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Echo Lake

Wild Peace

Rock

Ian Cohen

Echo Lake is indeed a real place, and though it isn't exactly Springfield when it comes to American ubiquity, odds are there's one near you if you live in the states. It's popular for good reason: The phrase "Echo Lake" just sounds like a nice place to live (or make a record in Woods' case). Such assumed pleasantries also work towards the favor of this British group, since each individual word inhabits a lot of characteristics some people want out of indie rock as well: reverberant, liquid, tranquil, immersive. So you can't accuse Echo Lake of false advertising-- their debut, Wild Peace, is pure, dreamy indie rock laced with the more narcotic strains of shoegaze and untouched by modernity, with vocals and guitars awash in natural echo and keyboards that you wouldn't dare call "synths." Echo Lake's laconic demeanor would have you initially believe Wild Peace isn't a bold record, but it does exude confidence in its own way. You don't have to be extroverted to be sure of yourself and Echo Lake is a band that trusts their influences and considers Slumberland a home rather than a stepping stone. Their language is sonically and lyrically commonplace, and the titles of "Monday 5AM", "In Dreams", and "Swimmers" are tellingly similar to those of songs previously written by the Clientele, Wild Nothing, and Real Estate. That's really the realm in which Wild Peace operates-- there's a distinct delicacy to this reclusive music that forgoes superficial thrill for subtle absorption, almost unerringly making for a passive listening experience. Tempos roll leisurely, percussion is used as much for texture as timekeeping, shakers and floor toms share equal billing with snares and hi-hats. Chords change by the bar, not by the beat and the melodies are only slightly more agile; vocalist Linda Jarvis is often lost in a thicket of her own overdubbed harmonies. That's not to say Wild Peace is formless: "Another Day" finds a perfectly chipper vocal within a four-note range that perfectly pairs with Thom Hill's tart guitar riff and rides it out for the song's entirety. There's enough internal activity during "Even the Blind" to create a full-band dynamism over a melody that's basically one note moving as if suspended in a light gelatin. You could argue for its having the most dynamic buildup or the most striking harmonies because it does, but it's more likely the immediate standout simply because it hammers home its chorus the most times. With that in mind, you might think Wild Peace would benefit more from the visceral than the ethereal, yet it starts to distinguish itself from its long-established template when the band gets less edgy. The rockers are too rigid, too indebted to the aspects of Spacemen 3 that are out of reach: The fuzzed-out roar of "Young Silence" and "In Dreams"' krautrock pulse feel like a band completing prerequisites rather than discovering themselves. More intriguing is the aching, almost oriental harmonizer applied to the guitars of instrumental "Monday 5AM", a mid-album dip into the heavy waters of Grouper. The nearly beatless "Further Down" and the title track achieve a similarly naturalistic, sun-staring psychedelia, ashen distortion and organ drone flittering about like visual floaters. But that's the thing about a record on which so many of the arresting sounds are borne of decay: Once you leave Wild Peace, it's pretty much gone. If you don't get what you want out of Echo Lake, perhaps they didn't have what you were looking for in the first place. And it's tough to discern how much of it is actually the fault of the band itself-- even if Galaxie 500 or Slowdive would've been wholly out of step with what's going on right now, the strength of "Fourth of July" or "Machine Gun" would inevitably come to the fore. Or, does Wild Peace fail to achieve greatness because it doesn't aspire to that? Whatever the case, it certainly calls into question what really matters on a debut. While Echo Lake's relative lack of ambition doesn't make Wild Peace a failure, achieving such modest goals doesn't necessary make it a success either.

Artist: Echo Lake, Album: Wild Peace, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Echo Lake is indeed a real place, and though it isn't exactly Springfield when it comes to American ubiquity, odds are there's one near you if you live in the states. It's popular for good reason: The phrase "Echo Lake" just sounds like a nice place to live (or make a record in Woods' case). Such assumed pleasantries also work towards the favor of this British group, since each individual word inhabits a lot of characteristics some people want out of indie rock as well: reverberant, liquid, tranquil, immersive. So you can't accuse Echo Lake of false advertising-- their debut, Wild Peace, is pure, dreamy indie rock laced with the more narcotic strains of shoegaze and untouched by modernity, with vocals and guitars awash in natural echo and keyboards that you wouldn't dare call "synths." Echo Lake's laconic demeanor would have you initially believe Wild Peace isn't a bold record, but it does exude confidence in its own way. You don't have to be extroverted to be sure of yourself and Echo Lake is a band that trusts their influences and considers Slumberland a home rather than a stepping stone. Their language is sonically and lyrically commonplace, and the titles of "Monday 5AM", "In Dreams", and "Swimmers" are tellingly similar to those of songs previously written by the Clientele, Wild Nothing, and Real Estate. That's really the realm in which Wild Peace operates-- there's a distinct delicacy to this reclusive music that forgoes superficial thrill for subtle absorption, almost unerringly making for a passive listening experience. Tempos roll leisurely, percussion is used as much for texture as timekeeping, shakers and floor toms share equal billing with snares and hi-hats. Chords change by the bar, not by the beat and the melodies are only slightly more agile; vocalist Linda Jarvis is often lost in a thicket of her own overdubbed harmonies. That's not to say Wild Peace is formless: "Another Day" finds a perfectly chipper vocal within a four-note range that perfectly pairs with Thom Hill's tart guitar riff and rides it out for the song's entirety. There's enough internal activity during "Even the Blind" to create a full-band dynamism over a melody that's basically one note moving as if suspended in a light gelatin. You could argue for its having the most dynamic buildup or the most striking harmonies because it does, but it's more likely the immediate standout simply because it hammers home its chorus the most times. With that in mind, you might think Wild Peace would benefit more from the visceral than the ethereal, yet it starts to distinguish itself from its long-established template when the band gets less edgy. The rockers are too rigid, too indebted to the aspects of Spacemen 3 that are out of reach: The fuzzed-out roar of "Young Silence" and "In Dreams"' krautrock pulse feel like a band completing prerequisites rather than discovering themselves. More intriguing is the aching, almost oriental harmonizer applied to the guitars of instrumental "Monday 5AM", a mid-album dip into the heavy waters of Grouper. The nearly beatless "Further Down" and the title track achieve a similarly naturalistic, sun-staring psychedelia, ashen distortion and organ drone flittering about like visual floaters. But that's the thing about a record on which so many of the arresting sounds are borne of decay: Once you leave Wild Peace, it's pretty much gone. If you don't get what you want out of Echo Lake, perhaps they didn't have what you were looking for in the first place. And it's tough to discern how much of it is actually the fault of the band itself-- even if Galaxie 500 or Slowdive would've been wholly out of step with what's going on right now, the strength of "Fourth of July" or "Machine Gun" would inevitably come to the fore. Or, does Wild Peace fail to achieve greatness because it doesn't aspire to that? Whatever the case, it certainly calls into question what really matters on a debut. While Echo Lake's relative lack of ambition doesn't make Wild Peace a failure, achieving such modest goals doesn't necessary make it a success either."

Miles Okazaki

Trickster

Jazz

Seth Colter Walls

As a member of jazz saxophonist Steve Coleman’s bands, guitarist Miles Okazaki has learned a few lessons about teasing. Coleman’s music often skates near the R&B mood, while moving restlessly between frequent changes in rhythm and harmony. At its best, tunes by the MacArthur “Genius Grant” winner cycle through the compositional variety with such equanimity, you hardly realize that his ensemble has avoided giving up the straight-ahead funk. On Trickster, Okazaki’s own music proves nearly as ingenious in its play with morphing grooves. Opening track “Kudzu” begins with a fast flourish: a long, knotty line, played with a clean tone by the guitarist. Then, over the rhythm section’s unusual vamp, Okazaki restates some of this opening music, lingering over the material. Pianist Craig Taborn is in the mix, too, offering some mercurial chords. On a first pass, you might wonder: Where are we, exactly? Is this the main theme? The beginning of a strangely chill avant-garde solo? Before you have time to wallow in the uncertainty, Taborn and Okazaki join forces and display the song’s real hook. During performances like these, it’s clear that this bandleader is interested in the unstable realm of rhythm and melody, the place where it's easy to get lost. Though he won’t leave you lost for long. On the slowly developing “The Calendar,” Okazaki begins in a contemplative mood. By the end of the track, he solos with fevered inspiration, as if all of time is running out. Like Okazaki, drummer Sean Rickman and bassist Anthony Tidd are also graduates of the Coleman school, which means they make these darting, surprising structures sound fully natural. Over the hurtling rhythm of “Black Bolt,” one melodic cell travels through different octaves. You know it can’t go on like that forever. This initial lack of a clear destination point creates a suspense that is resolved when the pianist and guitarist begin racing to complete the other’s lines. After a stretch of roaming around in an attractive darkness, you get one clear payoff after another. During the brisk “Caduceus,” the interplay between Tidd, Taborn, and Okazaki results in glorious braids of melody. The execution is obviously complex, the work of virtuosi. But the resulting beauty is easy to appreciate. Some performances on Trickster don’t quite manage to replicate that feat. A few of the obsessive phrases on the album stop just short of turning into memorable compositions (as with “Box in a Box”). Fortunately, some of the songs that sound the least like puzzles reveal that Okazaki can craft simpler themes that are just as stirring. “Mischief” is anchored by a strutting beat, one that fans of the Meters should appreciate. The relative stability of the song’s pulse allows Taborn the freedom to uncork one of his lengthy, exciting solos. And the miniature “Borderland” offers the album a lyrical coda. While Okazaki can be plenty entertaining as a master of misdirection, he also has a gift for direct communication.

Artist: Miles Okazaki, Album: Trickster, Genre: Jazz, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "As a member of jazz saxophonist Steve Coleman’s bands, guitarist Miles Okazaki has learned a few lessons about teasing. Coleman’s music often skates near the R&B mood, while moving restlessly between frequent changes in rhythm and harmony. At its best, tunes by the MacArthur “Genius Grant” winner cycle through the compositional variety with such equanimity, you hardly realize that his ensemble has avoided giving up the straight-ahead funk. On Trickster, Okazaki’s own music proves nearly as ingenious in its play with morphing grooves. Opening track “Kudzu” begins with a fast flourish: a long, knotty line, played with a clean tone by the guitarist. Then, over the rhythm section’s unusual vamp, Okazaki restates some of this opening music, lingering over the material. Pianist Craig Taborn is in the mix, too, offering some mercurial chords. On a first pass, you might wonder: Where are we, exactly? Is this the main theme? The beginning of a strangely chill avant-garde solo? Before you have time to wallow in the uncertainty, Taborn and Okazaki join forces and display the song’s real hook. During performances like these, it’s clear that this bandleader is interested in the unstable realm of rhythm and melody, the place where it's easy to get lost. Though he won’t leave you lost for long. On the slowly developing “The Calendar,” Okazaki begins in a contemplative mood. By the end of the track, he solos with fevered inspiration, as if all of time is running out. Like Okazaki, drummer Sean Rickman and bassist Anthony Tidd are also graduates of the Coleman school, which means they make these darting, surprising structures sound fully natural. Over the hurtling rhythm of “Black Bolt,” one melodic cell travels through different octaves. You know it can’t go on like that forever. This initial lack of a clear destination point creates a suspense that is resolved when the pianist and guitarist begin racing to complete the other’s lines. After a stretch of roaming around in an attractive darkness, you get one clear payoff after another. During the brisk “Caduceus,” the interplay between Tidd, Taborn, and Okazaki results in glorious braids of melody. The execution is obviously complex, the work of virtuosi. But the resulting beauty is easy to appreciate. Some performances on Trickster don’t quite manage to replicate that feat. A few of the obsessive phrases on the album stop just short of turning into memorable compositions (as with “Box in a Box”). Fortunately, some of the songs that sound the least like puzzles reveal that Okazaki can craft simpler themes that are just as stirring. “Mischief” is anchored by a strutting beat, one that fans of the Meters should appreciate. The relative stability of the song’s pulse allows Taborn the freedom to uncork one of his lengthy, exciting solos. And the miniature “Borderland” offers the album a lyrical coda. While Okazaki can be plenty entertaining as a master of misdirection, he also has a gift for direct communication."

Superpitcher

Here Comes Love

Electronic

Mark Pytlik

From the bubbling warmth of his 2001 breakout track "Heroin" to his sympathetic click-house remix of Dntel's "(This Is) The Dream of Evan and Chan", Superpitcher's Aksel Schaufler has always been Kompakt Records' resident softie. While his string of one-offs for various twelves, remixes, and Kompakt-branded compilations over the years have proven him master over all the Cologne label's chosen elements (microhouse, schaffel, pop), somewhere along the line he began to imbue his Superpitcher tracks with a warmth that made them unmistakably his. Here Comes Love marks Schaufler's long-anticipated debut full-length and affords him the opportunity to tease out the gushy, starlit house template that his output has so far suggested. Opulent and lovestruck, it's a stunning record, not just for the way it decorates the Cologne sound with orange-y hues and elastic textures, but for the way it integrates them with a whole mess of newly introduced elements-- ambient collage, cabaret, and even glam. We begin as we will finish, between the sheets. Crisp and clear, the seductive "People" drifts along on a watery bell loop, a clipped 2/4 beat and a lonely mellotron line while Schaufler whirs sweet nothings that eventually collapse under a tangle of limpid bell tones. As opening tracks go, it's a gorgeous beginning: surefooted, simple, and sweet. What follows, however, is indisputably the album standout: With its bright schaffel beat and scuffled loops, "The Long Way" begins with a nervous edge, constrained by its stuttering rhythm. Schaufler toys with that tension for a few minutes before introducing a piano line that diffuses it into thin air. It's a subtle tweak but a beautiful one nonetheless, the kind of minuscule detail that makes all the difference in the world when songs are as wide open and as spacious as these. The three-minute "Sad Boys" is our first hint that Schaufler may have more up his sleeve than just lovey variations on the Kompakt theme. It's also the beginning of a four-song suite that sees him completely abandon anything resembling a house beat. Over a moody, two-chord organ loop and a spliced-up samba rhythm, Schaufler cops a trick from Roxy Music and goes straight for the elegantly overblown. "We ain't going nowhere 'cause... we don't go nowhere," he whispers. "'Cause... we stay right here 'cause... we are... sad boys for life." From there, Schaufler jumps headlong into the shimmering cabaret of "Träume", the only one of the album's nine tracks to feature vocals by someone (Charlotte Roche) other than Schaufler. Destined to become the mid-morning centerpiece in many a summertime DJ set, "Träume"'s plastic, Casiotone production and brooding, Weill-influenced melody line mark Here Comes Love's dramatic high point. And that's when things briefly go off the rails. The next two songs-- "Love Me Forever" and an ill-advised cover of the pop standard "Fever"-- are the album's low points. With its jerky organ line and absent-minded melodies, the former is a beatless, aimless mess that temporarily breaks the spell. "Fever" isn't quite as bad, but it does come across as clumsy and unnecessarily campy, as if Schaufler didn't trust that his original material would be enough to help us to locate his reference points. However, not only does the album's final third restore the momentum, it also marks Schaufler's faithful return to deep, surging house. Framed by a mixed bag of submerged synth sounds and clanging chimes, the moody "Lover's Rock" lumbers out of the gate before settling into a nice trot. Better still is "Happiness", which, with its stomach-tugging electric keyboard vamp and gothic stringscape, counts as the record's rushiest six minutes. Rather than closing out with a bang, the bittersweet disco shuffle of "Even Angels" unfurls itself gently, like a wool blanket coming undone, with a celestial reverb drone piece that accounts for at least eight of the track's 14 minutes. Vaporous and sweet, it's a more appropriate end to Schaufler's doe-eyed ruminations than any clubfloor banger could've been. Instead of sending us home with an abrupt kick out the backdoor, it lovingly parachutes us back to earth and then vanishes in a puff of goodwill. In spite of its slight missteps, Here Comes Love is a beautifully textured, well-paced and sweepingly romantic record, the kind that has the swoony 18-year old in me conjuring twilight raves and beachfront campfire scenes in my head. Executed with a subtlety that the uninitiated might mistake for simplicity, it's also convincing proof that few artists are as gifted as Aksel Schaufler when he's got his warm jets on. Summer starts today.

Artist: Superpitcher, Album: Here Comes Love, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "From the bubbling warmth of his 2001 breakout track "Heroin" to his sympathetic click-house remix of Dntel's "(This Is) The Dream of Evan and Chan", Superpitcher's Aksel Schaufler has always been Kompakt Records' resident softie. While his string of one-offs for various twelves, remixes, and Kompakt-branded compilations over the years have proven him master over all the Cologne label's chosen elements (microhouse, schaffel, pop), somewhere along the line he began to imbue his Superpitcher tracks with a warmth that made them unmistakably his. Here Comes Love marks Schaufler's long-anticipated debut full-length and affords him the opportunity to tease out the gushy, starlit house template that his output has so far suggested. Opulent and lovestruck, it's a stunning record, not just for the way it decorates the Cologne sound with orange-y hues and elastic textures, but for the way it integrates them with a whole mess of newly introduced elements-- ambient collage, cabaret, and even glam. We begin as we will finish, between the sheets. Crisp and clear, the seductive "People" drifts along on a watery bell loop, a clipped 2/4 beat and a lonely mellotron line while Schaufler whirs sweet nothings that eventually collapse under a tangle of limpid bell tones. As opening tracks go, it's a gorgeous beginning: surefooted, simple, and sweet. What follows, however, is indisputably the album standout: With its bright schaffel beat and scuffled loops, "The Long Way" begins with a nervous edge, constrained by its stuttering rhythm. Schaufler toys with that tension for a few minutes before introducing a piano line that diffuses it into thin air. It's a subtle tweak but a beautiful one nonetheless, the kind of minuscule detail that makes all the difference in the world when songs are as wide open and as spacious as these. The three-minute "Sad Boys" is our first hint that Schaufler may have more up his sleeve than just lovey variations on the Kompakt theme. It's also the beginning of a four-song suite that sees him completely abandon anything resembling a house beat. Over a moody, two-chord organ loop and a spliced-up samba rhythm, Schaufler cops a trick from Roxy Music and goes straight for the elegantly overblown. "We ain't going nowhere 'cause... we don't go nowhere," he whispers. "'Cause... we stay right here 'cause... we are... sad boys for life." From there, Schaufler jumps headlong into the shimmering cabaret of "Träume", the only one of the album's nine tracks to feature vocals by someone (Charlotte Roche) other than Schaufler. Destined to become the mid-morning centerpiece in many a summertime DJ set, "Träume"'s plastic, Casiotone production and brooding, Weill-influenced melody line mark Here Comes Love's dramatic high point. And that's when things briefly go off the rails. The next two songs-- "Love Me Forever" and an ill-advised cover of the pop standard "Fever"-- are the album's low points. With its jerky organ line and absent-minded melodies, the former is a beatless, aimless mess that temporarily breaks the spell. "Fever" isn't quite as bad, but it does come across as clumsy and unnecessarily campy, as if Schaufler didn't trust that his original material would be enough to help us to locate his reference points. However, not only does the album's final third restore the momentum, it also marks Schaufler's faithful return to deep, surging house. Framed by a mixed bag of submerged synth sounds and clanging chimes, the moody "Lover's Rock" lumbers out of the gate before settling into a nice trot. Better still is "Happiness", which, with its stomach-tugging electric keyboard vamp and gothic stringscape, counts as the record's rushiest six minutes. Rather than closing out with a bang, the bittersweet disco shuffle of "Even Angels" unfurls itself gently, like a wool blanket coming undone, with a celestial reverb drone piece that accounts for at least eight of the track's 14 minutes. Vaporous and sweet, it's a more appropriate end to Schaufler's doe-eyed ruminations than any clubfloor banger could've been. Instead of sending us home with an abrupt kick out the backdoor, it lovingly parachutes us back to earth and then vanishes in a puff of goodwill. In spite of its slight missteps, Here Comes Love is a beautifully textured, well-paced and sweepingly romantic record, the kind that has the swoony 18-year old in me conjuring twilight raves and beachfront campfire scenes in my head. Executed with a subtlety that the uninitiated might mistake for simplicity, it's also convincing proof that few artists are as gifted as Aksel Schaufler when he's got his warm jets on. Summer starts today."

Tyvek

Tyvek

David Bevan

Just more than a year ago, MTV News' John Norris put together a short segment on lo-fi indie rock: It was hot. It was fresh. It was what the kids were getting into months before they were skewering Wavves on message boards. There were interviews with Times New Viking, No Age, and Jay Reatard. Somewhere in the shuffle were Tyvek, a goofy Detroit five-piece that, despite a "Buzzworthy" nod, seems to have stayed relatively subterranean. And if their posture, stage presence, or frontguy Kevin Boyer's on-camera quip ("You can buy our sound at Guitar Center") were any kind of indicator, they probably couldn't give less of a fuck. But you know, not in a Black Lips sort of way. Big surprise then, that the band's debut full-length doesn't sound as though it's mangling your speakers. Coming to us via Siltbreeze-- a label whose releases have nearly always sounded as though they were recorded on speakerphone through curtains of snot-- the songs on Tyvek are relatively clean. They should be also familiar to anyone that had a chance to see them live in the past 18 months, as many of songs here were included on CD-Rs pressed for touring. And though cowlicks still pop up throughout, they rarely detract from the character or integrity of the songs and album as a whole. One of the only moments when sloppy doesn't seem to fit, opener "Circular Ruins" is a clenched, vein-y psych number that seems to substitute banging for just letting go. Burners like "Summer Things" and the crispy "Hey Una" balance that equation, grafting layers of Feelies-inflected guitar melody onto runaway frameworks. Those same guitars detonate in the record's dangerous middle section, the cola rush of "Frustration Rock" and twin squiggles of "Stand and Fight"-- two standouts that really enjoy the bump in fidelity. As means for cooling down, the same Mexican-tinged track with rotating titles ("Sonora", "Tecate", "El Centro", and "Mexicali") offers brief interludes/beer breaks between the louder jams. It sounds like rehearsal noise from three rooms away, and if pressed, one might call it lazy. But it works, and if it didn't precede the near six minutes of flyover noise and Motor City malaise that is pseudo-closer "What To Do", I might long for it. But the Big Kahuna is "Building Burning (Re-Edit)", a herky-jerk garage epic that, in a series of movements, meets its title halfway. Amps smoke. The bass bubbles up and pops. Boyer loses the dry warble and his shit behind the microphone, using up all his spit and juice by the time he's done. In a way, it exemplifies what's most fascinating about Tyvek and Tyvek. Here they steamroll their budget and continue imbuing their pop music with a menace that feels like it was already built-in. So often, that song in particular feels like it's about to overheat and come apart at its hinges. But it never does.

Artist: Tyvek, Album: Tyvek, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Just more than a year ago, MTV News' John Norris put together a short segment on lo-fi indie rock: It was hot. It was fresh. It was what the kids were getting into months before they were skewering Wavves on message boards. There were interviews with Times New Viking, No Age, and Jay Reatard. Somewhere in the shuffle were Tyvek, a goofy Detroit five-piece that, despite a "Buzzworthy" nod, seems to have stayed relatively subterranean. And if their posture, stage presence, or frontguy Kevin Boyer's on-camera quip ("You can buy our sound at Guitar Center") were any kind of indicator, they probably couldn't give less of a fuck. But you know, not in a Black Lips sort of way. Big surprise then, that the band's debut full-length doesn't sound as though it's mangling your speakers. Coming to us via Siltbreeze-- a label whose releases have nearly always sounded as though they were recorded on speakerphone through curtains of snot-- the songs on Tyvek are relatively clean. They should be also familiar to anyone that had a chance to see them live in the past 18 months, as many of songs here were included on CD-Rs pressed for touring. And though cowlicks still pop up throughout, they rarely detract from the character or integrity of the songs and album as a whole. One of the only moments when sloppy doesn't seem to fit, opener "Circular Ruins" is a clenched, vein-y psych number that seems to substitute banging for just letting go. Burners like "Summer Things" and the crispy "Hey Una" balance that equation, grafting layers of Feelies-inflected guitar melody onto runaway frameworks. Those same guitars detonate in the record's dangerous middle section, the cola rush of "Frustration Rock" and twin squiggles of "Stand and Fight"-- two standouts that really enjoy the bump in fidelity. As means for cooling down, the same Mexican-tinged track with rotating titles ("Sonora", "Tecate", "El Centro", and "Mexicali") offers brief interludes/beer breaks between the louder jams. It sounds like rehearsal noise from three rooms away, and if pressed, one might call it lazy. But it works, and if it didn't precede the near six minutes of flyover noise and Motor City malaise that is pseudo-closer "What To Do", I might long for it. But the Big Kahuna is "Building Burning (Re-Edit)", a herky-jerk garage epic that, in a series of movements, meets its title halfway. Amps smoke. The bass bubbles up and pops. Boyer loses the dry warble and his shit behind the microphone, using up all his spit and juice by the time he's done. In a way, it exemplifies what's most fascinating about Tyvek and Tyvek. Here they steamroll their budget and continue imbuing their pop music with a menace that feels like it was already built-in. So often, that song in particular feels like it's about to overheat and come apart at its hinges. But it never does."

Various Artists

Bobo Yéyé: Belle Époque in Upper Volta

Andy Beta

They may appear to be hardy and resilient, but music cultures are fragile things, threatened by drastic shifts in society and political climates. Tropicalia, for one, lasted less than a year in Brazil due to punitive measures like AI-5 instilled by the junta. Club culture in New York City was starved to near extinction in the 1990s by then-mayor Rudy Giuliani’s reinstatement of a severe and obscure cabaret law. And when a coup brought Thomas Sankara into power in Africa’s Upper Volta in 1983, he changed the country’s name to Burkina Faso and installed drastic changes, including a city curfew and a law preventing musicians from charging money for concerts. Almost overnight, the vibrant music scene in Bobo Dioulasso evaporated. Were it not for the vinyl records pressed (and photographs snapped) during the short-lived existence of post-colonial Upper Volta, there would be almost no trace of the rough-hewed yet honeyed music made by the Voltaic musicians of the 1960s and ’70s. After centuries of colonial, tribal, and political clashes, these decades saw a country only recently freed of French colonial oppression, struggling to find footing with their own slippery national identity (the region is home to over 60 ethnic groups). When Upper Volta achieved full independence by 1960, it marked the beginning of a rather peaceful time in the country, which allowed the cosmopolitan music scene a chance to take root and flourish. While Numero Group has a knack for unearthing micro soul scenes in U.S. cities and weird private press albums from dollar bins, the deluxe audio and visual packaging of Bobo Yéyé: Belle Époque in Upper Volta marks their first foray into the motherland. It also makes for a worthwhile exploration of the landlocked African country, oft-times overshadowed by neighbors like Mali, Ghana, and Niger. The influence of French colonialism is evident from the start. Upper Volta’s earliest orchestras took cues from a band comprised of French colonial businessmen and Western instruments like the guitar, trumpet, and saxophone. American R&B, rhumba from the Congo, and (as the title suggests) the yé-yé of French ’60s pop—the bands of Upper Volta drew on all of it. No doubt, the titan of African pop, Franco Luambo’s O.K. Jazz—from the Republic of the Congo and the biggest African star on the continent—had a considerable influence on one of the earliest and most prolific bands to arise in the new country, Volta Jazz. Founded by bandleader Idrissa Koné, Volta Jazz is one of the savannah’s greatest musical exports, releasing a full-length album and some 20 singles during their lifespan. Their output is collected on the first disc of this set and is boisterous and simmering in equal measure, drawing on their native Bobo heritage and mixing in the many rhythms from outside their borders—most crucially, the Cuban music that found its way into the country on 78s. The upbeat rumba “Air Volta” displays an exuberance that threatens to outstrip the fast pace, the horns and electric guitar racing around the hand percussion breakdown at the center of the song. “Mousso Koroba Tike” displays the stinging guitar tone of late ’50s American R&B transposed to a rollicking African polyrhythmic backdrop. Meanwhile, the gentle ballad “Djougou Toro” shimmers like a desert mirage, with Dieudonné Koudougou’s steel guitar rippling in ever widening circles. As the ’70s wore on, Volta Jazz member-turned-bandleader Tidiani Coulibaly groused that the ensemble had not evolved beyond their supper club tuxedos and repertoire to keep up with the changing times. And so, he broke off and formed his own group with five other Volta Jazz members called L’Authentique Dafra Star de Bobo-Dioulasso, who comprise the second album on this set. Dafra Star was a more nimble ensemble and ranged widely (even touring in Mali and Canada), utilizing the traditional timbres of the ballaphon and mixing it with Cuban tumba drums, the double-picked guitars of Zoumana Diarra and Soma Bakary, and electric organ. The tricky interplay of ballaphon, horns, and percussion on “Dounian” anticipates the kind of post-rock tropes that Tortoise would deploy decades and continents later, while “Si Tu Maime” is a slow-burner of a ballad with dramatic organ accents. Okay, heretofore unknown music—from a country we might not be able to easily pinpoint on a map of Africa—dusted off and compiled for consumption is no novel thing. And as much as I enjoy the groups here, I might sooner reach for sets from Franco, Balla et ses Balladins, Rail Band, Star Band de Dakar, or Golden Afrique for future listening pleasure. But where Bobo Yéyé excels beyond those is in how it widens our gaze, showing us not just the music of Upper Volta, but the people who got gussied up on a Saturday night to sweat and dance to it. In this way, it makes for one of the most personable African reissues of the past decade. Parallel to the establishment of Koné’s Volta Jazz group, his cousin Sory Sanlé got his hands on a camera and set up a makeshift studio, documenting the bands and their fans. Along with the 3xLP/CDs, Numero included an 144-page hardbound book of Sanlé’s black and white portraiture, which makes it an indispensable document. In the introduction, Sanlé writes that the Voltaic used to throw photographs of people away once they had died, thinking they were pointless if the person wasn’t present. But then there was a shift: “People began to understand that by looking at old photos, the person was recreated... without photos, it’s like nothing happened.” Sanlé’s intimate photos show his friends and neighbors as fierce and innocent, defiant and bizarrely posed, cool and ridiculous. They catch his subjects in the act of becoming. The participants of Upper Volta’s music scene dress up as soldiers, as distant cousins of the Jackson 5, as tribespeople, as gangsters and b-boys, as musicians trying on different identities, making their presence known, if only for the blink of a shutter. Were these their actual roles in society? Or were they just trying on costumes for play? In looking upon these stunning photos, it’s more fun to just enjoy the enigma of these individuals. Writing about the Mali photographers Seydou Keïta and Malick Sidibé last year in The New York Times, Teju Cole noted that such African portraits offered “a vivid record of individual people, largely shorn of their names and stories but irrepressibly alive… ripostes to the anthropological images of ‘natives’ made by Europeans in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.” Cole added, “Something changed when Africans bega

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Bobo Yéyé: Belle Époque in Upper Volta, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "They may appear to be hardy and resilient, but music cultures are fragile things, threatened by drastic shifts in society and political climates. Tropicalia, for one, lasted less than a year in Brazil due to punitive measures like AI-5 instilled by the junta. Club culture in New York City was starved to near extinction in the 1990s by then-mayor Rudy Giuliani’s reinstatement of a severe and obscure cabaret law. And when a coup brought Thomas Sankara into power in Africa’s Upper Volta in 1983, he changed the country’s name to Burkina Faso and installed drastic changes, including a city curfew and a law preventing musicians from charging money for concerts. Almost overnight, the vibrant music scene in Bobo Dioulasso evaporated. Were it not for the vinyl records pressed (and photographs snapped) during the short-lived existence of post-colonial Upper Volta, there would be almost no trace of the rough-hewed yet honeyed music made by the Voltaic musicians of the 1960s and ’70s. After centuries of colonial, tribal, and political clashes, these decades saw a country only recently freed of French colonial oppression, struggling to find footing with their own slippery national identity (the region is home to over 60 ethnic groups). When Upper Volta achieved full independence by 1960, it marked the beginning of a rather peaceful time in the country, which allowed the cosmopolitan music scene a chance to take root and flourish. While Numero Group has a knack for unearthing micro soul scenes in U.S. cities and weird private press albums from dollar bins, the deluxe audio and visual packaging of Bobo Yéyé: Belle Époque in Upper Volta marks their first foray into the motherland. It also makes for a worthwhile exploration of the landlocked African country, oft-times overshadowed by neighbors like Mali, Ghana, and Niger. The influence of French colonialism is evident from the start. Upper Volta’s earliest orchestras took cues from a band comprised of French colonial businessmen and Western instruments like the guitar, trumpet, and saxophone. American R&B, rhumba from the Congo, and (as the title suggests) the yé-yé of French ’60s pop—the bands of Upper Volta drew on all of it. No doubt, the titan of African pop, Franco Luambo’s O.K. Jazz—from the Republic of the Congo and the biggest African star on the continent—had a considerable influence on one of the earliest and most prolific bands to arise in the new country, Volta Jazz. Founded by bandleader Idrissa Koné, Volta Jazz is one of the savannah’s greatest musical exports, releasing a full-length album and some 20 singles during their lifespan. Their output is collected on the first disc of this set and is boisterous and simmering in equal measure, drawing on their native Bobo heritage and mixing in the many rhythms from outside their borders—most crucially, the Cuban music that found its way into the country on 78s. The upbeat rumba “Air Volta” displays an exuberance that threatens to outstrip the fast pace, the horns and electric guitar racing around the hand percussion breakdown at the center of the song. “Mousso Koroba Tike” displays the stinging guitar tone of late ’50s American R&B transposed to a rollicking African polyrhythmic backdrop. Meanwhile, the gentle ballad “Djougou Toro” shimmers like a desert mirage, with Dieudonné Koudougou’s steel guitar rippling in ever widening circles. As the ’70s wore on, Volta Jazz member-turned-bandleader Tidiani Coulibaly groused that the ensemble had not evolved beyond their supper club tuxedos and repertoire to keep up with the changing times. And so, he broke off and formed his own group with five other Volta Jazz members called L’Authentique Dafra Star de Bobo-Dioulasso, who comprise the second album on this set. Dafra Star was a more nimble ensemble and ranged widely (even touring in Mali and Canada), utilizing the traditional timbres of the ballaphon and mixing it with Cuban tumba drums, the double-picked guitars of Zoumana Diarra and Soma Bakary, and electric organ. The tricky interplay of ballaphon, horns, and percussion on “Dounian” anticipates the kind of post-rock tropes that Tortoise would deploy decades and continents later, while “Si Tu Maime” is a slow-burner of a ballad with dramatic organ accents. Okay, heretofore unknown music—from a country we might not be able to easily pinpoint on a map of Africa—dusted off and compiled for consumption is no novel thing. And as much as I enjoy the groups here, I might sooner reach for sets from Franco, Balla et ses Balladins, Rail Band, Star Band de Dakar, or Golden Afrique for future listening pleasure. But where Bobo Yéyé excels beyond those is in how it widens our gaze, showing us not just the music of Upper Volta, but the people who got gussied up on a Saturday night to sweat and dance to it. In this way, it makes for one of the most personable African reissues of the past decade. Parallel to the establishment of Koné’s Volta Jazz group, his cousin Sory Sanlé got his hands on a camera and set up a makeshift studio, documenting the bands and their fans. Along with the 3xLP/CDs, Numero included an 144-page hardbound book of Sanlé’s black and white portraiture, which makes it an indispensable document. In the introduction, Sanlé writes that the Voltaic used to throw photographs of people away once they had died, thinking they were pointless if the person wasn’t present. But then there was a shift: “People began to understand that by looking at old photos, the person was recreated... without photos, it’s like nothing happened.” Sanlé’s intimate photos show his friends and neighbors as fierce and innocent, defiant and bizarrely posed, cool and ridiculous. They catch his subjects in the act of becoming. The participants of Upper Volta’s music scene dress up as soldiers, as distant cousins of the Jackson 5, as tribespeople, as gangsters and b-boys, as musicians trying on different identities, making their presence known, if only for the blink of a shutter. Were these their actual roles in society? Or were they just trying on costumes for play? In looking upon these stunning photos, it’s more fun to just enjoy the enigma of these individuals. Writing about the Mali photographers Seydou Keïta and Malick Sidibé last year in The New York Times, Teju Cole noted that such African portraits offered “a vivid record of individual people, largely shorn of their names and stories but irrepressibly alive… ripostes to the anthropological images of ‘natives’ made by Europeans in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.” Cole added, “Something changed when Africans bega"

Drive-By Truckers

Gangstabilly

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

As the story goes, when asked how she could stand to live in Mississippi, Eudora Welty replied, simply, that it was her home. "Such is the duality of the Southern thing," Patterson Hood claimed on the Drive-By Truckers' ambitious, career-making double album, Southern Rock Opera. Since its inception, the band has been exploring the pride and shame of being native to a region known for both its richly subversive art and its ingrained racism. That mission crystallized on Southern Rock Opera, which plumbed the mythology of George Wallace and Ronnie Van Zant, and the Truckers developed it further on their two subsequent albums, Decoration Day and The Dirty South. Before Hood and Mike Cooley (who formed the core of the Truckers until Jason Isbell expanded it) gave it a name, that duality informed their first two albums, Gangstabilly and Pizza Deliverance, both of which were originally released on Soul Dump but have long been out of print. New West Records has remastered and reissued them with new packaging and new liner notes by Hood (which are inexplicably dated February and October 2005, as if he's writing from the near future). Neither reissue contains any bonus tracks, which seems like a slight. However, both Gangstabilly and Pizza Deliverance retain their shape as albums, without any fans-only material to detract from climactic grandeur of "Sandwiches for the Road" and "The Night G.G. Allin Came to Town", respectively. As their titles suggest, these two albums are filled with humor, but despite a tracklist that includes "The Living Bubba", "18 Wheels of Love", and "Too Much Sex (Too Little Jesus)", these aren't yuk-and-pluck songs that satirize their white-trash subject matter. Hood and Cooley write story-songs about hard-luck losers, people at the end of their ropes, and they take their characters very seriously. They both realize that when people are at their lowest, any action, no matter how dire or self-deceiving, can appear logical. Cooley's "Panties in Your Purse" from Gangstabilly begins with a little backstage flirtation in the first verse before the second verse recounts the woman's sad situation: divorced, raising children, drinking excessively, living with her mother, working a dead-end job, going to shows for a precious bit of fun. On Hood's "Bulldozers and Dirt", which opens Pizza Deliverance, the narrator hits on his girlfriend's underage daughter, knowing all the while it's wrong but giving into his fixation all the same: "something comes over me when you come near/so won't you come over and sip on this beer." "Margo and Harold" contains enough grim humor and great lines for a Barry Hannah short story, as another Hood narrator confesses his fear of the couple of the title: "Margo and Harold, feeling no pain, fifty and crazy, big hair and cocaine." None of their stories would have much resonance, however, if the Drive-By Truckers didn't sound so raw and immediate. Revealing a band still refining their sound, Gangstabilly and Pizza Deliverance precede the Truckers' fascination with and mastery of 70s rock. There are excursions into Black Oak Arkansas and Lynyrd Skynyrd territory on "One of These Days" and "Sandwiches for the Road" but songs like "Wife Beater" and "Box of Spiders" have the unrehearsed casualness of country and alt-country, while "The Tough Sell" and "Buttholeville" experiment with heavy-riffing blues rock. Despite former Trucker Rob Malone's relatively quaint and characterless contributions and the obsolete joke of Hood's crass "The President's Penis Is Missing", these two albums are sturdy and solid. More than just blueprints for subsequent accomplishments, Gangstabilly and Pizza Deliverance are accomplishments themselves-- the beginning of the Truckers' long haul.

Artist: Drive-By Truckers, Album: Gangstabilly, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "As the story goes, when asked how she could stand to live in Mississippi, Eudora Welty replied, simply, that it was her home. "Such is the duality of the Southern thing," Patterson Hood claimed on the Drive-By Truckers' ambitious, career-making double album, Southern Rock Opera. Since its inception, the band has been exploring the pride and shame of being native to a region known for both its richly subversive art and its ingrained racism. That mission crystallized on Southern Rock Opera, which plumbed the mythology of George Wallace and Ronnie Van Zant, and the Truckers developed it further on their two subsequent albums, Decoration Day and The Dirty South. Before Hood and Mike Cooley (who formed the core of the Truckers until Jason Isbell expanded it) gave it a name, that duality informed their first two albums, Gangstabilly and Pizza Deliverance, both of which were originally released on Soul Dump but have long been out of print. New West Records has remastered and reissued them with new packaging and new liner notes by Hood (which are inexplicably dated February and October 2005, as if he's writing from the near future). Neither reissue contains any bonus tracks, which seems like a slight. However, both Gangstabilly and Pizza Deliverance retain their shape as albums, without any fans-only material to detract from climactic grandeur of "Sandwiches for the Road" and "The Night G.G. Allin Came to Town", respectively. As their titles suggest, these two albums are filled with humor, but despite a tracklist that includes "The Living Bubba", "18 Wheels of Love", and "Too Much Sex (Too Little Jesus)", these aren't yuk-and-pluck songs that satirize their white-trash subject matter. Hood and Cooley write story-songs about hard-luck losers, people at the end of their ropes, and they take their characters very seriously. They both realize that when people are at their lowest, any action, no matter how dire or self-deceiving, can appear logical. Cooley's "Panties in Your Purse" from Gangstabilly begins with a little backstage flirtation in the first verse before the second verse recounts the woman's sad situation: divorced, raising children, drinking excessively, living with her mother, working a dead-end job, going to shows for a precious bit of fun. On Hood's "Bulldozers and Dirt", which opens Pizza Deliverance, the narrator hits on his girlfriend's underage daughter, knowing all the while it's wrong but giving into his fixation all the same: "something comes over me when you come near/so won't you come over and sip on this beer." "Margo and Harold" contains enough grim humor and great lines for a Barry Hannah short story, as another Hood narrator confesses his fear of the couple of the title: "Margo and Harold, feeling no pain, fifty and crazy, big hair and cocaine." None of their stories would have much resonance, however, if the Drive-By Truckers didn't sound so raw and immediate. Revealing a band still refining their sound, Gangstabilly and Pizza Deliverance precede the Truckers' fascination with and mastery of 70s rock. There are excursions into Black Oak Arkansas and Lynyrd Skynyrd territory on "One of These Days" and "Sandwiches for the Road" but songs like "Wife Beater" and "Box of Spiders" have the unrehearsed casualness of country and alt-country, while "The Tough Sell" and "Buttholeville" experiment with heavy-riffing blues rock. Despite former Trucker Rob Malone's relatively quaint and characterless contributions and the obsolete joke of Hood's crass "The President's Penis Is Missing", these two albums are sturdy and solid. More than just blueprints for subsequent accomplishments, Gangstabilly and Pizza Deliverance are accomplishments themselves-- the beginning of the Truckers' long haul."

Fruit Bats

Spelled in Bones

Rock

Sam Ubl

Allow me to burst your bubble: Fruit Bats have found a new drummer, 11 days after Pitchfork deemed their ISO newsworthy. His name is Ron Lewis, and by day he's a cheesemonger. (Folks, you can't make this stuff up.) But buck up, would-be Bonhams: There are more exciting outfits to get down with, bands that change tempo, use odd meter, leave space for rip-roarin' tom rolls. Fruit Bats, not so much; they traffic in power-pop without the crunch and speed-- or, in brainchild Eric Johnson's ambitious mind, the hypothetical link-up of Holy Modal Rounders and Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac. Ron Lewis, I hereby charge you, sir, with making these fine songwriters less fucking facile. I want you to bring a brick of oozy stilton to rehearsal and let that sucker stink up these folk-poppers' cleanly confections. If you want a tutorial in how to render well-written songs flaccid and boring, pick up Spelled in Bones. Critics bray about "trimming the fat" but that's specious; fat is good! Fat is French! Fruit Bats could use some flab; even the title track, a groggy wisp of a ballad that should drag on ad infinitum, wraps up in under four minutes. Where are the tumescent guitar peals, the reverb-drowned vocals, the bombastic drums? There is no two-part coda. Worse, no trumpet fanfare. Mr. Lewis, you have a tough road to hoe. But you're ideal for the job. Johnson retains his affinity for spic-and-span 70s pop-- the kind that put newspaper in the bass drum, sat Elton John at the keys, and was tooled on a microbiotic level. But what John and the Macs (both Fleetwood and P. __Cartney) lacked in daring, they more than made up for in cheese. So it's to the Fruit Bats' credit that they chose a replacement skins-hitter who actually peddles the stuff. Spelled in Bones doesn't achieve Rounders-Rumours synthesis, but it does successfully update arena fro-yo by excising the coke-fed navel-gazing. Where their forebears slung self-absorbed musings from a druggy maw, Johnson's words harmonize with the Bats' docility. Fruit Bats previously got pleasant with a pair of sleepy Brian Deck-produced slabs, 2001's Echolocation and 2003's Sub Pop debut Mouthfuls. But Spelled in Bones, their most polished effort, teeters near soporific. And that's a shame, because it houses some of the band's best songs. Though the consistency of instrumentation, volume, and tempo invite the ear to wander, there are jags of awesomeness. Amid so much swooshing fluidity, the closing vocal repetition on "Silent Life" is almost defiant. Listless ballad "TV Waves" is jolted by a chugging, hi-hat driven pickup, which, beneath melty guitar peals (finally), gives the illusion of double-time. Johnson's vox are polite and low-key mostly, which is why his sudden unblanketing of a sultry falsetto on "Born in the '70s" is both a much-needed spark and a tease. Instead of paying homage to the megastars of a bygone era-- whose sound comes naturally but whose spirit remains evasive-- Fruit Bats should focus on where they fit in among active analogues. For Pete's sake, they're on Sup Pop. With a loosened-up approach Johnson could put himself in a league with A.C. Newman and labelmates the Shins. As for newcomer Lewis: Bring it, kid. Better that the new pup shit all over the rug than hide behind the couch all day.

Artist: Fruit Bats, Album: Spelled in Bones, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "Allow me to burst your bubble: Fruit Bats have found a new drummer, 11 days after Pitchfork deemed their ISO newsworthy. His name is Ron Lewis, and by day he's a cheesemonger. (Folks, you can't make this stuff up.) But buck up, would-be Bonhams: There are more exciting outfits to get down with, bands that change tempo, use odd meter, leave space for rip-roarin' tom rolls. Fruit Bats, not so much; they traffic in power-pop without the crunch and speed-- or, in brainchild Eric Johnson's ambitious mind, the hypothetical link-up of Holy Modal Rounders and Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac. Ron Lewis, I hereby charge you, sir, with making these fine songwriters less fucking facile. I want you to bring a brick of oozy stilton to rehearsal and let that sucker stink up these folk-poppers' cleanly confections. If you want a tutorial in how to render well-written songs flaccid and boring, pick up Spelled in Bones. Critics bray about "trimming the fat" but that's specious; fat is good! Fat is French! Fruit Bats could use some flab; even the title track, a groggy wisp of a ballad that should drag on ad infinitum, wraps up in under four minutes. Where are the tumescent guitar peals, the reverb-drowned vocals, the bombastic drums? There is no two-part coda. Worse, no trumpet fanfare. Mr. Lewis, you have a tough road to hoe. But you're ideal for the job. Johnson retains his affinity for spic-and-span 70s pop-- the kind that put newspaper in the bass drum, sat Elton John at the keys, and was tooled on a microbiotic level. But what John and the Macs (both Fleetwood and P. __Cartney) lacked in daring, they more than made up for in cheese. So it's to the Fruit Bats' credit that they chose a replacement skins-hitter who actually peddles the stuff. Spelled in Bones doesn't achieve Rounders-Rumours synthesis, but it does successfully update arena fro-yo by excising the coke-fed navel-gazing. Where their forebears slung self-absorbed musings from a druggy maw, Johnson's words harmonize with the Bats' docility. Fruit Bats previously got pleasant with a pair of sleepy Brian Deck-produced slabs, 2001's Echolocation and 2003's Sub Pop debut Mouthfuls. But Spelled in Bones, their most polished effort, teeters near soporific. And that's a shame, because it houses some of the band's best songs. Though the consistency of instrumentation, volume, and tempo invite the ear to wander, there are jags of awesomeness. Amid so much swooshing fluidity, the closing vocal repetition on "Silent Life" is almost defiant. Listless ballad "TV Waves" is jolted by a chugging, hi-hat driven pickup, which, beneath melty guitar peals (finally), gives the illusion of double-time. Johnson's vox are polite and low-key mostly, which is why his sudden unblanketing of a sultry falsetto on "Born in the '70s" is both a much-needed spark and a tease. Instead of paying homage to the megastars of a bygone era-- whose sound comes naturally but whose spirit remains evasive-- Fruit Bats should focus on where they fit in among active analogues. For Pete's sake, they're on Sup Pop. With a loosened-up approach Johnson could put himself in a league with A.C. Newman and labelmates the Shins. As for newcomer Lewis: Bring it, kid. Better that the new pup shit all over the rug than hide behind the couch all day."

Lee “Scratch” Perry

The Wonderman Years

Global

Chris Dahlen

In the early 90s, it was almost impossible to score good reggae. Flipping through chests of used UB40 and Steel Pulse records, I never found any treasure, and the Trustafarians at school had all but ruined Bob for me. To top it off, most Jamaican records I could find were so aesthetically off-putting as to warrant hesitation. As it turns out, whether encased in hand-drawn covers featuring dreadlocked lions in military gear smoking joints, poorly photocopied text, severely warped, pock-marked pressings, or cheesy back covers with the wrong titles, times, or musicians, these records were Acapulco Gold. As dub reggae-- and Lee Perry, in particular-- enjoyed a renaissance in the middle of the decade (courtesy of Tortoise and the Beastie Boys), that all changed, and like rain after a drought, it soon became a deluge. There were suddenly so many damned Lee Perry records to be had-- some legitimate, some shady-- that one wouldn't know where to begin, and still may not, even today. These two discs cull his turns as producer from 1971-1973, after his important early work with Bob Marley & The Wailers and before founding his infamous Black Ark Studio. Slim though these two years may be, they're a crucial segment of Perry's career to investigate. The early 70s were a heady time for Jamaican popular music, as it began to segue from the shuffling dance of rocksteady and American R&B; influence into its own homegrown sound, and the harder rhythmic edges of skank. The gaps between those beats, which the flipside of the singles (called "dubs") explored more thoroughly, would soon lift off into the atmosphere as their own musical form, metamorphosing the normal sounds of studio instruments into abstracted space dust within a three-minute side. Also of growing interest was the development of "roots reggae", which embraced Afrocentric thought and Rastafarianism, a religion that had a profound effect on the music of the time. It would transform soft-core lothario Max Romeo into a Marxist of the roughest sort, and make already-excellent singer Marley an international superstar. Lee Perry was there through all of these phases, instigating trends, and developing from others a sound wholly his own. Disc one begins with Marley & The Wailers doing an Impressions track, which is then turned around by future toasting great Big Youth, who shouts until the song is his very own beast. Already socially conscious by way of a Curtis Mayfield cover, you can see the growing influence Afrocentric thought had on Perry in the studio. There's Junior Byles' classic "Beat Down Babylon", which was such a huge hit that police were reported singing the lyrics on their beat. At least four versions of the Marcus Garvey-inspired "Place Called Africa" are compiled here, each resonating with the theme as pertains to its interpreter, be it by Byles, Dennis Alcapone, or Winston Cool (aka Dr. Alimantado, the best-dressed chicken in town). In another four-cut span, the same basic track is run through the gamut of all possible island styles, illustrating in microcosm what Lee Perry was capable of with the barest of elements, and how much his music changed in two short years. It begins with the Stingers' "Give Me Power", rendered as a soulful group sound; "Give Me Power No.2" continues the beat, but replaces the ensemble with a bellowing toast from King Iwah, waxing more biblical than the previous version. "Sunshine Showdown" is that riddim once again, but this time it's made ridiculous by Perry himself. You can hear ringside cheering as he steps to the mic, musing and mumbling about "Smokey Joe Frazier Razor" and other inane observations about the sweet science. By round four, "Scratch" has totally deconstructed "Give Me Power" to its essence: the mix is disconcerted with sirens, brassy baritone croaks, and backwards tape chirps, with just the slightest trace of the original vocals left as ghosts. These last two takes lead the way for the more innovative breakthroughs (and breakdowns) that would take place inside the Black Ark by 1974. By stripping down certain sounds and tightening up the drums and bass, reggae could liberally take from American radio hits and make them into tougher tracks. The Chi-Lites' "(For God's Sake) Give More Power to the People" is absorbed by the Upsetters, while Byles infuses Little Willie John's standard "Fever" with his own brand of madness, leading to even further permutations by the legendary Augustus Pablo and toaster Jah T. On the latter half of the second disc, "Jungle Lion" smokes some sticky Al Green and brings in that Hi Records organ brightness; it sounds deliriously whacked-out as Perry growls into the echoplex. Sequenced right before the move into Black Ark, the skanks and sonics at the end of the set define what people generally imagine when they think of Lee Perry. His odd sense of humor is most evident on "Bathroom Skank", which provides an excellent "towel"/"bowel" rhyme, and would lead to further scatological fixations in the future. Most prophetic are the echoed intonations that introduce the more skewed studio elements in instrumentals like "IPA Skank", "Freakout Skank", "Bucky Skank" and "Cow Thief Skank". Not only are these some of Perry's best early works (aside from the curiously absent "Clint Eastwood" instrumentals), they point the way into the future of the genre, and remixing in general, insofar as all the sounds are fair game for tweaking. This set, while not as uniformly tight as Soul Jazz's excellent Studio One overviews, or the compilations of legendary producers Leslie Kong, Sonia Pottinger, and King Tubby, has a little bit of everything to compensate, from a young Marley, to early toasting, with dashes of hard skank, proto-dub instrumentals, and oddball covers thrown in for good measure. As for compiling "Scratch", it remains an unsatisfactory effort; his cosmic joker legacy will forever elude capture, and these are all too brief glimpses of that genius at play.

Artist: Lee “Scratch” Perry, Album: The Wonderman Years, Genre: Global, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "In the early 90s, it was almost impossible to score good reggae. Flipping through chests of used UB40 and Steel Pulse records, I never found any treasure, and the Trustafarians at school had all but ruined Bob for me. To top it off, most Jamaican records I could find were so aesthetically off-putting as to warrant hesitation. As it turns out, whether encased in hand-drawn covers featuring dreadlocked lions in military gear smoking joints, poorly photocopied text, severely warped, pock-marked pressings, or cheesy back covers with the wrong titles, times, or musicians, these records were Acapulco Gold. As dub reggae-- and Lee Perry, in particular-- enjoyed a renaissance in the middle of the decade (courtesy of Tortoise and the Beastie Boys), that all changed, and like rain after a drought, it soon became a deluge. There were suddenly so many damned Lee Perry records to be had-- some legitimate, some shady-- that one wouldn't know where to begin, and still may not, even today. These two discs cull his turns as producer from 1971-1973, after his important early work with Bob Marley & The Wailers and before founding his infamous Black Ark Studio. Slim though these two years may be, they're a crucial segment of Perry's career to investigate. The early 70s were a heady time for Jamaican popular music, as it began to segue from the shuffling dance of rocksteady and American R&B; influence into its own homegrown sound, and the harder rhythmic edges of skank. The gaps between those beats, which the flipside of the singles (called "dubs") explored more thoroughly, would soon lift off into the atmosphere as their own musical form, metamorphosing the normal sounds of studio instruments into abstracted space dust within a three-minute side. Also of growing interest was the development of "roots reggae", which embraced Afrocentric thought and Rastafarianism, a religion that had a profound effect on the music of the time. It would transform soft-core lothario Max Romeo into a Marxist of the roughest sort, and make already-excellent singer Marley an international superstar. Lee Perry was there through all of these phases, instigating trends, and developing from others a sound wholly his own. Disc one begins with Marley & The Wailers doing an Impressions track, which is then turned around by future toasting great Big Youth, who shouts until the song is his very own beast. Already socially conscious by way of a Curtis Mayfield cover, you can see the growing influence Afrocentric thought had on Perry in the studio. There's Junior Byles' classic "Beat Down Babylon", which was such a huge hit that police were reported singing the lyrics on their beat. At least four versions of the Marcus Garvey-inspired "Place Called Africa" are compiled here, each resonating with the theme as pertains to its interpreter, be it by Byles, Dennis Alcapone, or Winston Cool (aka Dr. Alimantado, the best-dressed chicken in town). In another four-cut span, the same basic track is run through the gamut of all possible island styles, illustrating in microcosm what Lee Perry was capable of with the barest of elements, and how much his music changed in two short years. It begins with the Stingers' "Give Me Power", rendered as a soulful group sound; "Give Me Power No.2" continues the beat, but replaces the ensemble with a bellowing toast from King Iwah, waxing more biblical than the previous version. "Sunshine Showdown" is that riddim once again, but this time it's made ridiculous by Perry himself. You can hear ringside cheering as he steps to the mic, musing and mumbling about "Smokey Joe Frazier Razor" and other inane observations about the sweet science. By round four, "Scratch" has totally deconstructed "Give Me Power" to its essence: the mix is disconcerted with sirens, brassy baritone croaks, and backwards tape chirps, with just the slightest trace of the original vocals left as ghosts. These last two takes lead the way for the more innovative breakthroughs (and breakdowns) that would take place inside the Black Ark by 1974. By stripping down certain sounds and tightening up the drums and bass, reggae could liberally take from American radio hits and make them into tougher tracks. The Chi-Lites' "(For God's Sake) Give More Power to the People" is absorbed by the Upsetters, while Byles infuses Little Willie John's standard "Fever" with his own brand of madness, leading to even further permutations by the legendary Augustus Pablo and toaster Jah T. On the latter half of the second disc, "Jungle Lion" smokes some sticky Al Green and brings in that Hi Records organ brightness; it sounds deliriously whacked-out as Perry growls into the echoplex. Sequenced right before the move into Black Ark, the skanks and sonics at the end of the set define what people generally imagine when they think of Lee Perry. His odd sense of humor is most evident on "Bathroom Skank", which provides an excellent "towel"/"bowel" rhyme, and would lead to further scatological fixations in the future. Most prophetic are the echoed intonations that introduce the more skewed studio elements in instrumentals like "IPA Skank", "Freakout Skank", "Bucky Skank" and "Cow Thief Skank". Not only are these some of Perry's best early works (aside from the curiously absent "Clint Eastwood" instrumentals), they point the way into the future of the genre, and remixing in general, insofar as all the sounds are fair game for tweaking. This set, while not as uniformly tight as Soul Jazz's excellent Studio One overviews, or the compilations of legendary producers Leslie Kong, Sonia Pottinger, and King Tubby, has a little bit of everything to compensate, from a young Marley, to early toasting, with dashes of hard skank, proto-dub instrumentals, and oddball covers thrown in for good measure. As for compiling "Scratch", it remains an unsatisfactory effort; his cosmic joker legacy will forever elude capture, and these are all too brief glimpses of that genius at play."

Katie Dey

asdfasdf

Electronic

Sasha Geffen

Like regions, genres have accents. There are pop-punk yelps, post-punk groans, dream-pop whispers, and the clean, enunciated croons of mainstream stars. Katie Dey's first album asdfasdf positions her as an alien to vocal geography. The Melbourne-based artist is a singer as well as a songwriter, but in each of her songs, she completely corrodes her voice. While many home recordings paint the image of the artist singing real words into a real microphone attached to a real tape recorder, asdfasdf refuses to ground itself. It is hard to imagine these seven songs coming from a physical space; chaotic and gritty, they prioritize energy and motion, making audio fidelity feel like an obsolete concern. Of Dey's peers on the Orchid Tapes label, she finds the closest kinship with Alex G, another purveyor of demented indie pop who makes resourceful use of pitch-shifting and bizarre instrumental choices. But women's voices in music are especially policed for annoyingness, and Dey pushes that quality to an extreme edge. The first you hear of her on "don't be scared" is a high-pitched croak processed beyond recognition among clean acoustic guitar riffs and unsteady drum beats. She later programs a synthesizer to mimic her vocal tone; aside from the vague definition around her words, the line between human and machine feels smeared and unstable, as if Dey were as present in all of her instruments as she is in her own voice. asdfasdf's most defined and energetic song comes in the form of "unkillable", a minute and 20 seconds of buoyant melodies that constantly threaten to veer off course. Dey's lyrics shine through clearest here, with phrases like "teen poetry" and "sucks the blood from my feet" flashing through in strange, disembodied glimpses. The song is catchy, which makes it all the stranger. Most hooks go down smooth by design, but Dey's nightmare pop forces you to swallow something decomposing and sharp. The name of the song suggests its own inversion—not "unlikable", as it may read on first glance, but immortal, unstoppable, powerful. Dey is hardly the first songwriter to use broken rules as weapons, but she takes palpable pleasure in the conventions she upends. Voices, especially women's, are expected to be pretty and easy to grasp, especially in quieter, gentler music. Dey amplifies her rough edges, splitting the space inside her tape machine and chasing herself down its fragments. asdfasdf sustains a level of textural complexity that most musicians won't attempt, and its clever melodic core supports the layers of abrasions. A warm playfulness radiates from deep inside Dey's music. Its inscrutability makes it all the more rewarding to wade through over and over again.

Artist: Katie Dey, Album: asdfasdf, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Like regions, genres have accents. There are pop-punk yelps, post-punk groans, dream-pop whispers, and the clean, enunciated croons of mainstream stars. Katie Dey's first album asdfasdf positions her as an alien to vocal geography. The Melbourne-based artist is a singer as well as a songwriter, but in each of her songs, she completely corrodes her voice. While many home recordings paint the image of the artist singing real words into a real microphone attached to a real tape recorder, asdfasdf refuses to ground itself. It is hard to imagine these seven songs coming from a physical space; chaotic and gritty, they prioritize energy and motion, making audio fidelity feel like an obsolete concern. Of Dey's peers on the Orchid Tapes label, she finds the closest kinship with Alex G, another purveyor of demented indie pop who makes resourceful use of pitch-shifting and bizarre instrumental choices. But women's voices in music are especially policed for annoyingness, and Dey pushes that quality to an extreme edge. The first you hear of her on "don't be scared" is a high-pitched croak processed beyond recognition among clean acoustic guitar riffs and unsteady drum beats. She later programs a synthesizer to mimic her vocal tone; aside from the vague definition around her words, the line between human and machine feels smeared and unstable, as if Dey were as present in all of her instruments as she is in her own voice. asdfasdf's most defined and energetic song comes in the form of "unkillable", a minute and 20 seconds of buoyant melodies that constantly threaten to veer off course. Dey's lyrics shine through clearest here, with phrases like "teen poetry" and "sucks the blood from my feet" flashing through in strange, disembodied glimpses. The song is catchy, which makes it all the stranger. Most hooks go down smooth by design, but Dey's nightmare pop forces you to swallow something decomposing and sharp. The name of the song suggests its own inversion—not "unlikable", as it may read on first glance, but immortal, unstoppable, powerful. Dey is hardly the first songwriter to use broken rules as weapons, but she takes palpable pleasure in the conventions she upends. Voices, especially women's, are expected to be pretty and easy to grasp, especially in quieter, gentler music. Dey amplifies her rough edges, splitting the space inside her tape machine and chasing herself down its fragments. asdfasdf sustains a level of textural complexity that most musicians won't attempt, and its clever melodic core supports the layers of abrasions. A warm playfulness radiates from deep inside Dey's music. Its inscrutability makes it all the more rewarding to wade through over and over again."

Memory Tapes

Player Piano

Electronic,Rock

Ian Cohen

Taking the long view, Seek Magic strikes me as a great album made by someone who really doesn't care much for the format. It's understandable since Dayve Hawk's prior gig Hail Social released a couple of LPs of timely, danceable indie rock while perpetually hemmed in between positive notice (SPIN Band of the Day, a deal with Polyvinyl) and a legitimate breakthrough. I can't imagine being too enthusiastic for the obligations of the traditional album cycle after all of that. Hawk's subsequent release of singles, remixes, and other one-offs under a clutch of confusingly similar names (Memory Tapes, Weird Tapes, Memory Cassette) announced his newfound artistic direction as a cry of freedom, and he didn't show much interest in performing live either. But more eyes are on him than ever for Player Piano, and he's still got a thing for demurral. He's already claimed his third record to be almost done, allegedly a collection of Black Sabbath-influenced dirges. You would think such diffuse focus would eventually catch up with him, yet Player Piano finds him more concentrated and economical than ever. Unfortunately, it comes off more like complacency than conviction, that Hawk's either holding back on us, misreading his true strengths, not recognizing the need to rise to the occasion, or possibly all three. While the individual songs on Seek Magic were excellent themselves, what made that record stand out was its comprehensiveness. Whether you enjoyed Hawk's laconic and fuzzy melodies, gelatinous electronic textures, or pulsating dance music, you weren't too far from any of those at a given time (and you could find them all on "Bicycle"). Player Piano lacks that crucial cumulative effect, and instead Hawk presents himself more as an able if indistinct singer-songwriter than a molder of pure sound. And it isn't any sort of reactionary statement against chillwave: He stood out in my mind as the most forthright vocalist of his peers to begin with, his feminized coo relying more on elegant melodic curvature than foggy evocation. He gets a proper showcase with single "Wait in the Dark", on which Hawk is a true frontman rather than a texture over a streamlined arrangement. This shift makes Memory Tapes successfully come off like a sleek rock band than a home-bound project. Though he's comfortable doing true pop music, as opposed to pop determined by immediate context, his more extroverted moments can be as cloying: "Sunhits" rousts Player Piano from a mid-record plateau, but the overly chipper guitar doodles and Hawk's dodgiest and most clearly enunciated hook ("Nothing's a dream if you never wake up"-- he's never been a lyrics guy) strain too hard to fulfill the prophecy of its title. And how "Today Is Our Life" hits me depends almost entirely on my current mood: There are times when I find it to be a genuinely buoyant tambourine-shaking shimmy of breathless hooks; there are others where that cornpone guitar solo and sitar-laced coda are the stuff of shopping mall karaoke booths. It cuts to what's really troubling about Player Piano, how such a committed studio geek like Hawk delves into production-intensive 60s sunshine pop and ends up with such a weirdly distracting 2-D sound that leaves it sounding unfinished, demo-level, even. Its mood lighting is similar to that of Seek Magic, but the underlying instrumentation is often flat and airless, sucked dry of his typically evocative detailing. Paradoxically, the tracks that are proudly sample-free and reliant on acoustic instrumentation are the ones that are the least dynamic and eerily evoke the disembodied artificial intelligence of keyboard presets. "Yes I Know" submerges its carnivalesque pinwheels and Hawk's vocals in a waterlogged muffle that you expect to lift at some point, but it goes relatively hi-fi still without coming up for air. The same goes for "Offers" and "Worries", nice enough experiments in bubblegum funk and digitally retouched Nuggets Farfisa-rock that lack any sort of immersion or fluidity. And the instrumentals no longer feel like they're on equal footing, not that they do much to make themselves noticed. "Humming" is a palate cleanser of skittering drum machines and languid atmosphere begging for a longer work to play a part in, and while the first half of "Fell Thru Ice" finds Hawk exploring newly unmoored song structure, Part II is simply a lesser replay of Seek Magic tricks. It gets chased with "Trance Sisters", which deserves some credit as a buzzer-beating freak-out of maximalism, even if it's basically a compressed version of "Bicycle". All of which makes Player Piano a curiosity more than a flop. In fact, the sturdy hooks and thin arrangements make it ripe for remixes, and considering the similar wavelength he was on with Andorra, I wonder what Dan Snaith might be able to do with the raw materials here. But while I'd love to say Hawk's ear for melody or texture is what differentiates Player Piano from the dozens of agreeable but wholly unremarkable electro-pop records that get a pass, truth is, it's ultimately the comparison to Seek Magic that makes it such a letdown.

Artist: Memory Tapes, Album: Player Piano, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Taking the long view, Seek Magic strikes me as a great album made by someone who really doesn't care much for the format. It's understandable since Dayve Hawk's prior gig Hail Social released a couple of LPs of timely, danceable indie rock while perpetually hemmed in between positive notice (SPIN Band of the Day, a deal with Polyvinyl) and a legitimate breakthrough. I can't imagine being too enthusiastic for the obligations of the traditional album cycle after all of that. Hawk's subsequent release of singles, remixes, and other one-offs under a clutch of confusingly similar names (Memory Tapes, Weird Tapes, Memory Cassette) announced his newfound artistic direction as a cry of freedom, and he didn't show much interest in performing live either. But more eyes are on him than ever for Player Piano, and he's still got a thing for demurral. He's already claimed his third record to be almost done, allegedly a collection of Black Sabbath-influenced dirges. You would think such diffuse focus would eventually catch up with him, yet Player Piano finds him more concentrated and economical than ever. Unfortunately, it comes off more like complacency than conviction, that Hawk's either holding back on us, misreading his true strengths, not recognizing the need to rise to the occasion, or possibly all three. While the individual songs on Seek Magic were excellent themselves, what made that record stand out was its comprehensiveness. Whether you enjoyed Hawk's laconic and fuzzy melodies, gelatinous electronic textures, or pulsating dance music, you weren't too far from any of those at a given time (and you could find them all on "Bicycle"). Player Piano lacks that crucial cumulative effect, and instead Hawk presents himself more as an able if indistinct singer-songwriter than a molder of pure sound. And it isn't any sort of reactionary statement against chillwave: He stood out in my mind as the most forthright vocalist of his peers to begin with, his feminized coo relying more on elegant melodic curvature than foggy evocation. He gets a proper showcase with single "Wait in the Dark", on which Hawk is a true frontman rather than a texture over a streamlined arrangement. This shift makes Memory Tapes successfully come off like a sleek rock band than a home-bound project. Though he's comfortable doing true pop music, as opposed to pop determined by immediate context, his more extroverted moments can be as cloying: "Sunhits" rousts Player Piano from a mid-record plateau, but the overly chipper guitar doodles and Hawk's dodgiest and most clearly enunciated hook ("Nothing's a dream if you never wake up"-- he's never been a lyrics guy) strain too hard to fulfill the prophecy of its title. And how "Today Is Our Life" hits me depends almost entirely on my current mood: There are times when I find it to be a genuinely buoyant tambourine-shaking shimmy of breathless hooks; there are others where that cornpone guitar solo and sitar-laced coda are the stuff of shopping mall karaoke booths. It cuts to what's really troubling about Player Piano, how such a committed studio geek like Hawk delves into production-intensive 60s sunshine pop and ends up with such a weirdly distracting 2-D sound that leaves it sounding unfinished, demo-level, even. Its mood lighting is similar to that of Seek Magic, but the underlying instrumentation is often flat and airless, sucked dry of his typically evocative detailing. Paradoxically, the tracks that are proudly sample-free and reliant on acoustic instrumentation are the ones that are the least dynamic and eerily evoke the disembodied artificial intelligence of keyboard presets. "Yes I Know" submerges its carnivalesque pinwheels and Hawk's vocals in a waterlogged muffle that you expect to lift at some point, but it goes relatively hi-fi still without coming up for air. The same goes for "Offers" and "Worries", nice enough experiments in bubblegum funk and digitally retouched Nuggets Farfisa-rock that lack any sort of immersion or fluidity. And the instrumentals no longer feel like they're on equal footing, not that they do much to make themselves noticed. "Humming" is a palate cleanser of skittering drum machines and languid atmosphere begging for a longer work to play a part in, and while the first half of "Fell Thru Ice" finds Hawk exploring newly unmoored song structure, Part II is simply a lesser replay of Seek Magic tricks. It gets chased with "Trance Sisters", which deserves some credit as a buzzer-beating freak-out of maximalism, even if it's basically a compressed version of "Bicycle". All of which makes Player Piano a curiosity more than a flop. In fact, the sturdy hooks and thin arrangements make it ripe for remixes, and considering the similar wavelength he was on with Andorra, I wonder what Dan Snaith might be able to do with the raw materials here. But while I'd love to say Hawk's ear for melody or texture is what differentiates Player Piano from the dozens of agreeable but wholly unremarkable electro-pop records that get a pass, truth is, it's ultimately the comparison to Seek Magic that makes it such a letdown."

The Amazing

Ambulance

Rock

John S.W. MacDonald

The Amazing emerged in 2009 as blissed-out psych-folk nostalgists. Their influences—which they wore openly and proudly, like treasured thrift-store finds—all dated to the late ‘60s and early ‘70s: Hendrix, Cream, Pink Floyd, Nick Drake, Fairport Convention, pre-Buckingham/Nicks Fleetwood Mac (whom they gleefully covered on their self-titled debut). This likely had something to do with their record collections, and the fact that the Amazing shared members with fellow Swedish psych-rockers Dungen, including the group’s phenomenal guitarist, Reine Fiske. The musicianship was certainly impressive—and the vibe appropriately stony—but the whole thing felt a bit slight. The Amazing re-emerged four years after 2011’s Gentle Stream as an almost entirely different band. On 2015’s Picture You, the reference points had jumped 15 to 25 years into the future to encompass indie and alt rock from both sides of the Atlantic—the Cure, Red House Painters, the Smiths—and the music had grown starker, bleaker, and more wrenchingly beautiful. With his brooding, impressionistic tenor, singer Christoffer Gunrup sounded far more at home amid rain-drenched city streets then the sun-dappled backcountry lanes of his band’s early years. *Ambulance *double-downs on the gloom, dispatching entirely with the riff rock that still tickled the edges of Picture You. This is mood music in the best sense of the term: insular, all-enveloping and deeply sensuous. The Amazing grab hold of a small range of emotions—depression, regret, angst, longing—and hang on for dear life. *Ambulance *is a long walk home from the bar in the dead of winter. All this is insinuated, never spelled out directly. Gunrup sings in English, but soaks his words in reverb and harmony, leaving them largely indecipherable (and he never reveals his lyrics to the press). The phrases that peak through the fog—“Not today, not tonight, but soon,” “I know you had to let go,” “the made-up stories and the fucked-up lies”—paint a bleak enough picture, but it’s the tension and foreboding suggested by the music itself, and the super-lush, wide-angle production, that brings Gunrup’s dramas to life, gives them meaning and specificity. The endlessly chiming guitars are so warm and thick with reverb you could cut them with a steak knife, particularly on “Tracks”—essentially one long guitar solo, deconstructed over nearly seven minutes (Mogwai would be proud)—and the glacial, epically sad “Through City Lights.” You can practically feel the breeze blowing through “Floating,” a sparkling track that recalls the shoegaze-country twang of the sorely missed Mojave 3. As ever, lead-guitarist Reine Fiske and drummer Moussa Fadera, with his jazzy little snare fills, are the band’s stars. It’s only when the Amazing veer off the chorus-heavy Anglo-rock path that the spell is broken. The funky noir thriller “Blair Drager,” though enjoyable on its own, sounds entirely out of place here—*Ambulance *is not a record you should be nodding your head to. And the album sputters to an anticlimactic finish with two ruminative acoustic tracks that ramble and shuffle from one section to another with little purpose. Much like Mark Kozelek, Gunrup wears his bad humor like a badge of honor, and there’s more than a whiff of self-pity hanging over *Ambulance. *But as you tend to do with Kozelek, you forgive Gunrup for his self-obsessions, and love him anyway. The dope-happy, free-spirited version of the Amazing came across like a band playing dress-up with clothes a couple sizes too big. Now the shoes fit: The group has never sounded richer, fuller, or more confident in their own narcotic powers. Misery suits them.

Artist: The Amazing, Album: Ambulance, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "The Amazing emerged in 2009 as blissed-out psych-folk nostalgists. Their influences—which they wore openly and proudly, like treasured thrift-store finds—all dated to the late ‘60s and early ‘70s: Hendrix, Cream, Pink Floyd, Nick Drake, Fairport Convention, pre-Buckingham/Nicks Fleetwood Mac (whom they gleefully covered on their self-titled debut). This likely had something to do with their record collections, and the fact that the Amazing shared members with fellow Swedish psych-rockers Dungen, including the group’s phenomenal guitarist, Reine Fiske. The musicianship was certainly impressive—and the vibe appropriately stony—but the whole thing felt a bit slight. The Amazing re-emerged four years after 2011’s Gentle Stream as an almost entirely different band. On 2015’s Picture You, the reference points had jumped 15 to 25 years into the future to encompass indie and alt rock from both sides of the Atlantic—the Cure, Red House Painters, the Smiths—and the music had grown starker, bleaker, and more wrenchingly beautiful. With his brooding, impressionistic tenor, singer Christoffer Gunrup sounded far more at home amid rain-drenched city streets then the sun-dappled backcountry lanes of his band’s early years. *Ambulance *double-downs on the gloom, dispatching entirely with the riff rock that still tickled the edges of Picture You. This is mood music in the best sense of the term: insular, all-enveloping and deeply sensuous. The Amazing grab hold of a small range of emotions—depression, regret, angst, longing—and hang on for dear life. *Ambulance *is a long walk home from the bar in the dead of winter. All this is insinuated, never spelled out directly. Gunrup sings in English, but soaks his words in reverb and harmony, leaving them largely indecipherable (and he never reveals his lyrics to the press). The phrases that peak through the fog—“Not today, not tonight, but soon,” “I know you had to let go,” “the made-up stories and the fucked-up lies”—paint a bleak enough picture, but it’s the tension and foreboding suggested by the music itself, and the super-lush, wide-angle production, that brings Gunrup’s dramas to life, gives them meaning and specificity. The endlessly chiming guitars are so warm and thick with reverb you could cut them with a steak knife, particularly on “Tracks”—essentially one long guitar solo, deconstructed over nearly seven minutes (Mogwai would be proud)—and the glacial, epically sad “Through City Lights.” You can practically feel the breeze blowing through “Floating,” a sparkling track that recalls the shoegaze-country twang of the sorely missed Mojave 3. As ever, lead-guitarist Reine Fiske and drummer Moussa Fadera, with his jazzy little snare fills, are the band’s stars. It’s only when the Amazing veer off the chorus-heavy Anglo-rock path that the spell is broken. The funky noir thriller “Blair Drager,” though enjoyable on its own, sounds entirely out of place here—*Ambulance *is not a record you should be nodding your head to. And the album sputters to an anticlimactic finish with two ruminative acoustic tracks that ramble and shuffle from one section to another with little purpose. Much like Mark Kozelek, Gunrup wears his bad humor like a badge of honor, and there’s more than a whiff of self-pity hanging over *Ambulance. *But as you tend to do with Kozelek, you forgive Gunrup for his self-obsessions, and love him anyway. The dope-happy, free-spirited version of the Amazing came across like a band playing dress-up with clothes a couple sizes too big. Now the shoes fit: The group has never sounded richer, fuller, or more confident in their own narcotic powers. Misery suits them."

Lucky Soul

A Coming of Age

Pop/R&B

Marc Hogan

"There's always a friendly, easygoing atmosphere at the club, but this one feels extra special for some reason-- like a secret gathering of like-minded people, hidden away from reality." That's the from the liner notes to The Kids at the Club, a 2006 compilation that features one of the earliest tracks from the London sextet led by songwriter/guitarist Andrew Laidlaw and singer Ali Howard. The image is pure Lucky Soul: a party where the nice kids are also the outcasts. It's also pure indie pop, but Lucky Soul were always out of step even among the Bowlie set. Their 2007 debut, The Great Unwanted, was not only meticulously crafted and emotionally overflowing, but also polished for a popular appeal it could never realistically attain. Not that it did poorly: Despite being self-released and receiving little attention from big U.S. print publications, the record boasts worldwide sales of 50,000 copies. Three years later, sophomore album A Coming of Age is that much further removed from prevailing trends, and it's not quite as immediately endearing, but it's a little more grown-up. And it's still pretty easy to like. The state of pop influenced by 1960s girl groups, Motown, and soul has changed a lot since the indie boomlet that gave us Lucky Soul, the Pipettes, and so many others. From Sharon Jones to Duffy, pre-Beatles throwbacks are on the rise. Younger acts like Vivian Girls, Dum Dum Girls, and Best Coast inherit from early girl-group singers the shambling "feel" as much as the emotional directness, adding their own reverb and lo-fi scuzz. As for the Pipettes, on the basis of at least one new song, they've skipped straight to the 70s-- and lost much of the human tenderness that made them special in the first place. A Coming of Age attempts a subtler maturation, with mixed results. Drawing again from Spector- and Bacharach-sized 60s pop-- plus glam ("Woah Billy!"), country ("Love 3"), and singer-songwriters like Carole King ("Warm Water")-- the songs are packed with hooks, but they don't sink in as easily as before. For every "White Russian Doll", which bounds into the sort of romantic shadows where the Long Blondes used to smolder, or the title track, with its just-late-enough "...come too late!", there's a, well, "Ain't Nothin' Like a Shame". Still, Lucky Soul's latest proves once again that well-wrought, traditional melodic narratives packed with handclaps, strings, horns, whoa-oh-ohs, yeah-yeah-yeahs, and heartbreak can succeed without being painstakingly retro or modestly muffled. They only have to connect. The nice kids are no longer so nice, nor such kids, but they're still just as unfashionably welcoming. The closest comparison to A Coming of Age is the 60s-steeped adult-pop of Stuart Murdoch's God Help the Girl project, except instead of fitting into indie's niche mindset, Laidlaw's glistening production doubles down on Lucky Soul's (poignantly unlikely) radio-readiness. Howard's delicately forceful lilt, which brings to mind Dusty Springfield and Saint Etienne's Sarah Cracknell, has only grown stronger, more supple. The debut's teenage themes, meanwhile, give way here to sadness, loss of innocence, and mortality. On The Great Unwanted, Howard sang, "I ain't never been cool." Now, she concludes, "It could be that I just don't belong-- anywhere but here."

Artist: Lucky Soul, Album: A Coming of Age, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: ""There's always a friendly, easygoing atmosphere at the club, but this one feels extra special for some reason-- like a secret gathering of like-minded people, hidden away from reality." That's the from the liner notes to The Kids at the Club, a 2006 compilation that features one of the earliest tracks from the London sextet led by songwriter/guitarist Andrew Laidlaw and singer Ali Howard. The image is pure Lucky Soul: a party where the nice kids are also the outcasts. It's also pure indie pop, but Lucky Soul were always out of step even among the Bowlie set. Their 2007 debut, The Great Unwanted, was not only meticulously crafted and emotionally overflowing, but also polished for a popular appeal it could never realistically attain. Not that it did poorly: Despite being self-released and receiving little attention from big U.S. print publications, the record boasts worldwide sales of 50,000 copies. Three years later, sophomore album A Coming of Age is that much further removed from prevailing trends, and it's not quite as immediately endearing, but it's a little more grown-up. And it's still pretty easy to like. The state of pop influenced by 1960s girl groups, Motown, and soul has changed a lot since the indie boomlet that gave us Lucky Soul, the Pipettes, and so many others. From Sharon Jones to Duffy, pre-Beatles throwbacks are on the rise. Younger acts like Vivian Girls, Dum Dum Girls, and Best Coast inherit from early girl-group singers the shambling "feel" as much as the emotional directness, adding their own reverb and lo-fi scuzz. As for the Pipettes, on the basis of at least one new song, they've skipped straight to the 70s-- and lost much of the human tenderness that made them special in the first place. A Coming of Age attempts a subtler maturation, with mixed results. Drawing again from Spector- and Bacharach-sized 60s pop-- plus glam ("Woah Billy!"), country ("Love 3"), and singer-songwriters like Carole King ("Warm Water")-- the songs are packed with hooks, but they don't sink in as easily as before. For every "White Russian Doll", which bounds into the sort of romantic shadows where the Long Blondes used to smolder, or the title track, with its just-late-enough "...come too late!", there's a, well, "Ain't Nothin' Like a Shame". Still, Lucky Soul's latest proves once again that well-wrought, traditional melodic narratives packed with handclaps, strings, horns, whoa-oh-ohs, yeah-yeah-yeahs, and heartbreak can succeed without being painstakingly retro or modestly muffled. They only have to connect. The nice kids are no longer so nice, nor such kids, but they're still just as unfashionably welcoming. The closest comparison to A Coming of Age is the 60s-steeped adult-pop of Stuart Murdoch's God Help the Girl project, except instead of fitting into indie's niche mindset, Laidlaw's glistening production doubles down on Lucky Soul's (poignantly unlikely) radio-readiness. Howard's delicately forceful lilt, which brings to mind Dusty Springfield and Saint Etienne's Sarah Cracknell, has only grown stronger, more supple. The debut's teenage themes, meanwhile, give way here to sadness, loss of innocence, and mortality. On The Great Unwanted, Howard sang, "I ain't never been cool." Now, she concludes, "It could be that I just don't belong-- anywhere but here.""

...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead

Source Tags and Codes

Rock

Matt LeMay

Some music begs to be explored. Promising fascination and intrigue beyond your wildest dreams, its distant melodies beckon you towards it while you try your very best to discern every distinct element that presents itself to you. As you get closer and closer, you begin to relax, letting yourself become completely enveloped by the entrancing tones. Of course, it's all a trap. Just as you begin to lose yourself, you become vaguely aware that the sound that soothingly beckoned you has now transformed into something vastly different-- something powerful, dangerous, and merciless. What was so beautiful at a safe distance is still beautiful, but what was once tranquil and peaceful has metamorphosed into a vicious, violent glory. Before you can even respond, you're flat on your back, pulverized by its sheer force. Making music that is both delicate and dangerous requires a level of skill that most musicians can barely even fathom. While some bands, like the Microphones, succeed at capturing the simultaneous beauty and rage of nature, what And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead have encapsulated on their third full-length, Source Tags and Codes, is something distinctly human. Anger has always played a central role in the band's music, but with this record, they've finally managed to capture all the subtle shades of disappointment, melancholy, frustration and hope that often accompany it. Of course, capturing all this with music is no small feat. Source Tags and Codes is massive in its execution, bursting with layered percussion, deftly arranged strings and, most importantly, songs that are simply epic. "It Was There That I Saw You" opens the album with squealing static and a clean guitar playing a simple, tickling figure. There's a palpable sense of excitement as the song suddenly explodes into a frenetic blast of crashing cymbals, screeching guitars, and thumping bass. Amidst the swell of sound, Conrad Keely's voice takes on a sharp, almost crystalline quality that cuts through the mix with biting force. "Another Morning Stoner" mimics "It Was There That I Saw You" in its opening moments, but rather than exploding with pure energy, it builds slowly and deliberately to an absolutely astonishing finale. Melodic guitar lines ricochet back and forth, brought to new sonic elevations by soaring string arrangements. The call-and-response section that finishes the song, in which two members of the band exchange the phrases, "What is forgiveness?/ It's just a dream/ What is forgiveness?/ It's everything," is one of many absolutely indelible moments on Source Tags and Codes. "Baudelaire" follows the haunting "Another Morning Stoner" with a blast of pure rock and roll. Catchy and incredibly sinister, "Baudelaire" builds upon a central, immensely powerful guitar and trumpet riff with handclaps, driving percussion, and barely audible voices engaged in conversation. Eventually, the song trails off into a single submerged guitar line accentuated by reverb-soaked bells. Just as the hypnotic ending to "Baudelaire" pulls you into a trance, "Homage" picks you up by the hair, smacks you around, spits in your face, and leaves you gasping for breath, before imploding into a symphony of static. "How Near How Far" and "Heart in the Hand of the Matter" are the highlights of Source Tags and Codes' center, utterly alive with energy and texture. "How Near How Far" uses vocal harmonies and strings to reinforce a sense of violent melancholy, and the unforgettable chorus to "Heart in the Hand of the Matter" ("I'm so damned, I can't win") is enlivened by the contrast between gritty guitars and clear, ringing piano. After another expertly produced segue, "Monsoon" pulls together the rock swagger of "Baudelaire" and the sentimentality of "Heart in the Hand of the Matter" to wonderful effect. The songwriting on Source Tags and Codes is inconceivably elegant-- never predictable, but never gratuitously dissonant. Parts of songs wind seamlessly into each other, each one full of brilliant sonic nuances that are every bit as compelling when taken as part of the entire song as when examined individually. Fragmented feedback heralds the arrival of "Days of Being Wild," a song that hosts some of the most creative instrumental interplay to grace this album, before building to yet another utterly awe-inspiring finale. Source Tags and Codes is an album big on finales-- thus, it makes sense that its three final tracks are quite possibly its best. "Relative Ways," which was released earlier this year as a single, is the most exquisitely constructed song here. Conrad Keely's voice breaks and spits as he pleads, "It's okay/ I'm a saint/ I forgave/ Your mistakes." An unexpected chord shift heightens the dramatic tension of the song just in time for it to return to its original theme and fade into "After the Laughter," the only segue on Source Tags and Codes to be given its own track. A stunning concoction of dreamy vocal harmonies, radio noises, pianos and strings, "After the Laughter" is wonderful in its own right, but taking into account the fact that the song perfectly bridges the melodies of "Relative Ways" and the album's closer, "Source Tags and Codes," it seems utterly brilliant. As with any epic album, Source Tags and Codes demands an epic closer, and the record's title track delivers masterfully. Both a lyrical and melodic high point, "Source Tags and Codes" captures the complex emotions of the album in a brief glimpse of pure paradoxical beauty. A perfect arrangement of the guitars, piano, strings, bells, and percussion that help make this record so intricate and powerful, the song sounds almost like a bittersweet reunion with old friends. A few seconds after last guitar has faded, a string ensemble plays a brief, gorgeous piece that is at once hopeful and somber. The strings end in unison on a single note, which is sustained for a few moments before fading out. The impact is immediate: you know without a moment's doubt that you have just heard something that is absolutely classic. And while Source Tags and Codes does seem to carry with it a certain knowledge of its own brilliance, it never tries to cheaply impress. Simply put, it doesn't need to. Dense, beautiful, intricate, haunting, explosive, and dangerous, this is everything rock music aspires to be: intense, incredible songs arranged perfectly and performed with skill and passion. Source Tags and Codes will take you in, rip you to shreds, piece you together, lick your wounds clean, and send you back into the world with a concurrent sense of loss and hope. And you will nev

Artist: ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, Album: Source Tags and Codes, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 10.0 Album review: "Some music begs to be explored. Promising fascination and intrigue beyond your wildest dreams, its distant melodies beckon you towards it while you try your very best to discern every distinct element that presents itself to you. As you get closer and closer, you begin to relax, letting yourself become completely enveloped by the entrancing tones. Of course, it's all a trap. Just as you begin to lose yourself, you become vaguely aware that the sound that soothingly beckoned you has now transformed into something vastly different-- something powerful, dangerous, and merciless. What was so beautiful at a safe distance is still beautiful, but what was once tranquil and peaceful has metamorphosed into a vicious, violent glory. Before you can even respond, you're flat on your back, pulverized by its sheer force. Making music that is both delicate and dangerous requires a level of skill that most musicians can barely even fathom. While some bands, like the Microphones, succeed at capturing the simultaneous beauty and rage of nature, what And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead have encapsulated on their third full-length, Source Tags and Codes, is something distinctly human. Anger has always played a central role in the band's music, but with this record, they've finally managed to capture all the subtle shades of disappointment, melancholy, frustration and hope that often accompany it. Of course, capturing all this with music is no small feat. Source Tags and Codes is massive in its execution, bursting with layered percussion, deftly arranged strings and, most importantly, songs that are simply epic. "It Was There That I Saw You" opens the album with squealing static and a clean guitar playing a simple, tickling figure. There's a palpable sense of excitement as the song suddenly explodes into a frenetic blast of crashing cymbals, screeching guitars, and thumping bass. Amidst the swell of sound, Conrad Keely's voice takes on a sharp, almost crystalline quality that cuts through the mix with biting force. "Another Morning Stoner" mimics "It Was There That I Saw You" in its opening moments, but rather than exploding with pure energy, it builds slowly and deliberately to an absolutely astonishing finale. Melodic guitar lines ricochet back and forth, brought to new sonic elevations by soaring string arrangements. The call-and-response section that finishes the song, in which two members of the band exchange the phrases, "What is forgiveness?/ It's just a dream/ What is forgiveness?/ It's everything," is one of many absolutely indelible moments on Source Tags and Codes. "Baudelaire" follows the haunting "Another Morning Stoner" with a blast of pure rock and roll. Catchy and incredibly sinister, "Baudelaire" builds upon a central, immensely powerful guitar and trumpet riff with handclaps, driving percussion, and barely audible voices engaged in conversation. Eventually, the song trails off into a single submerged guitar line accentuated by reverb-soaked bells. Just as the hypnotic ending to "Baudelaire" pulls you into a trance, "Homage" picks you up by the hair, smacks you around, spits in your face, and leaves you gasping for breath, before imploding into a symphony of static. "How Near How Far" and "Heart in the Hand of the Matter" are the highlights of Source Tags and Codes' center, utterly alive with energy and texture. "How Near How Far" uses vocal harmonies and strings to reinforce a sense of violent melancholy, and the unforgettable chorus to "Heart in the Hand of the Matter" ("I'm so damned, I can't win") is enlivened by the contrast between gritty guitars and clear, ringing piano. After another expertly produced segue, "Monsoon" pulls together the rock swagger of "Baudelaire" and the sentimentality of "Heart in the Hand of the Matter" to wonderful effect. The songwriting on Source Tags and Codes is inconceivably elegant-- never predictable, but never gratuitously dissonant. Parts of songs wind seamlessly into each other, each one full of brilliant sonic nuances that are every bit as compelling when taken as part of the entire song as when examined individually. Fragmented feedback heralds the arrival of "Days of Being Wild," a song that hosts some of the most creative instrumental interplay to grace this album, before building to yet another utterly awe-inspiring finale. Source Tags and Codes is an album big on finales-- thus, it makes sense that its three final tracks are quite possibly its best. "Relative Ways," which was released earlier this year as a single, is the most exquisitely constructed song here. Conrad Keely's voice breaks and spits as he pleads, "It's okay/ I'm a saint/ I forgave/ Your mistakes." An unexpected chord shift heightens the dramatic tension of the song just in time for it to return to its original theme and fade into "After the Laughter," the only segue on Source Tags and Codes to be given its own track. A stunning concoction of dreamy vocal harmonies, radio noises, pianos and strings, "After the Laughter" is wonderful in its own right, but taking into account the fact that the song perfectly bridges the melodies of "Relative Ways" and the album's closer, "Source Tags and Codes," it seems utterly brilliant. As with any epic album, Source Tags and Codes demands an epic closer, and the record's title track delivers masterfully. Both a lyrical and melodic high point, "Source Tags and Codes" captures the complex emotions of the album in a brief glimpse of pure paradoxical beauty. A perfect arrangement of the guitars, piano, strings, bells, and percussion that help make this record so intricate and powerful, the song sounds almost like a bittersweet reunion with old friends. A few seconds after last guitar has faded, a string ensemble plays a brief, gorgeous piece that is at once hopeful and somber. The strings end in unison on a single note, which is sustained for a few moments before fading out. The impact is immediate: you know without a moment's doubt that you have just heard something that is absolutely classic. And while Source Tags and Codes does seem to carry with it a certain knowledge of its own brilliance, it never tries to cheaply impress. Simply put, it doesn't need to. Dense, beautiful, intricate, haunting, explosive, and dangerous, this is everything rock music aspires to be: intense, incredible songs arranged perfectly and performed with skill and passion. Source Tags and Codes will take you in, rip you to shreds, piece you together, lick your wounds clean, and send you back into the world with a concurrent sense of loss and hope. And you will nev"

Matthew Shipp

DNA

Experimental,Jazz

Samir Khan

Pianist Matthew Shipp and bassist William Parker are truly beasts. Not in that they're beast- like-- they don't bear any of the scary child- molester vibe of a Mick Jagger or Steven Tyler. They don't seem to be foul mannered, and as far as I know, they don't drool. "What is this?" you say, in a thick Hungarian accent. "Why you say beess, when you say they are no beess- like?" For those looking for clues as to what I mean, I suggest you check out any recording with either of these two jazz giant's names attached to them. Feeling lazy? Check out the cover. Look at Shipp, face contorted in "I am rocking out" bliss, arms all tense and agile. Parker's photo on the back is, admittedly not as shit hot. But that's no matter. When I say these men are beasts, I pay them the highest compliment. These are two men whose prodigal talent is so monstrous, it's oughta be put in a "Scary Stories" book between "The Girl Who Died of Terror When Her Friends Stabbed Her Skirt into the Ground With a Knife in the Graveyard" and "The Golden Arm." Whereas Mr. Wynton Marsalis proceeds to turn jazz into static classical music with his note- for- note renditions of Coltrane's early standards, guys like Shipp and Parker embody the adventurous spirit that made jazz's greats so unique in their time. Both were involved (along with this amazing female drummer whose name escapes me right now) in the last staggering Matthew Shipp Trio record which artfully melded ambitious melodic phrasing and dissonant improvisation with remarkable ease. This is not the type of stuff that you hear in your bougie coffee house. And good luck trying to fuck to it-- you'll be floored in blissful Hungarian impotence. This time, they've ditched the drums, with the aim of exploring their improvisational technique. Given that there's only piano and bass, you might be wondering how interesting this would be. And admittedly, it's not for everybody. Everybody sucks, anyway. But what you get is a solid collection of wonderful sonic experiments which explore both the limits and the possibilities of their construction. Bookended by two skewed takes on traditional songs ("When Johnny Comes Marching Home" and "Amazing Grace"), DNA is sometimes hauntingly beautiful, other times disturbing, but consistently challenging and interesting. "Cell Sequence" is a subdued piece guided by Shipp's meandering, fluid lines and Parker's punctuated bass riffs. "Orbit" is the closest the avant- garde will ever get to funk-- a seemingly dischordant melody guided by Shipp's stabbing piano rhythms. "Mr. Chromosome" shows Shipp at his most playful, using his piano to make the kind of random, bleeping that you'd find in a documentary about cell division. About halfway through, you begin to realize that Shipp must have really fast, smart hands. And then he catches a melody, Parker kicks in with a deft plunk on the ol' upright, and just when you're getting into it, there's a ferocious mashing of the keys. In an age when improvisation is synonymous with either out- and- out wankery or the talent displayed by the guy on "Sesame Street" who bangs his head on the piano, DNA captures two beasts who understand how to make a glorious, smart and beautiful record. We're pleasantly scared.

Artist: Matthew Shipp, Album: DNA, Genre: Experimental,Jazz, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Pianist Matthew Shipp and bassist William Parker are truly beasts. Not in that they're beast- like-- they don't bear any of the scary child- molester vibe of a Mick Jagger or Steven Tyler. They don't seem to be foul mannered, and as far as I know, they don't drool. "What is this?" you say, in a thick Hungarian accent. "Why you say beess, when you say they are no beess- like?" For those looking for clues as to what I mean, I suggest you check out any recording with either of these two jazz giant's names attached to them. Feeling lazy? Check out the cover. Look at Shipp, face contorted in "I am rocking out" bliss, arms all tense and agile. Parker's photo on the back is, admittedly not as shit hot. But that's no matter. When I say these men are beasts, I pay them the highest compliment. These are two men whose prodigal talent is so monstrous, it's oughta be put in a "Scary Stories" book between "The Girl Who Died of Terror When Her Friends Stabbed Her Skirt into the Ground With a Knife in the Graveyard" and "The Golden Arm." Whereas Mr. Wynton Marsalis proceeds to turn jazz into static classical music with his note- for- note renditions of Coltrane's early standards, guys like Shipp and Parker embody the adventurous spirit that made jazz's greats so unique in their time. Both were involved (along with this amazing female drummer whose name escapes me right now) in the last staggering Matthew Shipp Trio record which artfully melded ambitious melodic phrasing and dissonant improvisation with remarkable ease. This is not the type of stuff that you hear in your bougie coffee house. And good luck trying to fuck to it-- you'll be floored in blissful Hungarian impotence. This time, they've ditched the drums, with the aim of exploring their improvisational technique. Given that there's only piano and bass, you might be wondering how interesting this would be. And admittedly, it's not for everybody. Everybody sucks, anyway. But what you get is a solid collection of wonderful sonic experiments which explore both the limits and the possibilities of their construction. Bookended by two skewed takes on traditional songs ("When Johnny Comes Marching Home" and "Amazing Grace"), DNA is sometimes hauntingly beautiful, other times disturbing, but consistently challenging and interesting. "Cell Sequence" is a subdued piece guided by Shipp's meandering, fluid lines and Parker's punctuated bass riffs. "Orbit" is the closest the avant- garde will ever get to funk-- a seemingly dischordant melody guided by Shipp's stabbing piano rhythms. "Mr. Chromosome" shows Shipp at his most playful, using his piano to make the kind of random, bleeping that you'd find in a documentary about cell division. About halfway through, you begin to realize that Shipp must have really fast, smart hands. And then he catches a melody, Parker kicks in with a deft plunk on the ol' upright, and just when you're getting into it, there's a ferocious mashing of the keys. In an age when improvisation is synonymous with either out- and- out wankery or the talent displayed by the guy on "Sesame Street" who bangs his head on the piano, DNA captures two beasts who understand how to make a glorious, smart and beautiful record. We're pleasantly scared."

King Khan and the Shrines

Idle No More

Electronic,Rock

Stuart Berman

Arish Khan may surround himself with an army of nine and call himself a king, but at heart, he's a court jester. For all the voodoo mystique and sex-machine swagger he wields onstage, his songs brim with anxiety and humility, whether he’s lusting after cute record-store clerks, professing his weakness for plus-size paramours, or measuring his commitment in food stamps. It’s the sort of charm offensive that comes naturally when-- as a brown man in the traditionally white world of garage-punk, not to mention in Khan’s adopted hometown of Berlin-- you’ve lived your life as an outsider among outsiders. But in the six years that have passed since he and his band the Shrines last released a new album, Khan’s sassy self-deprecation has turned to sobering introspection, and for good reason. He’s endured the death of three close friends (including punk-rock pal Jay Reatard), and a reportedly nasty falling-out with long-time collaborator Mark “BBQ” Sultan (his frequent partner in crime since their late-90s tenure in Montreal’s the Spaceshits); the cumulative effect of all this turmoil saw Khan seeking solace in psychiatric hospitals and Buddhist monasteries alike. If his 2011 solo release for Scion’s A/V series-- released under the ad-hoc King Khan Experience banner-- sounded like a mess, that’s because, well, at the time, he felt like one. But if you need any proof that Khan is back to fighting trim, just look at the spine of his latest record, which bears not only the imprimatur of the Shrines-- the band that brings out the show-bizzy best in him-- but the logo of his first proper U.S. label: Merge Records. (Khan’s 2008 Vice Records issue, The Supreme Genius of King Khan and The Shrines was a compilation culled from various European releases.) Khan’s work with the Shrines has typically drawn from the funk, psych, and soul of the turn-of-the-’70s black-power era, but seemingly had little use for its ideological intent. Idle No More, however, takes an inverse approach: its fusion of Brian Jones-era Rolling Stones paisley pop and Spectorian pomp pushes Khan and the Shrines beyond their usual JBs jones, but the album’s title speaks to a burgeoning social consciousness. It’s named for an emergent Canadian Aboriginal-rights protest movement, one Khan particularly identifies with after spending his teen years hanging on reservations in Quebec with a Mohawk friend (one of the aforementioned casualties). Though there’s not a single song here that explicitly addresses the plight of First Nations people, Khan has essentially donated his album title to the cause as if it were an advertising billboard-- the first indication of the album’s more sanguine, openhearted spirit. Even in the absence of any overt political sloganeering, Khan evinces a new sense of purpose here. The album’s first side counts as the most majestic music the King has produced, blowing up his garage-rock roots to a cinematic scale without losing the ballsy attitude. The Shrines bring the brass, of course, but this time they’re bolstered by sweeping strings and ba-ba-da-ba choruses that transform songs like “Born to Die” and “Thorn in Her Pride” into the stuff glitzy 60s prime-time variety specials were made of. But the more opulent environs don’t dilute Khan’s finely tuned sense of irreverence: When he cops Lou Reed’s “and all the colored girls sing” directive prior to the latter songs’ “shoobie-doo-wop” finale, it becomes immediately clear he doesn’t have the budget to hire an actual troupe of back-up singers, so he just pitches his voice up and sings the hook himself. “Luckiest Man”, meanwhile, is a cheeky account of his soul-searching sojourn and recovery set to the buoyant groove of Archie Bell & the Drells’ northern-soul classic “Tighten Up”. But even when there’s a lightness and congeniality to the songs that Khan has rarely evinced before, the Shrines’ big-band effect lends them an imposing wall-of-sound grandeur and fierce Motown momentum. That is, until the brooding ballad “Darkness” brings the album’s vigorous pace to a screeching halt. A dark-soul-of-the-night document of his recent breakdown, it should be Khan’s “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World”, a slow-burning, show-stopping set piece that prompts the singer to his knees and bring the house down with him. Instead, he opts for a campy, drag-queen croon that saps the song of its emotional impact by constantly drawing attention to how far Khan is singing outside of his usual raspy range. From there, Idle No More never fully regains its footing, as the album tries to balance deeply personal subject matter and the Shrines’ party-hearty energy with inconsistent results: “Pray for Lil” (featuring a beautifully yearning guest lead vocal from Jena Roker) is a winsome tribute to Khan’s wife and the support she provided in his hour of need, but the songs dedicated to late Atlanta garage-scene fixture Bobby Ubangi (“Bad Boy”) and Reatard (“So Wild”) feel a touch too slight and undercooked, given their inspirations. However, the closing Hendrixian ballad “Of Madness I Dream”, peacefully reconciles Idle No More’s overarching themes of remorse and renewal--for King Khan, the premise of mourning and the promise of morning are one and the same.

Artist: King Khan and the Shrines, Album: Idle No More, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Arish Khan may surround himself with an army of nine and call himself a king, but at heart, he's a court jester. For all the voodoo mystique and sex-machine swagger he wields onstage, his songs brim with anxiety and humility, whether he’s lusting after cute record-store clerks, professing his weakness for plus-size paramours, or measuring his commitment in food stamps. It’s the sort of charm offensive that comes naturally when-- as a brown man in the traditionally white world of garage-punk, not to mention in Khan’s adopted hometown of Berlin-- you’ve lived your life as an outsider among outsiders. But in the six years that have passed since he and his band the Shrines last released a new album, Khan’s sassy self-deprecation has turned to sobering introspection, and for good reason. He’s endured the death of three close friends (including punk-rock pal Jay Reatard), and a reportedly nasty falling-out with long-time collaborator Mark “BBQ” Sultan (his frequent partner in crime since their late-90s tenure in Montreal’s the Spaceshits); the cumulative effect of all this turmoil saw Khan seeking solace in psychiatric hospitals and Buddhist monasteries alike. If his 2011 solo release for Scion’s A/V series-- released under the ad-hoc King Khan Experience banner-- sounded like a mess, that’s because, well, at the time, he felt like one. But if you need any proof that Khan is back to fighting trim, just look at the spine of his latest record, which bears not only the imprimatur of the Shrines-- the band that brings out the show-bizzy best in him-- but the logo of his first proper U.S. label: Merge Records. (Khan’s 2008 Vice Records issue, The Supreme Genius of King Khan and The Shrines was a compilation culled from various European releases.) Khan’s work with the Shrines has typically drawn from the funk, psych, and soul of the turn-of-the-’70s black-power era, but seemingly had little use for its ideological intent. Idle No More, however, takes an inverse approach: its fusion of Brian Jones-era Rolling Stones paisley pop and Spectorian pomp pushes Khan and the Shrines beyond their usual JBs jones, but the album’s title speaks to a burgeoning social consciousness. It’s named for an emergent Canadian Aboriginal-rights protest movement, one Khan particularly identifies with after spending his teen years hanging on reservations in Quebec with a Mohawk friend (one of the aforementioned casualties). Though there’s not a single song here that explicitly addresses the plight of First Nations people, Khan has essentially donated his album title to the cause as if it were an advertising billboard-- the first indication of the album’s more sanguine, openhearted spirit. Even in the absence of any overt political sloganeering, Khan evinces a new sense of purpose here. The album’s first side counts as the most majestic music the King has produced, blowing up his garage-rock roots to a cinematic scale without losing the ballsy attitude. The Shrines bring the brass, of course, but this time they’re bolstered by sweeping strings and ba-ba-da-ba choruses that transform songs like “Born to Die” and “Thorn in Her Pride” into the stuff glitzy 60s prime-time variety specials were made of. But the more opulent environs don’t dilute Khan’s finely tuned sense of irreverence: When he cops Lou Reed’s “and all the colored girls sing” directive prior to the latter songs’ “shoobie-doo-wop” finale, it becomes immediately clear he doesn’t have the budget to hire an actual troupe of back-up singers, so he just pitches his voice up and sings the hook himself. “Luckiest Man”, meanwhile, is a cheeky account of his soul-searching sojourn and recovery set to the buoyant groove of Archie Bell & the Drells’ northern-soul classic “Tighten Up”. But even when there’s a lightness and congeniality to the songs that Khan has rarely evinced before, the Shrines’ big-band effect lends them an imposing wall-of-sound grandeur and fierce Motown momentum. That is, until the brooding ballad “Darkness” brings the album’s vigorous pace to a screeching halt. A dark-soul-of-the-night document of his recent breakdown, it should be Khan’s “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World”, a slow-burning, show-stopping set piece that prompts the singer to his knees and bring the house down with him. Instead, he opts for a campy, drag-queen croon that saps the song of its emotional impact by constantly drawing attention to how far Khan is singing outside of his usual raspy range. From there, Idle No More never fully regains its footing, as the album tries to balance deeply personal subject matter and the Shrines’ party-hearty energy with inconsistent results: “Pray for Lil” (featuring a beautifully yearning guest lead vocal from Jena Roker) is a winsome tribute to Khan’s wife and the support she provided in his hour of need, but the songs dedicated to late Atlanta garage-scene fixture Bobby Ubangi (“Bad Boy”) and Reatard (“So Wild”) feel a touch too slight and undercooked, given their inspirations. However, the closing Hendrixian ballad “Of Madness I Dream”, peacefully reconciles Idle No More’s overarching themes of remorse and renewal--for King Khan, the premise of mourning and the promise of morning are one and the same."

The Bad Plus

These Are the Vistas

Experimental,Jazz

Dominique Leone

The problem with jazz is... well, I'm not exactly sure. I can tell you that I'm getting tired of opening jazz reviews with a survey of the genre's problems. In the end, it's probably no worse off than any other music predating rock and roll, and that it at least still has a Grammy category should be encouraging. Perhaps the only real problem is that big labels have a tough time marketing it (see if you can name any one of Billboard's current Top 40 jazz albums). However, unlike, say, contemporary polka (also a tough sell, especially in our war-torn economy), people are still making interesting, creative statements in jazz. For experimental music listeners, jazz is probably as vibrant now as it ever was. You just have to live with a dimmer spotlight, if that matters. And so, along comes The Bad Plus, from the heart of the Midwest, and with big Columbia dollars paying for their hotels and, presumably, Blender blurbs. They have the shiny blue CD cover, have snagged Sheryl Crow and Tom Waits' producer, get in-store promotion at Tower and Borders, and press releases that-- wouldn't you know it-- herald them as jazz's saviors! Of course, none of this really covers the various musical contributions that pianist Ethan Iverson, bassist Reid Anderson, and drummer David King (a member of the Minneapolis jazz combo Happy Apple, and replacement drummer for the legendary Christopher McGuire in 12 Rods) may have made to their own record. As you probably shouldn't be surprised to know, their press hasn't really done them too many favors except to garner them raves from the NPR and Good Morning America crowd. The three members of The Bad Plus, hailing from Minnesota and Wisconsin, have been playing together off and on since the early 1990s. They released their self-titled debut in 2001 independently, and had a follow-up available last year (now out of print), recorded live at the Village Vanguard. They've steadily built a following of fervent jazz fans and alert critics, though are likely as surprised at their exposure this year as anyone. These Are the Vistas, beyond the production and fanfare, is pretty squarely along the lines of much new, young straight-ahead jazz: integrated use of new beats and electronic music touches, covers of various Gen-X hits, and the will to sporadically launch brief, free improv blowing sessions. Naturally, those sessions are much fewer and farther between than your average Tim Berne disc, but then again, Columbia doesn't invest in 20-minute Bloodcount tunes for a reason. First, the covers: supposedly pianist Iverson had never heard the song previously (only in Wisconsin, folks), but the trio's rendition of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" is, er, spirited. Iverson favors broad, dramatic chord clusters and liberal use of his sustain pedal, so instead of ragged rock glory, we get faux-cinematic\ grandeur. Anderson does a nice Ron Carter impression underneath, linking the performance to what must have been a big inspiration for them: Miles Davis' mid-60s similarly eccentric quintet. They hit Aphex Twin's "Flim" with kid gloves, almost too delicately. Producer Tchad Blake incorporates a few filters to make King's drums sound computerized, but it's my feeling that you can't really hide a jazz band. Their version of Blondie's "Heart of Glass" is probably the most ambitious song on the entire record, if only because they try out about three completely different moods before arriving at the song proper. I'm not so sure they're as convincing way out there as they are straight up, but points for giving it a go. The Bad Plus is at their best when they step out of the jazz chair entirely, as on the marvelously kinetic "Big Eater", which opens the album. King is an amazing drummer, certainly a treat for anyone loving modern jazz percussionists like Ben Perowsky, Kenny Wollesen or Jim Black, and his performance on Anderson's piece is fantastically, aggressively precise. Likewise, Iverson's block chords, serving as melody, are straight out of the great-lost post-rock riff book, and would undoubtedly make Tom Jenkinson mighty jealous. If only they could keep up that intensity throughout, as other tunes seem either flat homages to the avant-garde ("Boo-Wah"), or small-group MOR jazz balladry ("Silence is the Question")-- though there is a download-only ballad titled "What Love is This" that's a lot more engaging than most of the ones here. Marketing aside, I wouldn't be surprised to see The Bad Plus become pretty successful. They have a knack for hitting the melody where some more experimental outfits might opt for a diverse array of craziness. The three performers are also very good musicians (particularly King and Anderson), and I imagine they put on a good show. It's not their fault some record company guy thought they could be the new face of jazz, so I'd urge hipsters to keep an open ear, and everyone else not to expect fireworks. Hey, it could be worse-- you know Elvis Costello is giving Diana Krall Mitchell Froom's number.

Artist: The Bad Plus, Album: These Are the Vistas, Genre: Experimental,Jazz, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "The problem with jazz is... well, I'm not exactly sure. I can tell you that I'm getting tired of opening jazz reviews with a survey of the genre's problems. In the end, it's probably no worse off than any other music predating rock and roll, and that it at least still has a Grammy category should be encouraging. Perhaps the only real problem is that big labels have a tough time marketing it (see if you can name any one of Billboard's current Top 40 jazz albums). However, unlike, say, contemporary polka (also a tough sell, especially in our war-torn economy), people are still making interesting, creative statements in jazz. For experimental music listeners, jazz is probably as vibrant now as it ever was. You just have to live with a dimmer spotlight, if that matters. And so, along comes The Bad Plus, from the heart of the Midwest, and with big Columbia dollars paying for their hotels and, presumably, Blender blurbs. They have the shiny blue CD cover, have snagged Sheryl Crow and Tom Waits' producer, get in-store promotion at Tower and Borders, and press releases that-- wouldn't you know it-- herald them as jazz's saviors! Of course, none of this really covers the various musical contributions that pianist Ethan Iverson, bassist Reid Anderson, and drummer David King (a member of the Minneapolis jazz combo Happy Apple, and replacement drummer for the legendary Christopher McGuire in 12 Rods) may have made to their own record. As you probably shouldn't be surprised to know, their press hasn't really done them too many favors except to garner them raves from the NPR and Good Morning America crowd. The three members of The Bad Plus, hailing from Minnesota and Wisconsin, have been playing together off and on since the early 1990s. They released their self-titled debut in 2001 independently, and had a follow-up available last year (now out of print), recorded live at the Village Vanguard. They've steadily built a following of fervent jazz fans and alert critics, though are likely as surprised at their exposure this year as anyone. These Are the Vistas, beyond the production and fanfare, is pretty squarely along the lines of much new, young straight-ahead jazz: integrated use of new beats and electronic music touches, covers of various Gen-X hits, and the will to sporadically launch brief, free improv blowing sessions. Naturally, those sessions are much fewer and farther between than your average Tim Berne disc, but then again, Columbia doesn't invest in 20-minute Bloodcount tunes for a reason. First, the covers: supposedly pianist Iverson had never heard the song previously (only in Wisconsin, folks), but the trio's rendition of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" is, er, spirited. Iverson favors broad, dramatic chord clusters and liberal use of his sustain pedal, so instead of ragged rock glory, we get faux-cinematic\ grandeur. Anderson does a nice Ron Carter impression underneath, linking the performance to what must have been a big inspiration for them: Miles Davis' mid-60s similarly eccentric quintet. They hit Aphex Twin's "Flim" with kid gloves, almost too delicately. Producer Tchad Blake incorporates a few filters to make King's drums sound computerized, but it's my feeling that you can't really hide a jazz band. Their version of Blondie's "Heart of Glass" is probably the most ambitious song on the entire record, if only because they try out about three completely different moods before arriving at the song proper. I'm not so sure they're as convincing way out there as they are straight up, but points for giving it a go. The Bad Plus is at their best when they step out of the jazz chair entirely, as on the marvelously kinetic "Big Eater", which opens the album. King is an amazing drummer, certainly a treat for anyone loving modern jazz percussionists like Ben Perowsky, Kenny Wollesen or Jim Black, and his performance on Anderson's piece is fantastically, aggressively precise. Likewise, Iverson's block chords, serving as melody, are straight out of the great-lost post-rock riff book, and would undoubtedly make Tom Jenkinson mighty jealous. If only they could keep up that intensity throughout, as other tunes seem either flat homages to the avant-garde ("Boo-Wah"), or small-group MOR jazz balladry ("Silence is the Question")-- though there is a download-only ballad titled "What Love is This" that's a lot more engaging than most of the ones here. Marketing aside, I wouldn't be surprised to see The Bad Plus become pretty successful. They have a knack for hitting the melody where some more experimental outfits might opt for a diverse array of craziness. The three performers are also very good musicians (particularly King and Anderson), and I imagine they put on a good show. It's not their fault some record company guy thought they could be the new face of jazz, so I'd urge hipsters to keep an open ear, and everyone else not to expect fireworks. Hey, it could be worse-- you know Elvis Costello is giving Diana Krall Mitchell Froom's number."

Tanlines

Settings EP

Electronic

Joe Colly

Usually when experienced musicians get together to start a new group, traces of their past work can't help but creep back into their songs. But that's not the case with Tanlines, the duo of Jesse Cohen and Eric Emm, who arrive at their new project with pretty diverse backgrounds. Cohen comes from the dance-y post-punk act Professor Murder while Emm spent time in dissonant math-rock bands Don Caballero and Storm & Stress, and interestingly Tanlines don't really sound like any of those groups. What they make now is tropical synth-pop that's more indebted to the Tough Alliance and, to some degree, MPP-era Animal Collective. Tanlines are more production team than proper band and, not unlike Barcelona electro-poppers Delorean, their style is inspired as much by club music as indie rock. Straddling the line between dance and pop but hewing more towards the latter, Tanlines put together African percussion, swirling guitars, and dancefloor elements inside catchy, effervescent tracks. Their Settings EP comes on the heels of some early singles and remixes for groups such as Telepathe and finds the duo honing in on a fuller, more developed sound. The record is split evenly between instrumental cuts and vocal tracks, and Tanlines do well with both. The appeal of these songs is primarily sonic (rich, surging arrangements and big clean hooks), so they don't all need words, but when Cohen and Emm do weave in lyrical content, it adds intrigue. The best example is standout "Real Life", where Emm gets wistful over knocking percussion and heaving, squeaky synths. "You might think I'm still that way, it's only natural/ It was a past-life thing, it wasn't anything at all," he laments. If you've ever bumped into an ex who dumped you for doing something stupid, you know exactly what he's talking about. Tanlines have a strong pop sensibility and a good working knowledge of global club sounds, and it's this balance that makes Settings an enjoyable listen. They're said to have an affinity for Depeche Mode (not so subtly hinted at here on "Policy of Trust"), and while that may seem strange with music this sunny, you can hear pretty clearly in Tanlines' tracks their appreciation for hook-heavy dance-pop of all kinds. Not everything on the EP works as well as "Real Life" (they lose me a bit on the calypso and hip-hop informed "Bees"), but mostly Settings functions as a punchy introduction to what these guys do well.

Artist: Tanlines, Album: Settings EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Usually when experienced musicians get together to start a new group, traces of their past work can't help but creep back into their songs. But that's not the case with Tanlines, the duo of Jesse Cohen and Eric Emm, who arrive at their new project with pretty diverse backgrounds. Cohen comes from the dance-y post-punk act Professor Murder while Emm spent time in dissonant math-rock bands Don Caballero and Storm & Stress, and interestingly Tanlines don't really sound like any of those groups. What they make now is tropical synth-pop that's more indebted to the Tough Alliance and, to some degree, MPP-era Animal Collective. Tanlines are more production team than proper band and, not unlike Barcelona electro-poppers Delorean, their style is inspired as much by club music as indie rock. Straddling the line between dance and pop but hewing more towards the latter, Tanlines put together African percussion, swirling guitars, and dancefloor elements inside catchy, effervescent tracks. Their Settings EP comes on the heels of some early singles and remixes for groups such as Telepathe and finds the duo honing in on a fuller, more developed sound. The record is split evenly between instrumental cuts and vocal tracks, and Tanlines do well with both. The appeal of these songs is primarily sonic (rich, surging arrangements and big clean hooks), so they don't all need words, but when Cohen and Emm do weave in lyrical content, it adds intrigue. The best example is standout "Real Life", where Emm gets wistful over knocking percussion and heaving, squeaky synths. "You might think I'm still that way, it's only natural/ It was a past-life thing, it wasn't anything at all," he laments. If you've ever bumped into an ex who dumped you for doing something stupid, you know exactly what he's talking about. Tanlines have a strong pop sensibility and a good working knowledge of global club sounds, and it's this balance that makes Settings an enjoyable listen. They're said to have an affinity for Depeche Mode (not so subtly hinted at here on "Policy of Trust"), and while that may seem strange with music this sunny, you can hear pretty clearly in Tanlines' tracks their appreciation for hook-heavy dance-pop of all kinds. Not everything on the EP works as well as "Real Life" (they lose me a bit on the calypso and hip-hop informed "Bees"), but mostly Settings functions as a punchy introduction to what these guys do well."

Georgia Anne Muldrow

VWETO

Pop/R&B

Sam Hockley-Smith

On record, Georgia Anne Muldrow can come across as the spiritual and emotional heir to Nina Simone-- immersed in music with a cracked soul and a full heart, ever adventurous and pushing herself in new and occasionally bizarre directions. But the reality is a little different. Muldrow documents every moment of her career relentlessly, releasing a string of albums that have bright moments, but mostly feel incomplete. Her latest album, VWETO, is entirely instrumental, which is unfortunate. Muldrow's prime appeal is the way she tackles even the most rudderless instrumentals with her silken rasp, briefly attempting to keep a track in lockstep before faltering into spaced out bliss. It's this loss of control that makes her someone worth paying attention to, and without it, VWETO is just a somewhat enjoyable but mostly forgettable listen. There are promising moments, though. The slap bass on "Strike" paired with an upper register balloon squeak is hypnotic in the most blunted way possible, while album opener "The No-No Chords" sits dead center in California smog, relying on texture and loose, squelching bass to propel it forward. Meanwhile, "fOnkRocker" rolls so smoothly over its own g-funk bounce that it's insane that she doesn't attempt to at least throw a chorus in there. VWETO might flow beautifully from beginning to end, but it also rambles. Outside of those highlights, much of the album feels like it exists just to fill space. Tracks like "fOnk Stroll" drag on a few minutes too long and sound like she's fidgeting around in the space between the obvious influence of J Dilla's Donuts-era song sketches and a more fleshed out, modern funk. VWETO might be just another step in what is sure to be a long and storied career for Muldrow, but it's not the one that will match audience expectations. When she finally gets it completely right-- and it seems ridiculous to assume she won't, based on the glimpses of brilliance she's shown in the past-- she'll elevate Nag Champa and Bead Curtain soul into something worth paying attention to again.

Artist: Georgia Anne Muldrow, Album: VWETO, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "On record, Georgia Anne Muldrow can come across as the spiritual and emotional heir to Nina Simone-- immersed in music with a cracked soul and a full heart, ever adventurous and pushing herself in new and occasionally bizarre directions. But the reality is a little different. Muldrow documents every moment of her career relentlessly, releasing a string of albums that have bright moments, but mostly feel incomplete. Her latest album, VWETO, is entirely instrumental, which is unfortunate. Muldrow's prime appeal is the way she tackles even the most rudderless instrumentals with her silken rasp, briefly attempting to keep a track in lockstep before faltering into spaced out bliss. It's this loss of control that makes her someone worth paying attention to, and without it, VWETO is just a somewhat enjoyable but mostly forgettable listen. There are promising moments, though. The slap bass on "Strike" paired with an upper register balloon squeak is hypnotic in the most blunted way possible, while album opener "The No-No Chords" sits dead center in California smog, relying on texture and loose, squelching bass to propel it forward. Meanwhile, "fOnkRocker" rolls so smoothly over its own g-funk bounce that it's insane that she doesn't attempt to at least throw a chorus in there. VWETO might flow beautifully from beginning to end, but it also rambles. Outside of those highlights, much of the album feels like it exists just to fill space. Tracks like "fOnk Stroll" drag on a few minutes too long and sound like she's fidgeting around in the space between the obvious influence of J Dilla's Donuts-era song sketches and a more fleshed out, modern funk. VWETO might be just another step in what is sure to be a long and storied career for Muldrow, but it's not the one that will match audience expectations. When she finally gets it completely right-- and it seems ridiculous to assume she won't, based on the glimpses of brilliance she's shown in the past-- she'll elevate Nag Champa and Bead Curtain soul into something worth paying attention to again."

Priests

Early Recordings

Rock

Quinn Moreland

A mere week after forming, the Washington D.C. band Priests sought physical proof of their existence. The group was a trio then—drummer Daniele Daniele, vocalist Katie Alice Greer, guitarist G.L. Jaguar—and they headed to a basement in Maryland to record their first four songs, which would become 2011’s Tape 1. “I was very eager to have evidence of the band exist for myself, because I didn’t know how long it would last, and I wanted to make music more than anything,” Greer explained. Six years later, now a quartet, Priests have come a long way. Following 2014’s overtly political Bodies and Control and Money and Power EP, they released their debut LP earlier this year and it was a huge achievement, exploring new sounds (R&B, glam pop, classical) as well as personal vulnerability. The road has been rocky, but Priests have survived. Their sound has expanded, but the newly-released Early Recordings, compiling their first two cassettes, shows that Priests’ sense of purpose was intact from the start. Their proximity to their influences cannot be overlooked. Jaguar grew up embedded in the D.C. scene where he saw influential punk bands like Fugazi, Black Eyes, and Quixotic and attended political actions against the Bush presidency. Greer has played in the legendary Ian Svenonius’ Chain and the Gang, who insert a kitschy playfulness onto a punk philosophy. All of these elements come into play as Priests infuse the hardcore pummel and DIY ethics of their city with new life. Priests’ first ever song was “Diet Coke,” a shrieking satirization of product placement. Greer sounds like an over-caffeinated cheerleader as she chants the names of products, while Jaguar coins his soon-to-be signature chordless rockabilly riff and Daniele threatens to splinter the floor with her drumming. The venomous guitar in “Cobra” sounds ready to bite your head off, as does Greer’s spiteful sneer. “Talking,” on the other hand, resembles Nothing Feels Natural’s contemplative title track thanks to its pensive beginning. But when Daniele’s sticks count off and Greer’s vocals kick in, the song suddenly evokes a wistful Beat Happening track. “Let’s talk about the nature of a classroom/Let’s talk about rewarding complicity,” Greer wails, weaving together conceptual and visceral collaboration; “The world is not so black and white,” she sings later on “The World.” In 2012, while Greer was on tour with Chain and the Gang, Daniele and Jaguar befriended Taylor Mulitz, who became the band’s bassist. That same year, the members of Priests formed a label called Sister Polygon to put out their own records and those of their extended network (Snail Mail, Downtown Boys, and Sneaks among them). 2013’s Tape Two was the fourth of these releases. After two years of touring and the addition of Mulitz, Priests’ ideas coalesced. Jaguar made an effort to distance his playing from that of the bands he had grown up seeing—on Tape Two, he avoids traditional chords in exchange for minimal, single notes that sounds angular, twangy, and surfy. Tape Two opens with the fiery “Leave Me Alone,” a callout track inspired by Bush Tetras’ “Too Many Creeps.” “You wanna know what I think? I think you look like a creep!” Greer barks, the scratch in her voice revealing just the slightest trace of fatigue. The bouncy Daniele-led “Say No” exudes sensuality, punctuated by shouts and groans. In the penultimate track “Twelve,” chants of “talking protesting demonstrating” turns a subdued meditation into a one liner: “But then someone said ‘We can’t have a revolution that responds to any of these things.’” The spoken-word piece “USA (Incantations)” exposes an inherent inequality in the U.S. that goes all the way back to the signing of the Constitution. “Unless you are a rich, land-owning, cisgender, heterosexual white man-man-man through and through, things were always bad for you here,” Greer chirps. Greer speaks often on the use of pop culture as a weapon, as a means of subversion, and as a pervasive form of communication. The brilliant “Lana” uses the Born to Die singer as a means of examining the perception of female celebrity, beauty, and performativity. “Women who are beautiful by societal standards in a place of power often elicit that kind of backlash,” Greer said, referring to the constant criticism of Del Rey’s relationship with the male gaze. The Daniele-penned and sung “Watch You (Alternate Mix)” further continues to explore gender and objectification. We tend to consider scopophilia, or the pleasure gained from the gaze, in terms of the subject; “Watch You” explores the spectator or performer’s pleasure in looking at the audience. “I’m a pervert, I’ve got the gaze,” Daniele taunts, all exaggerated braggadocio. The song sounds purposefully creepy thanks to slick strings, a greasy riff, and drums that sound metallic. Although they waited six years to release a full-length, Early Recordings illustrates that even in their earliest days, Priests were pushing themselves and the audience they earned. It was only with Nothing Feels Natural that Priests found emotional harmony in their discord, but on tapes 1 and Two, they were beginning to examine and searingly critique the social and political systems around them. “Time waits for no one,” playwright and intellectual Lillian Hellman is quoted as saying in a Tape Two song named for her. Early Recordings proves that Priests took the sentiment to heart.

Artist: Priests, Album: Early Recordings, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "A mere week after forming, the Washington D.C. band Priests sought physical proof of their existence. The group was a trio then—drummer Daniele Daniele, vocalist Katie Alice Greer, guitarist G.L. Jaguar—and they headed to a basement in Maryland to record their first four songs, which would become 2011’s Tape 1. “I was very eager to have evidence of the band exist for myself, because I didn’t know how long it would last, and I wanted to make music more than anything,” Greer explained. Six years later, now a quartet, Priests have come a long way. Following 2014’s overtly political Bodies and Control and Money and Power EP, they released their debut LP earlier this year and it was a huge achievement, exploring new sounds (R&B, glam pop, classical) as well as personal vulnerability. The road has been rocky, but Priests have survived. Their sound has expanded, but the newly-released Early Recordings, compiling their first two cassettes, shows that Priests’ sense of purpose was intact from the start. Their proximity to their influences cannot be overlooked. Jaguar grew up embedded in the D.C. scene where he saw influential punk bands like Fugazi, Black Eyes, and Quixotic and attended political actions against the Bush presidency. Greer has played in the legendary Ian Svenonius’ Chain and the Gang, who insert a kitschy playfulness onto a punk philosophy. All of these elements come into play as Priests infuse the hardcore pummel and DIY ethics of their city with new life. Priests’ first ever song was “Diet Coke,” a shrieking satirization of product placement. Greer sounds like an over-caffeinated cheerleader as she chants the names of products, while Jaguar coins his soon-to-be signature chordless rockabilly riff and Daniele threatens to splinter the floor with her drumming. The venomous guitar in “Cobra” sounds ready to bite your head off, as does Greer’s spiteful sneer. “Talking,” on the other hand, resembles Nothing Feels Natural’s contemplative title track thanks to its pensive beginning. But when Daniele’s sticks count off and Greer’s vocals kick in, the song suddenly evokes a wistful Beat Happening track. “Let’s talk about the nature of a classroom/Let’s talk about rewarding complicity,” Greer wails, weaving together conceptual and visceral collaboration; “The world is not so black and white,” she sings later on “The World.” In 2012, while Greer was on tour with Chain and the Gang, Daniele and Jaguar befriended Taylor Mulitz, who became the band’s bassist. That same year, the members of Priests formed a label called Sister Polygon to put out their own records and those of their extended network (Snail Mail, Downtown Boys, and Sneaks among them). 2013’s Tape Two was the fourth of these releases. After two years of touring and the addition of Mulitz, Priests’ ideas coalesced. Jaguar made an effort to distance his playing from that of the bands he had grown up seeing—on Tape Two, he avoids traditional chords in exchange for minimal, single notes that sounds angular, twangy, and surfy. Tape Two opens with the fiery “Leave Me Alone,” a callout track inspired by Bush Tetras’ “Too Many Creeps.” “You wanna know what I think? I think you look like a creep!” Greer barks, the scratch in her voice revealing just the slightest trace of fatigue. The bouncy Daniele-led “Say No” exudes sensuality, punctuated by shouts and groans. In the penultimate track “Twelve,” chants of “talking protesting demonstrating” turns a subdued meditation into a one liner: “But then someone said ‘We can’t have a revolution that responds to any of these things.’” The spoken-word piece “USA (Incantations)” exposes an inherent inequality in the U.S. that goes all the way back to the signing of the Constitution. “Unless you are a rich, land-owning, cisgender, heterosexual white man-man-man through and through, things were always bad for you here,” Greer chirps. Greer speaks often on the use of pop culture as a weapon, as a means of subversion, and as a pervasive form of communication. The brilliant “Lana” uses the Born to Die singer as a means of examining the perception of female celebrity, beauty, and performativity. “Women who are beautiful by societal standards in a place of power often elicit that kind of backlash,” Greer said, referring to the constant criticism of Del Rey’s relationship with the male gaze. The Daniele-penned and sung “Watch You (Alternate Mix)” further continues to explore gender and objectification. We tend to consider scopophilia, or the pleasure gained from the gaze, in terms of the subject; “Watch You” explores the spectator or performer’s pleasure in looking at the audience. “I’m a pervert, I’ve got the gaze,” Daniele taunts, all exaggerated braggadocio. The song sounds purposefully creepy thanks to slick strings, a greasy riff, and drums that sound metallic. Although they waited six years to release a full-length, Early Recordings illustrates that even in their earliest days, Priests were pushing themselves and the audience they earned. It was only with Nothing Feels Natural that Priests found emotional harmony in their discord, but on tapes 1 and Two, they were beginning to examine and searingly critique the social and political systems around them. “Time waits for no one,” playwright and intellectual Lillian Hellman is quoted as saying in a Tape Two song named for her. Early Recordings proves that Priests took the sentiment to heart."

Mike Ladd

Nostalgialator

Rap

Joe Tangari

Deep in the afterfuture, when Armageddon has rendered the world a cold, dead place, the surviving few will yearn for a time before the cataclysm, when things were brighter and people knew how to party. And in order to quench that yearning, the people will turn to the Nostalgialator, a great machine on treads perhaps constructed from melted plastic soldiers that brings the sounds and sensations of the past to the huddled masses. Watch it, though: It occasionally snaps and sucks off history's sugarcoat to reveal what that time was really like. If I gather correctly, this is the general conceptual arc along which hip-hop's strangest operator, Mike Ladd, has designed his first three solo albums. It's almost as awesomely pretentious as his concurrent trilogy revolving around the struggles between the underground Infesticons and mainstream Majesticons. Nostalgialator is constructed in two halves, the first stuffed with interstellar electrofunk for the party at the end of the universe, the second a downtempo chill session that presumably signals a malfunction in the titular machine. It groans to life with a collage of smooth beats, swelling crowd noise, coughing synths and barely intelligible shoutouts from the stage called "Dire Straits Play Nuremburg", and the air already feels charged with electricity. Ladd flexes every muscle he has over the next 40 minutes, Bollywood horns blasting at the corners, sound sweeping into great, kinetic waves as Ladd raps, croons, speaks like the mental offspring of Gil-Scott Heron, shouts, and cranks up his falsetto. He works that odd, scratchy falsetto on the spacey R&B; single "Housewives at Play", mingling with the slinking synths and thumping beat and a De la Soul-ish breakdown that repeats itself into an echoing wah guitar figure that's positively out of this world. His background playing in punk bands comes to the fore on "Wild Out Day", a frenetic blast of Mumbai hardcore that kicks Minor Threat in the face with a cartoon horn break while Ladd loses his shit barking out the verses. The album flips in head-spinning fashion through British Invasion guitar breaks, organic drum explosions, crunching electro, and Ladd's slippery raps, the best of which might be "Black Orientalist", with its tumbling cadence, his viscous voice flirting with melody and teasing words into referential tangles to mince and mix Vietnam, colonialism, the war on terrorism, and black identity into a single, sweeping blur. The album's second half flows with Ladd's stream of consciousness, as he waxes Gil-Scott on the title track in a swirling analog texture with a meditation on Ben Franklin and electricity: "He discarded letters and chess for fire from clouds/ Delving in the games of gods, basking in new decadence beyond women in Paris and the death of Indians/ Something supernatural/ The harnessing of energy." Ladd's knack for imagery is breathtaking, as he spreads Franklin, "thunderstruck junkie, fiend for sky crack," across history into the board room of ComEd and the wallet of the consumer dropping their check for the electric bill in the mail. The instrumental "How Electricity Really Works" takes this shift away from the first half's funkiness into extreme realms, mimicking 20th century classical music and ambivalent soundtrack music. But it's the closer, "Sail Away Ladies (Traditional)", that takes Ladd furthest from the man we know, as he croons in a milky baritone over a sort of sci-fi country & western backing. By this point, the whole Nostalgialator concept has been swept clean aside by the wave of Ladd's 21st Century musical assault, and that's perfectly fine-- the last thing I'd want to hear him do is compromise his mastery of wordplay and sonic trickery in the name of advancing some arcane plot. As much as Ladd continually references the past, from Dr. Livingston and Picasso to Minor Threat, Funkadelic, and De La Soul, he moves the air with a beat that's entirely his own, the sum of too many parts to reflect any one too prominently, and his perceived role as a prankster on the sideline of hip-hop doesn't do his innovation or skill any justice. Nostalgialator closes the book on an epic cycle of three loosely linked albums, and I can't wait to see what crazy glue seeps out of Ladd's head to hold together the next series.

Artist: Mike Ladd, Album: Nostalgialator, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Deep in the afterfuture, when Armageddon has rendered the world a cold, dead place, the surviving few will yearn for a time before the cataclysm, when things were brighter and people knew how to party. And in order to quench that yearning, the people will turn to the Nostalgialator, a great machine on treads perhaps constructed from melted plastic soldiers that brings the sounds and sensations of the past to the huddled masses. Watch it, though: It occasionally snaps and sucks off history's sugarcoat to reveal what that time was really like. If I gather correctly, this is the general conceptual arc along which hip-hop's strangest operator, Mike Ladd, has designed his first three solo albums. It's almost as awesomely pretentious as his concurrent trilogy revolving around the struggles between the underground Infesticons and mainstream Majesticons. Nostalgialator is constructed in two halves, the first stuffed with interstellar electrofunk for the party at the end of the universe, the second a downtempo chill session that presumably signals a malfunction in the titular machine. It groans to life with a collage of smooth beats, swelling crowd noise, coughing synths and barely intelligible shoutouts from the stage called "Dire Straits Play Nuremburg", and the air already feels charged with electricity. Ladd flexes every muscle he has over the next 40 minutes, Bollywood horns blasting at the corners, sound sweeping into great, kinetic waves as Ladd raps, croons, speaks like the mental offspring of Gil-Scott Heron, shouts, and cranks up his falsetto. He works that odd, scratchy falsetto on the spacey R&B; single "Housewives at Play", mingling with the slinking synths and thumping beat and a De la Soul-ish breakdown that repeats itself into an echoing wah guitar figure that's positively out of this world. His background playing in punk bands comes to the fore on "Wild Out Day", a frenetic blast of Mumbai hardcore that kicks Minor Threat in the face with a cartoon horn break while Ladd loses his shit barking out the verses. The album flips in head-spinning fashion through British Invasion guitar breaks, organic drum explosions, crunching electro, and Ladd's slippery raps, the best of which might be "Black Orientalist", with its tumbling cadence, his viscous voice flirting with melody and teasing words into referential tangles to mince and mix Vietnam, colonialism, the war on terrorism, and black identity into a single, sweeping blur. The album's second half flows with Ladd's stream of consciousness, as he waxes Gil-Scott on the title track in a swirling analog texture with a meditation on Ben Franklin and electricity: "He discarded letters and chess for fire from clouds/ Delving in the games of gods, basking in new decadence beyond women in Paris and the death of Indians/ Something supernatural/ The harnessing of energy." Ladd's knack for imagery is breathtaking, as he spreads Franklin, "thunderstruck junkie, fiend for sky crack," across history into the board room of ComEd and the wallet of the consumer dropping their check for the electric bill in the mail. The instrumental "How Electricity Really Works" takes this shift away from the first half's funkiness into extreme realms, mimicking 20th century classical music and ambivalent soundtrack music. But it's the closer, "Sail Away Ladies (Traditional)", that takes Ladd furthest from the man we know, as he croons in a milky baritone over a sort of sci-fi country & western backing. By this point, the whole Nostalgialator concept has been swept clean aside by the wave of Ladd's 21st Century musical assault, and that's perfectly fine-- the last thing I'd want to hear him do is compromise his mastery of wordplay and sonic trickery in the name of advancing some arcane plot. As much as Ladd continually references the past, from Dr. Livingston and Picasso to Minor Threat, Funkadelic, and De La Soul, he moves the air with a beat that's entirely his own, the sum of too many parts to reflect any one too prominently, and his perceived role as a prankster on the sideline of hip-hop doesn't do his innovation or skill any justice. Nostalgialator closes the book on an epic cycle of three loosely linked albums, and I can't wait to see what crazy glue seeps out of Ladd's head to hold together the next series."

The Coneheads

L​.​P​.​1. aka "14 Year Old High School PC​-​Fascist Hype Lords...

Rock

Jenn Pelly

Yeah, that's the full title: *14 Year Old High School PC-Fascist Hype Lords Rip Off Devo for the Sake of Extorting $$$ From Helpless Impressionable Midwestern Internet Peoplepunks L.P. (*The alternate title could be When the Pawn Hits the Devo.) The Coneheads are nothing if not self-aware. The Northwest Indiana punk trio actively resist the goofy mechanics of the music industry in 2015, cobbling together bits of late-'70s popular and unpopular culture to create their own hidden galaxy. Their first vinyl release is actually a comp of two 2014 mean, crude, and acutely hilarious tapes: Canadian Cone and Total Conetrol, the latter of which is curiously going for $200 on Discogs now (hopefully just another outsized joke). If those newfound close-ups of the most-distant Pluto had a cartoonish soundtrack, it could be Coneheads—this is some of the most extraterrestrial rock music around. (Referring to your audience as "peoplepunks" seems like calling fans "earthlings.") Coneheads do steal from the art-rock of their Midwestern forebears—a previous band of theirs did a hardcore cover of "Mongoloid"—but they mutate those robot sounds with a raw, rare grasp of punk history and a breakneck sense of pacing. It sometimes sounds like a four-track has been set up inside of a cardboard box with three people playing three different songs, including unlikely nuggets such as "I Used to Be a Cheesepuff", the tale of a guy who "[goes] to school in studs and leather." Just as you think a minute-long track has run its course, a demented riff will jump back in for the final three seconds. Though skilled players, they use their instruments in a way you might if you'd just landed on Earth and never held one before—so while Coneheads may "rip off Devo," per the title, their weirdness seems more spirtually akin to, say, the Shaggs. When he sings, vocalist/bassist Mark Winter actually sounds like a Conehead, his voice flat and nasal, with words spit so fast as to make the listening process a delightfully obnoxious blur. But Winter's words are pissed as hell, brimming with disdain for authority, the "chumps" of the outside world, and himself. On the angry 67-second blast "Violence", he smugly references the "pathetic human race" alongside a thick, rubbery, rocketspeed bassline (a mere 10 seconds is reserved at the end for a guitar solo). "Hack Hack Hack", a song literally about taking an axe to your enemy, appears in two versions—one of which is a creeping minimal synth rendition—because why not? The best tune here must be "Big City Baby", clocking in at 41 seconds, a middle-finger to the bourgeois faux-intellects of major cities: "I got a big city baby, she's just like me/ We both listen to the Smiths, ain't that interesting?" But cities are not restricted to geography in 2015; earlier he snarls a warning at his critics, "You don't even know who the fuck I am/ You and your Internet snooping can burn in hell." (True to form, they make fun of Pitchfork on the album sleeve.) Make no mistake, Coneheads despise big cities. For a band that clearly takes the ethos of "what we do is secret" to heart, the closer "Way Things Am" is an anti-mission statement: "I like the way things am/ I can stay with any luck/ An uninteresting jaded fuck... When it comes to all good things/ I'm the sole authority/ So shove it." The band steam-rolls through a genius, hyper-compressed cover of Talking Heads' "Psycho Killer"; while David Byrne is busy shaking his fist at a cloud because New York has changed, Coneheads are laughing all over his song. If Kurt Cobain could hear Coneheads' recent cover of "In Bloom"—rudimentary and unrecognizable—he might cry tears of joy at their terrible racket. It behooves us to remember that Coneheads—with its premise of clowny aliens stranded on Earth—started as an "SNL" skit in 1977, just as punk was taking shape, and the reference hangs over this analog outsider music like a gravitational pull towards that era. Coneheads, however, are the center of their own tiny local scene alongside Big Zit, CCTV, and Liquids, as documented on their own compilations: Cool Bands, Cool Bands 2, Cool Bands 3. This crew has ties to Chicago hardcore, but Coneheads' alien approach and bizarro time signatures remind me of late Vermont synth-pop freaks Blanche Blanche Blanche more than anything going on in hardcore. Their cult and deliberate enigma are palpable: they included "I Am a Coneheads Fan" bumper stickers with the album, and they share phone numbers on their releases that you can text to inquire about new material, or whatever. (This spring, to learn more, I tapped out a text message to one of the numbers, found inside a Liquids tape, but it felt more like dropping a letter into a well or unleashing a carrier pigeon.) Since the release of these two endearingly peculiar cassettes, Coneheads have been subject to the nebulous and perennial cycle that is "punk hype"—an odd elixir of divisive chatter on blogs, message boards, and word of mouth that can go far in 2015—but not without good reason. It's true, for instance, that Coneheads turned down an opportunity to work with Jack White's Third Man Records. And Coneheads' appeal is not dissimilar to the stranger side of a New York band that recently worked with the label: Parquet Courts. This album has been "released" in the most minimal sense imaginable—it first surfaced earlier this year from small German label Erste Theke Tontraeger, also responsible for a collection last year by Coneheads comrades Lumpy and the Dumpers, and is now, apparently, fleetingly available stateside from the band at shows, but who knows. They do not sound like they want to be found.

Artist: The Coneheads, Album: L​.​P​.​1. aka "14 Year Old High School PC​-​Fascist Hype Lords..., Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Yeah, that's the full title: *14 Year Old High School PC-Fascist Hype Lords Rip Off Devo for the Sake of Extorting $$$ From Helpless Impressionable Midwestern Internet Peoplepunks L.P. (*The alternate title could be When the Pawn Hits the Devo.) The Coneheads are nothing if not self-aware. The Northwest Indiana punk trio actively resist the goofy mechanics of the music industry in 2015, cobbling together bits of late-'70s popular and unpopular culture to create their own hidden galaxy. Their first vinyl release is actually a comp of two 2014 mean, crude, and acutely hilarious tapes: Canadian Cone and Total Conetrol, the latter of which is curiously going for $200 on Discogs now (hopefully just another outsized joke). If those newfound close-ups of the most-distant Pluto had a cartoonish soundtrack, it could be Coneheads—this is some of the most extraterrestrial rock music around. (Referring to your audience as "peoplepunks" seems like calling fans "earthlings.") Coneheads do steal from the art-rock of their Midwestern forebears—a previous band of theirs did a hardcore cover of "Mongoloid"—but they mutate those robot sounds with a raw, rare grasp of punk history and a breakneck sense of pacing. It sometimes sounds like a four-track has been set up inside of a cardboard box with three people playing three different songs, including unlikely nuggets such as "I Used to Be a Cheesepuff", the tale of a guy who "[goes] to school in studs and leather." Just as you think a minute-long track has run its course, a demented riff will jump back in for the final three seconds. Though skilled players, they use their instruments in a way you might if you'd just landed on Earth and never held one before—so while Coneheads may "rip off Devo," per the title, their weirdness seems more spirtually akin to, say, the Shaggs. When he sings, vocalist/bassist Mark Winter actually sounds like a Conehead, his voice flat and nasal, with words spit so fast as to make the listening process a delightfully obnoxious blur. But Winter's words are pissed as hell, brimming with disdain for authority, the "chumps" of the outside world, and himself. On the angry 67-second blast "Violence", he smugly references the "pathetic human race" alongside a thick, rubbery, rocketspeed bassline (a mere 10 seconds is reserved at the end for a guitar solo). "Hack Hack Hack", a song literally about taking an axe to your enemy, appears in two versions—one of which is a creeping minimal synth rendition—because why not? The best tune here must be "Big City Baby", clocking in at 41 seconds, a middle-finger to the bourgeois faux-intellects of major cities: "I got a big city baby, she's just like me/ We both listen to the Smiths, ain't that interesting?" But cities are not restricted to geography in 2015; earlier he snarls a warning at his critics, "You don't even know who the fuck I am/ You and your Internet snooping can burn in hell." (True to form, they make fun of Pitchfork on the album sleeve.) Make no mistake, Coneheads despise big cities. For a band that clearly takes the ethos of "what we do is secret" to heart, the closer "Way Things Am" is an anti-mission statement: "I like the way things am/ I can stay with any luck/ An uninteresting jaded fuck... When it comes to all good things/ I'm the sole authority/ So shove it." The band steam-rolls through a genius, hyper-compressed cover of Talking Heads' "Psycho Killer"; while David Byrne is busy shaking his fist at a cloud because New York has changed, Coneheads are laughing all over his song. If Kurt Cobain could hear Coneheads' recent cover of "In Bloom"—rudimentary and unrecognizable—he might cry tears of joy at their terrible racket. It behooves us to remember that Coneheads—with its premise of clowny aliens stranded on Earth—started as an "SNL" skit in 1977, just as punk was taking shape, and the reference hangs over this analog outsider music like a gravitational pull towards that era. Coneheads, however, are the center of their own tiny local scene alongside Big Zit, CCTV, and Liquids, as documented on their own compilations: Cool Bands, Cool Bands 2, Cool Bands 3. This crew has ties to Chicago hardcore, but Coneheads' alien approach and bizarro time signatures remind me of late Vermont synth-pop freaks Blanche Blanche Blanche more than anything going on in hardcore. Their cult and deliberate enigma are palpable: they included "I Am a Coneheads Fan" bumper stickers with the album, and they share phone numbers on their releases that you can text to inquire about new material, or whatever. (This spring, to learn more, I tapped out a text message to one of the numbers, found inside a Liquids tape, but it felt more like dropping a letter into a well or unleashing a carrier pigeon.) Since the release of these two endearingly peculiar cassettes, Coneheads have been subject to the nebulous and perennial cycle that is "punk hype"—an odd elixir of divisive chatter on blogs, message boards, and word of mouth that can go far in 2015—but not without good reason. It's true, for instance, that Coneheads turned down an opportunity to work with Jack White's Third Man Records. And Coneheads' appeal is not dissimilar to the stranger side of a New York band that recently worked with the label: Parquet Courts. This album has been "released" in the most minimal sense imaginable—it first surfaced earlier this year from small German label Erste Theke Tontraeger, also responsible for a collection last year by Coneheads comrades Lumpy and the Dumpers, and is now, apparently, fleetingly available stateside from the band at shows, but who knows. They do not sound like they want to be found."

Matthew Friedberger

Matricidal Sons of Bitches

Laura Snapes

"Matthew Friedberger requests fan's screenplays and videos," went an email promoting one of the multimedia aspects of Friedberger's latest solo venture, the 45-track "opera" that is Matricidal Sons of Bitches. That misplaced apostrophe accidentally says an awful lot: Since the Fiery Furnaces released I'm Going Away in 2009, their most accessible album to date, Matthew Friedberger hasn't exactly been on a charm offensive. He entered into a bizarre, one-sided, and intolerably lengthy internet fight with Thom Yorke and Beck, and between January 2011 and January 2012, released eight solo records, each performed on a single instrument in order to demonstrate the "Cretan-Lacedaemonian principle," where "every group of instruments is against every other group of instruments, every instrument is against every other instrument, and, finally, every instrument is against itself." He appears to have invented the principle, and you'll struggle to find anyone who stuck around for all eight records. (This was while his sister, Eleanor, released her gorgeous, underrated solo debut, Last Summer.) It's easy to interpret his behavior as a mission to whittle his fans' number down to single digits. In an interview with Under the Radar magazine subtitled "Breaking the Law of Diminishing Returns" from October 2011, Friedberger, who now lives in Paris, opined that as older artists become more or less comfortable with writing to fit their songwriting character, their audience often becomes less comfortable with the fact. "They don't say, 'They're so confident. They're really exploring what they're able to do. They're testing the boundaries.' Bullshit like that. They say the other bullshit like, 'They're self-indulgent. They're pretentious.'" Acceptance or rejection; you get the impression he doesn't care for either. Somewhat pointlessly, I sometimes think about a game where you try to lose every Twitter follower you have, but without being actively hateful or idiotic; doing so in a calculated fashion to be as off-putting as possible. Matricidal Sons of Bitches would be very good at this game. The concept here (though it really only exists on paper) is that Matricidal Sons of Bitches is a four-part opera about, you guessed it, mother-snuffing sons. The four parts are titled, "LADIES-IN-WAITING--waiting forever", "BRAND-NEW-MOTHERS--trying it out", "EXPECTANT FATHERS--in for a surprise", and "DYING ON THE SIXTH SIDE", and the atmosphere is suitably ominous. Opening song "The Neighbors" features a French woman describing (in English) the members of her family she has hated, none more so than her mother, a revelation backed by a huge thunderclap. There are drawings of bog-eyed men on the album's cover-- Peter, Charlie, Perry, Marco, Julian, and the baroque-haired Michael, presumably the sons-- on the back of which it says, "Neither written nor produced nor directed by Matthew Friedberger." It is immensely difficult to listen to start to finish. You know how people wear Trout Mask Replica as a badge of musical endurance? Van Vliet just got usurped. What puts listeners in a difficult spot is that, no matter how infuriating it gets, Matricidal Sons of Bitches is clearly the product of serious compositional intention; it's not an accidental mess. Friedberger has a tremendous skill for creating snippets of what sound like old classics that never existed in the first place: "But at the Door; Is it Him?", "The Next Morning", "As If in the Car With the Kids", and "Lying on the Sixth Side" sound like theme tunes to family TV specials broadcast in Hawaii in the 1950s. "Frustration by the Boulevards" and "Drifting Down the Alleys" are so authentically like the soundtracks to wartime socials that they should have their own signature dance move. These pieces stutter and stop before their natural conclusions, making them feel like samples for the Avalanches to come in and repurpose, and they're full of beautifully warm, playful piano that seems made to soundtrack charming stop-motion mechanisms and families singing together. It's a kind of compact, cuckoo-clock portrait of togetherness. Which, given the record's murderous concept, was only made to be destroyed. Friedberger's renderings of situations where dangerous scions lurk can be extremely evocative. "Tell Me What it is You Want, Boys" veers between sounding like an old blues 45 and someone sucking ghosts through the holes of a violin that's played many a cursed tune. (It also manages to sound like the "Peanuts" music played in "Arrested Development" when George Michael is particularly crestfallen.) The title track is a 42-second long, hypnotic meeting of abrasively bright synthesizer and watery harp blooms that feels like an invitation to dine with a sea beast in his cave, and, by the way, you're dessert. There's a limited palette here that's perhaps meant as some kind of conclusion to the single-instrument records, which is interesting in theory, but too often seems like Friedberger filled a Casio keyboard with his own monstrous presets and jabbed away until some kind of song came out. Worst of all is when he picks the setting marked "sounds from space." "Pursuit, Less Acute" is a rasping attempt at Wagnerian intergalactic bombast that brings to mind a dying Darth Vader trying to hum his own once-menacing theme. As the record progresses, Friedberger continually and insistently deploys the sound of a dry, choked explosion, the kind used to convey the words "error" or "do not pass" or "YOU HAVE FAILED START AGAIN" on a video game. Songs rarely end with any resolution; instead stopping dead and veering into the next turn unannounced. The fragmentation of the Books' loosely comparable Music For a French Elevator remained compact and coherent; Friedberger, on the other hand, thinks nothing of interrupting a flurry of lovely harp strums with an unbearable, high-pitched drone, only to return to the harp again seconds later. Combined with the record's main motif, repeated to a madness-inducing extent-- a piano clank surrounded by a gray drone that waxes and wanes to various degrees-- the constant feel of blocked paths and missed turns brings on the kind of stomachache that usually occurs when your GPS packs up in a maze of backwater lanes. At this stage of his career, Matthew Friedberger comes across like the Andy Kaufman of indie rock, though these days he's less an outlier of the field than an errant baseball thwacked miles beyond its borders. Is he more interested in the process of challenging people's expectations or sustaining a career? It's hard not to feel that he's piss

Artist: Matthew Friedberger, Album: Matricidal Sons of Bitches, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 4.9 Album review: ""Matthew Friedberger requests fan's screenplays and videos," went an email promoting one of the multimedia aspects of Friedberger's latest solo venture, the 45-track "opera" that is Matricidal Sons of Bitches. That misplaced apostrophe accidentally says an awful lot: Since the Fiery Furnaces released I'm Going Away in 2009, their most accessible album to date, Matthew Friedberger hasn't exactly been on a charm offensive. He entered into a bizarre, one-sided, and intolerably lengthy internet fight with Thom Yorke and Beck, and between January 2011 and January 2012, released eight solo records, each performed on a single instrument in order to demonstrate the "Cretan-Lacedaemonian principle," where "every group of instruments is against every other group of instruments, every instrument is against every other instrument, and, finally, every instrument is against itself." He appears to have invented the principle, and you'll struggle to find anyone who stuck around for all eight records. (This was while his sister, Eleanor, released her gorgeous, underrated solo debut, Last Summer.) It's easy to interpret his behavior as a mission to whittle his fans' number down to single digits. In an interview with Under the Radar magazine subtitled "Breaking the Law of Diminishing Returns" from October 2011, Friedberger, who now lives in Paris, opined that as older artists become more or less comfortable with writing to fit their songwriting character, their audience often becomes less comfortable with the fact. "They don't say, 'They're so confident. They're really exploring what they're able to do. They're testing the boundaries.' Bullshit like that. They say the other bullshit like, 'They're self-indulgent. They're pretentious.'" Acceptance or rejection; you get the impression he doesn't care for either. Somewhat pointlessly, I sometimes think about a game where you try to lose every Twitter follower you have, but without being actively hateful or idiotic; doing so in a calculated fashion to be as off-putting as possible. Matricidal Sons of Bitches would be very good at this game. The concept here (though it really only exists on paper) is that Matricidal Sons of Bitches is a four-part opera about, you guessed it, mother-snuffing sons. The four parts are titled, "LADIES-IN-WAITING--waiting forever", "BRAND-NEW-MOTHERS--trying it out", "EXPECTANT FATHERS--in for a surprise", and "DYING ON THE SIXTH SIDE", and the atmosphere is suitably ominous. Opening song "The Neighbors" features a French woman describing (in English) the members of her family she has hated, none more so than her mother, a revelation backed by a huge thunderclap. There are drawings of bog-eyed men on the album's cover-- Peter, Charlie, Perry, Marco, Julian, and the baroque-haired Michael, presumably the sons-- on the back of which it says, "Neither written nor produced nor directed by Matthew Friedberger." It is immensely difficult to listen to start to finish. You know how people wear Trout Mask Replica as a badge of musical endurance? Van Vliet just got usurped. What puts listeners in a difficult spot is that, no matter how infuriating it gets, Matricidal Sons of Bitches is clearly the product of serious compositional intention; it's not an accidental mess. Friedberger has a tremendous skill for creating snippets of what sound like old classics that never existed in the first place: "But at the Door; Is it Him?", "The Next Morning", "As If in the Car With the Kids", and "Lying on the Sixth Side" sound like theme tunes to family TV specials broadcast in Hawaii in the 1950s. "Frustration by the Boulevards" and "Drifting Down the Alleys" are so authentically like the soundtracks to wartime socials that they should have their own signature dance move. These pieces stutter and stop before their natural conclusions, making them feel like samples for the Avalanches to come in and repurpose, and they're full of beautifully warm, playful piano that seems made to soundtrack charming stop-motion mechanisms and families singing together. It's a kind of compact, cuckoo-clock portrait of togetherness. Which, given the record's murderous concept, was only made to be destroyed. Friedberger's renderings of situations where dangerous scions lurk can be extremely evocative. "Tell Me What it is You Want, Boys" veers between sounding like an old blues 45 and someone sucking ghosts through the holes of a violin that's played many a cursed tune. (It also manages to sound like the "Peanuts" music played in "Arrested Development" when George Michael is particularly crestfallen.) The title track is a 42-second long, hypnotic meeting of abrasively bright synthesizer and watery harp blooms that feels like an invitation to dine with a sea beast in his cave, and, by the way, you're dessert. There's a limited palette here that's perhaps meant as some kind of conclusion to the single-instrument records, which is interesting in theory, but too often seems like Friedberger filled a Casio keyboard with his own monstrous presets and jabbed away until some kind of song came out. Worst of all is when he picks the setting marked "sounds from space." "Pursuit, Less Acute" is a rasping attempt at Wagnerian intergalactic bombast that brings to mind a dying Darth Vader trying to hum his own once-menacing theme. As the record progresses, Friedberger continually and insistently deploys the sound of a dry, choked explosion, the kind used to convey the words "error" or "do not pass" or "YOU HAVE FAILED START AGAIN" on a video game. Songs rarely end with any resolution; instead stopping dead and veering into the next turn unannounced. The fragmentation of the Books' loosely comparable Music For a French Elevator remained compact and coherent; Friedberger, on the other hand, thinks nothing of interrupting a flurry of lovely harp strums with an unbearable, high-pitched drone, only to return to the harp again seconds later. Combined with the record's main motif, repeated to a madness-inducing extent-- a piano clank surrounded by a gray drone that waxes and wanes to various degrees-- the constant feel of blocked paths and missed turns brings on the kind of stomachache that usually occurs when your GPS packs up in a maze of backwater lanes. At this stage of his career, Matthew Friedberger comes across like the Andy Kaufman of indie rock, though these days he's less an outlier of the field than an errant baseball thwacked miles beyond its borders. Is he more interested in the process of challenging people's expectations or sustaining a career? It's hard not to feel that he's piss"

Califone

Sometimes Good Weather Follows Bad People

Rock

Mark Richardson

When Califone first came on the scene in 1998 they were hard to distinguish from the recently defunct Sub Pop band Red Red Meat. Both outfits were led by Chicago scene vet Tim Rutili, both featured emerging producer Brian Deck as a band member and sonic mastermind, both offered broken-down and narcotic spins on blues and folk with evocative titles that played on the gritty imagery of machines ("To Hush a Sick Transmission", "Sad Cadillac"). For people who had followed Red Red Meat through the 90s, from their noisy early recordings that put them in league with Royal Trux through their supremely crafted, final two albums that found them in full studio-as-instrument mode, Califone felt very much like an extension of that main band. Eventually, Califone would explore more gentle and song-oriented material as well as delving into pure soundtrack work, and would develop their own idenity-- but during the time of their self-titled 1998 and 2000 EPs, they were pretty much a slightly lower-fi Red Red Meat. That once-fuzzy line is blurred further on the vinyl reissue of Sometimes Good Weather Follows Bad People, a set that gathers Califone's first two EPs. Both were initially self-titled and issued on small labels (Flydaddy and Road Cone) and they were first gathered together under this title in 2002. So this is in a sense a reissue of a reissue, but this 2xLP edition of Good Weather, in addition to its fine packaging, adds potentially enticing extras on side four: 17 minutes of unreleased Red Red Meat material, culled from their final recording sessions. The two EPs, spread across the first three sides, still sound great. Rutili and co. were up to something special in the final years of the 20th century. They took sonic inspiration from ancient folk 78s and Jamaican dub, along with songwriting and arrangement inspiration from Tom Waits, and came up with a fresh and affecting music that ranged from ethereal slowcore to blistering noise. In comparison to late Red Red Meat, Califone was a little quieter, a little prettier, and a little wearier. The highlights on the EPs are delicate ballads like the steel drum-inflected "Silvermine Pictures" and the gorgeous piano-led "Electric Fence", but spikier cuts like "To Hush a Sick Transmission" and "Dock Boggs" showed how they integrated clangy percussion and electronics into the mix. The rawness of this early material still resonates. The four new songs on the final side, however, don't transcend "bonus track" status. "Bath Water" is a winding ballad with a reasonably catchy chorus hook, but it sounds like an ultra-simple and stripped down demo, something laid to tape just to preserve the basics of the song. "June Rat" is sung by Tim Hurley and feels like a sketch. The RRM version of "Pastry Sharp" is simple, highlighting the strong melody but missing from the atmosphere of Califone's studio version. The full-band take on "A Horse-Sized Pill" is the one song that seems like it could fit on a proper Red Red Meat album, though it's very similar to (and is seriously outclassed by) Bunny Gets Paid's "Rosewood, Stax, Volts and Glitter". As bonus material goes, it's all fine, and hardcore RRM/Califone completists (and let's face it, there aren't many of us out there) will appreciate the look at material in its formative stages. But most people will give that fourth side a single play at most. The first three, though, hold up nicely, capturing one small-scale and deceptively interesting band as it molted and emerged from another.

Artist: Califone, Album: Sometimes Good Weather Follows Bad People, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "When Califone first came on the scene in 1998 they were hard to distinguish from the recently defunct Sub Pop band Red Red Meat. Both outfits were led by Chicago scene vet Tim Rutili, both featured emerging producer Brian Deck as a band member and sonic mastermind, both offered broken-down and narcotic spins on blues and folk with evocative titles that played on the gritty imagery of machines ("To Hush a Sick Transmission", "Sad Cadillac"). For people who had followed Red Red Meat through the 90s, from their noisy early recordings that put them in league with Royal Trux through their supremely crafted, final two albums that found them in full studio-as-instrument mode, Califone felt very much like an extension of that main band. Eventually, Califone would explore more gentle and song-oriented material as well as delving into pure soundtrack work, and would develop their own idenity-- but during the time of their self-titled 1998 and 2000 EPs, they were pretty much a slightly lower-fi Red Red Meat. That once-fuzzy line is blurred further on the vinyl reissue of Sometimes Good Weather Follows Bad People, a set that gathers Califone's first two EPs. Both were initially self-titled and issued on small labels (Flydaddy and Road Cone) and they were first gathered together under this title in 2002. So this is in a sense a reissue of a reissue, but this 2xLP edition of Good Weather, in addition to its fine packaging, adds potentially enticing extras on side four: 17 minutes of unreleased Red Red Meat material, culled from their final recording sessions. The two EPs, spread across the first three sides, still sound great. Rutili and co. were up to something special in the final years of the 20th century. They took sonic inspiration from ancient folk 78s and Jamaican dub, along with songwriting and arrangement inspiration from Tom Waits, and came up with a fresh and affecting music that ranged from ethereal slowcore to blistering noise. In comparison to late Red Red Meat, Califone was a little quieter, a little prettier, and a little wearier. The highlights on the EPs are delicate ballads like the steel drum-inflected "Silvermine Pictures" and the gorgeous piano-led "Electric Fence", but spikier cuts like "To Hush a Sick Transmission" and "Dock Boggs" showed how they integrated clangy percussion and electronics into the mix. The rawness of this early material still resonates. The four new songs on the final side, however, don't transcend "bonus track" status. "Bath Water" is a winding ballad with a reasonably catchy chorus hook, but it sounds like an ultra-simple and stripped down demo, something laid to tape just to preserve the basics of the song. "June Rat" is sung by Tim Hurley and feels like a sketch. The RRM version of "Pastry Sharp" is simple, highlighting the strong melody but missing from the atmosphere of Califone's studio version. The full-band take on "A Horse-Sized Pill" is the one song that seems like it could fit on a proper Red Red Meat album, though it's very similar to (and is seriously outclassed by) Bunny Gets Paid's "Rosewood, Stax, Volts and Glitter". As bonus material goes, it's all fine, and hardcore RRM/Califone completists (and let's face it, there aren't many of us out there) will appreciate the look at material in its formative stages. But most people will give that fourth side a single play at most. The first three, though, hold up nicely, capturing one small-scale and deceptively interesting band as it molted and emerged from another."

Solar Bears

Supermigration

Electronic

Angus Finlayson

Solar Bears dig up cultural artifacts from bygone decades and put them to fresh use as components in a musical style that sounds naggingly familiar without ever quite lapsing into pastiche. Of course, this isn’t a hugely original strategy these days. But Solar Bears’ music draws on a particularly thick soup of contrasting half- and mis-remembered pasts: Boards of Canada’s windswept pastorales alongside the otherworldly film scores of John Carpenter and Vangelis; the glossy sensuousness of Air next to Giorgio Moroder’s synth-disco vistas. You might infer from this that Solar Bears are a sort of jack-of-all-trades of the nostalgia-trafficking underground, sampling the retro-leaning delights on offer without committing to a single fixed identity. That's valid to an extent. The duo’s 2010 debut, She Was Coloured In, was a sprawling record that had a habit of fluctuating erratically between moods and intensities: from wistful yearning to bucolic contentment, kitschy playfulness and back again in the space of a couple of tracks. But compared to the more approximate DIY tendencies of many of their peers, Solar Bears brought a certain smoothness of execution to the table, and a taste for pop directness that could at points tip over into the mawkish, but could also produce results with huge appeal. It’s fitting that for their second LP, Supermigration, the Irish duo have stepped out of their bedrooms and into a professional studio, where they can pursue their pop muse with renewed fervor. The greatest indication of this comes with a pair of vocal appearances, both highlights of the album. Sarah P of fellow Planet Mu signees Keep Shelly in Athens contributes to "Alpha People", a gorgeously circumspect piece of synth-pop built around tremulous chords. Even more satisfying is the presence of Air collaborator Beth Hirsch on "Our Future is Underground", a sprightly number that overflows with spine-tingling joy in the closing minute. But even where vocals are absent, there’s no doubting that Solar Bears have refined their technique over the past two years. Supermigration is a glistening, richly arranged album, every song lovingly wrought and festooned with lush synth and guitar work. It’s also a far more coherent record than its predecessor. Opener "Stasis", featuring a simple piano riff that’s wrenched upwards in pitch as if we’re ascending into some gauzy firmament, is reprised at the midpoint as "You And Me (Subterranean Cycles)". Such interludes serve to balance out the album’s weightier moments, and stave off the tendency towards formlessness that blighted She Was Coloured In. As far as those heavier moments go, the duo’s success is less assured. A string of tracks expand on a disco sound hinted at on She Was Coloured In: "Komplex" coasts luxuriously on chunky synth arpeggios; "A Sky Darkly" is more imposing; "Happiness is a Warm Spacestation" is the most bombastic of the lot, and its relentlessness can feel a little overbearing. Elsewhere guitars supplant synths, as in the angsty "The Girl That Played With Light", proving faintly reminiscent of instrumental post-rock. At times the duo are guilty of excessive portentousness, but there are just as many moments where their grandiose ambitions are convincingly realised, particularly in sunny closer "Rainbow Collision". Where Supermigration really grips the heartstrings is on slick pieces of library music revivalism that positively shimmer with kitschy optimism. At their best, Solar Bears are utterly charming.

Artist: Solar Bears, Album: Supermigration, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Solar Bears dig up cultural artifacts from bygone decades and put them to fresh use as components in a musical style that sounds naggingly familiar without ever quite lapsing into pastiche. Of course, this isn’t a hugely original strategy these days. But Solar Bears’ music draws on a particularly thick soup of contrasting half- and mis-remembered pasts: Boards of Canada’s windswept pastorales alongside the otherworldly film scores of John Carpenter and Vangelis; the glossy sensuousness of Air next to Giorgio Moroder’s synth-disco vistas. You might infer from this that Solar Bears are a sort of jack-of-all-trades of the nostalgia-trafficking underground, sampling the retro-leaning delights on offer without committing to a single fixed identity. That's valid to an extent. The duo’s 2010 debut, She Was Coloured In, was a sprawling record that had a habit of fluctuating erratically between moods and intensities: from wistful yearning to bucolic contentment, kitschy playfulness and back again in the space of a couple of tracks. But compared to the more approximate DIY tendencies of many of their peers, Solar Bears brought a certain smoothness of execution to the table, and a taste for pop directness that could at points tip over into the mawkish, but could also produce results with huge appeal. It’s fitting that for their second LP, Supermigration, the Irish duo have stepped out of their bedrooms and into a professional studio, where they can pursue their pop muse with renewed fervor. The greatest indication of this comes with a pair of vocal appearances, both highlights of the album. Sarah P of fellow Planet Mu signees Keep Shelly in Athens contributes to "Alpha People", a gorgeously circumspect piece of synth-pop built around tremulous chords. Even more satisfying is the presence of Air collaborator Beth Hirsch on "Our Future is Underground", a sprightly number that overflows with spine-tingling joy in the closing minute. But even where vocals are absent, there’s no doubting that Solar Bears have refined their technique over the past two years. Supermigration is a glistening, richly arranged album, every song lovingly wrought and festooned with lush synth and guitar work. It’s also a far more coherent record than its predecessor. Opener "Stasis", featuring a simple piano riff that’s wrenched upwards in pitch as if we’re ascending into some gauzy firmament, is reprised at the midpoint as "You And Me (Subterranean Cycles)". Such interludes serve to balance out the album’s weightier moments, and stave off the tendency towards formlessness that blighted She Was Coloured In. As far as those heavier moments go, the duo’s success is less assured. A string of tracks expand on a disco sound hinted at on She Was Coloured In: "Komplex" coasts luxuriously on chunky synth arpeggios; "A Sky Darkly" is more imposing; "Happiness is a Warm Spacestation" is the most bombastic of the lot, and its relentlessness can feel a little overbearing. Elsewhere guitars supplant synths, as in the angsty "The Girl That Played With Light", proving faintly reminiscent of instrumental post-rock. At times the duo are guilty of excessive portentousness, but there are just as many moments where their grandiose ambitions are convincingly realised, particularly in sunny closer "Rainbow Collision". Where Supermigration really grips the heartstrings is on slick pieces of library music revivalism that positively shimmer with kitschy optimism. At their best, Solar Bears are utterly charming."

Deerhoof

La Isla Bonita

Experimental

Sasha Geffen

Do Deerhoof ever get bored? In a revolving gallery of evaporative avant-pop weirdos, they churn out album after distinctive album without ever breaching self-parody. As an aesthetic conceit, "weird" only works as long as it's novel—if you're going to wallow in it for two decades, you'd better be prepared to regenerate yourself constantly. But Deerhoof make music like a group of friends who never get sick of each other's jokes. Their 13th album, La Isla Bonita, is among their most accessible, reaching for moments of escapism that never entered the frame on 2012's Breakup Songs. Between the album's title and the name of its first track, "Paradise Girls", La Isla Bonita promises tropical hues that it only delivers superficially. On a mechanical level, it functions the way Deerhoof's music has always functioned: isolated lyrical snippets pop in and out, refusing to cohere into a narrative, while the guitar, drums, and bass alternately concoct blissful grooves and total disorientation. Deerhoof thrive in the space between the sugar you want and the acid you get. They're generous with their ironies on La Isla Bonita, starting with "Paradise Girls", a song that inverts its own premise. The title calls to mind women's bodies presented as set decoration for a steamy male utopia—ad copy for sleazy West Coast entertainment. Satomi Matsuzaki's lyrics counter that expectation by describing girls who make their very own paradise: "Girls/ Who play the bass guitar...Girls/ Who are smart." Rumbles of her bass mingle with John Dieterich's itchy guitar riffs and Greg Saunier's spacious drumbeats. Breakup Songs leaned heavily on anemic synthesizer sounds to round out its eerie, space-age profile, but with La Isla Bonita, Deerhoof sink back into punk rock's bare bones just to see how much they can crank out of them. With a purely organic template behind her, Matsuzaki's voice finds new pockets of space to fill, which helps her nail in her nonsensical lines even deeper. Run through the sour, bass-driven groove of "Last Fad" a few times, and you'll have no idea how the words "Baseball is canceled/ it is running late" keep getting stuck in your head. It doesn't matter—they're there. Matsuzaki slips them in so skillfully you'll want to adopt them as a catchphrase for when everything goes wrong: "Fuck it! Baseball is canceled!" The record's climax "Black Pitch" sweeps Deerhoof's tight patterns into a satisfying pop catharsis. It starts with something like a threat: "We're gonna want you/ We're gonna want you/ We're gonna want you 24/7," Matsuzaki insists. The riffs behind her stay nervous; Saunier's drums shift and shake. And then the song crests. Matsuzaki sings over herself as if from far away, stretching her syllables until the backing drops out and it's just her and her own echoes, alone in the void. A big part of Deerhoof's power comes from their inscrutability. They've got the rare talent of affecting emotion without supplying a direct line into any kind of inner narrative, of inspiring release in the abstract. La Isla Bonita doesn't solve any mysteries, but it does cut some new faces on a band that feeds on its own newness.

Artist: Deerhoof, Album: La Isla Bonita, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Do Deerhoof ever get bored? In a revolving gallery of evaporative avant-pop weirdos, they churn out album after distinctive album without ever breaching self-parody. As an aesthetic conceit, "weird" only works as long as it's novel—if you're going to wallow in it for two decades, you'd better be prepared to regenerate yourself constantly. But Deerhoof make music like a group of friends who never get sick of each other's jokes. Their 13th album, La Isla Bonita, is among their most accessible, reaching for moments of escapism that never entered the frame on 2012's Breakup Songs. Between the album's title and the name of its first track, "Paradise Girls", La Isla Bonita promises tropical hues that it only delivers superficially. On a mechanical level, it functions the way Deerhoof's music has always functioned: isolated lyrical snippets pop in and out, refusing to cohere into a narrative, while the guitar, drums, and bass alternately concoct blissful grooves and total disorientation. Deerhoof thrive in the space between the sugar you want and the acid you get. They're generous with their ironies on La Isla Bonita, starting with "Paradise Girls", a song that inverts its own premise. The title calls to mind women's bodies presented as set decoration for a steamy male utopia—ad copy for sleazy West Coast entertainment. Satomi Matsuzaki's lyrics counter that expectation by describing girls who make their very own paradise: "Girls/ Who play the bass guitar...Girls/ Who are smart." Rumbles of her bass mingle with John Dieterich's itchy guitar riffs and Greg Saunier's spacious drumbeats. Breakup Songs leaned heavily on anemic synthesizer sounds to round out its eerie, space-age profile, but with La Isla Bonita, Deerhoof sink back into punk rock's bare bones just to see how much they can crank out of them. With a purely organic template behind her, Matsuzaki's voice finds new pockets of space to fill, which helps her nail in her nonsensical lines even deeper. Run through the sour, bass-driven groove of "Last Fad" a few times, and you'll have no idea how the words "Baseball is canceled/ it is running late" keep getting stuck in your head. It doesn't matter—they're there. Matsuzaki slips them in so skillfully you'll want to adopt them as a catchphrase for when everything goes wrong: "Fuck it! Baseball is canceled!" The record's climax "Black Pitch" sweeps Deerhoof's tight patterns into a satisfying pop catharsis. It starts with something like a threat: "We're gonna want you/ We're gonna want you/ We're gonna want you 24/7," Matsuzaki insists. The riffs behind her stay nervous; Saunier's drums shift and shake. And then the song crests. Matsuzaki sings over herself as if from far away, stretching her syllables until the backing drops out and it's just her and her own echoes, alone in the void. A big part of Deerhoof's power comes from their inscrutability. They've got the rare talent of affecting emotion without supplying a direct line into any kind of inner narrative, of inspiring release in the abstract. La Isla Bonita doesn't solve any mysteries, but it does cut some new faces on a band that feeds on its own newness."

Howling Bells

Radio Wars

Folk/Country

Matthew Solarski

"Radio wars are coming," London-via-Sydney quartet Howling Bells harmonize halfway through their second album and first in three years, Radio Wars. "They're here." While it's not entirely clear what they're on about, there's little doubting that whatever form these radio wars may take, Howling Bells are ready for them. They've just come off a high-profile tour with Coldplay and Snow Patrol, they've got a couple of new videos in the can, and they've chiseled their agreeable sound into the 10 exquisitely produced tracks that comprise Wars; it's telling also that while the Bells' self-titled debut featured a nondescript and utterly forgettable grayscale collage on its cover, the new one puts portraits of the band members front and center (it doesn't hurt any that they're all easy on the eyes). Stylistically, Radio Wars represents a move away from the occasional organ and twang that gave these guys their previous country-noir tag, and finds them dabbling in keyboard-saturated textures and leaning a little more on their 1980s influences. It's still a tad dark, but more the dark of shadows and clouds and thunderstorms than of pitch black night. The LP offers a formidable opening volley in the form of first track "Treasure Hunt", which springs right out of the stereo on a wave of "bah-bah"s, sci-fi sounds, and "How Soon Is Now?"-esque helicopter-blade-swirl guitar, never losing its impulse. "Into the Chaos" and single "Cities Burning Down" emerge as the other standouts here, both crisp, competent, cleanly-structured jams, though neither is nearly as dangerous as its name would have you think. The sugary sweet "Let's Be Kids", meanwhile, easily wins the prize for Track Most Likely to Make It Into AIM Away Messages, Facebook Status Updates, and Teen Television Drama Montage Sequences, even if its return-to-innocence sloganeering ("Let's be kids again/ Life was so simple then," goes the chorus) is a curious sentiment coming from a band so polished, professional, and, yes, grown up. As for everything else, well... again, it's an agreeable sound the Bells have hit upon, and that makes for an agreeable listen throughout. Plenty of bands have done far worse. Howling Bells was a very agreeable record too, though, and Wars doesn't really improve on its predecessor in any significant regard. Even the aforementioned highlights don't quite shine like their counterparts from last time around: Nothing on the new album swoops quite like "Velvet Girl", or soars quite like "Setting Sun" ("Chaos" does come close), or snarls quite like "Low Happening". That's okay; Wars also shouldn't put off anyone who loved the first record, and thanks to increased worldwide exposure this time around, it will likely catch the attention of new fans looking to expand their scope of listening outside the present day alt-rock mainstream, but not too far. Sometimes wars are won with persistence and numbers alone, after all. And in any case, when you're cruising along in a pleasure craft as nice and reliable as this one, it's all right to tread a little water.

Artist: Howling Bells, Album: Radio Wars, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 6.1 Album review: ""Radio wars are coming," London-via-Sydney quartet Howling Bells harmonize halfway through their second album and first in three years, Radio Wars. "They're here." While it's not entirely clear what they're on about, there's little doubting that whatever form these radio wars may take, Howling Bells are ready for them. They've just come off a high-profile tour with Coldplay and Snow Patrol, they've got a couple of new videos in the can, and they've chiseled their agreeable sound into the 10 exquisitely produced tracks that comprise Wars; it's telling also that while the Bells' self-titled debut featured a nondescript and utterly forgettable grayscale collage on its cover, the new one puts portraits of the band members front and center (it doesn't hurt any that they're all easy on the eyes). Stylistically, Radio Wars represents a move away from the occasional organ and twang that gave these guys their previous country-noir tag, and finds them dabbling in keyboard-saturated textures and leaning a little more on their 1980s influences. It's still a tad dark, but more the dark of shadows and clouds and thunderstorms than of pitch black night. The LP offers a formidable opening volley in the form of first track "Treasure Hunt", which springs right out of the stereo on a wave of "bah-bah"s, sci-fi sounds, and "How Soon Is Now?"-esque helicopter-blade-swirl guitar, never losing its impulse. "Into the Chaos" and single "Cities Burning Down" emerge as the other standouts here, both crisp, competent, cleanly-structured jams, though neither is nearly as dangerous as its name would have you think. The sugary sweet "Let's Be Kids", meanwhile, easily wins the prize for Track Most Likely to Make It Into AIM Away Messages, Facebook Status Updates, and Teen Television Drama Montage Sequences, even if its return-to-innocence sloganeering ("Let's be kids again/ Life was so simple then," goes the chorus) is a curious sentiment coming from a band so polished, professional, and, yes, grown up. As for everything else, well... again, it's an agreeable sound the Bells have hit upon, and that makes for an agreeable listen throughout. Plenty of bands have done far worse. Howling Bells was a very agreeable record too, though, and Wars doesn't really improve on its predecessor in any significant regard. Even the aforementioned highlights don't quite shine like their counterparts from last time around: Nothing on the new album swoops quite like "Velvet Girl", or soars quite like "Setting Sun" ("Chaos" does come close), or snarls quite like "Low Happening". That's okay; Wars also shouldn't put off anyone who loved the first record, and thanks to increased worldwide exposure this time around, it will likely catch the attention of new fans looking to expand their scope of listening outside the present day alt-rock mainstream, but not too far. Sometimes wars are won with persistence and numbers alone, after all. And in any case, when you're cruising along in a pleasure craft as nice and reliable as this one, it's all right to tread a little water."

The Cansecos

Juices!

Electronic

Joe Tangari

With the Mitchell Report still warm and baseball players busy explaining that, no, what they actually took was B-12, there's probably never been a better time for a band called the Cansecos to release an album called Juices! (exclamation point theirs). The Cansecos, oddly enough, are a duo hailing from Toronto, the only Canadian city that still has a Major League Baseball franchise, and they know exactly what they're doing, playing off their name and the title of Jose Canseco's steroid memoir (they even released a couple of lengthy remixes under the title Juiced! to pave the way for the LP). It makes for amusing background noise as you take in their second full-length, highlighting the light touch the duo often brings to its analog synth-heavy electro-pop. The first time I listened to Juices!, I was disappointed-- it seemed like a letdown from their fantastic self-titled debut (2003). And in some ways it is a letdown, lacking much of the immediate appeal and memorability of its predecessor, but what it loses from the debut it mostly makes up for with interesting textures, complex beats, and slow-growing tunes that get to you on subsequent listens. Bill Halliday and Gareth Jones seem to have focused less on making a pop record and more on something you can just groove to whenever you feel like it. A good example is "Raised By Wolves", a song built around a scant handful of lyrics, most of which consist of the heavily processed vocals singing the line, "I was raised by wolves." The repetitive vocal is given a world of constantly shifting electronic soundscapes and modern r&b beats to roam through, and the result is hugely entertaining. The duo's more traditional vocals still have the same deadpan quality as on the debut, but they've gotten much deeper into manipulating the sound of their own voices, breaking out the vocoders and computers to create a range of different tweaked tones. "Rise Up" barely even has a verse melody-- the verse is more of an ethereal haze of voice and whirring, buzz-toned synth driven ahead by a jumpy bass line-but the chorus rises up from the ether to deliver the album's most anthemic moment, as the beat crystallizes into a shiny disco pulse. "Nothing New to You" has a sneaky hook sung by electric aliens, "Clear Blue Sky" mixes a crisp beat with dreamy, soft tones, and "Lunar Landing" sports a frenetic, clicking rhythm track that palpitates under a chord progression that takes its sweet time. Juices! is a different kind of Cansecos album, and though it will likely appeal to fans of their debut, those listeners shouldn't come expecting another "This Small Disaster" or "Are You Lonesome Tonight?", because that type of song isn't here. What you do get is an enjoyable album of electronic pop that reveals itself slowly, revering the beat and texture of the music above all else but still allowing the hooks to peak through.

Artist: The Cansecos, Album: Juices!, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "With the Mitchell Report still warm and baseball players busy explaining that, no, what they actually took was B-12, there's probably never been a better time for a band called the Cansecos to release an album called Juices! (exclamation point theirs). The Cansecos, oddly enough, are a duo hailing from Toronto, the only Canadian city that still has a Major League Baseball franchise, and they know exactly what they're doing, playing off their name and the title of Jose Canseco's steroid memoir (they even released a couple of lengthy remixes under the title Juiced! to pave the way for the LP). It makes for amusing background noise as you take in their second full-length, highlighting the light touch the duo often brings to its analog synth-heavy electro-pop. The first time I listened to Juices!, I was disappointed-- it seemed like a letdown from their fantastic self-titled debut (2003). And in some ways it is a letdown, lacking much of the immediate appeal and memorability of its predecessor, but what it loses from the debut it mostly makes up for with interesting textures, complex beats, and slow-growing tunes that get to you on subsequent listens. Bill Halliday and Gareth Jones seem to have focused less on making a pop record and more on something you can just groove to whenever you feel like it. A good example is "Raised By Wolves", a song built around a scant handful of lyrics, most of which consist of the heavily processed vocals singing the line, "I was raised by wolves." The repetitive vocal is given a world of constantly shifting electronic soundscapes and modern r&b beats to roam through, and the result is hugely entertaining. The duo's more traditional vocals still have the same deadpan quality as on the debut, but they've gotten much deeper into manipulating the sound of their own voices, breaking out the vocoders and computers to create a range of different tweaked tones. "Rise Up" barely even has a verse melody-- the verse is more of an ethereal haze of voice and whirring, buzz-toned synth driven ahead by a jumpy bass line-but the chorus rises up from the ether to deliver the album's most anthemic moment, as the beat crystallizes into a shiny disco pulse. "Nothing New to You" has a sneaky hook sung by electric aliens, "Clear Blue Sky" mixes a crisp beat with dreamy, soft tones, and "Lunar Landing" sports a frenetic, clicking rhythm track that palpitates under a chord progression that takes its sweet time. Juices! is a different kind of Cansecos album, and though it will likely appeal to fans of their debut, those listeners shouldn't come expecting another "This Small Disaster" or "Are You Lonesome Tonight?", because that type of song isn't here. What you do get is an enjoyable album of electronic pop that reveals itself slowly, revering the beat and texture of the music above all else but still allowing the hooks to peak through."

Efdemin

Efdemin

Electronic

Philip Sherburne

The first time I visited Cologne, I suddenly understood where all those bell tones in Superpitcher's music came from: The city turned out to be full of cathedrals, and the steeple looming over my bedroom chimed a Gothic version of Kompakt's dreamy ambient shuffle every hour, on the hour. By this logic, Hamburg must be thick with bell towers, because virtually every release on the city's Dial label-best known until now for anchor tenants Lawrence and Pantha du Prince-thrums with brassy clangor. The debut album from Efdemin-- aka Phillip Sollmann, who is also a member of the duo Pigon-- takes this tendency further than ever, reveling in the swift attack, fat decay, and lingering tail of struck instruments, whether real or synthesized. (It's strange and somehow charming that a record so subtle and, in many places, so soothing, could depend so heavily on such relentless percussive battery-- but then, the piano is a percussive instrument as well, and Erik Satie, whose fondness for blurry aftermath is all over this lush, resonant album, didn't exactly make heavy music.) Suffusing nimble, minimal-house constructions with melancholic melodies and counterpoints, Efdemin hammers on virtually every chime on the rack: glockenspiel, vibraphone, church bell, doorbell, squelchy 303 clone and other, more fanciful and definitely synthetic sounds, like the subaquatic anvil and the Berghain alarm clock. I'd assumed that most of Efdemin's sounds were the products of FM synthesis, a form of digital synthesis that throws off overtone halos around every note. (The Knife made quite a big deal about FM synthesis when they released Silent Shout; you can hear its telltale shimmer in the steel drums of "The Captain" and the mallet-like chimes of "From Off to On", both from that record.) But it turns out that that's not the case: Sollmann told me that the opening track is sourced from field recordings in Vienna, where the MUMOK (Museum of Modern Art Ludwig Foundation Vienna) is covered in grey basalt tiles that make a muted sound when struck. With that in mind, the track's title, "Knocking at the Grand", makes perfect sense: he's literally knocking at what must be the grandest mallet instrument in the world. Seventy-two minutes long, the album never strains; it passes in a rose-tinted blur. That Sollmann plies many of the same ideas again and again is no criticism. Just as a rock band in the pocket settles upon its ideal means of treating, voicing and arranging a lineup of guitar, bass, drums, vox and whatever else they might throw into the mix, Sollmann has figured out a format that works time and again, offering plenty of opportunity for both timbral experiments and plain-old songwriting panache. Two tracks in particular prove highlights, however. "Lohn und Brot", first released as part of a split 12-inch single by the Liebe*Detail label (and previously covered in Forkcast), is an expansive, eight-minute wonder, slathered in shimmering chimes and as moody as your life. Acting like a perpetual motion machine, it seems to generate its own energy from the friction between its many contrapuntal melodies, and when the synths flare up at the song's climax, it feels like the heavens themselves are opening wide. "Acid Bells" is something else entirely: practically goth in its brooding, the song layers syncopated bell tones over an understated pulse of kick drum, brushed hi-hats and little else. Sollmann spends the first half of the song winding up a crescendo of sturm und klang; for the second half, everything unwinds as modulating delay snaps the real-time tethers and sends everything spinning into a dizzy, detuned din. Urgent and angry, it maps a space precisely opposite "Knocking at the Grand", knocking over that tune's architectural grounding and giving itself up to tempests from on high. Even moreso than the Field's recent album for Kompakt, Efdemin's debut album is a one-way ticket to the sublime.

Artist: Efdemin, Album: Efdemin, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "The first time I visited Cologne, I suddenly understood where all those bell tones in Superpitcher's music came from: The city turned out to be full of cathedrals, and the steeple looming over my bedroom chimed a Gothic version of Kompakt's dreamy ambient shuffle every hour, on the hour. By this logic, Hamburg must be thick with bell towers, because virtually every release on the city's Dial label-best known until now for anchor tenants Lawrence and Pantha du Prince-thrums with brassy clangor. The debut album from Efdemin-- aka Phillip Sollmann, who is also a member of the duo Pigon-- takes this tendency further than ever, reveling in the swift attack, fat decay, and lingering tail of struck instruments, whether real or synthesized. (It's strange and somehow charming that a record so subtle and, in many places, so soothing, could depend so heavily on such relentless percussive battery-- but then, the piano is a percussive instrument as well, and Erik Satie, whose fondness for blurry aftermath is all over this lush, resonant album, didn't exactly make heavy music.) Suffusing nimble, minimal-house constructions with melancholic melodies and counterpoints, Efdemin hammers on virtually every chime on the rack: glockenspiel, vibraphone, church bell, doorbell, squelchy 303 clone and other, more fanciful and definitely synthetic sounds, like the subaquatic anvil and the Berghain alarm clock. I'd assumed that most of Efdemin's sounds were the products of FM synthesis, a form of digital synthesis that throws off overtone halos around every note. (The Knife made quite a big deal about FM synthesis when they released Silent Shout; you can hear its telltale shimmer in the steel drums of "The Captain" and the mallet-like chimes of "From Off to On", both from that record.) But it turns out that that's not the case: Sollmann told me that the opening track is sourced from field recordings in Vienna, where the MUMOK (Museum of Modern Art Ludwig Foundation Vienna) is covered in grey basalt tiles that make a muted sound when struck. With that in mind, the track's title, "Knocking at the Grand", makes perfect sense: he's literally knocking at what must be the grandest mallet instrument in the world. Seventy-two minutes long, the album never strains; it passes in a rose-tinted blur. That Sollmann plies many of the same ideas again and again is no criticism. Just as a rock band in the pocket settles upon its ideal means of treating, voicing and arranging a lineup of guitar, bass, drums, vox and whatever else they might throw into the mix, Sollmann has figured out a format that works time and again, offering plenty of opportunity for both timbral experiments and plain-old songwriting panache. Two tracks in particular prove highlights, however. "Lohn und Brot", first released as part of a split 12-inch single by the Liebe*Detail label (and previously covered in Forkcast), is an expansive, eight-minute wonder, slathered in shimmering chimes and as moody as your life. Acting like a perpetual motion machine, it seems to generate its own energy from the friction between its many contrapuntal melodies, and when the synths flare up at the song's climax, it feels like the heavens themselves are opening wide. "Acid Bells" is something else entirely: practically goth in its brooding, the song layers syncopated bell tones over an understated pulse of kick drum, brushed hi-hats and little else. Sollmann spends the first half of the song winding up a crescendo of sturm und klang; for the second half, everything unwinds as modulating delay snaps the real-time tethers and sends everything spinning into a dizzy, detuned din. Urgent and angry, it maps a space precisely opposite "Knocking at the Grand", knocking over that tune's architectural grounding and giving itself up to tempests from on high. Even moreso than the Field's recent album for Kompakt, Efdemin's debut album is a one-way ticket to the sublime."

Mastodon

Cold Dark Place EP

Metal

Zoe Camp

Across their catalog, Mastodon scream about walking trees and assassinated czars; giant sharks and steam-breathers; sex in space and sleep undersea. But despite their predilections towards heavy-metal high fantasy, the Atlanta band have been, and always will be, peddlers of the cold, hard, extremely loud truth. “We tend to channel any and all emotions through this art that we call Mastodon,” bassist Troy Sanders said in an interview last Spring in anticipation of Emperor of Sand, a collectively-written account of cancer struggle masquerading as a prog-metal-spiked Arabian Nights. (Three members of Mastodon had family members battling the disease.) By expressing their present personal pain in terms of mythic beings, deadly monsters, and wrecking-ball riffs, the band don’t just own their anguish; they make a cosmic spectacle of it, typically a top-notch one at that. Mastodon’s new EP, Cold Dark Place, is primarily sourced from a single tormented soul: Brent Hinds, the band’s fleet-fingered, sludgy-throated, erstwhile-penis-statue-carving axeman/vocalist. Originally conceived and composed as a solo album, this four-track effort—the contents of which originated during the sessions for their last two albums—eventually blossomed into a de facto Mastodon record. The final product, while technically credited to the full band, is distinctly Hinds’ own, all daredevil guitar stunts and quaking, crooned refrains: a satisfying, if nonessential, dose of latter-day Mastodon, not to mention a compelling self-portrait. Where Emperor of Sand found its creators self-immolating in a far-off desert, Cold Dark Place hits closer to home. The band’s southern roots are on full display here thanks to Hinds’ latest weapon of choice: a 1954 Sho-Bud 13-string pedal steel guitar he acquired several years ago, fully outfitted with knee and foot-benders. Texturally alluring and technically intimidating, the Sho-Bud comes with a steep learning curve; most axemen spend their whole careers trying to reap its atmospheric rewards. Not so for Hinds, whose mastery of the instrument is clear within seconds of six-minute opener “North Side Star.” As his dulcet wails and arpeggios drift around the cavernous sonic space like phantasms in the night, the Sho-Bud transmogrifies and warps, a bluegrass instrument on a terrifying acid trip. Halfway through their psychedelic journey, the spell breaks, giving way to a southern-fried boogie that reeks of funk, but mostly dread. This game of stylistic hopscotch, as with most of Mastodon’s records, is the EP’s M.O. “Blue Walsh,” a holdover from the days of 2014’s Once More ’Round the Sun led by drummer Brann Dailor, snakes between prickly psych-pop à la Pinback and the usual syncopated sludge. Lead single “Toe to Toes,” meanwhile, pits Hinds’ arena-friendly choruses against his bandmates’ bruising breakdowns. The EP’s mercurial sprawl, coupled with its lack of overarching narrative, occasionally makes the band susceptible to slog, primarily on the concluding title track: a downtempo ballad similarly dominated by Hinds’ Sho-budding and singing. It spends far too much time flopping around in the muck, rendering a painstakingly-crafted finale dynamically dull; Hinds’ uncharacteristically muffled vocals, which sound as though they were recorded through a microphone filled with cotton balls, don’t make things any easier. Near the end of “Toe to Toes,” though, Hinds sheds light on his life as a raconteur rock star. “I played the fool/I played the sinner/I played the part of me that no one wanted to see,” bleats the face-tatted southerner, in a rare show of intimacy. Therein lies the record’s central conceit: the real cold dark place is the heart of the man who made it. Hinds said so himself in a recent interview with Loudwire, going on to reveal the EP’s big takeaway as “the concept of living and how much it hurts to fucking be alive.” And yet, however thematically mired in misery, Cold Dark Place plays out as a triumphant march into the darkness: one man’s pain, collectively conjured and conquered.

Artist: Mastodon, Album: Cold Dark Place EP, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Across their catalog, Mastodon scream about walking trees and assassinated czars; giant sharks and steam-breathers; sex in space and sleep undersea. But despite their predilections towards heavy-metal high fantasy, the Atlanta band have been, and always will be, peddlers of the cold, hard, extremely loud truth. “We tend to channel any and all emotions through this art that we call Mastodon,” bassist Troy Sanders said in an interview last Spring in anticipation of Emperor of Sand, a collectively-written account of cancer struggle masquerading as a prog-metal-spiked Arabian Nights. (Three members of Mastodon had family members battling the disease.) By expressing their present personal pain in terms of mythic beings, deadly monsters, and wrecking-ball riffs, the band don’t just own their anguish; they make a cosmic spectacle of it, typically a top-notch one at that. Mastodon’s new EP, Cold Dark Place, is primarily sourced from a single tormented soul: Brent Hinds, the band’s fleet-fingered, sludgy-throated, erstwhile-penis-statue-carving axeman/vocalist. Originally conceived and composed as a solo album, this four-track effort—the contents of which originated during the sessions for their last two albums—eventually blossomed into a de facto Mastodon record. The final product, while technically credited to the full band, is distinctly Hinds’ own, all daredevil guitar stunts and quaking, crooned refrains: a satisfying, if nonessential, dose of latter-day Mastodon, not to mention a compelling self-portrait. Where Emperor of Sand found its creators self-immolating in a far-off desert, Cold Dark Place hits closer to home. The band’s southern roots are on full display here thanks to Hinds’ latest weapon of choice: a 1954 Sho-Bud 13-string pedal steel guitar he acquired several years ago, fully outfitted with knee and foot-benders. Texturally alluring and technically intimidating, the Sho-Bud comes with a steep learning curve; most axemen spend their whole careers trying to reap its atmospheric rewards. Not so for Hinds, whose mastery of the instrument is clear within seconds of six-minute opener “North Side Star.” As his dulcet wails and arpeggios drift around the cavernous sonic space like phantasms in the night, the Sho-Bud transmogrifies and warps, a bluegrass instrument on a terrifying acid trip. Halfway through their psychedelic journey, the spell breaks, giving way to a southern-fried boogie that reeks of funk, but mostly dread. This game of stylistic hopscotch, as with most of Mastodon’s records, is the EP’s M.O. “Blue Walsh,” a holdover from the days of 2014’s Once More ’Round the Sun led by drummer Brann Dailor, snakes between prickly psych-pop à la Pinback and the usual syncopated sludge. Lead single “Toe to Toes,” meanwhile, pits Hinds’ arena-friendly choruses against his bandmates’ bruising breakdowns. The EP’s mercurial sprawl, coupled with its lack of overarching narrative, occasionally makes the band susceptible to slog, primarily on the concluding title track: a downtempo ballad similarly dominated by Hinds’ Sho-budding and singing. It spends far too much time flopping around in the muck, rendering a painstakingly-crafted finale dynamically dull; Hinds’ uncharacteristically muffled vocals, which sound as though they were recorded through a microphone filled with cotton balls, don’t make things any easier. Near the end of “Toe to Toes,” though, Hinds sheds light on his life as a raconteur rock star. “I played the fool/I played the sinner/I played the part of me that no one wanted to see,” bleats the face-tatted southerner, in a rare show of intimacy. Therein lies the record’s central conceit: the real cold dark place is the heart of the man who made it. Hinds said so himself in a recent interview with Loudwire, going on to reveal the EP’s big takeaway as “the concept of living and how much it hurts to fucking be alive.” And yet, however thematically mired in misery, Cold Dark Place plays out as a triumphant march into the darkness: one man’s pain, collectively conjured and conquered."

Blondie

Pollinator

Rock

Maura Johnston

For decades, Blondie’s weapon has been their talent for synthesis. While tracks like “One Way or Another” and “Hanging on the Telephone” front-loaded themselves with spiky riffs and Debbie Harry’s petulant yet wondrous vocals, other entrants in the New York New Wavers’ catalog got their power—and staying power—from places removed from what was then considered “rock.” “Heart of Glass” added disco’s bounce to the band’s guitar crunch; their cover of the rocksteady classic “The Tide is High” made plain the Caribbean influences that were infiltrating rock in the late ’70s and early ’80s; “Dreaming” was an urban-cowboy sigh reclining on a cloud of glitter; and Harry’s downtown-blasé, Fab 5 Freddy-saluting bridge on “Rapture” led to it becoming the first rap video to appear on the white-breadiest, earliest iteration of MTV. From the title on down, Blondie makes it clear that Pollinator, their 11th album, is full of outside ideas—only two of its 11 songs were co-written by Harry and Blondie’s longtime guitarist/Harry’s songwriting foil Chris Stein. Collaborators include of-the-moment gurus like Dev Hynes and Dave Sitek as well as pop workhorses like Sia and Charli XCX; keyboardist Matthew Katz-Bohen, who joined the band in 2008, also co-wrote a pair of tracks, while John Congleton (St. Vincent, Goldfrapp) handled production. Although it has its moments, the end result is predictably uneven. Blondie’s commitment to tense and jumpy pop remains, even though Harry’s voice is more grounded some four decades after the band’s debut. Pollinator opens with the Harry/Stein rocker “Doom or Destiny,” which chugs along on a simple, brain-Velcro riff and is full of winking wordplay; Congleton gives Harry’s lower-register vocals a metallic sheen that makes the rapid-fire internal rhymes sound playfully robotic. “Long Time,” which Harry co-wrote with Hynes, is a downshifted “Heart of Glass” with seen-it-all lyrics; the blooming keyboards buried in the mix provide a counterweight to Harry’s heavily processed vocals. Fellow New Wave lifer Johnny Marr penned the muscular, urgent “My Monster,” one of the album’s highlights. Harry’s voice gets to peek out from the digital-processing curtain as guitars and keyboards zip around her. Charli XCX—one of the better 21st-century pop artists operating in Harry’s spirited yet serious style—wrote “Gravity,” a spaced-out synthpop romp that allows Harry to vamp and pout. The album nears dudsville with the Sia Furler/Nick Valensi co-write “Best Day Ever” because even though its synths sparkle, Furler’s lyrics-by-numbers are far too 101 for Harry’s wise persona. (Perhaps a verse en Français would have helped.) Two of the album’s more unexpected collaborations wind up being its high points. The other Harry/Stein co-write, “Love Level,” opens as a swaggering pop-reggae hybrid then amps up the intensity as John Roberts (the comedian best-known as Linda on “Bob’s Burgers”) enters the fray, which quickly crests into a dancefloor cacophony. “Fragments,” meanwhile, is a seven-minute, blown-out cover of a 2010 piano ballad by the Vancouver musician (and movie blogger) Adam Johnston. In its original form it’s a slow-burn romantic broadside with knotty lyrics (“egocentricity,” “reality,” and “disparity” all fit into a verse that also contains the phrase “overwhelming rejection”); Blondie’s version surrounds Harry with guitar fuzz and breakneck drumming, allowing her to fully lean into a torchy vocal performance that culminates in her showing off her weathered, still-intact higher register as she laments that she doesn’t even remember. It’s part “Is That All There Is,” part defiant wave goodbye—and it’s a fitting close to an album that shows one of the most crucial American rock bands searching for footing in a chaotic, collapsible pop landscape.

Artist: Blondie, Album: Pollinator, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "For decades, Blondie’s weapon has been their talent for synthesis. While tracks like “One Way or Another” and “Hanging on the Telephone” front-loaded themselves with spiky riffs and Debbie Harry’s petulant yet wondrous vocals, other entrants in the New York New Wavers’ catalog got their power—and staying power—from places removed from what was then considered “rock.” “Heart of Glass” added disco’s bounce to the band’s guitar crunch; their cover of the rocksteady classic “The Tide is High” made plain the Caribbean influences that were infiltrating rock in the late ’70s and early ’80s; “Dreaming” was an urban-cowboy sigh reclining on a cloud of glitter; and Harry’s downtown-blasé, Fab 5 Freddy-saluting bridge on “Rapture” led to it becoming the first rap video to appear on the white-breadiest, earliest iteration of MTV. From the title on down, Blondie makes it clear that Pollinator, their 11th album, is full of outside ideas—only two of its 11 songs were co-written by Harry and Blondie’s longtime guitarist/Harry’s songwriting foil Chris Stein. Collaborators include of-the-moment gurus like Dev Hynes and Dave Sitek as well as pop workhorses like Sia and Charli XCX; keyboardist Matthew Katz-Bohen, who joined the band in 2008, also co-wrote a pair of tracks, while John Congleton (St. Vincent, Goldfrapp) handled production. Although it has its moments, the end result is predictably uneven. Blondie’s commitment to tense and jumpy pop remains, even though Harry’s voice is more grounded some four decades after the band’s debut. Pollinator opens with the Harry/Stein rocker “Doom or Destiny,” which chugs along on a simple, brain-Velcro riff and is full of winking wordplay; Congleton gives Harry’s lower-register vocals a metallic sheen that makes the rapid-fire internal rhymes sound playfully robotic. “Long Time,” which Harry co-wrote with Hynes, is a downshifted “Heart of Glass” with seen-it-all lyrics; the blooming keyboards buried in the mix provide a counterweight to Harry’s heavily processed vocals. Fellow New Wave lifer Johnny Marr penned the muscular, urgent “My Monster,” one of the album’s highlights. Harry’s voice gets to peek out from the digital-processing curtain as guitars and keyboards zip around her. Charli XCX—one of the better 21st-century pop artists operating in Harry’s spirited yet serious style—wrote “Gravity,” a spaced-out synthpop romp that allows Harry to vamp and pout. The album nears dudsville with the Sia Furler/Nick Valensi co-write “Best Day Ever” because even though its synths sparkle, Furler’s lyrics-by-numbers are far too 101 for Harry’s wise persona. (Perhaps a verse en Français would have helped.) Two of the album’s more unexpected collaborations wind up being its high points. The other Harry/Stein co-write, “Love Level,” opens as a swaggering pop-reggae hybrid then amps up the intensity as John Roberts (the comedian best-known as Linda on “Bob’s Burgers”) enters the fray, which quickly crests into a dancefloor cacophony. “Fragments,” meanwhile, is a seven-minute, blown-out cover of a 2010 piano ballad by the Vancouver musician (and movie blogger) Adam Johnston. In its original form it’s a slow-burn romantic broadside with knotty lyrics (“egocentricity,” “reality,” and “disparity” all fit into a verse that also contains the phrase “overwhelming rejection”); Blondie’s version surrounds Harry with guitar fuzz and breakneck drumming, allowing her to fully lean into a torchy vocal performance that culminates in her showing off her weathered, still-intact higher register as she laments that she doesn’t even remember. It’s part “Is That All There Is,” part defiant wave goodbye—and it’s a fitting close to an album that shows one of the most crucial American rock bands searching for footing in a chaotic, collapsible pop landscape."

Akron/Family

Love Is Simple

Experimental,Rock

Eric Harvey

Since their inception, Akron/Family have seemed to enjoy playing in the shadows, always allowing some personality or characteristic apart from themselves to dominate center stage. As the backing band for Angels of Light, that personality is former Swans frontman Michael Gira; on their own records, it's a variation of folk music and electronics. But Love Is Simple, their latest release on Gira's Young God label, seems designed to change that. An absurd and occasionally awkward celebration of humanity, love, and the natural world, Love Is Simple is Akron/Family's bold, unvarnished paean to discovering god within nature, through a fusion of drum-circle bliss, religious signifiers, and classic rock. The best introduction to this new style comes four tracks into the record, with the joyous "I've Got Some Friends". Initially evoking the Mothers of Invention's We're Only in It for the Money with its unhinged lo-fi folk-rock opening, the song soon segues into a hillbilly country greeting that reflects the album's sunny disposition: "I've got some friends that you should meet/ But don't go see 'em if you are shy/ 'Cause they are always in embrace beyond propriety." The song's second half is notably different, pitching the vocals and guitars to the highest registers, with the result somewhere close to the fantastical prog style of Yes' "Roundabout". The often hammy results of Akron/Family's exploration of unmitigated hippie gaiety is sure to alienate some fans; the vaguely Phishy early cut "Ed is a Portal" is the first test for cynics, finding shape in a tribal chant and cyclical guitar figure. The lyrical cadence is more important than their nonsensical content (my search for "liquidated hydrogen" returned zero results), but the briefly discernible lyric "shamanistic Shaker spells" nicely summarizes what the band is aiming for. Simple draws largely from late 1960s/early 70s rock, with its most traditionally structured songs owing inspiration to a few of John Lennon's guises. The Mellotron-accompanied "Don't Be Afraid, You're Already Dead" contains the "All You Need Is Love"-style sing-along refrain that gives the record its name, and first single "Phenomena" oscillates somewhere between "Across the Universe" and Plastic Ono Band's "I Found Out". Appropriately, the latter's lyrics are a series of enigmatic, most likely meaningless metaphysical paradoxes, like "Things are not what they seem to be/ Nor are they otherwise." The group's bold compositional digressions aren't a total break with its earlier work: Akron/Family are still interested in zig-zagging song structures, it's just that on Simple, they're mural-sized and painted with bold, primary colors. The 15-minute-plus duo of "Lake Song/New Ceremonial Music for Moms" and "There's So Many Colors" are Simple's climax, as well as its creative centerpiece. "Lake Song"'s eerie, minor-key vocal incantations open with a hazy vibe that gives way to a throbbing, incantatory drum-circle frenzy in the mold of the Boredoms' Vision Creation Newsun. The chanted first half of "Colors" is intermission entertainment, gradually swallowed by a shaggy, threadbare verse and torrential guitar outro somewhere between Neil Young & Crazy Horse's Zuma and the fiery denouement of Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Effigy". Akron/Family have stepped into the light for the first time with Love Is Simple, and the results alternate between gawky and deeply enjoyable; the record is bursting at its seams with lovingly and vividly realized ideas culled from a broad selection of prior works. Whether the band is showing off its self-reflexive genre awareness or just unable to keep its conceptual shit together is unclear-- and also largely unnecessary to consider to enjoy the record, which claims managed disarray as its most prominent and enjoyable trait. Simple's greatest success might be that it holds together as a single work despite the general senselessness of its basic narrative. Don't try to sort it out, just dig it: As the band themselves repeat when trying in song to find a perspectival spot on the horizon: "No point exists."

Artist: Akron/Family, Album: Love Is Simple, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Since their inception, Akron/Family have seemed to enjoy playing in the shadows, always allowing some personality or characteristic apart from themselves to dominate center stage. As the backing band for Angels of Light, that personality is former Swans frontman Michael Gira; on their own records, it's a variation of folk music and electronics. But Love Is Simple, their latest release on Gira's Young God label, seems designed to change that. An absurd and occasionally awkward celebration of humanity, love, and the natural world, Love Is Simple is Akron/Family's bold, unvarnished paean to discovering god within nature, through a fusion of drum-circle bliss, religious signifiers, and classic rock. The best introduction to this new style comes four tracks into the record, with the joyous "I've Got Some Friends". Initially evoking the Mothers of Invention's We're Only in It for the Money with its unhinged lo-fi folk-rock opening, the song soon segues into a hillbilly country greeting that reflects the album's sunny disposition: "I've got some friends that you should meet/ But don't go see 'em if you are shy/ 'Cause they are always in embrace beyond propriety." The song's second half is notably different, pitching the vocals and guitars to the highest registers, with the result somewhere close to the fantastical prog style of Yes' "Roundabout". The often hammy results of Akron/Family's exploration of unmitigated hippie gaiety is sure to alienate some fans; the vaguely Phishy early cut "Ed is a Portal" is the first test for cynics, finding shape in a tribal chant and cyclical guitar figure. The lyrical cadence is more important than their nonsensical content (my search for "liquidated hydrogen" returned zero results), but the briefly discernible lyric "shamanistic Shaker spells" nicely summarizes what the band is aiming for. Simple draws largely from late 1960s/early 70s rock, with its most traditionally structured songs owing inspiration to a few of John Lennon's guises. The Mellotron-accompanied "Don't Be Afraid, You're Already Dead" contains the "All You Need Is Love"-style sing-along refrain that gives the record its name, and first single "Phenomena" oscillates somewhere between "Across the Universe" and Plastic Ono Band's "I Found Out". Appropriately, the latter's lyrics are a series of enigmatic, most likely meaningless metaphysical paradoxes, like "Things are not what they seem to be/ Nor are they otherwise." The group's bold compositional digressions aren't a total break with its earlier work: Akron/Family are still interested in zig-zagging song structures, it's just that on Simple, they're mural-sized and painted with bold, primary colors. The 15-minute-plus duo of "Lake Song/New Ceremonial Music for Moms" and "There's So Many Colors" are Simple's climax, as well as its creative centerpiece. "Lake Song"'s eerie, minor-key vocal incantations open with a hazy vibe that gives way to a throbbing, incantatory drum-circle frenzy in the mold of the Boredoms' Vision Creation Newsun. The chanted first half of "Colors" is intermission entertainment, gradually swallowed by a shaggy, threadbare verse and torrential guitar outro somewhere between Neil Young & Crazy Horse's Zuma and the fiery denouement of Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Effigy". Akron/Family have stepped into the light for the first time with Love Is Simple, and the results alternate between gawky and deeply enjoyable; the record is bursting at its seams with lovingly and vividly realized ideas culled from a broad selection of prior works. Whether the band is showing off its self-reflexive genre awareness or just unable to keep its conceptual shit together is unclear-- and also largely unnecessary to consider to enjoy the record, which claims managed disarray as its most prominent and enjoyable trait. Simple's greatest success might be that it holds together as a single work despite the general senselessness of its basic narrative. Don't try to sort it out, just dig it: As the band themselves repeat when trying in song to find a perspectival spot on the horizon: "No point exists.""

Mudsuckers

Mudsuckers

Grayson Currin

Evolution-- or at least reproduction, its by-the-episode catalyst-- favors survival. As such, nature claims several fairly intricate means to that end, systems of existence that make the "Live, eat, fuck, die" model a bit reductive. The millimeter-long tardigrade, for instance, can end its metabolism, enter a state of indefinite cryobiosis, and emerge as healthy as ever in favorable conditions years later. Though the California coastline's coolest goby fish, the longjaw mudsucker, is a bit less dramatic, it's every bit as industrious: A native of tidal zones, the mudsucker is often left without water for swimming during low tides. It survives by crawling into a self-made burrow, sealing it with mud and entering a state of hypoxia. Quite literally, it breathes the air and ingests and excretes the swarm of microscopic invertebrates it sucks from surrounding mud. Imagine it: A fish, buried beneath, waiting for the next tide as its signal out. There, baking beneath the sun and without the water to swim, it looks still. But inside the burrow, the mudfish is respiring, metabolizing, living. Likewise, each of the five environments of Mudsuckers-- the collaboration of West Coast experimenters Robert Horton, Charalambides' Tom Carter, and Yellow Swans' Pete Swanson and Gabriel Mindel Saloman-- look dormant from above. Each track is marked by its singular environment, though things seem to be shifting, albeit slowly, just outside of the borrows: "Electric Sunflower"-- all droning guitar tones barely moving over the track's several minutes, signaling that something cyclical is slowing, coming to an end, retiring-- sounds much like the setting sun looks. "Here Comes the Mud Dragons", though, is a nine-minute, cracked-earth affair. Guitars, hyper-frequency sine waves and bowed and manipulated cymbals set up a piercing, escalating hum. By the seven-minute mark, it's a paranoid roar, as if the tide is late and the mud is drying. The life beneath is at risk. But the din eventually settles, the burrow holding against the elements. But those are only surface assessments, and it's not that simple. Remember the mudfish, the organism looking for air, food, and survival in the burrow it built. In and under the mud, life is teeming with microbes-- here, mimicked by a load of glitches, microsounds and intentional accidents-- permeating the substrate. Beneath an almost-pastoral drone on "Electric Sunflower", the tiniest bits of junkhouse percussion rattle around and are spontaneously swallowed by the welkin hum. Sometimes, however, even those dominating guitars shift out of their premier roles, swelling or contracting or flinching as the life below demands. Nowhere is this analogous relationship more obvious than on "Endocrine Disrupters", not coincidentally Mudsuckers' best 18 minutes. Here, with a scabrous tone that steadily downshifts its delay, it's as if the fish is decelerating, circling for entry and slogging into a temporary residence. Screeching guitars thrust into static roar, creating an overhauling environment through sheets of feedback. But Horton's drum machines explode from beneath, like a school of microbes flooding the burrow by instinct. A tenor saxophone played by guest Henry Kurtz sounds as though it is physically searching for air, and Horton's corroded cymbal splashes are like the body of the fish clashing against the burrow's constraints. It becomes impossible, of course, to identify the sounds being ingested and excreted, to identify an instrument's entry point from the resulting glut of sounds effected by the walls and strings of gear-- Saloman's pedals, Carter's loops, Horton's computers and cassette decks and loops, Swanson's overpowering reel-to-reel apparatus-- in these sessions. It sounds like a fucking-mess microcosm existing inside of a fucking mess of a world, where the tide knows it has to come back (things start to settle 15 minutes after entry) only because that's the way it's always been. Even if you've never left your front porch, you know exactly how surviving in such a world feels.

Artist: Mudsuckers, Album: Mudsuckers, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "Evolution-- or at least reproduction, its by-the-episode catalyst-- favors survival. As such, nature claims several fairly intricate means to that end, systems of existence that make the "Live, eat, fuck, die" model a bit reductive. The millimeter-long tardigrade, for instance, can end its metabolism, enter a state of indefinite cryobiosis, and emerge as healthy as ever in favorable conditions years later. Though the California coastline's coolest goby fish, the longjaw mudsucker, is a bit less dramatic, it's every bit as industrious: A native of tidal zones, the mudsucker is often left without water for swimming during low tides. It survives by crawling into a self-made burrow, sealing it with mud and entering a state of hypoxia. Quite literally, it breathes the air and ingests and excretes the swarm of microscopic invertebrates it sucks from surrounding mud. Imagine it: A fish, buried beneath, waiting for the next tide as its signal out. There, baking beneath the sun and without the water to swim, it looks still. But inside the burrow, the mudfish is respiring, metabolizing, living. Likewise, each of the five environments of Mudsuckers-- the collaboration of West Coast experimenters Robert Horton, Charalambides' Tom Carter, and Yellow Swans' Pete Swanson and Gabriel Mindel Saloman-- look dormant from above. Each track is marked by its singular environment, though things seem to be shifting, albeit slowly, just outside of the borrows: "Electric Sunflower"-- all droning guitar tones barely moving over the track's several minutes, signaling that something cyclical is slowing, coming to an end, retiring-- sounds much like the setting sun looks. "Here Comes the Mud Dragons", though, is a nine-minute, cracked-earth affair. Guitars, hyper-frequency sine waves and bowed and manipulated cymbals set up a piercing, escalating hum. By the seven-minute mark, it's a paranoid roar, as if the tide is late and the mud is drying. The life beneath is at risk. But the din eventually settles, the burrow holding against the elements. But those are only surface assessments, and it's not that simple. Remember the mudfish, the organism looking for air, food, and survival in the burrow it built. In and under the mud, life is teeming with microbes-- here, mimicked by a load of glitches, microsounds and intentional accidents-- permeating the substrate. Beneath an almost-pastoral drone on "Electric Sunflower", the tiniest bits of junkhouse percussion rattle around and are spontaneously swallowed by the welkin hum. Sometimes, however, even those dominating guitars shift out of their premier roles, swelling or contracting or flinching as the life below demands. Nowhere is this analogous relationship more obvious than on "Endocrine Disrupters", not coincidentally Mudsuckers' best 18 minutes. Here, with a scabrous tone that steadily downshifts its delay, it's as if the fish is decelerating, circling for entry and slogging into a temporary residence. Screeching guitars thrust into static roar, creating an overhauling environment through sheets of feedback. But Horton's drum machines explode from beneath, like a school of microbes flooding the burrow by instinct. A tenor saxophone played by guest Henry Kurtz sounds as though it is physically searching for air, and Horton's corroded cymbal splashes are like the body of the fish clashing against the burrow's constraints. It becomes impossible, of course, to identify the sounds being ingested and excreted, to identify an instrument's entry point from the resulting glut of sounds effected by the walls and strings of gear-- Saloman's pedals, Carter's loops, Horton's computers and cassette decks and loops, Swanson's overpowering reel-to-reel apparatus-- in these sessions. It sounds like a fucking-mess microcosm existing inside of a fucking mess of a world, where the tide knows it has to come back (things start to settle 15 minutes after entry) only because that's the way it's always been. Even if you've never left your front porch, you know exactly how surviving in such a world feels."

Wolf Eyes

Burned Mind

Experimental

Sam Ubl

Music should not make you want to die. If a record ever successfully achieved such an effect, my sincere hope is that it would be summarily taken off the market and marked for burial at a nuclear waste site. But while few bands are truly capable of inducing such crisis, an unprepared listener's response to abstract, texture-based noise music, like that of Wolf Eyes, will often run something like this: "This makes me want to kill myself." With songs like "Burn Your House Down" and "Let the Smoke Rise", Wolf Eyes have doubtless left many craving a fistful of aspirin and a glass of water, but these Michigan noisters' brazen electro-industrial soundscapes have yet to provoke any suicides. Dauntingly abrasive, yes; spiritually violating, no: Wolf Eyes are hyperbole-inducing provocateurs whose scalding compositions never fail to get a rise out of unsuspecting bystanders. And that's part of what makes them so appealing/appalling. Which raises the inevitable cynical question: Do Wolf Eyes have any actual fans, or just the ever-fickle appreciators, grazers, and gimmick seekers? This collection has been likened to an art project, and that's an unjust charge. Burned Mind doesn't belong in a museum (where it may well garner glowing reviews), though it does answer to the trove of obnoxious descriptors typically foisted upon music of its stripe: dense, abstract, challenging, and confrontational. But more often than not, Wolf Eyes are on your side: Enlist them to kick your meek ass, and they're happy to oblige. The mesmeric, chainsaw guitar rips of "Reaper's Gong" are nothing if not galvanizing, while the plodding saw-synth tsunami of "Stabbed in the Face" is downright debilitating. Songs like this might make some want to harm themselves, but can for others offer a quick syringe of adrenaline, or provoke a meditative look inward at a dark stratum of emotions, chief among them frustration, anger, and an overwhelming sense of imminent peril. In fact, much of Burned Mind sounds as if it were scored for a late-21st century update of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, where the villain is actually an indefatigable android gone haywire. The opening 45 seconds of "Dead in a Boat" may suggest a quieter, less volatile beast than was present on previous records like Dead Hills and Slicer, but those notions are quickly dispelled as the silence is broken by a wave of electronic squall. The introduction grows more misleading with the next track, "Stabbed in the Face", which features a looped female scream over a heady milieu of feedback and grating pitch-bends. One of the most uncompromisingly and mesmerically abrasive tracks in recent memory, it's easily Burned Mind's crown jewel, and a serviceable mission statement for a band who explore noise not for gimmickry or shock-value, but because that's the mode in which they express themselves best. This is by far Wolf Eyes' most visceral release to date. The masochistic appeal of stertorous noise and the comely allure of pop music are one in the same: Burned Mind, like any pop album worth its salt, conjures a deeper realm of images and moods beyond its surface qualities. Beneath the shock value of these overwhelming sonic miasmas are unambiguous aural parables about a world gone awry, and technology is held as the main culprit. Song titles like "Dead in a Boat", "Urine Burn", and "Black Vomit" are just façades (if not entirely inaccurate ones), indicative of the arid landscapes of human squalor and degradation stretching open behind. The rusty swingset shrieks of the interminable title track evoke images of spiritless machinery at work, as the band pummel with an admirable dearth of humanity. Superficially, there's only so much that can be said about Burned Mind that hasn't already been belabored into irrelevance and bought Wolf Eyes curt dismissals. Of course, their style is, to a degree, old news; there are manifold precedents for this breed of unrelenting stridency, dating back to Lou Reed's infamous Metal Music Machine. Throbbing Gristle took a similar stance against technology and industry in the 1970s, and their influence is certainly echoed here. If Wolf Eyes stand out from the legacy of doomsayers that includes Throbbing Gristle, Suicide, Whitehouse, and more recently Yellow Swans, it's because they're impressively, expertly abrasive. The shear inertia of these songs is sufficient to make most self-styled hardcore kids recoil in terror. Burned Mind, better than any recent album I can think of, betrays music's implied purpose of providing an enjoyable aural experience, while at the same time being psychologically compelling and richly imagistic enough to invite repeat listens.

Artist: Wolf Eyes, Album: Burned Mind, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Music should not make you want to die. If a record ever successfully achieved such an effect, my sincere hope is that it would be summarily taken off the market and marked for burial at a nuclear waste site. But while few bands are truly capable of inducing such crisis, an unprepared listener's response to abstract, texture-based noise music, like that of Wolf Eyes, will often run something like this: "This makes me want to kill myself." With songs like "Burn Your House Down" and "Let the Smoke Rise", Wolf Eyes have doubtless left many craving a fistful of aspirin and a glass of water, but these Michigan noisters' brazen electro-industrial soundscapes have yet to provoke any suicides. Dauntingly abrasive, yes; spiritually violating, no: Wolf Eyes are hyperbole-inducing provocateurs whose scalding compositions never fail to get a rise out of unsuspecting bystanders. And that's part of what makes them so appealing/appalling. Which raises the inevitable cynical question: Do Wolf Eyes have any actual fans, or just the ever-fickle appreciators, grazers, and gimmick seekers? This collection has been likened to an art project, and that's an unjust charge. Burned Mind doesn't belong in a museum (where it may well garner glowing reviews), though it does answer to the trove of obnoxious descriptors typically foisted upon music of its stripe: dense, abstract, challenging, and confrontational. But more often than not, Wolf Eyes are on your side: Enlist them to kick your meek ass, and they're happy to oblige. The mesmeric, chainsaw guitar rips of "Reaper's Gong" are nothing if not galvanizing, while the plodding saw-synth tsunami of "Stabbed in the Face" is downright debilitating. Songs like this might make some want to harm themselves, but can for others offer a quick syringe of adrenaline, or provoke a meditative look inward at a dark stratum of emotions, chief among them frustration, anger, and an overwhelming sense of imminent peril. In fact, much of Burned Mind sounds as if it were scored for a late-21st century update of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, where the villain is actually an indefatigable android gone haywire. The opening 45 seconds of "Dead in a Boat" may suggest a quieter, less volatile beast than was present on previous records like Dead Hills and Slicer, but those notions are quickly dispelled as the silence is broken by a wave of electronic squall. The introduction grows more misleading with the next track, "Stabbed in the Face", which features a looped female scream over a heady milieu of feedback and grating pitch-bends. One of the most uncompromisingly and mesmerically abrasive tracks in recent memory, it's easily Burned Mind's crown jewel, and a serviceable mission statement for a band who explore noise not for gimmickry or shock-value, but because that's the mode in which they express themselves best. This is by far Wolf Eyes' most visceral release to date. The masochistic appeal of stertorous noise and the comely allure of pop music are one in the same: Burned Mind, like any pop album worth its salt, conjures a deeper realm of images and moods beyond its surface qualities. Beneath the shock value of these overwhelming sonic miasmas are unambiguous aural parables about a world gone awry, and technology is held as the main culprit. Song titles like "Dead in a Boat", "Urine Burn", and "Black Vomit" are just façades (if not entirely inaccurate ones), indicative of the arid landscapes of human squalor and degradation stretching open behind. The rusty swingset shrieks of the interminable title track evoke images of spiritless machinery at work, as the band pummel with an admirable dearth of humanity. Superficially, there's only so much that can be said about Burned Mind that hasn't already been belabored into irrelevance and bought Wolf Eyes curt dismissals. Of course, their style is, to a degree, old news; there are manifold precedents for this breed of unrelenting stridency, dating back to Lou Reed's infamous Metal Music Machine. Throbbing Gristle took a similar stance against technology and industry in the 1970s, and their influence is certainly echoed here. If Wolf Eyes stand out from the legacy of doomsayers that includes Throbbing Gristle, Suicide, Whitehouse, and more recently Yellow Swans, it's because they're impressively, expertly abrasive. The shear inertia of these songs is sufficient to make most self-styled hardcore kids recoil in terror. Burned Mind, better than any recent album I can think of, betrays music's implied purpose of providing an enjoyable aural experience, while at the same time being psychologically compelling and richly imagistic enough to invite repeat listens."

Patrick Cleandenim

Baby Comes Home

Pop/R&B

Eric Harvey

Ba Da Bing, which has shown a recent tendency toward the young and retro-dignified (Beirut, Essie Jain), finds its next constituent in 22-year old Lawrence, Kansas expat and Bobby Darin aspirant Patrick Cleandenim. His first LP under this moniker (his parents named him Patrick Clendenin Roberts), Baby Comes Home, was recorded throughout 2005 with significant help from enrollees in the University of Kansas' music department. Cleandenim recruited dozens of Jayhawks to serve as his backing band, and Baby's lush brass and strings reflect it. Studio time was tight, with recording sessions taking place during the graveyard shift-- only appropriate for a record with several songs that lurk through the darker side of the high life. The album opens in grand fashion, with the title track's cinematic fanfare-- shrill, rising strings, a vibraphone, the thwack of a snare drum-- giving way to the cocky brass that carries the song. Sitting down his martini to sing, Cleandemin cuts right to the lyrical chase: "I saw you walkin' with a vampire last night." Two songs later, "Cognac and Caviar" matches that portentous extravagance-- "Mack the Knife" from the first person perspective-- its chorus recommending with all due nonchalance to "put poison in his Cognac and carry on." That last song's verse melody is worthy of a separate mention; it highlights Baby's slight-but-attractive musical range, which thankfully pushes out further from the Squirrel Nut Zippers retread suggested early on. Simply put, "Cognac" (and later, "Until You Said I'm Gone" and the wonderful, classic-Hollywood number "Days Without Rain") is dinner-theatre soul of the 5th Dimension variety, its melody sung in the crisp, tight harmonic style of the 1960s vocal group. But with the capriciousness of a kid with endless options at his command, the song temporarily switches gears for its chorus-to a peppy romp that would make the Scissor Sisters' Jake Shears take notice, as would the sashaying "Rocket to the Moon". It's over-the-top camp that finds the overlap between burlesque and elevator pop, and damn if Cleandenim doesn't pull it off with verve to spare. Cleandemin brushes up against classic soul throughout Baby. "So You Think You're Gonna Live Forever" feels like a it could have been written by Burt Bacharach for Dionne Warwick, and the deeply-echoed "Whispers Only Hurt Them" recalls the Velvelettes' 1964 Motown single "He Was Really Sayin' Somethin'". Most impressively, the piano shuffle from "Gone" is lifted from the Dramatics' 1972 Stax hit "What You See Is What You Get" (itself a Temptations cop), and injected with a Bossa Nova flair. These songs, and Baby on the whole, owe a clear debt to an earlier age of refined crooner pop and elegant soul, yet Cleandenim performs them with the ramshackle ease of, well, a kid with a bunch of talent and a massive supporting cast. He's also skillful enough to introduce a palpable sense of disquiet to even the record's most graceful passages, indicating an aptitude not only for adapation, but also unforced drama. Odds are, he'll adopt a different guise for his next outing-- his current incarnation follows a stint in an indie band and another as a singer-songwriter-- and it wouldn't be at all surprising to see this musical method-actor nail another role.

Artist: Patrick Cleandenim, Album: Baby Comes Home, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "Ba Da Bing, which has shown a recent tendency toward the young and retro-dignified (Beirut, Essie Jain), finds its next constituent in 22-year old Lawrence, Kansas expat and Bobby Darin aspirant Patrick Cleandenim. His first LP under this moniker (his parents named him Patrick Clendenin Roberts), Baby Comes Home, was recorded throughout 2005 with significant help from enrollees in the University of Kansas' music department. Cleandenim recruited dozens of Jayhawks to serve as his backing band, and Baby's lush brass and strings reflect it. Studio time was tight, with recording sessions taking place during the graveyard shift-- only appropriate for a record with several songs that lurk through the darker side of the high life. The album opens in grand fashion, with the title track's cinematic fanfare-- shrill, rising strings, a vibraphone, the thwack of a snare drum-- giving way to the cocky brass that carries the song. Sitting down his martini to sing, Cleandemin cuts right to the lyrical chase: "I saw you walkin' with a vampire last night." Two songs later, "Cognac and Caviar" matches that portentous extravagance-- "Mack the Knife" from the first person perspective-- its chorus recommending with all due nonchalance to "put poison in his Cognac and carry on." That last song's verse melody is worthy of a separate mention; it highlights Baby's slight-but-attractive musical range, which thankfully pushes out further from the Squirrel Nut Zippers retread suggested early on. Simply put, "Cognac" (and later, "Until You Said I'm Gone" and the wonderful, classic-Hollywood number "Days Without Rain") is dinner-theatre soul of the 5th Dimension variety, its melody sung in the crisp, tight harmonic style of the 1960s vocal group. But with the capriciousness of a kid with endless options at his command, the song temporarily switches gears for its chorus-to a peppy romp that would make the Scissor Sisters' Jake Shears take notice, as would the sashaying "Rocket to the Moon". It's over-the-top camp that finds the overlap between burlesque and elevator pop, and damn if Cleandenim doesn't pull it off with verve to spare. Cleandemin brushes up against classic soul throughout Baby. "So You Think You're Gonna Live Forever" feels like a it could have been written by Burt Bacharach for Dionne Warwick, and the deeply-echoed "Whispers Only Hurt Them" recalls the Velvelettes' 1964 Motown single "He Was Really Sayin' Somethin'". Most impressively, the piano shuffle from "Gone" is lifted from the Dramatics' 1972 Stax hit "What You See Is What You Get" (itself a Temptations cop), and injected with a Bossa Nova flair. These songs, and Baby on the whole, owe a clear debt to an earlier age of refined crooner pop and elegant soul, yet Cleandenim performs them with the ramshackle ease of, well, a kid with a bunch of talent and a massive supporting cast. He's also skillful enough to introduce a palpable sense of disquiet to even the record's most graceful passages, indicating an aptitude not only for adapation, but also unforced drama. Odds are, he'll adopt a different guise for his next outing-- his current incarnation follows a stint in an indie band and another as a singer-songwriter-- and it wouldn't be at all surprising to see this musical method-actor nail another role."

Starlito

At WAR With Myself Too

Rap

Paul A. Thompson

There’s a New York Times item from the winter of 2008: “Waiting (and Waiting) for a Big Rap Moment.” The subject, a then 23-year-old rapper from East Nashville, went by the name All $tar, and he was in a sort of purgatory. He’d landed a regional hit with “Grey Goose,” which popped up across different mixtapes in various different remixed versions, featuring combinations of other Southern stars like Yo Gotti, Lil Wayne, and Young Jeezy. He was signed to Cash Money. But his debut album, Street Ball, was nowhere to be found; in the piece, the rapper chalked up the idea that the record might be a hit to “wishful thinking.” He was recording and releasing sprawling, self-flagellating mixtapes at an impressive clip, but when it came to an above-board, bankable career as a rap star, he was waiting (and waiting). Street Ball never came out. Before long, All $tar, born Jermaine Shute, retreated into the underground and into his own head. He renamed himself Starlito. In the decade since the Times story, he’s put out more than two dozen releases without ever reaching the commercial heights a marquee spot on mid-aughts Cash Money seemed to offer. But in his defense, he’s rarely even tried for that sort of fame: Shute’s music under the Starlito name is dense and prickly, and it leans far away from pop. His three collaborations with fellow Tennessean Don Trip—a Memphis native who was also briefly crushed by the major-label wringer—as the Step Brothers made him a critical darling. Those Step Brothers records have grim crime tales and sober screeds about American racism, but they’re buoyed by the levity (and joy) that Lito and Trip evidently feel when rapping together. Lito can be a very funny, very sarcastic writer, but on his solo work—there’s tons, nearly all of it worth at least a cursory listen—he often burrows as deep as possible into the dark corners of his mind. His writing is tinged by paranoia—founded fears, like cars parked out front of his house for hours on end or sordid, unglamorous affairs coming to light. His latest album, At WAR With Myself Too, is similarly unsparing. WAR is nominally the sequel to a mixtape from 2011 and it is, predictably, contemplative and punishing in mostly equal measure. But there are telling contrasts: Today, Lito leans deeper into his voice, which can turn low and guttural to the point of vocal fry when he’s at at his most exhausted. The strongest vocal performance here is on a song called “Crying in the Car,” where Lito raps, as deliberately as if he were on a therapist’s couch, about starting to play basketball again to block out the weapons that cloud his mind’s eye, about quitting prescription drugs, about the pick-up game allowing him to sweat the alcohol out of his system. Where some confessional rap reads as manic or leaves the listener feeling like a voyeur, Lito has a unique ability to drop jarring personal details in a way that seems to reassure and calm his audience. Yet Lito’s greatest gift as a writer is not his ability to reveal himself through confession, but to condense everything—confession, threat, fear, sneer—into short, clear, stylish couplets. From the album’s closer, “You Don’t Know the Half”: “I was trapped out with my phone jumping, then I cashed out, told ’em ‘Don’t front me’/I was searching for an early exit, tryna back out ’cause I know they’re coming.” The way he raps the first bar, his nerves seem still. Then he confides that he declined the re-up because he could sense the walls closing in. It’s a shoulder shrug that does a ton of heavy narrative lifting. Like the rest of Starlito’s catalog, At WAR With Myself Too is the sound of a man reckoning with the world and with his own worst impulses—and breaking even at the very least.

Artist: Starlito, Album: At WAR With Myself Too, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "There’s a New York Times item from the winter of 2008: “Waiting (and Waiting) for a Big Rap Moment.” The subject, a then 23-year-old rapper from East Nashville, went by the name All $tar, and he was in a sort of purgatory. He’d landed a regional hit with “Grey Goose,” which popped up across different mixtapes in various different remixed versions, featuring combinations of other Southern stars like Yo Gotti, Lil Wayne, and Young Jeezy. He was signed to Cash Money. But his debut album, Street Ball, was nowhere to be found; in the piece, the rapper chalked up the idea that the record might be a hit to “wishful thinking.” He was recording and releasing sprawling, self-flagellating mixtapes at an impressive clip, but when it came to an above-board, bankable career as a rap star, he was waiting (and waiting). Street Ball never came out. Before long, All $tar, born Jermaine Shute, retreated into the underground and into his own head. He renamed himself Starlito. In the decade since the Times story, he’s put out more than two dozen releases without ever reaching the commercial heights a marquee spot on mid-aughts Cash Money seemed to offer. But in his defense, he’s rarely even tried for that sort of fame: Shute’s music under the Starlito name is dense and prickly, and it leans far away from pop. His three collaborations with fellow Tennessean Don Trip—a Memphis native who was also briefly crushed by the major-label wringer—as the Step Brothers made him a critical darling. Those Step Brothers records have grim crime tales and sober screeds about American racism, but they’re buoyed by the levity (and joy) that Lito and Trip evidently feel when rapping together. Lito can be a very funny, very sarcastic writer, but on his solo work—there’s tons, nearly all of it worth at least a cursory listen—he often burrows as deep as possible into the dark corners of his mind. His writing is tinged by paranoia—founded fears, like cars parked out front of his house for hours on end or sordid, unglamorous affairs coming to light. His latest album, At WAR With Myself Too, is similarly unsparing. WAR is nominally the sequel to a mixtape from 2011 and it is, predictably, contemplative and punishing in mostly equal measure. But there are telling contrasts: Today, Lito leans deeper into his voice, which can turn low and guttural to the point of vocal fry when he’s at at his most exhausted. The strongest vocal performance here is on a song called “Crying in the Car,” where Lito raps, as deliberately as if he were on a therapist’s couch, about starting to play basketball again to block out the weapons that cloud his mind’s eye, about quitting prescription drugs, about the pick-up game allowing him to sweat the alcohol out of his system. Where some confessional rap reads as manic or leaves the listener feeling like a voyeur, Lito has a unique ability to drop jarring personal details in a way that seems to reassure and calm his audience. Yet Lito’s greatest gift as a writer is not his ability to reveal himself through confession, but to condense everything—confession, threat, fear, sneer—into short, clear, stylish couplets. From the album’s closer, “You Don’t Know the Half”: “I was trapped out with my phone jumping, then I cashed out, told ’em ‘Don’t front me’/I was searching for an early exit, tryna back out ’cause I know they’re coming.” The way he raps the first bar, his nerves seem still. Then he confides that he declined the re-up because he could sense the walls closing in. It’s a shoulder shrug that does a ton of heavy narrative lifting. Like the rest of Starlito’s catalog, At WAR With Myself Too is the sound of a man reckoning with the world and with his own worst impulses—and breaking even at the very least."

Various Artists

Soul Sides, Volume 2: The Covers

Stephen M. Deusner

It's a bit perplexing when a blog-- especially one as historically minded as Oliver Wang's encyclopedic Soul Sides-- releases a compilation CD, much less an ongoing series. For one thing, there's the financial aspect: several of these tracks have ostensibly been available for free download at some time or another. Why buy the cow and so on? More crucially, there's the technological aspect: Mp3 blogs offer a product that is supposed to make compact discs obsolete. So why bother retrofitting your merchandise to increasingly irrelevant technology, especially when sales of music in corporeal form are tanking? While I can't speak for Wang or anyone at Zealous Records, there are two possible reasons for setting up this series on disc. First, the audience for decades-old soul music (aside from music critics of course) may tend to skew much older than visitors to sites like Stereogum or Said the Gramophone, attracting an audience that's still grumbling about the quality loss from vinyl to CD-- and don't get them started on CD to digital. So this is a means of branding Wang's site to a larger audience that might not look to the internet as a first source for music. Second, the music nearly demands the medium. Apart from a few notable exceptions like Isaac Hayes' Hot Buttered Soul or Marvin Gaye's What's Going on, soul favors emotion conveyed in quick bursts rather than drawn out across an album, which has made the music easily compilable under endless themes-- artists, labels, songwriters, eras, cities, even subject matter. From Memphis Soul Classics to the Numero Group's Eccentric Soul project to the latest Trikont musical essay, the compilation may be the most effective delivery system for the music and the most useful summation of its development. Releasing CD-based compilations is a means for Wang not only to collect and comment on that history, but also to participate in it. Just two volumes into its hopefully lengthy run, Soul Sides speaks to the depth and breadth of Wang's collection, mixing the new and the old, the obscure and, well, the slightly less obscure. These two discs cover decades, tracing the music from its roots to its current manifestations while offering an admirably inclusive definition of soul. Following the themeless but solid Volume 1, Volume 2 is billed as a covers compilation, which is perhaps inevitable considering that the best tracks on Volume 1 were Donny Hathaway's better-than-the-original take on John Lennon's "Jealous Guy" and Erma Franklin's "Piece of My Heart". Avoiding obvious choices and easy novelties, Wang unearths some gems: Volume 2 kicks off with Sharon Cash's enormous and immediate "Fever", with its immense horns and her immenser vocals. Al Green doesn't change very much on the Beatles' "I Want to Hold Your Hand", but his ecstatic delivery completely reinvents the tune. Following the organ-drenched uptempo jam of Spanky Wilson's "Kissing My Love", O.V. Wright's performance on his grave cover of Latimore's "Let's Straighten It Out" strikes a fine balance between despair over a lover's sadness and hope that they can resolve it, giving his pleading a sense of firm authority. Wang's choice of songs is nearly impeccable, but his presentation seems problematic. Volume 2 moves via unintentionally jarring transitions and awkward juxtapositions. For example, Green's "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" sets up Esther Phillips' coolly bitter "Home Is Where the Hatred Is", which is then followed by Marcia Griffiths' slinky "Here I Am (Come and Take Me)". It's a strange sequence that detracts from Phillips' real-life hopelessness and makes the physicality of Green's and Griffiths' songs sound frivolous. Wang backloads Volume 2 with single-play curios like El Michels Affair's nearly note-for-note re-creation of Isaac Hayes' "Walk on By" (itself a cover of a Burt Bacharach tune) and Laura Lee's sluggish "What a Man", which has none of the robust spirit of Linda Lyndell's original. These might have sounded stronger peppered throughout the album, but together, they weigh down the comp's second half. It might seem nitpicky to point out sequencing missteps like these, but any good compilation-- and especially a soul compilation-- should be able to generate a larger groove, with each track building on the previous to create a fluid arc from start to finish. The tracklist for Volume 2 actively detracts and distracts from each song's impact and meaning, which makes the whole sound disjointed. But that's what playlists are for.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Soul Sides, Volume 2: The Covers, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "It's a bit perplexing when a blog-- especially one as historically minded as Oliver Wang's encyclopedic Soul Sides-- releases a compilation CD, much less an ongoing series. For one thing, there's the financial aspect: several of these tracks have ostensibly been available for free download at some time or another. Why buy the cow and so on? More crucially, there's the technological aspect: Mp3 blogs offer a product that is supposed to make compact discs obsolete. So why bother retrofitting your merchandise to increasingly irrelevant technology, especially when sales of music in corporeal form are tanking? While I can't speak for Wang or anyone at Zealous Records, there are two possible reasons for setting up this series on disc. First, the audience for decades-old soul music (aside from music critics of course) may tend to skew much older than visitors to sites like Stereogum or Said the Gramophone, attracting an audience that's still grumbling about the quality loss from vinyl to CD-- and don't get them started on CD to digital. So this is a means of branding Wang's site to a larger audience that might not look to the internet as a first source for music. Second, the music nearly demands the medium. Apart from a few notable exceptions like Isaac Hayes' Hot Buttered Soul or Marvin Gaye's What's Going on, soul favors emotion conveyed in quick bursts rather than drawn out across an album, which has made the music easily compilable under endless themes-- artists, labels, songwriters, eras, cities, even subject matter. From Memphis Soul Classics to the Numero Group's Eccentric Soul project to the latest Trikont musical essay, the compilation may be the most effective delivery system for the music and the most useful summation of its development. Releasing CD-based compilations is a means for Wang not only to collect and comment on that history, but also to participate in it. Just two volumes into its hopefully lengthy run, Soul Sides speaks to the depth and breadth of Wang's collection, mixing the new and the old, the obscure and, well, the slightly less obscure. These two discs cover decades, tracing the music from its roots to its current manifestations while offering an admirably inclusive definition of soul. Following the themeless but solid Volume 1, Volume 2 is billed as a covers compilation, which is perhaps inevitable considering that the best tracks on Volume 1 were Donny Hathaway's better-than-the-original take on John Lennon's "Jealous Guy" and Erma Franklin's "Piece of My Heart". Avoiding obvious choices and easy novelties, Wang unearths some gems: Volume 2 kicks off with Sharon Cash's enormous and immediate "Fever", with its immense horns and her immenser vocals. Al Green doesn't change very much on the Beatles' "I Want to Hold Your Hand", but his ecstatic delivery completely reinvents the tune. Following the organ-drenched uptempo jam of Spanky Wilson's "Kissing My Love", O.V. Wright's performance on his grave cover of Latimore's "Let's Straighten It Out" strikes a fine balance between despair over a lover's sadness and hope that they can resolve it, giving his pleading a sense of firm authority. Wang's choice of songs is nearly impeccable, but his presentation seems problematic. Volume 2 moves via unintentionally jarring transitions and awkward juxtapositions. For example, Green's "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" sets up Esther Phillips' coolly bitter "Home Is Where the Hatred Is", which is then followed by Marcia Griffiths' slinky "Here I Am (Come and Take Me)". It's a strange sequence that detracts from Phillips' real-life hopelessness and makes the physicality of Green's and Griffiths' songs sound frivolous. Wang backloads Volume 2 with single-play curios like El Michels Affair's nearly note-for-note re-creation of Isaac Hayes' "Walk on By" (itself a cover of a Burt Bacharach tune) and Laura Lee's sluggish "What a Man", which has none of the robust spirit of Linda Lyndell's original. These might have sounded stronger peppered throughout the album, but together, they weigh down the comp's second half. It might seem nitpicky to point out sequencing missteps like these, but any good compilation-- and especially a soul compilation-- should be able to generate a larger groove, with each track building on the previous to create a fluid arc from start to finish. The tracklist for Volume 2 actively detracts and distracts from each song's impact and meaning, which makes the whole sound disjointed. But that's what playlists are for."

Schlammpeitziger

Everything Without All Inclusive

Electronic

Alex Linhardt

In a new year confronted with so much intriguing technology and music, the dedication of one's life to Casio keyboards requires a preternatural convergence of insolence, foolishness, and strangely consumerist fortitude. This willful deprivation may not quite be up to the same level as the infamous Ophir Prison Marching Kazoo Band, but, in its own quiet way, it seems as momentous and dangerous a sacrifice as anything religious leaders or secular professional sacrificers have ever undertaken. Like those ascetics, such loyalty deserves our begrudging respect, and no small degree of unfair ridicule. Schlammpeitziger, as should be readily apparent right about now, is no stranger to this ambivalence. The name alone all but threatens reviewers to assume Jo Zimmermann studied music solely so his pseudonym could be insulted. Another prevalent assumption among those new to the great IDM fanclub (endearingly called Schlammpeitzigerverrückteköpfe) is that the reliance on such basic hardware (his patented "Casionics") will produce droll, maypole-circling, percolating bouts of paradisiacal plop-pop. And, indeed, it's typically nostalgic to the point where you run the risk of accidentally preventing your parents from conceiving you. To the vexation of all those who create altars to their Pan Sonic 10-inches, however, there's not a damn thing wrong with Zimmermann's cloyingly radiant sunshine-in-the-ice-cream-truck delicacy. Everything Without All Inclusive is Zimmermann's first full-length since 2000, although the musician has been extensively name-dropped all over popular men's magazines since the superb compilation, Collected Simplesongs of My Temporary Past. The new album does not disappoint; it also does not thrill. Nevertheless, it's probably Zimmermann's best album to date. Strangely and unconvincingly, this claim rests almost solely on the fact that this record entirely abolishes any of the faint traces of diversity on his earlier albums. The opening track's menacing buzz may suggest some broad departure, but the warm, familiar fuzzes fasten the fate of the rest of the album as comfortably as Velcro. Distanced armament, circumnavigating valves and short-circuited beat-boxing all take their place as the delicate Casio mulls on and on, to the dismay of musical provocateurs and to the slothful joy of daydreamers. The most jarring sound is the clickity-clack of a jacob's ladder. The stone-skipping beat architecture invites all sorts of geeky adjective-analopuns, but the best one has to be pseudo-biologic virogenesis: microscopic organisms scurrying around, finding a spot they can mitosimate/replicate/whatthehell for a moment, and ending their woefully short "life"-spans in a hail of soft bio-techno-Casio-bullets. It's never chaotic, but it sounds like if you left it unsupervised for 24 hours, things might get sort of rambunctious. Even though this is undoubtedly an album about happiness, tenderness, and other out-of-date concepts, there are more than a few dark patches. He may play a Casio, but he's not always Cardinal Pollyanna's keyboardist, annoyingly saccharifying a black-hearted congregation. Okay, I lied: he typically is, but there are still those scorched brass blasts that might as well have come out of the Taxi Driver theme, and those abrasive scythes that could either be a harvest celebration or a Texas scythe massacre, um, harvest. Also, as someone who listens to breaths and wind a lot (because I can't figure out these damn headphones), I have the authority to note that Zimmermann's blustery wind (in the Winnie the Pooh sense, not the Hurricane Mitch one) is about as good as any around, finding the middle ground between Kraftwerk's ridiculous mechanics and the hyper-avant-garde's "no-thing" recordings. For everything that recommends Schlammpeitziger, it is inevitably and undeniably redundant music; focus is not always compulsory, nor even possible. And the middle third reeks of mediocrity or worse: poor man's Atari music, bluntly stupid opera, creaking floorboards, overly derivative house, etc. The fifth track is flat-out, hard-lined nauseating for people that don't spend every waking minute at Disneyland. But the majority of the album is more of the same for people who enjoy that sort of thing: a harmless, even lovely, pleasure that may not exemplify standing-ovation genius anytime soon, but manages to easily and efficiently make comfortable, yet often complex, pop.

Artist: Schlammpeitziger, Album: Everything Without All Inclusive, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "In a new year confronted with so much intriguing technology and music, the dedication of one's life to Casio keyboards requires a preternatural convergence of insolence, foolishness, and strangely consumerist fortitude. This willful deprivation may not quite be up to the same level as the infamous Ophir Prison Marching Kazoo Band, but, in its own quiet way, it seems as momentous and dangerous a sacrifice as anything religious leaders or secular professional sacrificers have ever undertaken. Like those ascetics, such loyalty deserves our begrudging respect, and no small degree of unfair ridicule. Schlammpeitziger, as should be readily apparent right about now, is no stranger to this ambivalence. The name alone all but threatens reviewers to assume Jo Zimmermann studied music solely so his pseudonym could be insulted. Another prevalent assumption among those new to the great IDM fanclub (endearingly called Schlammpeitzigerverrückteköpfe) is that the reliance on such basic hardware (his patented "Casionics") will produce droll, maypole-circling, percolating bouts of paradisiacal plop-pop. And, indeed, it's typically nostalgic to the point where you run the risk of accidentally preventing your parents from conceiving you. To the vexation of all those who create altars to their Pan Sonic 10-inches, however, there's not a damn thing wrong with Zimmermann's cloyingly radiant sunshine-in-the-ice-cream-truck delicacy. Everything Without All Inclusive is Zimmermann's first full-length since 2000, although the musician has been extensively name-dropped all over popular men's magazines since the superb compilation, Collected Simplesongs of My Temporary Past. The new album does not disappoint; it also does not thrill. Nevertheless, it's probably Zimmermann's best album to date. Strangely and unconvincingly, this claim rests almost solely on the fact that this record entirely abolishes any of the faint traces of diversity on his earlier albums. The opening track's menacing buzz may suggest some broad departure, but the warm, familiar fuzzes fasten the fate of the rest of the album as comfortably as Velcro. Distanced armament, circumnavigating valves and short-circuited beat-boxing all take their place as the delicate Casio mulls on and on, to the dismay of musical provocateurs and to the slothful joy of daydreamers. The most jarring sound is the clickity-clack of a jacob's ladder. The stone-skipping beat architecture invites all sorts of geeky adjective-analopuns, but the best one has to be pseudo-biologic virogenesis: microscopic organisms scurrying around, finding a spot they can mitosimate/replicate/whatthehell for a moment, and ending their woefully short "life"-spans in a hail of soft bio-techno-Casio-bullets. It's never chaotic, but it sounds like if you left it unsupervised for 24 hours, things might get sort of rambunctious. Even though this is undoubtedly an album about happiness, tenderness, and other out-of-date concepts, there are more than a few dark patches. He may play a Casio, but he's not always Cardinal Pollyanna's keyboardist, annoyingly saccharifying a black-hearted congregation. Okay, I lied: he typically is, but there are still those scorched brass blasts that might as well have come out of the Taxi Driver theme, and those abrasive scythes that could either be a harvest celebration or a Texas scythe massacre, um, harvest. Also, as someone who listens to breaths and wind a lot (because I can't figure out these damn headphones), I have the authority to note that Zimmermann's blustery wind (in the Winnie the Pooh sense, not the Hurricane Mitch one) is about as good as any around, finding the middle ground between Kraftwerk's ridiculous mechanics and the hyper-avant-garde's "no-thing" recordings. For everything that recommends Schlammpeitziger, it is inevitably and undeniably redundant music; focus is not always compulsory, nor even possible. And the middle third reeks of mediocrity or worse: poor man's Atari music, bluntly stupid opera, creaking floorboards, overly derivative house, etc. The fifth track is flat-out, hard-lined nauseating for people that don't spend every waking minute at Disneyland. But the majority of the album is more of the same for people who enjoy that sort of thing: a harmless, even lovely, pleasure that may not exemplify standing-ovation genius anytime soon, but manages to easily and efficiently make comfortable, yet often complex, pop."

Nina Persson

Animal Heart

Pop/R&B

Katherine St. Asaph

Even discounting Nina Persson’s scattered covers and one-offs, the Cardigans’ move toward singer-songwriterly maturity on Long Gone Before Daylight was a solo effort in spirit if not in personnel. And Persson’s two albums as A Camp—the first with the late Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse and the second with husband Nathan Larson—were solo in everything but the name. While the Cardigans were never all about Persson, she was the major draw; she got pegged as a heroine of coldhearted warm pop: summery melodies whose sun rays just might skewer anyone who basks. She's won countless devotees, from the wordy-sweet Swedish indie acts for whom the Cardigans are canon to those who knew the band from soft-rock radio and Romeo + Juliet. Entire swaths of music are cut from Persson’s cloth; she is a known quantity. For better or worse, this lets Persson get away with an album like Animal Heart, one that isn’t much of a statement. She has so many strengths to coast on. Her voice still frays so beguilingly well at the end of a phrase. She still has a way with production filigrees, with letting a bridge dissolve into dreamy guitar licks or tucking a watch-this sparkle beneath a verse and then a cruel barb beneath the line. And she still knows how to write a great chorus. The title track here stands among her best, a gorgeous continuous springtime melt of an indie-pop song with a subtle, urgent energy. It’s the most straightforward pleasure on an album more concerned with Persson’s tricksy songwriting. “Catch Me Crying” is like a torch song illuminated by firefly lights and surprisingly busy: over-keeled melodies, over-anxious percussion and synths, over-ragged vocals, and far too much repetition for “you’ll never catch me crying for you—again” to read as anything but ironic. “Forgot to Tell You” is the same tack from the opposite approach: a Sunday kind of breakup song, pleasant like an afternoon on the porch; everything’s so nice-nice, you hardly notice she’s shrugged the poor guy off with “so I might just forget about you now” then slunk away with a smile. But with so many midtempo tracks so removed from the glam of, say, Super Extra Gravity or Gran Turismo, everything inevitably blurs together. Even at the track level Persson doesn’t quite manage the balance. The concept doesn’t help, as she only half-commits to the metaphor suggested by the record's title. “Food for the Beast” has a commanding chorus (even if it’s constantly one skank away from becoming Swedish reggae), but it’s pretty clearly a retread of the title idea. Beyond that are fish and bird metaphors seemingly there just to get Persson out of class Mammalia, and “Jungle” is a nadir: tinny and terrible like a demo recording from whichever machine spat out Toto songs in the 1980s. One wonders why she even needed the concept at all. It’s baby-songwriter stuff from an artist who’s better off mature. “Mature” can be code for “acoustic”, and while nothing on Animal Heart is quite like A Camp at its faux-Americana twangiest, the remnants of that sound remain strong. “The Grand Destruction Game” has fun with its confessional tropes and stock lovers—wayward sailors and elegant gangsters and other men who mainly exist in folk songs share headspace with “the cross-eyed lead singer of a bad boy band.” The hymn-like “Burning Bridges for Fuel” simmers with an exhausted resilience that’s sequenced far too early. The title of “This Is Heavy Metal,” sounds like a joke; thankfully, it’s neither a Lordi cover nor particularly ironic, but in instead a wry piano ballad whose singer the parade has passed by. Persson drowses through auburn piano chords and wry lines: “I would like to sell now/ My life is going well now/ My bones are at an all-time OK,” could be the lonely final scene to a both-ends-ablaze Cardigans single. It’s mesmerizing, the sort of thing you want to hear albums more of; it also sounds utterly resigned, as a song if not a career statement. If there’s an upshot, Persson’s a good enough writer to compose herself another act.

Artist: Nina Persson, Album: Animal Heart, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.5 Album review: "Even discounting Nina Persson’s scattered covers and one-offs, the Cardigans’ move toward singer-songwriterly maturity on Long Gone Before Daylight was a solo effort in spirit if not in personnel. And Persson’s two albums as A Camp—the first with the late Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse and the second with husband Nathan Larson—were solo in everything but the name. While the Cardigans were never all about Persson, she was the major draw; she got pegged as a heroine of coldhearted warm pop: summery melodies whose sun rays just might skewer anyone who basks. She's won countless devotees, from the wordy-sweet Swedish indie acts for whom the Cardigans are canon to those who knew the band from soft-rock radio and Romeo + Juliet. Entire swaths of music are cut from Persson’s cloth; she is a known quantity. For better or worse, this lets Persson get away with an album like Animal Heart, one that isn’t much of a statement. She has so many strengths to coast on. Her voice still frays so beguilingly well at the end of a phrase. She still has a way with production filigrees, with letting a bridge dissolve into dreamy guitar licks or tucking a watch-this sparkle beneath a verse and then a cruel barb beneath the line. And she still knows how to write a great chorus. The title track here stands among her best, a gorgeous continuous springtime melt of an indie-pop song with a subtle, urgent energy. It’s the most straightforward pleasure on an album more concerned with Persson’s tricksy songwriting. “Catch Me Crying” is like a torch song illuminated by firefly lights and surprisingly busy: over-keeled melodies, over-anxious percussion and synths, over-ragged vocals, and far too much repetition for “you’ll never catch me crying for you—again” to read as anything but ironic. “Forgot to Tell You” is the same tack from the opposite approach: a Sunday kind of breakup song, pleasant like an afternoon on the porch; everything’s so nice-nice, you hardly notice she’s shrugged the poor guy off with “so I might just forget about you now” then slunk away with a smile. But with so many midtempo tracks so removed from the glam of, say, Super Extra Gravity or Gran Turismo, everything inevitably blurs together. Even at the track level Persson doesn’t quite manage the balance. The concept doesn’t help, as she only half-commits to the metaphor suggested by the record's title. “Food for the Beast” has a commanding chorus (even if it’s constantly one skank away from becoming Swedish reggae), but it’s pretty clearly a retread of the title idea. Beyond that are fish and bird metaphors seemingly there just to get Persson out of class Mammalia, and “Jungle” is a nadir: tinny and terrible like a demo recording from whichever machine spat out Toto songs in the 1980s. One wonders why she even needed the concept at all. It’s baby-songwriter stuff from an artist who’s better off mature. “Mature” can be code for “acoustic”, and while nothing on Animal Heart is quite like A Camp at its faux-Americana twangiest, the remnants of that sound remain strong. “The Grand Destruction Game” has fun with its confessional tropes and stock lovers—wayward sailors and elegant gangsters and other men who mainly exist in folk songs share headspace with “the cross-eyed lead singer of a bad boy band.” The hymn-like “Burning Bridges for Fuel” simmers with an exhausted resilience that’s sequenced far too early. The title of “This Is Heavy Metal,” sounds like a joke; thankfully, it’s neither a Lordi cover nor particularly ironic, but in instead a wry piano ballad whose singer the parade has passed by. Persson drowses through auburn piano chords and wry lines: “I would like to sell now/ My life is going well now/ My bones are at an all-time OK,” could be the lonely final scene to a both-ends-ablaze Cardigans single. It’s mesmerizing, the sort of thing you want to hear albums more of; it also sounds utterly resigned, as a song if not a career statement. If there’s an upshot, Persson’s a good enough writer to compose herself another act."

Cold Cave

Cherish the Light Years

Electronic,Rock

Mark Richardson

To be an American fan of UK new wave in the 1980s was to acknowledge that your homegrown culture wasn't giving you what you needed. New Order, the Cure, Depeche Mode, and Siouxsie and the Banshees made broadly appealing pop music but also made sense to outcast kids in the U.S. because they clearly came from somewhere else. Drop any of them into your average American town and they would be mocked; the straight world would make fun of their haircuts and clothing and make-up. That was part of what drew people to them. They were theatrical and sensitive. They were singing about feelings. They were androgynous. Those drawn to this music at the time articulated a cluster of associations and feelings around these qualities that endures two decades later. Cold Cave's 2009 full-length debut, Love Comes Close, tapped into the emotional space of 80s new wave. It wasn't just that the group sounded like bands from that decade, though that was certainly part of it. But like Peter Murphy, Ian Curtis, or Robert Smith, Cold Cave leader Wesley Eisold has a voice that's both strong and vulnerable, a low croon with a deeply embedded ache. And when used with basslines and spiky guitars that sound lifted from some lost band on Factory, his voice perfectly conveyed the drama of being a teenage outsider. That feeling continues on Cherish the Light Years, but here everything has been blown up to a degree that borders on absurdity. From opening cut "The Great Pan Is Dead", Cherish feels like a John Hughes film projected in an IMAX theater-- guitars wail, synths scream, and the whole thing is loud, loud, loud. And Eisold responds in kind, his voice rippling with a new desperation-- he'll come running as stars explode, hearts break, and we all yearn for salvation. It's a bracing and brilliant album opener, stating in no uncertain terms, "This is now a different band." Just a few short years ago, Cold Cave were a home-recording project beholden to the sound of early industrial and minimal synth. The throbbing murk in that music made you think something was wrong with your stereo-- many tracks barely qualified as noise, forget about songs. But on Cherish, Cold Cave sound like they're storming the gates of the mainstream, ready to appeal to anyone with an ear for big, bold, goth-pop. And they succeed. All nine tracks are well crafted and memorable, with sections that poke out on first listen and worm their way into your consciousness with further plays. "Underworld USA" begins with a dark synth thump and a lonely guitar but quickly explodes into a raging anthem for the disaffected. Eisold wants to dream and cry and let the night pass him by-- he sings of the meek inheriting the earth and rhymes "missionary" with "cemetery." And then "Confetti" is subtler, opening with a delicate synth line and a gorgeous reverb-laden guitar that sounds lifted from a 4AD record circa 1986. "I feel so good on the outside," Eisold sings-- when you're feeling miserable, you'll take what you can get. These songs are tuneful and empathetic studded with sharp observations; it's the kind of music that makes you wish your life would fall apart a little bit, just so that you could wallow in it. But the songs never stay in one place. The contrast between "Alchemy Around You", which adds a trumpet and thickens the production further, and the following "Burning Sage", a bleak and bass-heavy tune with synth from noise-master and CC member Dominick Fernow that hearkens back to the band's industrial origins, brings to mind the eclectic experimentation of Kiss Me-era Cure. These guys are ready to fold anything into their aesthetic. It all gets a little claustrophobic at points, and when that happens the vocals of Caralee McElroy, who contributed to Love Comes Close, are missed. But if Cherish finds Cold Cave going for it and trying their hand at new wave pop anthems, they're still sweating the details. These songs and arrangements are like catnip for those who crave the bleak romantic end of new wave. There is one issue that keeps Cherish from being an unqualified home run: The mix and mastering job are brickwalled to the extreme, squashing all the production detail and rendering this 40-minute LP tiring to listen to as a whole. It was a strange choice to make this record so incredibly loud and compressed; this music wants to bring you closer, but the monolithic sonics have a way of keeping you at arm's length. Not to mention that this kind of ultra-loud mastering brings to mind albums that touch on some of the same sounds and feelings but in a heavy-handed way-- Bloc Party's Intimacy or the Killers' Day & Age, say. Considering how much care went into the songwriting and overall conception, we have to assume that Cold Cave have their reasons for wanting the album to sound like this. But to my ears, this music deserved better. Even so, taken as a whole, Cherish has the feel of a breakthrough, and Wes Eisold comes across as an artist with a vision that will resonate with a larger audience.

Artist: Cold Cave, Album: Cherish the Light Years, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "To be an American fan of UK new wave in the 1980s was to acknowledge that your homegrown culture wasn't giving you what you needed. New Order, the Cure, Depeche Mode, and Siouxsie and the Banshees made broadly appealing pop music but also made sense to outcast kids in the U.S. because they clearly came from somewhere else. Drop any of them into your average American town and they would be mocked; the straight world would make fun of their haircuts and clothing and make-up. That was part of what drew people to them. They were theatrical and sensitive. They were singing about feelings. They were androgynous. Those drawn to this music at the time articulated a cluster of associations and feelings around these qualities that endures two decades later. Cold Cave's 2009 full-length debut, Love Comes Close, tapped into the emotional space of 80s new wave. It wasn't just that the group sounded like bands from that decade, though that was certainly part of it. But like Peter Murphy, Ian Curtis, or Robert Smith, Cold Cave leader Wesley Eisold has a voice that's both strong and vulnerable, a low croon with a deeply embedded ache. And when used with basslines and spiky guitars that sound lifted from some lost band on Factory, his voice perfectly conveyed the drama of being a teenage outsider. That feeling continues on Cherish the Light Years, but here everything has been blown up to a degree that borders on absurdity. From opening cut "The Great Pan Is Dead", Cherish feels like a John Hughes film projected in an IMAX theater-- guitars wail, synths scream, and the whole thing is loud, loud, loud. And Eisold responds in kind, his voice rippling with a new desperation-- he'll come running as stars explode, hearts break, and we all yearn for salvation. It's a bracing and brilliant album opener, stating in no uncertain terms, "This is now a different band." Just a few short years ago, Cold Cave were a home-recording project beholden to the sound of early industrial and minimal synth. The throbbing murk in that music made you think something was wrong with your stereo-- many tracks barely qualified as noise, forget about songs. But on Cherish, Cold Cave sound like they're storming the gates of the mainstream, ready to appeal to anyone with an ear for big, bold, goth-pop. And they succeed. All nine tracks are well crafted and memorable, with sections that poke out on first listen and worm their way into your consciousness with further plays. "Underworld USA" begins with a dark synth thump and a lonely guitar but quickly explodes into a raging anthem for the disaffected. Eisold wants to dream and cry and let the night pass him by-- he sings of the meek inheriting the earth and rhymes "missionary" with "cemetery." And then "Confetti" is subtler, opening with a delicate synth line and a gorgeous reverb-laden guitar that sounds lifted from a 4AD record circa 1986. "I feel so good on the outside," Eisold sings-- when you're feeling miserable, you'll take what you can get. These songs are tuneful and empathetic studded with sharp observations; it's the kind of music that makes you wish your life would fall apart a little bit, just so that you could wallow in it. But the songs never stay in one place. The contrast between "Alchemy Around You", which adds a trumpet and thickens the production further, and the following "Burning Sage", a bleak and bass-heavy tune with synth from noise-master and CC member Dominick Fernow that hearkens back to the band's industrial origins, brings to mind the eclectic experimentation of Kiss Me-era Cure. These guys are ready to fold anything into their aesthetic. It all gets a little claustrophobic at points, and when that happens the vocals of Caralee McElroy, who contributed to Love Comes Close, are missed. But if Cherish finds Cold Cave going for it and trying their hand at new wave pop anthems, they're still sweating the details. These songs and arrangements are like catnip for those who crave the bleak romantic end of new wave. There is one issue that keeps Cherish from being an unqualified home run: The mix and mastering job are brickwalled to the extreme, squashing all the production detail and rendering this 40-minute LP tiring to listen to as a whole. It was a strange choice to make this record so incredibly loud and compressed; this music wants to bring you closer, but the monolithic sonics have a way of keeping you at arm's length. Not to mention that this kind of ultra-loud mastering brings to mind albums that touch on some of the same sounds and feelings but in a heavy-handed way-- Bloc Party's Intimacy or the Killers' Day & Age, say. Considering how much care went into the songwriting and overall conception, we have to assume that Cold Cave have their reasons for wanting the album to sound like this. But to my ears, this music deserved better. Even so, taken as a whole, Cherish has the feel of a breakthrough, and Wes Eisold comes across as an artist with a vision that will resonate with a larger audience."

Brandi Carlile

By the Way, I Forgive You

Folk/Country

Alfred Soto

One of Brandi Carlile’s strongest points, to her admirers, is her ease with the tonal switch, moving abruptly from honing pin-sharp details at full volume to whispering evocative commonplaces. There’s a similar quality in her relationship to genre: Her deft straddling of country and folk suggests Americana, but Carlile is too restless for that. After the churning and most welcome rock dalliance of 2015’s The Firewatcher’s Daughter, her sixth album is on first listen a return to the acoustic arrangements she favored in the Bush II years. But hairpin turns are Carlile’s specialty, and By the Way, I Forgive You turns out to be something less than an advance but more than a retreat: It’s a move toward the prestige era of her career, a moment when she’s expected to reconcile the warring parts of herself for a growing audience. Her collaborators this time are an impressive bunch. A Shooter Jennings credit, in Nashville circles, is the musical equivalent of a Michelin star, a welcome sign of her growing ambition. He and Dave Cobb—the latter helming celebrated albums by Sturgill Simpson, Chris Stapleton, and Jason Isbell—co-produced this LP, and they and Carlile (along with longtime bandmates and co-writers Phil and Tim Hanseroth) have got their shit together. Which is not to say there are no reaches: By the Way occasionally succumbs to the overwrought, as if Carlile were still auditioning. She should know better than to outsing orchestras, especially when the late Paul Buckmaster conducts them (“The Joke”). When the arrangement and the song are right, though, the risks pay off. The acoustic hooks, string section coda, and admissions of wanderlust on “Whatever You Do” suggest “Moonlight Mile,” and while her version doesn’t come close, Carlile’s instincts are sure: Knowing she’s singing a keeper dovetails with her narrator’s determination to stay stoic. Using the offhandedness of the album title as lodestar, Carlile examines the wages of contrition—who needs it, who benefits, the effects on survivors. For gay men and women, reconciliation is an inevitable part of the burden of history. Or call it a whistling in the dark. Hard lives darken By the Way, recollected with the mild unease of someone who has to go home a couple times a year. “I never met a coward I don’t like,” she observes in “Whatever You Do.” An observation as criticism, for one of those cowards is Carlile herself. “Most of All” addresses warring parents whose lessons don’t fit gender expectations: The dad in this song taught her the wisdom of keeping a cool head, the mom how to fight. “Sugartooth,” the album’s catchiest number in part thanks to Jennings’ rolling keys, is a valentine to a schoolmate who’d give you the shirt off his back so long as you didn’t take his drug money. “He was a liar but not a fraud,” Carlile sings, in one of By the Way’s pithiest inversions. If there’s one subject music-biz lifers know well, it’s the road, where payoffs come in the future if at all. Carlile’s second album, released just over a decade ago and containing her best-known tune, “The Story,” only went gold last year. Rarer still to find an artist who distills the banality of hotel rooms and mud-streaked tour van windows into approximations of wisdom. Told from the point of view of a woman whose young daughter still astonishes her, especially when this daughter breaks heirlooms, “The Mother” pivots around the declarative statement, “I am the mother of Evangeline.” No-nonsense, even curt, “The Mother” is this album’s finest moment. Loudon Wainwright III could have written it. As the success of Isbell’s The Nashville Sound has shown, there’s an audience for records like By The Way, I Forgive You, particularly when their narratives require fictive leaps no higher than the average 2 Chainz album does. And Carlile has the kind of respect from peers that this audience goes for: With 2017’s Cover Stories project, the likes of Dolly Parton, Pearl Jam, the Avett Brothers, and Adele treated her songs as if she were John Hiatt in 1989. A weakness for vocal histrionics plagued Hiatt, too, recall. But the 36-year-old songwriter, who can count a former president as a fan, knows this is her moment. The album’s a tad awkward, like many projects steeped in the mild tea of sincerity, but By the Way, I Forgive You is the necessary next step in a shrewdly managed career. Brandi Carlile requires no forgiveness from us.

Artist: Brandi Carlile, Album: By the Way, I Forgive You, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "One of Brandi Carlile’s strongest points, to her admirers, is her ease with the tonal switch, moving abruptly from honing pin-sharp details at full volume to whispering evocative commonplaces. There’s a similar quality in her relationship to genre: Her deft straddling of country and folk suggests Americana, but Carlile is too restless for that. After the churning and most welcome rock dalliance of 2015’s The Firewatcher’s Daughter, her sixth album is on first listen a return to the acoustic arrangements she favored in the Bush II years. But hairpin turns are Carlile’s specialty, and By the Way, I Forgive You turns out to be something less than an advance but more than a retreat: It’s a move toward the prestige era of her career, a moment when she’s expected to reconcile the warring parts of herself for a growing audience. Her collaborators this time are an impressive bunch. A Shooter Jennings credit, in Nashville circles, is the musical equivalent of a Michelin star, a welcome sign of her growing ambition. He and Dave Cobb—the latter helming celebrated albums by Sturgill Simpson, Chris Stapleton, and Jason Isbell—co-produced this LP, and they and Carlile (along with longtime bandmates and co-writers Phil and Tim Hanseroth) have got their shit together. Which is not to say there are no reaches: By the Way occasionally succumbs to the overwrought, as if Carlile were still auditioning. She should know better than to outsing orchestras, especially when the late Paul Buckmaster conducts them (“The Joke”). When the arrangement and the song are right, though, the risks pay off. The acoustic hooks, string section coda, and admissions of wanderlust on “Whatever You Do” suggest “Moonlight Mile,” and while her version doesn’t come close, Carlile’s instincts are sure: Knowing she’s singing a keeper dovetails with her narrator’s determination to stay stoic. Using the offhandedness of the album title as lodestar, Carlile examines the wages of contrition—who needs it, who benefits, the effects on survivors. For gay men and women, reconciliation is an inevitable part of the burden of history. Or call it a whistling in the dark. Hard lives darken By the Way, recollected with the mild unease of someone who has to go home a couple times a year. “I never met a coward I don’t like,” she observes in “Whatever You Do.” An observation as criticism, for one of those cowards is Carlile herself. “Most of All” addresses warring parents whose lessons don’t fit gender expectations: The dad in this song taught her the wisdom of keeping a cool head, the mom how to fight. “Sugartooth,” the album’s catchiest number in part thanks to Jennings’ rolling keys, is a valentine to a schoolmate who’d give you the shirt off his back so long as you didn’t take his drug money. “He was a liar but not a fraud,” Carlile sings, in one of By the Way’s pithiest inversions. If there’s one subject music-biz lifers know well, it’s the road, where payoffs come in the future if at all. Carlile’s second album, released just over a decade ago and containing her best-known tune, “The Story,” only went gold last year. Rarer still to find an artist who distills the banality of hotel rooms and mud-streaked tour van windows into approximations of wisdom. Told from the point of view of a woman whose young daughter still astonishes her, especially when this daughter breaks heirlooms, “The Mother” pivots around the declarative statement, “I am the mother of Evangeline.” No-nonsense, even curt, “The Mother” is this album’s finest moment. Loudon Wainwright III could have written it. As the success of Isbell’s The Nashville Sound has shown, there’s an audience for records like By The Way, I Forgive You, particularly when their narratives require fictive leaps no higher than the average 2 Chainz album does. And Carlile has the kind of respect from peers that this audience goes for: With 2017’s Cover Stories project, the likes of Dolly Parton, Pearl Jam, the Avett Brothers, and Adele treated her songs as if she were John Hiatt in 1989. A weakness for vocal histrionics plagued Hiatt, too, recall. But the 36-year-old songwriter, who can count a former president as a fan, knows this is her moment. The album’s a tad awkward, like many projects steeped in the mild tea of sincerity, but By the Way, I Forgive You is the necessary next step in a shrewdly managed career. Brandi Carlile requires no forgiveness from us."

Seaworthy

The Ride

Electronic,Rock

Christopher Dare

If my band was mentioned in Jane magazine's "Cute Band Alert," I'd be worried about looking like some soulless corporate-rock posterboy. Thankfully, Macha put musicianship first. After a trip to Indonesia, the four-piece fused indie rock with Eastern instrumentation, resulting in polyrhythmic songs full of plucked zithers, hammered dulcimers and ringing metallophones. Some said that Atlanta's Macha-men, by using conventional lyrics and choruses, had missed the point: reaching a state of trance. But fusion was the point, and during their live shows with Bedhead, as Macha constantly switched between instruments and launched into intense jams, you could hear an enlightening vibe far more exciting than any Jah Wobble world-beat kitsch. Seaworthy is the solo project of Macha frontman Josh McKay. He's caught between his past and future on The Ride, which ditches Eastern instruments for the most part but still focuses on layered waves of sound (though in an altogether more smooth and subtle approach). The ambiance on this LP carries hints of McKay's pre-Macha days in Emperor Moth, a brooding rock trio from Gainesville, Florida. All three of McKay's projects reveal his draw towards the tension created by the drone, and the moody keyboards and deep basslines here were captured perfectly in the mix done at Andy LeMaster's Chase Park Transduction studio in Athens. McKay's balance between abstraction and conventional songwriting has yielded another great album. The Ride begins with "Open the Gates," as a lumbering dreadnought of a guitar riff plows through staccato percussion and harpsichord-like ornamentation. The sinewy lines segue directly into "I Met Her in the Candy Store." The guitars become muted and the sinister feeling fades, replaced by creaking scrapes of feedback crenellated along the main bass groove. McKay's breathy vocals barely raise above a whisper, but they manage to make the otherwise-edgy music strangely inviting. His hushed phrasings are difficult to decipher, but you can make out, "Your voice invites everyone into contact with your thoughts." This piece glides into "Sea Manta," a wavering, aquatic instrumental similar to Tortoise's "Dear Grandma and Grandpa." "Lone Star Samba" is more easily accessible. A hi-hat ticks incessantly amongst other soft percussive rumblings, as McKay warmly sings, "Talk to me, through the bedroom wall/ Does your guard come down, when I'm not around?" The second verse begins with vibraphone rolls eddying upward. Snippets of sampled conversation begin to appear in the song, little giggles and laughs punctuating the mix with a sense of intimacy. "You and me, just one more hour"-- a statement, or a plea? Instead of revelation, a pulsing drone washes into a canyon of reverb on "In Anticipation Of," a short prelude to "The Day," one of two surprisingly great pop tracks that appear in the middle of the album. Prolific Japanese musician Haco glows here, her voice patiently pausing and then echoing dramatically over plodding drums and the accompaniment of ringing bell sounds. "Identifying the Body" features vocals from Azure Ray seraph Orenda Fink. Trip-hop beats shuffle while Fink's electronically filtered voice reaches an otherworldly androgyny, even if the hook sounds like Bono on "The Fly." This song just soars, all the more surprising that it leads into a disappointing closer. The two-part title track "The Ride" aims for the blissed-out distortion of REM's "Let Me In," but the avant-garde vocal harmony sounds as annoying as the choral theatrics Cerberus Shoal has been into lately. The dense, wheezing soundbursts aren't awful, but after so many successful tracks, this murky sequence is a letdown. The photos on the sleeve cover of The Ride are all of bodies: a woman wrapped in a towel, only visible by the light from a window; a color shot of someone's back, shadow-lit and androgynous; a close-up of someone's long, curly hair. I wonder whether the concept (signifiers: the sampled conversation, the song titles, the printed lyrics for the title track) is just about a relationship, or maybe also its collapse. The narrative flow is enthralling, and might be a good opiate during those times. It's the first good 2002 album I've heard, and I didn't even get annoyed at the nautical theme.

Artist: Seaworthy, Album: The Ride, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "If my band was mentioned in Jane magazine's "Cute Band Alert," I'd be worried about looking like some soulless corporate-rock posterboy. Thankfully, Macha put musicianship first. After a trip to Indonesia, the four-piece fused indie rock with Eastern instrumentation, resulting in polyrhythmic songs full of plucked zithers, hammered dulcimers and ringing metallophones. Some said that Atlanta's Macha-men, by using conventional lyrics and choruses, had missed the point: reaching a state of trance. But fusion was the point, and during their live shows with Bedhead, as Macha constantly switched between instruments and launched into intense jams, you could hear an enlightening vibe far more exciting than any Jah Wobble world-beat kitsch. Seaworthy is the solo project of Macha frontman Josh McKay. He's caught between his past and future on The Ride, which ditches Eastern instruments for the most part but still focuses on layered waves of sound (though in an altogether more smooth and subtle approach). The ambiance on this LP carries hints of McKay's pre-Macha days in Emperor Moth, a brooding rock trio from Gainesville, Florida. All three of McKay's projects reveal his draw towards the tension created by the drone, and the moody keyboards and deep basslines here were captured perfectly in the mix done at Andy LeMaster's Chase Park Transduction studio in Athens. McKay's balance between abstraction and conventional songwriting has yielded another great album. The Ride begins with "Open the Gates," as a lumbering dreadnought of a guitar riff plows through staccato percussion and harpsichord-like ornamentation. The sinewy lines segue directly into "I Met Her in the Candy Store." The guitars become muted and the sinister feeling fades, replaced by creaking scrapes of feedback crenellated along the main bass groove. McKay's breathy vocals barely raise above a whisper, but they manage to make the otherwise-edgy music strangely inviting. His hushed phrasings are difficult to decipher, but you can make out, "Your voice invites everyone into contact with your thoughts." This piece glides into "Sea Manta," a wavering, aquatic instrumental similar to Tortoise's "Dear Grandma and Grandpa." "Lone Star Samba" is more easily accessible. A hi-hat ticks incessantly amongst other soft percussive rumblings, as McKay warmly sings, "Talk to me, through the bedroom wall/ Does your guard come down, when I'm not around?" The second verse begins with vibraphone rolls eddying upward. Snippets of sampled conversation begin to appear in the song, little giggles and laughs punctuating the mix with a sense of intimacy. "You and me, just one more hour"-- a statement, or a plea? Instead of revelation, a pulsing drone washes into a canyon of reverb on "In Anticipation Of," a short prelude to "The Day," one of two surprisingly great pop tracks that appear in the middle of the album. Prolific Japanese musician Haco glows here, her voice patiently pausing and then echoing dramatically over plodding drums and the accompaniment of ringing bell sounds. "Identifying the Body" features vocals from Azure Ray seraph Orenda Fink. Trip-hop beats shuffle while Fink's electronically filtered voice reaches an otherworldly androgyny, even if the hook sounds like Bono on "The Fly." This song just soars, all the more surprising that it leads into a disappointing closer. The two-part title track "The Ride" aims for the blissed-out distortion of REM's "Let Me In," but the avant-garde vocal harmony sounds as annoying as the choral theatrics Cerberus Shoal has been into lately. The dense, wheezing soundbursts aren't awful, but after so many successful tracks, this murky sequence is a letdown. The photos on the sleeve cover of The Ride are all of bodies: a woman wrapped in a towel, only visible by the light from a window; a color shot of someone's back, shadow-lit and androgynous; a close-up of someone's long, curly hair. I wonder whether the concept (signifiers: the sampled conversation, the song titles, the printed lyrics for the title track) is just about a relationship, or maybe also its collapse. The narrative flow is enthralling, and might be a good opiate during those times. It's the first good 2002 album I've heard, and I didn't even get annoyed at the nautical theme."

Rihanna

Talk That Talk

Pop/R&B

Lindsay Zoladz

"We found love in a hopeless place." Over a frantic, Calvin Harris-produced, Guetta-meets-"Sandstorm" beat on her sixth record's lead-off single, Rihanna repeats these words almost 20 times. "We Found Love" ranks among Ri's best singles because it recognizes that there's not much more that needs to be said: in three and a half minutes, the line moves from being a great pop lyric to a triumphant mantra to something suggestive of a whole spectrum of unspoken emotion. The best pop music transports you to somewhere beyond words, and Rihanna's strongest singles all seem to be in on this secret. Need I remind you of some of her most powerful hooks: Ella-ella-ella-ay. Oh-na-na. Ay-ayy-ay-ayy-ay-ayy. But as anyone with a Twitter handle will tell you, these are chatty times, and in 2011, the pop landscape's fittingly caught between two maximalist extremes: the winking theatricality of Nicki Minaj, Lady Gaga, and Katy Perry, and the dribbling confessional-pop of Drake, Kanye West, and (yes, they're more alike than they'd like to believe) Taylor Swift. Barbados-born, millions-selling, armfuls-of-awards-winning Rihanna has found staggering success (23 years old; eleven #1 singles and rising) borrowing a little bit from each of these tendencies. Her recent music videos have dabbled in trendy pop artifice (check out her neon-hued, irresistibly smiley turn in Guetta’s "Who’s That Chick?" or the David LaChapelle-aping-- literally-- "S&M"), while her brooding and personal 2009 album Rated R commented-- however obliquely-- on her public struggles. Rihanna seems more comfortable flitting between these two extremes than settling on either, but her past two albums have at least had some thematic cohesion. The same can't be said of Talk That Talk: Heavy on filler though it's only 11 tracks long, it feels not only slight but muddled, an assortment of half-baked ideas that never bloom. A stitched-together collection of club bangers, sleaze-pop missteps, and mid-tempo inspirational ballads, Talk That Talk feels at times like three different records, only one of which might have been any good. Of course, what we're supposed to be talking is about how this is Rihanna's "dirtiest" album yet. Early blog chatter reported to lots of critics blushing in preview listening sessions and making questionably bold declarations ("The dirtiest pop album since Madonna's Erotica!") that suggested that they listen to very little pop radio, or that they have never been to an R. Kelly concert. Talk That Talk's raunchier moments should surprise no one: Rihanna's always been singing about sex-- she's just never shown such an unfortunate proclivity for cheesy lyrics and dessert metaphors. "Suck my cockiness/ Lick my persuasion," Ri commands on the embarrassingly literal "Cockiness (I Love It)", hoping the boldness of the delivery will distract you from thinking about what a clunky line it is (it won't, though Bangladesh's beats might). The Esther Dean-penned "Drunk on Love" features a weak chorus lyric and vocal whose bombast feels out of place in the track's laid back, xx-sampling atmosphere. Clocking in at a puzzling-yet-merciful one minute and 18 seconds, The-Dream co-produced "Birthday Cake" is even more heavy-handed (lots of icing puns). There are flickers of empowerment here, but mostly it proves little more than the fact that a female artist can be responsible for Jeremih-grade cheese, too. A Rihanna album has never been without the occasional lyrical misfire ("Sex in the air/ I don't care/ I love the smell of it" comes to mind), but at least on a track like "S&M" she sounds like she's having fun. For a record so preoccupied with passion and pleasure, most of Talk That Talk feels unsuitably robotic. At least things start out strong. Talk That Talk's saving grace is its first stretch of tracks: the blithe and tropical "You Da One", "We Found Love", and the album's other Harris track "Where Have You Been", which doesn't stray much from the single's winning formula, a simple lyric of romantic longing that explodes into a club-ready beat. And though it's no "Umbrella", the Jay-Z reunion "Talk That Talk" is one of the more playful moments here, though I'll say that the patented H.O.V.-giggle doesn't feel entirely earned following a line like: "Had it by a bladder/ She like 'oh I gotta pee'." I've read some comment-section conspiracy theorists who believe Rihanna is in single-minded pursuit of Hot 100 domination, and the rate at which she's pumping out albums (roughly one a year since 2005) is an attempt to populate the singles chart until the end of time. There might be some truth to this (her singles collection is going to be killer), and with "Death of the Album" prophecies ever looming it's worth wondering whether or not that's such a crime. But 2011 found plenty of pop artists still breathing new life into the format: Beyonce's 4 and Lady Gaga's Born This Way were probably the most solid examples-- two bombastic records that also explore the nuance of their respective artists' personas. Talk That Talk tries too hard to send a more one-dimensional message and ends up falling flat: Rihanna's obviously going for sexy here, but her music's at its most alluring when she's blissed out in her own reverie, not taking the time to spell it all out for us.

Artist: Rihanna, Album: Talk That Talk, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: ""We found love in a hopeless place." Over a frantic, Calvin Harris-produced, Guetta-meets-"Sandstorm" beat on her sixth record's lead-off single, Rihanna repeats these words almost 20 times. "We Found Love" ranks among Ri's best singles because it recognizes that there's not much more that needs to be said: in three and a half minutes, the line moves from being a great pop lyric to a triumphant mantra to something suggestive of a whole spectrum of unspoken emotion. The best pop music transports you to somewhere beyond words, and Rihanna's strongest singles all seem to be in on this secret. Need I remind you of some of her most powerful hooks: Ella-ella-ella-ay. Oh-na-na. Ay-ayy-ay-ayy-ay-ayy. But as anyone with a Twitter handle will tell you, these are chatty times, and in 2011, the pop landscape's fittingly caught between two maximalist extremes: the winking theatricality of Nicki Minaj, Lady Gaga, and Katy Perry, and the dribbling confessional-pop of Drake, Kanye West, and (yes, they're more alike than they'd like to believe) Taylor Swift. Barbados-born, millions-selling, armfuls-of-awards-winning Rihanna has found staggering success (23 years old; eleven #1 singles and rising) borrowing a little bit from each of these tendencies. Her recent music videos have dabbled in trendy pop artifice (check out her neon-hued, irresistibly smiley turn in Guetta’s "Who’s That Chick?" or the David LaChapelle-aping-- literally-- "S&M"), while her brooding and personal 2009 album Rated R commented-- however obliquely-- on her public struggles. Rihanna seems more comfortable flitting between these two extremes than settling on either, but her past two albums have at least had some thematic cohesion. The same can't be said of Talk That Talk: Heavy on filler though it's only 11 tracks long, it feels not only slight but muddled, an assortment of half-baked ideas that never bloom. A stitched-together collection of club bangers, sleaze-pop missteps, and mid-tempo inspirational ballads, Talk That Talk feels at times like three different records, only one of which might have been any good. Of course, what we're supposed to be talking is about how this is Rihanna's "dirtiest" album yet. Early blog chatter reported to lots of critics blushing in preview listening sessions and making questionably bold declarations ("The dirtiest pop album since Madonna's Erotica!") that suggested that they listen to very little pop radio, or that they have never been to an R. Kelly concert. Talk That Talk's raunchier moments should surprise no one: Rihanna's always been singing about sex-- she's just never shown such an unfortunate proclivity for cheesy lyrics and dessert metaphors. "Suck my cockiness/ Lick my persuasion," Ri commands on the embarrassingly literal "Cockiness (I Love It)", hoping the boldness of the delivery will distract you from thinking about what a clunky line it is (it won't, though Bangladesh's beats might). The Esther Dean-penned "Drunk on Love" features a weak chorus lyric and vocal whose bombast feels out of place in the track's laid back, xx-sampling atmosphere. Clocking in at a puzzling-yet-merciful one minute and 18 seconds, The-Dream co-produced "Birthday Cake" is even more heavy-handed (lots of icing puns). There are flickers of empowerment here, but mostly it proves little more than the fact that a female artist can be responsible for Jeremih-grade cheese, too. A Rihanna album has never been without the occasional lyrical misfire ("Sex in the air/ I don't care/ I love the smell of it" comes to mind), but at least on a track like "S&M" she sounds like she's having fun. For a record so preoccupied with passion and pleasure, most of Talk That Talk feels unsuitably robotic. At least things start out strong. Talk That Talk's saving grace is its first stretch of tracks: the blithe and tropical "You Da One", "We Found Love", and the album's other Harris track "Where Have You Been", which doesn't stray much from the single's winning formula, a simple lyric of romantic longing that explodes into a club-ready beat. And though it's no "Umbrella", the Jay-Z reunion "Talk That Talk" is one of the more playful moments here, though I'll say that the patented H.O.V.-giggle doesn't feel entirely earned following a line like: "Had it by a bladder/ She like 'oh I gotta pee'." I've read some comment-section conspiracy theorists who believe Rihanna is in single-minded pursuit of Hot 100 domination, and the rate at which she's pumping out albums (roughly one a year since 2005) is an attempt to populate the singles chart until the end of time. There might be some truth to this (her singles collection is going to be killer), and with "Death of the Album" prophecies ever looming it's worth wondering whether or not that's such a crime. But 2011 found plenty of pop artists still breathing new life into the format: Beyonce's 4 and Lady Gaga's Born This Way were probably the most solid examples-- two bombastic records that also explore the nuance of their respective artists' personas. Talk That Talk tries too hard to send a more one-dimensional message and ends up falling flat: Rihanna's obviously going for sexy here, but her music's at its most alluring when she's blissed out in her own reverie, not taking the time to spell it all out for us."

Willie Nelson

One Hell of a Ride

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

Next to Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson is arguably the most anthologized artist in country music history. Even before 1975, when The Red Headed Stranger made icons of his braids and beard, Nelson had already toiled as a songwriter and performer for more than 20 years, long enough to release his first greatest hits compilation just a few years before his greatest hit. In the 30-plus years since that benchmark album, Nelson has interspersed his prolific new recordings (often two full albums a year) with a steady stream of hits repackagings. Most of his recent albums have consisted of new recordings of old material, which reinforces the impression of an artist constantly taking stock of his career, his life, and his legacy. It seems strange that with so many compilations on the market, so few of them even attempt to take in the full half-century breadth of Nelson's career. Granted, capturing such a wide-ranging, musically omnivorous artist in a limited space is always a daunting task, especially when affordability is a concern. In 1995, Willie released the 3xCD Revolutions of Time: The Journey 1975-1993, whose subtitle is revealing: Far from comprehensive, the set ignores his pre-Stranger output, including early hits like "Shotgun Willie", "Crazy", and "Bloody Mary Morning", in order to document his post-fame highlights. Two more recent retrospectives, the 41-track Essential Willie Nelson in 2003 and the 20-track Songs in 2005, take a wider view of Nelson's canon, but are necessarily hampered by their cursory tracklists. In Nelson's case, quantity ensures quality, which means that One Hell of a Ride is so far the best Willie retrospective by simple virtue of its size. Across 100 tracks on four CDs, the handsomely packaged set, which commemorates Nelson's 75th birthday, traces his career from his first known recording in 1954 to one of his most recent tracks in 2007. That they're both the same composition-- "When I've Sang My Last Hillbilly Song"-- provides a nice symmetry, bookending all the hillbilly songs that came in between. One Hell of a Ride culls a full disc from Nelson's work in the 1950s, 60s, and early 70s, representing early albums like ...And Then I Wrote and Texas in My Soul, which are sadly out of print, as well as slightly more popular releases like Shotgun Willie and Phases & Stages (reissued in 2006 as The Complete Atlantic Sessions). After Willie released Stranger, the various labels he had recorded for began cleaning out the vaults, repackaging his older hits and selling them to new fans, and this set draws liberally from some of these reissues: three tracks from Willie-- Before His Time, a 1977 release of tracks from the previous decade (remixed by Waylon Jennings); one each from 1980's Minstrel Man and 1984's Don't You Ever Get Tired; and two from his All Time Greatest Hits Vol. 1. By comparison, Stranger itself gets only one track, Stardust two. This is significant. Nelson lives and dies by the song, whether he wrote it himself or is just covering it. With compositions like "Crazy", "Sad Songs and Waltzes", "Bloody Mary Morning", "Too Sick to Pray", and many others, One Hell of a Ride showcases Nelson's unparalleled songwriting skills, but with covers of compositions by Jimmy Cliff, Hoagy Carmichael, Bob Wills, Paul Simon, Fred Neil, and the Muppets, the set highlights his intuitive interpretive skills. Despite the decades in between, the leathery texture of his voice is immediately recognizable on the first disc as it is on the final disc, as idiosyncratic as Cash's grave baritone or Elvis Presley's full-bodied croon, and his behind-the-beat cadence, which draws from jazz and gospel as heavily as from country, makes every performance singular. In tandem with taking stock of his well-known hits like "Whiskey River", "Night Life", and "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain", One Hell of a Ride pays particular attention to Nelson's many collaborations, the number of which suggests he might have been contractually obligated to sing with anyone who stepped within the Nashville city limits. The second disc kicks off with the first of five duets with Waylon Jennings, "Good Hearted Woman", from Wanted! The Outlaws, which not only helped popularize outlaw country but was for many years the best-selling country album ever. But the collaborators on One Hell of a Ride are admirably diverse: old timers like the Highwaymen (Cash, Jennings, and Kris Kristofferson) and Rays Price and Charles rub elbows with Lee Ann Womack, Leon Russell, Daniel Lanois, and even Julio Iglesias, on the gloriously cheesy "To All the Girls I've Loved Before". This emphasis on his friends means the third and fourth discs nearly lose Willie in the crowd, but it barely matters. One Hell of a Ride is perhaps the first Willie retrospective to portray him not simply as the famous long-haired singer-songwriter who penned hits and dodged the IRS, but as something more complex: an American artist who spent decades struggling in the country music industry, then spent decades redefining it.

Artist: Willie Nelson, Album: One Hell of a Ride, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "Next to Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson is arguably the most anthologized artist in country music history. Even before 1975, when The Red Headed Stranger made icons of his braids and beard, Nelson had already toiled as a songwriter and performer for more than 20 years, long enough to release his first greatest hits compilation just a few years before his greatest hit. In the 30-plus years since that benchmark album, Nelson has interspersed his prolific new recordings (often two full albums a year) with a steady stream of hits repackagings. Most of his recent albums have consisted of new recordings of old material, which reinforces the impression of an artist constantly taking stock of his career, his life, and his legacy. It seems strange that with so many compilations on the market, so few of them even attempt to take in the full half-century breadth of Nelson's career. Granted, capturing such a wide-ranging, musically omnivorous artist in a limited space is always a daunting task, especially when affordability is a concern. In 1995, Willie released the 3xCD Revolutions of Time: The Journey 1975-1993, whose subtitle is revealing: Far from comprehensive, the set ignores his pre-Stranger output, including early hits like "Shotgun Willie", "Crazy", and "Bloody Mary Morning", in order to document his post-fame highlights. Two more recent retrospectives, the 41-track Essential Willie Nelson in 2003 and the 20-track Songs in 2005, take a wider view of Nelson's canon, but are necessarily hampered by their cursory tracklists. In Nelson's case, quantity ensures quality, which means that One Hell of a Ride is so far the best Willie retrospective by simple virtue of its size. Across 100 tracks on four CDs, the handsomely packaged set, which commemorates Nelson's 75th birthday, traces his career from his first known recording in 1954 to one of his most recent tracks in 2007. That they're both the same composition-- "When I've Sang My Last Hillbilly Song"-- provides a nice symmetry, bookending all the hillbilly songs that came in between. One Hell of a Ride culls a full disc from Nelson's work in the 1950s, 60s, and early 70s, representing early albums like ...And Then I Wrote and Texas in My Soul, which are sadly out of print, as well as slightly more popular releases like Shotgun Willie and Phases & Stages (reissued in 2006 as The Complete Atlantic Sessions). After Willie released Stranger, the various labels he had recorded for began cleaning out the vaults, repackaging his older hits and selling them to new fans, and this set draws liberally from some of these reissues: three tracks from Willie-- Before His Time, a 1977 release of tracks from the previous decade (remixed by Waylon Jennings); one each from 1980's Minstrel Man and 1984's Don't You Ever Get Tired; and two from his All Time Greatest Hits Vol. 1. By comparison, Stranger itself gets only one track, Stardust two. This is significant. Nelson lives and dies by the song, whether he wrote it himself or is just covering it. With compositions like "Crazy", "Sad Songs and Waltzes", "Bloody Mary Morning", "Too Sick to Pray", and many others, One Hell of a Ride showcases Nelson's unparalleled songwriting skills, but with covers of compositions by Jimmy Cliff, Hoagy Carmichael, Bob Wills, Paul Simon, Fred Neil, and the Muppets, the set highlights his intuitive interpretive skills. Despite the decades in between, the leathery texture of his voice is immediately recognizable on the first disc as it is on the final disc, as idiosyncratic as Cash's grave baritone or Elvis Presley's full-bodied croon, and his behind-the-beat cadence, which draws from jazz and gospel as heavily as from country, makes every performance singular. In tandem with taking stock of his well-known hits like "Whiskey River", "Night Life", and "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain", One Hell of a Ride pays particular attention to Nelson's many collaborations, the number of which suggests he might have been contractually obligated to sing with anyone who stepped within the Nashville city limits. The second disc kicks off with the first of five duets with Waylon Jennings, "Good Hearted Woman", from Wanted! The Outlaws, which not only helped popularize outlaw country but was for many years the best-selling country album ever. But the collaborators on One Hell of a Ride are admirably diverse: old timers like the Highwaymen (Cash, Jennings, and Kris Kristofferson) and Rays Price and Charles rub elbows with Lee Ann Womack, Leon Russell, Daniel Lanois, and even Julio Iglesias, on the gloriously cheesy "To All the Girls I've Loved Before". This emphasis on his friends means the third and fourth discs nearly lose Willie in the crowd, but it barely matters. One Hell of a Ride is perhaps the first Willie retrospective to portray him not simply as the famous long-haired singer-songwriter who penned hits and dodged the IRS, but as something more complex: an American artist who spent decades struggling in the country music industry, then spent decades redefining it."

Banco De Gaia

Big Men Cry

Electronic

James P. Wisdom

It all began with the end of The Breakfast Club, when the characters are all going their separate ways, and Simple Minds start up with "(Don't You) Forget About Me." I decided then that it would be forever my quest to seek out theme music for my life, so I could try to be as cool as Judd Nelson, or at least as cute as Molly Ringwald. You know, like a perfect cue-in of "Godzilla" as I suddenly lurch from the bar, my intoxication reaching that pinnacle where all reason and coordination evaporates. Yeah. That would be cool. Heh-heh. Which brings us to Banco De Gaia's Big Men Cry. I saw the cover and thought, "Well, I'm a big man, and I cry, at least when they pre-empt episodes of Star Trek Deep Space 9... maybe." To be sure, I could easily picture myself, strutting through Wal-Mart, snapping my fingers and scoping-out all of the retail princesses as "Drippy" grooves on, with it's bongoed layers of percussion and trampling samples of voices, laughter and tribal instruments, yeah -- "Hey baby!" And "Celestine", which by the way also features sax by Dick Parry (who also did sax on Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here and Dark Side Of The Moon), that's got my remnants of sweaty, teenage uncertainty and doubt written all over its Floydian influences. And the galumping, sinisterly trippy "Drunk As A Monk" may as well be automatically appropriated for the weekend I spent on mushrooms where my buddy fell under the delusion I was gay and trying to fuck him. Finally, (no, I'm not going to biographasize the entire album), we come to "Big Men Cry," which could indeed be the soundtrack to the end of any of my many failed relationships, or at least the ones I imagine when I'm watching Dharma and Greg. In short, this is a beautiful album filled with complex soundscapes, piles of rich and delightful sampling and beats, mellow yet interesting and worth your time if you're patient enough to wait through each of the album's seven long tracks. Not unlike Loop Guru's Loop Bites Dog, just a little more finicky and a little less poppy and ironic. Ladies, if this happens to also be the soundtrack to your life, you can find my e-mail by following the link below.

Artist: Banco De Gaia, Album: Big Men Cry, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "It all began with the end of The Breakfast Club, when the characters are all going their separate ways, and Simple Minds start up with "(Don't You) Forget About Me." I decided then that it would be forever my quest to seek out theme music for my life, so I could try to be as cool as Judd Nelson, or at least as cute as Molly Ringwald. You know, like a perfect cue-in of "Godzilla" as I suddenly lurch from the bar, my intoxication reaching that pinnacle where all reason and coordination evaporates. Yeah. That would be cool. Heh-heh. Which brings us to Banco De Gaia's Big Men Cry. I saw the cover and thought, "Well, I'm a big man, and I cry, at least when they pre-empt episodes of Star Trek Deep Space 9... maybe." To be sure, I could easily picture myself, strutting through Wal-Mart, snapping my fingers and scoping-out all of the retail princesses as "Drippy" grooves on, with it's bongoed layers of percussion and trampling samples of voices, laughter and tribal instruments, yeah -- "Hey baby!" And "Celestine", which by the way also features sax by Dick Parry (who also did sax on Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here and Dark Side Of The Moon), that's got my remnants of sweaty, teenage uncertainty and doubt written all over its Floydian influences. And the galumping, sinisterly trippy "Drunk As A Monk" may as well be automatically appropriated for the weekend I spent on mushrooms where my buddy fell under the delusion I was gay and trying to fuck him. Finally, (no, I'm not going to biographasize the entire album), we come to "Big Men Cry," which could indeed be the soundtrack to the end of any of my many failed relationships, or at least the ones I imagine when I'm watching Dharma and Greg. In short, this is a beautiful album filled with complex soundscapes, piles of rich and delightful sampling and beats, mellow yet interesting and worth your time if you're patient enough to wait through each of the album's seven long tracks. Not unlike Loop Guru's Loop Bites Dog, just a little more finicky and a little less poppy and ironic. Ladies, if this happens to also be the soundtrack to your life, you can find my e-mail by following the link below."

Metal Fingers

Special Herbs Vol. 3-8

Jamin Warren

We all know and love Metal Fingers. (He actually teaches my kids at day care.) The former KMD black sheep's beats and rhymes overfloweth from his work on Madvillain to his innumerable cameos. But even the most ardent fans usually forget that Doom started his career as a designer for Wizard trading cards, home of the middle school pastime Magic: The Gathering. The names of tracks from the 2004 compendium Special Herbs Vol. 3-8 were delivered as promo package to the Magic: Eleven Noon series. It is my privilege to recreate the play-by-play of a match from earlier this year in which Doom faced his card-slinging nemesis Cut Chemist in the Malibu Beatmakers Magic/Yu-Gi-Oh Throwdown. MAGES BEGIN: Currently, Doom and Chemist are tied at 16 life apiece. Doom taps four mana to enchant both his Vermillion Bandit and Ghost Prawn with the redolent Saffron. An audacious move. Saffron, the most expensive of all Greek spices, woos both Bandit and Prawn with sumptuous scratching and delicate wafting keys. The subtle vibes and upbeat tempo imbues both creatures with +1/+1 upgrade and a fistful of flavor. Chemist counters by dropping an extra Forest mana and introducing Seshiro the Annointed, a legendary 3/4 snake monk. Chemist has also released the feisty Zatar, queen of the Middle Eastern spices. Zatar's ghastly power lies in her mimicry, and she adopts the form of Patti LaBelle circa 1986 and smothers Ghost Prawn with her bosom. Prawn deceases. A single tear rolls from Doom's steel faceplate. Sensing that his ass is exposed, Doom reluctantly taps more Island mana to release both Brass Secretary and the Greasemonger. To add to their collective fury, Doom endows them with carcinogenic Monosodium Glutatmate. Bathed in the Roland rhythms of my parents' 1985 class reunion dancefloor, Monosodium evokes the spirit of Los Angeles funk in all its gel-soaked patent leather glory and casts the spell of self-doubt over Chemist's beastly arsenal. Greasemonger redoubles, launches a stream of toejam, and deals four damage to Chemist's self-esteem. To avoid a potential rout, Chemist pumps up the jam and kicks out a classic from the Special Herbs Vol. 3 & 4-- as any good wizard would do. By introducing the campy Arabic Gum, Chemist momentarily distracts Doom's assault with the herb's BOOM network meanderings. The six-step breakbeat boogie combines with the suspicious brass of 50s cartoons and dazes Doom's creatures with its blatant sardonicism. Metal Fingers returns the gesture with the gritty Four Thieves Vinegar. In stark contrast to the herbs of Volume 3 & 4's childish facade, Vinegar poses a formidable threat, remorsely bludgeoning Seshiro with hypnotic guitar squeals until the snake monk succumbs to its repetitive fury. The match momentarily stalls as Doom rolls a blunt laced with the lunar-landing Calamus Root and pours a pot of subtly hyperkinetic Agrimony to purify the blood and cure his acne (note the mask). Doom then pulls out all the stops, taps all of his mana, and releases the a slew of minons from his 2004 Pro Tour Nagoya set-- including Sundering Titan, Viridian Shaman, and Kiki Jiki the Mirror Breaker. He also unleashes the toporific brilliance of High John. This herb, a favorite of mojo bag aficionados and the sexually deviant, draws Chemist into its blanket of seductive saxes and lilting organics. Doom embraces victory as Kiki Jiki delivers a definitive 12+ damage. The victory herb Cedar spews from eyeholes in Doom's mask as dozens of disco balls filled with the ashes of The Meters fall from the ceiling. The two share a tearful embrace. After an exhausting match, Doom mixes a pitcher of Country Time lemonade as Chemist cues a Tivo'd episode of Malchemy in the Middle.

Artist: Metal Fingers, Album: Special Herbs Vol. 3-8, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "We all know and love Metal Fingers. (He actually teaches my kids at day care.) The former KMD black sheep's beats and rhymes overfloweth from his work on Madvillain to his innumerable cameos. But even the most ardent fans usually forget that Doom started his career as a designer for Wizard trading cards, home of the middle school pastime Magic: The Gathering. The names of tracks from the 2004 compendium Special Herbs Vol. 3-8 were delivered as promo package to the Magic: Eleven Noon series. It is my privilege to recreate the play-by-play of a match from earlier this year in which Doom faced his card-slinging nemesis Cut Chemist in the Malibu Beatmakers Magic/Yu-Gi-Oh Throwdown. MAGES BEGIN: Currently, Doom and Chemist are tied at 16 life apiece. Doom taps four mana to enchant both his Vermillion Bandit and Ghost Prawn with the redolent Saffron. An audacious move. Saffron, the most expensive of all Greek spices, woos both Bandit and Prawn with sumptuous scratching and delicate wafting keys. The subtle vibes and upbeat tempo imbues both creatures with +1/+1 upgrade and a fistful of flavor. Chemist counters by dropping an extra Forest mana and introducing Seshiro the Annointed, a legendary 3/4 snake monk. Chemist has also released the feisty Zatar, queen of the Middle Eastern spices. Zatar's ghastly power lies in her mimicry, and she adopts the form of Patti LaBelle circa 1986 and smothers Ghost Prawn with her bosom. Prawn deceases. A single tear rolls from Doom's steel faceplate. Sensing that his ass is exposed, Doom reluctantly taps more Island mana to release both Brass Secretary and the Greasemonger. To add to their collective fury, Doom endows them with carcinogenic Monosodium Glutatmate. Bathed in the Roland rhythms of my parents' 1985 class reunion dancefloor, Monosodium evokes the spirit of Los Angeles funk in all its gel-soaked patent leather glory and casts the spell of self-doubt over Chemist's beastly arsenal. Greasemonger redoubles, launches a stream of toejam, and deals four damage to Chemist's self-esteem. To avoid a potential rout, Chemist pumps up the jam and kicks out a classic from the Special Herbs Vol. 3 & 4-- as any good wizard would do. By introducing the campy Arabic Gum, Chemist momentarily distracts Doom's assault with the herb's BOOM network meanderings. The six-step breakbeat boogie combines with the suspicious brass of 50s cartoons and dazes Doom's creatures with its blatant sardonicism. Metal Fingers returns the gesture with the gritty Four Thieves Vinegar. In stark contrast to the herbs of Volume 3 & 4's childish facade, Vinegar poses a formidable threat, remorsely bludgeoning Seshiro with hypnotic guitar squeals until the snake monk succumbs to its repetitive fury. The match momentarily stalls as Doom rolls a blunt laced with the lunar-landing Calamus Root and pours a pot of subtly hyperkinetic Agrimony to purify the blood and cure his acne (note the mask). Doom then pulls out all the stops, taps all of his mana, and releases the a slew of minons from his 2004 Pro Tour Nagoya set-- including Sundering Titan, Viridian Shaman, and Kiki Jiki the Mirror Breaker. He also unleashes the toporific brilliance of High John. This herb, a favorite of mojo bag aficionados and the sexually deviant, draws Chemist into its blanket of seductive saxes and lilting organics. Doom embraces victory as Kiki Jiki delivers a definitive 12+ damage. The victory herb Cedar spews from eyeholes in Doom's mask as dozens of disco balls filled with the ashes of The Meters fall from the ceiling. The two share a tearful embrace. After an exhausting match, Doom mixes a pitcher of Country Time lemonade as Chemist cues a Tivo'd episode of Malchemy in the Middle."

Ludwig Göransson

Black Panther (Original Score)

Experimental

Brian Josephs

In a blockbuster movie, nothing says “important” quite like the imposition of a large orchestra—especially one that favors a Eurocentricity that’s historically been set against black expression. The use of such an orchestra in Black Panther is intriguing because the film is the first of its magnitude to carry the joy of an African utopia that never was. The story wraps itself with a specific kind of grandness that a traditional, classical orchestra has rarely appealed to. Ludwig Göransson—the composer of the Black Panther’s score who’s frequently worked with the film’s director Ryan Coogler, not to mention Childish Gambino—does incorporate some African accents into his 132-piece orchestra, but even he noted that that’s not really enough. “The most difficult part is that as soon as you put production and orchestra on top of African music, it doesn’t sound African anymore,” he told Pitchfork. “So the challenge was incorporating these things and making them still feel African.” Part of what keeps Göransson’s use of African music from feeling dilettantish is how he recognizes the breadth of the Black Panther universe. The horns swell and the polyrhythms rumble not with a distant awe, but with a believable intimacy; the reference point isn’t the mere idea of Africa, but all of what that idea encompasses. In a spectacular way, Göransson’s score captures the multiplicity of the fictional country of Wakanda. ”Wakanda”—which plays when the hero, the Black Panther T’Challa, prepares to take his throne in the film’s opening act—offers a glimpse into that sort of specificity. T’Challa begins the movie as an inheritor of a new kingdom who feels the magnitude of his deceased father’s legacy, and in this vulnerable moment, Senegalese musician Baaba Maal solemnly cries a song that serves as a metaphor for the fallen king. Göransson isn’t simply ticking off the diasporic boxes; he’s rooting them in an emotional context. The sadness adds gravity to the piece’s later half: Regal brass decorates a wide shot of Wakanda, signifying the glory he’ll have rule over. The movie’s main villain, Erik Killmonger, is given that same amount of care and development. Not only is he a foreigner to the nation despite his familial ties; his worldview barely intersects T’Challa’s, who puts his loyalty to his nation over Killmonger’s desire to empower black people outside of the continent. The piece of music named after him embodies the inner conflict that drive his actions. The tambin flute appears as a ghostly presence, its windy notes puncturing with the urgency of an ancestral cry from the afterlife. But the theme resolves with trap hi-hats that now dominate hip-hop. The change-up and its familiarity re-centers Killmonger as an African-American, whose generations-old plight pits him against Wakanda’s isolationism. So when Killmonger brings these elements with him to Wakanda, he becomes the disruptor. The Black Panther’s righteousness doesn’t do him much good at first, though. The royal horns and drum that once marked T’Challa’s presence—signifiers of his pride—are reduced to gasps in the pivotal second-act scene where his rival destroys him in ritual one-on-one combat, at times quieting altogether to emphasize the scene’s brutality. Killmonger’s venomous out-of-placeness is further harped on as we see him cooly marching toward the throne, as the camera flips upside down and the hi-hats rollick once again. Yes, his role as an outsider comes from being a villain. But how much of a home is Africa, really, for African-Americans when they’ve been systematically detached from the motherland for centuries? Despite the emphasis on African instrumentation, the score’s classical elements don’t exist solely as accouterements: The orchestra delivers its traditional magnificence while the African signatures humanize it. The most significant example is that string phrase that rises in parts of “Ancestral Plane”—an emotive section that expresses a tension and surrender, like a fist unclenching in divine humility. That theme is featured when T’Challa visits the mythical ancestral plane as part of his ritualistic duties as the new king. When he gazes at the beautiful, purple-hued universe, the music helps the audience share in his reverence but it never feels like it’s manufacturing that emotion. It’s a testament to Göransson that he gives the score’s most resounding moments over to the African diaspora. Near Black Panther’s end, T’Challa takes the wounded Killmonger to a cliff so the tragic warrior can gaze upon Wakanda’s majesty. The orchestra gives the scene a climactic weight, but it eventually recedes to push Baaba Maal’s weeping croons to the forefront. There’s triumph mixed with a sense of mourning as he sings to this beautiful, fictitious land. Alas, the sun must set on Wakanda as well.

Artist: Ludwig Göransson, Album: Black Panther (Original Score), Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "In a blockbuster movie, nothing says “important” quite like the imposition of a large orchestra—especially one that favors a Eurocentricity that’s historically been set against black expression. The use of such an orchestra in Black Panther is intriguing because the film is the first of its magnitude to carry the joy of an African utopia that never was. The story wraps itself with a specific kind of grandness that a traditional, classical orchestra has rarely appealed to. Ludwig Göransson—the composer of the Black Panther’s score who’s frequently worked with the film’s director Ryan Coogler, not to mention Childish Gambino—does incorporate some African accents into his 132-piece orchestra, but even he noted that that’s not really enough. “The most difficult part is that as soon as you put production and orchestra on top of African music, it doesn’t sound African anymore,” he told Pitchfork. “So the challenge was incorporating these things and making them still feel African.” Part of what keeps Göransson’s use of African music from feeling dilettantish is how he recognizes the breadth of the Black Panther universe. The horns swell and the polyrhythms rumble not with a distant awe, but with a believable intimacy; the reference point isn’t the mere idea of Africa, but all of what that idea encompasses. In a spectacular way, Göransson’s score captures the multiplicity of the fictional country of Wakanda. ”Wakanda”—which plays when the hero, the Black Panther T’Challa, prepares to take his throne in the film’s opening act—offers a glimpse into that sort of specificity. T’Challa begins the movie as an inheritor of a new kingdom who feels the magnitude of his deceased father’s legacy, and in this vulnerable moment, Senegalese musician Baaba Maal solemnly cries a song that serves as a metaphor for the fallen king. Göransson isn’t simply ticking off the diasporic boxes; he’s rooting them in an emotional context. The sadness adds gravity to the piece’s later half: Regal brass decorates a wide shot of Wakanda, signifying the glory he’ll have rule over. The movie’s main villain, Erik Killmonger, is given that same amount of care and development. Not only is he a foreigner to the nation despite his familial ties; his worldview barely intersects T’Challa’s, who puts his loyalty to his nation over Killmonger’s desire to empower black people outside of the continent. The piece of music named after him embodies the inner conflict that drive his actions. The tambin flute appears as a ghostly presence, its windy notes puncturing with the urgency of an ancestral cry from the afterlife. But the theme resolves with trap hi-hats that now dominate hip-hop. The change-up and its familiarity re-centers Killmonger as an African-American, whose generations-old plight pits him against Wakanda’s isolationism. So when Killmonger brings these elements with him to Wakanda, he becomes the disruptor. The Black Panther’s righteousness doesn’t do him much good at first, though. The royal horns and drum that once marked T’Challa’s presence—signifiers of his pride—are reduced to gasps in the pivotal second-act scene where his rival destroys him in ritual one-on-one combat, at times quieting altogether to emphasize the scene’s brutality. Killmonger’s venomous out-of-placeness is further harped on as we see him cooly marching toward the throne, as the camera flips upside down and the hi-hats rollick once again. Yes, his role as an outsider comes from being a villain. But how much of a home is Africa, really, for African-Americans when they’ve been systematically detached from the motherland for centuries? Despite the emphasis on African instrumentation, the score’s classical elements don’t exist solely as accouterements: The orchestra delivers its traditional magnificence while the African signatures humanize it. The most significant example is that string phrase that rises in parts of “Ancestral Plane”—an emotive section that expresses a tension and surrender, like a fist unclenching in divine humility. That theme is featured when T’Challa visits the mythical ancestral plane as part of his ritualistic duties as the new king. When he gazes at the beautiful, purple-hued universe, the music helps the audience share in his reverence but it never feels like it’s manufacturing that emotion. It’s a testament to Göransson that he gives the score’s most resounding moments over to the African diaspora. Near Black Panther’s end, T’Challa takes the wounded Killmonger to a cliff so the tragic warrior can gaze upon Wakanda’s majesty. The orchestra gives the scene a climactic weight, but it eventually recedes to push Baaba Maal’s weeping croons to the forefront. There’s triumph mixed with a sense of mourning as he sings to this beautiful, fictitious land. Alas, the sun must set on Wakanda as well."

The Anniversary

Designing a Nervous Breakdown

Rock

Taylor M. Clark

Right now, I'm eating a Pop Tart. I highly recommend this activity. For the most part, the Pop Tart is quite a delicious toaster pastry, replete with tasty frosting and sticky filling. But sadly, the Pop Tart is not without its ailments. The first of these is the Crust Problem-- for every delectable, filling-enhanced bite, one must also endure an equal number of bites sullied by what is mostly flavorless crust. The discerning Pop Tart enthusiast will go to such lengths as to actually eliminate all crust-only zones before attempting the more flavorful middle area. This is something of a pain. The second problem is the Unnecessary Multiplicity Problem, which is that Pop Tarts are packaged in groups of two. In order to maximize freshness, one must eat both at once or risk a stale Pop Tart. Except in rare occasions, the marginal utility of the second Pop Tart is greatly diminished to the point of seeming bland, as its consumption is a totally identical experience to the previous Pop Tart. The Anniversary's Designing a Nervous Breakdown is quite like a package of 10 Pop Tarts; it flourishes and fails in the same capacities. Upon listening to the first track, one is immediately struck by its sugary sweet goodness. Still, the listener finds himself mentally trimming away some of the blander passages in order to more greatly enjoy the really good parts, in a fashion similar to the Crust Problem. The Unnecessary Multiplicity Problem also crops up, as every one of the 10 songs is nearly indistinguishable from the last. Same guitar distortion. Same harmonies. Same emo lyrics. Same moog. Sure, the first song is delicious, but after eating virtually the same Pop Tart a few times, they will invariably irritate your stomach, no matter how palatable they initially seem. Sonically, the Anniversary is an interesting amalgam of pop styles. Do you remember "Friends of P" by the Rentals? Yes, the one with the ultra-catchy moog riff in the chorus that was impossible to banish from your head, as much as it embarrassed you to be humming oscillating octaves. Don't make degrading jokes about that riff around the Anniversary-- they won't laugh. The Anniversary really enjoyed that song. At least enough to include the exact same kind of moog riff in literally every song on Designing a Nervous Breakdown. Add equal parts 80's New Wave and slightly derivative punk-ish chord progressions reminiscent of the best moments of early Blink 182 (which are not many) and you have the foundation for virtually any Anniversary song. The opening guitar parts for both "All Things Ordinary" and "The D in Detroit" are almost absolutely identical, down to the same chords. And the two are only one song apart. They could have at least changed key! But despite the obnoxiously prominent similarities between each song on Designing a Nervous Breakdown, the format from which they mold the songs is still rather tasty. Much like a savory Pop Tart, I plan to consume the Anniversary again in the future, just not in vast quantities at one time. What a shame that Designing a Nervous Breakdown isn't also an excellent source of 7 vitamins and minerals, as its edible colleague is. Perhaps it would enhance the appeal of future Anniversary discs if they offered a variety pack, hopefully including a "S'mores" flavor. Just an idea.

Artist: The Anniversary, Album: Designing a Nervous Breakdown, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Right now, I'm eating a Pop Tart. I highly recommend this activity. For the most part, the Pop Tart is quite a delicious toaster pastry, replete with tasty frosting and sticky filling. But sadly, the Pop Tart is not without its ailments. The first of these is the Crust Problem-- for every delectable, filling-enhanced bite, one must also endure an equal number of bites sullied by what is mostly flavorless crust. The discerning Pop Tart enthusiast will go to such lengths as to actually eliminate all crust-only zones before attempting the more flavorful middle area. This is something of a pain. The second problem is the Unnecessary Multiplicity Problem, which is that Pop Tarts are packaged in groups of two. In order to maximize freshness, one must eat both at once or risk a stale Pop Tart. Except in rare occasions, the marginal utility of the second Pop Tart is greatly diminished to the point of seeming bland, as its consumption is a totally identical experience to the previous Pop Tart. The Anniversary's Designing a Nervous Breakdown is quite like a package of 10 Pop Tarts; it flourishes and fails in the same capacities. Upon listening to the first track, one is immediately struck by its sugary sweet goodness. Still, the listener finds himself mentally trimming away some of the blander passages in order to more greatly enjoy the really good parts, in a fashion similar to the Crust Problem. The Unnecessary Multiplicity Problem also crops up, as every one of the 10 songs is nearly indistinguishable from the last. Same guitar distortion. Same harmonies. Same emo lyrics. Same moog. Sure, the first song is delicious, but after eating virtually the same Pop Tart a few times, they will invariably irritate your stomach, no matter how palatable they initially seem. Sonically, the Anniversary is an interesting amalgam of pop styles. Do you remember "Friends of P" by the Rentals? Yes, the one with the ultra-catchy moog riff in the chorus that was impossible to banish from your head, as much as it embarrassed you to be humming oscillating octaves. Don't make degrading jokes about that riff around the Anniversary-- they won't laugh. The Anniversary really enjoyed that song. At least enough to include the exact same kind of moog riff in literally every song on Designing a Nervous Breakdown. Add equal parts 80's New Wave and slightly derivative punk-ish chord progressions reminiscent of the best moments of early Blink 182 (which are not many) and you have the foundation for virtually any Anniversary song. The opening guitar parts for both "All Things Ordinary" and "The D in Detroit" are almost absolutely identical, down to the same chords. And the two are only one song apart. They could have at least changed key! But despite the obnoxiously prominent similarities between each song on Designing a Nervous Breakdown, the format from which they mold the songs is still rather tasty. Much like a savory Pop Tart, I plan to consume the Anniversary again in the future, just not in vast quantities at one time. What a shame that Designing a Nervous Breakdown isn't also an excellent source of 7 vitamins and minerals, as its edible colleague is. Perhaps it would enhance the appeal of future Anniversary discs if they offered a variety pack, hopefully including a "S'mores" flavor. Just an idea."

The Sunshine Fix

Age of the Sun

Rock

David M. Pecoraro

After listening to Age of the Sun, I feel safe making an assumption: The Bill Doss (formerly of the Olivia Tremor Control) really likes the Beatles, the sun, and psychedelic drugs. And with good reason. In small doses, all three are great things, liable to cheer you up, or at the very least, illuminate a situation in a way uniquely their own. But too much of any of these things can be a problem. Too much sun will give you cancer. Too much Beatles will leave your mind a mess of muddled harmonies, celebrity worship and lame conspiracy theories. Too many psychedelic drugs will turn you into a self-obsessed freak (like, say, Neu!'s Klaus Dinger). Too much. This is a problem that the Bill Doss has. There's lots of good stuff on Age of the Sun, the new album from his new-ish band the (ahem) Sunshine Fix. It's just that sometimes, there's a bit too much of it. Take that sun, for example. It's in the name of the band; it's in the title of the album; it's one of the first and last words sung on the album; and more than half the songs appropriate it as a theme. Now, doubtless, the sun plays an important role in all of our lives (the loyal vampire portion of Pitchfork's readership notwithstanding), but this sort of obsessiveness is just plain unhealthy. Unhealthy and tiresome. Just as a bright, sunny day can come as a slap in the face if you're in the wrong mood, so, too, can this constant elaboration on the same theme get a little irritating. The music, on the other hand, doesn't, which comes as something of a surprise. It's not everyday that I, a bitter, wearied critic, stumble upon pop music varied enough that it not only grabs my attention, but also hangs onto it. Granted, there's nothing on Age of the Sun that's quite up to par with the work of Doss' former bandmate (Circulatory System's Will Cullen Hart), but then, little more than constant disappointment can come from expecting every record to be a masterpiece. But Age of the Sun does have some very strong moments. Like the two wobbly, distorted guitars that do battle on the instrumental track "Inside the Nebula" while crackling static and a sturdy bassline keep time. As this short number nears its end, a simple piano melody lingers in the background, before everything cuts out, then back in, then back out, then back in, then out for good. If that bit of piano sounds familiar, it's because it's playing the same faux-ragtime bit that served as a bridge between "Everything is Waking"-- one of the most OTC-sounding songs on the album, replete with a melancholy refrain with vocal harmonizing and guitar riffs right off The White Album-- and "Digging to China," one of the more straightforward tracks here. The Sunshine Fix is a bit more straightforward than OTC or Circulatory System. Sure, lots of the trademarks remain-- songs linked together by stray musical digressions, short bits of strangeness between songs, recurring singsong melodies, etc. But there's more focus here on the pop than the psychedelic. That's not to say Age of the Sun isn't without its out-there psychedelic moments, just that Doss is more interested in layering piles of horns, guitars, bass, drums, strings, organs, harmonizing vocals and feedback on top of each other for that glorious wall of sound effect than he is in twisting your mind around in circles from chasing after stray bits of hallucinatory noise gone awry. Ultimately, this is a pretty solid effort, especially from the man often assumed to be the lesser half of the OTC equation. Sure, there are moments that get annoying-- like "Le Roi Soleil," which ends the album by stretching one syllable's vocal harmony over the course of twenty minutes. And sure, the whole ordeal could benefit from a bit of thematic variety. But there are also lots of strong moments, like the way the simple acoustic number, "Cycles of Time," serves as a breather following the swarming grandiose of "72 Years," Age of the Sun's grand finale (provided you discount "Le Roi"). Age of the Sun may not be the defining achievement of pop music that Black Foliage was, and it may not reach quite the heights of his counterpart Hart's finest efforts, but it's still one of the stronger straight-up pop albums I've heard in a while. At his worst, Doss is prone to over-indulgence. But at his best, he proves himself a more-than-capable songwriter and arranger. If he ever learns to respect his limitations, why, there's no telling what he might achieve.

Artist: The Sunshine Fix, Album: Age of the Sun, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "After listening to Age of the Sun, I feel safe making an assumption: The Bill Doss (formerly of the Olivia Tremor Control) really likes the Beatles, the sun, and psychedelic drugs. And with good reason. In small doses, all three are great things, liable to cheer you up, or at the very least, illuminate a situation in a way uniquely their own. But too much of any of these things can be a problem. Too much sun will give you cancer. Too much Beatles will leave your mind a mess of muddled harmonies, celebrity worship and lame conspiracy theories. Too many psychedelic drugs will turn you into a self-obsessed freak (like, say, Neu!'s Klaus Dinger). Too much. This is a problem that the Bill Doss has. There's lots of good stuff on Age of the Sun, the new album from his new-ish band the (ahem) Sunshine Fix. It's just that sometimes, there's a bit too much of it. Take that sun, for example. It's in the name of the band; it's in the title of the album; it's one of the first and last words sung on the album; and more than half the songs appropriate it as a theme. Now, doubtless, the sun plays an important role in all of our lives (the loyal vampire portion of Pitchfork's readership notwithstanding), but this sort of obsessiveness is just plain unhealthy. Unhealthy and tiresome. Just as a bright, sunny day can come as a slap in the face if you're in the wrong mood, so, too, can this constant elaboration on the same theme get a little irritating. The music, on the other hand, doesn't, which comes as something of a surprise. It's not everyday that I, a bitter, wearied critic, stumble upon pop music varied enough that it not only grabs my attention, but also hangs onto it. Granted, there's nothing on Age of the Sun that's quite up to par with the work of Doss' former bandmate (Circulatory System's Will Cullen Hart), but then, little more than constant disappointment can come from expecting every record to be a masterpiece. But Age of the Sun does have some very strong moments. Like the two wobbly, distorted guitars that do battle on the instrumental track "Inside the Nebula" while crackling static and a sturdy bassline keep time. As this short number nears its end, a simple piano melody lingers in the background, before everything cuts out, then back in, then back out, then back in, then out for good. If that bit of piano sounds familiar, it's because it's playing the same faux-ragtime bit that served as a bridge between "Everything is Waking"-- one of the most OTC-sounding songs on the album, replete with a melancholy refrain with vocal harmonizing and guitar riffs right off The White Album-- and "Digging to China," one of the more straightforward tracks here. The Sunshine Fix is a bit more straightforward than OTC or Circulatory System. Sure, lots of the trademarks remain-- songs linked together by stray musical digressions, short bits of strangeness between songs, recurring singsong melodies, etc. But there's more focus here on the pop than the psychedelic. That's not to say Age of the Sun isn't without its out-there psychedelic moments, just that Doss is more interested in layering piles of horns, guitars, bass, drums, strings, organs, harmonizing vocals and feedback on top of each other for that glorious wall of sound effect than he is in twisting your mind around in circles from chasing after stray bits of hallucinatory noise gone awry. Ultimately, this is a pretty solid effort, especially from the man often assumed to be the lesser half of the OTC equation. Sure, there are moments that get annoying-- like "Le Roi Soleil," which ends the album by stretching one syllable's vocal harmony over the course of twenty minutes. And sure, the whole ordeal could benefit from a bit of thematic variety. But there are also lots of strong moments, like the way the simple acoustic number, "Cycles of Time," serves as a breather following the swarming grandiose of "72 Years," Age of the Sun's grand finale (provided you discount "Le Roi"). Age of the Sun may not be the defining achievement of pop music that Black Foliage was, and it may not reach quite the heights of his counterpart Hart's finest efforts, but it's still one of the stronger straight-up pop albums I've heard in a while. At his worst, Doss is prone to over-indulgence. But at his best, he proves himself a more-than-capable songwriter and arranger. If he ever learns to respect his limitations, why, there's no telling what he might achieve."

Menace Ruine

Alight in Ashes

Grayson Currin

When Geneviève Beaulieu's duo Menace Ruine first took its metallic drones to the stage, she rejected the notion that their music somehow warranted external attention. "I didn't see the point of doing shows because it seemed like nonsense for me being the centre of attention for 30 or 45 minutes," she explained in a 2011 interview. "Isn't it a little pretentious, or even dangerous, to expose yourself like this?" And three years before, in an interview with Pitchfork, she aspired to a new way of transcendence that cast the world itself behind a shadow of oblivion: "The ideal would be to live on a strictly energetic plane... My way is to put distance between me and the world and allow myself not to be there, to live more on what is coming from the inside with the least earthly preoccupations possible." Echoes of those ideas-- breaking the cycle of human existence to explore alternative ways to be born, to live and to die-- cycle throughout Alight in Ashes, the fourth album from the Montreal pair of Beaulieu and instrumentalist S. de La Moth. "Now I am ready to let go of things and those that I have loved in my life," she sings during album closer "Cup of Oblivion", her voice suddenly soaring. Elsewhere, she explores the creation myth of the salamander, an animal once purported to be born of fire, and how accepted ideas of what living means are certainly fallible-- "You've proved that souls don't burn in Hell," she offers. But with Menace Ruine, such ideas take shape off the page, too. Across the album's 62 minutes, a deluge of carefully ordered sounds creates a mesmerizing tide of music. Guitars, keyboards, drums, and drum machines weave together horizontally, forming a dynamic canvas through which Beaulieu's beautiful voice dips and crests. With its glowing tones ordered into hypnotic arrays, Alight in Ashes suggests something of a ritual, with Beaulieu presiding over the doctrines like a priestess. It's immersive and transfixing, tones dangling as lures to woo you into whatever lifestyle Beaulieu proselytizes. During "Arsenikon (Faded in Discord)", she lands upon a mantra concerning the scourges of worldly worry: "Eroded, moldering away/ Flowing out of our own body/ Evil expels evil," she sings, her clipped vocals cycling through a loop that stretches and shrinks syllables and time. Nested above a surging bed of noise, those vocal circles wrap into an unavoidable vortex. You want in. And though Beaulieu stays silent during the instrumental "Burnt Offerings", its submerged organ melody and underlying growl of guitar noise work as opiates, offering the same sort of hypnosis as Nurse with Wound or Tony Conrad's Joan of Arc. On Alight in Ashes, Menace Ruine's dark beauty beckons without pause or fail. Even at its most aggressive (opener "Set Water to Flames" flashes out in a wall of sound backed by heavy military drums) or slightest (see the simply distorted whorls during "Disease of Fear"), every sound on Alight in Ashes feels of a piece. Beaulieu and de la Moth create and sustain an atmosphere that becomes its own spotlight and, indeed, seems whisked away from the rest of the world. Menace Ruine first emerged with links to several cadres of bands, from black metal or new age to power electronics or astral folk. They retain qualities of all those realms, whether in black metal's obsessive saturation or Beaulieu's singing, which seems like a readymade female foil for Current 93's David Tibet. But the real success of Alight in Ashes isn't that it is doubtlessly Menace Ruine's most singular and identifiable synthesis of those strains to date, but that, when the record is playing, outside factors like influences and contemporaries seem momentarily too distant to consider.

Artist: Menace Ruine, Album: Alight in Ashes, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "When Geneviève Beaulieu's duo Menace Ruine first took its metallic drones to the stage, she rejected the notion that their music somehow warranted external attention. "I didn't see the point of doing shows because it seemed like nonsense for me being the centre of attention for 30 or 45 minutes," she explained in a 2011 interview. "Isn't it a little pretentious, or even dangerous, to expose yourself like this?" And three years before, in an interview with Pitchfork, she aspired to a new way of transcendence that cast the world itself behind a shadow of oblivion: "The ideal would be to live on a strictly energetic plane... My way is to put distance between me and the world and allow myself not to be there, to live more on what is coming from the inside with the least earthly preoccupations possible." Echoes of those ideas-- breaking the cycle of human existence to explore alternative ways to be born, to live and to die-- cycle throughout Alight in Ashes, the fourth album from the Montreal pair of Beaulieu and instrumentalist S. de La Moth. "Now I am ready to let go of things and those that I have loved in my life," she sings during album closer "Cup of Oblivion", her voice suddenly soaring. Elsewhere, she explores the creation myth of the salamander, an animal once purported to be born of fire, and how accepted ideas of what living means are certainly fallible-- "You've proved that souls don't burn in Hell," she offers. But with Menace Ruine, such ideas take shape off the page, too. Across the album's 62 minutes, a deluge of carefully ordered sounds creates a mesmerizing tide of music. Guitars, keyboards, drums, and drum machines weave together horizontally, forming a dynamic canvas through which Beaulieu's beautiful voice dips and crests. With its glowing tones ordered into hypnotic arrays, Alight in Ashes suggests something of a ritual, with Beaulieu presiding over the doctrines like a priestess. It's immersive and transfixing, tones dangling as lures to woo you into whatever lifestyle Beaulieu proselytizes. During "Arsenikon (Faded in Discord)", she lands upon a mantra concerning the scourges of worldly worry: "Eroded, moldering away/ Flowing out of our own body/ Evil expels evil," she sings, her clipped vocals cycling through a loop that stretches and shrinks syllables and time. Nested above a surging bed of noise, those vocal circles wrap into an unavoidable vortex. You want in. And though Beaulieu stays silent during the instrumental "Burnt Offerings", its submerged organ melody and underlying growl of guitar noise work as opiates, offering the same sort of hypnosis as Nurse with Wound or Tony Conrad's Joan of Arc. On Alight in Ashes, Menace Ruine's dark beauty beckons without pause or fail. Even at its most aggressive (opener "Set Water to Flames" flashes out in a wall of sound backed by heavy military drums) or slightest (see the simply distorted whorls during "Disease of Fear"), every sound on Alight in Ashes feels of a piece. Beaulieu and de la Moth create and sustain an atmosphere that becomes its own spotlight and, indeed, seems whisked away from the rest of the world. Menace Ruine first emerged with links to several cadres of bands, from black metal or new age to power electronics or astral folk. They retain qualities of all those realms, whether in black metal's obsessive saturation or Beaulieu's singing, which seems like a readymade female foil for Current 93's David Tibet. But the real success of Alight in Ashes isn't that it is doubtlessly Menace Ruine's most singular and identifiable synthesis of those strains to date, but that, when the record is playing, outside factors like influences and contemporaries seem momentarily too distant to consider."

Tittsworth

12 Steps

Electronic

Marc Hogan

Baltimore club music broke out of Baltimore clubs a while ago, at least at the DJ and blog-nerd level. Defined by former Pitchfork writer Tom Breihan as "a cheap, hard, frantic, fiercely regional strain of black house music that exists only within Baltimore," the style has been cropping up for a few years now on releases by indie-oriented artists like Diplo, Spank Rock, and Ghislain Poirier, among others. Albums by hometown B-more heroes like Rod Lee have been getting reviews from national mags. And then there's HBO's "The Wire", which gave local musicians a national TV platform and eventually spawned a fine major-label compilation, Beyond Hamsterdam: Baltimore Tracks From The Wire. A Washington, D.C.-based DJ/producer with a pronounced Baltimore club influence, Jesse Tittsworth uses the tinny breakbeats and raunchy subject matter of this once-local subgenre within a broader dance, pop, and hip-hop context. Last year, Tittsworth put out a couple of sample-driven EPs, Afterparty and EZ-T, both in the Baltimore club style, and he got together with the like-minded DJ Ayres for a Baltimore/Miami loops-and-grooves battle record called T&A Breaks. But Tittsworth also joined the electro-house hordes churning out "D.A.N.C.E." remixes for Justice. A free Tittsworth DJ mix posted online to promote his first proper album, 12 Steps, jumps from Baltimore's Blaqstarr to Lil Wayne, Kanye West, Daft Punk, Soulja Boy Tell Em, Hard-Fi, and George Michael. Clearly, this could've been Baltimore club's pop moment. Unfortunately, 12 Steps is too little, too late-- the free mix is worth more of your money. The sort of electro-rap synthesis this album achieves has been done before, and better, not just by West, but also by his associates like A-Trak, Kid Sister, Flosstradamus, and Cool Kids, or even by Alaska-based Curtis Vodka. Kid Sister, a charismatic young Chicago MC whose "Pro Nails" does for manicures what Lil Mama's "Lip Gloss" did for L'Oreal, appears on one of 12 Steps' catchiest tracks, "WTF". But the "whassup, whassup" hook, despite reportedly being sung by post-M.I.A. it-girl Santogold, is as dated as the old Budweiser TV campaign; Pase Rock's rhymes about "So Fresh, So Clean" and "Trapped in the Closet" fall as flat as day-old beer. On blippy first single "Broke Ass Nigga", with an orchestral melody similar to the "place in France" playground song, Tittsworth skirts the obvious issues inherent in a half-white, half-Asian guy throwing around the n-word by bringing on guests DJ Assault, Kenny B, Jinxx, and Frankie Baby. The result is mildly funny, particularly the deliciously absurd closing non sequitur: "Can I hold your fish, man? I need some company." But 12 Steps is more interesting when it sounds less East Coast, more European. Tittsworth, whose background is also in hip-hop and drum'n'bass, gets the album off to an energetic start on "Haiku" by combining those distinctive Baltimore handclaps with robotic filter-disco buzzing and dramatically swooping synths. And on "4.21", he turns crackling distortion, hard-edged beats, and light, floaty electronics into what could've been one of Simian Mobile Disco's more contemplative tracks. By comparison, predictable fare like the gimmicky "Bumpin'", in which a DJ complains about a drunk guy bumping into his turntables, or the raucous Baltimore-club update "Drunk as Fuck", in which a knife sound accompanies rappers the Federation bragging about "cut[ting] up the pussy like the movie Hostel," sounds like (mere) childish imitation. Tittsworth has produced, by and large, an album of potential novelty singles. That's fine-- you can argue that some of the best records are novelty records-- but the problem is that most of the tracks on 12 Steps are neither particularly novel nor memorable. The guitar-coated "Almond Joy" begs you to-- wait for it-- "play with my heart like a toy," and the soppy light R&B of "Here He Comes" nicks a melody from Hall and Oates' "Maneater", which Timbaland referenced with Nelly Furtado two years ago. As many words as the Clipse have for snow, Baltimore club and its cousin Miami bass have for sex, so letting guest rapper Pitbull settle for such Kindergarten Cop-level laziness here as "spread legs like a gynecologist" is an insult. Not to his Miami base, not to Baltimore clubbers, but to pop fans. We're fickle-- not stupid.

Artist: Tittsworth, Album: 12 Steps, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 4.8 Album review: "Baltimore club music broke out of Baltimore clubs a while ago, at least at the DJ and blog-nerd level. Defined by former Pitchfork writer Tom Breihan as "a cheap, hard, frantic, fiercely regional strain of black house music that exists only within Baltimore," the style has been cropping up for a few years now on releases by indie-oriented artists like Diplo, Spank Rock, and Ghislain Poirier, among others. Albums by hometown B-more heroes like Rod Lee have been getting reviews from national mags. And then there's HBO's "The Wire", which gave local musicians a national TV platform and eventually spawned a fine major-label compilation, Beyond Hamsterdam: Baltimore Tracks From The Wire. A Washington, D.C.-based DJ/producer with a pronounced Baltimore club influence, Jesse Tittsworth uses the tinny breakbeats and raunchy subject matter of this once-local subgenre within a broader dance, pop, and hip-hop context. Last year, Tittsworth put out a couple of sample-driven EPs, Afterparty and EZ-T, both in the Baltimore club style, and he got together with the like-minded DJ Ayres for a Baltimore/Miami loops-and-grooves battle record called T&A Breaks. But Tittsworth also joined the electro-house hordes churning out "D.A.N.C.E." remixes for Justice. A free Tittsworth DJ mix posted online to promote his first proper album, 12 Steps, jumps from Baltimore's Blaqstarr to Lil Wayne, Kanye West, Daft Punk, Soulja Boy Tell Em, Hard-Fi, and George Michael. Clearly, this could've been Baltimore club's pop moment. Unfortunately, 12 Steps is too little, too late-- the free mix is worth more of your money. The sort of electro-rap synthesis this album achieves has been done before, and better, not just by West, but also by his associates like A-Trak, Kid Sister, Flosstradamus, and Cool Kids, or even by Alaska-based Curtis Vodka. Kid Sister, a charismatic young Chicago MC whose "Pro Nails" does for manicures what Lil Mama's "Lip Gloss" did for L'Oreal, appears on one of 12 Steps' catchiest tracks, "WTF". But the "whassup, whassup" hook, despite reportedly being sung by post-M.I.A. it-girl Santogold, is as dated as the old Budweiser TV campaign; Pase Rock's rhymes about "So Fresh, So Clean" and "Trapped in the Closet" fall as flat as day-old beer. On blippy first single "Broke Ass Nigga", with an orchestral melody similar to the "place in France" playground song, Tittsworth skirts the obvious issues inherent in a half-white, half-Asian guy throwing around the n-word by bringing on guests DJ Assault, Kenny B, Jinxx, and Frankie Baby. The result is mildly funny, particularly the deliciously absurd closing non sequitur: "Can I hold your fish, man? I need some company." But 12 Steps is more interesting when it sounds less East Coast, more European. Tittsworth, whose background is also in hip-hop and drum'n'bass, gets the album off to an energetic start on "Haiku" by combining those distinctive Baltimore handclaps with robotic filter-disco buzzing and dramatically swooping synths. And on "4.21", he turns crackling distortion, hard-edged beats, and light, floaty electronics into what could've been one of Simian Mobile Disco's more contemplative tracks. By comparison, predictable fare like the gimmicky "Bumpin'", in which a DJ complains about a drunk guy bumping into his turntables, or the raucous Baltimore-club update "Drunk as Fuck", in which a knife sound accompanies rappers the Federation bragging about "cut[ting] up the pussy like the movie Hostel," sounds like (mere) childish imitation. Tittsworth has produced, by and large, an album of potential novelty singles. That's fine-- you can argue that some of the best records are novelty records-- but the problem is that most of the tracks on 12 Steps are neither particularly novel nor memorable. The guitar-coated "Almond Joy" begs you to-- wait for it-- "play with my heart like a toy," and the soppy light R&B of "Here He Comes" nicks a melody from Hall and Oates' "Maneater", which Timbaland referenced with Nelly Furtado two years ago. As many words as the Clipse have for snow, Baltimore club and its cousin Miami bass have for sex, so letting guest rapper Pitbull settle for such Kindergarten Cop-level laziness here as "spread legs like a gynecologist" is an insult. Not to his Miami base, not to Baltimore clubbers, but to pop fans. We're fickle-- not stupid."

Wand

1000 Days

Rock

Jes Skolnik

On their third album, Los Angeles’ Wand gracefully sidestep the potential pitfalls of psychedelic songwriting—meandering guitars, rambling lyrics, directionless tracks. They ground the blurry, bizarre visions established on their previous efforts, Ganglion Reef and Golem, in colorful imagery, so that the faces of the monsters they’ve written about on past records come into full focus. While the shadow of Wand’s mentor Ty Segall still hovers over Wand’s blown-out garage sound, the band’s own flickering light is beginning to shine through more often. They have added some progressive folk rock to the mix, fondly recalling unique and memorable records like Mellow Candle’s Swaddling Songs and Comus’ classic First Utterance without sounding like a carbon copy. Cory Hanson’s voice shimmers  against the acoustic palette of songs like the beautiful closer "Morning Rainbow", the song that also contains 1000 Days’ key lyrical thesis: "We will see this world together in its terror." Paralysis, paranoia, disappearance, erasure, pure fear, and curdling dreams are all themes that reappear in Hanson’s lyrics for 1000 Days; even the titular song, a concise bit of folky garage pop with a sunny-sweet choral melody, seems like it might be a love song at first but quickly turns into the nightmare of relationship stasis, depression, and ennui ("I don’t need a thing ‘cause I’ve had every dream"). The mingling of beautiful, honeyed melodies with dark, bleak lyrical content is nothing new, but Wand do it especially well, and they have a precision in their songwriting that keeps their music from spinning off into glazed burnout territory. Though one worries that with such a prolific release schedule that Wand will run out of ideas, 1000 Days is a heartening record, a record that sees a young band picking up steam, playing with their influences more deftly than on their prior LPs, and bringing a thoughtful approach to old and well-traveled sounds. There’s enough interesting moments on 1000 Days to hold onto these songs, go back to them, and explore within them. That’s more than many of their cohorts within the cluttered and long-trendy field of psychedelic garage—there are hundreds of disposable tape-label bands with little to say out there, and it’s wearying to search through all that crud for the occasional gem, which does exist—have to offer.

Artist: Wand, Album: 1000 Days, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "On their third album, Los Angeles’ Wand gracefully sidestep the potential pitfalls of psychedelic songwriting—meandering guitars, rambling lyrics, directionless tracks. They ground the blurry, bizarre visions established on their previous efforts, Ganglion Reef and Golem, in colorful imagery, so that the faces of the monsters they’ve written about on past records come into full focus. While the shadow of Wand’s mentor Ty Segall still hovers over Wand’s blown-out garage sound, the band’s own flickering light is beginning to shine through more often. They have added some progressive folk rock to the mix, fondly recalling unique and memorable records like Mellow Candle’s Swaddling Songs and Comus’ classic First Utterance without sounding like a carbon copy. Cory Hanson’s voice shimmers  against the acoustic palette of songs like the beautiful closer "Morning Rainbow", the song that also contains 1000 Days’ key lyrical thesis: "We will see this world together in its terror." Paralysis, paranoia, disappearance, erasure, pure fear, and curdling dreams are all themes that reappear in Hanson’s lyrics for 1000 Days; even the titular song, a concise bit of folky garage pop with a sunny-sweet choral melody, seems like it might be a love song at first but quickly turns into the nightmare of relationship stasis, depression, and ennui ("I don’t need a thing ‘cause I’ve had every dream"). The mingling of beautiful, honeyed melodies with dark, bleak lyrical content is nothing new, but Wand do it especially well, and they have a precision in their songwriting that keeps their music from spinning off into glazed burnout territory. Though one worries that with such a prolific release schedule that Wand will run out of ideas, 1000 Days is a heartening record, a record that sees a young band picking up steam, playing with their influences more deftly than on their prior LPs, and bringing a thoughtful approach to old and well-traveled sounds. There’s enough interesting moments on 1000 Days to hold onto these songs, go back to them, and explore within them. That’s more than many of their cohorts within the cluttered and long-trendy field of psychedelic garage—there are hundreds of disposable tape-label bands with little to say out there, and it’s wearying to search through all that crud for the occasional gem, which does exist—have to offer."

Larkin Grimm

Parplar

Folk/Country

Amy Granzin

Over the course of several self-released albums, Larkin Grimm has carved a niche for herself among the freak-folk contingent-- as an actual freak. In most cases, that's an ill-fitting, derisive label for today's folk revivalists. But Grimm, who was born in a Memphis commune, looks like a Dolce & Gabbana model, writes lyrics so raw they'd make Peaches blush, and cultivates a pagan earth mother/witch persona, would be unlikely to argue with it. As much as her public self and acoustic guitar-based music reveal genuine eccentricity (would Michael Gira have signed her to his Young God label otherwise?), Grimm is Yale-educated, well-traveled and no feral naïf. Indeed, her reworking of folk traditions and the roles women play in them share core concerns and strategies with early academic feminists and the deconstructive fiction of Angela Carter, who famously re-injected blood/sugar/sex/magic into the fairy tales of those other, Victorian, Grimms. As with Carter's fiction, Grimm's music, particularly in her latest, Parplar, can be wondrous and wildly inventive, as well as self-indulgent and, well, kinda icky. Parplar's lead track, "They Were Wrong", is one of those thrilling numbers, a spooky portrait of loss and mental disintegration in which Grimm's voice develops a subtle shake through its stark four-minute run. "Anger in Your Liver", one of the short tracks clustered in the album's second half, is another simple composition with an aching vocal performance reminiscent of more mainstream Americana singers like Alison Kraus or Gillian Welch. Among the more eclectically arranged songs, the title track is a charming dish of bitterness served on a plate of whimsy-- Grimm's own tenacious "damn the man" lyrics serenaded by Ganges-river horns, slide whistles, and bubbly synthesizer patterns, and queasy, pitch-shifting. "How to Catch a Lizard" is weird (in large part due to Grimm's eerie double-tracked vocals), but effective. She can interpret folk standards just fine, too-- in the case of "Fall on Your Knees", as a twangy, Cajun barn dance. But the album makes just as many awkward, even confounding, moves, and Grimm frontloads it with her creepiest cuts. "Ride That Cyclone", with its retro Western stylings and eye-rolling double entendres, is as catchy-- and gimmicky-- as a carnival tune. "Blond and Golden Johns" poses as some kind of feminist re-appropriation of the old whore archetype and is stained by bon mots like "I've been penetrated/ So I'm welcome everywhere I go", a line one-upped only by "Dominican Rum"'s "The microscopic spoiled eggs inside my uterus/ Are sparkling and bursting with the greenest yellow pus." Elsewhere, Grimm tosses off several "Huh?" remarks about acid rain and bus exhaust-- proving, if nothing else, that her somewhat anachronistic rhetoric isn't limited to sexual politics. Sure, there's something to be said for risk-taking. Most folkies stick with the milk-safe, hoping to get by on the sweetness of their sounds, while Grimm serves sour with courageous gusto and humor. And Parplar is a beautiful, exciting-sounding record (coproduced by Grimm and Gira), exploding with banjo, fiddle, trumpet, accordion, dulcimer, and glockenspiel, among a score of other instruments. In fact, considering much of its lyrical content, it would be far better as an instrumental album.

Artist: Larkin Grimm, Album: Parplar, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 5.2 Album review: "Over the course of several self-released albums, Larkin Grimm has carved a niche for herself among the freak-folk contingent-- as an actual freak. In most cases, that's an ill-fitting, derisive label for today's folk revivalists. But Grimm, who was born in a Memphis commune, looks like a Dolce & Gabbana model, writes lyrics so raw they'd make Peaches blush, and cultivates a pagan earth mother/witch persona, would be unlikely to argue with it. As much as her public self and acoustic guitar-based music reveal genuine eccentricity (would Michael Gira have signed her to his Young God label otherwise?), Grimm is Yale-educated, well-traveled and no feral naïf. Indeed, her reworking of folk traditions and the roles women play in them share core concerns and strategies with early academic feminists and the deconstructive fiction of Angela Carter, who famously re-injected blood/sugar/sex/magic into the fairy tales of those other, Victorian, Grimms. As with Carter's fiction, Grimm's music, particularly in her latest, Parplar, can be wondrous and wildly inventive, as well as self-indulgent and, well, kinda icky. Parplar's lead track, "They Were Wrong", is one of those thrilling numbers, a spooky portrait of loss and mental disintegration in which Grimm's voice develops a subtle shake through its stark four-minute run. "Anger in Your Liver", one of the short tracks clustered in the album's second half, is another simple composition with an aching vocal performance reminiscent of more mainstream Americana singers like Alison Kraus or Gillian Welch. Among the more eclectically arranged songs, the title track is a charming dish of bitterness served on a plate of whimsy-- Grimm's own tenacious "damn the man" lyrics serenaded by Ganges-river horns, slide whistles, and bubbly synthesizer patterns, and queasy, pitch-shifting. "How to Catch a Lizard" is weird (in large part due to Grimm's eerie double-tracked vocals), but effective. She can interpret folk standards just fine, too-- in the case of "Fall on Your Knees", as a twangy, Cajun barn dance. But the album makes just as many awkward, even confounding, moves, and Grimm frontloads it with her creepiest cuts. "Ride That Cyclone", with its retro Western stylings and eye-rolling double entendres, is as catchy-- and gimmicky-- as a carnival tune. "Blond and Golden Johns" poses as some kind of feminist re-appropriation of the old whore archetype and is stained by bon mots like "I've been penetrated/ So I'm welcome everywhere I go", a line one-upped only by "Dominican Rum"'s "The microscopic spoiled eggs inside my uterus/ Are sparkling and bursting with the greenest yellow pus." Elsewhere, Grimm tosses off several "Huh?" remarks about acid rain and bus exhaust-- proving, if nothing else, that her somewhat anachronistic rhetoric isn't limited to sexual politics. Sure, there's something to be said for risk-taking. Most folkies stick with the milk-safe, hoping to get by on the sweetness of their sounds, while Grimm serves sour with courageous gusto and humor. And Parplar is a beautiful, exciting-sounding record (coproduced by Grimm and Gira), exploding with banjo, fiddle, trumpet, accordion, dulcimer, and glockenspiel, among a score of other instruments. In fact, considering much of its lyrical content, it would be far better as an instrumental album."

Teen Suicide

It's the Big Joyous Celebration

Rock

Ian Cohen

If you couldn't tell from the title or its 26 tracks or 69-minute length, It's the Big Joyous Celebration, Let's Stir the Honeypot is A) a glorious communal blowout and B) goddamn mess. Its intentions are messy: Sam Ray resurrected his old band by popular demand (vis-à-vis his other projects Ricky Eat Acid and Julia Brown) and will be touring throughout the spring, yet they are also calling it their last will and testament. Its presentation signifies wild ambition, but Ray appears more interested in capturing fleeting bits of casual brilliance than making good on grandiose designs. The ugliest song is called "Beauty," one of the prettiest is "Neighborhood Drug Dealer." It's constantly absorbing and equal parts astonishing and frustrating. It's a party you can hear from down the block and yet still requires a password at the door. Ray's ascent as an indie/DIY auteur has been propelled by his prolificity and his equally active desire to circumvent any barrier between him and his listeners. This personality (or persona) is  as crucial to full appreciation of Celebration as the music. As he shows with his projects outside of Teen Suicide, Ray is direct, omnivorous and unpredictable: Celebration feints at stop-start post-punk, patches in some nifty acoustic progressions on loan from Alex G's Beach Music, flirts with psychedelia and throws out some jazz noodling as well. And this is just the first song. At their core, Teen Suicide is the most "indie rock" of Ray's projects and in that form, they write poignant song-sketches that can traffic in sarcasm ("it's not art unless you laugh, one of these days I'm gonna laugh") and have a poignant sweetness ("Falling Out of Love With Me"). But the lo-fi recording quality serving as Celebration's binding agent has a far greater effect the further Teen Suicide get away from guitars. The resplendent piano rolls of "I Don't Think It's Too Late" and "The Stomach of the Earth" are slightly scuffed and distorted, like a tear-stained take on the Range's recent emotronica. "My Little World" touches on Aphex Twin's early ambient work, while the crackle surrounding the harps and strings on  "V.I.P." carry the haunted-house eeriness of the Caretaker's Victrola memory experiments. It's hard to think of any album, probably ever, that managed to sound like these three and Sparklehorse in the same hour. His use of tape manipulation and sampled orchestral bric-a-brac dutifully marked in the treasure map-like credits (Girlpool, Elvis Depressedly, Alex G, Porches, Owen Pallett and more) put him in the lineage of Elephant 6, Microphones or early Saddle Creek. But Teen Suicide's crucial novelty lies in how they connect modern forms of communication and dissemination—it's a celebration of how Bandcamp and Soundcloud can allow songs to be released in an instant while constantly mutating (this was not invented by The Life of Pablo) and, of course, any form of social media. Most of the lyrics appear to be trimmed to fit for maximum impact within a character limit and even if they're not necessarily about him, Ray takes advantage of the presumption that songwriting is an autobiographical mode. As a result, the listener is inclined to relate to the person going through the harrowing narratives here. They all read like casual conversations, but the kind you can only have when the speaker has a total lack of a filter and a complete trust in the person on the other end. Some of his best lines are brazen provocations ("depression is a construct"); many sound like jokes but are devastating insights about drug abuse and suicidal ideation. Most importantly, they're very, very quotable. Witness the best of the lot: "Pavement were an OK band/but you don't gotta sound like them." This isn’t some kind of Kill Yr Idols mission statement—Celebration has enough ’90s indie rock in its genes to suggest that Ray thinks Pavement were at least OK. But most of  Ray’s colleagues in Orchid Tapes or Run For Cover  or any of the leading figures in post-emo are developing intensely dedicated, often young fanbases without the previously established means of generating sustainable indie rock success or the previously established canonical influences.  The bands they sometimes remind me of—Bright Eyes circa Fevers & Mirrors, for instance—won only begrudging respect from older listeners at the time it was released. The directness with which it speaks to its audience makes it easy to imagine Celebration inspiring a lot of its younger listeners to start a band. For anyone else, it’s just an inspiring testament to indie rock’s continued vitality. CORRECTION: An earlier version of this article erroneously referred to another Sam Ray project as Julian Brown. That band is in fact named Julia Brown.

Artist: Teen Suicide, Album: It's the Big Joyous Celebration, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "If you couldn't tell from the title or its 26 tracks or 69-minute length, It's the Big Joyous Celebration, Let's Stir the Honeypot is A) a glorious communal blowout and B) goddamn mess. Its intentions are messy: Sam Ray resurrected his old band by popular demand (vis-à-vis his other projects Ricky Eat Acid and Julia Brown) and will be touring throughout the spring, yet they are also calling it their last will and testament. Its presentation signifies wild ambition, but Ray appears more interested in capturing fleeting bits of casual brilliance than making good on grandiose designs. The ugliest song is called "Beauty," one of the prettiest is "Neighborhood Drug Dealer." It's constantly absorbing and equal parts astonishing and frustrating. It's a party you can hear from down the block and yet still requires a password at the door. Ray's ascent as an indie/DIY auteur has been propelled by his prolificity and his equally active desire to circumvent any barrier between him and his listeners. This personality (or persona) is  as crucial to full appreciation of Celebration as the music. As he shows with his projects outside of Teen Suicide, Ray is direct, omnivorous and unpredictable: Celebration feints at stop-start post-punk, patches in some nifty acoustic progressions on loan from Alex G's Beach Music, flirts with psychedelia and throws out some jazz noodling as well. And this is just the first song. At their core, Teen Suicide is the most "indie rock" of Ray's projects and in that form, they write poignant song-sketches that can traffic in sarcasm ("it's not art unless you laugh, one of these days I'm gonna laugh") and have a poignant sweetness ("Falling Out of Love With Me"). But the lo-fi recording quality serving as Celebration's binding agent has a far greater effect the further Teen Suicide get away from guitars. The resplendent piano rolls of "I Don't Think It's Too Late" and "The Stomach of the Earth" are slightly scuffed and distorted, like a tear-stained take on the Range's recent emotronica. "My Little World" touches on Aphex Twin's early ambient work, while the crackle surrounding the harps and strings on  "V.I.P." carry the haunted-house eeriness of the Caretaker's Victrola memory experiments. It's hard to think of any album, probably ever, that managed to sound like these three and Sparklehorse in the same hour. His use of tape manipulation and sampled orchestral bric-a-brac dutifully marked in the treasure map-like credits (Girlpool, Elvis Depressedly, Alex G, Porches, Owen Pallett and more) put him in the lineage of Elephant 6, Microphones or early Saddle Creek. But Teen Suicide's crucial novelty lies in how they connect modern forms of communication and dissemination—it's a celebration of how Bandcamp and Soundcloud can allow songs to be released in an instant while constantly mutating (this was not invented by The Life of Pablo) and, of course, any form of social media. Most of the lyrics appear to be trimmed to fit for maximum impact within a character limit and even if they're not necessarily about him, Ray takes advantage of the presumption that songwriting is an autobiographical mode. As a result, the listener is inclined to relate to the person going through the harrowing narratives here. They all read like casual conversations, but the kind you can only have when the speaker has a total lack of a filter and a complete trust in the person on the other end. Some of his best lines are brazen provocations ("depression is a construct"); many sound like jokes but are devastating insights about drug abuse and suicidal ideation. Most importantly, they're very, very quotable. Witness the best of the lot: "Pavement were an OK band/but you don't gotta sound like them." This isn’t some kind of Kill Yr Idols mission statement—Celebration has enough ’90s indie rock in its genes to suggest that Ray thinks Pavement were at least OK. But most of  Ray’s colleagues in Orchid Tapes or Run For Cover  or any of the leading figures in post-emo are developing intensely dedicated, often young fanbases without the previously established means of generating sustainable indie rock success or the previously established canonical influences.  The bands they sometimes remind me of—Bright Eyes circa Fevers & Mirrors, for instance—won only begrudging respect from older listeners at the time it was released. The directness with which it speaks to its audience makes it easy to imagine Celebration inspiring a lot of its younger listeners to start a band. For anyone else, it’s just an inspiring testament to indie rock’s continued vitality. CORRECTION: An earlier version of this article erroneously referred to another Sam Ray project as Julian Brown. That band is in fact named Julia Brown."

Toktok vs. Soffy O

Toktok vs. Soffy O

Nitsuh Abebe

When I was young, I taped a copy of Disintegration over the only cassette that was handy at the moment, which happened to be an exercise routine of my mother's. I don't know if it was because of the tape or the deck, but the original sound didn't get entirely replaced: When I was done I had a copy of Disintegration with vague traces of aerobic instruction underneath, so that way back in the mix on "Last Dance" you could just make out the odd "and three and four" or "keep those arms up." Over the ensuing years, music's made me want to do a lot of things with my body, but this Toktok vs. Soffy O album is the first recording since that Robert Smith/Jane Fonda mashup that's made me want to Jazzercise, neon-hued Lycra and all. As I am not a particularly active person and look terrible in shorts, this is basically my way of saying that this record is really good. But first the obligatory history. Toktok itself is two guys from the Berlin techno/electro scene who started off releasing singles on Ellen Allien's Bpitch Control label. Those recordings are a pretty interesting mix of playful techno and sample pastiche, but where everything goes near-magically right is the part where they're lucky enough to team up with a singer named Sophia: The combined Toktok vs. Soffy O endeavor is a step beyond, a big concoction of Hi-NRG techno beats, sunny minimalist synths, and great big strutting pop songs with Sophia twirling and chanting all over them. It's a blend that'll get called techno, or electro, but it strikes me more as a great dance-pop sound that only techno and electro fans have properly appreciated thus far-- and even that's ceasing to be true, as it appears that the group's last single has actually broken the German charts. When you're done with the Hasselhoff jokes consider this: I'm not surprised in the least. When these three are on, the effect is like watching pyrotechnics spray all over a bedroom while a particularly cool teenager does hairbrush Karaoke in front of the mirror. There's "Missy Queen's Gonna Die", which managed to use just stiff beats, electro's simplest bassline, and Soffy O's bratty, metallic vocal performance to leap onto what seemed like a half-dozen big compilations. Contending on those German charts is "Day of Mine (Ludicrous Idiots)", which fleshes out the group's sound to a surprisingly buttery sheen, replete with string samples and baritone sax. And sadly mislabeled as "Neighbor" is my personal favorite, "Jean", a big Hi-NRG workout that's both a heavy banger and incredibly fun, all minimal swing and big squishy disco loops. Which is the surprise with their best work: It's amazingly fun and playful. These days it's clear that the 80s fetish in a lot of northern-European dance music has conveniently bypassed the pastel good humor of the real-life decade; on the other end of the spectrum, the outright playfulness of stuff like French house (or, closer to home, DMX Krew) sometimes seems to be doing a little too much winking, nudging, and semi-ironic mugging. Aside from making some stellar pop tracks that can really be danced to, the genius of Toktok vs. Soffy O is their ability to cut a line between those two things in a way that makes them difficult to compare to anyone else: They're playful, sure, but they're also dead serious, which is why Soffy O can sing and chant everything from recriminations and dismissals to heart-on-sleeve songs about aging. It would be a stretch to say the sound is without precedent, but damned if it doesn't seem like it while the record's playing. And it certainly doesn't hurt that Soffy O's vocal presence is as striking and convincing as Madonna's on "Into the Groove". Here's the big apology: This album is not, at present, out on CD in the U.S., though I'd like to think it might be soon. It's fairly solid even apart from those killer singles, with the double 12-inch format organizing things nicely: The first two sides collect the singles and four other tracks on a general par with them; the next 12-inch sports the "Day of Mine" companion "The Lookalikes", while the other cuts drift gradually back toward those earlier Toktok releases, with the sound less and less focused and Soffy O less and less incorporated. This can look like either a big drop-off or just a final-cuts detour back into Bpitch territory, which means less pop immediacy and more sonic twists: The slinky tweaks of "Talkative" are like a more-fun/less-prissy counterpart to Ellen Allien's own stuff, while the jerky "rock" beats and guitar tomfoolery of "A Pointless Life" serve as the goofed-up throwaway every good record needs. In other words: Not perfect, but look out, because when they're on, they're really quite on.

Artist: Toktok vs. Soffy O, Album: Toktok vs. Soffy O, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "When I was young, I taped a copy of Disintegration over the only cassette that was handy at the moment, which happened to be an exercise routine of my mother's. I don't know if it was because of the tape or the deck, but the original sound didn't get entirely replaced: When I was done I had a copy of Disintegration with vague traces of aerobic instruction underneath, so that way back in the mix on "Last Dance" you could just make out the odd "and three and four" or "keep those arms up." Over the ensuing years, music's made me want to do a lot of things with my body, but this Toktok vs. Soffy O album is the first recording since that Robert Smith/Jane Fonda mashup that's made me want to Jazzercise, neon-hued Lycra and all. As I am not a particularly active person and look terrible in shorts, this is basically my way of saying that this record is really good. But first the obligatory history. Toktok itself is two guys from the Berlin techno/electro scene who started off releasing singles on Ellen Allien's Bpitch Control label. Those recordings are a pretty interesting mix of playful techno and sample pastiche, but where everything goes near-magically right is the part where they're lucky enough to team up with a singer named Sophia: The combined Toktok vs. Soffy O endeavor is a step beyond, a big concoction of Hi-NRG techno beats, sunny minimalist synths, and great big strutting pop songs with Sophia twirling and chanting all over them. It's a blend that'll get called techno, or electro, but it strikes me more as a great dance-pop sound that only techno and electro fans have properly appreciated thus far-- and even that's ceasing to be true, as it appears that the group's last single has actually broken the German charts. When you're done with the Hasselhoff jokes consider this: I'm not surprised in the least. When these three are on, the effect is like watching pyrotechnics spray all over a bedroom while a particularly cool teenager does hairbrush Karaoke in front of the mirror. There's "Missy Queen's Gonna Die", which managed to use just stiff beats, electro's simplest bassline, and Soffy O's bratty, metallic vocal performance to leap onto what seemed like a half-dozen big compilations. Contending on those German charts is "Day of Mine (Ludicrous Idiots)", which fleshes out the group's sound to a surprisingly buttery sheen, replete with string samples and baritone sax. And sadly mislabeled as "Neighbor" is my personal favorite, "Jean", a big Hi-NRG workout that's both a heavy banger and incredibly fun, all minimal swing and big squishy disco loops. Which is the surprise with their best work: It's amazingly fun and playful. These days it's clear that the 80s fetish in a lot of northern-European dance music has conveniently bypassed the pastel good humor of the real-life decade; on the other end of the spectrum, the outright playfulness of stuff like French house (or, closer to home, DMX Krew) sometimes seems to be doing a little too much winking, nudging, and semi-ironic mugging. Aside from making some stellar pop tracks that can really be danced to, the genius of Toktok vs. Soffy O is their ability to cut a line between those two things in a way that makes them difficult to compare to anyone else: They're playful, sure, but they're also dead serious, which is why Soffy O can sing and chant everything from recriminations and dismissals to heart-on-sleeve songs about aging. It would be a stretch to say the sound is without precedent, but damned if it doesn't seem like it while the record's playing. And it certainly doesn't hurt that Soffy O's vocal presence is as striking and convincing as Madonna's on "Into the Groove". Here's the big apology: This album is not, at present, out on CD in the U.S., though I'd like to think it might be soon. It's fairly solid even apart from those killer singles, with the double 12-inch format organizing things nicely: The first two sides collect the singles and four other tracks on a general par with them; the next 12-inch sports the "Day of Mine" companion "The Lookalikes", while the other cuts drift gradually back toward those earlier Toktok releases, with the sound less and less focused and Soffy O less and less incorporated. This can look like either a big drop-off or just a final-cuts detour back into Bpitch territory, which means less pop immediacy and more sonic twists: The slinky tweaks of "Talkative" are like a more-fun/less-prissy counterpart to Ellen Allien's own stuff, while the jerky "rock" beats and guitar tomfoolery of "A Pointless Life" serve as the goofed-up throwaway every good record needs. In other words: Not perfect, but look out, because when they're on, they're really quite on."

Tink

Winter's Diary 2

Pop/R&B

Kyle Kramer

This winter marks two full years of Chicago hip-hop attracting national attention. During this period, many people have been eager to assign the city a clear narrative, from the half-dozen or so documentary film crews that have stopped through to the pundits who use Chicago rappers as part of their rhetorical agenda. And while one consistent narrative has emerged—Chicago rap is violent!—the scene has evolved rapidly and dramatically. It's now marked by a fragmented patchwork of genres, microgenres, and individual artist movements—drill, bop, soul trap, acid rap, alternative trap, several types of waves and waviness—that have defied or redefined the narrative completely. Among the artists who have most resisted easy categorization is Tink, the teenage singer and rapper from the south suburb of Calumet City who has put out four mixtapes of varying tone and quality since early 2012. Her first effort, Winter's Diary, made when she was a junior in high school, introduced her as a sort of potential long-lost member of TLC (never mind that she hadn't even been born during the group's breakout years), a talented, soft-voiced singer with an ear for contemporary rap and an astute emotional awareness. But her first glimpse of success came that summer with the brash, clever rap of “Fingers Up”. Eager to show she was a double threat, Tink then put out Alter Ego, a mixtape full of technically adept but generic raps that, "Fingers Up" aside, abandoned much of the unique viewpoint and subject matter that made her such an immediately electrifying presence. Playing around in the areas between these two poles has helped Tink retain an edge of unpredictability and cater to a broad audience: She's proved her rap bona fides over and over with surgically precise verses like last summer's widely acclaimed “Versace” freestyle. She's shored up her Chicago credibility through collaborations with Lil Durk and Sasha Go Hard and established herself as part of the wave of successors to drill music by aligning herself with hard-edged lyrical whiz kids Lil Herb and Lil Bibby. She's captured the attention of the internet's avant-garde, spawning collaborations with artists like producer collective Future Brown and New York rapper Junglepussy. And she's continued to stake out a distinctively young, female voice whether she's expressing the frustration of dealing with flaky lovers or playing at and winning that boys' rap game of pretending you're a drug kingpin. Winter's Diary 2 doubles down on this last point, offering both the most clear-cut perspective and the most accomplished sound of any Tink release yet, delivered with casual charm and easy emotional honesty. The characters in Tink's songs navigate complicated, intimate, and frequently disappointing romantic relationships. They are overtly sexual—take “When It Rains”, a slinky celebration of riding out thunderstorms in bed, which borrows the kind of subject matter normally reserved for grown and sexy album cuts by artists in their 30s (but equally felt by younger people). They also often find themselves butting up against the gendered expectations of a hip-hop and hustler culture. On the brilliant “Money Ova Everything”, Tink flips the title catchphrase into a couple's joint pursuit, a promise and ultimately a kind of lament. And the back-and-forth of “Talkin' About” with Lil Herb—its lyrical tradeoff and narrative welcome 1990s throwback trope dressed up in modern flows and production—finds a couple arguing about the effects of the guy spending time on the block on their relationship (“I buy my own Prada, man, that's not the problem!” Tink exasperatedly snarls at the suggestion of whose hustling is keeping things afloat). “Dirty Slang”, the clearest pop highlight with its twinkling, synth-driven beat and muscular, Auto-Tuned hook, is a triumphant and flirtatious celebration of a guy who likes hitting the strip club. Tink's seamless blend of rapping and singing is likely to call to mind Drake or Lauryn Hill, who are similarly interested in dissecting relationships, but the closest sonic equivalent might be Elle Varner, whose taste for R&B laced with acoustic guitars is echoed here. Like all three, Tink has a strong instinct for finding the emotional core of modern crises. This strength is particularly clear when she's discussing heartbreak, as on the arresting, guitar-backed first single “Treat Me Like Somebody” or in the high, plaintive mantra of “please don't break my heart” on “Fight It”. But it also rings true in other contexts, like the romantic, artfully Auto-Tuned “Lullaby” or the carefully spit celebration of intimacy “Your Secrets.” On the other hand, Tink's singing style, which is slight and breathy, lacks power, and her voice can grate when it gets stuck in the same groove for too long. This type of meandering R&B is fine for building a fan base, but it's almost resigned to always being a hit away from stardom. While Tink's choice in production is mostly smart and inoffensive, her skill set would be immensely well-served by collaborating with an A-list producer. And it would be a smart move for one to pair up with her, too. Not only does she have a strong and unique perspective, she has the willingness to write her own story that has helped Chicago's recent breakout stars defy the efforts at categorization and speak to a broad audience. A city's scene is made not so much by having many artists who stick to the same sound but by having many who break out of it, and Tink is a new voice doing exactly that.

Artist: Tink, Album: Winter's Diary 2, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "This winter marks two full years of Chicago hip-hop attracting national attention. During this period, many people have been eager to assign the city a clear narrative, from the half-dozen or so documentary film crews that have stopped through to the pundits who use Chicago rappers as part of their rhetorical agenda. And while one consistent narrative has emerged—Chicago rap is violent!—the scene has evolved rapidly and dramatically. It's now marked by a fragmented patchwork of genres, microgenres, and individual artist movements—drill, bop, soul trap, acid rap, alternative trap, several types of waves and waviness—that have defied or redefined the narrative completely. Among the artists who have most resisted easy categorization is Tink, the teenage singer and rapper from the south suburb of Calumet City who has put out four mixtapes of varying tone and quality since early 2012. Her first effort, Winter's Diary, made when she was a junior in high school, introduced her as a sort of potential long-lost member of TLC (never mind that she hadn't even been born during the group's breakout years), a talented, soft-voiced singer with an ear for contemporary rap and an astute emotional awareness. But her first glimpse of success came that summer with the brash, clever rap of “Fingers Up”. Eager to show she was a double threat, Tink then put out Alter Ego, a mixtape full of technically adept but generic raps that, "Fingers Up" aside, abandoned much of the unique viewpoint and subject matter that made her such an immediately electrifying presence. Playing around in the areas between these two poles has helped Tink retain an edge of unpredictability and cater to a broad audience: She's proved her rap bona fides over and over with surgically precise verses like last summer's widely acclaimed “Versace” freestyle. She's shored up her Chicago credibility through collaborations with Lil Durk and Sasha Go Hard and established herself as part of the wave of successors to drill music by aligning herself with hard-edged lyrical whiz kids Lil Herb and Lil Bibby. She's captured the attention of the internet's avant-garde, spawning collaborations with artists like producer collective Future Brown and New York rapper Junglepussy. And she's continued to stake out a distinctively young, female voice whether she's expressing the frustration of dealing with flaky lovers or playing at and winning that boys' rap game of pretending you're a drug kingpin. Winter's Diary 2 doubles down on this last point, offering both the most clear-cut perspective and the most accomplished sound of any Tink release yet, delivered with casual charm and easy emotional honesty. The characters in Tink's songs navigate complicated, intimate, and frequently disappointing romantic relationships. They are overtly sexual—take “When It Rains”, a slinky celebration of riding out thunderstorms in bed, which borrows the kind of subject matter normally reserved for grown and sexy album cuts by artists in their 30s (but equally felt by younger people). They also often find themselves butting up against the gendered expectations of a hip-hop and hustler culture. On the brilliant “Money Ova Everything”, Tink flips the title catchphrase into a couple's joint pursuit, a promise and ultimately a kind of lament. And the back-and-forth of “Talkin' About” with Lil Herb—its lyrical tradeoff and narrative welcome 1990s throwback trope dressed up in modern flows and production—finds a couple arguing about the effects of the guy spending time on the block on their relationship (“I buy my own Prada, man, that's not the problem!” Tink exasperatedly snarls at the suggestion of whose hustling is keeping things afloat). “Dirty Slang”, the clearest pop highlight with its twinkling, synth-driven beat and muscular, Auto-Tuned hook, is a triumphant and flirtatious celebration of a guy who likes hitting the strip club. Tink's seamless blend of rapping and singing is likely to call to mind Drake or Lauryn Hill, who are similarly interested in dissecting relationships, but the closest sonic equivalent might be Elle Varner, whose taste for R&B laced with acoustic guitars is echoed here. Like all three, Tink has a strong instinct for finding the emotional core of modern crises. This strength is particularly clear when she's discussing heartbreak, as on the arresting, guitar-backed first single “Treat Me Like Somebody” or in the high, plaintive mantra of “please don't break my heart” on “Fight It”. But it also rings true in other contexts, like the romantic, artfully Auto-Tuned “Lullaby” or the carefully spit celebration of intimacy “Your Secrets.” On the other hand, Tink's singing style, which is slight and breathy, lacks power, and her voice can grate when it gets stuck in the same groove for too long. This type of meandering R&B is fine for building a fan base, but it's almost resigned to always being a hit away from stardom. While Tink's choice in production is mostly smart and inoffensive, her skill set would be immensely well-served by collaborating with an A-list producer. And it would be a smart move for one to pair up with her, too. Not only does she have a strong and unique perspective, she has the willingness to write her own story that has helped Chicago's recent breakout stars defy the efforts at categorization and speak to a broad audience. A city's scene is made not so much by having many artists who stick to the same sound but by having many who break out of it, and Tink is a new voice doing exactly that."

YOB

Our Raw Heart

Metal

Andy O'Connor

Mike Scheidt, the vocalist and guitar player for Oregon doom metal trio YOB, was hospitalized with diverticulitis early last year. In a recent Decibel cover story, he made the ailment sound pretty metal, likening it to a Chestburster wallowing inside him. But the experience—which nearly killed him—left Scheidt so changed that he wasn’t sure, at first, if the band would continue. YOB’s eighth record, Our Raw Heart, was born out of Scheidt’s health scare—and, given the circumstances, the fact that it even sounds like a YOB record is a triumph. While 2011’s Atma was all aggression and 2014’s Clearing the Path to Ascend delved into their psychedelic side, Heart unites those two sounds in service of a new theme. The band has spun joy out of its frontman’s gnarliest experience, making metal that sounds sensuous, bellicose, and jubilant at once. Despite everything Scheidt has been through, YOB never come off as angry on Heart; the rage in these songs is actually an affirmation of life and emotion. “The Screen” takes the mystic pummel of death-doom act Cathedral’s Forest of Equilibrium—one of Scheidt’s biggest influences—and translates that downward crush into something more uplifting. YOB are still adept at playing slowly to bend time: Scheidt’s guitar chug fragments into an arsenal of time bombs, each one cycling from countdown to detonation. “In Reverie” constantly builds momentum and knocks it down again, but this isn’t an abusive back-and-forth so much as the sonic version of proper pit etiquette. Intimidating as it can sound, YOB’s music is some of the most inviting in contemporary metal. Scheidt can make the most grinding riff feel soothing, like a vision quest that comforts and imbues purpose even as it tests the listener. Clocking in at over 16 minutes, “Beauty in Falling Leaves” is Heart’s centerpiece, melding all the heft and tenderness that define YOB into one sermon. The track places Scheidt on a path of elevation and love, spilling ferocious goodwill with flangers and Sabbath on max. It makes sense that the album is called Our Raw Heart: The band is bringing the audience into their world, laying its soul bare, and refusing to let metal purity get in the way of total communion. Recounting his experience with diverticulitis, Scheidt described himself as both “a sensitive, effeminate man” and “an old-world macho moron, especially when it comes to outwardly showing physical pain.” Self-deprecation aside, that’s an apt description of this song: YOB wield unbridled metal muscle and disarming openness as if they were an obvious combination. Bliss overflows into the following track, “Original Face,” a doom song spiked with crossover verve. This fusion isn’t unusual for Scheidt, who started out in punk bands and has revisited those roots singing in the punk-influenced metal supergroup VHÖL, yet those styles have never sounded so integrated before. Situated between “Beauty in Falling Leaves” and the title track, which closes out the album on a serene, psychedelic journey to nowhere, “Original Face” doesn’t feel abrupt amid their epic slowness. Metal is endlessly segmented, but YOB understand it as an ever-mutating, cross-pollinating form. With Scheidt back on his feet, they’re free to go wherever. Scheidt had to reconsider his approach to vocals following his diverticulitis surgery: “I couldn’t bear down on my diaphragm too hard or else I could herniate my incisions, so I started sending air to these different places in my body,” he told Decibel. Like the music of Heart, his voice is familiar, yet fundamentally changed. The Super-Ozzy wail that carried him through Atma is still intact on “Ablaze,” but his vocal is noticeably quieter and rawer on “Beauty in Falling Leaves.” This is not the sound of a man weakened—it’s the sound of a man who wrestled with his mortality and now feels more alive than ever. This is not the first time upheaval has led to renewal for YOB; Heart is, in fact, the beginning of their third act. Scheidt dissolved the band in 2006, then reformed it following the collapse of another band, Middian, due to legal issues two years later. That period yielded some of YOB’s best work, starting with 2009’s The Great Cessation and continuing with Atma and Ascend. At the darkest point of this latest cataclysm, Scheidt did not almost die for metal; he’d surely reject a narrative that cartoonishly macho. Instead, metal helped him preserve and, later, process life. Our Raw Heart is about how much more he has to give—to YOB, to the world, and to himself.

Artist: YOB, Album: Our Raw Heart, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Mike Scheidt, the vocalist and guitar player for Oregon doom metal trio YOB, was hospitalized with diverticulitis early last year. In a recent Decibel cover story, he made the ailment sound pretty metal, likening it to a Chestburster wallowing inside him. But the experience—which nearly killed him—left Scheidt so changed that he wasn’t sure, at first, if the band would continue. YOB’s eighth record, Our Raw Heart, was born out of Scheidt’s health scare—and, given the circumstances, the fact that it even sounds like a YOB record is a triumph. While 2011’s Atma was all aggression and 2014’s Clearing the Path to Ascend delved into their psychedelic side, Heart unites those two sounds in service of a new theme. The band has spun joy out of its frontman’s gnarliest experience, making metal that sounds sensuous, bellicose, and jubilant at once. Despite everything Scheidt has been through, YOB never come off as angry on Heart; the rage in these songs is actually an affirmation of life and emotion. “The Screen” takes the mystic pummel of death-doom act Cathedral’s Forest of Equilibrium—one of Scheidt’s biggest influences—and translates that downward crush into something more uplifting. YOB are still adept at playing slowly to bend time: Scheidt’s guitar chug fragments into an arsenal of time bombs, each one cycling from countdown to detonation. “In Reverie” constantly builds momentum and knocks it down again, but this isn’t an abusive back-and-forth so much as the sonic version of proper pit etiquette. Intimidating as it can sound, YOB’s music is some of the most inviting in contemporary metal. Scheidt can make the most grinding riff feel soothing, like a vision quest that comforts and imbues purpose even as it tests the listener. Clocking in at over 16 minutes, “Beauty in Falling Leaves” is Heart’s centerpiece, melding all the heft and tenderness that define YOB into one sermon. The track places Scheidt on a path of elevation and love, spilling ferocious goodwill with flangers and Sabbath on max. It makes sense that the album is called Our Raw Heart: The band is bringing the audience into their world, laying its soul bare, and refusing to let metal purity get in the way of total communion. Recounting his experience with diverticulitis, Scheidt described himself as both “a sensitive, effeminate man” and “an old-world macho moron, especially when it comes to outwardly showing physical pain.” Self-deprecation aside, that’s an apt description of this song: YOB wield unbridled metal muscle and disarming openness as if they were an obvious combination. Bliss overflows into the following track, “Original Face,” a doom song spiked with crossover verve. This fusion isn’t unusual for Scheidt, who started out in punk bands and has revisited those roots singing in the punk-influenced metal supergroup VHÖL, yet those styles have never sounded so integrated before. Situated between “Beauty in Falling Leaves” and the title track, which closes out the album on a serene, psychedelic journey to nowhere, “Original Face” doesn’t feel abrupt amid their epic slowness. Metal is endlessly segmented, but YOB understand it as an ever-mutating, cross-pollinating form. With Scheidt back on his feet, they’re free to go wherever. Scheidt had to reconsider his approach to vocals following his diverticulitis surgery: “I couldn’t bear down on my diaphragm too hard or else I could herniate my incisions, so I started sending air to these different places in my body,” he told Decibel. Like the music of Heart, his voice is familiar, yet fundamentally changed. The Super-Ozzy wail that carried him through Atma is still intact on “Ablaze,” but his vocal is noticeably quieter and rawer on “Beauty in Falling Leaves.” This is not the sound of a man weakened—it’s the sound of a man who wrestled with his mortality and now feels more alive than ever. This is not the first time upheaval has led to renewal for YOB; Heart is, in fact, the beginning of their third act. Scheidt dissolved the band in 2006, then reformed it following the collapse of another band, Middian, due to legal issues two years later. That period yielded some of YOB’s best work, starting with 2009’s The Great Cessation and continuing with Atma and Ascend. At the darkest point of this latest cataclysm, Scheidt did not almost die for metal; he’d surely reject a narrative that cartoonishly macho. Instead, metal helped him preserve and, later, process life. Our Raw Heart is about how much more he has to give—to YOB, to the world, and to himself."

Outer Minds

Behind the Mirror

Rock

Evan Minsker

Outer Minds have become a live staple in their home town of Chicago over the last two years. In 2012, after releasing a handful of singles and a cassette, they showed up with two full-length albums, each with its own distinct sound. Their self-titled album on Southpaw painted them as Nuggets apostles; songs like "Gimmie a Reason" had them slinging bubblegum psych melodies behind vintage reverb and this aesthetic fit with their confetti-throwing set from this year's Pitchfork Music Festival. But while there are songs just as catchy on Behind the Mirror, they're overshadowed by the band's dramatic shift in tone. Here, they aim for "darker" psych, favoring minor-key organ lines over bright, jangling guitar. One thing that hasn't changed is their energy. "Bohemian Grove" opens with an organ played backwards, which establishes an unsettling vibe, but it breaks into a stomping, tambourine-filled garage banger. The album's highlight is "We Are All Stone", which has the group shouting its vocals in unison. Zach Medearis' voodoo guitar riff is matched by Mary McKane's organ, Brian Costello sticks to the toms to create monolithic backbone alongside bassist A-ron Orlowski, and Gina Lira tests the structural integrity of her tambourine. It's a mid-album burst of force that's tempered by a mid-song cool down; naturally, they pick the energy back up for the track's final stretch. That's the album at its best. But when Outer Minds push the spooky moodiness it can become tedious. "Look Behind the Mirror" is five minutes long but the song's ever-churning and too-repetitive tropes wear out their welcome after about three. And although the organ can inject mood, sometimes it's laid on too thick. The slow burning, Eastern-tinted guitar line from "Charlemagne" is smothered by the keyboard-- it feels like a missed opportunity. For an album with impressively fluid sequencing and transitions, the duds are all the more hollow and disappointing. Still, the songwriting on Mirror is good enough to compensate for its missteps. Some of the album's most exciting moments come when they step away from the creepy mask on the album's cover and tap into their pop side, as on "Pleasure Cruise" and "Cool Times". They're upbeat tunes about having fun that showcase the band's knack for melody. It's commendable Outer Minds tried shifting the mood between records, but ultimately, Mirror shows where their strengths lie.

Artist: Outer Minds, Album: Behind the Mirror, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Outer Minds have become a live staple in their home town of Chicago over the last two years. In 2012, after releasing a handful of singles and a cassette, they showed up with two full-length albums, each with its own distinct sound. Their self-titled album on Southpaw painted them as Nuggets apostles; songs like "Gimmie a Reason" had them slinging bubblegum psych melodies behind vintage reverb and this aesthetic fit with their confetti-throwing set from this year's Pitchfork Music Festival. But while there are songs just as catchy on Behind the Mirror, they're overshadowed by the band's dramatic shift in tone. Here, they aim for "darker" psych, favoring minor-key organ lines over bright, jangling guitar. One thing that hasn't changed is their energy. "Bohemian Grove" opens with an organ played backwards, which establishes an unsettling vibe, but it breaks into a stomping, tambourine-filled garage banger. The album's highlight is "We Are All Stone", which has the group shouting its vocals in unison. Zach Medearis' voodoo guitar riff is matched by Mary McKane's organ, Brian Costello sticks to the toms to create monolithic backbone alongside bassist A-ron Orlowski, and Gina Lira tests the structural integrity of her tambourine. It's a mid-album burst of force that's tempered by a mid-song cool down; naturally, they pick the energy back up for the track's final stretch. That's the album at its best. But when Outer Minds push the spooky moodiness it can become tedious. "Look Behind the Mirror" is five minutes long but the song's ever-churning and too-repetitive tropes wear out their welcome after about three. And although the organ can inject mood, sometimes it's laid on too thick. The slow burning, Eastern-tinted guitar line from "Charlemagne" is smothered by the keyboard-- it feels like a missed opportunity. For an album with impressively fluid sequencing and transitions, the duds are all the more hollow and disappointing. Still, the songwriting on Mirror is good enough to compensate for its missteps. Some of the album's most exciting moments come when they step away from the creepy mask on the album's cover and tap into their pop side, as on "Pleasure Cruise" and "Cool Times". They're upbeat tunes about having fun that showcase the band's knack for melody. It's commendable Outer Minds tried shifting the mood between records, but ultimately, Mirror shows where their strengths lie."

Robert Pollard

Space City Kicks

Rock

Paul Thompson

Space City Kicks, former Guided by Voices frontman Robert Pollard's first solo effort of 2011, sports some of the lovelier ballads of Pollard's career; it also finds him uttering "don't fist me when I'm down." It opens with "Mr. Fantastic Must Die", a kind of Who-does-Motörhead ruckus trip; five minutes later there's "I Wanna Be Your Man in the Moon", which comes off a bit like Something Else-era Kinks doing a Who cover of their own. At times, Space City Kicks is raucous, borderline rude; at others, it's quite lovely and ornate, the most sonically lush Pollard release in some time. For all its easy charms, it's a puzzler. And Pollard needed a weird one. Certainly the guy knows what goes into a decent song-- all too well, sometimes. Albums like last fall's dread-suffused Moses on a Snail chug along competently enough, songs formed and played with requisite authority but without much apparent passion. The best Pollard songs have a real life to them, like he couldn't wait to play them for you; certain solo efforts, though, felt more like he couldn't wait to get the record out so he could move onto something else. Maybe that was the case with the tiresome, monochromatic Moses; the slippery, vibrant Space City Kicks seeks to atone for Moses' sins with a serious uptick in eclecticism and energy both. Mostly, though, Space City's not afraid to goof around, and the playful tone of the album's rockers seems to seep into some of the more straightfaced power-pop. What gloriously dunderheaded Chevy Astro van fodder the title track is; in another decade, you'd drive around introducing mailboxes to metal bats with this thing jammed in the deck. The rangy, queasy "Sex She Said" is this album's "Hot Freaks"-- an outlier, somewhat unprecedented, more than a little off, and weirdly compelling. As Uncle Bob runs boudoir color commentary, the music churns, all sandpapery guitar and incidental percussion. You might not like it, but you're not likely to forget it. Dirge "Picture a Star" is so drenched in reverb, it's hard to imagine anything through the muck; it comes right before "Something Strawberry", a bright, sprightly lilter that recalls late-GBV coulda-been-singles like "The Best of Jill Hives". After that, it's "Follow a Loser", with its mopey verses and redemptive chorus, and "Children Ships", which climaxes in what sounds like the strings from Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir", only tripled, and played backward. The next song is barely a minute long, and it might just be the catchiest thing here. So it goes all throughout Space City; Pollard and company seem especially unfiltered when it comes to ideas, yet unusually patient in bringing them to life. I've complained of constant Pollard solo companion Todd Tobias' often staid, workmanlike production in the past, but Space City is a rich, vibrant album, managing everything from the rollicking guitar-bass-drum offset of "Mr. Fantastic Must Die" to the nicely unadorned, Pollard-centric "Woman to Fly". That one's the true stunner here; drowsy at first, dazzling as it goes, it takes a simple strum and worn-in sounding Pollard melody, cobbles together some imprecise but effortlessly affecting lyrics about "a woman who's nice," sneaks in just the right kind of echo, and makes the thing sound timeless. Weird how he keeps doing that.

Artist: Robert Pollard, Album: Space City Kicks, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Space City Kicks, former Guided by Voices frontman Robert Pollard's first solo effort of 2011, sports some of the lovelier ballads of Pollard's career; it also finds him uttering "don't fist me when I'm down." It opens with "Mr. Fantastic Must Die", a kind of Who-does-Motörhead ruckus trip; five minutes later there's "I Wanna Be Your Man in the Moon", which comes off a bit like Something Else-era Kinks doing a Who cover of their own. At times, Space City Kicks is raucous, borderline rude; at others, it's quite lovely and ornate, the most sonically lush Pollard release in some time. For all its easy charms, it's a puzzler. And Pollard needed a weird one. Certainly the guy knows what goes into a decent song-- all too well, sometimes. Albums like last fall's dread-suffused Moses on a Snail chug along competently enough, songs formed and played with requisite authority but without much apparent passion. The best Pollard songs have a real life to them, like he couldn't wait to play them for you; certain solo efforts, though, felt more like he couldn't wait to get the record out so he could move onto something else. Maybe that was the case with the tiresome, monochromatic Moses; the slippery, vibrant Space City Kicks seeks to atone for Moses' sins with a serious uptick in eclecticism and energy both. Mostly, though, Space City's not afraid to goof around, and the playful tone of the album's rockers seems to seep into some of the more straightfaced power-pop. What gloriously dunderheaded Chevy Astro van fodder the title track is; in another decade, you'd drive around introducing mailboxes to metal bats with this thing jammed in the deck. The rangy, queasy "Sex She Said" is this album's "Hot Freaks"-- an outlier, somewhat unprecedented, more than a little off, and weirdly compelling. As Uncle Bob runs boudoir color commentary, the music churns, all sandpapery guitar and incidental percussion. You might not like it, but you're not likely to forget it. Dirge "Picture a Star" is so drenched in reverb, it's hard to imagine anything through the muck; it comes right before "Something Strawberry", a bright, sprightly lilter that recalls late-GBV coulda-been-singles like "The Best of Jill Hives". After that, it's "Follow a Loser", with its mopey verses and redemptive chorus, and "Children Ships", which climaxes in what sounds like the strings from Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir", only tripled, and played backward. The next song is barely a minute long, and it might just be the catchiest thing here. So it goes all throughout Space City; Pollard and company seem especially unfiltered when it comes to ideas, yet unusually patient in bringing them to life. I've complained of constant Pollard solo companion Todd Tobias' often staid, workmanlike production in the past, but Space City is a rich, vibrant album, managing everything from the rollicking guitar-bass-drum offset of "Mr. Fantastic Must Die" to the nicely unadorned, Pollard-centric "Woman to Fly". That one's the true stunner here; drowsy at first, dazzling as it goes, it takes a simple strum and worn-in sounding Pollard melody, cobbles together some imprecise but effortlessly affecting lyrics about "a woman who's nice," sneaks in just the right kind of echo, and makes the thing sound timeless. Weird how he keeps doing that."

Karriem Riggins

Alone Together

Rap

Jonah Bromwich

Though you may not have heard of Karriem Riggins, the list of artists he's associated with in includes some recognizable names. The Stones Throw drummer/producer has worked with everyone from Paul McCartney to Common and tours with Diana Krall, a fellow mentee of the late jazz bassist Ray Brown, who, in turn, played alongside Dizzy Gillespie and pianist Oscar Peterson. Though his new album Alone Together is his first solo offering, it sounds like the work of a vet and is a grand addition to the ever-expanding canon of instrumental beat tapes. Because the producer is such a talented chameleon-- evoking with the 34 tracks here a whole range of his fellows-- the album ends up functioning as a sort of survey course: every piece, based on its distinct construction and influences, will lead the curious listener down a rabbit hole of wonderful sounds. As a hip-hop instrumentalist, Riggins hews most closely to the Dilla format, taking miniaturized loops and samples and scrambling them together to come up with the eminently digestible sketches now immortalized as "donuts." This approach frequently yields tracks that sound time-stamped by certain periods of Dilla's progression, as if Riggins reached into his fellow Detroit native's seemingly bottomless vault in order to gain inspiration for his own meanderings. "Round the Outside" could be a great, lost sketch from the Ruff Draft sessions and the 40 second dream "Orbitz" contains that encoded whispering that marked Donuts as a distinctly spiritual experience. "Double Trouble" evokes Dilla most strongly; its woodwind flourishes and tonal progressions may as well have been produced by Jay Dee's ghost. But Riggins is more than just a convincing Dilla clone. The producer's interest in exotic instrumentation also recalls some of Madlib's more far-flung forays. "Moogy Foog It" (think Beat Konducta in India), "Esperanza" (which incorporates a trilling flute), "Africa", and "Back in Brazil" are spread throughout the album, and each time one pops up, it makes for a peregrine treat, providing an outré extension to some of the more familiar sounds. Though it works in many places, the scattering of sound-alikes is symptomatic of Alone Together's principal downside. There appears to be little thought put into sequencing-- tracks are placed back to back with all the personal investment of the iPod's shuffle function. "Stadium Rock", though aptly titled with its gladiator ululation, is a little jarring, coming as it does after the melody of "Oooooaaaaa".  Meanwhile, the anxiety-inducing "Because", contains a jagged section of electric guitar which describes a tension that's altogether absent from the rest of the album. For the most part, the analog warmth of live instrumentation is employed thoughtfully, reminiscent, in some places, of some of the best tracks on Oddisee's fantastic Rock Creek Park. The sketches come alive when they incorporate dulcet bell tones on "Ding Dong Bells", reedy harpsichord on "Harpsichord Session", and alto flute on "Alto Flute". (It's a minor complaint, but Riggins clearly needs a crash course in the art of naming things: There's a good chance his household pets are named Dog, Cat, and Bird.) Complementing the warmth of the instruments are the voices. Riggins particularly excels when he incorporates live vocals, as on "Tom Toms", where a mellow voice adds warmth to the smooth surface of the track. And on album highlight "I Need Love", a trio of singers provides backing for an amorous chanteuse, a brief interpolation of that early Motown sound. But, even when vocals aren't present, Riggins gives almost every track enough musical complexity to stand on its own. Everything here would sound great with a rapper over it, yet none of the tracks feel handicapped by the absence of lyrics. The death of the MC is all too common a conversation, but the current ascendance of instrumental hip-hop producers is a phenomenon that's been ignored for too long. More and more artists (Thundercat, Knxwledge, and Eb7#9, to name a few) are combining the rigidity of traditional rap structures, with the progressive tendencies of jazz to create instrumental music that appeals to fans of both genres. Though Riggins occasionally explores the margins-- "Water" recalls the complex ambitions of someone like Flying Lotus-- he mostly keeps things simple, content to unleash tracks that, frankly, sound as if they could have been made by others. That said, it's a beautiful album, casually constructed and surging with an uncommon warmth, a success that will hopefully prompt Riggins to continue working alone, eschewing collaboration to deepen his explorations into unknown territory.

Artist: Karriem Riggins, Album: Alone Together, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Though you may not have heard of Karriem Riggins, the list of artists he's associated with in includes some recognizable names. The Stones Throw drummer/producer has worked with everyone from Paul McCartney to Common and tours with Diana Krall, a fellow mentee of the late jazz bassist Ray Brown, who, in turn, played alongside Dizzy Gillespie and pianist Oscar Peterson. Though his new album Alone Together is his first solo offering, it sounds like the work of a vet and is a grand addition to the ever-expanding canon of instrumental beat tapes. Because the producer is such a talented chameleon-- evoking with the 34 tracks here a whole range of his fellows-- the album ends up functioning as a sort of survey course: every piece, based on its distinct construction and influences, will lead the curious listener down a rabbit hole of wonderful sounds. As a hip-hop instrumentalist, Riggins hews most closely to the Dilla format, taking miniaturized loops and samples and scrambling them together to come up with the eminently digestible sketches now immortalized as "donuts." This approach frequently yields tracks that sound time-stamped by certain periods of Dilla's progression, as if Riggins reached into his fellow Detroit native's seemingly bottomless vault in order to gain inspiration for his own meanderings. "Round the Outside" could be a great, lost sketch from the Ruff Draft sessions and the 40 second dream "Orbitz" contains that encoded whispering that marked Donuts as a distinctly spiritual experience. "Double Trouble" evokes Dilla most strongly; its woodwind flourishes and tonal progressions may as well have been produced by Jay Dee's ghost. But Riggins is more than just a convincing Dilla clone. The producer's interest in exotic instrumentation also recalls some of Madlib's more far-flung forays. "Moogy Foog It" (think Beat Konducta in India), "Esperanza" (which incorporates a trilling flute), "Africa", and "Back in Brazil" are spread throughout the album, and each time one pops up, it makes for a peregrine treat, providing an outré extension to some of the more familiar sounds. Though it works in many places, the scattering of sound-alikes is symptomatic of Alone Together's principal downside. There appears to be little thought put into sequencing-- tracks are placed back to back with all the personal investment of the iPod's shuffle function. "Stadium Rock", though aptly titled with its gladiator ululation, is a little jarring, coming as it does after the melody of "Oooooaaaaa".  Meanwhile, the anxiety-inducing "Because", contains a jagged section of electric guitar which describes a tension that's altogether absent from the rest of the album. For the most part, the analog warmth of live instrumentation is employed thoughtfully, reminiscent, in some places, of some of the best tracks on Oddisee's fantastic Rock Creek Park. The sketches come alive when they incorporate dulcet bell tones on "Ding Dong Bells", reedy harpsichord on "Harpsichord Session", and alto flute on "Alto Flute". (It's a minor complaint, but Riggins clearly needs a crash course in the art of naming things: There's a good chance his household pets are named Dog, Cat, and Bird.) Complementing the warmth of the instruments are the voices. Riggins particularly excels when he incorporates live vocals, as on "Tom Toms", where a mellow voice adds warmth to the smooth surface of the track. And on album highlight "I Need Love", a trio of singers provides backing for an amorous chanteuse, a brief interpolation of that early Motown sound. But, even when vocals aren't present, Riggins gives almost every track enough musical complexity to stand on its own. Everything here would sound great with a rapper over it, yet none of the tracks feel handicapped by the absence of lyrics. The death of the MC is all too common a conversation, but the current ascendance of instrumental hip-hop producers is a phenomenon that's been ignored for too long. More and more artists (Thundercat, Knxwledge, and Eb7#9, to name a few) are combining the rigidity of traditional rap structures, with the progressive tendencies of jazz to create instrumental music that appeals to fans of both genres. Though Riggins occasionally explores the margins-- "Water" recalls the complex ambitions of someone like Flying Lotus-- he mostly keeps things simple, content to unleash tracks that, frankly, sound as if they could have been made by others. That said, it's a beautiful album, casually constructed and surging with an uncommon warmth, a success that will hopefully prompt Riggins to continue working alone, eschewing collaboration to deepen his explorations into unknown territory."

Hop Along

Get Disowned

Rock

Ian Cohen

The consensus critical acclaim for Hop Along’s sophomore LP, Painted Shut, felt like a foregone conclusion, and the band’s singer and songwriter Frances Quinlan was given the title of the best voice in indie rock without much dissent. But Google “Hop Along Get Disowned Review", and you’ll see that the band’s proper 2012 debut (Quinlan had released a solo album under the name) was as universally overlooked as Painted Shut was universally praised. With its swift reissue on Saddle Creek, Get Disowned now feels like it could’ve been Painted Shut’s complicated, difficult follow-up, but one that stands to be just as beloved, because this band remains virtually peerless in indie rock. In 2012, Hop Along weren’t the robust, road-tested band that could be tasked with warming up amphitheaters for heartland indie acts like the War on Drugs, Modest Mouse, and Dr. Dog. Get Disowned's original release also happened at least a year before any of the narratives that would either directly or peripherally benefit the band—Philadelphia emerging as the nation’s indie rock capital, the emo revival, mainstream attention to Fest, the annual October weekend in Gainesville, Fla., that serves as a proving ground for many of the bands responsible for those first two narratives. Praise would eventually start to accumulate, the most notable being a tweet where blink–182’s Mark Hoppus called this record’s “Tibetan Pop Stars” “the most painfully beautiful song ever.” Whatever your qualms with the source, Hoppus’ words reached an audience for whom a blink-182 cosign could make a difference. And you know what? “Tibetan Pop Stars” is painfully beautiful, though perhaps not as indicative of any vestigial emo roots as the nearly seven-minute song written from the perspective of a talking mattress, serving as an impartial arbiter in a breakup that just won’t end (“Laments”). But along with beautiful pain and painful beauty, “Tibetan Pop Stars” is also really, really funny, with Quinlan seeking escape from being tied down in any way, especially a boring relationship. And if anyone did ask her about her significant other, fuck something as basic as “he’s in Canada”: Quinlan’s beau is a seducer of Tibetan pop stars and connoisseur of luxury automobiles. It’s the work of a whimsical, wild imagination, but it's also an alibi, one that will probably get the asker to let the subject drop and leave her alone. The humor of Get Disowned may have deflected from just how brutally honest and devastating it is. In 2012, Quinlan described her ultimate songwriting goal as, “finding [a] character and creating a world,” which seemed more in line with the literary, referential Painted Shut than it does with the songs here. The tragedies and personal failings on Get Disowned feel more like autobiography—“Trouble Found Me” expresses the horrifying imagery of her stepfather after suffering a catastrophic accident (“you came in with your jaw torn, still talking”), along with the vivid memories of technicalities that tend to stick with trauma sufferers. Quinlan remembers things like the chicken in the oven before arriving to the hospital and seeing nurses playing poker while a blind man convalesces in the next bed over. The account of a family friend’s death on the rollicking roots-rocker “Sally II” starts with a literally breathtaking mention of “that unsettling smell had gotten into all the tenants’ rooms,” and it’s the mundane forensic details that are even more unnerving: the apartment is littered with weightlifting magazines and a piece of junk mail with a fake million-dollar check (“you thought it was the real thing”). Get Disowned is a meditation on death and loss every bit as compelling as Southeastern, Benji, or Carrie & Lowell, and boasts more inventive language than any of them. But Hop Along, in part because the project was so new, initially had a harder time getting noticed. And while Quinlan’s voice is unusually expressive—she often screams and restrains herself at the same time, so it sounds like her lungs might burst—it rarely sounds objectively sad in a way that immediately conveys gravitas or fragility to a casual listener. Play “Sally II” at a party, ask a friend what it’s about and see how close they get to “an older man dying alone in his apartment.” The record’s most pressing issue may be one that was hit upon in an interview with Quinlan and her brother Mark, Hop Along’s drummer. Frances described the prevailing theme of Get Disowned as “baggage,” to which Mark added, “not being able to have your mistakes written off just because you’re young.” Right there, the siblings touched the nerve that rightfully triggers a shudder in anyone who’s been the target of all those “why can’t these entitled millennials just wash their cereal bowls like we did in the good ol’ days?”-style pieces, written by someone who refuses to take ownership of the degraded world they’ve left for the younger generation. It feels like the Quinlans were speaking to how people can be seriously damaged by their youth and still not be taken seriously. Sure, kids might learn to process and turn these experiences into assets—“Hop Along” itself was a nickname given to Quinlan in high school for being a slow walker. Or they may repress them and have them mutate into something uglier and intractable that continues throughout their lives. Even if a middle-schooler is aware of what’s at stake in the upcoming presidential election or reads an article about Flint’s water crisis, if they got picked on at school, that’s probably the most important thing in the world to them right now. Get Disowned lends dignity to the truth that each person’s struggle and recovery is theirs, regardless of how it may present to outsiders or how it seems relative to more pervasive and global concerns. As Hop Along would soon find out, the first step to a breakthrough is just to be heard.

Artist: Hop Along, Album: Get Disowned, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "The consensus critical acclaim for Hop Along’s sophomore LP, Painted Shut, felt like a foregone conclusion, and the band’s singer and songwriter Frances Quinlan was given the title of the best voice in indie rock without much dissent. But Google “Hop Along Get Disowned Review", and you’ll see that the band’s proper 2012 debut (Quinlan had released a solo album under the name) was as universally overlooked as Painted Shut was universally praised. With its swift reissue on Saddle Creek, Get Disowned now feels like it could’ve been Painted Shut’s complicated, difficult follow-up, but one that stands to be just as beloved, because this band remains virtually peerless in indie rock. In 2012, Hop Along weren’t the robust, road-tested band that could be tasked with warming up amphitheaters for heartland indie acts like the War on Drugs, Modest Mouse, and Dr. Dog. Get Disowned's original release also happened at least a year before any of the narratives that would either directly or peripherally benefit the band—Philadelphia emerging as the nation’s indie rock capital, the emo revival, mainstream attention to Fest, the annual October weekend in Gainesville, Fla., that serves as a proving ground for many of the bands responsible for those first two narratives. Praise would eventually start to accumulate, the most notable being a tweet where blink–182’s Mark Hoppus called this record’s “Tibetan Pop Stars” “the most painfully beautiful song ever.” Whatever your qualms with the source, Hoppus’ words reached an audience for whom a blink-182 cosign could make a difference. And you know what? “Tibetan Pop Stars” is painfully beautiful, though perhaps not as indicative of any vestigial emo roots as the nearly seven-minute song written from the perspective of a talking mattress, serving as an impartial arbiter in a breakup that just won’t end (“Laments”). But along with beautiful pain and painful beauty, “Tibetan Pop Stars” is also really, really funny, with Quinlan seeking escape from being tied down in any way, especially a boring relationship. And if anyone did ask her about her significant other, fuck something as basic as “he’s in Canada”: Quinlan’s beau is a seducer of Tibetan pop stars and connoisseur of luxury automobiles. It’s the work of a whimsical, wild imagination, but it's also an alibi, one that will probably get the asker to let the subject drop and leave her alone. The humor of Get Disowned may have deflected from just how brutally honest and devastating it is. In 2012, Quinlan described her ultimate songwriting goal as, “finding [a] character and creating a world,” which seemed more in line with the literary, referential Painted Shut than it does with the songs here. The tragedies and personal failings on Get Disowned feel more like autobiography—“Trouble Found Me” expresses the horrifying imagery of her stepfather after suffering a catastrophic accident (“you came in with your jaw torn, still talking”), along with the vivid memories of technicalities that tend to stick with trauma sufferers. Quinlan remembers things like the chicken in the oven before arriving to the hospital and seeing nurses playing poker while a blind man convalesces in the next bed over. The account of a family friend’s death on the rollicking roots-rocker “Sally II” starts with a literally breathtaking mention of “that unsettling smell had gotten into all the tenants’ rooms,” and it’s the mundane forensic details that are even more unnerving: the apartment is littered with weightlifting magazines and a piece of junk mail with a fake million-dollar check (“you thought it was the real thing”). Get Disowned is a meditation on death and loss every bit as compelling as Southeastern, Benji, or Carrie & Lowell, and boasts more inventive language than any of them. But Hop Along, in part because the project was so new, initially had a harder time getting noticed. And while Quinlan’s voice is unusually expressive—she often screams and restrains herself at the same time, so it sounds like her lungs might burst—it rarely sounds objectively sad in a way that immediately conveys gravitas or fragility to a casual listener. Play “Sally II” at a party, ask a friend what it’s about and see how close they get to “an older man dying alone in his apartment.” The record’s most pressing issue may be one that was hit upon in an interview with Quinlan and her brother Mark, Hop Along’s drummer. Frances described the prevailing theme of Get Disowned as “baggage,” to which Mark added, “not being able to have your mistakes written off just because you’re young.” Right there, the siblings touched the nerve that rightfully triggers a shudder in anyone who’s been the target of all those “why can’t these entitled millennials just wash their cereal bowls like we did in the good ol’ days?”-style pieces, written by someone who refuses to take ownership of the degraded world they’ve left for the younger generation. It feels like the Quinlans were speaking to how people can be seriously damaged by their youth and still not be taken seriously. Sure, kids might learn to process and turn these experiences into assets—“Hop Along” itself was a nickname given to Quinlan in high school for being a slow walker. Or they may repress them and have them mutate into something uglier and intractable that continues throughout their lives. Even if a middle-schooler is aware of what’s at stake in the upcoming presidential election or reads an article about Flint’s water crisis, if they got picked on at school, that’s probably the most important thing in the world to them right now. Get Disowned lends dignity to the truth that each person’s struggle and recovery is theirs, regardless of how it may present to outsiders or how it seems relative to more pervasive and global concerns. As Hop Along would soon find out, the first step to a breakthrough is just to be heard."

764-HERO

Weekends of Sound

Rock

Ryan Kearney

Almost exactly six years ago, during my first trip to the Pacific Northwest, I found myself sitting with a few friends at a wooden picnic table somewhere in Washington. It was Saturday, but kids weren't playing on the nearby field, and no adults strolled by. The uniform gray concrete at our feet was a mirror to the sky. We were damp and heavy, buoys suspended in the thick cold fog. I picked at the peeling green paint on the sodden table; thick splinters of wood came up instead. I'd never been in that town before, but it seemed eerily familiar. "What's this place called again?" I asked. A friend replied, "Aberdeen." Where had I heard that? The table slowly deteriorated before me. I'd created a miniature canyon in its surface before realizing I was in Kurt Cobain's hometown. So this is why he killed himself... After grunge hit the mainstream, there was so much discussion of the Pacific Northwest's supposed depression-inducing effects on local music that the area's gloomy conditions became synonymous with the music scene. But when a bunch of bands with similar sounds all come from a particular area, I don't buy that it has anything to do with the temperature and humidity. Sure, the more recent bands to emerge from the region (Built to Spill, Elliott Smith, Modest Mouse, Death Cab for Cutie, etc.) share some similarities with the climate, but had I never heard of, say, Quasi, and someone played them for me, asking where I thought they hailed from, I wouldn't have known. And if I had, it'd have been based on a resemblance to other artists from the area, not the 7-day forecast. But ah! An exception. 764-HERO is the perfect soundtrack for their homeland. Maybe the band knew this when they formed, and named themselves after the Washington state hotline to report carpool lane violators to firmly establish their geographic origins. But they were different back in those days-- just a two-piece with drums, a guitar and vocals on their 1996 debut, Salt Sinks and Sugar Floats. In 1998, they picked up Red Stars Theory bassist James Bertram and joined Built to Spill producer Phil Ek in the studio to record the more varied, but occasionally aimless, Get Here and Stay. Now, on their third full-length, Weekends of Sound, the band showcases their strengths and improves upon their weaknesses, making it their most accomplished work to date. Vocalist/guitarist John Atkins still sings as if fatigued by emotion, and the band's sound isn't remarkably different, but various touches make them sound richer than ever. The crisp production also remains, thus proving to those still unsure that Phil Ek is one of indie rock's best. On "Out like a Light," Atkins is backed during the chorus by Bertram's cascading vocals, making the lines, "It's your turn to listen/ Yeah, you will," sound not just casually antagonistic, but cathartic, too. Atkins' distant howl on "Leslie" and the accompanying soft, reverberating guitar strums raise the song from a potentially forgettable lull to an otherworldly drift. 764-HERO's critics often label them as a moodier, lazier Built to Spill, and that seemed somewhat accurate on Get Here and Stay. But on Weekends of Sound, the band aspires to new heights, best illustrated by their nine-minute epic, "Left Hanging." The track begins with quiet chimes and casual note picking, and slowly builds until a rising guitar takes over for a chorus that makes room for both poppy handclaps and Atkins' distorted larynx-thrashing. Even Atkins' often maudlin lyrics have been refined. "Summer takes your hand/ 'This part's scary,'" he sings sarcastically on the title track. He retains the sincere lyrics that endeared him to many fans, but he no longer sounds helpless or despondent, as exemplified by the song's next lyric: "We're so tired of weekends of sound/ And you will sit down, shut up and keep it honest." And for those who crave it, a couple of songs here-- "You Were the Long Way Home" and "Something Else"-- are standard, sentimental 764-HERO, with Atkins singing on the latter, "October came too soon/ And I'm left wondering why." That the band has improved, and that they still fit their home climate, is apparent from the very first track, "Terrified of Flight." The song opens with a drumbeat that pistons back and forth, a high hat like rushing water, and a submerged, beguiling bassline. "Night keeps going/ We keep standing still," sings John Atkins in tonal alignment with his guitar. Soon thereafter, he narrates, "Minutes later, we don't hear a sound.../ We don't notice all the passing time/ We were in the sight/ Terrified of flight." This music is Washington as dark sets in: the fog dampening all sound, and melancholia seeping into our every pore.

Artist: 764-HERO, Album: Weekends of Sound, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Almost exactly six years ago, during my first trip to the Pacific Northwest, I found myself sitting with a few friends at a wooden picnic table somewhere in Washington. It was Saturday, but kids weren't playing on the nearby field, and no adults strolled by. The uniform gray concrete at our feet was a mirror to the sky. We were damp and heavy, buoys suspended in the thick cold fog. I picked at the peeling green paint on the sodden table; thick splinters of wood came up instead. I'd never been in that town before, but it seemed eerily familiar. "What's this place called again?" I asked. A friend replied, "Aberdeen." Where had I heard that? The table slowly deteriorated before me. I'd created a miniature canyon in its surface before realizing I was in Kurt Cobain's hometown. So this is why he killed himself... After grunge hit the mainstream, there was so much discussion of the Pacific Northwest's supposed depression-inducing effects on local music that the area's gloomy conditions became synonymous with the music scene. But when a bunch of bands with similar sounds all come from a particular area, I don't buy that it has anything to do with the temperature and humidity. Sure, the more recent bands to emerge from the region (Built to Spill, Elliott Smith, Modest Mouse, Death Cab for Cutie, etc.) share some similarities with the climate, but had I never heard of, say, Quasi, and someone played them for me, asking where I thought they hailed from, I wouldn't have known. And if I had, it'd have been based on a resemblance to other artists from the area, not the 7-day forecast. But ah! An exception. 764-HERO is the perfect soundtrack for their homeland. Maybe the band knew this when they formed, and named themselves after the Washington state hotline to report carpool lane violators to firmly establish their geographic origins. But they were different back in those days-- just a two-piece with drums, a guitar and vocals on their 1996 debut, Salt Sinks and Sugar Floats. In 1998, they picked up Red Stars Theory bassist James Bertram and joined Built to Spill producer Phil Ek in the studio to record the more varied, but occasionally aimless, Get Here and Stay. Now, on their third full-length, Weekends of Sound, the band showcases their strengths and improves upon their weaknesses, making it their most accomplished work to date. Vocalist/guitarist John Atkins still sings as if fatigued by emotion, and the band's sound isn't remarkably different, but various touches make them sound richer than ever. The crisp production also remains, thus proving to those still unsure that Phil Ek is one of indie rock's best. On "Out like a Light," Atkins is backed during the chorus by Bertram's cascading vocals, making the lines, "It's your turn to listen/ Yeah, you will," sound not just casually antagonistic, but cathartic, too. Atkins' distant howl on "Leslie" and the accompanying soft, reverberating guitar strums raise the song from a potentially forgettable lull to an otherworldly drift. 764-HERO's critics often label them as a moodier, lazier Built to Spill, and that seemed somewhat accurate on Get Here and Stay. But on Weekends of Sound, the band aspires to new heights, best illustrated by their nine-minute epic, "Left Hanging." The track begins with quiet chimes and casual note picking, and slowly builds until a rising guitar takes over for a chorus that makes room for both poppy handclaps and Atkins' distorted larynx-thrashing. Even Atkins' often maudlin lyrics have been refined. "Summer takes your hand/ 'This part's scary,'" he sings sarcastically on the title track. He retains the sincere lyrics that endeared him to many fans, but he no longer sounds helpless or despondent, as exemplified by the song's next lyric: "We're so tired of weekends of sound/ And you will sit down, shut up and keep it honest." And for those who crave it, a couple of songs here-- "You Were the Long Way Home" and "Something Else"-- are standard, sentimental 764-HERO, with Atkins singing on the latter, "October came too soon/ And I'm left wondering why." That the band has improved, and that they still fit their home climate, is apparent from the very first track, "Terrified of Flight." The song opens with a drumbeat that pistons back and forth, a high hat like rushing water, and a submerged, beguiling bassline. "Night keeps going/ We keep standing still," sings John Atkins in tonal alignment with his guitar. Soon thereafter, he narrates, "Minutes later, we don't hear a sound.../ We don't notice all the passing time/ We were in the sight/ Terrified of flight." This music is Washington as dark sets in: the fog dampening all sound, and melancholia seeping into our every pore."

Betty Davis

The Columbia Years 1968-69

Pop/R&B

Nate Patrin

In February 1968, Durham, North Carolina’s Betty Mabry released a 7”—“Live, Love, Learn” b/w “It’s My Life”—that received limited distribution and even more limited airplay despite a pop-friendly arrangement by Hugh Masekela. Five years later, she re-emerged on record as Betty Davis and released a string of LPs more renowned for their outrageousness and rawness than their commercial success, a swing apparently too far in the other direction for the general public. Tina Turner and Alice Cooper were both big in ’73, but imagine the former howling and sneering like the latter and it’s easy to understand both why Davis startled both sides of the funk/rock line she stood astride, and why later enthusiasts of underdog artists took to her like a great lost icon. Betty’s relationship with and eventual marriage to Miles is renowned for the effect she had on him: At 22, she got the pop-detached Miles into the giants of psychedelic rock, including Jimi Hendrix, that would revitalize his inspiration and lead to his revolutionary electric period. Betty wasn’t just a scenester or a hanger-on; she was a tuned-in tastemaker with deep charisma and the kind of attitude that could’ve made her a superstar in a less-anxious world, and she was both quick to learn and driven to direct. It’s one thing that Betty got Miles into Hendrix, but another thing entirely that she got a couple of Hendrix’s fellow band members to record with her—and had them join a group that included some of the key players on Bitches Brew, the album whose name was suggested by Betty herself.  Still, Betty Davis’ story isn't quite as cut-and-dry between her Mabry years and her emergence as the woman touted as too wild for Miles—especially when you explore the actual recorded results of her and Miles’ mutual influence, as the newly unearthed sessions on The Columbia Years 1968-1969 prove. The inspiration might have radiated both ways; John Ballon’s liner notes point out as much, with Betty vividly recalling Miles as a catalyst and a mentor who’d inspire her later solo run. But her full potential wasn't realized until years after these recordings, which primarily work as a sometimes exciting, sometimes half-sketched prelude to the more iconoclastic things that’d follow in the ’70s. For a set of recordings that feature the Billy Cox/Mitch Mitchell rhythm section of the Jimi Hendrix Experience's final incarnation and some of the most revolutionary players of Miles’ electric period—Harvey Brooks, John McLaughlin, Herbie Hancock, Larry Young, and Wayne Shorter—just about everyone here, Betty Davis included, sounds like they’re just getting warmed up. This hybridized Hendrix/Miles vision of the band hadn't rehearsed prior to the recording session, and it shows: You can actually hear them start to click mid-song as early-take vamping starts to tighten up. Over the course of two sessions in May 1969, less than a week apart, the band was directed by Miles and co-signed by Betty to charge through Sly-esque funk-rock (the dizzy carousel rides of “Hangin’ Out” and “I’m Ready, Willing & Able”), a Southern-soul Ike & Tina Revue rave-up (“Down Home Girl”), and covers of Cream (“Politician,” retitled as “Politician Man”) and Creedence (“Born on the Bayou”). They’re game enough, of course, and with further time they all could’ve cut a record so undeniable that Miles’ attempts to shop the record around could’ve overcome Columbia's stated reluctance to push R&B albums. (At the very least, a little seasoning could've made them strong crossover-potential labelmates of the Chambers Brothers.) But “I’m Ready, Willing & Able”—or the ninth take of it included here—is the closest we get to evidence that it could really measure up to everybody's reputations, with Betty’s subdued-but-sharp vocals and the tight, nervy guitar/organ interplay driving things home. (The specific musicians aren’t credited from track to track, but it’s not hard to pick up the distinctly heated tones of Young’s B-3 and McLaughlin’s sharp-edged riffing.) The other tracks’ more freewheeling feel can provide a certain kick. The sweetly sung “Politician Man” is just loose enough to feel scuzzy without sounding sloppy. And the fourth-take “Down Home Girl” captures the point where the quality of the band’s jazz-guys-do-Southern-soul routine started approaching the other-way-around version that Booker T. & the M.G.’s would do two years later on Melting Pot. But you can still feel the tension of the musicians trying to make sure everything falls into place, whether it does or not, and even the Teo Macero production credit can’t hide that these songs feel like they could’ve used just a little more polish. Just not, you know, *too much *polish—the three tracks she cut with Hugh Masekela in 1968 attest to that. Betty’s interviewed in the liner notes here, and she lets slip a funny-if-awkward anecdote about leaving Hugh for Miles in both a musical and relationship sense. (As she recalls Hugh lamenting during a chance encounter at an airport: “How could you marry my idol, Betty?”) It feels like, especially through retrospective looks back from both parties, that the musical side of the relationship was rewarding but just a bit ‘off,’ with Masekela’s impending pop breakthrough via “Grazing in the Grass” foreshadowed in these tracks more than the fusion-edged township soul-jazz hybrids of his later ’60s and early ’70s were. Davis didn’t entirely fit, either: she sounds fiercely independent and iconoclastic belting out “It’s My Life” and fiercely seething on “My Soul Is Tired,” but the fact that the saccharine, string-drenched, light-headed ballad “Live, Love, Learn” was what Columbia chose for the A-side of her only single for the label points square at why Betty needed a clean break and a new start in the first place. But above all else, whether it's during the sessions with Masekela or with Miles, it’s illuminating to hear Betty Davis’ voice when she's still in the process of figuring out how to let it off the chain. She’s not the ‘nasty gal’ yet, with “Politician Man” as close as she gets to the provocateur cool she’d cultivate starting with her solo debut. That particular impression lingered, at least; an ad-libbed purr of ‘get in the back seat’ was enough to inspire Miles to title a *The Man With the Horn *cut “Back Seat Betty” more than ten years later. But it’s the studio banter included at the end of that track that hints at the deeper stuff: Miles comes in with gravelly authority to state “That’s good, ah, you can overdub that,” only for Betty to exclaim “*Overdub *that?” with all the disbeli

Artist: Betty Davis, Album: The Columbia Years 1968-69, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "In February 1968, Durham, North Carolina’s Betty Mabry released a 7”—“Live, Love, Learn” b/w “It’s My Life”—that received limited distribution and even more limited airplay despite a pop-friendly arrangement by Hugh Masekela. Five years later, she re-emerged on record as Betty Davis and released a string of LPs more renowned for their outrageousness and rawness than their commercial success, a swing apparently too far in the other direction for the general public. Tina Turner and Alice Cooper were both big in ’73, but imagine the former howling and sneering like the latter and it’s easy to understand both why Davis startled both sides of the funk/rock line she stood astride, and why later enthusiasts of underdog artists took to her like a great lost icon. Betty’s relationship with and eventual marriage to Miles is renowned for the effect she had on him: At 22, she got the pop-detached Miles into the giants of psychedelic rock, including Jimi Hendrix, that would revitalize his inspiration and lead to his revolutionary electric period. Betty wasn’t just a scenester or a hanger-on; she was a tuned-in tastemaker with deep charisma and the kind of attitude that could’ve made her a superstar in a less-anxious world, and she was both quick to learn and driven to direct. It’s one thing that Betty got Miles into Hendrix, but another thing entirely that she got a couple of Hendrix’s fellow band members to record with her—and had them join a group that included some of the key players on Bitches Brew, the album whose name was suggested by Betty herself.  Still, Betty Davis’ story isn't quite as cut-and-dry between her Mabry years and her emergence as the woman touted as too wild for Miles—especially when you explore the actual recorded results of her and Miles’ mutual influence, as the newly unearthed sessions on The Columbia Years 1968-1969 prove. The inspiration might have radiated both ways; John Ballon’s liner notes point out as much, with Betty vividly recalling Miles as a catalyst and a mentor who’d inspire her later solo run. But her full potential wasn't realized until years after these recordings, which primarily work as a sometimes exciting, sometimes half-sketched prelude to the more iconoclastic things that’d follow in the ’70s. For a set of recordings that feature the Billy Cox/Mitch Mitchell rhythm section of the Jimi Hendrix Experience's final incarnation and some of the most revolutionary players of Miles’ electric period—Harvey Brooks, John McLaughlin, Herbie Hancock, Larry Young, and Wayne Shorter—just about everyone here, Betty Davis included, sounds like they’re just getting warmed up. This hybridized Hendrix/Miles vision of the band hadn't rehearsed prior to the recording session, and it shows: You can actually hear them start to click mid-song as early-take vamping starts to tighten up. Over the course of two sessions in May 1969, less than a week apart, the band was directed by Miles and co-signed by Betty to charge through Sly-esque funk-rock (the dizzy carousel rides of “Hangin’ Out” and “I’m Ready, Willing & Able”), a Southern-soul Ike & Tina Revue rave-up (“Down Home Girl”), and covers of Cream (“Politician,” retitled as “Politician Man”) and Creedence (“Born on the Bayou”). They’re game enough, of course, and with further time they all could’ve cut a record so undeniable that Miles’ attempts to shop the record around could’ve overcome Columbia's stated reluctance to push R&B albums. (At the very least, a little seasoning could've made them strong crossover-potential labelmates of the Chambers Brothers.) But “I’m Ready, Willing & Able”—or the ninth take of it included here—is the closest we get to evidence that it could really measure up to everybody's reputations, with Betty’s subdued-but-sharp vocals and the tight, nervy guitar/organ interplay driving things home. (The specific musicians aren’t credited from track to track, but it’s not hard to pick up the distinctly heated tones of Young’s B-3 and McLaughlin’s sharp-edged riffing.) The other tracks’ more freewheeling feel can provide a certain kick. The sweetly sung “Politician Man” is just loose enough to feel scuzzy without sounding sloppy. And the fourth-take “Down Home Girl” captures the point where the quality of the band’s jazz-guys-do-Southern-soul routine started approaching the other-way-around version that Booker T. & the M.G.’s would do two years later on Melting Pot. But you can still feel the tension of the musicians trying to make sure everything falls into place, whether it does or not, and even the Teo Macero production credit can’t hide that these songs feel like they could’ve used just a little more polish. Just not, you know, *too much *polish—the three tracks she cut with Hugh Masekela in 1968 attest to that. Betty’s interviewed in the liner notes here, and she lets slip a funny-if-awkward anecdote about leaving Hugh for Miles in both a musical and relationship sense. (As she recalls Hugh lamenting during a chance encounter at an airport: “How could you marry my idol, Betty?”) It feels like, especially through retrospective looks back from both parties, that the musical side of the relationship was rewarding but just a bit ‘off,’ with Masekela’s impending pop breakthrough via “Grazing in the Grass” foreshadowed in these tracks more than the fusion-edged township soul-jazz hybrids of his later ’60s and early ’70s were. Davis didn’t entirely fit, either: she sounds fiercely independent and iconoclastic belting out “It’s My Life” and fiercely seething on “My Soul Is Tired,” but the fact that the saccharine, string-drenched, light-headed ballad “Live, Love, Learn” was what Columbia chose for the A-side of her only single for the label points square at why Betty needed a clean break and a new start in the first place. But above all else, whether it's during the sessions with Masekela or with Miles, it’s illuminating to hear Betty Davis’ voice when she's still in the process of figuring out how to let it off the chain. She’s not the ‘nasty gal’ yet, with “Politician Man” as close as she gets to the provocateur cool she’d cultivate starting with her solo debut. That particular impression lingered, at least; an ad-libbed purr of ‘get in the back seat’ was enough to inspire Miles to title a *The Man With the Horn *cut “Back Seat Betty” more than ten years later. But it’s the studio banter included at the end of that track that hints at the deeper stuff: Miles comes in with gravelly authority to state “That’s good, ah, you can overdub that,” only for Betty to exclaim “*Overdub *that?” with all the disbeli"

The Orb

Baghdad Batteries: Orbsessions Vol. III

Electronic

Jess Harvell

The Orb's new-millennium output has varied so wildly, quality-wise, that there's become a sense that a "good" new Orb album is mostly down to whoever has control of the mixing desk this time out. On the one hand, this seems unfair to me, because it always sounds like there's some guilt driving the grudging praise that needs to be alleviated by claiming the new guy in the creative mix is responsible for the much-needed shot-in-the-arm/aesthetic steadying. Not that, say, Thomas Fehlmann is some spring chicken, but you know what I mean. On the other, I can't deny that the Orb's 21st-century discography is pretty inconsistent, both as a body of work and on an album-by-album basis. With that in mind, I listened to the new Orb album, Baghdad Batteries: Orbsessions Vol. III, completely blind. No idea whose hands/brains were responsible for which track. And it's solid enough: entertaining if rarely revelatory, which probably isn't a reasonable expectation anyway, and dangerously stuck between multiple either/ors-- uptempo and downtempo, retro and innovation. And so the Orb go casting around for proven hits. For the most part, the album keeps from slumping into the kind of pleasantly familiar bulletin from a long-running act, the kind of late-career album that gets shelved after three months in favor of the older, better stuff. Baghdad's sure hand with the mid-tempo isn't surprising, as the Orb helped invent the rave middle-ground, but unfortunately whimsy and personality can add only so much to Xeroxes. Baghdad recycles recent rave history so frequently that it's got to lean very hard on the Orb's way with beautiful textures to keep listeners from shrugging, sighing, and pulling out the originals. The first half is muted, drizzly-day ambient-techno-- think "The Blue Room" snipped of the reggae-inflections for the post-Berlin generation; a more streamlined version of Jan Jelinek in throbbing 1970s prog weirdness mode; some not-unpleasant nods to the Artificial Intelligence first-wavers, albeit made with slicker tech. Unfortunately, occasionally, this side of Baghdad does slip into outright, unflattering copycat-ism, swiping from both 90s and 00s continental European classics. Opener "Styrofoam Meltdown" is such a shameless Chain Reaction jack that it even trots out Monolake's precipitation FX, and "Dolly Unit" proves somebody in the Orb camp has been monitoring the Field's rise to clubland acclaim. Achieving, at their best, a kind of playful conviction, these aren't bad tracks, but they're far too derivative to bother with a third or fourth listen, especially with Hong Kong or From Here We Go Sublime only a click or two away. "Raven's Reprise" is the best of Baghdad's cloning experiments, a truly strange graft of Gas at Wolfgang Voigt's airiest and Terry Riley when he was still nuts for the organ arpeggios. But I can't deny my ears picked up noticeably from track six onward, when things started to get more, well, Orb-esque. The appearance of that old house-meets-dub skank on "Super Soakers" feels downright welcome after the preceding pulseless 20 minutes, as does "Suburban Smog" with electro stabs further agitating some clattering jazz-house percussion. But the best tracks on Baghdad are the shortest and least obviously indebted, tacked to the end as if they were outro-style afterthoughts. "Pebbles" induces a mini-swoon with just a minute's worth of Lawrence Welk-ian harp runs fed through various fidelity-degrading filters; "Woodlarking" reminds me of the disembodied soul-radio moans of Durutti Column's "Otis" if Vini Reilly had been briefly obsessed with Kraftwerk. These small-scale charmers make me wish for an album's worth of Orb miniatures, perhaps a more fruitful future avenue as Alex Paterson and pals move into their third decade. Everyone loses if we sit around waiting for another "Little Fluffy Clouds", but I can't exactly say who wins if the Orb spend the next 10 years looking for creative juice in other people's records.

Artist: The Orb, Album: Baghdad Batteries: Orbsessions Vol. III, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 5.4 Album review: "The Orb's new-millennium output has varied so wildly, quality-wise, that there's become a sense that a "good" new Orb album is mostly down to whoever has control of the mixing desk this time out. On the one hand, this seems unfair to me, because it always sounds like there's some guilt driving the grudging praise that needs to be alleviated by claiming the new guy in the creative mix is responsible for the much-needed shot-in-the-arm/aesthetic steadying. Not that, say, Thomas Fehlmann is some spring chicken, but you know what I mean. On the other, I can't deny that the Orb's 21st-century discography is pretty inconsistent, both as a body of work and on an album-by-album basis. With that in mind, I listened to the new Orb album, Baghdad Batteries: Orbsessions Vol. III, completely blind. No idea whose hands/brains were responsible for which track. And it's solid enough: entertaining if rarely revelatory, which probably isn't a reasonable expectation anyway, and dangerously stuck between multiple either/ors-- uptempo and downtempo, retro and innovation. And so the Orb go casting around for proven hits. For the most part, the album keeps from slumping into the kind of pleasantly familiar bulletin from a long-running act, the kind of late-career album that gets shelved after three months in favor of the older, better stuff. Baghdad's sure hand with the mid-tempo isn't surprising, as the Orb helped invent the rave middle-ground, but unfortunately whimsy and personality can add only so much to Xeroxes. Baghdad recycles recent rave history so frequently that it's got to lean very hard on the Orb's way with beautiful textures to keep listeners from shrugging, sighing, and pulling out the originals. The first half is muted, drizzly-day ambient-techno-- think "The Blue Room" snipped of the reggae-inflections for the post-Berlin generation; a more streamlined version of Jan Jelinek in throbbing 1970s prog weirdness mode; some not-unpleasant nods to the Artificial Intelligence first-wavers, albeit made with slicker tech. Unfortunately, occasionally, this side of Baghdad does slip into outright, unflattering copycat-ism, swiping from both 90s and 00s continental European classics. Opener "Styrofoam Meltdown" is such a shameless Chain Reaction jack that it even trots out Monolake's precipitation FX, and "Dolly Unit" proves somebody in the Orb camp has been monitoring the Field's rise to clubland acclaim. Achieving, at their best, a kind of playful conviction, these aren't bad tracks, but they're far too derivative to bother with a third or fourth listen, especially with Hong Kong or From Here We Go Sublime only a click or two away. "Raven's Reprise" is the best of Baghdad's cloning experiments, a truly strange graft of Gas at Wolfgang Voigt's airiest and Terry Riley when he was still nuts for the organ arpeggios. But I can't deny my ears picked up noticeably from track six onward, when things started to get more, well, Orb-esque. The appearance of that old house-meets-dub skank on "Super Soakers" feels downright welcome after the preceding pulseless 20 minutes, as does "Suburban Smog" with electro stabs further agitating some clattering jazz-house percussion. But the best tracks on Baghdad are the shortest and least obviously indebted, tacked to the end as if they were outro-style afterthoughts. "Pebbles" induces a mini-swoon with just a minute's worth of Lawrence Welk-ian harp runs fed through various fidelity-degrading filters; "Woodlarking" reminds me of the disembodied soul-radio moans of Durutti Column's "Otis" if Vini Reilly had been briefly obsessed with Kraftwerk. These small-scale charmers make me wish for an album's worth of Orb miniatures, perhaps a more fruitful future avenue as Alex Paterson and pals move into their third decade. Everyone loses if we sit around waiting for another "Little Fluffy Clouds", but I can't exactly say who wins if the Orb spend the next 10 years looking for creative juice in other people's records."

The Posies

Dream All Day: The Best of...

Rock

Al Shipley

"Best of" collections are always awkward affairs for fans, who are naturally never quite satisfied with the song selection. The situation is intensified for bands of only modest mainstream success, whose completist fans will likely comprise 90% of the album sales for such a compilation. In the Posies' case, the label that underpromoted their albums and eventually dropped them is almost certainly using this release as one last excuse to screw the band over, distilling their major label output to one album so they can later delete the band's three proper titles from the catalog with little fanfare. That said, the Posies managed to take full advantage of one more opportunity to look back on the 10 years they gave to their label before they ran out of steam. Dream All Day is packed to nearly the maximum running time, offering a few songs from each of the band's DGC albums, and completely overlooking the indie- issued career bookends, Failure and Success. The record also contains several non-album tracks, along with some previously unreleased and otherwise hard- to-find material. The liner notes are lovingly detailed, complete with a chronology of the band's history and a ranting essay about how the Posies really "mean it," whatever that's worth. Of course, such backpatting is to be expected of a band that announced their breakup, then recorded one last album, did a few final tours, and released a live album. Maybe they have a bet running with Braid as to who can turn out the most posthumous material. (We're still waiting on that Never Has Come for Us: Best of Braid 1993-1999 three-disc anthology, guys.) The collection kicks off, as did 1990's Dear 23, with "My Big Mouth," a snappy, smartass tune that comes and goes long enough to trap its hook in your head without coming close to wearing out its welcome. But while that album seems to be the preference of most critics and fans, its other tracks simply don't live up to the insistence and quick payoff of the opening track. Recorded by legendary British hitmaker John Leckie, Dear 23 sported that confused, muddled sound that permeated most early '90s rock before grunge hit big and gave producers an easy sound to latch onto. The hooks were there, but the acoustic-and-electric guitar strumming and glossy harmonies make it relatively toothless compared to the Posies later work. If only Leckie could have done for the Posies' second album what he did for Radiohead's. By the time 1993's Frosting on the Beater came around, the aforementioned grunge thing, compounded with their vicinity to Seattle, had become an unavoidable direction. But instead of tossing out their pop smarts for more attitude, they settled for writing better songs and letting Gumball's Don Fleming add the necessary heaviness to the production. The result was a modest hit in this collection's title track, "Dream All Day." On "Solar Sister," Jon Auer unleashes one of the most jawdropping guitar solos of the period, perfectly locking in with the dynamic drums and bringing the song's already catchy melody to unexpected heights. After a detour into "Going, Going, Gone," a fine contribution to the otherwise mediocre Reality Bites soundtrack, the compilation proceeds to short change the album that got the Posies dropped from DGC, 1996's Amazing Disgrace. The press for the record stubbornly insisted that it was the loud, raw work of a band fresh off their tour bus. The meager selections here follow suit, offering the crunching but still hummable singles "Please Return It" and "Ontario," as well as the band's absolute low- point, the wanton angst of "Everybody is a Fucking Liar." Meanwhile, the whole of Amazing Disgrace is by far the most varied and interesting Posies album. The fanboy in me weeps for the grand "Song #1," the supremely rocking "Grant Hart," and the small, eloquent "The Certainty." At least Dream All Day does include "Throwaway," one of the strongest tunes in the Posies catalog, despite the song's uncharacteristically tuneless introductory guitar solo. Also salvaged is the outtake "Sad to be Aware," which sounds way too good to have been left off Disgrace in favor of filler like "Broken Record." If Dream All Day indicates anything, it's that the Posies probably deserve a little better than the footnote status they've been granted in retrospect of their 10 years as an entity. While the elements that comprised their sound were not so unique in and of themselves, it's hard to think of many other bands of the past decade who combined smart, subtle lyrics with traditional pop/rock dynamics and pitch-perfect male harmonies. That's gotta count for something, eh?

Artist: The Posies, Album: Dream All Day: The Best of..., Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: ""Best of" collections are always awkward affairs for fans, who are naturally never quite satisfied with the song selection. The situation is intensified for bands of only modest mainstream success, whose completist fans will likely comprise 90% of the album sales for such a compilation. In the Posies' case, the label that underpromoted their albums and eventually dropped them is almost certainly using this release as one last excuse to screw the band over, distilling their major label output to one album so they can later delete the band's three proper titles from the catalog with little fanfare. That said, the Posies managed to take full advantage of one more opportunity to look back on the 10 years they gave to their label before they ran out of steam. Dream All Day is packed to nearly the maximum running time, offering a few songs from each of the band's DGC albums, and completely overlooking the indie- issued career bookends, Failure and Success. The record also contains several non-album tracks, along with some previously unreleased and otherwise hard- to-find material. The liner notes are lovingly detailed, complete with a chronology of the band's history and a ranting essay about how the Posies really "mean it," whatever that's worth. Of course, such backpatting is to be expected of a band that announced their breakup, then recorded one last album, did a few final tours, and released a live album. Maybe they have a bet running with Braid as to who can turn out the most posthumous material. (We're still waiting on that Never Has Come for Us: Best of Braid 1993-1999 three-disc anthology, guys.) The collection kicks off, as did 1990's Dear 23, with "My Big Mouth," a snappy, smartass tune that comes and goes long enough to trap its hook in your head without coming close to wearing out its welcome. But while that album seems to be the preference of most critics and fans, its other tracks simply don't live up to the insistence and quick payoff of the opening track. Recorded by legendary British hitmaker John Leckie, Dear 23 sported that confused, muddled sound that permeated most early '90s rock before grunge hit big and gave producers an easy sound to latch onto. The hooks were there, but the acoustic-and-electric guitar strumming and glossy harmonies make it relatively toothless compared to the Posies later work. If only Leckie could have done for the Posies' second album what he did for Radiohead's. By the time 1993's Frosting on the Beater came around, the aforementioned grunge thing, compounded with their vicinity to Seattle, had become an unavoidable direction. But instead of tossing out their pop smarts for more attitude, they settled for writing better songs and letting Gumball's Don Fleming add the necessary heaviness to the production. The result was a modest hit in this collection's title track, "Dream All Day." On "Solar Sister," Jon Auer unleashes one of the most jawdropping guitar solos of the period, perfectly locking in with the dynamic drums and bringing the song's already catchy melody to unexpected heights. After a detour into "Going, Going, Gone," a fine contribution to the otherwise mediocre Reality Bites soundtrack, the compilation proceeds to short change the album that got the Posies dropped from DGC, 1996's Amazing Disgrace. The press for the record stubbornly insisted that it was the loud, raw work of a band fresh off their tour bus. The meager selections here follow suit, offering the crunching but still hummable singles "Please Return It" and "Ontario," as well as the band's absolute low- point, the wanton angst of "Everybody is a Fucking Liar." Meanwhile, the whole of Amazing Disgrace is by far the most varied and interesting Posies album. The fanboy in me weeps for the grand "Song #1," the supremely rocking "Grant Hart," and the small, eloquent "The Certainty." At least Dream All Day does include "Throwaway," one of the strongest tunes in the Posies catalog, despite the song's uncharacteristically tuneless introductory guitar solo. Also salvaged is the outtake "Sad to be Aware," which sounds way too good to have been left off Disgrace in favor of filler like "Broken Record." If Dream All Day indicates anything, it's that the Posies probably deserve a little better than the footnote status they've been granted in retrospect of their 10 years as an entity. While the elements that comprised their sound were not so unique in and of themselves, it's hard to think of many other bands of the past decade who combined smart, subtle lyrics with traditional pop/rock dynamics and pitch-perfect male harmonies. That's gotta count for something, eh?"

Fort Romeau

Insides

Electronic

Mark Pytlik

For the four years he’s released music as Fort Romeau, South London’s Michael Greene has poked curiously at house music’s form. On his 2012 debut, Kingdoms, Greene delivered a set of workmanlike deep-house all built around carefully manipulated vocal samples. Spread out over the next couple years, Fort Romeau’s ensuing four EPs documented both his continually improving production abilities and his widening palette. Thanks to moments like the Kosmische-influenced slow burn of 2013’s "Stay/True" (from the EP of the same name) or the stuttery tech-house/2-step of "SW9" (also from the EP of the same name), Greene quietly established himself as an intriguing new voice in the genre. Insides is Fort Romeau’s second full-length record, and although it doesn’t continue on quite the same upward trend of his recent discography in the risk-taking department, it does boast some of his most fully dimensional and impressively produced work yet. While there are barely any vocal samples to be found here, it’s adorned with the kinds of textures and details that had been missing from the wide-eyed Kingdoms. Tonally, it’s a darker and more pensive affair, one that’s less concerned with its vocal centerpieces and more interested in atmosphere, craft and classicism. Some have framed Insides as a modern throwback record, one that owes its sound to Chicago house more than anything else, and indeed, from the first acidic squiggle in opener "New Wave", it’s evident that Greene is studiously and consciously showing his work. Having toured and DJed a fair amount in the time since his last full-length, it seems that he’s come back to the studio with knowledge and reverence to burn, and the galloping pianos and wending atmospherics in the 8-minute long "All I Want" and the brooding single-note synth warbles and tech-house flavorings of "Insides" bear that out. But merely painting Insides as an homage to Chicago would be to miss the thing that makes it most interesting. Ultimately, it’s Greene’s willingness to decorate house music’s form with new sounds and reference points that distinguishes him from the scads of Beatport randoms. Insides is inflected with tinges of K**osmische, ambient and microhouse to the extent that some of its best tracks—like the intricate patchwork of bells and percussion of "Cloche" or the lonely synth arpeggios of "IKB"—could barely pass for house at all. Elsewhere, the loping computer music of "Folle" and the whirlygigging synth-aided second half of the ten-and-a-half-minute long "Lately" recall artists as varied as Ford & Lopatin and Tangerine Dream. That Fort Romeau was rashly named after an adjacent town while Greene was in France tells you something about his attitude to his music. He may occasionally be trumpeted by classicists as a flag-waver for the old school, but there’s no actual agenda here beyond his desire to make interesting new sounds. He's getting better at it with every passing release.

Artist: Fort Romeau, Album: Insides, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "For the four years he’s released music as Fort Romeau, South London’s Michael Greene has poked curiously at house music’s form. On his 2012 debut, Kingdoms, Greene delivered a set of workmanlike deep-house all built around carefully manipulated vocal samples. Spread out over the next couple years, Fort Romeau’s ensuing four EPs documented both his continually improving production abilities and his widening palette. Thanks to moments like the Kosmische-influenced slow burn of 2013’s "Stay/True" (from the EP of the same name) or the stuttery tech-house/2-step of "SW9" (also from the EP of the same name), Greene quietly established himself as an intriguing new voice in the genre. Insides is Fort Romeau’s second full-length record, and although it doesn’t continue on quite the same upward trend of his recent discography in the risk-taking department, it does boast some of his most fully dimensional and impressively produced work yet. While there are barely any vocal samples to be found here, it’s adorned with the kinds of textures and details that had been missing from the wide-eyed Kingdoms. Tonally, it’s a darker and more pensive affair, one that’s less concerned with its vocal centerpieces and more interested in atmosphere, craft and classicism. Some have framed Insides as a modern throwback record, one that owes its sound to Chicago house more than anything else, and indeed, from the first acidic squiggle in opener "New Wave", it’s evident that Greene is studiously and consciously showing his work. Having toured and DJed a fair amount in the time since his last full-length, it seems that he’s come back to the studio with knowledge and reverence to burn, and the galloping pianos and wending atmospherics in the 8-minute long "All I Want" and the brooding single-note synth warbles and tech-house flavorings of "Insides" bear that out. But merely painting Insides as an homage to Chicago would be to miss the thing that makes it most interesting. Ultimately, it’s Greene’s willingness to decorate house music’s form with new sounds and reference points that distinguishes him from the scads of Beatport randoms. Insides is inflected with tinges of K**osmische, ambient and microhouse to the extent that some of its best tracks—like the intricate patchwork of bells and percussion of "Cloche" or the lonely synth arpeggios of "IKB"—could barely pass for house at all. Elsewhere, the loping computer music of "Folle" and the whirlygigging synth-aided second half of the ten-and-a-half-minute long "Lately" recall artists as varied as Ford & Lopatin and Tangerine Dream. That Fort Romeau was rashly named after an adjacent town while Greene was in France tells you something about his attitude to his music. He may occasionally be trumpeted by classicists as a flag-waver for the old school, but there’s no actual agenda here beyond his desire to make interesting new sounds. He's getting better at it with every passing release."

Ducktails

Landscapes

Rock

David Bevan

Ducktails is the one-man psychedelic pop project of Matthew Mondanile, guitarist for North Jersey up-and-comers Real Estate and more importantly, a proud son of the mid-1980s. If you happen to have tumblesaulted into the world at about the same time, Mondanile's solo wanderings-- already corralled and categorized by some as tropical lo-fi or a part of the memory-mining hypnagogic pop shift-- should represent a deep rabbit hole. Chances are the first impressive pop sounds you (or I) heard as tots in overalls weren't really those of the Beatles being played/shoved down our throats by Mom or Dad. It was the guitar and synth fantasias that breathed life into our modest television diets: commercials, Saturday morning cartoons, NES, or PBS programming like "Reading Rainbow". In a way, those were our first music videos. Mondanile's moniker may seem like just a goof on a Disney cartoon of the same name, but it's also a commitment to conjuring images of "back then," whether you're 25 or 45. Landscapes, his latest full-length, might as well soundtrack home movies of Mondanile's youth. On VHS, of course. That should bring you up to speed on what's happening sonically as well. Lo-fi to the core, Ducktails is a close cousin of Real Estate's sun-dappled basement pop (kind of an oxymoron), Mondanile's Deadhead guitar tones carrying over chord for chord. These, however, are largely instrumental jam sessions of a more monastic stripe. As has been the case with his vinyl and cassette-only releases over the past couple of years, Landscapes' setup is ultra-spare: synths, guitar, drum machine. The success and failure of these songs lies not in the hook department but in how well Mondanile is able to harmonize these textures and squeeze them into a pop context, how he's able to convince a listener to smack their own pleasure centers. Opener "On the Boardwalk" is a light synth mist that's very much the tone setter for the rest of the record. With the exception of "Landrunner", a hairsprayed guitar jam far more forceful than the rest, everything floats by as if on its own weed-fueled current. That's a double-edged blade for sure, and no matter how ridiculously tuneful Mondanile's loop pedaling gets, things get sticky. While "Deck Observatory" is the kind of glass-bottomed bathtub zen its title suggests, "Welcome Home (I'm Back)" seems to have had its tempo slowed down past the point of deliriously languid and into yawn territory. But Landscapes is rarely anything but engaging. "Wishes" in particular is a slacker standout more harmonically rich, more sweetly and appropriately lonesome than anything else here. And if it weren't for the brittle, frequently jazzy guitar licks that braid together Mondanile's key solo in "Roses", you'd be listening to music more fit for a Chinese restaurant or Walgreens. Not a layer goes to waste, though. Just before launching into "Spring", a slim guitar jam that could easily have been an outtake from the Terror Twilight recording sessions, Mondanile mumbles "it sounds cool like that." Indeed. It looks cool, too.

Artist: Ducktails, Album: Landscapes, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Ducktails is the one-man psychedelic pop project of Matthew Mondanile, guitarist for North Jersey up-and-comers Real Estate and more importantly, a proud son of the mid-1980s. If you happen to have tumblesaulted into the world at about the same time, Mondanile's solo wanderings-- already corralled and categorized by some as tropical lo-fi or a part of the memory-mining hypnagogic pop shift-- should represent a deep rabbit hole. Chances are the first impressive pop sounds you (or I) heard as tots in overalls weren't really those of the Beatles being played/shoved down our throats by Mom or Dad. It was the guitar and synth fantasias that breathed life into our modest television diets: commercials, Saturday morning cartoons, NES, or PBS programming like "Reading Rainbow". In a way, those were our first music videos. Mondanile's moniker may seem like just a goof on a Disney cartoon of the same name, but it's also a commitment to conjuring images of "back then," whether you're 25 or 45. Landscapes, his latest full-length, might as well soundtrack home movies of Mondanile's youth. On VHS, of course. That should bring you up to speed on what's happening sonically as well. Lo-fi to the core, Ducktails is a close cousin of Real Estate's sun-dappled basement pop (kind of an oxymoron), Mondanile's Deadhead guitar tones carrying over chord for chord. These, however, are largely instrumental jam sessions of a more monastic stripe. As has been the case with his vinyl and cassette-only releases over the past couple of years, Landscapes' setup is ultra-spare: synths, guitar, drum machine. The success and failure of these songs lies not in the hook department but in how well Mondanile is able to harmonize these textures and squeeze them into a pop context, how he's able to convince a listener to smack their own pleasure centers. Opener "On the Boardwalk" is a light synth mist that's very much the tone setter for the rest of the record. With the exception of "Landrunner", a hairsprayed guitar jam far more forceful than the rest, everything floats by as if on its own weed-fueled current. That's a double-edged blade for sure, and no matter how ridiculously tuneful Mondanile's loop pedaling gets, things get sticky. While "Deck Observatory" is the kind of glass-bottomed bathtub zen its title suggests, "Welcome Home (I'm Back)" seems to have had its tempo slowed down past the point of deliriously languid and into yawn territory. But Landscapes is rarely anything but engaging. "Wishes" in particular is a slacker standout more harmonically rich, more sweetly and appropriately lonesome than anything else here. And if it weren't for the brittle, frequently jazzy guitar licks that braid together Mondanile's key solo in "Roses", you'd be listening to music more fit for a Chinese restaurant or Walgreens. Not a layer goes to waste, though. Just before launching into "Spring", a slim guitar jam that could easily have been an outtake from the Terror Twilight recording sessions, Mondanile mumbles "it sounds cool like that." Indeed. It looks cool, too."

Mike Jones

Who Is Mike Jones?

Rap

Julianne Escobedo Shepherd

Mike Jones is not the best Houston rapper, but he has a terrific marketing plan: brand himself. By stamping the inescapable catchphrase "Who Is Mike Jones?" and his phone number all over his albums and chopped-up mixtapes, he built a cottage industry out of his own accessibility. By the time Kelefa Sanneh printed Jones' phone number (281-330-8004) in The New York Times, the emcee's grassroots promo plan had already sold loads of records. (It also helped that Texas is the size of a small, self-sustainable country; every major player in the Houston scene was checking cheddar like a food inspector before the major labels started calling from the coasts.) And because Jones released his major-label debut before any of his cohorts (Slim Thug, Chamillionaire, Paul Wall), he gets to be starting line-up for the Houston takeover. Mike Jones has, to borrow my high school boyfriend's senior quote, made his name everyone's world. Jones advertises his phone number on roughly every single track of WIMJ?, often rhyming the last digit, "fo'," with "Hit Mike Jones up on the low/ 'Cause Mike Jones about to blow." After the fifth or so time you start wondering if he has anything else to talk about; nevertheless, it's charming when he shouts at us all big and charismatic like a 10-gallon car salesman-- Houston is the capital of Texas car sales and the lynchpin of America's cutthroat oil industry, after all-- and when Jones isn't bragging on his majorness or woman-hating on "Scandalous Hoes", his raps are about driving as pimp factor: cars flossing wood-grain dashboards, fresh coats of candy paint, and hot rims. He shouts his milk-throated Houston drawl mostly slow: because if you drive fast you might bump the underside of your 'Lac on the blacktop. I mean, have you ever driven in Houston? The highways are plugged up with leviathan wide-body pick-up trucks that could bulldoze an SUV like a cucaracha. (I'm sorry to inform Mike Jones that trucks accounted for 57% of all new vehicle sales in Houston in 2004.) There's something inherently rebellious about going 15 mph down a Houston street, all low to the ground like you're about to pounce-- a kind of "eff-you" to the Ford F250 gas-guzzler George W. Bush helms. Or maybe that "eff-you" should be "finger-flippin' and syrup-sippin'," as Jones raps in "Still Tippin'", the quietly blazin', violin-samplin' hit featuring Slim Thug and Paul Wall. Jones' verse on "Still Tippin'" is emblematic of Houston with its DJ Screw legacy and take-no-prisoners corporate creed, and the video is the best art film I've seen all year-- the sky is all purple, there are people rollin' everywhere!-- but the track sticks most to Slim Thugga's syrupy man-drawl, which sounds chopped and screwed without the assistance of a DJ. Jones doesn't mesmerize like S. Thugga, though his stumbled braying sounds oddly terrific over the oom-pah rhythms and screwed chorus on "Know What I'm Sayin'"; the "Nutcracker Suite"-alluding "Got it Sewed Up" (Rapid Ric's Fistful of Dollars mixtape has the actual "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy" sample); and the dubby yodelayheehoodling on "Cuttin'". On "Cuttin'", incidentally, Jones is less interested in talking about nasty humping (aka cuttin') than serving his standard supper: drank, skunk, driving and, of course, blowing up. So when his ice grill softens a little on "5 Years from Now" and "Grandma", a sweet devotional to the lady who coined his catchphrase atop a beautiful guitar melody-- in an ironic twist, its sample is sped-up-- it's a nice break from Jones' relentless self-promo. Who Is Mike Jones? is an ample showcase for Swishahouse producers Michael K. Watts and Silah Williams, but it'd be a better record if Jones diversified. However, if anyone was going to prep America for the slew of forthcoming H-Town major-label releases, it's Mike Jones-- Who? Mike Jones. CALL NOW: Operators are standing by.

Artist: Mike Jones, Album: Who Is Mike Jones?, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Mike Jones is not the best Houston rapper, but he has a terrific marketing plan: brand himself. By stamping the inescapable catchphrase "Who Is Mike Jones?" and his phone number all over his albums and chopped-up mixtapes, he built a cottage industry out of his own accessibility. By the time Kelefa Sanneh printed Jones' phone number (281-330-8004) in The New York Times, the emcee's grassroots promo plan had already sold loads of records. (It also helped that Texas is the size of a small, self-sustainable country; every major player in the Houston scene was checking cheddar like a food inspector before the major labels started calling from the coasts.) And because Jones released his major-label debut before any of his cohorts (Slim Thug, Chamillionaire, Paul Wall), he gets to be starting line-up for the Houston takeover. Mike Jones has, to borrow my high school boyfriend's senior quote, made his name everyone's world. Jones advertises his phone number on roughly every single track of WIMJ?, often rhyming the last digit, "fo'," with "Hit Mike Jones up on the low/ 'Cause Mike Jones about to blow." After the fifth or so time you start wondering if he has anything else to talk about; nevertheless, it's charming when he shouts at us all big and charismatic like a 10-gallon car salesman-- Houston is the capital of Texas car sales and the lynchpin of America's cutthroat oil industry, after all-- and when Jones isn't bragging on his majorness or woman-hating on "Scandalous Hoes", his raps are about driving as pimp factor: cars flossing wood-grain dashboards, fresh coats of candy paint, and hot rims. He shouts his milk-throated Houston drawl mostly slow: because if you drive fast you might bump the underside of your 'Lac on the blacktop. I mean, have you ever driven in Houston? The highways are plugged up with leviathan wide-body pick-up trucks that could bulldoze an SUV like a cucaracha. (I'm sorry to inform Mike Jones that trucks accounted for 57% of all new vehicle sales in Houston in 2004.) There's something inherently rebellious about going 15 mph down a Houston street, all low to the ground like you're about to pounce-- a kind of "eff-you" to the Ford F250 gas-guzzler George W. Bush helms. Or maybe that "eff-you" should be "finger-flippin' and syrup-sippin'," as Jones raps in "Still Tippin'", the quietly blazin', violin-samplin' hit featuring Slim Thug and Paul Wall. Jones' verse on "Still Tippin'" is emblematic of Houston with its DJ Screw legacy and take-no-prisoners corporate creed, and the video is the best art film I've seen all year-- the sky is all purple, there are people rollin' everywhere!-- but the track sticks most to Slim Thugga's syrupy man-drawl, which sounds chopped and screwed without the assistance of a DJ. Jones doesn't mesmerize like S. Thugga, though his stumbled braying sounds oddly terrific over the oom-pah rhythms and screwed chorus on "Know What I'm Sayin'"; the "Nutcracker Suite"-alluding "Got it Sewed Up" (Rapid Ric's Fistful of Dollars mixtape has the actual "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy" sample); and the dubby yodelayheehoodling on "Cuttin'". On "Cuttin'", incidentally, Jones is less interested in talking about nasty humping (aka cuttin') than serving his standard supper: drank, skunk, driving and, of course, blowing up. So when his ice grill softens a little on "5 Years from Now" and "Grandma", a sweet devotional to the lady who coined his catchphrase atop a beautiful guitar melody-- in an ironic twist, its sample is sped-up-- it's a nice break from Jones' relentless self-promo. Who Is Mike Jones? is an ample showcase for Swishahouse producers Michael K. Watts and Silah Williams, but it'd be a better record if Jones diversified. However, if anyone was going to prep America for the slew of forthcoming H-Town major-label releases, it's Mike Jones-- Who? Mike Jones. CALL NOW: Operators are standing by."

Little Scream

The Golden Record

Folk/Country

Grayson Currin

"Oh, I don't know who I am, and I don't know what I'll be," coos Laurel Sprengelmeyer of Little Scream, above acoustic guitars that run like rivulets. Sprengelmeyer sings her self-doubt at the start of the second verse of "The Heron and the Fox", the quietly reflective, sadly nostalgic centerpiece of her stellar debut, The Golden Record. An Iowa native now living in Montreal and recording there with members of Arcade Fire, the National, and A Silver Mt. Zion, Sprengelmeyer sounds both worn from experience and inspired by something she can't yet imagine, the peripatetic sort who's old enough to be wise but young enough to be adventurous. That's the great thread that runs through this album, a perfectly mixed bag of graceful folk, coiled pop, and expansive art rock. Lyrically, Sprengelmeyer seems to yearn for the past; stylistically, though, she presses for a bold polyglot future of twisted contexts. Here, she gets both. It'd be easy to separate The Golden Record's 10 songs into a few orders: There are the mostly still drifters, like the gently swollen "Black Cloud" and the reverb-washed break-up of "People is Place". There are songs that rock and lurch, like the violin-trilling stomp "Boatman" and the snarling-and-smiling "Cannons". There are those experiments, like "Guyegaros", that fit neither. Segregating the songs, though, means selling Sprengelmeyer short as some manic amateur unable to unify or control her ideas. But most every move she makes as Little Scream is a good one: "Cannons" is as incisive and propulsive as the best of St. Vincent, an oft-occurring but fairly inadequate comparison. She sculpts guitar noise and synthesizer squiggles into a perfectly odd pop song that's as aggressive as it is endearing. The same goes for "Red Hunting Jacket", a somehow cheerful cavalcade of handclaps and guitar abrasion punctuated by a vamp of boogie-woogie piano and spiraling flute lines. The song itself is an excavation of forgotten memories from a relationship built on the run-- "What can we communicate that won't just turn to dust?" Sprengelmeyer sings, her band twisting deliriously beneath. A kick drum thunders through a scrim of noise and samples at the start of "Your Radio". It's the resolute beginning to a charged electric track that eventually rises to arena sizes, with tiered harmonies and a band whose trust in repetition pays off in a coda that suggests the Dead C scoring a battlefield scene. She brings the same sort of control to "People Is Place", one of those gentle tracks that builds over its four minutes to a gorgeous instrumental groan, glowing long tones breaking against a piano like waves against a shoreline. Each look is as convincing as the next. The Golden Record is a wide-open exploration of Sprengelmeyer's sensibilities, the introduction on which she's able to explore both her most spare and extravagantly orchestrated impulses. It's easy to imagine a scenario where, after a year or two of touring these songs, watching audiences respond, and feeling herself grow tired of certain tracks and maybe not others, Sprengelmeyer circumscribes herself as a writer, favoring a handful of styles versus the horde she delivers here. That's not necessarily a bad thing, either, as every approach sounds assured and evolved. There's no stylistic filler, no dilettante drivel badly in need of an editor. An album of Sprengelmeyer's quiet songs would be as welcome as a full-length of her quakes. For the time being, though, The Golden Record is the document of a real-life wanderer who sings about drift and regret, dreams and reality, in songs that know enough not to sit still. The Golden Record is an infinitely approachable and enjoyable welcome by an artist who sounds like she's here now, for the duration.

Artist: Little Scream, Album: The Golden Record, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: ""Oh, I don't know who I am, and I don't know what I'll be," coos Laurel Sprengelmeyer of Little Scream, above acoustic guitars that run like rivulets. Sprengelmeyer sings her self-doubt at the start of the second verse of "The Heron and the Fox", the quietly reflective, sadly nostalgic centerpiece of her stellar debut, The Golden Record. An Iowa native now living in Montreal and recording there with members of Arcade Fire, the National, and A Silver Mt. Zion, Sprengelmeyer sounds both worn from experience and inspired by something she can't yet imagine, the peripatetic sort who's old enough to be wise but young enough to be adventurous. That's the great thread that runs through this album, a perfectly mixed bag of graceful folk, coiled pop, and expansive art rock. Lyrically, Sprengelmeyer seems to yearn for the past; stylistically, though, she presses for a bold polyglot future of twisted contexts. Here, she gets both. It'd be easy to separate The Golden Record's 10 songs into a few orders: There are the mostly still drifters, like the gently swollen "Black Cloud" and the reverb-washed break-up of "People is Place". There are songs that rock and lurch, like the violin-trilling stomp "Boatman" and the snarling-and-smiling "Cannons". There are those experiments, like "Guyegaros", that fit neither. Segregating the songs, though, means selling Sprengelmeyer short as some manic amateur unable to unify or control her ideas. But most every move she makes as Little Scream is a good one: "Cannons" is as incisive and propulsive as the best of St. Vincent, an oft-occurring but fairly inadequate comparison. She sculpts guitar noise and synthesizer squiggles into a perfectly odd pop song that's as aggressive as it is endearing. The same goes for "Red Hunting Jacket", a somehow cheerful cavalcade of handclaps and guitar abrasion punctuated by a vamp of boogie-woogie piano and spiraling flute lines. The song itself is an excavation of forgotten memories from a relationship built on the run-- "What can we communicate that won't just turn to dust?" Sprengelmeyer sings, her band twisting deliriously beneath. A kick drum thunders through a scrim of noise and samples at the start of "Your Radio". It's the resolute beginning to a charged electric track that eventually rises to arena sizes, with tiered harmonies and a band whose trust in repetition pays off in a coda that suggests the Dead C scoring a battlefield scene. She brings the same sort of control to "People Is Place", one of those gentle tracks that builds over its four minutes to a gorgeous instrumental groan, glowing long tones breaking against a piano like waves against a shoreline. Each look is as convincing as the next. The Golden Record is a wide-open exploration of Sprengelmeyer's sensibilities, the introduction on which she's able to explore both her most spare and extravagantly orchestrated impulses. It's easy to imagine a scenario where, after a year or two of touring these songs, watching audiences respond, and feeling herself grow tired of certain tracks and maybe not others, Sprengelmeyer circumscribes herself as a writer, favoring a handful of styles versus the horde she delivers here. That's not necessarily a bad thing, either, as every approach sounds assured and evolved. There's no stylistic filler, no dilettante drivel badly in need of an editor. An album of Sprengelmeyer's quiet songs would be as welcome as a full-length of her quakes. For the time being, though, The Golden Record is the document of a real-life wanderer who sings about drift and regret, dreams and reality, in songs that know enough not to sit still. The Golden Record is an infinitely approachable and enjoyable welcome by an artist who sounds like she's here now, for the duration."

Glass Candy

Deep Gems

Electronic,Rock

Marc Hogan

Glass Candy sure have themselves a nice haunted-disco niche, but you wouldn't accuse of them being original. On 2003 debut album Love, Love, Love, the Portland, Ore. duo of Ida No and Johnny Jewel caught the no-wave wave; back then, they had a drummer named Ginger Peach. Since moving to Italians Do It Better and focusing on dark-alley Italo disco, they've released upwards of three dozen tracks spread out across 2007's occasionally great but overrated B/E/A/T/B/O/X, the same year's excellent After Dark compilation, a couple of killer 12"s, a few 7"s, and now "singles, B-sides, and rarities" disc Deep Gems. After you throw out alternate mixes, godawful skits, and a reworking of their 2005 reworking of "Iko Iko", you're left with at most 22 discrete Glass Candy songs-- only 19 originals. Even then, the quality has been mixed. Few bands really need a rarities collection. Glass Candy aren't one of those bands. Although Deep Gems maintains the after-hours glide of Jewel's recent work for Glass Candy or labelmates Chromatics, along with No's heavy-lidded Debbie Harry purr, it underscores just how few essential tracks Glass Candy have made so far. A hypnotic melody, murky bassline, and echoey keyboard splash-pulse help make "Animal Imagination" the most interesting "rarity," but the lyrics would embarrass "Celebration of the Lizard"-era Jim Morrison, and it shows up again, in an abbreviated lo-fi version, as "Soft Boundaries". Also pleasant enough is "Geto Boys", the aforementioned "Iko" update, a worthwhile purchase for anyone clamoring to have Glass Candy revisit the Mardi Gras favorite over the Geto Boys' 1991 hip-hop classic "Mind Playing Tricks on Me" (and who hadn't already downloaded the track's widely posted free "MySpace Demo" version). Belle Epoque cover "Miss Broadway", one of Glass Candy's best tracks alongside the 12"-only "I Always Say Yes" and B/E/A/T/B/O/X's "Rolling Down the Hill", is still decent in an unnecessarily busy, demo-ish "Ms. Broadway (Remix)" form. "Poison or Remedy" is just a cheap-sounding version of B/E/A/T/B/O/X's "Beatific". If you paid 99 cents for it on iTunes because you thought it was a new song, I'm sure Glass Candy are sorry. Outside of its self-cannibalizing standouts, Deep Gems tends toward the sort of the sort of forgettable nu-disco synth noodlings that shouldn't make the cut for a proper album. The best of the rest: "Feeling Without Touching", with its chirpy "Da Da Da"- or "Fortress/Deer Park"-esque synth repetitions, and "The Beat's Alive", where No emits high-pitched squawks over uptempo handclaps. "Theme From Deep Gems" is a minute-and-a-half synth-orchestral piece fit for a lesser Stanley Kubrick score. Finale "Silver Fountain" is seven minutes of slow-motion keyboard drones, multi-layered percussion, and raygun noises, with No occasionally murmuring about and/or moaning about "misty mountains". Where B/E/A/T/B/O/X opened with a lame exercise-instructor skit, Deep Gems starts with the Glass Candy equivalent of a telephone error message. Glass Candy may be busy finishing up their next album, but that doesn't mean we all have to act like being put on hold is the same as having a good conversation.

Artist: Glass Candy, Album: Deep Gems, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.1 Album review: "Glass Candy sure have themselves a nice haunted-disco niche, but you wouldn't accuse of them being original. On 2003 debut album Love, Love, Love, the Portland, Ore. duo of Ida No and Johnny Jewel caught the no-wave wave; back then, they had a drummer named Ginger Peach. Since moving to Italians Do It Better and focusing on dark-alley Italo disco, they've released upwards of three dozen tracks spread out across 2007's occasionally great but overrated B/E/A/T/B/O/X, the same year's excellent After Dark compilation, a couple of killer 12"s, a few 7"s, and now "singles, B-sides, and rarities" disc Deep Gems. After you throw out alternate mixes, godawful skits, and a reworking of their 2005 reworking of "Iko Iko", you're left with at most 22 discrete Glass Candy songs-- only 19 originals. Even then, the quality has been mixed. Few bands really need a rarities collection. Glass Candy aren't one of those bands. Although Deep Gems maintains the after-hours glide of Jewel's recent work for Glass Candy or labelmates Chromatics, along with No's heavy-lidded Debbie Harry purr, it underscores just how few essential tracks Glass Candy have made so far. A hypnotic melody, murky bassline, and echoey keyboard splash-pulse help make "Animal Imagination" the most interesting "rarity," but the lyrics would embarrass "Celebration of the Lizard"-era Jim Morrison, and it shows up again, in an abbreviated lo-fi version, as "Soft Boundaries". Also pleasant enough is "Geto Boys", the aforementioned "Iko" update, a worthwhile purchase for anyone clamoring to have Glass Candy revisit the Mardi Gras favorite over the Geto Boys' 1991 hip-hop classic "Mind Playing Tricks on Me" (and who hadn't already downloaded the track's widely posted free "MySpace Demo" version). Belle Epoque cover "Miss Broadway", one of Glass Candy's best tracks alongside the 12"-only "I Always Say Yes" and B/E/A/T/B/O/X's "Rolling Down the Hill", is still decent in an unnecessarily busy, demo-ish "Ms. Broadway (Remix)" form. "Poison or Remedy" is just a cheap-sounding version of B/E/A/T/B/O/X's "Beatific". If you paid 99 cents for it on iTunes because you thought it was a new song, I'm sure Glass Candy are sorry. Outside of its self-cannibalizing standouts, Deep Gems tends toward the sort of the sort of forgettable nu-disco synth noodlings that shouldn't make the cut for a proper album. The best of the rest: "Feeling Without Touching", with its chirpy "Da Da Da"- or "Fortress/Deer Park"-esque synth repetitions, and "The Beat's Alive", where No emits high-pitched squawks over uptempo handclaps. "Theme From Deep Gems" is a minute-and-a-half synth-orchestral piece fit for a lesser Stanley Kubrick score. Finale "Silver Fountain" is seven minutes of slow-motion keyboard drones, multi-layered percussion, and raygun noises, with No occasionally murmuring about and/or moaning about "misty mountains". Where B/E/A/T/B/O/X opened with a lame exercise-instructor skit, Deep Gems starts with the Glass Candy equivalent of a telephone error message. Glass Candy may be busy finishing up their next album, but that doesn't mean we all have to act like being put on hold is the same as having a good conversation."

Pictureplane

Technomancer

Electronic

Hazel Cills

The world that these songs on exist in, as Pictureplane’s Travis Egedy sings to us, is a dead one (where, of course, people get it on in the ruins of a shopping mall). The arrangements on Technomancer frequently play like droning or piercing alarms, particularly on tracks like “Sick Machine” and “Death Condition,” the latter of which is laden with clunky, mechanical percussion that makes it sound like a vintage video game. Whereas Pictureplane’s 2011 record Thee Physical spun queer and cyborg theory into fuzzy house-inspired electronica, Technomancer plays like a soundtrack to a sci-fi dystopian film. It works well as a concept record about trying to break out of one’s oppressive urban regime, with Egedy weaving his whispery conspiracy theories into every track. But while Pictureplane’s signature ’90s-evoking female vocal samples might sing soulfully in the distance, the record feels drained of the energy his previous albums showcased. The common setting on Techomancer is slowmo, with most tracks favoring ethereal, romantic ’80s synths over the pumped up, choppy compositions on Thee Physical. Even the breakbeat intro on “Harsh Realm” cuts out a minute in, favoring a more chilled out, awkward see-saw synth progression before returning to the sound of the song’s start. The blaring airhorns and record scratching sounds on “Street Pressure” feel like they’re working against the soft, sultry melody Egedy builds on that song, like a jokey nod to traditional club music. All of this seems at odds with the sound Pictureplane has cultivated thus far. There’s a tame, almost downtempo vibe to a lot of this record that keeps it from beginning to end in a sluggish, not very dance-friendly territory. Technomancer is certainly Egedy’s most nicely produced output yet, with his voice coming through stronger than ever on a lot of these songs. “Crack all the windows downtown, it’s that new American noise,” he sings to a “renegade street trash” on the more traditional, radio-friendly pop track “Riot Porn.” But the noise of Technomancer just plays too comfortably. Technomancer is very high concept in its man vs. machine dystopian themes, but the darkwave-edged beats Egedy constructs, while bleak, don’t possess the same level of imagination. In seemingly trying to make more cinematic and visionary electronica he ends up making pretty lackluster, slow-burning pop. On Technomancer Egedy’s typically wire-frayed, wall-of-sound ’90s mixtape sound feels stripped into something more pedestrian rather than futuristic.

Artist: Pictureplane, Album: Technomancer, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "The world that these songs on exist in, as Pictureplane’s Travis Egedy sings to us, is a dead one (where, of course, people get it on in the ruins of a shopping mall). The arrangements on Technomancer frequently play like droning or piercing alarms, particularly on tracks like “Sick Machine” and “Death Condition,” the latter of which is laden with clunky, mechanical percussion that makes it sound like a vintage video game. Whereas Pictureplane’s 2011 record Thee Physical spun queer and cyborg theory into fuzzy house-inspired electronica, Technomancer plays like a soundtrack to a sci-fi dystopian film. It works well as a concept record about trying to break out of one’s oppressive urban regime, with Egedy weaving his whispery conspiracy theories into every track. But while Pictureplane’s signature ’90s-evoking female vocal samples might sing soulfully in the distance, the record feels drained of the energy his previous albums showcased. The common setting on Techomancer is slowmo, with most tracks favoring ethereal, romantic ’80s synths over the pumped up, choppy compositions on Thee Physical. Even the breakbeat intro on “Harsh Realm” cuts out a minute in, favoring a more chilled out, awkward see-saw synth progression before returning to the sound of the song’s start. The blaring airhorns and record scratching sounds on “Street Pressure” feel like they’re working against the soft, sultry melody Egedy builds on that song, like a jokey nod to traditional club music. All of this seems at odds with the sound Pictureplane has cultivated thus far. There’s a tame, almost downtempo vibe to a lot of this record that keeps it from beginning to end in a sluggish, not very dance-friendly territory. Technomancer is certainly Egedy’s most nicely produced output yet, with his voice coming through stronger than ever on a lot of these songs. “Crack all the windows downtown, it’s that new American noise,” he sings to a “renegade street trash” on the more traditional, radio-friendly pop track “Riot Porn.” But the noise of Technomancer just plays too comfortably. Technomancer is very high concept in its man vs. machine dystopian themes, but the darkwave-edged beats Egedy constructs, while bleak, don’t possess the same level of imagination. In seemingly trying to make more cinematic and visionary electronica he ends up making pretty lackluster, slow-burning pop. On Technomancer Egedy’s typically wire-frayed, wall-of-sound ’90s mixtape sound feels stripped into something more pedestrian rather than futuristic."

Death Vessel

Stay Close

Folk/Country

Stephen M. Deusner

There's an inescapable sideshow quality to the band Death Vessel. Listening to the 10 sepia-toned folk songs on its debut, Stay Close, you can almost hear some carnival barker loudly exhorting midwaygoers to step right up and see THE BOY WHO SINGS WITH THE VOICE OF A GIRL. Inside the tent sit a stage, an old microphone, and an unassuming man named Joel Thibodeau gently plucking an old guitar. None of it would strike anyone as out of the ordinary...until Thidodeau opens his mouth to sing. From that masculine frame emanates a woman's voice, one that doesn't just hit the higher registers like some Appalachian castrati, but possesses an assertive feminine lilt reminiscent of Laura Cantrell or Iris DeMent. But this isn't the typical androgyny of glam, which has no freight in the Americana traditions Death Vessel adopts. Gender isn't an issue inherent in the band's music, but is projected onto it by listeners and passively undiscouraged by the artist himself. Thibodeau-- who plays most of the instruments on the album-- doesn't write from a female perspective-- or from a male perspective either; on Stay Close the point of view is deliberately clouded by the delivery, which adds a layer of mystery to every note. As complex and compelling as it is, this aspect of Death Vessel proves as much a liability as an asset, often suggesting the mere novelty of a physical feat rather than actual artistry. On a few songs-- most notably the jaunty openers "Mean Streak" and "Later in Life Lift"-- Thibodeau's vocal delivery sounds like an end in itself, but more often it serves the purposes of his precisely crafted melodies and obscurely out-of-time lyrics, melding nicely into the mix of acoustic guitars, banjo, fiddle, and organ. From the hand-drawn cover art to the history-bound, occasionally impenetrable lyrics-- "The load is unneat, sprawling oddly/ J-ing the stern, pelicanly," he sings on "Blowing Cave"-- Stay Close has an antiquated style reminiscent of the 1999 movie Wisconsin Death Trip, which reenacts 19th century news stories about wintry deaths and rural despairs. Occasionally this atmosphere sounds studied and rehearsed, but moments like the coda of "Nothing Left to Bury" and the menacing drum-guitar interplay on "Deep in the Horchata" suggest a creative investment that transcends put-on airs. A mortal dread, played out with tensely intertwined guitar lines and gusts of feedback, shadows "Blowing Cave" and "Tidy Nervous Breakdown", making even the capriciousness of upbeat songs like the bluegrass "Mandan Dink", about a leisurely day at a place called Picnic Rock, seem precarious. Stay Close hits its stride on the last three songs, starting with his spacious cover of Townes Van Zandt's "Snow Don't Fall". On "Deep in the Horchata" he scratches out a melody on fiddle to echo his own vocals, as Daneil Mazone's drums stitch everything together. "White Mole" ends the album with a nearly instrumental coda, as Thibodeau's soft ooh's usher listeners out of his world and back into the hubbub of the midway.

Artist: Death Vessel, Album: Stay Close, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "There's an inescapable sideshow quality to the band Death Vessel. Listening to the 10 sepia-toned folk songs on its debut, Stay Close, you can almost hear some carnival barker loudly exhorting midwaygoers to step right up and see THE BOY WHO SINGS WITH THE VOICE OF A GIRL. Inside the tent sit a stage, an old microphone, and an unassuming man named Joel Thibodeau gently plucking an old guitar. None of it would strike anyone as out of the ordinary...until Thidodeau opens his mouth to sing. From that masculine frame emanates a woman's voice, one that doesn't just hit the higher registers like some Appalachian castrati, but possesses an assertive feminine lilt reminiscent of Laura Cantrell or Iris DeMent. But this isn't the typical androgyny of glam, which has no freight in the Americana traditions Death Vessel adopts. Gender isn't an issue inherent in the band's music, but is projected onto it by listeners and passively undiscouraged by the artist himself. Thibodeau-- who plays most of the instruments on the album-- doesn't write from a female perspective-- or from a male perspective either; on Stay Close the point of view is deliberately clouded by the delivery, which adds a layer of mystery to every note. As complex and compelling as it is, this aspect of Death Vessel proves as much a liability as an asset, often suggesting the mere novelty of a physical feat rather than actual artistry. On a few songs-- most notably the jaunty openers "Mean Streak" and "Later in Life Lift"-- Thibodeau's vocal delivery sounds like an end in itself, but more often it serves the purposes of his precisely crafted melodies and obscurely out-of-time lyrics, melding nicely into the mix of acoustic guitars, banjo, fiddle, and organ. From the hand-drawn cover art to the history-bound, occasionally impenetrable lyrics-- "The load is unneat, sprawling oddly/ J-ing the stern, pelicanly," he sings on "Blowing Cave"-- Stay Close has an antiquated style reminiscent of the 1999 movie Wisconsin Death Trip, which reenacts 19th century news stories about wintry deaths and rural despairs. Occasionally this atmosphere sounds studied and rehearsed, but moments like the coda of "Nothing Left to Bury" and the menacing drum-guitar interplay on "Deep in the Horchata" suggest a creative investment that transcends put-on airs. A mortal dread, played out with tensely intertwined guitar lines and gusts of feedback, shadows "Blowing Cave" and "Tidy Nervous Breakdown", making even the capriciousness of upbeat songs like the bluegrass "Mandan Dink", about a leisurely day at a place called Picnic Rock, seem precarious. Stay Close hits its stride on the last three songs, starting with his spacious cover of Townes Van Zandt's "Snow Don't Fall". On "Deep in the Horchata" he scratches out a melody on fiddle to echo his own vocals, as Daneil Mazone's drums stitch everything together. "White Mole" ends the album with a nearly instrumental coda, as Thibodeau's soft ooh's usher listeners out of his world and back into the hubbub of the midway."

Various Artists

Lazarus OST

Douglas Wolk

In the last year of his life, David Bowie completed a pair of linked projects: his remarkable final album, Blackstar, and a curious jukebox musical for which he wrote a few new songs, Lazarus. Bowie, the most theater-minded of rock stars, had had ambitions to mount a stage musical for a long time; Diamond Dogs, in fact, had evolved from a scrapped musical based on George Orwell’s 1984. Lazarus, co-written with Enda Walsh, also has a literary source: it’s a sequel to The Man Who Fell to Earth. Officially, to be more specific, it’s a sequel to the Walter Tevis novel that was the basis for the 1976 film in which Bowie starred, with Michael C. Hall (of “Dexter” fame) playing his role, the alien Thomas Newton. Bowie recorded the three new Lazarus songs during the Blackstar sessions with saxophonist Donny McCaslin and his group, but only “Lazarus” itself actually appeared on Blackstar; a second disc with all three recordings has been appended to the soundtrack album. The show’s cast recorded the first disc on January 11 of this year, immediately after they’d learned of Bowie’s death, and the solemnity of the moment mutes the hypnotic delight of his songs. (Near the end, we hear forty seconds of his original recording of “Sound and Vision,” and it’s as if a conference room’s ceiling has momentarily peeled back to reveal the sky.) The central problem is that Lazarus is billed as an original cast recording, and it’s kind of not; it’s impossible to hear these “actorly” renditions of “Changes” and “It’s No Game” and “Love Is Lost” and so on without thinking of the cracked actor who defined them, and whose phrasing these performers ape at almost every turn. To put it more plainly: there is no song in Lazarus of which Bowie did not record a better version. And, despite some nicely considered arrangements (“The Man Who Sold the World” takes after Bowie’s mid-1990s reworking), a lot of these songs weren’t actually built for the stage: when Sophie Anne Caruso sings “Life on Mars?” as a scenery-chewing torch song, it’s suddenly clear how much of its power came from Bowie’s arch detachment. As translations of Bowie’s musical aesthetic to theater go, Lazarus lags far behind *Hedwig and the Angry Inch—*in which Hall also starred for a while. The three previously unheard Bowie recordings on the second disc, a bit under twelve minutes of music in all, are of a piece with the Blackstar material, if not as audacious or as polished as “Blackstar” or “Lazarus” or “Sue.” “When I Met You” is the jewel-in-the-rough of the bunch—Bowie’s backing vocals body-checking his warbling lead out of the way, the band a little out of tune and too into stomping out the rhythm to care. The “Lazarus” performance, whose guitar riff eventually just turns into “Purple Haze,” is the strongest thing on the cast album, possibly because Bowie’s own performance wasn't casting such a long shadow. Unsurprisingly, the newly released songs are full of intimations of mortality—but it’s also too easy to listen for farewells and forget that they were written for dramatic personae, by a songwriter who adored masks. “Killing a Little Time,” whose shuddering groove recalls the double-time tricks of Bowie’s mid-’90s records, includes a refrain of “I’m falling, man/I’m choking, man/I’m fading, man.” But the line that Bowie clearly relishes growling is “I’ve got a handful of songs to sing/To sting your soul/To fuck you over”—which would work just as well on somebody’s first record. So is this it for Bowie’s music? Nah, there's still more in the vaults: there were several more songs recorded at the Blackstar sessions, and according to producer Tony Visconti, Bowie recorded demos for another five songs shortly before his death. This isn’t his grand final statement (that was Blackstar), it’s a cool little postscript tagged onto an earnest, unthrilling tribute.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Lazarus OST, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "In the last year of his life, David Bowie completed a pair of linked projects: his remarkable final album, Blackstar, and a curious jukebox musical for which he wrote a few new songs, Lazarus. Bowie, the most theater-minded of rock stars, had had ambitions to mount a stage musical for a long time; Diamond Dogs, in fact, had evolved from a scrapped musical based on George Orwell’s 1984. Lazarus, co-written with Enda Walsh, also has a literary source: it’s a sequel to The Man Who Fell to Earth. Officially, to be more specific, it’s a sequel to the Walter Tevis novel that was the basis for the 1976 film in which Bowie starred, with Michael C. Hall (of “Dexter” fame) playing his role, the alien Thomas Newton. Bowie recorded the three new Lazarus songs during the Blackstar sessions with saxophonist Donny McCaslin and his group, but only “Lazarus” itself actually appeared on Blackstar; a second disc with all three recordings has been appended to the soundtrack album. The show’s cast recorded the first disc on January 11 of this year, immediately after they’d learned of Bowie’s death, and the solemnity of the moment mutes the hypnotic delight of his songs. (Near the end, we hear forty seconds of his original recording of “Sound and Vision,” and it’s as if a conference room’s ceiling has momentarily peeled back to reveal the sky.) The central problem is that Lazarus is billed as an original cast recording, and it’s kind of not; it’s impossible to hear these “actorly” renditions of “Changes” and “It’s No Game” and “Love Is Lost” and so on without thinking of the cracked actor who defined them, and whose phrasing these performers ape at almost every turn. To put it more plainly: there is no song in Lazarus of which Bowie did not record a better version. And, despite some nicely considered arrangements (“The Man Who Sold the World” takes after Bowie’s mid-1990s reworking), a lot of these songs weren’t actually built for the stage: when Sophie Anne Caruso sings “Life on Mars?” as a scenery-chewing torch song, it’s suddenly clear how much of its power came from Bowie’s arch detachment. As translations of Bowie’s musical aesthetic to theater go, Lazarus lags far behind *Hedwig and the Angry Inch—*in which Hall also starred for a while. The three previously unheard Bowie recordings on the second disc, a bit under twelve minutes of music in all, are of a piece with the Blackstar material, if not as audacious or as polished as “Blackstar” or “Lazarus” or “Sue.” “When I Met You” is the jewel-in-the-rough of the bunch—Bowie’s backing vocals body-checking his warbling lead out of the way, the band a little out of tune and too into stomping out the rhythm to care. The “Lazarus” performance, whose guitar riff eventually just turns into “Purple Haze,” is the strongest thing on the cast album, possibly because Bowie’s own performance wasn't casting such a long shadow. Unsurprisingly, the newly released songs are full of intimations of mortality—but it’s also too easy to listen for farewells and forget that they were written for dramatic personae, by a songwriter who adored masks. “Killing a Little Time,” whose shuddering groove recalls the double-time tricks of Bowie’s mid-’90s records, includes a refrain of “I’m falling, man/I’m choking, man/I’m fading, man.” But the line that Bowie clearly relishes growling is “I’ve got a handful of songs to sing/To sting your soul/To fuck you over”—which would work just as well on somebody’s first record. So is this it for Bowie’s music? Nah, there's still more in the vaults: there were several more songs recorded at the Blackstar sessions, and according to producer Tony Visconti, Bowie recorded demos for another five songs shortly before his death. This isn’t his grand final statement (that was Blackstar), it’s a cool little postscript tagged onto an earnest, unthrilling tribute."

Seefeel

Seefeel

Electronic,Rock

Andrew Gaerig

To place them in the context of some of their UK guitar peers, Seefeel neither had a singular creative presence like Kevin Shields, nor did they feature the lush pop songwriting of Ride. Instead they were an ideas band, trying to place techno/rave's quickening rhythms in the context of processed guitar music. Because they executed those ideas so perfectly, it makes sense that they've regrouped more than a decade later in the name of new ideas. I would like to think that Seefeel principals Mark Clifford and Sarah Peacock planned this all along, that they were biding their time until another potent, fully formed musical thought occurred. Last fall's Faults EP made it clear this wasn't the case: The band was still chewing on sounds and fumbling with rhythms. Any hope Seefeel viewed Faults as a stepping stone instead of a new a aesthetic goes out the window on Seefeel, the band's first full-length record since 1996. Seefeel is a thorny album, a thicket of crackling guitars and faltering rhythms. Peacock's sparse, drifting vocals-- at this point the last remaining element of the band's previous work-- navigate their way through by gingerly pulling branches aside. The rhythms-- usually live drums-- are supplied by former Boredoms drummer Iida Kazuhisa, but they contain none of that band's combustible clamor. Instead they grapple with the guitars in slow motion. (I'm reminded of professional hockey fights in which the players, with handfuls of each other's jerseys, awkwardly tussle.) Seefeel's guitars now scrape and smolder, but the foggy landscapes they evoke on tracks like "Rip-Run" and, um, "Dead Guitars" don't seem as rich as those molded by Fennesz or Black Dice. Seefeel have thankfully retained the ability to build an environment. If their previous albums sounded womb-like, Seefeel is more like being an overgrown forest, including the nagging discomfort: "This place has a dark beauty, but I wish my socks weren't damp." That discomfort may be one of the compositional aims of Seefeel, and sometimes it leads to arresting, challenging anti-pop, like on "Step Down", where Peacock pines sweetly over an ominous mechanical advance. I want to admire Seefeel for its decisive move away from the band's past, but I can't find the complexity and depth that allowed them to take an exhausting style-- shoegaze-- and turn it into something new and special. I don't care that Seefeel no longer chip hypnotic rhythms out of blocks if icy guitars, but it bothers me a lot that the simple drum pattern on "Rip-Run" never evolves and that Peacock sounds strangled. The issue isn't one of an old fan pining for glory days; it's an old fan wondering if Seefeel would deserve notice if it were released by a group of 20-year-olds in New York or London. The answer is yes, I think, but just barely.

Artist: Seefeel, Album: Seefeel, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.6 Album review: "To place them in the context of some of their UK guitar peers, Seefeel neither had a singular creative presence like Kevin Shields, nor did they feature the lush pop songwriting of Ride. Instead they were an ideas band, trying to place techno/rave's quickening rhythms in the context of processed guitar music. Because they executed those ideas so perfectly, it makes sense that they've regrouped more than a decade later in the name of new ideas. I would like to think that Seefeel principals Mark Clifford and Sarah Peacock planned this all along, that they were biding their time until another potent, fully formed musical thought occurred. Last fall's Faults EP made it clear this wasn't the case: The band was still chewing on sounds and fumbling with rhythms. Any hope Seefeel viewed Faults as a stepping stone instead of a new a aesthetic goes out the window on Seefeel, the band's first full-length record since 1996. Seefeel is a thorny album, a thicket of crackling guitars and faltering rhythms. Peacock's sparse, drifting vocals-- at this point the last remaining element of the band's previous work-- navigate their way through by gingerly pulling branches aside. The rhythms-- usually live drums-- are supplied by former Boredoms drummer Iida Kazuhisa, but they contain none of that band's combustible clamor. Instead they grapple with the guitars in slow motion. (I'm reminded of professional hockey fights in which the players, with handfuls of each other's jerseys, awkwardly tussle.) Seefeel's guitars now scrape and smolder, but the foggy landscapes they evoke on tracks like "Rip-Run" and, um, "Dead Guitars" don't seem as rich as those molded by Fennesz or Black Dice. Seefeel have thankfully retained the ability to build an environment. If their previous albums sounded womb-like, Seefeel is more like being an overgrown forest, including the nagging discomfort: "This place has a dark beauty, but I wish my socks weren't damp." That discomfort may be one of the compositional aims of Seefeel, and sometimes it leads to arresting, challenging anti-pop, like on "Step Down", where Peacock pines sweetly over an ominous mechanical advance. I want to admire Seefeel for its decisive move away from the band's past, but I can't find the complexity and depth that allowed them to take an exhausting style-- shoegaze-- and turn it into something new and special. I don't care that Seefeel no longer chip hypnotic rhythms out of blocks if icy guitars, but it bothers me a lot that the simple drum pattern on "Rip-Run" never evolves and that Peacock sounds strangled. The issue isn't one of an old fan pining for glory days; it's an old fan wondering if Seefeel would deserve notice if it were released by a group of 20-year-olds in New York or London. The answer is yes, I think, but just barely."

Babbletron

Mechanical Royalty

Rap

Rollie Pemberton

The hardest thing about building a reputation in the turbulent world of underground rap is formulating an identity. Unless your crew has a fresh face, new sound or interesting persona, they'll sink instantly into the pop culture quagmire folks call independent obscurity. Such is the hurdle now facing Embedded's new Brooklyn protégés, Babbletron. Consisting of Jaymanila, Calm-Pete and producer DJ Pre, the Babbletron team take their no-frills boom-bap to various platitudes, from regrets about the nature of time ("The Clock Song") to discontent with the artificial aspects of life ("SpecialFX") to an idiosyncratic (yet unfortunately corny) trip into outer space ("Space Tech Banana Clip"). Issues arise with personal taste regarding the vocalists: Jaymanila comes off like a smoke-free LoDeck, while Calm-Pete has a relaxed droll that recalls a more serious, introspective, and possibly sedated Edan. While most of the album stands purely solid, "Birds" is the obvious triumph on Mechanical Royalty, and it may be one of the best songs of the year. An extended metaphor for promiscuous women, the boys play devil's advocate to her irresistible whoredom while Calm-Pete, rapping with a pleasantly slow, light cadence reminiscent of Slick Rick, warns, "Beware of the succubus, out to belittle us/ She's a perfect stranger, don't be ridiculous!" Over a xylophone and hard drum display, Jaymanila also hops into the fray, detailing how "you want her to want you, but she's just a cheap trick" and "the roles that she play don't have hit points or Bilbo." It isn't often that a song about such a common topic can end up so cleverly distinct. Unfortunately, the production here is largely inconsistent. The crew's producer and scratch handler DJ Pre has a traditional beat approach that often seems to lack any kind of pulse, with few change-ups or even interesting samples. Ese and Hipsta, saviors of LoDeck's fantastic debut EP Bash It!, also appear, but fail to bring quite enough talent to distract from the lackluster production. Luckily, Rjd2 comes by to drop lounge piano, swirling windy cavern choir and entangled guitar lines on "The Clock Song", while MF Doom swings his way through theme show horns and a speedy break on "Space Tech Banana Clip" for a massive payoff. Although they occasionally drop clever lines ("Sometimes I spit it so raw, the Japanese think I'm edible/ Oedipal, it ain't complex to see why you cry mommy"), Babbletron's song structures and lyrics come off as run-of-the-mill intelligent boom-bap, among the most vanilla offerings of the underground, regardless of their obviously noble intentions. The beats are weak, the record's too short, and the songs kind of blend together in a monotonous mash. While still a remotely interesting debut full-length, it leaves far too much to be desired.

Artist: Babbletron, Album: Mechanical Royalty, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "The hardest thing about building a reputation in the turbulent world of underground rap is formulating an identity. Unless your crew has a fresh face, new sound or interesting persona, they'll sink instantly into the pop culture quagmire folks call independent obscurity. Such is the hurdle now facing Embedded's new Brooklyn protégés, Babbletron. Consisting of Jaymanila, Calm-Pete and producer DJ Pre, the Babbletron team take their no-frills boom-bap to various platitudes, from regrets about the nature of time ("The Clock Song") to discontent with the artificial aspects of life ("SpecialFX") to an idiosyncratic (yet unfortunately corny) trip into outer space ("Space Tech Banana Clip"). Issues arise with personal taste regarding the vocalists: Jaymanila comes off like a smoke-free LoDeck, while Calm-Pete has a relaxed droll that recalls a more serious, introspective, and possibly sedated Edan. While most of the album stands purely solid, "Birds" is the obvious triumph on Mechanical Royalty, and it may be one of the best songs of the year. An extended metaphor for promiscuous women, the boys play devil's advocate to her irresistible whoredom while Calm-Pete, rapping with a pleasantly slow, light cadence reminiscent of Slick Rick, warns, "Beware of the succubus, out to belittle us/ She's a perfect stranger, don't be ridiculous!" Over a xylophone and hard drum display, Jaymanila also hops into the fray, detailing how "you want her to want you, but she's just a cheap trick" and "the roles that she play don't have hit points or Bilbo." It isn't often that a song about such a common topic can end up so cleverly distinct. Unfortunately, the production here is largely inconsistent. The crew's producer and scratch handler DJ Pre has a traditional beat approach that often seems to lack any kind of pulse, with few change-ups or even interesting samples. Ese and Hipsta, saviors of LoDeck's fantastic debut EP Bash It!, also appear, but fail to bring quite enough talent to distract from the lackluster production. Luckily, Rjd2 comes by to drop lounge piano, swirling windy cavern choir and entangled guitar lines on "The Clock Song", while MF Doom swings his way through theme show horns and a speedy break on "Space Tech Banana Clip" for a massive payoff. Although they occasionally drop clever lines ("Sometimes I spit it so raw, the Japanese think I'm edible/ Oedipal, it ain't complex to see why you cry mommy"), Babbletron's song structures and lyrics come off as run-of-the-mill intelligent boom-bap, among the most vanilla offerings of the underground, regardless of their obviously noble intentions. The beats are weak, the record's too short, and the songs kind of blend together in a monotonous mash. While still a remotely interesting debut full-length, it leaves far too much to be desired."

DJ Snake

Encore

Electronic

Matthew Schnipper

DJ Snake is a young French DJ and producer best known for his endless sugar high of a song “Turn Down for What,” and, up until now, his big moments have felt worth the tooth rot. Other big time producers from, Afrojack to Zedd, make mostly humorless music. Their drops and major keys work for clubs of course, with huge dynamic shifts that play to the pit of your stomach the same way a roller coaster does. The genius of them is they also work for partying on a smaller scale, like for at-home pregaming. EDM’s lack of subtlety isn’t a fault—it’s the entire point. For the genre, you can often replace questions of “good” and bad” with “useful” or “useless.” EDM is a tool as much as it is a type of music. DJ Snake has taken EDM’s inherent grandeur and played around in its sandbox. “Turn Down for What,” especially, turned the dial past eleven. Its over the top aggression is written into its rhythms. The song has Lil Jon barking at you. It’s ludicrous, and excellently so. After billions of of plays, it’s still not old, as it well overshoots its modest ambitions. In other words, at his best, DJ Snake under-promises and over-delivers. Unfortunately, we don’t get much of DJ Snake at his best on Encore. Clearly DJ Snake has the ability to make some serious earworms: “Sahara,” with Skrillex, adds an element of surprise, in the form of tablas and chanting. It’s got a predictable buildup and inevitable drop, before some very “Turn Down” esque synth jabs take over. It’s dumb fun. “Ocho Cinco,” the album’s most successfully ridiculous track, mostly eschews vocals (like “Sahara”) and utilizes what basically sounds like a nail gun for most of its drums. It sounds appropriate for driving your car into a wall. Same with “Propaganda,” which follows a similar formula of exuberant pummelling. But instead of just riding out that vim and vigor, he looks to make a real album, more songs with choruses and verses. Why? There’s a fish with a bicycle comparison to be made here. The album is simply not the format for DJ Snake. The conventional song barely is. He makes tracks. Instead of being, at least, a collection of great, standalone singles, the album is riddled with ill-advised rap songs and bad ballads. At best, “Let Me Love You,” the collaboration with Justin Bieber (who knows his way around silly EDM beats) is forgettable. Jeremih, on “The Half” sounds half awake on the beat’s video game bloops. Closer “Here Comes the Night” with Mr. Hudson is actually pretty good in that slick Ryan-Gosling-movie-credits way. But how a clunker like “Future Pt 2” with limp vocals from Bipolar Sunshine ended up next to these songs is anyone’s guess. Can no one working on these records tell how bad they are? Ultimately, the question that remains with Encore is really just: Why does this exist? The party tracks on here are exceptional at doing what they do. The guy can make a banger. Surely those songs would have the life they deserve on computer screens and in subwoofers however they’re released. The “Turn Down for What” video has half a billion YouTube views! It’s digestible. In what way does an uneven album help DJ Snake or his fans? Is his ambition to be a producer and songwriter? It probably shouldn’t be. No one needs these wet noodle ballads. They’re inoffensive, sure, but they’re completely unnecessary. Not sure what made him turn down.

Artist: DJ Snake, Album: Encore, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 5.3 Album review: "DJ Snake is a young French DJ and producer best known for his endless sugar high of a song “Turn Down for What,” and, up until now, his big moments have felt worth the tooth rot. Other big time producers from, Afrojack to Zedd, make mostly humorless music. Their drops and major keys work for clubs of course, with huge dynamic shifts that play to the pit of your stomach the same way a roller coaster does. The genius of them is they also work for partying on a smaller scale, like for at-home pregaming. EDM’s lack of subtlety isn’t a fault—it’s the entire point. For the genre, you can often replace questions of “good” and bad” with “useful” or “useless.” EDM is a tool as much as it is a type of music. DJ Snake has taken EDM’s inherent grandeur and played around in its sandbox. “Turn Down for What,” especially, turned the dial past eleven. Its over the top aggression is written into its rhythms. The song has Lil Jon barking at you. It’s ludicrous, and excellently so. After billions of of plays, it’s still not old, as it well overshoots its modest ambitions. In other words, at his best, DJ Snake under-promises and over-delivers. Unfortunately, we don’t get much of DJ Snake at his best on Encore. Clearly DJ Snake has the ability to make some serious earworms: “Sahara,” with Skrillex, adds an element of surprise, in the form of tablas and chanting. It’s got a predictable buildup and inevitable drop, before some very “Turn Down” esque synth jabs take over. It’s dumb fun. “Ocho Cinco,” the album’s most successfully ridiculous track, mostly eschews vocals (like “Sahara”) and utilizes what basically sounds like a nail gun for most of its drums. It sounds appropriate for driving your car into a wall. Same with “Propaganda,” which follows a similar formula of exuberant pummelling. But instead of just riding out that vim and vigor, he looks to make a real album, more songs with choruses and verses. Why? There’s a fish with a bicycle comparison to be made here. The album is simply not the format for DJ Snake. The conventional song barely is. He makes tracks. Instead of being, at least, a collection of great, standalone singles, the album is riddled with ill-advised rap songs and bad ballads. At best, “Let Me Love You,” the collaboration with Justin Bieber (who knows his way around silly EDM beats) is forgettable. Jeremih, on “The Half” sounds half awake on the beat’s video game bloops. Closer “Here Comes the Night” with Mr. Hudson is actually pretty good in that slick Ryan-Gosling-movie-credits way. But how a clunker like “Future Pt 2” with limp vocals from Bipolar Sunshine ended up next to these songs is anyone’s guess. Can no one working on these records tell how bad they are? Ultimately, the question that remains with Encore is really just: Why does this exist? The party tracks on here are exceptional at doing what they do. The guy can make a banger. Surely those songs would have the life they deserve on computer screens and in subwoofers however they’re released. The “Turn Down for What” video has half a billion YouTube views! It’s digestible. In what way does an uneven album help DJ Snake or his fans? Is his ambition to be a producer and songwriter? It probably shouldn’t be. No one needs these wet noodle ballads. They’re inoffensive, sure, but they’re completely unnecessary. Not sure what made him turn down."

Polysick

Digital Native

Andrew Gaerig

Egisto Sopor is from Rome, which is a fantastic place to be from if your art is chiefly concerned with the past. He's been hanging around under his Polysick guise since 2010, releasing CD-Rs and tapes for labels like 100% Silk, aligning him with a group of underground-oriented analog fetishists currently mining 1980s dance music. Polysick's tracks are shorter and sparser than those of one-time labelmates Ital or Heatsick, and his debut album for Planet Mu, Digital Native, is full of proto-techno vignettes and swampy kraut ambles. A mix that Sopor put together earlier this year for Electronic Explorations featured tracks by Italian soundtrack composer Piero Umiliani, Drexciya, and 808 State, artists whose music triangulates his sound better than any description could. The beats on Digital Native, when present, are simple, purposefully tinny, and respectful of the grid. His synthesizers have a homespun rigidity and they lean slightly to the left, like amateur carpentry. He loves squelchy, sour, acid-house timbres and stone-simple, early-Detroit constructions, a potent combination. Sopor is smart not to stuff his tracks; most of the time we're given a simple repeating arpeggio, a pattering beat, and another synthesizer acting as glaze. This leaves a lot of open air, and the best part about Digital Native is how easily it seems these elements could cast off like space junk at any moment. What makes Sopor different from someone like Ital, though, is how explicitly he recreates the past. Digital Native has no hidden agenda and offers no commentary on technology or nostalgia. Since Sopor is not a preternaturally talented arranger or tunesmith, it's difficult to determine what, exactly, is being ventured during a moment when analog exploration is the de rigueur mode for underground composers. (The vintage stews offered by Panabrite and Pulse Emitter, for example, are meatier and more adventurous.) After its initial charms wear off-- and at 15 tracks and nearly an hour runtime, they will-- Digital Native slows to a dull plod. We're left with aural X-rays of Boards of Canada ("Lost Holidays") and molasses-slow, pixelated lounge music ("Gondwana"). Sopor has worked as a video producer and claims he makes his music to fantasized images. Digital Native is harmless analog tapestry, but it wilts under too much attention, unable to conjure the vivid scenes to which it was undoubtedly conceived. Sopor avoids careless mimicry-- he is not beholden to any one artist or style-- and there is plenty of potential in his blends. Digital Native, though, is too slight to truly honor, or build upon, its referents.

Artist: Polysick, Album: Digital Native, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "Egisto Sopor is from Rome, which is a fantastic place to be from if your art is chiefly concerned with the past. He's been hanging around under his Polysick guise since 2010, releasing CD-Rs and tapes for labels like 100% Silk, aligning him with a group of underground-oriented analog fetishists currently mining 1980s dance music. Polysick's tracks are shorter and sparser than those of one-time labelmates Ital or Heatsick, and his debut album for Planet Mu, Digital Native, is full of proto-techno vignettes and swampy kraut ambles. A mix that Sopor put together earlier this year for Electronic Explorations featured tracks by Italian soundtrack composer Piero Umiliani, Drexciya, and 808 State, artists whose music triangulates his sound better than any description could. The beats on Digital Native, when present, are simple, purposefully tinny, and respectful of the grid. His synthesizers have a homespun rigidity and they lean slightly to the left, like amateur carpentry. He loves squelchy, sour, acid-house timbres and stone-simple, early-Detroit constructions, a potent combination. Sopor is smart not to stuff his tracks; most of the time we're given a simple repeating arpeggio, a pattering beat, and another synthesizer acting as glaze. This leaves a lot of open air, and the best part about Digital Native is how easily it seems these elements could cast off like space junk at any moment. What makes Sopor different from someone like Ital, though, is how explicitly he recreates the past. Digital Native has no hidden agenda and offers no commentary on technology or nostalgia. Since Sopor is not a preternaturally talented arranger or tunesmith, it's difficult to determine what, exactly, is being ventured during a moment when analog exploration is the de rigueur mode for underground composers. (The vintage stews offered by Panabrite and Pulse Emitter, for example, are meatier and more adventurous.) After its initial charms wear off-- and at 15 tracks and nearly an hour runtime, they will-- Digital Native slows to a dull plod. We're left with aural X-rays of Boards of Canada ("Lost Holidays") and molasses-slow, pixelated lounge music ("Gondwana"). Sopor has worked as a video producer and claims he makes his music to fantasized images. Digital Native is harmless analog tapestry, but it wilts under too much attention, unable to conjure the vivid scenes to which it was undoubtedly conceived. Sopor avoids careless mimicry-- he is not beholden to any one artist or style-- and there is plenty of potential in his blends. Digital Native, though, is too slight to truly honor, or build upon, its referents."

Exhumed

Necrocracy

Metal

Kim Kelly

Exhumed’s 2011 comeback album, All Guts, No Glory made it clear that the California death metallers still had plenty of curdled piss and vinegar left, and now, with Necrocracy, the self-styled progenitors of gore metal have proven that there’s no such thing as aging gracefully. They’re still the same morbid blood freaks that released classics like Slaughtercult,  Gore Metal, and the most perverse Led Zeppelin cover in existence, but as this new record shows, they've loosened up a little in their old age. Necrocracy marks a turning point in the band’s career. They’ve long hinted at their melodic inclinations, but this album makes no bones about it: longtime Carcass acolytes Exhumed have entered their Heartwork period, trading the sloppy savagery of old for a more refined kind of audio violence. They’ve upgraded their tools of the trade, casting aside meat cleavers and dripping chainsaws in favor of freshly sharpened surgical steel and opting for a cleaner production job.  Instead of burying the evidence, Exhumed ensure that each galloping riff and phlegmy gurgle is right there, mean-mugging right back at your ugly face. The grind has faded, and only death (and maybe a smear of punk) remains. One of the biggest things that sets Necrocracy apart from the untold numbers of death metal records released so far this year is how damn catchy it is. It comes as no surprise, of course; Exhumed have always delighted in crafting ghoulish ear worms like perennial favorite, “The Matter of Splatter”, but the gang chants, groovy breakdowns, and meaty headbanger riffs strewn throughout this record take things to a new level. (Just try to get those gang-growls on the title track or “Ravening”s gruesomely audible chorus out of your head.) “Coins Upon The Eyes” proves that intros are for wimps, slamming straight into a groovy death jam punctuated by Matt Harvey’s strangled Tompa “Go!” It creeps and vamps through a muscular Stockholm riff and searing Swedish melodeath solos, swaddled in a thick, satisfying guitar tone with just enough spit shine to make sure every instrument bleeds through. The bass tone is on point, too, leaving lots of space to throw its weight around. The band delight in shifting tempos and shocking their listener awake with wild solos and unexpected breakdowns. Closing track “The Rotting” goes off into an extended melodic passage that never gets boring, while the burly “Dysmorphic” breaks into an ominous acoustic interlude before diving back into the pit. “Sickened” starts with a perfectly spewed “Bleagh!” from Harvey, blasting through a perfect example of the interplay between the band’s trademark guttural bellows and frantic high-pitched squawks before barking out “Move your ass!” The jittery d-beat on “(So Passes) the Glory of Death” ensures that you’ll do just that. These tracks (as well as damn near everything else on the record) are going to slay in a live setting, just as Exhumed intended. They’re no slouches onstage, and Necrocracy is poised to add plenty of ammunition to that formidable live onslaught. This may be Exhumed’s most accessible offering yet, but that doesn’t mean they’ve lost their edge. Matt Harvey and his merry maniacs know exactly what they’re doing, and have spent 20-0dd years perfecting their poisonous formula. The riffs still bludgeon, the snare still snaps, and the dual vocal assault still growls and yelps with the best of them. The wailing solos and brilliant flashes of melodic death metal perfection are a welcome addition, as is their maturing approach to songwriting. Ultimately,  Necrocracy is one more in a long line of killer albums, and thanks to its dynamic range, clever riffs, and newfound melodic focus, is likely to ensnare the youth of today the same way its spiritual predecessor lured in the young heshers of old.

Artist: Exhumed, Album: Necrocracy, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Exhumed’s 2011 comeback album, All Guts, No Glory made it clear that the California death metallers still had plenty of curdled piss and vinegar left, and now, with Necrocracy, the self-styled progenitors of gore metal have proven that there’s no such thing as aging gracefully. They’re still the same morbid blood freaks that released classics like Slaughtercult,  Gore Metal, and the most perverse Led Zeppelin cover in existence, but as this new record shows, they've loosened up a little in their old age. Necrocracy marks a turning point in the band’s career. They’ve long hinted at their melodic inclinations, but this album makes no bones about it: longtime Carcass acolytes Exhumed have entered their Heartwork period, trading the sloppy savagery of old for a more refined kind of audio violence. They’ve upgraded their tools of the trade, casting aside meat cleavers and dripping chainsaws in favor of freshly sharpened surgical steel and opting for a cleaner production job.  Instead of burying the evidence, Exhumed ensure that each galloping riff and phlegmy gurgle is right there, mean-mugging right back at your ugly face. The grind has faded, and only death (and maybe a smear of punk) remains. One of the biggest things that sets Necrocracy apart from the untold numbers of death metal records released so far this year is how damn catchy it is. It comes as no surprise, of course; Exhumed have always delighted in crafting ghoulish ear worms like perennial favorite, “The Matter of Splatter”, but the gang chants, groovy breakdowns, and meaty headbanger riffs strewn throughout this record take things to a new level. (Just try to get those gang-growls on the title track or “Ravening”s gruesomely audible chorus out of your head.) “Coins Upon The Eyes” proves that intros are for wimps, slamming straight into a groovy death jam punctuated by Matt Harvey’s strangled Tompa “Go!” It creeps and vamps through a muscular Stockholm riff and searing Swedish melodeath solos, swaddled in a thick, satisfying guitar tone with just enough spit shine to make sure every instrument bleeds through. The bass tone is on point, too, leaving lots of space to throw its weight around. The band delight in shifting tempos and shocking their listener awake with wild solos and unexpected breakdowns. Closing track “The Rotting” goes off into an extended melodic passage that never gets boring, while the burly “Dysmorphic” breaks into an ominous acoustic interlude before diving back into the pit. “Sickened” starts with a perfectly spewed “Bleagh!” from Harvey, blasting through a perfect example of the interplay between the band’s trademark guttural bellows and frantic high-pitched squawks before barking out “Move your ass!” The jittery d-beat on “(So Passes) the Glory of Death” ensures that you’ll do just that. These tracks (as well as damn near everything else on the record) are going to slay in a live setting, just as Exhumed intended. They’re no slouches onstage, and Necrocracy is poised to add plenty of ammunition to that formidable live onslaught. This may be Exhumed’s most accessible offering yet, but that doesn’t mean they’ve lost their edge. Matt Harvey and his merry maniacs know exactly what they’re doing, and have spent 20-0dd years perfecting their poisonous formula. The riffs still bludgeon, the snare still snaps, and the dual vocal assault still growls and yelps with the best of them. The wailing solos and brilliant flashes of melodic death metal perfection are a welcome addition, as is their maturing approach to songwriting. Ultimately,  Necrocracy is one more in a long line of killer albums, and thanks to its dynamic range, clever riffs, and newfound melodic focus, is likely to ensnare the youth of today the same way its spiritual predecessor lured in the young heshers of old."

Mavado

Gangsta for Life: The Symphony of David Brooks

Global,Pop/R&B

Tom Breihan

Mavado is very good at one particular thing, and he does that one thing so many times on debut full-length Gangsta for Life that the album gets boring quickly. That's something of an unavoidable flaw. As with most dancehall long-players, Gangsta for Life is essentially a singles compilation, an hour straight of tracks that Movado's been flooding Jamaica's market with for the past couple of years. He favors a very specific type of backing track: grim martial dirges with rolling snares and shuddering strings, war-movie soundtrack fare. Tracks like that make a great showcase for his persona, and that persona is the main reason he's risen so quickly to become a major dancehall star. Movado plays the part of a remorseful, weary thug, someone who's dug himself so deep into a life of violence that he can't see a way out. His threats are violent and explicit ("cut your fucking tongue out," that sort of thing), but he delivers them with a sort of inconsolable sadness. His voice is a weathered, ground-down mumble-moan, and he spends about the same amount of time singing ruefully as he does rapping forbiddingly. His scarred-up visage has certainly done plenty to strengthen the impression that his voice makes, and it's not hard to see why so many people love this guy. He's romantically compelling in a Tupac sort of way, and when he spreads his haunted cry slowly over a stomping track, the effect is powerful. Or, to clarify, it's powerful the first couple of times. Around the tenth, it loses some of its luster. There's great stuff to be found on Gangsta for Life, but it's also something of a frustrating listen, since it's so painfully evident that Mavado has a much better album in him. More care should've been given to the album's sequencing; of twenty-five tracks, eight are momentum-sapping skits, and many of the songs barely break the two-minute barrier. And when they're all lined up one after another, Mavado's forlorn, violent laments get repetitive quickly. There's something perversely admirable about his refusal to gear his album toward an American crossover audience, but the resulting sonic uniformity is a problem. He may have a far more interesting character than, say, Bermudan cracker Collie Buddz, but Collie's recent debut covers a whole lot more stylistic ground and ends up making for a more satisfying end-to-end listen. Only near the album's end does Mavado even begin to branch out. "Sadness", a dedication to his late father, is a bleak and bleary slice of one-drop trad-reggae, a style that fits Mavado's voice particularly well. The quiet-storm synths and wind chimes on the love song "Heart Beat" are hackneyed as hell, but his vocal turns it into an affecting exercise anyway. And on "Squeeze Breast" Mavado sounds like his soul is being torn apart even when he's singing about fucking; the contrast is fascinating. The last five songs on the record wrench Mavado out of his comfort zone, and they end up sounding way more alive as a result. Maybe it's admirable how stubbornly Mavado stays in his lane, but a full-length demands more variation. So the best way to hear these tracks is probably in discrete chunks, as the singles were originally intended. On, say, my iPod's shuffle function, the songs from the album work as short, powerful blurts of darkness and pain. Heard all in a row, they add up to less than the sum of their parts.

Artist: Mavado, Album: Gangsta for Life: The Symphony of David Brooks, Genre: Global,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "Mavado is very good at one particular thing, and he does that one thing so many times on debut full-length Gangsta for Life that the album gets boring quickly. That's something of an unavoidable flaw. As with most dancehall long-players, Gangsta for Life is essentially a singles compilation, an hour straight of tracks that Movado's been flooding Jamaica's market with for the past couple of years. He favors a very specific type of backing track: grim martial dirges with rolling snares and shuddering strings, war-movie soundtrack fare. Tracks like that make a great showcase for his persona, and that persona is the main reason he's risen so quickly to become a major dancehall star. Movado plays the part of a remorseful, weary thug, someone who's dug himself so deep into a life of violence that he can't see a way out. His threats are violent and explicit ("cut your fucking tongue out," that sort of thing), but he delivers them with a sort of inconsolable sadness. His voice is a weathered, ground-down mumble-moan, and he spends about the same amount of time singing ruefully as he does rapping forbiddingly. His scarred-up visage has certainly done plenty to strengthen the impression that his voice makes, and it's not hard to see why so many people love this guy. He's romantically compelling in a Tupac sort of way, and when he spreads his haunted cry slowly over a stomping track, the effect is powerful. Or, to clarify, it's powerful the first couple of times. Around the tenth, it loses some of its luster. There's great stuff to be found on Gangsta for Life, but it's also something of a frustrating listen, since it's so painfully evident that Mavado has a much better album in him. More care should've been given to the album's sequencing; of twenty-five tracks, eight are momentum-sapping skits, and many of the songs barely break the two-minute barrier. And when they're all lined up one after another, Mavado's forlorn, violent laments get repetitive quickly. There's something perversely admirable about his refusal to gear his album toward an American crossover audience, but the resulting sonic uniformity is a problem. He may have a far more interesting character than, say, Bermudan cracker Collie Buddz, but Collie's recent debut covers a whole lot more stylistic ground and ends up making for a more satisfying end-to-end listen. Only near the album's end does Mavado even begin to branch out. "Sadness", a dedication to his late father, is a bleak and bleary slice of one-drop trad-reggae, a style that fits Mavado's voice particularly well. The quiet-storm synths and wind chimes on the love song "Heart Beat" are hackneyed as hell, but his vocal turns it into an affecting exercise anyway. And on "Squeeze Breast" Mavado sounds like his soul is being torn apart even when he's singing about fucking; the contrast is fascinating. The last five songs on the record wrench Mavado out of his comfort zone, and they end up sounding way more alive as a result. Maybe it's admirable how stubbornly Mavado stays in his lane, but a full-length demands more variation. So the best way to hear these tracks is probably in discrete chunks, as the singles were originally intended. On, say, my iPod's shuffle function, the songs from the album work as short, powerful blurts of darkness and pain. Heard all in a row, they add up to less than the sum of their parts."

Susumu Yokota

Laputa

Electronic,Global

Liam Singer

By now, the concept of the "parallel universe" probably rivals the theory of relativity as the best-known scientific/metaphysical concept of the 20th Century. It's spawned thousands of science fiction novels and films, countless stoned teenage conversations, and at least one awesome TV show starring Jerry O'Connell. The idea, of course, is that at any point in time, all available choices and possibilities are realized in an ever-blooming flower of multiverses. I mention it because, occasionally, I get the feeling that an album I'm listening to has arrived from one of these parallel existences-- that the artist has, at some point, departed from his or her peers to create music inspired by the same sources, but achieved through a parallel axis of logic. Unfortunately, these albums that fail to appeal to some sense of familiarity and categorization are easily overlooked, and only occasionally rescued from history's cruel used bin. Susumu Yokota makes albums that increasingly worry the boundaries of IDM, ambient and sound collage. Yokota has come at abstract music from the origin of being a house DJ in his native Japan, meaning that his sensibilities are not always aligned with those who balk at the cheesy tropes of techno (warm synth tones playing major seventh chords, heavily reverbed female vocal samples, etc), yet too unconventional and complex for the trance crowd. Laputa is Yokota's most abstract and foreboding-sounding release yet. Almost entirely beatless, its pieces float quietly in and out of existence, operating according to their own logic and leaving the same faint, surreal impressions as dreams upon waking. Initially, Laputa strikes as a sample-based version of Eno's Shutov Assembly or Aphex Twin's Ambient II. But this is not ambient music-- not in the sense that ambient is designed to integrate with its environment, that the musical events in an ambient piece occur randomly within defined parameters, nor in the club-oriented sense of the term. Playing this CD while you attempt to engage with the world around you will likely induce a state of unease, monotony, and (as I discovered) creep out any visitors who decide to stop by your place. It is an immensely subtle album that rewards attention, but to the half-listening ear is an aimless amalgamation of rhythmically incoherent samples. As the record's proclamatory title suggests, Yokota attempts to create a world in itself. His aim is not to transform your external environment, but to form one in your head-- if Eno's Another Green World presents a universe not unlike our own, where they still have swimming little fishes and bouncy pop music, Laputa presents an abstract and entirely unfamiliar space. As much as any electronic artist working today, Yokota is directly indebted to the minimalists of the 70s and 80s, even paying homage in the piece "Grey Piano", which takes as its musical cues from Arvo Part's piano work on "For Alina". He often employs the musical devices of minimalism, such as interlocking circular melodies and processes of slow transformation, and is especially adept at creating rhythms produced through the interaction of two evolving samples, as evidenced by the interlocking left and right channels of "Heart by Heart". Against various droney and spacious backdrops, Yokota presents independently floating and interacting bits of sound that suggest geometric patterns and shapes, such as the woman's voice at the beginning of "Trip Eden" that rises and reverses upon itself like a sleek symmetrical object. Laputa does have a couple of lulls: "True Story", for example, owes a bit too much to the conventions of pastoral ambient. Which is a shame, because otherwise,Laputa is strikingly original. The album will certainly turn off those seeking instrumental music with direct emotional resonance, as Yokota's impact comes not from his manipulation of feelings, but from his musical transformation of space and time. It may also alienate fans of experimental music who equate complexity with dissonance. Laputa is the sound of Susumu Yokota letting go of any inhibitions regarding his definition as an artist. Hopefully, listeners will allow themselves the same level of freedom, as Laputa is a world that deserves tourists.

Artist: Susumu Yokota, Album: Laputa, Genre: Electronic,Global, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "By now, the concept of the "parallel universe" probably rivals the theory of relativity as the best-known scientific/metaphysical concept of the 20th Century. It's spawned thousands of science fiction novels and films, countless stoned teenage conversations, and at least one awesome TV show starring Jerry O'Connell. The idea, of course, is that at any point in time, all available choices and possibilities are realized in an ever-blooming flower of multiverses. I mention it because, occasionally, I get the feeling that an album I'm listening to has arrived from one of these parallel existences-- that the artist has, at some point, departed from his or her peers to create music inspired by the same sources, but achieved through a parallel axis of logic. Unfortunately, these albums that fail to appeal to some sense of familiarity and categorization are easily overlooked, and only occasionally rescued from history's cruel used bin. Susumu Yokota makes albums that increasingly worry the boundaries of IDM, ambient and sound collage. Yokota has come at abstract music from the origin of being a house DJ in his native Japan, meaning that his sensibilities are not always aligned with those who balk at the cheesy tropes of techno (warm synth tones playing major seventh chords, heavily reverbed female vocal samples, etc), yet too unconventional and complex for the trance crowd. Laputa is Yokota's most abstract and foreboding-sounding release yet. Almost entirely beatless, its pieces float quietly in and out of existence, operating according to their own logic and leaving the same faint, surreal impressions as dreams upon waking. Initially, Laputa strikes as a sample-based version of Eno's Shutov Assembly or Aphex Twin's Ambient II. But this is not ambient music-- not in the sense that ambient is designed to integrate with its environment, that the musical events in an ambient piece occur randomly within defined parameters, nor in the club-oriented sense of the term. Playing this CD while you attempt to engage with the world around you will likely induce a state of unease, monotony, and (as I discovered) creep out any visitors who decide to stop by your place. It is an immensely subtle album that rewards attention, but to the half-listening ear is an aimless amalgamation of rhythmically incoherent samples. As the record's proclamatory title suggests, Yokota attempts to create a world in itself. His aim is not to transform your external environment, but to form one in your head-- if Eno's Another Green World presents a universe not unlike our own, where they still have swimming little fishes and bouncy pop music, Laputa presents an abstract and entirely unfamiliar space. As much as any electronic artist working today, Yokota is directly indebted to the minimalists of the 70s and 80s, even paying homage in the piece "Grey Piano", which takes as its musical cues from Arvo Part's piano work on "For Alina". He often employs the musical devices of minimalism, such as interlocking circular melodies and processes of slow transformation, and is especially adept at creating rhythms produced through the interaction of two evolving samples, as evidenced by the interlocking left and right channels of "Heart by Heart". Against various droney and spacious backdrops, Yokota presents independently floating and interacting bits of sound that suggest geometric patterns and shapes, such as the woman's voice at the beginning of "Trip Eden" that rises and reverses upon itself like a sleek symmetrical object. Laputa does have a couple of lulls: "True Story", for example, owes a bit too much to the conventions of pastoral ambient. Which is a shame, because otherwise,Laputa is strikingly original. The album will certainly turn off those seeking instrumental music with direct emotional resonance, as Yokota's impact comes not from his manipulation of feelings, but from his musical transformation of space and time. It may also alienate fans of experimental music who equate complexity with dissonance. Laputa is the sound of Susumu Yokota letting go of any inhibitions regarding his definition as an artist. Hopefully, listeners will allow themselves the same level of freedom, as Laputa is a world that deserves tourists."

Steve Bug

Collaboratory

Electronic

Tim Finney

I once ran into Steve Bug trying on a pair of jeans in Berlin; I had to leave the shop immediately for fear of turning into a gushing fanboy. Bug can have that effect. The night before I'd seen him play for several hours, and whether it was due to his sharp fashion sense or his endearing little dance moves behind the decks or his knack for choosing deep tunes that slowly become thoroughly gripping, he seemed awfully charismatic. His own productions adopt a different pose: in the last decade or so he's managed only a handful of anthems (chiefly his late-1990s classic "Loverboy"), while putting out a lot of material that seems almost defiantly anonymous. This is partly because a fair amount of it is good-not-great, but even the bona fide masterpieces can slide right past you if you're not paying attention. 2005's "Bugs in Your Brain" is my favorite Bug moment: A deceptively fragile, airy piece of minimal house that at first seems to act only as a pretty bridge between tracks in a mix, it reveals its enormous charm through repeat playing, and the accompanying recognition that each beat and each synth chord have been placed just so to achieve an overwhelming sense of rightness. "Fit", rather than weirdness or populism or futurism, forms Bug's stock-in-trade. His productions invite the sort of praise you might bestow on well-designed furniture: sleek, comfortable, without visible flaw. But these traits are as elusive and enigmatic as they are unobtrusive. The difference between a good Bug production and a brilliant one is difficult to articulate, and often just comes down to context-- in the hands of a talented DJ a track can easily move from the first category to the second. Which makes Bug's own albums seem slightly ill-conceived from the start; his tracks are not designed to be heard in full, one after the other. It's not that this music is difficult or impenetrable; if anything, Bug's classicist fusion of deep house grooves, reflective post-Detroit synthesizer melodies, and slight electro affectations (all wrapped in clean, hyper-detailed Euro minimal sound design) will be pleasurably familiar to anyone who has paid the slightest attention to German dance music of the past decade. But this itself is the problem: Bug's work never shocks, and his own consistency works against him. Collaboratory is the equal of previous albums The Other Day and Sensual, but this equality also verges on exchangeability. As its title suggests, Collaboratory focuses on collaborations with other producers, but you'd be forgiven for not noticing, as the sound of the album is overwhelmingly consistent. There's much to love here. Opener "Trees Can't Dance" is the sort of echo-strewn, melancholy Detroit homage that any producer would kill to call to their own, its roaming, mutating synthesizer line confirming that while Bug is proudly functionalist he's never rigidly geometric. On the unnerving "Month of Sip" (in collaboration with the Martini Bros' DJ Cle), portentous chords and drooping, decaying synth tones slowly transform into a morose gesture towards peaktime energy, like Âme on strong downers. "Still Music", with Donnacha Costello, is dreamy acid house whose seven minutes of radical uneventfulness would still be captivating if it were stretched out to 20. Meanwhile, for the romantic, mysterious vocal house of "Trust in Me" and "Like It Should Be", Bug concocts delectable, evocatively humid grooves-- all glowering bass and intricate, delicate snare patterns. In fact pretty much every track here is filled with ear-tickling sounds and uniformly sensitive production. Still, imagine how much more startling these qualities would be if they were marshaled in the service of mind-bending, unpredictable grooves, or gigantic dancefloor-slaying hooks, or simply unforgettable melodies. Bug avoids these "easy" options in order to focus listeners' attentions on the carefully thought-out physicality of his work; I sympathize, but despite its superlative craft Collaboratory still seems at times like a missed opportunity. For music that's so easy to like, falling in love with this stuff can feel like surprisingly hard work.

Artist: Steve Bug, Album: Collaboratory, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "I once ran into Steve Bug trying on a pair of jeans in Berlin; I had to leave the shop immediately for fear of turning into a gushing fanboy. Bug can have that effect. The night before I'd seen him play for several hours, and whether it was due to his sharp fashion sense or his endearing little dance moves behind the decks or his knack for choosing deep tunes that slowly become thoroughly gripping, he seemed awfully charismatic. His own productions adopt a different pose: in the last decade or so he's managed only a handful of anthems (chiefly his late-1990s classic "Loverboy"), while putting out a lot of material that seems almost defiantly anonymous. This is partly because a fair amount of it is good-not-great, but even the bona fide masterpieces can slide right past you if you're not paying attention. 2005's "Bugs in Your Brain" is my favorite Bug moment: A deceptively fragile, airy piece of minimal house that at first seems to act only as a pretty bridge between tracks in a mix, it reveals its enormous charm through repeat playing, and the accompanying recognition that each beat and each synth chord have been placed just so to achieve an overwhelming sense of rightness. "Fit", rather than weirdness or populism or futurism, forms Bug's stock-in-trade. His productions invite the sort of praise you might bestow on well-designed furniture: sleek, comfortable, without visible flaw. But these traits are as elusive and enigmatic as they are unobtrusive. The difference between a good Bug production and a brilliant one is difficult to articulate, and often just comes down to context-- in the hands of a talented DJ a track can easily move from the first category to the second. Which makes Bug's own albums seem slightly ill-conceived from the start; his tracks are not designed to be heard in full, one after the other. It's not that this music is difficult or impenetrable; if anything, Bug's classicist fusion of deep house grooves, reflective post-Detroit synthesizer melodies, and slight electro affectations (all wrapped in clean, hyper-detailed Euro minimal sound design) will be pleasurably familiar to anyone who has paid the slightest attention to German dance music of the past decade. But this itself is the problem: Bug's work never shocks, and his own consistency works against him. Collaboratory is the equal of previous albums The Other Day and Sensual, but this equality also verges on exchangeability. As its title suggests, Collaboratory focuses on collaborations with other producers, but you'd be forgiven for not noticing, as the sound of the album is overwhelmingly consistent. There's much to love here. Opener "Trees Can't Dance" is the sort of echo-strewn, melancholy Detroit homage that any producer would kill to call to their own, its roaming, mutating synthesizer line confirming that while Bug is proudly functionalist he's never rigidly geometric. On the unnerving "Month of Sip" (in collaboration with the Martini Bros' DJ Cle), portentous chords and drooping, decaying synth tones slowly transform into a morose gesture towards peaktime energy, like Âme on strong downers. "Still Music", with Donnacha Costello, is dreamy acid house whose seven minutes of radical uneventfulness would still be captivating if it were stretched out to 20. Meanwhile, for the romantic, mysterious vocal house of "Trust in Me" and "Like It Should Be", Bug concocts delectable, evocatively humid grooves-- all glowering bass and intricate, delicate snare patterns. In fact pretty much every track here is filled with ear-tickling sounds and uniformly sensitive production. Still, imagine how much more startling these qualities would be if they were marshaled in the service of mind-bending, unpredictable grooves, or gigantic dancefloor-slaying hooks, or simply unforgettable melodies. Bug avoids these "easy" options in order to focus listeners' attentions on the carefully thought-out physicality of his work; I sympathize, but despite its superlative craft Collaboratory still seems at times like a missed opportunity. For music that's so easy to like, falling in love with this stuff can feel like surprisingly hard work."

Years & Years

Communion

Pop/R&B

Tim Finney

Almost all forms of music seek to speak, from time to time, of love, and from time to time of sex. But pop music stands alone in its obsession with their convergence point, where they become interchangeable or indistinguishable or simply confused with one another. "Is it desire, or is it love that I’m feeling for you?" Years & Years singer Olly Alexander asks, in characteristically dramatic fashion on "Desire", and the law of pop melodrama demands that the question go unanswered. So it goes with the music: is it the easy populism of Years & Years’ honed, slick dance-pop that intoxicates, or a transmission of deeper truths? But why separate the two? The majority of the songs on the British trio’s debut album Communion marry thematic precision with the broad kinetics of great pop songwriting, mingling self-loathing and doubt with a redemptive, near-bloody-minded push to prettiness and uplift. Only the excellent single "Shine" is as upbeat as it is up-tempo, and even then the happiness feels so hard-won it can’t help but imply its opposite. The songs carefully map the contours of gay sensuality, filtering lust through a variety of counterparts: not just shame, but vulnerability, self-awareness and annihilating self-abandon. Where Bronski Beat once crafted colossal club-pop out of tales of marginalization and abuse, Years & Years occupy a more subtle, liminal contemporary world, one of feeling isolated amidst a crowd of bodies. "I’ll do what you like if you stay the night," Olly bargains on "Real", and then later offers on the seductive slow-grind of "Take Shelter", "do what you want tonight/ It’s alright." On "Worship", he promises "I’m not gonna tell nobody ‘bout you," and finally, on the wracked, gorgeous closer "Memo", he begs, "Let me take your heart/ Love you in the dark/ No one has to see." In each case the character of the song is made small and powerless by the asymmetry of desire, which renders the stadium-chant backing vocals and sun-from-behind-clouds synth bursts more perverse and exhilarating than they have any right to be on their own. Remove or ignore that contradiction, and Years & Years’ musical familiarity might breed contempt. You could dismiss their overblown choruses and sculpted electro-house arrangements as just the most commercial manifestation yet of a decade’s worth of also-ran bands reimagining '80s and '90s club-pop; MGMT’s "Electric Feel" strained through Disclosure’s snappy post-garage percussion and Sam Smith’s middlebrow wallowing. But Years & Years don't dilute this formula, they distill it: Communion’s biggest hit thus far, the high-gloss anthem "King", attains a kind of formal loveliness not witnessed in this genre since Madonna’s "Get Together" almost a decade ago. Here, and on the album’s other highlights, the air of mercantile anonymity feels generous rather than cynical, the music as anxious to accommodate its imagined audience as Olly is his lovers, to be the song that made you dance all night even though you can’t remember a word of it now (i.e. to be the best song ever, as One Direction rightly observed). How else could you end up with a song like "Worship": a bright xylophone bounce for the verses, and a chorus that references gospel via diva-house via the Wanted’s "I Found You"? Appropriately, the band sounds too delirious to feel any shame. Years & Years are weakest when seeking to project dignity, a noble bearing up in the face of life’s torments and disappointments ("Eyes Shut", "Gold", "Without"). Then, the arrangements veer towards placating grand gestures, and Olly’s "soaring" vocals threaten to become cloying. Conversely, the ballad "Memo" is perhaps the album’s pinnacle, at least in part because of its defiant specificity. Over slow piano chords and halting percussion, Olly describes in fragile falsetto his infatuation for a straight male friend ("You see yourself in another way/ I try my best but I don’t ever change"), doomed to be unrequited although perhaps not unconsummated (the repeated refrain, "I want more", works either way). Although its lip trembles with the tremulousness of its longing, at another level "Memo" is ice cold: what kind of love, it asks, would place lovers in such an impossible bind? Again, there's no answer on Communion, but you can always return to the dancefloor and try to find it again.

Artist: Years & Years, Album: Communion, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Almost all forms of music seek to speak, from time to time, of love, and from time to time of sex. But pop music stands alone in its obsession with their convergence point, where they become interchangeable or indistinguishable or simply confused with one another. "Is it desire, or is it love that I’m feeling for you?" Years & Years singer Olly Alexander asks, in characteristically dramatic fashion on "Desire", and the law of pop melodrama demands that the question go unanswered. So it goes with the music: is it the easy populism of Years & Years’ honed, slick dance-pop that intoxicates, or a transmission of deeper truths? But why separate the two? The majority of the songs on the British trio’s debut album Communion marry thematic precision with the broad kinetics of great pop songwriting, mingling self-loathing and doubt with a redemptive, near-bloody-minded push to prettiness and uplift. Only the excellent single "Shine" is as upbeat as it is up-tempo, and even then the happiness feels so hard-won it can’t help but imply its opposite. The songs carefully map the contours of gay sensuality, filtering lust through a variety of counterparts: not just shame, but vulnerability, self-awareness and annihilating self-abandon. Where Bronski Beat once crafted colossal club-pop out of tales of marginalization and abuse, Years & Years occupy a more subtle, liminal contemporary world, one of feeling isolated amidst a crowd of bodies. "I’ll do what you like if you stay the night," Olly bargains on "Real", and then later offers on the seductive slow-grind of "Take Shelter", "do what you want tonight/ It’s alright." On "Worship", he promises "I’m not gonna tell nobody ‘bout you," and finally, on the wracked, gorgeous closer "Memo", he begs, "Let me take your heart/ Love you in the dark/ No one has to see." In each case the character of the song is made small and powerless by the asymmetry of desire, which renders the stadium-chant backing vocals and sun-from-behind-clouds synth bursts more perverse and exhilarating than they have any right to be on their own. Remove or ignore that contradiction, and Years & Years’ musical familiarity might breed contempt. You could dismiss their overblown choruses and sculpted electro-house arrangements as just the most commercial manifestation yet of a decade’s worth of also-ran bands reimagining '80s and '90s club-pop; MGMT’s "Electric Feel" strained through Disclosure’s snappy post-garage percussion and Sam Smith’s middlebrow wallowing. But Years & Years don't dilute this formula, they distill it: Communion’s biggest hit thus far, the high-gloss anthem "King", attains a kind of formal loveliness not witnessed in this genre since Madonna’s "Get Together" almost a decade ago. Here, and on the album’s other highlights, the air of mercantile anonymity feels generous rather than cynical, the music as anxious to accommodate its imagined audience as Olly is his lovers, to be the song that made you dance all night even though you can’t remember a word of it now (i.e. to be the best song ever, as One Direction rightly observed). How else could you end up with a song like "Worship": a bright xylophone bounce for the verses, and a chorus that references gospel via diva-house via the Wanted’s "I Found You"? Appropriately, the band sounds too delirious to feel any shame. Years & Years are weakest when seeking to project dignity, a noble bearing up in the face of life’s torments and disappointments ("Eyes Shut", "Gold", "Without"). Then, the arrangements veer towards placating grand gestures, and Olly’s "soaring" vocals threaten to become cloying. Conversely, the ballad "Memo" is perhaps the album’s pinnacle, at least in part because of its defiant specificity. Over slow piano chords and halting percussion, Olly describes in fragile falsetto his infatuation for a straight male friend ("You see yourself in another way/ I try my best but I don’t ever change"), doomed to be unrequited although perhaps not unconsummated (the repeated refrain, "I want more", works either way). Although its lip trembles with the tremulousness of its longing, at another level "Memo" is ice cold: what kind of love, it asks, would place lovers in such an impossible bind? Again, there's no answer on Communion, but you can always return to the dancefloor and try to find it again."

Heavy Trash

Midnight Soul Serenade

Electronic,Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

It's a Beatles world, which partly explains why I respect Jon Spencer and Matt Verta-Ray for casting their lots so unequivocally with Elvis and sticking with it for so damn long. Midnight Soul Serenade is their third album together as Heavy Trash, and the duo continue to reinterpret the King of Rock'n'Roll and his early-rock noblemen as raunchy, bug-eyed Ralph Bakshi cartoons. That's not to say their schtick isn't schtick or that it doesn't constantly threaten to expire on every song. Even Presley, perhaps the least introspective rock musician ever, evolved and developed from 1956 to 77. Meanwhile, Spencer still whoops it up like he did a quarter-century ago. That's why Verta-Ray makes such a good foil for him-- even more dynamic than the Dickinson brothers or even the Sadies. The former Madder Rose bass player and Blues Explosion touring member either draws out more nuance from Spencer or allows Spencer to draw it out himself, but without watering down his delivery. That makes Heavy Trash his most successful project this decade, or at least the one that most inventively restages his schtick. Compared to Spencer Dickinson or even JSBX, the range of styles and sounds on Midnight Soul Serenade­ is anarchic, full of goofing-around (but never winking) allusions to Sun Studio, Louisiana Hayride, Muscle Shoals, and juvenile delinquent films, as well as more than a few side glances toward contemporaries like the Flat Duo Jets, the White Stripes, and, ahem, Southern Culture on the Skids. Out of the gate, "Gee, I Really Love You" cribs off the Dixie Cups' cheat sheet, turning their "Chapel of Love" into a lascivious wedding-night come-on. On "Good Man", the duo hire the chain gang from either Sam Cooke's "Chain Gang" or Tennessee Ernie Ford's "Sixteeen Tons", as if to let you know how effortless it is. On the other hand, proximity to Link Wray (the stalled "Pimento" and the rattletrap "Sweet Little Bird") just shows how hard they have to work. What saves Heavy Trash in general and Midnight Soul Serenade­ in particular is their unironic jocularity. For them, rock is supposed to be fun and freeing, and critical handwringing over Spencer's intentions toward rock seems to miss the point of his fairly straightforward goofball approach. Even if his music is something to "get" rather than to just blindly enjoy, the duo's approach here means they rarely get too caught up in provenance. Sure, there are dead ends here, such as the hallucinogenic story-song "The Pill" and the hokily ramblin' closer "In My Heart", but "Bumble Bee" is a fever-dream cartoon that's funnier than the old SNL skit, and "(Sometimes You Got to Be) Gentle" hurls increasingly randy single entendres over tremulously dissembling guitar riffs. In fact, name aside, Heavy Trash never get too heavy on Midnight Soul Serenade. It might be Spencer's lightest and breeziest album to date, a testimony to his stick-to-it-iveness despite the advancing years and changing trends.

Artist: Heavy Trash, Album: Midnight Soul Serenade, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "It's a Beatles world, which partly explains why I respect Jon Spencer and Matt Verta-Ray for casting their lots so unequivocally with Elvis and sticking with it for so damn long. Midnight Soul Serenade is their third album together as Heavy Trash, and the duo continue to reinterpret the King of Rock'n'Roll and his early-rock noblemen as raunchy, bug-eyed Ralph Bakshi cartoons. That's not to say their schtick isn't schtick or that it doesn't constantly threaten to expire on every song. Even Presley, perhaps the least introspective rock musician ever, evolved and developed from 1956 to 77. Meanwhile, Spencer still whoops it up like he did a quarter-century ago. That's why Verta-Ray makes such a good foil for him-- even more dynamic than the Dickinson brothers or even the Sadies. The former Madder Rose bass player and Blues Explosion touring member either draws out more nuance from Spencer or allows Spencer to draw it out himself, but without watering down his delivery. That makes Heavy Trash his most successful project this decade, or at least the one that most inventively restages his schtick. Compared to Spencer Dickinson or even JSBX, the range of styles and sounds on Midnight Soul Serenade­ is anarchic, full of goofing-around (but never winking) allusions to Sun Studio, Louisiana Hayride, Muscle Shoals, and juvenile delinquent films, as well as more than a few side glances toward contemporaries like the Flat Duo Jets, the White Stripes, and, ahem, Southern Culture on the Skids. Out of the gate, "Gee, I Really Love You" cribs off the Dixie Cups' cheat sheet, turning their "Chapel of Love" into a lascivious wedding-night come-on. On "Good Man", the duo hire the chain gang from either Sam Cooke's "Chain Gang" or Tennessee Ernie Ford's "Sixteeen Tons", as if to let you know how effortless it is. On the other hand, proximity to Link Wray (the stalled "Pimento" and the rattletrap "Sweet Little Bird") just shows how hard they have to work. What saves Heavy Trash in general and Midnight Soul Serenade­ in particular is their unironic jocularity. For them, rock is supposed to be fun and freeing, and critical handwringing over Spencer's intentions toward rock seems to miss the point of his fairly straightforward goofball approach. Even if his music is something to "get" rather than to just blindly enjoy, the duo's approach here means they rarely get too caught up in provenance. Sure, there are dead ends here, such as the hallucinogenic story-song "The Pill" and the hokily ramblin' closer "In My Heart", but "Bumble Bee" is a fever-dream cartoon that's funnier than the old SNL skit, and "(Sometimes You Got to Be) Gentle" hurls increasingly randy single entendres over tremulously dissembling guitar riffs. In fact, name aside, Heavy Trash never get too heavy on Midnight Soul Serenade. It might be Spencer's lightest and breeziest album to date, a testimony to his stick-to-it-iveness despite the advancing years and changing trends."

Alice Bag

Alice Bag

Rock

Quinn Moreland

Alice Bag fell into punk rock via the same storied route of celebrated outsiders before her: the rejection of societal norms and the embrace of differences. Born Alicia Armendariz in Los Angeles in 1958, Bag’s youth as the child of Mexican immigrants divided her between worlds. At home, she was only allowed to speak Spanish. At school, where she was teased because of her overweight, frizzy-haired appearance, she could only speak English. Bag found solitude in music, soul tunes from her sister, traditional Mexican rancheras, and later, glittery acts like Queen, Elton John, and David Bowie; when she once transferred high schools, she requested classmates to call her “Ziggy.”  It took her almost 4o years, but she has finally found a way to unite all these disparate influences in Alice Bag, which is somehow her first solo album despite a storied musical career. That career began the late 1970s, as the lead singer and co-founder of the Bags, one of the first punk rock bands to emerge from L.A. After the Bags dissolved in 1981, Bag went on to play in other bands like Castration Squad, The Cambridge Apostles, Cholita! The Female Menudo, and Las Tres. In 2011, she released her first book, the autobiographical Violence Girl, and in 2015 she self-published her second, Pipe Bomb for the Soul. Alice Bag is first formal LP of any of her projects, in addition to being her debut solo record. While Bag wrote all of the songs, she is joined by a variety of L.A. musicians as well as her daughter. Alice Bag is an amalgamation of stories and sounds from its creator’s life, the latter focusing specifically on feminism, politics, and breaking out of the hive mind. In the early ’00s, Bag moved from L.A. to Arizona and worked as a teacher. There, she met a student whose father was undocumented and one day, he never came back from work. Bag acted as the family’s translator as the attempted to get the man out of a detention center. “Inesperado Adios” tells the tale as a sorrowful Spanish duet between mother and son. “Poisoned Seed” rallies against genetically modified seeds, specifically ones that force farmers to become dependent on Monsanto. “Programmed” confronts societal brainwashing with the declaration “Education be damned we are being programmed!” Sonically, Alice Bag is as diverse as her aforementioned musical interests. On “He’s So Sorry,” Bag goes full ’60s girl group, complete with “Be My Baby” drum beat, a Shangri-Las spoken-word prologue, and “oooh"-ing harmonies. Considering the Spector sound, it’s only fitting that the song’s subject matter would confront domestic violence. Bag herself grew up witnessing her beloved father abuse her mother, which makes lines like “Just because he’s sorry doesn’t mean he’s gonna change/Just because you love him doesn’t mean you’ve gotta stay” even more impassioned. Later, “Incorporeal Life” is a jazzy tango featuring rumbling drums and slinky vocals. Bag’s songs that serve as a call to arms (regarding consent, self-liberation, and confrontations) tend to (rightfully) be faster while the reflective ones like “Suburban Home” (about a stagnant romance) or “Weigh About You” (about negative influence of a relationship). An album 40 years in the making has a high probability of being underwhelming—records with less than half that timespan have more than proved that point. But Alice Bag feels like effortless self-expression that simply needed an outlet. Alice Bag promises to introduce its namesake’s work to a new generation of radicals, and luckily, her words are a revolutionary rally cry.

Artist: Alice Bag, Album: Alice Bag, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Alice Bag fell into punk rock via the same storied route of celebrated outsiders before her: the rejection of societal norms and the embrace of differences. Born Alicia Armendariz in Los Angeles in 1958, Bag’s youth as the child of Mexican immigrants divided her between worlds. At home, she was only allowed to speak Spanish. At school, where she was teased because of her overweight, frizzy-haired appearance, she could only speak English. Bag found solitude in music, soul tunes from her sister, traditional Mexican rancheras, and later, glittery acts like Queen, Elton John, and David Bowie; when she once transferred high schools, she requested classmates to call her “Ziggy.”  It took her almost 4o years, but she has finally found a way to unite all these disparate influences in Alice Bag, which is somehow her first solo album despite a storied musical career. That career began the late 1970s, as the lead singer and co-founder of the Bags, one of the first punk rock bands to emerge from L.A. After the Bags dissolved in 1981, Bag went on to play in other bands like Castration Squad, The Cambridge Apostles, Cholita! The Female Menudo, and Las Tres. In 2011, she released her first book, the autobiographical Violence Girl, and in 2015 she self-published her second, Pipe Bomb for the Soul. Alice Bag is first formal LP of any of her projects, in addition to being her debut solo record. While Bag wrote all of the songs, she is joined by a variety of L.A. musicians as well as her daughter. Alice Bag is an amalgamation of stories and sounds from its creator’s life, the latter focusing specifically on feminism, politics, and breaking out of the hive mind. In the early ’00s, Bag moved from L.A. to Arizona and worked as a teacher. There, she met a student whose father was undocumented and one day, he never came back from work. Bag acted as the family’s translator as the attempted to get the man out of a detention center. “Inesperado Adios” tells the tale as a sorrowful Spanish duet between mother and son. “Poisoned Seed” rallies against genetically modified seeds, specifically ones that force farmers to become dependent on Monsanto. “Programmed” confronts societal brainwashing with the declaration “Education be damned we are being programmed!” Sonically, Alice Bag is as diverse as her aforementioned musical interests. On “He’s So Sorry,” Bag goes full ’60s girl group, complete with “Be My Baby” drum beat, a Shangri-Las spoken-word prologue, and “oooh"-ing harmonies. Considering the Spector sound, it’s only fitting that the song’s subject matter would confront domestic violence. Bag herself grew up witnessing her beloved father abuse her mother, which makes lines like “Just because he’s sorry doesn’t mean he’s gonna change/Just because you love him doesn’t mean you’ve gotta stay” even more impassioned. Later, “Incorporeal Life” is a jazzy tango featuring rumbling drums and slinky vocals. Bag’s songs that serve as a call to arms (regarding consent, self-liberation, and confrontations) tend to (rightfully) be faster while the reflective ones like “Suburban Home” (about a stagnant romance) or “Weigh About You” (about negative influence of a relationship). An album 40 years in the making has a high probability of being underwhelming—records with less than half that timespan have more than proved that point. But Alice Bag feels like effortless self-expression that simply needed an outlet. Alice Bag promises to introduce its namesake’s work to a new generation of radicals, and luckily, her words are a revolutionary rally cry."

Kylie Minogue

Boombox

Pop/R&B

Andy Battaglia

"Kylie herself could be said to look like a robot. A robot version of herself in human form, a version of herself manufactured in the minds of robots. The buildings around her might exist only in the imagination of the robots. The sound we hear, the soundtrack to her journey, might exist only inside the imagination of the robots." This is a vision of Kylie Minogue, spied driving in the video for "Can't Get You Out of My Head", as she figures throughout Paul Morley's brilliant 2003 book Words and Music: A History of Pop in the Shape of a City. Morley was writing in the wake of Kylie's monster hit and its attendant album Fever, both of which established Minogue as a mesmerizing figure fit for all manner of imaginings. She could be a minx, a glamor puss, an oblivious messenger, a wizened pop emblem. She could even be, as the storied post-punk critic Morley sketched in delirious detail, a worthy hero to measure against the most lionized icons of music as serious capital-a Art. Part of Minogue's pliability owes to the way she seems to recognize and understand her many various roles, but part of it owes to her voice, which is simultaneously blank and playful-- the coy coo of a character who knows that she herself matters less than what her spirit (as Morley took pains to note) "might" or "could be said to" suggest. This is the Kylie who would figure into Boombox, a collection of remixes from 2000 to 2008. Or so it would seem. Opener "Can't Get Blue Monday Out of My Head", one of the older tracks here, sets Minogue's best song against the instrumental backdrop of New Order's "Blue Monday". Her voice sounds a bit rootless, floundering in the best suggestive way. Listen closely and it's almost like Kylie knows she's implicitly conflicted within the rub of what plays now like a throwback to a time when mash-ups consciously toyed with the tension between source material and imaginary ideals. It's a rich start, but unfortunately an anomaly in a collection that leans more often on less-interesting mixes that cast Kylie as little more than a dance siren. She's a good dance siren, to be sure. The Chemical Brothers' enticingly gaudy and patient remix of "Slow" gains a lot from the sly sensuality in her voice as it stretches out, and she sounds defiantly human within the constraining squeeze of Fischerspooner's lithe electro mix of "Come Into My World". But too many tracks rate as generic "club" mixes that relegate Kylie to a mere bit player with little to say in the midst of overly splashy electro-house beats and trance-y longueurs. She sounds like a Gwen Stefani-aping cheerleader in Death Metal Disco Scene's mix of "Wow", and she's barely audible at all in Kid Crème's vocal dub of "Love at First Sight". It's as if the remixers, with so much at their disposal, thought less about what Kylie can signify than she herself seems to when adopting her own stock strategies.

Artist: Kylie Minogue, Album: Boombox, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 4.5 Album review: ""Kylie herself could be said to look like a robot. A robot version of herself in human form, a version of herself manufactured in the minds of robots. The buildings around her might exist only in the imagination of the robots. The sound we hear, the soundtrack to her journey, might exist only inside the imagination of the robots." This is a vision of Kylie Minogue, spied driving in the video for "Can't Get You Out of My Head", as she figures throughout Paul Morley's brilliant 2003 book Words and Music: A History of Pop in the Shape of a City. Morley was writing in the wake of Kylie's monster hit and its attendant album Fever, both of which established Minogue as a mesmerizing figure fit for all manner of imaginings. She could be a minx, a glamor puss, an oblivious messenger, a wizened pop emblem. She could even be, as the storied post-punk critic Morley sketched in delirious detail, a worthy hero to measure against the most lionized icons of music as serious capital-a Art. Part of Minogue's pliability owes to the way she seems to recognize and understand her many various roles, but part of it owes to her voice, which is simultaneously blank and playful-- the coy coo of a character who knows that she herself matters less than what her spirit (as Morley took pains to note) "might" or "could be said to" suggest. This is the Kylie who would figure into Boombox, a collection of remixes from 2000 to 2008. Or so it would seem. Opener "Can't Get Blue Monday Out of My Head", one of the older tracks here, sets Minogue's best song against the instrumental backdrop of New Order's "Blue Monday". Her voice sounds a bit rootless, floundering in the best suggestive way. Listen closely and it's almost like Kylie knows she's implicitly conflicted within the rub of what plays now like a throwback to a time when mash-ups consciously toyed with the tension between source material and imaginary ideals. It's a rich start, but unfortunately an anomaly in a collection that leans more often on less-interesting mixes that cast Kylie as little more than a dance siren. She's a good dance siren, to be sure. The Chemical Brothers' enticingly gaudy and patient remix of "Slow" gains a lot from the sly sensuality in her voice as it stretches out, and she sounds defiantly human within the constraining squeeze of Fischerspooner's lithe electro mix of "Come Into My World". But too many tracks rate as generic "club" mixes that relegate Kylie to a mere bit player with little to say in the midst of overly splashy electro-house beats and trance-y longueurs. She sounds like a Gwen Stefani-aping cheerleader in Death Metal Disco Scene's mix of "Wow", and she's barely audible at all in Kid Crème's vocal dub of "Love at First Sight". It's as if the remixers, with so much at their disposal, thought less about what Kylie can signify than she herself seems to when adopting her own stock strategies."

P.S. Eliot

2007-2011

Rock

Quinn Moreland

Katie and Allison Crutchfield, the 27-year-old twin sisters now known for fronting the bands Waxahatchee and Swearin’, respectively, began playing music in their early teens, Katie picking up guitar, Allison, drums. They would come home from school in their hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, grab a snack, and head down to the basement to practice until their family told them it was too late. By the age of 15, the Crutchfields had formed their first band, the Ackleys, a twangy rock four-piece that gained a small local following. In a 2006 documentary-style short about the band, the Ackleys discuss the future of their two-year-old project, which was soon to be challenged by the departure of one member for college. “I see it going on forever, of course,” says a 17-year-old Allison, optimism radiating through her thick Southern accent. But though the factors that break up many friends after high school graduation would indeed extinguish the Ackleys, the Crutchfields were clearly meant for greater opportunities. P.S. Eliot, the band they formed together after the dissolution of their first group, has been lovingly documented with 2007-2011, a 2xCD set that gathers the group’s two albums and an EP, along with assorted demos and home recordings. P.S. Eliot was directly informed by the Crutchfields’ desire to experience life outside of Birmingham. Then 18 years old, the twins found that they had very little in common with their hometown scene, which, according to an oral history by Pitchfork contributor Liz Pelly included in the box, was largely composed of hardcore bros moshing to music made by men without any awareness of the space they were occupying. Thanks to the Ackleys’ limited but informative tour experience, Allison and Katie discovered that musical spaces don’t have to be hyper-masculine or oppressive. P.S. Eliot was an opportunity to work against sexist social structures from within through the simple strategy of offering an empowering alternative. Early on, Katie and Allison cited stalwarts like Guided by Voices, Fugazi, and the Velvet Underground as influences. Robert Pollard’s prolificacy inspired Katie, leading her to think that she too had to write many songs, good and bad, in order to find the gems. Though in sound they were more pop-punk than riot grrrl, P.S. Eliot was indebted to the sensibilities of acts like Bikini Kill or Sleater-Kinney, whose words offered anthems for those expected to sit on the sidelines, who paved a path simply by existing, who created music as a means to survive. P.S. Eliot’s first recording, the 2008 Bike Wreck demo, sounds decidedly harsh and lo-fi, being recorded in the Crutchfield family garage on a digital 8-track and Macbook, but there’s obvious potential in the five-song experiment, even if it is buried beneath some serious static fuzz. It wasn’t until 2009, with two small P.S. Eliot tours down and after the Crutchfield twins had settled in nearby Tuscaloosa, that they hit their stride. Recorded over two days in their living room, Introverted Romance in Our Troubled Minds sounds considerably cleaner than the Bike Wreck demo, and for the first time, P.S. Eliot sound like a fully-formed project, existing somewhere between scrappily precise and gracefully shambolic. Now joined by Will Granger on guitar and (briefly) Michael McClellan of the Ackleys on bass, the Crutchfields could focus on a sort of controlled chaos. Unlike the carefully constructed expression of vulnerability she currently owns as Waxahatchee, Katie’s songwriting with P.S. Eliot exploded in a wild rush. She stacks adjectives with abandon, as words tumble over each other in a race to stay afloat above the churning riffs (see “Augustus”’s 20 seconds outpouring “the subsequent or the demise/to praise or to antagonize, it all sounds the same/the arrogant teenage prestige/seems like such a distinctive breed/disheveled fame taking steady aim/on cerebral wealth, or my own personal hell”). While her stream-of-consciousness style could seem like an attempt at obfuscation, Katie’s lyrics are so deeply rooted in the personal that their excess manages to convey a sincere (and perhaps naive) hunger to experience the highs and lows of life. The slow-burning “Tennessee,” for example, is about being tugged in different directions by desires: “I’ve got a racing mind and enough gas to get to Tennessee/Baby, let’s push our limits/I got a West Coast heart and an East Coast mentality.” She explores emotional division through anecdotes about a three-year romantic cycle with a partner. On “Incoherent Love Songs,” this takes the form of an unhealthy mutual dependency that is later elaborated as a blind reliance on “memories of content” in “Tangible Romance.” P.S. Eliot’s self-critical admission of uncertainty, bad habits, and the inability to escape recalls the early work of Rilo Kiley, whose singer Jenny Lewis offered assurance that it is okay to feel. By the time *Introverted Romance in Our Troubled Minds *was released by Detroit label Salinas in 2009, P.S. Eliot were regularly touring north to Brooklyn and had a growing and devoted fanbase. Their next release, 2010’s five-song Living in Squalor EP shows remarkable growth from the Bike Wreck demo. While both share a similar unrestrained energy, Squalor is cohesive. A telling example is an updated version of Bike Wreck’s “Broken Record”; what was once an (ironically) indecipherable song about the struggle to communicate now came through loud and clear. Sadie, P.S. Eliot’s final album, was recorded in Birmingham in late 2010. If Introverted found P.S. Eliot processing the world around them, Sadie was an epiphany, a discovery after a whole lot of digging. The emotional ties that bound Katie’s lyrics were dissolving and there is a distinct sense of freedom and confidence. But rather than displaying a pop-punk need to spit everything out immediately, P.S. Eliot instead turns towards slowly, patiently, painting a clear picture. Sadie is more of a moodboard than a list of concerns and complexes like Introverted. Even though P.S. Eliot had not played many of the songs on Sadie as a full band before, they come off as tight and prepared thanks to the production work of New Jersey’s Mark Bronzino. A song like the five-minute “Diana” is a world away from Introverted. It finds a melancholic Katie singing barely above a whisper, but a majority of the track is just a guitar. By their end, P.S. Eliot had reached a state of cohesion many bands never do. Yet by September 2011, the band decided to quit while they were ahead. Creatively, Katie and Allison were both ready

Artist: P.S. Eliot, Album: 2007-2011, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Katie and Allison Crutchfield, the 27-year-old twin sisters now known for fronting the bands Waxahatchee and Swearin’, respectively, began playing music in their early teens, Katie picking up guitar, Allison, drums. They would come home from school in their hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, grab a snack, and head down to the basement to practice until their family told them it was too late. By the age of 15, the Crutchfields had formed their first band, the Ackleys, a twangy rock four-piece that gained a small local following. In a 2006 documentary-style short about the band, the Ackleys discuss the future of their two-year-old project, which was soon to be challenged by the departure of one member for college. “I see it going on forever, of course,” says a 17-year-old Allison, optimism radiating through her thick Southern accent. But though the factors that break up many friends after high school graduation would indeed extinguish the Ackleys, the Crutchfields were clearly meant for greater opportunities. P.S. Eliot, the band they formed together after the dissolution of their first group, has been lovingly documented with 2007-2011, a 2xCD set that gathers the group’s two albums and an EP, along with assorted demos and home recordings. P.S. Eliot was directly informed by the Crutchfields’ desire to experience life outside of Birmingham. Then 18 years old, the twins found that they had very little in common with their hometown scene, which, according to an oral history by Pitchfork contributor Liz Pelly included in the box, was largely composed of hardcore bros moshing to music made by men without any awareness of the space they were occupying. Thanks to the Ackleys’ limited but informative tour experience, Allison and Katie discovered that musical spaces don’t have to be hyper-masculine or oppressive. P.S. Eliot was an opportunity to work against sexist social structures from within through the simple strategy of offering an empowering alternative. Early on, Katie and Allison cited stalwarts like Guided by Voices, Fugazi, and the Velvet Underground as influences. Robert Pollard’s prolificacy inspired Katie, leading her to think that she too had to write many songs, good and bad, in order to find the gems. Though in sound they were more pop-punk than riot grrrl, P.S. Eliot was indebted to the sensibilities of acts like Bikini Kill or Sleater-Kinney, whose words offered anthems for those expected to sit on the sidelines, who paved a path simply by existing, who created music as a means to survive. P.S. Eliot’s first recording, the 2008 Bike Wreck demo, sounds decidedly harsh and lo-fi, being recorded in the Crutchfield family garage on a digital 8-track and Macbook, but there’s obvious potential in the five-song experiment, even if it is buried beneath some serious static fuzz. It wasn’t until 2009, with two small P.S. Eliot tours down and after the Crutchfield twins had settled in nearby Tuscaloosa, that they hit their stride. Recorded over two days in their living room, Introverted Romance in Our Troubled Minds sounds considerably cleaner than the Bike Wreck demo, and for the first time, P.S. Eliot sound like a fully-formed project, existing somewhere between scrappily precise and gracefully shambolic. Now joined by Will Granger on guitar and (briefly) Michael McClellan of the Ackleys on bass, the Crutchfields could focus on a sort of controlled chaos. Unlike the carefully constructed expression of vulnerability she currently owns as Waxahatchee, Katie’s songwriting with P.S. Eliot exploded in a wild rush. She stacks adjectives with abandon, as words tumble over each other in a race to stay afloat above the churning riffs (see “Augustus”’s 20 seconds outpouring “the subsequent or the demise/to praise or to antagonize, it all sounds the same/the arrogant teenage prestige/seems like such a distinctive breed/disheveled fame taking steady aim/on cerebral wealth, or my own personal hell”). While her stream-of-consciousness style could seem like an attempt at obfuscation, Katie’s lyrics are so deeply rooted in the personal that their excess manages to convey a sincere (and perhaps naive) hunger to experience the highs and lows of life. The slow-burning “Tennessee,” for example, is about being tugged in different directions by desires: “I’ve got a racing mind and enough gas to get to Tennessee/Baby, let’s push our limits/I got a West Coast heart and an East Coast mentality.” She explores emotional division through anecdotes about a three-year romantic cycle with a partner. On “Incoherent Love Songs,” this takes the form of an unhealthy mutual dependency that is later elaborated as a blind reliance on “memories of content” in “Tangible Romance.” P.S. Eliot’s self-critical admission of uncertainty, bad habits, and the inability to escape recalls the early work of Rilo Kiley, whose singer Jenny Lewis offered assurance that it is okay to feel. By the time *Introverted Romance in Our Troubled Minds *was released by Detroit label Salinas in 2009, P.S. Eliot were regularly touring north to Brooklyn and had a growing and devoted fanbase. Their next release, 2010’s five-song Living in Squalor EP shows remarkable growth from the Bike Wreck demo. While both share a similar unrestrained energy, Squalor is cohesive. A telling example is an updated version of Bike Wreck’s “Broken Record”; what was once an (ironically) indecipherable song about the struggle to communicate now came through loud and clear. Sadie, P.S. Eliot’s final album, was recorded in Birmingham in late 2010. If Introverted found P.S. Eliot processing the world around them, Sadie was an epiphany, a discovery after a whole lot of digging. The emotional ties that bound Katie’s lyrics were dissolving and there is a distinct sense of freedom and confidence. But rather than displaying a pop-punk need to spit everything out immediately, P.S. Eliot instead turns towards slowly, patiently, painting a clear picture. Sadie is more of a moodboard than a list of concerns and complexes like Introverted. Even though P.S. Eliot had not played many of the songs on Sadie as a full band before, they come off as tight and prepared thanks to the production work of New Jersey’s Mark Bronzino. A song like the five-minute “Diana” is a world away from Introverted. It finds a melancholic Katie singing barely above a whisper, but a majority of the track is just a guitar. By their end, P.S. Eliot had reached a state of cohesion many bands never do. Yet by September 2011, the band decided to quit while they were ahead. Creatively, Katie and Allison were both ready"

Death Cab for Cutie

The Stability EP

Rock

Joe Tangari

"The gift of memory is an awful curse." --Ben Gibbard, "Stability" Aside from being a rather nice turn of phrase, this line from the title track of Death Cab for Cutie's new EP strikes me as oddly universal. That's not to say it applies to all people or memories, but it does bring up an interesting point, especially with regard to music. Given that music is a time-based art form, relying on the passage of minutes and seconds (or sometimes hours) to make its impact and relay its message, I sometimes get to thinking about what it would be like to listen to music if you had no memory. I'm pretty sure I first had this thought while exiting the theater after a showing of Memento. For those of you who haven't seen the film, it centers around a man who, after being attacked, loses the ability to form short-term memories. Without those memories, attachments become difficult to form, and his life begins to lose meaning altogether. It's actually quite a terrifying concept. Transposing this to music, think about how it would change the way you listened to things. First, you'd have no frame of reference for what you were listening to-- it would essentially be pure sound. Secondly, if your frame of memory were extremely short (say, five or so seconds) repetition would become basically meaningless. In the West, music relies so heavily on repetition to be successful that I think it would be interesting to see how the average pop song would fare without that benefit. I've often thought that I'd love to experience music from that standpoint for just one day, if only to gain a fresh perspective. Of course, this isn't what Gibbard is getting at. Rather, he's referring in somewhat abstract terms to those little nagging memories that we can't seem to make disappear, no matter how hard we try. This is often his topic of choice for lyrics, but don't think for a second that this is a typical Death Cab for Cutie release. With these two originals and one Björk cover, we find the Bellingham, Washington-based quartet exploring musical directions they've never fully headed in before, though listening back through their other records, you can find hints of this direction if you know what you're looking for. The EP opens with "20th Century Towers," a wasted, incredibly slow song that hangs on the barest of rhythmic frameworks. "I know the conscious choice was crystal clear/ To clear the slate of former years/ When I sang softly in your ear/ And tied these arms around you," sings Gibbard over Nick Harmer's swelling bassline, minimal guitar parts and somnambulant drums. The song's strange climax comes after Gibbard sings the line, "Keeping busy is just wasting time/ And I've wasted what little he gave me," when the entire band joins to sing only two words-- "All around"-- in harmony. The guitars become steadily more active after this point, with Gibbard and Chris Walla each playing a part on separate channels, making for an interesting stereo effect. Strangely, the band's cover of Björk's "All Is Full of Love" is both the most typical-sounding and the most propulsive of Stability's three tracks. Drummer Michael Schorr lays down a distinctive beat, mostly on his toms, immediately setting the version apart from the ambient, drumless original. Gibbard handles the vocal nicely, which isn't really too surprising, seeing as he and Björk sing in almost the same range. It certainly does not better the original, but I suspect it would at least work well in the car. Overall, it does what a good cover should do: it takes a fine original and adopts it to the band's own style, as opposed to copying it note-for-note. And then there's the 13-minute long title track. The first few minutes are affecting, plaintive and slow, very much in a similar vein with "20th Century Towers." The rhythm is far more insistent and steady, though, and things swell more quickly. Gibbard is joined by John Vanderslice, who sings backup on most of the song's vocal section. After the verses end, the song continues for nine minutes, with the apparition of Gibbard singing far in the background, and Walla's guitar playing a sparse part over molasses drums and bass. Vanderslice contributes some synth textures which help things bit, but in the end, this seems like one case where a lack of musical memory might be a good thing. That way, you at least couldn't tell how bloody long it is. The main problem is that the band doesn't really do anything interesting in that nine-minute span. There's no buildup of tension or subsequent release, and Vanderslice can only offer so much variation with his sustained synth chords and volume swells. If nothing else, I suppose it serves as a decent cure for insomnia. At any rate, it just sort of peters out at the end, keeping the EP from feeling like a fully realized statement. For those new to the Death Cab for Cutie camp, I'd say We Have the Facts and Are Voting Yes still stands as the best entry point, but the true fans might be into this new disc. It shows a side of the band that we only rarely get to see, and only briefly at that. Some fans may actually own it already, if they happened to purchase the limited edition first pressing of last year's The Photo Album or the Japanese import version of that album. For those who don't, Stability reveals a promising new dimension to Death Cab's sound that, in non-epic doses, could do wonders for their future releases.

Artist: Death Cab for Cutie, Album: The Stability EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: ""The gift of memory is an awful curse." --Ben Gibbard, "Stability" Aside from being a rather nice turn of phrase, this line from the title track of Death Cab for Cutie's new EP strikes me as oddly universal. That's not to say it applies to all people or memories, but it does bring up an interesting point, especially with regard to music. Given that music is a time-based art form, relying on the passage of minutes and seconds (or sometimes hours) to make its impact and relay its message, I sometimes get to thinking about what it would be like to listen to music if you had no memory. I'm pretty sure I first had this thought while exiting the theater after a showing of Memento. For those of you who haven't seen the film, it centers around a man who, after being attacked, loses the ability to form short-term memories. Without those memories, attachments become difficult to form, and his life begins to lose meaning altogether. It's actually quite a terrifying concept. Transposing this to music, think about how it would change the way you listened to things. First, you'd have no frame of reference for what you were listening to-- it would essentially be pure sound. Secondly, if your frame of memory were extremely short (say, five or so seconds) repetition would become basically meaningless. In the West, music relies so heavily on repetition to be successful that I think it would be interesting to see how the average pop song would fare without that benefit. I've often thought that I'd love to experience music from that standpoint for just one day, if only to gain a fresh perspective. Of course, this isn't what Gibbard is getting at. Rather, he's referring in somewhat abstract terms to those little nagging memories that we can't seem to make disappear, no matter how hard we try. This is often his topic of choice for lyrics, but don't think for a second that this is a typical Death Cab for Cutie release. With these two originals and one Björk cover, we find the Bellingham, Washington-based quartet exploring musical directions they've never fully headed in before, though listening back through their other records, you can find hints of this direction if you know what you're looking for. The EP opens with "20th Century Towers," a wasted, incredibly slow song that hangs on the barest of rhythmic frameworks. "I know the conscious choice was crystal clear/ To clear the slate of former years/ When I sang softly in your ear/ And tied these arms around you," sings Gibbard over Nick Harmer's swelling bassline, minimal guitar parts and somnambulant drums. The song's strange climax comes after Gibbard sings the line, "Keeping busy is just wasting time/ And I've wasted what little he gave me," when the entire band joins to sing only two words-- "All around"-- in harmony. The guitars become steadily more active after this point, with Gibbard and Chris Walla each playing a part on separate channels, making for an interesting stereo effect. Strangely, the band's cover of Björk's "All Is Full of Love" is both the most typical-sounding and the most propulsive of Stability's three tracks. Drummer Michael Schorr lays down a distinctive beat, mostly on his toms, immediately setting the version apart from the ambient, drumless original. Gibbard handles the vocal nicely, which isn't really too surprising, seeing as he and Björk sing in almost the same range. It certainly does not better the original, but I suspect it would at least work well in the car. Overall, it does what a good cover should do: it takes a fine original and adopts it to the band's own style, as opposed to copying it note-for-note. And then there's the 13-minute long title track. The first few minutes are affecting, plaintive and slow, very much in a similar vein with "20th Century Towers." The rhythm is far more insistent and steady, though, and things swell more quickly. Gibbard is joined by John Vanderslice, who sings backup on most of the song's vocal section. After the verses end, the song continues for nine minutes, with the apparition of Gibbard singing far in the background, and Walla's guitar playing a sparse part over molasses drums and bass. Vanderslice contributes some synth textures which help things bit, but in the end, this seems like one case where a lack of musical memory might be a good thing. That way, you at least couldn't tell how bloody long it is. The main problem is that the band doesn't really do anything interesting in that nine-minute span. There's no buildup of tension or subsequent release, and Vanderslice can only offer so much variation with his sustained synth chords and volume swells. If nothing else, I suppose it serves as a decent cure for insomnia. At any rate, it just sort of peters out at the end, keeping the EP from feeling like a fully realized statement. For those new to the Death Cab for Cutie camp, I'd say We Have the Facts and Are Voting Yes still stands as the best entry point, but the true fans might be into this new disc. It shows a side of the band that we only rarely get to see, and only briefly at that. Some fans may actually own it already, if they happened to purchase the limited edition first pressing of last year's The Photo Album or the Japanese import version of that album. For those who don't, Stability reveals a promising new dimension to Death Cab's sound that, in non-epic doses, could do wonders for their future releases."

Mr. Wright

Hello Is Anyone Out There

Pop/R&B

Dan Kilian

I've needed some soft sounds lately. Anything too aggro starts to churn my guts and gives me a tummyache. Mr. Wright is a soothing substance, sliding into my ear canals and down to my esophagus, coating my stomach. (Okay, that's gross.) Some of it splashes into my brain, numbing the back of my head. Though, that numbness could be due to me lying in the bathtub for going on about three hours now. My spine has become one with the imitation porcelain. Yes, Kevin Wright makes ideal music for falling asleep to in the bathtub. (Warning to impressionable young minds: do not fall asleep in the tub. Didn't you see Nightmare on Elm Street? On another topic, why don't horror movies have monsters anymore? Why is it all riddles and helping the ghosts? Helping ghosts isn't scary. Before we leave these parentheses, let me remind you that the subject is Mr. Wright's music and falling asleep in the tub.) As the water bobs, I imagine the waves of the sea. See, the ocean is a repeated theme on this album. Mr. Wright is a sailor, free, as he asserts on Hello Is Anyone Out There's opening track, "Sailor on the Sea. He lives on "Ocean Boulevard." His lover lives by the sea, as we learn on "Darling Honey," a song about loving and knowing someone without knowing her name. This track, with its lilting verses and gently lifting (sounds like a brassiere, but it isn't) accordion phrase, stays in my head, tranquilizing me. The Mr. Wright sound is simple and homogeneous throughout the record. An acoustic guitar strums basic chords, a keyboard blows like a zephyr, the drummer strokes the drums with his brushes, and Kevin Wright croons like the Divine Comedy's Neil Hannon. Wright avoids Hannon's histrionics, which could make him more palatable, but sometimes he's restrained to a fault. There are moments when the music gently surges and Wright sounds like he has the range to go for a high note, but instead sinks back into his wry, almost spoken baritone. Maybe he can't go anywhere else. Another problem plaguing Is There Anyone Out There is its sameness. The tunes are smartly written, but they all stick with similar sounds and emotions. You want him to branch out-- hell, even do a bouncy showtune or something like Scott Walker sometimes launches into. Even the nice electric piano solo on "Ocean Boulevard" can't keep the song from slips beneath the gentle lapping waves. On a sad note, as I was trying to dig up some information on this guy, I typed Is There Anyone Out There into a search engine. I came up with 186,000 entries, none having to do with Mr. Wright. Keep looking, people.

Artist: Mr. Wright, Album: Hello Is Anyone Out There, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "I've needed some soft sounds lately. Anything too aggro starts to churn my guts and gives me a tummyache. Mr. Wright is a soothing substance, sliding into my ear canals and down to my esophagus, coating my stomach. (Okay, that's gross.) Some of it splashes into my brain, numbing the back of my head. Though, that numbness could be due to me lying in the bathtub for going on about three hours now. My spine has become one with the imitation porcelain. Yes, Kevin Wright makes ideal music for falling asleep to in the bathtub. (Warning to impressionable young minds: do not fall asleep in the tub. Didn't you see Nightmare on Elm Street? On another topic, why don't horror movies have monsters anymore? Why is it all riddles and helping the ghosts? Helping ghosts isn't scary. Before we leave these parentheses, let me remind you that the subject is Mr. Wright's music and falling asleep in the tub.) As the water bobs, I imagine the waves of the sea. See, the ocean is a repeated theme on this album. Mr. Wright is a sailor, free, as he asserts on Hello Is Anyone Out There's opening track, "Sailor on the Sea. He lives on "Ocean Boulevard." His lover lives by the sea, as we learn on "Darling Honey," a song about loving and knowing someone without knowing her name. This track, with its lilting verses and gently lifting (sounds like a brassiere, but it isn't) accordion phrase, stays in my head, tranquilizing me. The Mr. Wright sound is simple and homogeneous throughout the record. An acoustic guitar strums basic chords, a keyboard blows like a zephyr, the drummer strokes the drums with his brushes, and Kevin Wright croons like the Divine Comedy's Neil Hannon. Wright avoids Hannon's histrionics, which could make him more palatable, but sometimes he's restrained to a fault. There are moments when the music gently surges and Wright sounds like he has the range to go for a high note, but instead sinks back into his wry, almost spoken baritone. Maybe he can't go anywhere else. Another problem plaguing Is There Anyone Out There is its sameness. The tunes are smartly written, but they all stick with similar sounds and emotions. You want him to branch out-- hell, even do a bouncy showtune or something like Scott Walker sometimes launches into. Even the nice electric piano solo on "Ocean Boulevard" can't keep the song from slips beneath the gentle lapping waves. On a sad note, as I was trying to dig up some information on this guy, I typed Is There Anyone Out There into a search engine. I came up with 186,000 entries, none having to do with Mr. Wright. Keep looking, people."

White Reaper

The World’s Best American Band

Rock

Ian Cohen

Rock music hasn’t been the sound of popular youth culture in a very long time and there is no shortage of real, systematic causes: the irreversible narrowing of radio and print media, the economic and logistical nightmare of putting five dudes and their gear on tour and the undeniable fact that rock bands are extremely bad at creating content for music’s 24-hour news cycle*. *The competitive spirit, self-promotion, and obsession with quantifiable metrics that make hip-hop and pop music into a compelling spectator sport are invariably considered poor taste on and off-record. White Reaper, on the other hand, are from Louisville, KY—where the Muhammad Ali Center stands as a tribute to its native son who backed up the greatest anthology of shit talk ever heard. It’d be enough to have the sense of humor to call their album The World’s Best American Band. Even better if they have the heart to actually mean it. But White Reaper have the chops and the guts to make their hometown hero proud: bragging is when a person says something and can’t do it and White Reaper do what they say. In White Reaper’s world, being coy about influence means you have something to hide and they proudly flaunt theirs like denim patches—Ramones, of course, but also Cheap Trick, Kiss, Thin Lizzy, Van Halen, rock bands who essentially functioned as pop. The opening title track poses *The World’s Best American Band *as both a concept record and self-fulfilling prophecy, piping in the kind of crowd noise that can only be generated in arenas far bigger than White Reaper may ever see in this lifetime. But as the Louisville Lip once said, “I am the greatest, I said that even before I knew I was.” “Rally up and dress to kill/Lace your boots and crush your pills,” Tony Esposito snarls before a ridiculous and necessary key change celebrates a victory lap after trying to snort the finish line: “If you fight and win/Throw the pool chairs in/And then confess your sins.” It’s the lowbrow wisdom of a band that’s either been there or seen enough Burt Sugarman videotapes to get the gist of it. But then a school bell rings and they’re back playing the teenage dirtbag on “Judy French,” a song that can make a Kia in rush hour traffic feel like a Camaro doing donuts in a high school parking lot. The question remains as to why they stopped short of just calling it The World’s Best Band. They’re not the kind of caricatured, po-faced folk-rock that tends to be called “Americana.” But throwing “American” in the mix keeps their streak of self-deprecating farce intact: their debut was called White Reaper Does It Again. And the mere phrase “American Band” immediately triggers the wild shirtless lyrics of Mark Farner: “We’re coming to your town, we’ll help you party it down.” If these aren’t the only concerns of an American rock band, White Reaper believes that they should at least be the top two. Up to this point, they’ve developed a reputation for wild live shows and fun, if rather derivative garage rock hooks, which made them not altogether different than 96% of the bands playing Burgerama any given year. But not only does the play-acting on *The World’s Best American Band *lend them a discernible personality, it makes their ambitions all the more obvious. In the tradition of modern classics like Is This It **and *It’s Never Been Like That**, *White Reaper are spiritually burning through a label advance but obsessing over efficiency and the bottom line like accountants. There’s nothing even remotely close to a ballad here, and in the slots where these would usually show up on a 10-song record, we get a blatant “Blitzkrieg Bop” homage (“Party Next Door”) and a 12-bar punk ripper that they could pass off as a Chuck Berry tribute (“Another Day”). Who said craft had to be subtle? Unlike its puffier, unbalanced predecessor, *The World’s Best American Band *is mixed significantly louder than anything else you’re probably listening to right now and it’s equally glittery and gritty like a blood-caked switchblade—far more polished than the similarly indebted Sheer Mag, but with more edge to rule out any comparisons to the ’70s LARPing of Free Energy. And of course, the invocation of Grand Funk Railroad makes the connection from the band to Richard Linklater and his vision of boys and girls in America partying to British music all the more clear. The *Dazed and Confused *comparisons are inevitable given Esposito’s snot-rocket vocals and the twin-guitar leads, while the keyboards and anxious drumming push White Reaper towards the MTV and new wave forms of pop-rock that typified Everybody Wants Some!! As with those films, a reductive reading of White Reaper can criticize the apparent lack of stakes and a worldview that only delays gratification rather than presenting actual conflict—boys will be boys and they’re always back in town. Yet, the words of “Eagle Beach” are as bashful as a Dashboard Confessional song: “I just wanna be a real good pair of your blue jeans/But you never wear the house when you’re wearing me.” And besides, whether it’s a high school dance or a garage rock festival, Esposito makes it clear on “The Stack” what he's learned about how rock becomes pop: “If you make the girls dance, the boys will dance with ‘em.”

Artist: White Reaper, Album: The World’s Best American Band, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Rock music hasn’t been the sound of popular youth culture in a very long time and there is no shortage of real, systematic causes: the irreversible narrowing of radio and print media, the economic and logistical nightmare of putting five dudes and their gear on tour and the undeniable fact that rock bands are extremely bad at creating content for music’s 24-hour news cycle*. *The competitive spirit, self-promotion, and obsession with quantifiable metrics that make hip-hop and pop music into a compelling spectator sport are invariably considered poor taste on and off-record. White Reaper, on the other hand, are from Louisville, KY—where the Muhammad Ali Center stands as a tribute to its native son who backed up the greatest anthology of shit talk ever heard. It’d be enough to have the sense of humor to call their album The World’s Best American Band. Even better if they have the heart to actually mean it. But White Reaper have the chops and the guts to make their hometown hero proud: bragging is when a person says something and can’t do it and White Reaper do what they say. In White Reaper’s world, being coy about influence means you have something to hide and they proudly flaunt theirs like denim patches—Ramones, of course, but also Cheap Trick, Kiss, Thin Lizzy, Van Halen, rock bands who essentially functioned as pop. The opening title track poses *The World’s Best American Band *as both a concept record and self-fulfilling prophecy, piping in the kind of crowd noise that can only be generated in arenas far bigger than White Reaper may ever see in this lifetime. But as the Louisville Lip once said, “I am the greatest, I said that even before I knew I was.” “Rally up and dress to kill/Lace your boots and crush your pills,” Tony Esposito snarls before a ridiculous and necessary key change celebrates a victory lap after trying to snort the finish line: “If you fight and win/Throw the pool chairs in/And then confess your sins.” It’s the lowbrow wisdom of a band that’s either been there or seen enough Burt Sugarman videotapes to get the gist of it. But then a school bell rings and they’re back playing the teenage dirtbag on “Judy French,” a song that can make a Kia in rush hour traffic feel like a Camaro doing donuts in a high school parking lot. The question remains as to why they stopped short of just calling it The World’s Best Band. They’re not the kind of caricatured, po-faced folk-rock that tends to be called “Americana.” But throwing “American” in the mix keeps their streak of self-deprecating farce intact: their debut was called White Reaper Does It Again. And the mere phrase “American Band” immediately triggers the wild shirtless lyrics of Mark Farner: “We’re coming to your town, we’ll help you party it down.” If these aren’t the only concerns of an American rock band, White Reaper believes that they should at least be the top two. Up to this point, they’ve developed a reputation for wild live shows and fun, if rather derivative garage rock hooks, which made them not altogether different than 96% of the bands playing Burgerama any given year. But not only does the play-acting on *The World’s Best American Band *lend them a discernible personality, it makes their ambitions all the more obvious. In the tradition of modern classics like Is This It **and *It’s Never Been Like That**, *White Reaper are spiritually burning through a label advance but obsessing over efficiency and the bottom line like accountants. There’s nothing even remotely close to a ballad here, and in the slots where these would usually show up on a 10-song record, we get a blatant “Blitzkrieg Bop” homage (“Party Next Door”) and a 12-bar punk ripper that they could pass off as a Chuck Berry tribute (“Another Day”). Who said craft had to be subtle? Unlike its puffier, unbalanced predecessor, *The World’s Best American Band *is mixed significantly louder than anything else you’re probably listening to right now and it’s equally glittery and gritty like a blood-caked switchblade—far more polished than the similarly indebted Sheer Mag, but with more edge to rule out any comparisons to the ’70s LARPing of Free Energy. And of course, the invocation of Grand Funk Railroad makes the connection from the band to Richard Linklater and his vision of boys and girls in America partying to British music all the more clear. The *Dazed and Confused *comparisons are inevitable given Esposito’s snot-rocket vocals and the twin-guitar leads, while the keyboards and anxious drumming push White Reaper towards the MTV and new wave forms of pop-rock that typified Everybody Wants Some!! As with those films, a reductive reading of White Reaper can criticize the apparent lack of stakes and a worldview that only delays gratification rather than presenting actual conflict—boys will be boys and they’re always back in town. Yet, the words of “Eagle Beach” are as bashful as a Dashboard Confessional song: “I just wanna be a real good pair of your blue jeans/But you never wear the house when you’re wearing me.” And besides, whether it’s a high school dance or a garage rock festival, Esposito makes it clear on “The Stack” what he's learned about how rock becomes pop: “If you make the girls dance, the boys will dance with ‘em.”"

Smino

NOIR

Rap

Jay Balfour

Listening to Smino’s second album NOIR led me to an essay James Baldwin wrote for The New York Times called, “If Black English Isn’t a Language, Then Tell Me, What Is?” Baldwin makes his point simply in the title but continues in the first paragraph: “Language...is meant to define the other—and, in this case, the other is refusing to be defined by a language that has never been able to recognize him.” That came to mind when I read something Smino tweeted a few weeks ago, “dnt correct my grammar hoe I spelt it dat way kuz das high say it,” which also feels a bit like an echo of a Dunbar poem. Either way, Smino is working within tradition by bending his words to his will and through his Blackness. NOIR is above all an album about language: Smino throws a million different voices into the mix, sometimes all at once. His default singing voice—which he uses to rap as well—is weightless and honeyed to the point that it’s hard to tell if he’s in a falsetto. He shrieks, whispers, squeaks, mumbles, and sometimes stops just a few notes from outright yodeling. He doubles his vocals and self-harmonizes everywhere, and sometimes he breaks a song down into a doo-wop vamp that could easily double as an audition for Boyz II Men—if D’Angelo was singing lead. On “MERLOT” Smino and one other singer conjure up a knotty harmony like Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. All of those vocal tricks help Smino shape words to make them rhyme unexpectedly or to unlock new spaces inside them by folding them up into his breath. “I'm flee like 10 puppies/These Japanese/I don't drink champagne/But fuck it, clack the drinks.” You could sing that sentence to yourself a million times and never arrive at the way Smino raps it. Listen to Smino rap it once and you’ll never revert back from the upswing at the end of “10 puppies” so that it somehow rhymes with “Japanese” or the way he makes a four-syllable utterance of “champagne” feel like a graceful pirouette. Smino never explains or calls attention to them but these moments are everywhere on NOIR sometimes to the point of bogging things down with cleverness. On the same song he makes “real freaky” sound like “Rafiki” to force a Lion King reference and accomplish nothing else. On another he rhymes “Shibuya” with “she boo, yeah” and “see-through dress.” The production is so warm and soft and despite all the maneuvers, Smino is so understated that it sometimes sounds like he’s whisper singing brags under a velvet blanket. For the most part, NOIR is a raunchy bedroom party album where Smino would rather put a wet towel under the hotel bathroom door than be stuck in the club. He’s also downright hilarious and endlessly sassy. On “HOOPTI” he calls back to his single “Netflix & Dusse” and raps his idea of a perfect night: “Chicken strips and scary movies—romance.” At one point, on the throbbing R&B track “Z4L,” Smino snowballs into an all-out Bugs Bunny impression and ends up saying, “Check my color palette/White just like a bunny wabbit,” without breaking the mood, but also without making a point. He does this often: a funny voice that’s just a funny voice, a line that’s just clever and nothing else. Still, the revelation of his verses usually only clicks in on the third or fourth listen and can still feel like a discovery. He’s has spent the last couple years helping build the artist collective Zero Fatigue, which also includes the singer Ravyn Lenae and the producer Monte Booker, who has helped Smino arrive at a warm palette of sludgy R&B and neo-funk here. Thanks to Booker in particular, many of the songs on NOIR are freckled with weird and fidgeting sounds. None is more forward about it than “KLINK,” which crumples a spooky clavichord or a harpsichord riff into a dramatic banger. Smino also produced “KRUSHED ICE” himself, giving it an enormous and unfurnished room of a beat meant for whispering weird flexes—it sounds like a Valee song even before he shows up. Almost everywhere else, Smino gives a precise delivery, but here he’s made up the room for Valee and burrowed into his flow. NOIR is much less serious and autobiographical than Smino’s debut. Still, there are moments when he turns morose, clenches his fist, and sings explicitly about his Blackness. On “Spinz,” a sludge of trad-jazz inflected trap R&B, Smino chants: “It was gruesome/What we grew from/But we grew some in the end/Ain’t enough to be where you from/Had to be mixed with some Indian.” On “SUMMER SALT” he kicks off a playful gymnastic floor routine of a flow with: “What do they care? I need enough for my kids’ kids’ kids” before making a “Mortal Kombat” “finish him” sex joke (his girl’s a Scorpio). It might say less about himself up front, but NOIR feels like the real Smino.

Artist: Smino, Album: NOIR, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Listening to Smino’s second album NOIR led me to an essay James Baldwin wrote for The New York Times called, “If Black English Isn’t a Language, Then Tell Me, What Is?” Baldwin makes his point simply in the title but continues in the first paragraph: “Language...is meant to define the other—and, in this case, the other is refusing to be defined by a language that has never been able to recognize him.” That came to mind when I read something Smino tweeted a few weeks ago, “dnt correct my grammar hoe I spelt it dat way kuz das high say it,” which also feels a bit like an echo of a Dunbar poem. Either way, Smino is working within tradition by bending his words to his will and through his Blackness. NOIR is above all an album about language: Smino throws a million different voices into the mix, sometimes all at once. His default singing voice—which he uses to rap as well—is weightless and honeyed to the point that it’s hard to tell if he’s in a falsetto. He shrieks, whispers, squeaks, mumbles, and sometimes stops just a few notes from outright yodeling. He doubles his vocals and self-harmonizes everywhere, and sometimes he breaks a song down into a doo-wop vamp that could easily double as an audition for Boyz II Men—if D’Angelo was singing lead. On “MERLOT” Smino and one other singer conjure up a knotty harmony like Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. All of those vocal tricks help Smino shape words to make them rhyme unexpectedly or to unlock new spaces inside them by folding them up into his breath. “I'm flee like 10 puppies/These Japanese/I don't drink champagne/But fuck it, clack the drinks.” You could sing that sentence to yourself a million times and never arrive at the way Smino raps it. Listen to Smino rap it once and you’ll never revert back from the upswing at the end of “10 puppies” so that it somehow rhymes with “Japanese” or the way he makes a four-syllable utterance of “champagne” feel like a graceful pirouette. Smino never explains or calls attention to them but these moments are everywhere on NOIR sometimes to the point of bogging things down with cleverness. On the same song he makes “real freaky” sound like “Rafiki” to force a Lion King reference and accomplish nothing else. On another he rhymes “Shibuya” with “she boo, yeah” and “see-through dress.” The production is so warm and soft and despite all the maneuvers, Smino is so understated that it sometimes sounds like he’s whisper singing brags under a velvet blanket. For the most part, NOIR is a raunchy bedroom party album where Smino would rather put a wet towel under the hotel bathroom door than be stuck in the club. He’s also downright hilarious and endlessly sassy. On “HOOPTI” he calls back to his single “Netflix & Dusse” and raps his idea of a perfect night: “Chicken strips and scary movies—romance.” At one point, on the throbbing R&B track “Z4L,” Smino snowballs into an all-out Bugs Bunny impression and ends up saying, “Check my color palette/White just like a bunny wabbit,” without breaking the mood, but also without making a point. He does this often: a funny voice that’s just a funny voice, a line that’s just clever and nothing else. Still, the revelation of his verses usually only clicks in on the third or fourth listen and can still feel like a discovery. He’s has spent the last couple years helping build the artist collective Zero Fatigue, which also includes the singer Ravyn Lenae and the producer Monte Booker, who has helped Smino arrive at a warm palette of sludgy R&B and neo-funk here. Thanks to Booker in particular, many of the songs on NOIR are freckled with weird and fidgeting sounds. None is more forward about it than “KLINK,” which crumples a spooky clavichord or a harpsichord riff into a dramatic banger. Smino also produced “KRUSHED ICE” himself, giving it an enormous and unfurnished room of a beat meant for whispering weird flexes—it sounds like a Valee song even before he shows up. Almost everywhere else, Smino gives a precise delivery, but here he’s made up the room for Valee and burrowed into his flow. NOIR is much less serious and autobiographical than Smino’s debut. Still, there are moments when he turns morose, clenches his fist, and sings explicitly about his Blackness. On “Spinz,” a sludge of trad-jazz inflected trap R&B, Smino chants: “It was gruesome/What we grew from/But we grew some in the end/Ain’t enough to be where you from/Had to be mixed with some Indian.” On “SUMMER SALT” he kicks off a playful gymnastic floor routine of a flow with: “What do they care? I need enough for my kids’ kids’ kids” before making a “Mortal Kombat” “finish him” sex joke (his girl’s a Scorpio). It might say less about himself up front, but NOIR feels like the real Smino."

Vijay Iyer

Tragicomic

Jazz

Joe Tangari

Human beings have invented hundreds of instruments for themselves, on which to play an incredible range of different musics-- I went through a phase in my music listening where I'd buy an album just because it had weird instruments on it. But as fun as it is to seek out all the different timbres and tonal possibilities on offer, you could spend a pretty satisfying lifetime just listening to all the ways a single instrument can be used a re-employed in different contexts and by different players. Hell, you could probably spend a lifetime just building a thorough understanding of all the ways the piano is used in jazz. Take a trawl back through the instrument's recorded history in the genre, and you'll find all kinds of approaches-- a knowledgeable listener will never mistake the swirling, busy style of Art Tatum for Thelonious Monk's dissonant, strangely twisting improvisations, for instance. In the jazz world, it's a fight for every musician to carve out his or her own little instrumental niche, to find that thing as a musician that makes them distinct. Some never do, others constantly change in a search for their style, and still others are just born to sound like no one but themselves. It's not a stretch to put Vijay Iyer in that final category. Iyer has a very unique approach to comping chords, constantly moving back and forth between notes in the chord to create a throbbing background pulse. It's more a sheet of sound than traditional jazz piano. You'll hear it used as an effect frequently in jazz, but it's rare that this textural technique becomes the center of a player's style, and it's made Iyer's playing uniquely suited to crossing the thin lines between jazz and hip-hop to collaborate with indie hip-hop auteur Mike Ladd. Along with his two headlining collaborations with Ladd, Iyer's helmed or co-helmed a dozen LPs-- he stretches his style in every direction imaginable, and his compositions tend to mix moody textural passages with bursts of odd rhythm, some that even sound like riffs. Modern jazz rarely follows the old "head/solos/head" format that typified be-bop, and Iyer uses his compositions as mood pieces, setting them against each other in a bid to change the feeling the record produces from song to song. He has a versatile band in saxophonist Rudresh Mahanthappa, bassist Stephan Crump, and drummer Marcus Gilmore, who flow right along with him and easily handle the odd meters and start-stops he gives them. The album creeps into being with the nebulous, slowly coalescing "The Weight of Things" (it's an open improv credited to the whole group) before exploding into a full-on lurch on "Macaca Please". Mahanthappa does some of his most ferocious lead playing on this track, though he outclasses himself later in the album on "Without Lions", where his sax line practically sounds like a jazz take on "Flight of the Bumblebee". Tragicomic, true to its title, is an album about balance-- see the way, for example, that Iyer follows the buoyant sunny "I'm All Smiles" with the evil, odd-metered stormer "Machine Days"-- and what rises from nothing at the beginning dissipates again into nothing again with the final track. It's the end note to a satisfying album from a unique pianist who continues to show us what his instrument can do.

Artist: Vijay Iyer, Album: Tragicomic, Genre: Jazz, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Human beings have invented hundreds of instruments for themselves, on which to play an incredible range of different musics-- I went through a phase in my music listening where I'd buy an album just because it had weird instruments on it. But as fun as it is to seek out all the different timbres and tonal possibilities on offer, you could spend a pretty satisfying lifetime just listening to all the ways a single instrument can be used a re-employed in different contexts and by different players. Hell, you could probably spend a lifetime just building a thorough understanding of all the ways the piano is used in jazz. Take a trawl back through the instrument's recorded history in the genre, and you'll find all kinds of approaches-- a knowledgeable listener will never mistake the swirling, busy style of Art Tatum for Thelonious Monk's dissonant, strangely twisting improvisations, for instance. In the jazz world, it's a fight for every musician to carve out his or her own little instrumental niche, to find that thing as a musician that makes them distinct. Some never do, others constantly change in a search for their style, and still others are just born to sound like no one but themselves. It's not a stretch to put Vijay Iyer in that final category. Iyer has a very unique approach to comping chords, constantly moving back and forth between notes in the chord to create a throbbing background pulse. It's more a sheet of sound than traditional jazz piano. You'll hear it used as an effect frequently in jazz, but it's rare that this textural technique becomes the center of a player's style, and it's made Iyer's playing uniquely suited to crossing the thin lines between jazz and hip-hop to collaborate with indie hip-hop auteur Mike Ladd. Along with his two headlining collaborations with Ladd, Iyer's helmed or co-helmed a dozen LPs-- he stretches his style in every direction imaginable, and his compositions tend to mix moody textural passages with bursts of odd rhythm, some that even sound like riffs. Modern jazz rarely follows the old "head/solos/head" format that typified be-bop, and Iyer uses his compositions as mood pieces, setting them against each other in a bid to change the feeling the record produces from song to song. He has a versatile band in saxophonist Rudresh Mahanthappa, bassist Stephan Crump, and drummer Marcus Gilmore, who flow right along with him and easily handle the odd meters and start-stops he gives them. The album creeps into being with the nebulous, slowly coalescing "The Weight of Things" (it's an open improv credited to the whole group) before exploding into a full-on lurch on "Macaca Please". Mahanthappa does some of his most ferocious lead playing on this track, though he outclasses himself later in the album on "Without Lions", where his sax line practically sounds like a jazz take on "Flight of the Bumblebee". Tragicomic, true to its title, is an album about balance-- see the way, for example, that Iyer follows the buoyant sunny "I'm All Smiles" with the evil, odd-metered stormer "Machine Days"-- and what rises from nothing at the beginning dissipates again into nothing again with the final track. It's the end note to a satisfying album from a unique pianist who continues to show us what his instrument can do."

Jane

Coconuts EP

Rock

Matthew Murphy

Recorded in 2002 and originally self-released as a limited-edition CD-R, Coconuts captures the nascent moments of the loose, spirited collaboration between Noah Lennox (Animal Collective's Panda Bear) and DJ Scott Mou. Featuring two long, home-recorded skeletal jams, this early set shows the duo to be already perfectly comfortable-- if not downright beatific-- in each other's company, as they serenely bat various embryonic ideas between their paws. And though the twosome's odd bit of moonlighting still makes the most sense when considered as a side project, this strangely luminous EP stands as evidence that many of Jane's abundant creative promises are yet to be fulfilled. In an interview with The Wire, Lennox described Jane's 2005 album Berserker as being "like a mix CD with toasting over the top." While this might be an accurate description of the duo's general methods or work habits, it doesn't provide much insight into the mysteries of their sound, nor do attempts to imprecisely file their work into genres such as ambient or techno. Using little more than a turntable and mixer, on these two tracks Mou spins out an uncluttered field of murky beats and granulated effects, re-casting the medievalism inherent in Lennox's ethereal, wordless vocals into a striking new micro-industrial context. Reportedly created upon the duo's first meeting, the 21-minute "Coconuts" is a marvel of psychedelic economy, driven with an unrelenting propulsion that approximates a lo-tech, basement version of Can's "Mother Sky". After a couple minutes of quiet scrabbling, the song's rhythm soon settles into a grainy, repetitive lurch, sounding like the vintage equipment of a long-abandoned factory suddenly springing back into action. Along the way, various sprays of unfastened noise or isolated keyboard patterns are examined and then discarded, while Lennox's delicate, sculpted vocals arch elegantly above the clamor. Far more diffuse is the EP's second track, "Ossie", which directly anticipates the liquid textures of Berserker. Stretched over the course of 25 minutes, this track has an almost episodic structure, with minutes spent of Lennox wandering desolate through scattered electronic detritus, a landscape that includes the occasional crackle of static that one might too easily mistake for a failing speaker. Midway through, "Ossie" does achieve a certain hesitant advancing pulse, but never quite manages to bring all of its distinct particles entirely into concert. Nonetheless, it's encouraging to hear Lennox willing to stray this far afield from the security of the Animal Collective's campfires, and hopefully Jane will soon find the opportunity to further advance upon the gains drawn by these formative recordings.

Artist: Jane, Album: Coconuts EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Recorded in 2002 and originally self-released as a limited-edition CD-R, Coconuts captures the nascent moments of the loose, spirited collaboration between Noah Lennox (Animal Collective's Panda Bear) and DJ Scott Mou. Featuring two long, home-recorded skeletal jams, this early set shows the duo to be already perfectly comfortable-- if not downright beatific-- in each other's company, as they serenely bat various embryonic ideas between their paws. And though the twosome's odd bit of moonlighting still makes the most sense when considered as a side project, this strangely luminous EP stands as evidence that many of Jane's abundant creative promises are yet to be fulfilled. In an interview with The Wire, Lennox described Jane's 2005 album Berserker as being "like a mix CD with toasting over the top." While this might be an accurate description of the duo's general methods or work habits, it doesn't provide much insight into the mysteries of their sound, nor do attempts to imprecisely file their work into genres such as ambient or techno. Using little more than a turntable and mixer, on these two tracks Mou spins out an uncluttered field of murky beats and granulated effects, re-casting the medievalism inherent in Lennox's ethereal, wordless vocals into a striking new micro-industrial context. Reportedly created upon the duo's first meeting, the 21-minute "Coconuts" is a marvel of psychedelic economy, driven with an unrelenting propulsion that approximates a lo-tech, basement version of Can's "Mother Sky". After a couple minutes of quiet scrabbling, the song's rhythm soon settles into a grainy, repetitive lurch, sounding like the vintage equipment of a long-abandoned factory suddenly springing back into action. Along the way, various sprays of unfastened noise or isolated keyboard patterns are examined and then discarded, while Lennox's delicate, sculpted vocals arch elegantly above the clamor. Far more diffuse is the EP's second track, "Ossie", which directly anticipates the liquid textures of Berserker. Stretched over the course of 25 minutes, this track has an almost episodic structure, with minutes spent of Lennox wandering desolate through scattered electronic detritus, a landscape that includes the occasional crackle of static that one might too easily mistake for a failing speaker. Midway through, "Ossie" does achieve a certain hesitant advancing pulse, but never quite manages to bring all of its distinct particles entirely into concert. Nonetheless, it's encouraging to hear Lennox willing to stray this far afield from the security of the Animal Collective's campfires, and hopefully Jane will soon find the opportunity to further advance upon the gains drawn by these formative recordings."

Liam Hayes

Slurrup

Rock

Stuart Berman

Liam Hayes is an accidental perfectionist. In hindsight, the Chicago-bred/Milwaukee-based songwriter’s disjointed two-decade trajectory—under his nom de pop Plush and, now, his birth name—was pretty much spelled out in the title of his early signature "Soaring and Boring": high expectations followed by agonizingly long periods of inactivity. On the surface, Hayes’ backstory boasts all the hallmarks of a contrarian eccentric genius, whether he was answering the orch-pop promise of Plush’s splendorous 1994 debut single "Three-Quarters Blind Eyes"/"Found a Little Baby" with 1998’s starkly somber solo-piano effort More You Becomes You; tinkering with the symphono-soul follow-up Fed so much he had to release it in two different versions; or issuing certain albums in Japan only. But the uncommon lags between albums have mostly been a factor of Hayes losing his money rather than his mind, and trying to find sympathetic label backers to support a vision of tastefully constructed, soft-focus pop music that’s always been out of step with both mainstream and underground orthodoxies. Of course, the best way for a musician to kill their mythos is to simply release more music, which Hayes is now doing at unprecedented rate. Slurrup is actually the third album he’s put out this decade so far, following last year’s Japanese issue Korp Sole Roller and a soundtrack for Roman Coppola’s (widely panned) Jason Schwartzman vehicle A Glimpse Inside the Mind of Charles Swan III that also doubled as a career overview. But this is the first to receive a proper Stateside release since 2009’s Bright Penny, whose "Liam Hayes & Plush" branding offered the first hint that Hayes was eager to step out from the long shadow cast by his enigmatic alias. Slurrup presents more conclusive proof—coming on like the Nazz to Korp Sole Roller’s Something/Anything?, its scrappy power-pop vigor and oddball found-sound interludes basically amount to Hayes tearing up his horn charts and saying, "fuck it." From its opening snippets of studio chatter to its closing minute of, yes, actual slurping sounds, Slurrup frames itself as Hayes’ most irreverent, off-the-cuff album yet, complete with sloppy warm-up jams (the title track), GBV-scaled micro-anthems ("Fokus"), and creepy, carnivalesque audio collages ("Channel 44"). With the album clocking in at just over a half hour, there’s an impatient, impulsive energy at play here that’s never surfaced on any of Hayes’ previous work, as if the weight of his recalcitrant reputation was driving him to crank out the album as quickly as possible, imperfections and all. But the stripped-down setting ultimately provides a better showcase of Hayes’ songwriting smarts than his more immaculately orchestrated efforts, putting the focus squarely on his swoon-worthy melodicism and underrated sense of humor. Though beholden to the big-B holy trinity of power pop (Beatles, Badfinger, Big Star), Slurrup is the unmistakable product of Hayes’ peculiar personality, infusing songs that feel like lost '70s classics with dispiriting images of stardom unattained, from the "broken green Mercedes" of "Keys to Heaven" to the delirious "Outhouse", the perfect complement to the next existential crisis you suffer while trapped in a music-festival porta-potty. Even the album’s more gracefully subdued moments simmer with discomfort: On the gorgeous nocturnal ballad "Greenfield", Hayes manages to make the line "I went to find a grocery store with imitation meat" sound like the ultimate fool’s errand, while the luxuriant lost-love lament "August Fourteen" feels like a transmission from Alex Chilton’s darkest hour—and like Third/Sister Lovers, when the violins do finally appear, the effect is more haunting than haughty. But with the valiant, unicorn-riding closer "Fight Magic With Magic", Hayes embraces his role as a pop outsider with a renewed sense of gusto: "I used to watch the hit parade/ Contaminated everything it played/ Then you came along and let me see/ How to pull the tricks they pulled on me." The triumph of Slurrup is that, for the first time since his debut single, Hayes makes that trickery seem effortless. In short: talented songwriter releases quality album loaded with quality tunes. It may not make for the sexiest rock'n'roll myth, but it’s the simple narrative Hayes has been trying to assert since day one.

Artist: Liam Hayes, Album: Slurrup, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Liam Hayes is an accidental perfectionist. In hindsight, the Chicago-bred/Milwaukee-based songwriter’s disjointed two-decade trajectory—under his nom de pop Plush and, now, his birth name—was pretty much spelled out in the title of his early signature "Soaring and Boring": high expectations followed by agonizingly long periods of inactivity. On the surface, Hayes’ backstory boasts all the hallmarks of a contrarian eccentric genius, whether he was answering the orch-pop promise of Plush’s splendorous 1994 debut single "Three-Quarters Blind Eyes"/"Found a Little Baby" with 1998’s starkly somber solo-piano effort More You Becomes You; tinkering with the symphono-soul follow-up Fed so much he had to release it in two different versions; or issuing certain albums in Japan only. But the uncommon lags between albums have mostly been a factor of Hayes losing his money rather than his mind, and trying to find sympathetic label backers to support a vision of tastefully constructed, soft-focus pop music that’s always been out of step with both mainstream and underground orthodoxies. Of course, the best way for a musician to kill their mythos is to simply release more music, which Hayes is now doing at unprecedented rate. Slurrup is actually the third album he’s put out this decade so far, following last year’s Japanese issue Korp Sole Roller and a soundtrack for Roman Coppola’s (widely panned) Jason Schwartzman vehicle A Glimpse Inside the Mind of Charles Swan III that also doubled as a career overview. But this is the first to receive a proper Stateside release since 2009’s Bright Penny, whose "Liam Hayes & Plush" branding offered the first hint that Hayes was eager to step out from the long shadow cast by his enigmatic alias. Slurrup presents more conclusive proof—coming on like the Nazz to Korp Sole Roller’s Something/Anything?, its scrappy power-pop vigor and oddball found-sound interludes basically amount to Hayes tearing up his horn charts and saying, "fuck it." From its opening snippets of studio chatter to its closing minute of, yes, actual slurping sounds, Slurrup frames itself as Hayes’ most irreverent, off-the-cuff album yet, complete with sloppy warm-up jams (the title track), GBV-scaled micro-anthems ("Fokus"), and creepy, carnivalesque audio collages ("Channel 44"). With the album clocking in at just over a half hour, there’s an impatient, impulsive energy at play here that’s never surfaced on any of Hayes’ previous work, as if the weight of his recalcitrant reputation was driving him to crank out the album as quickly as possible, imperfections and all. But the stripped-down setting ultimately provides a better showcase of Hayes’ songwriting smarts than his more immaculately orchestrated efforts, putting the focus squarely on his swoon-worthy melodicism and underrated sense of humor. Though beholden to the big-B holy trinity of power pop (Beatles, Badfinger, Big Star), Slurrup is the unmistakable product of Hayes’ peculiar personality, infusing songs that feel like lost '70s classics with dispiriting images of stardom unattained, from the "broken green Mercedes" of "Keys to Heaven" to the delirious "Outhouse", the perfect complement to the next existential crisis you suffer while trapped in a music-festival porta-potty. Even the album’s more gracefully subdued moments simmer with discomfort: On the gorgeous nocturnal ballad "Greenfield", Hayes manages to make the line "I went to find a grocery store with imitation meat" sound like the ultimate fool’s errand, while the luxuriant lost-love lament "August Fourteen" feels like a transmission from Alex Chilton’s darkest hour—and like Third/Sister Lovers, when the violins do finally appear, the effect is more haunting than haughty. But with the valiant, unicorn-riding closer "Fight Magic With Magic", Hayes embraces his role as a pop outsider with a renewed sense of gusto: "I used to watch the hit parade/ Contaminated everything it played/ Then you came along and let me see/ How to pull the tricks they pulled on me." The triumph of Slurrup is that, for the first time since his debut single, Hayes makes that trickery seem effortless. In short: talented songwriter releases quality album loaded with quality tunes. It may not make for the sexiest rock'n'roll myth, but it’s the simple narrative Hayes has been trying to assert since day one."

Nat Baldwin

Lights Out

Experimental

Chris Dahlen

It may be the norm to pour out your feelings over an acoustic guitar, but that's not enough for Nat Baldwin: He sings over a double-bass, which he plays with raw, lonely intensity. At its worst, that bass evokes the beast that every scrawny, neatly kempt one of us feels in our guts when our soon-to-be-ex refuses to answer the phone. Lights Out, Baldwin's debut mini-album, feels like one desparate night alone, and if it were a minute longer it would be unbearable. A member of Newburyport, Massachusetts' Tigersaw, Baldwin regularly performs solo, and although this record uses some overdubs, it sounds live and intimate. Baldwin's croon-- a pure, clear tone with a discomforting waver-- evokes Thom Yorke's anxiety or Andrew Bird's eerier solo performances, and the album's ambience reminds me of Nina Nastasia's gothic Americana: Like Nastasia, Baldwin turns in a chamber performance that butts against the void. On the eight songs that he penned for Lights Out, Baldwin takes all-too-familiar impulses and stretches them to desparate conclusions. For example, the rote "don't leave me" lyrics of "Goodbye" come out as a primal moan, while his bow jolts against the strings like a highstrung heartbeat. Throughout the album, he tries to keep his vocals on an even keel as if he's just an observer to the intensity that comes out of the bass-- like he can step back and ask if this is what it's like to become a stalker. That keeps up through almost the entire 20 minutes, until the last song, a spent ditty that basically just gives you a minute to breathe. Although this is technically an EP, it feels complete, and exhausting. In fact, it makes me curious what Baldwin would do on a full-length record. Aside from a couple of guest singers, he performs this one alone, and it would be intriguing to see where he could go with a band-- or how he would sound across a wider emotional range. After all, he got through this album; what happens the next morning?

Artist: Nat Baldwin, Album: Lights Out, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "It may be the norm to pour out your feelings over an acoustic guitar, but that's not enough for Nat Baldwin: He sings over a double-bass, which he plays with raw, lonely intensity. At its worst, that bass evokes the beast that every scrawny, neatly kempt one of us feels in our guts when our soon-to-be-ex refuses to answer the phone. Lights Out, Baldwin's debut mini-album, feels like one desparate night alone, and if it were a minute longer it would be unbearable. A member of Newburyport, Massachusetts' Tigersaw, Baldwin regularly performs solo, and although this record uses some overdubs, it sounds live and intimate. Baldwin's croon-- a pure, clear tone with a discomforting waver-- evokes Thom Yorke's anxiety or Andrew Bird's eerier solo performances, and the album's ambience reminds me of Nina Nastasia's gothic Americana: Like Nastasia, Baldwin turns in a chamber performance that butts against the void. On the eight songs that he penned for Lights Out, Baldwin takes all-too-familiar impulses and stretches them to desparate conclusions. For example, the rote "don't leave me" lyrics of "Goodbye" come out as a primal moan, while his bow jolts against the strings like a highstrung heartbeat. Throughout the album, he tries to keep his vocals on an even keel as if he's just an observer to the intensity that comes out of the bass-- like he can step back and ask if this is what it's like to become a stalker. That keeps up through almost the entire 20 minutes, until the last song, a spent ditty that basically just gives you a minute to breathe. Although this is technically an EP, it feels complete, and exhausting. In fact, it makes me curious what Baldwin would do on a full-length record. Aside from a couple of guest singers, he performs this one alone, and it would be intriguing to see where he could go with a band-- or how he would sound across a wider emotional range. After all, he got through this album; what happens the next morning?"

The Long Winters

Putting the Days to Bed

Rock

Rachel Khong

The Long Winters frontman-cum-producer John Roderick may have spent formative years in Anchorage, Alaska but there’s nothing overtly chilly about the Seattle quartet’s third full-length, Putting the Days to Bed. Never mind that on “Hindsight” Roderick deliberates about holding a snowball of a girl and croons about “craving the sun” (all in that crazy awesome voice of his: part dude from Okkervil River, part Craig Finn), this stuff’s about as wintry as possible, arriving mid-summer as balmy noise for the heat-waved and bummed vacation-reeling. Since 2002’s The Worst You Can Do Is Harm, the Long Winters have made names for themselves as purveyors of hard-to-pigeonhole, mostly likeable-- if not staunchly consistent-- pop. The back-to-back bounciness(es) of “Fire Island, AK” and “Teaspoon” on *Putting the Days to Bed * are further proof of the band’s leanings toward not so much power pop or even necessarily powerful pop-- just powered up pop, all horns and echoes and toe-tapping parties. But emotional pick-me-ups these aren’t, per se: With Roderick, everything’s about “me” and “you,” either angsty correspondence/confrontation or words to the wise. “(It’s a) Departure” finds him explaining, “I like the old days/ But not all the old days/ Only the good old days”: With Putting the Days to Bed, L-Dubs’ trademark aural cheeriness hasn’t vanished-- if anything, it’s even upped-- but Roderick’s songwriting, here, is at its best and maybe bleakest. Lyrically, the album concerns itself with let-downs and hard truths concerned with what suckers humans really are: sad affinities for self-destruction (on “Hindsight” he asks “Is this new move just to keep moving?” and bails water out of a pretty but dilapidated boat because he likes the shape of it) and insatiable idealism and whatever. On “Honest,” at the album’s center, a mother tells her daughter: “Honest, it’s all right to be a singer, but don’t you love a singer, whatever you do” followed by what sounds like a choir reiterating “whatever you do”, like an updated “Que Sera” for a would-be groupie. Lines off Putting the Days to Bed are mostly hit or miss (misses come across as standard, petty gripes) but at their finest, they’re beautiful: “Did you see me the way I imagined? Every eyelash a picket or a wire?” The most anthemic and orchestral approach something only one stop shy of the grandiose gloom of "Do You Realize?" and the Long Winters are closer than they've ever been to perfectly executing the huge sounding sad song. Still, they miss the masterful mark: Maybe it’s that there are too many wannabe huge songs stuck side-by-side, maybe they’re dwarfed in the process, maybe those kamikaze echoes wind up more grating than agreeable. Regardless, Putting the Days to Bed is a solid effort-- a step in a promising new direction.

Artist: The Long Winters, Album: Putting the Days to Bed, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "The Long Winters frontman-cum-producer John Roderick may have spent formative years in Anchorage, Alaska but there’s nothing overtly chilly about the Seattle quartet’s third full-length, Putting the Days to Bed. Never mind that on “Hindsight” Roderick deliberates about holding a snowball of a girl and croons about “craving the sun” (all in that crazy awesome voice of his: part dude from Okkervil River, part Craig Finn), this stuff’s about as wintry as possible, arriving mid-summer as balmy noise for the heat-waved and bummed vacation-reeling. Since 2002’s The Worst You Can Do Is Harm, the Long Winters have made names for themselves as purveyors of hard-to-pigeonhole, mostly likeable-- if not staunchly consistent-- pop. The back-to-back bounciness(es) of “Fire Island, AK” and “Teaspoon” on *Putting the Days to Bed * are further proof of the band’s leanings toward not so much power pop or even necessarily powerful pop-- just powered up pop, all horns and echoes and toe-tapping parties. But emotional pick-me-ups these aren’t, per se: With Roderick, everything’s about “me” and “you,” either angsty correspondence/confrontation or words to the wise. “(It’s a) Departure” finds him explaining, “I like the old days/ But not all the old days/ Only the good old days”: With Putting the Days to Bed, L-Dubs’ trademark aural cheeriness hasn’t vanished-- if anything, it’s even upped-- but Roderick’s songwriting, here, is at its best and maybe bleakest. Lyrically, the album concerns itself with let-downs and hard truths concerned with what suckers humans really are: sad affinities for self-destruction (on “Hindsight” he asks “Is this new move just to keep moving?” and bails water out of a pretty but dilapidated boat because he likes the shape of it) and insatiable idealism and whatever. On “Honest,” at the album’s center, a mother tells her daughter: “Honest, it’s all right to be a singer, but don’t you love a singer, whatever you do” followed by what sounds like a choir reiterating “whatever you do”, like an updated “Que Sera” for a would-be groupie. Lines off Putting the Days to Bed are mostly hit or miss (misses come across as standard, petty gripes) but at their finest, they’re beautiful: “Did you see me the way I imagined? Every eyelash a picket or a wire?” The most anthemic and orchestral approach something only one stop shy of the grandiose gloom of "Do You Realize?" and the Long Winters are closer than they've ever been to perfectly executing the huge sounding sad song. Still, they miss the masterful mark: Maybe it’s that there are too many wannabe huge songs stuck side-by-side, maybe they’re dwarfed in the process, maybe those kamikaze echoes wind up more grating than agreeable. Regardless, Putting the Days to Bed is a solid effort-- a step in a promising new direction."

Gucci Mane, Young Thug

Young Thugga Mane La Flare

Rap

David Turner

Young Thug is one of the most talked rappers of 2014: Ask Kanye West, Drake, Complex, or anyone who’s heard “Danny Glover” blasting from passing cars. The eccentric Atlanta rapper got a radio hit with “Stoner”, received A-lister remix treatment with Nicki Minaj taking on “Danny Glover”, and reportedly signed to Cash Money Records. But last month Buzzfeed investigated why Thug’s career seemed to be stalling just as it was taking off. They uncovered a messy label situation, including the fact that Young Thug is still signed to Gucci Mane’s imprint; turns out the pair recorded Young Thugga Mane La Flare last summer before Gucci went off to jail yet again. Over the last half decade, Gucci Mane has progressed from potential pop-rap star featured on Usher and Swizz Beatz singles to an IRL rap villain whose relevance hangs on despite long stretches between minor hits. The two rappers’ contrasting career paths make Young Thugga Mane La Flare an opportune release for Gucci, allowing him to showcase the talent of his legally dubious label mate. And Thug responds, deploying every trick in his arsenal: squawking ad-libs, sung hooks, a multitude of vocal inflections. His vocal gymnastics aren’t just showboating though—on the chorus of “Bricks”, he increases the pitch of his voice to a nearly unintelligible heights and the same technique makes the laughably titled “OMG BRO” and “OMG” bizarrely catchy songs. He takes a bit from leaned-out Lil Wayne, astronaut-high Future, and Dancehall MC yelping, all of which makes Gucci Mane’s time on the top of the Southern rap landscape seem that much further away. That said, Thug’s scattershot style makes Gucci Mane a grounded foil. The latter’s rapping, while still versatile, isn’t quite as dexterous as it was on releases like From Zone 6 to Duval or The Burrprint: The Movie 3-D. Where Young Thug mixes observations about puppy-dog love with lyrics about his personal style and luxury goods, Gucci Mane remains agitated; his disdain for women, men, and, well, anyone outside his squad permeates every line. Young Thugga Mane La Flare exploits this contrast, but knows where the talent lies. Young Thug gets a majority of the recording time, which helps makes the tape almost feel like a solo project. Gucci Mane has appeared on joint release with an up-and-coming Atlanta rappers like Rich Homie Quan, Young Scooter, Future, and Waka Flocka Flame with varying degrees of success. Young Thugga Mane La Flare is the rare project where his own bleak grit is clearly outshined by a rapper, one who, in 2014, is operating in another stratosphere.

Artist: Gucci Mane, Young Thug, Album: Young Thugga Mane La Flare, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "Young Thug is one of the most talked rappers of 2014: Ask Kanye West, Drake, Complex, or anyone who’s heard “Danny Glover” blasting from passing cars. The eccentric Atlanta rapper got a radio hit with “Stoner”, received A-lister remix treatment with Nicki Minaj taking on “Danny Glover”, and reportedly signed to Cash Money Records. But last month Buzzfeed investigated why Thug’s career seemed to be stalling just as it was taking off. They uncovered a messy label situation, including the fact that Young Thug is still signed to Gucci Mane’s imprint; turns out the pair recorded Young Thugga Mane La Flare last summer before Gucci went off to jail yet again. Over the last half decade, Gucci Mane has progressed from potential pop-rap star featured on Usher and Swizz Beatz singles to an IRL rap villain whose relevance hangs on despite long stretches between minor hits. The two rappers’ contrasting career paths make Young Thugga Mane La Flare an opportune release for Gucci, allowing him to showcase the talent of his legally dubious label mate. And Thug responds, deploying every trick in his arsenal: squawking ad-libs, sung hooks, a multitude of vocal inflections. His vocal gymnastics aren’t just showboating though—on the chorus of “Bricks”, he increases the pitch of his voice to a nearly unintelligible heights and the same technique makes the laughably titled “OMG BRO” and “OMG” bizarrely catchy songs. He takes a bit from leaned-out Lil Wayne, astronaut-high Future, and Dancehall MC yelping, all of which makes Gucci Mane’s time on the top of the Southern rap landscape seem that much further away. That said, Thug’s scattershot style makes Gucci Mane a grounded foil. The latter’s rapping, while still versatile, isn’t quite as dexterous as it was on releases like From Zone 6 to Duval or The Burrprint: The Movie 3-D. Where Young Thug mixes observations about puppy-dog love with lyrics about his personal style and luxury goods, Gucci Mane remains agitated; his disdain for women, men, and, well, anyone outside his squad permeates every line. Young Thugga Mane La Flare exploits this contrast, but knows where the talent lies. Young Thug gets a majority of the recording time, which helps makes the tape almost feel like a solo project. Gucci Mane has appeared on joint release with an up-and-coming Atlanta rappers like Rich Homie Quan, Young Scooter, Future, and Waka Flocka Flame with varying degrees of success. Young Thugga Mane La Flare is the rare project where his own bleak grit is clearly outshined by a rapper, one who, in 2014, is operating in another stratosphere."

The Cramps

File Under Sacred Music: Early Singles 1978-1981

Electronic,Rock

Douglas Wolk

The Cramps were record collectors before they were a band. When Erick Purkhiser and Kristy Wallace met in 1972, they discovered they were both into the same kind of thing: the music of 15 years or so earlier that had been all about kitsch and shock and sleaze, with shitty sonics and snarling, hiccuping singers, and hilarious over-the-top bravado. In the early 1970s, being into "50s rock'n'roll" meant American Graffiti and Sha Na Na and "Happy Days". Wallace and Purkhiser preferred the nasty also-rans-- the records that actually tried to be the threat to society that people sometimes pretended pop music could be. It wasn't much of a leap to starting their own band in the same mode. Purkhiser reinvented himself as Lux Interior, the slavering, writhing, nearly naked, ectomorphic frontman of the Cramps, and Wallace was Poison Ivy Rorschach, a "bad girl" in leather and wigs and velvet who tore off one ichor-dripping 12-bar guitar riff after another. They didn't have a whole lot in common with their early punk scenemates other than big guitar noise, but punk rock gave them license to do sleazy, shocking, sopping wet rock'n'roll without having to bother with the usual thin veneer of respectability. The Cramps were an institution for over 30 years, until Lux's death in 2009. They were one of the few punk-era bands who were well served by aging, since they were trying to come off like creepy, depraved old people in the first place. But they were always a better singles band than an album band, and a way better live act than a singles band. Most of the songs that made their reputation are collected on this suitably trashy set. The vinyl version of File Under Sacred Music is, appropriately, a "collectible" box of the band's first 10 singles in replica sleeves--or rather, it would be except that four of them were never actually issued as singles at the time. (The Cramps always did snicker at anything that claimed to be authentic.) That's probably the ideal way to hear this material: Lux, Ivy, and their ever-rotating associates made the kind of strong, silly records that are best in hot-sauce doses of between three and six minutes. They occasionally came up with fabulously personal-space-invading originals like "Human Fly" and "New Kind of Kick", the latter of which features two lines that explain their raison d'être: "Life is short/ Filled with stuff" and "I learned all I know by the age of nine." The better part of File Under Sacred Music, though, is the crate-digging covers that were their calling card. Their first single (produced, like a lot of their early material, by Alex Chilton) was a cover of one of the most familiar trash-rock staples, "Surfin' Bird", extended to five minutes with a sloppy gnarl of guitar and drum noise. They subsequently shied away from anything that familiar. Instead, they turned their attention to obscurities whose quirks they exaggerated to the point of perversion. Jack Scott's "The Way I Walk" was slowed down to a psychotic limp, with Lux hyperventilating every line and Ivy screaming bloody murder in the background; Ronnie Cook & the Gaylads' nutty novelty "Goo Goo Muck" turned into a hilariously lascivious threat on which Lux shrieked, trilled, gurgled, and enunciated the title like it referred to whatever bodily fluids your parents feared most. The title of File Under Sacred Music is a joke about the dusty record stores the Cramps loved, as well as about their own discography: Songs the Lord Taught Us was the title of their first album, Songs the Cramps Taught Us the name of one of the many series of bootlegs of the original songs they covered. But the amazing, out-of-control music they saved from oblivion could show them up, at least on record. To hear the Novas' feral pro-wrestling novelty "The Crusher" ("Do the hammerlock, ya turkeynecks!") next to the Cramps' cover is to understand the difference between lunatics who've somehow ended up with a mic in front of them and record collectors doing a solid, deliberate impression of lunatics.

Artist: The Cramps, Album: File Under Sacred Music: Early Singles 1978-1981, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "The Cramps were record collectors before they were a band. When Erick Purkhiser and Kristy Wallace met in 1972, they discovered they were both into the same kind of thing: the music of 15 years or so earlier that had been all about kitsch and shock and sleaze, with shitty sonics and snarling, hiccuping singers, and hilarious over-the-top bravado. In the early 1970s, being into "50s rock'n'roll" meant American Graffiti and Sha Na Na and "Happy Days". Wallace and Purkhiser preferred the nasty also-rans-- the records that actually tried to be the threat to society that people sometimes pretended pop music could be. It wasn't much of a leap to starting their own band in the same mode. Purkhiser reinvented himself as Lux Interior, the slavering, writhing, nearly naked, ectomorphic frontman of the Cramps, and Wallace was Poison Ivy Rorschach, a "bad girl" in leather and wigs and velvet who tore off one ichor-dripping 12-bar guitar riff after another. They didn't have a whole lot in common with their early punk scenemates other than big guitar noise, but punk rock gave them license to do sleazy, shocking, sopping wet rock'n'roll without having to bother with the usual thin veneer of respectability. The Cramps were an institution for over 30 years, until Lux's death in 2009. They were one of the few punk-era bands who were well served by aging, since they were trying to come off like creepy, depraved old people in the first place. But they were always a better singles band than an album band, and a way better live act than a singles band. Most of the songs that made their reputation are collected on this suitably trashy set. The vinyl version of File Under Sacred Music is, appropriately, a "collectible" box of the band's first 10 singles in replica sleeves--or rather, it would be except that four of them were never actually issued as singles at the time. (The Cramps always did snicker at anything that claimed to be authentic.) That's probably the ideal way to hear this material: Lux, Ivy, and their ever-rotating associates made the kind of strong, silly records that are best in hot-sauce doses of between three and six minutes. They occasionally came up with fabulously personal-space-invading originals like "Human Fly" and "New Kind of Kick", the latter of which features two lines that explain their raison d'être: "Life is short/ Filled with stuff" and "I learned all I know by the age of nine." The better part of File Under Sacred Music, though, is the crate-digging covers that were their calling card. Their first single (produced, like a lot of their early material, by Alex Chilton) was a cover of one of the most familiar trash-rock staples, "Surfin' Bird", extended to five minutes with a sloppy gnarl of guitar and drum noise. They subsequently shied away from anything that familiar. Instead, they turned their attention to obscurities whose quirks they exaggerated to the point of perversion. Jack Scott's "The Way I Walk" was slowed down to a psychotic limp, with Lux hyperventilating every line and Ivy screaming bloody murder in the background; Ronnie Cook & the Gaylads' nutty novelty "Goo Goo Muck" turned into a hilariously lascivious threat on which Lux shrieked, trilled, gurgled, and enunciated the title like it referred to whatever bodily fluids your parents feared most. The title of File Under Sacred Music is a joke about the dusty record stores the Cramps loved, as well as about their own discography: Songs the Lord Taught Us was the title of their first album, Songs the Cramps Taught Us the name of one of the many series of bootlegs of the original songs they covered. But the amazing, out-of-control music they saved from oblivion could show them up, at least on record. To hear the Novas' feral pro-wrestling novelty "The Crusher" ("Do the hammerlock, ya turkeynecks!") next to the Cramps' cover is to understand the difference between lunatics who've somehow ended up with a mic in front of them and record collectors doing a solid, deliberate impression of lunatics."

Carpet Musics

Weekday

Electronic

Mark Richard-San

I can't really play the piano, but I do know the basic I, IV and V chords. When I find myself in front of a keyboard and I'm with people who can't play, it's fun to improvise a little melody on this foundation. I just do a walking bassline with my left hand and hit some random notes that fit with the chords with my right. If I play slowly, the little tune that spins out has an impressive melancholic quality, considering the complete lack of skill and talent that went into it. Idyllictronic (Ryan, make that royalty check out to Simon Reynolds) bedroom producers Carpet Musics, consisting of Oregonians Eric Diaz and Eric Mast, realize the strength that comes from simplicity. The 14 tracks on their debut, Weekday, are filled with these basic chord progressions, gently tapped on dreamy synthesizers and guitars set to "ambient," with just a hint of distortion to reflect recent trends in glitch. These tiny music box tunes are quite effective in their own modest way, and the record as a whole sustains a mood and is consistently enjoyable. Still, there's something just a bit too polite about Weekday, and the lack of tension keeps it from being great, or even particularly memorable. No, it's definitely not Top 10 material, though there are certain situations where this record would be perfect. A gray day when your friends are out of town, you're just getting over the flu, and you're too broke to buy any new records would be the perfect time to hear "Dawn," a track which reminds me of a stripped-down demo for Schneider TM's "The Light 3000" (sans vocals). The minute-long "Bathrobe" has a palpable sadness, not unlike some of the short transitional bits on Boards of Canada's Music Has the Right to Children. "Afternoon" is a continuation of the earlier "Noon," a track with fingerpicked electric guitar and some gurgling synths that transforms itself into a dystrophic (and adorable) techno rhythm about 2\xBD minutes in, reminiscent of Nobukazu Takemura's work as Child's View. It's an ideal track for relaxing on the couch as the sun fades away and you continue to wait for the mailman to bring that promised package of promo CDs. And "Fashion Magazine," with its 4/4 house thump and a Cluster-ized melody ripped from the Schlammpeitziger fakebook, would set the mood for a shared cup of tea in a sunny kitchen, a respite to talk intimately about the latest Sonig releases. There's not a thing wrong with functional music, and that's how this record strikes me. So while Weekday keeps me at arm's length emotionally, it works so well as background that it's worth keeping around.

Artist: Carpet Musics, Album: Weekday, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "I can't really play the piano, but I do know the basic I, IV and V chords. When I find myself in front of a keyboard and I'm with people who can't play, it's fun to improvise a little melody on this foundation. I just do a walking bassline with my left hand and hit some random notes that fit with the chords with my right. If I play slowly, the little tune that spins out has an impressive melancholic quality, considering the complete lack of skill and talent that went into it. Idyllictronic (Ryan, make that royalty check out to Simon Reynolds) bedroom producers Carpet Musics, consisting of Oregonians Eric Diaz and Eric Mast, realize the strength that comes from simplicity. The 14 tracks on their debut, Weekday, are filled with these basic chord progressions, gently tapped on dreamy synthesizers and guitars set to "ambient," with just a hint of distortion to reflect recent trends in glitch. These tiny music box tunes are quite effective in their own modest way, and the record as a whole sustains a mood and is consistently enjoyable. Still, there's something just a bit too polite about Weekday, and the lack of tension keeps it from being great, or even particularly memorable. No, it's definitely not Top 10 material, though there are certain situations where this record would be perfect. A gray day when your friends are out of town, you're just getting over the flu, and you're too broke to buy any new records would be the perfect time to hear "Dawn," a track which reminds me of a stripped-down demo for Schneider TM's "The Light 3000" (sans vocals). The minute-long "Bathrobe" has a palpable sadness, not unlike some of the short transitional bits on Boards of Canada's Music Has the Right to Children. "Afternoon" is a continuation of the earlier "Noon," a track with fingerpicked electric guitar and some gurgling synths that transforms itself into a dystrophic (and adorable) techno rhythm about 2\xBD minutes in, reminiscent of Nobukazu Takemura's work as Child's View. It's an ideal track for relaxing on the couch as the sun fades away and you continue to wait for the mailman to bring that promised package of promo CDs. And "Fashion Magazine," with its 4/4 house thump and a Cluster-ized melody ripped from the Schlammpeitziger fakebook, would set the mood for a shared cup of tea in a sunny kitchen, a respite to talk intimately about the latest Sonig releases. There's not a thing wrong with functional music, and that's how this record strikes me. So while Weekday keeps me at arm's length emotionally, it works so well as background that it's worth keeping around."

Guillemots

Through the Windowpane

Rock

Marc Hogan

Most of the time, a window is reassuringly binary. It divides outside from inside, light from heat, and watcher from watched, rendering objects beyond with picture-frame distinctness: the sun, the moon, the ballerina who lives across the courtyard. A world viewed only through a window, like a life lived only on cinema screens, may offer the illusion of clarity-- particularly comforting in an era parted between people too aware of their own fallibility and those convinced they can do no wrong-- and yet, as James Stewart's character learns in Rear Window, sometimes the illusion is real indeed. On debut album Through the Windowpane-- which follows this year's mini-LP From the Cliffs-- London-based quartet Guillemots burst from the conventional pop frame with grand gestures, bold strokes, and bright colors, founding their songs upon both Nick Drake's elemental absolutes and the new psychedelia's omnivorous expansiveness. "Sometimes I could cry for miles," singer/keyboardist Fyfe Dangerfield warbles over dystopian piano on "Sao Paolo", a 12-minute genre-hopping victory lap that closes the album. If, in Guillemots' world, emotion is measured in distance, surely it's on a massive scale. Through the Windowpane is at times a last-dance hallelujah, at other times an open wound, but it's never meager, and hardly ever mundane. Such overwhelming nimiety is best administered in small doses, at least at first. In 2005 and 2006, the release of Guillemots' full-length was preceded by three EPs (one online-only) and three singles, each representing the band's ecstatic side. With a "You Can't Hurry Love" rhythm and carnival brass, "Trains to Brazil" discovers Dexy's pop ebullience in an accidental police killing, celebrating life even as the lyrics of "prophets and their bombs" (and trains!) draw an apparently coincidental tragic parallel to last year's London bombings and the sober reality of life during wartime. The whirring percussion of "We're Here" again invokes rail travel, though the words may point more toward Aladdin: "The world is our carpet now," exults Dangerfield, leaping to keep up with strings that match the giddy new-love joy of a truly successful "second dinner date." Dangerfield's voice is strange and beautiful, enlivening the tender (if exhausting) assuredness of Jeff Buckley with a few sublimely bizarre tics. On Guillemots' third and arguably best single, the aggressively chiming "Made Up Love Song #43", Dangerfield lavishes the bridge of a near-perfect lovesong (in the self-aware Divine Comedy mode) with gut-pounding avian squawks that blur the line between lover and madman, while a backing choir oohs and ahhs as if Phil Spector were there pistol cocked. "There's majesty in a burnt-out caravan," Dangerfield explains in advance; Guillemots' hugeness is tied inextricably to a fundamental weirdness-- which should shield the band from ill-considered comparisons to the dull bombast of Keane and their ilk. Through the Windowpane's whirring, windblown title track reverses Dangerfield's limber vocal, then casts it aloft for further wordless invocations. Where such fellow maximalists as Go! Team stick to cheerleading and Animal Collective opt for distance, Guillemots extend their vivid, explosions-as-the-costars-kiss style of songwriting even to wussy topics. Opener "Little Bear" drapes Dvořák-esque strings over a simple, faltering melody as Dangerfield paints a bittersweet breakup in sky, soil and bracken wood. "If I had you, all the stars wouldn't fall from the sky/ And the moon wouldn't start to cry/ There'd be no earthquakes," he adds unadorned over plinking orchestration on "Blue Would Still Be Blue", putting longing into hyperbolic, through-the-window language sure to sicken the unsentimental. "If the World Ends" is an incantatory slowdance swooner, "Redwings" is where Sondre Lerche meets "You Can't Always Get What You Want", and "A Samba in the Snowy Rain" is an abstract choral vision evoking Talk Talk's "New Grass". And yet a window is not merely a transparent frame, but a physical part of the view, too. Guillemots surely know this (they're named after a bird, after all). Even as they cast an eye on their surroundings with unreal clarity-- sun, moon, love, stars-- Guillemots can't help but step into the framed picture, looking out and confronting their own reflections in the dark: jazz, samba, classical, Motown, AM-pop, indie-rock, anthem-rock. On 2001's "Life in a Glass House", Thom Yorke sang of a desire to paper over all the panes; Guillemots guitarist MC Lord Magrao once played his guitar facing a set of mirrors that reflected the crowd back to itself. The doors of perception may never be cleansed, but on Through the Windowpane, these four bring the infinite, as much as the binary, a little closer to sight.

Artist: Guillemots, Album: Through the Windowpane, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Most of the time, a window is reassuringly binary. It divides outside from inside, light from heat, and watcher from watched, rendering objects beyond with picture-frame distinctness: the sun, the moon, the ballerina who lives across the courtyard. A world viewed only through a window, like a life lived only on cinema screens, may offer the illusion of clarity-- particularly comforting in an era parted between people too aware of their own fallibility and those convinced they can do no wrong-- and yet, as James Stewart's character learns in Rear Window, sometimes the illusion is real indeed. On debut album Through the Windowpane-- which follows this year's mini-LP From the Cliffs-- London-based quartet Guillemots burst from the conventional pop frame with grand gestures, bold strokes, and bright colors, founding their songs upon both Nick Drake's elemental absolutes and the new psychedelia's omnivorous expansiveness. "Sometimes I could cry for miles," singer/keyboardist Fyfe Dangerfield warbles over dystopian piano on "Sao Paolo", a 12-minute genre-hopping victory lap that closes the album. If, in Guillemots' world, emotion is measured in distance, surely it's on a massive scale. Through the Windowpane is at times a last-dance hallelujah, at other times an open wound, but it's never meager, and hardly ever mundane. Such overwhelming nimiety is best administered in small doses, at least at first. In 2005 and 2006, the release of Guillemots' full-length was preceded by three EPs (one online-only) and three singles, each representing the band's ecstatic side. With a "You Can't Hurry Love" rhythm and carnival brass, "Trains to Brazil" discovers Dexy's pop ebullience in an accidental police killing, celebrating life even as the lyrics of "prophets and their bombs" (and trains!) draw an apparently coincidental tragic parallel to last year's London bombings and the sober reality of life during wartime. The whirring percussion of "We're Here" again invokes rail travel, though the words may point more toward Aladdin: "The world is our carpet now," exults Dangerfield, leaping to keep up with strings that match the giddy new-love joy of a truly successful "second dinner date." Dangerfield's voice is strange and beautiful, enlivening the tender (if exhausting) assuredness of Jeff Buckley with a few sublimely bizarre tics. On Guillemots' third and arguably best single, the aggressively chiming "Made Up Love Song #43", Dangerfield lavishes the bridge of a near-perfect lovesong (in the self-aware Divine Comedy mode) with gut-pounding avian squawks that blur the line between lover and madman, while a backing choir oohs and ahhs as if Phil Spector were there pistol cocked. "There's majesty in a burnt-out caravan," Dangerfield explains in advance; Guillemots' hugeness is tied inextricably to a fundamental weirdness-- which should shield the band from ill-considered comparisons to the dull bombast of Keane and their ilk. Through the Windowpane's whirring, windblown title track reverses Dangerfield's limber vocal, then casts it aloft for further wordless invocations. Where such fellow maximalists as Go! Team stick to cheerleading and Animal Collective opt for distance, Guillemots extend their vivid, explosions-as-the-costars-kiss style of songwriting even to wussy topics. Opener "Little Bear" drapes Dvořák-esque strings over a simple, faltering melody as Dangerfield paints a bittersweet breakup in sky, soil and bracken wood. "If I had you, all the stars wouldn't fall from the sky/ And the moon wouldn't start to cry/ There'd be no earthquakes," he adds unadorned over plinking orchestration on "Blue Would Still Be Blue", putting longing into hyperbolic, through-the-window language sure to sicken the unsentimental. "If the World Ends" is an incantatory slowdance swooner, "Redwings" is where Sondre Lerche meets "You Can't Always Get What You Want", and "A Samba in the Snowy Rain" is an abstract choral vision evoking Talk Talk's "New Grass". And yet a window is not merely a transparent frame, but a physical part of the view, too. Guillemots surely know this (they're named after a bird, after all). Even as they cast an eye on their surroundings with unreal clarity-- sun, moon, love, stars-- Guillemots can't help but step into the framed picture, looking out and confronting their own reflections in the dark: jazz, samba, classical, Motown, AM-pop, indie-rock, anthem-rock. On 2001's "Life in a Glass House", Thom Yorke sang of a desire to paper over all the panes; Guillemots guitarist MC Lord Magrao once played his guitar facing a set of mirrors that reflected the crowd back to itself. The doors of perception may never be cleansed, but on Through the Windowpane, these four bring the infinite, as much as the binary, a little closer to sight."

Music A.M.

A Heart & Two Stars

Electronic

Mark Richardson

The cross-pollination between indie pop and laptop IDM continues. It was an inevitable junction, really, as the aesthetic values and fanbases of these worlds have so much overlap. But it's everywhere now. The abstract laptoppers are incorporating vocals and remixing pop artists; the indie rockers have IDM side projects. On its first album, Music A.M. is finds itself in the midst of this fertile ground. The band is new but the players have been around. Luke Sutherland, who used to front the Too Pure bands Long Fin Killie and Bows (and now plays violin for Mogwai), sings and plays guitar. Volker Bertelmann is on keyboards and computers, and Stefan Schneider, the driving force behind To Rococo Rot, contributes bass and synth. They're an exceptionally quiet and cozy ensemble that fuses post-rock instrumental interplay and glitchy, spare electronics into well-crafted songs. They're also one of those perfectly named bands. On a rainy Sunday with a thick New York Times to get through, all I need is a pot of black coffee and music that sounds like A Heart & Two Stars. Sam Prekop's solo album is an acoustic record for this mood, but Music A.M. comes from gurgly circuitry. It reminds me a bit of Tortoise's TNT, with a side of pop structure and minus the jazzy runs. Sutherland's guitar is plucked as his lines wind around the melody, Bertelmann trades out percussion for rustles, clicks and pops, and Schneider is instantly indefinable as he smothers it all in an electric blanket of bass and synth chords. There's a ton of space and the instruments continually reference the tune at hand in some way. And the vocals, despite being quietly half-sung by Sutherland, are surprisingly melodic. Of course, post-rock bands have been whispering their way through the occasional song since the early 90s, and so often it seemed a cop-out, the only signal a tone-deaf vocalist could broadcast. But Music A.M. get the technique right. The quality of Sutherland's lyrics helps immensely, requiring more attention than one usually grants music this soft. His lyrical skill shouldn't come as a surprise since he's taken time off music to publish one well-received novel (1998's Jelly Roll) and has written another, but it's unusual to hear words so clear and evocative in this setting. Rather than hiding behind opacity or Grubbsian wordplay, Sutherland's words are direct. He can be a storyteller in the Aidan Moffat mode as easily as he delivers absurd haiku. "Black Flash" is like a grainy dream as it tells the story of a downtrodden professional wrestler who, while pinned to the canvas, catches a glimpse of his brutal long-lost father in the audience. "Bit Wheel" compresses its narrative into a series of three-word lines that start as banal as possible ("boy meets girl") and end fantastical, as estranged lovers roll through town suspended atop a runaway Ferris wheel. About half the tracks on A Heart & Two Stars are instrumental, and I heard and enjoyed the record a dozen times before the words registered at all. It's fresh and balanced and easy to like right away. But it's also rabbit hole of a record, inviting you to inch a little closer until you find yourself enveloped in a strange and exciting world. Those kinds of records tend to have staying power.

Artist: Music A.M., Album: A Heart & Two Stars, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "The cross-pollination between indie pop and laptop IDM continues. It was an inevitable junction, really, as the aesthetic values and fanbases of these worlds have so much overlap. But it's everywhere now. The abstract laptoppers are incorporating vocals and remixing pop artists; the indie rockers have IDM side projects. On its first album, Music A.M. is finds itself in the midst of this fertile ground. The band is new but the players have been around. Luke Sutherland, who used to front the Too Pure bands Long Fin Killie and Bows (and now plays violin for Mogwai), sings and plays guitar. Volker Bertelmann is on keyboards and computers, and Stefan Schneider, the driving force behind To Rococo Rot, contributes bass and synth. They're an exceptionally quiet and cozy ensemble that fuses post-rock instrumental interplay and glitchy, spare electronics into well-crafted songs. They're also one of those perfectly named bands. On a rainy Sunday with a thick New York Times to get through, all I need is a pot of black coffee and music that sounds like A Heart & Two Stars. Sam Prekop's solo album is an acoustic record for this mood, but Music A.M. comes from gurgly circuitry. It reminds me a bit of Tortoise's TNT, with a side of pop structure and minus the jazzy runs. Sutherland's guitar is plucked as his lines wind around the melody, Bertelmann trades out percussion for rustles, clicks and pops, and Schneider is instantly indefinable as he smothers it all in an electric blanket of bass and synth chords. There's a ton of space and the instruments continually reference the tune at hand in some way. And the vocals, despite being quietly half-sung by Sutherland, are surprisingly melodic. Of course, post-rock bands have been whispering their way through the occasional song since the early 90s, and so often it seemed a cop-out, the only signal a tone-deaf vocalist could broadcast. But Music A.M. get the technique right. The quality of Sutherland's lyrics helps immensely, requiring more attention than one usually grants music this soft. His lyrical skill shouldn't come as a surprise since he's taken time off music to publish one well-received novel (1998's Jelly Roll) and has written another, but it's unusual to hear words so clear and evocative in this setting. Rather than hiding behind opacity or Grubbsian wordplay, Sutherland's words are direct. He can be a storyteller in the Aidan Moffat mode as easily as he delivers absurd haiku. "Black Flash" is like a grainy dream as it tells the story of a downtrodden professional wrestler who, while pinned to the canvas, catches a glimpse of his brutal long-lost father in the audience. "Bit Wheel" compresses its narrative into a series of three-word lines that start as banal as possible ("boy meets girl") and end fantastical, as estranged lovers roll through town suspended atop a runaway Ferris wheel. About half the tracks on A Heart & Two Stars are instrumental, and I heard and enjoyed the record a dozen times before the words registered at all. It's fresh and balanced and easy to like right away. But it's also rabbit hole of a record, inviting you to inch a little closer until you find yourself enveloped in a strange and exciting world. Those kinds of records tend to have staying power."

Daylight's for the Birds

Trouble Everywhere

Rock

Adam Moerder

It's a bit late for 2006 accolades, but Daylight's for the Birds's debut would be in the running for the Most Innocuous Album of the Year award. Comprised mostly of former OnAirLibrary! and Boggs members, Daylight's founding members Jay Giampietro and Phillip Wann fluff up their previous bands' more experimental sounds, a move made easy with the help of Amanda Garrett's ethereal vocals. (On!Air!'s Claudia Deheza, the group's original vocalist, left the band to pursue other projects, despite providing vocals for many of the tracks here.) Although titled Trouble Everywhere, the group's debut lacks any sort of nervous tension, instead retreating into bucolic jam sessions and detached cooing. While not tackling the most ambitious soundscapes, Daylight's proudly keep their heads in the clouds long enough to cull some dishy, albeit homogenous, numbers. Part of Trouble's homogeneity stems from the band's rote dedication to dream pop. Never ruffling feathers with a proactive riff or overly catchy melody, any flirtation with other genres occurs incidentally. Initially opener "To No One" may sound like shoegaze with all those looped synths over a droning bassline, but an emotive chorus punches gaping holes in the song's wall of sound. Similarly, "Bad Sleep Well" starts on a stern drum fill and moody guitar chords only to have the seemingly imminent noise-rock blowup tempered by passive-aggressive vocal distortion and a brass section cacophony that's more effete than enraged. All limits considered, Trouble's not necessarily a snooze-a-thon, at least in the pejorative sense. The aforementioned chorus to "To No One" may dash the song's shoegaze elements, but much of the album thrives on such show-stopping moments. After Garrett lulls you to sleep for the album's first half, Wann delivers deadpan vocals on the title track, complementing Garrett's soothing songs and playing the Lou Reed to her Nico. As if in response, the band's dreamscape briefly turns to nightmare on the eerily sparse and askew ballad "Try", a track that, at its darkest, resembles the psychosis of My Brightest Diamond. Unfortunately, that's about as far as the band veers from its tried and true formula. If every song had a chord progression as interesting as "Worlds Apart", the lone exception to the handful of starry-eyed bombs here, Trouble's zonked out demeanor would be vindicated. As is, Trouble steers clear of any damning errors or blatant mimicry, but the result's sadly too safe and vanilla for a band that shows flashes of so much more.

Artist: Daylight's for the Birds, Album: Trouble Everywhere, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "It's a bit late for 2006 accolades, but Daylight's for the Birds's debut would be in the running for the Most Innocuous Album of the Year award. Comprised mostly of former OnAirLibrary! and Boggs members, Daylight's founding members Jay Giampietro and Phillip Wann fluff up their previous bands' more experimental sounds, a move made easy with the help of Amanda Garrett's ethereal vocals. (On!Air!'s Claudia Deheza, the group's original vocalist, left the band to pursue other projects, despite providing vocals for many of the tracks here.) Although titled Trouble Everywhere, the group's debut lacks any sort of nervous tension, instead retreating into bucolic jam sessions and detached cooing. While not tackling the most ambitious soundscapes, Daylight's proudly keep their heads in the clouds long enough to cull some dishy, albeit homogenous, numbers. Part of Trouble's homogeneity stems from the band's rote dedication to dream pop. Never ruffling feathers with a proactive riff or overly catchy melody, any flirtation with other genres occurs incidentally. Initially opener "To No One" may sound like shoegaze with all those looped synths over a droning bassline, but an emotive chorus punches gaping holes in the song's wall of sound. Similarly, "Bad Sleep Well" starts on a stern drum fill and moody guitar chords only to have the seemingly imminent noise-rock blowup tempered by passive-aggressive vocal distortion and a brass section cacophony that's more effete than enraged. All limits considered, Trouble's not necessarily a snooze-a-thon, at least in the pejorative sense. The aforementioned chorus to "To No One" may dash the song's shoegaze elements, but much of the album thrives on such show-stopping moments. After Garrett lulls you to sleep for the album's first half, Wann delivers deadpan vocals on the title track, complementing Garrett's soothing songs and playing the Lou Reed to her Nico. As if in response, the band's dreamscape briefly turns to nightmare on the eerily sparse and askew ballad "Try", a track that, at its darkest, resembles the psychosis of My Brightest Diamond. Unfortunately, that's about as far as the band veers from its tried and true formula. If every song had a chord progression as interesting as "Worlds Apart", the lone exception to the handful of starry-eyed bombs here, Trouble's zonked out demeanor would be vindicated. As is, Trouble steers clear of any damning errors or blatant mimicry, but the result's sadly too safe and vanilla for a band that shows flashes of so much more."