiccated vegetables bobbing in a cup of noodles. Roach has tapped some surrounding Bay Area talent for fresh context: The first single off the tape, "It's Lit",  features IAMSU!, a Bay Area rapper/producer who is everywhere lately, and "Crack A 40" features Kool John, another member of IAMSU!'s extended HBK Gang. Kreayshawn, post-career apocalypse, is here, for some reason, mewing the hook to "Pu$$y Magnet", doing nothing for her recording career or Roach's. A few moments on the tape's front half of the tape suffer from a generic, any-hit syndrome-- there's a song called "100 in the Fastlane" that rhymes "champagne" and "campaign" in the chorus, for instance, a combination that prompts instant brain death. The poppier moves slide off of Roach in part because he moves through them with the same hangdog slouch he brings to everything. He's not one for big poses, and his best music is built on cutting sidelong observations, little jokes, clever phrasings. Here's his version of "I'm my own boss": "Forgot to tell my boss I'm sick/ it's cool, I call my own phone and say, 'Don't even trip," ("Vertigo"). On "Actin Up," he says "I keep gas like my Grandma keep coupons/ Eat you in two lines." His rapping often does a neat trap-door trick, swinging from joke to yelp of pain in the space of one line: "I'm always losing shit, my keys and my pops missing," he cracks on "Sick American". On tape-closer "Don't Forget The Gigz," he reminds us where he's coming from: "I grew up on Weezy and Dreezy, baby/ I was eighteen before I heard some Jay-Z." The "Dreezy" is the legendary Bay Area rap godfather Mac Dre, and it's tough to say which of these two Roach owes more to (At one point, Roach quotes a generous chunk of Lil Wayne's "region haters" salvo from "Shooter," repurposing the sentiment for the Bay.) The best stuff on RB3 is the stuff neatly aligned with this worldview, a mind nurtured by the alternate universe of the Bay Area rap scene and a gimlet eye that sees everything."

The Red Krayola

The Parable of Arable Land

Rock

Alex Linhardt

Believe it or not, Pitchfork does not afford me the luxury of having only one job. I don't claim to have the most bizarre profession on staff, but my capacity as a curator of the Special Exhibits Gallery for the Kansas State Historical Society gives me a lot of time to think about history's trajectory. Amongst the thousands of dissertations, portfolios and anthologies that slide across my desk claiming to classify epochs and develop new historical methodologies and schemas, there's one thesis I don't believe I've ever heard proposed in any of these texts: The 60s were fucking nuts. Like seriously. The historian Alice Echols claims that the culmination of the 60s occurred at the infamous Rainbow Ricochet soiree on May 8, 1967. And indeed, it's difficult to combat any party (let alone that epic bacchanal) that found Timothy Leary, Otis Redding, Abbie Hoffman, Betty Friedan, Stanley Kubrick, Twinkle and the newly appointed U.S. Secretary of Transportation Alan Boyd hovering (literally, according to some eyewitnesses) around a punch bowl that packed enough wallop to send eleven attendees home in body bags. The sheer wackiness must have been astonishing, righteous, revolutionary and filled with enough permanent brain atrophy to run for prime minister. Any lingering devotees of the 1980s still insisting that "well, um, that Frehley's Comet album was pretty crazy for too, uh, often as well" better pack up their belongings and go home. Fuckin' illiterates. Learn to read. And yet, there was an even more momentous day in the marshmallow-sky twirling unicorn massacre we call the 1960s. In March 1967, The Red Crayola walked into the studio and spent a day making one of the most visionary album of the year, The Parable of Arable Land. It's a band that has no idea how to play its instruments. In fact, they don't even know what instruments are, or if the guitarist has the ability to remain conscious long enough to play whatever it is a "note" might be. Shattered psalms, wobbling percussion courtesy of poet Frederick Barthelme, patently overused echo chambers, and the clumsiest staircase bassline in garage history smashes into a bunch of clopping machine men as Mayo Thompson croons out the only serious line in his entire career: "I have in my pocket a hurricane fighter plane." And that's just one of the actual songs. The "free-form freakouts" are about as fervidly psychotic as anything in any genre. This is a band that was paid ten dollars to stop a performance in Berkeley. If Berkeley's not having it, you know you're in for rough sledding. (Think amplified "Revolution 9" or the more scandalous Sun City Girls' field recordings.) Kazoos, tribal race riots, steamrolled radios, irate circus barkers, distressed toddlers, and spy themes assail each other over crackling soda pop. And then there's those oscillations and extravagant mouthfuls of static that are so heavy you may as well tattoo fake PCP lips onto your skull and shoot yourself in the legs because you thought the act of shooting a gun was the object chocolate worship goalosphere itself. And in the middle, Thompson hollers out "Woo-hoo!" like he actually thinks he's rocking out. He is mistaken; this is not a rockin' trip. It's a mind-milkshake where everyone's friends are dead in abscesses of lunatic incompetence at an epic pitch of stoner rock doom. How could it possibly get any more chaotic? Oh... I don't know. How about if you put Roky Erickson on an organ and told him to pretend he didn't have any hands? Yes, that does the trick nicely. A year later and a drummer short, Thompson recruited Tommy Smith to make something their label, International Artists, might actually accept after the botched release of Coconut Hotel. This is not to say God Bless the Red Krayola is particularly accessible. First of all, they spell their name incorrectly. This may seem like a feeble move, perhaps even stupid, but let us recall that misspelling is #1 on the making-crazy-music-for-its-own-sake to-do list. For all the laudations heaped upon the Krayola by the punk and post-punk crowds, it might as well be bootleg Einstürzende Neubauten at its grimiest atonality and infuritating double integral time signatures: "The Shirt" and "The Jewels of Madonna" are vicious gorges brimming with abrasive wire-cutting, pop-gun propulsion, and whimpering, receding vocals. That's not to say there aren't memorable "songs" here: "Say Hello to Jamie Jones"' stark drumming and lulled vocals are relentlessly dry and stoical, and the hilariously out-of-sync back-up singing on "Save the House" is the experimental rock version of call-and-response performed by stoners with Tourette's syndrome. The catchiest song might be the lost-love reverie of "Victory Garden", except the protagonist is Hitler patched onto what we'll have to call an "angular bop jam band" simply to get out of it intact. "Ravi Shankar: Parachutist" is delivered with such convulsive sincerity, the lengthy interruption by a flickering middle school choir's scales seems both disingenuous and ravenously insane. Most songs are under two minutes. Many more are under one. If your temperament's not what the 19th-century scientist Eberhard Wilkson called "amicable and shrewd through divertissement," this will be an interminable slog through everything that was ever bad in underground rock. It's indulgent, poorly recorded, entirely befuddled in its own crazy aesthetic, existing solely to counter the mainstream and prove they don't care about gloss, significance or talent. And, like Trout Mask Replica, it will feel like a halfway decent comedy album the first few times you listen to it. Persistence will pay off. The Krayola would disband shortly after this release (and a lost double-album with John Fahey) only to reform in the late 1970s to sustain a legendarily spotty three decades of releases. The great Pitchfork meta-raconteur, Nick Mirov, once concluded a review of a recent Red Krayola album by noting that it has "nothing to do with entertainment. Or even art." Granted. Unfortunately, that's many people's definition of truly great entertainment and art. Way back when, no one wanted to call Duchamp, Michelangelo, Mozart or the Queen's portraitist "artists," either. The Krayola's legacy is surely bolstered by their location in rock history-- simply put, this was likely the most experimental band of the 1960s-- but until we've caught up with them, this remains essential listening for fried brains of all creeds.

Artist: The Red Krayola, Album: The Parable of Arable Land, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.3 Album review: "Believe it or not, Pitchfork does not afford me the luxury of having only one job. I don't claim to have the most bizarre profession on staff, but my capacity as a curator of the Special Exhibits Gallery for the Kansas State Historical Society gives me a lot of time to think about history's trajectory. Amongst the thousands of dissertations, portfolios and anthologies that slide across my desk claiming to classify epochs and develop new historical methodologies and schemas, there's one thesis I don't believe I've ever heard proposed in any of these texts: The 60s were fucking nuts. Like seriously. The historian Alice Echols claims that the culmination of the 60s occurred at the infamous Rainbow Ricochet soiree on May 8, 1967. And indeed, it's difficult to combat any party (let alone that epic bacchanal) that found Timothy Leary, Otis Redding, Abbie Hoffman, Betty Friedan, Stanley Kubrick, Twinkle and the newly appointed U.S. Secretary of Transportation Alan Boyd hovering (literally, according to some eyewitnesses) around a punch bowl that packed enough wallop to send eleven attendees home in body bags. The sheer wackiness must have been astonishing, righteous, revolutionary and filled with enough permanent brain atrophy to run for prime minister. Any lingering devotees of the 1980s still insisting that "well, um, that Frehley's Comet album was pretty crazy for too, uh, often as well" better pack up their belongings and go home. Fuckin' illiterates. Learn to read. And yet, there was an even more momentous day in the marshmallow-sky twirling unicorn massacre we call the 1960s. In March 1967, The Red Crayola walked into the studio and spent a day making one of the most visionary album of the year, The Parable of Arable Land. It's a band that has no idea how to play its instruments. In fact, they don't even know what instruments are, or if the guitarist has the ability to remain conscious long enough to play whatever it is a "note" might be. Shattered psalms, wobbling percussion courtesy of poet Frederick Barthelme, patently overused echo chambers, and the clumsiest staircase bassline in garage history smashes into a bunch of clopping machine men as Mayo Thompson croons out the only serious line in his entire career: "I have in my pocket a hurricane fighter plane." And that's just one of the actual songs. The "free-form freakouts" are about as fervidly psychotic as anything in any genre. This is a band that was paid ten dollars to stop a performance in Berkeley. If Berkeley's not having it, you know you're in for rough sledding. (Think amplified "Revolution 9" or the more scandalous Sun City Girls' field recordings.) Kazoos, tribal race riots, steamrolled radios, irate circus barkers, distressed toddlers, and spy themes assail each other over crackling soda pop. And then there's those oscillations and extravagant mouthfuls of static that are so heavy you may as well tattoo fake PCP lips onto your skull and shoot yourself in the legs because you thought the act of shooting a gun was the object chocolate worship goalosphere itself. And in the middle, Thompson hollers out "Woo-hoo!" like he actually thinks he's rocking out. He is mistaken; this is not a rockin' trip. It's a mind-milkshake where everyone's friends are dead in abscesses of lunatic incompetence at an epic pitch of stoner rock doom. How could it possibly get any more chaotic? Oh... I don't know. How about if you put Roky Erickson on an organ and told him to pretend he didn't have any hands? Yes, that does the trick nicely. A year later and a drummer short, Thompson recruited Tommy Smith to make something their label, International Artists, might actually accept after the botched release of Coconut Hotel. This is not to say God Bless the Red Krayola is particularly accessible. First of all, they spell their name incorrectly. This may seem like a feeble move, perhaps even stupid, but let us recall that misspelling is #1 on the making-crazy-music-for-its-own-sake to-do list. For all the laudations heaped upon the Krayola by the punk and post-punk crowds, it might as well be bootleg Einstürzende Neubauten at its grimiest atonality and infuritating double integral time signatures: "The Shirt" and "The Jewels of Madonna" are vicious gorges brimming with abrasive wire-cutting, pop-gun propulsion, and whimpering, receding vocals. That's not to say there aren't memorable "songs" here: "Say Hello to Jamie Jones"' stark drumming and lulled vocals are relentlessly dry and stoical, and the hilariously out-of-sync back-up singing on "Save the House" is the experimental rock version of call-and-response performed by stoners with Tourette's syndrome. The catchiest song might be the lost-love reverie of "Victory Garden", except the protagonist is Hitler patched onto what we'll have to call an "angular bop jam band" simply to get out of it intact. "Ravi Shankar: Parachutist" is delivered with such convulsive sincerity, the lengthy interruption by a flickering middle school choir's scales seems both disingenuous and ravenously insane. Most songs are under two minutes. Many more are under one. If your temperament's not what the 19th-century scientist Eberhard Wilkson called "amicable and shrewd through divertissement," this will be an interminable slog through everything that was ever bad in underground rock. It's indulgent, poorly recorded, entirely befuddled in its own crazy aesthetic, existing solely to counter the mainstream and prove they don't care about gloss, significance or talent. And, like Trout Mask Replica, it will feel like a halfway decent comedy album the first few times you listen to it. Persistence will pay off. The Krayola would disband shortly after this release (and a lost double-album with John Fahey) only to reform in the late 1970s to sustain a legendarily spotty three decades of releases. The great Pitchfork meta-raconteur, Nick Mirov, once concluded a review of a recent Red Krayola album by noting that it has "nothing to do with entertainment. Or even art." Granted. Unfortunately, that's many people's definition of truly great entertainment and art. Way back when, no one wanted to call Duchamp, Michelangelo, Mozart or the Queen's portraitist "artists," either. The Krayola's legacy is surely bolstered by their location in rock history-- simply put, this was likely the most experimental band of the 1960s-- but until we've caught up with them, this remains essential listening for fried brains of all creeds."

The Fall

Your Future Our Clutter

Rock

Stuart Berman

The only thing more unstable than the Fall's membership over the past 34 years has been their label situation. Fall figurehead Mark E. Smith seems happy to release his music on any ol' label that'll have him, whether it's A-list indies (Beggars Banquet, Rough Trade), under-the-radar imprints (Narnack, Action Records), or companies best known for issuing budget-series classic-rock concert DVDs (Eagle Rock). These shifts are emblematic of the band's own tumble along the mainstream/underground divide, creating those rips in the space-time continuum that allow the Fall to score the occasional Top 40 UK chart entry, Mark E. Smith to get gigs reading soccer scores on national sports telecasts, or "Hip Priest" to become the key punchline in yet another Hitler/Downfall video parody. But in a career that's defied all logic and convention, the Fall's signing to Domino makes perfect sense, given both the label's own over/underground balancing act and the fact that the Fall's influence can be felt in many of Domino's marquee acts (Franz Ferdinand and Arctic Monkeys among them). And while there's rarely been a correlation between the accessibility of a given Fall album and the profile of the label releasing it, the lean, brute-force rockers on Your Future Our Clutter suggest that the Fall might actually be taking this upgrade to Domino seriously. The new album was recorded with the same lineup that debuted on 2008's Imperial Wax Solvent, but you'd never know it without close inspection of the liners-- in sharp contrast to that album's playful, sloppy sprawl (typified by the hilarious centerpiece ramble "50 Year Old Man"), Your Future Our Clutter sees Smith assuming the role of military drill sergeant to unleash a more pointed offensive against The Kids. From the opening theme "O.F.Y.C. Showcase" onward, Smith outfits his charges with single-chord morse-code riffs and lockstep rhythms before gradually ratcheting up the intensity; by the time we hit the gonzo second act of "Y.F.O.C./Slippy Floor", the Fall are thrashing about like a totally wired Led Zeppelin. And whether Smith is shouting, "Your Future! Our Clutter!" or "Our Future! Your Clutter!"-- as he's wont to invert them-- he sounds particularly enthused by the prospect of leaving the next generation to inherit a world of shit. Your Future Our Clutter is noticeably bereft of the call-and-response group chants that defined the Fall's mid-1980s classics as well as its most recent successes (see: "Theme From Sparta FC", "What About Us?"). Instead, Smith's free-ranging rants gain focus as the music accrues momentum and menace: "Bury Pts. 1 + 3" takes a verse-by-verse ascension from lo-fi to fierce hi-fi stomper, as if to mock those who intentionally use crude production values-- "a new way of recording," Smith sneers, "a chain around the neck." But Smith also invests Your Future Our Clutter with moments of surprising sensitivity (disquieting ballad "Weather Report 2") and self-aware reflection: During the late-night prowl of "Chino", Smith repeats, "When do I quit?" Coming from any other grizzled 53-year-old artist, you might interpret that statement as an admission of mortality and humility. But given the irrepressible vitality heard throughout Your Future Our Clutter, it's a question that, I'm happy to report, still has no answer.

Artist: The Fall, Album: Your Future Our Clutter, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "The only thing more unstable than the Fall's membership over the past 34 years has been their label situation. Fall figurehead Mark E. Smith seems happy to release his music on any ol' label that'll have him, whether it's A-list indies (Beggars Banquet, Rough Trade), under-the-radar imprints (Narnack, Action Records), or companies best known for issuing budget-series classic-rock concert DVDs (Eagle Rock). These shifts are emblematic of the band's own tumble along the mainstream/underground divide, creating those rips in the space-time continuum that allow the Fall to score the occasional Top 40 UK chart entry, Mark E. Smith to get gigs reading soccer scores on national sports telecasts, or "Hip Priest" to become the key punchline in yet another Hitler/Downfall video parody. But in a career that's defied all logic and convention, the Fall's signing to Domino makes perfect sense, given both the label's own over/underground balancing act and the fact that the Fall's influence can be felt in many of Domino's marquee acts (Franz Ferdinand and Arctic Monkeys among them). And while there's rarely been a correlation between the accessibility of a given Fall album and the profile of the label releasing it, the lean, brute-force rockers on Your Future Our Clutter suggest that the Fall might actually be taking this upgrade to Domino seriously. The new album was recorded with the same lineup that debuted on 2008's Imperial Wax Solvent, but you'd never know it without close inspection of the liners-- in sharp contrast to that album's playful, sloppy sprawl (typified by the hilarious centerpiece ramble "50 Year Old Man"), Your Future Our Clutter sees Smith assuming the role of military drill sergeant to unleash a more pointed offensive against The Kids. From the opening theme "O.F.Y.C. Showcase" onward, Smith outfits his charges with single-chord morse-code riffs and lockstep rhythms before gradually ratcheting up the intensity; by the time we hit the gonzo second act of "Y.F.O.C./Slippy Floor", the Fall are thrashing about like a totally wired Led Zeppelin. And whether Smith is shouting, "Your Future! Our Clutter!" or "Our Future! Your Clutter!"-- as he's wont to invert them-- he sounds particularly enthused by the prospect of leaving the next generation to inherit a world of shit. Your Future Our Clutter is noticeably bereft of the call-and-response group chants that defined the Fall's mid-1980s classics as well as its most recent successes (see: "Theme From Sparta FC", "What About Us?"). Instead, Smith's free-ranging rants gain focus as the music accrues momentum and menace: "Bury Pts. 1 + 3" takes a verse-by-verse ascension from lo-fi to fierce hi-fi stomper, as if to mock those who intentionally use crude production values-- "a new way of recording," Smith sneers, "a chain around the neck." But Smith also invests Your Future Our Clutter with moments of surprising sensitivity (disquieting ballad "Weather Report 2") and self-aware reflection: During the late-night prowl of "Chino", Smith repeats, "When do I quit?" Coming from any other grizzled 53-year-old artist, you might interpret that statement as an admission of mortality and humility. But given the irrepressible vitality heard throughout Your Future Our Clutter, it's a question that, I'm happy to report, still has no answer."

Desiigner

L.O.D. EP

Rap

Torii MacAdams

Desiigner’s schtick isn’t just thin—it’s transparent. His biggest hit, “Panda,” isn’t just two years old—it’s also eerily reminiscent of Future’s big hits. His rise wasn’t just meteoric—it was facilitated by Kanye West, a hip-hop visionary and babbling egomaniac whose popularity is currently at its nadir. Still only 21 years old, he’s got an official debut album languishing alongside Tha Carter V and Madvillainy 2 in rap purgatory. In the meantime, the Brooklyn rapper has released L.O.D. (or Life of Desiigner), an EP that is unlikely to quiet his many critics. Desiigner’s ability to mimic Future’s throaty ululations is simultaneously his greatest gift and his most damning curse. Without that mumbly warble—which can connote pain, pleasure, or the particular pain of nihilistic pleasure-seeking—“Panda” would probably never have dug its claws into West’s malleable pate and ended up on The Life of Pablo. Not sampled so much as reproduced, the song largely escaped Kanye’s jittery, impulsive tinkering. But with West’s co-sign came increased scrutiny; Desiigner’s 2016 mixtape New English garnered lukewarm reviews, with journalists repeatedly calling out his similarities to Future. To presume that Desiigner is purposely imitating Future would be unfair; his motives remain unknown. But, at the very least, through shared thematic interests as well as biological happenstance, Desiigner is making music that’s conspicuously similar to that of his Atlantan peer. Future does arch-trap-capitalist anthems, libidinous propositions, and tempestuous, sorrowful ballads. On L.O.D., Desiigner attempts the same to uninspiring results. He checks off all of the basic rap boxes—his voice, his choruses, and his beat selections are fair to middling. It’s the discreet, revealing bits that are severely lacking. “Hood” opens with the intriguing Auto-Tuned salvo “I know niggas getting bodied in their own hood” but too quickly devolves into baffling lines like, “And I live my life right, like a motorcycle/And I don’t recycle/And I am a psycho.” Even “Tonka,” the most enjoyable song on L.O.D., suffers for its lassitude. Rather than inspiring greater intensity on the rapper’s part, the song’s wild, layered backing vocals clash with his listless delivery. Desiigner has a single gear, instrumental be damned. There are a few moments on L.O.D. when he doesn’t sound like he’s imitating Future—but they neither depart much from his typical formula nor establish him as an artist with much verve or vision. Stripped of the mystique afforded by the Atlanta trap-rap mumble, “Priice Tag” and “LA to NY” are naked in their aimlessness. His repetitive lyrics might as well be a chalkboard gag from “The Simpsons.” Like Bart, Desiigner invests minimal energy in these stultifying exercises. The rapper’s backstory makes listening to L.O.D. an especially disheartening experience. It feels like Desiigner—who once slept on his family’s carpeted floors in the Bed-Stuy projects, for lack of a bed, and was shot in the hip at 14—has been saddled with all the expectations of a Kanye West protégé without benefiting from any substantive guidance. West and his G.O.O.D. Music associates haven’t displayed much interest in mentoring this artist they plucked from relative obscurity as a teenager. Watching Desiigner get broken on the music industry’s wheel is maddening, because the failures of L.O.D. aren’t his alone—they’re side effects of a star-hungry system that’s unconcerned with the long-term effects of its machinations.

Artist: Desiigner, Album: L.O.D. EP, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 4.6 Album review: "Desiigner’s schtick isn’t just thin—it’s transparent. His biggest hit, “Panda,” isn’t just two years old—it’s also eerily reminiscent of Future’s big hits. His rise wasn’t just meteoric—it was facilitated by Kanye West, a hip-hop visionary and babbling egomaniac whose popularity is currently at its nadir. Still only 21 years old, he’s got an official debut album languishing alongside Tha Carter V and Madvillainy 2 in rap purgatory. In the meantime, the Brooklyn rapper has released L.O.D. (or Life of Desiigner), an EP that is unlikely to quiet his many critics. Desiigner’s ability to mimic Future’s throaty ululations is simultaneously his greatest gift and his most damning curse. Without that mumbly warble—which can connote pain, pleasure, or the particular pain of nihilistic pleasure-seeking—“Panda” would probably never have dug its claws into West’s malleable pate and ended up on The Life of Pablo. Not sampled so much as reproduced, the song largely escaped Kanye’s jittery, impulsive tinkering. But with West’s co-sign came increased scrutiny; Desiigner’s 2016 mixtape New English garnered lukewarm reviews, with journalists repeatedly calling out his similarities to Future. To presume that Desiigner is purposely imitating Future would be unfair; his motives remain unknown. But, at the very least, through shared thematic interests as well as biological happenstance, Desiigner is making music that’s conspicuously similar to that of his Atlantan peer. Future does arch-trap-capitalist anthems, libidinous propositions, and tempestuous, sorrowful ballads. On L.O.D., Desiigner attempts the same to uninspiring results. He checks off all of the basic rap boxes—his voice, his choruses, and his beat selections are fair to middling. It’s the discreet, revealing bits that are severely lacking. “Hood” opens with the intriguing Auto-Tuned salvo “I know niggas getting bodied in their own hood” but too quickly devolves into baffling lines like, “And I live my life right, like a motorcycle/And I don’t recycle/And I am a psycho.” Even “Tonka,” the most enjoyable song on L.O.D., suffers for its lassitude. Rather than inspiring greater intensity on the rapper’s part, the song’s wild, layered backing vocals clash with his listless delivery. Desiigner has a single gear, instrumental be damned. There are a few moments on L.O.D. when he doesn’t sound like he’s imitating Future—but they neither depart much from his typical formula nor establish him as an artist with much verve or vision. Stripped of the mystique afforded by the Atlanta trap-rap mumble, “Priice Tag” and “LA to NY” are naked in their aimlessness. His repetitive lyrics might as well be a chalkboard gag from “The Simpsons.” Like Bart, Desiigner invests minimal energy in these stultifying exercises. The rapper’s backstory makes listening to L.O.D. an especially disheartening experience. It feels like Desiigner—who once slept on his family’s carpeted floors in the Bed-Stuy projects, for lack of a bed, and was shot in the hip at 14—has been saddled with all the expectations of a Kanye West protégé without benefiting from any substantive guidance. West and his G.O.O.D. Music associates haven’t displayed much interest in mentoring this artist they plucked from relative obscurity as a teenager. Watching Desiigner get broken on the music industry’s wheel is maddening, because the failures of L.O.D. aren’t his alone—they’re side effects of a star-hungry system that’s unconcerned with the long-term effects of its machinations."

American Analog Set

Through the 90s: Singles and Unreleased

Rock

Nick Mirov

For me, the most impressive trick a band can pull off is to create a unique, instantly identifiable sound with the most basic of musical tools. What the American Analog Set has accomplished to date has been a neat trick of sonic alchemy; with a bare minimum of sonic gimmicks-- calmly plucked guitar, mildly buzzy keyboard, muffled drums, hushed vocals-- they concoct a warm, pure sound whose closest relative may be Yo La Tengo in their less noisy moments. Like YLT, the American Analog Set knows how to let a song slowly unfold itself without testing the patience of its listeners, moving through each measure of their music with quiet, sure-footed confidence. The band's simpler/gentler ethos is in full effect on Through the 90s, an obligatory housecleaning of b-sides, unreleased alternate versions, and live tracks that always pops up when a band switches labels. (Having spent several years on Emperor Jones, the band will be releasing their upcoming full-length on Tiger Style.) It's a testament to the American Analog Set's songwriting consistency that Through the 90s could easily pass as a proper album; however, where the band's previous releases have been exquisitely crafted so that the tracks flow effortlessly together, the primary virtue of this one is its subtle variety. Old tracks contrast just enough with newer ones so that their differences can be appreciated without the transitions between them being too jarring. Among the more interesting artifacts is "High Fidelity vs. Guy Fidelity," one of the first songs the guys ever wrote; it bears a strong resemblance to Mogwai's more recent work of deliberate, clean guitars set against washes of keyboard noise. Amusingly, an ad jingle the band wrote for their collective favorite soft drink, Dr. Pepper, is also included; according to the brief, wry liner notes, the jingle was rejected, so the band developed it into the full-length "The Wait," which appeared on their 1999 album, The Golden Band. There's also a chilled-out remix of "Don't Wake Me," which casts the band in a favorable Darla Records-esque light, all soft-touch breakbeats and plinky electronics. The latter half of the album is a little less exciting. Alternate versions of album tracks such as "Magnificent Seventies" from 1997's From Our Living Room to Yours and "It's All About Us" from The Golden Band, aren't alternate enough to be made too distinctive from their originals. The pair of extended live tracks that close the album show the band to be a smooth live act, but there's something unsettling about hearing their music played through a filter of ambient crowd noise. The American Analog Set isn't a band to experience collectively; they make the kind of music you want to hear in your own head, and while the presence of the crowd never overwhelms the band, it's still an unwelcome intrusion into that little musical world you create for yourself. Despite the fact that it seems a little excessive for a band who's only released three albums to put out an odds-and-sods collection, Through the 90s, like every American Analog Set release to date, is a soothing, rewarding listen. It's not only a recommended purchase for longtime fans, but for newcomers as well, as its grab-bag nature captures many different nuances of the band's sound, both past and present.

Artist: American Analog Set, Album: Through the 90s: Singles and Unreleased, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "For me, the most impressive trick a band can pull off is to create a unique, instantly identifiable sound with the most basic of musical tools. What the American Analog Set has accomplished to date has been a neat trick of sonic alchemy; with a bare minimum of sonic gimmicks-- calmly plucked guitar, mildly buzzy keyboard, muffled drums, hushed vocals-- they concoct a warm, pure sound whose closest relative may be Yo La Tengo in their less noisy moments. Like YLT, the American Analog Set knows how to let a song slowly unfold itself without testing the patience of its listeners, moving through each measure of their music with quiet, sure-footed confidence. The band's simpler/gentler ethos is in full effect on Through the 90s, an obligatory housecleaning of b-sides, unreleased alternate versions, and live tracks that always pops up when a band switches labels. (Having spent several years on Emperor Jones, the band will be releasing their upcoming full-length on Tiger Style.) It's a testament to the American Analog Set's songwriting consistency that Through the 90s could easily pass as a proper album; however, where the band's previous releases have been exquisitely crafted so that the tracks flow effortlessly together, the primary virtue of this one is its subtle variety. Old tracks contrast just enough with newer ones so that their differences can be appreciated without the transitions between them being too jarring. Among the more interesting artifacts is "High Fidelity vs. Guy Fidelity," one of the first songs the guys ever wrote; it bears a strong resemblance to Mogwai's more recent work of deliberate, clean guitars set against washes of keyboard noise. Amusingly, an ad jingle the band wrote for their collective favorite soft drink, Dr. Pepper, is also included; according to the brief, wry liner notes, the jingle was rejected, so the band developed it into the full-length "The Wait," which appeared on their 1999 album, The Golden Band. There's also a chilled-out remix of "Don't Wake Me," which casts the band in a favorable Darla Records-esque light, all soft-touch breakbeats and plinky electronics. The latter half of the album is a little less exciting. Alternate versions of album tracks such as "Magnificent Seventies" from 1997's From Our Living Room to Yours and "It's All About Us" from The Golden Band, aren't alternate enough to be made too distinctive from their originals. The pair of extended live tracks that close the album show the band to be a smooth live act, but there's something unsettling about hearing their music played through a filter of ambient crowd noise. The American Analog Set isn't a band to experience collectively; they make the kind of music you want to hear in your own head, and while the presence of the crowd never overwhelms the band, it's still an unwelcome intrusion into that little musical world you create for yourself. Despite the fact that it seems a little excessive for a band who's only released three albums to put out an odds-and-sods collection, Through the 90s, like every American Analog Set release to date, is a soothing, rewarding listen. It's not only a recommended purchase for longtime fans, but for newcomers as well, as its grab-bag nature captures many different nuances of the band's sound, both past and present."

Survival

Survival

Jayson Greene

Survival is the latest dispatch from the imagination of Hunter Hunt-Hendrix, better known for fronting the black metal band Liturgy. He's the kind of acutely intelligent musician who can’t resist articulating the grand conceits behind his work even if he knows they will irritate people, which they often do. But when drummer Greg Fox departed Liturgy in late 2011, it took the heartbeat out of Hunt-Hendrix's theories. On Survival, he's in a comfort zone of sorts, playing with older friends: Greg Smith and Jeff Bobula once backed Hunt-Hendrix in a screamo band called Birthday Boyz, while Krallice guitarist Colin Marston worked with Liturgy on 2009's Renihilation. It's a nice update for Hunt-Hendrix's vision, but it's not quite vivid enough to dispel the nagging reminder that the mighty vessel who delivered “Sun of Light” and “Generation” has temporarily run aground. Survival is a much more straightforward and grounded project than Liturgy. Some of the guitar parts and melodies start out foursquare; “Tragedy of the Mind”’s hiccuping pentatonic riff, for instance, stomps somewhere just north of Soundgarden’s “Rhinosaur”. The vocals are chanted low instead of screamed high, but they're as much a textural background element as they were with Liturgy. The band has cited Black Sabbath, Smashing Pumpkins, and Creedence Clearwater as influences, and there are some classic rock wisps to pick out-- the Sabbath-thick power chords on the breakdown to “Original Pain”, for one. But this being a Hunt-Hendrix project, there's always a moment when the threads begin twisting-- a drum fill sprouts an extra beat and the song club-foots into a new time signature, or guitar lines stumble over themselves and then start rewinding in place, like they’re trying to back off of a treadmill. There is very little simple forward motion in Hunt-Hendrix’s music; his compositions tend to steer themselves into corner walls and bump repeatedly against them. It produces a calming, repetitive sort of madness, if you're the sort of person who finds banging their head against a wall soothing. The lyrics scramble our sense of chronology in similar ways: "Ending begins all the time," goes the repeated chant to "Tragedy of the Mind". “Original Pain” takes the word "pain" and flogs it until it becomes a mantra. The song titles reinforce the implicit threads of tragedy and freedom linking each of the album’s nine droning, pounding compositions. This is one Ur-Riff, divided up into small, manageable transmissions. Survival's music is a little better-suited to head-banging/fist-pumping than that of Liturgy. “Freedom 1” pairs its titanium-grade riff with a heavy blacksmith forge clink, and “Freedom 3” works up a thrumming, migraine tension with its jittery cymbal work and thrumming hand percussion. But Survival isn’t as interesting or as rich as or any of the other projects the various band members are involved in. The lone quiet moment on the record, the acoustic “Since Sun”, is an intriguing glimpse into a spot where Hunt-Hendrix’s vision shades into the world Phil Elverum explores in Mount Eerie. But the rest of the record veers too often, and too readily, into gray.

Artist: Survival, Album: Survival, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.1 Album review: "Survival is the latest dispatch from the imagination of Hunter Hunt-Hendrix, better known for fronting the black metal band Liturgy. He's the kind of acutely intelligent musician who can’t resist articulating the grand conceits behind his work even if he knows they will irritate people, which they often do. But when drummer Greg Fox departed Liturgy in late 2011, it took the heartbeat out of Hunt-Hendrix's theories. On Survival, he's in a comfort zone of sorts, playing with older friends: Greg Smith and Jeff Bobula once backed Hunt-Hendrix in a screamo band called Birthday Boyz, while Krallice guitarist Colin Marston worked with Liturgy on 2009's Renihilation. It's a nice update for Hunt-Hendrix's vision, but it's not quite vivid enough to dispel the nagging reminder that the mighty vessel who delivered “Sun of Light” and “Generation” has temporarily run aground. Survival is a much more straightforward and grounded project than Liturgy. Some of the guitar parts and melodies start out foursquare; “Tragedy of the Mind”’s hiccuping pentatonic riff, for instance, stomps somewhere just north of Soundgarden’s “Rhinosaur”. The vocals are chanted low instead of screamed high, but they're as much a textural background element as they were with Liturgy. The band has cited Black Sabbath, Smashing Pumpkins, and Creedence Clearwater as influences, and there are some classic rock wisps to pick out-- the Sabbath-thick power chords on the breakdown to “Original Pain”, for one. But this being a Hunt-Hendrix project, there's always a moment when the threads begin twisting-- a drum fill sprouts an extra beat and the song club-foots into a new time signature, or guitar lines stumble over themselves and then start rewinding in place, like they’re trying to back off of a treadmill. There is very little simple forward motion in Hunt-Hendrix’s music; his compositions tend to steer themselves into corner walls and bump repeatedly against them. It produces a calming, repetitive sort of madness, if you're the sort of person who finds banging their head against a wall soothing. The lyrics scramble our sense of chronology in similar ways: "Ending begins all the time," goes the repeated chant to "Tragedy of the Mind". “Original Pain” takes the word "pain" and flogs it until it becomes a mantra. The song titles reinforce the implicit threads of tragedy and freedom linking each of the album’s nine droning, pounding compositions. This is one Ur-Riff, divided up into small, manageable transmissions. Survival's music is a little better-suited to head-banging/fist-pumping than that of Liturgy. “Freedom 1” pairs its titanium-grade riff with a heavy blacksmith forge clink, and “Freedom 3” works up a thrumming, migraine tension with its jittery cymbal work and thrumming hand percussion. But Survival isn’t as interesting or as rich as or any of the other projects the various band members are involved in. The lone quiet moment on the record, the acoustic “Since Sun”, is an intriguing glimpse into a spot where Hunt-Hendrix’s vision shades into the world Phil Elverum explores in Mount Eerie. But the rest of the record veers too often, and too readily, into gray."

Wolf Eyes

No Answer : Lower Floors

Experimental

Marc Masters

Dig up descriptions of Michigan trio Wolf Eyes from any time during their 16-year existence, and I doubt you'll see much use of the word “precision.” But their music has always had this quality-- even if it’s sometimes been covered in whirring distortion, brittle cacophony, or psychotic howls. Go back as far as “Half Animal, Half Insane”, from 2002’s Dread, and you can hear them picking and placing their sounds meticulously. Even though the results could feel abrasive or abstract, the attack has never been messy or careless. Most of the time, it’s a precise rendering of Wolf Eyes’ horror-movie visions and hard-edged sonic obsessions. This knack for precision has reached a new level on No Answer: Lower Floors, Wolf Eyes’ first widely-released album since 2009’s Always Wrong. It’s the clearest, most detailed record in their vast catalogue. There’s little in the way of buried elements or blurred dissonance; in fact, much of the album could be accurately described as minimal. The best example is the longest, a 12-minute dirge called “Confession of the Informer”. Sparse and desolate, it contains only a few sounds at any given moment-- and most of them are distant and fade quickly, like the after-images of a light flash disappearing inside your eyelids. Why is “Confession of the Informer” more gripping than a standard blast of rising noise? The secret lies in Wolf Eyes’ ability to cook up thick tension with the simplest sonic ingredients. It’s a skill they’ve had for a while, but lately they’ve focused it to a point of perfection. It helps that Nate Young and John Olson-- the group’s only consistent members since 2000-- have worked diligently on this aspect of their music outside of Wolf Eyes, in the sparse sketches of their duo Stare Case, the rangy experiments of Young’s Regression, and the reggae-influenced rhythms of Olson’s Hazel and Henry Slaughter. It also helps that new member Jim Baljo adds a further layer of laser-like clarity in his dexterous guitar playing. (Baljo replaced Mike Connelly last fall, though Connelly and the other former Wolf Eye, Aaron Dilloway, both contributed to No Answer: Lower Floors). All these factors have pushed Wolf Eyes to a peak of efficient power, where a single sound can ripple tension through the rest of a song. The most powerful of those sounds are Young’s simple yet maniacally exacting beats. It’s fitting that No Answer: Lower Floors begins with one, tearing open the stereo space before other sounds can move in. His beats are the spine of the music, the compass around which all the other noises align. So while droning chords spark the slow-swinging “Chattering Lead”, the beat pushes them and Young’s deadened moans forward. It’s also what gives the song visceral impact, more so than the band’s tactile sheen. That sheen might make you woozy, but it’s Young’s beats that punch you in the gut. What they don’t do, though, is push the music toward crashing climaxes. Young has recently talked about keeping the Wolf Eyes sound “realistic,” and resisting the temptation to jump from zero to ten at every opportunity. The result of this outlook on No Answer: Lower Floors is momentum that’s primarily implicit. Swells are tenuous and elusive, lurking in shadows without ever jolting into the frame. While Wolf Eyes have often used words and images that suggest the shock of slasher films, it’s this haunting aspect of their music that truly evokes scary movies. Not that No Answer: Lower Floors is all about negative space. The album’s busy soundscape is much more diverse and rounded than that. In places it offers full-on noise-- take the fire-bomb opening of “Born Liar”, or the siren-like wail of “Warning Sign”, not coincidentally the sole track on the album without vocals. But the fact that Wolf Eyes can do both quiet and loud, fast and slow, or frantic and subdued, is no big deal on its own. What matters is the way they make those polar modes seem united and even indistinguishable. Which is yet another reason why something as subdued as “Confession of the Informer” can feel so vital and active. This ability to connect opposites explains why, even though they’re often associated with the wave of American Noise that rose last decade, Wolf Eyes have always seemed to occupy their own self-made world. Part of that comes from the way they’re constantly generating releases, both as Wolf Eyes proper and under an endless array of side projects and solo ventures. But it’s also because no one else has swung between extremes so deftly, in a way that makes outer edges meet on a curving continuum rather than sitting on far ends of a spectrum. On No Answer: Lower Floors, this fact, like the music itself, is clearer than ever before.

Artist: Wolf Eyes, Album: No Answer : Lower Floors, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Dig up descriptions of Michigan trio Wolf Eyes from any time during their 16-year existence, and I doubt you'll see much use of the word “precision.” But their music has always had this quality-- even if it’s sometimes been covered in whirring distortion, brittle cacophony, or psychotic howls. Go back as far as “Half Animal, Half Insane”, from 2002’s Dread, and you can hear them picking and placing their sounds meticulously. Even though the results could feel abrasive or abstract, the attack has never been messy or careless. Most of the time, it’s a precise rendering of Wolf Eyes’ horror-movie visions and hard-edged sonic obsessions. This knack for precision has reached a new level on No Answer: Lower Floors, Wolf Eyes’ first widely-released album since 2009’s Always Wrong. It’s the clearest, most detailed record in their vast catalogue. There’s little in the way of buried elements or blurred dissonance; in fact, much of the album could be accurately described as minimal. The best example is the longest, a 12-minute dirge called “Confession of the Informer”. Sparse and desolate, it contains only a few sounds at any given moment-- and most of them are distant and fade quickly, like the after-images of a light flash disappearing inside your eyelids. Why is “Confession of the Informer” more gripping than a standard blast of rising noise? The secret lies in Wolf Eyes’ ability to cook up thick tension with the simplest sonic ingredients. It’s a skill they’ve had for a while, but lately they’ve focused it to a point of perfection. It helps that Nate Young and John Olson-- the group’s only consistent members since 2000-- have worked diligently on this aspect of their music outside of Wolf Eyes, in the sparse sketches of their duo Stare Case, the rangy experiments of Young’s Regression, and the reggae-influenced rhythms of Olson’s Hazel and Henry Slaughter. It also helps that new member Jim Baljo adds a further layer of laser-like clarity in his dexterous guitar playing. (Baljo replaced Mike Connelly last fall, though Connelly and the other former Wolf Eye, Aaron Dilloway, both contributed to No Answer: Lower Floors). All these factors have pushed Wolf Eyes to a peak of efficient power, where a single sound can ripple tension through the rest of a song. The most powerful of those sounds are Young’s simple yet maniacally exacting beats. It’s fitting that No Answer: Lower Floors begins with one, tearing open the stereo space before other sounds can move in. His beats are the spine of the music, the compass around which all the other noises align. So while droning chords spark the slow-swinging “Chattering Lead”, the beat pushes them and Young’s deadened moans forward. It’s also what gives the song visceral impact, more so than the band’s tactile sheen. That sheen might make you woozy, but it’s Young’s beats that punch you in the gut. What they don’t do, though, is push the music toward crashing climaxes. Young has recently talked about keeping the Wolf Eyes sound “realistic,” and resisting the temptation to jump from zero to ten at every opportunity. The result of this outlook on No Answer: Lower Floors is momentum that’s primarily implicit. Swells are tenuous and elusive, lurking in shadows without ever jolting into the frame. While Wolf Eyes have often used words and images that suggest the shock of slasher films, it’s this haunting aspect of their music that truly evokes scary movies. Not that No Answer: Lower Floors is all about negative space. The album’s busy soundscape is much more diverse and rounded than that. In places it offers full-on noise-- take the fire-bomb opening of “Born Liar”, or the siren-like wail of “Warning Sign”, not coincidentally the sole track on the album without vocals. But the fact that Wolf Eyes can do both quiet and loud, fast and slow, or frantic and subdued, is no big deal on its own. What matters is the way they make those polar modes seem united and even indistinguishable. Which is yet another reason why something as subdued as “Confession of the Informer” can feel so vital and active. This ability to connect opposites explains why, even though they’re often associated with the wave of American Noise that rose last decade, Wolf Eyes have always seemed to occupy their own self-made world. Part of that comes from the way they’re constantly generating releases, both as Wolf Eyes proper and under an endless array of side projects and solo ventures. But it’s also because no one else has swung between extremes so deftly, in a way that makes outer edges meet on a curving continuum rather than sitting on far ends of a spectrum. On No Answer: Lower Floors, this fact, like the music itself, is clearer than ever before."

The Congos, Sun Araw, M. Geddes Gengras

Icon Give Life

Electronic,Global,Experimental

Miles Raymer

Back in 2011 Cameron Stallones, a Los Angeles native who records glitchy psychedelia under the name Sun Araw, and the similarly inclined L.A. electronic musician M. Geddes Gengras decamped to Jamaica to record with the legendary roots reggae group the Congos, whose Lee "Scratch" Perry-produced 1977 debut Heart of the Congos was one of the best albums to come out of Jamaica at a time when the island was producing an unprecedented amount of incredible music. It was an odd team-up, a bunch of older, very serious musicians collaborating across stylistic and cultural gaps with a couple of punkish young noise dudes, but the resulting record, Icon Give Thank, is a surprisingly organic synthesis of traditional reggae and envelope-pushing electronic experimentation. Now, what was originally presented as a one-off partnership, has spawned a live sequel. Considering the depth of Stallones and Gengras' electronically manipulated production and the improvisatory feel to the recording, it's unlikely the coalition could have reproduced it accurately live, and this performance captured last June at the Village Underground in London at times only barely resembles their studio collaboration. Which is actually fine-- worrying about making an exact recreation of Icon Give Thank would be antithetical to its free-flowing energy, and would be kind of pointless to boot. Placed side by side the two recordings make interesting companions. It seems fair to call Icon Give Thank the music of the Congos filtered through their new partners' forward-looking sensibilities. Icon Give Life, on the other hand, sounds more like the Congos hauling Gengras and Stallones back to the late 70s and throwing them and their gear into the anarchic electronics assemblage that comprised Perry's Black Ark Studios. Backed by a group advertised as the Raw Power Band, the Congos, Stallones, and Gengras make a respectable reggae outfit. The grooves are thick and dense, and frequently display the assertive muscularity that characterized the "rockers" reggae that captivated Jamaican audiences around the time that the Congos first formed. The electronic flourishes that gave Icon Give Thank such a unique sound are placed further back in the live mix where they play the same role that Perry's delay-soaked embellishments did in the dubby Heart of the Congos. Like Icon Give Thank, Icon Give Life wavers between its two musical poles before finding the proper balance. The songs where the spotlight is more directly on the Congos are perfectly enjoyable-- the fine, high voices of founders Roydel "Ashanti" Johnson and Cedric Myton haven't aged too noticeably, and the rest of the group and the Raw Power Band cohere nicely, with the proper amount of looseness to feel more like an actual working band than a nostalgic reproduction of one. The parts that are heavier on the noise dudes are less successful. On the record-closing rendition of "Fisherman", one of the Congos' signature cuts, Stallones and Gengras' attempts to add dubby texture overwhelms the song itself, and for a minute the project does exactly the worst thing an unlikely collaboration like this can do, which is make the listener question what these musicians are doing together in the first place. But the two sides meld most seamlessly on "Thanks and Praise", one of the songs that the Congos, Stallones, and Gengras composed together. The instrumentation is sparse, with synthesized beeps and whirs bouncing off of hand drums and psychedelically modulated guitar arpeggios. Above this nearly abstract instrumental bed the Congos layer droning vocal parts that are closer to incantation than singing. The song doesn't build any sort of dynamic, it just sort of drifts along, but after two or three of its seven minutes the disparate elements cohere into a vaguely mystical whole, the group onstage transformed suddenly into an unlikely band of shamanic spirit guides. It's a gorgeous moment that you might wish would never end.

Artist: The Congos, Sun Araw, M. Geddes Gengras, Album: Icon Give Life, Genre: Electronic,Global,Experimental, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "Back in 2011 Cameron Stallones, a Los Angeles native who records glitchy psychedelia under the name Sun Araw, and the similarly inclined L.A. electronic musician M. Geddes Gengras decamped to Jamaica to record with the legendary roots reggae group the Congos, whose Lee "Scratch" Perry-produced 1977 debut Heart of the Congos was one of the best albums to come out of Jamaica at a time when the island was producing an unprecedented amount of incredible music. It was an odd team-up, a bunch of older, very serious musicians collaborating across stylistic and cultural gaps with a couple of punkish young noise dudes, but the resulting record, Icon Give Thank, is a surprisingly organic synthesis of traditional reggae and envelope-pushing electronic experimentation. Now, what was originally presented as a one-off partnership, has spawned a live sequel. Considering the depth of Stallones and Gengras' electronically manipulated production and the improvisatory feel to the recording, it's unlikely the coalition could have reproduced it accurately live, and this performance captured last June at the Village Underground in London at times only barely resembles their studio collaboration. Which is actually fine-- worrying about making an exact recreation of Icon Give Thank would be antithetical to its free-flowing energy, and would be kind of pointless to boot. Placed side by side the two recordings make interesting companions. It seems fair to call Icon Give Thank the music of the Congos filtered through their new partners' forward-looking sensibilities. Icon Give Life, on the other hand, sounds more like the Congos hauling Gengras and Stallones back to the late 70s and throwing them and their gear into the anarchic electronics assemblage that comprised Perry's Black Ark Studios. Backed by a group advertised as the Raw Power Band, the Congos, Stallones, and Gengras make a respectable reggae outfit. The grooves are thick and dense, and frequently display the assertive muscularity that characterized the "rockers" reggae that captivated Jamaican audiences around the time that the Congos first formed. The electronic flourishes that gave Icon Give Thank such a unique sound are placed further back in the live mix where they play the same role that Perry's delay-soaked embellishments did in the dubby Heart of the Congos. Like Icon Give Thank, Icon Give Life wavers between its two musical poles before finding the proper balance. The songs where the spotlight is more directly on the Congos are perfectly enjoyable-- the fine, high voices of founders Roydel "Ashanti" Johnson and Cedric Myton haven't aged too noticeably, and the rest of the group and the Raw Power Band cohere nicely, with the proper amount of looseness to feel more like an actual working band than a nostalgic reproduction of one. The parts that are heavier on the noise dudes are less successful. On the record-closing rendition of "Fisherman", one of the Congos' signature cuts, Stallones and Gengras' attempts to add dubby texture overwhelms the song itself, and for a minute the project does exactly the worst thing an unlikely collaboration like this can do, which is make the listener question what these musicians are doing together in the first place. But the two sides meld most seamlessly on "Thanks and Praise", one of the songs that the Congos, Stallones, and Gengras composed together. The instrumentation is sparse, with synthesized beeps and whirs bouncing off of hand drums and psychedelically modulated guitar arpeggios. Above this nearly abstract instrumental bed the Congos layer droning vocal parts that are closer to incantation than singing. The song doesn't build any sort of dynamic, it just sort of drifts along, but after two or three of its seven minutes the disparate elements cohere into a vaguely mystical whole, the group onstage transformed suddenly into an unlikely band of shamanic spirit guides. It's a gorgeous moment that you might wish would never end."

Alaska!

Facts and Fictions

Rock

Brandon Stosuy

The Los Angeles-based duo Alaska!-- Russell Pollard (bass, drums, and vocals) and Imaad Wasif (guitar, vocals)-- are also two thirds of The New Folk Implosion, one third of Sebadoh (Pollard), and the ex-front man of Lowercase (Wasif), but they sound more like a troupe of psych-heads from Olivia Tremor Control than Lou Barlow collaborators. On Emotions, Alaska!'s first album, the closest link to Barlow's aesthetic is the no-caps, handwritten liner notes. Emotions is slicker than Lou's Shrimper cassettes and even some of Sebadoh's Sub Pop albums, but that carefree spirit of camaraderie is similar. Though Alaska! didn't leave much of an initial impression, resonance emerged over time, clarifying details and offering seemingly endless nooks of beauty worth exploring. I felt the Incredible String Band at the beginning of "Rust And Cyanide", and "Resistance" is almost Simon and Garfunkel, though not in the horrible elevator way Kings of Convenience translated them. Pollard and Wasif's voices lock together almost perfectly, like a single track doubled-up. The fade-away chorus of "The Western Sphere" had me imagining the duo backing away from the microphone and into some beautiful, hazy field as they breathe out the words; it's a gentle brushstroke Olivia Tremor Control use quite a bit. "Love (To Be Your Main)" evokes late-era Elliott Smith, sharing a similar build-up approach with "Bled White" and "Baby Britain". "Broken" could also be Smith, but during his Kill Rock Stars days: it has his falsetto, guitar percussion, and vocal lines resolved by shaking off the words. Though their reference points are somewhat obvious, Alaska! layer music differently than their primary predecessor. Whereas Smith bows to George Martin, Pollard and Wasif appear to be more fascinated by darker instrumentation, similar at times to the whirl of a pre-blow-out 13th Floor Elevators. The only real clunkers on Emotions are the last two tracks, "Nightmare X" and "In My Time". "Nightmare X" goes nowhere, weirdly reminiscent of Smog's "Be Hit", which Lou Barlow took a stab at on 1995's Lou Barlow Plays Waterfront; "In My Time" is a repetitious mess of faux bravura where Pollard and Wasif sing "inside the nightmare of my dream" with seemingly straight faces, evoking the ridiculous semi-illiterate solipsism of late-period Black Heart Procession and, at times, the naive guitar crackle of early Radiohead. This "big guitar" misstep is redolent of another awful masturbatory finish, "Evil Keneival", which haunts the CD-version of Lilys otherwise shimmering A Brief History of Amazing Letdowns. Whatever my minor gripes, Alaska! have constructed an impressive first album. On "Rust and Cyanide" the state and the band are evoked as place, person, history, and "glorious world." This extended metaphor reminded me of the Velvet Underground's "Stephanie Says", in which "Alaska" is a nickname and a reasoning: "She's not afraid to die, the people all call her Alaska." Weirdly, I kept hearing Reed as I listened to this, another fragment of beauty affixed to an already dreamy landscape. Perhaps Alaska! decided their work should embody the roller coaster evoked by the album's title; feelings are anything but balanced, but by making the two dourest tracks on Emotions its grand finale, they seem to feed into a general model of glorified self-loathing, as if it's too naive to escape a record on a high note. I'm definitely no optimist, but ending things with the resplendent "Resistance" would've been wiser: it's a stronger song that the other two, a four-minute meditation about, waking up, getting out of a town, breathing in the seasons and going back home. It gets cold and dark in Alaska, sure, but don't forget the months where there's never a sunset.

Artist: Alaska!, Album: Facts and Fictions, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "The Los Angeles-based duo Alaska!-- Russell Pollard (bass, drums, and vocals) and Imaad Wasif (guitar, vocals)-- are also two thirds of The New Folk Implosion, one third of Sebadoh (Pollard), and the ex-front man of Lowercase (Wasif), but they sound more like a troupe of psych-heads from Olivia Tremor Control than Lou Barlow collaborators. On Emotions, Alaska!'s first album, the closest link to Barlow's aesthetic is the no-caps, handwritten liner notes. Emotions is slicker than Lou's Shrimper cassettes and even some of Sebadoh's Sub Pop albums, but that carefree spirit of camaraderie is similar. Though Alaska! didn't leave much of an initial impression, resonance emerged over time, clarifying details and offering seemingly endless nooks of beauty worth exploring. I felt the Incredible String Band at the beginning of "Rust And Cyanide", and "Resistance" is almost Simon and Garfunkel, though not in the horrible elevator way Kings of Convenience translated them. Pollard and Wasif's voices lock together almost perfectly, like a single track doubled-up. The fade-away chorus of "The Western Sphere" had me imagining the duo backing away from the microphone and into some beautiful, hazy field as they breathe out the words; it's a gentle brushstroke Olivia Tremor Control use quite a bit. "Love (To Be Your Main)" evokes late-era Elliott Smith, sharing a similar build-up approach with "Bled White" and "Baby Britain". "Broken" could also be Smith, but during his Kill Rock Stars days: it has his falsetto, guitar percussion, and vocal lines resolved by shaking off the words. Though their reference points are somewhat obvious, Alaska! layer music differently than their primary predecessor. Whereas Smith bows to George Martin, Pollard and Wasif appear to be more fascinated by darker instrumentation, similar at times to the whirl of a pre-blow-out 13th Floor Elevators. The only real clunkers on Emotions are the last two tracks, "Nightmare X" and "In My Time". "Nightmare X" goes nowhere, weirdly reminiscent of Smog's "Be Hit", which Lou Barlow took a stab at on 1995's Lou Barlow Plays Waterfront; "In My Time" is a repetitious mess of faux bravura where Pollard and Wasif sing "inside the nightmare of my dream" with seemingly straight faces, evoking the ridiculous semi-illiterate solipsism of late-period Black Heart Procession and, at times, the naive guitar crackle of early Radiohead. This "big guitar" misstep is redolent of another awful masturbatory finish, "Evil Keneival", which haunts the CD-version of Lilys otherwise shimmering A Brief History of Amazing Letdowns. Whatever my minor gripes, Alaska! have constructed an impressive first album. On "Rust and Cyanide" the state and the band are evoked as place, person, history, and "glorious world." This extended metaphor reminded me of the Velvet Underground's "Stephanie Says", in which "Alaska" is a nickname and a reasoning: "She's not afraid to die, the people all call her Alaska." Weirdly, I kept hearing Reed as I listened to this, another fragment of beauty affixed to an already dreamy landscape. Perhaps Alaska! decided their work should embody the roller coaster evoked by the album's title; feelings are anything but balanced, but by making the two dourest tracks on Emotions its grand finale, they seem to feed into a general model of glorified self-loathing, as if it's too naive to escape a record on a high note. I'm definitely no optimist, but ending things with the resplendent "Resistance" would've been wiser: it's a stronger song that the other two, a four-minute meditation about, waking up, getting out of a town, breathing in the seasons and going back home. It gets cold and dark in Alaska, sure, but don't forget the months where there's never a sunset."

Electric Birds

Gradations

Electronic

Mark Richardson

It's becoming clear that the first Electric Birds album was something of a one-off. With Gradations, sole member Mike Martinez is now four albums into the project, and he shows no signing of returning to the debut's eclecticism. In a way, the records following have been more cohesive statements, with Martinez choosing to explore with a given side of his musical persona over the course of an album: Panorama reflected his experiments with percussion and more rhythmic sound; last year's Strata Frames was more vaporous and ambient. While I've enjoyed these records to varying degrees, I can't help but pine for the debut's sense of unpredictability. After releasing the first two albums on his own Deluxe label, and Strata Frames on the fledging French imprint U-Cover, Martinez moves to the celebrated Mille Plateaux for Gradations. Mille Pleateax has lost some prestige since its late-90s peak, but massive respect is still due the whole Force, Inc. network for being at the center of the most interesting developments in electronic music over the last ten years. And there's no question that where Electric Birds are now fits with the label's aesthetic. What's surprising about Gradations is the amount of gritty funk Electric Birds adds to the usual mix. Actually, to clarify, when I say 'gritty' I'm talking about the stuff that gums up the rollers in a laser printer, not the dirty sweat that slides down from an armpit to a waist. Still, no other word but 'funk' could possibly describe the momentum that builds through "Astral Traveling," as the customarily gorgeous keyboard drones join forces with a shuffling beat and the tiny blip of a slap-bass riff. Also noteworthy are the guitar accents that give "Cyclist" and "Painted Rooms" a satisfying organic counterpoint. "Painted Rooms" is particularly affecting, as the bassy acoustic guitar picking imparts a dark force that forms an interesting contrast to the glowing, cheerful synth pattern that dominates the tune. "Painted Rooms" and a number of other tracks work the now-ubiquitous microhouse beat into the equation, but Electric Birds' attempts at punchy rhythms feel much more satisfying here than on Panorama. Martinez seems to have developed his ability to make the right beat work with each piece. The title cut, easily the most dub-influenced track to date for Electric Birds, matches the hard panning and phasing effects with a faint, steady kick drum, giving the unpredictable foreground a steady base to work from. Taking a slightly different tack, "Rian" combines eerie sound effects with a click + cut variation on the two-step beat. Still, despite the rhythmic progressions evident on Gradations, deep, textured synth patches remains Martinez' bread and butter. It really is difficult to get to the bottom of why the gurgling clusters of sound in "Nightriders" and "Radia" are so moving. Maybe it's me, but Martinez' way with a heavenly drone is almost unmatched these days, equaling the raw sound construction of Windy & Carl. The complaint I have with Gradations is a familiar one with Electric Birds: a few tracks just go on to long, and don't have the variation or development to justify the repeated loops. But the good stuff here makes these moments of tedium well worth sitting through.

Artist: Electric Birds, Album: Gradations, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "It's becoming clear that the first Electric Birds album was something of a one-off. With Gradations, sole member Mike Martinez is now four albums into the project, and he shows no signing of returning to the debut's eclecticism. In a way, the records following have been more cohesive statements, with Martinez choosing to explore with a given side of his musical persona over the course of an album: Panorama reflected his experiments with percussion and more rhythmic sound; last year's Strata Frames was more vaporous and ambient. While I've enjoyed these records to varying degrees, I can't help but pine for the debut's sense of unpredictability. After releasing the first two albums on his own Deluxe label, and Strata Frames on the fledging French imprint U-Cover, Martinez moves to the celebrated Mille Plateaux for Gradations. Mille Pleateax has lost some prestige since its late-90s peak, but massive respect is still due the whole Force, Inc. network for being at the center of the most interesting developments in electronic music over the last ten years. And there's no question that where Electric Birds are now fits with the label's aesthetic. What's surprising about Gradations is the amount of gritty funk Electric Birds adds to the usual mix. Actually, to clarify, when I say 'gritty' I'm talking about the stuff that gums up the rollers in a laser printer, not the dirty sweat that slides down from an armpit to a waist. Still, no other word but 'funk' could possibly describe the momentum that builds through "Astral Traveling," as the customarily gorgeous keyboard drones join forces with a shuffling beat and the tiny blip of a slap-bass riff. Also noteworthy are the guitar accents that give "Cyclist" and "Painted Rooms" a satisfying organic counterpoint. "Painted Rooms" is particularly affecting, as the bassy acoustic guitar picking imparts a dark force that forms an interesting contrast to the glowing, cheerful synth pattern that dominates the tune. "Painted Rooms" and a number of other tracks work the now-ubiquitous microhouse beat into the equation, but Electric Birds' attempts at punchy rhythms feel much more satisfying here than on Panorama. Martinez seems to have developed his ability to make the right beat work with each piece. The title cut, easily the most dub-influenced track to date for Electric Birds, matches the hard panning and phasing effects with a faint, steady kick drum, giving the unpredictable foreground a steady base to work from. Taking a slightly different tack, "Rian" combines eerie sound effects with a click + cut variation on the two-step beat. Still, despite the rhythmic progressions evident on Gradations, deep, textured synth patches remains Martinez' bread and butter. It really is difficult to get to the bottom of why the gurgling clusters of sound in "Nightriders" and "Radia" are so moving. Maybe it's me, but Martinez' way with a heavenly drone is almost unmatched these days, equaling the raw sound construction of Windy & Carl. The complaint I have with Gradations is a familiar one with Electric Birds: a few tracks just go on to long, and don't have the variation or development to justify the repeated loops. But the good stuff here makes these moments of tedium well worth sitting through."

LoneLady

Nerve Up

Rock

David Raposa

It's one thing, in 2010, to release an album that owes a college-loan-sized debt to all sorts of post-punk touchstones; it's a totally different thing, however, when such an album-- a debut, no less-- earns the breathless praise of famed UK music journalist Paul Morley for that very quality. It takes something extraordinary to inspire someone that was there for the birth and ascendancy of Gang of Four and Wire and Public Image Limited and Joy Division and any other notable group from that scene to pen something like, "she might have been Fac 17/or she might have sung two shows with Section 25 and once met Blue Orchids around the back of a cinema showing Existenz." In other words, Morley's not just saying that LoneLady does a fine job mimicking her musical idols, but actually positions herself as a worthy peer to those very same groups. Nerve Up is primarily the creation of singer/guitarist Julie Campbell, a native of Manchester who shows an uncanny ability to reinvigorate a sound that was seemingly beyond saving. When she slashes a pick across her guitar strings, there's no way to avoid using a word like "sharp" and "angular" in describing what emerges, and the way she sings-- agitated, clipped, in terse fragments-- perfectly complements those sounds. Campbell also employs a drum machine; it's presumably out of necessity, but the unerring precision of the backbeat does help maintain the sharpness of Nerve Up's edges. The combination of these elements gives the album a nervous, contagious energy that's evident the moment "If Not Now" starts, with Campbell furiously cycling through a two-note pattern on her guitar. Most of the songs on Nerve Up follow the same template-- guitar chords are fired off, cryptic phrases are aired out ("sun threaten the horizon like a black sign"; "said a ghost is more solid than that"), and the drum machine hits it marks. Thankfully, Campbell finds enough wiggle room in this formula to keep things from stagnating-- where "If Not Now" and "Early the Haste Comes" hit the ground running, "Intuition" ass [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| umes a cocky and confident swagger [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| . Thanks should also be directed to co-producer and former Laika member Guy Fixsen (My Bloody Valentine, Pixies, Stereolab). Fixsen adds the right amount of polish to these proceedings without overwhelming the songs-- accentuating the pish of a faux-cymbal here, adding some reverb to Campbell's voice there. These touches are so slight as to seem inconsequential, yet they prove to be invaluable. And sometimes the touches aren't so subtle-- a song like "Immaterial" with its charming lope and Campbell's keening vocals, would probably sound like a long lost 4AD gem (from the days of Throwing Muses and This Mortal Coil) without much trouble. The gauzy sheen that the track is given, however, is so reminiscent of that sound, it'd be hard for folks of a certain age (cough cough) to not imagine the accompanying (and undoubtedly awkward yet charming) video. I don't doubt that Fixsen also had a hand in giving the title track-- a funky pop earworm that lets Campbell stand toe-to-toe with Goldfrapp and Róisín Murphy-- a little something extra to make it truly pop. And then, after nine tracks of this wonderful wall-to-wall skittishness, comes the album finale-- "Fear No More", a complete departure from what preceded it. It's a stark, spacious song that fills the void with a sepulchral guitar line, haunting background moans, what sounds like violin and balalaika, and Campbell singing about "the furious winter" and dreams of "fields, lonely and sweet, like Montana or Idaho." "Fear No More"'s pensive yearning, however, is of a piece with the more up-front restlessness that permeates the majority of Nerve Up. Hopefully, this type of maneuver is proof that LoneLady, having shown an astonishing ability to express her voice using the sounds of others, will work extra hard to make sure she doesn't repeat herself.

Artist: LoneLady, Album: Nerve Up, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "It's one thing, in 2010, to release an album that owes a college-loan-sized debt to all sorts of post-punk touchstones; it's a totally different thing, however, when such an album-- a debut, no less-- earns the breathless praise of famed UK music journalist Paul Morley for that very quality. It takes something extraordinary to inspire someone that was there for the birth and ascendancy of Gang of Four and Wire and Public Image Limited and Joy Division and any other notable group from that scene to pen something like, "she might have been Fac 17/or she might have sung two shows with Section 25 and once met Blue Orchids around the back of a cinema showing Existenz." In other words, Morley's not just saying that LoneLady does a fine job mimicking her musical idols, but actually positions herself as a worthy peer to those very same groups. Nerve Up is primarily the creation of singer/guitarist Julie Campbell, a native of Manchester who shows an uncanny ability to reinvigorate a sound that was seemingly beyond saving. When she slashes a pick across her guitar strings, there's no way to avoid using a word like "sharp" and "angular" in describing what emerges, and the way she sings-- agitated, clipped, in terse fragments-- perfectly complements those sounds. Campbell also employs a drum machine; it's presumably out of necessity, but the unerring precision of the backbeat does help maintain the sharpness of Nerve Up's edges. The combination of these elements gives the album a nervous, contagious energy that's evident the moment "If Not Now" starts, with Campbell furiously cycling through a two-note pattern on her guitar. Most of the songs on Nerve Up follow the same template-- guitar chords are fired off, cryptic phrases are aired out ("sun threaten the horizon like a black sign"; "said a ghost is more solid than that"), and the drum machine hits it marks. Thankfully, Campbell finds enough wiggle room in this formula to keep things from stagnating-- where "If Not Now" and "Early the Haste Comes" hit the ground running, "Intuition" ass [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| umes a cocky and confident swagger [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| . Thanks should also be directed to co-producer and former Laika member Guy Fixsen (My Bloody Valentine, Pixies, Stereolab). Fixsen adds the right amount of polish to these proceedings without overwhelming the songs-- accentuating the pish of a faux-cymbal here, adding some reverb to Campbell's voice there. These touches are so slight as to seem inconsequential, yet they prove to be invaluable. And sometimes the touches aren't so subtle-- a song like "Immaterial" with its charming lope and Campbell's keening vocals, would probably sound like a long lost 4AD gem (from the days of Throwing Muses and This Mortal Coil) without much trouble. The gauzy sheen that the track is given, however, is so reminiscent of that sound, it'd be hard for folks of a certain age (cough cough) to not imagine the accompanying (and undoubtedly awkward yet charming) video. I don't doubt that Fixsen also had a hand in giving the title track-- a funky pop earworm that lets Campbell stand toe-to-toe with Goldfrapp and Róisín Murphy-- a little something extra to make it truly pop. And then, after nine tracks of this wonderful wall-to-wall skittishness, comes the album finale-- "Fear No More", a complete departure from what preceded it. It's a stark, spacious song that fills the void with a sepulchral guitar line, haunting background moans, what sounds like violin and balalaika, and Campbell singing about "the furious winter" and dreams of "fields, lonely and sweet, like Montana or Idaho." "Fear No More"'s pensive yearning, however, is of a piece with the more up-front restlessness that permeates the majority of Nerve Up. Hopefully, this type of maneuver is proof that LoneLady, having shown an astonishing ability to express her voice using the sounds of others, will work extra hard to make sure she doesn't repeat herself."

The Antlers

Undersea

Experimental,Rock

Larry Fitzmaurice

Turmoil is in Peter Silberman's DNA. Leading up to the release of 2011's Burst Apart, the frontman for Brooklyn soundscape-rockers the Antlers told Pitchfork's Ryan Dombal that his band's fourth LP would be less emotionally wrenching than the previous record that put them on the map, 2009's Hospice. "This is not a sad record... It does have an emotional punch, but it's a little less desperate. There are no life or death situations on this record, no terminal illness, no abusive relationships." How'd that turn out, anyway? Well, Burst Apart's opening song is called "I Don't Want Love", and its closing song compares a relationship to a dead dog. Lovers are shunned, teeth fall out, hopelessness is conveyed throughout, and at one point the protagonist seemingly (and willingly) lets a house fire engulf him and whoever else there is inside. Maybe he was joking. To be fair: While Burst Apart contained its fair share of emotional evisceration, the stakes did seem somewhat lower, or at least less immediately life-shaking. As a lyricist, words have rarely failed Silberman (see: the literate hospitalization-as-cohabitation narrative storytelling of Hospice), but with time he's developed a sense of linguistic economy, which has in turn made the displayed imagery more cryptic and threatening. Perhaps not coincidentally, as the word count decreased, the Antlers zoomed past the early specter of a Funeral Jr. albatross and evolved into something much more interesting: a warm, expansive, and at times hair-raising space-rock band with its attention turned toward fleshy matters, rather than the stars above. There were hints of this potential to be found in Hospice-- big booming stretches of ambient guitar wash and tape-decayed vocals-- but that record's emotional, singularly focused claustrophobia was so intense and choking that when Sharon Van Etten showed up near the end of the trippy, strung-out "Thirteen", it felt like an intrusion. Burst Apart was all widescreen-lens, though, with guitars that chimed and rolled into some golden void, fog pouring out of keyboards, and so much empty nothingness surrounding the proceedings that everything took on a hollow 3D glow. The album's centerpiece, "Rolled Together", managed to out-Sigur Rós the great Hopelandic ones themselves in just under five minutes; when the band performed the song with Brooklyn bros Neon Indian for last year's regrettable (together) EP, they doubled the length. The results weren't ideal, but it made sense. And so the Antlers psychedelically steamroll along with Undersea, a four-track release that's been described as "an EP in length, but well beyond that in scope." (If that sounds like bong-session speak, remember Silberman's perfect prescription for listening to "Rolled Together": "best heard stoned with friends".) Since the band become a multi-person concern and broke free from its solo-project beginnings, the Antlers have been credited for production as a group, and their sense of hermetic, mutually reliant interplay has never been stronger than it is here. As they often do, the trio's created its own world within the 22 minutes allotted here-- only, the vibe is pure aftermath, with smoke rising from fresh embers and the environment taking on a lush yet deserted texture. If Hospice and Burst Apart were dark, rolling hills headed toward catharsis, well, here's the bottom. And what a gorgeous arrival it is. Every detail on Undersea sounds like breakable goods bought at a high-end flatwares store, and I mean that as the highest compliment-- it's all wrapped in thick, translucent gauze, not so much crash-landing as simply (but heavily) kissing the ground upon impact. "Endless Ladder", an eight-minute perpetual comedown with a title that's almost eye-rollingly evocative, surfs a single, stretchy riff with zen carelessness as frissons of synth noise and burbly echo-mic'd whine pass by. It's almost maddeningly head-in-the-clouds, but also something that, if it hits you at just the right time, you could possibly listen to on loop for hours. "Endless Ladder"'s three companions on Undersea aren't as openly contemplative (although the harp-and-horn blare of "Drift Dive" certainly comes close), instead leaning on the dark sonic undercurrents of post-adolescent tension that makes this band a big deal to many people. Still, the Antlers at their most mopey are still plenty elegant, so the dirge-like "Crest" ripples with laser swooshes and rattlesnake percussion, mining new depths of total paranoia. Speaking of feelings: There are plenty of them on display (this is the Antlers, after all), as Undersea's water-based theme finds a few uses for H2O other than pure hydration-- drowning, flooding, and subsequently destroying the world, and in the case of the sad-eyed kiss-off closer "Zelda", separating those who love one another. Silberman's lyrics are as simultaneously distant and evocative as ever, but the overwhelming amount of detail surrounding them renders them somewhat irrelevant here, a bubbling treasure chest in Undersea's sonically overwhelming fish tank. If you're the type that "can relate" to the Antlers' highwire drama, there's a solid chance this release could leave you cold. (On the other hand, if Hospice left you jeeringly and incorrectly shouting "My Bloody Bright Eyes!" then you just might love this.) "I'm not listening to [Neutral Milk Hotel's] In the Aeroplane Over the Sea as much as I was when I was 19," Silberman also told us back in the beginning of 2011, listing Portishead, Dirty Three, Boards of Canada, and the various strains of post-rock and electronic music as emerging influences in the now 25-year-old's musical mindset. Namechecking obscurists and hip-to-death backseat drivers (both of which are plentiful in the Antlers' native Brooklyn landscape) would quite possibly sneer at these admissions-- who hasn't had a moment with Geogaddi in their 20s?-- but what struck me upon reading those quotes, specifically, was Silberman's sincerity in growing as a music listener. So just as Silberman has laid bare his own messy, tormented angst as a means of moving on and becoming stronger, the Antlers as a band are growing up, and growing forth, into a career that's accruing fascinating weight with every move they make. They are a popular band, but in today's cool-kid, all-new-all-the-time musical culture, their emotional straightforwardness and debt to the since-canonical sounds of the past means that they perpetually risk being underappreciated. So ignore them if you dare, but consider yourself warned, too, that watching one of the bigges

Artist: The Antlers, Album: Undersea, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "Turmoil is in Peter Silberman's DNA. Leading up to the release of 2011's Burst Apart, the frontman for Brooklyn soundscape-rockers the Antlers told Pitchfork's Ryan Dombal that his band's fourth LP would be less emotionally wrenching than the previous record that put them on the map, 2009's Hospice. "This is not a sad record... It does have an emotional punch, but it's a little less desperate. There are no life or death situations on this record, no terminal illness, no abusive relationships." How'd that turn out, anyway? Well, Burst Apart's opening song is called "I Don't Want Love", and its closing song compares a relationship to a dead dog. Lovers are shunned, teeth fall out, hopelessness is conveyed throughout, and at one point the protagonist seemingly (and willingly) lets a house fire engulf him and whoever else there is inside. Maybe he was joking. To be fair: While Burst Apart contained its fair share of emotional evisceration, the stakes did seem somewhat lower, or at least less immediately life-shaking. As a lyricist, words have rarely failed Silberman (see: the literate hospitalization-as-cohabitation narrative storytelling of Hospice), but with time he's developed a sense of linguistic economy, which has in turn made the displayed imagery more cryptic and threatening. Perhaps not coincidentally, as the word count decreased, the Antlers zoomed past the early specter of a Funeral Jr. albatross and evolved into something much more interesting: a warm, expansive, and at times hair-raising space-rock band with its attention turned toward fleshy matters, rather than the stars above. There were hints of this potential to be found in Hospice-- big booming stretches of ambient guitar wash and tape-decayed vocals-- but that record's emotional, singularly focused claustrophobia was so intense and choking that when Sharon Van Etten showed up near the end of the trippy, strung-out "Thirteen", it felt like an intrusion. Burst Apart was all widescreen-lens, though, with guitars that chimed and rolled into some golden void, fog pouring out of keyboards, and so much empty nothingness surrounding the proceedings that everything took on a hollow 3D glow. The album's centerpiece, "Rolled Together", managed to out-Sigur Rós the great Hopelandic ones themselves in just under five minutes; when the band performed the song with Brooklyn bros Neon Indian for last year's regrettable (together) EP, they doubled the length. The results weren't ideal, but it made sense. And so the Antlers psychedelically steamroll along with Undersea, a four-track release that's been described as "an EP in length, but well beyond that in scope." (If that sounds like bong-session speak, remember Silberman's perfect prescription for listening to "Rolled Together": "best heard stoned with friends".) Since the band become a multi-person concern and broke free from its solo-project beginnings, the Antlers have been credited for production as a group, and their sense of hermetic, mutually reliant interplay has never been stronger than it is here. As they often do, the trio's created its own world within the 22 minutes allotted here-- only, the vibe is pure aftermath, with smoke rising from fresh embers and the environment taking on a lush yet deserted texture. If Hospice and Burst Apart were dark, rolling hills headed toward catharsis, well, here's the bottom. And what a gorgeous arrival it is. Every detail on Undersea sounds like breakable goods bought at a high-end flatwares store, and I mean that as the highest compliment-- it's all wrapped in thick, translucent gauze, not so much crash-landing as simply (but heavily) kissing the ground upon impact. "Endless Ladder", an eight-minute perpetual comedown with a title that's almost eye-rollingly evocative, surfs a single, stretchy riff with zen carelessness as frissons of synth noise and burbly echo-mic'd whine pass by. It's almost maddeningly head-in-the-clouds, but also something that, if it hits you at just the right time, you could possibly listen to on loop for hours. "Endless Ladder"'s three companions on Undersea aren't as openly contemplative (although the harp-and-horn blare of "Drift Dive" certainly comes close), instead leaning on the dark sonic undercurrents of post-adolescent tension that makes this band a big deal to many people. Still, the Antlers at their most mopey are still plenty elegant, so the dirge-like "Crest" ripples with laser swooshes and rattlesnake percussion, mining new depths of total paranoia. Speaking of feelings: There are plenty of them on display (this is the Antlers, after all), as Undersea's water-based theme finds a few uses for H2O other than pure hydration-- drowning, flooding, and subsequently destroying the world, and in the case of the sad-eyed kiss-off closer "Zelda", separating those who love one another. Silberman's lyrics are as simultaneously distant and evocative as ever, but the overwhelming amount of detail surrounding them renders them somewhat irrelevant here, a bubbling treasure chest in Undersea's sonically overwhelming fish tank. If you're the type that "can relate" to the Antlers' highwire drama, there's a solid chance this release could leave you cold. (On the other hand, if Hospice left you jeeringly and incorrectly shouting "My Bloody Bright Eyes!" then you just might love this.) "I'm not listening to [Neutral Milk Hotel's] In the Aeroplane Over the Sea as much as I was when I was 19," Silberman also told us back in the beginning of 2011, listing Portishead, Dirty Three, Boards of Canada, and the various strains of post-rock and electronic music as emerging influences in the now 25-year-old's musical mindset. Namechecking obscurists and hip-to-death backseat drivers (both of which are plentiful in the Antlers' native Brooklyn landscape) would quite possibly sneer at these admissions-- who hasn't had a moment with Geogaddi in their 20s?-- but what struck me upon reading those quotes, specifically, was Silberman's sincerity in growing as a music listener. So just as Silberman has laid bare his own messy, tormented angst as a means of moving on and becoming stronger, the Antlers as a band are growing up, and growing forth, into a career that's accruing fascinating weight with every move they make. They are a popular band, but in today's cool-kid, all-new-all-the-time musical culture, their emotional straightforwardness and debt to the since-canonical sounds of the past means that they perpetually risk being underappreciated. So ignore them if you dare, but consider yourself warned, too, that watching one of the bigges"

Ms. John Soda

While Talking EP

Electronic

Nick Sylvester

Emerging late last year from the Weilheim, Germany camp that gave birth to The Notwist, Lali Puna, and Tied and Tickled Trio, Ms. John Soda's debut full-length presented a more sterilized, female adaptation of The Notwist's delicate pop compositions-- all skittering clicks and cuts urgently panning from speaker to speaker, purring electric synthtones and serene cyborg vocals, courtesy of singer Stefanie Böhm (a former member of the post-rock ensemble Couch). Judging from the sound of their new EP, While Talking, they've switched gears. Which isn't necessarily a bad idea in premise-- No P. or D., at a scant eight tracks, seemed perfect in length, and another eight along the same lines could quickly grow tiring. It's their choice of direction that mystifies. The most immediately detectable difference from Ms. John Soda's debut is that Böhm rarely sings-- rather, she adopts a breathy speaking approach clearly indebted to Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon. Musically, there's not much difference; it's all in the production: the disc has shifted from luminescent neon glow into rougher-edged territory, liberally employing distortion and sharper instrumentation. Though it's an interesting experiment, it rarely pays off. Of course, it's difficult to tell whether that's due to the duo's lack of experience working with harsher sounds or to the general weakness of the tracks themselves. I might be able to see it working out if their forthcoming full-length is more focused. While Talking, however, jumps erratically from straightforward rock-and-roll, to unmotivated post-rock, to aimless mood pieces, to fleeting reprises of the duo's original sound. In a sense, Ms. John Soda have masked their two strongest traits: Böhm's delicate alto and Micha Acher's pop sensibilities. It's difficult to praise the lyrics of a non-native English-speaking songwriter-- the only recent possible exception being Norway's Sondre Lerche-- but often poor lyrical content can be redeemed by a strong voice and melody. Böhm situated herself firmly in this territory on the duo's last record, and that's all too clear on songs like the opener, "No. One," which have Böhm uttering such inanities as, "The things you say are forgotten. What did you say?" without the support of her charming pop hooks. The music backing her-- a dynamic rock soundtrack stuffed with Weilheim organ whirls, bowed cello, moody electronics, and a percussive rattle that one might liken to the sound of a seashell necklace-- nearly makes up for it, but the juxtaposition of Böhm's vocal delivery and the gravelly rock textures is just too jarring. "Sometimes Stop, Sometimes Go" nominally implies disjointedness, and as such, the track sees Ms. John Soda not intertwine, but sequence, one after another, an almost Interpol-ish guitar interval riff, and the gentle, and more familiar piano and vocals of No P. or D. For better or worse, the song showcases how cosmic a difference there is between Böhm's singing and speaking voices. "If Someone Would Know", meanwhile, is a self-indulgent, poorly considered drone experiment that poorly utilizes the faraway piano lines and skittery whirls it introduces, and "I Think It Could Work, Marylin" suspends guitar chords and floating organ tones behind the fantastically awful dialogue of its characters Elvis and Marylin, both speaking roles assumed by Böhm. The piece sounds much more like the soundtrack to an art student's introductory film class project than a proper song, possibly because it is: the duo have included a mostly vapid music video for the song on the EP. While Talking's only non-original composition is "I & #8217", a remix medley of tracks from No P. or D. by Anticon member Subtle. The opening moments pit typewriter clicks against accordion and cello retakes and Böhm's vocal from "Technicolor", inviting a rumbly bass from time to time and dropping into a dark verbal spar of "I don't want to see you techni-nothing-colored." It traverses typical Anticon terrain, with drawn-out vocals, saxophones, and looped cut-ups atop a molasses beat and beaten accordion. The possibilities for this undertaking were enormous, and while comprising the most interesting on the disc, "I & #8217" is actually somewhat tame, especially considering Anticon's ear for the eerie. Though EPs are a format well-suited to trial-and-error, Ms John Soda have entirely neglected their greatest attributes here. While Talking can count a few successes-- one fairly good rock tune ("No. One"), one half-interesting remix, and one mostly entertaining music video for the one aforementioned fairly good rock tune-- but its bombs are tragic. If all things Weilheim strike your fancy, including the scene's mediocrities and failures, While Talking should find a comfortable space on your CD shelf: right next to The Notwist's debut album.

Artist: Ms. John Soda, Album: While Talking EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "Emerging late last year from the Weilheim, Germany camp that gave birth to The Notwist, Lali Puna, and Tied and Tickled Trio, Ms. John Soda's debut full-length presented a more sterilized, female adaptation of The Notwist's delicate pop compositions-- all skittering clicks and cuts urgently panning from speaker to speaker, purring electric synthtones and serene cyborg vocals, courtesy of singer Stefanie Böhm (a former member of the post-rock ensemble Couch). Judging from the sound of their new EP, While Talking, they've switched gears. Which isn't necessarily a bad idea in premise-- No P. or D., at a scant eight tracks, seemed perfect in length, and another eight along the same lines could quickly grow tiring. It's their choice of direction that mystifies. The most immediately detectable difference from Ms. John Soda's debut is that Böhm rarely sings-- rather, she adopts a breathy speaking approach clearly indebted to Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon. Musically, there's not much difference; it's all in the production: the disc has shifted from luminescent neon glow into rougher-edged territory, liberally employing distortion and sharper instrumentation. Though it's an interesting experiment, it rarely pays off. Of course, it's difficult to tell whether that's due to the duo's lack of experience working with harsher sounds or to the general weakness of the tracks themselves. I might be able to see it working out if their forthcoming full-length is more focused. While Talking, however, jumps erratically from straightforward rock-and-roll, to unmotivated post-rock, to aimless mood pieces, to fleeting reprises of the duo's original sound. In a sense, Ms. John Soda have masked their two strongest traits: Böhm's delicate alto and Micha Acher's pop sensibilities. It's difficult to praise the lyrics of a non-native English-speaking songwriter-- the only recent possible exception being Norway's Sondre Lerche-- but often poor lyrical content can be redeemed by a strong voice and melody. Böhm situated herself firmly in this territory on the duo's last record, and that's all too clear on songs like the opener, "No. One," which have Böhm uttering such inanities as, "The things you say are forgotten. What did you say?" without the support of her charming pop hooks. The music backing her-- a dynamic rock soundtrack stuffed with Weilheim organ whirls, bowed cello, moody electronics, and a percussive rattle that one might liken to the sound of a seashell necklace-- nearly makes up for it, but the juxtaposition of Böhm's vocal delivery and the gravelly rock textures is just too jarring. "Sometimes Stop, Sometimes Go" nominally implies disjointedness, and as such, the track sees Ms. John Soda not intertwine, but sequence, one after another, an almost Interpol-ish guitar interval riff, and the gentle, and more familiar piano and vocals of No P. or D. For better or worse, the song showcases how cosmic a difference there is between Böhm's singing and speaking voices. "If Someone Would Know", meanwhile, is a self-indulgent, poorly considered drone experiment that poorly utilizes the faraway piano lines and skittery whirls it introduces, and "I Think It Could Work, Marylin" suspends guitar chords and floating organ tones behind the fantastically awful dialogue of its characters Elvis and Marylin, both speaking roles assumed by Böhm. The piece sounds much more like the soundtrack to an art student's introductory film class project than a proper song, possibly because it is: the duo have included a mostly vapid music video for the song on the EP. While Talking's only non-original composition is "I & #8217", a remix medley of tracks from No P. or D. by Anticon member Subtle. The opening moments pit typewriter clicks against accordion and cello retakes and Böhm's vocal from "Technicolor", inviting a rumbly bass from time to time and dropping into a dark verbal spar of "I don't want to see you techni-nothing-colored." It traverses typical Anticon terrain, with drawn-out vocals, saxophones, and looped cut-ups atop a molasses beat and beaten accordion. The possibilities for this undertaking were enormous, and while comprising the most interesting on the disc, "I & #8217" is actually somewhat tame, especially considering Anticon's ear for the eerie. Though EPs are a format well-suited to trial-and-error, Ms John Soda have entirely neglected their greatest attributes here. While Talking can count a few successes-- one fairly good rock tune ("No. One"), one half-interesting remix, and one mostly entertaining music video for the one aforementioned fairly good rock tune-- but its bombs are tragic. If all things Weilheim strike your fancy, including the scene's mediocrities and failures, While Talking should find a comfortable space on your CD shelf: right next to The Notwist's debut album."

Lotus Plaza

Spooky Action at a Distance

Experimental,Rock

Ian Cohen

Deerhunter is one of the most fascinating bands going because they're a democracy functioning the way most of us experience democracy, whether in politics or the workplace: fully participatory, but with a wildly disproportionate power structure. With Bradford Cox fronting the group as one of rock's most dominant personalities, it's easy to view Lockett Pundt as following in the lineage of reclusive guitar wizards who serve as a necessary counterbalance.  Whether or not Cox goes off the grid any given night, you can catch Pundt standing catatonically still and staring off into the distance when his gaze isn't intently focused on an armada of effects pedals. Based on that persona, no one could've been surprised by his solo bow as Lotus Plaza, 2009's The Floodlight Collective. A mélange of looped guitar and amorphous vocals slathered in amniotic goo, it wouldn't have stood out in any year, and released smack dab in the midst of indie's deadbeat summer, it was the kind of solo record that could only be the result of a guy who goes to the greatest lengths possible to not get noticed. But even if he gets approximately 0% of the good quotes in any Deerhunter interview, the relatively egalitarian division of the band's songwriting labor makes Spooky Action At A Distance every bit as unsurprising as its predecessor. In an infinitely more rewarding way, of course: save for a minute-long intro that recalls Floodlight, these are nine reminders that Pundt also is responsible for soft-focus beauty of "Agoraphobia", "Neither of Us, Uncertainly", and the juggernaut centerpiece of Halcyon Digest, "Desire Lines". This consistency means Spooky Action lacks the galvanizing force of Deerhunter and the unpredictability of Atlas Sound, but in fully realizing its comparatively modest ambitions, it's one of the strongest indie rock records of the year so far. Comparing how Cox and Pundt function in their solo ventures tempts a needless quarterback controversy, but nonetheless, it is helpful to see how they're complementary. While Atlas Sound allows Cox to indulge in genres, collaborations, and haircuts that wouldn't vibe with Deerhunter, Pundt tends to find inspiration in limitations, patterns and forms. Pundt prefers echoing guitar, slow-moving vocal melodies, and distorted washes that generally signify qualifiers like "shoegaze" and "dream-pop," but neither of those really sit well with me. The "dream" part implies exaggeration or illogic, while nearly all of Spooky Distance is handcrafted, thriving on structure and restraint-- a constant, kraut-like pulse, strict patterns of verses and choruses broken down into repeating chord progressions, loops, loops, and more loops. Moreover, along the lines of Real Estate and especially the War On Drugs, Pundt embodies a wakeful, meditative state associated with various forms of transit: your physical being stays relatively still while being in motion, a symbiosis between human and mechanical effort. I can't help but think of each song here as having some sort of vehicular spirit animal, so to speak. As with "Desire Lines", the anti-flash "solo" that breaks from the casually soaring chorus of "Strangers" could be visually represented as medians on a deserted open road, and the anticipatory effect of its repetition brings the relief of arrival during the final minute of decrescendo. Meanwhile, the timbres on "Out of Touch" are fit for a vigorous bike ride, sleigh bells and metallic guitar loops jangling rhythmically over a cyclical kick drum pattern. The shambling acoustic closer "Black Buzz" feels just right for foot traffic, and "Jet Out of the Tundra" cruises at speed like its namesake, the same handful of chords repeating throughout a remarkably brisk seven minutes while Pundt seamlessly adds and removes trebly acoustic strums, Superball bass riffs, and a gorgeous, one-finger piano melody like he's slowly pulling levers in the cockpit. Spooky Action then plays out like ten self-contained, daily commutes where familiarity brings not contempt but a private joy in recognizing the landmarks and shortcuts. Lest it seem like Spooky Action is an overly subtle work, it's worth reiterating that its 44 minutes are unerringly tuneful and immediate, the sort of thing that seems unambitious until you step back and ask yourself just how many records out there manage to actually pull it off. And Pundt's means of cranking out one instantly memorable chorus after another brings to mind someone who's incredibly good at sports wagering: there's surely some intuition and luck involved, but Pundt's a guy who's figured out how certain mismatches and trends work to his advantage. To get specific: the hyperextended guitar bends that push "White Galactic One" are technically a slight bit off, yet it's that serration that demonstrates why things like these are called "hooks." Where a specific minor chord might be more harmonically congruent, Pundt inserts a major and the result finds "Monoliths" and "Strangers" stocked with ear-turning melodies as opposed to folky familiarity. Heck, it's likely the greatest testament to Pundt's abilities that Spooky Action is in a major key and dedicated to simple pleasures of escape and memory more often than your typical "power-pop" record, and yet it always comes off as warm and generous rather than cloying. And so while Lotus Plaza is truly a solo project for Pundt, I hear more purposeful solitude than isolation-- like reading a book or swimming laps, "antisocial" with all the pejorative connotations removed. Maybe I'm reading too much into things, but in light of Deerhunter's notoriously volatile personnel dynamic preceding Halcyon Digest, it's tempting to hear Lotus Plaza as Pundt's platonic ideal for a band, where people are as predictable and helpful as loops and are united in their pursuit of the kind of reverberant pop music that makes perfect sense for the times you most enjoy getting caught up in your own thoughts. It's a common ambition for artists to capture the music that plays out in their head and if Spooky Action is really what Pundt's hearing, you can't really blame him for looking so lost within himself all the time.

Artist: Lotus Plaza, Album: Spooky Action at a Distance, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "Deerhunter is one of the most fascinating bands going because they're a democracy functioning the way most of us experience democracy, whether in politics or the workplace: fully participatory, but with a wildly disproportionate power structure. With Bradford Cox fronting the group as one of rock's most dominant personalities, it's easy to view Lockett Pundt as following in the lineage of reclusive guitar wizards who serve as a necessary counterbalance.  Whether or not Cox goes off the grid any given night, you can catch Pundt standing catatonically still and staring off into the distance when his gaze isn't intently focused on an armada of effects pedals. Based on that persona, no one could've been surprised by his solo bow as Lotus Plaza, 2009's The Floodlight Collective. A mélange of looped guitar and amorphous vocals slathered in amniotic goo, it wouldn't have stood out in any year, and released smack dab in the midst of indie's deadbeat summer, it was the kind of solo record that could only be the result of a guy who goes to the greatest lengths possible to not get noticed. But even if he gets approximately 0% of the good quotes in any Deerhunter interview, the relatively egalitarian division of the band's songwriting labor makes Spooky Action At A Distance every bit as unsurprising as its predecessor. In an infinitely more rewarding way, of course: save for a minute-long intro that recalls Floodlight, these are nine reminders that Pundt also is responsible for soft-focus beauty of "Agoraphobia", "Neither of Us, Uncertainly", and the juggernaut centerpiece of Halcyon Digest, "Desire Lines". This consistency means Spooky Action lacks the galvanizing force of Deerhunter and the unpredictability of Atlas Sound, but in fully realizing its comparatively modest ambitions, it's one of the strongest indie rock records of the year so far. Comparing how Cox and Pundt function in their solo ventures tempts a needless quarterback controversy, but nonetheless, it is helpful to see how they're complementary. While Atlas Sound allows Cox to indulge in genres, collaborations, and haircuts that wouldn't vibe with Deerhunter, Pundt tends to find inspiration in limitations, patterns and forms. Pundt prefers echoing guitar, slow-moving vocal melodies, and distorted washes that generally signify qualifiers like "shoegaze" and "dream-pop," but neither of those really sit well with me. The "dream" part implies exaggeration or illogic, while nearly all of Spooky Distance is handcrafted, thriving on structure and restraint-- a constant, kraut-like pulse, strict patterns of verses and choruses broken down into repeating chord progressions, loops, loops, and more loops. Moreover, along the lines of Real Estate and especially the War On Drugs, Pundt embodies a wakeful, meditative state associated with various forms of transit: your physical being stays relatively still while being in motion, a symbiosis between human and mechanical effort. I can't help but think of each song here as having some sort of vehicular spirit animal, so to speak. As with "Desire Lines", the anti-flash "solo" that breaks from the casually soaring chorus of "Strangers" could be visually represented as medians on a deserted open road, and the anticipatory effect of its repetition brings the relief of arrival during the final minute of decrescendo. Meanwhile, the timbres on "Out of Touch" are fit for a vigorous bike ride, sleigh bells and metallic guitar loops jangling rhythmically over a cyclical kick drum pattern. The shambling acoustic closer "Black Buzz" feels just right for foot traffic, and "Jet Out of the Tundra" cruises at speed like its namesake, the same handful of chords repeating throughout a remarkably brisk seven minutes while Pundt seamlessly adds and removes trebly acoustic strums, Superball bass riffs, and a gorgeous, one-finger piano melody like he's slowly pulling levers in the cockpit. Spooky Action then plays out like ten self-contained, daily commutes where familiarity brings not contempt but a private joy in recognizing the landmarks and shortcuts. Lest it seem like Spooky Action is an overly subtle work, it's worth reiterating that its 44 minutes are unerringly tuneful and immediate, the sort of thing that seems unambitious until you step back and ask yourself just how many records out there manage to actually pull it off. And Pundt's means of cranking out one instantly memorable chorus after another brings to mind someone who's incredibly good at sports wagering: there's surely some intuition and luck involved, but Pundt's a guy who's figured out how certain mismatches and trends work to his advantage. To get specific: the hyperextended guitar bends that push "White Galactic One" are technically a slight bit off, yet it's that serration that demonstrates why things like these are called "hooks." Where a specific minor chord might be more harmonically congruent, Pundt inserts a major and the result finds "Monoliths" and "Strangers" stocked with ear-turning melodies as opposed to folky familiarity. Heck, it's likely the greatest testament to Pundt's abilities that Spooky Action is in a major key and dedicated to simple pleasures of escape and memory more often than your typical "power-pop" record, and yet it always comes off as warm and generous rather than cloying. And so while Lotus Plaza is truly a solo project for Pundt, I hear more purposeful solitude than isolation-- like reading a book or swimming laps, "antisocial" with all the pejorative connotations removed. Maybe I'm reading too much into things, but in light of Deerhunter's notoriously volatile personnel dynamic preceding Halcyon Digest, it's tempting to hear Lotus Plaza as Pundt's platonic ideal for a band, where people are as predictable and helpful as loops and are united in their pursuit of the kind of reverberant pop music that makes perfect sense for the times you most enjoy getting caught up in your own thoughts. It's a common ambition for artists to capture the music that plays out in their head and if Spooky Action is really what Pundt's hearing, you can't really blame him for looking so lost within himself all the time."

Rangda

Formerly Extinct

Experimental

Matthew Murphy

While a completely accurate count is near impossible, the three musicians who make up Rangda-- guitarists Sir Richard Bishop (Sun City Girls) and Ben Chasny (Six Organs of Admittance), and drummer Chris Corsano-- have between them appeared on somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 albums, recorded with dozens of different collaborators. With artists this prolific it is never certain how long any particular collaboration or project will last; and in 2010 when the three released False Flag, their debut as Rangda, it was not immediately clear if this was to be a one-off album or the work of an ongoing group. But musicians with this much experience are also able to recognize when they've struck upon a special combination, and their second album Formerly Extinct confirms Rangda to be an active, cohesive band of the highest caliber. In retrospect, False Flag sounds like a bit of a feeling-out process, as the three musicians, each with his own well-established voice, blast noisy improvisations and rifle through ideas as they learn how best to mesh their eccentric styles. On Formerly Extinct that process is completed, and Rangda sounds like a band that knows exactly who they are and what they want to do together. Forgoing noisier digressions, every track on the album is taut and sinewy, with the musicians listening to one another and anticipating each other's moves as if they were sharing limbs. For now at least, Rangda have settled into a sound that seems very much an idealized hybrid between Six Organs of Admittance and the more song-oriented moments of Sun City Girls, with the album performing the weird magic trick of sounding about as you might expect it to while still being filled with surprises. For Sir Richard Bishop, whose work as a solo artist and with the Sun City Girls, as summarized by Marc Masters, has continually defied all possible boundaries, Formerly Extinct might be one of his most straightforward and song-centered albums to date. Even "Silver Nile", the album's lone long-form piece, is crafted with an entrancing, slowly unwinding melody as Chasny's and Bishop's guitars patiently circling one another like a pair of desert vultures. As is always the case with Bishop's work, vague Eastern and North African echoes abound on such tracks as "Idol's Eye" and "Majnun", with Chasny able to match whatever accent Bishop chooses to adopt. There have always been two main risks whenever such veteran improvisational musicians as these play together: Either someone will tend to hog the ball while the other players are reduced to the role of mere accompanists, or else everyone will be so disinclined to step on each other's toes that nobody actually makes any memorable moves at all. The most remarkable thing about Rangda, then, is their music's balance. No one player ever dominates any given song, and whenever either Chasny or Bishop steps forward to take a solo, the other works with Corsano to keep things continually engaging in the background. Whenever a trio is able to achieve a balance like that, it usually means there is some world-class drumming going on, and that is the case with Corsano on Formerly Extinct. Rangda's songs are oddly built creatures, filled with enough abrupt time changes and strange meters for me to wonder if any of this might qualify as math-rock. Throughout the album Corsano is able to keep everything moving so deftly his playing seems almost nonchalant, his rhythms continually churning and roiling but never sounding particularly flashy or show-offish. As satisfying as Formerly Extinct sounds, it also drops a few tantalizing hints of what might still be to come from Rangda. On "Tres Hambres", with its sly nod to ZZ Top, Chasny and Bishop volley a circular riff back and forth between the speakers with a dazzling ease, and on the brief "Goodbye Mr. Gentry", I can't help but get visions of classic Minutemen songs in my head, and it leads me to wish for a track or two where these guys fuel the amps and rip into a straight 4/4 psych-rock monster closer to what Chasny does with his Comets on Fire crew. But that's just me getting greedy; for now it's enough to know that, with Formerly Extinct, Rangda not only prove themselves to be a going concern as a band, but that they might just be starting to really hit their stride.

Artist: Rangda, Album: Formerly Extinct, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "While a completely accurate count is near impossible, the three musicians who make up Rangda-- guitarists Sir Richard Bishop (Sun City Girls) and Ben Chasny (Six Organs of Admittance), and drummer Chris Corsano-- have between them appeared on somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 albums, recorded with dozens of different collaborators. With artists this prolific it is never certain how long any particular collaboration or project will last; and in 2010 when the three released False Flag, their debut as Rangda, it was not immediately clear if this was to be a one-off album or the work of an ongoing group. But musicians with this much experience are also able to recognize when they've struck upon a special combination, and their second album Formerly Extinct confirms Rangda to be an active, cohesive band of the highest caliber. In retrospect, False Flag sounds like a bit of a feeling-out process, as the three musicians, each with his own well-established voice, blast noisy improvisations and rifle through ideas as they learn how best to mesh their eccentric styles. On Formerly Extinct that process is completed, and Rangda sounds like a band that knows exactly who they are and what they want to do together. Forgoing noisier digressions, every track on the album is taut and sinewy, with the musicians listening to one another and anticipating each other's moves as if they were sharing limbs. For now at least, Rangda have settled into a sound that seems very much an idealized hybrid between Six Organs of Admittance and the more song-oriented moments of Sun City Girls, with the album performing the weird magic trick of sounding about as you might expect it to while still being filled with surprises. For Sir Richard Bishop, whose work as a solo artist and with the Sun City Girls, as summarized by Marc Masters, has continually defied all possible boundaries, Formerly Extinct might be one of his most straightforward and song-centered albums to date. Even "Silver Nile", the album's lone long-form piece, is crafted with an entrancing, slowly unwinding melody as Chasny's and Bishop's guitars patiently circling one another like a pair of desert vultures. As is always the case with Bishop's work, vague Eastern and North African echoes abound on such tracks as "Idol's Eye" and "Majnun", with Chasny able to match whatever accent Bishop chooses to adopt. There have always been two main risks whenever such veteran improvisational musicians as these play together: Either someone will tend to hog the ball while the other players are reduced to the role of mere accompanists, or else everyone will be so disinclined to step on each other's toes that nobody actually makes any memorable moves at all. The most remarkable thing about Rangda, then, is their music's balance. No one player ever dominates any given song, and whenever either Chasny or Bishop steps forward to take a solo, the other works with Corsano to keep things continually engaging in the background. Whenever a trio is able to achieve a balance like that, it usually means there is some world-class drumming going on, and that is the case with Corsano on Formerly Extinct. Rangda's songs are oddly built creatures, filled with enough abrupt time changes and strange meters for me to wonder if any of this might qualify as math-rock. Throughout the album Corsano is able to keep everything moving so deftly his playing seems almost nonchalant, his rhythms continually churning and roiling but never sounding particularly flashy or show-offish. As satisfying as Formerly Extinct sounds, it also drops a few tantalizing hints of what might still be to come from Rangda. On "Tres Hambres", with its sly nod to ZZ Top, Chasny and Bishop volley a circular riff back and forth between the speakers with a dazzling ease, and on the brief "Goodbye Mr. Gentry", I can't help but get visions of classic Minutemen songs in my head, and it leads me to wish for a track or two where these guys fuel the amps and rip into a straight 4/4 psych-rock monster closer to what Chasny does with his Comets on Fire crew. But that's just me getting greedy; for now it's enough to know that, with Formerly Extinct, Rangda not only prove themselves to be a going concern as a band, but that they might just be starting to really hit their stride."

Chin Up Chin Up

This Harness Can't Ride Anything

Pop/R&B

Jason Crock

Those expecting a breakthrough from Chin Up Chin Up's second record might walk away disappointed, but the band's fans won't be-- This Harness Won't Ride Anything is version 2.0 of the band's restless debut. The title track opens the album, and skips merrily by on gliding distortion and ringing Cure-like single notes while giving singer/guitarist Jeremy Bolen the space in the verse to carry the track. He does so somewhat awkwardly, but ably, with more than a little Robert Smith-like wavering in his otherwise everyman voice. "Harness" also bursts with tiny details, like the whipcrack of a drum pad or the groaning strings underneath the spritely organ. It's a little aurally crowded for a breezy rock single, but for the most part, it works. Bolen's voice still doesn't always mesh with the music, but it's an improvement on the hoarse whispering from the first album. But the band is the star here: The prettier moments are far prettier, like the glistening reverb of "Mansioned", and more details lurk underneath what sounds like typical indie jangle. A skittering electronic beat morphs into handclaps in "Water Plains in Snow"; jittery punk-funk guitars recede for a sunny Stereolab nod in the middle of "Blankets like Beavers"; a new-wave synth pops up in "We've Got to Keep Running"; and whimsical plucks of violin subtly boost an innocuous pre-chorus in "I Need a Friend With a Boat", one of the album's most spacious and successful tracks. There's nothing as immediate as the debut's best tracks, but the hooks are there if you dig for them-- witness the subtle harmonies of the breakdown in "We've Got to Keep Running". This band just keeps getting sharper, and rarely hold anything back. This is pop for the detail-hungry. Chalk it up to the comedown from the excitement of a debut record, but where before it sounded as if this band could pull off anything, now it sounds as if they feel like they have to pull off everything. Even the buffet table gets old, and while there are golden moments, there's yet to be a song where the styles that CUCU blitz through serve the song instead of vice versa. (Or at least, a fast song-- "Mansioned" and the closing "Trophies for Hire" seem to be the album's centerpieces.) Harness doesn't deliver many surprises or follow through on the promise of the debut; it simply refines the sounds they explored and digs its heels in a little deeper. We used to praise bands for this kind of slow, assured growth. There's going to be a moment, though-- if it hasn't come already-- where Chin Up Chin Up will outgrow the local hero tag and need to live up to expectation.

Artist: Chin Up Chin Up, Album: This Harness Can't Ride Anything, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Those expecting a breakthrough from Chin Up Chin Up's second record might walk away disappointed, but the band's fans won't be-- This Harness Won't Ride Anything is version 2.0 of the band's restless debut. The title track opens the album, and skips merrily by on gliding distortion and ringing Cure-like single notes while giving singer/guitarist Jeremy Bolen the space in the verse to carry the track. He does so somewhat awkwardly, but ably, with more than a little Robert Smith-like wavering in his otherwise everyman voice. "Harness" also bursts with tiny details, like the whipcrack of a drum pad or the groaning strings underneath the spritely organ. It's a little aurally crowded for a breezy rock single, but for the most part, it works. Bolen's voice still doesn't always mesh with the music, but it's an improvement on the hoarse whispering from the first album. But the band is the star here: The prettier moments are far prettier, like the glistening reverb of "Mansioned", and more details lurk underneath what sounds like typical indie jangle. A skittering electronic beat morphs into handclaps in "Water Plains in Snow"; jittery punk-funk guitars recede for a sunny Stereolab nod in the middle of "Blankets like Beavers"; a new-wave synth pops up in "We've Got to Keep Running"; and whimsical plucks of violin subtly boost an innocuous pre-chorus in "I Need a Friend With a Boat", one of the album's most spacious and successful tracks. There's nothing as immediate as the debut's best tracks, but the hooks are there if you dig for them-- witness the subtle harmonies of the breakdown in "We've Got to Keep Running". This band just keeps getting sharper, and rarely hold anything back. This is pop for the detail-hungry. Chalk it up to the comedown from the excitement of a debut record, but where before it sounded as if this band could pull off anything, now it sounds as if they feel like they have to pull off everything. Even the buffet table gets old, and while there are golden moments, there's yet to be a song where the styles that CUCU blitz through serve the song instead of vice versa. (Or at least, a fast song-- "Mansioned" and the closing "Trophies for Hire" seem to be the album's centerpieces.) Harness doesn't deliver many surprises or follow through on the promise of the debut; it simply refines the sounds they explored and digs its heels in a little deeper. We used to praise bands for this kind of slow, assured growth. There's going to be a moment, though-- if it hasn't come already-- where Chin Up Chin Up will outgrow the local hero tag and need to live up to expectation."

The Magnetic Fields

Love at the Bottom of the Sea

Rock

Lindsay Zoladz

Over the past decade, the Magnetic Fields have put out a trio of rigorously formalist albums, each of which, with the clinical exactitude of a lab report, handed the listener a tidy intellectual conclusion about pop music. Even the stuff we perceive to be "confessional" songwriting is just a parade of characters and personas (citation: i, an album-length meditation on the first person pronoun), every simple melody sounds a little bit better when buried under an avalanche of Jesus and Mary Chain-grade scuzz (see: the aptly titled Distortion), and music made with "real" instruments like acoustic guitars and ukuleles can easily sound just as artificial as music made on computers and synthesizers (the folksy yet artifice-guilded Realism). With a frontman iconically haughty enough to be a feasible answer to a New York Times crossword puzzle clue (L.A.-by-way-of-East Village curmudgeon; 14 letters)-- it has been especially easy during this run of albums to dismiss the Magnetic Fields as Ivory Tower pop, wrapped up in the cleverness of their own ideas and out of touch with the world below. But a quick glance around the cultural landscape shows Stephin Merritt's inquires to be pointedly, perennially relevant: There's Dave Grohl at the Grammys, professing the very conceit that Realism poked fun at; here's a whole slew of underground lo-fi bands taking Distortion's dictum as gospel; there's the same voice that yelled "Judas!" at Robert Zimmerman shouting a whole string of unprintables at Lizzy Grant. At the endless, stuffy cocktail party where everyone's going on about authenticity in music, Merritt's formalist convictions feel, at best, like a refreshingly icy gust of wind coming in through an open door. Or, at least, in theory. Because as interesting as these records might have been to think about or discuss, the fact is that their listenability varied greatly, with the most recent, the overstuffed Realism, pretty much unendurable as a front-to-back experience. Another tidy truth about pop music: You can't have a conversation about a record if you've never met another person who has cared to sit through it twice. For anyone who found the Magnetic Fields' recent work too tethered to formal shtick-ery-- or who just missed the amiable synth-pop sound of Holiday or Get Lost-- the first few notes of their latest, Love at the Bottom of the Sea, peal like potential chimes of freedom. The record marks the end of their self-imposed "no synth trilogy," and its opening track, the bleakly comic "Your Girlfriend's Face" is the first Magnetic Fields track to feature a synthesizer since 1999's 69 Love Songs. Is this a return to form, or could it even be the beginning of a whole new direction? That seems possible on paper, since Love at the Bottom of the Sea is also the first Magnetic Fields album in a decade and a half that isn't organized around some kind of formal limitation. So is this record an exercise in liberation, an opportunity to explore bigger ideas, take risks, and reinvent the project as Merritt has so many times before? Well-- and isn't this becoming the damnedest phrase when it comes to this band-- in theory. From the start, Love at the Bottom of the Sea seems to be a more welcoming listen than Realism. Two minutes in, we're greeted with an instant classic "Andrew in Drag", easily one of the band's best tracks since 69 Love Songs. It's sharply funny ("A pity she does not exist/ A shame he's not a fag," Merritt laments, "The only girl I'll ever love is Andrew in drag"), but it doesn't have the punchline-crazed flatness that some of his more self-consciously jokey songs do. Though just two minutes long, "Andrew in Drag" is an efficient, elegantly crafted character study, and once the initial jolt of its punchline wears away, it remains a surprisingly affecting parable about unattainable desire ("Ill never see that girl again/ He did it as a gag/ I'll pine away forevermore for Andrew in drag") that smartly, swiftly ends before it has a chance to become maudlin. And while the droll tableau "God Wants Us to Wait" doesn't quite have much in the way of emotional resonance, it still sets the album off to a strong start thanks to a few vividly goofy turns of phrase ("I guess it's true I should have told you before/ And not have waited 'til we're nude on the floor") and a catchy, Shirley-Simms-voiced melody. But after these frontloaded highlights, it doesn't take long for Love at the Bottom of the Sea to become a rain-boot-worthy slog through water-logged mid-tempo material: There's a particularly plodding song called "I'd Go Anywhere With Hugh" that feels triple its two-minute runtime; there's the prancing, carousel vibe of "The Horrible Party" which feels like a retread of Realism's weaker material; and then there's "My Husband's Pied-A-Terre", which rhymes the titular line with "derrière." They're all foregone conclusions: Knowing just the titles, you can pretty much imagine exactly what these songs will sound like and, as the lyrics unfold, what the next rhyme (or punchline) will be. That's the frustrating paradox of Love at the Bottom of the Sea: Though it finds the band shaking off the limitations of their formal exercises, it's actually the safest and most predictable thing they've put out in years. Of course, that Love at the Bottom of the Sea is ornate, pun-crazed, and flagrantly synthetic is not necessarily a strike against it: Merritt's spun these qualities into gold before. Marking the return to longtime home Merge Records and their long-shunned electronic sound, Love has the feel of a band getting resettled and plotting its next move, but it ultimately amounts to something less than the sum of its parts: It has the feel of a collection of B-sides rather than a proper statement. There are enough good songs to put it a cut above Realism (including, late in the game, the sweetly vitriolic "Quick!"), but it's a new kind of disappointment from a Magnetic Fields record: It doesn't even give you much to talk about.

Artist: The Magnetic Fields, Album: Love at the Bottom of the Sea, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.1 Album review: "Over the past decade, the Magnetic Fields have put out a trio of rigorously formalist albums, each of which, with the clinical exactitude of a lab report, handed the listener a tidy intellectual conclusion about pop music. Even the stuff we perceive to be "confessional" songwriting is just a parade of characters and personas (citation: i, an album-length meditation on the first person pronoun), every simple melody sounds a little bit better when buried under an avalanche of Jesus and Mary Chain-grade scuzz (see: the aptly titled Distortion), and music made with "real" instruments like acoustic guitars and ukuleles can easily sound just as artificial as music made on computers and synthesizers (the folksy yet artifice-guilded Realism). With a frontman iconically haughty enough to be a feasible answer to a New York Times crossword puzzle clue (L.A.-by-way-of-East Village curmudgeon; 14 letters)-- it has been especially easy during this run of albums to dismiss the Magnetic Fields as Ivory Tower pop, wrapped up in the cleverness of their own ideas and out of touch with the world below. But a quick glance around the cultural landscape shows Stephin Merritt's inquires to be pointedly, perennially relevant: There's Dave Grohl at the Grammys, professing the very conceit that Realism poked fun at; here's a whole slew of underground lo-fi bands taking Distortion's dictum as gospel; there's the same voice that yelled "Judas!" at Robert Zimmerman shouting a whole string of unprintables at Lizzy Grant. At the endless, stuffy cocktail party where everyone's going on about authenticity in music, Merritt's formalist convictions feel, at best, like a refreshingly icy gust of wind coming in through an open door. Or, at least, in theory. Because as interesting as these records might have been to think about or discuss, the fact is that their listenability varied greatly, with the most recent, the overstuffed Realism, pretty much unendurable as a front-to-back experience. Another tidy truth about pop music: You can't have a conversation about a record if you've never met another person who has cared to sit through it twice. For anyone who found the Magnetic Fields' recent work too tethered to formal shtick-ery-- or who just missed the amiable synth-pop sound of Holiday or Get Lost-- the first few notes of their latest, Love at the Bottom of the Sea, peal like potential chimes of freedom. The record marks the end of their self-imposed "no synth trilogy," and its opening track, the bleakly comic "Your Girlfriend's Face" is the first Magnetic Fields track to feature a synthesizer since 1999's 69 Love Songs. Is this a return to form, or could it even be the beginning of a whole new direction? That seems possible on paper, since Love at the Bottom of the Sea is also the first Magnetic Fields album in a decade and a half that isn't organized around some kind of formal limitation. So is this record an exercise in liberation, an opportunity to explore bigger ideas, take risks, and reinvent the project as Merritt has so many times before? Well-- and isn't this becoming the damnedest phrase when it comes to this band-- in theory. From the start, Love at the Bottom of the Sea seems to be a more welcoming listen than Realism. Two minutes in, we're greeted with an instant classic "Andrew in Drag", easily one of the band's best tracks since 69 Love Songs. It's sharply funny ("A pity she does not exist/ A shame he's not a fag," Merritt laments, "The only girl I'll ever love is Andrew in drag"), but it doesn't have the punchline-crazed flatness that some of his more self-consciously jokey songs do. Though just two minutes long, "Andrew in Drag" is an efficient, elegantly crafted character study, and once the initial jolt of its punchline wears away, it remains a surprisingly affecting parable about unattainable desire ("Ill never see that girl again/ He did it as a gag/ I'll pine away forevermore for Andrew in drag") that smartly, swiftly ends before it has a chance to become maudlin. And while the droll tableau "God Wants Us to Wait" doesn't quite have much in the way of emotional resonance, it still sets the album off to a strong start thanks to a few vividly goofy turns of phrase ("I guess it's true I should have told you before/ And not have waited 'til we're nude on the floor") and a catchy, Shirley-Simms-voiced melody. But after these frontloaded highlights, it doesn't take long for Love at the Bottom of the Sea to become a rain-boot-worthy slog through water-logged mid-tempo material: There's a particularly plodding song called "I'd Go Anywhere With Hugh" that feels triple its two-minute runtime; there's the prancing, carousel vibe of "The Horrible Party" which feels like a retread of Realism's weaker material; and then there's "My Husband's Pied-A-Terre", which rhymes the titular line with "derrière." They're all foregone conclusions: Knowing just the titles, you can pretty much imagine exactly what these songs will sound like and, as the lyrics unfold, what the next rhyme (or punchline) will be. That's the frustrating paradox of Love at the Bottom of the Sea: Though it finds the band shaking off the limitations of their formal exercises, it's actually the safest and most predictable thing they've put out in years. Of course, that Love at the Bottom of the Sea is ornate, pun-crazed, and flagrantly synthetic is not necessarily a strike against it: Merritt's spun these qualities into gold before. Marking the return to longtime home Merge Records and their long-shunned electronic sound, Love has the feel of a band getting resettled and plotting its next move, but it ultimately amounts to something less than the sum of its parts: It has the feel of a collection of B-sides rather than a proper statement. There are enough good songs to put it a cut above Realism (including, late in the game, the sweetly vitriolic "Quick!"), but it's a new kind of disappointment from a Magnetic Fields record: It doesn't even give you much to talk about."

The Rolling Stones

Blue & Lonesome

Rock

Stuart Berman

The Rolling Stones have been the World’s Greatest Rock ‘n’ Roll Band__™__ for so long that, over the past three decades, they haven’t had to worry about being an especially good one. Since the mid-’80s, they’ve been releasing forgettable records at increasingly protracted intervals, all while their ever-extravagant world tours have taken on the feel of a traveling Hard Rock Café resort—a glitzy simulacrum of a rock’n’roll show catering to those who can afford to experience it. Fittingly, earlier this year the band went from being a proverbial museum piece to becoming an actual one. The knock on the Stones isn’t that they’re too old to play a young man’s game—even at 73, Mick Jagger can still run laps around performers a third his age—but that aging has brought no greater depth or texture to their music. What the Stones have lost over the years is not their capacity for raunchy rock’n’roll, but their ability to invest it with purpose and meaning. Jagger and Keith Richards used to be among the best (and most underrated) lyricists in rock; their last album was called A Bigger Bang and kicked off with a tune that included a “cock” pun in the opening verse. However, the Stones’ new album is as introspective as we can expect them to get in 2016—even if it they are playing songs that are nearly as old as they are. Blue & Lonesome is a covers collection that pays tribute to the post-war Chicago blues that first got the Stones rolling and inspired their very name. And since then, the blues have served as the foundation the band can dig into whenever their sound threatens to turn too au courant, whether they were reacting to the hippy-dippy whimsy of Their Satanic Majesties Request with the sleazy acoustic struts of Beggars Banquet, or devoting a side of Black and Blue-era concert document Love You Live to Muddy Waters and Willie Dixon worship. But Blue & Lonesome represents more than just a back-to-basics mission, It’s the most honest music the Stones have released in years—not because the source material confers it with the patina of authenticity, but because the entire blues-covers concept is a tacit admission that they don’t really give a shit about being a contemporary concern anymore, so they’re just going to do something that feels good. (The record was reportedly spawned as a warm-up exercise for a postponed album of new material.) And now that the band are older than Muddy Waters or Howlin’ Wolf ever lived to be, they can fully inhabit the grizzled-bluesman archetype to which they've always aspired, and exude a genuine get-offa-my-lawn imperviousness to the modern world. Blue & Lonesome was bashed out in three days, and for the first time in eons, the Stones sound like a band playing together in the same room rather than one that travels on separate jets. Jagger is, naturally the star of the show—but not in his usual vampish ways. Whether he’s embodying the down-on-his-knees despair of Memphis Slim’s title track or playfully assuming the role of sad-sack cuckold on Little Johnny Taylor’s “Everybody Knows About My Good Thing,” his ageless voice sounds like it’s emanating from the middle of the band scrum rather than the lip of a catwalk. And while Chicago blues may have introduced the concept of jamming and guitar gods to the rock lexicon, Richards and Ronnie Wood’s grinding interplay ultimately plays a supporting role to Jagger’s harmonica honks, which cut through these songs like a rusty hacksaw with “Midnight Rambler”-worthy gusto. But as much as Blue & Lonesome plays it raw, it’s not all that raucous—the energy here is less rip-this-joint than rocking-chair steady. On paper, the idea of the Stones running roughshod over a set of classic blues tunes seems like a long-suffering fan’s dream. (The “best Stones album since Some Girls!” headlines practically write themselves.) However, what made the Stones the Stones wasn’t their purism—it was the sacrilegious impulse to corrupt their influences with their own singular swagger. But Blue & Lonesome is more about adhering to tradition than encouraging sedition. The Stones may be drinking from their fountain of youth here, but they’re content to just savor it rather than spit it back in our faces. On their best blues covers—Beggars Banquets’ “Prodigal Son,” Sticky Fingers’ “You Gotta Move,” Exile on Main Street’s “Shake Your Hips”—the Stones handled the songs like Ouija boards; they were less about paying homage to their heroes than channeling their sinister essence. Blue & Lonesome has flashes of that insidious inspiration: On the revved-up run through Howlin’ Wolf’s “Commit a Crime,” Jagger’s vocal oozes with implied violence overtop a repetitive, trance-inducing riff that rings like a police siren; on Little Walter’s “Hate to See You Go,” his pained baby-please-don’t-go pleas climax with an extended harmonica drone that threatens to swallow the song whole. But for the most part, Blue & Lonesome doesn’t aspire to be anything more than a good-time frolic among old pals (Eric Clapton cameos included), with the interchangeable, upbeat takes on Buddy Johnson’s “Just Your Fool” and Eddie Taylor’s “Ride ‘Em on Down” more conducive to knee-tapping in a seated supper club than tearing the roof off a juke joint. For an album rife with tales of heartache, duplicity, and death threats, it’s positively brimming with bonhomie. And, hey, given all the shit-talking Keith did at Mick’s expense in his autobiography, Life, that audible camaraderie is something of a minor miracle in and of itself.  On its own modest terms, Blue & Lonesome offers promising proof the Stones can still be a band instead of a brand.

Artist: The Rolling Stones, Album: Blue & Lonesome, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "The Rolling Stones have been the World’s Greatest Rock ‘n’ Roll Band__™__ for so long that, over the past three decades, they haven’t had to worry about being an especially good one. Since the mid-’80s, they’ve been releasing forgettable records at increasingly protracted intervals, all while their ever-extravagant world tours have taken on the feel of a traveling Hard Rock Café resort—a glitzy simulacrum of a rock’n’roll show catering to those who can afford to experience it. Fittingly, earlier this year the band went from being a proverbial museum piece to becoming an actual one. The knock on the Stones isn’t that they’re too old to play a young man’s game—even at 73, Mick Jagger can still run laps around performers a third his age—but that aging has brought no greater depth or texture to their music. What the Stones have lost over the years is not their capacity for raunchy rock’n’roll, but their ability to invest it with purpose and meaning. Jagger and Keith Richards used to be among the best (and most underrated) lyricists in rock; their last album was called A Bigger Bang and kicked off with a tune that included a “cock” pun in the opening verse. However, the Stones’ new album is as introspective as we can expect them to get in 2016—even if it they are playing songs that are nearly as old as they are. Blue & Lonesome is a covers collection that pays tribute to the post-war Chicago blues that first got the Stones rolling and inspired their very name. And since then, the blues have served as the foundation the band can dig into whenever their sound threatens to turn too au courant, whether they were reacting to the hippy-dippy whimsy of Their Satanic Majesties Request with the sleazy acoustic struts of Beggars Banquet, or devoting a side of Black and Blue-era concert document Love You Live to Muddy Waters and Willie Dixon worship. But Blue & Lonesome represents more than just a back-to-basics mission, It’s the most honest music the Stones have released in years—not because the source material confers it with the patina of authenticity, but because the entire blues-covers concept is a tacit admission that they don’t really give a shit about being a contemporary concern anymore, so they’re just going to do something that feels good. (The record was reportedly spawned as a warm-up exercise for a postponed album of new material.) And now that the band are older than Muddy Waters or Howlin’ Wolf ever lived to be, they can fully inhabit the grizzled-bluesman archetype to which they've always aspired, and exude a genuine get-offa-my-lawn imperviousness to the modern world. Blue & Lonesome was bashed out in three days, and for the first time in eons, the Stones sound like a band playing together in the same room rather than one that travels on separate jets. Jagger is, naturally the star of the show—but not in his usual vampish ways. Whether he’s embodying the down-on-his-knees despair of Memphis Slim’s title track or playfully assuming the role of sad-sack cuckold on Little Johnny Taylor’s “Everybody Knows About My Good Thing,” his ageless voice sounds like it’s emanating from the middle of the band scrum rather than the lip of a catwalk. And while Chicago blues may have introduced the concept of jamming and guitar gods to the rock lexicon, Richards and Ronnie Wood’s grinding interplay ultimately plays a supporting role to Jagger’s harmonica honks, which cut through these songs like a rusty hacksaw with “Midnight Rambler”-worthy gusto. But as much as Blue & Lonesome plays it raw, it’s not all that raucous—the energy here is less rip-this-joint than rocking-chair steady. On paper, the idea of the Stones running roughshod over a set of classic blues tunes seems like a long-suffering fan’s dream. (The “best Stones album since Some Girls!” headlines practically write themselves.) However, what made the Stones the Stones wasn’t their purism—it was the sacrilegious impulse to corrupt their influences with their own singular swagger. But Blue & Lonesome is more about adhering to tradition than encouraging sedition. The Stones may be drinking from their fountain of youth here, but they’re content to just savor it rather than spit it back in our faces. On their best blues covers—Beggars Banquets’ “Prodigal Son,” Sticky Fingers’ “You Gotta Move,” Exile on Main Street’s “Shake Your Hips”—the Stones handled the songs like Ouija boards; they were less about paying homage to their heroes than channeling their sinister essence. Blue & Lonesome has flashes of that insidious inspiration: On the revved-up run through Howlin’ Wolf’s “Commit a Crime,” Jagger’s vocal oozes with implied violence overtop a repetitive, trance-inducing riff that rings like a police siren; on Little Walter’s “Hate to See You Go,” his pained baby-please-don’t-go pleas climax with an extended harmonica drone that threatens to swallow the song whole. But for the most part, Blue & Lonesome doesn’t aspire to be anything more than a good-time frolic among old pals (Eric Clapton cameos included), with the interchangeable, upbeat takes on Buddy Johnson’s “Just Your Fool” and Eddie Taylor’s “Ride ‘Em on Down” more conducive to knee-tapping in a seated supper club than tearing the roof off a juke joint. For an album rife with tales of heartache, duplicity, and death threats, it’s positively brimming with bonhomie. And, hey, given all the shit-talking Keith did at Mick’s expense in his autobiography, Life, that audible camaraderie is something of a minor miracle in and of itself.  On its own modest terms, Blue & Lonesome offers promising proof the Stones can still be a band instead of a brand."

Clutch

Psychic Warfare

Rock

Zoe Camp

If Mastodon are kings of the sludge-rock world, then their past co-headliners Clutch are the jokers. Since their start in 1991, Clutch have amassed a global reputation as the platonic ideal of stoner rock, with frontman Neil Fallon regarded as one of rock’s most talented auteurs. Like Baroness and Lo-Pan, they’re not afraid to roll up their sleeves and crank out a filthy blues jam (1998’s The Elephant Riders more than gives the Black Keys a run for their money), but the band does so with a cartoonish flippancy that their peers lack, which in turn injects the genre with a much-needed sense of humor. “I have a great luxury that I'm a professional liar—that's what a storyteller is,” Fallon said in the album's press release, going on to add, "It's the one socially acceptable way to completely deceive people, and that's what they want.” Liars tell the best tales, for sure – and when they're packing guitars, all the better. Where Brent Hinds and company purvey AP lit-inspired epics and extensive experimentations in genre, Fallon and his partners have but the boogie and the bellylaugh—and in the hands of this foursome, that’s more than enough. Clutch’s last record, 2013’s Earth Rocker, marked their biggest triumph to date: a playful, occasionally psychedelic LP that wasn’t afraid to go prog once in a while (it’s also one of the best driving albums in recent memory). Psychic Warfare, recorded in Texas and produced by Machine (who manned the boards for both Earth Rocker and 2004’s  Blast Tyrant) isn’t as overachieving, instead marking a return to the bluesy, boozy rock of their early catalog. After a nondescript intro, Psychic Warfare starts with one of the band’s strongest songs to date: “X Ray Visions”, an ode to conspiracy theories, drugs, sex, and horoscopes all rolled into one. Over the span of three-and-a-half minutes, Fallon manages to incorporate visits from Republican apparitions (tapping out a telegram in a motel room, he’s “quickly overtaken by the angry spirits of Ronald and Nancy Reagan”), a raucous refrain that renders quacky sci-fi concepts like “x ray visions” and “energy weapons” undeniably badass, and the best musical role-call since Sweet’s “Ballroom Blitz” (when’s the last time you introduced yourself as “on the mic…SCORPIOOOOOOOO!”?). It’s a contender for one of the best hard rock songs to date, so it’s unfortunate that the rest of the album–except, perhaps, the “Highway Star”-cribbing “Firebirds!”–fails to capture that divine, batshit energy, despite Fallon’s tales of supernatural lust (“Sucker For The Witch”), cyclops’ revenge (“Behold the Colossus”), decapitated bodies and three-legged mules (“Decapitation Blues”). Perhaps it’s the abundance of one-three-five chord progressions, or the scarcity of skyward solos (although “Noble Savage” is a shoe-in for Rock Band 4) – or maybe “X Ray Visions” is just a hell of an act to follow. Either way, Psychic Warfare settles into craggy cruise control by “Sucker For The Witch”: haggard verses festooned by Fallon’s goofy imagery and anchored by the no-bullshit percussion of drummer Jean-Paul Gaster and bassist Dan Maines, which in turn give way to stadium-ready choruses. Occasionally, they dip into Texan blues (“Our Lady of Electric Light”, “Son Of Virginia”) – a welcome bit of contrast that comes at the expense of lost momentum, with mid-album “Doom Saloon” being the worst offender. Clutch work best when they keep the pulley of punchlines and pummeling riffs running at max speed, and as a result, Psychic Warfare proves a tad too meandering to eclipse Earth Rocker or Blast Tyrant. But guffaw, gawk, pump your fist you will—and in the self-important, super-serious world of heavy music, that’s worth more than you think.

Artist: Clutch, Album: Psychic Warfare, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "If Mastodon are kings of the sludge-rock world, then their past co-headliners Clutch are the jokers. Since their start in 1991, Clutch have amassed a global reputation as the platonic ideal of stoner rock, with frontman Neil Fallon regarded as one of rock’s most talented auteurs. Like Baroness and Lo-Pan, they’re not afraid to roll up their sleeves and crank out a filthy blues jam (1998’s The Elephant Riders more than gives the Black Keys a run for their money), but the band does so with a cartoonish flippancy that their peers lack, which in turn injects the genre with a much-needed sense of humor. “I have a great luxury that I'm a professional liar—that's what a storyteller is,” Fallon said in the album's press release, going on to add, "It's the one socially acceptable way to completely deceive people, and that's what they want.” Liars tell the best tales, for sure – and when they're packing guitars, all the better. Where Brent Hinds and company purvey AP lit-inspired epics and extensive experimentations in genre, Fallon and his partners have but the boogie and the bellylaugh—and in the hands of this foursome, that’s more than enough. Clutch’s last record, 2013’s Earth Rocker, marked their biggest triumph to date: a playful, occasionally psychedelic LP that wasn’t afraid to go prog once in a while (it’s also one of the best driving albums in recent memory). Psychic Warfare, recorded in Texas and produced by Machine (who manned the boards for both Earth Rocker and 2004’s  Blast Tyrant) isn’t as overachieving, instead marking a return to the bluesy, boozy rock of their early catalog. After a nondescript intro, Psychic Warfare starts with one of the band’s strongest songs to date: “X Ray Visions”, an ode to conspiracy theories, drugs, sex, and horoscopes all rolled into one. Over the span of three-and-a-half minutes, Fallon manages to incorporate visits from Republican apparitions (tapping out a telegram in a motel room, he’s “quickly overtaken by the angry spirits of Ronald and Nancy Reagan”), a raucous refrain that renders quacky sci-fi concepts like “x ray visions” and “energy weapons” undeniably badass, and the best musical role-call since Sweet’s “Ballroom Blitz” (when’s the last time you introduced yourself as “on the mic…SCORPIOOOOOOOO!”?). It’s a contender for one of the best hard rock songs to date, so it’s unfortunate that the rest of the album–except, perhaps, the “Highway Star”-cribbing “Firebirds!”–fails to capture that divine, batshit energy, despite Fallon’s tales of supernatural lust (“Sucker For The Witch”), cyclops’ revenge (“Behold the Colossus”), decapitated bodies and three-legged mules (“Decapitation Blues”). Perhaps it’s the abundance of one-three-five chord progressions, or the scarcity of skyward solos (although “Noble Savage” is a shoe-in for Rock Band 4) – or maybe “X Ray Visions” is just a hell of an act to follow. Either way, Psychic Warfare settles into craggy cruise control by “Sucker For The Witch”: haggard verses festooned by Fallon’s goofy imagery and anchored by the no-bullshit percussion of drummer Jean-Paul Gaster and bassist Dan Maines, which in turn give way to stadium-ready choruses. Occasionally, they dip into Texan blues (“Our Lady of Electric Light”, “Son Of Virginia”) – a welcome bit of contrast that comes at the expense of lost momentum, with mid-album “Doom Saloon” being the worst offender. Clutch work best when they keep the pulley of punchlines and pummeling riffs running at max speed, and as a result, Psychic Warfare proves a tad too meandering to eclipse Earth Rocker or Blast Tyrant. But guffaw, gawk, pump your fist you will—and in the self-important, super-serious world of heavy music, that’s worth more than you think."

Buzzcocks

Buzzcocks

Rock

Brendan Reid

A small gasp escaped from between Phillip Straw's endearingly crooked teeth. "Do you really think Pitchfork will like it, sir? Why, where are the extended metaphors?" "Well, I was going to pretend to be a reviewer from a time before Spiral Scratch who'd been visited by this time-travelling Billie Joe Armstrong replicant." "Can we be your extended metaphor, sir?" piped in diminutive Noel St. John. His huge, pale eyes met mine and he began coughing weakly into his sleeve. "Okay, Noel, sure, why not? Let's see... well, sometimes musical genres get together, just like mommies and daddies, and, of course, it seems like an excellent idea at the time, and, by design or by accident-- usually the latter-- they produce a new genre. And it starts out very cute and lovable, sure, but soon it begins to whine and demand and smell funny and then, wham, it gets dropped off a bridge or left in a deacon's mailbox or..." "Surely, Mr. Reid, you're not blaming the Buzzcocks for creating all of pop/punk!" Sophie Higgins chirped. "Certainly, most of it is wretched, but you can't hold them responsible for what's come afterwards." "I'm blaming them for making it look too easy, Sophie. When the Buzzcocks started, punk was still something of a reaction against pop, and combining the two has always been a rock-paper-scissors sort of affair-- punk bludgeons the nuance out of pop, and pop sweetness neuters punk attitude. A straight mixture of the two almost always ends up as musical slapstick, and for pop/punk to work in any context besides novelty, the balance has to be close to perfect. Even though the Buzzcocks sounded like they were always playing with complete abandon-- er, sorry, poor choice of words, kids-- they had the instincts and the songwriting talent to hit that mark with decent frequency. Most every band that followed them didn't. Pop/punk pretty much turned out to be a one-trick genre, and the Buzzcocks were that trick." "That's a lot of past tense, Mr. Reid," observed Alexis Chittenden. "Are we, the Buzzcocks' fans, also orphans, in a sense, sir?" "Okay, so look at it like this. Blink-182 and Good Charlotte are the mean old orphanage proprietors Mr. and Mrs. Nesbitt, and Green Day is that old gentleman who used come by with candy every once in a while before he died in the mandolin accident: It feels like they've been gone forever, but the Buzzcocks were only ever really broken up for a large chunk of the 80s (negligible, given the fact that they're pushing thirty as a band). They've been a steady act for over a decade now, though; the past tense refers to the fact that their best material has always been the stuff that does the least to disturb the distortion/melody accord they struck in the late 70s. And, while the Buzzcocks have wisely passed on innovation with this new album, they also display only an intermittent control of that distinctive touch that makes the pop/punk marriage worthwhile." "L-losing their touch, sir?" Nevil Greenleaf stammered, his rheumy eyes moistening. "Well, maybe not losing it... their albums were always spotty, and few fans ever see the need to probe beyond Singles Going Steady. And, true, a couple of these songs would be right at home on that comp. 'Friends', for instance, finds the band's component parts in inspired cooperation-- the breezy melody, giddily climbing chord progression, and chainsaw guitars all work to whittle the angstful central assertion, 'I don't even know if I'll ever be loved again/ The only thing I can rely on is chay-ee-ange!' down to snotty-sincere perfection. Most, however, fail by inches, not quite tight enough to hold their charm for more than a few listens. 'Sick City Sometimes' works brilliantly as an anthem as long as you can keep the image of Andrew W.K. covering the Gin Blossoms' 'Hey Jealousy' out of your head. The resurrected Howard Devoto-era gem 'Lester Sands', while sharp as ever, only suffers from the much cleaner production and Pete Shelley's newly acquired snarl. In fact, a lot of the album's problems come from overaggressiveness; the further the balance tips toward loud-and-fast, the deeper the split in their musical personality show. The Buzzcocks have never needed to bash a chorus into our heads as mercilessly as they do here on 'Keep On' and 'Morning After', and the grinding fade-outs of each song seem to announce the cynic's ultimate victory over the sensitive." "But sir, we need both!" cried Alvin Witherspoon-Devonshire. "How ever are we to deal with our wretched lives without their cheeky take on childhood angst?" "Well, the Buzzcocks have moved on, Alvin. They've still got angst to spare, but their wit has been ground down by 'maturity,' or whatever you want to call it, into a bitter thing that saps a lot of that reckless energy. Sure, it's great when Shelley matter-of-factly snots into mortality's handkerchief with his declaration that 'Life's only temporary/ And then you fucking die!' on the final track, but the drawn-out instrumental interlude and guitar solo drag that pissed-off punch towards mopery. But, you don't have to move on, Alvin! You don't have to imagine a grand, noble death for them, as you have for your parents; The Buzzcocks have left you Singles Going Steady! And there's still that gleam of greatness left in this one." It was no use. One by one, the children all started bawling. A single tear slid down my cheek, too. Stupid Buzzcocks.

Artist: Buzzcocks, Album: Buzzcocks, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "A small gasp escaped from between Phillip Straw's endearingly crooked teeth. "Do you really think Pitchfork will like it, sir? Why, where are the extended metaphors?" "Well, I was going to pretend to be a reviewer from a time before Spiral Scratch who'd been visited by this time-travelling Billie Joe Armstrong replicant." "Can we be your extended metaphor, sir?" piped in diminutive Noel St. John. His huge, pale eyes met mine and he began coughing weakly into his sleeve. "Okay, Noel, sure, why not? Let's see... well, sometimes musical genres get together, just like mommies and daddies, and, of course, it seems like an excellent idea at the time, and, by design or by accident-- usually the latter-- they produce a new genre. And it starts out very cute and lovable, sure, but soon it begins to whine and demand and smell funny and then, wham, it gets dropped off a bridge or left in a deacon's mailbox or..." "Surely, Mr. Reid, you're not blaming the Buzzcocks for creating all of pop/punk!" Sophie Higgins chirped. "Certainly, most of it is wretched, but you can't hold them responsible for what's come afterwards." "I'm blaming them for making it look too easy, Sophie. When the Buzzcocks started, punk was still something of a reaction against pop, and combining the two has always been a rock-paper-scissors sort of affair-- punk bludgeons the nuance out of pop, and pop sweetness neuters punk attitude. A straight mixture of the two almost always ends up as musical slapstick, and for pop/punk to work in any context besides novelty, the balance has to be close to perfect. Even though the Buzzcocks sounded like they were always playing with complete abandon-- er, sorry, poor choice of words, kids-- they had the instincts and the songwriting talent to hit that mark with decent frequency. Most every band that followed them didn't. Pop/punk pretty much turned out to be a one-trick genre, and the Buzzcocks were that trick." "That's a lot of past tense, Mr. Reid," observed Alexis Chittenden. "Are we, the Buzzcocks' fans, also orphans, in a sense, sir?" "Okay, so look at it like this. Blink-182 and Good Charlotte are the mean old orphanage proprietors Mr. and Mrs. Nesbitt, and Green Day is that old gentleman who used come by with candy every once in a while before he died in the mandolin accident: It feels like they've been gone forever, but the Buzzcocks were only ever really broken up for a large chunk of the 80s (negligible, given the fact that they're pushing thirty as a band). They've been a steady act for over a decade now, though; the past tense refers to the fact that their best material has always been the stuff that does the least to disturb the distortion/melody accord they struck in the late 70s. And, while the Buzzcocks have wisely passed on innovation with this new album, they also display only an intermittent control of that distinctive touch that makes the pop/punk marriage worthwhile." "L-losing their touch, sir?" Nevil Greenleaf stammered, his rheumy eyes moistening. "Well, maybe not losing it... their albums were always spotty, and few fans ever see the need to probe beyond Singles Going Steady. And, true, a couple of these songs would be right at home on that comp. 'Friends', for instance, finds the band's component parts in inspired cooperation-- the breezy melody, giddily climbing chord progression, and chainsaw guitars all work to whittle the angstful central assertion, 'I don't even know if I'll ever be loved again/ The only thing I can rely on is chay-ee-ange!' down to snotty-sincere perfection. Most, however, fail by inches, not quite tight enough to hold their charm for more than a few listens. 'Sick City Sometimes' works brilliantly as an anthem as long as you can keep the image of Andrew W.K. covering the Gin Blossoms' 'Hey Jealousy' out of your head. The resurrected Howard Devoto-era gem 'Lester Sands', while sharp as ever, only suffers from the much cleaner production and Pete Shelley's newly acquired snarl. In fact, a lot of the album's problems come from overaggressiveness; the further the balance tips toward loud-and-fast, the deeper the split in their musical personality show. The Buzzcocks have never needed to bash a chorus into our heads as mercilessly as they do here on 'Keep On' and 'Morning After', and the grinding fade-outs of each song seem to announce the cynic's ultimate victory over the sensitive." "But sir, we need both!" cried Alvin Witherspoon-Devonshire. "How ever are we to deal with our wretched lives without their cheeky take on childhood angst?" "Well, the Buzzcocks have moved on, Alvin. They've still got angst to spare, but their wit has been ground down by 'maturity,' or whatever you want to call it, into a bitter thing that saps a lot of that reckless energy. Sure, it's great when Shelley matter-of-factly snots into mortality's handkerchief with his declaration that 'Life's only temporary/ And then you fucking die!' on the final track, but the drawn-out instrumental interlude and guitar solo drag that pissed-off punch towards mopery. But, you don't have to move on, Alvin! You don't have to imagine a grand, noble death for them, as you have for your parents; The Buzzcocks have left you Singles Going Steady! And there's still that gleam of greatness left in this one." It was no use. One by one, the children all started bawling. A single tear slid down my cheek, too. Stupid Buzzcocks."

Pariah

Here From Where We Are

Electronic

Philip Sherburne

News of a revival—of a particular sound, style, or trend forgotten by the mainstream—usually means only that the news-bearer hasn’t been paying attention. Adherents know better. Most of the time, these tastes have been thriving out of sight for years. But as much as die-hard fans may scoff at recent talk of an ambient revival, it’s hard to deny that contemplative, beatless strains of electronic music have become more active, and are enjoying more widespread appeal, in recent years. Pariah’s Here From Where We Are is just the latest indicator that the gentle genre is in rude health. Pariah (London’s Arthur Cayzer) emerged in 2009, bearing a sleek and soulful variant of the UK bass that was then bubbling up in the work of artists like Burial and James Blake. Following the one-two punch of his debut single, “Detroit Falls,” and its follow-up EP, Safehouses, he surmised that he would begin work on his debut album “in the next year or so.” But what he described as “pretty bad writer’s block” must have been worse than he imagined, because that debut long-player ended up taking eight years. In the intervening span, he was productive, but not prolific. There was a quick run of EPs, all for R&S, between 2010 and 2012; from 2011 through 2014, he and Blawan, a fellow Brit known for his brutalist techno, put out three EPs under their collaborative alias Karenn. Cayzer’s debut solo LP finds him sounding like a different artist entirely. That’s good: In the early years, even at his best, there was little in his music that sounded truly original. You could hear him working through his influences, striving to create something true to himself, but not quite breaking free from the pull of his forebears and peers. In his defense, there was a lot of that at the time; UK bass exerted a powerful gravitational force. He finds more freedom in ambient music. Not that Here From Where We Are sounds radically original; Cayzer is working with well-worn ideas. But ambient has been around long enough that originality feels less important in that tradition than it does in a supposedly cutting-edge sound like UK bass. In its invocation of canonical tropes, the album often feels like a love letter to the genre. The bright and triumphant opening track, “Log Jam,” is evocative of Oneohtrix Point Never covering Philip Glass, and from there Pariah surveys new-age drift, field recordings, the chillout-room languor of Global Communication, the wide-eyed chord progressions of Boards of Canada. “Rain Soup,” with its swirl of wind chimes and precipitation, sounds keyed to the current vogue for sound baths. The title track, with its major-key chords and veiled shimmer, carries the faintest hint of Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois’ Apollo: Atmospheres and Soundtracks. Cayzer’s keen ear and judicious touch are crucial to the album’s success. Ambient music, particularly when it’s this pretty, risks falling into a formless goop, but Pariah is good at creating tension. After “Log Jam” builds to a shuddering climax—the album hits its energetic peak just four minutes into its 40-odd minute run—its segue into the regal organ drones of “Pith” feels like leaping off a cliff and then hang gliding in lazy circles above verdant fields. “Linnaea” begins with slow, underwater strings and then moves in fits and starts toward the light, like Gavin Bryars’ “The Sinking of the Titanic,” but in reverse, with interlocking triplet and eighth-note patterns that gradually assume sharp, crystalline outlines as they play off one another. (If Boards of Canada make music inspired by the warbly, film-stock look and feel of vintage nature documentaries, “Linnaea” would make an excellent soundtrack for one of today’s hi-def explorations of the mysteries of the deep.) It’s the interplay between those arpeggios that makes the song so quietly gripping: By almost imperceptibly shifting emphasis across his narrow set of elements—now it’s the triplets you notice, now the eighth notes, now a naïve, flute-like melody—Cayzer creates an almost narrative sensibility, never mind that the music doesn’t actually do that much beyond simply cycling in place. The same could be said for most of Here From Where We Are. Like all agreeable ambient music, it burbles away in the background, invisible right up until the moment you notice it—a little like the ambient revival itself.

Artist: Pariah, Album: Here From Where We Are, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "News of a revival—of a particular sound, style, or trend forgotten by the mainstream—usually means only that the news-bearer hasn’t been paying attention. Adherents know better. Most of the time, these tastes have been thriving out of sight for years. But as much as die-hard fans may scoff at recent talk of an ambient revival, it’s hard to deny that contemplative, beatless strains of electronic music have become more active, and are enjoying more widespread appeal, in recent years. Pariah’s Here From Where We Are is just the latest indicator that the gentle genre is in rude health. Pariah (London’s Arthur Cayzer) emerged in 2009, bearing a sleek and soulful variant of the UK bass that was then bubbling up in the work of artists like Burial and James Blake. Following the one-two punch of his debut single, “Detroit Falls,” and its follow-up EP, Safehouses, he surmised that he would begin work on his debut album “in the next year or so.” But what he described as “pretty bad writer’s block” must have been worse than he imagined, because that debut long-player ended up taking eight years. In the intervening span, he was productive, but not prolific. There was a quick run of EPs, all for R&S, between 2010 and 2012; from 2011 through 2014, he and Blawan, a fellow Brit known for his brutalist techno, put out three EPs under their collaborative alias Karenn. Cayzer’s debut solo LP finds him sounding like a different artist entirely. That’s good: In the early years, even at his best, there was little in his music that sounded truly original. You could hear him working through his influences, striving to create something true to himself, but not quite breaking free from the pull of his forebears and peers. In his defense, there was a lot of that at the time; UK bass exerted a powerful gravitational force. He finds more freedom in ambient music. Not that Here From Where We Are sounds radically original; Cayzer is working with well-worn ideas. But ambient has been around long enough that originality feels less important in that tradition than it does in a supposedly cutting-edge sound like UK bass. In its invocation of canonical tropes, the album often feels like a love letter to the genre. The bright and triumphant opening track, “Log Jam,” is evocative of Oneohtrix Point Never covering Philip Glass, and from there Pariah surveys new-age drift, field recordings, the chillout-room languor of Global Communication, the wide-eyed chord progressions of Boards of Canada. “Rain Soup,” with its swirl of wind chimes and precipitation, sounds keyed to the current vogue for sound baths. The title track, with its major-key chords and veiled shimmer, carries the faintest hint of Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois’ Apollo: Atmospheres and Soundtracks. Cayzer’s keen ear and judicious touch are crucial to the album’s success. Ambient music, particularly when it’s this pretty, risks falling into a formless goop, but Pariah is good at creating tension. After “Log Jam” builds to a shuddering climax—the album hits its energetic peak just four minutes into its 40-odd minute run—its segue into the regal organ drones of “Pith” feels like leaping off a cliff and then hang gliding in lazy circles above verdant fields. “Linnaea” begins with slow, underwater strings and then moves in fits and starts toward the light, like Gavin Bryars’ “The Sinking of the Titanic,” but in reverse, with interlocking triplet and eighth-note patterns that gradually assume sharp, crystalline outlines as they play off one another. (If Boards of Canada make music inspired by the warbly, film-stock look and feel of vintage nature documentaries, “Linnaea” would make an excellent soundtrack for one of today’s hi-def explorations of the mysteries of the deep.) It’s the interplay between those arpeggios that makes the song so quietly gripping: By almost imperceptibly shifting emphasis across his narrow set of elements—now it’s the triplets you notice, now the eighth notes, now a naïve, flute-like melody—Cayzer creates an almost narrative sensibility, never mind that the music doesn’t actually do that much beyond simply cycling in place. The same could be said for most of Here From Where We Are. Like all agreeable ambient music, it burbles away in the background, invisible right up until the moment you notice it—a little like the ambient revival itself."

Gentleman Jesse

Leaving Atlanta

Rock

Rachael Maddux

Full disclosure: Jesse Smith has served me a lot of beer. A few years ago he was a waiter at my favorite Atlanta bar, a cavernous place with a beer list the size of a small-town phonebook. I scrawled out an uncountable number of debit-card-receipt tips to Server Name: Gentleman Jesse before realizing he played guitar in the Carbonas, one of the nastier local power-punk bands, and that he had his own act. In 2008, when his first record came out, it suddenly required an embarrassing amount of effort to not reply to his waiterly banter with his own song lyrics. Like the time he brought me a drink but not the one I'd ordered-- it was a rare flub and I was just trying to roll with it, but he was contrite, offering to trade it out. "No, it's cool," I said, taking an overlarge first gulp just to keep myself from adding, "You Don't Have To (If You Don't Want To)". That song-- one of the best from that first album, Gentleman Jesse & His Men, which was almost all bests-- highlights some of Smith's main tendencies as a lyricist. He favors longish song titles, often involving some sort of sly parenthetical and almost always derived from the chorus, which in turn is usually built around some kind of ordinary phrase-- not an out-and-out cliché, exactly, but something you'd say, something you've heard before. He's like a garage-rock William Eggleston, shining a flickering backroom bulb on the most mundane feelings (regret, inertia, annoyance, wanting-to-have-sex), rendering them, if not particularly fresh or transcendent, then at least really really fun to have. You can sing along to his hooks. You can sing along to his words, too, but it's the hooks that'll glom on and hang around for days. On the new record, Leaving Atlanta, Gentleman Jesse has dropped His Men, but in name only. It's almost impossible, actually, to imagine this guy as a solo act; so much depends upon the barrage-- the guitars chasing each other around like kids in a dirty parking lot, the teetering organ and, here, even harmonica provided by third-wave garage-rock O.G. King Louie Bankston on the frantic opener "Eat Me Alive". The band's debut was kind of a crumpled, nicotine-smudged affair, but Atlanta feels brighter, less muddled, not polished but certainly tidier around the edges. Smith's voice remains a friendly, mid-range yawp-- emotionally precise if not always entirely on-key. "Careful What You Wish For", with its sparkly-clean guitar riff, spunky little drums and backing harmonies occasionally cresting into "aahh's," sounds enough like a lost Help! track to warrant an earnest Beatles comparison in the year 2012 (though a more appropriate corollary may be that occasionally-- and, one assumes, inadvertently-- Gentleman Jesse seems most explicable as a boozier, hornier, later-model version of the Oneders, that band of skinny-tied goofballs from the Tom Hanks movie That Thing You Do!). Recorded three years ago in Smith's basement, Atlanta's accompanying press release hints at some reasons for the delayed release; for one, dude was apparently clobbered across the face with a table leg while trying to help some guys change a car tire, which understandably dampened his enthusiasm for music and the city and life in general for a while. Then five friends died in weirdly quick succession, most way too young. The album is dedicated to them, their names in small print in the liner notes; on the flip side of the CD insert, there's a black-and-white photo collage of Smith and the band playing shows, lipping cigarettes, spraying champagne. The cheery vibe is battle armor, a shield raised against the unknown darkness. Each track plows straight ahead into itself-- head down, guard up-- like a good-natured drunk mainlining tallboys to flush out the pain. Smith can't even seem to catch a break romance-wise: he's swaddled in self-loathing and indecision, "I'm Only Lonely (When I'm Around You)" and "I'm a Mess (Without You)" bookending his misery. But the sadsack-lover look seems a bit too easy. It's a fun exercise, and maybe even the intended approach, to take every song here that seems to be about woman troubles and imagine Smith is singing instead about his hometown, about everything he's done here and everything it's done for-- and to-- him: "Take it easy on me, my pretty baby/ Don't be cruel, that's not the way that I treat you." (This may be the only way to make palatable "Kind of Uptight", otherwise basically the song equivalent of a "C'mon, gimme a smile, baby!" catcall.) On the cover of Leaving Atlanta, Smith and his Rickenbacker pose, along with a couple of suitcases and a rifle and what appears to be a golden bust of Elvis Presley, by the big wooden "Leaving Atlanta" sign that gives the record its name. Locals will know exactly where he's standing: just barely northeast of Little Five Points, facing west, the mess of Ponce de Leon Avenue zooming past him on his right. The sign marks one of the eastern edges of Atlanta proper and maybe it once signaled you were truly on your way out of town, but if you live here you know this, too: that the city doesn't really end there, or anywhere-- that it just keeps going, unfolding into deeper and deeper pockets of neighborhoods, then out into suburbs, then the suburbs of the suburbs. Atlanta is a city where you can spend more time leaving than actually staying. But, like Smith sings, "It's as good a place as any to try and survive."

Artist: Gentleman Jesse, Album: Leaving Atlanta, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Full disclosure: Jesse Smith has served me a lot of beer. A few years ago he was a waiter at my favorite Atlanta bar, a cavernous place with a beer list the size of a small-town phonebook. I scrawled out an uncountable number of debit-card-receipt tips to Server Name: Gentleman Jesse before realizing he played guitar in the Carbonas, one of the nastier local power-punk bands, and that he had his own act. In 2008, when his first record came out, it suddenly required an embarrassing amount of effort to not reply to his waiterly banter with his own song lyrics. Like the time he brought me a drink but not the one I'd ordered-- it was a rare flub and I was just trying to roll with it, but he was contrite, offering to trade it out. "No, it's cool," I said, taking an overlarge first gulp just to keep myself from adding, "You Don't Have To (If You Don't Want To)". That song-- one of the best from that first album, Gentleman Jesse & His Men, which was almost all bests-- highlights some of Smith's main tendencies as a lyricist. He favors longish song titles, often involving some sort of sly parenthetical and almost always derived from the chorus, which in turn is usually built around some kind of ordinary phrase-- not an out-and-out cliché, exactly, but something you'd say, something you've heard before. He's like a garage-rock William Eggleston, shining a flickering backroom bulb on the most mundane feelings (regret, inertia, annoyance, wanting-to-have-sex), rendering them, if not particularly fresh or transcendent, then at least really really fun to have. You can sing along to his hooks. You can sing along to his words, too, but it's the hooks that'll glom on and hang around for days. On the new record, Leaving Atlanta, Gentleman Jesse has dropped His Men, but in name only. It's almost impossible, actually, to imagine this guy as a solo act; so much depends upon the barrage-- the guitars chasing each other around like kids in a dirty parking lot, the teetering organ and, here, even harmonica provided by third-wave garage-rock O.G. King Louie Bankston on the frantic opener "Eat Me Alive". The band's debut was kind of a crumpled, nicotine-smudged affair, but Atlanta feels brighter, less muddled, not polished but certainly tidier around the edges. Smith's voice remains a friendly, mid-range yawp-- emotionally precise if not always entirely on-key. "Careful What You Wish For", with its sparkly-clean guitar riff, spunky little drums and backing harmonies occasionally cresting into "aahh's," sounds enough like a lost Help! track to warrant an earnest Beatles comparison in the year 2012 (though a more appropriate corollary may be that occasionally-- and, one assumes, inadvertently-- Gentleman Jesse seems most explicable as a boozier, hornier, later-model version of the Oneders, that band of skinny-tied goofballs from the Tom Hanks movie That Thing You Do!). Recorded three years ago in Smith's basement, Atlanta's accompanying press release hints at some reasons for the delayed release; for one, dude was apparently clobbered across the face with a table leg while trying to help some guys change a car tire, which understandably dampened his enthusiasm for music and the city and life in general for a while. Then five friends died in weirdly quick succession, most way too young. The album is dedicated to them, their names in small print in the liner notes; on the flip side of the CD insert, there's a black-and-white photo collage of Smith and the band playing shows, lipping cigarettes, spraying champagne. The cheery vibe is battle armor, a shield raised against the unknown darkness. Each track plows straight ahead into itself-- head down, guard up-- like a good-natured drunk mainlining tallboys to flush out the pain. Smith can't even seem to catch a break romance-wise: he's swaddled in self-loathing and indecision, "I'm Only Lonely (When I'm Around You)" and "I'm a Mess (Without You)" bookending his misery. But the sadsack-lover look seems a bit too easy. It's a fun exercise, and maybe even the intended approach, to take every song here that seems to be about woman troubles and imagine Smith is singing instead about his hometown, about everything he's done here and everything it's done for-- and to-- him: "Take it easy on me, my pretty baby/ Don't be cruel, that's not the way that I treat you." (This may be the only way to make palatable "Kind of Uptight", otherwise basically the song equivalent of a "C'mon, gimme a smile, baby!" catcall.) On the cover of Leaving Atlanta, Smith and his Rickenbacker pose, along with a couple of suitcases and a rifle and what appears to be a golden bust of Elvis Presley, by the big wooden "Leaving Atlanta" sign that gives the record its name. Locals will know exactly where he's standing: just barely northeast of Little Five Points, facing west, the mess of Ponce de Leon Avenue zooming past him on his right. The sign marks one of the eastern edges of Atlanta proper and maybe it once signaled you were truly on your way out of town, but if you live here you know this, too: that the city doesn't really end there, or anywhere-- that it just keeps going, unfolding into deeper and deeper pockets of neighborhoods, then out into suburbs, then the suburbs of the suburbs. Atlanta is a city where you can spend more time leaving than actually staying. But, like Smith sings, "It's as good a place as any to try and survive.""

Client

Command

Electronic,Pop/R&B

Marc Hogan

Great poetry, it's been said, contains more information than political speeches. Because in a really creative poem, you never know what's coming next. So like, a film by Orson Welles contains more information than other films of its day, because nobody else would shoot their scenes in exactly the same way. Sad to say, Client are not their generation's chilly UK electro-pop version of Orson Welles. In fact, Client have basically defined themselves by withholding information-- from their anti-image image to their repetive, generic, but nonetheless well-constructed and hooky music. Core duo Kate Holmes and Sarah Blackwood originally took on the code names Client A and Client B because they didn't want to be known as, respectively, the wife of former Creation Records chief Alan McGee and the former singer for 1990s British act Dubstar. That's understandable. On fourth album Command, Client race toward goth night at your local disco, with Killing Joke's Youth (fresh off a collaboration with Sir Paul McCartney) and the Sneaker Pimps' Joe Wilson splitting production duties. Look at the cover art, though: The uniform has changed, but Client are still proudly faceless. That's understandable, too-- not for nothing did Client cover Adam and the Ants' cynical post-punk side "Zerox" on 2007's slightly more rocking Heartland-- but their lack of a discrete identity also makes for pretty forgettable albums. Vague lyrics continue to be a sticking point, and it doesn't help that they repeat what few lyrics they have over and over again. Why, the screeching "Satisfaction" and faster, more dancefloor-ready "Blackheart" even use their first verses twice. That the lyrics consist of phrases like "junkie love, junkie love", on opener "Your Love Is Like Petrol", or "fucked-up music sounds so fresh", on next track "Can You Feel"-- and that they're often spoken unexpressively rather than sung-- probably won't attract many new fans. Whatever makes Client so lacking in personality isn't just the lyrics, however. When they cover Curtis Mayfield's "Make Me Believe in You", the words are still fairly rote-- "You are my temptation/ Show me inspiration"-- but the frosty Eurodisco rendition doesn't give you much reason to seek this one out instead of Amerie's faithful 2007 cover, let alone Patti Jo's Tom Moulton-remixed 1973 soul jam. (Is it better than Duffy's awfully similar neo-soul hit "Mercy", though? Maybe.) Still, the problem can't be the craftsmanship, which is consistently excellent, whether in the glam stomp of "Son of a Gun" or woozy dream-pop of "In My Mind". Chugging, midtempo tracks like "Don't Run Away" and "Ghosts", arguably the catchiest songs here, recall the slick mid-1990s electro-rock of Butch Vig's Garbage, for better and worse. Biggest bummer of all: The timing was right for a late-career breakthrough. Client were never as glamorous as Goldfrapp, never as shrill and willing to experiment as Adult., never as shoegaze-indebted and affecting as Ladytron. But when it comes to contemporary peers like Little Boots and La Roux, Command's minimalist songwriting and high-end production don't put them far behind. It's just that, once again, Client's fondness for anonymity threatens to keep them that way. If I'm repeating past reviews here, well, does this look like great poetry?

Artist: Client, Album: Command, Genre: Electronic,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.2 Album review: "Great poetry, it's been said, contains more information than political speeches. Because in a really creative poem, you never know what's coming next. So like, a film by Orson Welles contains more information than other films of its day, because nobody else would shoot their scenes in exactly the same way. Sad to say, Client are not their generation's chilly UK electro-pop version of Orson Welles. In fact, Client have basically defined themselves by withholding information-- from their anti-image image to their repetive, generic, but nonetheless well-constructed and hooky music. Core duo Kate Holmes and Sarah Blackwood originally took on the code names Client A and Client B because they didn't want to be known as, respectively, the wife of former Creation Records chief Alan McGee and the former singer for 1990s British act Dubstar. That's understandable. On fourth album Command, Client race toward goth night at your local disco, with Killing Joke's Youth (fresh off a collaboration with Sir Paul McCartney) and the Sneaker Pimps' Joe Wilson splitting production duties. Look at the cover art, though: The uniform has changed, but Client are still proudly faceless. That's understandable, too-- not for nothing did Client cover Adam and the Ants' cynical post-punk side "Zerox" on 2007's slightly more rocking Heartland-- but their lack of a discrete identity also makes for pretty forgettable albums. Vague lyrics continue to be a sticking point, and it doesn't help that they repeat what few lyrics they have over and over again. Why, the screeching "Satisfaction" and faster, more dancefloor-ready "Blackheart" even use their first verses twice. That the lyrics consist of phrases like "junkie love, junkie love", on opener "Your Love Is Like Petrol", or "fucked-up music sounds so fresh", on next track "Can You Feel"-- and that they're often spoken unexpressively rather than sung-- probably won't attract many new fans. Whatever makes Client so lacking in personality isn't just the lyrics, however. When they cover Curtis Mayfield's "Make Me Believe in You", the words are still fairly rote-- "You are my temptation/ Show me inspiration"-- but the frosty Eurodisco rendition doesn't give you much reason to seek this one out instead of Amerie's faithful 2007 cover, let alone Patti Jo's Tom Moulton-remixed 1973 soul jam. (Is it better than Duffy's awfully similar neo-soul hit "Mercy", though? Maybe.) Still, the problem can't be the craftsmanship, which is consistently excellent, whether in the glam stomp of "Son of a Gun" or woozy dream-pop of "In My Mind". Chugging, midtempo tracks like "Don't Run Away" and "Ghosts", arguably the catchiest songs here, recall the slick mid-1990s electro-rock of Butch Vig's Garbage, for better and worse. Biggest bummer of all: The timing was right for a late-career breakthrough. Client were never as glamorous as Goldfrapp, never as shrill and willing to experiment as Adult., never as shoegaze-indebted and affecting as Ladytron. But when it comes to contemporary peers like Little Boots and La Roux, Command's minimalist songwriting and high-end production don't put them far behind. It's just that, once again, Client's fondness for anonymity threatens to keep them that way. If I'm repeating past reviews here, well, does this look like great poetry?"

Lapalux

Lustmore

Electronic

Marcus J. Moore

On his debut album, 2013's Nostalchic, producer Stuart Howard (aka Lapalux) showed a strong affection for 1990s R&B. He sifted the era's body-rolling sensuality through computerized filters, piecing the threads into cryptic slow jams and bastardized dance tracks. His music, across Nostalchic and several EPs, thrives on a patchwork approach, a mismatched blend of glued-together tape strands, heavy drums, and warped vocals. It's wonky enough to fit alongside that of Brainfeeder label mates Daedelus and Gaslamp Killer, but it's distinguished by a cosmopolitan sophistication, conjuring images of pretty people in dark clubs, sipping mixed drinks in trendy clothes. The producer establishes a more aquatic vibe throughout sophomore album Lustmore. The compositions are more straightforward than those on Nostalchic, merging saxophones and billowing synths with results resting somewhere between James Blake's sparsity and early 2000s neo-soul. "We Lost", in particular, resembles a Musiq Soulchild track—the instrumental is decidedly Soulquarian; the vocals are mostly indecipherable. "Whenever I think about the album I think about the bar scene in The Shining," Howard told FACT in January, speaking of Lustmore. "There's something about that strange, hallucinatory psychological madness that relates to the music." To that end, Lustmore doesn't really move; it lingers like dense fog until it slowly dissolves. In a way, the disoriented mood better aligns with another Kubrick flick—1999's Eyes Wide Shut.  But Lustmore suffers from a lack of coherence. Its various feint and detours feel purposeful, but the album buckles under the weight of Howard's ambition, leading to a leading to a disjointed listen. Sultry numbers like "U Never Know" and "Closure" fit into Howard's overall aesthetic, but the mix of straight-ahead singing and woozy ambience feels outdated and timid alongside the more fluid, strange "Sum Body" and "Midnight Peelers". The guest singers aren’t filtered so heavily, which makes for an easier listen, yet the output feels staid compared with his previous offerings, where he achieved the right mix of airy and bizarre.Nostalchic was tough to get into, but there was a certain charm to Howard’s esoteric style that set him apart. Lustmore doesn’t feel honed in; it sounds like a vast collection of songs that never quite go anywhere. Much like The Shining, there’s no telling what you’ll get from one scene to the next on Lustmore, but it ultimately ends with a thud. Howard shows flashes of ingenuity on Lustmore's "Don't Mean a Thing", the album's most realized offering. Here, Howard finds a nice groove and stays put, looping the vocals into sporadic bursts while forgoing the stilted patterns of other songs—namely "Push N' Spun" and "Make Money". On "1004", Howard builds a nice shape-shifting atmosphere; the track smoothly transitions into a spacey upbeat gem that punctuates the LP. Ultimately, though, it's tough to discern just what Lustmore aims to be. It's dubbed as a hypnagogic release, but in Howard's quest to explore the void between sleep and alertness, the album frequently veers off the path, leaving me to wonder if there were clear directions to begin with. Instead of a full movie, Lustmore is a collection of half-edited scenes that don't quite gel.

Artist: Lapalux, Album: Lustmore, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "On his debut album, 2013's Nostalchic, producer Stuart Howard (aka Lapalux) showed a strong affection for 1990s R&B. He sifted the era's body-rolling sensuality through computerized filters, piecing the threads into cryptic slow jams and bastardized dance tracks. His music, across Nostalchic and several EPs, thrives on a patchwork approach, a mismatched blend of glued-together tape strands, heavy drums, and warped vocals. It's wonky enough to fit alongside that of Brainfeeder label mates Daedelus and Gaslamp Killer, but it's distinguished by a cosmopolitan sophistication, conjuring images of pretty people in dark clubs, sipping mixed drinks in trendy clothes. The producer establishes a more aquatic vibe throughout sophomore album Lustmore. The compositions are more straightforward than those on Nostalchic, merging saxophones and billowing synths with results resting somewhere between James Blake's sparsity and early 2000s neo-soul. "We Lost", in particular, resembles a Musiq Soulchild track—the instrumental is decidedly Soulquarian; the vocals are mostly indecipherable. "Whenever I think about the album I think about the bar scene in The Shining," Howard told FACT in January, speaking of Lustmore. "There's something about that strange, hallucinatory psychological madness that relates to the music." To that end, Lustmore doesn't really move; it lingers like dense fog until it slowly dissolves. In a way, the disoriented mood better aligns with another Kubrick flick—1999's Eyes Wide Shut.  But Lustmore suffers from a lack of coherence. Its various feint and detours feel purposeful, but the album buckles under the weight of Howard's ambition, leading to a leading to a disjointed listen. Sultry numbers like "U Never Know" and "Closure" fit into Howard's overall aesthetic, but the mix of straight-ahead singing and woozy ambience feels outdated and timid alongside the more fluid, strange "Sum Body" and "Midnight Peelers". The guest singers aren’t filtered so heavily, which makes for an easier listen, yet the output feels staid compared with his previous offerings, where he achieved the right mix of airy and bizarre.Nostalchic was tough to get into, but there was a certain charm to Howard’s esoteric style that set him apart. Lustmore doesn’t feel honed in; it sounds like a vast collection of songs that never quite go anywhere. Much like The Shining, there’s no telling what you’ll get from one scene to the next on Lustmore, but it ultimately ends with a thud. Howard shows flashes of ingenuity on Lustmore's "Don't Mean a Thing", the album's most realized offering. Here, Howard finds a nice groove and stays put, looping the vocals into sporadic bursts while forgoing the stilted patterns of other songs—namely "Push N' Spun" and "Make Money". On "1004", Howard builds a nice shape-shifting atmosphere; the track smoothly transitions into a spacey upbeat gem that punctuates the LP. Ultimately, though, it's tough to discern just what Lustmore aims to be. It's dubbed as a hypnagogic release, but in Howard's quest to explore the void between sleep and alertness, the album frequently veers off the path, leaving me to wonder if there were clear directions to begin with. Instead of a full movie, Lustmore is a collection of half-edited scenes that don't quite gel."

Van She

Idea of Happiness

Zach Kelly

2008 was something of a watershed year for digitally augmented indie pop, with releases like Hot Chip's Made in the Dark, M83's Saturdays=Youth, and Cut Copy's In Ghost Colours all highlighting strains of a beatific, open-armed sound that would very soon become practically inescapable within those bands' respective spheres. 2008 also saw the release of V, the debut album from Australian electro-rockers Van She. Though still very much electronically inclined, V sounded more rooted in modern rock radio looks, having more in common with, say, Muse than the hip-- and hip-guided-- music their perceived peers were churning out at the time. Said peers all moved on to bigger and even more ambitious things in the time since, leaving the almost completely inactive Van She behind in the meantime. Now four years later, the band returns to play catch-up with its sophomore effort, Idea of Happiness, which does away with the "rock" half of the "electro-rock" equation in favor of a dance-friendly sound made for island-hopping. By all accounts, Idea of Happiness sounds like a record that should have come out four years ago. Overwhelmed with tropically inclined rhythms, starburst crescendos, and synths so upfront and sparkly that they feel in need of individual backup generators, Idea of Happiness certainly sounds like someone's idea of bliss, wafting from a disco ball-equipped cabana. Not to mention the fact that the band has enlisted Tony Hoffer to mix the record-- his list of clients includes the likes of M83 and Phoenix-- which further alludes to Van She's interest in pairing the right amount of bubblegum with slinky new wave. But unlike any of the aforementioned bands, Van She are clumsier around hooks than anything so groove-enabled has any right being. The result is the work of a decidedly B-team kind of band, that at their best can foster good vibes and the occasional moment of melancholic introspection, but more consistently feel like an off-brand amalgamation of fellow artists they've clearly studied and tried to mirror in a casually enjoyable, but ultimately disposable, fashion. Which is to say that there isn't a lot that you're going to want take away with you after these 40 minutes are through. Still, there is something to be said for its ability to hold your attention while it's on, though perhaps not independently of whether or not you happen to be on a cool boat at the time. Guitars, synths, and beats all sound crisp and glisten with a layer of cold condensation, but they come together in ways that don't necessarily make for memorable pop tunes. Choruses are clunky ("I feel calypso!", "Jamaica! The lights are off/ You will be dancing strong, you know it!"), and too often do faint whiffs of fromage tend to overpower these tracks, depending how far downwind from them you are. "Sarah" plays like something from Foreigner: Live in Ibiza, while the Cut Copy-cribbing "Tears" is skin-crawlingly uncool-uncle funky. Still, they're somehow preferable to plainly forgettable tracks like "Beat of the Drum" and the title track, that unfortunately serves as both the album leadoff and first single. Though there is isn't anything being offered here that you haven't heard before, small divergences prove somewhat fruitful. "You're My Rescue" is what might happen if the Duran Duran guys tried their hand at yacht rock instead of merely quaffing champagne on the deck of one, and "Radio Waves II" (following up a weirdly proggy "Radio Waves I") has a kind of casualness to it that reads as attractively coy, especially in the face of tracks that often come on too strong. It's moments like these where you can't help but admire Idea of Happiness to a degree, but it also doesn't mean it's a record you're going to be taking along with you to your next intimate beachside barbecue, no matter how loudly it asks you to.

Artist: Van She, Album: Idea of Happiness, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.1 Album review: "2008 was something of a watershed year for digitally augmented indie pop, with releases like Hot Chip's Made in the Dark, M83's Saturdays=Youth, and Cut Copy's In Ghost Colours all highlighting strains of a beatific, open-armed sound that would very soon become practically inescapable within those bands' respective spheres. 2008 also saw the release of V, the debut album from Australian electro-rockers Van She. Though still very much electronically inclined, V sounded more rooted in modern rock radio looks, having more in common with, say, Muse than the hip-- and hip-guided-- music their perceived peers were churning out at the time. Said peers all moved on to bigger and even more ambitious things in the time since, leaving the almost completely inactive Van She behind in the meantime. Now four years later, the band returns to play catch-up with its sophomore effort, Idea of Happiness, which does away with the "rock" half of the "electro-rock" equation in favor of a dance-friendly sound made for island-hopping. By all accounts, Idea of Happiness sounds like a record that should have come out four years ago. Overwhelmed with tropically inclined rhythms, starburst crescendos, and synths so upfront and sparkly that they feel in need of individual backup generators, Idea of Happiness certainly sounds like someone's idea of bliss, wafting from a disco ball-equipped cabana. Not to mention the fact that the band has enlisted Tony Hoffer to mix the record-- his list of clients includes the likes of M83 and Phoenix-- which further alludes to Van She's interest in pairing the right amount of bubblegum with slinky new wave. But unlike any of the aforementioned bands, Van She are clumsier around hooks than anything so groove-enabled has any right being. The result is the work of a decidedly B-team kind of band, that at their best can foster good vibes and the occasional moment of melancholic introspection, but more consistently feel like an off-brand amalgamation of fellow artists they've clearly studied and tried to mirror in a casually enjoyable, but ultimately disposable, fashion. Which is to say that there isn't a lot that you're going to want take away with you after these 40 minutes are through. Still, there is something to be said for its ability to hold your attention while it's on, though perhaps not independently of whether or not you happen to be on a cool boat at the time. Guitars, synths, and beats all sound crisp and glisten with a layer of cold condensation, but they come together in ways that don't necessarily make for memorable pop tunes. Choruses are clunky ("I feel calypso!", "Jamaica! The lights are off/ You will be dancing strong, you know it!"), and too often do faint whiffs of fromage tend to overpower these tracks, depending how far downwind from them you are. "Sarah" plays like something from Foreigner: Live in Ibiza, while the Cut Copy-cribbing "Tears" is skin-crawlingly uncool-uncle funky. Still, they're somehow preferable to plainly forgettable tracks like "Beat of the Drum" and the title track, that unfortunately serves as both the album leadoff and first single. Though there is isn't anything being offered here that you haven't heard before, small divergences prove somewhat fruitful. "You're My Rescue" is what might happen if the Duran Duran guys tried their hand at yacht rock instead of merely quaffing champagne on the deck of one, and "Radio Waves II" (following up a weirdly proggy "Radio Waves I") has a kind of casualness to it that reads as attractively coy, especially in the face of tracks that often come on too strong. It's moments like these where you can't help but admire Idea of Happiness to a degree, but it also doesn't mean it's a record you're going to be taking along with you to your next intimate beachside barbecue, no matter how loudly it asks you to."

Ruins

1986-1992

Experimental

Dominique Leone

There's something to be said about consistency. There's also something to be said about jackhammer migraines. With Ruins, one is the cause and the other a potential effect for many listeners. Pitchfork has featured a couple of other Ruins CDs by this point, so I probably don't need to tell you much about their sound. What I will say is that, since their inception in 1985, they've set industry standards for integrity of vision, and a lot of the credit can be given to drummer/leader Tatsuya Yoshida's decision to create a new band for every new idea or variation he has. Ruins was his proggy noisecore project, and though detractors may argue that so are the rest of his bands (including Koenji-Hyakkei and Akaten), it is the most purely so. Because of this, anyone who isn't totally down with the original concept is in for rough times with Ruins' discography. Aside from the one-off Symphonica, all Ruins records are bass-and-drums affairs, with manic yodel-screeching for vocals and the kind of needle-in-the-red instrumental acrobatics that give a shitload of indie cred to prog, while at the same time turning off most actual prog old-schoolers. I can't begin to imagine what sort of torture it would be to sit through something like Stonehenge if I wasn't completely on board with this band. That's where the jackhammer migraines come in, because if smooth sailing is your thing, steer clear. For fans, a release like 1986-1992 is fine indeed. Skin Graft's compilation packages ridiculously rare early stuff like the original 1986 seven-inch of the band's first four-track recordings, their 1987 twelve-inch album, and selected tracks from their third record. Incidentally, all of these releases were simply entitled Ruins, so thank Skin Graft for clearing up a potential Google mess. Also included are tracks from two easier to find LP's, 1990's Stonehenge and 1992's Burning Stone. Yoshida remixed all the tracks last year, and I can tell you that, being familiar with the original albums, I was pretty shocked by the remixes. Very noisy! Mark Richard-San remarked in his review of Burning Stone that it was the 'slick' Ruins album. Not here, as its tracks seem to have been given that extra ear-bleeding treatment. Give Yoshida credit for creating the impression that all of this stuff was recorded at the same time in the same studio, with the same production. The opener wastes no time in burning down all bridges to sanity: "Outburn" is at once the greatest-ever hardcore punk song not to protest anything or even feature real words in the lyrics, and a public service announcement for ADD awareness. The main riff is as stubbornly assured as anything Bad Brains put to wax, and the lest you get bored during its eight seconds, another wild-ass riff is there to take its place, and again and again. It seems like this kind of thing should have made the whole math-rock thing obsolete before it ever happened, but whatever. "Epigonen" is slower, but just as pummeling. The riffs don't fly by this time, and the mid-section is almost like a stoned mosh. Ruins first bassist Kawamoto Hideki even takes the distortion off for a few seconds, only to nail it back to your forehead again at the end of the tune. "Body & Soul" is still more slow-death, featuring a recognizably metallic head, like something you'd hear from a particularly badly recorded Sabbath boot. Perhaps the most interesting track for diehard fans will be "Cambodia," previously only available on a compilation called NG II. If not for all the distortion, this could pass for straight-ahead King Crimson-esque prog (especially the anthemic B-section), and the opening riff is pure cock-rock edge. "Hallelujah," from Ruins' 1988 LP, is also quite proggy compared to the rest of this stuff, especially as Yoshida makes the extra effort to sing in recognizable tones, and with recognizable harmonies. They turned the distortion off, and there's even a violin in there. Whoa... Kansas? Not quite. Tunes like "Infect" (possibly the most menacing thing they ever recorded) and "B.U.G." reinforce the notion that sheer force and oppressive repetition can do considerable damage. Quaint old bands like Magma used to work in similar realms, but Ruins just pounce all over any legacy those bands might have had. They're just that devastating. The Burning Stone tracks are more complex, as Ruins has seemingly gotten further and further away from tried-and-true musical vices like simple jackhammer migraine riffs, but the tunes don't fail to lurch and destroy. "Zasca Coska," filled with echo vocals and riffs so unplayable that it just isn't that funny, even manages to fill a few life-sucking minutes of the song with free improv. I think I need to turn this down for second. Despite the ear-abuse, my only real caveat with the album is that fans will probably already own about half of it. Of course, the really early material makes it worthwhile for people like me. For newcomers, I'd suggest hunting down Burning Stone or Stonehenge for early Ruins, and work from there. Yoshida doesn't look like he's ever going to stop, so you have plenty of time to work your way through to this comp.

Artist: Ruins, Album: 1986-1992, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "There's something to be said about consistency. There's also something to be said about jackhammer migraines. With Ruins, one is the cause and the other a potential effect for many listeners. Pitchfork has featured a couple of other Ruins CDs by this point, so I probably don't need to tell you much about their sound. What I will say is that, since their inception in 1985, they've set industry standards for integrity of vision, and a lot of the credit can be given to drummer/leader Tatsuya Yoshida's decision to create a new band for every new idea or variation he has. Ruins was his proggy noisecore project, and though detractors may argue that so are the rest of his bands (including Koenji-Hyakkei and Akaten), it is the most purely so. Because of this, anyone who isn't totally down with the original concept is in for rough times with Ruins' discography. Aside from the one-off Symphonica, all Ruins records are bass-and-drums affairs, with manic yodel-screeching for vocals and the kind of needle-in-the-red instrumental acrobatics that give a shitload of indie cred to prog, while at the same time turning off most actual prog old-schoolers. I can't begin to imagine what sort of torture it would be to sit through something like Stonehenge if I wasn't completely on board with this band. That's where the jackhammer migraines come in, because if smooth sailing is your thing, steer clear. For fans, a release like 1986-1992 is fine indeed. Skin Graft's compilation packages ridiculously rare early stuff like the original 1986 seven-inch of the band's first four-track recordings, their 1987 twelve-inch album, and selected tracks from their third record. Incidentally, all of these releases were simply entitled Ruins, so thank Skin Graft for clearing up a potential Google mess. Also included are tracks from two easier to find LP's, 1990's Stonehenge and 1992's Burning Stone. Yoshida remixed all the tracks last year, and I can tell you that, being familiar with the original albums, I was pretty shocked by the remixes. Very noisy! Mark Richard-San remarked in his review of Burning Stone that it was the 'slick' Ruins album. Not here, as its tracks seem to have been given that extra ear-bleeding treatment. Give Yoshida credit for creating the impression that all of this stuff was recorded at the same time in the same studio, with the same production. The opener wastes no time in burning down all bridges to sanity: "Outburn" is at once the greatest-ever hardcore punk song not to protest anything or even feature real words in the lyrics, and a public service announcement for ADD awareness. The main riff is as stubbornly assured as anything Bad Brains put to wax, and the lest you get bored during its eight seconds, another wild-ass riff is there to take its place, and again and again. It seems like this kind of thing should have made the whole math-rock thing obsolete before it ever happened, but whatever. "Epigonen" is slower, but just as pummeling. The riffs don't fly by this time, and the mid-section is almost like a stoned mosh. Ruins first bassist Kawamoto Hideki even takes the distortion off for a few seconds, only to nail it back to your forehead again at the end of the tune. "Body & Soul" is still more slow-death, featuring a recognizably metallic head, like something you'd hear from a particularly badly recorded Sabbath boot. Perhaps the most interesting track for diehard fans will be "Cambodia," previously only available on a compilation called NG II. If not for all the distortion, this could pass for straight-ahead King Crimson-esque prog (especially the anthemic B-section), and the opening riff is pure cock-rock edge. "Hallelujah," from Ruins' 1988 LP, is also quite proggy compared to the rest of this stuff, especially as Yoshida makes the extra effort to sing in recognizable tones, and with recognizable harmonies. They turned the distortion off, and there's even a violin in there. Whoa... Kansas? Not quite. Tunes like "Infect" (possibly the most menacing thing they ever recorded) and "B.U.G." reinforce the notion that sheer force and oppressive repetition can do considerable damage. Quaint old bands like Magma used to work in similar realms, but Ruins just pounce all over any legacy those bands might have had. They're just that devastating. The Burning Stone tracks are more complex, as Ruins has seemingly gotten further and further away from tried-and-true musical vices like simple jackhammer migraine riffs, but the tunes don't fail to lurch and destroy. "Zasca Coska," filled with echo vocals and riffs so unplayable that it just isn't that funny, even manages to fill a few life-sucking minutes of the song with free improv. I think I need to turn this down for second. Despite the ear-abuse, my only real caveat with the album is that fans will probably already own about half of it. Of course, the really early material makes it worthwhile for people like me. For newcomers, I'd suggest hunting down Burning Stone or Stonehenge for early Ruins, and work from there. Yoshida doesn't look like he's ever going to stop, so you have plenty of time to work your way through to this comp."

Art Brut

Bang Bang Rock & Roll

Rock

Rob Mitchum

WE'RE JUST TALKING... TO THE KIDS! When you start to measure the amount of music you listen to in gigabytes and jumbo-size Case Logics, it's easy to forget the awesome power of the simple declarative statement. Nothing against all those 30-piece ensembles, nautically focused concept albums, intricate field-recording pastiches, and three-hour drum circles that dominate our musical neighborhood, but sometimes it's refreshing to hear a band maximally juicing a single sentiment down to two-minute concentrate. Meet South London's Art Brut: They're here to fill that vacancy. I'VE SEEN HER NAKED, TWICE! I'VE SEEN HER NAKED, TWICE! That it's difficult for me to find a recent point of reference for Art Brut is a testament to just how self-serious indie rock has become-- although they do share a refreshingly bratty quality with proto-punks like the Buzzcocks and Television Personalities. Frontman Eddie Argos even appears to share Joey Ramone's love for first-person narratives that sound no more complex than a transcript of just-some-guy's thoughts on a completely unremarkable day. Ruminations on ex-girlfriends, new girlfriends, little brothers, modern art, his band, other bands, Italian currency, Los Angeles-- all are expressed in language too shallow for even diary-scrawling, but lifted up to anthemic status through sheer multiple exclamation-point enthusiasm. I CAN'T STAND THE SOUND OF THE... VELVET UNDERGROUND! Oh my God, heresy! But of course, it's only half-serious, a joking reminder to today's bands that VU ended up writing (gasp!) unabashedly fun songs like "Sweet Jane" and "What Goes On", too. If these sloppy, succinct three-chord bashers fail to tread any ground that isn't already well-worn, they do so in an appealing way that underscores Argos' oscillations between humility and delusions of grandeur. Art Brut might display more versatility than one-tempo Ramones, but not by much, contenting themselves with fast songs ("18,000 Lira", "Bad Weekend") or slow songs ("Rusted Guns of Milan", "Stand Down"). It's just enough to give these minutiae-obsessed songs their paradoxical fist-pumping grandeur, and not a bit more. NO MORE SONGS ABOUT SEX AND DRUGS AND ROCK N' ROLL... IT'S BOOOOOORING! That this line comes amidst the album's most straight-ahead rock number-- and that about 90% of Argos' lyrics discuss these very topics-- is probably the best joke on the album, though it's not wanting for humorous company. The sly origin story "Formed a Band" and art-fetish celebration "Modern Art" (both re-recorded here from their 2004 single versions) may have laid the foundation of Art Brut's blog rep, but Bang Bang Rock & Roll's new material is equally hilarious when it aspires to be. Argos paints the perfect picture of musical awakening in "My Little Brother", the subject of which expresses his frustration through mixtapes of "bootlegs and B-sides," and makes "Emily Kane" more than just a casual remembrance of young love by being able to recollect the last time he saw her, right down to the second. It's tempting to think of Art Brut as the foreign replacement for the catchy/clever observances Weezer used to traffic, the escape fantasy of "Moving to L.A." obliterating the clichés of "Beverly Hills", with its shirtless motorcycling, hanging with Axl and Morrissey, and foolish tattoos. HAVEN'T READ THE NME IN SO LONG... DON'T KNOW WHAT GENRE WE BELONG! Well, let me try to help. See if you can follow this: Art Brut, through their thoroughly unpretentious embrace of pretentiousness, are the most punk new band I've heard in years, punk having lost itself long ago to the pretentiousness of unpretentiousness. So even though Argos boasts of wanting to "write the song/ That makes Israel and Palestine get along," and planning to perform Art Brut's hit eight weeks in a row on "Top of the Pops", any chance you might take him seriously is deflated by the little meta-moments like the one caps-locked above. As with the best LCD Soundsystem singles, Bang Bang Rock & Roll is at times some of the best music criticism going right now, and far better than our boringly verbose bullshit 'cause you can dance to it. AND ART BRUT, WE'VE ONLY JUST STARTED! The optimism of that statement is infectious and hard to argue with, though I'm perfectly aware of the large pile of empty Brit-hype firecrackers that went off with a barely a whimper Stateside. Given their reliance on dry English humour (yes, two u's) and lack of a timely U.S. distribution deal, it's unlikely Art Brut will fare well as well with North American listeners as fellow countrymen Bloc Party, Franz Ferdinand, and the Futureheads. But then, just a year ago, it seemed unlikely that any of those bands would find fans in the States at all, let alone enough to spark yet another small-scale British invasion-- and all told, it's not hard to imagine their dagger-sharp guitar lines and pop-fueled bash carving its own niche in those other bands' wake if given the opportunity. The only thing to do is start a letter-writing campaign, suffer the import prices, and hope Art Brut's got enough in their tank for another album or two. I can't wait to hear "Recorded a Sophomore Album!"

Artist: Art Brut, Album: Bang Bang Rock & Roll, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.9 Album review: "WE'RE JUST TALKING... TO THE KIDS! When you start to measure the amount of music you listen to in gigabytes and jumbo-size Case Logics, it's easy to forget the awesome power of the simple declarative statement. Nothing against all those 30-piece ensembles, nautically focused concept albums, intricate field-recording pastiches, and three-hour drum circles that dominate our musical neighborhood, but sometimes it's refreshing to hear a band maximally juicing a single sentiment down to two-minute concentrate. Meet South London's Art Brut: They're here to fill that vacancy. I'VE SEEN HER NAKED, TWICE! I'VE SEEN HER NAKED, TWICE! That it's difficult for me to find a recent point of reference for Art Brut is a testament to just how self-serious indie rock has become-- although they do share a refreshingly bratty quality with proto-punks like the Buzzcocks and Television Personalities. Frontman Eddie Argos even appears to share Joey Ramone's love for first-person narratives that sound no more complex than a transcript of just-some-guy's thoughts on a completely unremarkable day. Ruminations on ex-girlfriends, new girlfriends, little brothers, modern art, his band, other bands, Italian currency, Los Angeles-- all are expressed in language too shallow for even diary-scrawling, but lifted up to anthemic status through sheer multiple exclamation-point enthusiasm. I CAN'T STAND THE SOUND OF THE... VELVET UNDERGROUND! Oh my God, heresy! But of course, it's only half-serious, a joking reminder to today's bands that VU ended up writing (gasp!) unabashedly fun songs like "Sweet Jane" and "What Goes On", too. If these sloppy, succinct three-chord bashers fail to tread any ground that isn't already well-worn, they do so in an appealing way that underscores Argos' oscillations between humility and delusions of grandeur. Art Brut might display more versatility than one-tempo Ramones, but not by much, contenting themselves with fast songs ("18,000 Lira", "Bad Weekend") or slow songs ("Rusted Guns of Milan", "Stand Down"). It's just enough to give these minutiae-obsessed songs their paradoxical fist-pumping grandeur, and not a bit more. NO MORE SONGS ABOUT SEX AND DRUGS AND ROCK N' ROLL... IT'S BOOOOOORING! That this line comes amidst the album's most straight-ahead rock number-- and that about 90% of Argos' lyrics discuss these very topics-- is probably the best joke on the album, though it's not wanting for humorous company. The sly origin story "Formed a Band" and art-fetish celebration "Modern Art" (both re-recorded here from their 2004 single versions) may have laid the foundation of Art Brut's blog rep, but Bang Bang Rock & Roll's new material is equally hilarious when it aspires to be. Argos paints the perfect picture of musical awakening in "My Little Brother", the subject of which expresses his frustration through mixtapes of "bootlegs and B-sides," and makes "Emily Kane" more than just a casual remembrance of young love by being able to recollect the last time he saw her, right down to the second. It's tempting to think of Art Brut as the foreign replacement for the catchy/clever observances Weezer used to traffic, the escape fantasy of "Moving to L.A." obliterating the clichés of "Beverly Hills", with its shirtless motorcycling, hanging with Axl and Morrissey, and foolish tattoos. HAVEN'T READ THE NME IN SO LONG... DON'T KNOW WHAT GENRE WE BELONG! Well, let me try to help. See if you can follow this: Art Brut, through their thoroughly unpretentious embrace of pretentiousness, are the most punk new band I've heard in years, punk having lost itself long ago to the pretentiousness of unpretentiousness. So even though Argos boasts of wanting to "write the song/ That makes Israel and Palestine get along," and planning to perform Art Brut's hit eight weeks in a row on "Top of the Pops", any chance you might take him seriously is deflated by the little meta-moments like the one caps-locked above. As with the best LCD Soundsystem singles, Bang Bang Rock & Roll is at times some of the best music criticism going right now, and far better than our boringly verbose bullshit 'cause you can dance to it. AND ART BRUT, WE'VE ONLY JUST STARTED! The optimism of that statement is infectious and hard to argue with, though I'm perfectly aware of the large pile of empty Brit-hype firecrackers that went off with a barely a whimper Stateside. Given their reliance on dry English humour (yes, two u's) and lack of a timely U.S. distribution deal, it's unlikely Art Brut will fare well as well with North American listeners as fellow countrymen Bloc Party, Franz Ferdinand, and the Futureheads. But then, just a year ago, it seemed unlikely that any of those bands would find fans in the States at all, let alone enough to spark yet another small-scale British invasion-- and all told, it's not hard to imagine their dagger-sharp guitar lines and pop-fueled bash carving its own niche in those other bands' wake if given the opportunity. The only thing to do is start a letter-writing campaign, suffer the import prices, and hope Art Brut's got enough in their tank for another album or two. I can't wait to hear "Recorded a Sophomore Album!" "

The Chemical Brothers

Come with Us

Electronic

Nathan Rooney

When the Chemical Brothers are on top of their game, it's hard for anyone in their genre to touch them. In those moments, their sound threatens to go completely over the top, the massive beats and electronic squelches ripping through the speakers like they're about to physically jump out into your living room. Back in '97, I would drive around listening to "Block Rockin' Beats," unable to feel like anything but a bad motherfucker. I might have only been behind the wheel of a Jetta, but that's not the issue. Of course, a good way to judge a Chemical Brothers album is via the ego-inflation factor. If you're feeling like Al Capone with a fat bank roll and a baseball bat, the Brothers are achieving the desired effect; if you feel like you're shopping for designer footwear, things have veered horribly off-course. The fact is, the Chemical Brothers' greatest strength lies in their ability to lay down irresistibly fat basslines and breakbeats that would make Bootsy Collins' fingers bleed. A good Chemical Brothers track should bulldoze any form of criticism simply because it's a strictly visceral experience-- you press play and send the frontal cortex to its room to play with blocks for a while. The big question going into Come with Us was whether they'd come out Kung-Fu fighting or serve up another batch of watered-down techno beats like those dished out on their previous album, Surrender. I wanted to see them rely less on guest cameos (almost invariably a bad sign)-- Bernard Sumner and Hope Sandoval should stay as far away from the studio as possible, preferably with a 300-pound bouncer with a pit bull screening the door-- and they generally do. Sure, Beth Orton and Richard Ashcroft managed to get their fingers in the pie, but some of these tracks also return to what the Chemical Brothers do best. In the end, it's a mixed bag. Come with Us flies out of the gates unexpectedly with its first three tracks, immediately dragging the listener through a relentless torrent of beats and sonic energy. The title track, with its agitated, looped strings, undulating waves of syrupy keyboards, shouts, and strong backbeat, is reminiscent of the Beastie Boys at their most raucous; "It Began in Afrika" is a rapid, heart-pounding conga workout that distills the quick reflexes and primal urges of a cheetah hunt under a deadpan voice repeating, "It Began In Afrika-ka-ka"; and "Galazy Bounce" features a repeated call-and-response sample over tight, driving slap-bass funk. None of this is a thought-provoking music in the slightest, and I wouldn't want it any other way. These tracks are purely functional-- all speed, sweat and clenched muscle-- and, as convenient packets of immediate party energy, they succeed admirably well. Of course, it's when the Chemical Brothers deviate from their role as Big Beat deities that problems arise. "Star Guitar" apparently substitutes for the missing Sumner track-- it's slight, but not nearly as vapid as "Hoops," the song that follows it. Honestly, none of the remaining material returns to the quality of the first three cuts, though "My Elastic Eye" and "Denmark" do manage to turn up the heat a bit. But there's not much to be said about the Orton ("The State We're In") and Ashcroft ("The Test") numbers, other than that they're both about as middle-of-the-road as you might expect they'd be. "The Test," for example, sounds like a weak companion piece to the Simple Minds' "(Don't You) Forget About Me," and Orton's admittedly seductive vocals aren't nearly enough to rescue an inherently bad song. Yep, Come with Us is another let down, no two ways about it. And all because Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons seem confused about where they'd like to go. There are certain things they do very well, yet they don't seem to be content with being pigeonholed as one-dimensional. Unfortunately, one-dimensional is about the only thing they can pull off convincingly.

Artist: The Chemical Brothers, Album: Come with Us, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "When the Chemical Brothers are on top of their game, it's hard for anyone in their genre to touch them. In those moments, their sound threatens to go completely over the top, the massive beats and electronic squelches ripping through the speakers like they're about to physically jump out into your living room. Back in '97, I would drive around listening to "Block Rockin' Beats," unable to feel like anything but a bad motherfucker. I might have only been behind the wheel of a Jetta, but that's not the issue. Of course, a good way to judge a Chemical Brothers album is via the ego-inflation factor. If you're feeling like Al Capone with a fat bank roll and a baseball bat, the Brothers are achieving the desired effect; if you feel like you're shopping for designer footwear, things have veered horribly off-course. The fact is, the Chemical Brothers' greatest strength lies in their ability to lay down irresistibly fat basslines and breakbeats that would make Bootsy Collins' fingers bleed. A good Chemical Brothers track should bulldoze any form of criticism simply because it's a strictly visceral experience-- you press play and send the frontal cortex to its room to play with blocks for a while. The big question going into Come with Us was whether they'd come out Kung-Fu fighting or serve up another batch of watered-down techno beats like those dished out on their previous album, Surrender. I wanted to see them rely less on guest cameos (almost invariably a bad sign)-- Bernard Sumner and Hope Sandoval should stay as far away from the studio as possible, preferably with a 300-pound bouncer with a pit bull screening the door-- and they generally do. Sure, Beth Orton and Richard Ashcroft managed to get their fingers in the pie, but some of these tracks also return to what the Chemical Brothers do best. In the end, it's a mixed bag. Come with Us flies out of the gates unexpectedly with its first three tracks, immediately dragging the listener through a relentless torrent of beats and sonic energy. The title track, with its agitated, looped strings, undulating waves of syrupy keyboards, shouts, and strong backbeat, is reminiscent of the Beastie Boys at their most raucous; "It Began in Afrika" is a rapid, heart-pounding conga workout that distills the quick reflexes and primal urges of a cheetah hunt under a deadpan voice repeating, "It Began In Afrika-ka-ka"; and "Galazy Bounce" features a repeated call-and-response sample over tight, driving slap-bass funk. None of this is a thought-provoking music in the slightest, and I wouldn't want it any other way. These tracks are purely functional-- all speed, sweat and clenched muscle-- and, as convenient packets of immediate party energy, they succeed admirably well. Of course, it's when the Chemical Brothers deviate from their role as Big Beat deities that problems arise. "Star Guitar" apparently substitutes for the missing Sumner track-- it's slight, but not nearly as vapid as "Hoops," the song that follows it. Honestly, none of the remaining material returns to the quality of the first three cuts, though "My Elastic Eye" and "Denmark" do manage to turn up the heat a bit. But there's not much to be said about the Orton ("The State We're In") and Ashcroft ("The Test") numbers, other than that they're both about as middle-of-the-road as you might expect they'd be. "The Test," for example, sounds like a weak companion piece to the Simple Minds' "(Don't You) Forget About Me," and Orton's admittedly seductive vocals aren't nearly enough to rescue an inherently bad song. Yep, Come with Us is another let down, no two ways about it. And all because Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons seem confused about where they'd like to go. There are certain things they do very well, yet they don't seem to be content with being pigeonholed as one-dimensional. Unfortunately, one-dimensional is about the only thing they can pull off convincingly."

Barbez

Barbez

Michael Idov

Some bands, intentionally or not, overwhelm the reviewer with talking points; one unfortunate side effect of this is that all their reviews sound the same. Allow me to illustrate: nobody has ever written 10 words about Franz Ferdinand without five of them being "archduke," "assassination", and "First World War." Consider, then, Brooklyn's Barbez, a mainstay of the John Zorn-impacted downtown NYC scene and recent signees to Important Records: (1) Their frontwoman is a Russian avant-garde dancer, (2) They have a theremin, (3) The theremin is not used for whooshy space sounds but actually played by a cigarette-smoking waif virtuoso who makes it sound like an entire string section, (4) They cover Kurt Weill, (5) and Schnittke, (6) They lug around a monstrous marimba, and (7) A band member coaxes scratches and squiggles out of a Palm Pilot via a proprietary piece of software. As you may imagine, every attempt at describing Barbez devolves into ritual recitation of these factoids in random order, and before you know it, your allotted 500 words are over. So let's talk about the music, then. The songs oscillate from tra-la-la chanson to brief explosions of terrifying skronk, hitting everything in between. Although sometimes flamboyant with mid-song tempo and time signature changes, Barbez don't come across as mathy: they're going for controlled chaos, not athletics. The impression is that of a century's worth of vinyl disintegrating in a cellar-- Satie melting into The Stooges-- then somehow willing itself back together. "The Defiant Bicycle", the centerpiece of the album and most of their live performances, is a gorgeous suite that takes so much time to build that the listener's masochistic response (per Masoch's definition of masochism, as delayed pleasure) almost becomes a counterpoint. "Wisconsin"-- songwriter and bandleader Dan Kaufman's ode to his surprisingly prosaic birthplace-- is the closest Barbez come to a traditional lied (via the Residents, perhaps). The band's self-titled debut on Important is, in fact, their third album (before employing the blonde tornado named Ksenia Vidyaykina, they were fronted by a man with an uncanny Nick Cave bellow, which made the Weimar fetish come through stronger but shaved off some originality points). They've been playing some of the album's songs since 1999; as a result, there's a honed, easy dexterity to the entire performance. Producer Martin Bisi, who's made his name recording Swans and early Sonic Youth, appears less to have produced the album than to have captured it; it's recorded and mixed like a jazz LP-- grounded in a well-defined, specific room, without dramatic panning and loads of what sounds like natural basement reverb. All theremin-and-Weill trivia aside, what's rather intriguing about Barbez is that a band like this would never come out of the Parisian neighborhood from which its name derives; it also couldn't have possibly emerged from any of the countries whose music and perceived ambience it references/absorbs/bites-- namely Russia, Hungary, or Poland. The sound of Barbez is driven by a distinctly American strain of Europhilia. In a cultural moment when thinking East Coasters are swept up in a bizarre cross-Atlantic camaraderie, borne of the shared November 3rd funk (one entry on sorryeverybody.com: "Apologies from Isle of New York, off the coast of Europe"), Barbez provide a pitch-perfect soundtrack to the intelligentsia identity crisis.

Artist: Barbez, Album: Barbez, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Some bands, intentionally or not, overwhelm the reviewer with talking points; one unfortunate side effect of this is that all their reviews sound the same. Allow me to illustrate: nobody has ever written 10 words about Franz Ferdinand without five of them being "archduke," "assassination", and "First World War." Consider, then, Brooklyn's Barbez, a mainstay of the John Zorn-impacted downtown NYC scene and recent signees to Important Records: (1) Their frontwoman is a Russian avant-garde dancer, (2) They have a theremin, (3) The theremin is not used for whooshy space sounds but actually played by a cigarette-smoking waif virtuoso who makes it sound like an entire string section, (4) They cover Kurt Weill, (5) and Schnittke, (6) They lug around a monstrous marimba, and (7) A band member coaxes scratches and squiggles out of a Palm Pilot via a proprietary piece of software. As you may imagine, every attempt at describing Barbez devolves into ritual recitation of these factoids in random order, and before you know it, your allotted 500 words are over. So let's talk about the music, then. The songs oscillate from tra-la-la chanson to brief explosions of terrifying skronk, hitting everything in between. Although sometimes flamboyant with mid-song tempo and time signature changes, Barbez don't come across as mathy: they're going for controlled chaos, not athletics. The impression is that of a century's worth of vinyl disintegrating in a cellar-- Satie melting into The Stooges-- then somehow willing itself back together. "The Defiant Bicycle", the centerpiece of the album and most of their live performances, is a gorgeous suite that takes so much time to build that the listener's masochistic response (per Masoch's definition of masochism, as delayed pleasure) almost becomes a counterpoint. "Wisconsin"-- songwriter and bandleader Dan Kaufman's ode to his surprisingly prosaic birthplace-- is the closest Barbez come to a traditional lied (via the Residents, perhaps). The band's self-titled debut on Important is, in fact, their third album (before employing the blonde tornado named Ksenia Vidyaykina, they were fronted by a man with an uncanny Nick Cave bellow, which made the Weimar fetish come through stronger but shaved off some originality points). They've been playing some of the album's songs since 1999; as a result, there's a honed, easy dexterity to the entire performance. Producer Martin Bisi, who's made his name recording Swans and early Sonic Youth, appears less to have produced the album than to have captured it; it's recorded and mixed like a jazz LP-- grounded in a well-defined, specific room, without dramatic panning and loads of what sounds like natural basement reverb. All theremin-and-Weill trivia aside, what's rather intriguing about Barbez is that a band like this would never come out of the Parisian neighborhood from which its name derives; it also couldn't have possibly emerged from any of the countries whose music and perceived ambience it references/absorbs/bites-- namely Russia, Hungary, or Poland. The sound of Barbez is driven by a distinctly American strain of Europhilia. In a cultural moment when thinking East Coasters are swept up in a bizarre cross-Atlantic camaraderie, borne of the shared November 3rd funk (one entry on sorryeverybody.com: "Apologies from Isle of New York, off the coast of Europe"), Barbez provide a pitch-perfect soundtrack to the intelligentsia identity crisis."

Carbon/Silicon

The Last Post

Rock

Stuart Berman

Mick Jones doesn't really need to be making records in 2008. He could probably live the rest of his life off the radio residuals from "Should I Stay or Should I Go" alone, he already made the indie kids dance over 20 years ago with Big Audio Dynamite, and his suitably gritty production work on the Libertines' two albums should've satisfied any lingering, late-career urges to score cred points with the skinny-jeaned set. So it's encouraging to see the enthusiasm with which he's hurtled himself into his latest project, Carbon/Silicon, a prolific collaboration with Generation X's Tony James that's rooted in DIY principles both traditional (booking weekly residences at London pubs) and modern (releasing a steady stream of albums and EPs through free downloads on their website). With the two principals evenly sharing the songwriting and vocal duties, Carbon/Silicon resemble a sort of pared-down Travelling Wilburys for the class-of-77 set: A good-natured get-together of old mates who seem happy to play purely for the pleasure of one another's company. Which isn't to suggest the two are eager to shut out the world around them. Their chosen Carbon/Silicon moniker can be interpreted as a response to a world overrun with pollution and plastic, and The Last Post-- comprised mostly of re-recordings from the band's web-only releases-- touches on all the Big Issues (the Iraq war, terrorism, materialism) with news-ticker efficiency and expediency. But the overall attitude of the album is not one of anger so much as shrugged-shoulder bemusement, perhaps resulting from the fact that the modern world looks no more sane or dignified than the garbage-strewn London streets that spawned Jones and James' former bands. You can hear their sardonic detachment simmering underneath the up-with-people exuberance of opener "The News", in which Jones fires off a laundry list of utopian ideals-- "people started caring about what they eat/ and people started smiling at everyone they meet"-- while the song's ringing, repetitive guitar riff and sprightly rhythm coat the lyrics in a synthetic sheen that underscores their inherent, pipe-dream fallacy. But this surface simplicity exposes both Carbon/Silicon's charms and their limitations. The band may have evolved from a two-man team to a full four-piece band, but the recordings still possess a demo-like quality-- not in the raw, primal sense, but rather what sounds like home-computer-generated blueprints begging for embellishments that never come. The grinding riffs and metronomic drum tracks pretty much map out entire song structures within the first 10 seconds, with verses and choruses often following the same melody line (see: the ersatz Oasis of "Tell it Like It Is"). The result is a sometimes awkward disconnect between intent and execution: with its descending central riff, agit-folk sloganeering ("what they're trying to sell us is really just a con") and immediate, anthemic chorus, you can't help but wonder how exciting centerpiece track "War on Culture" would've sounded had Jones or James recorded it 30 years ago; instead, it exists today as an amiable mid-tempo chugger that cruises along for six minutes without ever really accruing any of the fury seeping out of the lyric sheet. So with the parameters so rigidly defined, success boils down to the spirit of the performances: James' "Magic Suitcase" recasts its disarming images of airport security and concealed bombs into an enchanting bit of Robyn Hitchcockian psych-pop whimsy, while the fetching "National Anthem" sublimates T. Rex's "Bang a Gong" groove into a sly, soul strut. But within The Last Post's stately surroundings, it follows that the most invigorating song is also its silliest: a "Clash City Rockers" redux called "What the Fuck". Jones may be stretching things a touch when he links the title's punk-perfect sentiment with the existential angst of Fyodor Dostoevsky, but the song marks the rare moment where Carbon/Silicon sound like a product of "Garageland" rather than GarageBand.

Artist: Carbon/Silicon, Album: The Last Post, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.7 Album review: "Mick Jones doesn't really need to be making records in 2008. He could probably live the rest of his life off the radio residuals from "Should I Stay or Should I Go" alone, he already made the indie kids dance over 20 years ago with Big Audio Dynamite, and his suitably gritty production work on the Libertines' two albums should've satisfied any lingering, late-career urges to score cred points with the skinny-jeaned set. So it's encouraging to see the enthusiasm with which he's hurtled himself into his latest project, Carbon/Silicon, a prolific collaboration with Generation X's Tony James that's rooted in DIY principles both traditional (booking weekly residences at London pubs) and modern (releasing a steady stream of albums and EPs through free downloads on their website). With the two principals evenly sharing the songwriting and vocal duties, Carbon/Silicon resemble a sort of pared-down Travelling Wilburys for the class-of-77 set: A good-natured get-together of old mates who seem happy to play purely for the pleasure of one another's company. Which isn't to suggest the two are eager to shut out the world around them. Their chosen Carbon/Silicon moniker can be interpreted as a response to a world overrun with pollution and plastic, and The Last Post-- comprised mostly of re-recordings from the band's web-only releases-- touches on all the Big Issues (the Iraq war, terrorism, materialism) with news-ticker efficiency and expediency. But the overall attitude of the album is not one of anger so much as shrugged-shoulder bemusement, perhaps resulting from the fact that the modern world looks no more sane or dignified than the garbage-strewn London streets that spawned Jones and James' former bands. You can hear their sardonic detachment simmering underneath the up-with-people exuberance of opener "The News", in which Jones fires off a laundry list of utopian ideals-- "people started caring about what they eat/ and people started smiling at everyone they meet"-- while the song's ringing, repetitive guitar riff and sprightly rhythm coat the lyrics in a synthetic sheen that underscores their inherent, pipe-dream fallacy. But this surface simplicity exposes both Carbon/Silicon's charms and their limitations. The band may have evolved from a two-man team to a full four-piece band, but the recordings still possess a demo-like quality-- not in the raw, primal sense, but rather what sounds like home-computer-generated blueprints begging for embellishments that never come. The grinding riffs and metronomic drum tracks pretty much map out entire song structures within the first 10 seconds, with verses and choruses often following the same melody line (see: the ersatz Oasis of "Tell it Like It Is"). The result is a sometimes awkward disconnect between intent and execution: with its descending central riff, agit-folk sloganeering ("what they're trying to sell us is really just a con") and immediate, anthemic chorus, you can't help but wonder how exciting centerpiece track "War on Culture" would've sounded had Jones or James recorded it 30 years ago; instead, it exists today as an amiable mid-tempo chugger that cruises along for six minutes without ever really accruing any of the fury seeping out of the lyric sheet. So with the parameters so rigidly defined, success boils down to the spirit of the performances: James' "Magic Suitcase" recasts its disarming images of airport security and concealed bombs into an enchanting bit of Robyn Hitchcockian psych-pop whimsy, while the fetching "National Anthem" sublimates T. Rex's "Bang a Gong" groove into a sly, soul strut. But within The Last Post's stately surroundings, it follows that the most invigorating song is also its silliest: a "Clash City Rockers" redux called "What the Fuck". Jones may be stretching things a touch when he links the title's punk-perfect sentiment with the existential angst of Fyodor Dostoevsky, but the song marks the rare moment where Carbon/Silicon sound like a product of "Garageland" rather than GarageBand."

Kimbra

Primal Heart

Pop/R&B

Eve Barlow

It’s been four years since Kimbra released The Golden Echo, her audacious and futuristic second album, one that established her beyond just the other voice on Gotye’s 2012 hit “Somebody That I Used to Know.” That LP further ensconced the New Zealander born Kimbra Lee Johnson as a one-woman odd-pop machine; a producer, an arranger, a multi-instrumentalist, and a unique dynamo vocalist. Oddly, there has been little fanfare around the release of its follow-up Primal Heart. Perhaps tellingly, this album comes at a transitional point in her live show. Kimbra has pared down her prior set-up with a full band to just a small rig where she programs beats alongside only two shrouded players. Her intention is to arrive at a simplistic core, relying majorly upon digital sounds. Outside of tour, she’s built her own studio in her new home of New York (since The Golden Echo, she’s moved from Los Angeles) and she’s further indulged her technical geekery alongside co-producer John Congleton, known for his work with St. Vincent and Nelly Furtado, among others. Kimbra insists that she’s given herself time for a more vulnerable phase of artistic growth. Her intention has been to strip away the bombast and locate her raw essence, hence the title Primal Heart. The results show that she’s still unable to let her ideas breathe without suffocating them beneath layers of quirks and tricks. Despite the protracted process, the album sounds like a work that’s stuck between two places; reaching for a larger audience but clinging on to her offbeat nuances. In its quieter minutes, even Kimbra seems to have realized this. “Version of Me,” a standout, is a soft ballad that positions Kimbra at her most exposed. She sings about the human truth of never being the finished article. “There’s a better version of myself/Stay for the person I’ll be,” she pleads of a love interest. She could be asking the same question of her audience, or even of herself. Primal Heart is a collision of hard electronics with light sprinkles of au courant R&B making for Kimbra’s most mainstream statement yet. And though she’s described her approach in making this album as being one of “radical fearlessness,” the album contains only a few moments of power. On lead single “Everybody Knows,” she sings with great conviction about being “young and gullible.” It’s the sonic accompaniment to a Tumblr post she wrote last October about experiences she and friends have had as women in studio environments. Conversely on “Human,” she juxtaposes that individualism by pining for another’s affections and validation to survive. The track happily reinvents a classic soul sound with little percussive ticks and booms, providing strong evidence of what Primal Heart can be when the songs are restricted in scope and home in on one intention. However, her most ambitious efforts don’t quite reach their apex, causing her somewhat cocky assertions to land flat. On “Top of the World,” she semi-raps over a Skrillex-assisted beat that builds to a climax about limitless success. “Talk like I be the Messiah,” she says, with excessive hubris. It’s the kind of statement you want to root for by such a hugely talented artist. Her vocal delivery, however, isn’t fierce enough to pull it off. Other than a few attention-grabbing choruses, the results are largely limp.

Artist: Kimbra, Album: Primal Heart, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "It’s been four years since Kimbra released The Golden Echo, her audacious and futuristic second album, one that established her beyond just the other voice on Gotye’s 2012 hit “Somebody That I Used to Know.” That LP further ensconced the New Zealander born Kimbra Lee Johnson as a one-woman odd-pop machine; a producer, an arranger, a multi-instrumentalist, and a unique dynamo vocalist. Oddly, there has been little fanfare around the release of its follow-up Primal Heart. Perhaps tellingly, this album comes at a transitional point in her live show. Kimbra has pared down her prior set-up with a full band to just a small rig where she programs beats alongside only two shrouded players. Her intention is to arrive at a simplistic core, relying majorly upon digital sounds. Outside of tour, she’s built her own studio in her new home of New York (since The Golden Echo, she’s moved from Los Angeles) and she’s further indulged her technical geekery alongside co-producer John Congleton, known for his work with St. Vincent and Nelly Furtado, among others. Kimbra insists that she’s given herself time for a more vulnerable phase of artistic growth. Her intention has been to strip away the bombast and locate her raw essence, hence the title Primal Heart. The results show that she’s still unable to let her ideas breathe without suffocating them beneath layers of quirks and tricks. Despite the protracted process, the album sounds like a work that’s stuck between two places; reaching for a larger audience but clinging on to her offbeat nuances. In its quieter minutes, even Kimbra seems to have realized this. “Version of Me,” a standout, is a soft ballad that positions Kimbra at her most exposed. She sings about the human truth of never being the finished article. “There’s a better version of myself/Stay for the person I’ll be,” she pleads of a love interest. She could be asking the same question of her audience, or even of herself. Primal Heart is a collision of hard electronics with light sprinkles of au courant R&B making for Kimbra’s most mainstream statement yet. And though she’s described her approach in making this album as being one of “radical fearlessness,” the album contains only a few moments of power. On lead single “Everybody Knows,” she sings with great conviction about being “young and gullible.” It’s the sonic accompaniment to a Tumblr post she wrote last October about experiences she and friends have had as women in studio environments. Conversely on “Human,” she juxtaposes that individualism by pining for another’s affections and validation to survive. The track happily reinvents a classic soul sound with little percussive ticks and booms, providing strong evidence of what Primal Heart can be when the songs are restricted in scope and home in on one intention. However, her most ambitious efforts don’t quite reach their apex, causing her somewhat cocky assertions to land flat. On “Top of the World,” she semi-raps over a Skrillex-assisted beat that builds to a climax about limitless success. “Talk like I be the Messiah,” she says, with excessive hubris. It’s the kind of statement you want to root for by such a hugely talented artist. Her vocal delivery, however, isn’t fierce enough to pull it off. Other than a few attention-grabbing choruses, the results are largely limp."