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Keith Fullerton Whitman

Schöner Flußengel

Electronic,Rock

Cameron Macdonald

Electronic music needs amateur ornithologists like Master Whitman. Artists who emulate the standard, escape-from-civilization allure of birdsong and then abruptly make an about-face to mimic a scrambling flock's ack-ack-acks are mavericks in any man's English. Whitman's Hrvatski guise sets that example with near-bipolar mood swings between Pollackian "Amen" breakbeats and guitar balladry that falls asleep at the wheel. Whitman's work under his given name also has an avian nature: Our man's processed-guitar masterwork, "Feedback Zwei", seems like a conversation between two sparrows bickering over a suburban stucco hut village that paved over their habitat and spared a few oaks for decoration. To truly know this man's passion, check out his close-mic recordings of birds gorging at his backyard feeder on Birdsightings-- it's edited from six hours of field work. This aesthetic is the Samson's Hair of Whitman's Schöner Flu\xDFengel, a vinyl-only album that's limited to a commercial-damning 1,000 copies. The record cover's depiction of a medieval cathedral aglow with phantasmagoric flames pays homage to the gothic pretensions of 1980s prog-metal. Yet, the music is more introspective and spiritually awake than wanky guitar solos and screaming about good times in the Lake of Fire. Schöner's skeleton was pieced together with telephone switchboard-like modular synthesizers at Harvard, where Whitman guest-lectured on electronic music. The result generally expands the kraut drone 'n' freakout element he explored on Antithesis. The album is best heard in one sitting-- its fractured tracks don't individually stand on both feet. Whitman sticks to a narrow palate of circular acoustic guitar harmonies dueling in stereo, hymnal organ timbres, soft-boiled percussion, and laser noises mulched into sawdust. Most of the seven tracks are patterned into birdsong meditation, flock violence disruption, and bewilderment before reprising the spiritual calm. In other words, it's like witnessing the world seemingly falling to pieces but feeling assured that everything would turn out okay in the end. The opener, "Lixus Analogique", sets that template by leashing down poltergeist-like bedsprings that echo about the house. A guitar tiptoes in and a snare-roll builds the tension into a climax of a fumigating laser-vacuum and roiling improv beats. The German compound word-abusing "Bewusstseinserweiternd" eases in a nasal ohm chant that blooms like ink in water with clarinet and organ drones before the squealing frequencies. That image also festers in "Interlude", with motorcycled analog synths that loosely recall Throbbing Gristle's "Hamburger Lady". "Gravicembalo" toys with tapped bass guitar strings that shout into the fog before a somber organ lets the twilight in and melts the cathedral down into 0s and 1s. Schöner's best moments are its few Rubix Cube-rotating, glitch grooves. That element hypnotizes like rooftop rain midway through "El Seny La Rauxa", before getting interrupted by... well, you know the routine. "Weiter" breathes deeply with that same sense of groove, but does so on a Rhodes and, in contrast, the lasers grow rather tiresome after 20 minutes. At their worst, they bequeath a savage tackiness when mixed with God's Country folk guitar tunes. "Lixus Numerique" suffers from this kitsch, recalling the Me Decade's televised prog/new-age performances that try to touch viewers with blue-screen graphics of streaming stars. The sight of John Lennon sighing his "biofeedback" with David Rosenbloom's scanner strapped to his brain on "The Mike Douglas Show" comes to mind. But on the whole, I have to hand it to Whitman for concocting a soundscape that grows less alien and more serene with each listen: Schöner is a beast that won't leave your bedroom months after you stop playing the music.

Artist: Keith Fullerton Whitman, Album: Schöner Flußengel, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Electronic music needs amateur ornithologists like Master Whitman. Artists who emulate the standard, escape-from-civilization allure of birdsong and then abruptly make an about-face to mimic a scrambling flock's ack-ack-acks are mavericks in any man's English. Whitman's Hrvatski guise sets that example with near-bipolar mood swings between Pollackian "Amen" breakbeats and guitar balladry that falls asleep at the wheel. Whitman's work under his given name also has an avian nature: Our man's processed-guitar masterwork, "Feedback Zwei", seems like a conversation between two sparrows bickering over a suburban stucco hut village that paved over their habitat and spared a few oaks for decoration. To truly know this man's passion, check out his close-mic recordings of birds gorging at his backyard feeder on Birdsightings-- it's edited from six hours of field work. This aesthetic is the Samson's Hair of Whitman's Schöner Flu\xDFengel, a vinyl-only album that's limited to a commercial-damning 1,000 copies. The record cover's depiction of a medieval cathedral aglow with phantasmagoric flames pays homage to the gothic pretensions of 1980s prog-metal. Yet, the music is more introspective and spiritually awake than wanky guitar solos and screaming about good times in the Lake of Fire. Schöner's skeleton was pieced together with telephone switchboard-like modular synthesizers at Harvard, where Whitman guest-lectured on electronic music. The result generally expands the kraut drone 'n' freakout element he explored on Antithesis. The album is best heard in one sitting-- its fractured tracks don't individually stand on both feet. Whitman sticks to a narrow palate of circular acoustic guitar harmonies dueling in stereo, hymnal organ timbres, soft-boiled percussion, and laser noises mulched into sawdust. Most of the seven tracks are patterned into birdsong meditation, flock violence disruption, and bewilderment before reprising the spiritual calm. In other words, it's like witnessing the world seemingly falling to pieces but feeling assured that everything would turn out okay in the end. The opener, "Lixus Analogique", sets that template by leashing down poltergeist-like bedsprings that echo about the house. A guitar tiptoes in and a snare-roll builds the tension into a climax of a fumigating laser-vacuum and roiling improv beats. The German compound word-abusing "Bewusstseinserweiternd" eases in a nasal ohm chant that blooms like ink in water with clarinet and organ drones before the squealing frequencies. That image also festers in "Interlude", with motorcycled analog synths that loosely recall Throbbing Gristle's "Hamburger Lady". "Gravicembalo" toys with tapped bass guitar strings that shout into the fog before a somber organ lets the twilight in and melts the cathedral down into 0s and 1s. Schöner's best moments are its few Rubix Cube-rotating, glitch grooves. That element hypnotizes like rooftop rain midway through "El Seny La Rauxa", before getting interrupted by... well, you know the routine. "Weiter" breathes deeply with that same sense of groove, but does so on a Rhodes and, in contrast, the lasers grow rather tiresome after 20 minutes. At their worst, they bequeath a savage tackiness when mixed with God's Country folk guitar tunes. "Lixus Numerique" suffers from this kitsch, recalling the Me Decade's televised prog/new-age performances that try to touch viewers with blue-screen graphics of streaming stars. The sight of John Lennon sighing his "biofeedback" with David Rosenbloom's scanner strapped to his brain on "The Mike Douglas Show" comes to mind. But on the whole, I have to hand it to Whitman for concocting a soundscape that grows less alien and more serene with each listen: Schöner is a beast that won't leave your bedroom months after you stop playing the music."

The Feelies

Crazy Rhythms

Rock

Mike Powell

The Feelies formed as a four-man rock band in a New Jersey suburb whose biggest 20th century shakeup was a textile strike. They wrote some original material and learned a couple of Beatles songs. They took their show 20 miles southeast to Hoboken, drove to Manhattan under the Hudson River, tucked in their shirts, pushed their glasses up on their nosebridges, and unleashed a kind of hypnotic punk-lite so buttoned up that it sounds choked-- like they counted to four and grabbed an electric fence. Did I say the Feelies are a rock band? I misspoke. They're a particle collider. Crazy Rhythms, their 1980 debut, has none of the attitudinal markings of rock-- no looseness, no swing, no danger, no laughs. Its cover-- a band portrait on a sky-blue void, echoed 14 years later on Weezer's "blue album" -- is bland and eerie. It looks like a misplaced rendering of four boys whose closest contact with rock music came from fixing radios. The title of the album appears as some innovative form of non-joke. And yet, and yet. Three-chord punk-- apparently too excessive for them-- is boiled down to two-chord devotionals: one for the first three minutes, one for the second. Two- and three-note guitar solos drone over the mix like a Muezzin's call. Bill Million and Glenn Mercer sing in grey, unimpressive voices-- probably influenced by the Velvet Underground, but just as likely a product of the belief that lead vocals were for generally immodest people. The focus and direction of the sound hangs on Mercer and Million's guitars, but the essence of the album-- the DNA sequence not found anywhere else-- is its percussion tracks. Cymbals and hi-hats are ignored almost entirely-- too cathartic, too showy. Almost every track is overdubbed with a dry chorus of cowbells, claves, woodblocks, bells and maracas. Glenn Mercer's credit on a cover of the Beatles' "Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey" reads: "other guitar, vocals, bell, coat rack." Drummer Anton Fier thumps out the words NOT TIRED YET NOT TIRED YET NOT TIRED YET in Morse code on his tom-toms. Presumably, shows ended with the rest of the band unplugging him. It's fastidious, committed and unendingly tense music. A couple of tracks-- first single "Fa Ce'-La" and "Original Love"-- take the shape of pop songs: A few minutes, a few parts, a verse, a chorus. Most of the songs, though, are shaped like Steve Reich or Philip Glass compositions: Music that creates drama by swelling, shading and repeating, not carving out peaks and valleys. The album's longest, most arresting tracks -- "Forces at Work" and "Crazy Rhythms"-- don't seem to change as much as dilate. The music on the album is rare, but the tone-- especially with the knowledge that it was never really replicated by any other band-- is rarer. Weezer, the Talking Heads and the Modern Lovers used their social eccentricities as badges of honor and safe vantage points for self-expression. The Feelies don't sound any more comfortable on Crazy Rhythms than you imagine they might standing in a room full of strangers or mountain lions. They sound commanded by inspiration, almost religiously single-minded. Mark Abel, who co-produced the album with Mercer and Million, called them "the most obstinate people I've ever met." According to Jim DeRogatis's liner notes for the reissue, they started telling adulatory interviewers that driving through the Holland Tunnel gave them headaches. Crazy Rhythms is their big album. Their talked-about one. The Good Earth, produced by R.E.M.'s Peter Buck and released six years later, is their little one. Bassist Keith DeNunzio and Anton Fier left the band (Fier went on to play with Bill Laswell, Pere Ubu, John Zorn and a gymnasium's worth of notable avant-rock musicians). Dave Weckerman, Brenda Sauter and Stan Demeski-- all local musicians Million and Mercer had been tooling around in side projects with-- joined. The tempos are relaxed, the percussion understated, the instrumentation largely acoustic. It's no less hypnotic than Crazy Rhythms, but it has a different notion of infinity: Wheat fields, Sunday drives, childhood bedtimes to the sound of adults murmuring from the living room. The cover image-- the band, slightly sepia-toned and standing in tall grass-- is a rural reconsideration of Crazy Rhythms, a stepping back. Mercer's vocals are a stream-of-consciousness hum under the shimmer of guitars. "Being a guitar player," he said, "I don't have much of a need to express myself as a singer" -- a claim that makes you think the guitar solos are going to be fireworks, and they aren't. Fireworks are not what the Feelies were about. You don't hear too many people talking in hyperbole about The Good Earth is for the same reasons you don't hear people talking in hyperbole about taking a nap in the park. Listening start-to-finish, it sounds even more removed than Crazy Rhythms, an album that blurs together and exists unto itself-- different enough from their first album to be incomparable, different enough from a lot of other music-- even R.E.M.-- to be unmistakable as anyone else. These albums have been out of print for several years. If you were lucky (or old) enough to own them the first time around, buy them again. The bonus material is nothing special: New live recordings from their recent reunion shows, a couple of demos, a couple of older covers (but not the cover of "Paint It, Black" appended to the last edition of Crazy Rhythms). And you have to download the songs using a little business card with a serial number because the band thought the albums should stand on their own, which they should. But oh the glorious sound. I am not someone who relaxes on an animal hides in front of four-foot tall speakers and compares the relative merits of recordings, but I will tell you that these remasters sound fantastic-- crisp, nuanced, and all kinds of other luxurious adjectives. Apparently, there's a dog barking the background of The Good Earth interlude "When Company Comes". Someone mumbles during the guitar break on "Let's Go". And the coat rack, as clear and unexpected as ever.

Artist: The Feelies, Album: Crazy Rhythms, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.1 Album review: "The Feelies formed as a four-man rock band in a New Jersey suburb whose biggest 20th century shakeup was a textile strike. They wrote some original material and learned a couple of Beatles songs. They took their show 20 miles southeast to Hoboken, drove to Manhattan under the Hudson River, tucked in their shirts, pushed their glasses up on their nosebridges, and unleashed a kind of hypnotic punk-lite so buttoned up that it sounds choked-- like they counted to four and grabbed an electric fence. Did I say the Feelies are a rock band? I misspoke. They're a particle collider. Crazy Rhythms, their 1980 debut, has none of the attitudinal markings of rock-- no looseness, no swing, no danger, no laughs. Its cover-- a band portrait on a sky-blue void, echoed 14 years later on Weezer's "blue album" -- is bland and eerie. It looks like a misplaced rendering of four boys whose closest contact with rock music came from fixing radios. The title of the album appears as some innovative form of non-joke. And yet, and yet. Three-chord punk-- apparently too excessive for them-- is boiled down to two-chord devotionals: one for the first three minutes, one for the second. Two- and three-note guitar solos drone over the mix like a Muezzin's call. Bill Million and Glenn Mercer sing in grey, unimpressive voices-- probably influenced by the Velvet Underground, but just as likely a product of the belief that lead vocals were for generally immodest people. The focus and direction of the sound hangs on Mercer and Million's guitars, but the essence of the album-- the DNA sequence not found anywhere else-- is its percussion tracks. Cymbals and hi-hats are ignored almost entirely-- too cathartic, too showy. Almost every track is overdubbed with a dry chorus of cowbells, claves, woodblocks, bells and maracas. Glenn Mercer's credit on a cover of the Beatles' "Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey" reads: "other guitar, vocals, bell, coat rack." Drummer Anton Fier thumps out the words NOT TIRED YET NOT TIRED YET NOT TIRED YET in Morse code on his tom-toms. Presumably, shows ended with the rest of the band unplugging him. It's fastidious, committed and unendingly tense music. A couple of tracks-- first single "Fa Ce'-La" and "Original Love"-- take the shape of pop songs: A few minutes, a few parts, a verse, a chorus. Most of the songs, though, are shaped like Steve Reich or Philip Glass compositions: Music that creates drama by swelling, shading and repeating, not carving out peaks and valleys. The album's longest, most arresting tracks -- "Forces at Work" and "Crazy Rhythms"-- don't seem to change as much as dilate. The music on the album is rare, but the tone-- especially with the knowledge that it was never really replicated by any other band-- is rarer. Weezer, the Talking Heads and the Modern Lovers used their social eccentricities as badges of honor and safe vantage points for self-expression. The Feelies don't sound any more comfortable on Crazy Rhythms than you imagine they might standing in a room full of strangers or mountain lions. They sound commanded by inspiration, almost religiously single-minded. Mark Abel, who co-produced the album with Mercer and Million, called them "the most obstinate people I've ever met." According to Jim DeRogatis's liner notes for the reissue, they started telling adulatory interviewers that driving through the Holland Tunnel gave them headaches. Crazy Rhythms is their big album. Their talked-about one. The Good Earth, produced by R.E.M.'s Peter Buck and released six years later, is their little one. Bassist Keith DeNunzio and Anton Fier left the band (Fier went on to play with Bill Laswell, Pere Ubu, John Zorn and a gymnasium's worth of notable avant-rock musicians). Dave Weckerman, Brenda Sauter and Stan Demeski-- all local musicians Million and Mercer had been tooling around in side projects with-- joined. The tempos are relaxed, the percussion understated, the instrumentation largely acoustic. It's no less hypnotic than Crazy Rhythms, but it has a different notion of infinity: Wheat fields, Sunday drives, childhood bedtimes to the sound of adults murmuring from the living room. The cover image-- the band, slightly sepia-toned and standing in tall grass-- is a rural reconsideration of Crazy Rhythms, a stepping back. Mercer's vocals are a stream-of-consciousness hum under the shimmer of guitars. "Being a guitar player," he said, "I don't have much of a need to express myself as a singer" -- a claim that makes you think the guitar solos are going to be fireworks, and they aren't. Fireworks are not what the Feelies were about. You don't hear too many people talking in hyperbole about The Good Earth is for the same reasons you don't hear people talking in hyperbole about taking a nap in the park. Listening start-to-finish, it sounds even more removed than Crazy Rhythms, an album that blurs together and exists unto itself-- different enough from their first album to be incomparable, different enough from a lot of other music-- even R.E.M.-- to be unmistakable as anyone else. These albums have been out of print for several years. If you were lucky (or old) enough to own them the first time around, buy them again. The bonus material is nothing special: New live recordings from their recent reunion shows, a couple of demos, a couple of older covers (but not the cover of "Paint It, Black" appended to the last edition of Crazy Rhythms). And you have to download the songs using a little business card with a serial number because the band thought the albums should stand on their own, which they should. But oh the glorious sound. I am not someone who relaxes on an animal hides in front of four-foot tall speakers and compares the relative merits of recordings, but I will tell you that these remasters sound fantastic-- crisp, nuanced, and all kinds of other luxurious adjectives. Apparently, there's a dog barking the background of The Good Earth interlude "When Company Comes". Someone mumbles during the guitar break on "Let's Go". And the coat rack, as clear and unexpected as ever."

Leyland Kirby

Breaks My Heart Each Time

Electronic,Rock

Nick Neyland

The Apollo label, home of brave ventures into ambience since the early 1990s, has housed such a prodigious array of talent that calling it a "subdivision" of parent label R&S almost feels like an insult. It's a sentiment James Leyland Kirby would no doubt agree with, as he sheds various aliases (V/Vm, the Caretaker, and the Stranger among many others) to head out under his own name for his debut EP for the imprint. Kirby often borrows liberally from other sources, so here he aligns those impulses with his surroundings by revisiting sounds that mirror the earlier Apollo releases, giving acres of space to tinny drum machines and soft synth lines that echo into eternity. Anyone familiar with Apollo releases such as Biosphere's Microgravity or even Aphex Twin's Selected Ambient Works 85-92 should find a warm glow of familiarity overcoming them on a cursory glance at Breaks My Heart Each Time. Kirby's known for his adept way of flitting through contrasting styles, tying on various genres as if he was trying on a new coat or hat. Crucially, he's a picky dresser, and one with a depth of knowledge and intuitive feel for the musical worlds he immerses himself in. There's not always a logical pattern to the paths he chooses, but occasionally there's something resembling a handoff between one record to the next, forming subtle links between his creations. The title track of this release peeks out from behind a blanket of fuzz that feels like a distant cousin to his Caretaker work, although its innards are remarkably different. Here, Kirby plays with elegance and antagonism, the former represented by sheets of drifting synth, and the latter emerging in the piston-like machinery stamped across its surface. Working in contrasts is something of a theme for Kirby—his V/VM output skewered bland pop on a spike, while his Caretaker releases find light and dark impulses running through the grooves of scratchy old 78rpm records. His explorations here aren't so different, with the minimal beauty of "Diminishing Emotion" picking up an undercurrent of isolationist fear as it slowly unravels. Breaks My Heart also deals in pure thrills. "Staring Down the Sun" is a dysfunctional club banger that expertly captures the feel of nascent computer music, resembling a paean to the trials and tribulations of running Cubase on Windows 95, its manic race to the finish resembling the panicked wait to see if a save button's progress bar can beat out a blue-screen meltdown. "Last Ditch Legacy" is similar, but more joyous in execution, skirting closer to the sunnier outlook of Mixmaster Morris's work for Apollo. Where Kirby succeeds on Breaks My Heart is by digging in hard to the era he's sourcing. He's working with a familiar sound palette here, but it's more than simple tribute fare—there's a feel for the duality of emotions that runs through that early Apollo work, whether it’s in the mixture of playfulness and sensitivity that runs through Ambient Works 85-92, or in the way something like "Stella's Cry" by Jam & Spoon set up an optimistic buffer to the darker ambient dreams of a track like "Cloudwalker II" by Biosphere. There's a sense of care and affinity here, of someone playing around with material that clearly means a lot to them. Naturally, Kirby’s already moved on, prepping another volume of his Intrigue & Stuff series and plotting a full-length release for Apollo in the not-too distant future. Here, he achieves the rare feat of demonstrating exactly how to emulate your heroes without becoming overawed in the process.

Artist: Leyland Kirby, Album: Breaks My Heart Each Time, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "The Apollo label, home of brave ventures into ambience since the early 1990s, has housed such a prodigious array of talent that calling it a "subdivision" of parent label R&S almost feels like an insult. It's a sentiment James Leyland Kirby would no doubt agree with, as he sheds various aliases (V/Vm, the Caretaker, and the Stranger among many others) to head out under his own name for his debut EP for the imprint. Kirby often borrows liberally from other sources, so here he aligns those impulses with his surroundings by revisiting sounds that mirror the earlier Apollo releases, giving acres of space to tinny drum machines and soft synth lines that echo into eternity. Anyone familiar with Apollo releases such as Biosphere's Microgravity or even Aphex Twin's Selected Ambient Works 85-92 should find a warm glow of familiarity overcoming them on a cursory glance at Breaks My Heart Each Time. Kirby's known for his adept way of flitting through contrasting styles, tying on various genres as if he was trying on a new coat or hat. Crucially, he's a picky dresser, and one with a depth of knowledge and intuitive feel for the musical worlds he immerses himself in. There's not always a logical pattern to the paths he chooses, but occasionally there's something resembling a handoff between one record to the next, forming subtle links between his creations. The title track of this release peeks out from behind a blanket of fuzz that feels like a distant cousin to his Caretaker work, although its innards are remarkably different. Here, Kirby plays with elegance and antagonism, the former represented by sheets of drifting synth, and the latter emerging in the piston-like machinery stamped across its surface. Working in contrasts is something of a theme for Kirby—his V/VM output skewered bland pop on a spike, while his Caretaker releases find light and dark impulses running through the grooves of scratchy old 78rpm records. His explorations here aren't so different, with the minimal beauty of "Diminishing Emotion" picking up an undercurrent of isolationist fear as it slowly unravels. Breaks My Heart also deals in pure thrills. "Staring Down the Sun" is a dysfunctional club banger that expertly captures the feel of nascent computer music, resembling a paean to the trials and tribulations of running Cubase on Windows 95, its manic race to the finish resembling the panicked wait to see if a save button's progress bar can beat out a blue-screen meltdown. "Last Ditch Legacy" is similar, but more joyous in execution, skirting closer to the sunnier outlook of Mixmaster Morris's work for Apollo. Where Kirby succeeds on Breaks My Heart is by digging in hard to the era he's sourcing. He's working with a familiar sound palette here, but it's more than simple tribute fare—there's a feel for the duality of emotions that runs through that early Apollo work, whether it’s in the mixture of playfulness and sensitivity that runs through Ambient Works 85-92, or in the way something like "Stella's Cry" by Jam & Spoon set up an optimistic buffer to the darker ambient dreams of a track like "Cloudwalker II" by Biosphere. There's a sense of care and affinity here, of someone playing around with material that clearly means a lot to them. Naturally, Kirby’s already moved on, prepping another volume of his Intrigue & Stuff series and plotting a full-length release for Apollo in the not-too distant future. Here, he achieves the rare feat of demonstrating exactly how to emulate your heroes without becoming overawed in the process."

Terry Callier

'Fire on Ice' and 'Turn You to Love'

Pop/R&B

Andy Beta

Two friends are walking around in Brooklyn, trying to figure out where to eat: "What about Tempehest?" says one. "Eh, I heard the food's not that good," the other replies. "Yeah," responds the first, "but the DJ is really great!" As DJ and vinyl culture has infiltrated nearly as many facets of social interaction as Clear Channel, so has it also traveled into the past through the feverish groove consumption to bring forth crates of obscure beats lost to time. And because of such investigation through the dust of record bins, figures that would have been written off to the times-- folks like Les McCann, Ananda Shankar, Idris Muhammad, or even Liquid Liquid-- have gained a renaissance back to sunlit brunch patios. One of the more curious unearthings was of Chicago singer/songwriter Terry Callier. Arising out of the coffeehouse scene in the early 60s, sporting a cloth hat, beard, and acoustic guitar, he found his way into the studios at Chess and Cadet, cutting three infinite-Saturday-afternoon-in-bed albums with producer Charles Stepney, himself famous for the pink laser light that was Minnie Riperton. Before getting lost a the mix of label mergers and lay-offs in the late 70s, Callier shot up a few warning flares through the oncoming haze of disco and R&B;, as his career began to go awry. Fire on Ice, from 1978, sputters on so many levels that it's hard to isolate just where things misfire. Is it the heavy-hand of producer Richard Evans, slathering saccharine strings over the funkier charts of jazz players like Eddie Harris and Phil Upchurch? Or is it the extraneous girl choruses fogging over Callier's own smoky, syrup-smooth voice? While it still conveys that gusty Chicago soul, cooing smoothly yet capable of dropping into a guttural growl, it barely salves the pat symbolism and synthesized schmaltz of "Butterfly" and "African Violet". But even his talents can't escape the foreboding gravity of club kickdrums that had penetrated every genre by that time. With a weighty title neither the Bee-Gees nor Walter Gibbons could possibly have upheld, "Disco in the Sky" cringes as it crashes, Icarus-like, unable to commit fully to disco or focus on the strummed acoustic guitar, forcing Callier, for some reason, to call out to Hendrix and Lorelei in the middle of the song. More than anything else, it's the songwriting of Terry Callier and partner Larry Wade that mars the whole affair, the lyrics too flimsy to do his voice justice, much less bear the bloated arrangements. Judging from the cover of Turn You to Love, Elektra's marketing focus was ratcheted up a notch the following year, recasting Terry Callier as ladies' man, with two tight bitties on the cover, and the man sizing up booties on the back, ready to mack. There's even social commentary and talk of how much his mother loves him. Sliding across the nasty electro bass, Callier's two-textured throat trembles with warmth on "Sign of the Times" and cools with the Egyptian cotton button-down of "Pyramids of Love". That leads into the satiny rustle of the title track, proving that he could've been a distinct R&B; personality had the breaks gone his way, albeit one more like Leon Ware than Jeffrey Osborne. The difference here is not in the studio gloss (though it is glaringly polished), but in the songs that Callier's sharp threads hang from. His cover of Steely Dan's "Do It Again", while missing the drugged groove and electric sitar solo, has portions of the Bard-ian verses to brighten with assloads of brass (including Fred Wesley) and a set of pipes that neither Becker nor Fagan could've ever exhaled. And in addition to a Smokey Robinson cover, Callier redresses two old classics, "Ordinary Joe" and "Occasional Rain". The former, already perfect as pop, gets too heavy a makeover, but the latter retains the gentle grace of the original, the gradual touch of other instruments never overwhelming Callier's singular voice and guitar playing. It's not the best way to turn you on to the excellent soul of Callier's past heights, when his best records could nearly be mentioned in the same sentence as the early works of Curtis Mayfield and Marvin Gaye, but there are traces of his voice that still linger on here. It can be worth a taste, but it does put an overwhelming slick of soft R&B; on your tongue all the way down.

Artist: Terry Callier, Album: 'Fire on Ice' and 'Turn You to Love', Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.5 Album review: "Two friends are walking around in Brooklyn, trying to figure out where to eat: "What about Tempehest?" says one. "Eh, I heard the food's not that good," the other replies. "Yeah," responds the first, "but the DJ is really great!" As DJ and vinyl culture has infiltrated nearly as many facets of social interaction as Clear Channel, so has it also traveled into the past through the feverish groove consumption to bring forth crates of obscure beats lost to time. And because of such investigation through the dust of record bins, figures that would have been written off to the times-- folks like Les McCann, Ananda Shankar, Idris Muhammad, or even Liquid Liquid-- have gained a renaissance back to sunlit brunch patios. One of the more curious unearthings was of Chicago singer/songwriter Terry Callier. Arising out of the coffeehouse scene in the early 60s, sporting a cloth hat, beard, and acoustic guitar, he found his way into the studios at Chess and Cadet, cutting three infinite-Saturday-afternoon-in-bed albums with producer Charles Stepney, himself famous for the pink laser light that was Minnie Riperton. Before getting lost a the mix of label mergers and lay-offs in the late 70s, Callier shot up a few warning flares through the oncoming haze of disco and R&B;, as his career began to go awry. Fire on Ice, from 1978, sputters on so many levels that it's hard to isolate just where things misfire. Is it the heavy-hand of producer Richard Evans, slathering saccharine strings over the funkier charts of jazz players like Eddie Harris and Phil Upchurch? Or is it the extraneous girl choruses fogging over Callier's own smoky, syrup-smooth voice? While it still conveys that gusty Chicago soul, cooing smoothly yet capable of dropping into a guttural growl, it barely salves the pat symbolism and synthesized schmaltz of "Butterfly" and "African Violet". But even his talents can't escape the foreboding gravity of club kickdrums that had penetrated every genre by that time. With a weighty title neither the Bee-Gees nor Walter Gibbons could possibly have upheld, "Disco in the Sky" cringes as it crashes, Icarus-like, unable to commit fully to disco or focus on the strummed acoustic guitar, forcing Callier, for some reason, to call out to Hendrix and Lorelei in the middle of the song. More than anything else, it's the songwriting of Terry Callier and partner Larry Wade that mars the whole affair, the lyrics too flimsy to do his voice justice, much less bear the bloated arrangements. Judging from the cover of Turn You to Love, Elektra's marketing focus was ratcheted up a notch the following year, recasting Terry Callier as ladies' man, with two tight bitties on the cover, and the man sizing up booties on the back, ready to mack. There's even social commentary and talk of how much his mother loves him. Sliding across the nasty electro bass, Callier's two-textured throat trembles with warmth on "Sign of the Times" and cools with the Egyptian cotton button-down of "Pyramids of Love". That leads into the satiny rustle of the title track, proving that he could've been a distinct R&B; personality had the breaks gone his way, albeit one more like Leon Ware than Jeffrey Osborne. The difference here is not in the studio gloss (though it is glaringly polished), but in the songs that Callier's sharp threads hang from. His cover of Steely Dan's "Do It Again", while missing the drugged groove and electric sitar solo, has portions of the Bard-ian verses to brighten with assloads of brass (including Fred Wesley) and a set of pipes that neither Becker nor Fagan could've ever exhaled. And in addition to a Smokey Robinson cover, Callier redresses two old classics, "Ordinary Joe" and "Occasional Rain". The former, already perfect as pop, gets too heavy a makeover, but the latter retains the gentle grace of the original, the gradual touch of other instruments never overwhelming Callier's singular voice and guitar playing. It's not the best way to turn you on to the excellent soul of Callier's past heights, when his best records could nearly be mentioned in the same sentence as the early works of Curtis Mayfield and Marvin Gaye, but there are traces of his voice that still linger on here. It can be worth a taste, but it does put an overwhelming slick of soft R&B; on your tongue all the way down."

Jenny Toomey

Tempting: Jenny Toomey Sings the Songs of Franklin Bruno

Rock

William Bowers

Gender coincidence: What a butt-weird year it's been for the women, as they celebrate eighty-odd years of the right to vote in this land of liberati. Cat Power's You Are Free could lullabotomize a speed freak, Lisa Germano's new ferris wheel warns that you must be over thirty to ride, and Karen O's Yeah Yeah Yeahs crosswired all anticipation by releasing the year's best singles collection masquerading as an album. The finer offerings from the speculum-prone have been the results of collaborative efforts (Ms. John Soda, The Majesticons, The New Pornographers, Adult., Fruit Bats), which sent me digging through last year's while-we-were-out promo stack in search of a grrl who could strr my leftover soul. And even the crème of that plastic slurry is a disc on which a female salvages the work of a sub-pop patriarch. Shrimper and Inland empiricist Franklin Bruno is best unknown for his solo heapings, or for his work as one half of The Extra Glenns with The Mountain Goats' John Darnielle, or as the frontman for the ill-recorded Nothing Painted Blue. He's a clever sod, often to a fault, as his songs build to rhymes/puns of which the listener detects he is all too proud. So he occasionally comes across as a neurotic talent, like that guy who has to do a bicycle trick on every corner. Bruno's covers, though, are reverent; consult his sweet take on "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" Jenny Toomey ran the Simple Machines label and (among other bands) led the agitprop outfit Tsunami, a group that indie traffickers felt bound to like, despite its nigh-monochromatic slogan-lyrics. Toomey's recent activist role is as the executive director of the Future of Music Coalition, which wages a noble losing battle against the megamedia casseroles who will insure that your children burn the Dixie Chicks' children at the stake, with help from, say, Coke, which will by then be called Water and will be pumped into Americans at birth to ensure that they're on schedule for their Puberty/Insulin implants at thirteen. Tempting seamlessly melds the strengths of Toomey and Bruno while tempering their indulgences. Toomey's voice is a brash and sensitive weapon with a deep trill that can suggest a cabaret where the armpit hair is off the hook (okay, a drag Scott Walker), but it also retains a humble twang (and on-key warble) reminiscent of elastic crooners such as Iris Dement or Jimmie Dale Gilmore. Bruno's songcrafting chops deserve the flesh-out they receive not only from Toomey's careful inflections, but from the arrangements of the eleven terrific musicians involved. You won't make it through opener "Your Inarticulate Boyfriend" without noting some scariachi that is particularly Calexican: yup, Joey Burns and John Convertino are in the house. Bruno himself contributes elegant guitar and piano so convincingly that one wonders why he ever dicked around with power-pop, while Amy Domingues multitasks on castanets, organ, cello, and bass. About that opener: it is so damn funny, about an intellectually hierarchical bond in which one partner "holds up both ends of the conversation." The majority of the songs present relationshippery as a surrender brimming with risk and "martyrdom" and compromise, but couply togetherness remains an irresistible proposition. "Cheat", for example, is a gorgeous plea for a rendezvous reeking of ethical abandon. "Only a Monster" concludes: "I wouldn't be frightened if you were a monster/ But you're only human and that's even worse." "Pointless Triangle" uses a Ouija board to negotiate a tryst, with a great line about the almost psychotic exclusivity that emerges in intense courtship: the speaker confesses that "the small of your back" is where "the weight of the world" lies. Politiquing surfaces on "Masonic Eye", which asks its object of desire, "Will it take a war between the classes/ To get you to digest what you consume?" And "Unionbusting" presents a long affair as parallel to failed labor negotiations. The western swing vibe expands endearingly to bossa nova at points on the record, with only the resolute defeatist anthem "Every Little Bit Hurts" threatening to Sheryl Crowify itself and "Let's Stay In" sounding so showtuney that the listener hurls sugar substitute. The rest of Tempting showcases the good kind of vomit-inducing beauty. Hell, "Empty Sentiment" could open an existential sitcom, maybe with Kirk Cameron as Dad this time. Toomey's choice of tributizing Bruno's sap-alog is ten times more effective than releasing an album about Clear Channel or RIAA rape. In this era of automatonic uncuriosity and assent, being humane and compassionate is almost radical. Tempting makes me want to do something as definitively ho-hum as have kids, even if they're going to be wiped out by a cancer wave or fried by a homeless genius with nuclear roller skates. I hope she loves that, even as an activist in a time of abominable transgressions, she made a "love" album, because (sniff) love is real. The guilt in these songs is, too. You know this if you ever saw a documentary about Palestinian rubble, but stayed transfixed by your date's fantastic hands.

Artist: Jenny Toomey, Album: Tempting: Jenny Toomey Sings the Songs of Franklin Bruno, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Gender coincidence: What a butt-weird year it's been for the women, as they celebrate eighty-odd years of the right to vote in this land of liberati. Cat Power's You Are Free could lullabotomize a speed freak, Lisa Germano's new ferris wheel warns that you must be over thirty to ride, and Karen O's Yeah Yeah Yeahs crosswired all anticipation by releasing the year's best singles collection masquerading as an album. The finer offerings from the speculum-prone have been the results of collaborative efforts (Ms. John Soda, The Majesticons, The New Pornographers, Adult., Fruit Bats), which sent me digging through last year's while-we-were-out promo stack in search of a grrl who could strr my leftover soul. And even the crème of that plastic slurry is a disc on which a female salvages the work of a sub-pop patriarch. Shrimper and Inland empiricist Franklin Bruno is best unknown for his solo heapings, or for his work as one half of The Extra Glenns with The Mountain Goats' John Darnielle, or as the frontman for the ill-recorded Nothing Painted Blue. He's a clever sod, often to a fault, as his songs build to rhymes/puns of which the listener detects he is all too proud. So he occasionally comes across as a neurotic talent, like that guy who has to do a bicycle trick on every corner. Bruno's covers, though, are reverent; consult his sweet take on "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" Jenny Toomey ran the Simple Machines label and (among other bands) led the agitprop outfit Tsunami, a group that indie traffickers felt bound to like, despite its nigh-monochromatic slogan-lyrics. Toomey's recent activist role is as the executive director of the Future of Music Coalition, which wages a noble losing battle against the megamedia casseroles who will insure that your children burn the Dixie Chicks' children at the stake, with help from, say, Coke, which will by then be called Water and will be pumped into Americans at birth to ensure that they're on schedule for their Puberty/Insulin implants at thirteen. Tempting seamlessly melds the strengths of Toomey and Bruno while tempering their indulgences. Toomey's voice is a brash and sensitive weapon with a deep trill that can suggest a cabaret where the armpit hair is off the hook (okay, a drag Scott Walker), but it also retains a humble twang (and on-key warble) reminiscent of elastic crooners such as Iris Dement or Jimmie Dale Gilmore. Bruno's songcrafting chops deserve the flesh-out they receive not only from Toomey's careful inflections, but from the arrangements of the eleven terrific musicians involved. You won't make it through opener "Your Inarticulate Boyfriend" without noting some scariachi that is particularly Calexican: yup, Joey Burns and John Convertino are in the house. Bruno himself contributes elegant guitar and piano so convincingly that one wonders why he ever dicked around with power-pop, while Amy Domingues multitasks on castanets, organ, cello, and bass. About that opener: it is so damn funny, about an intellectually hierarchical bond in which one partner "holds up both ends of the conversation." The majority of the songs present relationshippery as a surrender brimming with risk and "martyrdom" and compromise, but couply togetherness remains an irresistible proposition. "Cheat", for example, is a gorgeous plea for a rendezvous reeking of ethical abandon. "Only a Monster" concludes: "I wouldn't be frightened if you were a monster/ But you're only human and that's even worse." "Pointless Triangle" uses a Ouija board to negotiate a tryst, with a great line about the almost psychotic exclusivity that emerges in intense courtship: the speaker confesses that "the small of your back" is where "the weight of the world" lies. Politiquing surfaces on "Masonic Eye", which asks its object of desire, "Will it take a war between the classes/ To get you to digest what you consume?" And "Unionbusting" presents a long affair as parallel to failed labor negotiations. The western swing vibe expands endearingly to bossa nova at points on the record, with only the resolute defeatist anthem "Every Little Bit Hurts" threatening to Sheryl Crowify itself and "Let's Stay In" sounding so showtuney that the listener hurls sugar substitute. The rest of Tempting showcases the good kind of vomit-inducing beauty. Hell, "Empty Sentiment" could open an existential sitcom, maybe with Kirk Cameron as Dad this time. Toomey's choice of tributizing Bruno's sap-alog is ten times more effective than releasing an album about Clear Channel or RIAA rape. In this era of automatonic uncuriosity and assent, being humane and compassionate is almost radical. Tempting makes me want to do something as definitively ho-hum as have kids, even if they're going to be wiped out by a cancer wave or fried by a homeless genius with nuclear roller skates. I hope she loves that, even as an activist in a time of abominable transgressions, she made a "love" album, because (sniff) love is real. The guilt in these songs is, too. You know this if you ever saw a documentary about Palestinian rubble, but stayed transfixed by your date's fantastic hands."

The Strokes

Angles

Rock

Ryan Dombal

The last time we saw the Strokes in a music video they were dead. In the visual for 2006's "You Only Live Once", the quintet wore all white while dark liquid filled the room, leaving them drowned and floating. And if that really had marked the end of the band, few would've been surprised. Their third album, First Impressions of Earth, had them limping, desperately trying to expand the signature sound that looked to be swallowing them up like so much black water. It didn't work. And the Strokes are too cool and too smart to become one of those bands that puts out a record every few years just so fans can sing the oldies back to them, right? So they went away-- to an array of lackluster side projects, to families, to anywhere but the Strokes. As late as November 2009, Julian Casablancas was non-committal on the subject of a fourth Strokes album. "We've been trying to do it for years," he said. "I'm always available and they know that but getting together is tough." Guitarist Nick Valensi went even further: "I'm not even sure we're going to make a fourth album at this point." But still, here we are with Angles, not a roaring comeback as much as a glorified spit-balling session. The album attempts to rebuild the band from the ground up. Whereas Casablancas had previously written nearly every part of the group's songs including guitar solos and basslines, he steps back on Angles, which features songs from other members. And this revised process is evident in the credits: "All Music Written and Arranged by the Strokes." Casablancas called the new way "Operation Make Everyone Satisfied," which sounds condescending enough. And while the more democratic move may seem generous, the singer threw his clout around by separating himself from the rest of the recording process and sending his vocals to the band via electronic files. And the album's oddly collaborative origins are evidenced in both its scatter-shot diversity and its lurching fragmentation. With its sprightly, dueling fret work and familiar, cascading chorus, first single "Under Cover of Darkness" hinted that the Strokes had come to terms with being the Strokes-- after dalliances with other styles and sounds, they seemed content with a revival in their own image. But, for better and (mostly) worse, that is not the case. Though this band was routinely slapped with claims of 1970s plagiarism upon their arrival, it's unlikely that many people have ever mistaken a Strokes song for one by Lou Reed or Television. So it's ironic that their mimicry can be uncanny on Angles. But traces of scummy CBGB punk are sometimes replaced with big-snare 1980s flash. "Two Kinds of Happiness" pilfers one-time tour mate Tom Petty for the palm-muted and hiccup-phrased verse before ramping things up in a whooshing vintage-U2 hook. And "Games" is another 80s throwback, utilizing crystalline synths and distant hand claps to help prove its dour and strained point about "living in an empty world." Opener "Machu Picchu" recalls "Down Under" dudes Men at Work. These are not the expected influences for a Strokes album. Which would be fine-- great, even-- if they were carried through with anything resembling charm or commitment. Throughout, the album is hobbled by disconnections-- between verse and chorus, lyrics and music, intent and execution. Casablancas' ambivalence about his own actions crops up often. On the ugly prog wannabe "Metabolism" he declares, "I wanna be outrageous/ But inside I know I'm plain." Disjointed closer "Life Is Simple in the Moonlight" has him confessing, "There's no one I disapprove of or root for more for than myself." And while the singer's singed self-loathing was present in the Strokes from the beginning, it was always tempered with music that provided some uplift. But on the sad-eyed and drum-less "Call Me Back", he's left to moan about how "no one has the time, someone's always late" against a single guitar and ethereal keyboard. Listening to the track, it's pretty easy to see why people may not be returning his calls. Yet there are still those moments when you remember why it's a good thing that these five guys stayed together. The beatific "Gratisfaction" is so easy-going and straightforward in its Thin Lizzy-meets-Billy Joel strut that it immediately rushes past nearly every other song here in the race for greatest hits-dom. Even better is "Taken For a Fool", which is the only track on Angles to really offer something refreshing while also sticking with That Strokes Sound. The song's verse is air-tight and bizarrely funky like some lost tape from David Bowie's Lodger, while the hook relieves the syncopation with to-the-point brashness. Talking about his general sonic goals in 2009, Casablancas said, "The ideal for me is to get really out there but have it go full circle and sound pretty normal." It's a worthwhile aim, and "Taken For a Fool" nails it. As news about the Strokes' shaky resurgence has continued to flow over the last few months, two of the group's contemporaries chose to bow out. The White Stripes-- who faced off against the Strokes in a friendly Coolest Band Alive competition for a few years in the early aughts-- officially broke up after a hiatus on February 2 in order to "preserve what is beautiful and special about the band and have it stay that way." Meanwhile, fellow wry New Yorkers LCD Soundsystem will wrap up their run April 2 at Madison Square Garden. As it happens, that's just one day after the Strokes will play the same venue to kick-start their second life. Everybody wants to quit while they're ahead. Some actually do it.

Artist: The Strokes, Album: Angles, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "The last time we saw the Strokes in a music video they were dead. In the visual for 2006's "You Only Live Once", the quintet wore all white while dark liquid filled the room, leaving them drowned and floating. And if that really had marked the end of the band, few would've been surprised. Their third album, First Impressions of Earth, had them limping, desperately trying to expand the signature sound that looked to be swallowing them up like so much black water. It didn't work. And the Strokes are too cool and too smart to become one of those bands that puts out a record every few years just so fans can sing the oldies back to them, right? So they went away-- to an array of lackluster side projects, to families, to anywhere but the Strokes. As late as November 2009, Julian Casablancas was non-committal on the subject of a fourth Strokes album. "We've been trying to do it for years," he said. "I'm always available and they know that but getting together is tough." Guitarist Nick Valensi went even further: "I'm not even sure we're going to make a fourth album at this point." But still, here we are with Angles, not a roaring comeback as much as a glorified spit-balling session. The album attempts to rebuild the band from the ground up. Whereas Casablancas had previously written nearly every part of the group's songs including guitar solos and basslines, he steps back on Angles, which features songs from other members. And this revised process is evident in the credits: "All Music Written and Arranged by the Strokes." Casablancas called the new way "Operation Make Everyone Satisfied," which sounds condescending enough. And while the more democratic move may seem generous, the singer threw his clout around by separating himself from the rest of the recording process and sending his vocals to the band via electronic files. And the album's oddly collaborative origins are evidenced in both its scatter-shot diversity and its lurching fragmentation. With its sprightly, dueling fret work and familiar, cascading chorus, first single "Under Cover of Darkness" hinted that the Strokes had come to terms with being the Strokes-- after dalliances with other styles and sounds, they seemed content with a revival in their own image. But, for better and (mostly) worse, that is not the case. Though this band was routinely slapped with claims of 1970s plagiarism upon their arrival, it's unlikely that many people have ever mistaken a Strokes song for one by Lou Reed or Television. So it's ironic that their mimicry can be uncanny on Angles. But traces of scummy CBGB punk are sometimes replaced with big-snare 1980s flash. "Two Kinds of Happiness" pilfers one-time tour mate Tom Petty for the palm-muted and hiccup-phrased verse before ramping things up in a whooshing vintage-U2 hook. And "Games" is another 80s throwback, utilizing crystalline synths and distant hand claps to help prove its dour and strained point about "living in an empty world." Opener "Machu Picchu" recalls "Down Under" dudes Men at Work. These are not the expected influences for a Strokes album. Which would be fine-- great, even-- if they were carried through with anything resembling charm or commitment. Throughout, the album is hobbled by disconnections-- between verse and chorus, lyrics and music, intent and execution. Casablancas' ambivalence about his own actions crops up often. On the ugly prog wannabe "Metabolism" he declares, "I wanna be outrageous/ But inside I know I'm plain." Disjointed closer "Life Is Simple in the Moonlight" has him confessing, "There's no one I disapprove of or root for more for than myself." And while the singer's singed self-loathing was present in the Strokes from the beginning, it was always tempered with music that provided some uplift. But on the sad-eyed and drum-less "Call Me Back", he's left to moan about how "no one has the time, someone's always late" against a single guitar and ethereal keyboard. Listening to the track, it's pretty easy to see why people may not be returning his calls. Yet there are still those moments when you remember why it's a good thing that these five guys stayed together. The beatific "Gratisfaction" is so easy-going and straightforward in its Thin Lizzy-meets-Billy Joel strut that it immediately rushes past nearly every other song here in the race for greatest hits-dom. Even better is "Taken For a Fool", which is the only track on Angles to really offer something refreshing while also sticking with That Strokes Sound. The song's verse is air-tight and bizarrely funky like some lost tape from David Bowie's Lodger, while the hook relieves the syncopation with to-the-point brashness. Talking about his general sonic goals in 2009, Casablancas said, "The ideal for me is to get really out there but have it go full circle and sound pretty normal." It's a worthwhile aim, and "Taken For a Fool" nails it. As news about the Strokes' shaky resurgence has continued to flow over the last few months, two of the group's contemporaries chose to bow out. The White Stripes-- who faced off against the Strokes in a friendly Coolest Band Alive competition for a few years in the early aughts-- officially broke up after a hiatus on February 2 in order to "preserve what is beautiful and special about the band and have it stay that way." Meanwhile, fellow wry New Yorkers LCD Soundsystem will wrap up their run April 2 at Madison Square Garden. As it happens, that's just one day after the Strokes will play the same venue to kick-start their second life. Everybody wants to quit while they're ahead. Some actually do it."

The Unicorns

Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone?

Experimental,Rock

Eric Carr

Pop music gets off way too easily; so long as groups stick to only the sweetest melodies, throw in a couple of ba-ba-buh's and sing about how Stacey's mom "has got it goin' on," or some other such timeless verse, they're valued as somehow above the fray. It seems even the most venomous rock elitists can be defanged by a few simple hooks, turned endlessly forgiving by some easy harmonies. If Stalin himself had ruled with less of an iron fist and more Beach Boys-style harmonies, he might be remembered as much for his keen songwriting chops as for the wholesale slaughter of millions of his own people; such is the inexplicably titanic redemptive power of pop. That self-same blinding power is also why it takes a band as innovative as The Unicorns to throw the complacencies of pop into stark relief, to finally hold it accountable for such casual abuses. When it's so easy for bands to stay behind the indie-pop curve that you'd think someone's handing out ice cream back there, The Unicorns are ahead. In fact, they're so far ahead that superficial distinction becomes virtually unnecessary; they're striking at the most fundamental structure of the pop song itself. Without scrutiny, Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone?, their debut album for the otherwise experimental Canadian label Alien8, can pass for the same sort of sugar-glazed jangle-pop that's been done to death, but has nevertheless been beloved for years in indie circles; all the elements I just derided are present in abundance, right down to a rare few instances of smarmy lyrics. The band traffics in the occasional oooh's and aaah's, and relies on retro-basic keyboards for the requisite flourish above and beyond the standard guitar fuzz. And yet, The Unicorns toe the line of bedroom intimacy and heart-swelling wonder as perfectly as any of the modern masters of the form. In that sense, they rival The Shins, or The Magnetic Fields, or any of the innumerable indie touchstones, but what truly sets Who Will Cut Our Hair apart is the near-total absence of traditional verse/chorus/verse framework in their songs; to nail beautiful, memorable lines with such remarkable ease is a feat unto itself, but to do so in essentially formless compositions is a different class of achievement entirely. Songs shift effortlessly from segment to segment, never relying upon the crutch of repetitive composition to create the illusion of a powerful hook. That's not to say that motifs aren't revisited throughout a song, but elementary concepts of A-B-A structure are abandoned in favor of brilliant, sprawling whole-song compositions. These days, when "epic" describes a line at the bank, it doesn't seem adequate to describe the scope of some of these tunes, but it'll have to suffice. "Jellybones" is a titanic wreck of styles and forms, offering glimpses of hooks that would serve other bands as whole songs like so many kittens; "Tuff Ghost" builds around two simple rhythmic shifts and never looks back, burning through a dozen variations of the song's central keyboard line. And the intricate plucking to open "I Was Born (A Unicorn)" gives way to a bizarre fiction: "I was born a unicorn/ I missed the ark, but I could've sworn/ You'd wait for me," then, "So how come all the other unicorns are dead?" This hilariously morbid variation on a typical theme of loss or abandonment is par for the course on Who Will Cut Our Hair, exemplifying how The Unicorns continually and effortlessly sap the drama from rock's favorite, most maudlin topics, and transform them into simple, charming, light-hearted fun. It's a big part of what separates them from all those careerist indie rockers getting by on everyday hooks and affected disinterest; even at their goofiest, The Unicorns' level of comfort with their material-- and the obvious confidence that engenders-- makes it all seem totally natural and new.

Artist: The Unicorns, Album: Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone?, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.9 Album review: "Pop music gets off way too easily; so long as groups stick to only the sweetest melodies, throw in a couple of ba-ba-buh's and sing about how Stacey's mom "has got it goin' on," or some other such timeless verse, they're valued as somehow above the fray. It seems even the most venomous rock elitists can be defanged by a few simple hooks, turned endlessly forgiving by some easy harmonies. If Stalin himself had ruled with less of an iron fist and more Beach Boys-style harmonies, he might be remembered as much for his keen songwriting chops as for the wholesale slaughter of millions of his own people; such is the inexplicably titanic redemptive power of pop. That self-same blinding power is also why it takes a band as innovative as The Unicorns to throw the complacencies of pop into stark relief, to finally hold it accountable for such casual abuses. When it's so easy for bands to stay behind the indie-pop curve that you'd think someone's handing out ice cream back there, The Unicorns are ahead. In fact, they're so far ahead that superficial distinction becomes virtually unnecessary; they're striking at the most fundamental structure of the pop song itself. Without scrutiny, Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone?, their debut album for the otherwise experimental Canadian label Alien8, can pass for the same sort of sugar-glazed jangle-pop that's been done to death, but has nevertheless been beloved for years in indie circles; all the elements I just derided are present in abundance, right down to a rare few instances of smarmy lyrics. The band traffics in the occasional oooh's and aaah's, and relies on retro-basic keyboards for the requisite flourish above and beyond the standard guitar fuzz. And yet, The Unicorns toe the line of bedroom intimacy and heart-swelling wonder as perfectly as any of the modern masters of the form. In that sense, they rival The Shins, or The Magnetic Fields, or any of the innumerable indie touchstones, but what truly sets Who Will Cut Our Hair apart is the near-total absence of traditional verse/chorus/verse framework in their songs; to nail beautiful, memorable lines with such remarkable ease is a feat unto itself, but to do so in essentially formless compositions is a different class of achievement entirely. Songs shift effortlessly from segment to segment, never relying upon the crutch of repetitive composition to create the illusion of a powerful hook. That's not to say that motifs aren't revisited throughout a song, but elementary concepts of A-B-A structure are abandoned in favor of brilliant, sprawling whole-song compositions. These days, when "epic" describes a line at the bank, it doesn't seem adequate to describe the scope of some of these tunes, but it'll have to suffice. "Jellybones" is a titanic wreck of styles and forms, offering glimpses of hooks that would serve other bands as whole songs like so many kittens; "Tuff Ghost" builds around two simple rhythmic shifts and never looks back, burning through a dozen variations of the song's central keyboard line. And the intricate plucking to open "I Was Born (A Unicorn)" gives way to a bizarre fiction: "I was born a unicorn/ I missed the ark, but I could've sworn/ You'd wait for me," then, "So how come all the other unicorns are dead?" This hilariously morbid variation on a typical theme of loss or abandonment is par for the course on Who Will Cut Our Hair, exemplifying how The Unicorns continually and effortlessly sap the drama from rock's favorite, most maudlin topics, and transform them into simple, charming, light-hearted fun. It's a big part of what separates them from all those careerist indie rockers getting by on everyday hooks and affected disinterest; even at their goofiest, The Unicorns' level of comfort with their material-- and the obvious confidence that engenders-- makes it all seem totally natural and new."

Arca

Arca

Experimental

Kevin Lozano

This album began long before Alejandro Ghersi became Arca. In the nascent stages of his career, Ghersi made dreamy synth pop songs as a teenager in Venezuela under the name Nuuro. These love sketches, sung in Spanish and English, showcased an upbeat singing voice and brightly colored electronic landscapes redolent of Postal Service or Passion Pit. What he did as Nuuro and what he now does as Arca couldn’t seem any more different. Arca’s sound is one of chaos and contortions, further defined by the unsettling visuals of morphing bodies suspended in space he made with longtime collaborator Jesse Kanda. But when Ghersi debuted his newfound (or perhaps rediscovered) singing voice on Arca, it felt like a wormhole opened up—one that connected his prehistoric past to his visions of the distant future. “Piel,” the first song Arca released from this album, felt shockingly new. He hums at first, intimating the cadence of a bedtime lullaby, easing a listener into the song. Then, seconds later, he sings towards the heavens, and acidic drips of distortion, bass, and chorus rumble in the background. The melody feels worn and romantic, and his voice slinks along to the beat like an old prayer. Finally, the music dissolves into a puddle of oozing beats and jumbled clanks. When you listen to “Piel,” there is no question you’re hearing an Arca song. And when you go searching for the answer to why that is, you keep digging into Ghersi’s timeline, trying to figure out how he could make something that feels so ancient and so otherworldly. The 13-songs on Arca don’t represent an about-face for Ghersi, or even a reinvention. Rather, it imagines what would happen if he intermingled the music of his past (the pop songs he made, the Schumann and Mendelssohn he studied) with the radical noise and boundary-shattering pop he’s invented as Arca. Booming organs, mournful pianos, and classical instrumentation share space with a kaleidoscope of outré production. This juxtaposition is made even more clear by his voice, which proudly wears all of its imperfections: every cough, wheeze, and difficult breath is captured. That he’s using his voice at all is, for Ghersi, an act of time-travelling in itself. He says that his relationship with his voice on this album felt like “communing with [his] teenage self again.” He combines paradoxes and contradictions to create an experience that doesn’t feel like it’s part of our space-time continuum, but a separate universe he’s making on the fly. The discoveries Ghersi makes on Arca allow him to write his most relaxed and intimate songs. His work is still mysterious, but not as opaque—it doesn’t keep you at an arm’s length, instead he offers up his pleasures more readily. Take for example the three-song sequence of “Coraje,” “Whip,” and “Desafío.” “Coraje,” is the album’s simplest song—Ghersi’s take on the piano ballad. The keys plink away as Ghersi searches for notes high and low. He even sounds like he’s crying at one point—moaning and whispering—his delivery becoming more watery as he reaches the finale. Seconds later, on “Whip,” he rips you from this emotional moment with a minute-and-a-half long track that’s mostly just the sound of a bullwhip rapidly moving back and forth. Then, on “Desafío,” he channels all the pop music he’s written for Kanye, FKA twigs, Björk, Kelela, and others into a single point. It’s warm, impossibly catchy, but densely detailed. It begins with the sound of an air raid siren, but then it cracks open, and Arca unleashes this joyous synth melody and airy drums. He sounds at ease, dancing between notes as he talks about the touch of lover feeling like the kiss of death (“Tócame de primera vez/Mátame una y otra vez”—“Touch me first time/Kill me again and again”). It’s as close to a straightforward pop song Ghersi might write under the name Arca, and it’s outstanding. Throughout Arca, Ghersi strings together moments like these, finding beauty in contrast. And it’s not just because there is something dazzling about how different each moment feels from one to the next. There’s something legible, more direct about all of this. Hearing him castigate a lover on “Fugaces” (“¿Por qué me mentiste?”—“Why did you lie to me?”) or just saying something as simple as “I miss you” on “Anoche,” is something Ghersi hasn’t done before. Some of these songs sound like they were delivered as if he was right there in the room with you. Even if he claims many of the lyrics were improvised, there is still a strong intention—he’s reaching out and offering his hand. This close-quarters proximity gives these songs a pulse, a warm human heartbeat that seemed buried in all the noise of his older songs. Ghersi recently revealed that he chose the name Arca because it was an old Spanish word for a “ceremonial container.” Arcas are “empty spaces” that can be filled with meaning. He has never been one to believe in anything as concrete as identity or category, but there is a sense on Arca that he’s looking back at what he’s done in order to reach something else altogether—he’s filling up his box with all the best possible versions of himself: past, present, and future. It’s all for the sake of imagining a world better than the here and now.

Artist: Arca, Album: Arca, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "This album began long before Alejandro Ghersi became Arca. In the nascent stages of his career, Ghersi made dreamy synth pop songs as a teenager in Venezuela under the name Nuuro. These love sketches, sung in Spanish and English, showcased an upbeat singing voice and brightly colored electronic landscapes redolent of Postal Service or Passion Pit. What he did as Nuuro and what he now does as Arca couldn’t seem any more different. Arca’s sound is one of chaos and contortions, further defined by the unsettling visuals of morphing bodies suspended in space he made with longtime collaborator Jesse Kanda. But when Ghersi debuted his newfound (or perhaps rediscovered) singing voice on Arca, it felt like a wormhole opened up—one that connected his prehistoric past to his visions of the distant future. “Piel,” the first song Arca released from this album, felt shockingly new. He hums at first, intimating the cadence of a bedtime lullaby, easing a listener into the song. Then, seconds later, he sings towards the heavens, and acidic drips of distortion, bass, and chorus rumble in the background. The melody feels worn and romantic, and his voice slinks along to the beat like an old prayer. Finally, the music dissolves into a puddle of oozing beats and jumbled clanks. When you listen to “Piel,” there is no question you’re hearing an Arca song. And when you go searching for the answer to why that is, you keep digging into Ghersi’s timeline, trying to figure out how he could make something that feels so ancient and so otherworldly. The 13-songs on Arca don’t represent an about-face for Ghersi, or even a reinvention. Rather, it imagines what would happen if he intermingled the music of his past (the pop songs he made, the Schumann and Mendelssohn he studied) with the radical noise and boundary-shattering pop he’s invented as Arca. Booming organs, mournful pianos, and classical instrumentation share space with a kaleidoscope of outré production. This juxtaposition is made even more clear by his voice, which proudly wears all of its imperfections: every cough, wheeze, and difficult breath is captured. That he’s using his voice at all is, for Ghersi, an act of time-travelling in itself. He says that his relationship with his voice on this album felt like “communing with [his] teenage self again.” He combines paradoxes and contradictions to create an experience that doesn’t feel like it’s part of our space-time continuum, but a separate universe he’s making on the fly. The discoveries Ghersi makes on Arca allow him to write his most relaxed and intimate songs. His work is still mysterious, but not as opaque—it doesn’t keep you at an arm’s length, instead he offers up his pleasures more readily. Take for example the three-song sequence of “Coraje,” “Whip,” and “Desafío.” “Coraje,” is the album’s simplest song—Ghersi’s take on the piano ballad. The keys plink away as Ghersi searches for notes high and low. He even sounds like he’s crying at one point—moaning and whispering—his delivery becoming more watery as he reaches the finale. Seconds later, on “Whip,” he rips you from this emotional moment with a minute-and-a-half long track that’s mostly just the sound of a bullwhip rapidly moving back and forth. Then, on “Desafío,” he channels all the pop music he’s written for Kanye, FKA twigs, Björk, Kelela, and others into a single point. It’s warm, impossibly catchy, but densely detailed. It begins with the sound of an air raid siren, but then it cracks open, and Arca unleashes this joyous synth melody and airy drums. He sounds at ease, dancing between notes as he talks about the touch of lover feeling like the kiss of death (“Tócame de primera vez/Mátame una y otra vez”—“Touch me first time/Kill me again and again”). It’s as close to a straightforward pop song Ghersi might write under the name Arca, and it’s outstanding. Throughout Arca, Ghersi strings together moments like these, finding beauty in contrast. And it’s not just because there is something dazzling about how different each moment feels from one to the next. There’s something legible, more direct about all of this. Hearing him castigate a lover on “Fugaces” (“¿Por qué me mentiste?”—“Why did you lie to me?”) or just saying something as simple as “I miss you” on “Anoche,” is something Ghersi hasn’t done before. Some of these songs sound like they were delivered as if he was right there in the room with you. Even if he claims many of the lyrics were improvised, there is still a strong intention—he’s reaching out and offering his hand. This close-quarters proximity gives these songs a pulse, a warm human heartbeat that seemed buried in all the noise of his older songs. Ghersi recently revealed that he chose the name Arca because it was an old Spanish word for a “ceremonial container.” Arcas are “empty spaces” that can be filled with meaning. He has never been one to believe in anything as concrete as identity or category, but there is a sense on Arca that he’s looking back at what he’s done in order to reach something else altogether—he’s filling up his box with all the best possible versions of himself: past, present, and future. It’s all for the sake of imagining a world better than the here and now."

Manic Street Preachers

Know Your Enemy

Rock

Brendan Reid

THE STATE OF THE WORLD by Brendan Here is what I know about the state of the world: 1. We are rich. 2. There are no wars or anything (real wars, that is). 3. Ummm. Very little continental drift going on (that's probably normal). 4. Somewhere, the president's daughter is "like, totally wasted" right now. There. One minor problem. Otherwise, things are swell. I haven't really researched this much, but if something major was going wrong, I'm sure someone would have told me. So what are these Manic Street Preachers bitching about? They've certainly got as solid a basis for their angst as anyone else. To briefly rehash the requisite facts that every Manics review must by law contain: on the cusp of fame, after courting British stardom for years and releasing the critically acclaimed The Holy Bible, the band's famously unstable lyricist Richey James suddenly and completely disappeared, leaving the band stranded. Although they went on to fulfill all expectations, releasing the huge-selling (in Britain, at least) Everything Must Go and This is My Truth Tell Me Yours as a trio, that's sure to leave some personal issues. As personal as the songs on Know Your Enemy may be, there's always a definite political thread tied up in there, too. Though the band's agenda can get mighty opaque at times, the album feels throughout like some sort of call to arms. And they're not just preaching to the converted. Rather than aiming stylistically at a certain audience, Know Your Enemy finds the Manics attempting to write a protest song in just about every genre. This project, stretched out over 16 tracks and 75 minutes, quickly reaches epic proportions, with an ambition approached only by the magnitude of its flaws. The range of the album makes it difficult to discern where the band's stylistic allegiances really lie. While punked-up anthems like the opening track, "Found That Soul" and "Intravenous Agnostic" make the most immediate impression, the band seems to be at its most sublimely confident in the jangle-pop of tracks like "The Year of Purification" and "Epicentre." Even some of the songs that initially sound like goofs have a core of sincerity. Ignore the sleighbells and "So Why So Sad" sounds like a genuine Beach Boys homage. The ballad "Let Robeson Sing," while flirting with parody in its brazen, throaty admiration, positively drips with honesty, cutting closer to the heart of the band's politics than any other song on the album. Some of the more interesting tracks paste together a number of styles: "Wattsville Blues," with its collage of drum machines, acoustic guitars, organs, and Fall-ish speak-singing, finds the band wearing their influences as prominently and distinctly as their varied politics. The band spreads itself thin, for sure; but, amazingly, it doesn't spread itself too thin. With the exception of an annoying anti-European Union disco number, the music is delivered with energy and ability. The songs aren't uniformly memorable, however, and with the better songs clustered toward the front of the album, the Manics have started repeating themselves by the time "Dead Martyrs" and "His Last Painting" roll around. But what a beginning-- "Found That Soul" distills all of the band's exhortations into a concentrated blast, while "Ocean Spray" takes a more melodic and compassionate approach without losing any of the passion. The excellent trio of "Let Robeson Sing," "The Year of Purification," and "Wattsville Blues" follows two songs later. It's not until "Epicentre" that they reach the same heights. The tracks in between are nothing to trifle with; however, perhaps because of the album's length, they tend to get lost in the shuffle. Of course, the words should be on par with the music in an album like this. Nicky Wire, though he may never live down the "replacement frontman" designation, is fairly well spoken, even at his most vehement. Most of his projectile bile is directed at America ("The Devil's Playground," as it's referred to in "Baby Elian"). While there are moments of clarity, as in the near-narrative anti-McCarthy recountings of Paul Robeson's political activism, most of the invective comes buried under layers of imagery and allusion. Again, however, it's not buried too deep. While the references can get a bit dense ("Little Guernica" contains the line "Alfred J. Prufrock would be proud of me," which might dip a bit too deeply into the Modernist well), it's usually not too difficult to figure out what he's getting at. Even though, in a song like "The Convalescent," I'm not sure what "Brian Warner has a sweet little ass" signifies, the Luddite message comes across in the chorus: "DNA means do not accept." The album's final song, "Freedom of Speech Won't Feed My Child," gives the Manic's benediction in its eponymous chorus, a warning against complacency, self-righteousness, and lax activism. As a statement for the entire album, this works fairly well-- it's provocative, well done, but not quite focused enough to take the listener anywhere in particular. So, the world's fucked up, and these guys can write pretty good songs about it. What am I supposed to do? Like, what about that Bush girl? 'Cause man, she's fucked up.

Artist: Manic Street Preachers, Album: Know Your Enemy, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "THE STATE OF THE WORLD by Brendan Here is what I know about the state of the world: 1. We are rich. 2. There are no wars or anything (real wars, that is). 3. Ummm. Very little continental drift going on (that's probably normal). 4. Somewhere, the president's daughter is "like, totally wasted" right now. There. One minor problem. Otherwise, things are swell. I haven't really researched this much, but if something major was going wrong, I'm sure someone would have told me. So what are these Manic Street Preachers bitching about? They've certainly got as solid a basis for their angst as anyone else. To briefly rehash the requisite facts that every Manics review must by law contain: on the cusp of fame, after courting British stardom for years and releasing the critically acclaimed The Holy Bible, the band's famously unstable lyricist Richey James suddenly and completely disappeared, leaving the band stranded. Although they went on to fulfill all expectations, releasing the huge-selling (in Britain, at least) Everything Must Go and This is My Truth Tell Me Yours as a trio, that's sure to leave some personal issues. As personal as the songs on Know Your Enemy may be, there's always a definite political thread tied up in there, too. Though the band's agenda can get mighty opaque at times, the album feels throughout like some sort of call to arms. And they're not just preaching to the converted. Rather than aiming stylistically at a certain audience, Know Your Enemy finds the Manics attempting to write a protest song in just about every genre. This project, stretched out over 16 tracks and 75 minutes, quickly reaches epic proportions, with an ambition approached only by the magnitude of its flaws. The range of the album makes it difficult to discern where the band's stylistic allegiances really lie. While punked-up anthems like the opening track, "Found That Soul" and "Intravenous Agnostic" make the most immediate impression, the band seems to be at its most sublimely confident in the jangle-pop of tracks like "The Year of Purification" and "Epicentre." Even some of the songs that initially sound like goofs have a core of sincerity. Ignore the sleighbells and "So Why So Sad" sounds like a genuine Beach Boys homage. The ballad "Let Robeson Sing," while flirting with parody in its brazen, throaty admiration, positively drips with honesty, cutting closer to the heart of the band's politics than any other song on the album. Some of the more interesting tracks paste together a number of styles: "Wattsville Blues," with its collage of drum machines, acoustic guitars, organs, and Fall-ish speak-singing, finds the band wearing their influences as prominently and distinctly as their varied politics. The band spreads itself thin, for sure; but, amazingly, it doesn't spread itself too thin. With the exception of an annoying anti-European Union disco number, the music is delivered with energy and ability. The songs aren't uniformly memorable, however, and with the better songs clustered toward the front of the album, the Manics have started repeating themselves by the time "Dead Martyrs" and "His Last Painting" roll around. But what a beginning-- "Found That Soul" distills all of the band's exhortations into a concentrated blast, while "Ocean Spray" takes a more melodic and compassionate approach without losing any of the passion. The excellent trio of "Let Robeson Sing," "The Year of Purification," and "Wattsville Blues" follows two songs later. It's not until "Epicentre" that they reach the same heights. The tracks in between are nothing to trifle with; however, perhaps because of the album's length, they tend to get lost in the shuffle. Of course, the words should be on par with the music in an album like this. Nicky Wire, though he may never live down the "replacement frontman" designation, is fairly well spoken, even at his most vehement. Most of his projectile bile is directed at America ("The Devil's Playground," as it's referred to in "Baby Elian"). While there are moments of clarity, as in the near-narrative anti-McCarthy recountings of Paul Robeson's political activism, most of the invective comes buried under layers of imagery and allusion. Again, however, it's not buried too deep. While the references can get a bit dense ("Little Guernica" contains the line "Alfred J. Prufrock would be proud of me," which might dip a bit too deeply into the Modernist well), it's usually not too difficult to figure out what he's getting at. Even though, in a song like "The Convalescent," I'm not sure what "Brian Warner has a sweet little ass" signifies, the Luddite message comes across in the chorus: "DNA means do not accept." The album's final song, "Freedom of Speech Won't Feed My Child," gives the Manic's benediction in its eponymous chorus, a warning against complacency, self-righteousness, and lax activism. As a statement for the entire album, this works fairly well-- it's provocative, well done, but not quite focused enough to take the listener anywhere in particular. So, the world's fucked up, and these guys can write pretty good songs about it. What am I supposed to do? Like, what about that Bush girl? 'Cause man, she's fucked up."

Soulja Boy

Best to Ever Do It

Rap

Evan Rytlewski

Long before the maligned “mumble rap” claimed the title as the most contentious style of the day, there was ringtone rap, and no artist embodied its market-savvy spirit quite like Soulja Boy. As a 17-year-old, the Batesville, Mississippi rapper parlayed a viral dance into radio ubiquity with the most despised hit of 2007, “Crank That (Soulja Boy),” a catchy pairing of Atlanta snap and chintzy synthesized steel drums. Fleeting as its pleasures were, the song lingered on the radio for an eternity, well after the novelty of its youthful accompanying dance wore off. It was as if some bitter Clear Channel executive had decided to shame the public for taking to the track in the first place by keeping it in rotation as long as possible. “Loathe” isn’t a strong enough word for how the masses felt about Soulja Boy when “Crank That” was at its most inescapable. But the public’s hatred didn’t deter Soulja much; if anything, he fed on it. “I don’t give a fuck, middle finger to the sky,” he responded on his 2008 track “I Know You Hate Me.” He went on to land several much-improved hits, “Kiss Me Through the Phone” and “Pretty Boy Swag” among them, before the laws of gravity took hold and the industry lost interest in him. Even his detractors had to marvel at his resilience. Soulja Boy used his independence as an opportunity to reinvent himself. He befriended Lil B and adopted his process, firing off as much music as possible with no regard for quality control, in the process releasing a few undeniable mixtapes. For a few years in the early-’10s “Soulja Boy is actually good” became a fashionable contrarian take. When Beyoncé paid tribute to Soulja Boy’s most fondly remembered single “Turn My Swag On” on Lemonade, it felt like the culmination of a long redemption story. He was finally appreciated. If only he were able to capitalize on that recent goodwill with some worthwhile new music. His new workmanlike mixtape, Best to Ever Do It, says everything you need to know about why, unless you run in some very esoteric corners of online rap fandom, you probably haven’t heard anybody beat the drum for new Soulja Boy project in quite a while. It’s also a reminder that Soulja Boy never had an original bone in his body. He’s still going about his swagger jacking ways, except now instead of cribbing from OJ Da Juiceman or Doughboyz Cashout he’s looking to fresh blood like Lil Pump, whose boyish cadence he lifts on “Rollie Wrist” and “I Got the Yop on Me,” or Playboi Carti, whose spacey adlibs inform “Pull Up in a Coupe.” He also mimics 21 Savage’s dead-eyed croon on “Mega Star” and does a patronizingly awful impression of Swae Lee’s falsetto on “Cotton Candy.” Even the tape’s one feature, from Lil Uzi Vert soundalike 24Hours, is on-brand by being off-brand. Soulja’s Hamburglar routine would be easier to excuse if he backed up his borrowed styles with some vivid writing, or at least flashes of his old, mischievous spark. There isn’t one verse on the entire tape where he says something revealing or unexpected, or even so much as a single colorful word choice. He prattles on about pots, pans, Phantoms, and Porsches without a lick of conviction, regurgitating tropes instead of spinning them. There was a time when that might have been good enough. Earlier in his career, it was possible to claim a real market share with passable facsimiles of popular sounds, especially if you hustled as enthusiastically as he did. But in the era of abundant free streaming, there’s less demand for knockoffs than ever, and Soulja Boy’s business model has grown outdated.

Artist: Soulja Boy, Album: Best to Ever Do It, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 5.1 Album review: "Long before the maligned “mumble rap” claimed the title as the most contentious style of the day, there was ringtone rap, and no artist embodied its market-savvy spirit quite like Soulja Boy. As a 17-year-old, the Batesville, Mississippi rapper parlayed a viral dance into radio ubiquity with the most despised hit of 2007, “Crank That (Soulja Boy),” a catchy pairing of Atlanta snap and chintzy synthesized steel drums. Fleeting as its pleasures were, the song lingered on the radio for an eternity, well after the novelty of its youthful accompanying dance wore off. It was as if some bitter Clear Channel executive had decided to shame the public for taking to the track in the first place by keeping it in rotation as long as possible. “Loathe” isn’t a strong enough word for how the masses felt about Soulja Boy when “Crank That” was at its most inescapable. But the public’s hatred didn’t deter Soulja much; if anything, he fed on it. “I don’t give a fuck, middle finger to the sky,” he responded on his 2008 track “I Know You Hate Me.” He went on to land several much-improved hits, “Kiss Me Through the Phone” and “Pretty Boy Swag” among them, before the laws of gravity took hold and the industry lost interest in him. Even his detractors had to marvel at his resilience. Soulja Boy used his independence as an opportunity to reinvent himself. He befriended Lil B and adopted his process, firing off as much music as possible with no regard for quality control, in the process releasing a few undeniable mixtapes. For a few years in the early-’10s “Soulja Boy is actually good” became a fashionable contrarian take. When Beyoncé paid tribute to Soulja Boy’s most fondly remembered single “Turn My Swag On” on Lemonade, it felt like the culmination of a long redemption story. He was finally appreciated. If only he were able to capitalize on that recent goodwill with some worthwhile new music. His new workmanlike mixtape, Best to Ever Do It, says everything you need to know about why, unless you run in some very esoteric corners of online rap fandom, you probably haven’t heard anybody beat the drum for new Soulja Boy project in quite a while. It’s also a reminder that Soulja Boy never had an original bone in his body. He’s still going about his swagger jacking ways, except now instead of cribbing from OJ Da Juiceman or Doughboyz Cashout he’s looking to fresh blood like Lil Pump, whose boyish cadence he lifts on “Rollie Wrist” and “I Got the Yop on Me,” or Playboi Carti, whose spacey adlibs inform “Pull Up in a Coupe.” He also mimics 21 Savage’s dead-eyed croon on “Mega Star” and does a patronizingly awful impression of Swae Lee’s falsetto on “Cotton Candy.” Even the tape’s one feature, from Lil Uzi Vert soundalike 24Hours, is on-brand by being off-brand. Soulja’s Hamburglar routine would be easier to excuse if he backed up his borrowed styles with some vivid writing, or at least flashes of his old, mischievous spark. There isn’t one verse on the entire tape where he says something revealing or unexpected, or even so much as a single colorful word choice. He prattles on about pots, pans, Phantoms, and Porsches without a lick of conviction, regurgitating tropes instead of spinning them. There was a time when that might have been good enough. Earlier in his career, it was possible to claim a real market share with passable facsimiles of popular sounds, especially if you hustled as enthusiastically as he did. But in the era of abundant free streaming, there’s less demand for knockoffs than ever, and Soulja Boy’s business model has grown outdated."

Nat Baldwin

In the Hollows

Experimental

Grayson Haver Currin

An upright bass-playing torch singer? The gist of Nat Baldwin’s music is more interesting than his membership in Dirty Projectors, the selling point his name has most often generated for much of the last decade. But by himself, or with any number of high-caliber collaborators, Baldwin is a singer/songwriter who employs his upright bass in much the same way as most people stuck to that tag use a piano, a guitar, or even a cello—to form the musical foundation for tense, impressionistic tunes. His fluttering, agile voice, capable of falsetto crests and valley-deep dives, only adds to the intrigue. As distinct as Baldwin’s approach seems, though, his music has typically fit into predictable indie songwriter circles. The movement of his voice, for instance, recalls that of lead Projector Dave Longstreth, particularly given how Baldwin condenses and stretches syllables during wild rhythmic runs. His light timbre suggests both Andrew Bird and Owen Pallett. In the past, however, he’s been able to veer left of such stylistic kin through impressive atmosphere (the enormous natural reverb that bathed 2008’s Most Valuable Player) or unexpected stylistic changes (the Elliott Carter-conducts-free jazz paroxysm that punctuated 2011’s People Changes). But on his latest, In the Hollows, Baldwin falls far into a quagmire of the expected, not only with vocals that take no new chances but also with a cast of collaborators that, however accomplished, scans like a cliché. Otto Hauser, for instance, is a brilliant percussionist, but his résumé of appearances—Vetiver, Devendra Banhart, Marissa Nadler, Vashti Bunyan—suggests that Baldwin is trying to pigeonhole himself stylistically. And then there’s the three-piece string section, lifted from New York ensemble yMusic, whose members have worked with the National, Bon Iver, Grizzly Bear, and Arcade Fire. Their contributions to In the Hollows sound wonderful, captured in warm, high definition in a proper Rhode Island studio. But this quintet ultimately feels flat and safe, rendering a picture that’s very pretty but remarkably similar to a pleasant watercolor you’d find hanging above the bed in a mid-prized hotel. If you were to read the liner notes for In the Hollows without actually listening to the record, you might assume that the music is fraught with worry, a document of extreme existential awareness given poignant shape. (Baldwin, after all, wrote the bulk of In the Hollows while training for his first marathon, a period that often pits the trainee against his or her own human frailty.) “Light a match to erase a lifetime leading here,” Baldwin offers during “Knockout”, a song that pits eternal perseverance against the fact that few things last very long at all. And on paper, “Cosmos Pose” is a sharp, short examination of the torture we endure to approach some arbitrary idea of perfection: “Sweat it out to make the weight/ Needles stuck in every vein.” But on tape, “Knockout” is practically buoyant, the grimace of the bowed bass and slapped drums lifting into a kind of hollow comfort. Cloying strings extend beneath Baldwin’s vocal, pulling tight like a safety net—which he clearly needs, since he sings the word “fucked” with the hesitation of a teenager cursing in front of parents for the first time. “Cosmos Pose” aims for high drama, with Hauser’s percussion responding to the foreboding call of the bass. Still, Baldwin seems to shrink from the weight of his own words, his voice tempered and tame even as the words he sings reveal crisis after crisis. Time and again, the arrangements and performances here seem to treat their subject matter like familial black sheep, shuddering at the anxieties they propose. “Half My Life” is borne of a nightmare and mid-life despair, but it’s as affable as a Disney score. “The End of the Night”, one of two solo numbers here, sets itself up as the record’s soul-baring centerpiece. But even as Baldwin sings “I don’t know if it’s weakness or strength/ Just know that I need something to go for,” his diction is overly precise and polished, as though he were reading through a written script at a wedding’s dress rehearsal. In the Hollows never feels lived-in, or more generously, part of the reality Baldwin has found and written into these songs. The exception comes with the title cut, the record’s biggest production and the most anomalous and audacious pop anthem of Baldwin’s career. Its words are, again, loaded with feelings—namely, the sense that all the enthusiasms and experiences we collect are simply sideshows during our own march to oblivion—as Baldwin lets his voice break only to pull it together, the strings tracking beneath him like a nervous heartbeat. “Even strides mark my path for the first and last time,” Baldwin sings, his tone a wonderful mess. In this moment of honest, human admission, he flashes above the quotidian company that this record keeps. It’s a riveting flash of inspiration—too brief to renew the album, yes, but good enough to reiterate that the upright bass-playing torch singer remains more than a mere sideman.

Artist: Nat Baldwin, Album: In the Hollows, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 5.7 Album review: "An upright bass-playing torch singer? The gist of Nat Baldwin’s music is more interesting than his membership in Dirty Projectors, the selling point his name has most often generated for much of the last decade. But by himself, or with any number of high-caliber collaborators, Baldwin is a singer/songwriter who employs his upright bass in much the same way as most people stuck to that tag use a piano, a guitar, or even a cello—to form the musical foundation for tense, impressionistic tunes. His fluttering, agile voice, capable of falsetto crests and valley-deep dives, only adds to the intrigue. As distinct as Baldwin’s approach seems, though, his music has typically fit into predictable indie songwriter circles. The movement of his voice, for instance, recalls that of lead Projector Dave Longstreth, particularly given how Baldwin condenses and stretches syllables during wild rhythmic runs. His light timbre suggests both Andrew Bird and Owen Pallett. In the past, however, he’s been able to veer left of such stylistic kin through impressive atmosphere (the enormous natural reverb that bathed 2008’s Most Valuable Player) or unexpected stylistic changes (the Elliott Carter-conducts-free jazz paroxysm that punctuated 2011’s People Changes). But on his latest, In the Hollows, Baldwin falls far into a quagmire of the expected, not only with vocals that take no new chances but also with a cast of collaborators that, however accomplished, scans like a cliché. Otto Hauser, for instance, is a brilliant percussionist, but his résumé of appearances—Vetiver, Devendra Banhart, Marissa Nadler, Vashti Bunyan—suggests that Baldwin is trying to pigeonhole himself stylistically. And then there’s the three-piece string section, lifted from New York ensemble yMusic, whose members have worked with the National, Bon Iver, Grizzly Bear, and Arcade Fire. Their contributions to In the Hollows sound wonderful, captured in warm, high definition in a proper Rhode Island studio. But this quintet ultimately feels flat and safe, rendering a picture that’s very pretty but remarkably similar to a pleasant watercolor you’d find hanging above the bed in a mid-prized hotel. If you were to read the liner notes for In the Hollows without actually listening to the record, you might assume that the music is fraught with worry, a document of extreme existential awareness given poignant shape. (Baldwin, after all, wrote the bulk of In the Hollows while training for his first marathon, a period that often pits the trainee against his or her own human frailty.) “Light a match to erase a lifetime leading here,” Baldwin offers during “Knockout”, a song that pits eternal perseverance against the fact that few things last very long at all. And on paper, “Cosmos Pose” is a sharp, short examination of the torture we endure to approach some arbitrary idea of perfection: “Sweat it out to make the weight/ Needles stuck in every vein.” But on tape, “Knockout” is practically buoyant, the grimace of the bowed bass and slapped drums lifting into a kind of hollow comfort. Cloying strings extend beneath Baldwin’s vocal, pulling tight like a safety net—which he clearly needs, since he sings the word “fucked” with the hesitation of a teenager cursing in front of parents for the first time. “Cosmos Pose” aims for high drama, with Hauser’s percussion responding to the foreboding call of the bass. Still, Baldwin seems to shrink from the weight of his own words, his voice tempered and tame even as the words he sings reveal crisis after crisis. Time and again, the arrangements and performances here seem to treat their subject matter like familial black sheep, shuddering at the anxieties they propose. “Half My Life” is borne of a nightmare and mid-life despair, but it’s as affable as a Disney score. “The End of the Night”, one of two solo numbers here, sets itself up as the record’s soul-baring centerpiece. But even as Baldwin sings “I don’t know if it’s weakness or strength/ Just know that I need something to go for,” his diction is overly precise and polished, as though he were reading through a written script at a wedding’s dress rehearsal. In the Hollows never feels lived-in, or more generously, part of the reality Baldwin has found and written into these songs. The exception comes with the title cut, the record’s biggest production and the most anomalous and audacious pop anthem of Baldwin’s career. Its words are, again, loaded with feelings—namely, the sense that all the enthusiasms and experiences we collect are simply sideshows during our own march to oblivion—as Baldwin lets his voice break only to pull it together, the strings tracking beneath him like a nervous heartbeat. “Even strides mark my path for the first and last time,” Baldwin sings, his tone a wonderful mess. In this moment of honest, human admission, he flashes above the quotidian company that this record keeps. It’s a riveting flash of inspiration—too brief to renew the album, yes, but good enough to reiterate that the upright bass-playing torch singer remains more than a mere sideman."

Dipset

More Than Music, Vol. 1

Rap

Sam Ubl

If, as crew mixtapes go, Dipset's new More Than Music, Vol. 1 is a cut above the typical riffraff, does that mean the Dipset emcee is superior to his counterpart in Ruff Ryders or G-Unit? No, it's a package deal. Even with three-four hitters Cam'ron and LaRon "Juelz Santana" Jones skewing the group average, Dipset has its acknowledged bench players. But with most products of its kind coming off as second-stringer pity parties, More Than Music is generously well apportioned, complete with assiduous rapping, pricey beats, and packaging that wasn't printed on a cousin's Epson. For New York crews, mere proliferation isn't good enough; world domination is more their speed. Dipset has similarly high-minded ambitions, and if you've missed its highfalutin talk of spearheading a new Harlem Renaissance, the title track clarifies: Amid thunder claps, a sermoning voice announces, "In the beginning of this movement, it was all a dream. The passion...the dedication...the persistence...TO ACHIEVE GREATNESS." Talk of movements is hardly cutting edge, but Dipset infuses even its fluffiest shit-talkin' with ungodly energy. To hear the opener's stony, swelling strings is to feel the world shifting beneath your feet. But how much of this is just "Final Countdown" quixotism? Depending on who's blogging, a lot or more. Is Dipset the most galvanizing crew in hip hop, or another peacocking cadre? Yes. All that chest puffing is part of what makes them so gripping. Juelz Santana calls himself "crack in the flesh" and his best tracks make you believe it. Cam specializes in corner talk, but his is a unique breed, full of doublespeak, circular logic, and fantastical imagery. He scampers around boilerplate topics like a jester, abstracting and obstructing like he's too smart to help it. Even those apprenticed to the head honchos are coming up strong. So, cardboard moralists dismiss at will, but Dipset outstrips the species norm by a crosstown block. Above all, Dippers be thuggin' to the sound of Dips-- all razoring strings, airtight beats, and clenched-teeth deliveries. That sound is a shot of stanozolol wherever MTM threatens to wane, which is often enough. Believe it or not, at 67 minutes, the album has some soft spots. But the triumphant opener "Dipset Symphony" is not such a spot. More rag than symphony, the track rides a rickety piano roll while 16's fly by at a frantic clip. (Featuring no fewer than six emcees and the hypeman's bloviating inside of three minutes, it's the album's busiest number.) No one quite steals the show, but Santana christens the melee ("All eyes on the honorable. Who?/ Dipset, back to the grill again. Live at the barbeque."). Among the understudies, J.R. Writer is my frontrunner to crash the big leagues. He takes "You Make Me Say", a bittersweet, 6/8-feel beat from Heatmakerz, and delivers Cam-lean verses in his own, edgier voice ("See you draped in designer wear/ Nice clothes/ Like those?/ I'll take you to buy a pair/ Where? That's Paris to Milan/ Fill your bag up with Vuitton/ You the baddest and the bomb/ Understand, I'm a rapper with some charm/ Don't worry 'bout the little groupies grabbing on my arm"). Close behind Writer may be recent Dipset newie (and charter female member) Jha Jha. She spits on the immaculate "So Gangsta", which samples Aalon Butler's 1977 semi-classic "Rock and Roll Gangster". Unlike, say, Three 6 Mafia's Gangsta Boo, who reaches down into her belly for her rhymes, Jha isn't afraid of the higher registers. Considering the typically slipshod nature of these things-- and a scant three appearances from Cam'ron-- More Than Music should be worse. But Dipset economized-- the album is low on skits (there's only one) and superstar cameos (again, only one, as Fabolous drops in on Santana's thrilling "What's It Gon' Be")-- to make room for its lesser-known emcees. When blessed with the type of talent Dipset has among its top brass, that kind of generosity is heartening. When the fledglings deliver like sturdy blue-chippers, that's astonishing. Dipset group hug (no homo).

Artist: Dipset, Album: More Than Music, Vol. 1, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "If, as crew mixtapes go, Dipset's new More Than Music, Vol. 1 is a cut above the typical riffraff, does that mean the Dipset emcee is superior to his counterpart in Ruff Ryders or G-Unit? No, it's a package deal. Even with three-four hitters Cam'ron and LaRon "Juelz Santana" Jones skewing the group average, Dipset has its acknowledged bench players. But with most products of its kind coming off as second-stringer pity parties, More Than Music is generously well apportioned, complete with assiduous rapping, pricey beats, and packaging that wasn't printed on a cousin's Epson. For New York crews, mere proliferation isn't good enough; world domination is more their speed. Dipset has similarly high-minded ambitions, and if you've missed its highfalutin talk of spearheading a new Harlem Renaissance, the title track clarifies: Amid thunder claps, a sermoning voice announces, "In the beginning of this movement, it was all a dream. The passion...the dedication...the persistence...TO ACHIEVE GREATNESS." Talk of movements is hardly cutting edge, but Dipset infuses even its fluffiest shit-talkin' with ungodly energy. To hear the opener's stony, swelling strings is to feel the world shifting beneath your feet. But how much of this is just "Final Countdown" quixotism? Depending on who's blogging, a lot or more. Is Dipset the most galvanizing crew in hip hop, or another peacocking cadre? Yes. All that chest puffing is part of what makes them so gripping. Juelz Santana calls himself "crack in the flesh" and his best tracks make you believe it. Cam specializes in corner talk, but his is a unique breed, full of doublespeak, circular logic, and fantastical imagery. He scampers around boilerplate topics like a jester, abstracting and obstructing like he's too smart to help it. Even those apprenticed to the head honchos are coming up strong. So, cardboard moralists dismiss at will, but Dipset outstrips the species norm by a crosstown block. Above all, Dippers be thuggin' to the sound of Dips-- all razoring strings, airtight beats, and clenched-teeth deliveries. That sound is a shot of stanozolol wherever MTM threatens to wane, which is often enough. Believe it or not, at 67 minutes, the album has some soft spots. But the triumphant opener "Dipset Symphony" is not such a spot. More rag than symphony, the track rides a rickety piano roll while 16's fly by at a frantic clip. (Featuring no fewer than six emcees and the hypeman's bloviating inside of three minutes, it's the album's busiest number.) No one quite steals the show, but Santana christens the melee ("All eyes on the honorable. Who?/ Dipset, back to the grill again. Live at the barbeque."). Among the understudies, J.R. Writer is my frontrunner to crash the big leagues. He takes "You Make Me Say", a bittersweet, 6/8-feel beat from Heatmakerz, and delivers Cam-lean verses in his own, edgier voice ("See you draped in designer wear/ Nice clothes/ Like those?/ I'll take you to buy a pair/ Where? That's Paris to Milan/ Fill your bag up with Vuitton/ You the baddest and the bomb/ Understand, I'm a rapper with some charm/ Don't worry 'bout the little groupies grabbing on my arm"). Close behind Writer may be recent Dipset newie (and charter female member) Jha Jha. She spits on the immaculate "So Gangsta", which samples Aalon Butler's 1977 semi-classic "Rock and Roll Gangster". Unlike, say, Three 6 Mafia's Gangsta Boo, who reaches down into her belly for her rhymes, Jha isn't afraid of the higher registers. Considering the typically slipshod nature of these things-- and a scant three appearances from Cam'ron-- More Than Music should be worse. But Dipset economized-- the album is low on skits (there's only one) and superstar cameos (again, only one, as Fabolous drops in on Santana's thrilling "What's It Gon' Be")-- to make room for its lesser-known emcees. When blessed with the type of talent Dipset has among its top brass, that kind of generosity is heartening. When the fledglings deliver like sturdy blue-chippers, that's astonishing. Dipset group hug (no homo)."

Diet Cig

Swear I’m Good at This

Rock

Quinn Moreland

The origin story of Diet Cig centers around an interaction in which guitarist Alex Luciano interrupted drummer Noah Bowman during a show to ask for a lighter. This anecdote is an odd way to introduce your band. It suggests a double standard that it’s okay for women to interrupt men while they’re playing but you know if the tables were turned Twitter would be all up in arms. Nevertheless, the pair hit it off and began making music together in their then-hometown of New Paltz, NY. This led to 2015’s Over Easy* *EP, five jangly tracks about young adult anxieties and scene politics. It was an inoffensive introduction that spawned relentless touring, a bubbly social media presence, and Luciano’s trademark high kick off the bass drum. Diet Cig’s debut record Swear I’m Good at This suggests that little growth has occurred in the time since. As its title implies, the album acknowledges the desire to defend oneself against presumed inadequacies. But there is little here to convince listeners that Diet Cig are actually worth your time. They make music that could be called punk-informed indie pop because it is quick, loud, and simple while asserting the DIY attitude that anyone can play music. It’s not that they sound bad: Bowman is an experienced, tight drummer and Luciano’s bouncy guitar playing makes the duo sound like a four-piece. The larger problem is that over these 12 songs, Diet Cig are the heavy-handed musical equivalent of the pussy hat: a well-meaning feminist gesture that lacks all nuance. Swear I’m Good at This fumbles that which makes indie pop so meaningful. A melding of thoughtful intimacy, roaring hooks, and arena-level energy delivered in a basement can provide transformative salvation for the underdogs. The strongest songwriters provide a snow globe-sized glimpse into their world. The subject matter can be as simple as a rainy day spent inside building a diorama or as complex as an existential crisis, but for these stories to communicate any value they need to be vivid, deliberate, and fleshed-out by perspective. Simply weaving together a catalogue of small, observational details means nothing if there’s no emotion ascribed to them. Additionally, there’s a fine line between being honest or diaristic and just sounding self-absorbed. Unfortunately, Diet Cig are stuck in the latter category. They give the most trivially vanilla lyrics the highest stakes, as if anything can be an anthem. On “Barf Day” Luciano exalts to the rafters, “I just wanna have ice cream on my birthday/Blow the candles out and wish all of my pain away.” The cute hook flails in the air, powerful in execution but powerless in its result. The acoustic number “Apricots” offers an anecdote about feeling homesick and besotted, which leads to a trip to the supermarket to take comfort in buying the fruit. The apricots could represent Luciano’s fears of rotting away, but this object lays flat on the surface of the song instead of being woven into its moving parts. This is a running theme across the record. Luciano and Bowman check off the indie pop boxes on rollicking songs like “Bite Back” and “Blob Zombie,” and though these songs are likable little pop succulents, they lack anything to identify them from the many other indie pop songs who helped bear Diet Cig into existence. Luciano and Bowman sell their music as empowering, rebellious, vulnerable, and life-affirming, but their songs read like hollow, vampiric feminist messages. One of the worst offenders arrives on the closing track “Tummy Ache,” in which Luciano declares, “It’s hard to be a punk while wearing a skirt.” Clearly, this line is meant to acknowledge that those who identify with femininity have always faced adversity. Without negating the sentiment, the line comes off as an uninformed dismissal of the battles femmes have fought and won for decades. It’s difficult to criticize a band for saying things that are by all means correct and likable on the surface. Yes, you should own everything you are. Sure, you can sell felt Black Lives Matter patches on Etsy. And the line on “Maid of the Mist” that goes, “I am bigger than the outside shell of my body and if you touch it without asking then you’ll be sorry” is absolutely correct. Diet Cig’s audience should find the message in the music liberating, but Diet Cig’s debut is almost entirely made of other people’s gestures hastily collected and cheaply executed. Hand it to Luciano and Bowman, they pull off a caper with impressive energy and confidence.

Artist: Diet Cig, Album: Swear I’m Good at This, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.1 Album review: "The origin story of Diet Cig centers around an interaction in which guitarist Alex Luciano interrupted drummer Noah Bowman during a show to ask for a lighter. This anecdote is an odd way to introduce your band. It suggests a double standard that it’s okay for women to interrupt men while they’re playing but you know if the tables were turned Twitter would be all up in arms. Nevertheless, the pair hit it off and began making music together in their then-hometown of New Paltz, NY. This led to 2015’s Over Easy* *EP, five jangly tracks about young adult anxieties and scene politics. It was an inoffensive introduction that spawned relentless touring, a bubbly social media presence, and Luciano’s trademark high kick off the bass drum. Diet Cig’s debut record Swear I’m Good at This suggests that little growth has occurred in the time since. As its title implies, the album acknowledges the desire to defend oneself against presumed inadequacies. But there is little here to convince listeners that Diet Cig are actually worth your time. They make music that could be called punk-informed indie pop because it is quick, loud, and simple while asserting the DIY attitude that anyone can play music. It’s not that they sound bad: Bowman is an experienced, tight drummer and Luciano’s bouncy guitar playing makes the duo sound like a four-piece. The larger problem is that over these 12 songs, Diet Cig are the heavy-handed musical equivalent of the pussy hat: a well-meaning feminist gesture that lacks all nuance. Swear I’m Good at This fumbles that which makes indie pop so meaningful. A melding of thoughtful intimacy, roaring hooks, and arena-level energy delivered in a basement can provide transformative salvation for the underdogs. The strongest songwriters provide a snow globe-sized glimpse into their world. The subject matter can be as simple as a rainy day spent inside building a diorama or as complex as an existential crisis, but for these stories to communicate any value they need to be vivid, deliberate, and fleshed-out by perspective. Simply weaving together a catalogue of small, observational details means nothing if there’s no emotion ascribed to them. Additionally, there’s a fine line between being honest or diaristic and just sounding self-absorbed. Unfortunately, Diet Cig are stuck in the latter category. They give the most trivially vanilla lyrics the highest stakes, as if anything can be an anthem. On “Barf Day” Luciano exalts to the rafters, “I just wanna have ice cream on my birthday/Blow the candles out and wish all of my pain away.” The cute hook flails in the air, powerful in execution but powerless in its result. The acoustic number “Apricots” offers an anecdote about feeling homesick and besotted, which leads to a trip to the supermarket to take comfort in buying the fruit. The apricots could represent Luciano’s fears of rotting away, but this object lays flat on the surface of the song instead of being woven into its moving parts. This is a running theme across the record. Luciano and Bowman check off the indie pop boxes on rollicking songs like “Bite Back” and “Blob Zombie,” and though these songs are likable little pop succulents, they lack anything to identify them from the many other indie pop songs who helped bear Diet Cig into existence. Luciano and Bowman sell their music as empowering, rebellious, vulnerable, and life-affirming, but their songs read like hollow, vampiric feminist messages. One of the worst offenders arrives on the closing track “Tummy Ache,” in which Luciano declares, “It’s hard to be a punk while wearing a skirt.” Clearly, this line is meant to acknowledge that those who identify with femininity have always faced adversity. Without negating the sentiment, the line comes off as an uninformed dismissal of the battles femmes have fought and won for decades. It’s difficult to criticize a band for saying things that are by all means correct and likable on the surface. Yes, you should own everything you are. Sure, you can sell felt Black Lives Matter patches on Etsy. And the line on “Maid of the Mist” that goes, “I am bigger than the outside shell of my body and if you touch it without asking then you’ll be sorry” is absolutely correct. Diet Cig’s audience should find the message in the music liberating, but Diet Cig’s debut is almost entirely made of other people’s gestures hastily collected and cheaply executed. Hand it to Luciano and Bowman, they pull off a caper with impressive energy and confidence."

The Bloodthirsty Lovers

The Delicate Seam

Rock

Brian Howe

Head-Bloodthirsty-Lover-in-Charge David Shouse is probably best known for fronting The Grifters, an erstwhile Memphis indie rock band that seems to be talked about more than listened to. For instance, none of the alleged Grifters fans I know seem to own any of their albums ("I think I used to have that one with the demon-looking guy on the front...") or even remember what they sounded like. How has such a supposedly beloved band fallen so deeply into the cracks? I have a theory: Shouse writes good music that you enjoy as long as you're listening to it, but which flies out of your head as soon as you stop. People mainly namecheck The Grifters due to a period of prominence on Sub Pop in the mid-to-late 1990s, but his Darla- and V2-released LPs with Those Bastard Souls have long since been relegated to sub-footnote status in the indie rock annals. And his current project, The Bloodthirsty Lovers, is even more of a mirage than his last two groups (I think-- what did they sound like again?). The music hangs before your eyes, swirling like an exhaled breath on a cold day. But as soon as the record ends, the first breeze shatters it into oblivion. The Bloodthirsty Lovers have garnered rave reviews for their spacious, gauzy yet anthemic laptop-pop. Comparisons to Big Star, Radiohead, Pink Floyd, Brian Eno, and The Flaming Lips weigh down their press clips. You'd think a band with such effusive critical éclat and high-profile points of reference would be on everybody's lips, but ask yourself (and this is crucial): Do you know anyone who listens to them? Perhaps Bloodthirsty Lovers are that peculiar band who critics love and fans ignore (hello, Flying Saucer Attack), but I think it's more like this-- you listen to The Delicate Seam, you dig it, and then just forget to listen to it again. I'd lay this pneumonic short-circuit at the feet of Shouse's melodies. They're charming enough, but often meander so capriciously through the big 80s drums, Frenchkiss' standard-issue Les Savy Fav basslines, and coruscating, glitchy ambience that they don't instantly sear their signatures onto neurons like the sonically similar (if more memorable) synthetic popscapes of The Flaming Lips. Indeed, of the comparisons The Bloodthirsty Lovers have drawn, The Flaming Lips one is most accurate. But where the Lips are linear and hummable, the Lovers radiate out in concentric rings and often elude melodic summary. The Delicate Seam-- clocking in at a lean eight tracks-- finds Shouse collaborating with Big Ass Truck's Steve Selvidge and ex-Dambuilders drummer Kevin March. It opens with "The Mods Go Mad", a dizzy digi-anthem laden with bombastic guitars, incandescent electronic scribbles, and skewed aphorisms like, "You're my napalm; I'm your codeine." "Stiltwalkers' Local #119" stretches a straining vocal melody over plodding drums, rigidly buzzing chords, and reverberating electro flourishes. The aberrant "A Postcard from the Sea" is truly catchy, recalling the simple, mid-tempo pop of Galaxie 500-- all shiny chords and peppy emoting. The liquid swing of "El Shocko" imagines The Beach Boys as the ghost in the machine, delicate harmonies surging through fiber-optic wires. And closer "Medicated" features vocals from Young People singer Katie Eastburn; its languid strumming, percolating drones, and Eastburn's understated murmurs waft by like a hazy memory. And so, we finally locate The Bloodthirsty Lovers' particular double bind: The obscure, amorphous quality that makes their music interesting is the same quality that makes it difficult for the mind to hold on to.

Artist: The Bloodthirsty Lovers, Album: The Delicate Seam, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Head-Bloodthirsty-Lover-in-Charge David Shouse is probably best known for fronting The Grifters, an erstwhile Memphis indie rock band that seems to be talked about more than listened to. For instance, none of the alleged Grifters fans I know seem to own any of their albums ("I think I used to have that one with the demon-looking guy on the front...") or even remember what they sounded like. How has such a supposedly beloved band fallen so deeply into the cracks? I have a theory: Shouse writes good music that you enjoy as long as you're listening to it, but which flies out of your head as soon as you stop. People mainly namecheck The Grifters due to a period of prominence on Sub Pop in the mid-to-late 1990s, but his Darla- and V2-released LPs with Those Bastard Souls have long since been relegated to sub-footnote status in the indie rock annals. And his current project, The Bloodthirsty Lovers, is even more of a mirage than his last two groups (I think-- what did they sound like again?). The music hangs before your eyes, swirling like an exhaled breath on a cold day. But as soon as the record ends, the first breeze shatters it into oblivion. The Bloodthirsty Lovers have garnered rave reviews for their spacious, gauzy yet anthemic laptop-pop. Comparisons to Big Star, Radiohead, Pink Floyd, Brian Eno, and The Flaming Lips weigh down their press clips. You'd think a band with such effusive critical éclat and high-profile points of reference would be on everybody's lips, but ask yourself (and this is crucial): Do you know anyone who listens to them? Perhaps Bloodthirsty Lovers are that peculiar band who critics love and fans ignore (hello, Flying Saucer Attack), but I think it's more like this-- you listen to The Delicate Seam, you dig it, and then just forget to listen to it again. I'd lay this pneumonic short-circuit at the feet of Shouse's melodies. They're charming enough, but often meander so capriciously through the big 80s drums, Frenchkiss' standard-issue Les Savy Fav basslines, and coruscating, glitchy ambience that they don't instantly sear their signatures onto neurons like the sonically similar (if more memorable) synthetic popscapes of The Flaming Lips. Indeed, of the comparisons The Bloodthirsty Lovers have drawn, The Flaming Lips one is most accurate. But where the Lips are linear and hummable, the Lovers radiate out in concentric rings and often elude melodic summary. The Delicate Seam-- clocking in at a lean eight tracks-- finds Shouse collaborating with Big Ass Truck's Steve Selvidge and ex-Dambuilders drummer Kevin March. It opens with "The Mods Go Mad", a dizzy digi-anthem laden with bombastic guitars, incandescent electronic scribbles, and skewed aphorisms like, "You're my napalm; I'm your codeine." "Stiltwalkers' Local #119" stretches a straining vocal melody over plodding drums, rigidly buzzing chords, and reverberating electro flourishes. The aberrant "A Postcard from the Sea" is truly catchy, recalling the simple, mid-tempo pop of Galaxie 500-- all shiny chords and peppy emoting. The liquid swing of "El Shocko" imagines The Beach Boys as the ghost in the machine, delicate harmonies surging through fiber-optic wires. And closer "Medicated" features vocals from Young People singer Katie Eastburn; its languid strumming, percolating drones, and Eastburn's understated murmurs waft by like a hazy memory. And so, we finally locate The Bloodthirsty Lovers' particular double bind: The obscure, amorphous quality that makes their music interesting is the same quality that makes it difficult for the mind to hold on to."

Winter Family

Red Sugar

Experimental,Rock

Mark Richardson

Winter Family are a duo, and their music is as black as the cover of their self-titled 2007 debut. Even when they use humor and irony, the material shades dark. Winter Family had a track called "Auschwitz" that found singer Ruth Rosenthal describing, in a sing-song little-girl's voice, a magical snowglobe containing a tiny replica of the concentration camp, complete with starving prisoners and an iron gate saying that work is the key to liberation. The duo's songs typically combine her exceedingly strong, deep, yet wounded voice with Xavier Klaine's keyboards, which veer from the heavy drone of the harmonium to impossibly delicate piano chords. She is originally from Israel, and Klaine is from Paris, though both are now based in Brooklyn; she sometimes sings but often speaks her lyrics, mostly in English but sometimes in Hebrew or French. Given the presence of her rich and heavily accented vocals and the harmonium, one obvious reference point is Nico, particularly the style of gothic cabaret she perfected on The Marble Index. Winter Family's songs are are "heavy" in every sense of the word, to the point where they sometimes threaten to become claustrophobic. And their second full-length, Red Sugar, is, if anything, even more bleak than its predecessor. But they also have a way of leavening the nightmare with glimmers of beauty, just enough to keep the music from getting too oppressive. The songs on Red Sugar tend to alternate moments of everyday life-- lovers falling into open arms, the sound of families getting drunk, birds shaking the water off their bodies, cats asleep in arms-- with impressionistic images of war and pain. You get the feeling of small lives being lived as a larger world of misery rages outside. "Dancing in the Sun", a nearly 14-minute track that serves as this album's centerpiece, shows  their skillful use of contrast. The first half is a tense and jittery mix of minimalist piano, crashing cymbals, and assorted creaks and groans, a grisly sound above which Rosenthal muses on industrialism, global warming, and fear of the future. But halfway through, the track fades into a long stretch of silence and then explodes into a field recording of a demonstration: It's a rally in Jerusalem featuring John Hagee and his group Christians United for Israel, and they're praising the country because of the role it will play in end-times Biblical prophesy. The juxtaposition of the menacing music with the at-first cheerful but eventually more frightening sounds of the mob is striking, and the words hint at the group's focus on the politics, religion, power struggles, and prejudice that bring people into conflict. The prickly burst of crowd noise in "Dancing in the Sun" exemplifies another terrific thing about this project: Winter Family's willingness to make unusual choices. "Omaha" is a creaking, harmonium-driven ballad whose lyrics ("Why did you go, my boy, to fight in a war that is not yours?") seem to describe the Normandy landings in WWII. But then Rosenthal punctuates her spoken words with the mouthed sound of mortar shells exploding-- "Ka-bough! Ka-bough!" It's the kind of thing that looks questionable on paper and that most would have been embarrassed to try in the studio, but it winds up working brilliantly, evoking a child storyteller's description of a horror. Another surprising turn comes during "Shooting Stars", an achingly slow, mournful, and ultimately gorgeous piano ballad, when Rosenthal moans and wails wordlessly at the end of every stanza, her vocalizations expressing what her words cannot. As moving as I find this record, it's not an easy sell. It's such a weighty thing, exerting a constant pressure that is only occasionally relieved. But as harsh and despairing as Red Sugar can be, there's also a yearning for warmth and humanity, a desire to be lifted into the light. The key to it all is in how completely Rosenthal and Klaine inhabit this music: We never wonder for a second if they are really feeling it, and that makes it easier for us to feel. So if you have the time and inclination to give yourself over to Red Sugar, you'll find a fully formed and coherent world that's rich with emotion and dense with meaning, and the closer you lean into it, the more it opens up.

Artist: Winter Family, Album: Red Sugar, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Winter Family are a duo, and their music is as black as the cover of their self-titled 2007 debut. Even when they use humor and irony, the material shades dark. Winter Family had a track called "Auschwitz" that found singer Ruth Rosenthal describing, in a sing-song little-girl's voice, a magical snowglobe containing a tiny replica of the concentration camp, complete with starving prisoners and an iron gate saying that work is the key to liberation. The duo's songs typically combine her exceedingly strong, deep, yet wounded voice with Xavier Klaine's keyboards, which veer from the heavy drone of the harmonium to impossibly delicate piano chords. She is originally from Israel, and Klaine is from Paris, though both are now based in Brooklyn; she sometimes sings but often speaks her lyrics, mostly in English but sometimes in Hebrew or French. Given the presence of her rich and heavily accented vocals and the harmonium, one obvious reference point is Nico, particularly the style of gothic cabaret she perfected on The Marble Index. Winter Family's songs are are "heavy" in every sense of the word, to the point where they sometimes threaten to become claustrophobic. And their second full-length, Red Sugar, is, if anything, even more bleak than its predecessor. But they also have a way of leavening the nightmare with glimmers of beauty, just enough to keep the music from getting too oppressive. The songs on Red Sugar tend to alternate moments of everyday life-- lovers falling into open arms, the sound of families getting drunk, birds shaking the water off their bodies, cats asleep in arms-- with impressionistic images of war and pain. You get the feeling of small lives being lived as a larger world of misery rages outside. "Dancing in the Sun", a nearly 14-minute track that serves as this album's centerpiece, shows  their skillful use of contrast. The first half is a tense and jittery mix of minimalist piano, crashing cymbals, and assorted creaks and groans, a grisly sound above which Rosenthal muses on industrialism, global warming, and fear of the future. But halfway through, the track fades into a long stretch of silence and then explodes into a field recording of a demonstration: It's a rally in Jerusalem featuring John Hagee and his group Christians United for Israel, and they're praising the country because of the role it will play in end-times Biblical prophesy. The juxtaposition of the menacing music with the at-first cheerful but eventually more frightening sounds of the mob is striking, and the words hint at the group's focus on the politics, religion, power struggles, and prejudice that bring people into conflict. The prickly burst of crowd noise in "Dancing in the Sun" exemplifies another terrific thing about this project: Winter Family's willingness to make unusual choices. "Omaha" is a creaking, harmonium-driven ballad whose lyrics ("Why did you go, my boy, to fight in a war that is not yours?") seem to describe the Normandy landings in WWII. But then Rosenthal punctuates her spoken words with the mouthed sound of mortar shells exploding-- "Ka-bough! Ka-bough!" It's the kind of thing that looks questionable on paper and that most would have been embarrassed to try in the studio, but it winds up working brilliantly, evoking a child storyteller's description of a horror. Another surprising turn comes during "Shooting Stars", an achingly slow, mournful, and ultimately gorgeous piano ballad, when Rosenthal moans and wails wordlessly at the end of every stanza, her vocalizations expressing what her words cannot. As moving as I find this record, it's not an easy sell. It's such a weighty thing, exerting a constant pressure that is only occasionally relieved. But as harsh and despairing as Red Sugar can be, there's also a yearning for warmth and humanity, a desire to be lifted into the light. The key to it all is in how completely Rosenthal and Klaine inhabit this music: We never wonder for a second if they are really feeling it, and that makes it easier for us to feel. So if you have the time and inclination to give yourself over to Red Sugar, you'll find a fully formed and coherent world that's rich with emotion and dense with meaning, and the closer you lean into it, the more it opens up."

T.I.

Trouble Man: Heavy Is the Head

Rap

Ian Cohen

The 13th song on T.I.'s awkwardly-titled new album Trouble Man: Heavy Is the Head is called "Hello". This, in and of itself, is not noteworthy event: many rappers have made a song with that title. But T.I. has now made two: a completely different and altogether better song named "Hello" appeared on his world-conquering 2006 album King. "Hello" is not the worst song on Trouble Man, though its schlocky, "that guy from Goodie Mob ain't never coming back" Cee-Lo hook ensures it's not one of the good ones either. But the oversight of its title demonstrates almost every single design flaw of Trouble Man, which is simultaneously lazy and distracted, ignoring the lessons of the past and while offering reminders that it didn't have to be this way. The real mystery of T.I.'s later albums is that there's no glimpse of the guy who can still absolutely destroy tracks when he's up to it. Witness non-LP one-offs like "Hear Ye, Hear Ye" or shift the "feat." so tracks like Rick Ross' "Maybach Music III", Drake's "Fancy", Future's "Magic" (Remix), "Big Beast", or "In the A", could all serve as a foundation for a phenomenal T.I. record that still manages to achieve the same goals of demonstrating his commercial clout as well as his artistic malleability. None of them sound anything like "24's", "Rubber Band Man", or "What You Know". As with every studio album since King, Trouble Man promises a cohesive, thematically sound concept about The State of Clifford Harris that it can't deliver. At least he tries for a spell: Trouble Man is interspersed with re-creations of his multiple arrests and the introduction is indeed rapped over the Marvin Gaye original. But here's a list of the phrases that pop up within the first minutes of "The Introduction": "livin' on the edge," "push it to the limit," "catch me if you can," "I am who I am." T.I. has one of those voices where it's pleasure to hear him rap even if he's saying nothing at all, but is that really what you want? If so, Trouble Man is 70 minutes and change of mostly that. "Trap Back Jumpin", "Go Get It", and "Addresses" are just more examples of the utilitarian trap muzik that pads out his recent work, the specificity and wisdom of which continues to have an inverse relationship with T.I.'s advancing age. More disheartening is how the tracks drawn from T.I.'s actual experience are sunk by cliché. "Wonderful Life" and "Hallelujah" close out Trouble Man by directly addressing T.I.'s prison bid, but whatever effect his personal disclosures may have is neutralized by taking the artistic path of least resistance: the latter leans on a Christ complex and Leonard Cohen, the former has Akon interpolating Elton John's "Your Song", which...I really do mind. And when Pharrell coined T.I.'s most famous accolade by calling him "the Jay-Z of the South," I don't think he meant it as a prediction that Tip would also make a track called "Guns 'N Roses" with an unbearable arena-rock chorus. Yeah, trading Lenny Kravitz for P!nk seems like progress on some level, but at least the one from Blueprint 2 was about McDonalds apple pies and hangin' with Bono, not a cheap-seats apology more suited to Eminem's Recovery. The point was that T.I., like Jay-Z, can be a transcendental figure when he chooses, someone whose albums cause hip-hop to stop whatever it's doing so it can take inventory of where it currently stands. And to T.I.'s credit, he makes a few strides to get beyond a sound he basically perfected a decade ago. But he barely makes an attempt to keep up when he's trying to run with the kids: Meek Mill and A$AP Rocky have almost nothing in common stylistically, except for that they both outrap T.I. badly on their respective tracks. More worrisome is how T.I. gets lapped by his own peers. There's no shame in ceding the spotlight to Andre 3000, as he does on the phenomenal mea culpa "Sorry", but then you get the 2 Chainz-style molly & Red Bull cocktail "Ball", which answers the question of "man, how hard can that be?" with "harder than you think." Part of the problem could be focus. The uneven and pop-oriented Paper Trail (Trouble Man's closest analog in the T.I. discography) had his biggest chart hits and even the long-forgotten No Mercy still went gold*.* Since then, T.I. authored a book, starred in a reality series, signed Iggy Azalea, curated a women’s clothing line, teased a collaboration album with B.o.B., and already promised a sequel to Trouble Man called He Who Wears the Crown. So in its own way, Trouble Man's scattershot approach makes it the realest album the guy could make in 2012, but that doesn't make it any good.

Artist: T.I., Album: Trouble Man: Heavy Is the Head, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 5.0 Album review: "The 13th song on T.I.'s awkwardly-titled new album Trouble Man: Heavy Is the Head is called "Hello". This, in and of itself, is not noteworthy event: many rappers have made a song with that title. But T.I. has now made two: a completely different and altogether better song named "Hello" appeared on his world-conquering 2006 album King. "Hello" is not the worst song on Trouble Man, though its schlocky, "that guy from Goodie Mob ain't never coming back" Cee-Lo hook ensures it's not one of the good ones either. But the oversight of its title demonstrates almost every single design flaw of Trouble Man, which is simultaneously lazy and distracted, ignoring the lessons of the past and while offering reminders that it didn't have to be this way. The real mystery of T.I.'s later albums is that there's no glimpse of the guy who can still absolutely destroy tracks when he's up to it. Witness non-LP one-offs like "Hear Ye, Hear Ye" or shift the "feat." so tracks like Rick Ross' "Maybach Music III", Drake's "Fancy", Future's "Magic" (Remix), "Big Beast", or "In the A", could all serve as a foundation for a phenomenal T.I. record that still manages to achieve the same goals of demonstrating his commercial clout as well as his artistic malleability. None of them sound anything like "24's", "Rubber Band Man", or "What You Know". As with every studio album since King, Trouble Man promises a cohesive, thematically sound concept about The State of Clifford Harris that it can't deliver. At least he tries for a spell: Trouble Man is interspersed with re-creations of his multiple arrests and the introduction is indeed rapped over the Marvin Gaye original. But here's a list of the phrases that pop up within the first minutes of "The Introduction": "livin' on the edge," "push it to the limit," "catch me if you can," "I am who I am." T.I. has one of those voices where it's pleasure to hear him rap even if he's saying nothing at all, but is that really what you want? If so, Trouble Man is 70 minutes and change of mostly that. "Trap Back Jumpin", "Go Get It", and "Addresses" are just more examples of the utilitarian trap muzik that pads out his recent work, the specificity and wisdom of which continues to have an inverse relationship with T.I.'s advancing age. More disheartening is how the tracks drawn from T.I.'s actual experience are sunk by cliché. "Wonderful Life" and "Hallelujah" close out Trouble Man by directly addressing T.I.'s prison bid, but whatever effect his personal disclosures may have is neutralized by taking the artistic path of least resistance: the latter leans on a Christ complex and Leonard Cohen, the former has Akon interpolating Elton John's "Your Song", which...I really do mind. And when Pharrell coined T.I.'s most famous accolade by calling him "the Jay-Z of the South," I don't think he meant it as a prediction that Tip would also make a track called "Guns 'N Roses" with an unbearable arena-rock chorus. Yeah, trading Lenny Kravitz for P!nk seems like progress on some level, but at least the one from Blueprint 2 was about McDonalds apple pies and hangin' with Bono, not a cheap-seats apology more suited to Eminem's Recovery. The point was that T.I., like Jay-Z, can be a transcendental figure when he chooses, someone whose albums cause hip-hop to stop whatever it's doing so it can take inventory of where it currently stands. And to T.I.'s credit, he makes a few strides to get beyond a sound he basically perfected a decade ago. But he barely makes an attempt to keep up when he's trying to run with the kids: Meek Mill and A$AP Rocky have almost nothing in common stylistically, except for that they both outrap T.I. badly on their respective tracks. More worrisome is how T.I. gets lapped by his own peers. There's no shame in ceding the spotlight to Andre 3000, as he does on the phenomenal mea culpa "Sorry", but then you get the 2 Chainz-style molly & Red Bull cocktail "Ball", which answers the question of "man, how hard can that be?" with "harder than you think." Part of the problem could be focus. The uneven and pop-oriented Paper Trail (Trouble Man's closest analog in the T.I. discography) had his biggest chart hits and even the long-forgotten No Mercy still went gold*.* Since then, T.I. authored a book, starred in a reality series, signed Iggy Azalea, curated a women’s clothing line, teased a collaboration album with B.o.B., and already promised a sequel to Trouble Man called He Who Wears the Crown. So in its own way, Trouble Man's scattershot approach makes it the realest album the guy could make in 2012, but that doesn't make it any good."

Bound Stems

The Family Afloat

Pop/R&B

Jason Crock

Since their inception, Chicago's Bound Stems have shown that they have the ability to write great guitar pop, but they've always wanted to do more, to add layers of complexity and tension to their catchy songs. The band's first full-length, Appreciation Night, mined a lot of charm from the clutter, though its few more linear songs stood taller than the rest. Follow-up The Family Afloat is more earnestly committed to making pop out of these tricky, occasionally incongruent parts. It's in the same carefully-cultivated messiness of their debut, but it seems to strike a better balance: The production shines, the transitions are more careful and the interludes more purposeful, the vocals are fuller and more confident, the hooks swing harder, and there's even a distinct theme. The opening track makes a trip to San Francisco sound better than Disney World, but the rest of the songs come to terms with putting down roots. That opener, "Taking Tips From the Gallery Gang", puts Bobby Gallivan's voice right up front, with ephemeral layers of guitar fading in and out underneath. It has a typically unpredictable arrangement, but with a newfound anchor. "Happens to Us All Otherwise," meanwhile, might be the group's catchiest and most direct pop song yet, bursting with jangling guitars and innocent, pleading vocals. "Passing Bell" and "Palace Flophouse and Grill" return to the lurching, unpredictable rhythms of their previous album and EP, but Gallivan and singer Janie Porche are far less tentative vocalists and can better carry the song. (Porche only gets a bewildering, borderline angsty solo spot on "Palace"; she steps up when needed on Family Afloat, but mostly avoids the spotlight.) In a catalogue where mood is as important as songwriting, the placid piano track "Clear Water & Concrete" has some of their prettiest and most compelling textures yet. (It's also a welcome shift to a more meditative tone, as the band hardly takes a breath to let their hooks land at this point.) "Cloak of Blue Sky" has the city imagery Bound Stems often trade in and more of the affable shuffle that seems to be their rhythmic comfort zone. "Winston" is an even better shift in tone, with acoustic strums, a few banjo plucks, and atmospheric keyboards that are beautiful, affecting, and put together with impossible care. Closing track "Sugar City Magic" begins with a staccato guitar line that's more in line with the pensive math-rock that the band toyed with in their earlier, pre-Flameshovel days, though it soon shifts perspectives by handing off the baton on vocals to get a more layered view on the family in the lyrics. For all their ambition, there are still moments on Family Afloat that feel forced-- more "Look what we can do!" instead of simply, "Look what we do well." Yet Bound Stems have the rarefied ability to make that mess sound gorgeous, as if all were in its right place even when it's held together by chewing gum in some spots.

Artist: Bound Stems, Album: The Family Afloat, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Since their inception, Chicago's Bound Stems have shown that they have the ability to write great guitar pop, but they've always wanted to do more, to add layers of complexity and tension to their catchy songs. The band's first full-length, Appreciation Night, mined a lot of charm from the clutter, though its few more linear songs stood taller than the rest. Follow-up The Family Afloat is more earnestly committed to making pop out of these tricky, occasionally incongruent parts. It's in the same carefully-cultivated messiness of their debut, but it seems to strike a better balance: The production shines, the transitions are more careful and the interludes more purposeful, the vocals are fuller and more confident, the hooks swing harder, and there's even a distinct theme. The opening track makes a trip to San Francisco sound better than Disney World, but the rest of the songs come to terms with putting down roots. That opener, "Taking Tips From the Gallery Gang", puts Bobby Gallivan's voice right up front, with ephemeral layers of guitar fading in and out underneath. It has a typically unpredictable arrangement, but with a newfound anchor. "Happens to Us All Otherwise," meanwhile, might be the group's catchiest and most direct pop song yet, bursting with jangling guitars and innocent, pleading vocals. "Passing Bell" and "Palace Flophouse and Grill" return to the lurching, unpredictable rhythms of their previous album and EP, but Gallivan and singer Janie Porche are far less tentative vocalists and can better carry the song. (Porche only gets a bewildering, borderline angsty solo spot on "Palace"; she steps up when needed on Family Afloat, but mostly avoids the spotlight.) In a catalogue where mood is as important as songwriting, the placid piano track "Clear Water & Concrete" has some of their prettiest and most compelling textures yet. (It's also a welcome shift to a more meditative tone, as the band hardly takes a breath to let their hooks land at this point.) "Cloak of Blue Sky" has the city imagery Bound Stems often trade in and more of the affable shuffle that seems to be their rhythmic comfort zone. "Winston" is an even better shift in tone, with acoustic strums, a few banjo plucks, and atmospheric keyboards that are beautiful, affecting, and put together with impossible care. Closing track "Sugar City Magic" begins with a staccato guitar line that's more in line with the pensive math-rock that the band toyed with in their earlier, pre-Flameshovel days, though it soon shifts perspectives by handing off the baton on vocals to get a more layered view on the family in the lyrics. For all their ambition, there are still moments on Family Afloat that feel forced-- more "Look what we can do!" instead of simply, "Look what we do well." Yet Bound Stems have the rarefied ability to make that mess sound gorgeous, as if all were in its right place even when it's held together by chewing gum in some spots."

Solvent

Subject to Shift

Electronic

Liz Colville

It's been six years since Solvent's Jason Amm last released a studio album, 2004's Apples and Synthesizers, and the expanse of those years is felt on the appropriately titled Subject to Shift. The spacious production Amm has been working with lately has only been glimpsed on compilations and 2008's double CD retrospective Demonstration Tape. With his latest, the backward-glancing, bare-bones vocoder-and-synth sound tracks like 2004's "Remote Control" are largely gone. In their place are more structured and ornate synth-pop tracks, as well as some dips into house. There are traces of Amm's nostalgic analog sound in the album's intro, outro, and shorter tracks like "Life-Size Image". And while the sweet, chattering analog patterns he's known for remain, he pulls in new textures-- claps, pops, hisses, purrs-- to give the material more complexity. There are also frightening surprises like "Take Me Home", which begins with a bit-crushed beat and blips of tinselly percussion that phase in and out, creating the atmosphere of a creepy underground tunnel. Amm then emerges from the shadows in a Darth Vader voice to "sing" a couple of verses of a come-on ("Take me home today/ I'm in disarray/ Promise that you'll try/ Take me home tonight"). Amm excels when his breezy synth patterns find that sweet spot between suggestion and declaration, and what turns a soundscape into a song is Amm's skill at building drama and momentum without overdoing it. On "Loss for Words" he does it with vocoder-free vocals and a blanket of strings underscored by a bass line. On the excellent "A Product of the Process", he does it by starting with battlefield-inspired effects-- a marching beat and gunshot-like percussion-- then adding an ascending bass pattern and turning up the volume. As adorable as Solvent's instrumentation can be, the project seems to have lost some its timidity on this album. Some of his experiments go too far. "Formulate" and "No One Should Be Living Here" feel out of place, featuring harsh, bleeping synths and dizzying, aquatic beats fit for Rex the Dog's catalog. The vocoder makes an appearance on both, and in truth, most of the vocals on the album feel unnecessary. But Solvent's synths, as usual, speak volumes.

Artist: Solvent, Album: Subject to Shift, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "It's been six years since Solvent's Jason Amm last released a studio album, 2004's Apples and Synthesizers, and the expanse of those years is felt on the appropriately titled Subject to Shift. The spacious production Amm has been working with lately has only been glimpsed on compilations and 2008's double CD retrospective Demonstration Tape. With his latest, the backward-glancing, bare-bones vocoder-and-synth sound tracks like 2004's "Remote Control" are largely gone. In their place are more structured and ornate synth-pop tracks, as well as some dips into house. There are traces of Amm's nostalgic analog sound in the album's intro, outro, and shorter tracks like "Life-Size Image". And while the sweet, chattering analog patterns he's known for remain, he pulls in new textures-- claps, pops, hisses, purrs-- to give the material more complexity. There are also frightening surprises like "Take Me Home", which begins with a bit-crushed beat and blips of tinselly percussion that phase in and out, creating the atmosphere of a creepy underground tunnel. Amm then emerges from the shadows in a Darth Vader voice to "sing" a couple of verses of a come-on ("Take me home today/ I'm in disarray/ Promise that you'll try/ Take me home tonight"). Amm excels when his breezy synth patterns find that sweet spot between suggestion and declaration, and what turns a soundscape into a song is Amm's skill at building drama and momentum without overdoing it. On "Loss for Words" he does it with vocoder-free vocals and a blanket of strings underscored by a bass line. On the excellent "A Product of the Process", he does it by starting with battlefield-inspired effects-- a marching beat and gunshot-like percussion-- then adding an ascending bass pattern and turning up the volume. As adorable as Solvent's instrumentation can be, the project seems to have lost some its timidity on this album. Some of his experiments go too far. "Formulate" and "No One Should Be Living Here" feel out of place, featuring harsh, bleeping synths and dizzying, aquatic beats fit for Rex the Dog's catalog. The vocoder makes an appearance on both, and in truth, most of the vocals on the album feel unnecessary. But Solvent's synths, as usual, speak volumes."

The Safes

Well Well Well

Nate Patrin

How hard can it be to make listenable power pop? It seems like it's pretty difficult to screw up. Sure, you can mutate the blueprint slightly-- maybe get a geeky, adenoidal romantic to front your band like the Modern Lovers or have a distinct sense of underlying melancholy like Badfinger-- but just so long as you can find that happy medium between the British Invasion and new wave, you'll be just about set. The hooks pretty much write themselves, penning clever lyrics takes a backseat to singing them with a loveable-rogue bravado, and there's just enough rhythmic, riff-sustained momentum in two-and-a-half minutes to keep the song stuck to listeners' forebrains for about three times that long. But most dedicated music fans tend to gravitate towards evolutionary steps forward rather than artisan-quality traditional formula, which leads to the inevitable question: Is there something worthwhile in a band that's good at doing something really simple and exceedingly familiar? That being asked, here are the Safes: They do nothing you haven't heard before, and they do it better than most. The outfit from Chicago-- centered around brothers/multi-instrumentalists/vocalists Frankie, Michael, and Patrick O'Malley-- have operated as a modernized power pop throwback for most of this decade, assuming that anyone who operates in a genre that's consistently existed from the Raspberries to Greg Kihn to Fountains of Wayne can be feasibly deemed a "throwback." Well Well Well fits that continuum neatly, rarely pushing the envelope much further than the conceits that Cheap Trick are godhead and the pre-Village Green Preservation Society Kinks could've used a few more volts in 'em. It's a plan they pull off well, even if they lack some of the things that make their peers singular. There's not much of the New Pornographers' unpredictable artiness or the Exploding Hearts' speaker-rupturing hyperactivity in their repertoire-- think more along the lines of the Nerves and the Quick and other abruptly-named, fleetingly-extant late 70s merchants of simple-but-mesmerizing pop. Most of the record's pull is in the vocals, a close-harmonizing blur of nasal sneers and surly misery that says more about the ups-and-mostly-downs of distrust and romantic frustration than the words do. Not that the lyrics are always an afterthought-- there are some evocatively bitter phrases running through the titular choruses of "Since Trust Went Bust" and "Bliss This Instance"-- but they're usually so bluntly straightforward ("Only in Your Mind" actually opens with the phrase "Now no matter what I do/ You think I am in love with you") and half-buried in the mix that the only thing that really comes across distinctively in the voices is their perfect tone of contempt. There are probably worse things to muddy up the vocals than the Safes' instrumentation, though, which answers the what-if of the Raconteurs as a Jack White-less power trio. Even if most of their reference points predate the Reagan administration, there's a decent variety of styles: "Phone Book Full of Phonies" takes glam-stomp's boogie and strips out all the excess weight to make it run faster, "Deception" condenses the limber debauchery of early 70s Rolling Stones into 1:47, and "Bliss This Instance" takes the aforementioned Kinks-circa-'66 vibe to a raucous, horn-filled conclusion. It's all done with a workmanlike rock-vet professionalism, and while it's somewhat unremarkable in itself, the Safes do pull off an interesting feat: creating an album that's unsurprising without actually being boring.

Artist: The Safes, Album: Well Well Well, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "How hard can it be to make listenable power pop? It seems like it's pretty difficult to screw up. Sure, you can mutate the blueprint slightly-- maybe get a geeky, adenoidal romantic to front your band like the Modern Lovers or have a distinct sense of underlying melancholy like Badfinger-- but just so long as you can find that happy medium between the British Invasion and new wave, you'll be just about set. The hooks pretty much write themselves, penning clever lyrics takes a backseat to singing them with a loveable-rogue bravado, and there's just enough rhythmic, riff-sustained momentum in two-and-a-half minutes to keep the song stuck to listeners' forebrains for about three times that long. But most dedicated music fans tend to gravitate towards evolutionary steps forward rather than artisan-quality traditional formula, which leads to the inevitable question: Is there something worthwhile in a band that's good at doing something really simple and exceedingly familiar? That being asked, here are the Safes: They do nothing you haven't heard before, and they do it better than most. The outfit from Chicago-- centered around brothers/multi-instrumentalists/vocalists Frankie, Michael, and Patrick O'Malley-- have operated as a modernized power pop throwback for most of this decade, assuming that anyone who operates in a genre that's consistently existed from the Raspberries to Greg Kihn to Fountains of Wayne can be feasibly deemed a "throwback." Well Well Well fits that continuum neatly, rarely pushing the envelope much further than the conceits that Cheap Trick are godhead and the pre-Village Green Preservation Society Kinks could've used a few more volts in 'em. It's a plan they pull off well, even if they lack some of the things that make their peers singular. There's not much of the New Pornographers' unpredictable artiness or the Exploding Hearts' speaker-rupturing hyperactivity in their repertoire-- think more along the lines of the Nerves and the Quick and other abruptly-named, fleetingly-extant late 70s merchants of simple-but-mesmerizing pop. Most of the record's pull is in the vocals, a close-harmonizing blur of nasal sneers and surly misery that says more about the ups-and-mostly-downs of distrust and romantic frustration than the words do. Not that the lyrics are always an afterthought-- there are some evocatively bitter phrases running through the titular choruses of "Since Trust Went Bust" and "Bliss This Instance"-- but they're usually so bluntly straightforward ("Only in Your Mind" actually opens with the phrase "Now no matter what I do/ You think I am in love with you") and half-buried in the mix that the only thing that really comes across distinctively in the voices is their perfect tone of contempt. There are probably worse things to muddy up the vocals than the Safes' instrumentation, though, which answers the what-if of the Raconteurs as a Jack White-less power trio. Even if most of their reference points predate the Reagan administration, there's a decent variety of styles: "Phone Book Full of Phonies" takes glam-stomp's boogie and strips out all the excess weight to make it run faster, "Deception" condenses the limber debauchery of early 70s Rolling Stones into 1:47, and "Bliss This Instance" takes the aforementioned Kinks-circa-'66 vibe to a raucous, horn-filled conclusion. It's all done with a workmanlike rock-vet professionalism, and while it's somewhat unremarkable in itself, the Safes do pull off an interesting feat: creating an album that's unsurprising without actually being boring."

Corrections House

Know How to Carry a Whip

Metal

Miles Raymer

Two years ago, Neurosis founder Scott Kelly, Eyehategod frontman Mike IX Williams, producer Sanford Parker, and underground metal's most prominent saxophonist Bruce Lamont formed Corrections House, a sort of supergroup that turned out to be defined as much by its intentionally haphazard improv streak as its members' heavy reputations. The music they produced combined easy-to-predict elements—like Kelly's churning, doomy guitars and Williams' Burroughsian spoken-word rant-poems—with surprising ones, like the industrial streak provided by Parker's electronic beats. Despite its seat-of-the-pants beginnings, the group's found equilibrium, and on their second studio album, they're chasing down new ideas with a new confidence. Know How to Carry a Whip brings the electro-industrial elements to the forefront and also pushes into their most unexpected terrain yet—songs with distinct pop structures and even catchy melodies. While it isn't going to spoil the group's esoteric reputation, Whip's a record that you could feel comfortable passing along to casual heavy music fans. In its first half, the album has headbangable beats, grinding Sabbath-y guitars, and actual hooks. The opener, "Crossing My One Good Finger", might be the catchiest cut any member of the band has ever been involved with, with Neubauten-inspired drums, thunderous guitars, and a fist-pumping chorus (even if the lyrics seem to be about suffocating on toxic fumes). You could actually dance to "White Man's Gonna Lose", as long as Williams' unhinged nihilism doesn't crush your buzz. All of the catchy and danceable parts are covered in layers of sonic grime, expertly rendered by Parker, one of the world's leading experts at making records sound really bad in a really good way. They are also shot through with the searing misery that only Williams can really bring to a song. As a group, they remain obsessed with destruction and decay; fans looking for more of the nightmare poetry readings that defined Last City Zero should be perversely pleased by tracks like "I Was Never Good at Meth" that frame Williams' feverish, imagistic stanzas in washes of junkyard noise. Last City Zero positioned Corrections House as one of the more interesting participants in the industrial music resurgence, and Know How to Carry a Whip places them in the lead. Feral and unrelentingly hostile, it's a ragged-edged, rusty shank plunged deep into the ribs of the modern day. Anyone whose formative years as a music fan involved Skinny Puppy or the Wax Trax! label at its peak will feel right at home.

Artist: Corrections House, Album: Know How to Carry a Whip, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Two years ago, Neurosis founder Scott Kelly, Eyehategod frontman Mike IX Williams, producer Sanford Parker, and underground metal's most prominent saxophonist Bruce Lamont formed Corrections House, a sort of supergroup that turned out to be defined as much by its intentionally haphazard improv streak as its members' heavy reputations. The music they produced combined easy-to-predict elements—like Kelly's churning, doomy guitars and Williams' Burroughsian spoken-word rant-poems—with surprising ones, like the industrial streak provided by Parker's electronic beats. Despite its seat-of-the-pants beginnings, the group's found equilibrium, and on their second studio album, they're chasing down new ideas with a new confidence. Know How to Carry a Whip brings the electro-industrial elements to the forefront and also pushes into their most unexpected terrain yet—songs with distinct pop structures and even catchy melodies. While it isn't going to spoil the group's esoteric reputation, Whip's a record that you could feel comfortable passing along to casual heavy music fans. In its first half, the album has headbangable beats, grinding Sabbath-y guitars, and actual hooks. The opener, "Crossing My One Good Finger", might be the catchiest cut any member of the band has ever been involved with, with Neubauten-inspired drums, thunderous guitars, and a fist-pumping chorus (even if the lyrics seem to be about suffocating on toxic fumes). You could actually dance to "White Man's Gonna Lose", as long as Williams' unhinged nihilism doesn't crush your buzz. All of the catchy and danceable parts are covered in layers of sonic grime, expertly rendered by Parker, one of the world's leading experts at making records sound really bad in a really good way. They are also shot through with the searing misery that only Williams can really bring to a song. As a group, they remain obsessed with destruction and decay; fans looking for more of the nightmare poetry readings that defined Last City Zero should be perversely pleased by tracks like "I Was Never Good at Meth" that frame Williams' feverish, imagistic stanzas in washes of junkyard noise. Last City Zero positioned Corrections House as one of the more interesting participants in the industrial music resurgence, and Know How to Carry a Whip places them in the lead. Feral and unrelentingly hostile, it's a ragged-edged, rusty shank plunged deep into the ribs of the modern day. Anyone whose formative years as a music fan involved Skinny Puppy or the Wax Trax! label at its peak will feel right at home."

NxWorries

Yes Lawd!

Pop/R&B

Jonah Bromwich

Imagine it: You grew up in Oxnard, Calif. Your dad went to prison for beating your mom. You had a kid with your second wife. You lost your job, and a place to live. You were homeless. Your friends looked out for you. You slowly picked yourself up. You changed your name: Breezy Lovejoy became Anderson .Paak. You gained some traction, partly by redoubling your focus on your vocals, leaving the beatmaking to producers you trusted. Some Soundcloud hits followed, some friendships with well-connected rappers, a sophomore album, Venice, on which your voice had gone from a blunt instrument to a swiss army knife, able to do 15 different things at once. And then you got the call. From Aftermath, Dr. Dre’s label. A representative was checking to see if you were interested in the American dream, California rap edition—in working with an icon you’d been listening to since you were six years old. You made it. Channel that experience, .Paak’s own recent past, into a single song, and you might come up with something like “Livvin,” the first proper song off Yes Lawd!, his new joint album with the beatmaker Knxwledge. “Livvin” is triumph incarnate, a new entry in the tradition of “ashy-to-classy” tracks like “Juicy” and “Touch the Sky.” .Paak preaches the gospel of success in between rolling drums, mellow horns, and a church choir. His voice’s inextricability from the music is a testament to his chemistry with a producer steeped in the tradition of the beat scene godheads, Dilla and Madlib. (.Paak and Knx, whose real name is Glen Boothe, have merged their names into NxWorries, an apparent nod to the definitive Stones Throw duos, Jaylib and Madvillain.) .Paak’s sudden stardom, largely due to his work with Dre and to this year’s Malibu, his extraordinary third album, might tempt listeners to give him the credit for Yes Lawd!’s many successes. But the record, which includes tracks recorded between early 2015 and March 2016, is first and foremost a beat tape, stacked with beautiful little donuts, most of which don’t pass the three-minute mark. Knx was raised on church music, hip-hop radio, and J Dilla, and the rich instrumentals here are loaded with tributes to all three. “Sidepiece” offers .Paak a chance to sing the lyrics of “Won’t Do” from Dilla’s posthumous album The Shining: “One won’t do and two is not enough for me, no,” while “Can’t Stop” is a zoned-out moment of musical reverie that intimately recalls Jay Dee. The beats are the soul of the album, and .Paak serves as a faithful instrument, the organ at their core. Producers have fallen hard for .Paak and here, he shows several reasons why his stock has risen so quickly. He’s uniquely aware of the flexibility of his voice as an instrument and is one of the more emotive rappers I can remember hearing, on a level with DMX or Young Thug. On “Best One,” even as he expresses gratitude for a woman who’s taken him in, you can hear urgency, and empathy, in his voice: “You know I could be leaving in a moment’s notice/You telling me to stay to the morning/You know a nigga homeless.” On “Lyk Dis,” he channels no one so much as Erykah Badu, riding the beat with gravelly, percussive verses delivered in short bursts. In the past, Knxwledge has had trouble focusing on a particular sound for too long, but it’s his focus that holds the record together through 19 tracks, even as he shows off his range. On “What More Can I Say,” one of the prettiest songs here, mournful violin strings engage in a duet with a quiet bass rumble, and their interchange makes for some of the most moving music on the album, particularly when the horns arrive. (If you pride yourself on recognizing samples, this album will offer up a form of exquisite torture at least a couple of times, as you attempt to track down lovely little fragments.) The shuffling beat on “Link Up” is one of the more subtle offerings here, but its winding rhythms and muted sample make .Paak sound as if he’s singing from the middle of the dancefloor, appropriate for a song about nocturnal pursuits. Many of .Paak’s songs are about going out, and particularly about women, and it’s in their lyrics that Yes Lawd! reveals one of its only issues, a lack of lyrical substance. While an artist like Drake comfortably straddles the line between rapper and R&B singer, .Paak is more of a crooner than a rhymer. There are too few moments like the clever little lyrical elaboration on “Best One”: “I could leave it at a drop of a fedora/But damn it girl I want you.” And what we get instead can be ugly. On “Livvin,” .Paak sings about the feeling of ascending the ladder, but on some songs, it seems like he’s pulling it up behind him. The sentiment toward other strivers on “H.A.N.” is stingy, and .Paak’s portraits of his relationships are often shallow—a fact that the final track “Fkku” seems to acknowledge, giving a woman’s voice the record’s final kiss-off. The worrisome thing here is not that .Paak can be sexist. It’s that there’s nothing to counter or contextualize his attitude. On “Suede,” .Paak makes an explicit effort to justify the slurs he frequently uses: “If I call you a bitch/It’s cause you’re my bitch/And as long as no one else call you a bitch/Then there won’t be no problems.” The records that .Paak and Boothe admire, the classic Stones Throw collaborations, found two artists working at the absolute height of their talents. Madvillainy, in particular, was a perfect match between an internal rhyme genius in Doom and a beatmaking savant in Madlib. That album, released in 2004, remains a high water mark in Stones Throw’s history. .Paak and Knx are both so talented that it seems fair to hold them to that standard. And what’s astonishing here is the way they manage to forge a sound nearly as rich and original as that of America’s most blunted. One of the few disappointing things about the largely terrific Yes Lawd! is the way that Knx outdoes .Paak, but the rapper/singer is at the beginning of a bright career in which he’s already demonstrated his ability to write rich lyrics—this record, which includes some of the most beautiful songs he’s made yet, has far more to be proud of than not. It’s another major accomplishment in .Paak’s continued rise.

Artist: NxWorries, Album: Yes Lawd!, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Imagine it: You grew up in Oxnard, Calif. Your dad went to prison for beating your mom. You had a kid with your second wife. You lost your job, and a place to live. You were homeless. Your friends looked out for you. You slowly picked yourself up. You changed your name: Breezy Lovejoy became Anderson .Paak. You gained some traction, partly by redoubling your focus on your vocals, leaving the beatmaking to producers you trusted. Some Soundcloud hits followed, some friendships with well-connected rappers, a sophomore album, Venice, on which your voice had gone from a blunt instrument to a swiss army knife, able to do 15 different things at once. And then you got the call. From Aftermath, Dr. Dre’s label. A representative was checking to see if you were interested in the American dream, California rap edition—in working with an icon you’d been listening to since you were six years old. You made it. Channel that experience, .Paak’s own recent past, into a single song, and you might come up with something like “Livvin,” the first proper song off Yes Lawd!, his new joint album with the beatmaker Knxwledge. “Livvin” is triumph incarnate, a new entry in the tradition of “ashy-to-classy” tracks like “Juicy” and “Touch the Sky.” .Paak preaches the gospel of success in between rolling drums, mellow horns, and a church choir. His voice’s inextricability from the music is a testament to his chemistry with a producer steeped in the tradition of the beat scene godheads, Dilla and Madlib. (.Paak and Knx, whose real name is Glen Boothe, have merged their names into NxWorries, an apparent nod to the definitive Stones Throw duos, Jaylib and Madvillain.) .Paak’s sudden stardom, largely due to his work with Dre and to this year’s Malibu, his extraordinary third album, might tempt listeners to give him the credit for Yes Lawd!’s many successes. But the record, which includes tracks recorded between early 2015 and March 2016, is first and foremost a beat tape, stacked with beautiful little donuts, most of which don’t pass the three-minute mark. Knx was raised on church music, hip-hop radio, and J Dilla, and the rich instrumentals here are loaded with tributes to all three. “Sidepiece” offers .Paak a chance to sing the lyrics of “Won’t Do” from Dilla’s posthumous album The Shining: “One won’t do and two is not enough for me, no,” while “Can’t Stop” is a zoned-out moment of musical reverie that intimately recalls Jay Dee. The beats are the soul of the album, and .Paak serves as a faithful instrument, the organ at their core. Producers have fallen hard for .Paak and here, he shows several reasons why his stock has risen so quickly. He’s uniquely aware of the flexibility of his voice as an instrument and is one of the more emotive rappers I can remember hearing, on a level with DMX or Young Thug. On “Best One,” even as he expresses gratitude for a woman who’s taken him in, you can hear urgency, and empathy, in his voice: “You know I could be leaving in a moment’s notice/You telling me to stay to the morning/You know a nigga homeless.” On “Lyk Dis,” he channels no one so much as Erykah Badu, riding the beat with gravelly, percussive verses delivered in short bursts. In the past, Knxwledge has had trouble focusing on a particular sound for too long, but it’s his focus that holds the record together through 19 tracks, even as he shows off his range. On “What More Can I Say,” one of the prettiest songs here, mournful violin strings engage in a duet with a quiet bass rumble, and their interchange makes for some of the most moving music on the album, particularly when the horns arrive. (If you pride yourself on recognizing samples, this album will offer up a form of exquisite torture at least a couple of times, as you attempt to track down lovely little fragments.) The shuffling beat on “Link Up” is one of the more subtle offerings here, but its winding rhythms and muted sample make .Paak sound as if he’s singing from the middle of the dancefloor, appropriate for a song about nocturnal pursuits. Many of .Paak’s songs are about going out, and particularly about women, and it’s in their lyrics that Yes Lawd! reveals one of its only issues, a lack of lyrical substance. While an artist like Drake comfortably straddles the line between rapper and R&B singer, .Paak is more of a crooner than a rhymer. There are too few moments like the clever little lyrical elaboration on “Best One”: “I could leave it at a drop of a fedora/But damn it girl I want you.” And what we get instead can be ugly. On “Livvin,” .Paak sings about the feeling of ascending the ladder, but on some songs, it seems like he’s pulling it up behind him. The sentiment toward other strivers on “H.A.N.” is stingy, and .Paak’s portraits of his relationships are often shallow—a fact that the final track “Fkku” seems to acknowledge, giving a woman’s voice the record’s final kiss-off. The worrisome thing here is not that .Paak can be sexist. It’s that there’s nothing to counter or contextualize his attitude. On “Suede,” .Paak makes an explicit effort to justify the slurs he frequently uses: “If I call you a bitch/It’s cause you’re my bitch/And as long as no one else call you a bitch/Then there won’t be no problems.” The records that .Paak and Boothe admire, the classic Stones Throw collaborations, found two artists working at the absolute height of their talents. Madvillainy, in particular, was a perfect match between an internal rhyme genius in Doom and a beatmaking savant in Madlib. That album, released in 2004, remains a high water mark in Stones Throw’s history. .Paak and Knx are both so talented that it seems fair to hold them to that standard. And what’s astonishing here is the way they manage to forge a sound nearly as rich and original as that of America’s most blunted. One of the few disappointing things about the largely terrific Yes Lawd! is the way that Knx outdoes .Paak, but the rapper/singer is at the beginning of a bright career in which he’s already demonstrated his ability to write rich lyrics—this record, which includes some of the most beautiful songs he’s made yet, has far more to be proud of than not. It’s another major accomplishment in .Paak’s continued rise."

Adam Green

Minor Love

Rock

Zach Kelly

It's the end of an era: An Adam Green record without a single dick joke or crack-cocaine reference. In fact, much of the former Moldy Peach's latest album, Minor Love, finds Green trying to obstruct the persona he's spent almost a decade fine-tuning. As occasionally funny as he was while cloaking his emotions with crudeness and junk-pop crooning, he was rarely as forthcoming as he is on his sixth solo outing. Minor Love suggests Green is interested in sometimes actually saying what he means, even if it's usually about how unavailable he actually is. "I had to be the schmuck who tries to be smart," he explains on highlight "Stadium Soul". At least this time, he doesn't need a Wayne Newton parody about a hooker to tell us. Minor Love also finds Green in a different headspace musically as well, ignoring a long-standing predilection for cleanly expressed pop. Instead, the minimalist approach he takes with most of these songs-- with their simple constructions and complete lack of production value-- confirms an interest in a rawer feel. Part of this might also have something to do with Green retroactively slipping into the skin of the leather-jacketed SoHo rocker he might have secretly always wanted to be. Single "What Makes Him Act So Bad" boasts a frighteningly good Lou Reed approximation, playing like a gem of an old Velvet Underground demo. "Stadium Soul" and "Give Them a Token" both share a similar downtown-cool appeal, yet still retain a helpful bit of the sweetness and whimsy found in Green's earlier work. It's on these tracks that Green really hits his mark, now posing like those old New York City contemporaries of his did a decade ago (a time he spent famously dicking around in a Robin Hood costume). So it's a little disappointing to see him lose sight of this for the remainder of the album, filling in the gaps with paced acoustic tunes and the occasional weird one-off. There's even a handful of surprisingly appealing urban cowboy ballads, most of which would seem less out of place if there weren't as much authentic investment in their dusty-trail aesthetic. From the ominous but goofy showdown vibe of "Buddy Bradley" to the bizarre campfire tale "Boss Inside", what seems like ripe pranking ground for Green results in a few pleasant left turns, even if they ultimately don't end up sticking. Despite its strong first quarter, Minor Love fails to stick. Though there's a nice sense of humor throughout, there's just not enough meat on the bone to inspire any sort of real investment in the majority of these songs. They're simple, fuzzy, and occasionally quite hooky, but most lack any sort of magnetic element that would require a second spin. You hate to admit it, but at least the old Green had a little shock value to fall back on when things came out a little watery. And even though it's fun to watch Green turn a wacky phrase or brighten things with a peculiar image, it's pretty clear that Green still prefers hiding behind the obtuse vagary he's grown so accustomed to. "I've been too awful to ever be thoughtful," he confesses on opener "Breaking Locks". A lot of Minor Love suggests otherwise-- I just wish he could've rolled with it.

Artist: Adam Green, Album: Minor Love, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.7 Album review: "It's the end of an era: An Adam Green record without a single dick joke or crack-cocaine reference. In fact, much of the former Moldy Peach's latest album, Minor Love, finds Green trying to obstruct the persona he's spent almost a decade fine-tuning. As occasionally funny as he was while cloaking his emotions with crudeness and junk-pop crooning, he was rarely as forthcoming as he is on his sixth solo outing. Minor Love suggests Green is interested in sometimes actually saying what he means, even if it's usually about how unavailable he actually is. "I had to be the schmuck who tries to be smart," he explains on highlight "Stadium Soul". At least this time, he doesn't need a Wayne Newton parody about a hooker to tell us. Minor Love also finds Green in a different headspace musically as well, ignoring a long-standing predilection for cleanly expressed pop. Instead, the minimalist approach he takes with most of these songs-- with their simple constructions and complete lack of production value-- confirms an interest in a rawer feel. Part of this might also have something to do with Green retroactively slipping into the skin of the leather-jacketed SoHo rocker he might have secretly always wanted to be. Single "What Makes Him Act So Bad" boasts a frighteningly good Lou Reed approximation, playing like a gem of an old Velvet Underground demo. "Stadium Soul" and "Give Them a Token" both share a similar downtown-cool appeal, yet still retain a helpful bit of the sweetness and whimsy found in Green's earlier work. It's on these tracks that Green really hits his mark, now posing like those old New York City contemporaries of his did a decade ago (a time he spent famously dicking around in a Robin Hood costume). So it's a little disappointing to see him lose sight of this for the remainder of the album, filling in the gaps with paced acoustic tunes and the occasional weird one-off. There's even a handful of surprisingly appealing urban cowboy ballads, most of which would seem less out of place if there weren't as much authentic investment in their dusty-trail aesthetic. From the ominous but goofy showdown vibe of "Buddy Bradley" to the bizarre campfire tale "Boss Inside", what seems like ripe pranking ground for Green results in a few pleasant left turns, even if they ultimately don't end up sticking. Despite its strong first quarter, Minor Love fails to stick. Though there's a nice sense of humor throughout, there's just not enough meat on the bone to inspire any sort of real investment in the majority of these songs. They're simple, fuzzy, and occasionally quite hooky, but most lack any sort of magnetic element that would require a second spin. You hate to admit it, but at least the old Green had a little shock value to fall back on when things came out a little watery. And even though it's fun to watch Green turn a wacky phrase or brighten things with a peculiar image, it's pretty clear that Green still prefers hiding behind the obtuse vagary he's grown so accustomed to. "I've been too awful to ever be thoughtful," he confesses on opener "Breaking Locks". A lot of Minor Love suggests otherwise-- I just wish he could've rolled with it."

T.I.

T.I. vs. T.I.P.

Rap

Tom Breihan

On last year's King, T.I.'s scrappy street-kid swagger seemed indivisible from his pop instincts, and that's partly why it was one of the year's best rap albums. On older records like 2003's Trap Muzik, T.I. built an image of himself as a haunted, remorseful drug-dealer, balancing triumphant anthems like "Rubberband Man" with sad, introspective laments like "Be Better Than Me". By the time he released King, though, the emotional resonance was all but gone from his music, replaced by a world-conquering confidence unmatched in rap. Titanic bangers like "What You Know" and "Top Back" didn't work in spite of T.I.'s guttural sneer; they used that harshness as fuel. But T.I.'s new album, T.I. vs. T.I.P. operates on the thin and dubious concept that T.I. the businessman and T.I.P. the unreformed hustler are two completely different entities, and that the strain of balancing the two personas is enough to tear Clifford Joseph Harris Jr. apart. Apparently, those two sides aren't as indivisible as they once seemed. T.I. first explored this dichotomy on Trap Muzik's "T.I. vs. T.I.P.", crafting an argument that movingly dramatized his internal struggle. That struggle also serves as the concept for the new album: T.I.P. gets the first seven tracks, T.I. the next seven, and the two sides spend the last four songs hashing out their differences. It's an interesting conceit, but it doesn't really work as a hook for an entire album, and the record's exhaustingly long running time pushes the conceit far past the breaking point. For one thing, it's a pacing disaster; by lining up all his sugary for-the-ladies tracks in a row, T.I. leaves a long dead-streak in the second half of the album. For another, it plays against his strengths. His music works best when both sides of his personality are allowed to co-exist in the same track. When they're separated, they both sound emaciated and half-formed. And he never quite commits to the concept. If T.I. represents the rapper's pop half, why do the album's first two singles come from the T.I.P. section? If the album's final stretch is meant to unite both sides, why do they confront each other in song only once, on the second verse of "Respect My Hustle"? Unsurprisingly, the strongest stretch of the album comes from T.I.P. On songs like the underwhelming first single "Big Shit Poppin'" and the clichéd drug-dealer instruction-manual "Da Dopeman", the rapper seems to be on autopilot, but a few of the T.I.P. tracks would've been highlights even on King. On "You Know What It Is", he rides Wyclef Jean's sublimely summery rubber bassline, intuitively sinking into the beat and savoring the sound of his voice. "Watch What You Say" boasts a bluesy organic thump and the most authoritative Jay-Z guest-verse in a couple of years, and T.I.'s throaty snarl conveys menace infectiously. On "Hurt", he keeps pace with Danja's royal horns and riotous drums and the fiery guest-verses from Alfamega and (surprisingly) Busta Rhymes. The T.I. suite doesn't fare so well, partly because its mere existence positions it as a compromise. T.I.'s cruise-ship money-talk never feels as urgent as his grimy side, and bored and lazy guest-verses from Eminem and Nelly-- both of whom sound like shadows of their former selves-- don't help anything. The best that can be said about the T.I. section is that it mostly doesn't sound all that different from the T.I.P. section; beats from Just Blaze and the Runners are as convincingly hard as anything elsewhere, and T.I. uses the same cadence and delivery whether he's talking about spending money or killing you. If the final act works more consistently than the previous two, it's more because of its two slyly synthetic Danja beats than because of any trenchant insights the rapper comes up with. Even if the concept falls flat, though, T.I. vs. T.I.P. still warrants a listen, if only because T.I. seems constitutionally incapable of releasing an album full of uncompelling music. As a rapper, he's still a dominant voice; his slurry, guttural drawl is a great instrument, and always keeps it deep in the track's pocket, occasionally whipping out tricky double-time patterns or murmuring singsong melodies. The album is perhaps best heard in chunks; only a few of these songs wouldn't sound great on shuffle. Heard as a piece, though, the album's momentum sputters and dies more than once; after a few consecutive listens, T.I. sounds dour and joyless, like he's just punching the clock. Shortly after the release of King, T.I.'s friend Philant Johnson was shot dead after a nightclub brawl between T.I.'s entourage and some Cincinnati thugs. After Johnson's death, T.I. mentioned that the business of rapping no longer felt good and admitted that he was seriously considering quitting music altogether. On T.I. vs. T.I.P., he repeatedly makes reference to Johnson, and indeed he rarely displays the spark and verve that gave King much of its power. T.I. vs. T.I.P. may be self-obsessed and self-indulgent, but maybe T.I. needed to make this album to keep himself interested. Let's hope he's gotten it out of his system.

Artist: T.I., Album: T.I. vs. T.I.P., Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "On last year's King, T.I.'s scrappy street-kid swagger seemed indivisible from his pop instincts, and that's partly why it was one of the year's best rap albums. On older records like 2003's Trap Muzik, T.I. built an image of himself as a haunted, remorseful drug-dealer, balancing triumphant anthems like "Rubberband Man" with sad, introspective laments like "Be Better Than Me". By the time he released King, though, the emotional resonance was all but gone from his music, replaced by a world-conquering confidence unmatched in rap. Titanic bangers like "What You Know" and "Top Back" didn't work in spite of T.I.'s guttural sneer; they used that harshness as fuel. But T.I.'s new album, T.I. vs. T.I.P. operates on the thin and dubious concept that T.I. the businessman and T.I.P. the unreformed hustler are two completely different entities, and that the strain of balancing the two personas is enough to tear Clifford Joseph Harris Jr. apart. Apparently, those two sides aren't as indivisible as they once seemed. T.I. first explored this dichotomy on Trap Muzik's "T.I. vs. T.I.P.", crafting an argument that movingly dramatized his internal struggle. That struggle also serves as the concept for the new album: T.I.P. gets the first seven tracks, T.I. the next seven, and the two sides spend the last four songs hashing out their differences. It's an interesting conceit, but it doesn't really work as a hook for an entire album, and the record's exhaustingly long running time pushes the conceit far past the breaking point. For one thing, it's a pacing disaster; by lining up all his sugary for-the-ladies tracks in a row, T.I. leaves a long dead-streak in the second half of the album. For another, it plays against his strengths. His music works best when both sides of his personality are allowed to co-exist in the same track. When they're separated, they both sound emaciated and half-formed. And he never quite commits to the concept. If T.I. represents the rapper's pop half, why do the album's first two singles come from the T.I.P. section? If the album's final stretch is meant to unite both sides, why do they confront each other in song only once, on the second verse of "Respect My Hustle"? Unsurprisingly, the strongest stretch of the album comes from T.I.P. On songs like the underwhelming first single "Big Shit Poppin'" and the clichéd drug-dealer instruction-manual "Da Dopeman", the rapper seems to be on autopilot, but a few of the T.I.P. tracks would've been highlights even on King. On "You Know What It Is", he rides Wyclef Jean's sublimely summery rubber bassline, intuitively sinking into the beat and savoring the sound of his voice. "Watch What You Say" boasts a bluesy organic thump and the most authoritative Jay-Z guest-verse in a couple of years, and T.I.'s throaty snarl conveys menace infectiously. On "Hurt", he keeps pace with Danja's royal horns and riotous drums and the fiery guest-verses from Alfamega and (surprisingly) Busta Rhymes. The T.I. suite doesn't fare so well, partly because its mere existence positions it as a compromise. T.I.'s cruise-ship money-talk never feels as urgent as his grimy side, and bored and lazy guest-verses from Eminem and Nelly-- both of whom sound like shadows of their former selves-- don't help anything. The best that can be said about the T.I. section is that it mostly doesn't sound all that different from the T.I.P. section; beats from Just Blaze and the Runners are as convincingly hard as anything elsewhere, and T.I. uses the same cadence and delivery whether he's talking about spending money or killing you. If the final act works more consistently than the previous two, it's more because of its two slyly synthetic Danja beats than because of any trenchant insights the rapper comes up with. Even if the concept falls flat, though, T.I. vs. T.I.P. still warrants a listen, if only because T.I. seems constitutionally incapable of releasing an album full of uncompelling music. As a rapper, he's still a dominant voice; his slurry, guttural drawl is a great instrument, and always keeps it deep in the track's pocket, occasionally whipping out tricky double-time patterns or murmuring singsong melodies. The album is perhaps best heard in chunks; only a few of these songs wouldn't sound great on shuffle. Heard as a piece, though, the album's momentum sputters and dies more than once; after a few consecutive listens, T.I. sounds dour and joyless, like he's just punching the clock. Shortly after the release of King, T.I.'s friend Philant Johnson was shot dead after a nightclub brawl between T.I.'s entourage and some Cincinnati thugs. After Johnson's death, T.I. mentioned that the business of rapping no longer felt good and admitted that he was seriously considering quitting music altogether. On T.I. vs. T.I.P., he repeatedly makes reference to Johnson, and indeed he rarely displays the spark and verve that gave King much of its power. T.I. vs. T.I.P. may be self-obsessed and self-indulgent, but maybe T.I. needed to make this album to keep himself interested. Let's hope he's gotten it out of his system."

Inter Arma

Paradise Gallows

Metal

Sam Sodomsky

Few metal bands in recent years have emerged with all their parts so immediately perfected as Inter Arma: every pummeling, slow-as-molasses drum fill; every seasick, punishing guitar solo; every ounce of reverb on Mike Paparo’s pained, death metal howl; every blast of feedback swelling in the mix like a bolt of thunder forecasting a biblical storm. For a band so wild and untamable, every aspect of Inter Arma’s records sounds as if it was deliberated upon and perfected for hours in a studio before reaching our ears. This was true on their 2013 Relapse debut Sky Burial, and it was even truer on their 2014 follow-up EP The Cavern. A single 45-minute track, *The Cavern *showcased a band uninterested in resting on their laurels. They had established a signature sound, with their moody amalgam of death metal, black metal, doom metal, and Southern rock, and were now focused on crafting compositions as interesting and distinctive as their sonics. Such is the mission statement for Paradise Gallows, an album that finds the Richmond, Virginia five-piece alternatively aiming to be both the world’s heaviest act and also the prettiest— and they don’t waste any time. Brief opening number “Nomini” pairs acoustic fingerpicking with soaring David Gilmour-indebted solos and leads right into “An Archer in the Emptiness,” their most guttural, atonal slab of sludge to date. The juxtaposition of the two songs is an almost too-perfect summation of what Inter Arma is capable of (see also track titles like “Violent Constellations” and “The Summer Drones”), but Inter Arma is too smart to become formulaic. On Paradise Gallows, their songwriting is consistently sharp and challenging, making the album’s 71 minutes of shapeshifting feel not only coherent but also wholly natural and downright triumphant. Like The Cavern, Paradise Gallows is most impressive when taken as a whole, but it is not without its individual highlights. “Violent Constellations” finds Paparo quoting both Rainer Maria Rilke and Waylon Jennings over some of drummer T.J. Childers’ most powerful rhythms. The proggy “Summer Drones,” meanwhile, is one of the shortest tracks here at just under seven minutes, but is also one of its most stunning: a psychedelic burst of swirling mayhem, with chanted vocals that illustrate the common ground between early Swans and the Doors. The clean vocals return on “Where the Earth Meets the Sky,” the quiet, gothy closing number that proves that Inter Arma—a band with the ability to sound like a windstorm sweeping through deserted swamplands set on fire—can also sound like Death in June (and sound pretty good doing it). “As a young man, I’ve ventured far from youthful realm,” sings Paparo in “An Archer in the Emptiness,” and it rings true throughout. Paradise Gallows, despite being only the band’s third full-length LP, occasionally feels like a release from metal elder statesmen, summarizing a long discography spent dabbling in various genres and experimenting with different sounds. Inter Arma might have been expected to use this album as an opportunity to present a more distilled version of themselves, after affirming a multitude of sonic possibilities on their last two breakthrough releases. It’s worth noting that Neurosis—the seminal and similarly unclassifiable band to whom they are most often compared—released the restrained, folksy Souls at Zero at a similar point in their career: an album that identified and exercised a specific mood in their arsenal, while alienating some of their core metal fanbase in the process. But on *Paradise Gallows, *Inter Arma seems uninterested in refining anything, choosing instead to indulge all of their strengths at once. The result is a captivating, dizzying record by a band aware that they can do anything—so they’re doing it all.

Artist: Inter Arma, Album: Paradise Gallows, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Few metal bands in recent years have emerged with all their parts so immediately perfected as Inter Arma: every pummeling, slow-as-molasses drum fill; every seasick, punishing guitar solo; every ounce of reverb on Mike Paparo’s pained, death metal howl; every blast of feedback swelling in the mix like a bolt of thunder forecasting a biblical storm. For a band so wild and untamable, every aspect of Inter Arma’s records sounds as if it was deliberated upon and perfected for hours in a studio before reaching our ears. This was true on their 2013 Relapse debut Sky Burial, and it was even truer on their 2014 follow-up EP The Cavern. A single 45-minute track, *The Cavern *showcased a band uninterested in resting on their laurels. They had established a signature sound, with their moody amalgam of death metal, black metal, doom metal, and Southern rock, and were now focused on crafting compositions as interesting and distinctive as their sonics. Such is the mission statement for Paradise Gallows, an album that finds the Richmond, Virginia five-piece alternatively aiming to be both the world’s heaviest act and also the prettiest— and they don’t waste any time. Brief opening number “Nomini” pairs acoustic fingerpicking with soaring David Gilmour-indebted solos and leads right into “An Archer in the Emptiness,” their most guttural, atonal slab of sludge to date. The juxtaposition of the two songs is an almost too-perfect summation of what Inter Arma is capable of (see also track titles like “Violent Constellations” and “The Summer Drones”), but Inter Arma is too smart to become formulaic. On Paradise Gallows, their songwriting is consistently sharp and challenging, making the album’s 71 minutes of shapeshifting feel not only coherent but also wholly natural and downright triumphant. Like The Cavern, Paradise Gallows is most impressive when taken as a whole, but it is not without its individual highlights. “Violent Constellations” finds Paparo quoting both Rainer Maria Rilke and Waylon Jennings over some of drummer T.J. Childers’ most powerful rhythms. The proggy “Summer Drones,” meanwhile, is one of the shortest tracks here at just under seven minutes, but is also one of its most stunning: a psychedelic burst of swirling mayhem, with chanted vocals that illustrate the common ground between early Swans and the Doors. The clean vocals return on “Where the Earth Meets the Sky,” the quiet, gothy closing number that proves that Inter Arma—a band with the ability to sound like a windstorm sweeping through deserted swamplands set on fire—can also sound like Death in June (and sound pretty good doing it). “As a young man, I’ve ventured far from youthful realm,” sings Paparo in “An Archer in the Emptiness,” and it rings true throughout. Paradise Gallows, despite being only the band’s third full-length LP, occasionally feels like a release from metal elder statesmen, summarizing a long discography spent dabbling in various genres and experimenting with different sounds. Inter Arma might have been expected to use this album as an opportunity to present a more distilled version of themselves, after affirming a multitude of sonic possibilities on their last two breakthrough releases. It’s worth noting that Neurosis—the seminal and similarly unclassifiable band to whom they are most often compared—released the restrained, folksy Souls at Zero at a similar point in their career: an album that identified and exercised a specific mood in their arsenal, while alienating some of their core metal fanbase in the process. But on *Paradise Gallows, *Inter Arma seems uninterested in refining anything, choosing instead to indulge all of their strengths at once. The result is a captivating, dizzying record by a band aware that they can do anything—so they’re doing it all."

Early Man

Early Man EP

Metal,Rock

Sam Ubl

Not for nothing is it called metal. There's some flexibility to the idiom-- it can be light and aerodynamic or titanically heavy; quick and nimble or unapologetically slothful; deadly efficient or clumsily longwinded-- but one thing is sure: There's no opposing force it cannot withstand. If the carnival strongman can bend you over his shoulders, you've failed. For their part, Early Man fail robustly on their new self-titled EP. Rife with blunders both technical and tactical, the album dumbfounds more than it offends. The band aren't inept, but trying to nail Reign in Blood kicks without razor-sharp chops is fatuous. Taking on the metal demigods, Early Man are like a squad of college doughboys come to contend against Schwarzenegger for Mr. Universe '73. The band is manhandled by their own poorly-executed songs. Sloppiness is part and parcel of the stoner metal appellation, but Early Man don't fester in reverb-saturated mud-pits of their imprecision; they chug, stomp, wiggle and kick the way a more technically proficient outfit might, only seldom hitting their target. Word is, Early Man was hastily recorded on free studio time and intended just as a promotional tool for the undiscovered duo. In that case, it's easier to forgive the flaccid recording, which sounds pounded into a squishy pâté. Metal comes served many ways, but spread on crackers is not a preferred method. Delivered in a studied Hetfieldian croon, Mike Conte's vocals are deliberately dumb and devoid of imagination. As a beer-sodden brawler's anthem, "Fight!" is successful: it couldn't be more retarded. "Alright, so you wanna fight," Conte sings, "My fists are sticks of dynamite/ Fuck you if you're talking to may/ My fuse blows quick like T-N-Tay!" At least give us the Angel of Death, or something remotely visceral. Fortunately, Conte's verses on "The Undertaker Is Calling You" are warped beyond recognition-- the sound is much more convincing than the meaning. Early Man are disagreeably contrived, ripping from metal legends past and present with sufficient accuracy but little reverence. (I thought I caught a whiff of parody, although now I'm pretty sure the band are entirely sincere.) "Death Is the Answer to My Prayers" is a Sabbath-style dirge, complete with plenty of stupid-fun quarter-note bashing and a demonically crooked vocal delivery. But as with this perfunctory teaser's other two tracks, Early Man can rock so much harder. Here's hoping their new label, Matador, finds these boys a fancy engineer who'll sharpen the blades and give their words someplace to hide. Such a fine-tuning might not flip that rating, but it would give the band's broken-bottle narratives some heft.

Artist: Early Man, Album: Early Man EP, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 3.9 Album review: "Not for nothing is it called metal. There's some flexibility to the idiom-- it can be light and aerodynamic or titanically heavy; quick and nimble or unapologetically slothful; deadly efficient or clumsily longwinded-- but one thing is sure: There's no opposing force it cannot withstand. If the carnival strongman can bend you over his shoulders, you've failed. For their part, Early Man fail robustly on their new self-titled EP. Rife with blunders both technical and tactical, the album dumbfounds more than it offends. The band aren't inept, but trying to nail Reign in Blood kicks without razor-sharp chops is fatuous. Taking on the metal demigods, Early Man are like a squad of college doughboys come to contend against Schwarzenegger for Mr. Universe '73. The band is manhandled by their own poorly-executed songs. Sloppiness is part and parcel of the stoner metal appellation, but Early Man don't fester in reverb-saturated mud-pits of their imprecision; they chug, stomp, wiggle and kick the way a more technically proficient outfit might, only seldom hitting their target. Word is, Early Man was hastily recorded on free studio time and intended just as a promotional tool for the undiscovered duo. In that case, it's easier to forgive the flaccid recording, which sounds pounded into a squishy pâté. Metal comes served many ways, but spread on crackers is not a preferred method. Delivered in a studied Hetfieldian croon, Mike Conte's vocals are deliberately dumb and devoid of imagination. As a beer-sodden brawler's anthem, "Fight!" is successful: it couldn't be more retarded. "Alright, so you wanna fight," Conte sings, "My fists are sticks of dynamite/ Fuck you if you're talking to may/ My fuse blows quick like T-N-Tay!" At least give us the Angel of Death, or something remotely visceral. Fortunately, Conte's verses on "The Undertaker Is Calling You" are warped beyond recognition-- the sound is much more convincing than the meaning. Early Man are disagreeably contrived, ripping from metal legends past and present with sufficient accuracy but little reverence. (I thought I caught a whiff of parody, although now I'm pretty sure the band are entirely sincere.) "Death Is the Answer to My Prayers" is a Sabbath-style dirge, complete with plenty of stupid-fun quarter-note bashing and a demonically crooked vocal delivery. But as with this perfunctory teaser's other two tracks, Early Man can rock so much harder. Here's hoping their new label, Matador, finds these boys a fancy engineer who'll sharpen the blades and give their words someplace to hide. Such a fine-tuning might not flip that rating, but it would give the band's broken-bottle narratives some heft."

DJ Spooky

Dubtometry

Electronic,Jazz

Mark Martelli

First off, dox92t let the credits fool you. Mad Professor and dub legend/guru Lee \x93Scratch\x94 Perry are being credited as having been heavily involved with Dubtometry-- a drastic reworking of Optometry, DJ Spooky's 2002 collaboration with NYC jazz wunderkind Matthew Shipp (avaiable on his Thirsty Ear label)-- but if CD inserts can be trusted, their touch was minimal and composite. Their names are attached to only a few of Dubtometry's seventeen cuts, including mere interludes and Perry's own \x93Jungle Soldier\x94; the prominent placement of their monikers on the album cover seems more like a calculated bid for credibility than an accurate representation of the artists and influences on this record, which runs the gamut from traditional dub to polished hip-hop and DJ Krust-flavored drum and bass. The album is mostly successful in its basic mission: taking jazz-fusion and musiq-concrete source material and putting a ballsy urban spin on it, bringing out the head nodding libido buried deep inside Optometry's somewhat pretentious and consciously stolid-- though still impressive-- experimentation. Many of the remixers on Dubtometry drastically improve the quality of their chosen songs by cleverly augmenting their highly traditional jazz identity: The weak, yawning \x93Parachutes\x94 finds itself revitalized with the addition of lilting flute passages and a striding, solid drum beat, breathing life into the original's academic corpse, while DJ Goo masterfully reworks the loose, bloated \x93Optometry\x94 into a crisp slab of inebriated hip-hop on \x93Bomb Massive\x94, replete with decayed synth bursts and a bassline that tops any of Spooky's upright work, topped off by sublime beatboxing from IsWhat? member Napolean . Goo's take on \x93Ibid, Desmarches, Ibid\x94 is equally successful at injecting fresh beats under the jazz-bop skin, as is the slow Caribbean sleepwalk of Twilight Circus' \x93Variation Cybernetique\x94 remix, which retains the original's gaseous string section. The closer deserves extra props: Animal Crackers' epic, wheels of steel raid on \x93Optometry\x94 is a class clown worth getting detention with, or Charlie Brown packing heat. The most glaring exceptions are easily spotted. The lesser criminals in Colorform craft a jazzy house rave-up from the rib of \x93Sequentia Absentia\x94 that's obviously lost in the wrong neighborhood at 2AM. J-Live's contribution is the record's nadir, a tepid vocal track that samples a non-descript snippet of \x93Optometry\x94 and builds an equally faceless song; \x93Asphalt (Tome II)\x94 was one of the more feverish moments on Optometry, but in the hands of Negativland it's a disappointment, a looping afterthought that falls flat. The credit and blame belongs to all the players, not just the notables: Dubtometry's greatest mistake is not presenting its contents as an amoebic whole. Optometry sold itself on the names of its central contributiors, and the remix album suffers from a serious case of conceptual envy. But Dubtometry does bring some much-needed swagger to the table in the house that Miller and Schipp built: the sometimes stuffy compositions found on the original disc get a kick in the ass and some tongue in the ear, and it's just the sort of stimulation that was needed. Everything's a little less inhibited this time around: be sure and check your drinks.

Artist: DJ Spooky, Album: Dubtometry, Genre: Electronic,Jazz, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "First off, dox92t let the credits fool you. Mad Professor and dub legend/guru Lee \x93Scratch\x94 Perry are being credited as having been heavily involved with Dubtometry-- a drastic reworking of Optometry, DJ Spooky's 2002 collaboration with NYC jazz wunderkind Matthew Shipp (avaiable on his Thirsty Ear label)-- but if CD inserts can be trusted, their touch was minimal and composite. Their names are attached to only a few of Dubtometry's seventeen cuts, including mere interludes and Perry's own \x93Jungle Soldier\x94; the prominent placement of their monikers on the album cover seems more like a calculated bid for credibility than an accurate representation of the artists and influences on this record, which runs the gamut from traditional dub to polished hip-hop and DJ Krust-flavored drum and bass. The album is mostly successful in its basic mission: taking jazz-fusion and musiq-concrete source material and putting a ballsy urban spin on it, bringing out the head nodding libido buried deep inside Optometry's somewhat pretentious and consciously stolid-- though still impressive-- experimentation. Many of the remixers on Dubtometry drastically improve the quality of their chosen songs by cleverly augmenting their highly traditional jazz identity: The weak, yawning \x93Parachutes\x94 finds itself revitalized with the addition of lilting flute passages and a striding, solid drum beat, breathing life into the original's academic corpse, while DJ Goo masterfully reworks the loose, bloated \x93Optometry\x94 into a crisp slab of inebriated hip-hop on \x93Bomb Massive\x94, replete with decayed synth bursts and a bassline that tops any of Spooky's upright work, topped off by sublime beatboxing from IsWhat? member Napolean . Goo's take on \x93Ibid, Desmarches, Ibid\x94 is equally successful at injecting fresh beats under the jazz-bop skin, as is the slow Caribbean sleepwalk of Twilight Circus' \x93Variation Cybernetique\x94 remix, which retains the original's gaseous string section. The closer deserves extra props: Animal Crackers' epic, wheels of steel raid on \x93Optometry\x94 is a class clown worth getting detention with, or Charlie Brown packing heat. The most glaring exceptions are easily spotted. The lesser criminals in Colorform craft a jazzy house rave-up from the rib of \x93Sequentia Absentia\x94 that's obviously lost in the wrong neighborhood at 2AM. J-Live's contribution is the record's nadir, a tepid vocal track that samples a non-descript snippet of \x93Optometry\x94 and builds an equally faceless song; \x93Asphalt (Tome II)\x94 was one of the more feverish moments on Optometry, but in the hands of Negativland it's a disappointment, a looping afterthought that falls flat. The credit and blame belongs to all the players, not just the notables: Dubtometry's greatest mistake is not presenting its contents as an amoebic whole. Optometry sold itself on the names of its central contributiors, and the remix album suffers from a serious case of conceptual envy. But Dubtometry does bring some much-needed swagger to the table in the house that Miller and Schipp built: the sometimes stuffy compositions found on the original disc get a kick in the ass and some tongue in the ear, and it's just the sort of stimulation that was needed. Everything's a little less inhibited this time around: be sure and check your drinks."

S.C.U.M.

Again Into Eyes

Rock

Eric Grandy

Look up any review of S.C.U.M. in the British music press, and you're likely to encounter the phrase "little Horrors," a diminutive comparison to the band that put out this year's fine LP Skying. This was S.C.U.M.'s first handy hook for the NME-- not only because bassist Huw Webb is the younger brother of the Horrors' Rhys Webb, but also because the bands share traits on the musical and magazine-ready haircuts-and-cheekbones levels. This seems like the sort of tag the younger quintet would be eager to shake off, the better to stand on their own feet, but it's a lineage S.C.U.M. can't entirely lose on debut album Again Into Eyes. In the two years since their formation, S.C.U.M. have followed a strikingly similar path to that of their elders: Both began as brash, noisy outfits-- the Horrors as goth garage shriekers, S.C.U.M. with a reputation for no-wave noise-making live shows-- and have arrived in 2011 at an atmosphere-heavy, 1980s-influenced rock sound that's less abrasive and vastly more ambitious than those origins might've predicted. That tends to mean impeccably produced moody, mid-tempo rock songs, swaddled in vaporous synth textures, and led by seductively fainting singing. In S.C.U.M., the singing's done by Thomas Cohen, whose breathy, soft moaning smears across the rhythms on "Summon the Sound", drifting over the edge of the beat as it fades into the distance. It's a familiar effect, but Cohen's singing sounds less affected and more skillful than that of the Horrors' Faris Badwan. Another important distinction: While the Horrors recently rounded off the edges of their guitar tones (to the point of largely obscuring the instrument's original sound), S.C.U.M. have done away with guitars almost entirely in favor of keyboards and synthesizers. (A less commonly mentioned but perhaps more interesting family tie is that S.C.U.M. keyboardist Samuel Kilcoyne is the son of Add N to (X)'s Barry Smith-- one imagines him inheriting a pile of pristine-condition Moog synthesizers for his 16th birthday.) One six-string features on single "Amber Hands", and there may be some more deep in the mix elsewhere (band member Bradley Baker is credited with "machines, press," which leaves room for some ambiguity). Either way, the band relies less on sharp, mix-piercing leads than on amorphous washes from which the melodies gently emerge-- it's an accomplished sound, one that may not immediately dispense with the comparisons that have dogged the band, but one that does suggest a group more than capable of outgrowing the associations.

Artist: S.C.U.M., Album: Again Into Eyes, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Look up any review of S.C.U.M. in the British music press, and you're likely to encounter the phrase "little Horrors," a diminutive comparison to the band that put out this year's fine LP Skying. This was S.C.U.M.'s first handy hook for the NME-- not only because bassist Huw Webb is the younger brother of the Horrors' Rhys Webb, but also because the bands share traits on the musical and magazine-ready haircuts-and-cheekbones levels. This seems like the sort of tag the younger quintet would be eager to shake off, the better to stand on their own feet, but it's a lineage S.C.U.M. can't entirely lose on debut album Again Into Eyes. In the two years since their formation, S.C.U.M. have followed a strikingly similar path to that of their elders: Both began as brash, noisy outfits-- the Horrors as goth garage shriekers, S.C.U.M. with a reputation for no-wave noise-making live shows-- and have arrived in 2011 at an atmosphere-heavy, 1980s-influenced rock sound that's less abrasive and vastly more ambitious than those origins might've predicted. That tends to mean impeccably produced moody, mid-tempo rock songs, swaddled in vaporous synth textures, and led by seductively fainting singing. In S.C.U.M., the singing's done by Thomas Cohen, whose breathy, soft moaning smears across the rhythms on "Summon the Sound", drifting over the edge of the beat as it fades into the distance. It's a familiar effect, but Cohen's singing sounds less affected and more skillful than that of the Horrors' Faris Badwan. Another important distinction: While the Horrors recently rounded off the edges of their guitar tones (to the point of largely obscuring the instrument's original sound), S.C.U.M. have done away with guitars almost entirely in favor of keyboards and synthesizers. (A less commonly mentioned but perhaps more interesting family tie is that S.C.U.M. keyboardist Samuel Kilcoyne is the son of Add N to (X)'s Barry Smith-- one imagines him inheriting a pile of pristine-condition Moog synthesizers for his 16th birthday.) One six-string features on single "Amber Hands", and there may be some more deep in the mix elsewhere (band member Bradley Baker is credited with "machines, press," which leaves room for some ambiguity). Either way, the band relies less on sharp, mix-piercing leads than on amorphous washes from which the melodies gently emerge-- it's an accomplished sound, one that may not immediately dispense with the comparisons that have dogged the band, but one that does suggest a group more than capable of outgrowing the associations."

Lindstrøm & Christabelle

Real Life Is No Cool

Pop/R&B

Mark Pytlik

As supportive as Hans-Peter Lindstrøm's fans have been of his random acts of creative fitfulness, one wouldn't blame them for feeling a bit tested by his most recent string of output. Between his brilliant but impractical 2008 long-player Where You Go I Go Too and his 42-minute refit of "Little Drummer Boy", two of the Norwegian producer's recent major releases have accounted for nearly 100 minutes of music across a scant four tracks. In a scene where an elongated 12-minute remix is par for the course, that's still hard going. Real Life Is No Cool isn't just the achingly stylish and neatly accessible dance record to end all that, it also constitutes a fresh new take on the strand of retro-futurism that Lindstrøm helped create. The main difference is that whereas a lot of his output has been rooted in a genre-- disco, Balearic, new age-- Real Life Is No Cool often feels more like an attack on the very idea. It's almost as if Lindstrøm's response to years of genre exercise has been to atomise all of his influences into mist. What remains is a free-floating collection of sounds that not only still works as pastiche, but also somehow provides the basis for a remarkable dance record. Of course, it might well be that the reason Lindstrøm finds it easier to play loose with his productions is because he's got a voice like Christabelle's to anchor them. A Norwegian with Mauritian roots, she slides effortlessly into pretty much any groove he provides, moving between slippery spoken word and breathy falsetto with equal ease. Evidently years in the making, Real Life Is No Cool functions partly as a chronicle of the pair's working relationship, spanning as far back as 2003, when she was still recording under the name Solale. While those early collaborations, including the slinky Italo of "Music (In My Mind)" and the fluttering space disco workout "Let's Practise", make repeat appearances here, they barely hold their own alongside most of the newer material. Of the fresher tracks, the most immediate are probably "So Much Fun", a scattershot slice of end-of-the-evening disco that rivals Scissor Sisters at their friskiest; "Baby Can't Stop", an unequivocally shameless tribute to Off the Wall-era Michael Jackson that deserves airplay in even spite of Aeroplane's original-dwarfing remix; and "Lovesick", an irresistibly slinky head-nodder. Ultimately though, it's the slightly more unstructured, harder to hold tracks that make the most lasting impressions. Album opener "Looking For What" surfs along on a wobbly arpeggio, an occasional guitar chug, diffuse piano chords, and spoken-word samples; the stunning "Keep It Up" manages to transform a distinctly cheesy retro synth chime into a thing of effortless gorgeousness; and "High & Low" starts with a stodgy 1980s sitcom theme vamp before melting into something deliriously woozy. If the man and his long songs have been off your mixtape radar for the last little while, this should see an end to that.

Artist: Lindstrøm & Christabelle, Album: Real Life Is No Cool, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "As supportive as Hans-Peter Lindstrøm's fans have been of his random acts of creative fitfulness, one wouldn't blame them for feeling a bit tested by his most recent string of output. Between his brilliant but impractical 2008 long-player Where You Go I Go Too and his 42-minute refit of "Little Drummer Boy", two of the Norwegian producer's recent major releases have accounted for nearly 100 minutes of music across a scant four tracks. In a scene where an elongated 12-minute remix is par for the course, that's still hard going. Real Life Is No Cool isn't just the achingly stylish and neatly accessible dance record to end all that, it also constitutes a fresh new take on the strand of retro-futurism that Lindstrøm helped create. The main difference is that whereas a lot of his output has been rooted in a genre-- disco, Balearic, new age-- Real Life Is No Cool often feels more like an attack on the very idea. It's almost as if Lindstrøm's response to years of genre exercise has been to atomise all of his influences into mist. What remains is a free-floating collection of sounds that not only still works as pastiche, but also somehow provides the basis for a remarkable dance record. Of course, it might well be that the reason Lindstrøm finds it easier to play loose with his productions is because he's got a voice like Christabelle's to anchor them. A Norwegian with Mauritian roots, she slides effortlessly into pretty much any groove he provides, moving between slippery spoken word and breathy falsetto with equal ease. Evidently years in the making, Real Life Is No Cool functions partly as a chronicle of the pair's working relationship, spanning as far back as 2003, when she was still recording under the name Solale. While those early collaborations, including the slinky Italo of "Music (In My Mind)" and the fluttering space disco workout "Let's Practise", make repeat appearances here, they barely hold their own alongside most of the newer material. Of the fresher tracks, the most immediate are probably "So Much Fun", a scattershot slice of end-of-the-evening disco that rivals Scissor Sisters at their friskiest; "Baby Can't Stop", an unequivocally shameless tribute to Off the Wall-era Michael Jackson that deserves airplay in even spite of Aeroplane's original-dwarfing remix; and "Lovesick", an irresistibly slinky head-nodder. Ultimately though, it's the slightly more unstructured, harder to hold tracks that make the most lasting impressions. Album opener "Looking For What" surfs along on a wobbly arpeggio, an occasional guitar chug, diffuse piano chords, and spoken-word samples; the stunning "Keep It Up" manages to transform a distinctly cheesy retro synth chime into a thing of effortless gorgeousness; and "High & Low" starts with a stodgy 1980s sitcom theme vamp before melting into something deliriously woozy. If the man and his long songs have been off your mixtape radar for the last little while, this should see an end to that."

Tiffany Anders

Funny Cry Happy Gift

Camilo Arturo Leslie

"I think we're alone now/ There doesn't seem to be anyone a-rah-ound/ I think we're alone now/ The beating of our hearts is the only sah-ound." --Tiffany (covering some 60s singer I can't be bothered to look up) If you like your Tiffanies less saccharine than that, but only slightly, then Anders is the Tiffany for you. Not to say that it's all sweet going here. Funny Cry Happy Gift takes the cloying edge off Anders' sugary, sometimes grating pipes by adding a heap of desert sand and set props from spaghetti Westerns. This should come as no surprise. Anders is the talented progeny of filmmaker Allison Anders, best known for Gas Food Lodging, the early-90s film about slow-mo life in a miserable New Mexico highway town. In addition to Ione Sky and Fairuza Balk, the film featured a cameo by Dinosaur Jr's J Mascis. And wouldn't you know; Funny Cry Happy Gift also features flashes of J Mascis, this time mostly in a percussive capacity. Lest you infer some sort of Dubya-esque favor-currying on the part of Anders Sr. for her daughter, it should be mentioned that Tiffany befriended Mascis on her own, unaided, at the age of 14. Legend has it, she wrote a fan letter to the then-svelte guitar hero, to which Mascis graciously responded. As if by magic, a friendship and creative relationship was born. But we're not done name-dropping yet! Anders, a native of Los Angeles' Echo Park neighborhood, spent several years in Seattle, exploring its music scene before tiring of the social homogeny. New York was her next and most fruitful stop. While playing out at clubs, Anders caught the attention of PJ Harvey. When Anders' asked Harvey to produce her debut full-length, Harvey agreed, much to Anders' delight. With all that fame and talent hanging around, you'd expect some spectacular results. The truth about the product is considerably less lustrous than that. Fortunately, the loss in shine is made up for in grit. "Person I Knew," the lead-off track and the album's finest moment, showcases all that's good and moving in Anders' musical world: lush, interesting chords, multi-tracked vocals, smart instrumentation, and a gripping melody. Her voice can become tiresome, due to its sharp, brittle quality, but she's usually able to mitigate her shortcomings by layering the vocal tracks and thickening things up with gorgeous harmonies. The feel of Funny Cry Happy Gift is distinctly Western, or as my friend Ivan might say, "dusty." The thick, choking melancholia that pervades Anders' music is definitely mesquite-flavored, scarred by lasso-burns and spur marks, and branded in the ass with a big C for "corny." But there are worse things, as Anders too convincingly proves. After all, for a Los Angeles-to-NYC transplant to put out 40+ minutes of dark cowboy ballads (replete with distorted slide-guitar accompaniment) is a foolhardy proposition in theory. The actuality works surprisingly well. "Here I Forget" is the best paced of the ten tracks. While several songs lose some of their momentum and lack discernable arcs, this one builds to a palpably tense finish. "I See How Much Has Changed" is the most maudlin and silly of the bunch, and still, that's not enough to sink it. Imagine if they made another installation in the Young Guns series, bringing the heavily brat-packed, b-list original cast back for another try, only this time in present day New York City. This would be the perfect background music for a shot of Kiefer Sutherland's Doc character and Lou Diamond Phillip's Chavez walking down the Bowery in chaps and tasseled leather vests looking for a bordello. Did I mention that PJ sings background vocals on this one? And that J Mascis has a bit part as well? Star-studded! "Summer Gold" is representative of Anders' weaker material. The song sounds rather rote and leans too heavily in the direction of Alannah Myles' "Black Velvet." Bad. Harvey's harmonies on this track prove, pretty definitively, that no amount of star-shine can polish a turd. "Concrete Like Quicksand" is an interesting mix of "works" and "flops." Tiffany's voice is at its most grating here, but the melody, interestingly enough, is one of her best, and the chords are appropriately bittersweet and unresolved. High profile friends (I imagine) are mixed blessings, especially for someone in Anders' position. While it must have been a treat to have the help-- both technical and personal-- of an esteemed somebody like PJ Harvey, and the musical input of an icon like J Mascis, the weight of those names could do her more harm than good. This album is bursting with potential, so it's a shame that it might be unfairly dismissed for its imperfections, owing to the unrealistic standards those high-gloss names sort of imply. Anders' songwriting is no fluke, and as she finds her own stylistic voice, she could become a real force.

Artist: Tiffany Anders, Album: Funny Cry Happy Gift, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: ""I think we're alone now/ There doesn't seem to be anyone a-rah-ound/ I think we're alone now/ The beating of our hearts is the only sah-ound." --Tiffany (covering some 60s singer I can't be bothered to look up) If you like your Tiffanies less saccharine than that, but only slightly, then Anders is the Tiffany for you. Not to say that it's all sweet going here. Funny Cry Happy Gift takes the cloying edge off Anders' sugary, sometimes grating pipes by adding a heap of desert sand and set props from spaghetti Westerns. This should come as no surprise. Anders is the talented progeny of filmmaker Allison Anders, best known for Gas Food Lodging, the early-90s film about slow-mo life in a miserable New Mexico highway town. In addition to Ione Sky and Fairuza Balk, the film featured a cameo by Dinosaur Jr's J Mascis. And wouldn't you know; Funny Cry Happy Gift also features flashes of J Mascis, this time mostly in a percussive capacity. Lest you infer some sort of Dubya-esque favor-currying on the part of Anders Sr. for her daughter, it should be mentioned that Tiffany befriended Mascis on her own, unaided, at the age of 14. Legend has it, she wrote a fan letter to the then-svelte guitar hero, to which Mascis graciously responded. As if by magic, a friendship and creative relationship was born. But we're not done name-dropping yet! Anders, a native of Los Angeles' Echo Park neighborhood, spent several years in Seattle, exploring its music scene before tiring of the social homogeny. New York was her next and most fruitful stop. While playing out at clubs, Anders caught the attention of PJ Harvey. When Anders' asked Harvey to produce her debut full-length, Harvey agreed, much to Anders' delight. With all that fame and talent hanging around, you'd expect some spectacular results. The truth about the product is considerably less lustrous than that. Fortunately, the loss in shine is made up for in grit. "Person I Knew," the lead-off track and the album's finest moment, showcases all that's good and moving in Anders' musical world: lush, interesting chords, multi-tracked vocals, smart instrumentation, and a gripping melody. Her voice can become tiresome, due to its sharp, brittle quality, but she's usually able to mitigate her shortcomings by layering the vocal tracks and thickening things up with gorgeous harmonies. The feel of Funny Cry Happy Gift is distinctly Western, or as my friend Ivan might say, "dusty." The thick, choking melancholia that pervades Anders' music is definitely mesquite-flavored, scarred by lasso-burns and spur marks, and branded in the ass with a big C for "corny." But there are worse things, as Anders too convincingly proves. After all, for a Los Angeles-to-NYC transplant to put out 40+ minutes of dark cowboy ballads (replete with distorted slide-guitar accompaniment) is a foolhardy proposition in theory. The actuality works surprisingly well. "Here I Forget" is the best paced of the ten tracks. While several songs lose some of their momentum and lack discernable arcs, this one builds to a palpably tense finish. "I See How Much Has Changed" is the most maudlin and silly of the bunch, and still, that's not enough to sink it. Imagine if they made another installation in the Young Guns series, bringing the heavily brat-packed, b-list original cast back for another try, only this time in present day New York City. This would be the perfect background music for a shot of Kiefer Sutherland's Doc character and Lou Diamond Phillip's Chavez walking down the Bowery in chaps and tasseled leather vests looking for a bordello. Did I mention that PJ sings background vocals on this one? And that J Mascis has a bit part as well? Star-studded! "Summer Gold" is representative of Anders' weaker material. The song sounds rather rote and leans too heavily in the direction of Alannah Myles' "Black Velvet." Bad. Harvey's harmonies on this track prove, pretty definitively, that no amount of star-shine can polish a turd. "Concrete Like Quicksand" is an interesting mix of "works" and "flops." Tiffany's voice is at its most grating here, but the melody, interestingly enough, is one of her best, and the chords are appropriately bittersweet and unresolved. High profile friends (I imagine) are mixed blessings, especially for someone in Anders' position. While it must have been a treat to have the help-- both technical and personal-- of an esteemed somebody like PJ Harvey, and the musical input of an icon like J Mascis, the weight of those names could do her more harm than good. This album is bursting with potential, so it's a shame that it might be unfairly dismissed for its imperfections, owing to the unrealistic standards those high-gloss names sort of imply. Anders' songwriting is no fluke, and as she finds her own stylistic voice, she could become a real force."

The Monks

Black Monk Time

Rock

Joe Tangari

Alright, my name's Gary Let's go, it's beat time, it's hop time, it's monk time! On paper, it's hard to imagine a couplet that looks less like an opener for one of the best albums of the 1960s. When you hear it barked out by Monks lead vocalist Gary Burger over an otherworldly groove, though, it's an unlikely call to arms, and an immediate auditory stamp for one of the most strikingly original bands of the mid-60s. The band's sole studio album, released only in Germany in March 1966, has since become something of a legend, hailed as a precursor to punk and krautrock, and exerting influence far beyond its modest initial sales. Obscurities that routinely bathe in glowing praise naturally engender skepticism among people who haven't yet heard them, and often that skepticism is healthy. In the case of the Monks, though, all the praise is true: in 1966, Black Monk Time was beyond the cutting edge, and today it's easy to hear what made it so innovative and challenging. The Monks were five Americans living in West Germany. They came there as G.I.s, stationed near Heidelberg in the southwestern Baden-Württemberg region, and the Monks began life inauspiciously as the 5 Torquays, a run-of-the-mill beat group that covered Chuck Berry and the latest English groups, drawing good local crowds. When their time in the Army was up, they stayed, but beneath the conventional exterior of the Torquays lay a group hungry to experiment and break the mold of beat music. They accidentally discovered guitar feedback during a rehearsal, and made it a part of their sound, to the dismay of club owners and some patrons. Their apparent willingness to experiment brought them to the attention of two German ad executives, Walther Niemann and Karl Remy, who the band took on as managers, and who would fundamentally reshape the band's image and sound. You know we don't like the Army What army? Who cares what army? Why do you kill all those kids over there in Vietnam? Mad Viet Cong! My brother died in Vietnam James Bond, who was he? Stop it, stop it, I don't like it! It's too loud for my ears! It's this sequence of lines from "Monk Time" that drives home just what a different game Black Monk Time is. After his call to arms, Burger's demented vocal runs through a whithering critique of war, sealing it with a curt dismissal of James Bond, who at the time was the biggest movie hero in the world. It not only decries violence, but the glorification and fetishization of violence, and Larry Clark's brutal organ interjection is waved off with a couplet that swiftly co-opts critics of the band's new, chaotic sound. One of the things that makes "Monk Time" one of the all-time great album openers is how completely it distills the band and its music. The stomping, repetitive bass and drum groove, the splatter of fuzz guitar, the six-string electric banjo hammering out percussive chords, the flailing vocals and loud organ outbursts exemplify the band's confrontational, rhythm-based sound. This is not flower power-- it's rage inspired by senselessness and tempered with humor. Perhaps paradoxically, what makes the Monks' attack on war and the military so effective is the military discipline they applied to the band. On stage and off, they wore monks' robes with noose neck ties and cut their hair in the traditional monks' tonsure, and their music has a rare precision for something so wild. The group shouts of "Shut up! Don't cry!" on "Shut Up" are in lock-step, and they nail the complex, interlocking rhythm of "Complication." All the members sang, and the backing vocals alternately back Burger with drawn-out chants and sudden, shouted responses. "Higgle-Dy Piggle-Dy" combines a children's rhyme with a savage rhythmic attack. As doggedly out-there as they could be, the Monks did possess some pop sense-- this music, unique and strange as it is, is entirely approachable, and the band's final recordings, made after Polygram panicked and told them to produce more commercial material, are deranged pop songs that the band genuinely seems to have fun with. "I Can't Get Over You" is like a cartoon version of pop music, with weird falsetto harmonies and a big, rubbery bassline, while "He Went Down to the Sea" has a tribal Beach Boys quality, with its hard drumming, harmonies and glockenspiel. These and a few others are added to Light in the Attic's reissue of the album, as they were to Infinite Zero's long out-of-print 1994 reissue. On the other side of the band's brief career, The Early Years is a collection of the band's early demos, made as they felt their way toward the sound of Black Monk Time, along with a 45 made in 1964 when they were still the Torquays. It has a different running order, but contains the same tracks as Omplatten's out-of-print Five Upstart Americans compilation from 1999. LiTA's two reissues are meant to function as a combined package, and Kevin "Sipreano" Howes' detailed liner notes are written as one piece, split across both discs. The material heard here is good, though anyone new to the Monks should probably make sure they love Black Monk Time before picking it up, the same way you would with any band's demos. One of the interesting things about the demos is how clearly the band's vision had already crystalized-- the recording is structured something like a musical mass, with little churchy organ interludes from Larry Clark and a bit of banter from Burger. For a fan, to hear them honing their rhythmic attack is gratifying-- their sound was no accident. The Monks' music sounds so inevitable on Black Monk Time that it's easy to forget how unlikely the band's story is. For these five guys to find each other in the Army and subsequently devote themselves so fully to such a unique sound, and for two advertising executives to find them and push them to get weirder-- well, there's a reason that even with every incredible change in popular music during the 60s, there's only one Monks. Their one album was revolutionary, but sparked no revolution, due to circumstances beyond the band's control. They wandered back home and got real jobs, played in other bands, and Burger even became mayor of Turtle River, Minnesota. All these years later, you have a chance to hear what they did together again. Don't miss out.

Artist: The Monks, Album: Black Monk Time, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.2 Album review: "Alright, my name's Gary Let's go, it's beat time, it's hop time, it's monk time! On paper, it's hard to imagine a couplet that looks less like an opener for one of the best albums of the 1960s. When you hear it barked out by Monks lead vocalist Gary Burger over an otherworldly groove, though, it's an unlikely call to arms, and an immediate auditory stamp for one of the most strikingly original bands of the mid-60s. The band's sole studio album, released only in Germany in March 1966, has since become something of a legend, hailed as a precursor to punk and krautrock, and exerting influence far beyond its modest initial sales. Obscurities that routinely bathe in glowing praise naturally engender skepticism among people who haven't yet heard them, and often that skepticism is healthy. In the case of the Monks, though, all the praise is true: in 1966, Black Monk Time was beyond the cutting edge, and today it's easy to hear what made it so innovative and challenging. The Monks were five Americans living in West Germany. They came there as G.I.s, stationed near Heidelberg in the southwestern Baden-Württemberg region, and the Monks began life inauspiciously as the 5 Torquays, a run-of-the-mill beat group that covered Chuck Berry and the latest English groups, drawing good local crowds. When their time in the Army was up, they stayed, but beneath the conventional exterior of the Torquays lay a group hungry to experiment and break the mold of beat music. They accidentally discovered guitar feedback during a rehearsal, and made it a part of their sound, to the dismay of club owners and some patrons. Their apparent willingness to experiment brought them to the attention of two German ad executives, Walther Niemann and Karl Remy, who the band took on as managers, and who would fundamentally reshape the band's image and sound. You know we don't like the Army What army? Who cares what army? Why do you kill all those kids over there in Vietnam? Mad Viet Cong! My brother died in Vietnam James Bond, who was he? Stop it, stop it, I don't like it! It's too loud for my ears! It's this sequence of lines from "Monk Time" that drives home just what a different game Black Monk Time is. After his call to arms, Burger's demented vocal runs through a whithering critique of war, sealing it with a curt dismissal of James Bond, who at the time was the biggest movie hero in the world. It not only decries violence, but the glorification and fetishization of violence, and Larry Clark's brutal organ interjection is waved off with a couplet that swiftly co-opts critics of the band's new, chaotic sound. One of the things that makes "Monk Time" one of the all-time great album openers is how completely it distills the band and its music. The stomping, repetitive bass and drum groove, the splatter of fuzz guitar, the six-string electric banjo hammering out percussive chords, the flailing vocals and loud organ outbursts exemplify the band's confrontational, rhythm-based sound. This is not flower power-- it's rage inspired by senselessness and tempered with humor. Perhaps paradoxically, what makes the Monks' attack on war and the military so effective is the military discipline they applied to the band. On stage and off, they wore monks' robes with noose neck ties and cut their hair in the traditional monks' tonsure, and their music has a rare precision for something so wild. The group shouts of "Shut up! Don't cry!" on "Shut Up" are in lock-step, and they nail the complex, interlocking rhythm of "Complication." All the members sang, and the backing vocals alternately back Burger with drawn-out chants and sudden, shouted responses. "Higgle-Dy Piggle-Dy" combines a children's rhyme with a savage rhythmic attack. As doggedly out-there as they could be, the Monks did possess some pop sense-- this music, unique and strange as it is, is entirely approachable, and the band's final recordings, made after Polygram panicked and told them to produce more commercial material, are deranged pop songs that the band genuinely seems to have fun with. "I Can't Get Over You" is like a cartoon version of pop music, with weird falsetto harmonies and a big, rubbery bassline, while "He Went Down to the Sea" has a tribal Beach Boys quality, with its hard drumming, harmonies and glockenspiel. These and a few others are added to Light in the Attic's reissue of the album, as they were to Infinite Zero's long out-of-print 1994 reissue. On the other side of the band's brief career, The Early Years is a collection of the band's early demos, made as they felt their way toward the sound of Black Monk Time, along with a 45 made in 1964 when they were still the Torquays. It has a different running order, but contains the same tracks as Omplatten's out-of-print Five Upstart Americans compilation from 1999. LiTA's two reissues are meant to function as a combined package, and Kevin "Sipreano" Howes' detailed liner notes are written as one piece, split across both discs. The material heard here is good, though anyone new to the Monks should probably make sure they love Black Monk Time before picking it up, the same way you would with any band's demos. One of the interesting things about the demos is how clearly the band's vision had already crystalized-- the recording is structured something like a musical mass, with little churchy organ interludes from Larry Clark and a bit of banter from Burger. For a fan, to hear them honing their rhythmic attack is gratifying-- their sound was no accident. The Monks' music sounds so inevitable on Black Monk Time that it's easy to forget how unlikely the band's story is. For these five guys to find each other in the Army and subsequently devote themselves so fully to such a unique sound, and for two advertising executives to find them and push them to get weirder-- well, there's a reason that even with every incredible change in popular music during the 60s, there's only one Monks. Their one album was revolutionary, but sparked no revolution, due to circumstances beyond the band's control. They wandered back home and got real jobs, played in other bands, and Burger even became mayor of Turtle River, Minnesota. All these years later, you have a chance to hear what they did together again. Don't miss out."

Minus the Bear

This Is What I Know About Being Gigantic EP

Metal,Rock

Brad Haywood

Excuses, excuses, excuses. Last year, while interning at Social Services somewhere in rural, truly ass-backwards Virginia, I ran across the case of a client-- we'll call him the Deer Hunter-- who I thought needed a good one (excuse, that is). As they say, "Virginia is for Lovers." In this case, the Deer Hunter was in love with two things: hunting and humping. Police learned that the hard way, discovering him outdoors in flagrante delicto with Bambi. I'm not talking a hooker, either. I'm talking a deer. A fresh kill, as it were. And a fresh "conquest," I might add. Considering Virginia's Criminal Code, which outlaws sodomy, cohabitation, and all sex acts between unmarried persons, one would think that the Old Dominion would have made room for necrobestiality. But one would think wrong. The Deer Hunter needed no excuse for his carnal passions-- deer-scrumping is punishable in a court of law only if the animal is still living. Dead animals are fair game. Somewhere in Virginia, shotguns are being loaded. Minus the Bear, a quintet from the northwest comprised of members of Botch, Kill Sadie and Sharks Keep Moving, have more in common with the Deer Hunter than they might like to think. For one thing, just as the Deer Hunter needed no excuse to ride, Minus the Bear needs absolutely no excuse to rock. But who ever did? It is no crime to rock. So, without shame, Minus the Bear charges forth, imbuing their debut seven-track EP, This Is What I Know About Being Gigantic, with fervent rock energy. This is not, however, your ordinary missionary-style rock and roll. Consider again the Deer Hunter; one can hardly blame the guy-- his kids were probably growing older, losing their sex appeal with each passing day. So, instead of letting life control him, he grabbed it by the antlers. Call it perverted, call it resourceful, call it what you will. But one thing is certain: the man was creative. Like Jed, Minus the Bear are innovators. No strumming or chunking here; axe-man David Knudson drives the band with fluid, catchy, tapped riffs. The bright, focused guitar tone is a trademark of Minus the Bear's sound. Another twist is the band's electronic elements: noises whisper, hover, and gurgle in the background, adding depth and richness to the mix. The drums are propulsive and complementary, jumping with the same energy as the guitars. Erin Tate is an active drummer, frequently adding firm tom and snare fills. Bassist Cory Murchy, who with Tate make up Kill Sadie's rhythm section, has a great time and a great ear; his basslines lock solidly with the other rhythm elements, while providing tasteful harmony. Vocals, courtesy of Jake Snider, are infrequent but appropriate; they act more like a fifth musical element than a song's centerpiece. Minus the Bear's song structures are equally as creative, going the prog/math-rock route in pursuit of unexpected bridges, rhythmic dynamics and time signatures. The opening track, amusingly titled, "Hey, Wanna Throw Up? Get Me Naked," is a great example. It lifts-off with a cleanly tapped riff, then cuts to power-rock for the chorus, and weaves in and out of a fuzzy, waltzing bassline and gurgling synth to close. The album's finale, "Pantsuit.Uggghhh," drones for two minutes before a jagged guitar riffs intrudes and adds tempo. Snider repeats the chorus, "No one sleeps yet/ Let's keep it going til the morning," while Knudson merges into a characteristic tapping, contrasted by intermittent bass jabs. Unconventional but catchy as all hell. The Deer Hunter needed no excuse. Minus the Bear needs no excuse. Add another to the list: you. You need absolutely no excuse to add Minus the Bear to your CD collection. Any group this tight and proficient on their first recording undoubtedly has much more to say. And at the price of an EP, This Is What I Know is about as cheap as a walk in the woods.

Artist: Minus the Bear, Album: This Is What I Know About Being Gigantic EP, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "Excuses, excuses, excuses. Last year, while interning at Social Services somewhere in rural, truly ass-backwards Virginia, I ran across the case of a client-- we'll call him the Deer Hunter-- who I thought needed a good one (excuse, that is). As they say, "Virginia is for Lovers." In this case, the Deer Hunter was in love with two things: hunting and humping. Police learned that the hard way, discovering him outdoors in flagrante delicto with Bambi. I'm not talking a hooker, either. I'm talking a deer. A fresh kill, as it were. And a fresh "conquest," I might add. Considering Virginia's Criminal Code, which outlaws sodomy, cohabitation, and all sex acts between unmarried persons, one would think that the Old Dominion would have made room for necrobestiality. But one would think wrong. The Deer Hunter needed no excuse for his carnal passions-- deer-scrumping is punishable in a court of law only if the animal is still living. Dead animals are fair game. Somewhere in Virginia, shotguns are being loaded. Minus the Bear, a quintet from the northwest comprised of members of Botch, Kill Sadie and Sharks Keep Moving, have more in common with the Deer Hunter than they might like to think. For one thing, just as the Deer Hunter needed no excuse to ride, Minus the Bear needs absolutely no excuse to rock. But who ever did? It is no crime to rock. So, without shame, Minus the Bear charges forth, imbuing their debut seven-track EP, This Is What I Know About Being Gigantic, with fervent rock energy. This is not, however, your ordinary missionary-style rock and roll. Consider again the Deer Hunter; one can hardly blame the guy-- his kids were probably growing older, losing their sex appeal with each passing day. So, instead of letting life control him, he grabbed it by the antlers. Call it perverted, call it resourceful, call it what you will. But one thing is certain: the man was creative. Like Jed, Minus the Bear are innovators. No strumming or chunking here; axe-man David Knudson drives the band with fluid, catchy, tapped riffs. The bright, focused guitar tone is a trademark of Minus the Bear's sound. Another twist is the band's electronic elements: noises whisper, hover, and gurgle in the background, adding depth and richness to the mix. The drums are propulsive and complementary, jumping with the same energy as the guitars. Erin Tate is an active drummer, frequently adding firm tom and snare fills. Bassist Cory Murchy, who with Tate make up Kill Sadie's rhythm section, has a great time and a great ear; his basslines lock solidly with the other rhythm elements, while providing tasteful harmony. Vocals, courtesy of Jake Snider, are infrequent but appropriate; they act more like a fifth musical element than a song's centerpiece. Minus the Bear's song structures are equally as creative, going the prog/math-rock route in pursuit of unexpected bridges, rhythmic dynamics and time signatures. The opening track, amusingly titled, "Hey, Wanna Throw Up? Get Me Naked," is a great example. It lifts-off with a cleanly tapped riff, then cuts to power-rock for the chorus, and weaves in and out of a fuzzy, waltzing bassline and gurgling synth to close. The album's finale, "Pantsuit.Uggghhh," drones for two minutes before a jagged guitar riffs intrudes and adds tempo. Snider repeats the chorus, "No one sleeps yet/ Let's keep it going til the morning," while Knudson merges into a characteristic tapping, contrasted by intermittent bass jabs. Unconventional but catchy as all hell. The Deer Hunter needed no excuse. Minus the Bear needs no excuse. Add another to the list: you. You need absolutely no excuse to add Minus the Bear to your CD collection. Any group this tight and proficient on their first recording undoubtedly has much more to say. And at the price of an EP, This Is What I Know is about as cheap as a walk in the woods."

Julia Holter

Loud City Song

Experimental

Lindsay Zoladz

In an early scene in the still-fascinating, delightfully bizarre 1958 MGM musical Gigi, a few characters enter a restaurant called Maxim’s. The vibe is Moulin Rouge meets Cheers: a frenetic, turn-of-the-century Parisian haunt where, for better or worse, everybody knows your name. When each couple enters Maxim’s-- yes, couple; somehow you get the sense that it would be social suicide for a respectable lady of the time to step foot in the place unaccompanied-- a crowd of patrons begins to chant in a hushed, gossipy tone. As they whisper the kinds of things that people rarely say aloud (even when they’re thinking them), and the scene draws a bleak, ironic contrast between people’s private thoughts and the outward demands of polite society. “Isn’t she a mess? Isn’t she a sight?” they say as one pair enters. “Let’s invite them out tomorrow night!” “There’s something kind of creepy about that scene that I wanted to bring out,” L.A. avant-pop musician Julia Holter said in a recent interview, talking about “Maxim’s I & II”, a gorgeous (if slightly sinister) pair of songs that appear on her mesmerizing third album, Loud City Song. Holter’s said that the album is her own loose interpretation of Gigi-- both the musical and the original 1944 novella by the French writer Colette (the plot, in the expert, proto-Twitter brevity of a Turner Classic Movie blurb: “A Parisian girl is raised to be a kept woman but dreams of love and marriage.”). Plenty of other songwriters might fumble or stiffen when drawing on source material from decades before they were born, but not Holter. Maybe it’s because making a record based on a 1950s MGM musical is actually her idea of keeping things new-school: Tragedy, her 2011 debut, was an ambitious yet intimate meditation on ancient Greek playwright Euripides’ Hippolytus, while her dreamily crystalline follow-up Ekstasis (also a nod to ancient Greece) sounded like bedroom pop made by somebody with pin-ups of Heidegger and Virginia Woolf (and also maybe Laurie Anderson) papering the walls. Holter’s music is learned (she studied musical composition at CalArts) and proudly erudite, and yet not in a way that feels like it’s talking down to the listener. Still, she’s never made a record quite as inviting as Loud City Song-- her first album for Domino and the one most likely to turn skeptics to believers. From the panoramic ballroom swoon of “Maxim’s I” to the twinkling, kinetic chatter of its sequel, there’s an energy coursing through Loud City Song that makes it feel-- more than anything she’d done so far-- breezy, contemporarily resonant, and at all times flutteringly alive. Loud City Song is the first album that Holter recorded outside of her bedroom, and-- like a 19th century French literary heroine seeking the therapeutic air of a seaside vacation-- the change in scenery seems to have loosened her up a bit. If Ekstasis had the serene intimacy of home recordings made with the apartment curtains drawn, Loud City Song finds her flinging open the drapes and taking rhythmic cues from the bustle of people below. Much of this newfound dynamism comes from adding new collaborators (and returning to trusted old ones: like Ekstasis, the record was mixed and co-produced by Ariel Pink collaborator Cole Mardsen Greif-Neill) and embracing a more jazz-oriented instrumentation-- trombones, strings, and a double bass all add a little drama, agility, and even playfulness to her sound. Holter name-checks old Parisian landmarks like Maxim’s and says she was also inspired by the disconnectedness and buzzing anonymity of her hometown ("In L.A., it's like everyone's invisible. That's why I like it here."). But what gives these songs an emotional resonance beyond the confines of her own imagination is the way they capture something universal about the joys and anxieties of living in any modern city. As Holter's nimble voice skips between her siren-song falsetto and a more percussive delivery closer to spoken word, the mood of the album is in constant flux: in the menacing “Horns Surrounding Me” the brisk footfall of her fellow passersby evokes claustrophobia, danger and paranoia (is she being chased? Or is it all in her head?), but by the next song, the playful pop-cabaret “In the Green Wild”, she’s looking at her fellow pavement-pounders with a sense of bemused wonder. Still, it’s the album’s centerpiece, a hypnotizing six-and-a-half minute rendition of Barbara Lewis' “Hello Stranger”, that might just be the most uncomplicatedly gorgeous thing Holter’s ever done. It’s risky to tackle a tune that’s been covered enough times to make it feel like a modern-day standard, but Holter’s atmospheric take finds a particular strain of longing and serenity in the song. It's a heart-stopper. Amidst the rest of Loud City Song’s chatty, high-concept vitality, “Hello Stranger” is a moment of comfort and instant connection, like suddenly spotting a familiar face on a busy street. Though there’s definitely a narrative arc to the record, it doesn’t stick so close to the Gigi script to become tedious; Loud City Song moves with an internal logic that’s more impressionistic than literal. Some of its pieces do stand sturdily on their own, but taken in one sitting the album unfurls like one long, thoughtfully arranged composition-- lyrics and images recur, and characters gradually evolve. The narrator at the center (Gigi? Holter? Some kind of poetic hybrid of the two?) begins as a detached, observant outsider-- just another anonymous face gazing curiously at the city below from the perch of her fifth-floor walk-up ("I don't how why I wear a hat so much," Holter sings beneath the sparse groan of a cello on the opening song, "World", "The city can't see my eyes under the brim.") But by the end-- the second-to-last track, “This Is a True Heart” prances like a lazy-Sunday carousel ride-- she sounds not only more vulnerable but lighter, too. In a way, the arc of Loud City Song mirrors Holter’s artistic evolution: Ekstasis found kindred spirits in statues and goddesses (“I can see you but my eyes are not allowed to cry,” she repeated on “Goddess Eyes II”, cloaked in a vocoder), but the psychologically complex narrator at the heart of Loud City Song moves like flesh and blood. “There’s a flavor to the sound of walking no one ever noticed before," Holter chants in a rapt whisper throughout "In the Green Wild". It's a telling line: Loud City Song is one of those records so full of un-jaded wonder and attuned to the secret music of ordinary things that the world looks a little bit different while it's playing. I don't think I

Artist: Julia Holter, Album: Loud City Song, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "In an early scene in the still-fascinating, delightfully bizarre 1958 MGM musical Gigi, a few characters enter a restaurant called Maxim’s. The vibe is Moulin Rouge meets Cheers: a frenetic, turn-of-the-century Parisian haunt where, for better or worse, everybody knows your name. When each couple enters Maxim’s-- yes, couple; somehow you get the sense that it would be social suicide for a respectable lady of the time to step foot in the place unaccompanied-- a crowd of patrons begins to chant in a hushed, gossipy tone. As they whisper the kinds of things that people rarely say aloud (even when they’re thinking them), and the scene draws a bleak, ironic contrast between people’s private thoughts and the outward demands of polite society. “Isn’t she a mess? Isn’t she a sight?” they say as one pair enters. “Let’s invite them out tomorrow night!” “There’s something kind of creepy about that scene that I wanted to bring out,” L.A. avant-pop musician Julia Holter said in a recent interview, talking about “Maxim’s I & II”, a gorgeous (if slightly sinister) pair of songs that appear on her mesmerizing third album, Loud City Song. Holter’s said that the album is her own loose interpretation of Gigi-- both the musical and the original 1944 novella by the French writer Colette (the plot, in the expert, proto-Twitter brevity of a Turner Classic Movie blurb: “A Parisian girl is raised to be a kept woman but dreams of love and marriage.”). Plenty of other songwriters might fumble or stiffen when drawing on source material from decades before they were born, but not Holter. Maybe it’s because making a record based on a 1950s MGM musical is actually her idea of keeping things new-school: Tragedy, her 2011 debut, was an ambitious yet intimate meditation on ancient Greek playwright Euripides’ Hippolytus, while her dreamily crystalline follow-up Ekstasis (also a nod to ancient Greece) sounded like bedroom pop made by somebody with pin-ups of Heidegger and Virginia Woolf (and also maybe Laurie Anderson) papering the walls. Holter’s music is learned (she studied musical composition at CalArts) and proudly erudite, and yet not in a way that feels like it’s talking down to the listener. Still, she’s never made a record quite as inviting as Loud City Song-- her first album for Domino and the one most likely to turn skeptics to believers. From the panoramic ballroom swoon of “Maxim’s I” to the twinkling, kinetic chatter of its sequel, there’s an energy coursing through Loud City Song that makes it feel-- more than anything she’d done so far-- breezy, contemporarily resonant, and at all times flutteringly alive. Loud City Song is the first album that Holter recorded outside of her bedroom, and-- like a 19th century French literary heroine seeking the therapeutic air of a seaside vacation-- the change in scenery seems to have loosened her up a bit. If Ekstasis had the serene intimacy of home recordings made with the apartment curtains drawn, Loud City Song finds her flinging open the drapes and taking rhythmic cues from the bustle of people below. Much of this newfound dynamism comes from adding new collaborators (and returning to trusted old ones: like Ekstasis, the record was mixed and co-produced by Ariel Pink collaborator Cole Mardsen Greif-Neill) and embracing a more jazz-oriented instrumentation-- trombones, strings, and a double bass all add a little drama, agility, and even playfulness to her sound. Holter name-checks old Parisian landmarks like Maxim’s and says she was also inspired by the disconnectedness and buzzing anonymity of her hometown ("In L.A., it's like everyone's invisible. That's why I like it here."). But what gives these songs an emotional resonance beyond the confines of her own imagination is the way they capture something universal about the joys and anxieties of living in any modern city. As Holter's nimble voice skips between her siren-song falsetto and a more percussive delivery closer to spoken word, the mood of the album is in constant flux: in the menacing “Horns Surrounding Me” the brisk footfall of her fellow passersby evokes claustrophobia, danger and paranoia (is she being chased? Or is it all in her head?), but by the next song, the playful pop-cabaret “In the Green Wild”, she’s looking at her fellow pavement-pounders with a sense of bemused wonder. Still, it’s the album’s centerpiece, a hypnotizing six-and-a-half minute rendition of Barbara Lewis' “Hello Stranger”, that might just be the most uncomplicatedly gorgeous thing Holter’s ever done. It’s risky to tackle a tune that’s been covered enough times to make it feel like a modern-day standard, but Holter’s atmospheric take finds a particular strain of longing and serenity in the song. It's a heart-stopper. Amidst the rest of Loud City Song’s chatty, high-concept vitality, “Hello Stranger” is a moment of comfort and instant connection, like suddenly spotting a familiar face on a busy street. Though there’s definitely a narrative arc to the record, it doesn’t stick so close to the Gigi script to become tedious; Loud City Song moves with an internal logic that’s more impressionistic than literal. Some of its pieces do stand sturdily on their own, but taken in one sitting the album unfurls like one long, thoughtfully arranged composition-- lyrics and images recur, and characters gradually evolve. The narrator at the center (Gigi? Holter? Some kind of poetic hybrid of the two?) begins as a detached, observant outsider-- just another anonymous face gazing curiously at the city below from the perch of her fifth-floor walk-up ("I don't how why I wear a hat so much," Holter sings beneath the sparse groan of a cello on the opening song, "World", "The city can't see my eyes under the brim.") But by the end-- the second-to-last track, “This Is a True Heart” prances like a lazy-Sunday carousel ride-- she sounds not only more vulnerable but lighter, too. In a way, the arc of Loud City Song mirrors Holter’s artistic evolution: Ekstasis found kindred spirits in statues and goddesses (“I can see you but my eyes are not allowed to cry,” she repeated on “Goddess Eyes II”, cloaked in a vocoder), but the psychologically complex narrator at the heart of Loud City Song moves like flesh and blood. “There’s a flavor to the sound of walking no one ever noticed before," Holter chants in a rapt whisper throughout "In the Green Wild". It's a telling line: Loud City Song is one of those records so full of un-jaded wonder and attuned to the secret music of ordinary things that the world looks a little bit different while it's playing. I don't think I"

Red Stars Theory

Life in a Bubble Can Be Beautiful

Rock

Steven Byrd

Red Stars Theory is not a rock band, not as we feeble-minded human beings understand the term. The four lads that make up the band's core (which includes-- but is not limited to-- frontman James Bertram of 764-HERO, and Modest Mouse drummer Jeremiah Green) are more of an impersonal, all powerful force of nature than just another band. They're a nasty gang of James Bond- style evil geniuses that make their hideout in Washington (the state) and happen to spend their days making music instead of trying to take over the world. Together they could break into Fort Knox, assassinate the world leader of their choice, and generally bathe the world in the blood of their enemies. But that's not really their thing. Instead, they prefer to sit around, dress badly, forget to wash their hair and make brilliant music when they get the time. Be warned though, you're still not safe from their destructive madness. They may not be firing guided nuclear missiles at earthquake- happy fault lines or dumping anthrax into the city reservoir, but their albums will destroy you just as quickly. You see, these are not easy, passable, pleasant ditties designed to be passed off to the slackjawed masses. The smooth criminals of Red Stars Theory are artists making beautiful, insidious, moody music that kicks you in the nuts while kissing you full on the lips. At one moment, their songs are as fierce and as sharp as a dropkick to the throat; the next minute they can whisper and float as subtly as cyanide being poured into your Starbucks coffee cup-- music so good it's dangerous. Life in a Bubble Can Be Beautiful is the second full- length album from these guys, and despite having to live in the shadow of its older brother, 1997's But Sleep Came Slowly, it does not disappoint. From Sleep to Bubble, the Red Stars have managed to do something that is all but impossible in today's music scene: they've grown. In two short years, they've realized how to take a good thing and make it great. Packed with soft vocals, heavy drums, cellos, violins and fuzzy electric guitars, Bubble showcases some of the most mature and interesting songwriting modern indie rock may have to offer. In recording this album, Red Stars Theory have taken their singular form of intelligent emo-core to a whole new level. By playing up to their strengths-- namely the raw, emotionally naked power of their music and the endless sonic possibilities presented by their idiosyncratic instrumentation-- they've managed to pen eight of the best songs of their career (so far). The opening track, "How Did This Room Get So White," is an atmospheric musical marathon, an instrumental clocking in somewhere around seven minutes. Don't be scared, though. I know that when an album opens with an instrumental, especially one this long, it's usually pretty bad news. These albums mostly end up being talent-free jack-off sessions created by horribly pretentious musicians. This time, of course, nothing could be further from the truth. While this particular song may count as a shameless musical jack-off session, it's packed with talent, and doesn't come off as aimless noodling. This track goes a long way towards laying the foundation for the rest of the album, both stylistically and on a more subliminal, ethereal level. "How Did This Room Get So White" leads into seven more epics that, despite being longer than most books I've read, are completely mesmerizing, emotional but never sappy, and intelligent but never cold. The songs that feature lyrics, like "Combinations and Complications" or "An Alarm Goes Off," are all the more captivating, as the soft, library- whisper vocals and clever lyrics throw another level of sonic love into the mix. To make a sweet thing even sweeter, the Red Stars have also managed to overcome the one major problem that plagued their previous album-- it suffered from a staggering lack of musical variety that kept it from reaching true classic album status. Through song after song, the boys made great music, but they never strayed far from one sound. On Bubble, though, the gloves are off. Here, the band seems comfortable with taking some risks and channeling more influences and styles into their songs. The result is a fuller, richer album. Blues chords, strings solos, studio- crafted sound effects and beats that border on jungle music are all brought in to broaden the musical spectrum without diluting any of its power.

Artist: Red Stars Theory, Album: Life in a Bubble Can Be Beautiful, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "Red Stars Theory is not a rock band, not as we feeble-minded human beings understand the term. The four lads that make up the band's core (which includes-- but is not limited to-- frontman James Bertram of 764-HERO, and Modest Mouse drummer Jeremiah Green) are more of an impersonal, all powerful force of nature than just another band. They're a nasty gang of James Bond- style evil geniuses that make their hideout in Washington (the state) and happen to spend their days making music instead of trying to take over the world. Together they could break into Fort Knox, assassinate the world leader of their choice, and generally bathe the world in the blood of their enemies. But that's not really their thing. Instead, they prefer to sit around, dress badly, forget to wash their hair and make brilliant music when they get the time. Be warned though, you're still not safe from their destructive madness. They may not be firing guided nuclear missiles at earthquake- happy fault lines or dumping anthrax into the city reservoir, but their albums will destroy you just as quickly. You see, these are not easy, passable, pleasant ditties designed to be passed off to the slackjawed masses. The smooth criminals of Red Stars Theory are artists making beautiful, insidious, moody music that kicks you in the nuts while kissing you full on the lips. At one moment, their songs are as fierce and as sharp as a dropkick to the throat; the next minute they can whisper and float as subtly as cyanide being poured into your Starbucks coffee cup-- music so good it's dangerous. Life in a Bubble Can Be Beautiful is the second full- length album from these guys, and despite having to live in the shadow of its older brother, 1997's But Sleep Came Slowly, it does not disappoint. From Sleep to Bubble, the Red Stars have managed to do something that is all but impossible in today's music scene: they've grown. In two short years, they've realized how to take a good thing and make it great. Packed with soft vocals, heavy drums, cellos, violins and fuzzy electric guitars, Bubble showcases some of the most mature and interesting songwriting modern indie rock may have to offer. In recording this album, Red Stars Theory have taken their singular form of intelligent emo-core to a whole new level. By playing up to their strengths-- namely the raw, emotionally naked power of their music and the endless sonic possibilities presented by their idiosyncratic instrumentation-- they've managed to pen eight of the best songs of their career (so far). The opening track, "How Did This Room Get So White," is an atmospheric musical marathon, an instrumental clocking in somewhere around seven minutes. Don't be scared, though. I know that when an album opens with an instrumental, especially one this long, it's usually pretty bad news. These albums mostly end up being talent-free jack-off sessions created by horribly pretentious musicians. This time, of course, nothing could be further from the truth. While this particular song may count as a shameless musical jack-off session, it's packed with talent, and doesn't come off as aimless noodling. This track goes a long way towards laying the foundation for the rest of the album, both stylistically and on a more subliminal, ethereal level. "How Did This Room Get So White" leads into seven more epics that, despite being longer than most books I've read, are completely mesmerizing, emotional but never sappy, and intelligent but never cold. The songs that feature lyrics, like "Combinations and Complications" or "An Alarm Goes Off," are all the more captivating, as the soft, library- whisper vocals and clever lyrics throw another level of sonic love into the mix. To make a sweet thing even sweeter, the Red Stars have also managed to overcome the one major problem that plagued their previous album-- it suffered from a staggering lack of musical variety that kept it from reaching true classic album status. Through song after song, the boys made great music, but they never strayed far from one sound. On Bubble, though, the gloves are off. Here, the band seems comfortable with taking some risks and channeling more influences and styles into their songs. The result is a fuller, richer album. Blues chords, strings solos, studio- crafted sound effects and beats that border on jungle music are all brought in to broaden the musical spectrum without diluting any of its power."

Machinedrum

SXLND EP

Electronic

Larry Fitzmaurice

For a producer who's been doing exciting things in bass music over the past year, Travis Stewart's musical origins are barely traceable to the genre. Never mind that the beginnings of his catalog as Machinedrum predate the genre's ongoing cultural flashpoint by a decade-- until his recent move to Berlin, the geographical space between him and the largely UK-based sound was vast. Ideologically, however, Stewart's attraction to bass music makes perfect sense. Over the past decade, he's subtly shifted from misty downtempo to Prefuse 73-reminiscent glitch-hop to the sort of Dilla-fied beat ooze that refuses to go out of style. His 2010 release with the Glasgow label LuckyMe was titled Many Faces, and the title seemed apt. As a solo artist, Stewart doesn't like to stay in one place long. As Andrew Gaerig put it in his review of Stewart's fantastic debut LP with fellow producer Praveen Sharma (aka Braille) as Sepalcure, "bass producers tend to treat innovation like daily prayer." At one time, it would have been difficult to call Stewart as an innovator, but then he released last year's Room(s) on the similarly hard-to-pin-down label Planet Mu. It was a heady, sensual trip through the smeared-vocal technique that most first encountered on Burial's 2007 breakthrough Untrue, incorporating the repetitive rhythmic kicks of footwork and coating it in atmosphere. The whole thing was an overwhelming swarm of sound, more in line with the maximalist trends in electronic music discussed in Simon Reynolds' recent "Maximal Nation" piece. Compared to the marbled elegance of Sepalcure, Room(s) is garish and cheeky, but you can't deny the album's utter audaciousness. Relative to his work last year, Stewart's new EP on LuckyMe, SXLND, is a minor effort. Stylistically, the five songs on SXLND lie somewhere between Stewart's work on Room(s) and Sepalcure, with slight variations-- the former's clipped strangulations are backed by a spare, funky gallop on the title track, while "No Respect" and closer "DDD" take the latter's smooth alleyway hymns out to the club, courtesy of a steady 4/4 thump. Instead of pushing things forward, he's making lateral moves. The most notable thing about SXLND is the fact that its title track's serves as the backbone for rapper Azealia Banks' latest single, "NEEDSUMLUV". Heard here without her contribution, it indeed sounds like a backing track. And that's the main issue with SXLND as a whole: There aren't enough standalong tracks, just a collection of tunes that would sound great stuck in the middle of a solid DJ set (see, for instance, Stewart's recent FADER mix, where the EP's material hit much harder than when isolated here). So this is one for committed fans, those who've been following along with Stewart's recent renaissance and trying to guess what his next move will be.

Artist: Machinedrum, Album: SXLND EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "For a producer who's been doing exciting things in bass music over the past year, Travis Stewart's musical origins are barely traceable to the genre. Never mind that the beginnings of his catalog as Machinedrum predate the genre's ongoing cultural flashpoint by a decade-- until his recent move to Berlin, the geographical space between him and the largely UK-based sound was vast. Ideologically, however, Stewart's attraction to bass music makes perfect sense. Over the past decade, he's subtly shifted from misty downtempo to Prefuse 73-reminiscent glitch-hop to the sort of Dilla-fied beat ooze that refuses to go out of style. His 2010 release with the Glasgow label LuckyMe was titled Many Faces, and the title seemed apt. As a solo artist, Stewart doesn't like to stay in one place long. As Andrew Gaerig put it in his review of Stewart's fantastic debut LP with fellow producer Praveen Sharma (aka Braille) as Sepalcure, "bass producers tend to treat innovation like daily prayer." At one time, it would have been difficult to call Stewart as an innovator, but then he released last year's Room(s) on the similarly hard-to-pin-down label Planet Mu. It was a heady, sensual trip through the smeared-vocal technique that most first encountered on Burial's 2007 breakthrough Untrue, incorporating the repetitive rhythmic kicks of footwork and coating it in atmosphere. The whole thing was an overwhelming swarm of sound, more in line with the maximalist trends in electronic music discussed in Simon Reynolds' recent "Maximal Nation" piece. Compared to the marbled elegance of Sepalcure, Room(s) is garish and cheeky, but you can't deny the album's utter audaciousness. Relative to his work last year, Stewart's new EP on LuckyMe, SXLND, is a minor effort. Stylistically, the five songs on SXLND lie somewhere between Stewart's work on Room(s) and Sepalcure, with slight variations-- the former's clipped strangulations are backed by a spare, funky gallop on the title track, while "No Respect" and closer "DDD" take the latter's smooth alleyway hymns out to the club, courtesy of a steady 4/4 thump. Instead of pushing things forward, he's making lateral moves. The most notable thing about SXLND is the fact that its title track's serves as the backbone for rapper Azealia Banks' latest single, "NEEDSUMLUV". Heard here without her contribution, it indeed sounds like a backing track. And that's the main issue with SXLND as a whole: There aren't enough standalong tracks, just a collection of tunes that would sound great stuck in the middle of a solid DJ set (see, for instance, Stewart's recent FADER mix, where the EP's material hit much harder than when isolated here). So this is one for committed fans, those who've been following along with Stewart's recent renaissance and trying to guess what his next move will be."

Bibio

The Apple and the Tooth

Electronic

Brian Howe

After switching up his game on the startlingly good Ambivalence Avenue, Bibio became his own tough act to follow. As if lingering in the moment, he now issues The Apple and the Tooth, which collects remixes of his breakthrough album with four new tracks. They lack the immediate impact of Avenue's highs, because they pull back from wrenched beats into the more familiar territories of folk and psychedelia. They're good tracks, they just grow on you more slowly. They'd have been even better if he'd finished them. The title track is killer, although it sounds more Stones Throw than Warp-- bounding flute loops, ratcheting percussion, and whizzing guitars shimmy like a bum wheel. It seems like it's building toward something great, but then just ends after a couple of minutes, mid-development. "Rotten Rudd" does the same thing. At least "Bones & Skulls", sparkling but thick with incense, feels more like a song than a draft. But then on "Steal the Lamp" (lava, one presumes), we're back to the two-minute bailout, after glowing scales traced around pittering drums prime us for a drenching psychedelic anthem. The compelling yet skimpy new material feels mostly like an occasion for the remixes, some of which are actually quite worthwhile. Bibio's own retooling of "Palm of Your Wave" is arguably more essential than his new productions. The vocal is the same, but there's a new guitar part that snakes like ivy. It's meaningfully transformed, yet still angelically songful. The other successful remixes follow suit. Wax Stag smooths out the jumpy "Sugarette" into a dreamy new-wave ballad, its vocal accents cunningly wrought into a dainty music-box lead. Eskmo turns "Dwrcan" into a lurching, primordial thing, amplifying a faint oozy quality already latent in it. And Leatherette puts "Lovers' Carvings" on ice, using pitch-shifted vocal snippets to abstractly sketch its melody. Others squander the rich source material, usually by interpreting "remix" as "molest." Clark epitomizes this approach, dousing fragments of "S'vive" in his magic powder and reorganizing them into a scattering, tempo-warped pulse. He produces some fascinating effects, but it seems more like an expo for his skills than a tribute to Bibio. If Clark goes too far, the Gentlemen Losers don't go far enough-- they simply strip "Haikuesque" almost nude, though it remains very pretty. Detuned squelches have gotten tired by the time Keaver & Brause's "Fire Ant" comes around-- the baggy evocation of horns is kind of neat, but it's more like an extended vamp than a composition. At the nadir, Lone makes "All the Flowers" sound abysmal with unattractive detuning and throttling. Why take on a minute-long interstitial, anyway, when no one's touched "Jealous of Roses"? The omission of Avenue's most daring, soulful track, and the recruitment of some remixers who represent the murky style Bibio only recently grew out of, make The Apple and the Tooth feel faintly regressive, although you can't read too much into a stopgap like this. The frugality of the new material forestalls the answer as to how Bibio will be able to top Avenue, but it's good enough to keep us asking the question.

Artist: Bibio, Album: The Apple and the Tooth, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "After switching up his game on the startlingly good Ambivalence Avenue, Bibio became his own tough act to follow. As if lingering in the moment, he now issues The Apple and the Tooth, which collects remixes of his breakthrough album with four new tracks. They lack the immediate impact of Avenue's highs, because they pull back from wrenched beats into the more familiar territories of folk and psychedelia. They're good tracks, they just grow on you more slowly. They'd have been even better if he'd finished them. The title track is killer, although it sounds more Stones Throw than Warp-- bounding flute loops, ratcheting percussion, and whizzing guitars shimmy like a bum wheel. It seems like it's building toward something great, but then just ends after a couple of minutes, mid-development. "Rotten Rudd" does the same thing. At least "Bones & Skulls", sparkling but thick with incense, feels more like a song than a draft. But then on "Steal the Lamp" (lava, one presumes), we're back to the two-minute bailout, after glowing scales traced around pittering drums prime us for a drenching psychedelic anthem. The compelling yet skimpy new material feels mostly like an occasion for the remixes, some of which are actually quite worthwhile. Bibio's own retooling of "Palm of Your Wave" is arguably more essential than his new productions. The vocal is the same, but there's a new guitar part that snakes like ivy. It's meaningfully transformed, yet still angelically songful. The other successful remixes follow suit. Wax Stag smooths out the jumpy "Sugarette" into a dreamy new-wave ballad, its vocal accents cunningly wrought into a dainty music-box lead. Eskmo turns "Dwrcan" into a lurching, primordial thing, amplifying a faint oozy quality already latent in it. And Leatherette puts "Lovers' Carvings" on ice, using pitch-shifted vocal snippets to abstractly sketch its melody. Others squander the rich source material, usually by interpreting "remix" as "molest." Clark epitomizes this approach, dousing fragments of "S'vive" in his magic powder and reorganizing them into a scattering, tempo-warped pulse. He produces some fascinating effects, but it seems more like an expo for his skills than a tribute to Bibio. If Clark goes too far, the Gentlemen Losers don't go far enough-- they simply strip "Haikuesque" almost nude, though it remains very pretty. Detuned squelches have gotten tired by the time Keaver & Brause's "Fire Ant" comes around-- the baggy evocation of horns is kind of neat, but it's more like an extended vamp than a composition. At the nadir, Lone makes "All the Flowers" sound abysmal with unattractive detuning and throttling. Why take on a minute-long interstitial, anyway, when no one's touched "Jealous of Roses"? The omission of Avenue's most daring, soulful track, and the recruitment of some remixers who represent the murky style Bibio only recently grew out of, make The Apple and the Tooth feel faintly regressive, although you can't read too much into a stopgap like this. The frugality of the new material forestalls the answer as to how Bibio will be able to top Avenue, but it's good enough to keep us asking the question."

Thee Oh Sees

A Weird Exits

Rock

Stuart Berman

In stark defiance of pop music’s “don’t bore us, get to the chorus” maxim, John Dwyer believes the best antidote to boredom is getting rid of the chorus altogether. Rather than introduce a rousing, anthemic melody to elevate a song to the next level, Dwyer takes the shortcut to ecstasy: after riding a relentless robo-punk rhythm through a couple of creepily cooed verses, he simply screams “wooo!,” and uses his fuzzbox as a springboard into the stratosphere. At this point in the band’s 11-album run, you can pretty much set your watch to this maneuver—A Weird Exits’ pulsating opener, “Dead Man’s Gun,” dutifully triggers its strobe-lit squall at the 40-second mark. But the trick never fails to exhilarate, because Thee Oh See’s blast-off moments never feel like smooth, assured ascents—they’re more like riding a whirling fairground attraction and realizing your safety belt has come unlatched. Even as recent albums have introduced stoner-prog jams and Mellotron-swirled ballads into the mix, Thee Oh Sees have become, as John Peel famously quipped about the Fall, one of those “always different, always the same” kinda bands. With each hastily released album, you’re guaranteed a healthy dose of the band’s patented motorik mayhem, but in Thee Oh Sees’ case, that signature sound is no dead end—it functions more as a home base from which the band can confidently roam and to which it can safely circle back. A Weird Exits doesn’t make any surprise detours like Drop’s Beatlesque lullaby “The Lens” or Mutilator Defeated At Last’s psych-folk pastorale “Holy Smoke”; rather than slam on the brakes and pull a U, it gradually eases off the accelerator. But while raygunned rave-ups like “Gelatinous Cube” will keep the stagedivers busy at the band’s legendarily unhinged live shows, more than ever, Thee Oh Sees show an eagerness to drift away from their foundational ’60s psych-pop and garage-punk roots into more cosmic realms. And, as this album proves, you can venture even further afield when you have two drummers powering the ship. A Weird Exits is Thee Oh Sees’ first LP to showcase the double-thump tandem of Ryan Moutinho and Dan Rincon, whose interplay naturally encourages a greater degree of rhythmic variation. While Krautrock remains the driving force in Thee Oh Sees machine, the guiding spirit here is more Jaki Liebezeit than Klaus Dinger, with a premium on loose, limber mid-tempo grooves instead of locked-in momentum. That balming effect can be felt even on a windmilled exercise like “Plastic Plant,” which has all the qualities of a classic Oh Sees rocker, yet opts for a cool shuffle instead of a full-torque thrust. But the double-barreled attack is most potent on the instrumentals: the punnily titled “Jammed Entrance” etches a squiggly morse-code keyboard pattern into a mushroom-heady funk; the jazzy guitar refrains of “Unwrap the Fiend Pt. 2” give way to a taut, tambourine-shakin’ strut and phased-out solo that open up a vast, spectral sense of space. (By contrast, the droning eight-minute reverie “Crawl Out From the Fall Out,” doesn’t give the drummers much to do other than tentatively tap their cymbals, but then its swirling, lung-engulfing Spacemen 3-via-“Ode to Street Hassle” haze is too thick to encourage much muscle movement.) As Thee Oh Sees are wont to do, they close A Weird Exits with a slow dance—though it’s the rare one in their canon to push the VU meter to the same extremes as their high-octane ragers. With its mournful, church-organ melody, “The Axis” initially waltzes in like a dirtbag “Whiter Shade of Pale,” the romantic yearning replaced by scathing anti-sentiment (“Don’t you know how much / I don’t love you”). But, in its dying moments, Dwyer unleashes a squealing, distorted guitar solo: Even when their pendulum is swinging at a steadier pace, Thee Oh Sees still have the power to hypnotize—but from its twitchy jams to its blown-out power ballads, A Weird Exits’ most intriguing moments come when they break the trance.

Artist: Thee Oh Sees, Album: A Weird Exits, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "In stark defiance of pop music’s “don’t bore us, get to the chorus” maxim, John Dwyer believes the best antidote to boredom is getting rid of the chorus altogether. Rather than introduce a rousing, anthemic melody to elevate a song to the next level, Dwyer takes the shortcut to ecstasy: after riding a relentless robo-punk rhythm through a couple of creepily cooed verses, he simply screams “wooo!,” and uses his fuzzbox as a springboard into the stratosphere. At this point in the band’s 11-album run, you can pretty much set your watch to this maneuver—A Weird Exits’ pulsating opener, “Dead Man’s Gun,” dutifully triggers its strobe-lit squall at the 40-second mark. But the trick never fails to exhilarate, because Thee Oh See’s blast-off moments never feel like smooth, assured ascents—they’re more like riding a whirling fairground attraction and realizing your safety belt has come unlatched. Even as recent albums have introduced stoner-prog jams and Mellotron-swirled ballads into the mix, Thee Oh Sees have become, as John Peel famously quipped about the Fall, one of those “always different, always the same” kinda bands. With each hastily released album, you’re guaranteed a healthy dose of the band’s patented motorik mayhem, but in Thee Oh Sees’ case, that signature sound is no dead end—it functions more as a home base from which the band can confidently roam and to which it can safely circle back. A Weird Exits doesn’t make any surprise detours like Drop’s Beatlesque lullaby “The Lens” or Mutilator Defeated At Last’s psych-folk pastorale “Holy Smoke”; rather than slam on the brakes and pull a U, it gradually eases off the accelerator. But while raygunned rave-ups like “Gelatinous Cube” will keep the stagedivers busy at the band’s legendarily unhinged live shows, more than ever, Thee Oh Sees show an eagerness to drift away from their foundational ’60s psych-pop and garage-punk roots into more cosmic realms. And, as this album proves, you can venture even further afield when you have two drummers powering the ship. A Weird Exits is Thee Oh Sees’ first LP to showcase the double-thump tandem of Ryan Moutinho and Dan Rincon, whose interplay naturally encourages a greater degree of rhythmic variation. While Krautrock remains the driving force in Thee Oh Sees machine, the guiding spirit here is more Jaki Liebezeit than Klaus Dinger, with a premium on loose, limber mid-tempo grooves instead of locked-in momentum. That balming effect can be felt even on a windmilled exercise like “Plastic Plant,” which has all the qualities of a classic Oh Sees rocker, yet opts for a cool shuffle instead of a full-torque thrust. But the double-barreled attack is most potent on the instrumentals: the punnily titled “Jammed Entrance” etches a squiggly morse-code keyboard pattern into a mushroom-heady funk; the jazzy guitar refrains of “Unwrap the Fiend Pt. 2” give way to a taut, tambourine-shakin’ strut and phased-out solo that open up a vast, spectral sense of space. (By contrast, the droning eight-minute reverie “Crawl Out From the Fall Out,” doesn’t give the drummers much to do other than tentatively tap their cymbals, but then its swirling, lung-engulfing Spacemen 3-via-“Ode to Street Hassle” haze is too thick to encourage much muscle movement.) As Thee Oh Sees are wont to do, they close A Weird Exits with a slow dance—though it’s the rare one in their canon to push the VU meter to the same extremes as their high-octane ragers. With its mournful, church-organ melody, “The Axis” initially waltzes in like a dirtbag “Whiter Shade of Pale,” the romantic yearning replaced by scathing anti-sentiment (“Don’t you know how much / I don’t love you”). But, in its dying moments, Dwyer unleashes a squealing, distorted guitar solo: Even when their pendulum is swinging at a steadier pace, Thee Oh Sees still have the power to hypnotize—but from its twitchy jams to its blown-out power ballads, A Weird Exits’ most intriguing moments come when they break the trance."

Mando Diao

Ode to Ochrasy

Rock

Stuart Berman

For all the freedom that rock'n'roll promises, the archetypal guitar/bass/drums four-piece band ultimately seems to follow two paths: You can take the Ramones route and pump out three-chord thrills until you die, or you slow down, hire a string section, and perhaps dust off the acoustic guitar. For Mando Diao, Ode to Ochrasy predictably marks the point where these Swedish garage-rockers trade in their leathers for Nehru jackets, and tidy up the student-squat squalor of 2004's Hurricane Bar with some incense and expensive-looking import rugs. But as evolutions go, Ode to Ochrasy makes for a particularly awkward adolescent phase, the sound of a band that is outgrowing their loud-fast-rules roots but still too timid to sever them completely. Ode to Ochrasy's disjointed nature is reinforced by the fact that, with few exceptions, its tracklist segregates the band's two principal songwriters, Björn Dixgard (the one who sounds like Noel) and Gustaf Noren (the one who sounds like Liam), to separate sides, making it feel like two albums. Side one belongs mostly to Dixgard, who seems determined to both preserve Mando Diao's Scando-Libertines rep and subvert it-- a relationship that ultimately proves irreconcilable and produces the album's most ill-advised turns. With its "Heart Full of Soul" fuzz riff and Jacques Brel-inspired imagery, "Amsterdam" signals a pronounced shift in the band's direction, but its attempts at evocative narrative are undermined by would-be clever lines that fall flat ("When I came to in Amsterdam, the hotel showed a movie/ with Marlon Brando and his friend Paciiiinooo"-- why not just say you watched The Godfather?) and a wannabe profound chorus ("I talked to god on the telephone/ But I really can't tell you what he told me but he was alive") that confuses the meaningless for meaningful. And though "Good Morning, Herr Horst" and "Long Before Rock 'n' Roll" provide swift, skiffle-punk kicks, momentum is stalled by buzz-kill ballad "Josephine", while the acoustic title track seems emblematic of the album's wayward ambitions: a populist life-during-wartime lament framed around a made-up fantasy world of the singer's own design and comprehension. So it's with considerable relief that Noren appears mid-album with "Morning Paper Dirt", a power-pop pick-me-up that serves as a fitting companion piece to his Hurricane Bar standout "Annie's Angle", and effectively signals his seizure of the album's reins. Though guilty of faceless student-disco fodder ("TV & Me") and the odd lyrical clunker ("I woke up on your kitchen floor with a headache made in hell"), Noren proffers a more agreeable evolution for Mando Diao's mod-rock by upping the Hammond-organ soul quotient and toning down the punk fuzz for a loose jangle: "Song for Aberdeen" and "The Wildfire (If It Was True)" are spirited, spilled-pint communions that suggest early E Street Band more than the band's usual Anglo influences. And with orchestro-ballad "The New Boy", he shows other retro-minded rockers that there is a future beyond rewriting the Beatles-- that is, rewriting solo Lennon. In the lawless terrain of rock'n'roll, sometimes the best move forward is not the most challenging one, but the most obvious one.

Artist: Mando Diao, Album: Ode to Ochrasy, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.4 Album review: "For all the freedom that rock'n'roll promises, the archetypal guitar/bass/drums four-piece band ultimately seems to follow two paths: You can take the Ramones route and pump out three-chord thrills until you die, or you slow down, hire a string section, and perhaps dust off the acoustic guitar. For Mando Diao, Ode to Ochrasy predictably marks the point where these Swedish garage-rockers trade in their leathers for Nehru jackets, and tidy up the student-squat squalor of 2004's Hurricane Bar with some incense and expensive-looking import rugs. But as evolutions go, Ode to Ochrasy makes for a particularly awkward adolescent phase, the sound of a band that is outgrowing their loud-fast-rules roots but still too timid to sever them completely. Ode to Ochrasy's disjointed nature is reinforced by the fact that, with few exceptions, its tracklist segregates the band's two principal songwriters, Björn Dixgard (the one who sounds like Noel) and Gustaf Noren (the one who sounds like Liam), to separate sides, making it feel like two albums. Side one belongs mostly to Dixgard, who seems determined to both preserve Mando Diao's Scando-Libertines rep and subvert it-- a relationship that ultimately proves irreconcilable and produces the album's most ill-advised turns. With its "Heart Full of Soul" fuzz riff and Jacques Brel-inspired imagery, "Amsterdam" signals a pronounced shift in the band's direction, but its attempts at evocative narrative are undermined by would-be clever lines that fall flat ("When I came to in Amsterdam, the hotel showed a movie/ with Marlon Brando and his friend Paciiiinooo"-- why not just say you watched The Godfather?) and a wannabe profound chorus ("I talked to god on the telephone/ But I really can't tell you what he told me but he was alive") that confuses the meaningless for meaningful. And though "Good Morning, Herr Horst" and "Long Before Rock 'n' Roll" provide swift, skiffle-punk kicks, momentum is stalled by buzz-kill ballad "Josephine", while the acoustic title track seems emblematic of the album's wayward ambitions: a populist life-during-wartime lament framed around a made-up fantasy world of the singer's own design and comprehension. So it's with considerable relief that Noren appears mid-album with "Morning Paper Dirt", a power-pop pick-me-up that serves as a fitting companion piece to his Hurricane Bar standout "Annie's Angle", and effectively signals his seizure of the album's reins. Though guilty of faceless student-disco fodder ("TV & Me") and the odd lyrical clunker ("I woke up on your kitchen floor with a headache made in hell"), Noren proffers a more agreeable evolution for Mando Diao's mod-rock by upping the Hammond-organ soul quotient and toning down the punk fuzz for a loose jangle: "Song for Aberdeen" and "The Wildfire (If It Was True)" are spirited, spilled-pint communions that suggest early E Street Band more than the band's usual Anglo influences. And with orchestro-ballad "The New Boy", he shows other retro-minded rockers that there is a future beyond rewriting the Beatles-- that is, rewriting solo Lennon. In the lawless terrain of rock'n'roll, sometimes the best move forward is not the most challenging one, but the most obvious one."

Miike Snow

Happy To You

Electronic,Rock

Joe Colly

If you could break up a band's music into its constituent pieces, what would be the most important part? Is it the production, the quality, or inventiveness of the sonics? Or would it be the singing and the presence of the frontman? How about the lyrics and their ability to convey emotion? Since we all hear music differently, this is an impossible question, but it's an interesting exercise when it comes to Miike Snow. Because the Swedish trio, who are known for an electronic take on springy indie pop, are really good at some things and not so great at others. They're lopsided. The first thing to consider when talking about these guys is their studio ability. Each of the three members has ample experience behind the decks, and two of them, Christian Karlsson and Pontus Winnburg, comprise the hitmaking production duo Bloodshy & Avant. They were responsible for Britney Spears' irrefutable "Toxic", her nearly-as-good recent single "How I Roll", and various cuts for Kelis and Kylie Minogue. Point being, they know how to make stuff sound good. And a lot of the music on Happy To You, their second full-length, sounds excellent. Beats sparkle, synths crest and unfurl with purpose, horns come in at just exact right moment. The foundation is strong. Problem is, that's only one part of the equation. Miike Snow are missing some important components, the first of which is a compelling singer to elevate or at least match the sonics. Marc Hogan touched on this in his review of the band's debut and I'm bringing it up again because it's still an issue. Singer Andrew Wyatt is by no means a bad vocalist, but he has a thin, reedy presence that's probably better suited for bedside indie fare than pop songs with beats and thrust. It's a mismatch. Add to that a vague lyrical quality (a line like "You don't have to sell your shirt to do the devil's work" kind of makes sense but doesn't) and you're left with tracks that feel sort of lifeless, emotionally inert. That's not always the case. There are instances where the Miike Snow formula comes together and you can hear the beginnings of something really good. The best song to my ears is "God Help This Divorce", which sounds like the Clientele backed by the Neptunes or an updated Postal Service or MGMT gone really emo. With sharp lyrics like "Taking my tea in silence, telling strange jokes to myself," you don't have to guess whether or not it's about post-breakup loneliness. That sort of unity of vision, though, where the sound matches the idea and the idea matches the delivery, is still rare with this band. Too much of the time, too much is missing.

Artist: Miike Snow, Album: Happy To You, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "If you could break up a band's music into its constituent pieces, what would be the most important part? Is it the production, the quality, or inventiveness of the sonics? Or would it be the singing and the presence of the frontman? How about the lyrics and their ability to convey emotion? Since we all hear music differently, this is an impossible question, but it's an interesting exercise when it comes to Miike Snow. Because the Swedish trio, who are known for an electronic take on springy indie pop, are really good at some things and not so great at others. They're lopsided. The first thing to consider when talking about these guys is their studio ability. Each of the three members has ample experience behind the decks, and two of them, Christian Karlsson and Pontus Winnburg, comprise the hitmaking production duo Bloodshy & Avant. They were responsible for Britney Spears' irrefutable "Toxic", her nearly-as-good recent single "How I Roll", and various cuts for Kelis and Kylie Minogue. Point being, they know how to make stuff sound good. And a lot of the music on Happy To You, their second full-length, sounds excellent. Beats sparkle, synths crest and unfurl with purpose, horns come in at just exact right moment. The foundation is strong. Problem is, that's only one part of the equation. Miike Snow are missing some important components, the first of which is a compelling singer to elevate or at least match the sonics. Marc Hogan touched on this in his review of the band's debut and I'm bringing it up again because it's still an issue. Singer Andrew Wyatt is by no means a bad vocalist, but he has a thin, reedy presence that's probably better suited for bedside indie fare than pop songs with beats and thrust. It's a mismatch. Add to that a vague lyrical quality (a line like "You don't have to sell your shirt to do the devil's work" kind of makes sense but doesn't) and you're left with tracks that feel sort of lifeless, emotionally inert. That's not always the case. There are instances where the Miike Snow formula comes together and you can hear the beginnings of something really good. The best song to my ears is "God Help This Divorce", which sounds like the Clientele backed by the Neptunes or an updated Postal Service or MGMT gone really emo. With sharp lyrics like "Taking my tea in silence, telling strange jokes to myself," you don't have to guess whether or not it's about post-breakup loneliness. That sort of unity of vision, though, where the sound matches the idea and the idea matches the delivery, is still rare with this band. Too much of the time, too much is missing."

Oxford Collapse

A Good Ground

Rock

Sam Ubl

Oxford Collapse play rock rife with paradox. Their music makes you want to punch someone, then grab and hug him. It sounds piped straight from bygone airwaves, yet feels new, potent, and very much undeveloped. Most perplexingly, A Good Ground-- the Brooklyn trio's new full-length, which retreads a lot of the good ground covered on 2004's Some Wilderness-- is inconsistent in a strange way: The Collapse trade off between songs in their exciting, fully-formed voice, and happily inconsequential rock by rote. The band often seem shy of their own talents, content to hammer a sloppy backbeat under familiar-sounding changes. When this formulaic approach is buttressed by a hook-- which happens excitingly often-- the OC are unstoppable, burning up imaginary stages, dominating 80s underground rock retrospectives, and owning the charts 23 years ago. Of the two bands present on A Good Ground, I prefer the one responsible for "Proofreading". The guitar has a kinetic, galloping quality not seen since Replacements and Feelies walked the Earth. But while the OC mine the barren lands of Hoboken for archaeological evidence of their ancient heroes, the band have some new millennial fight in them. "Prop Cars" is loud, choppy, and desultory in a manner more closely identified with tough dude hardcore than cardigan-clad indie rock. All it misses is the outta-my-way clarity of a lead melodic line. That's something "Last American Virgin" brings, albeit in bass notes. Adam Rizer delivers warm, overanxious basslines that barely appear in the mix, like soap submerged in bathtub water. His line on "LAV" is one of this album's best, but what I love most about the song (besides the cowbell) is the ending: Who writes a killer bridge, rife with transitional possibilities, and plays it for eight too-quick measures before pulling the plug? It's such a novice move, it shows enormous maturity. As for the other band, they're for the most part smothered. Opener "Empty Fields" means well and is quick enough (1:12) but, sans melodic or structural development, ultimately pointless. A better song to pop the cork with would have been the epic, faded-in "Last American Virgin" or the wordless "Cracks in the Causeway", whose gentle "ba di bop di"s offer a charming how-do-you-do. The only other dud is "No Great Shakes", which sounds like an early B-side: muzzled, self-conscious and disappointingly simplistic for a group of rhythmic contortionists. See the lithe, pensive "The Boys Go Home" for an antidote. A Good Ground is made for trebly car speakers on late-night drives down empty, lamp-lit parkways. Or not. Ideal listening contexts are, of course, always subjective, but Oxford Collapse are worth the time it takes to discover one. Folks will kvetch about the washy recording sound and Mike Pace's yelped (and sometimes even yodeled) vocals-- tasteful affects at the heart of the band's sound. But there's something refreshing about a band as stubborn as Oxford Collapse: sure to be hated on for a handful of abrasive, outmoded stylistic choices, they remain adamant and unswerving. That devotion shines through on this mostly wonderful record.

Artist: Oxford Collapse, Album: A Good Ground, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Oxford Collapse play rock rife with paradox. Their music makes you want to punch someone, then grab and hug him. It sounds piped straight from bygone airwaves, yet feels new, potent, and very much undeveloped. Most perplexingly, A Good Ground-- the Brooklyn trio's new full-length, which retreads a lot of the good ground covered on 2004's Some Wilderness-- is inconsistent in a strange way: The Collapse trade off between songs in their exciting, fully-formed voice, and happily inconsequential rock by rote. The band often seem shy of their own talents, content to hammer a sloppy backbeat under familiar-sounding changes. When this formulaic approach is buttressed by a hook-- which happens excitingly often-- the OC are unstoppable, burning up imaginary stages, dominating 80s underground rock retrospectives, and owning the charts 23 years ago. Of the two bands present on A Good Ground, I prefer the one responsible for "Proofreading". The guitar has a kinetic, galloping quality not seen since Replacements and Feelies walked the Earth. But while the OC mine the barren lands of Hoboken for archaeological evidence of their ancient heroes, the band have some new millennial fight in them. "Prop Cars" is loud, choppy, and desultory in a manner more closely identified with tough dude hardcore than cardigan-clad indie rock. All it misses is the outta-my-way clarity of a lead melodic line. That's something "Last American Virgin" brings, albeit in bass notes. Adam Rizer delivers warm, overanxious basslines that barely appear in the mix, like soap submerged in bathtub water. His line on "LAV" is one of this album's best, but what I love most about the song (besides the cowbell) is the ending: Who writes a killer bridge, rife with transitional possibilities, and plays it for eight too-quick measures before pulling the plug? It's such a novice move, it shows enormous maturity. As for the other band, they're for the most part smothered. Opener "Empty Fields" means well and is quick enough (1:12) but, sans melodic or structural development, ultimately pointless. A better song to pop the cork with would have been the epic, faded-in "Last American Virgin" or the wordless "Cracks in the Causeway", whose gentle "ba di bop di"s offer a charming how-do-you-do. The only other dud is "No Great Shakes", which sounds like an early B-side: muzzled, self-conscious and disappointingly simplistic for a group of rhythmic contortionists. See the lithe, pensive "The Boys Go Home" for an antidote. A Good Ground is made for trebly car speakers on late-night drives down empty, lamp-lit parkways. Or not. Ideal listening contexts are, of course, always subjective, but Oxford Collapse are worth the time it takes to discover one. Folks will kvetch about the washy recording sound and Mike Pace's yelped (and sometimes even yodeled) vocals-- tasteful affects at the heart of the band's sound. But there's something refreshing about a band as stubborn as Oxford Collapse: sure to be hated on for a handful of abrasive, outmoded stylistic choices, they remain adamant and unswerving. That devotion shines through on this mostly wonderful record."

Curren$y

Verde Terrace

Rap

Jayson Greene

Years from now, we might look back and try to pinpoint exactly when Curren$y became one of the best rappers working, and wonder how we missed it at the time. Since his 2010 breakout Pilot Talk, the New Orleans rapper has reliably released a high-quality new mixtape or full-length album every couple of months, but he's remained perplexingly easy to overlook: as befits a rapper heavily indebted to weed culture, he seems less young-and-hungry and more like the guy who was always just around somehow. Committed, in a noncommittal sort of way. But don't let the hangdog pose fool you: it takes ferocious inner steel to put out this much consistently good music in so little time, and the fact that he's done so without disrupting the heavy-lidded calm of his pose only makes it more impressive. His latest release, the DJ Drama mixtape Verde Terrace, isn't his best work this year, or even in the last six months: that would be last June's Weekend at Burnie's. Like many recent DJ Drama mixtapes, it sags beneath some lazy or obvious beat selections. The boilerplate, rushed-feeling song titles reflect minutes of thought: "My Life is a Movie", "Run Dat Shit", "High Tunes". It contains the world's most unnecessary remake of Biggie's "Ten Crack Commandments", delivered entirely by Curren$y's Russian-doll miniature sidekick Young Roddy. And yet Curren$y has burnished his star to such a warm, hazy glow that whenever he appears on it, things snap immediately into focus. His weed talk has grown so metaphorically florid that it's entered its own realm: If you're a rapper who writes about getting high and you hear Curren$y say he gets "lifted like sanctions," how do you even begin to respond? His puns and double entendres continue to boast sneaky layers, à la "She puts the phone in her lap and when I call she comin'." Verde Terrace boasts fewer of these quotables than recent performances, but he still proves he can spin your head with startling ease a dozen or more times. Indeed, what often gets shortchanged in Curren$y's "weed rapper" label is the compelling slipperiness of his mind: "Nonchalant, but I'm very aware of what's going on," he assures us on "Pinifarina". His default mode is "easily unimpressed," an attitude surely honed from doing time in shifting rap regimes from No Limit to Cash Money. "I'm from New Orleans, I stunt/ In a blue moon once... But I don't be doin' too much," he raps on "Ways to Kill Em", a side-note observation that indicates the warily careful philosophy behind the bored facade: keep your head down, keep rapping. Verde Terrace doesn't break any new territory for Curren$y, but "new territory" isn't really part of his M.O.-- he is digging a groove, one into which he settles more comfortably each year. It's a technique he might have soaked up from his one-time mentor Lil Wayne, who chased the same six metaphors single-mindedly until they yielded delirium. Like Wayne, Curren$y is refining the contours of his tiny universe so that it resembles no one else's. The point is driven home on Verde Terrace's outro "Smoke Sum n", when Wayne appears for a guest verse. It's the first time the two have collaborated since parting ways four years ago, and the ships-passing-in-the-night moment is telling: Wayne very much sounds like a visitor in Curren$y's territory now. And Curren$y sounds like no one's idea of a sidekick.

Artist: Curren$y, Album: Verde Terrace, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Years from now, we might look back and try to pinpoint exactly when Curren$y became one of the best rappers working, and wonder how we missed it at the time. Since his 2010 breakout Pilot Talk, the New Orleans rapper has reliably released a high-quality new mixtape or full-length album every couple of months, but he's remained perplexingly easy to overlook: as befits a rapper heavily indebted to weed culture, he seems less young-and-hungry and more like the guy who was always just around somehow. Committed, in a noncommittal sort of way. But don't let the hangdog pose fool you: it takes ferocious inner steel to put out this much consistently good music in so little time, and the fact that he's done so without disrupting the heavy-lidded calm of his pose only makes it more impressive. His latest release, the DJ Drama mixtape Verde Terrace, isn't his best work this year, or even in the last six months: that would be last June's Weekend at Burnie's. Like many recent DJ Drama mixtapes, it sags beneath some lazy or obvious beat selections. The boilerplate, rushed-feeling song titles reflect minutes of thought: "My Life is a Movie", "Run Dat Shit", "High Tunes". It contains the world's most unnecessary remake of Biggie's "Ten Crack Commandments", delivered entirely by Curren$y's Russian-doll miniature sidekick Young Roddy. And yet Curren$y has burnished his star to such a warm, hazy glow that whenever he appears on it, things snap immediately into focus. His weed talk has grown so metaphorically florid that it's entered its own realm: If you're a rapper who writes about getting high and you hear Curren$y say he gets "lifted like sanctions," how do you even begin to respond? His puns and double entendres continue to boast sneaky layers, à la "She puts the phone in her lap and when I call she comin'." Verde Terrace boasts fewer of these quotables than recent performances, but he still proves he can spin your head with startling ease a dozen or more times. Indeed, what often gets shortchanged in Curren$y's "weed rapper" label is the compelling slipperiness of his mind: "Nonchalant, but I'm very aware of what's going on," he assures us on "Pinifarina". His default mode is "easily unimpressed," an attitude surely honed from doing time in shifting rap regimes from No Limit to Cash Money. "I'm from New Orleans, I stunt/ In a blue moon once... But I don't be doin' too much," he raps on "Ways to Kill Em", a side-note observation that indicates the warily careful philosophy behind the bored facade: keep your head down, keep rapping. Verde Terrace doesn't break any new territory for Curren$y, but "new territory" isn't really part of his M.O.-- he is digging a groove, one into which he settles more comfortably each year. It's a technique he might have soaked up from his one-time mentor Lil Wayne, who chased the same six metaphors single-mindedly until they yielded delirium. Like Wayne, Curren$y is refining the contours of his tiny universe so that it resembles no one else's. The point is driven home on Verde Terrace's outro "Smoke Sum n", when Wayne appears for a guest verse. It's the first time the two have collaborated since parting ways four years ago, and the ships-passing-in-the-night moment is telling: Wayne very much sounds like a visitor in Curren$y's territory now. And Curren$y sounds like no one's idea of a sidekick."

Merchandise

Totale Nite

Rock

Aaron Leitko

Merchandise aren't the first band to draw inspiration from 1980s mope rock, but their background in the Tampa, Fla., hardcore and DIY community has given them an edge on your average gang of 20-something miserablists. The trio’s debut album, (Strange Songs) In the Dark, and its follow-up, Children of Desire, reproduced sounds of melancholy mainstays like the Cure and New Order on a basement punk’s budget. Cheeseball drum machines battered out metronomic rhythms and shimmering guitar hooks blurred into swampy, dub-inspired textures. But even though the music was dense and trippy, the vocals were clear and urgent. Singer Carson Cox delivered his lyrics in a naked, unschooled croon that was more than a little reminiscent of Morrissey during the early days of the Smiths, minus the zeal for wordplay and Victorian poetry. On their latest LP, Totale Nite-- which arrives via Night People, a go-to outlet for acts that split the difference between spooky and psychedelic, including early efforts by Peaking Lights, Dirty Beaches, and Pocahaunted-- the band tighten up their blend of weirdo tones and emo conviction. Merchandise songs can skew long and most of the tracks on Totale Nite find the band stretching out. These aren’t noodle-heavy excursions, though. The songs are long for the same reason that Swans' songs are long-- they’re meant to envelope and overtake the listener through repetition. The album’s best tune, “Anxiety’s Door”, flows along a programmed dance rhythm for upwards of seven minutes, swapping in swatches of acoustic and electric guitars between Cox’s plaintive hoots. The song is memorable, in part, because its arrangement is eerily familiar, an echo of the Smiths' “The Headmaster Ritual”, embellished with heaps of psychic jewelry. The title track is looser, weirder, and longer, with Cox competing against blaring saxophones and washes of white noise for sonic real estate. The shrill sounds and long duration (10-minutes) make the song a more demanding listen than “Anxiety's Door”, but it's also a more complete display of the band's weird chemistry. Merchandise's take on pop works with extremes-- tweaking out hardcore kids with fey vocals and ethereal audio gook and then blasting the tamer ears with hi-frequency screeching. It's only when the tempos start to slow down, like on the ambient ballad "I'll Be Gone", that the LP drags a little. There are still plenty of places for Cox to hide in Merchandise's music-- delay swells, blasts of noise, bottomless reservoirs of reverb-- he just never takes the opportunity. However, when the music gears down, he could stand to step a little further into the background. In interviews, the members of Merchandise-- Cox and guitarist Dave Vassalotti in particular-- have laid out an earnest, if sometimes convoluted, series of principles that guide their music making. When they can, they prefer to play non-traditional venues. They are heavily devoted to their local music community and suspicious of the business practices of larger independent labels. Children of Desire was a well-loved record and, had the band been interested, a more mainstream-minded imprint might have stepped up to release Totale Nite. But so far, they've made good on their ambitions to stay off of the indie-rock cowpath. Though Merchandise’s music is sonically distant from the band's hardcore pedigree, it places a similar premium on the projection of honesty and unguarded emotions. On Totale Nite, they manage to use small-scale elements-- jangling guitars, cheapo drum machines, toy keyboards-- to project the urgency of bands with louder screams and bigger amps.

Artist: Merchandise, Album: Totale Nite, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Merchandise aren't the first band to draw inspiration from 1980s mope rock, but their background in the Tampa, Fla., hardcore and DIY community has given them an edge on your average gang of 20-something miserablists. The trio’s debut album, (Strange Songs) In the Dark, and its follow-up, Children of Desire, reproduced sounds of melancholy mainstays like the Cure and New Order on a basement punk’s budget. Cheeseball drum machines battered out metronomic rhythms and shimmering guitar hooks blurred into swampy, dub-inspired textures. But even though the music was dense and trippy, the vocals were clear and urgent. Singer Carson Cox delivered his lyrics in a naked, unschooled croon that was more than a little reminiscent of Morrissey during the early days of the Smiths, minus the zeal for wordplay and Victorian poetry. On their latest LP, Totale Nite-- which arrives via Night People, a go-to outlet for acts that split the difference between spooky and psychedelic, including early efforts by Peaking Lights, Dirty Beaches, and Pocahaunted-- the band tighten up their blend of weirdo tones and emo conviction. Merchandise songs can skew long and most of the tracks on Totale Nite find the band stretching out. These aren’t noodle-heavy excursions, though. The songs are long for the same reason that Swans' songs are long-- they’re meant to envelope and overtake the listener through repetition. The album’s best tune, “Anxiety’s Door”, flows along a programmed dance rhythm for upwards of seven minutes, swapping in swatches of acoustic and electric guitars between Cox’s plaintive hoots. The song is memorable, in part, because its arrangement is eerily familiar, an echo of the Smiths' “The Headmaster Ritual”, embellished with heaps of psychic jewelry. The title track is looser, weirder, and longer, with Cox competing against blaring saxophones and washes of white noise for sonic real estate. The shrill sounds and long duration (10-minutes) make the song a more demanding listen than “Anxiety's Door”, but it's also a more complete display of the band's weird chemistry. Merchandise's take on pop works with extremes-- tweaking out hardcore kids with fey vocals and ethereal audio gook and then blasting the tamer ears with hi-frequency screeching. It's only when the tempos start to slow down, like on the ambient ballad "I'll Be Gone", that the LP drags a little. There are still plenty of places for Cox to hide in Merchandise's music-- delay swells, blasts of noise, bottomless reservoirs of reverb-- he just never takes the opportunity. However, when the music gears down, he could stand to step a little further into the background. In interviews, the members of Merchandise-- Cox and guitarist Dave Vassalotti in particular-- have laid out an earnest, if sometimes convoluted, series of principles that guide their music making. When they can, they prefer to play non-traditional venues. They are heavily devoted to their local music community and suspicious of the business practices of larger independent labels. Children of Desire was a well-loved record and, had the band been interested, a more mainstream-minded imprint might have stepped up to release Totale Nite. But so far, they've made good on their ambitions to stay off of the indie-rock cowpath. Though Merchandise’s music is sonically distant from the band's hardcore pedigree, it places a similar premium on the projection of honesty and unguarded emotions. On Totale Nite, they manage to use small-scale elements-- jangling guitars, cheapo drum machines, toy keyboards-- to project the urgency of bands with louder screams and bigger amps."

The Smiths

Romantic and Square Is Hip and Aware: A Matinee Tribute to The Smiths

Rock

Neil Robertson

This review's doomed before you've even begun to read it. How can a fey indie-kid condemn this collection of cloying twee-pop covers and not seem like some sanctimonious snob, shrieking cries of "sacrilege!" at these minor-league indie bands' attempts at hero worship? Surely these bands are our brethren-- wistful, floppy-fringed romantics who fumble through life reciting poetry, being trodden-on and getting caught on unattainable women. Like us, they see the songs of Steven Morrissey as painfully acute in describing their own dysfunction. Why attack them for paying tribute? Maybe because it all seems so heartless. While Romantic and Square Is Hip and Aware is not the first attempt at a tribute to The Smiths (the bored Britpop B-league of The Smiths Is Dead, with its fudged covers from Placebo and Supergrass, bears that backwards honor), but it's certainly the most galling, as its cast of clueless college-rock enthusiasts clumsily recreate Marr/Morrissey's rain-splattered, angst-laced elegies. Frustratingly, the collection begins with promise. Employing backwards guitars and fragile, folkish whispers, female-fronted The Pines provide a soft, autumnal take on "Ask". Later, The Lucksmiths-- the only band on this collection whose own material is at all noteworthy-- knock out "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out" as the kind of boy/girl duet that Morrissey might have attempted had he ever met many girls. But finding impressive moments on this record is like looking for moments of untainted joy on Meat Is Murder. Take Slipside's straight-laced rendition of "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want". From the sound of it, they've simply snatched the chords from some bookstore songbook and furnished it with a pitch-perfect Morrissey impersonation. You could hear this shit for free in any student bar in the northern hemisphere. Also noteworthy for its cringe-inducing ridiculousness is the Would-Be-Goods' garbling of "Back to the Old House", whose weightless wreck of anemic harmonies and cuddlecore-cuteness could inspire Isobel Campbell pick up an electric guitar. Lovejoy's "Girlfriend in a Coma" even manages to inject some Johnny Marr-mimicking guitar lines into its pallid, toiling shoegaze, while Pale Sunday's "I Know It's Over" is absurd, vocoder-ruined Euro-pop, completely devoid of emotion with impoverished production and cheap keyboard whirls. In an age where mere over-exposure is enough to make people revise their opinions of bands, Romantic and Square does The Smiths no favors. It's a record that succeeds in rendering such classic songs as limp, lifeless and utterly unremarkable, stripping them of the passion, context and camp wit that made them great to begin with.

Artist: The Smiths, Album: Romantic and Square Is Hip and Aware: A Matinee Tribute to The Smiths, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 3.7 Album review: "This review's doomed before you've even begun to read it. How can a fey indie-kid condemn this collection of cloying twee-pop covers and not seem like some sanctimonious snob, shrieking cries of "sacrilege!" at these minor-league indie bands' attempts at hero worship? Surely these bands are our brethren-- wistful, floppy-fringed romantics who fumble through life reciting poetry, being trodden-on and getting caught on unattainable women. Like us, they see the songs of Steven Morrissey as painfully acute in describing their own dysfunction. Why attack them for paying tribute? Maybe because it all seems so heartless. While Romantic and Square Is Hip and Aware is not the first attempt at a tribute to The Smiths (the bored Britpop B-league of The Smiths Is Dead, with its fudged covers from Placebo and Supergrass, bears that backwards honor), but it's certainly the most galling, as its cast of clueless college-rock enthusiasts clumsily recreate Marr/Morrissey's rain-splattered, angst-laced elegies. Frustratingly, the collection begins with promise. Employing backwards guitars and fragile, folkish whispers, female-fronted The Pines provide a soft, autumnal take on "Ask". Later, The Lucksmiths-- the only band on this collection whose own material is at all noteworthy-- knock out "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out" as the kind of boy/girl duet that Morrissey might have attempted had he ever met many girls. But finding impressive moments on this record is like looking for moments of untainted joy on Meat Is Murder. Take Slipside's straight-laced rendition of "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want". From the sound of it, they've simply snatched the chords from some bookstore songbook and furnished it with a pitch-perfect Morrissey impersonation. You could hear this shit for free in any student bar in the northern hemisphere. Also noteworthy for its cringe-inducing ridiculousness is the Would-Be-Goods' garbling of "Back to the Old House", whose weightless wreck of anemic harmonies and cuddlecore-cuteness could inspire Isobel Campbell pick up an electric guitar. Lovejoy's "Girlfriend in a Coma" even manages to inject some Johnny Marr-mimicking guitar lines into its pallid, toiling shoegaze, while Pale Sunday's "I Know It's Over" is absurd, vocoder-ruined Euro-pop, completely devoid of emotion with impoverished production and cheap keyboard whirls. In an age where mere over-exposure is enough to make people revise their opinions of bands, Romantic and Square does The Smiths no favors. It's a record that succeeds in rendering such classic songs as limp, lifeless and utterly unremarkable, stripping them of the passion, context and camp wit that made them great to begin with."

The Album Leaf

Seal Beach EP

Electronic,Rock

Brian Howe

Seal Beach EP is an exercise in restful, reverent mood music, as measured and deliberate as a high-flying gull stroking through a cloudless sky. There are plenty of indie rockers thumbing spectral ambiance from their keyboards, but no one is doing it with the same level of restraint and precision as Jimmy LaValle. Nevertheless, the field is over-saturated, and it's a given that this record will strike impatient listeners as tedious. LaValle is working from a familiar palette here-- each song finds layers of wavering drone shot through with sparse yet complexly ramifying mechanical drums, long arcs of simple, chiming leads and trembling strings wafting over resonant slabs of melodic bass. Point blank, if you're not in the right headspace for this stuff, it's going to bore no matter how well done. But if you are, LaValle's spare, translucent brushstrokes seem like an elemental and ideal expression of the form. Originally released in Spain, on Acuarela Records, in 2003, this Stateside reissue is fleshed out with new violin parts, a rare track ("For Jonathan"), and five previously unreleased live tracks with Sigur Rós sitting in, making for a whopping 10-track EP. And since the only real difference between LaValle's live and studio recordings is that the live ones have applause at the end, his elegant sonic calculus has a seamless placidity and cinematic gravity that allows for complete immersion. The ease of immersion makes the Seal Beach EP such a lulling siren song, and this is credit to LaValle's self-control. Indie electronica has developed a familiar dynamic-- start in tranquility, then ratchet up the drums and synths in crisp shifts of intensity until the track is galloping and hiccupping like a drunken mechanical bull. LaVelle doesn't succumb to the bombastic urge, and his ephemeral webs stretch out with a serene, meditative profundity unbroken by the non-linear impulse. Nor does he feel the need to tack superfluous noises onto his pale watercolor washes, having the confidence to let the bare essentials of song stand alone, ebbing and flowing as naturally as the tide. From the flaring static, whirring drums and contrapuntal clicktrack of "Malmo", to the gently wailing violins and pirouetting synths of "Brennivin", to the briskly accruing acoustic guitar arpeggios of "One Minute", Seal Beach EP comprises a summer jam for the North Pole, and the Album Leaf continues to set the pace for those who would politely drone.

Artist: The Album Leaf, Album: Seal Beach EP, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Seal Beach EP is an exercise in restful, reverent mood music, as measured and deliberate as a high-flying gull stroking through a cloudless sky. There are plenty of indie rockers thumbing spectral ambiance from their keyboards, but no one is doing it with the same level of restraint and precision as Jimmy LaValle. Nevertheless, the field is over-saturated, and it's a given that this record will strike impatient listeners as tedious. LaValle is working from a familiar palette here-- each song finds layers of wavering drone shot through with sparse yet complexly ramifying mechanical drums, long arcs of simple, chiming leads and trembling strings wafting over resonant slabs of melodic bass. Point blank, if you're not in the right headspace for this stuff, it's going to bore no matter how well done. But if you are, LaValle's spare, translucent brushstrokes seem like an elemental and ideal expression of the form. Originally released in Spain, on Acuarela Records, in 2003, this Stateside reissue is fleshed out with new violin parts, a rare track ("For Jonathan"), and five previously unreleased live tracks with Sigur Rós sitting in, making for a whopping 10-track EP. And since the only real difference between LaValle's live and studio recordings is that the live ones have applause at the end, his elegant sonic calculus has a seamless placidity and cinematic gravity that allows for complete immersion. The ease of immersion makes the Seal Beach EP such a lulling siren song, and this is credit to LaValle's self-control. Indie electronica has developed a familiar dynamic-- start in tranquility, then ratchet up the drums and synths in crisp shifts of intensity until the track is galloping and hiccupping like a drunken mechanical bull. LaVelle doesn't succumb to the bombastic urge, and his ephemeral webs stretch out with a serene, meditative profundity unbroken by the non-linear impulse. Nor does he feel the need to tack superfluous noises onto his pale watercolor washes, having the confidence to let the bare essentials of song stand alone, ebbing and flowing as naturally as the tide. From the flaring static, whirring drums and contrapuntal clicktrack of "Malmo", to the gently wailing violins and pirouetting synths of "Brennivin", to the briskly accruing acoustic guitar arpeggios of "One Minute", Seal Beach EP comprises a summer jam for the North Pole, and the Album Leaf continues to set the pace for those who would politely drone."

Double Leopards

Halve Maen

Experimental,Rock

Andy Beta

Nigh on a decade, I have been trying to figure out what the fuck I took that fateful night. Cloyingly labeled as a "pharmaceutical hallucinogen," a handful of pills opened portals to the most intense, frighteningly realistic phantasms I've ever experienced. One symptom of overdose, as the Pharmaceutical Handbook explained so succinctly the morning after, was that every electrical appliance malfunctioned in my presence: the LCD displays on my watch and alarm clock were helpless brambles of blinking bars of broken time. The carpet breathed and rippled its fibers. The walls sweated. I continually had the physical sensation of having something clenched in my grip, yet looking down, my hands were always empty. I bring this trip up because I think the Double Leopards (Mike, Maya, Marcia, and Chris) might have ingested the same shit. At the very least, they show similar symptoms on their second album for Eclipse. Housed in a dark and heavy sleeve, replete with an Indian skull and foreboding forest branches, it opens into a gatefold that evokes a satellite dish-addicted Bridget Riley illusion. Halve Maen is sprawled across two heavy discs, the only format through which the finest, most oblique musical messages can properly be conveyed. I am tempted to shove this in alongside such shadowy double albums as Wickham & Young's Lake, The Dead C's Harsh 70s Reality, Charalambides' Market Square, and Twenty-Six's This Skin Is Rust, but even those gave you a little breathing room now and then; Halve Maen smothers all light from the get-go as it burrows into the bowels of the earth below. Very tactile from the first needle-drop, the everyday objects at the old loft space move of their own volition, at the edges of the feverish eyes. Household items like chord organs, plastic toys, and wind chimes suddenly lurch to the fore during "The Fatal Affront", before all the room's paraphernalia disintegrates into the more solemn and murky affair, "Druid Spectre". Here appears a drum more akin to the undead pounding at a cardboard door, somehow thudding along from beyond the grave with an elongated guitar. Side B gets swallowed by "A Hemisphere in Your Hair", which is time enough for a perm or other long scalp treatment. On this track, time is stretched and lulled until finally being rendered meaningless, and the listening brain is melted in slow undulations of sinewaves, primitive swirls of effects, bowed strings, prayer bowls, Melodica, and otherworldly drones. Small shivers of cricket-like feedback rise and fall with the slow, labored breathing of the beast, as if the inhaled pink goo from The Abyss were replaced with Graffix bong scrapings. The rattles that arise nearer the center of the spindle give the proceedings the woozy feel of an ancient ceremony coming to an end. Turns out we're only halfway there, though, and from this point forth, the travail gets veritably muddy, the group dynamic verging on unconsciousness. Discombobulation and a heavy, pervasive dread of being very lost permeates this record. "The Forest Outlaws" spins the tape, mid-séance, into a paralyzing bout of self-inflicted ether damage. A blustery white-noise wind blows through the bundled layers of guitar and organ, freezing up the gears on the Leopards' zamboni right at the inner-circle of the inferno, where it's always most frigid and frightening. The last side is given over to "The Secret Correspondence 1 & 2", plopping us into the vertiginous tides of the Dead Sea, where the silty, unseen bottom is stirred up something fierce. Cymbals are struck but quickly sink below the briny waters. Tremors of ghostly orchestras are constantly conjured by the guitars, a mass grave of vindicative strings that howl and die only to be resurrected for the finale. The instruments and processed moans of the group commune with a far more surly and slurred spiritual world than previously glimpsed, heavily sedated and hovering with a menacing glint just at the threshold of sanity. As it all slips away at record's end, I'm left questioning the mental stability and half-life of this trip. What I believed to be firmly in my grasp slithered away, a disquieting residue left behind on my hands and in my eyes and ears. Overwhelming in its morose synesthesia and downright bleary at times, Halve Maen is like those little yellow pills I popped so long ago: Ingestion will definitely fuck you up.

Artist: Double Leopards, Album: Halve Maen, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Nigh on a decade, I have been trying to figure out what the fuck I took that fateful night. Cloyingly labeled as a "pharmaceutical hallucinogen," a handful of pills opened portals to the most intense, frighteningly realistic phantasms I've ever experienced. One symptom of overdose, as the Pharmaceutical Handbook explained so succinctly the morning after, was that every electrical appliance malfunctioned in my presence: the LCD displays on my watch and alarm clock were helpless brambles of blinking bars of broken time. The carpet breathed and rippled its fibers. The walls sweated. I continually had the physical sensation of having something clenched in my grip, yet looking down, my hands were always empty. I bring this trip up because I think the Double Leopards (Mike, Maya, Marcia, and Chris) might have ingested the same shit. At the very least, they show similar symptoms on their second album for Eclipse. Housed in a dark and heavy sleeve, replete with an Indian skull and foreboding forest branches, it opens into a gatefold that evokes a satellite dish-addicted Bridget Riley illusion. Halve Maen is sprawled across two heavy discs, the only format through which the finest, most oblique musical messages can properly be conveyed. I am tempted to shove this in alongside such shadowy double albums as Wickham & Young's Lake, The Dead C's Harsh 70s Reality, Charalambides' Market Square, and Twenty-Six's This Skin Is Rust, but even those gave you a little breathing room now and then; Halve Maen smothers all light from the get-go as it burrows into the bowels of the earth below. Very tactile from the first needle-drop, the everyday objects at the old loft space move of their own volition, at the edges of the feverish eyes. Household items like chord organs, plastic toys, and wind chimes suddenly lurch to the fore during "The Fatal Affront", before all the room's paraphernalia disintegrates into the more solemn and murky affair, "Druid Spectre". Here appears a drum more akin to the undead pounding at a cardboard door, somehow thudding along from beyond the grave with an elongated guitar. Side B gets swallowed by "A Hemisphere in Your Hair", which is time enough for a perm or other long scalp treatment. On this track, time is stretched and lulled until finally being rendered meaningless, and the listening brain is melted in slow undulations of sinewaves, primitive swirls of effects, bowed strings, prayer bowls, Melodica, and otherworldly drones. Small shivers of cricket-like feedback rise and fall with the slow, labored breathing of the beast, as if the inhaled pink goo from The Abyss were replaced with Graffix bong scrapings. The rattles that arise nearer the center of the spindle give the proceedings the woozy feel of an ancient ceremony coming to an end. Turns out we're only halfway there, though, and from this point forth, the travail gets veritably muddy, the group dynamic verging on unconsciousness. Discombobulation and a heavy, pervasive dread of being very lost permeates this record. "The Forest Outlaws" spins the tape, mid-séance, into a paralyzing bout of self-inflicted ether damage. A blustery white-noise wind blows through the bundled layers of guitar and organ, freezing up the gears on the Leopards' zamboni right at the inner-circle of the inferno, where it's always most frigid and frightening. The last side is given over to "The Secret Correspondence 1 & 2", plopping us into the vertiginous tides of the Dead Sea, where the silty, unseen bottom is stirred up something fierce. Cymbals are struck but quickly sink below the briny waters. Tremors of ghostly orchestras are constantly conjured by the guitars, a mass grave of vindicative strings that howl and die only to be resurrected for the finale. The instruments and processed moans of the group commune with a far more surly and slurred spiritual world than previously glimpsed, heavily sedated and hovering with a menacing glint just at the threshold of sanity. As it all slips away at record's end, I'm left questioning the mental stability and half-life of this trip. What I believed to be firmly in my grasp slithered away, a disquieting residue left behind on my hands and in my eyes and ears. Overwhelming in its morose synesthesia and downright bleary at times, Halve Maen is like those little yellow pills I popped so long ago: Ingestion will definitely fuck you up."

Sharron Kraus

The Fox's Wedding

Folk/Country

Matthew Murphy

Since the release of her 2002 debut album Beautiful Twisted, British singer and musician Sharron Kraus has firmly established herself as a genuine heiress to the UK folk ancestry of Shirley Collins, Lal Waterson, or Maddy Prior. As a solo artist and in collaboration with like-minded peers Fursaxa, Christian Kiefer, or Espers' Meg Baird and Helena Espvall, Kraus has displayed her comprehensive grasp of English and Appalachian folk traditions, performing with a sparkling clear voice that can sound as ancient and elemental as rain, stone, or soil. Last year, in addition to her myriad other projects, Kraus contributed a track to the massive UK folk compilation John Barleycorn Reborn, and her current work might be best described by what that collection referred to as "Dark Britannica." On her latest solo album The Fox's Wedding, and with the first album from Rusalnaia, her collaborative duo with Ex-Reverie's Gillian Chadwick, Kraus creates folk music that unabashedly evokes the ancient rites, traditions, and mysteries of pre-Christian England. Her music draws heavily upon the influence of such early music pioneers as David Munrow and his Early Music Consort of London, and so will likely put a portion of its audience immediately in mind of hobbits or BBC costume dramas. Throughout these two albums, however, Kraus and her cohorts are also able to keep themselves fixed in the present, leavening their folk traditions with a healthy working knowledge of past and current underground culture. With its vivid songcraft and rich instrumental textures, The Fox's Wedding is at once Kraus' most ambitious album to date and her most accessible. Tied intrinsically to the natural world and the rhythm of the seasons, the album represents a song cycle of sorts, following a course of doomed romance (naturally), loss and renewal through a full calendar year. Though all of the songs here are originals, they have the heft and feel of traditional material, particularly as Kraus fills her lyrics with allusions to English pagan folklore on "Robin Is Dead", "Green Man", and "Harvest Moon". A skilled multi-instrumentalist, Kraus is also accompanied on The Fox's Wedding by an inventive and varied array of strings, woodwinds, and assorted medieval instruments. This allows her to cover an impressive amount of ground, ranging from the simple Appalachian banjo strum of "Would I" to the elegant chamber music of "In the Middle of the Summer" with a deceptive ease. Yet any concern that these songs might just be mannered set pieces should be dispelled in one swoop on the opening "Brigid", which finds Kraus rising up from her genteel surroundings with an unearthly series of shrieks and whoops. It's not Diamanda Galas, exactly, but it is not as far off as one might initially expect. As a vocalist, Kraus is not as idiosyncratic as contemporaries Joanna Newsom or Josephine Foster, but her distinctive vocals are immediately recognizable. And as she proved on 2006's Leaves From Off the Tree, her album with Espers' Meg Baird and Helena Espvall, she comes naturally to close harmony singing, a trait that again serves her well with Gillian Chadwick in Rusalnaia. Produced by Espers' Greg Weeks, Rusalnaia is more electric and overtly indebted to standard psych-folk than Kraus' solo work, yet it finds Kraus and Chadwick forming a promising if rather tentative new partnership. Named after a form of mischievous water nymph, Rusalnaia's songs of pagan frolic do include the occasional eye-rolling flight of lyrical fantasy. (The self-titled track "Rusalnaia" in particular likely provides more details of fauns, saplings and wreath-making than most listeners will find useful.) But throughout the album Kraus and Chadwick can sound as though they have been raised since girlhood in the same enchanted meadow, and it can be a treat to hear them share and exchange verses on "The Sailor and the Siren" or the effervescent "Dandelion Wine". Weeks, in his typical fashion, finds the opportunity to interject a few discrete lines of acid guitar and proggy keyboards. The whole ceremony closes with "Wild Summer", a whirling dance which echoes the ecstatic pagan spirit of the traditional "Sumer is Icumen In" performed at the climax of The Wicker Man, as Kraus and company once again pay a affectionate homage to their multiple generations of folk ancestors.

Artist: Sharron Kraus, Album: The Fox's Wedding, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Since the release of her 2002 debut album Beautiful Twisted, British singer and musician Sharron Kraus has firmly established herself as a genuine heiress to the UK folk ancestry of Shirley Collins, Lal Waterson, or Maddy Prior. As a solo artist and in collaboration with like-minded peers Fursaxa, Christian Kiefer, or Espers' Meg Baird and Helena Espvall, Kraus has displayed her comprehensive grasp of English and Appalachian folk traditions, performing with a sparkling clear voice that can sound as ancient and elemental as rain, stone, or soil. Last year, in addition to her myriad other projects, Kraus contributed a track to the massive UK folk compilation John Barleycorn Reborn, and her current work might be best described by what that collection referred to as "Dark Britannica." On her latest solo album The Fox's Wedding, and with the first album from Rusalnaia, her collaborative duo with Ex-Reverie's Gillian Chadwick, Kraus creates folk music that unabashedly evokes the ancient rites, traditions, and mysteries of pre-Christian England. Her music draws heavily upon the influence of such early music pioneers as David Munrow and his Early Music Consort of London, and so will likely put a portion of its audience immediately in mind of hobbits or BBC costume dramas. Throughout these two albums, however, Kraus and her cohorts are also able to keep themselves fixed in the present, leavening their folk traditions with a healthy working knowledge of past and current underground culture. With its vivid songcraft and rich instrumental textures, The Fox's Wedding is at once Kraus' most ambitious album to date and her most accessible. Tied intrinsically to the natural world and the rhythm of the seasons, the album represents a song cycle of sorts, following a course of doomed romance (naturally), loss and renewal through a full calendar year. Though all of the songs here are originals, they have the heft and feel of traditional material, particularly as Kraus fills her lyrics with allusions to English pagan folklore on "Robin Is Dead", "Green Man", and "Harvest Moon". A skilled multi-instrumentalist, Kraus is also accompanied on The Fox's Wedding by an inventive and varied array of strings, woodwinds, and assorted medieval instruments. This allows her to cover an impressive amount of ground, ranging from the simple Appalachian banjo strum of "Would I" to the elegant chamber music of "In the Middle of the Summer" with a deceptive ease. Yet any concern that these songs might just be mannered set pieces should be dispelled in one swoop on the opening "Brigid", which finds Kraus rising up from her genteel surroundings with an unearthly series of shrieks and whoops. It's not Diamanda Galas, exactly, but it is not as far off as one might initially expect. As a vocalist, Kraus is not as idiosyncratic as contemporaries Joanna Newsom or Josephine Foster, but her distinctive vocals are immediately recognizable. And as she proved on 2006's Leaves From Off the Tree, her album with Espers' Meg Baird and Helena Espvall, she comes naturally to close harmony singing, a trait that again serves her well with Gillian Chadwick in Rusalnaia. Produced by Espers' Greg Weeks, Rusalnaia is more electric and overtly indebted to standard psych-folk than Kraus' solo work, yet it finds Kraus and Chadwick forming a promising if rather tentative new partnership. Named after a form of mischievous water nymph, Rusalnaia's songs of pagan frolic do include the occasional eye-rolling flight of lyrical fantasy. (The self-titled track "Rusalnaia" in particular likely provides more details of fauns, saplings and wreath-making than most listeners will find useful.) But throughout the album Kraus and Chadwick can sound as though they have been raised since girlhood in the same enchanted meadow, and it can be a treat to hear them share and exchange verses on "The Sailor and the Siren" or the effervescent "Dandelion Wine". Weeks, in his typical fashion, finds the opportunity to interject a few discrete lines of acid guitar and proggy keyboards. The whole ceremony closes with "Wild Summer", a whirling dance which echoes the ecstatic pagan spirit of the traditional "Sumer is Icumen In" performed at the climax of The Wicker Man, as Kraus and company once again pay a affectionate homage to their multiple generations of folk ancestors."

Bill Orcutt

How the Thing Sings

Experimental

Marc Masters

Many influences behind Bill Orcutt's acoustic guitar music are easy to guess-- the raw blues of Lightnin' Hopkins and Fred McDowell, the abstract improvisations of Derek Bailey and Cecil Taylor, Orcutt's own attacking bent in 1990s noise outfit Harry Pussy. But there's at least one that nobody could've deduced: "tic videos." As Orcutt told The Wire, he's fascinated by clips "made by people... who have these involuntary physical and verbal tics, and they actually document their symptoms and put the videos up on YouTube." It's an odd inspiration, but one that says a lot about his playing style, which Orcutt himself likens to hiccuping. His wiry plucks and messy note clusters come in exhilarating fits and starts, so fast and impetuous that his guitar strings seem hard-wired to his firing neurons. His obsessive repetition is less about creating studied mantras than capturing the primal power of involuntary impulse. That goal is reflected in the title of his second acoustic album, How the Thing Sings. It implies that Orcutt would rather document his muse than control it, letting the flow of his spilling ideas be the thing that sings. This approach gives his music a distinct immediacy, something like a waterfall of consciousness rather than a stream. And its rapid, irregular heartbeat creates an urgency that commands attention. You may not love all the moves Orcutt makes, but together they quicken your pulse and pressurize the atmosphere, much as a good horror film makes even calm moments seem one second away from shock. Such tension allows Orcutt to venture into all kinds of territory without hitting lulls. Often he'll veer from plaintive strums to lone plucks, then into torrents so hyperactive they sound overdubbed, even though How the Thing Sings was recorded in single takes with a single room mic. This forceful jamming together of moods results in overlapping narrative arcs. In "The Visible Bosom", sandy chords give way to halting minimalism, only to smash into lightning bolts of string strangling accompanied by Orcutt's possessed moans. That sound collage is stretched to epic proportions on closer "A Line from Ol' Man River", which fuses together so many hectic ups and downs that calling it a rollercoaster would be an understatement. The same is true of How the Thing Sings as a whole. It's tempting to focus solely on the adrenaline rush of Orcutt's playing, and let it all fly by like a stoner zoning out to Jackson Pollock's splattery paintings or Stan Brakhage's color-filled abstract films. That's a fine way to experience Orcutt's music, but there also seems to be a lot of intense thought going on behind his impulsive acoustic clatter. Maybe that's why his solo acoustic work has so far had a lot more staying power than the fleeting pleasures of a single trip.

Artist: Bill Orcutt, Album: How the Thing Sings, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Many influences behind Bill Orcutt's acoustic guitar music are easy to guess-- the raw blues of Lightnin' Hopkins and Fred McDowell, the abstract improvisations of Derek Bailey and Cecil Taylor, Orcutt's own attacking bent in 1990s noise outfit Harry Pussy. But there's at least one that nobody could've deduced: "tic videos." As Orcutt told The Wire, he's fascinated by clips "made by people... who have these involuntary physical and verbal tics, and they actually document their symptoms and put the videos up on YouTube." It's an odd inspiration, but one that says a lot about his playing style, which Orcutt himself likens to hiccuping. His wiry plucks and messy note clusters come in exhilarating fits and starts, so fast and impetuous that his guitar strings seem hard-wired to his firing neurons. His obsessive repetition is less about creating studied mantras than capturing the primal power of involuntary impulse. That goal is reflected in the title of his second acoustic album, How the Thing Sings. It implies that Orcutt would rather document his muse than control it, letting the flow of his spilling ideas be the thing that sings. This approach gives his music a distinct immediacy, something like a waterfall of consciousness rather than a stream. And its rapid, irregular heartbeat creates an urgency that commands attention. You may not love all the moves Orcutt makes, but together they quicken your pulse and pressurize the atmosphere, much as a good horror film makes even calm moments seem one second away from shock. Such tension allows Orcutt to venture into all kinds of territory without hitting lulls. Often he'll veer from plaintive strums to lone plucks, then into torrents so hyperactive they sound overdubbed, even though How the Thing Sings was recorded in single takes with a single room mic. This forceful jamming together of moods results in overlapping narrative arcs. In "The Visible Bosom", sandy chords give way to halting minimalism, only to smash into lightning bolts of string strangling accompanied by Orcutt's possessed moans. That sound collage is stretched to epic proportions on closer "A Line from Ol' Man River", which fuses together so many hectic ups and downs that calling it a rollercoaster would be an understatement. The same is true of How the Thing Sings as a whole. It's tempting to focus solely on the adrenaline rush of Orcutt's playing, and let it all fly by like a stoner zoning out to Jackson Pollock's splattery paintings or Stan Brakhage's color-filled abstract films. That's a fine way to experience Orcutt's music, but there also seems to be a lot of intense thought going on behind his impulsive acoustic clatter. Maybe that's why his solo acoustic work has so far had a lot more staying power than the fleeting pleasures of a single trip."

Deadbeat

Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Electronic

Mark Richardson

Montreal's Scott Monteith last checked in solo as Deadbeat with 2002's Wildlife Documentaries. It wasn't a bad album but the overt Pole worship was hard to overlook, especially considering that Stefan Betke himself had by then decided that ghostly digi-dub was tired and decided to move on. Yes, Monteith made some unusual decisions, such as pinching the bass to focus on busier, more detailed midrange, but Wildlife Documentaries would never have happened without the groundbreaking (and still great) Pole 1. Since then, Monteith has teamed with Stephen Beaupré to record micro-sampling minimal house (last year's It's a Crackhaus Thing), and now returns with Something Borrowed, Something Blue. On first listen, it's clear that Something Borrowed, Something Blue was shot with the same film stock as Wildlife Documentaries. Dub again provides the structure and there's plenty of pop. But can this seemingly limited set of variables be combined into a successful record one more time? Well, yes, miraculously. Something Borrowed, Something Blue is a major improvement on Wildlife Documentaries, and it manages to create an intriguing and unfamiliar world from commonplace building blocks. The album was inspired by Monteith's recent marriage (hence the title), and damn if it isn't more direct and emotionally engaging than anything he's done. The short track "A Brief Explanation" bleeds seamlessly into "Head Over Heels" to open the album, and the two function together as an 8\xBD-minute statement of purpose. I'm reminded of the remix EP that Pole did for the Leaf label with Four Tet, because "Head Over Heels" so brilliantly combines a simple, delicate piano flourishes with clusters of throbbing crackle and the suggestion of reggae underneath. I believe sampled crickets make up at least part of the main rhythm element in "Head Over Heels", and this churning, high-end pattern becomes a curiously essential feature of the album. It serves as a bridge from one track to next, dropping out occasionally to focus the energy on the bass, and then returning to remind us of what album we're listening to. The percussion echoing away from the center of "White Out" might be disappearing into primeval jungle, and "Requiem" answers with commanding bass that stretches far beneath anything on this album's intentionally thin precursor. The aptly named "Joyful Noise (Part 1)" guides the quaking bottom into more melodic territory, as it provides a loping, sun-ripened tune to complement the endless swarm of double-time shakers. "Joyful Noise (Part 2)" finds Deadbeat drifting into noisier territory, as the track swells into a chorus of digital insects and leaves development behind. On the whole, this record is an interesting inversion. Where quintessential glitch describes a world existing on an abstract plane of pure energy, Deadbeat's music manages to be playful, fleshy and surprisingly fresh.

Artist: Deadbeat, Album: Something Borrowed, Something Blue, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Montreal's Scott Monteith last checked in solo as Deadbeat with 2002's Wildlife Documentaries. It wasn't a bad album but the overt Pole worship was hard to overlook, especially considering that Stefan Betke himself had by then decided that ghostly digi-dub was tired and decided to move on. Yes, Monteith made some unusual decisions, such as pinching the bass to focus on busier, more detailed midrange, but Wildlife Documentaries would never have happened without the groundbreaking (and still great) Pole 1. Since then, Monteith has teamed with Stephen Beaupré to record micro-sampling minimal house (last year's It's a Crackhaus Thing), and now returns with Something Borrowed, Something Blue. On first listen, it's clear that Something Borrowed, Something Blue was shot with the same film stock as Wildlife Documentaries. Dub again provides the structure and there's plenty of pop. But can this seemingly limited set of variables be combined into a successful record one more time? Well, yes, miraculously. Something Borrowed, Something Blue is a major improvement on Wildlife Documentaries, and it manages to create an intriguing and unfamiliar world from commonplace building blocks. The album was inspired by Monteith's recent marriage (hence the title), and damn if it isn't more direct and emotionally engaging than anything he's done. The short track "A Brief Explanation" bleeds seamlessly into "Head Over Heels" to open the album, and the two function together as an 8\xBD-minute statement of purpose. I'm reminded of the remix EP that Pole did for the Leaf label with Four Tet, because "Head Over Heels" so brilliantly combines a simple, delicate piano flourishes with clusters of throbbing crackle and the suggestion of reggae underneath. I believe sampled crickets make up at least part of the main rhythm element in "Head Over Heels", and this churning, high-end pattern becomes a curiously essential feature of the album. It serves as a bridge from one track to next, dropping out occasionally to focus the energy on the bass, and then returning to remind us of what album we're listening to. The percussion echoing away from the center of "White Out" might be disappearing into primeval jungle, and "Requiem" answers with commanding bass that stretches far beneath anything on this album's intentionally thin precursor. The aptly named "Joyful Noise (Part 1)" guides the quaking bottom into more melodic territory, as it provides a loping, sun-ripened tune to complement the endless swarm of double-time shakers. "Joyful Noise (Part 2)" finds Deadbeat drifting into noisier territory, as the track swells into a chorus of digital insects and leaves development behind. On the whole, this record is an interesting inversion. Where quintessential glitch describes a world existing on an abstract plane of pure energy, Deadbeat's music manages to be playful, fleshy and surprisingly fresh."

Immaculate Machine

Immaculate Machine's Fables

Rock

Eric Harvey

Spoiler Alert: There is a life lesson to be learned at the end of Immaculate Machine's Fables. "Blinding Light" ends the trio's second album with Kathryn Calder imparting a bit of wisdom for those who feel they might have lost their way: "Sometimes when you're going down, you're going down no matter what. Find the deepest well you can and climb on in and wait it out." Her retreat-and-wait mode of problem solving seems most appropriate for a child-- how many adults have Aesop on their bookshelves, after all-- and it appropriately draws to a gentle close a record that, not unlike a super-hip pre-school teacher, turns pop songs into proverbs. Enthusiasm is not, ironically enough, something that Immaculate Machine approaches lightly. Fables has energy and vitality to spare, but any emotional release is consistently tempered by intimations for better living.  "Jarhand", the record's most effusive track, opens the LP with a ramp toward a pub-chant coda (sung by Franz Ferdinand's Alex Kapranos and his new discovery the Cribs, who were recording at the same studio) that echoes Calder's occasional dalliances with the New Pornographers. Like so many A.C. Newman songs, "Jarhand" also packs cryptically-worded, foreboding lyrics ("always want what you don't understand," then "your time is coming up") into a buoyant, shape-shifting melody. Second track "Dear Confessor" continues the group's fiercely advisory power-pop spirit, warning those searching for treasure to trust their instincts, keeping in mind that "maps won't show us where we're going." "C'mon Sea Legs" effectively reverses Calder's suggestions from "Light", urging the most delicate form of action: "come on now, put a sweater on and go outside for a while." The song opens with guitarist Brooke Gallupe alone on vocals, exposing his strained croon, which he augments with bits of dramatic affect substituting for range. Calder joins Gallupe for the second half, and the song expands into a construction-paper wave of gentle encouragement. Calder's voice is as spindly and emphatic as Gallupe's is deliberate and smug, yet both come across with a youthful fervor that outpaces either's ability. The duo's harmonies thus become one of Fables' most memorable components, coming to full fruition on the foreboding "Old Flame", which more or less sounds like Archie and Veronica trying on the icy passion of John Doe and Exene Cervenka. It's a fine pallette from which to work, leading the song to its well-earned fiery conclusion. The band wears didacticism well, but the album's catechizing can feel a become a bit cumbersome and murky at times. This makes the Machine's enlisting of arranger-for-hire Owen Pallett seem like a perfect idea, and, as advertised, he leaves his clearly recognizable mark on two of Fables's best songs. Pallett's strings creep in for the middle-eight of "Roman Statues" like the French horn in the Beatles' "For No One", and smear the sinuous "Small Talk" throughout with an airy, august drama. Fables seems designed to be heard as an anthology of songs-- one that loosely uses the ideals, if not necessarily the style, of its literary predecessor-- and as such, doesn't present a uniform message, but a collection of disparate ones. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Fables is least effective when its lessons are aimed inward instead of toward whomever might be within earshot. There's nothing particularly wrong with a song like "Nothing Ever Happens", which sees the band go full-on into pop-punk ennui, but it feels out of place surrounded by its more lyrically adventurous counterparts. Gallupe's voice temporarily channels Will Sheff on "Pocket", and his strident amorousness ("I'm out looking for sex but all I get is love") does nothing as a penultimate song but starkly contrast with Calder's skittish closer. When Fables succeeds, and it does more often than not, its songs tackle the tenuous stage of young life when quests for knowledge are pushed aside by harsh realities, offering well-intentioned advice to navigate these moments. It's a pious sentiment indeed, perhaps best summed up with a lyric from "Small Talk": "The big ideas somehow snuck in when we weren't looking, and scared away the light-hearted laughter of our innocence."

Artist: Immaculate Machine, Album: Immaculate Machine's Fables, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Spoiler Alert: There is a life lesson to be learned at the end of Immaculate Machine's Fables. "Blinding Light" ends the trio's second album with Kathryn Calder imparting a bit of wisdom for those who feel they might have lost their way: "Sometimes when you're going down, you're going down no matter what. Find the deepest well you can and climb on in and wait it out." Her retreat-and-wait mode of problem solving seems most appropriate for a child-- how many adults have Aesop on their bookshelves, after all-- and it appropriately draws to a gentle close a record that, not unlike a super-hip pre-school teacher, turns pop songs into proverbs. Enthusiasm is not, ironically enough, something that Immaculate Machine approaches lightly. Fables has energy and vitality to spare, but any emotional release is consistently tempered by intimations for better living.  "Jarhand", the record's most effusive track, opens the LP with a ramp toward a pub-chant coda (sung by Franz Ferdinand's Alex Kapranos and his new discovery the Cribs, who were recording at the same studio) that echoes Calder's occasional dalliances with the New Pornographers. Like so many A.C. Newman songs, "Jarhand" also packs cryptically-worded, foreboding lyrics ("always want what you don't understand," then "your time is coming up") into a buoyant, shape-shifting melody. Second track "Dear Confessor" continues the group's fiercely advisory power-pop spirit, warning those searching for treasure to trust their instincts, keeping in mind that "maps won't show us where we're going." "C'mon Sea Legs" effectively reverses Calder's suggestions from "Light", urging the most delicate form of action: "come on now, put a sweater on and go outside for a while." The song opens with guitarist Brooke Gallupe alone on vocals, exposing his strained croon, which he augments with bits of dramatic affect substituting for range. Calder joins Gallupe for the second half, and the song expands into a construction-paper wave of gentle encouragement. Calder's voice is as spindly and emphatic as Gallupe's is deliberate and smug, yet both come across with a youthful fervor that outpaces either's ability. The duo's harmonies thus become one of Fables' most memorable components, coming to full fruition on the foreboding "Old Flame", which more or less sounds like Archie and Veronica trying on the icy passion of John Doe and Exene Cervenka. It's a fine pallette from which to work, leading the song to its well-earned fiery conclusion. The band wears didacticism well, but the album's catechizing can feel a become a bit cumbersome and murky at times. This makes the Machine's enlisting of arranger-for-hire Owen Pallett seem like a perfect idea, and, as advertised, he leaves his clearly recognizable mark on two of Fables's best songs. Pallett's strings creep in for the middle-eight of "Roman Statues" like the French horn in the Beatles' "For No One", and smear the sinuous "Small Talk" throughout with an airy, august drama. Fables seems designed to be heard as an anthology of songs-- one that loosely uses the ideals, if not necessarily the style, of its literary predecessor-- and as such, doesn't present a uniform message, but a collection of disparate ones. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Fables is least effective when its lessons are aimed inward instead of toward whomever might be within earshot. There's nothing particularly wrong with a song like "Nothing Ever Happens", which sees the band go full-on into pop-punk ennui, but it feels out of place surrounded by its more lyrically adventurous counterparts. Gallupe's voice temporarily channels Will Sheff on "Pocket", and his strident amorousness ("I'm out looking for sex but all I get is love") does nothing as a penultimate song but starkly contrast with Calder's skittish closer. When Fables succeeds, and it does more often than not, its songs tackle the tenuous stage of young life when quests for knowledge are pushed aside by harsh realities, offering well-intentioned advice to navigate these moments. It's a pious sentiment indeed, perhaps best summed up with a lyric from "Small Talk": "The big ideas somehow snuck in when we weren't looking, and scared away the light-hearted laughter of our innocence.""

The Skiffle Players

Skifflin'

Folk/Country

Jazz Monroe

In September 2013, at the excellently named Mollusk Big Sur Jamboree, folk songwriter Cass McCombs played a one-off show with a ragtag outfit assembled from jam-rockers Circles Around the Sun and faded alt-country group Beachwood Sparks. Dubbed the McCombs Skiffle Players, the band playfully alloyed backwoods folk, lap-steel-infused country, and elaborate West Coast jams. The songs sprawled, the band clicked, and more shows followed, at some length. A 12-track set bootlegged last year clocked in at 100 minutes, and their debut LP, though half as long, captures the liberal, halfway-stoned spirit that’s demanded of musicians past thirty living in California. Skifflin', an enjoyably low-stakes release, feels less like McCombs’ next frontier in tackling the Great American Folk Album than a leisurely sojourn. (Given the group's colorful press statement–"Peace to the spirits of the musicians who came before us and taught us the secret esoteric ways of skiffle!"–you sense an easy pace suits the rest of the band just fine.) McCombs has never been a predictable songwriter, but Skifflin’ frees him to explore pockets of early American innovation beyond the scope of his pared-back solo work. There’s a shamanistic dirge ("Skiffle Paperclip When Science Evolves"), a quirky jam interrupted by studio in-jokes ("Skiffle Strut"), two faithful trad-folk covers ("Omie Wise" and "Coo Coo Bird"), and a wild freight-train skiffle called "Railroadin' Some," narrated by an unhinged conductor who hollers myriad place names yet can't seem to settle on a destination. Perhaps thanks to his peripatetic disposition, McCombs has a knack for silently invoking a character’s withheld details; he can be laconic, teasing, and morbid, sometimes simultaneously. Dreamy ballad "Always," the first immediately McCombsian song here, complicates honey-sweet lyrics with an undertone of ambiguous resignation. "All the way to your room/ Rising like a lost balloon ... All the way until the end/ You are my lover and my friend," he murmurs, before closing on a couplet that inexplicably haunts: "No one could ever say/ We didn’t take it all the way." "When the Title Was Wrote" is a perkier take on the McCombs staple, but it’s just as crafty. "Buddha is crucified/ Another misquote," he sings, a loaded riddle that is conspicuous on a record concerned with the interpretation and ownership of American tradition. McCombs describes songwriting as a process of "uncovering" ancient song forms: Folk melodies and themes, he says, are couched in our cultural fabric, waiting to be found. You see something of that worldview in the detached way he observes his characters, as if wary of imposing his truth on theirs—a wilful outsider, even in worlds of his own creation. It makes sense, then, that on Skifflin’’s pair of folk standards—"Coo Coo Bird" (aka "The Cuckoo") and the murder ballad "Omie Wise"—he is in his element, inhabiting stories that have gone full circle, unearthed long ago from the cultural imagination and since returned to the realm of mythology. Skifflin’ is full of seemingly aimless excursions, but McCombs, far from needing direction, is just finding something larger than himself to get lost in.

Artist: The Skiffle Players, Album: Skifflin', Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "In September 2013, at the excellently named Mollusk Big Sur Jamboree, folk songwriter Cass McCombs played a one-off show with a ragtag outfit assembled from jam-rockers Circles Around the Sun and faded alt-country group Beachwood Sparks. Dubbed the McCombs Skiffle Players, the band playfully alloyed backwoods folk, lap-steel-infused country, and elaborate West Coast jams. The songs sprawled, the band clicked, and more shows followed, at some length. A 12-track set bootlegged last year clocked in at 100 minutes, and their debut LP, though half as long, captures the liberal, halfway-stoned spirit that’s demanded of musicians past thirty living in California. Skifflin', an enjoyably low-stakes release, feels less like McCombs’ next frontier in tackling the Great American Folk Album than a leisurely sojourn. (Given the group's colorful press statement–"Peace to the spirits of the musicians who came before us and taught us the secret esoteric ways of skiffle!"–you sense an easy pace suits the rest of the band just fine.) McCombs has never been a predictable songwriter, but Skifflin’ frees him to explore pockets of early American innovation beyond the scope of his pared-back solo work. There’s a shamanistic dirge ("Skiffle Paperclip When Science Evolves"), a quirky jam interrupted by studio in-jokes ("Skiffle Strut"), two faithful trad-folk covers ("Omie Wise" and "Coo Coo Bird"), and a wild freight-train skiffle called "Railroadin' Some," narrated by an unhinged conductor who hollers myriad place names yet can't seem to settle on a destination. Perhaps thanks to his peripatetic disposition, McCombs has a knack for silently invoking a character’s withheld details; he can be laconic, teasing, and morbid, sometimes simultaneously. Dreamy ballad "Always," the first immediately McCombsian song here, complicates honey-sweet lyrics with an undertone of ambiguous resignation. "All the way to your room/ Rising like a lost balloon ... All the way until the end/ You are my lover and my friend," he murmurs, before closing on a couplet that inexplicably haunts: "No one could ever say/ We didn’t take it all the way." "When the Title Was Wrote" is a perkier take on the McCombs staple, but it’s just as crafty. "Buddha is crucified/ Another misquote," he sings, a loaded riddle that is conspicuous on a record concerned with the interpretation and ownership of American tradition. McCombs describes songwriting as a process of "uncovering" ancient song forms: Folk melodies and themes, he says, are couched in our cultural fabric, waiting to be found. You see something of that worldview in the detached way he observes his characters, as if wary of imposing his truth on theirs—a wilful outsider, even in worlds of his own creation. It makes sense, then, that on Skifflin’’s pair of folk standards—"Coo Coo Bird" (aka "The Cuckoo") and the murder ballad "Omie Wise"—he is in his element, inhabiting stories that have gone full circle, unearthed long ago from the cultural imagination and since returned to the realm of mythology. Skifflin’ is full of seemingly aimless excursions, but McCombs, far from needing direction, is just finding something larger than himself to get lost in."

The Mae Shi

Terrorbird

Electronic,Experimental,Rock

Nick Sylvester

The Mae Shi are another band that's "influenced by all types of music, maaaan!", but let's cut the shit: On their debut LP, Terrorbird, the Los Angeles quartet for the most part straddle that fat, comfy pummel horse between hardcore and no-wave. On one side are the yelps and screams and gymnastic bursts of mathy noise; on the other are the herk-and-jerk guitars, swishy cymbals, and funk-contorted basslines. The Mae Shi occasionally manage a song that welds elements from both genres, but for the most part devote their energy-- of which there is a ton-- to jumping back and forth between the two, often in a matter of seconds. The ultra-fragmented nature of the songs will draw contemporary comparisons to labelmates Deerhoof, XBXRX, Pink & Brown, or Brooklyn's Ex Models. More so than those bands' albums, however, Terrorbird's 33 tracks demand to be taken as a whole. Unfortunately, this turns out to be a double-edged sword. While the fragments themselves are never short on energy, they are short on substance-- Terrorbird simply doesn't equal the sum of its parts. After the quick bursts of drum noise that comprise the album's title track, The Mae Shi pull out all stops for "Power to the Power Bite Two", the album's early highlight. Scratchy screams fight across the stereo panning, drums play catch-up with the guitar line that taunted it in the first place, and a steady bassline does its best to hold things together down low-- until it just can't take it anymore, and must join the guitar for a unison breakdown. Two "Revelations" follow, beautifully smogging the album's mood after such a relatively potent pop. On "Revelation Three", The Mae Shi mistakenly tread some embarrassing 311 terrain, which thankfully disappears into waves of snare triplets and antsy guitar intervals. This seems to be The Mae Shi's modus operandi on Terrorbird: Brief exercises from Noise Rock 101 surround the band's more carefully composed numbers, providing a harsh contrast for the album's otherwise immediately accessible moments. That said, when these straightforward songs aren't up to "Power to the Power" snuff, all the guitar gymnastics comes off as talentless bullshit, drenched in noise to mask an inability to play. It happens on "Jubilee", whose forced recombination of plucked guitar, Casio beats, and vocal harmonies are so unintentionally out-of-tune that it makes Liars' Angus Andrews sound like a barbershop quartet. It happens again on "Takoma the Dolphin Is Awol", which sports a solid narrative lyrically, but musically falls back on some seriously obnoxious Rage Against the Machine white-boy funk trills. Perhaps the biggest offender is the one-two guffaw of "Surf's Up" and "Testify": After the band prove they're "down" with Garage Band's hip-hop loops on the first one, The Mae Shi try their best to emote and come out sounding like The Starting Line unplugged. Thankfully, the band does strike some solid gold on a good deal of Terrorbird. The straightforward discopunk stomp of "Hieronymus Is a Dead Man"; the nervous lawnmower drum rim snapping on "One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi"; the tom-tom breaks and tambourine rattles on the minimalist Stones mock-up "Do This"; and the deranged Sousa-meets-Les Savy Fav breakdown of "Virgin's Diet, The Hand of Wolves" are all seriously great hooks that keep Terrorbird afloat. The album's closing "Repetition" suite, despite its Erase Errata "no-wave lite" attitude, is at the least conceptually interesting: The suite's opening movement experiences four subsequent reincarnations, each brief but very distinct, save their common thread of the band members singing, "We learn by repetition." The Mae Shi end on a somber piano progression, a surprisingly mellow passage for an otherwise irate Terrorbird. While the rest of the album sometimes barely holds together, "Repetition" is well thought-out and still manages to be just as mean as what proceeds it-- the suite seems a good place for The Mae Shi to pick up from on their next album.

Artist: The Mae Shi, Album: Terrorbird, Genre: Electronic,Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "The Mae Shi are another band that's "influenced by all types of music, maaaan!", but let's cut the shit: On their debut LP, Terrorbird, the Los Angeles quartet for the most part straddle that fat, comfy pummel horse between hardcore and no-wave. On one side are the yelps and screams and gymnastic bursts of mathy noise; on the other are the herk-and-jerk guitars, swishy cymbals, and funk-contorted basslines. The Mae Shi occasionally manage a song that welds elements from both genres, but for the most part devote their energy-- of which there is a ton-- to jumping back and forth between the two, often in a matter of seconds. The ultra-fragmented nature of the songs will draw contemporary comparisons to labelmates Deerhoof, XBXRX, Pink & Brown, or Brooklyn's Ex Models. More so than those bands' albums, however, Terrorbird's 33 tracks demand to be taken as a whole. Unfortunately, this turns out to be a double-edged sword. While the fragments themselves are never short on energy, they are short on substance-- Terrorbird simply doesn't equal the sum of its parts. After the quick bursts of drum noise that comprise the album's title track, The Mae Shi pull out all stops for "Power to the Power Bite Two", the album's early highlight. Scratchy screams fight across the stereo panning, drums play catch-up with the guitar line that taunted it in the first place, and a steady bassline does its best to hold things together down low-- until it just can't take it anymore, and must join the guitar for a unison breakdown. Two "Revelations" follow, beautifully smogging the album's mood after such a relatively potent pop. On "Revelation Three", The Mae Shi mistakenly tread some embarrassing 311 terrain, which thankfully disappears into waves of snare triplets and antsy guitar intervals. This seems to be The Mae Shi's modus operandi on Terrorbird: Brief exercises from Noise Rock 101 surround the band's more carefully composed numbers, providing a harsh contrast for the album's otherwise immediately accessible moments. That said, when these straightforward songs aren't up to "Power to the Power" snuff, all the guitar gymnastics comes off as talentless bullshit, drenched in noise to mask an inability to play. It happens on "Jubilee", whose forced recombination of plucked guitar, Casio beats, and vocal harmonies are so unintentionally out-of-tune that it makes Liars' Angus Andrews sound like a barbershop quartet. It happens again on "Takoma the Dolphin Is Awol", which sports a solid narrative lyrically, but musically falls back on some seriously obnoxious Rage Against the Machine white-boy funk trills. Perhaps the biggest offender is the one-two guffaw of "Surf's Up" and "Testify": After the band prove they're "down" with Garage Band's hip-hop loops on the first one, The Mae Shi try their best to emote and come out sounding like The Starting Line unplugged. Thankfully, the band does strike some solid gold on a good deal of Terrorbird. The straightforward discopunk stomp of "Hieronymus Is a Dead Man"; the nervous lawnmower drum rim snapping on "One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi"; the tom-tom breaks and tambourine rattles on the minimalist Stones mock-up "Do This"; and the deranged Sousa-meets-Les Savy Fav breakdown of "Virgin's Diet, The Hand of Wolves" are all seriously great hooks that keep Terrorbird afloat. The album's closing "Repetition" suite, despite its Erase Errata "no-wave lite" attitude, is at the least conceptually interesting: The suite's opening movement experiences four subsequent reincarnations, each brief but very distinct, save their common thread of the band members singing, "We learn by repetition." The Mae Shi end on a somber piano progression, a surprisingly mellow passage for an otherwise irate Terrorbird. While the rest of the album sometimes barely holds together, "Repetition" is well thought-out and still manages to be just as mean as what proceeds it-- the suite seems a good place for The Mae Shi to pick up from on their next album."

The Joy Formidable

Wolf's Law

Rock

Steven Hyden

The Joy Formidable are attempting to follow a career path that's all but impossible for up-and-coming rock bands to traverse these days. They want to play arenas, and fill those arenas with punishingly loud and hooky guitar riffs and righteous, octopus-arm drum fills that roll over enormous crowds like a monster truck assaulting a line-up of hollowed-out Chevy Malibus. The Joy Formidable have already done this as an opening act for other bands-- most notably Muse during last fall's tour in support of the ridiculous The 2nd Law-- but they burn with headliner envy. It's incredible to see the Joy Formidable take that envy, turn it into pure energy, and shoot it out as a pulverizing Death Star ray in a small club. The band's 2011 full-length debut The Big Roar is exciting, slickly packaged entertainment more akin to a big-budget action blockbuster like Skyfall than anything currently in vogue in the insular, down-sized world of indie rock. Roar's breakout song "Whirring" became a genuine hit on rock radio, and it's a whizz-bang distillation of the Joy Formidable's strengths: Singer Ritzy Bryan's whisper-to-a-scream vocal chops, the collision of instrumental force and melodic finesse, the energetic update of the most muscular forms of 90s shoegaze (specifically Mezcal Head­-era Swervedriver and Ride's "Leave Them All Behind"), and an underlying confidence that this music deserves to close out large outdoor festivals around the world. Looked at more cynically, The Big Roar comes off like it was-- in the words of Pitchfork's Stuart Berman-- "scientifically engineered to make the Joy Formidable sound like the Biggest Band in the World." The Big Roar certainly was assembled, not by men in white coats, but by industry people who shepherded the band through years of refining the album's songs. One of *Roar'*s best tracks, "Austere", dates back to 2008; other songs appeared on previously released EPs in different versions before given a final polish. The Joy Formidable's sophomore effort Wolf’s Law arrives without the benefit of multiple rough drafts. And yet Wolf's Law sounds like it's been worked over even more extensively, though not necessarily in a way that makes it more commercial. If anything, Wolf's Law is a weirder, proggier record that explores a wider range of textures and sounds than the relatively monochromatic Roar. The shifting time signatures of the Zeppelinesque "Cholla" and the swaggering "Maw Maw Song"-- which alternates between verses that move stealthily along a rapid metallic pulse and a chorus that stomps about with bombastic insolence-- position the Joy Formidable as the heir to Muse's grandiose arena empire. Not that the Joy Formidable is as insane as Muse, because no contemporary rock band is as insane as Muse. But they are clearly thinking in bolder and broader terms. The songs that hew closest to the first album’s blueprint-- like "Tendons" or the excellent, New Order-like single "This Ladder is Ours"-- are the most successful, though the penultimate track "The Hurdle" shows an improved mastery of rock-song dynamics, building from a mesmerizing strum to an overwhelming, heart-pumping climax. Most Joy Formidable songs start at heart-pumping and turn up the volume from there, but on the delicate "Silent Treatment", Bryan is able to convey that same intensity backed only with an acoustic guitar. It would be an exaggeration to call Wolf's Law the Joy Formidable's "experimental" record, but it does stretch (and occasionally overstretch) the band’s formula a bit. The operatic, Days of Future Passed orchestrations of "The Turnaround" are a little much, as are the electronic squiggles shot like laser blasts through the surly "Bats". Nearly a third of "Maw Maw Song" is an extended, exceedingly noodly guitar solo that approximates the sound of a robot dolphin pleasuring itself with a light saber. No matter the occasional excesses, the Joy Formidable's saving grace is its songwriting: "This Ladder is Ours" is composed of at least two great hooks-- the irresistibly melodic bassline and Bryan’s declarative chorus-- that fly out of the speakers like anonymous henchmen tossed off of a speeding train. The Joy Formidable might not have the most plausible ambitions for a 21st century rock band. But Wolf's Law offers enough thrills to suspend your disbelief.

Artist: The Joy Formidable, Album: Wolf's Law, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "The Joy Formidable are attempting to follow a career path that's all but impossible for up-and-coming rock bands to traverse these days. They want to play arenas, and fill those arenas with punishingly loud and hooky guitar riffs and righteous, octopus-arm drum fills that roll over enormous crowds like a monster truck assaulting a line-up of hollowed-out Chevy Malibus. The Joy Formidable have already done this as an opening act for other bands-- most notably Muse during last fall's tour in support of the ridiculous The 2nd Law-- but they burn with headliner envy. It's incredible to see the Joy Formidable take that envy, turn it into pure energy, and shoot it out as a pulverizing Death Star ray in a small club. The band's 2011 full-length debut The Big Roar is exciting, slickly packaged entertainment more akin to a big-budget action blockbuster like Skyfall than anything currently in vogue in the insular, down-sized world of indie rock. Roar's breakout song "Whirring" became a genuine hit on rock radio, and it's a whizz-bang distillation of the Joy Formidable's strengths: Singer Ritzy Bryan's whisper-to-a-scream vocal chops, the collision of instrumental force and melodic finesse, the energetic update of the most muscular forms of 90s shoegaze (specifically Mezcal Head­-era Swervedriver and Ride's "Leave Them All Behind"), and an underlying confidence that this music deserves to close out large outdoor festivals around the world. Looked at more cynically, The Big Roar comes off like it was-- in the words of Pitchfork's Stuart Berman-- "scientifically engineered to make the Joy Formidable sound like the Biggest Band in the World." The Big Roar certainly was assembled, not by men in white coats, but by industry people who shepherded the band through years of refining the album's songs. One of *Roar'*s best tracks, "Austere", dates back to 2008; other songs appeared on previously released EPs in different versions before given a final polish. The Joy Formidable's sophomore effort Wolf’s Law arrives without the benefit of multiple rough drafts. And yet Wolf's Law sounds like it's been worked over even more extensively, though not necessarily in a way that makes it more commercial. If anything, Wolf's Law is a weirder, proggier record that explores a wider range of textures and sounds than the relatively monochromatic Roar. The shifting time signatures of the Zeppelinesque "Cholla" and the swaggering "Maw Maw Song"-- which alternates between verses that move stealthily along a rapid metallic pulse and a chorus that stomps about with bombastic insolence-- position the Joy Formidable as the heir to Muse's grandiose arena empire. Not that the Joy Formidable is as insane as Muse, because no contemporary rock band is as insane as Muse. But they are clearly thinking in bolder and broader terms. The songs that hew closest to the first album’s blueprint-- like "Tendons" or the excellent, New Order-like single "This Ladder is Ours"-- are the most successful, though the penultimate track "The Hurdle" shows an improved mastery of rock-song dynamics, building from a mesmerizing strum to an overwhelming, heart-pumping climax. Most Joy Formidable songs start at heart-pumping and turn up the volume from there, but on the delicate "Silent Treatment", Bryan is able to convey that same intensity backed only with an acoustic guitar. It would be an exaggeration to call Wolf's Law the Joy Formidable's "experimental" record, but it does stretch (and occasionally overstretch) the band’s formula a bit. The operatic, Days of Future Passed orchestrations of "The Turnaround" are a little much, as are the electronic squiggles shot like laser blasts through the surly "Bats". Nearly a third of "Maw Maw Song" is an extended, exceedingly noodly guitar solo that approximates the sound of a robot dolphin pleasuring itself with a light saber. No matter the occasional excesses, the Joy Formidable's saving grace is its songwriting: "This Ladder is Ours" is composed of at least two great hooks-- the irresistibly melodic bassline and Bryan’s declarative chorus-- that fly out of the speakers like anonymous henchmen tossed off of a speeding train. The Joy Formidable might not have the most plausible ambitions for a 21st century rock band. But Wolf's Law offers enough thrills to suspend your disbelief."

Twin Peaks

Down in Heaven

Rock

Stuart Berman

Twin Peaks don’t seem like the sort of guys who would fork out $1,599 for tickets to the Desert Trip festival. But, given the chance, they’d surely hop the fence. Make all the “Oldchella” cracks you want—there are still a whole lot of young folk who bow before rock ‘n’ roll’s few remaining golden gods, and in three short years, Twin Peaks have proven themselves quick studies in the ways of tradition. In stark defiance of The Who’s “hope I die before I get old” edict, the relaxed, easy-going groove of Down in Heaven suggests this Chicago garage-rock outfit can’t wait to age. Already, the band seems decades removed from their 2013 debut, Sunken, recorded when they were still teenagers and sounding very much like it—carefree, cocky, and sloppy. The follow-up, 2014’s Wild Onion, tightened up the songcraft, amped up their attack, and spit-shined the production, suggesting aspirations to follow fellow Chi-town miscreants The Orwells down the path of major-label patronage and late-night talk-show appearances. But with Down in Heaven, Twin Peaks have already initiated the rural retreat that most rock bands take only after succumbing to excess, holing themselves up in a friend’s northern Massachusetts studio-house and turning it into a veritable retirement home for early twenty-somethings. The result is a casual, charmingly low-key set of kitchen-table blues, slow-dance serenades, and unplugged power pop. Here, Twin Peaks aren’t so interested in being the life of party as documenting what happens outside of it: the awkward first kisses, the difficult break-up conversations, the sad walks home alone. It’s a really good look for them. By toning down their sound, Twin Peaks are better able to amplify the sweet/sour tension between honey-voiced vocalists Cadien Lake James and Jack Dolan, and their more acid-tongued compatriot, Clay Frankel. But even as down ‘n’ out diatribes like “Cold Lips” wallow in cruel sentiment (to wit: “you ought to get yourself a shiny gold medal for being the coldest bitch I know”), Down in Heaven exudes a welcoming, wood-panelled warmth. But Twin Peaks take certain liberties with the past, weaving alternate histories into a sound that’s familiar yet peculiar. Their version of the Stones folds the raw blues of Beggars Banquet into the smooth, falsettoed soul of “Beast of Burden”; their definition of cool is equal parts Lou Reed and Tom Petty. And with the recruitment of keyboardist, Colin Croom, Twin Peaks acquire their own Benmont Tench, swaddling beautifully bruised ballads like “Holding Roses” in soothing Hammond tones or guiding the bouncing-ball rhythm of Dolan’s delightful “Getting Better” with playful piano rolls. Twin Peaks still flash some swagger between their more sensitive moments, though in these cases, it’s harder to parse their personality from their source material: “Keep It Together” is essentially Big Star’s “Mod Lang” dipped in extra T. Rex glitter, while “Butterfly” loads up on Loaded, copping everything from Lou Reed’s streetwise sneer on “Head Held High” to the “ba ba bas” from “Who Loves the Sun” for good measure. While these songs reinforce a definition of garage-rock steeped in impetuous, middle-fingered attitude, Down in Heaven’s more revelatory slow songs remind us that the genre has always been an outlet for misfit romantics to express feelings they’d be too shy and embarrassed to say in person. In other words, it’s a music for neglected nice guys as much as boisterous bad boys. With Down in Heaven, Twin Peaks come off like a Black Lips that would rather drink apple juice instead of their own piss, and seem evermore willing to embrace the idea that they’re actually better at kiss-off ballads than kicked-out jams.

Artist: Twin Peaks, Album: Down in Heaven, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Twin Peaks don’t seem like the sort of guys who would fork out $1,599 for tickets to the Desert Trip festival. But, given the chance, they’d surely hop the fence. Make all the “Oldchella” cracks you want—there are still a whole lot of young folk who bow before rock ‘n’ roll’s few remaining golden gods, and in three short years, Twin Peaks have proven themselves quick studies in the ways of tradition. In stark defiance of The Who’s “hope I die before I get old” edict, the relaxed, easy-going groove of Down in Heaven suggests this Chicago garage-rock outfit can’t wait to age. Already, the band seems decades removed from their 2013 debut, Sunken, recorded when they were still teenagers and sounding very much like it—carefree, cocky, and sloppy. The follow-up, 2014’s Wild Onion, tightened up the songcraft, amped up their attack, and spit-shined the production, suggesting aspirations to follow fellow Chi-town miscreants The Orwells down the path of major-label patronage and late-night talk-show appearances. But with Down in Heaven, Twin Peaks have already initiated the rural retreat that most rock bands take only after succumbing to excess, holing themselves up in a friend’s northern Massachusetts studio-house and turning it into a veritable retirement home for early twenty-somethings. The result is a casual, charmingly low-key set of kitchen-table blues, slow-dance serenades, and unplugged power pop. Here, Twin Peaks aren’t so interested in being the life of party as documenting what happens outside of it: the awkward first kisses, the difficult break-up conversations, the sad walks home alone. It’s a really good look for them. By toning down their sound, Twin Peaks are better able to amplify the sweet/sour tension between honey-voiced vocalists Cadien Lake James and Jack Dolan, and their more acid-tongued compatriot, Clay Frankel. But even as down ‘n’ out diatribes like “Cold Lips” wallow in cruel sentiment (to wit: “you ought to get yourself a shiny gold medal for being the coldest bitch I know”), Down in Heaven exudes a welcoming, wood-panelled warmth. But Twin Peaks take certain liberties with the past, weaving alternate histories into a sound that’s familiar yet peculiar. Their version of the Stones folds the raw blues of Beggars Banquet into the smooth, falsettoed soul of “Beast of Burden”; their definition of cool is equal parts Lou Reed and Tom Petty. And with the recruitment of keyboardist, Colin Croom, Twin Peaks acquire their own Benmont Tench, swaddling beautifully bruised ballads like “Holding Roses” in soothing Hammond tones or guiding the bouncing-ball rhythm of Dolan’s delightful “Getting Better” with playful piano rolls. Twin Peaks still flash some swagger between their more sensitive moments, though in these cases, it’s harder to parse their personality from their source material: “Keep It Together” is essentially Big Star’s “Mod Lang” dipped in extra T. Rex glitter, while “Butterfly” loads up on Loaded, copping everything from Lou Reed’s streetwise sneer on “Head Held High” to the “ba ba bas” from “Who Loves the Sun” for good measure. While these songs reinforce a definition of garage-rock steeped in impetuous, middle-fingered attitude, Down in Heaven’s more revelatory slow songs remind us that the genre has always been an outlet for misfit romantics to express feelings they’d be too shy and embarrassed to say in person. In other words, it’s a music for neglected nice guys as much as boisterous bad boys. With Down in Heaven, Twin Peaks come off like a Black Lips that would rather drink apple juice instead of their own piss, and seem evermore willing to embrace the idea that they’re actually better at kiss-off ballads than kicked-out jams."

Nude Beach

77

Jeremy Gordon

1977 is the year of punk’s genesis, but it also endures as a signifier of authenticity brandished by listeners wishing for a return to those halcyon days of leather jackets, sneered upper lips, Sid Vicious on the street, and disco on the outs. Anyone who’s palled around an underground venue as a young adult might recall, with some reluctance, groups of uncouth youths self-described as 77ers looking to cause trouble, or at the very least, reaffirm all that’s dirty and fun about true punx living. (Like binge drinking, or knife crime.) The association is strange for Nude Beach, a three-piece rock band that’s more MC5 than the Misfits who have named their third album 77 and produced a double album—the type of excess that the punks would’ve sneered at. Their nostalgia is more broad than specific. Pitchfork’s Steven Hyden described 2011’s II as hitting those familiar bar band touch points of “mid-period Replacements, early Elvis Costello, all-eras Tom Petty,” and much of that has stayed true the second time around. You could add bands like Big Star, Cheap Trick, and the Buzzcocks, but why belabor the point? Bands like these are an inelastic good—as long as there are young men fueled by soft drugs and ennui, there will be songs that sound warmer with each depleted case of Keystone Light. The singing, which is handled by guitarist Chuck Betz and drummer Ryan Naideau, has two modes, screamer and slacker, and works best in the former. Not that their musing about being stuck in neutral doesn't evoke a certain wistful je ne sais quoi, but this “whatever’s good with me” attitude can get a little enervating. You’d rather hear someone explode. Explode they do like “Yesterday” and “For a While” and “I Can’t Keep the Tears from Falling”, Betz’s guitar blaring brightly like an immaculately choreographed light display. “I Found You” is a particular standout—it’s the highway song War on Drugs would’ve written if their foot was mashed to the pedal. It sounds white hot, and obviously derivative, but it’s a good time. That’s where the band is most engaging, because their songwriting topics are blissfully generic; not that we all can’t empathize with the passing of time (“Time”) or the quest for love (“I Found You”), but the lyrics are rendered with such unspecific detail that they’re nearly anonymous. (Two exceptions: “The Witness”, which attempts to be conceptual, and the winsome “Geoffrey’s Tune”, a love song that appears to be sung toward another man, but could just as well be about a cat.) I mean: “It’s So Hard”, the eleventh track, is followed three songs later with “It’s So Hard to Love You”. Is there some thematic connective tissue? Well, sure, but Brecht it isn’t. This would be less noticeable but for the fact that 77 is long; 18 tracks and 68 minutes, and you’d think that if a band insisted on staying around for so long they’d have more to say, or at least display more stylistic variation. Perhaps this is unfair; as they sing on “See My Way”, “It's okay/ You don’t have to see my way.” (That’s an endearing feature here: Song titles that get right to the point.) And maybe it’s not always bad to want to have a good time without keeping your eye on the clock. Why begrudge their vibe? Their name, Nude Beach, refers to a place so casual that what was once erotic or salacious is cleaved of its politics or ideology. A place where it’s perfectly okay to just hang out, where everyone can have fun without too much trouble.

Artist: Nude Beach, Album: 77, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "1977 is the year of punk’s genesis, but it also endures as a signifier of authenticity brandished by listeners wishing for a return to those halcyon days of leather jackets, sneered upper lips, Sid Vicious on the street, and disco on the outs. Anyone who’s palled around an underground venue as a young adult might recall, with some reluctance, groups of uncouth youths self-described as 77ers looking to cause trouble, or at the very least, reaffirm all that’s dirty and fun about true punx living. (Like binge drinking, or knife crime.) The association is strange for Nude Beach, a three-piece rock band that’s more MC5 than the Misfits who have named their third album 77 and produced a double album—the type of excess that the punks would’ve sneered at. Their nostalgia is more broad than specific. Pitchfork’s Steven Hyden described 2011’s II as hitting those familiar bar band touch points of “mid-period Replacements, early Elvis Costello, all-eras Tom Petty,” and much of that has stayed true the second time around. You could add bands like Big Star, Cheap Trick, and the Buzzcocks, but why belabor the point? Bands like these are an inelastic good—as long as there are young men fueled by soft drugs and ennui, there will be songs that sound warmer with each depleted case of Keystone Light. The singing, which is handled by guitarist Chuck Betz and drummer Ryan Naideau, has two modes, screamer and slacker, and works best in the former. Not that their musing about being stuck in neutral doesn't evoke a certain wistful je ne sais quoi, but this “whatever’s good with me” attitude can get a little enervating. You’d rather hear someone explode. Explode they do like “Yesterday” and “For a While” and “I Can’t Keep the Tears from Falling”, Betz’s guitar blaring brightly like an immaculately choreographed light display. “I Found You” is a particular standout—it’s the highway song War on Drugs would’ve written if their foot was mashed to the pedal. It sounds white hot, and obviously derivative, but it’s a good time. That’s where the band is most engaging, because their songwriting topics are blissfully generic; not that we all can’t empathize with the passing of time (“Time”) or the quest for love (“I Found You”), but the lyrics are rendered with such unspecific detail that they’re nearly anonymous. (Two exceptions: “The Witness”, which attempts to be conceptual, and the winsome “Geoffrey’s Tune”, a love song that appears to be sung toward another man, but could just as well be about a cat.) I mean: “It’s So Hard”, the eleventh track, is followed three songs later with “It’s So Hard to Love You”. Is there some thematic connective tissue? Well, sure, but Brecht it isn’t. This would be less noticeable but for the fact that 77 is long; 18 tracks and 68 minutes, and you’d think that if a band insisted on staying around for so long they’d have more to say, or at least display more stylistic variation. Perhaps this is unfair; as they sing on “See My Way”, “It's okay/ You don’t have to see my way.” (That’s an endearing feature here: Song titles that get right to the point.) And maybe it’s not always bad to want to have a good time without keeping your eye on the clock. Why begrudge their vibe? Their name, Nude Beach, refers to a place so casual that what was once erotic or salacious is cleaved of its politics or ideology. A place where it’s perfectly okay to just hang out, where everyone can have fun without too much trouble."

Petite Noir

La Maison Noir

Pop/R&B

Stephen Kearse

As music discovery has been outsourced to search and recommendation engines, artists have become adept at gaming algorithms to their advantage, taking bets on wacky genre tags that shoot them to the top of search results and lend an air of novelty. This arms race has produced “genres” like soul trap, catwave, coastgoth, and spaceghostqueef, among many others. These labels are often a flagrant vehicle for self-promotion or trolling, and noirwave, the genre coined by South African artist Yannick Ilunga for his act Petite Noir, has historically been easy to doubt. “Noirwave is more than just a sound,” he explained in 2015, “it’s a progressive social movement that's rapidly breaking out of the pan-African underground, emerging in the creative output of inspiring minds from across the globe.” Sure. On La Maison Noir, however, something has clicked into place. Sleeker and more militant, the genre emerges as a symbol of spirited personal and political investment. Ilunga’s past work as Petite Noir drew its strength from its gleaming opacity. Like an ocean, his songs, built from elements of post-punk, kwaito, and pop, teemed with life under the surface, and they were just as dazzling on their face. The way songs like “The Fall” and “Chess” smoothly shifted and flowed made genre and style an afterthought. Ilunga was such an acute communicator of mood and pathos that the means of communication felt self-evident; his music came from within him. As a descriptor “noirwave” felt like a protruding tag placed on the collar of an otherwise comfy t-shirt. On La Maison Noir the term functions less as a logo and more as a medium for Ilunga’s ideas about diaspora and identity. On “Blame Fire” Ilunga opens up about his family’s history as Congolese expats and uses their forced migration to foreground his own forward movement. The song is fleet yet loaded; as wisps of guitar and synths pulse around him, Ilunga evokes images of war and violence but also growth and renewal. “So blame fire, blame fire, blame fire, blame fire,” he chants with both pride and gravitas. “We need to realize that our skin is a blessing. Fuck a curse,” he announces during the bridge, his message clear. This swing from the personal to the political, the specific to the allegorical, is a consistent source of whiplash. Ilunga works like a trickster throughout the record, injecting levity into images of violence and channeling desperation during moments of joy. The refrain of “F.F.Y.F. (POW),” a song about self-determination, is cartoonish and catchy. As Ilunga and collaborator Rha! Rha! cheer, “Pow pow pow pow,” it feels like they’re mowing down enemies with a Bugs Bunny flag gun. It’s a tad cheeky but the sentiment is real. As the drums and cheers briefly give way to a dancing marimba and Ilunga declares, “This is noirwave, this is it,” it feels like self-affirmation. “R E S P E C T” is just as double-edged. Demanding recognition, Ilunga spells out “respect” in a pleading, cloying way. As the polyrhythmic percussion pounds beneath his voice like beggar’s cup of coins, the strength of his baritone feels poignantly diminished. It’s as if the louder he shouts, the more invisible he feels. The fact that the song could be about being an underground artist, or black, or a migrant only heightens its potency. In these moments, the collapsing of distance that noirwave is supposed to embody goes beyond fusionism or self-promotion and feels more like something of a worldview. On the standout “Blowing Up the Congo,” guest Saul Williams weaves the record’s ideas together deftly: “Master-slave binary, Cobalt rubber refinery/Colonial mentality, fed into machines/Dissect the engines and devices/Not just the precious stones that make them run.” The Congo evoked here is a nexus of history, dystopia, and potential, overdetermined yet unscripted. Whether or not you’re Congolese or African or black, hearing this litany tethers you to how that future unfurls. Music has a way of conjuring a sense of intimacy between listener and artist, and La Maison Noir weaponizes that rapport without dismissing it. Noirwave may not be a movement but it is a force.

Artist: Petite Noir, Album: La Maison Noir, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "As music discovery has been outsourced to search and recommendation engines, artists have become adept at gaming algorithms to their advantage, taking bets on wacky genre tags that shoot them to the top of search results and lend an air of novelty. This arms race has produced “genres” like soul trap, catwave, coastgoth, and spaceghostqueef, among many others. These labels are often a flagrant vehicle for self-promotion or trolling, and noirwave, the genre coined by South African artist Yannick Ilunga for his act Petite Noir, has historically been easy to doubt. “Noirwave is more than just a sound,” he explained in 2015, “it’s a progressive social movement that's rapidly breaking out of the pan-African underground, emerging in the creative output of inspiring minds from across the globe.” Sure. On La Maison Noir, however, something has clicked into place. Sleeker and more militant, the genre emerges as a symbol of spirited personal and political investment. Ilunga’s past work as Petite Noir drew its strength from its gleaming opacity. Like an ocean, his songs, built from elements of post-punk, kwaito, and pop, teemed with life under the surface, and they were just as dazzling on their face. The way songs like “The Fall” and “Chess” smoothly shifted and flowed made genre and style an afterthought. Ilunga was such an acute communicator of mood and pathos that the means of communication felt self-evident; his music came from within him. As a descriptor “noirwave” felt like a protruding tag placed on the collar of an otherwise comfy t-shirt. On La Maison Noir the term functions less as a logo and more as a medium for Ilunga’s ideas about diaspora and identity. On “Blame Fire” Ilunga opens up about his family’s history as Congolese expats and uses their forced migration to foreground his own forward movement. The song is fleet yet loaded; as wisps of guitar and synths pulse around him, Ilunga evokes images of war and violence but also growth and renewal. “So blame fire, blame fire, blame fire, blame fire,” he chants with both pride and gravitas. “We need to realize that our skin is a blessing. Fuck a curse,” he announces during the bridge, his message clear. This swing from the personal to the political, the specific to the allegorical, is a consistent source of whiplash. Ilunga works like a trickster throughout the record, injecting levity into images of violence and channeling desperation during moments of joy. The refrain of “F.F.Y.F. (POW),” a song about self-determination, is cartoonish and catchy. As Ilunga and collaborator Rha! Rha! cheer, “Pow pow pow pow,” it feels like they’re mowing down enemies with a Bugs Bunny flag gun. It’s a tad cheeky but the sentiment is real. As the drums and cheers briefly give way to a dancing marimba and Ilunga declares, “This is noirwave, this is it,” it feels like self-affirmation. “R E S P E C T” is just as double-edged. Demanding recognition, Ilunga spells out “respect” in a pleading, cloying way. As the polyrhythmic percussion pounds beneath his voice like beggar’s cup of coins, the strength of his baritone feels poignantly diminished. It’s as if the louder he shouts, the more invisible he feels. The fact that the song could be about being an underground artist, or black, or a migrant only heightens its potency. In these moments, the collapsing of distance that noirwave is supposed to embody goes beyond fusionism or self-promotion and feels more like something of a worldview. On the standout “Blowing Up the Congo,” guest Saul Williams weaves the record’s ideas together deftly: “Master-slave binary, Cobalt rubber refinery/Colonial mentality, fed into machines/Dissect the engines and devices/Not just the precious stones that make them run.” The Congo evoked here is a nexus of history, dystopia, and potential, overdetermined yet unscripted. Whether or not you’re Congolese or African or black, hearing this litany tethers you to how that future unfurls. Music has a way of conjuring a sense of intimacy between listener and artist, and La Maison Noir weaponizes that rapport without dismissing it. Noirwave may not be a movement but it is a force."

MIKE

Black Soap

Rap

Jeff Ihaza

The easy gripe with what most people consider “lyrical” rap is that it’s preachy, that it fills space with excessive pontificating. True, words are messy, easy to trip over and to misuse. But the best artists know that the right words can hit you over the head, landing squarely in the quietest corner of your mind. MIKE, a 19-year-old rapper living in Brooklyn, works diligently to find out which words do exactly that. Over the span of several self-released projects, including last year’s excellent May God Bless Your Hustle, the rapper exhibits a knack for packing big ideas in just a handful of phrases. On his latest, the seven-track EP Black Soap, words are a tool of liberation. The album is billed as “a collection of songs for black and brown excellence,” and a recurring theme is the discovery, and ultimate love, of self. Black Soap is itself a product of self-discovery. Last fall, MIKE traveled to his childhood hometown of London to record the record as well as reconnect with his mother who, after challenges with immigration, was separated from MIKE when he was a child. The record opens with a prayer from his mother spoken in their native Yoruba dialect. The language centers MIKE’s existence underneath his mom, the first of many tendrils of this sort of cultural specificity. The album art, made by the Brooklyn-based designers Abraham El-Makawy and Isaac Baird, takes its inspiration from black soap packaging found all over West Africa. The ebullient syncopation of the track “Of Home” is likely familiar to anyone who's ever attended the types of Nigerian celebrations that extend into the wee hours of the morning. “You can tell by my nose I’m a king” he raps on the song, alluding to distinctly African facial features as a source of pride. As a lyricist, MIKE is fleet. He earns comparisons to baritone rappers MF DOOM and Earl Sweatshirt by exhibiting the same penchant for inventive and unexpected rhyme schemes, but MIKE isn’t a mere copycat. It’s more like the lo-fi style of those benchmarks found him—a means to get out what he needs to say. “I know the truth I’m tryna get it out my teeth,” he raps on “Ministry.” Thematically, Black Soap is dead-set on growth. Challenges with depression color the lyrics across all of MIKE’s projects, but rather than languish in gloom, he finds the power within, and much of Black Soap feels like the first ray of light after a bout with darkness. “Remind me that I’m real/Remind me that I’m still here/Remind me that I will,” he raps on “God Save the Queen.” One of MIKE’s greatest strengths as a writer is his level of self-awareness, of both his physical presence as a black man in America, and of his emotional self. “Love is scary but it’s cheap,” he reminds us on “Ministry,” juxtaposing the brutal financial reality of New York with the need for connection. The instrumentation on Black Soap was provided by Standing on the Corner, a crew of creatives in New York that, like MIKE’s sLUms collective, offers a decidedly more ground-level perspective of life in the city. It’s a commitment to authenticity that makes MIKE one of the more exciting young voices in rap today. If the darlings of the streaming era are the glitzy glass skyrises that litter Brooklyn, MIKE and sLUms are the neighborhood bodega still going strong. And while lyricism has slowly become synonymous with holier-than-thou didacticism, Black Soap reminds us of what’s possible when you choose your words carefully.

Artist: MIKE, Album: Black Soap, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "The easy gripe with what most people consider “lyrical” rap is that it’s preachy, that it fills space with excessive pontificating. True, words are messy, easy to trip over and to misuse. But the best artists know that the right words can hit you over the head, landing squarely in the quietest corner of your mind. MIKE, a 19-year-old rapper living in Brooklyn, works diligently to find out which words do exactly that. Over the span of several self-released projects, including last year’s excellent May God Bless Your Hustle, the rapper exhibits a knack for packing big ideas in just a handful of phrases. On his latest, the seven-track EP Black Soap, words are a tool of liberation. The album is billed as “a collection of songs for black and brown excellence,” and a recurring theme is the discovery, and ultimate love, of self. Black Soap is itself a product of self-discovery. Last fall, MIKE traveled to his childhood hometown of London to record the record as well as reconnect with his mother who, after challenges with immigration, was separated from MIKE when he was a child. The record opens with a prayer from his mother spoken in their native Yoruba dialect. The language centers MIKE’s existence underneath his mom, the first of many tendrils of this sort of cultural specificity. The album art, made by the Brooklyn-based designers Abraham El-Makawy and Isaac Baird, takes its inspiration from black soap packaging found all over West Africa. The ebullient syncopation of the track “Of Home” is likely familiar to anyone who's ever attended the types of Nigerian celebrations that extend into the wee hours of the morning. “You can tell by my nose I’m a king” he raps on the song, alluding to distinctly African facial features as a source of pride. As a lyricist, MIKE is fleet. He earns comparisons to baritone rappers MF DOOM and Earl Sweatshirt by exhibiting the same penchant for inventive and unexpected rhyme schemes, but MIKE isn’t a mere copycat. It’s more like the lo-fi style of those benchmarks found him—a means to get out what he needs to say. “I know the truth I’m tryna get it out my teeth,” he raps on “Ministry.” Thematically, Black Soap is dead-set on growth. Challenges with depression color the lyrics across all of MIKE’s projects, but rather than languish in gloom, he finds the power within, and much of Black Soap feels like the first ray of light after a bout with darkness. “Remind me that I’m real/Remind me that I’m still here/Remind me that I will,” he raps on “God Save the Queen.” One of MIKE’s greatest strengths as a writer is his level of self-awareness, of both his physical presence as a black man in America, and of his emotional self. “Love is scary but it’s cheap,” he reminds us on “Ministry,” juxtaposing the brutal financial reality of New York with the need for connection. The instrumentation on Black Soap was provided by Standing on the Corner, a crew of creatives in New York that, like MIKE’s sLUms collective, offers a decidedly more ground-level perspective of life in the city. It’s a commitment to authenticity that makes MIKE one of the more exciting young voices in rap today. If the darlings of the streaming era are the glitzy glass skyrises that litter Brooklyn, MIKE and sLUms are the neighborhood bodega still going strong. And while lyricism has slowly become synonymous with holier-than-thou didacticism, Black Soap reminds us of what’s possible when you choose your words carefully."

Racebannon

In the Grips of the Light

Metal,Rock

Chris Dahlen

When a two-year old flies into a fit of impotent, helpless rage, it can scream its head off. It doesn't even need to say anything or explain itself; it just lets fly. Most adults forget this surefire route to feeling better, but not Mike Anderson. As frontman for the Indiana noise-core band Racebannon, Anderson shrieks and gibbers almost unintelligibly, crumpling the words like fast food wrappers in a muck-clogged gutter. The listener hears it just as sound, but if you look up the lyrics in the liner notes, they're clear and succinct-- for example: "Yr ability to head face first into the dirt has taught you nothing but how to get lost in this open field of market and value. I've got heartburn. I can't pay my goddamn rent." Hey, I can relate to that. Can I scream too? Anderson's vocal geekshow and the band's artsy leanings set Racebannon apart from your average angry hardcore band. They're a rock quartet that can rip through fast, high thrash. But while the songs usually start loud and spastic, most of them run long-- half are over eight minutes-- and the extended writing, the interesting use of sounds, and the effective cover of Captain Beefheart's "Electricity" suggest there's an art band behind the violent facade. Like the vocals, the guitars smear and spray as often as they make statements. The rhythm section plays solid hardcore but it can also play freeform, as with the scattered hi-hats on "I'm Yr Egomaniac." Racebannon also throw in effects, theremin, and on "Egomaniac," some kind of bells or chiming glass sound. Fortunately, Racebannon never loses intensity no matter how long or complicated the music becomes. Even the shorter songs like "Flip n' Fuck" or "Fuck Yr Obvious Words" transition from screaming thrash to effect-stricken outros, but the opening sections are strong enough to keep the rest of the song from wandering. On the other hand, the best songs acquire an awesome magnitude as they ramble on. "Clubber Lang" kicks off with a great guitar riff and digs solidly into position behind Anderson's rant; as it jerks through the noises and gizmos of the ending, Anderson trails off into the distance. The most interesting song on the album, the closer "I'm Yr Egomaniac," builds dramatically with slow drones and the hi-hats and bell sounds mentioned above, while Anderson spits out an entire monologue. Racebannon won't win over everybody. As the label "avant-noise-core" suggests, they tend to push themselves into a niche. Strict hardcore fans might balk at the long songs and instrumental sections, while people who don't dig hardcore at all will have trouble with the lack of melodies, hooks, or approachable beats. The recording is immaculate and surprisingly unabrasive, but it could stand to get messier. (It's also a little shy on the low-end.) You get the impression that the band is heavy, but not very heavy-- angry, but not aggressive. No matter how ferocious and ugly it sounds, the ugliness is happening to somebody else. But on those terms, it's a compelling and original album: there's a lot of appeal to kicking back and listening to these guys spill their troubles and frustrations. You don't even need to catch all the words.

Artist: Racebannon, Album: In the Grips of the Light, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "When a two-year old flies into a fit of impotent, helpless rage, it can scream its head off. It doesn't even need to say anything or explain itself; it just lets fly. Most adults forget this surefire route to feeling better, but not Mike Anderson. As frontman for the Indiana noise-core band Racebannon, Anderson shrieks and gibbers almost unintelligibly, crumpling the words like fast food wrappers in a muck-clogged gutter. The listener hears it just as sound, but if you look up the lyrics in the liner notes, they're clear and succinct-- for example: "Yr ability to head face first into the dirt has taught you nothing but how to get lost in this open field of market and value. I've got heartburn. I can't pay my goddamn rent." Hey, I can relate to that. Can I scream too? Anderson's vocal geekshow and the band's artsy leanings set Racebannon apart from your average angry hardcore band. They're a rock quartet that can rip through fast, high thrash. But while the songs usually start loud and spastic, most of them run long-- half are over eight minutes-- and the extended writing, the interesting use of sounds, and the effective cover of Captain Beefheart's "Electricity" suggest there's an art band behind the violent facade. Like the vocals, the guitars smear and spray as often as they make statements. The rhythm section plays solid hardcore but it can also play freeform, as with the scattered hi-hats on "I'm Yr Egomaniac." Racebannon also throw in effects, theremin, and on "Egomaniac," some kind of bells or chiming glass sound. Fortunately, Racebannon never loses intensity no matter how long or complicated the music becomes. Even the shorter songs like "Flip n' Fuck" or "Fuck Yr Obvious Words" transition from screaming thrash to effect-stricken outros, but the opening sections are strong enough to keep the rest of the song from wandering. On the other hand, the best songs acquire an awesome magnitude as they ramble on. "Clubber Lang" kicks off with a great guitar riff and digs solidly into position behind Anderson's rant; as it jerks through the noises and gizmos of the ending, Anderson trails off into the distance. The most interesting song on the album, the closer "I'm Yr Egomaniac," builds dramatically with slow drones and the hi-hats and bell sounds mentioned above, while Anderson spits out an entire monologue. Racebannon won't win over everybody. As the label "avant-noise-core" suggests, they tend to push themselves into a niche. Strict hardcore fans might balk at the long songs and instrumental sections, while people who don't dig hardcore at all will have trouble with the lack of melodies, hooks, or approachable beats. The recording is immaculate and surprisingly unabrasive, but it could stand to get messier. (It's also a little shy on the low-end.) You get the impression that the band is heavy, but not very heavy-- angry, but not aggressive. No matter how ferocious and ugly it sounds, the ugliness is happening to somebody else. But on those terms, it's a compelling and original album: there's a lot of appeal to kicking back and listening to these guys spill their troubles and frustrations. You don't even need to catch all the words."

The Nice Boys

The Nice Boys

Pop/R&B

Adam Moerder

Considering the Exploding Hearts' tragic end-- not to mention guitarist Terry Six's incredibly fortuitous, Fearless-style survival-- you might expect a dour album of infinite sadness from Six's post-Hearts project. But the Nice Boys have found a better way to eulogize the Hearts' career, by flipping up their leather jacket collars and waxing Guitar Romantic, exploring and expanding upon 1970s power-pop while using the genre as a coping mechanism. If The Nice Boys is generally a sober, straight-laced album, "Avenue 29" sprouts up as a brief drug binge. It's the only track not kickstarted by a compact riff or fist-pumping drum beat, and Six's lethargic, nasally vocals recall Brian Jonestown Massacre or even Olivia Tremor Control at their most conventionally pop. "Cheryl Anne (Carry On)" adds another wrinkle to the readymade Heartbreakers/T. Rex template, injecting a heavy dose of psychedelic glam into a track already rife with trippy chromatic shifts and ethereal harmonies. These moments aside, the Boys stick to their guns on the album's finest cuts. Six's pubescent-like awkwardness-- perhaps the band's most prominent characteristic-- drives many of the songs, adding poignancy to the emotional lows and rendering the highs that much easier to rally around. Whether trash-talking in the least intimidating way possible on "Ain't That Beat" or straining to squeak out those high notes on opening war cry "Teenage Nights", the Nice Boys strike uncomfortable rock poses like a hired prom band, crafting a huge arena-ready sound by casting it on a proportionately small canvas. The stakes seem high, even if the subject matter stays on the trials and tribulations of teenagers at night. Understandably, the power-pop here falls considerably short of At Budokan or even Guitar Romantic levels of geeky bacchanalia. Whereas Hearts anthems like "Modern Kicks" strove to kick ass, the Nice Boys live up to their name, content to lean against the jukebox and smoke their cigarettes. Same leather-studded aura of cool, just minus the proactive streak. While nine times out of 10 anyone in the cafeteria would choose to run with the badass bullies over the conventional dorks, the Nice Boys' nuanced retro-rock charm make it worth leaving the cool table every once in a while.

Artist: The Nice Boys, Album: The Nice Boys, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Considering the Exploding Hearts' tragic end-- not to mention guitarist Terry Six's incredibly fortuitous, Fearless-style survival-- you might expect a dour album of infinite sadness from Six's post-Hearts project. But the Nice Boys have found a better way to eulogize the Hearts' career, by flipping up their leather jacket collars and waxing Guitar Romantic, exploring and expanding upon 1970s power-pop while using the genre as a coping mechanism. If The Nice Boys is generally a sober, straight-laced album, "Avenue 29" sprouts up as a brief drug binge. It's the only track not kickstarted by a compact riff or fist-pumping drum beat, and Six's lethargic, nasally vocals recall Brian Jonestown Massacre or even Olivia Tremor Control at their most conventionally pop. "Cheryl Anne (Carry On)" adds another wrinkle to the readymade Heartbreakers/T. Rex template, injecting a heavy dose of psychedelic glam into a track already rife with trippy chromatic shifts and ethereal harmonies. These moments aside, the Boys stick to their guns on the album's finest cuts. Six's pubescent-like awkwardness-- perhaps the band's most prominent characteristic-- drives many of the songs, adding poignancy to the emotional lows and rendering the highs that much easier to rally around. Whether trash-talking in the least intimidating way possible on "Ain't That Beat" or straining to squeak out those high notes on opening war cry "Teenage Nights", the Nice Boys strike uncomfortable rock poses like a hired prom band, crafting a huge arena-ready sound by casting it on a proportionately small canvas. The stakes seem high, even if the subject matter stays on the trials and tribulations of teenagers at night. Understandably, the power-pop here falls considerably short of At Budokan or even Guitar Romantic levels of geeky bacchanalia. Whereas Hearts anthems like "Modern Kicks" strove to kick ass, the Nice Boys live up to their name, content to lean against the jukebox and smoke their cigarettes. Same leather-studded aura of cool, just minus the proactive streak. While nine times out of 10 anyone in the cafeteria would choose to run with the badass bullies over the conventional dorks, the Nice Boys' nuanced retro-rock charm make it worth leaving the cool table every once in a while."

Large Professor

1st Class

Rap

Sam Chennault

Without question, Large Professor (aka Extra P) has more hip-hop cred than most continents. At an age when most of us were asking ourselves "Stridex or Noczema?", Large Pro was dipping out of gym class to lay down tracks for the legendary Rakim Allah. From there, he went on to work with the likes of Biz Markie, A Tribe Called Quest, Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth, the Beastie Boys, Gang Starr, Main Source, Nas, Big Daddy Kane, Kool G. Rap... and the list goes on and on and on. Unfortunately, at the height of his career, Large Professor signed with Geffen Records, who financed, promoted, and then promptly buried his debut album based on a perceived lack of interest in the excellent lead-off single "I Just Wanna Chill". While there have certainly been greater travesties committed in the name of record company money, failing to release an already-completed album by one of hip-hop's masters surely ranks up there somewhere. Seven years after the Geffen debacle, Extra P is back behind the boards and ready to prove that you don't need the Neptunes, a master's degree in Art Theory, or cases of Courvoisier to make a great hip-hop album. Large Pro still packs his tracks with that '93 flavor, and those of you who were around in '93 know that this isn't a bad thing. The production on 1st Class, his (second) debut album, sticks to the NYC roots hip-hop formula that Extra P helped refine. "'Bout that Time", which was released as a twelve-inch nearly two years ago, exemplifies Large Professor's approach. A simple drum track thumps harder than a Suge Knight pistolwhip with a distorted horn tightly looped to further emphasize the track's aggression and momentum. In Large Pro's world, pop gimmicks are ineffectual and redefinition takes a back seat to perfection. For reasons that will be explained later, the highlights of 1st Class are the tracks that feature guest emcees. Nas, who was introduced to the world on Large Professor's "At the BBQ", guests on the sublime "Stay Chisel". Over a slickly soulful production that sounds straight off the Car Wash soundtrack, Nas switches to conscious mode, rapping, "Take the weight of the world on my shoulders, I hold it/ So I consume most of the pain for my niggas I roll wit'/ 'Cause, see, the streets ain't no Gold's Gym poppy/ And if I feel it going down then my niggas will spot me." Not to be out-conscioused by QB's finest, Q-Tip shows up two songs later on "In the Sun" to drop his best verse in years. Large Pro delivers a simple boom-bap beat with harmonizing gospel vocals turned down real low in the mix to affect a smoothly reflective mood. Surprisingly, Q-Tip finds a fresh and ironic angle to highlight racial hypocrisy and urban decay: "Where's the 40 acres and a mule?/ You'd rather give us Micky D's and a tool/ And in the sun I see the way you pull our heart strings." Unfortunately, Large Pro is a far better producer than he is an emcee. His flow is a bit monotone and stale-- imagine Guru with a little more bass and a little less variance-- and his lyrics are rather insular and rarely reference anything outside of the world of hip-hop, with a noted exception being the sadly nostalgic verse he drops on "In the Sun". His limited mic skills can work when he has a guest emcee to play off, or on upbeat tracks such as "'Bout that Time" and "Born to Ball" when his deep voice acts as yet another percussive element. But he falls flat when the tracks are more delicately nuanced and the focus lies on actual content rather than momentum. While a plethora of guest vocals is generally a liability for an album, Large Pro might want to consider enlisting a few more of his legendary friends for the next LP. After all these years, his production work is still amongst the best in the businesses, and it would be hard to imagine anyone turning down the opportunity to spit over a Large Pro beat.

Artist: Large Professor, Album: 1st Class, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Without question, Large Professor (aka Extra P) has more hip-hop cred than most continents. At an age when most of us were asking ourselves "Stridex or Noczema?", Large Pro was dipping out of gym class to lay down tracks for the legendary Rakim Allah. From there, he went on to work with the likes of Biz Markie, A Tribe Called Quest, Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth, the Beastie Boys, Gang Starr, Main Source, Nas, Big Daddy Kane, Kool G. Rap... and the list goes on and on and on. Unfortunately, at the height of his career, Large Professor signed with Geffen Records, who financed, promoted, and then promptly buried his debut album based on a perceived lack of interest in the excellent lead-off single "I Just Wanna Chill". While there have certainly been greater travesties committed in the name of record company money, failing to release an already-completed album by one of hip-hop's masters surely ranks up there somewhere. Seven years after the Geffen debacle, Extra P is back behind the boards and ready to prove that you don't need the Neptunes, a master's degree in Art Theory, or cases of Courvoisier to make a great hip-hop album. Large Pro still packs his tracks with that '93 flavor, and those of you who were around in '93 know that this isn't a bad thing. The production on 1st Class, his (second) debut album, sticks to the NYC roots hip-hop formula that Extra P helped refine. "'Bout that Time", which was released as a twelve-inch nearly two years ago, exemplifies Large Professor's approach. A simple drum track thumps harder than a Suge Knight pistolwhip with a distorted horn tightly looped to further emphasize the track's aggression and momentum. In Large Pro's world, pop gimmicks are ineffectual and redefinition takes a back seat to perfection. For reasons that will be explained later, the highlights of 1st Class are the tracks that feature guest emcees. Nas, who was introduced to the world on Large Professor's "At the BBQ", guests on the sublime "Stay Chisel". Over a slickly soulful production that sounds straight off the Car Wash soundtrack, Nas switches to conscious mode, rapping, "Take the weight of the world on my shoulders, I hold it/ So I consume most of the pain for my niggas I roll wit'/ 'Cause, see, the streets ain't no Gold's Gym poppy/ And if I feel it going down then my niggas will spot me." Not to be out-conscioused by QB's finest, Q-Tip shows up two songs later on "In the Sun" to drop his best verse in years. Large Pro delivers a simple boom-bap beat with harmonizing gospel vocals turned down real low in the mix to affect a smoothly reflective mood. Surprisingly, Q-Tip finds a fresh and ironic angle to highlight racial hypocrisy and urban decay: "Where's the 40 acres and a mule?/ You'd rather give us Micky D's and a tool/ And in the sun I see the way you pull our heart strings." Unfortunately, Large Pro is a far better producer than he is an emcee. His flow is a bit monotone and stale-- imagine Guru with a little more bass and a little less variance-- and his lyrics are rather insular and rarely reference anything outside of the world of hip-hop, with a noted exception being the sadly nostalgic verse he drops on "In the Sun". His limited mic skills can work when he has a guest emcee to play off, or on upbeat tracks such as "'Bout that Time" and "Born to Ball" when his deep voice acts as yet another percussive element. But he falls flat when the tracks are more delicately nuanced and the focus lies on actual content rather than momentum. While a plethora of guest vocals is generally a liability for an album, Large Pro might want to consider enlisting a few more of his legendary friends for the next LP. After all these years, his production work is still amongst the best in the businesses, and it would be hard to imagine anyone turning down the opportunity to spit over a Large Pro beat."

The Fall

Ersatz G.B.

Rock

Douglas Wolk

When John Peel said that he was incapable of telling if the Fall had ever made a bad record, that had something to do with the fact that they mostly hadn't until fairly recently, and more to do with the spell that Mark E. Smith's unwavering attitude casts over the faithful. There's no other sound like Smith's spittle-flecked snarl, and no other lyrical sensibility like his; he's never allowed the Fall to rest on its history, or its listeners to get too comfortable. But that's not the same thing as saying that the Fall are incapable of making a bad record, and although a lot of their discography is difficult but rewarding, their 15,000th album Ersatz G.B.'s abrasiveness, inscrutability, and tedium are increasingly tough to take with repeated close listening. So it raises a couple of questions, such as: What would a total failure of a Fall album sound like, and how would that be different from this one? And what does it mean when it's impossible to tell a band's new record from a weak parody of what they've been up to for the past few years? One way that the Fall could go wrong, for instance, if that were possible, would be for their music to fall off. Despite Smith's insistence that he's the only important member, he used to have bandmates who were distinctive musicians-- Brix, Steve Hanley, Marc Riley, the Mouse on Mars guys. These days, he has to work with musicians who will put up with what being in the Fall in the 21st century entails. The lineup on Ersatz G.B., as it happens, is the same as on the last couple of albums, but it could be yet another anonymous pickup crew-- and if you removed Smith's vocals from it, it would be a nearly irredeemable, almost totally generic hard rock record. The riff of "Greenway" is, in fact, copped from Greek comedy-metal band Anorimoi's "Gameboy", except that the current edition of the Fall doesn't have anything like Anorimoi's precision and bite. And Smith? How could a record with him on it ever go entirely awry? Well, he's still Mark E. Smith-- there are always developments to follow. He's got a new voice he uses on a few songs, a death-rattle gargle-growl; as usual, there are a couple of WTF lyrical moments, especially "Nate Will Not Return", in which Smith sees how many rhymes he can force with the name of the Gossip Girl character. And there are still a few drops to be milked out of Smith's favorite tricks: mocking middlebrow culture, dragging "un-songlike" diction and fun-to-pronounce proper nouns into song lyrics, fracturing the meaning of a sentence mid-phrase. (One line in "Mask Search", possibly the best-enunciated on the album, does all of those things: "I'm so sick of Snow Patrol/ And where to find Esso lubricant/ And mobile number.") At this point, though, the band's music is so pro forma that most of his lyrics could be applied to any track here with no significant difference. "I've Seen Them Come" is an idea for an intriguing 20-second passage of a song, stretched out to an unbearable six minutes. "Age of Chang" features a tinny condenser-mic recording accompanied by the properly recorded band, which would be a clever idea if Smith hadn't already recorded "Paintwork" more than 25 years ago. When "Happi Song" turns up halfway through, it's a relief to not hear Smith out front for a few minutes-- it's a sweet, simple tune written by keyboardist Eleni Poulou, and sung by her in a fragile, thickly accented voice (with Smith occasionally making unpleasant noises in the background). If you believe the Fall are incapable of badness by virtue of their singularity, then here you go; Smith's Mancunian sneer will always raise a Pavlovian response for those of us who are used to its signaling genius. But hold this shabby, grueling album up next to Hex Enduction Hour or Bend Sinister or The Marshall Suite or any number of the great, challenging records the Fall made when they were challenging themselves, too, and it falls apart.

Artist: The Fall, Album: Ersatz G.B., Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 2.2 Album review: "When John Peel said that he was incapable of telling if the Fall had ever made a bad record, that had something to do with the fact that they mostly hadn't until fairly recently, and more to do with the spell that Mark E. Smith's unwavering attitude casts over the faithful. There's no other sound like Smith's spittle-flecked snarl, and no other lyrical sensibility like his; he's never allowed the Fall to rest on its history, or its listeners to get too comfortable. But that's not the same thing as saying that the Fall are incapable of making a bad record, and although a lot of their discography is difficult but rewarding, their 15,000th album Ersatz G.B.'s abrasiveness, inscrutability, and tedium are increasingly tough to take with repeated close listening. So it raises a couple of questions, such as: What would a total failure of a Fall album sound like, and how would that be different from this one? And what does it mean when it's impossible to tell a band's new record from a weak parody of what they've been up to for the past few years? One way that the Fall could go wrong, for instance, if that were possible, would be for their music to fall off. Despite Smith's insistence that he's the only important member, he used to have bandmates who were distinctive musicians-- Brix, Steve Hanley, Marc Riley, the Mouse on Mars guys. These days, he has to work with musicians who will put up with what being in the Fall in the 21st century entails. The lineup on Ersatz G.B., as it happens, is the same as on the last couple of albums, but it could be yet another anonymous pickup crew-- and if you removed Smith's vocals from it, it would be a nearly irredeemable, almost totally generic hard rock record. The riff of "Greenway" is, in fact, copped from Greek comedy-metal band Anorimoi's "Gameboy", except that the current edition of the Fall doesn't have anything like Anorimoi's precision and bite. And Smith? How could a record with him on it ever go entirely awry? Well, he's still Mark E. Smith-- there are always developments to follow. He's got a new voice he uses on a few songs, a death-rattle gargle-growl; as usual, there are a couple of WTF lyrical moments, especially "Nate Will Not Return", in which Smith sees how many rhymes he can force with the name of the Gossip Girl character. And there are still a few drops to be milked out of Smith's favorite tricks: mocking middlebrow culture, dragging "un-songlike" diction and fun-to-pronounce proper nouns into song lyrics, fracturing the meaning of a sentence mid-phrase. (One line in "Mask Search", possibly the best-enunciated on the album, does all of those things: "I'm so sick of Snow Patrol/ And where to find Esso lubricant/ And mobile number.") At this point, though, the band's music is so pro forma that most of his lyrics could be applied to any track here with no significant difference. "I've Seen Them Come" is an idea for an intriguing 20-second passage of a song, stretched out to an unbearable six minutes. "Age of Chang" features a tinny condenser-mic recording accompanied by the properly recorded band, which would be a clever idea if Smith hadn't already recorded "Paintwork" more than 25 years ago. When "Happi Song" turns up halfway through, it's a relief to not hear Smith out front for a few minutes-- it's a sweet, simple tune written by keyboardist Eleni Poulou, and sung by her in a fragile, thickly accented voice (with Smith occasionally making unpleasant noises in the background). If you believe the Fall are incapable of badness by virtue of their singularity, then here you go; Smith's Mancunian sneer will always raise a Pavlovian response for those of us who are used to its signaling genius. But hold this shabby, grueling album up next to Hex Enduction Hour or Bend Sinister or The Marshall Suite or any number of the great, challenging records the Fall made when they were challenging themselves, too, and it falls apart."

Abi Reimold

Wriggling

Rock

Nina Corcoran

Abi Reimold's voice is ripe with pure emotion. On her debut full-length, Wriggling, the 23-year-old Philadelphia singer wields the instrument like a crooked sword she only just learned she's rather good at using. There are surface similarities to Mitski and Angel Olsen's dark delivery, yet sticking a singer/songwriter tag on Reimold feels like a disservice. She isn't just playing her music; she's living it, and it sounds goddamn exhausting. The album art, an open can of worms—yes, they're wriggling—in tight focus, mirrors her sound well. There's slime, dirt, and awkwardness in all 12 tracks, and hearing her crawl through the tangle to confront depression and self-worth is both harrowing and invigorating. Statements like "Fuck this and fuck me" roll off her tongue mid-song easily and without emphasis, and for good reason. At 23 years old, that's a mantra, not a one-time thought. Reimold wrote much of the material two years ago when she came into legal adulthood. Wriggling carries that intimacy, the wide-eyed fear of what's to come after the façade of teenagerdom disintegrates, particularly in the record's folkier moments. "An illusion of an elevator: how we create our creator," she sings on "Machine," somewhat hopeless, before continuing: "Grant me my mortality, make me blind so I won't see/ That there's no scheme, there is no plan, we grow where our seeds happen to land." On "Vessel," she claws at her own organs with diaristic imagery ("Perhaps the bolts themselves will tighten/ Sit on my ass waiting for you to ripen") and eventually turns to instruments like pedal steel on "Trap" to create the fullness of a '60s country-rock song. When Reimold switches to electric guitar, she locks into late '90s alt-rock mode. "Bad Seed" starts full throttle with help from Philly neighbors Mumblr for the rhythm section. Things turn heavier with "Clouded" and "Mask," songs that could easily be mistaken for early Speedy Ortiz demos, as she reverts to thick riffs and sings through a delay pedal for vocal distortion. Throughout the album, Reimold communicates the sensation that she's working through memories in real time, ones that are clearly still fresh enough to punch her in the gut. It gives her songs the feel of being performed right in front of you. Combining those two styles of songwriting can feel lopsided, but she pulls it off. The mix of rock and folk is soldered with lo-fi recordings of intimate moments: a room's silent hum while someone texts, a passing car whose music can be heard through closed windows, a playground in the distance where children shriek during a game of tag. Those poetic inserts never take themselves too seriously. Wriggling's darkest moments recall the gloominess of Cat Power's quieter material or Torres' Sprinter. Two-minute track "Dust" finds her beating herself up repeatedly. The song's only two lines ("I will learn what dust tastes like/ I am not immune") change shape each time they leave her mouth. Each repetition is cushioned by new sounds, switching from bedroom guitar strums to guitars overcome with shrill feedback. Like many of her Philly peers, from Hop Along to Radiator Hospital to every self-described DIY band in between, Reimold guards her confessional lyrics with punk attiude, but her delivery sets her apart from the rest. Her voice is just coarse enough to sound painful, but soft enough to sound private. If it weren't for the tender heart beating in her songs, Reimold's music would be brutal. Luckily for us, life has already claimed that title—and she's still in the process of learning that it won't let up anytime soon.

Artist: Abi Reimold, Album: Wriggling, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Abi Reimold's voice is ripe with pure emotion. On her debut full-length, Wriggling, the 23-year-old Philadelphia singer wields the instrument like a crooked sword she only just learned she's rather good at using. There are surface similarities to Mitski and Angel Olsen's dark delivery, yet sticking a singer/songwriter tag on Reimold feels like a disservice. She isn't just playing her music; she's living it, and it sounds goddamn exhausting. The album art, an open can of worms—yes, they're wriggling—in tight focus, mirrors her sound well. There's slime, dirt, and awkwardness in all 12 tracks, and hearing her crawl through the tangle to confront depression and self-worth is both harrowing and invigorating. Statements like "Fuck this and fuck me" roll off her tongue mid-song easily and without emphasis, and for good reason. At 23 years old, that's a mantra, not a one-time thought. Reimold wrote much of the material two years ago when she came into legal adulthood. Wriggling carries that intimacy, the wide-eyed fear of what's to come after the façade of teenagerdom disintegrates, particularly in the record's folkier moments. "An illusion of an elevator: how we create our creator," she sings on "Machine," somewhat hopeless, before continuing: "Grant me my mortality, make me blind so I won't see/ That there's no scheme, there is no plan, we grow where our seeds happen to land." On "Vessel," she claws at her own organs with diaristic imagery ("Perhaps the bolts themselves will tighten/ Sit on my ass waiting for you to ripen") and eventually turns to instruments like pedal steel on "Trap" to create the fullness of a '60s country-rock song. When Reimold switches to electric guitar, she locks into late '90s alt-rock mode. "Bad Seed" starts full throttle with help from Philly neighbors Mumblr for the rhythm section. Things turn heavier with "Clouded" and "Mask," songs that could easily be mistaken for early Speedy Ortiz demos, as she reverts to thick riffs and sings through a delay pedal for vocal distortion. Throughout the album, Reimold communicates the sensation that she's working through memories in real time, ones that are clearly still fresh enough to punch her in the gut. It gives her songs the feel of being performed right in front of you. Combining those two styles of songwriting can feel lopsided, but she pulls it off. The mix of rock and folk is soldered with lo-fi recordings of intimate moments: a room's silent hum while someone texts, a passing car whose music can be heard through closed windows, a playground in the distance where children shriek during a game of tag. Those poetic inserts never take themselves too seriously. Wriggling's darkest moments recall the gloominess of Cat Power's quieter material or Torres' Sprinter. Two-minute track "Dust" finds her beating herself up repeatedly. The song's only two lines ("I will learn what dust tastes like/ I am not immune") change shape each time they leave her mouth. Each repetition is cushioned by new sounds, switching from bedroom guitar strums to guitars overcome with shrill feedback. Like many of her Philly peers, from Hop Along to Radiator Hospital to every self-described DIY band in between, Reimold guards her confessional lyrics with punk attiude, but her delivery sets her apart from the rest. Her voice is just coarse enough to sound painful, but soft enough to sound private. If it weren't for the tender heart beating in her songs, Reimold's music would be brutal. Luckily for us, life has already claimed that title—and she's still in the process of learning that it won't let up anytime soon."

Slayer

Repentless

Metal

Andy O'Connor

Repentless, the 12th album from the thrash metal institution Slayer, comes at the most fraught time in the band's career. Founding guitarist and songwriter Jeff Hanneman's passing in 2013 from cirrhosis of the liver looms large; it's impossible to overstate the impact he had on the group. His hardcore influences, and the way these influences warped the group's early NWOBHM style, formed the more extreme wing of thrash that would later inform death and black metal. Hanneman's death is Slayer's greatest concern, but it's far from the only one. Founding drummer Dave Lombardo quit in 2013 allegedly over money concerns, and Paul Bostaph, who played on Slayer's '90s records, returned to replace him. Bostaph is no slouch, but Lombardo is a once-in-a-lifetime talent, whose ferocity set the standard for metal drumming as a whole. The two remaining members, bassist/vocalist Tom Araya and guitarist Kerry King, also seem to be somewhat at odds with the future of the band. King's never short of bluster and says Slayer will soldier on; Araya is a little more apprehensive. How much either's letting on is hard to determine, but there's definitely a rift. There's also a clear waning in popularity. Slayer headlined this year's Mayhem Fest, which was plagued by attendance problems. It was depressing to see a legendary band barely filling amphitheaters and having to downgrade the venue in San Antonio, one of the most solidly metal cities in the States. King was also open with his disdain for the fest's lineup, and his online spats with tour organizer Kevin Lyman kept the metal news site Blabbermouth going this summer. And Repentless is not Slayer's first album to be released on September 11—God Hates Us All came out the day of the attacks. In the case of God, it was an unfortunate but morbidly appropriate coincidence; with Repentless, it seems calculated to appeal to the basest shock values of metalheads. So, yes, it's easy to be cynical about a new Slayer record. Despite all of this, Repentless is solid—far from a classic, but the best possible outcome. King and Araya may be drawing from the same well as they always have, but no one knows how to make a Slayer song like they do. Three decades on from Hell Awaits, "Delusions of Saviour" shows they still know how to create a lurching intro, minus Satan yelling "WELCOME BACK!" It leans heavy on the wah, but King doesn't overdose on it like Kirk Hammett would. The title track and "Take Control" display steadfast worship to their own speed; the product is quality, and Repentless does benefit from focusing on that speed Hanneman fostered. But "When the Stillness Comes" recalls "Spill the Blood" from South of Heaven and "Dead Skin Mask" from Seasons in the Abyss, two of Slayer's slower classics. Araya works within his vocal limitations to complement King's rhythms to honor Slayer's slower side without straining or parodying himself. Sticking close to the Slayer playbook was probably the most sensical move—King and Araya have every chance to overindulge or lose the plot but don't. Most songs on Repentless will remind you of a specific track from Slayer's past, and there's enough diversity within their own style. Losing two key members will irreversibly change dynamics, and Repentless isn't immune. Exodus' Gary Holt, Slayer's live guitarist since 2011, contributes solos, but King played almost all of the guitar here. There isn't the chaotic back-and-forth that Hanneman and King wrestled with in their prime. In fact, the solos are oddly conservative by Slayer standards. They fit, but Hanneman's loose touch is noticeably missing. King is essentially playing off himself—he can't be the more metallic foil to Hanneman's punk ear. Granted, he does wrangle a convincing homage to Hanneman's punkiness in "Atrocity Vendor". It's oddly a more fitting tribute than "Piano Wire", which Hanneman had a hand in writing. "You Against You" is another punky track that could have been slipped in Undisputed Attitude, and that it comes right after "Wire" and "Atrocity" suggests that Slayer made a little Hanneman suite in his honor. Bostaph is a dependable presence, which is both a compliment and a slight. "Vices" and "Take Control" could have benefitted a little bit from Lombardo's intensity on the double bass. Still, he came into probably the toughest assignment of his career and knocked it out. Bostaph's return also brought back some of the more groove metal tendencies that Slayer adopted in the '90s, most evident in "Implode". "Implode" worked as a one-off single before it was known it was goning to be on the album, but it doesn't mesh with Repentless as a whole. It even brings down the second half of the record, which doesn't have a "Stillness" to compensate. For a band that made a genre-defining album that doesn't break 30 minutes (Reign in Blood), Slayer have lost a bit of their editing touch. Will they continue after this record? If they do, and they're likely to milk at the very least a couple tours, Repentless doesn't spell their end. If they hang it up, at least they didn't end their career on an embarrassing note. Slayer, even with their recent turmoil, have had good fortune compared to their other peers in the Big Four. Their decline is more gradual, the kind that merely comes with age; they never fell off like Metallica and Megadeth did. They've managed to produce one good record without two irreplaceable members; even so, Repentless doesn't quite answer if they've still got it for the long haul.

Artist: Slayer, Album: Repentless, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Repentless, the 12th album from the thrash metal institution Slayer, comes at the most fraught time in the band's career. Founding guitarist and songwriter Jeff Hanneman's passing in 2013 from cirrhosis of the liver looms large; it's impossible to overstate the impact he had on the group. His hardcore influences, and the way these influences warped the group's early NWOBHM style, formed the more extreme wing of thrash that would later inform death and black metal. Hanneman's death is Slayer's greatest concern, but it's far from the only one. Founding drummer Dave Lombardo quit in 2013 allegedly over money concerns, and Paul Bostaph, who played on Slayer's '90s records, returned to replace him. Bostaph is no slouch, but Lombardo is a once-in-a-lifetime talent, whose ferocity set the standard for metal drumming as a whole. The two remaining members, bassist/vocalist Tom Araya and guitarist Kerry King, also seem to be somewhat at odds with the future of the band. King's never short of bluster and says Slayer will soldier on; Araya is a little more apprehensive. How much either's letting on is hard to determine, but there's definitely a rift. There's also a clear waning in popularity. Slayer headlined this year's Mayhem Fest, which was plagued by attendance problems. It was depressing to see a legendary band barely filling amphitheaters and having to downgrade the venue in San Antonio, one of the most solidly metal cities in the States. King was also open with his disdain for the fest's lineup, and his online spats with tour organizer Kevin Lyman kept the metal news site Blabbermouth going this summer. And Repentless is not Slayer's first album to be released on September 11—God Hates Us All came out the day of the attacks. In the case of God, it was an unfortunate but morbidly appropriate coincidence; with Repentless, it seems calculated to appeal to the basest shock values of metalheads. So, yes, it's easy to be cynical about a new Slayer record. Despite all of this, Repentless is solid—far from a classic, but the best possible outcome. King and Araya may be drawing from the same well as they always have, but no one knows how to make a Slayer song like they do. Three decades on from Hell Awaits, "Delusions of Saviour" shows they still know how to create a lurching intro, minus Satan yelling "WELCOME BACK!" It leans heavy on the wah, but King doesn't overdose on it like Kirk Hammett would. The title track and "Take Control" display steadfast worship to their own speed; the product is quality, and Repentless does benefit from focusing on that speed Hanneman fostered. But "When the Stillness Comes" recalls "Spill the Blood" from South of Heaven and "Dead Skin Mask" from Seasons in the Abyss, two of Slayer's slower classics. Araya works within his vocal limitations to complement King's rhythms to honor Slayer's slower side without straining or parodying himself. Sticking close to the Slayer playbook was probably the most sensical move—King and Araya have every chance to overindulge or lose the plot but don't. Most songs on Repentless will remind you of a specific track from Slayer's past, and there's enough diversity within their own style. Losing two key members will irreversibly change dynamics, and Repentless isn't immune. Exodus' Gary Holt, Slayer's live guitarist since 2011, contributes solos, but King played almost all of the guitar here. There isn't the chaotic back-and-forth that Hanneman and King wrestled with in their prime. In fact, the solos are oddly conservative by Slayer standards. They fit, but Hanneman's loose touch is noticeably missing. King is essentially playing off himself—he can't be the more metallic foil to Hanneman's punk ear. Granted, he does wrangle a convincing homage to Hanneman's punkiness in "Atrocity Vendor". It's oddly a more fitting tribute than "Piano Wire", which Hanneman had a hand in writing. "You Against You" is another punky track that could have been slipped in Undisputed Attitude, and that it comes right after "Wire" and "Atrocity" suggests that Slayer made a little Hanneman suite in his honor. Bostaph is a dependable presence, which is both a compliment and a slight. "Vices" and "Take Control" could have benefitted a little bit from Lombardo's intensity on the double bass. Still, he came into probably the toughest assignment of his career and knocked it out. Bostaph's return also brought back some of the more groove metal tendencies that Slayer adopted in the '90s, most evident in "Implode". "Implode" worked as a one-off single before it was known it was goning to be on the album, but it doesn't mesh with Repentless as a whole. It even brings down the second half of the record, which doesn't have a "Stillness" to compensate. For a band that made a genre-defining album that doesn't break 30 minutes (Reign in Blood), Slayer have lost a bit of their editing touch. Will they continue after this record? If they do, and they're likely to milk at the very least a couple tours, Repentless doesn't spell their end. If they hang it up, at least they didn't end their career on an embarrassing note. Slayer, even with their recent turmoil, have had good fortune compared to their other peers in the Big Four. Their decline is more gradual, the kind that merely comes with age; they never fell off like Metallica and Megadeth did. They've managed to produce one good record without two irreplaceable members; even so, Repentless doesn't quite answer if they've still got it for the long haul."

Kemialliset Ystävät

Ullakkopalo

Experimental,Rock

Mark Richardson

When I first heard about Finland's Kemialliset Ystävät-- the project of artist Jan Anderzén, who sometimes records with others and sometimes records solo-- the music was described as "folk." Since I didn't have a good idea of what Finnish folk would sound like and knew nothing about the Fonal label, I came to Kemialliset Ystävät expecting to hear acoustic guitars and maybe some vocal harmonies with perhaps the addition of a few stringed instruments native to the region. What I got instead was a dense tapestry of electro-acoustic sound, any individual aspect of which was difficult to source. There were samples and whirring electronics and weirdly tuned guitars and synthesizers and clomping percussion and processed vocals, all kind of swirled together into this woozy, colorful, undifferentiated jumble. But as impenetrable as the music was, it wasn't completely abstract, and there were melodies and careful arrangements popping out of the din that became more apparent the more closely I listened. After a while, the word "folk" began to seem just right: This had the feel of a music handed down through generations and re-created with the materials on hand. It's just that the materials on hand included things with circuit boards that you plugged into the wall. Ullakkopalo is the first Kemialliset Ystävät full-length in three years, and the project essentially picks up where 2007's self-titled album left off. Which is to say that if someone casually interested in this band put the two albums on shuffle (maybe with some earlier Kemialliset Ystävät records thrown in), it would be tough to tell which track belonged to which release. Once again, there are voices, bleeps, acoustic strums, electric guitar leads, bits of chanting, some proper singing-- all put together just so, but arranged a way that stops well short of what most would define as a "song." But while the surface-level similarity of Kemialliset Ystävät albums is a consideration for someone with a number of releases by the project who might want to spend money on one more (and the gorgeous packaging of Fonal releases is a good argument for owning a physical copy), it doesn't diminish the force of the music as a whole. The essential character of Kemialliset Ystävät is that it feels like it grew out of something-- that there were certain rules in place and parameters for how the music would be constructed, and what emerged was an album with its own bent logic. In this particular environment, it feels natural for differences to be subtle. Which is not to say that individual moments don't make themselves known upon repeated listens, to the point where you look forward to them. There are the haunted voices in "Kivikasan Rauhassa", which sound like a twisted version of a working song sung by cartoon dwarves marching into the mines. There's the toy keyboard melody of the swaying "Ystävälliset Miekat", which has the essence of both an early-1990s video game and a ceremonial middle ages dirge. There's the wonderfully compact guitar lead that opens "Älä Koske Lintuja", which sounds familiarly late-60s psych and alien simultaneously, a disorienting combo heightened by the sproingy percussion that follows. Ultimately this music seems deeply organic, using a specific dictionary definition of the word: "having an organization similar in its complexity to that of living things." And because it sounds so connected to nature, it can be initially hard to absorb in its specifics. You could be standing in a field somewhere looking around and everything looks the same-- it's a field, like any other field. Or you could get down on your hands and knees and dig into the grass and notice the tiny things living there and how this blade is dead and that blade is half-eaten by something and so on. That's how Kemialliset Ystävät feels-- like something ready to be explored on whatever level feels right.

Artist: Kemialliset Ystävät, Album: Ullakkopalo, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "When I first heard about Finland's Kemialliset Ystävät-- the project of artist Jan Anderzén, who sometimes records with others and sometimes records solo-- the music was described as "folk." Since I didn't have a good idea of what Finnish folk would sound like and knew nothing about the Fonal label, I came to Kemialliset Ystävät expecting to hear acoustic guitars and maybe some vocal harmonies with perhaps the addition of a few stringed instruments native to the region. What I got instead was a dense tapestry of electro-acoustic sound, any individual aspect of which was difficult to source. There were samples and whirring electronics and weirdly tuned guitars and synthesizers and clomping percussion and processed vocals, all kind of swirled together into this woozy, colorful, undifferentiated jumble. But as impenetrable as the music was, it wasn't completely abstract, and there were melodies and careful arrangements popping out of the din that became more apparent the more closely I listened. After a while, the word "folk" began to seem just right: This had the feel of a music handed down through generations and re-created with the materials on hand. It's just that the materials on hand included things with circuit boards that you plugged into the wall. Ullakkopalo is the first Kemialliset Ystävät full-length in three years, and the project essentially picks up where 2007's self-titled album left off. Which is to say that if someone casually interested in this band put the two albums on shuffle (maybe with some earlier Kemialliset Ystävät records thrown in), it would be tough to tell which track belonged to which release. Once again, there are voices, bleeps, acoustic strums, electric guitar leads, bits of chanting, some proper singing-- all put together just so, but arranged a way that stops well short of what most would define as a "song." But while the surface-level similarity of Kemialliset Ystävät albums is a consideration for someone with a number of releases by the project who might want to spend money on one more (and the gorgeous packaging of Fonal releases is a good argument for owning a physical copy), it doesn't diminish the force of the music as a whole. The essential character of Kemialliset Ystävät is that it feels like it grew out of something-- that there were certain rules in place and parameters for how the music would be constructed, and what emerged was an album with its own bent logic. In this particular environment, it feels natural for differences to be subtle. Which is not to say that individual moments don't make themselves known upon repeated listens, to the point where you look forward to them. There are the haunted voices in "Kivikasan Rauhassa", which sound like a twisted version of a working song sung by cartoon dwarves marching into the mines. There's the toy keyboard melody of the swaying "Ystävälliset Miekat", which has the essence of both an early-1990s video game and a ceremonial middle ages dirge. There's the wonderfully compact guitar lead that opens "Älä Koske Lintuja", which sounds familiarly late-60s psych and alien simultaneously, a disorienting combo heightened by the sproingy percussion that follows. Ultimately this music seems deeply organic, using a specific dictionary definition of the word: "having an organization similar in its complexity to that of living things." And because it sounds so connected to nature, it can be initially hard to absorb in its specifics. You could be standing in a field somewhere looking around and everything looks the same-- it's a field, like any other field. Or you could get down on your hands and knees and dig into the grass and notice the tiny things living there and how this blade is dead and that blade is half-eaten by something and so on. That's how Kemialliset Ystävät feels-- like something ready to be explored on whatever level feels right."

Phosphorescent

To Willie

Rock

Joshua Love

What could be a better cred-building exercise for a young indie-folk songwriter than to cover the works of Willie Nelson? Yet Matthew Houck, aka Phosphorescent, isn't interested merely in demonstrating the depths of his scholarship and reverence for the forerunners of his craft with his all-covers tribute to the Red Headed Stranger, To Willie. He wants, as Hot Chip might put it, to half nelson full nelson Willie Nelson, to wrestle intimately with the man's songs and what they're capable of communicating. In doing so, Houck proves himself an adept interpreter of Willie's piercing Christian grace, while indirectly revealing by the limitations of his scope-- the true remarkable human breadth of Nelson's artistry. Houck does a couple of things extremely well, and to his immense credit he spends most of To Willie working in those veins. As he's demonstrated over the course of Phosphorescent's three very fine LPs of original songs, Houck is a master at conveying weariness, desolation, and spiritual hunger, often through a cracked, warbling bleat. That open-throated yelp is absent here, but Houck's keen understanding of fallenness and deliverance suffuses almost all of the album's best efforts. The opening "Reasons to Quit" is an addict's lament Nelson recorded as a duet with Merle Haggard (and was penned by Hag, actually), and while the original may have flashed a perverse resilience towards self-destructive behavior, Houck burrows into the numbing futility contained in a line like "coke and booze don't do me like before." It's followed, powerfully, by "Too Sick to Pray", an overlooked gem from Nelson's 1996 album Spirit that epitomizes spiritual exhaustion, with Houck sadly and perfectly putting across its overwhelming loneliness. Likewise, on "It's Not Supposed to Be That Way", desperation again cracks all of Houck's surfaces, his tremulous uncertainty echoed in the out-of-tune-sounding guitars. The music of the church has informed Houck's own work for some time, and at his best here he treats Nelson's songs like precious, fragile hymns. "Walkin'," "The Party's Over", and "Can I Sleep In Your Arms" are all undergirded with solemnity, with the third a revelation. It might sound like heresy considering Red Headed Stranger's "Can I Sleep" is perhaps the most revered song of the collection, yet Houck arguably improves it, adding a heartbreakingly delicate lilt to the end of each verse's penultimate line that wasn't there before. Talented and sympathetic though he may be, Houck is still working with a far more muted palette than Nelson, a fact most evident when he tackles jauntier, more clever material like "I Gotta Get Drunk", "Pick Up the Tempo", and "The Last Thing I Needed (First Thing This Morning)". Certainly it's admirable Houck didn't just pick 11 of Willie's most woebegone efforts to best suit his own forlorn MO, yet it's plain he lacks the wry humor and restless humanity of his interpretive object. Houck's impressive effort nonetheless inevitably sends you back to Nelson's originals, only illuminating their brilliance-- the sly threat of "It's Not Supposed to Be That Way"; the proud, tight-lipped terseness of "Too Sick to Pray"; the bitter wisdom of "Permanently Lonely" (which Houck does a nice job recontextualizing with spacey, narcotized synths). And, of course, there's Nelson's comic facility, which often cloaked his most devastating revelations, like how the accumulation of everyday bullshit on "The Last Thing" ("I opened the door on my knee") gives way to overwhelming loss and grief. It's simply more proof that Nelson's matchless command of so many song styles and emotional states poses a daunting challenge to any presumptive handler of his canon. Houck still deserves plenty of plaudits for nailing the ones he knows.

Artist: Phosphorescent, Album: To Willie, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "What could be a better cred-building exercise for a young indie-folk songwriter than to cover the works of Willie Nelson? Yet Matthew Houck, aka Phosphorescent, isn't interested merely in demonstrating the depths of his scholarship and reverence for the forerunners of his craft with his all-covers tribute to the Red Headed Stranger, To Willie. He wants, as Hot Chip might put it, to half nelson full nelson Willie Nelson, to wrestle intimately with the man's songs and what they're capable of communicating. In doing so, Houck proves himself an adept interpreter of Willie's piercing Christian grace, while indirectly revealing by the limitations of his scope-- the true remarkable human breadth of Nelson's artistry. Houck does a couple of things extremely well, and to his immense credit he spends most of To Willie working in those veins. As he's demonstrated over the course of Phosphorescent's three very fine LPs of original songs, Houck is a master at conveying weariness, desolation, and spiritual hunger, often through a cracked, warbling bleat. That open-throated yelp is absent here, but Houck's keen understanding of fallenness and deliverance suffuses almost all of the album's best efforts. The opening "Reasons to Quit" is an addict's lament Nelson recorded as a duet with Merle Haggard (and was penned by Hag, actually), and while the original may have flashed a perverse resilience towards self-destructive behavior, Houck burrows into the numbing futility contained in a line like "coke and booze don't do me like before." It's followed, powerfully, by "Too Sick to Pray", an overlooked gem from Nelson's 1996 album Spirit that epitomizes spiritual exhaustion, with Houck sadly and perfectly putting across its overwhelming loneliness. Likewise, on "It's Not Supposed to Be That Way", desperation again cracks all of Houck's surfaces, his tremulous uncertainty echoed in the out-of-tune-sounding guitars. The music of the church has informed Houck's own work for some time, and at his best here he treats Nelson's songs like precious, fragile hymns. "Walkin'," "The Party's Over", and "Can I Sleep In Your Arms" are all undergirded with solemnity, with the third a revelation. It might sound like heresy considering Red Headed Stranger's "Can I Sleep" is perhaps the most revered song of the collection, yet Houck arguably improves it, adding a heartbreakingly delicate lilt to the end of each verse's penultimate line that wasn't there before. Talented and sympathetic though he may be, Houck is still working with a far more muted palette than Nelson, a fact most evident when he tackles jauntier, more clever material like "I Gotta Get Drunk", "Pick Up the Tempo", and "The Last Thing I Needed (First Thing This Morning)". Certainly it's admirable Houck didn't just pick 11 of Willie's most woebegone efforts to best suit his own forlorn MO, yet it's plain he lacks the wry humor and restless humanity of his interpretive object. Houck's impressive effort nonetheless inevitably sends you back to Nelson's originals, only illuminating their brilliance-- the sly threat of "It's Not Supposed to Be That Way"; the proud, tight-lipped terseness of "Too Sick to Pray"; the bitter wisdom of "Permanently Lonely" (which Houck does a nice job recontextualizing with spacey, narcotized synths). And, of course, there's Nelson's comic facility, which often cloaked his most devastating revelations, like how the accumulation of everyday bullshit on "The Last Thing" ("I opened the door on my knee") gives way to overwhelming loss and grief. It's simply more proof that Nelson's matchless command of so many song styles and emotional states poses a daunting challenge to any presumptive handler of his canon. Houck still deserves plenty of plaudits for nailing the ones he knows."

Omar Rodriguez-López

A Manual Dexterity: Soundtrack, Vol. 1

Rock

Brian Howe

A Manual Dexterity - Soundtrack Volume 1 is half of a pet project that Omar Rodriguez-Lopez (At the Drive-In, De Facto, The Mars Volta) has been recording since 2001. In its entirety, it will comprise the soundtrack for Rodriguez-Lopez's film of the same name. That this project steps back from the structured post-prog of The Mars Volta and bends more toward the esoteric experimentalism of De Facto is unsurprising-- it takes its title from the opening track of De Facto's 2001 LP Megaton Shotblast. What is surprising is that an undertaking of such magnitude and rich detail remains so shrouded in mystery. There have been few concrete details revealed about this project; most of the information is fragmentary at best. Cryptic message board posts, befuddling repetitions, frustrating omissions, red herrings and blind leads accrue-- either no one knows anything about this project, or they just aren't willing to say. When queried, GSL Records founder Sonny Kay replied: "The film is 90 minutes long and will be out in the spring. That's all I know." Factual glimmers from the digital rumor mill maintain that the film is fictional and is nearing completion in Los Angeles, and that Rodriguez-Lopez collaborated with numerous friends on the soundtrack, including John Frusciante and members of De Facto and The Mars Volta. Between these shadowy spires of dubious information, a vast lacuna remains. The word "shambolic" appears with startling frequency in reviews of A Manual Dexterity, Vol. 1. It's a good word, with a robust utility that belies its seldom-used stature (my word processor's spellchecker is trying to convince me that it doesn't exist), but one wishes "rambolic" and "fumbolic" were words as well. The record opens with "Around Knuckle White Tile", the title's abstract word collage representing Rodriguez-Lopez's lyrical tendencies, which are almost entirely absent from this mostly instrumental recording. The track's initial ambient rustles and haunted house sounds take a couple of minutes to set the scene, before morphing into a dim, lounge-y fugue with spinning traces of incandescent guitar. Freeform drumming enters to impose order upon the 7-minute walkabout as it assembles itself with subtle shadings of tone and color. "Dyna Sark Arches" spends a full minute establishing an aura of receding, minimal atmosphere before collapsing into prickly, staccato funk embellished with crystalline string bends and solos that are strikingly reminiscent of pre-Good News Modest Mouse. "Here the Tame Go By" drops a sizzling cluster of prog-guitar into the center of an immense expanse of arid atmosphere. Fans of The Mars Volta should take note of "The Palpitations Form a Limit", the record's only foray into standard rock dynamics and vocals. A "deus ex machina"-- literally "God from a machine"-- is a narrative device employed to resolve an inextricably tangled plot (e.g. "And they all died in an avalanche"). As such, it typically arrives at the end of a work. Rodriguez-Lopez placed his deus ex machina-- a standout track with that name-- in the center of his record. The song is a seamless fusion of foundational dub, digital glitz, and unadulterated Latin jazz, a moment of pop lucidity amid all the abstruse avant-gardism. However, since the denouement of this review won't truly resolve until the film materializes, I'll close with a divine intervention of my own: "And the Internet, crumbolic bastion of misinformation, subsided at last beneath the digital sea. The end."

Artist: Omar Rodriguez-López, Album: A Manual Dexterity: Soundtrack, Vol. 1, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "A Manual Dexterity - Soundtrack Volume 1 is half of a pet project that Omar Rodriguez-Lopez (At the Drive-In, De Facto, The Mars Volta) has been recording since 2001. In its entirety, it will comprise the soundtrack for Rodriguez-Lopez's film of the same name. That this project steps back from the structured post-prog of The Mars Volta and bends more toward the esoteric experimentalism of De Facto is unsurprising-- it takes its title from the opening track of De Facto's 2001 LP Megaton Shotblast. What is surprising is that an undertaking of such magnitude and rich detail remains so shrouded in mystery. There have been few concrete details revealed about this project; most of the information is fragmentary at best. Cryptic message board posts, befuddling repetitions, frustrating omissions, red herrings and blind leads accrue-- either no one knows anything about this project, or they just aren't willing to say. When queried, GSL Records founder Sonny Kay replied: "The film is 90 minutes long and will be out in the spring. That's all I know." Factual glimmers from the digital rumor mill maintain that the film is fictional and is nearing completion in Los Angeles, and that Rodriguez-Lopez collaborated with numerous friends on the soundtrack, including John Frusciante and members of De Facto and The Mars Volta. Between these shadowy spires of dubious information, a vast lacuna remains. The word "shambolic" appears with startling frequency in reviews of A Manual Dexterity, Vol. 1. It's a good word, with a robust utility that belies its seldom-used stature (my word processor's spellchecker is trying to convince me that it doesn't exist), but one wishes "rambolic" and "fumbolic" were words as well. The record opens with "Around Knuckle White Tile", the title's abstract word collage representing Rodriguez-Lopez's lyrical tendencies, which are almost entirely absent from this mostly instrumental recording. The track's initial ambient rustles and haunted house sounds take a couple of minutes to set the scene, before morphing into a dim, lounge-y fugue with spinning traces of incandescent guitar. Freeform drumming enters to impose order upon the 7-minute walkabout as it assembles itself with subtle shadings of tone and color. "Dyna Sark Arches" spends a full minute establishing an aura of receding, minimal atmosphere before collapsing into prickly, staccato funk embellished with crystalline string bends and solos that are strikingly reminiscent of pre-Good News Modest Mouse. "Here the Tame Go By" drops a sizzling cluster of prog-guitar into the center of an immense expanse of arid atmosphere. Fans of The Mars Volta should take note of "The Palpitations Form a Limit", the record's only foray into standard rock dynamics and vocals. A "deus ex machina"-- literally "God from a machine"-- is a narrative device employed to resolve an inextricably tangled plot (e.g. "And they all died in an avalanche"). As such, it typically arrives at the end of a work. Rodriguez-Lopez placed his deus ex machina-- a standout track with that name-- in the center of his record. The song is a seamless fusion of foundational dub, digital glitz, and unadulterated Latin jazz, a moment of pop lucidity amid all the abstruse avant-gardism. However, since the denouement of this review won't truly resolve until the film materializes, I'll close with a divine intervention of my own: "And the Internet, crumbolic bastion of misinformation, subsided at last beneath the digital sea. The end.""

Brood Ma

Daze

Electronic

Nathan Reese

There was a time when you mostly knew what to expect from a Tri Angle release, even if the sound was notoriously hard to describe. But the New York/London label has evolved in the six years since its founding. Rather than gravitate toward artists whose music pours from speakers like molasses, Tri Angle is now just as likely to sign acts that mix bass music, techno, and noise in unpredictable ways (so long as the atmosphere mostly remains sufficiently chilly). "Everyone I choose to work with, all the records have to make sense as a whole," label founder Robin Carolan told the Huffington Post last year. "I don't expect them to make sense to everyone, but for me I can connect the dots." As its signees have been increasingly adopted by mainstream pop artists like Björk and Kanye West, new acts continue to deconstruct the genre from the inside out. Brood Ma, a London-based producer and recent signee to the label, joins forward-thinking artists like Rabit, Roly Porter, and Lotic, who seem capable of piling endless genre touchstones into a single track. Daze is Brood Ma's third LP and first with Tri Angle, but the artist's aesthetic couldn't be more in line with the label's current penchant for postmodern experimentation. Over the course of the album's 13 tracks, only one exceeds three minutes, and seven are less than two. Rather than maintain a singular focus, the producer skips from idea to idea, uniting decades of club music under a singular industrial umbrella. Opening track "Westerly Spawned Lamb" is reminiscent of the Haxan Cloak's analgesic soundscapes, while the record's political themes parallel Fatima Al Qadiri's net-art politicking. (Brood Ma has described the record as "a documentary of the military engagements played out amongst adults and children across worldwide server space and an attempted critique of the current obsession with survival playtime, played out through politically prosed pop references and narratives of fictional, future juvenilia"—which, OK, sure.) There are forays into trip-hop ("Sex Compressor") and noise ("Sex Contortion"), but rarely does any singular genre tag capture the uncanniness, or uncategorizable Brood Ma-ness, of the producer's industrial synths, grime-oriented beats, and ominous sub-bass. Most interesting is how Brood Ma treats pastiche as an ideology. Before joining Tri Angle, the producer released music via the Untold-run Hemlock Recordings as well as Quantum Natives, a UK label/collective whose members embody the intersection of Internet provocation and underground rave culture. (The label's website is an unofficial Google map showing an alien planet that recalls StarCraft and drone surveillance photography; its Soundcloud description: "a battle for survival in the nightmare undercity (in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war)".) Like much of the artists released by his previous labels, this is music whose technocratic aesthetic is impossible to divorce from the listening process. The album cover may recall an occult bonfire, but Brood Ma is more Neuromancer than necromancer. Part of the success of Daze is how fully Brood Ma commits to his sonic palette without committing to a singular musical style. "Molten Brownian Motion" pounds like hardcore (of the drum and bass variety) injected with Xenomorph DNA, while "Social Re-Entry" is apocalyptic bass music with a twisted vocal sample that's both something soulful and sinister. Many of the tracks have a sculptural feel to them, like you're hearing the visual equivalent to one of Louise Bourgeois' metal spiders. There's also a wry playfulness to the music: "Goldman Sax" is 13 seconds of arpeggiated freakout, but its title is unabashedly cheeky. There's also, perhaps surprisingly, actual hooks to be found when the tracks are given time to unfurl. "Sacrificial Youth" is danceable enough that it could use another three minutes attached to its runtime, which is both a compliment and a criticism: How often do you wish that a club track was 110% longer? Then again, this is the sort of intellectual party where we're supposed to think about how we got here rather than lose ourselves in the music. Daze is one last defiant middle finger emoji to a world crumbling in on itself—scarily contemporary, often caustic, but not without a sense of humor.

Artist: Brood Ma, Album: Daze, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "There was a time when you mostly knew what to expect from a Tri Angle release, even if the sound was notoriously hard to describe. But the New York/London label has evolved in the six years since its founding. Rather than gravitate toward artists whose music pours from speakers like molasses, Tri Angle is now just as likely to sign acts that mix bass music, techno, and noise in unpredictable ways (so long as the atmosphere mostly remains sufficiently chilly). "Everyone I choose to work with, all the records have to make sense as a whole," label founder Robin Carolan told the Huffington Post last year. "I don't expect them to make sense to everyone, but for me I can connect the dots." As its signees have been increasingly adopted by mainstream pop artists like Björk and Kanye West, new acts continue to deconstruct the genre from the inside out. Brood Ma, a London-based producer and recent signee to the label, joins forward-thinking artists like Rabit, Roly Porter, and Lotic, who seem capable of piling endless genre touchstones into a single track. Daze is Brood Ma's third LP and first with Tri Angle, but the artist's aesthetic couldn't be more in line with the label's current penchant for postmodern experimentation. Over the course of the album's 13 tracks, only one exceeds three minutes, and seven are less than two. Rather than maintain a singular focus, the producer skips from idea to idea, uniting decades of club music under a singular industrial umbrella. Opening track "Westerly Spawned Lamb" is reminiscent of the Haxan Cloak's analgesic soundscapes, while the record's political themes parallel Fatima Al Qadiri's net-art politicking. (Brood Ma has described the record as "a documentary of the military engagements played out amongst adults and children across worldwide server space and an attempted critique of the current obsession with survival playtime, played out through politically prosed pop references and narratives of fictional, future juvenilia"—which, OK, sure.) There are forays into trip-hop ("Sex Compressor") and noise ("Sex Contortion"), but rarely does any singular genre tag capture the uncanniness, or uncategorizable Brood Ma-ness, of the producer's industrial synths, grime-oriented beats, and ominous sub-bass. Most interesting is how Brood Ma treats pastiche as an ideology. Before joining Tri Angle, the producer released music via the Untold-run Hemlock Recordings as well as Quantum Natives, a UK label/collective whose members embody the intersection of Internet provocation and underground rave culture. (The label's website is an unofficial Google map showing an alien planet that recalls StarCraft and drone surveillance photography; its Soundcloud description: "a battle for survival in the nightmare undercity (in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war)".) Like much of the artists released by his previous labels, this is music whose technocratic aesthetic is impossible to divorce from the listening process. The album cover may recall an occult bonfire, but Brood Ma is more Neuromancer than necromancer. Part of the success of Daze is how fully Brood Ma commits to his sonic palette without committing to a singular musical style. "Molten Brownian Motion" pounds like hardcore (of the drum and bass variety) injected with Xenomorph DNA, while "Social Re-Entry" is apocalyptic bass music with a twisted vocal sample that's both something soulful and sinister. Many of the tracks have a sculptural feel to them, like you're hearing the visual equivalent to one of Louise Bourgeois' metal spiders. There's also a wry playfulness to the music: "Goldman Sax" is 13 seconds of arpeggiated freakout, but its title is unabashedly cheeky. There's also, perhaps surprisingly, actual hooks to be found when the tracks are given time to unfurl. "Sacrificial Youth" is danceable enough that it could use another three minutes attached to its runtime, which is both a compliment and a criticism: How often do you wish that a club track was 110% longer? Then again, this is the sort of intellectual party where we're supposed to think about how we got here rather than lose ourselves in the music. Daze is one last defiant middle finger emoji to a world crumbling in on itself—scarily contemporary, often caustic, but not without a sense of humor."

Various Artists

Killed by Deathrock: Vol. 1

Andrew Ryce

Though the title hints at the obscure horror-obsessed subgenre of punk, the new compilation series on the ever-savvy Sacred Bones takes after the Killed By Death series of compilations. Those storied records focused around obscure music from the late 70s punk explosion, and they're a clear precursor for the Brooklyn label's newest venture. It's the fruit of a search for weird and hard-to-find music from the same space that founder Caleb Braaten has been undertaking since 2007. The result does for post-punk what Nuggets did for late 60s garage rock, unearthing bizarre bands who produce oddities and competent facsimiles of more popular bands in equal measure. But also like Nuggets, what makes Killed By Deathrock so invigorating is that it's simply so fun—just put it on, let it rip, and make sure you play it loud. Whatever idea "deathrock" might bring to mind, throw it away—from the opening moments of Your Funeral's "I Wanna Be You," it's a surprisingly sprightly, even bouncy album that's more hi-fidelity than you'd expect. The jangly guitars on the first track practically pop-out in 3D, and most of the others follow suit, underlining what was either a careful search for the master tapes or simply some remastering wizardry. The compilation's best moments are these buoyant ones—Afterimage's "Satellite Of Love" (not a Lou Reed cover) is a meaty anthem with a stellar vocal performance, while fellow Americans Screaming For Emily steal the spotlight with "The Love", whose sly vocal performance could be a precursor for Britpop were it not for the excited drumming and wonderfully cheesy choral synth work. As with so many post-punk also-rans, the spectre of Joy Division hangs heavy over the compilation (try not to hear "Transmission" in the central riff of "Satellite Of Love"). Peter Hook basslines are the order of the day. Sometimes it's bald-faced, as with Italian obscurities Move, and sometimes it's a bit more clever, like Frenchmen Bunker (later Bunker Strasse), who take the production style of Unknown Pleasures and give it a good coat of fuzz. The undeniable pilfering is an artifact of the compilation's nature—it's a collection of pleasing offcuts rather than long lost gems. Not that there aren't some of those. Germany's Taste Of Decay are more punk than post, and their cheap entry-level distortion feels viscerally satisfying next to the other bands' chillier styles of production. The aptly-named Kitchen & The Plastic Spoons (a short-lived Swedish "goof band") sound like Magazine gone mad with wriggly synths and hilariously affected vocals. The latter are an especially weird inclusion, and it highlights the best part of Killed By Deathrock—discovering these strange little bands that time forgot.  Not all of them are worth exploring, certainly, but bands like Screaming For Emily (and their 1987 album Scriptures) and Bunker Strasse bear further investigation. None of that would matter if the compilation weren't well-executed. But from the clever artwork to the sound quality, Sacred Bones have outdone themselves, and the urge of so many compilation curators to pack a CD within an inch of its life is forgone in favour of a highly listenable 40-minute album. Considering it spans almost a whole decade, it's remarkably well-sequenced too—you might not guess that Screaming For Emily came a whole seven years later than Kitchen & The Plastic Spoons. Killed By Deathrock is clearly a well-researched labour of love. It might seem a bit slight for seven years in the making, but hopefully that just means there'll be more down the line.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Killed by Deathrock: Vol. 1, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Though the title hints at the obscure horror-obsessed subgenre of punk, the new compilation series on the ever-savvy Sacred Bones takes after the Killed By Death series of compilations. Those storied records focused around obscure music from the late 70s punk explosion, and they're a clear precursor for the Brooklyn label's newest venture. It's the fruit of a search for weird and hard-to-find music from the same space that founder Caleb Braaten has been undertaking since 2007. The result does for post-punk what Nuggets did for late 60s garage rock, unearthing bizarre bands who produce oddities and competent facsimiles of more popular bands in equal measure. But also like Nuggets, what makes Killed By Deathrock so invigorating is that it's simply so fun—just put it on, let it rip, and make sure you play it loud. Whatever idea "deathrock" might bring to mind, throw it away—from the opening moments of Your Funeral's "I Wanna Be You," it's a surprisingly sprightly, even bouncy album that's more hi-fidelity than you'd expect. The jangly guitars on the first track practically pop-out in 3D, and most of the others follow suit, underlining what was either a careful search for the master tapes or simply some remastering wizardry. The compilation's best moments are these buoyant ones—Afterimage's "Satellite Of Love" (not a Lou Reed cover) is a meaty anthem with a stellar vocal performance, while fellow Americans Screaming For Emily steal the spotlight with "The Love", whose sly vocal performance could be a precursor for Britpop were it not for the excited drumming and wonderfully cheesy choral synth work. As with so many post-punk also-rans, the spectre of Joy Division hangs heavy over the compilation (try not to hear "Transmission" in the central riff of "Satellite Of Love"). Peter Hook basslines are the order of the day. Sometimes it's bald-faced, as with Italian obscurities Move, and sometimes it's a bit more clever, like Frenchmen Bunker (later Bunker Strasse), who take the production style of Unknown Pleasures and give it a good coat of fuzz. The undeniable pilfering is an artifact of the compilation's nature—it's a collection of pleasing offcuts rather than long lost gems. Not that there aren't some of those. Germany's Taste Of Decay are more punk than post, and their cheap entry-level distortion feels viscerally satisfying next to the other bands' chillier styles of production. The aptly-named Kitchen & The Plastic Spoons (a short-lived Swedish "goof band") sound like Magazine gone mad with wriggly synths and hilariously affected vocals. The latter are an especially weird inclusion, and it highlights the best part of Killed By Deathrock—discovering these strange little bands that time forgot.  Not all of them are worth exploring, certainly, but bands like Screaming For Emily (and their 1987 album Scriptures) and Bunker Strasse bear further investigation. None of that would matter if the compilation weren't well-executed. But from the clever artwork to the sound quality, Sacred Bones have outdone themselves, and the urge of so many compilation curators to pack a CD within an inch of its life is forgone in favour of a highly listenable 40-minute album. Considering it spans almost a whole decade, it's remarkably well-sequenced too—you might not guess that Screaming For Emily came a whole seven years later than Kitchen & The Plastic Spoons. Killed By Deathrock is clearly a well-researched labour of love. It might seem a bit slight for seven years in the making, but hopefully that just means there'll be more down the line."

Joseph Arthur

Come to Where I'm From

Rock

Spencer Owen

Joseph Arthur wants to be an enigma. I mean, really badly. He wants to be your unique, personal, do-it-yourself, enigmatic folk/pop singer/songwriter, and he'll do whatever it takes to get there. He'll cover his album art with weird, tribal drawings he made himself. He'll play more than just guitar if you want, sometimes even harmonica. He'll even experiment with different genres on a couple songs. In his liner notes, Arthur cryptically refers to himself as "benzo," and gives his supporting musicians equally puzzling aliases like "darkstar" and "lovehammer." He packs his lyrics with surrealist imagery that could pertain to traditional love or loss, but what he really wants is for you to ask: "Is that actually what he means? Could it be deeper than this?" Yet, as the album's final seconds tick to a close, the real question at hand ends up being: "Does it matter?" And the answer? Well, no. But you knew I was going to say that. On his second full-length, Come to Where I'm From, Arthur's self-imposed pseudo-enigma status is more easily discarded than decoded. There are enough solid songwriting chops behind the facade to sustain him, and there's just as much-- if not more-- to be said for the production. T-Bone Burnett, Rick Will, and Arthur himself each take co-producer titles, and what results is a raw, endearing sound that blends each instrument perfectly while remaining crisp as a bell. It's some of the best production and mixing this side of Tchad Blake, who also happens to mix two of these songs, probably not all that coincidentally. As already established, Joseph Arthur's at his strongest when his ambiguously mystical lyrics don't get in the way, and most of the time, they don't. In "Invisible Hands," the line "There are things we cannot know/ Invisible hands who guide the show/ From up above" doesn't hold significance as a spiritual revelation, but rather, simply as a way to meld his vocals with the subdued and effective melody. The track's rhythmic base pulses as Arthur moans and hums through the track's five minutes while guitars, harmonicas, and subtle buzzes of feedback float in and out. It's this eerie tone, and not the prose contained within, that provides him with the mysterious atmosphere he's tried so desperately to achieve. And then there are those times when the embittered victim in Arthur spills haphazardly onto his lyric sheet. On "Creation or a Stain," Come to Where I'm From's most painful moment, he sort of, well, tries to rap about it. Actually, it isn't a rap as much as a failed Patti Smith impression. But whatever it is, Arthur manages an off-the-scale reading on the Rock Bottom lyricist detector: "I'm a walking crucifixion/ I'm a fucked-up memory." Over the course of its trying four-minute length, the track condemns all corruption, and laments the beggars and starving people of the world. And all this over the same two chords! Better for Arthur to stick to what he knows best. His most substantial material doesn't go for the throat, the heart, or even the intellect, but the ears. "Cockroach," one of Where I'm From's standouts, is built solely on ambient street sounds, a folksy acoustic guitar progression, and a drumkit that sounds like it's made of rocks. It seems to recall memories-- possibly even actual memories-- of bygone days busking on urban street corners. The song is enhanced by the occasional delayed fuzz lead, supportive female backing vocals, and the subtle, haunting echo of Arthur's voice as he sings his heart out with every line. So I suppose it's safe to let Joe into your home. He's pleasant enough, and moderately talented. Plus, he's got quite a few nice tunes in his repertoire. But lay down some house rules first: make sure he sticks to his more musical material, don't ask him where he gets his lyrics, and never let him make you call him "benzo." It's not very becoming of him.

Artist: Joseph Arthur, Album: Come to Where I'm From, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Joseph Arthur wants to be an enigma. I mean, really badly. He wants to be your unique, personal, do-it-yourself, enigmatic folk/pop singer/songwriter, and he'll do whatever it takes to get there. He'll cover his album art with weird, tribal drawings he made himself. He'll play more than just guitar if you want, sometimes even harmonica. He'll even experiment with different genres on a couple songs. In his liner notes, Arthur cryptically refers to himself as "benzo," and gives his supporting musicians equally puzzling aliases like "darkstar" and "lovehammer." He packs his lyrics with surrealist imagery that could pertain to traditional love or loss, but what he really wants is for you to ask: "Is that actually what he means? Could it be deeper than this?" Yet, as the album's final seconds tick to a close, the real question at hand ends up being: "Does it matter?" And the answer? Well, no. But you knew I was going to say that. On his second full-length, Come to Where I'm From, Arthur's self-imposed pseudo-enigma status is more easily discarded than decoded. There are enough solid songwriting chops behind the facade to sustain him, and there's just as much-- if not more-- to be said for the production. T-Bone Burnett, Rick Will, and Arthur himself each take co-producer titles, and what results is a raw, endearing sound that blends each instrument perfectly while remaining crisp as a bell. It's some of the best production and mixing this side of Tchad Blake, who also happens to mix two of these songs, probably not all that coincidentally. As already established, Joseph Arthur's at his strongest when his ambiguously mystical lyrics don't get in the way, and most of the time, they don't. In "Invisible Hands," the line "There are things we cannot know/ Invisible hands who guide the show/ From up above" doesn't hold significance as a spiritual revelation, but rather, simply as a way to meld his vocals with the subdued and effective melody. The track's rhythmic base pulses as Arthur moans and hums through the track's five minutes while guitars, harmonicas, and subtle buzzes of feedback float in and out. It's this eerie tone, and not the prose contained within, that provides him with the mysterious atmosphere he's tried so desperately to achieve. And then there are those times when the embittered victim in Arthur spills haphazardly onto his lyric sheet. On "Creation or a Stain," Come to Where I'm From's most painful moment, he sort of, well, tries to rap about it. Actually, it isn't a rap as much as a failed Patti Smith impression. But whatever it is, Arthur manages an off-the-scale reading on the Rock Bottom lyricist detector: "I'm a walking crucifixion/ I'm a fucked-up memory." Over the course of its trying four-minute length, the track condemns all corruption, and laments the beggars and starving people of the world. And all this over the same two chords! Better for Arthur to stick to what he knows best. His most substantial material doesn't go for the throat, the heart, or even the intellect, but the ears. "Cockroach," one of Where I'm From's standouts, is built solely on ambient street sounds, a folksy acoustic guitar progression, and a drumkit that sounds like it's made of rocks. It seems to recall memories-- possibly even actual memories-- of bygone days busking on urban street corners. The song is enhanced by the occasional delayed fuzz lead, supportive female backing vocals, and the subtle, haunting echo of Arthur's voice as he sings his heart out with every line. So I suppose it's safe to let Joe into your home. He's pleasant enough, and moderately talented. Plus, he's got quite a few nice tunes in his repertoire. But lay down some house rules first: make sure he sticks to his more musical material, don't ask him where he gets his lyrics, and never let him make you call him "benzo." It's not very becoming of him."

The Horse's Ha

Waterdrawn

Ned Raggett

These days, the words "English folk music" can easily conjure a certain UK quartet hooting and stomping their way across arenas worldwide and scaling the literal sound of their efforts to match. Suffice to say there are countless other approaches, both new and old, and the Horse’s Ha, a long-running if rarely recorded collaboration between Eleventh Dream Day/Freakwater stalwart Janet Bean and journeyman singer/guitarist James Elkington, showcase several on their second album, Waterdrawn. In contrast to their sprawling first effort, 2009’s Of the Cathmawr Yards, Waterdrawn is a more focused, stripped down collection. The band here is less an ensemble led by Bean and Elkington and more the two core performers-- though strings do still play a role throughout. On first blush it's easy to note the performers’ clear and open love of noted singers like Shirley Collins-- there’s that sense of immediate, focused performances done with little fuss, Bean and Elkington’s voices matched in close harmony without overt finesse. Similarly, their guitar performances seem unadorned and steady, bespeaking their experience by means of calm understatement. But again, that’s on first blush. Though there’s nothing as immediately striking as breaking into a bossa nova-tinged number like Of the Cathmawr Yards' “Left Hand”, the Horse’s Ha are less about revivalism then they are the employment of their own easy-going aesthetic. For instance, the sudden punctuation of guitar at the start of the title track leads into a brisk arrangement that’s a kissing cousin of Nick Drake’s “Cello Song” but with a queasy string secton that feels like a snippet of a raga alongside a sudden swirl of flutes. And it's anything but simple cheery good times, even while Bean and Elkington’s vocals establish a feeling of calm restraint. Bean’s opening line on the first song “Conjured Caravan”, “Lately I don’t try to linger,” sounds equally at home in Appalachia as in Cumbria, while the sudden shift away from the sprightly guitar to a single violin towards the song's end adds subtle drama to an already strong number about starting something up and hitting the road. Bean’s differently cast lead on the following song, “Willing Hands”, helps introduce the careful variety throughout the album, as does the song’s shifts between waltzing paces, steady fingerpicking, and sudden stops and hushes. (That one of the loveliest tracks on the album is called “Stick Figure Waltz” makes perfect sense.) Bean has general pride of place on much of the performances, usually singing first and in a couple of cases taking sole lead, but Elkington’s role never feels secondary. It’s more the sense of a well-matched performer happily contributing to a whole. Sometimes, as on the easy going counry-tinged “A Stony Valentine”, Elkington’s vocals are the perfect extra element: Hearing him sing a line of the chorus by himself then returning to back Bean at the song's conclusion is one of those punch-in moments as thrilling as the right pedal stomp or bass drop. Track for track, the basic approach may remain generally the same, but something’s always changing, whether it’s pace, lyrical focus, or simply the core sonic texture (often within the same song). The stateliness that begins and drives “Contenders” starts with banjo, builds up with guitar, adds strings, and reaches a long pause for Bean’s singing, then continues while the strings glide serenely in the mix, a background, genteel tension that’s its own treasure of a moment. When the building moment is repeated later, the extra elements become a soft click of percussion and quick guitar filigrees, neatly avoiding a repetition within the song itself. The Horse’s Ha are clearly anything but slapdash here, and that’s the key for Waterdrawn as a whole, a wonderful treat from artists at their best.

Artist: The Horse's Ha, Album: Waterdrawn, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "These days, the words "English folk music" can easily conjure a certain UK quartet hooting and stomping their way across arenas worldwide and scaling the literal sound of their efforts to match. Suffice to say there are countless other approaches, both new and old, and the Horse’s Ha, a long-running if rarely recorded collaboration between Eleventh Dream Day/Freakwater stalwart Janet Bean and journeyman singer/guitarist James Elkington, showcase several on their second album, Waterdrawn. In contrast to their sprawling first effort, 2009’s Of the Cathmawr Yards, Waterdrawn is a more focused, stripped down collection. The band here is less an ensemble led by Bean and Elkington and more the two core performers-- though strings do still play a role throughout. On first blush it's easy to note the performers’ clear and open love of noted singers like Shirley Collins-- there’s that sense of immediate, focused performances done with little fuss, Bean and Elkington’s voices matched in close harmony without overt finesse. Similarly, their guitar performances seem unadorned and steady, bespeaking their experience by means of calm understatement. But again, that’s on first blush. Though there’s nothing as immediately striking as breaking into a bossa nova-tinged number like Of the Cathmawr Yards' “Left Hand”, the Horse’s Ha are less about revivalism then they are the employment of their own easy-going aesthetic. For instance, the sudden punctuation of guitar at the start of the title track leads into a brisk arrangement that’s a kissing cousin of Nick Drake’s “Cello Song” but with a queasy string secton that feels like a snippet of a raga alongside a sudden swirl of flutes. And it's anything but simple cheery good times, even while Bean and Elkington’s vocals establish a feeling of calm restraint. Bean’s opening line on the first song “Conjured Caravan”, “Lately I don’t try to linger,” sounds equally at home in Appalachia as in Cumbria, while the sudden shift away from the sprightly guitar to a single violin towards the song's end adds subtle drama to an already strong number about starting something up and hitting the road. Bean’s differently cast lead on the following song, “Willing Hands”, helps introduce the careful variety throughout the album, as does the song’s shifts between waltzing paces, steady fingerpicking, and sudden stops and hushes. (That one of the loveliest tracks on the album is called “Stick Figure Waltz” makes perfect sense.) Bean has general pride of place on much of the performances, usually singing first and in a couple of cases taking sole lead, but Elkington’s role never feels secondary. It’s more the sense of a well-matched performer happily contributing to a whole. Sometimes, as on the easy going counry-tinged “A Stony Valentine”, Elkington’s vocals are the perfect extra element: Hearing him sing a line of the chorus by himself then returning to back Bean at the song's conclusion is one of those punch-in moments as thrilling as the right pedal stomp or bass drop. Track for track, the basic approach may remain generally the same, but something’s always changing, whether it’s pace, lyrical focus, or simply the core sonic texture (often within the same song). The stateliness that begins and drives “Contenders” starts with banjo, builds up with guitar, adds strings, and reaches a long pause for Bean’s singing, then continues while the strings glide serenely in the mix, a background, genteel tension that’s its own treasure of a moment. When the building moment is repeated later, the extra elements become a soft click of percussion and quick guitar filigrees, neatly avoiding a repetition within the song itself. The Horse’s Ha are clearly anything but slapdash here, and that’s the key for Waterdrawn as a whole, a wonderful treat from artists at their best."

Luigi Archetti & Bo Wiget

Low Tide Digitals III

Brian Howe

Low tide is a time of revelation: Bits of driftwood, seaweed, and shells form a cryptic record of the immense forces that arrayed them. Bo Wiget and Luigi Archetti could not have picked a more apt metaphor for their ongoing collaboration. They work exclusively in rubbish-- scraps of treated cello, guitar, and mandolin; layers of low-hertz tone and fizzing treble; sculpted interference; asphyxiated frequencies-- which their improvisational rapport turns into treasure. Their music possesses a sense of disclosure: These compositions feel like the exposed edges of vast, submerged things, soon to slip beneath the surface again. Ten years into their learning curve as a duo, Wiget and Archetti have gotten so good at listening to each other that their music feels telepathic. Low Tide Digitals III is the product of two minds operating as one, pursuing common goals with empathetic tension. Currents of severe modern classical, harsh noise, and ambient music pass in a fluid back-and-forth, like a comfortable but tendentious conversation between old friends. Both musicians are out-music veterans: Archetti, an Italian based in Zürich, was a member of Krautrock band Guru Guru, and Wiget, a native of Switzerland, has collaborated with many secret-stars of improv, like Taku Sugimoto. Their experience means they never have to rush or force anything; they close in on coherent themes with measured, effortless strides. An undulant pulse ties the pieces together, and each one is distinguished by its unique 3-D shape and finessed timbre. "On "Stück 26", Wiget and Archetti gently dissect a glassy cluster of notes, gouts of dark matter spilling from the incisions. "Stück 27" is a huge onrushing shape, like a freight train bearing down in the darkness. The organic and electronic aren't grafted together; they're fused. Prickly strings melt into torrents of mechanical sludge, or shed pitch-bent droplets that swoop out into powerful arcs, or just flex and then roar. Wiget and Archetti exploit timbral overlaps to make noise and melody work in tandem. Or actually, more like negate each other-- social constructs like classical and experimental, organic and electronic, pretty and ugly don't appear to pertain in the private world of Low Tide Digitals III, an ocean built for two.

Artist: Luigi Archetti & Bo Wiget, Album: Low Tide Digitals III, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Low tide is a time of revelation: Bits of driftwood, seaweed, and shells form a cryptic record of the immense forces that arrayed them. Bo Wiget and Luigi Archetti could not have picked a more apt metaphor for their ongoing collaboration. They work exclusively in rubbish-- scraps of treated cello, guitar, and mandolin; layers of low-hertz tone and fizzing treble; sculpted interference; asphyxiated frequencies-- which their improvisational rapport turns into treasure. Their music possesses a sense of disclosure: These compositions feel like the exposed edges of vast, submerged things, soon to slip beneath the surface again. Ten years into their learning curve as a duo, Wiget and Archetti have gotten so good at listening to each other that their music feels telepathic. Low Tide Digitals III is the product of two minds operating as one, pursuing common goals with empathetic tension. Currents of severe modern classical, harsh noise, and ambient music pass in a fluid back-and-forth, like a comfortable but tendentious conversation between old friends. Both musicians are out-music veterans: Archetti, an Italian based in Zürich, was a member of Krautrock band Guru Guru, and Wiget, a native of Switzerland, has collaborated with many secret-stars of improv, like Taku Sugimoto. Their experience means they never have to rush or force anything; they close in on coherent themes with measured, effortless strides. An undulant pulse ties the pieces together, and each one is distinguished by its unique 3-D shape and finessed timbre. "On "Stück 26", Wiget and Archetti gently dissect a glassy cluster of notes, gouts of dark matter spilling from the incisions. "Stück 27" is a huge onrushing shape, like a freight train bearing down in the darkness. The organic and electronic aren't grafted together; they're fused. Prickly strings melt into torrents of mechanical sludge, or shed pitch-bent droplets that swoop out into powerful arcs, or just flex and then roar. Wiget and Archetti exploit timbral overlaps to make noise and melody work in tandem. Or actually, more like negate each other-- social constructs like classical and experimental, organic and electronic, pretty and ugly don't appear to pertain in the private world of Low Tide Digitals III, an ocean built for two."

Darcy James Argue's Secret Society

Real Enemies

Jazz

Seth Colter Walls

Composer Darcy James Argue has often found joy in quixotic ideas. Starting a big band, more than half a century after they fell from popularity, is clearly one. Giving that group the name Secret Society and titling an early collection of compositions Infernal Machines only added more attitude to the enterprise. His pluck aside, Argue’s calling card thus far has been an ability to combine his love of jazz’s past with more contemporary sonics like indie-influenced electric guitar and bass, as well as arrangement tricks culled from his study of classical music. He’s clever without being arch, a syncretic creator who avoids obvious imitation. Real Enemies is his most varied album yet, and his most thematically ambitious. Because it was originally conceived as a multimedia stage show for the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s Next Wave Festival, it has both the length of a play as well as a dramatic conceit, as it promises an exploration of “the paranoid style in American politics.” (That famous 1964 essay by Richard Hofstadter is quoted, in a slightly adapted form, toward the end of Real Enemies, in a narration by actor James Urbaniak.) This is a savvy choice of topic, and not just because of our era of “post-truth politics,” or due to the range of conspiracy theories that have found purchase among different voting coalitions. The central masterstroke of Real Enemies is its realization that instrumental music can prove a useful forum in which to explore the shadowy manipulations of propaganda and state secrecy. The overtly American sound of a big band—particularly one updated with aspects of other modern song styles—becomes an ideal way to channel both vintage Cold War scaremongering and contemporary unease over cell-phone data harvesting. In this way, Real Enemies often shows how moods can wield more influence than words (or logic). Argue and his band leave few conspiratorial airs unexploited in this giddy, often explosive 78-minute suite. There are discordant touches of noir (inspired by scores of politically cynical ’70s films like The Parallax View), as well as minor-key warnings that reference Philip Glass’ writing for the Errol Morris documentary The Fog of War. And there’s plenty of music that feels original to this idiosyncratic composer and his well-drilled ensemble. Coming after a quiet, unsettling introduction, and a strutting follow-up track that suggests a detective pursuing a case, “Dark Alliance” is the album’s first mind-blower. In this brilliant piece of hybridism, Argue creates an opening groove from a vintage-sounding synth line and rhythm guitar funk strumming, both of which call to mind early-’80s rap. (A clip of Nancy Reagan’s anodyne anti-drug speechifying—“say yes to your life”—confirms the era under review.) Then there is a shift to Latin jazz: specifically, an adaptation of composer Luis Enrique Mejía Godoy’s “Un Son Para Mi Pueblo,” an anthem written in celebration of the Nicaraguan Revolution. Argue’s pivot here isn’t random—instead, it’s a narrative choice that points to the contradiction between the Reagan administration’s domestic “war on drugs” and its simultaneous eagerness to undermine the Nicaraguan Revolution by working with the Contras. A government review later conceded that the CIA turned a blind eye to cocaine trafficking by its allies during this particular foreign policy episode. (And the title of the song is a reference to a controversial series of articles that first raised this issue.) The slickness of all this commentary wouldn’t be half as powerful if the musical execution was less than stellar, but the Secret Society displays their startling virtuosity in these genre shifts. Elsewhere, Sebastian Noelle delivers an electric guitar feature full of spindly menace during the medium-tempo introduction of “Trust No One,” just before a clip of onetime Senator Frank Church discussing the ill effects of CIA narratives planted in foreign media. Once the government audio-drop is over, the full band digs into some powerful ensemble writing by Argue, while Carl Maraghi’s bluesy baritone sax solo carries an even greater sense of alarm. In “Best Friends Forever”—a piece about the military industrial complex—the martial, Glass-style triads lead to an alto sax solo from Rob Wilkerson that at first seems darkly resigned, until Argue’s introduction of a bass-drum thump prompts lines that sound more like combat heralds. Argue mixes references to conspiracies that actually happened with glimpses of infamous false rumors (like the “birther” controversy directed at President Obama). On “Casus Belli,” Argue composes swinging music as a comic counterpoint to some of former Vice President Dick Cheney’s grimmer assertions. If the pairing of text and score sometimes seems a bit flip, it’s useful to recall that matters of grave political importance don’t always inspire the seriousness that they deserve from the public, either. Despite all these references, the album’s goal isn’t to be any sort of history lesson. Instead, it’s a stylish evocation of the wild (and sometimes seductive) incoherence that flows from crises in which key evidence is either obscured or invented. Given this, Real Enemies feels, at its root, like a plea for greater civic trust and more rigorous thinking. For all its crazy quilt patterns and disparate musical inputs, there are telling hints of this suite’s carefully considered structure: The minimalist patterns of “Best Friends Forever” are echoed later, in “Apocalypse Is a Process,” while the synth from “Dark Alliance” is brought back during “Never a Straight Answer.” The album’s liner notes offer visual collages and context clues for each of the album’s 13 tracks, providing a hint of the original multimedia stage production. But the suite doesn’t really need them, as it’s sufficiently engrossing and cogent all by itself. You’d almost think it impossible for a big band album to do all this in 2016—but here’s all the evidence, right out in the open for you to inspect.

Artist: Darcy James Argue's Secret Society, Album: Real Enemies, Genre: Jazz, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Composer Darcy James Argue has often found joy in quixotic ideas. Starting a big band, more than half a century after they fell from popularity, is clearly one. Giving that group the name Secret Society and titling an early collection of compositions Infernal Machines only added more attitude to the enterprise. His pluck aside, Argue’s calling card thus far has been an ability to combine his love of jazz’s past with more contemporary sonics like indie-influenced electric guitar and bass, as well as arrangement tricks culled from his study of classical music. He’s clever without being arch, a syncretic creator who avoids obvious imitation. Real Enemies is his most varied album yet, and his most thematically ambitious. Because it was originally conceived as a multimedia stage show for the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s Next Wave Festival, it has both the length of a play as well as a dramatic conceit, as it promises an exploration of “the paranoid style in American politics.” (That famous 1964 essay by Richard Hofstadter is quoted, in a slightly adapted form, toward the end of Real Enemies, in a narration by actor James Urbaniak.) This is a savvy choice of topic, and not just because of our era of “post-truth politics,” or due to the range of conspiracy theories that have found purchase among different voting coalitions. The central masterstroke of Real Enemies is its realization that instrumental music can prove a useful forum in which to explore the shadowy manipulations of propaganda and state secrecy. The overtly American sound of a big band—particularly one updated with aspects of other modern song styles—becomes an ideal way to channel both vintage Cold War scaremongering and contemporary unease over cell-phone data harvesting. In this way, Real Enemies often shows how moods can wield more influence than words (or logic). Argue and his band leave few conspiratorial airs unexploited in this giddy, often explosive 78-minute suite. There are discordant touches of noir (inspired by scores of politically cynical ’70s films like The Parallax View), as well as minor-key warnings that reference Philip Glass’ writing for the Errol Morris documentary The Fog of War. And there’s plenty of music that feels original to this idiosyncratic composer and his well-drilled ensemble. Coming after a quiet, unsettling introduction, and a strutting follow-up track that suggests a detective pursuing a case, “Dark Alliance” is the album’s first mind-blower. In this brilliant piece of hybridism, Argue creates an opening groove from a vintage-sounding synth line and rhythm guitar funk strumming, both of which call to mind early-’80s rap. (A clip of Nancy Reagan’s anodyne anti-drug speechifying—“say yes to your life”—confirms the era under review.) Then there is a shift to Latin jazz: specifically, an adaptation of composer Luis Enrique Mejía Godoy’s “Un Son Para Mi Pueblo,” an anthem written in celebration of the Nicaraguan Revolution. Argue’s pivot here isn’t random—instead, it’s a narrative choice that points to the contradiction between the Reagan administration’s domestic “war on drugs” and its simultaneous eagerness to undermine the Nicaraguan Revolution by working with the Contras. A government review later conceded that the CIA turned a blind eye to cocaine trafficking by its allies during this particular foreign policy episode. (And the title of the song is a reference to a controversial series of articles that first raised this issue.) The slickness of all this commentary wouldn’t be half as powerful if the musical execution was less than stellar, but the Secret Society displays their startling virtuosity in these genre shifts. Elsewhere, Sebastian Noelle delivers an electric guitar feature full of spindly menace during the medium-tempo introduction of “Trust No One,” just before a clip of onetime Senator Frank Church discussing the ill effects of CIA narratives planted in foreign media. Once the government audio-drop is over, the full band digs into some powerful ensemble writing by Argue, while Carl Maraghi’s bluesy baritone sax solo carries an even greater sense of alarm. In “Best Friends Forever”—a piece about the military industrial complex—the martial, Glass-style triads lead to an alto sax solo from Rob Wilkerson that at first seems darkly resigned, until Argue’s introduction of a bass-drum thump prompts lines that sound more like combat heralds. Argue mixes references to conspiracies that actually happened with glimpses of infamous false rumors (like the “birther” controversy directed at President Obama). On “Casus Belli,” Argue composes swinging music as a comic counterpoint to some of former Vice President Dick Cheney’s grimmer assertions. If the pairing of text and score sometimes seems a bit flip, it’s useful to recall that matters of grave political importance don’t always inspire the seriousness that they deserve from the public, either. Despite all these references, the album’s goal isn’t to be any sort of history lesson. Instead, it’s a stylish evocation of the wild (and sometimes seductive) incoherence that flows from crises in which key evidence is either obscured or invented. Given this, Real Enemies feels, at its root, like a plea for greater civic trust and more rigorous thinking. For all its crazy quilt patterns and disparate musical inputs, there are telling hints of this suite’s carefully considered structure: The minimalist patterns of “Best Friends Forever” are echoed later, in “Apocalypse Is a Process,” while the synth from “Dark Alliance” is brought back during “Never a Straight Answer.” The album’s liner notes offer visual collages and context clues for each of the album’s 13 tracks, providing a hint of the original multimedia stage production. But the suite doesn’t really need them, as it’s sufficiently engrossing and cogent all by itself. You’d almost think it impossible for a big band album to do all this in 2016—but here’s all the evidence, right out in the open for you to inspect."

Master Musicians of Bukkake

The Visible Sign of the Invisible Order

Experimental,Rock

Cameron Macdonald

Sometimes an album sounds better if you don't know its artist's name or its song titles. Just Google "bukkake" and then pray for your mortal soul's destiny. The self-canceling album title doesn't help, and neither does the obligatory freakfolk vibe of songs titled "Enter the Wang", "Hidden from the Hidden Ones", or "Pipestone Octopus with Horseheart". If I never knew these fouls, then maybe I would consider the Master Musicians of Bukkake to be one haunting artifact unearthed from the crates of a Bangkok record shop/noodle house/bordello in the back. The Master Musicians is a motley assemble of 20 blokes from subterranean Seattle who generally perform lysergically poisoned impressions of Southeast Asian ceremonial music. Alan Bishop and Charlie Gocher of ethnodelic greats the Sun City Girls add some drums and Burmese banjo in there. Visible is best heard in one sitting as it follows a narrative from wearied peace to phantasmagoric horror to entrance to heaven. Opener, (cough, cough), "Enter the Wang" fires the gong with faint Asian pentatonic string scales letting everyone know that the curtains are drawn and much madness follows. "Bukkake Sunrise" first bleeds in what sounds like a cross being a machine eating a tape and rain on tin. Blues guitar melodies that overlook a dust bowl arise while tribal chants echo throughout, beckoning one out of slumber and tempting that person to crawl out his or her bedroom window to follow the sound. The earth then swallows up the seeker. "Lucky Duck" loosely recalls the Balinese monkey chant, as scattered Master Musicians arise from the ashes to curse in ululating chants all punctuated with tribal thumps. However, the melodrama kicks in with the following, "Pipestone Octopus with Horseheart" interrupts the album's flow with Residents-style orientialism with screeching and wails blown through the nose. The children's Halloween record vibe fares better on "Horseheart Revolution" and "Black Bile", where the chants are awash in the village fires. Midway through the LP, "Hidden from the Hidden Ones" gathers the delirium into a natural tension with a drum march to the sacrifice altar and Faust-like violin grindings driving the momentum. "Custody's Last Battle/Secret Wars" is the peak; gunshots pierce through an open-air recording as dribbling percussion and screamed "aiees" flee the battlefield. An obligatory catharsis, I suppose. Closer "Circular and Made of the Earth" resolves the whole delirium with a feel-good ballad of accordion drones and sitar-stylized banjos plucks in perfect tune with an enraptured bloke speaking in tongues. Cynics can consider this music to be another example of Westerners trying to be weird by exploiting "exotic" and "mysterious" Asian music. That accusation does have substantial evidence, but this music should not be dismissed so quickly. The majority of the music is still well-executed and can engross listeners with a sense of otherness. Just don't look up "bukkake," for the love of God.

Artist: Master Musicians of Bukkake, Album: The Visible Sign of the Invisible Order, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Sometimes an album sounds better if you don't know its artist's name or its song titles. Just Google "bukkake" and then pray for your mortal soul's destiny. The self-canceling album title doesn't help, and neither does the obligatory freakfolk vibe of songs titled "Enter the Wang", "Hidden from the Hidden Ones", or "Pipestone Octopus with Horseheart". If I never knew these fouls, then maybe I would consider the Master Musicians of Bukkake to be one haunting artifact unearthed from the crates of a Bangkok record shop/noodle house/bordello in the back. The Master Musicians is a motley assemble of 20 blokes from subterranean Seattle who generally perform lysergically poisoned impressions of Southeast Asian ceremonial music. Alan Bishop and Charlie Gocher of ethnodelic greats the Sun City Girls add some drums and Burmese banjo in there. Visible is best heard in one sitting as it follows a narrative from wearied peace to phantasmagoric horror to entrance to heaven. Opener, (cough, cough), "Enter the Wang" fires the gong with faint Asian pentatonic string scales letting everyone know that the curtains are drawn and much madness follows. "Bukkake Sunrise" first bleeds in what sounds like a cross being a machine eating a tape and rain on tin. Blues guitar melodies that overlook a dust bowl arise while tribal chants echo throughout, beckoning one out of slumber and tempting that person to crawl out his or her bedroom window to follow the sound. The earth then swallows up the seeker. "Lucky Duck" loosely recalls the Balinese monkey chant, as scattered Master Musicians arise from the ashes to curse in ululating chants all punctuated with tribal thumps. However, the melodrama kicks in with the following, "Pipestone Octopus with Horseheart" interrupts the album's flow with Residents-style orientialism with screeching and wails blown through the nose. The children's Halloween record vibe fares better on "Horseheart Revolution" and "Black Bile", where the chants are awash in the village fires. Midway through the LP, "Hidden from the Hidden Ones" gathers the delirium into a natural tension with a drum march to the sacrifice altar and Faust-like violin grindings driving the momentum. "Custody's Last Battle/Secret Wars" is the peak; gunshots pierce through an open-air recording as dribbling percussion and screamed "aiees" flee the battlefield. An obligatory catharsis, I suppose. Closer "Circular and Made of the Earth" resolves the whole delirium with a feel-good ballad of accordion drones and sitar-stylized banjos plucks in perfect tune with an enraptured bloke speaking in tongues. Cynics can consider this music to be another example of Westerners trying to be weird by exploiting "exotic" and "mysterious" Asian music. That accusation does have substantial evidence, but this music should not be dismissed so quickly. The majority of the music is still well-executed and can engross listeners with a sense of otherness. Just don't look up "bukkake," for the love of God."

Scuba

DJ-Kicks

Electronic

Andrew Ryce

There's been no shortage of dialogue around how dubstep has exploded and splintered into countless fragments-- disparate but still interlinked shards reflecting shades of techno, house, garage, drum'n'bass and everything else under the sun. English-born Paul Rose has historically been one of the earliest agents of this dubstep disintegration, making the move to techno haven Berlin early and establishing an interest in the genre that soon became commonplace among many of his genre contemporaries. Founding what would become one of the leading institutions in the techno/dubstep fusion with his Hotflush Recordings label and unprecedentedly landing a residency at the world's most infamous techno club, Berghain, Rose-- better known as Scuba, SCB, or Spectr-- has been a leading light in dissolving the boundaries between different worlds of dance music. But no matter how experimental or cross-boundary this particular sphere of music gets, there's always a line drawn between all these iterations of "bass music" and what might be considered "proper" techno and house. It's the reason why Rose splits his time between Scuba (bass music) and SCB (straight-up techno), why his memorable RA podcast was a "versus" between his alter egos, and why his SUB:STANCE club night happens on Fridays at Berghain and not Saturdays. It's the reason why his only previous commercial mix CD as Scuba focused almost exclusively on dubstep-centric sounds with none of SCB trickling in. But all bets are off with Rose's contribution to the long-running DJ-Kicks series, where that border fence between "bass" and techno is finally demolished. Mixing genres isn't anything out of the ordinary anymore (in fact, it's pretty much expected), but rarely do we see this kind of flitting between extremes in such a small and confined space. I'm tempted to say that the overarching theme here is techno, but it's a weird sort of techno. Even when we get big names like Surgeon and Marcel Dettmann, we're not given chunky workouts or sleek, streamlined bangers, but the militarist thrust of "The Power of Doubt" and the jerky IDM of "Captivate". Rose prefers these album cuts over easily more functional single material from either producer, which says a lot about his outside-the-box approach here. Forgoing both the instant-gratification quick mixing of bass music DJs and the lengthy blends of Berlin techno jocks, the tracks feel like they're melting in and out of each other, which means their generic signifiers melt away as well. Rose's style is a fastidious ebb and flow of microscopic beat-stitching. Structurally, Scuba's DJ-Kicks throws another curveball: It doesn't build toward any particular climax, nor is it centered around the "drop" structure inherent to most bass music. The closest we get are the bits of warm melody that seep in with tracks like Braille's jazzy "Breakup" or Mr. Beatnick's elegant G-funk epic "Don't Walk Away From My Love". Lately Rose's own productions have been moving into house territory, slowing below even the accepted median "bass" tempo of 130 beats per minute (as theorized by Pitchfork's own Martin Clark). What this means is that his mix plays the aural illusion of actually slowing down over the course of its duration: where most DJs would gradually ratchet up the tempo, Rose drags it down from a healthy 132 BPM to a leisurely 125, right where his newest tracks sit. The descent is deceptive, because the mix comes closer to anthemic as it slows: The CD-exclusive "M.A.R.S" is an uncharacteristically happy-go-lucky banger, and it's followed by a rousing selection of house producers like Recondite, Jichael Mackson, and Rivet, previously unassociated with either Scuba or SCB. No late-2011 Scuba mix would be complete without his controversial "Adrenalin", and DJ-Kicks finally delivers it. The track is given a five-minute spotlight, a gratuitous move for an equally gratuitous track touching on the untouchable: The pariah genres of prog house and trance are fastened with the most decadent breakdown you've heard since you used to listen to Sasha. Leaving "Adrenalin" to the end of the mix is perhaps the only predictable moment on Paul Rose's DJ-Kicks, a disc that's otherwise determined in its mission to keep you on your toes, knitting complex percussive webs and blending genres at a reckless rate that feels like a new gold standard for an already bled-through music world. It might be just a mix CD, but Scuba's DJ-Kicks is a landmark both personal and scene-wide. It shouldn't come as a surprise though, because Paul Rose is just leading the pack like he's always done.

Artist: Scuba, Album: DJ-Kicks, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "There's been no shortage of dialogue around how dubstep has exploded and splintered into countless fragments-- disparate but still interlinked shards reflecting shades of techno, house, garage, drum'n'bass and everything else under the sun. English-born Paul Rose has historically been one of the earliest agents of this dubstep disintegration, making the move to techno haven Berlin early and establishing an interest in the genre that soon became commonplace among many of his genre contemporaries. Founding what would become one of the leading institutions in the techno/dubstep fusion with his Hotflush Recordings label and unprecedentedly landing a residency at the world's most infamous techno club, Berghain, Rose-- better known as Scuba, SCB, or Spectr-- has been a leading light in dissolving the boundaries between different worlds of dance music. But no matter how experimental or cross-boundary this particular sphere of music gets, there's always a line drawn between all these iterations of "bass music" and what might be considered "proper" techno and house. It's the reason why Rose splits his time between Scuba (bass music) and SCB (straight-up techno), why his memorable RA podcast was a "versus" between his alter egos, and why his SUB:STANCE club night happens on Fridays at Berghain and not Saturdays. It's the reason why his only previous commercial mix CD as Scuba focused almost exclusively on dubstep-centric sounds with none of SCB trickling in. But all bets are off with Rose's contribution to the long-running DJ-Kicks series, where that border fence between "bass" and techno is finally demolished. Mixing genres isn't anything out of the ordinary anymore (in fact, it's pretty much expected), but rarely do we see this kind of flitting between extremes in such a small and confined space. I'm tempted to say that the overarching theme here is techno, but it's a weird sort of techno. Even when we get big names like Surgeon and Marcel Dettmann, we're not given chunky workouts or sleek, streamlined bangers, but the militarist thrust of "The Power of Doubt" and the jerky IDM of "Captivate". Rose prefers these album cuts over easily more functional single material from either producer, which says a lot about his outside-the-box approach here. Forgoing both the instant-gratification quick mixing of bass music DJs and the lengthy blends of Berlin techno jocks, the tracks feel like they're melting in and out of each other, which means their generic signifiers melt away as well. Rose's style is a fastidious ebb and flow of microscopic beat-stitching. Structurally, Scuba's DJ-Kicks throws another curveball: It doesn't build toward any particular climax, nor is it centered around the "drop" structure inherent to most bass music. The closest we get are the bits of warm melody that seep in with tracks like Braille's jazzy "Breakup" or Mr. Beatnick's elegant G-funk epic "Don't Walk Away From My Love". Lately Rose's own productions have been moving into house territory, slowing below even the accepted median "bass" tempo of 130 beats per minute (as theorized by Pitchfork's own Martin Clark). What this means is that his mix plays the aural illusion of actually slowing down over the course of its duration: where most DJs would gradually ratchet up the tempo, Rose drags it down from a healthy 132 BPM to a leisurely 125, right where his newest tracks sit. The descent is deceptive, because the mix comes closer to anthemic as it slows: The CD-exclusive "M.A.R.S" is an uncharacteristically happy-go-lucky banger, and it's followed by a rousing selection of house producers like Recondite, Jichael Mackson, and Rivet, previously unassociated with either Scuba or SCB. No late-2011 Scuba mix would be complete without his controversial "Adrenalin", and DJ-Kicks finally delivers it. The track is given a five-minute spotlight, a gratuitous move for an equally gratuitous track touching on the untouchable: The pariah genres of prog house and trance are fastened with the most decadent breakdown you've heard since you used to listen to Sasha. Leaving "Adrenalin" to the end of the mix is perhaps the only predictable moment on Paul Rose's DJ-Kicks, a disc that's otherwise determined in its mission to keep you on your toes, knitting complex percussive webs and blending genres at a reckless rate that feels like a new gold standard for an already bled-through music world. It might be just a mix CD, but Scuba's DJ-Kicks is a landmark both personal and scene-wide. It shouldn't come as a surprise though, because Paul Rose is just leading the pack like he's always done."

Various Artists

All Tomorrow's Parties v2.0

William Bowers

The dominatrix on the southwest side of town was already getting kind of haggard, but now she's made matters worse by turning Presbyterian. The only reason I still go see her is to try to purge my lingering shame over needing to buy every compilation with more than thirty seconds of Will Oldham on it. So, hooray, now I've got something called All Tomorrow's Parties 2.0 to put beside the Dutch Harbor soundtrack, the Quelque Chose D'Organique soundtrack, that Tweaker thing, that last All Tomorrow's Parties (or which Oldham helped Papa M cover Cat Stevens), that Briana Corrigan thing, Louisville Sonic Imprint Volume 1, Boxhead Ensemble's The Last Place to Go, that John Denver tribute, the Johnny Cash duet, the Anomoanon duets, Hey Drag City, The Drag City Hour, At Home with the Groovebox, Succour, Sounds of the Geographically Challenged, Sourmash, Macro Dub Infection Volume 2, Love Is My Only Crime, Louisville Sluggers Vol. 3, and that nervous circle-jerk with Appendix Out and Songs: Ohia on the My Morning Jacket split! Please, born-again Mistress Filthcobra, stand on the backs of my knees, spit on me and call me your diapersnake, ther please carve the word 'pathetic' into the meat of my lower back. This indie rock completist thing requires too much legwork. I may as well be buying lottery tickets. If you checked your hair in the mirror five times today, then you probably already know what All Tomorrow's Parties is: it's the series of well-intentioned live music marathons devised by fey-wafers Belle and Sebastian to circumvent the sponsor-pimping horrors and generally stank vibes of their predecessors. ATP is what the rich kids were planning for on that listserv you haunt. Poor people can, however, save up and purchase this accompanying CD. Unfortunately, wher you press play, your speakers won't emit communal principles, so you'll have to settle for toe-tapping rarities by key participants. This disc is from the third festival, called v2.0 and set in the UK, which is not a big deal like the U.S. edition (that's ATP 1.1 for those keeping putt-putt scorecards) since the UK has awesome concerts all the time (sniff, pout). The UK, see, is a magical place where Thom Yorke sells you your morning paper, where pedestrians are equidistant like the cover of Abbey Road, and the streets are paved with PJ Harvey's discarded lingerie. The ATP discs have been packaged all sleek and antiseptic, like software, and each has had a curator from indie rock's more pretentious upper-tier (the first two were curated by Tortoise and Sonic Youth, this one's by Shellac). Lordy, if the punks are curating, then a human-beatbox fugue can't be far behind. Okay, so the Will Oldham song is a great one that reteams him with a couple Anomoanon guys to pull off a giddy pirate-jig cover of one of the Kate Wolf tunes he did on his faultline-coast tour with those eco-strummers in Rainywood. When not dreamily mid-ooohh, he sounds like the bridge troll in rehab, trying to explain the appeal of the gruff goats. If Oldham's song is the jauntiest, then Nina Nastasia's is the most conventional. But that doesn't mean it's not plenty pretty, blending elements of the best dark-folk chanteuses past, present, and probably future. The Fall's "Two Librans" is a standout, as they continue to sound like the Richard Pryor-designed computer from Superman III is forcing them to compose mutated dance-rock against their will. Some Chicago sugardaddy had better break ground on an Indie Hall of Fame, and quick, before these guys become Tolstoys that everybody namedrops but nobody experiences. Shellac's "Watch Song" is a slab of explosive-drum, post-human, death-wiener blues, but it gets upstaged by a mighty, mighty 8\xBD minute offering from Shipping News that's more confident and epic than their recent records. That Arcwelder's "Do Something Right" sounds quaint and retro is testament to this comp's fundamental progressiveness. The imposing hit from High Dependency Unit and a bouncy "Trem Two" from Mission of Burma will have to share the Daytime Emmy for Best Effects Pedals-- in fact, the drums, chanting, and bassline laid down by them Missionaries will take you back to when it all got called 'college rock.' Had something to do with wanting to go to college, I reckon. What showcase of contemporary hip sounds would be complete without some of those amazing, but bloated, hard-to-describe instrumental bands? The strings of Threnody Ensemble's seven-minute "Groups" are seductive, lilting along chipperly only to get tense and foreboding on a dime. The Godspeeders in Do Make Say Think live up to their sound, if not to all those idealist present-tense verbs. Though it's not without its gorgeousness, even the non-rare album track "Classic Noodlanding" seems to be admitting that it's par. The band should move forward or team up with one of those old-school rap groups like EPMD, who were proud to promise from album to album that ain't a damn thing changed. Rachel's contributior has a title so amateur-poetic I won't type it, but the song is an affecting piano-and-drum-driven buildup from 1998. Nobody here tosses off a dried turd-- much of this disc is as beautiful or as beautifully ugly as the current scene gets, although one occasionally feels a chill from spending so much time in Krautrock's long apoplectic shadow. The power-pomp of ATP v2.0 is worth the investment, even if you just use it to soundtrack a cigarette-and-antiperspirant run. Besides, you have a free spot on your Various Artists shelf beside Colonel Jeffrey Pumperknickel since you sold back Schoolhouse Rocks.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: All Tomorrow's Parties v2.0, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "The dominatrix on the southwest side of town was already getting kind of haggard, but now she's made matters worse by turning Presbyterian. The only reason I still go see her is to try to purge my lingering shame over needing to buy every compilation with more than thirty seconds of Will Oldham on it. So, hooray, now I've got something called All Tomorrow's Parties 2.0 to put beside the Dutch Harbor soundtrack, the Quelque Chose D'Organique soundtrack, that Tweaker thing, that last All Tomorrow's Parties (or which Oldham helped Papa M cover Cat Stevens), that Briana Corrigan thing, Louisville Sonic Imprint Volume 1, Boxhead Ensemble's The Last Place to Go, that John Denver tribute, the Johnny Cash duet, the Anomoanon duets, Hey Drag City, The Drag City Hour, At Home with the Groovebox, Succour, Sounds of the Geographically Challenged, Sourmash, Macro Dub Infection Volume 2, Love Is My Only Crime, Louisville Sluggers Vol. 3, and that nervous circle-jerk with Appendix Out and Songs: Ohia on the My Morning Jacket split! Please, born-again Mistress Filthcobra, stand on the backs of my knees, spit on me and call me your diapersnake, ther please carve the word 'pathetic' into the meat of my lower back. This indie rock completist thing requires too much legwork. I may as well be buying lottery tickets. If you checked your hair in the mirror five times today, then you probably already know what All Tomorrow's Parties is: it's the series of well-intentioned live music marathons devised by fey-wafers Belle and Sebastian to circumvent the sponsor-pimping horrors and generally stank vibes of their predecessors. ATP is what the rich kids were planning for on that listserv you haunt. Poor people can, however, save up and purchase this accompanying CD. Unfortunately, wher you press play, your speakers won't emit communal principles, so you'll have to settle for toe-tapping rarities by key participants. This disc is from the third festival, called v2.0 and set in the UK, which is not a big deal like the U.S. edition (that's ATP 1.1 for those keeping putt-putt scorecards) since the UK has awesome concerts all the time (sniff, pout). The UK, see, is a magical place where Thom Yorke sells you your morning paper, where pedestrians are equidistant like the cover of Abbey Road, and the streets are paved with PJ Harvey's discarded lingerie. The ATP discs have been packaged all sleek and antiseptic, like software, and each has had a curator from indie rock's more pretentious upper-tier (the first two were curated by Tortoise and Sonic Youth, this one's by Shellac). Lordy, if the punks are curating, then a human-beatbox fugue can't be far behind. Okay, so the Will Oldham song is a great one that reteams him with a couple Anomoanon guys to pull off a giddy pirate-jig cover of one of the Kate Wolf tunes he did on his faultline-coast tour with those eco-strummers in Rainywood. When not dreamily mid-ooohh, he sounds like the bridge troll in rehab, trying to explain the appeal of the gruff goats. If Oldham's song is the jauntiest, then Nina Nastasia's is the most conventional. But that doesn't mean it's not plenty pretty, blending elements of the best dark-folk chanteuses past, present, and probably future. The Fall's "Two Librans" is a standout, as they continue to sound like the Richard Pryor-designed computer from Superman III is forcing them to compose mutated dance-rock against their will. Some Chicago sugardaddy had better break ground on an Indie Hall of Fame, and quick, before these guys become Tolstoys that everybody namedrops but nobody experiences. Shellac's "Watch Song" is a slab of explosive-drum, post-human, death-wiener blues, but it gets upstaged by a mighty, mighty 8\xBD minute offering from Shipping News that's more confident and epic than their recent records. That Arcwelder's "Do Something Right" sounds quaint and retro is testament to this comp's fundamental progressiveness. The imposing hit from High Dependency Unit and a bouncy "Trem Two" from Mission of Burma will have to share the Daytime Emmy for Best Effects Pedals-- in fact, the drums, chanting, and bassline laid down by them Missionaries will take you back to when it all got called 'college rock.' Had something to do with wanting to go to college, I reckon. What showcase of contemporary hip sounds would be complete without some of those amazing, but bloated, hard-to-describe instrumental bands? The strings of Threnody Ensemble's seven-minute "Groups" are seductive, lilting along chipperly only to get tense and foreboding on a dime. The Godspeeders in Do Make Say Think live up to their sound, if not to all those idealist present-tense verbs. Though it's not without its gorgeousness, even the non-rare album track "Classic Noodlanding" seems to be admitting that it's par. The band should move forward or team up with one of those old-school rap groups like EPMD, who were proud to promise from album to album that ain't a damn thing changed. Rachel's contributior has a title so amateur-poetic I won't type it, but the song is an affecting piano-and-drum-driven buildup from 1998. Nobody here tosses off a dried turd-- much of this disc is as beautiful or as beautifully ugly as the current scene gets, although one occasionally feels a chill from spending so much time in Krautrock's long apoplectic shadow. The power-pomp of ATP v2.0 is worth the investment, even if you just use it to soundtrack a cigarette-and-antiperspirant run. Besides, you have a free spot on your Various Artists shelf beside Colonel Jeffrey Pumperknickel since you sold back Schoolhouse Rocks."

Doveman

The Acrobat

Rock

Michael Idov

Your enjoyment of Doveman will greatly depend on whether you can withstand a passionate and sustained conversation with a man talking directly into your ear. The placement of a dry, quietly sung vocal up front in a record's mix is invariably a gamble, or rather a hedge of one: Depending on the listener's mood, it may be read as DIY egalitarianism (reverb is, after all, an intimation of distance) or self-admiration. The Angels of Light records want you to feel the Booker's and bile on Michael Gira's breath; the French school currently embodied by, say, Keren Ann wants you to curl up in bed with every compressed sibilant and saliva snap. Doveman's Thomas Bartlett aims for neither grit nor seduction; he sings politely, quietly, in a halting high voice of a contrite ex-boyfriend mid-plea. A cynical first reaction would be "emo" or "twee" but, as Doveman's often fascinating debut progresses, Bartlett's complete lack of histrionics begins to register. He sounds hurt but never masochistic, dramatic but never vulgar; if this nice boy is this agitated, you begin thinking, something must really worry him. I better listen on. What you will hear: songs that glisten and sway like underwater plantlife, delivered by a pleasantly bonkers ensemble (the banjo is the featured instrument almost throughout, supported by violin and Thomas's own accomplished piano and organ). The keys handle most of the low end as well; the drums, of course, use every available technique to avoid sounding "rock"-- brushes, muffled toms, weirdly distant cymbals. Live, Doveman's Dougie Bowne (a downtown legend who had drummed for Iggy Pop, among many others) plays a crash cymbal that had unpeeled into a long spiral. The track names-- "House", "Clouds", "Drinking", "Dancing"-- suggest that the songs may have spent some time untitled; the compositions themselves, however, are elegant, tasteful, top-notch. Aware that they are nearing the border between indie pop and cocktail jazz (a border it might, in fact, behoove the authorities to open), Doveman occasionally retreat into light skronk and dissonance. They can't help it: the skronk sounds decorative, dissonance pretty. After the first two slow, mood-programming tracks, "Cities" takes the album's by now patented instrumentation and vocals on a swinging walk; the track is still leisurely by all human standards, but in the album's honey-drip universe, it's practically a club banger. The piano solo-- a pile-up of clashing ragtime licks reminiscent to my Russian ears of Sergei Kuryokhin-- is at once the song's apex and a tragicomic respite. The organ-driven "Teacup", which chastens Bowne's drums to approximate a cheap machine's plod and clop, swims with mysterious accents and mini-events, and wouldn't be out of place on a late-period Yo La Tengo LP. The album's undisputable tentpole, as evident from its length and strategic placement (on vinyl it would have been the Majestic Side One Closer) , is "Boy + Angel", which goes enough places to justify its eight minutes and wisely builds upon an urgent tom-tom throb to which one could listen for hours. The songs' lyrics, which Bartlett appears to holds secondary to the meta-story of his own choked-up delivery, suddenly come into sharper relief toward the end of the album. "Drinking" cuts loose with a direct and rueful chorus about a self-destructive paramour; the closing track spins out a suddenly crisp "The edges hold together/ The center falls flat/ I can't blame it on the weather/ My heart's not an acrobat" as things plink and groan and click and sigh toward oblivion. One wants to build a seedy yet expensive wine lounge somewhere in East Village just to be able to play this album around last call.

Artist: Doveman, Album: The Acrobat, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Your enjoyment of Doveman will greatly depend on whether you can withstand a passionate and sustained conversation with a man talking directly into your ear. The placement of a dry, quietly sung vocal up front in a record's mix is invariably a gamble, or rather a hedge of one: Depending on the listener's mood, it may be read as DIY egalitarianism (reverb is, after all, an intimation of distance) or self-admiration. The Angels of Light records want you to feel the Booker's and bile on Michael Gira's breath; the French school currently embodied by, say, Keren Ann wants you to curl up in bed with every compressed sibilant and saliva snap. Doveman's Thomas Bartlett aims for neither grit nor seduction; he sings politely, quietly, in a halting high voice of a contrite ex-boyfriend mid-plea. A cynical first reaction would be "emo" or "twee" but, as Doveman's often fascinating debut progresses, Bartlett's complete lack of histrionics begins to register. He sounds hurt but never masochistic, dramatic but never vulgar; if this nice boy is this agitated, you begin thinking, something must really worry him. I better listen on. What you will hear: songs that glisten and sway like underwater plantlife, delivered by a pleasantly bonkers ensemble (the banjo is the featured instrument almost throughout, supported by violin and Thomas's own accomplished piano and organ). The keys handle most of the low end as well; the drums, of course, use every available technique to avoid sounding "rock"-- brushes, muffled toms, weirdly distant cymbals. Live, Doveman's Dougie Bowne (a downtown legend who had drummed for Iggy Pop, among many others) plays a crash cymbal that had unpeeled into a long spiral. The track names-- "House", "Clouds", "Drinking", "Dancing"-- suggest that the songs may have spent some time untitled; the compositions themselves, however, are elegant, tasteful, top-notch. Aware that they are nearing the border between indie pop and cocktail jazz (a border it might, in fact, behoove the authorities to open), Doveman occasionally retreat into light skronk and dissonance. They can't help it: the skronk sounds decorative, dissonance pretty. After the first two slow, mood-programming tracks, "Cities" takes the album's by now patented instrumentation and vocals on a swinging walk; the track is still leisurely by all human standards, but in the album's honey-drip universe, it's practically a club banger. The piano solo-- a pile-up of clashing ragtime licks reminiscent to my Russian ears of Sergei Kuryokhin-- is at once the song's apex and a tragicomic respite. The organ-driven "Teacup", which chastens Bowne's drums to approximate a cheap machine's plod and clop, swims with mysterious accents and mini-events, and wouldn't be out of place on a late-period Yo La Tengo LP. The album's undisputable tentpole, as evident from its length and strategic placement (on vinyl it would have been the Majestic Side One Closer) , is "Boy + Angel", which goes enough places to justify its eight minutes and wisely builds upon an urgent tom-tom throb to which one could listen for hours. The songs' lyrics, which Bartlett appears to holds secondary to the meta-story of his own choked-up delivery, suddenly come into sharper relief toward the end of the album. "Drinking" cuts loose with a direct and rueful chorus about a self-destructive paramour; the closing track spins out a suddenly crisp "The edges hold together/ The center falls flat/ I can't blame it on the weather/ My heart's not an acrobat" as things plink and groan and click and sigh toward oblivion. One wants to build a seedy yet expensive wine lounge somewhere in East Village just to be able to play this album around last call."

Various Artists

Just Like Heaven: A Tribute to the Cure

Ian Cohen

While you're scrolling through your mental Rolodex trying to remember the last tribute record you actually liked, realize that the Cure are still a pretty damn fine candidate for the Various Artists treatment. Perhaps three discs released almost concurrently is a bit much but the Cure's discography is deep, complex, and, most importantly, erratic enough to give Just Like Heaven and Perfect As Cats a chance. You could pay tribute to just how much ground the group has covered from their spiky, spooky post-punk origins to their current status as revered figureheads of nearly all forms of alternative rock, or you could stick to a single style that emphasizes the strength of the songwriting. The participants could show their devotion by digging through the vaults for lost treasures or they could try to find a new angle in their more popular canon. But Just Like Heaven chooses the latter for both and does nobody any favors, especially the listener. It's jammed with enough Nick and Norah-styled bands to make Dark Was the Night come off like the Judgment Night OST-- you know the drill: cutesy band name, mussy, bored-sounding guy, mousy, bored-sounding girl, lots of childish synths, and the burden of waking up every day knowing damn well "Young Folks" will totally pwn anything they ever come up with. And of course, they're going to pick the sort of songs that the Cure just kept on the right side of embarrassing, the kind that you might have viewed as gospel in your hormonally challenging teen years that their cloying, lustless approach will completely ruin for you. In other words, don't expect "Shake Dog Shake" or "One Hundred Years" here. At least you're tuned in to how bad things are going to be from the first second. How much does Robert Smith convey in just the first line of "Just Like Heaven"? But Joy Zipper can't be bothered: Instead of evoking the desperation and dire, wrist-slashing romance of the original, they conjure the self-satisfied smugness of every couple you hate in an insultingly flat and tuneless performance. Tanya Donelly and Dylan in the Movies' (teasingly, "Tanya Donelly and Dylan..." on your iPod) mismatched voices prepare "The Lovecats" for a cross-species CGI love story yet to be made. While Robert Smith has claimed that "Friday, I'm In Love" is a Cure song for people who don't usually like the Cure, there's an undeniable uplift in the chorus lauding the possibilities that the weekend can bring to even the most harried of us. The way it's handled by Dean & Britta, you'd think it was called, "Friday, So What Do You Want to Do Tonight? I Dunno, What Do You Wanna Do?" And did you know that there was a shitty mall-punk song dying to get out of "In Between Days"? If so, then you'll hear what Kitty Karlyle heard when they left the studio. How hard could this be? Take an emo sensibility, slow down some Cure songs and add a layer of updated studio trickery and boom, you have the coordinates for Jimmy Eat World's increasingly prophetic Clarity. But Luff and the Submarines pick the wrong tunes for the job-- though both classics, "Jumping Someone Else's Train" and "Boys Don't Cry" are more powered by the vigor of their streamlined arrangements than the depth of the lyircs. Here, they're lugged at a slowcore pace and are exposed as sonambulent bitch sessions. At the very least, "The Walk" is done justice by the Rosebuds-- not surprising since that very song pretty much invented their Night of the Furies-- and Elk City turns "Close to Me" inside out to a sprawling, percussive clatter. (Though it still falls short of Kaki King's understated virtuosity on the Perfect as Cats version.) And unlike Perfect as Cats, this isn't even for charity. It's not every day where a 2xLP tribute is a favorable alternative to anything, but Perfect as Cats immediately trumps Just Like Heaven with generally more inspired song selections and a greater level of talent...or at the very least, more recognizable talent, though it doesn't stop relative headliners the Dandy Warhols from making a typically bored walk-through of "Primary". Xu Xu Fang take "Fascination Street" on a trip through Massive Attack's Mezzanine, with static crackle, flutes, and a portentous tom beat inverting the sentiment from wide-eyed wonder to heavy-lidded menace. Credit Bat For Lashes for skillfully retaining the grayscale psychedlia of "A Forest" without turning it into trip-hop. But the people who put together Perfect as Cats seem to be acknowledging the ridiculously remote possibility that anyone could want to listen to this 33-song platter end-to-end and ignore anything that could pass for smart sequencing or pacing. Witness putting two versions of "The Walk" back-to-back, the first in which Indian Jewelry takes it under the Knife with clamorous steel drums and general awfulness. The next is Geneva Jacuzzi's near perfect facsimile, right down to the lead synth tone. Strangely, it suggests the trajectory for the rest of the affair, where the more satisfying numbers are either straight covers or complete about-faces. The Muslims (now the Soft Pack) wisely resist "Killing an Arab" and instead apply their no-bullshit garage rock to "Grinding Halt", while "In Between Days" is stripped down to a Three Imaginary Boys chassis by Blackblack. On the other side, Jesu stretch out "The Funeral Party" to post-rock infinity, Joker's Daughter does the inevitable J-Pop twist on "Kyoto Song" and "Hot, Hot, Hot" is given a salacious en francais treatment by Les Bicylettes Blanches. But even after all of that, it must be stressed that the vast majority just proves how many bands you've never heard of can pull off perfectly good imitations of Robert Smith (Rainbow Arabia, Wolfkin, Buddy, the Corridor and Ex Reverie, stand up and be counted!) and yet somehow still miss the point that these things should at least try to be entertaining. I'd hate to suggest that fame is correlative to great music, but in this realm, maybe that's the case. You want to hear a familiar act taken out of their comfort zone or a song doing the same. Here, it's just Amateur Hour three times over proving that the Cure were better than anyone at doing what they do. But at least everyone could've waited until Disintegration was out of print.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Just Like Heaven: A Tribute to the Cure, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 1.7 Album review: "While you're scrolling through your mental Rolodex trying to remember the last tribute record you actually liked, realize that the Cure are still a pretty damn fine candidate for the Various Artists treatment. Perhaps three discs released almost concurrently is a bit much but the Cure's discography is deep, complex, and, most importantly, erratic enough to give Just Like Heaven and Perfect As Cats a chance. You could pay tribute to just how much ground the group has covered from their spiky, spooky post-punk origins to their current status as revered figureheads of nearly all forms of alternative rock, or you could stick to a single style that emphasizes the strength of the songwriting. The participants could show their devotion by digging through the vaults for lost treasures or they could try to find a new angle in their more popular canon. But Just Like Heaven chooses the latter for both and does nobody any favors, especially the listener. It's jammed with enough Nick and Norah-styled bands to make Dark Was the Night come off like the Judgment Night OST-- you know the drill: cutesy band name, mussy, bored-sounding guy, mousy, bored-sounding girl, lots of childish synths, and the burden of waking up every day knowing damn well "Young Folks" will totally pwn anything they ever come up with. And of course, they're going to pick the sort of songs that the Cure just kept on the right side of embarrassing, the kind that you might have viewed as gospel in your hormonally challenging teen years that their cloying, lustless approach will completely ruin for you. In other words, don't expect "Shake Dog Shake" or "One Hundred Years" here. At least you're tuned in to how bad things are going to be from the first second. How much does Robert Smith convey in just the first line of "Just Like Heaven"? But Joy Zipper can't be bothered: Instead of evoking the desperation and dire, wrist-slashing romance of the original, they conjure the self-satisfied smugness of every couple you hate in an insultingly flat and tuneless performance. Tanya Donelly and Dylan in the Movies' (teasingly, "Tanya Donelly and Dylan..." on your iPod) mismatched voices prepare "The Lovecats" for a cross-species CGI love story yet to be made. While Robert Smith has claimed that "Friday, I'm In Love" is a Cure song for people who don't usually like the Cure, there's an undeniable uplift in the chorus lauding the possibilities that the weekend can bring to even the most harried of us. The way it's handled by Dean & Britta, you'd think it was called, "Friday, So What Do You Want to Do Tonight? I Dunno, What Do You Wanna Do?" And did you know that there was a shitty mall-punk song dying to get out of "In Between Days"? If so, then you'll hear what Kitty Karlyle heard when they left the studio. How hard could this be? Take an emo sensibility, slow down some Cure songs and add a layer of updated studio trickery and boom, you have the coordinates for Jimmy Eat World's increasingly prophetic Clarity. But Luff and the Submarines pick the wrong tunes for the job-- though both classics, "Jumping Someone Else's Train" and "Boys Don't Cry" are more powered by the vigor of their streamlined arrangements than the depth of the lyircs. Here, they're lugged at a slowcore pace and are exposed as sonambulent bitch sessions. At the very least, "The Walk" is done justice by the Rosebuds-- not surprising since that very song pretty much invented their Night of the Furies-- and Elk City turns "Close to Me" inside out to a sprawling, percussive clatter. (Though it still falls short of Kaki King's understated virtuosity on the Perfect as Cats version.) And unlike Perfect as Cats, this isn't even for charity. It's not every day where a 2xLP tribute is a favorable alternative to anything, but Perfect as Cats immediately trumps Just Like Heaven with generally more inspired song selections and a greater level of talent...or at the very least, more recognizable talent, though it doesn't stop relative headliners the Dandy Warhols from making a typically bored walk-through of "Primary". Xu Xu Fang take "Fascination Street" on a trip through Massive Attack's Mezzanine, with static crackle, flutes, and a portentous tom beat inverting the sentiment from wide-eyed wonder to heavy-lidded menace. Credit Bat For Lashes for skillfully retaining the grayscale psychedlia of "A Forest" without turning it into trip-hop. But the people who put together Perfect as Cats seem to be acknowledging the ridiculously remote possibility that anyone could want to listen to this 33-song platter end-to-end and ignore anything that could pass for smart sequencing or pacing. Witness putting two versions of "The Walk" back-to-back, the first in which Indian Jewelry takes it under the Knife with clamorous steel drums and general awfulness. The next is Geneva Jacuzzi's near perfect facsimile, right down to the lead synth tone. Strangely, it suggests the trajectory for the rest of the affair, where the more satisfying numbers are either straight covers or complete about-faces. The Muslims (now the Soft Pack) wisely resist "Killing an Arab" and instead apply their no-bullshit garage rock to "Grinding Halt", while "In Between Days" is stripped down to a Three Imaginary Boys chassis by Blackblack. On the other side, Jesu stretch out "The Funeral Party" to post-rock infinity, Joker's Daughter does the inevitable J-Pop twist on "Kyoto Song" and "Hot, Hot, Hot" is given a salacious en francais treatment by Les Bicylettes Blanches. But even after all of that, it must be stressed that the vast majority just proves how many bands you've never heard of can pull off perfectly good imitations of Robert Smith (Rainbow Arabia, Wolfkin, Buddy, the Corridor and Ex Reverie, stand up and be counted!) and yet somehow still miss the point that these things should at least try to be entertaining. I'd hate to suggest that fame is correlative to great music, but in this realm, maybe that's the case. You want to hear a familiar act taken out of their comfort zone or a song doing the same. Here, it's just Amateur Hour three times over proving that the Cure were better than anyone at doing what they do. But at least everyone could've waited until Disintegration was out of print."

Francis and the Lights

Like A Dream EP

Pop/R&B

Corban Goble

Of all the groups who first got together on the campus of Wesleyan University in the early 00s, Francis Farewell Starlite’s pop project Francis and the Lights was the most unstuck from time. Starlite’s pop is poised and unhurried, without being particularly flashy; vocally, thinking of a more soulful Peter Gabriel won’t take you far from the mark. And though the quality of his small catalogue has certainly lived up to, if not surpassed, his more well-known classmates’ music, its understated tone and the rather mysterious nature of its frontman kept Francis relatively off the radar. Though it’s been some time since Francis and the Lights delivered the promising 2010 debut It’ll Be Better—an album stocked with pop gems like “Knees to the Floor” that would have slayed in a different era but were hard to tack to a contemporary style—it’s a release that holds up because of that same timelessness. Save for some production work on Drake’s Thank Me Later—the slow-burn “Karaoke”—and the occasional high-concept performance piece, it’s been a quiet couple of years for the Lights. Though Francis’ new EP Like a Dream is a brief outing—four songs that clock in, collectively, a few ticks shy of 14 minutes—it serves as  a satisfying end to the silence. Though nothing here approaches surefire radio smashes or really anything that’s going to hit you like a load of bricks, songs like collection-closer “ETC” and breezy opener “Like a Dream” hint at interesting new directions. The former feels like wading through a fog compared to Francis’ usual rather-direct approach, bouncing Starlite’s voice off itself to create one of the spacier, funkier atmospheres he's inhabited so far. Though something like “Like a Dream” is a breezy track whose complete lack of edge might rub you the wrong way—”This could be in a commercial!” a coworker brightly remarked—its gentle electric throb gets in your head. The other songs on this collection, “If They Don’t Come Tomorrow” and “Betting on Us”, don’t exactly move the ball forward, but they aren’t necessarily worse off for their lack of inventiveness—they could easily be tacked onto the already-too-short It’ll Be Better and no one would blink. “Betting on Us” in particularly best channels that 80s-Gabriel-uplifting-pop thing that I can imagine most people will hear, which is to say that its bones are solid if not a touch generic. (You probably couldn’t blast it through a window, unfortunately.) “If They Don’t Come Tomorrow” is another example of Francis treating his vocals more than his audience might be used to, but outside of a few nice vocal runs and a hook or two, it’s relatively aimless. Though it’s dangerous to think of these pocket-sized releases as “appetizers,” Like a Dream is something that certainly primes the listener for the main course. Though it’s all relative when it comes to Francis’ tight, deliberate sound, the EP gives a glimpse of what It’ll Be Better’s follow-up might entail. Also, to be sure, Like a Dream also succeeds in re-injecting Francis into the conversation when the timing is a little better—though many soldiers have entered the borderlands of R&B and singer-songwriter pop in recent years, it just might be that Francis is the most natural talent of all of them. (Just saying: He’s a memorable dancer). But though nice moments speckle Like a Dream, it plays like a pleasant dream you can't quite recall.

Artist: Francis and the Lights, Album: Like A Dream EP, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Of all the groups who first got together on the campus of Wesleyan University in the early 00s, Francis Farewell Starlite’s pop project Francis and the Lights was the most unstuck from time. Starlite’s pop is poised and unhurried, without being particularly flashy; vocally, thinking of a more soulful Peter Gabriel won’t take you far from the mark. And though the quality of his small catalogue has certainly lived up to, if not surpassed, his more well-known classmates’ music, its understated tone and the rather mysterious nature of its frontman kept Francis relatively off the radar. Though it’s been some time since Francis and the Lights delivered the promising 2010 debut It’ll Be Better—an album stocked with pop gems like “Knees to the Floor” that would have slayed in a different era but were hard to tack to a contemporary style—it’s a release that holds up because of that same timelessness. Save for some production work on Drake’s Thank Me Later—the slow-burn “Karaoke”—and the occasional high-concept performance piece, it’s been a quiet couple of years for the Lights. Though Francis’ new EP Like a Dream is a brief outing—four songs that clock in, collectively, a few ticks shy of 14 minutes—it serves as  a satisfying end to the silence. Though nothing here approaches surefire radio smashes or really anything that’s going to hit you like a load of bricks, songs like collection-closer “ETC” and breezy opener “Like a Dream” hint at interesting new directions. The former feels like wading through a fog compared to Francis’ usual rather-direct approach, bouncing Starlite’s voice off itself to create one of the spacier, funkier atmospheres he's inhabited so far. Though something like “Like a Dream” is a breezy track whose complete lack of edge might rub you the wrong way—”This could be in a commercial!” a coworker brightly remarked—its gentle electric throb gets in your head. The other songs on this collection, “If They Don’t Come Tomorrow” and “Betting on Us”, don’t exactly move the ball forward, but they aren’t necessarily worse off for their lack of inventiveness—they could easily be tacked onto the already-too-short It’ll Be Better and no one would blink. “Betting on Us” in particularly best channels that 80s-Gabriel-uplifting-pop thing that I can imagine most people will hear, which is to say that its bones are solid if not a touch generic. (You probably couldn’t blast it through a window, unfortunately.) “If They Don’t Come Tomorrow” is another example of Francis treating his vocals more than his audience might be used to, but outside of a few nice vocal runs and a hook or two, it’s relatively aimless. Though it’s dangerous to think of these pocket-sized releases as “appetizers,” Like a Dream is something that certainly primes the listener for the main course. Though it’s all relative when it comes to Francis’ tight, deliberate sound, the EP gives a glimpse of what It’ll Be Better’s follow-up might entail. Also, to be sure, Like a Dream also succeeds in re-injecting Francis into the conversation when the timing is a little better—though many soldiers have entered the borderlands of R&B and singer-songwriter pop in recent years, it just might be that Francis is the most natural talent of all of them. (Just saying: He’s a memorable dancer). But though nice moments speckle Like a Dream, it plays like a pleasant dream you can't quite recall."

Jeff Bridges

Sleeping Tapes

Experimental

Philip Sherburne

Sleep is big business: in 2012, Time magazine estimated the sleep industry—everything from mattresses and high-tech pillows to homeopathic remedies and hardcore pharmaceuticals—at $32 billion. Enter Sleeping Tapes, a remarkable recording made by the actor Jeff Bridges and the composer Keefus Ciancia, the creator of the music for "True Detective" and "Nashville". On its surface, Sleeping Tapes is pitched as a sleep aid. On a website accompanying the project, Bridges writes, "The world is filled with too many restless people in need of rest—that's why I filled my sleeping tapes with intriguing sounds, noises and other things to help you get a good night's rest." At first, the sleep-aid tag seems about right. The album begins with downy swirls of tone—Tibetan prayer bowls, maybe, or pitched-down whirly tubes—overlaid with Bridges' gravelly baritone, as he mutters absent-mindedly, and hypnotically, about the project. "Sleeping tapes! Ha. I love that idea, and all that it implies, you know? Sleeping tapes." It's all a little bit more meta than your average melatonin capsule, but it's not hard to see how Bridges' voice, steeped as it is in his whole affable/avuncular shtick, would make a profoundly relaxing naptime companion. And who knows, maybe those meta aspects could themselves lend to the attainment of more vivid dreams, sort of like the dream-within-a-dream hijinks of The Science of Sleep. In the background, shimmering drones and faraway pianos carry a whiff of the "Haunted Ballroom" fantasias of James Kirby's Caretaker project, or Klimek's Music to Fall Asleep; elsewhere, the clatter of found sounds, paired with Bridges' muttering, bring to mind Tom Waits' "The Ocean Doesn't Want Me Today". But Sleeping Tapes is so much more than it appears to be at first glance. (Among other things, it's a fundraiser for the No Kid Hungry campaign, for which Bridges serves as a long-time spokesperson.) In fact, and perhaps not surprisingly, Bridges proves such a captivating presence that it's obvious that sleep is hardly the issue here. After a few tracks of figurative throat-clearing—and literal throat-clearing, which, of course, given the throat involved, sounds usually sumptuous—the album shifts into higher and higher surrealistic gears. There's a humming exercise, and then a segment recorded on a playground, with Bridges in full-on granddad mode; there are slowly tolling bells and THX-worthy strings. Before the 43-minute album is finished, we'll have taken an 11-minute walking tour of Temescal Canyon, "going for a walk like two old friends on a Sunday," a bit that feels a little like Mr. Rogers updated for the legal-weed era. Along the way, Bridges spooks a stray dog, finds an abandoned office chair, and mistakes a crow for a hawk. "It's majestic, though, isn't it?" he says, eternally upbeat. "Makes you wish you had feathers, huh? If you want, we could pretend to be crows." And things get stranger, too. In "The Hen", backwards jazz licks flicker as Bridges tells the story of a tenor player known for carrying around plastic eggs of Silly Putty in his pockets."Ikea" is a minute-long riff on a space cemetery, or "spacemetery," that's as disorienting as any of the blackout scenes in The Big Lebowski. There's even a moment of comparative gravity, which, given the low-key gonzo vibes of the rest of the record, only makes it seem that much more unhinged. A poem called "The Raven"—not Poe's—it features the sound of rain and vivid Foley thunderclaps, and it suggests an unexpected kinship between Sleeping Tapes and The Transformed Man, William Shatner's 1968 album of dramatic readings and spoken-word. Shatner's album was so over-the-top that many listeners couldn't decide if the "Star Trek" icon was really being serious, or if it was all a tongue-in-cheek exercise in thespian excess. Bridges, in contrast, remains in character the whole way through—even if part of that character involves frequently breaking the fourth wall to address us, his listeners, whom he regards with obvious fondness. We learn that he needs to get up to use the bathroom once or twice in the night if he drinks water before bed, but that's OK, because jeez, look how beautiful the full moon is; we learn that he's unfailingly chipper as a morning person; we even learn that he likes the sound of the toilet bowl filling, which he shares at the album's close over a bubbling aquatic crescendo. "The pitch rises, you know, as it gets to the top of the tank, you get that little gurgle at the end—" he muses, trailing off. "Anyway, what I was going to say, maybe we've reached the end of this album. And you're not asleep yet! Well, what the hell, fire the thing up again!" Before he goes, he leaves us with his No Kid Hungry pitch, trailing off into the mumbled mantra, "We're all in this together; we're all in this together." His warm-hearted spirit—his evident joy at just being alive—is infectious. Way beyond sleep aids, you get the sense that Bridges would be a hell of a life coach. The Dude abides.

Artist: Jeff Bridges, Album: Sleeping Tapes, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Sleep is big business: in 2012, Time magazine estimated the sleep industry—everything from mattresses and high-tech pillows to homeopathic remedies and hardcore pharmaceuticals—at $32 billion. Enter Sleeping Tapes, a remarkable recording made by the actor Jeff Bridges and the composer Keefus Ciancia, the creator of the music for "True Detective" and "Nashville". On its surface, Sleeping Tapes is pitched as a sleep aid. On a website accompanying the project, Bridges writes, "The world is filled with too many restless people in need of rest—that's why I filled my sleeping tapes with intriguing sounds, noises and other things to help you get a good night's rest." At first, the sleep-aid tag seems about right. The album begins with downy swirls of tone—Tibetan prayer bowls, maybe, or pitched-down whirly tubes—overlaid with Bridges' gravelly baritone, as he mutters absent-mindedly, and hypnotically, about the project. "Sleeping tapes! Ha. I love that idea, and all that it implies, you know? Sleeping tapes." It's all a little bit more meta than your average melatonin capsule, but it's not hard to see how Bridges' voice, steeped as it is in his whole affable/avuncular shtick, would make a profoundly relaxing naptime companion. And who knows, maybe those meta aspects could themselves lend to the attainment of more vivid dreams, sort of like the dream-within-a-dream hijinks of The Science of Sleep. In the background, shimmering drones and faraway pianos carry a whiff of the "Haunted Ballroom" fantasias of James Kirby's Caretaker project, or Klimek's Music to Fall Asleep; elsewhere, the clatter of found sounds, paired with Bridges' muttering, bring to mind Tom Waits' "The Ocean Doesn't Want Me Today". But Sleeping Tapes is so much more than it appears to be at first glance. (Among other things, it's a fundraiser for the No Kid Hungry campaign, for which Bridges serves as a long-time spokesperson.) In fact, and perhaps not surprisingly, Bridges proves such a captivating presence that it's obvious that sleep is hardly the issue here. After a few tracks of figurative throat-clearing—and literal throat-clearing, which, of course, given the throat involved, sounds usually sumptuous—the album shifts into higher and higher surrealistic gears. There's a humming exercise, and then a segment recorded on a playground, with Bridges in full-on granddad mode; there are slowly tolling bells and THX-worthy strings. Before the 43-minute album is finished, we'll have taken an 11-minute walking tour of Temescal Canyon, "going for a walk like two old friends on a Sunday," a bit that feels a little like Mr. Rogers updated for the legal-weed era. Along the way, Bridges spooks a stray dog, finds an abandoned office chair, and mistakes a crow for a hawk. "It's majestic, though, isn't it?" he says, eternally upbeat. "Makes you wish you had feathers, huh? If you want, we could pretend to be crows." And things get stranger, too. In "The Hen", backwards jazz licks flicker as Bridges tells the story of a tenor player known for carrying around plastic eggs of Silly Putty in his pockets."Ikea" is a minute-long riff on a space cemetery, or "spacemetery," that's as disorienting as any of the blackout scenes in The Big Lebowski. There's even a moment of comparative gravity, which, given the low-key gonzo vibes of the rest of the record, only makes it seem that much more unhinged. A poem called "The Raven"—not Poe's—it features the sound of rain and vivid Foley thunderclaps, and it suggests an unexpected kinship between Sleeping Tapes and The Transformed Man, William Shatner's 1968 album of dramatic readings and spoken-word. Shatner's album was so over-the-top that many listeners couldn't decide if the "Star Trek" icon was really being serious, or if it was all a tongue-in-cheek exercise in thespian excess. Bridges, in contrast, remains in character the whole way through—even if part of that character involves frequently breaking the fourth wall to address us, his listeners, whom he regards with obvious fondness. We learn that he needs to get up to use the bathroom once or twice in the night if he drinks water before bed, but that's OK, because jeez, look how beautiful the full moon is; we learn that he's unfailingly chipper as a morning person; we even learn that he likes the sound of the toilet bowl filling, which he shares at the album's close over a bubbling aquatic crescendo. "The pitch rises, you know, as it gets to the top of the tank, you get that little gurgle at the end—" he muses, trailing off. "Anyway, what I was going to say, maybe we've reached the end of this album. And you're not asleep yet! Well, what the hell, fire the thing up again!" Before he goes, he leaves us with his No Kid Hungry pitch, trailing off into the mumbled mantra, "We're all in this together; we're all in this together." His warm-hearted spirit—his evident joy at just being alive—is infectious. Way beyond sleep aids, you get the sense that Bridges would be a hell of a life coach. The Dude abides."

Neil Young

Le Noise

Rock

Joshua Klein

Even by his own unpredictable standards, Neil Young's had a pretty contradictory decade. The confusingly titled Chrome Dreams II was one highlight, but some of its best tracks were decades-old. Last year's Fork in the Road was a lark, a neo-concept album about electric cars whose humor undersold Young's convictions. His angriest albums, Living With War and Greendale, were each instantly dated time capsules. His prettiest, Silver & Gold and Prairie Wind, were also pretty disposable, and there are likely about as many people who pull out Are You Passionate? as there are those waiting for a Road Rock Vol. 2. Yet all those subpar, uneven, or just plain odd releases matter, because they show the guy's still trying to bottle whatever it is that's been swimming in his soul for the better part of five full decades. Which brings us to Le Noise, Young's perhaps inevitable team-up with famed producer Daniel Lanois. The album features mostly just Young, electric guitar, and a battery of effects-- echoing, resonating, occasionally roaring, and raging. Not that Young necessarily needs all that. With his sneering warble and ragged but right guitar playing, he's always been his own best effect, but here Young and Lanois relish the happy accidents both producer and artist have always embraced, resisting the urge to sand off the jagged edges into the ambient ether. Of course, ambience is a big part of Le Noise's widescreen appeal, and Young's playing is as intriguingly exploratory as it is sometimes explosive, taking advantage of Lanois' trademark bag of tricks like a kid testing pedals in a guitar store. Still, given its familiar crunch and gait, it's hard to hear Le Noise without imagining the famously ramshackle backing of Crazy Horse anchoring the riffy murk of songs like "Walk With Me", "Sign of Love", "Angry World" or even the queasy, off-kilter "Rumblin'". Admittedly, the lyrical nod in the long unreleased drug epic "Hitchhiker" (which has been floating around in some form for years) to Trans' "Like an Inca" implies Young understands he's working in curveball mode. Regardless, there's never any denying the guy on the mound-- Le Noise is as closely linked to Young's primal instincts as anything in his catalog. Like many of Young's most formidable works, the specter of death hangs over the record, too, specifically his recently passed collaborators Larry "L.A." Johnson and especially long-serving guitarist Ben Keith. Considering the demons creeping deep through the disc, it's perhaps no surprise that the sole pair of acoustic tracks, "Love and War" and "Peaceful Valley Boulevard", are as heavy as the louder tracks, their relative clarity almost disconcertingly intimate compared to the surrounding racket. In fact, for all its hushed restraint, the eerie "Peaceful Valley Boulevard" is a real highlight, a paean to a doomed America that plays like a tragic lyrical descendent of "Pocahontas" and "Cortez the Killer". Young may be famous for his maelstrom guitar, but in this case the apocalypse sneaks up on us with a whisper, Young's voice steeped in decades of watching the world go to hell. "When will I learn how to heal?" he later implores in "Rumblin'", knowing full well that the damage has already been done.

Artist: Neil Young, Album: Le Noise, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Even by his own unpredictable standards, Neil Young's had a pretty contradictory decade. The confusingly titled Chrome Dreams II was one highlight, but some of its best tracks were decades-old. Last year's Fork in the Road was a lark, a neo-concept album about electric cars whose humor undersold Young's convictions. His angriest albums, Living With War and Greendale, were each instantly dated time capsules. His prettiest, Silver & Gold and Prairie Wind, were also pretty disposable, and there are likely about as many people who pull out Are You Passionate? as there are those waiting for a Road Rock Vol. 2. Yet all those subpar, uneven, or just plain odd releases matter, because they show the guy's still trying to bottle whatever it is that's been swimming in his soul for the better part of five full decades. Which brings us to Le Noise, Young's perhaps inevitable team-up with famed producer Daniel Lanois. The album features mostly just Young, electric guitar, and a battery of effects-- echoing, resonating, occasionally roaring, and raging. Not that Young necessarily needs all that. With his sneering warble and ragged but right guitar playing, he's always been his own best effect, but here Young and Lanois relish the happy accidents both producer and artist have always embraced, resisting the urge to sand off the jagged edges into the ambient ether. Of course, ambience is a big part of Le Noise's widescreen appeal, and Young's playing is as intriguingly exploratory as it is sometimes explosive, taking advantage of Lanois' trademark bag of tricks like a kid testing pedals in a guitar store. Still, given its familiar crunch and gait, it's hard to hear Le Noise without imagining the famously ramshackle backing of Crazy Horse anchoring the riffy murk of songs like "Walk With Me", "Sign of Love", "Angry World" or even the queasy, off-kilter "Rumblin'". Admittedly, the lyrical nod in the long unreleased drug epic "Hitchhiker" (which has been floating around in some form for years) to Trans' "Like an Inca" implies Young understands he's working in curveball mode. Regardless, there's never any denying the guy on the mound-- Le Noise is as closely linked to Young's primal instincts as anything in his catalog. Like many of Young's most formidable works, the specter of death hangs over the record, too, specifically his recently passed collaborators Larry "L.A." Johnson and especially long-serving guitarist Ben Keith. Considering the demons creeping deep through the disc, it's perhaps no surprise that the sole pair of acoustic tracks, "Love and War" and "Peaceful Valley Boulevard", are as heavy as the louder tracks, their relative clarity almost disconcertingly intimate compared to the surrounding racket. In fact, for all its hushed restraint, the eerie "Peaceful Valley Boulevard" is a real highlight, a paean to a doomed America that plays like a tragic lyrical descendent of "Pocahontas" and "Cortez the Killer". Young may be famous for his maelstrom guitar, but in this case the apocalypse sneaks up on us with a whisper, Young's voice steeped in decades of watching the world go to hell. "When will I learn how to heal?" he later implores in "Rumblin'", knowing full well that the damage has already been done."

Art of Noise

And What Have You Done With My Body God?

Electronic,Experimental,Rock

Jess Harvell

Formed in the early 1980s from a collection of studio musicians (notably whiz producer Trevor Horn) and writer Paul Morley that would coalesce into the ZTT label (and give the world Frankie Goes to Hollywood among other delights), the Art of Noise were an instrumental electronic unit wrapped up in a bow of heavy yet cheeky conceptual art. Leaving aside its manifestos and jokes, which are undoubtedly a key part of the band's appeal, these pasty English folks were pioneers of electro, hip-hop, and even Latin freestyle and house. (You'll still catch "Beat Box" on many a U.S. urban station's "Flashback Lunch" hour.) And What Have You Done With My Body God? is a new 4xCD box that takes pages from the group's sketchbook of ideas, with something like more than 40 unreleased tracks. The lead instrument in the Art of Noise was the Fairlight CMI, the first digital sampler. You can hit up Wikipedia for much more detailed info, but suffice to say it was an incredibly expensive instrument. In its final version, the 1985 CMI Series III, it went for about £50,000-- all for features that you could get from a $400 yard sale PC today. As a result, it was used mostly by art rockers and big name studio techs and producers. (What's most amazing is that technology was moving so fast that only a few years later digital samplers would be cheap enough to be democratized, leading to hip-hop and dance music's sampling golden era.) Even a casual pop listener might recognize some of AON's tics and noises, the vocal stabs and stuttering hooks it built its name on. (The "hey!" vocal hook off of "Close (To the Edit)" would make the band a little richer when sampled by the Prodigy for "Firestarter".) Already built on sampled drum breaks, ghostly choirs of multi-tracked vocals, and string loops, And What Have You Done sounds like the band never, ever left the studio, pushing a small handful of sampled elements into as many different shapes as it possibly could before it got bored or the money ran out. But despite the mad scientist nature of this creative over-abundance, the Art of Noise's music isn't cold or forbidding or boringly studio hidebound; it can even be lovely. The group's masterpiece, "Moments in Love", is a 10-minute new age make-out track built on floating motes of voice and shiver-up-the-nape-of-your neck strings, the kind of thing Harold Budd might throw in when it's time to knock boots. It gets three re-workings here-- including the 7" mix on the Into Battle EP-- not counting the tracks that feature just a sound or two plucked from it. Much of And What Have You Done barely qualifies as "songs," just a few minutes of a beat being fucked with-- say, played up and down the octaves of the Fairlight or reversed and put through a filter. (There's also some seriously creepy circus music, experiments for voice, and solos for keyboard.) And some of is just studio fuck-around stuff that no one's life would have been any poorer had it stayed in the vault. But the sketchier tracks sound undeniably like first generation IDM-- the early records of Plaid and Aphex Twin, winsome keyboard melodies over crunchy hip-hop breakbeats-- obviously an important (and unheard until now) bridge between American street-level electro and the bedroom electronic producers of the 90s. As a document of digital creative thrift, four discs of unfinished studio experiments and obsessive self-remixing is amazing and exhausting. And now that computer beats are no longer the strange, alchemical art of pay-no-attention-to-the-man-behind-the-curtain types, we'll never see another band like the Art of Noise, for better or worse.

Artist: Art of Noise, Album: And What Have You Done With My Body God?, Genre: Electronic,Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Formed in the early 1980s from a collection of studio musicians (notably whiz producer Trevor Horn) and writer Paul Morley that would coalesce into the ZTT label (and give the world Frankie Goes to Hollywood among other delights), the Art of Noise were an instrumental electronic unit wrapped up in a bow of heavy yet cheeky conceptual art. Leaving aside its manifestos and jokes, which are undoubtedly a key part of the band's appeal, these pasty English folks were pioneers of electro, hip-hop, and even Latin freestyle and house. (You'll still catch "Beat Box" on many a U.S. urban station's "Flashback Lunch" hour.) And What Have You Done With My Body God? is a new 4xCD box that takes pages from the group's sketchbook of ideas, with something like more than 40 unreleased tracks. The lead instrument in the Art of Noise was the Fairlight CMI, the first digital sampler. You can hit up Wikipedia for much more detailed info, but suffice to say it was an incredibly expensive instrument. In its final version, the 1985 CMI Series III, it went for about £50,000-- all for features that you could get from a $400 yard sale PC today. As a result, it was used mostly by art rockers and big name studio techs and producers. (What's most amazing is that technology was moving so fast that only a few years later digital samplers would be cheap enough to be democratized, leading to hip-hop and dance music's sampling golden era.) Even a casual pop listener might recognize some of AON's tics and noises, the vocal stabs and stuttering hooks it built its name on. (The "hey!" vocal hook off of "Close (To the Edit)" would make the band a little richer when sampled by the Prodigy for "Firestarter".) Already built on sampled drum breaks, ghostly choirs of multi-tracked vocals, and string loops, And What Have You Done sounds like the band never, ever left the studio, pushing a small handful of sampled elements into as many different shapes as it possibly could before it got bored or the money ran out. But despite the mad scientist nature of this creative over-abundance, the Art of Noise's music isn't cold or forbidding or boringly studio hidebound; it can even be lovely. The group's masterpiece, "Moments in Love", is a 10-minute new age make-out track built on floating motes of voice and shiver-up-the-nape-of-your neck strings, the kind of thing Harold Budd might throw in when it's time to knock boots. It gets three re-workings here-- including the 7" mix on the Into Battle EP-- not counting the tracks that feature just a sound or two plucked from it. Much of And What Have You Done barely qualifies as "songs," just a few minutes of a beat being fucked with-- say, played up and down the octaves of the Fairlight or reversed and put through a filter. (There's also some seriously creepy circus music, experiments for voice, and solos for keyboard.) And some of is just studio fuck-around stuff that no one's life would have been any poorer had it stayed in the vault. But the sketchier tracks sound undeniably like first generation IDM-- the early records of Plaid and Aphex Twin, winsome keyboard melodies over crunchy hip-hop breakbeats-- obviously an important (and unheard until now) bridge between American street-level electro and the bedroom electronic producers of the 90s. As a document of digital creative thrift, four discs of unfinished studio experiments and obsessive self-remixing is amazing and exhausting. And now that computer beats are no longer the strange, alchemical art of pay-no-attention-to-the-man-behind-the-curtain types, we'll never see another band like the Art of Noise, for better or worse."

Ghost

Metamorphosis: Ghost Chronicles 1984-2004

Metal

Matthew Murphy

Early last year-- as part of their regular "Invisible Jukebox" department-- The Wire played Damon and Naomi an early piece featuring the duo's frequent collaborator, Ghost guitarist Michio Kurihara. "I can't believe he was doing this in '88," said Damon. "And here we all were in our indie rock bands and we didn't know." Looking back, it's safe to say that hardly anybody outside of Japan had much inkling of what Masaki Batoh and his fellow mystics in Ghost were getting up to in the late 1980s. Nor could anyone have easily predicted what a psych-folk, prog-rock colossus the group would someday become. With their origins in guerrilla street performance and ritualistic collective improvisations staged at various Tokyo-area temples, the band's formative years seemed destined to remain in the shadows. Thankfully, however, that impression has changed with the release of Metamorphosis, Drag City's astonishing new collection of Ghost audio and video rarities. Packed with more than an hour of previously unheard music and nearly two hours of unearthed video documents, Metamorphosis contains footage from virtually every chapter of the group's existence. And though its appeal will likely be exclusively limited to those already familiar with Ghost's inspired majesty, for the avid fan this set might possibly seem too good to be true. Comprised entirely of material dating from the years 1987-89, the CD portion of Metamorphosis showcases various early versions of Ghost as they ambitiously cast their sound about, quite audibly seeking to test their limits and capabilities. Centered around the steadfast core of charismatic leader Batoh and multi-instrumentalists Taishi Takizawa and Kazuo Ogino, the music created by these pre-Kurihara editions of the band often bears little resemblance to rock, and on the pieces collected here Ghost instead forge a potent, captivating blend of free jazz, acid folk, and traditional Japanese sounds. It's difficult to guess what might've been informing the group's material of this era-- particularly since at points here these guys seem just a step or two removed from subsisting on twigs and lichen. But several of these improvised tracks consider the same fiery trails lit by such previous explorers as AMM or free players from the classic BYG label roster. Meanwhile, the 1988 outtake "Blood Red River" finds Batoh emoting over some bent dustbowl blues in a strange, low-pitched drawl that manages to evoke Skip Spence. As fascinating as most of this embryonic music on the CD is, it's Metamorphosis' DVD presentation that contains most of this collection's true revelations. Featuring an abundance of live footage from various Ghost incarnations in a wide variety of venues, this disc provides a relatively succinct visual record of the group's timeline. Though much of this video is of rather shaky quality- most of the clips feature the erratic sound, dim lighting and stationary cameras that U.S. viewers might associate with cable access programming- this is made up for by the fact that this material exists at all and we actually get to watch it. This video collection is rife with highlights, starting with the earliest clip from 1984 which features a skinny, shirtless Batoh staging a noisy one-man demonstration in front of Tokyo's Chinese embassy to protest the occupation of Tibet. Other gems include a dynamite set of acoustic material recorded in a wooden Jesuit church in 1993 (the band billed itself as a "medieval music club" to get permission to play) a couple raucous tracks from 2002's Terrastock Festival in Boston, and an extended segment of more recent material performed at a 2004 Tokyo concert. Another bonus video not to be missed is of a wild 1988 group performance in a busy Tokyo train station, showcasing Batoh and Ogino in full free-form wail as bemused commuters file past. As with all the best of Metamorphosis' delights, the piece fills the viewer with immense appreciation for Ghost's haunting alien magic, and also spurs the hope that somewhere right this instant-- be it in Tokyo, Helsinki, Sao Paulo, or in your own town- another such collection of enlightened players are kicking up their own similarly beautiful racket.

Artist: Ghost, Album: Metamorphosis: Ghost Chronicles 1984-2004, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "Early last year-- as part of their regular "Invisible Jukebox" department-- The Wire played Damon and Naomi an early piece featuring the duo's frequent collaborator, Ghost guitarist Michio Kurihara. "I can't believe he was doing this in '88," said Damon. "And here we all were in our indie rock bands and we didn't know." Looking back, it's safe to say that hardly anybody outside of Japan had much inkling of what Masaki Batoh and his fellow mystics in Ghost were getting up to in the late 1980s. Nor could anyone have easily predicted what a psych-folk, prog-rock colossus the group would someday become. With their origins in guerrilla street performance and ritualistic collective improvisations staged at various Tokyo-area temples, the band's formative years seemed destined to remain in the shadows. Thankfully, however, that impression has changed with the release of Metamorphosis, Drag City's astonishing new collection of Ghost audio and video rarities. Packed with more than an hour of previously unheard music and nearly two hours of unearthed video documents, Metamorphosis contains footage from virtually every chapter of the group's existence. And though its appeal will likely be exclusively limited to those already familiar with Ghost's inspired majesty, for the avid fan this set might possibly seem too good to be true. Comprised entirely of material dating from the years 1987-89, the CD portion of Metamorphosis showcases various early versions of Ghost as they ambitiously cast their sound about, quite audibly seeking to test their limits and capabilities. Centered around the steadfast core of charismatic leader Batoh and multi-instrumentalists Taishi Takizawa and Kazuo Ogino, the music created by these pre-Kurihara editions of the band often bears little resemblance to rock, and on the pieces collected here Ghost instead forge a potent, captivating blend of free jazz, acid folk, and traditional Japanese sounds. It's difficult to guess what might've been informing the group's material of this era-- particularly since at points here these guys seem just a step or two removed from subsisting on twigs and lichen. But several of these improvised tracks consider the same fiery trails lit by such previous explorers as AMM or free players from the classic BYG label roster. Meanwhile, the 1988 outtake "Blood Red River" finds Batoh emoting over some bent dustbowl blues in a strange, low-pitched drawl that manages to evoke Skip Spence. As fascinating as most of this embryonic music on the CD is, it's Metamorphosis' DVD presentation that contains most of this collection's true revelations. Featuring an abundance of live footage from various Ghost incarnations in a wide variety of venues, this disc provides a relatively succinct visual record of the group's timeline. Though much of this video is of rather shaky quality- most of the clips feature the erratic sound, dim lighting and stationary cameras that U.S. viewers might associate with cable access programming- this is made up for by the fact that this material exists at all and we actually get to watch it. This video collection is rife with highlights, starting with the earliest clip from 1984 which features a skinny, shirtless Batoh staging a noisy one-man demonstration in front of Tokyo's Chinese embassy to protest the occupation of Tibet. Other gems include a dynamite set of acoustic material recorded in a wooden Jesuit church in 1993 (the band billed itself as a "medieval music club" to get permission to play) a couple raucous tracks from 2002's Terrastock Festival in Boston, and an extended segment of more recent material performed at a 2004 Tokyo concert. Another bonus video not to be missed is of a wild 1988 group performance in a busy Tokyo train station, showcasing Batoh and Ogino in full free-form wail as bemused commuters file past. As with all the best of Metamorphosis' delights, the piece fills the viewer with immense appreciation for Ghost's haunting alien magic, and also spurs the hope that somewhere right this instant-- be it in Tokyo, Helsinki, Sao Paulo, or in your own town- another such collection of enlightened players are kicking up their own similarly beautiful racket."

Cécile McLorin Salvant

The Window

Jazz

Stephen M. Deusner

When the jazz vocalist Cécile McLorin Salvant sings “Somewhere” on her fifth album, The Window, she approaches the American standard with complete knowledge of its monumental past—and its possibilities in the present. Over 60 years after its debut as a central number in West Side Story, “Somewhere” stands among the last century’s most-covered numbers, as one generation after another finds beauty to its promise of a place where they might fit in. So how does an artist in 2018 make “Somewhere” sound new? That’s the question Salvant and pianist Sullivan Fortner pose. After Fortner sneaks a few bustling bars of West Side Story’s “America” into the intro (a wink to the crowd at New York’s Village Vanguard, where this cover and another quarter of the album were recorded), the pair interrogate the tune and its guarantee of a safe haven. Arguably the leader in a resurgent scene of fully modern jazz singers, Salvant makes great tonal leaps throughout “Somewhere.” She sounds playful at the beginning, as though acknowledging the convention of past jazz masters interpreting it. But soon, she sings those two syllables like they’re a grim punchline. Near the end, she imbues it with the melancholy of a daydream she knows will never come true. Salvant understands the song as quintessentially American, an aspirational immigrant tune—“Somewhere… we’ll find a new way of living.” To make it sound relevant for our moment, she introduces the idea that “somewhere” might actually be anywhere but here. Among Salvant’s most distinguishing artistic traits is how she makes those tonal shifts not just exciting but meaningful. Her craft is undeniable, but built into her craft is the freshness of encountering each tune as though for the first time, figuring it out in the moment from one note to the next. She sings in conversation with every song, its lyrics, and its historical context. Salvant accomplishes that not only by using her voice to comment on lyrics while she delivers them but also by developing a diverse, daring repertoire. On The Window, she sings French cabaret, American showtunes, pop standards, and deep soul and blues cuts. She covers Nat King Cole and Brazilian songwriter Dori Caymmi, Cole Porter and jump blues pianist Buddy Johnson. She savors the spaces between styles, between lines, between notes. Take The Window’s first two tracks. Salvant opens with a gently psychedelic cover of “Visions,” from Stevie Wonder’s 1973 album, Innervisions. Fortner introduces the song with a set of vertiginous piano chords, as though leading us down a dark staircase into a basement nightclub. Salvant remains on the street, dreaming of a place—another somewhere—where “hate’s a dream and love forever stands…. Or is this a vision in my mind?” She never answers the question, but her voice has the steadiness of someone who wants to believe. Salvant follows it with “One Step Ahead,” a love song from an early Aretha Franklin record. The shift from social issues to romantic maneuvering seems jarring at first. But Salvant finds new implications in the song, not only by increasing the tempo to a full sprint but by placing it in the new context of this moment in American history. “I’m only one step ahead of heartbreak, one step ahead of misery,” she sings with an almost frantic determination. Salvant has found a fine match in Fortner, a New Orleans native who has played with the likes of Wynton Marsalis, John Scofield, and Paul Simon. He doesn’t accompany her so much as join in the conversation she’s having with these songs, occasionally even arguing with her about them. He toggles between the blues and jazz and classical figures with dizzying fluidity during “I’ve Got Your Number,” while his tectonic bass chords for “By Myself” make it seem like the ground is constantly shifting beneath Salvant. And when it comes to songs, it is: Salvant sings with the understanding that no tune is ever set in stone, even one as frequently sung as “Somewhere.” On The Window, she excels at keeping every possibility open all at once.

Artist: Cécile McLorin Salvant, Album: The Window, Genre: Jazz, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "When the jazz vocalist Cécile McLorin Salvant sings “Somewhere” on her fifth album, The Window, she approaches the American standard with complete knowledge of its monumental past—and its possibilities in the present. Over 60 years after its debut as a central number in West Side Story, “Somewhere” stands among the last century’s most-covered numbers, as one generation after another finds beauty to its promise of a place where they might fit in. So how does an artist in 2018 make “Somewhere” sound new? That’s the question Salvant and pianist Sullivan Fortner pose. After Fortner sneaks a few bustling bars of West Side Story’s “America” into the intro (a wink to the crowd at New York’s Village Vanguard, where this cover and another quarter of the album were recorded), the pair interrogate the tune and its guarantee of a safe haven. Arguably the leader in a resurgent scene of fully modern jazz singers, Salvant makes great tonal leaps throughout “Somewhere.” She sounds playful at the beginning, as though acknowledging the convention of past jazz masters interpreting it. But soon, she sings those two syllables like they’re a grim punchline. Near the end, she imbues it with the melancholy of a daydream she knows will never come true. Salvant understands the song as quintessentially American, an aspirational immigrant tune—“Somewhere… we’ll find a new way of living.” To make it sound relevant for our moment, she introduces the idea that “somewhere” might actually be anywhere but here. Among Salvant’s most distinguishing artistic traits is how she makes those tonal shifts not just exciting but meaningful. Her craft is undeniable, but built into her craft is the freshness of encountering each tune as though for the first time, figuring it out in the moment from one note to the next. She sings in conversation with every song, its lyrics, and its historical context. Salvant accomplishes that not only by using her voice to comment on lyrics while she delivers them but also by developing a diverse, daring repertoire. On The Window, she sings French cabaret, American showtunes, pop standards, and deep soul and blues cuts. She covers Nat King Cole and Brazilian songwriter Dori Caymmi, Cole Porter and jump blues pianist Buddy Johnson. She savors the spaces between styles, between lines, between notes. Take The Window’s first two tracks. Salvant opens with a gently psychedelic cover of “Visions,” from Stevie Wonder’s 1973 album, Innervisions. Fortner introduces the song with a set of vertiginous piano chords, as though leading us down a dark staircase into a basement nightclub. Salvant remains on the street, dreaming of a place—another somewhere—where “hate’s a dream and love forever stands…. Or is this a vision in my mind?” She never answers the question, but her voice has the steadiness of someone who wants to believe. Salvant follows it with “One Step Ahead,” a love song from an early Aretha Franklin record. The shift from social issues to romantic maneuvering seems jarring at first. But Salvant finds new implications in the song, not only by increasing the tempo to a full sprint but by placing it in the new context of this moment in American history. “I’m only one step ahead of heartbreak, one step ahead of misery,” she sings with an almost frantic determination. Salvant has found a fine match in Fortner, a New Orleans native who has played with the likes of Wynton Marsalis, John Scofield, and Paul Simon. He doesn’t accompany her so much as join in the conversation she’s having with these songs, occasionally even arguing with her about them. He toggles between the blues and jazz and classical figures with dizzying fluidity during “I’ve Got Your Number,” while his tectonic bass chords for “By Myself” make it seem like the ground is constantly shifting beneath Salvant. And when it comes to songs, it is: Salvant sings with the understanding that no tune is ever set in stone, even one as frequently sung as “Somewhere.” On The Window, she excels at keeping every possibility open all at once."

Patrick Wolf

Lycanthropy

Electronic,Rock

Dan Lett

Patrick Wolf certainly has his drooling admirers; not a glowering, baleful eye is cast on this 20-year-old on the first three pages of a Google search for his name. It's easy to see why. For one, the encumbering folklore that drags heavy about Wolf's skinny shoulders is intriguing in all the right ways: He casts himself as a neo-Dickensian laptop minstrel, a wandering electro-folk organ grinder, and a pacifist werewolf bent on a nomadic musical existence. Whether or not you buy into his mythology, though, his debut album confirms better reasons to check his music, not least of which is that the stockpile of personal issues he doles out here contains enough agony and energy to fuel the fires of several puberties. When Fat Cat Records discovered him four years ago, and saw fit to kit him out with his own mini-studio, he was just 16, but had already chalked up ten years of musicianship. He toured Europe with an orchestra, before going on to form the now-defunct punk band Maison Crimineaux in Paris. (The alias "Patrick Wolf" was conceived there shortly thereafter, with the assistance of a local clairvoyant.) And this impressive background has paid off with Lycanthropy, on which he wraps his folk-pop musings in lush blankets of violin, viola, harp and harpsichord, and tricks out the mix with aggressive electronic textures. His singing voice is fantastic as well, with a broad British accent recalling the caustic androgyny of Suede's Brett Anderson. Late British author Angela Carter played a formative role in Wolf's thematic development; her novel, The Brotherhood of the Wolf, inspired his lycanthropy obsession. Carter based much of her work on themes of adolescence embodied in erotic folklore metaphor, and here, Wolf occasionally paraphrases or condenses some of her passages in lyrics like, "I was once a boy/ Until I cut my penis off/ And grew a hairy scar of stubborn fire." But if his transformation from boy to wolf is complete, he's still marked by a mortal vulnerability-- a result of an unsettled childhood of bullying and rejection. "A Boy Like Me" is a perfectly sculpted pop song for the ubiquitous dissolute youth: "A boy like me is told he is both nine and ninety/ And a boy like me should shut those books and join the army." Alienation and teen misery are not rare commodities in music, but Wolf throws up such provocative contrasts ("I want total chaos/ And a holiday home in the east") that his naivete often seems acknowledged-- possibly even a put-on-- just another undercurrent in the clever, serpentine narratives that guide us through this densely self-aware work. When Wolf brings his considerable sequencing skills to the forefront, Lycanthropy echoes Warp Records prodigy Chris Clark's raw and uncompromising 2000 release Clarence Park. But then, Wolf's influences are so numerous that if occasional snatches of Clark or Nick Cave or Joni Mitchell are briefly detected, they quickly give way to fusions of other artists, or combine to create a sound of their own. Meanwhile, the music itself is polarized and raw, with (naturally) lycanthropic juxtapositions of rustic/urban, ordered/chaotic, naive/cynical. It may be tempting for some to judge Wolf in terms of his age, but this would be doing a disservice to a lyricist of such courage. If any complaint could be lodged against Lycanthropy, it's that it sometimes lacks subtlety, as it's possessed by a heady, pubescent intoxication that can result in some indiscriminate vocalizing. Still, witnessing such breathless unraveling of the heart and such thoughtless conviction that never quite sounds arrogant is exhilarating-- not to mention rare. Indeed, with Lycanthropy, Wolf has constructed a themed record that deftly manipulates myths while brazenly striding into new, tumultuous territory. On the eve of his virgin U.S. tour this May, it would seem he has more in common with the Pied Piper than with Peter Pan, and his eerie playing will surely seduce many into his following.

Artist: Patrick Wolf, Album: Lycanthropy, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Patrick Wolf certainly has his drooling admirers; not a glowering, baleful eye is cast on this 20-year-old on the first three pages of a Google search for his name. It's easy to see why. For one, the encumbering folklore that drags heavy about Wolf's skinny shoulders is intriguing in all the right ways: He casts himself as a neo-Dickensian laptop minstrel, a wandering electro-folk organ grinder, and a pacifist werewolf bent on a nomadic musical existence. Whether or not you buy into his mythology, though, his debut album confirms better reasons to check his music, not least of which is that the stockpile of personal issues he doles out here contains enough agony and energy to fuel the fires of several puberties. When Fat Cat Records discovered him four years ago, and saw fit to kit him out with his own mini-studio, he was just 16, but had already chalked up ten years of musicianship. He toured Europe with an orchestra, before going on to form the now-defunct punk band Maison Crimineaux in Paris. (The alias "Patrick Wolf" was conceived there shortly thereafter, with the assistance of a local clairvoyant.) And this impressive background has paid off with Lycanthropy, on which he wraps his folk-pop musings in lush blankets of violin, viola, harp and harpsichord, and tricks out the mix with aggressive electronic textures. His singing voice is fantastic as well, with a broad British accent recalling the caustic androgyny of Suede's Brett Anderson. Late British author Angela Carter played a formative role in Wolf's thematic development; her novel, The Brotherhood of the Wolf, inspired his lycanthropy obsession. Carter based much of her work on themes of adolescence embodied in erotic folklore metaphor, and here, Wolf occasionally paraphrases or condenses some of her passages in lyrics like, "I was once a boy/ Until I cut my penis off/ And grew a hairy scar of stubborn fire." But if his transformation from boy to wolf is complete, he's still marked by a mortal vulnerability-- a result of an unsettled childhood of bullying and rejection. "A Boy Like Me" is a perfectly sculpted pop song for the ubiquitous dissolute youth: "A boy like me is told he is both nine and ninety/ And a boy like me should shut those books and join the army." Alienation and teen misery are not rare commodities in music, but Wolf throws up such provocative contrasts ("I want total chaos/ And a holiday home in the east") that his naivete often seems acknowledged-- possibly even a put-on-- just another undercurrent in the clever, serpentine narratives that guide us through this densely self-aware work. When Wolf brings his considerable sequencing skills to the forefront, Lycanthropy echoes Warp Records prodigy Chris Clark's raw and uncompromising 2000 release Clarence Park. But then, Wolf's influences are so numerous that if occasional snatches of Clark or Nick Cave or Joni Mitchell are briefly detected, they quickly give way to fusions of other artists, or combine to create a sound of their own. Meanwhile, the music itself is polarized and raw, with (naturally) lycanthropic juxtapositions of rustic/urban, ordered/chaotic, naive/cynical. It may be tempting for some to judge Wolf in terms of his age, but this would be doing a disservice to a lyricist of such courage. If any complaint could be lodged against Lycanthropy, it's that it sometimes lacks subtlety, as it's possessed by a heady, pubescent intoxication that can result in some indiscriminate vocalizing. Still, witnessing such breathless unraveling of the heart and such thoughtless conviction that never quite sounds arrogant is exhilarating-- not to mention rare. Indeed, with Lycanthropy, Wolf has constructed a themed record that deftly manipulates myths while brazenly striding into new, tumultuous territory. On the eve of his virgin U.S. tour this May, it would seem he has more in common with the Pied Piper than with Peter Pan, and his eerie playing will surely seduce many into his following."

Bob Drake

The Shunned Country

Rock

Dominique Leone

Not many normal folks live around here anymore. I walked near the gates of the old house, but too near, cognizant as I was of whomever might be resting inside. This place was so barren of life and movement; you'd think nothing had been born here in 50 years. It reminded me of the Midwest, in America, driving there for hours on a two-lane highway nested between endless gray and brown fields of wild grass, barbed wire and the occasional wooden barn or tool shed, such as I was passing now. Of course, this is countryside in France, a world away from Illinois and what I never considered more than the Drab American Backdrop. I'd heard the people here stopped answering their doors after having one too many strange things show up. What a strange story. I'm going to see my friend Bob. He lives about 10 kilometers north in a cottage with his wife. He records all his music there in his own old, wooden barn. It's kind of funny to think that in the middle of all this decaying landscape, withering branches and mud that squirms like maggots near puddles of last week's rain, sits old Bob Drake recording music like some castaway of an art commune hell-bent on making folk hymns for ghosts, interspersed with avant-prog etudes and fragmented horror-show symphonettes. I have to admit that I wasn't looking forward to making the trek from Razes to Caudeval. After you pass the main road, there's not much but the "scenery". This place is cold. Nobody around here is willing to discuss the events that led them to dynamite the graveyard. I asked a few townspeople in Razes about it, but got only abrupt frowns in return, as if I'd said something offensive. I'd read about it before the flight, knowing Bob was into that kind of thing. However, seeing this place now, I wish I'd read more. Staring at this old house (curiously, it seems generally well kept-- I wonder if someone still lives here), rotting wood and whistling wind behind me, yellow-gray skies and the sun completely obscured by some pretty fucking odd cloud formations has me semi-spooked. I mean, I'm not deathly afraid of anything, but I have a chill that I can't pin completely on the breeze. The clouds are elongated and bending in unnaturally bizarre ways, as if God was strung out and particularly pessimistic today. The reputation of the house by the river isn't so good, and from what I understand, it wasn't exactly improved by what they found there after the recent storm ("freakishly localized", per Bob, though he tends to get macabre in weird moments). I've been staring at the front door for fifteen minutes now, getting colder and thinner in my cheek. I hate it when my mind wanders like this. I hate it because I'm at the mercy of whatever "spirits" inhabit this place. Like the wind, and that damn chattering grass. I don't think I've ever heard grass make noise like that. I don't think I've ever heard grass click and resonate like hollow wood. Hollow, dead, decomposing wood. Brown and black, and wet with muddy water, housing the eggs of mosquitoes and bacteria and parasites eating the life out of long-buried roots. Even the stars rot here, so the wolves can fly at night, driven by the scent of blood and small, crushed bones of whatever birds were unlucky enough to choose this route from the north. They say a noxious looking oily cloud came down into the yard here one day, and ever since then the things that grow here are deformed. Poisonous and evil. Where is the sun? Yes, and now someone is looking at me from the house. I hate it here. Why did I come this way? I can truthfully say that if I could pick a time to kick the bucket, I'd pick some other day. Who's there? "Hello?" No one answers. "Hello? Can you help me?" No one answers. The wind around my neck is coarse; it makes my hair scrape against my head, just like the grass in the yard of this house. I'm opening the gate. I've heard a lot about this house. I've heard too much, and haven't seen enough. I'm coming to the front door. I'm doing it. I'm going to open the door. "Witch house" be damned. Yellow fangs, loathsome tittering, hybrid blasphemy, morbid atrocity, paws-like-little-hands be damned. This is the shunned country. I bet you can get a place here real cheap. I remember he said, "if I were you, I'd avoid it." The shunned country. I'm going to open the door now. I'm tired of being afraid of this house. I'm tired of being afraid. "Hello?"

Artist: Bob Drake, Album: The Shunned Country, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "Not many normal folks live around here anymore. I walked near the gates of the old house, but too near, cognizant as I was of whomever might be resting inside. This place was so barren of life and movement; you'd think nothing had been born here in 50 years. It reminded me of the Midwest, in America, driving there for hours on a two-lane highway nested between endless gray and brown fields of wild grass, barbed wire and the occasional wooden barn or tool shed, such as I was passing now. Of course, this is countryside in France, a world away from Illinois and what I never considered more than the Drab American Backdrop. I'd heard the people here stopped answering their doors after having one too many strange things show up. What a strange story. I'm going to see my friend Bob. He lives about 10 kilometers north in a cottage with his wife. He records all his music there in his own old, wooden barn. It's kind of funny to think that in the middle of all this decaying landscape, withering branches and mud that squirms like maggots near puddles of last week's rain, sits old Bob Drake recording music like some castaway of an art commune hell-bent on making folk hymns for ghosts, interspersed with avant-prog etudes and fragmented horror-show symphonettes. I have to admit that I wasn't looking forward to making the trek from Razes to Caudeval. After you pass the main road, there's not much but the "scenery". This place is cold. Nobody around here is willing to discuss the events that led them to dynamite the graveyard. I asked a few townspeople in Razes about it, but got only abrupt frowns in return, as if I'd said something offensive. I'd read about it before the flight, knowing Bob was into that kind of thing. However, seeing this place now, I wish I'd read more. Staring at this old house (curiously, it seems generally well kept-- I wonder if someone still lives here), rotting wood and whistling wind behind me, yellow-gray skies and the sun completely obscured by some pretty fucking odd cloud formations has me semi-spooked. I mean, I'm not deathly afraid of anything, but I have a chill that I can't pin completely on the breeze. The clouds are elongated and bending in unnaturally bizarre ways, as if God was strung out and particularly pessimistic today. The reputation of the house by the river isn't so good, and from what I understand, it wasn't exactly improved by what they found there after the recent storm ("freakishly localized", per Bob, though he tends to get macabre in weird moments). I've been staring at the front door for fifteen minutes now, getting colder and thinner in my cheek. I hate it when my mind wanders like this. I hate it because I'm at the mercy of whatever "spirits" inhabit this place. Like the wind, and that damn chattering grass. I don't think I've ever heard grass make noise like that. I don't think I've ever heard grass click and resonate like hollow wood. Hollow, dead, decomposing wood. Brown and black, and wet with muddy water, housing the eggs of mosquitoes and bacteria and parasites eating the life out of long-buried roots. Even the stars rot here, so the wolves can fly at night, driven by the scent of blood and small, crushed bones of whatever birds were unlucky enough to choose this route from the north. They say a noxious looking oily cloud came down into the yard here one day, and ever since then the things that grow here are deformed. Poisonous and evil. Where is the sun? Yes, and now someone is looking at me from the house. I hate it here. Why did I come this way? I can truthfully say that if I could pick a time to kick the bucket, I'd pick some other day. Who's there? "Hello?" No one answers. "Hello? Can you help me?" No one answers. The wind around my neck is coarse; it makes my hair scrape against my head, just like the grass in the yard of this house. I'm opening the gate. I've heard a lot about this house. I've heard too much, and haven't seen enough. I'm coming to the front door. I'm doing it. I'm going to open the door. "Witch house" be damned. Yellow fangs, loathsome tittering, hybrid blasphemy, morbid atrocity, paws-like-little-hands be damned. This is the shunned country. I bet you can get a place here real cheap. I remember he said, "if I were you, I'd avoid it." The shunned country. I'm going to open the door now. I'm tired of being afraid of this house. I'm tired of being afraid. "Hello?""

AceMo

Black Populous

Electronic

Jesse Weiss

As a student at SUNY Purchase, Adrian “Ace” Mojica had the chance to work with Phil Moffa, a producer of gritty techno who holds office hours and teaches classes on mastering techniques. Even though AceMo has been making music for a while (as a member of the New York club-music collective Swim Team, and with a duo of cassettes for Brooklyn’s Bootleg Tapes), Moffa’s hands-on, hardware-centric approach catalyzed an evolution in AceMo’s live techno to a dusty, wheezing beast, now realized more than ever on the visceral, dystopian Black Populous. Before the first note of Black Populous hits, there’s a brief sound of hissing tape. This fuzzy electrical undercurrent runs through the album out of practical necessity. Armed with decades-old drum machines, synths, samplers, and a four-track cassette deck, AceMo forgoes the sharp-edged, chrome-plated possibilities of manipulating and arranging sounds on a computer for a more kinetic and expressive approach to making beats: sessions captured straight to tape, without edits or overdubs. This approach continues in the recent tradition of the New York underground: punk-techno from outlets like L.I.E.S., the dusty, muffled house of Terekke, or the low-slung moods of J. Albert. Call it “lo-fi,” but it’s the grimy byproduct of the city’s incessant throb—the take-no-prisoner beats reflect the necessity of hustling to make ends meet in a place as unforgiving as New York. Make noise with the tools you’ve got. Mojica’s relentless energy bares its teeth on the grinding, eight-minute “Hip Hop Hoax,” and mid-album cut “X Train.” Both tracks are experiments in noise-wrangling, as feedback stretches and squeals into slimey motifs that sound freshly scraped from sewage pipes. The raw energy in “Hip Hop Hoax” is a guttural scream, anchored by a booming 808-style bass drum, trying to break out of its box. The punishing beat pumps through the overloaded mix, and the track sounds at its best with the volume cranked all the way up, as loud as Ace had it running in his studio when he cut the track. “X Train” zips along at almost 140 bpm, effectively simulating an elevated Brooklyn subway car running an express route, the cabin shakes side-to-side while wheels screech and passengers barrel forward. Opening track “Acid Pact” features Detroit producer 2Lanes alongside Mojica as they dig into an electrical field of sputtering breaks and distant synths. “Acid Pact” feels more situated in the context of a whirlwind LSD trip than the 303/909 acid techno its name implies. Across seven minutes, fluttering synths and a commanding kick drum shift in and out of focus in a kaleidoscopic arrangement. It’s one of the deeper, less abrasive moments on the album, where softer edges feel like momentary comforts compared to the harsh environments these tracks reflect. The final two cuts, “Black Populous” and “Time 2 Change (Regular Ass Chord)” dive even further into comforting corners. The title track’s gently bobbing melody recalls Huerco S. or Person of Interest, while rapid-fire, iambic kick drums feel like a heartbeat on the verge of attack. At nine minutes, album closer “Time To Change” offers little variation, while a gorgeous chord anchors the slowly building beat in a blunted haze—a gentle coda to a particularly biting, near-80-minute album. Black Populous’ energy is only hampered by its length, with most tracks stretching upwards of six minutes. But the idea of a “black populous” has universal implications for AceMo, and the album doesn’t need to be digested all at once. Accompanying the release, Mojica writes: “Black is the color of endearment. Black is of pain, black is of freedom, black is cold, black is warm, black populous is whatever you, want it to be.” Even further, Black Populous is the thrum of New York, and in it, AceMo thrives.

Artist: AceMo, Album: Black Populous, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "As a student at SUNY Purchase, Adrian “Ace” Mojica had the chance to work with Phil Moffa, a producer of gritty techno who holds office hours and teaches classes on mastering techniques. Even though AceMo has been making music for a while (as a member of the New York club-music collective Swim Team, and with a duo of cassettes for Brooklyn’s Bootleg Tapes), Moffa’s hands-on, hardware-centric approach catalyzed an evolution in AceMo’s live techno to a dusty, wheezing beast, now realized more than ever on the visceral, dystopian Black Populous. Before the first note of Black Populous hits, there’s a brief sound of hissing tape. This fuzzy electrical undercurrent runs through the album out of practical necessity. Armed with decades-old drum machines, synths, samplers, and a four-track cassette deck, AceMo forgoes the sharp-edged, chrome-plated possibilities of manipulating and arranging sounds on a computer for a more kinetic and expressive approach to making beats: sessions captured straight to tape, without edits or overdubs. This approach continues in the recent tradition of the New York underground: punk-techno from outlets like L.I.E.S., the dusty, muffled house of Terekke, or the low-slung moods of J. Albert. Call it “lo-fi,” but it’s the grimy byproduct of the city’s incessant throb—the take-no-prisoner beats reflect the necessity of hustling to make ends meet in a place as unforgiving as New York. Make noise with the tools you’ve got. Mojica’s relentless energy bares its teeth on the grinding, eight-minute “Hip Hop Hoax,” and mid-album cut “X Train.” Both tracks are experiments in noise-wrangling, as feedback stretches and squeals into slimey motifs that sound freshly scraped from sewage pipes. The raw energy in “Hip Hop Hoax” is a guttural scream, anchored by a booming 808-style bass drum, trying to break out of its box. The punishing beat pumps through the overloaded mix, and the track sounds at its best with the volume cranked all the way up, as loud as Ace had it running in his studio when he cut the track. “X Train” zips along at almost 140 bpm, effectively simulating an elevated Brooklyn subway car running an express route, the cabin shakes side-to-side while wheels screech and passengers barrel forward. Opening track “Acid Pact” features Detroit producer 2Lanes alongside Mojica as they dig into an electrical field of sputtering breaks and distant synths. “Acid Pact” feels more situated in the context of a whirlwind LSD trip than the 303/909 acid techno its name implies. Across seven minutes, fluttering synths and a commanding kick drum shift in and out of focus in a kaleidoscopic arrangement. It’s one of the deeper, less abrasive moments on the album, where softer edges feel like momentary comforts compared to the harsh environments these tracks reflect. The final two cuts, “Black Populous” and “Time 2 Change (Regular Ass Chord)” dive even further into comforting corners. The title track’s gently bobbing melody recalls Huerco S. or Person of Interest, while rapid-fire, iambic kick drums feel like a heartbeat on the verge of attack. At nine minutes, album closer “Time To Change” offers little variation, while a gorgeous chord anchors the slowly building beat in a blunted haze—a gentle coda to a particularly biting, near-80-minute album. Black Populous’ energy is only hampered by its length, with most tracks stretching upwards of six minutes. But the idea of a “black populous” has universal implications for AceMo, and the album doesn’t need to be digested all at once. Accompanying the release, Mojica writes: “Black is the color of endearment. Black is of pain, black is of freedom, black is cold, black is warm, black populous is whatever you, want it to be.” Even further, Black Populous is the thrum of New York, and in it, AceMo thrives."

Gossip

Live in Liverpool

Electronic,Rock

Rebecca Raber

This live album, Gossip's first effort for their new Columbia-owned LGBT-themed label Music With a Twist, would get a pass simply on the strength of its bluesy dancefloor re-imagining of Wham!'s "Careless Whisper" alone. Sure, the punked-up 1980s cover trend is old-- must every band these day remake a hit from the Reagan era in their own American Apparel-clad image?-- and yes, any Gossip fan with access to a computer has probably already heard this track, as it has long been a British blogger favorite. But never mind. From its spare, throbbing-bass opening to super front woman Beth Ditto's soulful, wrenched delivery to its chugging conclusion, the song eschews the ironic wink and distanced posturing and infuses the song with the throttle and charisma that makes Gossip such a force. "Careless Whisper", as a result, has never sounded so raw: The song was always about regret, but something about George Michael's silky delivery and that hopelessly dated swooning saxophone gives it an air of elegant elevator muzak. As Ditto wails and Brace Paine's aggressive guitar stabs against Hannah Billie's four-on-the-floor stomp, they tear away all that was mannered about the original, leaving tears and sweat and propulsive dance rhythms in its place. Which, incidentally, is what the song is about in the first place. Luckily, this collection, which was recorded at a show (duh) in Liverpool last summer, has more to offer than just that one great song. Its two covers-- "Whisper" and Aaliyah's "Are You That Somebody?", which proves that should Ditto tire of wearing the mantle of tough garage-punk goddess, she's got the pop chops and the dramatic delivery to be a melisma-drunk R&B diva-- might be the highlights of this album. But the 11 originals, freed from the shackles of a recording studio, debut Gossip's sound as it has always been meant to be heard. Though the Oregon-via-Arkansas trio has released three studio albums over the past eight years, they have yet to capture the hot-blooded power of their muscular live sound on record. (They came closest on their previous live album, 2003's muddily recorded Undead in NYC.) This well-produced album attempts to remedy that and preserve their bluesy, blowzy show for posterity. Finally there's a sweat-and-beer-soaked alternative for those who always liked "Standing in the Way of Control" and "Don't Make Waves" but felt their studio incarnations were too clinical to capture the band’s overheated stage presence. (Want proof? Check the bonus DVD that comes packaged with this collection.) On Gossip's foray into dance-punk, 2006's Standing in the Way of Control, Billie's cool drum precision often felt too aloof for Ditto's bloody wail, so hearing that album's songs (most notably, standout "Yr Mangled Heart") live is to hear the rhythm section match Ditto's level of fabulously messy agitation. There's not much stage banter here-- though Ditto does dedicate two songs to "the faggots" and "the dykes" respectively-- but this collection will still give listeners the feeling of being at one Gossip's concerts, complete with Joplin-esque vocal riffs, cathartic guitar bursts, and crowd singalongs (this was, afterall, recorded in England where Ditto is a much bigger NME-crowned star). There are few women in music today with pipes like Ditto's and even fewer still that can pull off her level of vocal emoting without either sounding overwrought or needing a backing track. So a live album is a wise way for Gossip to introduce themselves to their new major label. It highlights their strengths (that voice, those beats, that authentic giving-it-their-all vibe) and hides their weaknesses (lack of songwriting breadth and dynamic diversity) making it sound like there's no place more fun than a Gossip concert, and no better host than Beth Ditto.

Artist: Gossip, Album: Live in Liverpool, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "This live album, Gossip's first effort for their new Columbia-owned LGBT-themed label Music With a Twist, would get a pass simply on the strength of its bluesy dancefloor re-imagining of Wham!'s "Careless Whisper" alone. Sure, the punked-up 1980s cover trend is old-- must every band these day remake a hit from the Reagan era in their own American Apparel-clad image?-- and yes, any Gossip fan with access to a computer has probably already heard this track, as it has long been a British blogger favorite. But never mind. From its spare, throbbing-bass opening to super front woman Beth Ditto's soulful, wrenched delivery to its chugging conclusion, the song eschews the ironic wink and distanced posturing and infuses the song with the throttle and charisma that makes Gossip such a force. "Careless Whisper", as a result, has never sounded so raw: The song was always about regret, but something about George Michael's silky delivery and that hopelessly dated swooning saxophone gives it an air of elegant elevator muzak. As Ditto wails and Brace Paine's aggressive guitar stabs against Hannah Billie's four-on-the-floor stomp, they tear away all that was mannered about the original, leaving tears and sweat and propulsive dance rhythms in its place. Which, incidentally, is what the song is about in the first place. Luckily, this collection, which was recorded at a show (duh) in Liverpool last summer, has more to offer than just that one great song. Its two covers-- "Whisper" and Aaliyah's "Are You That Somebody?", which proves that should Ditto tire of wearing the mantle of tough garage-punk goddess, she's got the pop chops and the dramatic delivery to be a melisma-drunk R&B diva-- might be the highlights of this album. But the 11 originals, freed from the shackles of a recording studio, debut Gossip's sound as it has always been meant to be heard. Though the Oregon-via-Arkansas trio has released three studio albums over the past eight years, they have yet to capture the hot-blooded power of their muscular live sound on record. (They came closest on their previous live album, 2003's muddily recorded Undead in NYC.) This well-produced album attempts to remedy that and preserve their bluesy, blowzy show for posterity. Finally there's a sweat-and-beer-soaked alternative for those who always liked "Standing in the Way of Control" and "Don't Make Waves" but felt their studio incarnations were too clinical to capture the band’s overheated stage presence. (Want proof? Check the bonus DVD that comes packaged with this collection.) On Gossip's foray into dance-punk, 2006's Standing in the Way of Control, Billie's cool drum precision often felt too aloof for Ditto's bloody wail, so hearing that album's songs (most notably, standout "Yr Mangled Heart") live is to hear the rhythm section match Ditto's level of fabulously messy agitation. There's not much stage banter here-- though Ditto does dedicate two songs to "the faggots" and "the dykes" respectively-- but this collection will still give listeners the feeling of being at one Gossip's concerts, complete with Joplin-esque vocal riffs, cathartic guitar bursts, and crowd singalongs (this was, afterall, recorded in England where Ditto is a much bigger NME-crowned star). There are few women in music today with pipes like Ditto's and even fewer still that can pull off her level of vocal emoting without either sounding overwrought or needing a backing track. So a live album is a wise way for Gossip to introduce themselves to their new major label. It highlights their strengths (that voice, those beats, that authentic giving-it-their-all vibe) and hides their weaknesses (lack of songwriting breadth and dynamic diversity) making it sound like there's no place more fun than a Gossip concert, and no better host than Beth Ditto."

Randy Newman

Good Old Boys

Rock

Winston Cook-Wilson

Since his teenage days marketing demos to pop singers, Randy Newman has fancied himself a shirt-sleeves-rolled-up piano man in the classic mold more than a rock musician—a Laurel Canyon-era Hoagy Carmichael or Harold Arlen, if they wrote about young women being run over by beach cleaning trucks or lonely men with hat fetishes. Guitar leads and crisp grooves crop up across all of Newman’s studio albums, but live, he defaults to performing alone, interspersing his intimate, charmingly imperfect sets with self-deprecating banter and sarcastic qualifications. His sense of humor, even outside of his caustically funny songs, can be polarizing. For one critic—Greil Marcus—a February ’75 Newman show proved toxic, threatening to overturn his reverent opinion of the Los Angeles singer-songwriter. With his stage banter and rave-up delivery, Marcus felt that Newman was lampooning the morally compromised but disenfranchised characters who populated his album of the previous year, Good Old Boys, which was written largely from the perspective of a bigoted Southern steel worker. “He made it clear that the song [“A Wedding in Cherokee County”] was a joke, that the people were jokes, that their predicament was something those smart enough to buy tickets to his concert could take as a sideshow staged for their personal amusement,” Marcus wrote in The Village Voice, excoriating the tittering, cocktail-sipping Manhattan crowd. If Good Old Boys came out today, the nature of the criticism would, doubtless, be quite the opposite. Newman, who spent his childhood in New Orleans, would not have passed sufficient judgment on his racist, abusive subjects. He’d be criticized for assuming their detestable vocabulary, and for even dreaming up such a project in the first place. Any discussion of the album begins and probably ends with the fact that on its opening track, Newman — speaking as the steel worker, whom he named “Johnny Cutler” on early drafts for the album — says the “n”-word eight times, not including one use of “Negro.” Cutler is a gaping all-American nightmare in the vein of Mark Twain’s Pap. In the song, he seethes while watching Lester Maddox—the Klan-backed, segregationist governor of Georgia from 1967 to 1971 — be jeered offstage on “The Dick Cavett Show” (by “some smart-ass New York Jew,” Newman sneers). “Rednecks” was a few steps, or a parkour leap, beyond any grotesque character study Newman had previously attempted, even 12 Songs’ masterclass in voyeuristic white privilege “Yellow Man” (“Eating rice all day/While the children play/You see he believe in a family/Just like you and me”) and “Sail Away,” his slave-trader salesman pitch to a group of Africans (“Climb aboard, little wog/Sail away with me”). Cutler is so content to wear his ignorance like a badge of honor in “Rednecks” that it’s easy to mistake some lines for Newman’s own voice nervously interceding to denounce him. The surging, C&W-tinged chorus of “We’re rednecks, rednecks/We don’t know our ass from a hole in the ground” functions as both Greek-chorus commentary on the action and Cutler’s motto. (It’s harmonized immaculately by—yes—the Eagles, who would conveniently drop out before “and we’re keeping the n*ggers down.”) To make things even thornier, Newman folds bits of salient criticism about the hypocrisy of holier-than-thou Northern white liberals—in denial about the institutionalized segregation of their own communities—into Cutler’s objectionable voice. “Now your Northern n*gger’s a Negro/You see he’s got his dignity,” Cutler sneers facetiously, before leading a whirlwind tour through the implicitly ghettoized North (“He’s free to be put in a cage in Harlem in New York City/He’s free to be put in a cage on the South Side of Chicago, and the West Side”) with revival-meeting-like gusto that forces him off the beat entirely. The orchestra, in turn, seizes up and derails beneath him before thudding to a sudden halt. It’s the first indication that this album is no simple character study, but a composite survey of the roots and institutionalization of Southern bigotry in the 20th century—in other words, the diciest and most formidable project Randy Newman had (and has) ever attempted. Newman sells his pivots and double-meanings skillfully in “Rednecks,” the album’s microcosm, through both his character building and deceptively intricate music—peppered with gestures that could have been pulled from ragtime standards, brass-band chorales, and the mid-19th-century popular songs of Stephen Foster. Like most of Good Old Boys, the song was scored for piano, full orchestra (largely arranged and entirely conducted by Newman), and rock rhythm section (expert bass and drums from L.A. studio masters like Jim Keltner and Willie Weeks, inspired by Muscle Shoals productions). Today, “Rednecks” might seem like a relic, or baiting, self-satisfied armchair-liberal-ism at cross-purposes with itself. What constructive function does this kind of “humor” serve? By any stretch of the imagination, does Newman have the right to invoke this language? It’s an open question, but Hilton Als’ measured defense of Flannery O’Connor’s non-biographical, darkly humorous, “n”-word-studded Southern fiction comes to mind, especially his praise of the Georgia-born author’s rare ability “to depict with humor and without judgment her rapidly crumbling social order.” This, too, is Newman’s subject and methodology. His characters’ vocabulary pulls back the curtain on their self-hatred, so he doesn’t have to butt in and do it for them (O’Connor called this “mind[ing] your own bisnis”). He illuminates their fear of becoming marginal, their search for fundamental truth in all the wrong places, and the dead-end rituals of behavior and thought that anchor their communities. Newman’s narrators are the ones in his crosshairs; their unworthy targets are never dragged down with them—never roped into the songs’ action to ossify into caricatures and become punchlines. Lost in their demented reveries, and powerless to tell their imagined nemeses’ stories for them, Newman’s basket of deplorables are left to fall on their swords all by themselves. Jeff Chang deemed Newman’s approach, in defense of “Korean Parents” —another incendiary Newman song from 2008 —“the best kind of race humor… found by wedging open the wound long enough to stare at, and then sharing the joke in that. Of course, the trick is that you need to be the one who's bleeding.” Newman felt that he needed to write “Birmingham” and “Marie,” to “explain ‘Rednecks’ better.” From there, Cutler became the necessary protagonist o

Artist: Randy Newman, Album: Good Old Boys, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.3 Album review: "Since his teenage days marketing demos to pop singers, Randy Newman has fancied himself a shirt-sleeves-rolled-up piano man in the classic mold more than a rock musician—a Laurel Canyon-era Hoagy Carmichael or Harold Arlen, if they wrote about young women being run over by beach cleaning trucks or lonely men with hat fetishes. Guitar leads and crisp grooves crop up across all of Newman’s studio albums, but live, he defaults to performing alone, interspersing his intimate, charmingly imperfect sets with self-deprecating banter and sarcastic qualifications. His sense of humor, even outside of his caustically funny songs, can be polarizing. For one critic—Greil Marcus—a February ’75 Newman show proved toxic, threatening to overturn his reverent opinion of the Los Angeles singer-songwriter. With his stage banter and rave-up delivery, Marcus felt that Newman was lampooning the morally compromised but disenfranchised characters who populated his album of the previous year, Good Old Boys, which was written largely from the perspective of a bigoted Southern steel worker. “He made it clear that the song [“A Wedding in Cherokee County”] was a joke, that the people were jokes, that their predicament was something those smart enough to buy tickets to his concert could take as a sideshow staged for their personal amusement,” Marcus wrote in The Village Voice, excoriating the tittering, cocktail-sipping Manhattan crowd. If Good Old Boys came out today, the nature of the criticism would, doubtless, be quite the opposite. Newman, who spent his childhood in New Orleans, would not have passed sufficient judgment on his racist, abusive subjects. He’d be criticized for assuming their detestable vocabulary, and for even dreaming up such a project in the first place. Any discussion of the album begins and probably ends with the fact that on its opening track, Newman — speaking as the steel worker, whom he named “Johnny Cutler” on early drafts for the album — says the “n”-word eight times, not including one use of “Negro.” Cutler is a gaping all-American nightmare in the vein of Mark Twain’s Pap. In the song, he seethes while watching Lester Maddox—the Klan-backed, segregationist governor of Georgia from 1967 to 1971 — be jeered offstage on “The Dick Cavett Show” (by “some smart-ass New York Jew,” Newman sneers). “Rednecks” was a few steps, or a parkour leap, beyond any grotesque character study Newman had previously attempted, even 12 Songs’ masterclass in voyeuristic white privilege “Yellow Man” (“Eating rice all day/While the children play/You see he believe in a family/Just like you and me”) and “Sail Away,” his slave-trader salesman pitch to a group of Africans (“Climb aboard, little wog/Sail away with me”). Cutler is so content to wear his ignorance like a badge of honor in “Rednecks” that it’s easy to mistake some lines for Newman’s own voice nervously interceding to denounce him. The surging, C&W-tinged chorus of “We’re rednecks, rednecks/We don’t know our ass from a hole in the ground” functions as both Greek-chorus commentary on the action and Cutler’s motto. (It’s harmonized immaculately by—yes—the Eagles, who would conveniently drop out before “and we’re keeping the n*ggers down.”) To make things even thornier, Newman folds bits of salient criticism about the hypocrisy of holier-than-thou Northern white liberals—in denial about the institutionalized segregation of their own communities—into Cutler’s objectionable voice. “Now your Northern n*gger’s a Negro/You see he’s got his dignity,” Cutler sneers facetiously, before leading a whirlwind tour through the implicitly ghettoized North (“He’s free to be put in a cage in Harlem in New York City/He’s free to be put in a cage on the South Side of Chicago, and the West Side”) with revival-meeting-like gusto that forces him off the beat entirely. The orchestra, in turn, seizes up and derails beneath him before thudding to a sudden halt. It’s the first indication that this album is no simple character study, but a composite survey of the roots and institutionalization of Southern bigotry in the 20th century—in other words, the diciest and most formidable project Randy Newman had (and has) ever attempted. Newman sells his pivots and double-meanings skillfully in “Rednecks,” the album’s microcosm, through both his character building and deceptively intricate music—peppered with gestures that could have been pulled from ragtime standards, brass-band chorales, and the mid-19th-century popular songs of Stephen Foster. Like most of Good Old Boys, the song was scored for piano, full orchestra (largely arranged and entirely conducted by Newman), and rock rhythm section (expert bass and drums from L.A. studio masters like Jim Keltner and Willie Weeks, inspired by Muscle Shoals productions). Today, “Rednecks” might seem like a relic, or baiting, self-satisfied armchair-liberal-ism at cross-purposes with itself. What constructive function does this kind of “humor” serve? By any stretch of the imagination, does Newman have the right to invoke this language? It’s an open question, but Hilton Als’ measured defense of Flannery O’Connor’s non-biographical, darkly humorous, “n”-word-studded Southern fiction comes to mind, especially his praise of the Georgia-born author’s rare ability “to depict with humor and without judgment her rapidly crumbling social order.” This, too, is Newman’s subject and methodology. His characters’ vocabulary pulls back the curtain on their self-hatred, so he doesn’t have to butt in and do it for them (O’Connor called this “mind[ing] your own bisnis”). He illuminates their fear of becoming marginal, their search for fundamental truth in all the wrong places, and the dead-end rituals of behavior and thought that anchor their communities. Newman’s narrators are the ones in his crosshairs; their unworthy targets are never dragged down with them—never roped into the songs’ action to ossify into caricatures and become punchlines. Lost in their demented reveries, and powerless to tell their imagined nemeses’ stories for them, Newman’s basket of deplorables are left to fall on their swords all by themselves. Jeff Chang deemed Newman’s approach, in defense of “Korean Parents” —another incendiary Newman song from 2008 —“the best kind of race humor… found by wedging open the wound long enough to stare at, and then sharing the joke in that. Of course, the trick is that you need to be the one who's bleeding.” Newman felt that he needed to write “Birmingham” and “Marie,” to “explain ‘Rednecks’ better.” From there, Cutler became the necessary protagonist o"

Jessie Ware

Glasshouse

Pop/R&B

Brad Nelson

On the front cover of Glasshouse, Jessie Ware is pictured emerging from the courtyard of the Neuendorf House on the island of Mallorca, off the coast of Spain. The modernist villa, designed by architects John Pawson and Claudio Silvestrin, is less a house than a series of walls that give shape to different kinds of space: long hallways that open out onto a tennis court and a rectangular pool, the ceilings in the interior partially deleted to let long rhombuses of light in. The photo is not exclusively focused on Ware and the shadows pooling around her; the eye is drawn as much to the soft, ruddy brown of the walls or the blue sky packed into a crisp rectangle above her. Ware wanted the cover to emphasize architecture; as she explained in an interview the week before the image was shot, “I want it to be a beautiful image that maybe I’m a small part of.” Each song on Glasshouse has its own distinct aesthetic; unlike her previous albums, 2012’s Devotion and 2014’s Tough Love, there are no songs here that could be confused for each other, none that seem an afterthought carved from the greater mood of the album. Here, tracks are discrete entities, seemingly designed and assembled by its own team of architects, whether it’s Benny Blanco, Cashmere Cat, and Happy Perez embroidering “Selfish Love” with weightless, rippling flamenco guitar or Stint forming the spine of “Your Domino” entirely out of soft synthetic pulses. It almost feels like Ware is trying to divert attention from herself, but she is positioned directly at the center of the album’s trembling choreography. She connects each of these unrelated environments—shaping them, in the tradition of singers like Anita Baker, into slippery vacuums of desire. They’re songs about how feelings tend not to map onto reality, and how reality tends to be undisturbed by the weight of our feelings. And Glasshouse came at a deepy emotional time for Ware; she wrote much of its lyrics after giving birth to her daughter, while immersed in the exhaustion of early parenthood. The intimacy that exists at the margins of sleep isn’t ordinarily a subject of pop music; in the last 10 years, it can be mostly located in R&B songs like Janet Jackson’s “No Sleeep,” Maxwell’s “Pretty Wings,” and Miguel’s “Coffee,” among others. But this is precisely the feeling that Ware is trying to draw to the surface of her record, the idle moments that initially seem to have little universal importance but people tend to find themselves in, anyway. As if imitating the Neuendorf villa, on Glasshouse, Ware longs to partially delete the ceiling of her own house, in order to zoom in on the private warmth of domesticity. In the closing track “Sam,” which Ware co-wrote with Ed Sheeran, she drinks a cup of coffee at a train station and seems to lose herself in someone else’s conversation—but even as her thoughts scatter, they always circle back to her husband and her child and the ways in which they both rerouted her life. “And I hope I’m as brave as my mother, wondering what kind of mother will I be,” she sings in the chorus. “I hope she knows that I found a man far from my father/Sam, my baby, and me.” The acoustic guitar, Pino Palladino’s bass, and Ware’s voice seem to disappear into a humming cloud of synths and cymbals, through which Nico Segal plays a trumpet solo; his individual notes cluster, separate, and pulse faintly through the membrane of smoke. Ware feels especially at home in the more organic arrangements on Glasshouse. “Selfish Love” and “Sam” are supported by the rhythm section of bassist Palladino and drummer Chris Dave, both of whom accompanied D’Angelo on his 2014 album Black Messiah, and whose playing shapeshifted according to the liquid design of that album’s funk and soul songs. Dave and Palladino are extraordinary, dexterous players; on Ware’s songs, which aren’t necessarily detached from either funk or soul, they express themselves primarily through restraint—Dave barely plays on the verses of “Selfish Love,” and his interlocking rhythms in the chorus make it sound as if the track is being pushed by whispers. Stint supplies live drums to the slow jam “Stay Awake, Wait for Me,” and the delay between each snare hit adds a stretchy emptiness between Ware’s shivering musical sighs. The song itself sounds drowsy, only half-awake to its own desires, formed in a language that repeats itself and digresses, as if it were composed just after Ware surfaced from a deep dream. “We could be a perfect picture,” Ware sings. “Picture this/An endless kiss/You’re hanging on my lips.” On the album’s best song, “Last of the True Believers,” Ware sketches another intimate scene: a couple (possibly a family) driving through mist, abandoning a vast city behind them. The details stop evolving there and begin to evaporate as Ware’s attention drifts toward more abstract but enveloping images. “Let’s be alone together, where the sky falls through the river,” she sings, and the family, the car, and the city are absorbed into this greater feeling. The instruments behind her gently flicker and glow. This is Ware’s particular talent: her ability to seamlessly flow from the specific to the general, from complicated to clear, her songs gradually including you. “Let’s get lost forever/Are you hearing me?” she sings; her words are echoed by Paul Buchanan, frontman of the glacial Scottish band the Blue Nile, who developed the form of immersive romanticism which Ware inhabits here. “Last of the True Believers” brings to mind a reel of discrete images of longing: thickets of illuminated buildings, streetlamps glowing through a thick fog, a love so intimate and powerful it not only maps onto the environment seamlessly but it changes it. It’s architecture. Ware is just a small part of the beautiful image, but she’s also the reason for it.

Artist: Jessie Ware, Album: Glasshouse, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "On the front cover of Glasshouse, Jessie Ware is pictured emerging from the courtyard of the Neuendorf House on the island of Mallorca, off the coast of Spain. The modernist villa, designed by architects John Pawson and Claudio Silvestrin, is less a house than a series of walls that give shape to different kinds of space: long hallways that open out onto a tennis court and a rectangular pool, the ceilings in the interior partially deleted to let long rhombuses of light in. The photo is not exclusively focused on Ware and the shadows pooling around her; the eye is drawn as much to the soft, ruddy brown of the walls or the blue sky packed into a crisp rectangle above her. Ware wanted the cover to emphasize architecture; as she explained in an interview the week before the image was shot, “I want it to be a beautiful image that maybe I’m a small part of.” Each song on Glasshouse has its own distinct aesthetic; unlike her previous albums, 2012’s Devotion and 2014’s Tough Love, there are no songs here that could be confused for each other, none that seem an afterthought carved from the greater mood of the album. Here, tracks are discrete entities, seemingly designed and assembled by its own team of architects, whether it’s Benny Blanco, Cashmere Cat, and Happy Perez embroidering “Selfish Love” with weightless, rippling flamenco guitar or Stint forming the spine of “Your Domino” entirely out of soft synthetic pulses. It almost feels like Ware is trying to divert attention from herself, but she is positioned directly at the center of the album’s trembling choreography. She connects each of these unrelated environments—shaping them, in the tradition of singers like Anita Baker, into slippery vacuums of desire. They’re songs about how feelings tend not to map onto reality, and how reality tends to be undisturbed by the weight of our feelings. And Glasshouse came at a deepy emotional time for Ware; she wrote much of its lyrics after giving birth to her daughter, while immersed in the exhaustion of early parenthood. The intimacy that exists at the margins of sleep isn’t ordinarily a subject of pop music; in the last 10 years, it can be mostly located in R&B songs like Janet Jackson’s “No Sleeep,” Maxwell’s “Pretty Wings,” and Miguel’s “Coffee,” among others. But this is precisely the feeling that Ware is trying to draw to the surface of her record, the idle moments that initially seem to have little universal importance but people tend to find themselves in, anyway. As if imitating the Neuendorf villa, on Glasshouse, Ware longs to partially delete the ceiling of her own house, in order to zoom in on the private warmth of domesticity. In the closing track “Sam,” which Ware co-wrote with Ed Sheeran, she drinks a cup of coffee at a train station and seems to lose herself in someone else’s conversation—but even as her thoughts scatter, they always circle back to her husband and her child and the ways in which they both rerouted her life. “And I hope I’m as brave as my mother, wondering what kind of mother will I be,” she sings in the chorus. “I hope she knows that I found a man far from my father/Sam, my baby, and me.” The acoustic guitar, Pino Palladino’s bass, and Ware’s voice seem to disappear into a humming cloud of synths and cymbals, through which Nico Segal plays a trumpet solo; his individual notes cluster, separate, and pulse faintly through the membrane of smoke. Ware feels especially at home in the more organic arrangements on Glasshouse. “Selfish Love” and “Sam” are supported by the rhythm section of bassist Palladino and drummer Chris Dave, both of whom accompanied D’Angelo on his 2014 album Black Messiah, and whose playing shapeshifted according to the liquid design of that album’s funk and soul songs. Dave and Palladino are extraordinary, dexterous players; on Ware’s songs, which aren’t necessarily detached from either funk or soul, they express themselves primarily through restraint—Dave barely plays on the verses of “Selfish Love,” and his interlocking rhythms in the chorus make it sound as if the track is being pushed by whispers. Stint supplies live drums to the slow jam “Stay Awake, Wait for Me,” and the delay between each snare hit adds a stretchy emptiness between Ware’s shivering musical sighs. The song itself sounds drowsy, only half-awake to its own desires, formed in a language that repeats itself and digresses, as if it were composed just after Ware surfaced from a deep dream. “We could be a perfect picture,” Ware sings. “Picture this/An endless kiss/You’re hanging on my lips.” On the album’s best song, “Last of the True Believers,” Ware sketches another intimate scene: a couple (possibly a family) driving through mist, abandoning a vast city behind them. The details stop evolving there and begin to evaporate as Ware’s attention drifts toward more abstract but enveloping images. “Let’s be alone together, where the sky falls through the river,” she sings, and the family, the car, and the city are absorbed into this greater feeling. The instruments behind her gently flicker and glow. This is Ware’s particular talent: her ability to seamlessly flow from the specific to the general, from complicated to clear, her songs gradually including you. “Let’s get lost forever/Are you hearing me?” she sings; her words are echoed by Paul Buchanan, frontman of the glacial Scottish band the Blue Nile, who developed the form of immersive romanticism which Ware inhabits here. “Last of the True Believers” brings to mind a reel of discrete images of longing: thickets of illuminated buildings, streetlamps glowing through a thick fog, a love so intimate and powerful it not only maps onto the environment seamlessly but it changes it. It’s architecture. Ware is just a small part of the beautiful image, but she’s also the reason for it."

Alexis Taylor

Beautiful Thing

Electronic

Jesse Dorris

Alexis Taylor’s new album, Beautiful Thing, begins with a slightly muffled, boompty beat, part throbbing of the heart and part pounding of a speaker heard through a bathroom door. “I’m dreaming another life,” Taylor sings, his voice quavering sweetly. “Won’t you meet me out of your mind?” Taylor has spent the last 15 years or so dreaming things up. As the lead singer of Hot Chip, he imagined working-class British versions of American R&B (their 2004 debut, Coming on Strong), disco abandon (2008’s “Ready for the Floor”), and ’90s diva house (2015’s “Need You Now”). Around and between those albums, Taylor formed the improvisatory trio About Group with members of This Heat and widescreen junglists Spring Heel Jack. As a solo artist, Taylor has variously fancied drones; amiable odes to old pros like Paul McCartney and Todd Rundgren; and most recently a collection of straightforward piano-man twinklers. Snatches of his discography waft throughout “Dreaming Another Life,” the opener to Taylor’s fourth solo album, as if before this dream he’d fallen asleep counting sleeves of his old records. It’s hypnotic but unsettled, stumbling from a warm passage of ambient house to loops of squalling noise to a glittering sheet of treated guitar. “The changes are hard to hear,” he sings, “but I know they hide in here/I’ll pull them together soon/Somewhere out of this thick air.” The title track arrives like a thunderstorm through billowing curtains. Created, along with most of the album, in concert with DFA co-founder Tim Goldsworthy, “Beautiful Thing” boasts a bed of acid supporting unfurling swaths of noise, little winces of keyboards, and warm fluffy clouds of piano. “I try to reach you/But our love is undefined,” Taylor sighs, his voice caught in reverb. As with “Dreaming Another Life,” the song again and again starts to congeal, yet can’t quite become tangible. It’s the sound of Taylor caught in an irresistible haze, failing to slough away the sleepiness. Taylor picks up the kind of shrugging boogie Christine McVie once put down for mid-album highlight “Oh Baby,” a kind of anxious paean to cohabitation. “There is nothing greater than the sight of you just dreaming free,” he sings as the chorus rises and falls, “and if I close my eyes I know that I will lose you when I wake.” And so, for the rest of the album, he sort of decides not to, tossing and turning in the throes of sadder songs. “Deep Cut” is a kind of “Nightshift” for the unemployed; “Roll on Blank Tapes” is something like if the On-U Sound System attempted a sea chanty; “I Feel You” approaches the grace of Antony and the Johnson’s “You Are My Sister” or “Thank You for Your Love,” without the aura of trauma. The layers of sound Taylor presents are sumptuous, full of tossed-off licks of piano and guitar that gather into motifs more deluxe than his recent solo work but far scruffier than Hot Chip. Tucked into them, Taylor’s lyrics make strange but welcome bedfellows. Often, he uses the language of music-making as a metaphor for connection. In the stately vocal showcase “A Hit Song,” he sings, “I need a high note/A moment to clear throats/Of all who have lost hope/And need a response.../And I know there is something left to lose/And high notes don’t always reach the truth.” There’s a catch in his voice like a dull sun through the blinds, capturing the moment of waking up and reaching out to find the pillow’s vacant after all.

Artist: Alexis Taylor, Album: Beautiful Thing, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Alexis Taylor’s new album, Beautiful Thing, begins with a slightly muffled, boompty beat, part throbbing of the heart and part pounding of a speaker heard through a bathroom door. “I’m dreaming another life,” Taylor sings, his voice quavering sweetly. “Won’t you meet me out of your mind?” Taylor has spent the last 15 years or so dreaming things up. As the lead singer of Hot Chip, he imagined working-class British versions of American R&B (their 2004 debut, Coming on Strong), disco abandon (2008’s “Ready for the Floor”), and ’90s diva house (2015’s “Need You Now”). Around and between those albums, Taylor formed the improvisatory trio About Group with members of This Heat and widescreen junglists Spring Heel Jack. As a solo artist, Taylor has variously fancied drones; amiable odes to old pros like Paul McCartney and Todd Rundgren; and most recently a collection of straightforward piano-man twinklers. Snatches of his discography waft throughout “Dreaming Another Life,” the opener to Taylor’s fourth solo album, as if before this dream he’d fallen asleep counting sleeves of his old records. It’s hypnotic but unsettled, stumbling from a warm passage of ambient house to loops of squalling noise to a glittering sheet of treated guitar. “The changes are hard to hear,” he sings, “but I know they hide in here/I’ll pull them together soon/Somewhere out of this thick air.” The title track arrives like a thunderstorm through billowing curtains. Created, along with most of the album, in concert with DFA co-founder Tim Goldsworthy, “Beautiful Thing” boasts a bed of acid supporting unfurling swaths of noise, little winces of keyboards, and warm fluffy clouds of piano. “I try to reach you/But our love is undefined,” Taylor sighs, his voice caught in reverb. As with “Dreaming Another Life,” the song again and again starts to congeal, yet can’t quite become tangible. It’s the sound of Taylor caught in an irresistible haze, failing to slough away the sleepiness. Taylor picks up the kind of shrugging boogie Christine McVie once put down for mid-album highlight “Oh Baby,” a kind of anxious paean to cohabitation. “There is nothing greater than the sight of you just dreaming free,” he sings as the chorus rises and falls, “and if I close my eyes I know that I will lose you when I wake.” And so, for the rest of the album, he sort of decides not to, tossing and turning in the throes of sadder songs. “Deep Cut” is a kind of “Nightshift” for the unemployed; “Roll on Blank Tapes” is something like if the On-U Sound System attempted a sea chanty; “I Feel You” approaches the grace of Antony and the Johnson’s “You Are My Sister” or “Thank You for Your Love,” without the aura of trauma. The layers of sound Taylor presents are sumptuous, full of tossed-off licks of piano and guitar that gather into motifs more deluxe than his recent solo work but far scruffier than Hot Chip. Tucked into them, Taylor’s lyrics make strange but welcome bedfellows. Often, he uses the language of music-making as a metaphor for connection. In the stately vocal showcase “A Hit Song,” he sings, “I need a high note/A moment to clear throats/Of all who have lost hope/And need a response.../And I know there is something left to lose/And high notes don’t always reach the truth.” There’s a catch in his voice like a dull sun through the blinds, capturing the moment of waking up and reaching out to find the pillow’s vacant after all."

The Old Ceremony

Walk on Thin Air

Rock

Joshua Love

While it's certainly not as egregious as a shitty nu-grunge band naming itself Godsmack or some emo-inclined Morrissey acolytes calling themselves Girl in a Coma, Chapel Hill's the Old Ceremony does lay plain one of its most prominent influences with their choice of name. New Skin for the Old Ceremony is among the most revered entries in the distinguished catalogue of Leonard Cohen, whose darkly elegant approach to pop serves as clear (though by no means lone) inspiration for this noir-ish act that takes its name from his 1974 album. Clearly this isn't a band that shies away from its essential nature or refuses to admit its antecedents. Singer and principal songwriter Django Haskins has even acknowledged in interviews the seeming inevitability of his choosing to play guitar after having been named for the legendary Django Reinhardt. That attitude of acceptance and comfortableness in one's skin permeates the Old Ceremony's newest album, Walk on Thin Air, a mature, assured effort that finds the group confronting some of life's most grim and intractable realities with honest humility and patient deliberation. Such attributes aren't typical ingredients for high-octane rock'n'roll, and sure enough the Old Ceremony's music matches the confident care of the band's internal dynamic. An act that can swell to a dozen players in concert and has built a sartorial reputation by wearing suits onstage, the dapper Carolinians take a standard rock ensemble and dress it up with moody, stately things like violins and vibraphones. It's a tactic that adds dignity to the title track and the quietly devastating "Murmur", yet it can just as easily make the album feel like an overly buttoned-down affair, as when the group lets strings awkwardly riff on "Same Difference" or evokes the more grievous banalities of various 70s piano men on "Stubborn Man". For the most part, however, the orchestral elements in songs like "Plate Tectonics", "The Disappear", and "Ready to Go" simply serve as subtle yet distinguished reminders that these are grown-ass men playing these songs, working through life's problems with highball glasses in hand. The Old Ceremony's music can feel unsettled and even slightly disorienting (check the organs on "By Any Other Name"), but it's only because the band is pushing up so closely against some pretty frightening truths. Somewhat paradoxically, it takes real self-possession to even meet these uncertainties head-on, accounting for the steady grace of songs like "Plate Tectonics", which correlates the inevitable disasters of love with the shifting of the earth, and "By Any Other Name", which ponders the futility and uncontrollableness of language. Haskins does play up brooding noir a bit too broadly on "Ready to Go" and "Don't Parade Your Scars" and particularly goes overboard on "The Disappear", a plodding, punch-drunk song about escaping the workaday world that makes me start to worry I was wrong about the National all along (though I still think the Brooklynites are more clever than this). Then again, such overly stylized transgressions are rendered easily forgivable by the humbly affecting bewilderment of "Someone I Used to Know", which marvels at the inevitable but no less baffling changes that time effects on past lovers whom we once thought we understood completely. The fact that change is one of the most fundamental of all constants is just another of the ironies that the members of the Old Ceremony wisely perceive, and even more wisely refuse to pretend they've mastered.

Artist: The Old Ceremony, Album: Walk on Thin Air, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "While it's certainly not as egregious as a shitty nu-grunge band naming itself Godsmack or some emo-inclined Morrissey acolytes calling themselves Girl in a Coma, Chapel Hill's the Old Ceremony does lay plain one of its most prominent influences with their choice of name. New Skin for the Old Ceremony is among the most revered entries in the distinguished catalogue of Leonard Cohen, whose darkly elegant approach to pop serves as clear (though by no means lone) inspiration for this noir-ish act that takes its name from his 1974 album. Clearly this isn't a band that shies away from its essential nature or refuses to admit its antecedents. Singer and principal songwriter Django Haskins has even acknowledged in interviews the seeming inevitability of his choosing to play guitar after having been named for the legendary Django Reinhardt. That attitude of acceptance and comfortableness in one's skin permeates the Old Ceremony's newest album, Walk on Thin Air, a mature, assured effort that finds the group confronting some of life's most grim and intractable realities with honest humility and patient deliberation. Such attributes aren't typical ingredients for high-octane rock'n'roll, and sure enough the Old Ceremony's music matches the confident care of the band's internal dynamic. An act that can swell to a dozen players in concert and has built a sartorial reputation by wearing suits onstage, the dapper Carolinians take a standard rock ensemble and dress it up with moody, stately things like violins and vibraphones. It's a tactic that adds dignity to the title track and the quietly devastating "Murmur", yet it can just as easily make the album feel like an overly buttoned-down affair, as when the group lets strings awkwardly riff on "Same Difference" or evokes the more grievous banalities of various 70s piano men on "Stubborn Man". For the most part, however, the orchestral elements in songs like "Plate Tectonics", "The Disappear", and "Ready to Go" simply serve as subtle yet distinguished reminders that these are grown-ass men playing these songs, working through life's problems with highball glasses in hand. The Old Ceremony's music can feel unsettled and even slightly disorienting (check the organs on "By Any Other Name"), but it's only because the band is pushing up so closely against some pretty frightening truths. Somewhat paradoxically, it takes real self-possession to even meet these uncertainties head-on, accounting for the steady grace of songs like "Plate Tectonics", which correlates the inevitable disasters of love with the shifting of the earth, and "By Any Other Name", which ponders the futility and uncontrollableness of language. Haskins does play up brooding noir a bit too broadly on "Ready to Go" and "Don't Parade Your Scars" and particularly goes overboard on "The Disappear", a plodding, punch-drunk song about escaping the workaday world that makes me start to worry I was wrong about the National all along (though I still think the Brooklynites are more clever than this). Then again, such overly stylized transgressions are rendered easily forgivable by the humbly affecting bewilderment of "Someone I Used to Know", which marvels at the inevitable but no less baffling changes that time effects on past lovers whom we once thought we understood completely. The fact that change is one of the most fundamental of all constants is just another of the ironies that the members of the Old Ceremony wisely perceive, and even more wisely refuse to pretend they've mastered."

Two Ton Boa

Parasiticide

Rock

Zach Baron

At one point on Parasiticide, Sherry Fraser gets at the heart Two Ton Boa, her long-running but low-output rock outfit, like so: "It's a one woman show." So goes the deliberately titled "Herarchy"; it sums up her up outfit. Whether or not you know her band's back story-- 1999's debut EP and its warm critical reception, the ensuing years of bipolar disorder and staunched creativity, the recent tentative return-- its weight is easily felt throughout Parasiticide. The album, released last year, begins with an unforgiving bass grind and a blunt declaration: "Something's cracked/ Inside/ Like the liberty bell." Fraser makes deeply unhappy music and employs very little art to disguise that fact. Though Two Ton Boa is ostensibly a full band-- at least in the studio, and on the road-- Fraser writes the songs, plus the parts for every instrument; to listen to one of her records is to enter very much into her headspace. This is uncomfortable. Her lyrics are blunt and awkward, the music follows suit-- all low register bass and toms, no guitar, and no relief from the plodding slow tempo she employs on every song. Parasiticide's few flourishes are equally gothic: protesting cello plucks, church-carnival ghostly organ, one bass pattern laid solidly over another. There is no interaction or interplay to speak of on Parasiticide. So though the band's rumbling palate and dual bass charge might sound like Noxagt or godheadSilo or any other economic, bass-heavy band, Two Ton Boa's songs have groove but they don't, for any reason, move. When, on "Cyanide", Fraser lets loose with a playful "o-o-o-o-o-oh," it's mostly just more percussion; you know it came off the page that way. No fewer than three songs-- "Herarchy", "Gumshoe", and "Bad Seed"-- start with formalist schoolyard rhymes and chants, the kind of thing kids skip rope to or use to mock one another. This is a pattern that Fraser grows up rather than relinquishes-- her songs are proscribed, tight around the edges on purpose. Some of this emerges from a strong strain of feminism: The transposition of the classically girly or feminine into art. The rest of it is revenge: Fraser pulls out the venom and casual cruelty embedded in these catechisms and spits it back. Sure enough, the rhyme will drop away and Fraser will swagger in, intoning accusations as she arrives: "That's you!" So Parasiticide is moving but also intimidating and repulsive-- Fraser's work is all rough edges. There's the vocabulary-- there is no possible way to enjoy the line "You always obfuscate/ With your mendacious games" quite as much as she does-- the unrelenting depression, and the musical base, pushy and awkward as it is. Call it riot grrl or goth or, as one previous reviewer in these pages did, Evanescence-- it's not easy going. Fraser's new record is tough to love but easy to respect, a deal she's likely proud to offer.

Artist: Two Ton Boa, Album: Parasiticide, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "At one point on Parasiticide, Sherry Fraser gets at the heart Two Ton Boa, her long-running but low-output rock outfit, like so: "It's a one woman show." So goes the deliberately titled "Herarchy"; it sums up her up outfit. Whether or not you know her band's back story-- 1999's debut EP and its warm critical reception, the ensuing years of bipolar disorder and staunched creativity, the recent tentative return-- its weight is easily felt throughout Parasiticide. The album, released last year, begins with an unforgiving bass grind and a blunt declaration: "Something's cracked/ Inside/ Like the liberty bell." Fraser makes deeply unhappy music and employs very little art to disguise that fact. Though Two Ton Boa is ostensibly a full band-- at least in the studio, and on the road-- Fraser writes the songs, plus the parts for every instrument; to listen to one of her records is to enter very much into her headspace. This is uncomfortable. Her lyrics are blunt and awkward, the music follows suit-- all low register bass and toms, no guitar, and no relief from the plodding slow tempo she employs on every song. Parasiticide's few flourishes are equally gothic: protesting cello plucks, church-carnival ghostly organ, one bass pattern laid solidly over another. There is no interaction or interplay to speak of on Parasiticide. So though the band's rumbling palate and dual bass charge might sound like Noxagt or godheadSilo or any other economic, bass-heavy band, Two Ton Boa's songs have groove but they don't, for any reason, move. When, on "Cyanide", Fraser lets loose with a playful "o-o-o-o-o-oh," it's mostly just more percussion; you know it came off the page that way. No fewer than three songs-- "Herarchy", "Gumshoe", and "Bad Seed"-- start with formalist schoolyard rhymes and chants, the kind of thing kids skip rope to or use to mock one another. This is a pattern that Fraser grows up rather than relinquishes-- her songs are proscribed, tight around the edges on purpose. Some of this emerges from a strong strain of feminism: The transposition of the classically girly or feminine into art. The rest of it is revenge: Fraser pulls out the venom and casual cruelty embedded in these catechisms and spits it back. Sure enough, the rhyme will drop away and Fraser will swagger in, intoning accusations as she arrives: "That's you!" So Parasiticide is moving but also intimidating and repulsive-- Fraser's work is all rough edges. There's the vocabulary-- there is no possible way to enjoy the line "You always obfuscate/ With your mendacious games" quite as much as she does-- the unrelenting depression, and the musical base, pushy and awkward as it is. Call it riot grrl or goth or, as one previous reviewer in these pages did, Evanescence-- it's not easy going. Fraser's new record is tough to love but easy to respect, a deal she's likely proud to offer."

Tiny Vipers

Life on Earth

Experimental

Matthew Solarski

Visual art has its negative space, psychology and philosophy speak of lack, science continues to grapple with the great mystery of dark matter, and organized religion would be at a total loss without its pantheon of all-powerful invisible über-beings (to say nothing of all those optical illusion blocks that spell JESUS). Point being: What's not there often counts for as much as, if not more than, what is. Music, too, of course has its share of sounds defined by the silences that surround them, and Seattle's Jesy Fortino is one of the finest purveyors of such sounds going. Hands Across the Void, her Sub Pop-stamped 2007 full-length debut as Tiny Vipers, felt strung together by the spaces between the notes as much as the singer's formidable voice, a wayworn and woebegone warble. Indeed, that record's title calls to mind the act of strumming across an acoustic guitar, the "void" in question being the empty space within the instrument's body-- the very non-thing that allows it to resonate. This same sense of lack and loss, and of the power of all things absent and missing and distant, surges through Fortino's follow-up, Life on Earth. The title is ironic, taken as it is from a line on the record's 10-minute eponymous centerpiece. "Don't look back towards me/ I'm as empty as the sea/ Back before there was life on earth," Fortino advises there, decisively undermining any warm and fuzzy notions the words "life on earth" might give us with a staggering image of a vast ocean of nothing. The music on Life, centered on Fortino's stately strums, only bolsters this image. Even when new sounds surface, such as the foghorn-like bass drones that carry "Time Takes" into "Young God", the whistled passage at the end of "Development", or the phantom chimes that punctuate "Twilight Property", they don't so much fill the void as draw further attention to it. Fortino's lyrics play to the prevailing mood as well, eschewing proper nouns and direct allusions completely and abounding in unnamed "he"s and "you"s who seldom seem to exist in the record's present. Nearly every song makes mention of death, interment, or ghosts; summertime easy listening this ain't. Taken as a whole, Life doesn't really depart from Hands Across the Void (itself not exactly a cheery record), but rather refines and builds upon it, besting the previous album's runtime by a factor of 1.5 and boasting, as a bonus, a number of melodies that stick like tar in spite of their spareness-- particularly on the title track, opener "Eyes Like Ours", and album highlight" Dreamer". At nearly 65 minutes, it's relentless and uncompromising in its vision. Yet despite the lyrical preoccupations and the unyielding sense of absence, that vision is not necessarily a bleak one. Solemn? Sure. Severe? At times. But Fortino remains a consistent and oddly reassuring presence throughout. She isn't lamenting her woes nor letting herself get swept up in them, but rather surveying and relating, almost always with a certain austerity and remove. Only very occasionally does she break form and let the emotion behind the words loose, and when she does, the intensity is chilling. By the final bars of closing track "Outside", she can no longer contain herself, honing in on one last sentiment and sharing it eight times over: "It will always be somebody else [outside]." You can almost feel her eyes ablaze as she repeats it; it's as though she's at last harnessed the power of absence and made it her own.

Artist: Tiny Vipers, Album: Life on Earth, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Visual art has its negative space, psychology and philosophy speak of lack, science continues to grapple with the great mystery of dark matter, and organized religion would be at a total loss without its pantheon of all-powerful invisible über-beings (to say nothing of all those optical illusion blocks that spell JESUS). Point being: What's not there often counts for as much as, if not more than, what is. Music, too, of course has its share of sounds defined by the silences that surround them, and Seattle's Jesy Fortino is one of the finest purveyors of such sounds going. Hands Across the Void, her Sub Pop-stamped 2007 full-length debut as Tiny Vipers, felt strung together by the spaces between the notes as much as the singer's formidable voice, a wayworn and woebegone warble. Indeed, that record's title calls to mind the act of strumming across an acoustic guitar, the "void" in question being the empty space within the instrument's body-- the very non-thing that allows it to resonate. This same sense of lack and loss, and of the power of all things absent and missing and distant, surges through Fortino's follow-up, Life on Earth. The title is ironic, taken as it is from a line on the record's 10-minute eponymous centerpiece. "Don't look back towards me/ I'm as empty as the sea/ Back before there was life on earth," Fortino advises there, decisively undermining any warm and fuzzy notions the words "life on earth" might give us with a staggering image of a vast ocean of nothing. The music on Life, centered on Fortino's stately strums, only bolsters this image. Even when new sounds surface, such as the foghorn-like bass drones that carry "Time Takes" into "Young God", the whistled passage at the end of "Development", or the phantom chimes that punctuate "Twilight Property", they don't so much fill the void as draw further attention to it. Fortino's lyrics play to the prevailing mood as well, eschewing proper nouns and direct allusions completely and abounding in unnamed "he"s and "you"s who seldom seem to exist in the record's present. Nearly every song makes mention of death, interment, or ghosts; summertime easy listening this ain't. Taken as a whole, Life doesn't really depart from Hands Across the Void (itself not exactly a cheery record), but rather refines and builds upon it, besting the previous album's runtime by a factor of 1.5 and boasting, as a bonus, a number of melodies that stick like tar in spite of their spareness-- particularly on the title track, opener "Eyes Like Ours", and album highlight" Dreamer". At nearly 65 minutes, it's relentless and uncompromising in its vision. Yet despite the lyrical preoccupations and the unyielding sense of absence, that vision is not necessarily a bleak one. Solemn? Sure. Severe? At times. But Fortino remains a consistent and oddly reassuring presence throughout. She isn't lamenting her woes nor letting herself get swept up in them, but rather surveying and relating, almost always with a certain austerity and remove. Only very occasionally does she break form and let the emotion behind the words loose, and when she does, the intensity is chilling. By the final bars of closing track "Outside", she can no longer contain herself, honing in on one last sentiment and sharing it eight times over: "It will always be somebody else [outside]." You can almost feel her eyes ablaze as she repeats it; it's as though she's at last harnessed the power of absence and made it her own."

Wire

Document and Eyewitness

Rock

Jason Heller

Wire’s start-stop lifespan ground to its first halt in 1980, just months after the release of the iconic post-punk band’s third full-length. That album, the icy, insular, Eno-esque 154, became their swansong—at least, until they resurfaced with an updated, less punk-indebted sound via 1987’s The Ideal Copy. But there’s an often overlooked album that ushered out that first creatively abundant era of Wire: Document and Eyewitness. At the time a posthumous release, the 1981 record centered around an infamous concert in February of 1980 at London’s Electric Ballroom—a gig that would turn out to be Wire’s last for a long time. The concert’s infamy stems from the fact that, at that point in their evolution, Wire had pushed their art-student tendencies to the breaking point, turning what was expected to be a pogo-fueled punk show into a Dadaist, performance-art spectacle complete with Morris-dancing bells and a live goose. Wire imploded onstage that night in a paradoxical mix of surreal exhibitionism and anticlimactic frustration. You had to be there—but most weren’t, and therein lies the eternal problem with Document and Eyewitness. The album is being given an expanded, remastered, and resequenced reissue, but it doesn’t change the reality of the recording’s technical flaws, not to mention the issues with the performance itself. The sound is unsteady and splotchy, and the band, always keen on deconstructing itself, has clearly taken that ethic to its inevitable dead end. The only song off Wire’s astounding first three albums—1977’s Pink Flag, 1978’s Chairs Missing, and 1979’s 154—that they deign to play is their seminal punk hit, “12XU”. Well, they kind of play it: it’s introduced in a faux-crowd-pleasing sneer, then only a fraction of its riff is briefly performed, drone-like. For a song that was designed to feel fragmented in the first place, “12XU (Fragment)” is a gesture of contrarian conceptualism taken one level too far. The appeal of Document isn’t its fidelity or comprehensiveness, but its small yet pivotal place in Wire’s continuity. A bounty of new compositions are busted out on the Electric Ballroom setlist, as well as the album’s eight other live tracks from around the same time. (The last of those non-Ballroom songs, “Heartbeat”, finally and authoritatively iterates an album track—in this case, the stark, eerie centerpiece of Chairs Missing). “5/10” lurches and echoes in a near-industrial thrum; “We Meet Under Tables” is a psychedelic waltz ostensibly designed to cause nausea. They burst with promise, and history has proven it; most of them wound up appearing in reworked, vastly improved form in the years to come—most notably on singer-guitarist Colin Newman’s third solo album, 1982’s Not To, and Wire’s own 2013 album, the superb Change Becomes Us. Thirty-three years later, Wire’s powerful resurrection of those songs has rendered huge chunks of Document as smaller in sound and far less essential. The remainder of Document is made up of a handful of rare studio tracks—including two singles, 1981’s “Our Swimmer” and 1983’s “Crazy About Love”, a handful of brittle, immaculate songs that would have felt right at home on 154—and a clutch of clunky, lo-fi rehearsal recordings that overlap the live tracklist and add little to the overall listen. Two of those new additions to Documents, however, are insightful. “Ally in Exile” is an acoustic demo played solo by Newman—hushed, haunting, layered with shimmering effects—that far outstrips the full-band live version elsewhere on the album. And the fourteen-minute “Part of Our History… Emerges” is shambolic, Public Image Ltd.-like jam packed with sarcastic, cut-and-paste references to Wire’s own album cuts, the ones they’d all but abandoned by then. “Practice makes perfect/ I’ve got sand in my joints,” sings Newman, taunting himself with the titles of two of the songs Wire fans would kill to hear performed live, then and now. That kind of perversity oozes from the album, and the expanded reissue has only made it thicker. Wire never wanted to be a satisfying band, yet they somehow became one—which leaves the otherwise bold impulse behind Document and Eyewitness curiously inconclusive.

Artist: Wire, Album: Document and Eyewitness, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Wire’s start-stop lifespan ground to its first halt in 1980, just months after the release of the iconic post-punk band’s third full-length. That album, the icy, insular, Eno-esque 154, became their swansong—at least, until they resurfaced with an updated, less punk-indebted sound via 1987’s The Ideal Copy. But there’s an often overlooked album that ushered out that first creatively abundant era of Wire: Document and Eyewitness. At the time a posthumous release, the 1981 record centered around an infamous concert in February of 1980 at London’s Electric Ballroom—a gig that would turn out to be Wire’s last for a long time. The concert’s infamy stems from the fact that, at that point in their evolution, Wire had pushed their art-student tendencies to the breaking point, turning what was expected to be a pogo-fueled punk show into a Dadaist, performance-art spectacle complete with Morris-dancing bells and a live goose. Wire imploded onstage that night in a paradoxical mix of surreal exhibitionism and anticlimactic frustration. You had to be there—but most weren’t, and therein lies the eternal problem with Document and Eyewitness. The album is being given an expanded, remastered, and resequenced reissue, but it doesn’t change the reality of the recording’s technical flaws, not to mention the issues with the performance itself. The sound is unsteady and splotchy, and the band, always keen on deconstructing itself, has clearly taken that ethic to its inevitable dead end. The only song off Wire’s astounding first three albums—1977’s Pink Flag, 1978’s Chairs Missing, and 1979’s 154—that they deign to play is their seminal punk hit, “12XU”. Well, they kind of play it: it’s introduced in a faux-crowd-pleasing sneer, then only a fraction of its riff is briefly performed, drone-like. For a song that was designed to feel fragmented in the first place, “12XU (Fragment)” is a gesture of contrarian conceptualism taken one level too far. The appeal of Document isn’t its fidelity or comprehensiveness, but its small yet pivotal place in Wire’s continuity. A bounty of new compositions are busted out on the Electric Ballroom setlist, as well as the album’s eight other live tracks from around the same time. (The last of those non-Ballroom songs, “Heartbeat”, finally and authoritatively iterates an album track—in this case, the stark, eerie centerpiece of Chairs Missing). “5/10” lurches and echoes in a near-industrial thrum; “We Meet Under Tables” is a psychedelic waltz ostensibly designed to cause nausea. They burst with promise, and history has proven it; most of them wound up appearing in reworked, vastly improved form in the years to come—most notably on singer-guitarist Colin Newman’s third solo album, 1982’s Not To, and Wire’s own 2013 album, the superb Change Becomes Us. Thirty-three years later, Wire’s powerful resurrection of those songs has rendered huge chunks of Document as smaller in sound and far less essential. The remainder of Document is made up of a handful of rare studio tracks—including two singles, 1981’s “Our Swimmer” and 1983’s “Crazy About Love”, a handful of brittle, immaculate songs that would have felt right at home on 154—and a clutch of clunky, lo-fi rehearsal recordings that overlap the live tracklist and add little to the overall listen. Two of those new additions to Documents, however, are insightful. “Ally in Exile” is an acoustic demo played solo by Newman—hushed, haunting, layered with shimmering effects—that far outstrips the full-band live version elsewhere on the album. And the fourteen-minute “Part of Our History… Emerges” is shambolic, Public Image Ltd.-like jam packed with sarcastic, cut-and-paste references to Wire’s own album cuts, the ones they’d all but abandoned by then. “Practice makes perfect/ I’ve got sand in my joints,” sings Newman, taunting himself with the titles of two of the songs Wire fans would kill to hear performed live, then and now. That kind of perversity oozes from the album, and the expanded reissue has only made it thicker. Wire never wanted to be a satisfying band, yet they somehow became one—which leaves the otherwise bold impulse behind Document and Eyewitness curiously inconclusive."

Alcest

Le Secret EP

Metal,Rock

Grayson Currin

According to its founder and, for years, its sole studio member, Neige, Alcest have almost always made extremely personal music. Though he founded the band in 1999 and issued four rough-and-raw black metal blasts two years later, he didn't properly debut Alcest until 2005, with the two-track, 27-minute EP Le Secret. After 2001's Tristesse Hivernale, he'd realized that direct black metal wouldn't allow him to communicate the intimacy of his ideas, so on Le Secret, a typhoon of blast beats and tremolo guitar essentially created a cocoon for his delicate French voice. Long passages of gentle drift-- birdcalls, operatic introductions, quietly galloping guitars-- surrounded those bits of fury. Those perpetually nested sounds were, it turns out, the musical manifestations of things Neige had seen in adolescent dreams: "Since my childhood, I've had the impression of being in contact with a luminous, far-off country. I have named it trivially 'Fairy Land,'" he explained in a 2006 interview. "My goal with Alcest is to transpose in musique my memories of this Fairy Land... beyond all terrestrial and real beauty." Neige recently re-recorded those early tracks with full-time Alcest drummer Winterhalter; Prophecy Productions combined the retakes with the original recordings, reissuing the long out-of-print work in five distinct editions. There are two versions of the vinyl LP, the standard jewel case CD, and a version of the disc encased in cloth and a heavy cardboard sleeve. For the Alcest obsessive, one version even puts the cloth-and-cardboard disc inside an engraved wooden box with a key, a handwritten lyrics sheet from Neige, a brooch, and a few ivy leaves, ostensibly plucked from the boughs of Fairy Land. Pressed in an edition of 500, that disc costs just less than $75. The new takes on the two old songs-- "Le Secret" and "Elévation"-- closely mirror their forebears in structure and style. Both the production and volume are enhanced, with the lonely guitar notes and bass mumbles at the start of the title track now sounding less like separate whispers. The drums are bigger and, thanks to Winterhalter, they're bolder, often pulling away from the relentless blasts Neige once played by himself. Winterhalter's the better rock drummer, adding nuance and flash where his boss once simply bored forward. The new versions are better at being pretty, too, especially during "Elévation". Here, Neige sends spectral harmonies floating through a tense electric guitar matrix, and, for the first time, it indeed sounds like a dreamland. In that same 2006 interview, Neige understandably balked when asked about the "sinister mode" of the vocals. Here, you'd have a hard time making that misinterpretation. This is Le Secret as it's always been, then, just emboldened and improved by the experience and expansion of Alcest. Still, it's hard to hear this second iteration of Le Secret and not be at least a bit skeptical about its cash-in nature. These aren't radical reinventions or even vast improvements on the originals, which, though long out-of-print, have long been available for download online. Even if those first recordings sounded more rudimentary or rushed, the first Le Secret succeeded with the same sidewinding, ultra-dynamic structures and mix of brutality and beauty found on this version. These re-recordings succeed only in upping the production and performance value, not in documenting how they funnel directly into the later (and better) songs on 2007's fine Souvenirs d'un Autre Monde or 2010's brilliant Écailles de lune. Sure, this retrench proves that Neige has developed as a guitarist and vocalist, and that, with the addition of Winterhalter, Alcest have improved as a band. But you could hear that much throughout Écailles de lune, not to mention Neige's progression as a composer and arranger. Indeed, over the last half-decade, he's become better at building transitions and at creating spaces where disparate ideas sit naturally with each other. Le Secret's shifts between bird calls and black metal, between roar and repose, felt rushed and uneven in 2005; in 2011, despite how much Alcest have progressed since that start, they still feel that way. They just sound better doing it.

Artist: Alcest, Album: Le Secret EP, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "According to its founder and, for years, its sole studio member, Neige, Alcest have almost always made extremely personal music. Though he founded the band in 1999 and issued four rough-and-raw black metal blasts two years later, he didn't properly debut Alcest until 2005, with the two-track, 27-minute EP Le Secret. After 2001's Tristesse Hivernale, he'd realized that direct black metal wouldn't allow him to communicate the intimacy of his ideas, so on Le Secret, a typhoon of blast beats and tremolo guitar essentially created a cocoon for his delicate French voice. Long passages of gentle drift-- birdcalls, operatic introductions, quietly galloping guitars-- surrounded those bits of fury. Those perpetually nested sounds were, it turns out, the musical manifestations of things Neige had seen in adolescent dreams: "Since my childhood, I've had the impression of being in contact with a luminous, far-off country. I have named it trivially 'Fairy Land,'" he explained in a 2006 interview. "My goal with Alcest is to transpose in musique my memories of this Fairy Land... beyond all terrestrial and real beauty." Neige recently re-recorded those early tracks with full-time Alcest drummer Winterhalter; Prophecy Productions combined the retakes with the original recordings, reissuing the long out-of-print work in five distinct editions. There are two versions of the vinyl LP, the standard jewel case CD, and a version of the disc encased in cloth and a heavy cardboard sleeve. For the Alcest obsessive, one version even puts the cloth-and-cardboard disc inside an engraved wooden box with a key, a handwritten lyrics sheet from Neige, a brooch, and a few ivy leaves, ostensibly plucked from the boughs of Fairy Land. Pressed in an edition of 500, that disc costs just less than $75. The new takes on the two old songs-- "Le Secret" and "Elévation"-- closely mirror their forebears in structure and style. Both the production and volume are enhanced, with the lonely guitar notes and bass mumbles at the start of the title track now sounding less like separate whispers. The drums are bigger and, thanks to Winterhalter, they're bolder, often pulling away from the relentless blasts Neige once played by himself. Winterhalter's the better rock drummer, adding nuance and flash where his boss once simply bored forward. The new versions are better at being pretty, too, especially during "Elévation". Here, Neige sends spectral harmonies floating through a tense electric guitar matrix, and, for the first time, it indeed sounds like a dreamland. In that same 2006 interview, Neige understandably balked when asked about the "sinister mode" of the vocals. Here, you'd have a hard time making that misinterpretation. This is Le Secret as it's always been, then, just emboldened and improved by the experience and expansion of Alcest. Still, it's hard to hear this second iteration of Le Secret and not be at least a bit skeptical about its cash-in nature. These aren't radical reinventions or even vast improvements on the originals, which, though long out-of-print, have long been available for download online. Even if those first recordings sounded more rudimentary or rushed, the first Le Secret succeeded with the same sidewinding, ultra-dynamic structures and mix of brutality and beauty found on this version. These re-recordings succeed only in upping the production and performance value, not in documenting how they funnel directly into the later (and better) songs on 2007's fine Souvenirs d'un Autre Monde or 2010's brilliant Écailles de lune. Sure, this retrench proves that Neige has developed as a guitarist and vocalist, and that, with the addition of Winterhalter, Alcest have improved as a band. But you could hear that much throughout Écailles de lune, not to mention Neige's progression as a composer and arranger. Indeed, over the last half-decade, he's become better at building transitions and at creating spaces where disparate ideas sit naturally with each other. Le Secret's shifts between bird calls and black metal, between roar and repose, felt rushed and uneven in 2005; in 2011, despite how much Alcest have progressed since that start, they still feel that way. They just sound better doing it."

Beach Slang

A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings

Rock

Ian Cohen

If you're familiar with any Beach Slang song, you've pretty much already heard A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings. That's kind of the point of Beach Slang. James Alex speaks almost exclusively of being young, loud, and wild to reacquaint listeners with the dormant emotions they once felt were inextricable from formative moments: discovering the Replacements, playing in a high school band, making out on the filthy couch at your first punk rock show. He yells lyrics like, "The radio is loud and wild, but I'm too drunk to spin the dial,” one of the more *subtle *nods to the ’Mats. Meanwhile, the main riff of “Spin the Dial” is an almost verbatim recall of their own song “Punk or Lust.” It too has a glorious, defiant chorus that shouts down every impulse to think critically about a record called *A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings. * This balance between my brain and my heart has been ongoing since Beach Slang’s debut single, “Filthy Luck.” It was one of modern indie rock’s most impressive declarations of intent and the resulting 2014 EP Who Would Ever Want Anything So Broken? was so fully-formed, it threatened to make any subsequent Beach Slang music redundant. They quickly turned out a darker, more diverse rendering of their pub-rock sound later that year with Cheap Thrills on a Dead End Street*, *and the exact same pattern is playing out with Beach Slang’s LPs. A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings follows the urgency and coherence of The Things We Do to Find People Who Feel Like Us by pushing Beach Slang towards opposite extremes: “Atom Bomb” and “Wasted Daze of Youth” are frenetic and chaotic ragers that stop short of expressing the actual rage that may have went into them. “All Fuzzed Out” is the template for the best songs here, the ones that are slower, longer and surprisingly autumnal. It taps into shoegaze and New Romantic influences that seem unexpected but were nonetheless telegraphed on their mixtape of cover songs. But for all of their attempts to slightly expand their reach, Beach Slang’s blinkered perspective continues to draw a thick line around those who love this kind of rock‘n’roll and those who have no interest whatsoever. While Alex’s unyielding earnestness is a major part of their appeal, it’s also the most divisive aspect of Beach Slang and the mere decision to call this album *A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings—*even if it is earned—calls into question whether he’s truly operating without pretense. And if there’s even a sliver of doubt about it, Beach Slang are basically unlistenable. Though Alex claims he’s telling the stories of his fans on *A Loud Bash, *the ones from “Young Hearts,” “Wasted Daze of Youth” and “Future Mixtape for the Art Kids” sure sound like his own stories told on “Young & Alive,” “Ride the Wild Haze” and “Bad Art and Weirdo Ideas.” Alex recently opened up about the deep adolescent trauma and abandonment issues at the root of “Punks in a Disco Bar,” but the lyrics barely hint at it. Despite Alex’s claims that his shoot-first songwriting style holds nothing back, it may actually have the opposite effect. Yet, the impulse to question Alex’s sincerity is necessary to create an environment in which Beach Slang can thrive. Similar over-the-top acts like PUP and Pkew Pkew Pkew contrast their anthemic punk rock with an abject lyrical misery that makes it clear their shitty circumstances are a direct result of loving anthemic punk rock too much. But Beach Slang are incurable romantics and when their best songs hit their mark, as many of them do here, other forms of music seem woefully non-committal. This stuff isn’t just on the nose; the effect is more like what Prodigy described on “Shook Ones, Pt. 2”: “Rock you in ya’ face/Stab your brain with your nose bone.” Of course, that can only happen so much before you become numb to it. For all of its subtle improvements, the choruses don’t quite soar as high on A Loud Bash as before. And while their triumphant debut ended with “Dirty Lights,” perhaps the best song Beach Slang has ever written, this album’s closer “Warpaint” is almost certainly their worst, a “Save Your Generation” pastiche that confirms the wisdom of keeping Alex’s vocals lower in the mix throughout the record. After all, it's difficult to resist the impulse to be embarrassed on Alex's behalf. In recent interviews, Alex name-checked John Hughes, Kerouac, and Bukowski as writing influences—a 42-year old man completely unaware that those three are often used as fodder for jokes about try-hard high school boyfriends. And yet, none of them really loom over A Loud Bash: there are none of the *Pretty in Pink *tropes that have sustained syncable faux-indie pop for decades, none of the misanthropic navel-gazing of Kerouac—and Alex certainly doesn’t share Bukowski’s attitudes towards women. Yes, there’s a song called “Hot Tramps,” but it’s likely a Guided By Voices homage. It contains one of Alex’s most genius lines: “Your arms are like a car crash I want to die in.” For all of their punk rock advocacy, Beach Slang are really just an atypical twee band—how else to describe their glorification of clumsy, endearing adolescence? Everything about them should make a cynical music consumer wince: Alex getting onstage looking like Angus Young on prom night and yelling, “We’re here to punch you right in the heart!” and reading fan poetry and covering the most well-known songs of his most obvious influences. It’s certainly curative for Alex, being able to relive the best parts of his teen years without having to endure the abuse and loneliness. And there’s a poignancy to Beach Slang that courses through every second of A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings that explains why they might even be necessary: It works best as group therapy, a 30-minute reprieve from the pervasive judgment of adulthood. Is that lifestyle really sustainable or really any way to truly live? Here’s the first chorus on the album: “I hope I never die.” Simply believe that James Alex believes it and you might, too.

Artist: Beach Slang, Album: A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "If you're familiar with any Beach Slang song, you've pretty much already heard A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings. That's kind of the point of Beach Slang. James Alex speaks almost exclusively of being young, loud, and wild to reacquaint listeners with the dormant emotions they once felt were inextricable from formative moments: discovering the Replacements, playing in a high school band, making out on the filthy couch at your first punk rock show. He yells lyrics like, "The radio is loud and wild, but I'm too drunk to spin the dial,” one of the more *subtle *nods to the ’Mats. Meanwhile, the main riff of “Spin the Dial” is an almost verbatim recall of their own song “Punk or Lust.” It too has a glorious, defiant chorus that shouts down every impulse to think critically about a record called *A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings. * This balance between my brain and my heart has been ongoing since Beach Slang’s debut single, “Filthy Luck.” It was one of modern indie rock’s most impressive declarations of intent and the resulting 2014 EP Who Would Ever Want Anything So Broken? was so fully-formed, it threatened to make any subsequent Beach Slang music redundant. They quickly turned out a darker, more diverse rendering of their pub-rock sound later that year with Cheap Thrills on a Dead End Street*, *and the exact same pattern is playing out with Beach Slang’s LPs. A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings follows the urgency and coherence of The Things We Do to Find People Who Feel Like Us by pushing Beach Slang towards opposite extremes: “Atom Bomb” and “Wasted Daze of Youth” are frenetic and chaotic ragers that stop short of expressing the actual rage that may have went into them. “All Fuzzed Out” is the template for the best songs here, the ones that are slower, longer and surprisingly autumnal. It taps into shoegaze and New Romantic influences that seem unexpected but were nonetheless telegraphed on their mixtape of cover songs. But for all of their attempts to slightly expand their reach, Beach Slang’s blinkered perspective continues to draw a thick line around those who love this kind of rock‘n’roll and those who have no interest whatsoever. While Alex’s unyielding earnestness is a major part of their appeal, it’s also the most divisive aspect of Beach Slang and the mere decision to call this album *A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings—*even if it is earned—calls into question whether he’s truly operating without pretense. And if there’s even a sliver of doubt about it, Beach Slang are basically unlistenable. Though Alex claims he’s telling the stories of his fans on *A Loud Bash, *the ones from “Young Hearts,” “Wasted Daze of Youth” and “Future Mixtape for the Art Kids” sure sound like his own stories told on “Young & Alive,” “Ride the Wild Haze” and “Bad Art and Weirdo Ideas.” Alex recently opened up about the deep adolescent trauma and abandonment issues at the root of “Punks in a Disco Bar,” but the lyrics barely hint at it. Despite Alex’s claims that his shoot-first songwriting style holds nothing back, it may actually have the opposite effect. Yet, the impulse to question Alex’s sincerity is necessary to create an environment in which Beach Slang can thrive. Similar over-the-top acts like PUP and Pkew Pkew Pkew contrast their anthemic punk rock with an abject lyrical misery that makes it clear their shitty circumstances are a direct result of loving anthemic punk rock too much. But Beach Slang are incurable romantics and when their best songs hit their mark, as many of them do here, other forms of music seem woefully non-committal. This stuff isn’t just on the nose; the effect is more like what Prodigy described on “Shook Ones, Pt. 2”: “Rock you in ya’ face/Stab your brain with your nose bone.” Of course, that can only happen so much before you become numb to it. For all of its subtle improvements, the choruses don’t quite soar as high on A Loud Bash as before. And while their triumphant debut ended with “Dirty Lights,” perhaps the best song Beach Slang has ever written, this album’s closer “Warpaint” is almost certainly their worst, a “Save Your Generation” pastiche that confirms the wisdom of keeping Alex’s vocals lower in the mix throughout the record. After all, it's difficult to resist the impulse to be embarrassed on Alex's behalf. In recent interviews, Alex name-checked John Hughes, Kerouac, and Bukowski as writing influences—a 42-year old man completely unaware that those three are often used as fodder for jokes about try-hard high school boyfriends. And yet, none of them really loom over A Loud Bash: there are none of the *Pretty in Pink *tropes that have sustained syncable faux-indie pop for decades, none of the misanthropic navel-gazing of Kerouac—and Alex certainly doesn’t share Bukowski’s attitudes towards women. Yes, there’s a song called “Hot Tramps,” but it’s likely a Guided By Voices homage. It contains one of Alex’s most genius lines: “Your arms are like a car crash I want to die in.” For all of their punk rock advocacy, Beach Slang are really just an atypical twee band—how else to describe their glorification of clumsy, endearing adolescence? Everything about them should make a cynical music consumer wince: Alex getting onstage looking like Angus Young on prom night and yelling, “We’re here to punch you right in the heart!” and reading fan poetry and covering the most well-known songs of his most obvious influences. It’s certainly curative for Alex, being able to relive the best parts of his teen years without having to endure the abuse and loneliness. And there’s a poignancy to Beach Slang that courses through every second of A Loud Bash of Teenage Feelings that explains why they might even be necessary: It works best as group therapy, a 30-minute reprieve from the pervasive judgment of adulthood. Is that lifestyle really sustainable or really any way to truly live? Here’s the first chorus on the album: “I hope I never die.” Simply believe that James Alex believes it and you might, too."

Charlotte Gainsbourg

5:55

Pop/R&B

Marc Hogan

Charlotte Gainsbourg, now an acclaimed French actress perhaps best known in the U.S. for 2003's 21 Grams, made her musical debut as a Lolita-esque nymphet cavorting in bed with her notoriously lascivious father Serge Gainsbourg in 1984's "Lemon Incest". In 1986, Gainsbourg pere penned his daughter's gloopy, synth-accented debut album, Charlotte For Ever, which accompanied a film of the same title. Now, two decades later, Charlotte returns with her sophomore full-length. It's not the younger Gainsbourg's first time back in the recording studio; her new effort follows film soundtrack contributions in 1996 and 2005, a 2004 duet with French pop singer Étienne Daho, a 2002 guestspot with Badly Drawn Boy, and even a 2001 spoken-word appearance for Madonna (herself a Gainsbourgian provocateur, albeit with a cruder conception of the erotic). Still, on 5:55, Gainsbourg again coos breathlessly in her father's well-worn sophisticate boudoir, adding little to the family musical legacy despite a star-studded supporting cast. The album's central appeal lies in Gainsbourg's whispery, London-accented vocals. Like her mother, English actress and singer Jane Birkin, Gainsbourg has a limited tonal range that belies her beguiling interpretive powers-- and statuesque je ne sais quois. She can sing of love as surgery on sweaty lavalamp groove "The Operation" without sounding totally creepy, and moan about being "drunk here on the edge of space" on "Af607105" without recalling William Shatner doing "Rocket Man". Her biggest miscue is cool-jazz throwaway "Nocturnal Intermission", which stoops to its title with such murmured dialogue as, "What is your favorite cuss?" and "Which side of the bed do you sleep on?" Gainsbourg has said she did the album in English to avoid coming "too close to my Dad," but her vocals nevertheless inevitably compare unfavorably to her mother's on classics like "Je T'aime...Moi Non Plus" or "Ballade de Melody Nelson". So, too, Gainsbourg's contributors buckle beneath excessive reverence for the paterfamilias. Nigel Godrich's production dips more deeply into lounge nostalgia than during his work for Air, who proffer their own Serge-besotted talents. Lyricists Jarvis Cocker of Pulp and Neil Hannon of the Divine Comedy add their highbrow storytelling and wordplay-- peaking with quips like, "Never fall in love with a body double," or "If I pull this off I'll refuse the Nobel prize"-- though most songs, including drippy acoustic ballad "Beauty Mark" and string-drenched first single "The Songs That We Sing", are atypically generic. A stylish but stilted pastiche, 5:55 follows a decade's worth of mostly superior homages, often involving the same artists. And this is the only immortality the album will share with the year's other Gainsbourg tribute, Monsieur Gainsbourg Revisited.

Artist: Charlotte Gainsbourg, Album: 5:55, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "Charlotte Gainsbourg, now an acclaimed French actress perhaps best known in the U.S. for 2003's 21 Grams, made her musical debut as a Lolita-esque nymphet cavorting in bed with her notoriously lascivious father Serge Gainsbourg in 1984's "Lemon Incest". In 1986, Gainsbourg pere penned his daughter's gloopy, synth-accented debut album, Charlotte For Ever, which accompanied a film of the same title. Now, two decades later, Charlotte returns with her sophomore full-length. It's not the younger Gainsbourg's first time back in the recording studio; her new effort follows film soundtrack contributions in 1996 and 2005, a 2004 duet with French pop singer Étienne Daho, a 2002 guestspot with Badly Drawn Boy, and even a 2001 spoken-word appearance for Madonna (herself a Gainsbourgian provocateur, albeit with a cruder conception of the erotic). Still, on 5:55, Gainsbourg again coos breathlessly in her father's well-worn sophisticate boudoir, adding little to the family musical legacy despite a star-studded supporting cast. The album's central appeal lies in Gainsbourg's whispery, London-accented vocals. Like her mother, English actress and singer Jane Birkin, Gainsbourg has a limited tonal range that belies her beguiling interpretive powers-- and statuesque je ne sais quois. She can sing of love as surgery on sweaty lavalamp groove "The Operation" without sounding totally creepy, and moan about being "drunk here on the edge of space" on "Af607105" without recalling William Shatner doing "Rocket Man". Her biggest miscue is cool-jazz throwaway "Nocturnal Intermission", which stoops to its title with such murmured dialogue as, "What is your favorite cuss?" and "Which side of the bed do you sleep on?" Gainsbourg has said she did the album in English to avoid coming "too close to my Dad," but her vocals nevertheless inevitably compare unfavorably to her mother's on classics like "Je T'aime...Moi Non Plus" or "Ballade de Melody Nelson". So, too, Gainsbourg's contributors buckle beneath excessive reverence for the paterfamilias. Nigel Godrich's production dips more deeply into lounge nostalgia than during his work for Air, who proffer their own Serge-besotted talents. Lyricists Jarvis Cocker of Pulp and Neil Hannon of the Divine Comedy add their highbrow storytelling and wordplay-- peaking with quips like, "Never fall in love with a body double," or "If I pull this off I'll refuse the Nobel prize"-- though most songs, including drippy acoustic ballad "Beauty Mark" and string-drenched first single "The Songs That We Sing", are atypically generic. A stylish but stilted pastiche, 5:55 follows a decade's worth of mostly superior homages, often involving the same artists. And this is the only immortality the album will share with the year's other Gainsbourg tribute, Monsieur Gainsbourg Revisited."

Pontiak

Living

Rock

Tal Rosenberg

Pontiak's 2009 album Maker took a complex approach to underground rock music without sacrificing its propulsive energy. The album was asymmetrical and nuanced, but it was never encumbered by pretension or obviousness, and its gravelly sound gave it the feel of an old, lived-in rock record. Living, Pontiak's fifth album in two years, has some of that same rawness, but it lacks the intricacies that distinguish Pontiak's rock'n'roll from everyone else's. Even though there are a dozen songs on Living, it basically relies on four types of song structure: riffy blues-rock; rumbling noise; gooey sludge; and swampy, often acoustic, dirges. Rarely do the styles converge in a single track or expand on familiar sounds, something that is particularly crippling when roughly half of the album is instrumental. To its credit, Living is cohesive, with the songs fluidly oozing into each other. But the loose lyrical concept of the album-- something about a "lemon lady" and an evocation of geographical locations, possibly during the apocalypse-- is about as half-baked and muddled as I imagine the band was while they were making this album. Living was recorded on an old reel-to-reel in a farmhouse, and it sounds like it. This could have given the album a singular murkiness, but instead it obliterates the music's sonic depth. The rhythm section is mostly absent; the mix chars the drums and nearly evaporates the bass. There were moments on Maker where this was also the case-- but whenever that was so, the width of guitar feedback would shroud the rhythms, absorbing the energy of one aspect of the sound without compromising it. Here, on "And by Night" and "Second Sun", the rumbling drum fills and bass hits would have benefited from being louder and thicker, making them more than just a giant, nondescript interlude into the next part of the album. Living does become more dynamic towards the end, with the morphing "Lemon Lady" and the tension of "Thousands Citrus" standing out as highlights. The opening track, "Young", scorches, its swinging crunch exhibiting the imprints of Black Sabbath and Deep Purple without being derivative of either. The rest of Living works pretty well as background music: I washed a difficult load of dishes without ever being distracted by it. Yet the sound of this album doesn't strike me as the kind the band wishes their audience would associate with the mundane. It seems like they wanted to make a spooky, rural record that also rocks-- but Living rarely does.

Artist: Pontiak, Album: Living, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.6 Album review: "Pontiak's 2009 album Maker took a complex approach to underground rock music without sacrificing its propulsive energy. The album was asymmetrical and nuanced, but it was never encumbered by pretension or obviousness, and its gravelly sound gave it the feel of an old, lived-in rock record. Living, Pontiak's fifth album in two years, has some of that same rawness, but it lacks the intricacies that distinguish Pontiak's rock'n'roll from everyone else's. Even though there are a dozen songs on Living, it basically relies on four types of song structure: riffy blues-rock; rumbling noise; gooey sludge; and swampy, often acoustic, dirges. Rarely do the styles converge in a single track or expand on familiar sounds, something that is particularly crippling when roughly half of the album is instrumental. To its credit, Living is cohesive, with the songs fluidly oozing into each other. But the loose lyrical concept of the album-- something about a "lemon lady" and an evocation of geographical locations, possibly during the apocalypse-- is about as half-baked and muddled as I imagine the band was while they were making this album. Living was recorded on an old reel-to-reel in a farmhouse, and it sounds like it. This could have given the album a singular murkiness, but instead it obliterates the music's sonic depth. The rhythm section is mostly absent; the mix chars the drums and nearly evaporates the bass. There were moments on Maker where this was also the case-- but whenever that was so, the width of guitar feedback would shroud the rhythms, absorbing the energy of one aspect of the sound without compromising it. Here, on "And by Night" and "Second Sun", the rumbling drum fills and bass hits would have benefited from being louder and thicker, making them more than just a giant, nondescript interlude into the next part of the album. Living does become more dynamic towards the end, with the morphing "Lemon Lady" and the tension of "Thousands Citrus" standing out as highlights. The opening track, "Young", scorches, its swinging crunch exhibiting the imprints of Black Sabbath and Deep Purple without being derivative of either. The rest of Living works pretty well as background music: I washed a difficult load of dishes without ever being distracted by it. Yet the sound of this album doesn't strike me as the kind the band wishes their audience would associate with the mundane. It seems like they wanted to make a spooky, rural record that also rocks-- but Living rarely does."

Angela Desveaux

Wandering Eyes

Folk/Country

Stephen M. Deusner

The songs on Montreal singer-songwriter Angela Desveaux's debut album, Wandering Eyes, sound so familiar that I keep flipping through my subconscious Rolodex of Lilith Fair lineups (Sarah McLachlan? Shawn Colvin?), alt-country warhorses (Gillian Welch? Lucinda Williams?), Laurel Canyon folktresses (Judee Sill?), and alt-radio also-rans (Amanda Marshall? Tracy Bonham?), in order to place the source. Of course, there isn't one: None of these 10 songs are covers; instead, this déjà vu hints at Desveaux's gifts for blending strains of folk, pop, and country into a naturalistic whole and for penning songs that sound immediately, comfortably familiar. These are qualities reinforced by her lyrical and vocal restraint. Desveaux isn't a showy singer; her voice is plain as the peeling wallpaper on her album cover, but she has a subtle feminine steeliness that comes from through on slower, sparser songs like "Feel Alright". Lyrically, she withholds concrete details or specific references, trading instead in cursory descriptions of romantic conundrums-- what some might call traditional pop songwriting, in that she often tries to nail down a specific predicament or emotion in just a couple of minutes. She speaks the alt-country language fluently and fluidly, mastering the arts of the chipper chorus on opener "Heartbeat" and of confessional gravity on "If Only". This sort of tasteful alt-country, however, seems like a highly competitive genre at the moment, crowded with mainstays like Lucinda and indie soloists like Amy Millan and Jenny Lewis, not to mention Nashville upstarts like Julie Roberts and Ashley Monroe working these styles and sounds back into country radio. To differentiate yourself from the pack, you need a strong personality to come through in your singing and songwriting. This commodity seems sparse on Wandering Eyes. Backed by a band that's merely capable but never really outstanding, Desveaux plays the part too perfectly, too politely, with no rough edges or imperfections to suggest much of an identity behind the songs. As a result, even at their darkest, these songs never seem to have very high stakes: on "Heartbeat" and "Familiar Times" she sings about keeping her emotions firmly in check, but there's never any convincing danger of losing control. The same lyrical and vocal restraint that makes Wandering Eyes sound so warmly familiar also renders the album bland and hollow, such that by the time the closer "Good Intentions" fades out, you still have no sense of the person behind the songs. Anyone could have written them; anyone could be singing them.

Artist: Angela Desveaux, Album: Wandering Eyes, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 5.7 Album review: "The songs on Montreal singer-songwriter Angela Desveaux's debut album, Wandering Eyes, sound so familiar that I keep flipping through my subconscious Rolodex of Lilith Fair lineups (Sarah McLachlan? Shawn Colvin?), alt-country warhorses (Gillian Welch? Lucinda Williams?), Laurel Canyon folktresses (Judee Sill?), and alt-radio also-rans (Amanda Marshall? Tracy Bonham?), in order to place the source. Of course, there isn't one: None of these 10 songs are covers; instead, this déjà vu hints at Desveaux's gifts for blending strains of folk, pop, and country into a naturalistic whole and for penning songs that sound immediately, comfortably familiar. These are qualities reinforced by her lyrical and vocal restraint. Desveaux isn't a showy singer; her voice is plain as the peeling wallpaper on her album cover, but she has a subtle feminine steeliness that comes from through on slower, sparser songs like "Feel Alright". Lyrically, she withholds concrete details or specific references, trading instead in cursory descriptions of romantic conundrums-- what some might call traditional pop songwriting, in that she often tries to nail down a specific predicament or emotion in just a couple of minutes. She speaks the alt-country language fluently and fluidly, mastering the arts of the chipper chorus on opener "Heartbeat" and of confessional gravity on "If Only". This sort of tasteful alt-country, however, seems like a highly competitive genre at the moment, crowded with mainstays like Lucinda and indie soloists like Amy Millan and Jenny Lewis, not to mention Nashville upstarts like Julie Roberts and Ashley Monroe working these styles and sounds back into country radio. To differentiate yourself from the pack, you need a strong personality to come through in your singing and songwriting. This commodity seems sparse on Wandering Eyes. Backed by a band that's merely capable but never really outstanding, Desveaux plays the part too perfectly, too politely, with no rough edges or imperfections to suggest much of an identity behind the songs. As a result, even at their darkest, these songs never seem to have very high stakes: on "Heartbeat" and "Familiar Times" she sings about keeping her emotions firmly in check, but there's never any convincing danger of losing control. The same lyrical and vocal restraint that makes Wandering Eyes sound so warmly familiar also renders the album bland and hollow, such that by the time the closer "Good Intentions" fades out, you still have no sense of the person behind the songs. Anyone could have written them; anyone could be singing them. "

Briana Marela

All Around Us

Rock

Joel Oliphint

All Around Us gets its name from a children’s book. It's an appropriate inspiration given the plainspoken way Briana Marela talks about emotions. "It’s cool to care! Chill is boring," she recently tweeted, and she means it; she titled her 2012 album Speak from Your Heart. Marela recorded All Around Us, her first for Jagjaguwar, in Reykjavík with Sigur Rós producer Alex Somers. Strings are played by Amiina, another name that shows up frequently in Sigur Rós album credits. Not surprisingly, some of this record’s instrumental sections—particularly the intros of "Dani", "Surrender", and "Further"—feel like place settings for a soaring Jónsi vocal. Instead, Marela enters with crystalline sweetness, not unlike Chvrches’ Lauren Mayberry, but breathier, more deliberate, and precise. Just as she does in her intimate live performances, Marela loops and layers pitched exhalations (usually "oh" or "ah-oh") to create choral collages that could just as easily evoke Iceland or her Pacific Northwest homeland. It’s her best, most affecting asset. Her emotional forthrightness can be refreshing, too. On "Friend Tonight", she forces herself out of the house and pleads for an old flame to help her face the darkness, but only in a platonic way. "Don’t come back to my bed tonight/ I just need a friend tonight," she repeats. Just as often, though, her only mildly poetic candor disrupts the songs. Marela’s lyrics sometimes lack craft and thoughtfulness, like words plucked from a diary and dropped into a song without regard to word choice or rhythm. It’s a fine line between childlike and childish, and too many songs tend toward the latter. On "Take Care of Me", a bouncy tale of a relationship going right, a line like "Now you know me so well, it’s special that I can be myself" stands out not for its honesty but its jarring "Sesame Street" tone. "I Don’t Belong to You" suffers from the same clunkiness: "Dream of all the possibilities/ We can do anything/ It’s not a competition/ Everyone has music within them." And "Follow It" is meant to be similarly inspirational, but even amid the gorgeous waves of Marela’s vocals and the well-placed, unpredictable percussion, the words sound like the platitudes of an out-of-work motivational speaker. She's at her best when she’s lyrically and instrumentally ethereal. "Everything Is New" reworks a song from an earlier live album, and Marela wisely lets it breathe and slowly build, accompanying only with subtle drones at first. "What matters when everything is new?" she asks. It’s a worthwhile question, and she uses it to get at the concept of carpe diem. "All we have is now," she says. "All we have is here, and I don’t have the time/ Want to keep you always near, but I don’t have the time." That is honest simplicity. Sometimes—perhaps most often—relationships end not with fits of rage and screaming and crying. They end for multiple mundane reasons. Two people are right in front of each other, yet they don’t have time to figure it out. Life gets in the way. As Marela sings on the title track, "Time is love, and love is the time it takes to know someone so well." Love takes time, and that takes work—that’s the stuff that belongs in both children’s books and Marela’s music.

Artist: Briana Marela, Album: All Around Us, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "All Around Us gets its name from a children’s book. It's an appropriate inspiration given the plainspoken way Briana Marela talks about emotions. "It’s cool to care! Chill is boring," she recently tweeted, and she means it; she titled her 2012 album Speak from Your Heart. Marela recorded All Around Us, her first for Jagjaguwar, in Reykjavík with Sigur Rós producer Alex Somers. Strings are played by Amiina, another name that shows up frequently in Sigur Rós album credits. Not surprisingly, some of this record’s instrumental sections—particularly the intros of "Dani", "Surrender", and "Further"—feel like place settings for a soaring Jónsi vocal. Instead, Marela enters with crystalline sweetness, not unlike Chvrches’ Lauren Mayberry, but breathier, more deliberate, and precise. Just as she does in her intimate live performances, Marela loops and layers pitched exhalations (usually "oh" or "ah-oh") to create choral collages that could just as easily evoke Iceland or her Pacific Northwest homeland. It’s her best, most affecting asset. Her emotional forthrightness can be refreshing, too. On "Friend Tonight", she forces herself out of the house and pleads for an old flame to help her face the darkness, but only in a platonic way. "Don’t come back to my bed tonight/ I just need a friend tonight," she repeats. Just as often, though, her only mildly poetic candor disrupts the songs. Marela’s lyrics sometimes lack craft and thoughtfulness, like words plucked from a diary and dropped into a song without regard to word choice or rhythm. It’s a fine line between childlike and childish, and too many songs tend toward the latter. On "Take Care of Me", a bouncy tale of a relationship going right, a line like "Now you know me so well, it’s special that I can be myself" stands out not for its honesty but its jarring "Sesame Street" tone. "I Don’t Belong to You" suffers from the same clunkiness: "Dream of all the possibilities/ We can do anything/ It’s not a competition/ Everyone has music within them." And "Follow It" is meant to be similarly inspirational, but even amid the gorgeous waves of Marela’s vocals and the well-placed, unpredictable percussion, the words sound like the platitudes of an out-of-work motivational speaker. She's at her best when she’s lyrically and instrumentally ethereal. "Everything Is New" reworks a song from an earlier live album, and Marela wisely lets it breathe and slowly build, accompanying only with subtle drones at first. "What matters when everything is new?" she asks. It’s a worthwhile question, and she uses it to get at the concept of carpe diem. "All we have is now," she says. "All we have is here, and I don’t have the time/ Want to keep you always near, but I don’t have the time." That is honest simplicity. Sometimes—perhaps most often—relationships end not with fits of rage and screaming and crying. They end for multiple mundane reasons. Two people are right in front of each other, yet they don’t have time to figure it out. Life gets in the way. As Marela sings on the title track, "Time is love, and love is the time it takes to know someone so well." Love takes time, and that takes work—that’s the stuff that belongs in both children’s books and Marela’s music."

The Aislers Set

Terrible Things Happen

Rock

Jason Heller

The 1990s gave rise to many things, but one element that’s been partly overlooked is thrift-store culture. A nation of kids who first saw Molly Ringwald turn a Salvation Army dress into a Cinderella gown—and Jon Cryer claim the Boomer music of Otis Redding for the fledgling Generation X—had grown out of the '80s and into connoisseurs of secondhand chic. Naturally there was irony involved—this was the '90s—and during one of the most prosperous decades America had ever known, slumming it became an archly conspicuous statement. But an aesthetic doesn’t need to be entirely ironic or entirely earnest, and such was the case with thrift. Yard-sale artifacts were throwaways, true, but they were also beautiful: emblems and totems of those who’d owned them, a transmutation of the mass-produced into the personal. So it would be unfair to dismiss the Aislers Set’s three-album discography—1998’s Terrible Things Happen, 2000’s The Last Match, and 2003’s How I Learned to Write Backwards—as a manifestation of “One demographic’s trash is another demographic’s treasure.” If anything, the recently reunited San Francisco indie-pop group embodied the demise of thrift-store culture as it existed then, straddling the movement’s '90s peak and its gradual decline in the new millennium, when people began cherry-picking their castoffs for Craigslist or eBay—or repurposing them for Etsy—instead of hauling them wholesale to Goodwill. More conceptual bands like Stereolab and Pram, clear influences on the Aislers Set, had already mixed upscale Midcentury and high-brow hi-fi into their bric-a-brac collage. The Aislers Set, on the other hand, had no hope of unearthing Neu! or Astrud Gilberto at their local thrift store—just Wendy Carlos and the Archies. That’s not to say the Aislers Set’s debut album, Terrible Things Happen, isn’t sophisticated. The outfit’s mastermind, Amy Linton, had previously fronted Henry’s Dress, a cornerstone of Slumberland Records’ early roster and a bridge between Britain’s bygone C86 glory and the U.S. indie-pop scene that exploded in the '90s. Terrible Things Happen, like the remainder of the Aislers Set’s full-lengths, came out on Slumberland as well, and it marked a sea change. Up to that point, punky jangle had been the order of the day, a singsong, buzzsaw whirlwind that Henry’s Dress exemplified. Linton tried new things on Terrible Things Happen: layered harmonies, dynamic shifts between distorted riffs and acoustic strumming, adventurous arrangements, and dreamy, chanson ambience straight out of a David Lynch roadhouse. For every speedy, noisy, birthday-cake splattered track like “Holiday Gone Well”, there’s a lost-astronaut lullaby like “Alicia’s Song”, which even playfully swipes the intro/outro drumbeat of David Bowie’s “Five Years”. Where Terrible Things Happen dips its toe, The Last Match dives right in. By then, Linton’s project had assumed a more solid lineup, and with it came a shag-carpet kind of luxuriousness. Hints of Saint Etienne and Belle and Sebastian's precious pop abound—Linton’s voice is a burst of minty-fresh breathiness, and there’s a cellophane-crisp shimmer to the production—but it’s the '60s influences that have taken hold. The instrumental “Christmas Song” nods to the sauntering hook from “Time Is Tight” by Booker T. & the MG’s, and accordingly, the entire album uses vintage organs as a gluey connective tissue. “Hit the Snow” is the album’s standout moment, a confection of Brian Wilson ba-ba-bas and finger-snapping, go-go pep. Granted, these signifiers—even the organs—were all easily found in thrift stores in the '90s. The Last Match is the Aislers Set’s near-perfect unpacking of them; listening to the album is like popping bubble wrap, and just as satisfyingly addictive. How I Learned to Write Backwards sharpened the Aislers Set’s fuzziness, but something small was lost in that precision. The songs themselves are Linton’s most assured, and her self-observational lyrics about pensive days and sleepless nights circumvent the band’s carefully constructed cuteness and slip straight into the heart. There’s also more space and abstraction to the album; “Melody Not Malaise” not only injects a hazy jazziness into the song’s swirly pop, but also implies the chords rather than states them. A snotty-sweet punk interlude (“The Train #2”) and a sumptuously sad, piano-led ballad (“Sara’s Song”) are strong evidence that Linton and crew were only hitting their stride. At the same time, there’s a deflated ennui to How I Learned to Write Backwards. Sleigh bells are shaken tiredly, as if they suddenly weigh a ton; emptiness takes the place of texture. The neo-mod anthem “Attraction Action Reaction”, rather than being a Vespa-revving rave-up, is a subtle, muted homage to the melancholy side of '60s girl-group verve—a tune for the chill-out room at the house party in Quadrophenia. The Aislers Set came to a halt in 2003, soon after the release of How I Learned to Write Backwards. By then, the indie landscape was practically unrecognizable from what it had been when the band formed. The Shins—a band the Aislers Set toured with—were part of a wave of groups that hit the sweet-tooth of the public at large, and indie’s quick climb to the mainstream had begun in earnest. The kaleidoscope of secondhand sounds and styles that the Aislers Set gleefully hoarded might have been too scattered and fractured for your average kid who just picked up Is This It, especially at a time when America didn’t seem to have much of a taste for deconstruction. But with the reissue of these three chiming, chillingly exquisite records, it’s clear that their obsolescence—like that of the thrift-store heirlooms that make up their DNA—was merely temporary.

Artist: The Aislers Set, Album: Terrible Things Happen, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "The 1990s gave rise to many things, but one element that’s been partly overlooked is thrift-store culture. A nation of kids who first saw Molly Ringwald turn a Salvation Army dress into a Cinderella gown—and Jon Cryer claim the Boomer music of Otis Redding for the fledgling Generation X—had grown out of the '80s and into connoisseurs of secondhand chic. Naturally there was irony involved—this was the '90s—and during one of the most prosperous decades America had ever known, slumming it became an archly conspicuous statement. But an aesthetic doesn’t need to be entirely ironic or entirely earnest, and such was the case with thrift. Yard-sale artifacts were throwaways, true, but they were also beautiful: emblems and totems of those who’d owned them, a transmutation of the mass-produced into the personal. So it would be unfair to dismiss the Aislers Set’s three-album discography—1998’s Terrible Things Happen, 2000’s The Last Match, and 2003’s How I Learned to Write Backwards—as a manifestation of “One demographic’s trash is another demographic’s treasure.” If anything, the recently reunited San Francisco indie-pop group embodied the demise of thrift-store culture as it existed then, straddling the movement’s '90s peak and its gradual decline in the new millennium, when people began cherry-picking their castoffs for Craigslist or eBay—or repurposing them for Etsy—instead of hauling them wholesale to Goodwill. More conceptual bands like Stereolab and Pram, clear influences on the Aislers Set, had already mixed upscale Midcentury and high-brow hi-fi into their bric-a-brac collage. The Aislers Set, on the other hand, had no hope of unearthing Neu! or Astrud Gilberto at their local thrift store—just Wendy Carlos and the Archies. That’s not to say the Aislers Set’s debut album, Terrible Things Happen, isn’t sophisticated. The outfit’s mastermind, Amy Linton, had previously fronted Henry’s Dress, a cornerstone of Slumberland Records’ early roster and a bridge between Britain’s bygone C86 glory and the U.S. indie-pop scene that exploded in the '90s. Terrible Things Happen, like the remainder of the Aislers Set’s full-lengths, came out on Slumberland as well, and it marked a sea change. Up to that point, punky jangle had been the order of the day, a singsong, buzzsaw whirlwind that Henry’s Dress exemplified. Linton tried new things on Terrible Things Happen: layered harmonies, dynamic shifts between distorted riffs and acoustic strumming, adventurous arrangements, and dreamy, chanson ambience straight out of a David Lynch roadhouse. For every speedy, noisy, birthday-cake splattered track like “Holiday Gone Well”, there’s a lost-astronaut lullaby like “Alicia’s Song”, which even playfully swipes the intro/outro drumbeat of David Bowie’s “Five Years”. Where Terrible Things Happen dips its toe, The Last Match dives right in. By then, Linton’s project had assumed a more solid lineup, and with it came a shag-carpet kind of luxuriousness. Hints of Saint Etienne and Belle and Sebastian's precious pop abound—Linton’s voice is a burst of minty-fresh breathiness, and there’s a cellophane-crisp shimmer to the production—but it’s the '60s influences that have taken hold. The instrumental “Christmas Song” nods to the sauntering hook from “Time Is Tight” by Booker T. & the MG’s, and accordingly, the entire album uses vintage organs as a gluey connective tissue. “Hit the Snow” is the album’s standout moment, a confection of Brian Wilson ba-ba-bas and finger-snapping, go-go pep. Granted, these signifiers—even the organs—were all easily found in thrift stores in the '90s. The Last Match is the Aislers Set’s near-perfect unpacking of them; listening to the album is like popping bubble wrap, and just as satisfyingly addictive. How I Learned to Write Backwards sharpened the Aislers Set’s fuzziness, but something small was lost in that precision. The songs themselves are Linton’s most assured, and her self-observational lyrics about pensive days and sleepless nights circumvent the band’s carefully constructed cuteness and slip straight into the heart. There’s also more space and abstraction to the album; “Melody Not Malaise” not only injects a hazy jazziness into the song’s swirly pop, but also implies the chords rather than states them. A snotty-sweet punk interlude (“The Train #2”) and a sumptuously sad, piano-led ballad (“Sara’s Song”) are strong evidence that Linton and crew were only hitting their stride. At the same time, there’s a deflated ennui to How I Learned to Write Backwards. Sleigh bells are shaken tiredly, as if they suddenly weigh a ton; emptiness takes the place of texture. The neo-mod anthem “Attraction Action Reaction”, rather than being a Vespa-revving rave-up, is a subtle, muted homage to the melancholy side of '60s girl-group verve—a tune for the chill-out room at the house party in Quadrophenia. The Aislers Set came to a halt in 2003, soon after the release of How I Learned to Write Backwards. By then, the indie landscape was practically unrecognizable from what it had been when the band formed. The Shins—a band the Aislers Set toured with—were part of a wave of groups that hit the sweet-tooth of the public at large, and indie’s quick climb to the mainstream had begun in earnest. The kaleidoscope of secondhand sounds and styles that the Aislers Set gleefully hoarded might have been too scattered and fractured for your average kid who just picked up Is This It, especially at a time when America didn’t seem to have much of a taste for deconstruction. But with the reissue of these three chiming, chillingly exquisite records, it’s clear that their obsolescence—like that of the thrift-store heirlooms that make up their DNA—was merely temporary."

The Knife

The Knife

Electronic,Experimental

Mark Pytlik

In promotional photos, the Dreijer siblings appear in comically oversized crow's masks; when performing live, they obscure the stage with a gauzy mesh overhang and peer out impassively from behind bodysuits and balaclavas; on record, they delight in vocal distortions, each one emanating some inhuman grotesquerie. Theatre is the Knife's lifeblood. It's incorporated so completely and convincingly into their persona that, much like Pitchfork's Amanda Petrusich's conviction that Tom Waits "exists in a world populated only by freight trains and barmaids, rodeo clowns and shortwave radios," it's next to impossible to reconcile Karin and Olof with the banalities of day-to-day life. That desire to transcend the mundane drives lots of art, but despite that they've been making music for the better part of the decade, it didn't really crystallize for The Knife until earlier this year. That moment came, of course, with the release of their third album, Silent Shout. More than just a great pop album, the record boasted a truck of exotic characters, textures, and ideas. In the sense that it etched out a world with a strange but identifiable internal logic, it felt a little bit like a fantasy writer's breakthrough novel, except with the Dreijers playacting their way through every goblin, ghost, and spook. Not surprisingly, the relative success of Silent Shout has paved the way for a re-examination of the band's first two albums. Issued in America for the first time courtesy of Mute Records, neither 2001's eponymous debut nor 2004's Deep Cuts approach the feral highs of Silent Shout; but, taken in a lump, this streaky collection of buoyant pop, creepy denouements, ill-advised genre exercises, and flashes of brilliance spell out the Knife's journey from a sprightly, steel drum sampling, electropop outfit to something much darker and more refined. Stacked side-by-side-by-side, the Knife's discography is pretty much a textbook example of increasing returns, which means 2001's The Knife is the weakest link in the chain. With the exception of the sproingy "Kino", the nasty guitar squalls of "I Take Time" and the retooled Celtic folkisms of "Parade" (all of which are great), everything else here feels a little limp and unsure; latter-half tracks like "Bird" and "A Lung" practically crumble to an end. Nonetheless, between Dreijer's voice (a thing of strange beauty, even in untouched form), the mutated vocals in "A Lung", and the gently percolating synths of opener "Neon", there are plenty of moments to suggest the Knife's future greatness. Brandishing a bona fide calling card single (the superb "Heartbeats"), a toothier production approach, and an increasing debt to house music, 2004's Deep Cuts marked a double-step forward for the duo. If The Knife suffered from seeming a little too tentative and domesticized, Deep Cuts came across as brash and untamed, a streamroller that left overturned chunks of everything from steel drums ("Pass This On") and marimbas ("Rock Classics") to hi-NRG ("Listen Now") and slinky, Timbaland-inspired r&b ("You Make Me Like Charity") in its path. It wasn't always pretty, but the highs-- "Heartbeats", "One For You", "She's Having a Baby", "You Take My Breath Away"-- were more rewarding, and the sense of drama noticeably heightened. Where The Knife comes reissued as-is, without extras, Deep Cuts arrives packaged with six bonus tracks and an additional DVD of videos. Between standout Deep Cuts-era remixes from Dahlback & Dahlback, Rex the Dog, and Mylo-- the likes of which would become standard practice for Silent Shout's singles-- and a DVD showing signs of the band's increasing attention to their visual aspect, the bulk of these bonuses have the effect of further bridging the gap between records two and three. Of course, whether you actually want to peek at the duo fumbling behind the curtain in the years before they hit their stride is another question altogether; at the least, any grousing over the unavailability of these records can end now.

Artist: The Knife, Album: The Knife, Genre: Electronic,Experimental, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "In promotional photos, the Dreijer siblings appear in comically oversized crow's masks; when performing live, they obscure the stage with a gauzy mesh overhang and peer out impassively from behind bodysuits and balaclavas; on record, they delight in vocal distortions, each one emanating some inhuman grotesquerie. Theatre is the Knife's lifeblood. It's incorporated so completely and convincingly into their persona that, much like Pitchfork's Amanda Petrusich's conviction that Tom Waits "exists in a world populated only by freight trains and barmaids, rodeo clowns and shortwave radios," it's next to impossible to reconcile Karin and Olof with the banalities of day-to-day life. That desire to transcend the mundane drives lots of art, but despite that they've been making music for the better part of the decade, it didn't really crystallize for The Knife until earlier this year. That moment came, of course, with the release of their third album, Silent Shout. More than just a great pop album, the record boasted a truck of exotic characters, textures, and ideas. In the sense that it etched out a world with a strange but identifiable internal logic, it felt a little bit like a fantasy writer's breakthrough novel, except with the Dreijers playacting their way through every goblin, ghost, and spook. Not surprisingly, the relative success of Silent Shout has paved the way for a re-examination of the band's first two albums. Issued in America for the first time courtesy of Mute Records, neither 2001's eponymous debut nor 2004's Deep Cuts approach the feral highs of Silent Shout; but, taken in a lump, this streaky collection of buoyant pop, creepy denouements, ill-advised genre exercises, and flashes of brilliance spell out the Knife's journey from a sprightly, steel drum sampling, electropop outfit to something much darker and more refined. Stacked side-by-side-by-side, the Knife's discography is pretty much a textbook example of increasing returns, which means 2001's The Knife is the weakest link in the chain. With the exception of the sproingy "Kino", the nasty guitar squalls of "I Take Time" and the retooled Celtic folkisms of "Parade" (all of which are great), everything else here feels a little limp and unsure; latter-half tracks like "Bird" and "A Lung" practically crumble to an end. Nonetheless, between Dreijer's voice (a thing of strange beauty, even in untouched form), the mutated vocals in "A Lung", and the gently percolating synths of opener "Neon", there are plenty of moments to suggest the Knife's future greatness. Brandishing a bona fide calling card single (the superb "Heartbeats"), a toothier production approach, and an increasing debt to house music, 2004's Deep Cuts marked a double-step forward for the duo. If The Knife suffered from seeming a little too tentative and domesticized, Deep Cuts came across as brash and untamed, a streamroller that left overturned chunks of everything from steel drums ("Pass This On") and marimbas ("Rock Classics") to hi-NRG ("Listen Now") and slinky, Timbaland-inspired r&b ("You Make Me Like Charity") in its path. It wasn't always pretty, but the highs-- "Heartbeats", "One For You", "She's Having a Baby", "You Take My Breath Away"-- were more rewarding, and the sense of drama noticeably heightened. Where The Knife comes reissued as-is, without extras, Deep Cuts arrives packaged with six bonus tracks and an additional DVD of videos. Between standout Deep Cuts-era remixes from Dahlback & Dahlback, Rex the Dog, and Mylo-- the likes of which would become standard practice for Silent Shout's singles-- and a DVD showing signs of the band's increasing attention to their visual aspect, the bulk of these bonuses have the effect of further bridging the gap between records two and three. Of course, whether you actually want to peek at the duo fumbling behind the curtain in the years before they hit their stride is another question altogether; at the least, any grousing over the unavailability of these records can end now."