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Sufjan Stevens

Silver & Gold

Folk/Country

Ryan Dombal

Silver & Gold, Sufjan Stevens' holiday-themed follow-up to 2006's 42-song-long Songs for Christmas collection, stretches 59 tracks across nearly three hours. The box set includes a fold-it-yourself paper star ornament. And stickers. Also: temporary tattoos and a poster. There's an 80-page booklet, too. All of which may make you think: "Wow, Sufjan is really, really, really fucking obsessed with Christmas." And you would be correct. But his fixation isn't born of pure peppermint joy or the eternal spite of not finding that Power Wheels under the tree as a toddler. It's more complicated than that. About a third of the tracks here are Sufjan originals, and the music ranges from reverent, to intergalactic, to angelic, to positively looney. The stickers and tattoos include a skeleton/soldier throwing a bomb, a panda in a Christmas sweater holding a human skull, and a chainsaw-wielding snowman. The crowded poster shows a half-alien/half-human breastfeeding her alien offspring, a sea monster, a robot owl, a cigarette-smoking baby with a lobster claw for a hand, and Jesus on the phone with a caption next to him that reads, "DAD!" And along with lyrics and chords and insanely cut-and-pasted family photos and a hard drive's worth of outre fonts, the booklet features an essay from a pastor that concludes thusly: "Advent is ultimately about death. The end is near. You are going to die. Happy Holidays." The entire project is an excavation into Sufjan's conflicted Christmas heart. He also penned two essays for the booklet, and both are filled with some of the most critical seasonal tidings you're ever likely to hear. In the first, which reads like a tortured self-justification for the project itself, he observes that the yearly economy-boosting hoopla reduces us to "that clammy, pre-pubescent Christmas wish-list spoiled brat kid of our insatiable childhood, throwing an empirical fit on Santa's lap, faced with the hard-candy facts of reality, knowing for certain we will never really get what we want for Christmas, or in life, for that matter." And in the second, he dives deep into the history and hypocrisy of Christmas trees specifically, concluding that: "The Christmas tree has become nothing more than a symbol of environmental bondage, illustrating all the negligent ways in which man has taken possession of the world in order to destroy it. [...] In a word, the Christmas tree is our bitch." Um, joy to the world? Of course, Sufjan's uniquely bizarre feelings toward all things merry is a boon for the rest of us, who naturally have the same kind of anxieties and phobias about the holidays, but lack the vast musical talent and/or OCD graphic design skills to make it really count. Because while he's extremely wary of the idea of putting a Christmas box set out just in time for the trampling Black Friday hordes, he's no less susceptible to wintertime whimsy than anyone else. "Christmas is what you make of it," he writes, in one of the more level-headed booklet passages, "and its songs reflect mystery and magic as expertly as they clatter and clang with the most audacious and rambunctious intonations of irreverence." Like Songs for Christmas, which boxed EPs recorded for friends and family each year from 2001-2006, Silver & Gold has another five discs that span songs from 2006-2010, with some additional tune-ups laid down over the last couple of years. Essentially, it's an extremely over-the-top scrapbook, detailing the musical phases, friends, and feelings coursing through Sufjan's world each year. But unlike the meticulously pleasant Songs for Christmas, which more or less sounds exactly like what a casual fan (or detractor) might expect a Sufjan Stevens Christmas box set to sound like, the music inside Silver & Gold can be as downright strange as its accompanying accessories. Recorded with the National's Dessner brothers a year and a half after the release of Illinois, 2006's Gloria is the most traditionally Sufjan-y thing here. With its careful guitar picking, pristine choir, and overall sense of in-the-lines tastefulness, it's the disc least likely to offend grandmothers on Christmas Day. Gloria also has two of the collection's finest originals with "The Midnight Clear" and "Carol of St. Benjamin the Bearded One", both of which could sneak onto Illinois without much complaint. "I will delight in this," sings Sufjan, sincerely backing up his own faith, before a choir quietly comes back, "Though you may doubt it." I Am Santa's Helper is the wooliest of the bunch, and also the worst. It's got the most tracks at 23, but many are just two-minute fragments, bits of solo piano, or goofball jamming. It still lasts 45 minutes, and by the mid-way point, Sufjan and his buddies' ramshackle racket goes from endearing to annoying. It was recorded right around the premiere of his ambitious BQE project, which could explain the tossed-off-ness. Still, it's instructive of this songwriter's musical narrative; it sounds lost, searching for something new and settling on something half-baked. Christmas Infinity Voyage is where things get interesting. These songs were originally recorded at the end of 2008, a relatively quiet time for Sufjan, and they reveal an artist in transition. A version of this disc made it online that Christmas, showing Sufjan toying with new electronic textures. That leaked release was intriguing, but ultimately unsure (Sufjan himself calls it "poorly realized" in the Silver & Gold booklet). So he took the same songs and largely re-recorded them over the last two years, using the technical know-how he built up while working on 2010's radical and brilliant The Age of Adz. So, of all the material here, Infinity Voyage comes closest to that album's mechanized sheen. There's a roboticized "Do You Hear What I Hear?" that lasts nearly 10 minutes, eventually spiraling gloriously out of control with Sufjan repeating "do you feel what I feel?" with enough vocal processing slathered over his voice to make T-Pain blush. There's a brief and bubbly cover of Prince's "Alphabet St." that recalls Beck's white-boy funk circa Midnite Vultures-- it makes little sense within the context of a Christmas album, but only a fool would protest. This is the disc most likely to confuse the hell out of your grandmother. Infinity Voyage also boasts the set's strongest originals. "Christmas in the Room" is Silver & Gold's best bet at some sort of bizarro new standard, as it combines Sufjan's old-school acoustic balladry with some subtle new-school electronics. It's about finding Christmas-- and all its joy and sorrow-- in anot

Artist: Sufjan Stevens, Album: Silver & Gold, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Silver & Gold, Sufjan Stevens' holiday-themed follow-up to 2006's 42-song-long Songs for Christmas collection, stretches 59 tracks across nearly three hours. The box set includes a fold-it-yourself paper star ornament. And stickers. Also: temporary tattoos and a poster. There's an 80-page booklet, too. All of which may make you think: "Wow, Sufjan is really, really, really fucking obsessed with Christmas." And you would be correct. But his fixation isn't born of pure peppermint joy or the eternal spite of not finding that Power Wheels under the tree as a toddler. It's more complicated than that. About a third of the tracks here are Sufjan originals, and the music ranges from reverent, to intergalactic, to angelic, to positively looney. The stickers and tattoos include a skeleton/soldier throwing a bomb, a panda in a Christmas sweater holding a human skull, and a chainsaw-wielding snowman. The crowded poster shows a half-alien/half-human breastfeeding her alien offspring, a sea monster, a robot owl, a cigarette-smoking baby with a lobster claw for a hand, and Jesus on the phone with a caption next to him that reads, "DAD!" And along with lyrics and chords and insanely cut-and-pasted family photos and a hard drive's worth of outre fonts, the booklet features an essay from a pastor that concludes thusly: "Advent is ultimately about death. The end is near. You are going to die. Happy Holidays." The entire project is an excavation into Sufjan's conflicted Christmas heart. He also penned two essays for the booklet, and both are filled with some of the most critical seasonal tidings you're ever likely to hear. In the first, which reads like a tortured self-justification for the project itself, he observes that the yearly economy-boosting hoopla reduces us to "that clammy, pre-pubescent Christmas wish-list spoiled brat kid of our insatiable childhood, throwing an empirical fit on Santa's lap, faced with the hard-candy facts of reality, knowing for certain we will never really get what we want for Christmas, or in life, for that matter." And in the second, he dives deep into the history and hypocrisy of Christmas trees specifically, concluding that: "The Christmas tree has become nothing more than a symbol of environmental bondage, illustrating all the negligent ways in which man has taken possession of the world in order to destroy it. [...] In a word, the Christmas tree is our bitch." Um, joy to the world? Of course, Sufjan's uniquely bizarre feelings toward all things merry is a boon for the rest of us, who naturally have the same kind of anxieties and phobias about the holidays, but lack the vast musical talent and/or OCD graphic design skills to make it really count. Because while he's extremely wary of the idea of putting a Christmas box set out just in time for the trampling Black Friday hordes, he's no less susceptible to wintertime whimsy than anyone else. "Christmas is what you make of it," he writes, in one of the more level-headed booklet passages, "and its songs reflect mystery and magic as expertly as they clatter and clang with the most audacious and rambunctious intonations of irreverence." Like Songs for Christmas, which boxed EPs recorded for friends and family each year from 2001-2006, Silver & Gold has another five discs that span songs from 2006-2010, with some additional tune-ups laid down over the last couple of years. Essentially, it's an extremely over-the-top scrapbook, detailing the musical phases, friends, and feelings coursing through Sufjan's world each year. But unlike the meticulously pleasant Songs for Christmas, which more or less sounds exactly like what a casual fan (or detractor) might expect a Sufjan Stevens Christmas box set to sound like, the music inside Silver & Gold can be as downright strange as its accompanying accessories. Recorded with the National's Dessner brothers a year and a half after the release of Illinois, 2006's Gloria is the most traditionally Sufjan-y thing here. With its careful guitar picking, pristine choir, and overall sense of in-the-lines tastefulness, it's the disc least likely to offend grandmothers on Christmas Day. Gloria also has two of the collection's finest originals with "The Midnight Clear" and "Carol of St. Benjamin the Bearded One", both of which could sneak onto Illinois without much complaint. "I will delight in this," sings Sufjan, sincerely backing up his own faith, before a choir quietly comes back, "Though you may doubt it." I Am Santa's Helper is the wooliest of the bunch, and also the worst. It's got the most tracks at 23, but many are just two-minute fragments, bits of solo piano, or goofball jamming. It still lasts 45 minutes, and by the mid-way point, Sufjan and his buddies' ramshackle racket goes from endearing to annoying. It was recorded right around the premiere of his ambitious BQE project, which could explain the tossed-off-ness. Still, it's instructive of this songwriter's musical narrative; it sounds lost, searching for something new and settling on something half-baked. Christmas Infinity Voyage is where things get interesting. These songs were originally recorded at the end of 2008, a relatively quiet time for Sufjan, and they reveal an artist in transition. A version of this disc made it online that Christmas, showing Sufjan toying with new electronic textures. That leaked release was intriguing, but ultimately unsure (Sufjan himself calls it "poorly realized" in the Silver & Gold booklet). So he took the same songs and largely re-recorded them over the last two years, using the technical know-how he built up while working on 2010's radical and brilliant The Age of Adz. So, of all the material here, Infinity Voyage comes closest to that album's mechanized sheen. There's a roboticized "Do You Hear What I Hear?" that lasts nearly 10 minutes, eventually spiraling gloriously out of control with Sufjan repeating "do you feel what I feel?" with enough vocal processing slathered over his voice to make T-Pain blush. There's a brief and bubbly cover of Prince's "Alphabet St." that recalls Beck's white-boy funk circa Midnite Vultures-- it makes little sense within the context of a Christmas album, but only a fool would protest. This is the disc most likely to confuse the hell out of your grandmother. Infinity Voyage also boasts the set's strongest originals. "Christmas in the Room" is Silver & Gold's best bet at some sort of bizarro new standard, as it combines Sufjan's old-school acoustic balladry with some subtle new-school electronics. It's about finding Christmas-- and all its joy and sorrow-- in anot"

New Flesh

Understanding

Electronic,Experimental,Rap,Rock

Brad Haywood

I know what you're thinking: "have the Brits finally done it?" Have they surmounted their Royal Pussy stereotype to put together a dope hip-hop LP? Has the day finally come where Brits play on DJ mixes alongside Mystikal in a spirit of unity and black ass? Is New Flesh the new savior, the Tiger Woods, if you will, of British beats and rhymes? No! Good god, no, are you joking? Jesus! That's okay, though; this album got my hopes up, too. Aside from the buoyant packaging hype promising 'album of the year' quality, New Flesh also boasts cameo spots by two of the best and hottest underground emcees in the game: Beans (Antipop Consortium) and Gift of Gab (Blackalicious). The album couldn't possibly be anything less than spectacular, could it? Sure it could. As a matter of fact, it could suck. Lightly suck, as on a swizzle stick, but suck nonetheless. Problem is, assuming the greatness of this one rests on a false inference. Supposing Beans and Gift of Gab recorded Understanding by themselves, we'd probably have ourselves an all-time classic. Talent doesn't just disappear, after all. As it is, though, we have two classic tracks, and a bunch of dub/drum-n-bass drivel, melded together with raspy-throated dancehall vox and some other booshit (Sade-esque background vocals, mechanical beats, utter absence of soul, you know, the usual). This stuff is dubby dubby dubby, following in the funky footsteps of another Big Dada-ite, Roots Manuva. Oh wait, did I just call Roots funky? Pardon my British: I meant "retarded." Before you pass on your own piece of Understanding, consider this: there is such a thing as a two-song album. System of a Down had one of the finest two-song albums in recent memory last year, taking those two songs, "Chop Suey" and "Toxicity," and magically winning top album honors with a few partially respected rock mags. Be ye fooled as I, though, and you found out that nothing else on that album was even close to decent. Confounding! So consider, then, that Understanding begins its spin with a dose of nasty verse on "Move Slow," courtesy of Beans. Tight production, even, with a spacy synth vamp and a deep electronic bass groove. Wait six more tracks and you'll hear Gab standing at the mic for his turn, the smashing "Communicate," with a delivery as fluid and mesmerizing as (almost) anything on Blazing Arrow. It's also got a nice, pulsing dance beat that fits well with the track; I guess New Flesh know how to treat guests. Give 'em good beats, a cup of Earl Grey, maybe some scones, clotted cream. As they say in Manchester: tizzle my schnizzle. Or something like that. You are a junkie, you buy. You are not, you don't. Either way, you go home with two songs, two songs for the price of 13 (or 14, counting the hidden track that JUST SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME). Don't grimace and say you were cheated, because now you know. To summarize, you now have understanding. And as I deduced as a child, understanding is the other half of the battle-- not the 'knowing' half, the other one.

Artist: New Flesh, Album: Understanding, Genre: Electronic,Experimental,Rap,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.5 Album review: "I know what you're thinking: "have the Brits finally done it?" Have they surmounted their Royal Pussy stereotype to put together a dope hip-hop LP? Has the day finally come where Brits play on DJ mixes alongside Mystikal in a spirit of unity and black ass? Is New Flesh the new savior, the Tiger Woods, if you will, of British beats and rhymes? No! Good god, no, are you joking? Jesus! That's okay, though; this album got my hopes up, too. Aside from the buoyant packaging hype promising 'album of the year' quality, New Flesh also boasts cameo spots by two of the best and hottest underground emcees in the game: Beans (Antipop Consortium) and Gift of Gab (Blackalicious). The album couldn't possibly be anything less than spectacular, could it? Sure it could. As a matter of fact, it could suck. Lightly suck, as on a swizzle stick, but suck nonetheless. Problem is, assuming the greatness of this one rests on a false inference. Supposing Beans and Gift of Gab recorded Understanding by themselves, we'd probably have ourselves an all-time classic. Talent doesn't just disappear, after all. As it is, though, we have two classic tracks, and a bunch of dub/drum-n-bass drivel, melded together with raspy-throated dancehall vox and some other booshit (Sade-esque background vocals, mechanical beats, utter absence of soul, you know, the usual). This stuff is dubby dubby dubby, following in the funky footsteps of another Big Dada-ite, Roots Manuva. Oh wait, did I just call Roots funky? Pardon my British: I meant "retarded." Before you pass on your own piece of Understanding, consider this: there is such a thing as a two-song album. System of a Down had one of the finest two-song albums in recent memory last year, taking those two songs, "Chop Suey" and "Toxicity," and magically winning top album honors with a few partially respected rock mags. Be ye fooled as I, though, and you found out that nothing else on that album was even close to decent. Confounding! So consider, then, that Understanding begins its spin with a dose of nasty verse on "Move Slow," courtesy of Beans. Tight production, even, with a spacy synth vamp and a deep electronic bass groove. Wait six more tracks and you'll hear Gab standing at the mic for his turn, the smashing "Communicate," with a delivery as fluid and mesmerizing as (almost) anything on Blazing Arrow. It's also got a nice, pulsing dance beat that fits well with the track; I guess New Flesh know how to treat guests. Give 'em good beats, a cup of Earl Grey, maybe some scones, clotted cream. As they say in Manchester: tizzle my schnizzle. Or something like that. You are a junkie, you buy. You are not, you don't. Either way, you go home with two songs, two songs for the price of 13 (or 14, counting the hidden track that JUST SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME). Don't grimace and say you were cheated, because now you know. To summarize, you now have understanding. And as I deduced as a child, understanding is the other half of the battle-- not the 'knowing' half, the other one."

The Ting Tings

Sounds From Nowheresville

Electronic,Rock

Hari Ashurst

If you've spent any time near a television over the past few years, chances are you may have heard the Ting Tings. Their song "Shut Up and Let Me Go" appeared on an iPod commercial in 2008 and last year in the UK "That's Not My Name" trailed numerous sponsored ads for "The X-Factor". Their music is highly effective in these short bursts, competing with all sorts of other sensory noise in a game of who can be the loudest. The Ting Tings' sophomore record is titled Sounds From Nowheresville, and the Nowheresville invoked might as well be ad-land itself. The restless genre-hopping vibe makes this feel less like an album and more like a series of tracks written to briefs. They flit from noir-electro ("Silence"), cod reggae ("Soul Killing"), and bratty guitar riffs ("Hang It Up"). The only common thread is how uniformly bad everything is. I suppose on that level it works: Sounds From Nowheresville makes me want to buy chocolate, try on clothes, take a holiday-- anything but listen to this record. "Give It Back" has a nice beat to it, and it should-- it's pretty much a wholesale rip from LCD Soundsystem's "North American Scum". Likewise, the heavy guitar pop of "Hang It Up" feels like it could exist on the same playground as Sleigh Bells; but where that band makes triumphant school-bell jams, the Ting Tings come over like the class bully: the song feels heartless, cynical in conception, and concerned only with its own sport. Later on, a rap verse from Jules de Martino, the usually silent half of the duo, makes a strong case for a bad record's worst moment. As ridiculous as Martino's rapping might be, lead singer Katie White one-ups him at every turn. Her spoken-word verses on "Guggenheim" are a perfect example. Delivering a particularly phony tale of heartbreak, her story is-- like most things on this record-- something you've heard a million times: girl falls for boy; boy caught in bed with a beautiful, popular girl; and the relationship is lost. The narrative calls for at least a veneer of vulnerability, but her delivery comes across like she's reading a script. White displays no emotion here or elsewhere: There are two modes, shouting or shouting a little louder. When she finally reaches the payoff chorus, all she has is one ridiculous unrelated line: "This time I'm gonna get it right/ I'm gonna play my bass at the Guggenheim," delivered with all the pent-up fury of Eric Cartman. It almost feels like folly to try and engage with discussing this thing musically-- it's so cold and random. Most of the time, Sounds From Nowheresville evokes the same sensation as being Rickrolled for the 40th time, or watching the entirety of Nyan Cat's 10-hour flight. Essentially, things you don't choose to experience. But then, that's the crux of the Ting Tings. As long as they keep writing this sync music bait, it won't matter whether or not you choose to hear Sounds From Nowheresville, it'll end up finding you anyway.

Artist: The Ting Tings, Album: Sounds From Nowheresville, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 1.8 Album review: "If you've spent any time near a television over the past few years, chances are you may have heard the Ting Tings. Their song "Shut Up and Let Me Go" appeared on an iPod commercial in 2008 and last year in the UK "That's Not My Name" trailed numerous sponsored ads for "The X-Factor". Their music is highly effective in these short bursts, competing with all sorts of other sensory noise in a game of who can be the loudest. The Ting Tings' sophomore record is titled Sounds From Nowheresville, and the Nowheresville invoked might as well be ad-land itself. The restless genre-hopping vibe makes this feel less like an album and more like a series of tracks written to briefs. They flit from noir-electro ("Silence"), cod reggae ("Soul Killing"), and bratty guitar riffs ("Hang It Up"). The only common thread is how uniformly bad everything is. I suppose on that level it works: Sounds From Nowheresville makes me want to buy chocolate, try on clothes, take a holiday-- anything but listen to this record. "Give It Back" has a nice beat to it, and it should-- it's pretty much a wholesale rip from LCD Soundsystem's "North American Scum". Likewise, the heavy guitar pop of "Hang It Up" feels like it could exist on the same playground as Sleigh Bells; but where that band makes triumphant school-bell jams, the Ting Tings come over like the class bully: the song feels heartless, cynical in conception, and concerned only with its own sport. Later on, a rap verse from Jules de Martino, the usually silent half of the duo, makes a strong case for a bad record's worst moment. As ridiculous as Martino's rapping might be, lead singer Katie White one-ups him at every turn. Her spoken-word verses on "Guggenheim" are a perfect example. Delivering a particularly phony tale of heartbreak, her story is-- like most things on this record-- something you've heard a million times: girl falls for boy; boy caught in bed with a beautiful, popular girl; and the relationship is lost. The narrative calls for at least a veneer of vulnerability, but her delivery comes across like she's reading a script. White displays no emotion here or elsewhere: There are two modes, shouting or shouting a little louder. When she finally reaches the payoff chorus, all she has is one ridiculous unrelated line: "This time I'm gonna get it right/ I'm gonna play my bass at the Guggenheim," delivered with all the pent-up fury of Eric Cartman. It almost feels like folly to try and engage with discussing this thing musically-- it's so cold and random. Most of the time, Sounds From Nowheresville evokes the same sensation as being Rickrolled for the 40th time, or watching the entirety of Nyan Cat's 10-hour flight. Essentially, things you don't choose to experience. But then, that's the crux of the Ting Tings. As long as they keep writing this sync music bait, it won't matter whether or not you choose to hear Sounds From Nowheresville, it'll end up finding you anyway."

Wale

More About Nothing

Rap

Ian Cohen

I'm not gonna lie-- when I first saw this thing, my heart sank. Wale is coming off of a high-profile bust-- his debut LP, Attention: Deficit, is probably the last time a major label will put serious money behind him-- so it's reasonable that he wanted to recapture his mixtape fire. But while 101 Miles And Still Running, Further Back to the Feature, or even Attention: Surplus would've been more promising titles for Wale's comeback, More About Nothing gives the impression that what he feels the public wants isn't the inspired rapping that marked 2008's stellar The Mixtape About Nothing, but rather simply more hot fire from Elaine Benes. For better or worse, More About Nothing is a very different tape from its predecessor: For one thing, the Seinfeld quotes act more like interstitial skits than a load-bearing conceptual framework. But more pointedly, while The Mixtape About Nothing wasn't afraid to get a little weighty, what shone through was the exuberant tone. Wale sounded like someone who simply loved to rap, whatever the topic, and he served as a unifier, finding room for Lil Wayne, Clipse, Bun B, and the Roots, acts upon which battle lines are often drawn in hip-hop. The tone is considerably more deflated here, and the centerpiece fittingly isn't about Kramer or Jerry, but rather, rapped from the perspective of Tiger Woods, a flashpoint where the two dominant themes of this tape meet up: struggling with fidelity and very public humiliation. The latter defines intro "The Problem"; here Wale's not bitter so much as racked with a confusion that unfortunately borders on denial. Rap fans can be forgiving of commercial disappointment (have you seen Big Boi's sales?), but the problem with Attention: Deficit was that Wale didn't even achieve it on his own terms, and it's disheartening to hear him shift the blame. "Resented by the game like I'm Pete Rose in this bitch," he spits and from there, you get to hear him call out his distributor, label, and those who didn't see "his vision." He comforts himself with weed ("The Breeze", "The Cloud"), pills, random sex, and repping D.C. over Sam Sparro's "Black and Gold" but more often than not, it's a stark contrast to hear such a gifted collaborator working on his own. When he stops fretting about SoundScan and lets his guard down, More About Nothing hits a stride, in large part because Wale focuses on relationships, as good a topic as any for someone so prone to internal dialogue and self-doubt. It's funny that he's never employed the "hand" speech from "Seinfeld" since so much of More focuses on how one can reconcile their careers, friendships, and love lives with man's pervasive competitive nature. I'd love to say that More About Nothing is a triumphant comeback, Wale reinvigorated after licking his wounds, but it's not. If anything, it just proves that his gift and curse is that he simply cares too much-- not just about craft, but unfortunately, about his perception, and he can't stop acting like his public evaluation isn't ongoing. It's tough to say where he goes next, but the path two similar rappers have taken in 2010 provides us with hindsight: Curren$y is someone who's also had a strange career path and is prone to rapping about video games, basketball, shoes, and weed, and Pilot Talk may have not done boffo at the box office, but it was a triumph in large part because it felt comfortable in its own skin. B.o.B. on the other hand, amplified the message of Attention: Deficit, that in the current economic landscape, even a successful bet on a heavily A&R'd "blockbuster" is hardly worth alienating your core fanbase. That More About Nothing is so self-referential suggests that Wale knows where his core fanbase lies, but it'll be interesting to see if he feels like it's one worth keeping if he gets another crack at stardom.

Artist: Wale, Album: More About Nothing, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "I'm not gonna lie-- when I first saw this thing, my heart sank. Wale is coming off of a high-profile bust-- his debut LP, Attention: Deficit, is probably the last time a major label will put serious money behind him-- so it's reasonable that he wanted to recapture his mixtape fire. But while 101 Miles And Still Running, Further Back to the Feature, or even Attention: Surplus would've been more promising titles for Wale's comeback, More About Nothing gives the impression that what he feels the public wants isn't the inspired rapping that marked 2008's stellar The Mixtape About Nothing, but rather simply more hot fire from Elaine Benes. For better or worse, More About Nothing is a very different tape from its predecessor: For one thing, the Seinfeld quotes act more like interstitial skits than a load-bearing conceptual framework. But more pointedly, while The Mixtape About Nothing wasn't afraid to get a little weighty, what shone through was the exuberant tone. Wale sounded like someone who simply loved to rap, whatever the topic, and he served as a unifier, finding room for Lil Wayne, Clipse, Bun B, and the Roots, acts upon which battle lines are often drawn in hip-hop. The tone is considerably more deflated here, and the centerpiece fittingly isn't about Kramer or Jerry, but rather, rapped from the perspective of Tiger Woods, a flashpoint where the two dominant themes of this tape meet up: struggling with fidelity and very public humiliation. The latter defines intro "The Problem"; here Wale's not bitter so much as racked with a confusion that unfortunately borders on denial. Rap fans can be forgiving of commercial disappointment (have you seen Big Boi's sales?), but the problem with Attention: Deficit was that Wale didn't even achieve it on his own terms, and it's disheartening to hear him shift the blame. "Resented by the game like I'm Pete Rose in this bitch," he spits and from there, you get to hear him call out his distributor, label, and those who didn't see "his vision." He comforts himself with weed ("The Breeze", "The Cloud"), pills, random sex, and repping D.C. over Sam Sparro's "Black and Gold" but more often than not, it's a stark contrast to hear such a gifted collaborator working on his own. When he stops fretting about SoundScan and lets his guard down, More About Nothing hits a stride, in large part because Wale focuses on relationships, as good a topic as any for someone so prone to internal dialogue and self-doubt. It's funny that he's never employed the "hand" speech from "Seinfeld" since so much of More focuses on how one can reconcile their careers, friendships, and love lives with man's pervasive competitive nature. I'd love to say that More About Nothing is a triumphant comeback, Wale reinvigorated after licking his wounds, but it's not. If anything, it just proves that his gift and curse is that he simply cares too much-- not just about craft, but unfortunately, about his perception, and he can't stop acting like his public evaluation isn't ongoing. It's tough to say where he goes next, but the path two similar rappers have taken in 2010 provides us with hindsight: Curren$y is someone who's also had a strange career path and is prone to rapping about video games, basketball, shoes, and weed, and Pilot Talk may have not done boffo at the box office, but it was a triumph in large part because it felt comfortable in its own skin. B.o.B. on the other hand, amplified the message of Attention: Deficit, that in the current economic landscape, even a successful bet on a heavily A&R'd "blockbuster" is hardly worth alienating your core fanbase. That More About Nothing is so self-referential suggests that Wale knows where his core fanbase lies, but it'll be interesting to see if he feels like it's one worth keeping if he gets another crack at stardom."

Francis and the Lights

Farewell, Starlite!

Pop/R&B

Cameron Cook

Francis Farewell Starlite, the creative force behind the contemporary R&B project Francis and the Lights, has always been billed as somewhat of a self-made pop star, a man who bucks record labels and all their corporate trappings for unchecked artistic freedom. Over the last decade, he’s released a string of EPs and one album (2010’s eclectic It’ll Be Better) all under his own imprint, toured with a line of pop acts from Drake to Kesha, and guested as a vocalist or a producer with a procession of influential artists including Chance the Rapper’s Coloring Book and Frank Ocean’s Blonde. Clearly, you don’t accumulate this kind this kind of resume without a perceived sense of individuality and vision, which is why the stakes seem high six years after the group’s debut LP. While not totally missing the mark, Farewell, Starlite! doesn't quite live up to those expectations either, a shortcoming that is further compounded by Starlite’s many intriguing triumphs on other people’s records. All of Starlite’s signature production is present, from swollen synthesizers to super-processed vocal overlays. Opener “See Her Out (That’s Just Life)” shifts from squelchy keyboard stabs to the quiet introspection of Starlite’s falsetto in the chorus. While it succeeds in setting the tone for the rest of the album, it’s a sound that is replicated so often in subsequent songs that after only one full listen, it’s lost its show-stopping power. Turning an album of similar-sounding tracks into a solid, encapsulating block of music takes astounding finesse—doubly so for pop music. The majority of Farewell, Starlite! is something along the lines of James Blake’s stoic pondering and Blood Orange’s futuristic soul, but less compelling. By seeking to avoid both mainstream bombast and underground obscurity, Francis and the Lights have landed squarely in the middle with a safe and uninspired choices. Farewell, Starlite! is not without its pleasures. The album’s focus is, rightfully, “Friends,” a collaboration with Justin Vernon of Bon Iver and Kanye West. It’s a deeply affecting, mellow slice of alternative R&B, gliding along on a placid sea of finger snaps and interlocking vocal harmonies by all three artists, like some impossibly cool barbershop trio. When Starlite sings, “We could be friends/Just put your head on my shoulders,” it’s lusher than velvet. It sounds more like a lovesick supplication than a call for restraint. Francis and the Lights have been compared to Peter Gabriel before, but nowhere has this been more apparent as “May I Have This Dance,” a song that truly could be added to a reissue of So without anyone batting an eyelid. Its subtle Afro-pop drumbeat and jubilant chorale of lyrics about reclaiming lost love are so evocative of mid-’80s art pop that it defiantly stands out as an example of the kind of diversity Farewell, Starlite! could desperately use more of. Surprisingly, another highlight is “Thank You,” a 90-second ballad tucked away at the very end of the album. Layered vocals create a one-man choir and Starlite’s voice shines in its strongest form yet, raw and semi-unfiltered. Towards the end, just as the song gathers momentum before fading out, he chants, “I should say thank you, thank you, thank you.” He knows he’s charmed, that he has both the talent and the connections to make music more or less on his own terms. While Farewell, Starlite! has its share of engaging moments, it’s a shame that under all its technical flairs, its overall mood isn’t gripping enough to do justice to its creator’s vision.

Artist: Francis and the Lights, Album: Farewell, Starlite!, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Francis Farewell Starlite, the creative force behind the contemporary R&B project Francis and the Lights, has always been billed as somewhat of a self-made pop star, a man who bucks record labels and all their corporate trappings for unchecked artistic freedom. Over the last decade, he’s released a string of EPs and one album (2010’s eclectic It’ll Be Better) all under his own imprint, toured with a line of pop acts from Drake to Kesha, and guested as a vocalist or a producer with a procession of influential artists including Chance the Rapper’s Coloring Book and Frank Ocean’s Blonde. Clearly, you don’t accumulate this kind this kind of resume without a perceived sense of individuality and vision, which is why the stakes seem high six years after the group’s debut LP. While not totally missing the mark, Farewell, Starlite! doesn't quite live up to those expectations either, a shortcoming that is further compounded by Starlite’s many intriguing triumphs on other people’s records. All of Starlite’s signature production is present, from swollen synthesizers to super-processed vocal overlays. Opener “See Her Out (That’s Just Life)” shifts from squelchy keyboard stabs to the quiet introspection of Starlite’s falsetto in the chorus. While it succeeds in setting the tone for the rest of the album, it’s a sound that is replicated so often in subsequent songs that after only one full listen, it’s lost its show-stopping power. Turning an album of similar-sounding tracks into a solid, encapsulating block of music takes astounding finesse—doubly so for pop music. The majority of Farewell, Starlite! is something along the lines of James Blake’s stoic pondering and Blood Orange’s futuristic soul, but less compelling. By seeking to avoid both mainstream bombast and underground obscurity, Francis and the Lights have landed squarely in the middle with a safe and uninspired choices. Farewell, Starlite! is not without its pleasures. The album’s focus is, rightfully, “Friends,” a collaboration with Justin Vernon of Bon Iver and Kanye West. It’s a deeply affecting, mellow slice of alternative R&B, gliding along on a placid sea of finger snaps and interlocking vocal harmonies by all three artists, like some impossibly cool barbershop trio. When Starlite sings, “We could be friends/Just put your head on my shoulders,” it’s lusher than velvet. It sounds more like a lovesick supplication than a call for restraint. Francis and the Lights have been compared to Peter Gabriel before, but nowhere has this been more apparent as “May I Have This Dance,” a song that truly could be added to a reissue of So without anyone batting an eyelid. Its subtle Afro-pop drumbeat and jubilant chorale of lyrics about reclaiming lost love are so evocative of mid-’80s art pop that it defiantly stands out as an example of the kind of diversity Farewell, Starlite! could desperately use more of. Surprisingly, another highlight is “Thank You,” a 90-second ballad tucked away at the very end of the album. Layered vocals create a one-man choir and Starlite’s voice shines in its strongest form yet, raw and semi-unfiltered. Towards the end, just as the song gathers momentum before fading out, he chants, “I should say thank you, thank you, thank you.” He knows he’s charmed, that he has both the talent and the connections to make music more or less on his own terms. While Farewell, Starlite! has its share of engaging moments, it’s a shame that under all its technical flairs, its overall mood isn’t gripping enough to do justice to its creator’s vision."

Meatbodies

Meatbodies

Rock

Evan Minsker

Mikal Cronin put on some killer live shows last year surrounding MCII, but while he was singing beautifully and strumming his 12-string, another longhair consistently threatened to steal the spotlight. Chad Ubovich, the touring guitarist responsible for the huge solo on "See It My Way", has undeniable chops. He's also the bassist for Fuzz, and it's the same deal—he does a lot more than just slouch in the background and play the minimum. When this dude takes a solo, you watch. Based on those sideman gigs alone, it makes sense that his band Meatbodies got picked up by In the Red for a pair of singles and a long-player. Last year, they released a very good self-titled cassette on Ty Segall's God? Records (as Chad and the Meatbodies). It sold out fairly quickly and, in circles that care about those sorts of things, became one of those instantaneous small batch collector's items. But with their debut LP, it's more difficult to view the band as small-press ass-kicking upstarts. Meatbodies was recorded and mixed by Eric "King Riff" Bauer, Bob Marshall, and Chris Woodhouse (who, between the three of them, have worked on every Live in San Francisco release and most Segall, Cronin, Fuzz, and Oh Sees records). The cover art was done by Fuzz and Slaughterhouse artist Tatiana Kartomten. Segall even plays drums and bass on a few tracks here. Meatbodies are embedded in that world, and they're working within a formula that's proved successful for their more-visible peers. Comparisons are inevitable; the bar is high. Pro wrestling heels use the term "B+ player" about guys in Ubovich's position—rookies who put on a good show but aren't quite headliners. But he rips, you see. He's always been a destroyer, and on Meatbodies, he also proves to be an ace rock'n'roll strategist. The tone here is set perfectly: 59 seconds of psychedelic sci-fi noise, and then, very suddenly, Ubovich and Segall come in at full power, electric guitars unrelenting, with "Disorder". It's a loud, exciting, kinetic, and brazen introduction. Like Daniel Bryan before him, Ubovich rises to the occasion. But Meatbodies don't just blindly hit peak after peak, shredding toward the high heavens uninterrupted for a full album. They pull back and indulge their more psychedelic inclinations, letting Ubovich's voice shine, lilt, and echo over steady acoustic strumming. When that starts sounding too sterile after a couple minutes, he dirties it up by dropping an electric guitar solo in the middle. While they craft plenty of catchy hooks and choruses over the album's dozen tracks, they don't lean on any one thing for long. There's always a changeup in place. They'll dismantle a loud and fast song for a sluggish, slow finish. Any band can churn out an exciting two-minute garage punk song and then repeat the formula a few times. Very few artists of this ilk exhibit this much patience, which makes for a continually rewarding listen. If there's a clear-cut example of Meatbodies making the upgrade from "band with a tape and some 7" tracks" to "rock band to watch," it's the re-recorded album version of "Wahoo". The ramshackle stomper is now stadium-ready. (It's worth checking out the original tape version of that song, too—a fun document of the band's lo-fi, warbly beginnings.) The track comes late in the album, and when it arrives, Ubovich has already found several opportunities earlier in the LP to show off what he's capable of as a guitarist. And sure, there's excellent guitar work on the track, but there's a clearer focus on the confidence he exhibits as a frontman. He yelps, screams, and croons like a seasoned rock star. "I don't know and I don't care," he sings at the bridge. He does care, though—if he didn't, Meatbodies wouldn't sound half this good.

Artist: Meatbodies, Album: Meatbodies, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Mikal Cronin put on some killer live shows last year surrounding MCII, but while he was singing beautifully and strumming his 12-string, another longhair consistently threatened to steal the spotlight. Chad Ubovich, the touring guitarist responsible for the huge solo on "See It My Way", has undeniable chops. He's also the bassist for Fuzz, and it's the same deal—he does a lot more than just slouch in the background and play the minimum. When this dude takes a solo, you watch. Based on those sideman gigs alone, it makes sense that his band Meatbodies got picked up by In the Red for a pair of singles and a long-player. Last year, they released a very good self-titled cassette on Ty Segall's God? Records (as Chad and the Meatbodies). It sold out fairly quickly and, in circles that care about those sorts of things, became one of those instantaneous small batch collector's items. But with their debut LP, it's more difficult to view the band as small-press ass-kicking upstarts. Meatbodies was recorded and mixed by Eric "King Riff" Bauer, Bob Marshall, and Chris Woodhouse (who, between the three of them, have worked on every Live in San Francisco release and most Segall, Cronin, Fuzz, and Oh Sees records). The cover art was done by Fuzz and Slaughterhouse artist Tatiana Kartomten. Segall even plays drums and bass on a few tracks here. Meatbodies are embedded in that world, and they're working within a formula that's proved successful for their more-visible peers. Comparisons are inevitable; the bar is high. Pro wrestling heels use the term "B+ player" about guys in Ubovich's position—rookies who put on a good show but aren't quite headliners. But he rips, you see. He's always been a destroyer, and on Meatbodies, he also proves to be an ace rock'n'roll strategist. The tone here is set perfectly: 59 seconds of psychedelic sci-fi noise, and then, very suddenly, Ubovich and Segall come in at full power, electric guitars unrelenting, with "Disorder". It's a loud, exciting, kinetic, and brazen introduction. Like Daniel Bryan before him, Ubovich rises to the occasion. But Meatbodies don't just blindly hit peak after peak, shredding toward the high heavens uninterrupted for a full album. They pull back and indulge their more psychedelic inclinations, letting Ubovich's voice shine, lilt, and echo over steady acoustic strumming. When that starts sounding too sterile after a couple minutes, he dirties it up by dropping an electric guitar solo in the middle. While they craft plenty of catchy hooks and choruses over the album's dozen tracks, they don't lean on any one thing for long. There's always a changeup in place. They'll dismantle a loud and fast song for a sluggish, slow finish. Any band can churn out an exciting two-minute garage punk song and then repeat the formula a few times. Very few artists of this ilk exhibit this much patience, which makes for a continually rewarding listen. If there's a clear-cut example of Meatbodies making the upgrade from "band with a tape and some 7" tracks" to "rock band to watch," it's the re-recorded album version of "Wahoo". The ramshackle stomper is now stadium-ready. (It's worth checking out the original tape version of that song, too—a fun document of the band's lo-fi, warbly beginnings.) The track comes late in the album, and when it arrives, Ubovich has already found several opportunities earlier in the LP to show off what he's capable of as a guitarist. And sure, there's excellent guitar work on the track, but there's a clearer focus on the confidence he exhibits as a frontman. He yelps, screams, and croons like a seasoned rock star. "I don't know and I don't care," he sings at the bridge. He does care, though—if he didn't, Meatbodies wouldn't sound half this good."

Sounds

Living in America

Alexander Lloyd Linhardt

The word on the streets (and by this I mean the spieled sophistry coursing through press releases and talk shows) is that The Sounds are a perky, lovable bunch of Swedes that meld punk and new wave. In actuality, they're more a conjoining of less irritating pop of the 80s (The Ramones, Blondie) with the more irritating pop of the 80s (Loverboy, Pat Benatar). Now, 80s pop might mean a lot of things to a lot of people, infused with an ambiguity beyond description, but whatever we mutter about it under our breaths, the word "punk" seldom comes up in relation. Dashing all expectations, however, The Sounds have a song called "Riot". Now I may not have passed Punk 101; I admit I still don't really know what Crass was. But my general intuition is that if you have a song called "Riot" anything, you are probably punk. Also, a vast majority of these songs are what we might have considered to be punk in middle school. There's probably not a great distance between The Sounds' titular song and your typical intentionally unrealistic adolescent Offspring song. It's a lot of "We don't care about the world today/ We're not living in America and we're not sorry" and tales of "teenage porn stars." (Never mind that the average American probably sees an indissoluble link between Sweden and porn.) This is about the gist of most of the songs that aren't about "getting up and dancing." And hey, I ain't complaining. It's a pretty simple political philosophy (yes to porn stars and dancing, no to America) that even the most jaded of today's younglings might clamor to embrace. It would be a grave disservice to all involved, however, to call this boisterous, jubilant, sleepover-at-Casey's disco-punk rampage "political music." In fact, it's ironi-feminism. On the perversely appealing "Hit Me", Maja Ivarsson enjoins us (or me, anyway), to "hit me hard, hit me right between the eyes." I admit, the offer intrigued me; it took a strong recollection of my spiritual training to refuse to comply. But this brutal temptation to deck an innocent girl was merely my willingness to participate in a faux-jazz, hyper-propulsive grime accented by a keyboardist (Jesper Anderberg) who clearly doesn't even know where his volume control is, let alone how notes played together might constitute a chord. But permit me to make amends for my long and tedious-- and perhaps unfair-- grievances. The ensuing song, "Mine for Life", is a faithful duplication of Garbagesque camp that attaches a maleficent beat to some quivering synths. We can make fun of Ivarsson's lyrics all we want. The fact of the matter is that the line, "If this is called living, well don't count me in," is at least worthy of a Ramones song; I'm pretty sure I heard it somewhere on "Tombstone Blues". "Rock 'n' Roll" musters just the right amount of capriciousness and martyrdom in the name of rock. It would make many cringe, but deflects any criticism. The song is fully aware that it is, at best, a two-note bass riff with an angular chorus straight out of the "Hawaii 5-0" theme. More often than not, Living in America trades melody and choruses for jumping octaves and rapid-fire synthesizer scales. Of course, sometimes that's exactly what the alcohol doctor prescribed. This music, like most of Sweden, is entirely dedicated to senseless and irresponsible fun. It was designed to be listened to and forgotten on the radio, not to be compiled as an album. Fully understanding the triteness of the following, I'm still compelled by Pitchfork's Hippocratic oath: While every song might not sound exactly the same, a good three-fifths do. I think the general arbitrary consensus is that if you're at that age where you just discovered pop music, go for it; this is exactly the type of album you should be constantly enjoying; if you're not going to Cub Scouts this summer, you really should have found something a little more sophisticated by now.

Artist: Sounds, Album: Living in America, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "The word on the streets (and by this I mean the spieled sophistry coursing through press releases and talk shows) is that The Sounds are a perky, lovable bunch of Swedes that meld punk and new wave. In actuality, they're more a conjoining of less irritating pop of the 80s (The Ramones, Blondie) with the more irritating pop of the 80s (Loverboy, Pat Benatar). Now, 80s pop might mean a lot of things to a lot of people, infused with an ambiguity beyond description, but whatever we mutter about it under our breaths, the word "punk" seldom comes up in relation. Dashing all expectations, however, The Sounds have a song called "Riot". Now I may not have passed Punk 101; I admit I still don't really know what Crass was. But my general intuition is that if you have a song called "Riot" anything, you are probably punk. Also, a vast majority of these songs are what we might have considered to be punk in middle school. There's probably not a great distance between The Sounds' titular song and your typical intentionally unrealistic adolescent Offspring song. It's a lot of "We don't care about the world today/ We're not living in America and we're not sorry" and tales of "teenage porn stars." (Never mind that the average American probably sees an indissoluble link between Sweden and porn.) This is about the gist of most of the songs that aren't about "getting up and dancing." And hey, I ain't complaining. It's a pretty simple political philosophy (yes to porn stars and dancing, no to America) that even the most jaded of today's younglings might clamor to embrace. It would be a grave disservice to all involved, however, to call this boisterous, jubilant, sleepover-at-Casey's disco-punk rampage "political music." In fact, it's ironi-feminism. On the perversely appealing "Hit Me", Maja Ivarsson enjoins us (or me, anyway), to "hit me hard, hit me right between the eyes." I admit, the offer intrigued me; it took a strong recollection of my spiritual training to refuse to comply. But this brutal temptation to deck an innocent girl was merely my willingness to participate in a faux-jazz, hyper-propulsive grime accented by a keyboardist (Jesper Anderberg) who clearly doesn't even know where his volume control is, let alone how notes played together might constitute a chord. But permit me to make amends for my long and tedious-- and perhaps unfair-- grievances. The ensuing song, "Mine for Life", is a faithful duplication of Garbagesque camp that attaches a maleficent beat to some quivering synths. We can make fun of Ivarsson's lyrics all we want. The fact of the matter is that the line, "If this is called living, well don't count me in," is at least worthy of a Ramones song; I'm pretty sure I heard it somewhere on "Tombstone Blues". "Rock 'n' Roll" musters just the right amount of capriciousness and martyrdom in the name of rock. It would make many cringe, but deflects any criticism. The song is fully aware that it is, at best, a two-note bass riff with an angular chorus straight out of the "Hawaii 5-0" theme. More often than not, Living in America trades melody and choruses for jumping octaves and rapid-fire synthesizer scales. Of course, sometimes that's exactly what the alcohol doctor prescribed. This music, like most of Sweden, is entirely dedicated to senseless and irresponsible fun. It was designed to be listened to and forgotten on the radio, not to be compiled as an album. Fully understanding the triteness of the following, I'm still compelled by Pitchfork's Hippocratic oath: While every song might not sound exactly the same, a good three-fifths do. I think the general arbitrary consensus is that if you're at that age where you just discovered pop music, go for it; this is exactly the type of album you should be constantly enjoying; if you're not going to Cub Scouts this summer, you really should have found something a little more sophisticated by now."

Penelope Trappes

Penelope Two

Experimental

Philip Sherburne

Penelope Two is a monochrome mood board, a one-note tone poem, a mirror’s matte-black back. The work of Australian musician Penelope Trappes derives its power from its profound focus, the single-minded pursuit of a highly specific vibe. Once your eyes adjust to the darkness, it becomes velvety and enveloping: an expanse of sustained pianos, sub-bass rumble, and faint guitar, all drenched in reverb but topped with her cool, clarion voice. You can make out some of her words, but she sometimes doesn’t sing them at all, as though language would stand in the way of her otherworldly visions. Trappes pursued an almost identical approach on her solo debut, last year’s Penelope One: the same instruments, same echo, same aching melodies, all hanging like breath in a beam of winter sunlight. Penelope One’s 11 songs already fit together like puzzle pieces; spanning 10 songs in a fleeting 33 minutes, Penelope Two is more cohesive. Field recordings—muted traffic, faraway playground din, the faintest suggestion of distant rainfall—blur the boundaries of each track, so that melodies seem to take shape like hooded figures emerging from shadows. Her reference points are familiar ones, and she doesn’t try to obscure them. The piano chord that launches the album is a dead ringer for the watery tone of Harold Budd and Cocteau Twins’ 1986 collaboration, The Moon and the Melodies. The ethereal influence of the Cocteaus’ 4AD labelmates This Mortal Coil looms just as large over Trappes’ penumbral soundscapes and pervasive melancholy. Her molasses-drip tempos and close harmonies recall Low at their loneliest. On “Maeve,” her airy sigh and tungsten-bright guitar sound like Mazzy Star or Julee Cruise: a roadhouse slow dance as glimpsed in a hall of mirrors, or in a dream within a dream. For the most part, her tracks do the bare minimum to qualify as “songs.” The opening “Silence” is just three minutes of held keyboard and deep-in-a-well humming, so static it feels as much like a snapshot as a piece of music. On “Connector,” her voice scatters over chasms that open between drumbeats as the guitar drips like icicles. Her mantra-like lyrics are as skeletal as her melodies, only deepening the music’s mystery. On the haunting “Carry Me,” she sings, “A tiny glory hidden in the palm,” her voice closing around the syllables as though unwilling to let go of some secret. And on “Farewell,” you can practically hear her shivering as she sings, “Cold, I’m cold as snow,” her voice small and dry against a backdrop of rustle and drone, like an iPhone voice memo recorded in a cathedral’s catacombs. With the right reverb setting, virtually anyone can make a reasonable facsimile of doom. What Trappes is doing is more nuanced, difficult, and interesting. On “Kismet,” an almost shockingly pretty piano flourish joins the sounds of heavy wind, roosting birds, and ominous synthesizers—it’s like a daisy being pinned to a black mourning cloak. Creating such captivating environments with so few elements requires not only a strong command of production tricks but also of melody, harmony, and vocal control. Trappe wields her voice with the discipline of a calligrapher. If the album stumbles at all, it’s in the final third, where a succession of largely ambient tracks leaves Trappes at the risk of disappearing into the murk. It’s not a deal-breaker; the closing “Nite Hive” is as heavy and as welcoming as a weighted blanket. But once the fog has lifted, few details about these atmospheric pieces linger. If Trappes can find a way to consistently marry her exquisite mood-pieces to songwriting as moving as that of Penelope Two’s highest points, then nighttime, winter, and even darkness itself are hers for the taking.

Artist: Penelope Trappes , Album: Penelope Two, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Penelope Two is a monochrome mood board, a one-note tone poem, a mirror’s matte-black back. The work of Australian musician Penelope Trappes derives its power from its profound focus, the single-minded pursuit of a highly specific vibe. Once your eyes adjust to the darkness, it becomes velvety and enveloping: an expanse of sustained pianos, sub-bass rumble, and faint guitar, all drenched in reverb but topped with her cool, clarion voice. You can make out some of her words, but she sometimes doesn’t sing them at all, as though language would stand in the way of her otherworldly visions. Trappes pursued an almost identical approach on her solo debut, last year’s Penelope One: the same instruments, same echo, same aching melodies, all hanging like breath in a beam of winter sunlight. Penelope One’s 11 songs already fit together like puzzle pieces; spanning 10 songs in a fleeting 33 minutes, Penelope Two is more cohesive. Field recordings—muted traffic, faraway playground din, the faintest suggestion of distant rainfall—blur the boundaries of each track, so that melodies seem to take shape like hooded figures emerging from shadows. Her reference points are familiar ones, and she doesn’t try to obscure them. The piano chord that launches the album is a dead ringer for the watery tone of Harold Budd and Cocteau Twins’ 1986 collaboration, The Moon and the Melodies. The ethereal influence of the Cocteaus’ 4AD labelmates This Mortal Coil looms just as large over Trappes’ penumbral soundscapes and pervasive melancholy. Her molasses-drip tempos and close harmonies recall Low at their loneliest. On “Maeve,” her airy sigh and tungsten-bright guitar sound like Mazzy Star or Julee Cruise: a roadhouse slow dance as glimpsed in a hall of mirrors, or in a dream within a dream. For the most part, her tracks do the bare minimum to qualify as “songs.” The opening “Silence” is just three minutes of held keyboard and deep-in-a-well humming, so static it feels as much like a snapshot as a piece of music. On “Connector,” her voice scatters over chasms that open between drumbeats as the guitar drips like icicles. Her mantra-like lyrics are as skeletal as her melodies, only deepening the music’s mystery. On the haunting “Carry Me,” she sings, “A tiny glory hidden in the palm,” her voice closing around the syllables as though unwilling to let go of some secret. And on “Farewell,” you can practically hear her shivering as she sings, “Cold, I’m cold as snow,” her voice small and dry against a backdrop of rustle and drone, like an iPhone voice memo recorded in a cathedral’s catacombs. With the right reverb setting, virtually anyone can make a reasonable facsimile of doom. What Trappes is doing is more nuanced, difficult, and interesting. On “Kismet,” an almost shockingly pretty piano flourish joins the sounds of heavy wind, roosting birds, and ominous synthesizers—it’s like a daisy being pinned to a black mourning cloak. Creating such captivating environments with so few elements requires not only a strong command of production tricks but also of melody, harmony, and vocal control. Trappe wields her voice with the discipline of a calligrapher. If the album stumbles at all, it’s in the final third, where a succession of largely ambient tracks leaves Trappes at the risk of disappearing into the murk. It’s not a deal-breaker; the closing “Nite Hive” is as heavy and as welcoming as a weighted blanket. But once the fog has lifted, few details about these atmospheric pieces linger. If Trappes can find a way to consistently marry her exquisite mood-pieces to songwriting as moving as that of Penelope Two’s highest points, then nighttime, winter, and even darkness itself are hers for the taking."

The Suzan

Golden Week for the Poco Poco Beat

Pop/R&B,Rock

Rebecca Raber

Generally speaking, the Japanese pop music that finds its way to Western audiences is either cartoonishly cute (in the vein of Shonen Knife) or punishingly noisy (à la Boris or Boredoms). Refreshingly, the all-female quartet the Suzan are neither. On their debut, Golden Week for the Poco Poco Beat, the all-girl Suzan mine garage-rock, pop, new wave, surf-rock, riot-grrrl, and even gypsy-folk for inspiration. This makes for a collection that isn't unified in sound but has an omnivorous attitude that permeates throughout. While some may find the lack of stylistic cohesion to be a drawback, Poco Poco Beat doesn't sound scattered. Rather than coming off as an overstuffed collection by a group who couldn't stick to (or make) one singular aesthetic choice, the album feels like it's burning through a history of girl groups from the Shangri-Las to the Raincoats and the Go-Go's. Despite that fact, there are a few stylistic markers that act as glue for this willfully disjointed collection. One is the charming vocals of frontwoman Saori Suzuki: Eschewing any of the cloying girlish notes of her versatile voice, she sounds self-assured and womanly, whether she's cooing, scat-singing, or snarling. Another is the band's facility with creating ambiance. They're as adept at creating a sense of creeping dread as they are at summoning celebratory cacophonies. On an album this varied, the Suzan have room to show off all their different sides, and the fact that they sound perfectly natural in both pub-punk screamer mode ("London Tonight") and in a more soulful 60s pop style ("Ha Ha Ha") is a testament to their musicality. Perhaps their most essential skill is their ability to temper their most sugary, most melodic impulses with enough tough, raw, or sparse ones to keep things from becoming too precious. For example, despite the almost sickly sweet xylophone that kicks off album opener "Home", the song smartly builds an ESG-worthy groove with its rhythmically chanted vocals and tom-heavy drive to become the LP's best track. As you may have already heard, the Suzan were "discovered" on MySpace by Björn Yttling (of Peter Bjorn and John), pulled out of the vast, overwhelming Internet-music morass by a producer with a proven track record. Then they became the first traditional rock band (although the term "traditional" here is a slight stretch) signed to A-Trak and Nick Catchdub's Fool's Gold label. It isn't hard to see why these independent music heavies were won over by this developing-but-driven group from half a world away. The Suzan have an infectious energy, and the ambitious scope of their debut is impressive (if, admittedly, exhausting). Would the band have been better served if they'd tightened their musical scope and not made such a genre-hopping collection? Possibly, but the Suzan's up-for-anything enthusiasm is part of their charm.

Artist: The Suzan, Album: Golden Week for the Poco Poco Beat, Genre: Pop/R&B,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Generally speaking, the Japanese pop music that finds its way to Western audiences is either cartoonishly cute (in the vein of Shonen Knife) or punishingly noisy (à la Boris or Boredoms). Refreshingly, the all-female quartet the Suzan are neither. On their debut, Golden Week for the Poco Poco Beat, the all-girl Suzan mine garage-rock, pop, new wave, surf-rock, riot-grrrl, and even gypsy-folk for inspiration. This makes for a collection that isn't unified in sound but has an omnivorous attitude that permeates throughout. While some may find the lack of stylistic cohesion to be a drawback, Poco Poco Beat doesn't sound scattered. Rather than coming off as an overstuffed collection by a group who couldn't stick to (or make) one singular aesthetic choice, the album feels like it's burning through a history of girl groups from the Shangri-Las to the Raincoats and the Go-Go's. Despite that fact, there are a few stylistic markers that act as glue for this willfully disjointed collection. One is the charming vocals of frontwoman Saori Suzuki: Eschewing any of the cloying girlish notes of her versatile voice, she sounds self-assured and womanly, whether she's cooing, scat-singing, or snarling. Another is the band's facility with creating ambiance. They're as adept at creating a sense of creeping dread as they are at summoning celebratory cacophonies. On an album this varied, the Suzan have room to show off all their different sides, and the fact that they sound perfectly natural in both pub-punk screamer mode ("London Tonight") and in a more soulful 60s pop style ("Ha Ha Ha") is a testament to their musicality. Perhaps their most essential skill is their ability to temper their most sugary, most melodic impulses with enough tough, raw, or sparse ones to keep things from becoming too precious. For example, despite the almost sickly sweet xylophone that kicks off album opener "Home", the song smartly builds an ESG-worthy groove with its rhythmically chanted vocals and tom-heavy drive to become the LP's best track. As you may have already heard, the Suzan were "discovered" on MySpace by Björn Yttling (of Peter Bjorn and John), pulled out of the vast, overwhelming Internet-music morass by a producer with a proven track record. Then they became the first traditional rock band (although the term "traditional" here is a slight stretch) signed to A-Trak and Nick Catchdub's Fool's Gold label. It isn't hard to see why these independent music heavies were won over by this developing-but-driven group from half a world away. The Suzan have an infectious energy, and the ambitious scope of their debut is impressive (if, admittedly, exhausting). Would the band have been better served if they'd tightened their musical scope and not made such a genre-hopping collection? Possibly, but the Suzan's up-for-anything enthusiasm is part of their charm."

Mourn

Mourn

Rock

Stuart Berman

The cover of the debut album from Barcelona-based foursome Mourn bears an uncanny compositional resemblance to that of another debut album by another young, petulant quartet with an M, O, R, and N in their name. The band logo emblazoned in white all-caps, the grimly grayscale urban backdrop, the dark-haired subjects clad in leather jackets—Mourn’s reverence for the Ramones couldn’t be more obvious if they wore their t-shirts in their press photos. (Oh wait.) But despite a shared affinity for 90-second tunes, Mourn are drawn to the Ramones more as a model of aesthetic purity than a sonic template to emulate; though all four members are still in their teens, their scabrous sound feels less like a hyperactive buzzsaw assault than a series of steely knife nicks on the arm. And while, like the bruddahs, Mourn’s songs can be simplistic to the point of absurdity, for them, rawness is as much an emotional quality as a musical one. Mourn was reportedly recorded live off the floor in two days, a tactic that emphasizes both the band’s feral energy and the isolated, claustrophobic uneasiness that ties these 11 songs together. More so than the surface Ramones similarities, what’s ultimately most striking about that cover shot is the fact that vocalists Carla Pérez Fas and Jazz Rodríguez Bueno are seen in a protective embrace, suggesting that this band is less an innocent adolescent pastime than a necessary sanctuary from a cruel world. That said, Mourn aren’t so eager to fit in with the normals at school, pledging allegiance to artists who died before they were born or who are old enough to be their mom, if not their grandmother; in the few interviews they’ve done so far, they’ve talked about having their music mocked by classmates, and the dispiriting experience of encountering a potential new soulmate in a Nirvana shirt, only to find out the person wearing it thought Nirvana was just the name of a clothing brand. As such, Mourn is the sound of outcasts congregating in a basement on a Friday night and making a savage racket to forget about the fact they weren’t invited to the big house party that all the popular kids from school are attending. It’s loud, cathartic, and boiling over with disdain for those who’ve done them wrong; when they start naming names on "Jack" and "Marshall", you can practically picture Fas and Bueno hunched around a computer, subjecting those guys’ pictures to unflattering Photoshop makeovers. Their music is anti-social media: Mourn don’t so much write songs as status updates—"you think you’re awesome/ I say you’re boring/ you called me a baby/ I just say ‘fuck you!’"—that most people would be rushing to delete the morning after, but Mourn turn candor into sport, dropping truth bombs and reveling in the emotional fallout. (And as if the album proper didn’t serve up enough unfiltered honesty, this stateside issue of Mourn tacks on a bonus single… called "Boys Are Cunts".) But for all their impulsive lyricism, Mourn are an impressively patient band, with a keen sense of dramatic dynamics and gritty groove (courtesy of Bueno’s 15-year-old sister Leia and drummer Antonio Postius Echeverría) that belies their primordial teenage garage-band beginnings. (In particular, the opening "Your Brain Is Made of Candy" is a masterstroke of sustained tension that builds from a stark, solitary strum into a raging, stomping beast that abruptly cuts out the second it hits its feverish peak, transforming that titular sentiment from coy come-on to brutal kiss-off.) And for a record that whips by in just 24 minutes, Mourn exhibits a refreshing breadth that makes it feel like a complete album rather than an overstuffed, undercooked EP—while punkish toss-off tracks like "Misery Factory" and "You Don’t Know Me" feel like remnants of a formative phase Mourn have already outgrown, the "Jane Says"-like sway of "Marshall" and the goth-psych eruption "Silver Gold" respectively assert the band’s accessible and experimental potential. More than a simple clash of teen-angst noise and old-soul poise, Mourn’s debut album is a reminder that a big impetus for the former is the frustration of wishing you were old enough to savor the latter.

Artist: Mourn, Album: Mourn, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "The cover of the debut album from Barcelona-based foursome Mourn bears an uncanny compositional resemblance to that of another debut album by another young, petulant quartet with an M, O, R, and N in their name. The band logo emblazoned in white all-caps, the grimly grayscale urban backdrop, the dark-haired subjects clad in leather jackets—Mourn’s reverence for the Ramones couldn’t be more obvious if they wore their t-shirts in their press photos. (Oh wait.) But despite a shared affinity for 90-second tunes, Mourn are drawn to the Ramones more as a model of aesthetic purity than a sonic template to emulate; though all four members are still in their teens, their scabrous sound feels less like a hyperactive buzzsaw assault than a series of steely knife nicks on the arm. And while, like the bruddahs, Mourn’s songs can be simplistic to the point of absurdity, for them, rawness is as much an emotional quality as a musical one. Mourn was reportedly recorded live off the floor in two days, a tactic that emphasizes both the band’s feral energy and the isolated, claustrophobic uneasiness that ties these 11 songs together. More so than the surface Ramones similarities, what’s ultimately most striking about that cover shot is the fact that vocalists Carla Pérez Fas and Jazz Rodríguez Bueno are seen in a protective embrace, suggesting that this band is less an innocent adolescent pastime than a necessary sanctuary from a cruel world. That said, Mourn aren’t so eager to fit in with the normals at school, pledging allegiance to artists who died before they were born or who are old enough to be their mom, if not their grandmother; in the few interviews they’ve done so far, they’ve talked about having their music mocked by classmates, and the dispiriting experience of encountering a potential new soulmate in a Nirvana shirt, only to find out the person wearing it thought Nirvana was just the name of a clothing brand. As such, Mourn is the sound of outcasts congregating in a basement on a Friday night and making a savage racket to forget about the fact they weren’t invited to the big house party that all the popular kids from school are attending. It’s loud, cathartic, and boiling over with disdain for those who’ve done them wrong; when they start naming names on "Jack" and "Marshall", you can practically picture Fas and Bueno hunched around a computer, subjecting those guys’ pictures to unflattering Photoshop makeovers. Their music is anti-social media: Mourn don’t so much write songs as status updates—"you think you’re awesome/ I say you’re boring/ you called me a baby/ I just say ‘fuck you!’"—that most people would be rushing to delete the morning after, but Mourn turn candor into sport, dropping truth bombs and reveling in the emotional fallout. (And as if the album proper didn’t serve up enough unfiltered honesty, this stateside issue of Mourn tacks on a bonus single… called "Boys Are Cunts".) But for all their impulsive lyricism, Mourn are an impressively patient band, with a keen sense of dramatic dynamics and gritty groove (courtesy of Bueno’s 15-year-old sister Leia and drummer Antonio Postius Echeverría) that belies their primordial teenage garage-band beginnings. (In particular, the opening "Your Brain Is Made of Candy" is a masterstroke of sustained tension that builds from a stark, solitary strum into a raging, stomping beast that abruptly cuts out the second it hits its feverish peak, transforming that titular sentiment from coy come-on to brutal kiss-off.) And for a record that whips by in just 24 minutes, Mourn exhibits a refreshing breadth that makes it feel like a complete album rather than an overstuffed, undercooked EP—while punkish toss-off tracks like "Misery Factory" and "You Don’t Know Me" feel like remnants of a formative phase Mourn have already outgrown, the "Jane Says"-like sway of "Marshall" and the goth-psych eruption "Silver Gold" respectively assert the band’s accessible and experimental potential. More than a simple clash of teen-angst noise and old-soul poise, Mourn’s debut album is a reminder that a big impetus for the former is the frustration of wishing you were old enough to savor the latter."

Megadeth

Peace Sells... But Who's Buying? [25th Anniversary Edition]

Metal

Jess Harvell

Like many bands in the 1980s metal underground, Megadeth were hugely successful while still essentially operating under pop's radar. Their abrasiveness, speed, gross-out extremity, and nasty humor essentially barred them from the airwaves in the days when people called Slippery When Wet a metal album with a straight face. Like their indie-label peers who'd come up out of hardcore, Megadeth built an audience by touring relentlessly, and when they were finally signed to a major, they became even more popular. And yet if you're reading this, you're under 30, and you don't consider yourself a metal fan, you might not know their music at all. This is a sad thing. For the class of '86, a year that gave us Megadeth's Peace Sells and Metallica's Master of Puppets and Slayer's Reign in Blood, the refusal to go the Poison/Cinderella route was both a point of pride and what forever kept them cult acts. (Discounting Metallica, who conquered the world only to become a joke.) They were absolutely huge cult acts-- festival draws and elder statesmen still listened to by millions-- but cult acts nevertheless. So this reissue of Peace Sells, celebrating a quarter century of Megadeth's second but first truly great album, is probably more a sop to those diehards than anything else, but if it turns one curious party into a convert then it's worth it, even in this time of bald cash-grab reissue ugliness. And there are many reasons why this album might still appeal to fence-sitters and folks turned off by extreme metal's very extremity. Peace Sells is a dead serious record that never takes itself too seriously, a slab of political shock commentary that's loaded with black comedy, and which treats Satan and ICBMs with the same awe because they're both great villains. Like most literate metalheads of his era, Megadeth leader Dave Mustaine was deeply spooked by the supposedly imminent threat of mutually assured destruction, a day-to-day possibility that those born after the cessation of Cold War hostilities might not understand. He was also plenty pissed over the non-nuclear atrocities of the Reagan years, along with the kind of bleak, man-against-the-universe shit that transcends presidential terms. But Mustaine also understood he was working in an idiom that invariably turned the most serious material, from eschatology to existential despair, into thrilling, fist-pumping, head-banging Grand Guignol. He believed in peace but knew thrash metal wasn't particularly suited to depicting some hugs-and-kisses utopia. Nuclear war was as shit-your-pants real as fears got in 1986, but it also made for some great exploitation-flick imagery. And while the lyrics to "Devil's Island" make their point about death row being a sad end for any human being, the music makes state-sponsored execution sound suspiciously awesome. Megadeth had plenty of the grimy intensity of the cassette-trading bands that would give birth to death metal and all that followed, but they'd absorbed enough radio hard rock to not abjure things like memorable thuggish riffs, big shout-along triumphant choruses, and a rhythm section that could actually throw down on a groove without succumbing to the metal vice of momentum-killing displays of virtuosity. The bass hook that opens "Peace Sells" is so instantly memorable that everyone who watched MTV in the late 80s and early 90s knows it even if they think they don't. This is a thrash record of course, and so there are solos galore, with Mustaine deep in the throes of technical ecstasy. But while drummer Gar Samuelson is no slouch in the chops department and songs shift tempos in seconds and plenty open with those noodly sturm-und-drang intros that made 80s metal so portentously great, the pummeling pace rarely lets up. "Good Mourning/Black Friday" takes a few minutes to rev up, but then it's like everything great about hardcore, plus a dose of the kind of show-off skill that makes lesser musicians' fingers bleed. There's a drunken laugh-so-you-don't-cry attitude on Peace Sells that seemingly owes as much to Flipper as to Ozzy, especially on the title track, but that doesn't mean Mustaine was mocking his audience. Megadeth were always a metal band first and foremost, which meant never condescending to anyone for feeling helpless and hopeless, or for thinking death and destruction were simultaneously kinda cool and really not-cool. Like most metal heroes, Mustaine on Peace Sells identified deeply with the dead-end kids who bought his records, even if he could play better than 95% of them. The raw live set appended as a bonus disc to this reissue-- there's also a multi-disc version that features many different mixes of the original album that will probably be of interest strictly to those who've been living with it for years-- features a snarling and ferociously funny performance of "Peace Sells" that outdoes the album version in everything but fidelity. It's an all-time ode to feeling disenfranchised but at least knowing you can still write an epic screw-you song about that fact. Mustaine knew there was no point to making this stuff sound like a drag. Because if you did manage to survive another day, there was always another beer and another awesome metal record waiting for you, and sometimes that was enough.

Artist: Megadeth, Album: Peace Sells... But Who's Buying? [25th Anniversary Edition], Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 8.7 Album review: "Like many bands in the 1980s metal underground, Megadeth were hugely successful while still essentially operating under pop's radar. Their abrasiveness, speed, gross-out extremity, and nasty humor essentially barred them from the airwaves in the days when people called Slippery When Wet a metal album with a straight face. Like their indie-label peers who'd come up out of hardcore, Megadeth built an audience by touring relentlessly, and when they were finally signed to a major, they became even more popular. And yet if you're reading this, you're under 30, and you don't consider yourself a metal fan, you might not know their music at all. This is a sad thing. For the class of '86, a year that gave us Megadeth's Peace Sells and Metallica's Master of Puppets and Slayer's Reign in Blood, the refusal to go the Poison/Cinderella route was both a point of pride and what forever kept them cult acts. (Discounting Metallica, who conquered the world only to become a joke.) They were absolutely huge cult acts-- festival draws and elder statesmen still listened to by millions-- but cult acts nevertheless. So this reissue of Peace Sells, celebrating a quarter century of Megadeth's second but first truly great album, is probably more a sop to those diehards than anything else, but if it turns one curious party into a convert then it's worth it, even in this time of bald cash-grab reissue ugliness. And there are many reasons why this album might still appeal to fence-sitters and folks turned off by extreme metal's very extremity. Peace Sells is a dead serious record that never takes itself too seriously, a slab of political shock commentary that's loaded with black comedy, and which treats Satan and ICBMs with the same awe because they're both great villains. Like most literate metalheads of his era, Megadeth leader Dave Mustaine was deeply spooked by the supposedly imminent threat of mutually assured destruction, a day-to-day possibility that those born after the cessation of Cold War hostilities might not understand. He was also plenty pissed over the non-nuclear atrocities of the Reagan years, along with the kind of bleak, man-against-the-universe shit that transcends presidential terms. But Mustaine also understood he was working in an idiom that invariably turned the most serious material, from eschatology to existential despair, into thrilling, fist-pumping, head-banging Grand Guignol. He believed in peace but knew thrash metal wasn't particularly suited to depicting some hugs-and-kisses utopia. Nuclear war was as shit-your-pants real as fears got in 1986, but it also made for some great exploitation-flick imagery. And while the lyrics to "Devil's Island" make their point about death row being a sad end for any human being, the music makes state-sponsored execution sound suspiciously awesome. Megadeth had plenty of the grimy intensity of the cassette-trading bands that would give birth to death metal and all that followed, but they'd absorbed enough radio hard rock to not abjure things like memorable thuggish riffs, big shout-along triumphant choruses, and a rhythm section that could actually throw down on a groove without succumbing to the metal vice of momentum-killing displays of virtuosity. The bass hook that opens "Peace Sells" is so instantly memorable that everyone who watched MTV in the late 80s and early 90s knows it even if they think they don't. This is a thrash record of course, and so there are solos galore, with Mustaine deep in the throes of technical ecstasy. But while drummer Gar Samuelson is no slouch in the chops department and songs shift tempos in seconds and plenty open with those noodly sturm-und-drang intros that made 80s metal so portentously great, the pummeling pace rarely lets up. "Good Mourning/Black Friday" takes a few minutes to rev up, but then it's like everything great about hardcore, plus a dose of the kind of show-off skill that makes lesser musicians' fingers bleed. There's a drunken laugh-so-you-don't-cry attitude on Peace Sells that seemingly owes as much to Flipper as to Ozzy, especially on the title track, but that doesn't mean Mustaine was mocking his audience. Megadeth were always a metal band first and foremost, which meant never condescending to anyone for feeling helpless and hopeless, or for thinking death and destruction were simultaneously kinda cool and really not-cool. Like most metal heroes, Mustaine on Peace Sells identified deeply with the dead-end kids who bought his records, even if he could play better than 95% of them. The raw live set appended as a bonus disc to this reissue-- there's also a multi-disc version that features many different mixes of the original album that will probably be of interest strictly to those who've been living with it for years-- features a snarling and ferociously funny performance of "Peace Sells" that outdoes the album version in everything but fidelity. It's an all-time ode to feeling disenfranchised but at least knowing you can still write an epic screw-you song about that fact. Mustaine knew there was no point to making this stuff sound like a drag. Because if you did manage to survive another day, there was always another beer and another awesome metal record waiting for you, and sometimes that was enough."

The Beacon Sound Choir

Sunday Songs

Philip Sherburne

If you had gone wandering along North Mississippi Avenue in Portland, Oregon, on a Sunday morning a couple of years ago, as you strolled past Taquería Por Que No on your way up to Mississippi Records, you might have heard the muffled sounds of singing filtering through the walls of a white clapboard building. The sound came not from one of the neighborhood’s storefront houses of worship, however, but from inside Beacon Sound, a community-minded record store where, for a year or so, the composer Peter Broderick assembled a few dozen people to break bread and sing together—a kind of secular service, like church without the praying. Broderick has a serious pedigree: He’s a member of the Danish chamber-indie group Efterklang as well as Kill Rock Stars’ indie-folk band Horse Feathers, and his own releases have appeared on labels like Erased Tapes (home to Nils Frahm and Ólafur Arnalds) and Simon Raymonde’s Bella Union; he recently published his first volume of sheet music for solo piano. Beacon Sound, despite its down-to-earth profile—its Facebook page is pretty evenly split between store news, activism, and local politics—puts out heavy hitters like Terry Riley and Jóhann Jóhannsson on its in-house label. But the Beacon Sound Choir is an amateur affair that welcomes singers “regardless of musical experience.” Portland singer-songwriter Alela Diane is a member, and so is Broderick’s sister Heather Woods Broderick, also a member of Horse Feathers and Efterklang, but it’s immediately apparent from the ensemble’s swollen tones that this is no professional choir. On the group’s first recording, a 10” on the Berlin/Glasgow label Infinite Greyscale, they didn’t even sing words. Hence the title, Sunday Morning Drones: After coffee and chitchat, with the group standing in a circle, one singer would strike a note and the rest would gradually join in, first in unison and eventually moving up and down the scale before finally coming back to the root note together. The results of that record were transportive—at once monolithic and vaporous, with nebulous clusters of frequencies and overtones swirling in mid-air like murmurations of starlings. They continue those drone experiments in one song on this short but captivating album, and on the side-long “Sea of Voices,” a remix by the Dutch electronic musician Machinefabriek, their wordless singing is stretched and smeared into a 16-minute opus reminiscent of Stars of the Lid. On the rest of the record’s songs, the group has graduated to actual lyrics, but the project remains an informal, proudly untutored affair. The sound is thick with the atmosphere of its untreated room. Heavy with natural reverb, footsteps, and the occasional cough or cleared throat, it sounds a lot like a rainy day spent indoors. The opening “Spring Song,” a playful, close-harmonized ode to the end of winter, begins with someone counting off the beat and snapping fingers in time, and it ends with a flurry of giggles. Wind chimes tinkle quietly in the background of “Drone 3,” and if you listen closely to “Can’t Wrap My Head Around It”—a collision of Philip Glass or Meredith Monk and ragged Appalachian folk—you might briefly make out the gurgling of an infant’s coo. Despite the music’s traditional feel—some pieces sound almost medieval, while others resemble camp meeting songs’ melodies—all were written specifically for the group by members of the choir. “The Perpetual Glow” is a simple lullaby, kind of a psychedelic take on “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” (”Weeping stars go flying/On their way to play/You’ll catch a ride and fly out/To the heavens of your mind,” runs the first verse) for which Broderick devised a basic notation system to enable non-musicians to read the music. “Spring Song” is the result of a songwriting exercise in which the choir broke into three groups, each of which wrote one verse before coming back together to sing the whole song. The final verse perfectly encapsulates its off-the-cuff origins: “Winter’s over/Moods are lifting/Let it glow/I don’t know.” A few songs are mere fragments, like rehearsal sketches, and these, too, are likely to break off into murmurs. “I completely forgot where—I had a melody in my head!” exclaims a voice in “Watermelon Sugar,” interrupting a soft, wordless chord, and bringing the song to a premature close. No one seems to mind; we hear chuckles, a smattering of applause, and another voice saying, “I loved that so much!” All these imperfections are part of the record’s charm—particularly the frequent laughter, perhaps because it’s such a palpable reminder of the actual physical joy of making music, particularly singing music, with other people. But the singers can command more serious moods, too. Slipping between major and minor keys, “Fortunate Ones” (written by Holland Andrews, aka Like a Villain) sounds faintly like Georgian polyphony; its somber tones are as rich as the smell of incense. “We are the fortunate ones/Who get to be whole again,” they sing; it is a kind of psalm whose open-ended meaning could just as easily apply to the act of singing itself.

Artist: The Beacon Sound Choir, Album: Sunday Songs, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "If you had gone wandering along North Mississippi Avenue in Portland, Oregon, on a Sunday morning a couple of years ago, as you strolled past Taquería Por Que No on your way up to Mississippi Records, you might have heard the muffled sounds of singing filtering through the walls of a white clapboard building. The sound came not from one of the neighborhood’s storefront houses of worship, however, but from inside Beacon Sound, a community-minded record store where, for a year or so, the composer Peter Broderick assembled a few dozen people to break bread and sing together—a kind of secular service, like church without the praying. Broderick has a serious pedigree: He’s a member of the Danish chamber-indie group Efterklang as well as Kill Rock Stars’ indie-folk band Horse Feathers, and his own releases have appeared on labels like Erased Tapes (home to Nils Frahm and Ólafur Arnalds) and Simon Raymonde’s Bella Union; he recently published his first volume of sheet music for solo piano. Beacon Sound, despite its down-to-earth profile—its Facebook page is pretty evenly split between store news, activism, and local politics—puts out heavy hitters like Terry Riley and Jóhann Jóhannsson on its in-house label. But the Beacon Sound Choir is an amateur affair that welcomes singers “regardless of musical experience.” Portland singer-songwriter Alela Diane is a member, and so is Broderick’s sister Heather Woods Broderick, also a member of Horse Feathers and Efterklang, but it’s immediately apparent from the ensemble’s swollen tones that this is no professional choir. On the group’s first recording, a 10” on the Berlin/Glasgow label Infinite Greyscale, they didn’t even sing words. Hence the title, Sunday Morning Drones: After coffee and chitchat, with the group standing in a circle, one singer would strike a note and the rest would gradually join in, first in unison and eventually moving up and down the scale before finally coming back to the root note together. The results of that record were transportive—at once monolithic and vaporous, with nebulous clusters of frequencies and overtones swirling in mid-air like murmurations of starlings. They continue those drone experiments in one song on this short but captivating album, and on the side-long “Sea of Voices,” a remix by the Dutch electronic musician Machinefabriek, their wordless singing is stretched and smeared into a 16-minute opus reminiscent of Stars of the Lid. On the rest of the record’s songs, the group has graduated to actual lyrics, but the project remains an informal, proudly untutored affair. The sound is thick with the atmosphere of its untreated room. Heavy with natural reverb, footsteps, and the occasional cough or cleared throat, it sounds a lot like a rainy day spent indoors. The opening “Spring Song,” a playful, close-harmonized ode to the end of winter, begins with someone counting off the beat and snapping fingers in time, and it ends with a flurry of giggles. Wind chimes tinkle quietly in the background of “Drone 3,” and if you listen closely to “Can’t Wrap My Head Around It”—a collision of Philip Glass or Meredith Monk and ragged Appalachian folk—you might briefly make out the gurgling of an infant’s coo. Despite the music’s traditional feel—some pieces sound almost medieval, while others resemble camp meeting songs’ melodies—all were written specifically for the group by members of the choir. “The Perpetual Glow” is a simple lullaby, kind of a psychedelic take on “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” (”Weeping stars go flying/On their way to play/You’ll catch a ride and fly out/To the heavens of your mind,” runs the first verse) for which Broderick devised a basic notation system to enable non-musicians to read the music. “Spring Song” is the result of a songwriting exercise in which the choir broke into three groups, each of which wrote one verse before coming back together to sing the whole song. The final verse perfectly encapsulates its off-the-cuff origins: “Winter’s over/Moods are lifting/Let it glow/I don’t know.” A few songs are mere fragments, like rehearsal sketches, and these, too, are likely to break off into murmurs. “I completely forgot where—I had a melody in my head!” exclaims a voice in “Watermelon Sugar,” interrupting a soft, wordless chord, and bringing the song to a premature close. No one seems to mind; we hear chuckles, a smattering of applause, and another voice saying, “I loved that so much!” All these imperfections are part of the record’s charm—particularly the frequent laughter, perhaps because it’s such a palpable reminder of the actual physical joy of making music, particularly singing music, with other people. But the singers can command more serious moods, too. Slipping between major and minor keys, “Fortunate Ones” (written by Holland Andrews, aka Like a Villain) sounds faintly like Georgian polyphony; its somber tones are as rich as the smell of incense. “We are the fortunate ones/Who get to be whole again,” they sing; it is a kind of psalm whose open-ended meaning could just as easily apply to the act of singing itself."

Jeremy Enigk

OK Bear

Rock

Joe Tangari

The unique power of music is to give meaning to that which has no inherent meaning. A note, on its own, is just a sound. Same with a chord or the smack of a drum stick on a snare. But by organizing those sounds, music can give them incredible power, and it can do the same for words and phrases. OK Bear, Jeremy Enigk's third solo album and second since the break-up of his band Sunny Day Real Estate, offers quite a few examples of this phenomenon, making melodic sense out of puzzling couplets like "Crimson angel/ I live and plant there still" and "Morning arise/ Traced by surprise/ In an ocean wind the waves are lost." I'm not saying his lyrics are senseless on paper-- there's inherent power in a phrase such as "They got it all, but they ain't got emotion"-- but I am saying this album lives or dies on Enigk's ability to weave a bunch of disjointed images and odd, fragmentary sensory phrases into something that feels like a story or a coherent emotional statement. Thankfully, the album mostly lives, and it's a small testament to the seemingly paradoxical ability of ethereal, bodyless music to affect us viscerally. To back up a bit, OK Bear is a confident modern-rock album, and Enigk spends considerably less time fussing with big arrangements and sweeping gestures than he did on 2006's World Waits. These songs are among his most direct, mature compositions yet in spite of their often oblique lyrics, and his delicately ragged voice is in fine form as he works to sell them. He controls the intensity of each song quite well--"April Storm" in particular benefits from a great deal of restrain in the early verses, and you really feel it when he opens up in the last verse and the guitars start to grind a little. The album's most dramatic moment is also one of its weirdest, from a songwriting perspective. "Just a State of Mind" begins softly, with acoustic guitars and harmony vocals, and picks up with each verse, and then, at literally the last moment, he introduces a brand new, dramatic melody on the last two lines. It feels like the song is about to take off into some sweeping new section, but instead it just ends, leaving the listener hanging. "Sandwich Time" is more conventional, and probably the catchiest rock song on the album, with Enigk running his backing vocals through a Leslie cabinet (or a convincing approximation of one). In an unusual error, "Sandwich Time" and "In a Look" are flipped on the tracklist, both on the rear cover art and in the printed lyrics ("Sandwich Time" is actually track seven, while "In a Look" is actually track six). "In a Look" is a piano-driven song with a good 6/8 beat and some Eric Matthews-ish horns on the bridge. The album's production aids Enigk's careful drama management, keeping every acoustic and electric guitar, Rhodes piano, bassline, and synth separate and strong-- all that space gives the dynamic shifts more power. OK Bear is a good album-- it won't blow you away, but I get the sense from listening that Enigk is confident enough in his music not to need to blow you away. Simply moving you a little is enough now, and sometimes it's nice to have an album that does that so ably and unpretentiously.

Artist: Jeremy Enigk, Album: OK Bear, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "The unique power of music is to give meaning to that which has no inherent meaning. A note, on its own, is just a sound. Same with a chord or the smack of a drum stick on a snare. But by organizing those sounds, music can give them incredible power, and it can do the same for words and phrases. OK Bear, Jeremy Enigk's third solo album and second since the break-up of his band Sunny Day Real Estate, offers quite a few examples of this phenomenon, making melodic sense out of puzzling couplets like "Crimson angel/ I live and plant there still" and "Morning arise/ Traced by surprise/ In an ocean wind the waves are lost." I'm not saying his lyrics are senseless on paper-- there's inherent power in a phrase such as "They got it all, but they ain't got emotion"-- but I am saying this album lives or dies on Enigk's ability to weave a bunch of disjointed images and odd, fragmentary sensory phrases into something that feels like a story or a coherent emotional statement. Thankfully, the album mostly lives, and it's a small testament to the seemingly paradoxical ability of ethereal, bodyless music to affect us viscerally. To back up a bit, OK Bear is a confident modern-rock album, and Enigk spends considerably less time fussing with big arrangements and sweeping gestures than he did on 2006's World Waits. These songs are among his most direct, mature compositions yet in spite of their often oblique lyrics, and his delicately ragged voice is in fine form as he works to sell them. He controls the intensity of each song quite well--"April Storm" in particular benefits from a great deal of restrain in the early verses, and you really feel it when he opens up in the last verse and the guitars start to grind a little. The album's most dramatic moment is also one of its weirdest, from a songwriting perspective. "Just a State of Mind" begins softly, with acoustic guitars and harmony vocals, and picks up with each verse, and then, at literally the last moment, he introduces a brand new, dramatic melody on the last two lines. It feels like the song is about to take off into some sweeping new section, but instead it just ends, leaving the listener hanging. "Sandwich Time" is more conventional, and probably the catchiest rock song on the album, with Enigk running his backing vocals through a Leslie cabinet (or a convincing approximation of one). In an unusual error, "Sandwich Time" and "In a Look" are flipped on the tracklist, both on the rear cover art and in the printed lyrics ("Sandwich Time" is actually track seven, while "In a Look" is actually track six). "In a Look" is a piano-driven song with a good 6/8 beat and some Eric Matthews-ish horns on the bridge. The album's production aids Enigk's careful drama management, keeping every acoustic and electric guitar, Rhodes piano, bassline, and synth separate and strong-- all that space gives the dynamic shifts more power. OK Bear is a good album-- it won't blow you away, but I get the sense from listening that Enigk is confident enough in his music not to need to blow you away. Simply moving you a little is enough now, and sometimes it's nice to have an album that does that so ably and unpretentiously."

San Fermin

Belong

Rock

Marc Hogan

The basic conceit behind San Fermin, the Brooklyn chamber-pop ensemble led by songwriter and producer Ellis Ludwig-Leone, has an obvious if not unlimited appeal. Like Sufjan Stevens circa Illinois, they bring classical flourishes to indie and folk conventions, bolstered with soaring choruses and spirited performances. This studied approach lost some of its charm on 2015’s bombastically scattershot *Jackrabbit**—*and with over five decades of baroque-pop history, from the Beach Boys to Rostam, they could be drawing from a much deeper well of influences. But San Fermin are still an unusual act. They’re an eight-piece in a music economy long removed from the heyday of huge collectives. And though he guides the group, Ludwig-Leone—who is music director and resident composer for a ballet company, and also had a premiere at the New York City Ballet in 2015—doesn’t sing. Lead vocal duties are rather shared between the capable two-pronged attack of Charlene Kaye and Allen Tate. Their third album, Belong, benefits from a sharper focus, though San Fermin’s setup continues to distinguish them more than their songs. Belong’s lush instrumental passages are the most consistently pleasant aspect of the record. Where on Jackrabbit those tended to be broken off into minute-long interludes, here the bustling breaks are neatly interwoven into the songs. Along with guitars, synths, and drums, the band has violin, trumpet, and saxophone, and it’s when the full array unfurls, especially on the expansive opus “Palisades/Storm,” that San Fermin sound most engaged. Of course, these ingredients can also bring to mind the most famous rock group with an in-house saxophonist and violinist, the Dave Matthews Band, as on the honking bridge of “Dead,” but on the festival circuit that may be a feature, not a bug. Ludwig-Leone’s songwriting is billed as more personal this time around, which works in Belong’s favor. The album feels more direct and pop-minded than its predecessors, and the shift is best represented in the catchily surging “No Promises,” which uses cooing vocal loops. The daintily chiming “Bride” is sung from the viewpoint of an anxiety-suffering bride at a wedding who has a dissociative experience. The fluttering opener, straightforwardly titled “Open,” is sung from the perspective of “a ghost at the controls.” The words to these songs can appear cryptic or stilted, and the conflicts that arise in them pale beside the problems found in a spare minute of social-media catch-up, but as emotional entry points, they get the job done. The downside of Belong’s greater tilt toward pop and feelings is an occasional lurch into treacle. “Bones,” ostensibly a soulful ballad, is too vanilla to really have an impact—less Marvin Gaye than “Marvin Gaye”—and the lyrics, despite references to the physical, have a similarly antiseptic effect. “If I could take you home/Bodies tell the rest of the story/Maybe we’d resolve ourselves,” Kaye and Tate intone in sweet harmony, as if sex were as clinical as a server error. Old-timey son-of-Mumford stomper “Cairo” and the off-puttingly romantic title track (if someone ever sighs to you, “I miss you even when you’re here,” run as soon as you stop gagging) are similar missteps. A more intriguing clunker is ornate finale “Happiness Will Ruin This Place,” a story-song that pulls together some of the album’s lyrical motifs, and includes deft touches such as circus-like oompahs when the narrator visits the zoo, but ultimately seems to signify depth and meaning without quite delivering either. If I haven’t said much about Kaye and Tate, the two lead singers, that probably makes sense, too. Both give fine performances, both noticeably improved in some ways—Kaye pushing past her typical politesse for a less restrained vocal on “Dead,” Tate edging a tiny bit away from his dead-ringer the National impression for a folksier tinge on “Oceanica.” But, perhaps because of the band’s very construction, neither comes across as the star of the show. For her part, Kaye has been compared to ex-Dirty Projectors singer Amber Coffman so many times you almost root for her own ambitious solo album. (She does have an EP, 2016’s Honey, as Kaye.) With Belong, Ludwig-Leone has said he wanted “to write music you could smell,” and arguably he succeeds; already, it has been compared to “a wall of flowers blooming at once.” This is an album with a lot going on—“bones,” “bodies,” a “little blonde ghost,” and a homey habit of calling people “honey” recur in a way that hints at a greater significance. But maybe Belong is best enjoyed like a passing fragrance, a scent you vaguely recognize but can’t quite place, a whiff of a particular ’00s Brooklyn varietal of an orchestral-pop tradition that neither began nor likely ended there.

Artist: San Fermin, Album: Belong, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "The basic conceit behind San Fermin, the Brooklyn chamber-pop ensemble led by songwriter and producer Ellis Ludwig-Leone, has an obvious if not unlimited appeal. Like Sufjan Stevens circa Illinois, they bring classical flourishes to indie and folk conventions, bolstered with soaring choruses and spirited performances. This studied approach lost some of its charm on 2015’s bombastically scattershot *Jackrabbit**—*and with over five decades of baroque-pop history, from the Beach Boys to Rostam, they could be drawing from a much deeper well of influences. But San Fermin are still an unusual act. They’re an eight-piece in a music economy long removed from the heyday of huge collectives. And though he guides the group, Ludwig-Leone—who is music director and resident composer for a ballet company, and also had a premiere at the New York City Ballet in 2015—doesn’t sing. Lead vocal duties are rather shared between the capable two-pronged attack of Charlene Kaye and Allen Tate. Their third album, Belong, benefits from a sharper focus, though San Fermin’s setup continues to distinguish them more than their songs. Belong’s lush instrumental passages are the most consistently pleasant aspect of the record. Where on Jackrabbit those tended to be broken off into minute-long interludes, here the bustling breaks are neatly interwoven into the songs. Along with guitars, synths, and drums, the band has violin, trumpet, and saxophone, and it’s when the full array unfurls, especially on the expansive opus “Palisades/Storm,” that San Fermin sound most engaged. Of course, these ingredients can also bring to mind the most famous rock group with an in-house saxophonist and violinist, the Dave Matthews Band, as on the honking bridge of “Dead,” but on the festival circuit that may be a feature, not a bug. Ludwig-Leone’s songwriting is billed as more personal this time around, which works in Belong’s favor. The album feels more direct and pop-minded than its predecessors, and the shift is best represented in the catchily surging “No Promises,” which uses cooing vocal loops. The daintily chiming “Bride” is sung from the viewpoint of an anxiety-suffering bride at a wedding who has a dissociative experience. The fluttering opener, straightforwardly titled “Open,” is sung from the perspective of “a ghost at the controls.” The words to these songs can appear cryptic or stilted, and the conflicts that arise in them pale beside the problems found in a spare minute of social-media catch-up, but as emotional entry points, they get the job done. The downside of Belong’s greater tilt toward pop and feelings is an occasional lurch into treacle. “Bones,” ostensibly a soulful ballad, is too vanilla to really have an impact—less Marvin Gaye than “Marvin Gaye”—and the lyrics, despite references to the physical, have a similarly antiseptic effect. “If I could take you home/Bodies tell the rest of the story/Maybe we’d resolve ourselves,” Kaye and Tate intone in sweet harmony, as if sex were as clinical as a server error. Old-timey son-of-Mumford stomper “Cairo” and the off-puttingly romantic title track (if someone ever sighs to you, “I miss you even when you’re here,” run as soon as you stop gagging) are similar missteps. A more intriguing clunker is ornate finale “Happiness Will Ruin This Place,” a story-song that pulls together some of the album’s lyrical motifs, and includes deft touches such as circus-like oompahs when the narrator visits the zoo, but ultimately seems to signify depth and meaning without quite delivering either. If I haven’t said much about Kaye and Tate, the two lead singers, that probably makes sense, too. Both give fine performances, both noticeably improved in some ways—Kaye pushing past her typical politesse for a less restrained vocal on “Dead,” Tate edging a tiny bit away from his dead-ringer the National impression for a folksier tinge on “Oceanica.” But, perhaps because of the band’s very construction, neither comes across as the star of the show. For her part, Kaye has been compared to ex-Dirty Projectors singer Amber Coffman so many times you almost root for her own ambitious solo album. (She does have an EP, 2016’s Honey, as Kaye.) With Belong, Ludwig-Leone has said he wanted “to write music you could smell,” and arguably he succeeds; already, it has been compared to “a wall of flowers blooming at once.” This is an album with a lot going on—“bones,” “bodies,” a “little blonde ghost,” and a homey habit of calling people “honey” recur in a way that hints at a greater significance. But maybe Belong is best enjoyed like a passing fragrance, a scent you vaguely recognize but can’t quite place, a whiff of a particular ’00s Brooklyn varietal of an orchestral-pop tradition that neither began nor likely ended there."

Four Tet

Live at Funkhaus Berlin, 10th May 2018

Electronic

Andy Beta

Is there a producer more generous than Four Tet? While Kieran Hebden kept up a steady flow of records through much of the 2000s (not to mention a number of collaborative releases with the late jazz drummer Steve Reid), since rebooting his own Text Records imprint in 2007, he’s rewarded his fans with an abundance of music. He uploaded some of his earliest productions as a 38-minute deep dive, cobbled together nearly two decades of one-offs into a handy compendium, then made another for his other handle, Percussions. Beyond his own productions, Hebden openly shares his wide-roving tastes, regularly digging into his collection for an NTS Radio residency, not to mention nearing a thousand songs on his Spotify playlist. So nonchalantly upping the 17-track Live at Funkhaus Berlin, 10th May 2018 in late August represents a continuation of his low-key, generous ways, despite the fact that up until that point, his only previous official live album was a Copenhagen set Domino released on CDR back in 2004. That particular show found him pushing his Rounds material to the absolute limit as he unlocked the ways his laptop could become an improvising instrument in its own right—a path he would explore on albums like Everything Ecstatic and alongside Reid. In comparison, Funkhaus doesn’t rework his tracks extensively so much as show how his last four albums’ worth of explorations—from Bollywood to trip-hop, new age to 2-step anthem—can all tidily hang together. The nearly two-hour show primarily draws from his post-Domino catalog (though he dusts off a classic from Rounds), taking two tracks apiece from Pink and Beautiful Rewind and pulling primarily from last year’s New Energy. Four Tet remains one of the rare electronic producers who thrives on dismantling his music before a sold-out crowd, juggling and rejiggering the components into something new, so it’s not quite as breathtaking to hear him stay well within the confines of the heady “Planet,” which opens the show. Nudging elements of the original in the mix rather than exploding the space around it, he also keeps “Parallel Jalebi” pretty much as is, lingering amid the breathless R&B ululations and skittering rhythms more or less as we recall them. Some 20 years into his career as a live artist—and more recently as an in-demand DJ—Hebden has mastered tension and release, deftly moving between peaks and comedowns in his show. He also knows when to luxuriate in a beat, as on an expanded take on New Energy highlight “Two Thousand and Seventeen,” the thrumming strings and downtempo beat so laid-back as to become narcotic. While the tempo picks up from there, the set also enters into a bit of a lull: The details that distinguish “Ocoras” and “Lush” on record blur together live, at least until the chopped pirate-radio shouts and tumbling snares of “Kool FM” finally break through, one of the high-energy breakouts of the show. Hebden speeds up those jungle breaks and shoves them right into the giddy flickers of Rounds crowd favorite “Spirit Fingers,” which dissolves far too soon, at the four-minute mark, into “LA Trance.” It’s on this somewhat inconspicuous New Energy track that Hebden unearths the most promising new terrain: Its ripples are contemplative and expansive, yet it builds up to a pulsing peak. Amid the already extended “Morning Side,” Hebden drops in some haywire energy at the midway point, finding dubby new spots to burrow into. No matter the dizzying detours he takes, he always winds his way back to the sample of Lata Mangeshkar, the legendary Indian playback singer whose haunting voice buttresses the track. It’s a fitting conclusion for the show, overshadowing the dulcet encore “Daughter” and some four minutes of clapping. It’s a bountiful offering for fans, even if the set ultimately offers few true surprises.

Artist: Four Tet, Album: Live at Funkhaus Berlin, 10th May 2018, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Is there a producer more generous than Four Tet? While Kieran Hebden kept up a steady flow of records through much of the 2000s (not to mention a number of collaborative releases with the late jazz drummer Steve Reid), since rebooting his own Text Records imprint in 2007, he’s rewarded his fans with an abundance of music. He uploaded some of his earliest productions as a 38-minute deep dive, cobbled together nearly two decades of one-offs into a handy compendium, then made another for his other handle, Percussions. Beyond his own productions, Hebden openly shares his wide-roving tastes, regularly digging into his collection for an NTS Radio residency, not to mention nearing a thousand songs on his Spotify playlist. So nonchalantly upping the 17-track Live at Funkhaus Berlin, 10th May 2018 in late August represents a continuation of his low-key, generous ways, despite the fact that up until that point, his only previous official live album was a Copenhagen set Domino released on CDR back in 2004. That particular show found him pushing his Rounds material to the absolute limit as he unlocked the ways his laptop could become an improvising instrument in its own right—a path he would explore on albums like Everything Ecstatic and alongside Reid. In comparison, Funkhaus doesn’t rework his tracks extensively so much as show how his last four albums’ worth of explorations—from Bollywood to trip-hop, new age to 2-step anthem—can all tidily hang together. The nearly two-hour show primarily draws from his post-Domino catalog (though he dusts off a classic from Rounds), taking two tracks apiece from Pink and Beautiful Rewind and pulling primarily from last year’s New Energy. Four Tet remains one of the rare electronic producers who thrives on dismantling his music before a sold-out crowd, juggling and rejiggering the components into something new, so it’s not quite as breathtaking to hear him stay well within the confines of the heady “Planet,” which opens the show. Nudging elements of the original in the mix rather than exploding the space around it, he also keeps “Parallel Jalebi” pretty much as is, lingering amid the breathless R&B ululations and skittering rhythms more or less as we recall them. Some 20 years into his career as a live artist—and more recently as an in-demand DJ—Hebden has mastered tension and release, deftly moving between peaks and comedowns in his show. He also knows when to luxuriate in a beat, as on an expanded take on New Energy highlight “Two Thousand and Seventeen,” the thrumming strings and downtempo beat so laid-back as to become narcotic. While the tempo picks up from there, the set also enters into a bit of a lull: The details that distinguish “Ocoras” and “Lush” on record blur together live, at least until the chopped pirate-radio shouts and tumbling snares of “Kool FM” finally break through, one of the high-energy breakouts of the show. Hebden speeds up those jungle breaks and shoves them right into the giddy flickers of Rounds crowd favorite “Spirit Fingers,” which dissolves far too soon, at the four-minute mark, into “LA Trance.” It’s on this somewhat inconspicuous New Energy track that Hebden unearths the most promising new terrain: Its ripples are contemplative and expansive, yet it builds up to a pulsing peak. Amid the already extended “Morning Side,” Hebden drops in some haywire energy at the midway point, finding dubby new spots to burrow into. No matter the dizzying detours he takes, he always winds his way back to the sample of Lata Mangeshkar, the legendary Indian playback singer whose haunting voice buttresses the track. It’s a fitting conclusion for the show, overshadowing the dulcet encore “Daughter” and some four minutes of clapping. It’s a bountiful offering for fans, even if the set ultimately offers few true surprises."

Ceremony

The L-Shaped Man

Rock

Ian Cohen

Hardcore is a genre that revels in certain clichés—the ultimate of which is making a record that renounces your ties to hardcore. Despite its commonality, it’s still a risky maneuver: perhaps playing in such a stylistic straitjacket has made a band incapable of doing anything else. Even if it’s an artistically successful record, it can alienate old fans without attracting new ones. Most relevant to Ceremony, it’s a card you only get to play once. Six years after they could be accurately described as "powerviolence," the Bay Area group released their John Goodmanson-produced Matador debut *Zoo—*a slog through boggy, primordial punk, interesting for the sole fact that it was made by a former powerviolence band. Ceremony undergoes another drastic change on The L-Shaped Man, but it cannot be leniently judged relative to Violence Violence. They’re now just one of the thousands of indie rock bands that really want to sound like Joy Division, and sounding no more engaged with their source material than the average dude plucking an Unknown Pleasures graphic T off the rack at Hot Topic. Mind you, Ceremony are on their fifth record and are named after a Joy Division song. But at the very least, the veritable return to their roots makes sense within the context of The L-Shaped Man. Ceremony are also one of the thousands of indie rock bands making a conceptual breakup record; and in these situations, such a breakup is assumed to be so catastrophic that it totally dismantles one’s self-construct and leaves nothing but foundation. Joy Division lyrics, advice from your father, bumper stickers that read "all things pass"—everything you’ve been led to think is trite once you’re out of your teens might actually reveal themselves to be the truth. There’s no way to judge the authenticity of Ross Farrar’s emotions on The L-Shaped Man. But how can he can be exempt on an album where everything feels like facade? In particular, the facade inherent in Ceremony’s own name, as they grab at the most obvious signifiers of their idols and pass them off as their own. For one thing, Farrar’s vocals are now unrecognizable, or only recognizable as Ian Curtis karaoke. To be fair, Curtis is a natural touchstone for a punk rock carny barker, as his enduring qualities—the militaristic cadences, the claustrophobic melodies—can be approximated without much technical ability. But you can’t fake his command or intensity or sonorousness, though Farrar tries. Or maybe he doesn’t try hard enough. The lyrics are delivered with honesty and presumed urgency. They are also proof that those qualities can be less important than thinking before you talk. The dishwater-gray ambience of "Exit Fears" implies sleepless nights filled with lingering regret, while Farrar moans, "The pain will leave in the night/ Memories return in the light"—which seems to express the exact opposite of what he means. "The root of the world is in the red heart," "you saw yourself walking with no one else and it scared you"—they all aspire to be aphorisms and fade upon impact like a tweet never to be favorited. The album title itself is indicative of Farrar making observations without any insight—men are generally L-shaped, but...so? The lack of resonance is even more obvious in Farrar’s newfound tone, a monster mash of alternating cartoonish bellow and honk which doesn’t sound like Curtis or Paul Banks so much as the dude from Editors drunkenly imitating Paul Banks trying to sing like Ian Curtis. Of all Farrar’s means of cheating towards cogency—repetition of lyrics that just can’t bear the attempts at establishing portent, lending numerous song titles a definitive article to import significance—the most absurd is his Jay McInerney-like tendency to speak almost entirely in the second person. Call it Turn on the Bright Lights, Big City. As a working unit, Ceremony still play with customary, clumsy enthusiasm. The terse drumrolls, plangent guitar fills, and basslines that are all thumbs—it’s all here and played with the expected looseness of a former hardcore band that moved onto garage rock and is now learning post-punk on the fly. It occasionally coalesces into a surf-goth hybrid that at least justifies John Reis being roped into this. Who knows what Ceremony expected of the former Hot Snakes/Rocket From the Crypt frontman, but his production might be more overmatched than mismatched: the confused melodies Farrar strews over the piano plunking of "Hibernation" and the wayward guitar leads in "Root of the World" can generously be heard as an experiment in avant-garde atonality. Ceremony would’ve been better off phoning a different guy from Drive Like Jehu—put Mark Trombino behind the drums or the boards and he could provide a high-velocity, low-viscosity sleekness that would make relatively hooky outliers like "The Separation" and "Bleeder" go incognito on satellite radio as enjoyably derivative post-pop-punk. The L-Shaped Man does have an advantage over Zoo, in that it’s interesting in the way any true debacle is, where a band’s conviction is either impervious to any kind of outside intervention or just not subject to it. Just look at the album cover: almost immediately after Ceremony revealed The L-Shaped Man, fans noticed its too-hilarious-to-be-intentional similarity to a gag from the "A Millhouse Divided" episode of "The Simpsons." This is better known as the "Can I Borrow a Feeling" episode, an unfortunate coincidence seeing as how we’re talking about a record whose entire aesthetic is on loan. It’s even more serendipitous in light of the exact scene with the offending Pictionary attempt—there we have Kirk Van Houten, on the verge of a calamitous divorce, yelling at a dinner party crowd who reacts to his inept visual rendering of "dignity" with embarrassed silence. Maybe it's good for a laugh, but only as a defense mechanism against the cringe-inducing experience of watching artistic expression abandon a heartbroken man at his lowest moment.

Artist: Ceremony, Album: The L-Shaped Man, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 3.3 Album review: "Hardcore is a genre that revels in certain clichés—the ultimate of which is making a record that renounces your ties to hardcore. Despite its commonality, it’s still a risky maneuver: perhaps playing in such a stylistic straitjacket has made a band incapable of doing anything else. Even if it’s an artistically successful record, it can alienate old fans without attracting new ones. Most relevant to Ceremony, it’s a card you only get to play once. Six years after they could be accurately described as "powerviolence," the Bay Area group released their John Goodmanson-produced Matador debut *Zoo—*a slog through boggy, primordial punk, interesting for the sole fact that it was made by a former powerviolence band. Ceremony undergoes another drastic change on The L-Shaped Man, but it cannot be leniently judged relative to Violence Violence. They’re now just one of the thousands of indie rock bands that really want to sound like Joy Division, and sounding no more engaged with their source material than the average dude plucking an Unknown Pleasures graphic T off the rack at Hot Topic. Mind you, Ceremony are on their fifth record and are named after a Joy Division song. But at the very least, the veritable return to their roots makes sense within the context of The L-Shaped Man. Ceremony are also one of the thousands of indie rock bands making a conceptual breakup record; and in these situations, such a breakup is assumed to be so catastrophic that it totally dismantles one’s self-construct and leaves nothing but foundation. Joy Division lyrics, advice from your father, bumper stickers that read "all things pass"—everything you’ve been led to think is trite once you’re out of your teens might actually reveal themselves to be the truth. There’s no way to judge the authenticity of Ross Farrar’s emotions on The L-Shaped Man. But how can he can be exempt on an album where everything feels like facade? In particular, the facade inherent in Ceremony’s own name, as they grab at the most obvious signifiers of their idols and pass them off as their own. For one thing, Farrar’s vocals are now unrecognizable, or only recognizable as Ian Curtis karaoke. To be fair, Curtis is a natural touchstone for a punk rock carny barker, as his enduring qualities—the militaristic cadences, the claustrophobic melodies—can be approximated without much technical ability. But you can’t fake his command or intensity or sonorousness, though Farrar tries. Or maybe he doesn’t try hard enough. The lyrics are delivered with honesty and presumed urgency. They are also proof that those qualities can be less important than thinking before you talk. The dishwater-gray ambience of "Exit Fears" implies sleepless nights filled with lingering regret, while Farrar moans, "The pain will leave in the night/ Memories return in the light"—which seems to express the exact opposite of what he means. "The root of the world is in the red heart," "you saw yourself walking with no one else and it scared you"—they all aspire to be aphorisms and fade upon impact like a tweet never to be favorited. The album title itself is indicative of Farrar making observations without any insight—men are generally L-shaped, but...so? The lack of resonance is even more obvious in Farrar’s newfound tone, a monster mash of alternating cartoonish bellow and honk which doesn’t sound like Curtis or Paul Banks so much as the dude from Editors drunkenly imitating Paul Banks trying to sing like Ian Curtis. Of all Farrar’s means of cheating towards cogency—repetition of lyrics that just can’t bear the attempts at establishing portent, lending numerous song titles a definitive article to import significance—the most absurd is his Jay McInerney-like tendency to speak almost entirely in the second person. Call it Turn on the Bright Lights, Big City. As a working unit, Ceremony still play with customary, clumsy enthusiasm. The terse drumrolls, plangent guitar fills, and basslines that are all thumbs—it’s all here and played with the expected looseness of a former hardcore band that moved onto garage rock and is now learning post-punk on the fly. It occasionally coalesces into a surf-goth hybrid that at least justifies John Reis being roped into this. Who knows what Ceremony expected of the former Hot Snakes/Rocket From the Crypt frontman, but his production might be more overmatched than mismatched: the confused melodies Farrar strews over the piano plunking of "Hibernation" and the wayward guitar leads in "Root of the World" can generously be heard as an experiment in avant-garde atonality. Ceremony would’ve been better off phoning a different guy from Drive Like Jehu—put Mark Trombino behind the drums or the boards and he could provide a high-velocity, low-viscosity sleekness that would make relatively hooky outliers like "The Separation" and "Bleeder" go incognito on satellite radio as enjoyably derivative post-pop-punk. The L-Shaped Man does have an advantage over Zoo, in that it’s interesting in the way any true debacle is, where a band’s conviction is either impervious to any kind of outside intervention or just not subject to it. Just look at the album cover: almost immediately after Ceremony revealed The L-Shaped Man, fans noticed its too-hilarious-to-be-intentional similarity to a gag from the "A Millhouse Divided" episode of "The Simpsons." This is better known as the "Can I Borrow a Feeling" episode, an unfortunate coincidence seeing as how we’re talking about a record whose entire aesthetic is on loan. It’s even more serendipitous in light of the exact scene with the offending Pictionary attempt—there we have Kirk Van Houten, on the verge of a calamitous divorce, yelling at a dinner party crowd who reacts to his inept visual rendering of "dignity" with embarrassed silence. Maybe it's good for a laugh, but only as a defense mechanism against the cringe-inducing experience of watching artistic expression abandon a heartbroken man at his lowest moment."

The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up, Xiu Xiu

Insound Tour Support EP

Rock,Experimental

Matt LeMay

Those who'll tell you that nothing's shocking are, generally speaking, full of shit. Sure, it's tempting to cop a jaded wince and react to everything with calculated disinterest, but in a world where the quiet, seemingly emotionless among us often wind up hanging from the rafters of dank apartments, one has to wonder how many reactions of shock and trauma are silently repressed and denied. We're often taught not to register our emotions, but when those unexpressed feelings finally boil over, the results are virtually always shocking, and it's that simmering combination of rage and terror that often fucks things up in the most horrific ways. Xiu Xiu frontman Jamie Stewart is often accused of overblown and dramatic bursts of emotion too intense and terrifying to be considered even remotely sincere. But as anybody who's ever experienced (or witnessed) a full-blown emotional freakout can attest to, it's sometimes the most ridiculous and indulgent moments that are the most wrenching and unbearable. At their best, Xiu Xiu manage to tap directly into this kind of unbearable tension, discomfort, and eventual catharsis, making music that's not always easy to listen to, but that often elicits a reaction much more powerful and disturbing than almost anything else around. On this EP, some of Stewart's best songs to date are pitted against the more conventional melancholia of their Absolutely Kosher labelmates The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up. The EP alternates between songs by the two artists, a strategy that seriously disrupts the flow of each artists' work; compared to Xiu Xiu's unique and confrontational contributions, The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up's songs seem tame and inconsequential. If one gets acclimated to the understated moodiness of the Pile-Up, Xiu Xiu's tracks tend to come across as subtle as a punch in the face. Taken separately, though, both groups contribute entirely worthwhile songs. Xiu Xiu's four tracks-- all slated for inclusion on their next full-length-- are some of the most melodic Stewart has ever written. "Fabulous Muscles", the standout track and one of the band's best to date, features Stewart singing over acoustic guitar, sparse percussion and plucked strings, offering a chorus of "Cremate me after you come on my lips." It's bound to strike some as gratuitously shocking, but the song itself is in fact remarkably subtle; the percussion, though slight, is violent, musically echoing unsettling lyrics like "Break my face in/ Was the kindest touch you ever gave." Stewart's vocal performance is powerfully nuanced as he veers from a soft, uncomfortably high croon to a barely contained wail by song's end. "Little Panda McElroy" and "Bunny Gamer" both make sophisticated use of electronic noises and drum machine beats in juxtaposed order and entropy; the former is a beautiful drone piece with powerfully disturbing undercurrents, mimicking Stewart's lyrics of self-effacing salvation. "Nieces Pieces", which appeared in a similar version on Fag Patrol, benefits from the cleaner sonic treatment it receives here, as it builds to a chilling, violent-yet-skeletal finale. The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up's contributions to this EP are wrenching in a much more traditional sense, employing repetitious piano figures, whispered vocals, and simple, insistent percussion. Over the course of two albums, the Pile-Up have proven themselves quite adept at creating dark-yet-dynamic songs that benefit greatly from subtle instrumental interplay and well-conceived melodies, and these four songs are no exceptions. "Seattle" is the most understated and minimal of the four Pile-Up tracks, making use of a memorable piano part, but the vocal melody seems intrinsically secondary. Chris Walla produced The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up's contributions to this EP, and their "Conversation Stalls" bears a striking resemblance to his full-time band, Death Cab for Cutie. It's their best offering here, benefiting from gorgeous, clean guitar lines and a ridiculously strong, slinky vocal melody. "Birthday Cake", however, falls into pure emo cliché, mentioning mixtapes and Nick Drake before closing with the whimpered lyric, "I dreamt that I kissed you." Shortcomings aside, The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up's four tracks will be a welcome addition to the collection of any self-respecting lover of sad bastard music. It just seems unfortunate that they have to share the bill with a band that continually manages to lay bare the overdetermined emptiness of "sad bastard music" as a whole. Both bands delve into the darker side of human emotion, but where The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up are content to deftly tell of their feelings, Xiu Xiu lay it all out right in front of you, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable it makes you feel.

Artist: The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up, Xiu Xiu, Album: Insound Tour Support EP, Genre: Rock,Experimental, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "Those who'll tell you that nothing's shocking are, generally speaking, full of shit. Sure, it's tempting to cop a jaded wince and react to everything with calculated disinterest, but in a world where the quiet, seemingly emotionless among us often wind up hanging from the rafters of dank apartments, one has to wonder how many reactions of shock and trauma are silently repressed and denied. We're often taught not to register our emotions, but when those unexpressed feelings finally boil over, the results are virtually always shocking, and it's that simmering combination of rage and terror that often fucks things up in the most horrific ways. Xiu Xiu frontman Jamie Stewart is often accused of overblown and dramatic bursts of emotion too intense and terrifying to be considered even remotely sincere. But as anybody who's ever experienced (or witnessed) a full-blown emotional freakout can attest to, it's sometimes the most ridiculous and indulgent moments that are the most wrenching and unbearable. At their best, Xiu Xiu manage to tap directly into this kind of unbearable tension, discomfort, and eventual catharsis, making music that's not always easy to listen to, but that often elicits a reaction much more powerful and disturbing than almost anything else around. On this EP, some of Stewart's best songs to date are pitted against the more conventional melancholia of their Absolutely Kosher labelmates The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up. The EP alternates between songs by the two artists, a strategy that seriously disrupts the flow of each artists' work; compared to Xiu Xiu's unique and confrontational contributions, The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up's songs seem tame and inconsequential. If one gets acclimated to the understated moodiness of the Pile-Up, Xiu Xiu's tracks tend to come across as subtle as a punch in the face. Taken separately, though, both groups contribute entirely worthwhile songs. Xiu Xiu's four tracks-- all slated for inclusion on their next full-length-- are some of the most melodic Stewart has ever written. "Fabulous Muscles", the standout track and one of the band's best to date, features Stewart singing over acoustic guitar, sparse percussion and plucked strings, offering a chorus of "Cremate me after you come on my lips." It's bound to strike some as gratuitously shocking, but the song itself is in fact remarkably subtle; the percussion, though slight, is violent, musically echoing unsettling lyrics like "Break my face in/ Was the kindest touch you ever gave." Stewart's vocal performance is powerfully nuanced as he veers from a soft, uncomfortably high croon to a barely contained wail by song's end. "Little Panda McElroy" and "Bunny Gamer" both make sophisticated use of electronic noises and drum machine beats in juxtaposed order and entropy; the former is a beautiful drone piece with powerfully disturbing undercurrents, mimicking Stewart's lyrics of self-effacing salvation. "Nieces Pieces", which appeared in a similar version on Fag Patrol, benefits from the cleaner sonic treatment it receives here, as it builds to a chilling, violent-yet-skeletal finale. The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up's contributions to this EP are wrenching in a much more traditional sense, employing repetitious piano figures, whispered vocals, and simple, insistent percussion. Over the course of two albums, the Pile-Up have proven themselves quite adept at creating dark-yet-dynamic songs that benefit greatly from subtle instrumental interplay and well-conceived melodies, and these four songs are no exceptions. "Seattle" is the most understated and minimal of the four Pile-Up tracks, making use of a memorable piano part, but the vocal melody seems intrinsically secondary. Chris Walla produced The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up's contributions to this EP, and their "Conversation Stalls" bears a striking resemblance to his full-time band, Death Cab for Cutie. It's their best offering here, benefiting from gorgeous, clean guitar lines and a ridiculously strong, slinky vocal melody. "Birthday Cake", however, falls into pure emo cliché, mentioning mixtapes and Nick Drake before closing with the whimpered lyric, "I dreamt that I kissed you." Shortcomings aside, The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up's four tracks will be a welcome addition to the collection of any self-respecting lover of sad bastard music. It just seems unfortunate that they have to share the bill with a band that continually manages to lay bare the overdetermined emptiness of "sad bastard music" as a whole. Both bands delve into the darker side of human emotion, but where The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up are content to deftly tell of their feelings, Xiu Xiu lay it all out right in front of you, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable it makes you feel."

Turbonegro

Ass Cobra

Rock

Brandon Stosuy

Before the hype, I unknowingly stumbled upon Turbonegro's daunting physiognomy when a friend, visiting from Tokyo, took me on a search for the first Iron Maiden record. Totally engrossed in Bleeker Bob's extensive metal section, we were blown away by a photograph of what looked like a heavy-set Alice Cooper and his denim-obsessed friends, by songs titles like "Hobbit Motherfuckers" and "I Got Erection" (among others), and finally by the over-sexed coming-of-age liner notes to Ass Cobra, by "King Irwin" The Whiskey Rebel. In the language of a cracked-out Henry Miller (or Vince McMahon), this so-called rebel proclaimed that-- like Tristram Shandy-- he wouldn't have been born if his father hadn't "come" in the right place, that his strapping adopted Norwegian parents had a lot of sex, and how when he first saw Turbonegro in Oregon they managed to turn on an entire party of women (and men "coming to grips with their feminine side"). That this band of frumpy metal heads-- men that could almost pull of black sweat suits-- were "Norway's greatest band ever." That's certainly a lot of rock-n-roll potential, but we were bummed to see they'd prematurely stopped their attack in 1998 when vocalist Hank Von Helvete went into intensive care at a psychiatric unit in Milan for an addiction to heroin and darkness. Ever a fan of the modernist cult of genius, this premature breakup only added to the flames of an already ferociously burning fire, a church torched in the name of death punk! So yeah, we were hooked. In their decade together, Turbonegro released at least two classic records: Ass Cobra (1996) and Apocalypse Dudes (1997), both reissued by Epitaph in 2003. Ass Cobra is the more immediate and rougher of the two, with the brilliant "Denim Demon"-- the best teenage outcast anthem since Danzig left the Misfits. On Apocalypse Dude, "Prince of the Rodeo" combines piss-drunk L.A. thrash and a purer understanding of the band that inspired it. It channels Van Halen's first two records in a straight, wailing hard rock anthem, a classic piece of guitar showmanship precious few bands could hope to pull off. The addition of guitarist Euroboy and new drummer Chris Summers yields a denser sound: Check out the constant guitar tapping on "Get It On", and the ponderous, nearly Yes expansiveness of "The Age of Pamparious". The music isn't as heavy as I'd imagined; some friends and I watched the video for "Get It On" at work without any speakers, then decided to take votes on what music could possibly live up to the ridiculous imagery, of Hank Von Helvete in full face paint brandishing a cane-cum-riding-crop, the rest of the band decked out in sailor caps and red lipstick, driving nowhere in a car. Recalling a number of Guns 'n' Roses videos, Slash perched on mountain tops or in solitary confines for his half-assed solos, guitarist Euroboy plays quickly and with skill, in a stable. But we couldn't hear him. One of us said there would have to be electronic drums. I mentioned Roxy Music fronted by King Diamond. Someone else mentioned The Stooges and Danzig. Oddly enough, they ended up sounding kind of like a better, three-dimensional version of The Hives, though Hives' vocalist Pele Almqvist speaks elsewhere of watching and admiring Turbonegro when he was in high school, so I guess it's more proper to say The Hives are a bad version of Turbonegro. Though they've recorded for Man's Ruin, Sympathy for the Record Industry and Amphetamine Reptile, had a tribute album recorded in their honor (Alpha Motherfuckers, Blitzcore; 2001), and despite increasingly loud championing by Rocket From The Crypt, Dave Grohl, Jello Biafra, Metallica, Queens of the Stone Age (who cover "Back to Dungaree High") and the famously crotchety Steve Albini, Turbonegro remain best known in the US for their back-story. The decidedly 1970s East Village "gay" look-- bright red lipstick, Tom of Finland's facial hair and denim suits amid images of male on male blowjobs-- whether satirical or not, is pretty daring when placed in the context of our always uptight hard rock scene. Basically, Turbonegro are heterosexual men obsessed with other men's asses. Ass Cobra is the most overt in this regard: it's here that they sing about a "tender" sailor man, re-envision "Midnight Rambler" as "Midnight NAMBLA" (complete with children making nervous sounds), and decorate the album with images by Tom of Finland and old German men servicing one another. The butt fetish continues on Apocalypse Dudes, which has the Meatmen-like "Rendezvous With Anus". The perpetually sweaty Von Helvete often ends their sets by sticking a sparkler up his ass-- G.G. Allin watch out!-- so the question is, is this offensive, or are we talking grand Swiftian satire? What makes Turbonegro such a beloved band of hard rockers is the fact that they're intelligent, something their American counterparts have had a tougher time proving in recent years. Turbonegro's painfully clichéd but stunningly executed rock-n-roll excess reminds me of when I saw The Ramones play to a packed City Gardens. I was 16, and at first, nervous and intimidated by the male bodies crashing around the stage, but ultimately they unearthed exhilaration in this smoky, stinking, kind of stupid space, so far outside my usual suburban home. Today, as a cynical 29-year-old who for the most part nods out at the banality of live music, any band that can chip away at years of boredom and shift my head towards the nervous energy of that first punk offering must be onto something worthwhile. It might be the best praise I can offer Turbonegro: these records make me absolutely giddy.

Artist: Turbonegro, Album: Ass Cobra, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.0 Album review: "Before the hype, I unknowingly stumbled upon Turbonegro's daunting physiognomy when a friend, visiting from Tokyo, took me on a search for the first Iron Maiden record. Totally engrossed in Bleeker Bob's extensive metal section, we were blown away by a photograph of what looked like a heavy-set Alice Cooper and his denim-obsessed friends, by songs titles like "Hobbit Motherfuckers" and "I Got Erection" (among others), and finally by the over-sexed coming-of-age liner notes to Ass Cobra, by "King Irwin" The Whiskey Rebel. In the language of a cracked-out Henry Miller (or Vince McMahon), this so-called rebel proclaimed that-- like Tristram Shandy-- he wouldn't have been born if his father hadn't "come" in the right place, that his strapping adopted Norwegian parents had a lot of sex, and how when he first saw Turbonegro in Oregon they managed to turn on an entire party of women (and men "coming to grips with their feminine side"). That this band of frumpy metal heads-- men that could almost pull of black sweat suits-- were "Norway's greatest band ever." That's certainly a lot of rock-n-roll potential, but we were bummed to see they'd prematurely stopped their attack in 1998 when vocalist Hank Von Helvete went into intensive care at a psychiatric unit in Milan for an addiction to heroin and darkness. Ever a fan of the modernist cult of genius, this premature breakup only added to the flames of an already ferociously burning fire, a church torched in the name of death punk! So yeah, we were hooked. In their decade together, Turbonegro released at least two classic records: Ass Cobra (1996) and Apocalypse Dudes (1997), both reissued by Epitaph in 2003. Ass Cobra is the more immediate and rougher of the two, with the brilliant "Denim Demon"-- the best teenage outcast anthem since Danzig left the Misfits. On Apocalypse Dude, "Prince of the Rodeo" combines piss-drunk L.A. thrash and a purer understanding of the band that inspired it. It channels Van Halen's first two records in a straight, wailing hard rock anthem, a classic piece of guitar showmanship precious few bands could hope to pull off. The addition of guitarist Euroboy and new drummer Chris Summers yields a denser sound: Check out the constant guitar tapping on "Get It On", and the ponderous, nearly Yes expansiveness of "The Age of Pamparious". The music isn't as heavy as I'd imagined; some friends and I watched the video for "Get It On" at work without any speakers, then decided to take votes on what music could possibly live up to the ridiculous imagery, of Hank Von Helvete in full face paint brandishing a cane-cum-riding-crop, the rest of the band decked out in sailor caps and red lipstick, driving nowhere in a car. Recalling a number of Guns 'n' Roses videos, Slash perched on mountain tops or in solitary confines for his half-assed solos, guitarist Euroboy plays quickly and with skill, in a stable. But we couldn't hear him. One of us said there would have to be electronic drums. I mentioned Roxy Music fronted by King Diamond. Someone else mentioned The Stooges and Danzig. Oddly enough, they ended up sounding kind of like a better, three-dimensional version of The Hives, though Hives' vocalist Pele Almqvist speaks elsewhere of watching and admiring Turbonegro when he was in high school, so I guess it's more proper to say The Hives are a bad version of Turbonegro. Though they've recorded for Man's Ruin, Sympathy for the Record Industry and Amphetamine Reptile, had a tribute album recorded in their honor (Alpha Motherfuckers, Blitzcore; 2001), and despite increasingly loud championing by Rocket From The Crypt, Dave Grohl, Jello Biafra, Metallica, Queens of the Stone Age (who cover "Back to Dungaree High") and the famously crotchety Steve Albini, Turbonegro remain best known in the US for their back-story. The decidedly 1970s East Village "gay" look-- bright red lipstick, Tom of Finland's facial hair and denim suits amid images of male on male blowjobs-- whether satirical or not, is pretty daring when placed in the context of our always uptight hard rock scene. Basically, Turbonegro are heterosexual men obsessed with other men's asses. Ass Cobra is the most overt in this regard: it's here that they sing about a "tender" sailor man, re-envision "Midnight Rambler" as "Midnight NAMBLA" (complete with children making nervous sounds), and decorate the album with images by Tom of Finland and old German men servicing one another. The butt fetish continues on Apocalypse Dudes, which has the Meatmen-like "Rendezvous With Anus". The perpetually sweaty Von Helvete often ends their sets by sticking a sparkler up his ass-- G.G. Allin watch out!-- so the question is, is this offensive, or are we talking grand Swiftian satire? What makes Turbonegro such a beloved band of hard rockers is the fact that they're intelligent, something their American counterparts have had a tougher time proving in recent years. Turbonegro's painfully clichéd but stunningly executed rock-n-roll excess reminds me of when I saw The Ramones play to a packed City Gardens. I was 16, and at first, nervous and intimidated by the male bodies crashing around the stage, but ultimately they unearthed exhilaration in this smoky, stinking, kind of stupid space, so far outside my usual suburban home. Today, as a cynical 29-year-old who for the most part nods out at the banality of live music, any band that can chip away at years of boredom and shift my head towards the nervous energy of that first punk offering must be onto something worthwhile. It might be the best praise I can offer Turbonegro: these records make me absolutely giddy."

Hawksley Workman

(Last Night We Were) The Delicious Wolves

Rock

Chris Dahlen

All eyes are on him. He's wounded and wailing, but then he abruptly takes command; he quivers vulnerably, his voice warbling as his heart deflates, and then he roars his demands, like a lioness that follows orders without hiding her claws. Hawksley Workman assaults his songs with butch sexual charge, the camp and flamboyance of a junior league pop diva-- so much that, well, not to question anyone's identity, but he's gotta be, you know, British. Workman actually hails from the less glamorous nation of Canada. In the strange, maybe made-up biography on his website, he writes that he's a country boy whose life changed when he moved to the city and took up residence in a dance studio. Working day and night to earn his keep and learn his art, he became a dancer who has held the Dutch Royal Family in his thrall. And after learning to sing and collecting some garish stage outfits, he took up a new career as a burgeoning international pop star, with three records under his belt: For Him and the Girls, a Christmas album called Almost a Full Moon, and now (Last Night We Were) The Delicious Wolves. Far and away his greatest strength is his voice. Owing some influence to idols like Bowie or Freddie Mercury, his style has been compared to Britain's 70s glam pop age: his sexual energy encompasses and then tosses aside plain old macho cock-rock. Whether caterwauling through "You and Me and the Weather", moaning low like Robert Plant, or barking orders to an anonymous plaything in "Striptease", Workman not only possesses chrome-plated pipes, but the style to use them. Workman recorded this album almost entirely by himself at home: that's him hammering out the tight piano part on "Jealous of Your Cigarette", or working the guitar like he's humping a pole. Ditching the folk and country tinge that colored his first album, the music goes from a rhythm-and-blues urgency to drawn-out almost schmaltzy musical theater. But even if Workman's putting just about everything he has into performing this music, the material he wrote can't keep up: it just jogs along while he's singing up a storm; and for someone who can spew purple prose-- he's even published a book of love letters, Hawksley Burns for Isadora-- the lyrics range from lurid and rambling, to obvious and dull. "I'm jealous of your cigarette/ And all the things you do with it," works as not-too-subtle camp, but later in the song he spells out the innuendo ("...and how you want to suck on it), and that's just gauche. Although the singles that kick off the disc are almost lunkheadedly blunt, they still carry more charge than the later songs which, while smart and often catchy, are strangely defanged. "Clever Not Beautiful" is actually neither, running on seemingly forever; the piano ballad "Lethal and Young" tries to sum up the perils of youth, but ends up just waving a finger at them. Even though there are charming melodies on songs like "Your Beauty Must Be Rubbing Off"-- almost every track is well-honed and catchy-- Workman gets too cute and puckish; end-to-end the record grows cloying, losing the edge that the first few songs promised. Where's that tension, the ambiguous charge that sends your neckhairs crawling? The album hints at something worthy of Workman's craftsmanship and charisma: something that aches more, or shows less, or doesn't sound so damn theatrical. As is, it doesn't dig deep enough into what drives him; is this erotic and raw, or is it just needily pawing at us?

Artist: Hawksley Workman, Album: (Last Night We Were) The Delicious Wolves, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "All eyes are on him. He's wounded and wailing, but then he abruptly takes command; he quivers vulnerably, his voice warbling as his heart deflates, and then he roars his demands, like a lioness that follows orders without hiding her claws. Hawksley Workman assaults his songs with butch sexual charge, the camp and flamboyance of a junior league pop diva-- so much that, well, not to question anyone's identity, but he's gotta be, you know, British. Workman actually hails from the less glamorous nation of Canada. In the strange, maybe made-up biography on his website, he writes that he's a country boy whose life changed when he moved to the city and took up residence in a dance studio. Working day and night to earn his keep and learn his art, he became a dancer who has held the Dutch Royal Family in his thrall. And after learning to sing and collecting some garish stage outfits, he took up a new career as a burgeoning international pop star, with three records under his belt: For Him and the Girls, a Christmas album called Almost a Full Moon, and now (Last Night We Were) The Delicious Wolves. Far and away his greatest strength is his voice. Owing some influence to idols like Bowie or Freddie Mercury, his style has been compared to Britain's 70s glam pop age: his sexual energy encompasses and then tosses aside plain old macho cock-rock. Whether caterwauling through "You and Me and the Weather", moaning low like Robert Plant, or barking orders to an anonymous plaything in "Striptease", Workman not only possesses chrome-plated pipes, but the style to use them. Workman recorded this album almost entirely by himself at home: that's him hammering out the tight piano part on "Jealous of Your Cigarette", or working the guitar like he's humping a pole. Ditching the folk and country tinge that colored his first album, the music goes from a rhythm-and-blues urgency to drawn-out almost schmaltzy musical theater. But even if Workman's putting just about everything he has into performing this music, the material he wrote can't keep up: it just jogs along while he's singing up a storm; and for someone who can spew purple prose-- he's even published a book of love letters, Hawksley Burns for Isadora-- the lyrics range from lurid and rambling, to obvious and dull. "I'm jealous of your cigarette/ And all the things you do with it," works as not-too-subtle camp, but later in the song he spells out the innuendo ("...and how you want to suck on it), and that's just gauche. Although the singles that kick off the disc are almost lunkheadedly blunt, they still carry more charge than the later songs which, while smart and often catchy, are strangely defanged. "Clever Not Beautiful" is actually neither, running on seemingly forever; the piano ballad "Lethal and Young" tries to sum up the perils of youth, but ends up just waving a finger at them. Even though there are charming melodies on songs like "Your Beauty Must Be Rubbing Off"-- almost every track is well-honed and catchy-- Workman gets too cute and puckish; end-to-end the record grows cloying, losing the edge that the first few songs promised. Where's that tension, the ambiguous charge that sends your neckhairs crawling? The album hints at something worthy of Workman's craftsmanship and charisma: something that aches more, or shows less, or doesn't sound so damn theatrical. As is, it doesn't dig deep enough into what drives him; is this erotic and raw, or is it just needily pawing at us?"

For Against

Box Set

Rock

Ned Raggett

It’s easy to assume that American underground didn't grasp the definining characteristics of  post-punk until the 21st century, but the truth is more complicated than that. Ohio's Vertical Slit covered Joy Division’s “I Remember Nothing” in 1980, Steve Albini became obsessed with the fierce tension of the Comsat Angels before founding Big Black, and SoCal bootstrappers the Abecedarians released their 1985 debut single, the majestic "Smiling Monarchs", on Factory Records. Appreciation for the sub-genre in the U.S. was alive and well in the '80s, and Jeffrey Runnings, the sole and constant member of Lincoln, Neb.'s For Against, was one of its strongest champions. To say that For Against has a cult following is an understatement, so it’s a pleasure that Captured Tracks has reissued the band's first three albums. It’s not the full sweep of their career by any means, but this overview of the original lineup's work—Runnings, guitarist Harry Dingman and drummer Gregory Hill—clarifies why the band inspired passion in their listeners. If they had gained a tenth of the attention Interpol attracted, it would have been a wonderful world. 1987's Echelons was For Against's debut LP, and its opening track “Shine” captures a blend of sudden-soar sonics and mixed feelings that would become the group’s hallmark. Runnings' vocals occasionally sound tentative, but everything else is in place. Dingman’s guitar underpins Runnings’ verses with focused breaks and melodic lines, and Hill’s drums burst and stomp more forcefully even as he never steamrolls the overall performances. Hill’s elegant drumming, showcased excellently on the title track to 1990's In the Marshes 10", is an essential element in highlighting For Against's strengths, but Runnings and Dingman's tightly wound partnership served as the band's true core. The versatile Runnings was able to slash with a deep cut, set a calmly propulsive mood, or just crackle with energy, with vocal abilities that resembled a lost choirboy; Dingman, meanwhile, leaned hard on his digital delay pedals, incorporating the psychedelic, shimmering flow of his contemporaries. In the Marshes consists of demos recorded a year after For Against's 1985 debut single “Autocrat”, sequenced beautifully from the nervous pulse and skitter of opening track “Tibet”, offset by Runnings’s soft wordless chanting and beautifully queasy guitar; elsewhere, the slow burn build of “Amnesia” rivals South London post-punkers the Sound’s fierce “Missiles”. 1988's December is the strongest collection to come from this iteration of For Against. Vocally, Runnings is mixed up front along with his other band members, resulting in a sound that's bold and brash without being overbearing. Heard in the context of their underground (and major-label) rock contemporaries, December sounds singular: clean, clear, and ruminative rather than chest-beating. Songs like “They Said” and “Clandestine High Holy” are anthems for people who hate anthems, while the title track excels in executing tightly wound, serenely beautiful tension. After December, For Against's original lineup fractured: Dingman and Hill went on to form the Millions while Runnings continued with a new lineup of For Against throughout the last two decades, sounding out of sync than ever with whatever trends came along.  Dingman rejoined the band last decade, and albums like 2008's Shade Side Sunny Side and the following year's Never Been proved that the band could still produce some truly beautiful, fierce results—but regardless, they’ve never quite gained the audience they've so richly deserved over the years. They deserve recognition for their early-adapter approach to post-punk, as well as for sticking with it until and after everyone finally came around. Most importantly, though, these albums just sound great, as this box set represents a band hearing something from somewhere else and doing something specific and unique with it.

Artist: For Against, Album: Box Set, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "It’s easy to assume that American underground didn't grasp the definining characteristics of  post-punk until the 21st century, but the truth is more complicated than that. Ohio's Vertical Slit covered Joy Division’s “I Remember Nothing” in 1980, Steve Albini became obsessed with the fierce tension of the Comsat Angels before founding Big Black, and SoCal bootstrappers the Abecedarians released their 1985 debut single, the majestic "Smiling Monarchs", on Factory Records. Appreciation for the sub-genre in the U.S. was alive and well in the '80s, and Jeffrey Runnings, the sole and constant member of Lincoln, Neb.'s For Against, was one of its strongest champions. To say that For Against has a cult following is an understatement, so it’s a pleasure that Captured Tracks has reissued the band's first three albums. It’s not the full sweep of their career by any means, but this overview of the original lineup's work—Runnings, guitarist Harry Dingman and drummer Gregory Hill—clarifies why the band inspired passion in their listeners. If they had gained a tenth of the attention Interpol attracted, it would have been a wonderful world. 1987's Echelons was For Against's debut LP, and its opening track “Shine” captures a blend of sudden-soar sonics and mixed feelings that would become the group’s hallmark. Runnings' vocals occasionally sound tentative, but everything else is in place. Dingman’s guitar underpins Runnings’ verses with focused breaks and melodic lines, and Hill’s drums burst and stomp more forcefully even as he never steamrolls the overall performances. Hill’s elegant drumming, showcased excellently on the title track to 1990's In the Marshes 10", is an essential element in highlighting For Against's strengths, but Runnings and Dingman's tightly wound partnership served as the band's true core. The versatile Runnings was able to slash with a deep cut, set a calmly propulsive mood, or just crackle with energy, with vocal abilities that resembled a lost choirboy; Dingman, meanwhile, leaned hard on his digital delay pedals, incorporating the psychedelic, shimmering flow of his contemporaries. In the Marshes consists of demos recorded a year after For Against's 1985 debut single “Autocrat”, sequenced beautifully from the nervous pulse and skitter of opening track “Tibet”, offset by Runnings’s soft wordless chanting and beautifully queasy guitar; elsewhere, the slow burn build of “Amnesia” rivals South London post-punkers the Sound’s fierce “Missiles”. 1988's December is the strongest collection to come from this iteration of For Against. Vocally, Runnings is mixed up front along with his other band members, resulting in a sound that's bold and brash without being overbearing. Heard in the context of their underground (and major-label) rock contemporaries, December sounds singular: clean, clear, and ruminative rather than chest-beating. Songs like “They Said” and “Clandestine High Holy” are anthems for people who hate anthems, while the title track excels in executing tightly wound, serenely beautiful tension. After December, For Against's original lineup fractured: Dingman and Hill went on to form the Millions while Runnings continued with a new lineup of For Against throughout the last two decades, sounding out of sync than ever with whatever trends came along.  Dingman rejoined the band last decade, and albums like 2008's Shade Side Sunny Side and the following year's Never Been proved that the band could still produce some truly beautiful, fierce results—but regardless, they’ve never quite gained the audience they've so richly deserved over the years. They deserve recognition for their early-adapter approach to post-punk, as well as for sticking with it until and after everyone finally came around. Most importantly, though, these albums just sound great, as this box set represents a band hearing something from somewhere else and doing something specific and unique with it."

Disappears

Era

Rock

Jeremy D. Larson

Chicago’s Disappears would like you to believe that their fourth LP, Era, stands for a new beginning. Well, they’re only half right. The album marries their previous releases in one noisy, polyamorous black wedding that shows promise for the future, but is more a celebration of the past. Think about the band’s 2012 LP Pre Language, and their song "Minor Patterns" where singer Brian Case sneers, “Why bother, it’s been done.” That defeatist phrase must be something that sticks in the craw of young psych acolytes. The well-worn motorik highway now seems too predictable, calling out for more hairpin turns, off-road detours, and above all some better scenery. On Era, Disappears begin to pave a path to transcendence that's a little more varied, grabbing the more anemic sounds of Clinic and Liars, while keeping the forward momentum of their most obvious influences Spacemen 3 and rough-edged Velvet Underground. They know they trade in the business of the past and work within confined musical language, but they play on, middle fingers scratching their eyebrows. In the macro scope of Disappears’ catalog, Era is the moment when the groove finally locks into place. To call it a new beginning would be a disservice to the somewhat ill-advised territories the band has ventured into, especially with their EP Kone, released earlier this year. Kone's title track seems like a 15-minute flavorless psych wafer in contrast to the spritely but unfulfilling Pre Language. But it all starts to come together on Era: the post-punk propulsion, the protracted kraut rhythms born out of the negative spaces of no-wave, the macabre baritone croons. It’s been done before, but now it’s being done like Disappears. Era swirls around its centerpiece, the nine-and-a-half minute “Ultra”. It's the song Disappears have been angling toward their career. If Swans ever decided to replace their bolo ties with skinny ties, they might’ve written something like it. After the departure of Sonic Youth drummer Steve Shelley, Noah Leger lends a new energy to the band. He lays back in the pocket right with bassist Damon Carruesco for a rhythm section that sounds like it’s trying to be the extroverted kid but can’t stop sulking in the corner. So often Era sounds like an indictment of dance music with an industrial bent, a Ciroc martini served with a black beetle crawling around the rim. Placed around the load-bearing “Ultra” is a family of tunes cut from a familiar cloth. “Elite Typical” is the burlier brother with a similar four-to-the-floor beat, while “Girl” opens the album like a starter canon, a one-song best-of compilation of the band’s shorter noise-rock tracks. There was always an unfulfilled desire with their songs on Lux and Guider, that sense that you wish the band would extend these songs out because if they’re just gonna cruise they might as well try to jam. With “Girl”, the band finally writes a shapely rock song in under four minutes. Case’s sour baritone on Era is the final piece of the puzzle. He mirrors the band and obsesses over oblique phrases like, “Does it end together/ Does it end soon” on “Ultra” or “A new house in a new town” on the closer “New House.” Even with all his lyrical repetition, his words tend to crumble around the music, leaving only hints of something about fists answering first and waking up to a girl's touch. There’s a slice of glam sexuality to it in that disconcerting Birthday Party kind of way, though, like its lyrics, some of the music can veer into the murky waters of unspecificity. When Disappears don't shape their songs, like the unremarkable “Power”, they end up loitering in the space somewhere between air-drumming and space-tripping. Mostly, though, Era showcases all the work Disappears have done cutting and splicing and regathering their sound together to regain their identity. It’s still lurking in the shadows, but finally, it's there.

Artist: Disappears, Album: Era, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Chicago’s Disappears would like you to believe that their fourth LP, Era, stands for a new beginning. Well, they’re only half right. The album marries their previous releases in one noisy, polyamorous black wedding that shows promise for the future, but is more a celebration of the past. Think about the band’s 2012 LP Pre Language, and their song "Minor Patterns" where singer Brian Case sneers, “Why bother, it’s been done.” That defeatist phrase must be something that sticks in the craw of young psych acolytes. The well-worn motorik highway now seems too predictable, calling out for more hairpin turns, off-road detours, and above all some better scenery. On Era, Disappears begin to pave a path to transcendence that's a little more varied, grabbing the more anemic sounds of Clinic and Liars, while keeping the forward momentum of their most obvious influences Spacemen 3 and rough-edged Velvet Underground. They know they trade in the business of the past and work within confined musical language, but they play on, middle fingers scratching their eyebrows. In the macro scope of Disappears’ catalog, Era is the moment when the groove finally locks into place. To call it a new beginning would be a disservice to the somewhat ill-advised territories the band has ventured into, especially with their EP Kone, released earlier this year. Kone's title track seems like a 15-minute flavorless psych wafer in contrast to the spritely but unfulfilling Pre Language. But it all starts to come together on Era: the post-punk propulsion, the protracted kraut rhythms born out of the negative spaces of no-wave, the macabre baritone croons. It’s been done before, but now it’s being done like Disappears. Era swirls around its centerpiece, the nine-and-a-half minute “Ultra”. It's the song Disappears have been angling toward their career. If Swans ever decided to replace their bolo ties with skinny ties, they might’ve written something like it. After the departure of Sonic Youth drummer Steve Shelley, Noah Leger lends a new energy to the band. He lays back in the pocket right with bassist Damon Carruesco for a rhythm section that sounds like it’s trying to be the extroverted kid but can’t stop sulking in the corner. So often Era sounds like an indictment of dance music with an industrial bent, a Ciroc martini served with a black beetle crawling around the rim. Placed around the load-bearing “Ultra” is a family of tunes cut from a familiar cloth. “Elite Typical” is the burlier brother with a similar four-to-the-floor beat, while “Girl” opens the album like a starter canon, a one-song best-of compilation of the band’s shorter noise-rock tracks. There was always an unfulfilled desire with their songs on Lux and Guider, that sense that you wish the band would extend these songs out because if they’re just gonna cruise they might as well try to jam. With “Girl”, the band finally writes a shapely rock song in under four minutes. Case’s sour baritone on Era is the final piece of the puzzle. He mirrors the band and obsesses over oblique phrases like, “Does it end together/ Does it end soon” on “Ultra” or “A new house in a new town” on the closer “New House.” Even with all his lyrical repetition, his words tend to crumble around the music, leaving only hints of something about fists answering first and waking up to a girl's touch. There’s a slice of glam sexuality to it in that disconcerting Birthday Party kind of way, though, like its lyrics, some of the music can veer into the murky waters of unspecificity. When Disappears don't shape their songs, like the unremarkable “Power”, they end up loitering in the space somewhere between air-drumming and space-tripping. Mostly, though, Era showcases all the work Disappears have done cutting and splicing and regathering their sound together to regain their identity. It’s still lurking in the shadows, but finally, it's there."

Monster Movie

Everyone Is a Ghost

Rock

Larry Fitzmaurice

Slowdive broke up in 1995, shortly following the release of the challenging Pygmalion, and most of the members' projects since have leaned toward more accessible sounds. Neil Halstead and Rachel Goswell formed the now-on-hiatus Mojave 3, and Halstead himself has made a few quiet acoustic albums on his own. Guitarist Christian Savill, when working with friend and former Eternal bandmate Sean Hewson in Monster Movie (a project that pre-dates his involvement in Slowdive), hews more closely to Slowdive's later aesthetic. Up to this point, however, the duo's albums have been spotty at best, with momentum-draining tempos and a weakness for maudlin melodies. The timid pallor obscured prime slices of buzzy alt-rock like "1950da", from 2004's To the Moon, or "Winter Is Coming", from 2002's Last Night Something Happened. Both were tacked onto the end of their respective albums, as if not to disrupt the otherwise downcast mood. On Monster Movie's first album in four years, Everyone Is a Ghost, the obligatory alt-rock cut, "Bored Beyond Oblivion", is right in the center of the 10-track collection. The programming change-up comes with a shift in focus. The songs here feel brighter and more energized, at times recalling jagged pop of Brian Eno's early song-oriented records. The sharply melodic guitar lines of opener "The World Collapsed" and "Fall", for example, recall Robert Fripp's contributions to Here Come the Warm Jets. The bulk of the record is split between moderately fuzzy shoegaze and bleary-eyed folk-pop, and the former fares slightly better, especially during the anthemic burn of "Silver Knife" and "Fall" and "Bored Beyond Oblivion"'s sugary distortion. Even midtempo songs like "How the Dead Live" and "In the Morning" carry a certain shine. There are a few clunkers here-- the worn-out, blaring beats of the title track and the overproduced "Help Me Make It Right", specifically-- but Everyone Is a Ghost is, ironically, more full of life than Monster Movie's previous output. It suggests a revitalization within the duo's songwriting, if not simply a necessary change in outlook. It's as if after two decades together, Savill and Hewson are finally enjoying themselves.

Artist: Monster Movie, Album: Everyone Is a Ghost, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Slowdive broke up in 1995, shortly following the release of the challenging Pygmalion, and most of the members' projects since have leaned toward more accessible sounds. Neil Halstead and Rachel Goswell formed the now-on-hiatus Mojave 3, and Halstead himself has made a few quiet acoustic albums on his own. Guitarist Christian Savill, when working with friend and former Eternal bandmate Sean Hewson in Monster Movie (a project that pre-dates his involvement in Slowdive), hews more closely to Slowdive's later aesthetic. Up to this point, however, the duo's albums have been spotty at best, with momentum-draining tempos and a weakness for maudlin melodies. The timid pallor obscured prime slices of buzzy alt-rock like "1950da", from 2004's To the Moon, or "Winter Is Coming", from 2002's Last Night Something Happened. Both were tacked onto the end of their respective albums, as if not to disrupt the otherwise downcast mood. On Monster Movie's first album in four years, Everyone Is a Ghost, the obligatory alt-rock cut, "Bored Beyond Oblivion", is right in the center of the 10-track collection. The programming change-up comes with a shift in focus. The songs here feel brighter and more energized, at times recalling jagged pop of Brian Eno's early song-oriented records. The sharply melodic guitar lines of opener "The World Collapsed" and "Fall", for example, recall Robert Fripp's contributions to Here Come the Warm Jets. The bulk of the record is split between moderately fuzzy shoegaze and bleary-eyed folk-pop, and the former fares slightly better, especially during the anthemic burn of "Silver Knife" and "Fall" and "Bored Beyond Oblivion"'s sugary distortion. Even midtempo songs like "How the Dead Live" and "In the Morning" carry a certain shine. There are a few clunkers here-- the worn-out, blaring beats of the title track and the overproduced "Help Me Make It Right", specifically-- but Everyone Is a Ghost is, ironically, more full of life than Monster Movie's previous output. It suggests a revitalization within the duo's songwriting, if not simply a necessary change in outlook. It's as if after two decades together, Savill and Hewson are finally enjoying themselves."

EAR PWR

Super Animal Brothers III

Pop/R&B

Brian Howe

Plenty of bands falter when their ambition outstrips their ability, but for Baltimore's EAR PWR, the problem is exactly the opposite. It's hard to get mad at the fun, shallow Super Animal Brothers III, unless you're the sort of person who's infuriated by neon sunglasses and haphazard leotard combinations on principle, in which case, prepare to get heated. It feels like they'd do better if they dropped the postures and affectations that dilute the album and instead focused on fleshing out their songs, which are sown with the seeds of good ideas. From the first sounds you hear-- a pestering alarm and a soupy, panning bass tone-- you know what sort of album it's going to be: puffy-paint party jams à la Dan Deacon, with lots of pixilated analog synth streams, glitchy drum matrices, and faux-kiddy singing about video games, sparkly sweaters, and, I don't know, manatees? You get the impression you aren't really supposed to pay attention to the lyrics. But where Deacon infuses his day-glo riots with brainy intent, EAR PWR recycle the worst tendencies of electroclash: the lackluster rapping and willful inanity. It's frustrating because there's ample evidence that EAR PWR aren't compensating for being shitty at music, they're just dumbing down. Devin Booze studied in UNC-Asheville's music technology program (founded by Bob Moog), where he learned to build the devices used in EAR PWR's music, and he's quite clever at fitting deranged textures around locomotive rhythms. His sequences are lively, squiggling like chiptune, sashaying like Italo-disco, and singing out like new wave. He makes a synthesizer whiz around like a punctured helium balloon on "Diamonds Liquor Leather", fashions a kind of demented Irish reel on "Secret Stars", and employs glockenspiels and deformed Boyz II Men samples on "Boys II Volcanoes". He likes to cut off his loops at the ankles to create a feeling of choppy, precarious progression rather than fluidity, and this air of haste evokes the album as a whole-- a handful of cool loops welded together doesn't automatically make a memorable song. Similarly, Sarah Reynolds can sing a nice hook when she cares to. The choruses of "Future Eyes" and the title track are earworms; Reynolds could do more with this Belinda Carlisle-meets-M.I.A. shtick. But it's never very long before she's back to stringing together nursery chants, snatches of unmoored melody, general sassy noises, and rudimentary rapping, and the songs dissolve into a mush of mannerisms. Honestly, the deck is stacked against EAR PWR as a recording entity-- their music, focusing on thrill-per-second immediacy and communal ecstasy, is designed for warehouse parties full of sympathetic friends who find your bad rapping cute. Here, they could take a lesson from Deacon: Live, let the id rage, but let your brain do the heavy-lifting when it comes time to make something for those who couldn't make it to the party.

Artist: EAR PWR, Album: Super Animal Brothers III, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.6 Album review: "Plenty of bands falter when their ambition outstrips their ability, but for Baltimore's EAR PWR, the problem is exactly the opposite. It's hard to get mad at the fun, shallow Super Animal Brothers III, unless you're the sort of person who's infuriated by neon sunglasses and haphazard leotard combinations on principle, in which case, prepare to get heated. It feels like they'd do better if they dropped the postures and affectations that dilute the album and instead focused on fleshing out their songs, which are sown with the seeds of good ideas. From the first sounds you hear-- a pestering alarm and a soupy, panning bass tone-- you know what sort of album it's going to be: puffy-paint party jams à la Dan Deacon, with lots of pixilated analog synth streams, glitchy drum matrices, and faux-kiddy singing about video games, sparkly sweaters, and, I don't know, manatees? You get the impression you aren't really supposed to pay attention to the lyrics. But where Deacon infuses his day-glo riots with brainy intent, EAR PWR recycle the worst tendencies of electroclash: the lackluster rapping and willful inanity. It's frustrating because there's ample evidence that EAR PWR aren't compensating for being shitty at music, they're just dumbing down. Devin Booze studied in UNC-Asheville's music technology program (founded by Bob Moog), where he learned to build the devices used in EAR PWR's music, and he's quite clever at fitting deranged textures around locomotive rhythms. His sequences are lively, squiggling like chiptune, sashaying like Italo-disco, and singing out like new wave. He makes a synthesizer whiz around like a punctured helium balloon on "Diamonds Liquor Leather", fashions a kind of demented Irish reel on "Secret Stars", and employs glockenspiels and deformed Boyz II Men samples on "Boys II Volcanoes". He likes to cut off his loops at the ankles to create a feeling of choppy, precarious progression rather than fluidity, and this air of haste evokes the album as a whole-- a handful of cool loops welded together doesn't automatically make a memorable song. Similarly, Sarah Reynolds can sing a nice hook when she cares to. The choruses of "Future Eyes" and the title track are earworms; Reynolds could do more with this Belinda Carlisle-meets-M.I.A. shtick. But it's never very long before she's back to stringing together nursery chants, snatches of unmoored melody, general sassy noises, and rudimentary rapping, and the songs dissolve into a mush of mannerisms. Honestly, the deck is stacked against EAR PWR as a recording entity-- their music, focusing on thrill-per-second immediacy and communal ecstasy, is designed for warehouse parties full of sympathetic friends who find your bad rapping cute. Here, they could take a lesson from Deacon: Live, let the id rage, but let your brain do the heavy-lifting when it comes time to make something for those who couldn't make it to the party."

Swayzak

Dirty Dancing

Electronic

Paul Cooper

UK tech-house duo Swayzak's third album goes out of its way to obscure what they're best at. On their 1998 debut, Snowboarding in Argentina, James Taylor and David Brown forged nine gleaming ingots of silicon-based, dub-leaning techno. DJs like Mr. C and Terry Francis spun tracks like "Bueno" and "Fukumachi", and effectively made Swayzak the cat's meow of tech-house. That album's success lent the duo the credit and credibility to expand their horizons; their follow-up, Himawari, featured guest slots from dub poet Benjamin Zephaniah and former Opus III vocalist Kirsty Hawkshaw. But while it retained some of its predecessor's gleam, it too often settled for transient pop. Dirty Dancing now finds Swayzak pursuing the latest flavor-of-the-month-- electroclash-- even more vigorously. Clearly, Swayzak would like to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Fischerspooner, Adult., and Ladytron. Himawari, in acidic electro-jams like "Mysterons" and "State of Grace", included traces of this sound before it become a phenomenon-- isn't it only fair they should scoop up some of the acclaim? Well, frankly, no. While it's not torture to listen to Dirty Dancing repeatedly, it does contain more than its rightful share of slip-ups and missteps. To be fair, Swayzak's take on electroclash opts to rubs noses with John Selway's innovative style, rather than certain acts' slap-dashed approximations of Speak and Spell-era Depeche Mode. The opener, "Make Up You Mind", grafts a minimal techno rhythm track onto jaunty electro-pop, as guest vocalist Clair Dietrich bobs and weaves her adenoidal Sarah Cracknell impersonation through gleaming sheets of cool German ambience and Jackmaster Funk bass bounces. And Swayzak relate the murderous tale of "Buffalo Seven", as narrated by Alan Vega's doppelganger Klaus Kotai, with similar panache. "In the Car Crash", however, is the first sign of Swayzak falling back on an electroclash cliché-- it's yet another adaptation of The Normal's J.G. Ballard-worshipping "Warm Leatherette". But this track can't add anything to its subgenre; "Warm Leatherette" said it all, as starkly and as chillingly as possible. The duo goes as far as to soften and romanticize its inspiration's most inhumanly fucked-up, mechanical porno lyric, by exchanging, "The handbrake penetrates your thigh," for, "Face through the window/ But you're always on my mind." It's an honest effort, but for my money, the closer you can get to the amoral essence of Ballard's novel Crash, the more visceral and provocative the effect. The Normal understood this, and presented its mechanical erotica without feeling or judgment. "In the Car Crash" is a Merchant Ivory reading of the same story. The instrumental "Celsius" returns to Chicago house for inspiration, and glossies the groove with some nods to Orbital, but "I Dance Alone", a duet between Adult.'s Nicola Kuperus and Carl Finlow, is the album's most egregious electroclash moment. With a fuzzed-out bass, Kuperus' blank shouting, and Finlow's pining refrain, it stands as Swayzak's bid for a hit the size of Fischerspooner's "Emerge". It's only on the slow electro-dub of "Halfway to Yesterday" that Swayzak evidence how innovative this album could have been. Forgoing the expected indicators of digidub (reverbed rimshots, Pole-like distortion), Swayzak create a massive void through which their vocalist reminisces, as a cyborg harpsichord occasionally fills the void. They keep percussion to a bare minimum, making the listener feel as lost and abandoned as the vocalist-- it truly is 21st Century dub. Yet, realizing that their key audience might be bewildered by such innovation, Swayzak return to plink-plonk electroclash with the ghastly "Take My Hand". In recompense, Clair Dietrich's vocals imbue the tech-house "Sob 1" with languid jazz-- similar to labelmate Herbert's Bodily Functions-- but Dietrich's French purr can't hold even a penny candle to the beguiling honesty of Herbert's Dani Sciliano. And then, Dirty Dancing closes with the immensely predictable "Ping Pong", sampling the primitive sounds of said video game as some plumy Brit repeats the title. Though the album sparsely showcases what excellence Taylor and Brown are capable of, it mostly finds them lollygagging on paths well rutted by nag-drawn bandwagons. Or, to put it more succinctly: their retro-futurism fails to make me chuckle in ironic solidarity.

Artist: Swayzak, Album: Dirty Dancing, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "UK tech-house duo Swayzak's third album goes out of its way to obscure what they're best at. On their 1998 debut, Snowboarding in Argentina, James Taylor and David Brown forged nine gleaming ingots of silicon-based, dub-leaning techno. DJs like Mr. C and Terry Francis spun tracks like "Bueno" and "Fukumachi", and effectively made Swayzak the cat's meow of tech-house. That album's success lent the duo the credit and credibility to expand their horizons; their follow-up, Himawari, featured guest slots from dub poet Benjamin Zephaniah and former Opus III vocalist Kirsty Hawkshaw. But while it retained some of its predecessor's gleam, it too often settled for transient pop. Dirty Dancing now finds Swayzak pursuing the latest flavor-of-the-month-- electroclash-- even more vigorously. Clearly, Swayzak would like to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Fischerspooner, Adult., and Ladytron. Himawari, in acidic electro-jams like "Mysterons" and "State of Grace", included traces of this sound before it become a phenomenon-- isn't it only fair they should scoop up some of the acclaim? Well, frankly, no. While it's not torture to listen to Dirty Dancing repeatedly, it does contain more than its rightful share of slip-ups and missteps. To be fair, Swayzak's take on electroclash opts to rubs noses with John Selway's innovative style, rather than certain acts' slap-dashed approximations of Speak and Spell-era Depeche Mode. The opener, "Make Up You Mind", grafts a minimal techno rhythm track onto jaunty electro-pop, as guest vocalist Clair Dietrich bobs and weaves her adenoidal Sarah Cracknell impersonation through gleaming sheets of cool German ambience and Jackmaster Funk bass bounces. And Swayzak relate the murderous tale of "Buffalo Seven", as narrated by Alan Vega's doppelganger Klaus Kotai, with similar panache. "In the Car Crash", however, is the first sign of Swayzak falling back on an electroclash cliché-- it's yet another adaptation of The Normal's J.G. Ballard-worshipping "Warm Leatherette". But this track can't add anything to its subgenre; "Warm Leatherette" said it all, as starkly and as chillingly as possible. The duo goes as far as to soften and romanticize its inspiration's most inhumanly fucked-up, mechanical porno lyric, by exchanging, "The handbrake penetrates your thigh," for, "Face through the window/ But you're always on my mind." It's an honest effort, but for my money, the closer you can get to the amoral essence of Ballard's novel Crash, the more visceral and provocative the effect. The Normal understood this, and presented its mechanical erotica without feeling or judgment. "In the Car Crash" is a Merchant Ivory reading of the same story. The instrumental "Celsius" returns to Chicago house for inspiration, and glossies the groove with some nods to Orbital, but "I Dance Alone", a duet between Adult.'s Nicola Kuperus and Carl Finlow, is the album's most egregious electroclash moment. With a fuzzed-out bass, Kuperus' blank shouting, and Finlow's pining refrain, it stands as Swayzak's bid for a hit the size of Fischerspooner's "Emerge". It's only on the slow electro-dub of "Halfway to Yesterday" that Swayzak evidence how innovative this album could have been. Forgoing the expected indicators of digidub (reverbed rimshots, Pole-like distortion), Swayzak create a massive void through which their vocalist reminisces, as a cyborg harpsichord occasionally fills the void. They keep percussion to a bare minimum, making the listener feel as lost and abandoned as the vocalist-- it truly is 21st Century dub. Yet, realizing that their key audience might be bewildered by such innovation, Swayzak return to plink-plonk electroclash with the ghastly "Take My Hand". In recompense, Clair Dietrich's vocals imbue the tech-house "Sob 1" with languid jazz-- similar to labelmate Herbert's Bodily Functions-- but Dietrich's French purr can't hold even a penny candle to the beguiling honesty of Herbert's Dani Sciliano. And then, Dirty Dancing closes with the immensely predictable "Ping Pong", sampling the primitive sounds of said video game as some plumy Brit repeats the title. Though the album sparsely showcases what excellence Taylor and Brown are capable of, it mostly finds them lollygagging on paths well rutted by nag-drawn bandwagons. Or, to put it more succinctly: their retro-futurism fails to make me chuckle in ironic solidarity."

The Sunshine Fix

Green Imagination

Rock

Nick Sylvester

In the world of Olivia Tremor Control spinoffs, Bill Doss' The Sunshine Fix has fancied itself the fun and poppy counterpart to the dark, experimental tendencies of Will Cullen Hart's Circulatory System. The problem with this is that they've never been fun, nor particularly interesting. Drenching their previous releases in blindingly bright, caramel-saccharine glee, The Sunshine Fix are psychedelic Fred Penners making clumsy attempts at approximating Beatles production-- they even frequently crib Lennon/McCartney tracks note-for-note. Green Imagination, The Sunshine Fix's latest release, convicts Doss and company once more of shamelessly aping as many of the Fab Four's post-Help! trademarks as they're likely to get away with. To their credit, however, they occasionally throw a curveball: Careful dusting occasionally reveals the prints of Keith Richards' sticky fingers on Green Imagination as well, marking the first time the band has ever dared to venture outside the Magical Mystery realm. In fact, were there any trace of the innovation and easy genius these artists routinely exhibited, The Sunshine Fix might actually be onto something. Unfortunately, given the influences they've drawn from, The Sunshine Fix's returns are awfully unrewarding. Green Imagination does awkwardly stumble into some redeeming moments, but never without a slog through the banal first. The short opener "Statues and Glue" showers itself in yellowed vocal harmonies, lulling listeners with its mundane chord progressions, until a simple but powerful bass and drum breakdown is introduced, slashed on the offbeat by Doss' upstroke. "What Do You Know" is an abridged version of Black Foliage's "A Sleepy Company", trading the latter's devilish string parts and general oddballery for flat-out gimmicky flanged guitar lines and scrambled vocals-- but while the call-and-response between Doss and his "What do you know?" chorus initially cloys, the closing refrain recompenses, as Doss fights against ascending vocal harmonies and a children's choir. Which is maybe what's so frustrating about Green Imagination: Doss clearly knows how to craft challenging yet accessible passages, and it's a shame he so often settles for compositional truisms. Another hurdle that The Sunshine Fix could stand to clear is their tendency towards pop overload. When Doss fails to find an interesting melody, he seems to think that simply stuffing tracks with an unwieldy number of boring ones will solve the problem. Tracks like "Extraordinary/Ordinary" prove just the opposite. The falsetto melody that opens this track is maybe the most remarkable parody of Carl Newman's songwriting prowess I've heard, and the rest of the song is content to congeal into a mess of flaccid horn bops, guitar slides, and wispy harmonies. Starlight Mints send-up "Afterglow" and Rolling Stones town-carnival tribute "Face the Ghost" make it all the more clear that Green Imagination desperately wants to be loved-- and obnoxiously so. Doss' blues affectations, and each track's transparent recourse to some goofy "we're totally fun!" trope (see: the addition of harmonica and/or "Twist and Shout"-style chord builds) are, in fact, not totally fun, but wholeheartedly infuriating. Let's pass over the John Lennon-does-country sleeper "Rx", the TV mini-drama theme "Enjoy Your Teeth", and "Runaway Run" (the latter a possible successor to Beavis and Butthead's "Lesbian Seagulls"). Maybe the only truly worthwhile track on Green Imagination is the closer, "Sunday Afternoon". The catchy stop/start guitar riff initially keeps the short song's energy level high, but soon, some fantastic multi-part vocals steal the spotlight: While sweeping guitar lines and oohs/ahhs are pushed to the front of the mix, two massively catchy vocal melodies trade fire across the stereo in the background, the tenors on one side, the bass on the other. This production technique would seem to contradict common sense, but it works extremely well here-- and if nothing else, it leaves those who can even get through the entirety of Green Imagination with a nice consolation prize.

Artist: The Sunshine Fix, Album: Green Imagination, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 3.5 Album review: "In the world of Olivia Tremor Control spinoffs, Bill Doss' The Sunshine Fix has fancied itself the fun and poppy counterpart to the dark, experimental tendencies of Will Cullen Hart's Circulatory System. The problem with this is that they've never been fun, nor particularly interesting. Drenching their previous releases in blindingly bright, caramel-saccharine glee, The Sunshine Fix are psychedelic Fred Penners making clumsy attempts at approximating Beatles production-- they even frequently crib Lennon/McCartney tracks note-for-note. Green Imagination, The Sunshine Fix's latest release, convicts Doss and company once more of shamelessly aping as many of the Fab Four's post-Help! trademarks as they're likely to get away with. To their credit, however, they occasionally throw a curveball: Careful dusting occasionally reveals the prints of Keith Richards' sticky fingers on Green Imagination as well, marking the first time the band has ever dared to venture outside the Magical Mystery realm. In fact, were there any trace of the innovation and easy genius these artists routinely exhibited, The Sunshine Fix might actually be onto something. Unfortunately, given the influences they've drawn from, The Sunshine Fix's returns are awfully unrewarding. Green Imagination does awkwardly stumble into some redeeming moments, but never without a slog through the banal first. The short opener "Statues and Glue" showers itself in yellowed vocal harmonies, lulling listeners with its mundane chord progressions, until a simple but powerful bass and drum breakdown is introduced, slashed on the offbeat by Doss' upstroke. "What Do You Know" is an abridged version of Black Foliage's "A Sleepy Company", trading the latter's devilish string parts and general oddballery for flat-out gimmicky flanged guitar lines and scrambled vocals-- but while the call-and-response between Doss and his "What do you know?" chorus initially cloys, the closing refrain recompenses, as Doss fights against ascending vocal harmonies and a children's choir. Which is maybe what's so frustrating about Green Imagination: Doss clearly knows how to craft challenging yet accessible passages, and it's a shame he so often settles for compositional truisms. Another hurdle that The Sunshine Fix could stand to clear is their tendency towards pop overload. When Doss fails to find an interesting melody, he seems to think that simply stuffing tracks with an unwieldy number of boring ones will solve the problem. Tracks like "Extraordinary/Ordinary" prove just the opposite. The falsetto melody that opens this track is maybe the most remarkable parody of Carl Newman's songwriting prowess I've heard, and the rest of the song is content to congeal into a mess of flaccid horn bops, guitar slides, and wispy harmonies. Starlight Mints send-up "Afterglow" and Rolling Stones town-carnival tribute "Face the Ghost" make it all the more clear that Green Imagination desperately wants to be loved-- and obnoxiously so. Doss' blues affectations, and each track's transparent recourse to some goofy "we're totally fun!" trope (see: the addition of harmonica and/or "Twist and Shout"-style chord builds) are, in fact, not totally fun, but wholeheartedly infuriating. Let's pass over the John Lennon-does-country sleeper "Rx", the TV mini-drama theme "Enjoy Your Teeth", and "Runaway Run" (the latter a possible successor to Beavis and Butthead's "Lesbian Seagulls"). Maybe the only truly worthwhile track on Green Imagination is the closer, "Sunday Afternoon". The catchy stop/start guitar riff initially keeps the short song's energy level high, but soon, some fantastic multi-part vocals steal the spotlight: While sweeping guitar lines and oohs/ahhs are pushed to the front of the mix, two massively catchy vocal melodies trade fire across the stereo in the background, the tenors on one side, the bass on the other. This production technique would seem to contradict common sense, but it works extremely well here-- and if nothing else, it leaves those who can even get through the entirety of Green Imagination with a nice consolation prize."

Azure Ray

Burn and Shiver

Rock

Kevin Adickes

As a critic, I place about as much faith in the 'rating scale as an institution' as I do in the fidelity of my overseas liaison, Papillon Soo Soo. That's not to say that Pitchfork's mandatory inclusion of a numerical rating with its reviews isn't justifiable. One glance at the site's readership will reveal that all advertisements and promotional gimmicks for which our existence is a vehicle are geared towards your prototypical inner-city collegiate male-- children of the instant-gratification generation who want as little as possible to do with the kind of painfully long literary passages they encounter on a daily basis. For those with an aversion to the lengthy texts and editorial fodder which act as a smokescreen for our more corporate endeavors, we provide a randomly selected numerical approximation of an album's greatness by which your preconceptions of music are to be realigned accordingly. The preceding example of depurated cynicism has more purpose than simply illustrating the effects of insomnia on your humble narrator's keyboarding. In reviewing Azure Ray's latest collection of unexcitable meditations on lost love, Burn and Shiver, my chosen rating of 6.8 will signify to many that there has been a drop in quality since group's 2001 eponymous debut for Warm Records, an album which Pitchfork deemed a 7.0. But nothing could be further from the truth, as Burn and Shiver finds Bright Eyes/Japancakes/Moby collaborators Orenda Fink and Maria Taylor improving upon nearly every aspect of their essential formula. While Azure Ray's debut boasted one or two truly moving songs-- most notably, the pensive ballad "Displaced"-- it suffered from a horrible case of homogeny, as many tracks seemed mere variations on the group's favored structural idiom: the mid-tempo acoustic waltz. The overbearing sense of sameness to be found throughout didn't lend the disc to repeated, discriminating listens. Burn and Shiver remedies many of the group's past transgressions, as our favorite Eric Bachmann understudies have recently discovered the joy of incorporating percussive elements and-- in the instance of the excellent "New Year"-- small flirtations with IDM into their sonic spectrum. No, the girls still haven't allowed Songs from a Room to leave their turntable, but on tracks such as "How You Remember" and the stellar "Raining in Athens," they come closer than ever to wielding an emotional potency like master Cohen's. Yet, in spite of the progress to be found on Burn and Shiver, the album brims with brilliance unrealized, as many songs still refuse to fulfill the moments they seem fully capable of. This could be attributed to the fact that the girls have yet to author a lyrical passage worthy of their absolutely gorgeous vocals, often devolving into forcefully evocative lines that wax nostalgic of adolescent summers long past, et al. Were the arrangements more dynamic, such criticisms would be forgiveable, but Fink and Taylor's compositions often disengage the listener after a few minutes, generally resulting in unintentional drones. It's refreshing to hear two clearly talented artists beginning to inch out of the shadow of their influences, however long it may be. Though I'm not expecting their magnum opus any time soon, a few more albums of similar consistency will yield enough individual moments to comprise a satisfying body of work. Maybe by that time, Azure Ray will have come into their own.

Artist: Azure Ray, Album: Burn and Shiver, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "As a critic, I place about as much faith in the 'rating scale as an institution' as I do in the fidelity of my overseas liaison, Papillon Soo Soo. That's not to say that Pitchfork's mandatory inclusion of a numerical rating with its reviews isn't justifiable. One glance at the site's readership will reveal that all advertisements and promotional gimmicks for which our existence is a vehicle are geared towards your prototypical inner-city collegiate male-- children of the instant-gratification generation who want as little as possible to do with the kind of painfully long literary passages they encounter on a daily basis. For those with an aversion to the lengthy texts and editorial fodder which act as a smokescreen for our more corporate endeavors, we provide a randomly selected numerical approximation of an album's greatness by which your preconceptions of music are to be realigned accordingly. The preceding example of depurated cynicism has more purpose than simply illustrating the effects of insomnia on your humble narrator's keyboarding. In reviewing Azure Ray's latest collection of unexcitable meditations on lost love, Burn and Shiver, my chosen rating of 6.8 will signify to many that there has been a drop in quality since group's 2001 eponymous debut for Warm Records, an album which Pitchfork deemed a 7.0. But nothing could be further from the truth, as Burn and Shiver finds Bright Eyes/Japancakes/Moby collaborators Orenda Fink and Maria Taylor improving upon nearly every aspect of their essential formula. While Azure Ray's debut boasted one or two truly moving songs-- most notably, the pensive ballad "Displaced"-- it suffered from a horrible case of homogeny, as many tracks seemed mere variations on the group's favored structural idiom: the mid-tempo acoustic waltz. The overbearing sense of sameness to be found throughout didn't lend the disc to repeated, discriminating listens. Burn and Shiver remedies many of the group's past transgressions, as our favorite Eric Bachmann understudies have recently discovered the joy of incorporating percussive elements and-- in the instance of the excellent "New Year"-- small flirtations with IDM into their sonic spectrum. No, the girls still haven't allowed Songs from a Room to leave their turntable, but on tracks such as "How You Remember" and the stellar "Raining in Athens," they come closer than ever to wielding an emotional potency like master Cohen's. Yet, in spite of the progress to be found on Burn and Shiver, the album brims with brilliance unrealized, as many songs still refuse to fulfill the moments they seem fully capable of. This could be attributed to the fact that the girls have yet to author a lyrical passage worthy of their absolutely gorgeous vocals, often devolving into forcefully evocative lines that wax nostalgic of adolescent summers long past, et al. Were the arrangements more dynamic, such criticisms would be forgiveable, but Fink and Taylor's compositions often disengage the listener after a few minutes, generally resulting in unintentional drones. It's refreshing to hear two clearly talented artists beginning to inch out of the shadow of their influences, however long it may be. Though I'm not expecting their magnum opus any time soon, a few more albums of similar consistency will yield enough individual moments to comprise a satisfying body of work. Maybe by that time, Azure Ray will have come into their own."

XTC

Apple Box

Electronic,Rock

Chris Dahlen

XTC almost never wrote a sentimental song-- which is strange, when you consider how much of their music deals with nostalgia, home and country, and yearning. Their lyrics are bittersweet and escapist, but even in the lost summers of Skylarking, they cling to some element-- biting words, knuckle-cracking hooks, or just a distractingly loud arrangement-- that keeps their most heartstring-pulling, young-love-eulogizing songs from drifting away. Which is why their 1999 release Apple Venus Vol. 1 is so much more complicated and concrete than a first impression suggests. That album, plus its 2000 counterpart Wasp Star (Apple Venus Vol. 2), came out after a break of seven years. In that time, Andy Partridge, Colin Moulding, and Dave Gregory-- who formally left the band before these albums were released-- walked out on Virgin, stayed home making demos, and came back with this pair of records on TVT. And five years and no further material later, XTC have packaged them together in the Apple Box, along with lyrics, liner notes, and two demos-and-outtakes albums. And as far as anybody knows, these really are the “last” XTC albums-- so we can look at them from the perspective of the end of their career. For example, Partridge has often written about his native England from a small town perspective, particularly on Mummer and Skylarking. But Apple Venus Vol. 1 takes his vision of England further than any of their past albums. Pizzicato strings that land like piercing raindrops introduce opener “River of Orchids", on which Partridge dreams that the asphalt covering modern England is ripped up and replaced by flowers. From there, he leads us to an older, semi-pagan version of his native land: people hear the Celtic Greenman from inside the town church, they farm, flirt, wed, and worship, and Partridge sings about them like a guy who doesn’t have a care in the world beyond his own village. The orchestrations give it a sweep and a scale unlike anything in their catalog, and while Moulding’s throat’s getting rougher, Partridge’s vocals have grown more beautiful and less affected with age. The first half of the set is full of unbridled joy, and tunes like “I’d Like That” burst like a kid with a mouth full of strawberries. You’d expect the album to get mushy, dreamy and ultimately, lost-- but Partridge never lets that happen. Near the end, the perspective gets older and reveals a hard undercurrent. The “longing look” in “Harvest Festival” inspires one of the most perfect songs Partridge has ever written, but it’s perfect because it’s so spare; the gushy memories have grown into sweet regret. And “The Last Balloon” closes the record with an eerie take on the circle of life: We’re all boarding a balloon to somewhere better, but to save it from sinking, Partridge urges the children to push the rest of us off: “We're weighed down by our evil past…Drop us all like so much sand.” The starkest track, “Your Dictionary”, is also the only autobiographical one. Partridge wrote it about his divorce, and the blunt lyrics-- “S-H-I-T-- Is that how you spelt ‘me’ in your dictionary?"-- slam a door on his marriage. But at the end, the song doesn’t succumb to bitterness: The last section has the bell-ringing occasion of a ceremony, changing it from a “fuck you” to something kind of positive-- a wedding in reverse. The theme of breaking and remaking comes back on Wasp Star (Apple Venus Vol. 2). Not much connects its 11 songs except that they’re the electric pop alternative to the other disc’s “orchustic” sound, and they blare along like one big encore. * Wasp Star* also has a reputation as one of their weakest albums, which is probably fair; even the catchiest songs-- “Stupidly Happy", or “I’m The Man Who Murdered Love”-- are B-list for XTC. The album works best when it’s breezy, like the clattering, clomping rhythms of “You and the Clouds Will Still Be Beautiful”-- or when it gets heavy, and you sense that they’re celebrating because the end is near. Moulding’s “Boarded Up”, about a backwater concert hall that can’t draw the big acts anymore, sounds like an older rocker’s lament about how much better things were in his day. But the cut that really caps off the band is the closer, “The Wheel and the Maypole”. Starting with a clever series of euphemisms-- “I’ve got the plough if you’ve got the furrow/ I’ve got the rabbit if you’ve his burrow home”– it gets to the point at the chorus: to make a new thing, sometimes you have to break an old one. In the record’s strongest moment, Partridge sings, “If the pot won’t hold our love/Then we’ll dash it to the ground.” “The Wheel and the Maypole” reads as a “happy” divorce song, escatically treating the marriage’s end as just the course of things. He could have written it about his ex-wife, or even about the fights that forced Gregory out of the band-- a “man’s divorce,” as Partridge has called it. But ultimately, nothing ties the lyrics to any specific drama in his life, which is par for the course. Ever since XTC’s early days, Partridge never wrote about himself, so much as he wrote about the things that concerned him. You can piece together impressions of his life from all of their albums, from the fast pace and frantic ambition of the early years, or the slowing down when they stopped touring and moved back to the countryside, or his mid- and late-1980s songs about settling down with a family. But the autobiography stays at the level of the themes. When these two “comeback” albums came out, and Partridge emerged from hiding as a candidate for self-absorbed middle age, it was a relief that he didn’t use these albums as a chance to obsess about himself, or to air his grievances in the public square. Unlike so many of his “dad rock” peers, he never acts like he deserves special attention or preferential treatment, and he doesn’t think he’s any safer from the circle of life than the rest of us; he’s as grubbily mortal as anybody in Swindon, and that perspective makes these albums exhilarating. Life can’t start unless it ends. The bitter leads to the sweet and back to the bitter. In “The Wheel and the Maypole”, which as far as we know is the last song on the final XTC album, they sever ties, push off one member, and maybe break up for good. Partridge and Moulding never promise that this will lead to anything good: That would be sentimental. But what can you do? Eventually, we’ve all got to make way for something.

Artist: XTC, Album: Apple Box, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "XTC almost never wrote a sentimental song-- which is strange, when you consider how much of their music deals with nostalgia, home and country, and yearning. Their lyrics are bittersweet and escapist, but even in the lost summers of Skylarking, they cling to some element-- biting words, knuckle-cracking hooks, or just a distractingly loud arrangement-- that keeps their most heartstring-pulling, young-love-eulogizing songs from drifting away. Which is why their 1999 release Apple Venus Vol. 1 is so much more complicated and concrete than a first impression suggests. That album, plus its 2000 counterpart Wasp Star (Apple Venus Vol. 2), came out after a break of seven years. In that time, Andy Partridge, Colin Moulding, and Dave Gregory-- who formally left the band before these albums were released-- walked out on Virgin, stayed home making demos, and came back with this pair of records on TVT. And five years and no further material later, XTC have packaged them together in the Apple Box, along with lyrics, liner notes, and two demos-and-outtakes albums. And as far as anybody knows, these really are the “last” XTC albums-- so we can look at them from the perspective of the end of their career. For example, Partridge has often written about his native England from a small town perspective, particularly on Mummer and Skylarking. But Apple Venus Vol. 1 takes his vision of England further than any of their past albums. Pizzicato strings that land like piercing raindrops introduce opener “River of Orchids", on which Partridge dreams that the asphalt covering modern England is ripped up and replaced by flowers. From there, he leads us to an older, semi-pagan version of his native land: people hear the Celtic Greenman from inside the town church, they farm, flirt, wed, and worship, and Partridge sings about them like a guy who doesn’t have a care in the world beyond his own village. The orchestrations give it a sweep and a scale unlike anything in their catalog, and while Moulding’s throat’s getting rougher, Partridge’s vocals have grown more beautiful and less affected with age. The first half of the set is full of unbridled joy, and tunes like “I’d Like That” burst like a kid with a mouth full of strawberries. You’d expect the album to get mushy, dreamy and ultimately, lost-- but Partridge never lets that happen. Near the end, the perspective gets older and reveals a hard undercurrent. The “longing look” in “Harvest Festival” inspires one of the most perfect songs Partridge has ever written, but it’s perfect because it’s so spare; the gushy memories have grown into sweet regret. And “The Last Balloon” closes the record with an eerie take on the circle of life: We’re all boarding a balloon to somewhere better, but to save it from sinking, Partridge urges the children to push the rest of us off: “We're weighed down by our evil past…Drop us all like so much sand.” The starkest track, “Your Dictionary”, is also the only autobiographical one. Partridge wrote it about his divorce, and the blunt lyrics-- “S-H-I-T-- Is that how you spelt ‘me’ in your dictionary?"-- slam a door on his marriage. But at the end, the song doesn’t succumb to bitterness: The last section has the bell-ringing occasion of a ceremony, changing it from a “fuck you” to something kind of positive-- a wedding in reverse. The theme of breaking and remaking comes back on Wasp Star (Apple Venus Vol. 2). Not much connects its 11 songs except that they’re the electric pop alternative to the other disc’s “orchustic” sound, and they blare along like one big encore. * Wasp Star* also has a reputation as one of their weakest albums, which is probably fair; even the catchiest songs-- “Stupidly Happy", or “I’m The Man Who Murdered Love”-- are B-list for XTC. The album works best when it’s breezy, like the clattering, clomping rhythms of “You and the Clouds Will Still Be Beautiful”-- or when it gets heavy, and you sense that they’re celebrating because the end is near. Moulding’s “Boarded Up”, about a backwater concert hall that can’t draw the big acts anymore, sounds like an older rocker’s lament about how much better things were in his day. But the cut that really caps off the band is the closer, “The Wheel and the Maypole”. Starting with a clever series of euphemisms-- “I’ve got the plough if you’ve got the furrow/ I’ve got the rabbit if you’ve his burrow home”– it gets to the point at the chorus: to make a new thing, sometimes you have to break an old one. In the record’s strongest moment, Partridge sings, “If the pot won’t hold our love/Then we’ll dash it to the ground.” “The Wheel and the Maypole” reads as a “happy” divorce song, escatically treating the marriage’s end as just the course of things. He could have written it about his ex-wife, or even about the fights that forced Gregory out of the band-- a “man’s divorce,” as Partridge has called it. But ultimately, nothing ties the lyrics to any specific drama in his life, which is par for the course. Ever since XTC’s early days, Partridge never wrote about himself, so much as he wrote about the things that concerned him. You can piece together impressions of his life from all of their albums, from the fast pace and frantic ambition of the early years, or the slowing down when they stopped touring and moved back to the countryside, or his mid- and late-1980s songs about settling down with a family. But the autobiography stays at the level of the themes. When these two “comeback” albums came out, and Partridge emerged from hiding as a candidate for self-absorbed middle age, it was a relief that he didn’t use these albums as a chance to obsess about himself, or to air his grievances in the public square. Unlike so many of his “dad rock” peers, he never acts like he deserves special attention or preferential treatment, and he doesn’t think he’s any safer from the circle of life than the rest of us; he’s as grubbily mortal as anybody in Swindon, and that perspective makes these albums exhilarating. Life can’t start unless it ends. The bitter leads to the sweet and back to the bitter. In “The Wheel and the Maypole”, which as far as we know is the last song on the final XTC album, they sever ties, push off one member, and maybe break up for good. Partridge and Moulding never promise that this will lead to anything good: That would be sentimental. But what can you do? Eventually, we’ve all got to make way for something."

Various Artists

New Gen

Matthew Ismael Ruiz

You can find the beating heart of the U.K. rap underground online, somewhere among the thousands of kids desperately spitting bars on YouTube in hopes of getting noticed. On channels like SBTV, Link Up TV, and GRM Daily, no-name rappers spit (mostly written) rhymes for “freestyle” competitions, battling for relevance in a digital Hunger Games for the chance to be anointed as the next Stormzy or Skepta. It’s from this pool of hopefuls that New Gen was born; at first, as a showcase for promising talent stymied by London police’s aggressive targeting of rap shows, and later as an Sunday afternoon radio show on Radar Radio. The latest incarnation is a compilation of original songs on XL Recordings, a 17-track album meant to be a snapshot of the new generation of London’s rappers, singers, and dancehall kings. Grime is still the city’s most famous urban musical export, but the youngest members of the U.K. scene seem less concerned with subgenre—on New Gen, you’ll hear garage, dancehall, reggae, and R&B singers alongside the grime and hip-hop MCs, the lines bleeding between each without regard for the old guard’s gatekeeping. New Gen is the brainchild of Caroline SM, a GRM Daily editor that had found success breaking rappers on the site’s YouTube channel. Barely in her 20s, she's worn many hats: editor (GRM Daily), host (NewGenRadio), A&R (XL Recordings), executive producer (the New Gen LP), and artist manager (Bonkaz and J Hus, who each signed to Sony in 2015 and 2016, respectively). As much as any of the New Gen rappers, she’s carving her own role in the industry, with each gig feeding exposure and opportunity to the other, vertically integrating A&R, production, management and publicity under one brand. Though her sole appearance on the comp is to intro Kojey Radical’s “Fuck Your Feelings,” in effect, New Gen is her debut album. But it’s the producers that keep New Gen from simply being a collection of hard YouTube bars. Seeking to mimic the creative energy of production camps like Rick Rubin’s Malibu retreat or Kanye’s Hawaii sessions for My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, Caroline SM and her fellow executive producer, the MC Renz, recruited Jevon, Nyge, and Soul to handle all the production duties, with artists popping in and out of different rooms at Red Bull’s studios in London. The three manage to weave a handful of styles from hungry artists with varying dialects into a cohesive statement, from the sinister synths on the opening track (Avelino & Bonkaz’s “Welcome to the New Gen”) to bouncy R&B (Ray BLK’s “Busy”), to a tasteful sample of Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman” (“Man of the Hour”), somber King Krule-ish guitar tones (“Life Support”), or a dancehall spin on the Atlanta strip club sound (“Money Haffi Mek”). It’s no small feat. Like a lot of U.K. hip-hop, New Gen may require a bit of lyrical decoding for an American audience; even if you’re familiar with the various Caribbean patois and know that “Money Haffi Mek” means “money to be made,” there’s plenty of British slang that requires translation. Despite this, you might be able to deduce what AJ Tracey means when brags that he’s “still got these yatties up in my gaf,” or the “skengs in the rides” on 67’s “Jackets” are weapons meant for nefarious purposes. The dialect may be different, but the tried-and-true topics of sex, haters, and violence are apparently universal. Among all the artists featured on the compilation, Avelino & Bonkaz stand out as the most polished talents. Avelino, a 23-year-old from Tottenham, has three mixtapes and the EP F.Y.O. under his belt, while Bonkaz, the latest MC out of the South London town of Croydon (Krept and Konan, Stormzy, A2, Section Boys), is in the second year of a deal with Sony Music. Their tag-team on the LP’s first track is an opening salvo, a two-minute barrage of lyrical punches that never quite gets topped: “A: Welcome to the New Gen/B: Funny how sometimes the new friends can be the real friends/A: You should mind your business, I know dragons in a few dens/B: It's like a whole family camping, them niggas too tense.” New Gen feels like a proof of concept—that given the means and opportunity, these YouTube warriors can create work worthy of coming back to. For curious Americans who’ve only just heard of Skepta and Stormzy, it’s a preview of the artists in the London underground most likely to break through, cheesing at future MOBO Awards, taking down trophies (New Gen artists WSTRN & Abra Cadabra were already honored at the 2016 edition in November). And while a cynic might see New Gen as merely a reflection of Caroline SM and Renz’s taste and grassroots network; an optimist might say it’s an underground scene collectivizing for its mutual benefit. Nevertheless, it’s one of the more impressive collections of underground talent of late.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: New Gen, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "You can find the beating heart of the U.K. rap underground online, somewhere among the thousands of kids desperately spitting bars on YouTube in hopes of getting noticed. On channels like SBTV, Link Up TV, and GRM Daily, no-name rappers spit (mostly written) rhymes for “freestyle” competitions, battling for relevance in a digital Hunger Games for the chance to be anointed as the next Stormzy or Skepta. It’s from this pool of hopefuls that New Gen was born; at first, as a showcase for promising talent stymied by London police’s aggressive targeting of rap shows, and later as an Sunday afternoon radio show on Radar Radio. The latest incarnation is a compilation of original songs on XL Recordings, a 17-track album meant to be a snapshot of the new generation of London’s rappers, singers, and dancehall kings. Grime is still the city’s most famous urban musical export, but the youngest members of the U.K. scene seem less concerned with subgenre—on New Gen, you’ll hear garage, dancehall, reggae, and R&B singers alongside the grime and hip-hop MCs, the lines bleeding between each without regard for the old guard’s gatekeeping. New Gen is the brainchild of Caroline SM, a GRM Daily editor that had found success breaking rappers on the site’s YouTube channel. Barely in her 20s, she's worn many hats: editor (GRM Daily), host (NewGenRadio), A&R (XL Recordings), executive producer (the New Gen LP), and artist manager (Bonkaz and J Hus, who each signed to Sony in 2015 and 2016, respectively). As much as any of the New Gen rappers, she’s carving her own role in the industry, with each gig feeding exposure and opportunity to the other, vertically integrating A&R, production, management and publicity under one brand. Though her sole appearance on the comp is to intro Kojey Radical’s “Fuck Your Feelings,” in effect, New Gen is her debut album. But it’s the producers that keep New Gen from simply being a collection of hard YouTube bars. Seeking to mimic the creative energy of production camps like Rick Rubin’s Malibu retreat or Kanye’s Hawaii sessions for My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, Caroline SM and her fellow executive producer, the MC Renz, recruited Jevon, Nyge, and Soul to handle all the production duties, with artists popping in and out of different rooms at Red Bull’s studios in London. The three manage to weave a handful of styles from hungry artists with varying dialects into a cohesive statement, from the sinister synths on the opening track (Avelino & Bonkaz’s “Welcome to the New Gen”) to bouncy R&B (Ray BLK’s “Busy”), to a tasteful sample of Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman” (“Man of the Hour”), somber King Krule-ish guitar tones (“Life Support”), or a dancehall spin on the Atlanta strip club sound (“Money Haffi Mek”). It’s no small feat. Like a lot of U.K. hip-hop, New Gen may require a bit of lyrical decoding for an American audience; even if you’re familiar with the various Caribbean patois and know that “Money Haffi Mek” means “money to be made,” there’s plenty of British slang that requires translation. Despite this, you might be able to deduce what AJ Tracey means when brags that he’s “still got these yatties up in my gaf,” or the “skengs in the rides” on 67’s “Jackets” are weapons meant for nefarious purposes. The dialect may be different, but the tried-and-true topics of sex, haters, and violence are apparently universal. Among all the artists featured on the compilation, Avelino & Bonkaz stand out as the most polished talents. Avelino, a 23-year-old from Tottenham, has three mixtapes and the EP F.Y.O. under his belt, while Bonkaz, the latest MC out of the South London town of Croydon (Krept and Konan, Stormzy, A2, Section Boys), is in the second year of a deal with Sony Music. Their tag-team on the LP’s first track is an opening salvo, a two-minute barrage of lyrical punches that never quite gets topped: “A: Welcome to the New Gen/B: Funny how sometimes the new friends can be the real friends/A: You should mind your business, I know dragons in a few dens/B: It's like a whole family camping, them niggas too tense.” New Gen feels like a proof of concept—that given the means and opportunity, these YouTube warriors can create work worthy of coming back to. For curious Americans who’ve only just heard of Skepta and Stormzy, it’s a preview of the artists in the London underground most likely to break through, cheesing at future MOBO Awards, taking down trophies (New Gen artists WSTRN & Abra Cadabra were already honored at the 2016 edition in November). And while a cynic might see New Gen as merely a reflection of Caroline SM and Renz’s taste and grassroots network; an optimist might say it’s an underground scene collectivizing for its mutual benefit. Nevertheless, it’s one of the more impressive collections of underground talent of late."

Ratatat

LP3

Electronic

Nate Patrin

There's something fascinating about the mercenary nature of soundtrack library music-- pay-per-use stuff that is composed behind the simple idea of a generating an aesthetic mood; music designed to make your brand cooler or your TV show more action-packed without having to rely on the pre-existing memories that come with, say, a Who song. Despite the fact that there's nothing inherently commercialized about their club-music-skewing instrumental electronic rock, Ratatat seem to have been slotted into this very purpose over the course of their career, to the point where the same song of theirs-- "Gettysburg", from their 2006 album Classics-- has been used to score both a Nylon.com Marc Jacobs fashion show feature and a GOOD Magazine animated video on the nuclear arms race. Aside from what visual or informational stimulus someone else augments Ratatat's music with, there isn't really that much content there-- or, conversely, there's potential for the music to be and sound like anything but no one discernable identity. And yet this isn't to its detriment. Ratatat's music is only really as empty as you make it, and with LP3-- like Classics and their eponymous debut, a title that looks deliberately unevocative of anything-- the duo of guitarist Mike Stroud and multi-instrumentalist Evan "E*Vax" Mast has created a soundtrack for just about whatever, modular music that turns its lack of contextual framing into a likeable sort of walk-around/drive-around/social gathering background music that doesn't exist to sell anything but your own current experience. It's a bit blank, but that only means it begs to be drawn on with fat markers, and any voiceless absence of humanity is made up for by the fact that runtime scripts don't get this arch just on their own. (The leadoff track's called "Shiller", ferchrissakes.) The core Ratatat formula remains largely intact-- deceptively basic but heavily layered pan-genre hook-loops that hover inside some kind of disco/rock/hip-hop triangulation, supplemented by Stroud's bionic Brian May guitar work and Mast's enthusiasm for making synthesizers emit hyperactive space-fight sounds. And it's surprisingly endurable over four-minute doses, like the beat-em-up video game groove of "Falcon Jab" or the Loverboy roller-boogie of "Shempi", which pack in enough energy and dynamics to keep a good balance between catchiness and restlessness. It doesn't quite jump out as readily in the quieter or calmer moments: the semi-acoustic, tabla-driven "Mi Viejo" evokes sweeping scenes of Southwestern vistas in some sort of Sergio Leone-goes-Bollywood score scenario, and the downtempo "Bruleé" resembles the sort of melody the Bee Gees would've written in 1970 applied to short-circuiting robo-pop, but their pleasures aren't quite as immediate. One of the other keys to LP3's simple appeal is its vague but noticeable internationalism, like the work of a couple of guys who were told by a director to "skew kind of Timbaland" and decided to take that superficial, derivative task into more far-flung places. "Mumtaz Khan" lands between Middle and Far Eastern on the rhythmic backbone of a Miss E banger; "Mirando" layers pitched-up Thin Lizzy riffage over a rhythmic motif somewhere amidst Calcutta and Rio and Miles Davis' "Black Satin"; and tracks like "Imperials" and "Bird Priest" ride rhythms that have some tangential connection to a non-Western musical structure or another, turning them inside-out and blurring their origins to make them sound unstuck in geography. It's one of the oldest tricks in the book, and erasing the borders of international music into a sound that evokes little more than "indistinctively foreign" has its own pitfalls, but somewhere inside all that TV spot rock runs a pulse that beats like Top 40. Which is where the disappointment comes in: even the best beats on this album feel unfinished without vocals. There's nothing intrinsically flawed about what's otherwise a solid instrumental record, but so much of it feels so close to many of the things happening on the radio and the pop charts right now that, 90 seconds into a song, the mind might start wandering and wondering what this kind of stuff would sound like with Wale or Rihanna on top of it. Ratatat released a brief but solid two-volume run of self-released mixes that put this kind of music under the likes of Memphis Bleek and Missy Elliott and Kanye West, and it worked well, so maybe those releases and LP3 are warm-ups for a strange, new kind of career in R&B and hip-hop production as some kind of weird nu-Neptunes. For now, we'll just have to fill in the blanks.

Artist: Ratatat, Album: LP3, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "There's something fascinating about the mercenary nature of soundtrack library music-- pay-per-use stuff that is composed behind the simple idea of a generating an aesthetic mood; music designed to make your brand cooler or your TV show more action-packed without having to rely on the pre-existing memories that come with, say, a Who song. Despite the fact that there's nothing inherently commercialized about their club-music-skewing instrumental electronic rock, Ratatat seem to have been slotted into this very purpose over the course of their career, to the point where the same song of theirs-- "Gettysburg", from their 2006 album Classics-- has been used to score both a Nylon.com Marc Jacobs fashion show feature and a GOOD Magazine animated video on the nuclear arms race. Aside from what visual or informational stimulus someone else augments Ratatat's music with, there isn't really that much content there-- or, conversely, there's potential for the music to be and sound like anything but no one discernable identity. And yet this isn't to its detriment. Ratatat's music is only really as empty as you make it, and with LP3-- like Classics and their eponymous debut, a title that looks deliberately unevocative of anything-- the duo of guitarist Mike Stroud and multi-instrumentalist Evan "E*Vax" Mast has created a soundtrack for just about whatever, modular music that turns its lack of contextual framing into a likeable sort of walk-around/drive-around/social gathering background music that doesn't exist to sell anything but your own current experience. It's a bit blank, but that only means it begs to be drawn on with fat markers, and any voiceless absence of humanity is made up for by the fact that runtime scripts don't get this arch just on their own. (The leadoff track's called "Shiller", ferchrissakes.) The core Ratatat formula remains largely intact-- deceptively basic but heavily layered pan-genre hook-loops that hover inside some kind of disco/rock/hip-hop triangulation, supplemented by Stroud's bionic Brian May guitar work and Mast's enthusiasm for making synthesizers emit hyperactive space-fight sounds. And it's surprisingly endurable over four-minute doses, like the beat-em-up video game groove of "Falcon Jab" or the Loverboy roller-boogie of "Shempi", which pack in enough energy and dynamics to keep a good balance between catchiness and restlessness. It doesn't quite jump out as readily in the quieter or calmer moments: the semi-acoustic, tabla-driven "Mi Viejo" evokes sweeping scenes of Southwestern vistas in some sort of Sergio Leone-goes-Bollywood score scenario, and the downtempo "Bruleé" resembles the sort of melody the Bee Gees would've written in 1970 applied to short-circuiting robo-pop, but their pleasures aren't quite as immediate. One of the other keys to LP3's simple appeal is its vague but noticeable internationalism, like the work of a couple of guys who were told by a director to "skew kind of Timbaland" and decided to take that superficial, derivative task into more far-flung places. "Mumtaz Khan" lands between Middle and Far Eastern on the rhythmic backbone of a Miss E banger; "Mirando" layers pitched-up Thin Lizzy riffage over a rhythmic motif somewhere amidst Calcutta and Rio and Miles Davis' "Black Satin"; and tracks like "Imperials" and "Bird Priest" ride rhythms that have some tangential connection to a non-Western musical structure or another, turning them inside-out and blurring their origins to make them sound unstuck in geography. It's one of the oldest tricks in the book, and erasing the borders of international music into a sound that evokes little more than "indistinctively foreign" has its own pitfalls, but somewhere inside all that TV spot rock runs a pulse that beats like Top 40. Which is where the disappointment comes in: even the best beats on this album feel unfinished without vocals. There's nothing intrinsically flawed about what's otherwise a solid instrumental record, but so much of it feels so close to many of the things happening on the radio and the pop charts right now that, 90 seconds into a song, the mind might start wandering and wondering what this kind of stuff would sound like with Wale or Rihanna on top of it. Ratatat released a brief but solid two-volume run of self-released mixes that put this kind of music under the likes of Memphis Bleek and Missy Elliott and Kanye West, and it worked well, so maybe those releases and LP3 are warm-ups for a strange, new kind of career in R&B and hip-hop production as some kind of weird nu-Neptunes. For now, we'll just have to fill in the blanks."

Wooden Wand

Harem of the Sundrum and the Witness Figg

Rock

Brandon Stosuy

At the local record store, the freak-folk section's gridlocked. It's a fucking epidemic. Since Devendra Banhart shepherded his golden apples onto one collection, indie rockers have had time to grow-out their hair/grizzled beards and practice some Vashti Bunyan/John Fahey tablature. So, unless you have a desire to purchase everything even vaguely arboreal or finger-picky, separating the raw and the cooked can be difficult. A fresh breeze from Knoxville, Tennessee (for the time being, he says), James Toth aka Wooden Wand plays somber folk with smoky, chicken-coop ambiance. Sticking with the basics, his unadorned sound consists of guitar and voice: Singing into your ear, he whispers and caws over splintery strums. Now and again, his voice lifts like a hillbilly choir or a candlelit revival presided over by David Crosby. He mumbles. He exorcises and laments. He goes Bill Callahan on us. Hardly a naive backwoodsman, ex-Golden Calves player Toth is the leader of upstart Brooklyn (and elsewhere) free-folk vagabonds, the Vanishing Voice. He also co-operates Polyamory Records with fellow ex-Calve and current-Dead Machines tone bender Tovah O'Rourke, wife of Wolf Eyes' John Olson. Regardless of Toth's experimental pedigree, Harem of the Sundrum and the Witness Figg runs in a different direction than his all-over-the-map work with the Vanishing Voice (though you can hear hints of their thing in the opening flange-fest of loopy "Warn Winch, Pts. 2-3"). That's the surprise and joy of this record: Not just adept at improvisation, Toth proves a strong, subtle songwriter. The self-released cassette Harem of the Sundrum appeared last year, but this is a longer, fuller set. Toth sites inspiration as Grace Slick, Gene Clark, Fleetwood Mac, and John Phillips, but if you want it in laid out in zeitgeist terms, it's way less quirky than Banhart, could be compared to Wovenhand doing some California, blue-sky dreaming. It snaps and crackles: Once in a good while, he has a strange Tom Petty pronunciation and conjures Bastard Generals, but play it safe and drop lo-fidelity Roky Erickson. The pieces establish a doleful sort of inspiration. "Leave Your Perch..." is a downer with soft, Grateful Dead guitar noodles bobbing over icy, shadowy strum and phaser humming like a firefly. "Perch Modifier" explicitly states some of the album's religious themes (God, angels, a bird singing "weak, rejoice, the day is new") and Toth's connection to landscape: "Look up to the clouds/ Do you ever look past your boots and onto the ground?/ Do you ever think back to when you were very small?/ That's when you didn't need to rule over all." The vocals double for the last line and the guitar pickings grow intricate, briefly, as if his heart's a-flutter. A moderately upbeat spiritual, "Vengeance, Pt. 2" speaks of end times (Toth is sure he'll see all his friends and so he has "nothing to fear") and includes lovely barroom harmonizing for the curious, catchy line: "Play your phonograph, it still makes baby laugh." "Sundrum Ladies" feels like Stranger Than Paradise scored by M. Ward, focusing on the Louisiana sky, more babies, and some ragged, jittery (but hushed) soloing. Reminiscent of Pink Mountaintops' truck-stop lite-rock blues, "(Ask a) Sufist Chef" imbibes in dancing skeletons, a blind magician ("he mistook a lizard for a rabbit and scared the children senseless"), and various "miraculous things." It ends with the refrain: "We should be with God without attachment." Toth acts move-to-the-country Smog circa Julius Caesar on "Spiritual Inmate" and rolls into wood-panelling falsetto on "Eagle Claw", where things grow ominous over the chilled Nashville skyline: "Don't let your time pass you by.../ Don't save your last words 'til you die." But, weirdly, the song actually sparkles. These lo-fi hymns succeed because they're highly listenable. The collecton's direct, unadorned, honest, idiosyncratic. Like neo-folk's most interesting players (Banhart, Ben Chasny, Joanna Newsom), Toth sounds more like his precursors than his contemporaries, and very much like himself. Timeless is a tough (even questionable) word to plunk down on the present, but all things considered (and considered carefully), Harem of the Sundrum and the Witness Figg should sound especially singular this time next year, even if Toth goes and gets himself a buzz cut.

Artist: Wooden Wand, Album: Harem of the Sundrum and the Witness Figg, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "At the local record store, the freak-folk section's gridlocked. It's a fucking epidemic. Since Devendra Banhart shepherded his golden apples onto one collection, indie rockers have had time to grow-out their hair/grizzled beards and practice some Vashti Bunyan/John Fahey tablature. So, unless you have a desire to purchase everything even vaguely arboreal or finger-picky, separating the raw and the cooked can be difficult. A fresh breeze from Knoxville, Tennessee (for the time being, he says), James Toth aka Wooden Wand plays somber folk with smoky, chicken-coop ambiance. Sticking with the basics, his unadorned sound consists of guitar and voice: Singing into your ear, he whispers and caws over splintery strums. Now and again, his voice lifts like a hillbilly choir or a candlelit revival presided over by David Crosby. He mumbles. He exorcises and laments. He goes Bill Callahan on us. Hardly a naive backwoodsman, ex-Golden Calves player Toth is the leader of upstart Brooklyn (and elsewhere) free-folk vagabonds, the Vanishing Voice. He also co-operates Polyamory Records with fellow ex-Calve and current-Dead Machines tone bender Tovah O'Rourke, wife of Wolf Eyes' John Olson. Regardless of Toth's experimental pedigree, Harem of the Sundrum and the Witness Figg runs in a different direction than his all-over-the-map work with the Vanishing Voice (though you can hear hints of their thing in the opening flange-fest of loopy "Warn Winch, Pts. 2-3"). That's the surprise and joy of this record: Not just adept at improvisation, Toth proves a strong, subtle songwriter. The self-released cassette Harem of the Sundrum appeared last year, but this is a longer, fuller set. Toth sites inspiration as Grace Slick, Gene Clark, Fleetwood Mac, and John Phillips, but if you want it in laid out in zeitgeist terms, it's way less quirky than Banhart, could be compared to Wovenhand doing some California, blue-sky dreaming. It snaps and crackles: Once in a good while, he has a strange Tom Petty pronunciation and conjures Bastard Generals, but play it safe and drop lo-fidelity Roky Erickson. The pieces establish a doleful sort of inspiration. "Leave Your Perch..." is a downer with soft, Grateful Dead guitar noodles bobbing over icy, shadowy strum and phaser humming like a firefly. "Perch Modifier" explicitly states some of the album's religious themes (God, angels, a bird singing "weak, rejoice, the day is new") and Toth's connection to landscape: "Look up to the clouds/ Do you ever look past your boots and onto the ground?/ Do you ever think back to when you were very small?/ That's when you didn't need to rule over all." The vocals double for the last line and the guitar pickings grow intricate, briefly, as if his heart's a-flutter. A moderately upbeat spiritual, "Vengeance, Pt. 2" speaks of end times (Toth is sure he'll see all his friends and so he has "nothing to fear") and includes lovely barroom harmonizing for the curious, catchy line: "Play your phonograph, it still makes baby laugh." "Sundrum Ladies" feels like Stranger Than Paradise scored by M. Ward, focusing on the Louisiana sky, more babies, and some ragged, jittery (but hushed) soloing. Reminiscent of Pink Mountaintops' truck-stop lite-rock blues, "(Ask a) Sufist Chef" imbibes in dancing skeletons, a blind magician ("he mistook a lizard for a rabbit and scared the children senseless"), and various "miraculous things." It ends with the refrain: "We should be with God without attachment." Toth acts move-to-the-country Smog circa Julius Caesar on "Spiritual Inmate" and rolls into wood-panelling falsetto on "Eagle Claw", where things grow ominous over the chilled Nashville skyline: "Don't let your time pass you by.../ Don't save your last words 'til you die." But, weirdly, the song actually sparkles. These lo-fi hymns succeed because they're highly listenable. The collecton's direct, unadorned, honest, idiosyncratic. Like neo-folk's most interesting players (Banhart, Ben Chasny, Joanna Newsom), Toth sounds more like his precursors than his contemporaries, and very much like himself. Timeless is a tough (even questionable) word to plunk down on the present, but all things considered (and considered carefully), Harem of the Sundrum and the Witness Figg should sound especially singular this time next year, even if Toth goes and gets himself a buzz cut."

Elizabeth Morris

Optimism

Marc Hogan

Elizabeth Morris doesn't have time to play it cool. She sings this more than once on the opening song of her new digital-only solo EP, and I believe her. Sure, saying you don't have time to play it cool can be a way of playing it cool. I get that. It's why Smashing Pumpkins fans are supposed to hate Pavement. But with London foursome Allo Darlin', Morris has fronted two albums that don't just bare the type of vulnerable lyrical and musical details other artists might just as reasonably choose to smooth over. Her band has also conveyed a signature style-- plainspoken wistfulness, lilting melodies, and ukulele-centered bounce-- with unmistakable craft. Enough to make Allo Darlin' the best hope out there to carry the indie-pop flame from forebears like Belle and Sebastian, Camera Obscura, and the Lucksmiths. Optimism, a four-song effort Morris recorded live with Hefner's Darren Hayman and released unceremoniously via Bandcamp, further highlights both the unaffected charm and the careful artistry. At the same time, Morris nimbly sidesteps aspects of that style at an instant when it has arguably gained its most mainstream popularity. Where "Some People Say," from Allo Darlin's 2012 Europe, echoed Paramore's Hayley Williams (herself echoing Billy Bragg and Kirsty MacColl) on B.o.B.'s 2010 Top 40 mainstay "Airplanes", Paramore's latest album includes Morris-like ukulele interludes. Taylor Swift's Red, meanwhile, features a jangly song that recalls the everyday storytelling of not just Allo Darlin', but specifically Swedish indie-popper Hello Saferide (aka Säkert!). There's room for those more commercial artists' fans here, too, but not because of any pandering to faddish quirk-seekers. In fact, paradoxically enough, Optimism is the closest Morris has come to a singer-songwriter record. She trades her familiar ukulele and bounding full-band backing for piano or acoustic guitar in an unadorned setting, complete with overheard room ambiance. If the relatively slight nature of the release and the familiar quality to the lyrics keep Optimism from ever quite outdoing the best of Allo Darlin', that same casualness and sense of a recognizable personality behind the songs also helps make the most devastating moments all the more effective. Most of all, though, the EP confirms that no matter how bare the recordings, the lyrical sentiments, or the arrangements, Morris is a keenly observational songwriter with a knack for turning a phrase, and whatever she does next will merit watching. The two piano-based songs are the sharpest shift here musically from Allo Darlin'. Morris has said she wrote them on her great-great-great grandmother's instrument, a wedding gift that traveled from Germany to the singer's native Australia in the 1850s, but she recorded them on a small-scale "ship's piano" owned by Hayman in London. The previously mentioned opener, the autumnal "Young Republic", contemplates a place where "guilt and fear and loss and shame" are banned, as the narrator opens up about "how much I like you" (speaking of opening up: the "autumnal" descriptor is all but implied by the lyrics, which mention preferring the fall-- the season, not necessarily the band). The more bittersweet title track returns to Morris' love affair with pop-music references, but that only deftly distracts from more crushing feelings. If you can't relate to the part where she sings about lovingly writing a name in her notebook, but having to make sure the person isn't looking, you probably won't have read this far. Again, though, Optimism isn't just relatable, ordinary; it's also the product of extraordinary effort and unrelatable skill. "Shoe Box", the newest composition here and the first of two songs played on guitar, is a wonderful jumble of all the above. I can imagine someone turning it into a parody of Morris songs-- the percussive strums, the lines that start with "and" and "so" like off-the-cuff placeholders, the constant themes about long-distance romance, the conscious naïveté. ("What is it like to be 80?" alone could launch a thousand snarky RTs.) But Morris' willingness to reveal the limits to her knowledge strikes me as brave and honest, the idea of grappling with moving "a box of photographs that aren't you" just kills me, and I have a soft spot for her playfully elaborate rhymes: "aperture" and "camera," "picture" and "kiss ya"-- in Morris' homespun Australian accent, these will either make you cringe or grin. You already know where I land. For current Allo Darlin' fans, then, the Optimism EP will be like a ridiculously talented friend leaving songs on your voicemail-- well worth the £3 ($4.68) if only to be able to carry the music around with you and support an artist you like. If any track is a little less strong than the others, it's acoustic ballad "Sweetheart", but only because Morris' stripped-down cover of a banjo-twangy song by recent tourmates Wave Pictures can't possibly match the distinctive voice of her originals. It's still a deeply poignant listen for those who have ears to hear it, though, and maybe what's optimistic about the record is her hope there are more of us out there. It helps, too, that "Sweetheart" is an apt choice for this project: "I will write you without poetry," Morris sings. It's another way of saying she won't play it cool, one more theme that recurs from Europe; on "The Letter," she imagined telling a Silver Jews-loving romantic interest she "was never cool." It was awesome. As Allo Darlin' record their next album, tentatively titled We Come From The Same Place, it's worth remembering Morris' greatest gift is for turning the prosaic into the poetic, all the same.

Artist: Elizabeth Morris, Album: Optimism, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Elizabeth Morris doesn't have time to play it cool. She sings this more than once on the opening song of her new digital-only solo EP, and I believe her. Sure, saying you don't have time to play it cool can be a way of playing it cool. I get that. It's why Smashing Pumpkins fans are supposed to hate Pavement. But with London foursome Allo Darlin', Morris has fronted two albums that don't just bare the type of vulnerable lyrical and musical details other artists might just as reasonably choose to smooth over. Her band has also conveyed a signature style-- plainspoken wistfulness, lilting melodies, and ukulele-centered bounce-- with unmistakable craft. Enough to make Allo Darlin' the best hope out there to carry the indie-pop flame from forebears like Belle and Sebastian, Camera Obscura, and the Lucksmiths. Optimism, a four-song effort Morris recorded live with Hefner's Darren Hayman and released unceremoniously via Bandcamp, further highlights both the unaffected charm and the careful artistry. At the same time, Morris nimbly sidesteps aspects of that style at an instant when it has arguably gained its most mainstream popularity. Where "Some People Say," from Allo Darlin's 2012 Europe, echoed Paramore's Hayley Williams (herself echoing Billy Bragg and Kirsty MacColl) on B.o.B.'s 2010 Top 40 mainstay "Airplanes", Paramore's latest album includes Morris-like ukulele interludes. Taylor Swift's Red, meanwhile, features a jangly song that recalls the everyday storytelling of not just Allo Darlin', but specifically Swedish indie-popper Hello Saferide (aka Säkert!). There's room for those more commercial artists' fans here, too, but not because of any pandering to faddish quirk-seekers. In fact, paradoxically enough, Optimism is the closest Morris has come to a singer-songwriter record. She trades her familiar ukulele and bounding full-band backing for piano or acoustic guitar in an unadorned setting, complete with overheard room ambiance. If the relatively slight nature of the release and the familiar quality to the lyrics keep Optimism from ever quite outdoing the best of Allo Darlin', that same casualness and sense of a recognizable personality behind the songs also helps make the most devastating moments all the more effective. Most of all, though, the EP confirms that no matter how bare the recordings, the lyrical sentiments, or the arrangements, Morris is a keenly observational songwriter with a knack for turning a phrase, and whatever she does next will merit watching. The two piano-based songs are the sharpest shift here musically from Allo Darlin'. Morris has said she wrote them on her great-great-great grandmother's instrument, a wedding gift that traveled from Germany to the singer's native Australia in the 1850s, but she recorded them on a small-scale "ship's piano" owned by Hayman in London. The previously mentioned opener, the autumnal "Young Republic", contemplates a place where "guilt and fear and loss and shame" are banned, as the narrator opens up about "how much I like you" (speaking of opening up: the "autumnal" descriptor is all but implied by the lyrics, which mention preferring the fall-- the season, not necessarily the band). The more bittersweet title track returns to Morris' love affair with pop-music references, but that only deftly distracts from more crushing feelings. If you can't relate to the part where she sings about lovingly writing a name in her notebook, but having to make sure the person isn't looking, you probably won't have read this far. Again, though, Optimism isn't just relatable, ordinary; it's also the product of extraordinary effort and unrelatable skill. "Shoe Box", the newest composition here and the first of two songs played on guitar, is a wonderful jumble of all the above. I can imagine someone turning it into a parody of Morris songs-- the percussive strums, the lines that start with "and" and "so" like off-the-cuff placeholders, the constant themes about long-distance romance, the conscious naïveté. ("What is it like to be 80?" alone could launch a thousand snarky RTs.) But Morris' willingness to reveal the limits to her knowledge strikes me as brave and honest, the idea of grappling with moving "a box of photographs that aren't you" just kills me, and I have a soft spot for her playfully elaborate rhymes: "aperture" and "camera," "picture" and "kiss ya"-- in Morris' homespun Australian accent, these will either make you cringe or grin. You already know where I land. For current Allo Darlin' fans, then, the Optimism EP will be like a ridiculously talented friend leaving songs on your voicemail-- well worth the £3 ($4.68) if only to be able to carry the music around with you and support an artist you like. If any track is a little less strong than the others, it's acoustic ballad "Sweetheart", but only because Morris' stripped-down cover of a banjo-twangy song by recent tourmates Wave Pictures can't possibly match the distinctive voice of her originals. It's still a deeply poignant listen for those who have ears to hear it, though, and maybe what's optimistic about the record is her hope there are more of us out there. It helps, too, that "Sweetheart" is an apt choice for this project: "I will write you without poetry," Morris sings. It's another way of saying she won't play it cool, one more theme that recurs from Europe; on "The Letter," she imagined telling a Silver Jews-loving romantic interest she "was never cool." It was awesome. As Allo Darlin' record their next album, tentatively titled We Come From The Same Place, it's worth remembering Morris' greatest gift is for turning the prosaic into the poetic, all the same."

Various Artists

Kitsuné Maison 10: The Fireworks Issue

Andrew Gaerig

It seems like Kitsun**é Maison 10 should demarcate an anniversary or milestone for the fashion-conscious French imprint, but it doesn't. The label has been releasing these things willy-nilly since about 2006, and if you're still listening at this point, you probably work in an affiliated retail store or are related to one of the artists featured. Instead Kitsuné Maison 10 is just another Kitsuné Music compilation-- a long one-- that happens to sport a flossier serial number than most. It's hard to forget that these Kitsuné comps are all but destined to fail: They are long-form encapsulations of a style (dance-pop, approximately, but electro-house/blog house if you're nasty) that's usually best heard in a singles format and whose tastemaking impulses are unhidden. In other words, Kitsuné would gladly subject you to 250 Yelle tracks if it meant finding one more Crystal Castles (it's basically their business model, actually). Recent Kitsuné compilations seemed to be cheating in this respect, grabbing tracks from Washed Out and the Drums well after they'd been hyped elsewhere. Kitsuné Maison 10 does away with the obvious heatseeking and returns to a collection of relative unknowns augmented with Kitsuné stand-bys. Standard fare from Yelle, Two Door Cinema Club, Digitalism, and Black Strobe ensures the Kitsuné DNA remains intact. A collaboration between Hot Chip's Alexis Taylor and Kompakt mainstay Justus Köhncke provides some of the only recognizeable names to American indie rock audiences. The collection boasts little in the way of proper house or disco, but mutated strains recalling former Kitsuné mainstays Bloc Party (Clock Opera's "Once and For All"), Cut Copy (Strange Talk's "Climbing Walls"), and Phoenix (Is Tropical's "South Pacific") are in abundance. BeatauCue's "Disque Oh!" adds some bombast to Gold Panda, and the Aikiu's deliriously dramatic "The Red Kiss" is a tart delight. Everything here sounds "now" enough to feature in an iTunes commercial or a Sofia Coppola film soundtrack; anyone with knee-jerk reactions to such simple pleasures likely knows to stay well enough away from Kitsuné at this point. If there's anything surprising about Kitsuné Maison 10, it's how eminently even the collection is. There's plenty of terrain between Teeth's glossy electro-hop and the Orange Juice-isms of the Heartbreaks, and Kitsuné deserves credit for cultivating an extra-musical aesthetic where beat-driven pop sits unperturbed next to shouty punk and goth-y melodrama, so long as it's all carried out with a certain youthful sparkle. This aesthetic, unfortunately, doesn't add replay value to the too-long Kitsuné Maison 10, and more importantly it doesn't turn Strange Talk into Cut Copy.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Kitsuné Maison 10: The Fireworks Issue, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.5 Album review: "It seems like Kitsun**é Maison 10 should demarcate an anniversary or milestone for the fashion-conscious French imprint, but it doesn't. The label has been releasing these things willy-nilly since about 2006, and if you're still listening at this point, you probably work in an affiliated retail store or are related to one of the artists featured. Instead Kitsuné Maison 10 is just another Kitsuné Music compilation-- a long one-- that happens to sport a flossier serial number than most. It's hard to forget that these Kitsuné comps are all but destined to fail: They are long-form encapsulations of a style (dance-pop, approximately, but electro-house/blog house if you're nasty) that's usually best heard in a singles format and whose tastemaking impulses are unhidden. In other words, Kitsuné would gladly subject you to 250 Yelle tracks if it meant finding one more Crystal Castles (it's basically their business model, actually). Recent Kitsuné compilations seemed to be cheating in this respect, grabbing tracks from Washed Out and the Drums well after they'd been hyped elsewhere. Kitsuné Maison 10 does away with the obvious heatseeking and returns to a collection of relative unknowns augmented with Kitsuné stand-bys. Standard fare from Yelle, Two Door Cinema Club, Digitalism, and Black Strobe ensures the Kitsuné DNA remains intact. A collaboration between Hot Chip's Alexis Taylor and Kompakt mainstay Justus Köhncke provides some of the only recognizeable names to American indie rock audiences. The collection boasts little in the way of proper house or disco, but mutated strains recalling former Kitsuné mainstays Bloc Party (Clock Opera's "Once and For All"), Cut Copy (Strange Talk's "Climbing Walls"), and Phoenix (Is Tropical's "South Pacific") are in abundance. BeatauCue's "Disque Oh!" adds some bombast to Gold Panda, and the Aikiu's deliriously dramatic "The Red Kiss" is a tart delight. Everything here sounds "now" enough to feature in an iTunes commercial or a Sofia Coppola film soundtrack; anyone with knee-jerk reactions to such simple pleasures likely knows to stay well enough away from Kitsuné at this point. If there's anything surprising about Kitsuné Maison 10, it's how eminently even the collection is. There's plenty of terrain between Teeth's glossy electro-hop and the Orange Juice-isms of the Heartbreaks, and Kitsuné deserves credit for cultivating an extra-musical aesthetic where beat-driven pop sits unperturbed next to shouty punk and goth-y melodrama, so long as it's all carried out with a certain youthful sparkle. This aesthetic, unfortunately, doesn't add replay value to the too-long Kitsuné Maison 10, and more importantly it doesn't turn Strange Talk into Cut Copy."

Singer

Mindreading

Rock

Nick Neyland

It's best not to go looking for an explanation as to why Singer have taken so long to follow their 2008 debut, Unhistories. Or what the impenetrable front and back covers mean, or why the song titles appear only on a loose sheet of paper tucked inside the album sleeve. The liner notes indicate the Chicago art-rockers recorded Mindreading in April 2009, with mixing later that year by Randall Dunn-- a producer for heavy-music heavyweights Sunn O))) and Earth. Meanwhile, with former U.S. Maple guitarist Todd Rittman leaving to focus on his Dead Rider project, Singer have slimmed down to a three-piece: ex-U.S. Maple drummer Adam Vida; his brother, Ben; and former 90 Day Men bassist Robert A.A. Lowe (who also records solo as Lichens). Beyond that, their new album's as mysterious as Lowe's brief collaboration with TV on the Radio. The air of inscrutability surrounding this band helps align Mindreading with some pre-internet Drag City releases. It's reminiscent of something you'd stumble across in the racks of a record store and take a chance on, perhaps because of the label or a familiar name credited on the back sleeve. Even the enigmatic covert art might be enough. The musical offerings inside continue that theme; it's never really clear who's singing, what the words are, or which instruments were used. The sighing falsettos that rise and fall against stuttery percussion and chunky analog keyboard runs on opener "Sister's Mane" will be familiar to anyone who remembers Unhistories, but there the similarities mostly end. Guitars are on the backburner for much of this recording, with condensed synth tones pushed firmly to the fore. "Voices from the Tapes" flicks back and forth between a serene central groove and great piles of ugly electronics. On the following "Wi(s)tches", the group's vocals battle with analog sounds that reach a piercing screech as the song dawdles to a close. There are germs of good ideas here: For instance, the woozy, multi-layered singing in "Dial "M" for Mother" edges close to the kind of work Doseone occasionally hits on in Subtle. Too often, though, Singer are on a journey with no particular destination in mind, especially when they lurch from the ugly liquid funk of "Gabbing" into the unfocused crooning of closer "Bitter'd Moon". It's a shame, because the track records of everyone involved suggest Mindreading could have been a different proposition. Instead it's all untethered strands of work loosely floating around, with occasional moments of clarity that might make this a record worth returning to when another three years have passed.

Artist: Singer, Album: Mindreading, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "It's best not to go looking for an explanation as to why Singer have taken so long to follow their 2008 debut, Unhistories. Or what the impenetrable front and back covers mean, or why the song titles appear only on a loose sheet of paper tucked inside the album sleeve. The liner notes indicate the Chicago art-rockers recorded Mindreading in April 2009, with mixing later that year by Randall Dunn-- a producer for heavy-music heavyweights Sunn O))) and Earth. Meanwhile, with former U.S. Maple guitarist Todd Rittman leaving to focus on his Dead Rider project, Singer have slimmed down to a three-piece: ex-U.S. Maple drummer Adam Vida; his brother, Ben; and former 90 Day Men bassist Robert A.A. Lowe (who also records solo as Lichens). Beyond that, their new album's as mysterious as Lowe's brief collaboration with TV on the Radio. The air of inscrutability surrounding this band helps align Mindreading with some pre-internet Drag City releases. It's reminiscent of something you'd stumble across in the racks of a record store and take a chance on, perhaps because of the label or a familiar name credited on the back sleeve. Even the enigmatic covert art might be enough. The musical offerings inside continue that theme; it's never really clear who's singing, what the words are, or which instruments were used. The sighing falsettos that rise and fall against stuttery percussion and chunky analog keyboard runs on opener "Sister's Mane" will be familiar to anyone who remembers Unhistories, but there the similarities mostly end. Guitars are on the backburner for much of this recording, with condensed synth tones pushed firmly to the fore. "Voices from the Tapes" flicks back and forth between a serene central groove and great piles of ugly electronics. On the following "Wi(s)tches", the group's vocals battle with analog sounds that reach a piercing screech as the song dawdles to a close. There are germs of good ideas here: For instance, the woozy, multi-layered singing in "Dial "M" for Mother" edges close to the kind of work Doseone occasionally hits on in Subtle. Too often, though, Singer are on a journey with no particular destination in mind, especially when they lurch from the ugly liquid funk of "Gabbing" into the unfocused crooning of closer "Bitter'd Moon". It's a shame, because the track records of everyone involved suggest Mindreading could have been a different proposition. Instead it's all untethered strands of work loosely floating around, with occasional moments of clarity that might make this a record worth returning to when another three years have passed."

Laddio Bolocko

Live and Unreleased: 1997-2000

Experimental

Aaron Leitko

Formed in 1996 and over and done within four years, Laddio Bolocko was the strangest, most slept-on New York band of its time. They had some precedent in far-out outfits like Faust and This Heat, who used studio technology, isolation, and willful primitivism to push their music to into extreme places. And, because they blended '70s experimentalism with elements of American underground punk music, they had distant cousins in post-rock groups, like Tortoise and Trans Am (with whom they toured). Their vibe was very different, though. Tortoise was serene and vibey. Trans Am had a sense of humor. Laddio plowed down a different path altogether -- following common influences toward dark psychedelia and the occult. Live and Unreleased collects odds and ends pulled from Laddio Bolocko's archives, including rehearsal tapes, concert recordings, and a DVD's worth of grainy concert footage. These are hardly throwaways or fans-only ephemera, though. The set—which spans two CDs or three LPs—adds depth and dimension to the group's unfairly thin catalog, allowing a peek into the communal jamming and weeded-out home studio experimentation that drove the band's creative process. Liner notes by Oneida drummer Kid Millions give insight into the quartet's brief, grubby existence. After relocating to Brooklyn from southern Illinois during the mid '90s, drummer Blake Fleming, guitarist Drew St. Ivany, and bassist Ben Armstrong found a low-rent practice/living space in then-blighted Dumbo that offered no shower, but allowed no-complaints all-hours music-making. The 20-minute "43 Minutes of (Excerpt)" is drawn from this time and captures the trio finding its stylistic footing. They trance out big-time here, with Armstrong and St. Ivany plugging away at car alarm-style riffs on bass and keyboard while Fleming goes wild on the kit. The tape marked the emergence of an idea that would drive the band's later work—mainly, the skewing of the senses through high-volume repetition—and also possibly helped to win over saxophonist Marcus DeGrazia, who engineered the session and who would join the band full-time shortly thereafter. Looking for a change in scene, Laddio later decamped to an abandoned ski lodge in upstate New York. This period accounts for the collection's darker, more abstract material— where the band moved off the grid and completely into its own territory. Tracks like "Catskills # 3" and "Catskills #5" are full of alien melodies, haunting found sounds, and phantom piano tones. The music has an eerie energy to it, as if it wasn't so much being consciously written as channeled into existence. It's as if the quartet slipped down some strange Lovecraftian wormhole -- not so much in these sense that the music evokes horror, but that the band's druggy transcendence brings only disquiet and distance. After plotting out the material for their second record, In Real Time, Laddio ended its stay in the countryside and returned to Dumbo, where they landed in an even filthier crash pad. Not long after, the group called it quits. Armstrong and St. Ivany would go on to form the excellent trio, the Psychic Paramount while Fleming would do a few off-and-on stints in the Mars Volta and perform in the band Electric Turn to Me, along with DeGrazia. Awesome as they were, it's hard to say that Laddio Bolocko has spawned many imitators. They were just too obscure. Millions' band, Oneida, embraced similar ideas and sounds, but the drummer admits that during Laddio's lifetime, even he had never heard of the band. But it would be hard to replicate the quartet's magic, anyway. Laddio toured extensively throughout its existence and the live recordings included here—six songs taped during a performance in Slovenia—provide the some of the set's most compelling material. On stage, the band's strange and diverse ideas gel together perfectly. The songs are otherworldly, but visceral. The quartet performs with intensity and shared purpose that seems somehow paranormal, nudging out of their regular songs into unknown territory, searching out an ecstatic state.

Artist: Laddio Bolocko, Album: Live and Unreleased: 1997-2000, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Formed in 1996 and over and done within four years, Laddio Bolocko was the strangest, most slept-on New York band of its time. They had some precedent in far-out outfits like Faust and This Heat, who used studio technology, isolation, and willful primitivism to push their music to into extreme places. And, because they blended '70s experimentalism with elements of American underground punk music, they had distant cousins in post-rock groups, like Tortoise and Trans Am (with whom they toured). Their vibe was very different, though. Tortoise was serene and vibey. Trans Am had a sense of humor. Laddio plowed down a different path altogether -- following common influences toward dark psychedelia and the occult. Live and Unreleased collects odds and ends pulled from Laddio Bolocko's archives, including rehearsal tapes, concert recordings, and a DVD's worth of grainy concert footage. These are hardly throwaways or fans-only ephemera, though. The set—which spans two CDs or three LPs—adds depth and dimension to the group's unfairly thin catalog, allowing a peek into the communal jamming and weeded-out home studio experimentation that drove the band's creative process. Liner notes by Oneida drummer Kid Millions give insight into the quartet's brief, grubby existence. After relocating to Brooklyn from southern Illinois during the mid '90s, drummer Blake Fleming, guitarist Drew St. Ivany, and bassist Ben Armstrong found a low-rent practice/living space in then-blighted Dumbo that offered no shower, but allowed no-complaints all-hours music-making. The 20-minute "43 Minutes of (Excerpt)" is drawn from this time and captures the trio finding its stylistic footing. They trance out big-time here, with Armstrong and St. Ivany plugging away at car alarm-style riffs on bass and keyboard while Fleming goes wild on the kit. The tape marked the emergence of an idea that would drive the band's later work—mainly, the skewing of the senses through high-volume repetition—and also possibly helped to win over saxophonist Marcus DeGrazia, who engineered the session and who would join the band full-time shortly thereafter. Looking for a change in scene, Laddio later decamped to an abandoned ski lodge in upstate New York. This period accounts for the collection's darker, more abstract material— where the band moved off the grid and completely into its own territory. Tracks like "Catskills # 3" and "Catskills #5" are full of alien melodies, haunting found sounds, and phantom piano tones. The music has an eerie energy to it, as if it wasn't so much being consciously written as channeled into existence. It's as if the quartet slipped down some strange Lovecraftian wormhole -- not so much in these sense that the music evokes horror, but that the band's druggy transcendence brings only disquiet and distance. After plotting out the material for their second record, In Real Time, Laddio ended its stay in the countryside and returned to Dumbo, where they landed in an even filthier crash pad. Not long after, the group called it quits. Armstrong and St. Ivany would go on to form the excellent trio, the Psychic Paramount while Fleming would do a few off-and-on stints in the Mars Volta and perform in the band Electric Turn to Me, along with DeGrazia. Awesome as they were, it's hard to say that Laddio Bolocko has spawned many imitators. They were just too obscure. Millions' band, Oneida, embraced similar ideas and sounds, but the drummer admits that during Laddio's lifetime, even he had never heard of the band. But it would be hard to replicate the quartet's magic, anyway. Laddio toured extensively throughout its existence and the live recordings included here—six songs taped during a performance in Slovenia—provide the some of the set's most compelling material. On stage, the band's strange and diverse ideas gel together perfectly. The songs are otherworldly, but visceral. The quartet performs with intensity and shared purpose that seems somehow paranormal, nudging out of their regular songs into unknown territory, searching out an ecstatic state."

Magnolia Electric Co.

What Comes After the Blues?

Rock

Eric Carr

I was determined not to mention Neil Young in this review, as I've always felt there were more apt comparisons for Jason Molina's voice and instrumentation-- plugged and unplugged-- but dammit, where there was at least plausible deniability before, now he's announcing his Neil love loud and clear. The first splintered chords of opener "The Dark Don't Hide It" make it certain who Molina has on his mind-- at least on this one song. For what it's worth, he really Neils it-- ah, nails it-- and if he had enough of an allegiance to Young to stick with it for an entire album, What Comes After the Blues? might not have carried Molina's earnest, personal gravity, but it also wouldn't have been so maddeningly inconsistent. See, Molina's still drifting down midwestern highways, still a hard man to love-- "goodbye's half the words he knows"-- breakin' hearts just as soon as he'd break a speed limit, but whether he's heading toward his nascent roots-rock future or retreating toward the ghostly isolation of his past sound is no longer as clear as it once was. From the subtly confused, subdued sound of much of the album, it may not even be clear to Molina himself. At its worst, compromise is the art of making sure all invested parties walk away unhappy, and this album reeks of such poor bargains; seeking a compromise between austerity and a fuller sound, Molina shoots for half-full but comes up with half-empty. It's just hollowed-out enough to come up empty-handed with fans his alt-country efforts may have converted, and still too rowdy to please admirers of his earlier, more somber work. The staple elements of any successful Molina effort-- his fractured, plaintive drawl and his self-fearing ruminations on his ability to transcend the base instincts of human darkness-- are still the focus of the album, however, and in this respect, Molina maintains a fearful consistency. If anything, the fragile voice that made him the Midwest's premier blue-collar indie hero has strengthened as Molina turns in some of his most impassioned performances, particularly "Hammer Down". Molina's continued reliance on metaphors of ghosts, the night, the moon, and the stars, and the creaky (and unrelenting) world-weariness that permeates his music could be seen by now as a lyrical crutch if not for the sense that this is less a man coasting on familiar imagery and more a man exorcising his demons the only way he knows how. "Sometimes I forget that I've always been sick/ And I don't have the will to keep fighting it," he sighs on "Hammer Down", but the resignation in his voice is far from final; after all, as he sings on "I Can Not Have Seen the Light", "It's a fair fight/ And the best that I have felt in a long time". He's got no choice but to relish it, either; ghosts that have endured this long aren't likely to go away anytime soon. And so Molina shoulders his ever-present burden, only to be kneecapped by the instrumentation and, to a lesser extent, mild-mannered Jennie Benford (Jim & Jennie and the Pinetops). As with Magnolia's guest vocalists, Molina's particular brand of Americana never seems to fully mesh with outsiders, and although "The Night Shift Lullaby" is the most successful attempt yet, Benford's voice is too strong and uplifting to fit the tone of the album. Elsewhere, her frequent harmonizing is just one step in a string of odd backing decisions on Blues-- In the Aeroplane Over the Sea-esque trumpet in "Leave the City", organ and violins on "Hard to Love a Man". The desire to embellish and expand Molina's sound is admirable, but in most cases the flourishes are so conspicuous that they seem awkward and superfluous. His roots-rock foundation gives ground to more diverse compositions, but they're never fully explored, and that conflict grounds much of What Comes After the Blues? The common thread between Molina's prior work, sparse acoustic or country rock, was simplicity-- simple enough to augment rather than distract from Molina's voice, because his voice alone contained all the conflict he would ever need.

Artist: Magnolia Electric Co., Album: What Comes After the Blues?, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "I was determined not to mention Neil Young in this review, as I've always felt there were more apt comparisons for Jason Molina's voice and instrumentation-- plugged and unplugged-- but dammit, where there was at least plausible deniability before, now he's announcing his Neil love loud and clear. The first splintered chords of opener "The Dark Don't Hide It" make it certain who Molina has on his mind-- at least on this one song. For what it's worth, he really Neils it-- ah, nails it-- and if he had enough of an allegiance to Young to stick with it for an entire album, What Comes After the Blues? might not have carried Molina's earnest, personal gravity, but it also wouldn't have been so maddeningly inconsistent. See, Molina's still drifting down midwestern highways, still a hard man to love-- "goodbye's half the words he knows"-- breakin' hearts just as soon as he'd break a speed limit, but whether he's heading toward his nascent roots-rock future or retreating toward the ghostly isolation of his past sound is no longer as clear as it once was. From the subtly confused, subdued sound of much of the album, it may not even be clear to Molina himself. At its worst, compromise is the art of making sure all invested parties walk away unhappy, and this album reeks of such poor bargains; seeking a compromise between austerity and a fuller sound, Molina shoots for half-full but comes up with half-empty. It's just hollowed-out enough to come up empty-handed with fans his alt-country efforts may have converted, and still too rowdy to please admirers of his earlier, more somber work. The staple elements of any successful Molina effort-- his fractured, plaintive drawl and his self-fearing ruminations on his ability to transcend the base instincts of human darkness-- are still the focus of the album, however, and in this respect, Molina maintains a fearful consistency. If anything, the fragile voice that made him the Midwest's premier blue-collar indie hero has strengthened as Molina turns in some of his most impassioned performances, particularly "Hammer Down". Molina's continued reliance on metaphors of ghosts, the night, the moon, and the stars, and the creaky (and unrelenting) world-weariness that permeates his music could be seen by now as a lyrical crutch if not for the sense that this is less a man coasting on familiar imagery and more a man exorcising his demons the only way he knows how. "Sometimes I forget that I've always been sick/ And I don't have the will to keep fighting it," he sighs on "Hammer Down", but the resignation in his voice is far from final; after all, as he sings on "I Can Not Have Seen the Light", "It's a fair fight/ And the best that I have felt in a long time". He's got no choice but to relish it, either; ghosts that have endured this long aren't likely to go away anytime soon. And so Molina shoulders his ever-present burden, only to be kneecapped by the instrumentation and, to a lesser extent, mild-mannered Jennie Benford (Jim & Jennie and the Pinetops). As with Magnolia's guest vocalists, Molina's particular brand of Americana never seems to fully mesh with outsiders, and although "The Night Shift Lullaby" is the most successful attempt yet, Benford's voice is too strong and uplifting to fit the tone of the album. Elsewhere, her frequent harmonizing is just one step in a string of odd backing decisions on Blues-- In the Aeroplane Over the Sea-esque trumpet in "Leave the City", organ and violins on "Hard to Love a Man". The desire to embellish and expand Molina's sound is admirable, but in most cases the flourishes are so conspicuous that they seem awkward and superfluous. His roots-rock foundation gives ground to more diverse compositions, but they're never fully explored, and that conflict grounds much of What Comes After the Blues? The common thread between Molina's prior work, sparse acoustic or country rock, was simplicity-- simple enough to augment rather than distract from Molina's voice, because his voice alone contained all the conflict he would ever need."

SIGHS

Easy to Forget EP

Jayson Greene

"I’m not easy to love, but I'm easy to forget," Mart Wilson sings on "Easy to Forget", the title track and thesis statement from the London dream-pop trio SIGHS' debut EP. The line is delivered with a shrug and a whisper, the downy electric guitars blotting out Wilson's voice like the cotton balls in a pill bottle. Wilson has perfected the hangdog-loser pose that pairs naturally with dreamy indie-pop, but Easy to Forget is the work of someone talented and confident, and not looking to be forgotten. SIGHS is a studio project for now, not quite a band, and the six songs on this EP have the feel of a progress report. Wilson writes in scraps and fragments and often records to whatever consumer technology is handy—the voice memo app on his cell phone, for instance. The second half of Easy to Forget consists of his home demos, unvarnished. And these are particularly unvarnished: The rhythm track of "Sights" is an actual, dully clacking metronome, with a single keyboard note quivering feebly above it. It's not much to go on, but even here the sturdy bones of Wilson's songwriting are traceable, and it's not a massive leap to imagine the tremendous power-pop song the demo longs to burst into.  "Sights", along with "Lifetime Away" and "Waste", feel like diary exercises in the workbook of an excellent songwriter, but they don't quite work as lo-fi recordings, for reasons that are made abundantly clear in the EP's first half. The first three songs—"Easy To Forget", "Bruise", and "Fears"—were recorded with Misha Hering at Holy Mountain Studio, and they gleam like cake toppers. The arrangement to "Easy to Forget" bustles with Northern-soul horns, pianos, chimes, synths, and the chorus, warmed with backing vocals ("You know this house, it holds so many memories/ you know this house, it holds so many threats") opens like a time-lapse video of a flower blooming. The chord progressions on "Bruise" feels deftly patterned after the Posies, in their Frosting on the Beater era, and the sound is similar: The distortion thick, the mood downbeat, the songs whipped higher than meringue peaks. Wilson is sharp with opening couplets, which often sketch vivid scenes in minimal space. "Bruise", which is sung to a friend trapped in an abusive relationship, opens with him picking up the phone: "Wasn't expecting this call, wasn't expecting this news/ In seconds empires fall, in seconds lies become truths." "Easy to Forget" begins with the bemusing couplet "'L-M-A-K-O-A E-F-X'/ She hammers at the keys, though it didn't make sense." Wilson has a feel for the gentle, compassionate darkness that often feeds the subtext of the best indie-pop. His voice is human, self-deprecating, and relatable, and when he concludes "Bruise" with the simple, disarming promise "If you talk, I'll listen," he's affecting, too. There are a million just-okay power-pop bands and a scarce handful of great (or potentially great) ones, and it's heartening to hear a new band with some latent greatness in it.

Artist: SIGHS, Album: Easy to Forget EP, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: ""I’m not easy to love, but I'm easy to forget," Mart Wilson sings on "Easy to Forget", the title track and thesis statement from the London dream-pop trio SIGHS' debut EP. The line is delivered with a shrug and a whisper, the downy electric guitars blotting out Wilson's voice like the cotton balls in a pill bottle. Wilson has perfected the hangdog-loser pose that pairs naturally with dreamy indie-pop, but Easy to Forget is the work of someone talented and confident, and not looking to be forgotten. SIGHS is a studio project for now, not quite a band, and the six songs on this EP have the feel of a progress report. Wilson writes in scraps and fragments and often records to whatever consumer technology is handy—the voice memo app on his cell phone, for instance. The second half of Easy to Forget consists of his home demos, unvarnished. And these are particularly unvarnished: The rhythm track of "Sights" is an actual, dully clacking metronome, with a single keyboard note quivering feebly above it. It's not much to go on, but even here the sturdy bones of Wilson's songwriting are traceable, and it's not a massive leap to imagine the tremendous power-pop song the demo longs to burst into.  "Sights", along with "Lifetime Away" and "Waste", feel like diary exercises in the workbook of an excellent songwriter, but they don't quite work as lo-fi recordings, for reasons that are made abundantly clear in the EP's first half. The first three songs—"Easy To Forget", "Bruise", and "Fears"—were recorded with Misha Hering at Holy Mountain Studio, and they gleam like cake toppers. The arrangement to "Easy to Forget" bustles with Northern-soul horns, pianos, chimes, synths, and the chorus, warmed with backing vocals ("You know this house, it holds so many memories/ you know this house, it holds so many threats") opens like a time-lapse video of a flower blooming. The chord progressions on "Bruise" feels deftly patterned after the Posies, in their Frosting on the Beater era, and the sound is similar: The distortion thick, the mood downbeat, the songs whipped higher than meringue peaks. Wilson is sharp with opening couplets, which often sketch vivid scenes in minimal space. "Bruise", which is sung to a friend trapped in an abusive relationship, opens with him picking up the phone: "Wasn't expecting this call, wasn't expecting this news/ In seconds empires fall, in seconds lies become truths." "Easy to Forget" begins with the bemusing couplet "'L-M-A-K-O-A E-F-X'/ She hammers at the keys, though it didn't make sense." Wilson has a feel for the gentle, compassionate darkness that often feeds the subtext of the best indie-pop. His voice is human, self-deprecating, and relatable, and when he concludes "Bruise" with the simple, disarming promise "If you talk, I'll listen," he's affecting, too. There are a million just-okay power-pop bands and a scarce handful of great (or potentially great) ones, and it's heartening to hear a new band with some latent greatness in it."

Crystal Stilts

Radiant Door EP

Experimental,Rock

Martin Douglas

Crystal Stilts have always been ahead of the contemporary indie pop learning curve. When most of their peers were products of the widely beloved C86 tape in 2008, the Brooklyn quintet was namedropping the Clean cofounder David Kilgour's the Great Unwashed. The components that make their sound are fastidiously plucked from early-1980s Manchester (Joy Divison) and New Zealand (the Clean, the Chills), late-1960s New York (the Velvet Underground), and-- in cases including but not limited to singer Brad Hargett's hair-- early Bob Dylan. But influence doesn't mean anything if it's not siphoned into something worthwhile, and Crystal Stilts do much more than sit on their first-edition copies of Flying Nun vinyl and collect cool points. Their debut album Alight of Night found them firing off shimmering guitar lines and then simmering into a thick haze, alternating between sunny afternoon clang and after-hours sulk. Using his voice as another instrument instead of a vehicle for dynamic singing or pseudo-profound lyrical messages, Hargett's deep baritone blends low into the mix, the use of reverb rivaling that of an epic fantasy movie narrator. The album was used as the foundation for this year's In Love With Oblivion, though that newer collection was a fuller-sounding affair, more urgent in places ("Shake the Shackles"), more daring in others ("Alien Rivers"), and filled with pop tunes brimming with life from corner to corner. Crystal Stilts are a band that doesn't have much use for empty space-- most of the silence gets chased away by the blasts of trebly volume. Radiant Door is not a radical departure from that default sound; its Kilgour Brothers-indebted style makes it safe to assume kiwi is still the most important item on their tour rider. But not all groups have to rely on the benefit of reinvention. The non-vocalists of Crystal Stilts are incredibly good at adding a Technicolor flair, crafting arrangements so colorful that they often veer into kaleidoscopic territory. Two of the five songs on the EP feature the quintet nakedly putting its record collection at the forefront of its consciousness, this time in the form of recorded covers. The band's take on Blue Orchids' "Low Profile" is a key example of this; it's faithful enough to the original to be recognizable, but the Stilts' heavy lifting-- as it mostly always does-- comes from keyboardist Kyle Forester and guitarist/co-songwriter JB Townsend, the former turning in a simple-but-catchy three-note riff, the latter sounding like he's been planting Joshua Trees around Brooklyn. The EP's other cover, Lee Hazlewood's "Still as the Night", finds the band in spaghetti-western outlaw mode, exploring a style they've heretofore never tried. The song is spare in a way that's uncommon to the band. It doesn't quite work with a singer like Hargett, whose booming voice (that sometimes wavers in and out of key) is far more suited to weathering the band's stormier moments than trying to fill in gaps. Though "Still as the Night" is a good song that falls just short of being great, it doesn't stall the band-- they've always been adept at playing to their strengths, and the rest of the EP's 21 minutes are full of gleaming keyboard lines and jangly guitars casting sun on everything in sight. For a band that has proven it can do darkness just as well, Radiant Door is exactly as its title suggests-- the brighter side of one of America's best psych-pop bands.

Artist: Crystal Stilts, Album: Radiant Door EP, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Crystal Stilts have always been ahead of the contemporary indie pop learning curve. When most of their peers were products of the widely beloved C86 tape in 2008, the Brooklyn quintet was namedropping the Clean cofounder David Kilgour's the Great Unwashed. The components that make their sound are fastidiously plucked from early-1980s Manchester (Joy Divison) and New Zealand (the Clean, the Chills), late-1960s New York (the Velvet Underground), and-- in cases including but not limited to singer Brad Hargett's hair-- early Bob Dylan. But influence doesn't mean anything if it's not siphoned into something worthwhile, and Crystal Stilts do much more than sit on their first-edition copies of Flying Nun vinyl and collect cool points. Their debut album Alight of Night found them firing off shimmering guitar lines and then simmering into a thick haze, alternating between sunny afternoon clang and after-hours sulk. Using his voice as another instrument instead of a vehicle for dynamic singing or pseudo-profound lyrical messages, Hargett's deep baritone blends low into the mix, the use of reverb rivaling that of an epic fantasy movie narrator. The album was used as the foundation for this year's In Love With Oblivion, though that newer collection was a fuller-sounding affair, more urgent in places ("Shake the Shackles"), more daring in others ("Alien Rivers"), and filled with pop tunes brimming with life from corner to corner. Crystal Stilts are a band that doesn't have much use for empty space-- most of the silence gets chased away by the blasts of trebly volume. Radiant Door is not a radical departure from that default sound; its Kilgour Brothers-indebted style makes it safe to assume kiwi is still the most important item on their tour rider. But not all groups have to rely on the benefit of reinvention. The non-vocalists of Crystal Stilts are incredibly good at adding a Technicolor flair, crafting arrangements so colorful that they often veer into kaleidoscopic territory. Two of the five songs on the EP feature the quintet nakedly putting its record collection at the forefront of its consciousness, this time in the form of recorded covers. The band's take on Blue Orchids' "Low Profile" is a key example of this; it's faithful enough to the original to be recognizable, but the Stilts' heavy lifting-- as it mostly always does-- comes from keyboardist Kyle Forester and guitarist/co-songwriter JB Townsend, the former turning in a simple-but-catchy three-note riff, the latter sounding like he's been planting Joshua Trees around Brooklyn. The EP's other cover, Lee Hazlewood's "Still as the Night", finds the band in spaghetti-western outlaw mode, exploring a style they've heretofore never tried. The song is spare in a way that's uncommon to the band. It doesn't quite work with a singer like Hargett, whose booming voice (that sometimes wavers in and out of key) is far more suited to weathering the band's stormier moments than trying to fill in gaps. Though "Still as the Night" is a good song that falls just short of being great, it doesn't stall the band-- they've always been adept at playing to their strengths, and the rest of the EP's 21 minutes are full of gleaming keyboard lines and jangly guitars casting sun on everything in sight. For a band that has proven it can do darkness just as well, Radiant Door is exactly as its title suggests-- the brighter side of one of America's best psych-pop bands."

Emma Ruth Rundle

Marked for Death

Rock

Sam Sodomsky

The music of Emma Ruth Rundle is nearly swallowed by darkness, but Rundle does not seem oppressed by it. Having toured with acts like Deafheaven and Earth, Rundle made her name performing mournful, minor key compositions, swelling with gothic drama. But to classify her music as macabre is to deny its cathartic, even uplifting qualities. On Marked for Death, the follow-up to 2014’s Some Heavy Ocean, Rundle upgrades that album’s gothic folk with a more colorful palette. Here, she strengthens the atmospheric guitar work that comprised her instrumental solo debut, Electric Guitar One, and enlivens her songs with anthemic, weightless choruses. And while her two previous solo releases, as well as her work in the noisy LA trio Marriages, set a precedent for Marked for Death’s more ambitious material, it doesn’t make the record feel any less thrilling. Each of its eight tracks showcase a songwriter testing the limits of her sound and redefining herself in the process. As we have come to expect from Rundle, the lyrics throughout *Marked for Death *range from devastatingly beautiful to just plain devastating. The album follows a loose narrative about a doomed relationship, touching on themes of hopelessness and mortality. The opening title track introduces two fatalistic lovers, with Rundle asking a series of questions that progresses from “Who else is going to love someone like you that’s marked for death?” to simply, “Who else would ever stay?” In the following track, Rundle is wrestling with the sacrifices of commitment, detailing an inherent power struggle and loss of identity (“I am worthless in your arms/But you offer this protection no one else is giving me”). It’s unquestionably heavy material, and, in these two tracks, the music is built to carry the load. The guitars are crushing, approaching shoegaze levels of fuzz, while the rhythm remains slow and insistent. After the lumbering introductory tracks, the tension breaks in “Medusa.” Rundle’s voice, clear and calm, soars like the Cranberries’ Dolores O’Riordan in the song's inscrutable refrain. The album’s finest moments are crafted in this mold, settling on a style of slow-building, otherworldly balladry that invoke the early days of 4AD. In “Heaven,” Rundle’s greatest work yet, she sings over a quietly escalating storm of strings, fingerpicked guitars, and militant percussion. By the time the song climaxes with Rundle bellowing, “I can see fire... I can see in heaven,” you are right there with her. Gorgeous and unsettling,“Heaven” feels like the culmination of all of Rundle's best work, boasting the record’s most gratifying melody as well as its gothiest couplet. “The only church I’ll ever know is in the Earth,” she sings, “The ground below me says ‘Come home now.’” Like Some Heavy Ocean, *Marked for Death *also closes with a sparse solo piece– just Rundle's voice, electric guitar, and the lo-fi hum of her amplifier. But while Ocean’s “Living With the Black Dog” was a dark admission of hopelessness, “Real Big Sky” feels like a transcendent turning point. Rundle calls back to the lingering question in the album’s opening track (“Who else would ever stay?”), but now finds her narrator faced with new revelations– no longer fearing death, but keeping a light on to welcome it. It’s a staggering performance, with Rundle’s voice alternately quivering and soaring. In the song’s music video, she introduces the track with a grand statement: “I don’t think there’s anything more exhilarating than seeing natural beauty… Seeing something that there aren’t words for.” *Marked for Death *finds Rundle grappling with elements beyond her control, but she's closer than ever to becoming her own force of nature.

Artist: Emma Ruth Rundle, Album: Marked for Death, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "The music of Emma Ruth Rundle is nearly swallowed by darkness, but Rundle does not seem oppressed by it. Having toured with acts like Deafheaven and Earth, Rundle made her name performing mournful, minor key compositions, swelling with gothic drama. But to classify her music as macabre is to deny its cathartic, even uplifting qualities. On Marked for Death, the follow-up to 2014’s Some Heavy Ocean, Rundle upgrades that album’s gothic folk with a more colorful palette. Here, she strengthens the atmospheric guitar work that comprised her instrumental solo debut, Electric Guitar One, and enlivens her songs with anthemic, weightless choruses. And while her two previous solo releases, as well as her work in the noisy LA trio Marriages, set a precedent for Marked for Death’s more ambitious material, it doesn’t make the record feel any less thrilling. Each of its eight tracks showcase a songwriter testing the limits of her sound and redefining herself in the process. As we have come to expect from Rundle, the lyrics throughout *Marked for Death *range from devastatingly beautiful to just plain devastating. The album follows a loose narrative about a doomed relationship, touching on themes of hopelessness and mortality. The opening title track introduces two fatalistic lovers, with Rundle asking a series of questions that progresses from “Who else is going to love someone like you that’s marked for death?” to simply, “Who else would ever stay?” In the following track, Rundle is wrestling with the sacrifices of commitment, detailing an inherent power struggle and loss of identity (“I am worthless in your arms/But you offer this protection no one else is giving me”). It’s unquestionably heavy material, and, in these two tracks, the music is built to carry the load. The guitars are crushing, approaching shoegaze levels of fuzz, while the rhythm remains slow and insistent. After the lumbering introductory tracks, the tension breaks in “Medusa.” Rundle’s voice, clear and calm, soars like the Cranberries’ Dolores O’Riordan in the song's inscrutable refrain. The album’s finest moments are crafted in this mold, settling on a style of slow-building, otherworldly balladry that invoke the early days of 4AD. In “Heaven,” Rundle’s greatest work yet, she sings over a quietly escalating storm of strings, fingerpicked guitars, and militant percussion. By the time the song climaxes with Rundle bellowing, “I can see fire... I can see in heaven,” you are right there with her. Gorgeous and unsettling,“Heaven” feels like the culmination of all of Rundle's best work, boasting the record’s most gratifying melody as well as its gothiest couplet. “The only church I’ll ever know is in the Earth,” she sings, “The ground below me says ‘Come home now.’” Like Some Heavy Ocean, *Marked for Death *also closes with a sparse solo piece– just Rundle's voice, electric guitar, and the lo-fi hum of her amplifier. But while Ocean’s “Living With the Black Dog” was a dark admission of hopelessness, “Real Big Sky” feels like a transcendent turning point. Rundle calls back to the lingering question in the album’s opening track (“Who else would ever stay?”), but now finds her narrator faced with new revelations– no longer fearing death, but keeping a light on to welcome it. It’s a staggering performance, with Rundle’s voice alternately quivering and soaring. In the song’s music video, she introduces the track with a grand statement: “I don’t think there’s anything more exhilarating than seeing natural beauty… Seeing something that there aren’t words for.” *Marked for Death *finds Rundle grappling with elements beyond her control, but she's closer than ever to becoming her own force of nature."

OOIOO

Armonico Hewa

Experimental,Rock

Mike Orme

Japanese all-female group and Boredoms offshoot OOIOO's fifth album, 2006's Taiga, holds a more than respectable score of 78 on Metacritic, but it split Pitchfork listeners. The percussion heavy, often amelodic beast came off as needlessly difficult and even lazy to some staffers, yet Dominique Leone claimed it to be, in so many words, the easiest entry point in the OOIOO catalogue. I don't begrudge either extreme viewpoint: OOIOO's output is divisive for the simple reason that the band has a unique capacity to both wow and disappoint. To call the new Armonico Hewa one of the band's best mostly acknowledges the group has refined its curatorial voice. While not overtly acknowledging Boredoms comparisons, the group (founded by original Bore Yoshimi P-We in the mid 1990s) teases expectant Boredom-crazed trainspotters by sonically orbiting the mothership but never quite giving in to the white-hot bombast of its predecessor. At the same time, the group frustratingly "rewards" the careerist patience of its growing fanbase by fiddling with band dynamics with every release. You really never know what you're going to get, but it usually ranges between a take on Slits-esque post-punk to the incomprehensible stutter-start No Wave splendor pioneered by the antecedent Boredoms catalogue, all meaning abstracted out into pseudo-lingual screech. The first track on Taiga, for example, is a mess of jungle drums falling over one another, Yoshimi belting out like a megalomaniac cheerleader and announcing the abrupt (if brief) renunciation of the group's melodic sensibilities. What results is often ballyhooed, sometimes brilliant, but it almost always leaves sonic travelers all packed up for one of the group's pop-tinged psychedelic sojourns out in the cold. Armonico morphs between musical touchstones but engages the listener much more directly. "O O I A H" updates spacy funk with guitars in full face-melt mode and supporting members belting out a falsetto chant, but "Ulda" proffers a wonky, new age keyboard chord preset before morphing into a more familiar guitar-driven drone. Space-age rock guitar riffs remain a prominent signpost, but up against the monolithic axe slabs rub such dated synthesizer lines lifted from progressive electronic pioneers. Manic drumming abounds, metronomic but paradoxically indebted to the languid beatkeeping of centuries of world cultures. A notable referent is not only the rhythms of Africa, but those as transposed by progressives sharing an equatorial gaze such as Bruford-era King Crimson. OOIOO's drummer, Ai, came on board for 2006's Taiga, a record which arguably let its new percussive weapon direct the group's usually holistic jams. The group's previous record, Kila Kila Kila, suffered a similar problem in aimless, almost tuneless guitar riffage. Thing is, OOIOO operate best as a democratic entity, forming compositions out of the blind ambiguity of improvisation and the relative economy of instrumental balance. On Armonico Hewa, for the first time in years, the balance struck by the group's best work is approximated while largely preserving the same display of technical chops on their last two records. The group is also best served by developing the possibilities of their constituents' voices as instruments. Highlights like "Be Sure to Loop" from Feather Float and the incomparable, uneven singsong chorus of Gold and Green's "Mountain Book" elevate the female voice, sometimes to endless heights and sometimes to fall off false plateaus. Armonico casts the molten steel of meaningless syllables into machine-gun bursts, sonar echoes, radioactive dirges, and girl-group coos of the group's best work. It's a monument to the endless possibilities afforded by an improvisational spirit, but more importantly it highlights Yoshimi and her band's tireless and ever-evolving voice.

Artist: OOIOO, Album: Armonico Hewa, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Japanese all-female group and Boredoms offshoot OOIOO's fifth album, 2006's Taiga, holds a more than respectable score of 78 on Metacritic, but it split Pitchfork listeners. The percussion heavy, often amelodic beast came off as needlessly difficult and even lazy to some staffers, yet Dominique Leone claimed it to be, in so many words, the easiest entry point in the OOIOO catalogue. I don't begrudge either extreme viewpoint: OOIOO's output is divisive for the simple reason that the band has a unique capacity to both wow and disappoint. To call the new Armonico Hewa one of the band's best mostly acknowledges the group has refined its curatorial voice. While not overtly acknowledging Boredoms comparisons, the group (founded by original Bore Yoshimi P-We in the mid 1990s) teases expectant Boredom-crazed trainspotters by sonically orbiting the mothership but never quite giving in to the white-hot bombast of its predecessor. At the same time, the group frustratingly "rewards" the careerist patience of its growing fanbase by fiddling with band dynamics with every release. You really never know what you're going to get, but it usually ranges between a take on Slits-esque post-punk to the incomprehensible stutter-start No Wave splendor pioneered by the antecedent Boredoms catalogue, all meaning abstracted out into pseudo-lingual screech. The first track on Taiga, for example, is a mess of jungle drums falling over one another, Yoshimi belting out like a megalomaniac cheerleader and announcing the abrupt (if brief) renunciation of the group's melodic sensibilities. What results is often ballyhooed, sometimes brilliant, but it almost always leaves sonic travelers all packed up for one of the group's pop-tinged psychedelic sojourns out in the cold. Armonico morphs between musical touchstones but engages the listener much more directly. "O O I A H" updates spacy funk with guitars in full face-melt mode and supporting members belting out a falsetto chant, but "Ulda" proffers a wonky, new age keyboard chord preset before morphing into a more familiar guitar-driven drone. Space-age rock guitar riffs remain a prominent signpost, but up against the monolithic axe slabs rub such dated synthesizer lines lifted from progressive electronic pioneers. Manic drumming abounds, metronomic but paradoxically indebted to the languid beatkeeping of centuries of world cultures. A notable referent is not only the rhythms of Africa, but those as transposed by progressives sharing an equatorial gaze such as Bruford-era King Crimson. OOIOO's drummer, Ai, came on board for 2006's Taiga, a record which arguably let its new percussive weapon direct the group's usually holistic jams. The group's previous record, Kila Kila Kila, suffered a similar problem in aimless, almost tuneless guitar riffage. Thing is, OOIOO operate best as a democratic entity, forming compositions out of the blind ambiguity of improvisation and the relative economy of instrumental balance. On Armonico Hewa, for the first time in years, the balance struck by the group's best work is approximated while largely preserving the same display of technical chops on their last two records. The group is also best served by developing the possibilities of their constituents' voices as instruments. Highlights like "Be Sure to Loop" from Feather Float and the incomparable, uneven singsong chorus of Gold and Green's "Mountain Book" elevate the female voice, sometimes to endless heights and sometimes to fall off false plateaus. Armonico casts the molten steel of meaningless syllables into machine-gun bursts, sonar echoes, radioactive dirges, and girl-group coos of the group's best work. It's a monument to the endless possibilities afforded by an improvisational spirit, but more importantly it highlights Yoshimi and her band's tireless and ever-evolving voice."

The Bravery

Stir the Blood

Electronic,Rock

Marc Hogan

Nobody remembers Louis XIV, right? So the Bravery are just about the last quasi-big rock band anyone might expect to come within downtown sneering distance of a noteworthy hit by a bona fide pop starlet. But here we are: Sam Endicott, frontman for these oft-abused New York electro-rockers, co-wrote Shakira's Italo-crazed "She Wolf". He didn't, however, write the lyrics. New Order-style bass lines like the one on "She Wolf" could practically be the story of this guy's career. They anchored the Killers-lite dance-rock of the Bravery's self-titled 2005 debut-- particularly its best song, "Honest Mistake"-- and turned scarce when the band dialed back the synths for rootsier wannabe-Brit mope on disastrous 2007 follow-up, The Sun and the Moon. While that synth-pop bounce is back on Stir the Blood, so are the group's shortcomings. Some are familiar, and some are worse than even the most hardened mid-2000s NME skeptics could've anticipated. Endicott's voice still alternates between operatic Ian Curtis croon (remember Elefant?) and adenoidal Robert Smith whine (remember Stellastarr*?). He still sings songs that manage to evoke greats from bygone eras without any of the greatness: "Baby, we were born to be adored," repeats glumly hooky synth-rock opener "Adored", neatly desecrating the most famous choruses from Bruce Springsteen and the Stone Roses in a single refrain. "Born again" stomper "Song for Jacob" contains a sideways allusion to the Smiths' Louder Than Bombs, and make-out anthem of sorts "She's So Bendable" has that "How Soon Is Now" guitar wobble. Soma-dropping dystopia "I Have Seen the Future"-- in which the band accurately concedes, "I am a nerve ending without a brain"-- might as well be called "I have become aware of the title and primary neologism from Brave New World." Druggy (I guess?) finale "Sugar Pill" avers, "I am blissed out/ I have kaleidoscope eyes." [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| Shakira this isn't. "She Wolf" collaborator John Hill, who co-produced Santigold's excellent debut album, doesn't seem to have been much help sonically, either. Someone clinically extracts whatever trace of messy humanity made it through the first time the Bravery worked the nu-wave shtick, on their debut; Stir the Blood is a parodoxically bloodless listen. In another evolution of the band's sound, lead guitarist Michael "Moose" Zakarin now tops the cookie-cutter chord progressions with needlessly frilly prog-metal solos. See "Hatefuck", which gives the band's previous woman-unfriendly tendencies a shrill, witless apotheosis ("No one can hear you here"-- hey, wasn't that part of a David Spade dirtball-comedy routine?). As if that weren't enough to get us all excited, there's utterly unremarkable first single "Slow Poison": "Burn, burn, house on fire/ I'm so sick and tired." It goes on like this.

Artist: The Bravery, Album: Stir the Blood, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 2.3 Album review: "Nobody remembers Louis XIV, right? So the Bravery are just about the last quasi-big rock band anyone might expect to come within downtown sneering distance of a noteworthy hit by a bona fide pop starlet. But here we are: Sam Endicott, frontman for these oft-abused New York electro-rockers, co-wrote Shakira's Italo-crazed "She Wolf". He didn't, however, write the lyrics. New Order-style bass lines like the one on "She Wolf" could practically be the story of this guy's career. They anchored the Killers-lite dance-rock of the Bravery's self-titled 2005 debut-- particularly its best song, "Honest Mistake"-- and turned scarce when the band dialed back the synths for rootsier wannabe-Brit mope on disastrous 2007 follow-up, The Sun and the Moon. While that synth-pop bounce is back on Stir the Blood, so are the group's shortcomings. Some are familiar, and some are worse than even the most hardened mid-2000s NME skeptics could've anticipated. Endicott's voice still alternates between operatic Ian Curtis croon (remember Elefant?) and adenoidal Robert Smith whine (remember Stellastarr*?). He still sings songs that manage to evoke greats from bygone eras without any of the greatness: "Baby, we were born to be adored," repeats glumly hooky synth-rock opener "Adored", neatly desecrating the most famous choruses from Bruce Springsteen and the Stone Roses in a single refrain. "Born again" stomper "Song for Jacob" contains a sideways allusion to the Smiths' Louder Than Bombs, and make-out anthem of sorts "She's So Bendable" has that "How Soon Is Now" guitar wobble. Soma-dropping dystopia "I Have Seen the Future"-- in which the band accurately concedes, "I am a nerve ending without a brain"-- might as well be called "I have become aware of the title and primary neologism from Brave New World." Druggy (I guess?) finale "Sugar Pill" avers, "I am blissed out/ I have kaleidoscope eyes." [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| Shakira this isn't. "She Wolf" collaborator John Hill, who co-produced Santigold's excellent debut album, doesn't seem to have been much help sonically, either. Someone clinically extracts whatever trace of messy humanity made it through the first time the Bravery worked the nu-wave shtick, on their debut; Stir the Blood is a parodoxically bloodless listen. In another evolution of the band's sound, lead guitarist Michael "Moose" Zakarin now tops the cookie-cutter chord progressions with needlessly frilly prog-metal solos. See "Hatefuck", which gives the band's previous woman-unfriendly tendencies a shrill, witless apotheosis ("No one can hear you here"-- hey, wasn't that part of a David Spade dirtball-comedy routine?). As if that weren't enough to get us all excited, there's utterly unremarkable first single "Slow Poison": "Burn, burn, house on fire/ I'm so sick and tired." It goes on like this."

The 1975

I like it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it

Rock

Laura Snapes

Last November, the 1975 frontman Matt Healy took shots at Justin Bieber's "What Do You Mean." "'When you nod your head yes but you wanna say no'—can we stop talking about girls who don't know what they want?" he despaired. "Can we stop talking about nothingness? No one's asking you to inspire a revolution, but inspire something." Like some of his provocative Manchester forebears, Healy has a giant mouth on him, but unlike them, he doesn't seem interested in tearing others down, just demanding more. This neurotic want drives his music, which in turn inspires wildly conflicting feelings: fervent adoration on one end, intense rage at the other. The ire directed at the 1975's very existence seems odd, considering their self-titled 2013 debut was basically inoffensive pop-rock pitched somewhere between Phoenix, the Strokes, and Jimmy Eat World. But there is something deeper at work in the objections, and Healy's rebuke of Bieber provides a hint: Although the group approaches their work with a level of ambition and self-seriousness usually reserved for rock bands like, say, Radiohead—The 1975 is 16 songs long, with three ambient interludes, including a glacial choral opener called "The 1975"—they have the look, feel, and requisite huge teen girl fanbase of a boy band. Pure pop has been a cool palette for left-field artists to play around with for a few years now, but the boy band model has remained terminally uncool. Hurts are maybe as close as it's come; if PC Music really want to be transgressive, perhaps they should give it a shot. Even One Direction tried to escape the genre's sanitized connotations toward the end of their existence, when they were allowed to manifest a little authorship along with their stadium rock dreams. The 1975 don't wear matching suits or sell branded trinkets to the under-10s, yet after years of playing to nobody, they became a boy band by virtue of a voracious social media fanbase—not that they seemed happy about it at first. Once they realized the extent of their audience’s adulation—and indignation when they reshot the monochrome video for "Sex" in full color after signing to a major—they played around with them, pulling disappearing acts and refashioning their iconography. Everything about I like it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it indicates that the 1975 have embraced girl love, color, and their boy band potential. Healy likes to talk about his band as a post-modern project that creates as people consume, but this ultimately isn't that radical when it comes to pop music, always the magpie. When you sleep... has a much more distinct and iconoclastic character than their slick debut, drawing from the effervescent, percolating polish of early '80s Hot 100 pop that they flirted with on "Heart Out." Single "Love Me," for instance, flagrantly splices Bowie's "Fame" and "Fashion." The resemblance to acts like Scritti Politti, INXS, the Police, and Hall and Oates also makes it feel like the X-rated cousin of Taylor Swift's 1989 and Carly Rae Jepsen's E•MO•TION—despite Healy's brash exterior, his primary mode is lovelorn and yearning. That doesn't mean that When you sleep is consistent by any stretch. It's 75 minutes long, which could mostly be solved by trimming the four (!) lengthy ambient tracks on the record. It opens with a darker reworking of "The 1975" (!!) that evokes Sigur Rós; "Lostmyhead" sounds like M83; the title track Bon Iver and Everything Ecstatic-era Four Tet. Their stab at emulating Brian Eno's "The Big Ship" is pretty good, except that it is called "Please Be Naked" (!!!). But, man: when compared to the UK's current crop of milquetoast electro-balladeers, the 1975's unabashed pomp and seeming imperviousness to ridicule make you want to kiss them. It helps, too, that When you sleep can be enormous fun. "She's American" is all slap-bass fizz and clenched-fist vocal delivery; "The Sound" is pumping, uber-camp piano house. Although their sound is clean-cut, Healy's lyrics are anything but: On the debut, Healy was coke-addled and fucked up, but When you sleep finds him trying to reform, a process hobbled by the circumstances of his new superstar life. Like a lot of When you sleep, his lyrics dip perilously from inspiring to embarrassing. For every neatly zeitgeist-capturing couplet like "I'm just with my friends online and there's things we'd like to change" from "Love Me," there's something like, "Caught up in fashion—Karcrashian panache and a bag of bash for passion" from the same song, which only makes Healy sound like the trustafarian street poet that he already slightly resembles. "Love Me" is nothing, though, compared to its counterpart, "Loving Someone," which will vindicate anyone who decided to hate the 1975 on principle. Musically it's an outlier—it has the sweet, compressed insectlike burble of Baths or Bibio, and is the most synthetic thing here. Healy switches from singing to sort-of rapping, Lily Allen-style, in forensic, anguished detail about the superficial example that the world shows to young people. Steady yourself: "Charlatan telepathy exploiting insecurity and praying on the purity of grief and its simplicity/ But I know that maybe I'm too skeptical/ Even Guy Debord needed spectacles/ You see, I'm the Greek economy of cashing intellectual cheques and I'm trying to progress/ But instead of selling sex, I think I should be loving someone." It's like something Neil Tennant might have written if he had embraced the ludicrousness of mid-'80s pop instead of subverting it, and thank God he did. Dropping Debord's "Society of the Spectacle" is a massive 'look at me!' clanger, but Healy substantiates the song's agonies with unvarnished accounts of how he's fallen prey to these pressures. He often sings about his mental health: "UGH!" is West Coast funk R&B lite about addiction, while "The Ballad of Me and My Brain" is pure stadium Sting in which he searches for his mind; he figures he might have left it in a supermarket, where it's "flirting with the girls." He searches for a higher power on "If I Believe You," a biblical, Michael Jackson-indebted slow jam gilded with a gospel choir. The closing lines are silly on paper—"if I'm lost, then how can I find myself?"—but buried in Autre Ne Veut-style ecclesiastical synth washes, his earnestness becomes surprisingly affecting. In "Loving Someone," Healy asked who would "show the kids that they matter." It's a trite line, but unlike so much "be yrself" Hot 100 pop, the 1975 never coddles the listener; instead, they respect their audience by believing them to be capab

Artist: The 1975, Album: I like it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Last November, the 1975 frontman Matt Healy took shots at Justin Bieber's "What Do You Mean." "'When you nod your head yes but you wanna say no'—can we stop talking about girls who don't know what they want?" he despaired. "Can we stop talking about nothingness? No one's asking you to inspire a revolution, but inspire something." Like some of his provocative Manchester forebears, Healy has a giant mouth on him, but unlike them, he doesn't seem interested in tearing others down, just demanding more. This neurotic want drives his music, which in turn inspires wildly conflicting feelings: fervent adoration on one end, intense rage at the other. The ire directed at the 1975's very existence seems odd, considering their self-titled 2013 debut was basically inoffensive pop-rock pitched somewhere between Phoenix, the Strokes, and Jimmy Eat World. But there is something deeper at work in the objections, and Healy's rebuke of Bieber provides a hint: Although the group approaches their work with a level of ambition and self-seriousness usually reserved for rock bands like, say, Radiohead—The 1975 is 16 songs long, with three ambient interludes, including a glacial choral opener called "The 1975"—they have the look, feel, and requisite huge teen girl fanbase of a boy band. Pure pop has been a cool palette for left-field artists to play around with for a few years now, but the boy band model has remained terminally uncool. Hurts are maybe as close as it's come; if PC Music really want to be transgressive, perhaps they should give it a shot. Even One Direction tried to escape the genre's sanitized connotations toward the end of their existence, when they were allowed to manifest a little authorship along with their stadium rock dreams. The 1975 don't wear matching suits or sell branded trinkets to the under-10s, yet after years of playing to nobody, they became a boy band by virtue of a voracious social media fanbase—not that they seemed happy about it at first. Once they realized the extent of their audience’s adulation—and indignation when they reshot the monochrome video for "Sex" in full color after signing to a major—they played around with them, pulling disappearing acts and refashioning their iconography. Everything about I like it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it indicates that the 1975 have embraced girl love, color, and their boy band potential. Healy likes to talk about his band as a post-modern project that creates as people consume, but this ultimately isn't that radical when it comes to pop music, always the magpie. When you sleep... has a much more distinct and iconoclastic character than their slick debut, drawing from the effervescent, percolating polish of early '80s Hot 100 pop that they flirted with on "Heart Out." Single "Love Me," for instance, flagrantly splices Bowie's "Fame" and "Fashion." The resemblance to acts like Scritti Politti, INXS, the Police, and Hall and Oates also makes it feel like the X-rated cousin of Taylor Swift's 1989 and Carly Rae Jepsen's E•MO•TION—despite Healy's brash exterior, his primary mode is lovelorn and yearning. That doesn't mean that When you sleep is consistent by any stretch. It's 75 minutes long, which could mostly be solved by trimming the four (!) lengthy ambient tracks on the record. It opens with a darker reworking of "The 1975" (!!) that evokes Sigur Rós; "Lostmyhead" sounds like M83; the title track Bon Iver and Everything Ecstatic-era Four Tet. Their stab at emulating Brian Eno's "The Big Ship" is pretty good, except that it is called "Please Be Naked" (!!!). But, man: when compared to the UK's current crop of milquetoast electro-balladeers, the 1975's unabashed pomp and seeming imperviousness to ridicule make you want to kiss them. It helps, too, that When you sleep can be enormous fun. "She's American" is all slap-bass fizz and clenched-fist vocal delivery; "The Sound" is pumping, uber-camp piano house. Although their sound is clean-cut, Healy's lyrics are anything but: On the debut, Healy was coke-addled and fucked up, but When you sleep finds him trying to reform, a process hobbled by the circumstances of his new superstar life. Like a lot of When you sleep, his lyrics dip perilously from inspiring to embarrassing. For every neatly zeitgeist-capturing couplet like "I'm just with my friends online and there's things we'd like to change" from "Love Me," there's something like, "Caught up in fashion—Karcrashian panache and a bag of bash for passion" from the same song, which only makes Healy sound like the trustafarian street poet that he already slightly resembles. "Love Me" is nothing, though, compared to its counterpart, "Loving Someone," which will vindicate anyone who decided to hate the 1975 on principle. Musically it's an outlier—it has the sweet, compressed insectlike burble of Baths or Bibio, and is the most synthetic thing here. Healy switches from singing to sort-of rapping, Lily Allen-style, in forensic, anguished detail about the superficial example that the world shows to young people. Steady yourself: "Charlatan telepathy exploiting insecurity and praying on the purity of grief and its simplicity/ But I know that maybe I'm too skeptical/ Even Guy Debord needed spectacles/ You see, I'm the Greek economy of cashing intellectual cheques and I'm trying to progress/ But instead of selling sex, I think I should be loving someone." It's like something Neil Tennant might have written if he had embraced the ludicrousness of mid-'80s pop instead of subverting it, and thank God he did. Dropping Debord's "Society of the Spectacle" is a massive 'look at me!' clanger, but Healy substantiates the song's agonies with unvarnished accounts of how he's fallen prey to these pressures. He often sings about his mental health: "UGH!" is West Coast funk R&B lite about addiction, while "The Ballad of Me and My Brain" is pure stadium Sting in which he searches for his mind; he figures he might have left it in a supermarket, where it's "flirting with the girls." He searches for a higher power on "If I Believe You," a biblical, Michael Jackson-indebted slow jam gilded with a gospel choir. The closing lines are silly on paper—"if I'm lost, then how can I find myself?"—but buried in Autre Ne Veut-style ecclesiastical synth washes, his earnestness becomes surprisingly affecting. In "Loving Someone," Healy asked who would "show the kids that they matter." It's a trite line, but unlike so much "be yrself" Hot 100 pop, the 1975 never coddles the listener; instead, they respect their audience by believing them to be capab"

Deep Time

Deep Time

Lindsay Zoladz

Austin duo Deep Time's music is Liliputian in every sense of the word. For one, guitarist/vocalist Jennifer Moore's prickly, palm-muted chord progressions and occasional yelps conjure the jaunty post-punk of Delta 5 or Swiss art-punk pioneers Kleenex/LiLiPUT. In another way, there's a general sense of smallness about this music-- it feels simple, compact, restrained. But Moore and drummer Adam Jones do minimalism so well that it's this very smallness that makes them stand head and shoulders above plenty of less-distinct post-punk revivalists. Deep Time go against the current indie grain of smoke machine atmospherics and stadium-sized dreams in favor of something much more streamlined. The nine songs on their self-titled album are well-designed contraptions, as simple, madcap, and proudly anachronistic as Rube Goldberg machines. The subject matter of their self-titled debut as Yellow Fever (they changed their name after one of those lawsuits that makes you wonder if there are actually any band names left) occasionally felt small to a fault. The tunes were as catchy and amiable as an early Beat Happening record, but Yellow Fever weren't exactly plumbing deep thematic waters. Singsongy and sweet, songs like "Cutest" played out like nursery rhymes for scene kids: "My brother and me went to a show/ And we saw everyone we know." But Yellow Fever never drowned in their own twee-ness; instead they captured something about the sense of belonging that comes from living in a small town where everybody's on a first name basis ("Donald", "Alice", and "Donovan" played out like odes to the people next door). Its homey charms played on a simple, timeless premise: Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. Much of what makes Deep Time feel like such an undeniable step forward, though, is the darkness that's crept into these songs: You no longer get the sense that they're taking place in Pleasantville. "Coleman" paints an unsavory domestic scene of "dirty sinks and sandy food," so no wonder Moore sings of the central character, "You never go home." Deep Time is preoccupied with all sorts of shadowy feelings-- loneliness, disillusionment, and homelessness-- and its militant lockstep beats; cartoon-spooky organ riffs; and bristly, dissonant chords mirror this vibe. A few of the narrative-based songs here are still named for characters ("Sgt. Sierra", "Gilligan") but this time they're far from home, and the neighbors aren't exactly bending over backward to keep the search party going. "The gas is gone and the plane is out of control," Moore howls on the eerie "Bermuda Triangle". "Are you sure they're searching still?" Moore's voice is versatile (pivoting between a low drawl and a canine howl on the slithering earworm "Sgt. Sierra"), expressive, and distinctly cool. There's occasionally some black comedy in her phrasing (the way she breaks up "I'm sleeping with the/ Fish" gives the lyric an unexpected punchline, and a pretty dark one at that), or some emotional resonance in the smallest details ("I'm leaving home and I want you to know/ I'm leaving home and I want you to no...tice"). Every detail on Deep Time feels deliberate, which makes it more arresting than plenty of records that make a lot more noise. There's power in pauses, silence, and empty space, these songs affirm, and small doesn't have to mean slight.

Artist: Deep Time, Album: Deep Time, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Austin duo Deep Time's music is Liliputian in every sense of the word. For one, guitarist/vocalist Jennifer Moore's prickly, palm-muted chord progressions and occasional yelps conjure the jaunty post-punk of Delta 5 or Swiss art-punk pioneers Kleenex/LiLiPUT. In another way, there's a general sense of smallness about this music-- it feels simple, compact, restrained. But Moore and drummer Adam Jones do minimalism so well that it's this very smallness that makes them stand head and shoulders above plenty of less-distinct post-punk revivalists. Deep Time go against the current indie grain of smoke machine atmospherics and stadium-sized dreams in favor of something much more streamlined. The nine songs on their self-titled album are well-designed contraptions, as simple, madcap, and proudly anachronistic as Rube Goldberg machines. The subject matter of their self-titled debut as Yellow Fever (they changed their name after one of those lawsuits that makes you wonder if there are actually any band names left) occasionally felt small to a fault. The tunes were as catchy and amiable as an early Beat Happening record, but Yellow Fever weren't exactly plumbing deep thematic waters. Singsongy and sweet, songs like "Cutest" played out like nursery rhymes for scene kids: "My brother and me went to a show/ And we saw everyone we know." But Yellow Fever never drowned in their own twee-ness; instead they captured something about the sense of belonging that comes from living in a small town where everybody's on a first name basis ("Donald", "Alice", and "Donovan" played out like odes to the people next door). Its homey charms played on a simple, timeless premise: Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. Much of what makes Deep Time feel like such an undeniable step forward, though, is the darkness that's crept into these songs: You no longer get the sense that they're taking place in Pleasantville. "Coleman" paints an unsavory domestic scene of "dirty sinks and sandy food," so no wonder Moore sings of the central character, "You never go home." Deep Time is preoccupied with all sorts of shadowy feelings-- loneliness, disillusionment, and homelessness-- and its militant lockstep beats; cartoon-spooky organ riffs; and bristly, dissonant chords mirror this vibe. A few of the narrative-based songs here are still named for characters ("Sgt. Sierra", "Gilligan") but this time they're far from home, and the neighbors aren't exactly bending over backward to keep the search party going. "The gas is gone and the plane is out of control," Moore howls on the eerie "Bermuda Triangle". "Are you sure they're searching still?" Moore's voice is versatile (pivoting between a low drawl and a canine howl on the slithering earworm "Sgt. Sierra"), expressive, and distinctly cool. There's occasionally some black comedy in her phrasing (the way she breaks up "I'm sleeping with the/ Fish" gives the lyric an unexpected punchline, and a pretty dark one at that), or some emotional resonance in the smallest details ("I'm leaving home and I want you to know/ I'm leaving home and I want you to no...tice"). Every detail on Deep Time feels deliberate, which makes it more arresting than plenty of records that make a lot more noise. There's power in pauses, silence, and empty space, these songs affirm, and small doesn't have to mean slight."

The Music Tapes

Music Tapes for Clouds and Tornadoes

Experimental,Rock

Rebecca Raber

The word "timeless" is bandied about carelessly in music writing, often incorrectly as an indication that something is more than a fad. But Music Tapes For Clouds and Tornadoes, the long-time-coming sophomore album by Julian Koster's Music Tapes project, is the rare case of a record that literally sounds timeless, or not of a specific era. With liberal use of banjo coupled with the tones of the singing saw and the intimacy of a lo-fi or field recording, Music Tapes comes across like a sweeping summation of the history of 20th century American white-boy music, from the sounds of Appalachia or the Grand Ole Opry to MGM movie musicals and K Records do-it-yourself twee. You'd be forgiven if the band name the Music Tapes doesn't ring a bell. They released their only other record, First Imaginary Symphony For Nomad, nine years ago-- ages ago in these accelerated culture days. The group revolves around Koster, one of Jeff Mangum's partners-in-crime from Neutral Milk Hotel, and a collective of Elephant 6-related musicians (Of Montreal's Kevin Barnes, A Hawk and a Hacksaw's Jeremy Barnes, Olivia Tremor Control's John Fernandes and Eric Harris, NMH's Scott Spillane, among others) who lend a hand fleshing out his psych-folk fantasias and laying them to tape. Few records encourage listeners to identify recording equipment-- who, save engineers and musicians, cares what kind of microphone was used?-- but the Music Tapes use the scratchy textures of vintage equipment as a key component of their sound. The fuzzy crackle of Koster's cadre of toys-- from the record lathe (think ProTools for the phonograph age) and Depression-era wire recorders to a handheld tape recorder-- is as much a part of creating Music Tapes' aural character as the instruments played. And the combination of such unusual equipment with such surprisingly accessible melodies creates a pleasingly disorienting sense of déjà vu. Album opener "Saw Ping Pong and Orchestra" starts with a rhythmic sputter and haunting singing saw that sounds like the soundtrack to a black-and-white B movie, but then, with the addition of weeping, waltzing strings, blossoms into a score for a 1940s melodrama. Willfully and wistfully cinematic, "Freeing Song By Reindeer" sets Koster's plaintive, reedy voice against cabaret accordions, like he's an E6 Edith Piaf, for a psychedelic take on a Parisian-café sequence. "Tornado Longing for Freedom" builds an off-kilter campfire song on a stop-start banjo line and ghostly background drone, like an acid-fried "Rainbow Connection". And closing track "In an Ice Palace" features the jingle-bell percussion, groovy Magnus organ, and jazzy rhythms of the mod 60s. Listeners will also be reminded of Koster's tenure in Neutral Milk Hotel. "The Minister of Longitude", the album's most anthemic track, bursts with the kind of tinny-yet-rousing folk and ramshackle horn orchestrations of "Holland, 1945", and "Song for Oceans Falling" is the sort of crackling, aching ballad that would have been both shambolic and heartfelt enough for In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. Don't get hung up on such weirdness, though. Sure, Koster and his cast of collaborators use lyrical abstraction and experimental recording techniques, but the melodies at the heart of each song are welcoming and familiar. And even the unusual way they've been gussied up only adds to their poignancy. These 15 tracks were certainly worth the almost-decade-long wait.

Artist: The Music Tapes, Album: Music Tapes for Clouds and Tornadoes, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "The word "timeless" is bandied about carelessly in music writing, often incorrectly as an indication that something is more than a fad. But Music Tapes For Clouds and Tornadoes, the long-time-coming sophomore album by Julian Koster's Music Tapes project, is the rare case of a record that literally sounds timeless, or not of a specific era. With liberal use of banjo coupled with the tones of the singing saw and the intimacy of a lo-fi or field recording, Music Tapes comes across like a sweeping summation of the history of 20th century American white-boy music, from the sounds of Appalachia or the Grand Ole Opry to MGM movie musicals and K Records do-it-yourself twee. You'd be forgiven if the band name the Music Tapes doesn't ring a bell. They released their only other record, First Imaginary Symphony For Nomad, nine years ago-- ages ago in these accelerated culture days. The group revolves around Koster, one of Jeff Mangum's partners-in-crime from Neutral Milk Hotel, and a collective of Elephant 6-related musicians (Of Montreal's Kevin Barnes, A Hawk and a Hacksaw's Jeremy Barnes, Olivia Tremor Control's John Fernandes and Eric Harris, NMH's Scott Spillane, among others) who lend a hand fleshing out his psych-folk fantasias and laying them to tape. Few records encourage listeners to identify recording equipment-- who, save engineers and musicians, cares what kind of microphone was used?-- but the Music Tapes use the scratchy textures of vintage equipment as a key component of their sound. The fuzzy crackle of Koster's cadre of toys-- from the record lathe (think ProTools for the phonograph age) and Depression-era wire recorders to a handheld tape recorder-- is as much a part of creating Music Tapes' aural character as the instruments played. And the combination of such unusual equipment with such surprisingly accessible melodies creates a pleasingly disorienting sense of déjà vu. Album opener "Saw Ping Pong and Orchestra" starts with a rhythmic sputter and haunting singing saw that sounds like the soundtrack to a black-and-white B movie, but then, with the addition of weeping, waltzing strings, blossoms into a score for a 1940s melodrama. Willfully and wistfully cinematic, "Freeing Song By Reindeer" sets Koster's plaintive, reedy voice against cabaret accordions, like he's an E6 Edith Piaf, for a psychedelic take on a Parisian-café sequence. "Tornado Longing for Freedom" builds an off-kilter campfire song on a stop-start banjo line and ghostly background drone, like an acid-fried "Rainbow Connection". And closing track "In an Ice Palace" features the jingle-bell percussion, groovy Magnus organ, and jazzy rhythms of the mod 60s. Listeners will also be reminded of Koster's tenure in Neutral Milk Hotel. "The Minister of Longitude", the album's most anthemic track, bursts with the kind of tinny-yet-rousing folk and ramshackle horn orchestrations of "Holland, 1945", and "Song for Oceans Falling" is the sort of crackling, aching ballad that would have been both shambolic and heartfelt enough for In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. Don't get hung up on such weirdness, though. Sure, Koster and his cast of collaborators use lyrical abstraction and experimental recording techniques, but the melodies at the heart of each song are welcoming and familiar. And even the unusual way they've been gussied up only adds to their poignancy. These 15 tracks were certainly worth the almost-decade-long wait."

Nick Lowe

At My Age

Rock

Joshua Klein

No artist gets to decide how they'll be remembered. If, as seems increasingly likely, Nick Lowe ends up remembered as the guy who penned "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace Love and Understanding" back in the early 1970s, surely the songwriter will be satisfied. Yet fans and followers of Lowe know there's a nearly endless stream of legitimate second (or first) choices for pick of his defining moment. As a member of Brinsley Schwarz, Lowe helped bridge pub rock to punk. Lowe inaugurated the Stiff label with his single "So It Goes", and more explicitly helped pave the way for punk's indie movement by producing the Damned's epochal "New Rose". He subsequently produced key tracks for the Pretenders and several albums for Elvis Costello. But maybe most impressive of all Lowe's feats was "The Beast in Me", a song from his 1994 comeback album The Impossible Bird, long after he had faded from pop prominence. Later that same year, the song also became the best non-stunt cover of one-time father-in-law Johnny Cash's late-career comeback. It was a cred-boosting number all around, and proved once and for all Lowe's worth as a songwriter in the classic sense rather than just a snide wit with an ear for hooks. His nickname "Basher" stemmed from his ability/compulsion to just crank out songs, but The Impossible Bird and songs like "The Beast in Me" showed a more considered, thoughtful, patient side to Lowe. Fittingly and full circle, in many ways Lowe owes this mellow change of direction to "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace Love and Understanding". Curtis Stigers covered the song on the soundtrack to "The Bodyguard", and in Lowe's own words it was like someone suddenly dumped a bag of money on his doorstep. Free from commercial considerations, Lowe started exploring his love of classic country, soul, r&b and crooner jazz, a path that continues with the new At My Age. There's been some talk of this most recent stage of Lowe's career as being too sentimental, or sans balls. But while Lowe's hardly up to his old tricks, his new tricks have more than their share of pleasures. If Lowe used to attack pop songs with a punk's cynicism and an ironic streak a mile wide, these days he exudes the illusion that he's settled down and settled in when in fact he's been happily exploring formalism with a sly wink. By his account, he started taking his guitar out to the country and playing old dancehalls, letting the new material breath and live a little until it resembled the pre- and early-rock era he aimed to emulate. In fact, both Lowe and his press materials have made a big deal about distinguishing the covers from the originals contained on At My Age, and Lowe's last few records have made a similar game of spotting the genuine classic amidst the songs that simply sound like genuine classics. It's a cleverly subversive strategy in its own right, the grey-haired and grown-up ex-punk making music his dad would have liked, though experience has added an air of increased authenticity to songs such as "A Better Man" and the almost imperceptibly skanking "Long Limbed Girl". Indeed, now Lowe is 58, both his parents have passed, and he's an unlikely first time dad, so it's somewhat hard to imagine him twisting the earnest sentiments of Charlie Feathers' "A Man in Love" to suit his former sarcastic mode. Of course, Lowe can still be funny, too, as he is on "The Club", which begins "If you've ever had someone come along/ Reach in, pull out your heart and break it/ Just for fun/ As easy as humming a song/ Join the club." On "People Change" (which features Chrissie Hynde and some nice Stax horns), he basically dismisses the call of nostalgia with a blithe but affable declaration of "People change/ That's the long and short of it." "Now, you say those times you had were never that many/ Just be thankful you had any/ And cut yourself a slice of reality," Lowe gently advises, and he seems to have taken his own advice and moved on. At his age, Lowe's still young enough to get away with making music in his former mode, but he's old enough to know better. Instead of looking to the recent past for inspiration, he's looked to the even more distant past, if only because it's the music that-- square or not-- currently makes him the most happy and content. And for 33 minutes or so, if you follow Lowe's lead and let loose any baggage you might be carrying, you're likely to be as happy as he is, too.

Artist: Nick Lowe, Album: At My Age, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "No artist gets to decide how they'll be remembered. If, as seems increasingly likely, Nick Lowe ends up remembered as the guy who penned "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace Love and Understanding" back in the early 1970s, surely the songwriter will be satisfied. Yet fans and followers of Lowe know there's a nearly endless stream of legitimate second (or first) choices for pick of his defining moment. As a member of Brinsley Schwarz, Lowe helped bridge pub rock to punk. Lowe inaugurated the Stiff label with his single "So It Goes", and more explicitly helped pave the way for punk's indie movement by producing the Damned's epochal "New Rose". He subsequently produced key tracks for the Pretenders and several albums for Elvis Costello. But maybe most impressive of all Lowe's feats was "The Beast in Me", a song from his 1994 comeback album The Impossible Bird, long after he had faded from pop prominence. Later that same year, the song also became the best non-stunt cover of one-time father-in-law Johnny Cash's late-career comeback. It was a cred-boosting number all around, and proved once and for all Lowe's worth as a songwriter in the classic sense rather than just a snide wit with an ear for hooks. His nickname "Basher" stemmed from his ability/compulsion to just crank out songs, but The Impossible Bird and songs like "The Beast in Me" showed a more considered, thoughtful, patient side to Lowe. Fittingly and full circle, in many ways Lowe owes this mellow change of direction to "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace Love and Understanding". Curtis Stigers covered the song on the soundtrack to "The Bodyguard", and in Lowe's own words it was like someone suddenly dumped a bag of money on his doorstep. Free from commercial considerations, Lowe started exploring his love of classic country, soul, r&b and crooner jazz, a path that continues with the new At My Age. There's been some talk of this most recent stage of Lowe's career as being too sentimental, or sans balls. But while Lowe's hardly up to his old tricks, his new tricks have more than their share of pleasures. If Lowe used to attack pop songs with a punk's cynicism and an ironic streak a mile wide, these days he exudes the illusion that he's settled down and settled in when in fact he's been happily exploring formalism with a sly wink. By his account, he started taking his guitar out to the country and playing old dancehalls, letting the new material breath and live a little until it resembled the pre- and early-rock era he aimed to emulate. In fact, both Lowe and his press materials have made a big deal about distinguishing the covers from the originals contained on At My Age, and Lowe's last few records have made a similar game of spotting the genuine classic amidst the songs that simply sound like genuine classics. It's a cleverly subversive strategy in its own right, the grey-haired and grown-up ex-punk making music his dad would have liked, though experience has added an air of increased authenticity to songs such as "A Better Man" and the almost imperceptibly skanking "Long Limbed Girl". Indeed, now Lowe is 58, both his parents have passed, and he's an unlikely first time dad, so it's somewhat hard to imagine him twisting the earnest sentiments of Charlie Feathers' "A Man in Love" to suit his former sarcastic mode. Of course, Lowe can still be funny, too, as he is on "The Club", which begins "If you've ever had someone come along/ Reach in, pull out your heart and break it/ Just for fun/ As easy as humming a song/ Join the club." On "People Change" (which features Chrissie Hynde and some nice Stax horns), he basically dismisses the call of nostalgia with a blithe but affable declaration of "People change/ That's the long and short of it." "Now, you say those times you had were never that many/ Just be thankful you had any/ And cut yourself a slice of reality," Lowe gently advises, and he seems to have taken his own advice and moved on. At his age, Lowe's still young enough to get away with making music in his former mode, but he's old enough to know better. Instead of looking to the recent past for inspiration, he's looked to the even more distant past, if only because it's the music that-- square or not-- currently makes him the most happy and content. And for 33 minutes or so, if you follow Lowe's lead and let loose any baggage you might be carrying, you're likely to be as happy as he is, too."

Major Lazer

Peace Is the Mission

Global,Pop/R&B

Claire Lobenfeld

Major Lazer's image has always been a bit slippery. Having gone through a number of member and affiliate changes since UK producer Switch—one half of the founding production team, along with Diplo—jumped ship in 2011, their ever-evolving mission has been confusing, sloppy, and not entirely easy to nail down. Their debut album Guns Don't Kill People... Lazers Do was a singular artifact of Diplo's fascination with global dance music, for lack of a better catchall, for which he is often called out as an appropriator. Despite the fact that he and Switch worked on the album in Kingston and recruited dancehall bona fides for every track, from icons like Vybz Kartel and Mr. Vegas to up-and-comers like Brooklyn bashment luminary Ricky Blaze, it was still sticky with an undercurrent of tourism. But with all of the pitfalls Major Lazer has faced since its inception—solo Diplo's hypeman Skerrit Bwoy's departure for religious pursuits; mismatched guests like Dirty Projectors' Amber Coffman and Ezra Koenig of Vampire Weekend for sophomore album Free the Universe—Peace Is the Mission finds the group finally emerging from their cocoon. What helped to pierce them out of a murky, genre-blurring funk, it turns out, was the confidence (and perhaps the notoriety and resources) to cash in and go full pop. Even though Diplo already had work with major pop stars on his CV (namely, Beyoncé's "Pon De Floor"-sampling "Run the World (Girls)" and on Madonna's recent Rebel Heart), it was Major Lazer's inclusion on the Lorde-curated soundtrack for The Hunger Games: Mockingjay - Part 1 that truly marked this sea change. Their contribution, "All My Love" featuring Ariana Grande, maintained their penchant for dancehall-inflected festival dubstep and worked in a winky interpolation of "Lollipop (Candyman)" by Aqua (yes, the "Barbie Girl" group), all with a much slicker sheen. The song could have been just another paycheck, a chance to go for polish on a non-album project while staying esoteric with their own work, but lead single "Lean On", a collaboration with Danish upstart MØ and DJ Snake of "Turn Down for What" fame, indicated that they were sticking to this new refinement. These tracks also illustrate what Major Lazer excel at: crafting intricate, innovative EDM for honey-voiced singers that pushes boundaries people like David Guetta and Calvin Harris seemingly refuse to touch. Album opener "Be Together" with Chicago sibling duo Wild Belle combines breathless yearning and skittering percussion in a way that sounds new, while the warbled soul of "Powerful", featuring vocals from Ellie Goulding and reggae artist Tarrus Riley, swoons in a way we don't expect from the production trio. With his performance, stripped of patois and giving every Top 40 pretty boy a run for his money, Riley offers the album's best example of Major Lazer's ability to synthesize their influences. Where the previous two full-lengths tried to mesh opposing forces, here, they are finessed into no-nonsense stadium rattlers. Riley can master an EDM power-ballad, while the menace of a rapper like Pusha T meets its match with dancehall vet Mad Cobra on "Night Riders". Even a refreshed "All My Love" benefits from additional vocals from soca singer Machel Montano. "Lean On" and "Powerful" will likely end up the big hits of Peace, but tracks like "Too Original" with Jovi Rockwell and Swedish singer Elliphant, "Light It Up" featuring a guest appearance from R&B-reggae duo Brick and Lace's Nyla, and Chronixx-featuring "Blaze Up the Fire" also show a group locating its footing. They accomplish the, well, mission the group has trained its sights on since its genesis—and it's because they've linked with artists who also deal in fusion. They're not forcing it. There is no doubt Peace Is the Mission will suffer some criticism from dancehall purists, those exhausted by EDM and people who hate Diplo (a hate that he has certainly worked overtime to earn), but their maturation is palpable across the album's nine tracks. In the process, they've made a great pop record through uniting some of the globe's most exciting and celebrated pop artists.

Artist: Major Lazer, Album: Peace Is the Mission, Genre: Global,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Major Lazer's image has always been a bit slippery. Having gone through a number of member and affiliate changes since UK producer Switch—one half of the founding production team, along with Diplo—jumped ship in 2011, their ever-evolving mission has been confusing, sloppy, and not entirely easy to nail down. Their debut album Guns Don't Kill People... Lazers Do was a singular artifact of Diplo's fascination with global dance music, for lack of a better catchall, for which he is often called out as an appropriator. Despite the fact that he and Switch worked on the album in Kingston and recruited dancehall bona fides for every track, from icons like Vybz Kartel and Mr. Vegas to up-and-comers like Brooklyn bashment luminary Ricky Blaze, it was still sticky with an undercurrent of tourism. But with all of the pitfalls Major Lazer has faced since its inception—solo Diplo's hypeman Skerrit Bwoy's departure for religious pursuits; mismatched guests like Dirty Projectors' Amber Coffman and Ezra Koenig of Vampire Weekend for sophomore album Free the Universe—Peace Is the Mission finds the group finally emerging from their cocoon. What helped to pierce them out of a murky, genre-blurring funk, it turns out, was the confidence (and perhaps the notoriety and resources) to cash in and go full pop. Even though Diplo already had work with major pop stars on his CV (namely, Beyoncé's "Pon De Floor"-sampling "Run the World (Girls)" and on Madonna's recent Rebel Heart), it was Major Lazer's inclusion on the Lorde-curated soundtrack for The Hunger Games: Mockingjay - Part 1 that truly marked this sea change. Their contribution, "All My Love" featuring Ariana Grande, maintained their penchant for dancehall-inflected festival dubstep and worked in a winky interpolation of "Lollipop (Candyman)" by Aqua (yes, the "Barbie Girl" group), all with a much slicker sheen. The song could have been just another paycheck, a chance to go for polish on a non-album project while staying esoteric with their own work, but lead single "Lean On", a collaboration with Danish upstart MØ and DJ Snake of "Turn Down for What" fame, indicated that they were sticking to this new refinement. These tracks also illustrate what Major Lazer excel at: crafting intricate, innovative EDM for honey-voiced singers that pushes boundaries people like David Guetta and Calvin Harris seemingly refuse to touch. Album opener "Be Together" with Chicago sibling duo Wild Belle combines breathless yearning and skittering percussion in a way that sounds new, while the warbled soul of "Powerful", featuring vocals from Ellie Goulding and reggae artist Tarrus Riley, swoons in a way we don't expect from the production trio. With his performance, stripped of patois and giving every Top 40 pretty boy a run for his money, Riley offers the album's best example of Major Lazer's ability to synthesize their influences. Where the previous two full-lengths tried to mesh opposing forces, here, they are finessed into no-nonsense stadium rattlers. Riley can master an EDM power-ballad, while the menace of a rapper like Pusha T meets its match with dancehall vet Mad Cobra on "Night Riders". Even a refreshed "All My Love" benefits from additional vocals from soca singer Machel Montano. "Lean On" and "Powerful" will likely end up the big hits of Peace, but tracks like "Too Original" with Jovi Rockwell and Swedish singer Elliphant, "Light It Up" featuring a guest appearance from R&B-reggae duo Brick and Lace's Nyla, and Chronixx-featuring "Blaze Up the Fire" also show a group locating its footing. They accomplish the, well, mission the group has trained its sights on since its genesis—and it's because they've linked with artists who also deal in fusion. They're not forcing it. There is no doubt Peace Is the Mission will suffer some criticism from dancehall purists, those exhausted by EDM and people who hate Diplo (a hate that he has certainly worked overtime to earn), but their maturation is palpable across the album's nine tracks. In the process, they've made a great pop record through uniting some of the globe's most exciting and celebrated pop artists."

Fatima Al Qadiri

Shaneera EP

Electronic

Ben Cardew

Although she may borrow from the tools of modern club music—rattling drum machines, wipe-clean synths, and corporeal sub-bass—the output of Fatima Al Qadiri is about as far from the stereotype of dance-floor workouts as it is possible to go. Her records come wrapped in elaborate conceptual frameworks that may envisage a journey into an “imagined China” (2014’s Asiatisch), explore the idea of war as refracted through video games (2012’s Desert Strike EP) or celebrate the right to protest (2016’s Brute), putting her in a lineage of electronic music producers from Matthew Herbert to Kode9 and Jeff Mills who use the infinite sonic possibilities of electronic music production to question the universe around them. Shaneera, Al Qadiri’s new EP for Kode9’s Hyperdub label, is another fabulous example of her thematic explorations, and it’s packed with enough backstory to give Ken Burns food for thought. “Shaneera,” the press release explains, “is the English mispronunciation of the Arabic word, shanee’a ( شنيعة ), literally meaning ‘outrageous, nefarious, hideous, major, and foul.’” When used as queer slang in Al Qadiri’s native Kuwait, however, the word “Shaneera” takes on a positive tone, referring to a gender-defying persona and the notion of being an evil queen. With that, you might expect an EP that is inaccessible or academic, more food for the mind than zip for the body. But underneath Shaneera’s steely sonic casing lies an EP packed with melody and joy. Al Qadiri appears on the EP’s cover made up as Shaneera—who she calls her “evil extreme femme alter ego”—clad in the kind of cake-thick makeup that was popular in mid-2000s Kuwait, the picture setting the scene for a love letter to evil and benevolent queens that bursts with dramatic energy. In this quest, she is joined by Lama3an, an Kuwaiti/Iraqi architect who moonlights as an artist and fashion designer; Chaltham, aka longtime collaborator Khalid al Gharaballi; singer Naygow; and Bobo Secret, noted for his “uncanny ability at projecting an evil femme queen voice.” It’s that kind of record: “evil as fuck,” in Al Qadiri’s own words. But it’s also theatrical, intense, and frequently funny, marked by Secret’s vampish, regal projections. It’s a hugely original piece of work. Over the EP’s five tracks, Al Qadiri explores new sonic territory by marrying the Khaleeji music of the Arab Gulf to the granite-hard, grime and trap-infused production listeners will recognize from her solo work or adventures with Future Brown. Al Qadiri is a brilliant producer with the knack of squeezing the maximum effect out of individual sounds. Her synths shine like polished silver and penetrate with the force of a diamond-tipped drill; her drums are sculpted girders, dropped into the mix with the sonic precision of latter-period Kraftwerk, and her work here imbues Shaneera with a furious intensity that amplifies the EP’s drama. Al Qadiri is also very melodically gifted and it is this that connects Shaneera to her career high-point Asiatisch. The melodies on the two may be very different—the Arabesque swirls on Shaneera versus the sinogrime elegance of Asiatisch—but both releases are home to some of Al Qadiri’s most powerful hooks. “Galby,” the best song on Shaneera, features a heart-rending vocal line from Naygow, while the EP’s title track makes an unlikely pop gem out of stately keyboard sweeps and the three syllables of the song’s title stretched into a bizarre yet affecting earworm. There may be something sinister in the heady, minor-tone melodies that dominate Shaneera, but this is set off by the bombastic timbre of lead vocalist Bobo Secret, whose voice suggests the melodramatic menace of a Disney villain. The other big difference from the sedate tones of Asiatisch is that Shaneera simply bangs. The five songs here are all dance tracks, which charge along at the kind of frantic pace you could imagine inflaming both basement club and family wedding, while the percussion is a brilliantly frenetic mix of Western drum machine tone and Khaleeji rhythm. “Spiral” is particularly thrilling, with jittery synth lines that twist off into the mix meeting a pointillist layer of percussive touches to send the pulse racing. The lyrical themes on Shaneera —which are sung in Kuwaiti and Egyptian Arabic, with one Iraqi proverb—sound equally exhilarating. Al Qadiri hasn’t provided an English translation, explaining that the meaning would be lost in translation, but we are told that the lyrics are “suggestive, imploring, shady and loving, some original and some re-recorded material from Grindr chats, online drag, and femme comedy skits.” In “Alkahaf,” Bobo Secret repeats the line “Aheenik ibjamaly,” which means “I offend you with my beauty,” a phrase apparently used by many non-binary individuals against hegemonic haters. Shaneera doesn’t so much break boundaries down as invite them in, loosen their ties and take them out dancing. Electronic music can be experimental, danceable, thought-provoking, and fun. But to combine all of these attributes in a record that also breaks new sonic ground is a remarkable achievement.

Artist: Fatima Al Qadiri, Album: Shaneera EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Although she may borrow from the tools of modern club music—rattling drum machines, wipe-clean synths, and corporeal sub-bass—the output of Fatima Al Qadiri is about as far from the stereotype of dance-floor workouts as it is possible to go. Her records come wrapped in elaborate conceptual frameworks that may envisage a journey into an “imagined China” (2014’s Asiatisch), explore the idea of war as refracted through video games (2012’s Desert Strike EP) or celebrate the right to protest (2016’s Brute), putting her in a lineage of electronic music producers from Matthew Herbert to Kode9 and Jeff Mills who use the infinite sonic possibilities of electronic music production to question the universe around them. Shaneera, Al Qadiri’s new EP for Kode9’s Hyperdub label, is another fabulous example of her thematic explorations, and it’s packed with enough backstory to give Ken Burns food for thought. “Shaneera,” the press release explains, “is the English mispronunciation of the Arabic word, shanee’a ( شنيعة ), literally meaning ‘outrageous, nefarious, hideous, major, and foul.’” When used as queer slang in Al Qadiri’s native Kuwait, however, the word “Shaneera” takes on a positive tone, referring to a gender-defying persona and the notion of being an evil queen. With that, you might expect an EP that is inaccessible or academic, more food for the mind than zip for the body. But underneath Shaneera’s steely sonic casing lies an EP packed with melody and joy. Al Qadiri appears on the EP’s cover made up as Shaneera—who she calls her “evil extreme femme alter ego”—clad in the kind of cake-thick makeup that was popular in mid-2000s Kuwait, the picture setting the scene for a love letter to evil and benevolent queens that bursts with dramatic energy. In this quest, she is joined by Lama3an, an Kuwaiti/Iraqi architect who moonlights as an artist and fashion designer; Chaltham, aka longtime collaborator Khalid al Gharaballi; singer Naygow; and Bobo Secret, noted for his “uncanny ability at projecting an evil femme queen voice.” It’s that kind of record: “evil as fuck,” in Al Qadiri’s own words. But it’s also theatrical, intense, and frequently funny, marked by Secret’s vampish, regal projections. It’s a hugely original piece of work. Over the EP’s five tracks, Al Qadiri explores new sonic territory by marrying the Khaleeji music of the Arab Gulf to the granite-hard, grime and trap-infused production listeners will recognize from her solo work or adventures with Future Brown. Al Qadiri is a brilliant producer with the knack of squeezing the maximum effect out of individual sounds. Her synths shine like polished silver and penetrate with the force of a diamond-tipped drill; her drums are sculpted girders, dropped into the mix with the sonic precision of latter-period Kraftwerk, and her work here imbues Shaneera with a furious intensity that amplifies the EP’s drama. Al Qadiri is also very melodically gifted and it is this that connects Shaneera to her career high-point Asiatisch. The melodies on the two may be very different—the Arabesque swirls on Shaneera versus the sinogrime elegance of Asiatisch—but both releases are home to some of Al Qadiri’s most powerful hooks. “Galby,” the best song on Shaneera, features a heart-rending vocal line from Naygow, while the EP’s title track makes an unlikely pop gem out of stately keyboard sweeps and the three syllables of the song’s title stretched into a bizarre yet affecting earworm. There may be something sinister in the heady, minor-tone melodies that dominate Shaneera, but this is set off by the bombastic timbre of lead vocalist Bobo Secret, whose voice suggests the melodramatic menace of a Disney villain. The other big difference from the sedate tones of Asiatisch is that Shaneera simply bangs. The five songs here are all dance tracks, which charge along at the kind of frantic pace you could imagine inflaming both basement club and family wedding, while the percussion is a brilliantly frenetic mix of Western drum machine tone and Khaleeji rhythm. “Spiral” is particularly thrilling, with jittery synth lines that twist off into the mix meeting a pointillist layer of percussive touches to send the pulse racing. The lyrical themes on Shaneera —which are sung in Kuwaiti and Egyptian Arabic, with one Iraqi proverb—sound equally exhilarating. Al Qadiri hasn’t provided an English translation, explaining that the meaning would be lost in translation, but we are told that the lyrics are “suggestive, imploring, shady and loving, some original and some re-recorded material from Grindr chats, online drag, and femme comedy skits.” In “Alkahaf,” Bobo Secret repeats the line “Aheenik ibjamaly,” which means “I offend you with my beauty,” a phrase apparently used by many non-binary individuals against hegemonic haters. Shaneera doesn’t so much break boundaries down as invite them in, loosen their ties and take them out dancing. Electronic music can be experimental, danceable, thought-provoking, and fun. But to combine all of these attributes in a record that also breaks new sonic ground is a remarkable achievement."

Elbow

Asleep in the Back

Rock

Joe Tangari

Bandnames are important. The best ones are good indicators of where a band is coming from and what they're trying to achieve. Or at the very least, they sound good and work with the band's sound. Unfortunately, not all bands can seem to find that one moniker that's perfect for them, and a lot of them end up settling for some word that was lying around not being used for much else. Take Elbow, for instance. That's a bleeding awful name for a band. It doesn't even lend itself to much of a backstory. What do you say to the interviewer when he asks how you chose your name? "Oh, well, we always wanted to name the band for the bony joint where the upper arm meets the forearm." Even the various idioms the word appears in-- elbow room, elbow grease-- can't help it out. And then there's the questions it raises. What does this band called Elbow sound like? What made them call themselves Elbow? Are they good? They don't sound very cool. Well, friends, it's my good fortune to report to you that the band's music is a lot better than their name. The English quintet open their debut at a medium tempo with "Any Day Now," a song that immediately highlights a few of their strengths, and also hints at a few of their weaknesses. Drummer Jupp (who apparently has just the one name) lays down a slightly fractured, snare-heavy beat accompanied by a modicum of subtle programming and Pete Turner's dub-influenced bass. Lead vocalist Guy Garvey seems to have his voice on loan from Peter Gabriel, though he keeps his delivery hushed and rather low-key. The entire band harmonizes impressively with him on the choruses, making for a dense texture, especially when combined with Craig Potter's organ lines. Garvey's Gabriel resemblance gradually melts away as the rest of the album unfolds, though he occasionally returns to it when he goes for the big held notes that punctuate the climaxes of songs like "Can't Stop" and the excellent closer "Scattered Black and Whites." "Red" also retains some of Gabriel's influence, with its deceptively complex drum and percussion parts and heaving cello. Garvey's refrain of "this can't go on" is one of the album's best melodic moments. As the song's mix dismantles itself at the conclusion, the main elements exit first, leaving behind a heavily delayed and tremoloed guitar part that you hardly even noticed was there during the song. Mark Potter dumps delay-drenched guitars all over a creeping programmed drumbeat on "Little Beast," which finds Garvey sitting a little further from the front of the mix, instead subsumed by the atmospheric music created by his bandmates. It takes a bit too long to get to the next song, though, and the track isn't really interesting enough to warrant all of its four minutes. By the time "Powder Blue" finally does roll around, Asleep in the Back's biggest flaw starts to come into focus. The song is actually pretty good taken on its own, with Garvey hitting a good falsetto on the refrain and the boys providing him with some fine backing vocals, but the entire album falls within a very narrow, and very slow tempo range. "Powder Blue" works well in that range, with its floating piano ostinatos and light spattering of sax, but these guys really need a fast song to insert somewhere in the running order for the sake of diversity. The closest they come is "Bitten by the Tailfly," another strong track. It's not exactly fast, but its feel is considerably different from what surrounds it. Mark Potter's guitar kicks up actual dust for the first time on the album, and the faux-tribal beats and curiously tense verses lend the song a sort of neurotic pulse that draws you in. The dynamic shifts between the verses and Potter's deafening guitar interjections are almost enough to keep it interesting on their own, but thankfully, the whole song proves engaging. The band is always discriminating with their arrangements, occasionally utilizing analog synths to color in the edges of a passage, and using extra musicians to fill in the texture where it's obvious that the band's own instruments wouldn't quite be enough. The best example of this is the woodwind quintet that shows up on the record's title cut. At first, the cor anglais and clarinet enter with long, held notes, almost blending with the organ, but by the song's end, the whole quintet has joined, offering up countermelodies and some needed timbrel variety. While the band has a very developed sense of texture and sound, though, they rather desperately need to work on changing things up a bit more with regard to the songs themselves. As I said before, the whole album comes in at roughly the same tempo. And though they're able to make a seven-minute epic like "Newborn" interesting all the way through by shifting the texture almost constantly, simply shifting textures a lot doesn't offer the kind of variety I need to sustain me over the course an entire album. Elbow have managed to craft a skilled and laudable debut. Asleep in the Back finds them starting their recording career (they've been a live unit for almost ten years now) at a level a lot of bands don't even reach on their third or fourth albums. If they manage to harness their strengths and inject just a bit more variety into the mix, I have a feeling a second album from Elbow could really deliver.

Artist: Elbow, Album: Asleep in the Back, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Bandnames are important. The best ones are good indicators of where a band is coming from and what they're trying to achieve. Or at the very least, they sound good and work with the band's sound. Unfortunately, not all bands can seem to find that one moniker that's perfect for them, and a lot of them end up settling for some word that was lying around not being used for much else. Take Elbow, for instance. That's a bleeding awful name for a band. It doesn't even lend itself to much of a backstory. What do you say to the interviewer when he asks how you chose your name? "Oh, well, we always wanted to name the band for the bony joint where the upper arm meets the forearm." Even the various idioms the word appears in-- elbow room, elbow grease-- can't help it out. And then there's the questions it raises. What does this band called Elbow sound like? What made them call themselves Elbow? Are they good? They don't sound very cool. Well, friends, it's my good fortune to report to you that the band's music is a lot better than their name. The English quintet open their debut at a medium tempo with "Any Day Now," a song that immediately highlights a few of their strengths, and also hints at a few of their weaknesses. Drummer Jupp (who apparently has just the one name) lays down a slightly fractured, snare-heavy beat accompanied by a modicum of subtle programming and Pete Turner's dub-influenced bass. Lead vocalist Guy Garvey seems to have his voice on loan from Peter Gabriel, though he keeps his delivery hushed and rather low-key. The entire band harmonizes impressively with him on the choruses, making for a dense texture, especially when combined with Craig Potter's organ lines. Garvey's Gabriel resemblance gradually melts away as the rest of the album unfolds, though he occasionally returns to it when he goes for the big held notes that punctuate the climaxes of songs like "Can't Stop" and the excellent closer "Scattered Black and Whites." "Red" also retains some of Gabriel's influence, with its deceptively complex drum and percussion parts and heaving cello. Garvey's refrain of "this can't go on" is one of the album's best melodic moments. As the song's mix dismantles itself at the conclusion, the main elements exit first, leaving behind a heavily delayed and tremoloed guitar part that you hardly even noticed was there during the song. Mark Potter dumps delay-drenched guitars all over a creeping programmed drumbeat on "Little Beast," which finds Garvey sitting a little further from the front of the mix, instead subsumed by the atmospheric music created by his bandmates. It takes a bit too long to get to the next song, though, and the track isn't really interesting enough to warrant all of its four minutes. By the time "Powder Blue" finally does roll around, Asleep in the Back's biggest flaw starts to come into focus. The song is actually pretty good taken on its own, with Garvey hitting a good falsetto on the refrain and the boys providing him with some fine backing vocals, but the entire album falls within a very narrow, and very slow tempo range. "Powder Blue" works well in that range, with its floating piano ostinatos and light spattering of sax, but these guys really need a fast song to insert somewhere in the running order for the sake of diversity. The closest they come is "Bitten by the Tailfly," another strong track. It's not exactly fast, but its feel is considerably different from what surrounds it. Mark Potter's guitar kicks up actual dust for the first time on the album, and the faux-tribal beats and curiously tense verses lend the song a sort of neurotic pulse that draws you in. The dynamic shifts between the verses and Potter's deafening guitar interjections are almost enough to keep it interesting on their own, but thankfully, the whole song proves engaging. The band is always discriminating with their arrangements, occasionally utilizing analog synths to color in the edges of a passage, and using extra musicians to fill in the texture where it's obvious that the band's own instruments wouldn't quite be enough. The best example of this is the woodwind quintet that shows up on the record's title cut. At first, the cor anglais and clarinet enter with long, held notes, almost blending with the organ, but by the song's end, the whole quintet has joined, offering up countermelodies and some needed timbrel variety. While the band has a very developed sense of texture and sound, though, they rather desperately need to work on changing things up a bit more with regard to the songs themselves. As I said before, the whole album comes in at roughly the same tempo. And though they're able to make a seven-minute epic like "Newborn" interesting all the way through by shifting the texture almost constantly, simply shifting textures a lot doesn't offer the kind of variety I need to sustain me over the course an entire album. Elbow have managed to craft a skilled and laudable debut. Asleep in the Back finds them starting their recording career (they've been a live unit for almost ten years now) at a level a lot of bands don't even reach on their third or fourth albums. If they manage to harness their strengths and inject just a bit more variety into the mix, I have a feeling a second album from Elbow could really deliver."

Slackjaw

Darkest Hour

Rock

Alison Fields

When I received Slackjaw's Darkest Hour, my first reaction was to groan and construct a lengthy laundry list of superficial complaints-- the band name (ugh), the typeface (awful), the cover art (goofy, maudlin photography), the photos of androgynous pink-haired teenagers in the liner notes (make it stop), the song titles (for the love of god, "Your Beauty, The Sunrise?!"), and the profound sense of foreboding the preceding qualities ensured. Superficial issues aside: Slackjaw's Darkest Hour may be the best example of a 5.0 record I've ever heard. Its physical attributes are more or less average-- nine songs in 46 minutes, most of which average around the five-minute mark (excepting one short song and one long song). The sound falls squarely between nouveau emo and Radiohead-inspired album rock. The musicians are competent, the songwriting is occasionally inspired and occasionally abysmal, but largely pleasant, pedestrian, and innocuous. The lyrics mostly rhyme, contain a requisite amount of postmodern malaise, and sometimes employ pretty poetic affectation. Most of the songs seem to be about failing relationships and the sort of existential angst associated with mornings after and drinking alone. And you could say: "Well, you could say the same thing about a lot of bands-- almost every band, in fact." Which would prove my point. That, right there, is the heart of the 5.0. Average. And there's nothing inherently wrong with average. It's a glass half-full or half-empty scenario. For the case of half-full: "The First Thing to Go," the album's opener, is lush and cinematic, building on a pleasant sort of white-noised soundscape. Singer Eric Schopmeyer's hushed vocal technique provides a nice complement to the music itself. It evokes the right sort of pretty, yet sad tone that dominates the rest of the album. For a threesome, Slackjaw has a relatively full sound, assisted in part by a wide variety of instrumentation. And I'll give them this: it's hard to integrate chimes without sounding ridiculous. They pull it off well. Another bonus: songs flow almost seamlessly into one another. This works particularly well with the first two tracks: "The First Thing to Go" and "Unscathed," the latter switching gears so dramatically halfway through that I thought they'd fucked up the tracklist. (Actually, the jury is still out on whether this is clever or just irritating). The instrumentation makes a huge difference, too. On "White Noise," jazz piano plays counterpoint to dissonant bursts of guitar. It's a cunning trick of composition which represents what these guys do exceptionally well. Suffice to say, these guys have a lot of potential. On the half-empty tip: certain moments on Darkest Hour (most notably the overblown "One Too Many Mornings") are indeed atmospheric, but in that breakup-scene-in-a-teen-movie sort of way. They sound very typical, and can bear a marked resemblance to the emotive rock hits featured on the commercial alternative stations-- those ones by the bands whose names you never remember-- which is aided by singer Eric Schopmeyer's theatrical vocal style. His tenor moans recall college-rock crooners and second-rate Jeff Buckley impersonators, and the breathy, whispered filler is distractingly artificial. This combination evokes the inevitable world-weary tone favored by four out of five sensitive teenagers with black-framed glasses. It would be something special if it hadn't been done before. But it has. And it isn't. Significant orchestral arrangements can occasionally bolster an otherwise simplistic sound, but I'm not entirely sure Slackjaw is ready for a grand opus. The inclusion of unusual instrumentation can also smack of self-importance, and middling songwriter skills. Part of me that wishes someone hadn't complied with the probable studio command to "make it bigger." There are very few artists in the world that can pull off full-tilt album rock pretension. For all I know, Slackjaw may arise as saviors of rock and roll-- after all, stranger things have happened-- but Darkest Hour isn't going to get them there. And one further note: wearing your influences on your sleeve only works if you deviate from the formula. With the possible exception of "White Noise," every song on here sounds like a tribute to another band. From Radiohead on "The First Thing to Go" to American Analog Set on "All That Remains" (dead ringer). That Slackjaw perform with some agility is of secondary concern, because ultimately it's sort of boring.

Artist: Slackjaw, Album: Darkest Hour, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.0 Album review: "When I received Slackjaw's Darkest Hour, my first reaction was to groan and construct a lengthy laundry list of superficial complaints-- the band name (ugh), the typeface (awful), the cover art (goofy, maudlin photography), the photos of androgynous pink-haired teenagers in the liner notes (make it stop), the song titles (for the love of god, "Your Beauty, The Sunrise?!"), and the profound sense of foreboding the preceding qualities ensured. Superficial issues aside: Slackjaw's Darkest Hour may be the best example of a 5.0 record I've ever heard. Its physical attributes are more or less average-- nine songs in 46 minutes, most of which average around the five-minute mark (excepting one short song and one long song). The sound falls squarely between nouveau emo and Radiohead-inspired album rock. The musicians are competent, the songwriting is occasionally inspired and occasionally abysmal, but largely pleasant, pedestrian, and innocuous. The lyrics mostly rhyme, contain a requisite amount of postmodern malaise, and sometimes employ pretty poetic affectation. Most of the songs seem to be about failing relationships and the sort of existential angst associated with mornings after and drinking alone. And you could say: "Well, you could say the same thing about a lot of bands-- almost every band, in fact." Which would prove my point. That, right there, is the heart of the 5.0. Average. And there's nothing inherently wrong with average. It's a glass half-full or half-empty scenario. For the case of half-full: "The First Thing to Go," the album's opener, is lush and cinematic, building on a pleasant sort of white-noised soundscape. Singer Eric Schopmeyer's hushed vocal technique provides a nice complement to the music itself. It evokes the right sort of pretty, yet sad tone that dominates the rest of the album. For a threesome, Slackjaw has a relatively full sound, assisted in part by a wide variety of instrumentation. And I'll give them this: it's hard to integrate chimes without sounding ridiculous. They pull it off well. Another bonus: songs flow almost seamlessly into one another. This works particularly well with the first two tracks: "The First Thing to Go" and "Unscathed," the latter switching gears so dramatically halfway through that I thought they'd fucked up the tracklist. (Actually, the jury is still out on whether this is clever or just irritating). The instrumentation makes a huge difference, too. On "White Noise," jazz piano plays counterpoint to dissonant bursts of guitar. It's a cunning trick of composition which represents what these guys do exceptionally well. Suffice to say, these guys have a lot of potential. On the half-empty tip: certain moments on Darkest Hour (most notably the overblown "One Too Many Mornings") are indeed atmospheric, but in that breakup-scene-in-a-teen-movie sort of way. They sound very typical, and can bear a marked resemblance to the emotive rock hits featured on the commercial alternative stations-- those ones by the bands whose names you never remember-- which is aided by singer Eric Schopmeyer's theatrical vocal style. His tenor moans recall college-rock crooners and second-rate Jeff Buckley impersonators, and the breathy, whispered filler is distractingly artificial. This combination evokes the inevitable world-weary tone favored by four out of five sensitive teenagers with black-framed glasses. It would be something special if it hadn't been done before. But it has. And it isn't. Significant orchestral arrangements can occasionally bolster an otherwise simplistic sound, but I'm not entirely sure Slackjaw is ready for a grand opus. The inclusion of unusual instrumentation can also smack of self-importance, and middling songwriter skills. Part of me that wishes someone hadn't complied with the probable studio command to "make it bigger." There are very few artists in the world that can pull off full-tilt album rock pretension. For all I know, Slackjaw may arise as saviors of rock and roll-- after all, stranger things have happened-- but Darkest Hour isn't going to get them there. And one further note: wearing your influences on your sleeve only works if you deviate from the formula. With the possible exception of "White Noise," every song on here sounds like a tribute to another band. From Radiohead on "The First Thing to Go" to American Analog Set on "All That Remains" (dead ringer). That Slackjaw perform with some agility is of secondary concern, because ultimately it's sort of boring."

Ital

Dream On

Electronic

Nate Patrin

The most distinct and memorable voice heard on Ital's Hive Mind was a shredded and reassembled Lady Gaga coolly stammering the titular, "Born This Way"-sourced refrain of "Doesn't Matter (If You Love Him)" over grimy downtempo funk-house. The most distinct and memorable voice heard on Dream On, meanwhile, is the one that opens "What a Mess": the flange-distorted pleads of a choked-up woman at a 2009 town hall meeting, asking Oklahoma Senator Tom Coburn what he could do to help her uninsured husband after he suffered a traumatic brain injury. Coburn's response-- that citizens have to rely on community instead of government for help-- is multitracked and reverbed into oblivion before being smothered by a dense organ chord and crumbled apart by skittering hi-hats. It's a willfully bizarre sample for a producer to slot into a postmodern house track, even one that rides on a tension between minimalism and abrasion. But it's also one of Daniel Martin-McCormick's clearest signals yet that he's got a certain dedication to finding the potential for repulsion in a traditionally euphoric and physical strain of music. Just how ugly Dream On gets is a matter of degrees-- most of it isn't as up-front as that opening to "What a Mess", and when it does manifest it's usually more in the form of a creeping dissonance or a slow build to something intriguingly grotesque. This album exploits the fine line between repetition as groove and repetition as unnerving tic, head music that worries the body. Opening track "Despot" is as close as things get to the spaced-out momentum of its predecessor album's brightest moments. But even its straightforwardly dense backbeat is in the service of a pulse that feels more like tension than release, building unease with with stuttering shards of chirping monosyllabic vocals and directionless melodies that pace around looking over their shoulders instead of cresting. "Boi" has a similar creep to oblivion, opening on a stark wave of congealing lava-flow synth ooze before the groove clicks into place. The pairing of fragmented vocal loops (a churn that gradually emerges as the phrase "baby boy"), tight-packed clap-snare-throb percussion, and subtle, deeply submerged melodic touches sets up a lush space-- but that only makes things more disorienting when he brings in a succession of high-pitched, intermittent buzzing whirs that resemble pitched-up F1 race cars. But Ital never loses the plot, even when it seems like throwing off casual dancefloor vibes is part of the point. The way "Enrique" starts splitting at the seams, choppy intonations of firing-up jet engine whirs crackling through the edges, only makes its three-miles-deep echo chamber feel sound less stark and emotionless than it did on the outset. And closer "Deep Cut (Live Edit)" makes for a bracing reprieve from the rest of the album's tension, following up the knife-edge snares, organ growls, and panic-attack layered vocals of "What a Mess" with a spacious deep house atmosphere that only gets more high-spirited when the noisy bits seep in-- that buzzsaw drone might as well be a chorus of angels. Ital's sense of abrasion and his notion of groove are both finely tuned, so it's all for the best when they work in parallel.

Artist: Ital, Album: Dream On, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "The most distinct and memorable voice heard on Ital's Hive Mind was a shredded and reassembled Lady Gaga coolly stammering the titular, "Born This Way"-sourced refrain of "Doesn't Matter (If You Love Him)" over grimy downtempo funk-house. The most distinct and memorable voice heard on Dream On, meanwhile, is the one that opens "What a Mess": the flange-distorted pleads of a choked-up woman at a 2009 town hall meeting, asking Oklahoma Senator Tom Coburn what he could do to help her uninsured husband after he suffered a traumatic brain injury. Coburn's response-- that citizens have to rely on community instead of government for help-- is multitracked and reverbed into oblivion before being smothered by a dense organ chord and crumbled apart by skittering hi-hats. It's a willfully bizarre sample for a producer to slot into a postmodern house track, even one that rides on a tension between minimalism and abrasion. But it's also one of Daniel Martin-McCormick's clearest signals yet that he's got a certain dedication to finding the potential for repulsion in a traditionally euphoric and physical strain of music. Just how ugly Dream On gets is a matter of degrees-- most of it isn't as up-front as that opening to "What a Mess", and when it does manifest it's usually more in the form of a creeping dissonance or a slow build to something intriguingly grotesque. This album exploits the fine line between repetition as groove and repetition as unnerving tic, head music that worries the body. Opening track "Despot" is as close as things get to the spaced-out momentum of its predecessor album's brightest moments. But even its straightforwardly dense backbeat is in the service of a pulse that feels more like tension than release, building unease with with stuttering shards of chirping monosyllabic vocals and directionless melodies that pace around looking over their shoulders instead of cresting. "Boi" has a similar creep to oblivion, opening on a stark wave of congealing lava-flow synth ooze before the groove clicks into place. The pairing of fragmented vocal loops (a churn that gradually emerges as the phrase "baby boy"), tight-packed clap-snare-throb percussion, and subtle, deeply submerged melodic touches sets up a lush space-- but that only makes things more disorienting when he brings in a succession of high-pitched, intermittent buzzing whirs that resemble pitched-up F1 race cars. But Ital never loses the plot, even when it seems like throwing off casual dancefloor vibes is part of the point. The way "Enrique" starts splitting at the seams, choppy intonations of firing-up jet engine whirs crackling through the edges, only makes its three-miles-deep echo chamber feel sound less stark and emotionless than it did on the outset. And closer "Deep Cut (Live Edit)" makes for a bracing reprieve from the rest of the album's tension, following up the knife-edge snares, organ growls, and panic-attack layered vocals of "What a Mess" with a spacious deep house atmosphere that only gets more high-spirited when the noisy bits seep in-- that buzzsaw drone might as well be a chorus of angels. Ital's sense of abrasion and his notion of groove are both finely tuned, so it's all for the best when they work in parallel."

Various Artists

Chains and Black Exhaust

Dominique Leone

Aged rock critic Richard Meltzer once said that writing about music is much harder today than it was in the 60s. He said that back then, there probably weren't 20 great bands in the world, so it was much easier to cover the scene comprehensively. I'd say he was reducing the issue a tad (especially in light of sets like Nuggets), but there is a kernel of wisdom in his observation. In 1967, Jimi Hendrix almost single-handedly rallied troupes from rock, pop, blues, jazz and soul on both sides of the Atlantic with his psychedelic call to arms, Are You Experienced?. In one fell swoop, he united the sounds of acts ranging from James Brown to The Beatles, and proved that young black men had as much a claim to rock's budding authenticity as any English mop tops. This could never happen again, as ironically, people like Hendrix contributed to a splintering of scenes and sounds that made common threads almost impossible to find (or wind) thereafter. In the wake of that fertile era, rock historians penned millions of words in hopes of connecting disparate dots into a clear lineage. You know the drill: Hendrix begat Earth, Wind and Fire, Can and Led Zeppelin, who in turn begat everyone from Bad Brains to Lauryn Hill to Pearl Jam. The holes in this reductive reasoning-- all too common in the post-Creem, post-Rolling Stone world of music journalism-- becomes apparent when you realize that hey, there might have been more than twenty good bands way back when, and wow, people were coming up with all kinds of shit in their free time. One crucial moment, almost always glossed over, is the short-lived Black Rock "scene" of the late 60s and early 70s (only occasionally in cahoots with Black Power); you'd figure that, coming immediately after Hendrix, bands like Parliament-Funkadelic, the Bar-Kays and the newly rockified Isley Brothers would seem obvious parallels, and accordingly, they're the ones always brought up in such discussions. However, bands from all over the place were shooting for the very same synthesis of American countercultural music that Hendrix did were all over, as the mysterious compilation Chains And Black Exhaust strives to document. Without a track list, artist mentions or liner notes, the Memphix crew (a collective of DJs and funk 45 junkies spearheaded by Dante Carfagna) attempt to set the record straight on black rock, psychedelia and funk, releasing this seventeen-track comp on Jones (a sub-label of their own Memphix Records). The sound is on the exact same, embryonic tip as Funkadelic's first record (if they'd had even less of a budget). Hendrix's wah-wah makes several appearances, as does his stoned out vocal delivery, and the omnipresent direct-from-vinyl mastering gives it a vintage groove. Of course, it would have been nice to know what the hell I was listening to without resorting to major search engine detective work, but for the most part, it's a stone jam of such proportions as to render the confusion part of the experience. The first half of a great bit captured from a radio talk show ("it's the color man, and the monthly payments, you know what I mean?") opens the record, and leads directly to Blackrock's "Yeah Yeah". Piano and guitar drone set the stage for badass kung fu stomp, courtesy of molasses-laden drums and bass, both doing their best to max out the mics. An acid-fried guitar solo elevates it into the Hendrix/Eddie Hazel stratosphere. Likewise, Iron Knowledge's "Showstopper" takes Hendrix's patented quivering fret trick (on bass, no less!) and slaps down an anti-war jam so infectious, the singers can barely stay on key during the chorus. OK, in truth some of these bands were less than polished, but the spirit is always there. "Life Is A Gamble", performed by Preacher, Doug Anderson's "Mama, Here Comes the Preacher" and Hot Chocolate's "What's Good for the Goose" are prime slices of black rock, and would have sounded completely at home on Parliament's Osmium LP ("shooby dooby, bang bang, brotha's gotta groovy thang"), or one of the early Ohio Players records. The former tune features a break so potent a crossing of Band of Gypsies and a porno soundtrack, Westbound Records should pay them back royalties. Gran Am's "Get High" represents the raw end of the spectrum here, as the band overdub their vocalizing of the title over and over, threatening to bury the drums completely. On the other end is Curtis Knight's super-tight "The Devil Made Me Do It", which is an excellent mix of Superfly pulse and almost pop, classic rock hooks. The lesser tracks play it closest to standard funk, such as the Kool & the Gang spunk of track 4, or the funky Getaway music of track 14-- of course, I have no idea who I just dissed, but so goes limited pressing, semi-bootleg funk comps. There's a rumor Chains and Black Exhaust will be reissued next year with recording info and track listing, but for now, Jones is your connection. It's not as if there are loads of other comps with this stuff out there, and until somebody gets off their ass and issues those early Funkadelic records in a decent mix, you need this. Shit, you need it anyway.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Chains and Black Exhaust, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Aged rock critic Richard Meltzer once said that writing about music is much harder today than it was in the 60s. He said that back then, there probably weren't 20 great bands in the world, so it was much easier to cover the scene comprehensively. I'd say he was reducing the issue a tad (especially in light of sets like Nuggets), but there is a kernel of wisdom in his observation. In 1967, Jimi Hendrix almost single-handedly rallied troupes from rock, pop, blues, jazz and soul on both sides of the Atlantic with his psychedelic call to arms, Are You Experienced?. In one fell swoop, he united the sounds of acts ranging from James Brown to The Beatles, and proved that young black men had as much a claim to rock's budding authenticity as any English mop tops. This could never happen again, as ironically, people like Hendrix contributed to a splintering of scenes and sounds that made common threads almost impossible to find (or wind) thereafter. In the wake of that fertile era, rock historians penned millions of words in hopes of connecting disparate dots into a clear lineage. You know the drill: Hendrix begat Earth, Wind and Fire, Can and Led Zeppelin, who in turn begat everyone from Bad Brains to Lauryn Hill to Pearl Jam. The holes in this reductive reasoning-- all too common in the post-Creem, post-Rolling Stone world of music journalism-- becomes apparent when you realize that hey, there might have been more than twenty good bands way back when, and wow, people were coming up with all kinds of shit in their free time. One crucial moment, almost always glossed over, is the short-lived Black Rock "scene" of the late 60s and early 70s (only occasionally in cahoots with Black Power); you'd figure that, coming immediately after Hendrix, bands like Parliament-Funkadelic, the Bar-Kays and the newly rockified Isley Brothers would seem obvious parallels, and accordingly, they're the ones always brought up in such discussions. However, bands from all over the place were shooting for the very same synthesis of American countercultural music that Hendrix did were all over, as the mysterious compilation Chains And Black Exhaust strives to document. Without a track list, artist mentions or liner notes, the Memphix crew (a collective of DJs and funk 45 junkies spearheaded by Dante Carfagna) attempt to set the record straight on black rock, psychedelia and funk, releasing this seventeen-track comp on Jones (a sub-label of their own Memphix Records). The sound is on the exact same, embryonic tip as Funkadelic's first record (if they'd had even less of a budget). Hendrix's wah-wah makes several appearances, as does his stoned out vocal delivery, and the omnipresent direct-from-vinyl mastering gives it a vintage groove. Of course, it would have been nice to know what the hell I was listening to without resorting to major search engine detective work, but for the most part, it's a stone jam of such proportions as to render the confusion part of the experience. The first half of a great bit captured from a radio talk show ("it's the color man, and the monthly payments, you know what I mean?") opens the record, and leads directly to Blackrock's "Yeah Yeah". Piano and guitar drone set the stage for badass kung fu stomp, courtesy of molasses-laden drums and bass, both doing their best to max out the mics. An acid-fried guitar solo elevates it into the Hendrix/Eddie Hazel stratosphere. Likewise, Iron Knowledge's "Showstopper" takes Hendrix's patented quivering fret trick (on bass, no less!) and slaps down an anti-war jam so infectious, the singers can barely stay on key during the chorus. OK, in truth some of these bands were less than polished, but the spirit is always there. "Life Is A Gamble", performed by Preacher, Doug Anderson's "Mama, Here Comes the Preacher" and Hot Chocolate's "What's Good for the Goose" are prime slices of black rock, and would have sounded completely at home on Parliament's Osmium LP ("shooby dooby, bang bang, brotha's gotta groovy thang"), or one of the early Ohio Players records. The former tune features a break so potent a crossing of Band of Gypsies and a porno soundtrack, Westbound Records should pay them back royalties. Gran Am's "Get High" represents the raw end of the spectrum here, as the band overdub their vocalizing of the title over and over, threatening to bury the drums completely. On the other end is Curtis Knight's super-tight "The Devil Made Me Do It", which is an excellent mix of Superfly pulse and almost pop, classic rock hooks. The lesser tracks play it closest to standard funk, such as the Kool & the Gang spunk of track 4, or the funky Getaway music of track 14-- of course, I have no idea who I just dissed, but so goes limited pressing, semi-bootleg funk comps. There's a rumor Chains and Black Exhaust will be reissued next year with recording info and track listing, but for now, Jones is your connection. It's not as if there are loads of other comps with this stuff out there, and until somebody gets off their ass and issues those early Funkadelic records in a decent mix, you need this. Shit, you need it anyway."

Lubomyr Melnyk

KMH

Experimental

Mike Powell

Lubomyr Melnyk's website text has all the subtlety of a carnival barker: "#1 The FASTEST pianist in the world-- sustaining speeds of over 19.5 notes per second in each hand, simultaneously, and #2 the MOST NUMBER of NOTES in ONE HOUR-- in exactly 60 minutes, Melnyk sustained an average speed of over 13 notes per second in each hand, yielding a remarkable total of 93,650 INDIVIDUAL notes." And on some level, KMH's value is in its virtuosity-- Melnyk plays for about 50 minutes without interruption, sounding not like one pianist in one key, but about four in eight. Melnyk's "theory" of performance was called "continuous music," which is a pretentious way of saying he really loved the sustain pedal. Not to slag his Big Idea at work-- which is pretty remarkable to listen to-- but in essence, he took the slow-changing repetitions and broad compositional structure of minimalism and made them busier, foggier, more imprecise. Though anything with a lot of repetitive internal movement and no distinct melodic impetus can draw comparisons to Steve Reich, 1979's KMH is probably better understood next to other minimalist piano totems: Charlemagne Palestine's fierce, strobe-like "Strumming Music", any of La Monte Young's conceptual marathons, or even some of Satie's knottier, more abstract pieces. But "Strumming Music" had a monolithic feel to it-- huge, open harmonies hammered without ambiguity. Melnyk's weave is denser, his harmonies more casually dissonant-- the result of two keys passing each other in open space-- and his syncopations much more rocky. KMH, like any of its decent comparisons, is for active listening. In a way, its greatest triumph is to expose the intense concentration minimalist art requires. The Museum of Modern Art recently opened a retrospective of the sculptor Richard Serra, best known for his large-scale works in sheet metal. One of the rooms featured huge, snaking walls of steel. People wove through them like it was a garden maze. Though the detail in KMH is much more obvious, the essence is comparable: minimalism is about being impassive on the most fundamental level. It's about getting in Your Way. A Serra sculpture dictates how people have to move around the room. It's a visceral experience. Similarly, KMH is consuming; it doesn't let you relax. Melnyk's playing is less about composition and more about the physicality required to play it-- he compares the continuous mode to Tai Chi. Minimalism has always been about presence and focus. Minimalist music is ­not ambient music. Credit due to new Texan reissue label Unseen Worlds for their work on KMH, especially after their great work on "Blue" Gene Tyranny's Out of the Blue earlier this year. And it features all of Melnyk's original liner notes, which means neo-spiritualist barking of the highest order-- he didn't even want to make the record, fastidiously explaining the use of six microphones, criticizing machines for their insensitivity to the piano's true "sound-curtains," ending with the florid and patently nonsensical entreaty to "let them come hear the music only if they want to." But if you do, don't expect it to fade into your carpet-- KMH isn't cold steel and hard angles; it's minimalism at its most lush, ornate, and taxing.

Artist: Lubomyr Melnyk, Album: KMH, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Lubomyr Melnyk's website text has all the subtlety of a carnival barker: "#1 The FASTEST pianist in the world-- sustaining speeds of over 19.5 notes per second in each hand, simultaneously, and #2 the MOST NUMBER of NOTES in ONE HOUR-- in exactly 60 minutes, Melnyk sustained an average speed of over 13 notes per second in each hand, yielding a remarkable total of 93,650 INDIVIDUAL notes." And on some level, KMH's value is in its virtuosity-- Melnyk plays for about 50 minutes without interruption, sounding not like one pianist in one key, but about four in eight. Melnyk's "theory" of performance was called "continuous music," which is a pretentious way of saying he really loved the sustain pedal. Not to slag his Big Idea at work-- which is pretty remarkable to listen to-- but in essence, he took the slow-changing repetitions and broad compositional structure of minimalism and made them busier, foggier, more imprecise. Though anything with a lot of repetitive internal movement and no distinct melodic impetus can draw comparisons to Steve Reich, 1979's KMH is probably better understood next to other minimalist piano totems: Charlemagne Palestine's fierce, strobe-like "Strumming Music", any of La Monte Young's conceptual marathons, or even some of Satie's knottier, more abstract pieces. But "Strumming Music" had a monolithic feel to it-- huge, open harmonies hammered without ambiguity. Melnyk's weave is denser, his harmonies more casually dissonant-- the result of two keys passing each other in open space-- and his syncopations much more rocky. KMH, like any of its decent comparisons, is for active listening. In a way, its greatest triumph is to expose the intense concentration minimalist art requires. The Museum of Modern Art recently opened a retrospective of the sculptor Richard Serra, best known for his large-scale works in sheet metal. One of the rooms featured huge, snaking walls of steel. People wove through them like it was a garden maze. Though the detail in KMH is much more obvious, the essence is comparable: minimalism is about being impassive on the most fundamental level. It's about getting in Your Way. A Serra sculpture dictates how people have to move around the room. It's a visceral experience. Similarly, KMH is consuming; it doesn't let you relax. Melnyk's playing is less about composition and more about the physicality required to play it-- he compares the continuous mode to Tai Chi. Minimalism has always been about presence and focus. Minimalist music is ­not ambient music. Credit due to new Texan reissue label Unseen Worlds for their work on KMH, especially after their great work on "Blue" Gene Tyranny's Out of the Blue earlier this year. And it features all of Melnyk's original liner notes, which means neo-spiritualist barking of the highest order-- he didn't even want to make the record, fastidiously explaining the use of six microphones, criticizing machines for their insensitivity to the piano's true "sound-curtains," ending with the florid and patently nonsensical entreaty to "let them come hear the music only if they want to." But if you do, don't expect it to fade into your carpet-- KMH isn't cold steel and hard angles; it's minimalism at its most lush, ornate, and taxing."

Deathfix

Deathfix

Paul Thompson

Brendan Canty played drums in Fugazi; Rich Morel's a singer-songwriter with a side-hustle remixing Nelly Furtado songs for the club. The two met when they both joined Bob Mould's touring band (Morel and the ex-Hüsker host a monthly DJ night in D.C.). The stylistic gap between a post-punk legend like Canty and a song-and-dance man like Morel might seem a bridge too far, but Canty and Morel's pedigrees, impressive as they are, don't really loom all that large on Deathfix, their new band's self-titled debut. Canty and Morel bonded over a love of shaggy 1970s rock, and there's plenty of Big Star and Deep Purple's influence to be found on Deathfix, cut with swampy grunge, post-rock, and a touch of funk. So many new bands from established artists hinge on the tension between the two styles, but there's not much tension of any kind to be found on the surprisingly loose-limbed Deathfix. Unmoored from expectation, uninterested in rehashing past glories, Canty and Morel make for the basement, looking to make a racket all their own. Opener "Better Than Bad" practically swings an arm out the window and asks if you need a lift. The glam-spangled, sweet-as-Raspberries power-popper seems to be at least 90% hook, its ribbony lead guitars driving the song's melody off into the night. "Low Lying Dreams" introduces the first of several unseemly characters, as Morel's Mark Lanegan-worthy leer gives way to a sweeping eastern-tinged crescendo. Faraquet's Devin Ocampo and Medications' Mark Cisneros joined Canty and Morel in the studio, fleshing out their demos with bits of their own, and the results are remarkably fluid, never showboaty, perpetually locked-in. Most of Deathfix's lyrics concern themselves with the down-and-out. Characters sidestep sobriety, idolize wantonly, die in depressing fashions. Take "Hospital", which flits between the mania of a fever-dream ("the patients are turning red") to a young girl, a do-not-resuscitate order, and a patient's bed with a regrettably high turnover. Morel and Canty won't paint you a portrait, exactly, but there's enough detail in these thumbnail sketches to suggest a very real (and very troubled) cast of characters hanging in the shadows of these songs. Until "Dali's House", that is. "Dali's House" is a goof; that's the only explanation. Riding a stock funk groove with a distinct jam band lean to it, "Dali's" finds our speak-singing narrator wishing he himself could house a loose gathering of cool kids from the annals of history: Jane Birkin, Muhammed Ali, Mr. Dali himself. If some guy wryly intoning a who's who over a locked groove sounds a little familiar, that's because it's supposed to: "I wish I was James Murphy's house," Morel notes, "because you can steal ideas, and Daft Punk's always playing there." It's kind of a rimshot in search of a punchline, but there's just a hint of acid in the delivery that makes it awfully hard to conclusively figure for a burn or a tongue-in-cheek tribute. Considering how quickly the song devolves into silliness-- "I wish I was the guy from House's house"-- we'll go with the latter. But while the first DJ to fake-out an LCD-expectant crowd with "Dali's House" is a hero in waiting, essentially it's just one of those jokes that gets less funny every time you hear it. Deathfix quickly recovers with "Playboy", which charts a surprisingly nimble path between tricky jazz rock chords and starry-eyed, lighter-flicking balladry. But the snarl of its guitars can't keep the slow-burning "Mind Control" from getting a bit bogged down in its own murk. There's no shortage of dynamism in Deathfix's arrangements, a lot of little parts sliding past the periphery. But the strange paths some of these songs travel to get to their eventual crescendos occasionally gets them stuck in one place, or one mood, for too long. Penultimate track "Mind Control" gradually builds to a window-shaking post-rock climax, but it takes eight minutes and a false ending to get there. Deathfix gets its expansive, laid-back feel from the relaxed conditions under which it came together, but that's also the source of its occasional directionlessness and the fuck-around vibe of "Dali". The approach gives Deathfix a certain slightness that may rankle fans of either of its principals' more serious work. It's hard to imagine that bothering Morel and Canty much, though; they're clearly having way too much fun.

Artist: Deathfix, Album: Deathfix, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Brendan Canty played drums in Fugazi; Rich Morel's a singer-songwriter with a side-hustle remixing Nelly Furtado songs for the club. The two met when they both joined Bob Mould's touring band (Morel and the ex-Hüsker host a monthly DJ night in D.C.). The stylistic gap between a post-punk legend like Canty and a song-and-dance man like Morel might seem a bridge too far, but Canty and Morel's pedigrees, impressive as they are, don't really loom all that large on Deathfix, their new band's self-titled debut. Canty and Morel bonded over a love of shaggy 1970s rock, and there's plenty of Big Star and Deep Purple's influence to be found on Deathfix, cut with swampy grunge, post-rock, and a touch of funk. So many new bands from established artists hinge on the tension between the two styles, but there's not much tension of any kind to be found on the surprisingly loose-limbed Deathfix. Unmoored from expectation, uninterested in rehashing past glories, Canty and Morel make for the basement, looking to make a racket all their own. Opener "Better Than Bad" practically swings an arm out the window and asks if you need a lift. The glam-spangled, sweet-as-Raspberries power-popper seems to be at least 90% hook, its ribbony lead guitars driving the song's melody off into the night. "Low Lying Dreams" introduces the first of several unseemly characters, as Morel's Mark Lanegan-worthy leer gives way to a sweeping eastern-tinged crescendo. Faraquet's Devin Ocampo and Medications' Mark Cisneros joined Canty and Morel in the studio, fleshing out their demos with bits of their own, and the results are remarkably fluid, never showboaty, perpetually locked-in. Most of Deathfix's lyrics concern themselves with the down-and-out. Characters sidestep sobriety, idolize wantonly, die in depressing fashions. Take "Hospital", which flits between the mania of a fever-dream ("the patients are turning red") to a young girl, a do-not-resuscitate order, and a patient's bed with a regrettably high turnover. Morel and Canty won't paint you a portrait, exactly, but there's enough detail in these thumbnail sketches to suggest a very real (and very troubled) cast of characters hanging in the shadows of these songs. Until "Dali's House", that is. "Dali's House" is a goof; that's the only explanation. Riding a stock funk groove with a distinct jam band lean to it, "Dali's" finds our speak-singing narrator wishing he himself could house a loose gathering of cool kids from the annals of history: Jane Birkin, Muhammed Ali, Mr. Dali himself. If some guy wryly intoning a who's who over a locked groove sounds a little familiar, that's because it's supposed to: "I wish I was James Murphy's house," Morel notes, "because you can steal ideas, and Daft Punk's always playing there." It's kind of a rimshot in search of a punchline, but there's just a hint of acid in the delivery that makes it awfully hard to conclusively figure for a burn or a tongue-in-cheek tribute. Considering how quickly the song devolves into silliness-- "I wish I was the guy from House's house"-- we'll go with the latter. But while the first DJ to fake-out an LCD-expectant crowd with "Dali's House" is a hero in waiting, essentially it's just one of those jokes that gets less funny every time you hear it. Deathfix quickly recovers with "Playboy", which charts a surprisingly nimble path between tricky jazz rock chords and starry-eyed, lighter-flicking balladry. But the snarl of its guitars can't keep the slow-burning "Mind Control" from getting a bit bogged down in its own murk. There's no shortage of dynamism in Deathfix's arrangements, a lot of little parts sliding past the periphery. But the strange paths some of these songs travel to get to their eventual crescendos occasionally gets them stuck in one place, or one mood, for too long. Penultimate track "Mind Control" gradually builds to a window-shaking post-rock climax, but it takes eight minutes and a false ending to get there. Deathfix gets its expansive, laid-back feel from the relaxed conditions under which it came together, but that's also the source of its occasional directionlessness and the fuck-around vibe of "Dali". The approach gives Deathfix a certain slightness that may rankle fans of either of its principals' more serious work. It's hard to imagine that bothering Morel and Canty much, though; they're clearly having way too much fun."

Melvins

Chicken Switch

Metal,Rock

Marc Masters

Lots of Melvins releases in the past decade could be called either conceptual or gimmicky, depending on your perspective. There were the collaborations on The Crybaby with everyone from David Yow to Leif Garrett; full-album partnerships with Jello Biafra, Lustmord, and Fantômas; a staged "live" version of Houdini; and whatever the intermittently awesome Hostile Ambient Takeover was supposed to be. Interesting music at every stop, but overall an uneven track record, one that encourages doubts about any new Melvins diversion. Still, the idea behind Chicken Switch is promising. The band gave entire albums (and sometimes more) to noisy experimental artists, letting each melt, slice, and demolish the music into five-minute-or-so chunks. And the concept works, mostly because the band chose interesting remixers rather than famous ones. The only well-known names here are Sonic Youth's Lee Ranaldo, Matmos, and Boredoms' Eye Yamatsuka, and even Melvins fans may not recognize the other participants. But everyone involved attacks their work with vigor, precision, and an insatiable desire to test limits. And they all bring their A-games to Chicken Switch, making it less a Melvins remix record than a compilation of excellent experimental music. In other words, these aren't Melvins riffs set to dance beats. Occasionally the diehard fan might recognize the odd chord or familiar rhythm-- take Eye's loop of chugging riffs, or Ranaldo's busy multi-song edit, one of the few tracks with recognizable vocals. But more typical is the entry from Germany's Christoph Heemann. "Emperor Twaddle (Remix)" opens with three minutes of ringing drone-- stretching and thickening the intro of Honky's "They All Must Be Slaughtered" well past its original length-- followed by 30 seconds of riffs and beats blurred into cacophony. Most of Chicken Switch employs that kind of scorched-earth approach. Rather than rearranging the Melvins' basic atoms, the remixers split them apart, creating unpredictable bursts of noise and texture with completely new DNA. In that sense, "remix" is too narrow a term for what's going on here. Better to call these reincarnations, with the participants basically murdering the original music and pumping new breath and blood into its hollowed-out remains. This process produces impressive diversity. German artist RLW (who himself crafted a similar guest-remix project called Tulpas in the late 1990s) makes what sounds like a minimalist string quartet dragging their bows across metal objects. Viennese electronic group Farmers Manual compose a symphony of blips and growls, like a farther-out version of Black Dice. Japanese noise king Merzbow offers a soothing din chopped up by a clanging beat. And former Melvin David Scott Stone stretches King Buzzo's vocals into a wordless choir of gurgling drones. The highlight of Chicken Switch comes from Kawabata Makoto of Acid Mothers Temple. "4th Floor Hellcopter" opens with a slow, crunchy beat, slides into forbidding feedback, then ascends into burning metal guitar and stereo-spanning dissonance. Kawabata bridges the gap between recognizable riffs and all-out abstraction, pointing out the rich diversity inside the Melvins' music. As a whole, Chicken Switch does the same. Its wide sonic range is testament to how much lurks beneath the surface of every Melvins album. Whatever faults one can find in their experiments, their work is clearly deep enough to be worthy of such off-center explorations.

Artist: Melvins, Album: Chicken Switch, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Lots of Melvins releases in the past decade could be called either conceptual or gimmicky, depending on your perspective. There were the collaborations on The Crybaby with everyone from David Yow to Leif Garrett; full-album partnerships with Jello Biafra, Lustmord, and Fantômas; a staged "live" version of Houdini; and whatever the intermittently awesome Hostile Ambient Takeover was supposed to be. Interesting music at every stop, but overall an uneven track record, one that encourages doubts about any new Melvins diversion. Still, the idea behind Chicken Switch is promising. The band gave entire albums (and sometimes more) to noisy experimental artists, letting each melt, slice, and demolish the music into five-minute-or-so chunks. And the concept works, mostly because the band chose interesting remixers rather than famous ones. The only well-known names here are Sonic Youth's Lee Ranaldo, Matmos, and Boredoms' Eye Yamatsuka, and even Melvins fans may not recognize the other participants. But everyone involved attacks their work with vigor, precision, and an insatiable desire to test limits. And they all bring their A-games to Chicken Switch, making it less a Melvins remix record than a compilation of excellent experimental music. In other words, these aren't Melvins riffs set to dance beats. Occasionally the diehard fan might recognize the odd chord or familiar rhythm-- take Eye's loop of chugging riffs, or Ranaldo's busy multi-song edit, one of the few tracks with recognizable vocals. But more typical is the entry from Germany's Christoph Heemann. "Emperor Twaddle (Remix)" opens with three minutes of ringing drone-- stretching and thickening the intro of Honky's "They All Must Be Slaughtered" well past its original length-- followed by 30 seconds of riffs and beats blurred into cacophony. Most of Chicken Switch employs that kind of scorched-earth approach. Rather than rearranging the Melvins' basic atoms, the remixers split them apart, creating unpredictable bursts of noise and texture with completely new DNA. In that sense, "remix" is too narrow a term for what's going on here. Better to call these reincarnations, with the participants basically murdering the original music and pumping new breath and blood into its hollowed-out remains. This process produces impressive diversity. German artist RLW (who himself crafted a similar guest-remix project called Tulpas in the late 1990s) makes what sounds like a minimalist string quartet dragging their bows across metal objects. Viennese electronic group Farmers Manual compose a symphony of blips and growls, like a farther-out version of Black Dice. Japanese noise king Merzbow offers a soothing din chopped up by a clanging beat. And former Melvin David Scott Stone stretches King Buzzo's vocals into a wordless choir of gurgling drones. The highlight of Chicken Switch comes from Kawabata Makoto of Acid Mothers Temple. "4th Floor Hellcopter" opens with a slow, crunchy beat, slides into forbidding feedback, then ascends into burning metal guitar and stereo-spanning dissonance. Kawabata bridges the gap between recognizable riffs and all-out abstraction, pointing out the rich diversity inside the Melvins' music. As a whole, Chicken Switch does the same. Its wide sonic range is testament to how much lurks beneath the surface of every Melvins album. Whatever faults one can find in their experiments, their work is clearly deep enough to be worthy of such off-center explorations."

Various Artists

Don’t Mess With Cupid, ‘Cause Cupid Ain’t Stupid

Ben Cardew

Like Warp Records, Factory, and even Motown before it, Nina Kraviz’ трип (Trip) has the three defining characteristics of a great record label: a distinct but ever-evolving sound, a staunch core of artists, and a particular geographic base, with most of трип’s music coming from Russia and Iceland. Most importantly, трип, though still in its infancy, has forged its own internal logic. If you wondered what links the glacial IDM of Biogen with the industrial hardcore of Marc Acardipane, or the oddball techno of PTU with the acidic attack of Aphex Twin’s Universal Indicator project, then the answer is трип itself, the label providing the contextual thread that binds these disparate elements together. Acardipane, aka German hardcore pioneer Marc Trauner, is the notable newcomer to the трип stable on this release. His contribution, a slice of 165-BPM dark hardcore, is merely rugged rather than nosebleed extreme, but his presence on Don’t Mess With Cupid enforces the idea that трип is a label operating at electronic music’s fringes. It also, alongside the appearance of a vintage Richard D. James tune, suggests that the curatorial scope of the compilation, rather than the top-down sweep of the artist album, is where трип’s unruly aesthetic truly thrives. Much like Kraviz’ audacious DJ sets, what unites the 10 tracks on Don’t Mess is not so much genre or BPM but a certain feel: an adventurous menace and steely electronic funk, doused in the kind of chilling atmospheres that raise images of freezing Siberian plains and Icelandic perma-dark. This thematic cohesion means that the frantic acid techno of “15 c7”—a raw, nervous dancefloor track originally found on Universal Indicator’s Red album, released on Rephlex back in 1993—sits snugly alongside the mechanical ambience of Roma Zuckerman’s “Zero,” which leads elegantly into the harsh rhythmic whirl of Kraviz’ “Opa.” You could, at a push, call all three tracks “techno,” but this techno remains true to the pioneering spirit of the genre’s American originators without getting trapped in slavish devotion to their sound. A very European take on the genre, it leans on the classical precision of Kraftwerk more than warm Detroit nights. This spirit of adventure is best found in the compilation’s highlights—Bjarki’s “3-1 tap lush,” Shadowax’s “I want to be a stewardess,” and PTU’s “Castor and Pollux”—which bend techno’s electronic futurism into fascinating new shapes. “3-1 tap lush,” a staple of Kraviz’ DJ sets, is both delightfully twisted and strangely gentle, resting on an undulating and unnerving vocal sample that sounds like a child discovering silly mouth noises while exploring the echoing of an abandoned hospital. PTU take a similarly impudent approach: “Castor and Pollux” continues the pick-and-mix approach the Russian duo pioneered on 2017’s A Broken Clock Is Right Twice a Day, throwing grandiose, arcane noises against a juddering techno beat and seeing what sticks. “I want to be a stewardess” is even more unlikely, combining cinder-block techno thump, clipped Russian-language vocal, and a twisted jungle break into a blood-boilingly exciting, shape-shifting whole that cascades up and down the octave while ratcheting up the metallic intensity. Against such invention, the rather square 4/4 thump of Exos’ “Grasshunter” and Nikita Zabelin’s edit of DEKA’s “Pearl” are too straight-laced for comfort, while Pilldriver’s “Pitch-Hiker” feels a little tame for an artist revered as a wizard of the dark hardcore arts. But odd individual moments never threaten to derail a magnificent album of join-the-dots adventurism and pointed thematic elegance. All of трип’s releases have been brilliant over the last year, but the label’s spirit really shines on compilations like this one, offering a reminder that curation itself can be an act of creation when done with this degree of taste and vision.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Don’t Mess With Cupid, ‘Cause Cupid Ain’t Stupid, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Like Warp Records, Factory, and even Motown before it, Nina Kraviz’ трип (Trip) has the three defining characteristics of a great record label: a distinct but ever-evolving sound, a staunch core of artists, and a particular geographic base, with most of трип’s music coming from Russia and Iceland. Most importantly, трип, though still in its infancy, has forged its own internal logic. If you wondered what links the glacial IDM of Biogen with the industrial hardcore of Marc Acardipane, or the oddball techno of PTU with the acidic attack of Aphex Twin’s Universal Indicator project, then the answer is трип itself, the label providing the contextual thread that binds these disparate elements together. Acardipane, aka German hardcore pioneer Marc Trauner, is the notable newcomer to the трип stable on this release. His contribution, a slice of 165-BPM dark hardcore, is merely rugged rather than nosebleed extreme, but his presence on Don’t Mess With Cupid enforces the idea that трип is a label operating at electronic music’s fringes. It also, alongside the appearance of a vintage Richard D. James tune, suggests that the curatorial scope of the compilation, rather than the top-down sweep of the artist album, is where трип’s unruly aesthetic truly thrives. Much like Kraviz’ audacious DJ sets, what unites the 10 tracks on Don’t Mess is not so much genre or BPM but a certain feel: an adventurous menace and steely electronic funk, doused in the kind of chilling atmospheres that raise images of freezing Siberian plains and Icelandic perma-dark. This thematic cohesion means that the frantic acid techno of “15 c7”—a raw, nervous dancefloor track originally found on Universal Indicator’s Red album, released on Rephlex back in 1993—sits snugly alongside the mechanical ambience of Roma Zuckerman’s “Zero,” which leads elegantly into the harsh rhythmic whirl of Kraviz’ “Opa.” You could, at a push, call all three tracks “techno,” but this techno remains true to the pioneering spirit of the genre’s American originators without getting trapped in slavish devotion to their sound. A very European take on the genre, it leans on the classical precision of Kraftwerk more than warm Detroit nights. This spirit of adventure is best found in the compilation’s highlights—Bjarki’s “3-1 tap lush,” Shadowax’s “I want to be a stewardess,” and PTU’s “Castor and Pollux”—which bend techno’s electronic futurism into fascinating new shapes. “3-1 tap lush,” a staple of Kraviz’ DJ sets, is both delightfully twisted and strangely gentle, resting on an undulating and unnerving vocal sample that sounds like a child discovering silly mouth noises while exploring the echoing of an abandoned hospital. PTU take a similarly impudent approach: “Castor and Pollux” continues the pick-and-mix approach the Russian duo pioneered on 2017’s A Broken Clock Is Right Twice a Day, throwing grandiose, arcane noises against a juddering techno beat and seeing what sticks. “I want to be a stewardess” is even more unlikely, combining cinder-block techno thump, clipped Russian-language vocal, and a twisted jungle break into a blood-boilingly exciting, shape-shifting whole that cascades up and down the octave while ratcheting up the metallic intensity. Against such invention, the rather square 4/4 thump of Exos’ “Grasshunter” and Nikita Zabelin’s edit of DEKA’s “Pearl” are too straight-laced for comfort, while Pilldriver’s “Pitch-Hiker” feels a little tame for an artist revered as a wizard of the dark hardcore arts. But odd individual moments never threaten to derail a magnificent album of join-the-dots adventurism and pointed thematic elegance. All of трип’s releases have been brilliant over the last year, but the label’s spirit really shines on compilations like this one, offering a reminder that curation itself can be an act of creation when done with this degree of taste and vision."

Tensnake

Glow

Electronic

Larry Fitzmaurice

Marco Niemerski's 2006 debut single was called "Around the House" and the title sums up the German producer's career as Tensnake. He's occasionally experimented with sounds from other genres—electro's searing synth lines, beachy balearic tempos, expansive space disco—but he's always returned to house's straightforward pulse, both with his original productions and as a DJ. Reliability has been Niemerski's calling card but his best material comes when he steps out of his comfort zone. He had a minor blog-crossover hit with 2010's Soul II Soul-jacking remix of defunct Toronto house ragamuffins Azari & III's "Reckless With Your Love". That year also brought "Coma Cat", a classic slice of 1980s-redolent house music on blissed-out dance hub Permanent Vacation that paired textural intensity with a melody that was a serious earworm. It's been nearly four years since "Coma Cat" and Niemerski has remained reliable, so Glow seeks to both capitalize on that rep and introduce him to a larger audience—it's not only is it his debut album, it's also his first time on a major. Successful dance full-lengths generally take one of two approaches: a statement of purpose separate from the creator’s established style or a collection of existing singles, rounded up as a primer for newcomers. Glow goes in a different direction, offering a streamlined, sanitized version of the Tensnake sound. It's house music in miniature form, heavily brushed with disco's steady-handed bounce and tempered with just enough potential pop-crossover appeal. Niemerski generally works best with room to stretch, as his best productions typically land around the seven-minute mark. A brief glance at the running time of Glow's individual songs—only one pushes the six-minute mark, while most clock in at three-and-a-half—suggests that he compromised his vision to accommodate a larger stage. Much of the album finds Niemerski collaborating with Berlin vocalist Fiora, a capable singer whose unshowy qualities makes her both malleable and forgettable; save for "See Right Through", a moody cut that's made the rounds over the past year, Fiora's presence feels more like a placeholder, a paperweight meant to anchor the barely-sketched house figures. Niemerski's collaborations with other artists fare worse; the stale "Pressure", a disco workout featuring vocalist Thabo, never capitalizes on its propulsive build, while "Feel of Love", a team-up with Jamie Lidell and space cadet Stuart Price in his Jacques Lu Cont alias, is a jagged, off-putting synth-pop tune that resembles the many low points of Lidell's self-titled LP from last year. Many of Glow's songs are just-there, but a few manage to be engaging: "No Relief", "See Right Through", and "No Colour" are perfect examples of Niemerski's still-considerable talent with house form. The latter two tunes made memorable appearances on his Essential Mix, confirming that he's most in his zone when dreaming of the dancefloor. The appropriately slow "58 BPM" is a lush, swarming synth-pop tune that serves as the album's strongest vocal cut, while album bookends "First Song" and "Last Song" play around with pop-focused drone while embracing the type of epic beams found in M83's music (or, Random Access Memories' own jet-engine closer, "Horizon"). Both "First Song" and "Last Song" suggest that Niemerski may have had a more focused album experience in mind, but it never had a chance given the record's scattershot approach. Given its release on a high-profile label, as well as recent shifts in mainstream dance culture, it's possible to look at Glow more cynically. Michaelangelo Matos recently described Niemerski's Astralwerks signing as the latest example of the EDM cash-grab still raging on in North America. But the album is so slight, it’ll be easy to forget it exists and hope that Tensnake's next full-length won't sound so uninspired.

Artist: Tensnake, Album: Glow, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 5.7 Album review: "Marco Niemerski's 2006 debut single was called "Around the House" and the title sums up the German producer's career as Tensnake. He's occasionally experimented with sounds from other genres—electro's searing synth lines, beachy balearic tempos, expansive space disco—but he's always returned to house's straightforward pulse, both with his original productions and as a DJ. Reliability has been Niemerski's calling card but his best material comes when he steps out of his comfort zone. He had a minor blog-crossover hit with 2010's Soul II Soul-jacking remix of defunct Toronto house ragamuffins Azari & III's "Reckless With Your Love". That year also brought "Coma Cat", a classic slice of 1980s-redolent house music on blissed-out dance hub Permanent Vacation that paired textural intensity with a melody that was a serious earworm. It's been nearly four years since "Coma Cat" and Niemerski has remained reliable, so Glow seeks to both capitalize on that rep and introduce him to a larger audience—it's not only is it his debut album, it's also his first time on a major. Successful dance full-lengths generally take one of two approaches: a statement of purpose separate from the creator’s established style or a collection of existing singles, rounded up as a primer for newcomers. Glow goes in a different direction, offering a streamlined, sanitized version of the Tensnake sound. It's house music in miniature form, heavily brushed with disco's steady-handed bounce and tempered with just enough potential pop-crossover appeal. Niemerski generally works best with room to stretch, as his best productions typically land around the seven-minute mark. A brief glance at the running time of Glow's individual songs—only one pushes the six-minute mark, while most clock in at three-and-a-half—suggests that he compromised his vision to accommodate a larger stage. Much of the album finds Niemerski collaborating with Berlin vocalist Fiora, a capable singer whose unshowy qualities makes her both malleable and forgettable; save for "See Right Through", a moody cut that's made the rounds over the past year, Fiora's presence feels more like a placeholder, a paperweight meant to anchor the barely-sketched house figures. Niemerski's collaborations with other artists fare worse; the stale "Pressure", a disco workout featuring vocalist Thabo, never capitalizes on its propulsive build, while "Feel of Love", a team-up with Jamie Lidell and space cadet Stuart Price in his Jacques Lu Cont alias, is a jagged, off-putting synth-pop tune that resembles the many low points of Lidell's self-titled LP from last year. Many of Glow's songs are just-there, but a few manage to be engaging: "No Relief", "See Right Through", and "No Colour" are perfect examples of Niemerski's still-considerable talent with house form. The latter two tunes made memorable appearances on his Essential Mix, confirming that he's most in his zone when dreaming of the dancefloor. The appropriately slow "58 BPM" is a lush, swarming synth-pop tune that serves as the album's strongest vocal cut, while album bookends "First Song" and "Last Song" play around with pop-focused drone while embracing the type of epic beams found in M83's music (or, Random Access Memories' own jet-engine closer, "Horizon"). Both "First Song" and "Last Song" suggest that Niemerski may have had a more focused album experience in mind, but it never had a chance given the record's scattershot approach. Given its release on a high-profile label, as well as recent shifts in mainstream dance culture, it's possible to look at Glow more cynically. Michaelangelo Matos recently described Niemerski's Astralwerks signing as the latest example of the EDM cash-grab still raging on in North America. But the album is so slight, it’ll be easy to forget it exists and hope that Tensnake's next full-length won't sound so uninspired."

Mark Eitzel

The Invisible Man

Rock

Joe Tangari

The toad's internal organs surged from its mouth as Brian's mother accidentally stepped on it. Brian had noticed the toad sitting on the grass just in time to witness its gruesome death, and stared for a few seconds before throwing up his hands and shouting, "The universe sucks!" Brian is fond of decrying the injustices of our chaotic environment, and perhaps no other single anecdote supports his rantings better. There was no reason for what happened to that toad. It just happened. Of course, Brian's simple three-word theory is applicable everywhere, and not just in the natural world. It was at work when Beta succumbed to VHS, despite being the superior format. It's at work every time Fox cancels a good TV show and replaces it with police chase videos. And it's at work almost constantly in the music industry, a world where the Britneys and the Backstreets rule the charts while so many true artists toil in the depths of commercial hell, neglected by a public hungry for eye candy and a quick thrill. While many artists have suffered similar fates, few have typified it the way Mark Eitzel has. Put simply, Eitzel possesses one of the most impressive oeuvres of any songwriter, living or dead. Even the perpetually clueless Rolling Stone couldn't ignore the man's genius, naming him Songwriter of the Year back in 1991. Despite his complete mastery of the craft, though, he's never seen his day in the spotlight, and at this point in his career, it seems unlikely that he ever will. The public at large isn't interested in music this brutally honest. All the more for you and me, I suppose. Transplanted in the early 80's from his boyhood home of Columbus, Ohio to the San Francisco Bay Area, Eitzel fronted the tragically overlooked American Music Club. Over the course of AMC's seven albums, Eitzel penned some of the greatest, most heartfelt tales of degradation, struggle, and sadness in modern music, finding his muse in dank bars, empty beds and lonely nights. When AMC finally called it quits in 1994 after a stalled deal with Reprise, Eitzel struck out on his own, releasing the jazzy 60 Watt Silver Lining and the fantastic Peter Buck collaboration West on Warner before the label left him on the curb. The good folks at Matador picked him up for 1998's cheekily titled Caught in a Trap and I Can't Back Out 'Cause I Love You Too Much Baby, a starkly beautiful album that was almost aborted due to the difficulty of making it. Three years later, Eitzel is still on his feet, though the weight of the world has hardly been lifted from his shoulders. The Invisible Man is perhaps his best solo effort yet, and nearly the equal of AMC's greatest triumph, Everclear. Greatness, of course, is a given where Eitzel is involved, but perhaps the most stunning thing about The Invisible Man is the fact that, so many years on, he's embraced electronics and emerged with an album that sounds utterly contemporary and vital. "The Boy with the Hammer" starts things off with deeply echoed piano and Eitzel's powerful voice singing, "When the boy with the hammer in the bag stands up to cheer/ Then you stand up to cheer," as ambient washes rise like an ether fog, pushed along by a mix of skittering beats and live percussion. Eitzel has always checked Kraftwerk and Tangerine Dream as influences, but they've never come to the fore like this in the past. "Can You See?" finds Eitzel balancing his world-weariness with a newfound trace of optimism: "You say that another man's hell could be your heaven/ And if this is being blind and wrong give me more and more/ And let me light up the hand and let me pull the truth through/ But if the truth won't make you happy/ What would you do?/ The truth is that I'm happy when I'm with you." The understated electronics burbling underneath combine with knockout horn arrangement to wrap around Eitzel's confessions like a warm blanket. Goosebumps ensue. The hilarious march of "Christian Science Reading Room" is Eitzel's black humor at its best. "I was so high/ I stood for an hour outside the Christian Science Reading Room/ And suddenly I could not resist/ I became a Christian Scientist/ And I studied light and I studied sound/ And every question that I asked was suddenly profound." He goes on to convert his cat before declaring, "I love all seven deadly sins," in the opening of "Sleep." This is the point, where, as a reviewer, my job becomes difficult. There are thirteen songs on this album and every single one of them is tremendous in its own right. I could spend the rest of this review quoting lyrics and never truly convey the power of these songs. Eitzel has a creepy way of finding all the thoughts you have hanging next to the skeletons in your closet and conveying them succinctly and effortlessly. So rather than participate in a futile exercise like trying to describe how good this music is, I'll go for the big wrap-up and hope that I can convince you that this is totally worth listening to. It's way too early to declare anything the Album of the Year, but I will say that this one holds the top spot on my list by a long shot so far. Eitzel and his small group of talented cohorts have created a textured soundtrack to the outpourings of a broken heart that never once intrudes on the honesty of the proceedings. Every bleep and skitter is there to serve the song. Exploring new territory while maintaining the emotional weight of your material is rarely a working prospect for an artist, but The Invisible Man pulls it off nicely. Eitzel may still be the invisible man in many respects, but as long as he keeps translating his sorrow and suffering into batches of killer songs like this, we as listeners get to be the lucky beneficiaries. On the drunkenly jubilant closer, "Proclaim Your Joy," Eitzel exhorts us half-seriously that "it is important throughout your life to proclaim your joy." And with this album in your stereo, I think it's safe to say that you will.

Artist: Mark Eitzel, Album: The Invisible Man, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.1 Album review: "The toad's internal organs surged from its mouth as Brian's mother accidentally stepped on it. Brian had noticed the toad sitting on the grass just in time to witness its gruesome death, and stared for a few seconds before throwing up his hands and shouting, "The universe sucks!" Brian is fond of decrying the injustices of our chaotic environment, and perhaps no other single anecdote supports his rantings better. There was no reason for what happened to that toad. It just happened. Of course, Brian's simple three-word theory is applicable everywhere, and not just in the natural world. It was at work when Beta succumbed to VHS, despite being the superior format. It's at work every time Fox cancels a good TV show and replaces it with police chase videos. And it's at work almost constantly in the music industry, a world where the Britneys and the Backstreets rule the charts while so many true artists toil in the depths of commercial hell, neglected by a public hungry for eye candy and a quick thrill. While many artists have suffered similar fates, few have typified it the way Mark Eitzel has. Put simply, Eitzel possesses one of the most impressive oeuvres of any songwriter, living or dead. Even the perpetually clueless Rolling Stone couldn't ignore the man's genius, naming him Songwriter of the Year back in 1991. Despite his complete mastery of the craft, though, he's never seen his day in the spotlight, and at this point in his career, it seems unlikely that he ever will. The public at large isn't interested in music this brutally honest. All the more for you and me, I suppose. Transplanted in the early 80's from his boyhood home of Columbus, Ohio to the San Francisco Bay Area, Eitzel fronted the tragically overlooked American Music Club. Over the course of AMC's seven albums, Eitzel penned some of the greatest, most heartfelt tales of degradation, struggle, and sadness in modern music, finding his muse in dank bars, empty beds and lonely nights. When AMC finally called it quits in 1994 after a stalled deal with Reprise, Eitzel struck out on his own, releasing the jazzy 60 Watt Silver Lining and the fantastic Peter Buck collaboration West on Warner before the label left him on the curb. The good folks at Matador picked him up for 1998's cheekily titled Caught in a Trap and I Can't Back Out 'Cause I Love You Too Much Baby, a starkly beautiful album that was almost aborted due to the difficulty of making it. Three years later, Eitzel is still on his feet, though the weight of the world has hardly been lifted from his shoulders. The Invisible Man is perhaps his best solo effort yet, and nearly the equal of AMC's greatest triumph, Everclear. Greatness, of course, is a given where Eitzel is involved, but perhaps the most stunning thing about The Invisible Man is the fact that, so many years on, he's embraced electronics and emerged with an album that sounds utterly contemporary and vital. "The Boy with the Hammer" starts things off with deeply echoed piano and Eitzel's powerful voice singing, "When the boy with the hammer in the bag stands up to cheer/ Then you stand up to cheer," as ambient washes rise like an ether fog, pushed along by a mix of skittering beats and live percussion. Eitzel has always checked Kraftwerk and Tangerine Dream as influences, but they've never come to the fore like this in the past. "Can You See?" finds Eitzel balancing his world-weariness with a newfound trace of optimism: "You say that another man's hell could be your heaven/ And if this is being blind and wrong give me more and more/ And let me light up the hand and let me pull the truth through/ But if the truth won't make you happy/ What would you do?/ The truth is that I'm happy when I'm with you." The understated electronics burbling underneath combine with knockout horn arrangement to wrap around Eitzel's confessions like a warm blanket. Goosebumps ensue. The hilarious march of "Christian Science Reading Room" is Eitzel's black humor at its best. "I was so high/ I stood for an hour outside the Christian Science Reading Room/ And suddenly I could not resist/ I became a Christian Scientist/ And I studied light and I studied sound/ And every question that I asked was suddenly profound." He goes on to convert his cat before declaring, "I love all seven deadly sins," in the opening of "Sleep." This is the point, where, as a reviewer, my job becomes difficult. There are thirteen songs on this album and every single one of them is tremendous in its own right. I could spend the rest of this review quoting lyrics and never truly convey the power of these songs. Eitzel has a creepy way of finding all the thoughts you have hanging next to the skeletons in your closet and conveying them succinctly and effortlessly. So rather than participate in a futile exercise like trying to describe how good this music is, I'll go for the big wrap-up and hope that I can convince you that this is totally worth listening to. It's way too early to declare anything the Album of the Year, but I will say that this one holds the top spot on my list by a long shot so far. Eitzel and his small group of talented cohorts have created a textured soundtrack to the outpourings of a broken heart that never once intrudes on the honesty of the proceedings. Every bleep and skitter is there to serve the song. Exploring new territory while maintaining the emotional weight of your material is rarely a working prospect for an artist, but The Invisible Man pulls it off nicely. Eitzel may still be the invisible man in many respects, but as long as he keeps translating his sorrow and suffering into batches of killer songs like this, we as listeners get to be the lucky beneficiaries. On the drunkenly jubilant closer, "Proclaim Your Joy," Eitzel exhorts us half-seriously that "it is important throughout your life to proclaim your joy." And with this album in your stereo, I think it's safe to say that you will."

Bobby Bare Jr.

The Longest Meow

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

The Longest Meow is the anti-Chinese Democracy. Bobby Bare Jr. and his ragtag Young Criminals Starvation League took a mere 11 hours to record these 11 tracks (plus a short ambient intro) completely live (although he admits to overdubbing a trumpet solo). In honor of this fleet feat of phonography, I thought I would write my own review in a mere 11 minutes, using only some hastily scribbled notes ("III. Write about the songs."), a kitchen timer, and a 12th minute for fixing typos. I've already started. Nine minutes, 44 seconds to go. Um, 41... So. Is this album any good? That's the central question here, isn't it? Answer: More or less. A bit laborious at times, especially toward the end, but it can be charming in an amiably shaggy sort of way, much like the photo of Bare Jr. in the album sleeve. He's armed with his alternately incisive and ignorable lyrics, his typically drawling voice, and a motley crew of backing musicians and hangers-on (Eleven in all. Numerologists?) that include members of My Morning Jacket, Trail of Dead, Lambchop, and Clem Snide. 7:22. Anyway. After the 30-second instrumental opener (which apparently doesn't count toward the tracklist total), "The Heart Bionic" is BJr. in fine form, indulging his eccentricities as a lyricist, melodicist, and vocalist. It tells of living with a bionic heart. I'd quote some lyrics to that effect, but no time. He obviously savors the constraints of the project and the rascally resourcefulness they inspire in the music. It's like Sam Raimi directing Evil Dead; he's forced to be more creative, which sparks these songs to life. "Back to Blue" is a Latin-flavored strummer that highlights BJr's hangdog vocals, and the sweeping C&W lament "Demon Valley", punctuated by his unexpected mouth pops, recall Bare Sr.'s gentle balladry. If the time limitations inform the album's sound, so too do the 11 musicians. BJr finds surprising ways to work them all in. Everyone sings the big wordless chorus of "Uh Wuh Oh" as if compensating for a fuller rock sound, and uncredited voices provide the honks and beeps for the homegrown bossa nova of "Sticky Chemical". If nothing else, it sounds like the recording limitations inspired considerable studio comraderie and hijinks. 4:20... Ummm...3:50... The Pixies cover is okay. 3:07 Some songs sound like hastily scribbled sketches, obviously disadvantaged by the lack of time. There's not much between the shouted choruses of "Uh Wuh Oh" to justify the song. Same with "Snuggling World Championships", which sounds like a My Morning Jacket outtake (and actually features two members of that band). 2:19... Oh. The type of music that BJr practices-- informed as much by his father's cohorts as by his post-alt-country-shut-the-fuck-up-I-know-it's-just-a-meaningless-label contemporaries-- thrives on the feel of live spontaneity, the electric dynamic between drums, bass, guitars, and vocals that reflects the rambunctiousness of honkytonks and cramped clubs of rock's past. BJr's always been careful to try to preserve this unruliness in his music, which means that The Longest Meow is no drastic departure from his previous work. In fact, it makes certain songs sound like he's trying too hard to come off as either oddball or off-the-cuff. He obviously doesn't need the stunts: The same qualities that make the album so likable are the same qualities he's exhibited on almost every one of his albums, no matter how it was made. In fact, the creative process is of no importance whatsoever when the TIME

Artist: Bobby Bare Jr., Album: The Longest Meow, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "The Longest Meow is the anti-Chinese Democracy. Bobby Bare Jr. and his ragtag Young Criminals Starvation League took a mere 11 hours to record these 11 tracks (plus a short ambient intro) completely live (although he admits to overdubbing a trumpet solo). In honor of this fleet feat of phonography, I thought I would write my own review in a mere 11 minutes, using only some hastily scribbled notes ("III. Write about the songs."), a kitchen timer, and a 12th minute for fixing typos. I've already started. Nine minutes, 44 seconds to go. Um, 41... So. Is this album any good? That's the central question here, isn't it? Answer: More or less. A bit laborious at times, especially toward the end, but it can be charming in an amiably shaggy sort of way, much like the photo of Bare Jr. in the album sleeve. He's armed with his alternately incisive and ignorable lyrics, his typically drawling voice, and a motley crew of backing musicians and hangers-on (Eleven in all. Numerologists?) that include members of My Morning Jacket, Trail of Dead, Lambchop, and Clem Snide. 7:22. Anyway. After the 30-second instrumental opener (which apparently doesn't count toward the tracklist total), "The Heart Bionic" is BJr. in fine form, indulging his eccentricities as a lyricist, melodicist, and vocalist. It tells of living with a bionic heart. I'd quote some lyrics to that effect, but no time. He obviously savors the constraints of the project and the rascally resourcefulness they inspire in the music. It's like Sam Raimi directing Evil Dead; he's forced to be more creative, which sparks these songs to life. "Back to Blue" is a Latin-flavored strummer that highlights BJr's hangdog vocals, and the sweeping C&W lament "Demon Valley", punctuated by his unexpected mouth pops, recall Bare Sr.'s gentle balladry. If the time limitations inform the album's sound, so too do the 11 musicians. BJr finds surprising ways to work them all in. Everyone sings the big wordless chorus of "Uh Wuh Oh" as if compensating for a fuller rock sound, and uncredited voices provide the honks and beeps for the homegrown bossa nova of "Sticky Chemical". If nothing else, it sounds like the recording limitations inspired considerable studio comraderie and hijinks. 4:20... Ummm...3:50... The Pixies cover is okay. 3:07 Some songs sound like hastily scribbled sketches, obviously disadvantaged by the lack of time. There's not much between the shouted choruses of "Uh Wuh Oh" to justify the song. Same with "Snuggling World Championships", which sounds like a My Morning Jacket outtake (and actually features two members of that band). 2:19... Oh. The type of music that BJr practices-- informed as much by his father's cohorts as by his post-alt-country-shut-the-fuck-up-I-know-it's-just-a-meaningless-label contemporaries-- thrives on the feel of live spontaneity, the electric dynamic between drums, bass, guitars, and vocals that reflects the rambunctiousness of honkytonks and cramped clubs of rock's past. BJr's always been careful to try to preserve this unruliness in his music, which means that The Longest Meow is no drastic departure from his previous work. In fact, it makes certain songs sound like he's trying too hard to come off as either oddball or off-the-cuff. He obviously doesn't need the stunts: The same qualities that make the album so likable are the same qualities he's exhibited on almost every one of his albums, no matter how it was made. In fact, the creative process is of no importance whatsoever when the TIME"

Girl Talk

All Day

Electronic

Ian Cohen

The simplest way to a successful and rewarding career: Find something you love doing, then get paid to do it. This is why people talk about Gregg Gillis with a tinge of envy; as Pitchfork's Ryan Dombal has said, Gillis has figured out exactly what he was put on this earth to do--transforming five decades of pop music into seamless, well-paced mixes, and then, live, turning those mixes into a sweaty, tribal celebration of pop music itself. But while 2008's Feed the Animals proved his staying power and solidified his aesthetic, there was a creeping worry that as long as Gillis stuck with this maximalist mashup thing, we'd be stuck having the same arguments for and against him over and over again. So, the question with his fifth album,All Day: In 2010, is a newly minted Girl Talk fan someone who just simply hasn't heard of him before? Or is Gillis capable of converting those still on the fence? If there are still holdouts, the arguments against Girl Talk are getting slimmer.All Day is a reminder that, despite the number of party DJs and bedroom mashup artists, nobody does it better than Gillis; here he makes the strongest argument yet for himself as a master of his craft. Initially, Gillis comes off like he's baiting his detractors: his "legitimacy" as a DJ has been brought into question on account of having the cleanest hands of any cratedigger, but Gillis goes even more mainstream with his source material (we're talking John Lennon, the Rolling Stones, the Jackson 5...). Compared to All Day, Girl Talk's calling-card LPNight Ripper might as well be Endtroducing... And even those who've enjoyed his work will admit that it's a hell of a lot to take for extended periods of time, yet All Day clocks in at a titanic 71 minutes, almost 20 minutes longer than Animals. Against those odds, Gillis turns these perceived weaknesses into strengths; as his most fussed-over and carefully plotted album, All Day paradoxically sounds like his most effortless. He's still operating within a "if it's not fun, why do it?" ethos, but fortunately, it doesn't have the same relentless pacing of his prior work, offering a couple of cooldown moments to collect yourself before spazzing out again (the most notable is the "Imagine"/ "One Day" comedown that closes out All Day). Which is crucial, since All Day is meant to be listened to as a whole. (Gillis admits that the seemingly arbitrary track breakdown is solely for ease of navigation.) But if I need a five-minute fix, "Get It Get It" is the best illustration of how the roomier confines of these songs allow the samples to breathe, evolve, and take on a life of their own without wearing out their welcome. Scoff at the supposed "wackiness" of matching "Pretty Boy Swag" with "Windowlicker" and you'll miss what is arguably Gillis' most inspired musical arrangement. It's not great because of novelty, it's great because it totally makes sense-- it's almost eerie how perfectly Soulja Boy's halting cadences match Aphex Twin's fidgety programming, amplifying the implicit weirdness of the former and the skewed pop instincts of the latter. If M.I.A. realized that agit-pop is greatly enhanced with kickass guitar riffs, she might realize how perfectly tailored Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name" is for her protégé Rye Rye. Later in the track, Gillis pairs up the hyper machismo of Pitbull's "Hotel Room Service" with Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough" as a musical illustration of Girl Talk's general outlook, a unity borne of the search for hedonistic pleasure. Befitting the party-starting functionality of All Day, it doesn't ever go into the chin-stroking appeal of obvious precedent Plunderphonics, and the samples aren't given new contexts so much as new purposes. It's pretty much impossible for "Sunshine of Your Love" to sound new, but it's a blast to drop the flower-power lyrics and have Biggie's "Nasty Boy" bring out the lurid appeal of the riffs (lolz at Eric Clapton's soloing beginning with the line "then I whipped it out"). And of course, there's the Easter eggs, the knowing winks and the in-jokes-- an instantly recognizable clip from "One More Time" sneaks in for a split second, but Daft Punk lay low for a minute or two before resurfacing for "Digital Love". Or chopping up Big Boi's "Shutterbug" to stress the line "I'm double-fisting/ If you're empty you can grab a cup." Personally, I think the funniest moment is intentionally using the commonly misheard chorus of "1901" (it's not "falling," people!) as a punctuation to Ludacris saying "how low can you go?" And the instrumental from "Mr. Big Stuff" allows the listener to clown Wale's noxious "Pretty Girls" hook without saying a word. Yes, the headslap moments aren't completely eliminated, just far less frequent ("Jane Says"/"Teach Me How to Dougie" sticks out the most), but even the perceived "mistakes" have a plan-- at first, the indelible drum sound from "Idioteque" sounds horribly beatmatched with the Isley Brothers' "Shout", but that's just the second-long windup before hurtling into a crazed strip-club banger. And while some might see the use of the piano coda from "Layla" backing B.o.B.'s "Haterz Everywhere" as sacrilege, the two achieve a bizarre, complex harmony with each other. As far as what the use of Fugazi's "Waiting Room" as the foundation for a "Rude Boy" mashup is supposed to "mean"? I'll allow that Gillis is fucking with us sometimes. When Girl Talk broke through in 2006 with Night Ripper, the album was often credited for reflecting the new listening habits afforded by the Internet, where long-held grudges were dropped and pop, indie rock, classic AOR, and mainstream rap were on equal playing fields. If only that were true; it's easier than ever to wall yourself off from music you dismiss on principle alone, and if we're living in a time when Arcade Fire fans don't want to have their sincerity questioned when they ride for the cause of Waka Flocka Flame or Birdman ("Wake Up" bridges the gap here between "Hard in Da Paint" and "Money to Blow"), I must've missed it. What All Day and Girl Talk himself are nostalgic for is not a specific sound or even a specific period of time, even though Gillis' sweet spot is alt-rock and pop-rap from the 90s. It's not "hey, remember 'Thunder Kiss '65'" or, "whoa, what happened to Skee-Lo," but rather nostalgia for a time when MTV and radio were the primary methods of conveyance. They weren't perfect, but there was a certain thrill to being something of a captive audience, of letting yourself go and being impressionable for just once, finding out that "Poss

Artist: Girl Talk, Album: All Day, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "The simplest way to a successful and rewarding career: Find something you love doing, then get paid to do it. This is why people talk about Gregg Gillis with a tinge of envy; as Pitchfork's Ryan Dombal has said, Gillis has figured out exactly what he was put on this earth to do--transforming five decades of pop music into seamless, well-paced mixes, and then, live, turning those mixes into a sweaty, tribal celebration of pop music itself. But while 2008's Feed the Animals proved his staying power and solidified his aesthetic, there was a creeping worry that as long as Gillis stuck with this maximalist mashup thing, we'd be stuck having the same arguments for and against him over and over again. So, the question with his fifth album,All Day: In 2010, is a newly minted Girl Talk fan someone who just simply hasn't heard of him before? Or is Gillis capable of converting those still on the fence? If there are still holdouts, the arguments against Girl Talk are getting slimmer.All Day is a reminder that, despite the number of party DJs and bedroom mashup artists, nobody does it better than Gillis; here he makes the strongest argument yet for himself as a master of his craft. Initially, Gillis comes off like he's baiting his detractors: his "legitimacy" as a DJ has been brought into question on account of having the cleanest hands of any cratedigger, but Gillis goes even more mainstream with his source material (we're talking John Lennon, the Rolling Stones, the Jackson 5...). Compared to All Day, Girl Talk's calling-card LPNight Ripper might as well be Endtroducing... And even those who've enjoyed his work will admit that it's a hell of a lot to take for extended periods of time, yet All Day clocks in at a titanic 71 minutes, almost 20 minutes longer than Animals. Against those odds, Gillis turns these perceived weaknesses into strengths; as his most fussed-over and carefully plotted album, All Day paradoxically sounds like his most effortless. He's still operating within a "if it's not fun, why do it?" ethos, but fortunately, it doesn't have the same relentless pacing of his prior work, offering a couple of cooldown moments to collect yourself before spazzing out again (the most notable is the "Imagine"/ "One Day" comedown that closes out All Day). Which is crucial, since All Day is meant to be listened to as a whole. (Gillis admits that the seemingly arbitrary track breakdown is solely for ease of navigation.) But if I need a five-minute fix, "Get It Get It" is the best illustration of how the roomier confines of these songs allow the samples to breathe, evolve, and take on a life of their own without wearing out their welcome. Scoff at the supposed "wackiness" of matching "Pretty Boy Swag" with "Windowlicker" and you'll miss what is arguably Gillis' most inspired musical arrangement. It's not great because of novelty, it's great because it totally makes sense-- it's almost eerie how perfectly Soulja Boy's halting cadences match Aphex Twin's fidgety programming, amplifying the implicit weirdness of the former and the skewed pop instincts of the latter. If M.I.A. realized that agit-pop is greatly enhanced with kickass guitar riffs, she might realize how perfectly tailored Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name" is for her protégé Rye Rye. Later in the track, Gillis pairs up the hyper machismo of Pitbull's "Hotel Room Service" with Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough" as a musical illustration of Girl Talk's general outlook, a unity borne of the search for hedonistic pleasure. Befitting the party-starting functionality of All Day, it doesn't ever go into the chin-stroking appeal of obvious precedent Plunderphonics, and the samples aren't given new contexts so much as new purposes. It's pretty much impossible for "Sunshine of Your Love" to sound new, but it's a blast to drop the flower-power lyrics and have Biggie's "Nasty Boy" bring out the lurid appeal of the riffs (lolz at Eric Clapton's soloing beginning with the line "then I whipped it out"). And of course, there's the Easter eggs, the knowing winks and the in-jokes-- an instantly recognizable clip from "One More Time" sneaks in for a split second, but Daft Punk lay low for a minute or two before resurfacing for "Digital Love". Or chopping up Big Boi's "Shutterbug" to stress the line "I'm double-fisting/ If you're empty you can grab a cup." Personally, I think the funniest moment is intentionally using the commonly misheard chorus of "1901" (it's not "falling," people!) as a punctuation to Ludacris saying "how low can you go?" And the instrumental from "Mr. Big Stuff" allows the listener to clown Wale's noxious "Pretty Girls" hook without saying a word. Yes, the headslap moments aren't completely eliminated, just far less frequent ("Jane Says"/"Teach Me How to Dougie" sticks out the most), but even the perceived "mistakes" have a plan-- at first, the indelible drum sound from "Idioteque" sounds horribly beatmatched with the Isley Brothers' "Shout", but that's just the second-long windup before hurtling into a crazed strip-club banger. And while some might see the use of the piano coda from "Layla" backing B.o.B.'s "Haterz Everywhere" as sacrilege, the two achieve a bizarre, complex harmony with each other. As far as what the use of Fugazi's "Waiting Room" as the foundation for a "Rude Boy" mashup is supposed to "mean"? I'll allow that Gillis is fucking with us sometimes. When Girl Talk broke through in 2006 with Night Ripper, the album was often credited for reflecting the new listening habits afforded by the Internet, where long-held grudges were dropped and pop, indie rock, classic AOR, and mainstream rap were on equal playing fields. If only that were true; it's easier than ever to wall yourself off from music you dismiss on principle alone, and if we're living in a time when Arcade Fire fans don't want to have their sincerity questioned when they ride for the cause of Waka Flocka Flame or Birdman ("Wake Up" bridges the gap here between "Hard in Da Paint" and "Money to Blow"), I must've missed it. What All Day and Girl Talk himself are nostalgic for is not a specific sound or even a specific period of time, even though Gillis' sweet spot is alt-rock and pop-rap from the 90s. It's not "hey, remember 'Thunder Kiss '65'" or, "whoa, what happened to Skee-Lo," but rather nostalgia for a time when MTV and radio were the primary methods of conveyance. They weren't perfect, but there was a certain thrill to being something of a captive audience, of letting yourself go and being impressionable for just once, finding out that "Poss"

White Hinterland

Baby

Rock

Paula Mejia

White Hinterland, the solo project of vocalist Casey Dienel, is a study in texture, space, and expanse, stretching R&B-laced pop to emotional extremes. Her last record, 2010’s Kairos, was woozy both instrumentally and conceptually, leaning toward gossamer dream pop. Baby, her newest, sheds the downtempo beats of Kairos, experimenting with more jagged percussion and orchestral flourishes, notably horns. Dienel learned Protools and built a studio in the basement of her parents’ house, and the methodical approach to the recording, arrangement and production yields a work that feels homegrown (Pitchfork contributor Matt LeMay mixed the record). But for all the sonic change-ups, her idiosyncratic voice remains the music’s signature. Dienel is in a line of vocalists who subvert traditional diction—Fiona Apple with her asymmetrical couplets, Björk’s ability to contort syllables. She tucks whelps and cries between verses, moving from opera-worthy falsettos to pained whimpers, at times recalling Zola Jesus’s blackened folk and even the indie pop falsetto crawl of Portugal. The Man frontman John Gourley. Baby’s opener, “Wait Until Dark,” features nearly a minute of tense near-silence, with Dienel spitting irregular verbs in the dark, creating an effect that’s uncomfortably intimate—not to mention riveting. “Show me respect, maybe then I’ll let you ride with me,” she growls and howls, curling the words behind the acid-keys of the record’s grooviest number, “Metronome.” Dienel can also belt with a diva’s range, especially on the Saturday night club-ready tracks such as “White Noise”. But the album also presents an interesting paradox: Dienel’s voice, the record’s most gripping element, can also be alienating. Occasionally, her ambitious approach lead in over-singing, such as on “Ring the Bell,” where her background vocals get in the way. On the whole, Baby is an exceptionally cautious work and is, at times an uncomfortable listen; it’s an account of a woman wrestling with and tackling self-doubt and insecurity, exploring how it feels to lose control. “Is this my weakness?” Dienel asks as the instruments fade to black in the record’s title track. Over the song’s duration, the question evolves from an admission to a mantra, as Dienel’s voice gains traction and grows in power. Corrosive lyrics also make it an exceptionally heavy listen, when she delivers likes like, “Pushed your head under the water till all your breath gave out” on the title track. But even though it’s filled with stark admissions, Baby is ultimately an unflinchingly hopeful record that sees an already talented artist finding finding new ways to grow.

Artist: White Hinterland, Album: Baby, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "White Hinterland, the solo project of vocalist Casey Dienel, is a study in texture, space, and expanse, stretching R&B-laced pop to emotional extremes. Her last record, 2010’s Kairos, was woozy both instrumentally and conceptually, leaning toward gossamer dream pop. Baby, her newest, sheds the downtempo beats of Kairos, experimenting with more jagged percussion and orchestral flourishes, notably horns. Dienel learned Protools and built a studio in the basement of her parents’ house, and the methodical approach to the recording, arrangement and production yields a work that feels homegrown (Pitchfork contributor Matt LeMay mixed the record). But for all the sonic change-ups, her idiosyncratic voice remains the music’s signature. Dienel is in a line of vocalists who subvert traditional diction—Fiona Apple with her asymmetrical couplets, Björk’s ability to contort syllables. She tucks whelps and cries between verses, moving from opera-worthy falsettos to pained whimpers, at times recalling Zola Jesus’s blackened folk and even the indie pop falsetto crawl of Portugal. The Man frontman John Gourley. Baby’s opener, “Wait Until Dark,” features nearly a minute of tense near-silence, with Dienel spitting irregular verbs in the dark, creating an effect that’s uncomfortably intimate—not to mention riveting. “Show me respect, maybe then I’ll let you ride with me,” she growls and howls, curling the words behind the acid-keys of the record’s grooviest number, “Metronome.” Dienel can also belt with a diva’s range, especially on the Saturday night club-ready tracks such as “White Noise”. But the album also presents an interesting paradox: Dienel’s voice, the record’s most gripping element, can also be alienating. Occasionally, her ambitious approach lead in over-singing, such as on “Ring the Bell,” where her background vocals get in the way. On the whole, Baby is an exceptionally cautious work and is, at times an uncomfortable listen; it’s an account of a woman wrestling with and tackling self-doubt and insecurity, exploring how it feels to lose control. “Is this my weakness?” Dienel asks as the instruments fade to black in the record’s title track. Over the song’s duration, the question evolves from an admission to a mantra, as Dienel’s voice gains traction and grows in power. Corrosive lyrics also make it an exceptionally heavy listen, when she delivers likes like, “Pushed your head under the water till all your breath gave out” on the title track. But even though it’s filled with stark admissions, Baby is ultimately an unflinchingly hopeful record that sees an already talented artist finding finding new ways to grow."

Rufus Wainwright

Want Two

Rock

Stephen Deusner

Of the four albums Rufus Wainwright has released over the past six years, two of them have been part of the Want series, which pairs his dreamy voice and droll lyrics to audaciously over-the-top orchestration. But Wainwright's inspiration has never quite matched his devotion to the project, and this baroque setting is not entirely suitable for his considerable talents. He has a distinctive voice that imbued his first two albums with an instantly recognizable personality; yet, although he seems suited to show tunes and post-SoCal pop, his voice is lost among the flourishes of harp and harpsichord in the Want series. Even Wainwright's songwriting seems to suffer: his usually sparkling wit seems deadened by the weight of the music; his melodies lag, burdened by the profundity of their mission. The songs on last year's Want One sounded leaden under their overlush arrangements, and Want Two doesn't improve on that formula. If anything, it is a darker, more meditative sequel, less lively but more fragile and sensitive to the cruelties of a vicious world-- tragedy to its precursor's comedy. The album opens unpromisingly-- almost hostilely-- with the nearly six-minute "Agnus Dei", an overture full of gently pulsating strings and Latin lyrics. The song isn't just singularly dull, but it reveals the weaknesses of these sessions. Wainwright's gauzy vocals aren't particularly suited for this style of melodramatic music and often come across as disaffected or, worse, disengaged. Furthermore, the obsessiveness of his artistic vision often threatens to alienate his listeners through overlong songs and esoteric production. Fortunately, "The One You Love" quickly corrects the album's course, harking back to Wainwright's first two albums. It blends gently swaying pop with an angelic choir and the dulcimer-like guitar on the chorus, and shows off his gifts for introspective lyrics full of biting wit and for arrangements that are all the more dramatic for being understated. Songs like "This Love Affair", "Gay Messiah", and "Crumb by Crumb"-- which could have come from either of his previous albums-- only reinforce this impression. However, the Want sensibility-- music as theatrical stage setting-- resurfaces throughout the album: in the recorder melody on "Hometown Waltz", in the chamber strings on "Little Sister", in the eddying instrumentation of the Jeff Buckley eulogy "Memphis Skyline". These songs seem uniformly static. Only the live recording of "The Art Teacher" manages to break form: Over a Philip Glass prism of piano chords, a plaintive horn, and a slightly sped-up tempo, Wainwright tells of a woman remembering her first love, the instructor of the title who turned her on to Romantic painter J.M.W. Turner. In a sense, the Want project sounds perfectly suited to Wainwright's ability to confront his problems through lyrical witticisms and to intensify all emotions-- especially romantic longings-- to an operatic level. But His tragedies remain exclusively personal; they rarely, if ever, extend to any community, gay or otherwise, and the songs derive some power from their insistently individual scope. On "Waiting for a Dream", Wainwright sings in the first verse: "You are not my lover, and you never will be/ Cause you've never done anything to hurt me." The "Gay Messiah" mixes gay and Christian iconography, but the Savior-- who is "reborn from 1970s porn"-- is Wainwright's own personal Jesus; he even proclaims himself "Rufus the Baptist" and turns the refrain "The gay messiah is coming" into frank wordplay. Wainwright's obsession and self-destructive tendencies extend to his music as well, sabotaging the Want project but making both albums fascinating, even moving, in a peculiar way. Watching such an undeniably talented artist blindly follow such an errant muse can be endlessly compelling, and the failure of these two albums to capture his visions and ambitions with any adequacy possesses the pull of true tragedy. This doesn't necessarily elevate the music, but it does present Wainwright as both the fated tragic hero and the sexually ambiguous victim of the two album covers and it does recast the project as a small triumph within an extended train wreck.

Artist: Rufus Wainwright, Album: Want Two, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Of the four albums Rufus Wainwright has released over the past six years, two of them have been part of the Want series, which pairs his dreamy voice and droll lyrics to audaciously over-the-top orchestration. But Wainwright's inspiration has never quite matched his devotion to the project, and this baroque setting is not entirely suitable for his considerable talents. He has a distinctive voice that imbued his first two albums with an instantly recognizable personality; yet, although he seems suited to show tunes and post-SoCal pop, his voice is lost among the flourishes of harp and harpsichord in the Want series. Even Wainwright's songwriting seems to suffer: his usually sparkling wit seems deadened by the weight of the music; his melodies lag, burdened by the profundity of their mission. The songs on last year's Want One sounded leaden under their overlush arrangements, and Want Two doesn't improve on that formula. If anything, it is a darker, more meditative sequel, less lively but more fragile and sensitive to the cruelties of a vicious world-- tragedy to its precursor's comedy. The album opens unpromisingly-- almost hostilely-- with the nearly six-minute "Agnus Dei", an overture full of gently pulsating strings and Latin lyrics. The song isn't just singularly dull, but it reveals the weaknesses of these sessions. Wainwright's gauzy vocals aren't particularly suited for this style of melodramatic music and often come across as disaffected or, worse, disengaged. Furthermore, the obsessiveness of his artistic vision often threatens to alienate his listeners through overlong songs and esoteric production. Fortunately, "The One You Love" quickly corrects the album's course, harking back to Wainwright's first two albums. It blends gently swaying pop with an angelic choir and the dulcimer-like guitar on the chorus, and shows off his gifts for introspective lyrics full of biting wit and for arrangements that are all the more dramatic for being understated. Songs like "This Love Affair", "Gay Messiah", and "Crumb by Crumb"-- which could have come from either of his previous albums-- only reinforce this impression. However, the Want sensibility-- music as theatrical stage setting-- resurfaces throughout the album: in the recorder melody on "Hometown Waltz", in the chamber strings on "Little Sister", in the eddying instrumentation of the Jeff Buckley eulogy "Memphis Skyline". These songs seem uniformly static. Only the live recording of "The Art Teacher" manages to break form: Over a Philip Glass prism of piano chords, a plaintive horn, and a slightly sped-up tempo, Wainwright tells of a woman remembering her first love, the instructor of the title who turned her on to Romantic painter J.M.W. Turner. In a sense, the Want project sounds perfectly suited to Wainwright's ability to confront his problems through lyrical witticisms and to intensify all emotions-- especially romantic longings-- to an operatic level. But His tragedies remain exclusively personal; they rarely, if ever, extend to any community, gay or otherwise, and the songs derive some power from their insistently individual scope. On "Waiting for a Dream", Wainwright sings in the first verse: "You are not my lover, and you never will be/ Cause you've never done anything to hurt me." The "Gay Messiah" mixes gay and Christian iconography, but the Savior-- who is "reborn from 1970s porn"-- is Wainwright's own personal Jesus; he even proclaims himself "Rufus the Baptist" and turns the refrain "The gay messiah is coming" into frank wordplay. Wainwright's obsession and self-destructive tendencies extend to his music as well, sabotaging the Want project but making both albums fascinating, even moving, in a peculiar way. Watching such an undeniably talented artist blindly follow such an errant muse can be endlessly compelling, and the failure of these two albums to capture his visions and ambitions with any adequacy possesses the pull of true tragedy. This doesn't necessarily elevate the music, but it does present Wainwright as both the fated tragic hero and the sexually ambiguous victim of the two album covers and it does recast the project as a small triumph within an extended train wreck."

Sophia Knapp

Into the Waves

Amanda Petrusich

"Way too many things happened last year, too much cake, too much wine," Sophia Knapp opines on "Glasses High", the opening cut from her solo debut, Into the Waves. Like most thinking adults, Knapp is preoccupied with the passage of time, with the proper ordering of a life: in a cottony whisper, she laments the way memories dissipate, how love wilts. "It's so hard to tell just how to make the good things last," she coos on the title track. In the Brooklyn-based Cliffie Swan (a band still better known by its former name, Lights), Knapp's voice acted as a wispy counterpoint to her garage-guitar. Here, the instrumentation is almost self-consciously goofy-- the strings are tinny, the beats are pre-fab, and fade-outs prevent several of these tracks from ever having to actually resolve-- but Knapp's sweet and craggy vocals still manage to temper (and, in some cases, even justify) the goofiness of her backing tracks. The easiest analogue is Julee Cruise, who famously collaborated with David Lynch on the "Twin Peaks" soundtrack; Knapp's singing imparts a similar ghostliness, a sense of odd, unsettling discontinuity. The lush "Nothing to Lose", especially, feels like it was reverse-engineered to soundtrack a Lynchian moment: something absurd, something sinister, a high, breathy voice cutting through the darkness. Mostly, though, the record's AM gold-aping sheen is the aural equivalent of smearing a camera lens with Vaseline: these are tracks for dreamily circling a roller rink in tiny shorts, or gently waving your bell-sleeved arms in the air (see Stevie Nicks circa 1976). The atmospherics are paramount, but periodically overwhelming, and when Knapp duets with labelmate Bill Callahan on two tracks-- "Spiderweb" and "Weeping Willow"-- his voice lands like a brick, leaden and heavy. It's a welcome presence-- an anchor in the fog-- and when Callahan ducks back out, you'll feel yourself craving his unmistakable corporeality. Into the Waves is stylized, but its presentation still manages to suit its content. Mostly, Knapp is searching for a way to slow things down, to allow herself time to catch up: "Just a little, not a lot/ Just a little time/ is all we've got," she sings on "Close to Me", before the track blossoms into a kitschy, kicking disco jam. Knapp's is an awfully sympathetic predicament-- whether she dances it off or not.

Artist: Sophia Knapp, Album: Into the Waves, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: ""Way too many things happened last year, too much cake, too much wine," Sophia Knapp opines on "Glasses High", the opening cut from her solo debut, Into the Waves. Like most thinking adults, Knapp is preoccupied with the passage of time, with the proper ordering of a life: in a cottony whisper, she laments the way memories dissipate, how love wilts. "It's so hard to tell just how to make the good things last," she coos on the title track. In the Brooklyn-based Cliffie Swan (a band still better known by its former name, Lights), Knapp's voice acted as a wispy counterpoint to her garage-guitar. Here, the instrumentation is almost self-consciously goofy-- the strings are tinny, the beats are pre-fab, and fade-outs prevent several of these tracks from ever having to actually resolve-- but Knapp's sweet and craggy vocals still manage to temper (and, in some cases, even justify) the goofiness of her backing tracks. The easiest analogue is Julee Cruise, who famously collaborated with David Lynch on the "Twin Peaks" soundtrack; Knapp's singing imparts a similar ghostliness, a sense of odd, unsettling discontinuity. The lush "Nothing to Lose", especially, feels like it was reverse-engineered to soundtrack a Lynchian moment: something absurd, something sinister, a high, breathy voice cutting through the darkness. Mostly, though, the record's AM gold-aping sheen is the aural equivalent of smearing a camera lens with Vaseline: these are tracks for dreamily circling a roller rink in tiny shorts, or gently waving your bell-sleeved arms in the air (see Stevie Nicks circa 1976). The atmospherics are paramount, but periodically overwhelming, and when Knapp duets with labelmate Bill Callahan on two tracks-- "Spiderweb" and "Weeping Willow"-- his voice lands like a brick, leaden and heavy. It's a welcome presence-- an anchor in the fog-- and when Callahan ducks back out, you'll feel yourself craving his unmistakable corporeality. Into the Waves is stylized, but its presentation still manages to suit its content. Mostly, Knapp is searching for a way to slow things down, to allow herself time to catch up: "Just a little, not a lot/ Just a little time/ is all we've got," she sings on "Close to Me", before the track blossoms into a kitschy, kicking disco jam. Knapp's is an awfully sympathetic predicament-- whether she dances it off or not."

Liz Phair

Liz Phair

Rock

Matt LeMay

It could be said that Liz Phair's greatest asset has always been her inability to write a perfect pop song. On her 1993 debut, Exile in Guyville, Phair's gruff voice wrapped awkward non-hooks around flimsy, transparent chord progressions, resulting in (to everyone's surprise) a certifiable indie roadtrip classic. It still stands as a powerfully confrontational album, skirting convention yet marked by Phair's striking awareness of her own limitations. Unfortunately, it seems that Phair has spent the better part of her post-Exile career trying to gloss over the very limitations that made her original statement so profound. Though her second album, Whip-Smart, had a few choice moments which recalled the insight and complexity of Exile, it ultimately seemed like a much more calculated affair. Things didn't start to go horribly awry, of course, until Phair's next album, Whitechocolatespaceegg. That record's attempts to radio-ize her sound only dismantled the depth of her music-- if not the awkwardness-- resulting in an odd batch of songs that perhaps encapsulated Phair's faulty view of what constitutes a radio-friendly album. Ten years on from Exile, Liz has finally managed to achieve what seems to have been her goal ever since the possibility of commercial success first presented itself to her: to release an album that could have just as easily been made by anybody else. Even the songs on Liz Phair that could be considered "shocking" or "profound" are gratuitous and overdetermined, eschewing the stark and accusatory insights of Exile in favor of pointless f-bombs, manipulative ballads, and foul-mouthed shmeminism. Liz Phair has always been known for her vulgarity, but on Exile and parts of Whip-Smart, she put that trait to good use. On "Fuck and Run", a standout from Exile, Phair used the word's negative connotations as a means of pointed self-deprecation and lamented, "Whatever happened to a boyfriend/ The kind of guy who makes love cause he's in it/ I want a boyfriend/ I want all that stupid old shit/ Letters and sodas." "Flower", Phair's most notorious track to date, reads like a laundry list of graphic sexual desires, but rather than paint a uniformly flattering portrait of her love interest, he's immature, he's obnoxious, and despite it all, she still wants to fuck his brains out-- a simple, necessarily crude semi-contradiction that speaks volumes. "Flower" would seem to have a descendent in "H.W.C." ("Hot White Cum"), in which Phair extols the virtue of semen as a beauty aid ("...Dear Cosmo: Splooge, The New Rouge!"). But, unlike the complex, alternatingly cocky and self-effacing sexuality of "Flower," "H.W.C."'s unqualified sperm-praise is entirely vain and degrading. Even more degrading is the constipated donkeyfuck harmonica solo towards the track's end, a hilarious sideshow that only magnifies the triteness of the song's glycerin-slick production. Though "H.W.C." is without question the best water-cooler conversation piece on Liz Phair, "Rock Me" makes for a close second. Here, Phair sings exuberantly about the benefits of an affair with a younger guy including-- I shit you not-- "[playing] Xbox on [his] floor." In between choruses of, "Baby baby baby if it's alright/ Want you to rock me all night," Phair declares, "I'm starting to think that young guys rule!" without a trace of self-doubt or reflection. It's hard to imagine that the Liz Phair of ten years ago wouldn't have had something profound and devastating to say about older women who shack up with clueless college kids, but on "Rock Me"-- as on the rest of Liz Phair-- vapid, cliché-filled rhyme couplets dominate. Take, for example, the album's first single, "Why Can't I", "co"-written by Avril Lavigne songwriting team The Matrix. With a chorus of, "Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you?" and a cookie-cutter rock/pop background, the song could easily pass for Michelle Branch. The lyric, "We haven't fucked yet/ But my head's still spinning," seemingly seeks to set Phair apart from the teen-pop crowd, but the use of the word is completely gratuitous-- change it to "kissed" and stick a 16-year-old girl in front of the mic and no one could tell the difference. Only on "Little Digger" does Phair attempt to tackle subject matter unique to the circumstances of her own life as a 36-year-old single mother. The song has received positive press for addressing a difficult issue, as Phair sings to her son about his absent father and the new men she's dating. But the fact that anything positive could be said about this track speaks only to the overwhelming lack of substance on this record. From its cloying synthstring arrangements to its ballad-in-a-box drumbeat to its infuriatingly manipulative chorus of, "My mother is mine," "Little Digger" offers up all the insight and emotion of a UPN sitcom. In recent interviews, Phair has been upfront about her hopes of mainstream success, and claims full awareness that Liz Phair is likely to alienate many of her original fans. What she doesn't seem to realize is that a collection of utterly generic rocked-out pop songs isn't likely to win her many new ones. It's sad that an artist as groundbreaking as Phair would be reduced to cheap publicity stunts and hyper-commercialized teen-pop. But then, this is "the album she has always wanted to make"-- one in which all of her quirks and limitations are absorbed into well-tested clichés, and ultimately, one that may as well not even exist.

Artist: Liz Phair, Album: Liz Phair, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 0.0 Album review: "It could be said that Liz Phair's greatest asset has always been her inability to write a perfect pop song. On her 1993 debut, Exile in Guyville, Phair's gruff voice wrapped awkward non-hooks around flimsy, transparent chord progressions, resulting in (to everyone's surprise) a certifiable indie roadtrip classic. It still stands as a powerfully confrontational album, skirting convention yet marked by Phair's striking awareness of her own limitations. Unfortunately, it seems that Phair has spent the better part of her post-Exile career trying to gloss over the very limitations that made her original statement so profound. Though her second album, Whip-Smart, had a few choice moments which recalled the insight and complexity of Exile, it ultimately seemed like a much more calculated affair. Things didn't start to go horribly awry, of course, until Phair's next album, Whitechocolatespaceegg. That record's attempts to radio-ize her sound only dismantled the depth of her music-- if not the awkwardness-- resulting in an odd batch of songs that perhaps encapsulated Phair's faulty view of what constitutes a radio-friendly album. Ten years on from Exile, Liz has finally managed to achieve what seems to have been her goal ever since the possibility of commercial success first presented itself to her: to release an album that could have just as easily been made by anybody else. Even the songs on Liz Phair that could be considered "shocking" or "profound" are gratuitous and overdetermined, eschewing the stark and accusatory insights of Exile in favor of pointless f-bombs, manipulative ballads, and foul-mouthed shmeminism. Liz Phair has always been known for her vulgarity, but on Exile and parts of Whip-Smart, she put that trait to good use. On "Fuck and Run", a standout from Exile, Phair used the word's negative connotations as a means of pointed self-deprecation and lamented, "Whatever happened to a boyfriend/ The kind of guy who makes love cause he's in it/ I want a boyfriend/ I want all that stupid old shit/ Letters and sodas." "Flower", Phair's most notorious track to date, reads like a laundry list of graphic sexual desires, but rather than paint a uniformly flattering portrait of her love interest, he's immature, he's obnoxious, and despite it all, she still wants to fuck his brains out-- a simple, necessarily crude semi-contradiction that speaks volumes. "Flower" would seem to have a descendent in "H.W.C." ("Hot White Cum"), in which Phair extols the virtue of semen as a beauty aid ("...Dear Cosmo: Splooge, The New Rouge!"). But, unlike the complex, alternatingly cocky and self-effacing sexuality of "Flower," "H.W.C."'s unqualified sperm-praise is entirely vain and degrading. Even more degrading is the constipated donkeyfuck harmonica solo towards the track's end, a hilarious sideshow that only magnifies the triteness of the song's glycerin-slick production. Though "H.W.C." is without question the best water-cooler conversation piece on Liz Phair, "Rock Me" makes for a close second. Here, Phair sings exuberantly about the benefits of an affair with a younger guy including-- I shit you not-- "[playing] Xbox on [his] floor." In between choruses of, "Baby baby baby if it's alright/ Want you to rock me all night," Phair declares, "I'm starting to think that young guys rule!" without a trace of self-doubt or reflection. It's hard to imagine that the Liz Phair of ten years ago wouldn't have had something profound and devastating to say about older women who shack up with clueless college kids, but on "Rock Me"-- as on the rest of Liz Phair-- vapid, cliché-filled rhyme couplets dominate. Take, for example, the album's first single, "Why Can't I", "co"-written by Avril Lavigne songwriting team The Matrix. With a chorus of, "Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you?" and a cookie-cutter rock/pop background, the song could easily pass for Michelle Branch. The lyric, "We haven't fucked yet/ But my head's still spinning," seemingly seeks to set Phair apart from the teen-pop crowd, but the use of the word is completely gratuitous-- change it to "kissed" and stick a 16-year-old girl in front of the mic and no one could tell the difference. Only on "Little Digger" does Phair attempt to tackle subject matter unique to the circumstances of her own life as a 36-year-old single mother. The song has received positive press for addressing a difficult issue, as Phair sings to her son about his absent father and the new men she's dating. But the fact that anything positive could be said about this track speaks only to the overwhelming lack of substance on this record. From its cloying synthstring arrangements to its ballad-in-a-box drumbeat to its infuriatingly manipulative chorus of, "My mother is mine," "Little Digger" offers up all the insight and emotion of a UPN sitcom. In recent interviews, Phair has been upfront about her hopes of mainstream success, and claims full awareness that Liz Phair is likely to alienate many of her original fans. What she doesn't seem to realize is that a collection of utterly generic rocked-out pop songs isn't likely to win her many new ones. It's sad that an artist as groundbreaking as Phair would be reduced to cheap publicity stunts and hyper-commercialized teen-pop. But then, this is "the album she has always wanted to make"-- one in which all of her quirks and limitations are absorbed into well-tested clichés, and ultimately, one that may as well not even exist."

The Love Language

Libraries

Rock

Jayson Greene

The jaunty, irrepressible indie pop of the Love Language's 2009 debut was borne of a personal tailspin: Stuart McLamb wrote and recorded it after retreating to his parents' house, licking his wounds following a brutal breakup and his subsequent collapse. The songs he produced, however, were anything but self-pitying. With nothing but his melodic gifts and an appealing sense of wry resignation, McLamb spun his despair into music that felt more like a whoop of joy than a cry of loneliness. On follow-up Libraries, McLamb sounds less down and out but, oddly, more downbeat. The scrappy, lo-fi production of the debut is gone; he recorded the album by himself again but did so in a proper studio, and the record glimmers with soft-pedaled production touches. McLamb's handsome, worn croon is here blessed with the spiraling reverb it demands, and his colorful arrangements swell impressively to fill the new sonic space. "Pedals" announces his intentions out of the gate with an Arcade Fire-size arrangement given a sonic full court press. Like many former lo-fi musicians, McLamb alternately luxuriates and gets lost in his plush new surroundings. On several songs, he evaporates in the arrangement, "ooh"-ing wordlessly in the background as barroom piano and shimmering tremolo guitar swirl around him. The heart-catching "This Blood Is Our Own" is a standout example, beginning as a Stones-y blues ballad before an ethereal countrypolitan string section touches down, sending the song into a delirious coda that hits the same swooning heights Cass McCombs did last year on "You Saved My Life". The pace on Libraries is more measured and the mood more muted, however, which means nothing here hits with the same immediacy as the first record's "Lalita" or "Sparxxx". Where the debut tapped the effervescent spirit of Merseybeat and the wintergreen harmonies of Dexys Midnight Runners, Libraries nods more to Burt Bacharach, and the record can sag occasionally under the drowsy weight of his influence. Of the album's 10 songs, only the trashcan percussion of "Heart to Tell" and the bone-crack backbeat of "Brittany's Back" match the debut's ragged exuberance. Others, like "Horophones", are well-meaning, well-written mid-tempo tunes that lack an animating spirit. McLamb is still a fantastically talented pop songwriter, though, one with the unerring ability to write melodies that seem to have tumbled out in a spontaneous rush of joy, and several songs here-- the lazy-Sunday-stroll shuffle of "Anthrophobia", for instance-- reveal this talent operating at its peak.

Artist: The Love Language, Album: Libraries, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "The jaunty, irrepressible indie pop of the Love Language's 2009 debut was borne of a personal tailspin: Stuart McLamb wrote and recorded it after retreating to his parents' house, licking his wounds following a brutal breakup and his subsequent collapse. The songs he produced, however, were anything but self-pitying. With nothing but his melodic gifts and an appealing sense of wry resignation, McLamb spun his despair into music that felt more like a whoop of joy than a cry of loneliness. On follow-up Libraries, McLamb sounds less down and out but, oddly, more downbeat. The scrappy, lo-fi production of the debut is gone; he recorded the album by himself again but did so in a proper studio, and the record glimmers with soft-pedaled production touches. McLamb's handsome, worn croon is here blessed with the spiraling reverb it demands, and his colorful arrangements swell impressively to fill the new sonic space. "Pedals" announces his intentions out of the gate with an Arcade Fire-size arrangement given a sonic full court press. Like many former lo-fi musicians, McLamb alternately luxuriates and gets lost in his plush new surroundings. On several songs, he evaporates in the arrangement, "ooh"-ing wordlessly in the background as barroom piano and shimmering tremolo guitar swirl around him. The heart-catching "This Blood Is Our Own" is a standout example, beginning as a Stones-y blues ballad before an ethereal countrypolitan string section touches down, sending the song into a delirious coda that hits the same swooning heights Cass McCombs did last year on "You Saved My Life". The pace on Libraries is more measured and the mood more muted, however, which means nothing here hits with the same immediacy as the first record's "Lalita" or "Sparxxx". Where the debut tapped the effervescent spirit of Merseybeat and the wintergreen harmonies of Dexys Midnight Runners, Libraries nods more to Burt Bacharach, and the record can sag occasionally under the drowsy weight of his influence. Of the album's 10 songs, only the trashcan percussion of "Heart to Tell" and the bone-crack backbeat of "Brittany's Back" match the debut's ragged exuberance. Others, like "Horophones", are well-meaning, well-written mid-tempo tunes that lack an animating spirit. McLamb is still a fantastically talented pop songwriter, though, one with the unerring ability to write melodies that seem to have tumbled out in a spontaneous rush of joy, and several songs here-- the lazy-Sunday-stroll shuffle of "Anthrophobia", for instance-- reveal this talent operating at its peak."

Drawing Voices

Drawing Voices

Brian Howe

Drawing Voices is a collaboration between meta-A/V artist Craig Dongoski and Aaron Turner from Isis. To say more than this at the outset is to say too much, because there are two distinct ways to engage with this album, and the encounter is richer if one experiences both. Readers who wish to do so are advised to familiarize themselves with the music before reading this review. Go ahead, we'll wait. Everyone back? Okay. With no knowledge of its conceptual underpinnings, Drawing Voices is a decent drone-based record. Nothing on it would surprise anyone who has a couple Growing, Excepter, or Sightings albums in their collection: Wispy modulating waveforms, crystal beds of rhythm, and Turner's processed guitar noodlings-- featured most prominently on the sinuous "The Shrine of Wreckless Illumination"-- play out in long, palsied arcs. "Being Born Broken" consists of little more than a pixilated drone and the overdriven noises that sporadically attack it, while "Scattered Shavings" pits batty squeaks against choral vacuum-cleanerish roars. The chattering, richly textured "Being Born Broken II" is a lot like Maja Ratjke's voice manipulation experiments, and "A Choir Speaks" is a sound-effect corrosion bath, not dissimilar to Svarte Greiner's indirectly representational compositions. While Drawing Voices is not entirely satisfying qua drone, there's something naggingly compelling about it. Its rudimentary palette and its peculiar habit of abrupt, volume-jacked punch-ins-- one moment, you're hearing a regressive hum, the very next, all your EQ levels are in the red-- allude to some sort of hidden guide rail or internalized policy. And so it is: Drawing Voices turns out to be heavily process-based; listening conceptually is the second (and preferred) way to approach it. Dongoski's process involves recording the sounds of "mark-making" (the aural environment produced by the act of drawing) and manipulating the results into compositional foundations. In doing so, he mines the rich techno-organic seam between the intimately human act of drawing and the stoic precision of mechanical intervention, and articulates one of the many shadow narratives latent in illustration, effectively translating discrete visual units into their inextricable but wildly capricious sonic analogues. Knowing that Dongoski's sounds are the emulsion of a traditionally visual act brings the album to life. To an extent, process-based art confounds popular criticism. This is especially true of processes like Dongoski's, which exploit areas of slippage between two distinct acts, bringing forces both aleatoric and conceptually predetermined into play. The spontaneous and unconstrained creative act proceeds by a series of decisions, providing numerous opportunities to "go wrong" (armor-chinks for critical arrows) along the way; process-based creation begins with one major conceptual decision and then plays out according to the terms of its particular game. As such, the finished product of such a process takes on a secondary importance to the unquantifiable relationships between the product, its mode of production, and the conceptual leap that spawned it. In such a case, whether or not we (or the artist, for that matter) like or dislike the finished product becomes almost moot: It is, quite literally, what it is, and must be contended with on that level. Of course, none of this will interest listeners who engage with music strictly on the level of sound-- this album is not for them. But those attuned to the drastically particular mindset of process-based creation, with its minimization of the creative will and Russian-doll-caliber relational depth, will find Dognoski's curious alchemy worthwhile.

Artist: Drawing Voices, Album: Drawing Voices, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Drawing Voices is a collaboration between meta-A/V artist Craig Dongoski and Aaron Turner from Isis. To say more than this at the outset is to say too much, because there are two distinct ways to engage with this album, and the encounter is richer if one experiences both. Readers who wish to do so are advised to familiarize themselves with the music before reading this review. Go ahead, we'll wait. Everyone back? Okay. With no knowledge of its conceptual underpinnings, Drawing Voices is a decent drone-based record. Nothing on it would surprise anyone who has a couple Growing, Excepter, or Sightings albums in their collection: Wispy modulating waveforms, crystal beds of rhythm, and Turner's processed guitar noodlings-- featured most prominently on the sinuous "The Shrine of Wreckless Illumination"-- play out in long, palsied arcs. "Being Born Broken" consists of little more than a pixilated drone and the overdriven noises that sporadically attack it, while "Scattered Shavings" pits batty squeaks against choral vacuum-cleanerish roars. The chattering, richly textured "Being Born Broken II" is a lot like Maja Ratjke's voice manipulation experiments, and "A Choir Speaks" is a sound-effect corrosion bath, not dissimilar to Svarte Greiner's indirectly representational compositions. While Drawing Voices is not entirely satisfying qua drone, there's something naggingly compelling about it. Its rudimentary palette and its peculiar habit of abrupt, volume-jacked punch-ins-- one moment, you're hearing a regressive hum, the very next, all your EQ levels are in the red-- allude to some sort of hidden guide rail or internalized policy. And so it is: Drawing Voices turns out to be heavily process-based; listening conceptually is the second (and preferred) way to approach it. Dongoski's process involves recording the sounds of "mark-making" (the aural environment produced by the act of drawing) and manipulating the results into compositional foundations. In doing so, he mines the rich techno-organic seam between the intimately human act of drawing and the stoic precision of mechanical intervention, and articulates one of the many shadow narratives latent in illustration, effectively translating discrete visual units into their inextricable but wildly capricious sonic analogues. Knowing that Dongoski's sounds are the emulsion of a traditionally visual act brings the album to life. To an extent, process-based art confounds popular criticism. This is especially true of processes like Dongoski's, which exploit areas of slippage between two distinct acts, bringing forces both aleatoric and conceptually predetermined into play. The spontaneous and unconstrained creative act proceeds by a series of decisions, providing numerous opportunities to "go wrong" (armor-chinks for critical arrows) along the way; process-based creation begins with one major conceptual decision and then plays out according to the terms of its particular game. As such, the finished product of such a process takes on a secondary importance to the unquantifiable relationships between the product, its mode of production, and the conceptual leap that spawned it. In such a case, whether or not we (or the artist, for that matter) like or dislike the finished product becomes almost moot: It is, quite literally, what it is, and must be contended with on that level. Of course, none of this will interest listeners who engage with music strictly on the level of sound-- this album is not for them. But those attuned to the drastically particular mindset of process-based creation, with its minimization of the creative will and Russian-doll-caliber relational depth, will find Dognoski's curious alchemy worthwhile."

Tyler, the Creator

Wolf

Rap

Craig Jenkins

Odd Future ringleader Tyler, the Creator has a rap persona pitched between shock-riddled misanthropy and confessional reflection; he’s preoccupied with his own press and he uses his music as a vent for anger and frustration. His debut album, Bastard, was filled with sharp darts for rap blogs who wouldn’t post his music, while his sophomore album, Goblin, wanted desparately to prove Odd Future was worth all their sudden hype. In the two years since Goblin’s release, Earl Sweatshirt returned from Samoan exile, Frank Ocean opened up about his sexuality in a heartfelt Tumblr note and released the Grammy Award winning Channel Orange, and Tyler unveiled "Loiter Squad", an absurdist late night sketch comedy show. As a group, Odd Future embarked on a series of tours that connected them with an expanding base of teenagers and outcasts even as they drew fire from LGBT advocates, women’s groups, and a music press none too amused by the macabre content of their lyrics. A lot has changed, and now Tyler returns with Wolf. Where Goblin felt like an attempt to shoehorn the whole of Odd Future’s nihilist aesthetic into a single album, Wolf pulls back the curtain and reveal the talented introvert behind the music. The first thing to go is the bratty punk fury of earlier material. The insurgent bravado of “Radicals”, “Sandwitches”, and “French” is scaled back, replaced by songs that flip the conventions of his songwriting inside out. The songs about women are earnest where they used to carry murder ballads’ air of ill intent. Drugs come up, but we also hear about a remorseful dealer surveying the havoc he’s caused and a man having a mercilessly terrible time while high. Wolf is still the balancing act between gruff cynicism and juvenilia that we’ve come to expect from Odd Future (especially on “Pigs”, a bleak radio play about exacting revenge on bullies), but these songs are more three-dimensional. Tyler’s more likely to aim for melody instead of menace. Wolf as a whole also sounds gorgeous, and that even goes for the bruisers. The polyrhythmic hi-hats of the madcap posse cut “Trashwang” eventually give pause to a piano bridge, and the blustery lead single “Domo 23” gets a bump from a boisterous horn section. Foreboding numbers like “Rusty” (a lush reimagining of 1990s RZA production) and the nightmarish, tribal “Cowboy” are declawed by rich textures and melodicism. “Answer” sets Tyler’s longing for his late grandmother and absentee father to a bright guitar figure and shimmering organs. “48”’s crack epidemic reminiscence is adorned with elegant pianos, string stabs, tasteful guitar, and spoken word interludes from Nas. Tyler’s pet sounds are dark melodies hammered out on wonky synths and clattering breakbeats but here they come padded with embellishments that give Wolf a cinematic breadth. The album is pretty, but beguilingly so. There’s something not quite right, though, and it’s not just Tyler’s gritty basso profundo cutting through every melodic flourish. Pacing is one problem. Wolf reprises the winding sprawl of Goblin, hitting its stride on a series of midtempo cuts on the front and back ends but losing steam on a midsection that places too many of its longest and slowest songs back-to-back. “PartyIsntOver/Campfire/Bimmer” marries three unrelated fragments in a manner not unlike Domo Genesis’ Rolling Papers, whose passages of short vignettes gave it an off-the-cuff feel. But the pieces here don’t hang together, and “Bimmer” is too fleeting of a payoff for the uphill trudge it takes to get there. After that, there’s the lengthy “IFHY” (“I fucking hate you,” natch.), a bit of Neptunes worship so adroit that its plinking synths and jazzy chord changes give way to a falsettoed coda from Pharrell himself. (The Stereolab-channeling“Campfire” similarly summons that band’s Laetitia Sadier for a guest vocal.) Later on, the sedate acid jazz of “Treehome95” and the closing comedown “Lone” are inexplicably split up by the shrill M.I.A. send-up “Tamale”. Wolf is full of good songs but in the wrong order. Still, not all of the depressive sluggishness can be blamed on sequencing. Tyler makes very clear that he doesn’t enjoy the trappings of fame. The album is shot through with harsh words for critics, sheepish venue owners, puritanical parents, and groups who’ve picketed Odd Future shows. But if he’s surrounded by detractors, he only has himself to blame. He was bound to be taken for a ne’er do well by a mainstream public who first spotted him in a video eating a roach and hanging himself, to be read for a homophobe after filling his records and tweets with offensive slurs. Tyler should know that we don’t get to control the ways our words are interpreted when they leave our mouths to filter out into the universe, and we certainly don’t get to be coarse or crass without blowback. Over the length of the album, the defensive can become grating, and Wolf’s rebuttals are pointless anyhow. By now, you either like Odd Future and have figured out a mental workaround to reconcile their more troubling tendencies with their obvious talent, in which case this stuff is moot, or you don’t, and this acrimonious self-defense is ill-suited to win you over. With Wolf, Tyler, the Creator displays a radical growth as a producer, composer and arranger, even if, as a rapper, he’s still up to some of the same antics. Still, the album contains a few of the best songs he’s ever written. “48” is a wonder, “Answer” and “Lone” delve into deeply personal matters with poise, and “Rusty” is one of the most arresting lyrical performances on the record if you can see past the self-serving chest-beating. It’s a big screen rendering of the Neptunes-meet-Stevie-Wonder-in-a-microwave quality of Tyler’s earlier works, the sound of a creative mind coming into the possession of the proper means to carry out its ideas. At its best, Wolf manages to make the inroads toward accessibility that Goblin wouldn’t and pulls it off without sacrificing too much of Tyler’s refreshing capriciousness. When the album isn’t busy telling us that we ought to like it more, it’s delivering reasons why we actually should.

Artist: Tyler, the Creator, Album: Wolf, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Odd Future ringleader Tyler, the Creator has a rap persona pitched between shock-riddled misanthropy and confessional reflection; he’s preoccupied with his own press and he uses his music as a vent for anger and frustration. His debut album, Bastard, was filled with sharp darts for rap blogs who wouldn’t post his music, while his sophomore album, Goblin, wanted desparately to prove Odd Future was worth all their sudden hype. In the two years since Goblin’s release, Earl Sweatshirt returned from Samoan exile, Frank Ocean opened up about his sexuality in a heartfelt Tumblr note and released the Grammy Award winning Channel Orange, and Tyler unveiled "Loiter Squad", an absurdist late night sketch comedy show. As a group, Odd Future embarked on a series of tours that connected them with an expanding base of teenagers and outcasts even as they drew fire from LGBT advocates, women’s groups, and a music press none too amused by the macabre content of their lyrics. A lot has changed, and now Tyler returns with Wolf. Where Goblin felt like an attempt to shoehorn the whole of Odd Future’s nihilist aesthetic into a single album, Wolf pulls back the curtain and reveal the talented introvert behind the music. The first thing to go is the bratty punk fury of earlier material. The insurgent bravado of “Radicals”, “Sandwitches”, and “French” is scaled back, replaced by songs that flip the conventions of his songwriting inside out. The songs about women are earnest where they used to carry murder ballads’ air of ill intent. Drugs come up, but we also hear about a remorseful dealer surveying the havoc he’s caused and a man having a mercilessly terrible time while high. Wolf is still the balancing act between gruff cynicism and juvenilia that we’ve come to expect from Odd Future (especially on “Pigs”, a bleak radio play about exacting revenge on bullies), but these songs are more three-dimensional. Tyler’s more likely to aim for melody instead of menace. Wolf as a whole also sounds gorgeous, and that even goes for the bruisers. The polyrhythmic hi-hats of the madcap posse cut “Trashwang” eventually give pause to a piano bridge, and the blustery lead single “Domo 23” gets a bump from a boisterous horn section. Foreboding numbers like “Rusty” (a lush reimagining of 1990s RZA production) and the nightmarish, tribal “Cowboy” are declawed by rich textures and melodicism. “Answer” sets Tyler’s longing for his late grandmother and absentee father to a bright guitar figure and shimmering organs. “48”’s crack epidemic reminiscence is adorned with elegant pianos, string stabs, tasteful guitar, and spoken word interludes from Nas. Tyler’s pet sounds are dark melodies hammered out on wonky synths and clattering breakbeats but here they come padded with embellishments that give Wolf a cinematic breadth. The album is pretty, but beguilingly so. There’s something not quite right, though, and it’s not just Tyler’s gritty basso profundo cutting through every melodic flourish. Pacing is one problem. Wolf reprises the winding sprawl of Goblin, hitting its stride on a series of midtempo cuts on the front and back ends but losing steam on a midsection that places too many of its longest and slowest songs back-to-back. “PartyIsntOver/Campfire/Bimmer” marries three unrelated fragments in a manner not unlike Domo Genesis’ Rolling Papers, whose passages of short vignettes gave it an off-the-cuff feel. But the pieces here don’t hang together, and “Bimmer” is too fleeting of a payoff for the uphill trudge it takes to get there. After that, there’s the lengthy “IFHY” (“I fucking hate you,” natch.), a bit of Neptunes worship so adroit that its plinking synths and jazzy chord changes give way to a falsettoed coda from Pharrell himself. (The Stereolab-channeling“Campfire” similarly summons that band’s Laetitia Sadier for a guest vocal.) Later on, the sedate acid jazz of “Treehome95” and the closing comedown “Lone” are inexplicably split up by the shrill M.I.A. send-up “Tamale”. Wolf is full of good songs but in the wrong order. Still, not all of the depressive sluggishness can be blamed on sequencing. Tyler makes very clear that he doesn’t enjoy the trappings of fame. The album is shot through with harsh words for critics, sheepish venue owners, puritanical parents, and groups who’ve picketed Odd Future shows. But if he’s surrounded by detractors, he only has himself to blame. He was bound to be taken for a ne’er do well by a mainstream public who first spotted him in a video eating a roach and hanging himself, to be read for a homophobe after filling his records and tweets with offensive slurs. Tyler should know that we don’t get to control the ways our words are interpreted when they leave our mouths to filter out into the universe, and we certainly don’t get to be coarse or crass without blowback. Over the length of the album, the defensive can become grating, and Wolf’s rebuttals are pointless anyhow. By now, you either like Odd Future and have figured out a mental workaround to reconcile their more troubling tendencies with their obvious talent, in which case this stuff is moot, or you don’t, and this acrimonious self-defense is ill-suited to win you over. With Wolf, Tyler, the Creator displays a radical growth as a producer, composer and arranger, even if, as a rapper, he’s still up to some of the same antics. Still, the album contains a few of the best songs he’s ever written. “48” is a wonder, “Answer” and “Lone” delve into deeply personal matters with poise, and “Rusty” is one of the most arresting lyrical performances on the record if you can see past the self-serving chest-beating. It’s a big screen rendering of the Neptunes-meet-Stevie-Wonder-in-a-microwave quality of Tyler’s earlier works, the sound of a creative mind coming into the possession of the proper means to carry out its ideas. At its best, Wolf manages to make the inroads toward accessibility that Goblin wouldn’t and pulls it off without sacrificing too much of Tyler’s refreshing capriciousness. When the album isn’t busy telling us that we ought to like it more, it’s delivering reasons why we actually should."

Born Ruffians

Birthmarks

Rock

Harley Brown

Ever since Born Ruffians frontman Luke LaLonde introduced his band's self-titled debut in 2006 with the strangled ululations of a pubescent Black Francis, Born Ruffians have adopted a "play it live first, ask questions later" approach that could be endearingly sloppy (2008's Red Yellow & Blue) or exasperatingly sophomoric (2010's Say It). Earlier this year, LaLonde struck out on his own with Rhythymnals, which he worked on with the Rural Alberta Advantage producer Roger Leavens. Besides establishing him as a different kind of mopey singer-songwriter-- the guy that would name his band's next album after his and his girlfriend's matching birthmarks-- the process gave LaLonde production experience that he in turn brought to Birthmarks along with Leavens, and for the first time Born Ruffians recorded songs together in the studio before seeing how they worked onstage. The result, for better or worse, smooths over the ragged edges that made Born Ruffians such a rivetingly unpredictable band in the first place. A few months ago, LaLonde gave an interview in which he mentioned that Toronto's BoomBox Studios, where Born Ruffians recorded Birthmarks, doubled as a commercial songwriting outlet. "I think that means that Roger has to be able to adapt to survive, he needs to be able to do whatever they need him to do. If the ad direction is folky and they say they need a 'Mumford and Sons vibe,' Roger needs to be able to do that well and execute it in a convincing way," he said. It didn't seem to occur to him that might be why so many bands are suing companies for using barely concealed rip-offs of their songs in commercials. At times, Birthmarks seems to come from this place. This is as much LaLonde's doing as Leavens'; Red Yellow & Blue's "Little Garcon" appeared in an American Express commercial in 2011, after all. Regardless, the harmonies on "Needle" are libelously close to those of Fleet Foxes, the chorus to "6-5000" wouldn't be out of place on A Hundred Miles Off, and "With Her Shadow" borrows Vampire Weekend's appropriated bass lines, even if bassist Mitch DeRosier gives them an extra salty twang. Of course musicians borrow from each other all the time-- and the upshot is that LaLonde and his band mates have developed quite a versatile range-- but these hooks stand out from Born Ruffians' emphatically original material, even if their earlier albums could sound homemade to the point of collapse. But commercial songwriters know what sounds good, and much of Birthmarks is catchy enough to get stuck in your head, if not necessarily memorable enough to stay there. On "Too Soaked To Break", the way LaLonde's reverbed voice ripples over keyboardist Andy Lloyd's arpeggios and woodwinds inspires such complacency that you almost don't notice the same flute melody in the chorus of following track "Dancing on the Edge of Our Graves". LaLonde isn't too shabby of a pop songwriter himself: after screeching about needing someone to have sex with on Born Ruffians, he disarmed fans with the studied boy-band swagger of "I always said I'd be your boyfriend, and that's that" on Rhythymnals' "Undone". He works out these newfound romantic inclinations on "Permanent Hesitation", awkwardly gushing, "I am just a lotus/ And you are just a vine/ I am just a gnome/ And you are so divine." A song later, LaLonde is back to his old ways with "nothing but lust" for someone else's girlfriend, so maybe not that much has changed. It's still too early to say if the same can be said of Born Ruffians. Birthmarks is their most refined release to date, thanks to Leavens and LaLonde's production sensibilities and the addition of Lloyd, all of which helped fill widening cracks in the band's former drums/guitar/vocals setup. While those factors may have stopped Born Ruffians' total disintegration after things started to fall apart on Say It, they also snuffed out the strung-out charm of three guys constantly on the verge of losing their cool. And that's a loss the band should remember not to take lightly.

Artist: Born Ruffians, Album: Birthmarks, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Ever since Born Ruffians frontman Luke LaLonde introduced his band's self-titled debut in 2006 with the strangled ululations of a pubescent Black Francis, Born Ruffians have adopted a "play it live first, ask questions later" approach that could be endearingly sloppy (2008's Red Yellow & Blue) or exasperatingly sophomoric (2010's Say It). Earlier this year, LaLonde struck out on his own with Rhythymnals, which he worked on with the Rural Alberta Advantage producer Roger Leavens. Besides establishing him as a different kind of mopey singer-songwriter-- the guy that would name his band's next album after his and his girlfriend's matching birthmarks-- the process gave LaLonde production experience that he in turn brought to Birthmarks along with Leavens, and for the first time Born Ruffians recorded songs together in the studio before seeing how they worked onstage. The result, for better or worse, smooths over the ragged edges that made Born Ruffians such a rivetingly unpredictable band in the first place. A few months ago, LaLonde gave an interview in which he mentioned that Toronto's BoomBox Studios, where Born Ruffians recorded Birthmarks, doubled as a commercial songwriting outlet. "I think that means that Roger has to be able to adapt to survive, he needs to be able to do whatever they need him to do. If the ad direction is folky and they say they need a 'Mumford and Sons vibe,' Roger needs to be able to do that well and execute it in a convincing way," he said. It didn't seem to occur to him that might be why so many bands are suing companies for using barely concealed rip-offs of their songs in commercials. At times, Birthmarks seems to come from this place. This is as much LaLonde's doing as Leavens'; Red Yellow & Blue's "Little Garcon" appeared in an American Express commercial in 2011, after all. Regardless, the harmonies on "Needle" are libelously close to those of Fleet Foxes, the chorus to "6-5000" wouldn't be out of place on A Hundred Miles Off, and "With Her Shadow" borrows Vampire Weekend's appropriated bass lines, even if bassist Mitch DeRosier gives them an extra salty twang. Of course musicians borrow from each other all the time-- and the upshot is that LaLonde and his band mates have developed quite a versatile range-- but these hooks stand out from Born Ruffians' emphatically original material, even if their earlier albums could sound homemade to the point of collapse. But commercial songwriters know what sounds good, and much of Birthmarks is catchy enough to get stuck in your head, if not necessarily memorable enough to stay there. On "Too Soaked To Break", the way LaLonde's reverbed voice ripples over keyboardist Andy Lloyd's arpeggios and woodwinds inspires such complacency that you almost don't notice the same flute melody in the chorus of following track "Dancing on the Edge of Our Graves". LaLonde isn't too shabby of a pop songwriter himself: after screeching about needing someone to have sex with on Born Ruffians, he disarmed fans with the studied boy-band swagger of "I always said I'd be your boyfriend, and that's that" on Rhythymnals' "Undone". He works out these newfound romantic inclinations on "Permanent Hesitation", awkwardly gushing, "I am just a lotus/ And you are just a vine/ I am just a gnome/ And you are so divine." A song later, LaLonde is back to his old ways with "nothing but lust" for someone else's girlfriend, so maybe not that much has changed. It's still too early to say if the same can be said of Born Ruffians. Birthmarks is their most refined release to date, thanks to Leavens and LaLonde's production sensibilities and the addition of Lloyd, all of which helped fill widening cracks in the band's former drums/guitar/vocals setup. While those factors may have stopped Born Ruffians' total disintegration after things started to fall apart on Say It, they also snuffed out the strung-out charm of three guys constantly on the verge of losing their cool. And that's a loss the band should remember not to take lightly."

Daniel "A.I.U." Higgs

Ancestral Songs

Brandon Stosuy

Known equally for a staggering stage presence, his elegant tattoo art, and what he's spent so many years incanting, Daniel Higgs has produced brilliant, poetic rambles as the frontman/focalpoint of Baltimorean post-punk band Lungfish. A restless experimenter, Higgs has occasionally stepped outside the Lungfish framework: On Ancestral Songs, he labels himself "Interdimensional Song-Seamstress" and drops his most intriguing and powerful effort in years. Building acoustic raga with guitar, voice, jaw harp, toy piano and banjo, Higgs conjures a vast nexus of hell, heaven, demons, angels, man, and all the overlaps in between. Imagine, if you can, the phrases and philosophies on the sides of Dr. Bronner's soap put to song by Roky Erickson and Henry Flynt. Every bit a solo tent revival or one-on-one confession, the recording's spare, closed-in. The structure's reminiscent of David Thomas Broughton, but the ambience is less mournful, more celebratory. And, when he does get especially worked up, as in "O Come And Walk Along (for S.)", his chanted questionnaire ("Have you heard the lies about Christ?/ Have you heard the truth about Christ? It is a music evolving in time/ In the time of Christ, amen") reinscribes his hardcore roots. Tracks move through various phases (in both senses) of Indian drone and lapped lap steel. He stuffs the corners with a wonderful pallet-- electrocuted bells, flange tunneling, tonal strums, electric noise, a toy-box Hendrix squall, warped ringing. Now and again a guitar turns into a sitar. Each psalm offers echoes. Opener "Living in the Kingdom of Death" introduces the central themes/doctrine: The human body is something we'll eventually throw off ("I love these living rags I wear") and reality's a sort of "kingdom of dreams" where there's no clear-cut good or evil. For instance, the devil shows up in the "true" Christ and is also Christ's child bride. Sonically, the piece lays out a thread of tones that hums throughout the album. This has an obvious conceptual arc behind it-- the collection's title comes from this idea of inescapable connectivity: "A mirror as broad as your life is long/ Your reflection, an echo of an ancient song." That reflection and overlap occurs very much in the present: "My beloved, the daughter of the sea and the air/ The reflective sea beneath the invisible air/ The conjunction of everything is everywhere." The chirpy field-recording "Thy Chosen Bride" is comparable, in parts, to Jewelled Antler or Will Oldham: Birds chirp and a banjo motors, and it lasts for more than 10 minutes. In its gentle duration, Higgs' playing is different than, say, Ben Chasny-- more traditional in some regards (hillbilly avant garde?), and he seems less interested in going places. Six-and-a-half minutes into "Thy Chosen", for instance, the music moves from finger picking to strums and singing. His voice channels Erickson (again): "The root of time taps the corpse of space." The birds hit various tones-- some are constant and some that seem to step forth and solo subtly in the background. Albums that spend so much time on instrumental drone and ambient builds rarely nail the words like holy writ. Higgs could easily get consumed with one element-- he plays vast stretches of music as often as he sings-- but manages to wed the two threads. It's a fitting convergence considering his themes, and likewise, Ancestral Songs' shivers multiply after repeat listens-- each time he howls "amen" I want to get me to a church on time. But I guess part of Higgs' sermon is that you can never really be late.

Artist: Daniel "A.I.U." Higgs, Album: Ancestral Songs, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Known equally for a staggering stage presence, his elegant tattoo art, and what he's spent so many years incanting, Daniel Higgs has produced brilliant, poetic rambles as the frontman/focalpoint of Baltimorean post-punk band Lungfish. A restless experimenter, Higgs has occasionally stepped outside the Lungfish framework: On Ancestral Songs, he labels himself "Interdimensional Song-Seamstress" and drops his most intriguing and powerful effort in years. Building acoustic raga with guitar, voice, jaw harp, toy piano and banjo, Higgs conjures a vast nexus of hell, heaven, demons, angels, man, and all the overlaps in between. Imagine, if you can, the phrases and philosophies on the sides of Dr. Bronner's soap put to song by Roky Erickson and Henry Flynt. Every bit a solo tent revival or one-on-one confession, the recording's spare, closed-in. The structure's reminiscent of David Thomas Broughton, but the ambience is less mournful, more celebratory. And, when he does get especially worked up, as in "O Come And Walk Along (for S.)", his chanted questionnaire ("Have you heard the lies about Christ?/ Have you heard the truth about Christ? It is a music evolving in time/ In the time of Christ, amen") reinscribes his hardcore roots. Tracks move through various phases (in both senses) of Indian drone and lapped lap steel. He stuffs the corners with a wonderful pallet-- electrocuted bells, flange tunneling, tonal strums, electric noise, a toy-box Hendrix squall, warped ringing. Now and again a guitar turns into a sitar. Each psalm offers echoes. Opener "Living in the Kingdom of Death" introduces the central themes/doctrine: The human body is something we'll eventually throw off ("I love these living rags I wear") and reality's a sort of "kingdom of dreams" where there's no clear-cut good or evil. For instance, the devil shows up in the "true" Christ and is also Christ's child bride. Sonically, the piece lays out a thread of tones that hums throughout the album. This has an obvious conceptual arc behind it-- the collection's title comes from this idea of inescapable connectivity: "A mirror as broad as your life is long/ Your reflection, an echo of an ancient song." That reflection and overlap occurs very much in the present: "My beloved, the daughter of the sea and the air/ The reflective sea beneath the invisible air/ The conjunction of everything is everywhere." The chirpy field-recording "Thy Chosen Bride" is comparable, in parts, to Jewelled Antler or Will Oldham: Birds chirp and a banjo motors, and it lasts for more than 10 minutes. In its gentle duration, Higgs' playing is different than, say, Ben Chasny-- more traditional in some regards (hillbilly avant garde?), and he seems less interested in going places. Six-and-a-half minutes into "Thy Chosen", for instance, the music moves from finger picking to strums and singing. His voice channels Erickson (again): "The root of time taps the corpse of space." The birds hit various tones-- some are constant and some that seem to step forth and solo subtly in the background. Albums that spend so much time on instrumental drone and ambient builds rarely nail the words like holy writ. Higgs could easily get consumed with one element-- he plays vast stretches of music as often as he sings-- but manages to wed the two threads. It's a fitting convergence considering his themes, and likewise, Ancestral Songs' shivers multiply after repeat listens-- each time he howls "amen" I want to get me to a church on time. But I guess part of Higgs' sermon is that you can never really be late."

Cold War Kids

Mine Is Yours

Electronic,Rock

Zach Kelly

Cold War Kids have made a name for themselves crafting the kind of faceless, nondescript brand of blues- and soul-injected indie rock that is working well for many of their bettors. After the success of their ubiquitous first big single "Hang Me Up to Dry" five years ago, it wasn't long before they had been lumped in with indie mainstays like the Black Keys. Perhaps buoyed by Black Keys' deserved success, Mine Is Yours finds Cold War Kids aiming for a decidedly more arena-friendly style, going so far as to enlist the help of Jacquire King, the producer who helped push fellow cheese-merchants Kings of Leon in a similar direction over the course of their previous two breakthrough records. So, good for them, Cold War Kids are clearly making a bid for that kind of mainstream acceptance here, infusing their wishy-washy, blue-lit sound with a schmaltzy bigness that matches the heft of the religious and romantic in their music. More streamlined than their older music, Mine Is Yours' relative simplicity allows its songs to more transparently deal with love lost and found. Alas, the presentation couldn't be any more comically bombastic and melodramatic, and the idea of these guys splitting a bill with Coldplay or Kings of Leon would still seem like a bit of reach; maybe Train. Most of the material here can be pretty easily tied-in with the goofy, love-and-life-affirming modern rock radio staples that share more with the likes of James Blunt or Lifehouse than the indie heavy-hitters they once found themselves awkwardly rubbing shoulders with. Even though songs like "Finally Begin" and "Louder Than Ever" are likely to inspire generic, arms-wide-open sing-alongs, Cold War Kids still find themselves trying to conjure the spirits of their former would-be contemporaries. "Sensitive Kid" amateurishly toys with Spoon's fractured stabs of piano, electronic percussion, and obtuse grooves; "Out of the Wilderness" attempts to replicate the majestic epicness of Funeral-era Arcade Fire, but instead lurches about uncomfortably like a tangled marionette. One important thing to note is that Cold War Kids certainly haven't made a boring record. Where their previous two just sort of poked about, Mine Is Yours thrives on mishandled, overwrought emotional extremes. "Skip the Charades" confidently runs with a metaphor so face-palmingly silly, you'll be able to forgive just about anything. And even though frontman Nathan Willett has clearly taken strides to even out his voice, he's adopted an unlikable, smirky croon, made even more painfully noticeable when he's spouting out gems like, "It's a slippery slope, like that Mouse Trap game". Only on "Cold Toes on the Cold Floor" can we recant the ragtag jubilation of something like "Hang Me Up to Dry", but it too is a false alarm. Trying to impart a little spontaneity into an otherwise coldly calculated effort, Willett calls for "One more!" round of the chorus. Its careful placement tellingly reveals the false humanism at the heart of Mine Is Yours, an album which ultimately exhausts itself trying to convince you it's not as empty as it actually is.

Artist: Cold War Kids, Album: Mine Is Yours, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 3.9 Album review: "Cold War Kids have made a name for themselves crafting the kind of faceless, nondescript brand of blues- and soul-injected indie rock that is working well for many of their bettors. After the success of their ubiquitous first big single "Hang Me Up to Dry" five years ago, it wasn't long before they had been lumped in with indie mainstays like the Black Keys. Perhaps buoyed by Black Keys' deserved success, Mine Is Yours finds Cold War Kids aiming for a decidedly more arena-friendly style, going so far as to enlist the help of Jacquire King, the producer who helped push fellow cheese-merchants Kings of Leon in a similar direction over the course of their previous two breakthrough records. So, good for them, Cold War Kids are clearly making a bid for that kind of mainstream acceptance here, infusing their wishy-washy, blue-lit sound with a schmaltzy bigness that matches the heft of the religious and romantic in their music. More streamlined than their older music, Mine Is Yours' relative simplicity allows its songs to more transparently deal with love lost and found. Alas, the presentation couldn't be any more comically bombastic and melodramatic, and the idea of these guys splitting a bill with Coldplay or Kings of Leon would still seem like a bit of reach; maybe Train. Most of the material here can be pretty easily tied-in with the goofy, love-and-life-affirming modern rock radio staples that share more with the likes of James Blunt or Lifehouse than the indie heavy-hitters they once found themselves awkwardly rubbing shoulders with. Even though songs like "Finally Begin" and "Louder Than Ever" are likely to inspire generic, arms-wide-open sing-alongs, Cold War Kids still find themselves trying to conjure the spirits of their former would-be contemporaries. "Sensitive Kid" amateurishly toys with Spoon's fractured stabs of piano, electronic percussion, and obtuse grooves; "Out of the Wilderness" attempts to replicate the majestic epicness of Funeral-era Arcade Fire, but instead lurches about uncomfortably like a tangled marionette. One important thing to note is that Cold War Kids certainly haven't made a boring record. Where their previous two just sort of poked about, Mine Is Yours thrives on mishandled, overwrought emotional extremes. "Skip the Charades" confidently runs with a metaphor so face-palmingly silly, you'll be able to forgive just about anything. And even though frontman Nathan Willett has clearly taken strides to even out his voice, he's adopted an unlikable, smirky croon, made even more painfully noticeable when he's spouting out gems like, "It's a slippery slope, like that Mouse Trap game". Only on "Cold Toes on the Cold Floor" can we recant the ragtag jubilation of something like "Hang Me Up to Dry", but it too is a false alarm. Trying to impart a little spontaneity into an otherwise coldly calculated effort, Willett calls for "One more!" round of the chorus. Its careful placement tellingly reveals the false humanism at the heart of Mine Is Yours, an album which ultimately exhausts itself trying to convince you it's not as empty as it actually is."

Mercury Program

A Data Learn the Language

Rock

Brendan Reid

Eccentricity's a tough trick to play. A willful refusal to obey the rules of one's genre and an urge to be different for the sake of difference can get you pretty far (where would the Flaming Lips be without it?), especially if the genre in question is particularly ossified or tired. On the other hand, eccentricity's also the cheapest ticket to Novelty City. This is especially true if your genre is, essentially, a reaction to another genre, a self-designated rule breaker; in which case, who's to say what's eccentric and what's just plain silly? For example, post-rock: what if, say, Godspeed You Black Emperor! developed a penchant for hand puppets and fake blood, and enlisted people in bunny suits to spout off about the IMF in French? I'm just afraid that the Mercury Program will, or have already, come to be known as "the dudes with the vibraphone". When they took the instrument up after their first album, just as they were phasing out vocals, it certainly seemed like a device for consciously distancing themselves from conventional rock. And, despite the fact that vibes were already both a quirk and a cliche in post-rock, it worked wonders for their next release, the lauded EP All the Suits Began to Fall Off. The distinct, clean tone of the vibes created the somewhat comforting illusion that there was a lead instrument (when this wasn't necessarily the case) and balanced the moments of distortion that the band had skimmed off the top of their previous sound. Still, questions remained: had the Program cut themselves too thin of a slice from the Tortoise pie? And: if they like their vibraphone so much, why don't they marry it? Three out of four band members do indeed bang the mallets on A Data Learn the Language. But even though they're on every track, the vibes don't sound nearly as prominent here as they did on All the Suits Began to Fall Off, which is a good thing, as more interesting shit tends to go down on this album. Almost all remnants of dynamics-and-distortion histrionics have been purged from the band's sound, leaving them only the dense, Venn-diagram play of interlocking patterns to work with. In the hands of a lesser band, this sort of thing can easily turn rigid; here, it often sounds just as lightweight as it is fraught. Some of the tracks positively levitate; on "Fragile or Possibly Extinct", Whit Travisano's cascading electric piano and Tom Reno's sea-spray guitar almost evaporate. Their touch is light but almost universally expert; even the obligatory electronic manipulation on the first track, "Tequesta", comes off as some of the most tastefully executed I've ever heard, subtly clothing Dave Lebleu's drums in a swarm of clicks. In fact, the band's best trick-- one which they play throughout the album-- is to convince the listener that they don't exist. Much of the time, it's hard to believe that humans are playing this music, not out of any excessive virtuosity or lack of emotion, but because of the celestial tones Reno and Travisano coax out of their instruments and the sharp focus of brother Sander Travisano's spartan bass and Lebleu's drums. Maybe they manage this because they're manufacturing this sound using the sort of conventional instrumentation that we're conditioned to accept without thought. Maybe, because of this, the vibraphones tend to stick out like severed thumbs. When the band uses them for anything other than texture, you're forced to entertain the idea that there is, in fact, a guy playing the vibraphone here. And the vibes, by being so distinctive, emphasize the repetitiveness of the patterns they're playing, while the other instruments have a back door into your brain. Some of the slightly weaker tracks in the middle of the album are hobbled by this (especially the second half of "To/From Iceland", which sounds cribbed directly from the "Interval" songs on Tortoise's TNT). The band, though, has come too far to let this stop them, and the last three tracks are proof. "You Yourself Are Too Serious" slowly unwinds its spiky, leapfrogging guitar and piano figures into a gorgeously simple conclusion; "Gently Turned on Your Head" tilts and rolls without ever going nauseous; and "Sultans of El Sur" ends on a decidedly forceful note, with a monumental rhythmic barrage crashing against a cathedral of echoed guitar. Obviously, the band doesn't need a gimmick; in the end, though, the fact that they have one doesn't detract too much from the music.

Artist: Mercury Program, Album: A Data Learn the Language, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Eccentricity's a tough trick to play. A willful refusal to obey the rules of one's genre and an urge to be different for the sake of difference can get you pretty far (where would the Flaming Lips be without it?), especially if the genre in question is particularly ossified or tired. On the other hand, eccentricity's also the cheapest ticket to Novelty City. This is especially true if your genre is, essentially, a reaction to another genre, a self-designated rule breaker; in which case, who's to say what's eccentric and what's just plain silly? For example, post-rock: what if, say, Godspeed You Black Emperor! developed a penchant for hand puppets and fake blood, and enlisted people in bunny suits to spout off about the IMF in French? I'm just afraid that the Mercury Program will, or have already, come to be known as "the dudes with the vibraphone". When they took the instrument up after their first album, just as they were phasing out vocals, it certainly seemed like a device for consciously distancing themselves from conventional rock. And, despite the fact that vibes were already both a quirk and a cliche in post-rock, it worked wonders for their next release, the lauded EP All the Suits Began to Fall Off. The distinct, clean tone of the vibes created the somewhat comforting illusion that there was a lead instrument (when this wasn't necessarily the case) and balanced the moments of distortion that the band had skimmed off the top of their previous sound. Still, questions remained: had the Program cut themselves too thin of a slice from the Tortoise pie? And: if they like their vibraphone so much, why don't they marry it? Three out of four band members do indeed bang the mallets on A Data Learn the Language. But even though they're on every track, the vibes don't sound nearly as prominent here as they did on All the Suits Began to Fall Off, which is a good thing, as more interesting shit tends to go down on this album. Almost all remnants of dynamics-and-distortion histrionics have been purged from the band's sound, leaving them only the dense, Venn-diagram play of interlocking patterns to work with. In the hands of a lesser band, this sort of thing can easily turn rigid; here, it often sounds just as lightweight as it is fraught. Some of the tracks positively levitate; on "Fragile or Possibly Extinct", Whit Travisano's cascading electric piano and Tom Reno's sea-spray guitar almost evaporate. Their touch is light but almost universally expert; even the obligatory electronic manipulation on the first track, "Tequesta", comes off as some of the most tastefully executed I've ever heard, subtly clothing Dave Lebleu's drums in a swarm of clicks. In fact, the band's best trick-- one which they play throughout the album-- is to convince the listener that they don't exist. Much of the time, it's hard to believe that humans are playing this music, not out of any excessive virtuosity or lack of emotion, but because of the celestial tones Reno and Travisano coax out of their instruments and the sharp focus of brother Sander Travisano's spartan bass and Lebleu's drums. Maybe they manage this because they're manufacturing this sound using the sort of conventional instrumentation that we're conditioned to accept without thought. Maybe, because of this, the vibraphones tend to stick out like severed thumbs. When the band uses them for anything other than texture, you're forced to entertain the idea that there is, in fact, a guy playing the vibraphone here. And the vibes, by being so distinctive, emphasize the repetitiveness of the patterns they're playing, while the other instruments have a back door into your brain. Some of the slightly weaker tracks in the middle of the album are hobbled by this (especially the second half of "To/From Iceland", which sounds cribbed directly from the "Interval" songs on Tortoise's TNT). The band, though, has come too far to let this stop them, and the last three tracks are proof. "You Yourself Are Too Serious" slowly unwinds its spiky, leapfrogging guitar and piano figures into a gorgeously simple conclusion; "Gently Turned on Your Head" tilts and rolls without ever going nauseous; and "Sultans of El Sur" ends on a decidedly forceful note, with a monumental rhythmic barrage crashing against a cathedral of echoed guitar. Obviously, the band doesn't need a gimmick; in the end, though, the fact that they have one doesn't detract too much from the music."

Looper

The Geometrid

Electronic

Meg Zamula

The songwriting talent spectrum for members (and former members) of Belle and Sebastian is clearly defined. At one end, there's Stevie Jackson and Isobel Campbell, whose contributions to Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant make for intermittently painful listening. At the other end is Stuart Murdoch, whose empathic accounts of young outsiders have captured the hearts and imaginations of the wussier subjects of the disenfranchised youth market. In between is ex-Belle and Sebastian bassist Stuart David, who has left the band to devote himself fully to Looper, a project based around keyboards and samplers. Looper has more in common with twee-tronic acts like Kitty Craft and the Busy Signals than his former band, a disparity that has grown remarkably more noticeable since Looper's first full-length, Up a Tree. Here, the addition of two bandmates and David's increased focus on the project has allowed for greater complexity than ever before. Sure, Up a Tree had its pleasures, but they were simple ones-- the gentle balladry of "Quiet and Small," and David's account of the postal romance he shared with wife Karn were indisputably charming, but far from innovative. Although Stuart David is a novelist as well as a musician, the lyrics on The Geometrid sometimes tend towards the banal. This is probably linked to the phasing out of the sing/speak technique he employed on past efforts. However, repeated choruses of "Hey, Uncle Ray/ Hee-eeey, Uncle Ray" and "Cut your money hair" leave me nostalgic for the innocuous story- telling David of Up a Tree and The Boy with the Arab Strap's "A Spaceboy Dream." "These Things," which pairs drum machine beats and assorted beeps with a "wee" guitar melody (as the liner notes put it), is one of the album's standout moments. David lists the things that bring him closer to happiness, including "Seinfeld," IQU and New York. The pairing of technology and simplicity works best here, and on "Tomorrow's World," on which Karn harmonizes in a pretty but unpolished manner, with her husband adding a very human vulnerability to the all-electronic arrangement. When David sings, "I'm a precious little boy," he nails it on the head. Although it's unlikely that Stuart David will ever become as gifted a songwriter as Stuart Murdoch, he's crafted a distinctive sound with this band. The Geometrid serves as a charming, if slight, pleasure, but with more time to devote to the project, Looper may yet create a more substantial sound.

Artist: Looper, Album: The Geometrid, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "The songwriting talent spectrum for members (and former members) of Belle and Sebastian is clearly defined. At one end, there's Stevie Jackson and Isobel Campbell, whose contributions to Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant make for intermittently painful listening. At the other end is Stuart Murdoch, whose empathic accounts of young outsiders have captured the hearts and imaginations of the wussier subjects of the disenfranchised youth market. In between is ex-Belle and Sebastian bassist Stuart David, who has left the band to devote himself fully to Looper, a project based around keyboards and samplers. Looper has more in common with twee-tronic acts like Kitty Craft and the Busy Signals than his former band, a disparity that has grown remarkably more noticeable since Looper's first full-length, Up a Tree. Here, the addition of two bandmates and David's increased focus on the project has allowed for greater complexity than ever before. Sure, Up a Tree had its pleasures, but they were simple ones-- the gentle balladry of "Quiet and Small," and David's account of the postal romance he shared with wife Karn were indisputably charming, but far from innovative. Although Stuart David is a novelist as well as a musician, the lyrics on The Geometrid sometimes tend towards the banal. This is probably linked to the phasing out of the sing/speak technique he employed on past efforts. However, repeated choruses of "Hey, Uncle Ray/ Hee-eeey, Uncle Ray" and "Cut your money hair" leave me nostalgic for the innocuous story- telling David of Up a Tree and The Boy with the Arab Strap's "A Spaceboy Dream." "These Things," which pairs drum machine beats and assorted beeps with a "wee" guitar melody (as the liner notes put it), is one of the album's standout moments. David lists the things that bring him closer to happiness, including "Seinfeld," IQU and New York. The pairing of technology and simplicity works best here, and on "Tomorrow's World," on which Karn harmonizes in a pretty but unpolished manner, with her husband adding a very human vulnerability to the all-electronic arrangement. When David sings, "I'm a precious little boy," he nails it on the head. Although it's unlikely that Stuart David will ever become as gifted a songwriter as Stuart Murdoch, he's crafted a distinctive sound with this band. The Geometrid serves as a charming, if slight, pleasure, but with more time to devote to the project, Looper may yet create a more substantial sound."

Pixies

Head Carrier

Rock

Stuart Berman

The Pixies weren’t the only band that blazed the trail for alternative rock’s mainstream takeover in the ’90s, but they were the rare band that got to be trailblazers twice. When they regrouped at Coachella in 2004 after an 11-year breakup, they effectively ushered in another musical phenomenon: the indie-icon reunion-tour circuit. It granted the Massachusetts misfits a long overdue opportunity to play for the sort of massive crowds that their famous fans—Nirvana, Radiohead, and Weezer among them—had built on their influence. But what was once a valorous underdog-victory narrative has slowly turned into a cautionary tale about pissing away all the goodwill you’ve accrued. For the rest of the 2000s, the Pixies toured and toured as if they were on a mission to perform for every last person on Earth who longed to hear “Debaser” in the flesh. By the time they finally decided to release new music again in 2013, not only was bassist Kim Deal gone, so too was any lingering excitement about the prospect of new Pixies music. What’s more, the three scatterbrained EPs they issued between 2013 and 2014—later compiled and reshuffled in album form as Indie Cindy—only served to answer those deflated expectations with a collection of songs that overcompensated for their lack of vigor and volatility by amping up the egregious eccentricity. And yet despite that misfire, not to mention an aborted attempt to replace Deal with another Kim, the Pixies are giving it another go. With bassist Paz Lenchantin (A Perfect Circle, the Entrance Band) now officially sworn in, Head Carrier feels like an attempt to stabilize their course. The Pixies are no longer the legends resurfacing with their first album in 20 years; they’re just a steady-as-she-goes rock band cranking out another record. With Head Carrier, they’re essentially in their Voodoo Lounge phase, turning in the sort of middling, late-career album that will clog up the Pixies bin at your local record store when you’re looking to upgrade your worn-out copy of Surfer Rosa. If Head Carrier has no ambitions to be a return to a form, it at least doesn’t incite the same sort of facepalm incredulity as Indie Cindy. (Seriously: what the fuck was “Bagboy”?) On tuneful songs like “Classic Masher” and “Might As Well Be Gone,” you can hear traces of the band that made “Here Comes Your Man” and “Velouria.” But there’s scant evidence of the band that made “Vamos” or “Gouge Away”—the volcanic outbursts that made their more melodic songs shine like diamonds in the coal. The tension points that once made the Pixies so singular and striking—tiki-torched calm vs. eyeball-slicing chaos, sweetness vs. psychosis, American mythology vs. Spanish surrealism—have been thoroughly massaged out by this point. Yes, Kim Deal is missed, but so are Black Francis’ frightening mood swings, Joey Santiago’s blazing grease-rag guitars, and Dave Lovering’s concrete-cracking stomps. These Pixies are happy to just twang and jangle instead of slash and burn; on those rare occasions when they do try to rip up the asphalt (“Baal’s Back,” “Um Chagga Laga”), they sound less like ticking time-bomb terrors drunk on Dali and David Lynch than a mildly cranky Tex-Mex bar band. As futile as it may be to hold the current Pixies up to the standard of records they made nearly 30 years ago, the comparisons are unavoidable given that they’re still executing the same playbook, only with less enthusiasm. Lenchantin is called on to do everything Kim Deal used to do, but while her plainspoken delivery is genial enough, it doesn’t exude the mischievous glee that made her predecessor such an effective balm to Francis’ tonsil-shredding howls. And given that Francis doesn’t get all that worked up about much here, the contrast between the two is muted—she’s more harmonic support than a full-on foil. As such, Lenchantin’s lead vocal debut as a Pixie, “All I Think About Now,” is less notable for her performance than the lyrics Francis gave her to sing. Opening with an unsubtle echo of “Where Is My Mind?,” the song serves as Francis’ thank-you note to Deal, a fond remembrance of their working relationship to dispel the long-rumored animosity between the two. That sort of candor and poignancy are rare qualities in the Pixies canon—and credit Lenchantin, who came up with the lyrical concept, for nudging Francis into this uncharted terrain. But the singing-telegram approach feels sort of like, well, quitting your band by fax. The truth is, if Head Carrier had arrived as the umpteenth Frank Black solo album, little about it would seem amiss. But coming from a band whose legacy was built on shock-and-awe transgression, Head Carrier feels overly pleasant and pedestrian. I’m reminded of that infamous Steve Albini interview from the early ’90s where the Surfer Rosa producer called his former clients “a band who, at their top-dollar best, are blandly entertaining college rock.” At the time, the quote seemed like blasphemy. Now, it feels like prophecy.

Artist: Pixies, Album: Head Carrier, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.5 Album review: "The Pixies weren’t the only band that blazed the trail for alternative rock’s mainstream takeover in the ’90s, but they were the rare band that got to be trailblazers twice. When they regrouped at Coachella in 2004 after an 11-year breakup, they effectively ushered in another musical phenomenon: the indie-icon reunion-tour circuit. It granted the Massachusetts misfits a long overdue opportunity to play for the sort of massive crowds that their famous fans—Nirvana, Radiohead, and Weezer among them—had built on their influence. But what was once a valorous underdog-victory narrative has slowly turned into a cautionary tale about pissing away all the goodwill you’ve accrued. For the rest of the 2000s, the Pixies toured and toured as if they were on a mission to perform for every last person on Earth who longed to hear “Debaser” in the flesh. By the time they finally decided to release new music again in 2013, not only was bassist Kim Deal gone, so too was any lingering excitement about the prospect of new Pixies music. What’s more, the three scatterbrained EPs they issued between 2013 and 2014—later compiled and reshuffled in album form as Indie Cindy—only served to answer those deflated expectations with a collection of songs that overcompensated for their lack of vigor and volatility by amping up the egregious eccentricity. And yet despite that misfire, not to mention an aborted attempt to replace Deal with another Kim, the Pixies are giving it another go. With bassist Paz Lenchantin (A Perfect Circle, the Entrance Band) now officially sworn in, Head Carrier feels like an attempt to stabilize their course. The Pixies are no longer the legends resurfacing with their first album in 20 years; they’re just a steady-as-she-goes rock band cranking out another record. With Head Carrier, they’re essentially in their Voodoo Lounge phase, turning in the sort of middling, late-career album that will clog up the Pixies bin at your local record store when you’re looking to upgrade your worn-out copy of Surfer Rosa. If Head Carrier has no ambitions to be a return to a form, it at least doesn’t incite the same sort of facepalm incredulity as Indie Cindy. (Seriously: what the fuck was “Bagboy”?) On tuneful songs like “Classic Masher” and “Might As Well Be Gone,” you can hear traces of the band that made “Here Comes Your Man” and “Velouria.” But there’s scant evidence of the band that made “Vamos” or “Gouge Away”—the volcanic outbursts that made their more melodic songs shine like diamonds in the coal. The tension points that once made the Pixies so singular and striking—tiki-torched calm vs. eyeball-slicing chaos, sweetness vs. psychosis, American mythology vs. Spanish surrealism—have been thoroughly massaged out by this point. Yes, Kim Deal is missed, but so are Black Francis’ frightening mood swings, Joey Santiago’s blazing grease-rag guitars, and Dave Lovering’s concrete-cracking stomps. These Pixies are happy to just twang and jangle instead of slash and burn; on those rare occasions when they do try to rip up the asphalt (“Baal’s Back,” “Um Chagga Laga”), they sound less like ticking time-bomb terrors drunk on Dali and David Lynch than a mildly cranky Tex-Mex bar band. As futile as it may be to hold the current Pixies up to the standard of records they made nearly 30 years ago, the comparisons are unavoidable given that they’re still executing the same playbook, only with less enthusiasm. Lenchantin is called on to do everything Kim Deal used to do, but while her plainspoken delivery is genial enough, it doesn’t exude the mischievous glee that made her predecessor such an effective balm to Francis’ tonsil-shredding howls. And given that Francis doesn’t get all that worked up about much here, the contrast between the two is muted—she’s more harmonic support than a full-on foil. As such, Lenchantin’s lead vocal debut as a Pixie, “All I Think About Now,” is less notable for her performance than the lyrics Francis gave her to sing. Opening with an unsubtle echo of “Where Is My Mind?,” the song serves as Francis’ thank-you note to Deal, a fond remembrance of their working relationship to dispel the long-rumored animosity between the two. That sort of candor and poignancy are rare qualities in the Pixies canon—and credit Lenchantin, who came up with the lyrical concept, for nudging Francis into this uncharted terrain. But the singing-telegram approach feels sort of like, well, quitting your band by fax. The truth is, if Head Carrier had arrived as the umpteenth Frank Black solo album, little about it would seem amiss. But coming from a band whose legacy was built on shock-and-awe transgression, Head Carrier feels overly pleasant and pedestrian. I’m reminded of that infamous Steve Albini interview from the early ’90s where the Surfer Rosa producer called his former clients “a band who, at their top-dollar best, are blandly entertaining college rock.” At the time, the quote seemed like blasphemy. Now, it feels like prophecy."

Thinking Fellers Union Local 282

Bob Dinners and Larry Noodles Present Tubby Turdner's Celebrity Avalanche

Experimental,Rock

Joe Tangari

Remember Kool-Aid Man? You don't? Oh. Well, let me tell you about him. He was this gigantic pitcher of Kool-Aid who used to blast through the walls of people's homes whenever mom was mixing up a batch of the horrid bug-juice and yell, "Oh, yeah!" in a guttural Hulk Hogan growl. I had a lot of problems with this. For one, he was fucking terrifying! What would you do if an oversized vat of red, watery liquid came bashing through your wall, yelling, "Oh, yeah!" and sloshing on your floor? You'd freak out, that's what. And these people were thrilled! What about the bills for wall repair? And where did he come from, anyway? What is he, even? Though my traumatic memories of Kool-Aid Man-- and his short-lived Saturday morning cartoon-- may never truly fade, I think I may be able to put them in some perspective now. You see, a bizarre monstrosity recently crashed unexpectedly through my wall. And I like it. I call this monstrosity Thinking Fellers Union Local 282, and you should, too, because that's their name. Bob Dinners and Larry Noodles Present Tubby Turdner's Celebrity Avalanche is possibly the worst album title in the world, ever. But then again, the band's name is so long and awkward that the two cancel each other out. These guys' history dates back more than 15 years, but the time the band took off after 1997's disastrous tour opening for Live seems to have paid off in spades. For the life of me, I can't imagine what was going through the head of the concert promoter who teamed one of the weirdest bands San Francisco has ever produced with Secret Samadhi-era Ed Kowalczyk. Celebrity Avalanche blasts open with "Another Clip," a raging mass of garage rock guitars alternately pounding the Stooges into the ground and mimicking J.S. Bach with tossed-off guitar figures. The vocals are melodic, but understated. Noises enter and exit the mix seemingly at random, like a bastard offshoot of the Residents. Kool-Aid Man has arrived. The Piper at the Gates of Dawn-style hand percussion and heavily processed vocals of "Sno Cone" call this band's collective sanity into question, especially when followed by the off-key falsetto caterwauling of the chorus. Somewhere in Heaven, Frank Zappa is smiling. Or doing speedballs with John Belushi. The album is filled with short interludes that seem to be randomly extracted bits of larger performances. "You Will Be Eliminated" is a 12-second gossamer burst of wind noises and distant, mechanical voices, while "Birth of a Rock Song" sounds exactly like what its title suggests it is. "Boob Feeler" distorts an ages-old descending bassline under spooky whistling, but refuses to develop itself, preferring instead to fade out and leave you wanting more. And then the Fellers give you "In the Stars I Can Sizzle Like a Battery," which showcases more demonic guitar work from Hugh Swarts and Mark Davies. The guys also offer up some truly demented lyrics here, delivered in a hilariously melodramatic falsetto. See if you can catch the Zappa reference: "Call Me Bruce or call me Troy or call me Dave/ I'm selling sauce in a crass parade/ Lumpy gravy dripping through my psyche/ I suspect that my synapses are flickering/ Thick and greasy, ploggered and pasty/ I do declare, there's a syrup on my sanity." Indeed. Even Kool-Aid Man has fled in terror by now. The simple truth here is that I have no idea why I like this music. I just do. There's a madcap genius that pervades everything from the brilliant prog-rock send-up "Holy Ghost" to the ten-minute, eddying closer "He Keeps Himself Fed." And that's not to mention the album's true masterstroke, "You in a Movie." Bassist Anne Eickelberg and drummer Jay Paget lay down a thick groove while Davies, Swarts and Brian Hageman layer noises and quivery guitar riffs over the proceedings. Lee Ranaldo wishes he could be this dissonant. And the lyrics! "A cow mooed, then it called my name/ 'I could put any one of you in a movie'/ It licked me, then it looked away/ I lost a lot of blood that day/ How's a cowpie like a cow?/ The secret's in the cow." What does it all mean? Frankly, I don't care. All I know is that these Thinking Fellers have made one crazy album after another for the past 13 years, and that Celebrity Avalanche is one of their best. Left field recordings like this aren't exactly hard to come by, but they're rarely this good. Provided they don't go on strike anytime soon, Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 stand to make a lot more wonderfully warped music. And Kool-Aid Man ain't got nothin' on that.

Artist: Thinking Fellers Union Local 282, Album: Bob Dinners and Larry Noodles Present Tubby Turdner's Celebrity Avalanche, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "Remember Kool-Aid Man? You don't? Oh. Well, let me tell you about him. He was this gigantic pitcher of Kool-Aid who used to blast through the walls of people's homes whenever mom was mixing up a batch of the horrid bug-juice and yell, "Oh, yeah!" in a guttural Hulk Hogan growl. I had a lot of problems with this. For one, he was fucking terrifying! What would you do if an oversized vat of red, watery liquid came bashing through your wall, yelling, "Oh, yeah!" and sloshing on your floor? You'd freak out, that's what. And these people were thrilled! What about the bills for wall repair? And where did he come from, anyway? What is he, even? Though my traumatic memories of Kool-Aid Man-- and his short-lived Saturday morning cartoon-- may never truly fade, I think I may be able to put them in some perspective now. You see, a bizarre monstrosity recently crashed unexpectedly through my wall. And I like it. I call this monstrosity Thinking Fellers Union Local 282, and you should, too, because that's their name. Bob Dinners and Larry Noodles Present Tubby Turdner's Celebrity Avalanche is possibly the worst album title in the world, ever. But then again, the band's name is so long and awkward that the two cancel each other out. These guys' history dates back more than 15 years, but the time the band took off after 1997's disastrous tour opening for Live seems to have paid off in spades. For the life of me, I can't imagine what was going through the head of the concert promoter who teamed one of the weirdest bands San Francisco has ever produced with Secret Samadhi-era Ed Kowalczyk. Celebrity Avalanche blasts open with "Another Clip," a raging mass of garage rock guitars alternately pounding the Stooges into the ground and mimicking J.S. Bach with tossed-off guitar figures. The vocals are melodic, but understated. Noises enter and exit the mix seemingly at random, like a bastard offshoot of the Residents. Kool-Aid Man has arrived. The Piper at the Gates of Dawn-style hand percussion and heavily processed vocals of "Sno Cone" call this band's collective sanity into question, especially when followed by the off-key falsetto caterwauling of the chorus. Somewhere in Heaven, Frank Zappa is smiling. Or doing speedballs with John Belushi. The album is filled with short interludes that seem to be randomly extracted bits of larger performances. "You Will Be Eliminated" is a 12-second gossamer burst of wind noises and distant, mechanical voices, while "Birth of a Rock Song" sounds exactly like what its title suggests it is. "Boob Feeler" distorts an ages-old descending bassline under spooky whistling, but refuses to develop itself, preferring instead to fade out and leave you wanting more. And then the Fellers give you "In the Stars I Can Sizzle Like a Battery," which showcases more demonic guitar work from Hugh Swarts and Mark Davies. The guys also offer up some truly demented lyrics here, delivered in a hilariously melodramatic falsetto. See if you can catch the Zappa reference: "Call Me Bruce or call me Troy or call me Dave/ I'm selling sauce in a crass parade/ Lumpy gravy dripping through my psyche/ I suspect that my synapses are flickering/ Thick and greasy, ploggered and pasty/ I do declare, there's a syrup on my sanity." Indeed. Even Kool-Aid Man has fled in terror by now. The simple truth here is that I have no idea why I like this music. I just do. There's a madcap genius that pervades everything from the brilliant prog-rock send-up "Holy Ghost" to the ten-minute, eddying closer "He Keeps Himself Fed." And that's not to mention the album's true masterstroke, "You in a Movie." Bassist Anne Eickelberg and drummer Jay Paget lay down a thick groove while Davies, Swarts and Brian Hageman layer noises and quivery guitar riffs over the proceedings. Lee Ranaldo wishes he could be this dissonant. And the lyrics! "A cow mooed, then it called my name/ 'I could put any one of you in a movie'/ It licked me, then it looked away/ I lost a lot of blood that day/ How's a cowpie like a cow?/ The secret's in the cow." What does it all mean? Frankly, I don't care. All I know is that these Thinking Fellers have made one crazy album after another for the past 13 years, and that Celebrity Avalanche is one of their best. Left field recordings like this aren't exactly hard to come by, but they're rarely this good. Provided they don't go on strike anytime soon, Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 stand to make a lot more wonderfully warped music. And Kool-Aid Man ain't got nothin' on that."

Zachary Cale

Duskland

Folk/Country

Jayson Greene

Duskland is a good name for a Zachary Cale album. Duskland would be a good name for all Zachary Cale albums. The NYC-based singer-songwriter has released four of them in four years, and they all take place somewhere similar. They are reliable and soothing, like old-fashioneds: Mix a little barely-perceptible organ hum and faraway slide guitars of '90s Yo La Tengo with the reedy voice of Cass McCombs, twist a few melancholic turns of phrase, and you will arrive at the place Zachary Cale is transmitting from. It's an inviting spot. His last album, 2013's Blue Rider, glides well into this one: You can cue them up and lose yourself in a pleasant haze for a couple of hours and not take immediate notice where they end. Cale probably wouldn't be offended by the suggestion: His 2011 collection was called Noise of Welcome, and so was a song on 2013's Blue Rider. He likes "blue": besides Blue Rider, Duskland has a "Blue Moth". The crisp, palm-muted acoustic strumming pattern on "I Left the Old Cell" is pretty-damn-near identical to the one on "Hold Fast" from Blue Rider. He repeats himself, but it doesn't make his music feel redundant, just identifiable as his own. Squint into the haze, however, and you'll discern moving parts in these simple and rootsy songs that help them resonate. "Sundowner" has a softly complicated arrangement—organs chime at different levels in the mix, playing different chord voicings, and somewhere in that rosy glow, a steady piano pulses. Cale's solo acoustic playing usually covers all corners of an arrangement, from backbeat and melody to counterpoint. But he has a full band on Duskland, one that confidently evokes dream pop and country rock, and he luxuriates in their sound. There are some horns on "Low Light Serenade" (another very on-the-nose song title) that might have come from a Matthew E. White production, or Phosphorescent's last album. Cale makes good company with those artists, but his essence feels a little more elusive. Sometimes, that's just because it's often hard to make out what he is singing, even though his voice is mixed high; you can listen to a song multiple times, and only catch a few phrases. His singing is also odd, drawing out notes that don't seem obvious and hitching unexpectedly at others. He sits just far enough away from you. He's close enough to draw your attention, but far enough away to make you lean forward and follow him.

Artist: Zachary Cale, Album: Duskland, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Duskland is a good name for a Zachary Cale album. Duskland would be a good name for all Zachary Cale albums. The NYC-based singer-songwriter has released four of them in four years, and they all take place somewhere similar. They are reliable and soothing, like old-fashioneds: Mix a little barely-perceptible organ hum and faraway slide guitars of '90s Yo La Tengo with the reedy voice of Cass McCombs, twist a few melancholic turns of phrase, and you will arrive at the place Zachary Cale is transmitting from. It's an inviting spot. His last album, 2013's Blue Rider, glides well into this one: You can cue them up and lose yourself in a pleasant haze for a couple of hours and not take immediate notice where they end. Cale probably wouldn't be offended by the suggestion: His 2011 collection was called Noise of Welcome, and so was a song on 2013's Blue Rider. He likes "blue": besides Blue Rider, Duskland has a "Blue Moth". The crisp, palm-muted acoustic strumming pattern on "I Left the Old Cell" is pretty-damn-near identical to the one on "Hold Fast" from Blue Rider. He repeats himself, but it doesn't make his music feel redundant, just identifiable as his own. Squint into the haze, however, and you'll discern moving parts in these simple and rootsy songs that help them resonate. "Sundowner" has a softly complicated arrangement—organs chime at different levels in the mix, playing different chord voicings, and somewhere in that rosy glow, a steady piano pulses. Cale's solo acoustic playing usually covers all corners of an arrangement, from backbeat and melody to counterpoint. But he has a full band on Duskland, one that confidently evokes dream pop and country rock, and he luxuriates in their sound. There are some horns on "Low Light Serenade" (another very on-the-nose song title) that might have come from a Matthew E. White production, or Phosphorescent's last album. Cale makes good company with those artists, but his essence feels a little more elusive. Sometimes, that's just because it's often hard to make out what he is singing, even though his voice is mixed high; you can listen to a song multiple times, and only catch a few phrases. His singing is also odd, drawing out notes that don't seem obvious and hitching unexpectedly at others. He sits just far enough away from you. He's close enough to draw your attention, but far enough away to make you lean forward and follow him."

Ben Kweller

Changing Horses

Rock

Joshua Love

Ben Kweller's Changing Horses joins the likes of Beck's Sea Change, Christina Aguilera's Back to Basics, and Mariah Carey's The Emancipation of Mimi on the list of albums with titles that tell you what the artist is doing with his or her career. In Kweller's case the mid-stream leap is being made from polite, mannered 1960s-influenced indie-pop to polite, mannered 1970s influenced alt-country. It's a clear shift but not a terribly shocking or risky one; in fact, it's practically a rite of passage at this point for an articulate, prodigious young indie songwriter (Conor Oberst, Jenny Lewis) to eventually confuse an acceptance of artistic adulthood with a need to embrace maturity through old Hag records and lots of pedal steel guitar. Of course, for a college radio staple like Kweller, goin' country doesn't necessarily entail digging deep into the genre's roots or taking cues from any of its more successful modern practitioners. Instead, its sources are typically secondary rather than primary, rockers who themselves leaned, dabbled, or dove headlong into country like Bob Dylan, the Band, Gram Parsons, and Tom Petty. Lazy and timorous as this kind of borrowing may seem, it's probably the best route for an artist of Kweller's genial modesty and perpetually adolescent vocal stylings to take. When he ventures out into country's deeper waters, the results can be disastrous, as evidenced by the embarrassing "Fight", in which Kweller goofily rhapsodizes a long-haul trucker and exhorts "you've got to set your sight on the Lord in your life" with a unearned casualness that's downright insulting (the song lacks the kind of parodic conviviality that could have at least put it in the vein of the Stones' "Far Away Eyes"). Similarly, some of Kweller's more overtly whole-hog immersions in twang end up feeling like strategies for papering over go-nowhere material, particularly on "Wantin' Her Again" and the poky opener "Gypsy Rose". The tough, Petty-ish "On Her Own", meanwhile, has plenty to recommend itself from a structural standpoint, yet as a performer the winsome Kweller can't come close to mustering the easy swagger necessary to pull it off. Unsurprisingly, Kweller is at his best here when churning out his patented nervously peppy indie pop and simply coloring it with something a bit down-home. The empathetic, just-plain-agreeable likes of "Hurtin' You", "Ballad of Wendy Baker", and "Things I Like to Do" (full of endearing asides such as "I like talking at the diner 'stead of screaming in the noisy bar") sit far more comfortably in Kweller's wheelhouse, and outshine any full-on retro pastiche like the late-Beatles rip "Sawdust Man". (Seriously, leave that stuff for Dr. Dog). Remember, even though Kweller's self-titled 2006 album was too 60s beholden, he possesses a fine, almost entirely self-sustaining album to his credit, 2004's affecting rocker On My Way. While I certainly can't hold it against Kweller for trying something different and playing dress-up with a Nudie suit, Changing Horses nonetheless finds his half-assed over-countrification and half-assed under-countrification to be equally ineffectual.

Artist: Ben Kweller, Album: Changing Horses, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.3 Album review: "Ben Kweller's Changing Horses joins the likes of Beck's Sea Change, Christina Aguilera's Back to Basics, and Mariah Carey's The Emancipation of Mimi on the list of albums with titles that tell you what the artist is doing with his or her career. In Kweller's case the mid-stream leap is being made from polite, mannered 1960s-influenced indie-pop to polite, mannered 1970s influenced alt-country. It's a clear shift but not a terribly shocking or risky one; in fact, it's practically a rite of passage at this point for an articulate, prodigious young indie songwriter (Conor Oberst, Jenny Lewis) to eventually confuse an acceptance of artistic adulthood with a need to embrace maturity through old Hag records and lots of pedal steel guitar. Of course, for a college radio staple like Kweller, goin' country doesn't necessarily entail digging deep into the genre's roots or taking cues from any of its more successful modern practitioners. Instead, its sources are typically secondary rather than primary, rockers who themselves leaned, dabbled, or dove headlong into country like Bob Dylan, the Band, Gram Parsons, and Tom Petty. Lazy and timorous as this kind of borrowing may seem, it's probably the best route for an artist of Kweller's genial modesty and perpetually adolescent vocal stylings to take. When he ventures out into country's deeper waters, the results can be disastrous, as evidenced by the embarrassing "Fight", in which Kweller goofily rhapsodizes a long-haul trucker and exhorts "you've got to set your sight on the Lord in your life" with a unearned casualness that's downright insulting (the song lacks the kind of parodic conviviality that could have at least put it in the vein of the Stones' "Far Away Eyes"). Similarly, some of Kweller's more overtly whole-hog immersions in twang end up feeling like strategies for papering over go-nowhere material, particularly on "Wantin' Her Again" and the poky opener "Gypsy Rose". The tough, Petty-ish "On Her Own", meanwhile, has plenty to recommend itself from a structural standpoint, yet as a performer the winsome Kweller can't come close to mustering the easy swagger necessary to pull it off. Unsurprisingly, Kweller is at his best here when churning out his patented nervously peppy indie pop and simply coloring it with something a bit down-home. The empathetic, just-plain-agreeable likes of "Hurtin' You", "Ballad of Wendy Baker", and "Things I Like to Do" (full of endearing asides such as "I like talking at the diner 'stead of screaming in the noisy bar") sit far more comfortably in Kweller's wheelhouse, and outshine any full-on retro pastiche like the late-Beatles rip "Sawdust Man". (Seriously, leave that stuff for Dr. Dog). Remember, even though Kweller's self-titled 2006 album was too 60s beholden, he possesses a fine, almost entirely self-sustaining album to his credit, 2004's affecting rocker On My Way. While I certainly can't hold it against Kweller for trying something different and playing dress-up with a Nudie suit, Changing Horses nonetheless finds his half-assed over-countrification and half-assed under-countrification to be equally ineffectual."

Maximo Park

The National Health

Electronic,Rock

Jordan Sargent

Maxïmo Park are, for better or worse, playing it straight. The National Health is the band's fourth album in seven years, and they know their blueprint, first laid on their one classic album, by heart. But redundancy and tedium are never far away from a nearly decade-old band churning out rewrites of the hits. The National Health is not immune to those ills, but it does prove that there's still some water left in that well, even if they're scraping the bottom. Maxïmo Park have always been best at their fastest, when they sprint through verses into choruses and back out again just as quickly. That's thanks mostly to singer Paul Smith, who has a unique ability to slip into controlled mania like a jockey cracking a whip. That said, the band has mellowed some with time; thrillingly, this album's title track could run with singles like "Apply Some Pressure" or "Our Velocity", but Maxïmo Park otherwise deal with milder tempos on The National Health. The album's lack of careening energy is occasionally made up for with strong songwriting, most notably in the small stretch from "The Undercurrents" through "Reluctant Love". Other times, though, they plow through songs without hitting a solid hook, or try on styles that don't quite fit: "This Is What Becomes of the Broken Hearted" and "Take Me Home" especially sound like the someone dared Maxïmo Park to write a few Hold Steady songs. And for as good a frontman as Smith can be, his singing isn't quite suited for the jangly classic rock that they try and pull off on those songs. At other times, the band goes for something heavier and louder, but that doesn't quite work either. Smith often sounds like he's fighting his band for control; you can almost imagine his throat fraying as he battles piles and piles of riffs on "Banlieue" and "Waves of Fear". Better are songs like "Write This Down", where the instruments are simply mixed lower than Smith's vocals and his melodies drive the song. Not coincidentally, that's the song on The National Help with the most memorable chorus. The title portends a political bent, and the title track does itch with anxiousness over England's present (deep cuts to the NHS have been threatened), while Smith's bandmates bring black humor in the form of a mocking gallery. But politics are mostly a sideline here; like a true romantic, singer Paul Smith is still much more concerned with the status of his heart and his bed. It's not so much Maxïmo Park's political album as it is a typical Maxïmo Park album rattled slightly by a rocky Western world, one where Smith's romantic pursuits are often fueled by a fear of losing out to society's apathy. Maybe that explicit awareness of falling behind (on "Waves of Fear", Smith tells a romantic pursuit that they "will overcome the apathetics we've become") has something to do with it. Maxïmo Park so often sound on The National Health like they're trying too hard, struggling to find a sound that once came naturally.

Artist: Maximo Park, Album: The National Health, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "Maxïmo Park are, for better or worse, playing it straight. The National Health is the band's fourth album in seven years, and they know their blueprint, first laid on their one classic album, by heart. But redundancy and tedium are never far away from a nearly decade-old band churning out rewrites of the hits. The National Health is not immune to those ills, but it does prove that there's still some water left in that well, even if they're scraping the bottom. Maxïmo Park have always been best at their fastest, when they sprint through verses into choruses and back out again just as quickly. That's thanks mostly to singer Paul Smith, who has a unique ability to slip into controlled mania like a jockey cracking a whip. That said, the band has mellowed some with time; thrillingly, this album's title track could run with singles like "Apply Some Pressure" or "Our Velocity", but Maxïmo Park otherwise deal with milder tempos on The National Health. The album's lack of careening energy is occasionally made up for with strong songwriting, most notably in the small stretch from "The Undercurrents" through "Reluctant Love". Other times, though, they plow through songs without hitting a solid hook, or try on styles that don't quite fit: "This Is What Becomes of the Broken Hearted" and "Take Me Home" especially sound like the someone dared Maxïmo Park to write a few Hold Steady songs. And for as good a frontman as Smith can be, his singing isn't quite suited for the jangly classic rock that they try and pull off on those songs. At other times, the band goes for something heavier and louder, but that doesn't quite work either. Smith often sounds like he's fighting his band for control; you can almost imagine his throat fraying as he battles piles and piles of riffs on "Banlieue" and "Waves of Fear". Better are songs like "Write This Down", where the instruments are simply mixed lower than Smith's vocals and his melodies drive the song. Not coincidentally, that's the song on The National Help with the most memorable chorus. The title portends a political bent, and the title track does itch with anxiousness over England's present (deep cuts to the NHS have been threatened), while Smith's bandmates bring black humor in the form of a mocking gallery. But politics are mostly a sideline here; like a true romantic, singer Paul Smith is still much more concerned with the status of his heart and his bed. It's not so much Maxïmo Park's political album as it is a typical Maxïmo Park album rattled slightly by a rocky Western world, one where Smith's romantic pursuits are often fueled by a fear of losing out to society's apathy. Maybe that explicit awareness of falling behind (on "Waves of Fear", Smith tells a romantic pursuit that they "will overcome the apathetics we've become") has something to do with it. Maxïmo Park so often sound on The National Health like they're trying too hard, struggling to find a sound that once came naturally."

Ryan Adams

Ryan Adams

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

There are two versions of Ryan Adams out there in the world jostling for your attention. There’s the singer/songwriter who plays it straight and, on some level, tries to appeal to a mainstream audience that still buys records—that’s the Ryan Adams who duets with Sheryl Crow and records albums like Gold and Easy Tiger, which are so precisely and tastefully wrought that they come off as almost lifeless. And then there’s the unreformed punk who loudly broadcasts his love of hardcore and black metal, who impulsively announces he’s quitting music just weeks before he releases another EP, who records a theme song for his website. This Ryan Adams releases one-offs like the Finger’s We Are Fuck You / Punk’s Dead Let’s Fuck and the metal sci-fi concept album Orion—most of which are funny-ha-ha for one or two listens, then are forever shelved. Because they both fit a bit too perfectly into our preconceptions of selling out and keeping it real—concepts so old-fashioned in 2014 that they’re difficult to even type with a straight face—superficially, these two doppelgangers ought to exist in direct and even deadly opposition to one another. It’s not hard to imagine Ryan Adams the punk gobbing on Ryan Adams the serious singer/songwriter, and who wouldn’t buy tickets to see that? But the reality is, thankfully, much more complicated. Each Ryan Adams needs the other in order to survive in the music business; soundtrack placements, after all, bankroll hardcore EPs, which in turn provide a creative outlet for the kind of aggression and humor that aren’t typically prized by the roots-rock crowd. These two Ryans duke it out on two of his new releases. The aptly titled Ryan Adams is a Ryan Adams album, not too far removed from his last few LPs even if it jettisons the twangy Americana for a different, darker, but no less historically grounded sound. The EP 1984 is the first in his Pax-Am Singles Series (which are essentially 7-inch billboards for his Hollywood studio) and lives up to its name by evoking the hardcore punk of the mid ‘80s. While these two releases seem to represent very different sides of the notoriously multi-faceted artist, they actually have a great deal in common. Both mine the past for inspiration and allow that inspiration to determine more of how the music sounds than it should, and both prove that there are no fine lines separating the various Ryan Adamses. Released as a limited-edition 7” that quickly sold out in roughly an hour, 1984 wants to play like a super-obscure hardcore EP that you might find in a crate at the back of an ancient record store, stuck with bubblegum to the back of Negative Approach’s Tied Down. The playing is fast and furious, the tone predictably nostalgic, as Adams indulges his taste for musical extremes. Yet, for all its aggression and speed, the EP ultimately sounds like a bunch of catchy Ryan Adams songs played at twice the normal speed and truncated before they hit the two-minute mark. Slow them down, drag them out, and you’ve got a Cardinals album. But the hardcore milieu imposes an intriguing set of restrictions on Adams, who played all the instruments himself. He knows the genre allots a very short amount of time to get his point across, so he arranges these songs to grab your attention quickly, either with a sharp guitar riff or an exaggerated vocal melody. He hits the first note of “What If You Were Wrong” almost before the song even starts, and he sings like he’s trying to outrun the scissoring guitars. "Change Your Mind" is all hook, condensed and concentrated, and “Rats in the Wall” flails wildly, barely holding together, until it explodes in a sample of broken glass. 1984 sounds like an exercise, a test to see if he can pare his songwriting down to its barest essentials: a straightforward lyrical sentiment, a catchy melody, and an off-the-cuff performance. Even though the EP ends up sounding repetitive and therefore much longer than its 15 minutes, Adams emerges as a careful craftsman with clear affection and reverence for the genre. If that seat-of-his-pants release reveals Adams the punk as a serious artist, then this carefully planned self-titled album undercuts any self-seriousness he might possess as a singer/songwriter. On the cover of Ryan Adams, he looks perfectly stoned or possibly lobotomized, his hair exploding in the kind of bedhead bouffant that requires a lot of time and product. Even the title is delivered with a wink. Is that font Bryan Adams Serif Bold? Adams is too much of a rock nerd for that to be an accident, so it’s possible he’s trolling with a deliberately “bad” album cover for an album of well-crafted and well-behaved tunes released on Norah Jones’ label. If the packaging is suspicious, the music itself offers a nice twist on the singer/songwriter mode. This time around, he’s less interested in the blah folk rock of the 2011 LP Ashes & Fire. In fact, with its murky production and throwback guitar sound, Ryan Adams sounds like it could have been recorded at any time between 1979 and 1987. There are period-specific nods to deep-cut Bryan Adams, Kenny Loggins, even Robbie Nevil and Richard fucking Marx. “Stay With Me” could be a synth-era Tom Petty tune, its snappy guitar theme recalling the Heartbreakers’ jangly dynamic, and “I Just Might” rustles up a rough guitar lick to conjure the Springsteen of "Brilliant Disguise". “Don’t wanna loose control, baby, I just might,” Adams sings in his best Bruce, but the song is so laden with specific references that it’s clear he’ll never have the chance to get too wild. There aren’t your obvious touchstones, at least not for a guy sporting an Emperor backpatch on his denim jacket. Most of the time, Adams gets the sound just right without being too obvious about it, but some of these songs—specifically “Shadows” and “Let Go”—sound like they were written to fit this particular triangulation of influences. As a result, the rock-historical allusion rather than the music becomes an end in itself. On the other hand, Ryan Adams is a persuasively dark album, one defined by themes of struggle, instability, isolation, and regret. He sings like a man who knows something bad is going to interrupt each song. Adams may spend most of “Am I Safe” telling us that he’s having thoughts instead of telling us what those thoughts actually are, but that clipped acoustic strum conveys a potently jittery paranoia that says a lot more than the lyrics. On “Tired of Giving Up”, he admits that he’s “tired of giving up” and “tired of fighting,” as though this particular crisis offers no other options. It seems imp

Artist: Ryan Adams, Album: Ryan Adams, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "There are two versions of Ryan Adams out there in the world jostling for your attention. There’s the singer/songwriter who plays it straight and, on some level, tries to appeal to a mainstream audience that still buys records—that’s the Ryan Adams who duets with Sheryl Crow and records albums like Gold and Easy Tiger, which are so precisely and tastefully wrought that they come off as almost lifeless. And then there’s the unreformed punk who loudly broadcasts his love of hardcore and black metal, who impulsively announces he’s quitting music just weeks before he releases another EP, who records a theme song for his website. This Ryan Adams releases one-offs like the Finger’s We Are Fuck You / Punk’s Dead Let’s Fuck and the metal sci-fi concept album Orion—most of which are funny-ha-ha for one or two listens, then are forever shelved. Because they both fit a bit too perfectly into our preconceptions of selling out and keeping it real—concepts so old-fashioned in 2014 that they’re difficult to even type with a straight face—superficially, these two doppelgangers ought to exist in direct and even deadly opposition to one another. It’s not hard to imagine Ryan Adams the punk gobbing on Ryan Adams the serious singer/songwriter, and who wouldn’t buy tickets to see that? But the reality is, thankfully, much more complicated. Each Ryan Adams needs the other in order to survive in the music business; soundtrack placements, after all, bankroll hardcore EPs, which in turn provide a creative outlet for the kind of aggression and humor that aren’t typically prized by the roots-rock crowd. These two Ryans duke it out on two of his new releases. The aptly titled Ryan Adams is a Ryan Adams album, not too far removed from his last few LPs even if it jettisons the twangy Americana for a different, darker, but no less historically grounded sound. The EP 1984 is the first in his Pax-Am Singles Series (which are essentially 7-inch billboards for his Hollywood studio) and lives up to its name by evoking the hardcore punk of the mid ‘80s. While these two releases seem to represent very different sides of the notoriously multi-faceted artist, they actually have a great deal in common. Both mine the past for inspiration and allow that inspiration to determine more of how the music sounds than it should, and both prove that there are no fine lines separating the various Ryan Adamses. Released as a limited-edition 7” that quickly sold out in roughly an hour, 1984 wants to play like a super-obscure hardcore EP that you might find in a crate at the back of an ancient record store, stuck with bubblegum to the back of Negative Approach’s Tied Down. The playing is fast and furious, the tone predictably nostalgic, as Adams indulges his taste for musical extremes. Yet, for all its aggression and speed, the EP ultimately sounds like a bunch of catchy Ryan Adams songs played at twice the normal speed and truncated before they hit the two-minute mark. Slow them down, drag them out, and you’ve got a Cardinals album. But the hardcore milieu imposes an intriguing set of restrictions on Adams, who played all the instruments himself. He knows the genre allots a very short amount of time to get his point across, so he arranges these songs to grab your attention quickly, either with a sharp guitar riff or an exaggerated vocal melody. He hits the first note of “What If You Were Wrong” almost before the song even starts, and he sings like he’s trying to outrun the scissoring guitars. "Change Your Mind" is all hook, condensed and concentrated, and “Rats in the Wall” flails wildly, barely holding together, until it explodes in a sample of broken glass. 1984 sounds like an exercise, a test to see if he can pare his songwriting down to its barest essentials: a straightforward lyrical sentiment, a catchy melody, and an off-the-cuff performance. Even though the EP ends up sounding repetitive and therefore much longer than its 15 minutes, Adams emerges as a careful craftsman with clear affection and reverence for the genre. If that seat-of-his-pants release reveals Adams the punk as a serious artist, then this carefully planned self-titled album undercuts any self-seriousness he might possess as a singer/songwriter. On the cover of Ryan Adams, he looks perfectly stoned or possibly lobotomized, his hair exploding in the kind of bedhead bouffant that requires a lot of time and product. Even the title is delivered with a wink. Is that font Bryan Adams Serif Bold? Adams is too much of a rock nerd for that to be an accident, so it’s possible he’s trolling with a deliberately “bad” album cover for an album of well-crafted and well-behaved tunes released on Norah Jones’ label. If the packaging is suspicious, the music itself offers a nice twist on the singer/songwriter mode. This time around, he’s less interested in the blah folk rock of the 2011 LP Ashes & Fire. In fact, with its murky production and throwback guitar sound, Ryan Adams sounds like it could have been recorded at any time between 1979 and 1987. There are period-specific nods to deep-cut Bryan Adams, Kenny Loggins, even Robbie Nevil and Richard fucking Marx. “Stay With Me” could be a synth-era Tom Petty tune, its snappy guitar theme recalling the Heartbreakers’ jangly dynamic, and “I Just Might” rustles up a rough guitar lick to conjure the Springsteen of "Brilliant Disguise". “Don’t wanna loose control, baby, I just might,” Adams sings in his best Bruce, but the song is so laden with specific references that it’s clear he’ll never have the chance to get too wild. There aren’t your obvious touchstones, at least not for a guy sporting an Emperor backpatch on his denim jacket. Most of the time, Adams gets the sound just right without being too obvious about it, but some of these songs—specifically “Shadows” and “Let Go”—sound like they were written to fit this particular triangulation of influences. As a result, the rock-historical allusion rather than the music becomes an end in itself. On the other hand, Ryan Adams is a persuasively dark album, one defined by themes of struggle, instability, isolation, and regret. He sings like a man who knows something bad is going to interrupt each song. Adams may spend most of “Am I Safe” telling us that he’s having thoughts instead of telling us what those thoughts actually are, but that clipped acoustic strum conveys a potently jittery paranoia that says a lot more than the lyrics. On “Tired of Giving Up”, he admits that he’s “tired of giving up” and “tired of fighting,” as though this particular crisis offers no other options. It seems imp"

Chief Keef

Bang 3

Rap

Winston Cook-Wilson

To some rap fans, Chief Keef is still a reliable wellspring of dense, intriguing street rap; to others, he's a misguided and spoiled ne'er-do-well who has been making sloppy Death-of-Rap mixtapes in his mansion since "Love Sosa" fell off the bottom of the charts. Even a cursory listen to Keef's new album, though, pokes a hole, or several, in the latter diagnosis. Bang 3 is clearly not the work of a contrarian, unfocused artist (or, for that matter, an "outsider" one) actively trying to antagonize and self-sabotage; nor is it an awkward or even phoned-in bid for renewed pop appeal. It's the work of a mature rapper and songwriter, putting the skills he developed over several years spent branching out stylistically to good use. The release of Bang 3 carries some significance for Keef. This project has been in limbo since 2013; it was postulated first as his sophomore Interscope release, then as an album-turned-mixtape (a kiss-off to label bureaucracy), then, following the loss of his deal, as an independent album to arrive exactly one year ago. Luckily, Bang 3 isn't a too-little-too-late effort like Gunplay's recent, forestalled full-length; instead, it sounds like Keef signaling a new beginning. The higher, clearer production values are most immediately noticeable—this is the crispest-sounding Keef release since 2012's *Finally Rich—*and its well-ironed-out song structures. It feels like a new coat of paint to befit a new partnership: The rapper is in the honeymoon phase of a new deal with Greek billionaire, web entrepreneur, and probable psychopath Alki David's multi-platform entertainment company FilmOn, and the sense that he's getting some new encouragement (and constructive criticism) is all over this confident and studied-sounding music. On Bang 3, his voice is turned up loud, left untreated and pushed to the front of the mix, highlighting smaller, expressive details in his delivery. He builds energy across verses rather than hammering on one idea, relishing word sounds and inflecting his patterns with a conversational, sing-songy style: "I'm rocking Tweet, beat, skeet, then delete" (from "You"). Often, the fun he's having in the booth is infectious, sellling chancier lines like "Remember having pistol fights, now I'm having food fights/ Now we having rack fights, now we having jewel fights" (from "New School"). For the most part, the production stays behind the rapping, unlike Keef's in-house work on Sorry 4 the Weight and the self-produced Back from the Dead 2. Trusted Atlanta stalwart Zaytoven is here, as is Keef's first and most important collaborator, his childhood ally Young Chop. On "Facts", produced by Glo Gang, he delivers some of his most pointed and emotional lyrics on the album over eerie synth string seesaws. That said, while these songs feel more well-plotted and pristinely delivered than anything he has released in a while (that is not to say "better"), you still get the feeling they are molded from Keef's first thoughts after stepping in the booth. In this case, this makes for a lot of very good, but only a few great tracks; the rigorously composed '80s-inflected ballad "Ain't Missing You"— with its gunshot timpanis, EKG fluttering, and fierce hook—is a one-off novelty, not indicative of a new, aggressively poppy direction. Ever since the the sleek pop appeal of Finally Rich, fans have wondered if the rapper will someday make another streamlined, unassailably consistent project.  Bang 3 seems to signal that, despite his newfound poise, he won't; he's not interested in that. That's not a bad thing, and it's even something of a relief to not be constantly waiting for some succinct return-to-form moment. The key to enjoying his work is appreciating the sweet spots, the moments where his reckless experimentation and his unmistakable attitude intersect and become more than the sum of their parts. These are tapes you wander into slowly and patiently, bypassing some murkier, hastier-sounding clunkers until you find the music that both sounds like no one else and begs for replays reveals itself. It's usually worth it.

Artist: Chief Keef, Album: Bang 3, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "To some rap fans, Chief Keef is still a reliable wellspring of dense, intriguing street rap; to others, he's a misguided and spoiled ne'er-do-well who has been making sloppy Death-of-Rap mixtapes in his mansion since "Love Sosa" fell off the bottom of the charts. Even a cursory listen to Keef's new album, though, pokes a hole, or several, in the latter diagnosis. Bang 3 is clearly not the work of a contrarian, unfocused artist (or, for that matter, an "outsider" one) actively trying to antagonize and self-sabotage; nor is it an awkward or even phoned-in bid for renewed pop appeal. It's the work of a mature rapper and songwriter, putting the skills he developed over several years spent branching out stylistically to good use. The release of Bang 3 carries some significance for Keef. This project has been in limbo since 2013; it was postulated first as his sophomore Interscope release, then as an album-turned-mixtape (a kiss-off to label bureaucracy), then, following the loss of his deal, as an independent album to arrive exactly one year ago. Luckily, Bang 3 isn't a too-little-too-late effort like Gunplay's recent, forestalled full-length; instead, it sounds like Keef signaling a new beginning. The higher, clearer production values are most immediately noticeable—this is the crispest-sounding Keef release since 2012's *Finally Rich—*and its well-ironed-out song structures. It feels like a new coat of paint to befit a new partnership: The rapper is in the honeymoon phase of a new deal with Greek billionaire, web entrepreneur, and probable psychopath Alki David's multi-platform entertainment company FilmOn, and the sense that he's getting some new encouragement (and constructive criticism) is all over this confident and studied-sounding music. On Bang 3, his voice is turned up loud, left untreated and pushed to the front of the mix, highlighting smaller, expressive details in his delivery. He builds energy across verses rather than hammering on one idea, relishing word sounds and inflecting his patterns with a conversational, sing-songy style: "I'm rocking Tweet, beat, skeet, then delete" (from "You"). Often, the fun he's having in the booth is infectious, sellling chancier lines like "Remember having pistol fights, now I'm having food fights/ Now we having rack fights, now we having jewel fights" (from "New School"). For the most part, the production stays behind the rapping, unlike Keef's in-house work on Sorry 4 the Weight and the self-produced Back from the Dead 2. Trusted Atlanta stalwart Zaytoven is here, as is Keef's first and most important collaborator, his childhood ally Young Chop. On "Facts", produced by Glo Gang, he delivers some of his most pointed and emotional lyrics on the album over eerie synth string seesaws. That said, while these songs feel more well-plotted and pristinely delivered than anything he has released in a while (that is not to say "better"), you still get the feeling they are molded from Keef's first thoughts after stepping in the booth. In this case, this makes for a lot of very good, but only a few great tracks; the rigorously composed '80s-inflected ballad "Ain't Missing You"— with its gunshot timpanis, EKG fluttering, and fierce hook—is a one-off novelty, not indicative of a new, aggressively poppy direction. Ever since the the sleek pop appeal of Finally Rich, fans have wondered if the rapper will someday make another streamlined, unassailably consistent project.  Bang 3 seems to signal that, despite his newfound poise, he won't; he's not interested in that. That's not a bad thing, and it's even something of a relief to not be constantly waiting for some succinct return-to-form moment. The key to enjoying his work is appreciating the sweet spots, the moments where his reckless experimentation and his unmistakable attitude intersect and become more than the sum of their parts. These are tapes you wander into slowly and patiently, bypassing some murkier, hastier-sounding clunkers until you find the music that both sounds like no one else and begs for replays reveals itself. It's usually worth it."

Busdriver

Fear of a Black Tangent

Rap

Cameron Macdonald

Jabber-- numbing listeners with verbiage important or useless-- can be a weapon. That said, there is also a certain power in veering off into tangents, forcing a listener to follow stories and thoughts as they drift. Regan Farquhar (Busdriver) is an ace at tangents. On "Unemployed Black Astronaut", the MC begins by announcing, "It's the resurgence of the happy black rappers." He then sub-sonically narrates his rise to minor stardom as a rapper before reminding everyone that he is the first black astronaut to land on the moon in a hot-air balloon. Our man then blathers about rewriting Hollywood flicks to not have black men die in their opening scenes, telling of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons players mowing lawns for a living, comparing himself to the best of the Krush Groove DVD, and living off of chicken pot pies as he is a mere tax write-off for his record label. Fear of a Black Tangent, he calls his power. As heard in his last joint, Cosmic Cleavage, Farquhar continues his persona as a loser who chases his demons on a public bus or in a subway station. He typically sounds like David Allan Grier with amyl nitrate in the air. Our man raps in an "ohmygawd this is sooo ridiculous" tone that can make you either think he is a jackass or a jester. My instincts say it's the latter. Hell, on his self-introduction, "Yawning Zeitgeist Intro (Freestyle)", he says, "Now, some of your friends will reboot and do a Google search and will be discouraged that the truth will hurt when they see that I'm not their zeitgeist, nor am I Christ-like, nor do I dislike whites. I just want a better chance as, most likely, I'll sell more records in France." Amen. Daedelus, Omid, Nobody, Prefuse 73, and even Danger Mouse leave their fingerprints on the album's loose production, which samples everything from gothic, Aquarius-age organs and Roosevelt-era swing jaunts to Spaghetti Western ballads. Farquhar is a Charlie Brown of sorts, blaming artistic shortcoming on lousy choices ("What kind of name is Busdriver? Is it just a wack allegory? And can't it be justified by any background story?"). He cries that his music only appeals to "hipsters dress like Russian spies." Farquhar's self-loathing comes dangerously close to being wearisome until "Befriend the Friendless Friendster" kicks in, as he sing-raps and tap-dances with Irving Berlin on the gawddamn Ritz. And then there is the closer, "Lefty's Lament", where he retires in an elephant's graveyard of the American left wing. Poor sod.

Artist: Busdriver, Album: Fear of a Black Tangent, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Jabber-- numbing listeners with verbiage important or useless-- can be a weapon. That said, there is also a certain power in veering off into tangents, forcing a listener to follow stories and thoughts as they drift. Regan Farquhar (Busdriver) is an ace at tangents. On "Unemployed Black Astronaut", the MC begins by announcing, "It's the resurgence of the happy black rappers." He then sub-sonically narrates his rise to minor stardom as a rapper before reminding everyone that he is the first black astronaut to land on the moon in a hot-air balloon. Our man then blathers about rewriting Hollywood flicks to not have black men die in their opening scenes, telling of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons players mowing lawns for a living, comparing himself to the best of the Krush Groove DVD, and living off of chicken pot pies as he is a mere tax write-off for his record label. Fear of a Black Tangent, he calls his power. As heard in his last joint, Cosmic Cleavage, Farquhar continues his persona as a loser who chases his demons on a public bus or in a subway station. He typically sounds like David Allan Grier with amyl nitrate in the air. Our man raps in an "ohmygawd this is sooo ridiculous" tone that can make you either think he is a jackass or a jester. My instincts say it's the latter. Hell, on his self-introduction, "Yawning Zeitgeist Intro (Freestyle)", he says, "Now, some of your friends will reboot and do a Google search and will be discouraged that the truth will hurt when they see that I'm not their zeitgeist, nor am I Christ-like, nor do I dislike whites. I just want a better chance as, most likely, I'll sell more records in France." Amen. Daedelus, Omid, Nobody, Prefuse 73, and even Danger Mouse leave their fingerprints on the album's loose production, which samples everything from gothic, Aquarius-age organs and Roosevelt-era swing jaunts to Spaghetti Western ballads. Farquhar is a Charlie Brown of sorts, blaming artistic shortcoming on lousy choices ("What kind of name is Busdriver? Is it just a wack allegory? And can't it be justified by any background story?"). He cries that his music only appeals to "hipsters dress like Russian spies." Farquhar's self-loathing comes dangerously close to being wearisome until "Befriend the Friendless Friendster" kicks in, as he sing-raps and tap-dances with Irving Berlin on the gawddamn Ritz. And then there is the closer, "Lefty's Lament", where he retires in an elephant's graveyard of the American left wing. Poor sod."

Games

That We Can Play EP

Electronic,Rock

Joe Colly

When the first Games tracks started surfacing online earlier this year, people doubted whether Daniel Lopatin (aka Oneohtrix Point Never) was actually behind them. As OPN, Lopatin makes pretty serious, open-ended synth drones, and tracks like "Planet Party" felt a little too quirky to be his. But as time went on and we found out that Games was in fact a collaboration between Lopatin and longtime buddy Joel Ford of Tigercity, the project started to make more sense. Games are still about evocative synth music, but this time they're focused on nostalgia and recreating forgotten 80s production techniques. The vibe they're after isn't easy to pinpoint, but you know it when you hear it. It's that 80s sound-- the cheesy mechanical pop that lived in commercials, movie soundtracks, and arcades. It's laser tag music, Revenge of the Nerds music. Games cop that style and make glitchy electro jams from it, and the appealing thing about these guys is how thoroughly they inhabit the sound. Partly it's equipment. They've got an arsenal of analog synths, and are able to make these instruments feel not just vintage but almost aged, like something you'd hear on a record found deep in the used bin. The individual tracks that comprise That We Can Play are all pretty solid, and if you've followed the band you probably already know some of them. To me, the standout is still "Planet Party", just an unapologetic slice of Apple IIe funk. Over a clipped backing beat and chopped vocal samples, Games bend their synths as if using wah-wah pedals, giving the track this great wobbly whine. Newer cut "Strawberry Skies", featuring Brooklyn singer/producer Laurel Halo on vocals, is also very good, a super-bouncy new age workout that brings to mind Bananarama's "Cruel Summer". Gatekeeper's remix on the backend nicely ups the darkness, slowing the song down and adding ominous horror synths. A few of the other tracks here, like the mostly instrumental "Midi Drift" and "Shadows in Bloom" aren't as melodically strong but do fit within the larger scheme. The EP's a little on the short side and Games do have more tracks than are included here; it might've been nice had they rounded it out with "Everything Is Working" and "Heartlands". That's a minor complaint, though, and ultimately the record is a quirky and technical treat. Back in August, Games told us an inspiration for the project was "anything that reminds us of our dads working." Silly, but it sounds like they had fun making it. That carries over to the listening experience.

Artist: Games, Album: That We Can Play EP, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "When the first Games tracks started surfacing online earlier this year, people doubted whether Daniel Lopatin (aka Oneohtrix Point Never) was actually behind them. As OPN, Lopatin makes pretty serious, open-ended synth drones, and tracks like "Planet Party" felt a little too quirky to be his. But as time went on and we found out that Games was in fact a collaboration between Lopatin and longtime buddy Joel Ford of Tigercity, the project started to make more sense. Games are still about evocative synth music, but this time they're focused on nostalgia and recreating forgotten 80s production techniques. The vibe they're after isn't easy to pinpoint, but you know it when you hear it. It's that 80s sound-- the cheesy mechanical pop that lived in commercials, movie soundtracks, and arcades. It's laser tag music, Revenge of the Nerds music. Games cop that style and make glitchy electro jams from it, and the appealing thing about these guys is how thoroughly they inhabit the sound. Partly it's equipment. They've got an arsenal of analog synths, and are able to make these instruments feel not just vintage but almost aged, like something you'd hear on a record found deep in the used bin. The individual tracks that comprise That We Can Play are all pretty solid, and if you've followed the band you probably already know some of them. To me, the standout is still "Planet Party", just an unapologetic slice of Apple IIe funk. Over a clipped backing beat and chopped vocal samples, Games bend their synths as if using wah-wah pedals, giving the track this great wobbly whine. Newer cut "Strawberry Skies", featuring Brooklyn singer/producer Laurel Halo on vocals, is also very good, a super-bouncy new age workout that brings to mind Bananarama's "Cruel Summer". Gatekeeper's remix on the backend nicely ups the darkness, slowing the song down and adding ominous horror synths. A few of the other tracks here, like the mostly instrumental "Midi Drift" and "Shadows in Bloom" aren't as melodically strong but do fit within the larger scheme. The EP's a little on the short side and Games do have more tracks than are included here; it might've been nice had they rounded it out with "Everything Is Working" and "Heartlands". That's a minor complaint, though, and ultimately the record is a quirky and technical treat. Back in August, Games told us an inspiration for the project was "anything that reminds us of our dads working." Silly, but it sounds like they had fun making it. That carries over to the listening experience."

Various Artists

Rogue's Gallery

Stephen M. Deusner

There are a number of reasons why Rogue's Gallery shouldn't have worked. As the subtitle helpfully states, this a collection of old "pirate ballads, sea songs and chanteys" recorded by the motliest of crews, artists ranging from indie (Akron/Family) to auspicious (Sting, Bono), from predictable (Nick Cave) to surprising (cartoonist Ralph Steadman). Furthermore, it is a hush-hush tie-in (albeit not a soundtrack) to Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man's Chest-- director Gore Verbinski and Johnny Depp originated the project, and their involvement no doubt gives it a boost. The collection gives the immediate impression that it wants to do for pirates and chanteys what O Brother, Where Art Thou? did for yokels and Appalachian music. But top billing on that Odd Nerdrum-goes-Hollywood cover art goes to producer Hal Willner, perhaps best known for 1989's Disney tribute Stay Awake, a true gem in the otherwise lackluster Various Artists file. For Willner, Rogue's Gallery seems as much a research project as a commercial venture: He reportedly compiled a library of more than 600 tunes from which to whittle a tracklist. The pairings of singer and song make for some great moments and disasters alike, but Willner allows the musicians to be as maudlin or as bawdy as they want. Those accustomed to the Decemberists' modern maritime re-creations will hear very few smirks or winks on these 43 tracks. (That said, Meloy is conspicuously absent from this collection, despite having re-introduced the maritime ballad into the indie lexicon with compositions like "Shanty for Arethusa" and "The Mariner's Revenge Song".) Despite its connection to this summer's all-ages blockbuster, Rogue's Gallery is definitely rated Arrrrrrrr (sorry). Parents whose kids loved the adventures of Cap'n Jack Sparrow will want to keep the l'il buggers out of earshot of Nick Cave's reading of "Fire Down Below", which assigns many meanings to that three-word phrase, from the nautical to the spiritual to the sexual. But Cave's work here is schoolboy stuff compared to Gavin Friday. In his take on the gleefully pornographic "Baltimore Whores", Friday describes...my mom reads this site sometimes. And you'll just have to guess as to what Loudon Wainwright III rhymes with "Good Ship Venus", a song that seems designed purely to make a sailor blush. His take, however, is more than just a ribald recounting of sexual antics at sea; Wainwright seems to be having more fun here than anyone else. Instead of ribald humor, Joseph Arthur goes for inspired silliness on "Coast of High Barbary", abandoning his typically brooding vocals for an uncharacteristically exaggerated and almost unrecognizable tenor, and stunt-guitar-player and throat-singer Baby Gramps shapes his voice into a digeridoo on the seven-minute opener, "Cape Cod Girls". Actor John C. Reilly acquits himself very nicely on two tracks, the staggeringly dignified drinking song "Fathom the Bowl" the better of the two, and Ralph Steadman (you know him as Hunter S. Thompson's visual collaborator) may hardly be the very model of a modern major label crooner on closer "Little Boy Billy", but he relishes each roll of consonants and relates his tale of attempted cannibalism like's he playing parlor games. On the other hand, when musicians try for the overly dramatic, as on Jarvis Cocker's "A Drop of Nelson's Blood" or Bono's excruciating "A Dying Sailor to His Shipmates" (Worst. Eulogy. Ever.), the results are stultifying. Not everyone works blue (Eliza Carthy drops the word "ass" from "Rolling Sea", a curiously squeamish omission), nor does every song on Rogue's Gallery demand a hoisted stein, a cheery sing-along, or a theatrical flourish. In fact, many songs muster startling gravity from bare voices. Lucinda Williams infuses "Bonnie Portmore" with a cracked solemnity, communicating the sadness of seeing a beautiful ship consigned to the scrapyard. But the droney keyboard behind her adds a superfluously cinematic backdrop that actively detracts from her performance. Mary Margaret O'Hara fares better on "The Cry of Man", her voice swelling and falling beautifully and unpredictably as if mimicking the motion of the sea, and Bryan Ferry's gruff sailor's voice joins in a call-and-response with Antony's otherworldly siren on "Lowlands Low", the contrast between them generating a peculiar drama of its own. In comparison, Andrea Corr's barely a cappella reading of "Caroline and Her Young Sailor Bold" sounds waterlogged; think Kristy McNichol in The Pirate Movie instead of Keira Knightley. Rogue's Gallery is almost by definition scattershot, alternating between discoveries and atrocities, crests and troughs. However, like Stay Awake, it is an immersive experience: Willner's attention to historical detail and his artists' derring-do absorb you fully into the world of these songs, without becoming dry or daunting. First and foremost these songs are entertainments, but taken together, they offer a useful corrective to the swashbuckling of the film, trading in the dark desires and darker doings of desperate seamen.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Rogue's Gallery, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "There are a number of reasons why Rogue's Gallery shouldn't have worked. As the subtitle helpfully states, this a collection of old "pirate ballads, sea songs and chanteys" recorded by the motliest of crews, artists ranging from indie (Akron/Family) to auspicious (Sting, Bono), from predictable (Nick Cave) to surprising (cartoonist Ralph Steadman). Furthermore, it is a hush-hush tie-in (albeit not a soundtrack) to Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man's Chest-- director Gore Verbinski and Johnny Depp originated the project, and their involvement no doubt gives it a boost. The collection gives the immediate impression that it wants to do for pirates and chanteys what O Brother, Where Art Thou? did for yokels and Appalachian music. But top billing on that Odd Nerdrum-goes-Hollywood cover art goes to producer Hal Willner, perhaps best known for 1989's Disney tribute Stay Awake, a true gem in the otherwise lackluster Various Artists file. For Willner, Rogue's Gallery seems as much a research project as a commercial venture: He reportedly compiled a library of more than 600 tunes from which to whittle a tracklist. The pairings of singer and song make for some great moments and disasters alike, but Willner allows the musicians to be as maudlin or as bawdy as they want. Those accustomed to the Decemberists' modern maritime re-creations will hear very few smirks or winks on these 43 tracks. (That said, Meloy is conspicuously absent from this collection, despite having re-introduced the maritime ballad into the indie lexicon with compositions like "Shanty for Arethusa" and "The Mariner's Revenge Song".) Despite its connection to this summer's all-ages blockbuster, Rogue's Gallery is definitely rated Arrrrrrrr (sorry). Parents whose kids loved the adventures of Cap'n Jack Sparrow will want to keep the l'il buggers out of earshot of Nick Cave's reading of "Fire Down Below", which assigns many meanings to that three-word phrase, from the nautical to the spiritual to the sexual. But Cave's work here is schoolboy stuff compared to Gavin Friday. In his take on the gleefully pornographic "Baltimore Whores", Friday describes...my mom reads this site sometimes. And you'll just have to guess as to what Loudon Wainwright III rhymes with "Good Ship Venus", a song that seems designed purely to make a sailor blush. His take, however, is more than just a ribald recounting of sexual antics at sea; Wainwright seems to be having more fun here than anyone else. Instead of ribald humor, Joseph Arthur goes for inspired silliness on "Coast of High Barbary", abandoning his typically brooding vocals for an uncharacteristically exaggerated and almost unrecognizable tenor, and stunt-guitar-player and throat-singer Baby Gramps shapes his voice into a digeridoo on the seven-minute opener, "Cape Cod Girls". Actor John C. Reilly acquits himself very nicely on two tracks, the staggeringly dignified drinking song "Fathom the Bowl" the better of the two, and Ralph Steadman (you know him as Hunter S. Thompson's visual collaborator) may hardly be the very model of a modern major label crooner on closer "Little Boy Billy", but he relishes each roll of consonants and relates his tale of attempted cannibalism like's he playing parlor games. On the other hand, when musicians try for the overly dramatic, as on Jarvis Cocker's "A Drop of Nelson's Blood" or Bono's excruciating "A Dying Sailor to His Shipmates" (Worst. Eulogy. Ever.), the results are stultifying. Not everyone works blue (Eliza Carthy drops the word "ass" from "Rolling Sea", a curiously squeamish omission), nor does every song on Rogue's Gallery demand a hoisted stein, a cheery sing-along, or a theatrical flourish. In fact, many songs muster startling gravity from bare voices. Lucinda Williams infuses "Bonnie Portmore" with a cracked solemnity, communicating the sadness of seeing a beautiful ship consigned to the scrapyard. But the droney keyboard behind her adds a superfluously cinematic backdrop that actively detracts from her performance. Mary Margaret O'Hara fares better on "The Cry of Man", her voice swelling and falling beautifully and unpredictably as if mimicking the motion of the sea, and Bryan Ferry's gruff sailor's voice joins in a call-and-response with Antony's otherworldly siren on "Lowlands Low", the contrast between them generating a peculiar drama of its own. In comparison, Andrea Corr's barely a cappella reading of "Caroline and Her Young Sailor Bold" sounds waterlogged; think Kristy McNichol in The Pirate Movie instead of Keira Knightley. Rogue's Gallery is almost by definition scattershot, alternating between discoveries and atrocities, crests and troughs. However, like Stay Awake, it is an immersive experience: Willner's attention to historical detail and his artists' derring-do absorb you fully into the world of these songs, without becoming dry or daunting. First and foremost these songs are entertainments, but taken together, they offer a useful corrective to the swashbuckling of the film, trading in the dark desires and darker doings of desperate seamen."

Tilly and the Wall

Heavy Mood

Electronic,Rock

Lindsay Zoladz

For the first six minutes of their first new record in four years, Omaha indie poppers Tilly and the Wall come out swinging. The muscular, calisthenic pair of songs that opens Heavy Mood announce loud and clear that it intends to be a departure. "We won't be quiet! We're gonna get wild!" Kianna Alarid roars on the insistent surf-guitar driven "Love Riot", which has the odd, rhythmic menace of a dance-fight, while the manic "Heavy Mood" sounds like the soundtrack to a packed capoeira class. "We've got to try-try-try-try-try to lift up the weight!" Derek Pressnall commands, punctuating ever lyric with a bellowing "HUH!" Every line is a manifesto. From the start, this is a record making its life-affirming demands with all the subtlety of a bold-italic-underlined thesis statement: you gotta fight for your right to love, live, and above all else DANCE! But anyone who's listened closely to Tilly and the Wall can see the threads to their earlier work. Fey as they may appear, they've always had a little fight in them. Tilly's strongest albums, Wild Like Children and Bottoms of Barrels (both released on Conor Oberst's Team Love label), had a forever-young spirit that never shied away from sadness, sex, and the glories of insatiable inebriation. "Forty ounces is never enough, we wanna pass out in your yard," went Children's teen-delinquency anthem "Nights of the Living Dead", before exploding, into a proto-Kill-People-Burn-Shit-Fuck-School group chant: "I wanna fuck it up! I wanna fuck it up!" Like a glittery, tap-dancing unicorn, Tilly and the Wall have spent the better part of a decade giving meaning to the phrase "twee as fuck." What should such a band sound like once its members get married and have kids? It's a question others have pondered before, but Heavy Mood stumbles in its attempt to offer innovative solutions. One highlight is the Alarid-led "Youth", which spins the track's slow tempo into a philosophy, "Living for speed and dying young, it's all been done before." Maybe so, but the best moments of Heavy Mood are also its most aerobic; the dull ballads "I Believe in You", "Echo My Love", and "Hey Rainbow" all bleed into each other, sputtering repetitively in their final minutes rather than building to the cathartic, schmaltz-transcendent climaxes of Barrels' "Coughing Colors" and "The Freest Man". The only trick the closing track "Defenders" has up its sleeve is a children's choir brought on to holler along with the band, "We're not afraid to live! No we're not afraid to die!" as the album fades out. Hate to say it's all been done before. Somewhat ironically, given its professed devotion to creativity and liberation, Heavy Mood's best songs are the ones that offer fresh takes on familiar sounds. Aside from the opening lightning bolt that is "Love Riot", the girl-group-inspired "All Kinds of Guns" boasts the record's catchiest hook and punchiest lyrics ("My baby's got all kinds of guns, and he sticks to every one"). As do a few other of the more combative songs on Heavy Mood, "Guns" calls to mind tUnE-yArDs' incisive 2011 song "Riotriot" and Merrill Garbus's mid-song cry, "There is a freedom in violence that I don't understand and like I've never felt before!" "All Kinds of Guns" uses a winking play on words to suggest something larger about the fine line between passion and violence, and it’s an engaging articulation of the record's fighting spirit. But though Heavy Mood's dedication to freedom, love, and liberation is admirable in the abstract, many recent records have tangled with these concepts with more originality and flair. Last year alone, tUnE-yArDs' exhilarating w h o k i l l explored many of Heavy Mood's themes with more specificity and bite, and the now-defunct Baltimore band Ponytail made a great record called Do Whatever You Want All the Time, with freewheeling music that actually made good on that credo. Compared to these records-- and earlier Tilly and the Wall releases-- what feels missing from Heavy Mood is specificity: Where are the characters, and what became of those kids passed out on the lawn? The heart of Heavy Mood is lost its in own sloganeering.

Artist: Tilly and the Wall, Album: Heavy Mood, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "For the first six minutes of their first new record in four years, Omaha indie poppers Tilly and the Wall come out swinging. The muscular, calisthenic pair of songs that opens Heavy Mood announce loud and clear that it intends to be a departure. "We won't be quiet! We're gonna get wild!" Kianna Alarid roars on the insistent surf-guitar driven "Love Riot", which has the odd, rhythmic menace of a dance-fight, while the manic "Heavy Mood" sounds like the soundtrack to a packed capoeira class. "We've got to try-try-try-try-try to lift up the weight!" Derek Pressnall commands, punctuating ever lyric with a bellowing "HUH!" Every line is a manifesto. From the start, this is a record making its life-affirming demands with all the subtlety of a bold-italic-underlined thesis statement: you gotta fight for your right to love, live, and above all else DANCE! But anyone who's listened closely to Tilly and the Wall can see the threads to their earlier work. Fey as they may appear, they've always had a little fight in them. Tilly's strongest albums, Wild Like Children and Bottoms of Barrels (both released on Conor Oberst's Team Love label), had a forever-young spirit that never shied away from sadness, sex, and the glories of insatiable inebriation. "Forty ounces is never enough, we wanna pass out in your yard," went Children's teen-delinquency anthem "Nights of the Living Dead", before exploding, into a proto-Kill-People-Burn-Shit-Fuck-School group chant: "I wanna fuck it up! I wanna fuck it up!" Like a glittery, tap-dancing unicorn, Tilly and the Wall have spent the better part of a decade giving meaning to the phrase "twee as fuck." What should such a band sound like once its members get married and have kids? It's a question others have pondered before, but Heavy Mood stumbles in its attempt to offer innovative solutions. One highlight is the Alarid-led "Youth", which spins the track's slow tempo into a philosophy, "Living for speed and dying young, it's all been done before." Maybe so, but the best moments of Heavy Mood are also its most aerobic; the dull ballads "I Believe in You", "Echo My Love", and "Hey Rainbow" all bleed into each other, sputtering repetitively in their final minutes rather than building to the cathartic, schmaltz-transcendent climaxes of Barrels' "Coughing Colors" and "The Freest Man". The only trick the closing track "Defenders" has up its sleeve is a children's choir brought on to holler along with the band, "We're not afraid to live! No we're not afraid to die!" as the album fades out. Hate to say it's all been done before. Somewhat ironically, given its professed devotion to creativity and liberation, Heavy Mood's best songs are the ones that offer fresh takes on familiar sounds. Aside from the opening lightning bolt that is "Love Riot", the girl-group-inspired "All Kinds of Guns" boasts the record's catchiest hook and punchiest lyrics ("My baby's got all kinds of guns, and he sticks to every one"). As do a few other of the more combative songs on Heavy Mood, "Guns" calls to mind tUnE-yArDs' incisive 2011 song "Riotriot" and Merrill Garbus's mid-song cry, "There is a freedom in violence that I don't understand and like I've never felt before!" "All Kinds of Guns" uses a winking play on words to suggest something larger about the fine line between passion and violence, and it’s an engaging articulation of the record's fighting spirit. But though Heavy Mood's dedication to freedom, love, and liberation is admirable in the abstract, many recent records have tangled with these concepts with more originality and flair. Last year alone, tUnE-yArDs' exhilarating w h o k i l l explored many of Heavy Mood's themes with more specificity and bite, and the now-defunct Baltimore band Ponytail made a great record called Do Whatever You Want All the Time, with freewheeling music that actually made good on that credo. Compared to these records-- and earlier Tilly and the Wall releases-- what feels missing from Heavy Mood is specificity: Where are the characters, and what became of those kids passed out on the lawn? The heart of Heavy Mood is lost its in own sloganeering."

Gunplay

Living Legend

Rap

David Drake

Gunplay is a blast from the past for rap obsessives. His precise lyrics and fluid rap style reflect the studious flows and manic personalities of hip-hop in the late 1990s—Redman, Busta Rhymes, or Rawkus-era Eminem. Had his debut album emerged in those years, he might have become a larger-than-life star. As it stands now, he is more living anachronism than Living Legend. The MMG rapper's Def Jam debut is being released four years after "Rollin" first sparked his street buzz nationally. Anyone expecting a classic in the vein of Muddy Waters will leave disappointed; for a charismatic rapper with a bombastic presence, his official debut feels slighter than it should, less a late '90s renaissance than a fading reminder. Living Legend isn't bad, exactly. It's a consistent release with no substantial misfires, full of densely packed verbiage and grand gestures, reminiscent of a time when technique, style, and personality seemed inseparable, interrelated qualities in a rapper's arsenal. The best songs have a profundity that transcends the packaging around them: the wistful Miami sunset of "Just Won't Do" recalls his earlier career highlight "Bible on the Dash", its opening lines mirroring that song's most famous couplet ("I asked the pastor, what's the fastest way to heaven…?") before shifting into a spare narrative that sketches the hard-earned wisdom of a damaged man onto a twilight canvas. The recklessness of his public image—and sometimes, his real public behavior—belies, even magnifies, the earnest reflection that illuminates moments like these. He recaptures this potency only occasionally. Closer "Dark Dayz" comes closest, with no wasted lines and artful, writerly composition that suggests simultaneous moods of pride and torment: "Happy-face sticker on the brick, still feeling miserable." Images pop, as he shifts effortlessly from the visual to the abstract, an interconnected web of ideas that suggests the craft of a detail-obsessed aficionado. As a writer, Gunplay is one of the best in rap, when he wants to be. And he's not limited to "deep thoughts"-type records; on more brolic cuts, like "White Bitch", his lyrics are vividly original: "Skinny as pasta with a big ol' mossberg/ Squares in my trunk and white all in my nostrils." The album's midsection sags under its relative banality: Rick Ross feature "Be Like Me" sounds like a generic version of records Ross has been releasing over the past four or so years. And "Chain Smokin'" wastes a clever hook with a song that feels like a kush coma for more than three minutes, a must-fast-forward dead zone until Gunplay's verse. Lead single "Wuzhanindoe" is solid, but also dated, a cutting-room-floor version of guest rapper YG's spring 2014 release My Krazy Life. It also draws attention to the relative disparity in quality between the two artists' album statements. By any standard, Gunplay is the superior talent: bar-for-bar, emotional resonance, depth of feeling. But while his lyrics fill the page with evocative, fully-rendered ideas, his album feels like a half-step; YG's revitalization of '90s West Coast tropes, meanwhile, found the rapper exceeding his limitations song after song. And that's Gunplay's major weakness: his art is focused on some powerful particulars at the expense of the whole. Perhaps, as a 36-year-old rapper who's lived quite a life—most of it, in fact—outside the studio, it's unfair to expect more. The distance between his standout records—"Rollin", "Jump Out", "Bible on the Dash"—and the average Gunplay song is considerable. Concept-driven cuts like "Tell 'Em" and "White Bitch" are lyrically strong, but are easily forgotten once the album has receded. The pathos of his unrealized potential deepens the colors of his best work, hinting at artistic depth that remains out of our sight.

Artist: Gunplay, Album: Living Legend, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Gunplay is a blast from the past for rap obsessives. His precise lyrics and fluid rap style reflect the studious flows and manic personalities of hip-hop in the late 1990s—Redman, Busta Rhymes, or Rawkus-era Eminem. Had his debut album emerged in those years, he might have become a larger-than-life star. As it stands now, he is more living anachronism than Living Legend. The MMG rapper's Def Jam debut is being released four years after "Rollin" first sparked his street buzz nationally. Anyone expecting a classic in the vein of Muddy Waters will leave disappointed; for a charismatic rapper with a bombastic presence, his official debut feels slighter than it should, less a late '90s renaissance than a fading reminder. Living Legend isn't bad, exactly. It's a consistent release with no substantial misfires, full of densely packed verbiage and grand gestures, reminiscent of a time when technique, style, and personality seemed inseparable, interrelated qualities in a rapper's arsenal. The best songs have a profundity that transcends the packaging around them: the wistful Miami sunset of "Just Won't Do" recalls his earlier career highlight "Bible on the Dash", its opening lines mirroring that song's most famous couplet ("I asked the pastor, what's the fastest way to heaven…?") before shifting into a spare narrative that sketches the hard-earned wisdom of a damaged man onto a twilight canvas. The recklessness of his public image—and sometimes, his real public behavior—belies, even magnifies, the earnest reflection that illuminates moments like these. He recaptures this potency only occasionally. Closer "Dark Dayz" comes closest, with no wasted lines and artful, writerly composition that suggests simultaneous moods of pride and torment: "Happy-face sticker on the brick, still feeling miserable." Images pop, as he shifts effortlessly from the visual to the abstract, an interconnected web of ideas that suggests the craft of a detail-obsessed aficionado. As a writer, Gunplay is one of the best in rap, when he wants to be. And he's not limited to "deep thoughts"-type records; on more brolic cuts, like "White Bitch", his lyrics are vividly original: "Skinny as pasta with a big ol' mossberg/ Squares in my trunk and white all in my nostrils." The album's midsection sags under its relative banality: Rick Ross feature "Be Like Me" sounds like a generic version of records Ross has been releasing over the past four or so years. And "Chain Smokin'" wastes a clever hook with a song that feels like a kush coma for more than three minutes, a must-fast-forward dead zone until Gunplay's verse. Lead single "Wuzhanindoe" is solid, but also dated, a cutting-room-floor version of guest rapper YG's spring 2014 release My Krazy Life. It also draws attention to the relative disparity in quality between the two artists' album statements. By any standard, Gunplay is the superior talent: bar-for-bar, emotional resonance, depth of feeling. But while his lyrics fill the page with evocative, fully-rendered ideas, his album feels like a half-step; YG's revitalization of '90s West Coast tropes, meanwhile, found the rapper exceeding his limitations song after song. And that's Gunplay's major weakness: his art is focused on some powerful particulars at the expense of the whole. Perhaps, as a 36-year-old rapper who's lived quite a life—most of it, in fact—outside the studio, it's unfair to expect more. The distance between his standout records—"Rollin", "Jump Out", "Bible on the Dash"—and the average Gunplay song is considerable. Concept-driven cuts like "Tell 'Em" and "White Bitch" are lyrically strong, but are easily forgotten once the album has receded. The pathos of his unrealized potential deepens the colors of his best work, hinting at artistic depth that remains out of our sight."

Bishop Allen

Grrr...

Rock

Grayson Currin

Recorded and mixed by the excellent Bryce Goggin, Grrr... sounds immaculate: The guitars are sharp. The drums are steady. The harmonies are supple. Its various strings, shakers, and horns captured and layered into a well-spaced, easily listenable whole. After a spin or three, a handful of Grrr...'s 13 tracks should stick, too, whether it's the vibraphone-abetted "The Lion & the Teacup" or the squiggling, lustful plunder-like-pirates number, "Shanghaied". And maybe being swept up by a hook or two is enough, but much like the politely irritated word it takes for its name, the too-pleasant Grrr... concedes to middle-of-the-road safety, hoping to offend no one and, in the process, says absolutely nothing. Music that's safe, of course, isn't necessarily worthy of derision, especially if its origins and aims are pedestrian. If you're criticizing Jason Mraz for writing "I'm Yours" to push a few hundred thousand units, you're picking an easy and misguided fight. But, complete with references to Pliny the Elder's ornithological bent, their borough's rooftop activities, and a friend's broken vinyl records, Grrr... is by, of, and for indie kids. In fact, Bishop Allen regularly remind us their protagonists are apart from and above the masses: Characters climb roofs and hit the road in idealized beatnik fashion. They leave everyone else behind, staring down from the tops of buildings or forgetting people's names when they cross state lines. They treat the rest of the world as a quaint curiosity. What's more, Bishop Allen's narrators see their surroundings solipsistically. The world is theirs for the using, Bishop Allen suggests, an idea epitomized by the mercurial character of "Dirt on Your New Shoes". She turns seashells into her necklace, the ground into her mattress, and the band into her jukebox. And worse, Bishop Allen's subjects suggest the world has no bigger worry than their feelings. When the South China moon shines down, it burns "a hole in my head out of spite." The particularly unstable narrator of "Rooftop Brawl" startles that the sun still shines, not that he's lived long enough to see it again. That is, he fancies that the world's fate hinges on his ability to outlast his depression through the night. Fuck you and me and all y'all, really: The sun rises only for him. So this batch of smug tunes comes aimed above or around the lot of us, but it's not a significant loss. In their neat instrumental outfits-- where everything is mannerly and tucked and where a distorted guitar actually sounds parodic-- these songs serve mostly as reminders that songwriters singing about love, wounded friends, and hitting the road have long done this stuff better, both through more relevant references and less banal sonics. Musically, these songs don't deserve to pretend they're better than anything else. That's too bad, as Bishop Allen's 2006 monthly EP series suggested a band of guileless but educated, prolific but considered romantics. Back then, Bishop Allen could turn moving a piano into heart-quaking triumph ("Corazon") or meeting a mistaken woman into reassuring compassion ("Bellingham"). A sense of musical delight and adventurousness served those EPs well. Mixing docile acoustic waltzes with clashing, blunt bar rock, Bishop Allen sounded eager to explore all corners of pop. But even when Bishop Allen regales with the crazy sights they've seen or the tough lives they've lived, Grrr... seems transcribed from a distant memory or read from the pages of a script (Sullivan's Travels perhaps, or O Brother, Where Art Thou?). In the movie Mutual Appreciation, Bishop Allen frontman Justin Rice played an aspiring singer-songwriter named Alan who said he was looking for experience, not happiness. Five years later, Rice's real band-- which has never sounded so woefully self-involved and unengaged-- would do well to heed that advice.

Artist: Bishop Allen, Album: Grrr..., Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 3.5 Album review: "Recorded and mixed by the excellent Bryce Goggin, Grrr... sounds immaculate: The guitars are sharp. The drums are steady. The harmonies are supple. Its various strings, shakers, and horns captured and layered into a well-spaced, easily listenable whole. After a spin or three, a handful of Grrr...'s 13 tracks should stick, too, whether it's the vibraphone-abetted "The Lion & the Teacup" or the squiggling, lustful plunder-like-pirates number, "Shanghaied". And maybe being swept up by a hook or two is enough, but much like the politely irritated word it takes for its name, the too-pleasant Grrr... concedes to middle-of-the-road safety, hoping to offend no one and, in the process, says absolutely nothing. Music that's safe, of course, isn't necessarily worthy of derision, especially if its origins and aims are pedestrian. If you're criticizing Jason Mraz for writing "I'm Yours" to push a few hundred thousand units, you're picking an easy and misguided fight. But, complete with references to Pliny the Elder's ornithological bent, their borough's rooftop activities, and a friend's broken vinyl records, Grrr... is by, of, and for indie kids. In fact, Bishop Allen regularly remind us their protagonists are apart from and above the masses: Characters climb roofs and hit the road in idealized beatnik fashion. They leave everyone else behind, staring down from the tops of buildings or forgetting people's names when they cross state lines. They treat the rest of the world as a quaint curiosity. What's more, Bishop Allen's narrators see their surroundings solipsistically. The world is theirs for the using, Bishop Allen suggests, an idea epitomized by the mercurial character of "Dirt on Your New Shoes". She turns seashells into her necklace, the ground into her mattress, and the band into her jukebox. And worse, Bishop Allen's subjects suggest the world has no bigger worry than their feelings. When the South China moon shines down, it burns "a hole in my head out of spite." The particularly unstable narrator of "Rooftop Brawl" startles that the sun still shines, not that he's lived long enough to see it again. That is, he fancies that the world's fate hinges on his ability to outlast his depression through the night. Fuck you and me and all y'all, really: The sun rises only for him. So this batch of smug tunes comes aimed above or around the lot of us, but it's not a significant loss. In their neat instrumental outfits-- where everything is mannerly and tucked and where a distorted guitar actually sounds parodic-- these songs serve mostly as reminders that songwriters singing about love, wounded friends, and hitting the road have long done this stuff better, both through more relevant references and less banal sonics. Musically, these songs don't deserve to pretend they're better than anything else. That's too bad, as Bishop Allen's 2006 monthly EP series suggested a band of guileless but educated, prolific but considered romantics. Back then, Bishop Allen could turn moving a piano into heart-quaking triumph ("Corazon") or meeting a mistaken woman into reassuring compassion ("Bellingham"). A sense of musical delight and adventurousness served those EPs well. Mixing docile acoustic waltzes with clashing, blunt bar rock, Bishop Allen sounded eager to explore all corners of pop. But even when Bishop Allen regales with the crazy sights they've seen or the tough lives they've lived, Grrr... seems transcribed from a distant memory or read from the pages of a script (Sullivan's Travels perhaps, or O Brother, Where Art Thou?). In the movie Mutual Appreciation, Bishop Allen frontman Justin Rice played an aspiring singer-songwriter named Alan who said he was looking for experience, not happiness. Five years later, Rice's real band-- which has never sounded so woefully self-involved and unengaged-- would do well to heed that advice."

Otis Redding

Live in London and Paris

Pop/R&B

Stephen M. Deusner

Otis Redding's Live in London and Paris is a largely redundant, highly repetitive, for-fans-only release of two 1967 concerts drawn from almost identical setlists. But this characterization misses the point, because Redding's music-- in its constantly evolving urgency, abandon, and complexity-- invites even the casual listener to become obsessive. To listen to his live performances is to give in to the urge to compare them, argue over them, parse their differences. One of the most dynamic singers ever to put his stamp on the pop charts, Redding consistently emphasized song over performance, which means each take is singular and unrepeatable. Live in London and Paris features especially remarkable stagings from the Stax Records' infamous 1967 European package tour, and captures Redding at the full height of his powers as a showman. So what if the two strong live albums still in print-- 67's Live in Europe, which overlaps with London and Paris, and 68's In Person at the Whisky a Go Go-- render this new collection essentially inessential? Redding's superlative stage presence ought to appeal to all listeners, whether they've studiously researched the making of Otis Blue: Otis Redding Sings Soul or just groove to "(Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay" whenever it's on the oldies station. Regardless of the repetitive nature of Live in London and Paris-- in fact, because of it-- leaning close to listen for each staging's distinctive qualities can be a rewarding experience. Introductions At London's Finsbury Park Astoria and four days later at the Olympia Theatre in Paris, Emperor Rosko rouses the crowd by having them spell out Redding's name. One English fan, sitting suspiciously close to Tom Dowd's recording equipment, can be heard screaming out the letters of Doris Troy's name; Roger Armstrong's liner notes suggest it signals his disapproval of this new wave of R&B that Redding represents. The French are far better spellers, and Rosko declares them "groovy, baby, groovy." Both intros seem like relics of the period, but they show just how well his music has aged. There is no dust on these songs. "Respect" Redding had some spelling of his own to do on this tour, namely R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Better known today as a hit for Aretha Franklin, his "Respect" makes an especially apt opener, its urgent tempo and pleading lyrics riling up the crowd. In London, the song sounds reckless as Redding leads the band at double time. In fact, "Respect" almost gets away from him: Halfway through he botches a cue but quickly recovers. The Paris performance dials the tempo down a bit, amps up the Mar-Keys' horns, and spotlights Donald "Duck" Dunn's elastic bassline. "My Girl" Redding's first European hit was his cover of the Temptations' chart smash "My Girl". In both venues the song retains its famous three-note bass theme and loping tempo, but the M.G.s transfer that bassline to Steve Cropper's guitar, which adds a lush backdrop for Redding's earthy vocals. In Paris, where "My Girl" was Redding's fourth song of the night instead of his second, Cropper and Dunn double up on that ascending melody so that it provides a more emphatic commentary on Redding's delivery. Here the differences in the technical recordings become clear: The London show fuzzes around the edges, whereas the Paris set sounds much crisper-- you can hear every thrum of Booker T.'s organ and every click of Al Jackson, Sr.'s drumstick against the snare rim. "Shake" In both shows, "My Girl" leads abruptly into the faster "Shake", originally by Sam Cooke but also covered on Otis Blue. The band knows how well the transition works: Those horn blasts, punctuated by Cropper's guitar, herald a new song at a new tempo, leaving the audience with barely enough time to catch their breaths. In London, it's the band's finest, tightest moment, as every instrument-- even the audience's clapping and shouts-- clicks into place to emphasize that jumpy groove. In Paris, it's even better, with Jackson's drum fills rolling in and out of the chorus and Redding involving the audience even more: "Say it with a little bit of soul!" "Shake!" "Say it with a little bit of feeling!" "Shake!" "Day Tripper" In London "Shake" is followed by "Day Tripper", an effective one-two punch. Redding's cover essentially finishes what the Beatles started: It syncopates the rhythms, revs up the tempo, and trips out the melody, making the original sound like a rough sketch. In Paris, however, Redding and the band move "Day Tripper" to near the end of the show so that it leads into closer "Try a Little Tenderness". Booker T.'s organ is an airplane landing, the Mar-Keys' horn stabs sound like sparks of fire, and Redding elaborates on the lyrics, picking a phrase and repeating it demonstratively: "Gottagottagottagottagotta! You gotta love me when I want it, baby!" "Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa (Sad Song)" "Here's a song I love to sing, and I want you to help me sing it along together," Redding says in London by means of introducing "Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa (Sad Song)", and despite its mournful horn preface, it's not really a sad song, but rather a song about sad songs. He actually has to teach the London audience how to do a call and response, drawing them out a bit to sing "Sock it to me, baby!" and "Wang dang doodle" back to him. In Paris, the crowd sings and claps along with no prompting, and that, more than Redding's insistent performance, puts the song over. "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" Of course the London crowd goes nuts for this one. The Rolling Stones were hometown boys, and Redding had covered that group's signature hit on Otis Blue, which was his first hit album in England. Jackson's drums give the song its headlong momentum, and the band breaks it down for Redding to explore the improvisational potential of the syllables "-faction." Even though it comes earlier in the Paris show, Redding still sounds like he's feeding off the French audience's enthusiasm, throwing himself into the song completely. It's one of his most commanding performances on this disc, although the longer version from In Person at the Whisky a Go Go proves superior, if only for the call and response with the band and the quickening tempo on the climax. "Try a Little Tenderness" More than any other pair of tracks, these two versions of "Try a Little Tenderness"-- closing both shows-- sound more or less identical, right down to Emperor Rosko calling Redding out for multiple encores. The big push on the London performance sounds a bit shaky, but the band clicks into place soon enough. In Paris, it's simply more efficient, and his encores-- re

Artist: Otis Redding, Album: Live in London and Paris, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Otis Redding's Live in London and Paris is a largely redundant, highly repetitive, for-fans-only release of two 1967 concerts drawn from almost identical setlists. But this characterization misses the point, because Redding's music-- in its constantly evolving urgency, abandon, and complexity-- invites even the casual listener to become obsessive. To listen to his live performances is to give in to the urge to compare them, argue over them, parse their differences. One of the most dynamic singers ever to put his stamp on the pop charts, Redding consistently emphasized song over performance, which means each take is singular and unrepeatable. Live in London and Paris features especially remarkable stagings from the Stax Records' infamous 1967 European package tour, and captures Redding at the full height of his powers as a showman. So what if the two strong live albums still in print-- 67's Live in Europe, which overlaps with London and Paris, and 68's In Person at the Whisky a Go Go-- render this new collection essentially inessential? Redding's superlative stage presence ought to appeal to all listeners, whether they've studiously researched the making of Otis Blue: Otis Redding Sings Soul or just groove to "(Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay" whenever it's on the oldies station. Regardless of the repetitive nature of Live in London and Paris-- in fact, because of it-- leaning close to listen for each staging's distinctive qualities can be a rewarding experience. Introductions At London's Finsbury Park Astoria and four days later at the Olympia Theatre in Paris, Emperor Rosko rouses the crowd by having them spell out Redding's name. One English fan, sitting suspiciously close to Tom Dowd's recording equipment, can be heard screaming out the letters of Doris Troy's name; Roger Armstrong's liner notes suggest it signals his disapproval of this new wave of R&B that Redding represents. The French are far better spellers, and Rosko declares them "groovy, baby, groovy." Both intros seem like relics of the period, but they show just how well his music has aged. There is no dust on these songs. "Respect" Redding had some spelling of his own to do on this tour, namely R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Better known today as a hit for Aretha Franklin, his "Respect" makes an especially apt opener, its urgent tempo and pleading lyrics riling up the crowd. In London, the song sounds reckless as Redding leads the band at double time. In fact, "Respect" almost gets away from him: Halfway through he botches a cue but quickly recovers. The Paris performance dials the tempo down a bit, amps up the Mar-Keys' horns, and spotlights Donald "Duck" Dunn's elastic bassline. "My Girl" Redding's first European hit was his cover of the Temptations' chart smash "My Girl". In both venues the song retains its famous three-note bass theme and loping tempo, but the M.G.s transfer that bassline to Steve Cropper's guitar, which adds a lush backdrop for Redding's earthy vocals. In Paris, where "My Girl" was Redding's fourth song of the night instead of his second, Cropper and Dunn double up on that ascending melody so that it provides a more emphatic commentary on Redding's delivery. Here the differences in the technical recordings become clear: The London show fuzzes around the edges, whereas the Paris set sounds much crisper-- you can hear every thrum of Booker T.'s organ and every click of Al Jackson, Sr.'s drumstick against the snare rim. "Shake" In both shows, "My Girl" leads abruptly into the faster "Shake", originally by Sam Cooke but also covered on Otis Blue. The band knows how well the transition works: Those horn blasts, punctuated by Cropper's guitar, herald a new song at a new tempo, leaving the audience with barely enough time to catch their breaths. In London, it's the band's finest, tightest moment, as every instrument-- even the audience's clapping and shouts-- clicks into place to emphasize that jumpy groove. In Paris, it's even better, with Jackson's drum fills rolling in and out of the chorus and Redding involving the audience even more: "Say it with a little bit of soul!" "Shake!" "Say it with a little bit of feeling!" "Shake!" "Day Tripper" In London "Shake" is followed by "Day Tripper", an effective one-two punch. Redding's cover essentially finishes what the Beatles started: It syncopates the rhythms, revs up the tempo, and trips out the melody, making the original sound like a rough sketch. In Paris, however, Redding and the band move "Day Tripper" to near the end of the show so that it leads into closer "Try a Little Tenderness". Booker T.'s organ is an airplane landing, the Mar-Keys' horn stabs sound like sparks of fire, and Redding elaborates on the lyrics, picking a phrase and repeating it demonstratively: "Gottagottagottagottagotta! You gotta love me when I want it, baby!" "Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa (Sad Song)" "Here's a song I love to sing, and I want you to help me sing it along together," Redding says in London by means of introducing "Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa (Sad Song)", and despite its mournful horn preface, it's not really a sad song, but rather a song about sad songs. He actually has to teach the London audience how to do a call and response, drawing them out a bit to sing "Sock it to me, baby!" and "Wang dang doodle" back to him. In Paris, the crowd sings and claps along with no prompting, and that, more than Redding's insistent performance, puts the song over. "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" Of course the London crowd goes nuts for this one. The Rolling Stones were hometown boys, and Redding had covered that group's signature hit on Otis Blue, which was his first hit album in England. Jackson's drums give the song its headlong momentum, and the band breaks it down for Redding to explore the improvisational potential of the syllables "-faction." Even though it comes earlier in the Paris show, Redding still sounds like he's feeding off the French audience's enthusiasm, throwing himself into the song completely. It's one of his most commanding performances on this disc, although the longer version from In Person at the Whisky a Go Go proves superior, if only for the call and response with the band and the quickening tempo on the climax. "Try a Little Tenderness" More than any other pair of tracks, these two versions of "Try a Little Tenderness"-- closing both shows-- sound more or less identical, right down to Emperor Rosko calling Redding out for multiple encores. The big push on the London performance sounds a bit shaky, but the band clicks into place soon enough. In Paris, it's simply more efficient, and his encores-- re"

Various Artists

Don’t Rock the Boat, Sink the Fucker

Stephen M. Deusner

Des Ark started as a queercore duo 10 years ago, releasing their first LP, Loose Lips Sink Ships, in 2005. Since its inception, the band has remained in a state of flux, with members coming and going almost on a show-by-show basis. The mainstay has been Aimée Collet Argote, a guitar player and songwriter currently based in Philadelphia. She spent nearly four years recording her second full-length, and one would imagine that would give her plenty of time to think up a better album title than Don't Rock the Boat, Sink the Fucker. There is a curious incongruity between the presentation of the music and the music itself on Fucker. Scribbled across a radiant photo of Argote, that title suggests a bumper sticker more than an album, and "My Saddle Is Waiting (C'Mon Jump on It)" and "Bonne Chance, Asshole" don't sound like songs called "My Saddle Is Waiting (C'Mon Jump on It)" and "Bonne Chance, Asshole". Anyone expecting agitprop mallpunk or ironic cowpunk covers may be surprised by the shimmery pop sound of Fucker, which creates a dynamic, often dense sound out of a minimum of instruments. This is an album of compelling contradictions and frictions. Argote is an especially forthcoming songwriter, penning incisive and cutting lyrics about female relationships that range from self-destructive ("I was fucking every girl who looked my way") to accusatory ("when you find a lover that you want to keep, I think you'll talk to her first, before you tell her you don't love her"). She bares her soul on the lyrics sheet, yet sings and mixes her vocals as if to obscure her words, often bending her syllables or burying them in the mix. Rather than alienating, however, the tactic proves engaging, as she makes the listener lean into the music and work to decipher it. Most of the time it's well worth the effort, as Argote and her collaborators-- including guitar player Noah Howard and drummer Ashley Arnwine-- capture a loud sort of quiet, emphasizing the softer passages to give the abrasive moments more weight. It's most effective on "My Saddle Is Waiting (C'Mon Jump on It)", which begins with a gentle acoustic theme that repeats throughout the song. By the end, it has changed completely simply by juxtaposition to other melodies and motifs, and all the elements come together for an unexpectedly poignant finale. "Howard's Hour of Shower" is so spare that you can hear the speaker buzz behind her chiming guitars and vocals. On the other hand, "It's Only a Bargain If You Want It" churns stridently as the instruments grind against each other and Argote sings, "You will always be my girl." It's both reassuring and menacing-- a promise and a threat. Listening to Fucker, it's difficult to discern Argote's intentions regarding that disconnect between the packaging and the music-- or if she even intended such a disconnect. The effect, however, is often intriguing, suggesting a sleight of hand that slyly upends listener expectations about the sound and politics of gender, sexuality, lust, love, and indie rock. To her credit, she never comes across as strictly political or academic, although surely she doesn't really buy into that title. Sinking the fucker is much too blunt; Des Ark rock with more nuance than that.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Don’t Rock the Boat, Sink the Fucker, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Des Ark started as a queercore duo 10 years ago, releasing their first LP, Loose Lips Sink Ships, in 2005. Since its inception, the band has remained in a state of flux, with members coming and going almost on a show-by-show basis. The mainstay has been Aimée Collet Argote, a guitar player and songwriter currently based in Philadelphia. She spent nearly four years recording her second full-length, and one would imagine that would give her plenty of time to think up a better album title than Don't Rock the Boat, Sink the Fucker. There is a curious incongruity between the presentation of the music and the music itself on Fucker. Scribbled across a radiant photo of Argote, that title suggests a bumper sticker more than an album, and "My Saddle Is Waiting (C'Mon Jump on It)" and "Bonne Chance, Asshole" don't sound like songs called "My Saddle Is Waiting (C'Mon Jump on It)" and "Bonne Chance, Asshole". Anyone expecting agitprop mallpunk or ironic cowpunk covers may be surprised by the shimmery pop sound of Fucker, which creates a dynamic, often dense sound out of a minimum of instruments. This is an album of compelling contradictions and frictions. Argote is an especially forthcoming songwriter, penning incisive and cutting lyrics about female relationships that range from self-destructive ("I was fucking every girl who looked my way") to accusatory ("when you find a lover that you want to keep, I think you'll talk to her first, before you tell her you don't love her"). She bares her soul on the lyrics sheet, yet sings and mixes her vocals as if to obscure her words, often bending her syllables or burying them in the mix. Rather than alienating, however, the tactic proves engaging, as she makes the listener lean into the music and work to decipher it. Most of the time it's well worth the effort, as Argote and her collaborators-- including guitar player Noah Howard and drummer Ashley Arnwine-- capture a loud sort of quiet, emphasizing the softer passages to give the abrasive moments more weight. It's most effective on "My Saddle Is Waiting (C'Mon Jump on It)", which begins with a gentle acoustic theme that repeats throughout the song. By the end, it has changed completely simply by juxtaposition to other melodies and motifs, and all the elements come together for an unexpectedly poignant finale. "Howard's Hour of Shower" is so spare that you can hear the speaker buzz behind her chiming guitars and vocals. On the other hand, "It's Only a Bargain If You Want It" churns stridently as the instruments grind against each other and Argote sings, "You will always be my girl." It's both reassuring and menacing-- a promise and a threat. Listening to Fucker, it's difficult to discern Argote's intentions regarding that disconnect between the packaging and the music-- or if she even intended such a disconnect. The effect, however, is often intriguing, suggesting a sleight of hand that slyly upends listener expectations about the sound and politics of gender, sexuality, lust, love, and indie rock. To her credit, she never comes across as strictly political or academic, although surely she doesn't really buy into that title. Sinking the fucker is much too blunt; Des Ark rock with more nuance than that."

Hotel Alexis

Goliath, I'm On Your Side

Chris Dahlen

In the middle of Goliath, I'm On Your Side comes a moment that colors the entire record-- except it's not so much one moment as a handful of them that stretch over 18 minutes. "Hummingbird/Indian Dog" consists of soft guitar, loops, and drones that shimmer and rise to the sky, a mostly-wordless dreamspace made of the gentlest psychedelia. Once you hear it, it stays with you every time you play the record-- in the sturdier alt-country of "The Devil Knows My Handle", or the fragile ballads like "Suddenly, It's You & Me" where every instrument and every timbre in Syd Alexis' voice reveal cracks. This is one of those indie albums, a late-at-night, ostensibly vulnerable singer-songwriter thing where the auteur's friends step in to flesh out those simple arrangements with all the right touches-- a Mellotron here, pedal steel there. The rhythm section of Kimberlee Torres and Gregg Porter, Nathan Groth on guitar and vibes, and guests like Say Zuzu's Jon Nolan provide a fragile backdrop-- like the melody of "Silver Waves Crash Through the Canyons" that takes off on paper-maché wings, or opener "Sad, Sad Army", where Alexis' vocals open in a night-shift croak. But this isn't an album that coasts on its vibe. The dreaminess sometimes takes its toll: for some this will be a soft listen, maybe softer than the songs call for. The mellifluous synths of "I Will Arrange For You To Fall II" cradle you maternally, and a lullaby tone creeps in repeatedly. But the sublime state they achieve makes up for it. Two shorter instrumentals-- the brief "Thicket" and "Oh, The Loneliness"-- feed the ambiance of "Hummingbird/Indian Dog", and together they give Alexis and gang a chance to set on tape the space rock field trips of their live shows. The songs are strong on their own, but these excursions give Hotel Alexis a chance to disappear into a dream for a while, and find out where it leads.

Artist: Hotel Alexis, Album: Goliath, I'm On Your Side, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "In the middle of Goliath, I'm On Your Side comes a moment that colors the entire record-- except it's not so much one moment as a handful of them that stretch over 18 minutes. "Hummingbird/Indian Dog" consists of soft guitar, loops, and drones that shimmer and rise to the sky, a mostly-wordless dreamspace made of the gentlest psychedelia. Once you hear it, it stays with you every time you play the record-- in the sturdier alt-country of "The Devil Knows My Handle", or the fragile ballads like "Suddenly, It's You & Me" where every instrument and every timbre in Syd Alexis' voice reveal cracks. This is one of those indie albums, a late-at-night, ostensibly vulnerable singer-songwriter thing where the auteur's friends step in to flesh out those simple arrangements with all the right touches-- a Mellotron here, pedal steel there. The rhythm section of Kimberlee Torres and Gregg Porter, Nathan Groth on guitar and vibes, and guests like Say Zuzu's Jon Nolan provide a fragile backdrop-- like the melody of "Silver Waves Crash Through the Canyons" that takes off on paper-maché wings, or opener "Sad, Sad Army", where Alexis' vocals open in a night-shift croak. But this isn't an album that coasts on its vibe. The dreaminess sometimes takes its toll: for some this will be a soft listen, maybe softer than the songs call for. The mellifluous synths of "I Will Arrange For You To Fall II" cradle you maternally, and a lullaby tone creeps in repeatedly. But the sublime state they achieve makes up for it. Two shorter instrumentals-- the brief "Thicket" and "Oh, The Loneliness"-- feed the ambiance of "Hummingbird/Indian Dog", and together they give Alexis and gang a chance to set on tape the space rock field trips of their live shows. The songs are strong on their own, but these excursions give Hotel Alexis a chance to disappear into a dream for a while, and find out where it leads."

Growing

Vision Swim

Experimental,Metal,Rock

Mark Richardson

Laptop composers often reference the arc of the symphonic music, with clear beginnings, middles, and ends. Bands like Growing-- who favor guitars and pedals and analog machines and leave a tail of patch cords dragging behind them as they move from town-to-town-- seem like they're always tinkering, listening to each other, and deciding in the moment what comes next. This analog-based live approach can lead, oddly enough, to heavy use of repetition. Sometimes Growing stay with a certain effect, holding it and letting it spin in place until they figure out where they're going to go next. Such repetition is key to their latest album Vision Swim, as is the sense of in-the-moment discovery. Here Growing often seem like they're tending a sound garden more than composing. "Morning Drive" begins with a throb of acidic feedback drone that never lets up, giving the tune the 4/4 pulse of mid-tempo techno. And when guitar sounds gradually come in, they're unstable notes flying all over the place, circling and tearing off like flies trying to dodge the tail of an angry cow. Whether or not it was all planned out in advance, the track sounds like something created by listening as much as playing, as if bassist Kevin Doria and guitarist Joe Denardo didn't know themselves exactly where it was going and after eleven minutes just decided to wind it down. This looseness gives "Morning Drive" a nice sense of unpredictability, its emotional ambiguity and zig-zag direction helping to reinforce repeat plays. Vision Swim makes clear that Growing are at their best when their music has these frayed edges. The pure drone of 2004's* Soul of The Rainbow And The Harmony Of Light* on Kranky, for example, was solid but had nowhere near this amount of personality; a more restless music, away form the quest for the perfect harmonic sequence, is where Growing's strengths lie. Sometimes, as on the 15-minute "On Anon", the various guitar delays, crunching distortion and squiggly notes assemble into a torrent of sound that's loud and frightening with a molten core of beauty that even a kindergartener could appreciate. Here they approach the sublime tension perfected by Black Dice on "Endless Happiness", where they manage to be simultaneously both fuck-you obnoxious and warmly ingratiating. Nothing else on Vision Swim quite approaches the knockout power of "On Anon" but all of it is at least pretty good. "Emseepee" also creates a bedrock bass rhythm off which playful bits of distortion pivot, "Lightfoot" turns white guitar noise into a wave pool, pushing forward with discrete surges of feedback. I haven't heard quite enough Growing to call this their best record, but it sounds to me like they're thinking hard about what goes where and why, finding new ways to get the most out of their varied sound palette.

Artist: Growing, Album: Vision Swim, Genre: Experimental,Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Laptop composers often reference the arc of the symphonic music, with clear beginnings, middles, and ends. Bands like Growing-- who favor guitars and pedals and analog machines and leave a tail of patch cords dragging behind them as they move from town-to-town-- seem like they're always tinkering, listening to each other, and deciding in the moment what comes next. This analog-based live approach can lead, oddly enough, to heavy use of repetition. Sometimes Growing stay with a certain effect, holding it and letting it spin in place until they figure out where they're going to go next. Such repetition is key to their latest album Vision Swim, as is the sense of in-the-moment discovery. Here Growing often seem like they're tending a sound garden more than composing. "Morning Drive" begins with a throb of acidic feedback drone that never lets up, giving the tune the 4/4 pulse of mid-tempo techno. And when guitar sounds gradually come in, they're unstable notes flying all over the place, circling and tearing off like flies trying to dodge the tail of an angry cow. Whether or not it was all planned out in advance, the track sounds like something created by listening as much as playing, as if bassist Kevin Doria and guitarist Joe Denardo didn't know themselves exactly where it was going and after eleven minutes just decided to wind it down. This looseness gives "Morning Drive" a nice sense of unpredictability, its emotional ambiguity and zig-zag direction helping to reinforce repeat plays. Vision Swim makes clear that Growing are at their best when their music has these frayed edges. The pure drone of 2004's* Soul of The Rainbow And The Harmony Of Light* on Kranky, for example, was solid but had nowhere near this amount of personality; a more restless music, away form the quest for the perfect harmonic sequence, is where Growing's strengths lie. Sometimes, as on the 15-minute "On Anon", the various guitar delays, crunching distortion and squiggly notes assemble into a torrent of sound that's loud and frightening with a molten core of beauty that even a kindergartener could appreciate. Here they approach the sublime tension perfected by Black Dice on "Endless Happiness", where they manage to be simultaneously both fuck-you obnoxious and warmly ingratiating. Nothing else on Vision Swim quite approaches the knockout power of "On Anon" but all of it is at least pretty good. "Emseepee" also creates a bedrock bass rhythm off which playful bits of distortion pivot, "Lightfoot" turns white guitar noise into a wave pool, pushing forward with discrete surges of feedback. I haven't heard quite enough Growing to call this their best record, but it sounds to me like they're thinking hard about what goes where and why, finding new ways to get the most out of their varied sound palette."

Anathallo

Floating World

Rock

Marc Hogan

Well, we're not in Illinoise anymore, but it's not for lack of superficial similarities: Like Sufjan Stevens himself, Anathallo hail from Michigan, their turn-ons include Jesus and marching band practice, and they never saw an overly elaborate song title they couldn't preface with a word from a foreign language. Floating World, the septet's first album after a handful of self-released EPs, pegs hushed vocals and everything-under-the-sun arrangements to Japanese folklore.  Unfortunately, the result is comically overwrought. Never less than wildly ambitious, Floating World is lavish enough for simple description to send most old-media typists careening over their word limits: glockenspiels, trumpets, trombones, flugelhorns, chains, harps, cellos, melodicas, bells, Velcro, feedback, "We Will Rock You" bleacher stomps, a cappella-group harmonies, Bible stories, Jeff Buckley balladic calisthenics, Ben Folds piano drama, a quick Rain Dogs-cum-Man Man hobo freakout, Appleseed Cast guitar sprawl, a surfeit of time-signature changes, one track with whirling drums that sound like "Chicago" (or really "Clocks"), and, on modern-classical-informed "The Bruised Reed", plenty of "love, love, love." Adds lead singer Matt Joynt, in choirboy melisma that intermittently froths with emo-kid angst: "See, all things are so bright and spiritual." Oh, are they? The band's name may be Greek for "to renew", but criticism comes from the Greek krinein, or "to cut," and here on the world wide internet there's plenty of space for saber-baring. Floating World's ostensible centerpiece is the song cycle from caroling, discordant "Hanasakajijii One: The Angry Neighbor" to the, yes, "Chicago"-like "Hanasakajijii Four: A Great Wind, More Ash"-- although naturally, the tracks are out of order and interspersed with the rest of the album. They're based on a Japanese folktale about a dog digging up gold in a neighbor's yard. Typical lyric: "I, of wicked deeds, snarling mouth/ Wandered away, wandered by." Clearly, none of this is Japan's fault. But as the old saying goes, when you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit-- and Anathallo love clichés, too.  "Out of sight, out of mind/ Someone said that to me, someone said that to me"-- but they've clearly taken the former advice to heart. Floating World is little more than a long list of insufferable pretensions that suggest some psychedelic aspirations. Complexity for complexity's sake is lame, and nothing inherently privileges music that tries to bring "higher" arts into plain ol' pop; you could fill shelves and shelves with bad art-rock, jazz-rock or classical-rock. Floating World makes Anathallo the Emerson, Lake & Palmer of fiction-workshop rock: All things go, all things go.

Artist: Anathallo, Album: Floating World, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 2.7 Album review: "Well, we're not in Illinoise anymore, but it's not for lack of superficial similarities: Like Sufjan Stevens himself, Anathallo hail from Michigan, their turn-ons include Jesus and marching band practice, and they never saw an overly elaborate song title they couldn't preface with a word from a foreign language. Floating World, the septet's first album after a handful of self-released EPs, pegs hushed vocals and everything-under-the-sun arrangements to Japanese folklore.  Unfortunately, the result is comically overwrought. Never less than wildly ambitious, Floating World is lavish enough for simple description to send most old-media typists careening over their word limits: glockenspiels, trumpets, trombones, flugelhorns, chains, harps, cellos, melodicas, bells, Velcro, feedback, "We Will Rock You" bleacher stomps, a cappella-group harmonies, Bible stories, Jeff Buckley balladic calisthenics, Ben Folds piano drama, a quick Rain Dogs-cum-Man Man hobo freakout, Appleseed Cast guitar sprawl, a surfeit of time-signature changes, one track with whirling drums that sound like "Chicago" (or really "Clocks"), and, on modern-classical-informed "The Bruised Reed", plenty of "love, love, love." Adds lead singer Matt Joynt, in choirboy melisma that intermittently froths with emo-kid angst: "See, all things are so bright and spiritual." Oh, are they? The band's name may be Greek for "to renew", but criticism comes from the Greek krinein, or "to cut," and here on the world wide internet there's plenty of space for saber-baring. Floating World's ostensible centerpiece is the song cycle from caroling, discordant "Hanasakajijii One: The Angry Neighbor" to the, yes, "Chicago"-like "Hanasakajijii Four: A Great Wind, More Ash"-- although naturally, the tracks are out of order and interspersed with the rest of the album. They're based on a Japanese folktale about a dog digging up gold in a neighbor's yard. Typical lyric: "I, of wicked deeds, snarling mouth/ Wandered away, wandered by." Clearly, none of this is Japan's fault. But as the old saying goes, when you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit-- and Anathallo love clichés, too.  "Out of sight, out of mind/ Someone said that to me, someone said that to me"-- but they've clearly taken the former advice to heart. Floating World is little more than a long list of insufferable pretensions that suggest some psychedelic aspirations. Complexity for complexity's sake is lame, and nothing inherently privileges music that tries to bring "higher" arts into plain ol' pop; you could fill shelves and shelves with bad art-rock, jazz-rock or classical-rock. Floating World makes Anathallo the Emerson, Lake & Palmer of fiction-workshop rock: All things go, all things go."

Speedy Ortiz

Foil Deer

Rock

Jillian Mapes

On Speedy Ortiz’s 2013 debut Major Arcana, Sadie Dupuis crafted her barbed-wire wordplay into wounded callouts of those who had hurt her. Now, she's wielding it like a weapon. Foil Deer, the Massachusetts indie rock traditionalists' sophomore full-length, opens with Dupuis noting on "Good Neck" that she's good with a knife and she knows when to use it. She takes a lap around the block to cool down—like all good bosses should—before coming back with a world-beating declaration of autonomy on “Raising the Skate”: “I'm chief, not the overthrown/ Captain, not a crony/So if you wanna row, you better have an awfully big boat.” With Foil Deer, Dupuis doesn't scold; she warns. The album is ferocious and visceral, the lyrics gleaming with threats involving sharp blades both literal and figurative ("Don't ever touch my blade, you fool/ You'll be cursed for a lifetime," she taunts knowingly on "Dot X"). As Dupuis grows more self-possessed, she and her bandmates veer into their most ambitious compositions to date. Knotty melodies shift gears in an instant, giving Foil Deer a jumpy, enthralling energy. God bless ‘em, Speedy believe that every song ideally should have three or four musical ideas. For its first 47 seconds, "Zig" scans like vintage folk-pop until the song abruptly steers into a thorny chunk of dissonance led by Dupuis’ contrasting falsetto. A minute passes and it sounds like yet another song—a much more melodic thing this time—before a nightmarish jumble of riffs and cymbals grinds the pace to a halt. A defeated Dupuis wonders aloud "How many laps does it take to decide you’re back at the start?" as she and her bandmates double back on the the song’s original theme. It’s a clever construction, representing just how much thought went into crafting each of these songs. In Speedy Ortiz, both the music and lyrics work overtime, bringing a surplus of conflicting ideas to the table that they somehow manage to cram into tight spaces. The magic is that they never sound overworked, and in fact when they go more straighforward—"Puffer", for instance, in which they try the pleather sleaze of '90s industrial rock on for size—it feels like not quite enough by comparison. Despite its clever kiss-offs ("Take me off your list or elect a lobotomy"), the chipper pop-punk of "Swell Content" would have sufficed on last year’s Real Hair EP, but here it feels like filler. It goes to show that the members of Speedy Ortiz can barely keep up with their own progress. Dupuis, a recent MFA candidate in poetry at UMass Amherst, is among the most talented lyricists of her musical class. She writes vivid-yet-mysterious scenes that require interpretive work on the listeners' behalf—such as "My Dead Girl", a cryptic tale about living fast and risking becoming a missing face on a milk carton. But Dupuis’ greatest strength as a lyricist is her ability to turn her sour experiences into anthems about clawing back from self-doubt. On Foil Deer, Dupuis makes standing up for yourself—in the face of double standards, struggles with addiction, and the general carelessness of youth—sound like a no-brainer, but she also never tries to hide how complicated everything can be. As the band continues to evolve around and with her, Speedy Ortiz’s music finally sounds as complex as its leader dares to be.

Artist: Speedy Ortiz, Album: Foil Deer, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "On Speedy Ortiz’s 2013 debut Major Arcana, Sadie Dupuis crafted her barbed-wire wordplay into wounded callouts of those who had hurt her. Now, she's wielding it like a weapon. Foil Deer, the Massachusetts indie rock traditionalists' sophomore full-length, opens with Dupuis noting on "Good Neck" that she's good with a knife and she knows when to use it. She takes a lap around the block to cool down—like all good bosses should—before coming back with a world-beating declaration of autonomy on “Raising the Skate”: “I'm chief, not the overthrown/ Captain, not a crony/So if you wanna row, you better have an awfully big boat.” With Foil Deer, Dupuis doesn't scold; she warns. The album is ferocious and visceral, the lyrics gleaming with threats involving sharp blades both literal and figurative ("Don't ever touch my blade, you fool/ You'll be cursed for a lifetime," she taunts knowingly on "Dot X"). As Dupuis grows more self-possessed, she and her bandmates veer into their most ambitious compositions to date. Knotty melodies shift gears in an instant, giving Foil Deer a jumpy, enthralling energy. God bless ‘em, Speedy believe that every song ideally should have three or four musical ideas. For its first 47 seconds, "Zig" scans like vintage folk-pop until the song abruptly steers into a thorny chunk of dissonance led by Dupuis’ contrasting falsetto. A minute passes and it sounds like yet another song—a much more melodic thing this time—before a nightmarish jumble of riffs and cymbals grinds the pace to a halt. A defeated Dupuis wonders aloud "How many laps does it take to decide you’re back at the start?" as she and her bandmates double back on the the song’s original theme. It’s a clever construction, representing just how much thought went into crafting each of these songs. In Speedy Ortiz, both the music and lyrics work overtime, bringing a surplus of conflicting ideas to the table that they somehow manage to cram into tight spaces. The magic is that they never sound overworked, and in fact when they go more straighforward—"Puffer", for instance, in which they try the pleather sleaze of '90s industrial rock on for size—it feels like not quite enough by comparison. Despite its clever kiss-offs ("Take me off your list or elect a lobotomy"), the chipper pop-punk of "Swell Content" would have sufficed on last year’s Real Hair EP, but here it feels like filler. It goes to show that the members of Speedy Ortiz can barely keep up with their own progress. Dupuis, a recent MFA candidate in poetry at UMass Amherst, is among the most talented lyricists of her musical class. She writes vivid-yet-mysterious scenes that require interpretive work on the listeners' behalf—such as "My Dead Girl", a cryptic tale about living fast and risking becoming a missing face on a milk carton. But Dupuis’ greatest strength as a lyricist is her ability to turn her sour experiences into anthems about clawing back from self-doubt. On Foil Deer, Dupuis makes standing up for yourself—in the face of double standards, struggles with addiction, and the general carelessness of youth—sound like a no-brainer, but she also never tries to hide how complicated everything can be. As the band continues to evolve around and with her, Speedy Ortiz’s music finally sounds as complex as its leader dares to be."

Itasca

Open to Chance

Folk/Country

Marc Masters

There’s a bit of irony in the title of Itasca’s third album, *Open to Chance. *Musically, this is Kayla Cohen’s most precise, controlled work to date, compared not only to her early abstract drones as Sultan but even to her last full-length, 2015’s beautifully wandering guitar-and-voice record Unmoored by the Wind. It’s also her first recording with a band, which perhaps explains why she kept a tight ship, lest her subtle, intricate folk songs get blurred or drowned by overly-busy accompaniment. Thematically, though, *Open to Chance *has an apt name. It’s a record about trying something new and journeying into unknown experiences with eager, if cautious, optimism. The album opens with Cohen proposing a move to the mountains with her mate, travels through observations and interpretations of her environs, and closes with a meditation on how this dream might end. That might sound heavy, and certainly Cohen’s music is serious and often melancholy. But there’s a lot of joy in the way her songs illustrate and embody her thoughtful verse. Much of that joy comes from Cohen’s guitar and voice, two finely-tuned instruments that are uniquely adept at conveying her ideas and images. There’s always some spring in her acoustic, finger-picked step, even in Open to Chance’s most reflective moments. Her vocals are more wistful and bittersweet, delivered with a fading restraint that evokes Vashti Bunyan’s best whispers. But she also has a bright lilt that suits her open-eyed musings. When it's applied to lines such as “Wonder if I’ll ever turn this around,” or, “I’m rolling in circles again,” it’s equally possible to hear them as hopeful or downbeat. More likely, it's both at the same time. *Open to Chance *is also engaging simply because Cohen sounds so fascinated with everything she sees. Her purview is mainly the natural world—trees and flowers, sunsets and breezes, mice and hens— but she’s just as concerned with the nature of people. In one absorbing track, “No Consequence,” she marvels at confident individuals, the kind so assured and charmed that they seem unreal. Cohen views them from every angle, but she’s still suspicious: “You tell me it takes time/But I think you’ve got a joker on your side.” Apparently for Cohen, that kind of self-certainty means the death of adventure. She’s more interested in potentials and indeterminacies, and all the different ways that things could go. In that sense, “Just for Tomorrow” is Open to Chance’s most fitting song. Just eight lines long, it's tinged with regret. Cohen sings, “I once held a faithful dream,” perhaps referencing the fantasy that opened the album, and yet she still celebrates the unknown: “After all there are so many ways/I might have just walked.” It’s that appreciation of possibility, of the paths ahead and the ones left behind, that makes *Open to Chance *compelling.

Artist: Itasca, Album: Open to Chance, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "There’s a bit of irony in the title of Itasca’s third album, *Open to Chance. *Musically, this is Kayla Cohen’s most precise, controlled work to date, compared not only to her early abstract drones as Sultan but even to her last full-length, 2015’s beautifully wandering guitar-and-voice record Unmoored by the Wind. It’s also her first recording with a band, which perhaps explains why she kept a tight ship, lest her subtle, intricate folk songs get blurred or drowned by overly-busy accompaniment. Thematically, though, *Open to Chance *has an apt name. It’s a record about trying something new and journeying into unknown experiences with eager, if cautious, optimism. The album opens with Cohen proposing a move to the mountains with her mate, travels through observations and interpretations of her environs, and closes with a meditation on how this dream might end. That might sound heavy, and certainly Cohen’s music is serious and often melancholy. But there’s a lot of joy in the way her songs illustrate and embody her thoughtful verse. Much of that joy comes from Cohen’s guitar and voice, two finely-tuned instruments that are uniquely adept at conveying her ideas and images. There’s always some spring in her acoustic, finger-picked step, even in Open to Chance’s most reflective moments. Her vocals are more wistful and bittersweet, delivered with a fading restraint that evokes Vashti Bunyan’s best whispers. But she also has a bright lilt that suits her open-eyed musings. When it's applied to lines such as “Wonder if I’ll ever turn this around,” or, “I’m rolling in circles again,” it’s equally possible to hear them as hopeful or downbeat. More likely, it's both at the same time. *Open to Chance *is also engaging simply because Cohen sounds so fascinated with everything she sees. Her purview is mainly the natural world—trees and flowers, sunsets and breezes, mice and hens— but she’s just as concerned with the nature of people. In one absorbing track, “No Consequence,” she marvels at confident individuals, the kind so assured and charmed that they seem unreal. Cohen views them from every angle, but she’s still suspicious: “You tell me it takes time/But I think you’ve got a joker on your side.” Apparently for Cohen, that kind of self-certainty means the death of adventure. She’s more interested in potentials and indeterminacies, and all the different ways that things could go. In that sense, “Just for Tomorrow” is Open to Chance’s most fitting song. Just eight lines long, it's tinged with regret. Cohen sings, “I once held a faithful dream,” perhaps referencing the fantasy that opened the album, and yet she still celebrates the unknown: “After all there are so many ways/I might have just walked.” It’s that appreciation of possibility, of the paths ahead and the ones left behind, that makes *Open to Chance *compelling."

King Princess

Make My Bed EP

Pop/R&B

Jackson Howard

King Princess’ breakout single, “1950,” is about as close to perfect as a pop song can get. Like Lorde’s “Royals” or Mapei’s almost-hit “Don’t Wait,” it accomplishes a lot with a little: Sparse 808 drums, sentimental piano, and hazy guitars bubble as they build to a timeless torch-song chorus. “I’ll wait for you, I’ll pray/I will keep on waiting for your love,” the 19-year-old singer and producer promises. Effortless, infectious, and anthemic, it’s a track designed to launch a career. Instead of attempting to recapture the magic of “1950,” the four other full-length songs on King Princess’ self-produced debut EP, Make My Bed, build out the world it creates. Signed to Mark Ronson’s new Zelig Recordings, the artist known offstage as Mikaela Straus writes love songs that are as self-aware and sardonic as they are pleadingly authentic. True to the dramatic emotional landscape of late adolescence and early adulthood, Make My Bed alternates between overwrought emotion and unbothered disaffection, love and loneliness, pride and sheepishness. Straus’ music is the natural descendant of the left-of-center pop that has ruled the airwaves since she was in junior high; King Princess occupies the sparkling, melodramatic space between the cathartic stadium pop of fun. and the bare-all vulnerability of Lorde. Those artists succeeded because they knew how to speak to their audiences, nailing the skyscraper highs and ocean-floor lows of teens’ emotional lives. But being a teenager now is different from being a teenager even five years ago. Straus proudly identifies as a lesbian, and she’s conscious of the political and cultural significance of using feminine pronouns to identify the objects of her affections in her songs. She cleverly frames the unrequited love at the core of “1950” as an homage to how, as she puts it, “queer love was only able to exist privately for a long time, expressed in society through coded art forms.” At a time when artists like serpentwithfeet and Lotic are expressing radical queerness by getting as far away from pop’s rigid boundaries as possible, it’s a stretch to equate Straus’ work with the protest music of the ’60s, as she did in a recent interview. Yet it packs its own kind of punch. Throughout Make My Bed, queer desire isn’t a focal point so much as a given: Like Troye Sivan, Straus’ palpable comfort with her sexuality is what makes her work transgressive. “Talia” is the kind of single past generations of queer kids longed for. Backed by hums and soft snaps, Straus bares her soul: “You’ve walked out a hundred times, how was I/Supposed to know this time that you wouldn’t call/That you wouldn’t come home,” she sings, her throaty vocals cracking with emotion. Although it’s awkwardly stapled on to the verse, the chorus soars to the same heights of romantic longing as the songs that end John Hughes movies, complete with Jack Antonoff-level power chords and pounding synth drums. Straus reveals a wicked sense of humor on the washed-out “Upper West Side,” dismissing a rich girl as “another bitch from the Upper West Side,” before arriving at a pre-chorus that captures the cognitive dissonance of an Instagram crush: “I can’t stop judging everything you do/But I can’t get enough of you.” Straus often layers her vocals with harmonic effects that recall Imogen Heap, and the result suggests a singer shyly peeking out from behind a curtain. It’s a tool, and sometimes a detriment. “Upper West Side” would have benefitted from some moments of vulnerability, but she relies on a chorus of muted “oohs” and “ahhs” to convey that feeling. Being yourself in public is scary, especially as a queer 19-year-old trying to launch a pop career, but Straus seems up to the challenge. This early on, it’s easy to see why she might be more comfortable hiding behind the boards. But, for all her talent as a producer, she’s at her best when she sings with the courage of a soldier rushing into battle, speaking frankly about the sometimes frightening, sometimes joyful, never-ending process of growing up.

Artist: King Princess, Album: Make My Bed EP, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "King Princess’ breakout single, “1950,” is about as close to perfect as a pop song can get. Like Lorde’s “Royals” or Mapei’s almost-hit “Don’t Wait,” it accomplishes a lot with a little: Sparse 808 drums, sentimental piano, and hazy guitars bubble as they build to a timeless torch-song chorus. “I’ll wait for you, I’ll pray/I will keep on waiting for your love,” the 19-year-old singer and producer promises. Effortless, infectious, and anthemic, it’s a track designed to launch a career. Instead of attempting to recapture the magic of “1950,” the four other full-length songs on King Princess’ self-produced debut EP, Make My Bed, build out the world it creates. Signed to Mark Ronson’s new Zelig Recordings, the artist known offstage as Mikaela Straus writes love songs that are as self-aware and sardonic as they are pleadingly authentic. True to the dramatic emotional landscape of late adolescence and early adulthood, Make My Bed alternates between overwrought emotion and unbothered disaffection, love and loneliness, pride and sheepishness. Straus’ music is the natural descendant of the left-of-center pop that has ruled the airwaves since she was in junior high; King Princess occupies the sparkling, melodramatic space between the cathartic stadium pop of fun. and the bare-all vulnerability of Lorde. Those artists succeeded because they knew how to speak to their audiences, nailing the skyscraper highs and ocean-floor lows of teens’ emotional lives. But being a teenager now is different from being a teenager even five years ago. Straus proudly identifies as a lesbian, and she’s conscious of the political and cultural significance of using feminine pronouns to identify the objects of her affections in her songs. She cleverly frames the unrequited love at the core of “1950” as an homage to how, as she puts it, “queer love was only able to exist privately for a long time, expressed in society through coded art forms.” At a time when artists like serpentwithfeet and Lotic are expressing radical queerness by getting as far away from pop’s rigid boundaries as possible, it’s a stretch to equate Straus’ work with the protest music of the ’60s, as she did in a recent interview. Yet it packs its own kind of punch. Throughout Make My Bed, queer desire isn’t a focal point so much as a given: Like Troye Sivan, Straus’ palpable comfort with her sexuality is what makes her work transgressive. “Talia” is the kind of single past generations of queer kids longed for. Backed by hums and soft snaps, Straus bares her soul: “You’ve walked out a hundred times, how was I/Supposed to know this time that you wouldn’t call/That you wouldn’t come home,” she sings, her throaty vocals cracking with emotion. Although it’s awkwardly stapled on to the verse, the chorus soars to the same heights of romantic longing as the songs that end John Hughes movies, complete with Jack Antonoff-level power chords and pounding synth drums. Straus reveals a wicked sense of humor on the washed-out “Upper West Side,” dismissing a rich girl as “another bitch from the Upper West Side,” before arriving at a pre-chorus that captures the cognitive dissonance of an Instagram crush: “I can’t stop judging everything you do/But I can’t get enough of you.” Straus often layers her vocals with harmonic effects that recall Imogen Heap, and the result suggests a singer shyly peeking out from behind a curtain. It’s a tool, and sometimes a detriment. “Upper West Side” would have benefitted from some moments of vulnerability, but she relies on a chorus of muted “oohs” and “ahhs” to convey that feeling. Being yourself in public is scary, especially as a queer 19-year-old trying to launch a pop career, but Straus seems up to the challenge. This early on, it’s easy to see why she might be more comfortable hiding behind the boards. But, for all her talent as a producer, she’s at her best when she sings with the courage of a soldier rushing into battle, speaking frankly about the sometimes frightening, sometimes joyful, never-ending process of growing up."

Youth Lagoon

Wondrous Bughouse

Rock

Ian Cohen

Trevor Powers doesn't come off as older and wiser than his 23 years: just look at any picture of him, with his slight build and cherubic mop of curls, or take one listen to his nasal, keening voice. Likewise, his heartfelt 2011 debut The Year of Hibernation dealt more in truth and honesty than profundity or authority, skirting cliché while affecting people in meaningful ways. These qualities are about the only things that haven't changed for Youth Lagoon on Wondrous Bughouse. This record broadens Powers' musical and lyrical scope into something universal in a literal and figurative sense, evoking the cosmos, heaven, and hell. But Powers sounds curious and awestruck rather than naïve, someone who explores this lush and frightening soundworld instead of explaining it. The cosmetic changes are obvious. If you've been paying attention to sonics over the past couple of years, you'll recognize the saturated, bottom-heavy production as that of Ben H. Allen. After hearing Allen give a subwoofer shape-up to previously brittle bands like Deerhunter, Animal Collective, and Washed Out, the pairing seems almost inevitable. But while the production is an upgrade, the real growth is thematic. Hibernation obsessed over escape and became defined by its limitations, whether it was its meager recording budget or just the sense that Powers felt trapped by his surroundings in Boise. But Bughouse looks inward and discovers the endless possibilities of imagination and introspection. Youth Lagoon is still very much an internally-focused project and, with its abundance of effect pedals and stereo panning tricks, Wondrous Bughouse will likely be branded as a headphones album. Don't believe it. As with Hibernation, this is a record that's meant to be cranked as loud as possible; for one, volume decompresses these thick songs, amplifying the crucial addition of live drums on "Raspberry Cane" and "Mute". More importantly, Wondrous Bughouse needs room to breathe from a songwriting standpoint. With Powers' lyrics and Allen's production striving to create a celestial whole, Bughouse is meant to conjure infinite space. This much is conveyed by the sonar blips that take up the three-minute opener "Through Mind and Back" before fading into the spellbinding "Mute". Nearly every song on Hibernation began quietly, so it's jarring to hear Youth Lagoon take a more widescreen turn-- echoing drums, gleaming peals of delayed guitar, all washed by ocean spray reverb. This lasts for one minute before a detuned loop of bells recasts "Mute" as a juggernaut, a steady, booming drum beat framing a strident vocal performance from Powers, a guitar solo that recalls Doug Martsch's expressive, longing leads, a minor-key piano loop that appears ready to take the song to a completely different plateau before cruelly cutting out. These songs are all bigger and bolder without being unnecessarily complicated. While Powers' melodies are simple and immediately memorable like nursery rhymes, everything surrounding him is in flux. The songs on Wondrous Bughouse are continually subjected to flange and phase effects, and it's not the gentle, headswimming "whoosh" that typified recent records such as Lonerism or mbv. The cranked oscillation gives these songs a proper sense of danger and hyper-alertness. The combination of the processing and Powers' devious lyrics ("'I won't die easily'/ That's what they say when I erupt into laughter") gives the calliope-like melody of "Attic Doctor" a fitting, monstrous overtone. The synth progression that emerges during the anthropomorphic grotesquerie "Pelican Man" would be a perfect evocation of Elephant 6's Beatles obsession, but the pulsing modulations turn into something closer to slasher-flick fare. It's often scary stuff, more reminiscent of Syd Barrett's bad-trip fairy tales. Though Powers isn't dealing with death in a manner that conveys gravitas or experience, Wondrous Bughouse is very much about mortality, albeit filtered through surrealism, parable, and metaphor. Rather than a simple longing for the past, Powers feels obsessed with human frailty and decay. Similarly, the songs of Bughouse aren't subject to tangents so much as following a dream logic working where any thought, regardless of how awesome or fearsome it is, doesn't end until it reaches a conclusion it sees fit. Powers' choice to write most of these fanciful flights in waltz time gives everything a properly anachronistic feel. The hopscotch melody on "Dropla" makes it sound like a playground chant and the lyrics see its narrator dealing with death in a selfish, forgivably childlike way, hanging on to faint hope ("you'll never die, you'll never die") and lashing out when the prayers go unanswered ("you weren't there when I needed"). Between the threatening taunts of "Attic Doctor", we hear vast stretches of music for the Peanuts gang to ice skate to: "Third Dystopia" refracts a sea shanty through multiple funhouse mirrors; the submerged second half of "The Bath" places Powers somewhere between a baptism and a drowning. On "Raspberry Cane", Powers sees himself as irredeemable ("I'm polluted by my blood/ So help me cut it out and rinse it down the drain") and while closer "Daisyphobia" views humanity as "mortals on the run" from an all-seeing God, Wondrous Bughouse slinks towards an disturbing and unresolved conclusion, a slow fade of distant synth whinnies and stumbling, inexact beats. Though unnerving, it is familiar, albeit in a style of indie rock that was prominent when Powers was, by his own admission, listening to Bad Boy records Allen might've played a part in. Think of the Flaming Lips, Mercury Rev, Grandaddy, Sparklehorse, Modest Mouse, Built To Spill, all bands who in some way combined a projected naivety with grand designs: adolescent vocals picking at metaphysical mysteries, an insatiable curiosity with the capabilities of the studio. But Youth Lagoon is also a spiritual progeny in terms of geography. All these bands emerged far from media centers-- Oklahoma City, upstate New York, Modesto, central Virginia, Issaquah, Wash., and of course, Powers' own Boise. Listeners often try to discern something special about creating art in places like these, whether the scarcity of live shows and bands makes music more important or a lack of urban stimuli allows for deeper meditation on the big picture. Though the songs themselves are wonderful, that's the powerful source Powers taps into here: if you feel like the dark center of the universe or simply need a little space, Wondrous Bughouse obliges.

Artist: Youth Lagoon, Album: Wondrous Bughouse, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.7 Album review: "Trevor Powers doesn't come off as older and wiser than his 23 years: just look at any picture of him, with his slight build and cherubic mop of curls, or take one listen to his nasal, keening voice. Likewise, his heartfelt 2011 debut The Year of Hibernation dealt more in truth and honesty than profundity or authority, skirting cliché while affecting people in meaningful ways. These qualities are about the only things that haven't changed for Youth Lagoon on Wondrous Bughouse. This record broadens Powers' musical and lyrical scope into something universal in a literal and figurative sense, evoking the cosmos, heaven, and hell. But Powers sounds curious and awestruck rather than naïve, someone who explores this lush and frightening soundworld instead of explaining it. The cosmetic changes are obvious. If you've been paying attention to sonics over the past couple of years, you'll recognize the saturated, bottom-heavy production as that of Ben H. Allen. After hearing Allen give a subwoofer shape-up to previously brittle bands like Deerhunter, Animal Collective, and Washed Out, the pairing seems almost inevitable. But while the production is an upgrade, the real growth is thematic. Hibernation obsessed over escape and became defined by its limitations, whether it was its meager recording budget or just the sense that Powers felt trapped by his surroundings in Boise. But Bughouse looks inward and discovers the endless possibilities of imagination and introspection. Youth Lagoon is still very much an internally-focused project and, with its abundance of effect pedals and stereo panning tricks, Wondrous Bughouse will likely be branded as a headphones album. Don't believe it. As with Hibernation, this is a record that's meant to be cranked as loud as possible; for one, volume decompresses these thick songs, amplifying the crucial addition of live drums on "Raspberry Cane" and "Mute". More importantly, Wondrous Bughouse needs room to breathe from a songwriting standpoint. With Powers' lyrics and Allen's production striving to create a celestial whole, Bughouse is meant to conjure infinite space. This much is conveyed by the sonar blips that take up the three-minute opener "Through Mind and Back" before fading into the spellbinding "Mute". Nearly every song on Hibernation began quietly, so it's jarring to hear Youth Lagoon take a more widescreen turn-- echoing drums, gleaming peals of delayed guitar, all washed by ocean spray reverb. This lasts for one minute before a detuned loop of bells recasts "Mute" as a juggernaut, a steady, booming drum beat framing a strident vocal performance from Powers, a guitar solo that recalls Doug Martsch's expressive, longing leads, a minor-key piano loop that appears ready to take the song to a completely different plateau before cruelly cutting out. These songs are all bigger and bolder without being unnecessarily complicated. While Powers' melodies are simple and immediately memorable like nursery rhymes, everything surrounding him is in flux. The songs on Wondrous Bughouse are continually subjected to flange and phase effects, and it's not the gentle, headswimming "whoosh" that typified recent records such as Lonerism or mbv. The cranked oscillation gives these songs a proper sense of danger and hyper-alertness. The combination of the processing and Powers' devious lyrics ("'I won't die easily'/ That's what they say when I erupt into laughter") gives the calliope-like melody of "Attic Doctor" a fitting, monstrous overtone. The synth progression that emerges during the anthropomorphic grotesquerie "Pelican Man" would be a perfect evocation of Elephant 6's Beatles obsession, but the pulsing modulations turn into something closer to slasher-flick fare. It's often scary stuff, more reminiscent of Syd Barrett's bad-trip fairy tales. Though Powers isn't dealing with death in a manner that conveys gravitas or experience, Wondrous Bughouse is very much about mortality, albeit filtered through surrealism, parable, and metaphor. Rather than a simple longing for the past, Powers feels obsessed with human frailty and decay. Similarly, the songs of Bughouse aren't subject to tangents so much as following a dream logic working where any thought, regardless of how awesome or fearsome it is, doesn't end until it reaches a conclusion it sees fit. Powers' choice to write most of these fanciful flights in waltz time gives everything a properly anachronistic feel. The hopscotch melody on "Dropla" makes it sound like a playground chant and the lyrics see its narrator dealing with death in a selfish, forgivably childlike way, hanging on to faint hope ("you'll never die, you'll never die") and lashing out when the prayers go unanswered ("you weren't there when I needed"). Between the threatening taunts of "Attic Doctor", we hear vast stretches of music for the Peanuts gang to ice skate to: "Third Dystopia" refracts a sea shanty through multiple funhouse mirrors; the submerged second half of "The Bath" places Powers somewhere between a baptism and a drowning. On "Raspberry Cane", Powers sees himself as irredeemable ("I'm polluted by my blood/ So help me cut it out and rinse it down the drain") and while closer "Daisyphobia" views humanity as "mortals on the run" from an all-seeing God, Wondrous Bughouse slinks towards an disturbing and unresolved conclusion, a slow fade of distant synth whinnies and stumbling, inexact beats. Though unnerving, it is familiar, albeit in a style of indie rock that was prominent when Powers was, by his own admission, listening to Bad Boy records Allen might've played a part in. Think of the Flaming Lips, Mercury Rev, Grandaddy, Sparklehorse, Modest Mouse, Built To Spill, all bands who in some way combined a projected naivety with grand designs: adolescent vocals picking at metaphysical mysteries, an insatiable curiosity with the capabilities of the studio. But Youth Lagoon is also a spiritual progeny in terms of geography. All these bands emerged far from media centers-- Oklahoma City, upstate New York, Modesto, central Virginia, Issaquah, Wash., and of course, Powers' own Boise. Listeners often try to discern something special about creating art in places like these, whether the scarcity of live shows and bands makes music more important or a lack of urban stimuli allows for deeper meditation on the big picture. Though the songs themselves are wonderful, that's the powerful source Powers taps into here: if you feel like the dark center of the universe or simply need a little space, Wondrous Bughouse obliges."

The Isles

Perfumed Lands

Pop/R&B

Marc Hogan

Congratulations, you wish you were dead. While you're imagining what would happen if that bus-- not, alas, a double-decker-- were to ignore the red light and spare you another unbearable moment of existence, I'm busy wondering why I should care. When the rock scribes of yore slagged Morrissey for his unrelenting moroseness, they were missing not only irony, but also the greater emotional truths behind even the Smiths' most melodramatic plaints. Acting miserable is easy-- psst, eyedrops-- but effectively weaving sadness into song, whether earnestly like Elliott Smith or ambiguously like Moz, is really, really hard. New York indie rockers The Isles may or may not want to go the way of The Queen Is Dead's macabre romantics. Their songs, though, have one foot in the grave, one foot in the English gloom of the Smiths and Echo & the Bunnymen, and another in the brittle downtown dolefulness of Interpol-- which I guess makes them some sort of weird tripod. Gruesome mutations aside, the Isles sound more like bored teenagers, or, fatally, like they want to sound like bored teenagers: "I'd be dead, but there's nothing worth dying for/ In my skin, there are times that I don't belong." Dude, that's not your skin, those are your jeans, and when I get that feeling it means I ate too many chalupas. Are things really so dire? The Isles' alternately jangling and jagged mope-rock is polished, if unremarkable; singer Andrew Gellers borrows both Moz's strangled enunciations ("loathing lovers") and Paul Banks' clipped monotone, though his high, clear whisper is actually more like Ben Gibbard's. But Gellers' reactions to daily life suggest not so much existential malaise as poorly remembered stereotypes of adolescence, nearly as over-the-top as My Chemical Romance but even less believable. "There are some things that I would rather do/ Than spend my time doing what people do," Gellers offers. Whatever the Isles would rather do, it's probably deathly serious. Polluted air? "I won't breathe anymore," Gellers resolves over rubbery bass lines on "Summer Loan". Out-of-body experience? "I wasn't flying high in the sky/ I went down to hell," he moans on finale "Post Nobles". Then, there's the misguided sex jam, woefully titled "Eve of the Battle": "I've got some things on my mind I wanna do to you/ Are you coming?" Without the arch playfulness of Moz or the weary pathos of, say, Johnny Cash, the Isles provide little to make their misery compelling to the outside world. It probably isn't their fault; as Gellers sagely proffers on opener "Major Arcana", the most Smiths-like track, "The breeze cannot decide to be fresh/ To be cold." Cold like the grave, man.

Artist: The Isles, Album: Perfumed Lands, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 4.7 Album review: "Congratulations, you wish you were dead. While you're imagining what would happen if that bus-- not, alas, a double-decker-- were to ignore the red light and spare you another unbearable moment of existence, I'm busy wondering why I should care. When the rock scribes of yore slagged Morrissey for his unrelenting moroseness, they were missing not only irony, but also the greater emotional truths behind even the Smiths' most melodramatic plaints. Acting miserable is easy-- psst, eyedrops-- but effectively weaving sadness into song, whether earnestly like Elliott Smith or ambiguously like Moz, is really, really hard. New York indie rockers The Isles may or may not want to go the way of The Queen Is Dead's macabre romantics. Their songs, though, have one foot in the grave, one foot in the English gloom of the Smiths and Echo & the Bunnymen, and another in the brittle downtown dolefulness of Interpol-- which I guess makes them some sort of weird tripod. Gruesome mutations aside, the Isles sound more like bored teenagers, or, fatally, like they want to sound like bored teenagers: "I'd be dead, but there's nothing worth dying for/ In my skin, there are times that I don't belong." Dude, that's not your skin, those are your jeans, and when I get that feeling it means I ate too many chalupas. Are things really so dire? The Isles' alternately jangling and jagged mope-rock is polished, if unremarkable; singer Andrew Gellers borrows both Moz's strangled enunciations ("loathing lovers") and Paul Banks' clipped monotone, though his high, clear whisper is actually more like Ben Gibbard's. But Gellers' reactions to daily life suggest not so much existential malaise as poorly remembered stereotypes of adolescence, nearly as over-the-top as My Chemical Romance but even less believable. "There are some things that I would rather do/ Than spend my time doing what people do," Gellers offers. Whatever the Isles would rather do, it's probably deathly serious. Polluted air? "I won't breathe anymore," Gellers resolves over rubbery bass lines on "Summer Loan". Out-of-body experience? "I wasn't flying high in the sky/ I went down to hell," he moans on finale "Post Nobles". Then, there's the misguided sex jam, woefully titled "Eve of the Battle": "I've got some things on my mind I wanna do to you/ Are you coming?" Without the arch playfulness of Moz or the weary pathos of, say, Johnny Cash, the Isles provide little to make their misery compelling to the outside world. It probably isn't their fault; as Gellers sagely proffers on opener "Major Arcana", the most Smiths-like track, "The breeze cannot decide to be fresh/ To be cold." Cold like the grave, man."

Uusitalo

Karhunainen

Electronic

Tim Finney

Finnish producer Vladislav Delay (actual name: Sasu Ripatti) may use multiple names for his different sonic impulses, but his personas aren't static: Each expresses an arc of transformation which belies his status as an accomplished polymath. On his albums as Luomo, Ripatti has moved from sensuous longform deep house to stuttery vocal house-pop; on his three albums as Uusitalo, the shift has been more subtle, a gradual, tectonic drift from dub-techno abstraction toward tech-house's disciplined physical economy. These narratives do not exist in isolation, and the revitalisation of the Uusitalo project feels like a semi-conscious acknowledgment that the Luomo project has arrived at an aesthetic dead end, with much of last year's Paper Tigers feeling like hastily assembled footnotes and addendums to the glittering manifesto of 2003's The Present Lover. If Delay doesn't know how to take voluptuous house-pop any further, then Uusitalo's more measured tone offers a potential escape route, allowing Delay to reconnect with house from a new perspective uncluttered by the expectations that attach to his more famous moniker. The instrumental Karhunainen is understated despite its relative forcefulness, the pumping kickdrums perhaps too straightforward for listeners who prefer Delay's history of fractured dub wanderings, but dry and reserved when compared to Luomo's lustrous gleam. The album misses the sort of thematic clarity or alluring vocals that made Luomo's Vocalcity and The Present Lover so pivotal and influential for so many, but what it loses in crossover points it gains in dancefloor currency, with Delay cunningly positioning his sound at the dead centre of current European house and techno. More metallic than most of the last year's crop of deep house revivalism, and yet chunkier and warmer than the rapidly receding minimal archetype, these tightly wound and glistening grooves share much with recent releases from producers such as Simon Baker and Tobi Neumann. Paradoxically, according with the dictates of fashion has a liberating effect on Delay: By abandoning auteurist conceptuality, he regains a lightness of touch rare in even his most pleasure-centred previous efforts. In particular, the energetically squelchy house of "Satumaa" expresses a joyfulness that is unlike any of the producer's past work, perhaps because it's not about anything other than the effervescence of its own groove. Not that the album is a straight dancefloor bomb: The largely beatless opener "Vesi Virtaa Veri", with its funereal chords and sampled found sound (rustling papers, far off voices, the pant of heavy breathing and the coagulated whine of passing traffic) enigmatically suggests the commencement of a long-dreaded journey, while the shimmering synthesiser hum of closer "Puut Juuritaan" resembles a heartsore Tangerine Dream. But the rest of Karunainen sidelines emotional impact in favour of honing in on the sheer physical intensity of the endlessly reiterated beat. After "Vesi Virtaa Veri", "Korpikansa" immediately drops the listener into a monomaniacal two-note house groove (its furrow-browed pump leavened by an endlessly mutating array of percussive effects) that seems content to drive forward into a constantly receding horizon, its magic lying in the friction generated by its repetition/mutation equation. Such tracks initially feel rigid when compared with the languorous dub-disco grooves of Luomo's Vocalcity album, but on repeated listens Karhunainen is revealed as one of Luomo's most impressively fluid works to date, the percussion changing with the organic rapidity of molecular generation-- just try to keep up with the kaleidoscope of detail on "Tohtori Kuka", or to trace the transformation of Sikojen Juhla from buzzy house to clattering schaffel and back again. This sense of the real action happening almost beneath or beyond the level of conscious awareness is one of the album's quiet strengths: as with Stewart Walker's recent Concentricity (another shift toward anti-auteurist dancefloor populism from a distinguished producer), Karhunainen so carefully intersects rigorous simplicity and mindboggling complexity that the two become conflated, with the accumulated whispers of intricate detail and the hefty thump of the house grooves emerging dialectically, like Escher hands drawing one another. As such, it stands in opposition to Paper Tigers, whose collages of clean surfaces and clattering irruptions felt anything but organic. If the latter album wanted to articulate the messiness of desire (the gulf between the fantasy and the reality of other people's bodies), Karhunainen draws back to the deeper relationship we share with our own bodies, the sheer rightness of its grooves suggesting the immediacy of physical submersion.

Artist: Uusitalo, Album: Karhunainen, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Finnish producer Vladislav Delay (actual name: Sasu Ripatti) may use multiple names for his different sonic impulses, but his personas aren't static: Each expresses an arc of transformation which belies his status as an accomplished polymath. On his albums as Luomo, Ripatti has moved from sensuous longform deep house to stuttery vocal house-pop; on his three albums as Uusitalo, the shift has been more subtle, a gradual, tectonic drift from dub-techno abstraction toward tech-house's disciplined physical economy. These narratives do not exist in isolation, and the revitalisation of the Uusitalo project feels like a semi-conscious acknowledgment that the Luomo project has arrived at an aesthetic dead end, with much of last year's Paper Tigers feeling like hastily assembled footnotes and addendums to the glittering manifesto of 2003's The Present Lover. If Delay doesn't know how to take voluptuous house-pop any further, then Uusitalo's more measured tone offers a potential escape route, allowing Delay to reconnect with house from a new perspective uncluttered by the expectations that attach to his more famous moniker. The instrumental Karhunainen is understated despite its relative forcefulness, the pumping kickdrums perhaps too straightforward for listeners who prefer Delay's history of fractured dub wanderings, but dry and reserved when compared to Luomo's lustrous gleam. The album misses the sort of thematic clarity or alluring vocals that made Luomo's Vocalcity and The Present Lover so pivotal and influential for so many, but what it loses in crossover points it gains in dancefloor currency, with Delay cunningly positioning his sound at the dead centre of current European house and techno. More metallic than most of the last year's crop of deep house revivalism, and yet chunkier and warmer than the rapidly receding minimal archetype, these tightly wound and glistening grooves share much with recent releases from producers such as Simon Baker and Tobi Neumann. Paradoxically, according with the dictates of fashion has a liberating effect on Delay: By abandoning auteurist conceptuality, he regains a lightness of touch rare in even his most pleasure-centred previous efforts. In particular, the energetically squelchy house of "Satumaa" expresses a joyfulness that is unlike any of the producer's past work, perhaps because it's not about anything other than the effervescence of its own groove. Not that the album is a straight dancefloor bomb: The largely beatless opener "Vesi Virtaa Veri", with its funereal chords and sampled found sound (rustling papers, far off voices, the pant of heavy breathing and the coagulated whine of passing traffic) enigmatically suggests the commencement of a long-dreaded journey, while the shimmering synthesiser hum of closer "Puut Juuritaan" resembles a heartsore Tangerine Dream. But the rest of Karunainen sidelines emotional impact in favour of honing in on the sheer physical intensity of the endlessly reiterated beat. After "Vesi Virtaa Veri", "Korpikansa" immediately drops the listener into a monomaniacal two-note house groove (its furrow-browed pump leavened by an endlessly mutating array of percussive effects) that seems content to drive forward into a constantly receding horizon, its magic lying in the friction generated by its repetition/mutation equation. Such tracks initially feel rigid when compared with the languorous dub-disco grooves of Luomo's Vocalcity album, but on repeated listens Karhunainen is revealed as one of Luomo's most impressively fluid works to date, the percussion changing with the organic rapidity of molecular generation-- just try to keep up with the kaleidoscope of detail on "Tohtori Kuka", or to trace the transformation of Sikojen Juhla from buzzy house to clattering schaffel and back again. This sense of the real action happening almost beneath or beyond the level of conscious awareness is one of the album's quiet strengths: as with Stewart Walker's recent Concentricity (another shift toward anti-auteurist dancefloor populism from a distinguished producer), Karhunainen so carefully intersects rigorous simplicity and mindboggling complexity that the two become conflated, with the accumulated whispers of intricate detail and the hefty thump of the house grooves emerging dialectically, like Escher hands drawing one another. As such, it stands in opposition to Paper Tigers, whose collages of clean surfaces and clattering irruptions felt anything but organic. If the latter album wanted to articulate the messiness of desire (the gulf between the fantasy and the reality of other people's bodies), Karhunainen draws back to the deeper relationship we share with our own bodies, the sheer rightness of its grooves suggesting the immediacy of physical submersion."

The Kinks

Picture Book

Rock

Joe Tangari

Any attempt to offer an authoritative overview of the Kinks' career is fraught with difficulty. During the band's long run from 1962 through 1996, the Davies brothers and their abettors never morphed into a nostalgia act, continually changing and writing new material to create a varied but distinctive body of work. The variation isn't only stylistic, either-- their catalog varies a lot in quality as well. The Kinks' work from 1966 through 1970 is basically unimpeachable, but opinions differ widely on what came after, and for good reason. So in constructing a six-disc look at the band's vast catalog, the challenge becomes to adequately represent each of the its phases while balancing considerations of what's actually worthwhile. Picture Book answers this challenge through a capricious, sometimes puzzling track selection, which was assisted by Ray Davies. It's a (mostly) chronological jumble of singles, album tracks, alternate mixes, mono versions, live cuts, rarities, hits, misses, and even a couple demos and one rehearsal. Two-thirds of the material is familiar album and single tracks, though, meaning that hardcore fans hoping for a bonanza will ultimately find about two discs worth of stuff they don't have or previously found difficult to get, some of which are hard-to-distinguish mono mixes. Then there's the matter of who actually wants a box that covers the band's whole career but leaves out tons of the band's best tracks and has a sixth disc that's mostly awful. The set starts with BBC announcer Brian Matthew introducing the band before "You Really Got Me" rips into rock'n'roll and takes out a lasting bite with its brutal slashed-amp distortion and stupid-simple riff. The 1964 song put the band firmly on the map-- it was a UK #1 and a Top Ten hit in the U.S.-- but it was actually their third single. Here, it's followed a few tracks later by their first, a cover of "Long Tall Sally" that justifiably went nowhere. Omitted is their second single, the superb and infectiously melodic flop "You Still Want Me", which was thankfully included on Essential's 1998 remaster of the band's self-titled debut. The period from 1964 through 1971 covers the first three discs and spills onto the fourth, which is as good an assessment as any of the band's best and most creative period. The run of albums from 1966's Face to Face through Something Else and Village Green Preservation Society to 1969's Arthur, or the Decline And Fall of the British Empire is a spectacular four-LP run that established Ray Davies as one of the keenest observers of British society and cemented the band's influence and legacy. It's hard to go wrong skipping around the first few discs of this set, though the rough demo of "Dead End Street" and the twice-aborted rehearsal of "Come on Now" are poor substitutes for the familiar versions. A host of non-album tracks make this section particularly rewarding. "Autumn Almanac" is practically a blueprint for XTC, the radio session version of Dave Davies' overlooked and excellent "Love Me Till the Sun Shines" burns with sharp intensity, Dutch B-side "This Is Where I Belong" was justly included on Kink Kronikles and sounds no less vital here, and the haunting piano-and-vocal cast-off "I Go to Sleep" is simply gorgeous. Early outtakes "A Little Bit of Sunlight" and "This I Know" also hit the British Invasion sweet spot. It's a crime that the band was kept out of the U.S. by an American Federation of Musicians ban during its most creative period, but the band became so quintessentially English during that period that it's possible American audiences wouldn't have been receptive anyway. The Kinks' golden era extended into the 70s with the Lola Vs Powerman & the Moneygoround and Muswell Hillbillies LPs, which are amply represented. It's also nice to hear three tracks from the soundtrack to the comedy Percy, which has long been treated like a bastard child in the band's discography. "The Way Love Used to Be" is an especially great song, a dark, moody ballad sweetened by lush orchestration. The Muswell album found Ray Davies taking a break from incisively and sympathetically critiquing British society to instead indulge a little second-hand Americana. Bassist Peter Quaife had exited the band in 1969, and the Davies brothers and drummer Mick Avory had expanded the band to include a full-time keyboardist-- John Gosling's warm Hammond organ and tack piano deepened the Americanness of songs like "Muswell Hillbilly" and "20th Century Man". "Alcohol", presented here in a live version, echoes some of the music hall traditions that would become the band's staple reference point in the mid-70s. During the Kinks' time at RCA in the 70s, Ray Davies indulged in a series of poorly received concept albums that don't wear nearly as well today as the band's 60s output, but there are quite a few gems hidden away in this period, which comprises the bulk of Disc Four. The two-part would-be rock opera Preservation had an endearingly rough sound (it was some of the first material recorded at the band's own Konk studios), but the inclusion of female backing vocalists and a horn section in the band didn't always add much to the songs. The other two albums from this period, Soap Opera and Schoolboys in Disgrace, a sequel to Preservation that focused on the villain, Mr. Flash, are scantly represented with three total tracks, but the choices are inspired: Soap Opera's "Holiday Romance" is a wonderful music hall throwback with hints of Noel Coward, while the loan Schoolboys track, "No More Looking Back", is a cinematic preview of 90s Britpop, from Dave's harmonized lead guitar intro to Ray's perceptive lyrics about the way people who've left us linger in strange ways. If this set were more interested in telling the story of the band, it probably would have also included "The Hard Way", a heavy track that anticipated the band's late-70s shift to slick hard rock and became a concert staple. The band's six hard rock albums for Arista, released from 1977 through 1984, represent their most misunderstood period. Some fans of the band's 60s output dismiss it entirely, and it's certainly not up to that standard, but very little is. They experienced their biggest success in the U.S. during this period (1979's Low Budget, at #11, was their highest-charting US album), and they were at the peak of their concert drawing power, touring almost constantly back and forth across the Atlantic. Oddly, they were making corporate rock just as their old music returned to vogue as inspiration for British punks, with the Jam covering "David Wa

Artist: The Kinks, Album: Picture Book, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Any attempt to offer an authoritative overview of the Kinks' career is fraught with difficulty. During the band's long run from 1962 through 1996, the Davies brothers and their abettors never morphed into a nostalgia act, continually changing and writing new material to create a varied but distinctive body of work. The variation isn't only stylistic, either-- their catalog varies a lot in quality as well. The Kinks' work from 1966 through 1970 is basically unimpeachable, but opinions differ widely on what came after, and for good reason. So in constructing a six-disc look at the band's vast catalog, the challenge becomes to adequately represent each of the its phases while balancing considerations of what's actually worthwhile. Picture Book answers this challenge through a capricious, sometimes puzzling track selection, which was assisted by Ray Davies. It's a (mostly) chronological jumble of singles, album tracks, alternate mixes, mono versions, live cuts, rarities, hits, misses, and even a couple demos and one rehearsal. Two-thirds of the material is familiar album and single tracks, though, meaning that hardcore fans hoping for a bonanza will ultimately find about two discs worth of stuff they don't have or previously found difficult to get, some of which are hard-to-distinguish mono mixes. Then there's the matter of who actually wants a box that covers the band's whole career but leaves out tons of the band's best tracks and has a sixth disc that's mostly awful. The set starts with BBC announcer Brian Matthew introducing the band before "You Really Got Me" rips into rock'n'roll and takes out a lasting bite with its brutal slashed-amp distortion and stupid-simple riff. The 1964 song put the band firmly on the map-- it was a UK #1 and a Top Ten hit in the U.S.-- but it was actually their third single. Here, it's followed a few tracks later by their first, a cover of "Long Tall Sally" that justifiably went nowhere. Omitted is their second single, the superb and infectiously melodic flop "You Still Want Me", which was thankfully included on Essential's 1998 remaster of the band's self-titled debut. The period from 1964 through 1971 covers the first three discs and spills onto the fourth, which is as good an assessment as any of the band's best and most creative period. The run of albums from 1966's Face to Face through Something Else and Village Green Preservation Society to 1969's Arthur, or the Decline And Fall of the British Empire is a spectacular four-LP run that established Ray Davies as one of the keenest observers of British society and cemented the band's influence and legacy. It's hard to go wrong skipping around the first few discs of this set, though the rough demo of "Dead End Street" and the twice-aborted rehearsal of "Come on Now" are poor substitutes for the familiar versions. A host of non-album tracks make this section particularly rewarding. "Autumn Almanac" is practically a blueprint for XTC, the radio session version of Dave Davies' overlooked and excellent "Love Me Till the Sun Shines" burns with sharp intensity, Dutch B-side "This Is Where I Belong" was justly included on Kink Kronikles and sounds no less vital here, and the haunting piano-and-vocal cast-off "I Go to Sleep" is simply gorgeous. Early outtakes "A Little Bit of Sunlight" and "This I Know" also hit the British Invasion sweet spot. It's a crime that the band was kept out of the U.S. by an American Federation of Musicians ban during its most creative period, but the band became so quintessentially English during that period that it's possible American audiences wouldn't have been receptive anyway. The Kinks' golden era extended into the 70s with the Lola Vs Powerman & the Moneygoround and Muswell Hillbillies LPs, which are amply represented. It's also nice to hear three tracks from the soundtrack to the comedy Percy, which has long been treated like a bastard child in the band's discography. "The Way Love Used to Be" is an especially great song, a dark, moody ballad sweetened by lush orchestration. The Muswell album found Ray Davies taking a break from incisively and sympathetically critiquing British society to instead indulge a little second-hand Americana. Bassist Peter Quaife had exited the band in 1969, and the Davies brothers and drummer Mick Avory had expanded the band to include a full-time keyboardist-- John Gosling's warm Hammond organ and tack piano deepened the Americanness of songs like "Muswell Hillbilly" and "20th Century Man". "Alcohol", presented here in a live version, echoes some of the music hall traditions that would become the band's staple reference point in the mid-70s. During the Kinks' time at RCA in the 70s, Ray Davies indulged in a series of poorly received concept albums that don't wear nearly as well today as the band's 60s output, but there are quite a few gems hidden away in this period, which comprises the bulk of Disc Four. The two-part would-be rock opera Preservation had an endearingly rough sound (it was some of the first material recorded at the band's own Konk studios), but the inclusion of female backing vocalists and a horn section in the band didn't always add much to the songs. The other two albums from this period, Soap Opera and Schoolboys in Disgrace, a sequel to Preservation that focused on the villain, Mr. Flash, are scantly represented with three total tracks, but the choices are inspired: Soap Opera's "Holiday Romance" is a wonderful music hall throwback with hints of Noel Coward, while the loan Schoolboys track, "No More Looking Back", is a cinematic preview of 90s Britpop, from Dave's harmonized lead guitar intro to Ray's perceptive lyrics about the way people who've left us linger in strange ways. If this set were more interested in telling the story of the band, it probably would have also included "The Hard Way", a heavy track that anticipated the band's late-70s shift to slick hard rock and became a concert staple. The band's six hard rock albums for Arista, released from 1977 through 1984, represent their most misunderstood period. Some fans of the band's 60s output dismiss it entirely, and it's certainly not up to that standard, but very little is. They experienced their biggest success in the U.S. during this period (1979's Low Budget, at #11, was their highest-charting US album), and they were at the peak of their concert drawing power, touring almost constantly back and forth across the Atlantic. Oddly, they were making corporate rock just as their old music returned to vogue as inspiration for British punks, with the Jam covering "David Wa"

Arctic Monkeys

Suck It and See

Rock

Marc Hogan

A gang of surly teenagers gives away music for free online, makes light of the industry's established byways, and somehow manages to sell records at a time when overall album sales continue to dwindle. It's a familiar storyline these days, but when Arctic Monkeys' precociously jaded Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling UK debut ever, back in early 2006, the idea of a "MySpace band" was still something new. Now, with News Corp. reportedly trying to sell MySpace and other sites such as Bandcamp and Tumblr taking the struggling social network's place in music think-pieces, the Sheffield band's latest is a throwback in a more classic sense. Suck It and See, the Arctics' fourth and most rewarding album so far, is not music to blog to. Listen while updating your Facebook status or crafting the perfect tweet, and you're probably going to miss something crucial. Actually, you're probably going to miss something anyway: For instance, the title, while no doubt partly intended as a provocation toward American audiences, is mostly just easily misunderstood Brit-speak for "give it a try." But the record itself brims with endlessly replayable details, some goofy and some poignant, both in frontman Alex Turner's always keenly observed lyrics and in the band's ever-proficient music, the latter of which ranges here from muscular glam-rock to chiming indie pop balladry. Cowboy movies and humdrum observations about the weather conceal thoughtful contemplations on romance and coming of age. "Oh, in five years' time, will it be, 'Who the fuck's Arctic Monkeys?'" That was Turner five years ago. Fittingly, Suck It and See is something of a reboot for the band. 2007 sophomore effort Favourite Worst Nightmare, the Arctics' first album with Simian Mobile Disco's James Ford producing, found the group enriching its palette both emotionally and sonically, while musically toughening up. 2009's Humbug paired the group with Queens of the Stone Age's Josh Homme, leading to predictably brawny, unwound results. Elsewhere, Turner's once-shouty voice ripened into a honeyed croon with 2008 side project the Last Shadow Puppets, and his recent solo soundtrack for Richard Ayoade film Submarine allowed him to unplug. The new record, produced by Ford but with a burly backing vocal from Homme on the churning "All My Own Stunts", sounds informed by each of these experiences, distilling them all into the unit's next phase: confident, melodic, and as expertly played as ever. Turner has been talking up country greats Johnny Cash, George Jones, and Patsy Cline as lyrical influences on this album, along with Nick Cave, the Byrds, Nick Lowe, David Bowie, and Leonard Cohen. When he's at his clearest (which is still pretty heavy with ambiguities), Suck It and See has a bleak sense of humor to prove he's not kidding. That's fleshed out by bandmates whose tastes run more toward Black Sabbath stomp or Stooges aggression. Musically, drummer Matt Helders remains the Arctics' not-so-secret weapon, capable of lizard-brain freakouts or deceptively innocent waltzes; Sean Combs has invited him more than once to sit in with Diddy Dirty Money. So hardly a verse goes by without an instant quotable or two, and the backing is elegant enough that at first you might not even notice. "Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair", a swaggering boogie worthy of its title, lists off dangerous ideas that are all presumably less dangerous than sitting down ("Do the Macarena in the devil's lair"-- you know, the usual). Plucky ode "Reckless Serenade" has a hell of an opening line: "Topless models doing semaphor/ Wave their flags as she walks by and get ignored." Other times, Turner keeps his cards so close to the chest that trying to puzzle out literal meanings would probably be impossible, though his disconnected imagery is usually still pretty compelling. These songs tend to be heavier, more fuzzed-out: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid nod "Black Treacle", which envisions "belly-button piercings in the sky at night" (how careful are Turner's word choices? This careful: "Now it's getting dark, and the sky looks sticky/ More like black treacle than tar"); "The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala", which juxtaposes memorably impressionistic verses with searing, yes, sha-la-la-la choruses; "She's Thunderstorms", as tempestuous and captivating as its female subject. Only jagged, mathy "Library Pictures" fails to hold interest. For a band whose breakthrough hit was called "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor", Arctic Monkeys have always been perhaps unexpectedly great at gentler moments. On that score, Suck It and See is a thing to behold. The heart-wrenching "Love Is a Laserquest" addresses a lost love every bit as unsparingly as past Arctics slow burners "Do Me a Favour", "Cornerstone", or "A Certain Romance", picking up a lyrical theme that also runs throughout an album by a very different band, Fleet Foxes' Helplessness Blues: "Do you still feel younger than you thought you would by now?" Finale "That's Where You're Wrong", in the steadily escalating two-chord format of LCD Soundsystem's "All My Friends", furthers this concern with the passing years: "Don't take it so personally, honey/ You're not the only one that time has got it in for." Now there's something you don't see every blog-second: a group that grew up too fast, aging gracefully.

Artist: Arctic Monkeys, Album: Suck It and See, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "A gang of surly teenagers gives away music for free online, makes light of the industry's established byways, and somehow manages to sell records at a time when overall album sales continue to dwindle. It's a familiar storyline these days, but when Arctic Monkeys' precociously jaded Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling UK debut ever, back in early 2006, the idea of a "MySpace band" was still something new. Now, with News Corp. reportedly trying to sell MySpace and other sites such as Bandcamp and Tumblr taking the struggling social network's place in music think-pieces, the Sheffield band's latest is a throwback in a more classic sense. Suck It and See, the Arctics' fourth and most rewarding album so far, is not music to blog to. Listen while updating your Facebook status or crafting the perfect tweet, and you're probably going to miss something crucial. Actually, you're probably going to miss something anyway: For instance, the title, while no doubt partly intended as a provocation toward American audiences, is mostly just easily misunderstood Brit-speak for "give it a try." But the record itself brims with endlessly replayable details, some goofy and some poignant, both in frontman Alex Turner's always keenly observed lyrics and in the band's ever-proficient music, the latter of which ranges here from muscular glam-rock to chiming indie pop balladry. Cowboy movies and humdrum observations about the weather conceal thoughtful contemplations on romance and coming of age. "Oh, in five years' time, will it be, 'Who the fuck's Arctic Monkeys?'" That was Turner five years ago. Fittingly, Suck It and See is something of a reboot for the band. 2007 sophomore effort Favourite Worst Nightmare, the Arctics' first album with Simian Mobile Disco's James Ford producing, found the group enriching its palette both emotionally and sonically, while musically toughening up. 2009's Humbug paired the group with Queens of the Stone Age's Josh Homme, leading to predictably brawny, unwound results. Elsewhere, Turner's once-shouty voice ripened into a honeyed croon with 2008 side project the Last Shadow Puppets, and his recent solo soundtrack for Richard Ayoade film Submarine allowed him to unplug. The new record, produced by Ford but with a burly backing vocal from Homme on the churning "All My Own Stunts", sounds informed by each of these experiences, distilling them all into the unit's next phase: confident, melodic, and as expertly played as ever. Turner has been talking up country greats Johnny Cash, George Jones, and Patsy Cline as lyrical influences on this album, along with Nick Cave, the Byrds, Nick Lowe, David Bowie, and Leonard Cohen. When he's at his clearest (which is still pretty heavy with ambiguities), Suck It and See has a bleak sense of humor to prove he's not kidding. That's fleshed out by bandmates whose tastes run more toward Black Sabbath stomp or Stooges aggression. Musically, drummer Matt Helders remains the Arctics' not-so-secret weapon, capable of lizard-brain freakouts or deceptively innocent waltzes; Sean Combs has invited him more than once to sit in with Diddy Dirty Money. So hardly a verse goes by without an instant quotable or two, and the backing is elegant enough that at first you might not even notice. "Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair", a swaggering boogie worthy of its title, lists off dangerous ideas that are all presumably less dangerous than sitting down ("Do the Macarena in the devil's lair"-- you know, the usual). Plucky ode "Reckless Serenade" has a hell of an opening line: "Topless models doing semaphor/ Wave their flags as she walks by and get ignored." Other times, Turner keeps his cards so close to the chest that trying to puzzle out literal meanings would probably be impossible, though his disconnected imagery is usually still pretty compelling. These songs tend to be heavier, more fuzzed-out: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid nod "Black Treacle", which envisions "belly-button piercings in the sky at night" (how careful are Turner's word choices? This careful: "Now it's getting dark, and the sky looks sticky/ More like black treacle than tar"); "The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala", which juxtaposes memorably impressionistic verses with searing, yes, sha-la-la-la choruses; "She's Thunderstorms", as tempestuous and captivating as its female subject. Only jagged, mathy "Library Pictures" fails to hold interest. For a band whose breakthrough hit was called "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor", Arctic Monkeys have always been perhaps unexpectedly great at gentler moments. On that score, Suck It and See is a thing to behold. The heart-wrenching "Love Is a Laserquest" addresses a lost love every bit as unsparingly as past Arctics slow burners "Do Me a Favour", "Cornerstone", or "A Certain Romance", picking up a lyrical theme that also runs throughout an album by a very different band, Fleet Foxes' Helplessness Blues: "Do you still feel younger than you thought you would by now?" Finale "That's Where You're Wrong", in the steadily escalating two-chord format of LCD Soundsystem's "All My Friends", furthers this concern with the passing years: "Don't take it so personally, honey/ You're not the only one that time has got it in for." Now there's something you don't see every blog-second: a group that grew up too fast, aging gracefully."

Ataxia

Automatic Writing

Experimental,Rock

Brian Howe

Oscar Wilde advised against any enterprise requiring new clothes. I feel the same way about enterprises requiring serial numbers. So you'll understand why I experienced a brief bout of ataxia (a loss of muscle control) when I received an unsolicited promo copy of Automatic Writing, clad in a yellow-and-black sleeve reminiscent of both crime-scene tape and biohazard packaging. My name and serial number were machine-printed on the CD amid a cluster of unambiguously menacing legal language. The upshot is that if I fileshare Ataxia's music, a digital watermark encoded on the disc will be traced back to me, and Michael Powell will personally come to my house and shove jewel cases under my fingernails. So for the love of God, go buy it; don't ask me to burn it for you. I'm locking it in the safe with my passport and unregistered firearm. Ideas that sound terrible on paper, but work surprisingly well in praxis: Jim Jarmusch's Coffee and Cigarettes; Mudhoney's Mark Arm singing for the reunited MC5; mint-flavored lattes; Red Hot Chili Peppers guitarist John Frusciante jamming with Fugazi. You heard me: Ataxia is a collaborative effort between Frusciante, Josh Klinghoffer, and Fugazi bassist Joe Lally. After Frusciante played two experimental electronic shows with Klinghoffer at The Knitting Factory in L.A., the two enlisted Lally as bassist for future performances. But instead of adding Lally to the existing music, the trio decided to strike out in a different direction and compose songs together. Ataxia's debut is the product of these extemporaneous sessions, and it represents approximately half of the 90 minutes of music Ataxia recorded; the second will be released early next year. Automatic Writing, comprised of five long movements, was recorded with little overdubbing or studio chicanery-- just Frusciante on synthesizer, guitar, and vocals; Lally laying down deep waves of cyclical bass; Klinghoffer ranging confidently over eclectic but sturdy percussion. Consequently, the record sounds as organic and exploratory as one would expect. It opens with its most immediately memorable track, the nine-minute "Dust". A slow-burning fuse of reiterative bass, supple drums, and the build-and-break ignitions of Frusciante's sinuous and serpentine guitar squiggles, it's also the most "Fugazi-sounding" song on the album, especially with Frusciante's ragged and impassioned vocals groaning over the ample foundation. It would have fit pretty well on Red Medicine. The trudging "Another" reprises the equation from "Dust" with new variables-- the bassline reconfigures but maintains its lockstep pattern; Frusciante's guitar cuts crisp melodic figures that neatly accrue instead of bleeding into one another. And though its skeletal arrangement, restrained vocal collage and keening synthesizer are less instantly engaging than "Dust", they nonetheless serve as an effective counterpoint to "Dust"'s aggressive stance. "The Sides" is a stroboscopic echo chamber of percussion, mobile bass, and prickly guitar-- with its discernible vocal melody, it's the closest thing to a pop song on Automatic Writing. The album closes with the epics "Addition" and "Montreal". The former plows through the record's most dense, difficult and abrasive sonic territory, while the latter's busy guitar and haunting, enigmatic vocals evoke some of Shudder to Think's spookier moments, elongated over 12 daunting minutes. I wouldn't recommend Ataxia to Red Hot Chili Peppers fans (many of whom probably identify more with Anthony Kiedis's "Mongo, King of the Jungle" schtick than with Frusciante's chops), but it will come as a happy surprise to Fugazi buffs who are dubious about how well this alliance will pan out. And I hate to say it, what with Fugazi's staunchly straight-edge creed, but this is the sort of kaleidoscopic dinosaur-rock that the stoner set will just eat up. You can probably download some MP3s on the networks for a taste, but you didn't hear it from me. It's not going to be my fault when some poor, watermarked bastard gets dragged off to Guantanamo Bay.

Artist: Ataxia, Album: Automatic Writing, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Oscar Wilde advised against any enterprise requiring new clothes. I feel the same way about enterprises requiring serial numbers. So you'll understand why I experienced a brief bout of ataxia (a loss of muscle control) when I received an unsolicited promo copy of Automatic Writing, clad in a yellow-and-black sleeve reminiscent of both crime-scene tape and biohazard packaging. My name and serial number were machine-printed on the CD amid a cluster of unambiguously menacing legal language. The upshot is that if I fileshare Ataxia's music, a digital watermark encoded on the disc will be traced back to me, and Michael Powell will personally come to my house and shove jewel cases under my fingernails. So for the love of God, go buy it; don't ask me to burn it for you. I'm locking it in the safe with my passport and unregistered firearm. Ideas that sound terrible on paper, but work surprisingly well in praxis: Jim Jarmusch's Coffee and Cigarettes; Mudhoney's Mark Arm singing for the reunited MC5; mint-flavored lattes; Red Hot Chili Peppers guitarist John Frusciante jamming with Fugazi. You heard me: Ataxia is a collaborative effort between Frusciante, Josh Klinghoffer, and Fugazi bassist Joe Lally. After Frusciante played two experimental electronic shows with Klinghoffer at The Knitting Factory in L.A., the two enlisted Lally as bassist for future performances. But instead of adding Lally to the existing music, the trio decided to strike out in a different direction and compose songs together. Ataxia's debut is the product of these extemporaneous sessions, and it represents approximately half of the 90 minutes of music Ataxia recorded; the second will be released early next year. Automatic Writing, comprised of five long movements, was recorded with little overdubbing or studio chicanery-- just Frusciante on synthesizer, guitar, and vocals; Lally laying down deep waves of cyclical bass; Klinghoffer ranging confidently over eclectic but sturdy percussion. Consequently, the record sounds as organic and exploratory as one would expect. It opens with its most immediately memorable track, the nine-minute "Dust". A slow-burning fuse of reiterative bass, supple drums, and the build-and-break ignitions of Frusciante's sinuous and serpentine guitar squiggles, it's also the most "Fugazi-sounding" song on the album, especially with Frusciante's ragged and impassioned vocals groaning over the ample foundation. It would have fit pretty well on Red Medicine. The trudging "Another" reprises the equation from "Dust" with new variables-- the bassline reconfigures but maintains its lockstep pattern; Frusciante's guitar cuts crisp melodic figures that neatly accrue instead of bleeding into one another. And though its skeletal arrangement, restrained vocal collage and keening synthesizer are less instantly engaging than "Dust", they nonetheless serve as an effective counterpoint to "Dust"'s aggressive stance. "The Sides" is a stroboscopic echo chamber of percussion, mobile bass, and prickly guitar-- with its discernible vocal melody, it's the closest thing to a pop song on Automatic Writing. The album closes with the epics "Addition" and "Montreal". The former plows through the record's most dense, difficult and abrasive sonic territory, while the latter's busy guitar and haunting, enigmatic vocals evoke some of Shudder to Think's spookier moments, elongated over 12 daunting minutes. I wouldn't recommend Ataxia to Red Hot Chili Peppers fans (many of whom probably identify more with Anthony Kiedis's "Mongo, King of the Jungle" schtick than with Frusciante's chops), but it will come as a happy surprise to Fugazi buffs who are dubious about how well this alliance will pan out. And I hate to say it, what with Fugazi's staunchly straight-edge creed, but this is the sort of kaleidoscopic dinosaur-rock that the stoner set will just eat up. You can probably download some MP3s on the networks for a taste, but you didn't hear it from me. It's not going to be my fault when some poor, watermarked bastard gets dragged off to Guantanamo Bay."

Danny L Harle

Broken Flowers EP

Electronic

Mehan Jayasuriya

"Broken Flowers" is often cited as the most fully-realized PC Music single, a polished gem of a track released on a famously ephemeral label. Its author, Danny L Harle, is a shadowy figure, even by PC Music standards. We do know that he's a childhood friend of label head A. G. Cook (with whom he performs in Dux Content), a classically trained composer, and seems to have played a foundational role in defining the PC Music aesthetic. And yet, he's only released a few solo tracks since the label's emergence—he might be the least prolific SoundCloud phenom this side of Jai Paul. Anticipation for new music from Harle is understandably high, a fact that clearly hasn't been lost on PC Music. The Broken Flowers EP marks PC Music's inaugural joint release with Columbia Records, the first shot fired in what the label has described as, "[a] multi-tier attack exposing the radical DNA of chart music, and the heart and soul behind every lab creation." Clocking in at 4 songs and just under 15 minutes, the Broken Flowers EP is a focused, purposeful release, clearly meant to introduce the PC Music sound to new listeners and commercial heights. The EP is bookended by the titular single—closing track "Awake for Hours" is really just a remix of "Broken Flowers" that speeds up the original to a breakneck pace. Luckily, "Broken Flowers" is still a thrilling listen two years on. This is the closest thing the label has to a deep-house cut, a song that would feel at home on almost any dancefloor despite its winkingly maudlin lyrics. The track builds with impressive precision, with sinuous arpeggios, marimba notes, and reverberating vocal samples clicking into place atop a driving 4/4 beat. What's more, it sounds as if Harle has rebuilt the song from scratch for this release; where the original reveled in cliché house sounds, every element in this mix, including the vocals, feels cleaned up and refined. The two new songs, "Forever" and "Without You", don't disappoint, even as they diverge from the template Harle sketched out on "Broken Flowers". Both tracks hew much closer to the PC Music playbook, with chirpy, pitched up vocals sitting atop glistening, Technicolor synths. "Without You" is a clear standout, surfacing the melancholic undercurrent that gave "Broken Flowers" its depth. Vocalist Emily Verlander pines for a lover over an airy track that heaves and sighs, exploring the tension between helium-inhaling vocals and confessional lyrics. The implication here is unclear—we're either being invited to dismiss the heartbroken pop song as naive or confront the infantilization of female narrators in pop. Harle's role as the male auteur behind the curtain further complicates our understanding, lending the song the sort of discomfiting air that's become a PC Music trademark. As compelling as the music on the Broken Flowers EP is, calling it an EP feels like a bit of stretch—it's really just a single, one that's anchored by a remake of a track that's been out for two years. Then again, it's hard to blame Harle and PC Music for playing it safe given the stakes here. At the core of PC Music's agenda lies a desire to simultaneously critique and embrace chart pop by mimicking its form; what better way to signal the fulfillment of the label's ambitions than with an actual charting pop single? "Sometimes I feel, maybe/ This could be real," Verlander admits on "Without You". She adds, ironically, "Trust me."

Artist: Danny L Harle, Album: Broken Flowers EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: ""Broken Flowers" is often cited as the most fully-realized PC Music single, a polished gem of a track released on a famously ephemeral label. Its author, Danny L Harle, is a shadowy figure, even by PC Music standards. We do know that he's a childhood friend of label head A. G. Cook (with whom he performs in Dux Content), a classically trained composer, and seems to have played a foundational role in defining the PC Music aesthetic. And yet, he's only released a few solo tracks since the label's emergence—he might be the least prolific SoundCloud phenom this side of Jai Paul. Anticipation for new music from Harle is understandably high, a fact that clearly hasn't been lost on PC Music. The Broken Flowers EP marks PC Music's inaugural joint release with Columbia Records, the first shot fired in what the label has described as, "[a] multi-tier attack exposing the radical DNA of chart music, and the heart and soul behind every lab creation." Clocking in at 4 songs and just under 15 minutes, the Broken Flowers EP is a focused, purposeful release, clearly meant to introduce the PC Music sound to new listeners and commercial heights. The EP is bookended by the titular single—closing track "Awake for Hours" is really just a remix of "Broken Flowers" that speeds up the original to a breakneck pace. Luckily, "Broken Flowers" is still a thrilling listen two years on. This is the closest thing the label has to a deep-house cut, a song that would feel at home on almost any dancefloor despite its winkingly maudlin lyrics. The track builds with impressive precision, with sinuous arpeggios, marimba notes, and reverberating vocal samples clicking into place atop a driving 4/4 beat. What's more, it sounds as if Harle has rebuilt the song from scratch for this release; where the original reveled in cliché house sounds, every element in this mix, including the vocals, feels cleaned up and refined. The two new songs, "Forever" and "Without You", don't disappoint, even as they diverge from the template Harle sketched out on "Broken Flowers". Both tracks hew much closer to the PC Music playbook, with chirpy, pitched up vocals sitting atop glistening, Technicolor synths. "Without You" is a clear standout, surfacing the melancholic undercurrent that gave "Broken Flowers" its depth. Vocalist Emily Verlander pines for a lover over an airy track that heaves and sighs, exploring the tension between helium-inhaling vocals and confessional lyrics. The implication here is unclear—we're either being invited to dismiss the heartbroken pop song as naive or confront the infantilization of female narrators in pop. Harle's role as the male auteur behind the curtain further complicates our understanding, lending the song the sort of discomfiting air that's become a PC Music trademark. As compelling as the music on the Broken Flowers EP is, calling it an EP feels like a bit of stretch—it's really just a single, one that's anchored by a remake of a track that's been out for two years. Then again, it's hard to blame Harle and PC Music for playing it safe given the stakes here. At the core of PC Music's agenda lies a desire to simultaneously critique and embrace chart pop by mimicking its form; what better way to signal the fulfillment of the label's ambitions than with an actual charting pop single? "Sometimes I feel, maybe/ This could be real," Verlander admits on "Without You". She adds, ironically, "Trust me.""

Diamond Rings

Free Dimensional

Electronic,Rock

Ian Cohen

Be prepared for a desperate Hollywood type catching wind of John O'Regan's story and turning it into a heartwarming dram-com that you will avoid at all costs. The elevator pitch goes like this: Hospitalized with debilitating Crohn's disease and estranged from his struggling, blue-collar indie rock band, a young man spends his confinement "learning how to reinvent [his] body" and transmogrifies into self-styled pop sensation Diamond Rings. Cue the gender-bending, rainbow-colored makeover, the bubblegum glam-rock songs made almost entirely on GarageBand, and the YouTube videos whose amateur choreography bravely and embarrassingly emphasizes the man's awkward and angular physicality. The soundtrack would make it worthwhile, though: Confessional and relentlessly melodic, "All Yr Songs", "You Oughta Know", and nearly everything else on 2010's Special Affections functioned as guileless musical therapy, a genuinely inspiring record about transcending emotional and physical stagnation. Two years later, Diamond Rings has far surpassed the still-active D'Urbervilles as well as O'Regan's previous Casio-pop duo Habitat, signed to a major label, and started performing live as a four-piece band. And for better or worse, Free Dimensional feels like a sequel, more professional, calculated, and occasionally satisfying, ultimately lacking the anything-goes magic that called for a sequel in the first place. On some level, O'Regan's aim on his second LP is similar to that of his fellow Canadians Japandroids. Like Post-Nothing, Special Affections was a surprise hit that generated a lot of its resonance from a total lack of pretension; this was music made out of personal necessity, with no idea if anyone was actually going to hear it. Having witnessed the effect of these records on live crowds, both try for something more universal that repeats the trick of the original while amplifying it. But whereas Celebration Rock successfully threw its arms around an ever-widening audience, Free Dimensional does something trickier, which is focus so much on the capital-s Self that O'Regan gets taken out of the picture completely. As you can tell from the titles-- "I'm Just Me", "Hand Over My Heart", "(I Know) What I'm Made Of", "Stand My Ground", self-empowerment, self-esteem and staying true to oneself are the name of the game, and the lyrics are presented with a lack of specificity that allows the listener to think of themselves every time O'Regan sings the word "me." Maybe that's the goal, but it's also a mistake. While O'Regan's story wasn't essential to Special Affections, it did manage to give powerful context and emotional ballast to what otherwise could've been fairly fluffy songs. O'Regan's songwriting hasn't changed much and the machinistic approach here reveals the limitations that weren't apparent in a 10-song debut. For one thing, so many of his lyrics follow the same AAB/CCD pattern ("I don't know how to get where I'm going but I know I'm growing every day/ And if I fall I'll get back into it cause I know I'm doing it my own way," and so forth) that it ultimately makes Free Dimensional feel more like a word puzzle app than an artistic exercise, everything O'Regan says restricted to a small number of melodic contours or rhyme schemes. This is problematic since he is consciously drawing from the most basic elements of pop lyricism; after a while, the endless new hearts and fresh starts feel like the same old rut. Still, Free Dimensional importing most of Special Affections' compositional tactics wholesale means that it's going to have some economic and catchy hooks no matter what. The sound isn't as novel as it was three years back, but Diamond Rings is forever distinguished by the brawny register of O'Regan's vocals. Trade in the white denim for blue, and he could join Divine Fits without missing a beat. His best songs function like "Since U Been Gone" in reverse, starting with the idea of mega-budget pop and filtering it through Strokes-esque, New Wave rock. The most guitar heavy-track here, "Runaway Love", recalls the surging highlights of Diamond Rings' past largely because it's a minor rewrite of "Something Else" and "Wait & See". The video for subsequent one-off single "Show Me Your Stuff" gave the impression that given the proper monetary freedom, Diamond Rings could and would go full-on Dr. Luke, Max Martin or RedOne. While co-produced by Damian Taylor (Robyn, Björk, U.N.K.L.E.), Free Dimensional doesn't go far enough to become undeniable; it's an upgrade from the Tinkertoy sound of Special Affections, but they still sound like an incremental upgrade, Lego constructions rather than the gleaming skyscrapers they need to be. The big moments are knowing winks and post-production graft: "I'm Just Me" co-opts the surge of an EDM drop into its chorus, "Day & Night" is modeled after Gloria Estefan's "1-2-3", and while the rap section of "(I Know) What I'm Made Of" is likely intended to be along the lines of those wedged into "Hangin' Tough" or Bobby Brown's "Don't Be Cruel", you still have to hear O'Regan rap. You'd think the namedrops of bell hooks and "Buffalo Stance" would disarm any critical faculty, but when he ends it snarling, "don't you ever even think of tryin' to [BLEEP!] with me," it's more proof that frothy pop recreations from acts with indie backgrounds are often prone to wincing self-awareness. Though Free Dimensional is proud to be out of step both sonically and personally, in a strange way it loops back into a new kind of currency alongside the pop-star self-actualization of Grimes, Robyn, or Carly Rae Jepsen that's found currency amongst those who would identify as "indie" listeners. As much as they draw from the style and sound of 80s teen-pop, they crucially embody the appeal of its accompanying "starmaking" accessories such as in-mall concerts and "record your own song!" karaoke booths: T**his could be you. It strikes a balance between the power of relatability and the transformative power of pop music-- the songs draw you in, the image stokes your imagination, and their down-to-earth personalities makes pop-star self-actualization far more realistic than it does in the form of Lady Gaga or Beyoncé, i.e., people you could really only "be" on Halloween. O'Regan understands that, but he's missing half the equation here. Free Dimensional is an homage to certain styles of pop; what made Special Affections such an unexpectedly powerful document was how it managed to be a tribute to pop itself, more specifically the literally life-altering capacity of it. That's a great story and one wort

Artist: Diamond Rings, Album: Free Dimensional, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "Be prepared for a desperate Hollywood type catching wind of John O'Regan's story and turning it into a heartwarming dram-com that you will avoid at all costs. The elevator pitch goes like this: Hospitalized with debilitating Crohn's disease and estranged from his struggling, blue-collar indie rock band, a young man spends his confinement "learning how to reinvent [his] body" and transmogrifies into self-styled pop sensation Diamond Rings. Cue the gender-bending, rainbow-colored makeover, the bubblegum glam-rock songs made almost entirely on GarageBand, and the YouTube videos whose amateur choreography bravely and embarrassingly emphasizes the man's awkward and angular physicality. The soundtrack would make it worthwhile, though: Confessional and relentlessly melodic, "All Yr Songs", "You Oughta Know", and nearly everything else on 2010's Special Affections functioned as guileless musical therapy, a genuinely inspiring record about transcending emotional and physical stagnation. Two years later, Diamond Rings has far surpassed the still-active D'Urbervilles as well as O'Regan's previous Casio-pop duo Habitat, signed to a major label, and started performing live as a four-piece band. And for better or worse, Free Dimensional feels like a sequel, more professional, calculated, and occasionally satisfying, ultimately lacking the anything-goes magic that called for a sequel in the first place. On some level, O'Regan's aim on his second LP is similar to that of his fellow Canadians Japandroids. Like Post-Nothing, Special Affections was a surprise hit that generated a lot of its resonance from a total lack of pretension; this was music made out of personal necessity, with no idea if anyone was actually going to hear it. Having witnessed the effect of these records on live crowds, both try for something more universal that repeats the trick of the original while amplifying it. But whereas Celebration Rock successfully threw its arms around an ever-widening audience, Free Dimensional does something trickier, which is focus so much on the capital-s Self that O'Regan gets taken out of the picture completely. As you can tell from the titles-- "I'm Just Me", "Hand Over My Heart", "(I Know) What I'm Made Of", "Stand My Ground", self-empowerment, self-esteem and staying true to oneself are the name of the game, and the lyrics are presented with a lack of specificity that allows the listener to think of themselves every time O'Regan sings the word "me." Maybe that's the goal, but it's also a mistake. While O'Regan's story wasn't essential to Special Affections, it did manage to give powerful context and emotional ballast to what otherwise could've been fairly fluffy songs. O'Regan's songwriting hasn't changed much and the machinistic approach here reveals the limitations that weren't apparent in a 10-song debut. For one thing, so many of his lyrics follow the same AAB/CCD pattern ("I don't know how to get where I'm going but I know I'm growing every day/ And if I fall I'll get back into it cause I know I'm doing it my own way," and so forth) that it ultimately makes Free Dimensional feel more like a word puzzle app than an artistic exercise, everything O'Regan says restricted to a small number of melodic contours or rhyme schemes. This is problematic since he is consciously drawing from the most basic elements of pop lyricism; after a while, the endless new hearts and fresh starts feel like the same old rut. Still, Free Dimensional importing most of Special Affections' compositional tactics wholesale means that it's going to have some economic and catchy hooks no matter what. The sound isn't as novel as it was three years back, but Diamond Rings is forever distinguished by the brawny register of O'Regan's vocals. Trade in the white denim for blue, and he could join Divine Fits without missing a beat. His best songs function like "Since U Been Gone" in reverse, starting with the idea of mega-budget pop and filtering it through Strokes-esque, New Wave rock. The most guitar heavy-track here, "Runaway Love", recalls the surging highlights of Diamond Rings' past largely because it's a minor rewrite of "Something Else" and "Wait & See". The video for subsequent one-off single "Show Me Your Stuff" gave the impression that given the proper monetary freedom, Diamond Rings could and would go full-on Dr. Luke, Max Martin or RedOne. While co-produced by Damian Taylor (Robyn, Björk, U.N.K.L.E.), Free Dimensional doesn't go far enough to become undeniable; it's an upgrade from the Tinkertoy sound of Special Affections, but they still sound like an incremental upgrade, Lego constructions rather than the gleaming skyscrapers they need to be. The big moments are knowing winks and post-production graft: "I'm Just Me" co-opts the surge of an EDM drop into its chorus, "Day & Night" is modeled after Gloria Estefan's "1-2-3", and while the rap section of "(I Know) What I'm Made Of" is likely intended to be along the lines of those wedged into "Hangin' Tough" or Bobby Brown's "Don't Be Cruel", you still have to hear O'Regan rap. You'd think the namedrops of bell hooks and "Buffalo Stance" would disarm any critical faculty, but when he ends it snarling, "don't you ever even think of tryin' to [BLEEP!] with me," it's more proof that frothy pop recreations from acts with indie backgrounds are often prone to wincing self-awareness. Though Free Dimensional is proud to be out of step both sonically and personally, in a strange way it loops back into a new kind of currency alongside the pop-star self-actualization of Grimes, Robyn, or Carly Rae Jepsen that's found currency amongst those who would identify as "indie" listeners. As much as they draw from the style and sound of 80s teen-pop, they crucially embody the appeal of its accompanying "starmaking" accessories such as in-mall concerts and "record your own song!" karaoke booths: T**his could be you. It strikes a balance between the power of relatability and the transformative power of pop music-- the songs draw you in, the image stokes your imagination, and their down-to-earth personalities makes pop-star self-actualization far more realistic than it does in the form of Lady Gaga or Beyoncé, i.e., people you could really only "be" on Halloween. O'Regan understands that, but he's missing half the equation here. Free Dimensional is an homage to certain styles of pop; what made Special Affections such an unexpectedly powerful document was how it managed to be a tribute to pop itself, more specifically the literally life-altering capacity of it. That's a great story and one wort"

Rising

To Solemn Ash

Brandon Stosuy

The young Danish sludge trio Rising have a familiar sound, but their ability to pen vast, melodic anthems is sharp enough that originality isn't really an issue. Especially if you're into rockers in the tradition of Baroness or Remission-era Mastodon. Unlike the more recent versions of those older groups, Rising aren't into "experimentation." To Solemn Ash, their 10-song debut, offers straightforward metal that may come laced with the occasional acoustic interlude, but could definitely be reproduced in the smallest, shittiest club in the world without the help of guest musicians, triggers, a psychedelic choir, or a laptop. (The collection, released across Europe in October, saw its American release earlier this month.) They've found multiple ways to come off expansive and compelling within a tight, traditional framework. In fact, To Solemn Ash goes places a 2009 EP and even a 2010 single couldn't without sounding too much different from either of the earlier efforts. Rising are ramping things up here, and honing a specific style, all without stepping outside of well-worn genre lines. The sequencing helps. Immediately likable opening track "Mausoleum" and "Sea of Basalt", the song that follows it, find bellowing vocalist/bassist Henrik Hald, guitarist/backup vocalist Jacob Krogholt, and drummer Jacob Johansen (the one new addition after their last recording) firing on all cylinders: "Mausoleum"'s dynamics feel like tectonic shifts, and remain immensely hummable; "Basalt" finds them nodding at Kylesa with gruff multi-tracked vocal shouts and instrumentation that continually ebbs, crests, and regains momentum until the final bit of feedback. (Which raises a question: How do three dudes from Denmark sound so much like four or five folks from Georgia?) Rising don't maintain this focus for 48 minutes, but there are plenty of "wow" moments like the six-minute Torche-meets-Neurosis of the mid-tempo "ballads" "Cohorts Rise" and "Under Callous Wings", the frantic Converge-like riffing on the album's shortest track "Through the Eyes of Catalysis", and the way you feel like you can suddenly imagine High on Fire as a (very powerful) pop band while listening to "Heir to the Flames". The trio isn't afraid to groove or veer into somewhat poppier territory, and can pull it off without sacrificing heaviness or getting too cute: They simply know how to write great riffs, and newbie producer Jakob Reichert Nielsen should probably be giving tutorials to "star" recordists who don't yet know how to make metal sound huge, polished, and just-raw-enough in their more renowned studios. It's worth repeating: For all the quality, head nods, and goosebumps this album provides, Rising are, more or less, a basic sludge-metal band. And it's refreshing not having to also pull out the words "post" or "avant" to describe them.

Artist: Rising, Album: To Solemn Ash, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "The young Danish sludge trio Rising have a familiar sound, but their ability to pen vast, melodic anthems is sharp enough that originality isn't really an issue. Especially if you're into rockers in the tradition of Baroness or Remission-era Mastodon. Unlike the more recent versions of those older groups, Rising aren't into "experimentation." To Solemn Ash, their 10-song debut, offers straightforward metal that may come laced with the occasional acoustic interlude, but could definitely be reproduced in the smallest, shittiest club in the world without the help of guest musicians, triggers, a psychedelic choir, or a laptop. (The collection, released across Europe in October, saw its American release earlier this month.) They've found multiple ways to come off expansive and compelling within a tight, traditional framework. In fact, To Solemn Ash goes places a 2009 EP and even a 2010 single couldn't without sounding too much different from either of the earlier efforts. Rising are ramping things up here, and honing a specific style, all without stepping outside of well-worn genre lines. The sequencing helps. Immediately likable opening track "Mausoleum" and "Sea of Basalt", the song that follows it, find bellowing vocalist/bassist Henrik Hald, guitarist/backup vocalist Jacob Krogholt, and drummer Jacob Johansen (the one new addition after their last recording) firing on all cylinders: "Mausoleum"'s dynamics feel like tectonic shifts, and remain immensely hummable; "Basalt" finds them nodding at Kylesa with gruff multi-tracked vocal shouts and instrumentation that continually ebbs, crests, and regains momentum until the final bit of feedback. (Which raises a question: How do three dudes from Denmark sound so much like four or five folks from Georgia?) Rising don't maintain this focus for 48 minutes, but there are plenty of "wow" moments like the six-minute Torche-meets-Neurosis of the mid-tempo "ballads" "Cohorts Rise" and "Under Callous Wings", the frantic Converge-like riffing on the album's shortest track "Through the Eyes of Catalysis", and the way you feel like you can suddenly imagine High on Fire as a (very powerful) pop band while listening to "Heir to the Flames". The trio isn't afraid to groove or veer into somewhat poppier territory, and can pull it off without sacrificing heaviness or getting too cute: They simply know how to write great riffs, and newbie producer Jakob Reichert Nielsen should probably be giving tutorials to "star" recordists who don't yet know how to make metal sound huge, polished, and just-raw-enough in their more renowned studios. It's worth repeating: For all the quality, head nods, and goosebumps this album provides, Rising are, more or less, a basic sludge-metal band. And it's refreshing not having to also pull out the words "post" or "avant" to describe them."