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A Silver Mt. Zion

He Has Left Us Alone but Shafts of Light Sometimes Grace the Corners of Our Rooms

Matt LeMay

Is it me, or was Y2K a total bust? Call me crazy, but I was genuinely hoping that something interesting would happen. To tell you the truth, I didn't care if the light bulb in my living room blew or a giant animated foot descended from heaven and crushed Times Square-- I just wanted something, anything, to happen. Blame it on too much Godspeed You Black Emperor. When I started listening to the band last year, I became unhealthily fascinated with the idea of Armageddon. f#a#oo and Slow Riot for New Zero Kanada played out like monolithic reminders of the temporary nature of our civilization-- two separate scenarios for the imminent demise of western culture. The former pointed toward a brooding, gradual disintegration; the latter suggested an explosive, blood- soaked revolution. A Silver Mt. Zion, a Godspeed side project featuring guitarist Efrim Menuck, bassist Thierry Amar, and violinist Sophie Trudeau, forgoes the thick, orchestral sounds of the Montréal nine-piece, opting instead for a more subtly orchestrated three-to-five-piece arrangement. The result is a sound that, while every bit as powerful as that of Godspeed, is in many ways more affecting. Whereas Godspeed present a sometimes overwhelming wall of sound, A Silver Mt. Zion have turned that intimidating sonic behemoth into a sparse, penetrating beast tearing limb from limb. Musically, He Has Left Us Alone but Shafts of Light Sometimes Grace the Corners of Our Rooms lives up to its name; silence is prevalent throughout the record. Painting analogies are natural when discussing this kind of music-- the musical elements are arranged in strokes of color on a white canvas. But an abstract art analogy is even more appropriate, as He Has Left Us Alone is almost completely devoid of percussion, allowing the album to achieve a more sweeping dynamic. Adding to the profoundly personal nature of the record is the relative lack of tape- recorded wackos ranting about the end of the world. There's some highly jumbled speech about Jesus on the opening track, "Broken Chords Can Sing a Little," but aside from that, Efrim Menuck himself has taken on the majority of the record's vocal duties. Initially, it's quite clear why this is the first time you've heard Menuck sing-- his voice sounds like a more nasal (yes, that's right-- more nasal) Wayne Coyne. But on further listen, the inherent nervous and unrefined nature of Menuck's voice becomes remarkably affecting. He Has Left Us Alone is a work in two movements, "Lonely as the Sound of Lying on the Ground of an Airplane Going Down," and "The World is SickSICK; (So Kiss Me Quick)." While the former does feature occasional lapses into very Godspeed-esque taped vocals and reverb-drenched drumming, the latter marks the most beautiful music Efrim Menuck has ever committed to tape. Angelic violin and plucked cello floats over sparse organ chords, with indistinguishable noises playing through the background. Of course, He Has Left Us Alone will not rub everyone the right way. Godspeed, if not the most pretentious band ever, is certainly the most pretentious band ever to come out of Canada. And in case you haven't figured it out from the album and movement titles, this record carries all the same elements of pretentiousness as Godspeed, including the long album title and cryptic cover art. But rather than using pretension as an excuse for a shitty record, A Silver Mt. Zion utilize the universally binding emotional effects that this particular brand of "pretentious" music can have on listeners. For the most part, He Has Left Us Alone breaks little ground in how it conveys emotion, employing descending chromaticism coupled with occasional major thirds to evoke a perpetual sadness, broken by occasional glimmers of happiness. What makes the album such an accomplishment is the fact that these standards have been implemented with passion, skill, and above all, an almost supernatural talent. He Has Left Us Alone serves as the perfect companion to f#a#oo and Slow Riot for New Zero Kanada. Those records are haunting reminders that the world must eventually come to an end; this album is a reminder that when the world ends, you end, too.

Artist: A Silver Mt. Zion, Album: He Has Left Us Alone but Shafts of Light Sometimes Grace the Corners of Our Rooms, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 9.0 Album review: "Is it me, or was Y2K a total bust? Call me crazy, but I was genuinely hoping that something interesting would happen. To tell you the truth, I didn't care if the light bulb in my living room blew or a giant animated foot descended from heaven and crushed Times Square-- I just wanted something, anything, to happen. Blame it on too much Godspeed You Black Emperor. When I started listening to the band last year, I became unhealthily fascinated with the idea of Armageddon. f#a#oo and Slow Riot for New Zero Kanada played out like monolithic reminders of the temporary nature of our civilization-- two separate scenarios for the imminent demise of western culture. The former pointed toward a brooding, gradual disintegration; the latter suggested an explosive, blood- soaked revolution. A Silver Mt. Zion, a Godspeed side project featuring guitarist Efrim Menuck, bassist Thierry Amar, and violinist Sophie Trudeau, forgoes the thick, orchestral sounds of the Montréal nine-piece, opting instead for a more subtly orchestrated three-to-five-piece arrangement. The result is a sound that, while every bit as powerful as that of Godspeed, is in many ways more affecting. Whereas Godspeed present a sometimes overwhelming wall of sound, A Silver Mt. Zion have turned that intimidating sonic behemoth into a sparse, penetrating beast tearing limb from limb. Musically, He Has Left Us Alone but Shafts of Light Sometimes Grace the Corners of Our Rooms lives up to its name; silence is prevalent throughout the record. Painting analogies are natural when discussing this kind of music-- the musical elements are arranged in strokes of color on a white canvas. But an abstract art analogy is even more appropriate, as He Has Left Us Alone is almost completely devoid of percussion, allowing the album to achieve a more sweeping dynamic. Adding to the profoundly personal nature of the record is the relative lack of tape- recorded wackos ranting about the end of the world. There's some highly jumbled speech about Jesus on the opening track, "Broken Chords Can Sing a Little," but aside from that, Efrim Menuck himself has taken on the majority of the record's vocal duties. Initially, it's quite clear why this is the first time you've heard Menuck sing-- his voice sounds like a more nasal (yes, that's right-- more nasal) Wayne Coyne. But on further listen, the inherent nervous and unrefined nature of Menuck's voice becomes remarkably affecting. He Has Left Us Alone is a work in two movements, "Lonely as the Sound of Lying on the Ground of an Airplane Going Down," and "The World is SickSICK; (So Kiss Me Quick)." While the former does feature occasional lapses into very Godspeed-esque taped vocals and reverb-drenched drumming, the latter marks the most beautiful music Efrim Menuck has ever committed to tape. Angelic violin and plucked cello floats over sparse organ chords, with indistinguishable noises playing through the background. Of course, He Has Left Us Alone will not rub everyone the right way. Godspeed, if not the most pretentious band ever, is certainly the most pretentious band ever to come out of Canada. And in case you haven't figured it out from the album and movement titles, this record carries all the same elements of pretentiousness as Godspeed, including the long album title and cryptic cover art. But rather than using pretension as an excuse for a shitty record, A Silver Mt. Zion utilize the universally binding emotional effects that this particular brand of "pretentious" music can have on listeners. For the most part, He Has Left Us Alone breaks little ground in how it conveys emotion, employing descending chromaticism coupled with occasional major thirds to evoke a perpetual sadness, broken by occasional glimmers of happiness. What makes the album such an accomplishment is the fact that these standards have been implemented with passion, skill, and above all, an almost supernatural talent. He Has Left Us Alone serves as the perfect companion to f#a#oo and Slow Riot for New Zero Kanada. Those records are haunting reminders that the world must eventually come to an end; this album is a reminder that when the world ends, you end, too."

Lia Ices

Necima

Experimental,Folk/Country,Pop/R&B,Rock

Joe Colly

Having deftly arranged records for left-of-center heavyweights such as Animal Collective, Black Dice, and Silver Jews, as well as tracks by several members of indie rock's intriguing freshman class (Stars Like Fleas and Telepathe, to name a few), Nicolas Vernhes is shaping up to be underground rock's King Midas. For the inaugural LP of his recently launched Rare Book Room imprint (also the name of his Brooklyn studio and home to this year's excellent Living Bridge compilation), the accomplished producer is releasing Necima, an introduction to avant-pop crooner Lia Ices. Ices (a pseudonym; she prefers not to disclose her real name), is a scholarly trained, Brooklyn-based singer and pianist who honed her chops at NYU's Tisch School for Experimental Theatre. There, she is said to have shed classicism and found her voice-- a captivating, aching alto that lives in a similar realm as Feist's, Cat Power's, and Tori Amos'-- which provides the central draw of this occasionally brilliant, sometimes frustrating debut. Able to flit gracefully between sultry, come-hither coos and emotive yelps, Ices' vocals are indeed impressive, and while most of Necima's material calls for somber intonations, she displays a knack for accessing even the hard-to-reach upper registers. Of course, beautiful singing alone does not a great record make, and here Vernhes is on hand to infuse nuance into the album's arrangements. He puts to use a bevy of divergent instrumentation-- electric guitar, bass clarinet, various organs, a Colombian hand drum, and many others-- to add texture and unexpected flourishes of sound throughout. When Ices and Vernhes find a creative symbiosis, usually on the record's shorter, pop-leaning tracks, the results are spectacular. The first of the record's successful batch is "Half Life", which explores stalled relationships. "We're in the middle of something we could lose," warns Ices atop the crisp and elegant production. Also gorgeous is "(Un)Chosen One", which subsists on acoustic guitars, a swelling chorus, and (lyrically) recalls Isaac Brock's great existential rant on Modest Mouse's "Lives". All uplifting personal spirit and positive emotion, Ices asserts, "These are our lives, these are them after all/ I'm not about to leave it up to how my cards are drawn." One of the most melodically driven pieces is Necima's final track, "You Will", and it puts on display precisely what works about this album: Concise, delicately sung pop songs imbued with attention-grabbing orchestration. Several of Necima's tracks, although, do not fare as well as those mentioned above. Too often, the material meanders and become sluggish, most glaringly on the far-too-long (and rather tedious) "Many Moons" and "Twins". "Reason in Remain", which was originally featured on Living Bridge, also suffers from a length issue. Pushing the seven-minute mark, this otherwise decent track is spoiled by its refusal to close. Even album opener "Medicine Wheel", a piano-driven ballad that will incur the most Amos comparisons, hits lulling patches and begins to wander after expending its appealing content early on. But each sub-par track here belies a very strong one-- songs like "You Will" that could survive on playlists for months to come. As always, Vernhes' production here is inventive and memorable, and Ices' voice matches his distinctiveness. The work of a capable pair that has only missed the mark slightly, Necima, at the very least, has us eager to hear what comes next.

Artist: Lia Ices, Album: Necima, Genre: Experimental,Folk/Country,Pop/R&B,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Having deftly arranged records for left-of-center heavyweights such as Animal Collective, Black Dice, and Silver Jews, as well as tracks by several members of indie rock's intriguing freshman class (Stars Like Fleas and Telepathe, to name a few), Nicolas Vernhes is shaping up to be underground rock's King Midas. For the inaugural LP of his recently launched Rare Book Room imprint (also the name of his Brooklyn studio and home to this year's excellent Living Bridge compilation), the accomplished producer is releasing Necima, an introduction to avant-pop crooner Lia Ices. Ices (a pseudonym; she prefers not to disclose her real name), is a scholarly trained, Brooklyn-based singer and pianist who honed her chops at NYU's Tisch School for Experimental Theatre. There, she is said to have shed classicism and found her voice-- a captivating, aching alto that lives in a similar realm as Feist's, Cat Power's, and Tori Amos'-- which provides the central draw of this occasionally brilliant, sometimes frustrating debut. Able to flit gracefully between sultry, come-hither coos and emotive yelps, Ices' vocals are indeed impressive, and while most of Necima's material calls for somber intonations, she displays a knack for accessing even the hard-to-reach upper registers. Of course, beautiful singing alone does not a great record make, and here Vernhes is on hand to infuse nuance into the album's arrangements. He puts to use a bevy of divergent instrumentation-- electric guitar, bass clarinet, various organs, a Colombian hand drum, and many others-- to add texture and unexpected flourishes of sound throughout. When Ices and Vernhes find a creative symbiosis, usually on the record's shorter, pop-leaning tracks, the results are spectacular. The first of the record's successful batch is "Half Life", which explores stalled relationships. "We're in the middle of something we could lose," warns Ices atop the crisp and elegant production. Also gorgeous is "(Un)Chosen One", which subsists on acoustic guitars, a swelling chorus, and (lyrically) recalls Isaac Brock's great existential rant on Modest Mouse's "Lives". All uplifting personal spirit and positive emotion, Ices asserts, "These are our lives, these are them after all/ I'm not about to leave it up to how my cards are drawn." One of the most melodically driven pieces is Necima's final track, "You Will", and it puts on display precisely what works about this album: Concise, delicately sung pop songs imbued with attention-grabbing orchestration. Several of Necima's tracks, although, do not fare as well as those mentioned above. Too often, the material meanders and become sluggish, most glaringly on the far-too-long (and rather tedious) "Many Moons" and "Twins". "Reason in Remain", which was originally featured on Living Bridge, also suffers from a length issue. Pushing the seven-minute mark, this otherwise decent track is spoiled by its refusal to close. Even album opener "Medicine Wheel", a piano-driven ballad that will incur the most Amos comparisons, hits lulling patches and begins to wander after expending its appealing content early on. But each sub-par track here belies a very strong one-- songs like "You Will" that could survive on playlists for months to come. As always, Vernhes' production here is inventive and memorable, and Ices' voice matches his distinctiveness. The work of a capable pair that has only missed the mark slightly, Necima, at the very least, has us eager to hear what comes next."

Nina Nastasia

Outlaster

Rock

Jason Crock

Though Nina Nastasia is known for writing sparse, haunted folk songs, none of her albums have ever sounded plain or unadorned. She's never limited herself to simply acoustic guitar and voice, frequently working with strings in some form on nearly all of her albums since 2004's Dogs. Outlaster, her latest record, is the first to have a full (if small) orchestra appearing on every track. It's a switch to hear her among so many collaborators when some of her best recent work-- like 2007's You Follow Me, a woefully overlooked and impregnable batch of songs-- was put together with just one, drummer Jim White. The interplay between them was gripping enough to make any listener forget it was the work of only two people. So why the need for so many more? Though Nastasia is still at the center of these songs, Outlaster is the work of musicians listening closely and reacting to one another, and the spirit of collaboration is what gives these songs life. Bear in mind that Nastasia worked with both Jim White and various string players on 2006's On Leaving, a record with songs so spare they barely registered; the change on the following two albums is audible in more than a few ways. The strings and woodwinds on Outlaster are applied with the same rigor and taste that she's exhibited over her career, and they make each of these songs more vivid without turning them soggy with sentimentality. Even as they flirt with Eastern tones on "You're a Holy Man" or a severe Eastern-bloc tango on "This Familiar Way", they bring out new elements and tones in Nastasia's songs that feel like they'd been lurking underneath all along. As striking as the arrangements are, there's still a place for the nuance that's typified Nastasia's work. "You're a Holy Man" is likely the most crowded room Nastasia's ever recorded in, with full strings, drums, and electric guitar, but all are as nimble as Nastasia herself, as they carefully accent the melodically intricate track. Likewise, a quick staccato pluck of violin strings adds palpable suspense to the opening verse of "What's Out There" before building to the more typically tense triplets behind Nastasia's deep wail later on. And when the orchestra holds back for the first verse of "Wakes", it lends all the more weight to the gorgeous moment when it comes in just before the second. These collaborators seem to have spurred Nastasia to try different voices and tones: There's a newfound boldness (almost hoarseness) in her voice to compete with in "This Familiar Way", and a breathlessness to keep up with tracks like "What's Out There" and "Wakes" that puts a rare color in her cheeks. But some things haven't changed. Even as she tackles big topics, Nastasia still uses small, precise images to get the point across, whether it's the mention of a mask (gas mask?) in the foreboding tale of seclusion and paranoia in "What's Out There", the description of an old photo of a couple mooning the camera in "Cry, Cry Baby" that nails the length and depth of the relationship described, or the detail of someone wrapped in a sheet in the beginning of "Wakes", which is funereal and resigned in its lyrics but stubborn and defiant in its melody. The orchestra on Outlaster successfully cracks a window on Nastasia's one-woman-and-guitar setup and shines a different, striking light onto her music.

Artist: Nina Nastasia, Album: Outlaster, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "Though Nina Nastasia is known for writing sparse, haunted folk songs, none of her albums have ever sounded plain or unadorned. She's never limited herself to simply acoustic guitar and voice, frequently working with strings in some form on nearly all of her albums since 2004's Dogs. Outlaster, her latest record, is the first to have a full (if small) orchestra appearing on every track. It's a switch to hear her among so many collaborators when some of her best recent work-- like 2007's You Follow Me, a woefully overlooked and impregnable batch of songs-- was put together with just one, drummer Jim White. The interplay between them was gripping enough to make any listener forget it was the work of only two people. So why the need for so many more? Though Nastasia is still at the center of these songs, Outlaster is the work of musicians listening closely and reacting to one another, and the spirit of collaboration is what gives these songs life. Bear in mind that Nastasia worked with both Jim White and various string players on 2006's On Leaving, a record with songs so spare they barely registered; the change on the following two albums is audible in more than a few ways. The strings and woodwinds on Outlaster are applied with the same rigor and taste that she's exhibited over her career, and they make each of these songs more vivid without turning them soggy with sentimentality. Even as they flirt with Eastern tones on "You're a Holy Man" or a severe Eastern-bloc tango on "This Familiar Way", they bring out new elements and tones in Nastasia's songs that feel like they'd been lurking underneath all along. As striking as the arrangements are, there's still a place for the nuance that's typified Nastasia's work. "You're a Holy Man" is likely the most crowded room Nastasia's ever recorded in, with full strings, drums, and electric guitar, but all are as nimble as Nastasia herself, as they carefully accent the melodically intricate track. Likewise, a quick staccato pluck of violin strings adds palpable suspense to the opening verse of "What's Out There" before building to the more typically tense triplets behind Nastasia's deep wail later on. And when the orchestra holds back for the first verse of "Wakes", it lends all the more weight to the gorgeous moment when it comes in just before the second. These collaborators seem to have spurred Nastasia to try different voices and tones: There's a newfound boldness (almost hoarseness) in her voice to compete with in "This Familiar Way", and a breathlessness to keep up with tracks like "What's Out There" and "Wakes" that puts a rare color in her cheeks. But some things haven't changed. Even as she tackles big topics, Nastasia still uses small, precise images to get the point across, whether it's the mention of a mask (gas mask?) in the foreboding tale of seclusion and paranoia in "What's Out There", the description of an old photo of a couple mooning the camera in "Cry, Cry Baby" that nails the length and depth of the relationship described, or the detail of someone wrapped in a sheet in the beginning of "Wakes", which is funereal and resigned in its lyrics but stubborn and defiant in its melody. The orchestra on Outlaster successfully cracks a window on Nastasia's one-woman-and-guitar setup and shines a different, striking light onto her music."

North of America

Brothers, Sisters

Metal,Rock

Joe Tangari

A person who shall remain nameless informed me that this album was pretty danceable before I heard it. Which struck me as pretty odd, as it should anyone who's heard North of America before. And of course, it's not really danceable, but I'll give this person the benefit of the doubt and assume they were just using "danceable" in place of the more accurate "rhythmic." You can kind of bob your head along awkwardly (mind those odd meters, though), but you'd likely wind up with contusions if you actually tried to move your body to the stuff. Perhaps it's just the musical phase we're all going through that has folks crying "dancepunk!" every time a shouty band with a competent bassist comes along-- even when that band predates this new footloose phase rock is going through right now-- but on their third full-length, North of America, as ever, remain pretty firmly entrenched in Dischord-inspired post-hardcore. The Nova Scotian quartet has always just barely managed to avoid that tag by reining in the vocals, but anyone who ever worshipped at the altar of the D.C. scene will wax nostalgic when they hear the interweaving guitars, stop/stop dynamics, sorta-melodic shouted choruses, and brow-beating rhythms that make up Brothers, Sisters. The band has cleaned up some of the excess tempo changes that impeded last year's The Sepultura EP, but they still Drive Like Jehu from start to finish, and the relative sameness of their approach means that, despite their continued evolution, the new album still sounds mostly like a collection of variations on a single song, with little exception. One of those little exceptions is unfortunately a formless noise swamp called "You Want to Join My Cult", but the other makes up for it. "All Actors Are Liars" is stunningly poppy and melodic for these guys, replete with female backing vocals to smooth the band's own rough edges. The song's spastic/melodic bipolar disorder makes it the first thing you'll remember when the laser sits idle in the stereo. They almost repeat this success on "Oh My God, Oh My God, Everybody, Oh My God" (my vote for best song title), a song that begins slowly, with the band slipping into a vocal call-and-response round of "thank you"s and "you're welcome"s that builds beautifully, but the payoff is a little disjointed, leaving you wanting more. The band keeps the mix drier than the Atacama throughout, and leans toward the high-end to a degree that could make Albini himself blush. What I'm saying is, your subwoofer won't get much work here. Yet, as dirty as things sound sometimes, the band never fully distorts their guitars, aiming more for skin-prickling semi-clean tones that sound good playing dissonant patterns. "Voting 'No' on the Warming of Antarctica" barrels along with so much activity that the cymbals overtake everything at points, drowning the grinding guitars and metallic bassline in a flooding wash. The vocals (handled by several band members; each goes only by his last name and none are credited with specific duties) fall about halfway between the bark of Ian MacKaye and the slack of Stephen Malkmus-- forceful enough to get away with overtly avoiding melody, but not so frenzied that it sounds like your dad. Would that North of America could squeeze a few more colors from their sound, I could give them a better, broader recommendation; as it is, folks who haven't quite had their fill of complexly layered riffage and heavy rhythm just yet will have a field day with Brothers, Sisters.

Artist: North of America, Album: Brothers, Sisters, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "A person who shall remain nameless informed me that this album was pretty danceable before I heard it. Which struck me as pretty odd, as it should anyone who's heard North of America before. And of course, it's not really danceable, but I'll give this person the benefit of the doubt and assume they were just using "danceable" in place of the more accurate "rhythmic." You can kind of bob your head along awkwardly (mind those odd meters, though), but you'd likely wind up with contusions if you actually tried to move your body to the stuff. Perhaps it's just the musical phase we're all going through that has folks crying "dancepunk!" every time a shouty band with a competent bassist comes along-- even when that band predates this new footloose phase rock is going through right now-- but on their third full-length, North of America, as ever, remain pretty firmly entrenched in Dischord-inspired post-hardcore. The Nova Scotian quartet has always just barely managed to avoid that tag by reining in the vocals, but anyone who ever worshipped at the altar of the D.C. scene will wax nostalgic when they hear the interweaving guitars, stop/stop dynamics, sorta-melodic shouted choruses, and brow-beating rhythms that make up Brothers, Sisters. The band has cleaned up some of the excess tempo changes that impeded last year's The Sepultura EP, but they still Drive Like Jehu from start to finish, and the relative sameness of their approach means that, despite their continued evolution, the new album still sounds mostly like a collection of variations on a single song, with little exception. One of those little exceptions is unfortunately a formless noise swamp called "You Want to Join My Cult", but the other makes up for it. "All Actors Are Liars" is stunningly poppy and melodic for these guys, replete with female backing vocals to smooth the band's own rough edges. The song's spastic/melodic bipolar disorder makes it the first thing you'll remember when the laser sits idle in the stereo. They almost repeat this success on "Oh My God, Oh My God, Everybody, Oh My God" (my vote for best song title), a song that begins slowly, with the band slipping into a vocal call-and-response round of "thank you"s and "you're welcome"s that builds beautifully, but the payoff is a little disjointed, leaving you wanting more. The band keeps the mix drier than the Atacama throughout, and leans toward the high-end to a degree that could make Albini himself blush. What I'm saying is, your subwoofer won't get much work here. Yet, as dirty as things sound sometimes, the band never fully distorts their guitars, aiming more for skin-prickling semi-clean tones that sound good playing dissonant patterns. "Voting 'No' on the Warming of Antarctica" barrels along with so much activity that the cymbals overtake everything at points, drowning the grinding guitars and metallic bassline in a flooding wash. The vocals (handled by several band members; each goes only by his last name and none are credited with specific duties) fall about halfway between the bark of Ian MacKaye and the slack of Stephen Malkmus-- forceful enough to get away with overtly avoiding melody, but not so frenzied that it sounds like your dad. Would that North of America could squeeze a few more colors from their sound, I could give them a better, broader recommendation; as it is, folks who haven't quite had their fill of complexly layered riffage and heavy rhythm just yet will have a field day with Brothers, Sisters."

Grizzly Bear

Shields: B-Sides

Rock

Lindsay Zoladz

The Special Edition is no longer special. These days it’s easy to feel skeptical about words like “deluxe,” “expanded,” “rebooted,” or any other focus-grouped synonym—particularly when they’re attached to the name of a record you could have sworn came out a few months ago. Blame the ever-accelerating nostalgia cycle, the desperate marketing tactics of a wheezing industry, or the everyone-on-the-team-gets-a-trophy mentality of our youth; probably just blame all three. But whatever the reason, we’ve gotten to a place where albums have Frankensteinian titles like Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded - The Re-Up, and the extra, wait-wait-there’s-more material on these revamps often feels obligatory, forced, and better off back in the vault. Leave it to Grizzly Bear, though, to be an exception to the rule. The Brooklyn-based craftsmen of sepia-toned chamber pop have a history of putting out non-album releases that are much better and more meticulously arranged than they need to be. Take, for example, their 2007 Friend EP: Judging from the tracklist, it might have seemed like an “expanded” version of the previous year’s breakthrough Yellow House. Friend featured alternate takes of old songs, a few covers (some by the band themselves and some by contemporaries like Band of Horses and CSS), and a self-recorded demo. But when you listened, it was clear that this was much more than some half-assed stop-gap between proper albums. Friend now feels like an essential release in Grizzly Bear’s catalogue, home to a live staple (their creepy, cavernous reconstruction of the Crystals’ “He Hit Me”) and a pivotal moment in guitarist Daniel Rossen’s evolving and increasingly distinct style. The EP’s electric version of “Little Brother”—a six-minute, six-string supernova of a song—remains one of his finest recorded moments with this band. Shields: Expanded feels like something of a throwback to Friend, thanks in part to the refreshingly pragmatic way that Warp is releasing it. There is an “expanded edition” that contains the original album along with the bonus material, but people who already have Shields can just buy the 12” Shields: B-Sides (and people who don’t care about vinyl can simply buy the extras digitally). Shields was recorded after Grizzly Bear took their first short hiatus; after the time apart (Rossen and bassist Chris Taylor put out solo records; founding vocalist Ed Droste did some traveling), they reconvened in Marfa, Tex., for what would be an unexpectedly discouraging recording session. They worked on about 20 demos there, but none made the record. Shields: Expanded collects the best of these previously unheard Marfa tracks, which amount to captivating sketches, rather than scraps. The swooping “Taken Down” is driven by Rossen’s babbling-brook finger-picking and an anguished vocal from Droste; “Everyone I Know” is an even sparser evocation of the same mood. Shields wasn’t exactly an upbeat record, but what’s surprising is how dark—at times even violent—these Marfa tracks are. Is this the sound of a band thrashing out their frustrations with an inert recording session, or their anxiety about trying top their past work? “Will Calls”, the best of the demos, definitely seems to be raging at something. Like a rougher-hewn version of Yellow House’s gorgeous finale “Colorado”, it wrestles between soft, somnolent moments and the closest thing Grizzly Bear can come to a genuine freak-out. The chorus—Droste’s unvarnished yelps and Rossen’s joltingly loud guitar—feels like a satisfying exorcism of bottled-up rage. The last three songs here are remixes and they’re decidedly hit-or-miss. I’m not sure the world needed to hear what a Lindstrøm remix of the effervescently proggy “Gun-Shy” would sound like, and the results are about what you’d expect: The neon-plastic track sounds like an unused instrumental the Norwegian disco producer had lying around, with Droste’s vocal track placed overtop about halfway through. Liars’ take on “A Simple Answer” fares a little better: Fragmented loops of “ahhs” and “oohs” build a misty, fogged-window atmosphere that dissipates once—pretty unwarrentedly—a driving beat interrupts two-thirds of the way through. Luckily, though, there is one straight-up gem in the bunch. Nicolas Jaar doesn’t remix “Sleeping Ute” so much as toss it into to a zero-gravity chamber and watch each element drift around gracefully, asking you to examine it anew. Grizzly Bear’s music is as much about the notes as the spaces between them—and the dust mites floating ethereally in those spaces between. Jaar gets this; and given how carefully his own music conjures space, he’s an intuitive choice for this track. It’s enough to make you wish that he and Darkside collaborator Dave Harrington would give Shields the same full-album treatment they recently gave Daft Punk’s Random Access Memories. Shields: Expanded doesn’t stand on its own quite the way that the bar-setting Friend EP did. But as far as “deluxe editions” go, it’s so refreshing you (almost) want to call it special: Consistent from start to finish (especially if you end on the Jaar remix), exactly as long as it needs to be, and revealing without being unflattering. For fans, it will come as something of a relief. If the infamous Marfa material that the band thought disappointing was actually this good, then Shields: Expanded is a comforting assurance of how hard it would be for a Grizzly Bear record to actually suck.

Artist: Grizzly Bear, Album: Shields: B-Sides, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "The Special Edition is no longer special. These days it’s easy to feel skeptical about words like “deluxe,” “expanded,” “rebooted,” or any other focus-grouped synonym—particularly when they’re attached to the name of a record you could have sworn came out a few months ago. Blame the ever-accelerating nostalgia cycle, the desperate marketing tactics of a wheezing industry, or the everyone-on-the-team-gets-a-trophy mentality of our youth; probably just blame all three. But whatever the reason, we’ve gotten to a place where albums have Frankensteinian titles like Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded - The Re-Up, and the extra, wait-wait-there’s-more material on these revamps often feels obligatory, forced, and better off back in the vault. Leave it to Grizzly Bear, though, to be an exception to the rule. The Brooklyn-based craftsmen of sepia-toned chamber pop have a history of putting out non-album releases that are much better and more meticulously arranged than they need to be. Take, for example, their 2007 Friend EP: Judging from the tracklist, it might have seemed like an “expanded” version of the previous year’s breakthrough Yellow House. Friend featured alternate takes of old songs, a few covers (some by the band themselves and some by contemporaries like Band of Horses and CSS), and a self-recorded demo. But when you listened, it was clear that this was much more than some half-assed stop-gap between proper albums. Friend now feels like an essential release in Grizzly Bear’s catalogue, home to a live staple (their creepy, cavernous reconstruction of the Crystals’ “He Hit Me”) and a pivotal moment in guitarist Daniel Rossen’s evolving and increasingly distinct style. The EP’s electric version of “Little Brother”—a six-minute, six-string supernova of a song—remains one of his finest recorded moments with this band. Shields: Expanded feels like something of a throwback to Friend, thanks in part to the refreshingly pragmatic way that Warp is releasing it. There is an “expanded edition” that contains the original album along with the bonus material, but people who already have Shields can just buy the 12” Shields: B-Sides (and people who don’t care about vinyl can simply buy the extras digitally). Shields was recorded after Grizzly Bear took their first short hiatus; after the time apart (Rossen and bassist Chris Taylor put out solo records; founding vocalist Ed Droste did some traveling), they reconvened in Marfa, Tex., for what would be an unexpectedly discouraging recording session. They worked on about 20 demos there, but none made the record. Shields: Expanded collects the best of these previously unheard Marfa tracks, which amount to captivating sketches, rather than scraps. The swooping “Taken Down” is driven by Rossen’s babbling-brook finger-picking and an anguished vocal from Droste; “Everyone I Know” is an even sparser evocation of the same mood. Shields wasn’t exactly an upbeat record, but what’s surprising is how dark—at times even violent—these Marfa tracks are. Is this the sound of a band thrashing out their frustrations with an inert recording session, or their anxiety about trying top their past work? “Will Calls”, the best of the demos, definitely seems to be raging at something. Like a rougher-hewn version of Yellow House’s gorgeous finale “Colorado”, it wrestles between soft, somnolent moments and the closest thing Grizzly Bear can come to a genuine freak-out. The chorus—Droste’s unvarnished yelps and Rossen’s joltingly loud guitar—feels like a satisfying exorcism of bottled-up rage. The last three songs here are remixes and they’re decidedly hit-or-miss. I’m not sure the world needed to hear what a Lindstrøm remix of the effervescently proggy “Gun-Shy” would sound like, and the results are about what you’d expect: The neon-plastic track sounds like an unused instrumental the Norwegian disco producer had lying around, with Droste’s vocal track placed overtop about halfway through. Liars’ take on “A Simple Answer” fares a little better: Fragmented loops of “ahhs” and “oohs” build a misty, fogged-window atmosphere that dissipates once—pretty unwarrentedly—a driving beat interrupts two-thirds of the way through. Luckily, though, there is one straight-up gem in the bunch. Nicolas Jaar doesn’t remix “Sleeping Ute” so much as toss it into to a zero-gravity chamber and watch each element drift around gracefully, asking you to examine it anew. Grizzly Bear’s music is as much about the notes as the spaces between them—and the dust mites floating ethereally in those spaces between. Jaar gets this; and given how carefully his own music conjures space, he’s an intuitive choice for this track. It’s enough to make you wish that he and Darkside collaborator Dave Harrington would give Shields the same full-album treatment they recently gave Daft Punk’s Random Access Memories. Shields: Expanded doesn’t stand on its own quite the way that the bar-setting Friend EP did. But as far as “deluxe editions” go, it’s so refreshing you (almost) want to call it special: Consistent from start to finish (especially if you end on the Jaar remix), exactly as long as it needs to be, and revealing without being unflattering. For fans, it will come as something of a relief. If the infamous Marfa material that the band thought disappointing was actually this good, then Shields: Expanded is a comforting assurance of how hard it would be for a Grizzly Bear record to actually suck."

Nick Hook

Relationships

Electronic

Mehan Jayasuriya

The cover art for Relationships features a photo of an entryway, nearly every inch of its canary yellow walls covered in signatures, writing and drawings. The photo was taken inside of Nick Hook’s studio in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, where the producer has recorded and worked with a laundry list of hip-hop and electronic artists over the years, including Run the Jewels, Young Thug, and Action Bronson. Relationships, his debut album, feels a lot like that studio must: a place where Hook endlessly tinkers as a constant stream of guests passes through, each leaving behind bits of their sound. In keeping with Hook’s penchant for collaboration, Relationships enlists an impressive roster of artists: the freshly Drake-co-signed 21 Savage, the Deftones’ Chino Moreno, electro wunderkind Hudson Mohawke and even the late DJ Rashad. To hear him tell it, Hook didn’t pay for any of these features, relying instead on the goodwill accrued through years of production and engineering work. Given the diverse company he keeps, it should come as no surprise that Hook’s debut is an eclectic listen. That said, Relationships manages to hang together surprisingly well, anchored in large part by Hook’s rhythmic and melodic sensibilities. Hook is a collector of vintage studio equipment and it shows: The sounds of analog synths suffuse these songs with warmth, while much of the drum programming has a tactile, human feel. Also old-fashioned is the manner in which Relationships was constructed: all of these collaborations were recorded in person at Hook’s studio, rather than cobbled together from emailed files. Clearly, Hook is a big believer in chemistry, and this collaborative spirit tends to bring out his best. Over the course of Relationships, Hook allows his guests to pull his sound in a number of different directions, ultimately showcasing his own versatility. “Gucci’s” pitches up emerging Atlanta rapper 24hrs’ vocals into cartoon-character territory, the end result sounding like a trap banger crossbred with early Kanye’s chipmunk soul. “Can’t Tell Me Nothing,” a bleak grime number featuring 19-year old London rapper Novelist, colorfully evokes London’s wet streets: Hook’s synths alternately patter like raindrops and howl like sirens as Novelist raps with hungry-upstart fury. “Another Way” arrives at funky body music by way of cosmic synths, while “All Alone” matches Makonnen’s late night tomcat croon with the proper shade of noir. Given 21 Savage’s involvement and its title, you can probably guess what “Head” is about; more surprising is how exuberant the song feels—bass drum hits that pop like confetti-filled balloons, skittering hi-hats, glimmering synth lines. It’s a genuinely fun song, one where Savage sounds delightfully out-of-place, like a dead-eyed hustler at a child’s birthday party. Relationships is bookended by two collaborations with the footwork pioneer DJ Rashad, culled from sessions Hook recorded with Rashad before his untimely death. Opening track “+ 3,” which also features DJ Paypal, has Rashad’s fingerprints all over it: classic house synths, a tug-of-war between a thudding low-end and rapid-fire hi-hats and a mantra-like chant, provided by Nasty Nigel: “Pull up/Back door/ID/Plus three.” Album closer “The Infinite Loop,” meanwhile, ends the record on a very different note. Good luck finding Rashad’s contribution in the folds of the impressionistic track, which builds up slowly over the course of eighteen minutes, guided primarily by washes of chiming, delayed guitar provided by Chino Moreno. Nasty Nigel returns here, with a brief, nostalgic verse that steers into the track’s dreamy atmospherics: “Copping 40s at the Wawa outside of Philly/I was only 14, kinda high, my uncle with me.” Even if it hardly sounds like a DJ Rashad song, “The Infinite Loop” feels like a fitting tribute, a contemplative remembrance of a relationship that animated Hook’s work, like so many of those on display here.

Artist: Nick Hook, Album: Relationships, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "The cover art for Relationships features a photo of an entryway, nearly every inch of its canary yellow walls covered in signatures, writing and drawings. The photo was taken inside of Nick Hook’s studio in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, where the producer has recorded and worked with a laundry list of hip-hop and electronic artists over the years, including Run the Jewels, Young Thug, and Action Bronson. Relationships, his debut album, feels a lot like that studio must: a place where Hook endlessly tinkers as a constant stream of guests passes through, each leaving behind bits of their sound. In keeping with Hook’s penchant for collaboration, Relationships enlists an impressive roster of artists: the freshly Drake-co-signed 21 Savage, the Deftones’ Chino Moreno, electro wunderkind Hudson Mohawke and even the late DJ Rashad. To hear him tell it, Hook didn’t pay for any of these features, relying instead on the goodwill accrued through years of production and engineering work. Given the diverse company he keeps, it should come as no surprise that Hook’s debut is an eclectic listen. That said, Relationships manages to hang together surprisingly well, anchored in large part by Hook’s rhythmic and melodic sensibilities. Hook is a collector of vintage studio equipment and it shows: The sounds of analog synths suffuse these songs with warmth, while much of the drum programming has a tactile, human feel. Also old-fashioned is the manner in which Relationships was constructed: all of these collaborations were recorded in person at Hook’s studio, rather than cobbled together from emailed files. Clearly, Hook is a big believer in chemistry, and this collaborative spirit tends to bring out his best. Over the course of Relationships, Hook allows his guests to pull his sound in a number of different directions, ultimately showcasing his own versatility. “Gucci’s” pitches up emerging Atlanta rapper 24hrs’ vocals into cartoon-character territory, the end result sounding like a trap banger crossbred with early Kanye’s chipmunk soul. “Can’t Tell Me Nothing,” a bleak grime number featuring 19-year old London rapper Novelist, colorfully evokes London’s wet streets: Hook’s synths alternately patter like raindrops and howl like sirens as Novelist raps with hungry-upstart fury. “Another Way” arrives at funky body music by way of cosmic synths, while “All Alone” matches Makonnen’s late night tomcat croon with the proper shade of noir. Given 21 Savage’s involvement and its title, you can probably guess what “Head” is about; more surprising is how exuberant the song feels—bass drum hits that pop like confetti-filled balloons, skittering hi-hats, glimmering synth lines. It’s a genuinely fun song, one where Savage sounds delightfully out-of-place, like a dead-eyed hustler at a child’s birthday party. Relationships is bookended by two collaborations with the footwork pioneer DJ Rashad, culled from sessions Hook recorded with Rashad before his untimely death. Opening track “+ 3,” which also features DJ Paypal, has Rashad’s fingerprints all over it: classic house synths, a tug-of-war between a thudding low-end and rapid-fire hi-hats and a mantra-like chant, provided by Nasty Nigel: “Pull up/Back door/ID/Plus three.” Album closer “The Infinite Loop,” meanwhile, ends the record on a very different note. Good luck finding Rashad’s contribution in the folds of the impressionistic track, which builds up slowly over the course of eighteen minutes, guided primarily by washes of chiming, delayed guitar provided by Chino Moreno. Nasty Nigel returns here, with a brief, nostalgic verse that steers into the track’s dreamy atmospherics: “Copping 40s at the Wawa outside of Philly/I was only 14, kinda high, my uncle with me.” Even if it hardly sounds like a DJ Rashad song, “The Infinite Loop” feels like a fitting tribute, a contemplative remembrance of a relationship that animated Hook’s work, like so many of those on display here."

Icarus Line

Slave Vows

Zach Kelly

The past couple years haven't been too kind to Los Angeles sleaze merchants Icarus Line. In fact, when you come to think of it, the band's entire career has been something of a slog for frontman Joe Cardamone and his seemingly ever-rotating cast of players. Gaining some attention with their 2001 debut Mono, their real breakthrough came two years later with the searing Penance Soiree, a criminally overlooked album that seethed with danger and wit. Personal turmoil and label troubles spurned Black Lives at the Golden Coast, an all-over-the-place, holy mess of an album that all but completely sapped any momentum Penance Soiree might have gained them. By the time their fourth album--the snaky, villainous Wildlife-- rolled around, Icarus Line had been relegated to lifer status, an act all but forgotten thanks to their cockroach-like ability to soldier on in the face of utterly toxic circumstances-- drugs, money troubles, lineup-shifting creative differences. Though largely ignored in spite of its obvious quality, Wildlife marked the welcome return to the Stooge-ian hedonism of Penance Soiree. And now it's with Slave Vows that the Icarus Line continue on their road to redemption, offering up their best record since the one that should've made them contenders. It's unlikely that the Icarus Line are going to hold it against you for brushing them off ("I don't care enough to hate you," Cardamone grumbles on "Rat's Ass"), but sure as hell don't expect them to hold your hand, either. "Dark Circles" is an 11-minute "fuck you" of an opener, moving from a squall of torrential feedback to seasick, churning rhythms to an arid spaghetti Western-styled final act. It's not a great song, but rather a warning that if you aren't with them, you're against them, and now would be a good time to get out of the way. What follows is more earthen and scorched than anything the band has released to date, and while the formula on Slave Vows is fairly consistent-- songs start out comely, lurching and depraved, only to explode into id-startled fits of furious chaos and noise-- nothing feels forced or wasted. Recorded live to tape (the band's preferred method), the album taps into Icarus Line's infamous live show, complete with acid-scarred guitars and Cardamone's unique yelps and mutters and screams, which exude as much sex as they do terror. "It's my fault I'm dedicated," he sings on "Marathon Man", sounding uncommonly principled for once. But it's his commitment to keeping Slave Vows as feral and uncompromising as it ultimately needs to be is what makes it so exciting. "Marathon Man" starts out snarling and slow, eventually giving way to a torrent of strangled noise that suggests every instrument is being physically wrestled and beaten into submission like rabid dogs. Even better is the sordid, striptease-ready "Dead Body", which starts off sounding like the perfect soundtrack for a good old fashioned roll in the glass, but as it explodes with such raw power and hellish riffage, the only thing it feels good for is triggering a panic attack. It's a jarring reminder of the viciousness this band is capable of. Very little has been written about the Icarus Line without some mention of Iggy and the Stooges, and it's no wonder. Visit the band's official website, and you'll find a show flyer featuring a shirtless Cardamone lit in a very familiar orange fluorescence. But to fault Icarus Line for aping seminal punk, garage and no wave acts is to discount just how good they are at translating and nourishing these touchstones. If you could convincingly pull off an approximation of the Stooges frenzied fusion of sex and danger, then why the hell wouldn't you? Only on the final three tracks do the band go full Wild Child, which instead of sounding, well, slavish are instead nothing but a pleasure. The closest they get here to an actual bite is "No Money Music", which sounds almost exactly like Suicide's "Ghost Rider", right down to those piercing, echoed screams. In less capable hands it would feel cliché; here it's convincingly harried and frightening and nuts. Slave Vows could use a little fine tuning, of course. At 45 minutes it's shorter than Penance Soiree, but lacks its concision and punch, at times wading a little too deeply into the indulgent waters of burdened, discordant blooze. And Cardamone-- despite convincingly inhabiting the sunken-eyed Lothario he truly is-- plays up the misestimated shock value a little more than he needs to ("Brick by brick, white people are fucking sick"). But at its core, Slave Vows is an album that plays by its own set of rules, unencumbered by any sort of expectation; it's one of the few perks being left for dead offers. "It's been the end of times for a long time," Cardamone murmurs on the sulphuric "Laying Down for the Man". If Slave Vows is any indication, it's anything but.

Artist: Icarus Line, Album: Slave Vows, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "The past couple years haven't been too kind to Los Angeles sleaze merchants Icarus Line. In fact, when you come to think of it, the band's entire career has been something of a slog for frontman Joe Cardamone and his seemingly ever-rotating cast of players. Gaining some attention with their 2001 debut Mono, their real breakthrough came two years later with the searing Penance Soiree, a criminally overlooked album that seethed with danger and wit. Personal turmoil and label troubles spurned Black Lives at the Golden Coast, an all-over-the-place, holy mess of an album that all but completely sapped any momentum Penance Soiree might have gained them. By the time their fourth album--the snaky, villainous Wildlife-- rolled around, Icarus Line had been relegated to lifer status, an act all but forgotten thanks to their cockroach-like ability to soldier on in the face of utterly toxic circumstances-- drugs, money troubles, lineup-shifting creative differences. Though largely ignored in spite of its obvious quality, Wildlife marked the welcome return to the Stooge-ian hedonism of Penance Soiree. And now it's with Slave Vows that the Icarus Line continue on their road to redemption, offering up their best record since the one that should've made them contenders. It's unlikely that the Icarus Line are going to hold it against you for brushing them off ("I don't care enough to hate you," Cardamone grumbles on "Rat's Ass"), but sure as hell don't expect them to hold your hand, either. "Dark Circles" is an 11-minute "fuck you" of an opener, moving from a squall of torrential feedback to seasick, churning rhythms to an arid spaghetti Western-styled final act. It's not a great song, but rather a warning that if you aren't with them, you're against them, and now would be a good time to get out of the way. What follows is more earthen and scorched than anything the band has released to date, and while the formula on Slave Vows is fairly consistent-- songs start out comely, lurching and depraved, only to explode into id-startled fits of furious chaos and noise-- nothing feels forced or wasted. Recorded live to tape (the band's preferred method), the album taps into Icarus Line's infamous live show, complete with acid-scarred guitars and Cardamone's unique yelps and mutters and screams, which exude as much sex as they do terror. "It's my fault I'm dedicated," he sings on "Marathon Man", sounding uncommonly principled for once. But it's his commitment to keeping Slave Vows as feral and uncompromising as it ultimately needs to be is what makes it so exciting. "Marathon Man" starts out snarling and slow, eventually giving way to a torrent of strangled noise that suggests every instrument is being physically wrestled and beaten into submission like rabid dogs. Even better is the sordid, striptease-ready "Dead Body", which starts off sounding like the perfect soundtrack for a good old fashioned roll in the glass, but as it explodes with such raw power and hellish riffage, the only thing it feels good for is triggering a panic attack. It's a jarring reminder of the viciousness this band is capable of. Very little has been written about the Icarus Line without some mention of Iggy and the Stooges, and it's no wonder. Visit the band's official website, and you'll find a show flyer featuring a shirtless Cardamone lit in a very familiar orange fluorescence. But to fault Icarus Line for aping seminal punk, garage and no wave acts is to discount just how good they are at translating and nourishing these touchstones. If you could convincingly pull off an approximation of the Stooges frenzied fusion of sex and danger, then why the hell wouldn't you? Only on the final three tracks do the band go full Wild Child, which instead of sounding, well, slavish are instead nothing but a pleasure. The closest they get here to an actual bite is "No Money Music", which sounds almost exactly like Suicide's "Ghost Rider", right down to those piercing, echoed screams. In less capable hands it would feel cliché; here it's convincingly harried and frightening and nuts. Slave Vows could use a little fine tuning, of course. At 45 minutes it's shorter than Penance Soiree, but lacks its concision and punch, at times wading a little too deeply into the indulgent waters of burdened, discordant blooze. And Cardamone-- despite convincingly inhabiting the sunken-eyed Lothario he truly is-- plays up the misestimated shock value a little more than he needs to ("Brick by brick, white people are fucking sick"). But at its core, Slave Vows is an album that plays by its own set of rules, unencumbered by any sort of expectation; it's one of the few perks being left for dead offers. "It's been the end of times for a long time," Cardamone murmurs on the sulphuric "Laying Down for the Man". If Slave Vows is any indication, it's anything but."

Eagles of Death Metal

Heart On

Rock

Joshua Love

I belong to a small and misunderstood subset of rock fans who actually prefer Eagles of Death Metal to Queens of the Stone Age. (I mean, it's not like we've had any meetings or anything, so it's possible I might be the only one.) I dig Queens and the manfully cool bulldozing thing they do, it's just that I find Josh Homme's side gig with Jesse Hughes offers more of the stuff I crave from my rock-- sex, humor, fun. I know Eagles are far more derivative than Queens, but they steal from the best and have a great time doing it. So many new groups are so damn serious and reverent about stealing from post-punk or Neil Young or Bob Dylan that it's refreshing to see a couple of guys swipe from the Rolling Stones, New York Dolls, and Led Zeppelin and not give a shit about piety. Their newest record, Heart On, delivers more of the same, though that's hardly a pejorative when more of the same means being tighter than Cindy McCain's smile. To be fair, Heart On does reveal a slightly maturing sense of pop songcraft from Hughes and Homme: the disarming loveliness of "Now I'm a Fool" is equivalent to those pop-tinged weepers (like "Questioningly" or "Needles and Pins") that the Ramones used to toss out to catch you off guard. As its title windily suggests, "How Can a Man With So Many Friends Feel So Alone" also bears a somewhat melancholy cast, even as the guitars quote Messrs. Page and Richards at their cockiest. Another influence poking through the song is mid-to-late-90s Beck, back when the stereopathic Scientologist was expertly fusing country, blues, and funk to his own cracked-glass worldview. In fact, the wisecracking sex jams of 1999's Midnite Vultures serve as a pretty good reference point for several of the decidedly non-serious scuzz-rockers here, especially "High Voltage", with its invocations of "getting freaky in the shadows of the night time." Of course, whereas Beck preferred cobbling together his surrealistic quips from pop-culture allusions, Eagles of Death Metal have seemingly never met a dumb pun or double entendre they could resist (in case the album title didn't tip you off). But rather than coming off as smarmily ironic or just plain braindead, the cheap jokes align nicely with the band's entire cheeseball fuck-mook shtick. The James Brown homage "(I Used to Couldn't Dance) Tight Pants" and modestly punny "Cheap Thrills" (complete with bored female vocals and references to "spending" time) are fine, but neither compares to the retarded majesty of "Solo Flights". Rock's annals are rife with infamous odes to whacking off, but few have ever been as gleefully pleased with it as this one, thanks to assertions like "nobody does me like I do." To be honest, it's not a bad metaphor for the entire project, which amounts to an exercise in self-gratification that's nonetheless thoroughly entertaining for how much care and enjoyment is put into the act.

Artist: Eagles of Death Metal, Album: Heart On, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "I belong to a small and misunderstood subset of rock fans who actually prefer Eagles of Death Metal to Queens of the Stone Age. (I mean, it's not like we've had any meetings or anything, so it's possible I might be the only one.) I dig Queens and the manfully cool bulldozing thing they do, it's just that I find Josh Homme's side gig with Jesse Hughes offers more of the stuff I crave from my rock-- sex, humor, fun. I know Eagles are far more derivative than Queens, but they steal from the best and have a great time doing it. So many new groups are so damn serious and reverent about stealing from post-punk or Neil Young or Bob Dylan that it's refreshing to see a couple of guys swipe from the Rolling Stones, New York Dolls, and Led Zeppelin and not give a shit about piety. Their newest record, Heart On, delivers more of the same, though that's hardly a pejorative when more of the same means being tighter than Cindy McCain's smile. To be fair, Heart On does reveal a slightly maturing sense of pop songcraft from Hughes and Homme: the disarming loveliness of "Now I'm a Fool" is equivalent to those pop-tinged weepers (like "Questioningly" or "Needles and Pins") that the Ramones used to toss out to catch you off guard. As its title windily suggests, "How Can a Man With So Many Friends Feel So Alone" also bears a somewhat melancholy cast, even as the guitars quote Messrs. Page and Richards at their cockiest. Another influence poking through the song is mid-to-late-90s Beck, back when the stereopathic Scientologist was expertly fusing country, blues, and funk to his own cracked-glass worldview. In fact, the wisecracking sex jams of 1999's Midnite Vultures serve as a pretty good reference point for several of the decidedly non-serious scuzz-rockers here, especially "High Voltage", with its invocations of "getting freaky in the shadows of the night time." Of course, whereas Beck preferred cobbling together his surrealistic quips from pop-culture allusions, Eagles of Death Metal have seemingly never met a dumb pun or double entendre they could resist (in case the album title didn't tip you off). But rather than coming off as smarmily ironic or just plain braindead, the cheap jokes align nicely with the band's entire cheeseball fuck-mook shtick. The James Brown homage "(I Used to Couldn't Dance) Tight Pants" and modestly punny "Cheap Thrills" (complete with bored female vocals and references to "spending" time) are fine, but neither compares to the retarded majesty of "Solo Flights". Rock's annals are rife with infamous odes to whacking off, but few have ever been as gleefully pleased with it as this one, thanks to assertions like "nobody does me like I do." To be honest, it's not a bad metaphor for the entire project, which amounts to an exercise in self-gratification that's nonetheless thoroughly entertaining for how much care and enjoyment is put into the act."

Dennis Wilson

Pacific Ocean Blue: Legacy Edition

Rock

Mike Orme

We're certainly lucky that Brian Wilson got it together to complete the legendary Smile sessions, his long-languishing answer to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band-- many didn't expect him to reach middle age. With brother Dennis there was also a suspicion he would depart before his time and, sadly in that case, those fears came true. Indeed, all three Wilson brothers suffered the physical and emotional scars left by their abusive father, Murry, and the middle Wilson brother coped by living the fast life of a rebellious drifter. He fell in (albeit briefly) with Charles Manson and ran through many wives and girlfriends. Always overshadowed by brothers Brian and Carl, drummer Dennis fell victim to the common misconception that session player Hal Blaine manned the skins exclusively in the studio at Brian's behest. In actuality, Dennis made sporadic but dramatic contributions during even Brian's creative peak, steering the group towards surfing culture and nurturing rough-hewn musical talents before drowning off the shore of Marina del Ray in 1983 at 39. By the mid-1970s, with Brian a troubled recluse and Mike Love angling for more creative control, Dennis Wilson entered the studio with his friend and songwriter Gregg Jakobson; in 1977, he released Pacific Ocean Blue-- a raw, bluesy masterpiece of ocean-worshipping psychedelia. The record was always tough to find, but unlike SMiLE it's no "lost" classic: released around the same time as the middling Love You, Brian's attempt at a 70s comeback, Pacific Ocean Blue actually sold about the same as its counterpart, about 300,000 copies. Problem is, the record was out of print for almost 20 years. Despiite positive critical notices, Dennis was once again swept under the rug. Pacific Ocean Blue, however, is a wonderful study in Beach Boys surfer soul imbued with the expressiveness of Dennis' piano style. It's also a meditation on a complex world, one devoid of the nostalgic innocence preached by the Mike Love-fronted Beach Boys of late, and its remastered, 2xCD Legacy Recordings release-- the first CD release of the album since 1991-- is astoundingly refreshing. Unlike Brian, who circa SMiLE was tweaking his vocals to sound younger (on "Child Is Father of the Man" Brian sounds more like classic Eno than classic Wilson), Dennis' voice had already deteriorated due to years of hard living and heavy drinking. Seething with emotion, Wilson's croon is plain but pliable, sounding on "What's Wrong" like a grizzled blues or folk singer but stretching to higher registers on "Pacific Ocean Blues". Wilson was in his mid-thirties when he recorded the vocals to "Time", a sorely honest piano-driven ballad about womanizing; nevertheless, he sounds like someone physically and emotionally twenty years his senior, a grizzled old soul reveling in the ephemeral nature of time and, more surprisingly, love. The second disc is a collection of tracks written during and after Pacific Ocean Blue for Caribou Records with Carli Muñoz. Dennis originally thought that the results of these sessions would become Bambu, his planned follow-up to Pacific Ocean Blue, but his increasing substance abuse problems and Beach Boys obligations kept it from completion. So the tracks that make up the Bambu disc here are by no means meant to comprise the album as it was originally intended. Wilson once called the record "a hundred times better than Pacific Ocean Blue"-- a boast he was never able to back up. At any rate, some of these songs trickled onto late 70s Beach Boys records, and many of them have already been made available on bootlegs throughout the years. Completists might complain that the entire Bambu sessions aren't included, but considering the volumes of recording that Wilson managed in the late 70s, a little bit of editorial discretion here is appreciated. This second disc doesn't feature a whole lot of continuity, however, shuffling awkwardly from psychedelic soul jams like "Wild Situation" to the towering synthesizer-tinged pop instrumental "Common". The moodiest compositions on the disc are the peaks: "Common", "Are You Real" (which suddenly turns into an outtake from Air's The Virgin Suicides), and the analog synthesizer strains of "Cocktails" hint at new artistic blueprints for Wilson. Closing the disc is "Holy Man", an unfinished composition that Wilson never got a chance to sing over, and here they are filled out by uncannily similar-sounding vocals by Foo Fighters drummer Taylor Hawkins. Brian Wilson grew obsessed with comparing himself with Paul McCartney; comparing Dennis to his Beatles counterpart makes little sense except in terms of contrast. Whereas Ringo was a consummate professional who adopted a simple-seeming but complex playing style, Dennis Wilson developed his own talents almost entirely on the back of emotion, not technical expertise. His works show the obvious influence of the blues and soul, with Wilson manifestly stating the predicament of his own aimless love and rootless existence. Always an artistic spirit, a slacker with a penchant for surfing, an incurable womanizer, a morbid alcoholic, Dennis Wilson was a player in life's essential boundaries, fated to cross the big one far too soon. Anyone enthralled by Brian Wilson's 30-year journey from the brink should examine Dennis' work as well.

Artist: Dennis Wilson, Album: Pacific Ocean Blue: Legacy Edition, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "We're certainly lucky that Brian Wilson got it together to complete the legendary Smile sessions, his long-languishing answer to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band-- many didn't expect him to reach middle age. With brother Dennis there was also a suspicion he would depart before his time and, sadly in that case, those fears came true. Indeed, all three Wilson brothers suffered the physical and emotional scars left by their abusive father, Murry, and the middle Wilson brother coped by living the fast life of a rebellious drifter. He fell in (albeit briefly) with Charles Manson and ran through many wives and girlfriends. Always overshadowed by brothers Brian and Carl, drummer Dennis fell victim to the common misconception that session player Hal Blaine manned the skins exclusively in the studio at Brian's behest. In actuality, Dennis made sporadic but dramatic contributions during even Brian's creative peak, steering the group towards surfing culture and nurturing rough-hewn musical talents before drowning off the shore of Marina del Ray in 1983 at 39. By the mid-1970s, with Brian a troubled recluse and Mike Love angling for more creative control, Dennis Wilson entered the studio with his friend and songwriter Gregg Jakobson; in 1977, he released Pacific Ocean Blue-- a raw, bluesy masterpiece of ocean-worshipping psychedelia. The record was always tough to find, but unlike SMiLE it's no "lost" classic: released around the same time as the middling Love You, Brian's attempt at a 70s comeback, Pacific Ocean Blue actually sold about the same as its counterpart, about 300,000 copies. Problem is, the record was out of print for almost 20 years. Despiite positive critical notices, Dennis was once again swept under the rug. Pacific Ocean Blue, however, is a wonderful study in Beach Boys surfer soul imbued with the expressiveness of Dennis' piano style. It's also a meditation on a complex world, one devoid of the nostalgic innocence preached by the Mike Love-fronted Beach Boys of late, and its remastered, 2xCD Legacy Recordings release-- the first CD release of the album since 1991-- is astoundingly refreshing. Unlike Brian, who circa SMiLE was tweaking his vocals to sound younger (on "Child Is Father of the Man" Brian sounds more like classic Eno than classic Wilson), Dennis' voice had already deteriorated due to years of hard living and heavy drinking. Seething with emotion, Wilson's croon is plain but pliable, sounding on "What's Wrong" like a grizzled blues or folk singer but stretching to higher registers on "Pacific Ocean Blues". Wilson was in his mid-thirties when he recorded the vocals to "Time", a sorely honest piano-driven ballad about womanizing; nevertheless, he sounds like someone physically and emotionally twenty years his senior, a grizzled old soul reveling in the ephemeral nature of time and, more surprisingly, love. The second disc is a collection of tracks written during and after Pacific Ocean Blue for Caribou Records with Carli Muñoz. Dennis originally thought that the results of these sessions would become Bambu, his planned follow-up to Pacific Ocean Blue, but his increasing substance abuse problems and Beach Boys obligations kept it from completion. So the tracks that make up the Bambu disc here are by no means meant to comprise the album as it was originally intended. Wilson once called the record "a hundred times better than Pacific Ocean Blue"-- a boast he was never able to back up. At any rate, some of these songs trickled onto late 70s Beach Boys records, and many of them have already been made available on bootlegs throughout the years. Completists might complain that the entire Bambu sessions aren't included, but considering the volumes of recording that Wilson managed in the late 70s, a little bit of editorial discretion here is appreciated. This second disc doesn't feature a whole lot of continuity, however, shuffling awkwardly from psychedelic soul jams like "Wild Situation" to the towering synthesizer-tinged pop instrumental "Common". The moodiest compositions on the disc are the peaks: "Common", "Are You Real" (which suddenly turns into an outtake from Air's The Virgin Suicides), and the analog synthesizer strains of "Cocktails" hint at new artistic blueprints for Wilson. Closing the disc is "Holy Man", an unfinished composition that Wilson never got a chance to sing over, and here they are filled out by uncannily similar-sounding vocals by Foo Fighters drummer Taylor Hawkins. Brian Wilson grew obsessed with comparing himself with Paul McCartney; comparing Dennis to his Beatles counterpart makes little sense except in terms of contrast. Whereas Ringo was a consummate professional who adopted a simple-seeming but complex playing style, Dennis Wilson developed his own talents almost entirely on the back of emotion, not technical expertise. His works show the obvious influence of the blues and soul, with Wilson manifestly stating the predicament of his own aimless love and rootless existence. Always an artistic spirit, a slacker with a penchant for surfing, an incurable womanizer, a morbid alcoholic, Dennis Wilson was a player in life's essential boundaries, fated to cross the big one far too soon. Anyone enthralled by Brian Wilson's 30-year journey from the brink should examine Dennis' work as well."

Buckshot

Chemistry

Metal,Pop/R&B,Rap

Peter Macia

Despite all the campaigning done on 9th Wonder's behalf (slow down already, ?uestlove), the North Carolinian's most successful efforts have been in rallying to the cause of MC's bleeding on the cot. After his group Little Brother's decent debut, The Listening, 9th pre-empted Dangermouse's ballyhooed Grey Album by rethinking Nas' God's Son as Illmatic's reprise, an achievement which bought him studio time with Nas nemesis Jay-Z on The Black Album. Convolution is a wonderful thing-- his Hovi track, not so much. Following his work with rap's fave retiree, 9th spun an album of breezy takes on Left Coast G-funk on Murs' 3:16. Now, he's teamed with the oft-forgotten Buckshot of Black Moon/Boot Camp Clik for an album that breathes life, yet again, into the mid-90s NYC sound. Here, as opposed to some 22-year-olds nostalgia jacking, it's fitting, as Chemistry blends 9th's backward-glancing production and Buck's timeless street talk to results that find both pushing the outer limits of their natural abilities. Chemistry's biggest surprise is Buckshot's energy. It's been a rough road for the BDI MC, and he's starving here, taking large bites out of the new guard. For instance, "Everybody got a label or a mixtape/ Saying you gettin' money/ But next week, it's back to your shift and break/ 'Til your back shift and break." Spoken like a man who's been touted as the Next Man but realized he isn't. Buckshot still stretches his syllables like a rubber band, letting the ends of lines snap with the beat. The sing-toast style that is the calling card of Boot Camp's finest merges nicely with 9th Wonder's rolling bass, swooning string samples, and stop/start drum programming. Buckshot's decision to partner with 9th says as much about his self-awareness as his business acumen, linking up with the one producer in his price range that can recreate the Beatminerz/Large Professor/Premier aura of Buck's heyday. Working with new blood with old ideas has Buck feeling his fighting legs again; Buckshot's soft talk/big stick approach always has and always will sound best in front of a string section and pulled taffy basslines. Put him up with some synthed-out thugtronics and his allure would be lost amongst the clamor. Apparently written on the fly after hearing 9th's tracks for Boot Camp alum Sean Price's album, Buck's rhymes are a reminder of the verbal wizardry that had him mentioned alongside Nas, Big, and the Wu fellows once upon a time. His voice has always been a simmering fire, a gravelly, almost whispering menace certainly inspired by some Rakim mirror mugging. Albums like Chemistry are written off by a lot of people who don't get down with its retro leanings-- and it certainly doesn't help that 9th Wonder is only a serviceable replacement for those with whom he's compared. His sample selection is tasteful, but someone needs to buy my man some drums. It's a simple question of technique. His predecessors-- Pete Rock, Primo, Large Professor via Paul C (Google "Dave Tompkins Paul C"), and even Boot Camp's own Da Beatminerz-- all chopped sampled drums, and the results were full, thick slabs of marbled beats. 9th programs his own, and they are hollow and processed. But, that's how it goes when a snare can be traced and tapped for royalty payments. Thankfully, Buckshot doesn't seem to care he's rhyming over a facsimile of the salad days. He's thrilled to be back in the game, even if it's one he can't necessarily win.

Artist: Buckshot, Album: Chemistry, Genre: Metal,Pop/R&B,Rap, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Despite all the campaigning done on 9th Wonder's behalf (slow down already, ?uestlove), the North Carolinian's most successful efforts have been in rallying to the cause of MC's bleeding on the cot. After his group Little Brother's decent debut, The Listening, 9th pre-empted Dangermouse's ballyhooed Grey Album by rethinking Nas' God's Son as Illmatic's reprise, an achievement which bought him studio time with Nas nemesis Jay-Z on The Black Album. Convolution is a wonderful thing-- his Hovi track, not so much. Following his work with rap's fave retiree, 9th spun an album of breezy takes on Left Coast G-funk on Murs' 3:16. Now, he's teamed with the oft-forgotten Buckshot of Black Moon/Boot Camp Clik for an album that breathes life, yet again, into the mid-90s NYC sound. Here, as opposed to some 22-year-olds nostalgia jacking, it's fitting, as Chemistry blends 9th's backward-glancing production and Buck's timeless street talk to results that find both pushing the outer limits of their natural abilities. Chemistry's biggest surprise is Buckshot's energy. It's been a rough road for the BDI MC, and he's starving here, taking large bites out of the new guard. For instance, "Everybody got a label or a mixtape/ Saying you gettin' money/ But next week, it's back to your shift and break/ 'Til your back shift and break." Spoken like a man who's been touted as the Next Man but realized he isn't. Buckshot still stretches his syllables like a rubber band, letting the ends of lines snap with the beat. The sing-toast style that is the calling card of Boot Camp's finest merges nicely with 9th Wonder's rolling bass, swooning string samples, and stop/start drum programming. Buckshot's decision to partner with 9th says as much about his self-awareness as his business acumen, linking up with the one producer in his price range that can recreate the Beatminerz/Large Professor/Premier aura of Buck's heyday. Working with new blood with old ideas has Buck feeling his fighting legs again; Buckshot's soft talk/big stick approach always has and always will sound best in front of a string section and pulled taffy basslines. Put him up with some synthed-out thugtronics and his allure would be lost amongst the clamor. Apparently written on the fly after hearing 9th's tracks for Boot Camp alum Sean Price's album, Buck's rhymes are a reminder of the verbal wizardry that had him mentioned alongside Nas, Big, and the Wu fellows once upon a time. His voice has always been a simmering fire, a gravelly, almost whispering menace certainly inspired by some Rakim mirror mugging. Albums like Chemistry are written off by a lot of people who don't get down with its retro leanings-- and it certainly doesn't help that 9th Wonder is only a serviceable replacement for those with whom he's compared. His sample selection is tasteful, but someone needs to buy my man some drums. It's a simple question of technique. His predecessors-- Pete Rock, Primo, Large Professor via Paul C (Google "Dave Tompkins Paul C"), and even Boot Camp's own Da Beatminerz-- all chopped sampled drums, and the results were full, thick slabs of marbled beats. 9th programs his own, and they are hollow and processed. But, that's how it goes when a snare can be traced and tapped for royalty payments. Thankfully, Buckshot doesn't seem to care he's rhyming over a facsimile of the salad days. He's thrilled to be back in the game, even if it's one he can't necessarily win."

Wild Nothing

Gemini

Rock

Ian Cohen

Though some of indie's brightest leading men have come through Virginia's halls of higher education (Steve Malkmus, David Berman, Travis Morrison), your average college rock band in the Old Dominion area probably sounds more like Agents of Good Roots. So if you live in a place like Blacksburg, Va., home of the Virginia Tech campus and not much else, and you want to be in a tropical punk act (Facepaint), an introspective singer-songwriter project (Jack & the Whale), or a band that covers Kate Bush instead of Dave Matthews (Wild Nothing's breakthrough rendition of "Cloudbusting"), you'll probably have to do what Jack Tatum did and start them yourself. Gemini finds Tatum constructing a striking, solitary monument to just about anyone who moped, sulked, or bedsat their way through the 1980s. His love of dreamy, fuzzy, handcrafted guitar-pop isn't far removed from the Radio Dept. or the Pains of Being Pure at Heart, but he displays a more comprehensive and widespread commitment to classic indie pop sounds. Revivalism notwithstanding, his craftsmanship is undeniable and the details are spot-on: Check the reflective bell tone in "Live in Dreams", the Cocteau Twins-like, artificial synth tom in "Drifter", and the Johnny Marr homage in the twinkly guitar fade-in that begins "Our Composition Book". While Tatum plays hopscotch with his collection of 4AD, Factory, and Slumberland records, Gemini has plenty more to offer than sonic verisimilitude. On album opener "Live in Dreams," he sings, "Our lips won't last forever and that's exactly why/ I'd rather live in dreams and I'd rather die," and the lyric plays out like Gemini in miniature: While Tatum's words can edge on maudlin, his delivery is more romantic than dreary, and there's a sly, understated, and subtly addictive melody that gorgeously frames his sentiments. And melodies like that one, which the album features in spades, are ultimately what make Gemini more than just another indie pop record, and often more than the sum of its parts. Of course, that's not to say that each of them connects instantly. Though a handful of immediate standouts reward first listens, the record's debt-to-influence ratio may initially seem to overshadow the strength of the music. However, repeat spins reveal Tatum's strikingly innate sense of songcraft, as these tracks gradually earworm their way into daily life. Similar to Bradford Cox's early work as Atlas Sound or the more similarly indebted Nick Harte of Shocking Pinks, Wild Nothing doesn't feel like a facile genre exercise so much as honest personal expression borne of intense musical fanhood. And in a strange way, it becomes something of a deceptively joyous affair, a reminder of why so many songwriters retreat to bedrooms or garages to lose themselves in the music-making process. Gemini is grand when it sulks, and even better when it's in motion-- check the falsetto hooks of "Confirmation" and "Summer Holidays", or the clattering, kinetic "Chinatown". Tatum carves a tunnel from Ibiza's beaches to Manchester's rain-soaked fairgrounds, and in the process, captures a lot of what is exciting about underground music's current classic indie-pop fixation.

Artist: Wild Nothing, Album: Gemini, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Though some of indie's brightest leading men have come through Virginia's halls of higher education (Steve Malkmus, David Berman, Travis Morrison), your average college rock band in the Old Dominion area probably sounds more like Agents of Good Roots. So if you live in a place like Blacksburg, Va., home of the Virginia Tech campus and not much else, and you want to be in a tropical punk act (Facepaint), an introspective singer-songwriter project (Jack & the Whale), or a band that covers Kate Bush instead of Dave Matthews (Wild Nothing's breakthrough rendition of "Cloudbusting"), you'll probably have to do what Jack Tatum did and start them yourself. Gemini finds Tatum constructing a striking, solitary monument to just about anyone who moped, sulked, or bedsat their way through the 1980s. His love of dreamy, fuzzy, handcrafted guitar-pop isn't far removed from the Radio Dept. or the Pains of Being Pure at Heart, but he displays a more comprehensive and widespread commitment to classic indie pop sounds. Revivalism notwithstanding, his craftsmanship is undeniable and the details are spot-on: Check the reflective bell tone in "Live in Dreams", the Cocteau Twins-like, artificial synth tom in "Drifter", and the Johnny Marr homage in the twinkly guitar fade-in that begins "Our Composition Book". While Tatum plays hopscotch with his collection of 4AD, Factory, and Slumberland records, Gemini has plenty more to offer than sonic verisimilitude. On album opener "Live in Dreams," he sings, "Our lips won't last forever and that's exactly why/ I'd rather live in dreams and I'd rather die," and the lyric plays out like Gemini in miniature: While Tatum's words can edge on maudlin, his delivery is more romantic than dreary, and there's a sly, understated, and subtly addictive melody that gorgeously frames his sentiments. And melodies like that one, which the album features in spades, are ultimately what make Gemini more than just another indie pop record, and often more than the sum of its parts. Of course, that's not to say that each of them connects instantly. Though a handful of immediate standouts reward first listens, the record's debt-to-influence ratio may initially seem to overshadow the strength of the music. However, repeat spins reveal Tatum's strikingly innate sense of songcraft, as these tracks gradually earworm their way into daily life. Similar to Bradford Cox's early work as Atlas Sound or the more similarly indebted Nick Harte of Shocking Pinks, Wild Nothing doesn't feel like a facile genre exercise so much as honest personal expression borne of intense musical fanhood. And in a strange way, it becomes something of a deceptively joyous affair, a reminder of why so many songwriters retreat to bedrooms or garages to lose themselves in the music-making process. Gemini is grand when it sulks, and even better when it's in motion-- check the falsetto hooks of "Confirmation" and "Summer Holidays", or the clattering, kinetic "Chinatown". Tatum carves a tunnel from Ibiza's beaches to Manchester's rain-soaked fairgrounds, and in the process, captures a lot of what is exciting about underground music's current classic indie-pop fixation."

Gene Defcon

Throw Up & Die

Brian Howe

In small doses, Gene Defcon's short, exuberant blasts of obnoxiousness (like a glue-sniffing Atom and His Package) are not without charm. Plenty of catchy Devo-meets-the-Ramones melodies and incredulous yuks in the first 10 tracks of his "75-minute party-rock concept album." "I'm Not a Scoreboard" finds Gene wrapping his adenoidal voice around boneheaded puns in the grand old tradition of "Are You Jimmy Ray?". "People always ask me, what's the score?/ I'm not a scoreboard/ I'm not the sports page." "Come Party With Me" seems to parody Sugar Ray's "Every Morning", outdoing the sluggish frat-ska of the original. The squelchy rock-rap number, "Rockin' Your Bones", will tickle people who find rap inherently funny (P.S.-- I hate you), and what's not to like about "Mr. President", a revisionist presidential assassination narrative? The Postal Service got away with it, and they were serious! After a mere 20 tracks, thematic repetition creeps in: Gene likes to party, and invites us to party with him. There's the hopped-up surf rock (like the Beach Boys' "Fun Fun Fun" on crank) of "Shut Me in a Cage" and the circus synths of "Hey (You Wanna Party with Gene Defcon?)". "All the teenage girls and boys are on hard drugs/ All the twenty-something alcoholics look so smug/ The lesbian cyber-chicks are having crazy sex/ I raise my glass to all these party people with respect." All right dude. I get it. We've been going in sets of 10, but it's time to sprint. Meet me at track 40. Track 40, "My Girlfriend Is a Mexican". I am not well. In the tradition of all parties that last too long, I've been in a walking blackout for the last 20 tracks. And there are still six more! Let's see, what's next..."I Love You More Than Any Pasta-Fed Ding-Dong". Peg me as a joyless Morlock if you want-- if this is joy, I'll take clinical depression.

Artist: Gene Defcon, Album: Throw Up & Die, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 4.8 Album review: "In small doses, Gene Defcon's short, exuberant blasts of obnoxiousness (like a glue-sniffing Atom and His Package) are not without charm. Plenty of catchy Devo-meets-the-Ramones melodies and incredulous yuks in the first 10 tracks of his "75-minute party-rock concept album." "I'm Not a Scoreboard" finds Gene wrapping his adenoidal voice around boneheaded puns in the grand old tradition of "Are You Jimmy Ray?". "People always ask me, what's the score?/ I'm not a scoreboard/ I'm not the sports page." "Come Party With Me" seems to parody Sugar Ray's "Every Morning", outdoing the sluggish frat-ska of the original. The squelchy rock-rap number, "Rockin' Your Bones", will tickle people who find rap inherently funny (P.S.-- I hate you), and what's not to like about "Mr. President", a revisionist presidential assassination narrative? The Postal Service got away with it, and they were serious! After a mere 20 tracks, thematic repetition creeps in: Gene likes to party, and invites us to party with him. There's the hopped-up surf rock (like the Beach Boys' "Fun Fun Fun" on crank) of "Shut Me in a Cage" and the circus synths of "Hey (You Wanna Party with Gene Defcon?)". "All the teenage girls and boys are on hard drugs/ All the twenty-something alcoholics look so smug/ The lesbian cyber-chicks are having crazy sex/ I raise my glass to all these party people with respect." All right dude. I get it. We've been going in sets of 10, but it's time to sprint. Meet me at track 40. Track 40, "My Girlfriend Is a Mexican". I am not well. In the tradition of all parties that last too long, I've been in a walking blackout for the last 20 tracks. And there are still six more! Let's see, what's next..."I Love You More Than Any Pasta-Fed Ding-Dong". Peg me as a joyless Morlock if you want-- if this is joy, I'll take clinical depression."

Palberta

Bye Bye Berta

Rock

Colin Joyce

Palberta take joy in confusion. Formed in New York’s Hudson Valley at Bard College, the trio of Lily Konigsberg, Anina Ivry-Block, and Nina Ryser has spent the last few years baffling audiences in the Northeast DIY scene with brief blasts of broken rounds, abstract nursery rhymes, and jittery haphazard rhythms that speed to cartoonish extremes or slow down to a crawl seemingly on a whim. Despite the anti-hero virtuosity that they each demonstrate on guitar, bass, and drums, Ivry-Block has said in interviews that she’s “never really learned how to play songs on the guitar or really any of the instruments.” Consequently, their sound is largely in line with the post-punk era’s great experimentalists—This Heat’s rattlesnake coils of toxic rhythmic interplay, Sun City Girls’ prankish melodies—but they approach these sounds with a sort of overloaded glee, crashing and careening through styles and sounds for little more than a couple minutes at a time. Then, they’ll awkwardly trade instruments before barreling through another sub-two-minute track. They’ve released a couple of tapes and splits—most notably 2013’s My Pal Berta and 2014’s Shitheads in the Ditch—that attempted to bottle their delirious energy, but at 20-songs long, Bye Bye Berta is their first real attempt at doing so longform. The effect, even through just the first couple of bite-sized pieces, is jarring and deliberately so. Within five minutes, Konigsberg, Ivry-Block, and Ryser tunnel through dazed chorales (“Why Didn’t I?”), discordant speed blues (“Acoustic Rollup”), bracing noise rock (“Jaws”), and narcotized concréte (“Bells Pt. B”). The stylistic hopscotch is unsettling, but playful, something like attempting to hop onto a speeding carousel. Even as you start to feel sickly, you can’t help but hang on tight. Compared to some of the more outré experiments they’ve slipped onto singles and splits since Shitheads, the sounds that make up Bye Bye Berta feel especially well-considered. It’s a strange thing to say about a record that has an intentionally misremembered—and largely off-key—rendition of the Bee Gees’ “Stayin Alive,” but it’s clear that Palberta are giving real thought to the diverse textures they can wring out of their instruments. “She Feels That Way,” for example, is presented first as a sparse, unplugged ballad. It’s then followed by a noisy, rumbling version of the same track—the original’s toy piano plinks are scoured by the brillo-tough, barely-in-tune guitar lines. These two versions of the same loose, spectral melody show it plainly, but Palberta never really repeat a specific sound between songs, even with their limited instrumental palette. It only adds to the euphoric disjunct of the record as a whole. It’s happened elsewhere in Palberta’s catalog, but on Bye Bye Berta’s eighth track, “Trick Ya,” they finally break. As their atonal skronk and single line of lyrics—“Don’t trick me! I’m gonna trick ya”—accelerates toward a brick wall, the trio can’t keep up with the pace and then they one by one break down in laughter. The track descends into unplugged slow bass plucks, the wreckage of an effort toward ambitious playing. Amid all the intentionally awkward and off-putting melodies squeaked and squeezed from guitar, bass, and drums, that moment is the first outward indication that this isn’t a stone-faced attempt at some lofty goal, like pushing the boundaries of guitar music or something. Instead, they pause and laugh, letting listeners who aren’t already familiar with their occasionally goofy live shows know that their compositional efforts are as much a form of amusement for themselves as they are anything else. It’s hard not to chuckle along with them.

Artist: Palberta, Album: Bye Bye Berta, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Palberta take joy in confusion. Formed in New York’s Hudson Valley at Bard College, the trio of Lily Konigsberg, Anina Ivry-Block, and Nina Ryser has spent the last few years baffling audiences in the Northeast DIY scene with brief blasts of broken rounds, abstract nursery rhymes, and jittery haphazard rhythms that speed to cartoonish extremes or slow down to a crawl seemingly on a whim. Despite the anti-hero virtuosity that they each demonstrate on guitar, bass, and drums, Ivry-Block has said in interviews that she’s “never really learned how to play songs on the guitar or really any of the instruments.” Consequently, their sound is largely in line with the post-punk era’s great experimentalists—This Heat’s rattlesnake coils of toxic rhythmic interplay, Sun City Girls’ prankish melodies—but they approach these sounds with a sort of overloaded glee, crashing and careening through styles and sounds for little more than a couple minutes at a time. Then, they’ll awkwardly trade instruments before barreling through another sub-two-minute track. They’ve released a couple of tapes and splits—most notably 2013’s My Pal Berta and 2014’s Shitheads in the Ditch—that attempted to bottle their delirious energy, but at 20-songs long, Bye Bye Berta is their first real attempt at doing so longform. The effect, even through just the first couple of bite-sized pieces, is jarring and deliberately so. Within five minutes, Konigsberg, Ivry-Block, and Ryser tunnel through dazed chorales (“Why Didn’t I?”), discordant speed blues (“Acoustic Rollup”), bracing noise rock (“Jaws”), and narcotized concréte (“Bells Pt. B”). The stylistic hopscotch is unsettling, but playful, something like attempting to hop onto a speeding carousel. Even as you start to feel sickly, you can’t help but hang on tight. Compared to some of the more outré experiments they’ve slipped onto singles and splits since Shitheads, the sounds that make up Bye Bye Berta feel especially well-considered. It’s a strange thing to say about a record that has an intentionally misremembered—and largely off-key—rendition of the Bee Gees’ “Stayin Alive,” but it’s clear that Palberta are giving real thought to the diverse textures they can wring out of their instruments. “She Feels That Way,” for example, is presented first as a sparse, unplugged ballad. It’s then followed by a noisy, rumbling version of the same track—the original’s toy piano plinks are scoured by the brillo-tough, barely-in-tune guitar lines. These two versions of the same loose, spectral melody show it plainly, but Palberta never really repeat a specific sound between songs, even with their limited instrumental palette. It only adds to the euphoric disjunct of the record as a whole. It’s happened elsewhere in Palberta’s catalog, but on Bye Bye Berta’s eighth track, “Trick Ya,” they finally break. As their atonal skronk and single line of lyrics—“Don’t trick me! I’m gonna trick ya”—accelerates toward a brick wall, the trio can’t keep up with the pace and then they one by one break down in laughter. The track descends into unplugged slow bass plucks, the wreckage of an effort toward ambitious playing. Amid all the intentionally awkward and off-putting melodies squeaked and squeezed from guitar, bass, and drums, that moment is the first outward indication that this isn’t a stone-faced attempt at some lofty goal, like pushing the boundaries of guitar music or something. Instead, they pause and laugh, letting listeners who aren’t already familiar with their occasionally goofy live shows know that their compositional efforts are as much a form of amusement for themselves as they are anything else. It’s hard not to chuckle along with them."

Sharon Van Etten

Are We There

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

From the first notes of her 2009 debut, Because I Was in Love, New Jersey native Sharon Van Etten wrote with seeming effortlessness about the depravations of romance and the contortions of a heart either committed or broken, displaying a penchant for wrenching turns of phrase laden with dire implications. When she sang, “The moral of the story is don't lie to me again,” on “Consolation Prize”, it was the “again” that stuck in your gut, suggesting a pattern of aggression and acquiescence that would not necessarily end with the song. Her voice toggled fluidly between brave and broken, dogged and defiant—often within the same line. She whispered, then jumped to a fierce vibrato that could stop an army. Disclosing her darkest moments proved both empowering and unnerving, as though startled by her own strength. Even on her debut, she displayed the poise of a pro. As with so many singer-songwriters—for whom lyrics and vocals take primacy over every other element—Van Etten never sounded quite so self-assured musically. Because I Was in Love showcased her quiet vocals and surprisingly nimble guitarwork, with producer Greg Weeks of Espers mostly staying out of her way. That subdued sound was going to be impossible to sustain for another album, much less an entire career, so it seemed almost inevitable when she introduced a full-band sound, complete with flourishes of pedal steel, on her follow-up, Epic. On 2012’s career-making Tramp, she worked with the National’s Aaron Dessner and emerged with her fullest and most fully realized album to date, even if it occasionally sounded overly decorous, even fussy. Her catalog has been a series of trials and experiments, driven by restlessness and perfectionism in equal measure, although weirdly the transitions between albums only serve to render each one more volatile and unpredictable. It is, then, notable that Van Etten herself produced her fourth album, Are We There, with some assistance from Stewart Lerman. The two met while working on the second soundtrack to Boardwalk Empire and decamped to his New Jersey studio to record these new songs. Lerman’s work with Loudon Wainwright III, the Roches, and other singer-songwriters makes him a good fit for Van Etten, but perhaps more than any of her previous records Are We There sounds self-determined and self-directed. The music fits snugly against her vocals, with her guitar and piano foregrounded on opener “Afraid of Nothing”. As a result, these songs move fluidly and dramatically, but never ostentatiously. Even the woodwinds on “Tarifa” sound understated, as though careful not to distract from Van Etten’s performance. It’s the most comfortable she’s sounded since Because I Was in Love, which is not to say the music lacks color or character. “Your Love Is Killing Me” is built on a Jenga-style assemblage of post-rock guitars and jittery snare taps, and even as it sprawls into a six-minute jam (her longest song to date), it never topples. Instead, the music only reinforces her repeated proclamation, “You tell me that you like it.” Elsewhere, Are We There softens and quietens. A purposefully stiff drum loop lends “Taking Chances” its brooding, conspiratorial tone, reining in the chorus and setting up an effective one-chord organ solo. The stark piano on “I Love You But I’m Lost” flutters nervously, as though reminding you that Van Etten’s whispers can convey screams. There is a live quality to the music, as though she has crafted each note with concerts in mind. Her songs emphasize the moment, both in the quality of her performance and in the rawness of her lyrics. As a result, Are We There may be her most present-tense album to date, her most immediate and urgent—the peak of a steady upward trajectory. Even as she has settled into a successful solo career, Van Etten continues to write incisively about the volatility of love, with no loss of urgency or investment. Her songs tend to be excruciatingly confessional, largely indistinguishable from the singer herself, and Are We There reveals a new self-awareness with regard to her primary subject. On “I Know”, which features Van Etten alone on piano, she declares, “I sing about my fear and love and what it brings,” as though we didn’t know that already. On closer “Every Time the Sun Comes Up”, she asks, not entirely rhetorically, “People say I'm a one hit wonder, but what happens when I have two?” It’s a sly way to preempt any complaint that she has only one emotional or musical setting, but the next line turns the song upside-down: “I washed your dishes, then I shit in your bathroom.” Recently, Van Etten told Pitchfork that the line was originally a joke with her band, but it’s not hard to see why this incredibly anti-romantic line would have stayed in. It reveals the driving idea behind the album: It’s not the big moments that define or doom a relationship, but the everyday routines, the small sacrifices that accumulate over time, the stark realities of sharing your life with another person. You see them at their best and their worst, their most beautiful and their most vulgar. To her credit, Van Etten has never shrunk from this horrible and wonderful understanding.

Artist: Sharon Van Etten, Album: Are We There, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "From the first notes of her 2009 debut, Because I Was in Love, New Jersey native Sharon Van Etten wrote with seeming effortlessness about the depravations of romance and the contortions of a heart either committed or broken, displaying a penchant for wrenching turns of phrase laden with dire implications. When she sang, “The moral of the story is don't lie to me again,” on “Consolation Prize”, it was the “again” that stuck in your gut, suggesting a pattern of aggression and acquiescence that would not necessarily end with the song. Her voice toggled fluidly between brave and broken, dogged and defiant—often within the same line. She whispered, then jumped to a fierce vibrato that could stop an army. Disclosing her darkest moments proved both empowering and unnerving, as though startled by her own strength. Even on her debut, she displayed the poise of a pro. As with so many singer-songwriters—for whom lyrics and vocals take primacy over every other element—Van Etten never sounded quite so self-assured musically. Because I Was in Love showcased her quiet vocals and surprisingly nimble guitarwork, with producer Greg Weeks of Espers mostly staying out of her way. That subdued sound was going to be impossible to sustain for another album, much less an entire career, so it seemed almost inevitable when she introduced a full-band sound, complete with flourishes of pedal steel, on her follow-up, Epic. On 2012’s career-making Tramp, she worked with the National’s Aaron Dessner and emerged with her fullest and most fully realized album to date, even if it occasionally sounded overly decorous, even fussy. Her catalog has been a series of trials and experiments, driven by restlessness and perfectionism in equal measure, although weirdly the transitions between albums only serve to render each one more volatile and unpredictable. It is, then, notable that Van Etten herself produced her fourth album, Are We There, with some assistance from Stewart Lerman. The two met while working on the second soundtrack to Boardwalk Empire and decamped to his New Jersey studio to record these new songs. Lerman’s work with Loudon Wainwright III, the Roches, and other singer-songwriters makes him a good fit for Van Etten, but perhaps more than any of her previous records Are We There sounds self-determined and self-directed. The music fits snugly against her vocals, with her guitar and piano foregrounded on opener “Afraid of Nothing”. As a result, these songs move fluidly and dramatically, but never ostentatiously. Even the woodwinds on “Tarifa” sound understated, as though careful not to distract from Van Etten’s performance. It’s the most comfortable she’s sounded since Because I Was in Love, which is not to say the music lacks color or character. “Your Love Is Killing Me” is built on a Jenga-style assemblage of post-rock guitars and jittery snare taps, and even as it sprawls into a six-minute jam (her longest song to date), it never topples. Instead, the music only reinforces her repeated proclamation, “You tell me that you like it.” Elsewhere, Are We There softens and quietens. A purposefully stiff drum loop lends “Taking Chances” its brooding, conspiratorial tone, reining in the chorus and setting up an effective one-chord organ solo. The stark piano on “I Love You But I’m Lost” flutters nervously, as though reminding you that Van Etten’s whispers can convey screams. There is a live quality to the music, as though she has crafted each note with concerts in mind. Her songs emphasize the moment, both in the quality of her performance and in the rawness of her lyrics. As a result, Are We There may be her most present-tense album to date, her most immediate and urgent—the peak of a steady upward trajectory. Even as she has settled into a successful solo career, Van Etten continues to write incisively about the volatility of love, with no loss of urgency or investment. Her songs tend to be excruciatingly confessional, largely indistinguishable from the singer herself, and Are We There reveals a new self-awareness with regard to her primary subject. On “I Know”, which features Van Etten alone on piano, she declares, “I sing about my fear and love and what it brings,” as though we didn’t know that already. On closer “Every Time the Sun Comes Up”, she asks, not entirely rhetorically, “People say I'm a one hit wonder, but what happens when I have two?” It’s a sly way to preempt any complaint that she has only one emotional or musical setting, but the next line turns the song upside-down: “I washed your dishes, then I shit in your bathroom.” Recently, Van Etten told Pitchfork that the line was originally a joke with her band, but it’s not hard to see why this incredibly anti-romantic line would have stayed in. It reveals the driving idea behind the album: It’s not the big moments that define or doom a relationship, but the everyday routines, the small sacrifices that accumulate over time, the stark realities of sharing your life with another person. You see them at their best and their worst, their most beautiful and their most vulgar. To her credit, Van Etten has never shrunk from this horrible and wonderful understanding."

Chris Corsano, Bill Orcutt

The Raw and the Cooked

Jazz,Experimental

Marc Masters

In the 90s noise band Harry Pussy, Bill Orcutt’s electric guitar playing was bracing, brittle, and singularly brutal. When he returned to recording and releasing music in 2009 after about a decade away, his sound was just as distinctive-- but this time it was done with acoustic guitar, making his consistency that much more remarkable. Harry Pussy devotees were suitably stoked by this seamless rebirth, but surely in the back of their minds a question lurked: would Orcutt ever go electric again? The answer was yes-- Orcutt has played electric guitar intermittently over the past four years, both solo and in various collaborations. But The Raw and the Cooked is the first full-length release in which he plays it exclusively. Recorded live last fall during a tour with drummer Chris Corsano, the album is a storm of high-speed improvisation, with 12 untitled tracks flying by in just 25 minutes. Orcutt’s old band favored short blasts too, so another question naturally emerges: does The Raw and the Cooked sound like Harry Pussy? The answer again is yes, but with qualifications. Orcutt certainly echoes his work of decades past, dropping the kind of string-bombs that evoke an amplified car crash. And Corsano’s percussion is so rangy that it inevitably overlaps with the blunt pound of Harry Pussy drummer Adris Hoyos. But he’s generally more precise and pointillist, with rolls and hits that are frequently jazz-like. That in turn inspires Orcutt toward runs that would work as well on an overblown sax as they do on an over-amped guitar. More importantly, the aims of this duo seem decidedly different from that of Orcutt’s former outfit. Where Harry Pussy often dove toward the deepest end of noise rock,  Corsano and Orcutt seem just a bit more interested in exchange. They’re more inclined to volley their sounds back and forth than jump together into a noise pit. Maybe that’s why The Raw and the Cooked turns out to be much more varied than it initially seems. During my first listen, everything seemed as frantic and blaring as the scorching opener. But repeat visits revealed stretches of restraint and reflection. (That’s something Harry Pussy did well, too, a fact that often gets lost in retrospective depictions of them as a relentless noise factory). The best comes in the album’s longest piece, the 5-minute fifth track, which starts serene before escalating into a sprint. Despite the shifts, at no moment does the tension wane or the adrenaline run out. Ultimately, that’s The Raw and the Cooked’s main strength. It’s so consistently exhilarating that it matters little whether the pair are playing slow or fast, quite or loud, minimal or maximal; all those modes unite into a single rush. Mapping out the changes and patterns in Orcutt and Corsano’s frantic dialogue is fun in retrospect, but when The Raw and the Cooked is playing, I just want to close my eyes and let it take me wherever it wants to go.

Artist: Chris Corsano, Bill Orcutt, Album: The Raw and the Cooked, Genre: Jazz,Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "In the 90s noise band Harry Pussy, Bill Orcutt’s electric guitar playing was bracing, brittle, and singularly brutal. When he returned to recording and releasing music in 2009 after about a decade away, his sound was just as distinctive-- but this time it was done with acoustic guitar, making his consistency that much more remarkable. Harry Pussy devotees were suitably stoked by this seamless rebirth, but surely in the back of their minds a question lurked: would Orcutt ever go electric again? The answer was yes-- Orcutt has played electric guitar intermittently over the past four years, both solo and in various collaborations. But The Raw and the Cooked is the first full-length release in which he plays it exclusively. Recorded live last fall during a tour with drummer Chris Corsano, the album is a storm of high-speed improvisation, with 12 untitled tracks flying by in just 25 minutes. Orcutt’s old band favored short blasts too, so another question naturally emerges: does The Raw and the Cooked sound like Harry Pussy? The answer again is yes, but with qualifications. Orcutt certainly echoes his work of decades past, dropping the kind of string-bombs that evoke an amplified car crash. And Corsano’s percussion is so rangy that it inevitably overlaps with the blunt pound of Harry Pussy drummer Adris Hoyos. But he’s generally more precise and pointillist, with rolls and hits that are frequently jazz-like. That in turn inspires Orcutt toward runs that would work as well on an overblown sax as they do on an over-amped guitar. More importantly, the aims of this duo seem decidedly different from that of Orcutt’s former outfit. Where Harry Pussy often dove toward the deepest end of noise rock,  Corsano and Orcutt seem just a bit more interested in exchange. They’re more inclined to volley their sounds back and forth than jump together into a noise pit. Maybe that’s why The Raw and the Cooked turns out to be much more varied than it initially seems. During my first listen, everything seemed as frantic and blaring as the scorching opener. But repeat visits revealed stretches of restraint and reflection. (That’s something Harry Pussy did well, too, a fact that often gets lost in retrospective depictions of them as a relentless noise factory). The best comes in the album’s longest piece, the 5-minute fifth track, which starts serene before escalating into a sprint. Despite the shifts, at no moment does the tension wane or the adrenaline run out. Ultimately, that’s The Raw and the Cooked’s main strength. It’s so consistently exhilarating that it matters little whether the pair are playing slow or fast, quite or loud, minimal or maximal; all those modes unite into a single rush. Mapping out the changes and patterns in Orcutt and Corsano’s frantic dialogue is fun in retrospect, but when The Raw and the Cooked is playing, I just want to close my eyes and let it take me wherever it wants to go."

Shy Glizzy

Young Jefe 2

Rap

Paul A. Thompson

The first thing Shy Glizzy says on Young Jefe 2, the sequel to his breakout 2014 mixtape, is “Rest in peace that nigga Soulja Slim, man...free C-Murder.” A little more than 20 minutes into the new tape, C-Murder himself checks in by phone from the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola, one of the country’s most notorious maximum-security prisons. (The one-time No Limit star—and brother to Silkk the Shocker and Master P—is serving a life sentence stemming from a 2009 murder conviction, but is appealing on the basis of juror misconduct.) In the phone message, called “OG Call (Skit),” C-Murder details the fake people he’s met on the inside, then turns his attention outward: “This world is full of chaos right now, bro.” So on the next song, the sprawling “Rounds,” “Club pay me ten thou just to come stand on the couch” sounds particularly defiant. In fact, that’s the throughline of *Young Jefe 2—*material concerns as symbols for something bigger. In the first eight bars of opener “Let It Rain,” Glizzy’s mom swaps her Corolla for a Range Rover; later he sneers, “I seen a couple niggas in my same kicks/Tell them lame niggas, we ain’t got the same limp.” Both times, Glizzy’s vocals are injected with such dread, such conviction, that they throw you into his psyche, where you stay for the rest of the tape’s brisk running time, save for that call from Angola. The Washington, D.C. native is simply a joy to listen to, one of the most distinctive and technically adventurous rappers working today. On the Zaytoven-produced “Bankroll,” the musical structure of each bar (half-sung, the intensity peaking at the end) serves as a writing constraint that brings out his sharpest work. Speaking of “Bankroll,” the song nearly shares a name with the “Bank Rolls” remix that was a star-making turn for Tate Kobang. Hailing from just up the corridor in Baltimore, Kobang is also signed to the same label as Glizzy, the Lyor Cohen-headed 300 Entertainment. Each artist finds himself at a sort of commercial crossroads: uniquely of and for his region, but on the precipice of crossing over nationally. In Glizzy’s case, it can seem like he’s been stuck there for some time. While *Young Jefe 2 *is engrossing and, in some ways, a remarkable testament to his talent, there’s no breakout single, no “Awwsome” or “Funeral.” Either of the back-to-back “New Crack” and “Ride 4 U” could make it into radio rotation, but each is a slow burn and unlikely to expand the base. So where does Shy Glizzy go from here? He’s already folded elements from other cities into his sound, usually to impressive effect: His ad-libs owe plenty to Atlanta, as does his affinity for rolling hi-hats. “Funeral” has cast him as joyous and lovable; the album cuts round out a more menacing persona. And while he’s a tremendous technician, he keeps gesturing at a fascinating internal life that hasn't been mined to full effect yet. Barring a world-beating single from left field—like “Trap Queen,” which turned Fetty Wap into a goldmine for 300—the answer might be to double down on his hometown. The national discussion about D.C. rap has always been frustratingly reductive, treating the District’s love for go-go and other genres like a barrier (as if juke and footwork hampered young rappers in Chicago). But with Wale mostly relegated to lounge music and with Fat Trel having receded to the background, Glizzy might become the commercial counterpoint to Oddisee’s reliable underground stature. If the urgency from “Waiting on my Time,” one of *Jefe’*s most affecting cuts, is to be believed, he’ll make sure that moment comes before too long.

Artist: Shy Glizzy, Album: Young Jefe 2, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "The first thing Shy Glizzy says on Young Jefe 2, the sequel to his breakout 2014 mixtape, is “Rest in peace that nigga Soulja Slim, man...free C-Murder.” A little more than 20 minutes into the new tape, C-Murder himself checks in by phone from the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola, one of the country’s most notorious maximum-security prisons. (The one-time No Limit star—and brother to Silkk the Shocker and Master P—is serving a life sentence stemming from a 2009 murder conviction, but is appealing on the basis of juror misconduct.) In the phone message, called “OG Call (Skit),” C-Murder details the fake people he’s met on the inside, then turns his attention outward: “This world is full of chaos right now, bro.” So on the next song, the sprawling “Rounds,” “Club pay me ten thou just to come stand on the couch” sounds particularly defiant. In fact, that’s the throughline of *Young Jefe 2—*material concerns as symbols for something bigger. In the first eight bars of opener “Let It Rain,” Glizzy’s mom swaps her Corolla for a Range Rover; later he sneers, “I seen a couple niggas in my same kicks/Tell them lame niggas, we ain’t got the same limp.” Both times, Glizzy’s vocals are injected with such dread, such conviction, that they throw you into his psyche, where you stay for the rest of the tape’s brisk running time, save for that call from Angola. The Washington, D.C. native is simply a joy to listen to, one of the most distinctive and technically adventurous rappers working today. On the Zaytoven-produced “Bankroll,” the musical structure of each bar (half-sung, the intensity peaking at the end) serves as a writing constraint that brings out his sharpest work. Speaking of “Bankroll,” the song nearly shares a name with the “Bank Rolls” remix that was a star-making turn for Tate Kobang. Hailing from just up the corridor in Baltimore, Kobang is also signed to the same label as Glizzy, the Lyor Cohen-headed 300 Entertainment. Each artist finds himself at a sort of commercial crossroads: uniquely of and for his region, but on the precipice of crossing over nationally. In Glizzy’s case, it can seem like he’s been stuck there for some time. While *Young Jefe 2 *is engrossing and, in some ways, a remarkable testament to his talent, there’s no breakout single, no “Awwsome” or “Funeral.” Either of the back-to-back “New Crack” and “Ride 4 U” could make it into radio rotation, but each is a slow burn and unlikely to expand the base. So where does Shy Glizzy go from here? He’s already folded elements from other cities into his sound, usually to impressive effect: His ad-libs owe plenty to Atlanta, as does his affinity for rolling hi-hats. “Funeral” has cast him as joyous and lovable; the album cuts round out a more menacing persona. And while he’s a tremendous technician, he keeps gesturing at a fascinating internal life that hasn't been mined to full effect yet. Barring a world-beating single from left field—like “Trap Queen,” which turned Fetty Wap into a goldmine for 300—the answer might be to double down on his hometown. The national discussion about D.C. rap has always been frustratingly reductive, treating the District’s love for go-go and other genres like a barrier (as if juke and footwork hampered young rappers in Chicago). But with Wale mostly relegated to lounge music and with Fat Trel having receded to the background, Glizzy might become the commercial counterpoint to Oddisee’s reliable underground stature. If the urgency from “Waiting on my Time,” one of *Jefe’*s most affecting cuts, is to be believed, he’ll make sure that moment comes before too long."

Television Personalities

A Memory Is Better Than Nothing

Rock

Douglas Wolk

Dan Treacy has been claiming that Television Personalities are over and done with, and that he's quitting music. Maybe he'll be back and maybe he won't: His band's first kiss-off was They Could Have Been Bigger Than the Beatles, back in 1982, and they recorded one of the greatest goodbye-to-all-that albums ever, Closer to God, a decade after that. MGMT's "Song for Dan Treacy" was a conceptual variation on Treacy's own "I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives", an encomium to a hero who's still alive but lost. Somehow, though, the TVPs keep turning up to get the final word in. Treacy's persona has always been a sort of tormented dandy-- a frail, high-aesthetic gentleman who's been screwed by coming from the wrong end of the British class system, filtering his fury through Pop Art and pop songs-- and he's never been shy about showing his scars. But after all the drugs and the professional struggles and the jail time, he seems somewhat impaired as a songwriter and performer. He's definitely not gone, like latter-day Brian Wilson or Syd Barrett, and a good deal of his old sharp-toothed wit is intact, but not all of it. He sounds not just scarred but damaged. So A Memory Is Better Than Nothing is an album about hurting so badly that it's no longer possible to express the pain clearly, which makes it tough to listen to but also tough to dismiss. The band isn't just Treacy, fortunately; he's got a backup team to flesh out his sketches, and most of these songs have nicely realized arrangements propping up his wobbly voice, more or less in the mode of the first few Television Personalities albums. "All the Things You Are" is the sort of crushed-hearted throwaway he could have pulled off at any time in his career; when he gets to the big chorus of "She's My Yoko", it sounds like he's making a Herculean effort to pull himself together, but he does make it. A couple of songs make good use of Johanna Lundström's voice, which is fragile in a very different way--the skeletal version of "The Good Anarchist" that appeared on a single a couple of years back was sung by Lundström without Treacy, in fact. (He adds a verse to this take, which ends with the kind of sped-up elfin voices he used on "I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives" decades ago.) When the album's bad, though, it's wretched: the five minutes of aimless jamming at the end of "My New Tattoo", the doomed come-on of "Come Back to Bed", the limp "See Emily Play"-isms of "Except For Jennifer", the way "If You Don't Want Me" tries and fails to build a song out of a single half-baked idea. Too often, A Memory depends on its listeners' own memories of Television Personalities' fuming force to contextualize a band mustering up the few resources that remain to them.

Artist: Television Personalities, Album: A Memory Is Better Than Nothing, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 4.2 Album review: "Dan Treacy has been claiming that Television Personalities are over and done with, and that he's quitting music. Maybe he'll be back and maybe he won't: His band's first kiss-off was They Could Have Been Bigger Than the Beatles, back in 1982, and they recorded one of the greatest goodbye-to-all-that albums ever, Closer to God, a decade after that. MGMT's "Song for Dan Treacy" was a conceptual variation on Treacy's own "I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives", an encomium to a hero who's still alive but lost. Somehow, though, the TVPs keep turning up to get the final word in. Treacy's persona has always been a sort of tormented dandy-- a frail, high-aesthetic gentleman who's been screwed by coming from the wrong end of the British class system, filtering his fury through Pop Art and pop songs-- and he's never been shy about showing his scars. But after all the drugs and the professional struggles and the jail time, he seems somewhat impaired as a songwriter and performer. He's definitely not gone, like latter-day Brian Wilson or Syd Barrett, and a good deal of his old sharp-toothed wit is intact, but not all of it. He sounds not just scarred but damaged. So A Memory Is Better Than Nothing is an album about hurting so badly that it's no longer possible to express the pain clearly, which makes it tough to listen to but also tough to dismiss. The band isn't just Treacy, fortunately; he's got a backup team to flesh out his sketches, and most of these songs have nicely realized arrangements propping up his wobbly voice, more or less in the mode of the first few Television Personalities albums. "All the Things You Are" is the sort of crushed-hearted throwaway he could have pulled off at any time in his career; when he gets to the big chorus of "She's My Yoko", it sounds like he's making a Herculean effort to pull himself together, but he does make it. A couple of songs make good use of Johanna Lundström's voice, which is fragile in a very different way--the skeletal version of "The Good Anarchist" that appeared on a single a couple of years back was sung by Lundström without Treacy, in fact. (He adds a verse to this take, which ends with the kind of sped-up elfin voices he used on "I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives" decades ago.) When the album's bad, though, it's wretched: the five minutes of aimless jamming at the end of "My New Tattoo", the doomed come-on of "Come Back to Bed", the limp "See Emily Play"-isms of "Except For Jennifer", the way "If You Don't Want Me" tries and fails to build a song out of a single half-baked idea. Too often, A Memory depends on its listeners' own memories of Television Personalities' fuming force to contextualize a band mustering up the few resources that remain to them."

Ricked Wicky

King Heavy Metal

Rock

Paul Thompson

It didn't take long, but Ricked Wicky—the latest undertaking from ex-GBV frontman Robert Pollard—is starting to feel like a proper band. Ricked Wicky, if you'll recall, is the so-called "sophisticated arena rock band" featuring Pollard, constant companion Todd Tobias, former GBV drummer Kevin March, and Dayton lifer (and relative newbie to the Pollard universe) Nick Mitchell; their latest, King Heavy Metal, follows their debut I Sell the Circus by a scant five months. The second LP from any post-GBV Pollard enterprise always feels a little like a dare: as the project starts to define its own borders, there's always the sense that the famously restless Pollard could abandon this one just as blithely as he has so many others. Still, Ricked Wicky feels different. Mitchell, for one, has clearly ingratiated himself to his new boss; after a few scene-stealing cameos on I Sell the Circus, he gets a strong supporting role throughout King Heavy Metal. And Pollard—content, presumably, with the way this latest venture is shaping up—turns in a weird, wide-ranging set. Chiming opener "Jargon of Clones" could just be the out-and-out loveliest Pollard track of the decade, a swaying self-examination that finds our Uncle Bob deep in dialogue with himself. "This Has Been My Picture" is similarly lovely; after a lengthy buildup, its triumphal, harpsichord-ticked chorus makes for a well-earned payoff. And the svelte, surefooted "I'll Let You In" is a top-flight Pollardian rocker, a hard-charging, brain-sticking wonder in the grand tradition of "Motor Away". Of late, the best Pollard records split the difference between spontaneity and craftsmanship; too much (or little) of either, and the whole thing starts to feel overworked, undercooked, or some combination thereof. The songs Pollard brings to Heavy Metal are smart—and occasionally downright elegant—without resorting to all the look-at-me bells and whistles that bogged down 2013's scatterbrained Blazing Gentlemen. Not that they're all winners; the dirgey "Walk Through Glass" takes a beat too long to get where it's going, and "Earth Among Men" lays a thick layer of Psychocandy fuzz atop one of the set's more threadbare melodies, in the hopes that no one notices. And then there's "Come Into My Wig Shop", a surefire top-five contender for weirdest Pollard song. Slinky spy-movie keyboards? Check. A bizarro-world version of the "Thunderstruck" intro? Sure, why not. "Wig Shop" is more science project than song, its goofball verses grafted awkwardly into a sundazed chorus. It shouldn't work, and it doesn't; still, after so many years of Pollard padding out albums with gormless ballads, blandiose rockers, and barely-there sketches, the sheer chutzpah of "Wig Shop" is almost enough to redeem it. "Wig Shop" is a lot of—probably too many—things, but boring isn't one of them. "Wig Shop" is a Pollard-Mitchell co-write, one of Mitchell's three writing credits on King Heavy Metal. His "Weekend Warriors" is either the Who song they never got around to writing or the shameless pint-hoister the art-damaged Pollard won't quite allow himself to pen. Either way, it's a hoot, a would-be anthem for every heavy-lidded 9-to-5er staring down another early Monday alarm call. To its credit, "Warriors" cuts to the quick and guzzles straight from the bottle; to its detriment, Mitchell's other contribution, "Imminent Fall From Grace", does much the same. The metaphor-eschewing "Grace" finds Mitchell doling out a stern warning to a high-flying character who's due for a fall. If Mitchell's "Warriors" is a better-than-average Roger Daltrey bite, "Grace" is sub-Eddie Money bar-rock. Ill-fitting and uninspired, it's the record's sore thumb, an unusually earnest, uncomfortably literal song floating in a sea of Pollardian abstractions. Just two records in, it's only natural that Mitchell and Pollard are still feeling each other out; given how capably Mitchell's slotted himself in with Pollard—whose many idiosyncrasies long ago calcified into his distinctive style—elsewhere, this misfire seems easy to chalk up to growing pains. While King Heavy Metal isn't quite as front-to-back consistent as I Sell the Circus, its aims are higher: a surefire sign of a band getting comfortable with themselves.

Artist: Ricked Wicky, Album: King Heavy Metal, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "It didn't take long, but Ricked Wicky—the latest undertaking from ex-GBV frontman Robert Pollard—is starting to feel like a proper band. Ricked Wicky, if you'll recall, is the so-called "sophisticated arena rock band" featuring Pollard, constant companion Todd Tobias, former GBV drummer Kevin March, and Dayton lifer (and relative newbie to the Pollard universe) Nick Mitchell; their latest, King Heavy Metal, follows their debut I Sell the Circus by a scant five months. The second LP from any post-GBV Pollard enterprise always feels a little like a dare: as the project starts to define its own borders, there's always the sense that the famously restless Pollard could abandon this one just as blithely as he has so many others. Still, Ricked Wicky feels different. Mitchell, for one, has clearly ingratiated himself to his new boss; after a few scene-stealing cameos on I Sell the Circus, he gets a strong supporting role throughout King Heavy Metal. And Pollard—content, presumably, with the way this latest venture is shaping up—turns in a weird, wide-ranging set. Chiming opener "Jargon of Clones" could just be the out-and-out loveliest Pollard track of the decade, a swaying self-examination that finds our Uncle Bob deep in dialogue with himself. "This Has Been My Picture" is similarly lovely; after a lengthy buildup, its triumphal, harpsichord-ticked chorus makes for a well-earned payoff. And the svelte, surefooted "I'll Let You In" is a top-flight Pollardian rocker, a hard-charging, brain-sticking wonder in the grand tradition of "Motor Away". Of late, the best Pollard records split the difference between spontaneity and craftsmanship; too much (or little) of either, and the whole thing starts to feel overworked, undercooked, or some combination thereof. The songs Pollard brings to Heavy Metal are smart—and occasionally downright elegant—without resorting to all the look-at-me bells and whistles that bogged down 2013's scatterbrained Blazing Gentlemen. Not that they're all winners; the dirgey "Walk Through Glass" takes a beat too long to get where it's going, and "Earth Among Men" lays a thick layer of Psychocandy fuzz atop one of the set's more threadbare melodies, in the hopes that no one notices. And then there's "Come Into My Wig Shop", a surefire top-five contender for weirdest Pollard song. Slinky spy-movie keyboards? Check. A bizarro-world version of the "Thunderstruck" intro? Sure, why not. "Wig Shop" is more science project than song, its goofball verses grafted awkwardly into a sundazed chorus. It shouldn't work, and it doesn't; still, after so many years of Pollard padding out albums with gormless ballads, blandiose rockers, and barely-there sketches, the sheer chutzpah of "Wig Shop" is almost enough to redeem it. "Wig Shop" is a lot of—probably too many—things, but boring isn't one of them. "Wig Shop" is a Pollard-Mitchell co-write, one of Mitchell's three writing credits on King Heavy Metal. His "Weekend Warriors" is either the Who song they never got around to writing or the shameless pint-hoister the art-damaged Pollard won't quite allow himself to pen. Either way, it's a hoot, a would-be anthem for every heavy-lidded 9-to-5er staring down another early Monday alarm call. To its credit, "Warriors" cuts to the quick and guzzles straight from the bottle; to its detriment, Mitchell's other contribution, "Imminent Fall From Grace", does much the same. The metaphor-eschewing "Grace" finds Mitchell doling out a stern warning to a high-flying character who's due for a fall. If Mitchell's "Warriors" is a better-than-average Roger Daltrey bite, "Grace" is sub-Eddie Money bar-rock. Ill-fitting and uninspired, it's the record's sore thumb, an unusually earnest, uncomfortably literal song floating in a sea of Pollardian abstractions. Just two records in, it's only natural that Mitchell and Pollard are still feeling each other out; given how capably Mitchell's slotted himself in with Pollard—whose many idiosyncrasies long ago calcified into his distinctive style—elsewhere, this misfire seems easy to chalk up to growing pains. While King Heavy Metal isn't quite as front-to-back consistent as I Sell the Circus, its aims are higher: a surefire sign of a band getting comfortable with themselves."

Lee Fields & the Expressions

Faithful Man

Pop/R&B

Joe Tangari

On the face of it, you could go two ways with an album title like Faithful Man. One is the route of religious faith, and the other goes in a different direction, as in "I'll be faithful to you, girl." Well, Lee Fields hasn't suddenly turned to making gospel records, so you pretty much know what kind of record this is lyrically. In fact, it entirely avoids the topical detours that peppered his last album, My World, in favor of love, loss, and longing, and it also finds a third way to be faithful in the sound of the music, which is old-school in every respect. Don't call it a throwback, though. Fields has been doing this since 1969, so in his case it's more a matter of sticking to your guns. The old school in the case of this record isn't any particular soul scene. Faithful Man isn't indebted specifically to Atlantic or Stax or Philadelphia International or Chess or Fame or Motown so much as it's indebted to all of them at once, building out every song with towering horn arrangements, strings, and background vocals to augment the band. In some cases, it's a little too crowded. Fields has a good voice, but it's a fairly light instrument, and he can't overwhelm an orchestra the way a Marvin Gaye or Sam Cooke could, so occasionally he sounds a little like he's shouting to be heard over it. Inevitably, the songs that take a lighter or at least more varied approach to arrangement serve him best. "Moonlight Mile" in particular is a great showcase, backing him up with a bit of coral sitar and trembling flute, while a dark-toned electric piano carries the chords. It's one of a few songs that stretches the musical template into unique and challenging territory, and another reason that this comes off as much more than a throwback. Playing with the rules of your genre is a good sign you're in true command of it, and Fields does that. Check the way "You're the Kind of Girl" sets itself up as a nice and catchy pop-soul tune and then takes a completely unexpected left turn into subtle psychedelia near the end, dropping the orchestra out entirely at one point to let Fields just run with the drums for a bit. If there's anything that keeps Faithful Man from equaling My World, aside from the occasional orchestral overkill, it's that the songwriting overall isn't quite as strong. If success really is mostly perspiration, Fields and his band get us 99% of the way there with his performance, but that other 1% is pretty crucial. One exception to both flaws is the fantastic closer "Walk on Thru That Door", which makes overkill work entirely in its favor and also happens to be a killer song. The arrangement channels Hot Buttered Soul in a big way with its fuzz guitar facing off against piles of strings and horns, but it knows when to pull back and let Fields take over. A little more of that balance might've gone a long way on the rest of the record, but Faithful Man is still a very enjoyable outing.

Artist: Lee Fields & the Expressions, Album: Faithful Man, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "On the face of it, you could go two ways with an album title like Faithful Man. One is the route of religious faith, and the other goes in a different direction, as in "I'll be faithful to you, girl." Well, Lee Fields hasn't suddenly turned to making gospel records, so you pretty much know what kind of record this is lyrically. In fact, it entirely avoids the topical detours that peppered his last album, My World, in favor of love, loss, and longing, and it also finds a third way to be faithful in the sound of the music, which is old-school in every respect. Don't call it a throwback, though. Fields has been doing this since 1969, so in his case it's more a matter of sticking to your guns. The old school in the case of this record isn't any particular soul scene. Faithful Man isn't indebted specifically to Atlantic or Stax or Philadelphia International or Chess or Fame or Motown so much as it's indebted to all of them at once, building out every song with towering horn arrangements, strings, and background vocals to augment the band. In some cases, it's a little too crowded. Fields has a good voice, but it's a fairly light instrument, and he can't overwhelm an orchestra the way a Marvin Gaye or Sam Cooke could, so occasionally he sounds a little like he's shouting to be heard over it. Inevitably, the songs that take a lighter or at least more varied approach to arrangement serve him best. "Moonlight Mile" in particular is a great showcase, backing him up with a bit of coral sitar and trembling flute, while a dark-toned electric piano carries the chords. It's one of a few songs that stretches the musical template into unique and challenging territory, and another reason that this comes off as much more than a throwback. Playing with the rules of your genre is a good sign you're in true command of it, and Fields does that. Check the way "You're the Kind of Girl" sets itself up as a nice and catchy pop-soul tune and then takes a completely unexpected left turn into subtle psychedelia near the end, dropping the orchestra out entirely at one point to let Fields just run with the drums for a bit. If there's anything that keeps Faithful Man from equaling My World, aside from the occasional orchestral overkill, it's that the songwriting overall isn't quite as strong. If success really is mostly perspiration, Fields and his band get us 99% of the way there with his performance, but that other 1% is pretty crucial. One exception to both flaws is the fantastic closer "Walk on Thru That Door", which makes overkill work entirely in its favor and also happens to be a killer song. The arrangement channels Hot Buttered Soul in a big way with its fuzz guitar facing off against piles of strings and horns, but it knows when to pull back and let Fields take over. A little more of that balance might've gone a long way on the rest of the record, but Faithful Man is still a very enjoyable outing."

Cursive

The Difference Between Houses and Homes

Rock

Sam Ubl

Collections of "lost songs and loose ends"-- which is how Cursive's new The Difference Between Houses and Homes bills itself-- invite commentary on everything but the music. The overlooked tracks at hand are, more often than not, acknowledged duds. They get left behind for a reason. So what's the redeeming value of the albums that compile them? It's the artifact, man. History! Put yourself in the shoes of Omaha denizens Cursive. You've been together for 10 years. How better to calcify your status as Important Band than with an odds-and-sods compilation? It's practically a rite of passage. Behold, a snapshot: The Difference Between Houses and Homes offers 12 songs, culled from seven-inches and unreleased tape, spanning six years (1995-2001). I like Cursive, and had high hopes for this one. But the spendthrift in me blows a gasket when faced with the facts: These cast-asides aren't even offered at a discount; you'll pay the same for this as you did for The Ugly Organ, Cursive's latest and best studio album. Love to say it's worth it for a glimpse at evolution in progress, but this offal doesn't make for much of a menu dilemma: Given the choice, most folks will order the rib-eye over the hangar steak. Expectedly, the longest lost tracks (talking '95, '96) are the most amateurish. Stripped of the heady orchestral accouterments of the band's post-millenial work, opener "Dispenser" is all splintery emo (not emo) angst. (Here I must tell TextEdit to learn, for the eight billionth time, the cuss; how many Fall Out Boys will it take for the world to recognize the emo phenomenon?) "Pivotal", from 1998's "Icebreaker" seven-inch, is the same song, only minor-keyed and more convolutedly structured. Both numbers do everything they're supposed to: Take a riff, ruffle it with distortion, add a melodramatic vocal, and eu-fucking-reka. I have a high tolerance for vocal histrionics, but Tim Kasher has made a career of getting under listeners' skin, and The Difference finds him at his most unabashed. On "There's a Coldest Day in Every Year", he struggles to pilot the shapeless, vaguely psychedelic music. But it's songs like "The Knowledgeable Hasbeens", which require an indoor voice, that give Kasher the most trouble. I have no hang-ups with a vocalist "hiding" behind screaming; I wish this one would do so more often. But while Kasher's vox are rarely less than vociferous, his stilted delivery (a now-prevalent, mockingly hoarse style of which he was a progenitor) actually helps: It can be hilariously entertaining to hear him pitch a hissy, especially when it sounds like he's screaming, "REGGAETON! REGGAETON!" as on "A Disruption in the Normal Swing of Things". On balance, however, Kasher is less violent than silent. He leaves gaping voids for his band to fill, and they do, ably but often meanderingly. Clint Schnase has been Cursive's drummer since the band's inception and, while he does a serviceable job, I wish he'd erupt with more colossal, tom-heavy fills. Here he's tight and tasteful but mixed too high to justify the asceticism of his playing. The band's latter-day, fatter-budget albums have added reverb and instruments, diminishing any one player's import. A song like "Nostalgia", however, from 2001, would benefit from a slightly more rhythmically technical treatment, even if that would spell E-M-O-C-O-R-E. While collections like this aren't spared critical dissection, their real job is to get fans excited (again) about the issuing group. I have more than a few friends who would kill for my promo (to enter a lottery, email ubl@pitchforkmedia.com). Can't say The Difference Between Houses and Homes had me thirsting for my Cursive faves, although it came close: I now have this weird craving to hear Braid's "Eulalia, Eulalia". Man, that takes skill.

Artist: Cursive, Album: The Difference Between Houses and Homes, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "Collections of "lost songs and loose ends"-- which is how Cursive's new The Difference Between Houses and Homes bills itself-- invite commentary on everything but the music. The overlooked tracks at hand are, more often than not, acknowledged duds. They get left behind for a reason. So what's the redeeming value of the albums that compile them? It's the artifact, man. History! Put yourself in the shoes of Omaha denizens Cursive. You've been together for 10 years. How better to calcify your status as Important Band than with an odds-and-sods compilation? It's practically a rite of passage. Behold, a snapshot: The Difference Between Houses and Homes offers 12 songs, culled from seven-inches and unreleased tape, spanning six years (1995-2001). I like Cursive, and had high hopes for this one. But the spendthrift in me blows a gasket when faced with the facts: These cast-asides aren't even offered at a discount; you'll pay the same for this as you did for The Ugly Organ, Cursive's latest and best studio album. Love to say it's worth it for a glimpse at evolution in progress, but this offal doesn't make for much of a menu dilemma: Given the choice, most folks will order the rib-eye over the hangar steak. Expectedly, the longest lost tracks (talking '95, '96) are the most amateurish. Stripped of the heady orchestral accouterments of the band's post-millenial work, opener "Dispenser" is all splintery emo (not emo) angst. (Here I must tell TextEdit to learn, for the eight billionth time, the cuss; how many Fall Out Boys will it take for the world to recognize the emo phenomenon?) "Pivotal", from 1998's "Icebreaker" seven-inch, is the same song, only minor-keyed and more convolutedly structured. Both numbers do everything they're supposed to: Take a riff, ruffle it with distortion, add a melodramatic vocal, and eu-fucking-reka. I have a high tolerance for vocal histrionics, but Tim Kasher has made a career of getting under listeners' skin, and The Difference finds him at his most unabashed. On "There's a Coldest Day in Every Year", he struggles to pilot the shapeless, vaguely psychedelic music. But it's songs like "The Knowledgeable Hasbeens", which require an indoor voice, that give Kasher the most trouble. I have no hang-ups with a vocalist "hiding" behind screaming; I wish this one would do so more often. But while Kasher's vox are rarely less than vociferous, his stilted delivery (a now-prevalent, mockingly hoarse style of which he was a progenitor) actually helps: It can be hilariously entertaining to hear him pitch a hissy, especially when it sounds like he's screaming, "REGGAETON! REGGAETON!" as on "A Disruption in the Normal Swing of Things". On balance, however, Kasher is less violent than silent. He leaves gaping voids for his band to fill, and they do, ably but often meanderingly. Clint Schnase has been Cursive's drummer since the band's inception and, while he does a serviceable job, I wish he'd erupt with more colossal, tom-heavy fills. Here he's tight and tasteful but mixed too high to justify the asceticism of his playing. The band's latter-day, fatter-budget albums have added reverb and instruments, diminishing any one player's import. A song like "Nostalgia", however, from 2001, would benefit from a slightly more rhythmically technical treatment, even if that would spell E-M-O-C-O-R-E. While collections like this aren't spared critical dissection, their real job is to get fans excited (again) about the issuing group. I have more than a few friends who would kill for my promo (to enter a lottery, email ubl@pitchforkmedia.com). Can't say The Difference Between Houses and Homes had me thirsting for my Cursive faves, although it came close: I now have this weird craving to hear Braid's "Eulalia, Eulalia". Man, that takes skill."

Pure X

Crawling Up the Stairs

Pop/R&B

Harley Brown

This time last year was a trying time for Pure X: Nate Grace busted his knee skateboarding but didn't have insurance, multi-instrumentalist Jesse Jenkins was going through a breakup, and drummer Austin Youngblood moved to be with his girlfriend in Los Angeles. While all that was going on, they were also working on Crawling Up the Stairs, the follow-up to their splendidly hazy debut LP, Pleasure. Instead of recording everything live as they did before, Pure X took an arduous year-and-a-half to record C.U.T.S., as they call it, sparing no attention to detail. Where Pleasure unfurls like a drop of ink in a glass of water, Crawling Up the Stairs has a plan. "There's kind of a hard descent," Jenkins explained, "and the rest of the record is a slow ascent back up to reality." Pure X also made a studied departure from the feedback and reverb that occasionally muffled Pleasure's finer textures. On Crawling Up the Stairs, they looked for guitar sounds "like glass knives slicing through your eardrums," influenced by Nashville's golden era of high-polish production, and honed in producer Larry Seyer's studio, Electric Larryland. The diamond-cut dulcimer that opens "Thousand Year Old Child" sounds more at home on a sunlit Brooklyn rooftop than the dark, dusty Texas basements in which it originated, and the bowed piano splintering the end of "Never Alone" feels almost three-dimensional. When the guitars do squall, they radiantly explode into being instead of burning low and dirty, as they did on Pure X's earlier releases. Sometimes this clarity comes at the expense of the smoldering noise that made their last album so sensual, but Pure X make up for lost immediacy by giving a lot more attention to Crawling's vocals. Rustling whispers and conspiratorial voices on "Shadows and Lies" are the perfect companions to Grace's rangy, paranoid wails. In fact, it's almost a relief to hear him totally lose it for once, howling himself ragged on "How Did You Find Me" instead of keeping his voice at a safely reverbed distance from the listener. After Grace rips his throat apart, Jenkins-- who, for the first time, shares singing duties-- is there to pick up the pieces with his sweet and haunting falsetto. Despite Grace's injuries, it's Jenkins who sings, "The pain in my body is so great" on "I Fear What I Feel", reaching high octaves of pain repeated across several lines like a dull, throbbing ache. Jenkins has said Pure X won't make their next record the same way they made Crawling Up the Stairs, which makes sense-- how many times can a band have a collective nervous breakdown?-- but hopefully they'll find a few takeaways from the creative process behind their second album. It may not be as instantly gratifying as Pleasure, but it's more sophisticated and self-aware.

Artist: Pure X, Album: Crawling Up the Stairs, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "This time last year was a trying time for Pure X: Nate Grace busted his knee skateboarding but didn't have insurance, multi-instrumentalist Jesse Jenkins was going through a breakup, and drummer Austin Youngblood moved to be with his girlfriend in Los Angeles. While all that was going on, they were also working on Crawling Up the Stairs, the follow-up to their splendidly hazy debut LP, Pleasure. Instead of recording everything live as they did before, Pure X took an arduous year-and-a-half to record C.U.T.S., as they call it, sparing no attention to detail. Where Pleasure unfurls like a drop of ink in a glass of water, Crawling Up the Stairs has a plan. "There's kind of a hard descent," Jenkins explained, "and the rest of the record is a slow ascent back up to reality." Pure X also made a studied departure from the feedback and reverb that occasionally muffled Pleasure's finer textures. On Crawling Up the Stairs, they looked for guitar sounds "like glass knives slicing through your eardrums," influenced by Nashville's golden era of high-polish production, and honed in producer Larry Seyer's studio, Electric Larryland. The diamond-cut dulcimer that opens "Thousand Year Old Child" sounds more at home on a sunlit Brooklyn rooftop than the dark, dusty Texas basements in which it originated, and the bowed piano splintering the end of "Never Alone" feels almost three-dimensional. When the guitars do squall, they radiantly explode into being instead of burning low and dirty, as they did on Pure X's earlier releases. Sometimes this clarity comes at the expense of the smoldering noise that made their last album so sensual, but Pure X make up for lost immediacy by giving a lot more attention to Crawling's vocals. Rustling whispers and conspiratorial voices on "Shadows and Lies" are the perfect companions to Grace's rangy, paranoid wails. In fact, it's almost a relief to hear him totally lose it for once, howling himself ragged on "How Did You Find Me" instead of keeping his voice at a safely reverbed distance from the listener. After Grace rips his throat apart, Jenkins-- who, for the first time, shares singing duties-- is there to pick up the pieces with his sweet and haunting falsetto. Despite Grace's injuries, it's Jenkins who sings, "The pain in my body is so great" on "I Fear What I Feel", reaching high octaves of pain repeated across several lines like a dull, throbbing ache. Jenkins has said Pure X won't make their next record the same way they made Crawling Up the Stairs, which makes sense-- how many times can a band have a collective nervous breakdown?-- but hopefully they'll find a few takeaways from the creative process behind their second album. It may not be as instantly gratifying as Pleasure, but it's more sophisticated and self-aware."

The Handsome Family

Honey Moon

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

Brett and Rennie Sparks have been recording together as the Handsome Family for 14 years now, but they've been married for 20. To mark their china anniversary, the couple are foregoing a retrospective of their seven studio albums (although they're certainly due) in favor of a brand-new Family album, fittingly titled Honey Moon. Rather than dwell on country gothic doom and despair, they've recorded all manner of love songs-- odes to sex, devotion, redemption, sacrifice, New Mexico, and more sex-- that are only slightly sunnier than their usual fare. But don't expect corny sentiments even from a song called "Love Is Like": Even commemorating two decades together, they indulge the dark edges of these eccentric and personal songs, as if love is all that keeps the abyss at bay. Love is like, Brett sings, "a black fly buzzing in the sun" or "the hole torn right through the roof." Nevertheless, even at its most ruminative, Honey Moon sounds like a celebratory record, a document of the ups and downs that define any marriage. As if responding to the airports and strip malls of 2006's Last Days of Wonder, these new songs are so full of woodsy imagery that they make Neko Case seem urbane. The only modern edifices here are the pawnshops and neon signs on "A Thousand Diamond Rings", and they are transformed into a romantic setting by the "watermelon light" of the sun setting over the desert. Nothing stands out as boldly as "Weightless Again" on Through the Trees or "Tesla's Hotel Room" on Last Days, but the lighter mood suits them sweetly. "Darling my darling, look at my waving antennae," sings Brett on "Darling, My Darling". There may be a dick joke hidden in that opening line, but there's more Henry Miller than Franz Kafka as the songs follows the man-as-bug metaphor to its logical conclusion: "I'll leap on your spine and love you till you gnaw me down to my wings/ I'll give you everything." That the songs comes across as sweetly romantic and devoted until death-- as opposed to either showy or creepy-- is a testament both to Rennie's skillful threading of words into images and Brett's sensitive translation of words on a page into vocals. In the Handsome Family, Brett and Rennie divide musical duties the way some couples assign household chores. Blessed with a humble, hollowed-out-like-a-tree-trunk baritone, he does most of the singing. An accomplished novelist and poet, she does most of the songwriting. On Honey Moon, Rennie displays a typically observant eye for the small details that become portentous with meaning: A flock of birds beckons thoughts of escape, a sunset changes their world for just a few minutes each day, and a cement mixer inspires existential ponderings. Brett and the extended Family set her deep thoughts to sparse arrangements with subtle animating flourishes like the dreamy 1950s rock piano of "Linger, Let Me Linger", Dave Gutierrez's spidery dobro on "When You Whispered", or Brett's hoarse whistle on "The Loneliness of Magnets". Interestingly for a group most commonly associated with story-based songs, Honey Moon sheds all narrative concerns for more descriptive language. Even "When You Whispered", whose title implies a mystery about what exactly was whispered, is less worried over the quiet verbal exchange than the scenery around them: the wind on the bridge, the ripples of water beneath, the frogs on the shore. The album is full of similar tableaux: These songs are dioramas depicting the New Mexico wilderness as a reverberation of the couple's desires.

Artist: The Handsome Family, Album: Honey Moon, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Brett and Rennie Sparks have been recording together as the Handsome Family for 14 years now, but they've been married for 20. To mark their china anniversary, the couple are foregoing a retrospective of their seven studio albums (although they're certainly due) in favor of a brand-new Family album, fittingly titled Honey Moon. Rather than dwell on country gothic doom and despair, they've recorded all manner of love songs-- odes to sex, devotion, redemption, sacrifice, New Mexico, and more sex-- that are only slightly sunnier than their usual fare. But don't expect corny sentiments even from a song called "Love Is Like": Even commemorating two decades together, they indulge the dark edges of these eccentric and personal songs, as if love is all that keeps the abyss at bay. Love is like, Brett sings, "a black fly buzzing in the sun" or "the hole torn right through the roof." Nevertheless, even at its most ruminative, Honey Moon sounds like a celebratory record, a document of the ups and downs that define any marriage. As if responding to the airports and strip malls of 2006's Last Days of Wonder, these new songs are so full of woodsy imagery that they make Neko Case seem urbane. The only modern edifices here are the pawnshops and neon signs on "A Thousand Diamond Rings", and they are transformed into a romantic setting by the "watermelon light" of the sun setting over the desert. Nothing stands out as boldly as "Weightless Again" on Through the Trees or "Tesla's Hotel Room" on Last Days, but the lighter mood suits them sweetly. "Darling my darling, look at my waving antennae," sings Brett on "Darling, My Darling". There may be a dick joke hidden in that opening line, but there's more Henry Miller than Franz Kafka as the songs follows the man-as-bug metaphor to its logical conclusion: "I'll leap on your spine and love you till you gnaw me down to my wings/ I'll give you everything." That the songs comes across as sweetly romantic and devoted until death-- as opposed to either showy or creepy-- is a testament both to Rennie's skillful threading of words into images and Brett's sensitive translation of words on a page into vocals. In the Handsome Family, Brett and Rennie divide musical duties the way some couples assign household chores. Blessed with a humble, hollowed-out-like-a-tree-trunk baritone, he does most of the singing. An accomplished novelist and poet, she does most of the songwriting. On Honey Moon, Rennie displays a typically observant eye for the small details that become portentous with meaning: A flock of birds beckons thoughts of escape, a sunset changes their world for just a few minutes each day, and a cement mixer inspires existential ponderings. Brett and the extended Family set her deep thoughts to sparse arrangements with subtle animating flourishes like the dreamy 1950s rock piano of "Linger, Let Me Linger", Dave Gutierrez's spidery dobro on "When You Whispered", or Brett's hoarse whistle on "The Loneliness of Magnets". Interestingly for a group most commonly associated with story-based songs, Honey Moon sheds all narrative concerns for more descriptive language. Even "When You Whispered", whose title implies a mystery about what exactly was whispered, is less worried over the quiet verbal exchange than the scenery around them: the wind on the bridge, the ripples of water beneath, the frogs on the shore. The album is full of similar tableaux: These songs are dioramas depicting the New Mexico wilderness as a reverberation of the couple's desires."

Kings of Leon

Only By the Night

Rock

Ian Cohen

After years spent building a career on the enduringly romanticized Stillwater archetype, Kings of Leon have laterally shifted from one easily understood linear narrative (festival band) to another (arena rock band). Dropping the transparently hayseed act, the band could have turned an artistic corner; yet the first single from Only By the Night is called "Sex on Fire", so if there was any debate about whether Kings of Leon are in on their own joke, I think it can be put to rest. If we're misreading them, we're missing out on one corker of a comedy album based on an "SNL"-level premise: What if Bono got lost in the Blue Ridge Mountains and was replaced by a local yokel? (Suggested band name: Y'All2.) But even the move from "southern Strokes" to "southern U2" is way better in theory than in practice-- these are the same clunky Kings of Leon songs, just now presented in an incredibly weird context. It all starts with Caleb Followill's never-ending need to play to type, and if you've kept up to this point, you know the drill-- though his band has toured the world several times over, dude can't see past his own dick. He sings terribly on Only By the Night, any modicum of youth and young manhood compromised by "real talk" overemoting and an accent that seems to have no geographical origin. But why go on when Followill is more than happy to hoist himself on his own petard, doling his typical mix of stock characterization, open misogyny, and bizarre non-sequitirs. You can hear the brooms sweeping as the lonesome guitars of "Revelry" attempt some sort of last-call poignancy, but it's spoiled from the time Followill opens a mouth full of Meatloaf-- "What a night for a dance, you know I'm a dancin' machine/ With the fire in my bones and the sweet taste of kerosene." This goes on before you get the dominant KoL ethos on the chorus: "With the hardest of hearts I still feel full of pain/ See the time we shared it was precious to me/ But all the while I was dreaming of revelry." It's basically "The One I Love" with no riff and no irony. Meanwhile, "Sex on Fire" turns out to be disturbingly literal, while the dopey travelogue of "Manhattan" has Caleb waxing with the naïve enthusiasm of a senior yearbook quote: "We're gonna set this fire we're gonna stoke it up/ We're gonna sip this wine and pass the cup/ We're gonna show this town how to kiss these stars," and it's nearly impossible to stifle your laughter when he punctuates each verse with a smarmy soul-papa "I SAAAAIIIID!"  All that's missing is the attendant video where Caleb walks the NYC streets and gives dap to passers-by while the band taps away at their idea of funk. You'd figure "17" would be right in their wheelhouse, because what's a better Kings of Leon topic than underage pussy? But after the first line (I'll spot you "Winger" as a hint and let you guess what it is), it just sort of trails off, leaving the last memorable moment of an album that still has about 20 minutes to go. No longer steeped in Dixieland signifers, Kings of Leon now weirdly owe a debt to Washington state. If the rumbling toms, splashy cymbals, and cascading synth strings of songs like "Notion" or "I Want You" sound familiar, I'm willing to bet you have a copy of Sunny Day Real Esate's The Rising Tide or a recent Death Cab record. Strange bedfellows, and not really the right ones-- while the latter two were trying to adjust their modest hooks and personal lyrics to a larger scale, Kings of Leon have always been as emotionally cavernous as the drum sound here, and when the tempo slows, ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in swamp. Followill is haunted by all that he can't leave behind, trying to have it both ways with riffs that are supposed to bellow with reverb and bite with distortion. The band never soars, instead mostly muddling in a bog of muffled echo that liberally applies Caleb's cottonmouth to every other instrument. At its best, Only By the Night at least gives the impression that Kings of Leon is actually an interesting band that would be exponentially and immediately improved with someone even average at the controls (call it the Tavaris Jackson Corollary). Musically, "Closer" sets the bar unrealistically high for the rest of the album, building on squeaking, modulated keys, tricky polyrhythms, and a solid melody unfortunately piledrived by Followill's self-pity ("You took my heart and you took my soul.../ Leaving me stranded in love on my own"). "Crawl" could pass for something off the first Secret Machines record with its hydraulic, distorted bass and hotly mixed percussion, but even before they can seal the deal with some dubious conspiracy mongering (something about the red, white, and blue crucifying you), you get the usual KoL idea of sweetalk: "You better learn to crawl before I walk away." Next thing you know, "Sex on Fire" starts and Kings of Leon's fourth album has peaked after seven minutes. Surely, we can do better for the platonic ideal of a rock band than four guys gunning for a spot rightfully inhabited by My Morning Jacket but instead coming up with the best songs 3 Doors Down never wrote.

Artist: Kings of Leon, Album: Only By the Night, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 3.8 Album review: "After years spent building a career on the enduringly romanticized Stillwater archetype, Kings of Leon have laterally shifted from one easily understood linear narrative (festival band) to another (arena rock band). Dropping the transparently hayseed act, the band could have turned an artistic corner; yet the first single from Only By the Night is called "Sex on Fire", so if there was any debate about whether Kings of Leon are in on their own joke, I think it can be put to rest. If we're misreading them, we're missing out on one corker of a comedy album based on an "SNL"-level premise: What if Bono got lost in the Blue Ridge Mountains and was replaced by a local yokel? (Suggested band name: Y'All2.) But even the move from "southern Strokes" to "southern U2" is way better in theory than in practice-- these are the same clunky Kings of Leon songs, just now presented in an incredibly weird context. It all starts with Caleb Followill's never-ending need to play to type, and if you've kept up to this point, you know the drill-- though his band has toured the world several times over, dude can't see past his own dick. He sings terribly on Only By the Night, any modicum of youth and young manhood compromised by "real talk" overemoting and an accent that seems to have no geographical origin. But why go on when Followill is more than happy to hoist himself on his own petard, doling his typical mix of stock characterization, open misogyny, and bizarre non-sequitirs. You can hear the brooms sweeping as the lonesome guitars of "Revelry" attempt some sort of last-call poignancy, but it's spoiled from the time Followill opens a mouth full of Meatloaf-- "What a night for a dance, you know I'm a dancin' machine/ With the fire in my bones and the sweet taste of kerosene." This goes on before you get the dominant KoL ethos on the chorus: "With the hardest of hearts I still feel full of pain/ See the time we shared it was precious to me/ But all the while I was dreaming of revelry." It's basically "The One I Love" with no riff and no irony. Meanwhile, "Sex on Fire" turns out to be disturbingly literal, while the dopey travelogue of "Manhattan" has Caleb waxing with the naïve enthusiasm of a senior yearbook quote: "We're gonna set this fire we're gonna stoke it up/ We're gonna sip this wine and pass the cup/ We're gonna show this town how to kiss these stars," and it's nearly impossible to stifle your laughter when he punctuates each verse with a smarmy soul-papa "I SAAAAIIIID!"  All that's missing is the attendant video where Caleb walks the NYC streets and gives dap to passers-by while the band taps away at their idea of funk. You'd figure "17" would be right in their wheelhouse, because what's a better Kings of Leon topic than underage pussy? But after the first line (I'll spot you "Winger" as a hint and let you guess what it is), it just sort of trails off, leaving the last memorable moment of an album that still has about 20 minutes to go. No longer steeped in Dixieland signifers, Kings of Leon now weirdly owe a debt to Washington state. If the rumbling toms, splashy cymbals, and cascading synth strings of songs like "Notion" or "I Want You" sound familiar, I'm willing to bet you have a copy of Sunny Day Real Esate's The Rising Tide or a recent Death Cab record. Strange bedfellows, and not really the right ones-- while the latter two were trying to adjust their modest hooks and personal lyrics to a larger scale, Kings of Leon have always been as emotionally cavernous as the drum sound here, and when the tempo slows, ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in swamp. Followill is haunted by all that he can't leave behind, trying to have it both ways with riffs that are supposed to bellow with reverb and bite with distortion. The band never soars, instead mostly muddling in a bog of muffled echo that liberally applies Caleb's cottonmouth to every other instrument. At its best, Only By the Night at least gives the impression that Kings of Leon is actually an interesting band that would be exponentially and immediately improved with someone even average at the controls (call it the Tavaris Jackson Corollary). Musically, "Closer" sets the bar unrealistically high for the rest of the album, building on squeaking, modulated keys, tricky polyrhythms, and a solid melody unfortunately piledrived by Followill's self-pity ("You took my heart and you took my soul.../ Leaving me stranded in love on my own"). "Crawl" could pass for something off the first Secret Machines record with its hydraulic, distorted bass and hotly mixed percussion, but even before they can seal the deal with some dubious conspiracy mongering (something about the red, white, and blue crucifying you), you get the usual KoL idea of sweetalk: "You better learn to crawl before I walk away." Next thing you know, "Sex on Fire" starts and Kings of Leon's fourth album has peaked after seven minutes. Surely, we can do better for the platonic ideal of a rock band than four guys gunning for a spot rightfully inhabited by My Morning Jacket but instead coming up with the best songs 3 Doors Down never wrote."

White Star Line

White Star Line

Eric Carr

A trip on the White Star Line only takes forty-three minutes, but it feels like days and days, and no matter how often it seems like it's going somewhere, it never quite leaves the station. Time and again, it shows tremendous promise, shooting for dreamy, slow-building psych with the occasional look at upbeat pop songwriting... but this story ends badly; the White Star Line derails among countless stylistic flirtations, and in the end, nothing gets out without being at least somewhat half-assed. The tragedy of it all is that White Star Line often sound like they might be on to something with one genre or another, but by never fully committing, it all just ends up sounding displaced. White Star Line's arrival is so overcooked that it's easy to be fooled-- "BBQ" begins with a lulling acoustic stroll that blossoms into wide-open spaces, and even the fairly gratuitous horn section works briefly. A flawless segue into "And Fine Wine" follows, and the expansive sweep of "BBQ" explodes into a towering, yet tranquil, blast. The impact of reigning slowcore titans Low is evident in the gentle bombast of these opening tracks, but as quickly as it arrived, it's discarded. Cracker's brooding, western shadow looms over the exceptional "Sniffer's Row", the crown jewel of the Line. Bass notes crest and break in waves between the rise and fall of bittersweet choruses, paving the way for a crash of piano and guitar. The doe-eyed, plaintive refrains allow Luca Maoloni to display an astoundingly expressive vocal ability that's conspicuously absent elsewhere. The shift in tone and style between the first two and this one is abrupt, but "Sniffer's Row" is singularly gripping; it renders the growing identity crisis of the album temporarily forgivable. From here on out, the album steadily loses footing, becoming more and more impenetrable as the band begins to search increasingly frantically for something to which they can anchor their drifting sound. The two-minute instrumental of almost unobstructed near-silence that follows sounds more the like the band huddling up and deciding what to do next than a track meant to contain any worth or meaning. "'A' Is for 'Arousal'" is what turns up, and this six-minute epic can't even completely hold itself together-- the song morphs constantly, though not entirely inexplicably. It's not even really worth mentioning that the song's first half is a direct take on the Silver Jews; by the time the second half opens with the incredibly strained call of, "White Star Line's for dreeeamers," the song has completely broken down. This is the sound of a talented band with a good ear for melody who has no idea what they actually sound like. If the band could have hit a few more showstoppers like "Sniffer's Row", this wouldn't even be a concern. Sadly, nothing else approaches it, and the fact that none of these songs can really unify into a whole leaves all of them out there to fend for themselves, which they're ill-equipped to do. "Bowels of a Bummer" is the single most disappointing reminder of their inability to nail anything down-- even though it's probably the second-best song on the record, it punctuates the album like a massive, festering question mark asking "Why?". Maybe White Star's next trip around the block will provide a response.

Artist: White Star Line, Album: White Star Line, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "A trip on the White Star Line only takes forty-three minutes, but it feels like days and days, and no matter how often it seems like it's going somewhere, it never quite leaves the station. Time and again, it shows tremendous promise, shooting for dreamy, slow-building psych with the occasional look at upbeat pop songwriting... but this story ends badly; the White Star Line derails among countless stylistic flirtations, and in the end, nothing gets out without being at least somewhat half-assed. The tragedy of it all is that White Star Line often sound like they might be on to something with one genre or another, but by never fully committing, it all just ends up sounding displaced. White Star Line's arrival is so overcooked that it's easy to be fooled-- "BBQ" begins with a lulling acoustic stroll that blossoms into wide-open spaces, and even the fairly gratuitous horn section works briefly. A flawless segue into "And Fine Wine" follows, and the expansive sweep of "BBQ" explodes into a towering, yet tranquil, blast. The impact of reigning slowcore titans Low is evident in the gentle bombast of these opening tracks, but as quickly as it arrived, it's discarded. Cracker's brooding, western shadow looms over the exceptional "Sniffer's Row", the crown jewel of the Line. Bass notes crest and break in waves between the rise and fall of bittersweet choruses, paving the way for a crash of piano and guitar. The doe-eyed, plaintive refrains allow Luca Maoloni to display an astoundingly expressive vocal ability that's conspicuously absent elsewhere. The shift in tone and style between the first two and this one is abrupt, but "Sniffer's Row" is singularly gripping; it renders the growing identity crisis of the album temporarily forgivable. From here on out, the album steadily loses footing, becoming more and more impenetrable as the band begins to search increasingly frantically for something to which they can anchor their drifting sound. The two-minute instrumental of almost unobstructed near-silence that follows sounds more the like the band huddling up and deciding what to do next than a track meant to contain any worth or meaning. "'A' Is for 'Arousal'" is what turns up, and this six-minute epic can't even completely hold itself together-- the song morphs constantly, though not entirely inexplicably. It's not even really worth mentioning that the song's first half is a direct take on the Silver Jews; by the time the second half opens with the incredibly strained call of, "White Star Line's for dreeeamers," the song has completely broken down. This is the sound of a talented band with a good ear for melody who has no idea what they actually sound like. If the band could have hit a few more showstoppers like "Sniffer's Row", this wouldn't even be a concern. Sadly, nothing else approaches it, and the fact that none of these songs can really unify into a whole leaves all of them out there to fend for themselves, which they're ill-equipped to do. "Bowels of a Bummer" is the single most disappointing reminder of their inability to nail anything down-- even though it's probably the second-best song on the record, it punctuates the album like a massive, festering question mark asking "Why?". Maybe White Star's next trip around the block will provide a response."

Magic Magicians

Magic Magicians

Rock

William Morris

Everyone loves rock and roll. I mean everyone. Do you play guitar? Drums, sing, scat? Seriously, just try not to rock. Skibbety bop-bop-don't believe me? I don't care if you're an avant-garde underground dance-jazz pianist; you're gonna rock. And you're gonna like it. All you have to do is round up your friends and petition your label for support. Everyone's doing it. It's a tenuous case history, but check it out: Saddle Creek has Desaparecidos, Matador has The New Pornographers, Barsuk has The Long Winters, and Suicide Squeeze offers us The Magic Magicians; a place where artists can shed their individual reservations and primary aspirations and just plain rock. It's a safe haven, in this case for 764-HERO's John Atkins and Joe Plummer of Black Heart Procession, where everything is warm and fuzzy and no one cares how you spend your working hours. Atkins does it all, singing and strumming and plucking, while Plummer takes a seat behind the drums. A few other willing-to-rockers join the mix, including Quasi's Janet Weiss and Justin Trosper of Unwound, to name a few. I told you everyone wants to rock. And rock they do. For about thirty minutes, The Magic Magicians do nothing else, as they canter their way through eleven unaffected, unadorned one-take sounding garage pop numbers. It's no wonder this sort of project is so alluring; if they bought an hour of studio time they probably used half of it to play a quick game of Jenga and down a few Mr. Pibbs. There's no fighting over post-recording knob tweaking in the studio, and it's this palpable levity that frames the entire effort. Sometimes crisp, never clean: the sound is rough but catchy, and all the while carefree. Whereas both primary players have a proclivity for musical histrionics, there's no home for sentimentalist camp here. Rhythmic guitars trade time in the spotlight with confident drumming. "Cascade Express" pairs the two in a tight verse that perfectly serves an impossibly catchy chorus. The song is gone before you knew it was there, and much like the successful formula predicated by Spoon's A Series of Sneaks, the album's best moments are its least indulgent. Similarly, "Action" utilizes some tight drum and guitar alignments to fabricate a slick groove, but doesn't press the issue, leaving and returning to the formula with ease and wily-veteran respect for inertia. Predictably, the two slower numbers are pushed to the end. The closer, "8 Hours Go", being the more accomplished of the two, as the chorus of "All Sewn Up" could easily be a discarded 764-HERO moment. For the most part, though, Atkins and Plummer manage to shirk old penchants, something at which they were considerably less adept on their debut, Girls. Yes, it's all fairly predictable. If the song is plodding then it's resting up to sprint, if it's digressing then it's about to focus, and if it's rocking and tight then it's gonna loosen up. But they waste little time in the process and should be rewarded for such a streamlined effort. And even considering the limited palette, the album never drags. Admittedly, it's missing something, but given the limitations of this sort of lo-fi pop, nothing I'm overly fond of. It's rock, see. No excuses.

Artist: Magic Magicians, Album: Magic Magicians, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Everyone loves rock and roll. I mean everyone. Do you play guitar? Drums, sing, scat? Seriously, just try not to rock. Skibbety bop-bop-don't believe me? I don't care if you're an avant-garde underground dance-jazz pianist; you're gonna rock. And you're gonna like it. All you have to do is round up your friends and petition your label for support. Everyone's doing it. It's a tenuous case history, but check it out: Saddle Creek has Desaparecidos, Matador has The New Pornographers, Barsuk has The Long Winters, and Suicide Squeeze offers us The Magic Magicians; a place where artists can shed their individual reservations and primary aspirations and just plain rock. It's a safe haven, in this case for 764-HERO's John Atkins and Joe Plummer of Black Heart Procession, where everything is warm and fuzzy and no one cares how you spend your working hours. Atkins does it all, singing and strumming and plucking, while Plummer takes a seat behind the drums. A few other willing-to-rockers join the mix, including Quasi's Janet Weiss and Justin Trosper of Unwound, to name a few. I told you everyone wants to rock. And rock they do. For about thirty minutes, The Magic Magicians do nothing else, as they canter their way through eleven unaffected, unadorned one-take sounding garage pop numbers. It's no wonder this sort of project is so alluring; if they bought an hour of studio time they probably used half of it to play a quick game of Jenga and down a few Mr. Pibbs. There's no fighting over post-recording knob tweaking in the studio, and it's this palpable levity that frames the entire effort. Sometimes crisp, never clean: the sound is rough but catchy, and all the while carefree. Whereas both primary players have a proclivity for musical histrionics, there's no home for sentimentalist camp here. Rhythmic guitars trade time in the spotlight with confident drumming. "Cascade Express" pairs the two in a tight verse that perfectly serves an impossibly catchy chorus. The song is gone before you knew it was there, and much like the successful formula predicated by Spoon's A Series of Sneaks, the album's best moments are its least indulgent. Similarly, "Action" utilizes some tight drum and guitar alignments to fabricate a slick groove, but doesn't press the issue, leaving and returning to the formula with ease and wily-veteran respect for inertia. Predictably, the two slower numbers are pushed to the end. The closer, "8 Hours Go", being the more accomplished of the two, as the chorus of "All Sewn Up" could easily be a discarded 764-HERO moment. For the most part, though, Atkins and Plummer manage to shirk old penchants, something at which they were considerably less adept on their debut, Girls. Yes, it's all fairly predictable. If the song is plodding then it's resting up to sprint, if it's digressing then it's about to focus, and if it's rocking and tight then it's gonna loosen up. But they waste little time in the process and should be rewarded for such a streamlined effort. And even considering the limited palette, the album never drags. Admittedly, it's missing something, but given the limitations of this sort of lo-fi pop, nothing I'm overly fond of. It's rock, see. No excuses."

Carl Craig

Masterpiece

Electronic

Miles Raymer

Dance music fans are notorious for their capricious tastes, but Detroit techno has never fallen out of fashion. Maybe it’s because along with the first few waves of Chicago house it formed the basis for the entire form, and because it’s never been overexposed via car ads or rock musicians briefly reinventing themselves as “electronica” artists. But there’s also something simply aesthetically perfect about the style: minimalist and dark and, when it’s executed well, really hard to imagine as improvable in any way. It’s like the sonic equivalent of the black band t-shirt. Carl Craig has come closer than any other artist to locating the style’s aesthetic ideal, the sweet spot between Kraftwerk’s organically icy machine music and Funkadelic’s deeply human funk exploration that remain its two most essential influences. His entry in the Ministry of Sound’s Masterpiece series of mixes by ground-laying dance music pioneers is not only a great trilogy of three CD-length sets, but something like a self-portrait or an autobiography in sound, and an intriguing look into the mind of a master musician. Disc one, titled “Aspiration”, is meant to be a 70-minute sample of what he’s up to these days as a DJ. It leads off with “Zug Island”, a 2012 single by Detroit natives Kyle Hall & Kero, and named after a blighted, heavily industrialized man-made island in the most polluted part of the city. In true Detroit minimalist fashion it consists of little more than a pattern of noisy drums, an ambiently beeping bell-tone synthesizer, and another synth repeating a three-note bassline. It’s a ridiculously simple arrangement, but fascinating to hear as the sounds begin to evolve, with delays dropping in and out and the bassline mutating from a gentle throb to an acid-house freakout. The sounds are modern, but it’s also a perfect representation of the aesthetic philosophy on which techno was founded. For the remainder of “Aspiration”, Craig shifts seamlessly back and forth between stark minimalism and more lushly elaborate (by comparison) sounds. Many of the contributions come from newer artists working in the Detroit style, but there are also excursions into house-ier stuff, and a brief glimpse at one of Craig’s influences through the inclusion of Egyptian Lover’s 1984 world-shaker “Egypt Egypt”. The second mix, “Inspiration”, is a more thorough exploration of the music Craig’s been affected by. Some it’s the kind of stuff you might expect him to cite: fellow techno artists of the old school like Derrick May, e-Dancer, and Moritz von Oswald. Other inclusions are more eye-opening. There’s experimental reggae from African Head Charge and digital dancehall originator King Jammy. There’s R&B from DeBarge and Erykah Badu. There’s a track from David Lynch’s 2011 album Crazy Clown Time, Freeway’s “All My Life,” and a bossa nova-influenced track from Melody Gardot. Muddy Waters’ “Mannish Boy”, the Temptations’ psychedelic-era “Cloud Nine”, and the organ-heavy proto-hard rock cut “In the Jungle” by the Motown-signed group the Messengers represent a fuzzed-out, loose-limbed approach to making music that’s difficult to see reflected in Craig’s own work. If “Aspiration” and “Inspiration” are Craig surveying his present and past, the final disc finds him looking forward, staking out new stylistic territory and proving that after almost 25 years of recording he’s still evolving as an artist. “Meditation” is a suite of six new, original compositions for modular synthesizer that explore a much different side to Carl Craig than we’re used to seeing. As the title indicates, they’re the result of directing his talents for bare-bones arrangement and selecting fascinatingly dark sonic palettes to ends that are far more suited to contemplation than dancing. The sounds of his modular synthesizer setup invite comparisons to synth wizards of the past like Vangelis, Tangerine Dream, and John Carpenter, but the way he uses it is bracingly original and often daring. The individual tracks, most of them coming in around the 10-minute mark, drift between downtempo but danceable songs that hint at techno and Italo disco on one hand, and on the other pure, trance-inducing ambience. The former kind are rewarding, and offer the unique sort of pleasure that comes from hearing an accomplished artist working with a different set of tools to normal, but the ambient stuff is even more fascinating. It makes sense that one of the modern masters of minimalist composition would be able to apply his talents successfully to a style that’s historically compatible with bare-bones arrangements, and the end results exceed expectations. They’re richly textured despite their sonic sparsity, and full of the energy that separates ambient music that engages the listener’s mind from the kind that just puts them to sleep. It’s so engaging, in fact, that at one point Craig pulls down everything in the mix until there’s only a deep, throbbing bass tone that you can only hear on headphones or a halfway decent set of speakers. The really tricky part of it is that you might very well find yourself pulled so far into it that you don’t even notice the missing instruments until they come back in minutes later. It’s a master-level maneuver that underlines the essential theme of the three-disc set, which is that after a quarter century of pushing music into the future, Carl Craig’s still not done.

Artist: Carl Craig, Album: Masterpiece, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Dance music fans are notorious for their capricious tastes, but Detroit techno has never fallen out of fashion. Maybe it’s because along with the first few waves of Chicago house it formed the basis for the entire form, and because it’s never been overexposed via car ads or rock musicians briefly reinventing themselves as “electronica” artists. But there’s also something simply aesthetically perfect about the style: minimalist and dark and, when it’s executed well, really hard to imagine as improvable in any way. It’s like the sonic equivalent of the black band t-shirt. Carl Craig has come closer than any other artist to locating the style’s aesthetic ideal, the sweet spot between Kraftwerk’s organically icy machine music and Funkadelic’s deeply human funk exploration that remain its two most essential influences. His entry in the Ministry of Sound’s Masterpiece series of mixes by ground-laying dance music pioneers is not only a great trilogy of three CD-length sets, but something like a self-portrait or an autobiography in sound, and an intriguing look into the mind of a master musician. Disc one, titled “Aspiration”, is meant to be a 70-minute sample of what he’s up to these days as a DJ. It leads off with “Zug Island”, a 2012 single by Detroit natives Kyle Hall & Kero, and named after a blighted, heavily industrialized man-made island in the most polluted part of the city. In true Detroit minimalist fashion it consists of little more than a pattern of noisy drums, an ambiently beeping bell-tone synthesizer, and another synth repeating a three-note bassline. It’s a ridiculously simple arrangement, but fascinating to hear as the sounds begin to evolve, with delays dropping in and out and the bassline mutating from a gentle throb to an acid-house freakout. The sounds are modern, but it’s also a perfect representation of the aesthetic philosophy on which techno was founded. For the remainder of “Aspiration”, Craig shifts seamlessly back and forth between stark minimalism and more lushly elaborate (by comparison) sounds. Many of the contributions come from newer artists working in the Detroit style, but there are also excursions into house-ier stuff, and a brief glimpse at one of Craig’s influences through the inclusion of Egyptian Lover’s 1984 world-shaker “Egypt Egypt”. The second mix, “Inspiration”, is a more thorough exploration of the music Craig’s been affected by. Some it’s the kind of stuff you might expect him to cite: fellow techno artists of the old school like Derrick May, e-Dancer, and Moritz von Oswald. Other inclusions are more eye-opening. There’s experimental reggae from African Head Charge and digital dancehall originator King Jammy. There’s R&B from DeBarge and Erykah Badu. There’s a track from David Lynch’s 2011 album Crazy Clown Time, Freeway’s “All My Life,” and a bossa nova-influenced track from Melody Gardot. Muddy Waters’ “Mannish Boy”, the Temptations’ psychedelic-era “Cloud Nine”, and the organ-heavy proto-hard rock cut “In the Jungle” by the Motown-signed group the Messengers represent a fuzzed-out, loose-limbed approach to making music that’s difficult to see reflected in Craig’s own work. If “Aspiration” and “Inspiration” are Craig surveying his present and past, the final disc finds him looking forward, staking out new stylistic territory and proving that after almost 25 years of recording he’s still evolving as an artist. “Meditation” is a suite of six new, original compositions for modular synthesizer that explore a much different side to Carl Craig than we’re used to seeing. As the title indicates, they’re the result of directing his talents for bare-bones arrangement and selecting fascinatingly dark sonic palettes to ends that are far more suited to contemplation than dancing. The sounds of his modular synthesizer setup invite comparisons to synth wizards of the past like Vangelis, Tangerine Dream, and John Carpenter, but the way he uses it is bracingly original and often daring. The individual tracks, most of them coming in around the 10-minute mark, drift between downtempo but danceable songs that hint at techno and Italo disco on one hand, and on the other pure, trance-inducing ambience. The former kind are rewarding, and offer the unique sort of pleasure that comes from hearing an accomplished artist working with a different set of tools to normal, but the ambient stuff is even more fascinating. It makes sense that one of the modern masters of minimalist composition would be able to apply his talents successfully to a style that’s historically compatible with bare-bones arrangements, and the end results exceed expectations. They’re richly textured despite their sonic sparsity, and full of the energy that separates ambient music that engages the listener’s mind from the kind that just puts them to sleep. It’s so engaging, in fact, that at one point Craig pulls down everything in the mix until there’s only a deep, throbbing bass tone that you can only hear on headphones or a halfway decent set of speakers. The really tricky part of it is that you might very well find yourself pulled so far into it that you don’t even notice the missing instruments until they come back in minutes later. It’s a master-level maneuver that underlines the essential theme of the three-disc set, which is that after a quarter century of pushing music into the future, Carl Craig’s still not done."

The Trypes

Music for Neighbors

Marc Masters

It's tempting to call 1980's New Jersey band the Trypes a Feelies side project. All five current Feelies were involved at some point, and the only record the Trypes ever released-- 1984's 4-song The Explorers Hold EP-- has a distinct Feelies vibe. It's filled with the Zen strumming and Moe Tucker-ish beats of late-80s Feelies albums The Good Earth and Only Life. One song, the rolling "The Undertow", even showed up later in very similar form on Only Life. But the Trypes were more than an offshoot. They started as a quartet with no Feelies members, and when Feelies guitarist/singer Glenn Mercer joined, his other band had technically broken up and he was just looking to play drums. More importantly, the Trypes were part of an overlapping circle of N.J. outfits-- including the Feelies, Yung Wu, and the Willies-- whose work had a casual, familial feel. Often it sounded like they were making music for each other rather than an audience. That's why the title Music for Neighbors­­­­-- taken from a series these bands put on at Haledon, N.J., bar the Peanut Gallery-- is such a perfect name for Acute's selection from the Trypes archives. Alongside The Explorers Hold EP, the LP-plus-digital-download set collects demos, live performances, and practice sessions at Hoboken's legendary Maxwell's club. This previously unreleased material is compelling mostly because of its personal, homemade aura. Unpolished and unassuming, it creates an apt portrait of a band that, as Mercer explains in the liner notes, "sprung out of a series of weekly, informal, neighborhood gatherings, playing sparse and simple music on a local level for our own enjoyment." Sparseness and simplicity permeate all of the Trypes' songs, which were often built on a two-chord strum, up-down organ chords, or a repetitive beat. Mercer cites the group's fusing of "the harder, New York edge of the Velvet Underground and the softer, West Coast vibe of the psychedelic bands," and you can hear that combo throughout, plus some baroque folk leanings. But more interesting than the Trypes' genre mixing is their knack for making every note sound intimate and lived-in. It helps that these recordings are rather lo-fi, giving Music for Neighbors a personal atmosphere not far from Half Japanese or the chord-organ tunes of Daniel Johnston. But this isn't primitive music-- the Trypes prove equally adept at gentle ballads, grinding dirges, classic-rock covers, and a seven-minute jam called "Life History" that sounds like the Feelies channeling Can. Such range was apparently easy for musicians so familiar with each other. As Elbrus Kelemet sings on "Force of Habit", "We get together everyday at this time/ It has been so long now it's hard to say why/ Must be a habit or we wouldn't go on." They actually didn't go on that long, ending when the Feelies reformed and the original members morphed into the still-active Speed the Plough. But at its best, Music for Neighbors evokes a parallel world, one in which the Trypes still meet up regularly to make more songs for each other.

Artist: The Trypes, Album: Music for Neighbors, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "It's tempting to call 1980's New Jersey band the Trypes a Feelies side project. All five current Feelies were involved at some point, and the only record the Trypes ever released-- 1984's 4-song The Explorers Hold EP-- has a distinct Feelies vibe. It's filled with the Zen strumming and Moe Tucker-ish beats of late-80s Feelies albums The Good Earth and Only Life. One song, the rolling "The Undertow", even showed up later in very similar form on Only Life. But the Trypes were more than an offshoot. They started as a quartet with no Feelies members, and when Feelies guitarist/singer Glenn Mercer joined, his other band had technically broken up and he was just looking to play drums. More importantly, the Trypes were part of an overlapping circle of N.J. outfits-- including the Feelies, Yung Wu, and the Willies-- whose work had a casual, familial feel. Often it sounded like they were making music for each other rather than an audience. That's why the title Music for Neighbors­­­­-- taken from a series these bands put on at Haledon, N.J., bar the Peanut Gallery-- is such a perfect name for Acute's selection from the Trypes archives. Alongside The Explorers Hold EP, the LP-plus-digital-download set collects demos, live performances, and practice sessions at Hoboken's legendary Maxwell's club. This previously unreleased material is compelling mostly because of its personal, homemade aura. Unpolished and unassuming, it creates an apt portrait of a band that, as Mercer explains in the liner notes, "sprung out of a series of weekly, informal, neighborhood gatherings, playing sparse and simple music on a local level for our own enjoyment." Sparseness and simplicity permeate all of the Trypes' songs, which were often built on a two-chord strum, up-down organ chords, or a repetitive beat. Mercer cites the group's fusing of "the harder, New York edge of the Velvet Underground and the softer, West Coast vibe of the psychedelic bands," and you can hear that combo throughout, plus some baroque folk leanings. But more interesting than the Trypes' genre mixing is their knack for making every note sound intimate and lived-in. It helps that these recordings are rather lo-fi, giving Music for Neighbors a personal atmosphere not far from Half Japanese or the chord-organ tunes of Daniel Johnston. But this isn't primitive music-- the Trypes prove equally adept at gentle ballads, grinding dirges, classic-rock covers, and a seven-minute jam called "Life History" that sounds like the Feelies channeling Can. Such range was apparently easy for musicians so familiar with each other. As Elbrus Kelemet sings on "Force of Habit", "We get together everyday at this time/ It has been so long now it's hard to say why/ Must be a habit or we wouldn't go on." They actually didn't go on that long, ending when the Feelies reformed and the original members morphed into the still-active Speed the Plough. But at its best, Music for Neighbors evokes a parallel world, one in which the Trypes still meet up regularly to make more songs for each other."

Kemialliset Ystävät

Kemialliset Ystävät

Experimental,Rock

Andrew Gaerig

The merging of folk-- ostensibly "acoustic"-- and electronics has been a slow, awkward grope session that has nonetheless produced some of the decade's freshest experimental music. The merging, though, implies a fundamental split in the sonics of the two realms, a gap that the Finnish experimental group Kemialliset Ystävät seems to ignore completely. To say that Kemialliset finds a synthesis between the acoustic and electronic would miss the point, as they never bother differentiating the two. In their simplified worldview sounds are homogeneous-- linear, even-- and are deployed as they become useful, without regard for their source. A loose collective captained by Jan Anderzén since 1995, Kemialliset are a longstanding example of the Finnish label Fonal's homespun brilliance. Their simplicity extends no further than their streamlined approach: Kemialliset Ystävät breathe in untold acoustic instruments, looped digital gristle, and wayward conversations and cough them out in alien ratios. Kemialliset do not experiment with genres so much as hazard upon them, like children gone exploring, sure that they're the first to discover and name a pond. Eastern psych, fife and drum bands, punk rock, and minimal house are but a few such ponds. The majority of Kemialliset Ystävät, though, functions on a significantly more abstract plane, one in which tinny strings shiver amid oily electronics and anything is a percussion instrument. Kemialliset nimbly juke in tight spaces, cherry-picking tiny, erudite rhythms out of their drag and drone. They often do this outside the realm of traditional rhythm instruments: "Tulinen Kiihdytys" whirs and chatters against the forest floor for two minutes before a single plucked string reveals itself as the tether. Looped vocal nonsense helps to anchor "Valojuopot". What is probably a violin knifes through "Kokki, Leipuri, Kylvettäjä Ja Taikuri (Enna 132 Eaa.)" as oscillating tones flirt in the background. When the band does employ actual drums, as on the shambling "Näkymättömän Hipaisuja", they sound like they've bitten off too much, like five people playing seven instruments, but doing so brilliantly. "Superhimmeli" fakes actual rock dynamics, farting about with a kick drum and chanting voices before a widescreen, hurried keyboard riff rends the track in two. Kemialliset are ruthless editors though, rounding off most of Kemialliset Ystävät's 12 tracks in under four minutes, fragmenting their explorations into consumable portions. These short tracks, combined with the band's lilting, natural sense of rhythm, help obscure what the music, and those inscrutable song titles, screams: that Kemialliset Ystävät is devilishly raucous and shrilly obstructed tone noise. From Finland. A near-hilarious sense of clutter and secrecy pervades every sound they produce. It is approachable depending on your tolerance for abstraction, but it will almost certainly test that tolerance. Synapses fire and cool and fire again. Sparkplugs are blown and replaced. Revel in these miniature regenerations as long as you can, and be thankful that Kemialliset Ystävät has at least a tenuous hold of the reins.

Artist: Kemialliset Ystävät, Album: Kemialliset Ystävät, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "The merging of folk-- ostensibly "acoustic"-- and electronics has been a slow, awkward grope session that has nonetheless produced some of the decade's freshest experimental music. The merging, though, implies a fundamental split in the sonics of the two realms, a gap that the Finnish experimental group Kemialliset Ystävät seems to ignore completely. To say that Kemialliset finds a synthesis between the acoustic and electronic would miss the point, as they never bother differentiating the two. In their simplified worldview sounds are homogeneous-- linear, even-- and are deployed as they become useful, without regard for their source. A loose collective captained by Jan Anderzén since 1995, Kemialliset are a longstanding example of the Finnish label Fonal's homespun brilliance. Their simplicity extends no further than their streamlined approach: Kemialliset Ystävät breathe in untold acoustic instruments, looped digital gristle, and wayward conversations and cough them out in alien ratios. Kemialliset do not experiment with genres so much as hazard upon them, like children gone exploring, sure that they're the first to discover and name a pond. Eastern psych, fife and drum bands, punk rock, and minimal house are but a few such ponds. The majority of Kemialliset Ystävät, though, functions on a significantly more abstract plane, one in which tinny strings shiver amid oily electronics and anything is a percussion instrument. Kemialliset nimbly juke in tight spaces, cherry-picking tiny, erudite rhythms out of their drag and drone. They often do this outside the realm of traditional rhythm instruments: "Tulinen Kiihdytys" whirs and chatters against the forest floor for two minutes before a single plucked string reveals itself as the tether. Looped vocal nonsense helps to anchor "Valojuopot". What is probably a violin knifes through "Kokki, Leipuri, Kylvettäjä Ja Taikuri (Enna 132 Eaa.)" as oscillating tones flirt in the background. When the band does employ actual drums, as on the shambling "Näkymättömän Hipaisuja", they sound like they've bitten off too much, like five people playing seven instruments, but doing so brilliantly. "Superhimmeli" fakes actual rock dynamics, farting about with a kick drum and chanting voices before a widescreen, hurried keyboard riff rends the track in two. Kemialliset are ruthless editors though, rounding off most of Kemialliset Ystävät's 12 tracks in under four minutes, fragmenting their explorations into consumable portions. These short tracks, combined with the band's lilting, natural sense of rhythm, help obscure what the music, and those inscrutable song titles, screams: that Kemialliset Ystävät is devilishly raucous and shrilly obstructed tone noise. From Finland. A near-hilarious sense of clutter and secrecy pervades every sound they produce. It is approachable depending on your tolerance for abstraction, but it will almost certainly test that tolerance. Synapses fire and cool and fire again. Sparkplugs are blown and replaced. Revel in these miniature regenerations as long as you can, and be thankful that Kemialliset Ystävät has at least a tenuous hold of the reins."

Various Artists

Give Me Love: Songs of the Brokenhearted - Baghdad 1925-1929

Joe Tangari

The Iraq War is a cataract in our understanding of the nation of Iraq and its modern history. It clouds the way we view and think about the country to the extent that we in the United States are blinded to anything beyond the violence of the last few years and the atrocities of the Saddam Hussein era. The obscuring effect of recent events leads me to believe that Honest Jon's Give Me Love might be the most important archival compilation of the year. Outside of a very small number of performers, including oudist Munir Bashir and jazz musician Amir ElSaffar, very little Iraqi music has ever made an impact internationally. Indeed, for most of the 20th century the popular music of Iraq and most of the rest of the Arab world lived completely within the shadow of Lebanese and especially Egyptian artists. This compilation, then, represents one of a precious few attempts to provide a clear window into the cultural life of a widely misunderstood place-- the Iraq of the late 1920s, during a period of British hegemony in the region that began when the Ottomans were driven out of Mesopotamia during the First World War. The Gramophone Company and its subsidiary His Master's Voice-- HMV today-- were the first major companies to make recordings in 1925. (In the pursuit of record buyers' money the world over, Gramophone unwittingly provided one of the greatest cultural services of the 20th century by sending its recording engineers across the globe to document local musics-- I'd give a lot to be allowed several weeks in a hypothetical Gramophone vault.) Others quickly followed, including Polyphone, Baidaphon, Odeon, and Columbia, but all the recordings included here are drawn from HMV's nearly 900 78 rpm sides, all made from 1925 to 1929. When approaching this compilation, it's important to remember something that's true of records from all eras: the recording medium is a part of the music. In today's studio, you might have 64 tracks, 20 different kinds of microphones, and an infinite amount of extra gear your can pile onto a record. Then, they had a mechanical recording device with a horn that the musicians had to be carefully arranged around to get the right mix of sounds. The dawn of electrical recording was right around 1925; by 1926, it was the norm in most of the world. But the liners here state pretty plainly that most of these records were made without microphones, and I frankly don't know enough of the difference to argue the point. What I can tell you is that this disc is nearly devoid of the surface crackle of 78s, and the sound is very clear. But one shouldn't expect a modern range of frequency response, as the low-end of performances rarely registered well on 1920s recordings. What you will hear are impassioned performances, instrumental and vocal, from some of the most well-regarded performers in Baghdad of the era. Most of them are Jewish-- for various reasons, Iraq's religious minorities dominated the country's music prior to the 1950s, when the vast majority of Christians and essentially all the Jews fled. This exodus began during World War II after a pro-Nazi coup d'etat and subsequent pogrom. Audiences were split by gender-- public performances for men by women were looked down upon, and many, though not all, female singers were recruited from brothels, which was another barrier to respect. The few recordings by women included here have same melismatic fire as their male counterparts, though, and nearly every track has the characteristic Iraqi slowness that makes the country's music distinct in spite of obvious Egyptian, Persian, and Indian influences. The other caution for modern listeners is not to expect the kind of hook-filled instant gratification we're used to today-- this is music you need to soak in and feel, from the aching love songs to the frenetic instrumental taqsims. The ornamental vocals mask often straightforward lyrics, which translate to phrases such as "I wait for my lover on tenterhooks," "Since you left me my eyes are on the brink of shutting down for good," and "Short of dying, how can I get you out of mind?" Songs of the brokenhearted indeed. The instrumentation consists of small ensembles, with violin, oud (an Arabic lute played with a fluttering, staccato technique), mutbij (a wooden double flute with a wailing, nasal tone), qanun (a type of zither) and hand percussion. Some songs include small choirs positioned far from the horn. This was an urban type of arrangement, and many rural songs were transposed to these ensembles for recording purposes-- it's important to note that these weren't field recordings, but rather popular music recordings intended for a very competitive marketplace. I have a few small issues with the compilation itself as a package-- while the liner notes paint a vivid picture of 1920s Baghdad and provide substantial background, they also don't include any recording notes for individual tracks, or even Gramophone catalog numbers, which is the kind of information collectors of this music like to have. There's also no real account of the reasoning behind the track selection-- out of the 900 available, why these, in this order? Sometimes knowing the compilers' organizing principle can be illuminating. Those concerns aside, though, this is a compelling peek at the soul of Iraq that's been so long obscured to us by the fog of war.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Give Me Love: Songs of the Brokenhearted - Baghdad 1925-1929, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "The Iraq War is a cataract in our understanding of the nation of Iraq and its modern history. It clouds the way we view and think about the country to the extent that we in the United States are blinded to anything beyond the violence of the last few years and the atrocities of the Saddam Hussein era. The obscuring effect of recent events leads me to believe that Honest Jon's Give Me Love might be the most important archival compilation of the year. Outside of a very small number of performers, including oudist Munir Bashir and jazz musician Amir ElSaffar, very little Iraqi music has ever made an impact internationally. Indeed, for most of the 20th century the popular music of Iraq and most of the rest of the Arab world lived completely within the shadow of Lebanese and especially Egyptian artists. This compilation, then, represents one of a precious few attempts to provide a clear window into the cultural life of a widely misunderstood place-- the Iraq of the late 1920s, during a period of British hegemony in the region that began when the Ottomans were driven out of Mesopotamia during the First World War. The Gramophone Company and its subsidiary His Master's Voice-- HMV today-- were the first major companies to make recordings in 1925. (In the pursuit of record buyers' money the world over, Gramophone unwittingly provided one of the greatest cultural services of the 20th century by sending its recording engineers across the globe to document local musics-- I'd give a lot to be allowed several weeks in a hypothetical Gramophone vault.) Others quickly followed, including Polyphone, Baidaphon, Odeon, and Columbia, but all the recordings included here are drawn from HMV's nearly 900 78 rpm sides, all made from 1925 to 1929. When approaching this compilation, it's important to remember something that's true of records from all eras: the recording medium is a part of the music. In today's studio, you might have 64 tracks, 20 different kinds of microphones, and an infinite amount of extra gear your can pile onto a record. Then, they had a mechanical recording device with a horn that the musicians had to be carefully arranged around to get the right mix of sounds. The dawn of electrical recording was right around 1925; by 1926, it was the norm in most of the world. But the liners here state pretty plainly that most of these records were made without microphones, and I frankly don't know enough of the difference to argue the point. What I can tell you is that this disc is nearly devoid of the surface crackle of 78s, and the sound is very clear. But one shouldn't expect a modern range of frequency response, as the low-end of performances rarely registered well on 1920s recordings. What you will hear are impassioned performances, instrumental and vocal, from some of the most well-regarded performers in Baghdad of the era. Most of them are Jewish-- for various reasons, Iraq's religious minorities dominated the country's music prior to the 1950s, when the vast majority of Christians and essentially all the Jews fled. This exodus began during World War II after a pro-Nazi coup d'etat and subsequent pogrom. Audiences were split by gender-- public performances for men by women were looked down upon, and many, though not all, female singers were recruited from brothels, which was another barrier to respect. The few recordings by women included here have same melismatic fire as their male counterparts, though, and nearly every track has the characteristic Iraqi slowness that makes the country's music distinct in spite of obvious Egyptian, Persian, and Indian influences. The other caution for modern listeners is not to expect the kind of hook-filled instant gratification we're used to today-- this is music you need to soak in and feel, from the aching love songs to the frenetic instrumental taqsims. The ornamental vocals mask often straightforward lyrics, which translate to phrases such as "I wait for my lover on tenterhooks," "Since you left me my eyes are on the brink of shutting down for good," and "Short of dying, how can I get you out of mind?" Songs of the brokenhearted indeed. The instrumentation consists of small ensembles, with violin, oud (an Arabic lute played with a fluttering, staccato technique), mutbij (a wooden double flute with a wailing, nasal tone), qanun (a type of zither) and hand percussion. Some songs include small choirs positioned far from the horn. This was an urban type of arrangement, and many rural songs were transposed to these ensembles for recording purposes-- it's important to note that these weren't field recordings, but rather popular music recordings intended for a very competitive marketplace. I have a few small issues with the compilation itself as a package-- while the liner notes paint a vivid picture of 1920s Baghdad and provide substantial background, they also don't include any recording notes for individual tracks, or even Gramophone catalog numbers, which is the kind of information collectors of this music like to have. There's also no real account of the reasoning behind the track selection-- out of the 900 available, why these, in this order? Sometimes knowing the compilers' organizing principle can be illuminating. Those concerns aside, though, this is a compelling peek at the soul of Iraq that's been so long obscured to us by the fog of war."

Lil Wayne

Tha Carter II

Rap

Nick Sylvester

Something great happened last week on The Tonight Show, poor Leno notwithstanding. Camera on musical guest Lil' Wayne, bassist behind him on pasty octaves, some keyboard "funk" preset, really thin till the guitars flange in. This is Alan-born Robin Thicke's "Oh Shooter" they're playing, straight-up, and Thicke, on stage beside Wayne, begins his stick'd-up anthem, his breath caught as it would be near chrome. Tune in then and you'd think Thicke was the star and Weezy just his cough-n-pepper hypeman. "I brought my homeboy with me," says standing Wayne of singing Thicke. He's kidding, right? Technically this is Wayne's song called "Shooter", but the entire "song", down to the track length, is Thicke's original. What a tense performance so far; music played, but you could probably hear a pin drop. This young New Orleans rapper bouncing around on stage with Real Musicians but not much else, good for a laugh or a breakdance or whatever Other-approved televised woop-de-doo-- "cute" and "rap's not so bad after all" but also "rapping is easy," "rap=only good as the sample it swiped". Wayne was holding us at bay, all our presuppositions about his career, his music, his age and color, his responsibility qua artist post-Katrina. If Thicke's the crybaby here, Wayne's the stick-up kid. "They want me with my hands up," sings Thicke, doing that stupid "raise the roof" thing. Wayne breaks: "I'm trying to tell you what I am, baby-- listen." And after almost two minutes of no talking he bursts the song open: "So many doubt cos I come from the South, but when I open my mouth the best come out. It's my turn and I'm starting right here today." And so on-- it's one of those black-and-white-to-technicolor moments after which, if you still don't believe in Wayne, you're just lying to yourself. Granted, Leno won't make "Shooter" Wayne's "song" (it will be though), and we definitely can't call Tha Carter II his coming-of-age album or something equally corny-- people blew that line on the one before. Fact is, Wayne's still young, and he loves that he can get away with shit-- literally. Firmly keeping a foot in the sandbox, Wayne dabbles scatological throughout ("Dear Mr. Toilet/ I'm the shit"), sometimes even elaborately so ("You niggas small bubbles, I burp you/ I'll spit you out and have your girls slurp you"). Total energy thing, his verses still lack polish and a good edit (e.g. so many goddamn shark jokes), and his skits and "personality raps" (cf. "Grown Man") spell him out too bluntly, too vainly. And yet, there's "Shooter", or "Receipt", or "Get Over": "Standin' on stage in front of thousands/ Don't amount to me not having my father." Lines like this fall outta nowhere, jaw-droppers aplenty-- but "don't forget the baby". People who met Wayne on "Go DJ" and thought him a lunchroom hack emcee-- who knows what's happened since then, but damn has he learned how to write. His squeak is now a croak, his laugh a little more burly, his flow remarkably flexible. Sometimes he's deliberate like syrup cats ("But this is Southern, face it/ If we too simple then yall don't get the basics") but when he needs to be, he's nimble as that Other Carter: "I ain't talking too fast you just listening too slow." Remy and weed, fast things and women, the corner-- these are Wayne's wax since B.G.'ing with B.G., putting piff on the campus before he ever enrolled in college. What's different, and crucial: no Mannie Fresh electro-dixie beats. Free from Fresh, Wayne is less a novelty-- less Pinocchio on Pleasure Island (cf. 500 Degreez), less that dorm-room poster of the baby giving the middle finger. In fact, no-name nawlins producers run the boards, their crackly soul sampling and that implied return-to-rap roots a perfect complement to Weezy's raspy, sometimes even Miles Davisian voice. On "Receipt", which lifts the Isleys' "Lay-Away", Wayne's nursery rhyme delivery grants pick-ups like "my daughter want another/ Sister or brother/ And you looking like a mother" that rare smooth-crude game, something a young Curtis Jackson wanted out of "Best Friend" but didn't quite get. "I'm a self-made millionaire, fuck the public," he says on "Money On My Mind." To an extent, he's right. This is Wayne's show, the album's only guests being Kurupt and Birdman and some r&b; b-girls. Not to say he's ungrateful; it's just that establishing his autonomy, his don't give a fuck, is infinitely more important. Lead track "Tha Mobb" really lays the audience/methodology/goals stuff on thick: For five minutes, no chorus, sad piano, he does it for "the gangstas and the bitches, the hustlers and the hos." Crossover? "Whatever." Mainstream? "No!" He refuses to be a Big artist, precisely so he can be a big Artist. Shirking responsibility then? Katrina happened after most these tracks were cut, so let's not be assholes. He worked in a few rhymes after the fact, very simple stuff like "gotta get the hood back after Katrina" on "Feel Me". But the line that follows is more telling: "Weezy F. Baby, the 'F' is for 'FEMA'." FEMA, that lark, and so goes his point: For relief, he's not responsible. While Wayne hasn't made Tha Carter II a "Katrina album" in the obvious respect (cf. that horrendous "George Bush Doesn't Care About Black People" song rock critics like because they "get" it), he's given New Orleans something much greater-- someone, one of their own, to believe in. "If I talk it I walk it like Herschel," he says on "Mo Fire", his syllables out his mouth like smoke rings-- he means sex, other things too.

Artist: Lil Wayne, Album: Tha Carter II, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "Something great happened last week on The Tonight Show, poor Leno notwithstanding. Camera on musical guest Lil' Wayne, bassist behind him on pasty octaves, some keyboard "funk" preset, really thin till the guitars flange in. This is Alan-born Robin Thicke's "Oh Shooter" they're playing, straight-up, and Thicke, on stage beside Wayne, begins his stick'd-up anthem, his breath caught as it would be near chrome. Tune in then and you'd think Thicke was the star and Weezy just his cough-n-pepper hypeman. "I brought my homeboy with me," says standing Wayne of singing Thicke. He's kidding, right? Technically this is Wayne's song called "Shooter", but the entire "song", down to the track length, is Thicke's original. What a tense performance so far; music played, but you could probably hear a pin drop. This young New Orleans rapper bouncing around on stage with Real Musicians but not much else, good for a laugh or a breakdance or whatever Other-approved televised woop-de-doo-- "cute" and "rap's not so bad after all" but also "rapping is easy," "rap=only good as the sample it swiped". Wayne was holding us at bay, all our presuppositions about his career, his music, his age and color, his responsibility qua artist post-Katrina. If Thicke's the crybaby here, Wayne's the stick-up kid. "They want me with my hands up," sings Thicke, doing that stupid "raise the roof" thing. Wayne breaks: "I'm trying to tell you what I am, baby-- listen." And after almost two minutes of no talking he bursts the song open: "So many doubt cos I come from the South, but when I open my mouth the best come out. It's my turn and I'm starting right here today." And so on-- it's one of those black-and-white-to-technicolor moments after which, if you still don't believe in Wayne, you're just lying to yourself. Granted, Leno won't make "Shooter" Wayne's "song" (it will be though), and we definitely can't call Tha Carter II his coming-of-age album or something equally corny-- people blew that line on the one before. Fact is, Wayne's still young, and he loves that he can get away with shit-- literally. Firmly keeping a foot in the sandbox, Wayne dabbles scatological throughout ("Dear Mr. Toilet/ I'm the shit"), sometimes even elaborately so ("You niggas small bubbles, I burp you/ I'll spit you out and have your girls slurp you"). Total energy thing, his verses still lack polish and a good edit (e.g. so many goddamn shark jokes), and his skits and "personality raps" (cf. "Grown Man") spell him out too bluntly, too vainly. And yet, there's "Shooter", or "Receipt", or "Get Over": "Standin' on stage in front of thousands/ Don't amount to me not having my father." Lines like this fall outta nowhere, jaw-droppers aplenty-- but "don't forget the baby". People who met Wayne on "Go DJ" and thought him a lunchroom hack emcee-- who knows what's happened since then, but damn has he learned how to write. His squeak is now a croak, his laugh a little more burly, his flow remarkably flexible. Sometimes he's deliberate like syrup cats ("But this is Southern, face it/ If we too simple then yall don't get the basics") but when he needs to be, he's nimble as that Other Carter: "I ain't talking too fast you just listening too slow." Remy and weed, fast things and women, the corner-- these are Wayne's wax since B.G.'ing with B.G., putting piff on the campus before he ever enrolled in college. What's different, and crucial: no Mannie Fresh electro-dixie beats. Free from Fresh, Wayne is less a novelty-- less Pinocchio on Pleasure Island (cf. 500 Degreez), less that dorm-room poster of the baby giving the middle finger. In fact, no-name nawlins producers run the boards, their crackly soul sampling and that implied return-to-rap roots a perfect complement to Weezy's raspy, sometimes even Miles Davisian voice. On "Receipt", which lifts the Isleys' "Lay-Away", Wayne's nursery rhyme delivery grants pick-ups like "my daughter want another/ Sister or brother/ And you looking like a mother" that rare smooth-crude game, something a young Curtis Jackson wanted out of "Best Friend" but didn't quite get. "I'm a self-made millionaire, fuck the public," he says on "Money On My Mind." To an extent, he's right. This is Wayne's show, the album's only guests being Kurupt and Birdman and some r&b; b-girls. Not to say he's ungrateful; it's just that establishing his autonomy, his don't give a fuck, is infinitely more important. Lead track "Tha Mobb" really lays the audience/methodology/goals stuff on thick: For five minutes, no chorus, sad piano, he does it for "the gangstas and the bitches, the hustlers and the hos." Crossover? "Whatever." Mainstream? "No!" He refuses to be a Big artist, precisely so he can be a big Artist. Shirking responsibility then? Katrina happened after most these tracks were cut, so let's not be assholes. He worked in a few rhymes after the fact, very simple stuff like "gotta get the hood back after Katrina" on "Feel Me". But the line that follows is more telling: "Weezy F. Baby, the 'F' is for 'FEMA'." FEMA, that lark, and so goes his point: For relief, he's not responsible. While Wayne hasn't made Tha Carter II a "Katrina album" in the obvious respect (cf. that horrendous "George Bush Doesn't Care About Black People" song rock critics like because they "get" it), he's given New Orleans something much greater-- someone, one of their own, to believe in. "If I talk it I walk it like Herschel," he says on "Mo Fire", his syllables out his mouth like smoke rings-- he means sex, other things too."

Various Artists

Young Money: Rise of an Empire

Carrie Battan

Young Money, 2009: Lil Wayne lands on slightly wobbly legs following one of the greatest runs in rap history and extends each arm, for support, to a couple of ascendant stars he’s helped discover, recruit, and mold. To his left is Drake, a kid climbing the ranks and finding chart success despite—or with the help of—his soft Canadian heart and stint as a television actor. To his right is Nicki Minaj, the Queens-bred Trinidadian princess with a handful of dextrous features and a couple of fireball mixtapes behind her, the “Monster” verse still to come. Supervised by Birdman, they’re surrounded by a gaggle of hyperactive oddballs, a motley crew that compensates for its lack of raw skill and starpower with versatility, sheer enthusiasm, and tiger-print pants. They post up in a mansion like it’s summer camp, playing foosball and squirting each other with water guns. Morale and camaraderie is high, and they sound as though they’re having a ton of fun. Young Money, 2014: Lil Wayne, for all intents and purposes, is a fallen hero after a long string of unrecognizably weak projects. His duo of star underlings, however, have scaled the heights of both rap and pop and helped build powerful bridges between the two. Their supporting motley crew is still essentially the same supporting motley crew, if a bit thinned out and dramatically less excitable. Whereas 2009’s compilation We Are Young Money found Wayne and his cohort proudly kicking open doors and announcing their plans for world domination with jester-like sneers and grins, Rise of an Empire positions Young Money as a collective unsmilingly guarding its moneyed perch. “Long as we living right/ Then we alright/ Long as it’s high life/ Then we alright,” goes the bridge of “We Alright”, a lead single tinged with the paranoia of a pack of artists taking stock of exactly what they’ve still got in their collective grasp. If Rise of an Empire is meant to read like some kind of State of the Union address, it paints Young Money as a fractured team that’s lost its compass. Minaj and Drake have fallen so far out of the orbit of Young Money’s pedestrian rings that their contributions almost feel like charity—Drake’s “Trophies” appears on the project months after he released the song for free on SoundCloud through his own OVO imprint. Nicki Minaj’s “Lookin’ Ass”, which she released along with a brutal, artfully shot black-and-white video last month, feels similarly detached from the rest of the compilation, and reads more like a promotion for her forthcoming studio album. Both tracks are highlights and sonic outliers on Rise of an Empire, and they stand in sharp contrast to the rest of the compilation, which—beyond the typical unevenness of any crew album—is largely joyless and anonymous. The group’s youngest rapper, Lil Twist—who’s gained more of a reputation through his misadventures with Justin Bieber than anything else he’s done in recent years—boasts about hanging with Atlanta’s Rich Homie Quan and 2 Chainz rather than Lil Wayne on a song “Bang”. Yes, “Bang”, a hollow retooling of the song that put drill kingpin Chief Keef on the map. Even Tyga, who created a legitimate ripple in the rap pond a couple of years ago with “Rack City” and followed through with a decent album, sounds bored. The only figure with real energy is new Young Money signee Euro, a rapper with an unfortunate name but an imperious presence. But on his boastful coming-out statement “Induction Speech,” he sounds aware of his diminished surroundings: “I flew afternoon and made it by night/ I landed/ The flight was amazing/ I just stayed up and write,” he raps about his arrival, before confessing: “Chauffeur was waiting with a sign/ Except my name wasn’t right.” He goes on to crack about forgetting to text Mack Maine, Young Money’s effective director of operations, once he’s gotten in town. Lil Wayne, who's allegedly gearing up to release the fifth installment of Tha Carter, sums up Rise of an Empire pretty tidily on "Moment": "Lately all I been doing is celebrating/ Don't even know why I'm celebrating." But he certainly has one reason to celebrate: Drake and Minaj, despite their evident drift from the day-to-day operations of Young Money, remain deeply loyal to he and Birdman. A DVD released along with the deluxe edition of Nicki Minaj’s last album pictures her alongside Wayne, presenting him with a brand new car for his birthday and faithfully referring to him as the President. She and Drake clearly remember the days when they were lucky to have Young Money. Rise of an Empire paints a different picture, one that emphasizes exactly how lucky Young Money is to still have them.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Young Money: Rise of an Empire, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 4.9 Album review: "Young Money, 2009: Lil Wayne lands on slightly wobbly legs following one of the greatest runs in rap history and extends each arm, for support, to a couple of ascendant stars he’s helped discover, recruit, and mold. To his left is Drake, a kid climbing the ranks and finding chart success despite—or with the help of—his soft Canadian heart and stint as a television actor. To his right is Nicki Minaj, the Queens-bred Trinidadian princess with a handful of dextrous features and a couple of fireball mixtapes behind her, the “Monster” verse still to come. Supervised by Birdman, they’re surrounded by a gaggle of hyperactive oddballs, a motley crew that compensates for its lack of raw skill and starpower with versatility, sheer enthusiasm, and tiger-print pants. They post up in a mansion like it’s summer camp, playing foosball and squirting each other with water guns. Morale and camaraderie is high, and they sound as though they’re having a ton of fun. Young Money, 2014: Lil Wayne, for all intents and purposes, is a fallen hero after a long string of unrecognizably weak projects. His duo of star underlings, however, have scaled the heights of both rap and pop and helped build powerful bridges between the two. Their supporting motley crew is still essentially the same supporting motley crew, if a bit thinned out and dramatically less excitable. Whereas 2009’s compilation We Are Young Money found Wayne and his cohort proudly kicking open doors and announcing their plans for world domination with jester-like sneers and grins, Rise of an Empire positions Young Money as a collective unsmilingly guarding its moneyed perch. “Long as we living right/ Then we alright/ Long as it’s high life/ Then we alright,” goes the bridge of “We Alright”, a lead single tinged with the paranoia of a pack of artists taking stock of exactly what they’ve still got in their collective grasp. If Rise of an Empire is meant to read like some kind of State of the Union address, it paints Young Money as a fractured team that’s lost its compass. Minaj and Drake have fallen so far out of the orbit of Young Money’s pedestrian rings that their contributions almost feel like charity—Drake’s “Trophies” appears on the project months after he released the song for free on SoundCloud through his own OVO imprint. Nicki Minaj’s “Lookin’ Ass”, which she released along with a brutal, artfully shot black-and-white video last month, feels similarly detached from the rest of the compilation, and reads more like a promotion for her forthcoming studio album. Both tracks are highlights and sonic outliers on Rise of an Empire, and they stand in sharp contrast to the rest of the compilation, which—beyond the typical unevenness of any crew album—is largely joyless and anonymous. The group’s youngest rapper, Lil Twist—who’s gained more of a reputation through his misadventures with Justin Bieber than anything else he’s done in recent years—boasts about hanging with Atlanta’s Rich Homie Quan and 2 Chainz rather than Lil Wayne on a song “Bang”. Yes, “Bang”, a hollow retooling of the song that put drill kingpin Chief Keef on the map. Even Tyga, who created a legitimate ripple in the rap pond a couple of years ago with “Rack City” and followed through with a decent album, sounds bored. The only figure with real energy is new Young Money signee Euro, a rapper with an unfortunate name but an imperious presence. But on his boastful coming-out statement “Induction Speech,” he sounds aware of his diminished surroundings: “I flew afternoon and made it by night/ I landed/ The flight was amazing/ I just stayed up and write,” he raps about his arrival, before confessing: “Chauffeur was waiting with a sign/ Except my name wasn’t right.” He goes on to crack about forgetting to text Mack Maine, Young Money’s effective director of operations, once he’s gotten in town. Lil Wayne, who's allegedly gearing up to release the fifth installment of Tha Carter, sums up Rise of an Empire pretty tidily on "Moment": "Lately all I been doing is celebrating/ Don't even know why I'm celebrating." But he certainly has one reason to celebrate: Drake and Minaj, despite their evident drift from the day-to-day operations of Young Money, remain deeply loyal to he and Birdman. A DVD released along with the deluxe edition of Nicki Minaj’s last album pictures her alongside Wayne, presenting him with a brand new car for his birthday and faithfully referring to him as the President. She and Drake clearly remember the days when they were lucky to have Young Money. Rise of an Empire paints a different picture, one that emphasizes exactly how lucky Young Money is to still have them."

Amandine

This Is Where Our Hearts Collide

Folk/Country

Marc Hogan

The geography of Sweden is rolling, majestic, and surprisingly diverse. The subarctic north imposes with its icy grandeur; near Stockholm a national park sprawls over 300-year-old virgin forest. The south is typically temperate. So too Amandine's spacious folk-pop, which like its place of origin is probably slightly bigger than California-- and provides a higher standard of living than good ol' Bushworld by most measures. On This Is Where Our Hearts Collide, Amandine roam across a vast and chilly plain, tumbling guitars and graceful bearing aligning them with the windswept Americana of Sun Kil Moon, Songs:Ohia, or pre-Z My Morning Jacket. The arrangements are spare yet sky-wide, occasionally visited by banjos, accordions, glockenspiels, and theremin. "Stitches" emerges from the previous track's halting piano to survey the tundra with crunching Neil Young licks and mournful, distant trumpet. Yet singer Olof Gidlöf's trembling whisper and easy sense of pop melody evoke a comfortable, hypothetical Sam Beam-Ben Gibbard collab. Gentle love song "Easy Prey" traces an elegant extended metaphor over a twirling arpeggio, Gidlöf sighing, "With your paws upon my chest/ I'll be calm." Boundless horizons meet the intimate under uneasy harmonies. Meanwhile, even the most cinematic ballads smolder with weary sadness. The album title suggests emo, but the heartbreak is more permanent, without that genre's too-common petulance. "How much can you ask for before I start letting you down," goes the warm, stately chorus of "Fine Lines". After a lazy banjo intro, Gidlöf continues an unbearably lonely conversation -- "And we fell apart/ Like fathers and sons" -- on "Fathers & Sons". "Firefly" opens with a buzzing acoustic guitar rhythm out of Radiohead's "Exit Music (for a Film)" and plays the weeping-violins card nicely, aided by intertwined falsetto vocals and left-behind drums. "If it stings, it stings because it's true," Gidlöf sings. All in all, it's possibly what you'd hope for from a group of Swedes who originally called themselves Wichita Linemen, but more than you could expect. Don't know much else about Sweden, but This Is Where Our Hearts Collide is really about the complicated geography of hope and sorrow. Not a neutral country, exactly, but a worthy escape.

Artist: Amandine, Album: This Is Where Our Hearts Collide, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "The geography of Sweden is rolling, majestic, and surprisingly diverse. The subarctic north imposes with its icy grandeur; near Stockholm a national park sprawls over 300-year-old virgin forest. The south is typically temperate. So too Amandine's spacious folk-pop, which like its place of origin is probably slightly bigger than California-- and provides a higher standard of living than good ol' Bushworld by most measures. On This Is Where Our Hearts Collide, Amandine roam across a vast and chilly plain, tumbling guitars and graceful bearing aligning them with the windswept Americana of Sun Kil Moon, Songs:Ohia, or pre-Z My Morning Jacket. The arrangements are spare yet sky-wide, occasionally visited by banjos, accordions, glockenspiels, and theremin. "Stitches" emerges from the previous track's halting piano to survey the tundra with crunching Neil Young licks and mournful, distant trumpet. Yet singer Olof Gidlöf's trembling whisper and easy sense of pop melody evoke a comfortable, hypothetical Sam Beam-Ben Gibbard collab. Gentle love song "Easy Prey" traces an elegant extended metaphor over a twirling arpeggio, Gidlöf sighing, "With your paws upon my chest/ I'll be calm." Boundless horizons meet the intimate under uneasy harmonies. Meanwhile, even the most cinematic ballads smolder with weary sadness. The album title suggests emo, but the heartbreak is more permanent, without that genre's too-common petulance. "How much can you ask for before I start letting you down," goes the warm, stately chorus of "Fine Lines". After a lazy banjo intro, Gidlöf continues an unbearably lonely conversation -- "And we fell apart/ Like fathers and sons" -- on "Fathers & Sons". "Firefly" opens with a buzzing acoustic guitar rhythm out of Radiohead's "Exit Music (for a Film)" and plays the weeping-violins card nicely, aided by intertwined falsetto vocals and left-behind drums. "If it stings, it stings because it's true," Gidlöf sings. All in all, it's possibly what you'd hope for from a group of Swedes who originally called themselves Wichita Linemen, but more than you could expect. Don't know much else about Sweden, but This Is Where Our Hearts Collide is really about the complicated geography of hope and sorrow. Not a neutral country, exactly, but a worthy escape."

Pearson Sound

Pearson Sound

Electronic

Andrew Gaerig

When asked recently to name five records important to him, experimental composer Chris Madak (who often works as Bee Mask) included "Clutch", a clattering track by Pearson Sound (aka David Kennedy) that sounds as if someone mapped a drum machine onto a Rubik's Cube. "I just have a straightforwardly lizard-brained...'whoa…KILLER' reaction to hearing David’s rhythmic chops going off," Madak said, going on to note that watching DJs slip the tune into a set "was like watching someone execute a really hair-raising parallel parking job in one shot." Therein lies the thrilling paradox in Kennedy's dance productions: they are inscrutable, bordering on the avant-garde, and yet still provoke primal, dunderheaded glee. We're all still cavemen bashing sticks and rocks together, but one caveman taught himself polyrhythms. Kennedy has honed his highly rhythmic style over the course of a dozen-plus singles as Pearson Sound, most productively since he dropped his Ramadanman title in 2011. He's done so as one of the UK's most adventurous DJs and as co-head (with Ben UFO and Pangaea) of London's Hessle Audio label, whose sparse release schedule has proved mostly bulletproof. (The label's weekly Thursday broadcast on Rinse FM, largely helmed by Ben UFO, is vital listening for fans of underground electronic music.) But whereas Kennedy's peers have cobbled together styles from house, techno, grime, and the remains of dubstep—and therefore tread in the middle of some Venn diagram or another—Kennedy's work seems to exist at a single nexus point, fully discrete, tangential to his surroundings. Pearson Sound is the long awaited debut album: nine terse, often brutish rhythm tracks laid out end-to-end, because ambient interludes and extended outros are for mama's boys and DJs, respectively. Kennedy's compositions consist chiefly of drums, most recognizable as such, and so the experience of listening to nine tracks in a row is not unlike having some dental work done under local anaesthetic—there's lots of painless drilling, popping, and clicking, perhaps some tingling. About 40 minutes later, it's over. Pearson Sound re-calcifies Kennedy's aesthetic after recent releases saw him dip his toes into tonal arpeggios and gummy grime melodies. His tracks are economical and athletic, prizing both strength and dexterity. This is borne out in tracks such as "Glass Eye", which doesn't seek to bash but dizzy, and does so with a paucity of elements: just some shivering snares and a liquid string figure. Kennedy twists his drums just so, playing with dub and house conventions. His snares aren't treated with delay so much as suspended in gelatin, left to quiver, quiver, quiver until finding a state of rest. He's adept at using tonal percussion, crafting melodies from toms and congas the way some producers use pianos. Opener "Asphalt Sparkle" features what is either a hi-hat playing 16th notes or a chain being slowly pulled. The track's rhythm doesn't swing; it cranks. There's a natural, but ephemeral, comparison to the "drum tracks" that came out of Chicago in the mid- and late-1980s. Drum tracks were tools to help DJs house-ify their sets; Kennedy is composing with rhythm, an outgrowth of Shackleton's early dubwise singles or the nimble grooves of bass explorer Loefah, placing him amongst the small group of producers who learned more from dubstep than how to book DJ gigs. What's refreshing about Kennedy's tracks—alluded to in Madak's quote above—is the amount of fun he wrangles out of such a sparse and austere template. The melodic elements are bright and whipsmart. The synthesized horn sound that buoys "Headless" sounds like it's being played by a sad emoji. "Swill" is like the ballroom classic "The Ha Dance" reflected in a funhouse mirror. "Crank Call" is a disorienting tour de force, featuring a ringing telephone, heavy breathing, and what sounds like a filter sweep being performed on a pack of laughing hyenas. Perhaps unsurprisingly coming from an artist who mostly bangs on cans, the nine tracks on Pearson Sound don't represent any kind of narrative or linear progression. Even for a dance album—a notoriously tricky medium—it can feel disassociated, so just as you'll never doubt you're listening to Pearson Sound, you may forget you're listening to Pearson Sound. Another quibble: The harsher, craggier sound palette used here—the product of analog gear, reading the press junket tea leaves—strips these tracks, subtly, of the graceful hypnosis of Kennedy's finest works ("Clutch" and "Lola", in addition to "REM" and "Untitled"). Still, Pearson Sound tracks are lessons in how to push boundaries without sacrificing dance music's primeval instincts, and Pearson Sound contains nine such lessons. Bang some things together in celebration.

Artist: Pearson Sound, Album: Pearson Sound, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "When asked recently to name five records important to him, experimental composer Chris Madak (who often works as Bee Mask) included "Clutch", a clattering track by Pearson Sound (aka David Kennedy) that sounds as if someone mapped a drum machine onto a Rubik's Cube. "I just have a straightforwardly lizard-brained...'whoa…KILLER' reaction to hearing David’s rhythmic chops going off," Madak said, going on to note that watching DJs slip the tune into a set "was like watching someone execute a really hair-raising parallel parking job in one shot." Therein lies the thrilling paradox in Kennedy's dance productions: they are inscrutable, bordering on the avant-garde, and yet still provoke primal, dunderheaded glee. We're all still cavemen bashing sticks and rocks together, but one caveman taught himself polyrhythms. Kennedy has honed his highly rhythmic style over the course of a dozen-plus singles as Pearson Sound, most productively since he dropped his Ramadanman title in 2011. He's done so as one of the UK's most adventurous DJs and as co-head (with Ben UFO and Pangaea) of London's Hessle Audio label, whose sparse release schedule has proved mostly bulletproof. (The label's weekly Thursday broadcast on Rinse FM, largely helmed by Ben UFO, is vital listening for fans of underground electronic music.) But whereas Kennedy's peers have cobbled together styles from house, techno, grime, and the remains of dubstep—and therefore tread in the middle of some Venn diagram or another—Kennedy's work seems to exist at a single nexus point, fully discrete, tangential to his surroundings. Pearson Sound is the long awaited debut album: nine terse, often brutish rhythm tracks laid out end-to-end, because ambient interludes and extended outros are for mama's boys and DJs, respectively. Kennedy's compositions consist chiefly of drums, most recognizable as such, and so the experience of listening to nine tracks in a row is not unlike having some dental work done under local anaesthetic—there's lots of painless drilling, popping, and clicking, perhaps some tingling. About 40 minutes later, it's over. Pearson Sound re-calcifies Kennedy's aesthetic after recent releases saw him dip his toes into tonal arpeggios and gummy grime melodies. His tracks are economical and athletic, prizing both strength and dexterity. This is borne out in tracks such as "Glass Eye", which doesn't seek to bash but dizzy, and does so with a paucity of elements: just some shivering snares and a liquid string figure. Kennedy twists his drums just so, playing with dub and house conventions. His snares aren't treated with delay so much as suspended in gelatin, left to quiver, quiver, quiver until finding a state of rest. He's adept at using tonal percussion, crafting melodies from toms and congas the way some producers use pianos. Opener "Asphalt Sparkle" features what is either a hi-hat playing 16th notes or a chain being slowly pulled. The track's rhythm doesn't swing; it cranks. There's a natural, but ephemeral, comparison to the "drum tracks" that came out of Chicago in the mid- and late-1980s. Drum tracks were tools to help DJs house-ify their sets; Kennedy is composing with rhythm, an outgrowth of Shackleton's early dubwise singles or the nimble grooves of bass explorer Loefah, placing him amongst the small group of producers who learned more from dubstep than how to book DJ gigs. What's refreshing about Kennedy's tracks—alluded to in Madak's quote above—is the amount of fun he wrangles out of such a sparse and austere template. The melodic elements are bright and whipsmart. The synthesized horn sound that buoys "Headless" sounds like it's being played by a sad emoji. "Swill" is like the ballroom classic "The Ha Dance" reflected in a funhouse mirror. "Crank Call" is a disorienting tour de force, featuring a ringing telephone, heavy breathing, and what sounds like a filter sweep being performed on a pack of laughing hyenas. Perhaps unsurprisingly coming from an artist who mostly bangs on cans, the nine tracks on Pearson Sound don't represent any kind of narrative or linear progression. Even for a dance album—a notoriously tricky medium—it can feel disassociated, so just as you'll never doubt you're listening to Pearson Sound, you may forget you're listening to Pearson Sound. Another quibble: The harsher, craggier sound palette used here—the product of analog gear, reading the press junket tea leaves—strips these tracks, subtly, of the graceful hypnosis of Kennedy's finest works ("Clutch" and "Lola", in addition to "REM" and "Untitled"). Still, Pearson Sound tracks are lessons in how to push boundaries without sacrificing dance music's primeval instincts, and Pearson Sound contains nine such lessons. Bang some things together in celebration."

Wet

Still Run

Pop/R&B

Olivia Horn

What’s popular music without its staple, the breakup album? Alt-R&B outfit Wet, the duo of Brooklynites Kelly Zutrau and Joe Valle, are great champions of the form: Still Run is their second album and also their second contribution to the tradition. Following 2016’s Don’t You, a collection of languid songs about heartbreak, this record is the product of an arduous internal rift that culminated in 2017 with the departure of founding member Marty Sulkow. Loosely interpreted, most of the songs on Still Run are as applicable to Sulkow’s split as they are to actual romance, making it something of a double-layered breakup album. Unfortunately, the record does little justice to the drama that surrounds any sort of separation, whether creative or romantic. There are plenty of things that should be working in Wet’s favor here, not least of which is the cast of collaborators they’ve assembled. Ubiquitous pop producer-at-large Rostam Batmanglij helms two of the 10 songs; Andrew Sarlo, who last year produced Big Thief’s stunning sophomore record, handles another four. R&B crooner Starchild & the New Romantic lends his voice to the title track, and Lykke Li also makes an appearance. As Zutrau tells it, Still Run contains some of the group’s most accomplished work to date, and, to their credit, they have made moves towards overcoming one of Don’t You’s major shortcomings: its struggle to break out of a downtempo daze. But despite its starpower and self-generated hype, Still Run ends up being something about as adventurous—and nourishing—as a plate of buttered noodles. Lyrically, more often than not, these songs are frustratingly uncreative. Though the record centers on conflict, Zutrau, in her role as narrator, may as well be a friend of a friend of the person who actually lived through it: She recounts these stories of separation, grief, and recovery with such scant detail or apparent emotion that it’s hard to feel invested in their outcomes. Throughout, she readily turns to canned metaphor. In “There’s a Reason,” some instability (the actual tenor remains elusive) is described as a rhythm “just out of time.” Several tracks later Zutrau pleads, “life without you” is “like a note sung out of tune.” Behind her hackneyed words, a steady stream of unfussy piano chords and tidy percussion do little to elevate the listening experience. There are a few moments when the ear perks up. At the beginning of “This Woman Loves You,” one of Rostam’s wards, he pushes Zutrau’s voice through a hazy filter and pairs it with wily country-inflected slide guitar; the effect contains hints of the same genre-smashing quirkiness that made the producer’s work with Haim so delightful. Unfortunately, the track still ends up being one of Still Run’s worst offenders. It lauds the flag and quotes “America the Beautiful” (“This woman loves you/From sea to shining sea”), likening romantic love to love of country—an effort that seems woefully miscalculated at a time when Wet’s base probably feels minimally patriotic. Another bright spot appears in “Love Is Not Enough.” This final song, if a bit plodding, is at least intriguing. Its opening piano melody gives off haunted music-box vibes, and Zutrau’s voice, multi-tracked and so thin as to be almost translucent, approximates the sound of a gang of ghosts playing Ring Around the Rosie. For the first time on the record, strings are used to some emotional end, rather than as pure decoration, as they shudder in time with Zutrau’s fraught realization about love’s impermanence. The song leaves you to wonder why those that preceded it couldn’t have drawn more from its playbook. Regrettably, just as love is not enough to sustain a union, these few compelling moments are not enough to carry an album’s worth of fluff.

Artist: Wet, Album: Still Run, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.2 Album review: "What’s popular music without its staple, the breakup album? Alt-R&B outfit Wet, the duo of Brooklynites Kelly Zutrau and Joe Valle, are great champions of the form: Still Run is their second album and also their second contribution to the tradition. Following 2016’s Don’t You, a collection of languid songs about heartbreak, this record is the product of an arduous internal rift that culminated in 2017 with the departure of founding member Marty Sulkow. Loosely interpreted, most of the songs on Still Run are as applicable to Sulkow’s split as they are to actual romance, making it something of a double-layered breakup album. Unfortunately, the record does little justice to the drama that surrounds any sort of separation, whether creative or romantic. There are plenty of things that should be working in Wet’s favor here, not least of which is the cast of collaborators they’ve assembled. Ubiquitous pop producer-at-large Rostam Batmanglij helms two of the 10 songs; Andrew Sarlo, who last year produced Big Thief’s stunning sophomore record, handles another four. R&B crooner Starchild & the New Romantic lends his voice to the title track, and Lykke Li also makes an appearance. As Zutrau tells it, Still Run contains some of the group’s most accomplished work to date, and, to their credit, they have made moves towards overcoming one of Don’t You’s major shortcomings: its struggle to break out of a downtempo daze. But despite its starpower and self-generated hype, Still Run ends up being something about as adventurous—and nourishing—as a plate of buttered noodles. Lyrically, more often than not, these songs are frustratingly uncreative. Though the record centers on conflict, Zutrau, in her role as narrator, may as well be a friend of a friend of the person who actually lived through it: She recounts these stories of separation, grief, and recovery with such scant detail or apparent emotion that it’s hard to feel invested in their outcomes. Throughout, she readily turns to canned metaphor. In “There’s a Reason,” some instability (the actual tenor remains elusive) is described as a rhythm “just out of time.” Several tracks later Zutrau pleads, “life without you” is “like a note sung out of tune.” Behind her hackneyed words, a steady stream of unfussy piano chords and tidy percussion do little to elevate the listening experience. There are a few moments when the ear perks up. At the beginning of “This Woman Loves You,” one of Rostam’s wards, he pushes Zutrau’s voice through a hazy filter and pairs it with wily country-inflected slide guitar; the effect contains hints of the same genre-smashing quirkiness that made the producer’s work with Haim so delightful. Unfortunately, the track still ends up being one of Still Run’s worst offenders. It lauds the flag and quotes “America the Beautiful” (“This woman loves you/From sea to shining sea”), likening romantic love to love of country—an effort that seems woefully miscalculated at a time when Wet’s base probably feels minimally patriotic. Another bright spot appears in “Love Is Not Enough.” This final song, if a bit plodding, is at least intriguing. Its opening piano melody gives off haunted music-box vibes, and Zutrau’s voice, multi-tracked and so thin as to be almost translucent, approximates the sound of a gang of ghosts playing Ring Around the Rosie. For the first time on the record, strings are used to some emotional end, rather than as pure decoration, as they shudder in time with Zutrau’s fraught realization about love’s impermanence. The song leaves you to wonder why those that preceded it couldn’t have drawn more from its playbook. Regrettably, just as love is not enough to sustain a union, these few compelling moments are not enough to carry an album’s worth of fluff."

Luke Haines

Outsider/In: The Collection

Pop/R&B

Nick Neyland

It's interesting to look at photographs of Luke Haines from early in his career and compare them to his current psychotic-cricketer phase. In the early 1990s he had flowing blond locks, was mercifully shorn of all facial hair, and could even be described as "cherubic" at a push. But there was still a pitiless look in his eyes in press shots. This wasn't Haines preparing for a life in the music industry; it was Haines preparing for a life-long bout of antagonizing everyone and everything around him. After a few false starts, he formed the Auteurs and got lifted up in the afterglow of the then-ascendant Suede, whom his band supported on tour, helping blast open the doors for a distinctly English strain of songwriting after years of grunge-soaked fervor. Naturally, Haines has little time for Suede, or the ensuing Britpop scene, or indeed anything else that has had the misfortune to come into contact with him over the years. Thankfully, he's become an expert and, at times, very funny documenter of his own life. His first of two books, Bad Vibes: Britpop and My Part in Its Downfall, was a deliciously brutal ode to hatred, cynicism, and bitterness, all powered by Haines' unshakable belief in his own talent. In 2005 a compilation titled Luke Haines Is Dead was released, gathering a mixture of singles, outtakes, and rarities from his career. Outsider/In is a more focused collection, packaged in a cover so hideous that it looks like Haines' jaw is slowly drooping into his chest. It's hard not to see that photograph as a deliberate aesthetic choice, although it's possible that Haines had little to do with the packaging of this compilation. Nick Cave went through a deliberate process of musical and personal uglification when he formed Grinderman, causing him to revel in a level of repugnancy that felt like a huge creative shot in the arm for him. Haines, 10 years Cave's junior, had already been down there a long time at that point. In the mid 90s he thought it would be a good idea to release a couple of singles (both included here) from the Auteurs' third album, the Steve Albini-produced After Murder Park. He chose "Light Aircraft on Fire", about people burning to death at 10,000 feet; and "Unsolved Child Murder", the title of which must have really thrilled the radio pluggers at the Auteurs' major record label. It's tempting to say "we need more like him," but we don't. Haines' work resonates precisely because of his lack of peers, gaining strength from having no one willing or able to descend to his depths The first disc from this this 2xCD set leans heavily on the Auteurs' 1993 debut New Wave, in which he was pedaling less sinister wares. Here, Haines is as fame-obsessed as a number of his reluctant Britpop counterparts, albeit with odd diversions into the hatred that would come to shape him on tracks like "Valet Parking" and "Home Again". Try counting the amount of times the word "star" appears in the lyrics on New Wave, and you'll quickly lose count. It would be easy to paint Haines as someone who collapsed into bitterness as his audience diminished and he tired of the industry mechanisms he bemoans in Bad Vibes. But Haines is a more complex character than that. His chops as a songwriter sharpened in direct inverse to his work as a musician, with throwaway songs chained to impressively catchy melodies ("Show Girl", "Lenny Valentino") giving way to intelligent lyrics tied to less inspired backings ("The Spook Manifesto", "England vs America"). What binds this wayward collection, with its diversions into the unlikely u-ziq remix project and tracks pulled from Haines' concept album about the notorious urban guerilla group Baader Meinhof, is his authoritative vocal work. Often it sounds like he's deliberately straining, adding an extra dose of misanthropy to proceedings. At other times he's up in his higher registry, then moving close to a whisper, buttering us up with a deceptive sweetness until you remember he's singing about killing a modern artist ("Death of Sarah Lucas"). When tracks are stripped out like this it can feel like Haines' is striving to make a Big Statement every time he steps in front of a microphone, and while there is a kernel of truth in that, it's largely a flaw in listening to his music this way, especially when his last brush with populism (in the group Black Box Recorder) is nowhere to be found on Outsider/In. Instead, we get something that's flawed, ugly, and doesn't work quite right-- all essential components in Haines' askew take on the world.

Artist: Luke Haines, Album: Outsider/In: The Collection, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "It's interesting to look at photographs of Luke Haines from early in his career and compare them to his current psychotic-cricketer phase. In the early 1990s he had flowing blond locks, was mercifully shorn of all facial hair, and could even be described as "cherubic" at a push. But there was still a pitiless look in his eyes in press shots. This wasn't Haines preparing for a life in the music industry; it was Haines preparing for a life-long bout of antagonizing everyone and everything around him. After a few false starts, he formed the Auteurs and got lifted up in the afterglow of the then-ascendant Suede, whom his band supported on tour, helping blast open the doors for a distinctly English strain of songwriting after years of grunge-soaked fervor. Naturally, Haines has little time for Suede, or the ensuing Britpop scene, or indeed anything else that has had the misfortune to come into contact with him over the years. Thankfully, he's become an expert and, at times, very funny documenter of his own life. His first of two books, Bad Vibes: Britpop and My Part in Its Downfall, was a deliciously brutal ode to hatred, cynicism, and bitterness, all powered by Haines' unshakable belief in his own talent. In 2005 a compilation titled Luke Haines Is Dead was released, gathering a mixture of singles, outtakes, and rarities from his career. Outsider/In is a more focused collection, packaged in a cover so hideous that it looks like Haines' jaw is slowly drooping into his chest. It's hard not to see that photograph as a deliberate aesthetic choice, although it's possible that Haines had little to do with the packaging of this compilation. Nick Cave went through a deliberate process of musical and personal uglification when he formed Grinderman, causing him to revel in a level of repugnancy that felt like a huge creative shot in the arm for him. Haines, 10 years Cave's junior, had already been down there a long time at that point. In the mid 90s he thought it would be a good idea to release a couple of singles (both included here) from the Auteurs' third album, the Steve Albini-produced After Murder Park. He chose "Light Aircraft on Fire", about people burning to death at 10,000 feet; and "Unsolved Child Murder", the title of which must have really thrilled the radio pluggers at the Auteurs' major record label. It's tempting to say "we need more like him," but we don't. Haines' work resonates precisely because of his lack of peers, gaining strength from having no one willing or able to descend to his depths The first disc from this this 2xCD set leans heavily on the Auteurs' 1993 debut New Wave, in which he was pedaling less sinister wares. Here, Haines is as fame-obsessed as a number of his reluctant Britpop counterparts, albeit with odd diversions into the hatred that would come to shape him on tracks like "Valet Parking" and "Home Again". Try counting the amount of times the word "star" appears in the lyrics on New Wave, and you'll quickly lose count. It would be easy to paint Haines as someone who collapsed into bitterness as his audience diminished and he tired of the industry mechanisms he bemoans in Bad Vibes. But Haines is a more complex character than that. His chops as a songwriter sharpened in direct inverse to his work as a musician, with throwaway songs chained to impressively catchy melodies ("Show Girl", "Lenny Valentino") giving way to intelligent lyrics tied to less inspired backings ("The Spook Manifesto", "England vs America"). What binds this wayward collection, with its diversions into the unlikely u-ziq remix project and tracks pulled from Haines' concept album about the notorious urban guerilla group Baader Meinhof, is his authoritative vocal work. Often it sounds like he's deliberately straining, adding an extra dose of misanthropy to proceedings. At other times he's up in his higher registry, then moving close to a whisper, buttering us up with a deceptive sweetness until you remember he's singing about killing a modern artist ("Death of Sarah Lucas"). When tracks are stripped out like this it can feel like Haines' is striving to make a Big Statement every time he steps in front of a microphone, and while there is a kernel of truth in that, it's largely a flaw in listening to his music this way, especially when his last brush with populism (in the group Black Box Recorder) is nowhere to be found on Outsider/In. Instead, we get something that's flawed, ugly, and doesn't work quite right-- all essential components in Haines' askew take on the world."

Leven Signs

Hemp Is Here

Nick Neyland

Musical secrets are still out there, even if they’re no longer hiding in plain sight. The Mutant Sounds blog, so long a bastion of barely-heard esoterica, recently ran into trouble, ultimately deciding to take down the vast collection of free downloads they had lovingly curated since 2007. Mutant Sounds has announced it will continue in some format, although the download archive apparently won't be returning in full, pushing its myriad obscurities a little further back into the shadows. That stuff is still out there, of course-- anything released to the internet never goes away for very long-- but the ghost-like presence of shuttered "sharity" blogs, all emptied of their wares, already resemble thoroughly picked-over corpses discarded at the roadside. Mutant Sounds mostly traded in obscure, out-of-print, long-forgotten releases; music that was either impossible to find, inordinately expensive, or both of those things. A re-interpretation of "issues pertaining to copyright online" is cited by the blog owners as a reason for removing the files. Perhaps it's wise that they're protecting themselves in this way, even if copyright issues feel like the furthest thing from the minds of artists releasing limited edition cassette-tapes three decades ago. Either way, the biggest loss, other than the free ticket to wallow in some of music's darkest, most mysterious corners, is the fact that a handful of musicians whose work circulated on those blogs ended up getting officially reissued on proper labels. This was a place far removed from rampant piracy. Often, it felt like an invaluable service was being carried out. The folks at the Digitalis label first came across the work of U.K. duo Leven Signs via a "chance encounter" with a cassette of their solitary album, Hemp Is Here, originally released in 1985. A search of the Mutant Sounds archive brings up a 2007 post for the album, which is likely to have been most people's entry point to the record. In many ways it typifies the spirit of the blog, taking great lurches in style, having scant regard for the world outside, sounding like it was recorded on a piece of old kitchen roll. Sometimes it bears a tiny resemblance to the wider post-punk narrative being spun at that time, especially when clattering, gamelan-influenced percussion collides into the kitchen sink sound of bands like Rip Rig + Panic. But its most overt tie to post-punk is in its desire to tear up music history in order to not sound like anyone else at all. Leven Signs is the work of Peter Karkut and Maggie Turner; the latter provides vocals that occasionally sound like a less-stern Nico, all buried so deep in the mix that it feels like she's performing somewhere else, in a distant room, with a different band altogether. What Karkut is doing is anyone's guess. There are perceptible organ tones, noises that resemble slide whistles, percussion that sounds like a recording of one of those wind-up toy drumming bears. It's clear that a lot of work and thought went into Hemp Is Here, especially in the tracks where abstract tape loops are laced around one another, recalling the future voyages into playfulness of the Focus Group. There's also a strong sense of junk shop experimentalism later shared by groups like Pram, where everything is thrown up in the air and loosely arranged after it lands. At times Hemp Is Here shares a sense of discovery with Scott Walker's later works, albeit one executed on a fraction of the budget. Occasionally a male vocal emerges on certain tracks, presumably belonging to Karkut, bearing a deep, throaty abrasion that closely mirrors Walker. Similarly, it's not hard to imagine Karkut mic-ing up a piece of meat and thwacking away at it, just to see where it will take him. That place where Leven Signs ended up is still hard to define, even some 28 years later. But the beauty of this record, and much of the Mutant Sounds family of which it feels a part, is in the feeling of listening to something that fell between the cracks, that perpetually escapes easy definition. Digitalis tracked down Karkut in order to release Hemp is Here, although few details on how this recording came into being are forthcoming. It's a more powerful work that way, carrying around a few hundred imagined histories on its back.

Artist: Leven Signs, Album: Hemp Is Here, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Musical secrets are still out there, even if they’re no longer hiding in plain sight. The Mutant Sounds blog, so long a bastion of barely-heard esoterica, recently ran into trouble, ultimately deciding to take down the vast collection of free downloads they had lovingly curated since 2007. Mutant Sounds has announced it will continue in some format, although the download archive apparently won't be returning in full, pushing its myriad obscurities a little further back into the shadows. That stuff is still out there, of course-- anything released to the internet never goes away for very long-- but the ghost-like presence of shuttered "sharity" blogs, all emptied of their wares, already resemble thoroughly picked-over corpses discarded at the roadside. Mutant Sounds mostly traded in obscure, out-of-print, long-forgotten releases; music that was either impossible to find, inordinately expensive, or both of those things. A re-interpretation of "issues pertaining to copyright online" is cited by the blog owners as a reason for removing the files. Perhaps it's wise that they're protecting themselves in this way, even if copyright issues feel like the furthest thing from the minds of artists releasing limited edition cassette-tapes three decades ago. Either way, the biggest loss, other than the free ticket to wallow in some of music's darkest, most mysterious corners, is the fact that a handful of musicians whose work circulated on those blogs ended up getting officially reissued on proper labels. This was a place far removed from rampant piracy. Often, it felt like an invaluable service was being carried out. The folks at the Digitalis label first came across the work of U.K. duo Leven Signs via a "chance encounter" with a cassette of their solitary album, Hemp Is Here, originally released in 1985. A search of the Mutant Sounds archive brings up a 2007 post for the album, which is likely to have been most people's entry point to the record. In many ways it typifies the spirit of the blog, taking great lurches in style, having scant regard for the world outside, sounding like it was recorded on a piece of old kitchen roll. Sometimes it bears a tiny resemblance to the wider post-punk narrative being spun at that time, especially when clattering, gamelan-influenced percussion collides into the kitchen sink sound of bands like Rip Rig + Panic. But its most overt tie to post-punk is in its desire to tear up music history in order to not sound like anyone else at all. Leven Signs is the work of Peter Karkut and Maggie Turner; the latter provides vocals that occasionally sound like a less-stern Nico, all buried so deep in the mix that it feels like she's performing somewhere else, in a distant room, with a different band altogether. What Karkut is doing is anyone's guess. There are perceptible organ tones, noises that resemble slide whistles, percussion that sounds like a recording of one of those wind-up toy drumming bears. It's clear that a lot of work and thought went into Hemp Is Here, especially in the tracks where abstract tape loops are laced around one another, recalling the future voyages into playfulness of the Focus Group. There's also a strong sense of junk shop experimentalism later shared by groups like Pram, where everything is thrown up in the air and loosely arranged after it lands. At times Hemp Is Here shares a sense of discovery with Scott Walker's later works, albeit one executed on a fraction of the budget. Occasionally a male vocal emerges on certain tracks, presumably belonging to Karkut, bearing a deep, throaty abrasion that closely mirrors Walker. Similarly, it's not hard to imagine Karkut mic-ing up a piece of meat and thwacking away at it, just to see where it will take him. That place where Leven Signs ended up is still hard to define, even some 28 years later. But the beauty of this record, and much of the Mutant Sounds family of which it feels a part, is in the feeling of listening to something that fell between the cracks, that perpetually escapes easy definition. Digitalis tracked down Karkut in order to release Hemp is Here, although few details on how this recording came into being are forthcoming. It's a more powerful work that way, carrying around a few hundred imagined histories on its back."

My Morning Jacket

Circuital

Rock

Amanda Petrusich

My Morning Jacket have always been something of a mythic outfit. Back in 1999, when the band released its debut LP, The Tennessee Fire (and again in 2001, after the release of At Dawn), its legend was whispered quietly, like a ghost story: Kentucky, grain silos, reverb, that high, liquid voice. As 2001 was the apex of a certain kind of dark, New York City cool-- with the Strokes and Interpol slouching around the Lower East Side in threadbare t-shirts and tiny ties-- My Morning Jacket were steeped in a warm, eerie other-ness that culminated, cathartically, with Jim James howling "All your life/ Is obscene." Well, sure. In the ensuing decade, the band became legendary for its heroic live show (in 2008, they stormed through a near-four-hour set at Bonnaroo), but its studio work has always been a little less triumphant. On record, My Morning Jacket can sometimes sound like a band struggling against its own best interests, purposefully eschewing the exact thing-- huge, ghostly, terrifying rock'n'roll-- it does so disarmingly well. Accordingly, the reigning press narrative surrounding Circuital, MMJ's sixth LP, has been focused on the band's supposed "return to form," a response that feels like a direct reaction to its title (or, more likely, to 2008's falsetto-addled Evil Urges, easily the band's most divisive record). But what are they returning to, exactly? My Morning Jacket’s early discography is rooted in oddball experimentation: Despite the open-mouthed riffing, impenetrable reverb, and whipping hair, they’ve never really been a straightforward rock band, especially on record. Jim James' penchant for psychedelic soul is constantly manifesting in new ways, and while Circuital is closer, certainly, to 2005's Z than Evil Urges, it doesn’t feel like a step backwards, or even like a lateral hop. The record opens with James tooting a half-serious introductory "horn" riff that belies a goofy sense of humor. James has always been something of a jokester (cue the whispered "Shaaa!" at the end of "Circuital" or the line, "They told me not to smoke drugs, but I wouldn't listen/ Never thought I'd get caught and wind up in prison," from "Outta My System"), but his voice is so naturally dramatic that even silly bits can sound like earnest proclamations. That's why-- and this is unique to MMJ-- he often sounds best when he's delivering vague platitudes. Still, anyone who's ever heard James wail in concert is likely to be frustrated by the eternal underuse of his voice in the studio, even when the songs were ostensibly recorded live. There are a few tracks here where producer Tucker Martine captures it in all its intoxicating splendor-- the acoustic lament "Wonderful (The Way I Feel)" especially-- but most only hint at what James is capable of delivering in person. His falsetto (contentious since the days of "Highly Suspicious") comes back for "Holdin on to Black Metal", a bizarre bit of jam-funk that alternates between pleasantly spirited and genuinely stupid (it's a cautionary tale about not growing out of black metal fandom, and ends with a shout of "Let's rock!"). On "Slow Slow Tune", James sounds remarkably vulnerable, singing to his future progeny over a barely there, bubblegum guitar figure that recalls the Everly Brothers before transitioning into a Flaming Lips-style burnout. Like nearly all of their studio albums, Circuital may not reach the heights of the band's live show-- a good MMJ concert can recalibrate your gut, it can change you-- but it’s a remarkably solid step for a band that's never stopped evolving.

Artist: My Morning Jacket, Album: Circuital, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "My Morning Jacket have always been something of a mythic outfit. Back in 1999, when the band released its debut LP, The Tennessee Fire (and again in 2001, after the release of At Dawn), its legend was whispered quietly, like a ghost story: Kentucky, grain silos, reverb, that high, liquid voice. As 2001 was the apex of a certain kind of dark, New York City cool-- with the Strokes and Interpol slouching around the Lower East Side in threadbare t-shirts and tiny ties-- My Morning Jacket were steeped in a warm, eerie other-ness that culminated, cathartically, with Jim James howling "All your life/ Is obscene." Well, sure. In the ensuing decade, the band became legendary for its heroic live show (in 2008, they stormed through a near-four-hour set at Bonnaroo), but its studio work has always been a little less triumphant. On record, My Morning Jacket can sometimes sound like a band struggling against its own best interests, purposefully eschewing the exact thing-- huge, ghostly, terrifying rock'n'roll-- it does so disarmingly well. Accordingly, the reigning press narrative surrounding Circuital, MMJ's sixth LP, has been focused on the band's supposed "return to form," a response that feels like a direct reaction to its title (or, more likely, to 2008's falsetto-addled Evil Urges, easily the band's most divisive record). But what are they returning to, exactly? My Morning Jacket’s early discography is rooted in oddball experimentation: Despite the open-mouthed riffing, impenetrable reverb, and whipping hair, they’ve never really been a straightforward rock band, especially on record. Jim James' penchant for psychedelic soul is constantly manifesting in new ways, and while Circuital is closer, certainly, to 2005's Z than Evil Urges, it doesn’t feel like a step backwards, or even like a lateral hop. The record opens with James tooting a half-serious introductory "horn" riff that belies a goofy sense of humor. James has always been something of a jokester (cue the whispered "Shaaa!" at the end of "Circuital" or the line, "They told me not to smoke drugs, but I wouldn't listen/ Never thought I'd get caught and wind up in prison," from "Outta My System"), but his voice is so naturally dramatic that even silly bits can sound like earnest proclamations. That's why-- and this is unique to MMJ-- he often sounds best when he's delivering vague platitudes. Still, anyone who's ever heard James wail in concert is likely to be frustrated by the eternal underuse of his voice in the studio, even when the songs were ostensibly recorded live. There are a few tracks here where producer Tucker Martine captures it in all its intoxicating splendor-- the acoustic lament "Wonderful (The Way I Feel)" especially-- but most only hint at what James is capable of delivering in person. His falsetto (contentious since the days of "Highly Suspicious") comes back for "Holdin on to Black Metal", a bizarre bit of jam-funk that alternates between pleasantly spirited and genuinely stupid (it's a cautionary tale about not growing out of black metal fandom, and ends with a shout of "Let's rock!"). On "Slow Slow Tune", James sounds remarkably vulnerable, singing to his future progeny over a barely there, bubblegum guitar figure that recalls the Everly Brothers before transitioning into a Flaming Lips-style burnout. Like nearly all of their studio albums, Circuital may not reach the heights of the band's live show-- a good MMJ concert can recalibrate your gut, it can change you-- but it’s a remarkably solid step for a band that's never stopped evolving."

A$AP Ferg

Trap Lord

Rap

Corban Goble

Darold Ferguson Jr.-- best known as A$AP Ferg, a member of A$AP Rocky’s A$AP Mob-- brings a tantalizing skillset to the table, a startling versatility and an electricity that not even his more famous friend can touch. He sings (see his star-making debut on Rocky’s “Kissin’ Pink”), he can write (take his bendy, gleeful “Shabba”), and he’s weird-- when he’s feeling purple, he channels his inner Fergenstein, a lewder, more hedonistic persona. He also talks big: “I wanna be as known as Jesus,” he told me earlier this year, later mentioning his affinity for artists like Jean-Michel Basquiat and Warhol. (Sounds like he’d enjoy Jay-Z’s bathroom). He’s funny, he’s got a peculiar style, and he’s got, for a lack of a better word, a sizeable amount of swag. Like Rocky, he's a uniter of rap audiences and regional sounds, the only other performer in the A$AP crew who’s exhibited that star-like sheen so far. If he were to deliver on that promise with a debut that properly channeled all the potential... next stop, stratosphere. Trap Lord, Ferg’s debut mixtape turned debut album, probably isn’t that record, though it has quite a few bright spots. While it begins with a fierce, feverish bundle of tracks-- the hulking, patois-smeared “Let It Go”, the infectious knocker “Shabba”, the emotional, mythologizing “Hood Pope”-- it’s also listless in spots, too reliant on underdeveloped ideas. Some of that can be chalked up to the nature of the record's existence-- like Flockaveli, it was originally conceptualized as a mixtape and only later was transformed into a major label debut. But a fair chunk of Trap Lord finds Ferg trying to figure himself out in real-time-- a natural shape shifter, he never stays in the same form for long, switching personalities and flows at the drop of a hat. Where it’s effective on songs like “Hood Pope” and the thundering opener “Let It Go”, it’s less so on scatterbrained songs like “Fergivicous” and “Make a Scene”. For an artist drawing effortlessly from what seems to be a wellspring of creativity and thoughtful tribute, Trap Lord can, at times, feel underdeveloped and skeletal. But, that’s not to suggest that Trap Lord doesn’t sound great-- A$AP Mob still has the best ears in town. The production is leering and paranoid but rippled with muscle. It’s a dark-tinted record, to be sure, sonically and lyrically. The VERYRVRE-produced “Hood Pope” chronicles the loss of a young child; “Murder Something” uses a Kirk Franklin analogy to underscore a particular, graphic ass-kicking; the closing, experimental “Cocaine Castle” uses a crack house as the setting, a location where the protagonist sees “doctors in their suits”, babies, his mom. It’s heavy shit, reinforced by thick, tense production from under-the radar producers like Frankie P, P on the Boards, Snugsworth and HighDefRazjah. The stormy sonic texture is the backbone that the album aligns itself along, a logical combination of Cleveland smoke (Bone Thugs-N-Harmony incidentally show up on "Lord"), Death Row menace, and classic New York rap radio that's perfectly tailored to A$AP Ferg's reverential package. When Trap Lord flashes-- Ferg’s speed-it-up-slow-it-down verse on “Work” is pure thrill-- it’s brilliant. But despite its status as his commercial debut, it's easiest to approach it as a low-stakes introduction to Ferg, an artist who, like Rocky and other newcomers like Travi$ Scott, has the ability to push the boundaries of the genre toward more experimental sounds and ideas. Though Trap Lord's vision is refracted through split personalities-- for better or for worse-- A$AP Ferg still sounds like a star in the making.

Artist: A$AP Ferg, Album: Trap Lord, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Darold Ferguson Jr.-- best known as A$AP Ferg, a member of A$AP Rocky’s A$AP Mob-- brings a tantalizing skillset to the table, a startling versatility and an electricity that not even his more famous friend can touch. He sings (see his star-making debut on Rocky’s “Kissin’ Pink”), he can write (take his bendy, gleeful “Shabba”), and he’s weird-- when he’s feeling purple, he channels his inner Fergenstein, a lewder, more hedonistic persona. He also talks big: “I wanna be as known as Jesus,” he told me earlier this year, later mentioning his affinity for artists like Jean-Michel Basquiat and Warhol. (Sounds like he’d enjoy Jay-Z’s bathroom). He’s funny, he’s got a peculiar style, and he’s got, for a lack of a better word, a sizeable amount of swag. Like Rocky, he's a uniter of rap audiences and regional sounds, the only other performer in the A$AP crew who’s exhibited that star-like sheen so far. If he were to deliver on that promise with a debut that properly channeled all the potential... next stop, stratosphere. Trap Lord, Ferg’s debut mixtape turned debut album, probably isn’t that record, though it has quite a few bright spots. While it begins with a fierce, feverish bundle of tracks-- the hulking, patois-smeared “Let It Go”, the infectious knocker “Shabba”, the emotional, mythologizing “Hood Pope”-- it’s also listless in spots, too reliant on underdeveloped ideas. Some of that can be chalked up to the nature of the record's existence-- like Flockaveli, it was originally conceptualized as a mixtape and only later was transformed into a major label debut. But a fair chunk of Trap Lord finds Ferg trying to figure himself out in real-time-- a natural shape shifter, he never stays in the same form for long, switching personalities and flows at the drop of a hat. Where it’s effective on songs like “Hood Pope” and the thundering opener “Let It Go”, it’s less so on scatterbrained songs like “Fergivicous” and “Make a Scene”. For an artist drawing effortlessly from what seems to be a wellspring of creativity and thoughtful tribute, Trap Lord can, at times, feel underdeveloped and skeletal. But, that’s not to suggest that Trap Lord doesn’t sound great-- A$AP Mob still has the best ears in town. The production is leering and paranoid but rippled with muscle. It’s a dark-tinted record, to be sure, sonically and lyrically. The VERYRVRE-produced “Hood Pope” chronicles the loss of a young child; “Murder Something” uses a Kirk Franklin analogy to underscore a particular, graphic ass-kicking; the closing, experimental “Cocaine Castle” uses a crack house as the setting, a location where the protagonist sees “doctors in their suits”, babies, his mom. It’s heavy shit, reinforced by thick, tense production from under-the radar producers like Frankie P, P on the Boards, Snugsworth and HighDefRazjah. The stormy sonic texture is the backbone that the album aligns itself along, a logical combination of Cleveland smoke (Bone Thugs-N-Harmony incidentally show up on "Lord"), Death Row menace, and classic New York rap radio that's perfectly tailored to A$AP Ferg's reverential package. When Trap Lord flashes-- Ferg’s speed-it-up-slow-it-down verse on “Work” is pure thrill-- it’s brilliant. But despite its status as his commercial debut, it's easiest to approach it as a low-stakes introduction to Ferg, an artist who, like Rocky and other newcomers like Travi$ Scott, has the ability to push the boundaries of the genre toward more experimental sounds and ideas. Though Trap Lord's vision is refracted through split personalities-- for better or for worse-- A$AP Ferg still sounds like a star in the making."

Lou Reed

Berlin: Live At St. Ann's Warehouse

Rock

Zach Baron

Lou Reed's Berlin was released in 1973, just after Transformer and just before Sally Can't Dance, two records that to this day remain Reed's most commercially successful. Berlin's legend of failure was born almost immediately (Rolling Stone: "There are certain records that are so patently offensive that one wishes to take some kind of physical vengeance on the artists that perpetrate them"; Robert Christgau: "Will Lou lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it?"). Even Metal Machine Music, released two years later, wouldn't be enough to cleanse the general antagonistic shock of what people at the time took to be Reed's worst album, ever. Still, in retrospect, it's a funny album to pick on. A loose song cycle (it turned out that many of the Berlin tracks actually dated back to Reed's days in the Velvet Underground, and "Berlin" was a song on Reed's first album) about an unhappy couple, Jim and Caroline, living in the titular city, the record's absurdly depressing but hardly offensive. The characters do drugs, domestic violence, custody battles; eventually, Caroline kills herself. Berlin ends with Jim idly staring at a photograph of the dead mother of his children. Bob Ezrin, who would soon produce Pink Floyd's The Wall and who, at 23, had already produced Alice Cooper, brought a characteristically lush orchestration to the proceedings, but then again, Berlin was clearly a melodrama. Ezrin and Reed had their eyes on a stage adaptation before the record even came out; Berlin's reviews (and sales numbers) ended that project. To listen to Berlin now is to be basically mystified as to what everyone was so upset about, besides maybe its lack of a "Walk on the Wild Side Pt. II". Reed shrugged it off, and went on to do things worthy of his audience's newfound hatred. Berlin, meanwhile, crept back into style. By the 1980s, Julian Schnabel was getting divorced to it, and by December 2006, the collective entreaties of various arts luminaries around New York finally led Reed to revive his second-most reviled creation for a four-night run at Brooklyn's St. Ann's Warehouse. Ezrin was back, to conduct; Sharon Jones, Antony Hegarty, and the entire Brooklyn Youth Chorus were on hand to provide backing vocals. Schnabel designed the set, and his daughter made a film to be projected against the back of it. The event was stoked by adulatory, apocalyptic press coverage ("Sometimes called the most depressing album ever made…" began one The New York Times paragraph) and an improbably beautiful week of melancholy, late fall weather. I attended on the year's last non-holiday Sunday. The mood, of course, was reverent, but what I remember best were the evening's various breaks in character: Reed finishing a guitar solo and sighing into the mic, "Oh, back into the land of depression now"; Ezrin, ecstatic by the post-concert exit, excitedly calling Berlin "music to cut your wrists by" even as he couldn't stop grinning. Applause all around. This past July, Schnabel brought out a film of the performances and now, a tidy two years after the concerts, Matador's releasing the soundtrack, officially making a one time 21st Century revival of a 1973 rehabbed classic into a modest cottage industry. Berlin, the original, is a wonderfully claustrophobic, textured, and wandering suite of unwaveringly dark songs. It has an indelible arc-- from the muted "Berlin", through the false dawn of "Caroline Says Pt II", all the way to the all-time underrated "Sad Song", which is simultaneously one of the most overblown and most moving songs Reed ever wrote. (Ezrin's hand is, uh, visible: "Sad Song" is a sublimely bastardized Pink Floyd song, from the psych solos to the children's chorus at the end, and not the least bit worse for it.) At a trim 10 songs, Berlin casts an undeniable spell: a tiny poison pill, a maudlin little melodrama. Berlin, the musical/film soundtrack/live album, occupies perhaps an even more specialized niche: a time capsule of a time capsule, a memory engine for those who were there, a document of four woozy nights of goodwill, friendship, and adulation. The undeniable truth about the Berlin performances were that they were fundamentally celebratory-- Reed had fun, Ezrin, Antony, Jones, and the kids had fun, and the audience, as telegraphed by this recording's roaring approval and reverent silences, definitely had fun. The cameos, minimal during the performance, are barely audible here: Sharon Jones battling Reed on "Oh, Jim"; Antony warbling backups on "Caroline Says, Pt. II"; blistering guitar solos from Steve Hunter, who joined Ezrin as the other veteran of the original Berlin sessions, on nearly every song. Reed's line readings aren't sarcastic, but they are crooked-- like every "Don't Look Back"-type performance I've seen in the past few years, it's obvious even as Reed's enjoying the ceremony he's trying to dodge the predictability that comes from playing an old album, in full, without deviation. There are some uniquely embarrassing moments, too: the exceptionally ecstatic audience surge that goes up at the intro to "How Do You Think It Feels" is almost definitely the sound of 800 or so people thinking they're about to hear "Walk on the Wild Side", which starts in more or less the same way. Alas, that one was not to be. Reed speeds through "Candy Says" (or rather, Antony does), "Rock Minuet", and "Sweet Jane", and then, exeunt. It's exhilarating to hear Berlin back and alive, but then again, it was more exhilarating to see it back and alive: an option now available to whoever cares to pick up Schnabel's DVD. It's a miracle Reed was able to turn one of the most hermetic albums of all time into a communal experience, but Live at St. Ann's was also a one-time-only slight of hand: Berlin will forever be a record best enjoyed alone.

Artist: Lou Reed, Album: Berlin: Live At St. Ann's Warehouse, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Lou Reed's Berlin was released in 1973, just after Transformer and just before Sally Can't Dance, two records that to this day remain Reed's most commercially successful. Berlin's legend of failure was born almost immediately (Rolling Stone: "There are certain records that are so patently offensive that one wishes to take some kind of physical vengeance on the artists that perpetrate them"; Robert Christgau: "Will Lou lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it?"). Even Metal Machine Music, released two years later, wouldn't be enough to cleanse the general antagonistic shock of what people at the time took to be Reed's worst album, ever. Still, in retrospect, it's a funny album to pick on. A loose song cycle (it turned out that many of the Berlin tracks actually dated back to Reed's days in the Velvet Underground, and "Berlin" was a song on Reed's first album) about an unhappy couple, Jim and Caroline, living in the titular city, the record's absurdly depressing but hardly offensive. The characters do drugs, domestic violence, custody battles; eventually, Caroline kills herself. Berlin ends with Jim idly staring at a photograph of the dead mother of his children. Bob Ezrin, who would soon produce Pink Floyd's The Wall and who, at 23, had already produced Alice Cooper, brought a characteristically lush orchestration to the proceedings, but then again, Berlin was clearly a melodrama. Ezrin and Reed had their eyes on a stage adaptation before the record even came out; Berlin's reviews (and sales numbers) ended that project. To listen to Berlin now is to be basically mystified as to what everyone was so upset about, besides maybe its lack of a "Walk on the Wild Side Pt. II". Reed shrugged it off, and went on to do things worthy of his audience's newfound hatred. Berlin, meanwhile, crept back into style. By the 1980s, Julian Schnabel was getting divorced to it, and by December 2006, the collective entreaties of various arts luminaries around New York finally led Reed to revive his second-most reviled creation for a four-night run at Brooklyn's St. Ann's Warehouse. Ezrin was back, to conduct; Sharon Jones, Antony Hegarty, and the entire Brooklyn Youth Chorus were on hand to provide backing vocals. Schnabel designed the set, and his daughter made a film to be projected against the back of it. The event was stoked by adulatory, apocalyptic press coverage ("Sometimes called the most depressing album ever made…" began one The New York Times paragraph) and an improbably beautiful week of melancholy, late fall weather. I attended on the year's last non-holiday Sunday. The mood, of course, was reverent, but what I remember best were the evening's various breaks in character: Reed finishing a guitar solo and sighing into the mic, "Oh, back into the land of depression now"; Ezrin, ecstatic by the post-concert exit, excitedly calling Berlin "music to cut your wrists by" even as he couldn't stop grinning. Applause all around. This past July, Schnabel brought out a film of the performances and now, a tidy two years after the concerts, Matador's releasing the soundtrack, officially making a one time 21st Century revival of a 1973 rehabbed classic into a modest cottage industry. Berlin, the original, is a wonderfully claustrophobic, textured, and wandering suite of unwaveringly dark songs. It has an indelible arc-- from the muted "Berlin", through the false dawn of "Caroline Says Pt II", all the way to the all-time underrated "Sad Song", which is simultaneously one of the most overblown and most moving songs Reed ever wrote. (Ezrin's hand is, uh, visible: "Sad Song" is a sublimely bastardized Pink Floyd song, from the psych solos to the children's chorus at the end, and not the least bit worse for it.) At a trim 10 songs, Berlin casts an undeniable spell: a tiny poison pill, a maudlin little melodrama. Berlin, the musical/film soundtrack/live album, occupies perhaps an even more specialized niche: a time capsule of a time capsule, a memory engine for those who were there, a document of four woozy nights of goodwill, friendship, and adulation. The undeniable truth about the Berlin performances were that they were fundamentally celebratory-- Reed had fun, Ezrin, Antony, Jones, and the kids had fun, and the audience, as telegraphed by this recording's roaring approval and reverent silences, definitely had fun. The cameos, minimal during the performance, are barely audible here: Sharon Jones battling Reed on "Oh, Jim"; Antony warbling backups on "Caroline Says, Pt. II"; blistering guitar solos from Steve Hunter, who joined Ezrin as the other veteran of the original Berlin sessions, on nearly every song. Reed's line readings aren't sarcastic, but they are crooked-- like every "Don't Look Back"-type performance I've seen in the past few years, it's obvious even as Reed's enjoying the ceremony he's trying to dodge the predictability that comes from playing an old album, in full, without deviation. There are some uniquely embarrassing moments, too: the exceptionally ecstatic audience surge that goes up at the intro to "How Do You Think It Feels" is almost definitely the sound of 800 or so people thinking they're about to hear "Walk on the Wild Side", which starts in more or less the same way. Alas, that one was not to be. Reed speeds through "Candy Says" (or rather, Antony does), "Rock Minuet", and "Sweet Jane", and then, exeunt. It's exhilarating to hear Berlin back and alive, but then again, it was more exhilarating to see it back and alive: an option now available to whoever cares to pick up Schnabel's DVD. It's a miracle Reed was able to turn one of the most hermetic albums of all time into a communal experience, but Live at St. Ann's was also a one-time-only slight of hand: Berlin will forever be a record best enjoyed alone."

Orcas

Yearling

Brian Howe

On his own, Thomas Meluch records cloudy electro-acoustic songs as Benoît Pioulard that sound hand-cobbled, while Rafael Anton Irisarri drapes brooding ostinatos with dusky delay and reverb (he also makes ambient techno as the Sight Below). Though their individual styles are different, both of them decompress lacy, yearning melodies into slow oceans of melancholy, and on 2012's self-titled debut as Orcas, their styles combined naturally, with small acoustic guitar songs drowned in gritty quasi-choral harmony. Their second album, Yearling, retains the debut's vast scale, glacial pace, and visual splendor; the distortion of "Petrichor" dramatically unveils the kind of sweet motif, clasped in drones, that anchors the album. But Orcas fill in their abysses more fully than before, bringing the human presence closer to the surface. Contributions from Efterklang's Martyn Heyne and Telekinesis' Michael Lerner on drums bring prior inklings of shoegaze, post-rock, and analog garage pop to the foreground, adding instrumental definition to previously nebulous masses of mood and tone. On "Infinite Stillness" and "Half Light", electric and acoustic guitars ride over the gray swirls of atmosphere rather than vanishing into them. Where Orcas was mostly spun out from guitar and vocal improvisations, Yearling is said to be more specifically composed, and it certainly sounds that way. Despite a pleasing graininess, the songs are more crisply structured, with the terse, arid groove of "An Absolute" smoothly hinging on controlled cymbal crashes. Meluch's voice is sometimes drawn out in somnolent lines and sounding downright bouncy elsewhere; it's striking how peppy and soulful he sounds, far from his typical distant, affectless moan. Though he slips in and out of focus, there are several songs where he's undeniably *there—*a specific person singing with feeling, not a disembodied ghost moaning over some tundra. "Filament" recalls the vaguer portions of Orcas' debut, with Meluch's monastic intonations fading away in a martial beat and porous streaks of harmony. His vitality is missed on more heavily instrumental tracks, like the implacably shuffling "Selah" and the tape loop hymn "Tell"; in fact, it's rather surprising that the most murky, atmospheric moments are Yearling's weakest spots, as atmospheric murk is what they used to do best. The song craft and performance is more compelling when the ambient dressing is there to make the pop pop, rather than hiding it.

Artist: Orcas, Album: Yearling, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "On his own, Thomas Meluch records cloudy electro-acoustic songs as Benoît Pioulard that sound hand-cobbled, while Rafael Anton Irisarri drapes brooding ostinatos with dusky delay and reverb (he also makes ambient techno as the Sight Below). Though their individual styles are different, both of them decompress lacy, yearning melodies into slow oceans of melancholy, and on 2012's self-titled debut as Orcas, their styles combined naturally, with small acoustic guitar songs drowned in gritty quasi-choral harmony. Their second album, Yearling, retains the debut's vast scale, glacial pace, and visual splendor; the distortion of "Petrichor" dramatically unveils the kind of sweet motif, clasped in drones, that anchors the album. But Orcas fill in their abysses more fully than before, bringing the human presence closer to the surface. Contributions from Efterklang's Martyn Heyne and Telekinesis' Michael Lerner on drums bring prior inklings of shoegaze, post-rock, and analog garage pop to the foreground, adding instrumental definition to previously nebulous masses of mood and tone. On "Infinite Stillness" and "Half Light", electric and acoustic guitars ride over the gray swirls of atmosphere rather than vanishing into them. Where Orcas was mostly spun out from guitar and vocal improvisations, Yearling is said to be more specifically composed, and it certainly sounds that way. Despite a pleasing graininess, the songs are more crisply structured, with the terse, arid groove of "An Absolute" smoothly hinging on controlled cymbal crashes. Meluch's voice is sometimes drawn out in somnolent lines and sounding downright bouncy elsewhere; it's striking how peppy and soulful he sounds, far from his typical distant, affectless moan. Though he slips in and out of focus, there are several songs where he's undeniably *there—*a specific person singing with feeling, not a disembodied ghost moaning over some tundra. "Filament" recalls the vaguer portions of Orcas' debut, with Meluch's monastic intonations fading away in a martial beat and porous streaks of harmony. His vitality is missed on more heavily instrumental tracks, like the implacably shuffling "Selah" and the tape loop hymn "Tell"; in fact, it's rather surprising that the most murky, atmospheric moments are Yearling's weakest spots, as atmospheric murk is what they used to do best. The song craft and performance is more compelling when the ambient dressing is there to make the pop pop, rather than hiding it."

The Vines

Highly Evolved

Electronic,Rock

Chris Dahlen

The Vines. Four young guys from Australia determined to tear it up in the States, their end goal being the glorious egotrip of international rock stardom. Now, let's be fair-- most guys starting bands regularly entertain notions of 'hitting the bigtime,' and there isn't a goddamn thing wrong with that. It's just that few are content to play it quite so safe. Even the metal guys have personality. And while I imagine that, somewhere beneath their media-friendly exterior, The Vines might be real characters, you'll find no trace of it on their Capitol Records debut, Highly Evolved. I picture Craig Nicholls and Ryan Griffiths in some lavish London hotel suite at this very moment trying to figure out some way to glue the TV to the ceiling. (Not so easy, is it, champs?) Then Patrick Matthews walks out of the shower demanding, "Ayy, whicha you blokes whacked off in the shampoo?" Hilarity ensues! It's like The Monkees if they wanted to be, say, Silverchair instead of the Beatles. Yet no life signs penetrate the crystal clarity of this album. I'd even go so far as to say that Highly Evolved may actually be the least fun record of the year, with its grungy vocals and hamfisted guitarwork-- not to mention the vintage Brit-pop and soaring harmonies they've tossed in for broad-range accessibility. It's not even a problem that they tattoo their influences on their foreheads and add nothing to what they steal from The Verve (on the slow songs), Nirvana (if Nirvana were a pop act), and the rest of commercial radio's last twenty years. But did they have to make it so dull? I mean, I understand that it's already a hit, and if anyone gets laid this summer because of this album, that trumps whatever I can say about it. But Highly Evolved has 'dad rock' written all over it. It reeks of product, right down to the special $6 purchase price most stores are pushing: "Why not check out the Vines?" Of course, the production, courtesy of Rob Schnapf, is impeccable. But then, in typical Schnapf form, it's too impeccable. He's lent his Mr. Clean polish job to luminaries like Beck, as well as many bands who didn't need it-- Guided by Voices, for one example, Elliott Smith for another-- and while Highly Evolved is lush, having been recorded in L.A. over two months with Schnapf's mood-setting collection of vintage instruments, it also sounds plastic; he doesn't let the band make a single mistake anywhere on the album. Schnapf's production is somewhat augmented by Craig Nicholls, singer, guitarist and lead songwriter, whose mushmouthed vocals at least stray from sterility. Problem is, his unintelligible croon doesn't really work with the more sentimental tracks (which account for at least half the songs here), and even when the music ascends to garage-style rock, his only communicable emotion is the time-honored bratty sneer. Still, Nicholls is a natural talent as a writer. He already knows from killer hooks-- "Highly Evolved" and "Outtathaway!" are fine grunge, switching from bare strumming to throbbing, jagged, yet infectious guitar lines. "Get Free" kicks off with a riff like revving up a lawnmower, and the chorus shows off the band's perfectly pitch-corrected vocal harmonies-- even if the extra-catchy bridge sounds tacked on to make it a bigger hit. And the mini-epic "1969," though sprawling and indulgent, is genuinely refreshing after squeaky-clean hard rock like "In the Jungle" and the obnoxiously beach-ready "Sunshinin'": its tortured mess of an outro drags on long enough that, for once, the two guitarists actually find room to breathe. Highly Evolved also slows down for some endearing pop, like the peppy, syncopated "Factory." Mellow love song "Mary Jane" shows Nicholls' most sincere and affecting vocals, and "Autumn Shade," colored with acoustic guitar and piano, echoes the melody and eerie harmonies of the Beatles' "Because." But then he gets all serious on us with the yearning harmonies of "Country Yard" and the over-earnest "Homesick." They haven't even been on the road six months and they've already found time to miss Australia? The Vines get credit for ambition, but Highly Evolved covers so much ground that none of it seems convincing: there's just no emotional depth here. Nicholls is not yet a great singer, and his feelings outpace his ability to express them. But moreover, the Vines are adept enough at rock pastiche that they miss why the Beatles took a decade to get to Let It Be. With Schnapf's help, they've crammed an entire career into one album: from song to song we skip from hard-rock teen raunch, to the popcraft of a well-behaved studio band, to the old-soul, "wish I were home again" pathos of mature, balding rockers. And it all has to come through a sneer.

Artist: The Vines, Album: Highly Evolved, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 4.1 Album review: "The Vines. Four young guys from Australia determined to tear it up in the States, their end goal being the glorious egotrip of international rock stardom. Now, let's be fair-- most guys starting bands regularly entertain notions of 'hitting the bigtime,' and there isn't a goddamn thing wrong with that. It's just that few are content to play it quite so safe. Even the metal guys have personality. And while I imagine that, somewhere beneath their media-friendly exterior, The Vines might be real characters, you'll find no trace of it on their Capitol Records debut, Highly Evolved. I picture Craig Nicholls and Ryan Griffiths in some lavish London hotel suite at this very moment trying to figure out some way to glue the TV to the ceiling. (Not so easy, is it, champs?) Then Patrick Matthews walks out of the shower demanding, "Ayy, whicha you blokes whacked off in the shampoo?" Hilarity ensues! It's like The Monkees if they wanted to be, say, Silverchair instead of the Beatles. Yet no life signs penetrate the crystal clarity of this album. I'd even go so far as to say that Highly Evolved may actually be the least fun record of the year, with its grungy vocals and hamfisted guitarwork-- not to mention the vintage Brit-pop and soaring harmonies they've tossed in for broad-range accessibility. It's not even a problem that they tattoo their influences on their foreheads and add nothing to what they steal from The Verve (on the slow songs), Nirvana (if Nirvana were a pop act), and the rest of commercial radio's last twenty years. But did they have to make it so dull? I mean, I understand that it's already a hit, and if anyone gets laid this summer because of this album, that trumps whatever I can say about it. But Highly Evolved has 'dad rock' written all over it. It reeks of product, right down to the special $6 purchase price most stores are pushing: "Why not check out the Vines?" Of course, the production, courtesy of Rob Schnapf, is impeccable. But then, in typical Schnapf form, it's too impeccable. He's lent his Mr. Clean polish job to luminaries like Beck, as well as many bands who didn't need it-- Guided by Voices, for one example, Elliott Smith for another-- and while Highly Evolved is lush, having been recorded in L.A. over two months with Schnapf's mood-setting collection of vintage instruments, it also sounds plastic; he doesn't let the band make a single mistake anywhere on the album. Schnapf's production is somewhat augmented by Craig Nicholls, singer, guitarist and lead songwriter, whose mushmouthed vocals at least stray from sterility. Problem is, his unintelligible croon doesn't really work with the more sentimental tracks (which account for at least half the songs here), and even when the music ascends to garage-style rock, his only communicable emotion is the time-honored bratty sneer. Still, Nicholls is a natural talent as a writer. He already knows from killer hooks-- "Highly Evolved" and "Outtathaway!" are fine grunge, switching from bare strumming to throbbing, jagged, yet infectious guitar lines. "Get Free" kicks off with a riff like revving up a lawnmower, and the chorus shows off the band's perfectly pitch-corrected vocal harmonies-- even if the extra-catchy bridge sounds tacked on to make it a bigger hit. And the mini-epic "1969," though sprawling and indulgent, is genuinely refreshing after squeaky-clean hard rock like "In the Jungle" and the obnoxiously beach-ready "Sunshinin'": its tortured mess of an outro drags on long enough that, for once, the two guitarists actually find room to breathe. Highly Evolved also slows down for some endearing pop, like the peppy, syncopated "Factory." Mellow love song "Mary Jane" shows Nicholls' most sincere and affecting vocals, and "Autumn Shade," colored with acoustic guitar and piano, echoes the melody and eerie harmonies of the Beatles' "Because." But then he gets all serious on us with the yearning harmonies of "Country Yard" and the over-earnest "Homesick." They haven't even been on the road six months and they've already found time to miss Australia? The Vines get credit for ambition, but Highly Evolved covers so much ground that none of it seems convincing: there's just no emotional depth here. Nicholls is not yet a great singer, and his feelings outpace his ability to express them. But moreover, the Vines are adept enough at rock pastiche that they miss why the Beatles took a decade to get to Let It Be. With Schnapf's help, they've crammed an entire career into one album: from song to song we skip from hard-rock teen raunch, to the popcraft of a well-behaved studio band, to the old-soul, "wish I were home again" pathos of mature, balding rockers. And it all has to come through a sneer."

Headlights

Kill Them With Kindness

Rock

John Motley

Headlights' debut full-length begins strong with "Your Old Street": A lush string arrangement sets the mood, a thumping bass and wash of cymbals gather volume and tension, and vocalists Erin Fein and Tristan Wraight sketch out the verse's melancholy melody. From there, "Your Old Street" shifts gears, transforming into an upbeat pop number with vibes twinkling over bubbly keys, completing the most intricate arrangement on Kill Them With Kindness. Sadly, the rest of the album fails to live up to that song's promise. On one hand, such eclecticism makes for a rich album, as the band slips from sunny, straightforward pop into slower, less immediate material. There's a wealth of ideas between Fein and Wraight-- the bouncy "TV" rubs elbows with the skewered rhythms and organ drone of "Songy Darko"-- but over the course of the album's 14 songs, the diversity undermines any sense of coherence. Instead of a singular aesthetic, Kill Them With Kindness splinters into genre exercises and referential production values. It's all too easy to hear Grandaddy in the slow, melodic building and arpeggiator flourishes of the outro to "Signs Point To Yes (But Outlook Not So Good)". And it sounds like the band had the New Pornographers stuck in their heads when the recorded the saccharine harmonies and predictable hooks of "Lions". Likewise, "Pity City" is every bit the emo anthem its title suggests. As Wraight whines that he's "just a stupid boy who falls apart," it borders on parody. When Kill Them With Kindness works it's because of Fein and Wraight's keen attention to melody and the way their voices complement one another and inject these songs with warmth and emotion. Unfortunately, Kill Them With Kindness never follows the statement of purpose that opener "Your Old Street" assuredly outlines. Instead, the songs on Headlights' debut seem pulled in too many directions, often recalling the work of more accomplished indie rock contemporaries but rarely distinguishing the group itself.

Artist: Headlights, Album: Kill Them With Kindness, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Headlights' debut full-length begins strong with "Your Old Street": A lush string arrangement sets the mood, a thumping bass and wash of cymbals gather volume and tension, and vocalists Erin Fein and Tristan Wraight sketch out the verse's melancholy melody. From there, "Your Old Street" shifts gears, transforming into an upbeat pop number with vibes twinkling over bubbly keys, completing the most intricate arrangement on Kill Them With Kindness. Sadly, the rest of the album fails to live up to that song's promise. On one hand, such eclecticism makes for a rich album, as the band slips from sunny, straightforward pop into slower, less immediate material. There's a wealth of ideas between Fein and Wraight-- the bouncy "TV" rubs elbows with the skewered rhythms and organ drone of "Songy Darko"-- but over the course of the album's 14 songs, the diversity undermines any sense of coherence. Instead of a singular aesthetic, Kill Them With Kindness splinters into genre exercises and referential production values. It's all too easy to hear Grandaddy in the slow, melodic building and arpeggiator flourishes of the outro to "Signs Point To Yes (But Outlook Not So Good)". And it sounds like the band had the New Pornographers stuck in their heads when the recorded the saccharine harmonies and predictable hooks of "Lions". Likewise, "Pity City" is every bit the emo anthem its title suggests. As Wraight whines that he's "just a stupid boy who falls apart," it borders on parody. When Kill Them With Kindness works it's because of Fein and Wraight's keen attention to melody and the way their voices complement one another and inject these songs with warmth and emotion. Unfortunately, Kill Them With Kindness never follows the statement of purpose that opener "Your Old Street" assuredly outlines. Instead, the songs on Headlights' debut seem pulled in too many directions, often recalling the work of more accomplished indie rock contemporaries but rarely distinguishing the group itself."

Little Barrie

We Are Little Barrie

Electronic,Rock

Marc Hogan

If we're to believe the apparent tautology slapped atop their debut LP, Little Barrie are indeed Little Barrie. Whew. This much we also know: The Barrie in question is, presumably, frontman Barrie Cadogan, a stand-in ax-man on Morrissey's 2004 tour; he are Little Barrie. Bare-bones drummer Wayne Fulwood and nimble bassist Lewis Wharton round out the London trio; they are Little Barrie. Ultimately, Little Barrie could be a miniature jam band. Barrie's unimpeachable guitar virtuosity is their centerpiece, reason enough to name the assemblage in his honor. On record, at least, Little Barrie eschew jam bands' unexpurgated wankery, but they do embrace the corresponding hippie aesthetic. Smell the patchouli: "Take a trip," Cadogan sings on breezy, hooky "Free Salute"-- managing to sound like Jacks White (vox) and Johnson (six-string)-- but neither he nor the persistent groove are going anywhere, maaan. On "Long Hair", long-hairs are repeatedly advised to "hide your face." Punning "Burned Out", "Greener Pastures", and (whoa after "Stones Reprise"!) "Stones Throw", further open the doors of Little Barrie's nostalgedelic perception. Hendrix is already inside, but so are Brown and Mayfield. In these parts, of course, jam bands are rarely discussed, unless they're undercover as avant gardists from New York (Sonic Youth) or Cologne (Can). Though perhaps too meat-headed to really whole-lotta love, Little Barrie are too energetically melodic to dismiss completely. The presence of ex-Orange Juice leader Edwyn Collins helps. He produced the album shortly before being hospitalized for a brain hemorrhage, and he captures the band's raw enthusiasm, scratching it with workmanlike feedback in all the right spots (like, right behind the ears). When the recycled smoke clears, Little Barrie could use more songwriting help from their patrons (Moz, Collins) and less hu-huh inspiration from Ocean Colour Scene's lobotomy-trad bong. "These are the ghosts I've made," to quote former tourmates The Bees (aka A Band of Bees), who share the band's Lot's-wife-like leanings. Little Barrie have made, conjured up, or flat-out copied some of late-60s British rock's most venerated ghosts, and a few more from classic funk, all with mixed results. Perhaps the album's title isn't tautological, after all; Little Barrie know their name, but they don't yet seem to know who they are.

Artist: Little Barrie, Album: We Are Little Barrie, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.7 Album review: "If we're to believe the apparent tautology slapped atop their debut LP, Little Barrie are indeed Little Barrie. Whew. This much we also know: The Barrie in question is, presumably, frontman Barrie Cadogan, a stand-in ax-man on Morrissey's 2004 tour; he are Little Barrie. Bare-bones drummer Wayne Fulwood and nimble bassist Lewis Wharton round out the London trio; they are Little Barrie. Ultimately, Little Barrie could be a miniature jam band. Barrie's unimpeachable guitar virtuosity is their centerpiece, reason enough to name the assemblage in his honor. On record, at least, Little Barrie eschew jam bands' unexpurgated wankery, but they do embrace the corresponding hippie aesthetic. Smell the patchouli: "Take a trip," Cadogan sings on breezy, hooky "Free Salute"-- managing to sound like Jacks White (vox) and Johnson (six-string)-- but neither he nor the persistent groove are going anywhere, maaan. On "Long Hair", long-hairs are repeatedly advised to "hide your face." Punning "Burned Out", "Greener Pastures", and (whoa after "Stones Reprise"!) "Stones Throw", further open the doors of Little Barrie's nostalgedelic perception. Hendrix is already inside, but so are Brown and Mayfield. In these parts, of course, jam bands are rarely discussed, unless they're undercover as avant gardists from New York (Sonic Youth) or Cologne (Can). Though perhaps too meat-headed to really whole-lotta love, Little Barrie are too energetically melodic to dismiss completely. The presence of ex-Orange Juice leader Edwyn Collins helps. He produced the album shortly before being hospitalized for a brain hemorrhage, and he captures the band's raw enthusiasm, scratching it with workmanlike feedback in all the right spots (like, right behind the ears). When the recycled smoke clears, Little Barrie could use more songwriting help from their patrons (Moz, Collins) and less hu-huh inspiration from Ocean Colour Scene's lobotomy-trad bong. "These are the ghosts I've made," to quote former tourmates The Bees (aka A Band of Bees), who share the band's Lot's-wife-like leanings. Little Barrie have made, conjured up, or flat-out copied some of late-60s British rock's most venerated ghosts, and a few more from classic funk, all with mixed results. Perhaps the album's title isn't tautological, after all; Little Barrie know their name, but they don't yet seem to know who they are."

Merle Haggard

Strangers/Swinging Doors and The Bottle Let Me Down

Folk/Country

Stephen M. Deusner

Few singers, country or otherwise, sound so downhearted as Merle Haggard. He specialized (still does, actually) in barroom laments that worry a sentiment threadbare in only a few verses, before moving on to a just-slightly-different sentiment in a new song. His lyrics, which expound on the typical honkytonk subjects of prison, poverty, sobriety, and doomed romance, are dense with wrenching wordplay and reversals of phrases that seem to heighten his self-loathing, turning his misery into a joke so half-hearted it'll make you cry just as easily as smile. But it's his delivery that really sells the heartache. Instead of airing his emotions publicly, Haggard stoppers them with a formidably stoic front. Crucially, his masculine façade always sounds on the verge of crumbling, but not even a line like "I'll give my everything, but you don't even try" (from "You Don't Even Try") can unleash the flood. Haggard's tears always remain private, but rather than closing off these songs, his brave-faced delivery makes them all the more sympathetic, which is their most important quality. Country music is best when listeners can relate to the songs and invest them with their own experiences-- a notion Haggard obviously buys into. He even lays it all out in "Someone Told My Story", explaining the relationship between singer and audience better than any critic could: I played a brand-new record on the jukebox And I scarcely could believe the song I heard It told of how you left me for another It was almost like I'd written every word Someone told my story in a song The lyrics told of happiness and home Then it told of how you done me wrong Someone told my story in a song That song is from Haggard's 1967 album I'm a Lonesome Fugitive, one of ten included in Capitol's generous reissue set: five discs containing two albums each (four of the ten have never been available on CD before), along with more than 20 bonus tracks. Listening to them chronologically-- starting with Strangers in 1965 and ending with 1971's Someday We'll Look Back-- is like reading an epic American novel: Haggard has Twain's wit (no exaggeration), Steinbeck's eye for the vagaries of poor America, and Horatio Alger's bootstrap sentimentality. These albums are weighty with lyrical details drawn from Haggard's own life (his dirt-poor upbringing, rebellious adolescence, and numerous incarcerations, escapes, and marriages) and reveal an artist torn between his birthplace of California and his family's home in Oklahoma, between the familiarity of heartache and the suspected complacency of happiness, between the security of home and the lure of hopping that freight and seeing what's a little farther down the line. Perhaps ironically, for all his ramblin' ways, Haggard wasn't much of a boundary-pusher musically-- at least not like Willie Nelson or even Johnny Cash. The Bakersfield sound he helped to pioneer, following the leads of Buck Owens and Wynn Stewart, was more a product of circumstance and geography than of concerted innovation, and his blend of traditional country, honkytonk, jazz, and rock seems fully developed on his very first songs. As a result, there's only a little deviation in sound between these 10 albums, and Haggard doesn't stray too far from his very traditional songwriting approach or rough-and-tumble subject matter. Nor does he need to. His sound is sturdy, his lyrics surprisingly complex, his structures perfectly concise. Plus, most of these songs, while not outright autobiographical, carry the weight of true experience, which makes them all the more relatable. Released in 1965 and 1966 respectively, Strangers and Swinging Doors and the Bottle Let Me Down (the latter named for its two singles) establishes a template for nearly every song that follows: an effective formula of humor and pathos, earnest self-deprecation and randy braggadocio, with no wasted notes or words, and even fewer pretensions. Most of these tracks-- but especially these earlier numbers-- sound like they've been devised and developed in front of live audiences, their get-to-the-point directness and standout melodies all calculated to get people off their barstools and onto the dance floor, whether they're slow-dancing to "I'll Trade All of My Tomorrows" or scooting scuffed boots to "Please Mr. DJ". Haggard's band, dubbed the Strangers after his first big hit, sounds road-hardened on rollicking numbers like "The Girl Turned Ripe" (next line: "and pickers came today"), barely bottled by the strictures of the songs. They're reluctantly holding back, and occasionally they do cut loose: An incessant piano boogie drives the randy and upbeat "If You Want to Be My Woman" (off I'm a Lonesome Fugitive), and pedal-steel tears drip wearily on "I Threw Away the Rose" (from Branded), and the energetic, near-reggae "Seeing Eye Dogs" (from Sing Me Back Home) sounds like it might have been the band's favorite live number. Pairing these albums two per disc is economic, but the choices reveal the gentle disparities between them: Strangers and Swinging Doors and the Bottle Let Me Down are well matched, but I'm a Lonesome Fugitive overshadows Branded, and Hag sounds like a warm-up to Someday We'll Look Back. Furthermore, this format reinforces the uniformity of sound across Haggard's early albums. So the banjo that kicks off "The Legend of Bonnie & Clyde" is incredibly jolting, not just because it's the first time that instrument has appeared on a Haggard song, but moreover because it reveals just how deceptively basic his sound is. He and his band were able to make the traditional setup of guitar, bass, drums, piano, and voice sound like so much more. But on Bonnie & Clyde he starts to branch out a little, toying around with arrangements and expanding his Bakersfield-based sound. A short acoustic guitar theme two-steps through "Fool's Castle", and a deep piano melody-- the left hand of rock'n'roll's boogie rhythm-- puts the question mark in "Will You Visit Me on Sundays?" As a result, Bonnie & Clyde is perhaps this set's most diverse album, showcasing the breadth of his sound and the depth of his material. Mama Tried, however, is the highlight. Starting off with the majestically regretful title track-- which is reportedly Haggard's apology to his mother for his wayward youth-- the album collects some of his most assured and accomplished songs, including a chugging cover of Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues". Pride in What I Am continues that dynamic, making that disc the most solid of these reissues. Kicking off the final disc, Hag never really gets its footing, althoug

Artist: Merle Haggard, Album: Strangers/Swinging Doors and The Bottle Let Me Down, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 8.8 Album review: "Few singers, country or otherwise, sound so downhearted as Merle Haggard. He specialized (still does, actually) in barroom laments that worry a sentiment threadbare in only a few verses, before moving on to a just-slightly-different sentiment in a new song. His lyrics, which expound on the typical honkytonk subjects of prison, poverty, sobriety, and doomed romance, are dense with wrenching wordplay and reversals of phrases that seem to heighten his self-loathing, turning his misery into a joke so half-hearted it'll make you cry just as easily as smile. But it's his delivery that really sells the heartache. Instead of airing his emotions publicly, Haggard stoppers them with a formidably stoic front. Crucially, his masculine façade always sounds on the verge of crumbling, but not even a line like "I'll give my everything, but you don't even try" (from "You Don't Even Try") can unleash the flood. Haggard's tears always remain private, but rather than closing off these songs, his brave-faced delivery makes them all the more sympathetic, which is their most important quality. Country music is best when listeners can relate to the songs and invest them with their own experiences-- a notion Haggard obviously buys into. He even lays it all out in "Someone Told My Story", explaining the relationship between singer and audience better than any critic could: I played a brand-new record on the jukebox And I scarcely could believe the song I heard It told of how you left me for another It was almost like I'd written every word Someone told my story in a song The lyrics told of happiness and home Then it told of how you done me wrong Someone told my story in a song That song is from Haggard's 1967 album I'm a Lonesome Fugitive, one of ten included in Capitol's generous reissue set: five discs containing two albums each (four of the ten have never been available on CD before), along with more than 20 bonus tracks. Listening to them chronologically-- starting with Strangers in 1965 and ending with 1971's Someday We'll Look Back-- is like reading an epic American novel: Haggard has Twain's wit (no exaggeration), Steinbeck's eye for the vagaries of poor America, and Horatio Alger's bootstrap sentimentality. These albums are weighty with lyrical details drawn from Haggard's own life (his dirt-poor upbringing, rebellious adolescence, and numerous incarcerations, escapes, and marriages) and reveal an artist torn between his birthplace of California and his family's home in Oklahoma, between the familiarity of heartache and the suspected complacency of happiness, between the security of home and the lure of hopping that freight and seeing what's a little farther down the line. Perhaps ironically, for all his ramblin' ways, Haggard wasn't much of a boundary-pusher musically-- at least not like Willie Nelson or even Johnny Cash. The Bakersfield sound he helped to pioneer, following the leads of Buck Owens and Wynn Stewart, was more a product of circumstance and geography than of concerted innovation, and his blend of traditional country, honkytonk, jazz, and rock seems fully developed on his very first songs. As a result, there's only a little deviation in sound between these 10 albums, and Haggard doesn't stray too far from his very traditional songwriting approach or rough-and-tumble subject matter. Nor does he need to. His sound is sturdy, his lyrics surprisingly complex, his structures perfectly concise. Plus, most of these songs, while not outright autobiographical, carry the weight of true experience, which makes them all the more relatable. Released in 1965 and 1966 respectively, Strangers and Swinging Doors and the Bottle Let Me Down (the latter named for its two singles) establishes a template for nearly every song that follows: an effective formula of humor and pathos, earnest self-deprecation and randy braggadocio, with no wasted notes or words, and even fewer pretensions. Most of these tracks-- but especially these earlier numbers-- sound like they've been devised and developed in front of live audiences, their get-to-the-point directness and standout melodies all calculated to get people off their barstools and onto the dance floor, whether they're slow-dancing to "I'll Trade All of My Tomorrows" or scooting scuffed boots to "Please Mr. DJ". Haggard's band, dubbed the Strangers after his first big hit, sounds road-hardened on rollicking numbers like "The Girl Turned Ripe" (next line: "and pickers came today"), barely bottled by the strictures of the songs. They're reluctantly holding back, and occasionally they do cut loose: An incessant piano boogie drives the randy and upbeat "If You Want to Be My Woman" (off I'm a Lonesome Fugitive), and pedal-steel tears drip wearily on "I Threw Away the Rose" (from Branded), and the energetic, near-reggae "Seeing Eye Dogs" (from Sing Me Back Home) sounds like it might have been the band's favorite live number. Pairing these albums two per disc is economic, but the choices reveal the gentle disparities between them: Strangers and Swinging Doors and the Bottle Let Me Down are well matched, but I'm a Lonesome Fugitive overshadows Branded, and Hag sounds like a warm-up to Someday We'll Look Back. Furthermore, this format reinforces the uniformity of sound across Haggard's early albums. So the banjo that kicks off "The Legend of Bonnie & Clyde" is incredibly jolting, not just because it's the first time that instrument has appeared on a Haggard song, but moreover because it reveals just how deceptively basic his sound is. He and his band were able to make the traditional setup of guitar, bass, drums, piano, and voice sound like so much more. But on Bonnie & Clyde he starts to branch out a little, toying around with arrangements and expanding his Bakersfield-based sound. A short acoustic guitar theme two-steps through "Fool's Castle", and a deep piano melody-- the left hand of rock'n'roll's boogie rhythm-- puts the question mark in "Will You Visit Me on Sundays?" As a result, Bonnie & Clyde is perhaps this set's most diverse album, showcasing the breadth of his sound and the depth of his material. Mama Tried, however, is the highlight. Starting off with the majestically regretful title track-- which is reportedly Haggard's apology to his mother for his wayward youth-- the album collects some of his most assured and accomplished songs, including a chugging cover of Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues". Pride in What I Am continues that dynamic, making that disc the most solid of these reissues. Kicking off the final disc, Hag never really gets its footing, althoug"

Bombino

Azel

Andy Beta

While interviewing Dirty Projectors for a profile in 2009—on the cusp of the release of Bitte Orca and their Malian guitar-meets-Mariah hit “Stillness Is the Move”—band leader Dave Longstreth enthused over a Saharan guitarist on the Sublime Frequencies label who went by the name Bombino. In the last six years, the Tuareg artist has continued to make inroads in the West, touring and recording Stateside, and his 2013 album Nomad found him in the studio with the Black Keys’ Dan Auerbach. And now, Longstreth’s early admiration has come full circle, as he was tapped to record Bombino’s latest, Azel, in upstate New York. The resulting record presents the guitarist in a lucid, unadorned light. There’s no need to add too much to Bombino’s desert blues—his unassuming and astonishing playing speaks volumes on its own. Seeing him live, his left hand is deceptively fast, flicking off the strings and lighting upon extra notes that other players can’t quite hit. Much like fellow Tichumaren players Tinariwen, Bombino’s acumen blends techniques derived from ngoni (a traditional lute), the imzad (a one-stringed bow instrument), and the amplified guitar of Hendrix and Santana. Azel isn’t so different from his unofficial first album for Sublime Frequencies, 2009’s Guitars From Agadez Vol. 2, which was recorded in his home country of Niger and intimate enough to capture the sounds of camels on one side and ragged stomping on the other. His gentleness comes through on “Igmayagh Dum (My Lover),” built from handclaps, thumped guitar body, and a nimble melody, with Bombino’s lines of love—sung in Tamasheq—delivered in a gentle purr. Meanwhile, his electric guitar prickles and the drums careen on “Timidiwa (Friendship).” There is one new wrinkle, though: a kind of fusion with reggae. That might sound corny on paper, but Bombino and his group keep it all low-key, and the sounds soon assimilate. Album centerpiece “Iyat Ninhay / Jaguar (A Great Desert I Saw)” is driven by a lilting bassline that leads into an incandescent solo from Bombino as trilling zaghrouta voices punctuate the ecstasy of the moment. But for all the guitar pyrotechnics, Western production, and reggae infusions, Azel never sounds like anything other than a sublime iteration of desert blues. Bombino has not pivoted towards Western music, as he still sings about the issues of his homeland in his native tongue. Hushed closer “Naqqim Dagh Timshar (We Are Left in This Abandoned Place)” tells of the plight of his people with a lines that translate to: “We sit in an abandoned place/ Everyone has left us/ The world has evolved/ And we’ve been abandoned.” Even with Bombino increasingly gaining exposure in America, lyrics like those remind us that his music continually speaks for those that would otherwise be unheard back home.

Artist: Bombino, Album: Azel, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "While interviewing Dirty Projectors for a profile in 2009—on the cusp of the release of Bitte Orca and their Malian guitar-meets-Mariah hit “Stillness Is the Move”—band leader Dave Longstreth enthused over a Saharan guitarist on the Sublime Frequencies label who went by the name Bombino. In the last six years, the Tuareg artist has continued to make inroads in the West, touring and recording Stateside, and his 2013 album Nomad found him in the studio with the Black Keys’ Dan Auerbach. And now, Longstreth’s early admiration has come full circle, as he was tapped to record Bombino’s latest, Azel, in upstate New York. The resulting record presents the guitarist in a lucid, unadorned light. There’s no need to add too much to Bombino’s desert blues—his unassuming and astonishing playing speaks volumes on its own. Seeing him live, his left hand is deceptively fast, flicking off the strings and lighting upon extra notes that other players can’t quite hit. Much like fellow Tichumaren players Tinariwen, Bombino’s acumen blends techniques derived from ngoni (a traditional lute), the imzad (a one-stringed bow instrument), and the amplified guitar of Hendrix and Santana. Azel isn’t so different from his unofficial first album for Sublime Frequencies, 2009’s Guitars From Agadez Vol. 2, which was recorded in his home country of Niger and intimate enough to capture the sounds of camels on one side and ragged stomping on the other. His gentleness comes through on “Igmayagh Dum (My Lover),” built from handclaps, thumped guitar body, and a nimble melody, with Bombino’s lines of love—sung in Tamasheq—delivered in a gentle purr. Meanwhile, his electric guitar prickles and the drums careen on “Timidiwa (Friendship).” There is one new wrinkle, though: a kind of fusion with reggae. That might sound corny on paper, but Bombino and his group keep it all low-key, and the sounds soon assimilate. Album centerpiece “Iyat Ninhay / Jaguar (A Great Desert I Saw)” is driven by a lilting bassline that leads into an incandescent solo from Bombino as trilling zaghrouta voices punctuate the ecstasy of the moment. But for all the guitar pyrotechnics, Western production, and reggae infusions, Azel never sounds like anything other than a sublime iteration of desert blues. Bombino has not pivoted towards Western music, as he still sings about the issues of his homeland in his native tongue. Hushed closer “Naqqim Dagh Timshar (We Are Left in This Abandoned Place)” tells of the plight of his people with a lines that translate to: “We sit in an abandoned place/ Everyone has left us/ The world has evolved/ And we’ve been abandoned.” Even with Bombino increasingly gaining exposure in America, lyrics like those remind us that his music continually speaks for those that would otherwise be unheard back home."

Horse Feathers

Appreciation

Rock

Max Savage Levenson

Slowly, glacially, Horse Feathers’ music has turned outward. What began as Oregon songwriter Justin Ringle and violinist Peter Broderick’s hermetic take on Appalachian folk eventually blossomed out with the addition of a larger string ensemble. It became the quintessential sound of the band. Yet even when the group lightened the mood with electric guitars and lively percussion on 2014’s So It Is With Us, it was hard to shake the feeling that they were still singing primarily to themselves. But on Appreciation, Horse Feathers’ sixth full-length, that introverted persona has thawed, revealing a surprising affinity for the joy of both Stax-era soul and the country-fried sound of Doug Sahm and the Flying Burrito Brothers. While the looser grooves can deflate the tension, they also frame Ringle’s world-weariness in terms that are directed, finally, at us. Horse Feathers’ transition to a full band is by no means novel among the folk revivalists who got their start in the aughts; Steve Gunn, Vetiver, and Devendra Banhart have followed similar trajectories. Yet unlike those artists, Horse Feathers have undergone a grand re-shuffling as well as an expansion. While the strings sometimes flutter a bit listlessly, they generally compliment J. Tom Hnatow’s basslines and Robby Cosenza’s spritely percussion. On single “Don't Mean to Pry,” violins arc overhead, reinforcing Cosenza’s lithe patterns. Later, standout track “Faultline Wall” utilizes glissandos with similar economy, accentuating the song’s underlying menace. What’s most intriguing about Appreciation is just how well the fulsome songs suit Ringle’s voice. The jauntier the tune, the more he embraces a more sensual approach to his singing: We get flashes of John Fogerty, Sturgill Simpson’s rebel yell and, nestled in the melodies of “Born in Love,” a fully unexpected oooh that would make Josh Tillman proud. For the first time, he sounds like he’s actually having fun. That doesn’t mean that he has abandoned his trademark cynicism. The strongest songs on Appreciation expand on the Springsteen-style populism that has long lurked in Ringle’s music. Songs here ring out with accounts of economic disenfranchisement and helplessness: “It’s not the drinking, but the worry that does you in,” he sings in the opening track, “Without Applause.” “Faultline Wall” delivers a bleak tale of the environmental and occupational hazards of mining and “Evictions” sums up the nightmare of West Coast gentrification, yet does so over a smoky waltz that leaves us unsure what mood Ringle is shooting for. Though the extroverted mood throughout Appreciation can feel a bit unsteady, closing track “On the Rise” drops the drums in favor of a string-centric arrangement that is, once again, quintessential Horse Feathers. But Justin Ringle delivers its optimistic titular lyric with newfound assertiveness; as a result, although deeply personal, it could just as easily allude to the unexpected success his band has found by finally embracing their own accessibility.

Artist: Horse Feathers, Album: Appreciation, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Slowly, glacially, Horse Feathers’ music has turned outward. What began as Oregon songwriter Justin Ringle and violinist Peter Broderick’s hermetic take on Appalachian folk eventually blossomed out with the addition of a larger string ensemble. It became the quintessential sound of the band. Yet even when the group lightened the mood with electric guitars and lively percussion on 2014’s So It Is With Us, it was hard to shake the feeling that they were still singing primarily to themselves. But on Appreciation, Horse Feathers’ sixth full-length, that introverted persona has thawed, revealing a surprising affinity for the joy of both Stax-era soul and the country-fried sound of Doug Sahm and the Flying Burrito Brothers. While the looser grooves can deflate the tension, they also frame Ringle’s world-weariness in terms that are directed, finally, at us. Horse Feathers’ transition to a full band is by no means novel among the folk revivalists who got their start in the aughts; Steve Gunn, Vetiver, and Devendra Banhart have followed similar trajectories. Yet unlike those artists, Horse Feathers have undergone a grand re-shuffling as well as an expansion. While the strings sometimes flutter a bit listlessly, they generally compliment J. Tom Hnatow’s basslines and Robby Cosenza’s spritely percussion. On single “Don't Mean to Pry,” violins arc overhead, reinforcing Cosenza’s lithe patterns. Later, standout track “Faultline Wall” utilizes glissandos with similar economy, accentuating the song’s underlying menace. What’s most intriguing about Appreciation is just how well the fulsome songs suit Ringle’s voice. The jauntier the tune, the more he embraces a more sensual approach to his singing: We get flashes of John Fogerty, Sturgill Simpson’s rebel yell and, nestled in the melodies of “Born in Love,” a fully unexpected oooh that would make Josh Tillman proud. For the first time, he sounds like he’s actually having fun. That doesn’t mean that he has abandoned his trademark cynicism. The strongest songs on Appreciation expand on the Springsteen-style populism that has long lurked in Ringle’s music. Songs here ring out with accounts of economic disenfranchisement and helplessness: “It’s not the drinking, but the worry that does you in,” he sings in the opening track, “Without Applause.” “Faultline Wall” delivers a bleak tale of the environmental and occupational hazards of mining and “Evictions” sums up the nightmare of West Coast gentrification, yet does so over a smoky waltz that leaves us unsure what mood Ringle is shooting for. Though the extroverted mood throughout Appreciation can feel a bit unsteady, closing track “On the Rise” drops the drums in favor of a string-centric arrangement that is, once again, quintessential Horse Feathers. But Justin Ringle delivers its optimistic titular lyric with newfound assertiveness; as a result, although deeply personal, it could just as easily allude to the unexpected success his band has found by finally embracing their own accessibility."

Sons and Daughters

This Gift

Rock

Joe Tangari

On their past two releases, Scotland's Sons & Daughters staked out a unique sound built around tense rhythm, static harmony, hints of Scottish folk, and strong male/female spoken/sung vocal interplay. On This Gift, they give back a bit of that distinctive ground, more frequently adopting a more conventional rock approach, while Adele Bethel moves into more of a frontwoman role, taking nearly every note of lead vocals. Scott Paterson, who once played deadpan foil to Bethel with his dry lead vocals, is now mostly focused on the guitar and backing vocals. This doesn't compromise the band's quality much, though-- it just gives them a somewhat different look that's backed up by slightly brighter production from ex-Suede guitarist Bernard Butler. In fact, I'd say that if anything, re-structuring their approach has given them a bit more songwriting leeway, and this album has bigger choruses and better riffs than its predecessor, 2006's Repulsion Box. One thing it doesn't have, though, is any kind of lower gear-- the band is pretty much all-out the whole way, which can be a little tiring. Even places where they let you think they're dialing back, like the wispy, piano-backed intro to "Split Lips", soon give way to fast tempos led by David Gow's aggressive drums. While they've given up some of the folk dual lead elements that were once their calling cards, they have hit on a unique way of adding memorable choruses to their songs, augmenting the chorus lyrics with big, melodic phrases built around simple words like "yeah" or non-words like "oh" and "ah." It sounds simple, but they make some huge hooks harmonizing on "oohs" and "aahs." These bigger hooks play into the overall streamlining of their sound, and it's not hard to imagine a few of these songs crossing over. "Darling" has a bit of a "Town Called Malice" feel to it (albeit at a much higher tempo), with Bethel's layered vocals creating the band's poppiest texture yet. The band wraps it up with one of its best songs yet, the fuzzed-out rocker "Goodbye Service", which backs Bethel up with little falsetto harmonies and makes the most out of the sour tone of Paterson's guitar-- it's like a harder update on something that could have come out of Boston in 1968, and there's even a psychedelic breakdown. It's a good closer for such a loud and propulsive album, an LP that finds the band no worse for the wear after modifying its sound to go more directly for the jugular. The biggest critique is that as an album, This Gift is perhaps too far in the red too much of the time, but even that complaint is tempered by the fact that the ride is so good.

Artist: Sons and Daughters, Album: This Gift, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "On their past two releases, Scotland's Sons & Daughters staked out a unique sound built around tense rhythm, static harmony, hints of Scottish folk, and strong male/female spoken/sung vocal interplay. On This Gift, they give back a bit of that distinctive ground, more frequently adopting a more conventional rock approach, while Adele Bethel moves into more of a frontwoman role, taking nearly every note of lead vocals. Scott Paterson, who once played deadpan foil to Bethel with his dry lead vocals, is now mostly focused on the guitar and backing vocals. This doesn't compromise the band's quality much, though-- it just gives them a somewhat different look that's backed up by slightly brighter production from ex-Suede guitarist Bernard Butler. In fact, I'd say that if anything, re-structuring their approach has given them a bit more songwriting leeway, and this album has bigger choruses and better riffs than its predecessor, 2006's Repulsion Box. One thing it doesn't have, though, is any kind of lower gear-- the band is pretty much all-out the whole way, which can be a little tiring. Even places where they let you think they're dialing back, like the wispy, piano-backed intro to "Split Lips", soon give way to fast tempos led by David Gow's aggressive drums. While they've given up some of the folk dual lead elements that were once their calling cards, they have hit on a unique way of adding memorable choruses to their songs, augmenting the chorus lyrics with big, melodic phrases built around simple words like "yeah" or non-words like "oh" and "ah." It sounds simple, but they make some huge hooks harmonizing on "oohs" and "aahs." These bigger hooks play into the overall streamlining of their sound, and it's not hard to imagine a few of these songs crossing over. "Darling" has a bit of a "Town Called Malice" feel to it (albeit at a much higher tempo), with Bethel's layered vocals creating the band's poppiest texture yet. The band wraps it up with one of its best songs yet, the fuzzed-out rocker "Goodbye Service", which backs Bethel up with little falsetto harmonies and makes the most out of the sour tone of Paterson's guitar-- it's like a harder update on something that could have come out of Boston in 1968, and there's even a psychedelic breakdown. It's a good closer for such a loud and propulsive album, an LP that finds the band no worse for the wear after modifying its sound to go more directly for the jugular. The biggest critique is that as an album, This Gift is perhaps too far in the red too much of the time, but even that complaint is tempered by the fact that the ride is so good."

Laurie Anderson

Homeland

Experimental

Brian Howe

Laurie Anderson's 40-year career bucks classification, incorporating performance art, music, spoken word, video, and more. To mention John Zorn, Lou Reed, and Philip Glass only glosses her collaborations with the American avant-garde. She's also crossed over in interesting and unexpected ways, whether voicing a singing tot in The Rugrats Movie*,* or hitting #2 on the 1981 UK Singles Chart with "O Superman (For Massenet)", a doomsday anthem combining the vocoder with an aria from Le Cid. That angelic, robotic voice is often reprised on Homeland, her first new album in a decade, which fans will welcome as an heir to her definitive performance piece, United States. It's also a perfect starting point; an exquisite state-of-the-union dispatch as only Anderson, America's darkly comic conscience, can provide. A songful yet distressed Neo-Romantic mode anchors forays into techno, jazz, drone, and minimal electronics. Top-notch guests like Zorn, Antony, and Kieran Hebden add their unique perspectives to Anderson's probing keyboards and violins. The music is spacious, mercurial, and thoroughly conceived. Anderson's vocals hover between speech and song, polemics and poetry, apocalyptic and redemptive fervors. And that's as far as generalizations will go. Homeland teems with the same variety and sprit as the U.S. itself. These songs have been developing live for years, so naturally, Iraq and Wall Street loom large. The persistence of those quandaries makes the material feel timely, even oracular, a quality for which Anderson is known. "O Superman" gained fresh attention after 9-11 for its images of American planes drawing ominously nearer. (On a lighter note, its vocals predicted everything from Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek" to the ongoing Auto-Tune craze.) She's still broadcasting from the day after tomorrow. The organic house track "Only an Expert" schematically details the hubris of authorities who consolidate power by creating problems only they can solve. Had the album been delayed a little longer, a verse about the BP oil leak would have fit perfectly alongside the global warming controversy and the banking bailout. "Only an Expert" makes a pervasive, subtle theme momentarily explicit: How shared illusions about security and plenitude perpetuate a predictable cycle of cultural, environmental, and existential crises. But this threatens to make the album sound punitive, when somehow, Anderson's wrath feels compassionate. As "Falling" would have it, "Americans, unrooted, blow with the wind/ But they feel the truth if it touches them." It's confrontational and beautiful, the grim tidings leavened with empathetic portraiture. "Transitory Life" is haunting and cunningly crafted. When Anderson sings that her dead grandmother "made herself a bed inside my ear/ Every night I hear," the Tuvan throat singer from the song's intro reappears, the formless cries suddenly given a narrative role. But the epic "Another Day in America" is the album's huge, dark heart. Anderson's voice is pitched down and slowed-- she becomes her character on the cover, a slapstick figure of male authority-- over lingering strings and keyboards. The oration is a vortex of visionary proclamations, pointed fables, downbeat jokes. It makes palpable not only all the pathos and superstition of the American psyche, but the weight of time passing away-- another diminishing resource. Every malfunction of the status quo, Anderson implies, is a chance to start over, instead of rushing to rebuild what always breaks down. Her pessimism might not be comforting, but as oil continues to poison the Gulf of Mexico, it feels awfully prescient.

Artist: Laurie Anderson, Album: Homeland, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Laurie Anderson's 40-year career bucks classification, incorporating performance art, music, spoken word, video, and more. To mention John Zorn, Lou Reed, and Philip Glass only glosses her collaborations with the American avant-garde. She's also crossed over in interesting and unexpected ways, whether voicing a singing tot in The Rugrats Movie*,* or hitting #2 on the 1981 UK Singles Chart with "O Superman (For Massenet)", a doomsday anthem combining the vocoder with an aria from Le Cid. That angelic, robotic voice is often reprised on Homeland, her first new album in a decade, which fans will welcome as an heir to her definitive performance piece, United States. It's also a perfect starting point; an exquisite state-of-the-union dispatch as only Anderson, America's darkly comic conscience, can provide. A songful yet distressed Neo-Romantic mode anchors forays into techno, jazz, drone, and minimal electronics. Top-notch guests like Zorn, Antony, and Kieran Hebden add their unique perspectives to Anderson's probing keyboards and violins. The music is spacious, mercurial, and thoroughly conceived. Anderson's vocals hover between speech and song, polemics and poetry, apocalyptic and redemptive fervors. And that's as far as generalizations will go. Homeland teems with the same variety and sprit as the U.S. itself. These songs have been developing live for years, so naturally, Iraq and Wall Street loom large. The persistence of those quandaries makes the material feel timely, even oracular, a quality for which Anderson is known. "O Superman" gained fresh attention after 9-11 for its images of American planes drawing ominously nearer. (On a lighter note, its vocals predicted everything from Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek" to the ongoing Auto-Tune craze.) She's still broadcasting from the day after tomorrow. The organic house track "Only an Expert" schematically details the hubris of authorities who consolidate power by creating problems only they can solve. Had the album been delayed a little longer, a verse about the BP oil leak would have fit perfectly alongside the global warming controversy and the banking bailout. "Only an Expert" makes a pervasive, subtle theme momentarily explicit: How shared illusions about security and plenitude perpetuate a predictable cycle of cultural, environmental, and existential crises. But this threatens to make the album sound punitive, when somehow, Anderson's wrath feels compassionate. As "Falling" would have it, "Americans, unrooted, blow with the wind/ But they feel the truth if it touches them." It's confrontational and beautiful, the grim tidings leavened with empathetic portraiture. "Transitory Life" is haunting and cunningly crafted. When Anderson sings that her dead grandmother "made herself a bed inside my ear/ Every night I hear," the Tuvan throat singer from the song's intro reappears, the formless cries suddenly given a narrative role. But the epic "Another Day in America" is the album's huge, dark heart. Anderson's voice is pitched down and slowed-- she becomes her character on the cover, a slapstick figure of male authority-- over lingering strings and keyboards. The oration is a vortex of visionary proclamations, pointed fables, downbeat jokes. It makes palpable not only all the pathos and superstition of the American psyche, but the weight of time passing away-- another diminishing resource. Every malfunction of the status quo, Anderson implies, is a chance to start over, instead of rushing to rebuild what always breaks down. Her pessimism might not be comforting, but as oil continues to poison the Gulf of Mexico, it feels awfully prescient."

Hrsta

L'eclat du Ciel Était Insoutenable

Rock

Kevin Adickes

Insomnia is a harsh mistress. It inevitably sides with your more impulsive self, leaving logic at the door. Anyone who's ever gone or a four-night study bender will understand. Something as perverse as lining every inch of your room with mirrors may seem logical at the time but, as the cast of the film Alive discovered, the rationale can't always be justified in the face of social scrutiny. However, after finding myself driving about Austin's seediest neighborhoods at 4:00 a.m. blasting Snow's "Informer" at an ungodly volume, even I had to admit that I had a problem. Having been seduced by many of the myriad New Age philosophies blurring the lines between genuine medical practice and transcendentalist scam artistry, I made the decision to take leave of long-time friend and personal physician Dr. Schreiber and seek the clinical opinion of 'Hopie,' an authentic feng-shui master who happened to dabble in alternative remedies. After listening intently to the horrors of my descent into madness, he flipped through his record collection. The artists I could discern from my wicker topple-bowl across the foyer were completely alien to me. Nowhere ir my travails had I encountered musicians with such exotic names as Tanakh, Keiji Haino, or Tomas Jirku. Needless to say, names of such foreign cadence were quite impressive while under the influence of Hopie's slightly inebriating incense. When he finally prescribed a two-week tenure with Hrsta's L'eclat du Ciel Était Insoutenable, I felt the rare but refreshing surge of snobbery familiar only to the musical 'elite.' What ensued was much less exhilarating: my research on Hrsta revealed that the project was merely a vehicle for Mike Moya, co-founder of such post-rock luminaries as Godspeed You Black Emperor and another personal addiction, Set Fire to Flames. I soon discovered, however, that cred alone isn't enough to sustain a poorly conceived exploratior of dissonance. Although my insomnia was gone, it wasn't because Moya had painted a gorgeous and inviting sonic tapestry capable of tempting my defiant psyche into slumber. Nor were there any insurmountable walls of terror with which to frighten myself into a state of coma. Rather, I was subjected to distant orchestral 'scores' consisting largely of single, undulating notes occasionally interrupted by sparse attempts at cabaret numbers. Never mind that the more traditional songs to be found throughout the album all boasted the same tempo, Moya's raspy Jonathan Donahue-cum-Kim Gordon vocals, and lyrics that sounded as if they were borne of some ill-fated collaboration between Rage Against the Machine and Tristan Tzara. One can only stand the refrain, "The bricks start to fall/ Like so many teeth," so many times before it begins to lose its poetic pretense. It's to Moya's credit that L'eclat du Ciel Était Insoutenable is consistent in its cinematic creepiness despite its overbearing length. Songs such as "Lime Kiln" break from the record's formulaic instrumentation by incorporating such exotic sounds as a theremin (a hallmark of any campy 50s sci-fi/nuclear fallout melodrama) succeed in offering a unique take on Hrsta's post-apocalyptic lyrical obsessions. But, in maintaining the ethereal and haunting mood of the record, Moya often falls back on the same aural tricks, the most notable being the liberally administered reverb which coats the entire damn album, drowning out whatever subtle intricacies were to be found in the songwriting. With my insomnia all but vanished I have more time to deal with my newly established disillusionment. As added insurance, I cut Hopie loose and have returned to legally sponsored medical aid (all the while praying that my insolence won't be rewarded with a painfully unnecessary prostate exam). Though still a very disappointing release, I've come to think of Hrsta as an anomaly: Moya exercising his ability as a songwriter while hamfistedly tending to his established 'sound.' Though I'd never refer to any aspect of Moya's music as 'irreverent,' the man has never taken himself less seriously then he does here.

Artist: Hrsta, Album: L'eclat du Ciel Était Insoutenable, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "Insomnia is a harsh mistress. It inevitably sides with your more impulsive self, leaving logic at the door. Anyone who's ever gone or a four-night study bender will understand. Something as perverse as lining every inch of your room with mirrors may seem logical at the time but, as the cast of the film Alive discovered, the rationale can't always be justified in the face of social scrutiny. However, after finding myself driving about Austin's seediest neighborhoods at 4:00 a.m. blasting Snow's "Informer" at an ungodly volume, even I had to admit that I had a problem. Having been seduced by many of the myriad New Age philosophies blurring the lines between genuine medical practice and transcendentalist scam artistry, I made the decision to take leave of long-time friend and personal physician Dr. Schreiber and seek the clinical opinion of 'Hopie,' an authentic feng-shui master who happened to dabble in alternative remedies. After listening intently to the horrors of my descent into madness, he flipped through his record collection. The artists I could discern from my wicker topple-bowl across the foyer were completely alien to me. Nowhere ir my travails had I encountered musicians with such exotic names as Tanakh, Keiji Haino, or Tomas Jirku. Needless to say, names of such foreign cadence were quite impressive while under the influence of Hopie's slightly inebriating incense. When he finally prescribed a two-week tenure with Hrsta's L'eclat du Ciel Était Insoutenable, I felt the rare but refreshing surge of snobbery familiar only to the musical 'elite.' What ensued was much less exhilarating: my research on Hrsta revealed that the project was merely a vehicle for Mike Moya, co-founder of such post-rock luminaries as Godspeed You Black Emperor and another personal addiction, Set Fire to Flames. I soon discovered, however, that cred alone isn't enough to sustain a poorly conceived exploratior of dissonance. Although my insomnia was gone, it wasn't because Moya had painted a gorgeous and inviting sonic tapestry capable of tempting my defiant psyche into slumber. Nor were there any insurmountable walls of terror with which to frighten myself into a state of coma. Rather, I was subjected to distant orchestral 'scores' consisting largely of single, undulating notes occasionally interrupted by sparse attempts at cabaret numbers. Never mind that the more traditional songs to be found throughout the album all boasted the same tempo, Moya's raspy Jonathan Donahue-cum-Kim Gordon vocals, and lyrics that sounded as if they were borne of some ill-fated collaboration between Rage Against the Machine and Tristan Tzara. One can only stand the refrain, "The bricks start to fall/ Like so many teeth," so many times before it begins to lose its poetic pretense. It's to Moya's credit that L'eclat du Ciel Était Insoutenable is consistent in its cinematic creepiness despite its overbearing length. Songs such as "Lime Kiln" break from the record's formulaic instrumentation by incorporating such exotic sounds as a theremin (a hallmark of any campy 50s sci-fi/nuclear fallout melodrama) succeed in offering a unique take on Hrsta's post-apocalyptic lyrical obsessions. But, in maintaining the ethereal and haunting mood of the record, Moya often falls back on the same aural tricks, the most notable being the liberally administered reverb which coats the entire damn album, drowning out whatever subtle intricacies were to be found in the songwriting. With my insomnia all but vanished I have more time to deal with my newly established disillusionment. As added insurance, I cut Hopie loose and have returned to legally sponsored medical aid (all the while praying that my insolence won't be rewarded with a painfully unnecessary prostate exam). Though still a very disappointing release, I've come to think of Hrsta as an anomaly: Moya exercising his ability as a songwriter while hamfistedly tending to his established 'sound.' Though I'd never refer to any aspect of Moya's music as 'irreverent,' the man has never taken himself less seriously then he does here."

Young Widows

Settle Down City

Metal

Jason Crock

Young Widows are pretty much former Jade Tree band Breather Resist without the vocalist, but you can barely tell. Are they still indebted to the Jesus Lizard? Sure. Just listen to the queasy, seasick guitar lines in the title track or "Glad He Ate Her" (see what they did there?) to find that same oppressive head-bob rhythm between galloping drums and sludgy bass. But they've learned a whole lot of patience and found at least a couple other bands to rip off, making Settle Down City a thoughtful and more original record-- if a little less manic-- with far more potential than their former band. Don't sleep on this late-2006 album like I nearly did; the halls of nu-pigfuck are beset with obstacles, and it might be only these three penitent men who pass. For one, the vocals of Evan Patterson are much calmer, recalling the flat, ominous delivery of early June of 44. That's exactly who they remind me of-- albeit a nastier version-- on the opening title track, when after a few bars of pounding the downbeat with Neanderthal drumming and a bass tone that hits like a bowling ball dropped in mud, everything recedes for guitar plinking and some idle warnings from the singer ("Why'd you come around, the city left you/ Should have settled down..."), just before more furious grinding. The production is dry, truer to those mid-1990s grails, and rather than the middling distortion tone of Breather Resist, the guitars have more of a free-floating echo above the din, crunchy but clear. Songs like "Small Talk" are less riffing and more incidental noise, punching in and out of the verses with an almost dub-like abruptness and ghostly reverb. Meanwhile, that starkness gives room for drummer Geoff Paton to stomp like a fuming animal over tracks like "Formererer" and makes moments like the staccato full-band thwack at the finale of "Bruised Knees" that much scarier. While the tempo and tone get pretty homogenous, save for some backing vocals on "Mirrorfucker", Settle Down City is consistently dynamic and surprising, from the title track's twists and turns to the many change-ups and fake-outs of tracks like "Glad He Ate Her" and "Formererer". Young Widows borrow from a narrow selection of influences, but it's forced them to come up with a stronger-- and uglier-- result. It may not step too far out of the shadow of its heroes, but it is taking a step. Either way, it's a worthy entry to an undermined corner of the underground.

Artist: Young Widows, Album: Settle Down City, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Young Widows are pretty much former Jade Tree band Breather Resist without the vocalist, but you can barely tell. Are they still indebted to the Jesus Lizard? Sure. Just listen to the queasy, seasick guitar lines in the title track or "Glad He Ate Her" (see what they did there?) to find that same oppressive head-bob rhythm between galloping drums and sludgy bass. But they've learned a whole lot of patience and found at least a couple other bands to rip off, making Settle Down City a thoughtful and more original record-- if a little less manic-- with far more potential than their former band. Don't sleep on this late-2006 album like I nearly did; the halls of nu-pigfuck are beset with obstacles, and it might be only these three penitent men who pass. For one, the vocals of Evan Patterson are much calmer, recalling the flat, ominous delivery of early June of 44. That's exactly who they remind me of-- albeit a nastier version-- on the opening title track, when after a few bars of pounding the downbeat with Neanderthal drumming and a bass tone that hits like a bowling ball dropped in mud, everything recedes for guitar plinking and some idle warnings from the singer ("Why'd you come around, the city left you/ Should have settled down..."), just before more furious grinding. The production is dry, truer to those mid-1990s grails, and rather than the middling distortion tone of Breather Resist, the guitars have more of a free-floating echo above the din, crunchy but clear. Songs like "Small Talk" are less riffing and more incidental noise, punching in and out of the verses with an almost dub-like abruptness and ghostly reverb. Meanwhile, that starkness gives room for drummer Geoff Paton to stomp like a fuming animal over tracks like "Formererer" and makes moments like the staccato full-band thwack at the finale of "Bruised Knees" that much scarier. While the tempo and tone get pretty homogenous, save for some backing vocals on "Mirrorfucker", Settle Down City is consistently dynamic and surprising, from the title track's twists and turns to the many change-ups and fake-outs of tracks like "Glad He Ate Her" and "Formererer". Young Widows borrow from a narrow selection of influences, but it's forced them to come up with a stronger-- and uglier-- result. It may not step too far out of the shadow of its heroes, but it is taking a step. Either way, it's a worthy entry to an undermined corner of the underground."

Operators

EP1

Rock

Jamieson Cox

Dan Boeckner is over a decade into his career, and he’s spent most of it playing in bands whose appeal was at least partially based on their interpersonal dynamics. He was the lapsed paladin writing woolly Bruce Springsteen homages along mana-crazed warlock Spencer Krug in Wolf Parade, a band whose contributions to the halcyon days of '00s indie rock are now rather underrated; his work in Handsome Furs with ex-wife Alexei Perry hung on the implied sexual tension between his chugging riffs and her icy, frenzied synth lines; and as the co-leader of Divine Fits, he pitted his raw, heart-on-sleeve growl against Britt Daniel’s cooler, detached yelp, and ended up stealing the album’s best moments. Given that rich collaborative history, Boeckner’s first EP with his new band, Operators, makes for a slightly disconcerting listen: for the first time in a long time, he’s alone at the front, a lead voice who’s spent his career defining himself against the voices of others. Based on the short and tidy EP1, Boeckner isn’t going to dramatically change the formula that’s won him fans and critical acclaim now that he’s the only one steering the ship. Its five songs are an extension of the gruff, melody-driven rock he’s been making for a decade, granted an electronic bent and license to hit the dancefloor. Operators’ sound is clearly derived from a long-running line of smart, populist bands that blurred the boundaries between electronic and rock music: New Order’s mechanical precision and sturdy rhythms, Depeche Mode’s ambitious, dramatic stadium goth, and the ragged, crate-digging electro of the DFA label’s early period. These influences have always been present in Boeckner’s music—Handsome Furs was synth-pop, just set in an alternate timeline where the Soviet Union became the dominant world power, and Wolf Parade deployed vintage synths with wild-eyed glee—but they’ve never been as explicitly rendered as they are on EP1. The EP’s sprawling penultimate track, “Ancient”, is a good example: Boeckner is backed up by synths that misfire and slowly rise before cresting and plummeting—it’s a drop, real and earned—into a filthy, swaggering little groove. It’s a show of good faith on Boeckner’s part: it’s one thing to pay lip service to the idea of bridging contemporary rock and dance music, and quite another to actually get people moving. He seems honestly invested in the concept. There’s a welcome physicality to the music, too, helped along by the reliable contributions of Divine Fits drummer Sam Brown and keyboardist Devojka. These songs gobble up space and hit hard. The qualities that help EP1 hang alongside Boeckner's other, more prominent work are its unabashed sincerity and total investment in the idea of relevant, visceral rock music. Perhaps the EP's heart-on-sleeve pursuit of greatness isn't a huge surprise, given the band's creative core—we're talking about a guy whose finest moments are ripping, raw songs called "This Heart's on Fire" and "My Love Is Real"—but either way, it's endearing. Rather than feeling born out of boredom or trend chasing, EP1 radiates a reverence for its major influences, and a real excitement in its brightest, loudest moments. When the lurching, buzzing "Book of Love" splits open with a minute left and births a gorgeous, spiraling keyboard melody, you can almost see the band grinning and launching into their parts with renewed vigor; the same feeling is generated when lead single "True" first falls into its lockstep groove, or when the band kicks out the jams on the aforementioned "Ancient". Their joy is infectious, and it helps paper over some of the EP's cheesier moments. The repeated question "Who put the ancient code in your bones?" on "Ancient" might be the goofiest lyrical query this side of "Are we human or are we dancer," but it's easier to forgive when it's delivered with energy and enthusiasm. That's what makes this first effort from Operators a worthwhile exercise: it's a chance to hear a veteran like Boeckner taking mild risks and having fun.

Artist: Operators, Album: EP1, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Dan Boeckner is over a decade into his career, and he’s spent most of it playing in bands whose appeal was at least partially based on their interpersonal dynamics. He was the lapsed paladin writing woolly Bruce Springsteen homages along mana-crazed warlock Spencer Krug in Wolf Parade, a band whose contributions to the halcyon days of '00s indie rock are now rather underrated; his work in Handsome Furs with ex-wife Alexei Perry hung on the implied sexual tension between his chugging riffs and her icy, frenzied synth lines; and as the co-leader of Divine Fits, he pitted his raw, heart-on-sleeve growl against Britt Daniel’s cooler, detached yelp, and ended up stealing the album’s best moments. Given that rich collaborative history, Boeckner’s first EP with his new band, Operators, makes for a slightly disconcerting listen: for the first time in a long time, he’s alone at the front, a lead voice who’s spent his career defining himself against the voices of others. Based on the short and tidy EP1, Boeckner isn’t going to dramatically change the formula that’s won him fans and critical acclaim now that he’s the only one steering the ship. Its five songs are an extension of the gruff, melody-driven rock he’s been making for a decade, granted an electronic bent and license to hit the dancefloor. Operators’ sound is clearly derived from a long-running line of smart, populist bands that blurred the boundaries between electronic and rock music: New Order’s mechanical precision and sturdy rhythms, Depeche Mode’s ambitious, dramatic stadium goth, and the ragged, crate-digging electro of the DFA label’s early period. These influences have always been present in Boeckner’s music—Handsome Furs was synth-pop, just set in an alternate timeline where the Soviet Union became the dominant world power, and Wolf Parade deployed vintage synths with wild-eyed glee—but they’ve never been as explicitly rendered as they are on EP1. The EP’s sprawling penultimate track, “Ancient”, is a good example: Boeckner is backed up by synths that misfire and slowly rise before cresting and plummeting—it’s a drop, real and earned—into a filthy, swaggering little groove. It’s a show of good faith on Boeckner’s part: it’s one thing to pay lip service to the idea of bridging contemporary rock and dance music, and quite another to actually get people moving. He seems honestly invested in the concept. There’s a welcome physicality to the music, too, helped along by the reliable contributions of Divine Fits drummer Sam Brown and keyboardist Devojka. These songs gobble up space and hit hard. The qualities that help EP1 hang alongside Boeckner's other, more prominent work are its unabashed sincerity and total investment in the idea of relevant, visceral rock music. Perhaps the EP's heart-on-sleeve pursuit of greatness isn't a huge surprise, given the band's creative core—we're talking about a guy whose finest moments are ripping, raw songs called "This Heart's on Fire" and "My Love Is Real"—but either way, it's endearing. Rather than feeling born out of boredom or trend chasing, EP1 radiates a reverence for its major influences, and a real excitement in its brightest, loudest moments. When the lurching, buzzing "Book of Love" splits open with a minute left and births a gorgeous, spiraling keyboard melody, you can almost see the band grinning and launching into their parts with renewed vigor; the same feeling is generated when lead single "True" first falls into its lockstep groove, or when the band kicks out the jams on the aforementioned "Ancient". Their joy is infectious, and it helps paper over some of the EP's cheesier moments. The repeated question "Who put the ancient code in your bones?" on "Ancient" might be the goofiest lyrical query this side of "Are we human or are we dancer," but it's easier to forgive when it's delivered with energy and enthusiasm. That's what makes this first effort from Operators a worthwhile exercise: it's a chance to hear a veteran like Boeckner taking mild risks and having fun."

DENA

Flash

Carrie Battan

Naturally awkward people can produce a powerful charm in the right context. Norway's Erlend Øye, one half of indie-folk duo Kings of Convenience, has built much of his career aesthetic on this paradox. Recall the video for the 2004 single "I'd Rather Dance With You", which finds Øye in a red and white tracksuit, navigating a throng of giggling girls in a ballet class and letting his limbs fly and droop in a series of choreographed moves. He's a master of leaning calmly into his gawkiness rather than attempting to mask it, and he exudes an unassuming sort of confidence as a result. So it was no surprise to see him pop up alongside a young Bulgarian woman named DENA last summer in a video for a knowingly goofy but genuinely infectious rap single called "Cash, Diamond Rings, Swimming Pools". There they were, two peas in a pod: gangly, welcoming, unpretentious, deeply European. "If you're listening to this in a hot country/ Please come rescue me," DENA raps in her thick Bulgarian accent in an assortment of clashing outfits, "If you got a swimming pool, then we can be hanging.” Part M.I.A.-informed party rap, part YouTube novelty, part small-town Eastern European documentary, “Cash, Diamond Rings, Swimming Pools” had all the hallmarks of a meme-y, flash-in-the-pan internet rap hit. (DENA’s YouTube account name is "denafromtheblock".) But the kitsch of her style translates nicely across her debut album Flash, a small and inviting record that is unfazed—delighted, even—by its own rough edges and occasionally bumbling sensibilities. It’s an album that lifts from an almost comically basic hip-hop and social-media glossary to talk about young adult love and frustration and ambition in an endearing way: “Haters gonna hate/ Lovers gonna love/ If you mess with me/ You get a total ignore,” DENA raps bluntly on “Total Ignore”. “You can’t believe that my beats so banging/ Yeah, I made it all while you were hanging,” she boasts. The production, which DENA handled herself, is a studied blend of clatter, simple keyboard melodies, and quiet boom-bap. Which isn’t to say that Flash is cartoon music. DENA strikes a delicate balance between sounding naive enough to pray to the altar of American rap flash and excess and savvy enough to recognize her own distance from it. “I haven’t been taking any planes today/ You’re the one who whisks away and I’m the one who stays,” she laments on “Jet Lag”. “I think I’m having jet lag without even having fun.” The record is more nuanced and knowing than simple white-girl gag rap; DENA’s charm buffers her from some of the pitfalls of her outsider-rap status. Flash carves her out a new space in a crowded sphere: She's a refreshing foil to the jaded slickness of an artist like Lorde, the brutal tone-deafness of someone like the white Swedish rapper Yung Lean, or the overbearing cutesiness of a Kitty Pryde. There’s a sense that DENA earned her sly stripes because she's a true music nerd, and that she uses music as a means of escaping small-town claustrophobia. It’s evident on a song like “Cash, Diamond Rings, Swimming Pools”, where she sings that she’s “hanging here and wishing to be there, ending up with not really being anywhere.” Some of her best work came in the form of a SoundCloud mix called “High on Hi Hats”, which blended together an unexpected list of contemporary remix obscurities with forgotten classics like Guru and Kelis’ “Supa Love”. Like the best kind of nerd, she’s done her research. Now she just wants to participate and share, and doesn't mind showing off her imperfections in the process.

Artist: DENA, Album: Flash, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Naturally awkward people can produce a powerful charm in the right context. Norway's Erlend Øye, one half of indie-folk duo Kings of Convenience, has built much of his career aesthetic on this paradox. Recall the video for the 2004 single "I'd Rather Dance With You", which finds Øye in a red and white tracksuit, navigating a throng of giggling girls in a ballet class and letting his limbs fly and droop in a series of choreographed moves. He's a master of leaning calmly into his gawkiness rather than attempting to mask it, and he exudes an unassuming sort of confidence as a result. So it was no surprise to see him pop up alongside a young Bulgarian woman named DENA last summer in a video for a knowingly goofy but genuinely infectious rap single called "Cash, Diamond Rings, Swimming Pools". There they were, two peas in a pod: gangly, welcoming, unpretentious, deeply European. "If you're listening to this in a hot country/ Please come rescue me," DENA raps in her thick Bulgarian accent in an assortment of clashing outfits, "If you got a swimming pool, then we can be hanging.” Part M.I.A.-informed party rap, part YouTube novelty, part small-town Eastern European documentary, “Cash, Diamond Rings, Swimming Pools” had all the hallmarks of a meme-y, flash-in-the-pan internet rap hit. (DENA’s YouTube account name is "denafromtheblock".) But the kitsch of her style translates nicely across her debut album Flash, a small and inviting record that is unfazed—delighted, even—by its own rough edges and occasionally bumbling sensibilities. It’s an album that lifts from an almost comically basic hip-hop and social-media glossary to talk about young adult love and frustration and ambition in an endearing way: “Haters gonna hate/ Lovers gonna love/ If you mess with me/ You get a total ignore,” DENA raps bluntly on “Total Ignore”. “You can’t believe that my beats so banging/ Yeah, I made it all while you were hanging,” she boasts. The production, which DENA handled herself, is a studied blend of clatter, simple keyboard melodies, and quiet boom-bap. Which isn’t to say that Flash is cartoon music. DENA strikes a delicate balance between sounding naive enough to pray to the altar of American rap flash and excess and savvy enough to recognize her own distance from it. “I haven’t been taking any planes today/ You’re the one who whisks away and I’m the one who stays,” she laments on “Jet Lag”. “I think I’m having jet lag without even having fun.” The record is more nuanced and knowing than simple white-girl gag rap; DENA’s charm buffers her from some of the pitfalls of her outsider-rap status. Flash carves her out a new space in a crowded sphere: She's a refreshing foil to the jaded slickness of an artist like Lorde, the brutal tone-deafness of someone like the white Swedish rapper Yung Lean, or the overbearing cutesiness of a Kitty Pryde. There’s a sense that DENA earned her sly stripes because she's a true music nerd, and that she uses music as a means of escaping small-town claustrophobia. It’s evident on a song like “Cash, Diamond Rings, Swimming Pools”, where she sings that she’s “hanging here and wishing to be there, ending up with not really being anywhere.” Some of her best work came in the form of a SoundCloud mix called “High on Hi Hats”, which blended together an unexpected list of contemporary remix obscurities with forgotten classics like Guru and Kelis’ “Supa Love”. Like the best kind of nerd, she’s done her research. Now she just wants to participate and share, and doesn't mind showing off her imperfections in the process."

Svarte Greiner

Penpals Forever (and Ever)

Electronic

Brian Howe

Rattling doorknobs, creaking timbers, knocking plumbing, and disembodied wails-- it's either a haunted mansion or another album of saturnine drones from Erik K. Skodvin, a.k.a. Svarte Greiner (Hint: it's drones). Skodvin has an authoritative way of transforming jet-black bass and chattering textures into dark and distinctive atmospheres. All of his usual tricks were in place on his last record, Kappe, but it felt unusually staid and monochromatic. Both deficiencies are rectified on the latest Svarte Greiner release, Penpals Forever (and Ever), which isn't even a proper new album. The two long opening tracks were first issued as a limited-edition cassette in 2008, and here, they're re-mastered for CD alongside three brand new, shorter tracks. The Digitalis label boldly asserts that Penpals tells "the imaginary tale of a long-dead Baroque painter and his telekinetic correspondence with a flightless bird," although there is zero perceptible evidence of this in the music. Silliness of the meta-story aside, the music itself is sumptuously dreary. Throughout, violin bows and analog filters transform electric guitar tones into gruesome pricks and smears. The first two tracks (all of them are untitled) establish the field of play: One, a jittery fugue for brittle guitar swirls and guttural bass, borders on aggressive; the other, an airy two-tone drone with bowed shrieks and lonesome clangs, more readily slips into the background. More than telekinetic communication (wouldn't that be "telepathic" anyway?), the tracks evoke bleakly pleasurable anxiety. The highly contrasting timbres of the two openers already break up the monotony that bogged down Kappe, and the new compositions further expand the palette while complementing the reissued material perfectly. In one, gong-like tones accumulate resonance until the whole mass lifts off with the grandeur of a Bach organ chord. In another, delicately stretched and twisted metallic tones gradually inflate with breath. And then a third track is built around a widening cone of gale-force distortion. The slow and tortuous crescendos that Skodvin favors are always satisfying when he takes care to differentiate them from one another, as he does here. The eerie tension doesn't break; it multiplies, as the sonic light goes dim and weird.

Artist: Svarte Greiner, Album: Penpals Forever (and Ever), Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Rattling doorknobs, creaking timbers, knocking plumbing, and disembodied wails-- it's either a haunted mansion or another album of saturnine drones from Erik K. Skodvin, a.k.a. Svarte Greiner (Hint: it's drones). Skodvin has an authoritative way of transforming jet-black bass and chattering textures into dark and distinctive atmospheres. All of his usual tricks were in place on his last record, Kappe, but it felt unusually staid and monochromatic. Both deficiencies are rectified on the latest Svarte Greiner release, Penpals Forever (and Ever), which isn't even a proper new album. The two long opening tracks were first issued as a limited-edition cassette in 2008, and here, they're re-mastered for CD alongside three brand new, shorter tracks. The Digitalis label boldly asserts that Penpals tells "the imaginary tale of a long-dead Baroque painter and his telekinetic correspondence with a flightless bird," although there is zero perceptible evidence of this in the music. Silliness of the meta-story aside, the music itself is sumptuously dreary. Throughout, violin bows and analog filters transform electric guitar tones into gruesome pricks and smears. The first two tracks (all of them are untitled) establish the field of play: One, a jittery fugue for brittle guitar swirls and guttural bass, borders on aggressive; the other, an airy two-tone drone with bowed shrieks and lonesome clangs, more readily slips into the background. More than telekinetic communication (wouldn't that be "telepathic" anyway?), the tracks evoke bleakly pleasurable anxiety. The highly contrasting timbres of the two openers already break up the monotony that bogged down Kappe, and the new compositions further expand the palette while complementing the reissued material perfectly. In one, gong-like tones accumulate resonance until the whole mass lifts off with the grandeur of a Bach organ chord. In another, delicately stretched and twisted metallic tones gradually inflate with breath. And then a third track is built around a widening cone of gale-force distortion. The slow and tortuous crescendos that Skodvin favors are always satisfying when he takes care to differentiate them from one another, as he does here. The eerie tension doesn't break; it multiplies, as the sonic light goes dim and weird."

Taylor Bennett

Be Yourself EP

Rap

Phillip Mlynar

Thanks to the gene pool, Taylor Bennett shares the same sort of amiable brogue and sing-song lyrical style as his brother, Chance the Rapper. But the Chicago MC seems intent on furrowing his own independent path rather than riding on Chance’s now very long coattails. Bennett runs his own label, Tay Bennett Entertainment, which hosts his new six-song EP, Be Yourself—an album, incidentally, about finding your own way. Bennett’s coming out as bisexual directly influenced the concept behind the project, as he explained during an interview with Time: “Something that I want for not just children but all my listeners—no matter if you’re gay, straight, white, black, rich or poor—is understanding the power of being yourself. As children, very early we’re pressured into automatically being a part of groups.” The cover art to Be Yourself reinforces this way of thinking. The photograph shows the rapper slouched on a stool wearing nothing more than a pair of tight rainbow-patterned swimming trunks, a party hat, and a morose look on his face. Its message echoes that of the title track: Be happy in your own body and at peace with your own soul. Over poppy, piano-based production that just about avoids coming off as twee, Bennett raps about growing up in a poor environment, embracing a spirited work ethic, and succeeding in music to the point where he’s comfortable enough to present his true self and sexuality to the world. “It’s Taylor Bennett your superhero!/The answer’s been spoken/I told ’em be yourself fast/You gotta scream to the masses,” he proclaims jubilantly. Then comes the punchline: “And niggas still call me faggot/But bitch my shit looking fabulous.” It’s a philosophy Bennett repeats a few lines later: “I’m an outstanding Afro-American bisexual having shit/Change your dreams if they average.” Striking back against prejudice is a righteous move, but the way Bennett does it champions the same pursuit of fame and capitalism as cure-alls that we’ve heard within hip-hop for decades. Making money and buying material possessions—“having shit”—will gloss over your flaws and insecurities. It’s a conformist idea that betrays the grander notions of embracing your true self. This tension between the Taylor Bennett who wants to be naked and honest and the Taylor Bennett who endorses paper-chasing should be the central conflict of Be Yourself. Instead, the next three tracks largely forget about exploring any duality in favor of rolling out underwhelming get-the-girl tracks. “Baby girl you looking bad as fuck/But your friends want me,” he spits on “Better Than You Ever Been,” which features a showed-up Young Thug. By this point, the EP’s production has committed to a slick and saccharine funk style that plays it safe when a little sonic grit and dirt would go a long way towards deepening the impact of these songs. The most revealing moment—“Everything I Can’t Handle”—comes closest to exploring the contradiction at the heart of Be Yourself. The song begins as a shopping list of fanciful desires: skyscrapers, mink sweaters, a personal Gucci connection. Switching up the tone of his voice, Bennett begins to question his desires, rooting their value back to a single-parent upbringing on Chicago’s South Side. He even has flashbacks where he wonders if he’d still be alive had a stray bullet “found its way.” But out of this soul-searching emerges the same familiar conservative hip-hop life stance: “I want everything that’s granted/I want money, I want cameras.” It’s a longer-winded way of saying what JAY-Z told us all those years ago: “The streets school us to spend our money foolish.” Life’s ups and downs, hits and near-misses, acceptances and rejections all come down to having things. This infuses Be Yourself with an unsatisfying aftertaste: Despite seeming to urge us to embrace our individuality, it ultimately wants to be part of a similar group after all.

Artist: Taylor Bennett, Album: Be Yourself EP, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "Thanks to the gene pool, Taylor Bennett shares the same sort of amiable brogue and sing-song lyrical style as his brother, Chance the Rapper. But the Chicago MC seems intent on furrowing his own independent path rather than riding on Chance’s now very long coattails. Bennett runs his own label, Tay Bennett Entertainment, which hosts his new six-song EP, Be Yourself—an album, incidentally, about finding your own way. Bennett’s coming out as bisexual directly influenced the concept behind the project, as he explained during an interview with Time: “Something that I want for not just children but all my listeners—no matter if you’re gay, straight, white, black, rich or poor—is understanding the power of being yourself. As children, very early we’re pressured into automatically being a part of groups.” The cover art to Be Yourself reinforces this way of thinking. The photograph shows the rapper slouched on a stool wearing nothing more than a pair of tight rainbow-patterned swimming trunks, a party hat, and a morose look on his face. Its message echoes that of the title track: Be happy in your own body and at peace with your own soul. Over poppy, piano-based production that just about avoids coming off as twee, Bennett raps about growing up in a poor environment, embracing a spirited work ethic, and succeeding in music to the point where he’s comfortable enough to present his true self and sexuality to the world. “It’s Taylor Bennett your superhero!/The answer’s been spoken/I told ’em be yourself fast/You gotta scream to the masses,” he proclaims jubilantly. Then comes the punchline: “And niggas still call me faggot/But bitch my shit looking fabulous.” It’s a philosophy Bennett repeats a few lines later: “I’m an outstanding Afro-American bisexual having shit/Change your dreams if they average.” Striking back against prejudice is a righteous move, but the way Bennett does it champions the same pursuit of fame and capitalism as cure-alls that we’ve heard within hip-hop for decades. Making money and buying material possessions—“having shit”—will gloss over your flaws and insecurities. It’s a conformist idea that betrays the grander notions of embracing your true self. This tension between the Taylor Bennett who wants to be naked and honest and the Taylor Bennett who endorses paper-chasing should be the central conflict of Be Yourself. Instead, the next three tracks largely forget about exploring any duality in favor of rolling out underwhelming get-the-girl tracks. “Baby girl you looking bad as fuck/But your friends want me,” he spits on “Better Than You Ever Been,” which features a showed-up Young Thug. By this point, the EP’s production has committed to a slick and saccharine funk style that plays it safe when a little sonic grit and dirt would go a long way towards deepening the impact of these songs. The most revealing moment—“Everything I Can’t Handle”—comes closest to exploring the contradiction at the heart of Be Yourself. The song begins as a shopping list of fanciful desires: skyscrapers, mink sweaters, a personal Gucci connection. Switching up the tone of his voice, Bennett begins to question his desires, rooting their value back to a single-parent upbringing on Chicago’s South Side. He even has flashbacks where he wonders if he’d still be alive had a stray bullet “found its way.” But out of this soul-searching emerges the same familiar conservative hip-hop life stance: “I want everything that’s granted/I want money, I want cameras.” It’s a longer-winded way of saying what JAY-Z told us all those years ago: “The streets school us to spend our money foolish.” Life’s ups and downs, hits and near-misses, acceptances and rejections all come down to having things. This infuses Be Yourself with an unsatisfying aftertaste: Despite seeming to urge us to embrace our individuality, it ultimately wants to be part of a similar group after all."

Death Grips

Jenny Death

Experimental,Rap

Andy O'Connor

Keeping up with the Death Grips has increasingly become a headache. Cryptic break-up notes, a tumultuous split with Epic, a realignment with Harvest, cancelled tours (including one with Nine Inch Nails), no-show gigs: All of these antics were tolerable, sometimes fun, when they came backed up by compelling music. But even that part of the bargain, over the last year, has proved questionable. Last year’s Niggas on the Moon leaned too heavily on Björk samples and flattened their approach, while Fashion Week was an intriguing, if ultimately directionless, collection of instrumentals. *Fashion'*s song titles spelled out JENNYDEATHWHEN, hinting cryptically that their next album would be Jenny Death, the second half of the two-part sequence called The Powers That B. But by Fashion, it was hard to tell if even their hardcore faithful cared about what they would do next. Jenny, which Death Grips streamed on YouTube last week in advance of its release, is the record they needed to make. It’s not on the level of their artistic and commercial breakthrough The Money Store, but it will absolutely remind you of why you loved them in the first place. In fact, it’s so different from (and better than) Moon that it shouldn’t even be tethered to it. On these ten tracks, they’ve harnessed the unbridled energy of Government Plates into their most fully formed songs since Money, which helps justify their bluster. Producer Andy "Flatlander" Morin brings a lot of the death-disco of Money back into the mix, which broadens their approach without compromising their potency. Nothing here reaches the aggro-pop heights of "I’ve Seen Footage", but "Inanimate Sensation" comes close; it's clear why it was released as the first single. Over Flatlander’s seasick bass synths, Stefan "MC Ride" Burnett jumps through various vocals patterns—his trademark bark, chopped-and-screwed raps, menacing whispers—and ends up with something like a Jock Jams for the underworld. The buildup to MC Ride’s final verse is a staticky, topsy-turvy rush, culminating with the soon-to-be-immortal "I like my iPod more than fucking!" Yell that with your headphones on at work. MC Ride was so sorely missed on Fashion that his presence on Jenny feels like a triumphant comeback. Flatlander may provide the electronics and Hill may bring the percussive energy (and also lent initial critical credibility) to Death Grips, but MC Ride is the unpredictable heart of the group. He was somewhat lost in the madness of Plates and subdued on Moon, but he is in full, raw force here: The title "I Break Mirrors With My Face in the United States" brings to mind a sadistic animated .gif enacting the Black Flag Damaged cover, and MC Ride's raging, hypnotic vocal reinforces this impression. He isn’t just a spiral of rage, either—"Pss Pss" casts him in creep mode, suggesting illicit fantasies in a hushed whisper. The music on Jenny nods to Death Grips' more conventional rock influences, but it’s in no way trying to pander to a rock audience. Each element they reference is blown up and rebuilt in their own vision. Vaguely surfy dream-pop gets shot into overdrive on "Centuries of Damn". "Beyond Alive" and "ON GP" both contain big rock riffs, the latter approaching metalgaze territory. "GP" inflates MC Ride’s discontentment into something massive and anthemic. It’s jaded stadium rock—all it needs is a stadium and an ironclad guarantee they’ll show up. You hear more of drummer Zach Hill’s acoustic drums on Jenny, too. He continues to unlearn his technical prowess from his Hella days, but he’s electrifying even when going back to basics. Throughout, you can hear them furthering their vision for aggression without borders, swallowing in hip-hop, hardcore, industrial, and the hardest forms of dance music, while not in debt to any one of those elements. Death Grips don’t just imagine a world where rap-rock is redeemed and various forms of heaviness coexist side-by-side, but where those lines are obliterated. That fantasy may not have panned out quite the way it should have, but to deny their ambitions does a disservice to what heavy music can be. Closer "Death Grips 2.0" acknowledges the ongoing "will they or won’t they" dynamic that’s long been a point of frustration amongst their critics. The title suggests a rebirth, but the content, a sort of Araabmetalmuzik blast of cut-up industrial beats, could also be a fiery demise. It’s the perfect Death Grips closer, especially with their status in constant question. Right after their alleged "breakup," there were eulogies for the group, but Death Grips are not the sort of group to be eulogized. Are they calling it quits after this record and tour? Was the breakup even real to begin with? It’s hard to speculate whether Jenny is a redemptive closing chapter, a new beginning, or some other inscrutable part of Death Grips’ master plan, if they even have such a thing. What is evident is that Jenny Death is some of their strongest material in a while, and may even return a few disillusioned converts to the flock.

Artist: Death Grips, Album: Jenny Death, Genre: Experimental,Rap, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "Keeping up with the Death Grips has increasingly become a headache. Cryptic break-up notes, a tumultuous split with Epic, a realignment with Harvest, cancelled tours (including one with Nine Inch Nails), no-show gigs: All of these antics were tolerable, sometimes fun, when they came backed up by compelling music. But even that part of the bargain, over the last year, has proved questionable. Last year’s Niggas on the Moon leaned too heavily on Björk samples and flattened their approach, while Fashion Week was an intriguing, if ultimately directionless, collection of instrumentals. *Fashion'*s song titles spelled out JENNYDEATHWHEN, hinting cryptically that their next album would be Jenny Death, the second half of the two-part sequence called The Powers That B. But by Fashion, it was hard to tell if even their hardcore faithful cared about what they would do next. Jenny, which Death Grips streamed on YouTube last week in advance of its release, is the record they needed to make. It’s not on the level of their artistic and commercial breakthrough The Money Store, but it will absolutely remind you of why you loved them in the first place. In fact, it’s so different from (and better than) Moon that it shouldn’t even be tethered to it. On these ten tracks, they’ve harnessed the unbridled energy of Government Plates into their most fully formed songs since Money, which helps justify their bluster. Producer Andy "Flatlander" Morin brings a lot of the death-disco of Money back into the mix, which broadens their approach without compromising their potency. Nothing here reaches the aggro-pop heights of "I’ve Seen Footage", but "Inanimate Sensation" comes close; it's clear why it was released as the first single. Over Flatlander’s seasick bass synths, Stefan "MC Ride" Burnett jumps through various vocals patterns—his trademark bark, chopped-and-screwed raps, menacing whispers—and ends up with something like a Jock Jams for the underworld. The buildup to MC Ride’s final verse is a staticky, topsy-turvy rush, culminating with the soon-to-be-immortal "I like my iPod more than fucking!" Yell that with your headphones on at work. MC Ride was so sorely missed on Fashion that his presence on Jenny feels like a triumphant comeback. Flatlander may provide the electronics and Hill may bring the percussive energy (and also lent initial critical credibility) to Death Grips, but MC Ride is the unpredictable heart of the group. He was somewhat lost in the madness of Plates and subdued on Moon, but he is in full, raw force here: The title "I Break Mirrors With My Face in the United States" brings to mind a sadistic animated .gif enacting the Black Flag Damaged cover, and MC Ride's raging, hypnotic vocal reinforces this impression. He isn’t just a spiral of rage, either—"Pss Pss" casts him in creep mode, suggesting illicit fantasies in a hushed whisper. The music on Jenny nods to Death Grips' more conventional rock influences, but it’s in no way trying to pander to a rock audience. Each element they reference is blown up and rebuilt in their own vision. Vaguely surfy dream-pop gets shot into overdrive on "Centuries of Damn". "Beyond Alive" and "ON GP" both contain big rock riffs, the latter approaching metalgaze territory. "GP" inflates MC Ride’s discontentment into something massive and anthemic. It’s jaded stadium rock—all it needs is a stadium and an ironclad guarantee they’ll show up. You hear more of drummer Zach Hill’s acoustic drums on Jenny, too. He continues to unlearn his technical prowess from his Hella days, but he’s electrifying even when going back to basics. Throughout, you can hear them furthering their vision for aggression without borders, swallowing in hip-hop, hardcore, industrial, and the hardest forms of dance music, while not in debt to any one of those elements. Death Grips don’t just imagine a world where rap-rock is redeemed and various forms of heaviness coexist side-by-side, but where those lines are obliterated. That fantasy may not have panned out quite the way it should have, but to deny their ambitions does a disservice to what heavy music can be. Closer "Death Grips 2.0" acknowledges the ongoing "will they or won’t they" dynamic that’s long been a point of frustration amongst their critics. The title suggests a rebirth, but the content, a sort of Araabmetalmuzik blast of cut-up industrial beats, could also be a fiery demise. It’s the perfect Death Grips closer, especially with their status in constant question. Right after their alleged "breakup," there were eulogies for the group, but Death Grips are not the sort of group to be eulogized. Are they calling it quits after this record and tour? Was the breakup even real to begin with? It’s hard to speculate whether Jenny is a redemptive closing chapter, a new beginning, or some other inscrutable part of Death Grips’ master plan, if they even have such a thing. What is evident is that Jenny Death is some of their strongest material in a while, and may even return a few disillusioned converts to the flock."

Various Artists

Bloody War: Songs 1924-1939

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

In debating the uses and wastes of war, no image carries more power than that of a mother grieving for her dead son. Two new collections of old war tunes-- one curated by the New York label Tompkins Square, the other covered by a veteran country singer-- deploy that tragic figure repeatedly, generating a gamut of emotions: from despair to anger, from outrage to honor, from schmaltz to utter devastation. But no matter if you're a lamb or a hawk, a letter in the mail can be more horrifying than a bullet or a bomb. Despite expounding very different views on war, both of these releases are timely as they bring ongoing debates about expensive wars in the Middle East into the realm of music and ground them historically and culturally. By digging so deep into the past, they reveal our present fears and concerns to be no different than those of previous generations. Bloody War: Songs 1924-1939 goes straight to the source, culling long-lost recordings from between the World Wars to showcase peacetime misgivings. This isn't Greatest Generation lionization nor Baby Boomer dissent. Instead, like so many Tompkins Square releases, it's a dizzyingly well-researched collection whose academic enterprise never dulls the impact of the music. These fifteen songs show just how deeply the Civil War, the Spanish-American War, and World War I, among other conflicts, had penetrated the American conscience, motivating and defining certain corners of popular culture the way WWII and Vietnam do today. (Tompkins Square is donating a portion of the proceeds to Iraq & Afghanistan Veterans of America.) War may be hell, but it provides mighty inspiration. The music on Bloody War is multivaried, lively, and immediate, flexing genres and styles to make larger points about violence and bravery. "Johnnie, Get Your Gun", recorded by Earl Johnson & His Clodhoppers in 1927, rambles with determined urgency, pushed along by the string band's precise picking and the complex sarcasm in Johnson's refrain. There is a great deal of humor in these fearful songs, especially on "The Battleship of Maine" by Red Patterson's Piedmont Log Rollers. "Why are you running, are you afraid to die?" Patterson asks. "The reason I am running is because I cannot fly." Just as often, however, these ruminative songs address the pain of loss more directly: The Dixon Brothers' froggy harmonies intensify the desolation of "The Old Vacant Chair", a Civil War tune the siblings updated to the 1930s. As one brother ghosts the other's lead vocals, the song proves an eerie, dignified prayer that perfectly illuminates the human costs of violence. A few of the songs on Charlie Louvin's The Battles Rage On reach back to the period covered by Bloody War, as does the man himself. Born in 1927, he and his brother Ira were playing county fairs and square dances in Alabama years before Pearl Harbor, after which Charlie enlisted in the Air Force and served during World War II and the Korean War. Those experiences motivate this covers album featuring songs by Tom T. Hall, Roy Acuff, the Statler Brothers, Merle Haggard, and even the Louvin Brothers. Some are gently anti-war, others decidedly not. "Smoke on the Water," which is not a Deep Purple cover but an updated jingo jingle originally by Zeke Clements, proposes riding Hitler out on a rail and replaces Hirohito with bin Laden. It's much more complex and conflicted than some of the mainstream country war-related songs of the early 2000s (there's nothing as brash as Toby Keith's "Courtesy of the Red, White & Blue (The Angry American)", thankfully), but The Battles Rage On occasionally overplays its sentiments. "More Than a Name on a Wall" follows a mother as she visits the Vietnam Memorial, and Louvin sings from her perspective with gentle empathy. The production subtly undermines the song, putting a soft-focus gloss on the guitar and mandolin that sounds somehow too blunt. The second half of the album is packed with such grieving mother songs, some of them popularized by the Louvin Brothers in the 1950s. It should get predictable or manipulative, but even in his 80s, Louvin remains a steadfast interpreter, imbuing these songs with stoic pride. That approach, more than the music or the lyrics, nods to the complexity of the issue and reveals war as both horrible and necessary. That makes the closer all the more affecting: His cover of the traditional gospel "Down by the Riverside", with its declarative refrain "Ain't gonna study war no more," is almost jubilant in its defiance. Together, The Battles Rage On and Bloody War encompass almost the entire musical and military history of the twentieth century, and their startling evocations of loss, fear, grief, bravery, cowardice, and horror are louder than bombs.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Bloody War: Songs 1924-1939, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "In debating the uses and wastes of war, no image carries more power than that of a mother grieving for her dead son. Two new collections of old war tunes-- one curated by the New York label Tompkins Square, the other covered by a veteran country singer-- deploy that tragic figure repeatedly, generating a gamut of emotions: from despair to anger, from outrage to honor, from schmaltz to utter devastation. But no matter if you're a lamb or a hawk, a letter in the mail can be more horrifying than a bullet or a bomb. Despite expounding very different views on war, both of these releases are timely as they bring ongoing debates about expensive wars in the Middle East into the realm of music and ground them historically and culturally. By digging so deep into the past, they reveal our present fears and concerns to be no different than those of previous generations. Bloody War: Songs 1924-1939 goes straight to the source, culling long-lost recordings from between the World Wars to showcase peacetime misgivings. This isn't Greatest Generation lionization nor Baby Boomer dissent. Instead, like so many Tompkins Square releases, it's a dizzyingly well-researched collection whose academic enterprise never dulls the impact of the music. These fifteen songs show just how deeply the Civil War, the Spanish-American War, and World War I, among other conflicts, had penetrated the American conscience, motivating and defining certain corners of popular culture the way WWII and Vietnam do today. (Tompkins Square is donating a portion of the proceeds to Iraq & Afghanistan Veterans of America.) War may be hell, but it provides mighty inspiration. The music on Bloody War is multivaried, lively, and immediate, flexing genres and styles to make larger points about violence and bravery. "Johnnie, Get Your Gun", recorded by Earl Johnson & His Clodhoppers in 1927, rambles with determined urgency, pushed along by the string band's precise picking and the complex sarcasm in Johnson's refrain. There is a great deal of humor in these fearful songs, especially on "The Battleship of Maine" by Red Patterson's Piedmont Log Rollers. "Why are you running, are you afraid to die?" Patterson asks. "The reason I am running is because I cannot fly." Just as often, however, these ruminative songs address the pain of loss more directly: The Dixon Brothers' froggy harmonies intensify the desolation of "The Old Vacant Chair", a Civil War tune the siblings updated to the 1930s. As one brother ghosts the other's lead vocals, the song proves an eerie, dignified prayer that perfectly illuminates the human costs of violence. A few of the songs on Charlie Louvin's The Battles Rage On reach back to the period covered by Bloody War, as does the man himself. Born in 1927, he and his brother Ira were playing county fairs and square dances in Alabama years before Pearl Harbor, after which Charlie enlisted in the Air Force and served during World War II and the Korean War. Those experiences motivate this covers album featuring songs by Tom T. Hall, Roy Acuff, the Statler Brothers, Merle Haggard, and even the Louvin Brothers. Some are gently anti-war, others decidedly not. "Smoke on the Water," which is not a Deep Purple cover but an updated jingo jingle originally by Zeke Clements, proposes riding Hitler out on a rail and replaces Hirohito with bin Laden. It's much more complex and conflicted than some of the mainstream country war-related songs of the early 2000s (there's nothing as brash as Toby Keith's "Courtesy of the Red, White & Blue (The Angry American)", thankfully), but The Battles Rage On occasionally overplays its sentiments. "More Than a Name on a Wall" follows a mother as she visits the Vietnam Memorial, and Louvin sings from her perspective with gentle empathy. The production subtly undermines the song, putting a soft-focus gloss on the guitar and mandolin that sounds somehow too blunt. The second half of the album is packed with such grieving mother songs, some of them popularized by the Louvin Brothers in the 1950s. It should get predictable or manipulative, but even in his 80s, Louvin remains a steadfast interpreter, imbuing these songs with stoic pride. That approach, more than the music or the lyrics, nods to the complexity of the issue and reveals war as both horrible and necessary. That makes the closer all the more affecting: His cover of the traditional gospel "Down by the Riverside", with its declarative refrain "Ain't gonna study war no more," is almost jubilant in its defiance. Together, The Battles Rage On and Bloody War encompass almost the entire musical and military history of the twentieth century, and their startling evocations of loss, fear, grief, bravery, cowardice, and horror are louder than bombs."

Absolutely Free

Absolutely Free

Stuart Berman

The Absolutely Free nucleus of Matt King, Moshe Rozenberg, and Mike Claxton previously played with Toronto contorto-punk outfit DD/MM/YYYY, a band whose unpronounceable name was commonly verbalized as “Day Month Year” but was originally meant to be substituted with the date of whenever they got together to play. The implicit message was that, at a show (particularly those held in the sort of ad-hoc, stage-less venues DD/MM/YYYY frequented) what matters is not so much the name of who’s playing as the commitment and intensity they put into the performance, which should in turn forever burn a memory of a specific time and place into the lucky attendee’s blown mind. And while the music Absolutely Free creates is dramatically different than that of their former incarnation, the underlying principle remains: It’s a band’s ultimate obligation to make their audience feel like they’re part of something special. Since forming in late 2011 just as DD/MM/YYYY announced its break-up, Absolutely Free have confined their recorded output to a series of limited-run 12-inch releases (issued via Fucked Up guitarist Mike Haliechuk’s One Big Silence imprint) that have packed several album’s worth of ideas into prog-pop mini-suites. And their live performances to date have mostly steered clear of the traditional club circuit in favor of all-out happenings: the band celebrated their debut single “UFO” by leading audiences Pied Piper-style between nearby venues in Toronto’s Kensington Market neighbourhood, performing a live soundtrack to The Day the Earth Stood Still and a set of their own material before throwing a video dance party modeled after 1990s-era MuchMusic-hosted high-school shindigs. And while the decision to release follow-up single “On the Beach” last October may have negated any opportunities for a fun-in-the-sun soiree, Absolutely Free did the next best thing: perform a concert during a night-swim session at a local indoor swimming pool. D. Boon once cheekily described the Minutemen’s herky-jerky poli-punk as “scientist rock,” but Absolutely Free genuinely look and sound like the sort of band concocted in some sort of after-school lab experiment. Their stage set-up resembles a madcap workshop of effects pedals, deconstructed drum kits, melodicas, buzzing analog synths, and the sort of dense entanglement of wires that makes you worry someone’s going to get electrocuted. But the band’s self-titled debut full-length (produced by Haliechuk) bears the fully realized fruits of Absolutely Free’s endless experimentation, yielding a compact 8-song, 42-minute album that retains the band’s sense of intrepidity while travelling a more linear course. Where the group’s early singles favored extended ambient intros, impulsive structural shifts, and blown-out finales, the songs on Absolutely Free tend to patiently linger on a single idea and see how it naturally evolves. Singing drummer Matt King’s vocals are also less of a driving force here; rather than lead the charge, he seems more willing to let his existential ruminations reverberate out into the cosmos. But while the band have reined in some of the volatility that made those introductory singles so exhilarating, there’s a cool consistency and newfound accessibility to Absolutely Free that makes it an easy, enchanting front-to-back listen, the songs locking together to form a smoothly contoured album arc. Even the most chaotic elements—like the spinning-radio-dial dissonance woven through the opening reverie “Window of Time”—eventually fuse into the album’s steady wavelength. That’s not to suggest Absolutely Free aren’t still shooting for the moon; they’ve simply activated the cruise control so that they can better savor the trip and enjoy the view. These are the sort of songs that oh-so subtly build a snowball into an icy boulder: the sleigh-belled, drum-thumping pop of “Beneath the Air” and “Striped Light” initially suggest the sequel to Andorra that Caribou never made*,* before gradually adding layer upon layer of counter-melodies and textural disorder to shatter any ’60s-retro illusions. “Burred Lens” works itself up into a pink-smoked synthphony as engrossing as anything on The Terror; “Earth II”—presumably a nod to the 1971 sci-fi flick, not thenamesake doom-metal masterpiece—is the sort of deep-space kosmiche-rock odyssey that they’ll be blasting on the Orion in 2025 when cruising for other intelligent life in the universe. However, the closing eight-minute epic “Spiral Jetty” suggests Absolutely Free’s newly holistic aesthetic is already being subjected to a deconstructive rethink, with a jagged drum beat that cuts through the song’s glass-dome synth sheen and seemingly liberates the band from the more conventional song structures they imposed on themselves for much of the record. After all, DD/MM/YYYY decided to break up the moment they felt their unpredictably spastic, instrument-swapping art-core attack was becoming a routine unto itself; don’t be surprised if the greater focus in effect on Absolutely Free is simply a means for the band to identify the peripheries yet to be explored.

Artist: Absolutely Free, Album: Absolutely Free, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "The Absolutely Free nucleus of Matt King, Moshe Rozenberg, and Mike Claxton previously played with Toronto contorto-punk outfit DD/MM/YYYY, a band whose unpronounceable name was commonly verbalized as “Day Month Year” but was originally meant to be substituted with the date of whenever they got together to play. The implicit message was that, at a show (particularly those held in the sort of ad-hoc, stage-less venues DD/MM/YYYY frequented) what matters is not so much the name of who’s playing as the commitment and intensity they put into the performance, which should in turn forever burn a memory of a specific time and place into the lucky attendee’s blown mind. And while the music Absolutely Free creates is dramatically different than that of their former incarnation, the underlying principle remains: It’s a band’s ultimate obligation to make their audience feel like they’re part of something special. Since forming in late 2011 just as DD/MM/YYYY announced its break-up, Absolutely Free have confined their recorded output to a series of limited-run 12-inch releases (issued via Fucked Up guitarist Mike Haliechuk’s One Big Silence imprint) that have packed several album’s worth of ideas into prog-pop mini-suites. And their live performances to date have mostly steered clear of the traditional club circuit in favor of all-out happenings: the band celebrated their debut single “UFO” by leading audiences Pied Piper-style between nearby venues in Toronto’s Kensington Market neighbourhood, performing a live soundtrack to The Day the Earth Stood Still and a set of their own material before throwing a video dance party modeled after 1990s-era MuchMusic-hosted high-school shindigs. And while the decision to release follow-up single “On the Beach” last October may have negated any opportunities for a fun-in-the-sun soiree, Absolutely Free did the next best thing: perform a concert during a night-swim session at a local indoor swimming pool. D. Boon once cheekily described the Minutemen’s herky-jerky poli-punk as “scientist rock,” but Absolutely Free genuinely look and sound like the sort of band concocted in some sort of after-school lab experiment. Their stage set-up resembles a madcap workshop of effects pedals, deconstructed drum kits, melodicas, buzzing analog synths, and the sort of dense entanglement of wires that makes you worry someone’s going to get electrocuted. But the band’s self-titled debut full-length (produced by Haliechuk) bears the fully realized fruits of Absolutely Free’s endless experimentation, yielding a compact 8-song, 42-minute album that retains the band’s sense of intrepidity while travelling a more linear course. Where the group’s early singles favored extended ambient intros, impulsive structural shifts, and blown-out finales, the songs on Absolutely Free tend to patiently linger on a single idea and see how it naturally evolves. Singing drummer Matt King’s vocals are also less of a driving force here; rather than lead the charge, he seems more willing to let his existential ruminations reverberate out into the cosmos. But while the band have reined in some of the volatility that made those introductory singles so exhilarating, there’s a cool consistency and newfound accessibility to Absolutely Free that makes it an easy, enchanting front-to-back listen, the songs locking together to form a smoothly contoured album arc. Even the most chaotic elements—like the spinning-radio-dial dissonance woven through the opening reverie “Window of Time”—eventually fuse into the album’s steady wavelength. That’s not to suggest Absolutely Free aren’t still shooting for the moon; they’ve simply activated the cruise control so that they can better savor the trip and enjoy the view. These are the sort of songs that oh-so subtly build a snowball into an icy boulder: the sleigh-belled, drum-thumping pop of “Beneath the Air” and “Striped Light” initially suggest the sequel to Andorra that Caribou never made*,* before gradually adding layer upon layer of counter-melodies and textural disorder to shatter any ’60s-retro illusions. “Burred Lens” works itself up into a pink-smoked synthphony as engrossing as anything on The Terror; “Earth II”—presumably a nod to the 1971 sci-fi flick, not thenamesake doom-metal masterpiece—is the sort of deep-space kosmiche-rock odyssey that they’ll be blasting on the Orion in 2025 when cruising for other intelligent life in the universe. However, the closing eight-minute epic “Spiral Jetty” suggests Absolutely Free’s newly holistic aesthetic is already being subjected to a deconstructive rethink, with a jagged drum beat that cuts through the song’s glass-dome synth sheen and seemingly liberates the band from the more conventional song structures they imposed on themselves for much of the record. After all, DD/MM/YYYY decided to break up the moment they felt their unpredictably spastic, instrument-swapping art-core attack was becoming a routine unto itself; don’t be surprised if the greater focus in effect on Absolutely Free is simply a means for the band to identify the peripheries yet to be explored."

The Aquarium

The Aquarium

Rock

Marc Masters

The Aquarium's self-titled debut starts with an entrancing one-two punch. Opener "Maxxo Sesh" weaves Jason Hutto's rippling keyboards and Laura Harris's bouncing drums into a proggy web. Having drifted out to sea, the duo lay back and stare at the sun on "Can't Afford to Live Here", a bittersweet ode to cohabitation that feels like a shoegazed take on the Beach Boys' "Wouldn't It Be Nice?" The rest of the album isn't quite so dreamy. But as the Aquarium widens its palette to include frantic pop, heavy rock, and circus-like tunes, the hypnosis of those opening tracks persists. Hutto coaxes winding melodies from his keys, while Harris's beats animate the songs like adrenaline filling veins. On the surface, the group's chugging sound recalls early Quasi. But a breeziness also suggests the wistful retro-pop of the Rosebuds, and raw hooks evoke New Zealand pioneers like the Clean and the Bats. All of which makes it a surprise that that this album is on Dischord. The legendary D.C. punk label has certainly broadened in recent years. But compared to more adventurous peers, its punk-based roster is still narrow, and you'd be hard-pressed to find anything this poppy and fun among Dischord's "records and stuff we sell." Give Ian MacKaye and company credit, then, for making The Aquarium the label's biggest curveball to date. The key here is Hutto's keyboard playing. Unafraid of cheesy sounds or sugary melodies, he relies on energy and dynamics to breathe new life into old ideas. On "White House", he flies through ELP-style prog up into the helium-filled realm of Europe circa "The Final Countdown", but the track's urgency obliterates pretensions. "Credits" crafts a looping line from generic mall-store organ, and "Channel 9" sounds like a high-speed version of the "Munsters" theme. Somehow, the duo's vigor turns all of this into something unique. It helps that the Aquarium's songwriting is so solid. The melodies here are instantly memorable, yet unpredictably paced. Tracks like "Through the Tunnel" and "Good People" dole out momentum shifts and chord changes in brain-sticking ways. The intensely hooky "Waiting for the Girl" even takes the catchiness too far; you might end up annoyed by how hard it is to erase the track's vocal melody from memory. Hutto and Harris close with "Aquarium Dream", a spacey, cinematic instrumental that would fit well with the movie clips the pair used to project at gigs. Like many of the tracks here, it has a reflective, nostalgic feel. But the way Hutto and Harris inject their soaring music with rough chords and swinging pulse plants The Aquarium squarely in the here and now.

Artist: The Aquarium, Album: The Aquarium, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "The Aquarium's self-titled debut starts with an entrancing one-two punch. Opener "Maxxo Sesh" weaves Jason Hutto's rippling keyboards and Laura Harris's bouncing drums into a proggy web. Having drifted out to sea, the duo lay back and stare at the sun on "Can't Afford to Live Here", a bittersweet ode to cohabitation that feels like a shoegazed take on the Beach Boys' "Wouldn't It Be Nice?" The rest of the album isn't quite so dreamy. But as the Aquarium widens its palette to include frantic pop, heavy rock, and circus-like tunes, the hypnosis of those opening tracks persists. Hutto coaxes winding melodies from his keys, while Harris's beats animate the songs like adrenaline filling veins. On the surface, the group's chugging sound recalls early Quasi. But a breeziness also suggests the wistful retro-pop of the Rosebuds, and raw hooks evoke New Zealand pioneers like the Clean and the Bats. All of which makes it a surprise that that this album is on Dischord. The legendary D.C. punk label has certainly broadened in recent years. But compared to more adventurous peers, its punk-based roster is still narrow, and you'd be hard-pressed to find anything this poppy and fun among Dischord's "records and stuff we sell." Give Ian MacKaye and company credit, then, for making The Aquarium the label's biggest curveball to date. The key here is Hutto's keyboard playing. Unafraid of cheesy sounds or sugary melodies, he relies on energy and dynamics to breathe new life into old ideas. On "White House", he flies through ELP-style prog up into the helium-filled realm of Europe circa "The Final Countdown", but the track's urgency obliterates pretensions. "Credits" crafts a looping line from generic mall-store organ, and "Channel 9" sounds like a high-speed version of the "Munsters" theme. Somehow, the duo's vigor turns all of this into something unique. It helps that the Aquarium's songwriting is so solid. The melodies here are instantly memorable, yet unpredictably paced. Tracks like "Through the Tunnel" and "Good People" dole out momentum shifts and chord changes in brain-sticking ways. The intensely hooky "Waiting for the Girl" even takes the catchiness too far; you might end up annoyed by how hard it is to erase the track's vocal melody from memory. Hutto and Harris close with "Aquarium Dream", a spacey, cinematic instrumental that would fit well with the movie clips the pair used to project at gigs. Like many of the tracks here, it has a reflective, nostalgic feel. But the way Hutto and Harris inject their soaring music with rough chords and swinging pulse plants The Aquarium squarely in the here and now."

Jealousy

Paid For It

Rock

Sam Lefebvre

Paid For It is Mark Treise's second album as Jealousy. The San Francisco songwriter—who also plays bass in the leaden, woozy rock outfit CCR Headcleaner—issued Viles in 2011, which featured similarly elliptical lyricism and oblong, idiosyncratic grooves. Paid For It, which was recorded in Los Angeles, features Don Bolles, best known as drummer of The Germs, behind the kit on some songs. Otherwise, Treise is responsible for the sounds, including power drill, broken bottle, gurgling electronics, and field recordings, but principally bass guitar, which he’d loop live in the studio and ply with effects until sufficiently forbidding. The emphasis on overlaid bass lines rather than chord patterns lends Jealousy songs strange, shifty shapes. "Doin’ a Little Time" is typical of the strongest tracks on account of its consistent, pulsing bass motif, which anchors an ebb and flow of hiss and noise. There are deceivingly few sonic components to Paid For It, but their nightmarish dub reflections swell to fill what feel like massive chambers. The six-minute highlight "Fresh Kill," for instance, features little more than rhythmic pitter-patter augmented by two-or-three note melodic gestures. Like Paid For It overall, the song eschews conventional structure and development in favor of cyclical, rippling bass beneath Treise’s eerily enchanting voice. On Paid For It, Treise yearns for visceral, elemental experiences. The title track, which invokes goddesses and autoeroticism alike, seems like a fraught meditation on personal identity. Florid mythical imagery recurs throughout, but passion most often dovetails with destruction: "And I loved hard like iron," goes "Fresh Kill." "And bent the word ‘love’ into a crescent moon / terminal swoon." He's a glutton for self-loathing: In one song, Treise is "sucked up and fucked up" and a "sleazebag scumbag scumfuck" whose face is a "wretched cliché." And yet, the track is called, "I Want It." If indulgence is paramount to Paid For It, the next most important theme is guilt. Generous reverb and delay tends to render vocals soothing or spooky but indistinct. Not for Jealousy. The effects warp Treise’s weary incantations, moisten his lisp, and lend his leering murmur a sense of bleary, opiated oblivion. That means Paid For It is a druggy album, but few druggy albums capture the balance between blissful stupor and nausea so well. And while dull gloom is often peddled under the pretenses of chic austerity, Paid For It evades the trappings of stylish-but-innocuous miserablism. A couple songs feel impenetrable to a fault (including the vertiginous opener "Been Wrong"), but the album's overall pleasures—in the terms of Treise’s spiritually conflicted lyrics—are akin to a rewarding séance: shock and awe before the medium’s ritual flair, followed by an uneasy, lingering sense of connection.

Artist: Jealousy, Album: Paid For It, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Paid For It is Mark Treise's second album as Jealousy. The San Francisco songwriter—who also plays bass in the leaden, woozy rock outfit CCR Headcleaner—issued Viles in 2011, which featured similarly elliptical lyricism and oblong, idiosyncratic grooves. Paid For It, which was recorded in Los Angeles, features Don Bolles, best known as drummer of The Germs, behind the kit on some songs. Otherwise, Treise is responsible for the sounds, including power drill, broken bottle, gurgling electronics, and field recordings, but principally bass guitar, which he’d loop live in the studio and ply with effects until sufficiently forbidding. The emphasis on overlaid bass lines rather than chord patterns lends Jealousy songs strange, shifty shapes. "Doin’ a Little Time" is typical of the strongest tracks on account of its consistent, pulsing bass motif, which anchors an ebb and flow of hiss and noise. There are deceivingly few sonic components to Paid For It, but their nightmarish dub reflections swell to fill what feel like massive chambers. The six-minute highlight "Fresh Kill," for instance, features little more than rhythmic pitter-patter augmented by two-or-three note melodic gestures. Like Paid For It overall, the song eschews conventional structure and development in favor of cyclical, rippling bass beneath Treise’s eerily enchanting voice. On Paid For It, Treise yearns for visceral, elemental experiences. The title track, which invokes goddesses and autoeroticism alike, seems like a fraught meditation on personal identity. Florid mythical imagery recurs throughout, but passion most often dovetails with destruction: "And I loved hard like iron," goes "Fresh Kill." "And bent the word ‘love’ into a crescent moon / terminal swoon." He's a glutton for self-loathing: In one song, Treise is "sucked up and fucked up" and a "sleazebag scumbag scumfuck" whose face is a "wretched cliché." And yet, the track is called, "I Want It." If indulgence is paramount to Paid For It, the next most important theme is guilt. Generous reverb and delay tends to render vocals soothing or spooky but indistinct. Not for Jealousy. The effects warp Treise’s weary incantations, moisten his lisp, and lend his leering murmur a sense of bleary, opiated oblivion. That means Paid For It is a druggy album, but few druggy albums capture the balance between blissful stupor and nausea so well. And while dull gloom is often peddled under the pretenses of chic austerity, Paid For It evades the trappings of stylish-but-innocuous miserablism. A couple songs feel impenetrable to a fault (including the vertiginous opener "Been Wrong"), but the album's overall pleasures—in the terms of Treise’s spiritually conflicted lyrics—are akin to a rewarding séance: shock and awe before the medium’s ritual flair, followed by an uneasy, lingering sense of connection."

Quasi

When the Going Gets Dark

Experimental,Rock

Mia Lily Clarke

When I interviewed Janet Weiss in London last year, the drummer talked enthusiastically about Sleater-Kinney's experience recording their latest album, The Woods, with revered engineer Dave Fridmann. She enthused about the importance of letting go and stretching beyond self-imposed boundaries in order to capture the intensity and unpredictability of the sessions. The result was arguably the band's best album to date. It's unsurprising then that Weiss chose to experiment in a similar field with Quasi's seventh release, When the Going Gets Dark, returning to Fridmann to polish off the recordings. "There's a lot of distortion on everything, and I think the distortion eventually becomes the entity," said Weiss of Sleater-Kinney's playing on The Woods. "It becomes the guts of the music." That embrace of fuzzed-out lows and grimy distortion-- as well as extended improvisations and looser song structures-- fizzles through the backbone of When the Going Gets Dark. Her singer/songwriter ex-husband Sam Coomes, who makes up the other half of the Portland, Ore.-based duo, ditches Quasi's signature keyboard sound in favor of emphatically tumbling piano, which is added to feedback and raucous, challenging, defiant vocal melodies. Coomes intermittently howls and screams between the Jerry Lee Lewis-style staccato riff chaos of "The Rhino", and the soprano whoops on the title track sound like a sharp blade running over the deep spread of bass and Weiss' clattering drums. The only real rub lies in the lyrics, which-- unusually for the sharp-minded Coomes-- veer between cringing and faintly ridiculous, such as, "I'm stuck in a tree, doing my thing with the chimpanzees." It's not only the evident friction born from an extended working and personal relationship that catalyses their sound. Weiss is a remarkable, unpredictable drummer, and the pair play perfectly together, having reached the point at which improvisation becomes the result of an intuitive locking of creative minds. Standout tracks such as the mainly instrumental, knotty jazz of "Death Culture Blues" and "Presto Change-O" show how much more vitality and room to breathe the pair have when not focused on studio trickery or elaborate overdubbing. And although the song eventually collapses into a darkly syrupy shamble of good tidings, the opening bars of "Merry X-Mas"-- which feature an outbreak of edgy-yet-glitzy piano notes evaporating into a captivating solo and the pounding rhythms of Weiss's kit-- reveal that Quasi have cast their net wider and tighter with the impulse of their revived energy.

Artist: Quasi, Album: When the Going Gets Dark, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "When I interviewed Janet Weiss in London last year, the drummer talked enthusiastically about Sleater-Kinney's experience recording their latest album, The Woods, with revered engineer Dave Fridmann. She enthused about the importance of letting go and stretching beyond self-imposed boundaries in order to capture the intensity and unpredictability of the sessions. The result was arguably the band's best album to date. It's unsurprising then that Weiss chose to experiment in a similar field with Quasi's seventh release, When the Going Gets Dark, returning to Fridmann to polish off the recordings. "There's a lot of distortion on everything, and I think the distortion eventually becomes the entity," said Weiss of Sleater-Kinney's playing on The Woods. "It becomes the guts of the music." That embrace of fuzzed-out lows and grimy distortion-- as well as extended improvisations and looser song structures-- fizzles through the backbone of When the Going Gets Dark. Her singer/songwriter ex-husband Sam Coomes, who makes up the other half of the Portland, Ore.-based duo, ditches Quasi's signature keyboard sound in favor of emphatically tumbling piano, which is added to feedback and raucous, challenging, defiant vocal melodies. Coomes intermittently howls and screams between the Jerry Lee Lewis-style staccato riff chaos of "The Rhino", and the soprano whoops on the title track sound like a sharp blade running over the deep spread of bass and Weiss' clattering drums. The only real rub lies in the lyrics, which-- unusually for the sharp-minded Coomes-- veer between cringing and faintly ridiculous, such as, "I'm stuck in a tree, doing my thing with the chimpanzees." It's not only the evident friction born from an extended working and personal relationship that catalyses their sound. Weiss is a remarkable, unpredictable drummer, and the pair play perfectly together, having reached the point at which improvisation becomes the result of an intuitive locking of creative minds. Standout tracks such as the mainly instrumental, knotty jazz of "Death Culture Blues" and "Presto Change-O" show how much more vitality and room to breathe the pair have when not focused on studio trickery or elaborate overdubbing. And although the song eventually collapses into a darkly syrupy shamble of good tidings, the opening bars of "Merry X-Mas"-- which feature an outbreak of edgy-yet-glitzy piano notes evaporating into a captivating solo and the pounding rhythms of Weiss's kit-- reveal that Quasi have cast their net wider and tighter with the impulse of their revived energy."

Demdike Stare

Wonderland

Electronic

Philip Sherburne

For the first few years of their career, Demdike Stare narrowed in on their chosen aesthetic with unswerving focus. They took their name from a 17th-century witch; they favored titles like “Suspicious Drone” and “All Hallows Eve” and “Forest of Evil (Dusk).” Drawing from horror soundtracks, Italian library music, African percussion records, and industrial acts like Nurse With Wound, they boiled down the mixture until it resembled the sticky black substance scraped from the bottom of an iron cauldron. At the same time, the proportions of their music sprawled, and they turned to increasingly ambitious formats—triple CDs, quadruple LPs—to suit their meandering, multi-part ambient suites. In 2013, the duo turned from their habitual style to indulge themselves with a pair of gut-punching club tunes. Called simply Testpressing #001, the record was named in homage to the white-label platters used to check for errors in the vinyl manufacturing process, but the title also spoke to the tracks’ exploratory purpose: What would happen if they applied their doomy aesthetic to classic jungle and techno? (Total dancefloor mayhem, as it turned out.) Pursuing a grab-bag approach and pairing radically different tracks on each successive 12”, they kept the Testpressing series going for six more installments—only Demdike Stare would approach even one-offs in serial fashion—and although the music varied widely, from UK garage to chopped-and-screwed breakbeat hardcore, the records all shared the same questing nature. Their new album, Wonderland, keeps up those beat-oriented experiments. Nearly all of its tracks are built around muscular rhythms: hardcore breaks, lurching dancehall cadences, overdriven techno. And despite the omnipresent shadowy hues and sandblasted textures, no two tunes sound alike; the eight full-length tracks here (the ninth is a minute-long ambient sketch) could easily have served as the next four records in the *Testpressing *series. That’s not to say that Wonderland sounds disjointed. Quite to the contrary: As wonderfully immersive as their first couple of albums could be, the new one makes for a far more engaging listening experience, one that shakes you forcefully by the lapels at regular intervals. Where the *Testpressing *records were noxious and smoggy, so thick with static you could barely breathe, the new album frequently takes inspiration from dancehall reggae’s use of empty space. “Animal Style” loops breakbeats into a snapping groove that feels like a reggae 45 spun at 33, and “FullEdge (eMpTy-40 Mix)” goes so far as to sample “Now Thing,” a 1998 Sly & Lenky riddim that became the centerpiece of an eponymous Mo Wax compilation of dancehall instrumentals. (It’s clearly a sound close to their hearts: Earlier this year, Demdike Stare’s DDS label released Equiknoxx’s Bird Sound Power, an album by a group of Jamaican producers deeply inspired by the kind of digital dancehall that *Now Thing *spotlighted.) There are moments of real beauty, like the flickering loop of tone that sends the final track, “Overstaying,” soaring toward its 808-driven climax. But the musicians aren’t afraid to get messy, either. In “Sourcer,” a ragged ragga-jungle anthem, dubbed-out synths bob like fat globules in soapy water; “Hardnoise” delivers exactly what the title promises, at least until a trim 808 pattern ushers its metal-shop squeals toward a comparatively dulcet ambient close. Something that elevates *Wonderland *above reams of color-by-numbers “dark” techno is Demdike Stare’s judicious sense of dynamics; the duo also clearly have a wicked sense of humor. They’re fond of fake-out beats that hiccup, stumble, and flip into totally different time signatures, and the switchbacking changes of “FullEdge (eMpTy-40 Mix)” suggest a preference for hands-on recording and white-knuckled mixdowns, as opposed to meticulous, on-screen composition. The end of the song dissolves into a monstrous bit of noise, followed by a sharp guffaw from one of the musicians; suddenly, we’re eavesdropping on the duo in their studio. “Amazing,” says the other, clearly pleased with the madness they’ve cooked up. My favorite moment on the album might be the spoken-word snippet that closes out the woozy synth sketch “Fridge Challenge.” It’s just a loudspeaker announcement inside an airport terminal—“TAP Flight 3814 to Brasilia now boarding gate 28”—but the announcer’s voice is so full of character, her diction so alien, that within the context of the album, it takes on a weird, almost paranormal resonance. You can imagine the two musicians staring slack-jawed at each other as they pulled out their phones to record the sound, marveling at what they’d stumbled upon. To make mood music out of already gloomy materials is easy; on Wonderland, Demdike Stare spin the most unexpected stuff into music for haunted dancehalls, and the results are wickedly compelling.

Artist: Demdike Stare, Album: Wonderland, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "For the first few years of their career, Demdike Stare narrowed in on their chosen aesthetic with unswerving focus. They took their name from a 17th-century witch; they favored titles like “Suspicious Drone” and “All Hallows Eve” and “Forest of Evil (Dusk).” Drawing from horror soundtracks, Italian library music, African percussion records, and industrial acts like Nurse With Wound, they boiled down the mixture until it resembled the sticky black substance scraped from the bottom of an iron cauldron. At the same time, the proportions of their music sprawled, and they turned to increasingly ambitious formats—triple CDs, quadruple LPs—to suit their meandering, multi-part ambient suites. In 2013, the duo turned from their habitual style to indulge themselves with a pair of gut-punching club tunes. Called simply Testpressing #001, the record was named in homage to the white-label platters used to check for errors in the vinyl manufacturing process, but the title also spoke to the tracks’ exploratory purpose: What would happen if they applied their doomy aesthetic to classic jungle and techno? (Total dancefloor mayhem, as it turned out.) Pursuing a grab-bag approach and pairing radically different tracks on each successive 12”, they kept the Testpressing series going for six more installments—only Demdike Stare would approach even one-offs in serial fashion—and although the music varied widely, from UK garage to chopped-and-screwed breakbeat hardcore, the records all shared the same questing nature. Their new album, Wonderland, keeps up those beat-oriented experiments. Nearly all of its tracks are built around muscular rhythms: hardcore breaks, lurching dancehall cadences, overdriven techno. And despite the omnipresent shadowy hues and sandblasted textures, no two tunes sound alike; the eight full-length tracks here (the ninth is a minute-long ambient sketch) could easily have served as the next four records in the *Testpressing *series. That’s not to say that Wonderland sounds disjointed. Quite to the contrary: As wonderfully immersive as their first couple of albums could be, the new one makes for a far more engaging listening experience, one that shakes you forcefully by the lapels at regular intervals. Where the *Testpressing *records were noxious and smoggy, so thick with static you could barely breathe, the new album frequently takes inspiration from dancehall reggae’s use of empty space. “Animal Style” loops breakbeats into a snapping groove that feels like a reggae 45 spun at 33, and “FullEdge (eMpTy-40 Mix)” goes so far as to sample “Now Thing,” a 1998 Sly & Lenky riddim that became the centerpiece of an eponymous Mo Wax compilation of dancehall instrumentals. (It’s clearly a sound close to their hearts: Earlier this year, Demdike Stare’s DDS label released Equiknoxx’s Bird Sound Power, an album by a group of Jamaican producers deeply inspired by the kind of digital dancehall that *Now Thing *spotlighted.) There are moments of real beauty, like the flickering loop of tone that sends the final track, “Overstaying,” soaring toward its 808-driven climax. But the musicians aren’t afraid to get messy, either. In “Sourcer,” a ragged ragga-jungle anthem, dubbed-out synths bob like fat globules in soapy water; “Hardnoise” delivers exactly what the title promises, at least until a trim 808 pattern ushers its metal-shop squeals toward a comparatively dulcet ambient close. Something that elevates *Wonderland *above reams of color-by-numbers “dark” techno is Demdike Stare’s judicious sense of dynamics; the duo also clearly have a wicked sense of humor. They’re fond of fake-out beats that hiccup, stumble, and flip into totally different time signatures, and the switchbacking changes of “FullEdge (eMpTy-40 Mix)” suggest a preference for hands-on recording and white-knuckled mixdowns, as opposed to meticulous, on-screen composition. The end of the song dissolves into a monstrous bit of noise, followed by a sharp guffaw from one of the musicians; suddenly, we’re eavesdropping on the duo in their studio. “Amazing,” says the other, clearly pleased with the madness they’ve cooked up. My favorite moment on the album might be the spoken-word snippet that closes out the woozy synth sketch “Fridge Challenge.” It’s just a loudspeaker announcement inside an airport terminal—“TAP Flight 3814 to Brasilia now boarding gate 28”—but the announcer’s voice is so full of character, her diction so alien, that within the context of the album, it takes on a weird, almost paranormal resonance. You can imagine the two musicians staring slack-jawed at each other as they pulled out their phones to record the sound, marveling at what they’d stumbled upon. To make mood music out of already gloomy materials is easy; on Wonderland, Demdike Stare spin the most unexpected stuff into music for haunted dancehalls, and the results are wickedly compelling."

Unknown Mortal Orchestra

II

Rock

Ian Cohen

The anonymity trick may have helped Unknown Mortal Orchestra gain notoriety at the outset, but it soon became the least interesting thing about them. Their self-titled debut was a wonderful record that lived up to the promise of early singles "Ffunny Ffriends" and "How Can U Luv Me". And the more we got to know Ruban Nielson, the more compelling he became; an outspoken, opinionated frontman, and, even rarer in the indie rock realm, a truly badass guitar player as well. The overall picture ended up leaving more to the imagination than secrecy: How would UMO sound with a bigger production budget? Would Nielson devote more attention to his guitar heroism than his songwriting? While there's no need for those two qualities to be in conflict, II eschews the greatness within its grasp whenever it pits them against one another.  The result is a record that's equally remarkable and frustrating, split between incredible pop songs and turgid guitar noodling with very little middle ground. Let's start with the good stuff, since that's what II does. Within the first four songs, Nielson reiterates what helped Unknown Mortal Orchestra transcend simple time-stamped pastiche: his handsomely scuffed vocals and inventive melodies, and a rhythmic vocabulary that draws equally and naturally from psych rock, hard funk, and soul. It's the work of an assured craftsman with a preferred set of sonic parameters, and shows off the band's development in a lucid, loose fashion. UMO's lo-fi sizzle and compression gave it the feel of an artifact, a lost treasure transmitted through decades of overdubbed tapes. II isn't a big budget affair, and Nielson still handles everything except the drums. The result is a surprisingly minor but welcome upgrade in fidelity that makes II sound more lived-in than pre-damaged, like a worn pair of jeans or an unmade bed. Such forlorn images are hardly coincidental considering the despondent lyrical bent early on in the record. "From the Sun" and "Swim and Sleep (Like A Shark)" are compositionally challenging and rewarding, like they're trying to see just how many notes and chord changes can fit into a verse and still stick in your head. But they're given to the startling thoughts of a mind that's ditched the Deadhead vibes of his debut in favor of exploring all the colors of the feel bad rainbow: "Isolation can put a gun in your hand," Nielson sings on the former, and the latter's chorus serves a suicide metaphor that takes as many odd turns as its backing melody. Even the soulful simmer of "So Good at Being in Trouble" doesn't come off as bravado-- not when the attendant lyric is "so bad at being in love." It's an impressive start that heralds a curious bit of sequencing; starting with "The Opposite of Afternoon", II places its three longest tracks consecutively in the middle, resulting in nearly 18 minutes that put the focus squarely on Nielson's guitar playing. His skills aren't necessarily self-evident since there's little in the way of pyrotechnics; they're the kind that are more impressive when you can see his hands move and witness how he fits interesting chord inversions, walking riffs, and quick vamps into a pop structure. Without the visual element, there's little to latch onto, and while the nifty riffs of "...Opposite" are attention-grabbing, they constitute the last hook we hear for some time. "No Need for a Leader" goes for a brisk, head-down six-minute jog, which at least is preparation for "Monki", whose seven minutes pass with hardly a memorable moment. You could take the droning instrumental of the subsequent "Dawn" as an audio metaphor; the momentum of II has pretty much flatlined by that point. It's a tough patch to endure, taking up nearly half of the record, and yet by the end it feels like the right call. II starts and finishes on strong notes, making it easy to revisit, and leaving the midsection as an isolated affair that might grow on you. If "Monki" and "No Need for a Leader" were distributed more evenly, II might come off more scattershot than it really is. In a way, the sequencing speaks to the curmudgeonly streak Nielson has shown, and aligns with the record's themes of exhaustion and depression by channeling massive amounts of energy into relatively short bursts while being subjected to long expanses of aimlessness. Perhaps Nielson's own ambitions don't align with external expectations of how to follow a promising, lo-fi debut. When II is truly on, it's proof that great albums aren't the sole measure of a great band, a subtle advance that puts Unknown Mortal Orchestra right back where they started: something of a mystery, but one that will certainly be interesting going forward.

Artist: Unknown Mortal Orchestra, Album: II, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "The anonymity trick may have helped Unknown Mortal Orchestra gain notoriety at the outset, but it soon became the least interesting thing about them. Their self-titled debut was a wonderful record that lived up to the promise of early singles "Ffunny Ffriends" and "How Can U Luv Me". And the more we got to know Ruban Nielson, the more compelling he became; an outspoken, opinionated frontman, and, even rarer in the indie rock realm, a truly badass guitar player as well. The overall picture ended up leaving more to the imagination than secrecy: How would UMO sound with a bigger production budget? Would Nielson devote more attention to his guitar heroism than his songwriting? While there's no need for those two qualities to be in conflict, II eschews the greatness within its grasp whenever it pits them against one another.  The result is a record that's equally remarkable and frustrating, split between incredible pop songs and turgid guitar noodling with very little middle ground. Let's start with the good stuff, since that's what II does. Within the first four songs, Nielson reiterates what helped Unknown Mortal Orchestra transcend simple time-stamped pastiche: his handsomely scuffed vocals and inventive melodies, and a rhythmic vocabulary that draws equally and naturally from psych rock, hard funk, and soul. It's the work of an assured craftsman with a preferred set of sonic parameters, and shows off the band's development in a lucid, loose fashion. UMO's lo-fi sizzle and compression gave it the feel of an artifact, a lost treasure transmitted through decades of overdubbed tapes. II isn't a big budget affair, and Nielson still handles everything except the drums. The result is a surprisingly minor but welcome upgrade in fidelity that makes II sound more lived-in than pre-damaged, like a worn pair of jeans or an unmade bed. Such forlorn images are hardly coincidental considering the despondent lyrical bent early on in the record. "From the Sun" and "Swim and Sleep (Like A Shark)" are compositionally challenging and rewarding, like they're trying to see just how many notes and chord changes can fit into a verse and still stick in your head. But they're given to the startling thoughts of a mind that's ditched the Deadhead vibes of his debut in favor of exploring all the colors of the feel bad rainbow: "Isolation can put a gun in your hand," Nielson sings on the former, and the latter's chorus serves a suicide metaphor that takes as many odd turns as its backing melody. Even the soulful simmer of "So Good at Being in Trouble" doesn't come off as bravado-- not when the attendant lyric is "so bad at being in love." It's an impressive start that heralds a curious bit of sequencing; starting with "The Opposite of Afternoon", II places its three longest tracks consecutively in the middle, resulting in nearly 18 minutes that put the focus squarely on Nielson's guitar playing. His skills aren't necessarily self-evident since there's little in the way of pyrotechnics; they're the kind that are more impressive when you can see his hands move and witness how he fits interesting chord inversions, walking riffs, and quick vamps into a pop structure. Without the visual element, there's little to latch onto, and while the nifty riffs of "...Opposite" are attention-grabbing, they constitute the last hook we hear for some time. "No Need for a Leader" goes for a brisk, head-down six-minute jog, which at least is preparation for "Monki", whose seven minutes pass with hardly a memorable moment. You could take the droning instrumental of the subsequent "Dawn" as an audio metaphor; the momentum of II has pretty much flatlined by that point. It's a tough patch to endure, taking up nearly half of the record, and yet by the end it feels like the right call. II starts and finishes on strong notes, making it easy to revisit, and leaving the midsection as an isolated affair that might grow on you. If "Monki" and "No Need for a Leader" were distributed more evenly, II might come off more scattershot than it really is. In a way, the sequencing speaks to the curmudgeonly streak Nielson has shown, and aligns with the record's themes of exhaustion and depression by channeling massive amounts of energy into relatively short bursts while being subjected to long expanses of aimlessness. Perhaps Nielson's own ambitions don't align with external expectations of how to follow a promising, lo-fi debut. When II is truly on, it's proof that great albums aren't the sole measure of a great band, a subtle advance that puts Unknown Mortal Orchestra right back where they started: something of a mystery, but one that will certainly be interesting going forward."

Mika Vainio

In the Land of the Blind The One-Eyed Is King

Experimental

Andy Beta

When not turning entrails into milkshakes with the frequency fuckery of his full-time project Pan Sonic or performing clinical click/cut operations as either Ø or Philus, Mika Vainio has spent his time accumulating a curious catalog of sounds on the Touch imprint, be they of the curatorial art gallery background sort or the more frontal lobe-frying, barbed sinewaves sort. His fourth solo disc finds a kind of strange theme: sailors. Here he is, all dolled-up like a siren with a wig and fishnets, waylaying freshly shaved skippers on shore leave with a beguiling sound that's part good-time laughter, part throat gurgling, and part cheap-liquor retching, before he stoves their heads 20 seconds in with a savage blast of broken glass, roars, and machinations. If those Yankee recruits could only have read Finnish, they'd have known that the title "Revi Täällä, Merimies" actually translates to "Sunder Here, Sailor". "It Is Existing" breathes some back-alley gases through the lungs, seeping out an air of greasy haze over a slimy puddle underfoot. Once that clears up, Vainio turns his prey down a dark passage, chloroforming them again until all you can hear is their drugged, staggering heartbeats and the swaying neon of the red-light district. Coming to from the stupor, the sailors find themselves stripped clean, clanging against some oil barrels as they try to hide out on an opaque dock in a strange port town. "He Was a Sound Sometimes" drones pleasantly the first two minutes, before the record ends and a needle starts to slowly drag across the label, pulling the ears back down while gathering up dust as it loops itself. Vainio finally gets around to replacing it with a rare record of steamer engines, all surface noise and menacing hiss. Floating still on that boat, he wraps a scratchy wool pea coat tighter around the head before a tea kettle in the captain's quarters reaches a roiling boil, evaporating all that came before it. The blissful peak comes at the center of the record. "Colour of Plants" uses a gentle harmonium-hum as the starting strand of a relaxing sort of sea cruise, while Vainio assuredly gathers a gravity about it, stretching its salty breadth to encompass all available space, at the same time retaining its hypnotic state, the colors of the open sea glowing a ghostly blue iridescence that carries through the more land-locked tracks "Streets" and two-thirds of "Motel". But that's where the nightmares begin. Forgoing the nautical imaginings for the seedier side of noir, the end of "Motel" seethes with a menacing series of squeals before segueing into the drunken lurch of "Snowblind", which is just blottoed enough to hear the ozone gathering over the flickering TV static, all of it turning into an acid-reflux of hot mash, making the by-the-hour room spin and strobe. "Further, Higher!" finds us by the seaside for a split second, hearing the crashing waves before a low drum hit drops us back into the dank galley darkness, where the shanghaied sailors sleep. Small orchestral flames slowly cast a glow over the claustrophobic space, just catching the glint of a blade before it chops the disc to an end. More frequently than not, Vainio serves up a disarming fluctuation between the extremes of ambience and power noise, even changing horses midstream in the track if the mood takes him. A fine bodily hijacking that's neither too mellow nor too harsh.

Artist: Mika Vainio, Album: In the Land of the Blind The One-Eyed Is King, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "When not turning entrails into milkshakes with the frequency fuckery of his full-time project Pan Sonic or performing clinical click/cut operations as either Ø or Philus, Mika Vainio has spent his time accumulating a curious catalog of sounds on the Touch imprint, be they of the curatorial art gallery background sort or the more frontal lobe-frying, barbed sinewaves sort. His fourth solo disc finds a kind of strange theme: sailors. Here he is, all dolled-up like a siren with a wig and fishnets, waylaying freshly shaved skippers on shore leave with a beguiling sound that's part good-time laughter, part throat gurgling, and part cheap-liquor retching, before he stoves their heads 20 seconds in with a savage blast of broken glass, roars, and machinations. If those Yankee recruits could only have read Finnish, they'd have known that the title "Revi Täällä, Merimies" actually translates to "Sunder Here, Sailor". "It Is Existing" breathes some back-alley gases through the lungs, seeping out an air of greasy haze over a slimy puddle underfoot. Once that clears up, Vainio turns his prey down a dark passage, chloroforming them again until all you can hear is their drugged, staggering heartbeats and the swaying neon of the red-light district. Coming to from the stupor, the sailors find themselves stripped clean, clanging against some oil barrels as they try to hide out on an opaque dock in a strange port town. "He Was a Sound Sometimes" drones pleasantly the first two minutes, before the record ends and a needle starts to slowly drag across the label, pulling the ears back down while gathering up dust as it loops itself. Vainio finally gets around to replacing it with a rare record of steamer engines, all surface noise and menacing hiss. Floating still on that boat, he wraps a scratchy wool pea coat tighter around the head before a tea kettle in the captain's quarters reaches a roiling boil, evaporating all that came before it. The blissful peak comes at the center of the record. "Colour of Plants" uses a gentle harmonium-hum as the starting strand of a relaxing sort of sea cruise, while Vainio assuredly gathers a gravity about it, stretching its salty breadth to encompass all available space, at the same time retaining its hypnotic state, the colors of the open sea glowing a ghostly blue iridescence that carries through the more land-locked tracks "Streets" and two-thirds of "Motel". But that's where the nightmares begin. Forgoing the nautical imaginings for the seedier side of noir, the end of "Motel" seethes with a menacing series of squeals before segueing into the drunken lurch of "Snowblind", which is just blottoed enough to hear the ozone gathering over the flickering TV static, all of it turning into an acid-reflux of hot mash, making the by-the-hour room spin and strobe. "Further, Higher!" finds us by the seaside for a split second, hearing the crashing waves before a low drum hit drops us back into the dank galley darkness, where the shanghaied sailors sleep. Small orchestral flames slowly cast a glow over the claustrophobic space, just catching the glint of a blade before it chops the disc to an end. More frequently than not, Vainio serves up a disarming fluctuation between the extremes of ambience and power noise, even changing horses midstream in the track if the mood takes him. A fine bodily hijacking that's neither too mellow nor too harsh."

Various Artists

Kill Bill, Vol. 1

Alex Linhardt

The life of a hipster is arduous and complex, teeming with expensive haircuts, the obligation to buy the CDs the webzines have arbitrarily deemed cool, and those frilled skirts that you have to keep tugging at in the frigid lines to get into Chelsea's Bungalow 8. I mean, goddamn, it's like thirty degrees out there. The Hipster Handbook helped a little, but not enough. The questions linger. Is it cooler to be metrosexual, or to pretend to be metrosexual while actually being homosexual? Is it cooler to be an actual hipster, an ironic hipster, or the oft-imitated "fool on the hill" hipster? For those answers, only deep meditation can help; on the musical side of things, Quentin Tarantino has graciously solved many of our problems. The ramifications of this album on the young proto-hipster set will be incalculable. Simply for comparison, think about how you'd soundtrack Kill Bill. The best I can come up with is putting Genesis' "I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)" over the climactic sword fight. Thank god, then, that the album, like the movie, was compiled by people who obviously have encyclopedic minds able to forge visual/musical puns and scorching contrasts between maddeningly obscure pop treasures. This is like a guidebook to the different genres needed to be cool. To quickly categorize: Perverse torch songs, menacing revved-up rockabilly, ancient slasher scores, Wu-Tang allegiances, blaxploitation funk, swing, 70s disco, Japanese punk-pop, spy anthems. They even put on a quick excerpt of Neu! And all the rest consists of the best spaghetti western rip-offs of all time. At my screening, people were passing out in the aisles during the opening credits alone, clutching each other, finding the speed of sound insufficient, and hence feebly grasping at the sound emanating from the speakers, slamming their empty hands into their ears, trying to get even more music into their heads. If the Pulp Fiction soundtrack birthed a million surf-rock fanatics, this album is going to reinvigorate every genre simultaneously. Whereas the Jackie Brown soundtrack occasionally felt hampered by songs that drew most of their interest from their relationship to the movie, these songs not only are able to exist independently from their cinematic representations, but, at their best, exceed even the sheer jaw-dropping coolness of the scenes they scored. The opener is Nancy Sinatra's enrapturing Hazlewood-produced gruesome breakup threnody, "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)". Next to a solitary guitar played by an underwater mortician, Sinatra sings the incomparable intro, "I was five and he was six/ We rode on horses made of sticks..." And these were written by Sonny Bono! If you're trying to make tedium, you can have John Williams; if you're trying to make a movie, you better make damn sure you have a Nancy Sinatra song in it. Sun Records pioneer Charlie Feathers' "That Certain Female" is all warbling lasciviousness. In the lengthy history of country/blues/rock tunes that start with a god-defying "Wellllllllll...," this is in the very top tier. Whether he ever found his woman or not, his concupiscence has been fulfilled. The eight-minute epic of Santa Esmeralda's "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood" is the Animals classic via Latin disco, dissolving in an astonishingly complex string arrangement (well, for disco anyway). The Arctic reed-and-bells of Meiko Kaji's "The Flower of Carnage" ain't Baudelaire, but it gets the job done, Will Oldham-style: "Begrieving snow falls in the dead morning/ Stray dog's howls and the footsteps of Geta pierce the air." The remainder, and far superior, material is instrumental music cribbed from other movies. The best piece, Luis Bacalov's "The Grand Duel (Parte Prima)" (which accompanies the film's well-publicized anime sequence) is all operatic poltergeist sirens and campfire acoustic guitar. It's unabashedly plagiarized Ennio Morricone and, even then, deserves to be in the same sentence with him. The Bernard Herrmann theme to Twisted Nerve (the whistling nurse one) begins with whistle-while-we-work conviviality and flourishes into a demented shock of orchestral dread. Al Hirt's version of the Green Hornet theme is what "Flight of the Bumblebee" always promised to be, bearing the most ridiculous trumpet line since the theme to The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Once the tortuous, dizzying riff ends, a strong sturdy tone emerges that, by the end, has started battling the initial trumpet for control of the song, concluding in a bop that grows dangerously close to free jazz. There are two slight, avoidable problems. Many will probably decry the RZA's lyrics to "Ode to Oren Ishii". I will concede that he did indeed rhyme "Ishii" with "Japaneseshi." For a few years now, RZA has been adopting the unconvincingly out-of-control emotional delivery of Ghostface Killah with the lyrical inanity of ODB. It should be hilarious; it probably is. Secondly, a lot of music from the movie is missing, which I normally wouldn't deign to mention except that in the case of a soundtrack that is more or less dedicated to Morricone mood, it's just senseless to leave out "Death Rides a Horse". Perhaps even more significantly, I have no idea what depraved mind neglected to include the greatest garage-rock song of all time, The Human Beinz's "Nobody But Me". It would not be overreacting to murder the criminal. Still, who cares? As this review testifies, I am not qualified to critique music. However, if you dislike more than a third of these songs, you are not qualified to listen to music.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Kill Bill, Vol. 1, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.7 Album review: "The life of a hipster is arduous and complex, teeming with expensive haircuts, the obligation to buy the CDs the webzines have arbitrarily deemed cool, and those frilled skirts that you have to keep tugging at in the frigid lines to get into Chelsea's Bungalow 8. I mean, goddamn, it's like thirty degrees out there. The Hipster Handbook helped a little, but not enough. The questions linger. Is it cooler to be metrosexual, or to pretend to be metrosexual while actually being homosexual? Is it cooler to be an actual hipster, an ironic hipster, or the oft-imitated "fool on the hill" hipster? For those answers, only deep meditation can help; on the musical side of things, Quentin Tarantino has graciously solved many of our problems. The ramifications of this album on the young proto-hipster set will be incalculable. Simply for comparison, think about how you'd soundtrack Kill Bill. The best I can come up with is putting Genesis' "I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)" over the climactic sword fight. Thank god, then, that the album, like the movie, was compiled by people who obviously have encyclopedic minds able to forge visual/musical puns and scorching contrasts between maddeningly obscure pop treasures. This is like a guidebook to the different genres needed to be cool. To quickly categorize: Perverse torch songs, menacing revved-up rockabilly, ancient slasher scores, Wu-Tang allegiances, blaxploitation funk, swing, 70s disco, Japanese punk-pop, spy anthems. They even put on a quick excerpt of Neu! And all the rest consists of the best spaghetti western rip-offs of all time. At my screening, people were passing out in the aisles during the opening credits alone, clutching each other, finding the speed of sound insufficient, and hence feebly grasping at the sound emanating from the speakers, slamming their empty hands into their ears, trying to get even more music into their heads. If the Pulp Fiction soundtrack birthed a million surf-rock fanatics, this album is going to reinvigorate every genre simultaneously. Whereas the Jackie Brown soundtrack occasionally felt hampered by songs that drew most of their interest from their relationship to the movie, these songs not only are able to exist independently from their cinematic representations, but, at their best, exceed even the sheer jaw-dropping coolness of the scenes they scored. The opener is Nancy Sinatra's enrapturing Hazlewood-produced gruesome breakup threnody, "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)". Next to a solitary guitar played by an underwater mortician, Sinatra sings the incomparable intro, "I was five and he was six/ We rode on horses made of sticks..." And these were written by Sonny Bono! If you're trying to make tedium, you can have John Williams; if you're trying to make a movie, you better make damn sure you have a Nancy Sinatra song in it. Sun Records pioneer Charlie Feathers' "That Certain Female" is all warbling lasciviousness. In the lengthy history of country/blues/rock tunes that start with a god-defying "Wellllllllll...," this is in the very top tier. Whether he ever found his woman or not, his concupiscence has been fulfilled. The eight-minute epic of Santa Esmeralda's "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood" is the Animals classic via Latin disco, dissolving in an astonishingly complex string arrangement (well, for disco anyway). The Arctic reed-and-bells of Meiko Kaji's "The Flower of Carnage" ain't Baudelaire, but it gets the job done, Will Oldham-style: "Begrieving snow falls in the dead morning/ Stray dog's howls and the footsteps of Geta pierce the air." The remainder, and far superior, material is instrumental music cribbed from other movies. The best piece, Luis Bacalov's "The Grand Duel (Parte Prima)" (which accompanies the film's well-publicized anime sequence) is all operatic poltergeist sirens and campfire acoustic guitar. It's unabashedly plagiarized Ennio Morricone and, even then, deserves to be in the same sentence with him. The Bernard Herrmann theme to Twisted Nerve (the whistling nurse one) begins with whistle-while-we-work conviviality and flourishes into a demented shock of orchestral dread. Al Hirt's version of the Green Hornet theme is what "Flight of the Bumblebee" always promised to be, bearing the most ridiculous trumpet line since the theme to The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Once the tortuous, dizzying riff ends, a strong sturdy tone emerges that, by the end, has started battling the initial trumpet for control of the song, concluding in a bop that grows dangerously close to free jazz. There are two slight, avoidable problems. Many will probably decry the RZA's lyrics to "Ode to Oren Ishii". I will concede that he did indeed rhyme "Ishii" with "Japaneseshi." For a few years now, RZA has been adopting the unconvincingly out-of-control emotional delivery of Ghostface Killah with the lyrical inanity of ODB. It should be hilarious; it probably is. Secondly, a lot of music from the movie is missing, which I normally wouldn't deign to mention except that in the case of a soundtrack that is more or less dedicated to Morricone mood, it's just senseless to leave out "Death Rides a Horse". Perhaps even more significantly, I have no idea what depraved mind neglected to include the greatest garage-rock song of all time, The Human Beinz's "Nobody But Me". It would not be overreacting to murder the criminal. Still, who cares? As this review testifies, I am not qualified to critique music. However, if you dislike more than a third of these songs, you are not qualified to listen to music."

Angel Olsen

Burn Your Fire for No Witness

Rock

Lindsay Zoladz

“Hi-Five”, the third song on Angel Olsen’s second album, Burn Your Fire for No Witness, has got to be one of the most cheerful songs ever written about being lonely. A twangy electric folk tune that begins with an invocation of its muse, Hank Williams, the song is all stomp-and-rollick until it stops to catch its breath for a moment in the bridge. “Are you lonely too?” Olsen warbles. A beat later, her band’s back in full Technicolor, and the next line hits like a title card in an old “Batman” episode: “HI-FIVE!/ SO AM I!” Olsen’s voice is enchanting; it sounds like the result of a spell that called for Leonard Cohen’s blood, Buffy Sainte-Marie’s larynx, and a still-operational old-timey microphone emblazoned with radio call letters. Her songs are powered by a strange, anarchic electricity, always flickering on the edge of blowing out. By the laws of the unique universe she creates on her records, Wanting, Waiting, and (probably the most popular pastime in her songs) Thinking are not passive stances but active ways of being in the world; unruly emotion is a virtue. “You don’t sing so high and wild,” she sneers at one point to a detached lover, and in an Angel Olsen song this is an insult so harsh it’s almost obscene. This guy may as well be dead. Olsen first gained notice as the stand-out eccentric in Bonnie “Prince” Billy’s mysterious band the Babblers (given that all six of them were known perform in hooded pajamas and sunglasses, this is saying something). In 2010, she released an arresting tape on Bathetic called Strange Cacti, which gave off the impression that she’d recorded it after falling down a well, trying to sing loudly and cavernously and urgently enough to be found. And she was, more or less—her cult following multiplied with the release of 2012’s excellent Half Way Home, a surreal and lyrical collection of folk songs that sounded a bit like Vashti Bunyan playing a midnight game of Ouija. Most of the songs on Half Way Home were driven by Olsen’s hushed acoustic guitar, so her 2013 single “Sweet Dreams” was a thrilling left turn—a swirling, psych-pop reverie. To overpower the percussion and charred electric guitars, she sang even wilder. Burn Your Fire for No Witness picks up where “Sweet Dreams” left off, blossoming into a fuller, louder sound and embracing punchier song structures. It’s not as weird or raw a record as Half Way Home, but producer John Congleton manages to sand the rough edges off Olsen’s music without quite taming it. She and her band (Joshua Jaeger on drums and Stewart Bronaugh on bass and guitar) talk to each other effortlessly: On the great lead-off single “Fogiven/Forgotten”, the kick drum accents her open-hearted declarations like expertly placed exclamation points (“I don’t know anything!/ But I love you!”), and as the energy of “Lights Out” mounts, she passes the baton to Bronaugh for a perfectly timed solo. The blown-out, full-band energy enlivens Olsen, kindling an intensity that’s always been present in her songs and fanning the flames even higher. On repeated listens, subtler highlights emerge. "Enemy" hangs like a spiderweb in the album's quietest corridor—an intricate wisp of a song that she patiently spins into something hallowed and heartbreaking. Then there’s “White Fire”, a sparse, nearly seven-minute incantation that sounds like a lost Songs of Leonard Cohen cut but gradually accumulates an atmosphere of its own. When Olsen switches into ballad mode, she fares best with hushed, minimal arrangements. The echoing percussion and shimmering chords of “Dance Slow Decades” cloak the song in a relatively ill-fitting grandeur; the demo is probably more of a gut-punch. Same goes for the indistinct closer “Window”, which sounds a bit too much like someone trying to write a Feist song. Still, that last one feels like such an anomaly that it only underscores how distinct Olsen’s songwriting is across the rest of the record. Burn Your Fire for No Witness conjures the past without ever imitating it, swirling its influences into something intimate, impressionistic and new. “I wish it were the same as it is in my mind,” Olsen laments in “Enemy”; this is pretty much the central conflict in every Angel Olsen song. The people she writes about daydream vividly, mumble reassuring mantras to themselves ("Some days all you need is one good thought strong in your mind"), and get so caught up in the songs stuck in their heads that they accidentally walk past their own houses. And yet, even as she longs for deep connections and hi-fives from strangers, Olsen knows too well that dreamers are usually loners. Not that she really minds. If she seems unafraid of—even superhumanly amped about—loneliness, it’s because her songs find an almost beatific peace in solitude. “If you can’t be psyched about your own thoughts,” she said in an interview a few years ago, “Then how are you supposed to have a meaningful interaction with anyone?” It’s a point she’s carried over into her music, honed in seclusion but now ready for more people to bear witness to its peculiar charms.

Artist: Angel Olsen, Album: Burn Your Fire for No Witness, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "“Hi-Five”, the third song on Angel Olsen’s second album, Burn Your Fire for No Witness, has got to be one of the most cheerful songs ever written about being lonely. A twangy electric folk tune that begins with an invocation of its muse, Hank Williams, the song is all stomp-and-rollick until it stops to catch its breath for a moment in the bridge. “Are you lonely too?” Olsen warbles. A beat later, her band’s back in full Technicolor, and the next line hits like a title card in an old “Batman” episode: “HI-FIVE!/ SO AM I!” Olsen’s voice is enchanting; it sounds like the result of a spell that called for Leonard Cohen’s blood, Buffy Sainte-Marie’s larynx, and a still-operational old-timey microphone emblazoned with radio call letters. Her songs are powered by a strange, anarchic electricity, always flickering on the edge of blowing out. By the laws of the unique universe she creates on her records, Wanting, Waiting, and (probably the most popular pastime in her songs) Thinking are not passive stances but active ways of being in the world; unruly emotion is a virtue. “You don’t sing so high and wild,” she sneers at one point to a detached lover, and in an Angel Olsen song this is an insult so harsh it’s almost obscene. This guy may as well be dead. Olsen first gained notice as the stand-out eccentric in Bonnie “Prince” Billy’s mysterious band the Babblers (given that all six of them were known perform in hooded pajamas and sunglasses, this is saying something). In 2010, she released an arresting tape on Bathetic called Strange Cacti, which gave off the impression that she’d recorded it after falling down a well, trying to sing loudly and cavernously and urgently enough to be found. And she was, more or less—her cult following multiplied with the release of 2012’s excellent Half Way Home, a surreal and lyrical collection of folk songs that sounded a bit like Vashti Bunyan playing a midnight game of Ouija. Most of the songs on Half Way Home were driven by Olsen’s hushed acoustic guitar, so her 2013 single “Sweet Dreams” was a thrilling left turn—a swirling, psych-pop reverie. To overpower the percussion and charred electric guitars, she sang even wilder. Burn Your Fire for No Witness picks up where “Sweet Dreams” left off, blossoming into a fuller, louder sound and embracing punchier song structures. It’s not as weird or raw a record as Half Way Home, but producer John Congleton manages to sand the rough edges off Olsen’s music without quite taming it. She and her band (Joshua Jaeger on drums and Stewart Bronaugh on bass and guitar) talk to each other effortlessly: On the great lead-off single “Fogiven/Forgotten”, the kick drum accents her open-hearted declarations like expertly placed exclamation points (“I don’t know anything!/ But I love you!”), and as the energy of “Lights Out” mounts, she passes the baton to Bronaugh for a perfectly timed solo. The blown-out, full-band energy enlivens Olsen, kindling an intensity that’s always been present in her songs and fanning the flames even higher. On repeated listens, subtler highlights emerge. "Enemy" hangs like a spiderweb in the album's quietest corridor—an intricate wisp of a song that she patiently spins into something hallowed and heartbreaking. Then there’s “White Fire”, a sparse, nearly seven-minute incantation that sounds like a lost Songs of Leonard Cohen cut but gradually accumulates an atmosphere of its own. When Olsen switches into ballad mode, she fares best with hushed, minimal arrangements. The echoing percussion and shimmering chords of “Dance Slow Decades” cloak the song in a relatively ill-fitting grandeur; the demo is probably more of a gut-punch. Same goes for the indistinct closer “Window”, which sounds a bit too much like someone trying to write a Feist song. Still, that last one feels like such an anomaly that it only underscores how distinct Olsen’s songwriting is across the rest of the record. Burn Your Fire for No Witness conjures the past without ever imitating it, swirling its influences into something intimate, impressionistic and new. “I wish it were the same as it is in my mind,” Olsen laments in “Enemy”; this is pretty much the central conflict in every Angel Olsen song. The people she writes about daydream vividly, mumble reassuring mantras to themselves ("Some days all you need is one good thought strong in your mind"), and get so caught up in the songs stuck in their heads that they accidentally walk past their own houses. And yet, even as she longs for deep connections and hi-fives from strangers, Olsen knows too well that dreamers are usually loners. Not that she really minds. If she seems unafraid of—even superhumanly amped about—loneliness, it’s because her songs find an almost beatific peace in solitude. “If you can’t be psyched about your own thoughts,” she said in an interview a few years ago, “Then how are you supposed to have a meaningful interaction with anyone?” It’s a point she’s carried over into her music, honed in seclusion but now ready for more people to bear witness to its peculiar charms."

Iven Schmidt

Track: Array

Electronic

Andy Beta

With the high quality of electronic music of every conceivable ilk streaming from German factories like so many automobiles and methamphetamines, the sometimes unknown names of many of its purveyors can often be cavalierly bypassed on the strength of their labels' reputations alone. Stalwarts like Mike Ink's Profan, Stefan Betke's ~scape, and Peter Rehberg's Mego are no-brainers, the label identities as one with their masters' renowned monikers. The Ware label has quickly been building a solid reputation of its own, having issued a string of remarkable and consistent long-players over the past year. Markus Guentner's Audio Island was a song-based house epic; Coloma contrived poppy clicks of mod-glitch with astounding wordplay that absolutely shamed The Postal Service. And now Iven Schmidt's debut is before me, more rubbery in its dance-steps than its brethren-- and more club-oriented-- but no less catchy. Built around three previous Ware singles, the eleven tracks here stay uptempo. While not the first to explicitly craft a record around the concept of driving (or highways, or autobahns), Schmidt conjures up the sleek German design of today by hotwiring its primitive arcade heart and making a driving game out of it. "Quest for Tires" starts off like the Commodore 64's classic Night Driver game, all simple white dashes on a black screen before the bass and distorted patches shift up into something more akin to Pole Position-- the pulses and accompanying clicks seem almost kinetic as the track makes hairpin turns and musses up digitized hairdos. "Digital Sun" is a quarter-eater, too. With a bass like glycerin drops on a trampoline, Schmidt keeps his keys in a twitchy mode, flicking pings across the ears before breaking it all down into a distorted Nintendo ditty bouncing like Donkey Kong barrels. While "Pocket Hero" may be the track built from assorted Game Boy sounds, "LSR" is most gamey, combining canned handclaps with Mario fireballs and jump-blips. And if the classic arcade sentiments weren't conveyed already, "Moon Patrol" revitalizes that craggy, horizontal-scrolling shooter of yore with stun-synths and vocoded commands. Built from a crisp house beat, "M Track" drops in snips of distorted scratches until its breakdown reveals the crunching noises to be the edge of a biting melodic line. It stutters to a stop before bouncing back even harder with little pings darting out like Frogger in the tempered traffic of Model 500-type racecars and trucks. The cut-up vocals of "Tanzmaschine" are bit too distracting at the end of the disc, but it's the only speed bump on an otherwise thrilling ride through a very crowded and vibrant urban scene.

Artist: Iven Schmidt, Album: Track: Array, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "With the high quality of electronic music of every conceivable ilk streaming from German factories like so many automobiles and methamphetamines, the sometimes unknown names of many of its purveyors can often be cavalierly bypassed on the strength of their labels' reputations alone. Stalwarts like Mike Ink's Profan, Stefan Betke's ~scape, and Peter Rehberg's Mego are no-brainers, the label identities as one with their masters' renowned monikers. The Ware label has quickly been building a solid reputation of its own, having issued a string of remarkable and consistent long-players over the past year. Markus Guentner's Audio Island was a song-based house epic; Coloma contrived poppy clicks of mod-glitch with astounding wordplay that absolutely shamed The Postal Service. And now Iven Schmidt's debut is before me, more rubbery in its dance-steps than its brethren-- and more club-oriented-- but no less catchy. Built around three previous Ware singles, the eleven tracks here stay uptempo. While not the first to explicitly craft a record around the concept of driving (or highways, or autobahns), Schmidt conjures up the sleek German design of today by hotwiring its primitive arcade heart and making a driving game out of it. "Quest for Tires" starts off like the Commodore 64's classic Night Driver game, all simple white dashes on a black screen before the bass and distorted patches shift up into something more akin to Pole Position-- the pulses and accompanying clicks seem almost kinetic as the track makes hairpin turns and musses up digitized hairdos. "Digital Sun" is a quarter-eater, too. With a bass like glycerin drops on a trampoline, Schmidt keeps his keys in a twitchy mode, flicking pings across the ears before breaking it all down into a distorted Nintendo ditty bouncing like Donkey Kong barrels. While "Pocket Hero" may be the track built from assorted Game Boy sounds, "LSR" is most gamey, combining canned handclaps with Mario fireballs and jump-blips. And if the classic arcade sentiments weren't conveyed already, "Moon Patrol" revitalizes that craggy, horizontal-scrolling shooter of yore with stun-synths and vocoded commands. Built from a crisp house beat, "M Track" drops in snips of distorted scratches until its breakdown reveals the crunching noises to be the edge of a biting melodic line. It stutters to a stop before bouncing back even harder with little pings darting out like Frogger in the tempered traffic of Model 500-type racecars and trucks. The cut-up vocals of "Tanzmaschine" are bit too distracting at the end of the disc, but it's the only speed bump on an otherwise thrilling ride through a very crowded and vibrant urban scene."

Sia

Everyday Is Christmas

Pop/R&B

Katherine St. Asaph

Ever since Sia transitioned from “Six Feet Under” coffeeshop songwriter to Top 40 fixture, her career has contained the tension between the writer she’s trained as and the pop star she’s become. Specifically, she has a habit of giving smart, bluntly candid interviews in songwriter mode that are, in pop mode, the exact wrong thing to say. A Billboard interview where she mentioned the “victim to victory” songwriting template of tracks like “Titanium” was thrown back at her, in the headline of a New York Times pan of This Is Acting and countless other reviews. So what was it like writing her first Christmas album? “[There’s a] shortage of good Christmas music… It's not like you have to have an original idea to begin with,” Sia told Zane Lowe. “It's like, Christmas, mistletoe, ho-ho-ho, Santa Claus, Christmas list, elves.” This is technically accurate, in the way that a professional elf might accurately describe Christmas gift-giving as “like, hammer, nails, molds, wrapping paper.” But it also kind of grinches up the business. Of course, there’s no shortage of existing Christmas songs—virtually every musician records them as a quick stocking-stuffer for music blogs and streaming sites—but most of them are strictly for diehard fans. As far as canonical Christmas songs, the past few decades have produced basically only two. There’s the “All I Want for Christmas Is You” school: festive (or “Extra Festive” or “SuperFestive!”, as Mariah Carey dubbed the re-recordings of her hit) and infectious, in both senses of the word. Then there’s the “Last Christmas” school, where Christmas is an incidental setting for smaller human dramas. There’s plenty of room for variation here, from the downright morose original versions of “White Christmas” and “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” to the acid-dipped tinsel of Dragonette’s “Merry Xmas (Says Your Text Message),” to the sumptuous femme-fatale drama of Saint Etienne’s “No Cure for the Common Christmas,” to the infinite takes on Wham!’s original. The latter’s also closest to Sia’s non-holiday music, where big pop songs like “Chandelier” are infused with an underlying darkness. It’s a strange choice, then, that Everyday Is Christmas is mostly played straight. Like Kelly Clarkson’s Wrapped in Red, the album was produced by Greg Kurstin, and his trademark shiny production becomes DEFCON 1 festive. “Candy Cane Lane” is colorful and lightweight. “Santa’s Coming for You” has an ironic title, but the only threat is being smothered by Christmas cheer. There are some lovely ballads, such as the lilting, “Unchained Melody”-esque “Snowman” and its sister light-jazz track “Snowflake” (only kind of ruined by the news of 2017 discoursing the word into oblivion), which linger on the season’s impermanence. But they’re the same metaphor, so the effect is muted by sequencing them right next to each other—or anywhere close to “Puppies Are Forever,” the sonic equivalent of having the Christmas stuffing squeezed out of you by a rictus-grinned Elmyra Duff. There’s plenty Sia could do with an album entirely of Christmas originals, but too many are underwritten; there’s more consistency in the art direction than the songwriting. “Underneath the Mistletoe” flirts with being candid about an obsessive holiday crush—“it’s Christmas time, so run for your life”—but abandons the idea almost immediately. Half of “Ho Ho Ho” wants to be a Christmas misfits’ anthem; the other half wants to be a Christmas version of “Chandelier,” with lots of booze, nothing to lose. The production, vaguely festive and vaguely pop-skanky, doesn’t commit to either. Sia’s got a self-own for this, too: “It was easy and fun. We did it in two weeks.” Of course, plenty of great albums were secretly written in two weeks, just like plenty of fine presents were secretly purchased on the eve of December 24. But it’s still like opening a gift where someone’s forgotten to remove the tags.

Artist: Sia, Album: Everyday Is Christmas, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "Ever since Sia transitioned from “Six Feet Under” coffeeshop songwriter to Top 40 fixture, her career has contained the tension between the writer she’s trained as and the pop star she’s become. Specifically, she has a habit of giving smart, bluntly candid interviews in songwriter mode that are, in pop mode, the exact wrong thing to say. A Billboard interview where she mentioned the “victim to victory” songwriting template of tracks like “Titanium” was thrown back at her, in the headline of a New York Times pan of This Is Acting and countless other reviews. So what was it like writing her first Christmas album? “[There’s a] shortage of good Christmas music… It's not like you have to have an original idea to begin with,” Sia told Zane Lowe. “It's like, Christmas, mistletoe, ho-ho-ho, Santa Claus, Christmas list, elves.” This is technically accurate, in the way that a professional elf might accurately describe Christmas gift-giving as “like, hammer, nails, molds, wrapping paper.” But it also kind of grinches up the business. Of course, there’s no shortage of existing Christmas songs—virtually every musician records them as a quick stocking-stuffer for music blogs and streaming sites—but most of them are strictly for diehard fans. As far as canonical Christmas songs, the past few decades have produced basically only two. There’s the “All I Want for Christmas Is You” school: festive (or “Extra Festive” or “SuperFestive!”, as Mariah Carey dubbed the re-recordings of her hit) and infectious, in both senses of the word. Then there’s the “Last Christmas” school, where Christmas is an incidental setting for smaller human dramas. There’s plenty of room for variation here, from the downright morose original versions of “White Christmas” and “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” to the acid-dipped tinsel of Dragonette’s “Merry Xmas (Says Your Text Message),” to the sumptuous femme-fatale drama of Saint Etienne’s “No Cure for the Common Christmas,” to the infinite takes on Wham!’s original. The latter’s also closest to Sia’s non-holiday music, where big pop songs like “Chandelier” are infused with an underlying darkness. It’s a strange choice, then, that Everyday Is Christmas is mostly played straight. Like Kelly Clarkson’s Wrapped in Red, the album was produced by Greg Kurstin, and his trademark shiny production becomes DEFCON 1 festive. “Candy Cane Lane” is colorful and lightweight. “Santa’s Coming for You” has an ironic title, but the only threat is being smothered by Christmas cheer. There are some lovely ballads, such as the lilting, “Unchained Melody”-esque “Snowman” and its sister light-jazz track “Snowflake” (only kind of ruined by the news of 2017 discoursing the word into oblivion), which linger on the season’s impermanence. But they’re the same metaphor, so the effect is muted by sequencing them right next to each other—or anywhere close to “Puppies Are Forever,” the sonic equivalent of having the Christmas stuffing squeezed out of you by a rictus-grinned Elmyra Duff. There’s plenty Sia could do with an album entirely of Christmas originals, but too many are underwritten; there’s more consistency in the art direction than the songwriting. “Underneath the Mistletoe” flirts with being candid about an obsessive holiday crush—“it’s Christmas time, so run for your life”—but abandons the idea almost immediately. Half of “Ho Ho Ho” wants to be a Christmas misfits’ anthem; the other half wants to be a Christmas version of “Chandelier,” with lots of booze, nothing to lose. The production, vaguely festive and vaguely pop-skanky, doesn’t commit to either. Sia’s got a self-own for this, too: “It was easy and fun. We did it in two weeks.” Of course, plenty of great albums were secretly written in two weeks, just like plenty of fine presents were secretly purchased on the eve of December 24. But it’s still like opening a gift where someone’s forgotten to remove the tags."

Elvis Costello, The Roots

Wise Up Ghost

Rock,Rap

Jayson Greene

A small outburst of tie-loosening sounds scurry across the opening seconds of "Walk Us Uptown", the first song on Elvis Costello and the Roots' Wise Up Ghost: We hear a few warm-up blurts, studio cross-chatter, and someone bringing up the volume on a laptop. When artists with historical baggage collaborate, sometimes these little expectation-defusing gestures pop up, a way to subtly prod reverent audiences into listening with new ears. Bear with us, we're just putting this together on the fly, they say. For Wise Up Ghost, it's a bit of a feint. Elvis Costello and the Roots are known for many things, but neither are noted for "relaxing." And Wise Up Ghost, the more you poke at it, turns out to be one of the densely referential works in Costello's catalogue, its lyrics a series of nested self-quotes that build a Chinese box out of his old records. The grooves, from the Roots, are loose, muted, and murky, but the music glows with the unmistakable attention to detail and sense of history that the group can't help but bring to everything they touch. This isn't the sound of old masters getting loose, in other words, as much as lifelong A-students coasting a bit. Although the name on the sleeve is "Elvis Costello and The Roots",  Blackthought doesn't show up to rap, even on the lean, snapping "Come the Meantimes". No one raps at any point, in fact, which seems like a missed opportunity to make something unusual happen. The only real link to hip-hop comes from Costello's reflexive, self-quoting urge: "Wake Me Up" and "(She Might Be A) Grenade" both reset lyrics from his 2004 album The Delivery Man, while echoes of Punch the Clock's "Pills & Soap" flicker across "Stick Out Your Tongue". On the title track, Costello's backup vocals call back to the earlier track "Grenade", effectively creating an Escher staircase of himself. For Costello diehards, the multiple callbacks trigger the same "wait, how many places do I know this lyric from?" half-déjà vu that has always been one of hip-hop's deepest pleasures. At the record's low points, though, the "legends spitballing" vibe works against the material. Some of the songs are undercooked, or at least they begin to feel that way as the grooves stretch out past five minutes. "Stick Out Your Tongue", "Come the Meantimes", and "Wake Me Up" linger longer than their thematic materials deserve, and "Can You Hear Me" meanders through six minutes but feels nearly twice that length, a collection of slapdash ideas with no audible commitment behind them. At their best, both artists are great listeners, capable of soaking up something they can use from new collaborators. On the slower, quieter tracks, you can hear Wise Up Ghost shade into something that sounds genuinely like a product of both sensibilities: "Tripwire" is a delicate 6/8 shuffle that Costello sings in his lovely high head voice, the only time his voice sounds conventionally beautiful. "If I Could Believe" is one of those stunning, rafter-reaching ballads Costello unfurls out of his dry, unsentimental soul every few albums, to remind us he can. On the left-field "Cinco Minutos Con Vos", a series of disparate parts click together: Questlove's patient, freakishly exact snare snaps, horns punch soft notes, strings churn, Costello trades vocals with La Marisoul of  La Santa Cecilia, and boom-- Elvis Costello and the Roots. It's not the kind of moment that will knock the long-since-formed careers of either out their deep, geologic grooves, but it's a minor revelation nonetheless.

Artist: Elvis Costello, The Roots, Album: Wise Up Ghost, Genre: Rock,Rap, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "A small outburst of tie-loosening sounds scurry across the opening seconds of "Walk Us Uptown", the first song on Elvis Costello and the Roots' Wise Up Ghost: We hear a few warm-up blurts, studio cross-chatter, and someone bringing up the volume on a laptop. When artists with historical baggage collaborate, sometimes these little expectation-defusing gestures pop up, a way to subtly prod reverent audiences into listening with new ears. Bear with us, we're just putting this together on the fly, they say. For Wise Up Ghost, it's a bit of a feint. Elvis Costello and the Roots are known for many things, but neither are noted for "relaxing." And Wise Up Ghost, the more you poke at it, turns out to be one of the densely referential works in Costello's catalogue, its lyrics a series of nested self-quotes that build a Chinese box out of his old records. The grooves, from the Roots, are loose, muted, and murky, but the music glows with the unmistakable attention to detail and sense of history that the group can't help but bring to everything they touch. This isn't the sound of old masters getting loose, in other words, as much as lifelong A-students coasting a bit. Although the name on the sleeve is "Elvis Costello and The Roots",  Blackthought doesn't show up to rap, even on the lean, snapping "Come the Meantimes". No one raps at any point, in fact, which seems like a missed opportunity to make something unusual happen. The only real link to hip-hop comes from Costello's reflexive, self-quoting urge: "Wake Me Up" and "(She Might Be A) Grenade" both reset lyrics from his 2004 album The Delivery Man, while echoes of Punch the Clock's "Pills & Soap" flicker across "Stick Out Your Tongue". On the title track, Costello's backup vocals call back to the earlier track "Grenade", effectively creating an Escher staircase of himself. For Costello diehards, the multiple callbacks trigger the same "wait, how many places do I know this lyric from?" half-déjà vu that has always been one of hip-hop's deepest pleasures. At the record's low points, though, the "legends spitballing" vibe works against the material. Some of the songs are undercooked, or at least they begin to feel that way as the grooves stretch out past five minutes. "Stick Out Your Tongue", "Come the Meantimes", and "Wake Me Up" linger longer than their thematic materials deserve, and "Can You Hear Me" meanders through six minutes but feels nearly twice that length, a collection of slapdash ideas with no audible commitment behind them. At their best, both artists are great listeners, capable of soaking up something they can use from new collaborators. On the slower, quieter tracks, you can hear Wise Up Ghost shade into something that sounds genuinely like a product of both sensibilities: "Tripwire" is a delicate 6/8 shuffle that Costello sings in his lovely high head voice, the only time his voice sounds conventionally beautiful. "If I Could Believe" is one of those stunning, rafter-reaching ballads Costello unfurls out of his dry, unsentimental soul every few albums, to remind us he can. On the left-field "Cinco Minutos Con Vos", a series of disparate parts click together: Questlove's patient, freakishly exact snare snaps, horns punch soft notes, strings churn, Costello trades vocals with La Marisoul of  La Santa Cecilia, and boom-- Elvis Costello and the Roots. It's not the kind of moment that will knock the long-since-formed careers of either out their deep, geologic grooves, but it's a minor revelation nonetheless."

Misery Index

Traitors

Metal

Cosmo Lee

For those who deride heavy metal as escapist, Misery Index's Traitors is a convincing rebuttal. The subject matter of its 11 tracks:   1. U.S. government deception in peace dealings with Native Americans. 2. Separation of church and state. 3. Privileged liberals. 4. A "terrorist" to some is a "freedom fighter" to others. 5. Anarchist fighters of the Spanish Civil War. 6. Middle East occupation by Israel and the U.S. 7. A fantasy about uprising by the masses. 8. "Work your whole life, and you die with nothing." 9. Celebrity worship. 10. The world is going to hell. 11. State-sponsored torture in secret locations.   Whole Foods this is not; Misery Index's brand of progressivism is decidedly bleak. (One song on Traitors, though, is almost upbeat in its defiance: "This land is fucking your land/ And not through them defined/ By fucking flags on SUVs/ or Super Bowl halftimes.") The band began in 2001 when half of the similarly political Dying Fetus seceded. Early efforts sounded like Terrorizer covering Slayer; in recent years, the band's sound has slimmed down to a precise, melodic blend of death metal and grindcore. Unlike colleagues Brutal Truth or Napalm Death, Misery Index have grown less experimental over time. They rely on standard minor scales with occasional flatted seconds and fifths for color. The message is progressive, but the sound is conservative.   It hits hard, though. Recording engineer Kurt Ballou dials in a sound falling somewhere between "battering ram" and "machine gun." Adam Jarvis' drumming is astonishingly athletic; he propels otherwise slow half-time passages with helicopter rotor kicks. In the title track, he rotates fluidly between thrash polka and clattering blastbeats. The riffs are streamlined and hefty. A few ornaments add texture-- stinging string rakes in "Ghosts of Catalonia", black metal-esque jangles in "Partisans of Grief". Bassist/vocalist Jason Netherton sounds like a very angry man; he pulls no punches at his political blog, www.demockery.org.   Despite its blunt force, this record is a thought-provoking package. In the liner notes, Netherton accompanies each song with a famous quote. For example, there's Albert Einstein's "Never do anything against conscience" line, and Nietzsche's oft-cited saw about gazing into an abyss. Such invocations could come cheaply, but they match the songs. They also add depth to the polemics, though Netherton can turn a good line himself. (On Hollywood celebrities: "They are ink and pixels... yet they walk the earth as gods.") Relapse graphic designer Orion Landau pairs the text with politically charged montages indebted to antiestablishment artists John Heartfield and Larry Carroll. These polarized times call for constructive discourse. But if Misery Index can destroy the opposition six ways 'til Sunday, so be it.

Artist: Misery Index, Album: Traitors, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "For those who deride heavy metal as escapist, Misery Index's Traitors is a convincing rebuttal. The subject matter of its 11 tracks:   1. U.S. government deception in peace dealings with Native Americans. 2. Separation of church and state. 3. Privileged liberals. 4. A "terrorist" to some is a "freedom fighter" to others. 5. Anarchist fighters of the Spanish Civil War. 6. Middle East occupation by Israel and the U.S. 7. A fantasy about uprising by the masses. 8. "Work your whole life, and you die with nothing." 9. Celebrity worship. 10. The world is going to hell. 11. State-sponsored torture in secret locations.   Whole Foods this is not; Misery Index's brand of progressivism is decidedly bleak. (One song on Traitors, though, is almost upbeat in its defiance: "This land is fucking your land/ And not through them defined/ By fucking flags on SUVs/ or Super Bowl halftimes.") The band began in 2001 when half of the similarly political Dying Fetus seceded. Early efforts sounded like Terrorizer covering Slayer; in recent years, the band's sound has slimmed down to a precise, melodic blend of death metal and grindcore. Unlike colleagues Brutal Truth or Napalm Death, Misery Index have grown less experimental over time. They rely on standard minor scales with occasional flatted seconds and fifths for color. The message is progressive, but the sound is conservative.   It hits hard, though. Recording engineer Kurt Ballou dials in a sound falling somewhere between "battering ram" and "machine gun." Adam Jarvis' drumming is astonishingly athletic; he propels otherwise slow half-time passages with helicopter rotor kicks. In the title track, he rotates fluidly between thrash polka and clattering blastbeats. The riffs are streamlined and hefty. A few ornaments add texture-- stinging string rakes in "Ghosts of Catalonia", black metal-esque jangles in "Partisans of Grief". Bassist/vocalist Jason Netherton sounds like a very angry man; he pulls no punches at his political blog, www.demockery.org.   Despite its blunt force, this record is a thought-provoking package. In the liner notes, Netherton accompanies each song with a famous quote. For example, there's Albert Einstein's "Never do anything against conscience" line, and Nietzsche's oft-cited saw about gazing into an abyss. Such invocations could come cheaply, but they match the songs. They also add depth to the polemics, though Netherton can turn a good line himself. (On Hollywood celebrities: "They are ink and pixels... yet they walk the earth as gods.") Relapse graphic designer Orion Landau pairs the text with politically charged montages indebted to antiestablishment artists John Heartfield and Larry Carroll. These polarized times call for constructive discourse. But if Misery Index can destroy the opposition six ways 'til Sunday, so be it."

The Districts

Popular Manipulations

Rock

Philip Cosores

The Districts was formed by four childhood friends in 2009, while they were still in high school, and the Lititz, Pa. band has since grown up in the public eye, having signed to Fat Possum in 2013. Their catalog traces the Districts’ evolution from indistinct blues rock to an infatuation with the early 2000s NYC scene. Along the way, they replaced founding guitarist Mark Larson with Pat Cassidy and worked with John Congleton (producer of records by St. Vincent and Cloud Nothings, among others), who recorded their 2015 sophomore LP A Flourish and a Spoil. On their third full-length, Popular Manipulations, the group dive headfirst into the earnest indie rock of the mid-2000s, particularly Spencer Krug’s least esoteric contributions to Wolf Parade. Congleton is back in the booth for four songs, but the band makes a big leap by producing the rest of the collection themselves. Like all of their work, it’s capable and tuneful and reveals a young band of skilled songwriters that put all their faith in their guitars, even if it’s often hard to pinpoint where their own vision begins and their taste ends. On their 2015 album, the Districts rightfully focused on songwriting over style. Even when singer Rob Grote used his best Casablancas croon to sell his band’s dollar-slice-eating, bar-room appeal, there was never a sense that they were skimping on hooks. If anything, the Districts understood the youthful, carefree appeal of the bands they were aping, and were able to distill the highlights into something palatable. Popular Manipulations finds similar low barometers for successes and failures, but with a new sound that employs studio sheen and a heartfelt vocal delivery. Sure, there are times when Grote drones along zombie-like—the monotonous Liars-sounding opening of “If Before I Wake,” the return of Paul Banks’ robotic vocal influence on “Airplane”—but these outlying moments only highlight Grote’s strength when he bellows with tense desperation across the rest of the album. In fact, “If Before I Wake” juxtaposes the old and new Grote delivery in the same song, displaying an emotional depth never present in the Districts’ previous work. Lead single “Ordinary Day” is fragile and thin when Grote opens the song by himself, but by the time the band piles on towering guitars, crashing cymbals, and manic vocal layers, its grandeur punctuates the singer’s bland question: “Will it hit you when the feeling’s right?” On “Capable,” Grote’s lyrics sidestep all ambiguity, speaking directly about divorce with both detail and insight, musing on the “mirage of permanence” and an inability to love. More than ever, there’s a sense that the audience is getting to know both Grote and the Districts through their music beyond just a show of influences. It matters less that “If Before I Wake” pulses with the same vocal delivery as Brandon Flowers used in the Hot Fuss-era, but that the song employs the familiar to forge a more rugged path. Still, Popular Manipulations struggles to reach these heights consistently. “The point is beside the point now,” Grote sings on “Point,” offering the sort of logic that makes most sense through the bottom of a pint glass. There’s a handful of leftfield choices that sour some of the goodwill the record inspires, including the strained falsetto on “Why Would I Wanna Be,” which attempts to distinguish an otherwise innocuous cut. And the record’s closing moments on “Will You Please Be Quiet Please” fall short of a climax through sheer messiness. These stumbles further separate the Districts from their heroes, even if Popular Manipulations resonates more than their previous albums. Channeling and interpreting the appeal of beloved music isn’t an easy task, but for once, the Districts are on the cusp of turning it into something they can call their own.

Artist: The Districts, Album: Popular Manipulations, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "The Districts was formed by four childhood friends in 2009, while they were still in high school, and the Lititz, Pa. band has since grown up in the public eye, having signed to Fat Possum in 2013. Their catalog traces the Districts’ evolution from indistinct blues rock to an infatuation with the early 2000s NYC scene. Along the way, they replaced founding guitarist Mark Larson with Pat Cassidy and worked with John Congleton (producer of records by St. Vincent and Cloud Nothings, among others), who recorded their 2015 sophomore LP A Flourish and a Spoil. On their third full-length, Popular Manipulations, the group dive headfirst into the earnest indie rock of the mid-2000s, particularly Spencer Krug’s least esoteric contributions to Wolf Parade. Congleton is back in the booth for four songs, but the band makes a big leap by producing the rest of the collection themselves. Like all of their work, it’s capable and tuneful and reveals a young band of skilled songwriters that put all their faith in their guitars, even if it’s often hard to pinpoint where their own vision begins and their taste ends. On their 2015 album, the Districts rightfully focused on songwriting over style. Even when singer Rob Grote used his best Casablancas croon to sell his band’s dollar-slice-eating, bar-room appeal, there was never a sense that they were skimping on hooks. If anything, the Districts understood the youthful, carefree appeal of the bands they were aping, and were able to distill the highlights into something palatable. Popular Manipulations finds similar low barometers for successes and failures, but with a new sound that employs studio sheen and a heartfelt vocal delivery. Sure, there are times when Grote drones along zombie-like—the monotonous Liars-sounding opening of “If Before I Wake,” the return of Paul Banks’ robotic vocal influence on “Airplane”—but these outlying moments only highlight Grote’s strength when he bellows with tense desperation across the rest of the album. In fact, “If Before I Wake” juxtaposes the old and new Grote delivery in the same song, displaying an emotional depth never present in the Districts’ previous work. Lead single “Ordinary Day” is fragile and thin when Grote opens the song by himself, but by the time the band piles on towering guitars, crashing cymbals, and manic vocal layers, its grandeur punctuates the singer’s bland question: “Will it hit you when the feeling’s right?” On “Capable,” Grote’s lyrics sidestep all ambiguity, speaking directly about divorce with both detail and insight, musing on the “mirage of permanence” and an inability to love. More than ever, there’s a sense that the audience is getting to know both Grote and the Districts through their music beyond just a show of influences. It matters less that “If Before I Wake” pulses with the same vocal delivery as Brandon Flowers used in the Hot Fuss-era, but that the song employs the familiar to forge a more rugged path. Still, Popular Manipulations struggles to reach these heights consistently. “The point is beside the point now,” Grote sings on “Point,” offering the sort of logic that makes most sense through the bottom of a pint glass. There’s a handful of leftfield choices that sour some of the goodwill the record inspires, including the strained falsetto on “Why Would I Wanna Be,” which attempts to distinguish an otherwise innocuous cut. And the record’s closing moments on “Will You Please Be Quiet Please” fall short of a climax through sheer messiness. These stumbles further separate the Districts from their heroes, even if Popular Manipulations resonates more than their previous albums. Channeling and interpreting the appeal of beloved music isn’t an easy task, but for once, the Districts are on the cusp of turning it into something they can call their own."

Sinkane

Mars

Electronic

Eric Harvey

Biography can be overstated when evaluating an artist's work, but Ahmed Gallab's story is key to understanding his music. The Sudanese son of two college professors, he moved to the United States with his family at the age of five to escape the country's fomenting political violence of the late 1980s. The family moved around a bit, and Gallab eventually settled in Columbus, Ohio, when he was 18, where he fell in with the city's hardcore punk music community. He later found work as a session musician of some demand, drumming and serving as a multi-instrumentalist for Yeasayer, Caribou, Of Montreal, Born Ruffians, and Eleanor Friedberger. Eventually, as these things often go, he made his way to Brooklyn, where Sinkane started taking shape as his primary creative outlet. Mars is Gallab's second full-length as Sinkane, and it sounds like the work of a nomadic professors' kid with equally strong ties to a DIY scene as well as his east African roots, whose creativity flourished on the road with indie vets and in the self-styled cosmopolitan home of 21st-century indie music. Mars is both refined and easygoing, if not a bit aloof at times. It works in multiple musical registers simultaneously and smartly-- the syncopated rhythms and breezy guitar figures of Sudanese pop, krautrock, early-70s funk, free jazz, Fader-friendly global indie-- while maintaining a clear authorial voice (largely coming from Gallab's playing multiple instruments on each song). There's a loose concept at play on the record: Mars is Gallab's metaphor for a musical space in which anyone can exist, regardless of background. Though the temptation to refer to the rich tradition of Afro-futurism arises when a guy born in Sudan references interstellar reaches, the connection to Sun Ra, Parliament, or André 3000 is tentative at best. The record's politics are as abstract as the cover photo, and the album's mood thermostat doesn't move much from the "chill" position. There aren't a whole lot of lyrical specifics, but an abundance of references to the red planet seems less meant to signify escape (as in the Reverend A.W. Nix's pioneering "White Flyer to Heaven" sermon), or a sign of plain weirdness (as in Lil' Wayne's use): For Gallab, it's more along the lines of a summertime rooftop party, where your affable host greets you without rising from his deck chair. With few exceptions, Gallab makes sure Mars' invitees are clearly identified. The album opens with the squawking funk of "Runnin'", on which his thin falsetto and encouraging words directly channel Blaxploitation-era Curtis Mayfield. "Love Sick" is about as blatant a reappropriation of "Spoon"'s vampiric funk riff as I've ever heard, and "Jeeper Creeper" vamps for five minutes around the core idea of Yeasayer's "2080" (it helps that the band's bassist plays on the song). "Making Time", which rides a new age synth pad that could have been drawn from All Hour Cymbals into the pocket of a deep Afro-funk groove, is the album's most successful synthesis. He plays all instruments on the song, save for a "Dirty Diana"-style guitar solo, courtesy of Twin Shadow's George Lewis, Jr. Yet instead of flaunting it, Gallab buries it in the mix, allowing it to serve as more of a textural element than a spotlit celebrity showcase. This is perhaps the clearest example of Gallabs gifts: using his friends smartly, playing down virtuosity, lest it detract from the overall vibe.

Artist: Sinkane, Album: Mars, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Biography can be overstated when evaluating an artist's work, but Ahmed Gallab's story is key to understanding his music. The Sudanese son of two college professors, he moved to the United States with his family at the age of five to escape the country's fomenting political violence of the late 1980s. The family moved around a bit, and Gallab eventually settled in Columbus, Ohio, when he was 18, where he fell in with the city's hardcore punk music community. He later found work as a session musician of some demand, drumming and serving as a multi-instrumentalist for Yeasayer, Caribou, Of Montreal, Born Ruffians, and Eleanor Friedberger. Eventually, as these things often go, he made his way to Brooklyn, where Sinkane started taking shape as his primary creative outlet. Mars is Gallab's second full-length as Sinkane, and it sounds like the work of a nomadic professors' kid with equally strong ties to a DIY scene as well as his east African roots, whose creativity flourished on the road with indie vets and in the self-styled cosmopolitan home of 21st-century indie music. Mars is both refined and easygoing, if not a bit aloof at times. It works in multiple musical registers simultaneously and smartly-- the syncopated rhythms and breezy guitar figures of Sudanese pop, krautrock, early-70s funk, free jazz, Fader-friendly global indie-- while maintaining a clear authorial voice (largely coming from Gallab's playing multiple instruments on each song). There's a loose concept at play on the record: Mars is Gallab's metaphor for a musical space in which anyone can exist, regardless of background. Though the temptation to refer to the rich tradition of Afro-futurism arises when a guy born in Sudan references interstellar reaches, the connection to Sun Ra, Parliament, or André 3000 is tentative at best. The record's politics are as abstract as the cover photo, and the album's mood thermostat doesn't move much from the "chill" position. There aren't a whole lot of lyrical specifics, but an abundance of references to the red planet seems less meant to signify escape (as in the Reverend A.W. Nix's pioneering "White Flyer to Heaven" sermon), or a sign of plain weirdness (as in Lil' Wayne's use): For Gallab, it's more along the lines of a summertime rooftop party, where your affable host greets you without rising from his deck chair. With few exceptions, Gallab makes sure Mars' invitees are clearly identified. The album opens with the squawking funk of "Runnin'", on which his thin falsetto and encouraging words directly channel Blaxploitation-era Curtis Mayfield. "Love Sick" is about as blatant a reappropriation of "Spoon"'s vampiric funk riff as I've ever heard, and "Jeeper Creeper" vamps for five minutes around the core idea of Yeasayer's "2080" (it helps that the band's bassist plays on the song). "Making Time", which rides a new age synth pad that could have been drawn from All Hour Cymbals into the pocket of a deep Afro-funk groove, is the album's most successful synthesis. He plays all instruments on the song, save for a "Dirty Diana"-style guitar solo, courtesy of Twin Shadow's George Lewis, Jr. Yet instead of flaunting it, Gallab buries it in the mix, allowing it to serve as more of a textural element than a spotlit celebrity showcase. This is perhaps the clearest example of Gallabs gifts: using his friends smartly, playing down virtuosity, lest it detract from the overall vibe."

Landing

Fade In Fade Out EP

Rock

Mark Richardson

When I last reviewed a Landing record I accused them of recording too quickly. Counting their collaboration with Yume Bitsu's Adam Forkner as Surface of Eceon, Landing's Seasons was their third record in a year. Seasons found Landing experimenting with conventional song structures with some success, but the songs didn't seem quite as developed as they could have been had more time and effort put into their arranging and recording. And now, a few short months later, they've released Fade In Fade Out, a record that lasts longer than most Beatles albums (37 minutes), but which we in the digital age would call an EP. Despite the torrential pace of their release schedule, it appears as though Landing still has the touch. Fade In Fade Out is actually a return to my preferred Landing mode, that of a primarily instrumental, FX-heavy guitar band. Where the shoegazy Oceanless bled psychedelic color and frequently drifted into jamming, and Seasons found Landing trying their hand with traditional songs, Fade In Fade Out is a shift toward deeply textured drone. There's barely a drum or cymbal on this thing; most tracks are nothing more than a rich swirl of guitar and keyboard harmonics. Seasons brought Landing comparisons with slowcore bands, but Fade In Fade Out warrants a mention with Windy & Carl or Stars of the Lid. Where vocals appear, they're spare and, as they say, just another instrument. "Against the Rain" has the most prominent lyrics, but it's nothing that could be considered a "song" in the Cole Porter sense. A thudding kick drum is used for color, but most of the sound comes from a web of intertwined guitar lines with their delay pedals set on "infinity", as hints of synth drone shine through the gaps. Some crooned lines about rain rise and fall over the course of a minute or two, leading me to believe that this is a Seasons outtake. "Whirlwind" is closer to the sound of Oceanless, with ride-cymbal-heavy drumming and distant, buried dream-pop vocals by Adrienne Snow (a woman's voice is natural to this kind of sound, and I much prefer hers to husband Aaron's). My favorite piece is the 12-minute closing track "Pulse", a slowburn number that takes plenty of time getting off the ground but covers virtually every kind of guitar tone possible before it's done. The squeezably-soft Windy & Carl feedback is here, and so are the ringing chords, the tremeloed leads, and the harsher drones. There's no acoustic picking (Landing cover that adequately on the fine "Constellations"), but "Pulse" establishes Landing as extremely skilled in the emotional application of guitar tone.

Artist: Landing, Album: Fade In Fade Out EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "When I last reviewed a Landing record I accused them of recording too quickly. Counting their collaboration with Yume Bitsu's Adam Forkner as Surface of Eceon, Landing's Seasons was their third record in a year. Seasons found Landing experimenting with conventional song structures with some success, but the songs didn't seem quite as developed as they could have been had more time and effort put into their arranging and recording. And now, a few short months later, they've released Fade In Fade Out, a record that lasts longer than most Beatles albums (37 minutes), but which we in the digital age would call an EP. Despite the torrential pace of their release schedule, it appears as though Landing still has the touch. Fade In Fade Out is actually a return to my preferred Landing mode, that of a primarily instrumental, FX-heavy guitar band. Where the shoegazy Oceanless bled psychedelic color and frequently drifted into jamming, and Seasons found Landing trying their hand with traditional songs, Fade In Fade Out is a shift toward deeply textured drone. There's barely a drum or cymbal on this thing; most tracks are nothing more than a rich swirl of guitar and keyboard harmonics. Seasons brought Landing comparisons with slowcore bands, but Fade In Fade Out warrants a mention with Windy & Carl or Stars of the Lid. Where vocals appear, they're spare and, as they say, just another instrument. "Against the Rain" has the most prominent lyrics, but it's nothing that could be considered a "song" in the Cole Porter sense. A thudding kick drum is used for color, but most of the sound comes from a web of intertwined guitar lines with their delay pedals set on "infinity", as hints of synth drone shine through the gaps. Some crooned lines about rain rise and fall over the course of a minute or two, leading me to believe that this is a Seasons outtake. "Whirlwind" is closer to the sound of Oceanless, with ride-cymbal-heavy drumming and distant, buried dream-pop vocals by Adrienne Snow (a woman's voice is natural to this kind of sound, and I much prefer hers to husband Aaron's). My favorite piece is the 12-minute closing track "Pulse", a slowburn number that takes plenty of time getting off the ground but covers virtually every kind of guitar tone possible before it's done. The squeezably-soft Windy & Carl feedback is here, and so are the ringing chords, the tremeloed leads, and the harsher drones. There's no acoustic picking (Landing cover that adequately on the fine "Constellations"), but "Pulse" establishes Landing as extremely skilled in the emotional application of guitar tone."

Miles Kane

Coup de Grace

Rock

Eve Barlow

So you’ve managed to get into a decent party in Hollywood, the bar is open, the company is starry, life seems fantastic—then suddenly you see a familiar face in the corner. It’s that guy. The voice in your head panics. Oh god, what’s he doing here? This is the Miles Kane effect: Nobody ever asked for him, but he keeps showing up. Perhaps the Liverpool thing is exotic in L.A.? One man’s Scouse hanger-on is another’s future McCartney, apparently. Kane has bristled at the notion that he’s riding the coattails of his best mate, Arctic Monkeys henchman Alex Turner. But it still stands, even if it can be benched at this juncture because he’s found someone else to exploit. Turner is off celebrating the success of his band’s sixth album, Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, which sounds closer than ever to his and Kane’s side project, the Last Shadow Puppets, and may imply the end of that frolic. Kane is cast asunder. He’s in crisis. What’s a lad in a world without the other lads? His third LP finds him mooching off the reputation of another post-MySpace British bard, Jamie T. Kane’s new collaborator has, bewilderingly, co-written Coup de Grace, an album that was five years in the offing but only two weeks in the making. It sounds like it, too, thrusting ahead quickly and painlessly, yet leaving you itching to shower off its overpowering cologne the second it’s over. “Keep it simple and real and you can’t go wrong,” Kane tweeted recently. But Coup de Grace often sounds so rushed as to be crass. Listening to “Loaded” (which was written with Lana Del Rey after an encounter at a show—again, how?), I initially misheard a lyric as “Fuck you like a monkey with my makeup running.” The true line begins, “Funky like a monkey.” That was a mild relief at first, but then my heart sank further upon realizing that the former could as easily have made the cut. Kane recently revealed that Del Rey’s talent took him by surprise, which tells you everything you need to know about how he sizes up women. Kane’s M.O. has been to wear his scoundrel reputation on his sleeve and thus get away with it. But for all his crimes on Coup de Grace, there’s one line so blindly idiotic it beggars belief: In “Silverscreen,” he imagines his lover being pursued by a Ryan Gosling type. This makes him cross. So he shouts, “Two-faced Johnny, hotel lobby/I won’t go up without you.” Now, cast your mind back to the last time Kane was promoting a record, the Last Shadow Puppets’ 2016 album Everything You’ve Come to Expect, when he propositioned a woman journalist. “So, what else are you guys doing today?” she asked, wrapping up. “Do you want to go upstairs?” Kane replied. He later apologized for his “ill-judged” comment. But since then, he’s backpedaled. “All I can say about it is it was a joke that didn’t get understood,” he insisted in a post-Weinstein interview. “It got me down.” Poor Miles, still dogged by a fruitless advance. The crux of Kane’s problem seems to be that, somewhere along the way, someone told the 32-year-old he was hilarious. His attempt at a lovelorn lament, “Killing the Joke,” contains the line: “Since you’ve been gone, I’ve left the TV on, let the milk go sour, let the bills pile up/But I know I’m a funny guy.” Yet Kane invites ridicule more often than his wit elicits anything like laughter. “You always look away as they crucify me,” he sings on “Loaded,” criticizing an ex for failing to rescue him. “This is my Adele album,” he’s offered, unconvincingly. Inspired by the end of an year-and-a-half long relationship, he invokes some stylistic role models: Marc Bolan (“Crying on My Guitar”), the Damned (“Coup de Grace”), and—allegedly—the Fall. If only Mark E. Smith, who once vowed he’d get an injunction against Franz Ferdinand for citing the Fall as an influence, were alive to conjure an appropriate insult. The problem with Kane’s emulation of past performers is that he remains a tourist lost in his time warp, lacking the originality and vocal grit to elevate fandom into innovation. He is (as I’ve said before) a karaoke Rod Stewart. His scream on the chorus of “Cry on My Guitar” is nasal and strained, like he's sucking words through a stubbed cigarette. The song’s lyrics are so lazy in their retromania, they might as well have been written by an algorithm. “I cry upon the strings of my guitar,” he rasps, “and everybody tells me that it’s sh-la-la-la-la oh yeah.” One hopes Coup de Grace really is Kane’s parting shot.

Artist: Miles Kane, Album: Coup de Grace, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 3.6 Album review: "So you’ve managed to get into a decent party in Hollywood, the bar is open, the company is starry, life seems fantastic—then suddenly you see a familiar face in the corner. It’s that guy. The voice in your head panics. Oh god, what’s he doing here? This is the Miles Kane effect: Nobody ever asked for him, but he keeps showing up. Perhaps the Liverpool thing is exotic in L.A.? One man’s Scouse hanger-on is another’s future McCartney, apparently. Kane has bristled at the notion that he’s riding the coattails of his best mate, Arctic Monkeys henchman Alex Turner. But it still stands, even if it can be benched at this juncture because he’s found someone else to exploit. Turner is off celebrating the success of his band’s sixth album, Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, which sounds closer than ever to his and Kane’s side project, the Last Shadow Puppets, and may imply the end of that frolic. Kane is cast asunder. He’s in crisis. What’s a lad in a world without the other lads? His third LP finds him mooching off the reputation of another post-MySpace British bard, Jamie T. Kane’s new collaborator has, bewilderingly, co-written Coup de Grace, an album that was five years in the offing but only two weeks in the making. It sounds like it, too, thrusting ahead quickly and painlessly, yet leaving you itching to shower off its overpowering cologne the second it’s over. “Keep it simple and real and you can’t go wrong,” Kane tweeted recently. But Coup de Grace often sounds so rushed as to be crass. Listening to “Loaded” (which was written with Lana Del Rey after an encounter at a show—again, how?), I initially misheard a lyric as “Fuck you like a monkey with my makeup running.” The true line begins, “Funky like a monkey.” That was a mild relief at first, but then my heart sank further upon realizing that the former could as easily have made the cut. Kane recently revealed that Del Rey’s talent took him by surprise, which tells you everything you need to know about how he sizes up women. Kane’s M.O. has been to wear his scoundrel reputation on his sleeve and thus get away with it. But for all his crimes on Coup de Grace, there’s one line so blindly idiotic it beggars belief: In “Silverscreen,” he imagines his lover being pursued by a Ryan Gosling type. This makes him cross. So he shouts, “Two-faced Johnny, hotel lobby/I won’t go up without you.” Now, cast your mind back to the last time Kane was promoting a record, the Last Shadow Puppets’ 2016 album Everything You’ve Come to Expect, when he propositioned a woman journalist. “So, what else are you guys doing today?” she asked, wrapping up. “Do you want to go upstairs?” Kane replied. He later apologized for his “ill-judged” comment. But since then, he’s backpedaled. “All I can say about it is it was a joke that didn’t get understood,” he insisted in a post-Weinstein interview. “It got me down.” Poor Miles, still dogged by a fruitless advance. The crux of Kane’s problem seems to be that, somewhere along the way, someone told the 32-year-old he was hilarious. His attempt at a lovelorn lament, “Killing the Joke,” contains the line: “Since you’ve been gone, I’ve left the TV on, let the milk go sour, let the bills pile up/But I know I’m a funny guy.” Yet Kane invites ridicule more often than his wit elicits anything like laughter. “You always look away as they crucify me,” he sings on “Loaded,” criticizing an ex for failing to rescue him. “This is my Adele album,” he’s offered, unconvincingly. Inspired by the end of an year-and-a-half long relationship, he invokes some stylistic role models: Marc Bolan (“Crying on My Guitar”), the Damned (“Coup de Grace”), and—allegedly—the Fall. If only Mark E. Smith, who once vowed he’d get an injunction against Franz Ferdinand for citing the Fall as an influence, were alive to conjure an appropriate insult. The problem with Kane’s emulation of past performers is that he remains a tourist lost in his time warp, lacking the originality and vocal grit to elevate fandom into innovation. He is (as I’ve said before) a karaoke Rod Stewart. His scream on the chorus of “Cry on My Guitar” is nasal and strained, like he's sucking words through a stubbed cigarette. The song’s lyrics are so lazy in their retromania, they might as well have been written by an algorithm. “I cry upon the strings of my guitar,” he rasps, “and everybody tells me that it’s sh-la-la-la-la oh yeah.” One hopes Coup de Grace really is Kane’s parting shot."

Mika Miko

We Be Xuxa

Experimental,Rock

Joe Colly

A few years back, it would have been hard to predict that a scuzz-punk duo like No Age would gain wide popularity outside of a niche fanbase, or that the band's all-ages homebase the Smell would come to be seen as one of the preeminent breeding grounds for underground rock. Even as the indie paradigm has shifted towards the noisier, it's still difficult to guess which (if any) of the acts in No Age's wake will go on to find similar success. Surely due for increased attention, though, are Smell torchbearers Mika Miko, a female five-piece specializing in a brash (but danceable) mixture of classic late-70s punk, hardcore thrash, and skronky no wave. Known primarily for the dynamic energy of their stage show, Mika Miko have been operating in some form since the early part of the decade, touring shitloads and scraping together an armful of homemade cassettes and CD-Rs. They embody Smell ideology-- community building, inclusion, steadfast DIY-ness-- and though We Be Xuxa is their first medium-profile release, it's actually the group's 10th official recording. Their brand of industriousness and good-natured punk spirit are fine reasons to like a band (or at least root for them), but the other part of that equation, of course, is enjoying their tunes. And that depends on your outlook: the intentionally basic songs on the 23-minute We Be Xuxa lean heavily on aggression and energy. For those who like their music brief and stupid-simple (and appreciate the various strains of the punk canon Mika Miko are drawing upon), We Be Xuxa can be plenty of fun. Its best tracks, such as shouty opener "Blues Not Speed", rumble past at a violent clip with just enough time for the band to do its damage and then peel out in the getaway car. The group has a healthy sense of balance, too, and usually knows when to cut its bitterness with sugar, like on the bouncy call-and-response of "I Got a Lot (New New New)". But not all of the record's remaining moments achieve such equilibrium, and since it operates in only two gears-- fast and faster-- there's a tendency for its lesser songs to bleed into one another and become indistinguishable. Indeed, the similar-sounding "Wild Bore" and "Sex" might as well be one song, and the distinction between neighboring tracks "On the Rise" and "Beat the Rush" doesn't really exist. That's a problem on a record this short, and generally speaking, We Be Xuxa would benefit from more genre variety. Ironically, when the band does occasionally fiddle with other styles-- notably on the very convincing no-wave boogie of "Totion" and their cover of the Urinals' "Sex"-- they produce some of the record's most memorable material. Something tells me, though, that Mika Miko aren't really that interested in deeper genre explorations or crafting a grand concept piece. They're about turning kids onto punk rock at sweat-soaked backyard parties, and that's pretty cool too.

Artist: Mika Miko, Album: We Be Xuxa, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "A few years back, it would have been hard to predict that a scuzz-punk duo like No Age would gain wide popularity outside of a niche fanbase, or that the band's all-ages homebase the Smell would come to be seen as one of the preeminent breeding grounds for underground rock. Even as the indie paradigm has shifted towards the noisier, it's still difficult to guess which (if any) of the acts in No Age's wake will go on to find similar success. Surely due for increased attention, though, are Smell torchbearers Mika Miko, a female five-piece specializing in a brash (but danceable) mixture of classic late-70s punk, hardcore thrash, and skronky no wave. Known primarily for the dynamic energy of their stage show, Mika Miko have been operating in some form since the early part of the decade, touring shitloads and scraping together an armful of homemade cassettes and CD-Rs. They embody Smell ideology-- community building, inclusion, steadfast DIY-ness-- and though We Be Xuxa is their first medium-profile release, it's actually the group's 10th official recording. Their brand of industriousness and good-natured punk spirit are fine reasons to like a band (or at least root for them), but the other part of that equation, of course, is enjoying their tunes. And that depends on your outlook: the intentionally basic songs on the 23-minute We Be Xuxa lean heavily on aggression and energy. For those who like their music brief and stupid-simple (and appreciate the various strains of the punk canon Mika Miko are drawing upon), We Be Xuxa can be plenty of fun. Its best tracks, such as shouty opener "Blues Not Speed", rumble past at a violent clip with just enough time for the band to do its damage and then peel out in the getaway car. The group has a healthy sense of balance, too, and usually knows when to cut its bitterness with sugar, like on the bouncy call-and-response of "I Got a Lot (New New New)". But not all of the record's remaining moments achieve such equilibrium, and since it operates in only two gears-- fast and faster-- there's a tendency for its lesser songs to bleed into one another and become indistinguishable. Indeed, the similar-sounding "Wild Bore" and "Sex" might as well be one song, and the distinction between neighboring tracks "On the Rise" and "Beat the Rush" doesn't really exist. That's a problem on a record this short, and generally speaking, We Be Xuxa would benefit from more genre variety. Ironically, when the band does occasionally fiddle with other styles-- notably on the very convincing no-wave boogie of "Totion" and their cover of the Urinals' "Sex"-- they produce some of the record's most memorable material. Something tells me, though, that Mika Miko aren't really that interested in deeper genre explorations or crafting a grand concept piece. They're about turning kids onto punk rock at sweat-soaked backyard parties, and that's pretty cool too."

Palm

Shadow Expert EP

Rock

Matt Grosinger

When you hang with the same people long enough, you inevitably invent your own dialect with them. You also probably get sick of them occasionally. Palm’s Kasra Kurt, Eve Alpert, Hugo Stanley, and Gerasimos Livitsanos have a preternatural ability to get both of those ideas across at once with their rawboned art rock. Kurt and Alpert have been playing together since high school; in 2012, they formed Palm with Stanley and Kurt’s roommate Livitsanos at New York’s Bard College before relocating to Philadelphia. None of the quartet is trained in their respective instruments, so they developed their own messy syntax from scratch. Consequently, listening to Shadow Expert, their best work to date, is a lot like trying to understand people quarreling in a language you don’t understand. Surely there is a fundamental logic, but it can be impossible to tell. With that, Palm create the frenzied mental math of an obsessive, circular argument. Kurt’s and Alpert’s contrapuntal guitar phrases on “Walkie Talkie” and “Trying” are ceaseless repetitions of warring thoughts that count to infinity before tensions boil over into new wildly careening anxieties, never resolving anything along the way. Shadow Expert’s six tracks only last for 17 minutes because diagramming that kind of entropy is completely unsustainable. By “Sign to Signal,” the album’s last track, attrition takes over and a final instrumental attack gradually sputters. It’s disorienting and exhausting. Inscrutable though they may be, Palm are not completely sui generis: They descend from a long line of experimental weirdos. Throughout Shadow Expert you can hear echoes of Slint’s Spiderland, the brash clangor of pre-SST Sonic Youth, the tricky time signatures of math rock demigods Battles, and the wonky iridescence of Deerhoof and tUnE-yArDs (the latter two have shared producer Eli Crews with Palm). But whether or not they have the chaotic compositions of these forbears in mind, Palm seem most interested in willfully straddling the line of communication breakdowns. With a shoegaze ethos, Kurt and Alpert’s vocals are utilitarian, generally dedicated to how they are interacting rather than what they are saying. In an uncommon moment of intelligibility, Kurt, who sometimes sounds like Avey Tare, admits as much on “Walnut” when he slowly tuts “I’ve had enough of,” before enunciating every syllable: “speak-ing words so you might un-der-stand!” Palm Mad Lib-ed together the lyrics of “Walkie Talkie” from magazine clippings, and in the song’s spiky midsection, Alpert and Kurt alternate chirping words at each other, finishing each other’s thoughts via the imagined titular device. But after this flurry, a familiar phrase—the title of their previous record—emerges: “Trading basics with each other,” Kurt sings amid the band’s controlled detonations. Trading Basics, with a few exceptions, was more subdued and straightforward than the serrated Shadow Expert, but the concept behind their debut’s name remains pertinent. At points, as on “Trying,” Stanley’s frenetic drumming perfectly mimics the panicked guitar stabs. At others, like “Two Toes,” Livitsanos’ thundering bass tries to restrain Kurt and Alpert’s guitars from jumping down one another’s throats before an unexpected moment of strummed unison. The band is constantly communicating in esoteric shorthand, often in several cross-talking conversations at once. What is basic to them is confounding to the listener, and they take that idea to a logical extreme. In doing so, Palm offer a paradox about the precise chaos of Shadow Expert. They are navigating jagged angles, often introducing new tensions without resolving old ones, but their combined efforts create their own synchronicity. Conflict, in and of itself, becomes an act of solidarity.

Artist: Palm, Album: Shadow Expert EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "When you hang with the same people long enough, you inevitably invent your own dialect with them. You also probably get sick of them occasionally. Palm’s Kasra Kurt, Eve Alpert, Hugo Stanley, and Gerasimos Livitsanos have a preternatural ability to get both of those ideas across at once with their rawboned art rock. Kurt and Alpert have been playing together since high school; in 2012, they formed Palm with Stanley and Kurt’s roommate Livitsanos at New York’s Bard College before relocating to Philadelphia. None of the quartet is trained in their respective instruments, so they developed their own messy syntax from scratch. Consequently, listening to Shadow Expert, their best work to date, is a lot like trying to understand people quarreling in a language you don’t understand. Surely there is a fundamental logic, but it can be impossible to tell. With that, Palm create the frenzied mental math of an obsessive, circular argument. Kurt’s and Alpert’s contrapuntal guitar phrases on “Walkie Talkie” and “Trying” are ceaseless repetitions of warring thoughts that count to infinity before tensions boil over into new wildly careening anxieties, never resolving anything along the way. Shadow Expert’s six tracks only last for 17 minutes because diagramming that kind of entropy is completely unsustainable. By “Sign to Signal,” the album’s last track, attrition takes over and a final instrumental attack gradually sputters. It’s disorienting and exhausting. Inscrutable though they may be, Palm are not completely sui generis: They descend from a long line of experimental weirdos. Throughout Shadow Expert you can hear echoes of Slint’s Spiderland, the brash clangor of pre-SST Sonic Youth, the tricky time signatures of math rock demigods Battles, and the wonky iridescence of Deerhoof and tUnE-yArDs (the latter two have shared producer Eli Crews with Palm). But whether or not they have the chaotic compositions of these forbears in mind, Palm seem most interested in willfully straddling the line of communication breakdowns. With a shoegaze ethos, Kurt and Alpert’s vocals are utilitarian, generally dedicated to how they are interacting rather than what they are saying. In an uncommon moment of intelligibility, Kurt, who sometimes sounds like Avey Tare, admits as much on “Walnut” when he slowly tuts “I’ve had enough of,” before enunciating every syllable: “speak-ing words so you might un-der-stand!” Palm Mad Lib-ed together the lyrics of “Walkie Talkie” from magazine clippings, and in the song’s spiky midsection, Alpert and Kurt alternate chirping words at each other, finishing each other’s thoughts via the imagined titular device. But after this flurry, a familiar phrase—the title of their previous record—emerges: “Trading basics with each other,” Kurt sings amid the band’s controlled detonations. Trading Basics, with a few exceptions, was more subdued and straightforward than the serrated Shadow Expert, but the concept behind their debut’s name remains pertinent. At points, as on “Trying,” Stanley’s frenetic drumming perfectly mimics the panicked guitar stabs. At others, like “Two Toes,” Livitsanos’ thundering bass tries to restrain Kurt and Alpert’s guitars from jumping down one another’s throats before an unexpected moment of strummed unison. The band is constantly communicating in esoteric shorthand, often in several cross-talking conversations at once. What is basic to them is confounding to the listener, and they take that idea to a logical extreme. In doing so, Palm offer a paradox about the precise chaos of Shadow Expert. They are navigating jagged angles, often introducing new tensions without resolving old ones, but their combined efforts create their own synchronicity. Conflict, in and of itself, becomes an act of solidarity."

Mr. Oizo

Lamb's Anger

Electronic

Brian Howe

In 1999, French producer Quentin Dupieux, aka Mr. Oizo, propelled his song "Flat Beat" to the top of the UK charts by placing it in a trendily absurd Levi's commercial. The ad, which Dupieux directed, featured a puppet named Flat Eric bobbing his little yellow head to a skidding, shuddering bassline. That's him on this album's cover, about to get eye-sliced Un Chien Andalou- style. This seems to impy that Mr. Oizo is putting Flat Eric-- and perhaps the catchy, irritating style of "Flat Beat"-- out to pasture for good. But this turns out not to be the case. If you can remember (or YouTube) that commercial, then you already have a good idea of what to expect from Lamb's Anger: cockamamie bass patterns that zoom and stutter, ear-grating trebles punching in, and a sense of going nowhere fast on Daft Punk's fumes. The album seems intent on emphasizing its own annoying qualities; you start to wonder if Oizo is secretly a minimalist trying to destroy French touch from the inside. Overblown and frantic, with a surplus of sounds and a dearth of ideas, Lamb's Anger too often falls back on cliché, and a shrieking, nerve-shredding resgister. There are hideous vocoder mumbles on "Hun", arpeggios based on an idea of funk derived from the "Seinfeld" theme on "Z" and "W", schmaltzy guitar and horn licks on "Cut Dick", cynically hedonistic club raps on "Steroids" and "Two Takes It" (the former a snap-music-inspired Uffie vehicle, the latter an electro flip of Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock's "It Takes Two" featuring Carmen Castro, who's either a spot-on Uffie imitator or just Uffie under a pseudonym). There are antagonistically ugly synth tones bleating all over the place, and squealing soul-diva cuts on the astonishingly cluttered "Gay Dentist", which sounds like a C + C Music Factory song imported to iTunes from a badly scratched CD. It isn't the only track that verges on open hostility; See how long you can withstand "Blind Concerto", with which Oizo closes the album, as if maliciously farting on his way out of the room. The most lucid and listenable tracks are the smoother ones-- the aforementioned "Cut Dick", and the breezy lite-funk of "Jo", a blatant approximation of the Field. A handful of experimental pieces, like the ominous rave-siren workout "Bruce Willis Is Dead", fare better than the club songs, simply because they're supposed to be incoherent. But they suffer from the same structural deficiency; namely, a profound lack of communication between adjacent loops, which are so isolated that they might as well have picket fences between them. Most tracks consist of rigid repetitions of a single basic theme, afflicted with every rhythmic convulsion and soft-synth tone imaginable. There's a glut of movement within each bar, but little sense of movement across the bars, no overarching pulse or momentum. This constant feeling of starting over at every one-beat is exhausting, and makes the music seem at once predictable and erratic. Groups like Justice do tooth-grindingly obnoxious machine-noise anthems right, a thrilling hair's breadth away from too-muchness. But handled this clumsily, this ungenerously? There's not enough cocaine in the whole wide world.

Artist: Mr. Oizo, Album: Lamb's Anger, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 2.9 Album review: "In 1999, French producer Quentin Dupieux, aka Mr. Oizo, propelled his song "Flat Beat" to the top of the UK charts by placing it in a trendily absurd Levi's commercial. The ad, which Dupieux directed, featured a puppet named Flat Eric bobbing his little yellow head to a skidding, shuddering bassline. That's him on this album's cover, about to get eye-sliced Un Chien Andalou- style. This seems to impy that Mr. Oizo is putting Flat Eric-- and perhaps the catchy, irritating style of "Flat Beat"-- out to pasture for good. But this turns out not to be the case. If you can remember (or YouTube) that commercial, then you already have a good idea of what to expect from Lamb's Anger: cockamamie bass patterns that zoom and stutter, ear-grating trebles punching in, and a sense of going nowhere fast on Daft Punk's fumes. The album seems intent on emphasizing its own annoying qualities; you start to wonder if Oizo is secretly a minimalist trying to destroy French touch from the inside. Overblown and frantic, with a surplus of sounds and a dearth of ideas, Lamb's Anger too often falls back on cliché, and a shrieking, nerve-shredding resgister. There are hideous vocoder mumbles on "Hun", arpeggios based on an idea of funk derived from the "Seinfeld" theme on "Z" and "W", schmaltzy guitar and horn licks on "Cut Dick", cynically hedonistic club raps on "Steroids" and "Two Takes It" (the former a snap-music-inspired Uffie vehicle, the latter an electro flip of Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock's "It Takes Two" featuring Carmen Castro, who's either a spot-on Uffie imitator or just Uffie under a pseudonym). There are antagonistically ugly synth tones bleating all over the place, and squealing soul-diva cuts on the astonishingly cluttered "Gay Dentist", which sounds like a C + C Music Factory song imported to iTunes from a badly scratched CD. It isn't the only track that verges on open hostility; See how long you can withstand "Blind Concerto", with which Oizo closes the album, as if maliciously farting on his way out of the room. The most lucid and listenable tracks are the smoother ones-- the aforementioned "Cut Dick", and the breezy lite-funk of "Jo", a blatant approximation of the Field. A handful of experimental pieces, like the ominous rave-siren workout "Bruce Willis Is Dead", fare better than the club songs, simply because they're supposed to be incoherent. But they suffer from the same structural deficiency; namely, a profound lack of communication between adjacent loops, which are so isolated that they might as well have picket fences between them. Most tracks consist of rigid repetitions of a single basic theme, afflicted with every rhythmic convulsion and soft-synth tone imaginable. There's a glut of movement within each bar, but little sense of movement across the bars, no overarching pulse or momentum. This constant feeling of starting over at every one-beat is exhausting, and makes the music seem at once predictable and erratic. Groups like Justice do tooth-grindingly obnoxious machine-noise anthems right, a thrilling hair's breadth away from too-muchness. But handled this clumsily, this ungenerously? There's not enough cocaine in the whole wide world."

Hans-Joachim Roedelius

Wasser Im Wind

Electronic,Global,Rock

Joe Tangari

In 1982, the groundbreaking German electronic group Cluster began an eight-year hiatus. Though the band was originally founded as Kluster in 1969 at Berlin's Zodiak Free Arts Lab under the leadership of Conrad Schnitzler, it quickly became the project of Dieter Mobius and Hans-Joachim Roedelius. Together, this pair created one of the most singular and distinguished catalogs in electronic music, often working with collaborators, including Brian Eno, Conny Plank, Michael Rother (with whom they had a side project called Harmonia), Holger Czukay, and Asmus Tietchens. By the time Cluster took a break, Roedelius was already nine albums into a parallel solo career, on which he'd developed his own brand of calm, inward-gazing ambient music. Odd, then, that on his second post-Cluster LP, 1982's Wasser Im Wind, he should have worked so diligently to sound a lot like Cluster. He dug out the Drummer One drum machine that was one of the group's signature sounds in its early days and crafted a series of keyboard sounds very similar to the ones he might have used in the early-to-mid 1970s. The resemblance is more than superficial, though. The convergence of strict, steady rhythm and drifting, amorphous melody on Wasser Im Wind has close relatives on Zuckerzeit and Sowiesoso. It's almost as if, one year removed from Cluster, he felt the need to go back and look around and make sure everything was still there. Think about going back to look at a house you lived in long ago, one that's been occupied by another family for years. Provided they haven't done some sort of tear-down, it's going to look familiar, and yet somehow off. The bush they removed, the tree they planted, the new siding they put on. When Roedelius goes back home to check on Cluster a year later, he doesn't quite find the place he remembers. One of the first sounds that collides with that ticky, sort of muffled drum machine programming is a few little figures tumbling out of the middle octaves of a piano, which points toward his later work, and on several tracks, he's joined by a saxophonist named Czjzek, who haunts these songs with a tone that sometimes makes his instrument sound strangely ancient. One of the most impressive things about the album is the variety Roedelius conjures using very basic ingredients. Drummer One may have been a limited machine, but he knew how to get a lot out of it, and he gets further mileage out of it by EQ-ing and tweaking the timbre of the clicks and thumps to make each beat feel very different. The standout track is "Auf des Tigers Spur", which goes some way toward predicting the complex ambient sound of the Orb's 1995 album Orbus Terrarum with its dense mix of pulses, drifting melodies, and sequenced melodic figures. Like the other songs, it rises and falls with no sharply defined beginning, middle, or end, but as you take in the album as a whole, there is something satisfying about that structure. These are songs that feel as though they shouldn't have sharp beginnings, middles, and endings: They lift the curtain and lower it again on something already in progress, something that could conceivably still be in progress.

Artist: Hans-Joachim Roedelius, Album: Wasser Im Wind, Genre: Electronic,Global,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "In 1982, the groundbreaking German electronic group Cluster began an eight-year hiatus. Though the band was originally founded as Kluster in 1969 at Berlin's Zodiak Free Arts Lab under the leadership of Conrad Schnitzler, it quickly became the project of Dieter Mobius and Hans-Joachim Roedelius. Together, this pair created one of the most singular and distinguished catalogs in electronic music, often working with collaborators, including Brian Eno, Conny Plank, Michael Rother (with whom they had a side project called Harmonia), Holger Czukay, and Asmus Tietchens. By the time Cluster took a break, Roedelius was already nine albums into a parallel solo career, on which he'd developed his own brand of calm, inward-gazing ambient music. Odd, then, that on his second post-Cluster LP, 1982's Wasser Im Wind, he should have worked so diligently to sound a lot like Cluster. He dug out the Drummer One drum machine that was one of the group's signature sounds in its early days and crafted a series of keyboard sounds very similar to the ones he might have used in the early-to-mid 1970s. The resemblance is more than superficial, though. The convergence of strict, steady rhythm and drifting, amorphous melody on Wasser Im Wind has close relatives on Zuckerzeit and Sowiesoso. It's almost as if, one year removed from Cluster, he felt the need to go back and look around and make sure everything was still there. Think about going back to look at a house you lived in long ago, one that's been occupied by another family for years. Provided they haven't done some sort of tear-down, it's going to look familiar, and yet somehow off. The bush they removed, the tree they planted, the new siding they put on. When Roedelius goes back home to check on Cluster a year later, he doesn't quite find the place he remembers. One of the first sounds that collides with that ticky, sort of muffled drum machine programming is a few little figures tumbling out of the middle octaves of a piano, which points toward his later work, and on several tracks, he's joined by a saxophonist named Czjzek, who haunts these songs with a tone that sometimes makes his instrument sound strangely ancient. One of the most impressive things about the album is the variety Roedelius conjures using very basic ingredients. Drummer One may have been a limited machine, but he knew how to get a lot out of it, and he gets further mileage out of it by EQ-ing and tweaking the timbre of the clicks and thumps to make each beat feel very different. The standout track is "Auf des Tigers Spur", which goes some way toward predicting the complex ambient sound of the Orb's 1995 album Orbus Terrarum with its dense mix of pulses, drifting melodies, and sequenced melodic figures. Like the other songs, it rises and falls with no sharply defined beginning, middle, or end, but as you take in the album as a whole, there is something satisfying about that structure. These are songs that feel as though they shouldn't have sharp beginnings, middles, and endings: They lift the curtain and lower it again on something already in progress, something that could conceivably still be in progress."

Greg Weeks

Slightly West EP

Folk/Country

Brandon Stosuy

There's a style of music out there sent to condition the listener into thinking that its yawning, eye-gooey sounds were faithfully cobbled together into a patchwork blanket of bedtime in some opium den, rural deep-walnut bedroom, or other plushly closed-up space with those little glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Often, the bands who sing these self-conscious lullabies are best understood while you, the listener, are also saddled-down all cozy and half-awake, maybe with pillows over your head or your windows painted a solid, endless black (this way you can invent an ideal landscape of longing for your perfectly uninspired town). This is psych-pop, and as with all psychotropics, once you have experimented you can never go back. Eschewing a third-person adjectival name for his sleep-deprived pop-psych, Greg Weeks, who looks to me like a gaunter, fresh-faced Vincent Gallo and actually sounds a bit like that spanner of time, plays a predictable but also enjoyable brand of gentle insomniac rock. Weeks' five-song EP, Slightly West (perhaps titled in reference to a half-assed manifest destiny) often plays like it came to Weeks during a 20-minute break in an otherwise deeply restive stretch of time. In a lot of ways (some good and some bad) it barely registers on his homemade sleep-monitoring machine. The opening "One Summer Night" has welcoming organs like that old church song called "Hallelujah"; for some reason it made me think of Kenny Rogers' "We've Got Tonight". Maybe it's the boy/girl vocals? Or the sense, impending, that this is the last day these two have together? Shit, even more confusing to the participants, it might be the first of many: "One summer night/ By firelight/ We laid out under the stars/ And set our sights." To be picky, I'd like it better if they set their sighs. The next four songs are standard in a lot of ways, but the addition of crunchy and distorted analog-sounding keyboard, organ, and/or synth parts make what could've been paint-by-numbers-boring sort of firefly languid. "Unsettled (By the Sun)" is more psych, less pop, and talks of nightmares and dreams ("Who wants inside a dream?"). The vocals are submerged in the shade of drums, organ, bass, and little jangling bells. The title track (incidentally, also the album's strongest) is comforting like the smell of a skunk on a dark road in some town you're just barely visiting. It speaks of false comforts-- "It's safe by the sea/ The ocean/ But crawling up behind"-- but comfort nonetheless. By song four, "Devils", I was hemming and hawing about Weeks' voice being a bit nondescript. Here, too, the organ parts are patchy and overly "sinister." The song is obviously stitched and fails to flow quite as nicely as the first three: a fucked-up Frankenstein monster all awkward and unworkable. On "Settle Down" there are moments where I peel my ears to hear Magic Hour guitar parts, but it's never as dense or sustained (though I do think I heard a gong!). Sustain. The weakness of this offering at the alter of pixie dust is that the shit never busts out. There are those pretty moments on the first three tracks, but it largely feels truncated, like when a band has two seconds of feedback at the end of a song and then fades to the next (are we supposed to imagine endlessness?). But at the same time that I talk of making things last longer, more densely, it's actually the brevity of the recording that works in Weeks' favor, since the songwriting and singing aren't particularly striking. The mood evoked is pleasant enough-- and there's nothing overtly ridiculous or aesthetically embarrassing-- but at the same time, getting by on one connotation can only last so long. I think of the laughable melancholy of Codeine, whereas the more inspired shut-eye of, say, early Spacemen 3 could seemingly go on until forever, keeping you wrapped in dreamscapes until kingdom come, amen... But knowing one's strengths and/or limitations is nothing to push aside. On his website, Weeks mentions the importance of the EP to his oeuvre, how sometimes what needs to be said requires a short story, not a novel. I guess I just like it when there's fucked-up poetry, too. I mean, even when you're recording in a metaphorical bedroom, it helps to climb out the window or sneak through a hole in the wall and dream your nightmare on the roof, expand outward to the blank spaces around you.

Artist: Greg Weeks, Album: Slightly West EP, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "There's a style of music out there sent to condition the listener into thinking that its yawning, eye-gooey sounds were faithfully cobbled together into a patchwork blanket of bedtime in some opium den, rural deep-walnut bedroom, or other plushly closed-up space with those little glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Often, the bands who sing these self-conscious lullabies are best understood while you, the listener, are also saddled-down all cozy and half-awake, maybe with pillows over your head or your windows painted a solid, endless black (this way you can invent an ideal landscape of longing for your perfectly uninspired town). This is psych-pop, and as with all psychotropics, once you have experimented you can never go back. Eschewing a third-person adjectival name for his sleep-deprived pop-psych, Greg Weeks, who looks to me like a gaunter, fresh-faced Vincent Gallo and actually sounds a bit like that spanner of time, plays a predictable but also enjoyable brand of gentle insomniac rock. Weeks' five-song EP, Slightly West (perhaps titled in reference to a half-assed manifest destiny) often plays like it came to Weeks during a 20-minute break in an otherwise deeply restive stretch of time. In a lot of ways (some good and some bad) it barely registers on his homemade sleep-monitoring machine. The opening "One Summer Night" has welcoming organs like that old church song called "Hallelujah"; for some reason it made me think of Kenny Rogers' "We've Got Tonight". Maybe it's the boy/girl vocals? Or the sense, impending, that this is the last day these two have together? Shit, even more confusing to the participants, it might be the first of many: "One summer night/ By firelight/ We laid out under the stars/ And set our sights." To be picky, I'd like it better if they set their sighs. The next four songs are standard in a lot of ways, but the addition of crunchy and distorted analog-sounding keyboard, organ, and/or synth parts make what could've been paint-by-numbers-boring sort of firefly languid. "Unsettled (By the Sun)" is more psych, less pop, and talks of nightmares and dreams ("Who wants inside a dream?"). The vocals are submerged in the shade of drums, organ, bass, and little jangling bells. The title track (incidentally, also the album's strongest) is comforting like the smell of a skunk on a dark road in some town you're just barely visiting. It speaks of false comforts-- "It's safe by the sea/ The ocean/ But crawling up behind"-- but comfort nonetheless. By song four, "Devils", I was hemming and hawing about Weeks' voice being a bit nondescript. Here, too, the organ parts are patchy and overly "sinister." The song is obviously stitched and fails to flow quite as nicely as the first three: a fucked-up Frankenstein monster all awkward and unworkable. On "Settle Down" there are moments where I peel my ears to hear Magic Hour guitar parts, but it's never as dense or sustained (though I do think I heard a gong!). Sustain. The weakness of this offering at the alter of pixie dust is that the shit never busts out. There are those pretty moments on the first three tracks, but it largely feels truncated, like when a band has two seconds of feedback at the end of a song and then fades to the next (are we supposed to imagine endlessness?). But at the same time that I talk of making things last longer, more densely, it's actually the brevity of the recording that works in Weeks' favor, since the songwriting and singing aren't particularly striking. The mood evoked is pleasant enough-- and there's nothing overtly ridiculous or aesthetically embarrassing-- but at the same time, getting by on one connotation can only last so long. I think of the laughable melancholy of Codeine, whereas the more inspired shut-eye of, say, early Spacemen 3 could seemingly go on until forever, keeping you wrapped in dreamscapes until kingdom come, amen... But knowing one's strengths and/or limitations is nothing to push aside. On his website, Weeks mentions the importance of the EP to his oeuvre, how sometimes what needs to be said requires a short story, not a novel. I guess I just like it when there's fucked-up poetry, too. I mean, even when you're recording in a metaphorical bedroom, it helps to climb out the window or sneak through a hole in the wall and dream your nightmare on the roof, expand outward to the blank spaces around you."

Q-Tip

Kamaal the Abstract

Rap

David Drake

Kamaal the Abstract is not a great record by any means. But it is an interesting one, a unique effort by an artist struggling to mesh two disparate musical systems, gambling that inherent internal friction could spark some excitement. Unfortunately, the road to 6.3 is paved with experimental intentions. Kamaal the Abstract first leaked at the beginning of the decade, the follow-up to Tip's solo debut Amplified. While the status of the latter record has only grown in the ensuing years, thanks largely to Dilla's rise as a cult production hero, Kamaal's nature as an experimental cul-de-sac feels more cemented with time. But the ink never dries in the history books; if anything, the 2000s may have finally given Kamaal and Kamaal an opportunity for creative redemption. The collision of jazz and hip-hop, of course, isn't a new concept, especially for an artist who worked with Ron Carter on Tribe's second LP. But with Tribe, never mind Digable Planets, Guru, or US3, incorporating jazz often felt like more of a stylistic affect than concrete engagement, just a couple of looped bars and a brief instrumental solo from a big name on a track outro. Since bebop revolutionized jazz in the 1940s, attempts to integrate the genre with pop forms have been risky. Tip's pops used to say hip-hop reminded him of bebop for a reason; at their best, jazz and rap both feature interconnected conversations and content being generated over a short time in their parallel worlds. But rap music's complexity is tied up in language, the melodic and harmonic aspects stripped down so as to focus the listener on the verbal. Post-bebop jazz usually hinges on harmonic complexity. Kamaal the Abstract, to its great credit, is unafraid of (messily) combining these values. Tip seems to have focused primarily on jazz's harmonic intricacies, evident on opener "Feelin'" or "A Million Times", which are unafraid to eschew pop song structure to get at the meat of what makes post-swing jazz harmonically interesting. But sometimes this nuanced backdrop sounds an off-note for the subject matter; while a bunch of ideas were going on in any Tribe-era Q-Tip verse, Tip's redundant boilerplate womanizing over Steely Dan-style chord changes on "Heels" just doesn't fit. Even worse, Tip's singing throughout the record -- a shallow signifier for this more "soulful" approach, perhaps? -- feels unnecessarily cautious. Very Andre 3k. But jazz gets shortchanged, too. For the most part, the solos feel safe and not particularly notable. Guitarist Kurt Rosenwinkel's presence followed the release of an exciting, adventurous solo LP The Next Step, so it's confusing to hear his cameo reduced to rhythm guitar on the extended, platitudinous jam "Do You Dig U?". Even the incredible Kenny Garrett, who does get an extended solo feature on the stop-start funk “Abstractionisms,” seems to be holding back. It feels like the soloists were so conscious of the album's pop music concessions, they felt they had to dumb it down, afraid to cut loose, as if they were recording for “The Late Show” or a random studio session. Despite Tip's willingness to combine the stylistic approaches of jazz and hip-hop, many songs feel imbalanced this way, with potentially exciting material undercut by underwhelming performances or half-finished ideas. It is worth recognizing that the Miles and Mizells of the world were extraordinarily rare. Few artists could perfectly balance of jazz's intricate complexity as a live performance with lightning-in-a-bottle pop perfection as a piece of recorded art. Which is why "Even If It Is So" is such an accomplishment. With a simple repeated piano vamp over acoustic guitar, the song features the rapper riffing compassionately about single motherhood alongside a memorable horn hook. The music perfectly reflects the song's theme of subdued respect, the incredible beauty of strength in the most harrowing situations. It also leaves you wanting more, the kind of song you'd love to hear extended and embellished, perhaps in a live setting. Which is the key to this record's possibility; each track is a loose framework of unfulfilled promise. There's been a lot of talk about the growing importance of the live show to artists in the RapidShare era. While Kamaal isn't the brave, experimental success it wants to be, it doesn't exactly feel like the cul-de-sac it once did. It suggests a promising future, where the world of live shows offers Q-Tip and these soloists a chance to stretch out, while recalling their roots in entertainment, which isn't so evident here.

Artist: Q-Tip, Album: Kamaal the Abstract, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "Kamaal the Abstract is not a great record by any means. But it is an interesting one, a unique effort by an artist struggling to mesh two disparate musical systems, gambling that inherent internal friction could spark some excitement. Unfortunately, the road to 6.3 is paved with experimental intentions. Kamaal the Abstract first leaked at the beginning of the decade, the follow-up to Tip's solo debut Amplified. While the status of the latter record has only grown in the ensuing years, thanks largely to Dilla's rise as a cult production hero, Kamaal's nature as an experimental cul-de-sac feels more cemented with time. But the ink never dries in the history books; if anything, the 2000s may have finally given Kamaal and Kamaal an opportunity for creative redemption. The collision of jazz and hip-hop, of course, isn't a new concept, especially for an artist who worked with Ron Carter on Tribe's second LP. But with Tribe, never mind Digable Planets, Guru, or US3, incorporating jazz often felt like more of a stylistic affect than concrete engagement, just a couple of looped bars and a brief instrumental solo from a big name on a track outro. Since bebop revolutionized jazz in the 1940s, attempts to integrate the genre with pop forms have been risky. Tip's pops used to say hip-hop reminded him of bebop for a reason; at their best, jazz and rap both feature interconnected conversations and content being generated over a short time in their parallel worlds. But rap music's complexity is tied up in language, the melodic and harmonic aspects stripped down so as to focus the listener on the verbal. Post-bebop jazz usually hinges on harmonic complexity. Kamaal the Abstract, to its great credit, is unafraid of (messily) combining these values. Tip seems to have focused primarily on jazz's harmonic intricacies, evident on opener "Feelin'" or "A Million Times", which are unafraid to eschew pop song structure to get at the meat of what makes post-swing jazz harmonically interesting. But sometimes this nuanced backdrop sounds an off-note for the subject matter; while a bunch of ideas were going on in any Tribe-era Q-Tip verse, Tip's redundant boilerplate womanizing over Steely Dan-style chord changes on "Heels" just doesn't fit. Even worse, Tip's singing throughout the record -- a shallow signifier for this more "soulful" approach, perhaps? -- feels unnecessarily cautious. Very Andre 3k. But jazz gets shortchanged, too. For the most part, the solos feel safe and not particularly notable. Guitarist Kurt Rosenwinkel's presence followed the release of an exciting, adventurous solo LP The Next Step, so it's confusing to hear his cameo reduced to rhythm guitar on the extended, platitudinous jam "Do You Dig U?". Even the incredible Kenny Garrett, who does get an extended solo feature on the stop-start funk “Abstractionisms,” seems to be holding back. It feels like the soloists were so conscious of the album's pop music concessions, they felt they had to dumb it down, afraid to cut loose, as if they were recording for “The Late Show” or a random studio session. Despite Tip's willingness to combine the stylistic approaches of jazz and hip-hop, many songs feel imbalanced this way, with potentially exciting material undercut by underwhelming performances or half-finished ideas. It is worth recognizing that the Miles and Mizells of the world were extraordinarily rare. Few artists could perfectly balance of jazz's intricate complexity as a live performance with lightning-in-a-bottle pop perfection as a piece of recorded art. Which is why "Even If It Is So" is such an accomplishment. With a simple repeated piano vamp over acoustic guitar, the song features the rapper riffing compassionately about single motherhood alongside a memorable horn hook. The music perfectly reflects the song's theme of subdued respect, the incredible beauty of strength in the most harrowing situations. It also leaves you wanting more, the kind of song you'd love to hear extended and embellished, perhaps in a live setting. Which is the key to this record's possibility; each track is a loose framework of unfulfilled promise. There's been a lot of talk about the growing importance of the live show to artists in the RapidShare era. While Kamaal isn't the brave, experimental success it wants to be, it doesn't exactly feel like the cul-de-sac it once did. It suggests a promising future, where the world of live shows offers Q-Tip and these soloists a chance to stretch out, while recalling their roots in entertainment, which isn't so evident here."

Spiral Stairs

Doris and the Daggers

Rock

Raymond Cummings

Former Pavement guitarist/vocalist Scott “Spiral Stairs” Kannberg’s solo career has doubled as an ongoing battle for self-definition—a quest to find space for himself in the firmament of American indie rock. Results have varied. There were guest spots on Kevin Drew and Broken Social Scene LPs. There was his label Amazing Grease Records, home to San Francisco’s late, great Oranger. Then there was the trio he helmed, Preston School of Industry. At its most memorable, Preston doubled down on the wilder-card songwriting role Kannberg played during Pavement’s decade-long, indie-rock reign (the spazzy, elastic “The Spaces in Between”) or probed fuzzed-out, country-fried drift (the downbeat “Whalebones”). Too often, though, the music floated by, not leaving behind much of an impression. With 2009’s *The Real Feel**—*his first LP as Spiral Stairs—he gear-shifted, leaning convincingly and promisingly into folk, blues, and the Clean. Then, without warning, Kannberg effectively went silent. Eight years later, *Doris and the Daggers *cracks the equation. His voice deeper and his aim truer, Kannberg is at his most confident and mellow here. Backed by members of the National, Broken Social Scene, Oranger, and singer/songwriter Kelley Stoltz, the album patiently navigates middle age’s ups and downs, setting aside sprawl and fantasia aside to focus on succinctness and autobiography. The players lend a patient, casual calm to proceedings mid-tempo, sober, and pedal-steel soaked; these are indie-rock lite tunes playing a long game, in no rush to peak, freak, or wipe out. With “The Unconditional,” an ode to a growing daughter, Kannberg capitalizes on the song’s elastic nest of guitars, horns, and organs, stretching and savoring each verse. You can feel him fully inhabit this song in a way he never has before; when he confides that the “little girl’s getting older/she’s not telling me what to do,” the prevailing emotion is a rueful sense of wonder. Needled with riffs and horn squibs, “Dance (Cry Wolf)” locates its swing and bounce in lonesomeness. “AWM” might be the most chipper, hummable divorce song this decade; its violins and pianos smartly deployed, its vocal outro more reflective than bitter. Less affecting is the goofy golf-trip remembrance “Dundee Man” featuring a synthesizer line part of a wan, jangling whole. Though the album’s stakes may not be very high at all, it’s nice to hear Kannberg’s increasing facility for arrangements. This isn’t a record you crank in traffic en route to an across-town meeting; it’s a record to unwind with later that night on your second glass of Syrah—a sturdy shrug to cap off the day. Throughout Doris, a very tricky balancing act is at work: the maintenance of a rangey, ragged looseness, without any sense of over-rehearsal. That Kannberg and company are able to sustain this standard throughout—even for synth-funk wonder “No Comparison” and the chanted, semi-punk head rush of “Doris and the Daggers”—is a small triumph.

Artist: Spiral Stairs, Album: Doris and the Daggers, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Former Pavement guitarist/vocalist Scott “Spiral Stairs” Kannberg’s solo career has doubled as an ongoing battle for self-definition—a quest to find space for himself in the firmament of American indie rock. Results have varied. There were guest spots on Kevin Drew and Broken Social Scene LPs. There was his label Amazing Grease Records, home to San Francisco’s late, great Oranger. Then there was the trio he helmed, Preston School of Industry. At its most memorable, Preston doubled down on the wilder-card songwriting role Kannberg played during Pavement’s decade-long, indie-rock reign (the spazzy, elastic “The Spaces in Between”) or probed fuzzed-out, country-fried drift (the downbeat “Whalebones”). Too often, though, the music floated by, not leaving behind much of an impression. With 2009’s *The Real Feel**—*his first LP as Spiral Stairs—he gear-shifted, leaning convincingly and promisingly into folk, blues, and the Clean. Then, without warning, Kannberg effectively went silent. Eight years later, *Doris and the Daggers *cracks the equation. His voice deeper and his aim truer, Kannberg is at his most confident and mellow here. Backed by members of the National, Broken Social Scene, Oranger, and singer/songwriter Kelley Stoltz, the album patiently navigates middle age’s ups and downs, setting aside sprawl and fantasia aside to focus on succinctness and autobiography. The players lend a patient, casual calm to proceedings mid-tempo, sober, and pedal-steel soaked; these are indie-rock lite tunes playing a long game, in no rush to peak, freak, or wipe out. With “The Unconditional,” an ode to a growing daughter, Kannberg capitalizes on the song’s elastic nest of guitars, horns, and organs, stretching and savoring each verse. You can feel him fully inhabit this song in a way he never has before; when he confides that the “little girl’s getting older/she’s not telling me what to do,” the prevailing emotion is a rueful sense of wonder. Needled with riffs and horn squibs, “Dance (Cry Wolf)” locates its swing and bounce in lonesomeness. “AWM” might be the most chipper, hummable divorce song this decade; its violins and pianos smartly deployed, its vocal outro more reflective than bitter. Less affecting is the goofy golf-trip remembrance “Dundee Man” featuring a synthesizer line part of a wan, jangling whole. Though the album’s stakes may not be very high at all, it’s nice to hear Kannberg’s increasing facility for arrangements. This isn’t a record you crank in traffic en route to an across-town meeting; it’s a record to unwind with later that night on your second glass of Syrah—a sturdy shrug to cap off the day. Throughout Doris, a very tricky balancing act is at work: the maintenance of a rangey, ragged looseness, without any sense of over-rehearsal. That Kannberg and company are able to sustain this standard throughout—even for synth-funk wonder “No Comparison” and the chanted, semi-punk head rush of “Doris and the Daggers”—is a small triumph."

oOoOO

oOoOO EP

Electronic

Zach Kelly

It would be easy to classify San Francisco's Christopher Dexter Greenspan as a witch-house or drag producer and be done with it. Under the moniker oOoOO (pronounced "oh"), he's releasing his self-titled debut EP on Tri Angle-- a label that has come to be associated with the trendy sound through releases from like-minded acts such as Balam Acab*.* And though certain hallmarks of the genre's syrupy electro-goth can be detected on oOoOO, from the trap-hop drum machines to the frosted synths, he seems determined not to be pigeonholed, all while remaining one of the frontrunners of the scene. Simply put, the guy isn't easy to peg. His earlier material explored spatial Dirty South trademarks ("NoSummr4u") alongside a lantern-lit sea chanty ("No Shore"). But the synthesis of these seemingly opposite styles-- along with Greenspan's ability to make them work in a purely electronic setting and feel comfortable up against one another-- has lead to this solid debut. Opener "Mumbai" is a brief, dystopian dirge that mixes a chopped Hindi-pop vocal with droning Middle Eastern atmospherics and hollow claps. It's not an unexpected introduction-- it's spooky, witchy-- but it's born from a variety of approaches. Surprisingly, it's also approachable. Thus while making music that practically prides itself on being druggy and other-wordly, Greenspan is able to rise above his peers. Highlight "Hearts" drops a pin at the crossroads where commercially viable hip-hop gravitates toward left-field electronic influences. Talking to Pitchfork a few months ago, Greenspan discussed his admiration for pop-centered hip-hop and R&B artists like Nicki Minaj and Usher, and much of oOoOO (like the woozy club vibe of "Burnout Eyess" or the uncharacteristically sensual allure of "Sedsumting") manages to bridge these two worlds. Greenspan feels so comfortable in his own skin that, by following his own unique patterns, he's able to defy the confines of a genre that seems especially susceptible to bandwagon-jumping.

Artist: oOoOO, Album: oOoOO EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "It would be easy to classify San Francisco's Christopher Dexter Greenspan as a witch-house or drag producer and be done with it. Under the moniker oOoOO (pronounced "oh"), he's releasing his self-titled debut EP on Tri Angle-- a label that has come to be associated with the trendy sound through releases from like-minded acts such as Balam Acab*.* And though certain hallmarks of the genre's syrupy electro-goth can be detected on oOoOO, from the trap-hop drum machines to the frosted synths, he seems determined not to be pigeonholed, all while remaining one of the frontrunners of the scene. Simply put, the guy isn't easy to peg. His earlier material explored spatial Dirty South trademarks ("NoSummr4u") alongside a lantern-lit sea chanty ("No Shore"). But the synthesis of these seemingly opposite styles-- along with Greenspan's ability to make them work in a purely electronic setting and feel comfortable up against one another-- has lead to this solid debut. Opener "Mumbai" is a brief, dystopian dirge that mixes a chopped Hindi-pop vocal with droning Middle Eastern atmospherics and hollow claps. It's not an unexpected introduction-- it's spooky, witchy-- but it's born from a variety of approaches. Surprisingly, it's also approachable. Thus while making music that practically prides itself on being druggy and other-wordly, Greenspan is able to rise above his peers. Highlight "Hearts" drops a pin at the crossroads where commercially viable hip-hop gravitates toward left-field electronic influences. Talking to Pitchfork a few months ago, Greenspan discussed his admiration for pop-centered hip-hop and R&B artists like Nicki Minaj and Usher, and much of oOoOO (like the woozy club vibe of "Burnout Eyess" or the uncharacteristically sensual allure of "Sedsumting") manages to bridge these two worlds. Greenspan feels so comfortable in his own skin that, by following his own unique patterns, he's able to defy the confines of a genre that seems especially susceptible to bandwagon-jumping."

Year of the Rabbit

Year of the Rabbit

Rock

William Morris

Only in L.A. The city's influence on these four indie rock expats is almost palpable: Here they are, a brand new band and their self-titled debut, and they've already got a logo. See it there, on the chain-- the shiny, streamlined Volkswagen Bug silhouette of a rabbit. Cool, huh? It's all over everything, including the band's dot-net website, where you might even be able to order that smart little rabbit's foot trinket. (I didn't check.) It's odd that this posturing group of Hoobastank-esque Becoming-the-Band dropouts would be led by Ken Andrews (late of Failure) and count Jeff Garber (Castor, National Skyline) among its members. While those bands never struck as particularly humble, they did have an innate sense of indie ethics and pride. And even if you can't fault them for aiming for the commercial limelight after years of (undoubtedly) struggling to make rent, you'd think you could at least expect them not to autopilot through a full album's worth of incessant one-note whining. Suffice to say, any Garber fans seeking more of the expansive, exploratory, unpretentious rock associated with Hum, the heralded 90s rock band from which he's but twice removed, will be sadly disappointed. The band wastes no time showcasing their uninspired, formulaic, and oft-recycled sonic and lyrical propensities. The opener, "Rabbit Hole", sets the tone for the record; radio-friendly power guitar with attitude and sturdy drumming molded into tight little rock songs with luminous production and machinelike craftsmanship. But, technical proficiency aside, it's little more than a desperate Foo Fighters song. The verisimilitude is actually striking, given Andrews' similarly angstful but disenchanted delivery of, "Cause we can get high again/ We can get high, yeah/ We can just fly." And since Andrews himself has engineered for folks like B.R.M.C., Sense Field, and Pete Yorn, he's got that punchy corporate gloss down pat: his production is as vapid and sparkling as his music. Which brings us to the lyrics, which are platitudinally freighted in from a Los Angeles high school freshman's algebra notebook, replete with bourgeois drug references and fashionable apathetic musings. Who needs the third person? Never YOTR. "I can't break out/ From this blanket of doubt/ Got me trapped in a maze of shadows." "If I'm trying to be hidden/ You still see me.../ If my whole world is crashing it won't matter/ I can keep it together when you are here." The latter lines are from "Hold Me Up", the record's requisite acoustic-with-strings moment, and break from open discourse on feeling down, getting picked up, not giving a fuck, and keeping it together amidst so much estrangement. (I hope I didn't just inadvertently plagiarize anything from them.) I'm still not sure which bear more of a striking resemblance to each other-- the songs or the band members. Now, if you turn your brain off-- and I mean absolute suspension of conscious thought-- you might be fooled into thinking a few moments here genuinely rock. Unfortunately, as soon as your attention is secured (which admittedly may be never), the moment is summarily lost. After all, a gourmand in the Orient might salivate at the smell of roasted Dachshund, but it won't leave him any more prone to tolerance when realization hits home. If you're hungry for this sort of thing, I know a great town for you.

Artist: Year of the Rabbit, Album: Year of the Rabbit, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 3.0 Album review: "Only in L.A. The city's influence on these four indie rock expats is almost palpable: Here they are, a brand new band and their self-titled debut, and they've already got a logo. See it there, on the chain-- the shiny, streamlined Volkswagen Bug silhouette of a rabbit. Cool, huh? It's all over everything, including the band's dot-net website, where you might even be able to order that smart little rabbit's foot trinket. (I didn't check.) It's odd that this posturing group of Hoobastank-esque Becoming-the-Band dropouts would be led by Ken Andrews (late of Failure) and count Jeff Garber (Castor, National Skyline) among its members. While those bands never struck as particularly humble, they did have an innate sense of indie ethics and pride. And even if you can't fault them for aiming for the commercial limelight after years of (undoubtedly) struggling to make rent, you'd think you could at least expect them not to autopilot through a full album's worth of incessant one-note whining. Suffice to say, any Garber fans seeking more of the expansive, exploratory, unpretentious rock associated with Hum, the heralded 90s rock band from which he's but twice removed, will be sadly disappointed. The band wastes no time showcasing their uninspired, formulaic, and oft-recycled sonic and lyrical propensities. The opener, "Rabbit Hole", sets the tone for the record; radio-friendly power guitar with attitude and sturdy drumming molded into tight little rock songs with luminous production and machinelike craftsmanship. But, technical proficiency aside, it's little more than a desperate Foo Fighters song. The verisimilitude is actually striking, given Andrews' similarly angstful but disenchanted delivery of, "Cause we can get high again/ We can get high, yeah/ We can just fly." And since Andrews himself has engineered for folks like B.R.M.C., Sense Field, and Pete Yorn, he's got that punchy corporate gloss down pat: his production is as vapid and sparkling as his music. Which brings us to the lyrics, which are platitudinally freighted in from a Los Angeles high school freshman's algebra notebook, replete with bourgeois drug references and fashionable apathetic musings. Who needs the third person? Never YOTR. "I can't break out/ From this blanket of doubt/ Got me trapped in a maze of shadows." "If I'm trying to be hidden/ You still see me.../ If my whole world is crashing it won't matter/ I can keep it together when you are here." The latter lines are from "Hold Me Up", the record's requisite acoustic-with-strings moment, and break from open discourse on feeling down, getting picked up, not giving a fuck, and keeping it together amidst so much estrangement. (I hope I didn't just inadvertently plagiarize anything from them.) I'm still not sure which bear more of a striking resemblance to each other-- the songs or the band members. Now, if you turn your brain off-- and I mean absolute suspension of conscious thought-- you might be fooled into thinking a few moments here genuinely rock. Unfortunately, as soon as your attention is secured (which admittedly may be never), the moment is summarily lost. After all, a gourmand in the Orient might salivate at the smell of roasted Dachshund, but it won't leave him any more prone to tolerance when realization hits home. If you're hungry for this sort of thing, I know a great town for you."

White Hills

H–p1

Rock

Grayson Currin

White Hills are a prolific, freewheeling sort of band. The New York space-rock explorers have stamped their name on more than a dozen releases from about half as many labels in the past six years. But they're at their best onstage, where they're loud, exhilarating, and unhinged, playing strings of songs as long as most bands' full sets. Though they're generally that way on record, too, I've never gotten the same feeling from White Hills through my own stereo speakers as I have through some bar's PA. The same holds for H–p1, a 72-minute, nine-track album that's often invigorating but sometimes just seems endless. White Hills are at their best when they're at their busiest, as on the closing, 17-minute title track, with misanthropic lyrics, a jagged riff, and expansive solos. It's complicated and exhausting, but it succeeds through sheer momentum. Moments like these make the band's second album for Thrill Jockey worth at least one trip. Similarly, "The Condition of Nothing" is a moody anthem with a squealing, instrumental midsection; it's nasty and noisy, a passage that a band with less of a filter might have omitted. Meanwhile, "Monument" evokes claustrophobia through power electronics and stacked, broken rhythms. It's intensity is compelling. But that lack of restraint cuts both ways. Elsewhere, White Hills include entire experimental sections that would have been better left in the practice room. Synthesizer study "Hand in Hand" is a jam with little movement, an exercise without an idea. "No Other Way" rumbles quickly to a doomy churn, with Ego Sensation's bulbous bass tone serving as ballast for Dave W.'s guitar and synthesizer builds, but then it spends its last three minutes whirring and droning through an Amon Düül II haze. It seems like an attempt to make an art-rock statement, but it mostly just thwarts the trio's thrust. Similar tones work much better during "Paradise", a krautrock heater (assisted by Oneida drummer Kid Millions) that lets up only in the last of its 13 minutes; by then, it's actually time for the band to exhale. Despite White Hills' plentiful output, pacing remains a problem for the group. Live, as they run marathons around a riff, that's less of an issue; you're surrounded in the moment, lost in the feeling. On H–p1, though, it means you spend half of your time waiting to reach the crest.

Artist: White Hills, Album: H–p1, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "White Hills are a prolific, freewheeling sort of band. The New York space-rock explorers have stamped their name on more than a dozen releases from about half as many labels in the past six years. But they're at their best onstage, where they're loud, exhilarating, and unhinged, playing strings of songs as long as most bands' full sets. Though they're generally that way on record, too, I've never gotten the same feeling from White Hills through my own stereo speakers as I have through some bar's PA. The same holds for H–p1, a 72-minute, nine-track album that's often invigorating but sometimes just seems endless. White Hills are at their best when they're at their busiest, as on the closing, 17-minute title track, with misanthropic lyrics, a jagged riff, and expansive solos. It's complicated and exhausting, but it succeeds through sheer momentum. Moments like these make the band's second album for Thrill Jockey worth at least one trip. Similarly, "The Condition of Nothing" is a moody anthem with a squealing, instrumental midsection; it's nasty and noisy, a passage that a band with less of a filter might have omitted. Meanwhile, "Monument" evokes claustrophobia through power electronics and stacked, broken rhythms. It's intensity is compelling. But that lack of restraint cuts both ways. Elsewhere, White Hills include entire experimental sections that would have been better left in the practice room. Synthesizer study "Hand in Hand" is a jam with little movement, an exercise without an idea. "No Other Way" rumbles quickly to a doomy churn, with Ego Sensation's bulbous bass tone serving as ballast for Dave W.'s guitar and synthesizer builds, but then it spends its last three minutes whirring and droning through an Amon Düül II haze. It seems like an attempt to make an art-rock statement, but it mostly just thwarts the trio's thrust. Similar tones work much better during "Paradise", a krautrock heater (assisted by Oneida drummer Kid Millions) that lets up only in the last of its 13 minutes; by then, it's actually time for the band to exhale. Despite White Hills' plentiful output, pacing remains a problem for the group. Live, as they run marathons around a riff, that's less of an issue; you're surrounded in the moment, lost in the feeling. On H–p1, though, it means you spend half of your time waiting to reach the crest."

A$AP Mob

Lords Never Worry

Rap

Jordan Sargent

A$AP Rocky is no longer just an underground star. His crew, though, has largely stayed in the background as he's ascended into the mainstream. Much of the magnetism of Rocky's early visuals came from the idea that the viewer was getting a look at a movement of culture already in progress, and though Rocky is highly central to that, there's a strength in numbers when it comes to those sorts of moments. This has been the power of Rocky and his A$AP Mob, much like it was the power of Tyler, the Creator and the once nascent Odd Future. But the A$AP Mob is just now getting itself off the ground musically. Its members are highly visible backing up Rocky onstage or in certain corners of the Tumblrsphere, but there is no trove of mixtapes. You will not, in other words, find any A$AP Mob trading cards. That is all beginning to change with Lord$ Never Worry, A$AP Mob's first group album and the crew's first major release since Rocky's debut album. Rocky's presence looms (he appears on six of 18 songs), but this is the coming-out party for the guys who have spent the last year-plus in his orbit. The results, though, are extremely mixed-- the Mob's image emerged fully-formed, but its music is still, at best, rough and unpolished. It is a work of a group of kids who are well-versed in the aesthetics of certain strands of rap, and who have good and nuanced ideas of what they want their own music to sound like. Unfortunately, much of the crew has yet to develop a voice strong enough to prop up these general notions-- Lord$ Never Worry is an attempt to build a house from the top down. Where the album fails is precisely where A$AP Rocky succeeds, and the unintended side effect of Lord$ Never Worry may be a greater appreciation for what Rocky is able to pull off, even taking his own lackluster contributions into account. Rocky's music is a triumph of taste over skill, but there is a songcraft on LIVELOVEA$AP that just isn't present here. What's left is an album that is long, dark, and ugly, with little to none of the pop crossover or tactful stewing of regional sounds that colored Rocky's debut. Lord$ Never Worry instead uses the framework of producers like Clams Casino, AraabMuzik, and the Mob's own A$AP Ty Beats to trace out a new brand of cold, nihilistic New York rap. It is, though, an idea better in theory than execution. The main issue is that guys like A$AP Nast, Da$h and A$AP Twelvyy-- who all appear across the tape-- are gruff shit-talkers who are competent on a basic level but largely indistinguished. In a different context, that style can provide an effective counterpoint to Rocky's jiggyness-- take, for instance, this Funk Flex freestyle. But when pushed to the forefront on songs like "Full Metal Jacket" or any of their various solo tracks here, straight-forwardness quickly becomes dullness, and "workmanlike" begins to take on negative connotations. There is little on Lord$ Never Worry that is illuminating lyrically or stylistically, or doesn't make you wish that the central figures were better or more experienced. But there is A$AP Ferg, whose three solo tracks go a long way toward invalidating the previous three paragraphs. Ferg's style is similar to Rocky's-- his flow is hyper-musical, largely owing itself to the lithe sing-song rapping of Bone Thugs-n-Harmony. It is a flow that is stilted and off-kilter, but delightfully so. His songs are jagged paths of space and tangled words, furious rapping and soulful singing. It is rap music that keeps you on your toes, that dips and swerves around you. He chooses beats that are outlines, then traverses outside the lines or barely colors anything at all-- he skips and skates all over the mournful, melting strings of "Persian Wine" then barks in short jabs throughout the spare, Luger-ish rattle of "Work". Ferg's voice is undoubtedly unique, and there's something thrilling in that he seemingly doesn't yet have a firm grip on it. Maybe he doesn't even need one-- he is, quite possibly, figuring out how not to figure it out. Ferg, though, is the exception. The individual members of A$AP Mob have stepped out of the shadows and shown that they have a long way to go before establishing themselves as compelling figures on their own. The A$AP formula is a tricky one-- the amalgamation of revered and trendy sounds and styles invites each member to walk a very thin tightrope on the way to standing out. Rocky is maybe even better at it than people thought.

Artist: A$AP Mob, Album: Lords Never Worry, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 4.9 Album review: "A$AP Rocky is no longer just an underground star. His crew, though, has largely stayed in the background as he's ascended into the mainstream. Much of the magnetism of Rocky's early visuals came from the idea that the viewer was getting a look at a movement of culture already in progress, and though Rocky is highly central to that, there's a strength in numbers when it comes to those sorts of moments. This has been the power of Rocky and his A$AP Mob, much like it was the power of Tyler, the Creator and the once nascent Odd Future. But the A$AP Mob is just now getting itself off the ground musically. Its members are highly visible backing up Rocky onstage or in certain corners of the Tumblrsphere, but there is no trove of mixtapes. You will not, in other words, find any A$AP Mob trading cards. That is all beginning to change with Lord$ Never Worry, A$AP Mob's first group album and the crew's first major release since Rocky's debut album. Rocky's presence looms (he appears on six of 18 songs), but this is the coming-out party for the guys who have spent the last year-plus in his orbit. The results, though, are extremely mixed-- the Mob's image emerged fully-formed, but its music is still, at best, rough and unpolished. It is a work of a group of kids who are well-versed in the aesthetics of certain strands of rap, and who have good and nuanced ideas of what they want their own music to sound like. Unfortunately, much of the crew has yet to develop a voice strong enough to prop up these general notions-- Lord$ Never Worry is an attempt to build a house from the top down. Where the album fails is precisely where A$AP Rocky succeeds, and the unintended side effect of Lord$ Never Worry may be a greater appreciation for what Rocky is able to pull off, even taking his own lackluster contributions into account. Rocky's music is a triumph of taste over skill, but there is a songcraft on LIVELOVEA$AP that just isn't present here. What's left is an album that is long, dark, and ugly, with little to none of the pop crossover or tactful stewing of regional sounds that colored Rocky's debut. Lord$ Never Worry instead uses the framework of producers like Clams Casino, AraabMuzik, and the Mob's own A$AP Ty Beats to trace out a new brand of cold, nihilistic New York rap. It is, though, an idea better in theory than execution. The main issue is that guys like A$AP Nast, Da$h and A$AP Twelvyy-- who all appear across the tape-- are gruff shit-talkers who are competent on a basic level but largely indistinguished. In a different context, that style can provide an effective counterpoint to Rocky's jiggyness-- take, for instance, this Funk Flex freestyle. But when pushed to the forefront on songs like "Full Metal Jacket" or any of their various solo tracks here, straight-forwardness quickly becomes dullness, and "workmanlike" begins to take on negative connotations. There is little on Lord$ Never Worry that is illuminating lyrically or stylistically, or doesn't make you wish that the central figures were better or more experienced. But there is A$AP Ferg, whose three solo tracks go a long way toward invalidating the previous three paragraphs. Ferg's style is similar to Rocky's-- his flow is hyper-musical, largely owing itself to the lithe sing-song rapping of Bone Thugs-n-Harmony. It is a flow that is stilted and off-kilter, but delightfully so. His songs are jagged paths of space and tangled words, furious rapping and soulful singing. It is rap music that keeps you on your toes, that dips and swerves around you. He chooses beats that are outlines, then traverses outside the lines or barely colors anything at all-- he skips and skates all over the mournful, melting strings of "Persian Wine" then barks in short jabs throughout the spare, Luger-ish rattle of "Work". Ferg's voice is undoubtedly unique, and there's something thrilling in that he seemingly doesn't yet have a firm grip on it. Maybe he doesn't even need one-- he is, quite possibly, figuring out how not to figure it out. Ferg, though, is the exception. The individual members of A$AP Mob have stepped out of the shadows and shown that they have a long way to go before establishing themselves as compelling figures on their own. The A$AP formula is a tricky one-- the amalgamation of revered and trendy sounds and styles invites each member to walk a very thin tightrope on the way to standing out. Rocky is maybe even better at it than people thought."

Nada Surf

The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy

Electronic,Rock

Eric Grandy

Nada Surf have managed a couple of feats in their two-decade-long career that might make any indie rock band envious: They broke out with a ubiquitous (if novelty) hit on MTV and alt-rock radio at a time when those were still the only channels by which to do so and, perhaps more importantly, they quietly outlived that popularity to score a second act as sweetly unassuming indie rock underdogs. On 2002's Barsuk release Let Go, Nada Surf re-emerged as the little brother to label-mates Death Cab For Cutie-- the sophomoric 1990s angst swapped out for more deliberate melodies and softer arrangements both timely, as that brand of indie rock was beginning to take over, and timeless. A decade later, soft-touch "indie adult contemporary" has become 2011's agreed-upon national wallpaper, and Nada Surf are attempting to make some noise. Noting that they've "always played faster and a little harder live," frontman Matthew Caws and crew set out to capture the raw, excited feel of a practice-room jam session with seventh album The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy, the followup to the 2010's If I Had a Hi-Fi. They come out of the gate strong with the distorted guitar crunch and shimmying hi-hats of "Clear Eye Clouded Mind". The song's energizing pre-chorus almost sounds like Thermals-lite, with lines that start at the end of each measure and wrap around to the next, always landing on that initial "I." The album is upbeat throughout, especially by Nada Surf standards, with the rhythm section propelling several songs. But maybe "recapture" is a more precise word for the urge behind Astronomy's liveliness. Multiple songs dwell on feelings of disillusionment and lost youth. "When I Was Young" recounts the banal minutes of a day over willowy finger picking before the song swells and Caws wonders, "When I was young... what was that world I was dreaming of?" "Let the Fight Do the Fighting" cautions, "You're gonna wish that you were young again/ You're gonna wish that it was fun/ You're gonna wanna have someone again." Most troublesome, though, might be "Teenage Dreams", the nth iteration of that song title in recent memory, whose chorus, "It's never too late for teenage dreams," comes dangerously close to the realm of "30 Rock" parody. These are larger existential longings than pining for another cross-over hit, of course, but they feed into an idea of the band as past its prime-- which is strange, since Nada Surf seem so comfortable coasting. Caws' voice is still light and feathery, the band members are all nimble enough musicians, and songs such as "Waiting for Something" touch the same dull sweet spot that's secretly tickled by, say, the Gin Blossoms' radio hits. But for all its adeptness of craft and attempts at revitalization, The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy still feels like an album with precious little at stake. The songs are fine but largely feckless, and what could be an animating contrast between glum lyrics and upbeat music is too often hobbled by clunkers both generic ("I am lost in my mind when you go to sleep") and specific (something about tarot cards). At a moment when indie rock could probably use a little kick in the ass, Nada Surf seem to have the right instincts, just maybe not the spleen to pull them off. Harder and faster isn't necessarily a young man's game, but it isn't really Nada Surf's either.

Artist: Nada Surf, Album: The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 4.4 Album review: "Nada Surf have managed a couple of feats in their two-decade-long career that might make any indie rock band envious: They broke out with a ubiquitous (if novelty) hit on MTV and alt-rock radio at a time when those were still the only channels by which to do so and, perhaps more importantly, they quietly outlived that popularity to score a second act as sweetly unassuming indie rock underdogs. On 2002's Barsuk release Let Go, Nada Surf re-emerged as the little brother to label-mates Death Cab For Cutie-- the sophomoric 1990s angst swapped out for more deliberate melodies and softer arrangements both timely, as that brand of indie rock was beginning to take over, and timeless. A decade later, soft-touch "indie adult contemporary" has become 2011's agreed-upon national wallpaper, and Nada Surf are attempting to make some noise. Noting that they've "always played faster and a little harder live," frontman Matthew Caws and crew set out to capture the raw, excited feel of a practice-room jam session with seventh album The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy, the followup to the 2010's If I Had a Hi-Fi. They come out of the gate strong with the distorted guitar crunch and shimmying hi-hats of "Clear Eye Clouded Mind". The song's energizing pre-chorus almost sounds like Thermals-lite, with lines that start at the end of each measure and wrap around to the next, always landing on that initial "I." The album is upbeat throughout, especially by Nada Surf standards, with the rhythm section propelling several songs. But maybe "recapture" is a more precise word for the urge behind Astronomy's liveliness. Multiple songs dwell on feelings of disillusionment and lost youth. "When I Was Young" recounts the banal minutes of a day over willowy finger picking before the song swells and Caws wonders, "When I was young... what was that world I was dreaming of?" "Let the Fight Do the Fighting" cautions, "You're gonna wish that you were young again/ You're gonna wish that it was fun/ You're gonna wanna have someone again." Most troublesome, though, might be "Teenage Dreams", the nth iteration of that song title in recent memory, whose chorus, "It's never too late for teenage dreams," comes dangerously close to the realm of "30 Rock" parody. These are larger existential longings than pining for another cross-over hit, of course, but they feed into an idea of the band as past its prime-- which is strange, since Nada Surf seem so comfortable coasting. Caws' voice is still light and feathery, the band members are all nimble enough musicians, and songs such as "Waiting for Something" touch the same dull sweet spot that's secretly tickled by, say, the Gin Blossoms' radio hits. But for all its adeptness of craft and attempts at revitalization, The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy still feels like an album with precious little at stake. The songs are fine but largely feckless, and what could be an animating contrast between glum lyrics and upbeat music is too often hobbled by clunkers both generic ("I am lost in my mind when you go to sleep") and specific (something about tarot cards). At a moment when indie rock could probably use a little kick in the ass, Nada Surf seem to have the right instincts, just maybe not the spleen to pull them off. Harder and faster isn't necessarily a young man's game, but it isn't really Nada Surf's either."

Stephin Merritt

Obscurities

Rock

Brandon Stosuy

Stephin Merritt loves a good concept, most famously 69 Love Songs' teasingly numbered variations on a theme. That 1999 set is justifiably viewed as a watershed-- it brought the Magnetic Fields a much larger audience-- but it's also slightly overrated, unfairly eclipsing his smaller, darker, especially affecting earlier work. Outside 2004's underwhelming "me"-centric i, Merritt is  strongest when he has precise space limits and when he's applying his volumes of ideas to intimate, less showy canvases. Think of the 10 lonesome road songs populating 1994's excellent The Charm of the Highway Strip. Or, more than a decade later, Distortion's take on Jesus and Mary Chain-style fuzz. His deep baritone was made for the stage, but it does something special when coming quietly through an old cassette player, a crackling turntable, or a pair of well-worn headphones. Plus, the frames aren't always necessary: Merritt's aesthetic is distinctive enough that songs that aren't connected with a conceptual thread still sound like chapters in a larger book-- or, better yet, a diary. See, for instance, Obscurities, the Merge-imprinted collection of odds, ends, side projects, and B-sides. It features material recorded prior to 69 Love Songs-- much of it Merge-associated-- from 1991's Susan Anway-sung synthesized pastoral Distant Plastic Trees to 1995's Get Lost. The compilation is attributed to Merritt, not the Magnetic Fields-- it features work from a variety of monikers (the 6ths, Gothic Archies, Buffalo Rome), and he's the only constant. But the 14 tracks, pulled together from all corners, come together like a lost Magnetic Fields studio album from the early golden era, not an after-the-fact miscellany. Longtime fans will likely be interested in Obscurities for the previously unreleased material. The set has three songs from the Song From Venus era, the unfinished sci-fi musical Merritt was writing with Lemony Snicket ("Forever and a Day", "The Song From Venus", and "When You're Young and in Love"), a lovely, dour unused 69 Love Songs outtake "The Sun and the Sea and the Sky", and the self-described "heavy metal" curiosity "Scream (Till You Make the Scene)". But it's the old, partially forgotten favorites that give Obscurities its heart. It feels like tracks were selected based on tone and narrative arc, not availability-- they're sequenced by sound rather than year or affiliation. Because memory's imperfect, it's occasionally difficult to tell if you're hearing the original version or a different take, forcing you to pull out those old records and check. The way Obscurities is arranged, you only get two "new" songs in a row once, so these "a-ha" moments keep popping up, the first via the ambling, Cure-inspired homemade new wave of "Rats in the Garbage of the Western World" the B-Side to 1995's "All the Umbrellas in London" single. It's followed by the lush, busy 1998 7" version of "I Don't Believe You", a driving track that's recast on i. You also get the quirky kitchen sink ballad "When I'm Not Looking, You're Not There" from that same single. Later its the rollicking "Beach-a-Boop-Boop", a spry B-Side from Harriet Records' 1993 "Long Vermont Roads" single. It's great to hear early Magnetic Fields vocalist Susan Anway emerge from the shadows. She leaves her mark on "Take Ecstasy With Me", the classic Merritt love song that closes 1994's Holiday. As far as other singers, we hear Shirley Simms doing an alternate, quieter, less countrified spin on Distant Plastic Trees' "Plant White Roses". Merritt sang a version on Merge's 1994 Rows of Teeth compilation, but this take is better. There's also Young Marble Giants' Stuart Moxham on "Yet Another Girl", the upbeat, but moody pop song from the 6ths Wasps' Nests. The 6ths are famously known as Merritt's rotating-vocalist project, but he handles things himself on "Rot in the Sun", the crooning B-side to 1993's "Heaven in a Black Leather Jacket". Obscurities ends with "You Are Not My Mother and I Want to Go Home", a song you'll also find on the audio book for Neil Gaiman's horror/fantasy novella Coraline. Merritt later wrote an Off-Broadway musical for the young-adult book, but you're left with a crisper, sharper impression hearing this one swirling, 3-minute bit of outer-space exploration. Obscurities itself is over in less than 40 minutes: It's understated, personal, insular, oddball, and often gorgeous, an unexpectedly coherent collection from an important band.

Artist: Stephin Merritt, Album: Obscurities, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Stephin Merritt loves a good concept, most famously 69 Love Songs' teasingly numbered variations on a theme. That 1999 set is justifiably viewed as a watershed-- it brought the Magnetic Fields a much larger audience-- but it's also slightly overrated, unfairly eclipsing his smaller, darker, especially affecting earlier work. Outside 2004's underwhelming "me"-centric i, Merritt is  strongest when he has precise space limits and when he's applying his volumes of ideas to intimate, less showy canvases. Think of the 10 lonesome road songs populating 1994's excellent The Charm of the Highway Strip. Or, more than a decade later, Distortion's take on Jesus and Mary Chain-style fuzz. His deep baritone was made for the stage, but it does something special when coming quietly through an old cassette player, a crackling turntable, or a pair of well-worn headphones. Plus, the frames aren't always necessary: Merritt's aesthetic is distinctive enough that songs that aren't connected with a conceptual thread still sound like chapters in a larger book-- or, better yet, a diary. See, for instance, Obscurities, the Merge-imprinted collection of odds, ends, side projects, and B-sides. It features material recorded prior to 69 Love Songs-- much of it Merge-associated-- from 1991's Susan Anway-sung synthesized pastoral Distant Plastic Trees to 1995's Get Lost. The compilation is attributed to Merritt, not the Magnetic Fields-- it features work from a variety of monikers (the 6ths, Gothic Archies, Buffalo Rome), and he's the only constant. But the 14 tracks, pulled together from all corners, come together like a lost Magnetic Fields studio album from the early golden era, not an after-the-fact miscellany. Longtime fans will likely be interested in Obscurities for the previously unreleased material. The set has three songs from the Song From Venus era, the unfinished sci-fi musical Merritt was writing with Lemony Snicket ("Forever and a Day", "The Song From Venus", and "When You're Young and in Love"), a lovely, dour unused 69 Love Songs outtake "The Sun and the Sea and the Sky", and the self-described "heavy metal" curiosity "Scream (Till You Make the Scene)". But it's the old, partially forgotten favorites that give Obscurities its heart. It feels like tracks were selected based on tone and narrative arc, not availability-- they're sequenced by sound rather than year or affiliation. Because memory's imperfect, it's occasionally difficult to tell if you're hearing the original version or a different take, forcing you to pull out those old records and check. The way Obscurities is arranged, you only get two "new" songs in a row once, so these "a-ha" moments keep popping up, the first via the ambling, Cure-inspired homemade new wave of "Rats in the Garbage of the Western World" the B-Side to 1995's "All the Umbrellas in London" single. It's followed by the lush, busy 1998 7" version of "I Don't Believe You", a driving track that's recast on i. You also get the quirky kitchen sink ballad "When I'm Not Looking, You're Not There" from that same single. Later its the rollicking "Beach-a-Boop-Boop", a spry B-Side from Harriet Records' 1993 "Long Vermont Roads" single. It's great to hear early Magnetic Fields vocalist Susan Anway emerge from the shadows. She leaves her mark on "Take Ecstasy With Me", the classic Merritt love song that closes 1994's Holiday. As far as other singers, we hear Shirley Simms doing an alternate, quieter, less countrified spin on Distant Plastic Trees' "Plant White Roses". Merritt sang a version on Merge's 1994 Rows of Teeth compilation, but this take is better. There's also Young Marble Giants' Stuart Moxham on "Yet Another Girl", the upbeat, but moody pop song from the 6ths Wasps' Nests. The 6ths are famously known as Merritt's rotating-vocalist project, but he handles things himself on "Rot in the Sun", the crooning B-side to 1993's "Heaven in a Black Leather Jacket". Obscurities ends with "You Are Not My Mother and I Want to Go Home", a song you'll also find on the audio book for Neil Gaiman's horror/fantasy novella Coraline. Merritt later wrote an Off-Broadway musical for the young-adult book, but you're left with a crisper, sharper impression hearing this one swirling, 3-minute bit of outer-space exploration. Obscurities itself is over in less than 40 minutes: It's understated, personal, insular, oddball, and often gorgeous, an unexpectedly coherent collection from an important band."

Balance and Composure

Light We Made

Rock

Ian Cohen

Balance and Composure’s sophomore album The Things We Think We’re Missing* *could end up being the quintessential document of the new vanguard of old school alt-rock. In the context of its release year, 2013, this kind of aggressive guitar music actually felt like an alternative to something, and it still does. Its fanbase was too young to be embraced as “indie” (read: college) rock, and it lacked the obvious hit single or image necessary to break satellite radio. It was far too artistically and socially considerate to be aligned with the Warped Tour. Though alternative rock can no longer claim a nation, bands like B&C thrive in a sizable Twitter, Tumblr, and message board underground, where Nirvana is classic rock, Brand New is modern canon, and Neutral Milk Hotel is still a mandatory rite of passage. It’s easy to figure which bands view this space as a final destination and those who are trying to find a bridge towards the mainstream. If you couldn’t tell where Balance and Composure’s ambitions lie with *Light We Made, *just know this: they’re labelmates with the 1975 now. But true to form, their advancement is one that adheres to old school alt-rock ideals. Lead single “Postcard” was a surprisingly demure teaser that nonetheless felt like a big reveal, going against just about every formidable strength Balance and Composure had previously established: the riffs here are clean and hypnotic, where before they would bludgeon you into submission. Jon Simmons’ vocals are cloaked and conversational rather than a charred howl. Compared to “Reflection,” a steamroller that foretold the direction *The Things We Think, *“Postcard” might as well be a Prius: efficient, stylish, aimed at a more mature consumer. “Postcard” is virtually unrecognizable as Balance and Composure; it bears more than a passing similarity to Radiohead’s “I Might Be Wrong.” This being 2016 and not 2001, ambitious, young rock bands aren’t really using Radiohead as their North Star (at least not publicly). But for a lot of *listeners, *a certain era of Radiohead still represents the zenith of alternative rock. Think the late ’90s, maybe half of Amnesiac: a man-machine interface both tech-savvy and tech-wary, while still maintaining the look, feel, and perspective of their angstier early days. And so, *Light We Made *isn’t a total rebuild. Aside from a few drum triggers, synth-bass fuzz, and additions to the pedal board, Balance and Composure could play these songs live with their 2013 setup. Simmons gets occasionally chopped, screwed, and Autotuned, texturing vocals that can often lack a personal watermark. More importantly, they underscore the incremental progress of his matured perspective. Simmons still strains to make even the most worn metaphors for physical desire, but B&C manage to create a number of distinct spaces where social anxiety and self-loathing can be tempered with well-meaning amorousness. “Mediocre Love” and “Is It So Much to Adore?” hypnotically churn with startling rhythms, while “Loam” and “Fame” are more inspired takes on the Cure’s latter-day metallurgy. Balance and Composure are a far more flexible band than they were on *The Things We Think We’re Missing, which had one move: repeatedly slamming the listener into Will Yip’s brickwalled production. Yip is back on board and rightfully so, since he oversaw Title Fight’s Hyperview *and Turnover’s Peripheral Vision, two of this scene’s most divisive and relatively daring dives into traditional indie rock from 2015. Neither of those bands could completely transmogrify, but the remnants of their putative DNA made each of them stand out—Title Fight’s take on shoegaze had concision and a searing intensity, whereas Turnover’s hybrid of dream-pop guitars and pointed pop-punk lyricism created a legitimately novel hybrid. The past and present of Balance and Composure can’t manage the same symbiosis. The arresting, trip-hop reverie of opener “Midnight Zone” quickly gives way to nü-bubble grunge singles that are not particularly compelling. Nowhere is the distance between Balance and Composure’s ambitions and abilities more chasmic than on “For a Walk”; it’s not too often you can use the *Spawn *soundtrack as a reference point, but that’s pretty much their nu-metal/industrial take on the lyrical thrust of Franz Ferdinand’s “Take Me Out.” A few weeks before *Light We Made’s *release, the band opened up about a series of terrifying van crashes that caused them to put everything on hold for a year and a half. They had remained silent so as to not draw attention to themselves or offer a juicy narrative that had nothing to do with their music. It’s admirable, and it also speaks to a lack of disclosure that pervades Light We Made. As with *The Things We Think, *it feels like the sound of a curious band still working out how to make music as distinct as its influences; whether lyrically or sonically, they come across as either unknowable or proudly workmanlike. Strangely, as Simmons makes a French exit on “Afterparty,” he sings, “Let your feelings show, it’s easier than you would ever know.” Yet, judging by *Light We Made, *it’s much harder than he thinks.

Artist: Balance and Composure, Album: Light We Made, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Balance and Composure’s sophomore album The Things We Think We’re Missing* *could end up being the quintessential document of the new vanguard of old school alt-rock. In the context of its release year, 2013, this kind of aggressive guitar music actually felt like an alternative to something, and it still does. Its fanbase was too young to be embraced as “indie” (read: college) rock, and it lacked the obvious hit single or image necessary to break satellite radio. It was far too artistically and socially considerate to be aligned with the Warped Tour. Though alternative rock can no longer claim a nation, bands like B&C thrive in a sizable Twitter, Tumblr, and message board underground, where Nirvana is classic rock, Brand New is modern canon, and Neutral Milk Hotel is still a mandatory rite of passage. It’s easy to figure which bands view this space as a final destination and those who are trying to find a bridge towards the mainstream. If you couldn’t tell where Balance and Composure’s ambitions lie with *Light We Made, *just know this: they’re labelmates with the 1975 now. But true to form, their advancement is one that adheres to old school alt-rock ideals. Lead single “Postcard” was a surprisingly demure teaser that nonetheless felt like a big reveal, going against just about every formidable strength Balance and Composure had previously established: the riffs here are clean and hypnotic, where before they would bludgeon you into submission. Jon Simmons’ vocals are cloaked and conversational rather than a charred howl. Compared to “Reflection,” a steamroller that foretold the direction *The Things We Think, *“Postcard” might as well be a Prius: efficient, stylish, aimed at a more mature consumer. “Postcard” is virtually unrecognizable as Balance and Composure; it bears more than a passing similarity to Radiohead’s “I Might Be Wrong.” This being 2016 and not 2001, ambitious, young rock bands aren’t really using Radiohead as their North Star (at least not publicly). But for a lot of *listeners, *a certain era of Radiohead still represents the zenith of alternative rock. Think the late ’90s, maybe half of Amnesiac: a man-machine interface both tech-savvy and tech-wary, while still maintaining the look, feel, and perspective of their angstier early days. And so, *Light We Made *isn’t a total rebuild. Aside from a few drum triggers, synth-bass fuzz, and additions to the pedal board, Balance and Composure could play these songs live with their 2013 setup. Simmons gets occasionally chopped, screwed, and Autotuned, texturing vocals that can often lack a personal watermark. More importantly, they underscore the incremental progress of his matured perspective. Simmons still strains to make even the most worn metaphors for physical desire, but B&C manage to create a number of distinct spaces where social anxiety and self-loathing can be tempered with well-meaning amorousness. “Mediocre Love” and “Is It So Much to Adore?” hypnotically churn with startling rhythms, while “Loam” and “Fame” are more inspired takes on the Cure’s latter-day metallurgy. Balance and Composure are a far more flexible band than they were on *The Things We Think We’re Missing, which had one move: repeatedly slamming the listener into Will Yip’s brickwalled production. Yip is back on board and rightfully so, since he oversaw Title Fight’s Hyperview *and Turnover’s Peripheral Vision, two of this scene’s most divisive and relatively daring dives into traditional indie rock from 2015. Neither of those bands could completely transmogrify, but the remnants of their putative DNA made each of them stand out—Title Fight’s take on shoegaze had concision and a searing intensity, whereas Turnover’s hybrid of dream-pop guitars and pointed pop-punk lyricism created a legitimately novel hybrid. The past and present of Balance and Composure can’t manage the same symbiosis. The arresting, trip-hop reverie of opener “Midnight Zone” quickly gives way to nü-bubble grunge singles that are not particularly compelling. Nowhere is the distance between Balance and Composure’s ambitions and abilities more chasmic than on “For a Walk”; it’s not too often you can use the *Spawn *soundtrack as a reference point, but that’s pretty much their nu-metal/industrial take on the lyrical thrust of Franz Ferdinand’s “Take Me Out.” A few weeks before *Light We Made’s *release, the band opened up about a series of terrifying van crashes that caused them to put everything on hold for a year and a half. They had remained silent so as to not draw attention to themselves or offer a juicy narrative that had nothing to do with their music. It’s admirable, and it also speaks to a lack of disclosure that pervades Light We Made. As with *The Things We Think, *it feels like the sound of a curious band still working out how to make music as distinct as its influences; whether lyrically or sonically, they come across as either unknowable or proudly workmanlike. Strangely, as Simmons makes a French exit on “Afterparty,” he sings, “Let your feelings show, it’s easier than you would ever know.” Yet, judging by *Light We Made, *it’s much harder than he thinks."

The Minus 5

Killingsworth

Rock

Joshua Klein

As a linchpin of Seattle's rock scene for the last few decades, Scott McCaughey's surely granted a few favors and garnered his share of goodwill. Still, there must be more to the guy, given the artists he's been able to call in for his ongoing project the Minus 5. As a longtime R.E.M. auxiliary player, roping in pal and Pacific Northwest neighbor Peter Buck was probably a no-brainer, as was the participation of fellow R.E.M. helper Ken Stringfellow and Jon Auer, Stringfellow's partner from the Posies. But the number of helping hands just kept growing. Soon the Minus 5, originally conceived as a solo parallel to McCaughey's ongoing Young Fresh Fellows endeavors, attracted input and contributions from members of Pearl Jam, Guided by Voices, Wilco, Death Cab for Cutie, and the Decemberists, among many, many others, and the list keeps getting longer. Certainly the presence of all these high-profile guests elevates the Minus 5 above mere side-project, but even so, McCaughey has done a remarkable job keeping things relatively low-key. It turns out that what McCaughey's done right all these years is rarely gone egregiously wrong. On Killingsworth, he and Buck are joined by the bulk of the Decemberists, and given that band's predilection for overblown pomp-rock you'd be forgiven for thinking this disc might follow suit. Yet everyone is on their best behavior here, subdued in service of some of McCaughey's more somber songs, mostly in mellow country-rock mode that hovers somewhere between the Byrds and Big Star (with some touches of the Dead's genial twang tossed in for good measure). Of course, the disc's unassuming demeanor may have had something to do with McCaughey's ongoing work with the Young Fresh Fellows, whose concurrent I Think This Is was produced by Robyn Hitchcock and which offers McCaughey ample opportunity to get his ya-ya's out. Yet one can't help but be impressed by McCaughey's ability to not just juggle hats but do so convincingly. Killingsworth is hardly some clearing-house but a fully realized start-to-finish album, with each of its 14 songs very much of a piece and the overall effect the farthest thing from a lark. Quality tracks like "The Long Hall", "The Lurking Barrister", "It Won't Do You Any Good", and "Ambulance Dancehall" are the sorts of songs buddy Jeff Tweedy stopped writing circa Being There, but that's not a criticism of either artist, especially considering how well McCaughey has taken to the style. McCaughey also subtly sifts through rock's storied back pages to construct the likes of "Vintage Violet", "The Disembowelers", "Smoke On, Jerry", "Your Favorite Mess", and "Scott Walker's Fault", the last featuring Colin Meloy on vocals. Each may be informed by familiar genre tropes and the usual musical inspirations, yet they're hardly redundant retreads. Far from it. Rather, McCaughey embraces and embodies his 1960s and 70s touchstones (twisted, as might be expected, by often sneakily subversive lyrics) but he never relies on them, so they never overwhelm the proceedings and send it into pastiche. The ever-modest McCaughey's aversion to flash may mean he'll never be as famous as many of his friends, and he knows it, but that glass ceiling has apparently also freed him. While his friends gallivant about sometimes trying too hard, he's quietly managed to foster a career in the shadows strong enough to keep pulling in those peers for a taste of the good stuff.

Artist: The Minus 5, Album: Killingsworth, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "As a linchpin of Seattle's rock scene for the last few decades, Scott McCaughey's surely granted a few favors and garnered his share of goodwill. Still, there must be more to the guy, given the artists he's been able to call in for his ongoing project the Minus 5. As a longtime R.E.M. auxiliary player, roping in pal and Pacific Northwest neighbor Peter Buck was probably a no-brainer, as was the participation of fellow R.E.M. helper Ken Stringfellow and Jon Auer, Stringfellow's partner from the Posies. But the number of helping hands just kept growing. Soon the Minus 5, originally conceived as a solo parallel to McCaughey's ongoing Young Fresh Fellows endeavors, attracted input and contributions from members of Pearl Jam, Guided by Voices, Wilco, Death Cab for Cutie, and the Decemberists, among many, many others, and the list keeps getting longer. Certainly the presence of all these high-profile guests elevates the Minus 5 above mere side-project, but even so, McCaughey has done a remarkable job keeping things relatively low-key. It turns out that what McCaughey's done right all these years is rarely gone egregiously wrong. On Killingsworth, he and Buck are joined by the bulk of the Decemberists, and given that band's predilection for overblown pomp-rock you'd be forgiven for thinking this disc might follow suit. Yet everyone is on their best behavior here, subdued in service of some of McCaughey's more somber songs, mostly in mellow country-rock mode that hovers somewhere between the Byrds and Big Star (with some touches of the Dead's genial twang tossed in for good measure). Of course, the disc's unassuming demeanor may have had something to do with McCaughey's ongoing work with the Young Fresh Fellows, whose concurrent I Think This Is was produced by Robyn Hitchcock and which offers McCaughey ample opportunity to get his ya-ya's out. Yet one can't help but be impressed by McCaughey's ability to not just juggle hats but do so convincingly. Killingsworth is hardly some clearing-house but a fully realized start-to-finish album, with each of its 14 songs very much of a piece and the overall effect the farthest thing from a lark. Quality tracks like "The Long Hall", "The Lurking Barrister", "It Won't Do You Any Good", and "Ambulance Dancehall" are the sorts of songs buddy Jeff Tweedy stopped writing circa Being There, but that's not a criticism of either artist, especially considering how well McCaughey has taken to the style. McCaughey also subtly sifts through rock's storied back pages to construct the likes of "Vintage Violet", "The Disembowelers", "Smoke On, Jerry", "Your Favorite Mess", and "Scott Walker's Fault", the last featuring Colin Meloy on vocals. Each may be informed by familiar genre tropes and the usual musical inspirations, yet they're hardly redundant retreads. Far from it. Rather, McCaughey embraces and embodies his 1960s and 70s touchstones (twisted, as might be expected, by often sneakily subversive lyrics) but he never relies on them, so they never overwhelm the proceedings and send it into pastiche. The ever-modest McCaughey's aversion to flash may mean he'll never be as famous as many of his friends, and he knows it, but that glass ceiling has apparently also freed him. While his friends gallivant about sometimes trying too hard, he's quietly managed to foster a career in the shadows strong enough to keep pulling in those peers for a taste of the good stuff."

The Black Angels

Passover

Electronic,Rock

Brian Howe

If originality were the only important thing in music, it would be necessary to invent a new grade to describe the Black Angels' abject failure-- maybe something in Cyrillic. But originality's not always all it's cracked up to be, as anyone who tried to get into Matisyahu can attest. Like seasoned trackers, these Texas-based psych-rockers gingerly place their steps directly in the petrified footprints left by the Velvet Underground and the slightly fresher ones of Spacemen 3, following the path without disturbing its flora and fauna. "Young Men Dead" threads a hollowly booming lead through a rudimentary fuzz-groove; "Call to Arms" blisses out languorously for upwards of ten sunburned minutes; "Black Grease" reduces the blues to one nasty lick pickled in malarial distortion. It's like a Civil War reenactment-- all the actual gore is long since splattered and the outcome is predetermined, but for the nostalgic, the bloodthirsty, and the monumentally stoned, a deep pleasure resides in the faithful reproduction. And who doesn't like an excuse to dress up in silly clothes en masse? It's not like the Black Angels are the only band un-reconstructing druggy drone-rock decades past the sell-by date. They're not even the only ones doing it with "Black" in their name-- you've got Black Mountain and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and Brian Jonestown Massacre, which almost looks like Black Jonestown Massacre if you squint, and are drunk. Psych-rock generally takes one of two paths to derangement: intricate sensory overload or brutally stripped and repetitive sensory deprivation. The Black Angels opt for the latter, wrangling reverb-drenched Sonic Boom guitars over plodding percussion, sloshing buckets of soupy, shrapnel-filled bass, and Farfisa injected with photosensitive radioactive dyes. The slo-mo detonation of "The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven" gradually dissolves into a spray of sparks, and "The Prodigal Sun" flickers and rattles towards a riotously overdriven fade to black. Sluggishness is this sort of music's métier, but there has to be a nervous, jangled intensity beneath the sloth to make it work, and Passover ratchets up the sick with every clangorous chord. It's a long, darkly iridescent screw, glittering feverishly, boring deeper and deeper into the weirdly giddy wartime terror associated with the Doors and Apocalypse Now. Alex Maas' voice covers the sliver-sized range of emotion between apathetic anxiety and utter dread. "You send me overseas / And put the fear in me", he drones flatly over the flanged guitar meltdown of the hat-tippingly titled "The First Vietnam War". Far from trailblazing, Passover nevertheless implies that the Black Angels like to blaze until they see trails.

Artist: The Black Angels, Album: Passover, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "If originality were the only important thing in music, it would be necessary to invent a new grade to describe the Black Angels' abject failure-- maybe something in Cyrillic. But originality's not always all it's cracked up to be, as anyone who tried to get into Matisyahu can attest. Like seasoned trackers, these Texas-based psych-rockers gingerly place their steps directly in the petrified footprints left by the Velvet Underground and the slightly fresher ones of Spacemen 3, following the path without disturbing its flora and fauna. "Young Men Dead" threads a hollowly booming lead through a rudimentary fuzz-groove; "Call to Arms" blisses out languorously for upwards of ten sunburned minutes; "Black Grease" reduces the blues to one nasty lick pickled in malarial distortion. It's like a Civil War reenactment-- all the actual gore is long since splattered and the outcome is predetermined, but for the nostalgic, the bloodthirsty, and the monumentally stoned, a deep pleasure resides in the faithful reproduction. And who doesn't like an excuse to dress up in silly clothes en masse? It's not like the Black Angels are the only band un-reconstructing druggy drone-rock decades past the sell-by date. They're not even the only ones doing it with "Black" in their name-- you've got Black Mountain and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and Brian Jonestown Massacre, which almost looks like Black Jonestown Massacre if you squint, and are drunk. Psych-rock generally takes one of two paths to derangement: intricate sensory overload or brutally stripped and repetitive sensory deprivation. The Black Angels opt for the latter, wrangling reverb-drenched Sonic Boom guitars over plodding percussion, sloshing buckets of soupy, shrapnel-filled bass, and Farfisa injected with photosensitive radioactive dyes. The slo-mo detonation of "The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven" gradually dissolves into a spray of sparks, and "The Prodigal Sun" flickers and rattles towards a riotously overdriven fade to black. Sluggishness is this sort of music's métier, but there has to be a nervous, jangled intensity beneath the sloth to make it work, and Passover ratchets up the sick with every clangorous chord. It's a long, darkly iridescent screw, glittering feverishly, boring deeper and deeper into the weirdly giddy wartime terror associated with the Doors and Apocalypse Now. Alex Maas' voice covers the sliver-sized range of emotion between apathetic anxiety and utter dread. "You send me overseas / And put the fear in me", he drones flatly over the flanged guitar meltdown of the hat-tippingly titled "The First Vietnam War". Far from trailblazing, Passover nevertheless implies that the Black Angels like to blaze until they see trails."

Leslie Winer

Witch

Nick Neyland

The music of Leslie Winer is a well-kept secret, existing in a place somewhere between the forgotten and the collectable. It wouldn’t be a surprise to find this, her debut album, tucked away in a 99 cent rack in a record store, and then later discover it going for $40 or more elsewhere. Even its birth was difficult, with a white label of the album allegedly passed around for many years before its official 1993 release on Mute/Rhythm Kind subsidiary Transglobal. But Witch clearly got into the right hands at some point during its early phase; it’s widely assumed to have been heard by a number of trip-hop figureheads, who looped a similar thread through soul, hip-hop, dub, and punk, linking it to the despair of a country battered by over a decade of right-wing rule. Winer lived in England at the time of Witch but her backstory takes her all over. Originally from Western Massachusetts, she attended art school in New York, befriended beats William S. Burroughs and Herbert Huncke, travelled the world as a fashion model, and wound up in London in the mid 1980s. Her life took further complicated and often incredible turns, as told by these two features on her, but a key detail as far as Witch is concerned was her meeting with Karl Bonnie from dubbed-out experimental dance act Renegade Soundwave. The pair, along with accomplice John Keogh and engineer Matthew Faddy, pieced together this album, releasing it under the name © in its initial form. Strangely, the tortuous gestation period puts it in the odd position of being both ahead of its time (during its long pre-release circulation) and behind it (on its release in a country about to be awash in trip-hop in 1993). Massive Attack were already active by the time Witch was completed, so its influence shouldn’t be overstated. Either way, Winer claims not to have heard them until after its completion, adding to the feeling of there being something in the air in England around the time all these ideas were coalescing. It’s mostly in the music that ties are made—thick, dubby bass underpins almost everything, sometimes becoming the entire sound, at other times providing a backdrop to the kind of spaced-out beats every musician in Bristol seemed to be binging on at the time. Witch picks up its own energy from Winer’s lyrics and delivery, many of which are far more political in outlook than her peers in this sound. On the outstanding “N1ear”, she delivers spoken-word passages so laid back in tone it’s easy to miss their intent on a cursory listen. The juxtaposition between execution and content is effectively disarming, especially when she coos lines like: “If I get raped it must be my fault, and if I get bashed I must have provoked it.” The ever-changing ways Winer deals with vocals on Witch are partly what makes it so inviting. At times they’re pure decoration, cut up and left scattered throughout the mix in a manner similar to techniques Holly Herndon would become enamored with decades later (“Flove”). Elsewhere, she uses a blackened monotone and follows it with airy, wistful pining (“John Says”). There are trapping of the times that haven’t aged terribly well—one too many songs beginning with snatches of sampled dialogue, the attempt at going somewhere similar to the Art of Noise’s “Dragnet” on “1nce Upon a Time”—but mostly there’s a mix of grace and spikiness that’s remarkably unfettered by time. The standout track is “5”, which takes anti-corporate and anti-war sentiment and mixes it up with a notable sample from the much-covered Buffalo Springfield track “For What It's Worth”, neatly bringing parts of that song in line with sentiment that’s often inaccurately prescribed to it. For someone who wasn’t shy in picking up large topics and making deeply personal statements within them, it’s a shame Witch didn’t connect to a wider audience. There’s a longing for connection here, a feeling that trip-hop, if Winer must be bracketed there, would have been a little richer with her in a more prominent position. In a sense it’s a bitter irony that this album is getting released again now, at a point where the reissue machine is in overdrive, where every album seems to come attached with a hard-luck story explaining why things didn’t work out as planned. If this music got lost in ‘93 due to an onrush of likeminded talent, it’s equally likely to be gasping for air this time around. It bolsters the context of Witch as an album that doesn’t really belong anywhere, a feeling mirrored in the singular way Winer expresses her fury—so calm, so assured, so in control. She’s in her own place, her own time, interpreting the world in a manner that has few parallels.

Artist: Leslie Winer, Album: Witch, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "The music of Leslie Winer is a well-kept secret, existing in a place somewhere between the forgotten and the collectable. It wouldn’t be a surprise to find this, her debut album, tucked away in a 99 cent rack in a record store, and then later discover it going for $40 or more elsewhere. Even its birth was difficult, with a white label of the album allegedly passed around for many years before its official 1993 release on Mute/Rhythm Kind subsidiary Transglobal. But Witch clearly got into the right hands at some point during its early phase; it’s widely assumed to have been heard by a number of trip-hop figureheads, who looped a similar thread through soul, hip-hop, dub, and punk, linking it to the despair of a country battered by over a decade of right-wing rule. Winer lived in England at the time of Witch but her backstory takes her all over. Originally from Western Massachusetts, she attended art school in New York, befriended beats William S. Burroughs and Herbert Huncke, travelled the world as a fashion model, and wound up in London in the mid 1980s. Her life took further complicated and often incredible turns, as told by these two features on her, but a key detail as far as Witch is concerned was her meeting with Karl Bonnie from dubbed-out experimental dance act Renegade Soundwave. The pair, along with accomplice John Keogh and engineer Matthew Faddy, pieced together this album, releasing it under the name © in its initial form. Strangely, the tortuous gestation period puts it in the odd position of being both ahead of its time (during its long pre-release circulation) and behind it (on its release in a country about to be awash in trip-hop in 1993). Massive Attack were already active by the time Witch was completed, so its influence shouldn’t be overstated. Either way, Winer claims not to have heard them until after its completion, adding to the feeling of there being something in the air in England around the time all these ideas were coalescing. It’s mostly in the music that ties are made—thick, dubby bass underpins almost everything, sometimes becoming the entire sound, at other times providing a backdrop to the kind of spaced-out beats every musician in Bristol seemed to be binging on at the time. Witch picks up its own energy from Winer’s lyrics and delivery, many of which are far more political in outlook than her peers in this sound. On the outstanding “N1ear”, she delivers spoken-word passages so laid back in tone it’s easy to miss their intent on a cursory listen. The juxtaposition between execution and content is effectively disarming, especially when she coos lines like: “If I get raped it must be my fault, and if I get bashed I must have provoked it.” The ever-changing ways Winer deals with vocals on Witch are partly what makes it so inviting. At times they’re pure decoration, cut up and left scattered throughout the mix in a manner similar to techniques Holly Herndon would become enamored with decades later (“Flove”). Elsewhere, she uses a blackened monotone and follows it with airy, wistful pining (“John Says”). There are trapping of the times that haven’t aged terribly well—one too many songs beginning with snatches of sampled dialogue, the attempt at going somewhere similar to the Art of Noise’s “Dragnet” on “1nce Upon a Time”—but mostly there’s a mix of grace and spikiness that’s remarkably unfettered by time. The standout track is “5”, which takes anti-corporate and anti-war sentiment and mixes it up with a notable sample from the much-covered Buffalo Springfield track “For What It's Worth”, neatly bringing parts of that song in line with sentiment that’s often inaccurately prescribed to it. For someone who wasn’t shy in picking up large topics and making deeply personal statements within them, it’s a shame Witch didn’t connect to a wider audience. There’s a longing for connection here, a feeling that trip-hop, if Winer must be bracketed there, would have been a little richer with her in a more prominent position. In a sense it’s a bitter irony that this album is getting released again now, at a point where the reissue machine is in overdrive, where every album seems to come attached with a hard-luck story explaining why things didn’t work out as planned. If this music got lost in ‘93 due to an onrush of likeminded talent, it’s equally likely to be gasping for air this time around. It bolsters the context of Witch as an album that doesn’t really belong anywhere, a feeling mirrored in the singular way Winer expresses her fury—so calm, so assured, so in control. She’s in her own place, her own time, interpreting the world in a manner that has few parallels."

Seun Kuti & Egypt 80

Black Times

Jazz

Phillip Mlynar

The responsibility of writing protest songs is hardwired into Seun Kuti’s DNA. The 35-year-old bandleader and saxophonist is the youngest son of Fela Kuti, the Afrobeat pioneer who started his own Movement of the People party, penned lyrics that brazenly took shots at Nigerian politicians and, in the case of “Zombie,” provoked a bloody military attack on the Kalakuta Republic commune and recording facility that he’d founded in Lagos. Channeling this fiery legacy, Seun Kuti’s Black Times, the fourth album he’s recorded in cahoots with his father’s Egypt 80 ensemble, forcefully drives home the infectious protest power of Afrobeat. “Last Revolutionary” sparks the eight-track set into life. Powered by Shinan Abiodun’s furious snares, Oladimeji Akinyele’s trumpet blasts lead the charge as Kuti anoints himself “the walking, talking struggle of my people.” This belief in the power of change pulses through the rest of the album. The title song, which features bluesy, wavering guitar by Carlos Santana, is rooted the idea of learning from history to achieve physical and spiritual of freedom. “Theory of Goat and Yam” pairs pounding bass and live-wire alto-sax blasts with lyrics inspired by the former Nigerian President Goodluck Jonathan, who justified embezzlement by comparing it to goats wolfing down yams left tantalizingly within reach. “Corporate Public Control Department (CPCD)” is a funked-up critique of self-serving politicians the world over that’s powered by spunky waves of brass. “Promise to give me peace and you give me war,” Kuti cries. “You promise me justice and then you jail the poor/You promise jobs and you close the factory/But there’s always work in the penitentiary.” This working- class angle is Black Times’ defining motif, and it transcends African politics to speak directly to all those feeling the daily burden of economic oppression. On “African Dreams,” Kuti rallies against those suckered into chasing American capitalist goals at the expense of their own heritage and welfare. “Struggle Sounds” opens with a rousing, four-to-the-floor beat before introducing rapid-fire brass stabs and slinky keys over which Kuti delivers a defiant message: “I make that struggle music as the voice of the people/Struggle sound like the weapon of the future.” Key to Afrobeat’s appeal is the way the music marries political messages to bewitchingly upbeat grooves. On Kuti’s watch, the experience is never preachy. Incendiary lyrics are delivered in a call-and-response fashion against tuneful brass riffs; expansive instrumental sections of songs skillfully add and detract instruments while building the grand groove of it all. And where Fela was fond of 10-minute-plus flights of revolutionary fantasy, most of the songs on Black Times are capped at the six- or seven minute mark, casting the album as an extra potent and smartly distilled primer on the punch of Afrobeat. Growing up to the world as Fela Kuti’s son will naturally always cast something of a shadow over Seun Kuti’s music, but Black Times comes across as both a respectful reminder of his legacy and a demonstration of Kuti’s own fresh talent. Humble enough to acknowledge his place in a grander lineage, “Last Revolutionary” features Kuti embarking on a metaphysical roll call. “I be Marcus Garvey/I be Kwame Ture/I be Shaka Zulu,” he proudly proclaims, before delivering the knowing kicker: “I be Fela Kuti.”

Artist: Seun Kuti & Egypt 80, Album: Black Times, Genre: Jazz, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "The responsibility of writing protest songs is hardwired into Seun Kuti’s DNA. The 35-year-old bandleader and saxophonist is the youngest son of Fela Kuti, the Afrobeat pioneer who started his own Movement of the People party, penned lyrics that brazenly took shots at Nigerian politicians and, in the case of “Zombie,” provoked a bloody military attack on the Kalakuta Republic commune and recording facility that he’d founded in Lagos. Channeling this fiery legacy, Seun Kuti’s Black Times, the fourth album he’s recorded in cahoots with his father’s Egypt 80 ensemble, forcefully drives home the infectious protest power of Afrobeat. “Last Revolutionary” sparks the eight-track set into life. Powered by Shinan Abiodun’s furious snares, Oladimeji Akinyele’s trumpet blasts lead the charge as Kuti anoints himself “the walking, talking struggle of my people.” This belief in the power of change pulses through the rest of the album. The title song, which features bluesy, wavering guitar by Carlos Santana, is rooted the idea of learning from history to achieve physical and spiritual of freedom. “Theory of Goat and Yam” pairs pounding bass and live-wire alto-sax blasts with lyrics inspired by the former Nigerian President Goodluck Jonathan, who justified embezzlement by comparing it to goats wolfing down yams left tantalizingly within reach. “Corporate Public Control Department (CPCD)” is a funked-up critique of self-serving politicians the world over that’s powered by spunky waves of brass. “Promise to give me peace and you give me war,” Kuti cries. “You promise me justice and then you jail the poor/You promise jobs and you close the factory/But there’s always work in the penitentiary.” This working- class angle is Black Times’ defining motif, and it transcends African politics to speak directly to all those feeling the daily burden of economic oppression. On “African Dreams,” Kuti rallies against those suckered into chasing American capitalist goals at the expense of their own heritage and welfare. “Struggle Sounds” opens with a rousing, four-to-the-floor beat before introducing rapid-fire brass stabs and slinky keys over which Kuti delivers a defiant message: “I make that struggle music as the voice of the people/Struggle sound like the weapon of the future.” Key to Afrobeat’s appeal is the way the music marries political messages to bewitchingly upbeat grooves. On Kuti’s watch, the experience is never preachy. Incendiary lyrics are delivered in a call-and-response fashion against tuneful brass riffs; expansive instrumental sections of songs skillfully add and detract instruments while building the grand groove of it all. And where Fela was fond of 10-minute-plus flights of revolutionary fantasy, most of the songs on Black Times are capped at the six- or seven minute mark, casting the album as an extra potent and smartly distilled primer on the punch of Afrobeat. Growing up to the world as Fela Kuti’s son will naturally always cast something of a shadow over Seun Kuti’s music, but Black Times comes across as both a respectful reminder of his legacy and a demonstration of Kuti’s own fresh talent. Humble enough to acknowledge his place in a grander lineage, “Last Revolutionary” features Kuti embarking on a metaphysical roll call. “I be Marcus Garvey/I be Kwame Ture/I be Shaka Zulu,” he proudly proclaims, before delivering the knowing kicker: “I be Fela Kuti.”"

Statistics

Leave Your Name

Rock

Alan Smithee

Why splinter groups from splinter-groups? Why spin off spin-offs? Why make a spectacle of yourself? Why, indeed, Statistics? Desaparecidos co-songwriter Denver Dalley now finds himself at the reins of this solo project, just another in a long, unending line of hopeless supporting acts led by a sideman from a semi-popular indie band. These projects sometimes reap fantastic results, but judging from this debut outing, Dalley's future could hardly be bleaker. To begin, Dalley possesses neither heart nor soul as a lead vocalist, and his milk-warm emotional outpouring of tiresome, overwrought subject matter could get lost in a crowd of two. That these are the best assets of Statistics is a sad fact, but that he spends half this album relying instead on flak-shot instrumentals is simply fatal. Of Leave Your Name's eleven songs, five are nebulous, inscrutable "experiments in sound," including the near five-minute closer "Circular Memories". In a way, this could be seen as a positive trait, but the lack of sentiment in these ambling post-rock passages, which all boil over with bombastic riffage and gratuitous drum rolls, is every bit as insipid as Dalley's plaintive, weeping vocal outbursts. Perfunctory mood-setting stabs like "Chairman of the Bored" (nice one!) and "Accomplishment" at least confine themselves to runtimes of less than three minutes, but nonetheless taxi along on piano or acoustic meandering above linear backdrops of half-baked ambience. "Sing a Song" opens with unsettling Oakenfold-bred resonance giving way to Jealous Sound jangle-pop-by-numbers, replete with predictable shifts in dynamics and antiseptic crescendos. Same goes for "Hours Seemed Like Days", which boasts the record's most obnoxious lyrics, opining how "claymation is gone and now it's all become CG" in an embarrassing tone of false nostalgia. Lamentably, +/- has already run the numbers on this hybridization of purebred-rock-to-shakedown-ambience, only with a touch of innovation-- and on a track like, "A Number, Not a Name", Dalley proves he's a far cry from Tamborello as well. Pigeonholing this record into a simple genre like "emo" or "post-rock" or "sadcore" is impossible, as its focus is far too splintered to qualify for any one in particular. I can, however, tell you what it's not: a record you haven't heard before.

Artist: Statistics, Album: Leave Your Name, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 4.0 Album review: "Why splinter groups from splinter-groups? Why spin off spin-offs? Why make a spectacle of yourself? Why, indeed, Statistics? Desaparecidos co-songwriter Denver Dalley now finds himself at the reins of this solo project, just another in a long, unending line of hopeless supporting acts led by a sideman from a semi-popular indie band. These projects sometimes reap fantastic results, but judging from this debut outing, Dalley's future could hardly be bleaker. To begin, Dalley possesses neither heart nor soul as a lead vocalist, and his milk-warm emotional outpouring of tiresome, overwrought subject matter could get lost in a crowd of two. That these are the best assets of Statistics is a sad fact, but that he spends half this album relying instead on flak-shot instrumentals is simply fatal. Of Leave Your Name's eleven songs, five are nebulous, inscrutable "experiments in sound," including the near five-minute closer "Circular Memories". In a way, this could be seen as a positive trait, but the lack of sentiment in these ambling post-rock passages, which all boil over with bombastic riffage and gratuitous drum rolls, is every bit as insipid as Dalley's plaintive, weeping vocal outbursts. Perfunctory mood-setting stabs like "Chairman of the Bored" (nice one!) and "Accomplishment" at least confine themselves to runtimes of less than three minutes, but nonetheless taxi along on piano or acoustic meandering above linear backdrops of half-baked ambience. "Sing a Song" opens with unsettling Oakenfold-bred resonance giving way to Jealous Sound jangle-pop-by-numbers, replete with predictable shifts in dynamics and antiseptic crescendos. Same goes for "Hours Seemed Like Days", which boasts the record's most obnoxious lyrics, opining how "claymation is gone and now it's all become CG" in an embarrassing tone of false nostalgia. Lamentably, +/- has already run the numbers on this hybridization of purebred-rock-to-shakedown-ambience, only with a touch of innovation-- and on a track like, "A Number, Not a Name", Dalley proves he's a far cry from Tamborello as well. Pigeonholing this record into a simple genre like "emo" or "post-rock" or "sadcore" is impossible, as its focus is far too splintered to qualify for any one in particular. I can, however, tell you what it's not: a record you haven't heard before."

Pelican

The Fire in Our Throats Will Beckon the Thaw

Metal

Brandon Stosuy

When not outright dismissive, reviews of instrumental rock (a/k/a "instru-metal") tend toward the hyperbolic. Maybe the stab at heightened language highlights an attempt to pad the lacking libretto; or perhaps without voices covering-up aspects of the instrumentation, we subconsciously connect the work to pure nonhuman landscapes like towering mountains and multilayered constellations, et al. Whatever the case, the guys of Pelican don't need fancy prose because the Chicago quartet aims for such oxygen-free highs that any over-the-top words I scribble are more or less a reenactment of what they've put to tape. "Epic" is the single most overused word in the context of notey crews like Don Caballero (or Battles), Red Sparowes, and Isis: It finds its way into discussion out of habit, but it's hard to prove via any visible calculations what's truly deserving of the descriptor and what's just fucking long. On their sophomore full-length, Pelican certainly know how to go for broke and then continue going and going and going. But are they really worthy of being linked to the Odyssey? Three of the seven tracks here last for more than 10 minutes, one's just under 10, and the other three each tread at around five. In many cases, Pelican enjamb enough dynamic shifts into the compositions to keep things interesting, or at least varied, but I'm still searching for a final explosion. A plus: Unlike many instrumentalists, Pelican don't affix over-long stage-direction-style titles to their compositions. Besides the dorky album title (wait-- you guys never speak, so we're gonna freeze forever? is that the hook?), they let their music do the talking. Song-by-song there's a tendency toward seasonal shifts and the sky: "Last Day of Winter", "Autumn Into Summer", "Aurora Borealis", and "Sirius". And while the songs don't necessarily sound like their tags, they at least plant a generality in the listener's head. Those are the structures. It's more difficult explaining exactly what it actually sounds like. For starters, despite critical fixations to the contrary, Fire... isn't very metal. The heavier/murkier debut, Australasia, was certainly within that realm and fit the critical shorthand, but here the production's ultra clean (sorta pristine), the atmosphere's airy (check out those acoustic transitions), and the songs delve into poppier areas than anything they've done in the past. Maybe it's safer to evoke Oren Ambarchi jamming with Trans Am. Coming up with proper genre identification's difficult, but diagramming the specific's of each song's even rougher (cataloguing the twists and turns of each track requires college-level geometry). To speak in the vaguest terms, their attack falls into two over-arching camps: They either riff through those aforementioned "epics" or drop-off more incidental sounding shortish pieces. The strongest marathon, "March Into the Sea", just under 12 minutes long, is the most "metal." There's nimble double bass drum and an interestingly treated cymbal crash. It's less atmospheric than some of the others. The first thought in my head, "Spacious Fucking Champs." Late in the track there's a sort of break down into pretty, jangling arpeggios. You know how Slash would always play his solos in the middle of the desert or something during those Guns-n-Roses videos? Well, "March Into the Sea" deserves to be unleashed in such extreme conditions. On the other hand, "Red Ran Amber", which begins promisingly with patented Unwound-style feedback, wanders into a whirlpool at some point and forgets to re-emerge. Amongst the briefer bits (spaghetti western, underwater surf music), the best (and most surprising) is the untitled fourth piece, a pile of moody acoustic Gypsy strumming with shaker percussion. Here, the instruments feel like they've been lassoed into closer quarters. Queensryche fans might cry "Silent Lucidity", but the rest of us will note that toward the end things crackle for a moment and then fingers on strings make discordant noises briefly. If you didn't know better, this might be Espers or Ben Chasny doing the backstroke through tiny wafts of radio fuzz. By and large, Pelican keep things moving. Still, at certain moments my attention wandered and I couldn't help but wonder who would be their ideal singer if they held their own "Rock Star: INXS" reality show. Truth is, the attack plateaus here/there, and just then it'd be excellent to introduce a screamer or sigher to push the elements toward that final Wagnarian movement that finds our aching, B-12 deficient hero climbing a mountain to embrase his (or her) too-lost love. My votes: The guys from Mineral and St. Vitus (as a team), King Diamond (solo), the woman in Evanescence, or the father from "The Sound of Music". Vocal-free, they never quite pull off that snow-capped climax.

Artist: Pelican, Album: The Fire in Our Throats Will Beckon the Thaw, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "When not outright dismissive, reviews of instrumental rock (a/k/a "instru-metal") tend toward the hyperbolic. Maybe the stab at heightened language highlights an attempt to pad the lacking libretto; or perhaps without voices covering-up aspects of the instrumentation, we subconsciously connect the work to pure nonhuman landscapes like towering mountains and multilayered constellations, et al. Whatever the case, the guys of Pelican don't need fancy prose because the Chicago quartet aims for such oxygen-free highs that any over-the-top words I scribble are more or less a reenactment of what they've put to tape. "Epic" is the single most overused word in the context of notey crews like Don Caballero (or Battles), Red Sparowes, and Isis: It finds its way into discussion out of habit, but it's hard to prove via any visible calculations what's truly deserving of the descriptor and what's just fucking long. On their sophomore full-length, Pelican certainly know how to go for broke and then continue going and going and going. But are they really worthy of being linked to the Odyssey? Three of the seven tracks here last for more than 10 minutes, one's just under 10, and the other three each tread at around five. In many cases, Pelican enjamb enough dynamic shifts into the compositions to keep things interesting, or at least varied, but I'm still searching for a final explosion. A plus: Unlike many instrumentalists, Pelican don't affix over-long stage-direction-style titles to their compositions. Besides the dorky album title (wait-- you guys never speak, so we're gonna freeze forever? is that the hook?), they let their music do the talking. Song-by-song there's a tendency toward seasonal shifts and the sky: "Last Day of Winter", "Autumn Into Summer", "Aurora Borealis", and "Sirius". And while the songs don't necessarily sound like their tags, they at least plant a generality in the listener's head. Those are the structures. It's more difficult explaining exactly what it actually sounds like. For starters, despite critical fixations to the contrary, Fire... isn't very metal. The heavier/murkier debut, Australasia, was certainly within that realm and fit the critical shorthand, but here the production's ultra clean (sorta pristine), the atmosphere's airy (check out those acoustic transitions), and the songs delve into poppier areas than anything they've done in the past. Maybe it's safer to evoke Oren Ambarchi jamming with Trans Am. Coming up with proper genre identification's difficult, but diagramming the specific's of each song's even rougher (cataloguing the twists and turns of each track requires college-level geometry). To speak in the vaguest terms, their attack falls into two over-arching camps: They either riff through those aforementioned "epics" or drop-off more incidental sounding shortish pieces. The strongest marathon, "March Into the Sea", just under 12 minutes long, is the most "metal." There's nimble double bass drum and an interestingly treated cymbal crash. It's less atmospheric than some of the others. The first thought in my head, "Spacious Fucking Champs." Late in the track there's a sort of break down into pretty, jangling arpeggios. You know how Slash would always play his solos in the middle of the desert or something during those Guns-n-Roses videos? Well, "March Into the Sea" deserves to be unleashed in such extreme conditions. On the other hand, "Red Ran Amber", which begins promisingly with patented Unwound-style feedback, wanders into a whirlpool at some point and forgets to re-emerge. Amongst the briefer bits (spaghetti western, underwater surf music), the best (and most surprising) is the untitled fourth piece, a pile of moody acoustic Gypsy strumming with shaker percussion. Here, the instruments feel like they've been lassoed into closer quarters. Queensryche fans might cry "Silent Lucidity", but the rest of us will note that toward the end things crackle for a moment and then fingers on strings make discordant noises briefly. If you didn't know better, this might be Espers or Ben Chasny doing the backstroke through tiny wafts of radio fuzz. By and large, Pelican keep things moving. Still, at certain moments my attention wandered and I couldn't help but wonder who would be their ideal singer if they held their own "Rock Star: INXS" reality show. Truth is, the attack plateaus here/there, and just then it'd be excellent to introduce a screamer or sigher to push the elements toward that final Wagnarian movement that finds our aching, B-12 deficient hero climbing a mountain to embrase his (or her) too-lost love. My votes: The guys from Mineral and St. Vitus (as a team), King Diamond (solo), the woman in Evanescence, or the father from "The Sound of Music". Vocal-free, they never quite pull off that snow-capped climax."

The Slits

Trapped Animal

Rock

David Raposa

"The new album is really just another third recorded album. It's just a continuation of the Slits." That's Ari Up, in a Pitchfork news interview, giving folks a hint on what to expect, or perhaps not expect, from Trapped Animal. Up also told us the Slits were adding dancehall to their burgeoning bag of tricks-- which is to say, some longtime fans who weathered the sea change between Cut's punky reggae party and the murky dubbed-out Return of the Giant Slits might not be following Jamaican music and the Slits into the digital age. But make no mistake, Trapped Animal is, for better or worse, a Slits album-- Mark E. Smith's quip about the Fall being the Fall even if it's just Smith and your granny on the bongos seems to apply here with Ari Up (assuming your granny exchanges her bongos for a melodica). The involvement of original bassist Tessa Pollitt helps make this record's claim to the group's name a little easier to swallow, but it's Ari Up who embodies the group's indomitable je ne sais quoi. And no matter how far these tunes may go astray from what folks recognize as "Slits tradition," Ari does her best to bring these songs back into the fold. Conveniently, the album provides fence-sitting listeners with a like-it-or-lump-it test right at the start. "Ask Ma" has Up and friends putting mothers on blast for doing a poor job raising their sons, and for making the Aris of the world have to put up with and clean up after these sorts of men, because even though moms have it tough (since men are keeping them down), "who's to blame when we get messed-up men?" If you know of any crypto-feminists desperate for their own "I Am Woman", point them in this direction. For your sake, I just hope they're not sticklers for quality rhymes-- the couplet that pairs up "pick up the pieces" with "life's feces" might be tough for even the most fervent acolyte to stomach. That the music behind such awkward and foggy notions is more than capable only makes these words tougher to bear. This sort of musical/lyrical qualitative disjoint is all over Trapped Animal, with the latter half of the equation usually the guilty party. It's not so much that the album tries to tackle significant issues (like psychological trauma, or the Rastafarian view of Western culture), but that it's torn between actually tackling them head-on or simply playing a two-hand touch. A plodding go-nowhere tune like "Issues" suffers because of this indecision, and the less said about the didactic "history lesson" offered in the rootsy "Babylon", the better. More tunes with an honest sense of perspective, like "Peer Pressure", would've been welcome. It also helps that "Peer Pressure" features some of the playfulness that brings to mind fond memories of the group's good old days-- Up acts as her own one-woman jungle, acrobatically trilling and cooing as the rest of the group chants "peer pressure!" over and over like a playground taunt. Tracks like "Peer Pressure" and "Reject" manage the difficult trick of being musically Cutting without being warmed-over rehashes of past glories. Sadly, these are the exception more than the rule. The tunes on this record either take an admirable sentiment (like the call to follow your dreams and not the money in "Pay Rent") and mushmouth it into a strident polemic, or they just start eating their own foot the minute Ari opens her mouth. An unfortunate example of the latter is "Reggae Gypsy", which sounds as advertised, but makes that sound in the most obvious (read: worst) possible way. Of course, the album also includes "Can't Relate", a buoyant dubby tune that actually does right by the notion of gypsy-flavored reggae. It's buried on the far end of the album's back half with another highlight, "Cry", an unapologetic rock-steady ballad. Given the confused beast that Trapped Animal turned out to be, it seems like the title track's focused on the wrong prisoner, that it's actually the band that's trapped, with the Slits' history and legacy acting as the gilded cage. Returning from nearly two decades of inactivity (barring one spotty EP and a handful of live shows) with a wide-ranging album that further expanded the definition of what the Slits were, while still maintaining fidelity to the infectious and creative fuck-all spirit that fueled the group during its heyday-- in other words, a true continuation-- would've been a welcome, and widely appreciated, statement. Instead, Trapped Animal is nothing more than an odds-and-sods record being passed off as "business as usual" by a band that doesn't seem to know what that business is anymore.

Artist: The Slits, Album: Trapped Animal, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 4.7 Album review: ""The new album is really just another third recorded album. It's just a continuation of the Slits." That's Ari Up, in a Pitchfork news interview, giving folks a hint on what to expect, or perhaps not expect, from Trapped Animal. Up also told us the Slits were adding dancehall to their burgeoning bag of tricks-- which is to say, some longtime fans who weathered the sea change between Cut's punky reggae party and the murky dubbed-out Return of the Giant Slits might not be following Jamaican music and the Slits into the digital age. But make no mistake, Trapped Animal is, for better or worse, a Slits album-- Mark E. Smith's quip about the Fall being the Fall even if it's just Smith and your granny on the bongos seems to apply here with Ari Up (assuming your granny exchanges her bongos for a melodica). The involvement of original bassist Tessa Pollitt helps make this record's claim to the group's name a little easier to swallow, but it's Ari Up who embodies the group's indomitable je ne sais quoi. And no matter how far these tunes may go astray from what folks recognize as "Slits tradition," Ari does her best to bring these songs back into the fold. Conveniently, the album provides fence-sitting listeners with a like-it-or-lump-it test right at the start. "Ask Ma" has Up and friends putting mothers on blast for doing a poor job raising their sons, and for making the Aris of the world have to put up with and clean up after these sorts of men, because even though moms have it tough (since men are keeping them down), "who's to blame when we get messed-up men?" If you know of any crypto-feminists desperate for their own "I Am Woman", point them in this direction. For your sake, I just hope they're not sticklers for quality rhymes-- the couplet that pairs up "pick up the pieces" with "life's feces" might be tough for even the most fervent acolyte to stomach. That the music behind such awkward and foggy notions is more than capable only makes these words tougher to bear. This sort of musical/lyrical qualitative disjoint is all over Trapped Animal, with the latter half of the equation usually the guilty party. It's not so much that the album tries to tackle significant issues (like psychological trauma, or the Rastafarian view of Western culture), but that it's torn between actually tackling them head-on or simply playing a two-hand touch. A plodding go-nowhere tune like "Issues" suffers because of this indecision, and the less said about the didactic "history lesson" offered in the rootsy "Babylon", the better. More tunes with an honest sense of perspective, like "Peer Pressure", would've been welcome. It also helps that "Peer Pressure" features some of the playfulness that brings to mind fond memories of the group's good old days-- Up acts as her own one-woman jungle, acrobatically trilling and cooing as the rest of the group chants "peer pressure!" over and over like a playground taunt. Tracks like "Peer Pressure" and "Reject" manage the difficult trick of being musically Cutting without being warmed-over rehashes of past glories. Sadly, these are the exception more than the rule. The tunes on this record either take an admirable sentiment (like the call to follow your dreams and not the money in "Pay Rent") and mushmouth it into a strident polemic, or they just start eating their own foot the minute Ari opens her mouth. An unfortunate example of the latter is "Reggae Gypsy", which sounds as advertised, but makes that sound in the most obvious (read: worst) possible way. Of course, the album also includes "Can't Relate", a buoyant dubby tune that actually does right by the notion of gypsy-flavored reggae. It's buried on the far end of the album's back half with another highlight, "Cry", an unapologetic rock-steady ballad. Given the confused beast that Trapped Animal turned out to be, it seems like the title track's focused on the wrong prisoner, that it's actually the band that's trapped, with the Slits' history and legacy acting as the gilded cage. Returning from nearly two decades of inactivity (barring one spotty EP and a handful of live shows) with a wide-ranging album that further expanded the definition of what the Slits were, while still maintaining fidelity to the infectious and creative fuck-all spirit that fueled the group during its heyday-- in other words, a true continuation-- would've been a welcome, and widely appreciated, statement. Instead, Trapped Animal is nothing more than an odds-and-sods record being passed off as "business as usual" by a band that doesn't seem to know what that business is anymore."

Bat for Lashes

The Bride

Rock

Cameron Cook

Natasha Khan, aka Bat for Lashes, has  an uncanny knack for world-building, an ability to craft a musical and aesthetic environment brimming with rich scenes and fantastical characters. Moving gradually from folk and chamber music to emotional electronic pop over four albums, she’s been able to carve out an uncompromising niche for herself, and while not as musically stunning as her last two records (2009’s Two Suns and 2012’s The Haunted Man, both excellent benchmarks for her brand of self-contained yet grandiose songwriting), The Bride may be Bat for Lashes’ most ambitious project yet, a true concept album, every song tightly woven into a through narrative from start to finish. The Bride tells the story of a woman left at the altar—not because her fiancé skipped out on the occasion but because he died in a car crash on his way to the wedding. The eponymous Bride then finds herself alone and unmoored on her own honeymoon, grieving the loss of her true love and trying to find the strength to piece together the rest of her life. Written as a soundtrack to an imagined movie, it commits to Bat for Lashes’ previous flirtations with going full storybook while never sounding contrived or heavy-handed. Although The Bride is relatively more stripped down than what we’ve come to expect from Bat for Lashes, Khan has no trouble filling the space with her signature lofty soprano, which does all the dramatic work the storyline needs to feel real. The album’s opener, the idyllic “I Do,” is a bit of a red herring–its strummed harpsichord and simple melody harks back to Fur & Gold, Bat for Lashes’ debut album and first foray into the persona she's meticulously constructed over the rest of her career. It does its job, setting up the scene, but it feels pallid after her previous records, and stirs concerns that Khan’s storyline might be shortchanging her songcraft. Luckily, by the time we get to lead single “Sunday Love” The Bride has hit its stride, the track’s shuffling drum loop and plucked strings transporting listeners directly into the mania of the Bride’s pure heartbreak. From there, what began as a slightly unbalanced collection begins to take shape: the quiet duo of “Never Forgive the Angels” and “Close Encounters” signal both the emotional core of the record and the stage where Khan’s character begins to lose touch with reality. “Some say my lover is a pale green light […] I feel him come to me in the dead of night/And I go to the other side” she sings, and it's a beautiful moment musically and within the context of the record: The Bride realizes, through swelling synths, that death, rather than being an absolute barrier, is more of a shifting veil between herself and her beloved. The second half of the album is a long, tapered comedown from this peak, with the soft guitars and mellow strings of “In Your Bed” and “Clouds” feeling like the tail end of a crying jag, when you’ve used up all your tears and lay exhausted on the floor. It’s still sad, but a peaceful sadness, one that ends the album on a semi-uplifting note. At its essence, The Bride is a sort of anti-breakup album, a story where the absence of physical love doesn’t mark the dissolution of a romantic relationship, but rather its strengthening through celebration and remembrance. Through the metaphor of her character, Khan weaves a story about the most simple of poetic themes–eternal love–but devoid of all the sappiness and clichés one would normally associate with those ideas. Its few shortcomings aside, The Bride is further proof that Khan, unlike almost all of her contemporaries, understands how to wade into mystical realms and emerge with big, beguiling pop.

Artist: Bat for Lashes, Album: The Bride, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Natasha Khan, aka Bat for Lashes, has  an uncanny knack for world-building, an ability to craft a musical and aesthetic environment brimming with rich scenes and fantastical characters. Moving gradually from folk and chamber music to emotional electronic pop over four albums, she’s been able to carve out an uncompromising niche for herself, and while not as musically stunning as her last two records (2009’s Two Suns and 2012’s The Haunted Man, both excellent benchmarks for her brand of self-contained yet grandiose songwriting), The Bride may be Bat for Lashes’ most ambitious project yet, a true concept album, every song tightly woven into a through narrative from start to finish. The Bride tells the story of a woman left at the altar—not because her fiancé skipped out on the occasion but because he died in a car crash on his way to the wedding. The eponymous Bride then finds herself alone and unmoored on her own honeymoon, grieving the loss of her true love and trying to find the strength to piece together the rest of her life. Written as a soundtrack to an imagined movie, it commits to Bat for Lashes’ previous flirtations with going full storybook while never sounding contrived or heavy-handed. Although The Bride is relatively more stripped down than what we’ve come to expect from Bat for Lashes, Khan has no trouble filling the space with her signature lofty soprano, which does all the dramatic work the storyline needs to feel real. The album’s opener, the idyllic “I Do,” is a bit of a red herring–its strummed harpsichord and simple melody harks back to Fur & Gold, Bat for Lashes’ debut album and first foray into the persona she's meticulously constructed over the rest of her career. It does its job, setting up the scene, but it feels pallid after her previous records, and stirs concerns that Khan’s storyline might be shortchanging her songcraft. Luckily, by the time we get to lead single “Sunday Love” The Bride has hit its stride, the track’s shuffling drum loop and plucked strings transporting listeners directly into the mania of the Bride’s pure heartbreak. From there, what began as a slightly unbalanced collection begins to take shape: the quiet duo of “Never Forgive the Angels” and “Close Encounters” signal both the emotional core of the record and the stage where Khan’s character begins to lose touch with reality. “Some say my lover is a pale green light […] I feel him come to me in the dead of night/And I go to the other side” she sings, and it's a beautiful moment musically and within the context of the record: The Bride realizes, through swelling synths, that death, rather than being an absolute barrier, is more of a shifting veil between herself and her beloved. The second half of the album is a long, tapered comedown from this peak, with the soft guitars and mellow strings of “In Your Bed” and “Clouds” feeling like the tail end of a crying jag, when you’ve used up all your tears and lay exhausted on the floor. It’s still sad, but a peaceful sadness, one that ends the album on a semi-uplifting note. At its essence, The Bride is a sort of anti-breakup album, a story where the absence of physical love doesn’t mark the dissolution of a romantic relationship, but rather its strengthening through celebration and remembrance. Through the metaphor of her character, Khan weaves a story about the most simple of poetic themes–eternal love–but devoid of all the sappiness and clichés one would normally associate with those ideas. Its few shortcomings aside, The Bride is further proof that Khan, unlike almost all of her contemporaries, understands how to wade into mystical realms and emerge with big, beguiling pop."

Braid

Closer to Closed

Metal,Rock

Ian Cohen

We were the new Nathan Detroits. We assumed everything while Ariel danced in her room and took off her clothes. We were at their last show where Bob Nanna cried and maybe we did, too. Sure, this is a composite sketch, but we repped Braid to the fullest back when emo meant something. Of course, that "something" mostly meant humble Midwesterners with enough start-stop trickery and "auxiliary screaming guy" to crucially place themselves in the cred lineage of Fugazi even if the lyrics yelled "do you like me?" more than "you are not what you own." It's been hard since then: not just because Braid went dormant, but because emo's domination of early-2000s radio was a pyrrhic victory, its ensuing evolution leading to its becoming the single most vilified form in all of indie rock. But oh shit, Braid are back. Even if Closer to Closed is just a four-song EP, come on! Chris Broach in the building! Unfortunately, the brevity of Closer to Closed only makes it easier to remember that this is also pretty much the same band as Hey Mercedes, a competently forgettable Vagrant latecomer that made Everynight Fire Works, a record I haven't listened to in a decade mostly because I recall it sounding a hell of a lot like this. "This" mostly meaning market-tested emo-pop with the emotion and pop aspects sterilized by an unwillingness to commit to either. It sounded somewhat desperate back when there felt like a reason and a market to sell out for, but now it just sounds utterly clueless. This year, we've seen Taking Back Sunday, Saves The Day, and the Get Up Kids attempting to play catch up with themselves, but here Braid bafflingly jettison the goodwill of their past: the palm-muted verses and squeaky choruses, the one-sided conversations of the lyrics, the antiseptic production-- I'll say it could come from anyone because you probably don't remember who the Pinehurst Kids are. With not a single sharp edge provided by any riffs or even Broach (whose guitar doodles enough in the margins to let you know that he actually showed up), you haven't much choice but to sort of pitifully engage with Closer to Closed like a nervous friend before a huge date he's clearly going to fuck up. During its first two clean-shaven and aloe-moisturized choruses, Chris Broach sings, "It could never be this good again/ You know it's true," and Nanna, "I want a do over, do over, do over." If you want to project your vague romantic frustration onto a blank slate, this'll do. You can just as easily take it as running commentary on Closer to Closed itself, stuck for inspiration outside of constantly introducing and apologizing for its own existence. (Congratulations...I'm Sorry, y'know?) "I wouldn't mind a second try," Nanna chirps on "Do Over", and at its climax, "now is the part where I break your heart" flips to "this is the part where we break some hearts." Hearing them stoop to the Panic! At the Disco-era necessity of establishing some sort of conspiratorial fourth-wall busting narrative with the listener is just such a fucking bummer that you can't even muster the energy to use their own words against them.Which is incredibly easy since Nanna's lyrics have further devolved into pure emo madlibbing. Of course, it might be just as easy for you to point out that I'm a grown man and wanting Braid to pick up and recreate 1998 on the rebound is no more rational than my college friends expecting me to knock off that bottle of Goldschlager and somehow shake it off before that huge presentation the next morning. But are you seriously asking Braid fans to not care so much? Let us mourn in peace-- Urbana's just too fucking dark, and it's not getting any brighter.

Artist: Braid, Album: Closer to Closed, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 2.8 Album review: "We were the new Nathan Detroits. We assumed everything while Ariel danced in her room and took off her clothes. We were at their last show where Bob Nanna cried and maybe we did, too. Sure, this is a composite sketch, but we repped Braid to the fullest back when emo meant something. Of course, that "something" mostly meant humble Midwesterners with enough start-stop trickery and "auxiliary screaming guy" to crucially place themselves in the cred lineage of Fugazi even if the lyrics yelled "do you like me?" more than "you are not what you own." It's been hard since then: not just because Braid went dormant, but because emo's domination of early-2000s radio was a pyrrhic victory, its ensuing evolution leading to its becoming the single most vilified form in all of indie rock. But oh shit, Braid are back. Even if Closer to Closed is just a four-song EP, come on! Chris Broach in the building! Unfortunately, the brevity of Closer to Closed only makes it easier to remember that this is also pretty much the same band as Hey Mercedes, a competently forgettable Vagrant latecomer that made Everynight Fire Works, a record I haven't listened to in a decade mostly because I recall it sounding a hell of a lot like this. "This" mostly meaning market-tested emo-pop with the emotion and pop aspects sterilized by an unwillingness to commit to either. It sounded somewhat desperate back when there felt like a reason and a market to sell out for, but now it just sounds utterly clueless. This year, we've seen Taking Back Sunday, Saves The Day, and the Get Up Kids attempting to play catch up with themselves, but here Braid bafflingly jettison the goodwill of their past: the palm-muted verses and squeaky choruses, the one-sided conversations of the lyrics, the antiseptic production-- I'll say it could come from anyone because you probably don't remember who the Pinehurst Kids are. With not a single sharp edge provided by any riffs or even Broach (whose guitar doodles enough in the margins to let you know that he actually showed up), you haven't much choice but to sort of pitifully engage with Closer to Closed like a nervous friend before a huge date he's clearly going to fuck up. During its first two clean-shaven and aloe-moisturized choruses, Chris Broach sings, "It could never be this good again/ You know it's true," and Nanna, "I want a do over, do over, do over." If you want to project your vague romantic frustration onto a blank slate, this'll do. You can just as easily take it as running commentary on Closer to Closed itself, stuck for inspiration outside of constantly introducing and apologizing for its own existence. (Congratulations...I'm Sorry, y'know?) "I wouldn't mind a second try," Nanna chirps on "Do Over", and at its climax, "now is the part where I break your heart" flips to "this is the part where we break some hearts." Hearing them stoop to the Panic! At the Disco-era necessity of establishing some sort of conspiratorial fourth-wall busting narrative with the listener is just such a fucking bummer that you can't even muster the energy to use their own words against them.Which is incredibly easy since Nanna's lyrics have further devolved into pure emo madlibbing. Of course, it might be just as easy for you to point out that I'm a grown man and wanting Braid to pick up and recreate 1998 on the rebound is no more rational than my college friends expecting me to knock off that bottle of Goldschlager and somehow shake it off before that huge presentation the next morning. But are you seriously asking Braid fans to not care so much? Let us mourn in peace-- Urbana's just too fucking dark, and it's not getting any brighter."

Kevin Morby

Harlem River

Rock

Jeremy Gordon

Considering his career, Kevin Morby’s own shift from buzz band sideplayer to existentially peripatetic frontman is an interesting one. Once upon a time, the Kansas City-bred musician was based in Brooklyn, playing in groups like Woods and the Babies. Now, he lives in Los Angeles and has written Harlem River, a love letter to New York City that transforms its eponymous subject's long stretch of water into a metaphor for a wandering heart. Within Woods’ discography, Morby's bass-playing wasn’t necessarily meant to suggest the existence of a richly detailed interior. Meanwhile, the Babies were formed from an inside joke and have been self-described as a party band. Harlem River has the same emotional looseness as those groups, but its instrumental texture is more focused: it’s made up of intricately plucked acoustic guitars, shimmering organs, and electric guitars cutting through the negative space like a foglight. And, given the proper room to breathe, Morby’s voice reveals its lazy-day Kansan cadence, sounding not unlike Cass McCombs, Kurt Vile, or any guy with a guitar who’s got something to tell you. What Morby has to say is unspecific, but no less true. On “Miles, Miles, Miles,” he alludes to the darkness the song’s protagonist has come from, while offering a wishful portrait of the place he’d like to be. The title track is slow and ponderous, Morby’s voice reduced to a muted creep as he seeks answers from a path showing no end. On “Slow Train”, he sings of not wanting to be destroyed by his temperament while wondering if he’s already missed his chance at redemption. That title, borrowed from the most spiritual of Bob Dylan albums, is surely no coincidence. The song features Cate le Bon, a similarly-minded singer who on her most recent album offered the mournful admission: “I forget the detail/ but know the warmth.” That, more than anything, functions as an explanation of Morby’s creative ethos. Harlem River is mostly concerned with different shades of subtlety, which makes the rare overt moments stick out like an anarchy patch on a wedding dress. This is an album which references Easy Rider and Bob Dylan and has the temerity to sing a song called “Wild Side” (which is largely concerned with walking) in a recognizably Reedian drawl. That also means Morby’s perhaps quixotic intent to refashion himself as a 60s-era nomad is sometimes undercut by the limitations of his arrangements: the repeating breakdown in “Wild Side” is rhythm-disrupting brittle, and the cowpoke shuffle of “Reign” is a little too on-the-nose in its attempt to tell a modern outlaw tale. But those moments aren’t too distracting. Morby largely succeeds at taking us on his journey, imploring that the big "Where am I going?" question isn't so daunting so long as you keep collecting suggestions.

Artist: Kevin Morby, Album: Harlem River, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Considering his career, Kevin Morby’s own shift from buzz band sideplayer to existentially peripatetic frontman is an interesting one. Once upon a time, the Kansas City-bred musician was based in Brooklyn, playing in groups like Woods and the Babies. Now, he lives in Los Angeles and has written Harlem River, a love letter to New York City that transforms its eponymous subject's long stretch of water into a metaphor for a wandering heart. Within Woods’ discography, Morby's bass-playing wasn’t necessarily meant to suggest the existence of a richly detailed interior. Meanwhile, the Babies were formed from an inside joke and have been self-described as a party band. Harlem River has the same emotional looseness as those groups, but its instrumental texture is more focused: it’s made up of intricately plucked acoustic guitars, shimmering organs, and electric guitars cutting through the negative space like a foglight. And, given the proper room to breathe, Morby’s voice reveals its lazy-day Kansan cadence, sounding not unlike Cass McCombs, Kurt Vile, or any guy with a guitar who’s got something to tell you. What Morby has to say is unspecific, but no less true. On “Miles, Miles, Miles,” he alludes to the darkness the song’s protagonist has come from, while offering a wishful portrait of the place he’d like to be. The title track is slow and ponderous, Morby’s voice reduced to a muted creep as he seeks answers from a path showing no end. On “Slow Train”, he sings of not wanting to be destroyed by his temperament while wondering if he’s already missed his chance at redemption. That title, borrowed from the most spiritual of Bob Dylan albums, is surely no coincidence. The song features Cate le Bon, a similarly-minded singer who on her most recent album offered the mournful admission: “I forget the detail/ but know the warmth.” That, more than anything, functions as an explanation of Morby’s creative ethos. Harlem River is mostly concerned with different shades of subtlety, which makes the rare overt moments stick out like an anarchy patch on a wedding dress. This is an album which references Easy Rider and Bob Dylan and has the temerity to sing a song called “Wild Side” (which is largely concerned with walking) in a recognizably Reedian drawl. That also means Morby’s perhaps quixotic intent to refashion himself as a 60s-era nomad is sometimes undercut by the limitations of his arrangements: the repeating breakdown in “Wild Side” is rhythm-disrupting brittle, and the cowpoke shuffle of “Reign” is a little too on-the-nose in its attempt to tell a modern outlaw tale. But those moments aren’t too distracting. Morby largely succeeds at taking us on his journey, imploring that the big "Where am I going?" question isn't so daunting so long as you keep collecting suggestions."

The Bevis Frond

New River Head

Rock

Brandon Stosuy

Second only to Twisted Village's Wayne Rogers, Nick Saloman is my choice for king of the 60s psychedelic revival when it finally comes back around. Sort of a J Mascis type (he even has the hair!), the British multi-instrumentalist writes all The Bevis Frond's material; he sings and plays just about every instrument on his albums, engineers and produces them, and then releases them on his and Adrian Shaw's Woronzow label, named after a street near where he grew up. Which, for rock history's sake, was close to Abbey Road. Despite his control-freak tendencies, Saloman comes off as an affable guy without the stoner ego of a guy like Mascis. For starters, he's got major collaborators and not paint-by-numbers cronies feeding off his aura. Most notable is Adrian Shaw (ex-Hawkwind, Magic Muscle, Tom Rapp, etc), who's stuck by Saloman since The Bevis Frond's 1984 inception. In concert, Saloman handles guitar and vocals while Shaw takes the bass; a rotating lineup of drummers-- which on any given day might include Andy Ward (ex-Camel and Marillion) or Joe Propatire (The Silver Apples)-- expand the percussion outward. As of deadline, Saloman's released 16 albums, plus innumerable collaborations, singles, and one-offs. One of his earlier works, New River Head, was first issued in edited form in 1991. This reissued version takes the opposite route: It includes 30 songs spanning two hours and two CDs, restores the six tracks cut from the 1991 version, and tacks on nine new bonus tracks. Beginning with the prerecorded sounds of an old-school British announcer, New River Head wastes no time shifting from ho-hum sampling to blistering guitar work. The first proper track, an instrumental called "White Sun", includes the saxophone of Cyke Bancroft (who's illustrated some of The Bevis Frond's album sleeves) alongside Nick Saloman's nuanced riff. The same style comes up in "Solar Marmalade", a studio jam that hits a peak early and remains at that level until the end of its eight-minute run. "He'd Be a Diamond", a pop song about guys treating girls like shit, has been covered by everyone from Mary Lou Lord (well, obviously) to Juliana Hatfield and Teenage Fanclub. Here, on the original, Saloman croons like Elvis Costello: his voice has often resembled old Four Eyes, but here the structure also follows Costello's pop path. The protracted "God Speed You to Earth" is a dramatic landscape of echoey vocals and gentle strums culminating as pure rock bliss, while "Thankless Task" serves as Saloman's attempt at writing a traditional folk song with more contemporary themes: "I felt the image of a damaged hippie chick was more identifiable than, say, a wronged milkmaid." The result? An upbeat tale that would sound at home on an Incredible String Band album. With a band this expansive and virtuosic, it's interesting to chart the interactions on the inevitable lengthy freakout. "The Miskatonic Variations II" weighs in at a mind-altering 16:23, but it sure makes an adequate bridge to the bonus tracks. The dozy atmospheric includes Adrian Shaw, Bari Watts, Current 93's David Tibet, Cyke Bancroft, and Barry Dransfield. Almost new age in its arrested entrance, piano, violin, horn and Tibet's creepy chants lead into Carlos Santana-esque guitars, rock-out drums, and, yeah, a full-on mind-melt. Structurally, it's the songs that came before joining together for a final bow. I was a youngster when New River Head first dropped, and though I wouldn't consider myself a manic fan of The Frond, the other day I tallied nine of the band's records in my collection. Some are less interesting than others, sure, but each is at least somewhat compelling due to Saloman's inclination to forever fuck with psychedelic conventions and tackle diverse genres without a hitch. Within such an impressive body of work, New River Head is certainly the crown jewel. One of the headier agglomerations of the past decade, its non-grasping pace and epic palette issue the breezy confidence of an unmistakable classic.

Artist: The Bevis Frond, Album: New River Head, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.1 Album review: "Second only to Twisted Village's Wayne Rogers, Nick Saloman is my choice for king of the 60s psychedelic revival when it finally comes back around. Sort of a J Mascis type (he even has the hair!), the British multi-instrumentalist writes all The Bevis Frond's material; he sings and plays just about every instrument on his albums, engineers and produces them, and then releases them on his and Adrian Shaw's Woronzow label, named after a street near where he grew up. Which, for rock history's sake, was close to Abbey Road. Despite his control-freak tendencies, Saloman comes off as an affable guy without the stoner ego of a guy like Mascis. For starters, he's got major collaborators and not paint-by-numbers cronies feeding off his aura. Most notable is Adrian Shaw (ex-Hawkwind, Magic Muscle, Tom Rapp, etc), who's stuck by Saloman since The Bevis Frond's 1984 inception. In concert, Saloman handles guitar and vocals while Shaw takes the bass; a rotating lineup of drummers-- which on any given day might include Andy Ward (ex-Camel and Marillion) or Joe Propatire (The Silver Apples)-- expand the percussion outward. As of deadline, Saloman's released 16 albums, plus innumerable collaborations, singles, and one-offs. One of his earlier works, New River Head, was first issued in edited form in 1991. This reissued version takes the opposite route: It includes 30 songs spanning two hours and two CDs, restores the six tracks cut from the 1991 version, and tacks on nine new bonus tracks. Beginning with the prerecorded sounds of an old-school British announcer, New River Head wastes no time shifting from ho-hum sampling to blistering guitar work. The first proper track, an instrumental called "White Sun", includes the saxophone of Cyke Bancroft (who's illustrated some of The Bevis Frond's album sleeves) alongside Nick Saloman's nuanced riff. The same style comes up in "Solar Marmalade", a studio jam that hits a peak early and remains at that level until the end of its eight-minute run. "He'd Be a Diamond", a pop song about guys treating girls like shit, has been covered by everyone from Mary Lou Lord (well, obviously) to Juliana Hatfield and Teenage Fanclub. Here, on the original, Saloman croons like Elvis Costello: his voice has often resembled old Four Eyes, but here the structure also follows Costello's pop path. The protracted "God Speed You to Earth" is a dramatic landscape of echoey vocals and gentle strums culminating as pure rock bliss, while "Thankless Task" serves as Saloman's attempt at writing a traditional folk song with more contemporary themes: "I felt the image of a damaged hippie chick was more identifiable than, say, a wronged milkmaid." The result? An upbeat tale that would sound at home on an Incredible String Band album. With a band this expansive and virtuosic, it's interesting to chart the interactions on the inevitable lengthy freakout. "The Miskatonic Variations II" weighs in at a mind-altering 16:23, but it sure makes an adequate bridge to the bonus tracks. The dozy atmospheric includes Adrian Shaw, Bari Watts, Current 93's David Tibet, Cyke Bancroft, and Barry Dransfield. Almost new age in its arrested entrance, piano, violin, horn and Tibet's creepy chants lead into Carlos Santana-esque guitars, rock-out drums, and, yeah, a full-on mind-melt. Structurally, it's the songs that came before joining together for a final bow. I was a youngster when New River Head first dropped, and though I wouldn't consider myself a manic fan of The Frond, the other day I tallied nine of the band's records in my collection. Some are less interesting than others, sure, but each is at least somewhat compelling due to Saloman's inclination to forever fuck with psychedelic conventions and tackle diverse genres without a hitch. Within such an impressive body of work, New River Head is certainly the crown jewel. One of the headier agglomerations of the past decade, its non-grasping pace and epic palette issue the breezy confidence of an unmistakable classic."

Mannequin Pussy

Romantic

Rock

Raymond Cummings

Brevity is among Mannequin Pussy’s strengths, but a controlled volatility is the Philadelphia quartet’s calling card. The mood of any given song can zap with a disconcerting swiftness from the playful to the chaotic. This dynamic persists on record and on stage. Opening for Colleen Green at Baltimore’s Metro Gallery last August, the band kicked up a series of shoegaze-y whorls, detonating their abrupt thrash-punk before the audience could let its guard down. Beginning in New York City, Mannequin Pussy was formed by childhood friends Marisa Dabice and Thanasi Paul, and their early demos set an ineffable foundation: indecipherable, sub-minute hardcore bursts, propelled by Paul’s sharp drumming and Dabice’s lashed punk chords. By 2014 debut LP Gypsy Pervert, the melodies buried in the group’s sound had clawed their way to the surface. Paul swapped out his drum kit for a guitar, and the band’s lineup reshuffled, while track lengths expanded modestly. Significantly, Dabice found her footing as a singer and songwriter, as evidenced by smart standouts like “Clue Juice” and “My Baby (Axe Nice),” where second-wave American punk and 1990s cuddlecore made uneasy common cause. For all of Pervert’s advances, it never quite gelled as an album. Romantic does. Its volcanic peaks and gauzy valleys hew to a sequential logic; neither a build nor a decline, but rather, the ferocious push-pull of a mosh pit. Dabice’s vocals have taken on a bitter insistency that suits themes best described as interpersonally political. *Romantic *also benefits from a consistent, road-tested lineup that includes bassist Colins Regisford and drummer Kaleen Reading. This tautness allows the band to double down on what it does best *and *roll a few dice. All lurch and glossolalia, “Pledge” suggests a lost My Bloody Valentine single harboring the paranoid stoicism of death metal. “Meatslave One” is a 56-second lamentation of smart-phone narcissism dressed in grunge flannel. The turbulent “Emotional High” and “Kiss” treat friend-dynamics from near and distant removes, respectively, with no punches pulled. On “Beside Yourself,” the don’t-look-back anthem that closes the album, the four mass their voices in angelic chorus to leaven what is a jagged, collective scorching of earth. A wild energy animates the 20-minute Romantic, as it spills out in every direction. This is most evident on “Ten” and “Denial,” when Dabice’s personality is especially harried and panicky, her lyrics Jenga-stacked and tripping over themselves, the songs supercharged. “Ten” rails against that kind of depression that can confine you to your bedroom, buckling so hard that the song risks shaking itself into pieces. “Denial,” a jangly, introspective self-inventory, explodes in wracked gasps. “Pick yourself up, baby, everything’s gonna be fine, but if not, so what?” she counsels, pleading. “You’ll get it right the next time/You should stop getting down on yourself, everyday.” These are words to live by.

Artist: Mannequin Pussy, Album: Romantic, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Brevity is among Mannequin Pussy’s strengths, but a controlled volatility is the Philadelphia quartet’s calling card. The mood of any given song can zap with a disconcerting swiftness from the playful to the chaotic. This dynamic persists on record and on stage. Opening for Colleen Green at Baltimore’s Metro Gallery last August, the band kicked up a series of shoegaze-y whorls, detonating their abrupt thrash-punk before the audience could let its guard down. Beginning in New York City, Mannequin Pussy was formed by childhood friends Marisa Dabice and Thanasi Paul, and their early demos set an ineffable foundation: indecipherable, sub-minute hardcore bursts, propelled by Paul’s sharp drumming and Dabice’s lashed punk chords. By 2014 debut LP Gypsy Pervert, the melodies buried in the group’s sound had clawed their way to the surface. Paul swapped out his drum kit for a guitar, and the band’s lineup reshuffled, while track lengths expanded modestly. Significantly, Dabice found her footing as a singer and songwriter, as evidenced by smart standouts like “Clue Juice” and “My Baby (Axe Nice),” where second-wave American punk and 1990s cuddlecore made uneasy common cause. For all of Pervert’s advances, it never quite gelled as an album. Romantic does. Its volcanic peaks and gauzy valleys hew to a sequential logic; neither a build nor a decline, but rather, the ferocious push-pull of a mosh pit. Dabice’s vocals have taken on a bitter insistency that suits themes best described as interpersonally political. *Romantic *also benefits from a consistent, road-tested lineup that includes bassist Colins Regisford and drummer Kaleen Reading. This tautness allows the band to double down on what it does best *and *roll a few dice. All lurch and glossolalia, “Pledge” suggests a lost My Bloody Valentine single harboring the paranoid stoicism of death metal. “Meatslave One” is a 56-second lamentation of smart-phone narcissism dressed in grunge flannel. The turbulent “Emotional High” and “Kiss” treat friend-dynamics from near and distant removes, respectively, with no punches pulled. On “Beside Yourself,” the don’t-look-back anthem that closes the album, the four mass their voices in angelic chorus to leaven what is a jagged, collective scorching of earth. A wild energy animates the 20-minute Romantic, as it spills out in every direction. This is most evident on “Ten” and “Denial,” when Dabice’s personality is especially harried and panicky, her lyrics Jenga-stacked and tripping over themselves, the songs supercharged. “Ten” rails against that kind of depression that can confine you to your bedroom, buckling so hard that the song risks shaking itself into pieces. “Denial,” a jangly, introspective self-inventory, explodes in wracked gasps. “Pick yourself up, baby, everything’s gonna be fine, but if not, so what?” she counsels, pleading. “You’ll get it right the next time/You should stop getting down on yourself, everyday.” These are words to live by."

Iron Reagan

The Tyranny of Will

Metal

Zoe Camp

A decade after his death (two since he left office), former president Ronald Reagan continues to be a subject of many a musical effigy, but it's been a while since the hardcore community had him as its muse. Enter Iron Reagan, a Richmond band composed of members from notable crossover thrash groups like Municipal Waste and Darkest Hour, who are the jellybean cowboy's latest invokers. While their sound places them as political punk in the vein of Wasted Youth or the Crucifucks, Iron Reagan's lyrical tendencies skew nihilstic and violent with a dash of odd humor. Where Black Flag once instructed the crowd to “Rise Above”, Iron Reagan proudly declare, "I Ripped That Testament a New Asshole”. It’s a shock-driven approach, sure, but when it comes to expressing displeasure with the status quo, have punks ever bothered to clean up nicely and say “please”? The quintet's latest, The Tyranny of Will, is a thirty-two minute blitzkrieg that surges forth like the blood spurting from the politician's neck on the album cover. Iron Reagan stick to what they know best: firing off short, potent riffs at a workmanlike pace, and letting the listener sort out the mess for themselves. In interviews, frontman Tony Foresta hasn’t tried to hide the fact that he and the rest of the guys are, largely, winging it: “We suffer from A.D.D. pretty hard—almost everyone in the band,” he revealed recently to one reporter with a laugh, “so we make music that comes across faster, and more to the point." In other words, they’ve got the punk mindset already hard-wired, and so it naturally follows that nine of the album’s songs blow by in under a minute. On the album's most immediate cut, “Eyeball Gore”,power chords stamp and stomp as the band make their impassionately sadistic demands: “All we want is eyeball gore RIGHT NOW!” Think of the song as the album's elevator pitch: the violent fervor of protest music used to incite social change and knife parties. Of course, there are jabs at the cops and the one-percenters (see the hilarious “U Lock the Bike Cop”, in which Foresta warns a policeman that his fixie’s going to get jacked). Most of the time, however, Iron Reagan simply release their furor with no target in particular. “Broken Bottles”,  a twisted take on Adolescents-style skate punk, captures the sentiment of that band’s essential cut “Bloodstains” and leaves it to simmer, resulting in a chugging frenzy topped off with a tottering solo. Sometimes, they can’t seem to tell exactly who or what they’re mad at; “Your Kid’s an Asshole”, short and pointless, might as well be the musical equivalent of a typo-laden insult from an email exchange between two soccer moms. A significant portion of The Tyranny of Will was written while Iron Reagan toured with GWAR, not too long before Dave Brockie (aka Oderus Ungurus) passed. According to the band, the late frontman lent Iron Reagan some inspiration, going as far to contribute gory gross-out ideas for the album, and listening to The Tyranny of Will, a number of similarities emerge between the two entities. Foresta’s podium-side barking bears kinship to Brockie’s theatrical delivery, and while the former has yet to perform in blood-soaked costumes exposing prosthetic genitalia, he plays a comedic villain with aplomb. “I’d rather just set fire/ Than be left to die,” he threatens on “Miserable Failure”, his energy essential in keeping the group's bare-bones, repetitive fretwork fresh. For diehard thrash heads who possess patience and a sick sense of humor, The Tyranny of Will should prove satisfying; most listeners, though, will probably find the record's attention-challenged songwriting grating by the fifteen-minute mark, and as the album plays on, the pummeling punchlines don’t hit as hard as they're intended to. As is the case with most overstuffed hardcore albums, The Tyranny of Will lends itself well to a cherry-picking approach; keep some riffs and ideas, and toss the ones that don’t stick. Essentially, it's ample license to take part in some musical mudslinging—and The Man could always stand to take a good mud-and-blood pie to the face.

Artist: Iron Reagan, Album: The Tyranny of Will, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "A decade after his death (two since he left office), former president Ronald Reagan continues to be a subject of many a musical effigy, but it's been a while since the hardcore community had him as its muse. Enter Iron Reagan, a Richmond band composed of members from notable crossover thrash groups like Municipal Waste and Darkest Hour, who are the jellybean cowboy's latest invokers. While their sound places them as political punk in the vein of Wasted Youth or the Crucifucks, Iron Reagan's lyrical tendencies skew nihilstic and violent with a dash of odd humor. Where Black Flag once instructed the crowd to “Rise Above”, Iron Reagan proudly declare, "I Ripped That Testament a New Asshole”. It’s a shock-driven approach, sure, but when it comes to expressing displeasure with the status quo, have punks ever bothered to clean up nicely and say “please”? The quintet's latest, The Tyranny of Will, is a thirty-two minute blitzkrieg that surges forth like the blood spurting from the politician's neck on the album cover. Iron Reagan stick to what they know best: firing off short, potent riffs at a workmanlike pace, and letting the listener sort out the mess for themselves. In interviews, frontman Tony Foresta hasn’t tried to hide the fact that he and the rest of the guys are, largely, winging it: “We suffer from A.D.D. pretty hard—almost everyone in the band,” he revealed recently to one reporter with a laugh, “so we make music that comes across faster, and more to the point." In other words, they’ve got the punk mindset already hard-wired, and so it naturally follows that nine of the album’s songs blow by in under a minute. On the album's most immediate cut, “Eyeball Gore”,power chords stamp and stomp as the band make their impassionately sadistic demands: “All we want is eyeball gore RIGHT NOW!” Think of the song as the album's elevator pitch: the violent fervor of protest music used to incite social change and knife parties. Of course, there are jabs at the cops and the one-percenters (see the hilarious “U Lock the Bike Cop”, in which Foresta warns a policeman that his fixie’s going to get jacked). Most of the time, however, Iron Reagan simply release their furor with no target in particular. “Broken Bottles”,  a twisted take on Adolescents-style skate punk, captures the sentiment of that band’s essential cut “Bloodstains” and leaves it to simmer, resulting in a chugging frenzy topped off with a tottering solo. Sometimes, they can’t seem to tell exactly who or what they’re mad at; “Your Kid’s an Asshole”, short and pointless, might as well be the musical equivalent of a typo-laden insult from an email exchange between two soccer moms. A significant portion of The Tyranny of Will was written while Iron Reagan toured with GWAR, not too long before Dave Brockie (aka Oderus Ungurus) passed. According to the band, the late frontman lent Iron Reagan some inspiration, going as far to contribute gory gross-out ideas for the album, and listening to The Tyranny of Will, a number of similarities emerge between the two entities. Foresta’s podium-side barking bears kinship to Brockie’s theatrical delivery, and while the former has yet to perform in blood-soaked costumes exposing prosthetic genitalia, he plays a comedic villain with aplomb. “I’d rather just set fire/ Than be left to die,” he threatens on “Miserable Failure”, his energy essential in keeping the group's bare-bones, repetitive fretwork fresh. For diehard thrash heads who possess patience and a sick sense of humor, The Tyranny of Will should prove satisfying; most listeners, though, will probably find the record's attention-challenged songwriting grating by the fifteen-minute mark, and as the album plays on, the pummeling punchlines don’t hit as hard as they're intended to. As is the case with most overstuffed hardcore albums, The Tyranny of Will lends itself well to a cherry-picking approach; keep some riffs and ideas, and toss the ones that don’t stick. Essentially, it's ample license to take part in some musical mudslinging—and The Man could always stand to take a good mud-and-blood pie to the face."