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Gold Chains | Young Miss America | Electronic,Rap | Dominique Leone | 6.7 | Topher Lafata, perhaps informed by an adolescence of Black Flag shows and slamdancing in his suburban Pennsylvania bedroom, is coming at this whole "authenticity" thing from a strange angle. Rather than play up his "hardships" or overcompensate for a lack of ghetto wisdom, he gets by on sheer geekiness and neon indie funk. That isn't to say Gold Chains should retreat back to the server room, because when in doubt, he's more likely to lapse into sub Sir Mix-A-Lot machinegun flow than drain a beat with glitchy, crystalline tomfoolery. To hear him tell it, the world revolves around only so many things, and it's probably a good thing he doesn't list race among them, as it wouldn't advance his cause very far anyway. The long and short of Gold Chains is wrapped up in insular, detail-oriented aggression and a recurring love/hate relationship with cash money. Don't look for hard cred where it doesn't exist; he's just good, clean fun. Even more than fun, Lafata gets close to home on your ass-- especially if you're a young white male with time to burn. Throughout Young Miss America, his debut long-player, he laments love lost over material and the fear of a life left empty over the pursuits of money and watching the strippers glisten in the sun. "Citizens Nowhere, what do you want?" he asks his constituency of desperately bored, vaguely ambitious turks. Let him be more specific: "What do you want from me?" He makes this inquiry in "Let's Get It On", in which the Gold Chains position is made perfectly clear. Never mind that he brings in an actual female to testify that it ain't all about the cold-hard, this stuff will hit you hardest if you either believe everything he says (not likely), or dig the hooks. This album has hundreds of hooks, and I think that's Lafata's way of revealing which of his own personal philosophies he holds the most stock in. Gold Chains turns out beats okay, but his tunes might grab your post-production fancy-- I counted not less than six complete backing track plan-Bs before the chorus on the album's opener, "Code Red". Impressively, he manages to pull these tricks out of a largely sample-free bag, though what he gains by way of a fairly unique sound he often gives right back via arcade-goof organ patches and ill-advised lapses into electro-pop when it seems he should be turning up the bass. Lafata boasts a "record with no filler," and maybe he's going for the indie kids who don't buy the high BPMs, but when "Several Times Defined" busts of the gate with Farfisa and squeaky clean go-go beats, I get the impression I'm not supposed to be laughing at this. Similarly, "The Game" hits the razor-sharp jazz piano in all the right places, but lines like, "I just felt some magic, girl, and I think I just might be your type," don't seem like they'd go well over pogo stick, stop-time two-step. And they don't. Things get a lot more interesting when Lafata brings out the real guns, as on the Spaghetti Western-informed, dancehall romp of "Nada". His voice is naturally brutish, so when his ideas and arrangements are kept in focus, the Gold Chains growl gathers no moss-- in addition to making his occasionally affected Jamaican accent much easier to take. This tune volleys from slow-burn riddim mange to pretty convincing cinematic grandeur (check those cymbal crashes, John Williams), but when "I.O.U. becomes 'you owe me'" it's the beats and Lafata's persistence that sell his already amply stated warnings against greed. He even manages to stay funky for more than one verse at a time on "Revolution", though that he's stealing chord progressions from The Art of Noise probably says more about the record than anything. Still, get this man a remix gig for Justin Timberlake, stat. Moments here suggest Gold Chains could be really dangerous should he one day choose the big picture over the instant gratification of a thousand new directions. It's not as if Young Miss America is a necessarily incoherent experience-- and it certainly sounds like something aimed for parties (as opposed to, say, music for computer programming). In fact, his most endearing moments, such as the trashcan suave "Break or Be Broken" (imagine Louis Prima recast as an MC in heat), point to a future as either a very entertaining DJ, or the between-girl entertainment at Big Daddy's XXX. One part Busta-lite, and the rest full-on skater bravado: Gold Chains isn't going to tear up the world of hip-hop, but he's not totally empty handed. |
Artist: Gold Chains,
Album: Young Miss America,
Genre: Electronic,Rap,
Score (1-10): 6.7
Album review:
"Topher Lafata, perhaps informed by an adolescence of Black Flag shows and slamdancing in his suburban Pennsylvania bedroom, is coming at this whole "authenticity" thing from a strange angle. Rather than play up his "hardships" or overcompensate for a lack of ghetto wisdom, he gets by on sheer geekiness and neon indie funk. That isn't to say Gold Chains should retreat back to the server room, because when in doubt, he's more likely to lapse into sub Sir Mix-A-Lot machinegun flow than drain a beat with glitchy, crystalline tomfoolery. To hear him tell it, the world revolves around only so many things, and it's probably a good thing he doesn't list race among them, as it wouldn't advance his cause very far anyway. The long and short of Gold Chains is wrapped up in insular, detail-oriented aggression and a recurring love/hate relationship with cash money. Don't look for hard cred where it doesn't exist; he's just good, clean fun. Even more than fun, Lafata gets close to home on your ass-- especially if you're a young white male with time to burn. Throughout Young Miss America, his debut long-player, he laments love lost over material and the fear of a life left empty over the pursuits of money and watching the strippers glisten in the sun. "Citizens Nowhere, what do you want?" he asks his constituency of desperately bored, vaguely ambitious turks. Let him be more specific: "What do you want from me?" He makes this inquiry in "Let's Get It On", in which the Gold Chains position is made perfectly clear. Never mind that he brings in an actual female to testify that it ain't all about the cold-hard, this stuff will hit you hardest if you either believe everything he says (not likely), or dig the hooks. This album has hundreds of hooks, and I think that's Lafata's way of revealing which of his own personal philosophies he holds the most stock in. Gold Chains turns out beats okay, but his tunes might grab your post-production fancy-- I counted not less than six complete backing track plan-Bs before the chorus on the album's opener, "Code Red". Impressively, he manages to pull these tricks out of a largely sample-free bag, though what he gains by way of a fairly unique sound he often gives right back via arcade-goof organ patches and ill-advised lapses into electro-pop when it seems he should be turning up the bass. Lafata boasts a "record with no filler," and maybe he's going for the indie kids who don't buy the high BPMs, but when "Several Times Defined" busts of the gate with Farfisa and squeaky clean go-go beats, I get the impression I'm not supposed to be laughing at this. Similarly, "The Game" hits the razor-sharp jazz piano in all the right places, but lines like, "I just felt some magic, girl, and I think I just might be your type," don't seem like they'd go well over pogo stick, stop-time two-step. And they don't. Things get a lot more interesting when Lafata brings out the real guns, as on the Spaghetti Western-informed, dancehall romp of "Nada". His voice is naturally brutish, so when his ideas and arrangements are kept in focus, the Gold Chains growl gathers no moss-- in addition to making his occasionally affected Jamaican accent much easier to take. This tune volleys from slow-burn riddim mange to pretty convincing cinematic grandeur (check those cymbal crashes, John Williams), but when "I.O.U. becomes 'you owe me'" it's the beats and Lafata's persistence that sell his already amply stated warnings against greed. He even manages to stay funky for more than one verse at a time on "Revolution", though that he's stealing chord progressions from The Art of Noise probably says more about the record than anything. Still, get this man a remix gig for Justin Timberlake, stat. Moments here suggest Gold Chains could be really dangerous should he one day choose the big picture over the instant gratification of a thousand new directions. It's not as if Young Miss America is a necessarily incoherent experience-- and it certainly sounds like something aimed for parties (as opposed to, say, music for computer programming). In fact, his most endearing moments, such as the trashcan suave "Break or Be Broken" (imagine Louis Prima recast as an MC in heat), point to a future as either a very entertaining DJ, or the between-girl entertainment at Big Daddy's XXX. One part Busta-lite, and the rest full-on skater bravado: Gold Chains isn't going to tear up the world of hip-hop, but he's not totally empty handed."
|
Sunn O))) & Boris | Altar | null | Grayson Currin | 6.6 | Longtime Southern Lord labelmates, tourmates, and metal bands Sunn 0))) and Boris seem like natural collaborators, though they approach their music with disparate intentions: Sunn 0)))'s blood-covered drone subsumes everything around it, while Boris' blend of patiently unraveling noise and fractious thrash entices and then dramatically repels an audience. With that contrast between push and pull in mind, Altar-- written and recorded largely before a joint tour last fall-- risks leaving an audience stranded in the middle by inertia. Indeed, the second half of Altar does just that, leaving the audience adrift in left field with little direction or purpose. But, together, the first three tracks are a perfect capitulation of their conjoined aesthetics. Opener "Etna" creeps in through feedback and slowly building and shifting bass tones before a huge guitar sweep-- split between Sunn 0)))'s Greg Anderson and Boris' Takeshi-- takes charge a minute in. A veritable war of tones follows, Boris drummer Atsuo filling the low-lying space between the subterranean guitar arches with cymbal rolls. Six minutes later, the air forces-- piercing, upper-register, signature-Boris guitar attacks-- obliterate the lowly, warring miscreants, razing the drama and letting it slow burn into "N.L.T." The follow-up-- featuring the bowed bass of Sunn 0))) collaborator Bill Herzog-- is a vibrantly bleak and texturally captivating work reminiscent of Daniel Menche. Atsuo-- the only other musician present-- splatters the canvas, lustrous edges shaped from the sound of bowed cymbals and a carefully managed gong. It's followed by Altar’s centerpiece and masterpiece, "The Sinking Belle (Blue Sheep)". "Belle" is the one track on which its players conspire to subvert outside notions of both bands. Sunn 0)))'s glacial motion is intact, as is Boris' lucid use of almost-gentle tones. But the amplifiers are turned down, and distortion is all but lost. Instead, warm analog delay lets the sound drift in plumes, and beautiful, understated slide guitars and O'Malley's careful piano create a cradle for Jesse Sykes. Here, her voice shifts and floats like the retiring wafts of blue-gray smoke from a funeral pyre at a misty dawn. It’s an exhalation, a last breath of robust beauty. But, on the heels of such an overwhelming, unexpected triptych, Altar never recovers, essentially moving in redundant circles for 32 minutes. Three tracks either highlight the magic Sunn 0))) and Boris have crafted separately for a decade or the pitfalls that such work has avoided. The deftly fragmented chords that end "The Sinking Belle" open the door for the record's second side, but "Akuma No Kuma" is waylaid early by a harangued vocal take, an out-of-place horn fanfare, and overly involved Moog lines. Wata's eerie voice and the nebulous echo on everything in "Fried Eagle Mind" builds a paranoid sleep-state eclipsed after seven minutes by a solid sheet of guitar noise. It fades barely, slamming hard into "Bloodswamp", a 14-minute, multi-textural drone that would be an accomplishment for most other bands. Asymmetrical and leaning, Altar isn't the metal icon its lineage would suggest: It bears neither the rapturous juggernaut geography of Sunn 0)))'s White 2 or Black One nor the transcendent overpowered amorphousness of Boris' Pink or Amplifier Worship. But it does speak of things to come, brave new directions for bands respectively referred to hitherto either as sheer sonic titans or on-off schizophrenics. Those descriptions are much too reductive, and such evidence is the onus and gift of Altar. |
Artist: Sunn O))) & Boris,
Album: Altar,
Genre: None,
Score (1-10): 6.6
Album review:
"Longtime Southern Lord labelmates, tourmates, and metal bands Sunn 0))) and Boris seem like natural collaborators, though they approach their music with disparate intentions: Sunn 0)))'s blood-covered drone subsumes everything around it, while Boris' blend of patiently unraveling noise and fractious thrash entices and then dramatically repels an audience. With that contrast between push and pull in mind, Altar-- written and recorded largely before a joint tour last fall-- risks leaving an audience stranded in the middle by inertia. Indeed, the second half of Altar does just that, leaving the audience adrift in left field with little direction or purpose. But, together, the first three tracks are a perfect capitulation of their conjoined aesthetics. Opener "Etna" creeps in through feedback and slowly building and shifting bass tones before a huge guitar sweep-- split between Sunn 0)))'s Greg Anderson and Boris' Takeshi-- takes charge a minute in. A veritable war of tones follows, Boris drummer Atsuo filling the low-lying space between the subterranean guitar arches with cymbal rolls. Six minutes later, the air forces-- piercing, upper-register, signature-Boris guitar attacks-- obliterate the lowly, warring miscreants, razing the drama and letting it slow burn into "N.L.T." The follow-up-- featuring the bowed bass of Sunn 0))) collaborator Bill Herzog-- is a vibrantly bleak and texturally captivating work reminiscent of Daniel Menche. Atsuo-- the only other musician present-- splatters the canvas, lustrous edges shaped from the sound of bowed cymbals and a carefully managed gong. It's followed by Altar’s centerpiece and masterpiece, "The Sinking Belle (Blue Sheep)". "Belle" is the one track on which its players conspire to subvert outside notions of both bands. Sunn 0)))'s glacial motion is intact, as is Boris' lucid use of almost-gentle tones. But the amplifiers are turned down, and distortion is all but lost. Instead, warm analog delay lets the sound drift in plumes, and beautiful, understated slide guitars and O'Malley's careful piano create a cradle for Jesse Sykes. Here, her voice shifts and floats like the retiring wafts of blue-gray smoke from a funeral pyre at a misty dawn. It’s an exhalation, a last breath of robust beauty. But, on the heels of such an overwhelming, unexpected triptych, Altar never recovers, essentially moving in redundant circles for 32 minutes. Three tracks either highlight the magic Sunn 0))) and Boris have crafted separately for a decade or the pitfalls that such work has avoided. The deftly fragmented chords that end "The Sinking Belle" open the door for the record's second side, but "Akuma No Kuma" is waylaid early by a harangued vocal take, an out-of-place horn fanfare, and overly involved Moog lines. Wata's eerie voice and the nebulous echo on everything in "Fried Eagle Mind" builds a paranoid sleep-state eclipsed after seven minutes by a solid sheet of guitar noise. It fades barely, slamming hard into "Bloodswamp", a 14-minute, multi-textural drone that would be an accomplishment for most other bands. Asymmetrical and leaning, Altar isn't the metal icon its lineage would suggest: It bears neither the rapturous juggernaut geography of Sunn 0)))'s White 2 or Black One nor the transcendent overpowered amorphousness of Boris' Pink or Amplifier Worship. But it does speak of things to come, brave new directions for bands respectively referred to hitherto either as sheer sonic titans or on-off schizophrenics. Those descriptions are much too reductive, and such evidence is the onus and gift of Altar."
|
Sloan | A Sides Win: Singles 1992-2005 | Rock | Marc Hogan | 7.9 | It may be hard to believe in these days of Arcade Fires, Broken Social Scenes, New Pornographers, Constantines, Black Mountains, and, yes, Avrils, but in the mid-1990s, being Canadian and not named Alanis or Shania was enough to get you dropped from your label. Playing quintessential power-pop while signed to grunge-oriented major Geffen didn't help. At any rate, Sloan's lack of U.S. commercial success in the 1990s represents the nadir of U.S.-Canuck relations between "54 40 or Fight!" and that government official calling Dubya a "moron" in 2002-- yeah, I'm including "Informer". A Sides Win captures most of the high points along this Halifax, Nova Scotia-based quartet's career arc and adds two adequate new songs, all in the blessedly sensible chronological order too many singles comps eschew. Representing 1993 debut Smeared, the ambitiously geeky "Underwhelmed" and dreamy "500 Up" open the record, distending the band's typical hook-filled melodies with swirling guitars that hint at both Sonic Youth and My Bloody Valentine. 1994 follow-up Twice Removed yields the concentrated melodic O.J. of "Coax Me"-- "it's not the band I hate, it's their fans!"-- and dull post-shoegaze "People of the Sky". This is where Sloan began to carve out their niche as a power-pop band, and also where their chances for American stardom were squandered amid Geffen's lack of marketing support. Sloan's crowning achievement remains 1996's gloriously catchy One Chord to Another, which fulfilled its predecessor's promise with punchy tunes indebted to Graham Nash-era Hollies and, of course, that Fabbest of Fours. Unsurprisingly, tracks from that album are A Sides Win's peak. "The Lines You Amend" jangles like "The Ballad of John & Yoko" while name-dropping Ringo. "Everything You've Done Wrong" skips along to handclaps and trumpets far sunnier than its title. "The Good in Everyone" concisely summarizes Sloan's style, anchoring sunny British Invasion harmonies in crunchy power chords. While most of the tracks taken from Sloan's subsequent four studio albums reflect the band's descent into clunky riff-rock that owes as much to AC/DC and KISS as to power-pop icons like Big Star or Zumpano, Pretty Together's "The Other Man" is a glistening alt-rocker supposedly inspired by bassist Chris Murphy's inserting himself (ahem) between Broken Social Scene's Andrew Whiteman and Canadian songstress Feist. O indie Canada! Sloan are a better singles band than an albums band, so A Sides Win all but atones for their sometimes underwhelming (ha!) latter-day failings. Even 2003's Action Pact sounds brilliant when its sole inclusion is jaunty, contemplative "The Rest of My Life". The two new songs don't exactly hint at a renaissance, but at least they show a band still rummaging for new classic rock inspiration-- the Cars-like palm-muting and synths of "Try to Make It", the can't-drive-just-55 riff-churner "All Used Up". All that said, listeners just discovering Sloan would still be better off buying One Chord to Another. |
Artist: Sloan,
Album: A Sides Win: Singles 1992-2005,
Genre: Rock,
Score (1-10): 7.9
Album review:
"It may be hard to believe in these days of Arcade Fires, Broken Social Scenes, New Pornographers, Constantines, Black Mountains, and, yes, Avrils, but in the mid-1990s, being Canadian and not named Alanis or Shania was enough to get you dropped from your label. Playing quintessential power-pop while signed to grunge-oriented major Geffen didn't help. At any rate, Sloan's lack of U.S. commercial success in the 1990s represents the nadir of U.S.-Canuck relations between "54 40 or Fight!" and that government official calling Dubya a "moron" in 2002-- yeah, I'm including "Informer". A Sides Win captures most of the high points along this Halifax, Nova Scotia-based quartet's career arc and adds two adequate new songs, all in the blessedly sensible chronological order too many singles comps eschew. Representing 1993 debut Smeared, the ambitiously geeky "Underwhelmed" and dreamy "500 Up" open the record, distending the band's typical hook-filled melodies with swirling guitars that hint at both Sonic Youth and My Bloody Valentine. 1994 follow-up Twice Removed yields the concentrated melodic O.J. of "Coax Me"-- "it's not the band I hate, it's their fans!"-- and dull post-shoegaze "People of the Sky". This is where Sloan began to carve out their niche as a power-pop band, and also where their chances for American stardom were squandered amid Geffen's lack of marketing support. Sloan's crowning achievement remains 1996's gloriously catchy One Chord to Another, which fulfilled its predecessor's promise with punchy tunes indebted to Graham Nash-era Hollies and, of course, that Fabbest of Fours. Unsurprisingly, tracks from that album are A Sides Win's peak. "The Lines You Amend" jangles like "The Ballad of John & Yoko" while name-dropping Ringo. "Everything You've Done Wrong" skips along to handclaps and trumpets far sunnier than its title. "The Good in Everyone" concisely summarizes Sloan's style, anchoring sunny British Invasion harmonies in crunchy power chords. While most of the tracks taken from Sloan's subsequent four studio albums reflect the band's descent into clunky riff-rock that owes as much to AC/DC and KISS as to power-pop icons like Big Star or Zumpano, Pretty Together's "The Other Man" is a glistening alt-rocker supposedly inspired by bassist Chris Murphy's inserting himself (ahem) between Broken Social Scene's Andrew Whiteman and Canadian songstress Feist. O indie Canada! Sloan are a better singles band than an albums band, so A Sides Win all but atones for their sometimes underwhelming (ha!) latter-day failings. Even 2003's Action Pact sounds brilliant when its sole inclusion is jaunty, contemplative "The Rest of My Life". The two new songs don't exactly hint at a renaissance, but at least they show a band still rummaging for new classic rock inspiration-- the Cars-like palm-muting and synths of "Try to Make It", the can't-drive-just-55 riff-churner "All Used Up". All that said, listeners just discovering Sloan would still be better off buying One Chord to Another."
|
The Antlers | Hospice | Experimental,Rock | Brian Howe | 8.5 | Who could've guessed that SNMNMNM were ahead of the curve? In 2009, you kind of need to know some C++ just to talk about bands. The trend began in dreamy California, which gave us the skuzzy-sweet Nodzzz and Wavves, and then migrated as far as Nebraska (UUVVWWZ) and Glasgow (Dananananaykroyd). Meanwhile, in serious Brooklyn, the Antlers were quietly working on a coincidental antithesis to this fad. Hospice answers silliness with solemnity, jitters with nerve. Their band name simply describes their music: a delicately branching instrument of force. Not that the Antlers are startlingly original-- they're just swinging for the bleachers at a time when it seems fashionable to bunt, or put your forehead on the bat and spin until you get dizzy. Their widescreen sentimentality comes with an equally familiar back-story. You remember the Bon Iver beat: Sad, bearded dude emerges from self-imposed exile with batch of urgently intimate songs; recruits band; self-releases album that earns surprise web-buzz and gets picked up by venerable indie label. Well, the Antlers used to be the solo project of Peter Silberman, who wrote Hospice while emerging from a period of "social isolation." During the bedroom recording process, two guest musicians (drummer Michael Lerner and multi-instrumentalist Darby Cicci) became permanent members. They self-released Hospice in March, and Frenchkiss picked it up after web- and NPR-praise helped sell out its first pressing. The Antlers' skyscraping blend of the ambient and the anthemic is a far cry from Bon Iver's subtle folksiness, but Silberman and Justin Vernon emerged from their traumas seeming equally scoured and eager to reconnect. Hospice is bereft of irony and cynicism, as befits a rather ghastly narrative that feels, perhaps deceptively, autobiographical. Centered around a relationship with a terminally ill child, and evocatively spun from eerie hospital scenery, snippets of conversations with doctors, terrifying dreams, and the periodic intrusions of Sylvia Plath, it becomes a broad meditation on guilt, duty, mortality, and hope in the face of hopelessness. The emotional payload, while artfully couched, is fervent and bleeding. Silberman's affecting earnestness, not to mention his sweet voice, allows him to pull off lines like, "All the while I know we're fucked/ And not getting un-fucked soon," while sounding more prayerful than cynical. Given the bluster of the music and its fixation on death and illness (not to mention Silberman's creaky diction and fluttery falsetto), it's impossible not to be reminded of Arcade Fire's Funeral. You could even fix Hospice's precedent a bit earlier-- its starry atmosphere and bludgeoning tenderness evoke Cursive's Domestica with a pop-noise sheen. Like these groups, the Antlers plumb that elusive place where the personally specific becomes universal. They achieve this by keeping the human frailty of the singer intact while inflating his feelings to mythological proportions. You can imagine Silberman, in his isolation, growing world-sized and full; how the emotional forces he grappled with came to seem meteorological. This sense of the boundary between self and world-at-large collapsing permeates Hospice. The lyrics cover shades of emotion from despairing persistence ("Kettering") to desperate joy (the 21st-birthday fantasia "Bear"); the music tells the same story, through quicksilver currents of tension and tranquility. "Sylvia" alternates between acute frailty and Queen-caliber bravado, guided by the sort of gnarled electronic line the Antlers love (see also the monotonous buzz whipping around the corners of chipper guitar chords on "Two"). But what’s really great is how these modulations of weight are integrated into an album-long sweep, with crescendos nested inside decrescendos, coiling surges inside lengthy unwinding passages. It's as vast and empathetic as loneliness itself, a generous framework through which Silberman can show us almost everything: The tiny figure on the horizon and his huge shadow on the mountain, the extreme weathers roiling about him at once symbolic and real. |
Artist: The Antlers,
Album: Hospice,
Genre: Experimental,Rock,
Score (1-10): 8.5
Album review:
"Who could've guessed that SNMNMNM were ahead of the curve? In 2009, you kind of need to know some C++ just to talk about bands. The trend began in dreamy California, which gave us the skuzzy-sweet Nodzzz and Wavves, and then migrated as far as Nebraska (UUVVWWZ) and Glasgow (Dananananaykroyd). Meanwhile, in serious Brooklyn, the Antlers were quietly working on a coincidental antithesis to this fad. Hospice answers silliness with solemnity, jitters with nerve. Their band name simply describes their music: a delicately branching instrument of force. Not that the Antlers are startlingly original-- they're just swinging for the bleachers at a time when it seems fashionable to bunt, or put your forehead on the bat and spin until you get dizzy. Their widescreen sentimentality comes with an equally familiar back-story. You remember the Bon Iver beat: Sad, bearded dude emerges from self-imposed exile with batch of urgently intimate songs; recruits band; self-releases album that earns surprise web-buzz and gets picked up by venerable indie label. Well, the Antlers used to be the solo project of Peter Silberman, who wrote Hospice while emerging from a period of "social isolation." During the bedroom recording process, two guest musicians (drummer Michael Lerner and multi-instrumentalist Darby Cicci) became permanent members. They self-released Hospice in March, and Frenchkiss picked it up after web- and NPR-praise helped sell out its first pressing. The Antlers' skyscraping blend of the ambient and the anthemic is a far cry from Bon Iver's subtle folksiness, but Silberman and Justin Vernon emerged from their traumas seeming equally scoured and eager to reconnect. Hospice is bereft of irony and cynicism, as befits a rather ghastly narrative that feels, perhaps deceptively, autobiographical. Centered around a relationship with a terminally ill child, and evocatively spun from eerie hospital scenery, snippets of conversations with doctors, terrifying dreams, and the periodic intrusions of Sylvia Plath, it becomes a broad meditation on guilt, duty, mortality, and hope in the face of hopelessness. The emotional payload, while artfully couched, is fervent and bleeding. Silberman's affecting earnestness, not to mention his sweet voice, allows him to pull off lines like, "All the while I know we're fucked/ And not getting un-fucked soon," while sounding more prayerful than cynical. Given the bluster of the music and its fixation on death and illness (not to mention Silberman's creaky diction and fluttery falsetto), it's impossible not to be reminded of Arcade Fire's Funeral. You could even fix Hospice's precedent a bit earlier-- its starry atmosphere and bludgeoning tenderness evoke Cursive's Domestica with a pop-noise sheen. Like these groups, the Antlers plumb that elusive place where the personally specific becomes universal. They achieve this by keeping the human frailty of the singer intact while inflating his feelings to mythological proportions. You can imagine Silberman, in his isolation, growing world-sized and full; how the emotional forces he grappled with came to seem meteorological. This sense of the boundary between self and world-at-large collapsing permeates Hospice. The lyrics cover shades of emotion from despairing persistence ("Kettering") to desperate joy (the 21st-birthday fantasia "Bear"); the music tells the same story, through quicksilver currents of tension and tranquility. "Sylvia" alternates between acute frailty and Queen-caliber bravado, guided by the sort of gnarled electronic line the Antlers love (see also the monotonous buzz whipping around the corners of chipper guitar chords on "Two"). But what’s really great is how these modulations of weight are integrated into an album-long sweep, with crescendos nested inside decrescendos, coiling surges inside lengthy unwinding passages. It's as vast and empathetic as loneliness itself, a generous framework through which Silberman can show us almost everything: The tiny figure on the horizon and his huge shadow on the mountain, the extreme weathers roiling about him at once symbolic and real."
|
Krieg | Transient | null | Grayson Haver Currin | 8 | Neill Jameson ranks among the great defenders of and disciples for United States Black Metal. He’s been making and refining his own antagonistic strain since the mid-1990s, leading Krieg through some of the most important, compelling and twisted stateside versions of the form. He’s run a label and become a crucial distribution point for many acts, welcomed outsiders into the dark fold, publicly defended the acquisition of Thurston Moore by his supergroup Twilight, and dismissed insider and old friend Blake Judd as an expression of the genre at its solipsistic worst. He’s advocated for progression in the form by endorsing the firebrands of Liturgy while maintaining that the genre must stay tough and unruly unless it wants to become as weak as water. “I have boots that are older than most of these people’s interest in black metal,” he once said, swiftly encapsulating his admixture of old-school aggression and excitable acceptance. “I figure black metal is probably just a curiosity for the white-belt crowd.… I’m not as bothered by it as some people are; it’s just the evolution of things.” Transient is Krieg’s first album in four years, second since a necessary hiatus, and first featuring Jameson surrounded by a new quartet. Moreover, it’s an hour-long expression of Jameson’s defensive and defiant attitude, as it sprawls from a base of recalcitrant black metal in intriguing, unexpected directions. A uniformly desolate album, Transient is a claustrophobic listen that provides the illusion of walls closing in and ceilings coming down, even as its sound opens wider. Though the core of Krieg and these 11 songs remains primitive black metal, epitomized by mid-album melee “Atlas with a Broken Arm”, the album serves as a reminder that Jameson has never been one for stasis. He’s shifted Krieg’s lineup between most albums, covered the Velvet Underground in a croaking acoustic guise, and massaged a broad spectrum of influences into this band. Transient leans hard into those outlier aims: Some moments shimmer with the pop-metal buoyancy that temporarily worked as Nachtmystium’s calling card, while others burrow into slow, strong doom wallops. There are orchestrated power electronics interludes and hardcore stomp-alongs, solemn spoken-word passages and taut post-punk counter-riffs. Jameson’s boots are ostensibly meant for hiking. But credit goes to Jameson’s irascible voice—here, the best it’s ever been—for threading together these disparate musical thoughts and giving the record its overriding sense of desperation. No matter the particular song’s style or structure, he plays the part of the reprobate. He bellows like a bully during the hardcore half of “Return Fire” and screams in agony when it downshifts in the back, a madman melting in his own sweat. Krieg recorded Transient at the Rhode Island studio Machines with Magnets, a room perhaps best known for its work with The Body. You can hear that duo’s echoes during the brilliant cover of Amebix’s “Winter”, which pivots from brief black metal builds into bottomless doom tirades. Above a rhythm section that suggests orchestrated artillery fire, Jameson lashes out as though he’s being interred by the force of his own band. In fact, he delivers much of Transient as though he’s singing beneath the outfit, fighting to be heard among the din of guitars and drums. That choice makes Transient both bleak and beguiling; Jameson sounds trapped, but you want to lean in close, dangerously so, to hear what he has to yell. Even during “Walk With Them Unnoticed,” that particularly upbeat and racing number, his hoarse tone comes tucked just beneath the lip of the lead, making even the album’s most breathless and accessible bit feel hazardous. Though Jameson emerged as a one-man black metal band, first under the name Imperial and later as Krieg, he’s a rich collaborator, too. His roster of past alliances and collaborations is the length of a few paragraphs, and he’s one of only two people to appear on every Twilight album. He’s made doom with March into the Sea and tortured prismatic weirdness with N.I.L., and his willingness to work with others is a crucial component of Transient, a record that benefits from pulling Jameson out of his own head. Opener “Order of the Solitary Road” starts slow, turns into a sprint, manages to pick up the pace yet again and ultimately staggers off into the distance; it’s a full-band feat, motivated by the drums but pulled along by Alex Poole’s spectacularly assorted riffs. In the span of six minutes, he lands a perfectly slow, steely melody at the start and, near the middle, a grim, low-lying theme. And then there’s “Home”, a long spoken-word cold stare and the sort of oddity that provides a welcome stopgap before the record’s charged finale. Over eerie, failed-transmission electronics, Integrity’s Dwid Hellion and Thurston Moore trade stanzas about absence and loneliness. “The only home I know anymore is that of discomfort,” Moore reads, “a feeling of displacement which resides inside of me wherever I go.” The plainspoken text reinforces the album’s depressive atmosphere, which can be intuited but, thanks to Jameson’s delivery, never quite confirmed or dissected. It gives more breadth to those feelings, providing what started as solitary laments from a one-man band the benefit of misery in good company. |
Artist: Krieg,
Album: Transient,
Genre: None,
Score (1-10): 8.0
Album review:
"Neill Jameson ranks among the great defenders of and disciples for United States Black Metal. He’s been making and refining his own antagonistic strain since the mid-1990s, leading Krieg through some of the most important, compelling and twisted stateside versions of the form. He’s run a label and become a crucial distribution point for many acts, welcomed outsiders into the dark fold, publicly defended the acquisition of Thurston Moore by his supergroup Twilight, and dismissed insider and old friend Blake Judd as an expression of the genre at its solipsistic worst. He’s advocated for progression in the form by endorsing the firebrands of Liturgy while maintaining that the genre must stay tough and unruly unless it wants to become as weak as water. “I have boots that are older than most of these people’s interest in black metal,” he once said, swiftly encapsulating his admixture of old-school aggression and excitable acceptance. “I figure black metal is probably just a curiosity for the white-belt crowd.… I’m not as bothered by it as some people are; it’s just the evolution of things.” Transient is Krieg’s first album in four years, second since a necessary hiatus, and first featuring Jameson surrounded by a new quartet. Moreover, it’s an hour-long expression of Jameson’s defensive and defiant attitude, as it sprawls from a base of recalcitrant black metal in intriguing, unexpected directions. A uniformly desolate album, Transient is a claustrophobic listen that provides the illusion of walls closing in and ceilings coming down, even as its sound opens wider. Though the core of Krieg and these 11 songs remains primitive black metal, epitomized by mid-album melee “Atlas with a Broken Arm”, the album serves as a reminder that Jameson has never been one for stasis. He’s shifted Krieg’s lineup between most albums, covered the Velvet Underground in a croaking acoustic guise, and massaged a broad spectrum of influences into this band. Transient leans hard into those outlier aims: Some moments shimmer with the pop-metal buoyancy that temporarily worked as Nachtmystium’s calling card, while others burrow into slow, strong doom wallops. There are orchestrated power electronics interludes and hardcore stomp-alongs, solemn spoken-word passages and taut post-punk counter-riffs. Jameson’s boots are ostensibly meant for hiking. But credit goes to Jameson’s irascible voice—here, the best it’s ever been—for threading together these disparate musical thoughts and giving the record its overriding sense of desperation. No matter the particular song’s style or structure, he plays the part of the reprobate. He bellows like a bully during the hardcore half of “Return Fire” and screams in agony when it downshifts in the back, a madman melting in his own sweat. Krieg recorded Transient at the Rhode Island studio Machines with Magnets, a room perhaps best known for its work with The Body. You can hear that duo’s echoes during the brilliant cover of Amebix’s “Winter”, which pivots from brief black metal builds into bottomless doom tirades. Above a rhythm section that suggests orchestrated artillery fire, Jameson lashes out as though he’s being interred by the force of his own band. In fact, he delivers much of Transient as though he’s singing beneath the outfit, fighting to be heard among the din of guitars and drums. That choice makes Transient both bleak and beguiling; Jameson sounds trapped, but you want to lean in close, dangerously so, to hear what he has to yell. Even during “Walk With Them Unnoticed,” that particularly upbeat and racing number, his hoarse tone comes tucked just beneath the lip of the lead, making even the album’s most breathless and accessible bit feel hazardous. Though Jameson emerged as a one-man black metal band, first under the name Imperial and later as Krieg, he’s a rich collaborator, too. His roster of past alliances and collaborations is the length of a few paragraphs, and he’s one of only two people to appear on every Twilight album. He’s made doom with March into the Sea and tortured prismatic weirdness with N.I.L., and his willingness to work with others is a crucial component of Transient, a record that benefits from pulling Jameson out of his own head. Opener “Order of the Solitary Road” starts slow, turns into a sprint, manages to pick up the pace yet again and ultimately staggers off into the distance; it’s a full-band feat, motivated by the drums but pulled along by Alex Poole’s spectacularly assorted riffs. In the span of six minutes, he lands a perfectly slow, steely melody at the start and, near the middle, a grim, low-lying theme. And then there’s “Home”, a long spoken-word cold stare and the sort of oddity that provides a welcome stopgap before the record’s charged finale. Over eerie, failed-transmission electronics, Integrity’s Dwid Hellion and Thurston Moore trade stanzas about absence and loneliness. “The only home I know anymore is that of discomfort,” Moore reads, “a feeling of displacement which resides inside of me wherever I go.” The plainspoken text reinforces the album’s depressive atmosphere, which can be intuited but, thanks to Jameson’s delivery, never quite confirmed or dissected. It gives more breadth to those feelings, providing what started as solitary laments from a one-man band the benefit of misery in good company."
|
Mndsgn | Body Wash | Electronic | Nate Patrin | 7.7 | Ringgo Ancheta’s come-up story is an increasingly familiar type—the independently educated bedroom producer, influenced by friends and family, whose DIY approach led him towards Los Angeles’ beat scene. What might make that story a bit more curious than others’ is that Ancheta’s path began on a rural New Jersey commune, where he grew up in the ’90s. And in the late ’00s, it brought him to run in a crew called Klipm0de alongside future Kendrick Lamar producer/collaborator Knxwledge. The intrigue of those formative experiences is borne out clearly in his music. Mndsgn’s releases, from his contributions to 2011’s Bitches Brew-mutating compilation Blasphemous Jazz to his 2014 headswimmer of a Stones Throw breakthrough Yawn Zen, have darted from reference to reference in a way that would make his next move unpredictable, but he ties them all together in a way that makes perfect sense. Perhaps due to a healthy dose of L.A. sunshine, Body Wash has Mndsgn engaging with classic ’80s R&B and boogie funk. At some points, it sounds as if he’s channelling the synthesized soul of SOLAR Records in-house producer, Leon Sylvers III. It might seem like a big leap from the gleaming, crackling FlyLo-isms of his clanky 2014 work, but Ancheta’s curious, philosophical approach is more than ready for it. Mndsgn emerges here as a sort of koan-dispensing, prog-funk astronaut, and it’s made some of his more tenuous strengths feel a lot more natural. That starts with his voice, typically a restrained, almost introverted murmur that often sounds like he’s scanning for something far on the horizon. Accordingly, Ancheta tends to lean towards themes of self-actualization and human connection in his lyrics. “Cosmic Perspective” and its references to “searching for the right way” and heading for “the land of music” are vintage Zen funk worthy of mid ’70s Lonnie Liston Smith. Even at its clearest, Mndsgn’s voice is an almost detached entity that expresses these realizations as they happen. (When he multitracks his own voice, it sounds like the “ohhhhh” of a person finally getting it.) A running theme, to paraphrase “Ya Own Way,” is getting from where you’re at to where you’re going, whether chronologically, mentally, or geographically. Ancheta holds fast to this idea, offering a means of connection and solidarity through uncertainty. Pairing that sense of direction-seeking with a deep dive into West Coast funk is a natural fit. But Body Wash also refocuses some of his familiar tendencies into new modes. As someone young enough to have dreamed of contributing to Stones Throw before even thinking it was possible, Mndsgn makes clear his debt to the label’s mid-to-late-’00s adventurousness, even as he recombines their sounds into his own thing. Think of the slightly-off-kilter, human-touch rhythms of Dilla, only rerouted to little chirpy synth riffs instead of the drums—or Dâm-Funk with the extended-voyage drifting drawn into more concise sketches. Half the cuts here don’t make it to three minutes, but they still drill into your mind with ease. There’s a three-part “Searchin” suite that runs through a “Shalamar goes to the Moon” masterclass in neo-boogie—you can hear it shift from disco to g-funk to Jam/Lewis while still cohering as its own thing—in less than seven minutes. If the elusive destination that Ancheta’s music has been trying to reach turns out to be a 1981 roller-rink party, it’s been a journey well-spent, and only makes the next destination more eagerly anticipated. |
Artist: Mndsgn,
Album: Body Wash,
Genre: Electronic,
Score (1-10): 7.7
Album review:
"Ringgo Ancheta’s come-up story is an increasingly familiar type—the independently educated bedroom producer, influenced by friends and family, whose DIY approach led him towards Los Angeles’ beat scene. What might make that story a bit more curious than others’ is that Ancheta’s path began on a rural New Jersey commune, where he grew up in the ’90s. And in the late ’00s, it brought him to run in a crew called Klipm0de alongside future Kendrick Lamar producer/collaborator Knxwledge. The intrigue of those formative experiences is borne out clearly in his music. Mndsgn’s releases, from his contributions to 2011’s Bitches Brew-mutating compilation Blasphemous Jazz to his 2014 headswimmer of a Stones Throw breakthrough Yawn Zen, have darted from reference to reference in a way that would make his next move unpredictable, but he ties them all together in a way that makes perfect sense. Perhaps due to a healthy dose of L.A. sunshine, Body Wash has Mndsgn engaging with classic ’80s R&B and boogie funk. At some points, it sounds as if he’s channelling the synthesized soul of SOLAR Records in-house producer, Leon Sylvers III. It might seem like a big leap from the gleaming, crackling FlyLo-isms of his clanky 2014 work, but Ancheta’s curious, philosophical approach is more than ready for it. Mndsgn emerges here as a sort of koan-dispensing, prog-funk astronaut, and it’s made some of his more tenuous strengths feel a lot more natural. That starts with his voice, typically a restrained, almost introverted murmur that often sounds like he’s scanning for something far on the horizon. Accordingly, Ancheta tends to lean towards themes of self-actualization and human connection in his lyrics. “Cosmic Perspective” and its references to “searching for the right way” and heading for “the land of music” are vintage Zen funk worthy of mid ’70s Lonnie Liston Smith. Even at its clearest, Mndsgn’s voice is an almost detached entity that expresses these realizations as they happen. (When he multitracks his own voice, it sounds like the “ohhhhh” of a person finally getting it.) A running theme, to paraphrase “Ya Own Way,” is getting from where you’re at to where you’re going, whether chronologically, mentally, or geographically. Ancheta holds fast to this idea, offering a means of connection and solidarity through uncertainty. Pairing that sense of direction-seeking with a deep dive into West Coast funk is a natural fit. But Body Wash also refocuses some of his familiar tendencies into new modes. As someone young enough to have dreamed of contributing to Stones Throw before even thinking it was possible, Mndsgn makes clear his debt to the label’s mid-to-late-’00s adventurousness, even as he recombines their sounds into his own thing. Think of the slightly-off-kilter, human-touch rhythms of Dilla, only rerouted to little chirpy synth riffs instead of the drums—or Dâm-Funk with the extended-voyage drifting drawn into more concise sketches. Half the cuts here don’t make it to three minutes, but they still drill into your mind with ease. There’s a three-part “Searchin” suite that runs through a “Shalamar goes to the Moon” masterclass in neo-boogie—you can hear it shift from disco to g-funk to Jam/Lewis while still cohering as its own thing—in less than seven minutes. If the elusive destination that Ancheta’s music has been trying to reach turns out to be a 1981 roller-rink party, it’s been a journey well-spent, and only makes the next destination more eagerly anticipated."
|
The Strokes | Future Present Past EP | Rock | Jeremy Gordon | 6 | Although the Strokes are of the same era as once-flashpoint NYC guitar bands like Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Interpol, the National, and the Walkmen, they’ve become something their peers haven’t: classic rock. Tumble down enough comment threads, or check out the audience demographics at their infrequent shows—there are many listeners who idolize the Strokes as an actual first-generation 21st century NYC cool band, something like the aging, disheveled downtown '70s and '80s hipsters the band idolized in their youth. Becoming classic rock means a band can recycle their iconography without losing their edge, as far as casual and younger listeners are concerned. (Officially, the Strokes began their slow journey toward oldies stations when Shia LaBeouf wore their shirt in Transformers.) It also means, weirdly, that they’re no longer expected to be good. A bad record wouldn’t diminish the enduring power of singles like “Last Nite.” In 2014, I met a person who said the Strokes were their favorite band. When I asked how they liked 2013’s Comedown Machine, the answer was “What’s that?” So it ends up being sort of nice that Future Present Past, their first new release in three years and first EP since 2001’s scene-starting The Modern Age, is only so long as an EP. On 2011's Angles and Comedown Machine, there was too much going on—and, quite simply, too much. Here, there’s just enough to think about without getting fatigued, as the Strokes continue to toy with the sound of their late period. The concept is present in the title: Here’s what the Strokes do sound like, here’s what they did sound like, and here’s what they will sound like. The signposts of that classic “Strokes” sound are visible on “OBLIVIUS,” the EP’s immediate stand out: a guitar that sounds like a synth (but isn’t), intertwined with a guitar that sounds like a guitar (and is), backed by precise percussion and knitted together by Julian Casablancas’ bleary, strained voice. There are lyrics about alienation, a maybe semi-intentional, faux-deep *Wolf of Wall Street *ad lib, and a straining chorus vocal that cannot possibly have been delivered by someone who’s smoked as many cigarettes as Casablancas. (There’s also a remix from the band’s Fab Moretti, which is totally listenable.) “What side are you standing on?” Casablancas sings, which sounds like a challenge to anyone who might pretend the band hasn’t earned its right to screw around. The benefits of screwing around, of course, could be challenged. “Drag Queen” is the so-called “future”—a more self-consciously “mature” song that opens with a ominous, decayed smear of guitars and continues with the high-concept of Casablancas singing to himself in dueling voices, sort of sounding like a hungover Phantom of the Opera. Halfway through, a Strokes-sian guitar refrain is copy-and-pasted into the flow. It’s a mess, but it’s an interesting mess. “Threat of Joy,” meanwhile, stretches all the way to their pre-fame days, when they sounded just bored and arrogant enough to be sexy. It’s an alternative universe take on what “The Modern Age” might have sounded like if they’d taken a record executive’s advice to slow it down, get a better studio, and play it straight. It’s not as good, of course, but it’s still charming, and has Casablancas’ most charismatic vocal performance. At the very least, all three songs will fit seamlessly into their live show. In 2015, I saw the Strokes play a headlining set at Primavera Sound for a rabid crowd who ate up every song, even “Machu Picchu.” The band was just as well-dressed than they’d been in the early ’00s (except for Casablancas, who was cosplaying as a Planeteer, but hey, it’s a look), and they didn’t miss a note, even as I don’t think a single member came within ten feet of another during the entire set. They didn’t play “12:51” at 12:51 a.m., because fuck coincidences. A credible source told me their fee for the 90-minute set was more than the cost of your dad’s mortgage. If their solo dalliances in the last half-decade have given weight to the idea that the Strokes are more of a business than a living, breathing band, it's still been fascinating to watch them shed their skin and become whatever it is they'll be for the rest of their career. And with the pivot of Casablancas’ Cult Records to functioning as a gatekeeper for the living, breathing culture that helped birth the band, they seem like a band that’s very aware of their legacy… as well as how easy it would be for that to stop mattering, should the context no longer exist. Maybe they didn’t mean to become iconic, but it happened, and there are still people who want to see what happens next. |
Artist: The Strokes,
Album: Future Present Past EP,
Genre: Rock,
Score (1-10): 6.0
Album review:
"Although the Strokes are of the same era as once-flashpoint NYC guitar bands like Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Interpol, the National, and the Walkmen, they’ve become something their peers haven’t: classic rock. Tumble down enough comment threads, or check out the audience demographics at their infrequent shows—there are many listeners who idolize the Strokes as an actual first-generation 21st century NYC cool band, something like the aging, disheveled downtown '70s and '80s hipsters the band idolized in their youth. Becoming classic rock means a band can recycle their iconography without losing their edge, as far as casual and younger listeners are concerned. (Officially, the Strokes began their slow journey toward oldies stations when Shia LaBeouf wore their shirt in Transformers.) It also means, weirdly, that they’re no longer expected to be good. A bad record wouldn’t diminish the enduring power of singles like “Last Nite.” In 2014, I met a person who said the Strokes were their favorite band. When I asked how they liked 2013’s Comedown Machine, the answer was “What’s that?” So it ends up being sort of nice that Future Present Past, their first new release in three years and first EP since 2001’s scene-starting The Modern Age, is only so long as an EP. On 2011's Angles and Comedown Machine, there was too much going on—and, quite simply, too much. Here, there’s just enough to think about without getting fatigued, as the Strokes continue to toy with the sound of their late period. The concept is present in the title: Here’s what the Strokes do sound like, here’s what they did sound like, and here’s what they will sound like. The signposts of that classic “Strokes” sound are visible on “OBLIVIUS,” the EP’s immediate stand out: a guitar that sounds like a synth (but isn’t), intertwined with a guitar that sounds like a guitar (and is), backed by precise percussion and knitted together by Julian Casablancas’ bleary, strained voice. There are lyrics about alienation, a maybe semi-intentional, faux-deep *Wolf of Wall Street *ad lib, and a straining chorus vocal that cannot possibly have been delivered by someone who’s smoked as many cigarettes as Casablancas. (There’s also a remix from the band’s Fab Moretti, which is totally listenable.) “What side are you standing on?” Casablancas sings, which sounds like a challenge to anyone who might pretend the band hasn’t earned its right to screw around. The benefits of screwing around, of course, could be challenged. “Drag Queen” is the so-called “future”—a more self-consciously “mature” song that opens with a ominous, decayed smear of guitars and continues with the high-concept of Casablancas singing to himself in dueling voices, sort of sounding like a hungover Phantom of the Opera. Halfway through, a Strokes-sian guitar refrain is copy-and-pasted into the flow. It’s a mess, but it’s an interesting mess. “Threat of Joy,” meanwhile, stretches all the way to their pre-fame days, when they sounded just bored and arrogant enough to be sexy. It’s an alternative universe take on what “The Modern Age” might have sounded like if they’d taken a record executive’s advice to slow it down, get a better studio, and play it straight. It’s not as good, of course, but it’s still charming, and has Casablancas’ most charismatic vocal performance. At the very least, all three songs will fit seamlessly into their live show. In 2015, I saw the Strokes play a headlining set at Primavera Sound for a rabid crowd who ate up every song, even “Machu Picchu.” The band was just as well-dressed than they’d been in the early ’00s (except for Casablancas, who was cosplaying as a Planeteer, but hey, it’s a look), and they didn’t miss a note, even as I don’t think a single member came within ten feet of another during the entire set. They didn’t play “12:51” at 12:51 a.m., because fuck coincidences. A credible source told me their fee for the 90-minute set was more than the cost of your dad’s mortgage. If their solo dalliances in the last half-decade have given weight to the idea that the Strokes are more of a business than a living, breathing band, it's still been fascinating to watch them shed their skin and become whatever it is they'll be for the rest of their career. And with the pivot of Casablancas’ Cult Records to functioning as a gatekeeper for the living, breathing culture that helped birth the band, they seem like a band that’s very aware of their legacy… as well as how easy it would be for that to stop mattering, should the context no longer exist. Maybe they didn’t mean to become iconic, but it happened, and there are still people who want to see what happens next."
|
Eminem | Recovery | Rap | Jayson Greene | 2.8 | Watching Eminem attempt to re-situate himself in the pop landscape the past year or so has been a bizarre spectacle. He roared out of his post-Encore slumber in early 2009 seeming almost puppyishly eager to rap again, spitting verses for anyone who put him in front of a mic with a desperation that suggested he was making up for lost time. Relapse, his 2009 comeback album, found him trying to scratch and claw his way back into the body of 1999-era Slim Shady, but the effect was similar to Metallica trying to revisit their thrash years with 2008's Death Magnetic: The sound was there; the fury, long gone. No matter how many starlets he tortured and killed in his lyrics, Em couldn't rewrite the intervening years and the enervating effect they've had on his spirit. So now he's back again, with the follow-up to Relapse, and as its title suggests, Recovery is meant to be triumphant, tracing Em's journey out of depression and drug addiction and back into the peak of his powers. Out of all the depressing aspects of Recovery, the worst is the realization that for listeners the album takes the opposite arc-- the more he motors on about having reclaimed his passion for hip-hop and finally figured out who he is, the more draining the album becomes. Eminem has never really known who he is, which has resulted in one of the most wildly erratic discographies of any major rap artist; at this point, the number of times he's sounded rudderless on record are catching up to the times he's sounded alive. At his best, he has always made a fascinating scramble of his internal turmoil, but the guy rapping on Recovery just sounds devoid of any noticeable joy, personality, or wit. Not that he's not trying. As on Relapse, Em almost passes out showing us he's still got it, rapping in double and triple time, piling tricky syncopations on top of each other, constructing whole verses with end rhymes buried in the middle of phrases-- basically any kind of pyrotechnical trick he can think of to wow the kind of rap listeners who venerate technical skill above all else. And yet for all the rattling-around-inside-the-beat syllable pileups here, there is almost nothing worth quoting. He reels off an astonishing amount of cringe-worthy lines, on the order of, "Girl, shake that ass like a donkey with Parkinson's." On the menopausal, Diane Warren-esque uplift anthem "Not Afraid", he actually strings together the excruciating lines, "Okay, stop playin' with the scissors and shit, and cut the crap/ I shouldn't have to rhyme these words in a rhythm for you to know it's a wrap." Eminem spends nearly half of Recovery insisting he's the best rapper alive, but for the first time in his career, he actually sounds clumsy. He can't even coexist meaningfully with a beat-- every producer he works with seems to give him the most attenuated version of their signature sound possible and back away carefully. The liner notes will tell you that Recovery features production by Boi-1DA, Jim Jonsin, DJ Khalil, and Just Blaze along with the usual suspects Mr. Porter and Dre. But your ears will tell you it's the same click track Em's been rapping over since time immemorial-- the only times the beats elbow to the fore are with DJ Khalil's characteristically chunky and unwieldy rap-rock hybrids. Em just sort of drifts through these productions, as haunted and disembodied a presence as 2Pac on a posthumous release. The only winning moment on the record comes early, with "Talkin' 2 Myself", where Em admits he contemplated dissing Kanye and Lil Wayne out of jealousy. "Thank god that I didn't do it-- I'd have had my ass handed to me," he raps, in a rare moment of wry honesty. The climax of the song sees him shouting out Wayne, Kanye, and T.I. in a show of solidarity, but the truth is Em doesn't even inhabit the same universe as these guys. He lives in a world all his own, and for the most part, that world doesn't allow for visitors. When Wayne shows up on "No Love", a po-faced duet built on a sample of Haddaway's "What Is Love", the point is hammered home-- the two rappers' verses don't even seem to belong to the same song. Marshall has never played all that comfortably or well with others, but here his solipsism is so overwhelming it negates whoever or whatever else is going on around him. He sucks the air out of the room just by stepping into it. |
Artist: Eminem,
Album: Recovery,
Genre: Rap,
Score (1-10): 2.8
Album review:
"Watching Eminem attempt to re-situate himself in the pop landscape the past year or so has been a bizarre spectacle. He roared out of his post-Encore slumber in early 2009 seeming almost puppyishly eager to rap again, spitting verses for anyone who put him in front of a mic with a desperation that suggested he was making up for lost time. Relapse, his 2009 comeback album, found him trying to scratch and claw his way back into the body of 1999-era Slim Shady, but the effect was similar to Metallica trying to revisit their thrash years with 2008's Death Magnetic: The sound was there; the fury, long gone. No matter how many starlets he tortured and killed in his lyrics, Em couldn't rewrite the intervening years and the enervating effect they've had on his spirit. So now he's back again, with the follow-up to Relapse, and as its title suggests, Recovery is meant to be triumphant, tracing Em's journey out of depression and drug addiction and back into the peak of his powers. Out of all the depressing aspects of Recovery, the worst is the realization that for listeners the album takes the opposite arc-- the more he motors on about having reclaimed his passion for hip-hop and finally figured out who he is, the more draining the album becomes. Eminem has never really known who he is, which has resulted in one of the most wildly erratic discographies of any major rap artist; at this point, the number of times he's sounded rudderless on record are catching up to the times he's sounded alive. At his best, he has always made a fascinating scramble of his internal turmoil, but the guy rapping on Recovery just sounds devoid of any noticeable joy, personality, or wit. Not that he's not trying. As on Relapse, Em almost passes out showing us he's still got it, rapping in double and triple time, piling tricky syncopations on top of each other, constructing whole verses with end rhymes buried in the middle of phrases-- basically any kind of pyrotechnical trick he can think of to wow the kind of rap listeners who venerate technical skill above all else. And yet for all the rattling-around-inside-the-beat syllable pileups here, there is almost nothing worth quoting. He reels off an astonishing amount of cringe-worthy lines, on the order of, "Girl, shake that ass like a donkey with Parkinson's." On the menopausal, Diane Warren-esque uplift anthem "Not Afraid", he actually strings together the excruciating lines, "Okay, stop playin' with the scissors and shit, and cut the crap/ I shouldn't have to rhyme these words in a rhythm for you to know it's a wrap." Eminem spends nearly half of Recovery insisting he's the best rapper alive, but for the first time in his career, he actually sounds clumsy. He can't even coexist meaningfully with a beat-- every producer he works with seems to give him the most attenuated version of their signature sound possible and back away carefully. The liner notes will tell you that Recovery features production by Boi-1DA, Jim Jonsin, DJ Khalil, and Just Blaze along with the usual suspects Mr. Porter and Dre. But your ears will tell you it's the same click track Em's been rapping over since time immemorial-- the only times the beats elbow to the fore are with DJ Khalil's characteristically chunky and unwieldy rap-rock hybrids. Em just sort of drifts through these productions, as haunted and disembodied a presence as 2Pac on a posthumous release. The only winning moment on the record comes early, with "Talkin' 2 Myself", where Em admits he contemplated dissing Kanye and Lil Wayne out of jealousy. "Thank god that I didn't do it-- I'd have had my ass handed to me," he raps, in a rare moment of wry honesty. The climax of the song sees him shouting out Wayne, Kanye, and T.I. in a show of solidarity, but the truth is Em doesn't even inhabit the same universe as these guys. He lives in a world all his own, and for the most part, that world doesn't allow for visitors. When Wayne shows up on "No Love", a po-faced duet built on a sample of Haddaway's "What Is Love", the point is hammered home-- the two rappers' verses don't even seem to belong to the same song. Marshall has never played all that comfortably or well with others, but here his solipsism is so overwhelming it negates whoever or whatever else is going on around him. He sucks the air out of the room just by stepping into it."
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UNKLE | Never Never Land | Electronic,Jazz | Scott Plagenhoef | 5 | Six years on from its release, Psyence Fiction-- the long-simmering pet project of Mo'Wax founder James Lavelle and his then-UNKLE co-conspirator/meal ticket DJ Shadow-- still ranks as one of the most anti-climactic and jaw-dropping disappointments of recent years. Seemingly powered by Lavelle's own sense of self-satisfaction, the record pulled off an odd triple crown: it was overcooked, half-baked, and underdone all at the same time. An epochal mix of atmospheric, experimental hip-hop and soul-stirring rock, Psyence Fiction was an unapologetic attempt to create an epic Statement of a record, but while long on star power and ambition, it came up short on little things like, oh, vitality, restraint, emotional resonance, and tunes. From the go, Psyence Fiction was highly anticipated by writers who assumed it would produce greatness. Instead, they got lazy Hello Nasty melodies, Entroducing-outtake breakbeats, and guest spots that seemed mismatched with the project itself. Despite Mike D's phoned-in wisp of a cameo, the biggest raspberries must go to the always punchable Richard Ashcroft whose "Lonely Soul" is so seeped in new age pandering and the drive to be Very, Very Important that, were compact discs not limited to 80 minutes, it would probably still be teasing us with false stops and pointlessly unspooling to this day. Lavelle's decision to follow with another UNKLE record is laudable for its gumption if not its wisdom, but it's no surprise that, as much as the four-years-in-the-making Psyence Fiction was anticipated, Never Never Land was ignored (even by your pals at Pitchfork-- after all, the record was released in the UK more than four months ago). After mostly handling the conceptual and marketing details of the first UNKLE record, Lavelle took a greater role in the musical conception of this disc. DJ Shadow is out as Lavelle's right-hand man, now replaced by the largely unknown Richard File (though it might have been wiser, if only for publicity, to bring back the DFA's Tim Goldsworthy, an original UNKLE member from the pre-Shadow days). And the new roster of guest stars-- among them, Stone Roses vocalist Ian Brown, Queens of the Stone Age's Josh Homme, and Massive Attack's 3D, plus uncredited appearances from Brian Eno and Jarvis Cocker-- doesn't have the same sort of A-list ring offered by the first record. And yet, in spite (or because?) of all this, it's an improvement on the past. Never Never Land seems to address its predecessors' failure and Lavelle's own spiraling career right from the start, as a spoken-word sample (rather wince-inducingly) describes life as a series of peaks and valleys. Lavelle's basic approach to music-making hasn't changed. He still trades in texture and atmosphere, favoring sweeping strings, cinematic grandeur, a mix of pop sensibilities with downtempo music, and an obsession with science fiction. The addition of File lends a more human quality to the tracks, largely because his hand guides a series of voices whereas Psyence Fiction had Shadow dealing more with a series of personalities or stars. File's arid singer/songwriter approach and wistful vocals lend Never Never Land a breezy quality, but also little to pin down or ground the tracks. Rhythm is almost completely replaced here by often drifting atmospherics, and of File's key contributions, only the graceful "What Are You to Me?" really shines. When beats are central to the tracks-- as on the Joy Division-sampling paranoia of "Panic Attack"-- they're oddly compelling. Of the guests, 3D's "Invasion" chides Bush and Blair (a theme also hinted at on the Temptations-quoting "Eye for an Eye") but pulls too few punches, Homme's "Safe in Mind" is spacious but forgettable, and Cocker and Eno lend a couple of hands to a sleepy ambient exercise. Oddly, Ian Brown's batty echo chamber "Reign" is appropriate spliff-casualty stuff and among the album's strongest tracks. So Never Never Land is far from being either vindicating or enthralling. It's sometimes paranoid, sometimes aimless head music. This time, there weren't any UNKLE action figures or other branding attempts, just a quiet record that was quietly released and has (already) quietly slipped away. It's just as well: Considering the buildup to, quality of, and career fallout following Psyence Fiction, anonymity may suit Lavelle. It at least positions him to regroup, crawl out of his valley, and aim once again for those peaks. |
Artist: UNKLE,
Album: Never Never Land,
Genre: Electronic,Jazz,
Score (1-10): 5.0
Album review:
"Six years on from its release, Psyence Fiction-- the long-simmering pet project of Mo'Wax founder James Lavelle and his then-UNKLE co-conspirator/meal ticket DJ Shadow-- still ranks as one of the most anti-climactic and jaw-dropping disappointments of recent years. Seemingly powered by Lavelle's own sense of self-satisfaction, the record pulled off an odd triple crown: it was overcooked, half-baked, and underdone all at the same time. An epochal mix of atmospheric, experimental hip-hop and soul-stirring rock, Psyence Fiction was an unapologetic attempt to create an epic Statement of a record, but while long on star power and ambition, it came up short on little things like, oh, vitality, restraint, emotional resonance, and tunes. From the go, Psyence Fiction was highly anticipated by writers who assumed it would produce greatness. Instead, they got lazy Hello Nasty melodies, Entroducing-outtake breakbeats, and guest spots that seemed mismatched with the project itself. Despite Mike D's phoned-in wisp of a cameo, the biggest raspberries must go to the always punchable Richard Ashcroft whose "Lonely Soul" is so seeped in new age pandering and the drive to be Very, Very Important that, were compact discs not limited to 80 minutes, it would probably still be teasing us with false stops and pointlessly unspooling to this day. Lavelle's decision to follow with another UNKLE record is laudable for its gumption if not its wisdom, but it's no surprise that, as much as the four-years-in-the-making Psyence Fiction was anticipated, Never Never Land was ignored (even by your pals at Pitchfork-- after all, the record was released in the UK more than four months ago). After mostly handling the conceptual and marketing details of the first UNKLE record, Lavelle took a greater role in the musical conception of this disc. DJ Shadow is out as Lavelle's right-hand man, now replaced by the largely unknown Richard File (though it might have been wiser, if only for publicity, to bring back the DFA's Tim Goldsworthy, an original UNKLE member from the pre-Shadow days). And the new roster of guest stars-- among them, Stone Roses vocalist Ian Brown, Queens of the Stone Age's Josh Homme, and Massive Attack's 3D, plus uncredited appearances from Brian Eno and Jarvis Cocker-- doesn't have the same sort of A-list ring offered by the first record. And yet, in spite (or because?) of all this, it's an improvement on the past. Never Never Land seems to address its predecessors' failure and Lavelle's own spiraling career right from the start, as a spoken-word sample (rather wince-inducingly) describes life as a series of peaks and valleys. Lavelle's basic approach to music-making hasn't changed. He still trades in texture and atmosphere, favoring sweeping strings, cinematic grandeur, a mix of pop sensibilities with downtempo music, and an obsession with science fiction. The addition of File lends a more human quality to the tracks, largely because his hand guides a series of voices whereas Psyence Fiction had Shadow dealing more with a series of personalities or stars. File's arid singer/songwriter approach and wistful vocals lend Never Never Land a breezy quality, but also little to pin down or ground the tracks. Rhythm is almost completely replaced here by often drifting atmospherics, and of File's key contributions, only the graceful "What Are You to Me?" really shines. When beats are central to the tracks-- as on the Joy Division-sampling paranoia of "Panic Attack"-- they're oddly compelling. Of the guests, 3D's "Invasion" chides Bush and Blair (a theme also hinted at on the Temptations-quoting "Eye for an Eye") but pulls too few punches, Homme's "Safe in Mind" is spacious but forgettable, and Cocker and Eno lend a couple of hands to a sleepy ambient exercise. Oddly, Ian Brown's batty echo chamber "Reign" is appropriate spliff-casualty stuff and among the album's strongest tracks. So Never Never Land is far from being either vindicating or enthralling. It's sometimes paranoid, sometimes aimless head music. This time, there weren't any UNKLE action figures or other branding attempts, just a quiet record that was quietly released and has (already) quietly slipped away. It's just as well: Considering the buildup to, quality of, and career fallout following Psyence Fiction, anonymity may suit Lavelle. It at least positions him to regroup, crawl out of his valley, and aim once again for those peaks."
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Chuck Johnson | Balsams | Experimental | Marc Masters | 8.1 | Pedal steel guitar is such an evocative instrument that just one chord emanating from its strings can suggest entire worlds. Often that’s exactly how it is used: one chord at a time, doled out sparingly to enhance moods already established by other instruments. But what if you give pedal steel guitar the starring role? That’s what Chuck Johnson does on Balsams, an album that’s drowning in waves of pedal steel, accompanied only by sparse, time-marking bass tones. It’s a simple formula, but Johnson mines it for rich music that feels infinitely expressive. This isn’t exactly a shock, given that Johnson was already pretty great at creating moods with a guitar. He’s made three previous albums of subtle finger-picked acoustic work, as well as a full-band effort—last year’s Velvet Arc—that used pedal steel more traditionally. But there’s something singular about what he’s done on Balsams. It feels like a universe unto itself, one where each slow, patient strain of pedal steel builds on the previous one. Individually, none of the album’s six tracks sounds very different from each other, but as a whole they create a three-dimensional sonic space that expands and evolves. In that sense, Balsams is more an ambient album than a folk-based guitar record. Think of it as country post-rock: Johnson’s hypnotic music conjures cinematic landscapes as strong as those evoked by Stars of the Lid or Flying Saucer Attack, but his guitar’s gentle twang sounds more like a desert with wafting tumbleweeds than a sky with drifting clouds. Whatever images the album might inspire, there is definitely a lot of weather happening in Balsams’ widescreen scenes. You can feel air moving, sand sifting, and sun baking as Johnson’s guitar chords gradually stretch across the horizon. In the album’s best moments, those chords regenerate and deepen, making it hard to tell where one sound begins and another ends. During “Riga Black,” guitar tones continually emerge and fade in overlapping circles; in “Moonstone,” rising chords spawn textures that trail each other. At times, Johnson’s sounds transcend standard associations with the pedal steel guitar, as on opener “Calamus,” whose long echoes resemble a bowed violin or a soaring synth as much as metal sliding across strings. Within this guitar-heavy environment, Johnson’s bass notes at first feel like afterthoughts, but they turn out to be crucial. Often they provide steps for the pedal steel to climb, their short durations propelling longer atmospherics that climb higher with each passing tone. This recalls the way Labradford often used simple notes to carve a path for grander tones, and Johnson proves just as adept at that move. His approach shines most vividly during “Labrodite Eye,” where the up-and-down crests of pedal steel are pulled by bass like gravity tugging at tides. It’s a supporting role, akin to the reassuring tick of a clock, but once you’ve let Balsams fully mesmerize you, it’s hard to imagine any of Johnson’s songs without that transfixing metronome. It seems that Johnson’s main goal here is to transfix—perhaps not just the listener but himself as well. It must have been tempting for him to swerve from his devout sonic path, adding a drumbeat hear or a voice there, or even just a three-note guitar solo somewhere. But part of the beauty of Balsams is that it entrances not in spite of its homogeneity, but because of it. In one sense, it’s an experiment to see what pedal steel guitar can do when it’s asked to do it all. But the results make Balsams more than that: a fully realized sonic world, and one worth visiting for a long time. |
Artist: Chuck Johnson,
Album: Balsams,
Genre: Experimental,
Score (1-10): 8.1
Album review:
"Pedal steel guitar is such an evocative instrument that just one chord emanating from its strings can suggest entire worlds. Often that’s exactly how it is used: one chord at a time, doled out sparingly to enhance moods already established by other instruments. But what if you give pedal steel guitar the starring role? That’s what Chuck Johnson does on Balsams, an album that’s drowning in waves of pedal steel, accompanied only by sparse, time-marking bass tones. It’s a simple formula, but Johnson mines it for rich music that feels infinitely expressive. This isn’t exactly a shock, given that Johnson was already pretty great at creating moods with a guitar. He’s made three previous albums of subtle finger-picked acoustic work, as well as a full-band effort—last year’s Velvet Arc—that used pedal steel more traditionally. But there’s something singular about what he’s done on Balsams. It feels like a universe unto itself, one where each slow, patient strain of pedal steel builds on the previous one. Individually, none of the album’s six tracks sounds very different from each other, but as a whole they create a three-dimensional sonic space that expands and evolves. In that sense, Balsams is more an ambient album than a folk-based guitar record. Think of it as country post-rock: Johnson’s hypnotic music conjures cinematic landscapes as strong as those evoked by Stars of the Lid or Flying Saucer Attack, but his guitar’s gentle twang sounds more like a desert with wafting tumbleweeds than a sky with drifting clouds. Whatever images the album might inspire, there is definitely a lot of weather happening in Balsams’ widescreen scenes. You can feel air moving, sand sifting, and sun baking as Johnson’s guitar chords gradually stretch across the horizon. In the album’s best moments, those chords regenerate and deepen, making it hard to tell where one sound begins and another ends. During “Riga Black,” guitar tones continually emerge and fade in overlapping circles; in “Moonstone,” rising chords spawn textures that trail each other. At times, Johnson’s sounds transcend standard associations with the pedal steel guitar, as on opener “Calamus,” whose long echoes resemble a bowed violin or a soaring synth as much as metal sliding across strings. Within this guitar-heavy environment, Johnson’s bass notes at first feel like afterthoughts, but they turn out to be crucial. Often they provide steps for the pedal steel to climb, their short durations propelling longer atmospherics that climb higher with each passing tone. This recalls the way Labradford often used simple notes to carve a path for grander tones, and Johnson proves just as adept at that move. His approach shines most vividly during “Labrodite Eye,” where the up-and-down crests of pedal steel are pulled by bass like gravity tugging at tides. It’s a supporting role, akin to the reassuring tick of a clock, but once you’ve let Balsams fully mesmerize you, it’s hard to imagine any of Johnson’s songs without that transfixing metronome. It seems that Johnson’s main goal here is to transfix—perhaps not just the listener but himself as well. It must have been tempting for him to swerve from his devout sonic path, adding a drumbeat hear or a voice there, or even just a three-note guitar solo somewhere. But part of the beauty of Balsams is that it entrances not in spite of its homogeneity, but because of it. In one sense, it’s an experiment to see what pedal steel guitar can do when it’s asked to do it all. But the results make Balsams more than that: a fully realized sonic world, and one worth visiting for a long time."
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Sunburned Hand of the Man | The Mylar Tantrum | Experimental,Rock | Matthew Murphy | 7.4 | The arrival of a new release from Sunburned Hand of the Man is hardly an uncommon event, but seldom is it an unwelcome one. Consisting of one uninterrupted performance, The Mylar Tantrum is far from the collective's bulkiest document, yet it still appears as a noteworthy addition to their sprawling catalog. The piece was created as an alternate soundtrack to Ira Cohen's legendary 1968 psychedelic film The Invasion of the Thunderbolt Pagoda. On the album the Sunburned crew take a few cues from the film's original soundtrack, which was performed by a pioneering drone/trance ensemble that featured Angus MacLise, Tony Conrad, and Henry Flynt. Despite these few respectful allusions, however, SHotM manage to quickly to fill the room with their own peculiar and addictive form of oxygen, shaping The Mylar Tantrum with exactly the sort of casual economy that suggests an endless beatific abundance. For the occasion, Sunburned have assembled themselves as a streamlined septet, although with their free-flowing assortment of wheezing keys and ceremonial percussion, it becomes pretty impossible (and ultimately immaterial) to determine who is playing what. The album's title makes reference to Cohen's extensive use of reflective Mylar in his sets and photography, a production design that helped give his film its distinctive refracted shimmer. Although Sunburned's soundtrack suitably matches the film's opiated, image-splitting bacchanalia, several passages also seem fit to accompany more traditional narrative structures as well. In fact, the opening sequence of melodic harmonium and guitar sounds like it could be an appropriate backdrop for any suspense-filled European crime caper, the ominous heartbeat of the drums punctuating the tension with a quickening pulse as the whole savage gang assembles at the docks to prepare for one final score. It isn't long, however, before a primal cry is heard from the wilderness, triggering the group to immediately lumber into an ecstatic, closely woven percussive trance. As with MacLise's work on the original Thunderbolt Pagoda soundtrack, Sunburned's polyrhythmic improvisations here seem to be issued from some indefinite exotic source, with pan-ethnic echoes volleying invisibly between rural New England, Morocco, and the Himalayas. And while the men of Sunburned are certainly no strangers to free-form drum-circle jams, here their communal playing sounds precise and controlled, their increased focus giving these rituals an added degree of seismic density. Soon this central pulse too dissolves away into an extended outro of disembodied chanting and fluttering hand percussion, with a stray guitar quietly scavenging through the tribal wreckage in search of any stray fuel that might keep the fading embers aflame. Compared to epic-length albums like 2005's Wedlock, the 22-minute running time of The Mylar Tantrum might make it seem rather skimpy. This music is also available on the Bastet label's recent DVD release of Thunderbolt Pagoda, so perhaps it might be most sensible to experience this work in its full multi-media splendor. But even when taken on its own, The Mylar Tantrum can serve as an extra-potent distillation of Sunburned Hand of the Man's nefarious black arts, with a shamanic utility too broad to be restricted to any one film's soundtrack. |
Artist: Sunburned Hand of the Man,
Album: The Mylar Tantrum,
Genre: Experimental,Rock,
Score (1-10): 7.4
Album review:
"The arrival of a new release from Sunburned Hand of the Man is hardly an uncommon event, but seldom is it an unwelcome one. Consisting of one uninterrupted performance, The Mylar Tantrum is far from the collective's bulkiest document, yet it still appears as a noteworthy addition to their sprawling catalog. The piece was created as an alternate soundtrack to Ira Cohen's legendary 1968 psychedelic film The Invasion of the Thunderbolt Pagoda. On the album the Sunburned crew take a few cues from the film's original soundtrack, which was performed by a pioneering drone/trance ensemble that featured Angus MacLise, Tony Conrad, and Henry Flynt. Despite these few respectful allusions, however, SHotM manage to quickly to fill the room with their own peculiar and addictive form of oxygen, shaping The Mylar Tantrum with exactly the sort of casual economy that suggests an endless beatific abundance. For the occasion, Sunburned have assembled themselves as a streamlined septet, although with their free-flowing assortment of wheezing keys and ceremonial percussion, it becomes pretty impossible (and ultimately immaterial) to determine who is playing what. The album's title makes reference to Cohen's extensive use of reflective Mylar in his sets and photography, a production design that helped give his film its distinctive refracted shimmer. Although Sunburned's soundtrack suitably matches the film's opiated, image-splitting bacchanalia, several passages also seem fit to accompany more traditional narrative structures as well. In fact, the opening sequence of melodic harmonium and guitar sounds like it could be an appropriate backdrop for any suspense-filled European crime caper, the ominous heartbeat of the drums punctuating the tension with a quickening pulse as the whole savage gang assembles at the docks to prepare for one final score. It isn't long, however, before a primal cry is heard from the wilderness, triggering the group to immediately lumber into an ecstatic, closely woven percussive trance. As with MacLise's work on the original Thunderbolt Pagoda soundtrack, Sunburned's polyrhythmic improvisations here seem to be issued from some indefinite exotic source, with pan-ethnic echoes volleying invisibly between rural New England, Morocco, and the Himalayas. And while the men of Sunburned are certainly no strangers to free-form drum-circle jams, here their communal playing sounds precise and controlled, their increased focus giving these rituals an added degree of seismic density. Soon this central pulse too dissolves away into an extended outro of disembodied chanting and fluttering hand percussion, with a stray guitar quietly scavenging through the tribal wreckage in search of any stray fuel that might keep the fading embers aflame. Compared to epic-length albums like 2005's Wedlock, the 22-minute running time of The Mylar Tantrum might make it seem rather skimpy. This music is also available on the Bastet label's recent DVD release of Thunderbolt Pagoda, so perhaps it might be most sensible to experience this work in its full multi-media splendor. But even when taken on its own, The Mylar Tantrum can serve as an extra-potent distillation of Sunburned Hand of the Man's nefarious black arts, with a shamanic utility too broad to be restricted to any one film's soundtrack."
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Channels | Waiting for the Next End of the World | Metal | Jason Crock | 6.6 | If only J. Robbins could find a band that works as hard as he does. After Jawbox called it quits, Burning Airlines made one incredible record-- a near-perfect balance between musicianship and satisfying hooks-- and one confused one, a sophomore slump from a shifting lineup that may have eventually found its footing. Instead, band members keep evaporating on Robbins, leaving him to do decidedly un-punk-rock things like have families and hold down 9-to-5 jobs. Robbins, however, has done them one better by starting his own family while staying active as a prolific producer and an occasional musician. Slow on the heels of a 2004 EP is Waiting for the Next End of the World, the first full-length from Robbins in five years and the first from Channels, a trio featuring co-vocalist Janet Morgan (aka Mrs. Robbins) from Shonben and drummer Darren Zentek of Oswego and Kerosene 454. Robbins' time spent behind the production boards rather than in front of them pays off here: Channels' LP is an immaculate-sounding rock record, flipping through a library of hair-raising sci-fi guitar tones over an ever-crisp rhythm section. The guitar in "Licensee" alone stings like a toothache and then slides backward on its heels in the chorus. The bass work on this record, heavier than Robbins is used to while still remaining limber, is nothing to sneeze at, but Morgan is more a backup singer than a real songwriting foil-- a role Robbins benefits from. (See: The difference between the first and second BA records.) Still, Robbins deserves credit for upping his lyrical game by more than a few notches. He's been prone to abstraction, but now Channels' songs are political without being topical, and paranoid without being heavy-handed, with far more pithy one-liners per capita (e.g. on "Mayday" he quips, "Every survivor story reeks of alibis"). It's a shame that all of that is applied to songs that sound mannered at best, and often clunky. "Savory" aside, Robbins' has never been a murderer at midtempo, and very few of these songs pick up the pace, bogged down by meandering melodies and hooks too obtuse to really land. The best moments are those that have the slightest trace of sweat: The trade off between he and Morgan over Morse-code bursts of distortion in "Licnesee", the landmine bob of "Mayday", the very-BA "Chivaree", or the floating near-psychedelia of "Helen Mirren". Not a bad batting average, but even the blistering "$99.99" seems buttoned-up somehow, and everything else is aimed straight into Robbins' comfort zone. Waiting for the Next End of the World has all the trademarks of his previous projects, excepting the melody or the bite. There's nothing here that'll disappoint his well-earned fanbase, but that's all he's playing to as that section of the populace slowly dwindles with each year in between projects. If only he'd book a few less mediocre emo bands and put the baby down on the boards; we could always use more of Robbins' A-game. |
Artist: Channels,
Album: Waiting for the Next End of the World,
Genre: Metal,
Score (1-10): 6.6
Album review:
"If only J. Robbins could find a band that works as hard as he does. After Jawbox called it quits, Burning Airlines made one incredible record-- a near-perfect balance between musicianship and satisfying hooks-- and one confused one, a sophomore slump from a shifting lineup that may have eventually found its footing. Instead, band members keep evaporating on Robbins, leaving him to do decidedly un-punk-rock things like have families and hold down 9-to-5 jobs. Robbins, however, has done them one better by starting his own family while staying active as a prolific producer and an occasional musician. Slow on the heels of a 2004 EP is Waiting for the Next End of the World, the first full-length from Robbins in five years and the first from Channels, a trio featuring co-vocalist Janet Morgan (aka Mrs. Robbins) from Shonben and drummer Darren Zentek of Oswego and Kerosene 454. Robbins' time spent behind the production boards rather than in front of them pays off here: Channels' LP is an immaculate-sounding rock record, flipping through a library of hair-raising sci-fi guitar tones over an ever-crisp rhythm section. The guitar in "Licensee" alone stings like a toothache and then slides backward on its heels in the chorus. The bass work on this record, heavier than Robbins is used to while still remaining limber, is nothing to sneeze at, but Morgan is more a backup singer than a real songwriting foil-- a role Robbins benefits from. (See: The difference between the first and second BA records.) Still, Robbins deserves credit for upping his lyrical game by more than a few notches. He's been prone to abstraction, but now Channels' songs are political without being topical, and paranoid without being heavy-handed, with far more pithy one-liners per capita (e.g. on "Mayday" he quips, "Every survivor story reeks of alibis"). It's a shame that all of that is applied to songs that sound mannered at best, and often clunky. "Savory" aside, Robbins' has never been a murderer at midtempo, and very few of these songs pick up the pace, bogged down by meandering melodies and hooks too obtuse to really land. The best moments are those that have the slightest trace of sweat: The trade off between he and Morgan over Morse-code bursts of distortion in "Licnesee", the landmine bob of "Mayday", the very-BA "Chivaree", or the floating near-psychedelia of "Helen Mirren". Not a bad batting average, but even the blistering "$99.99" seems buttoned-up somehow, and everything else is aimed straight into Robbins' comfort zone. Waiting for the Next End of the World has all the trademarks of his previous projects, excepting the melody or the bite. There's nothing here that'll disappoint his well-earned fanbase, but that's all he's playing to as that section of the populace slowly dwindles with each year in between projects. If only he'd book a few less mediocre emo bands and put the baby down on the boards; we could always use more of Robbins' A-game."
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Lightning Dust | Lightning Dust | Folk/Country | Adam Moerder | 7.2 | Bummer alert! For those half-to-fully-baked music fans who gloriously tripped on Mr. Stephen McBean's wild retro-rock ride, Black Mountain, don't go expecting a similar buzz from sobering side project Lightning Dust. Sure, they sound like they're named after a volatile drug combination (PCP and pop rocks?), but as Lightning Dust, Black Mountaineers Amber Webber and Joshua Wells seek better living through histrionics, not chemistry. Fortunately, they didn't also kick their awesomely nasty late 60s/early 70s rock habit, making their self-titled debut just as potent a blast from the past as their full-time band. Webber's dour vocals attracted some criticism on Black Mountain, and in the context of that free-wheelin' album, the gripes are somewhat fair. However, with opening track "Listening On", Webber and Wells make no bones about the pall cast over their new incarnation. Like nearly every track on the LP, you can count the total instrument and vocal parts on one hand, a compositional illusion that seems to catapult Webber's stark quivering wails out of your speakers. Even ghostlier, the absence of percussion and other auxiliary touches helps to create ephemeral melodies that materialize briefly, only to vanish at the delicate touch of an organ key. As sparse as the duo's toolbox appears, their album has a pronounced dramatic landscape of suspenseful highs and tranquilized lows, thanks both to Webber's powerful emoting and Wells' ivory-tickling flair. "Castles and Caves", the album's five-and-a-half minute centerpiece, consists only of piano, vocals and a brief cello part, but when those left-hand keys are pounded during the final chorus, they pack the gravitas of a full-blown orchestra. It doesn't hurt that the piano riff lifts King Crimson's "In the Court of the Crimson King", though, as so many Black Mountain reviews point out in nauseating detail, these guys clearly aren't afraid of walking the line between artistic gesturing and flat-out mimicry. However, while very transparent influences sometimes hamper Black Mountain's music, Lightning Dust racks up a much smaller tab borrowing classic rock ideas. Instead, sheer paucity, a typical symptom of side projects, plagues the duo. With ten tracks clocking just over a half-hour, the debut whets the palette but fails to satiate the stomach, instead leaving us with brief, majestic tracks that hint at something more epic. Although catchy, haunting three-minute howls like "Highway" or "Breathe" come as second nature to the duo, their attempts at curveballs and changeups miss the mark, as drab hoedown "Wind Me Up" and gooey FM ballad "When You Go" respectively show. Still, when these two stick to their comfort zone, they make magic happen, proving Lightning Dust to be another crag on Black Mountain worth scaling. |
Artist: Lightning Dust,
Album: Lightning Dust,
Genre: Folk/Country,
Score (1-10): 7.2
Album review:
"Bummer alert! For those half-to-fully-baked music fans who gloriously tripped on Mr. Stephen McBean's wild retro-rock ride, Black Mountain, don't go expecting a similar buzz from sobering side project Lightning Dust. Sure, they sound like they're named after a volatile drug combination (PCP and pop rocks?), but as Lightning Dust, Black Mountaineers Amber Webber and Joshua Wells seek better living through histrionics, not chemistry. Fortunately, they didn't also kick their awesomely nasty late 60s/early 70s rock habit, making their self-titled debut just as potent a blast from the past as their full-time band. Webber's dour vocals attracted some criticism on Black Mountain, and in the context of that free-wheelin' album, the gripes are somewhat fair. However, with opening track "Listening On", Webber and Wells make no bones about the pall cast over their new incarnation. Like nearly every track on the LP, you can count the total instrument and vocal parts on one hand, a compositional illusion that seems to catapult Webber's stark quivering wails out of your speakers. Even ghostlier, the absence of percussion and other auxiliary touches helps to create ephemeral melodies that materialize briefly, only to vanish at the delicate touch of an organ key. As sparse as the duo's toolbox appears, their album has a pronounced dramatic landscape of suspenseful highs and tranquilized lows, thanks both to Webber's powerful emoting and Wells' ivory-tickling flair. "Castles and Caves", the album's five-and-a-half minute centerpiece, consists only of piano, vocals and a brief cello part, but when those left-hand keys are pounded during the final chorus, they pack the gravitas of a full-blown orchestra. It doesn't hurt that the piano riff lifts King Crimson's "In the Court of the Crimson King", though, as so many Black Mountain reviews point out in nauseating detail, these guys clearly aren't afraid of walking the line between artistic gesturing and flat-out mimicry. However, while very transparent influences sometimes hamper Black Mountain's music, Lightning Dust racks up a much smaller tab borrowing classic rock ideas. Instead, sheer paucity, a typical symptom of side projects, plagues the duo. With ten tracks clocking just over a half-hour, the debut whets the palette but fails to satiate the stomach, instead leaving us with brief, majestic tracks that hint at something more epic. Although catchy, haunting three-minute howls like "Highway" or "Breathe" come as second nature to the duo, their attempts at curveballs and changeups miss the mark, as drab hoedown "Wind Me Up" and gooey FM ballad "When You Go" respectively show. Still, when these two stick to their comfort zone, they make magic happen, proving Lightning Dust to be another crag on Black Mountain worth scaling."
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Concentrik | Lucid Dreaming | null | Brad Haywood | 7.9 | Tim Green started off the part of his life relevant to this review playing guitar for the now-legendary Dischord outfit Nation of Ulysses. After having his fill of D.C. hardcore, Green moved his skinny ass to San Francisco, met a couple of dyed-in-the-wool metalheads (one with actual long hair), and formed the Champs, an instrumental metal trio (later-modified to the more popular naughty name, The Fucking Champs). It was these Fucking Champs who would be heralded for the purest metal fervor. Little did the heralders know, but behind guitar number two stood a total wuss. For alas, Green, fucking champion of metal, masqueraded as Concentrick, a fucking champion of "lucid dreaming". I know what you're thinking: "Pussy." Had these "lucid dreams" been revolting nightmares, Green might still be in business. But listening to Concentrick's third album, one realizes that they surely are not. They are sweet dreams-- the product not of a metal rampage, but of a soothing lullaby. Addressing the oft-cited metal inquiry, "Do they kick ass?"-- well, not in the conventional sense, no. Perhaps if you could construe meditation as "kicking ass" (as in "man, that prayer circle kicked ass") then Lucid Dreaming would kick ass. But better adjectives exist for this, Green's ambient electronic alter-ego. Like these adjectives, for example: droning, palliative, supple, futuristic, sedate, assuaging, mellifluous, elysian, balmy, resplendent. All in a Buck Rodgers sort of way. Strings and a Mellotron get the album kicking on "Lucid Moments". Imagine if Buck Rodgers had his own romantic chamber orchestra, and you have the idea exactly. "Behind the Trees" takes Buck out of his cozy space cabin and finds him wandering a spooky, uncharted space planet, replete with big orange boulders, space trees, and an atmosphere of pure cyanide gas. Buck would feel anxious, yes? So will you. "Secret in the Shallows and the Sky" plays like the steel drum band at a tropical island space-resort for Buck and his friends (like the totally hot Wilma Deering, aka the Ricker's dad's girlfriend on "Silver Spoons", aka Erin Gray). They take Buck to new, soothing adventures in his mind, as waves of liquid nitrogen splash up against his rocket-fueled titanium catamaran. "Somnambulant" sounds like you might reckon if your vocabulary is big enough. "Soft Place" keeps with the accurate descriptive naming trend, providing a downy-soft place for your ears. This soft place might be particularly welcome for burnt-out Champs fans. It drones like a coma. Concentrick evokes strange comparisons, but this does not alter the fact that Green's effort here is pretty damn super. A delightful mix of sleepy ambient elements with a futuristic touch. Relax to it, fall asleep to it, or fantasize about Wilma Deering to it. The choice is yours. |
Artist: Concentrik,
Album: Lucid Dreaming,
Genre: None,
Score (1-10): 7.9
Album review:
"Tim Green started off the part of his life relevant to this review playing guitar for the now-legendary Dischord outfit Nation of Ulysses. After having his fill of D.C. hardcore, Green moved his skinny ass to San Francisco, met a couple of dyed-in-the-wool metalheads (one with actual long hair), and formed the Champs, an instrumental metal trio (later-modified to the more popular naughty name, The Fucking Champs). It was these Fucking Champs who would be heralded for the purest metal fervor. Little did the heralders know, but behind guitar number two stood a total wuss. For alas, Green, fucking champion of metal, masqueraded as Concentrick, a fucking champion of "lucid dreaming". I know what you're thinking: "Pussy." Had these "lucid dreams" been revolting nightmares, Green might still be in business. But listening to Concentrick's third album, one realizes that they surely are not. They are sweet dreams-- the product not of a metal rampage, but of a soothing lullaby. Addressing the oft-cited metal inquiry, "Do they kick ass?"-- well, not in the conventional sense, no. Perhaps if you could construe meditation as "kicking ass" (as in "man, that prayer circle kicked ass") then Lucid Dreaming would kick ass. But better adjectives exist for this, Green's ambient electronic alter-ego. Like these adjectives, for example: droning, palliative, supple, futuristic, sedate, assuaging, mellifluous, elysian, balmy, resplendent. All in a Buck Rodgers sort of way. Strings and a Mellotron get the album kicking on "Lucid Moments". Imagine if Buck Rodgers had his own romantic chamber orchestra, and you have the idea exactly. "Behind the Trees" takes Buck out of his cozy space cabin and finds him wandering a spooky, uncharted space planet, replete with big orange boulders, space trees, and an atmosphere of pure cyanide gas. Buck would feel anxious, yes? So will you. "Secret in the Shallows and the Sky" plays like the steel drum band at a tropical island space-resort for Buck and his friends (like the totally hot Wilma Deering, aka the Ricker's dad's girlfriend on "Silver Spoons", aka Erin Gray). They take Buck to new, soothing adventures in his mind, as waves of liquid nitrogen splash up against his rocket-fueled titanium catamaran. "Somnambulant" sounds like you might reckon if your vocabulary is big enough. "Soft Place" keeps with the accurate descriptive naming trend, providing a downy-soft place for your ears. This soft place might be particularly welcome for burnt-out Champs fans. It drones like a coma. Concentrick evokes strange comparisons, but this does not alter the fact that Green's effort here is pretty damn super. A delightful mix of sleepy ambient elements with a futuristic touch. Relax to it, fall asleep to it, or fantasize about Wilma Deering to it. The choice is yours."
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The Chills | Heavenly Pop Hits: The Best of the Chills | Rock | Joshua Klein | 8.6 | For a while there, nearly the entire Flying Nun stable made it all look so easy. Album after album of perfect antipodean indie-pop, the product of fertile imaginations and far too much free time in a country that hadn't really shown up on the Western radar since tiny New Zealand lost more fighter pilots per capita during World War II than any other nation in the British Commonwealth. For a minute even the major labels were interested, snatching up acts like the Bats, Straightjacket Fits, the Verlaines, and the Chills before realizing that signing them was a lot easier than selling them. The Chills' Martin Phillipps was among the most idiosyncratic of the batch, capable of both rousing rock and breathtaking beauty. Maybe he understood that best of all, which explains why the 1990 album Submarine Bells led with the facetiously titled "Heavenly Pop Hit", which was certainly two of those things. As for being a hit, well, it never stood a chance. "It's a heavenly pop hit, if anyone wants it," Phillipps sang almost offhandedly, over music so wonderful it's no wonder no radio station dared touch it: it would have made nearly everything else sound bad by comparison. Still, as the closest thing Phillipps ever came to a hit, "Heavenly Pop Hit" was, of course, the track pegged to start this 1995 best-of, released on Flying Nun as a stopgap while Phillipps was between international record labels. But there was plenty more where that song came from-- Phillipps was full of them-- and Heavenly Pop Hits: The Best of the Chills rounds up many of them for those who may not have any of the band's previous albums or collections, and who may be dismayed at the difficulty of procuring said out of print or domestically unreleased albums in the States (as of this writing, the impeccable early singles comp Kaleidoscope World was going for nearly $70 on Amazon). Also from Submarine Bells there's the majestic "Part Past Part Fiction", while from the Chills' early days the set draws the irresistible shuffling tribute to a late friend "I Love My Leather Jacket", the piano-lead "House with 100 Rooms", the charming love letter "Wet Blanket", the catchy but bleak punch-the-clock welfare anti-anthem "Doledrums", and the ever-ghostly "Pink Frost". All these tracks feature Phillipps' uncanny instinct for chiming guitars, humming organ, beguiling melodies, and mournful lyrics often utterly at odds with all the former elements. Lest you forget Phillipps, like nearly every songwriter of his generation, was a punk at heart, this comp tosses in "I'll Only See You Alone Again", "Look for the Good in Others and They'll See the Good in You", and "Never Never Go", three pounding, fuzzy garage-psych nuggets. As for the inevitable missing stuff, where's "Effloresce and Deliquesce" and the gorgeous title track from Submarine Bells? Or "Background Affair", from Soft Bomb? Or, hell, where's that disc's "Song for Randy Newman, etc.", which name-checks Brian Wilson, Syd Barrett, Scott Walker, and Nick Drake as Phillipps documents the trials of the cult artist who dares tilt at windmills. "People take so much then leave you lean," Phillipps sings, wistfully, at once in awe of his idols and all too aware that he will likely share the same critics-darling fate. "Patrons will not feed you longer than they need to/ Your all-consuming passion will leave you craving love." OK, to be fair, Phillipps isn't entirely blameless when it comes to his own fate. He had trouble keeping the same band line-up intact from disc to disc, and drug problems played a recurrent role impairing his progress. But he had a point: music this perfect doesn't come for free, and seeing his heart and soul spilled out get him nowhere no doubt wore at Phillipps. Hopefully one day he'll get his due-- a new incarnation of the Chills has been up and running for a bit now-- but in the meantime, the best we'll get is documents like this one, sad reminders of what so many missed out on the first time around. Heavenly pop hits indeed. |
Artist: The Chills,
Album: Heavenly Pop Hits: The Best of the Chills,
Genre: Rock,
Score (1-10): 8.6
Album review:
"For a while there, nearly the entire Flying Nun stable made it all look so easy. Album after album of perfect antipodean indie-pop, the product of fertile imaginations and far too much free time in a country that hadn't really shown up on the Western radar since tiny New Zealand lost more fighter pilots per capita during World War II than any other nation in the British Commonwealth. For a minute even the major labels were interested, snatching up acts like the Bats, Straightjacket Fits, the Verlaines, and the Chills before realizing that signing them was a lot easier than selling them. The Chills' Martin Phillipps was among the most idiosyncratic of the batch, capable of both rousing rock and breathtaking beauty. Maybe he understood that best of all, which explains why the 1990 album Submarine Bells led with the facetiously titled "Heavenly Pop Hit", which was certainly two of those things. As for being a hit, well, it never stood a chance. "It's a heavenly pop hit, if anyone wants it," Phillipps sang almost offhandedly, over music so wonderful it's no wonder no radio station dared touch it: it would have made nearly everything else sound bad by comparison. Still, as the closest thing Phillipps ever came to a hit, "Heavenly Pop Hit" was, of course, the track pegged to start this 1995 best-of, released on Flying Nun as a stopgap while Phillipps was between international record labels. But there was plenty more where that song came from-- Phillipps was full of them-- and Heavenly Pop Hits: The Best of the Chills rounds up many of them for those who may not have any of the band's previous albums or collections, and who may be dismayed at the difficulty of procuring said out of print or domestically unreleased albums in the States (as of this writing, the impeccable early singles comp Kaleidoscope World was going for nearly $70 on Amazon). Also from Submarine Bells there's the majestic "Part Past Part Fiction", while from the Chills' early days the set draws the irresistible shuffling tribute to a late friend "I Love My Leather Jacket", the piano-lead "House with 100 Rooms", the charming love letter "Wet Blanket", the catchy but bleak punch-the-clock welfare anti-anthem "Doledrums", and the ever-ghostly "Pink Frost". All these tracks feature Phillipps' uncanny instinct for chiming guitars, humming organ, beguiling melodies, and mournful lyrics often utterly at odds with all the former elements. Lest you forget Phillipps, like nearly every songwriter of his generation, was a punk at heart, this comp tosses in "I'll Only See You Alone Again", "Look for the Good in Others and They'll See the Good in You", and "Never Never Go", three pounding, fuzzy garage-psych nuggets. As for the inevitable missing stuff, where's "Effloresce and Deliquesce" and the gorgeous title track from Submarine Bells? Or "Background Affair", from Soft Bomb? Or, hell, where's that disc's "Song for Randy Newman, etc.", which name-checks Brian Wilson, Syd Barrett, Scott Walker, and Nick Drake as Phillipps documents the trials of the cult artist who dares tilt at windmills. "People take so much then leave you lean," Phillipps sings, wistfully, at once in awe of his idols and all too aware that he will likely share the same critics-darling fate. "Patrons will not feed you longer than they need to/ Your all-consuming passion will leave you craving love." OK, to be fair, Phillipps isn't entirely blameless when it comes to his own fate. He had trouble keeping the same band line-up intact from disc to disc, and drug problems played a recurrent role impairing his progress. But he had a point: music this perfect doesn't come for free, and seeing his heart and soul spilled out get him nowhere no doubt wore at Phillipps. Hopefully one day he'll get his due-- a new incarnation of the Chills has been up and running for a bit now-- but in the meantime, the best we'll get is documents like this one, sad reminders of what so many missed out on the first time around. Heavenly pop hits indeed."
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Masami Akita, Russell Haswell | Satanstornade | Experimental | Kim Fing Shannon | 5.9 | Despite a deluge of recordings that might suggest otherwise, Merzbow did not invent noise. What he is responsible for is an incredible insight, a leveling glare into our perceptions of musical functionality: Merzbow's music intrinsically refutes academic hierarchies, self-important artistry, mindless fluff, fame, and craft. His work is, in a grand sense, about the mass proliferation of sound in our lives, the morbidity of our culture's regurgitation and recycling of aesthetics, and of course, a fundamental disagreement with thoughtless complacency. The very essence of this-- the need to represent, or in some way possess the constant influx of cultural trash-- merits Merzbow's rigorous release schedule. Even at their most aurally identical, each release is a different approach to Merzbow's preoccupations, be it bondage (which, for those who thought Merzbow was a one-trick pony, seems to be mysteriously absent in his work as of late), or jazz drumming. In the past 25 years, it's pretty doubtless that these releases have finally started to epitomize that endless cultural subconscious that Merzbow set out to recreate. Yet, describing this work in strictly academic or critical language undermines the sheer velocity and disruption a listener might feel, having never heard anything along these lines before. No Merzbow fan will ever be able to relive that initial shock, torment, and displeasure, that moral incongruence, or the satisfaction that someone finally took that extra step they always anticipated. At least not until they stumble onto Whitehouse. Warp Records have just released a new Merzbow record. Not to be filed under Merzbow proper, it's attributed to Merzbow's human incarnation, Masami Akita, who appears here alongside equally disruptive experimentalist Russell Haswell. Due to labelmates like Aphex Twin and Squarepusher, this will be the most widely distributed Merzbow album. Whether or not you're looking for a place to start, Satanstornade will be the one in your local record store. Perhaps there's been a climate change; maybe those pissed-off rap-rock kids in bubble coats are going to get even angrier when they get drafted. Maybe they'll need something more substantial to pump out of their subwoofers while they do figure-eights in a mall parking lot. Hell, Merzbow isn't that inaccessible: There are basslines looping back and forth all through the album. In fact, the most emblematic feature of Merzbow's noise music of the past decade or so is the fact that he's largely abandoned the random household noise of his earliest experiments, as well as the tape-collage work it evolved into. The precipitous, unabashed searing rushes that followed-- and settled-- after some experimentation headed, in the past five years, toward the use of underlying loops. Maybe it has to do with his decision to integrate a laptop into what used to be such distinctly physical musical method, or maybe it's just another view into the way our cultural waste works. All of those albums released and recorded, all of the television, sharing the same general content, day in and day out, lulling in its calculated directness. Or maybe it's just that all of that trademarked feedback is just a tiny loop anyway, being picked up by a microphone which sends it to speakers that send it to the microphone, over and over again. Whatever is emblematic of Merzbow's work in and of itself has been offset fairly recently by his newfound enthusiasm for collaboration. Not that there weren't traces of it earlier in his work, but Zbigniew Karkowski, Ladybird, Kouhei Matsunaga, Otomo Yoshihide, and now, finally released-- despite being several years old-- a collaboration with Russell Haswell have come to be a major factor in deciphering Merzbow's work. Merzbow's conceptual approach and aesthetics seem to dominate any situation heenters, however. Junk, waste, the violent cascades of sound, are mixed with Haswell's particularly digital-based aesthetics. The sounds of CD errors, binary yelps, and tinny crunches barrage Merzbow's typical noisy landscape. Considering Haswell's Live Salvage: 1997-2000 collection on MEGO, perhaps it's not even a question of Merzbow battling for dominance, but rather two artists reaching for similar territory. Live Salvage had a twist somewhat absent from Merzbow's work, though. There was a sense of location-specificity, a keen ability to integrate the physical, concrete nature of his noise into the space he was playing it in. Haswell has been looking for new ground after people like Merzbow have already staked their claims, and to shy away from a collaborative effort with such a central figure would've been absurd. Unfortunately, two men brandishing their laptops in public seems a little bit weak, a bit too hasty for either artist to make much of a dent. It's not a failure-- it fits neatly into Merzbow'slongstanding theories, and even serves as a bit of a challenge for him considering the collaborative aspect-- but the promise of Haswell's creativity is too quickly usurped. Hopefully this collaboration will be a bit more than a one-off, and the two can find a stronger equilibrium. |
Artist: Masami Akita, Russell Haswell,
Album: Satanstornade,
Genre: Experimental,
Score (1-10): 5.9
Album review:
"Despite a deluge of recordings that might suggest otherwise, Merzbow did not invent noise. What he is responsible for is an incredible insight, a leveling glare into our perceptions of musical functionality: Merzbow's music intrinsically refutes academic hierarchies, self-important artistry, mindless fluff, fame, and craft. His work is, in a grand sense, about the mass proliferation of sound in our lives, the morbidity of our culture's regurgitation and recycling of aesthetics, and of course, a fundamental disagreement with thoughtless complacency. The very essence of this-- the need to represent, or in some way possess the constant influx of cultural trash-- merits Merzbow's rigorous release schedule. Even at their most aurally identical, each release is a different approach to Merzbow's preoccupations, be it bondage (which, for those who thought Merzbow was a one-trick pony, seems to be mysteriously absent in his work as of late), or jazz drumming. In the past 25 years, it's pretty doubtless that these releases have finally started to epitomize that endless cultural subconscious that Merzbow set out to recreate. Yet, describing this work in strictly academic or critical language undermines the sheer velocity and disruption a listener might feel, having never heard anything along these lines before. No Merzbow fan will ever be able to relive that initial shock, torment, and displeasure, that moral incongruence, or the satisfaction that someone finally took that extra step they always anticipated. At least not until they stumble onto Whitehouse. Warp Records have just released a new Merzbow record. Not to be filed under Merzbow proper, it's attributed to Merzbow's human incarnation, Masami Akita, who appears here alongside equally disruptive experimentalist Russell Haswell. Due to labelmates like Aphex Twin and Squarepusher, this will be the most widely distributed Merzbow album. Whether or not you're looking for a place to start, Satanstornade will be the one in your local record store. Perhaps there's been a climate change; maybe those pissed-off rap-rock kids in bubble coats are going to get even angrier when they get drafted. Maybe they'll need something more substantial to pump out of their subwoofers while they do figure-eights in a mall parking lot. Hell, Merzbow isn't that inaccessible: There are basslines looping back and forth all through the album. In fact, the most emblematic feature of Merzbow's noise music of the past decade or so is the fact that he's largely abandoned the random household noise of his earliest experiments, as well as the tape-collage work it evolved into. The precipitous, unabashed searing rushes that followed-- and settled-- after some experimentation headed, in the past five years, toward the use of underlying loops. Maybe it has to do with his decision to integrate a laptop into what used to be such distinctly physical musical method, or maybe it's just another view into the way our cultural waste works. All of those albums released and recorded, all of the television, sharing the same general content, day in and day out, lulling in its calculated directness. Or maybe it's just that all of that trademarked feedback is just a tiny loop anyway, being picked up by a microphone which sends it to speakers that send it to the microphone, over and over again. Whatever is emblematic of Merzbow's work in and of itself has been offset fairly recently by his newfound enthusiasm for collaboration. Not that there weren't traces of it earlier in his work, but Zbigniew Karkowski, Ladybird, Kouhei Matsunaga, Otomo Yoshihide, and now, finally released-- despite being several years old-- a collaboration with Russell Haswell have come to be a major factor in deciphering Merzbow's work. Merzbow's conceptual approach and aesthetics seem to dominate any situation heenters, however. Junk, waste, the violent cascades of sound, are mixed with Haswell's particularly digital-based aesthetics. The sounds of CD errors, binary yelps, and tinny crunches barrage Merzbow's typical noisy landscape. Considering Haswell's Live Salvage: 1997-2000 collection on MEGO, perhaps it's not even a question of Merzbow battling for dominance, but rather two artists reaching for similar territory. Live Salvage had a twist somewhat absent from Merzbow's work, though. There was a sense of location-specificity, a keen ability to integrate the physical, concrete nature of his noise into the space he was playing it in. Haswell has been looking for new ground after people like Merzbow have already staked their claims, and to shy away from a collaborative effort with such a central figure would've been absurd. Unfortunately, two men brandishing their laptops in public seems a little bit weak, a bit too hasty for either artist to make much of a dent. It's not a failure-- it fits neatly into Merzbow'slongstanding theories, and even serves as a bit of a challenge for him considering the collaborative aspect-- but the promise of Haswell's creativity is too quickly usurped. Hopefully this collaboration will be a bit more than a one-off, and the two can find a stronger equilibrium. "
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The Gris Gris | For the Season | Electronic,Rock | Adam Moerder | 7.4 | When will folks stop scouring Gris Gris albums, feverishly looking for some ace in the hole, some nuanced twist to psychedelic rock? Seriously, is a no-frills psych band from San Francisco such an oddity just because they don't associate themselves with the Dead or sing about drugs? Sorry, dude in the Warlocks shirt, Gris Gris piss on hyphenated Sam Goody mongrels like "psych-punk" or "trip-rock," but can I interest you in this poster with a marijuana leaf on it? At the same time, Gris Gris's sober take on the genre isn't exactly an intrepid musical statement. On For the Season, Frontman/songwriter Greg Ashley seems to acknowledge his own trope, and if he's slapping reverb and heady lyrics on tracks and calling them psych, why not come clean? Whereas their self-titled debut indulged in several lengthy anti-jams before finally locking into incense-laden melodies, For the Season cuts the fat, delivering more focused, tripartite song structures. To minimize rigidity, each track gradually bleeds into the next, segueing with blistering distortion squelches and/or barely audible echolalia. In a sense, For the Season resembles a subtle solidification of its predecessor's spiraling ideas. Ashley no longer hides behind layers of reverb, but rather challenges them with more pristine vocals and warmer instrumentation, often foregoing lysergic mysticism for clean campfire sing-alongs. Both "Pick Up Your Raygun" and "Medicine #4"-- respective spin-offs of earlier songs "Raygun" and "Medicine #3"-- outline the band's fine-tuned songwriting approach. The former shaves down its prototype's protracted kookiness and dives headfirst into rumbling toms and exotic Middle Eastern scales. "Medicine #4" sweetens the dusty acoustic strumming of #3, reversing the pop clock almost far enough back to resemble "Earth Angel" at the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance. Not to worry though psych purists, the Gris Gris aren't about to stray too far from 1967, for better or worse. Much like their first album, For the Season doesn't stir up much in regards to energy or emotion, and nothing's surprising. "Skin Mass Cat" and "Cuerpos Haran Amor Extrano" accurately rehash smokey van aesthetics to the point of Scooby Doo absurdity, and the title track's faux-sitar riffs practically proselytize on behalf of Buddhism. That said, the Gris Gris's finer attention to detail fills in the cracks where their debut stumbled. Lacking the emotional knack for jaw-dropping singles, the band succeeds in consistently churning out songs that would be solid filler on an amazing album-- a Magical Mystery Tour comprised solely of "Blue Jay Way"'s. |
Artist: The Gris Gris,
Album: For the Season,
Genre: Electronic,Rock,
Score (1-10): 7.4
Album review:
"When will folks stop scouring Gris Gris albums, feverishly looking for some ace in the hole, some nuanced twist to psychedelic rock? Seriously, is a no-frills psych band from San Francisco such an oddity just because they don't associate themselves with the Dead or sing about drugs? Sorry, dude in the Warlocks shirt, Gris Gris piss on hyphenated Sam Goody mongrels like "psych-punk" or "trip-rock," but can I interest you in this poster with a marijuana leaf on it? At the same time, Gris Gris's sober take on the genre isn't exactly an intrepid musical statement. On For the Season, Frontman/songwriter Greg Ashley seems to acknowledge his own trope, and if he's slapping reverb and heady lyrics on tracks and calling them psych, why not come clean? Whereas their self-titled debut indulged in several lengthy anti-jams before finally locking into incense-laden melodies, For the Season cuts the fat, delivering more focused, tripartite song structures. To minimize rigidity, each track gradually bleeds into the next, segueing with blistering distortion squelches and/or barely audible echolalia. In a sense, For the Season resembles a subtle solidification of its predecessor's spiraling ideas. Ashley no longer hides behind layers of reverb, but rather challenges them with more pristine vocals and warmer instrumentation, often foregoing lysergic mysticism for clean campfire sing-alongs. Both "Pick Up Your Raygun" and "Medicine #4"-- respective spin-offs of earlier songs "Raygun" and "Medicine #3"-- outline the band's fine-tuned songwriting approach. The former shaves down its prototype's protracted kookiness and dives headfirst into rumbling toms and exotic Middle Eastern scales. "Medicine #4" sweetens the dusty acoustic strumming of #3, reversing the pop clock almost far enough back to resemble "Earth Angel" at the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance. Not to worry though psych purists, the Gris Gris aren't about to stray too far from 1967, for better or worse. Much like their first album, For the Season doesn't stir up much in regards to energy or emotion, and nothing's surprising. "Skin Mass Cat" and "Cuerpos Haran Amor Extrano" accurately rehash smokey van aesthetics to the point of Scooby Doo absurdity, and the title track's faux-sitar riffs practically proselytize on behalf of Buddhism. That said, the Gris Gris's finer attention to detail fills in the cracks where their debut stumbled. Lacking the emotional knack for jaw-dropping singles, the band succeeds in consistently churning out songs that would be solid filler on an amazing album-- a Magical Mystery Tour comprised solely of "Blue Jay Way"'s."
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Anti-Pop Consortium | Fluorescent Black | Electronic,Rap | Jess Harvell | 7 | Even with the 10th anniversary of their debut album around the corner, it seems silly to ponder Anti-Pop Consortium's place in hip hop. Name, sound, rhyme style, lyrical content, release sleeve iconography: Anti-Pop were stylized (by the press as much as by themselves) as a fuck-you, a caustic riposte to a genre that had apparently taken every wrong turn possible in the 1990s. They likely give as much of a shit about how they "fit in" with rap in 2009 as they do about concepts like "limited appeal." Which is not to say the group doesn't have enough history behind them to be assessed on their own terms. They've gone from straight-up alienating to a somewhat reconciliatory place within the hip-hop nation. For an act usually classed with the late-90s mini-boom in indie-rap futurism, Anti-Pop's earliest 12"s sounded as if they were made with equipment as old as the printing press. A move to Warp for 2002's Arrythmia added a fresh coat of accessibility to Anti-Pop's antagonistic minimalism. Fluorescent Black-- their first non-collaborative album in seven years-- sounds like Anti-Pop spent their time away coming to grips with the implied-but-never-fully-embraced pleasure principle of Arrythmia via side projects and solo albums. The foursome's name only occasionally suits the music here, unless you take branding into consideration. Fluorescent Black won't blow up at a time when Rick Ross deigning to sound interested on his own album is considered a major step forward among hip-hop critics, but here Anti-Pop take a less partisan approach to fun. And so since we're talking party music: "NY to Tokyo"-- which sounds stitched from 21st-century De La Soul and Men At Work's melody library-- is chipper, about the last adjective I ever expected to use to describe an Anti-Pop record. And while Beans remains the Anti-Pop member you could best sell to rap fans who consider it music rather than some outlaw adjunct to poetry, even M. Sayyid and High Priest sound loosened up across the album, slowing down, using crowd-pleasing pacing, more willing to meet an audience raised on "Crank Dat"-grade rhymes halfway. "Goofy": there's another word you'd be more likely to slap on Soulja Boy than Anti-Pop. Ditto "playful." And yet here's "Born Electric", with a hammy piano intro and ludicrously straight-faced crooning, managing to evoke Journey, Derrick May, and Vanessa Carlton within its first minute. I'm not even sure if Mike Ladd at his most Infections/Majesticons promiscuous would put Detroit pads and AOR cheese-pomp in the same track, let alone as its appetizer. Fluorescent Black's backing tracks, in all their mutant techno overbrightness and zig-zagging detail, re-expand the indie hip-hop palette. Not always to the good, mind you. Is "The Solution" a Kanye/T-Pain robo-voice tribute or parody? Or just a lukewarm trend jack? So sometimes they may be winking too hard to sell certain songs as anything other than well-made gags-- Anti-Pop's button-pushing still makes a nice break from all the posthumous J Dilla fellatio going around. All this lightening up is probably good for the soul, but what of the Anti-Pop refuseniks first fell in love with? Sometimes it crops up in unexpected ways. I appreciate anyone with the balls to scatter fans and foes alike with an album-opening blast of fugly hair metal. But my favorite track here might be the shortest and most "traditionally Anti-Pop." Lasting 1:30, its foul synth lurch like real-deal Rotterdam rottenness, Beans rips through "Dragunov" without pause, hook for cover, or cop to, well, pop. Music stripped to blunt-rhythm-and-nothing-but, the rap an excuse to leave fans breathless over skills they don't possess, "Dragunov" is hip-hop as old west line-in-sand at high noon, half-steppers left outside to wonder what the fuss is about. These go-hard-or-go-home tracks are still sprinkled across Fluorescent Black-- dizzying first single "Capricorn One"; "End Game", a near-arrhythmic duel between gunshot-terse rhyme fragments and the beatbox it sounds like they're slowly killing; "Timpani"'s (yes, them again) Neubauten tribalism and pervy Martin Denny jungle howls. But those who've been along for the 10-plus year ride may be looking for more of them. No one could stay as intractable as early Anti-Pop forever-- who would want to, except maybe straight-up horse-corpse-beating nihilists?-- but this sort of delight in scrapping is still what APC do best. The idea of an Anti-Pop greatest hits may be anathema-- at least philosophically-- but the moments when they push the genre's boundaries, rather than just fan expectations, are the parts of the group's catalog that will endure. |
Artist: Anti-Pop Consortium,
Album: Fluorescent Black,
Genre: Electronic,Rap,
Score (1-10): 7.0
Album review:
"Even with the 10th anniversary of their debut album around the corner, it seems silly to ponder Anti-Pop Consortium's place in hip hop. Name, sound, rhyme style, lyrical content, release sleeve iconography: Anti-Pop were stylized (by the press as much as by themselves) as a fuck-you, a caustic riposte to a genre that had apparently taken every wrong turn possible in the 1990s. They likely give as much of a shit about how they "fit in" with rap in 2009 as they do about concepts like "limited appeal." Which is not to say the group doesn't have enough history behind them to be assessed on their own terms. They've gone from straight-up alienating to a somewhat reconciliatory place within the hip-hop nation. For an act usually classed with the late-90s mini-boom in indie-rap futurism, Anti-Pop's earliest 12"s sounded as if they were made with equipment as old as the printing press. A move to Warp for 2002's Arrythmia added a fresh coat of accessibility to Anti-Pop's antagonistic minimalism. Fluorescent Black-- their first non-collaborative album in seven years-- sounds like Anti-Pop spent their time away coming to grips with the implied-but-never-fully-embraced pleasure principle of Arrythmia via side projects and solo albums. The foursome's name only occasionally suits the music here, unless you take branding into consideration. Fluorescent Black won't blow up at a time when Rick Ross deigning to sound interested on his own album is considered a major step forward among hip-hop critics, but here Anti-Pop take a less partisan approach to fun. And so since we're talking party music: "NY to Tokyo"-- which sounds stitched from 21st-century De La Soul and Men At Work's melody library-- is chipper, about the last adjective I ever expected to use to describe an Anti-Pop record. And while Beans remains the Anti-Pop member you could best sell to rap fans who consider it music rather than some outlaw adjunct to poetry, even M. Sayyid and High Priest sound loosened up across the album, slowing down, using crowd-pleasing pacing, more willing to meet an audience raised on "Crank Dat"-grade rhymes halfway. "Goofy": there's another word you'd be more likely to slap on Soulja Boy than Anti-Pop. Ditto "playful." And yet here's "Born Electric", with a hammy piano intro and ludicrously straight-faced crooning, managing to evoke Journey, Derrick May, and Vanessa Carlton within its first minute. I'm not even sure if Mike Ladd at his most Infections/Majesticons promiscuous would put Detroit pads and AOR cheese-pomp in the same track, let alone as its appetizer. Fluorescent Black's backing tracks, in all their mutant techno overbrightness and zig-zagging detail, re-expand the indie hip-hop palette. Not always to the good, mind you. Is "The Solution" a Kanye/T-Pain robo-voice tribute or parody? Or just a lukewarm trend jack? So sometimes they may be winking too hard to sell certain songs as anything other than well-made gags-- Anti-Pop's button-pushing still makes a nice break from all the posthumous J Dilla fellatio going around. All this lightening up is probably good for the soul, but what of the Anti-Pop refuseniks first fell in love with? Sometimes it crops up in unexpected ways. I appreciate anyone with the balls to scatter fans and foes alike with an album-opening blast of fugly hair metal. But my favorite track here might be the shortest and most "traditionally Anti-Pop." Lasting 1:30, its foul synth lurch like real-deal Rotterdam rottenness, Beans rips through "Dragunov" without pause, hook for cover, or cop to, well, pop. Music stripped to blunt-rhythm-and-nothing-but, the rap an excuse to leave fans breathless over skills they don't possess, "Dragunov" is hip-hop as old west line-in-sand at high noon, half-steppers left outside to wonder what the fuss is about. These go-hard-or-go-home tracks are still sprinkled across Fluorescent Black-- dizzying first single "Capricorn One"; "End Game", a near-arrhythmic duel between gunshot-terse rhyme fragments and the beatbox it sounds like they're slowly killing; "Timpani"'s (yes, them again) Neubauten tribalism and pervy Martin Denny jungle howls. But those who've been along for the 10-plus year ride may be looking for more of them. No one could stay as intractable as early Anti-Pop forever-- who would want to, except maybe straight-up horse-corpse-beating nihilists?-- but this sort of delight in scrapping is still what APC do best. The idea of an Anti-Pop greatest hits may be anathema-- at least philosophically-- but the moments when they push the genre's boundaries, rather than just fan expectations, are the parts of the group's catalog that will endure."
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Ty Dolla $ign, Jeremih | MihTy | Rap,Pop/R&B | Austin Brown | 7.7 | Jeremih and Ty Dolla $ign are unquestionably the natural successors to the figure of the of “R&B thug” that defined the R&B charts for most of the aughts. This seems self-evident and unproblematic—until you remember that the progenitor of the term is R. Kelly, whose legacy is now permanently marred by his misdeeds. But that now-instinctive aesthetic wince is exactly why the two artists’ careers have been so refreshing—they’ve proven to be experts at parsing the difference between charmingly rakish and disturbingly loutish that Kelly’s songcraft (and personal life) nearly always elided. Both artists often feel as if they’re singing about their loverman personas as much as they are inhabiting them. With Jeremih, the deconstruction is mostly musical, through the dubby, reflective negative space that the Late Nights mixtape and album both exuded. With Ty, it’s more often manifested in lyrical detail that provokes empathy even toward his most louche stories, especially on last year’s career peak, Beach House 3. On MihTy, their debut collaborative album, they’ve linked up with frequent collaborator Hitmaka and created a project so buttery smooth that you might not realize how much it’s at war with itself. The sound of MihTy is blockier and brighter than the usual palettes of either artist, often hearkening back to the chunky hip-hop soul of peak Puff Daddy and Jermaine Dupri—sometimes overtly, as in the R. Kelly-aping chorus of “FYT,” or the bassline borrowed from Mary J. Blige’s “Love No Limit” remix for “The Light.” To distinguish themselves, Hitmaka and co. bring neon synth pads and a dash of vaguely Balearic electronic sparkle to the proceedings, eschewing deference in favor of, oddly enough, a chillwave-y evocation of 1990s R&B. The general effect of the production’s geometric wobbliness is a woozy, classicist gilded cage in which Jeremih and Ty are set loose to ping-pong off each other. Accordingly, there’s something slightly anxious about the album, flitting lyrically as it does (often within the same song) between straightforward fuckbook braggadocio and nervous reflections on success—“You know this shit ain’t me/So you can’t blame me/If I act a little different these days,” croons Jeremih on the hypnagogic slow jam “These Days.” On standouts like that one, the MihTy project lays out a central driving conflict that’s classically hip-hop, with a twist: Rather than negotiating street authenticity, Ty and Jeremih instead unpack the post-fame viability of intimacy. The aforementioned “FYT” has some of Jeremih’s best lines here, as his honeyed vocal gently skewers his diva reputation right along with his lover’s apparent lack of taste: “I’m in Neiman Marcus throwing tantrums/You think you know high fashion/Just to take it off, babe.” Ty, meanwhile, demonstrates a more explicit neurosis, singing on “Perfect Timing,” “Wish that I could take it back/Said some things I shouldn’t have said/Meant it at the time/I know I take it way too far.” His gravelly “Meant it at the time” subtly percolates, until you suddenly realize that it’s a clever inversion of the classic line, “I didn’t mean it, baby!” Reading MihTy (and, by extension Jeremih and Ty Dolla $ign’s careers in general) as a critical take on R&B’s full-throated embrace of lust before all—“My mind is telling me no, but my body is telling me yes!”—is tempting, but it inevitably brushes against some annoying realities. Chris “ugh” Brown’s presence on this record is aggravating in a way his appearances usually aren’t—mostly because it’s harder to explain him away as a mere hook for hire. When Brown delivers his salacious lines on “Surrounded,” it inevitably draws attention to the incongruity of the song with the savvy, winning self-awareness of the rest of the album. As a result of that track, and a few emotionally one-note cuts in the middle stretch (“New Level” and “Take Your Time,” both of which feel like the result of perfectionism overwork), MihTy fails to shake its creators’ shared albatross of always almost making a classic record. But in general, MihTy gently gleams with a humanism that is equal parts existential and licentious. The delicate closing triptych of “Lie 2 Me,” “Ride It,” and “Imitate,” perhaps the album’s three best tracks, feels instructive. The first is a swaying ode to paranoia and loyalty. The second inhabits the anxiety of exhibitionism and then lullabies it to sleep. The third fears romantic loss with a choral intensity and seeks to bargain. Each song feels, at first, like it might be a goodbye, or a hello, or a c’mere. Each one is really all three. |
Artist: Ty Dolla $ign, Jeremih,
Album: MihTy,
Genre: Rap,Pop/R&B,
Score (1-10): 7.7
Album review:
"Jeremih and Ty Dolla $ign are unquestionably the natural successors to the figure of the of “R&B thug” that defined the R&B charts for most of the aughts. This seems self-evident and unproblematic—until you remember that the progenitor of the term is R. Kelly, whose legacy is now permanently marred by his misdeeds. But that now-instinctive aesthetic wince is exactly why the two artists’ careers have been so refreshing—they’ve proven to be experts at parsing the difference between charmingly rakish and disturbingly loutish that Kelly’s songcraft (and personal life) nearly always elided. Both artists often feel as if they’re singing about their loverman personas as much as they are inhabiting them. With Jeremih, the deconstruction is mostly musical, through the dubby, reflective negative space that the Late Nights mixtape and album both exuded. With Ty, it’s more often manifested in lyrical detail that provokes empathy even toward his most louche stories, especially on last year’s career peak, Beach House 3. On MihTy, their debut collaborative album, they’ve linked up with frequent collaborator Hitmaka and created a project so buttery smooth that you might not realize how much it’s at war with itself. The sound of MihTy is blockier and brighter than the usual palettes of either artist, often hearkening back to the chunky hip-hop soul of peak Puff Daddy and Jermaine Dupri—sometimes overtly, as in the R. Kelly-aping chorus of “FYT,” or the bassline borrowed from Mary J. Blige’s “Love No Limit” remix for “The Light.” To distinguish themselves, Hitmaka and co. bring neon synth pads and a dash of vaguely Balearic electronic sparkle to the proceedings, eschewing deference in favor of, oddly enough, a chillwave-y evocation of 1990s R&B. The general effect of the production’s geometric wobbliness is a woozy, classicist gilded cage in which Jeremih and Ty are set loose to ping-pong off each other. Accordingly, there’s something slightly anxious about the album, flitting lyrically as it does (often within the same song) between straightforward fuckbook braggadocio and nervous reflections on success—“You know this shit ain’t me/So you can’t blame me/If I act a little different these days,” croons Jeremih on the hypnagogic slow jam “These Days.” On standouts like that one, the MihTy project lays out a central driving conflict that’s classically hip-hop, with a twist: Rather than negotiating street authenticity, Ty and Jeremih instead unpack the post-fame viability of intimacy. The aforementioned “FYT” has some of Jeremih’s best lines here, as his honeyed vocal gently skewers his diva reputation right along with his lover’s apparent lack of taste: “I’m in Neiman Marcus throwing tantrums/You think you know high fashion/Just to take it off, babe.” Ty, meanwhile, demonstrates a more explicit neurosis, singing on “Perfect Timing,” “Wish that I could take it back/Said some things I shouldn’t have said/Meant it at the time/I know I take it way too far.” His gravelly “Meant it at the time” subtly percolates, until you suddenly realize that it’s a clever inversion of the classic line, “I didn’t mean it, baby!” Reading MihTy (and, by extension Jeremih and Ty Dolla $ign’s careers in general) as a critical take on R&B’s full-throated embrace of lust before all—“My mind is telling me no, but my body is telling me yes!”—is tempting, but it inevitably brushes against some annoying realities. Chris “ugh” Brown’s presence on this record is aggravating in a way his appearances usually aren’t—mostly because it’s harder to explain him away as a mere hook for hire. When Brown delivers his salacious lines on “Surrounded,” it inevitably draws attention to the incongruity of the song with the savvy, winning self-awareness of the rest of the album. As a result of that track, and a few emotionally one-note cuts in the middle stretch (“New Level” and “Take Your Time,” both of which feel like the result of perfectionism overwork), MihTy fails to shake its creators’ shared albatross of always almost making a classic record. But in general, MihTy gently gleams with a humanism that is equal parts existential and licentious. The delicate closing triptych of “Lie 2 Me,” “Ride It,” and “Imitate,” perhaps the album’s three best tracks, feels instructive. The first is a swaying ode to paranoia and loyalty. The second inhabits the anxiety of exhibitionism and then lullabies it to sleep. The third fears romantic loss with a choral intensity and seeks to bargain. Each song feels, at first, like it might be a goodbye, or a hello, or a c’mere. Each one is really all three."
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Horseback | Half Blood | Metal,Rock | Jess Harvell | 7.6 | Here's a record that should not work. Its two main influences-- frostbitten Scandinavian black metal and rustic U.S. roots music-- should not combine, let alone gracefully. One is theatrical and expressionistic in its expression of nihilistic rage, almost claustrophobic in its pure form. The other is stripped-down and attempts to get at some ideal of emotional honesty, a sound that's loose and expansive in its evocation of American distances. And yet Horseback managed to intuit some kinship between them. (They also throw in a dose of horror-movie melodrama and experimental suites-instead-of-songs portentousness, just because it might not be an arty 21st-century metal album without them.) Instead of clashing, these two distinct modes harmonize on Half Blood into something dark and sweeping, where it all could have wound up a ridiculous failed experiment. Instead we get a why-didn't-anyone-think-of-this-sooner mix of metal ugliness and heartland beauty, post-rock at its most spartan and hard rock at its most out-there. Horseback have been plying this oddball-but-effective hybrid for a couple of years now. Half Blood is simply the strongest argument yet for just how effective it can be. They're still probably the only band in the world that makes a writer want to reference both weirder-than-weird black-metal band Necrofrost (those Tolkein orc vocals) and the lonesome cowboy epics of Calexico (those mournful guitars and weighted-by-heartbreak drums). Earlier albums, like 2010's The Invisible Mountain, proved their point with gusto, namely that a band could evoke the sad, wide-open spaces of American roots music while suggesting the screams and riffs of black metal could be equally (and not dissimilarly) affecting. Drunken ballads about losing everything aren't a million miles from drinking blood and wailing about how you wish everything would just stop already. Certain moments on Half Blood suggest a metal band covering Ry Cooder's Paris, Texas score, or maybe a Crazy Horse helmed soundtack to a suppressed Kris Kristofferson film about a guitar-toting truck driver in post-apocalyptic 1970s America. So when I say "country" you should probably know I mean the loose, electrified, booming groove that resulted when hairy dudes with big amps and Bonham-grade drumming took a shine to Opry-approved stuff. And if most post-metal acts take cues from the already metal-indebted dynamics of Mogwai, the early tracks on Half Blood more recall the more clearly American sturm-und-twang of Spiderland, if Slint had been as into bar-band boogie as they were into King Crimson. Other bands have attempted to merge highway romanticism and extreme brutality, of course. The reunited Earth have almost completely transmogrified from an experimental doom act into a bleak roots unit. Late-period Neurosis offered oppressive sludge and spacious twang in equal amounts, birthing the whole post-metal thing in the process. And the latest iteration of Swans is kind of the gold-standard for crushing heaviness, blackened blues, and emotional violence, all in one unstable package. But Horseback are the only band that's mined similar territory while risking the potential silliness of extracting corpse-painted wails from their native context of epically grumpy one-man-band isolation and plunking them into a world more typically influenced by Merle Haggard, Marshall stacks, and crying in your Wild Turkey. All that said, I don't want to make too much of the "Hank meets Euronymous" thing. There are moves Horseback make here-- like the Omen-grade liturgical hooey on "Inheritance (the Changeling)"-- that have no precedent in any context other than metal. (And horror movies, I guess.) And as stunningly well-realized as some of this stuff is, I can't pretend that the psychedelic excesses of the album-closing trilogy entirely work, even though excess and song trilogies are both metal staples, so Horseback's reach occasionally exceeding their grasp doesn't sore-thumb as much as it might if their big influence were the Ramones. If anything it's kinda inspiring to see guys stretch out, get loose, scramble up the mountain of art, when they could have just driven a unique-to-say-the-least sound into dullness. And as for that signature combo, you still want to ask: How does all that tortured (and affected) monster grunting and groaning not puncture the austere gorgeousness of the low-key moments and the thunderousness of the climaxes? Maybe it's because-- and here those with a phobia toward metal vocals will have to take a leap of faith-- tortured (and affected) monster grunts are no more ridiculous, or any less potentially moving, than indie whispering or canyon-troubadour crooning or drunken party-dude bellowing. Speaking of Slint, I'm reminded here of Steve Albini's admission that, on his first few listens to Spiderland, he went from being embarrassed by the singing and the lyrics to being deeply moved by them. It might be a stretch to say metal-resistant listeners will have a similar reaction to the singing on Half Blood. But it's not out of the realm of possibility. I was certainly moved by the combination, at times, but then I've also been moved by the shrieking renunciation of all human values in Striborg songs. |
Artist: Horseback,
Album: Half Blood,
Genre: Metal,Rock,
Score (1-10): 7.6
Album review:
"Here's a record that should not work. Its two main influences-- frostbitten Scandinavian black metal and rustic U.S. roots music-- should not combine, let alone gracefully. One is theatrical and expressionistic in its expression of nihilistic rage, almost claustrophobic in its pure form. The other is stripped-down and attempts to get at some ideal of emotional honesty, a sound that's loose and expansive in its evocation of American distances. And yet Horseback managed to intuit some kinship between them. (They also throw in a dose of horror-movie melodrama and experimental suites-instead-of-songs portentousness, just because it might not be an arty 21st-century metal album without them.) Instead of clashing, these two distinct modes harmonize on Half Blood into something dark and sweeping, where it all could have wound up a ridiculous failed experiment. Instead we get a why-didn't-anyone-think-of-this-sooner mix of metal ugliness and heartland beauty, post-rock at its most spartan and hard rock at its most out-there. Horseback have been plying this oddball-but-effective hybrid for a couple of years now. Half Blood is simply the strongest argument yet for just how effective it can be. They're still probably the only band in the world that makes a writer want to reference both weirder-than-weird black-metal band Necrofrost (those Tolkein orc vocals) and the lonesome cowboy epics of Calexico (those mournful guitars and weighted-by-heartbreak drums). Earlier albums, like 2010's The Invisible Mountain, proved their point with gusto, namely that a band could evoke the sad, wide-open spaces of American roots music while suggesting the screams and riffs of black metal could be equally (and not dissimilarly) affecting. Drunken ballads about losing everything aren't a million miles from drinking blood and wailing about how you wish everything would just stop already. Certain moments on Half Blood suggest a metal band covering Ry Cooder's Paris, Texas score, or maybe a Crazy Horse helmed soundtack to a suppressed Kris Kristofferson film about a guitar-toting truck driver in post-apocalyptic 1970s America. So when I say "country" you should probably know I mean the loose, electrified, booming groove that resulted when hairy dudes with big amps and Bonham-grade drumming took a shine to Opry-approved stuff. And if most post-metal acts take cues from the already metal-indebted dynamics of Mogwai, the early tracks on Half Blood more recall the more clearly American sturm-und-twang of Spiderland, if Slint had been as into bar-band boogie as they were into King Crimson. Other bands have attempted to merge highway romanticism and extreme brutality, of course. The reunited Earth have almost completely transmogrified from an experimental doom act into a bleak roots unit. Late-period Neurosis offered oppressive sludge and spacious twang in equal amounts, birthing the whole post-metal thing in the process. And the latest iteration of Swans is kind of the gold-standard for crushing heaviness, blackened blues, and emotional violence, all in one unstable package. But Horseback are the only band that's mined similar territory while risking the potential silliness of extracting corpse-painted wails from their native context of epically grumpy one-man-band isolation and plunking them into a world more typically influenced by Merle Haggard, Marshall stacks, and crying in your Wild Turkey. All that said, I don't want to make too much of the "Hank meets Euronymous" thing. There are moves Horseback make here-- like the Omen-grade liturgical hooey on "Inheritance (the Changeling)"-- that have no precedent in any context other than metal. (And horror movies, I guess.) And as stunningly well-realized as some of this stuff is, I can't pretend that the psychedelic excesses of the album-closing trilogy entirely work, even though excess and song trilogies are both metal staples, so Horseback's reach occasionally exceeding their grasp doesn't sore-thumb as much as it might if their big influence were the Ramones. If anything it's kinda inspiring to see guys stretch out, get loose, scramble up the mountain of art, when they could have just driven a unique-to-say-the-least sound into dullness. And as for that signature combo, you still want to ask: How does all that tortured (and affected) monster grunting and groaning not puncture the austere gorgeousness of the low-key moments and the thunderousness of the climaxes? Maybe it's because-- and here those with a phobia toward metal vocals will have to take a leap of faith-- tortured (and affected) monster grunts are no more ridiculous, or any less potentially moving, than indie whispering or canyon-troubadour crooning or drunken party-dude bellowing. Speaking of Slint, I'm reminded here of Steve Albini's admission that, on his first few listens to Spiderland, he went from being embarrassed by the singing and the lyrics to being deeply moved by them. It might be a stretch to say metal-resistant listeners will have a similar reaction to the singing on Half Blood. But it's not out of the realm of possibility. I was certainly moved by the combination, at times, but then I've also been moved by the shrieking renunciation of all human values in Striborg songs."
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Lonesome Organist | Forms and Follies | null | Bill Morris | 5.2 | Writing up an original review for any Lonesome Organist release might be best described as playing a solitary game of critical Taboo: it's instantly apparent that there exists a specific set of unavoidable descriptive clichés and overly pitched idiosyncrasies chaperoning all previous and current press for this band-- often due to an inability to creatively parallel the level of the phenomenon: the more unique the spectacle, the less inventive the appraisal. So, in honor of the tenth anniversary of the Milton Bradley game of terminological no-no, I've drawn up a shortlist of words and terms to sidestep for the rest of this review. I will be given five words and phrases, along with ninety seconds on the timer. Start the clock... now. My buzzwords are (as determined by highest journalistic prevalence): multi-instrumentalist, novelty (act), vaudevillian, simultaneous (ly), and one-man. Forms and Follies is the third full-length player recorded by Chicagoan Jeremy Jacobsen (better known as The Lonesome Organist) as well as his first release since the turn of the century. Though it's not at all uncommon for a solo artist to release material under a distinct bandname or even play all of the instruments on an album, it is slightly more atypical for the artist to play them all simul- er, all at the same time, as does Mr. Jacobsen. For his latest release, he had as many as eight tracks available to him, which is considerably more than he had at his disposal for previous albums, but only rarely did he utilize more than a few. For several songs he played drums, guitar, keys and sang; all jointly. The formula alone is cause enough for concern and admittedly makes me a touch anxious. It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt. The result is an eclectic, curious, seething mass of sound, sometimes delicate, often garbled and rough, and frequently meandering to the point of disenfranchisement. That he's a singular musical talent with a unique vision isn't debatable. The payoff, however, is. A large portion of the disc, though interesting and tastefully unconventional, is devoid of any real compulsion or atmospheric engagement, and is rendered a mere curiosity with multiple listens. Songs like "The Multiplier", a two-minute, frenetic organ-driven track, feel like thirty second interludes gone a minute-and-a-half too long. In fact, much of the material on the disc feels a bit too much like filler. The album's more structurally cognizant moments, such as the jazzy, upbeat "The Moped", reminiscent of his earlier, more (comparatively) inhibited work with 5ive Style and Euphone, provide the strongest material. The above track is marked by a compelling series of track-long drum rolls and fills and a frugal bassline, and is abetted by digressive but nifty keys and fulgent chimes. A few tracks have vocals, and two are actually sans-instrumentation altogether; Doo-wop tributes that hearken back to a time more suited to our anachronistic Lonesome Organist. Just as Les Miserables is far better served by the stage then as a cinematic vehicle for Claire Danes, The Lonesome Organist can be most appreciated in a live setting where his physical urgency and arresting compositions are best underscored. His one-m, his, uh... his unaccompanied live performances have received widespread encomium and are said to be the best judge of his musical merit. Unfortunately, you can't burn visceral engrossment or artistic perspiration on to a compact disc, and for this, Forms and Follies suffers. |
Artist: Lonesome Organist,
Album: Forms and Follies,
Genre: None,
Score (1-10): 5.2
Album review:
"Writing up an original review for any Lonesome Organist release might be best described as playing a solitary game of critical Taboo: it's instantly apparent that there exists a specific set of unavoidable descriptive clichés and overly pitched idiosyncrasies chaperoning all previous and current press for this band-- often due to an inability to creatively parallel the level of the phenomenon: the more unique the spectacle, the less inventive the appraisal. So, in honor of the tenth anniversary of the Milton Bradley game of terminological no-no, I've drawn up a shortlist of words and terms to sidestep for the rest of this review. I will be given five words and phrases, along with ninety seconds on the timer. Start the clock... now. My buzzwords are (as determined by highest journalistic prevalence): multi-instrumentalist, novelty (act), vaudevillian, simultaneous (ly), and one-man. Forms and Follies is the third full-length player recorded by Chicagoan Jeremy Jacobsen (better known as The Lonesome Organist) as well as his first release since the turn of the century. Though it's not at all uncommon for a solo artist to release material under a distinct bandname or even play all of the instruments on an album, it is slightly more atypical for the artist to play them all simul- er, all at the same time, as does Mr. Jacobsen. For his latest release, he had as many as eight tracks available to him, which is considerably more than he had at his disposal for previous albums, but only rarely did he utilize more than a few. For several songs he played drums, guitar, keys and sang; all jointly. The formula alone is cause enough for concern and admittedly makes me a touch anxious. It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt. The result is an eclectic, curious, seething mass of sound, sometimes delicate, often garbled and rough, and frequently meandering to the point of disenfranchisement. That he's a singular musical talent with a unique vision isn't debatable. The payoff, however, is. A large portion of the disc, though interesting and tastefully unconventional, is devoid of any real compulsion or atmospheric engagement, and is rendered a mere curiosity with multiple listens. Songs like "The Multiplier", a two-minute, frenetic organ-driven track, feel like thirty second interludes gone a minute-and-a-half too long. In fact, much of the material on the disc feels a bit too much like filler. The album's more structurally cognizant moments, such as the jazzy, upbeat "The Moped", reminiscent of his earlier, more (comparatively) inhibited work with 5ive Style and Euphone, provide the strongest material. The above track is marked by a compelling series of track-long drum rolls and fills and a frugal bassline, and is abetted by digressive but nifty keys and fulgent chimes. A few tracks have vocals, and two are actually sans-instrumentation altogether; Doo-wop tributes that hearken back to a time more suited to our anachronistic Lonesome Organist. Just as Les Miserables is far better served by the stage then as a cinematic vehicle for Claire Danes, The Lonesome Organist can be most appreciated in a live setting where his physical urgency and arresting compositions are best underscored. His one-m, his, uh... his unaccompanied live performances have received widespread encomium and are said to be the best judge of his musical merit. Unfortunately, you can't burn visceral engrossment or artistic perspiration on to a compact disc, and for this, Forms and Follies suffers."
|
Herman Dune | I Wish That I Could See You Soon EP | null | Stephen M. Deusner | 7.3 | Herman Düne's clip for "I Wish That I Could See You Soon", a perfect little puff pastry of a song, was one of the best and most criminally under-viewed videos of 2007. Featuring some green-screen shots that were all the more charming for being unfinished, it was the perfect mesh of visuals and music: puppets and moppets running around to a modestly arranged, enormously catchy folk-pop ditty complete with horns, angelic back-up singers, and vocalist David-Ivar Herman Dune's direct exhortations to the listener. Sporting a pink furry hoodie over his full beard, he came across like the greatest camp counselor ever, Raffi for twentysomething hipsters-- except, you know, bearable. More than bearable, actually. After about a decade together, Herman Dune-- which consists of Franco-Swedish singer David-Ivar Herman Dune and drummer Neman-- have sharpened their craft without becoming overly professional or disingenuous. On the band's new EP, I Wish That I Could See You Soon, they play deceptively simple folk-based compositions with flashes of electric guitars, horns, mouth harp, and bowed saw. Each song has a similar structure: a few short lines followed by the title phrase capping each stanza. A full album of songs with this structure might grow repetitive, but on this five-track EP, it sounds like a songwriterly signature. If the music sounds upbeat and whimsical, the subject matter very rarely is. David-Ivar writes about the confusions and frustrated yearnings of long-distance relationships, and the fact that the band is based in New York-- thousands of miles from home-- only reinforces the sense of isolation and longing. "Take Him Back to New York City" relates the pains of a bi-coastal relationship, as a transplanted West Coaster pines for an East Coast lover and, consequently, for the city they once shared. "I Wish I Had Someone That I Loved Well", with its Greek chorus of horns, follows an émigré around Coney Island as he tries half-heartedly to assimilate. On the other hand, the downtempo "When the Water Gets Cold (And Freezes on the Lake)" twists the formula slightly, describing lovers separated not only by geography, but by betrayal. "Right now I need to stay home, and I don't need your company," sings David-Ivar. "Right now I need to be alone, and I need you to stay away from me." Distance can be therapeutic. As a singer, David-Ivar knows his limitations but refuses to work around or disguise them. Instead, he embraces them, devising an idiosyncratic approach to pop songwriting. Emphasizing his slight range (just four or five notes, it seems), he sings in a loose and talky style, becoming increasingly conversational as he addresses the horns, back-up singers, characters, and even you, the listener. "And we all go woo woo," he declares on "Take Him Back to New York City", right before the back-up singers coo the easy-listening bridge. He's not just warning you that the woo woo's are coming up, but also inviting you to sing along. All that's missing is a campfire. |
Artist: Herman Dune,
Album: I Wish That I Could See You Soon EP,
Genre: None,
Score (1-10): 7.3
Album review:
"Herman Düne's clip for "I Wish That I Could See You Soon", a perfect little puff pastry of a song, was one of the best and most criminally under-viewed videos of 2007. Featuring some green-screen shots that were all the more charming for being unfinished, it was the perfect mesh of visuals and music: puppets and moppets running around to a modestly arranged, enormously catchy folk-pop ditty complete with horns, angelic back-up singers, and vocalist David-Ivar Herman Dune's direct exhortations to the listener. Sporting a pink furry hoodie over his full beard, he came across like the greatest camp counselor ever, Raffi for twentysomething hipsters-- except, you know, bearable. More than bearable, actually. After about a decade together, Herman Dune-- which consists of Franco-Swedish singer David-Ivar Herman Dune and drummer Neman-- have sharpened their craft without becoming overly professional or disingenuous. On the band's new EP, I Wish That I Could See You Soon, they play deceptively simple folk-based compositions with flashes of electric guitars, horns, mouth harp, and bowed saw. Each song has a similar structure: a few short lines followed by the title phrase capping each stanza. A full album of songs with this structure might grow repetitive, but on this five-track EP, it sounds like a songwriterly signature. If the music sounds upbeat and whimsical, the subject matter very rarely is. David-Ivar writes about the confusions and frustrated yearnings of long-distance relationships, and the fact that the band is based in New York-- thousands of miles from home-- only reinforces the sense of isolation and longing. "Take Him Back to New York City" relates the pains of a bi-coastal relationship, as a transplanted West Coaster pines for an East Coast lover and, consequently, for the city they once shared. "I Wish I Had Someone That I Loved Well", with its Greek chorus of horns, follows an émigré around Coney Island as he tries half-heartedly to assimilate. On the other hand, the downtempo "When the Water Gets Cold (And Freezes on the Lake)" twists the formula slightly, describing lovers separated not only by geography, but by betrayal. "Right now I need to stay home, and I don't need your company," sings David-Ivar. "Right now I need to be alone, and I need you to stay away from me." Distance can be therapeutic. As a singer, David-Ivar knows his limitations but refuses to work around or disguise them. Instead, he embraces them, devising an idiosyncratic approach to pop songwriting. Emphasizing his slight range (just four or five notes, it seems), he sings in a loose and talky style, becoming increasingly conversational as he addresses the horns, back-up singers, characters, and even you, the listener. "And we all go woo woo," he declares on "Take Him Back to New York City", right before the back-up singers coo the easy-listening bridge. He's not just warning you that the woo woo's are coming up, but also inviting you to sing along. All that's missing is a campfire."
|
Metric | Old World Underground, Where Are You Now | Rock | Rollie Pemberton | 7.3 | When your band is best known for sharing an apartment with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, there's clearly a lot of room for the development of a slightly more personal hype. Such is the case with Metric. Reportedly starting their band based on a mutual distaste for white Toronto funk bands, Metric melds together the usual suspects (The Cure, XTC, The Velvet Underground, New Order) for a new wave-tinged exploration of off-kilter indie rock. You may remember frontwoman Emily Haines from her work with Broken Social Scene and Stars. Here, she seldom attempts the kind of mesmerizing, super-hushed whispers of BSS's "Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl", instead showing off a nicely breathy sing/talk and a clear affinity for vocal fluctuations and cadence changes. The subject matter is even more varied than her vocal range: spanning topics as diverse as a friend's altered clothing aesthetic ("On a Slow Night"), to the importance of social status ("The List"), to the inquiry of whether it's "wrong to want more than a folk song" ("Wet Blanket"), Haines has an array of lyrical targets on display and she, more or less, handles the shooting range. One of the most stunning successes on Old World Underground, "Succexy" takes issue with the political agenda of the U.S. government from a more creative stance than the indie world's typical anti-Bush rhetoric and generalizations. Instead of placing the blame purely on the government, Haines claims, "All we do is talk, sit, switch screens/ As the homeland plans enemies." Slipping between power chords and her own serpentine synth lines, Haines juxtaposes sex and war without sounding lost in her own thoughts. Metric aren't overly adept from a technical standpoint, and their melodies sometimes feel a bit too simplistic, but, in attempting a mix between accessible dance-punk and new wave, they do deliver where it counts: their rhythm section is incredibly tight, and drummer Joules Scott-Key's delightfully funky meter is particularly notable. Still, the band rarely attempts anything out of the ordinary, and their lack of innovative arrangements often translates to a tendency for existing ideas to overstay their welcome. With Emily Haines' previous work as a frame of reference, you'd be right to assume that Metric does maintain an aura of talent, with the band serving as a hard melodic edge to her serene, plaintive vocal. Though still searching for their place in the ever-evolving world of indie rock, Metric, in their current incarnation, promise great things sooner rather than later. |
Artist: Metric,
Album: Old World Underground, Where Are You Now,
Genre: Rock,
Score (1-10): 7.3
Album review:
"When your band is best known for sharing an apartment with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, there's clearly a lot of room for the development of a slightly more personal hype. Such is the case with Metric. Reportedly starting their band based on a mutual distaste for white Toronto funk bands, Metric melds together the usual suspects (The Cure, XTC, The Velvet Underground, New Order) for a new wave-tinged exploration of off-kilter indie rock. You may remember frontwoman Emily Haines from her work with Broken Social Scene and Stars. Here, she seldom attempts the kind of mesmerizing, super-hushed whispers of BSS's "Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl", instead showing off a nicely breathy sing/talk and a clear affinity for vocal fluctuations and cadence changes. The subject matter is even more varied than her vocal range: spanning topics as diverse as a friend's altered clothing aesthetic ("On a Slow Night"), to the importance of social status ("The List"), to the inquiry of whether it's "wrong to want more than a folk song" ("Wet Blanket"), Haines has an array of lyrical targets on display and she, more or less, handles the shooting range. One of the most stunning successes on Old World Underground, "Succexy" takes issue with the political agenda of the U.S. government from a more creative stance than the indie world's typical anti-Bush rhetoric and generalizations. Instead of placing the blame purely on the government, Haines claims, "All we do is talk, sit, switch screens/ As the homeland plans enemies." Slipping between power chords and her own serpentine synth lines, Haines juxtaposes sex and war without sounding lost in her own thoughts. Metric aren't overly adept from a technical standpoint, and their melodies sometimes feel a bit too simplistic, but, in attempting a mix between accessible dance-punk and new wave, they do deliver where it counts: their rhythm section is incredibly tight, and drummer Joules Scott-Key's delightfully funky meter is particularly notable. Still, the band rarely attempts anything out of the ordinary, and their lack of innovative arrangements often translates to a tendency for existing ideas to overstay their welcome. With Emily Haines' previous work as a frame of reference, you'd be right to assume that Metric does maintain an aura of talent, with the band serving as a hard melodic edge to her serene, plaintive vocal. Though still searching for their place in the ever-evolving world of indie rock, Metric, in their current incarnation, promise great things sooner rather than later."
|
Robert Pollard | Blazing Gentlemen | Rock | Paul Thompson | 5.7 | If there's anything like a normal year for Bob Pollard fans, 2013 wasn't it. These past 12 months did offer a fine new EP and an okay-enough album—their fourth since early 2012—from the reunited Guided by Voices. But it's become increasingly clear that a classic on par with the lo-fi legends' peak-era material might've been a little too much to ask for. Then there was the late-summer tiff between Pollard and drummer Kevin Fennell, whose unsuccessful attempt to peddle the beaten-to-shit drumkit he'd recorded many GBV classics on got him publicly shamed and subsequently fired by his old pal Bob. Bursts of drama notwithstanding, shows were few and far between, and side-hustles have been scant and largely of little consequence. The lone bright spot came this summer, when Pollard issued the rich, graceful Honey Locust Honky Tonk, instantly cementing itself as one of the best records under his own name. Now, Pollard's closing out this weird year with Blazing Gentlemen, a headier, rockier counterpoint to the unfailingly sweet Honey Locust. For a guy who's made records every which way, the approach Pollard took with Gentlemen's construction is especially peculiar. Instead of appliquéing words onto melodies, he built these songs from the lyrics up, scouring his notebooks line-by-line for titles and lyrics, then writing melodies—and then chords—around those. Pollard's always been a collagist—sometimes quite literally—but this method feels especially piecemeal; every few lines, the underriding melody seems to shift, leaving behind any sense of continuity. Much of Pollard's best work has taken a similarly attention-deficient tack, although Gentlemen's disjointment is at the micro level, all mismatched segments and jarring transitions. And, given the wide range in quality between one segment to the next, your time with Gentlemen's spent waiting around for the good part, only to find it gone before you've been properly introduced. Ramrodding through 16 songs in 32 minutes and change, Gentlemen may be the least classically pretty Pollard in ages; ballads are scant, distortion's applied liberally, and while the fidelity's fairly high and the instrumentation consistent, the collection—throwing Honey Locust's carefully considered lushness in stark relief—opts for the quick and dirty. Pollard and Gentlemen cohort Todd Tobias—together, responsible for every sound you hear on the record—have certainly arranged a plaintive melody or two in their day, but Gentlemen largely leaves these overexcitable songs to their own devices. Opener "Magic Man Hype" is held together by sheer inertia, rumbling through chord after oddball chord. The title track matches a sludgy verse to a towering chorus, which would be fine, if an out-from-nowhere bridge didn't pop up to derail the forward motion. "His passionless kisses are real hits and misses," Pollard sings on "Blazing Gentlemen", and that pretty much sums it up: song for song, Pollard records are typically a hodgepodge, but the eternally jumpy Gentlemen whittles that inconsistency down to a second-by-second basis. Whenever Pollard can keep an idea in his head for more than a minute at a time, Gentlemen starts to click. The cowbell-imbued "Faking the Boy Scouts" sports the set's stickiest hook; sure, its verses are a tad on the jittery side, but unlike much of Blazing Gentlemen, they at least seem to be acquainted with the chorus that follows. "Tea People" is one of those effortlessly catchy, totally stupid stompers only Pollard can get away with, and again, its verse and chorus seem to have been in the same room before. But for every song that seems to have been conceived as a piece, there are two more assembled from whatever they had lying around. "Tonight's the Rodeo" is elegant enough at first, but its chorus—all three seconds of it—is given neither time nor space to develop itself as anything but a nuisance. The lyrics are just as scatterbrained as the music, notebook dumps turned not-so-exquisite corpses; Pollard-logic is never an easy path to follow, but Gentlemen gets your head spinning in a fashion that'll have you swearing off the stuff the next morning. Are two half-formed ideas as good as one complete thought? Gentlemen seems to think so. But, for all of Gentlemen's nervy shapeshifting, its fitful thrills never quite make for a satisfying whole; it's too restless, too scattered, too gangly. Even the record's more-consistent-than-usual sound can't help hold these spasmodic, shapeshifting songs together for more than a couple minutes at a time. Some fans will no doubt revel in Gentlemen's endless discrepancies; after all, part of being a Pollard obsessive is learning to take the bad with the good. But, on Gentlemen, the bad and the good are so manically intertwined, it gets to be a little tough telling them apart. Gentlemen's about as interesting as middling Pollard records get, but it's middling all the same, a fittingly abnormal end to a most unusual year. |
Artist: Robert Pollard,
Album: Blazing Gentlemen,
Genre: Rock,
Score (1-10): 5.7
Album review:
"If there's anything like a normal year for Bob Pollard fans, 2013 wasn't it. These past 12 months did offer a fine new EP and an okay-enough album—their fourth since early 2012—from the reunited Guided by Voices. But it's become increasingly clear that a classic on par with the lo-fi legends' peak-era material might've been a little too much to ask for. Then there was the late-summer tiff between Pollard and drummer Kevin Fennell, whose unsuccessful attempt to peddle the beaten-to-shit drumkit he'd recorded many GBV classics on got him publicly shamed and subsequently fired by his old pal Bob. Bursts of drama notwithstanding, shows were few and far between, and side-hustles have been scant and largely of little consequence. The lone bright spot came this summer, when Pollard issued the rich, graceful Honey Locust Honky Tonk, instantly cementing itself as one of the best records under his own name. Now, Pollard's closing out this weird year with Blazing Gentlemen, a headier, rockier counterpoint to the unfailingly sweet Honey Locust. For a guy who's made records every which way, the approach Pollard took with Gentlemen's construction is especially peculiar. Instead of appliquéing words onto melodies, he built these songs from the lyrics up, scouring his notebooks line-by-line for titles and lyrics, then writing melodies—and then chords—around those. Pollard's always been a collagist—sometimes quite literally—but this method feels especially piecemeal; every few lines, the underriding melody seems to shift, leaving behind any sense of continuity. Much of Pollard's best work has taken a similarly attention-deficient tack, although Gentlemen's disjointment is at the micro level, all mismatched segments and jarring transitions. And, given the wide range in quality between one segment to the next, your time with Gentlemen's spent waiting around for the good part, only to find it gone before you've been properly introduced. Ramrodding through 16 songs in 32 minutes and change, Gentlemen may be the least classically pretty Pollard in ages; ballads are scant, distortion's applied liberally, and while the fidelity's fairly high and the instrumentation consistent, the collection—throwing Honey Locust's carefully considered lushness in stark relief—opts for the quick and dirty. Pollard and Gentlemen cohort Todd Tobias—together, responsible for every sound you hear on the record—have certainly arranged a plaintive melody or two in their day, but Gentlemen largely leaves these overexcitable songs to their own devices. Opener "Magic Man Hype" is held together by sheer inertia, rumbling through chord after oddball chord. The title track matches a sludgy verse to a towering chorus, which would be fine, if an out-from-nowhere bridge didn't pop up to derail the forward motion. "His passionless kisses are real hits and misses," Pollard sings on "Blazing Gentlemen", and that pretty much sums it up: song for song, Pollard records are typically a hodgepodge, but the eternally jumpy Gentlemen whittles that inconsistency down to a second-by-second basis. Whenever Pollard can keep an idea in his head for more than a minute at a time, Gentlemen starts to click. The cowbell-imbued "Faking the Boy Scouts" sports the set's stickiest hook; sure, its verses are a tad on the jittery side, but unlike much of Blazing Gentlemen, they at least seem to be acquainted with the chorus that follows. "Tea People" is one of those effortlessly catchy, totally stupid stompers only Pollard can get away with, and again, its verse and chorus seem to have been in the same room before. But for every song that seems to have been conceived as a piece, there are two more assembled from whatever they had lying around. "Tonight's the Rodeo" is elegant enough at first, but its chorus—all three seconds of it—is given neither time nor space to develop itself as anything but a nuisance. The lyrics are just as scatterbrained as the music, notebook dumps turned not-so-exquisite corpses; Pollard-logic is never an easy path to follow, but Gentlemen gets your head spinning in a fashion that'll have you swearing off the stuff the next morning. Are two half-formed ideas as good as one complete thought? Gentlemen seems to think so. But, for all of Gentlemen's nervy shapeshifting, its fitful thrills never quite make for a satisfying whole; it's too restless, too scattered, too gangly. Even the record's more-consistent-than-usual sound can't help hold these spasmodic, shapeshifting songs together for more than a couple minutes at a time. Some fans will no doubt revel in Gentlemen's endless discrepancies; after all, part of being a Pollard obsessive is learning to take the bad with the good. But, on Gentlemen, the bad and the good are so manically intertwined, it gets to be a little tough telling them apart. Gentlemen's about as interesting as middling Pollard records get, but it's middling all the same, a fittingly abnormal end to a most unusual year."
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