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Alfie

A Word in Your Ear

Pop/R&B

Christopher Dare

You can't tell a record by its cover, but you can judge a book by its contents. For Alfie's second album, the former is the latter: you've got an illustration of a dog-eared old volume lying open, with the title printed on the left page and a painting of the band on the right. The five Brits are sitting on a bench with a newspaper and a football, looking like right proper lads in their natty sweaters. Fans of Coldplay and Travis rejoice-- we've come upon another charming trad-rock boy-band, right? As if! For Alfie are telling us that you can't judge a group by their lame-ass name or album title. Instead, Alfie are a song-oriented rock band, and they shuffle effortlessly through a number of different styles. "Gee, I've never heard that description from a reviewer before!" Shut it, you sad bastard. As with all good pop, your reservations are lowered when you actually listen to the music. The title track starts the album with acoustic picking and a soft, skiffling drumbeat. Singer Lee Gorton lets down his defenses, singing that "it's yours if you want it, no one's berating me/ Try not to be so afraid, it's your move." The interplay of piano and organ at the end makes for a warm, pleasant opener. "Cloudy Lemonade" gets more flirtatious with a funky percussion intro and lyrics about flowers and such. A flautist fills out the song with a keen midsection, and the technicolor swoon of the guitars adds to the romance. "Don't groups of this sort usually have a charismatic lead singer?" Well, how convenient that you're here, rhetorical question, because Lee Gorton does have an endearing presence. That is, if you don't mind the slurry wash of vowels that he sings through his nose. The nasal factor really isn't bad, and on the beautiful "Rain, Heaven, Hell" his slow drawl allows for a sensitive tone. Of course, it also aids him in impressions, as on "Bends for 72 Miles," named appropriately since it's an (unannounced) tribute to Radiohead's The Bends. The sultry bass groove copies Colin Greenwood's very carefully, and Gorton adopts the same sneering Britpop sass that Thom Yorke was going for back in those heady mid-90s. It's all forgivable, though, since it's done so well; it's "The Reverse Midas Touch" that threatens to turn it all to shit. Gorton mumbles this cod-hip-hop introduction, like Fun Lovin' Criminals ripping off G. Love aping John Lee Hooker. In case you missed that, it's white boys copping black blues, thrice-removed. His affections are awful, but forgivable since it's just a bad page in an otherwise good book. When Alfie stick with influences closer to home, they're quite convincing. "Halfway Home" breezes through with muted trumpet swells, and Gorton's fey vocals remind me of Gorky's Zygotic Mynci. Later on, "Summer Lanes" drops into an infectious, bouncy beat reminiscent of the Wedding Present. There may be some skeptics out there for whom the cycle between shuffle-pop to indie rock is not the best example of 'eclecticism.' Fear not, naysayers, for Alfie deviate even further from your expectations! "Not Half" boasts a washboard-pluckin' New Orleans-style breakdown complete with a trombone, and as a swanky diversion it actually works. "Me and Mine" plods through an interesting rhythmic lilt, punctuated by piano and what sounds like rusty pipes being scraped and glass bottles beaten. Meanwhile, the closer, "The Lighthouse Keeper," contains perhaps Alfie's best and worst impulses at once. The band plays a gentle waltz, bolstered with brass accents. The sweet pace doesn't do much to distract from Gorton's annoyingly whimsical vocals. But then he disarms you with the line, "Tell me when you'll give me to the sea," and the other bandmembers begin echoing his lines, one measure behind each time, obscuring his words as if the waves were washing up against the rocks. XL Recordings licensed A Word in Your Ear from Twisted Nerve, the label started by Andy Votel and the Badly Drawn Boy himself, Damon Gough. As fitting for those two, Alfie's new album retains a slightly folky atmosphere despite the different stylistic arrangements, and a near-twee confidence that makes you want to stick up for the underdogs. It may not have you dropping your Sarah Records vinyl off at the Salvation Army, but at 43 minutes it's a brief, satisfying read. It does well to rip open the rain-soaked cardboard, as predicted by Father DiCrescenzo in his review of the band's previous EP collection, If You Happy With You Need Do Nothing. I can only end this review with an endorsement: as albums go, it's better than a turd in your ear.

Artist: Alfie, Album: A Word in Your Ear, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "You can't tell a record by its cover, but you can judge a book by its contents. For Alfie's second album, the former is the latter: you've got an illustration of a dog-eared old volume lying open, with the title printed on the left page and a painting of the band on the right. The five Brits are sitting on a bench with a newspaper and a football, looking like right proper lads in their natty sweaters. Fans of Coldplay and Travis rejoice-- we've come upon another charming trad-rock boy-band, right? As if! For Alfie are telling us that you can't judge a group by their lame-ass name or album title. Instead, Alfie are a song-oriented rock band, and they shuffle effortlessly through a number of different styles. "Gee, I've never heard that description from a reviewer before!" Shut it, you sad bastard. As with all good pop, your reservations are lowered when you actually listen to the music. The title track starts the album with acoustic picking and a soft, skiffling drumbeat. Singer Lee Gorton lets down his defenses, singing that "it's yours if you want it, no one's berating me/ Try not to be so afraid, it's your move." The interplay of piano and organ at the end makes for a warm, pleasant opener. "Cloudy Lemonade" gets more flirtatious with a funky percussion intro and lyrics about flowers and such. A flautist fills out the song with a keen midsection, and the technicolor swoon of the guitars adds to the romance. "Don't groups of this sort usually have a charismatic lead singer?" Well, how convenient that you're here, rhetorical question, because Lee Gorton does have an endearing presence. That is, if you don't mind the slurry wash of vowels that he sings through his nose. The nasal factor really isn't bad, and on the beautiful "Rain, Heaven, Hell" his slow drawl allows for a sensitive tone. Of course, it also aids him in impressions, as on "Bends for 72 Miles," named appropriately since it's an (unannounced) tribute to Radiohead's The Bends. The sultry bass groove copies Colin Greenwood's very carefully, and Gorton adopts the same sneering Britpop sass that Thom Yorke was going for back in those heady mid-90s. It's all forgivable, though, since it's done so well; it's "The Reverse Midas Touch" that threatens to turn it all to shit. Gorton mumbles this cod-hip-hop introduction, like Fun Lovin' Criminals ripping off G. Love aping John Lee Hooker. In case you missed that, it's white boys copping black blues, thrice-removed. His affections are awful, but forgivable since it's just a bad page in an otherwise good book. When Alfie stick with influences closer to home, they're quite convincing. "Halfway Home" breezes through with muted trumpet swells, and Gorton's fey vocals remind me of Gorky's Zygotic Mynci. Later on, "Summer Lanes" drops into an infectious, bouncy beat reminiscent of the Wedding Present. There may be some skeptics out there for whom the cycle between shuffle-pop to indie rock is not the best example of 'eclecticism.' Fear not, naysayers, for Alfie deviate even further from your expectations! "Not Half" boasts a washboard-pluckin' New Orleans-style breakdown complete with a trombone, and as a swanky diversion it actually works. "Me and Mine" plods through an interesting rhythmic lilt, punctuated by piano and what sounds like rusty pipes being scraped and glass bottles beaten. Meanwhile, the closer, "The Lighthouse Keeper," contains perhaps Alfie's best and worst impulses at once. The band plays a gentle waltz, bolstered with brass accents. The sweet pace doesn't do much to distract from Gorton's annoyingly whimsical vocals. But then he disarms you with the line, "Tell me when you'll give me to the sea," and the other bandmembers begin echoing his lines, one measure behind each time, obscuring his words as if the waves were washing up against the rocks. XL Recordings licensed A Word in Your Ear from Twisted Nerve, the label started by Andy Votel and the Badly Drawn Boy himself, Damon Gough. As fitting for those two, Alfie's new album retains a slightly folky atmosphere despite the different stylistic arrangements, and a near-twee confidence that makes you want to stick up for the underdogs. It may not have you dropping your Sarah Records vinyl off at the Salvation Army, but at 43 minutes it's a brief, satisfying read. It does well to rip open the rain-soaked cardboard, as predicted by Father DiCrescenzo in his review of the band's previous EP collection, If You Happy With You Need Do Nothing. I can only end this review with an endorsement: as albums go, it's better than a turd in your ear."

Various Artists

Come and Get It: The Best of Apple Records

Douglas Wolk

By the beginning of 1968, the Beatles had made a pile of money they had to either invest in a business or pay in taxes. They chose the business route, launching a suite of enterprises collectively called Apple Corps, most of which were boondoggles. Apple Electronics was a disaster; Apple Studio was a joke; the Apple Boutique lasted seven months before they gave up and announced that they were simply giving away the rest of their stock. Apple Records might have been a similarly dubious idea-- the Beatles weren't short of hangers-on, and the label's roster was heavily populated by longtime pals of the group and curiosities they decided to release on a whim. But if the Beatles knew how to do one thing, it was make records, and almost everything in the Apple discography is somewhere between "interesting" and "superb." This one-disc singles compilation, spanning 1968-1972, isn't quite what its title promises: The Beatles' post-"Hey Jude" records, and their early solo records, aren't on here. (It's being released alongside reissues of most of Apple's not-Beatles-or-Yoko album catalogue.) Still, they're all over it. Paul McCartney wrote the winning oompah instrumental "Thingumybob" for the Black Dyke Mills Band and "Goodbye" for Mary Hopkin, and he told Badfinger they could have his new song "Come and Get It" if they played it note-for-note like his demo. George Harrison wrote "Try Some, Buy Some" for ex-Ronette Ronnie Spector and the explosive rocker "Sour Milk Sea" for his old Liverpool pal Jackie Lomax. (The backing band on the latter includes George, Paul, Ringo Starr, and Eric Clapton; recorded during the White Album sessions, it would've been one of the best songs on that record if George had kept it for himself.) The Beatles were canny judges of popular taste, too, and this set includes a handful of hits that have been out of circulation for years, thanks to the Apple catalogue's being in limbo. Mary Hopkin's "Those Were the Days [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| " was No. 2 in the U.S. (and bumped "Hey Jude" off the top [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| of the British charts); Billy Preston's "That's the Way God Planned It" and "My Sweet Lord" (recorded before Harrison's own version), Chris Hodge's glam-rock boogie "We're on Our Way", and Badfinger's "Come and Get It" and "Day After Day" all made the charts in America. What makes Come and Get It really fun, though, is the same thing that made the Beatles' own Apple releases particularly entertaining: their willingness to go to bat for totally uncommercial ideas. George managed to get the Radha Krishna Temple on "Top of the Pops", released a single by the Cajun band the Sundown Playboys just because he liked it, and made a nifty album with then-forgotten American soul singer Doris Troy (represented here by the single "Ain't That Cute"). Paul played bass on the debut single by then-unknown folk singer James Taylor. John Lennon (and Yoko Ono) wrote a benefit single for the underground newspaper Oz, "God Save Us", released by Bill Elliot and the Elastic Oz Band (aka John, Ringo, and Klaus Voorman). There are a couple of outright duds here, especially Brute Force's one-joke "King of Fuh"-- which George had pressed up with an Apple label despite (or maybe because of) the fact that no store would dare to carry it in 1969-- and a cranky reggae cover of "Give Peace a Chance" by Hot Chocolate Band (who'd do much better once they dropped the last word from their name). Still, this is a fascinating document of one of the most adventurous labels of its era, built around a group so creatively fertile that they could pass their own mojo on to almost everyone they worked with.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Come and Get It: The Best of Apple Records, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "By the beginning of 1968, the Beatles had made a pile of money they had to either invest in a business or pay in taxes. They chose the business route, launching a suite of enterprises collectively called Apple Corps, most of which were boondoggles. Apple Electronics was a disaster; Apple Studio was a joke; the Apple Boutique lasted seven months before they gave up and announced that they were simply giving away the rest of their stock. Apple Records might have been a similarly dubious idea-- the Beatles weren't short of hangers-on, and the label's roster was heavily populated by longtime pals of the group and curiosities they decided to release on a whim. But if the Beatles knew how to do one thing, it was make records, and almost everything in the Apple discography is somewhere between "interesting" and "superb." This one-disc singles compilation, spanning 1968-1972, isn't quite what its title promises: The Beatles' post-"Hey Jude" records, and their early solo records, aren't on here. (It's being released alongside reissues of most of Apple's not-Beatles-or-Yoko album catalogue.) Still, they're all over it. Paul McCartney wrote the winning oompah instrumental "Thingumybob" for the Black Dyke Mills Band and "Goodbye" for Mary Hopkin, and he told Badfinger they could have his new song "Come and Get It" if they played it note-for-note like his demo. George Harrison wrote "Try Some, Buy Some" for ex-Ronette Ronnie Spector and the explosive rocker "Sour Milk Sea" for his old Liverpool pal Jackie Lomax. (The backing band on the latter includes George, Paul, Ringo Starr, and Eric Clapton; recorded during the White Album sessions, it would've been one of the best songs on that record if George had kept it for himself.) The Beatles were canny judges of popular taste, too, and this set includes a handful of hits that have been out of circulation for years, thanks to the Apple catalogue's being in limbo. Mary Hopkin's "Those Were the Days [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| " was No. 2 in the U.S. (and bumped "Hey Jude" off the top [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| of the British charts); Billy Preston's "That's the Way God Planned It" and "My Sweet Lord" (recorded before Harrison's own version), Chris Hodge's glam-rock boogie "We're on Our Way", and Badfinger's "Come and Get It" and "Day After Day" all made the charts in America. What makes Come and Get It really fun, though, is the same thing that made the Beatles' own Apple releases particularly entertaining: their willingness to go to bat for totally uncommercial ideas. George managed to get the Radha Krishna Temple on "Top of the Pops", released a single by the Cajun band the Sundown Playboys just because he liked it, and made a nifty album with then-forgotten American soul singer Doris Troy (represented here by the single "Ain't That Cute"). Paul played bass on the debut single by then-unknown folk singer James Taylor. John Lennon (and Yoko Ono) wrote a benefit single for the underground newspaper Oz, "God Save Us", released by Bill Elliot and the Elastic Oz Band (aka John, Ringo, and Klaus Voorman). There are a couple of outright duds here, especially Brute Force's one-joke "King of Fuh"-- which George had pressed up with an Apple label despite (or maybe because of) the fact that no store would dare to carry it in 1969-- and a cranky reggae cover of "Give Peace a Chance" by Hot Chocolate Band (who'd do much better once they dropped the last word from their name). Still, this is a fascinating document of one of the most adventurous labels of its era, built around a group so creatively fertile that they could pass their own mojo on to almost everyone they worked with."

Azeem, Variable Unit

Mayhem Mystics

Rap

Jonathan Zwickel

Illbient, broken beat, downtempo, trip-hop, yadda yadda yadda. Let's cut to the chase, okay? If there's improvisation with actual instruments, it's jazz; if there are rhymes, it's hip-hop. Both elements, however, blend into a tech-noir soundscape that's equally sensual and gripping on this 13-track debut from longtime San Francisco collaborators Azeem and Variable Unit. Instrumental hip-hop has made great advances in the past couple years, but Azeem's lyrical surrealism and V.U.'s subdued atmospherics smolder with an urgency that's far more experimental, and powerful, than most. Mainly responsible for the album's post-millennial tension are dual DJs Quest and Zeph, both fixtures of the West Coast turntablist community. These two lay shifting foundations of indeterminable effects that settle just long enough to anchor Variable Unit's expansive, moody grooves. Keyboardist Jacob Aginsky blows a future-funk breeze through each tune, his Hammond and synth flights simultaneously anachronistic and progressive in tone. Matt Montgomery's bass is a fluid pulse, deftly strutting alongside Thomas McCree's laidback drumming to form a head-nodding rhythm section that's appropriately understated and utterly hypnotic. Backed by Blackalicious vocalist Omega's sultry croon and occasional full-flavored horn flourishes, Variable Unit alternate between eerie minimalism and rubbery bounce that produces an innovative, deeply soulful slant. Some of Azeem's previous work with V.U. has come off as overly political and heavy-handed. A seriously conscientious and articulate MC, his fire-and-brimstone rants can numb impatient ears eager for catchy hooks and booty bragging. On Mayhem Mystics, he waxes metaphysical, leading the band with easygoing, conversational rhymes and spiritual stream-of-consciousness poetry. Were the mic in another MC's hands, "Break It on Down" might be an upbeat party starter; here, instead of the beat, Azeem breaks down our faltering society: "War is inviting/ Peace is in hiding/ Factions uniting/ Lands are dividing/ Birds are migrating/ And pigs are now flying/ Everything's breaking on down." On "Sound Field", above Zeph's palette of electronic animal noises, Azeem spins scenes of new beginnings after an unavoidable apocalypse. He's intriguingly abstract: "My heartbeat gives the tone of the jungle/ You alone the forest of light/ What lays beneath/ The creeping things/ The birds that fly/ The fish that swim/ Run along the river ." The unbridled funk of "What Is It?" yields the album's most accessible track, as Azeem, putting a hand out to the initiated, chants, "Put your wings on, tilt your halo to the side/ Strap on your time machine, let's go for a ride." Several of Mayhem Mystic's tracks run over five minutes, their length hinting at the groups' open, exploratory spirit, but at more than seven minutes, "The Music Is the Medicine, So Let It In" is easily the most ambitious. Featuring The Flecktones' Paul Hanson on bassoon and saxophone, the tune is a sprawling breakbeat journey that will leave listeners simultaneously unsettled and sedated, as Azeem intones, "Crawling out of the TV, turning your forehead into a gray lens, experimenting. Beware the Illuminati, they are even watching you now/ The Patriot Actors, the Patriot Actors." His dose of creepy, Wu-addled conspiracy is jarring, but the Middle Eastern vocals that float through the track carry it into dark, ambient terrain. The song captures the album's essence, hitting like a drug you've never tried-- blissfully hallucinatory in feel and startlingly vivid in imagery.

Artist: Azeem, Variable Unit, Album: Mayhem Mystics, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Illbient, broken beat, downtempo, trip-hop, yadda yadda yadda. Let's cut to the chase, okay? If there's improvisation with actual instruments, it's jazz; if there are rhymes, it's hip-hop. Both elements, however, blend into a tech-noir soundscape that's equally sensual and gripping on this 13-track debut from longtime San Francisco collaborators Azeem and Variable Unit. Instrumental hip-hop has made great advances in the past couple years, but Azeem's lyrical surrealism and V.U.'s subdued atmospherics smolder with an urgency that's far more experimental, and powerful, than most. Mainly responsible for the album's post-millennial tension are dual DJs Quest and Zeph, both fixtures of the West Coast turntablist community. These two lay shifting foundations of indeterminable effects that settle just long enough to anchor Variable Unit's expansive, moody grooves. Keyboardist Jacob Aginsky blows a future-funk breeze through each tune, his Hammond and synth flights simultaneously anachronistic and progressive in tone. Matt Montgomery's bass is a fluid pulse, deftly strutting alongside Thomas McCree's laidback drumming to form a head-nodding rhythm section that's appropriately understated and utterly hypnotic. Backed by Blackalicious vocalist Omega's sultry croon and occasional full-flavored horn flourishes, Variable Unit alternate between eerie minimalism and rubbery bounce that produces an innovative, deeply soulful slant. Some of Azeem's previous work with V.U. has come off as overly political and heavy-handed. A seriously conscientious and articulate MC, his fire-and-brimstone rants can numb impatient ears eager for catchy hooks and booty bragging. On Mayhem Mystics, he waxes metaphysical, leading the band with easygoing, conversational rhymes and spiritual stream-of-consciousness poetry. Were the mic in another MC's hands, "Break It on Down" might be an upbeat party starter; here, instead of the beat, Azeem breaks down our faltering society: "War is inviting/ Peace is in hiding/ Factions uniting/ Lands are dividing/ Birds are migrating/ And pigs are now flying/ Everything's breaking on down." On "Sound Field", above Zeph's palette of electronic animal noises, Azeem spins scenes of new beginnings after an unavoidable apocalypse. He's intriguingly abstract: "My heartbeat gives the tone of the jungle/ You alone the forest of light/ What lays beneath/ The creeping things/ The birds that fly/ The fish that swim/ Run along the river ." The unbridled funk of "What Is It?" yields the album's most accessible track, as Azeem, putting a hand out to the initiated, chants, "Put your wings on, tilt your halo to the side/ Strap on your time machine, let's go for a ride." Several of Mayhem Mystic's tracks run over five minutes, their length hinting at the groups' open, exploratory spirit, but at more than seven minutes, "The Music Is the Medicine, So Let It In" is easily the most ambitious. Featuring The Flecktones' Paul Hanson on bassoon and saxophone, the tune is a sprawling breakbeat journey that will leave listeners simultaneously unsettled and sedated, as Azeem intones, "Crawling out of the TV, turning your forehead into a gray lens, experimenting. Beware the Illuminati, they are even watching you now/ The Patriot Actors, the Patriot Actors." His dose of creepy, Wu-addled conspiracy is jarring, but the Middle Eastern vocals that float through the track carry it into dark, ambient terrain. The song captures the album's essence, hitting like a drug you've never tried-- blissfully hallucinatory in feel and startlingly vivid in imagery."

Angel Olsen

Half Way Home

Rock

Laura Snapes

On the last day of November 2010, Bonnie "Prince" Billy played an unannounced, mystifying show with "the Babblers" as his backing band-- made no less odd by the fact that the band was seemingly wearing fleece pajamas. Website Chattarati reported that, among songs that sounded more traditionally Oldham-like, there was also "charged-up punk that featured Angela Babbler screaming down the throats of the front row." It turned out that Angela Babbler, whose voice was described as "blood-curdling" by another site, was actually the Missouri-born, Chicago-based singer Angel Olsen, and that the "charged-up punk" was a cover of Kevin Coyne and Dagmar Krause's "Sweetheart", from their 1979 album Babble-- an old favorite of Oldham's. Since then, Olsen has formed part of the Cairo Gang that performed on Bonnie "Prince" Billy's recent records, and she's toured with them too-- though her extraordinary voice has set her miles above the backing-band parapet. Halfway through Wolfroy Goes to Town's "Time to be Clear", she breaks through the welcoming lull with a wordless melody as casual but striking as a ditty that Edith Piaf might have hummed whilst hanging out the washing. Trade "blood-curdling" for "blood-chilling"-- she doesn't sound of this world. "When something like that happens, I don't know how to feel," Oldham said of Olsen's improvised warble, in a Pitchfork interview. "It's almost like I get hollowed out and then filled, but I don't know what it's with. It's a mixture of apprehension and satisfaction at the same time." Olsen's voice is possessed of an intensely dramatic range; one minute she's barely singing-- more a downcast, near-spoken tumble of words-- but the next, she's a tragic heroine of the Weimar cabaret, tremendously poised but letting emotion rag her throat as if a freight train were passing through. Hers is not a voice made for modern laptop speakers. Its chalky squeak will earn lazy comparisons to Joanna Newsom; really, her palette is a mixture of the great, lost singer Connie Converse, Jason Molina's old-timey drama, Bill Callahan's terrific and unsettling ability to shift between dourness and comfort, and Nina Nastasia's graceful lope. Olsen's voice is extraordinary and unequivocal, which makes the way she uses it to sing of the most profound doubts on the follow-up to 2010's initially cassette-only Strange Cacti even more affecting. In a recent interview, Olsen talked about how she was born into a big family, but was eventually adopted, crediting her uncle and biological mother as being "a huge part" of why she plays music. She hasn't told the story of her adoption beyond that, aside from that she was given a keyboard as a parting gift before leaving her birth family. "You can imagine why I became attached to it," she said. That instrument barely figures on Half Way Home, which is mostly made up of stitches of acoustic guitar gathered into a loose but regular weave, soft double bass, and the odd patch of stark, rudimentary drumming. You get the impression that Olsen would find using the keyboard in her solo material too literal, too personal; she's spoken of her concern that there's often "too much self" in songs, and there's only one here that's set in any kind of concrete scenario rather than on a psychological stage. Sliding in with mournful electric guitar, "Lonely Universe" concerns the loss of a mother figure at a time when "I was only a child, about to lose my child-like mind." Her brothers and sisters can't help; the ambulance comes anyway, leaving Olsen dressing for school, floating as "a lonely universe." It's a heartbreaking acoustic-and-brushes sway, where her vocals, at their most dramatic, call to mind a tender Elvis, or convey the affect of a piece like Gavin Bryars' "Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet". It's also a canvas for Olsen's most elegant strokes of wordplay: She sings about the departing "sweet mother earth" as if she had been a lover-- "the way you touched my hands like you never had before," "You won't always understand when you've truly loved someone until after they've gone." (The previous song, the slow and spare "Safe in the Womb", talks of motherly comfort, and the protection offered by states outside of being alive; pre-life, after-life, mental purgatory.) Lyrical statements are proffered and then cut poignantly; towards the song's end, she wryly refers to the loss of her childlike innocence in more general terms: "Well, losing your mind, it ain't half as bad as it seems." Double-take, and and the devastation builds up. You can't blame her for the doubt that sets in-- "time to give up that unforgiving act of altogether-ness." Go for broke, be selfish, abandon connections, community, and family, because what good did they do you anyway? Olsen knows betrayal like the best of them: On "Miranda", she's a sheriff reading someone their rights, though the soft Emmylou Harris hurt and creak of her voice when she sings, "I love you dear, but it's not up to me/ And it's never quite been, you see," suggest that the guilty party's transgressions are emotional rather than legal. "Some of the things that you've said in my ear/ As you open a door and casually smile.../ How I have wanted to scream out/ All of the things that entered my mind," goes the end, in the record's only instance of her being driven to speak her many thoughts aloud. Belief and the futility thereof scar Half Way Home's glowing skin. "Always Half Strange" sounds like a curio recovered from turn-of-the century Europe, that casual, romantic drama filling Olsen's voice again as she fingerpicks gently. It finds her in a state that preoccupies her throughout the record-- "half life and half dream, and half crazy to believe in anything it all." She hides out in her mind, working out the value and meaning of things and people, and often judges her own worth by how much she weighs on another's mind. ("Oh, to be that distant thought/ Some growing memory/ In your mind," goes "Acrobat".) Here, things exist only if you believe in them, and it's easy to see how the precariousness of that idealism might leave you feeling a tad shaky: On the ominous, classical "The Sky Opened Up", Olsen ascends to a gap in the heavens, and returns to "see things just as they are"-- "appalled at what I had found." Whatever she sees up there imparts the distressing truth that, "If you dare to be true to what you believe/ There's always somebody to lose." It's no coincidence that Olsen receives this damning truth from a place beyond life: One belief she sustains across the album is in the finality of death. The great beyo

Artist: Angel Olsen, Album: Half Way Home, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "On the last day of November 2010, Bonnie "Prince" Billy played an unannounced, mystifying show with "the Babblers" as his backing band-- made no less odd by the fact that the band was seemingly wearing fleece pajamas. Website Chattarati reported that, among songs that sounded more traditionally Oldham-like, there was also "charged-up punk that featured Angela Babbler screaming down the throats of the front row." It turned out that Angela Babbler, whose voice was described as "blood-curdling" by another site, was actually the Missouri-born, Chicago-based singer Angel Olsen, and that the "charged-up punk" was a cover of Kevin Coyne and Dagmar Krause's "Sweetheart", from their 1979 album Babble-- an old favorite of Oldham's. Since then, Olsen has formed part of the Cairo Gang that performed on Bonnie "Prince" Billy's recent records, and she's toured with them too-- though her extraordinary voice has set her miles above the backing-band parapet. Halfway through Wolfroy Goes to Town's "Time to be Clear", she breaks through the welcoming lull with a wordless melody as casual but striking as a ditty that Edith Piaf might have hummed whilst hanging out the washing. Trade "blood-curdling" for "blood-chilling"-- she doesn't sound of this world. "When something like that happens, I don't know how to feel," Oldham said of Olsen's improvised warble, in a Pitchfork interview. "It's almost like I get hollowed out and then filled, but I don't know what it's with. It's a mixture of apprehension and satisfaction at the same time." Olsen's voice is possessed of an intensely dramatic range; one minute she's barely singing-- more a downcast, near-spoken tumble of words-- but the next, she's a tragic heroine of the Weimar cabaret, tremendously poised but letting emotion rag her throat as if a freight train were passing through. Hers is not a voice made for modern laptop speakers. Its chalky squeak will earn lazy comparisons to Joanna Newsom; really, her palette is a mixture of the great, lost singer Connie Converse, Jason Molina's old-timey drama, Bill Callahan's terrific and unsettling ability to shift between dourness and comfort, and Nina Nastasia's graceful lope. Olsen's voice is extraordinary and unequivocal, which makes the way she uses it to sing of the most profound doubts on the follow-up to 2010's initially cassette-only Strange Cacti even more affecting. In a recent interview, Olsen talked about how she was born into a big family, but was eventually adopted, crediting her uncle and biological mother as being "a huge part" of why she plays music. She hasn't told the story of her adoption beyond that, aside from that she was given a keyboard as a parting gift before leaving her birth family. "You can imagine why I became attached to it," she said. That instrument barely figures on Half Way Home, which is mostly made up of stitches of acoustic guitar gathered into a loose but regular weave, soft double bass, and the odd patch of stark, rudimentary drumming. You get the impression that Olsen would find using the keyboard in her solo material too literal, too personal; she's spoken of her concern that there's often "too much self" in songs, and there's only one here that's set in any kind of concrete scenario rather than on a psychological stage. Sliding in with mournful electric guitar, "Lonely Universe" concerns the loss of a mother figure at a time when "I was only a child, about to lose my child-like mind." Her brothers and sisters can't help; the ambulance comes anyway, leaving Olsen dressing for school, floating as "a lonely universe." It's a heartbreaking acoustic-and-brushes sway, where her vocals, at their most dramatic, call to mind a tender Elvis, or convey the affect of a piece like Gavin Bryars' "Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet". It's also a canvas for Olsen's most elegant strokes of wordplay: She sings about the departing "sweet mother earth" as if she had been a lover-- "the way you touched my hands like you never had before," "You won't always understand when you've truly loved someone until after they've gone." (The previous song, the slow and spare "Safe in the Womb", talks of motherly comfort, and the protection offered by states outside of being alive; pre-life, after-life, mental purgatory.) Lyrical statements are proffered and then cut poignantly; towards the song's end, she wryly refers to the loss of her childlike innocence in more general terms: "Well, losing your mind, it ain't half as bad as it seems." Double-take, and and the devastation builds up. You can't blame her for the doubt that sets in-- "time to give up that unforgiving act of altogether-ness." Go for broke, be selfish, abandon connections, community, and family, because what good did they do you anyway? Olsen knows betrayal like the best of them: On "Miranda", she's a sheriff reading someone their rights, though the soft Emmylou Harris hurt and creak of her voice when she sings, "I love you dear, but it's not up to me/ And it's never quite been, you see," suggest that the guilty party's transgressions are emotional rather than legal. "Some of the things that you've said in my ear/ As you open a door and casually smile.../ How I have wanted to scream out/ All of the things that entered my mind," goes the end, in the record's only instance of her being driven to speak her many thoughts aloud. Belief and the futility thereof scar Half Way Home's glowing skin. "Always Half Strange" sounds like a curio recovered from turn-of-the century Europe, that casual, romantic drama filling Olsen's voice again as she fingerpicks gently. It finds her in a state that preoccupies her throughout the record-- "half life and half dream, and half crazy to believe in anything it all." She hides out in her mind, working out the value and meaning of things and people, and often judges her own worth by how much she weighs on another's mind. ("Oh, to be that distant thought/ Some growing memory/ In your mind," goes "Acrobat".) Here, things exist only if you believe in them, and it's easy to see how the precariousness of that idealism might leave you feeling a tad shaky: On the ominous, classical "The Sky Opened Up", Olsen ascends to a gap in the heavens, and returns to "see things just as they are"-- "appalled at what I had found." Whatever she sees up there imparts the distressing truth that, "If you dare to be true to what you believe/ There's always somebody to lose." It's no coincidence that Olsen receives this damning truth from a place beyond life: One belief she sustains across the album is in the finality of death. The great beyo"

Various Artists

Ciao My Shining Star: The Songs of Mark Mulcahy

Rob Mitchum

So who the heck is Mark Mulcahy, and why does he have so many famous friends? I can't totally answer the second question, but for the first, go seek out "Hey Sandy" by Polaris, put it on, and come back. I'll wait. ... Ah, you're back. Did you go on a four-hour Super Mario Kart and Mountain Dew binge? Yeah, me too. "Hey Sandy" is better known as the theme song from "The Adventures of Pete & Pete", and Polaris was Mulcahy's band, a spin-off from his earlier and far more well-known band, Miracle Legion. Since the glory days of "Pete & Pete", he's also put out a few micro-run solo records and has co-written a couple of musicals. But that all still doesn't explain why Mulcahy's catalog would get the starpower treatment, and sadly, the reason lies less with his music than with his personal tragedy. A year ago, Mulcahy's wife Melissa died suddenly, leaving the singer-songwriter to raise twin three-year-old daughters alone. Thus, Ciao My Shining Star is both a tribute and a kind of collective patronage for Mulcahy's career, intended to give him the funds carry on as both single father and musician. It's a touching story, lent extra power by just how many big names-- including Thom Yorke, Frank Black, Dinosaur Jr., Michael Stipe, the National-- turned out. Apparently, the response was so strong that this 21-track album accounts for just over half of the music received; 20 more tracks will be released digitally. But warm, fuzzy feelings aside, there's a musical problem at the core of Ciao My Shining Star that I hope I'm not fast-tracked to hell for having the audacity to mention-- the source material isn't really fertile ground for tribute. Emotional ties to "Pete & Pete" aside, Miracle Legion/Polaris/Mulcahy fit pretty squarely into an early 90s college-rock mold-- jangly guitars, nasal vocals-- that produced hundreds of similar-sounding bands. Try as I might, I can't really see what might set Mulcahy's music apart from the pack; some of the production on his last solo LP, In Pursuit of Your Happiness, pushes into the homemade psychedelia of an act like Sparklehorse, but the machinery under the hood of the songs themselves are largely generic-brand. Still, that's not a dealbreaker for a tribute album-- Mulcahy's songs are a kind of blank coloring book for contributors to fill with their own set of Crayolas. And the start of Ciao My Shining Star offers a few examples of that approach working. Yorke's "All For the Best" has the same itchy, chattering sensations of the bulk of his solo work, but as he is forced to wrap his voice around lyrics that are far more direct and domestic than anything he'd write himself, Yorke (harmonizing with his brother Andy) sounds warmer than ever. The National definitively put their own stamp on "Ashamed of the Story I Told" with a rumbling cello and plenty of low piano notes, and Frank Black turns "Bill Jocko" into a desperate stomp that is heart-wrenching giving the album's backstory-- howling "Why do I have to stay here?/ Why does she get to go?" over a deranged organ. But the majority of the record is given over to singer-songwriters covering a singer-songwriter, and adding all the creative touches you'd expect from somebody who performs under their own name. This stretch is split between people I've never heard of (Frank Turner, Chris Harford, David Berkeley) and people I thought had given up (Josh Rouse, Ben Kweller, Hayden). All do as little as possible with the source material; only Elvis Perkins' dashed-off but soulful "She Watches Over Me" and Fountains of Wayne's Chris Collingwood (who draws the catchy "Cookie Jar") impress. So while Ciao My Shining Star is a sterling piece of charity, a post-millennial Sweet Relief, it's also a bit of a slog to sit through, unless you're a loyal regular at your local coffee shop's open mic night. By all means, drop 99 cents here and there to fill out your Radiohead and R.E.M. solo-project collections and throw a few more dollars to this good cause. But there's no need to subject yourself to 40 tracks and two hours of unexceptional covers in the process.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Ciao My Shining Star: The Songs of Mark Mulcahy, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 4.5 Album review: "So who the heck is Mark Mulcahy, and why does he have so many famous friends? I can't totally answer the second question, but for the first, go seek out "Hey Sandy" by Polaris, put it on, and come back. I'll wait. ... Ah, you're back. Did you go on a four-hour Super Mario Kart and Mountain Dew binge? Yeah, me too. "Hey Sandy" is better known as the theme song from "The Adventures of Pete & Pete", and Polaris was Mulcahy's band, a spin-off from his earlier and far more well-known band, Miracle Legion. Since the glory days of "Pete & Pete", he's also put out a few micro-run solo records and has co-written a couple of musicals. But that all still doesn't explain why Mulcahy's catalog would get the starpower treatment, and sadly, the reason lies less with his music than with his personal tragedy. A year ago, Mulcahy's wife Melissa died suddenly, leaving the singer-songwriter to raise twin three-year-old daughters alone. Thus, Ciao My Shining Star is both a tribute and a kind of collective patronage for Mulcahy's career, intended to give him the funds carry on as both single father and musician. It's a touching story, lent extra power by just how many big names-- including Thom Yorke, Frank Black, Dinosaur Jr., Michael Stipe, the National-- turned out. Apparently, the response was so strong that this 21-track album accounts for just over half of the music received; 20 more tracks will be released digitally. But warm, fuzzy feelings aside, there's a musical problem at the core of Ciao My Shining Star that I hope I'm not fast-tracked to hell for having the audacity to mention-- the source material isn't really fertile ground for tribute. Emotional ties to "Pete & Pete" aside, Miracle Legion/Polaris/Mulcahy fit pretty squarely into an early 90s college-rock mold-- jangly guitars, nasal vocals-- that produced hundreds of similar-sounding bands. Try as I might, I can't really see what might set Mulcahy's music apart from the pack; some of the production on his last solo LP, In Pursuit of Your Happiness, pushes into the homemade psychedelia of an act like Sparklehorse, but the machinery under the hood of the songs themselves are largely generic-brand. Still, that's not a dealbreaker for a tribute album-- Mulcahy's songs are a kind of blank coloring book for contributors to fill with their own set of Crayolas. And the start of Ciao My Shining Star offers a few examples of that approach working. Yorke's "All For the Best" has the same itchy, chattering sensations of the bulk of his solo work, but as he is forced to wrap his voice around lyrics that are far more direct and domestic than anything he'd write himself, Yorke (harmonizing with his brother Andy) sounds warmer than ever. The National definitively put their own stamp on "Ashamed of the Story I Told" with a rumbling cello and plenty of low piano notes, and Frank Black turns "Bill Jocko" into a desperate stomp that is heart-wrenching giving the album's backstory-- howling "Why do I have to stay here?/ Why does she get to go?" over a deranged organ. But the majority of the record is given over to singer-songwriters covering a singer-songwriter, and adding all the creative touches you'd expect from somebody who performs under their own name. This stretch is split between people I've never heard of (Frank Turner, Chris Harford, David Berkeley) and people I thought had given up (Josh Rouse, Ben Kweller, Hayden). All do as little as possible with the source material; only Elvis Perkins' dashed-off but soulful "She Watches Over Me" and Fountains of Wayne's Chris Collingwood (who draws the catchy "Cookie Jar") impress. So while Ciao My Shining Star is a sterling piece of charity, a post-millennial Sweet Relief, it's also a bit of a slog to sit through, unless you're a loyal regular at your local coffee shop's open mic night. By all means, drop 99 cents here and there to fill out your Radiohead and R.E.M. solo-project collections and throw a few more dollars to this good cause. But there's no need to subject yourself to 40 tracks and two hours of unexceptional covers in the process."

Freddie Gibbs

Shadow of a Doubt

Rap

Max Mertens

Freddie Gibbs doesn’t believe in resting on his laurels. After dropping last year’s Piñata with Madlib at the helm — the rapper’s most commercially and critically successful project to date — he could have taken some well-deserved time off. Instead, he toured non-stop and played festivals, put out two EPs The Tonite Show with the Worlds Freshest and Pronto, and last but not least, became a father. Now with little advance notice, and a raised middle finger to Q4 release schedules and anyone foolish enough to be making their best-of year-end lists early, the pride of Gary, Ind. is back with his third full-length studio album. A quick scan of the credits reveals the biggest difference between Shadow of a Doubt and his last LP—instead of one singular producer, there’s over a dozen wide-ranging names contributing beats here from Canadian hitmaker Boi-1da to 808 Mafia’s Tarentino. While the final result is less cohesive, and could benefit from trimming two or three songs, there’s no denying Gibbs’ versatility. If there’s any question as to whether or not acclaim has mellowed the man who frequently refers to himself as both "Gangsta Gibbs" and "Freddie Corleone", look no further than the two tracks that bookend the record. The sparse, atmospheric "Rearview", which opens with a "Welcome to Los Angeles International Airport" P.A., sees the rapper offer up a bullet point summary of his career to date before dismissing would-be copycats with trademark precision. In contrast, "Cold Ass Nigga" sees Gibbs with two feet on the gas, with frequent Kanye West collaborator Mike Dean providing a suitably urgent, glitchy trap beat. It’s nothing like anything else in Gibbs’ vast catalogue (its closest spiritual companion might be "Old English", his 2014 track with A$AP Ferg and Young Thug) and it’s proof that the 33 year old is still more than willing to push himself out of his sonic comfort zone. His lyrics capture the pursuit of the American dream like a Scorsese screenplay (drugs, sex, and all-too-frequent bloodshed included). He’s hardly the first artist to incorporate a sample from "The Wire" into a song, but he’s one of few able to do so without it coming off cliché or rote (Boi-1da and Frank Dukes’ sinister piano loops greatly help). Another highlight is the understated, introspective "Insecurities" produced by Dukes and Montreal’s Kaytranada (who teamed up with the rapper this year for the menacing one-off "My Dope House"). As for the record’s handful of guest spots, Gibbs has picked a mix of newcomers and veterans who complement but never overshadow him. Rising Miami-via-Toronto emcee Tory Lanez contributes a bleary-eyed hook to dealers’ anthem "Mexico"; elsewhere, L.A. R&B singer-songwriter Dana Williams propels "McDuck". On "Extradite", the Roots’ Black Thought’s politically charged verse is sharply juxtaposed with Mikhail’s bright, jazz-influenced production, which eventually gives way to dialogue taken from a fiery speech on Ferguson by Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan. Then there’s "10 Times", featuring Gucci Mane floating over the beat like plumes of blunt smoke (perhaps Gibbs’ own "Freddie Kane OG" strain), before West Coast veteran E-40 swoops in to gleefully extol the virtues of a woman "thicker than a buttermilk biscuit." On the outro of "McDuck", we hear an excerpt from an interview he did with Snoop Dogg this past summer discussing Gibbs’ background. "You just sound like you not from nowhere," says Snoop to which the rapper replies, "I created that sound." The cover artwork of Shadow of a Doubt might depict Gibbs’ face half-cloaked in darkness, but his roots and aspirations have never been clearer.

Artist: Freddie Gibbs, Album: Shadow of a Doubt, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Freddie Gibbs doesn’t believe in resting on his laurels. After dropping last year’s Piñata with Madlib at the helm — the rapper’s most commercially and critically successful project to date — he could have taken some well-deserved time off. Instead, he toured non-stop and played festivals, put out two EPs The Tonite Show with the Worlds Freshest and Pronto, and last but not least, became a father. Now with little advance notice, and a raised middle finger to Q4 release schedules and anyone foolish enough to be making their best-of year-end lists early, the pride of Gary, Ind. is back with his third full-length studio album. A quick scan of the credits reveals the biggest difference between Shadow of a Doubt and his last LP—instead of one singular producer, there’s over a dozen wide-ranging names contributing beats here from Canadian hitmaker Boi-1da to 808 Mafia’s Tarentino. While the final result is less cohesive, and could benefit from trimming two or three songs, there’s no denying Gibbs’ versatility. If there’s any question as to whether or not acclaim has mellowed the man who frequently refers to himself as both "Gangsta Gibbs" and "Freddie Corleone", look no further than the two tracks that bookend the record. The sparse, atmospheric "Rearview", which opens with a "Welcome to Los Angeles International Airport" P.A., sees the rapper offer up a bullet point summary of his career to date before dismissing would-be copycats with trademark precision. In contrast, "Cold Ass Nigga" sees Gibbs with two feet on the gas, with frequent Kanye West collaborator Mike Dean providing a suitably urgent, glitchy trap beat. It’s nothing like anything else in Gibbs’ vast catalogue (its closest spiritual companion might be "Old English", his 2014 track with A$AP Ferg and Young Thug) and it’s proof that the 33 year old is still more than willing to push himself out of his sonic comfort zone. His lyrics capture the pursuit of the American dream like a Scorsese screenplay (drugs, sex, and all-too-frequent bloodshed included). He’s hardly the first artist to incorporate a sample from "The Wire" into a song, but he’s one of few able to do so without it coming off cliché or rote (Boi-1da and Frank Dukes’ sinister piano loops greatly help). Another highlight is the understated, introspective "Insecurities" produced by Dukes and Montreal’s Kaytranada (who teamed up with the rapper this year for the menacing one-off "My Dope House"). As for the record’s handful of guest spots, Gibbs has picked a mix of newcomers and veterans who complement but never overshadow him. Rising Miami-via-Toronto emcee Tory Lanez contributes a bleary-eyed hook to dealers’ anthem "Mexico"; elsewhere, L.A. R&B singer-songwriter Dana Williams propels "McDuck". On "Extradite", the Roots’ Black Thought’s politically charged verse is sharply juxtaposed with Mikhail’s bright, jazz-influenced production, which eventually gives way to dialogue taken from a fiery speech on Ferguson by Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan. Then there’s "10 Times", featuring Gucci Mane floating over the beat like plumes of blunt smoke (perhaps Gibbs’ own "Freddie Kane OG" strain), before West Coast veteran E-40 swoops in to gleefully extol the virtues of a woman "thicker than a buttermilk biscuit." On the outro of "McDuck", we hear an excerpt from an interview he did with Snoop Dogg this past summer discussing Gibbs’ background. "You just sound like you not from nowhere," says Snoop to which the rapper replies, "I created that sound." The cover artwork of Shadow of a Doubt might depict Gibbs’ face half-cloaked in darkness, but his roots and aspirations have never been clearer."

Eluvium

Copia

Electronic

Mark Richardson

As an ambient artist, Eluvium's Matthew Cooper is working in a pretty crowded field, but with a gradually evolving sound and distinctive approach to his genre, his profile continues to rise. Though his 2003 all-piano record An Accidental Memory in Case of Death might have seemed like a left turn in light of the guitar-based drone tracks that came before and after, his records all share an aesthetic: Eluvium's ambient music is music first and ambient second; it leans forward, asks for consideration, and has no desire to slip into the background. That thread continues on his newest full-length, even as his palette broadens considerably. Incorporating strings, horns, woodwinds, and more piano, Copia is the grandest, most sweeping Eluvium record to date. The word that keeps coming to mind is "regal," perhaps because the lush opening fanfare "Amreik" sets the tone for the album so perfectly. Just over three minutes long, the rich blend of French horns, trumpets and trombones comes together to form a soundtrack for convocation. From there, the record dives headlong into the 10-minute "Indoor Swimming at the Space Station", which layers piano and strings (never quite clear throughout what is sampled, what is live, and what is synthetic) on his most filmic piece to date. As "cinematic" music goes-- and the adjective is appropriate throughout Copia-- these pieces tend toward widescreen pictures with big budgets. It's grand movie music in the "Adagio With Strings" sense; we're not talking about exercises in subtle shading. With that in mind, Cooper has developed a good sense of pacing and structure, and some of these pieces are terrifically affecting. "Seeing You Off the Edges" is mostly a cluster of held cello notes, but those moments when the melody jumps an octave trigger an immediate pang of longing. "After Nature", a chamber piece that layers violins with heavy reverb, sounds like something that would waft out of the ballroom in The Shining during one of Jack Nicholson's breaks away from the typewriter. "Ostinato" is a gradually unwinding piece for pipe organ with a simple melody, but during the pattern's lowest ebb, when the bass pedal comes in and vibrates the room, it echoes a towering cathedral. My issue with Copia-- the thing that keeps this record from greatness-- is Cooper's approach to piano. I know people who love Accidental Memory and the dabbling of acoustic keys on last year's When I Live By the Garden and the Sea EP, but this is where I always find myself tuning out. Copia is the first record where piano is fully integrated into other aspects of Cooper's sound; for my money, these tracks are the record's weakest, coming across as unpleasantly leading, sometimes bordering on manipulative. Any sense of mystery-- a quality essential to Eluvium's best music-- evaporates completely during "Prelude for Time Feelers" and "Radio Ballet", where piano dominates. The word "Satie" sometimes comes up when he goes in this direction, which is way off; "Winston" is more accurate. Coming from a guy who owned a few Windham Hill albums back in the day, I don't mean this as a dig; the piano-led tracks are enjoyable and pretty but almost defiantly surface-level. The nine-minute finale "Repose in Blue", on the other hand, shows Cooper at his large-canvas best, where the on-the-nose emotional pointers work to his advantage. He discards the line between drama and melodrama as he bursts in halfway though a piece of brooding cello drone laced with horns and throws a recording of fireworks against the black sky. The explosions sound like bass and kettledrums as they burst at random without a discernible pattern, and it nicely completes the John Phillip Sousa Americana hinted at on the record's opener. If "Amreik" was a formal procession in June, this is Independence Day a month later, with bombs bursting in air as the orchestra beneath weaves a lament for the radio simulcast. It is, of course, over the top, but to a degree that strikes me as courageous. Eluvium's music isn't a web of possibilities to be explored, but a very specific path to be followed. When it works as well as it does on "Repose in Blue", it takes you to an exalted place.

Artist: Eluvium, Album: Copia, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "As an ambient artist, Eluvium's Matthew Cooper is working in a pretty crowded field, but with a gradually evolving sound and distinctive approach to his genre, his profile continues to rise. Though his 2003 all-piano record An Accidental Memory in Case of Death might have seemed like a left turn in light of the guitar-based drone tracks that came before and after, his records all share an aesthetic: Eluvium's ambient music is music first and ambient second; it leans forward, asks for consideration, and has no desire to slip into the background. That thread continues on his newest full-length, even as his palette broadens considerably. Incorporating strings, horns, woodwinds, and more piano, Copia is the grandest, most sweeping Eluvium record to date. The word that keeps coming to mind is "regal," perhaps because the lush opening fanfare "Amreik" sets the tone for the album so perfectly. Just over three minutes long, the rich blend of French horns, trumpets and trombones comes together to form a soundtrack for convocation. From there, the record dives headlong into the 10-minute "Indoor Swimming at the Space Station", which layers piano and strings (never quite clear throughout what is sampled, what is live, and what is synthetic) on his most filmic piece to date. As "cinematic" music goes-- and the adjective is appropriate throughout Copia-- these pieces tend toward widescreen pictures with big budgets. It's grand movie music in the "Adagio With Strings" sense; we're not talking about exercises in subtle shading. With that in mind, Cooper has developed a good sense of pacing and structure, and some of these pieces are terrifically affecting. "Seeing You Off the Edges" is mostly a cluster of held cello notes, but those moments when the melody jumps an octave trigger an immediate pang of longing. "After Nature", a chamber piece that layers violins with heavy reverb, sounds like something that would waft out of the ballroom in The Shining during one of Jack Nicholson's breaks away from the typewriter. "Ostinato" is a gradually unwinding piece for pipe organ with a simple melody, but during the pattern's lowest ebb, when the bass pedal comes in and vibrates the room, it echoes a towering cathedral. My issue with Copia-- the thing that keeps this record from greatness-- is Cooper's approach to piano. I know people who love Accidental Memory and the dabbling of acoustic keys on last year's When I Live By the Garden and the Sea EP, but this is where I always find myself tuning out. Copia is the first record where piano is fully integrated into other aspects of Cooper's sound; for my money, these tracks are the record's weakest, coming across as unpleasantly leading, sometimes bordering on manipulative. Any sense of mystery-- a quality essential to Eluvium's best music-- evaporates completely during "Prelude for Time Feelers" and "Radio Ballet", where piano dominates. The word "Satie" sometimes comes up when he goes in this direction, which is way off; "Winston" is more accurate. Coming from a guy who owned a few Windham Hill albums back in the day, I don't mean this as a dig; the piano-led tracks are enjoyable and pretty but almost defiantly surface-level. The nine-minute finale "Repose in Blue", on the other hand, shows Cooper at his large-canvas best, where the on-the-nose emotional pointers work to his advantage. He discards the line between drama and melodrama as he bursts in halfway though a piece of brooding cello drone laced with horns and throws a recording of fireworks against the black sky. The explosions sound like bass and kettledrums as they burst at random without a discernible pattern, and it nicely completes the John Phillip Sousa Americana hinted at on the record's opener. If "Amreik" was a formal procession in June, this is Independence Day a month later, with bombs bursting in air as the orchestra beneath weaves a lament for the radio simulcast. It is, of course, over the top, but to a degree that strikes me as courageous. Eluvium's music isn't a web of possibilities to be explored, but a very specific path to be followed. When it works as well as it does on "Repose in Blue", it takes you to an exalted place."

Jawbox

Jawbox

Rock

Brian Howe

Two of the best Dischord albums didn't actually come out on the legendary punk imprint. In 1994, Atlantic released Jawbox's For Your Own Special Sweetheart and that same year Epic issued Shudder to Think's Pony Express Record. Both groups had made their names on Dischord, and "selling out" was a fraught move for anyone from that world. While neither record made much of a mainstream impact, they were masterpieces that used a major label's resources to magnify, not dilute, an innovative sound formed in a close-knit Washington, D.C. punk scene. Jawbox had a unique approach to that aesthetic with their jazzy time signatures and noise-rock textures, and their major label debut arguably represents the pinnacle of D.C. post-hardcore, catching it just as it made its way into the alt-rock era. But if Jawbox reasonably fit into the mainstream three years after Nirvana broke, it wasn't meant to last. Beck's Mellow Gold also came out in 1994, leading the way for the stoned, sample-happy kitchen-sink pop that was about to push ideological punk-derived music aside. In the twilight of grunge, Sweetheart could get away with being defiantly noisy and raw. Two years later, Jawbox's self-titled finale, which is now being reissued, showed some signs of capitulation to an omnipresent college-radio sound. A certain passively disaffected mien creeps in here and there, an awkward fit for a famously earnest, intense, and hardworking band. But a few dated details detract little from the songwriting, where rampaging fury is tempered by calculating musicianship, pitch-conscious singing, and precise ethics disguised as cut-up squawks of code. Jawbox signed with Atlantic in order to play music full-time, not necessarily to become famous, and their contract wasn't onerous. They had a lot of freedom on Sweetheart and anatomized their sound on its greatest song, the angelically bruising "Savory". Nothing about it is hard-charging in the manner of classic hardcore punk; everything coils and squirms in an ominous quiet punctuated by deafening detonations. All of this is still true on Jawbox: J. Robbins' warm, chesty voice oscillates between an ominous croon and an octave-leaping peal. His guitar's spidery treble clashes against Bill Barbot's gnarled, almost bluesy licks, bent out of shape by a high-pressure rhythm section. Zach Barocas lays a volatile foundation, drumming around the beats at a slant, and Kim Coletta's bass embeds more zooms and fillips in outwardly brawny, inwardly delicate masses of sound. But "preserved" is an apt term, as the record sounds more canned than its predecessor, losing some of its palpable danger. Though the guitar attack can be ferocious, the former dynamic range is squeezed in. Barbot's guitar work is perhaps more inventive than ever before, but instead of exploding into being, it more often sidewinds in and out of the mix. Relaxed, almost boho passages on "Mirrorful", "Desert Sea", and "Livid" sound more like the Breeders and Pavement than Embrace and Rites of Spring, early emo-core bands that influenced Jawbox. My favorite song on the album is also their prettiest ever, "Iodine", a sleepy, melancholy ballad where Robbins sings, with unusual tenderness, over a limpid melody painted in liquid trails of guitar. There's even a hidden song, an unironic (if not overly reverent) cover of Tori Amos' "Cornflake Girl". You can't get much more "120 Minutes" than that. Signs of the times aside, there is plenty of peak Jawbox to be found. "His Only Trade" churns as thrillingly as "Jackpot Plus!" from Sweetheart, with Robbins' fiery vocal performance matching the urgent lyrics: "Someday he's gonna wake up in a burning house and wonder what to save and wonder who to blame." "Empire of One" finds a deep, exhilarating pocket in jungle drums and terse call-and-response vocals. "Capillary Life" is notably grand and subtle, with a multi-staged depth and scope elapsing in the usual three-or-so minutes. J. Robbins chants and spits like he means it. But what did he mean? "Best of all," as he sings, "it's open-ended." You'd call the lyrics stream-of-consciousness if they weren't so focused, the phrases and delivery so sharply wrought. Robbins' cryptic tirades have a moral dimension and an aesthetic one; they accuse and self-lacerate; they are wary of systems and alert to betrayals of trust. Two frames in particular stand out. On "Won't Come Off", Robbins sings, "One second cut from the arc of a swan dive, pulled out tight to the pitch of a taut line," as if encapsulating his band's situation and style: An arc of force that has been pulled straight, thrumming with the strength of its own will to bend back. "At the bottom, they all want proof, and at the top, no one's making room," Robbins adds on "Chinese Fork Tie", as if diagnosing his position between an equally restive underground and mainstream. After their self-titled album, Jawbox's Atlantic sub-label disintegrated and mainstream music moved on from cleaning up punk bands. In their relatively brief existence, they made made a lasting impression on incoming waves of math-rock and post-punk bands with dissonant textures, awkward stop-start dynamics, and knotty instrumental phrasing. And if it's not their best album, their self-titled swan song, frequently cutting through its temporal trappings with that old desperation and drive, still holds up.

Artist: Jawbox, Album: Jawbox, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Two of the best Dischord albums didn't actually come out on the legendary punk imprint. In 1994, Atlantic released Jawbox's For Your Own Special Sweetheart and that same year Epic issued Shudder to Think's Pony Express Record. Both groups had made their names on Dischord, and "selling out" was a fraught move for anyone from that world. While neither record made much of a mainstream impact, they were masterpieces that used a major label's resources to magnify, not dilute, an innovative sound formed in a close-knit Washington, D.C. punk scene. Jawbox had a unique approach to that aesthetic with their jazzy time signatures and noise-rock textures, and their major label debut arguably represents the pinnacle of D.C. post-hardcore, catching it just as it made its way into the alt-rock era. But if Jawbox reasonably fit into the mainstream three years after Nirvana broke, it wasn't meant to last. Beck's Mellow Gold also came out in 1994, leading the way for the stoned, sample-happy kitchen-sink pop that was about to push ideological punk-derived music aside. In the twilight of grunge, Sweetheart could get away with being defiantly noisy and raw. Two years later, Jawbox's self-titled finale, which is now being reissued, showed some signs of capitulation to an omnipresent college-radio sound. A certain passively disaffected mien creeps in here and there, an awkward fit for a famously earnest, intense, and hardworking band. But a few dated details detract little from the songwriting, where rampaging fury is tempered by calculating musicianship, pitch-conscious singing, and precise ethics disguised as cut-up squawks of code. Jawbox signed with Atlantic in order to play music full-time, not necessarily to become famous, and their contract wasn't onerous. They had a lot of freedom on Sweetheart and anatomized their sound on its greatest song, the angelically bruising "Savory". Nothing about it is hard-charging in the manner of classic hardcore punk; everything coils and squirms in an ominous quiet punctuated by deafening detonations. All of this is still true on Jawbox: J. Robbins' warm, chesty voice oscillates between an ominous croon and an octave-leaping peal. His guitar's spidery treble clashes against Bill Barbot's gnarled, almost bluesy licks, bent out of shape by a high-pressure rhythm section. Zach Barocas lays a volatile foundation, drumming around the beats at a slant, and Kim Coletta's bass embeds more zooms and fillips in outwardly brawny, inwardly delicate masses of sound. But "preserved" is an apt term, as the record sounds more canned than its predecessor, losing some of its palpable danger. Though the guitar attack can be ferocious, the former dynamic range is squeezed in. Barbot's guitar work is perhaps more inventive than ever before, but instead of exploding into being, it more often sidewinds in and out of the mix. Relaxed, almost boho passages on "Mirrorful", "Desert Sea", and "Livid" sound more like the Breeders and Pavement than Embrace and Rites of Spring, early emo-core bands that influenced Jawbox. My favorite song on the album is also their prettiest ever, "Iodine", a sleepy, melancholy ballad where Robbins sings, with unusual tenderness, over a limpid melody painted in liquid trails of guitar. There's even a hidden song, an unironic (if not overly reverent) cover of Tori Amos' "Cornflake Girl". You can't get much more "120 Minutes" than that. Signs of the times aside, there is plenty of peak Jawbox to be found. "His Only Trade" churns as thrillingly as "Jackpot Plus!" from Sweetheart, with Robbins' fiery vocal performance matching the urgent lyrics: "Someday he's gonna wake up in a burning house and wonder what to save and wonder who to blame." "Empire of One" finds a deep, exhilarating pocket in jungle drums and terse call-and-response vocals. "Capillary Life" is notably grand and subtle, with a multi-staged depth and scope elapsing in the usual three-or-so minutes. J. Robbins chants and spits like he means it. But what did he mean? "Best of all," as he sings, "it's open-ended." You'd call the lyrics stream-of-consciousness if they weren't so focused, the phrases and delivery so sharply wrought. Robbins' cryptic tirades have a moral dimension and an aesthetic one; they accuse and self-lacerate; they are wary of systems and alert to betrayals of trust. Two frames in particular stand out. On "Won't Come Off", Robbins sings, "One second cut from the arc of a swan dive, pulled out tight to the pitch of a taut line," as if encapsulating his band's situation and style: An arc of force that has been pulled straight, thrumming with the strength of its own will to bend back. "At the bottom, they all want proof, and at the top, no one's making room," Robbins adds on "Chinese Fork Tie", as if diagnosing his position between an equally restive underground and mainstream. After their self-titled album, Jawbox's Atlantic sub-label disintegrated and mainstream music moved on from cleaning up punk bands. In their relatively brief existence, they made made a lasting impression on incoming waves of math-rock and post-punk bands with dissonant textures, awkward stop-start dynamics, and knotty instrumental phrasing. And if it's not their best album, their self-titled swan song, frequently cutting through its temporal trappings with that old desperation and drive, still holds up."

Various Artists

Dean Quixote sdtk.

Kevin Adickes

As each day passes, it becomes more and more difficult to write a truly gratifying pop song. Part of the pop equation relies on a sense of spontaneity that has become increasingly elusive as listeners have now had, debatably, seventy-five years to construct an emotional immunity to the same unvarying formula. There are always those who will invert the standard for successful songwriting, leaving the accessibility to the less daring. Then there are those who acknowledge the inescapable grasp and scope of their musical heritage and imbue their own music with enough inventiveness to endure repeated discriminating listens. Unfortunately, many seemingly creative bands merely stumble upon whatever unique sonic deviations earmark their respective "sound" and, once they have it patented, infuse it with every damn Beatles/Chuck Berry regurgitation they write. So it should be said that while an original technique is an occasional indicator of true talent (i.e. Phil Elvrum and his affinity for right/left channel panning guitars) true judgment should be reserved for the frequency in which you actually listen to the artist's recorded output. This is the best way to delineate between talent and plain sticktuitiveness. So what do you do with all those outstanding songs mired in between album-filler and the token ballad attempt? You make a mix tape. Orion Walker expresses his love of mix tapes in the liner notes of the soundtrack to his film, Dean Quixote. "There's a lot of great music being made... but you'll never hear this music unless you look for it. Or unless you're lucky enough to have a friend that makes you a mix tape..." Indeed, Orion Walker seems to be a man of sage-like advice and the psychedelic murmuring of his mix tape to us, his audience, only reinforces the notion that he's a thinking man's man and his taste is nigh impeccable. The album commences with the Olivia Tremor Control's "Jumping Fences" which, after nearly five years, still evokes the same paradoxical euphoric dystopia as it did on Dusk at Cubist Castle. There is no conceptual analysis of the modern pop song to be found, as on Black Foliage-- just Will Cullen Hart and Bill Doss stretching their comparative musical muscles and setting the ambience for the vast majority of the record. Elephant Six dignitary Robert Schneider seems to pop up randomly throughout the course of the album. His band, the Apples in Stereo, are well represented with the inclusion of "What Happened Then" from the hit-and-miss Discovery of a World Inside the Moone, and his Orchestre Fantastique offer up the film's theme, "Stars on the Sea." All said, Orchestre Fantastique sounds like incidental music for 70s educational programming, but within the context of the album, its breeziness is easily overlooked-- especially when compared to the Beachwood Sparks' "This is What It Feels Like (Alt. Version)." Both of these tracks, which would normally undergo a far more jaded critical knife, actually provide a fair definition for the album: a group of artists offering their winning interpretations of the "archetypal pop song." The Minders turn out a piece that's not entirely dissimilar from what Nick Drake's instrumental "Bryter Layter" would sound like if interpreted as elevator music, and Spink (whose name should really be changed if they wish to gain an ounce of respect) cover the Palace Brothers' classic "New Partner." Elsewhere, Songs: Ohia stay around just long enough to infect your blood with the catchy-as-all-hell "Hot Black Silk." Though it may be impossible for Jason Molina to escape the Will Oldham comparisons, he shows here that he has the range (musically and vocally) to transcend a few of those stylistic similarities. The remainder of the album is similarly engaging. Robert Pollard, who is supposedly close friends with Walker, appears in the film and donates the underrated gem "If We Wait" from the generous ten-song Sunfish Holy Breakfast EP. And, like such revivalist luminaries as Goldfrapp and the Squirrel Nut Zippers in their more sultry moments, Crystal Keith and Kim Fox come to the radical conclusion that the seduction of lounge music didn't die in the 40s with their contribution, "O What a Noble Mind Is Here Overthrown." I'm glad to say that I haven't seen Dean Quixote. Hearing these songs free of their intended context seems to have nourished the area of my brain that would have been deprived of stimulation had I watched this film at the local art house. So I'm taking the purist's route. The visualizations I've conjured up are more fantastic than anything that can be committed to celluloid. Life just can't be contained in 24-frames-a-second, and rather than have the film inspire the soundtrack, I've allowed the music to catalyze my generally dormant creativity. The only flaw in my plan: my expectations for the actual film have far exceeded the very constraints of cinema. This soundtrack has ruined it all for me.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Dean Quixote sdtk., Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "As each day passes, it becomes more and more difficult to write a truly gratifying pop song. Part of the pop equation relies on a sense of spontaneity that has become increasingly elusive as listeners have now had, debatably, seventy-five years to construct an emotional immunity to the same unvarying formula. There are always those who will invert the standard for successful songwriting, leaving the accessibility to the less daring. Then there are those who acknowledge the inescapable grasp and scope of their musical heritage and imbue their own music with enough inventiveness to endure repeated discriminating listens. Unfortunately, many seemingly creative bands merely stumble upon whatever unique sonic deviations earmark their respective "sound" and, once they have it patented, infuse it with every damn Beatles/Chuck Berry regurgitation they write. So it should be said that while an original technique is an occasional indicator of true talent (i.e. Phil Elvrum and his affinity for right/left channel panning guitars) true judgment should be reserved for the frequency in which you actually listen to the artist's recorded output. This is the best way to delineate between talent and plain sticktuitiveness. So what do you do with all those outstanding songs mired in between album-filler and the token ballad attempt? You make a mix tape. Orion Walker expresses his love of mix tapes in the liner notes of the soundtrack to his film, Dean Quixote. "There's a lot of great music being made... but you'll never hear this music unless you look for it. Or unless you're lucky enough to have a friend that makes you a mix tape..." Indeed, Orion Walker seems to be a man of sage-like advice and the psychedelic murmuring of his mix tape to us, his audience, only reinforces the notion that he's a thinking man's man and his taste is nigh impeccable. The album commences with the Olivia Tremor Control's "Jumping Fences" which, after nearly five years, still evokes the same paradoxical euphoric dystopia as it did on Dusk at Cubist Castle. There is no conceptual analysis of the modern pop song to be found, as on Black Foliage-- just Will Cullen Hart and Bill Doss stretching their comparative musical muscles and setting the ambience for the vast majority of the record. Elephant Six dignitary Robert Schneider seems to pop up randomly throughout the course of the album. His band, the Apples in Stereo, are well represented with the inclusion of "What Happened Then" from the hit-and-miss Discovery of a World Inside the Moone, and his Orchestre Fantastique offer up the film's theme, "Stars on the Sea." All said, Orchestre Fantastique sounds like incidental music for 70s educational programming, but within the context of the album, its breeziness is easily overlooked-- especially when compared to the Beachwood Sparks' "This is What It Feels Like (Alt. Version)." Both of these tracks, which would normally undergo a far more jaded critical knife, actually provide a fair definition for the album: a group of artists offering their winning interpretations of the "archetypal pop song." The Minders turn out a piece that's not entirely dissimilar from what Nick Drake's instrumental "Bryter Layter" would sound like if interpreted as elevator music, and Spink (whose name should really be changed if they wish to gain an ounce of respect) cover the Palace Brothers' classic "New Partner." Elsewhere, Songs: Ohia stay around just long enough to infect your blood with the catchy-as-all-hell "Hot Black Silk." Though it may be impossible for Jason Molina to escape the Will Oldham comparisons, he shows here that he has the range (musically and vocally) to transcend a few of those stylistic similarities. The remainder of the album is similarly engaging. Robert Pollard, who is supposedly close friends with Walker, appears in the film and donates the underrated gem "If We Wait" from the generous ten-song Sunfish Holy Breakfast EP. And, like such revivalist luminaries as Goldfrapp and the Squirrel Nut Zippers in their more sultry moments, Crystal Keith and Kim Fox come to the radical conclusion that the seduction of lounge music didn't die in the 40s with their contribution, "O What a Noble Mind Is Here Overthrown." I'm glad to say that I haven't seen Dean Quixote. Hearing these songs free of their intended context seems to have nourished the area of my brain that would have been deprived of stimulation had I watched this film at the local art house. So I'm taking the purist's route. The visualizations I've conjured up are more fantastic than anything that can be committed to celluloid. Life just can't be contained in 24-frames-a-second, and rather than have the film inspire the soundtrack, I've allowed the music to catalyze my generally dormant creativity. The only flaw in my plan: my expectations for the actual film have far exceeded the very constraints of cinema. This soundtrack has ruined it all for me."

John Cale

Paris 1919

Rock

Matthew Murphy

John Cale's 1973 album Paris 1919 has long been justly celebrated as the most accessible and most purely beautiful record of his storied, multi-faceted career. And despite the album's abiding eccentricities-- the literary and historical allusions, posh orchestration, and abstruse lyricism-- it has often seemed to be Cale's most personal and revealing work as well, a deeply felt meditation on loss, dislocation, and introspective yearning. For this lavish new remastered edition, Rhino UK has unearthed 11 previously unreleased rehearsals and alternate takes, including one completed outtake, "Burned Out Affair", not included on the original album. This wealth of additional material nearly triples the running length of the original, and provides fascinating new insight into the deliberative construction of Cale's still-vibrant masterpiece. By 1973, of course, Cale had already assembled a résumé that would assure his status in the avant-rock pantheon. He'd worked in the Dream Syndicate and Theatre of Eternal Music alongside La Monte Young and Tony Conrad; recorded an album with Terry Riley; produced albums for Nico and the Stooges; and-- most significantly-- had co-founded the Velvet Underground. Yet it must be noted that at this point Cale's musical legacy had not yet entirely caught up with him. His early work with Young and Conrad was (and largely remains) under-documented and clouded in shadow, while the Velvets-- and the Stooges, for that matter-- boasted a reverent cult following but had yet to earn their reputation as supremely influential proto-punk and underground rock icons. Meanwhile, Cale's post-VU solo work had been largely met with critical and commercial indifference, which eventually lead to him parting ways with Columbia Records. His first album for his new label Reprise was The Academy in Peril, an underrated collection of avant-garde instrumentals that Warner Brothers ultimately decided to bill as their first classical release. Despite this marketing confusion, Cale's standing with Reprise remained solid-- at least if one is to trust Paris 1919's original liner notes, included here-- and he was able to author the new album with some degree of creative control. Just as importantly, and for perhaps the last time in his career, Cale was able to approach the ambitious project with a distinct freedom from audience expectation. Many of the choices Cale made with the benefit of this freedom remain astonishing to this day. Most noteworthy was his curious decision to enlist the talents of guitarist Lowell George and drummer Richie Hayward, both members of the L.A.-based boogie-rock outfit Little Feat. Though it must have seemed an incongruous choice at the time, this small ensemble proved to be an inspired marriage of styles, as George contributes several lovely, expressive solos and Hayward underscores tracks like "Macbeth" with a cavernous post-Velvets stomp. Cale also employed the UCLA Symphony Orchestra to flesh out his sophisticated, piano-based compositions, and their dramatic arrangements furnish Paris 1919 with much of its stately, haunting grandeur. Throughout the album, Cale populates his songs with geographic detail-- including not just Paris, but also Barbury, Andalucia, Dunkirk, etc.-- and cryptic characters like Old Taylor, Segovia, and Farmer John. As writer Matthew Specktor points out in his lively liner notes, these wry characterizations allow the album to take on the appearance of a Graham Greene novella, with Greene himself the subject of one of the album's strangest and most erudite tracks. On this track, as elsewhere on Paris 1919, Cale's lyrics veritably drip with intrigue and thinly-masked violence ("It must all seem like second nature/ Chopping down the people where they stand") with the album's central narrative based very loosely upon the Versailles Conference in 1919 Paris. But many of these songs contain tantalizing autobiographical overtones as well, particularly on the opening "Child's Christmas in Wales", which blends its Dylan Thomas references with what might be memories from Cale's own childhood. And on the elegiac "Half Past France", it's left ambiguous whether the song's narrator is a battle-weary WWI soldier returning from the front, or simply an exhausted touring musician wondering where exactly on the map he is. The shadow of Graham Greene returns on this set's one completed outtake, "A Burnt-Out Affair", a track whose name seems a mash-up of two Greene titles: A Burnt-Out Case and The End of the Affair. Despite Cale's rather ragged vocal delivery, this track seems perfectly of a piece with the bulk of Paris 1919, leaving one to wonder what structural concerns might've kept it off the original album. Many of the other bonus tracks included here appear to be unfinished sketches, including a striking rehearsal take of Cale's deathless ballad "Andalucia" which he sings in a muffled near-whisper, sounding as though not entirely sure of the lyrics. But several of the bonus tracks seem nearer completion, and grant the listener an intriguing glimpse at what could be Paris 1919's alternate history. A hypnotic, viola-led "drone mix" of "Hanky Panky Nohow" draws a stronger link to Cale's earlier musical experiments than anything on the released version of the album, while a stripped-down rendition of "The Endless Planes of Fortune" better accentuates Cale's nuanced vocal and Lowell George's understated country-rock accents. The album's title track appears in two additional versions-- a "string mix" that features only Cale and a small chamber ensemble, and a "piano mix" that includes a beautiful, overtly Brian Wilson-inspired vocal bridge. Each of these alternate tracks is revelatory in its own right, and when taken together with the completed album this collection offers a brilliant working portrait of an artist testing the full possibilities of his songcraft. For better or worse, Cale has never again made another record quite like Paris 1919, at least in part, one suspects, because so many in his audience have since longed for him to do so.

Artist: John Cale, Album: Paris 1919, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.5 Album review: "John Cale's 1973 album Paris 1919 has long been justly celebrated as the most accessible and most purely beautiful record of his storied, multi-faceted career. And despite the album's abiding eccentricities-- the literary and historical allusions, posh orchestration, and abstruse lyricism-- it has often seemed to be Cale's most personal and revealing work as well, a deeply felt meditation on loss, dislocation, and introspective yearning. For this lavish new remastered edition, Rhino UK has unearthed 11 previously unreleased rehearsals and alternate takes, including one completed outtake, "Burned Out Affair", not included on the original album. This wealth of additional material nearly triples the running length of the original, and provides fascinating new insight into the deliberative construction of Cale's still-vibrant masterpiece. By 1973, of course, Cale had already assembled a résumé that would assure his status in the avant-rock pantheon. He'd worked in the Dream Syndicate and Theatre of Eternal Music alongside La Monte Young and Tony Conrad; recorded an album with Terry Riley; produced albums for Nico and the Stooges; and-- most significantly-- had co-founded the Velvet Underground. Yet it must be noted that at this point Cale's musical legacy had not yet entirely caught up with him. His early work with Young and Conrad was (and largely remains) under-documented and clouded in shadow, while the Velvets-- and the Stooges, for that matter-- boasted a reverent cult following but had yet to earn their reputation as supremely influential proto-punk and underground rock icons. Meanwhile, Cale's post-VU solo work had been largely met with critical and commercial indifference, which eventually lead to him parting ways with Columbia Records. His first album for his new label Reprise was The Academy in Peril, an underrated collection of avant-garde instrumentals that Warner Brothers ultimately decided to bill as their first classical release. Despite this marketing confusion, Cale's standing with Reprise remained solid-- at least if one is to trust Paris 1919's original liner notes, included here-- and he was able to author the new album with some degree of creative control. Just as importantly, and for perhaps the last time in his career, Cale was able to approach the ambitious project with a distinct freedom from audience expectation. Many of the choices Cale made with the benefit of this freedom remain astonishing to this day. Most noteworthy was his curious decision to enlist the talents of guitarist Lowell George and drummer Richie Hayward, both members of the L.A.-based boogie-rock outfit Little Feat. Though it must have seemed an incongruous choice at the time, this small ensemble proved to be an inspired marriage of styles, as George contributes several lovely, expressive solos and Hayward underscores tracks like "Macbeth" with a cavernous post-Velvets stomp. Cale also employed the UCLA Symphony Orchestra to flesh out his sophisticated, piano-based compositions, and their dramatic arrangements furnish Paris 1919 with much of its stately, haunting grandeur. Throughout the album, Cale populates his songs with geographic detail-- including not just Paris, but also Barbury, Andalucia, Dunkirk, etc.-- and cryptic characters like Old Taylor, Segovia, and Farmer John. As writer Matthew Specktor points out in his lively liner notes, these wry characterizations allow the album to take on the appearance of a Graham Greene novella, with Greene himself the subject of one of the album's strangest and most erudite tracks. On this track, as elsewhere on Paris 1919, Cale's lyrics veritably drip with intrigue and thinly-masked violence ("It must all seem like second nature/ Chopping down the people where they stand") with the album's central narrative based very loosely upon the Versailles Conference in 1919 Paris. But many of these songs contain tantalizing autobiographical overtones as well, particularly on the opening "Child's Christmas in Wales", which blends its Dylan Thomas references with what might be memories from Cale's own childhood. And on the elegiac "Half Past France", it's left ambiguous whether the song's narrator is a battle-weary WWI soldier returning from the front, or simply an exhausted touring musician wondering where exactly on the map he is. The shadow of Graham Greene returns on this set's one completed outtake, "A Burnt-Out Affair", a track whose name seems a mash-up of two Greene titles: A Burnt-Out Case and The End of the Affair. Despite Cale's rather ragged vocal delivery, this track seems perfectly of a piece with the bulk of Paris 1919, leaving one to wonder what structural concerns might've kept it off the original album. Many of the other bonus tracks included here appear to be unfinished sketches, including a striking rehearsal take of Cale's deathless ballad "Andalucia" which he sings in a muffled near-whisper, sounding as though not entirely sure of the lyrics. But several of the bonus tracks seem nearer completion, and grant the listener an intriguing glimpse at what could be Paris 1919's alternate history. A hypnotic, viola-led "drone mix" of "Hanky Panky Nohow" draws a stronger link to Cale's earlier musical experiments than anything on the released version of the album, while a stripped-down rendition of "The Endless Planes of Fortune" better accentuates Cale's nuanced vocal and Lowell George's understated country-rock accents. The album's title track appears in two additional versions-- a "string mix" that features only Cale and a small chamber ensemble, and a "piano mix" that includes a beautiful, overtly Brian Wilson-inspired vocal bridge. Each of these alternate tracks is revelatory in its own right, and when taken together with the completed album this collection offers a brilliant working portrait of an artist testing the full possibilities of his songcraft. For better or worse, Cale has never again made another record quite like Paris 1919, at least in part, one suspects, because so many in his audience have since longed for him to do so."

Mi Ami

Watersports

Experimental,Rock

Tom Breihan

For a few minutes early in 2003, D.C. clatterers Black Eyes were basically the best band in the world. They fed the sharp-shock Rapture dance-punk of the day through about 50 layers of organically grimy Dischord history, ending up with a whirling sort of catharsis that was as fun as it was heavy. The band's personnel went like this: two drummers, two bassists, and one dude who made dying-pterodactyl squawks while thrashing out tinny, spidery almost-funk guitar riffs and doing everything he could to disrupt the thundering groove exploding all around him. Black Eyes' live shows were dank basement dance parties for the ages: furious, immediate, jarring, sweaty as all hell. And then the band recorded Cough, their half-assed dub experiment of a second album, and suddenly ended. They were, after all, a D.C. band, and that's what D.C. bands do. Black Eyes bassist Jacob Long and squawker/guitarist Daniel Martin-McCormick make up two thirds of the San Francisco trio Mi Ami, whose existence makes me not miss Black Eyes so badly anymore. Their debut album, Watersports, takes the skritchety tumble of Black Eyes and stretches it out into something psychedelic, near-infinite. Watersports is seven songs long, and it lasts 47 minutes. Their beats don't rattle; they push and flicker and fade. Watersports is like the self-titled Black Eyes album calmed down and zoned out, the attempted dub of Cough fully developed and realized. The songs don't have verses or choruses; they're endless, mesmeric builds that flare up and then cool out again. Even at their noisiest, they maintain their mantra-like repetition. Part of the secret is in the recording itself. Watersports sounds terrific. A couple of pre-album 12" singles captured a similar sound, but the bass was too thin, the drums too muffled. Here, the bass is thick and supple, echoing and ringing and never losing its footing. Long's bass makes the real rhythmic bed here; Damon Palermo's drums color spaces around that metronomic bubble as often as they keep time. Martin-McCormick's voice, which could be downright annoying even when Black Eyes were at their best, still works as an agent of rupture. But even he has cooled out a bit, muttering deep in the mix rather than yowling overtop of it. His lyrics, on the rare occasions when I can understand them, seem to turn Watersports into a disco album about being trapped inside your own skull; other people are "only the echo of my mind." On his guitar, he plays Morse-code pings, letting them fall over the tracks like rain as often as it slashes through them. The album comes sequenced almost like a DJ set; grooves maintain across tracks, and sometimes you don't notice immediately when one song dissolves into another. That reverb-y stretched-out quality is Mi Ami's greatest strength, one I hope they keep pushing on whatever records they do next. But you've probably already noticed that I can't help comparing this band to Black Eyes. This isn't really Mi Ami's fault, but Black Eyes were just too good, and wishing Mi Ami sounded just like them is as inevitable as wishing "30 Rock" was even more like "Arrested Development". The two ex-Black Eyes dudes in Mi Ami have some powerful magic working here, but they had even more when they just couldn't contain themselves.

Artist: Mi Ami, Album: Watersports, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "For a few minutes early in 2003, D.C. clatterers Black Eyes were basically the best band in the world. They fed the sharp-shock Rapture dance-punk of the day through about 50 layers of organically grimy Dischord history, ending up with a whirling sort of catharsis that was as fun as it was heavy. The band's personnel went like this: two drummers, two bassists, and one dude who made dying-pterodactyl squawks while thrashing out tinny, spidery almost-funk guitar riffs and doing everything he could to disrupt the thundering groove exploding all around him. Black Eyes' live shows were dank basement dance parties for the ages: furious, immediate, jarring, sweaty as all hell. And then the band recorded Cough, their half-assed dub experiment of a second album, and suddenly ended. They were, after all, a D.C. band, and that's what D.C. bands do. Black Eyes bassist Jacob Long and squawker/guitarist Daniel Martin-McCormick make up two thirds of the San Francisco trio Mi Ami, whose existence makes me not miss Black Eyes so badly anymore. Their debut album, Watersports, takes the skritchety tumble of Black Eyes and stretches it out into something psychedelic, near-infinite. Watersports is seven songs long, and it lasts 47 minutes. Their beats don't rattle; they push and flicker and fade. Watersports is like the self-titled Black Eyes album calmed down and zoned out, the attempted dub of Cough fully developed and realized. The songs don't have verses or choruses; they're endless, mesmeric builds that flare up and then cool out again. Even at their noisiest, they maintain their mantra-like repetition. Part of the secret is in the recording itself. Watersports sounds terrific. A couple of pre-album 12" singles captured a similar sound, but the bass was too thin, the drums too muffled. Here, the bass is thick and supple, echoing and ringing and never losing its footing. Long's bass makes the real rhythmic bed here; Damon Palermo's drums color spaces around that metronomic bubble as often as they keep time. Martin-McCormick's voice, which could be downright annoying even when Black Eyes were at their best, still works as an agent of rupture. But even he has cooled out a bit, muttering deep in the mix rather than yowling overtop of it. His lyrics, on the rare occasions when I can understand them, seem to turn Watersports into a disco album about being trapped inside your own skull; other people are "only the echo of my mind." On his guitar, he plays Morse-code pings, letting them fall over the tracks like rain as often as it slashes through them. The album comes sequenced almost like a DJ set; grooves maintain across tracks, and sometimes you don't notice immediately when one song dissolves into another. That reverb-y stretched-out quality is Mi Ami's greatest strength, one I hope they keep pushing on whatever records they do next. But you've probably already noticed that I can't help comparing this band to Black Eyes. This isn't really Mi Ami's fault, but Black Eyes were just too good, and wishing Mi Ami sounded just like them is as inevitable as wishing "30 Rock" was even more like "Arrested Development". The two ex-Black Eyes dudes in Mi Ami have some powerful magic working here, but they had even more when they just couldn't contain themselves."

Full of Hell

Trumpeting Ecstasy

Metal

Zoe Camp

Compared to the other branches of the heavy-metal family tree, grindcore bands face a disproportionately uphill battle when it comes to leaving an impact. As inheritors of both hardcore’s blistering short-form and death metal’s ear-splitting volume, they readily renounce sonic wiggle room, and by extension, conventional dynamics. In the right hands, grindcore’s shock-and-awe can feel dreamlike, even sublime. But fumble it, and the uniformity renders the whole storm moot, another passing flurry. Maryland/Pennsylvania crushers Full of Hell are well aware of these limitations, and have strived—and for the most part, succeeded—to overcome them since their 2009 inception. On their first two releases, 2011’s *Roots of Earth Are Consuming My Home *and 2013’s Rudiments of Mutilation, the band subverted sameness by tracing their basement fury with industrial touches (crackling samples, glitchy effects), filling out the din with textural frisson. Since then, Full of Hell have spent the bulk of their time in crossover mode. They’ve penned joint LPs with the avant-garde elite (Merzbow, The Body) and released splits with rabid contemporaries like Nails and Psywarfare, assembling a diverse arsenal of noisemakers in the process. Full of Hell’s upgraded toolbox is on full display on Trumpeting Ecstasy, their third and best solo album. With the coaching of hardcore luminary Kurt Ballou, the band barrel through a thrilling 23-minute gauntlet, all mosh-pits, sludge piles, and—because this is a Full of Hell album—bone-chilling reminders that we’re all going to die. While it’s anything but a crossover in the traditional sense (if you didn’t like grindcore before, this one probably won’t change your mind), the 11-song effort marks an impressive show of stylistic transcendence. *Trumpeting Ecstasy *is Full of Hell’s first studio album without Brandon Brown, the band’s co-founding bassist and one half of its unparalleled tag-team behind the mic; his demonic, guttural register is the ying to frontman Dylan Walker’s piercing yang, a hellish interplay that’s easily one of grindcore’s national treasures. But Brown’s replacement, Sam DiGristine, maintains this tradition with aplomb on “Gnawed Flesh” and “Crawling Back to God,” bellowing from the gut as his bandmate screams his head off. On “Branches of Yew” and “Bound Sphynx,” guitarist and effects wizard Spencer Hazard accelerates the jagged see-saw with tremoring, dread-laden riffs, matched note-for-note by drummer Dave Bland. Ballou rounds out the interstitial space—however few seconds that are left, anyway—with sinister, crackled melodrama: “The trees are in misery,” sighs a sampled Werner Herzog before the first peals of “Deluminate,” the album’s opening peal of Nordic Thunder. Although Full of Hell spend the majority of *Trumpeting Ecstasy *examining their usual tricks through an expanded prism, their overall approach remains the same. They take a sweeping panorama of the abyss, compress it down to a single point, and shade it in until it breaks. Towards the end of the album, the band momentarily loosen their grip, to great effect: art-pop auteur Nicole Dollanganger swoops into the static with an otherworldly aria, flooding the void with light. Less than a minute later—which can feel like an eternity in grindcore time—we’re back into oblivion. Following the sludgy closer “At the Cauldron’s Bottom,” the album chugs to a close, but that angelic interlude remains—an unsettling, unshakable magic. Such is the album’s spell.

Artist: Full of Hell, Album: Trumpeting Ecstasy, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Compared to the other branches of the heavy-metal family tree, grindcore bands face a disproportionately uphill battle when it comes to leaving an impact. As inheritors of both hardcore’s blistering short-form and death metal’s ear-splitting volume, they readily renounce sonic wiggle room, and by extension, conventional dynamics. In the right hands, grindcore’s shock-and-awe can feel dreamlike, even sublime. But fumble it, and the uniformity renders the whole storm moot, another passing flurry. Maryland/Pennsylvania crushers Full of Hell are well aware of these limitations, and have strived—and for the most part, succeeded—to overcome them since their 2009 inception. On their first two releases, 2011’s *Roots of Earth Are Consuming My Home *and 2013’s Rudiments of Mutilation, the band subverted sameness by tracing their basement fury with industrial touches (crackling samples, glitchy effects), filling out the din with textural frisson. Since then, Full of Hell have spent the bulk of their time in crossover mode. They’ve penned joint LPs with the avant-garde elite (Merzbow, The Body) and released splits with rabid contemporaries like Nails and Psywarfare, assembling a diverse arsenal of noisemakers in the process. Full of Hell’s upgraded toolbox is on full display on Trumpeting Ecstasy, their third and best solo album. With the coaching of hardcore luminary Kurt Ballou, the band barrel through a thrilling 23-minute gauntlet, all mosh-pits, sludge piles, and—because this is a Full of Hell album—bone-chilling reminders that we’re all going to die. While it’s anything but a crossover in the traditional sense (if you didn’t like grindcore before, this one probably won’t change your mind), the 11-song effort marks an impressive show of stylistic transcendence. *Trumpeting Ecstasy *is Full of Hell’s first studio album without Brandon Brown, the band’s co-founding bassist and one half of its unparalleled tag-team behind the mic; his demonic, guttural register is the ying to frontman Dylan Walker’s piercing yang, a hellish interplay that’s easily one of grindcore’s national treasures. But Brown’s replacement, Sam DiGristine, maintains this tradition with aplomb on “Gnawed Flesh” and “Crawling Back to God,” bellowing from the gut as his bandmate screams his head off. On “Branches of Yew” and “Bound Sphynx,” guitarist and effects wizard Spencer Hazard accelerates the jagged see-saw with tremoring, dread-laden riffs, matched note-for-note by drummer Dave Bland. Ballou rounds out the interstitial space—however few seconds that are left, anyway—with sinister, crackled melodrama: “The trees are in misery,” sighs a sampled Werner Herzog before the first peals of “Deluminate,” the album’s opening peal of Nordic Thunder. Although Full of Hell spend the majority of *Trumpeting Ecstasy *examining their usual tricks through an expanded prism, their overall approach remains the same. They take a sweeping panorama of the abyss, compress it down to a single point, and shade it in until it breaks. Towards the end of the album, the band momentarily loosen their grip, to great effect: art-pop auteur Nicole Dollanganger swoops into the static with an otherworldly aria, flooding the void with light. Less than a minute later—which can feel like an eternity in grindcore time—we’re back into oblivion. Following the sludgy closer “At the Cauldron’s Bottom,” the album chugs to a close, but that angelic interlude remains—an unsettling, unshakable magic. Such is the album’s spell."

Lockah

Yahoo or the Highway

Andrew Gaerig

Tom Banks, aka Lockah, spent the entirety of a recent Boiler Room broadcast playing early hip-hop, Miami bass, and electro records. This is a selection of musics that, in part, document people learning to party with new technologies, sounding sometimes like the A/V club's impression of a really hot time. Banks makes music that stands at the intersection of house, hip-hop, and R&B, but it doesn't sound like those awkward, searching records he spun in part because he's from a generation of producers who are very, very comfortable with technology. On Yahoo or the Highway, his debut album, he takes that old electro sound and smooths it out—hiding the seams, waxing the hood—resulting in a gleaming, hi-fidelity boogie that feels very modern. Yahoo or the Highway follows a series of EPs for fashionable labels such as the Mad Decent-affiliated Jeffree's and Slugabed's Activia Benz. Last year's Only Built for Neon Nights EP established Banks, alongside the Range, as one of the two most promising acts on Brighton's Donky Pitch label. Because Banks' music is bright and informed by hip-hop—but also because he's Scottish—he is frequently compared to Rustie and Hudson Mohawke. Banks shares their maximalist sparkle, but his music isn't as exploratory or massive. It's also, crucially, more lighthearted, possibly because when Banks claims his tracks draw from hip-hop, he's talking about Melle Mel instead of Lex Luger. Yahoo is digital music: forged by modern technology, it reflects the omnivorousness and immediacy spending time online. Banks, helpfully, is the kind of internet-clever that leads to plenty of #wordplay: "If Loving You Is Wrong, I Don't Want to Be Wrong", "Summer Jorts (Some Cats Still Do)" and "Sharks Sad Mouth in the 1st Pic" all feature as track titles. His artwork is peppered with everything from Ninja Turtles to the type of hyperreal photo-illustrations (see above) found on recent Night Slugs releases. While it contains plenty of references, Yahoo is not nostalgic for its influences in the same way CGI is not nostalgic for old special effects—this is just the way things are done now. Yahoo is so carefree and unconcerned that its occasional busyness—the crisscrossing melodies of "Ayyo Tricknology", the motorik, training-montage soundtrack that is "Every Song Was About U"—is ephemeral and easily brushed off. Banks succeeds when he paints in bold strokes. The confident breeziness of "If Loving U" moves in and out of a piano house breakdown; the tart lightness of opener "A Face Only Another Could Love" rolls out the red carpet for Yahoo's ballsiest bassline. The stuttering "Summer Jorts" is the sound of the Go! Team's cheerleading, sampledelic anthem "Ladyflash" rendered by someone who found if too stodgy and old-school. Yahoo is uncool in a comforting way, especially given the circles these tracks travel in: it's easy to imagine Glass Swords and TNGHT teasing it in the cafeteria. Its nowness is lived-in and casual, a byproduct rather than a statement. But rarely does effusive, whimsical music get the widescreen treatment. All of this bombast and glitter in the service of some knobby basslines and jokes about jean shorts: some cats still do, I guess.

Artist: Lockah, Album: Yahoo or the Highway, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Tom Banks, aka Lockah, spent the entirety of a recent Boiler Room broadcast playing early hip-hop, Miami bass, and electro records. This is a selection of musics that, in part, document people learning to party with new technologies, sounding sometimes like the A/V club's impression of a really hot time. Banks makes music that stands at the intersection of house, hip-hop, and R&B, but it doesn't sound like those awkward, searching records he spun in part because he's from a generation of producers who are very, very comfortable with technology. On Yahoo or the Highway, his debut album, he takes that old electro sound and smooths it out—hiding the seams, waxing the hood—resulting in a gleaming, hi-fidelity boogie that feels very modern. Yahoo or the Highway follows a series of EPs for fashionable labels such as the Mad Decent-affiliated Jeffree's and Slugabed's Activia Benz. Last year's Only Built for Neon Nights EP established Banks, alongside the Range, as one of the two most promising acts on Brighton's Donky Pitch label. Because Banks' music is bright and informed by hip-hop—but also because he's Scottish—he is frequently compared to Rustie and Hudson Mohawke. Banks shares their maximalist sparkle, but his music isn't as exploratory or massive. It's also, crucially, more lighthearted, possibly because when Banks claims his tracks draw from hip-hop, he's talking about Melle Mel instead of Lex Luger. Yahoo is digital music: forged by modern technology, it reflects the omnivorousness and immediacy spending time online. Banks, helpfully, is the kind of internet-clever that leads to plenty of #wordplay: "If Loving You Is Wrong, I Don't Want to Be Wrong", "Summer Jorts (Some Cats Still Do)" and "Sharks Sad Mouth in the 1st Pic" all feature as track titles. His artwork is peppered with everything from Ninja Turtles to the type of hyperreal photo-illustrations (see above) found on recent Night Slugs releases. While it contains plenty of references, Yahoo is not nostalgic for its influences in the same way CGI is not nostalgic for old special effects—this is just the way things are done now. Yahoo is so carefree and unconcerned that its occasional busyness—the crisscrossing melodies of "Ayyo Tricknology", the motorik, training-montage soundtrack that is "Every Song Was About U"—is ephemeral and easily brushed off. Banks succeeds when he paints in bold strokes. The confident breeziness of "If Loving U" moves in and out of a piano house breakdown; the tart lightness of opener "A Face Only Another Could Love" rolls out the red carpet for Yahoo's ballsiest bassline. The stuttering "Summer Jorts" is the sound of the Go! Team's cheerleading, sampledelic anthem "Ladyflash" rendered by someone who found if too stodgy and old-school. Yahoo is uncool in a comforting way, especially given the circles these tracks travel in: it's easy to imagine Glass Swords and TNGHT teasing it in the cafeteria. Its nowness is lived-in and casual, a byproduct rather than a statement. But rarely does effusive, whimsical music get the widescreen treatment. All of this bombast and glitter in the service of some knobby basslines and jokes about jean shorts: some cats still do, I guess."

Ricky Eat Acid

Talk to You Soon

Electronic

Matthew Grosinger

The music of Sam Ray’s Ricky Eat Acid project has always elicited a kind of déjà vu. Whether it’s his journal-entry song titles or the way his music sounds like field recordings of a mental thunderstorm, the experimental producer/songwriter tricks you into thinking you are hearing extracted elements of your own past. Describing the inspiration of a mix he curated in 2014, Ray mentioned his fascination with a “paranoid, summer-y feeling that something familiar isn’t as familiar as it looks at first glance.” Though his sizable discography has often mined regret and retrospection, Talk to You Soon is the most severe account of an emotional haunting. It explores the idea of how personal upheaval perverts both memory and the comfort of nostalgia. There is a strange paradox about the way we remember things. As Israeli neuroscientist Yadin Dudai explained it on a 2007 episode of Radiolab: “If you have a memory, the more you use it, the more likely you are to change it. So, if you never use your memory, it is secured.” Such is the way that Ray explores this fixation of the past. On several songs, lyrics are cast as repeated chants that assume different meanings from their first utterance to their final. Where “Nice to See You” transforms from robotic to sincere with its eponymous phrase, “This Is as Close to Heaven as I Get” degrades from blissful to sinister over the course of a dozen repetitions of the song’s titular statement. The beautiful, far-too-short midpoint of the record, “Know,” interpolates the unfinished clause “Before I know you” into various phrases, including the forlorn “It seems to me, that you’d be happier/Before I know you.” By playing with these repetitions, *Talk to You Soon *asks at what point does gazing inward turn from self-reflection to distortion. While Ray’s previous Ricky LP, *Three Love Songs**, *was an ambient record indebted to the KLF’s warped field recordings, Talk to You Soon feels more like impressionistic vignettes about the disparate feelings born out of trauma. From the moment the swirls of “‘hey’” introduce a dizzying volatility, complete with string arrangements from Owen Pallett, there is a nagging sense of discord. It’s the sonic equivalent of when someone says, “Hi, how are you?” and you say “Good!” even though you are moments from a nervous breakdown. The rest of the album roils on from there, and even if we are temporarily distracted by IDM-indebted beats or palliative synth glows, anxiety always looms in the margins. Ray’s piano playing has much to do with *Talk to You Soon’s *unraveling nerves. On “Spinning About Under the Bright Light in Bliss,” a gentle swell abruptly turns to percussive jabs. The underlying progression remains, but it is beleaguered by shrill notes as though Ray’s left and right hands are at war. “In the Grocery Store,” with its spectral melody, sounds impossibly distant from its mundane namesake and more akin to the title theme of The Exorcist. It’s these discrepancies that remind us that the world inside your head and the one you inhabit can be so unaware of each other. It doesn’t matter if you are in a supermarket, or fucking, or even having a good day—your mind can rebel at any moment. The closest Talk to You Soon comes to a complete psychotic break is the anarchic “As We Speak,” which features abrasive screaming from LA-based post-metal outfit Wreck and Reference. Unlike the unnerving electronics that whirred before, this track is a melting point of hoarse howling, crashing drums, and the wailing of an alarm siren. The acute panic attack lasts for a minute before yielding to an adrenalized heartbeat and veering into nervous percussive twitches. This moment is so abrasive, so intense, that the remainder of the album feels exhausted from its own introspection. Though maybe that’s the point Ray is trying to make here. Nominally, the final two tracks, “On a Good Day” and “‘ok’,” suggest that perhaps we have finally reached some calm after emotional tumult, but their languor recalls the dreary effects of overthinking. Can there be any respite for someone who lives so thoroughly inside their own mind, who is prone to over-analyzing and distorting the past? Although Ricky Eat Acid excels in making supernaturally empathetic music, these final moments of Talk to You Soon are especially isolating, a final warning to the listener that when gazing inward becomes pathological, it casts an endless pall.

Artist: Ricky Eat Acid, Album: Talk to You Soon, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "The music of Sam Ray’s Ricky Eat Acid project has always elicited a kind of déjà vu. Whether it’s his journal-entry song titles or the way his music sounds like field recordings of a mental thunderstorm, the experimental producer/songwriter tricks you into thinking you are hearing extracted elements of your own past. Describing the inspiration of a mix he curated in 2014, Ray mentioned his fascination with a “paranoid, summer-y feeling that something familiar isn’t as familiar as it looks at first glance.” Though his sizable discography has often mined regret and retrospection, Talk to You Soon is the most severe account of an emotional haunting. It explores the idea of how personal upheaval perverts both memory and the comfort of nostalgia. There is a strange paradox about the way we remember things. As Israeli neuroscientist Yadin Dudai explained it on a 2007 episode of Radiolab: “If you have a memory, the more you use it, the more likely you are to change it. So, if you never use your memory, it is secured.” Such is the way that Ray explores this fixation of the past. On several songs, lyrics are cast as repeated chants that assume different meanings from their first utterance to their final. Where “Nice to See You” transforms from robotic to sincere with its eponymous phrase, “This Is as Close to Heaven as I Get” degrades from blissful to sinister over the course of a dozen repetitions of the song’s titular statement. The beautiful, far-too-short midpoint of the record, “Know,” interpolates the unfinished clause “Before I know you” into various phrases, including the forlorn “It seems to me, that you’d be happier/Before I know you.” By playing with these repetitions, *Talk to You Soon *asks at what point does gazing inward turn from self-reflection to distortion. While Ray’s previous Ricky LP, *Three Love Songs**, *was an ambient record indebted to the KLF’s warped field recordings, Talk to You Soon feels more like impressionistic vignettes about the disparate feelings born out of trauma. From the moment the swirls of “‘hey’” introduce a dizzying volatility, complete with string arrangements from Owen Pallett, there is a nagging sense of discord. It’s the sonic equivalent of when someone says, “Hi, how are you?” and you say “Good!” even though you are moments from a nervous breakdown. The rest of the album roils on from there, and even if we are temporarily distracted by IDM-indebted beats or palliative synth glows, anxiety always looms in the margins. Ray’s piano playing has much to do with *Talk to You Soon’s *unraveling nerves. On “Spinning About Under the Bright Light in Bliss,” a gentle swell abruptly turns to percussive jabs. The underlying progression remains, but it is beleaguered by shrill notes as though Ray’s left and right hands are at war. “In the Grocery Store,” with its spectral melody, sounds impossibly distant from its mundane namesake and more akin to the title theme of The Exorcist. It’s these discrepancies that remind us that the world inside your head and the one you inhabit can be so unaware of each other. It doesn’t matter if you are in a supermarket, or fucking, or even having a good day—your mind can rebel at any moment. The closest Talk to You Soon comes to a complete psychotic break is the anarchic “As We Speak,” which features abrasive screaming from LA-based post-metal outfit Wreck and Reference. Unlike the unnerving electronics that whirred before, this track is a melting point of hoarse howling, crashing drums, and the wailing of an alarm siren. The acute panic attack lasts for a minute before yielding to an adrenalized heartbeat and veering into nervous percussive twitches. This moment is so abrasive, so intense, that the remainder of the album feels exhausted from its own introspection. Though maybe that’s the point Ray is trying to make here. Nominally, the final two tracks, “On a Good Day” and “‘ok’,” suggest that perhaps we have finally reached some calm after emotional tumult, but their languor recalls the dreary effects of overthinking. Can there be any respite for someone who lives so thoroughly inside their own mind, who is prone to over-analyzing and distorting the past? Although Ricky Eat Acid excels in making supernaturally empathetic music, these final moments of Talk to You Soon are especially isolating, a final warning to the listener that when gazing inward becomes pathological, it casts an endless pall."

The Dirty Nil

Higher Power

Rock

Ian Cohen

As the name suggests, the Ontario band Dirty Nil are profoundly aware of their emptiness and impurity, and the only thing that rouses Luke Bentham and Dave Nardi out of their self-loathing is despising someone else even more. Maybe it was inspired by drinking alone in a dingy apartment, but Higher Power is punk with high-end production values, meant for big rooms. They’re professed classic rock fans and gear snobs and it shows, as Higher Power is an album that sounds like it expects to be paid for. However antisocial Dirty Nil get, the music is intended to be a communal experience. They’re not really interested in the philosophical restrictions and elitism that often constitutes punk rock anyway. Dirty Nil released a 7” on skate-punk stronghold Fat Wreck Chords and played the Warped Tour—both tend to be a point of no return for bands deciding between a captive pop-punk audience and critical credibility. But it’s all rock'n'roll to Dirty Nil: They boast equal facility with PUP-style beer bongin’ with the devil ("No Weaknesses"), Dilly Dally’s knee-buckling dynamics ("Zombie Eyed"), and the hectoring sing-speak of tourmates Single Mothers and Greys. Higher Power serves as proof that the boundaries separating "indie," "pop punk" and "alt-rock" have collapsed as they’ve been drawn into closer quarters, and to send this point home, they do all of the above just within the first four tracks. There isn’t really an original note here, but the massive hooks of "No Weaknesses" and "Zombie Eyed" are delivered with enough conviction that they end up sounding fresh anyway. As Higher Power progresses, Dirty Nil continue to expand their range, yet the sequencing makes it sound like a retreat. The satisfying brutality of "Fugue State" starts a run of three songs crammed into less than five minutes; the highs of Side A were bound to make Higher Power sound frontloaded anyway, but Side B practically vanishes before get-in-the-van anthem "Bury Me at the Rodeo Show" ends the record with the closest thing to a Dirty Nil love song. Even when the music intentionally plays dumb, Bentham and Nardi are clever lyricists, and Higher Power could almost be a narrative concept record about salvation if you play it out of order. Throughout the album, Dirty Nil search for redemption in the usual places: sex ("Wrestle Yu to Husker Du"), drugs ("Zombie Eyed") and rock'n'roll. But they have too much fun with it all to even pretend that hitting rock bottom is actually a bad thing. "Friends in the Sky" aligns Bentham with Satan against Jesus, and it’s as close as he gets to divinity; later on, there’s no spiritual awakening, just an acceptance of what Bart Simpson called a "life of sin followed by the presto-change-o deathbed repentance." Bentham calls out to his higher power and admits, "And even though we never got along/ I’ll say I was wrong/ 'Cause you know we can be friends in the sky." Despite their protestations, only a true punk band would try to pull a fast one on God.

Artist: The Dirty Nil, Album: Higher Power, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "As the name suggests, the Ontario band Dirty Nil are profoundly aware of their emptiness and impurity, and the only thing that rouses Luke Bentham and Dave Nardi out of their self-loathing is despising someone else even more. Maybe it was inspired by drinking alone in a dingy apartment, but Higher Power is punk with high-end production values, meant for big rooms. They’re professed classic rock fans and gear snobs and it shows, as Higher Power is an album that sounds like it expects to be paid for. However antisocial Dirty Nil get, the music is intended to be a communal experience. They’re not really interested in the philosophical restrictions and elitism that often constitutes punk rock anyway. Dirty Nil released a 7” on skate-punk stronghold Fat Wreck Chords and played the Warped Tour—both tend to be a point of no return for bands deciding between a captive pop-punk audience and critical credibility. But it’s all rock'n'roll to Dirty Nil: They boast equal facility with PUP-style beer bongin’ with the devil ("No Weaknesses"), Dilly Dally’s knee-buckling dynamics ("Zombie Eyed"), and the hectoring sing-speak of tourmates Single Mothers and Greys. Higher Power serves as proof that the boundaries separating "indie," "pop punk" and "alt-rock" have collapsed as they’ve been drawn into closer quarters, and to send this point home, they do all of the above just within the first four tracks. There isn’t really an original note here, but the massive hooks of "No Weaknesses" and "Zombie Eyed" are delivered with enough conviction that they end up sounding fresh anyway. As Higher Power progresses, Dirty Nil continue to expand their range, yet the sequencing makes it sound like a retreat. The satisfying brutality of "Fugue State" starts a run of three songs crammed into less than five minutes; the highs of Side A were bound to make Higher Power sound frontloaded anyway, but Side B practically vanishes before get-in-the-van anthem "Bury Me at the Rodeo Show" ends the record with the closest thing to a Dirty Nil love song. Even when the music intentionally plays dumb, Bentham and Nardi are clever lyricists, and Higher Power could almost be a narrative concept record about salvation if you play it out of order. Throughout the album, Dirty Nil search for redemption in the usual places: sex ("Wrestle Yu to Husker Du"), drugs ("Zombie Eyed") and rock'n'roll. But they have too much fun with it all to even pretend that hitting rock bottom is actually a bad thing. "Friends in the Sky" aligns Bentham with Satan against Jesus, and it’s as close as he gets to divinity; later on, there’s no spiritual awakening, just an acceptance of what Bart Simpson called a "life of sin followed by the presto-change-o deathbed repentance." Bentham calls out to his higher power and admits, "And even though we never got along/ I’ll say I was wrong/ 'Cause you know we can be friends in the sky." Despite their protestations, only a true punk band would try to pull a fast one on God."

Race Horses

Goodbye Falkenburg

Rock

Stuart Berman

Emergent rock bands are bound to be measured against their influences, their environment, or, in the case of Race Horses, a combination of both. The quartet is based in Cardiff, Wales, and their bilingual music puts a whimsical spin on UK traditions ranging from music hall and psychedelia to glam rock and post-punk. So any discussion of Race Horses will inevitably lead back to equally warped Welsh forbears like Gorky's Zygotic Mynci and Super Furry Animals. But with Gorky's having disbanded in 2006, and the Super Furries continuing to mutate far beyond their psych-pop origins, it's more constructive to view Race Horses not as imitators but as rightful heirs to the Welsh Class-of-1996 legacy. Their wonderful debut album, Goodbye Falkenburg, certainly proves they're up to the task. What's most striking about the record is that Race Horses never let their grandiose ambitions get in the way of energy and urgency. The album's sonic accoutrements-- reversed guitar solos, toreador trumpets, radio static, phaser effects-- propel the songs along rather than weigh them down. Race Horses could not be a more aptly named group: Goodbye Falkenburg charges out of the gate with three of its most engaging tracks, instantly establishing the band's sly, cheeky sense of humor: the suggestive boy-meets-girl courtship of "Cake" climaxes with a simple, innocent request for the titular dessert, and when frontman Meilyr Jones says he wants to be a "pony" on the Roxy Music-styled track of the same name, he's not owning up to some escapist fantasy so much as calling himself an ass ("I want to be the one to sit beside you/ I want to be the one you lie to"). By stacking the most obvious singles up front, Race Horses ease you into Goodbye Falkenburg's more bizarro turns. Even though it barely breaches the three-minute mark, "Cacen Mamgu" presents a bewilderingly frantic procession of glitter-rock riffs, stop-start change-ups, backward-loop effects and Welsh football chants. But perhaps not wanting to add another layer of inscrutability to Falkenburg's more cluttered compositions, Jones generally saves his Welsh-language performances for the album's most straight-faced and affecting moments-- in particular "Glo Ac Oren", a gorgeous, Gorky's-esque piano ballad that showcases Race Horses' songwriting fortitude in the absence of their usual studio trickery or campy delivery. When they first emerged in the mid 90s, Gorky's and the Super Furries were unfairly lumped in and/or judged against the dominant Britpop of the day-- and often written off as wackaloon eccentrics as a result. But Race Horses have emerged in more favorable circumstances, with spiritual kin like Wild Beasts and Los Campesinos! already bending ears on both sides of the Atlantic toward flamboyant and erudite UK art-pop. With any luck, Race Horses will score the victory lap for this absurdity-is-the-new-sincerity movement.

Artist: Race Horses, Album: Goodbye Falkenburg, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Emergent rock bands are bound to be measured against their influences, their environment, or, in the case of Race Horses, a combination of both. The quartet is based in Cardiff, Wales, and their bilingual music puts a whimsical spin on UK traditions ranging from music hall and psychedelia to glam rock and post-punk. So any discussion of Race Horses will inevitably lead back to equally warped Welsh forbears like Gorky's Zygotic Mynci and Super Furry Animals. But with Gorky's having disbanded in 2006, and the Super Furries continuing to mutate far beyond their psych-pop origins, it's more constructive to view Race Horses not as imitators but as rightful heirs to the Welsh Class-of-1996 legacy. Their wonderful debut album, Goodbye Falkenburg, certainly proves they're up to the task. What's most striking about the record is that Race Horses never let their grandiose ambitions get in the way of energy and urgency. The album's sonic accoutrements-- reversed guitar solos, toreador trumpets, radio static, phaser effects-- propel the songs along rather than weigh them down. Race Horses could not be a more aptly named group: Goodbye Falkenburg charges out of the gate with three of its most engaging tracks, instantly establishing the band's sly, cheeky sense of humor: the suggestive boy-meets-girl courtship of "Cake" climaxes with a simple, innocent request for the titular dessert, and when frontman Meilyr Jones says he wants to be a "pony" on the Roxy Music-styled track of the same name, he's not owning up to some escapist fantasy so much as calling himself an ass ("I want to be the one to sit beside you/ I want to be the one you lie to"). By stacking the most obvious singles up front, Race Horses ease you into Goodbye Falkenburg's more bizarro turns. Even though it barely breaches the three-minute mark, "Cacen Mamgu" presents a bewilderingly frantic procession of glitter-rock riffs, stop-start change-ups, backward-loop effects and Welsh football chants. But perhaps not wanting to add another layer of inscrutability to Falkenburg's more cluttered compositions, Jones generally saves his Welsh-language performances for the album's most straight-faced and affecting moments-- in particular "Glo Ac Oren", a gorgeous, Gorky's-esque piano ballad that showcases Race Horses' songwriting fortitude in the absence of their usual studio trickery or campy delivery. When they first emerged in the mid 90s, Gorky's and the Super Furries were unfairly lumped in and/or judged against the dominant Britpop of the day-- and often written off as wackaloon eccentrics as a result. But Race Horses have emerged in more favorable circumstances, with spiritual kin like Wild Beasts and Los Campesinos! already bending ears on both sides of the Atlantic toward flamboyant and erudite UK art-pop. With any luck, Race Horses will score the victory lap for this absurdity-is-the-new-sincerity movement."

Blonde Redhead

Penny Sparkle

Rock

Ian Cohen

There's room for both innovators and curators in indie rock, and if you appreciate the latter, perhaps you've found time for Blonde Redhead over the past two decades. Not all of us could be there to experience No Wave, SST-era Sonic Youth, or My Bloody Valentine as actual recording artists firsthand, but as Blonde Redhead stated on their 1997 album, Fake Can Be Just As Good. The group has always strived to be a gateway to cool and, as such, would probably take it as a compliment to suggest they never sounded like they could've been from anywhere other than New York. That comes to an end on Penny Sparkle, an album whose quest to evoke a more comfortable point in our collective lives almost qualifies it as chillwave. Yet it's not the sound of "the beach" or "youth" that Penny Sparkle embodies, but rather our last economic boom period, a time that inspired countless chill-out compilations and dubious record deals from labels who swear they found their more radio-friendly Portishead. If you happen to be a music coordinator for Banana Republic, Penny Sparkle is an early Christmas gift. For everyone else, you're left to wonder whether 2010 will produce a more profoundly boring album from a band who actually had a reputation to uphold. This shift doesn't come wholly unexpectedly-- songs like "The Dress", "My Impure Hair", and "Heroine" leaned toward pillowy electro-balladry, but they served as important contrast between the Loveless worship. Here, it's the only side of the story being told, and it's being told with the kind of BPMs that could knock out a speed addict. This kind of stuff is derisively called background music, and rightfully so, since every member of Blonde Redhead here sounds afraid to step forward. Singer Kazu Makino is almost exclusively merely casting shadows over everything, and transitions from verses to choruses are merely implied. This is not the kind of stuff you need to hire Alan Moulder to mix for you. Outside of a distorted vocal on "Not Getting There" and a slowly blooming and surprisingly gripping waltz ("Everything Is Wrong"), the arrangements seem done up like hospital rooms, every sound picked for maximum sterility. If you're in a forgiving mood, you can liken it to a chloroformed late-90s Depeche Mode or an honestly failed attempt at the frosted sensuality of Vespertine. If you're in a realistic mood, you'll hear Amedeo Pace carelessly whispering through the soft-focus reggae of "Will There Be Stars" and imagine Roxy Music stuck on a Carnival cruise. Penny Sparkle could be approached from a cynical perspective, an admission that after 15 years, Blonde Redhead have realized they'll never be called "like Loveless, but better," and have decided to work in a field that isn't exactly brimming with luminaries. But there's a right way (see: School of Seven Bells' Disconnect From Desire) and a wrong way (see: the nearly identical shift of Asobi Seksu's Hush) to reconcile your shoegaze past with downtempo, pre-2k electronic pop: and a big part of the trick is that if you're going to drop the big, whooshy guitars, it helps to remember it was the vigorous Ray of Light that went multi-platinum, not Morcheeba.

Artist: Blonde Redhead, Album: Penny Sparkle, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 4.0 Album review: "There's room for both innovators and curators in indie rock, and if you appreciate the latter, perhaps you've found time for Blonde Redhead over the past two decades. Not all of us could be there to experience No Wave, SST-era Sonic Youth, or My Bloody Valentine as actual recording artists firsthand, but as Blonde Redhead stated on their 1997 album, Fake Can Be Just As Good. The group has always strived to be a gateway to cool and, as such, would probably take it as a compliment to suggest they never sounded like they could've been from anywhere other than New York. That comes to an end on Penny Sparkle, an album whose quest to evoke a more comfortable point in our collective lives almost qualifies it as chillwave. Yet it's not the sound of "the beach" or "youth" that Penny Sparkle embodies, but rather our last economic boom period, a time that inspired countless chill-out compilations and dubious record deals from labels who swear they found their more radio-friendly Portishead. If you happen to be a music coordinator for Banana Republic, Penny Sparkle is an early Christmas gift. For everyone else, you're left to wonder whether 2010 will produce a more profoundly boring album from a band who actually had a reputation to uphold. This shift doesn't come wholly unexpectedly-- songs like "The Dress", "My Impure Hair", and "Heroine" leaned toward pillowy electro-balladry, but they served as important contrast between the Loveless worship. Here, it's the only side of the story being told, and it's being told with the kind of BPMs that could knock out a speed addict. This kind of stuff is derisively called background music, and rightfully so, since every member of Blonde Redhead here sounds afraid to step forward. Singer Kazu Makino is almost exclusively merely casting shadows over everything, and transitions from verses to choruses are merely implied. This is not the kind of stuff you need to hire Alan Moulder to mix for you. Outside of a distorted vocal on "Not Getting There" and a slowly blooming and surprisingly gripping waltz ("Everything Is Wrong"), the arrangements seem done up like hospital rooms, every sound picked for maximum sterility. If you're in a forgiving mood, you can liken it to a chloroformed late-90s Depeche Mode or an honestly failed attempt at the frosted sensuality of Vespertine. If you're in a realistic mood, you'll hear Amedeo Pace carelessly whispering through the soft-focus reggae of "Will There Be Stars" and imagine Roxy Music stuck on a Carnival cruise. Penny Sparkle could be approached from a cynical perspective, an admission that after 15 years, Blonde Redhead have realized they'll never be called "like Loveless, but better," and have decided to work in a field that isn't exactly brimming with luminaries. But there's a right way (see: School of Seven Bells' Disconnect From Desire) and a wrong way (see: the nearly identical shift of Asobi Seksu's Hush) to reconcile your shoegaze past with downtempo, pre-2k electronic pop: and a big part of the trick is that if you're going to drop the big, whooshy guitars, it helps to remember it was the vigorous Ray of Light that went multi-platinum, not Morcheeba."

Nightlands

Forget the Mantra

Rock

Stuart Berman

There's a considerable amount of cheekiness in the name the War on Drugs, given the Philly roots-rock ramblers' preference for reverb, drone, and heady 10-minute jams. But with his new solo effort, WOD bassist Dave Hartley takes a more sincere approach to the name game-- Nightlands is quite literally a bedroom recording experiment, in which Hartley attempts to translate hazy, morning-after remembrances of last night's dreams into songs that try to recapture their feeling, if not their meaning. With its reliance on analog synths, drum machines, angelic harmonies, and shape-shifting structures, the music of Nightlands bears almost no relation to the music of Hartley's better-known day gig, or the open-road reveries of fellow WOD member Kurt Vile-- Forget the Mantra is less War on Drugs than simply brain-on-drugs. "Dreamy" is often used in a rock-crit context as a synonym for serenity and ecstasy, an interpretation that belies the fact that our dreams are often confusing, disturbing experiences comprised of inexplicable imagery and occurrences. It's this ambiguous sensation-- hovering in that netherworld between the foreign and the familiar, the comforting and the haunting-- that Hartley successfully conjures on Forget the Mantra. On the surface, the album sounds less like a document of Hartley's deep-sleep exploration than a gauge of how Brian Wilson's influence on indie-rock has mutated and manifested itself over the past 15 years, recalling at various times the space-age soft-rock of the High Llamas, the choral pastorales of Fleet Foxes, and the phantasmagoric psych-pop of Panda Bear. But Hartley proves himself adept at putting these customary melodic and harmonic devices to devious use, whether setting the hypnotic, repeated refrain of the opening title track to a jarring, jack-hammered drum break, or shattering the bucolic bliss of "God What Have I" with an anodyne chorus of voices asking the ominous question, "oh my, oh my god, what have I done?" In keeping with the dream concept, Forget the Mantra turns stranger and more inscrutable the deeper you venture into it. The album's back half is given over to more amorphous, lengthier pieces that interlace found spoken-word recordings with wordless harmonies, hypnotic folkie finger-picking, and manipulated string and synth textures. Though never quite degenerating into "Revolution 9"-style sound-collage splatter-- Hartley carefully layers the myriad elements onto purposeful, dramatic arcs, particularly on the eerily compelling "Longways Homebound, 2010"-- Forget the Mantra's enigmatic second act tends to blur the line between music that's meant to evoke a dream state and music that lulls you into one. But, ponderous lapses aside, Nightlands' psychic terrain is still a nice place to visit, even if you wouldn't want to spend the whole night there.

Artist: Nightlands, Album: Forget the Mantra, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "There's a considerable amount of cheekiness in the name the War on Drugs, given the Philly roots-rock ramblers' preference for reverb, drone, and heady 10-minute jams. But with his new solo effort, WOD bassist Dave Hartley takes a more sincere approach to the name game-- Nightlands is quite literally a bedroom recording experiment, in which Hartley attempts to translate hazy, morning-after remembrances of last night's dreams into songs that try to recapture their feeling, if not their meaning. With its reliance on analog synths, drum machines, angelic harmonies, and shape-shifting structures, the music of Nightlands bears almost no relation to the music of Hartley's better-known day gig, or the open-road reveries of fellow WOD member Kurt Vile-- Forget the Mantra is less War on Drugs than simply brain-on-drugs. "Dreamy" is often used in a rock-crit context as a synonym for serenity and ecstasy, an interpretation that belies the fact that our dreams are often confusing, disturbing experiences comprised of inexplicable imagery and occurrences. It's this ambiguous sensation-- hovering in that netherworld between the foreign and the familiar, the comforting and the haunting-- that Hartley successfully conjures on Forget the Mantra. On the surface, the album sounds less like a document of Hartley's deep-sleep exploration than a gauge of how Brian Wilson's influence on indie-rock has mutated and manifested itself over the past 15 years, recalling at various times the space-age soft-rock of the High Llamas, the choral pastorales of Fleet Foxes, and the phantasmagoric psych-pop of Panda Bear. But Hartley proves himself adept at putting these customary melodic and harmonic devices to devious use, whether setting the hypnotic, repeated refrain of the opening title track to a jarring, jack-hammered drum break, or shattering the bucolic bliss of "God What Have I" with an anodyne chorus of voices asking the ominous question, "oh my, oh my god, what have I done?" In keeping with the dream concept, Forget the Mantra turns stranger and more inscrutable the deeper you venture into it. The album's back half is given over to more amorphous, lengthier pieces that interlace found spoken-word recordings with wordless harmonies, hypnotic folkie finger-picking, and manipulated string and synth textures. Though never quite degenerating into "Revolution 9"-style sound-collage splatter-- Hartley carefully layers the myriad elements onto purposeful, dramatic arcs, particularly on the eerily compelling "Longways Homebound, 2010"-- Forget the Mantra's enigmatic second act tends to blur the line between music that's meant to evoke a dream state and music that lulls you into one. But, ponderous lapses aside, Nightlands' psychic terrain is still a nice place to visit, even if you wouldn't want to spend the whole night there."

Venice Is Sinking

Sorry About the Flowers

Rock

Cory D. Byrom

August is a hot month in Atlanta, and the weather these last few days has been a little unsettling, as if it's tricking us into thinking that fall is here when we all know it's still two months away. But looking out the window at the gray haziness, I can't imagine a better musical match than Venice Is Sinking's dreamy pop; with its co-ed harmonies and wandering streams of dense melodies, it is the perfect soundtrack for unexpected overcast days. The Athens, Geo., band's sound is reminiscent of the early days of alternative rock, when the term "college rock" still had significance. The violins recall Camper Van Beethoven, but the music is lush and romantic. Throughout each track, co-vocalists Karolyn Troupe and Daniel Lawson weave their voices through one another, and while Lawson is traditionally in the lead role, it's the combination of their voices that works so well. "Pulaski Heights" establishes the album's mood with layers of guitar and violin over a driving beat. But the real atmosphere comes from the vocals that ohh and ahh in the background, as if echoing up from the bottom of a cave or simply seeping out of the back of your brain. Perhaps the disc's biggest fault, though, is that this mood never changes. There are songs that are a little more upbeat than others, but beyond that, they are all very similar. As a result, the songs sort of drift by, at times settling into the background. But if doleful, nostalgic pop is your bag, there is little to complain about with this set. The band employs a wide range of auxiliary instrumentation to round out the traditional guitar-led lineup, and often it's these instruments that define the tracks in a way. "Tours" features bells and a variety of strings, creating an echo effect that works well with the dusty shuffle of the drums. On "Buried Magnets", it's the piano tinkling over one of the album's most explosive beats that captures your attention and create a cohesiveness that a lot of bands struggle to achieve on a debut. The album's only drastically different track is "Blue By Late", which concludes the disc with 20 minutes of ambient droning. According to the liner notes, the sounds that make up the track are all sliced up and blended from the other nine tracks. So while it's an odd choice for a record that is so strong on melody, they ultimately pull it off, and it ends up working as a unique closing chapter, tying the rest of the album together.

Artist: Venice Is Sinking, Album: Sorry About the Flowers, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "August is a hot month in Atlanta, and the weather these last few days has been a little unsettling, as if it's tricking us into thinking that fall is here when we all know it's still two months away. But looking out the window at the gray haziness, I can't imagine a better musical match than Venice Is Sinking's dreamy pop; with its co-ed harmonies and wandering streams of dense melodies, it is the perfect soundtrack for unexpected overcast days. The Athens, Geo., band's sound is reminiscent of the early days of alternative rock, when the term "college rock" still had significance. The violins recall Camper Van Beethoven, but the music is lush and romantic. Throughout each track, co-vocalists Karolyn Troupe and Daniel Lawson weave their voices through one another, and while Lawson is traditionally in the lead role, it's the combination of their voices that works so well. "Pulaski Heights" establishes the album's mood with layers of guitar and violin over a driving beat. But the real atmosphere comes from the vocals that ohh and ahh in the background, as if echoing up from the bottom of a cave or simply seeping out of the back of your brain. Perhaps the disc's biggest fault, though, is that this mood never changes. There are songs that are a little more upbeat than others, but beyond that, they are all very similar. As a result, the songs sort of drift by, at times settling into the background. But if doleful, nostalgic pop is your bag, there is little to complain about with this set. The band employs a wide range of auxiliary instrumentation to round out the traditional guitar-led lineup, and often it's these instruments that define the tracks in a way. "Tours" features bells and a variety of strings, creating an echo effect that works well with the dusty shuffle of the drums. On "Buried Magnets", it's the piano tinkling over one of the album's most explosive beats that captures your attention and create a cohesiveness that a lot of bands struggle to achieve on a debut. The album's only drastically different track is "Blue By Late", which concludes the disc with 20 minutes of ambient droning. According to the liner notes, the sounds that make up the track are all sliced up and blended from the other nine tracks. So while it's an odd choice for a record that is so strong on melody, they ultimately pull it off, and it ends up working as a unique closing chapter, tying the rest of the album together."

AM/FM

Mutilate Us

Rock

Rich Juzwiak

In the top right corner of the cover of Mutilate Us, below the bandname and album title, is a quote culled from the LP's title track: "And if we are the ones that will cross mountains for love/ Then we are the ones that let love mutilate us." It's hard to think of a tactic that's more self-congratulatory than incorporating lyrics into your cover art, especially when they're also printed in the liner notes. And really, it doesn't benefit much in the way of advertising. The words are just shy of being trite, and bespeak no insight that goes beyond the obvious. Plus, the abstract construct of "love" is the crux of the sentiment. So, it's at least a little surprising that scrupulous ex-Franklin member Brian Sokel and multi-instrumentalist Michael Parsell's current project, AM/FM, doesn't come off the least bit smarmy on record. The Philadelphia-based duo's debut full-length is an unpretentious collection of lo-fi, acoustic-based pop tunes bolstered by Sokel's warm delivery. AM/FM has the charm and slightly skewed pop sensibilities of Ween, but in song structure only. Though, come to think of it, fecal humor and hallucinogenic abuse might be intriguing coming from the Polyvinyl camp. Mutilate Us successfully skirts stuffiness with light-hearted sincerity. On the upbeat "Secretly Odds in Knowing Normal Words," Sokel sings, "You said I was full of shit/ But what's wrong with that?" backed by bouncy percussion and hand-claps. "Yours Recklessly" is minor-keyed, folk territory, not entirely dissimilar from Elliott Smith's recent offerings. It opens on a wobbly solo-acoustic note, but the song's dense, swelling climax is a lovely pay-off. "Time Flows Much More Slowly This Way" is almost absurd in its catchiness, and serves as just one of many examples of the adroit songwriting showcased on the album. This doesn't mean, though, that Mutilate Us is as consistently great as the aforementioned tracks. Sokel and Parsell sometimes sink too comfortably into poppiness and end up tripping over yesteryear's indie rock clichés. "You and Me at 53" is pedestrian in its aim to emulate the Cars, and its execution is worse still, echoing latter-day Promise Ring emergencies. "Leanne, The Seasons Persist" tends toward emo-pop with quiet, building instrumentation during the verses, but the predictability of the song's explosive between-verse segues render them completely ineffective. Still, the occasional misfires of Mutilate Us are forgivable; like most of the record's tracks, they're brief, often clocking in under two minutes. And when the record is successful, it's like a piston blasting warm guitar pop at incredible speeds. The bulk of the record is so assured that by the time its last lines are sung (those that adorn the album's cover), it's hard to not take their genuineness to heart and believe them.

Artist: AM/FM, Album: Mutilate Us, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "In the top right corner of the cover of Mutilate Us, below the bandname and album title, is a quote culled from the LP's title track: "And if we are the ones that will cross mountains for love/ Then we are the ones that let love mutilate us." It's hard to think of a tactic that's more self-congratulatory than incorporating lyrics into your cover art, especially when they're also printed in the liner notes. And really, it doesn't benefit much in the way of advertising. The words are just shy of being trite, and bespeak no insight that goes beyond the obvious. Plus, the abstract construct of "love" is the crux of the sentiment. So, it's at least a little surprising that scrupulous ex-Franklin member Brian Sokel and multi-instrumentalist Michael Parsell's current project, AM/FM, doesn't come off the least bit smarmy on record. The Philadelphia-based duo's debut full-length is an unpretentious collection of lo-fi, acoustic-based pop tunes bolstered by Sokel's warm delivery. AM/FM has the charm and slightly skewed pop sensibilities of Ween, but in song structure only. Though, come to think of it, fecal humor and hallucinogenic abuse might be intriguing coming from the Polyvinyl camp. Mutilate Us successfully skirts stuffiness with light-hearted sincerity. On the upbeat "Secretly Odds in Knowing Normal Words," Sokel sings, "You said I was full of shit/ But what's wrong with that?" backed by bouncy percussion and hand-claps. "Yours Recklessly" is minor-keyed, folk territory, not entirely dissimilar from Elliott Smith's recent offerings. It opens on a wobbly solo-acoustic note, but the song's dense, swelling climax is a lovely pay-off. "Time Flows Much More Slowly This Way" is almost absurd in its catchiness, and serves as just one of many examples of the adroit songwriting showcased on the album. This doesn't mean, though, that Mutilate Us is as consistently great as the aforementioned tracks. Sokel and Parsell sometimes sink too comfortably into poppiness and end up tripping over yesteryear's indie rock clichés. "You and Me at 53" is pedestrian in its aim to emulate the Cars, and its execution is worse still, echoing latter-day Promise Ring emergencies. "Leanne, The Seasons Persist" tends toward emo-pop with quiet, building instrumentation during the verses, but the predictability of the song's explosive between-verse segues render them completely ineffective. Still, the occasional misfires of Mutilate Us are forgivable; like most of the record's tracks, they're brief, often clocking in under two minutes. And when the record is successful, it's like a piston blasting warm guitar pop at incredible speeds. The bulk of the record is so assured that by the time its last lines are sung (those that adorn the album's cover), it's hard to not take their genuineness to heart and believe them."

Stornoway

Tales from Terra Firma

Rock

Jayson Greene

The fresh-faced folk pop band Stornoway seem promising: They play with guileless vigor, have a light-stepping chemistry as a unit, harmonize well. Their lead singer Brian Briggs has a lovely, pure high tenor, the kind of voice that effortlessly conveys simple longing. And yet, on their second album, Tales from Terra Firma, they continue to be almost crushingly dull, making well-appointed and cheerfully empty music that successfully communicates next to nothing. Their Achilles Heel is a simple and unfortunate one, the same on Tales as it was on 2010's Beachcombers Windowsill. Stornoway are clearly in love with Celtic and British folk, and yet they can't write a memorable melody to save their lives. Try to sing along to the verse melody of "Zorbing", their most well-known tune, and pay attention to what your face muscles are doing; most likely furrowing with the effort of recall. Each of Tales' painstakingly arranged nine songs sinks underneath the weight of this insurmountable problem, which is a shame. If you're making folk-pop, an inability to write a catchy melody is a difficult deficiency to overcome. Stornoway try valiantly with their complex arrangements, which quickly grow exhausting. “You Take Me as I Am” is cluttered with horn charts and pointlessly banging piano. “(A Belated) Invite to Eternity” builds to a full Explosions in the Sky crescendo, with glimmering tremolo guitar and a “Tonight, Tonight”-style sweeping string section, but having built zero momentum and generated zero heat until that point, their planned fireworks display fizzles. “Farewell Appalachia” follows the same pattern, with celesta, finger-picked acoustic and electric guitar all tracing an emptily pretty circle with nothing in the center. The melody of "The Great Procrastinator" is almost cleanly written enough to be memorable-- and then the ersatz Dixieland jazz interlude crashes in. Stornoway are deft players, and the transitions are tightly managed, but this is praise on the same order as praising the brushwork in a hotel-room painting. Briggs’ lyrics are filled with uncomplicated images of the good old British countryside, but his lyrics trample over all these dew-covered fields with wordy, awkward phrasing: "And in the gathering dew, I was lucid as a floodlight,” goes a line from “(A Belated) Invitation to Eternity”. “There's a hunger in the air/ A lemon swollen in the trees" he bleats on “Knock Me on the Head”. On “The Great Procrastinator”, he sings that he is “a scientist with far too many metaphors and far too little data to conclude in time.”  They don’t read particularly well, and they don’t sound much more natural when sung. Tales From Terra Firma is a peculiar record-- carefree music that feels leaden; tuneful-sounding songs that offer no tunes to hold onto. They seem an odd fit for 4AD, a label mostly home to singular voices. They may be a mercenary signing, an attempt to ride the coattails of Mumford and Sons' success. But Mumford and Sons, as head-smack simple and pandering as they are, have a pretty crucial ingredient in their arsenal: they write anthems. In that regard, they have Stornoway pretty thoroughly beat.

Artist: Stornoway, Album: Tales from Terra Firma, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 4.9 Album review: "The fresh-faced folk pop band Stornoway seem promising: They play with guileless vigor, have a light-stepping chemistry as a unit, harmonize well. Their lead singer Brian Briggs has a lovely, pure high tenor, the kind of voice that effortlessly conveys simple longing. And yet, on their second album, Tales from Terra Firma, they continue to be almost crushingly dull, making well-appointed and cheerfully empty music that successfully communicates next to nothing. Their Achilles Heel is a simple and unfortunate one, the same on Tales as it was on 2010's Beachcombers Windowsill. Stornoway are clearly in love with Celtic and British folk, and yet they can't write a memorable melody to save their lives. Try to sing along to the verse melody of "Zorbing", their most well-known tune, and pay attention to what your face muscles are doing; most likely furrowing with the effort of recall. Each of Tales' painstakingly arranged nine songs sinks underneath the weight of this insurmountable problem, which is a shame. If you're making folk-pop, an inability to write a catchy melody is a difficult deficiency to overcome. Stornoway try valiantly with their complex arrangements, which quickly grow exhausting. “You Take Me as I Am” is cluttered with horn charts and pointlessly banging piano. “(A Belated) Invite to Eternity” builds to a full Explosions in the Sky crescendo, with glimmering tremolo guitar and a “Tonight, Tonight”-style sweeping string section, but having built zero momentum and generated zero heat until that point, their planned fireworks display fizzles. “Farewell Appalachia” follows the same pattern, with celesta, finger-picked acoustic and electric guitar all tracing an emptily pretty circle with nothing in the center. The melody of "The Great Procrastinator" is almost cleanly written enough to be memorable-- and then the ersatz Dixieland jazz interlude crashes in. Stornoway are deft players, and the transitions are tightly managed, but this is praise on the same order as praising the brushwork in a hotel-room painting. Briggs’ lyrics are filled with uncomplicated images of the good old British countryside, but his lyrics trample over all these dew-covered fields with wordy, awkward phrasing: "And in the gathering dew, I was lucid as a floodlight,” goes a line from “(A Belated) Invitation to Eternity”. “There's a hunger in the air/ A lemon swollen in the trees" he bleats on “Knock Me on the Head”. On “The Great Procrastinator”, he sings that he is “a scientist with far too many metaphors and far too little data to conclude in time.”  They don’t read particularly well, and they don’t sound much more natural when sung. Tales From Terra Firma is a peculiar record-- carefree music that feels leaden; tuneful-sounding songs that offer no tunes to hold onto. They seem an odd fit for 4AD, a label mostly home to singular voices. They may be a mercenary signing, an attempt to ride the coattails of Mumford and Sons' success. But Mumford and Sons, as head-smack simple and pandering as they are, have a pretty crucial ingredient in their arsenal: they write anthems. In that regard, they have Stornoway pretty thoroughly beat."

Birdwatcher

Afternoon Tales the Morning Never Knew

Christopher Dare

Most reviews of the 2001 collaboration between Michael Gira and Dan Matz, What We Did, focused, understandably, on the former's perspective. After all, Gira has steeped himself in the intensity of his musical projects, Swans and the Angels of Light, for the better part of two decades. Matz' work with his own (still extant) band Windsor for the Derby retains much less renown. What We Did marked a shift away from the Swans' thunderous intensity and the Derby's dronescapes, towards more conventional pop songwriting. Now Matz' solo work as The Birdwatcher continues the trend. The second in a trilogy of albums, Afternoon Tales the Morning Never Knew follows The Darkest Hour Is Just Before the Dawn, and will presumably be complemented by another thematic LP focusing on dusk and the night. The Birdwatcher bears all the hallmarks of singer/songwriter-produced music: progressive song structure, careful development, and a consistent sound environment. Matz plays folky ballads infused with elegant lyricism and pop melodies, like a less spacy version of his labelmate Illyah Kuryahkin. He composes songs with a small array of instruments-- acoustic and electric guitars, synthesizers and drums, mostly-- and has a smart sense of restraint. This, unfortunately, is possibly the reason that the album as a whole is kind of dull. "Afternoon Tales" opens with ringing chimes much like those of Spanish enviro-folksters Mus, soon layered over with acoustic strums and soft, clicking percussion. Matz breathes over the top a sighing "aaahhh" that repeats until the mood becomes rather doleful. Then "Empty Boat" clears the air with a light, pumping organ groove, and Anna Neighbor backs up Matz with her sweet voice on the verses. The lyrics are easily evocative: "Flying now, over top of me/ I'm grafted to the floor/ An empty boat, there's no stopping me/ On the trusting sea, I'm sunken on your shore." Complete with handclaps, it's a cutesy song, but it also drifts along on a contemplative atmosphere. That vibe gets picked up again on "A Thousand Ants," one of the record's more affecting moments. In an interview, Matz mentioned that this song is about Gibsonton, a small town in Florida with a higher freak quotient than the usual. Having been a Floridian for two decades, I'm not sure what he means when he sings, "In the hot Florida sun, you always find what you seek"-- surely one of the strange virtues of the state is that there's always yet another townie inlet you've never heard of. Backed only by blues chords on the acoustic, Matz' lonesome voice sounds endearingly matter-of-fact; it's when his pronouncements are more heavy-handed that he falters. One song later, on "Country Music," he's laboring over a banjo and singing with all dramatic honesty that "country music never lies/ It always tells the truth." Right. Overall, Afternoon Tales the Morning Never Knew is competent, and intimate in a way that parallels peeping through someone's diary. Such illicit actions have their downside, though, and like the bluster of many personal journals, Matz tackles his subjects too literally at times. His delivery is so forced on many of these tracks that it draws your attention away from the thoughtful lyrics. I holed up in a corner office during a lunch break on a demanding day at work recently, and decided to give The Birdwatcher one last chance, to catch something I'd maybe missed before. I fell asleep.

Artist: Birdwatcher, Album: Afternoon Tales the Morning Never Knew, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.1 Album review: "Most reviews of the 2001 collaboration between Michael Gira and Dan Matz, What We Did, focused, understandably, on the former's perspective. After all, Gira has steeped himself in the intensity of his musical projects, Swans and the Angels of Light, for the better part of two decades. Matz' work with his own (still extant) band Windsor for the Derby retains much less renown. What We Did marked a shift away from the Swans' thunderous intensity and the Derby's dronescapes, towards more conventional pop songwriting. Now Matz' solo work as The Birdwatcher continues the trend. The second in a trilogy of albums, Afternoon Tales the Morning Never Knew follows The Darkest Hour Is Just Before the Dawn, and will presumably be complemented by another thematic LP focusing on dusk and the night. The Birdwatcher bears all the hallmarks of singer/songwriter-produced music: progressive song structure, careful development, and a consistent sound environment. Matz plays folky ballads infused with elegant lyricism and pop melodies, like a less spacy version of his labelmate Illyah Kuryahkin. He composes songs with a small array of instruments-- acoustic and electric guitars, synthesizers and drums, mostly-- and has a smart sense of restraint. This, unfortunately, is possibly the reason that the album as a whole is kind of dull. "Afternoon Tales" opens with ringing chimes much like those of Spanish enviro-folksters Mus, soon layered over with acoustic strums and soft, clicking percussion. Matz breathes over the top a sighing "aaahhh" that repeats until the mood becomes rather doleful. Then "Empty Boat" clears the air with a light, pumping organ groove, and Anna Neighbor backs up Matz with her sweet voice on the verses. The lyrics are easily evocative: "Flying now, over top of me/ I'm grafted to the floor/ An empty boat, there's no stopping me/ On the trusting sea, I'm sunken on your shore." Complete with handclaps, it's a cutesy song, but it also drifts along on a contemplative atmosphere. That vibe gets picked up again on "A Thousand Ants," one of the record's more affecting moments. In an interview, Matz mentioned that this song is about Gibsonton, a small town in Florida with a higher freak quotient than the usual. Having been a Floridian for two decades, I'm not sure what he means when he sings, "In the hot Florida sun, you always find what you seek"-- surely one of the strange virtues of the state is that there's always yet another townie inlet you've never heard of. Backed only by blues chords on the acoustic, Matz' lonesome voice sounds endearingly matter-of-fact; it's when his pronouncements are more heavy-handed that he falters. One song later, on "Country Music," he's laboring over a banjo and singing with all dramatic honesty that "country music never lies/ It always tells the truth." Right. Overall, Afternoon Tales the Morning Never Knew is competent, and intimate in a way that parallels peeping through someone's diary. Such illicit actions have their downside, though, and like the bluster of many personal journals, Matz tackles his subjects too literally at times. His delivery is so forced on many of these tracks that it draws your attention away from the thoughtful lyrics. I holed up in a corner office during a lunch break on a demanding day at work recently, and decided to give The Birdwatcher one last chance, to catch something I'd maybe missed before. I fell asleep."

S. Carey

Hundred Acres

Rock

Ryan Burleson

Taylor Swift listens to him. Sufjan Stevens had him play on Carrie & Lowell. The song he co-wrote with country star Dierks Bentley generated Oscar buzz, and Will Arnett commissioned him to write a weeper for the Netflix series “Flaked.” Nearly a decade into his solo career, it seems longtime Bon Iver drummer and backing vocalist Sean Carey is finally edging past Justin Vernon’s very long shadow. For all they have in common—their shared Wisconsin roots, the pastoral feeling of much of their work—it’s always been lazy to conflate Carey and Vernon’s styles. Where Vernon relishes poetic extravagance, layering his band’s music with numerology and a pine-scented sense of lore, Carey’s appeals to the heart are far less adorned. In his songs, wife and kids are the keys to deepest life, the natural world holds deepest truth, and John Muir was right about everything. His aperture on the world is tight and Whitman-esque. He mellows on hearth and home while his more famous friend chases dragons. Carey’s latest record, Hundred Acres, is the purest distillation yet of this vision. It’s concerned with “trying to live a simpler life and doing the things you want with the people you love,” he told the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. This statement squares with the fly-fishing victories Carey shares on Instagram and the sound of Hundred Acres: The tunes are full of big-hearted open chords, sweetly bowed strings, restorative synths, and stories about perseverance, love, and hiding in coves with lovers. The music heaves like foam on lake shores. This is a shift. On 2014’s intricate Range of Light, Carey’s jazz and percussion training bore abundant fruit, inviting a tension between free-floating beauty and thrilling rhythmic counterpoints. The best parts of that album felt like miniature Jonny Greenwood scores, equally unsettled and blissed. Hundred Acres is often gorgeous, and the songs “True North” and “Meadow Song” rank among Carey’s finest, but the LP’s pared-down palette leaves it with less verve. The change in sound is clearly intentional, and Carey’s choice to evolve is admirable. The problem is one can only hear so many nebulous couplets about rivers and waves over languid instrumentation before this gentle snow turns to mush. It’s possible that Carey is reaching for a wider audience. Perusing his photos, listening to these tunes, watching him blend seamlessly with someone like Bentley, it’s not difficult to imagine a new future for Carey: Not topping charts, perhaps, but becoming a more marketable Glen Hansard or Damien Rice type. Stripped of production embellishments, Hundred Acres can even echo early Coldplay. That isn’t meant as an insult, but it’s worth considering the implications: One reason many listeners just can’t with Coldplay is that Chris Martin’s lyrics feel too broad to be sincere. Similarly, one begins to sense after a few listens to Hundred Acres that Carey isn’t expressing something deep in his marrow. We know from songs like “Alpenglow,” from Range of Light, that he’s able to express real emotional grit in his songs. Carey gets there occasionally on this album, as when he restates his marital vows on “True North.” Too often, though, Hundred Acres is content to be pleasant.

Artist: S. Carey, Album: Hundred Acres, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Taylor Swift listens to him. Sufjan Stevens had him play on Carrie & Lowell. The song he co-wrote with country star Dierks Bentley generated Oscar buzz, and Will Arnett commissioned him to write a weeper for the Netflix series “Flaked.” Nearly a decade into his solo career, it seems longtime Bon Iver drummer and backing vocalist Sean Carey is finally edging past Justin Vernon’s very long shadow. For all they have in common—their shared Wisconsin roots, the pastoral feeling of much of their work—it’s always been lazy to conflate Carey and Vernon’s styles. Where Vernon relishes poetic extravagance, layering his band’s music with numerology and a pine-scented sense of lore, Carey’s appeals to the heart are far less adorned. In his songs, wife and kids are the keys to deepest life, the natural world holds deepest truth, and John Muir was right about everything. His aperture on the world is tight and Whitman-esque. He mellows on hearth and home while his more famous friend chases dragons. Carey’s latest record, Hundred Acres, is the purest distillation yet of this vision. It’s concerned with “trying to live a simpler life and doing the things you want with the people you love,” he told the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. This statement squares with the fly-fishing victories Carey shares on Instagram and the sound of Hundred Acres: The tunes are full of big-hearted open chords, sweetly bowed strings, restorative synths, and stories about perseverance, love, and hiding in coves with lovers. The music heaves like foam on lake shores. This is a shift. On 2014’s intricate Range of Light, Carey’s jazz and percussion training bore abundant fruit, inviting a tension between free-floating beauty and thrilling rhythmic counterpoints. The best parts of that album felt like miniature Jonny Greenwood scores, equally unsettled and blissed. Hundred Acres is often gorgeous, and the songs “True North” and “Meadow Song” rank among Carey’s finest, but the LP’s pared-down palette leaves it with less verve. The change in sound is clearly intentional, and Carey’s choice to evolve is admirable. The problem is one can only hear so many nebulous couplets about rivers and waves over languid instrumentation before this gentle snow turns to mush. It’s possible that Carey is reaching for a wider audience. Perusing his photos, listening to these tunes, watching him blend seamlessly with someone like Bentley, it’s not difficult to imagine a new future for Carey: Not topping charts, perhaps, but becoming a more marketable Glen Hansard or Damien Rice type. Stripped of production embellishments, Hundred Acres can even echo early Coldplay. That isn’t meant as an insult, but it’s worth considering the implications: One reason many listeners just can’t with Coldplay is that Chris Martin’s lyrics feel too broad to be sincere. Similarly, one begins to sense after a few listens to Hundred Acres that Carey isn’t expressing something deep in his marrow. We know from songs like “Alpenglow,” from Range of Light, that he’s able to express real emotional grit in his songs. Carey gets there occasionally on this album, as when he restates his marital vows on “True North.” Too often, though, Hundred Acres is content to be pleasant."

diskJokke

Sagara

Pop/R&B

Andrew Gaerig

So far, Oslo-based producer diskJokke (Joachim Dyrdahl) has been the best kind of anonymous: a producer beholden to a genre (space disco) who consistently pumps out tidy, form-fitting jams. His music is defined as much by its constraints-- self-imposed, mostly-- as by its content (that he has worked as a mathematician makes perfect sense). But here, Dyrdahl has strays from the strictures of beatific electronic music in favor of tone-poem ambience. Sagara was commissioned by Norway's Øya festival, which provided Dyrdahl the resources to travel to a place of his choosing and study music. After sampling musicians in Bali and Java, Dyrdahl abandoned the idea of a dance album and instead focused on incorporating the tones and modalities of Gamelan music into pillow-soft mood pieces. It's not much of a stretch: Gamelan is typically busier and noisier than Sagara, but its massing of percussive sounds can lead to an ethereal blur. Dyrdahl takes that blur and spreads it, jam-like, over long instrumental passages. The resulting sound isn't "new" unless you're the type of person who owns only diskJokke albums, but Dyrdahl's background as a classically trained violinist and electronic producer serves him well here. Sagara has a rich, saturated ambience that deserves a fine sound system and a generous twist of the volume knob, but it's uneventful in a way that suggests patience. This is nowhere more evident than on "Mandena" which, after three minutes of bare nothingness, acquires a misty palpitation and a splattering of percussive tones. At just over 35 minutes long, Sagara is refreshingly unimpressed with its own concept or bigness. It is a short, loving letter from Dyrdahl to a music and region that has inspired him. It's not until the final track, "Panutup", that Dyrdahl's instincts as a dance producer get the best of him. He lifts his tonal haze, offers some gorgeous ringing chords and field recordings before introducing-- finally!-- a thwumping disco bassline and a steady, surging kick drum. Dyrdahl spins this sudden percussiveness into a skyward, uplifting Balearic anthem before fading it out again. It's a moment of such surprising and stunning motion that it's possible to view the previous 30 minutes of music as one long, patient build. (There is an irony to the notion that the one time Dyrdahl really approaches the beauty and mysticism of Gamelan is when he interrupts his experiment and returns to his craft.) Dyrdahl never received enough credit for the excellent sound design of his work, and while Sagara seems nothing more than an interesting detour, his careful ear and sense of structure are here in spades.

Artist: diskJokke, Album: Sagara, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "So far, Oslo-based producer diskJokke (Joachim Dyrdahl) has been the best kind of anonymous: a producer beholden to a genre (space disco) who consistently pumps out tidy, form-fitting jams. His music is defined as much by its constraints-- self-imposed, mostly-- as by its content (that he has worked as a mathematician makes perfect sense). But here, Dyrdahl has strays from the strictures of beatific electronic music in favor of tone-poem ambience. Sagara was commissioned by Norway's Øya festival, which provided Dyrdahl the resources to travel to a place of his choosing and study music. After sampling musicians in Bali and Java, Dyrdahl abandoned the idea of a dance album and instead focused on incorporating the tones and modalities of Gamelan music into pillow-soft mood pieces. It's not much of a stretch: Gamelan is typically busier and noisier than Sagara, but its massing of percussive sounds can lead to an ethereal blur. Dyrdahl takes that blur and spreads it, jam-like, over long instrumental passages. The resulting sound isn't "new" unless you're the type of person who owns only diskJokke albums, but Dyrdahl's background as a classically trained violinist and electronic producer serves him well here. Sagara has a rich, saturated ambience that deserves a fine sound system and a generous twist of the volume knob, but it's uneventful in a way that suggests patience. This is nowhere more evident than on "Mandena" which, after three minutes of bare nothingness, acquires a misty palpitation and a splattering of percussive tones. At just over 35 minutes long, Sagara is refreshingly unimpressed with its own concept or bigness. It is a short, loving letter from Dyrdahl to a music and region that has inspired him. It's not until the final track, "Panutup", that Dyrdahl's instincts as a dance producer get the best of him. He lifts his tonal haze, offers some gorgeous ringing chords and field recordings before introducing-- finally!-- a thwumping disco bassline and a steady, surging kick drum. Dyrdahl spins this sudden percussiveness into a skyward, uplifting Balearic anthem before fading it out again. It's a moment of such surprising and stunning motion that it's possible to view the previous 30 minutes of music as one long, patient build. (There is an irony to the notion that the one time Dyrdahl really approaches the beauty and mysticism of Gamelan is when he interrupts his experiment and returns to his craft.) Dyrdahl never received enough credit for the excellent sound design of his work, and while Sagara seems nothing more than an interesting detour, his careful ear and sense of structure are here in spades."

Tune-Yards

w h o k i l l

Pop/R&B

Matthew Perpetua

The stylization of the name tUnE-yArDs in print is a bit off-putting, but it at least gives people fair warning: This is not an act with any interest in politely conforming to expectations. tUnE-yArDs is the music project of Merrill Garbus, a songwriter, vocalist, percussionist, and ukulele player who has fused elements of acoustic folk, R&B, funk, Afro-pop, and rock into a bold, uncompromising hybrid all her own. Garbus is blessed with an extraordinary voice, and she wields it with great confidence, always coming off in total control of her phrasing while seeming totally uninhibited in her expression. There's an authoritative quality to her voice-- she often sings with a commanding, full-bodied boldness, but even at her softest, Garbus sounds assertive and forthright. w h o k i l l, Garbus' second album as tUnE-yArDs, delivers on the promise of her 2009 debut, BiRd-BrAiNs. Unlike that album, which she recorded almost entirely on her own using a digital voice recorder and the sound editing program Audacity, w h o k i l l was mostly made in traditional studios in collaboration with bassist Nate Brenner, engineer Eli Crews, and a handful of other musicians. The music benefits from the increased professionalism, but Garbus has not abandoned her lo-fi aesthetic. As on BiRd-BrAiNs, Garbus layers sound to create a patchwork of contrasting textures. This time around, the greater clarity allows for more exaggerated dynamics. This is most apparent in "Gangsta", a carefully arranged track that evokes danger and fear with bluntly abbreviated blasts of horn noise and sounds that cut in and out erratically like a set of headphones with a busted wire or a cell phone that can't hold its signal. On the opposite end of the spectrum, she creates an almost unsettling intimacy on "Wooly Wolly Gong" by mixing the ambient hum of room sound with closely mic'd arpeggiated chords and vocals. Brenner's presence on bass is the biggest difference between w h o k i l l and BiRd-BrAiNs. His style is loose and jazzy, with fluid, melodic lines that add dimension to Garbus' compositions. She sounded so isolated on BiRd-BrAiNs, but suddenly her music is like a conversation, with Brenner's parts bouncing off her voice and rhythms like thoughtful banter. He brings a janky funk to "Es-so", a zippy groove to "Bizness", and a delicate weight to the airy "Doorstep". On "Powa", his lead lines slink around Garbus' slo-mo rock riff as if in a subliminal duet with her expressive vocal performance. That song builds steadily over the course of five minutes until it reaches a stunning climax in which Brenner's bass bounces gently as Garbus hits a glorious high note like a feral Mariah Carey. Throughout w h o k i l l, Garbus confronts thorny issues of race, gender, body image, and privilege in ways that are pointed but nuanced. She mostly sticks to personal narratives, suggesting big ideas and complex tensions in her subtext while emphasizing the urgency of small moments and concrete details. She's most direct in the opening cut "My Country", in which she wrestles with guilt over her own privilege, but she's more thought-provoking when in murkier, more ambiguous territory, like when she sings about a sexual fantasy involving the brutal cop who arrested her brother in "Riotriot" or when she wonders aloud why she does not have more black male friends at the end of "Killa". Garbus is particularly fascinated by violence; most of the tracks on w h o k i l l deal with power struggles that arise from inequity and lead to further cruelty and injustice. Her lighter moments are still quite complicated-- she playfully wrestles with negative body image in "Es-so", while that same lingering disgust and self-doubt brings a moving subtext to "Powa", an ode to a lover who can get her to momentarily let go of stress and insecurities. Back in 1983 Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon wrote an essay for Art Forum that suggested that when we go to rock performances, we pay to see other people believe in themselves. A lot of what makes w h o k i l l and tUnE-yArDs' excellent live performances so compelling is the degree to which Garbus commits to her ideas and displays a total conviction in her personal, idiosyncratic, high-stakes music. This, in and of itself, is very inspiring and empowering. This unguarded, individualistic expression encourages strong identification in listeners, so don't be surprised if this record earns Garbus a very earnest and intense cult following.

Artist: Tune-Yards, Album: w h o k i l l, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.8 Album review: "The stylization of the name tUnE-yArDs in print is a bit off-putting, but it at least gives people fair warning: This is not an act with any interest in politely conforming to expectations. tUnE-yArDs is the music project of Merrill Garbus, a songwriter, vocalist, percussionist, and ukulele player who has fused elements of acoustic folk, R&B, funk, Afro-pop, and rock into a bold, uncompromising hybrid all her own. Garbus is blessed with an extraordinary voice, and she wields it with great confidence, always coming off in total control of her phrasing while seeming totally uninhibited in her expression. There's an authoritative quality to her voice-- she often sings with a commanding, full-bodied boldness, but even at her softest, Garbus sounds assertive and forthright. w h o k i l l, Garbus' second album as tUnE-yArDs, delivers on the promise of her 2009 debut, BiRd-BrAiNs. Unlike that album, which she recorded almost entirely on her own using a digital voice recorder and the sound editing program Audacity, w h o k i l l was mostly made in traditional studios in collaboration with bassist Nate Brenner, engineer Eli Crews, and a handful of other musicians. The music benefits from the increased professionalism, but Garbus has not abandoned her lo-fi aesthetic. As on BiRd-BrAiNs, Garbus layers sound to create a patchwork of contrasting textures. This time around, the greater clarity allows for more exaggerated dynamics. This is most apparent in "Gangsta", a carefully arranged track that evokes danger and fear with bluntly abbreviated blasts of horn noise and sounds that cut in and out erratically like a set of headphones with a busted wire or a cell phone that can't hold its signal. On the opposite end of the spectrum, she creates an almost unsettling intimacy on "Wooly Wolly Gong" by mixing the ambient hum of room sound with closely mic'd arpeggiated chords and vocals. Brenner's presence on bass is the biggest difference between w h o k i l l and BiRd-BrAiNs. His style is loose and jazzy, with fluid, melodic lines that add dimension to Garbus' compositions. She sounded so isolated on BiRd-BrAiNs, but suddenly her music is like a conversation, with Brenner's parts bouncing off her voice and rhythms like thoughtful banter. He brings a janky funk to "Es-so", a zippy groove to "Bizness", and a delicate weight to the airy "Doorstep". On "Powa", his lead lines slink around Garbus' slo-mo rock riff as if in a subliminal duet with her expressive vocal performance. That song builds steadily over the course of five minutes until it reaches a stunning climax in which Brenner's bass bounces gently as Garbus hits a glorious high note like a feral Mariah Carey. Throughout w h o k i l l, Garbus confronts thorny issues of race, gender, body image, and privilege in ways that are pointed but nuanced. She mostly sticks to personal narratives, suggesting big ideas and complex tensions in her subtext while emphasizing the urgency of small moments and concrete details. She's most direct in the opening cut "My Country", in which she wrestles with guilt over her own privilege, but she's more thought-provoking when in murkier, more ambiguous territory, like when she sings about a sexual fantasy involving the brutal cop who arrested her brother in "Riotriot" or when she wonders aloud why she does not have more black male friends at the end of "Killa". Garbus is particularly fascinated by violence; most of the tracks on w h o k i l l deal with power struggles that arise from inequity and lead to further cruelty and injustice. Her lighter moments are still quite complicated-- she playfully wrestles with negative body image in "Es-so", while that same lingering disgust and self-doubt brings a moving subtext to "Powa", an ode to a lover who can get her to momentarily let go of stress and insecurities. Back in 1983 Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon wrote an essay for Art Forum that suggested that when we go to rock performances, we pay to see other people believe in themselves. A lot of what makes w h o k i l l and tUnE-yArDs' excellent live performances so compelling is the degree to which Garbus commits to her ideas and displays a total conviction in her personal, idiosyncratic, high-stakes music. This, in and of itself, is very inspiring and empowering. This unguarded, individualistic expression encourages strong identification in listeners, so don't be surprised if this record earns Garbus a very earnest and intense cult following."

Cristina

Doll in the Box

Electronic,Rock

Brandon Stosuy

Turning campy vintage disco into smoky, dark-humored cinematic theater, New York City dance maven Cristina was too weird and forward thinking to make it out of the East Village gutter during her brief early 80s career. At times a leopard-printed turn-around-bright-eyes Bonnie Tyler, her vocalizations dip occasionally into the powder keg of squawky Long Island secretaries but just as often she laces her shuffle with Ann Magnuson, Kylie Minogue, and that other single-named downtown personality and launches into the ether around that great sparkling ball in the sky. Luckily for fans of dance-floor drama and those into the idea of a Cristina comeback, the folks at ZE have reissued her entire output, which includes 1980s sprawling, ultra percussive Doll in the Box and its darker 1984 synth follow-up, Sleep It Off. Self-titled when it was originally released, Doll In the Box was produced by August Darnell aka Kid Creole. The humid "Jungle Love" arrangements are clearly his, but the frenetic Latin beats work well with her sensibilities. Obviously intended for the dancefloor, only a 21-second bit of incidental noise dips below four minutes and the majority of the tracks are well above five. For example, "Don't Be Greedy"'s handclaps and taunting group whines contrast with the smooth vibes, horn section, and Cristina's pouty ruminations that "every time I mention sex you turn away and say you're out of breath," etc. The jazzy percussion's reminiscent of Liquid Liquid: snaps, shakers, cowbell, and maracas. Cristina's especially fun when she vamps: "Temporarily Yours", an up-tempo couples-only roller-rink spin cycle finds her asking not to be labeled a whore briefly before she makes like Veruca Salt lusting for that golden goose, breathily demanding "Give it to me/ Give it to me/ I want it now" over handclaps, flute, and a woozy string section. She emerges in salsa mode for "Blame It On Disco", lamenting the absence of her man, who she fears is dancing his life away. A taut bass and junkyard bongo army tear it down halfway through; later, she moans wantonly over a telephone synth, squeaker toys, and a heady Latin choir. The original album is buttressed with five strong bonus tracks. Besides two versions of her Betty Boop cover of The Beatles "Drive My Car," the creme de la creme offering is the half-spoken cabaret of "Is That All There Is?" which focuses on Cristina's father burning down her childhood house and her hard-ass response: "Is that all there is to a fire?" The track resembles David Tibet and Gogol Bordello doing the Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack: "If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing/ Let's break out the booze and have a ball." As with many of her compositions, she squeals about the NYC club scene of the time of "bored bankers dancing with beautiful models" and "beautiful boys with dyed hair dancing with each other." Then, of course, she falls in love with the "most wonderful boy in Manhattan": "He'd beat me black and blue and I loved it." The final coda mixes in a cuckoo clock and broken glass, people talking and laughing panning between speakers, a popped cork, a balloon. Proving this gem wasn't an anomaly, Cristina throwns down plenty of magic on her sophomore release, Sleep It Off. Adorned with a fabulous Jean-Paul Goude photograph of a long-necked Cristina swan as musical staff, the album was produced by Don Was and includes a contribution from James Chance and covers of Van Morrison's "Blue Money" and the 1980 country hit "She Can't Say That Anymore". Perhaps mirroring the times (the bohemia promise of 1980, the gentrification of 1984) this is a darker album all in all. The subject matter is especially downtown edgy, as if she was dipping into Kathy Acker and Lydia Lunch when she sat down to pen her libretto. Opting for shorter/tighter shorter songs (none reaching five minutes) and more hooks, Cristina sounds especially alive while also bringing to mind a patchwork-punk Debbie Harry with an ultra cool Euro backing band. "He Dines Out On Death" presents a suicidal woman with a fistful of pills in a foreign hotel. In the creaky "What's A Girl To Do" she sings, "My life is in a turmoil/ My thighs are black and blue/ My sheets are stained so is my brain/ What's a girl to do?" All this amid an off-kilter, squawky synthesizer coupled with very tinny toy piano break-up, and slithering distortion. She also offers her first of many Johnny Rotten snarls. (Also check out the Julie-Ruin styling of "Don't Mutilate My Mink".) It's on the bonus tracks that she especially shines. "Smile" is a Blondie-infused triumph. There are two takes on the "Deb Behind Bars," more stiletto-punk cabaret. "Things Fall Apart" transforms a music box into fuzzed death disco w/ electric guitars. Best of all, her chirpy, whiplash cover of Prince's "When You Were Mine" (rendered here as "When You Are Mine") is an indispensable tablespoon of synth-pop sugar. While these albums are obviously old-school crackly, they don't feel dated or nostalgic. And though the time's past, perhaps a pair of reissues will give at least a glimpse of how complex and fun popular culture could've been if Harvard girl Cristina's intelligent kitsch had lodged itself in the popular conscious instead of the new-age pabulum of a desperately seeking diva with a goddess complex.

Artist: Cristina, Album: Doll in the Box, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Turning campy vintage disco into smoky, dark-humored cinematic theater, New York City dance maven Cristina was too weird and forward thinking to make it out of the East Village gutter during her brief early 80s career. At times a leopard-printed turn-around-bright-eyes Bonnie Tyler, her vocalizations dip occasionally into the powder keg of squawky Long Island secretaries but just as often she laces her shuffle with Ann Magnuson, Kylie Minogue, and that other single-named downtown personality and launches into the ether around that great sparkling ball in the sky. Luckily for fans of dance-floor drama and those into the idea of a Cristina comeback, the folks at ZE have reissued her entire output, which includes 1980s sprawling, ultra percussive Doll in the Box and its darker 1984 synth follow-up, Sleep It Off. Self-titled when it was originally released, Doll In the Box was produced by August Darnell aka Kid Creole. The humid "Jungle Love" arrangements are clearly his, but the frenetic Latin beats work well with her sensibilities. Obviously intended for the dancefloor, only a 21-second bit of incidental noise dips below four minutes and the majority of the tracks are well above five. For example, "Don't Be Greedy"'s handclaps and taunting group whines contrast with the smooth vibes, horn section, and Cristina's pouty ruminations that "every time I mention sex you turn away and say you're out of breath," etc. The jazzy percussion's reminiscent of Liquid Liquid: snaps, shakers, cowbell, and maracas. Cristina's especially fun when she vamps: "Temporarily Yours", an up-tempo couples-only roller-rink spin cycle finds her asking not to be labeled a whore briefly before she makes like Veruca Salt lusting for that golden goose, breathily demanding "Give it to me/ Give it to me/ I want it now" over handclaps, flute, and a woozy string section. She emerges in salsa mode for "Blame It On Disco", lamenting the absence of her man, who she fears is dancing his life away. A taut bass and junkyard bongo army tear it down halfway through; later, she moans wantonly over a telephone synth, squeaker toys, and a heady Latin choir. The original album is buttressed with five strong bonus tracks. Besides two versions of her Betty Boop cover of The Beatles "Drive My Car," the creme de la creme offering is the half-spoken cabaret of "Is That All There Is?" which focuses on Cristina's father burning down her childhood house and her hard-ass response: "Is that all there is to a fire?" The track resembles David Tibet and Gogol Bordello doing the Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack: "If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing/ Let's break out the booze and have a ball." As with many of her compositions, she squeals about the NYC club scene of the time of "bored bankers dancing with beautiful models" and "beautiful boys with dyed hair dancing with each other." Then, of course, she falls in love with the "most wonderful boy in Manhattan": "He'd beat me black and blue and I loved it." The final coda mixes in a cuckoo clock and broken glass, people talking and laughing panning between speakers, a popped cork, a balloon. Proving this gem wasn't an anomaly, Cristina throwns down plenty of magic on her sophomore release, Sleep It Off. Adorned with a fabulous Jean-Paul Goude photograph of a long-necked Cristina swan as musical staff, the album was produced by Don Was and includes a contribution from James Chance and covers of Van Morrison's "Blue Money" and the 1980 country hit "She Can't Say That Anymore". Perhaps mirroring the times (the bohemia promise of 1980, the gentrification of 1984) this is a darker album all in all. The subject matter is especially downtown edgy, as if she was dipping into Kathy Acker and Lydia Lunch when she sat down to pen her libretto. Opting for shorter/tighter shorter songs (none reaching five minutes) and more hooks, Cristina sounds especially alive while also bringing to mind a patchwork-punk Debbie Harry with an ultra cool Euro backing band. "He Dines Out On Death" presents a suicidal woman with a fistful of pills in a foreign hotel. In the creaky "What's A Girl To Do" she sings, "My life is in a turmoil/ My thighs are black and blue/ My sheets are stained so is my brain/ What's a girl to do?" All this amid an off-kilter, squawky synthesizer coupled with very tinny toy piano break-up, and slithering distortion. She also offers her first of many Johnny Rotten snarls. (Also check out the Julie-Ruin styling of "Don't Mutilate My Mink".) It's on the bonus tracks that she especially shines. "Smile" is a Blondie-infused triumph. There are two takes on the "Deb Behind Bars," more stiletto-punk cabaret. "Things Fall Apart" transforms a music box into fuzzed death disco w/ electric guitars. Best of all, her chirpy, whiplash cover of Prince's "When You Were Mine" (rendered here as "When You Are Mine") is an indispensable tablespoon of synth-pop sugar. While these albums are obviously old-school crackly, they don't feel dated or nostalgic. And though the time's past, perhaps a pair of reissues will give at least a glimpse of how complex and fun popular culture could've been if Harvard girl Cristina's intelligent kitsch had lodged itself in the popular conscious instead of the new-age pabulum of a desperately seeking diva with a goddess complex."

Lil Wayne

FWA

Rap

Matthew Ramirez

In retrospect, 2011 looks like the turning point of Lil Wayne’s career. He was coming off almost a year in prison, and the last album he'd offered fans before beginning his sentence was early 2010's Rebirth, a misguided-if-actually-kind-of-endearing rock album. By the time he was free and the summer of 2011 swung around, the thought of new Weezy filled fans with feelings they would never have again: anticipation and excitement. We got Carter IV. Fast-forward to 2015 and, after four years of hit-or-miss releases, The Free Weezy Album. A set billed as a "Tidal exclusive" doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. Tidal is already looking like the MiniDisc of streaming services and it’s only been around for a few months. The existence of FWA starts to make sense when you realize that Birdman (and by extension Cash Money) has essentially taken what would be Carter V hostage, and Wayne is currently prohibited from profiting from new music. But, as an "artist owner" of Tidal, no one is telling him he can’t release things for free. The Free Weezy Album, then, has a double meaning. For every memorable line or couplet (on "He’s Dead", he flatly admits "rest in peace to the Cash Money Weezy, gone but not forgotten," and on "Pull Up", a clear Young Thug diss song, he pulls some vocal acrobatics, mimicking Thug's percussive, ratatat delivery) there are many clunkers ("she get hard dick and McDonald’s 'cause she so tired of them whoppers," from "I Feel Good"). Closer "Pick Up Your Heart", a tedious attempt at channeling protégé Drake, features Wayne pleading "I don't wanna do it no more" but any kind of emotional resonance is nullified by a goofy spoken-word outro. His last words on this record are "She said she wanted sprinkles, I said sprinkles are for winners." Listening to FWA—which is slight by design and not any kind of statement release—I kept thinking, "This is what listening to a new Dylan LP in the '80s must have felt like." You knew you were in the hands of a living great, and you could convince yourself a few songs every few years were worth saving. Across FWA's 15 tracks and laborious 65 minute runtime, I can salvage "Glory" and maybe "Without You", but I can’t help but feel like the guy cherry-picking songs from Knocked Out Loaded. The effort and energy are there but the soul is missing, even when Wayne calls back to New Orleans bounce staple sample "Trigga Man", references TRU, or in the album’s funniest and oddly sweet moment, says "it’s Lil Wayne, I been this shit since Lil Zane," which only reminds you of when he was young, hungry, and full of potential. It all raises the question: What do you want from Lil Wayne in 2015? Because let’s face it: 2007 Wayne ain’t walking through that door. Since 2011 and "Grove St. Party" with Lil B, how much Wayne music could be deemed essential? Has he crossed a "Simpsons" line where he’s been "okay" longer than he was great? Wayne will always wring a few memorable lines from any song, but how many of his mixtapes or singles or features have had staying power since then? Is this what we want from 2005’s best rapper alive? Are you the same person you were a decade ago?

Artist: Lil Wayne, Album: FWA, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 5.5 Album review: "In retrospect, 2011 looks like the turning point of Lil Wayne’s career. He was coming off almost a year in prison, and the last album he'd offered fans before beginning his sentence was early 2010's Rebirth, a misguided-if-actually-kind-of-endearing rock album. By the time he was free and the summer of 2011 swung around, the thought of new Weezy filled fans with feelings they would never have again: anticipation and excitement. We got Carter IV. Fast-forward to 2015 and, after four years of hit-or-miss releases, The Free Weezy Album. A set billed as a "Tidal exclusive" doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. Tidal is already looking like the MiniDisc of streaming services and it’s only been around for a few months. The existence of FWA starts to make sense when you realize that Birdman (and by extension Cash Money) has essentially taken what would be Carter V hostage, and Wayne is currently prohibited from profiting from new music. But, as an "artist owner" of Tidal, no one is telling him he can’t release things for free. The Free Weezy Album, then, has a double meaning. For every memorable line or couplet (on "He’s Dead", he flatly admits "rest in peace to the Cash Money Weezy, gone but not forgotten," and on "Pull Up", a clear Young Thug diss song, he pulls some vocal acrobatics, mimicking Thug's percussive, ratatat delivery) there are many clunkers ("she get hard dick and McDonald’s 'cause she so tired of them whoppers," from "I Feel Good"). Closer "Pick Up Your Heart", a tedious attempt at channeling protégé Drake, features Wayne pleading "I don't wanna do it no more" but any kind of emotional resonance is nullified by a goofy spoken-word outro. His last words on this record are "She said she wanted sprinkles, I said sprinkles are for winners." Listening to FWA—which is slight by design and not any kind of statement release—I kept thinking, "This is what listening to a new Dylan LP in the '80s must have felt like." You knew you were in the hands of a living great, and you could convince yourself a few songs every few years were worth saving. Across FWA's 15 tracks and laborious 65 minute runtime, I can salvage "Glory" and maybe "Without You", but I can’t help but feel like the guy cherry-picking songs from Knocked Out Loaded. The effort and energy are there but the soul is missing, even when Wayne calls back to New Orleans bounce staple sample "Trigga Man", references TRU, or in the album’s funniest and oddly sweet moment, says "it’s Lil Wayne, I been this shit since Lil Zane," which only reminds you of when he was young, hungry, and full of potential. It all raises the question: What do you want from Lil Wayne in 2015? Because let’s face it: 2007 Wayne ain’t walking through that door. Since 2011 and "Grove St. Party" with Lil B, how much Wayne music could be deemed essential? Has he crossed a "Simpsons" line where he’s been "okay" longer than he was great? Wayne will always wring a few memorable lines from any song, but how many of his mixtapes or singles or features have had staying power since then? Is this what we want from 2005’s best rapper alive? Are you the same person you were a decade ago?"

Archer Prewitt

Gerroa Songs

Rock

Ryan Kearney

This eight-song, 27-minute LP is clearly of a particular time and place-- not so much historically as personally. It's an intimate moment captured in sound. As Archer Prewitt himself accurately phrased it, these songs are "documents." Recorded live to eight-track in March 1999 (with a little post-production overdubbing), Gerroa Songs arose out of a vacation of sorts. Tony Dupre, a friend and engineer, invited Prewitt and others to a haunted, dilapidated ex-Nunnery by the seaside cliffs of Gerroa, New South Wales, Australia. During the day, they swam, relaxed, talked, watched leaping dolphins, and recorded pleasant songs. During the evening, they watched the house become dark, listened to insects drone on, and recorded gloomy songs. They never saw the much-rumored "phantom lady" who supposedly appeared in a chair at the end of the long dark hall. But she seems to have surfaced on the opening track, "Gerroa." Two computer glitches and an abandoned drumbeat pass by before the song ascends into waves of rattling and whirring machinery, like a specter floating among the hanging pots and pans of an industrial kitchen. It's hard to say if this is intentionally orchestrated or if it's the ambient noise of the building. That it fades away for a quaint guitar and simple percussion suggests the former. But the noises return, this time accompanied by a cacophony of deep cello notes, eerie moaning, and discordant noises reminiscent of parts of Jackie-O Motherfucker's Fig. 5. As the guitars and drums reenter, these sounds pull out again, but for one high, sustained violin stroke that holds for the last minute of the five-minute song. Following "Gerroa" comes "The Bay," an brooding two-minute guitar instrumental that sounds recorded in a large, empty room with a bare wooden floor. Waves, wind and birds are barely audible in the background, adding a natural depth to the sound that, while completely opposite from the studio depth of his finely-crafted sophomore album, 1999's White Sky, is equally effective. On "Meant to Be," these ambient sounds are even more audible, as are the insects that Prewitt alludes to in the liner notes. Finally unveiling his soft vocals, he sings, "Meant to be, yeah, you were the one/ Meant to be, now never." This must have been one of the night songs. "Along the Coast" is the first song that one can be sure was recorded in the afternoon. Featuring only Prewitt's deft guitarwork and the occasional interjecting cello or background harmonies, the song is like much of his other work: subdued, but not sad. Likewise, the strings and guitar of "Waves Waltz," the Nick Drake-ian fingerpicking of "Tell Me Now," and the beautiful, personal closer, "Her Magic" are more similar to the pensive, autumnal White Sky. However, with the exception of "Her Magic," these entries aren't quite as engaging. But the EP's standout track, "Another Peace of Mind," is among Prewitt's best efforts. A simple drumbeat returns-- bass drum, hi-hat, snare-- as does light guitar strumming. "The time it takes you to be late," sings Prewitt. "Beware the folks that you berate/ Take care the steps you have to take." The song then leaps down into a sublime epiphany of deep bass, evocative strings, and the worrisome lines, "Never going to find/ Another peace of mind." Surprisingly-- given the mellow, lush White Sky-- gloominess and underproduction suit Prewitt well, but this different approach allows for decidedly less hummable melodies to balance out the quieter, sunken confessionals. Still, Gerroa Songs is successful at what it attempts to accomplish. And while Prewitt's experience recording Gerroa Songs is probably more memorable than our experience listening to it, that he would share his pleasant, creepy vacation with us is enough to warrant appreciation.

Artist: Archer Prewitt, Album: Gerroa Songs, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "This eight-song, 27-minute LP is clearly of a particular time and place-- not so much historically as personally. It's an intimate moment captured in sound. As Archer Prewitt himself accurately phrased it, these songs are "documents." Recorded live to eight-track in March 1999 (with a little post-production overdubbing), Gerroa Songs arose out of a vacation of sorts. Tony Dupre, a friend and engineer, invited Prewitt and others to a haunted, dilapidated ex-Nunnery by the seaside cliffs of Gerroa, New South Wales, Australia. During the day, they swam, relaxed, talked, watched leaping dolphins, and recorded pleasant songs. During the evening, they watched the house become dark, listened to insects drone on, and recorded gloomy songs. They never saw the much-rumored "phantom lady" who supposedly appeared in a chair at the end of the long dark hall. But she seems to have surfaced on the opening track, "Gerroa." Two computer glitches and an abandoned drumbeat pass by before the song ascends into waves of rattling and whirring machinery, like a specter floating among the hanging pots and pans of an industrial kitchen. It's hard to say if this is intentionally orchestrated or if it's the ambient noise of the building. That it fades away for a quaint guitar and simple percussion suggests the former. But the noises return, this time accompanied by a cacophony of deep cello notes, eerie moaning, and discordant noises reminiscent of parts of Jackie-O Motherfucker's Fig. 5. As the guitars and drums reenter, these sounds pull out again, but for one high, sustained violin stroke that holds for the last minute of the five-minute song. Following "Gerroa" comes "The Bay," an brooding two-minute guitar instrumental that sounds recorded in a large, empty room with a bare wooden floor. Waves, wind and birds are barely audible in the background, adding a natural depth to the sound that, while completely opposite from the studio depth of his finely-crafted sophomore album, 1999's White Sky, is equally effective. On "Meant to Be," these ambient sounds are even more audible, as are the insects that Prewitt alludes to in the liner notes. Finally unveiling his soft vocals, he sings, "Meant to be, yeah, you were the one/ Meant to be, now never." This must have been one of the night songs. "Along the Coast" is the first song that one can be sure was recorded in the afternoon. Featuring only Prewitt's deft guitarwork and the occasional interjecting cello or background harmonies, the song is like much of his other work: subdued, but not sad. Likewise, the strings and guitar of "Waves Waltz," the Nick Drake-ian fingerpicking of "Tell Me Now," and the beautiful, personal closer, "Her Magic" are more similar to the pensive, autumnal White Sky. However, with the exception of "Her Magic," these entries aren't quite as engaging. But the EP's standout track, "Another Peace of Mind," is among Prewitt's best efforts. A simple drumbeat returns-- bass drum, hi-hat, snare-- as does light guitar strumming. "The time it takes you to be late," sings Prewitt. "Beware the folks that you berate/ Take care the steps you have to take." The song then leaps down into a sublime epiphany of deep bass, evocative strings, and the worrisome lines, "Never going to find/ Another peace of mind." Surprisingly-- given the mellow, lush White Sky-- gloominess and underproduction suit Prewitt well, but this different approach allows for decidedly less hummable melodies to balance out the quieter, sunken confessionals. Still, Gerroa Songs is successful at what it attempts to accomplish. And while Prewitt's experience recording Gerroa Songs is probably more memorable than our experience listening to it, that he would share his pleasant, creepy vacation with us is enough to warrant appreciation."

Villalobos

Alcachofa

Scott Plagenhoef

For most of the first 45 seconds of Chilean producer Ricardo Villalobos' debut album Alcachofa the only sound is provided by a vocodered voice. But rather than using that device to turn man into the sheen of a playful disco machine, Villalobos' treated vocal on opener "Easy Lee" is murky, weighted down by reverb and doubt. It frequently trails off at the end of words and sentences. It's exhausted. And when the thump and snap of light 4/4 rhythms accompany it, it sounds even more submerged, as if it's trying to keep its head above water. Villalobos approaches the admittedly wide and increasingly nebulous net of tech-house as if 2002 never happened-- no The Present Lover, no All That Glitters, no Digital Disco, no Total 4. That's certainly not bad, it's just another tangent for this ever-pulsating sound. The odd thing is that even without getting in touch with his inner pop child, Villalobos has landed in the same general area as the Tied to the 80s retro futurists: a delicate mix of nuance and melody. It's sort of the morning-after-- or possibly the walk home from the club, the how soon is now?-- to all of those of shiny, hands-aloft nights out. And Villalobos isn't the only producer taking this route. It's also one traveled by Luciano and the suddenly prolific Matthew Dear, whose Ghostly International releases-- EP1 and EP2, and his upcoming Leave Luck to Heaven album-- all demonstrate a similar approach to tech-house. The roots of the Villalobos' music-- which can also be found on his own outstanding mix albums Love Family Trax and Taka Take, Perlon's Superlongevity compilation, and a series of 12-inch releases under his own name and as half of Ric y Martin-- lie in the Kompakt label's ambient beginnings and Basic Channel and the rest of the minimalist Berlin crowd. Like the Berliners, he wades through gurgling, delicate pools of dubby bliss. His mix of groove and nuance seems somehow warm and cold at the same time, a very human expression of somber emotions. Its bittersweet tone is compounded by a blend of the familiar (the self-deprecating vocals almost direct house of "What You Say is More Than I Can Say", the late-night speedway of "Y.G.H.") and the unexpected ("Waiworinao"'s chugging guitar, the polyrhythmic "Fools Garden (Black Conga)"). One setback is that the set misses perhaps his most beloved track, "808 the Bassqueen", although that may not have matched the record's tone. What is recycled from previous releases includes "Dexter", lifted from Taka Taka, and the aforementioned "What You Say is More Than I Can Say", which appears here as an edited version of the track, originally released on the Halma 12-inch. One of the few vocal tracks, the me-against-the-world of "I Try to Live (Can I Live)", perhaps best illustrates the hesitancy, doubt, and weariness that drifts through Alcachofa. There and elsewhere throughout the record, Villalobos seems to be seeking comfort and finding it in small moments, in the nooks and crannies of the sound rather the more traditional heart-pumping moments explored by many tech-house producers over the past year or so. Instead, at Alcachofa's heart beats a more steady rhythm, pumping out fragile melodies painted with small yet precise brushstrokes.

Artist: Villalobos, Album: Alcachofa, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "For most of the first 45 seconds of Chilean producer Ricardo Villalobos' debut album Alcachofa the only sound is provided by a vocodered voice. But rather than using that device to turn man into the sheen of a playful disco machine, Villalobos' treated vocal on opener "Easy Lee" is murky, weighted down by reverb and doubt. It frequently trails off at the end of words and sentences. It's exhausted. And when the thump and snap of light 4/4 rhythms accompany it, it sounds even more submerged, as if it's trying to keep its head above water. Villalobos approaches the admittedly wide and increasingly nebulous net of tech-house as if 2002 never happened-- no The Present Lover, no All That Glitters, no Digital Disco, no Total 4. That's certainly not bad, it's just another tangent for this ever-pulsating sound. The odd thing is that even without getting in touch with his inner pop child, Villalobos has landed in the same general area as the Tied to the 80s retro futurists: a delicate mix of nuance and melody. It's sort of the morning-after-- or possibly the walk home from the club, the how soon is now?-- to all of those of shiny, hands-aloft nights out. And Villalobos isn't the only producer taking this route. It's also one traveled by Luciano and the suddenly prolific Matthew Dear, whose Ghostly International releases-- EP1 and EP2, and his upcoming Leave Luck to Heaven album-- all demonstrate a similar approach to tech-house. The roots of the Villalobos' music-- which can also be found on his own outstanding mix albums Love Family Trax and Taka Take, Perlon's Superlongevity compilation, and a series of 12-inch releases under his own name and as half of Ric y Martin-- lie in the Kompakt label's ambient beginnings and Basic Channel and the rest of the minimalist Berlin crowd. Like the Berliners, he wades through gurgling, delicate pools of dubby bliss. His mix of groove and nuance seems somehow warm and cold at the same time, a very human expression of somber emotions. Its bittersweet tone is compounded by a blend of the familiar (the self-deprecating vocals almost direct house of "What You Say is More Than I Can Say", the late-night speedway of "Y.G.H.") and the unexpected ("Waiworinao"'s chugging guitar, the polyrhythmic "Fools Garden (Black Conga)"). One setback is that the set misses perhaps his most beloved track, "808 the Bassqueen", although that may not have matched the record's tone. What is recycled from previous releases includes "Dexter", lifted from Taka Taka, and the aforementioned "What You Say is More Than I Can Say", which appears here as an edited version of the track, originally released on the Halma 12-inch. One of the few vocal tracks, the me-against-the-world of "I Try to Live (Can I Live)", perhaps best illustrates the hesitancy, doubt, and weariness that drifts through Alcachofa. There and elsewhere throughout the record, Villalobos seems to be seeking comfort and finding it in small moments, in the nooks and crannies of the sound rather the more traditional heart-pumping moments explored by many tech-house producers over the past year or so. Instead, at Alcachofa's heart beats a more steady rhythm, pumping out fragile melodies painted with small yet precise brushstrokes."

Guns N' Roses

Chinese Democracy

Rock

Ian Cohen

To paraphrase another of rock's foremost procrastinators, Axl Rose just wasn't made for these times. Sure, armchair psychology and Axl Rose is a tired combination but it stands to reason that the only remaining original Guns N' Roses member expected Chinese Democracy to garner a 1990s-style brand-name reception: MTV would block off hours at a time to premiere its videos, fans desperate for real rock would line up at Sam Goodys nationwide for the midnight record release, and school would be forsaken to blast it on speakers the size of Greg Oden. Instead, "Shackler's Revenge" debuted on a video game, as if Gn'R were just some chump band on the come-up (or Aerosmith), and the album's world premiere found it meekly whispering through tinny computer speakers from a very un-rock MySpace page. Perhaps the most striking aspect of Chinese Democracy is that it's about the fifth-most shocking Guns N' Roses album. Sure, it's difficult to endure both Use Your Illusions in one sitting, but there's something fascinating about how the bombastically lonely "Estranged" could share disc space with the junior-high politicking of "Civil War", "Yesterdays"' concise, sepia-toned pop, and the critic-baiting tantrum "Get in the Ring". Had that record been a career-ender, it would've been a fitting finale. Instead, Axl took 17 years to, we hoped, explore new textures, manipulate songwriting conventions, seek out challenging collaborators, or delve into unfamiliar genres for inspiration. Yet on the way to being this decade's Sgt. Peppers, Chinese Democracy became its Be Here Now-- a record of relatively simple, similar songs overdubbed into a false sense of complexity in a horrorshow of modern production values. Fans have long complained about Guns N' Roses still existing in the absence of Slash, Izzy, and even Duff, partially out of their talents, partially out of their iconography, and partially because there's no evidence Axl was an auteur figure who could work without his supporting cast. Judging from the personnel involved in the making of Chinese Democracy-- there were 18 musicians in all, not including orchestra players or the more than 30 who provided engineering and ProTools assistance-- it may be more appropriate now to think of Guns N' Roses as a free-floating creative project, even while the music itself suggests a more corporeal entity: The title track, after opening on a seemingly-interminable fade-in (it's been 17 years, another minute gonna kill ya?), pummels your ears with brickwalled, textureless power chords, the first of what seems like thousands of wah solos, and a xylophone. Initially, it's exciting to hear modern rock rendered in such operatic largesse, but the track ultimately proves insubstantial, a middle-aged symphony to nowhere. This is generally how the rockers go on Chinese Democracy, clocking in at anywhere from nearly five minutes to just over five minutes, using those minor-third/flatted-fifth riffs co-opted by far shittier bands in Gn'R's absence. You also get a couple of piano-led ballads aiming at radio stations that don't exist anymore, while songs like "Catcher in the Rye" and "This I Love" conjure Journey and REO Speedwagon, except you can't really sing along to them. There is, however, a level of craftsmanship that salvages Chinese Democracy as a listening experience-- Axl's voice sounds surprisingly great, and even "Shackler's Revenge" has an ultrasheen gloss that particularly benefits its chorus. The problem lies with Axl’s creative direction: That same song is derailed by a grinding arrangement that suggests he's still looking to Korn records for inspiration. It's that flaw which ultimately delivers the fatal blow. Even if Chinese Democracy had dropped a decade previous, it would still sound dated. 1996 appears to be the cut-off point for sonic inspiration, a time when the height of electronic and rock synergy in pop music involved having an acoustic guitar and a drum machine on the same track. Fans deserve better than hearing Axl trying to fight with post-NIN nobodies like Stabbing Westward and Gravity Kills for ideas. "Better" and the closing "Prostitute" feature memorable, fluid melodies, but are tied to rudimentary Roland tracks that Steven Adler could've replicated in his sleep, and while "I.R.S." sports an Illusion-sized chorus, it's dampened by empty conspiracy theorizing. To that point, Chinese Democracy is inevitably and sadly limited in scope to the actual making of Chinese Democracy. Apart from a handful of appropriately vague love songs, Axl seems convinced that the only thing that's mattered to us over the past 17 years was anticipating whether "Riad and the Bedouins" might ever see its proper release. Anyone outside of Axl's inner circle appears lumped into some royal "you" and thrust into a meta exercise to be held up as evidence of a defiantly achieved victory: "All things are possible/ I am unstoppable," "No one ever told me when I was alone/ They just thought I'd know better," and most pointedly, "It was a long time for you/ It was a long time for me/ It'd be a long time for anyone/ But looks like it was meant to be." Strangely, Chinese Democracy comes off like the inverse of the record it will likely finish behind on the week's Billboard chart, Kanye West's 808s and Heartbreak-- one terribly protracted and isolated, the other dashed off and intensely personal. And yet, both feel humanizing in proving that even megacelebrities can deal with life-altering pain and expectations and still have little to say about it. In an April Fools' review of Chinese Democracy written two years ago, Chuck Klosterman suggested that if it wasn't the greatest album ever released, it would be seen as a complete failure. Chinese Democracy needed to be a spectacle-- something that either validated its tortuous birthing process or a Hindenberg so horribly panned it would somehow validate Rose as a misunderstood genius. Instead, it's simply a prosaic letdown, constructed by a revolving cast of misfits ultimately led astray by a control freak with unlimited funding and no clear purpose, who even now remains more myth than artist.

Artist: Guns N' Roses, Album: Chinese Democracy, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "To paraphrase another of rock's foremost procrastinators, Axl Rose just wasn't made for these times. Sure, armchair psychology and Axl Rose is a tired combination but it stands to reason that the only remaining original Guns N' Roses member expected Chinese Democracy to garner a 1990s-style brand-name reception: MTV would block off hours at a time to premiere its videos, fans desperate for real rock would line up at Sam Goodys nationwide for the midnight record release, and school would be forsaken to blast it on speakers the size of Greg Oden. Instead, "Shackler's Revenge" debuted on a video game, as if Gn'R were just some chump band on the come-up (or Aerosmith), and the album's world premiere found it meekly whispering through tinny computer speakers from a very un-rock MySpace page. Perhaps the most striking aspect of Chinese Democracy is that it's about the fifth-most shocking Guns N' Roses album. Sure, it's difficult to endure both Use Your Illusions in one sitting, but there's something fascinating about how the bombastically lonely "Estranged" could share disc space with the junior-high politicking of "Civil War", "Yesterdays"' concise, sepia-toned pop, and the critic-baiting tantrum "Get in the Ring". Had that record been a career-ender, it would've been a fitting finale. Instead, Axl took 17 years to, we hoped, explore new textures, manipulate songwriting conventions, seek out challenging collaborators, or delve into unfamiliar genres for inspiration. Yet on the way to being this decade's Sgt. Peppers, Chinese Democracy became its Be Here Now-- a record of relatively simple, similar songs overdubbed into a false sense of complexity in a horrorshow of modern production values. Fans have long complained about Guns N' Roses still existing in the absence of Slash, Izzy, and even Duff, partially out of their talents, partially out of their iconography, and partially because there's no evidence Axl was an auteur figure who could work without his supporting cast. Judging from the personnel involved in the making of Chinese Democracy-- there were 18 musicians in all, not including orchestra players or the more than 30 who provided engineering and ProTools assistance-- it may be more appropriate now to think of Guns N' Roses as a free-floating creative project, even while the music itself suggests a more corporeal entity: The title track, after opening on a seemingly-interminable fade-in (it's been 17 years, another minute gonna kill ya?), pummels your ears with brickwalled, textureless power chords, the first of what seems like thousands of wah solos, and a xylophone. Initially, it's exciting to hear modern rock rendered in such operatic largesse, but the track ultimately proves insubstantial, a middle-aged symphony to nowhere. This is generally how the rockers go on Chinese Democracy, clocking in at anywhere from nearly five minutes to just over five minutes, using those minor-third/flatted-fifth riffs co-opted by far shittier bands in Gn'R's absence. You also get a couple of piano-led ballads aiming at radio stations that don't exist anymore, while songs like "Catcher in the Rye" and "This I Love" conjure Journey and REO Speedwagon, except you can't really sing along to them. There is, however, a level of craftsmanship that salvages Chinese Democracy as a listening experience-- Axl's voice sounds surprisingly great, and even "Shackler's Revenge" has an ultrasheen gloss that particularly benefits its chorus. The problem lies with Axl’s creative direction: That same song is derailed by a grinding arrangement that suggests he's still looking to Korn records for inspiration. It's that flaw which ultimately delivers the fatal blow. Even if Chinese Democracy had dropped a decade previous, it would still sound dated. 1996 appears to be the cut-off point for sonic inspiration, a time when the height of electronic and rock synergy in pop music involved having an acoustic guitar and a drum machine on the same track. Fans deserve better than hearing Axl trying to fight with post-NIN nobodies like Stabbing Westward and Gravity Kills for ideas. "Better" and the closing "Prostitute" feature memorable, fluid melodies, but are tied to rudimentary Roland tracks that Steven Adler could've replicated in his sleep, and while "I.R.S." sports an Illusion-sized chorus, it's dampened by empty conspiracy theorizing. To that point, Chinese Democracy is inevitably and sadly limited in scope to the actual making of Chinese Democracy. Apart from a handful of appropriately vague love songs, Axl seems convinced that the only thing that's mattered to us over the past 17 years was anticipating whether "Riad and the Bedouins" might ever see its proper release. Anyone outside of Axl's inner circle appears lumped into some royal "you" and thrust into a meta exercise to be held up as evidence of a defiantly achieved victory: "All things are possible/ I am unstoppable," "No one ever told me when I was alone/ They just thought I'd know better," and most pointedly, "It was a long time for you/ It was a long time for me/ It'd be a long time for anyone/ But looks like it was meant to be." Strangely, Chinese Democracy comes off like the inverse of the record it will likely finish behind on the week's Billboard chart, Kanye West's 808s and Heartbreak-- one terribly protracted and isolated, the other dashed off and intensely personal. And yet, both feel humanizing in proving that even megacelebrities can deal with life-altering pain and expectations and still have little to say about it. In an April Fools' review of Chinese Democracy written two years ago, Chuck Klosterman suggested that if it wasn't the greatest album ever released, it would be seen as a complete failure. Chinese Democracy needed to be a spectacle-- something that either validated its tortuous birthing process or a Hindenberg so horribly panned it would somehow validate Rose as a misunderstood genius. Instead, it's simply a prosaic letdown, constructed by a revolving cast of misfits ultimately led astray by a control freak with unlimited funding and no clear purpose, who even now remains more myth than artist."

The Beatles

Rubber Soul

Rock

Scott Plagenhoef

To modern ears, Rubber Soul and its pre-psychedelic era mix of 1960s pop, soul, and folk could seem tame, even quaint on a cursory listen. But it's arguably the most important artistic leap in the Beatles' career-- the signpost that signaled a shift away from Beatlemania and the heavy demands of teen pop, toward more introspective, adult subject matter. It's also the record that started them on their path toward the valuation of creating studio records over live performance. If nothing else, it's the record on which their desire for artistic rather than commercial ambition took center stage-- a radical idea at a time when the success of popular music was measured in sales and quantity rather than quality. Indeed, at the time the Beatles did need a new direction: Odd as it seems today, the lifespan of a pop band's career in the early 60s could often be measured in months, sometimes in years, rarely in three-year increments. And by 1965, the Beatles were in danger of seeming lightweight compared to their new peers: The Who's sloganeering, confrontational singles were far more ferocious; the Rolling Stones' "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" was a much more raucous, anti-ennui cry than the Beatles' "Help!"; and the Kinks beat the Beatles to both satirical, character songs and the influence of Indian music. By comparison, most of the Beatles music to date was either rock'n'roll covers or originals offering a (mostly) wholesome, positive take on boy-girl relationships. Above all, Bob Dylan's lyrical acumen and the Byrds' confident, jangly guitar were primary influences on John Lennon and George Harrison, respectively (and the Byrds had been influenced by the Beatles, too-- Roger McGuinn first picked up a Rickenbacker 12-string after seeing A Hard Day's Night). Dylan and the Byrds' fingerprints had been left on Help!-- Lennon, the group's biggest Dylan acolyte, played an acoustic rather than electric guitar throughout most of that record. Even Paul McCartney's "Yesterday" found him strumming an acoustic. (All this at a time when Dylan was beginning to move in the other direction and fully enter his electric period.) Harrison was growing more serious on the political "Think for Yourself", while "If I Needed Someone"-- his other contribution to Rubber Soul-- is practically a Byrds pastiche and his chiming, sure-footed solo on "Nowhere Man" also displays a debt to that band. His deft touch is all over the record in subtle ways-- appropriate for an album full of finesse and small wonders (the ping at the end of the "Nowhere Man" solo, Lennon's exhalation in the chorus of "Girl", the "tit-tit-tit" of the backing vocalists in the same song, the burbling guitar in "Michelle"). The most lasting influences of Dylan and the Byrds on the Beatles, however, were likely their roles in introducing the group to recreational drugs: Dylan shepherded the quartet through their first experience with pot, while the Byrds were with three-fourths of the Beatles when they first purposefully took LSD. (McCartney sat that one out, avoiding the drug for another year, while Harrison and Lennon had each had a previous accidental dosage.) Marijuana's effect on the group is most heavily audible on Rubber Soul. (By the time of their next album, Revolver, three-fourths of the group had been turned on to LSD, and their music was headed somewhere else entirely.) With its patient pace and languid tones, Rubber Soul is an altogether much more mellow record than anything the Beatles had done before, or would do again. It's a fitting product from a quartet just beginning to explore their inner selves on record. Lennon, in particular, continued his more introspective and often critical songwriting, penning songs of romance gone wrong or personal doubt and taking a major step forward as a lyricist. Besting his self-critical "I'm a Loser" with "Nowhere Man" was an accomplishment, and the faraway, dreamy "Girl" was arguably his most musically mature song to date. Lennon's strides were most evident, however, on "Norwegian Wood", an economical and ambiguous story-song highlighted by Harrison's first dabbling with the Indian sitar, and the mature, almost fatalistic heart-tug of "In My Life", which displayed a remarkably calm and peaceful attitude toward not only one's past and present, but their future and the inevitability of death. Considering Harrison's contributions and Lennon's sharp growth, McCartney-- fresh from the success of "Yesterday"-- oddly comes off third-string on Rubber Soul. His most lasting contributions-- the Gallic "Michelle" (which began life as a piss-take, and went on to inspire the Teutonic swing and sway of Lennon's "Girl"), the gentle rocker "I'm Looking Through You", and the grinning "Drive My Car" are relatively minor compared to Lennon's masterstrokes. McCartney did join his bandmate in embracing relationship songs about miscommunication, not seeing eye-to-eye, and heartbreak, but it wouldn't be until 1966 that he took his next great artistic leap, doing so as both a storyteller and, even more so, a composer. [Note: Click here for an overview of the 2009 Beatles reissues, including discussion of the packaging and sound quality.]

Artist: The Beatles, Album: Rubber Soul, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 10.0 Album review: "To modern ears, Rubber Soul and its pre-psychedelic era mix of 1960s pop, soul, and folk could seem tame, even quaint on a cursory listen. But it's arguably the most important artistic leap in the Beatles' career-- the signpost that signaled a shift away from Beatlemania and the heavy demands of teen pop, toward more introspective, adult subject matter. It's also the record that started them on their path toward the valuation of creating studio records over live performance. If nothing else, it's the record on which their desire for artistic rather than commercial ambition took center stage-- a radical idea at a time when the success of popular music was measured in sales and quantity rather than quality. Indeed, at the time the Beatles did need a new direction: Odd as it seems today, the lifespan of a pop band's career in the early 60s could often be measured in months, sometimes in years, rarely in three-year increments. And by 1965, the Beatles were in danger of seeming lightweight compared to their new peers: The Who's sloganeering, confrontational singles were far more ferocious; the Rolling Stones' "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" was a much more raucous, anti-ennui cry than the Beatles' "Help!"; and the Kinks beat the Beatles to both satirical, character songs and the influence of Indian music. By comparison, most of the Beatles music to date was either rock'n'roll covers or originals offering a (mostly) wholesome, positive take on boy-girl relationships. Above all, Bob Dylan's lyrical acumen and the Byrds' confident, jangly guitar were primary influences on John Lennon and George Harrison, respectively (and the Byrds had been influenced by the Beatles, too-- Roger McGuinn first picked up a Rickenbacker 12-string after seeing A Hard Day's Night). Dylan and the Byrds' fingerprints had been left on Help!-- Lennon, the group's biggest Dylan acolyte, played an acoustic rather than electric guitar throughout most of that record. Even Paul McCartney's "Yesterday" found him strumming an acoustic. (All this at a time when Dylan was beginning to move in the other direction and fully enter his electric period.) Harrison was growing more serious on the political "Think for Yourself", while "If I Needed Someone"-- his other contribution to Rubber Soul-- is practically a Byrds pastiche and his chiming, sure-footed solo on "Nowhere Man" also displays a debt to that band. His deft touch is all over the record in subtle ways-- appropriate for an album full of finesse and small wonders (the ping at the end of the "Nowhere Man" solo, Lennon's exhalation in the chorus of "Girl", the "tit-tit-tit" of the backing vocalists in the same song, the burbling guitar in "Michelle"). The most lasting influences of Dylan and the Byrds on the Beatles, however, were likely their roles in introducing the group to recreational drugs: Dylan shepherded the quartet through their first experience with pot, while the Byrds were with three-fourths of the Beatles when they first purposefully took LSD. (McCartney sat that one out, avoiding the drug for another year, while Harrison and Lennon had each had a previous accidental dosage.) Marijuana's effect on the group is most heavily audible on Rubber Soul. (By the time of their next album, Revolver, three-fourths of the group had been turned on to LSD, and their music was headed somewhere else entirely.) With its patient pace and languid tones, Rubber Soul is an altogether much more mellow record than anything the Beatles had done before, or would do again. It's a fitting product from a quartet just beginning to explore their inner selves on record. Lennon, in particular, continued his more introspective and often critical songwriting, penning songs of romance gone wrong or personal doubt and taking a major step forward as a lyricist. Besting his self-critical "I'm a Loser" with "Nowhere Man" was an accomplishment, and the faraway, dreamy "Girl" was arguably his most musically mature song to date. Lennon's strides were most evident, however, on "Norwegian Wood", an economical and ambiguous story-song highlighted by Harrison's first dabbling with the Indian sitar, and the mature, almost fatalistic heart-tug of "In My Life", which displayed a remarkably calm and peaceful attitude toward not only one's past and present, but their future and the inevitability of death. Considering Harrison's contributions and Lennon's sharp growth, McCartney-- fresh from the success of "Yesterday"-- oddly comes off third-string on Rubber Soul. His most lasting contributions-- the Gallic "Michelle" (which began life as a piss-take, and went on to inspire the Teutonic swing and sway of Lennon's "Girl"), the gentle rocker "I'm Looking Through You", and the grinning "Drive My Car" are relatively minor compared to Lennon's masterstrokes. McCartney did join his bandmate in embracing relationship songs about miscommunication, not seeing eye-to-eye, and heartbreak, but it wouldn't be until 1966 that he took his next great artistic leap, doing so as both a storyteller and, even more so, a composer. [Note: Click here for an overview of the 2009 Beatles reissues, including discussion of the packaging and sound quality.]"

RTX

Western Xterminator

Rock

Stuart Berman

Since severing their romantic (and creative) partnership in 2001, Royal Trux's Neil Hagerty and Jennifer Herrema seem to have swapped artistic trajectories. On Trux classics like 1992's self-titled skull-and-bones album and 1993's Cats and Dogs, it was Hagerty who played the straight-man role, offsetting Herrema's abrasive elocution and leavening the band's sometimes-inscrutable avant-blues bricolage with soul-baring acoustic serenades ("Junkie Nurse") and meaty FM-radio-ready riffs. But where Hagerty's recent Howling Hex releases find him reverting to the lo-fi, found-sound-fuckery of Royal Trux's earliest releases, Herrema's new band RTX picks up where latter-day Trux tracks like "Waterpark" left off-- i.e., sandwiched between Def Leppard and Mötley Crüe on a 1981 Monsters of Rock bill. Coming from an artist who'd spent over a decade revitalizing classic rock clichés in alien contexts, the straight-up denim-and-leather posturing of RTX's 2004 debut Transmaniacon felt like an all too predictable progression (or rather regression), and the fact that it featured some rewrites of old Trux songs ("Shockwave Rider" became "Joint Chief", "Fear Strikes Out" begat "PB+J") carried the implication that Herrema was struggling for inspiration in the absence of her long-time foil. However, with its opening title track, Western Xterminator suggests a promising return to the Trux tradition of album-to-album aesthetic 180s-- instead of the expected high-voltage guitar squeals we get an immersing, opium-den torch song guided along slowly by bongos and flute flourishes, Herrema investing its French-folk-song melody with a fading diva's empty-ashtray regret. But if this introduction presents a retreat from the heavy metal parking lot, the rest of Western Xterminator returns to the usual spot and sets up a permanent trailer-home in it, with the 70s-Stones sleaze of Herrema's former band all but vanquished for a full-on 80s headbanger's ball pitched halfway between Sunset Strip flash and New Wave of British Heavy Metal thrash. Good thing, then, that Herrema not only has the hair for the job, but the voice too-- stripped of the Trux's heroin haze, she can pretty much pass for Stephen Pearcy from Ratt (which could be why she rewrote "Round and Round" and called it "Last Ride"). Guitarist Jaimo Welch is her de facto Hagerty, though his playing is less informed by Ornette Coleman's theory of harmolodics than the Eddie Van Halen theory of widdly-widdly-widdly. He'd rather impress the burnouts sitting in the back rows of the L.A. Forum than the editors of The Wire, and more power to him: In the foot-stomp crunch of "Balls to Pass" you'll find all the good riffs missing from the last Darkness album, and with "Wo-Wo Din" he makes a convincing argument that Sabbath's greatest moment wasn't "Sweat Leaf", but "Symptom of the Universe." RTX are well-positioned to court an indie-rock populace that's become ever more comfortable embracing its inner hesher, but Western Xterminator's production is just obtuse enough-- less arena rock than a transistor-radioed memory of arena rock-- to keep the band at a distance from the unironic mulletheads who'd probably dig their music the most. After all, you don't write a song like "Restoration Sleep"-- with its "Pour Some Sugar on Me"-styled brass-rail boogie and engagingly stoopid "feels good!" chorus-- unless you're aiming squarely for the Camaro crowd. RTX's brand of populist fist-pump metal benefits from this sort of direct delivery, but more often than not, Herrema lets her voice recede into the effects-pedaled riffs, rendering what should be the songs' focal point into a background sonic detail. "Knightmare and Mane", in particular, feels like a missed opportunity for a killer power ballad, as Herrema's phased-out vocals are too incomprehensible to elicit the raised lighters that its melancholic, grungy grind seems to warrant. Herrema hasn't always needed special effects to give her voice presence-- check the more heartfelt performances on the Trux's 1995 album Thank You, like "(Have You Met) Horror James?"-- but her reliance on superfluous studio trickery all but guarantees that Western Xterminator's airplay will be confined to college-radio when, with a more refined presentation, it could be blasting from the Z-Rock 101s of the nation. The latter scenario, of course, is contingent on Drag City blowing all its Joanna Newsom profits on a radio promoter, but it'd be nice if RTX could give us a chance to dream.

Artist: RTX, Album: Western Xterminator, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.1 Album review: "Since severing their romantic (and creative) partnership in 2001, Royal Trux's Neil Hagerty and Jennifer Herrema seem to have swapped artistic trajectories. On Trux classics like 1992's self-titled skull-and-bones album and 1993's Cats and Dogs, it was Hagerty who played the straight-man role, offsetting Herrema's abrasive elocution and leavening the band's sometimes-inscrutable avant-blues bricolage with soul-baring acoustic serenades ("Junkie Nurse") and meaty FM-radio-ready riffs. But where Hagerty's recent Howling Hex releases find him reverting to the lo-fi, found-sound-fuckery of Royal Trux's earliest releases, Herrema's new band RTX picks up where latter-day Trux tracks like "Waterpark" left off-- i.e., sandwiched between Def Leppard and Mötley Crüe on a 1981 Monsters of Rock bill. Coming from an artist who'd spent over a decade revitalizing classic rock clichés in alien contexts, the straight-up denim-and-leather posturing of RTX's 2004 debut Transmaniacon felt like an all too predictable progression (or rather regression), and the fact that it featured some rewrites of old Trux songs ("Shockwave Rider" became "Joint Chief", "Fear Strikes Out" begat "PB+J") carried the implication that Herrema was struggling for inspiration in the absence of her long-time foil. However, with its opening title track, Western Xterminator suggests a promising return to the Trux tradition of album-to-album aesthetic 180s-- instead of the expected high-voltage guitar squeals we get an immersing, opium-den torch song guided along slowly by bongos and flute flourishes, Herrema investing its French-folk-song melody with a fading diva's empty-ashtray regret. But if this introduction presents a retreat from the heavy metal parking lot, the rest of Western Xterminator returns to the usual spot and sets up a permanent trailer-home in it, with the 70s-Stones sleaze of Herrema's former band all but vanquished for a full-on 80s headbanger's ball pitched halfway between Sunset Strip flash and New Wave of British Heavy Metal thrash. Good thing, then, that Herrema not only has the hair for the job, but the voice too-- stripped of the Trux's heroin haze, she can pretty much pass for Stephen Pearcy from Ratt (which could be why she rewrote "Round and Round" and called it "Last Ride"). Guitarist Jaimo Welch is her de facto Hagerty, though his playing is less informed by Ornette Coleman's theory of harmolodics than the Eddie Van Halen theory of widdly-widdly-widdly. He'd rather impress the burnouts sitting in the back rows of the L.A. Forum than the editors of The Wire, and more power to him: In the foot-stomp crunch of "Balls to Pass" you'll find all the good riffs missing from the last Darkness album, and with "Wo-Wo Din" he makes a convincing argument that Sabbath's greatest moment wasn't "Sweat Leaf", but "Symptom of the Universe." RTX are well-positioned to court an indie-rock populace that's become ever more comfortable embracing its inner hesher, but Western Xterminator's production is just obtuse enough-- less arena rock than a transistor-radioed memory of arena rock-- to keep the band at a distance from the unironic mulletheads who'd probably dig their music the most. After all, you don't write a song like "Restoration Sleep"-- with its "Pour Some Sugar on Me"-styled brass-rail boogie and engagingly stoopid "feels good!" chorus-- unless you're aiming squarely for the Camaro crowd. RTX's brand of populist fist-pump metal benefits from this sort of direct delivery, but more often than not, Herrema lets her voice recede into the effects-pedaled riffs, rendering what should be the songs' focal point into a background sonic detail. "Knightmare and Mane", in particular, feels like a missed opportunity for a killer power ballad, as Herrema's phased-out vocals are too incomprehensible to elicit the raised lighters that its melancholic, grungy grind seems to warrant. Herrema hasn't always needed special effects to give her voice presence-- check the more heartfelt performances on the Trux's 1995 album Thank You, like "(Have You Met) Horror James?"-- but her reliance on superfluous studio trickery all but guarantees that Western Xterminator's airplay will be confined to college-radio when, with a more refined presentation, it could be blasting from the Z-Rock 101s of the nation. The latter scenario, of course, is contingent on Drag City blowing all its Joanna Newsom profits on a radio promoter, but it'd be nice if RTX could give us a chance to dream."

Antony and the Johnsons

The Crying Light

Rock

Marc Masters

The cover of The Crying Light, the third album by Antony and the Johnsons, is strikingly similar to that of its predecessor, 2005's highly-lauded I Am a Bird Now. The latter presented a stark black-and-white shot of transvestite performer Candy Darling lying on her hospital deathbed; this time, we get an even starker image of Japanese Butoh dancer Kazuo Ohno, a hero of bandleader Antony Hegarty since he first spotted her on a poster while studying in France as a teenager. As Ohno leans back, wrinkled and seemingly near death himself, the flower in his hair sits in the same position as the bright blooms that hover above Darling. But it's the differences between these shots that say the most about The Crying Light. Much of what the Darling image represents-- gender identity, performance art, downtown New York circa Andy Warhol's Factory-- is reflected in *I Am A Bird Now'*s stylistic range, as well as its use of guest artists who embody those subjects, like Lou Reed and Boy George. The symbolism of the Ohno picture is simpler. The dancer, cited by Hegarty as his role model for "getting older as an artist," is now 102 and can no longer move or speak; he's been cast into a limbo between life and death. "He really practiced his form until he couldn't move," Hegarty told The Wire magazine in December. "And then he kept taking the right steps inside himself." On The Crying Light, Hegarty is fascinated with those steps-- the transitions and overlaps between birth and life, life and death, this world and the next. "From your skin I am born again," he sings in "One Dove", an ode to a bird from "the other side" that comes to "bring me some peace." Later, "Aeon" depicts eternity as a baby boy born to take care of his father, as time melts generations together. Similar concepts dot every song. With deft touch, Hegarty repeatedly uses words like "womb," "grave," and "light," and he returns to primal metaphors-- water as life, dust as death, the earth as a place of both burial and growth. "I'm only a child/ Born upon a grave," he insists in "Kiss My Name", nearly encapsulating the entire album in one potent declarative. Though easier to summarize, these ideas are no less complex than those on I Am A Bird Now. In fact, they're larger and more universal than that album's New York-tinted perspective. But they have also inspired Hegarty to craft simpler, subtler songs. Simultaneously sparse and rich, The Crying Light mines maximum intensity from a relatively minimal mix of basic melodies, pithy lyrics, and understated arrangements. It may be difficult to believe that an album crediting four arrangers and upwards of two dozen musicians could sound minimal. But the way Hegarty selects their contributions is more about precision than volume, more about carefully-chosen moments than multiple voices. Take the dark cello that closes "Her Eyes Are Underneath the Ground", the soft horn flourish in the middle of "Epilepsy Is Dancing", the fingersnap-like clicks at the end of "The Crying Light". These elements hint at fuller, busier versions of these songs. Maybe Hegarty did record more fleshed-out takes and then erased portions, letting their echoes float in the limbo that he sings about. Whatever his process, Hegarty's use of orchestration for accent and emphasis creates undeniable power, the kind that increased sonic density likely would have lacked. Of course, lots of power also comes from Hegarty's voice. What's most impressive about his singing isn't its range-- though his octave-gliding trill remains spellbinding-- but the way he consistently picks the right tone at the right time. On "Epilepsy Is Dancing", his hum crests into a shivery warble just as the song veers into surreal imagery. He flips the trick on "Daylight and the Sun," pulling back during the most plaintive lines ("Now I cry for daylight"), then purring fluidly through an unexpected epilogue. Most striking is "Dust and Water," a droning meditiation in which his lullaby tones seem sung in a foreign language, despite the plain English found on the lyric sheet. The Crying Light ends with "Everglade", one of the tracks Hegarty co-arranged with classical composer Nico Muhly. Filled with lilting flutes, rising strings, and operatic croon, it might be the most overtly dramatic track in the Johnsons' oeuvre, like a rescued score from some lost musical. "When I'm peeping in a parlour of trees/ And the leaves are winking all around," he sings, "'I'm home," my heart sobs in my veins." That may read ultra-drippy, but on record it sounds decidedly profound-- a fully-earned approach to the precipice of the other world Hegarty has pondered for 40 fascinating minutes. In fact, the song's redemptive tone inspires similarly wild thoughts about the future. If Hegarty can craft an album this stunning about the path to paradise, just imagine how great the next one could sound, once he's actually there.

Artist: Antony and the Johnsons, Album: The Crying Light, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "The cover of The Crying Light, the third album by Antony and the Johnsons, is strikingly similar to that of its predecessor, 2005's highly-lauded I Am a Bird Now. The latter presented a stark black-and-white shot of transvestite performer Candy Darling lying on her hospital deathbed; this time, we get an even starker image of Japanese Butoh dancer Kazuo Ohno, a hero of bandleader Antony Hegarty since he first spotted her on a poster while studying in France as a teenager. As Ohno leans back, wrinkled and seemingly near death himself, the flower in his hair sits in the same position as the bright blooms that hover above Darling. But it's the differences between these shots that say the most about The Crying Light. Much of what the Darling image represents-- gender identity, performance art, downtown New York circa Andy Warhol's Factory-- is reflected in *I Am A Bird Now'*s stylistic range, as well as its use of guest artists who embody those subjects, like Lou Reed and Boy George. The symbolism of the Ohno picture is simpler. The dancer, cited by Hegarty as his role model for "getting older as an artist," is now 102 and can no longer move or speak; he's been cast into a limbo between life and death. "He really practiced his form until he couldn't move," Hegarty told The Wire magazine in December. "And then he kept taking the right steps inside himself." On The Crying Light, Hegarty is fascinated with those steps-- the transitions and overlaps between birth and life, life and death, this world and the next. "From your skin I am born again," he sings in "One Dove", an ode to a bird from "the other side" that comes to "bring me some peace." Later, "Aeon" depicts eternity as a baby boy born to take care of his father, as time melts generations together. Similar concepts dot every song. With deft touch, Hegarty repeatedly uses words like "womb," "grave," and "light," and he returns to primal metaphors-- water as life, dust as death, the earth as a place of both burial and growth. "I'm only a child/ Born upon a grave," he insists in "Kiss My Name", nearly encapsulating the entire album in one potent declarative. Though easier to summarize, these ideas are no less complex than those on I Am A Bird Now. In fact, they're larger and more universal than that album's New York-tinted perspective. But they have also inspired Hegarty to craft simpler, subtler songs. Simultaneously sparse and rich, The Crying Light mines maximum intensity from a relatively minimal mix of basic melodies, pithy lyrics, and understated arrangements. It may be difficult to believe that an album crediting four arrangers and upwards of two dozen musicians could sound minimal. But the way Hegarty selects their contributions is more about precision than volume, more about carefully-chosen moments than multiple voices. Take the dark cello that closes "Her Eyes Are Underneath the Ground", the soft horn flourish in the middle of "Epilepsy Is Dancing", the fingersnap-like clicks at the end of "The Crying Light". These elements hint at fuller, busier versions of these songs. Maybe Hegarty did record more fleshed-out takes and then erased portions, letting their echoes float in the limbo that he sings about. Whatever his process, Hegarty's use of orchestration for accent and emphasis creates undeniable power, the kind that increased sonic density likely would have lacked. Of course, lots of power also comes from Hegarty's voice. What's most impressive about his singing isn't its range-- though his octave-gliding trill remains spellbinding-- but the way he consistently picks the right tone at the right time. On "Epilepsy Is Dancing", his hum crests into a shivery warble just as the song veers into surreal imagery. He flips the trick on "Daylight and the Sun," pulling back during the most plaintive lines ("Now I cry for daylight"), then purring fluidly through an unexpected epilogue. Most striking is "Dust and Water," a droning meditiation in which his lullaby tones seem sung in a foreign language, despite the plain English found on the lyric sheet. The Crying Light ends with "Everglade", one of the tracks Hegarty co-arranged with classical composer Nico Muhly. Filled with lilting flutes, rising strings, and operatic croon, it might be the most overtly dramatic track in the Johnsons' oeuvre, like a rescued score from some lost musical. "When I'm peeping in a parlour of trees/ And the leaves are winking all around," he sings, "'I'm home," my heart sobs in my veins." That may read ultra-drippy, but on record it sounds decidedly profound-- a fully-earned approach to the precipice of the other world Hegarty has pondered for 40 fascinating minutes. In fact, the song's redemptive tone inspires similarly wild thoughts about the future. If Hegarty can craft an album this stunning about the path to paradise, just imagine how great the next one could sound, once he's actually there."

Papa M

Single Three EP

Rock

William Bowers

Patient: I know I got one of them disorders. I'm stalking Dave Pajo, the man behind Papa M, which is not the name of a failed late-80s reggae crossover, but the name of a contemporary math-rocker-cum-quasironic-balladeer. I read Pajo's Livejournal. I print out the pictures. I buy a new ink cartridge when my printouts tint all funny. I've labored to create extensive analyses of his resume and his dandruff. See my assessments of his EPs Three Songs, Songs of Mac and first two tour singles. Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. Well, fanhood's not necessarily a pathology, though many who succumb to it end up unduly regarding their subjects with aggression that suggests emotional reassignment. To what degree would you say you irrationally "subscribe" to Pajo's work? Patient: That's just it, fakedoc! Pajo's embarked on this somewhat regularly scheduled release-fest. He has his once-mighty label Drag City distribute a three-song blurt every month or so. He calls the singles an "audio tour diary," but here's the real fuck-you-Charley about that claim: His band Zwan imploded, and his solo outfit is not on tour! So why these do two recent issues feature Travelocity artwork of a highway horizon and a railroad crossing? Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. Why do you feel the need to make sense of Pajo's career when your own life is such a shambles? Those Polaroids of your "DNA collection" in the garage were very distressing, to say the least. Hair, and blood... Patient: ...and Cheerios. Why oh why doesn't Pajo record under a more stealable name? "Papa M" is as peer-to-peer proof as "The The"! When I try to download him, I get Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach", Papa Roach's "M-80", and Run DMC's "Papa Crazy"! Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. Why don't you try to describe his appeal to me, an outsider? Patient: Okay, on Three he "covers" the Celtic traditional "Wild Mountain Thyme", which you might know from renditions by James Taylor, Glenn Frey, Marianne Faithful, Sandy Denny or Roger McGuinn. At least two of those people have been filmed ruminating behind the wheel of a sports car. Just like Pajo's sometime recording and touring partner's recasts of standards, Pajo changes key lyrics: here, "lassie" becomes "sweet potato." At least he's finally crediting his covers, which is more than can be said for his early vocal work. Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. "Patient draws false connections, and derives deep purposes from their connotations. Suggestive of late-onset schizophrenia." Patient: After the strings and female backups of that opener, Pajo delivers an acoustic breakdown of Lowell George's classic bit of Stuckey-iana, "Truckstop Girl", a nugget of freighter-core already revisited by The Byrds. Only it's not entirely acoustic. At 3:33, a wailing-cellophane electric guitar solo kicks in! As any occultist can tell you, "333" was all over Madame Blavatsky's sketch of King Solomon's signet ring hexagram. Adolf Hitler planned his suicide on April 30, 1945, at precisely 3:30pm. The White House presented its Middle East road map to Sharon at 3:30 on April 30, 2003. President Bush landed on the Abe Lincoln for his "U.S. Fatalities Not Even Halfway Accomplished" speech at 3:33pm EST, May 1, 2003. The time around April 30-May 1 marks the celebration of the Pagan holiday Beltaine/May Day. Did I mention that this EP is Pajo's third in this series and that it contains 3 songs and comes after an EP called Three Songs? Jesus spent 33 years as a mortal and 3 days dead. Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. Please keep twaddling while I press this button which will alert the restraining orderlies of their need to come and bum-rush you. Patient: "Who Knows" is one of those great "full-band" Papa M tracks on which he accompanies himself on vocals, keys and at least three echoey guitars. His production is badass, especially the crisp drums, reminiscent of those on his full-length Whatever Mortal's requiem for The Simpsons, "Krusty". This song pales, though, next to Four's equally layered "Long May You Burn", the sweet archness of which recalls Will Oldham's "You Will Miss Me When I Burn", which, coincidentally, Oldham has redone for that cave-in-to-fair-weather-fans album of favorites he made with Trashville sessionaros. "Burn" might be the best thing Pajo's lain down, but for the annoying loop of whispers. With its imagery of snakes and fire and family values, this one's ready to join the great apocalyptic oldies. Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. What do you mean by "apocalyptic oldies?" Patient: Have you ever listened to "Stand by Me"? What part of "if the sky that we look upon should tumble and fall, and the mountains should crumble to the sea" don't you understand? Pajo's tune is ready to join that classic. Its video should consist of slo-mo shots of the roster-calls of baseballs teams that recently lost the World Series high-fiving each other. The song should be licensed out to a hipster dramedy on The WB called Ian's Creek. Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm in general. Patient: The six-minute "Local Boy Makes Good" might be a rocker, but it's almost too confident and measured. I am reminded by its outsized squalling Royal Truxery of how record stores display Pajo's EP sleeves in huge, plastic box-set cartridges that won't fit inside my preventive girdle without suggesting prostate cubism. "Local" sounds like Hayden or some such overheater. The only song I haven't touted yet is "Red Curtain", an imposing banjo slowdown that Folkways types will find sprinkled with the ashes of Roscoe Holcomb and Sandy Bull, except for its gleefully anachronistic shout-out to The Modern Lovers. And get a load of the CD artwork! A bird finger! Pa-jo's not gonna take it! No! He's not gonna take it! Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. Here, "take" this pill from a company protected in the Homeland Security Act from lawsuits regarding mercury's link to autism. If you like "hard rock," you'll love "hard science!" Take 3 of these 3 times day for every day you dream of the 3 demons--

Artist: Papa M, Album: Single Three EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Patient: I know I got one of them disorders. I'm stalking Dave Pajo, the man behind Papa M, which is not the name of a failed late-80s reggae crossover, but the name of a contemporary math-rocker-cum-quasironic-balladeer. I read Pajo's Livejournal. I print out the pictures. I buy a new ink cartridge when my printouts tint all funny. I've labored to create extensive analyses of his resume and his dandruff. See my assessments of his EPs Three Songs, Songs of Mac and first two tour singles. Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. Well, fanhood's not necessarily a pathology, though many who succumb to it end up unduly regarding their subjects with aggression that suggests emotional reassignment. To what degree would you say you irrationally "subscribe" to Pajo's work? Patient: That's just it, fakedoc! Pajo's embarked on this somewhat regularly scheduled release-fest. He has his once-mighty label Drag City distribute a three-song blurt every month or so. He calls the singles an "audio tour diary," but here's the real fuck-you-Charley about that claim: His band Zwan imploded, and his solo outfit is not on tour! So why these do two recent issues feature Travelocity artwork of a highway horizon and a railroad crossing? Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. Why do you feel the need to make sense of Pajo's career when your own life is such a shambles? Those Polaroids of your "DNA collection" in the garage were very distressing, to say the least. Hair, and blood... Patient: ...and Cheerios. Why oh why doesn't Pajo record under a more stealable name? "Papa M" is as peer-to-peer proof as "The The"! When I try to download him, I get Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach", Papa Roach's "M-80", and Run DMC's "Papa Crazy"! Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. Why don't you try to describe his appeal to me, an outsider? Patient: Okay, on Three he "covers" the Celtic traditional "Wild Mountain Thyme", which you might know from renditions by James Taylor, Glenn Frey, Marianne Faithful, Sandy Denny or Roger McGuinn. At least two of those people have been filmed ruminating behind the wheel of a sports car. Just like Pajo's sometime recording and touring partner's recasts of standards, Pajo changes key lyrics: here, "lassie" becomes "sweet potato." At least he's finally crediting his covers, which is more than can be said for his early vocal work. Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. "Patient draws false connections, and derives deep purposes from their connotations. Suggestive of late-onset schizophrenia." Patient: After the strings and female backups of that opener, Pajo delivers an acoustic breakdown of Lowell George's classic bit of Stuckey-iana, "Truckstop Girl", a nugget of freighter-core already revisited by The Byrds. Only it's not entirely acoustic. At 3:33, a wailing-cellophane electric guitar solo kicks in! As any occultist can tell you, "333" was all over Madame Blavatsky's sketch of King Solomon's signet ring hexagram. Adolf Hitler planned his suicide on April 30, 1945, at precisely 3:30pm. The White House presented its Middle East road map to Sharon at 3:30 on April 30, 2003. President Bush landed on the Abe Lincoln for his "U.S. Fatalities Not Even Halfway Accomplished" speech at 3:33pm EST, May 1, 2003. The time around April 30-May 1 marks the celebration of the Pagan holiday Beltaine/May Day. Did I mention that this EP is Pajo's third in this series and that it contains 3 songs and comes after an EP called Three Songs? Jesus spent 33 years as a mortal and 3 days dead. Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. Please keep twaddling while I press this button which will alert the restraining orderlies of their need to come and bum-rush you. Patient: "Who Knows" is one of those great "full-band" Papa M tracks on which he accompanies himself on vocals, keys and at least three echoey guitars. His production is badass, especially the crisp drums, reminiscent of those on his full-length Whatever Mortal's requiem for The Simpsons, "Krusty". This song pales, though, next to Four's equally layered "Long May You Burn", the sweet archness of which recalls Will Oldham's "You Will Miss Me When I Burn", which, coincidentally, Oldham has redone for that cave-in-to-fair-weather-fans album of favorites he made with Trashville sessionaros. "Burn" might be the best thing Pajo's lain down, but for the annoying loop of whispers. With its imagery of snakes and fire and family values, this one's ready to join the great apocalyptic oldies. Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. What do you mean by "apocalyptic oldies?" Patient: Have you ever listened to "Stand by Me"? What part of "if the sky that we look upon should tumble and fall, and the mountains should crumble to the sea" don't you understand? Pajo's tune is ready to join that classic. Its video should consist of slo-mo shots of the roster-calls of baseballs teams that recently lost the World Series high-fiving each other. The song should be licensed out to a hipster dramedy on The WB called Ian's Creek. Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm in general. Patient: The six-minute "Local Boy Makes Good" might be a rocker, but it's almost too confident and measured. I am reminded by its outsized squalling Royal Truxery of how record stores display Pajo's EP sleeves in huge, plastic box-set cartridges that won't fit inside my preventive girdle without suggesting prostate cubism. "Local" sounds like Hayden or some such overheater. The only song I haven't touted yet is "Red Curtain", an imposing banjo slowdown that Folkways types will find sprinkled with the ashes of Roscoe Holcomb and Sandy Bull, except for its gleefully anachronistic shout-out to The Modern Lovers. And get a load of the CD artwork! A bird finger! Pa-jo's not gonna take it! No! He's not gonna take it! Campus Psych Trainee: Hmmm. Here, "take" this pill from a company protected in the Homeland Security Act from lawsuits regarding mercury's link to autism. If you like "hard rock," you'll love "hard science!" Take 3 of these 3 times day for every day you dream of the 3 demons--"

JAY-Z, Kanye West

Watch the Throne

Rap

Tom Breihan

Watch the Throne features the following things: absurdly expensive samples, a pair of choruses from Odd Future R&B singer Frank Ocean at the exact moment where he's turning the corner and becoming a Thing, another chorus from long-been-a-Thing Beyoncé, a buddy-buddy shoutout to the President of the United States, multiple namechecks of brands so expensive that you've probably never heard of half of them, a murderers' row of producers working on almost every track, and a fleeting moment where Bon Iver's Justin Vernon sounds like the funkiest man alive. And yet for Jay-Z and Kanye West, this could actually be viewed as a relatively minor album. Amazing. The album comes hot on the heels of career-landmark albums from both artists, but the few months they spent recording it on multiple continents were practically vacations compared to the way they usually work. Kanye's opus My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, still less than a year old, won across-the-board critical raves for its lush, prog-rap expansiveness; to create it, Kanye sequestered himself in Hawaii and flew in an endless stream of creative-peak collaborators. Jay, meanwhile, is still cruising on the momentum of The Blueprint 3, an artistically flat but commercially massive grab for continued relevance that did everything he wanted it to do. Watch the Throne brings little of Twisted Fantasy's boundary-melting ambition or The Blueprint 3's commercial acumen. It's just two of rap's biggest figures and best friends getting together to make some of the swollen, epic music that comes so naturally to them. Listening to it is sort of like watching George Clooney get all his movie-star friends together for a party at his Italian villa, and, along the way, maybe dream up Ocean's Twelve. (I liked Ocean's Twelve.) In the past week, Internet sleuths have pointed out that the release of many Jay-Z albums have coincided with some national or international calamity, 9/11 not excluded. Watch the Throne is no exception: its release on the same day as yet another catastrophic stock market downturn has led some critics to conclude that the pair's boasts of obscene wealth is out of step with the times. That's a fair case to make. But one of the striking things about Watch the Throne is how often Jay and Kanye address matters beyond their bank accounts. On "Why I Love You", it's Jay's dismay at past crewmates' betrayals. On "Murder to Excellence", it's black-on-black crime and the scarcity of people of color at society's highest seats. On "Made in America", it's the hardships of youth and coming of age. "New Day" is framed as a letter to the pair's imagined sons, a device that mostly gives them a chance to soul-search and self-criticize. On "Welcome to the Jungle", Jay, never a tortured pop star, actually says, "I'm fuckin' depressed." Despite all the triumphant bravado these two bring to practically everything they do, they work overtime here to bring a sense of empathy to this enterprise. Once in a while, they even sound vaguely humble. These subtler moments are admirable, but they don't always work. Consider, for example, the song "That's My Bitch", on which Kanye and his collaborators flip the classic "Apache" break into a devastating dance-rap monster with synths zooming off in every direction and Justin Vernon making the aforementioned sweaty soul moves. It's a vicious song, catchy as fuck, but it turns out to be weirdly awkward. Despite the title, Jay's verse is all devotional-prophet; it mostly concerns the way American beauty standards so often work against women of color. The sentiment deserves respect, but his laidback delivery, on a track with production and structure that call for ferocity, drains his ideas of force. Watch the Throne works best when Jay and Kanye are just talking about how great they are. The single "Otis" is dizzy fun, with Jay and Kanye rapping hard and swapping mics like hungry kids. "Niggas in Paris" rides an impossibly propulsive synth riff and gigantic drums and gives Jay a chance to display the technical rap wizardry he still has in him. (It also features this great Kanye moment, "Doctors say I'm the illest because I'm suffering from realness/ Got my niggas in Paris, and they going gorillas," followed by a sample of Will Ferrell in Blades of Glory talking about how awesome shit doesn't have to mean anything.) "Gotta Have It" unites Kanye and the Neptunes to crazily chop up James Brown vocal samples and Eastern flute melodies. And "Who Gon Stop Me" finds Kanye cussing in Pig Latin while turning dubstep-rap into a viable subgenre. If you buy Watch the Throne from iTunes-- the only place you can buy it at the moment-- you'll notice that it's credited to "JAY Z & Kanye West" (capital letters and missing hyphen unexplained). But while Jay might be billed first for seniority's sake, Kanye is this album's obvious guiding force. Throughout, he displays levels of unequaled audacity. On "Otis" and "Gotta Have It", he reduces Otis Redding and James Brown to simple grunts, then builds rhythm tracks out of them. On "New Day", over a beat co-produced by RZA, he actually runs Nina Simone through Auto-Tune. On "No Church in the Wild", he authoritatively vows, "You will not control the threesome." The musical scope of Watch the Throne is a tribute to his distinctive taste and sense of style. The whole thing sounds huge, and even the sillier moments ("Made in America", especially, reminds me of the inspirational ballads of late-period Michael Jackson) succeed on pure orchestral excess. Jay and Kanye debuted the album in a private listening session at a New York planetarium, a setting which made perfect sense: even if it never approaches the grandeur or character-study complexity of Twisted Fantasy, this is still exploding-star music. So: two long-reigning titans make a relatively quick album which, despite their best efforts, still winds up being a monument to their own grandiosity. Should we care? Well, yeah. Kanye doesn't have a cruise-control switch, and when he's around, neither does Jay. On Watch the Throne, they push each other and have fun doing it, and the result is a stadium-sized event-rap spectacle that still sounds like two insanely talented guys' idiosyncratic vision. That's worth celebrating.

Artist: JAY-Z, Kanye West, Album: Watch the Throne, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "Watch the Throne features the following things: absurdly expensive samples, a pair of choruses from Odd Future R&B singer Frank Ocean at the exact moment where he's turning the corner and becoming a Thing, another chorus from long-been-a-Thing Beyoncé, a buddy-buddy shoutout to the President of the United States, multiple namechecks of brands so expensive that you've probably never heard of half of them, a murderers' row of producers working on almost every track, and a fleeting moment where Bon Iver's Justin Vernon sounds like the funkiest man alive. And yet for Jay-Z and Kanye West, this could actually be viewed as a relatively minor album. Amazing. The album comes hot on the heels of career-landmark albums from both artists, but the few months they spent recording it on multiple continents were practically vacations compared to the way they usually work. Kanye's opus My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, still less than a year old, won across-the-board critical raves for its lush, prog-rap expansiveness; to create it, Kanye sequestered himself in Hawaii and flew in an endless stream of creative-peak collaborators. Jay, meanwhile, is still cruising on the momentum of The Blueprint 3, an artistically flat but commercially massive grab for continued relevance that did everything he wanted it to do. Watch the Throne brings little of Twisted Fantasy's boundary-melting ambition or The Blueprint 3's commercial acumen. It's just two of rap's biggest figures and best friends getting together to make some of the swollen, epic music that comes so naturally to them. Listening to it is sort of like watching George Clooney get all his movie-star friends together for a party at his Italian villa, and, along the way, maybe dream up Ocean's Twelve. (I liked Ocean's Twelve.) In the past week, Internet sleuths have pointed out that the release of many Jay-Z albums have coincided with some national or international calamity, 9/11 not excluded. Watch the Throne is no exception: its release on the same day as yet another catastrophic stock market downturn has led some critics to conclude that the pair's boasts of obscene wealth is out of step with the times. That's a fair case to make. But one of the striking things about Watch the Throne is how often Jay and Kanye address matters beyond their bank accounts. On "Why I Love You", it's Jay's dismay at past crewmates' betrayals. On "Murder to Excellence", it's black-on-black crime and the scarcity of people of color at society's highest seats. On "Made in America", it's the hardships of youth and coming of age. "New Day" is framed as a letter to the pair's imagined sons, a device that mostly gives them a chance to soul-search and self-criticize. On "Welcome to the Jungle", Jay, never a tortured pop star, actually says, "I'm fuckin' depressed." Despite all the triumphant bravado these two bring to practically everything they do, they work overtime here to bring a sense of empathy to this enterprise. Once in a while, they even sound vaguely humble. These subtler moments are admirable, but they don't always work. Consider, for example, the song "That's My Bitch", on which Kanye and his collaborators flip the classic "Apache" break into a devastating dance-rap monster with synths zooming off in every direction and Justin Vernon making the aforementioned sweaty soul moves. It's a vicious song, catchy as fuck, but it turns out to be weirdly awkward. Despite the title, Jay's verse is all devotional-prophet; it mostly concerns the way American beauty standards so often work against women of color. The sentiment deserves respect, but his laidback delivery, on a track with production and structure that call for ferocity, drains his ideas of force. Watch the Throne works best when Jay and Kanye are just talking about how great they are. The single "Otis" is dizzy fun, with Jay and Kanye rapping hard and swapping mics like hungry kids. "Niggas in Paris" rides an impossibly propulsive synth riff and gigantic drums and gives Jay a chance to display the technical rap wizardry he still has in him. (It also features this great Kanye moment, "Doctors say I'm the illest because I'm suffering from realness/ Got my niggas in Paris, and they going gorillas," followed by a sample of Will Ferrell in Blades of Glory talking about how awesome shit doesn't have to mean anything.) "Gotta Have It" unites Kanye and the Neptunes to crazily chop up James Brown vocal samples and Eastern flute melodies. And "Who Gon Stop Me" finds Kanye cussing in Pig Latin while turning dubstep-rap into a viable subgenre. If you buy Watch the Throne from iTunes-- the only place you can buy it at the moment-- you'll notice that it's credited to "JAY Z & Kanye West" (capital letters and missing hyphen unexplained). But while Jay might be billed first for seniority's sake, Kanye is this album's obvious guiding force. Throughout, he displays levels of unequaled audacity. On "Otis" and "Gotta Have It", he reduces Otis Redding and James Brown to simple grunts, then builds rhythm tracks out of them. On "New Day", over a beat co-produced by RZA, he actually runs Nina Simone through Auto-Tune. On "No Church in the Wild", he authoritatively vows, "You will not control the threesome." The musical scope of Watch the Throne is a tribute to his distinctive taste and sense of style. The whole thing sounds huge, and even the sillier moments ("Made in America", especially, reminds me of the inspirational ballads of late-period Michael Jackson) succeed on pure orchestral excess. Jay and Kanye debuted the album in a private listening session at a New York planetarium, a setting which made perfect sense: even if it never approaches the grandeur or character-study complexity of Twisted Fantasy, this is still exploding-star music. So: two long-reigning titans make a relatively quick album which, despite their best efforts, still winds up being a monument to their own grandiosity. Should we care? Well, yeah. Kanye doesn't have a cruise-control switch, and when he's around, neither does Jay. On Watch the Throne, they push each other and have fun doing it, and the result is a stadium-sized event-rap spectacle that still sounds like two insanely talented guys' idiosyncratic vision. That's worth celebrating."

Various Artists

Radio Niger

Joe Tangari

A lot of labels have found their niches by delivering the sounds of the world to us by compiling songs that would otherwise be unavailable outside their milieu of their creation. Sublime Frequencies has become one such imprint; their compilations of Southeast Asian pop music in particular are executed with passion and attention to archival and storytelling detail. Before the label got into that game, though, things were a bit more freewheeling, and its compilers and recordists approached sounds not as discrete tracks, or the performers as people with backstories and a place in history, but rather as an ocean of audio to dive into. That means sounds usually left out of the narrative of global audio history were fair game; the label’s compilations of recordings made off the radio in remote locales were their own brand of audio bricolage, and they could be intoxicating and frustrating at the same time. Radio Niger follows in this tradition. Comprised of recordings of radio broadcasts made by traveler Hisham Mayet in the Saharan country of Niger and edited and sequenced by Alan Bishop, the disc is a swirling collage that captures both captivating music and the sense of play and experimentation with which Nigerien DJs approach their trade. None of the music is identified. It simply appears as part of the flow of the recording, collaged in among studio and call-in banter in a number of languages. The point of these recordings isn’t to bring us great tracks we might otherwise be missing out on—it's more about the total experience of hearing these sounds and catching a glimpse of what the soundworld of Niger is like a day-to-day basis—but this still merits some discussion. First, what you are hearing is decidedly not what the average Nigerien hears. There is a quantum effect where the observation changes the result, and while Nigerien DJs engage in collage and singing along, both of which are heard here, we don’t get a feel for what a single full broadcast might be like. It is a compressed view. This isn’t a bad thing from an artistic standpoint—the collage is part of the package, and it distills what would otherwise be unwieldy. The use of the music is more problematic. It is, after all, music somebody made, and to leave it anonymous in favor of a wide-eyed “wow, listen to all of this” approach increases the sense that the musicians playing it are part of some arm’s-length Other and not individuals. That the collage exposes enormous diversity, both sonic and cultural, does little to address this basic flaw. I try to imagine a lawyer for Led Zeppelin hearing one of his client’s songs drifting through a theoretically similar collage made in the Connecticut River Valley and not hitting the “litigate” button, but he hits it every time. As much as this bothers me, Radio Niger and all of the label’s similar releases do have value, aesthetically and culturally. Niger is a vast and diverse country, monetarily poor but culturally wealthy, and a lot of Americans might only know of it from a reference to yellowcake uranium in a State of the Union Address given by George W. Bush a decade ago. Traditional Saharan string instruments and drums, choral singing and trance music are all part of this audioscape, but they are set next to Auto-tuned pop, Bollywood-influenced songs, rock, and electronic music that more formal compilations often forget exists or try to ignore. The most haunting moment on the disc comes when a bit of spooky, minor-key techno surfaces out of nowhere, and suddenly the world’s hottest desert feels very cold. And that, really, is where Radio Niger succeeds in spite of its flaws: by listening and distilling, it paints a more complete, human and real picture of audio life in Niger than any other single source.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Radio Niger, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "A lot of labels have found their niches by delivering the sounds of the world to us by compiling songs that would otherwise be unavailable outside their milieu of their creation. Sublime Frequencies has become one such imprint; their compilations of Southeast Asian pop music in particular are executed with passion and attention to archival and storytelling detail. Before the label got into that game, though, things were a bit more freewheeling, and its compilers and recordists approached sounds not as discrete tracks, or the performers as people with backstories and a place in history, but rather as an ocean of audio to dive into. That means sounds usually left out of the narrative of global audio history were fair game; the label’s compilations of recordings made off the radio in remote locales were their own brand of audio bricolage, and they could be intoxicating and frustrating at the same time. Radio Niger follows in this tradition. Comprised of recordings of radio broadcasts made by traveler Hisham Mayet in the Saharan country of Niger and edited and sequenced by Alan Bishop, the disc is a swirling collage that captures both captivating music and the sense of play and experimentation with which Nigerien DJs approach their trade. None of the music is identified. It simply appears as part of the flow of the recording, collaged in among studio and call-in banter in a number of languages. The point of these recordings isn’t to bring us great tracks we might otherwise be missing out on—it's more about the total experience of hearing these sounds and catching a glimpse of what the soundworld of Niger is like a day-to-day basis—but this still merits some discussion. First, what you are hearing is decidedly not what the average Nigerien hears. There is a quantum effect where the observation changes the result, and while Nigerien DJs engage in collage and singing along, both of which are heard here, we don’t get a feel for what a single full broadcast might be like. It is a compressed view. This isn’t a bad thing from an artistic standpoint—the collage is part of the package, and it distills what would otherwise be unwieldy. The use of the music is more problematic. It is, after all, music somebody made, and to leave it anonymous in favor of a wide-eyed “wow, listen to all of this” approach increases the sense that the musicians playing it are part of some arm’s-length Other and not individuals. That the collage exposes enormous diversity, both sonic and cultural, does little to address this basic flaw. I try to imagine a lawyer for Led Zeppelin hearing one of his client’s songs drifting through a theoretically similar collage made in the Connecticut River Valley and not hitting the “litigate” button, but he hits it every time. As much as this bothers me, Radio Niger and all of the label’s similar releases do have value, aesthetically and culturally. Niger is a vast and diverse country, monetarily poor but culturally wealthy, and a lot of Americans might only know of it from a reference to yellowcake uranium in a State of the Union Address given by George W. Bush a decade ago. Traditional Saharan string instruments and drums, choral singing and trance music are all part of this audioscape, but they are set next to Auto-tuned pop, Bollywood-influenced songs, rock, and electronic music that more formal compilations often forget exists or try to ignore. The most haunting moment on the disc comes when a bit of spooky, minor-key techno surfaces out of nowhere, and suddenly the world’s hottest desert feels very cold. And that, really, is where Radio Niger succeeds in spite of its flaws: by listening and distilling, it paints a more complete, human and real picture of audio life in Niger than any other single source."

Need New Body

UFO

Experimental,Rock

Matt LeMay

When it comes to spazzing out, it pays to be mindful of the basics. Sure, convoluted meters, intricately layered guitar noise, and vintage synthesizers made of only fishing wire and toothpaste are nothing to scoff at. But the essence of spaz has little to do with the aesthetic goodies that so often adorn it. And at the core "spazcore" lies a mixture of energy and humor that, when done right, can be just ridiculously infectious. While countless forgotten bands have turned out generic garbage in hopes of hitting the big time and getting chicks, artists like Gary Wilson and Brainiac's Timmy Taylor seemed driven by an uncontrollable impulse to not look cool, tempered by a profound understanding of their own ridiculousness. When Need New Body dropped their insane, fractured and brilliant debut in 2001, it was abundantly clear that they deserved a place in this esteemed tradition. That album's centerpiece, the epic "Gamble On/Banji" was not only one of my favorite songs of 2001, but one of maybe ten songs ever that invariably inspires me to jump around like a total jackass, regardless of social setting. UFO, Need New Body's much anticipated sophomore effort, offers up both more variety and more focus than its predecessor, as the band plows through under-a-minute goofs and involved jams with equal conviction and care. As with their debut record, Need New Body hardly decided to put their most accessible foot forward with UFO, opting instead to open with the distorted drums and seemingly random noise patterns of "Giggle Bush Meets CompUSA". Just as the song disintegrates into hard-panned video game noises, in comes "Hot Shot", a standout track and a pretty good template for the more accessible side of the album. At their most basic level, these songs consist of the band playing a "My Sharona" bassline and banging on things, but what makes them so spectacular is the unchecked energy with which the band approaches them, fueled in no small part by Chris Powell's frenzied drumming. UFO is a remarkably dense record, but even more remarkable is the fact that every single sound is integrated so masterfully into the framework of Powell's insistent 4/4 beats. Need New Body achieve some of their greatest moments when the aforementioned beats are transformed into something loosely resembling a pop song. "Show Me Your Heart" is equal parts video game soundtrack, spy theme, and banjo-driven klezmer jam. Banjoist/emcee/"singer" Jeff Bradbury may not be the most traditionally skilled vocalist, but he has a knack for rhythmic sing-speaking that perfectly complements the rest of the band. Bradbury's contribution to live favorite "Pen", with its unforgettable chorus of "Pen pen pen/ Where's my pen," is not only hilarious, but lends the song yet another layer of rhythmic intensity. There will always be artists who go through the motions of "freaking out" in the hopes of soliciting a few extra cheers at shows, or injecting some energy into an otherwise painfully dull record. But Need New Body's enthusiasm, coupled with their adeptness at creating music both substantive and brilliantly eccentric, proves legitimate. Make no mistake, friends, this is the real thing.

Artist: Need New Body, Album: UFO, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "When it comes to spazzing out, it pays to be mindful of the basics. Sure, convoluted meters, intricately layered guitar noise, and vintage synthesizers made of only fishing wire and toothpaste are nothing to scoff at. But the essence of spaz has little to do with the aesthetic goodies that so often adorn it. And at the core "spazcore" lies a mixture of energy and humor that, when done right, can be just ridiculously infectious. While countless forgotten bands have turned out generic garbage in hopes of hitting the big time and getting chicks, artists like Gary Wilson and Brainiac's Timmy Taylor seemed driven by an uncontrollable impulse to not look cool, tempered by a profound understanding of their own ridiculousness. When Need New Body dropped their insane, fractured and brilliant debut in 2001, it was abundantly clear that they deserved a place in this esteemed tradition. That album's centerpiece, the epic "Gamble On/Banji" was not only one of my favorite songs of 2001, but one of maybe ten songs ever that invariably inspires me to jump around like a total jackass, regardless of social setting. UFO, Need New Body's much anticipated sophomore effort, offers up both more variety and more focus than its predecessor, as the band plows through under-a-minute goofs and involved jams with equal conviction and care. As with their debut record, Need New Body hardly decided to put their most accessible foot forward with UFO, opting instead to open with the distorted drums and seemingly random noise patterns of "Giggle Bush Meets CompUSA". Just as the song disintegrates into hard-panned video game noises, in comes "Hot Shot", a standout track and a pretty good template for the more accessible side of the album. At their most basic level, these songs consist of the band playing a "My Sharona" bassline and banging on things, but what makes them so spectacular is the unchecked energy with which the band approaches them, fueled in no small part by Chris Powell's frenzied drumming. UFO is a remarkably dense record, but even more remarkable is the fact that every single sound is integrated so masterfully into the framework of Powell's insistent 4/4 beats. Need New Body achieve some of their greatest moments when the aforementioned beats are transformed into something loosely resembling a pop song. "Show Me Your Heart" is equal parts video game soundtrack, spy theme, and banjo-driven klezmer jam. Banjoist/emcee/"singer" Jeff Bradbury may not be the most traditionally skilled vocalist, but he has a knack for rhythmic sing-speaking that perfectly complements the rest of the band. Bradbury's contribution to live favorite "Pen", with its unforgettable chorus of "Pen pen pen/ Where's my pen," is not only hilarious, but lends the song yet another layer of rhythmic intensity. There will always be artists who go through the motions of "freaking out" in the hopes of soliciting a few extra cheers at shows, or injecting some energy into an otherwise painfully dull record. But Need New Body's enthusiasm, coupled with their adeptness at creating music both substantive and brilliantly eccentric, proves legitimate. Make no mistake, friends, this is the real thing."

Mr. Mitch

Devout

Electronic

Louis Pattison

For a brief period in September of 2013, the UK grime scene went to war. This time, though, the battleground was Soundcloud, and the soldiers were the genre’s producers, who turned out a fearsome barrage of beats—christened “war dubs”—aimed at their peers and rivals. In the spirit of Jamaican soundclash culture, there was the sense that this battle was as much about the flexing of technical ability as any real enmity. One producer rose above the fray: Mr. Mitch, real name Miles Mitchell, who dropped a selection of soft, sample-driven tracks he called “Peace Edits,” and in doing so, all but left with the spoils. Time has proven this to be not so much a conceptual feint as an expression of Mitchell’s character. There is no front to the music he makes, no rough edges. Instead, Devout—like its predecessor, 2014’s *Parallel Memories**—*explores a pared-back, gossamer sound, with emotions to the fore. Mitchell is no outsider: he runs his own label, Gobstopper Records, and is one of four producers behind London clubnight Boxed, a home for inventive, off-the-wall productions that has been credited as an engine behind grime’s revival. But he is also a father of two from suburban South London and his own artist albums reflect this reality, exploring the sanctuary of home life and matters of the heart. Parallel Memories was pretty but almost too minimal, sometimes feeling short of a layer or two. It would be deceptive to claim Devout is heavier, but it is compositionally tighter, and roughly half the tracks feature vocals from Mitchell and a small coterie of guests. There are still qualities that harken back to grime: the 16 bar structures, the wriggling, liquid melodies. But where grime generally works from an abrasive, lo-fi palette, Devout feels polished and tactile, reminiscent of Fatima Al Qadiri’s forays in sino-grime, or the ’80s synth ambient of Ryuichi Sakamoto. ASMR enthusiasts will find a lot to love in the pizzicato violin and breathy synth washes of “Lost Touch”—or “Black Tide,” with its analog camera sounds and melodies that squeak like a squeegee on a windowpane. The album’s vocal turns, meanwhile, veer soulful, grappling with love and relationships from a mature perspective. On “Fate,” Denai Moore whips up a quiet storm as she puts an end to a floundering love affair. “VPN” captures the pain of separation, with fellow South Londoner Palmistry’s airy cod-patois afloat over blown-glass melodies and a gentle kick. Parenthood is a vexed topic in popular music; the rap album blighted by the saccharine track about Dad life is a cliché for a reason. Devout tackles this conundrum head on. The sole MC moment on the album comes courtesy of P Money, who raps about fatherhood on “Priority.” His delivery balances #blessed vibes with a glimpse of struggle and challenge, and Mitchell is canny enough to pair it with a beat laced with just a shred of anxiety—you can feel the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. More sentimental are the moments when Mitchell himself takes the mic, his voice tinted with Autotune. On “Intro,” he croons accompanied by samples of his sons at play, while “Oscar” is a song directed towards his newborn, set to childlike xylophone chimes. They come over as more imperfect than the rest of Devout, but their homemade intimacy feels like an end in itself. Describing the concept of the album, Mitchell has spoken of challenging negative representations of black fatherhood: “We all know the stereotype of the black dad with multiple children from multiple partners who is absent from the child’s life, we see it consistently in popular culture,” he says in promotional materials. “I want to champion the alternative, which to me is just normal.” Loyalty and accountability are topics that seldom make it into popular music, but Devout finds bliss in its sense of balance. From its gentle textures come a calm centeredness, from its soft words a sense of strength.

Artist: Mr. Mitch, Album: Devout, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "For a brief period in September of 2013, the UK grime scene went to war. This time, though, the battleground was Soundcloud, and the soldiers were the genre’s producers, who turned out a fearsome barrage of beats—christened “war dubs”—aimed at their peers and rivals. In the spirit of Jamaican soundclash culture, there was the sense that this battle was as much about the flexing of technical ability as any real enmity. One producer rose above the fray: Mr. Mitch, real name Miles Mitchell, who dropped a selection of soft, sample-driven tracks he called “Peace Edits,” and in doing so, all but left with the spoils. Time has proven this to be not so much a conceptual feint as an expression of Mitchell’s character. There is no front to the music he makes, no rough edges. Instead, Devout—like its predecessor, 2014’s *Parallel Memories**—*explores a pared-back, gossamer sound, with emotions to the fore. Mitchell is no outsider: he runs his own label, Gobstopper Records, and is one of four producers behind London clubnight Boxed, a home for inventive, off-the-wall productions that has been credited as an engine behind grime’s revival. But he is also a father of two from suburban South London and his own artist albums reflect this reality, exploring the sanctuary of home life and matters of the heart. Parallel Memories was pretty but almost too minimal, sometimes feeling short of a layer or two. It would be deceptive to claim Devout is heavier, but it is compositionally tighter, and roughly half the tracks feature vocals from Mitchell and a small coterie of guests. There are still qualities that harken back to grime: the 16 bar structures, the wriggling, liquid melodies. But where grime generally works from an abrasive, lo-fi palette, Devout feels polished and tactile, reminiscent of Fatima Al Qadiri’s forays in sino-grime, or the ’80s synth ambient of Ryuichi Sakamoto. ASMR enthusiasts will find a lot to love in the pizzicato violin and breathy synth washes of “Lost Touch”—or “Black Tide,” with its analog camera sounds and melodies that squeak like a squeegee on a windowpane. The album’s vocal turns, meanwhile, veer soulful, grappling with love and relationships from a mature perspective. On “Fate,” Denai Moore whips up a quiet storm as she puts an end to a floundering love affair. “VPN” captures the pain of separation, with fellow South Londoner Palmistry’s airy cod-patois afloat over blown-glass melodies and a gentle kick. Parenthood is a vexed topic in popular music; the rap album blighted by the saccharine track about Dad life is a cliché for a reason. Devout tackles this conundrum head on. The sole MC moment on the album comes courtesy of P Money, who raps about fatherhood on “Priority.” His delivery balances #blessed vibes with a glimpse of struggle and challenge, and Mitchell is canny enough to pair it with a beat laced with just a shred of anxiety—you can feel the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. More sentimental are the moments when Mitchell himself takes the mic, his voice tinted with Autotune. On “Intro,” he croons accompanied by samples of his sons at play, while “Oscar” is a song directed towards his newborn, set to childlike xylophone chimes. They come over as more imperfect than the rest of Devout, but their homemade intimacy feels like an end in itself. Describing the concept of the album, Mitchell has spoken of challenging negative representations of black fatherhood: “We all know the stereotype of the black dad with multiple children from multiple partners who is absent from the child’s life, we see it consistently in popular culture,” he says in promotional materials. “I want to champion the alternative, which to me is just normal.” Loyalty and accountability are topics that seldom make it into popular music, but Devout finds bliss in its sense of balance. From its gentle textures come a calm centeredness, from its soft words a sense of strength."

Fox Millions Duo

Lost Time

Experimental

Grayson Haver Currin

The most surprising news about Lost Time—the two-track collaboration between Kid Millions and Greg Fox—is that it took so long to happen. Millions and Fox are the two busiest drummers in experimental music, bounding between projects with the zeal and energy of potent valence electrons. Both have bands that pushed them into prominence. For Millions, it’s the pantheistic weirdo crew Oneida, known for extended adventures into rock’s most distant corners, both onstage and off. For Fox, it’s the flinty black metal band Liturgy, known for testing the boundaries of that genre and irking its old guard in the process. But Millions and Fox treat those acts as launch pads, not landing pads. Fox, for instance, leads his own freak-out act Guardian Alien, is the newest member of Zs, and collaborates with Ben Frost, Colin Stetson, and PC Worship. Millions, meanwhile, drums with Spiritualized and Laurie Anderson, helms the drum ensemble Man Forever, and released duo records with J. Spaceman and Borbetomagus’ Jim Sauter just last year. Their collision seems, then, inevitable if not overdue, an obviously great idea that each musician had to squeeze into packed dockets. Lost Time, however, does not sound like an obligation, a date on a calendar meant to be fulfilled. At its best, it feels like an opportunity for two daring drummers to explore with and without their kits. Recorded during two workaday sessions in 2014, these dual tracks find the pair testing diametric impulses with equal zeal—building and filling a sidelong groove for the meditative "Post Encounter Effect" and treating grooves as anathema for the explosive "Telegy/Time Lapse". For both pieces, Fox and Millions step behind and then away from their sets, accessorizing the "drum duo" concept with guitars and electronics, samples and screams. The choice affords Lost Time unexpected approachability. The first side speaks as much to Lightning Bolt as it does to Albert Ayler, the second as much to Swans as Max Neuhaus. You can practically hear each drummer’s enthusiasm for simply playing (but not playing simply) on "Telegy/Time Lapse", a 20-minute opening marvel of momentum and cooperation. A murmur of looped electronics yields to an outburst of drums, with Millions and Fox interlocking their very heavy, very fast, very long rolls and fills. They continually escalate and de-escalate, creating a seesaw that emphasizes just how meticulous and powerful they can get. Sometimes, they stop altogether; other times, they play so hard you wonder how they know where each limb will land. Instead of two titans squaring off, the sound suggests a spirited conversation between equals, each offering distinct but complementary voices and thoughts on a shared interest. Fox has studied with Milford Graves, a pioneering jazz drummer who has, in recent decades, used heart monitors to help build musical frameworks. Midway through "Telegy/Time Lapse", the drums disappear, replaced temporarily by the amplified heartbeats of Fox and Millions and, soon, solid sheets of industrial noise. When the drums return, they slyly mirror those biomechanical rhythms, suggesting that both of these musicians were born to do exactly this. When the track hits its ecstatic peak, Fox howls and hums maniacally behind the beats. The élan is visceral, contagious. But where that first piece is immediate and demanding, "Post Encounter Effect" attempts to be immersive and hypnotic to the point that it borders on soporific. Fox and Millions begin with a wide, swinging beat, syncopated cymbals splashing over a regimen of tom-toms. For 20 minutes, this rhythm sits mostly still. Meanwhile, they saturate the space between their kits with a panoply of drones—loose-stringed acoustics and phosphorescent electrics, muzzled trumpet and squelching synthesizers. The hope, it seems, is to commingle the ideas of opposing minimalists Steve Reich and La Monte Young by balancing the eternal tones of the latter with the rhythmic latticework of the former. But the idea is more interesting than the execution, itself a listless piece whose subtlety morphs into tedium long before the track expires. In recent years, two other drummers, Jon Mueller and Jonathan Kane, have applied similar principles to much more dynamic work in their respective bands Death Blues and February. Perhaps because it seems so redundant, "Post Encounter Effect" feels like a cerebral exercise for Millions and Fox. They are much better when the exchange is physical, as on "Telegy/Time Lapse", a piece so urgent and expressive it’s a shame the side ever ends.

Artist: Fox Millions Duo, Album: Lost Time, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "The most surprising news about Lost Time—the two-track collaboration between Kid Millions and Greg Fox—is that it took so long to happen. Millions and Fox are the two busiest drummers in experimental music, bounding between projects with the zeal and energy of potent valence electrons. Both have bands that pushed them into prominence. For Millions, it’s the pantheistic weirdo crew Oneida, known for extended adventures into rock’s most distant corners, both onstage and off. For Fox, it’s the flinty black metal band Liturgy, known for testing the boundaries of that genre and irking its old guard in the process. But Millions and Fox treat those acts as launch pads, not landing pads. Fox, for instance, leads his own freak-out act Guardian Alien, is the newest member of Zs, and collaborates with Ben Frost, Colin Stetson, and PC Worship. Millions, meanwhile, drums with Spiritualized and Laurie Anderson, helms the drum ensemble Man Forever, and released duo records with J. Spaceman and Borbetomagus’ Jim Sauter just last year. Their collision seems, then, inevitable if not overdue, an obviously great idea that each musician had to squeeze into packed dockets. Lost Time, however, does not sound like an obligation, a date on a calendar meant to be fulfilled. At its best, it feels like an opportunity for two daring drummers to explore with and without their kits. Recorded during two workaday sessions in 2014, these dual tracks find the pair testing diametric impulses with equal zeal—building and filling a sidelong groove for the meditative "Post Encounter Effect" and treating grooves as anathema for the explosive "Telegy/Time Lapse". For both pieces, Fox and Millions step behind and then away from their sets, accessorizing the "drum duo" concept with guitars and electronics, samples and screams. The choice affords Lost Time unexpected approachability. The first side speaks as much to Lightning Bolt as it does to Albert Ayler, the second as much to Swans as Max Neuhaus. You can practically hear each drummer’s enthusiasm for simply playing (but not playing simply) on "Telegy/Time Lapse", a 20-minute opening marvel of momentum and cooperation. A murmur of looped electronics yields to an outburst of drums, with Millions and Fox interlocking their very heavy, very fast, very long rolls and fills. They continually escalate and de-escalate, creating a seesaw that emphasizes just how meticulous and powerful they can get. Sometimes, they stop altogether; other times, they play so hard you wonder how they know where each limb will land. Instead of two titans squaring off, the sound suggests a spirited conversation between equals, each offering distinct but complementary voices and thoughts on a shared interest. Fox has studied with Milford Graves, a pioneering jazz drummer who has, in recent decades, used heart monitors to help build musical frameworks. Midway through "Telegy/Time Lapse", the drums disappear, replaced temporarily by the amplified heartbeats of Fox and Millions and, soon, solid sheets of industrial noise. When the drums return, they slyly mirror those biomechanical rhythms, suggesting that both of these musicians were born to do exactly this. When the track hits its ecstatic peak, Fox howls and hums maniacally behind the beats. The élan is visceral, contagious. But where that first piece is immediate and demanding, "Post Encounter Effect" attempts to be immersive and hypnotic to the point that it borders on soporific. Fox and Millions begin with a wide, swinging beat, syncopated cymbals splashing over a regimen of tom-toms. For 20 minutes, this rhythm sits mostly still. Meanwhile, they saturate the space between their kits with a panoply of drones—loose-stringed acoustics and phosphorescent electrics, muzzled trumpet and squelching synthesizers. The hope, it seems, is to commingle the ideas of opposing minimalists Steve Reich and La Monte Young by balancing the eternal tones of the latter with the rhythmic latticework of the former. But the idea is more interesting than the execution, itself a listless piece whose subtlety morphs into tedium long before the track expires. In recent years, two other drummers, Jon Mueller and Jonathan Kane, have applied similar principles to much more dynamic work in their respective bands Death Blues and February. Perhaps because it seems so redundant, "Post Encounter Effect" feels like a cerebral exercise for Millions and Fox. They are much better when the exchange is physical, as on "Telegy/Time Lapse", a piece so urgent and expressive it’s a shame the side ever ends."

Grand Duchy

Let the People Speak

Rock

Ian Cohen

When musical partnerships are also romantic ones, they often acquire a certain kind of sanctity from the possibility that the former is an extension of the latter. Violet Clark is more explicit about her work with husband Frank Black. Describing the difference between their first two records collaborating as Grand Duchy, she explains "if Petit Fours was missionary, Let the People Speak needs to be doggystyle." Point taken, but mind you this is a record meant for public consumption and money that could otherwise be spent on beer and shoes, not illicitly acquired boudoir photography. So I don't think I'm casting aspersions on the domestic life of Black and Clark by saying that even if Let the People Speak feels utterly passionless and perfunctory, it doesn't even qualify as masturbation-- they certainly don't sound like they're enjoying it. Forgive me for the vulgarity; the mind tends to wander during this thing. With its 15 tracks clocking in at over an hour, Let the People Speak is either utterly unconscionable in its length or laughably and endearingly audacious in the way Lil B mixtapes are. Either way, it certainly gives you plenty of opportunities to wrangle with its intentions without any strong hooks or riffs bugging you. At least it's somewhat conceptual: As with Queens of the Stone Age's Songs For the Deaf, Let the People Speak is arranged like a radio rock block, interrupted by fake callers who exclaim, "I love the Grand Duchy," in terrible European accents and interstitial jabber courtesy of Phoenix DJ Jonathan L that ranges from NPR-droll non sequitur to baffling song-specific commentary. The dime-thin disco of "Silver Boys" puts him in "a Warhol-esque kind of mood," even though I swear there's a Bloodhound Gang song I can't immediately recall that that sounds just like it-- I can't tell whether it's more embarrassing if L is being serious or if he's joking. I'm sure it was fun to plan out, but the formatting generates an ironic heft as People trudges forward. Combining granule-free guitar distortion, Clark's half-sassed vocals, and "electronica" touches wholly uninformed by actual electronic music, Grand Duchy is essentially a later Buzz Bin revivalist act-- a substitute for any number of bands who'd sign to Lava or Sony 550, have a cute Mark Kohr-directed video, and namedrop Pixies as an influence in interviews despite having learned nothing from them. Though melodically and rhythmically deficient, most of the Clark-fronted songs are still technically "dance rock" in the same manner Republica were, and if the bullish insistence of "See-Thru You" and "Geode" manage a fraction of "Ready to Go"'s licensing legs, more power to them. "White Out" has a decent shot if there are music coordinators out there who haven't already passed on the last three Metric albums, since it's the most uptempo thing here and I have an inkling it might be about cocaine as a social lubricant. It's catchy enough before Clark spends its last minute and a half chanting, "go get the white out!" ad nauseum like a college girl who could not be more proud of her own drug euphemism. Taking his snoozier solo material into account, I'm not gonna act like Black could've saved this by exerting his will as more than just a capable rhythm guitarist. Not when he makes an "appearance" and little else on the songs he fronts. Right around the midpoint of his Magnetic Fields karaoke on "Annie Bliss", Let the People Speak feels fucking endless and you're no more comforted by seeing the seven-minute runtime of "Dark Sparkles and the Beat" lying immediately in wait. Meanwhile, Black sounds more like himself on the junkyard blues of "Shady", but still mostly like Patton Oswalt's Tom Waits impression: "I knew a guy named Drew/ Who had a friend named Katie/ And they were made in the shade/ Because they were shady, shady, shady, shady." That's when the cowbell comes in. Look, there are worse crimes than making a boring alt-tronica record, but if you're responsible for Doolittle and Surfer Rosa and Trompe Le Monde, you're beholden to a certain set of expectations. If this is the music he's inspired to make with the people he loves, I'll stick with the music he made with people he hated.

Artist: Grand Duchy, Album: Let the People Speak, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 3.8 Album review: "When musical partnerships are also romantic ones, they often acquire a certain kind of sanctity from the possibility that the former is an extension of the latter. Violet Clark is more explicit about her work with husband Frank Black. Describing the difference between their first two records collaborating as Grand Duchy, she explains "if Petit Fours was missionary, Let the People Speak needs to be doggystyle." Point taken, but mind you this is a record meant for public consumption and money that could otherwise be spent on beer and shoes, not illicitly acquired boudoir photography. So I don't think I'm casting aspersions on the domestic life of Black and Clark by saying that even if Let the People Speak feels utterly passionless and perfunctory, it doesn't even qualify as masturbation-- they certainly don't sound like they're enjoying it. Forgive me for the vulgarity; the mind tends to wander during this thing. With its 15 tracks clocking in at over an hour, Let the People Speak is either utterly unconscionable in its length or laughably and endearingly audacious in the way Lil B mixtapes are. Either way, it certainly gives you plenty of opportunities to wrangle with its intentions without any strong hooks or riffs bugging you. At least it's somewhat conceptual: As with Queens of the Stone Age's Songs For the Deaf, Let the People Speak is arranged like a radio rock block, interrupted by fake callers who exclaim, "I love the Grand Duchy," in terrible European accents and interstitial jabber courtesy of Phoenix DJ Jonathan L that ranges from NPR-droll non sequitur to baffling song-specific commentary. The dime-thin disco of "Silver Boys" puts him in "a Warhol-esque kind of mood," even though I swear there's a Bloodhound Gang song I can't immediately recall that that sounds just like it-- I can't tell whether it's more embarrassing if L is being serious or if he's joking. I'm sure it was fun to plan out, but the formatting generates an ironic heft as People trudges forward. Combining granule-free guitar distortion, Clark's half-sassed vocals, and "electronica" touches wholly uninformed by actual electronic music, Grand Duchy is essentially a later Buzz Bin revivalist act-- a substitute for any number of bands who'd sign to Lava or Sony 550, have a cute Mark Kohr-directed video, and namedrop Pixies as an influence in interviews despite having learned nothing from them. Though melodically and rhythmically deficient, most of the Clark-fronted songs are still technically "dance rock" in the same manner Republica were, and if the bullish insistence of "See-Thru You" and "Geode" manage a fraction of "Ready to Go"'s licensing legs, more power to them. "White Out" has a decent shot if there are music coordinators out there who haven't already passed on the last three Metric albums, since it's the most uptempo thing here and I have an inkling it might be about cocaine as a social lubricant. It's catchy enough before Clark spends its last minute and a half chanting, "go get the white out!" ad nauseum like a college girl who could not be more proud of her own drug euphemism. Taking his snoozier solo material into account, I'm not gonna act like Black could've saved this by exerting his will as more than just a capable rhythm guitarist. Not when he makes an "appearance" and little else on the songs he fronts. Right around the midpoint of his Magnetic Fields karaoke on "Annie Bliss", Let the People Speak feels fucking endless and you're no more comforted by seeing the seven-minute runtime of "Dark Sparkles and the Beat" lying immediately in wait. Meanwhile, Black sounds more like himself on the junkyard blues of "Shady", but still mostly like Patton Oswalt's Tom Waits impression: "I knew a guy named Drew/ Who had a friend named Katie/ And they were made in the shade/ Because they were shady, shady, shady, shady." That's when the cowbell comes in. Look, there are worse crimes than making a boring alt-tronica record, but if you're responsible for Doolittle and Surfer Rosa and Trompe Le Monde, you're beholden to a certain set of expectations. If this is the music he's inspired to make with the people he loves, I'll stick with the music he made with people he hated."

Omar Rodriguez-López

Omar Rodriguez

Rock

Cory D. Byrom

"Een ode aan Ed van der Elsken", the opening track from Omar Rodriguez's self-titled album, is an experiment in minimal percussion that belies the prog-jazz onslaught that follows. Recorded in Amsterdam last June, these songs are an extension of the Omar Rodriguez Quintet side project, and along for the ride are various musicians on horns, keys, and percussion, including several ATDI and Mars Volta cohorts. The results are extended, improv-style jams that mix wailing guitar solos, spasmodic drumming, and computer and tape effects with more traditional jazz elements. The two longest tracks here are "Regenbogen stelen van prostituees" and "Jacob van Lennepkade", which transition seamlessly to create a 27-minute opus and provide the real meat of the album. Adrian Terrazas-Gonzales' saxophone work stands out on "Regenbogen", but the back and forth between sax and wah-wah-pedaled guitar is what give the song its backbone. "Jacob" is slightly more subdued, using the shuffling drums and bouncing bass guitar to set the tone while Omar's guitar squeals atonally. Things change considerably for "Vondelpark bij nacht", a dark piece that never really takes off. Sitar, chimes, and computer blips swirl through the background while the sax takes the lead. The middle- eastern flair is a nice change of pace, but the lack of percussion or any discernable structure causes it to fade into the background quickly. The pace is picked up again with album closer "Spoorkrijden op het fietspad", the most rock oriented of the bunch, adding a small dose of funk and disco to the formula. Although this album was recorded during downtime on the Mars Volta's recent European tour, to dismiss it as a throwaway vanity project would be a mistake. Even though two of these tracks fall a little short of the mark, the length and power of the remaining three more than pick up the slack. While it's more jazz-oriented than the Mars Volta, Rodriguez uses the freedom of breaking away from his main gig here to create something that is just as unique and exciting.

Artist: Omar Rodriguez-López, Album: Omar Rodriguez, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: ""Een ode aan Ed van der Elsken", the opening track from Omar Rodriguez's self-titled album, is an experiment in minimal percussion that belies the prog-jazz onslaught that follows. Recorded in Amsterdam last June, these songs are an extension of the Omar Rodriguez Quintet side project, and along for the ride are various musicians on horns, keys, and percussion, including several ATDI and Mars Volta cohorts. The results are extended, improv-style jams that mix wailing guitar solos, spasmodic drumming, and computer and tape effects with more traditional jazz elements. The two longest tracks here are "Regenbogen stelen van prostituees" and "Jacob van Lennepkade", which transition seamlessly to create a 27-minute opus and provide the real meat of the album. Adrian Terrazas-Gonzales' saxophone work stands out on "Regenbogen", but the back and forth between sax and wah-wah-pedaled guitar is what give the song its backbone. "Jacob" is slightly more subdued, using the shuffling drums and bouncing bass guitar to set the tone while Omar's guitar squeals atonally. Things change considerably for "Vondelpark bij nacht", a dark piece that never really takes off. Sitar, chimes, and computer blips swirl through the background while the sax takes the lead. The middle- eastern flair is a nice change of pace, but the lack of percussion or any discernable structure causes it to fade into the background quickly. The pace is picked up again with album closer "Spoorkrijden op het fietspad", the most rock oriented of the bunch, adding a small dose of funk and disco to the formula. Although this album was recorded during downtime on the Mars Volta's recent European tour, to dismiss it as a throwaway vanity project would be a mistake. Even though two of these tracks fall a little short of the mark, the length and power of the remaining three more than pick up the slack. While it's more jazz-oriented than the Mars Volta, Rodriguez uses the freedom of breaking away from his main gig here to create something that is just as unique and exciting."

Hans-Joachim Rödelius & Tim Story

Inlandish

Mike Orme

It's almost impossible to ignore the still-fresh imprint that keyboardist and composer Hans-Joachim Rödelius has left on electronic music. The influence of his groups with Dieter Moebius, Cluster and Harmonia (the latter also included Neu!'s Michael Rother), is difficult to overstate. But now, at 74, Rödelius seems just as comfortable plonking out Satie-like piano themes as he is touring the States with Cluster, now ambient celebrities. In the midst of said tour, Rödelius has released Inlandish, his latest collaboration with American composer Tim Story. This time, Rödelius left much of the electronic arrangements to Story, spending only ten days in the studio laying down piano before letting the American elaborate on his themes with neoclassical synths, cellos, and oboes. The result often fronts a certain contemplative neutrality (or as the two composers term it, "emotionally ambiguous soundscapes"), which might otherwise be mistaken for the pretense of new age serenity. But there's no affected or meditative agenda hidden in the fluttering synthesizers, save perhaps that Story's treatments sometimes borrow a little too much from his collaborator's best works. More often, Tim Story's treatments add a sort of melodic counterbalance worthy of previous HJR associate Brian Eno. It's a stark contrast from their last collaboration, 2003's Lunz, which heavily featured Rödelius' piano work and relegated his American disciple's embellishments to second-chair groundswells. Here, the collaborators let the piano lines form a supple backbone while Story's arrangements continually extend the work: sinuous synthetic flesh built upon a delicately evolved frame. And while Cluster and Harmonia were always known for their centripetal force, wrapping tight progressions around ever-changing repetitive themes, Rödelius melds his best ambient works with a patience gleaned off his looser works of the 1980s and 90s. Each piece unfolds methodically, each pulsating rotation of Rödelius' theme sloughing off another layer of Tim Story's arrangements, themselves playing out like the elegant evolution of a rock or blues solo. The "rock thing" is a funny observation, since Tim Story says that Rödelius came to his attention just as he was searching for an alternative to rock music. But Inlandish certainly carries within it a rockish underpinning-- at the very least, consciously acknowledging post-rock luminaries like Tortoise as well as their progressive rock ancestors. It's intriguing that Rödelius and Story are perceived as guys who try to breathe life into a form that protests the cold rock'n'roll machine, because it seems like Tim Story is sometimes playing pop god with his German collaborator's delicate essence. While it's true that he sometimes overpowers his subject and crushes that little spark with dated beats ("Riddled") or melodic fusions of new age and ambient forms ("Downrivers"), the two composers nurse their supple little creation, their fragile little life form, charged with the empirical DNA of the same electronic figures Rödelius once revolutionized.

Artist: Hans-Joachim Rödelius & Tim Story, Album: Inlandish, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "It's almost impossible to ignore the still-fresh imprint that keyboardist and composer Hans-Joachim Rödelius has left on electronic music. The influence of his groups with Dieter Moebius, Cluster and Harmonia (the latter also included Neu!'s Michael Rother), is difficult to overstate. But now, at 74, Rödelius seems just as comfortable plonking out Satie-like piano themes as he is touring the States with Cluster, now ambient celebrities. In the midst of said tour, Rödelius has released Inlandish, his latest collaboration with American composer Tim Story. This time, Rödelius left much of the electronic arrangements to Story, spending only ten days in the studio laying down piano before letting the American elaborate on his themes with neoclassical synths, cellos, and oboes. The result often fronts a certain contemplative neutrality (or as the two composers term it, "emotionally ambiguous soundscapes"), which might otherwise be mistaken for the pretense of new age serenity. But there's no affected or meditative agenda hidden in the fluttering synthesizers, save perhaps that Story's treatments sometimes borrow a little too much from his collaborator's best works. More often, Tim Story's treatments add a sort of melodic counterbalance worthy of previous HJR associate Brian Eno. It's a stark contrast from their last collaboration, 2003's Lunz, which heavily featured Rödelius' piano work and relegated his American disciple's embellishments to second-chair groundswells. Here, the collaborators let the piano lines form a supple backbone while Story's arrangements continually extend the work: sinuous synthetic flesh built upon a delicately evolved frame. And while Cluster and Harmonia were always known for their centripetal force, wrapping tight progressions around ever-changing repetitive themes, Rödelius melds his best ambient works with a patience gleaned off his looser works of the 1980s and 90s. Each piece unfolds methodically, each pulsating rotation of Rödelius' theme sloughing off another layer of Tim Story's arrangements, themselves playing out like the elegant evolution of a rock or blues solo. The "rock thing" is a funny observation, since Tim Story says that Rödelius came to his attention just as he was searching for an alternative to rock music. But Inlandish certainly carries within it a rockish underpinning-- at the very least, consciously acknowledging post-rock luminaries like Tortoise as well as their progressive rock ancestors. It's intriguing that Rödelius and Story are perceived as guys who try to breathe life into a form that protests the cold rock'n'roll machine, because it seems like Tim Story is sometimes playing pop god with his German collaborator's delicate essence. While it's true that he sometimes overpowers his subject and crushes that little spark with dated beats ("Riddled") or melodic fusions of new age and ambient forms ("Downrivers"), the two composers nurse their supple little creation, their fragile little life form, charged with the empirical DNA of the same electronic figures Rödelius once revolutionized."

Shrimp Boat

Something Grand

Pop/R&B

Chris Dahlen

If you're a typical indie rock fan, you probably hear that you follow obscure bands because they make you look good, because your niche tastes set you apart, and because your music snobbery won't allow you to enjoy anything that's on the radio. But you probably wish, for the one or two best unknown bands that you've discovered, that more people had heard them. A band like that never leaves behind enough recordings. They put out more home-burned CD-Rs or hand-labeled cassettes than actual CDs, score an indie label deal that falls apart one album later, and only make it into the studio by the time that their set has changed three times, leaving all the early songs in the dustbin. You know what the rest of the world is missing, but you have no proof. So I'll admit my heart went out to AUM Fidelity's Steven Joerg when he told me that he actually founded his label with the hopes of finishing this project, a multi-disc collection of music by Chicago's Shrimp Boat. And the final product is the kind of compilation that's better than the sum of its recordings. In 3 CDs (4 if you get a copy with the bonus disc), Something Grand features entirely out-of-print or unreleased material, without repeating any of the songs on the two Shrimp Boat records that are still in print. (Duende and Cavale, on Bar/None, are both highly recommended, but only offer a snapshot band's history. Something Grand documents the whole story.) Shrimp Boat remain a legend from the start of Chicago's early 90s rock renaissance, flourishing right before Billboard put the city on the map as a post-Seattle grunge factory; Shrimp Boat's Brad Wood recorded and played with Liz Phair, among others, and Sam Prekop and Eric Claridge went on to form The Sea & Cake, which includes John McEntire, who plays with all of the bands that, like them or not, make up the Chicago post-rock scene. As the root of all of these influences, Shrimp Boat is better known by reputation than recordings. The three high-minded art school students who formed the band in 1985 proudly didn't know their instruments. (That was also a requirement for Wood, a successful recording engineer who had learned the drums after the other members dragged him into the band.) The earliest recordings, which feature the line-up of Ian Schneller, Sam Prekop and David Kroll, are acoustic and shambolic, kicking off the set with the tunelessly meandering banjo on "Rocks are Oil", the hypnotically circular "Collecting Me" with Kroll's keening, inexpert saxophone, or the midget-army martial drums on "Only Making Fools". The songs sound exactly like when your roommate who's learning guitar finds four notes that sound great together and repeats them until you're sick, except they're great; and Prekop's slurred vocals distort the lyrics-- which, according to the Miles-Davis-box-set-quality liner notes, were mostly made up back then anyway. Something Grand also includes tape collage experiments, most tiresomely on a 12-minute instrumental that slouches across Ollie North's Iran-Contra testimony, but these art-school excesses are shunted aside by the short and deeply unpretentious songwriting that the band once described as "Midwestern folk." The liner notes describe the "circle dances" that would spontaneously start at their gigs at Phyllis' Musical Inn, where the open-faced friendliness that covered their harsh noise noodling would inspire the crowd to dance and stomp together around the bar. The first disc is full of these pieces, some better than others, and many of them come from the barely released cassettes that the band sold at gigs. The earliest Shrimp Boat shows were long, improvised jams that cleared out many pretentious loft parties, but by the time they started recording to four-track, they were writing actual songs and assembling actual sets. Discs two and three introduce them as a "real band," through live recordings from clubs and college radio sets, and outtakes from their two main long-players. Duende and Cavale collected the strongest of the band's material, and discs two and three of Something Grand admittedly focus on outtakes and oddities-- Wood and Joe Vajarsky on sax unwinding with "I Loves You, Porgy", or experiments with the vocal tracks from "Limerick" and "Oranges". But this is more than a B-sides collection. Hearing the band evolve on these albums helps explain the wild stylistic leaps from pop to rock to blue-eyed soul on Cavale, and the concerts-- "Medea Rising" or "Draught '43", where the crowd's shouts punctuate the song-- capture the live side of the band. Shrimp Boat became clean and tight, and Prekop's idiosyncratic voice has more confidence, finessing his barks and yelps while developing the gaspy credulity and breathy wonder that dominate his style today. The real odds and sods are confined to the bonus disc, which ships with the first 2,000 copies of the set. This fourth disc includes a lot of sludgy old recordings and working tapes, as well as some strong, straightforward live cuts. Listening to this material can make you wonder: What if they had simplified the jams, streamlined Prekop's emoting and turned into the Dave Matthews Band? Or dumbed down to dirgey rock songs and fallen in line behind Veruca Salt and Red Red Meat to make a small dent on alternative radio? What would Beavis and Butthead have done with a video for "Free Love Overdrive"? "Chicago's Shrimp Boat are the best band on the planet," gasped CMJ in 1990. (And you thought Pitchfork was hyperbolic.) But before they could take over, tensions inside the band caused first Brad Wood to quit, and then the rest of the members to disband. The Sea & Cake retains the unironic pleasure of Shrimp Boat's material, but refines it to glass-like perfection on their laptop-on-the-beach albums, like last year's One Bedroom. Ian Schneller went on to form Falstaff, and build musical instruments under the company name Specimen Products. Brad Wood now produces records in L.A., and although his early work with Liz Phair-- like the barest tracks on Whip-Smart-- evoked some of Shrimp Boat's later, hazy afternoon-on-Milwaukee-Avenue laziness, he most recently got acclaim off-Broadway for producing the soundtrack to Hedwig and the Angry Inch. David Kroll quit the band even earlier, to paint, and his recent work graces the covers of this set. If this box set were a movie, it would tell your generic coming-of-age story-- except that most bands at this level never tell the whole story, except through the occasional bonus demo tracks. Something Grand is more than a scrapbook: It completes the fossil record of a

Artist: Shrimp Boat, Album: Something Grand, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "If you're a typical indie rock fan, you probably hear that you follow obscure bands because they make you look good, because your niche tastes set you apart, and because your music snobbery won't allow you to enjoy anything that's on the radio. But you probably wish, for the one or two best unknown bands that you've discovered, that more people had heard them. A band like that never leaves behind enough recordings. They put out more home-burned CD-Rs or hand-labeled cassettes than actual CDs, score an indie label deal that falls apart one album later, and only make it into the studio by the time that their set has changed three times, leaving all the early songs in the dustbin. You know what the rest of the world is missing, but you have no proof. So I'll admit my heart went out to AUM Fidelity's Steven Joerg when he told me that he actually founded his label with the hopes of finishing this project, a multi-disc collection of music by Chicago's Shrimp Boat. And the final product is the kind of compilation that's better than the sum of its recordings. In 3 CDs (4 if you get a copy with the bonus disc), Something Grand features entirely out-of-print or unreleased material, without repeating any of the songs on the two Shrimp Boat records that are still in print. (Duende and Cavale, on Bar/None, are both highly recommended, but only offer a snapshot band's history. Something Grand documents the whole story.) Shrimp Boat remain a legend from the start of Chicago's early 90s rock renaissance, flourishing right before Billboard put the city on the map as a post-Seattle grunge factory; Shrimp Boat's Brad Wood recorded and played with Liz Phair, among others, and Sam Prekop and Eric Claridge went on to form The Sea & Cake, which includes John McEntire, who plays with all of the bands that, like them or not, make up the Chicago post-rock scene. As the root of all of these influences, Shrimp Boat is better known by reputation than recordings. The three high-minded art school students who formed the band in 1985 proudly didn't know their instruments. (That was also a requirement for Wood, a successful recording engineer who had learned the drums after the other members dragged him into the band.) The earliest recordings, which feature the line-up of Ian Schneller, Sam Prekop and David Kroll, are acoustic and shambolic, kicking off the set with the tunelessly meandering banjo on "Rocks are Oil", the hypnotically circular "Collecting Me" with Kroll's keening, inexpert saxophone, or the midget-army martial drums on "Only Making Fools". The songs sound exactly like when your roommate who's learning guitar finds four notes that sound great together and repeats them until you're sick, except they're great; and Prekop's slurred vocals distort the lyrics-- which, according to the Miles-Davis-box-set-quality liner notes, were mostly made up back then anyway. Something Grand also includes tape collage experiments, most tiresomely on a 12-minute instrumental that slouches across Ollie North's Iran-Contra testimony, but these art-school excesses are shunted aside by the short and deeply unpretentious songwriting that the band once described as "Midwestern folk." The liner notes describe the "circle dances" that would spontaneously start at their gigs at Phyllis' Musical Inn, where the open-faced friendliness that covered their harsh noise noodling would inspire the crowd to dance and stomp together around the bar. The first disc is full of these pieces, some better than others, and many of them come from the barely released cassettes that the band sold at gigs. The earliest Shrimp Boat shows were long, improvised jams that cleared out many pretentious loft parties, but by the time they started recording to four-track, they were writing actual songs and assembling actual sets. Discs two and three introduce them as a "real band," through live recordings from clubs and college radio sets, and outtakes from their two main long-players. Duende and Cavale collected the strongest of the band's material, and discs two and three of Something Grand admittedly focus on outtakes and oddities-- Wood and Joe Vajarsky on sax unwinding with "I Loves You, Porgy", or experiments with the vocal tracks from "Limerick" and "Oranges". But this is more than a B-sides collection. Hearing the band evolve on these albums helps explain the wild stylistic leaps from pop to rock to blue-eyed soul on Cavale, and the concerts-- "Medea Rising" or "Draught '43", where the crowd's shouts punctuate the song-- capture the live side of the band. Shrimp Boat became clean and tight, and Prekop's idiosyncratic voice has more confidence, finessing his barks and yelps while developing the gaspy credulity and breathy wonder that dominate his style today. The real odds and sods are confined to the bonus disc, which ships with the first 2,000 copies of the set. This fourth disc includes a lot of sludgy old recordings and working tapes, as well as some strong, straightforward live cuts. Listening to this material can make you wonder: What if they had simplified the jams, streamlined Prekop's emoting and turned into the Dave Matthews Band? Or dumbed down to dirgey rock songs and fallen in line behind Veruca Salt and Red Red Meat to make a small dent on alternative radio? What would Beavis and Butthead have done with a video for "Free Love Overdrive"? "Chicago's Shrimp Boat are the best band on the planet," gasped CMJ in 1990. (And you thought Pitchfork was hyperbolic.) But before they could take over, tensions inside the band caused first Brad Wood to quit, and then the rest of the members to disband. The Sea & Cake retains the unironic pleasure of Shrimp Boat's material, but refines it to glass-like perfection on their laptop-on-the-beach albums, like last year's One Bedroom. Ian Schneller went on to form Falstaff, and build musical instruments under the company name Specimen Products. Brad Wood now produces records in L.A., and although his early work with Liz Phair-- like the barest tracks on Whip-Smart-- evoked some of Shrimp Boat's later, hazy afternoon-on-Milwaukee-Avenue laziness, he most recently got acclaim off-Broadway for producing the soundtrack to Hedwig and the Angry Inch. David Kroll quit the band even earlier, to paint, and his recent work graces the covers of this set. If this box set were a movie, it would tell your generic coming-of-age story-- except that most bands at this level never tell the whole story, except through the occasional bonus demo tracks. Something Grand is more than a scrapbook: It completes the fossil record of a"

Preston School of Industry

Goodbye to the Edge City EP

Rock

Dan Kilian

Stephen Malkmus. Let's get the comparisons going right off the bat. Spiral Stairs has been second banana to the guy for a career now. He added the occasional song to Pavement's albums in a suitably nasal style that blended in well-- usually a nice poppy or jammy number of good quality. Sure, you might have wondered how the guy would do on his own, but my bet is, if you're interested in this band, you've got S&M;'s solo record already and are just itching to play musical Battlebots. It's not right, though, comparing an EP to a full-length. Whatever long-played Stairs and Co. come up with may be far more masterful than this, and may shed the lesser tracks. Perhaps I should compare this to the Discretion Grove EP. Life is unfair, however, and I never got Discretion Grove, so I'm going to compare the apple and the orange, because I think it'll show some problems with this work. Verdict: Malkmus kicks Preston School of Industry square in the ass. Mr. Malkmus wanted to call his post-Pavement band the Jicks. Someone at Matador said, hey, it's got to be Stephen Malkmus. Such is the price of name recognition. Personally, I think this was a mistake. I think those that like Pavement are a smart bunch and would figure out who the Jicks were. It's a good name. "Malkmus" does not roll triplingly off the tongue, after all, and may have saturated all its crossover appeal. Now Spiral Stairs, there's a cool name (albeit snatched from the late 60's pop group Spiral Starecase)-- one this guy still goes by. Nonetheless, he's calling this act the Preston School of Industry, one of the worst bandnames ever-- one that doesn't just beg for obscurity, but one I confuse with that Panoply Academy Corps of Engineers, or whatever they're calling themselves these days. It's also written just in initials on the cover, which suggests, to my dorkish self, "P'soi," the name of some imagined character from Anne McCaffrey's Dragonriders of Pern series. Now we get to the songs. "Something Happens Always" charges in with some pretty unimaginative two-note pop horns interlocking with sunny, whistling keyboards, and ends with some bass trills and what sounds like kids singing. Musically, though, it works. Somehow. It's bouncy. The lyrics are another matter; Stairs spins a very awkwardly portrait of a midlife crisis. When he sings, "I've got an allegory heart," as the song's effective chorus, he's overlooking an essential tenet of rock lyricism: never say "I've got an allegory heart." Other phrases from high school comp. which are good to avoid: "This is a metaphor"; "The end of innocence"; "Man's inhumanity towards his fellow man"; and "Insert comma here." "How to Impress the Goddess Pt. 2" throws some slow cello over a distorted guitar phrase similar to David Bowie's "DJ," a similarity this song quickly departs from. It's another "Ballad of a Thin Man"-- a mining man family slaughter-type yarn, and one Stairs can't fully bring to life. He needs at least one more key detail to make the story real, and "what does that save happiness" chorus does little to illuminate, not even bothering to throw up its hands at the absurdity and cruelty of life. To its credit, the song does have a nice guitar jam-out at the end. Also nice is "The Spaces In Between," a near-instrumental that tells more of a real story in its one line of lyric than the first two songs combined. Musically, it bounces like a Chinese league-level ping-pong match, with sunny bleeps skipping over a simple, happy keyboard phrase and some arty Adrian Belew type fretwork. A blast. Stairs also wrests some real emotions from the minimal lyrics of "Where You Gonna Go?," a sleepy song of loss with lazy slide guitars over a sweetly plucked, swelling jangle of acoustic guitars, underlaid with the sound of Spiral groaning. The EP's title song then rides that acoustic sound out to close the record on a sweet if unmemorable note. There's nothing embarrassing about the Preston School of Industry, except perhaps its name. The songs are pleasant enough, though we'll hope for now that Stairs will have better ones on his full-length. Still, have you heard Malkmus' record? "The Hook?" "Jenny and the Ess-Dog?" Of course you have.

Artist: Preston School of Industry, Album: Goodbye to the Edge City EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Stephen Malkmus. Let's get the comparisons going right off the bat. Spiral Stairs has been second banana to the guy for a career now. He added the occasional song to Pavement's albums in a suitably nasal style that blended in well-- usually a nice poppy or jammy number of good quality. Sure, you might have wondered how the guy would do on his own, but my bet is, if you're interested in this band, you've got S&M;'s solo record already and are just itching to play musical Battlebots. It's not right, though, comparing an EP to a full-length. Whatever long-played Stairs and Co. come up with may be far more masterful than this, and may shed the lesser tracks. Perhaps I should compare this to the Discretion Grove EP. Life is unfair, however, and I never got Discretion Grove, so I'm going to compare the apple and the orange, because I think it'll show some problems with this work. Verdict: Malkmus kicks Preston School of Industry square in the ass. Mr. Malkmus wanted to call his post-Pavement band the Jicks. Someone at Matador said, hey, it's got to be Stephen Malkmus. Such is the price of name recognition. Personally, I think this was a mistake. I think those that like Pavement are a smart bunch and would figure out who the Jicks were. It's a good name. "Malkmus" does not roll triplingly off the tongue, after all, and may have saturated all its crossover appeal. Now Spiral Stairs, there's a cool name (albeit snatched from the late 60's pop group Spiral Starecase)-- one this guy still goes by. Nonetheless, he's calling this act the Preston School of Industry, one of the worst bandnames ever-- one that doesn't just beg for obscurity, but one I confuse with that Panoply Academy Corps of Engineers, or whatever they're calling themselves these days. It's also written just in initials on the cover, which suggests, to my dorkish self, "P'soi," the name of some imagined character from Anne McCaffrey's Dragonriders of Pern series. Now we get to the songs. "Something Happens Always" charges in with some pretty unimaginative two-note pop horns interlocking with sunny, whistling keyboards, and ends with some bass trills and what sounds like kids singing. Musically, though, it works. Somehow. It's bouncy. The lyrics are another matter; Stairs spins a very awkwardly portrait of a midlife crisis. When he sings, "I've got an allegory heart," as the song's effective chorus, he's overlooking an essential tenet of rock lyricism: never say "I've got an allegory heart." Other phrases from high school comp. which are good to avoid: "This is a metaphor"; "The end of innocence"; "Man's inhumanity towards his fellow man"; and "Insert comma here." "How to Impress the Goddess Pt. 2" throws some slow cello over a distorted guitar phrase similar to David Bowie's "DJ," a similarity this song quickly departs from. It's another "Ballad of a Thin Man"-- a mining man family slaughter-type yarn, and one Stairs can't fully bring to life. He needs at least one more key detail to make the story real, and "what does that save happiness" chorus does little to illuminate, not even bothering to throw up its hands at the absurdity and cruelty of life. To its credit, the song does have a nice guitar jam-out at the end. Also nice is "The Spaces In Between," a near-instrumental that tells more of a real story in its one line of lyric than the first two songs combined. Musically, it bounces like a Chinese league-level ping-pong match, with sunny bleeps skipping over a simple, happy keyboard phrase and some arty Adrian Belew type fretwork. A blast. Stairs also wrests some real emotions from the minimal lyrics of "Where You Gonna Go?," a sleepy song of loss with lazy slide guitars over a sweetly plucked, swelling jangle of acoustic guitars, underlaid with the sound of Spiral groaning. The EP's title song then rides that acoustic sound out to close the record on a sweet if unmemorable note. There's nothing embarrassing about the Preston School of Industry, except perhaps its name. The songs are pleasant enough, though we'll hope for now that Stairs will have better ones on his full-length. Still, have you heard Malkmus' record? "The Hook?" "Jenny and the Ess-Dog?" Of course you have."

Shocking Pinks

Shocking Pinks

Rock

Marc Hogan

When New Zealand's Shocking Pinks emerged in 2004, they sounded like they belonged on DFA. Debut album Dance the Dance Electric took up arms in the disco-punk revolution the label had declared a couple of years earlier with near-perfect 12"'s like the Rapture's "House of Jealous Lovers" and LCD Soundsystem's "Losing My Edge". Except Shocking Pinks' one-man-band man Nick Harte couldn't be pigeonholed as easily as most of his cowbell-wielding peers. Harte's interests were more eclectic, his lyrics bittersweet. Party-starters aren't supposed to have, like, feelings. Beyond its high standard of quality, Shocking Pinks' first DFA release might seem a less obvious fit for the label. And not just because Harte's project shares its name with Neil Young's 1980s rockabilly sidemen. A 17-track, 45-minute compilation cherrypicked from Shocking Pinks' two 2005 albums for New Zealand's legendary Flying Nun imprint (Mathematical Warfare and Infinity Land), Shocking Pinks veers even further from early-2000s Brooklyn for an emotionally vulnerable highlight reel of scruffy Jesus and Mary Chain dream-pop, ecstatic My Bloody Valentine haze, droning C-86 confessionals, and bedroom New Order bass lines. Oh yeah, and cowbell. Harte is the ex-drummer for the Brunettes, who made their promising Sub Pop debut earlier this year. Those Kiwi indie-poppers go for lavish studio orchestration, but Shocking Pinks adhere to the lo-fi principles of hugely influential Flying Nun bands the Clean and Tall Dwarfs. Harte's vocals are whispery and fragile, delivered with a slight lisp. He plays all the instruments himself: The tragic synths on "End of the World" or "The Narrator", the electric-guitar squall of "Blonde Haired Girl" or Psychocandy descendant "I Want U Back", the distant acoustic strums over the fuzzed-out anomie of "Victims", the prominent Peter Hook bass of "This Aching Deal". You can hear strings squeaking, fingers sliding-- the homemade-pop legacy of Flying Nun's early-1980s Dunedin Sound left to 1990s indie groups like Pavement or Boyracer. Most of all, you can hear the drums. Jealous love song "Emily" pans them over to the left, where Harte's cymbal-heavy clatter stands opposite skuzzy bass, elongated synths, and chiming percussion. In fact, an emphasis on rhythm and percussive elements seems to be the one place where Shocking Pinks intersect with other DFA acts. "SmokeScreen" is the most overt dance-punk nod here; Harte's clipped speak-singing ("Just take the medicine") and cowbell ruckus could fit easily onto LCD songs like "Us V. Them". Original New York dance-punks ESG or Liquid Liquid might recognize the funky breaks beneath ominous, synth-led "Yes! No!" or buzzing hi-hat exercise "Cutout". Shocking Pinks is ragged and emotive where the DFA's other recent full-length release, UK post-punk duo Prinzhorn Dance School's quite good self-titled debut, is terse and mechanical. "I love you when you're happy, I love when you're sad/ But I'd rather be your retard babe than be your motherfucking dad/ Telling you what to do," Harte sings with hissing breaths on the album's heroin-clouded standout, "How Am I Not Myself?". On midtempo lo-fi rocker "Second Hand Girl", Harte imagines a tearful encounter on a woman's doorstep: "You let them go like falling stars, passing through the years." Elliott Smith used to juxtapose pop sentimentality and fucked-up romantic bitterness like this, too. A couple of tracks are basically just interludes-- instrumentals "Wake Up" and "23"-- and one or two, specifically "Girl on the Northern Line" and "Jealousy", are more languid and meandering than the best songs here. Even so, Shocking Pinks' DFA debut is an auspicious one by a young artist who knows as much about loneliness as he does noisy pop classics. The finale, Harte's cover of Arthur Russell's "You Can Make Me Feel Bad", reworks the Calling Out of Context original's dive-bombing cello as naïve, evocative guitar-pop. Its title could be Shocking Pinks' songwriting manifesto. His heartache, our pleasure.

Artist: Shocking Pinks, Album: Shocking Pinks, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "When New Zealand's Shocking Pinks emerged in 2004, they sounded like they belonged on DFA. Debut album Dance the Dance Electric took up arms in the disco-punk revolution the label had declared a couple of years earlier with near-perfect 12"'s like the Rapture's "House of Jealous Lovers" and LCD Soundsystem's "Losing My Edge". Except Shocking Pinks' one-man-band man Nick Harte couldn't be pigeonholed as easily as most of his cowbell-wielding peers. Harte's interests were more eclectic, his lyrics bittersweet. Party-starters aren't supposed to have, like, feelings. Beyond its high standard of quality, Shocking Pinks' first DFA release might seem a less obvious fit for the label. And not just because Harte's project shares its name with Neil Young's 1980s rockabilly sidemen. A 17-track, 45-minute compilation cherrypicked from Shocking Pinks' two 2005 albums for New Zealand's legendary Flying Nun imprint (Mathematical Warfare and Infinity Land), Shocking Pinks veers even further from early-2000s Brooklyn for an emotionally vulnerable highlight reel of scruffy Jesus and Mary Chain dream-pop, ecstatic My Bloody Valentine haze, droning C-86 confessionals, and bedroom New Order bass lines. Oh yeah, and cowbell. Harte is the ex-drummer for the Brunettes, who made their promising Sub Pop debut earlier this year. Those Kiwi indie-poppers go for lavish studio orchestration, but Shocking Pinks adhere to the lo-fi principles of hugely influential Flying Nun bands the Clean and Tall Dwarfs. Harte's vocals are whispery and fragile, delivered with a slight lisp. He plays all the instruments himself: The tragic synths on "End of the World" or "The Narrator", the electric-guitar squall of "Blonde Haired Girl" or Psychocandy descendant "I Want U Back", the distant acoustic strums over the fuzzed-out anomie of "Victims", the prominent Peter Hook bass of "This Aching Deal". You can hear strings squeaking, fingers sliding-- the homemade-pop legacy of Flying Nun's early-1980s Dunedin Sound left to 1990s indie groups like Pavement or Boyracer. Most of all, you can hear the drums. Jealous love song "Emily" pans them over to the left, where Harte's cymbal-heavy clatter stands opposite skuzzy bass, elongated synths, and chiming percussion. In fact, an emphasis on rhythm and percussive elements seems to be the one place where Shocking Pinks intersect with other DFA acts. "SmokeScreen" is the most overt dance-punk nod here; Harte's clipped speak-singing ("Just take the medicine") and cowbell ruckus could fit easily onto LCD songs like "Us V. Them". Original New York dance-punks ESG or Liquid Liquid might recognize the funky breaks beneath ominous, synth-led "Yes! No!" or buzzing hi-hat exercise "Cutout". Shocking Pinks is ragged and emotive where the DFA's other recent full-length release, UK post-punk duo Prinzhorn Dance School's quite good self-titled debut, is terse and mechanical. "I love you when you're happy, I love when you're sad/ But I'd rather be your retard babe than be your motherfucking dad/ Telling you what to do," Harte sings with hissing breaths on the album's heroin-clouded standout, "How Am I Not Myself?". On midtempo lo-fi rocker "Second Hand Girl", Harte imagines a tearful encounter on a woman's doorstep: "You let them go like falling stars, passing through the years." Elliott Smith used to juxtapose pop sentimentality and fucked-up romantic bitterness like this, too. A couple of tracks are basically just interludes-- instrumentals "Wake Up" and "23"-- and one or two, specifically "Girl on the Northern Line" and "Jealousy", are more languid and meandering than the best songs here. Even so, Shocking Pinks' DFA debut is an auspicious one by a young artist who knows as much about loneliness as he does noisy pop classics. The finale, Harte's cover of Arthur Russell's "You Can Make Me Feel Bad", reworks the Calling Out of Context original's dive-bombing cello as naïve, evocative guitar-pop. Its title could be Shocking Pinks' songwriting manifesto. His heartache, our pleasure."

The Rosebuds

Love Deluxe

Rock

Eric Harvey

At first blush, the Rosebuds covering the entirety of Sade's 1992 LP Love Deluxe may seem baffling. "What's next?", one might ask. "Mates of State perform Anita Baker's Rapture?" Anyone who's followed the Rosebuds' career for the past decade knows that there's a bit more logic to such an idea, though. Since titling their 2003 debut The Rosebuds Make Out, Ivan Howard and Kelly Crisp have structured their recording career around the ups and downs of their personal relationship, culminating with 2011's Loud Planes Fly Low, the duo's first LP after their divorce and agreement to continue their creative partnership. Offered as a free download on their Bandcamp site, Love Deluxe-- more or less a Howard solo project abetted by Rosebuds collaborators-- is a kind gesture and loving 20th anniversary tribute. This much is obvious: no one else can be Sade. Over the past decade, even Sade can only be Sade every eight to 10 years-- the group is not exactly known for its prolificacy. Still, the band's sumptuous, smooth music shows no signs of wear, even subjected to the withering winds of musical fashion cycles. If anything, much of the original Love Deluxe still sounds relevant today, particularly given the admiring updates to the Quiet Storm sound by any number of acolytes given positive reviews on this website. Perhaps the greatest compliment to pay the Rosebuds' cover of Love Deluxe is that it's not necessary to have any familiarity with the original to enjoy its remake-- Howard knows his limits, and successfully folds the smooth R&B original into a DIY indie mindset; like applying a martial rhythm to "Kiss of Life" or substituting sax for piano on "I Couldn't Love You More", nodding toward Destroyer's soft-rock Merge opus Kaputt. Even millennial Merge fans who confuse Sade with the ladies from the Robert Palmer video can enjoy this album on its own merits. Several original tracks receive minimal adjustments from Howard-- he knows better than to mess with the classic 1-2 opening combo of "No Ordinary Love" and "Feel No Pain", save for some slight alterations of phrasing, a much dryer mix, and the addition of blocky live drums, which translates "Pain"'s minimal island blues into something more akin to indie rock. "Pearls", on the other hand, remains as much a treacly bit of social commentary today as two decades ago, not improved in the slightest by a white dude crooning about a "woman in Somalia." Howard has dabbled in indie R&B via participation in the Jagjaguwar supergroup Gayngs, but his voice much more closely recalls James Mercer's nebbish earnestness than Luther Vandross or James Ingram. It would have been very nice to hear Crisp's bright counterpoint vocals in this mix, but as it stands, Howard knows his limits and makes them work to his benefit.

Artist: The Rosebuds, Album: Love Deluxe, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "At first blush, the Rosebuds covering the entirety of Sade's 1992 LP Love Deluxe may seem baffling. "What's next?", one might ask. "Mates of State perform Anita Baker's Rapture?" Anyone who's followed the Rosebuds' career for the past decade knows that there's a bit more logic to such an idea, though. Since titling their 2003 debut The Rosebuds Make Out, Ivan Howard and Kelly Crisp have structured their recording career around the ups and downs of their personal relationship, culminating with 2011's Loud Planes Fly Low, the duo's first LP after their divorce and agreement to continue their creative partnership. Offered as a free download on their Bandcamp site, Love Deluxe-- more or less a Howard solo project abetted by Rosebuds collaborators-- is a kind gesture and loving 20th anniversary tribute. This much is obvious: no one else can be Sade. Over the past decade, even Sade can only be Sade every eight to 10 years-- the group is not exactly known for its prolificacy. Still, the band's sumptuous, smooth music shows no signs of wear, even subjected to the withering winds of musical fashion cycles. If anything, much of the original Love Deluxe still sounds relevant today, particularly given the admiring updates to the Quiet Storm sound by any number of acolytes given positive reviews on this website. Perhaps the greatest compliment to pay the Rosebuds' cover of Love Deluxe is that it's not necessary to have any familiarity with the original to enjoy its remake-- Howard knows his limits, and successfully folds the smooth R&B original into a DIY indie mindset; like applying a martial rhythm to "Kiss of Life" or substituting sax for piano on "I Couldn't Love You More", nodding toward Destroyer's soft-rock Merge opus Kaputt. Even millennial Merge fans who confuse Sade with the ladies from the Robert Palmer video can enjoy this album on its own merits. Several original tracks receive minimal adjustments from Howard-- he knows better than to mess with the classic 1-2 opening combo of "No Ordinary Love" and "Feel No Pain", save for some slight alterations of phrasing, a much dryer mix, and the addition of blocky live drums, which translates "Pain"'s minimal island blues into something more akin to indie rock. "Pearls", on the other hand, remains as much a treacly bit of social commentary today as two decades ago, not improved in the slightest by a white dude crooning about a "woman in Somalia." Howard has dabbled in indie R&B via participation in the Jagjaguwar supergroup Gayngs, but his voice much more closely recalls James Mercer's nebbish earnestness than Luther Vandross or James Ingram. It would have been very nice to hear Crisp's bright counterpoint vocals in this mix, but as it stands, Howard knows his limits and makes them work to his benefit."

Zhala

Zhala

Pop/R&B

Eric Torres

During her television debut at last year's music video-themed Grammis, Zhala Rifat turned "Prophet", a "Mortal Kombat"-core techno rave-up and the Swedish singer's biggest single to date, into a visual riff on "Smells Like Teen Spirit". Backed by the requisite jumping cheerleaders and bored-looking spectators in a set of makeshift bleachers, Rifat's set choice was unusual—nothing on her self-titled debut, a frenetic, strobe-lit dance record from start to finish, seems influenced by Nirvana whatsoever, "Prophet" least of all. But with her label boss Robyn beside her, the two of them leaping into a choreographed, athletic dance routine with the cheerleaders and onlookers joining in, the re-enactment seemed to make some more sense. Rifat, like her fembot mentor and Nirvana before her, finds rapture in agitating the boring status quo through music, whether by inserting a chaotic, grunge-inspired dance performance into Sweden's answer to the Grammys or go-go dancing until dawn at her former Stockholm "gayhappening" club Donna Scam. If Zhala is Sweden's next big pop export, she's surely one of the most idiosyncratic. That being said, it comes as something of a surprise that Rifat, as the only act signed to Konichiwa Records apart from Robyn herself, doesn't seem compelled to distance herself from the pop savant's shadow. Instead, on Zhala, Rifat pulls generously from her Scandinavian pop and electronic forebears, most distinctly in the mechanical Knife-like drum patterns, aerobic Robyn-esque melodies, and jagged Röyksopp synths that make up the building blocks for her kitchen-sink vision. Electro workouts like "Aerobic Lambada" and "Lunch" sound like deep cuts from Body Talk filtered through the howling, experimental wheelhouse of Gang Gang Dance, while latest single "Holy Bubbles", with its ABBA-sized synths and strangely exultant, chanted outro ("I'll be kind/ Don't be too kind"), stretches her sound into teeming disco territory. Elsewhere, the pristine "Prince in the Jungle" and ballad "Right Way's Wrong" benefit from slower, more languid tempos, offering welcome smoke breaks from the club-ready clamor. "Prophet", which reappears here alongside two other tracks from a previous EP, is still Rifat's best, a tense, formidable techno freak-out that seems designed for some kind of decadent/disturbing acid trip with comedowns built into it for good measure. Speaking at Robyn's Tekla conference this past April, Rifat said she taught herself Ableton through YouTube tutorials to better sustain the singular vision she had for her music. Here, assisted by lone co-producer Mathias Oldén, it's a trait that reveals itself in the more unconventional production flourishes—guitar peals that skid in and drift off like a passing motorcycle, Spaghetti Western whistles that melt into a warped acid track, roaring voices that bend and circle over pneumatic drum machines. Some lyrics, too, describe an unexpected, poignant gloominess to the high-energy club life Rifat devotes herself to ("Intuition say no more, nobody knows my sadness," she sings on "Aerobic Lambada", "nobody but God, but I don't know him that well"). But in the scramble to unify a host of influences, sounds, and ideas, some songs inevitably start to blend together, burying Rifat's vocals in the mix. It's unfortunate, since her voice, which bounds between chanting, singing, and banshee calls, is a triumphant and emphatic instrument when not trampled under bright swathes of synths, squawking bird calls, or pummeling beats. Zhala, according to Rifat, is a conceptual, "cosmic pop" journey of self-discovery. Live, she often performs in front of Kurdish or Swedish flags in a purposeful attempt to blur her identity, which, being born in Stockholm to Kurdish parents, she says she was perpetually forced to negotiate as a neither blonde-haired nor blue-eyed child in mid-'90s Sweden. Her heritage comes through on songs like "Prophet" and opener "I'm in Love", which at their peaks conjure Halparke, a type of Kurdish dance that's typically set to percussive, techno-paced Middle Eastern music. The reference is Zhala's strongest, pushing the album's central dance and electronic motifs into a wider realm that sets the work apart from Robyn or any other Swedish mainstay in recent years. Zhala can be a crowded voyage, but it's Rifat's polychromed, referential creativity that still makes it one worth taking.

Artist: Zhala, Album: Zhala, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "During her television debut at last year's music video-themed Grammis, Zhala Rifat turned "Prophet", a "Mortal Kombat"-core techno rave-up and the Swedish singer's biggest single to date, into a visual riff on "Smells Like Teen Spirit". Backed by the requisite jumping cheerleaders and bored-looking spectators in a set of makeshift bleachers, Rifat's set choice was unusual—nothing on her self-titled debut, a frenetic, strobe-lit dance record from start to finish, seems influenced by Nirvana whatsoever, "Prophet" least of all. But with her label boss Robyn beside her, the two of them leaping into a choreographed, athletic dance routine with the cheerleaders and onlookers joining in, the re-enactment seemed to make some more sense. Rifat, like her fembot mentor and Nirvana before her, finds rapture in agitating the boring status quo through music, whether by inserting a chaotic, grunge-inspired dance performance into Sweden's answer to the Grammys or go-go dancing until dawn at her former Stockholm "gayhappening" club Donna Scam. If Zhala is Sweden's next big pop export, she's surely one of the most idiosyncratic. That being said, it comes as something of a surprise that Rifat, as the only act signed to Konichiwa Records apart from Robyn herself, doesn't seem compelled to distance herself from the pop savant's shadow. Instead, on Zhala, Rifat pulls generously from her Scandinavian pop and electronic forebears, most distinctly in the mechanical Knife-like drum patterns, aerobic Robyn-esque melodies, and jagged Röyksopp synths that make up the building blocks for her kitchen-sink vision. Electro workouts like "Aerobic Lambada" and "Lunch" sound like deep cuts from Body Talk filtered through the howling, experimental wheelhouse of Gang Gang Dance, while latest single "Holy Bubbles", with its ABBA-sized synths and strangely exultant, chanted outro ("I'll be kind/ Don't be too kind"), stretches her sound into teeming disco territory. Elsewhere, the pristine "Prince in the Jungle" and ballad "Right Way's Wrong" benefit from slower, more languid tempos, offering welcome smoke breaks from the club-ready clamor. "Prophet", which reappears here alongside two other tracks from a previous EP, is still Rifat's best, a tense, formidable techno freak-out that seems designed for some kind of decadent/disturbing acid trip with comedowns built into it for good measure. Speaking at Robyn's Tekla conference this past April, Rifat said she taught herself Ableton through YouTube tutorials to better sustain the singular vision she had for her music. Here, assisted by lone co-producer Mathias Oldén, it's a trait that reveals itself in the more unconventional production flourishes—guitar peals that skid in and drift off like a passing motorcycle, Spaghetti Western whistles that melt into a warped acid track, roaring voices that bend and circle over pneumatic drum machines. Some lyrics, too, describe an unexpected, poignant gloominess to the high-energy club life Rifat devotes herself to ("Intuition say no more, nobody knows my sadness," she sings on "Aerobic Lambada", "nobody but God, but I don't know him that well"). But in the scramble to unify a host of influences, sounds, and ideas, some songs inevitably start to blend together, burying Rifat's vocals in the mix. It's unfortunate, since her voice, which bounds between chanting, singing, and banshee calls, is a triumphant and emphatic instrument when not trampled under bright swathes of synths, squawking bird calls, or pummeling beats. Zhala, according to Rifat, is a conceptual, "cosmic pop" journey of self-discovery. Live, she often performs in front of Kurdish or Swedish flags in a purposeful attempt to blur her identity, which, being born in Stockholm to Kurdish parents, she says she was perpetually forced to negotiate as a neither blonde-haired nor blue-eyed child in mid-'90s Sweden. Her heritage comes through on songs like "Prophet" and opener "I'm in Love", which at their peaks conjure Halparke, a type of Kurdish dance that's typically set to percussive, techno-paced Middle Eastern music. The reference is Zhala's strongest, pushing the album's central dance and electronic motifs into a wider realm that sets the work apart from Robyn or any other Swedish mainstay in recent years. Zhala can be a crowded voyage, but it's Rifat's polychromed, referential creativity that still makes it one worth taking."

Wreck and Reference

Indifferent Rivers Romance End

Metal

Andy O'Connor

W**ant, the previous record from California duo Wreck and Reference, was a metal record at war with metal’s allergies to adaptation. Felix Skinner’s sampler and Ignat Frege’s drumming made bare piano as sharp as any HM-2-blasted riff, and Skinner weaponized existential dread with his commanding vocal performance. By stripping away the most sacred of basics, they opened up new avenues for extreme music. They fit into the modern metal landscape that seeks to redefine itself, even if they don't necessarily see themselves as metal. If Want was a blueprint for a metal world without guitar, its followup Indifferent Rivers Romance End is that world with developed architecture and landscaping, their songcraft finally catching up to their uncompromising gloom. Wreck and Reference are nowhere near synth-pop, but Indifferent shows that they think like a smart synth-pop group: using electronic layers as tools to advance compositions, not textural ends in and of themselves. This isn’t an uplifting record by any means, but it also feels less dim, illuminating Skinner and Frege’s mutual anxieties and uncovering diversity in the process. At the end of “Flight but Not Metaphor,” there's a thudding bass drum, like your heartsickness is the most exclusive club in town. It’s a small and sly incorporation of dance music, unburdened by the try-hard aesthetics of, say, Hunter Hunt-Hendrix grafting electronic and hip-hop onto metal. Increased attention to detail translates in even in their most aggressive songs, with “Ascend” given a goth funeral via huge synth horns and “Languish” driven by flickering strings. Skinner has come into his own as a vocalist, relying more on his croon than his scream throughout Indifferent. His voice hasn’t changed much, but his confidence in expressing the lack thereof has never been better. Skinner's growth is none more apparent than on opener “Powders,” Wreck and Reference’s take on a confessional piano ballad that just might be their defining song. It’s more of an argument ballad, really—he narrates a bickering couple’s ongoing resentments, a cycle of seemingly mundane but ultimately serious questions without answers: “And you said what about the powders? And I said what about the fluids? And you said what about the cowards? And I said what about me, what are you trying to say?” Frege’s snare roll after the first verse triggers Skinner into full-on hysteria, and even with a noisy buildup in the background, he’s the dominating presence. (Like on Want, Frege’s nimble drumming is the duo's secret weapon.) He ends by yelling “That's fine” over and over, blurring the line between empowering battle cry and admission of defeat. “Apollo Beneath the Whip,” from Want, aimed for similar heights, and “Powders” hits the bullseye with a smart combination of focus and expansion. That it comes first is indicative of their black humor (their Twitter puts most sadboyploitation to shame)—they’re smirking a bit by clobbering you with their heaviest song from the jump. More than any metal song in particular, it’s reminiscent of Future Islands’ smash “Seasons (Waiting on You),” and while it’s more volatile, the futility of trying to reason with someone when they have no intention of agreeing with you still stings. Alan Vega’s passing reminds us that there will never be another band like Suicide, but Wreck and Reference are perhaps the closest to a contemporary inheritors we’ll see. It’s not just the minimalism that begats catchiness, or the confrontation-yet-cool attitude, or the fuck-you to traditional rock/metal instrumentation, but the overall sense that grime and rot, whether it originates in ’70s NYC streets or in the chattering mind, can bloom beautiful music. Suicide defined punk and overcame it at the same time; Indifference comes long after metal’s formation, and despite that, Wreck and Reference are paving the way for a new language that may go beyond metal.

Artist: Wreck and Reference, Album: Indifferent Rivers Romance End, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "W**ant, the previous record from California duo Wreck and Reference, was a metal record at war with metal’s allergies to adaptation. Felix Skinner’s sampler and Ignat Frege’s drumming made bare piano as sharp as any HM-2-blasted riff, and Skinner weaponized existential dread with his commanding vocal performance. By stripping away the most sacred of basics, they opened up new avenues for extreme music. They fit into the modern metal landscape that seeks to redefine itself, even if they don't necessarily see themselves as metal. If Want was a blueprint for a metal world without guitar, its followup Indifferent Rivers Romance End is that world with developed architecture and landscaping, their songcraft finally catching up to their uncompromising gloom. Wreck and Reference are nowhere near synth-pop, but Indifferent shows that they think like a smart synth-pop group: using electronic layers as tools to advance compositions, not textural ends in and of themselves. This isn’t an uplifting record by any means, but it also feels less dim, illuminating Skinner and Frege’s mutual anxieties and uncovering diversity in the process. At the end of “Flight but Not Metaphor,” there's a thudding bass drum, like your heartsickness is the most exclusive club in town. It’s a small and sly incorporation of dance music, unburdened by the try-hard aesthetics of, say, Hunter Hunt-Hendrix grafting electronic and hip-hop onto metal. Increased attention to detail translates in even in their most aggressive songs, with “Ascend” given a goth funeral via huge synth horns and “Languish” driven by flickering strings. Skinner has come into his own as a vocalist, relying more on his croon than his scream throughout Indifferent. His voice hasn’t changed much, but his confidence in expressing the lack thereof has never been better. Skinner's growth is none more apparent than on opener “Powders,” Wreck and Reference’s take on a confessional piano ballad that just might be their defining song. It’s more of an argument ballad, really—he narrates a bickering couple’s ongoing resentments, a cycle of seemingly mundane but ultimately serious questions without answers: “And you said what about the powders? And I said what about the fluids? And you said what about the cowards? And I said what about me, what are you trying to say?” Frege’s snare roll after the first verse triggers Skinner into full-on hysteria, and even with a noisy buildup in the background, he’s the dominating presence. (Like on Want, Frege’s nimble drumming is the duo's secret weapon.) He ends by yelling “That's fine” over and over, blurring the line between empowering battle cry and admission of defeat. “Apollo Beneath the Whip,” from Want, aimed for similar heights, and “Powders” hits the bullseye with a smart combination of focus and expansion. That it comes first is indicative of their black humor (their Twitter puts most sadboyploitation to shame)—they’re smirking a bit by clobbering you with their heaviest song from the jump. More than any metal song in particular, it’s reminiscent of Future Islands’ smash “Seasons (Waiting on You),” and while it’s more volatile, the futility of trying to reason with someone when they have no intention of agreeing with you still stings. Alan Vega’s passing reminds us that there will never be another band like Suicide, but Wreck and Reference are perhaps the closest to a contemporary inheritors we’ll see. It’s not just the minimalism that begats catchiness, or the confrontation-yet-cool attitude, or the fuck-you to traditional rock/metal instrumentation, but the overall sense that grime and rot, whether it originates in ’70s NYC streets or in the chattering mind, can bloom beautiful music. Suicide defined punk and overcame it at the same time; Indifference comes long after metal’s formation, and despite that, Wreck and Reference are paving the way for a new language that may go beyond metal."

Various Artists

T2 Trainspotting: The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack

Stacey Anderson

“Nostalgia: that’s why you’re here. You’re a tourist in your own youth.” When Sick Boy (Jonny Lee Miller) sneers this midway through T2 Trainspotting—his bleached-blond tufts thinner since we last saw him, his pretty brooding more intractably carved at the temples—he’s lashing out at his estranged mate Renton (Ewan McGregor) and the two grim decades that have passed since they parted. He’s gazing ruefully across the same desolate, outer-Edinburgh moors that mirrored their youths in the original Trainspotting, where they bemoaned their lots as needle-pocked nihilists, subpar grifters, and residents of Scotland (not necessarily in that order). But really, he’s breaking the fourth wall, all but short of winking into the camera and waggling a cigar, Groucho Marx-style—because T2 knows exactly why its audience has returned, and what we want from it. Happily, the film delivers: T2 rings true to the spirit of the original—the grubby lad humor, the graphic wastrel extracurriculars, the creeping desperation of consciously inert lives—with an unhurried fondness that still raises stakes for its heroes. (It’s also not shy about embracing Trainspotting’s most zeitgeist moments, slotting in copious footage from the original.) T2 is a best-case scenario for nostalgia, bowing to the diehards while squaring up to present—and its soundtrack fares similarly, offering a loose-limbed mash of callback remixes and fervent young upstarts that echoes the glee of the original without laboring to eclipse it. The 1996 Trainspotting soundtrack has been rightly celebrated for merging the Britpop bests of the era (Pulp, Elastica, Blur) with big-beat rave (Leftfield, Underworld). Championing dance music, especially in the power-ballad techno of Underworld’s “Born Slippy,” introduced it to new audiences while it was edging up from the underground stateside. Proto-punk was the other bloodline, Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” the de facto theme, all joyous and seductive id; the wistful, near-sarcastic flow of Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day,” under Renton’s overdose scene, leant pathos. T2’s mix stokes these moments as merrily as Renton, Sick Boy, and Spud (poor, hapless Spud) slide back into degeneracy. Underworld debuts “Slow Slippy,” a canter update to “Born Slippy”’s sprint; splintered mutters replace the prior’s yelps for “lager lager lager lager,” but when those same gentle, sunrise synths nudge to the fore, they are a pensive homecoming. “Lust for Life” gets a gnarled remix from the Prodigy, slicing a peppy group yelp between Pop’s brays, though the scuzzy synth thrum tapers off into a curious shrug of a conclusion. Underworld’s Rick Smith, T2’s composer and soundtrack curator, also offers “Eventually But (Spud’s Letter to Gail),” a lovely, glacial runoff of an ambient ballad that folds in somber film dialogue; Blondie gets a return of sorts in “Dreaming,” after their “Atomic” was covered by Sleeper in the original. (“Perfect Day” earns a piano reprise in the film that’s not included here.) T2’s soundtrack doesn’t just smack of the past, though; it gets a timely revamp alongside that seminal “choose life” speech. Edinburgh’s Young Fathers appear three times, magnetic in their scrappy ardor; despite winning the 2014 Mercury Prize for their debut, Dead, the Scottish-Liberian-Nigerian trio remain undersung for their high-velocity, socially astute experimental hip-hop. Director Danny Boyle has called their new track here, “Only God Knows,” the “Born Slippy”-style “heartbeat” of T2; it shares that adrenaline, their own rough-and-tumble abandon (“Only God knows that the people are cheating/Only God knows you don’t need him”) merging smoothly with a gospel choir. In fact, hip-hop—absent from Trainspotting—scores the best scene in T2. As Renton accidentally reunites with the homicidal Begbie in a club bathroom (one of T2’s many winking callbacks to toilets), Jason Nevins’ rattling remix of Run-D.M.C.’s “It’s Like That” thumps with palpable humidity, unyielding in four-to-the-floor rigor. (The 1997 track, a UK hit at the time, feels singularly like a return to roots for Boyle; his last film soundtracks have been tempered affairs, anchored by Bob Dylan and the Maccabees, Moby and Unkle, and Bill Withers and A.R. Rahman.) Elsewhere, the Welsh drum’n’bass DJ High Contrast whips up a fatalistic film opener in “Shotgun Mouthwash;” the acidic staccato mimics the drums of “Lust for Life” and abets a series of fitting poor-bastard asides. (The bleakest: “Last night I dreamt I went to Woodstock but I only saw Sha-Na-Na.”) The dusky London shoegazers Wolf Alice, the British surf-rockers Fat White Family, and the bawdy Irish comedy duo the Rubberbandits round out the new class ably. The success of T2’s soundtrack, and the film itself, lies in its sense of contentment; it doesn’t lobby to be seminal again. It’s as exuberant as its predecessor, with some honest grit flaking against the more mannered sentimentality; it keeps a popular hearth warm and has a kicking, striving spine. To paraphrase an old friend: T2’s still got a great fucking personality.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: T2 Trainspotting: The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "“Nostalgia: that’s why you’re here. You’re a tourist in your own youth.” When Sick Boy (Jonny Lee Miller) sneers this midway through T2 Trainspotting—his bleached-blond tufts thinner since we last saw him, his pretty brooding more intractably carved at the temples—he’s lashing out at his estranged mate Renton (Ewan McGregor) and the two grim decades that have passed since they parted. He’s gazing ruefully across the same desolate, outer-Edinburgh moors that mirrored their youths in the original Trainspotting, where they bemoaned their lots as needle-pocked nihilists, subpar grifters, and residents of Scotland (not necessarily in that order). But really, he’s breaking the fourth wall, all but short of winking into the camera and waggling a cigar, Groucho Marx-style—because T2 knows exactly why its audience has returned, and what we want from it. Happily, the film delivers: T2 rings true to the spirit of the original—the grubby lad humor, the graphic wastrel extracurriculars, the creeping desperation of consciously inert lives—with an unhurried fondness that still raises stakes for its heroes. (It’s also not shy about embracing Trainspotting’s most zeitgeist moments, slotting in copious footage from the original.) T2 is a best-case scenario for nostalgia, bowing to the diehards while squaring up to present—and its soundtrack fares similarly, offering a loose-limbed mash of callback remixes and fervent young upstarts that echoes the glee of the original without laboring to eclipse it. The 1996 Trainspotting soundtrack has been rightly celebrated for merging the Britpop bests of the era (Pulp, Elastica, Blur) with big-beat rave (Leftfield, Underworld). Championing dance music, especially in the power-ballad techno of Underworld’s “Born Slippy,” introduced it to new audiences while it was edging up from the underground stateside. Proto-punk was the other bloodline, Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” the de facto theme, all joyous and seductive id; the wistful, near-sarcastic flow of Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day,” under Renton’s overdose scene, leant pathos. T2’s mix stokes these moments as merrily as Renton, Sick Boy, and Spud (poor, hapless Spud) slide back into degeneracy. Underworld debuts “Slow Slippy,” a canter update to “Born Slippy”’s sprint; splintered mutters replace the prior’s yelps for “lager lager lager lager,” but when those same gentle, sunrise synths nudge to the fore, they are a pensive homecoming. “Lust for Life” gets a gnarled remix from the Prodigy, slicing a peppy group yelp between Pop’s brays, though the scuzzy synth thrum tapers off into a curious shrug of a conclusion. Underworld’s Rick Smith, T2’s composer and soundtrack curator, also offers “Eventually But (Spud’s Letter to Gail),” a lovely, glacial runoff of an ambient ballad that folds in somber film dialogue; Blondie gets a return of sorts in “Dreaming,” after their “Atomic” was covered by Sleeper in the original. (“Perfect Day” earns a piano reprise in the film that’s not included here.) T2’s soundtrack doesn’t just smack of the past, though; it gets a timely revamp alongside that seminal “choose life” speech. Edinburgh’s Young Fathers appear three times, magnetic in their scrappy ardor; despite winning the 2014 Mercury Prize for their debut, Dead, the Scottish-Liberian-Nigerian trio remain undersung for their high-velocity, socially astute experimental hip-hop. Director Danny Boyle has called their new track here, “Only God Knows,” the “Born Slippy”-style “heartbeat” of T2; it shares that adrenaline, their own rough-and-tumble abandon (“Only God knows that the people are cheating/Only God knows you don’t need him”) merging smoothly with a gospel choir. In fact, hip-hop—absent from Trainspotting—scores the best scene in T2. As Renton accidentally reunites with the homicidal Begbie in a club bathroom (one of T2’s many winking callbacks to toilets), Jason Nevins’ rattling remix of Run-D.M.C.’s “It’s Like That” thumps with palpable humidity, unyielding in four-to-the-floor rigor. (The 1997 track, a UK hit at the time, feels singularly like a return to roots for Boyle; his last film soundtracks have been tempered affairs, anchored by Bob Dylan and the Maccabees, Moby and Unkle, and Bill Withers and A.R. Rahman.) Elsewhere, the Welsh drum’n’bass DJ High Contrast whips up a fatalistic film opener in “Shotgun Mouthwash;” the acidic staccato mimics the drums of “Lust for Life” and abets a series of fitting poor-bastard asides. (The bleakest: “Last night I dreamt I went to Woodstock but I only saw Sha-Na-Na.”) The dusky London shoegazers Wolf Alice, the British surf-rockers Fat White Family, and the bawdy Irish comedy duo the Rubberbandits round out the new class ably. The success of T2’s soundtrack, and the film itself, lies in its sense of contentment; it doesn’t lobby to be seminal again. It’s as exuberant as its predecessor, with some honest grit flaking against the more mannered sentimentality; it keeps a popular hearth warm and has a kicking, striving spine. To paraphrase an old friend: T2’s still got a great fucking personality."

Willard Grant Conspiracy

Regard the End

Folk/Country

Neil Robertson

Have you ever wondered whether alt-country is representing its electorate? All these sorry tales of murder, blood-spilt love and the dead cow skulls scattered by gravel roads have become so synonymous with the music of the Midwest and the songs of the South, that it becomes easy to lose perspective. Are the likes of Houston and Omaha really the barren, backwards dustbowl towns you hear of in songs? Are there no people who wear suits, drive foreign cars, sip lattés and read the New York Times while making snide remarks about Bush? Yes, of course there are. So why doesn't the music ever reflect that? The Willard Grant Conspiracy is another clichéd country band, another bunch of blues-ridden, fire-and-brimstone missionaries whose opaque, gothic hymnals add to the myth of Americana. They've never been great, even back to 1998's sort-of well regarded Flying Low, a record that, in retrospect, seems virtually identical to all their others. Now on their fifth record, the band has shown no signs of growth, and the fact that their core partnership of frontman Robert Foster and guitarist Paul Austin is augmented by an alumni of assorted waifs, strays and passers-by (including Kristin Hersh, and members of Lambchop and The Walkabouts) does nothing to alleviate the sameness of what is essentially another set of safe, formulaic ballads for the No Depression set. By all measures, Regard the End is a conventionally "beautiful" record. Robert Fisher's bass-tinged voice can stretch from meek and tender to intense and bellowing, with an aged wisdom that adds grace and gravity to tracks like the near-Celtic lament "Beyond the Shore". They've also got the knack for "tasteful" arrangements. On the pompously titled "Ghost of the Girl in the Well", guitars strum and shimmer in line with Foster's voice while a bored rhythm section reminds the band to stay awake. Strings sway, shiver, and flail helplessly, reaching for a heartstring to grab. Yet, for the most part, The Willard Grant Conspiracy are grabbing at thin air. On tracks like "Rosalee", you're stunned by the utterly formulaic approach to some of the songwriting. As an acoustic guitar sparks up its folksy strum, Foster dictates a tale of a girl that refuses to speak with all the melodic distinctiveness of a Dave Matthews tune, before a violin takes its cue, embellishing the song with some unnecessary attention-seeking. This cycle repeats itself for 3\xBD minutes before stumbling to a failed, idea-drained finish. And then there's the suffering-- lots of it, all over the album-- not all of which belongs to the bored-to-tears listener. On closing track "The Suffering Song", Foster moans about how "mother's got a few days left/ She thinks it's time we all learnt to pray." And as the song climbs to its climax, with the rousing chorus of "suffering's going to come to everyone someday," you certainly get the sense that, well, he might be suffering a bit. But suffering from what? What infuriates most about this record is not its rigid predictability, its absence of invention or its reliance on tired-out alt-country clichés; it's the fact that throughout Regard the End, the songs rely on only the vaguest utterances of emotion, amounting to little more than a bad landscape painting-- all grand brushstrokes, no substance or detail. It seems that the band is fully competent of evoking a mood, but incapable of articulating why. Rarely has a genre sounded so tried and tired, so forced, formulaic and reliant on its own mythology as country music is made to sound on Regard the End. Though its application and musicianship is admirable, its lack of lyrical argument or narrative leave us with a canon of paceless funereal laments that conjure endless feelings of enforced sadness without explanation. In a field full of fellow lovesick souls, these are failings we simply shouldn't have to accept.

Artist: Willard Grant Conspiracy, Album: Regard the End, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 3.9 Album review: "Have you ever wondered whether alt-country is representing its electorate? All these sorry tales of murder, blood-spilt love and the dead cow skulls scattered by gravel roads have become so synonymous with the music of the Midwest and the songs of the South, that it becomes easy to lose perspective. Are the likes of Houston and Omaha really the barren, backwards dustbowl towns you hear of in songs? Are there no people who wear suits, drive foreign cars, sip lattés and read the New York Times while making snide remarks about Bush? Yes, of course there are. So why doesn't the music ever reflect that? The Willard Grant Conspiracy is another clichéd country band, another bunch of blues-ridden, fire-and-brimstone missionaries whose opaque, gothic hymnals add to the myth of Americana. They've never been great, even back to 1998's sort-of well regarded Flying Low, a record that, in retrospect, seems virtually identical to all their others. Now on their fifth record, the band has shown no signs of growth, and the fact that their core partnership of frontman Robert Foster and guitarist Paul Austin is augmented by an alumni of assorted waifs, strays and passers-by (including Kristin Hersh, and members of Lambchop and The Walkabouts) does nothing to alleviate the sameness of what is essentially another set of safe, formulaic ballads for the No Depression set. By all measures, Regard the End is a conventionally "beautiful" record. Robert Fisher's bass-tinged voice can stretch from meek and tender to intense and bellowing, with an aged wisdom that adds grace and gravity to tracks like the near-Celtic lament "Beyond the Shore". They've also got the knack for "tasteful" arrangements. On the pompously titled "Ghost of the Girl in the Well", guitars strum and shimmer in line with Foster's voice while a bored rhythm section reminds the band to stay awake. Strings sway, shiver, and flail helplessly, reaching for a heartstring to grab. Yet, for the most part, The Willard Grant Conspiracy are grabbing at thin air. On tracks like "Rosalee", you're stunned by the utterly formulaic approach to some of the songwriting. As an acoustic guitar sparks up its folksy strum, Foster dictates a tale of a girl that refuses to speak with all the melodic distinctiveness of a Dave Matthews tune, before a violin takes its cue, embellishing the song with some unnecessary attention-seeking. This cycle repeats itself for 3\xBD minutes before stumbling to a failed, idea-drained finish. And then there's the suffering-- lots of it, all over the album-- not all of which belongs to the bored-to-tears listener. On closing track "The Suffering Song", Foster moans about how "mother's got a few days left/ She thinks it's time we all learnt to pray." And as the song climbs to its climax, with the rousing chorus of "suffering's going to come to everyone someday," you certainly get the sense that, well, he might be suffering a bit. But suffering from what? What infuriates most about this record is not its rigid predictability, its absence of invention or its reliance on tired-out alt-country clichés; it's the fact that throughout Regard the End, the songs rely on only the vaguest utterances of emotion, amounting to little more than a bad landscape painting-- all grand brushstrokes, no substance or detail. It seems that the band is fully competent of evoking a mood, but incapable of articulating why. Rarely has a genre sounded so tried and tired, so forced, formulaic and reliant on its own mythology as country music is made to sound on Regard the End. Though its application and musicianship is admirable, its lack of lyrical argument or narrative leave us with a canon of paceless funereal laments that conjure endless feelings of enforced sadness without explanation. In a field full of fellow lovesick souls, these are failings we simply shouldn't have to accept."

Ungdomskulen

Cry-Baby

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

Loosely translated, ungdomskulen is provincial Norwegian for junior high school, which in this case seems like an adolescent scrawl across a bathroom wall. It might be approximated in English as Junyer Hi Skool-- an adolescent scrawl across a bathroom wall. Sure enough, the songs on Ungdomskulen's debut album, Cry-Baby, detail such teenage concerns as masturbation, public erections, hard rock, and mythical creatures sketched in notebooks, but Ungdomskulen are neither brats like the Black Lips nor pretend-goths like Fall Out Boy. Instead, the trio are both the freaks and the geeks, deviants deciding their fates with a ten-sided die before cramming for that trig exam. Cry-Baby is a busy album, cramming eight long songs with as many digressions, tangents, and asides as possible, transitions be damned. It can be a little jarring and occasionally repetitive, both of which are forgivable for the band's misfit relentlessness on "Modern Drummer" and stand-out "Spartacus", with its shouted chorus and spiraling trajectory. Occasionally, they jam aimlessly, as on "Ungdomskulen", but most of these songs-- even "Glory Hole" with four-minute clockwork cowbell breakdown-- are purposefully and thoughtfully constructed. Up close, opener "Ordinary Son" is a frantic dancepunk track similar to those by Klaxons or early Liars, with herky-jerky guitar riffs and a bouncily melodic bassline. Take a few steps back, though, and the entire ambitious arrangement becomes visible, reminiscent of Built to Spill's guitar epics. Drummer Øyvind Solheim rides his high-hat furiously between the notes, and singer Kristian Stockhaus, in his thick-frame glasses and scruffy beard, shows off his formidable metal falsetto on the chorus. The song reaches a fevered climax around 2:30, then starts to wind down. But that's a feint: Ungdomskulen re-attack with short exclamatory riffs, then regroup for a lengthy mid-song groove as Solheim tests out his cowbells and Stockhaus and bassist Frode Kvinge Flatland, hidden behind a cascade of dark hair, swordfight with their guitars. Shamelessly, they do the same fake-out ending later in the song, and on almost every song thereafter. It works every time. And yet, for all their wankery, Ungdomskulen never departs from its power-trio line-up, meaning there are very few sounds on Cry-Baby that don't emanate either from drums, guitar, bass, and vox. Cry-Baby is just strings and skins, and by necessity, it's democratic, emphasizing each element equally while covering a lot of ground, from the pop melodies of "Feels Like Home" and "My Beautiful Blue Eyes" to the noisy crunch of, well, "Feels Like Home" and "My Beautiful Blue Eyes". These songs are all motion, mixing indie-rock lightning with heavy-metal thunder and revealing a belief in rock's spiritual powers: "I feel that your fills are real," Stockhaus tells a modern drummer on "Modern Drummer". "You fill up the void that we all have inside." On one level, their approach-- the musical equivalent of running "Serpentine!"-- seems to short-circuit any stab at seriousness, not that they're trying to be the Arcade Fire. But Ungdomskulen manage to rock sans irony, finding a certain freedom in adolescent arrest.

Artist: Ungdomskulen, Album: Cry-Baby, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Loosely translated, ungdomskulen is provincial Norwegian for junior high school, which in this case seems like an adolescent scrawl across a bathroom wall. It might be approximated in English as Junyer Hi Skool-- an adolescent scrawl across a bathroom wall. Sure enough, the songs on Ungdomskulen's debut album, Cry-Baby, detail such teenage concerns as masturbation, public erections, hard rock, and mythical creatures sketched in notebooks, but Ungdomskulen are neither brats like the Black Lips nor pretend-goths like Fall Out Boy. Instead, the trio are both the freaks and the geeks, deviants deciding their fates with a ten-sided die before cramming for that trig exam. Cry-Baby is a busy album, cramming eight long songs with as many digressions, tangents, and asides as possible, transitions be damned. It can be a little jarring and occasionally repetitive, both of which are forgivable for the band's misfit relentlessness on "Modern Drummer" and stand-out "Spartacus", with its shouted chorus and spiraling trajectory. Occasionally, they jam aimlessly, as on "Ungdomskulen", but most of these songs-- even "Glory Hole" with four-minute clockwork cowbell breakdown-- are purposefully and thoughtfully constructed. Up close, opener "Ordinary Son" is a frantic dancepunk track similar to those by Klaxons or early Liars, with herky-jerky guitar riffs and a bouncily melodic bassline. Take a few steps back, though, and the entire ambitious arrangement becomes visible, reminiscent of Built to Spill's guitar epics. Drummer Øyvind Solheim rides his high-hat furiously between the notes, and singer Kristian Stockhaus, in his thick-frame glasses and scruffy beard, shows off his formidable metal falsetto on the chorus. The song reaches a fevered climax around 2:30, then starts to wind down. But that's a feint: Ungdomskulen re-attack with short exclamatory riffs, then regroup for a lengthy mid-song groove as Solheim tests out his cowbells and Stockhaus and bassist Frode Kvinge Flatland, hidden behind a cascade of dark hair, swordfight with their guitars. Shamelessly, they do the same fake-out ending later in the song, and on almost every song thereafter. It works every time. And yet, for all their wankery, Ungdomskulen never departs from its power-trio line-up, meaning there are very few sounds on Cry-Baby that don't emanate either from drums, guitar, bass, and vox. Cry-Baby is just strings and skins, and by necessity, it's democratic, emphasizing each element equally while covering a lot of ground, from the pop melodies of "Feels Like Home" and "My Beautiful Blue Eyes" to the noisy crunch of, well, "Feels Like Home" and "My Beautiful Blue Eyes". These songs are all motion, mixing indie-rock lightning with heavy-metal thunder and revealing a belief in rock's spiritual powers: "I feel that your fills are real," Stockhaus tells a modern drummer on "Modern Drummer". "You fill up the void that we all have inside." On one level, their approach-- the musical equivalent of running "Serpentine!"-- seems to short-circuit any stab at seriousness, not that they're trying to be the Arcade Fire. But Ungdomskulen manage to rock sans irony, finding a certain freedom in adolescent arrest."

Octo Octa

Between Two Selves

Electronic

Angus Finlayson

Brooklyn producer Michael Bouldry-Morrison has always stood out among the 100% Silk roster. As Octo Octa he was making crisp, hi-definition dancefloor music when much of the L.A. label’s output felt like an extension of the dubby psychedelia of parent label Not Not Fun, or else pursued an overtly retro, lo-fi house aesthetic. And in contrast to his peers’ allegiances to the US underground, Bouldry-Morrison’s emergent style seemed to mirror the U.K.’s adoption of house forms-- particularly in its use of bold chord progressions and re-pitched R&B a capellas (see the "1 Thing"-sampling "I’m Trying"). But Bouldry-Morrison’s use of these techniques has always been inventive and, above all, distinctive-- the sugary synthetic surface and lambent reverb haze of his tracks is often unmistakable*.* And as 100% Silk has continued to churn out records of variable quality over the past couple of years, Bouldry-Morrison is one of its few signings who, you sense, may have a future beyond that corner of the underground. Between Two Selves is Bouldry-Morrison’s debut LP, and it represents the next step in a steady refinement of the Octo Octa formula. The arrangements have become a little more measured perhaps, the deployment of a capellas less brazen. Structures undulate smoothly, acting out a series of mini-dramas of tension and release, and the handling of frequencies is pleasingly full-spectrum, displaying a renewed emphasis on thunderous basslines and kickdrums. A recurrent feature of Bouldry-Morrison’s sound is his unusually extreme use of compression, meaning that sonic elements don’t sit alongside one another so much as pump fluidly in and out of focus. It’s an effect that may detract from these tracks’ dancefloor effectiveness-- clarity can be lost in denser moments, and important percussive parts might become temporarily obscured in the fog-- but it also lends them a mirage-like quality that is hugely appealing. Bouldry-Morrison uses this sound as a vehicle for a newly committed exploration of the limits of his expressive range in a record which, in the producer’s own words, delves into themes of “happiness, anxiety, queerness, and relationships.” An undercurrent of darkness surfaces at points, one not really heard in previous Octo Octa releases. "Fear" is sluggish, warehouse-ready techno of a sort, brooding at the opening and, when its chords take on a serrated edge at midpoint, almost aggressive. "Come Closer" is more driving, but its looped central refrain of “I want you,” shrouded in a frost of reverb, takes on a sinister urgency. Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the expressive spectrum, "His Kiss" is a joyous, U.K. hardcore-indebted affirmation of desire, all delectable chord-spume and rickety breakbeats. These moments are all excellent in their way, and it’s gratifying to see Bouldry-Morrison broaden his emotional palette. But, going on the evidence of Between Two Selves, the producer’s strongest mode is a form of dreamlike, sensuous fulfillment. It’s present in languid deep house opener "Who Will I Become", with its aqueous synth figures, or the lucid "Bad Blood", whose down-pitched R&B vocal manages to evade cliche through the the subtle sweetness of its backing. "Please Don’t Leave", meanwhile, is a little more forlorn, but trades in the sort of deluxe melancholy that demands to be wallowed in. These tracks are confections, light on the palette and tremendously moreish, and they’re among Bouldry-Morrison’s finest work. Granted, there are a few weaker moments too-- particularly "Work Me", whose alternation between the robust thud of New York house and a syncopated bass hook feels a little too derivative of the U.K. house new school. And in spite of its variations in tone, Between Two Selves is sonically rather homogenous-- Bouldry-Morrison’s taste for candyfloss synths can can start to grate after 50 minutes. But for the most part it’s clear that the producer’s style has reached new heights of subtlety and richness on this record. Octo Octa has long been one of the stronger cards in the 100% Silk deck; after hearing Between Two Selves it's tempting to declare him the strongest.

Artist: Octo Octa, Album: Between Two Selves, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Brooklyn producer Michael Bouldry-Morrison has always stood out among the 100% Silk roster. As Octo Octa he was making crisp, hi-definition dancefloor music when much of the L.A. label’s output felt like an extension of the dubby psychedelia of parent label Not Not Fun, or else pursued an overtly retro, lo-fi house aesthetic. And in contrast to his peers’ allegiances to the US underground, Bouldry-Morrison’s emergent style seemed to mirror the U.K.’s adoption of house forms-- particularly in its use of bold chord progressions and re-pitched R&B a capellas (see the "1 Thing"-sampling "I’m Trying"). But Bouldry-Morrison’s use of these techniques has always been inventive and, above all, distinctive-- the sugary synthetic surface and lambent reverb haze of his tracks is often unmistakable*.* And as 100% Silk has continued to churn out records of variable quality over the past couple of years, Bouldry-Morrison is one of its few signings who, you sense, may have a future beyond that corner of the underground. Between Two Selves is Bouldry-Morrison’s debut LP, and it represents the next step in a steady refinement of the Octo Octa formula. The arrangements have become a little more measured perhaps, the deployment of a capellas less brazen. Structures undulate smoothly, acting out a series of mini-dramas of tension and release, and the handling of frequencies is pleasingly full-spectrum, displaying a renewed emphasis on thunderous basslines and kickdrums. A recurrent feature of Bouldry-Morrison’s sound is his unusually extreme use of compression, meaning that sonic elements don’t sit alongside one another so much as pump fluidly in and out of focus. It’s an effect that may detract from these tracks’ dancefloor effectiveness-- clarity can be lost in denser moments, and important percussive parts might become temporarily obscured in the fog-- but it also lends them a mirage-like quality that is hugely appealing. Bouldry-Morrison uses this sound as a vehicle for a newly committed exploration of the limits of his expressive range in a record which, in the producer’s own words, delves into themes of “happiness, anxiety, queerness, and relationships.” An undercurrent of darkness surfaces at points, one not really heard in previous Octo Octa releases. "Fear" is sluggish, warehouse-ready techno of a sort, brooding at the opening and, when its chords take on a serrated edge at midpoint, almost aggressive. "Come Closer" is more driving, but its looped central refrain of “I want you,” shrouded in a frost of reverb, takes on a sinister urgency. Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the expressive spectrum, "His Kiss" is a joyous, U.K. hardcore-indebted affirmation of desire, all delectable chord-spume and rickety breakbeats. These moments are all excellent in their way, and it’s gratifying to see Bouldry-Morrison broaden his emotional palette. But, going on the evidence of Between Two Selves, the producer’s strongest mode is a form of dreamlike, sensuous fulfillment. It’s present in languid deep house opener "Who Will I Become", with its aqueous synth figures, or the lucid "Bad Blood", whose down-pitched R&B vocal manages to evade cliche through the the subtle sweetness of its backing. "Please Don’t Leave", meanwhile, is a little more forlorn, but trades in the sort of deluxe melancholy that demands to be wallowed in. These tracks are confections, light on the palette and tremendously moreish, and they’re among Bouldry-Morrison’s finest work. Granted, there are a few weaker moments too-- particularly "Work Me", whose alternation between the robust thud of New York house and a syncopated bass hook feels a little too derivative of the U.K. house new school. And in spite of its variations in tone, Between Two Selves is sonically rather homogenous-- Bouldry-Morrison’s taste for candyfloss synths can can start to grate after 50 minutes. But for the most part it’s clear that the producer’s style has reached new heights of subtlety and richness on this record. Octo Octa has long been one of the stronger cards in the 100% Silk deck; after hearing Between Two Selves it's tempting to declare him the strongest."

The High Llamas

Buzzle Bee

Rock

John Dark

There are 810 "la-la's" on Buzzle Bee. I know because I, unlike the Palm Beach County Board of Canvassers, counted every last one. A high number to be sure, but one that takes on an even greater and more absurd significance when you consider that half of the tracks on the album are instrumental. Make no mistake about it, friend, that's a lot of fucking la's. But is it too many? The factual and unsubjectivicated answer is, in a word: yes. We're talking roughly a 3:1 nonsensical-to-intelligible lyric-syllable ratio here. That's up there in doo-wop territory (though not as high as scat). Those are "Teletubbies" numbers! And at its worst, that's just what Buzzle Bee is: music for "Teletubbies." Not the surreal banjo-and-snare marches of the theme song, but rather, the kind of music that Tinky-Winky, Dipsy, La-La and Po might enjoy kicking back to after a hard day's romping with bunny rabbits. Sonically, the High Llamas couldn't offend someone if they tried. The music has an Eddie Haskell character to it-- very proper and calculated. One might suspect an ulterior motive, if not for the fact that frontman Sean O'Hagan steeps his chord progressions in penultimate sincerity the way only a certifiable perfectionist can. It's music not just for a happy world, but for a world in which nothing unhappy had ever occurred. With more vibraphonic chime-farts than Lionel Hampton on Quaaludes, and Mary Hansen on semi-permanent loan from Stereolab, Buzzle Bee gurgles like a symphony of swamp gas idiophonica. And it's not treading new ground so much as it is the same old ground with different shoes. The opening track drifts along, buoyed by a sing-songy chorus of "Lay down/ Watch the traffic go by," a lyric so dreamy it sounds phoned-in from the Astral plane. O'Hagan's plain-jane vocals are an asset to the track, though, if only because he wisely avoids the vocal posturing and hammy crooning that his contemporaries so often fall victim to. "Get into the Galley Shop" attempts to be a microcosm of the album, if not the band's entire back catalog. It's catchy and retro in its technique (all the drums are right-channeled), and the three-part harmonies glisten like tubs of Nickelodeon Gak. The lyrics are cryptic enough to be either profound or goofy; you make the call: "You need to take your sandals off to take away the porcelain/ Hopping in a hotel bar hidden in a marching band/ Music popping from the bar, driven by a cosmic man." Buzzle Bee's low point comes with "Tambourine Day," which shark-circles its melody without ever finding it. But the other instrumentals, taken as a clutch, are a mixed bag. "Switch Pavilion" centers around Hansen's-- you guessed it!-- wispy "la-la" phrasing; the sedative "Sleeping Spray" is the gentle mellow break of the album-- the place where they "take it down a notch," despite the fact that it's already practically off the scale. "New Broadway" does its best to be endearing while catching the listener off-guard with its many style shifts and rhythm variations. It also showcases some of the better bass work on Buzzle Bee, which is otherwise lackluster punctuation-- commas and periods rather than pop exclamation marks. But once the closer, "Bobby's Court," gets past the pedestrian verse, it features an enraging five-note syncopated loop that's surprisingly juvenile for the Llamas. Usually, O'Hagan's arrangements are deeper and a little more intricate; this one sounds like something he dug out of his pre-microdisney days. What we're left with when all's said and done is a brief eight tracks and 40 minutes of somnambulist, pianissimo music. But you know, when push comes to shove, those "la's" are a real bitch. 810! My god, man! That's enough la's to choke a llama!

Artist: The High Llamas, Album: Buzzle Bee, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "There are 810 "la-la's" on Buzzle Bee. I know because I, unlike the Palm Beach County Board of Canvassers, counted every last one. A high number to be sure, but one that takes on an even greater and more absurd significance when you consider that half of the tracks on the album are instrumental. Make no mistake about it, friend, that's a lot of fucking la's. But is it too many? The factual and unsubjectivicated answer is, in a word: yes. We're talking roughly a 3:1 nonsensical-to-intelligible lyric-syllable ratio here. That's up there in doo-wop territory (though not as high as scat). Those are "Teletubbies" numbers! And at its worst, that's just what Buzzle Bee is: music for "Teletubbies." Not the surreal banjo-and-snare marches of the theme song, but rather, the kind of music that Tinky-Winky, Dipsy, La-La and Po might enjoy kicking back to after a hard day's romping with bunny rabbits. Sonically, the High Llamas couldn't offend someone if they tried. The music has an Eddie Haskell character to it-- very proper and calculated. One might suspect an ulterior motive, if not for the fact that frontman Sean O'Hagan steeps his chord progressions in penultimate sincerity the way only a certifiable perfectionist can. It's music not just for a happy world, but for a world in which nothing unhappy had ever occurred. With more vibraphonic chime-farts than Lionel Hampton on Quaaludes, and Mary Hansen on semi-permanent loan from Stereolab, Buzzle Bee gurgles like a symphony of swamp gas idiophonica. And it's not treading new ground so much as it is the same old ground with different shoes. The opening track drifts along, buoyed by a sing-songy chorus of "Lay down/ Watch the traffic go by," a lyric so dreamy it sounds phoned-in from the Astral plane. O'Hagan's plain-jane vocals are an asset to the track, though, if only because he wisely avoids the vocal posturing and hammy crooning that his contemporaries so often fall victim to. "Get into the Galley Shop" attempts to be a microcosm of the album, if not the band's entire back catalog. It's catchy and retro in its technique (all the drums are right-channeled), and the three-part harmonies glisten like tubs of Nickelodeon Gak. The lyrics are cryptic enough to be either profound or goofy; you make the call: "You need to take your sandals off to take away the porcelain/ Hopping in a hotel bar hidden in a marching band/ Music popping from the bar, driven by a cosmic man." Buzzle Bee's low point comes with "Tambourine Day," which shark-circles its melody without ever finding it. But the other instrumentals, taken as a clutch, are a mixed bag. "Switch Pavilion" centers around Hansen's-- you guessed it!-- wispy "la-la" phrasing; the sedative "Sleeping Spray" is the gentle mellow break of the album-- the place where they "take it down a notch," despite the fact that it's already practically off the scale. "New Broadway" does its best to be endearing while catching the listener off-guard with its many style shifts and rhythm variations. It also showcases some of the better bass work on Buzzle Bee, which is otherwise lackluster punctuation-- commas and periods rather than pop exclamation marks. But once the closer, "Bobby's Court," gets past the pedestrian verse, it features an enraging five-note syncopated loop that's surprisingly juvenile for the Llamas. Usually, O'Hagan's arrangements are deeper and a little more intricate; this one sounds like something he dug out of his pre-microdisney days. What we're left with when all's said and done is a brief eight tracks and 40 minutes of somnambulist, pianissimo music. But you know, when push comes to shove, those "la's" are a real bitch. 810! My god, man! That's enough la's to choke a llama!"

Mission of Burma

Snapshot EP

David Raposa

"Never indulgent," drummer Peter Prescott drolly remarks after Mission of Burma finishes a six-minute version of "Absent Mind", the third track/indulgence of a radio session captured on Snapshot. The first track and indulgence of this session, "Tremelo", seethes for more than eight minutes, building from the titular guitar treatment echoing against itself to the full band working up a frothy sludge where the line between live performance and pre-recorded tape segments blur. The second, "Youth of America", tips the scales at 6:40. It's a cover of a Wipers song on which its songwriter Greg Sage claimed: "many radical recording techniques [were]...used to bring [the song a] frantic realism." Astute listeners will notice that Sage's radical recording techniques eerily mirror the loop work former Burma member Martin Swope inserted into MoB's songs. Interestingly, Burma excises Sage's trippy loop chicanery from their cover, distilling the propulsive barn-burning fury from the original's grand punk meandering. Instead, Roger Miller's frantic vocals are treated with an apocryphal echo, and his guitar wrangling strikes a similarly anthemic pose. Throughout "Snapshot", Miller proves adept at playing the instrument as a musical tool as well as using it as a noise device, treating feedback and distortion with the same respectful disdain that a Guitar World coverboy would show an arpeggio and a hammer-on solo. But I digress. Prescott's "Absent Mind" was the only new track essayed during this eight-song session. After its song-part ends-- you know, the verse-chorus stuff-- comes four minutes of vamping that accurately mirrors one's mind going AWOL. Miller makes like a guitar hero yet again, Clint Conley holds down the fort as best he can with his bounding bass work, and Prescott scats across his drumkit while screaming about being master of his domain and nothing ever going his way. Eventually, the stumbling and bumbling ceases, and the small crowd gathered in the studio applaud. It's disingenuous of me to call the "Absent Mind" outro "stumbling and bumbling" as if it were some extended goof that just happened to coalesce into something useful. If Snapshot serves any purpose, it proves that Mission of Burma have live chops-- even though the group is only two years removed from a 19-year hiatus. Of course, the topic of Burma's inexplicable return to stage and studio is well-worn: post-punk pioneers ignored in their heyday return to active duty two decades later as standard-bearers for a growing group of fans and peers, and yadda yadda yadda, they don't suck. Still, it's not everyday that a rock group performs a concert with an opening act that named themselves after one of the headliner's albums. In light of Burma's unavoidable influence, the pomp and circumstance that heralded their return was warranted, and a long time coming-- think of the "Inexplicable Tour" (the handful of reunion shows Burma played in 2002) as a long-awaited victory lap, and the recording of and touring behind their 2004 LP ONoffON as the post-victory spoils. Those two events served, in a sense, as the culmination of all the work Burma put into their music, along with all the music the members created outside of it. Now, after that glorious hoohah comes the part of the story where this highly influential, widely lauded bastion of rock music sets aside the accolades and adulation and goes back to making music simply for the sake of making music. And this is where Snapshot comes in. The second definition of "snapshot"-- the one that doesn't tie in with a highly-quotable Burma lyric-- is "an isolated observation". So consider Snapshot in that light: The songs chosen for this session might not be the most well-known of Burma's career-- there's no "Revolver" or "Academy Fight Song" (usually found, in live settings, riding the coattails of "Max Ernst")-- but they're representative of the group at this point in time. The session's opening three songs exemplify the group's inquisitive, exploratory nature, while "Red", "Dirt", and especially "That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate" are straight-forward sorties that pull no punches. "Certain Fate", in particular, sounds remarkably similar to the version recorded on Vs. last century. Conley nonchalantly announces the song title before the group charges straight into the track, with his vocals ("This might be!/ Your only chance!") hitting the same frenetic notes found on the original cut. It's a remarkable performance. In concert, it's difficult to miss the tape looper Bob Weston's contributions, even if he's stationed out of sight behind the mixing board. However, on the new record, his presence is seamlessly integrated into the fabric of the songs. He loops the delirious ping-ponging dada chant at the end of "Max Ernst", he throws back the "oooh wee oooh"'s of "Red" at varying speeds during the bombastic climax, and he plays Roger Miller against himself near the end of "Tremelo". Weston's best works, however, can be found in "Mica", the group's best performance from this session. Fans will undoubtedly remember the beginning of this song: the five-note guitar figure, a tweaked version of the Close Encounters motif, played slowly at first, then played a little faster, then faster, then faster, until the drums hop on board and the song zips off. Weston adds a distorted brassy wheezing noise that sounds like a slowed-down train whistle. Combined with Miller's increasingly faster playing, this loop ably complements the track's locomotive introduction. As on the recorded version, Conley's vocals are spit back at him backwards as the band stabs their way through the song. At first, this second voice is barely discernible; the second time through, however, these reversed voices almost drown out Conley's actual voice, dressing the would-be patient detailed in these lyrics in damning clothes. When the musical chaos gives way to Prescott's tribal beating towards the end, this second voice continues jabbering, making the final question posed by the lyrics-- "What could I say to that?"-- that much more poignant. And when the song finally comes to a shuddering halt, Weston brings back that distorted whistle one last time, signaling the end of this wild ride. In the hands of lesser talents, these tricks and trials would come off as overindulgent; in Burma's hands, they're masterful additions. Peter Prescott was taking the piss with his little aside, but he was spot on. Mission of Burma: never indulgent. And rarely better.

Artist: Mission of Burma, Album: Snapshot EP, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: ""Never indulgent," drummer Peter Prescott drolly remarks after Mission of Burma finishes a six-minute version of "Absent Mind", the third track/indulgence of a radio session captured on Snapshot. The first track and indulgence of this session, "Tremelo", seethes for more than eight minutes, building from the titular guitar treatment echoing against itself to the full band working up a frothy sludge where the line between live performance and pre-recorded tape segments blur. The second, "Youth of America", tips the scales at 6:40. It's a cover of a Wipers song on which its songwriter Greg Sage claimed: "many radical recording techniques [were]...used to bring [the song a] frantic realism." Astute listeners will notice that Sage's radical recording techniques eerily mirror the loop work former Burma member Martin Swope inserted into MoB's songs. Interestingly, Burma excises Sage's trippy loop chicanery from their cover, distilling the propulsive barn-burning fury from the original's grand punk meandering. Instead, Roger Miller's frantic vocals are treated with an apocryphal echo, and his guitar wrangling strikes a similarly anthemic pose. Throughout "Snapshot", Miller proves adept at playing the instrument as a musical tool as well as using it as a noise device, treating feedback and distortion with the same respectful disdain that a Guitar World coverboy would show an arpeggio and a hammer-on solo. But I digress. Prescott's "Absent Mind" was the only new track essayed during this eight-song session. After its song-part ends-- you know, the verse-chorus stuff-- comes four minutes of vamping that accurately mirrors one's mind going AWOL. Miller makes like a guitar hero yet again, Clint Conley holds down the fort as best he can with his bounding bass work, and Prescott scats across his drumkit while screaming about being master of his domain and nothing ever going his way. Eventually, the stumbling and bumbling ceases, and the small crowd gathered in the studio applaud. It's disingenuous of me to call the "Absent Mind" outro "stumbling and bumbling" as if it were some extended goof that just happened to coalesce into something useful. If Snapshot serves any purpose, it proves that Mission of Burma have live chops-- even though the group is only two years removed from a 19-year hiatus. Of course, the topic of Burma's inexplicable return to stage and studio is well-worn: post-punk pioneers ignored in their heyday return to active duty two decades later as standard-bearers for a growing group of fans and peers, and yadda yadda yadda, they don't suck. Still, it's not everyday that a rock group performs a concert with an opening act that named themselves after one of the headliner's albums. In light of Burma's unavoidable influence, the pomp and circumstance that heralded their return was warranted, and a long time coming-- think of the "Inexplicable Tour" (the handful of reunion shows Burma played in 2002) as a long-awaited victory lap, and the recording of and touring behind their 2004 LP ONoffON as the post-victory spoils. Those two events served, in a sense, as the culmination of all the work Burma put into their music, along with all the music the members created outside of it. Now, after that glorious hoohah comes the part of the story where this highly influential, widely lauded bastion of rock music sets aside the accolades and adulation and goes back to making music simply for the sake of making music. And this is where Snapshot comes in. The second definition of "snapshot"-- the one that doesn't tie in with a highly-quotable Burma lyric-- is "an isolated observation". So consider Snapshot in that light: The songs chosen for this session might not be the most well-known of Burma's career-- there's no "Revolver" or "Academy Fight Song" (usually found, in live settings, riding the coattails of "Max Ernst")-- but they're representative of the group at this point in time. The session's opening three songs exemplify the group's inquisitive, exploratory nature, while "Red", "Dirt", and especially "That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate" are straight-forward sorties that pull no punches. "Certain Fate", in particular, sounds remarkably similar to the version recorded on Vs. last century. Conley nonchalantly announces the song title before the group charges straight into the track, with his vocals ("This might be!/ Your only chance!") hitting the same frenetic notes found on the original cut. It's a remarkable performance. In concert, it's difficult to miss the tape looper Bob Weston's contributions, even if he's stationed out of sight behind the mixing board. However, on the new record, his presence is seamlessly integrated into the fabric of the songs. He loops the delirious ping-ponging dada chant at the end of "Max Ernst", he throws back the "oooh wee oooh"'s of "Red" at varying speeds during the bombastic climax, and he plays Roger Miller against himself near the end of "Tremelo". Weston's best works, however, can be found in "Mica", the group's best performance from this session. Fans will undoubtedly remember the beginning of this song: the five-note guitar figure, a tweaked version of the Close Encounters motif, played slowly at first, then played a little faster, then faster, then faster, until the drums hop on board and the song zips off. Weston adds a distorted brassy wheezing noise that sounds like a slowed-down train whistle. Combined with Miller's increasingly faster playing, this loop ably complements the track's locomotive introduction. As on the recorded version, Conley's vocals are spit back at him backwards as the band stabs their way through the song. At first, this second voice is barely discernible; the second time through, however, these reversed voices almost drown out Conley's actual voice, dressing the would-be patient detailed in these lyrics in damning clothes. When the musical chaos gives way to Prescott's tribal beating towards the end, this second voice continues jabbering, making the final question posed by the lyrics-- "What could I say to that?"-- that much more poignant. And when the song finally comes to a shuddering halt, Weston brings back that distorted whistle one last time, signaling the end of this wild ride. In the hands of lesser talents, these tricks and trials would come off as overindulgent; in Burma's hands, they're masterful additions. Peter Prescott was taking the piss with his little aside, but he was spot on. Mission of Burma: never indulgent. And rarely better."

Robots in Disguise

We're in the Music Biz

Electronic,Rock

William Bowers

Unless you're one of those easeful folks who can just readily access/appreciate "fun" without overthinking, Robots in Disguise open up an abyss of compromises. To offer a personal example: I've always been a righteous objector to crushing on bands, yet I'm totally schoolyard-smitten with this duo. Which is weird, because I've historically found self-exploitative peek-a-boo sexuality to be the pinnacle of tackiness, and lo, these girls have upped the soft-porn cover-art ante from their last album (which featured pretty much just their asses in tight jeans) by appearing topless in body paint. But, hey, in interviews they're well stoked about feminism and equality… It gets much worse. I mean, their moniker comes from the old Transformers catchphrase, but they mostly do mindless retro right. They're completely derivative, but of dozens of great bands. They're conspicuously mode-ish, but they've been clattering around since way back in 2000. They embrace meta-tropes and inside gags, but their performances are so committed that they somehow transcend novelty trappings. (Gawd, that makes them sound like Electric Six.) They have fake names-- Dee Plume and Sue Denim-- that translate to "fake names." (Drumwork, human and otherwise, gets credited to Ann Droid, hardy-har-barf.) As if they weren't already at risk of being considered a spoof band, they've performed as a more satirically electro-trash version of themselves called Kraftwerk Orange on Britcom The Mighty Boosh. (Plume's even a UK tabloid bit-player as a result of dating Boosh star Noel Fielding, while Denim's romantically linked with their producer, Sneaker Pimp Chris Corner). So yeah, a pic of one of them in a diamond-checkered bodysuit is my pathetic bachelor-pad desktop background (and I can't even deal with that press photo floating around, the one with the chinstraps and the biting each other). Plus: I'll admit that this record is abysmally sequenced-- the weakest tracks are the tinnier-than-tinny opener and the how-dare-they closer; "We're in the Music Biz" is a self-deprecating bit about, you know, being a band, while "Don't Copy Me" is way audacious coming from ladies whose sound is about original as Skechers' shoe designs. Ah, but everything in between yields some great rewards. The multivalent "Can't Stop Getting Wasted" and "The Sex Has Made Me Stupid" are Hold-Steady-caliber in their roles as both hell-raising party anthems and hungover lifestyle warnings. (I'd go so far as to say that the brilliantly simplistic, irresistibly catchy, and comprehensively remorseful "Sex" is the most tragic absentee from Pitchfork's Top Tracks of 2007.) New single "The Tears" is an angular, jokeless threat-vamp that cribs from Joy Division's "She's Lost Control" (which Robots already snaked on 2005's "Turn It Up"). "I Don't Have a God" conflates sexual and spiritual tension as stirringly as Madonna's "Like a Prayer", or Linda Sundblad's churchy masturbation-apology "Oh Father". Meanwhile, "I'm Hit" boasts a monster bassline, evoking a super-Anglo CSS. So, as much as one might conceive of oneself as inured to the appeal of bratty, sneering fashionistas copping gram-bags of everything vogue, from no-wave to dance-punk, Robots in Disguise stake out some middle ground between obnoxious and hot, grating and seductive, escapist and sober. And that's despite intervals that sound like Stereo Total or the Runaways at their worst. The undertone of loss and accountability throughout this album refutes naysayers who claim (as a recent Adbusters cover story did) that hipstercult has no capacity for reflection, and protects this witty project from getting dismissed as an other-gendered send-up, a Weird Alice or Vaginal Tap. Indeed, hearing these gorgeous voices beg an abusive lover, like masochistic Oliver Twists, "Please sir, can I have some more," and plead to the economy, "Help me, I'm greedy!" ranks among the most intense and passionate moments in my listenership this year.

Artist: Robots in Disguise, Album: We're in the Music Biz, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "Unless you're one of those easeful folks who can just readily access/appreciate "fun" without overthinking, Robots in Disguise open up an abyss of compromises. To offer a personal example: I've always been a righteous objector to crushing on bands, yet I'm totally schoolyard-smitten with this duo. Which is weird, because I've historically found self-exploitative peek-a-boo sexuality to be the pinnacle of tackiness, and lo, these girls have upped the soft-porn cover-art ante from their last album (which featured pretty much just their asses in tight jeans) by appearing topless in body paint. But, hey, in interviews they're well stoked about feminism and equality… It gets much worse. I mean, their moniker comes from the old Transformers catchphrase, but they mostly do mindless retro right. They're completely derivative, but of dozens of great bands. They're conspicuously mode-ish, but they've been clattering around since way back in 2000. They embrace meta-tropes and inside gags, but their performances are so committed that they somehow transcend novelty trappings. (Gawd, that makes them sound like Electric Six.) They have fake names-- Dee Plume and Sue Denim-- that translate to "fake names." (Drumwork, human and otherwise, gets credited to Ann Droid, hardy-har-barf.) As if they weren't already at risk of being considered a spoof band, they've performed as a more satirically electro-trash version of themselves called Kraftwerk Orange on Britcom The Mighty Boosh. (Plume's even a UK tabloid bit-player as a result of dating Boosh star Noel Fielding, while Denim's romantically linked with their producer, Sneaker Pimp Chris Corner). So yeah, a pic of one of them in a diamond-checkered bodysuit is my pathetic bachelor-pad desktop background (and I can't even deal with that press photo floating around, the one with the chinstraps and the biting each other). Plus: I'll admit that this record is abysmally sequenced-- the weakest tracks are the tinnier-than-tinny opener and the how-dare-they closer; "We're in the Music Biz" is a self-deprecating bit about, you know, being a band, while "Don't Copy Me" is way audacious coming from ladies whose sound is about original as Skechers' shoe designs. Ah, but everything in between yields some great rewards. The multivalent "Can't Stop Getting Wasted" and "The Sex Has Made Me Stupid" are Hold-Steady-caliber in their roles as both hell-raising party anthems and hungover lifestyle warnings. (I'd go so far as to say that the brilliantly simplistic, irresistibly catchy, and comprehensively remorseful "Sex" is the most tragic absentee from Pitchfork's Top Tracks of 2007.) New single "The Tears" is an angular, jokeless threat-vamp that cribs from Joy Division's "She's Lost Control" (which Robots already snaked on 2005's "Turn It Up"). "I Don't Have a God" conflates sexual and spiritual tension as stirringly as Madonna's "Like a Prayer", or Linda Sundblad's churchy masturbation-apology "Oh Father". Meanwhile, "I'm Hit" boasts a monster bassline, evoking a super-Anglo CSS. So, as much as one might conceive of oneself as inured to the appeal of bratty, sneering fashionistas copping gram-bags of everything vogue, from no-wave to dance-punk, Robots in Disguise stake out some middle ground between obnoxious and hot, grating and seductive, escapist and sober. And that's despite intervals that sound like Stereo Total or the Runaways at their worst. The undertone of loss and accountability throughout this album refutes naysayers who claim (as a recent Adbusters cover story did) that hipstercult has no capacity for reflection, and protects this witty project from getting dismissed as an other-gendered send-up, a Weird Alice or Vaginal Tap. Indeed, hearing these gorgeous voices beg an abusive lover, like masochistic Oliver Twists, "Please sir, can I have some more," and plead to the economy, "Help me, I'm greedy!" ranks among the most intense and passionate moments in my listenership this year."

Doomriders

Grand Blood

Metal

Andy O'Connor

Doomriders are largely known as the rockier side project of Converge bassist Nate Newton, who handles guitars and lead vocals in this quartet. Compared to the Massachusetts hardcore institution's compelling, tightly packed explosives, anything else would seem “relaxed,” but carrying over Converge's focused barrage to Doomriders works against Newton on this latest release for Deathwish, Grand Blood. Across these 11 songs, Newton doesn't allow himself or the band to loosen up enough to let the material breathe, and this is the kind of stuff that really does want to let go and rock. Really, the collection has the potential to appeal a number of different audiences—Converge die-hards, Motörhead speedfreaks, Southern Lord hardcore kids—but partially on account of its stuffiness, falls short of those marks. The first full song, “New Pyramids”, feels like an outtake from an All Pigs Must Die session. In Doomriders' defense, they don't seem to take themselves quite as seriously as APMD, but the intensity still isn't there. Despite their reputation as a “rocking” band, they don't really go for a “rock song” until the third track, “Mankind”. It's not a terrible song by any means, though it would be best used as music played over the PA while Red Fang sets up. Doomriders have been described as “death 'n' roll” in some circles, but there isn't a whole lot of “death” in the equation. A feral touch wouldn't hurt. “Death in Heat” sees the band going into doomier realms, and if the production was a bit nastier, it'd make a great closing to a Nails album. On the subject of Nails, Blood was produced by Newton's Converge bandmate Kurt Ballou. It's not as thick as his other productions, and if there's anything positive to say about the album, at least it's not a smattering wall of indiscernible riff-noise. The most egregious offense is “Gone to Hell”, which sounds like a ploy to go for Baroness loftiness without fully committing. Say what you will about Baroness, they have their niche carved out, and Doomriders can't say that because of Blood's unevenness. Even the intro feels like a waste of half a minute. (If you're looking for an intro done well in hardcore, Pharmakon's work on Hoax's latest album is the place.) What's the use of going several different directions if you don't hit the goddamn dirt on the road? In 2007, Doomriders released Long Hair and Tights, a split with Japanese experimental metal trio Boris. Boris are a group that's waded in many different sounds, and pulled them off successfully most of the time. Ambient drone, Stooges-like primal rock, riffy J-pop, and noisy hardcore—that worked well enough to ward off detractors.Doomriders could have learned a lot from them, and Grand Blood could have been the rare record to go broad by not giving a fuck. Instead, it's the dude who has a lot of tattoos that conceal the fact that he's as boring as the rest of us, eating at chain restaurants and watching ABC comedies.

Artist: Doomriders, Album: Grand Blood, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "Doomriders are largely known as the rockier side project of Converge bassist Nate Newton, who handles guitars and lead vocals in this quartet. Compared to the Massachusetts hardcore institution's compelling, tightly packed explosives, anything else would seem “relaxed,” but carrying over Converge's focused barrage to Doomriders works against Newton on this latest release for Deathwish, Grand Blood. Across these 11 songs, Newton doesn't allow himself or the band to loosen up enough to let the material breathe, and this is the kind of stuff that really does want to let go and rock. Really, the collection has the potential to appeal a number of different audiences—Converge die-hards, Motörhead speedfreaks, Southern Lord hardcore kids—but partially on account of its stuffiness, falls short of those marks. The first full song, “New Pyramids”, feels like an outtake from an All Pigs Must Die session. In Doomriders' defense, they don't seem to take themselves quite as seriously as APMD, but the intensity still isn't there. Despite their reputation as a “rocking” band, they don't really go for a “rock song” until the third track, “Mankind”. It's not a terrible song by any means, though it would be best used as music played over the PA while Red Fang sets up. Doomriders have been described as “death 'n' roll” in some circles, but there isn't a whole lot of “death” in the equation. A feral touch wouldn't hurt. “Death in Heat” sees the band going into doomier realms, and if the production was a bit nastier, it'd make a great closing to a Nails album. On the subject of Nails, Blood was produced by Newton's Converge bandmate Kurt Ballou. It's not as thick as his other productions, and if there's anything positive to say about the album, at least it's not a smattering wall of indiscernible riff-noise. The most egregious offense is “Gone to Hell”, which sounds like a ploy to go for Baroness loftiness without fully committing. Say what you will about Baroness, they have their niche carved out, and Doomriders can't say that because of Blood's unevenness. Even the intro feels like a waste of half a minute. (If you're looking for an intro done well in hardcore, Pharmakon's work on Hoax's latest album is the place.) What's the use of going several different directions if you don't hit the goddamn dirt on the road? In 2007, Doomriders released Long Hair and Tights, a split with Japanese experimental metal trio Boris. Boris are a group that's waded in many different sounds, and pulled them off successfully most of the time. Ambient drone, Stooges-like primal rock, riffy J-pop, and noisy hardcore—that worked well enough to ward off detractors.Doomriders could have learned a lot from them, and Grand Blood could have been the rare record to go broad by not giving a fuck. Instead, it's the dude who has a lot of tattoos that conceal the fact that he's as boring as the rest of us, eating at chain restaurants and watching ABC comedies."

The Dirtbombs

If You Don't Already Have a Look

Electronic,Rock

Matthew Murphy

Like all great garage-rock bands, the Dirtbombs have always maintained a reverence for the glories of the 7" single. Throughout their decade-plus career the Dirtbombs have used the format precisely as nature intended: Stocking their wide and sundry A-sides with all their choicest cuts while using their B-sides to stash away half-baked experiments, weird cover versions and a dazzling assortment of non-album strays. Since the Dirtbombs have released their impressive multitudes of 7" EPs, split-singles, and compilation tracks on an unruly array of tiny labels across the globe, hunting all of them down would previously have required ample cash, shrewd timing, and fancy footwork. Thankfully, however, that changes with the release of If You Don't Already Have a Look-- a mammoth two-disc, 52-song collection that assembles all of the band's hardest-to-find rarities along with a generous selection of previously unreleased material, and eight brand new tracks. Featuring one disc of originals and one of covers, as well as a lavish booklet of photos and liner notes, the set provides the group's established fans with an outrageous embarrassment of riches, while giving latecomers a stupefying crash course in the Dirtbombs' lo-tech, casually explosive soul-punk. Anchored by the multi-talented Mick Collins-- formerly of primitive rock demi-legends the Gories and Blacktop-- this set's most immediately striking characteristic is its sheer consistency of quality, as there are scarcely any absolute throwaway performances lurking among these 52 tracks. (Which is astounding when you consider some of them were originally destined to become flipsides in New Zealand.) Granted, things get awfully raw on abrasive bash-ups like "I'm Saving Myself For Nichelle Nichols" or the self-explanatory "They Hate Us In Scandinavia", but these brief (often 1 minute or less) dissonant interludes here merely serve as palate-cleansers between such irresistible originals as "The Sharpest Claws" or the mirror-ball swagger of "Here Comes That Sound Again." On these tracks Collins repeatedly proves his astonishing versatility as a vocalist-- his nonchalantly soulful pipes draw easy comparison to early Arthur Lee-- and his underrated prowess as a guitarist, particularly since he operates in a genre that puts little premium on technical ability. As satisfying as the Dirtbombs' originals are, however, the real fun on If You Don't Already Have a Look begins when you move to the all-covers disc two. Though this set features a couple predictable choices (the Stones, Stevie Wonder, In the Red labelmates Cheater Slicks) there's also a fantastic abundance of oddball selections from such acts as Yoko Ono, Lou Rawls, ESG, and Soft Cell. On each of these covers-- whether it's on their dubbed-out remake of "Mystified" by the Romantics (!) or their genuinely heartfelt delivery of the Bee Gees' "I Started a Joke", the Dirtbombs display their uncanny talent for distilling a song down to its most primal, molten essence-- exposing unsuspected depths of bare emotion that are now fully amplified as the listener finally gets a chance to hear all of these marvels back-to-back.

Artist: The Dirtbombs, Album: If You Don't Already Have a Look, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "Like all great garage-rock bands, the Dirtbombs have always maintained a reverence for the glories of the 7" single. Throughout their decade-plus career the Dirtbombs have used the format precisely as nature intended: Stocking their wide and sundry A-sides with all their choicest cuts while using their B-sides to stash away half-baked experiments, weird cover versions and a dazzling assortment of non-album strays. Since the Dirtbombs have released their impressive multitudes of 7" EPs, split-singles, and compilation tracks on an unruly array of tiny labels across the globe, hunting all of them down would previously have required ample cash, shrewd timing, and fancy footwork. Thankfully, however, that changes with the release of If You Don't Already Have a Look-- a mammoth two-disc, 52-song collection that assembles all of the band's hardest-to-find rarities along with a generous selection of previously unreleased material, and eight brand new tracks. Featuring one disc of originals and one of covers, as well as a lavish booklet of photos and liner notes, the set provides the group's established fans with an outrageous embarrassment of riches, while giving latecomers a stupefying crash course in the Dirtbombs' lo-tech, casually explosive soul-punk. Anchored by the multi-talented Mick Collins-- formerly of primitive rock demi-legends the Gories and Blacktop-- this set's most immediately striking characteristic is its sheer consistency of quality, as there are scarcely any absolute throwaway performances lurking among these 52 tracks. (Which is astounding when you consider some of them were originally destined to become flipsides in New Zealand.) Granted, things get awfully raw on abrasive bash-ups like "I'm Saving Myself For Nichelle Nichols" or the self-explanatory "They Hate Us In Scandinavia", but these brief (often 1 minute or less) dissonant interludes here merely serve as palate-cleansers between such irresistible originals as "The Sharpest Claws" or the mirror-ball swagger of "Here Comes That Sound Again." On these tracks Collins repeatedly proves his astonishing versatility as a vocalist-- his nonchalantly soulful pipes draw easy comparison to early Arthur Lee-- and his underrated prowess as a guitarist, particularly since he operates in a genre that puts little premium on technical ability. As satisfying as the Dirtbombs' originals are, however, the real fun on If You Don't Already Have a Look begins when you move to the all-covers disc two. Though this set features a couple predictable choices (the Stones, Stevie Wonder, In the Red labelmates Cheater Slicks) there's also a fantastic abundance of oddball selections from such acts as Yoko Ono, Lou Rawls, ESG, and Soft Cell. On each of these covers-- whether it's on their dubbed-out remake of "Mystified" by the Romantics (!) or their genuinely heartfelt delivery of the Bee Gees' "I Started a Joke", the Dirtbombs display their uncanny talent for distilling a song down to its most primal, molten essence-- exposing unsuspected depths of bare emotion that are now fully amplified as the listener finally gets a chance to hear all of these marvels back-to-back."

Pierre Bastien

Mecanoid

Experimental,Rock

David M. Pecoraro

And so another Martin Luther King Day has come and gone and with hardly more than a passing notice. Banks and schools close and there's a brief blurb on the news. But otherwise little notice is paid. Maybe human relations have come so far since King's day that we've forgotten it was no more than four decades ago when things were far different. Maybe. Yet for all the advances our society has made in civility over the last 40 years, we've still got a long way to go. Racism still exists, albeit more subtly than before. Far less subtle in today's society is hatred aimed toward homosexuals, immigrants and robots. Yes, I said robots. For years robots have been denied the rights you and enjoy each and every day. They're thought of as mere machines, no one ever taking into account that they might just be programmed to feel the pain inflicted by such callous ignorance. And the media is no better. For decades now, TV and movies portrayed robots as killers, servants, single-minded ignoramuses incapable of love, art or beauty. But this is a cultural stereotype, as inaccurate as any other. What about the good robots out there? The relentless workers, the visionaries, the musicians? That's right. Robots can make music, too. And I'm not talking about the current legions of Powerbook-toting humans. I'm talking about real robots. Like the ones Pierre Bastien employs on his new release Mecanoid. They're small, simple machines, built by the artist out of Maccano parts and small electric motors, single-mindedly devoted to making music. According to the liner notes, these robots play everything from castanets and marimbas to thumb pianos and seven-inch records to steel-drum and an assortment of ancient instruments from around the world. It's a fair bet that any album that employs such a wide variety of instruments will have a pretty unique, fairly interesting sound. And that Mecanoid does. But this doesn't even take into account the instruments Bastien plays; stand-up bass, electric piano, organ, horns (both prepared and traditional), and some more obscure instruments that I can't even picture. Indeed, this is a disc filled from start to finish with a massive range of sounds. But what about the music? The robots' musical abilities are limited by their simplicity. They play their instrument with no divergence from a predetermined pattern, essentially creating loops. As such, there's an air of monotony to some of this music-- a clunking, mechanical feel. But when a number of these robots are employed at once, their individual patterns inevitably converge in an infinite number of ways. Bastien makes use of this tendency, setting any number of robots into action, allowing their music to fall into a groove, and then adding flourishes himself where necessary. Most songs start slow and then creep along, with an inhuman determination until they reach their conclusion. It's actually quite fascinating-- often hypnotic-- and most of the songs are short enough that they come to an end long before they cease to be interesting. Bastien speaks to the hints of inevitability in his music, choosing palindromes for the titles to each of his songs. The titles, he says, "reflect the way these little machines function, whether they are read forwards or backwards, they are understood the same way and this coming or going of words/notes can be imagined as an infinite cycle." "Tender Red Net" is a calm, peaceful number that begins as a duet between Bastien on organ and a machine playing marimbas. As it moves on, we hear various clankings in the background, rhythmic record scratches and the soothing melody of low-pitched strings. "Revolt Lover" features Bastien on prepared trumpet and bass while his robots manipulate records, suggesting that he puts just as much thought into his own arrangements as those of his machines. On "Deep Speed," Bastien mics the machines themselves and arranges their movements into a rhythm which accompanies a machine playing Casiotone and Bastien's jazzed-up trumpet riffs. No doubt many will dismiss this album as a gimmick, which is a damned shame. The music made by Bastien and his robot band is every bit as delicate and unique as the methods by which it was created. These machines never give up and Bastien promises to keep working with them. Who knows what sort of music he'll be able to create as his machines continue to evolve. And if we ever see a Robot Rights movement, there's no telling what might happen.

Artist: Pierre Bastien, Album: Mecanoid, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "And so another Martin Luther King Day has come and gone and with hardly more than a passing notice. Banks and schools close and there's a brief blurb on the news. But otherwise little notice is paid. Maybe human relations have come so far since King's day that we've forgotten it was no more than four decades ago when things were far different. Maybe. Yet for all the advances our society has made in civility over the last 40 years, we've still got a long way to go. Racism still exists, albeit more subtly than before. Far less subtle in today's society is hatred aimed toward homosexuals, immigrants and robots. Yes, I said robots. For years robots have been denied the rights you and enjoy each and every day. They're thought of as mere machines, no one ever taking into account that they might just be programmed to feel the pain inflicted by such callous ignorance. And the media is no better. For decades now, TV and movies portrayed robots as killers, servants, single-minded ignoramuses incapable of love, art or beauty. But this is a cultural stereotype, as inaccurate as any other. What about the good robots out there? The relentless workers, the visionaries, the musicians? That's right. Robots can make music, too. And I'm not talking about the current legions of Powerbook-toting humans. I'm talking about real robots. Like the ones Pierre Bastien employs on his new release Mecanoid. They're small, simple machines, built by the artist out of Maccano parts and small electric motors, single-mindedly devoted to making music. According to the liner notes, these robots play everything from castanets and marimbas to thumb pianos and seven-inch records to steel-drum and an assortment of ancient instruments from around the world. It's a fair bet that any album that employs such a wide variety of instruments will have a pretty unique, fairly interesting sound. And that Mecanoid does. But this doesn't even take into account the instruments Bastien plays; stand-up bass, electric piano, organ, horns (both prepared and traditional), and some more obscure instruments that I can't even picture. Indeed, this is a disc filled from start to finish with a massive range of sounds. But what about the music? The robots' musical abilities are limited by their simplicity. They play their instrument with no divergence from a predetermined pattern, essentially creating loops. As such, there's an air of monotony to some of this music-- a clunking, mechanical feel. But when a number of these robots are employed at once, their individual patterns inevitably converge in an infinite number of ways. Bastien makes use of this tendency, setting any number of robots into action, allowing their music to fall into a groove, and then adding flourishes himself where necessary. Most songs start slow and then creep along, with an inhuman determination until they reach their conclusion. It's actually quite fascinating-- often hypnotic-- and most of the songs are short enough that they come to an end long before they cease to be interesting. Bastien speaks to the hints of inevitability in his music, choosing palindromes for the titles to each of his songs. The titles, he says, "reflect the way these little machines function, whether they are read forwards or backwards, they are understood the same way and this coming or going of words/notes can be imagined as an infinite cycle." "Tender Red Net" is a calm, peaceful number that begins as a duet between Bastien on organ and a machine playing marimbas. As it moves on, we hear various clankings in the background, rhythmic record scratches and the soothing melody of low-pitched strings. "Revolt Lover" features Bastien on prepared trumpet and bass while his robots manipulate records, suggesting that he puts just as much thought into his own arrangements as those of his machines. On "Deep Speed," Bastien mics the machines themselves and arranges their movements into a rhythm which accompanies a machine playing Casiotone and Bastien's jazzed-up trumpet riffs. No doubt many will dismiss this album as a gimmick, which is a damned shame. The music made by Bastien and his robot band is every bit as delicate and unique as the methods by which it was created. These machines never give up and Bastien promises to keep working with them. Who knows what sort of music he'll be able to create as his machines continue to evolve. And if we ever see a Robot Rights movement, there's no telling what might happen."

Six by Seven

The Closer You Get

Rock

Stuart Berman

Six by Seven were but one of many British bands to carry the “next Radiohead” albatross in the late ’90s. Despite endorsements from tastemakers like Jools Holland and John Peel, their 1998 debut album, The Things We Make, didn’t yield a “Creep”-sized crossover. It did boast a pretty great “Stop Whispering” in the yearning “For You,” but the rest of the record wasn’t so eager to please, as it wrapped singer-guitarist Chris Olley’s plaintive melodicism in slow-roiling surges that owed more to the stalking gaits of post-rock than Britpop. That tension between their congenial and contrarian instincts likely scuttled Six by Seven’s chart potential, but on their follow-up album, the Nottingham band turned their frustrations and square-peg/round-hole relationship with popular culture into a badge of honor. On the surface, the reappearance of The Closer You Get is an oddly timed archival project—rather than wait until next year to mark the 20th-anniversary of their debut album, Six by Seven are jumping the queue to do a 17th-anniversary deluxe vinyl repackaging of their second (complete with a bonus collection of Peel sessions). Though Olley rebooted the Six by Seven name in 2013 after a half decade hiatus, next month, he’ll be reforming with the band’s original line-up to perform The Closer You Get in its entirety at a couple of shows in the UK—a reunion spurred by group of fans who lobbied to make the album’s lead-off track “Eat Junk Become Junk” a party-crashing contender in the UK’s annual Christmas No. 1 sweepstakes back in 2015. But that stunt campaign speaks to a genuine need—The Closer You Get has resurfaced not out of knee-jerk nostalgia, but because it feels so vitally, viscerally now. It’s common to say underappreciated bands were ahead of their time, but Six by Seven were totally of their time. It’s just that, in that brief post-Blair, pre-9/11 golden age, most people didn’t want to hear songs about unfettered consumerism, class conflict, media addiction, and social isolation. The Closer You Get resembles the kind of record Radiohead may have put out in 2000 had Thom Yorke chosen Mark E. Smith instead of Richard D. James as his spirit animal—an album for people who like the idea of Muse, but can’t stomach the pretension of the real one. Rather than attempt to make electronic music, Six by Seven filtered its influence through standard guitar-band instrumentation: the patient builds and trembling leads of their debut gave way to frenetic, skittering rhythms and tweaked-out distortion-pedal squalls, transforming the band from art-rock aesthetes to noise-punk preachers. And in 17 years, Olley’s targets have only become more firmly entrenched. The lacerating invectives of “Eat Junk Become Junk” leave fresh wounds at a time when a trash-TV huckster has moved into the White House, and while “Sawn Off Metallica T-Shirt” may deal in white-trash caricature, its dirtbag protagonist’s delusions of grandeur (“Lenny Bruce Lee Marvin Gaye—I’ve got style, and I’m misunderstood!”) ring all too familiar in an era of toxic, #GHBTP-grade masculinity and #alternativefacts. (Though the two groups are aesthetic opposites, I wouldn’t be surprised if fellow Nottinghammers Sleaford Mods learned a few lessons in bile-spewing from this record.) But as much as The Closer You Get unleashes Six by Seven’s latent aggression, there’s a part of Olley that’s holding out hope to commune with the masses—and for all its buckshot cultural critique, the album doesn’t sacrifice Olley’s flair for melancholy and impassioned appeals to the heart. The desperate sentiments of “New Year”—“give me something I can live for/Give me something to believe in”—come couched in a psych-pop sway before a string-swept chorus shoots the song skyward, while the fuzzed-out mid-album double shot of “Don’t Wanna Stop” and “Slab Square” burns like the sound of a band raging against the dying of the light. By contrast, The Closer You Get’s tent-pole ballads—“England and a Broken Radio” and “100 and Something Foxhall Road”—are more like flickering, short-wicked candles that nonetheless illuminate a path out of the darkness. The former communicates its music-as-salvation message through mellow, Mogwai-esque atmospherics; the latter is both a love letter and farewell note—to an old flame, to Nottingham, to the possibility of happiness itself. As Olley’s more famous peers once wrote, “Don’t get sentimental/It always ends up drivel.” But what makes The Closer You Get more than just a delirious dive through modern life’s rubbish is Olley’s desire to forge an emotional connection with those who feel weighed down by it. And if that means occasionally getting sentimental, then, for Olley, it’s a risk worth taking.

Artist: Six by Seven, Album: The Closer You Get, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Six by Seven were but one of many British bands to carry the “next Radiohead” albatross in the late ’90s. Despite endorsements from tastemakers like Jools Holland and John Peel, their 1998 debut album, The Things We Make, didn’t yield a “Creep”-sized crossover. It did boast a pretty great “Stop Whispering” in the yearning “For You,” but the rest of the record wasn’t so eager to please, as it wrapped singer-guitarist Chris Olley’s plaintive melodicism in slow-roiling surges that owed more to the stalking gaits of post-rock than Britpop. That tension between their congenial and contrarian instincts likely scuttled Six by Seven’s chart potential, but on their follow-up album, the Nottingham band turned their frustrations and square-peg/round-hole relationship with popular culture into a badge of honor. On the surface, the reappearance of The Closer You Get is an oddly timed archival project—rather than wait until next year to mark the 20th-anniversary of their debut album, Six by Seven are jumping the queue to do a 17th-anniversary deluxe vinyl repackaging of their second (complete with a bonus collection of Peel sessions). Though Olley rebooted the Six by Seven name in 2013 after a half decade hiatus, next month, he’ll be reforming with the band’s original line-up to perform The Closer You Get in its entirety at a couple of shows in the UK—a reunion spurred by group of fans who lobbied to make the album’s lead-off track “Eat Junk Become Junk” a party-crashing contender in the UK’s annual Christmas No. 1 sweepstakes back in 2015. But that stunt campaign speaks to a genuine need—The Closer You Get has resurfaced not out of knee-jerk nostalgia, but because it feels so vitally, viscerally now. It’s common to say underappreciated bands were ahead of their time, but Six by Seven were totally of their time. It’s just that, in that brief post-Blair, pre-9/11 golden age, most people didn’t want to hear songs about unfettered consumerism, class conflict, media addiction, and social isolation. The Closer You Get resembles the kind of record Radiohead may have put out in 2000 had Thom Yorke chosen Mark E. Smith instead of Richard D. James as his spirit animal—an album for people who like the idea of Muse, but can’t stomach the pretension of the real one. Rather than attempt to make electronic music, Six by Seven filtered its influence through standard guitar-band instrumentation: the patient builds and trembling leads of their debut gave way to frenetic, skittering rhythms and tweaked-out distortion-pedal squalls, transforming the band from art-rock aesthetes to noise-punk preachers. And in 17 years, Olley’s targets have only become more firmly entrenched. The lacerating invectives of “Eat Junk Become Junk” leave fresh wounds at a time when a trash-TV huckster has moved into the White House, and while “Sawn Off Metallica T-Shirt” may deal in white-trash caricature, its dirtbag protagonist’s delusions of grandeur (“Lenny Bruce Lee Marvin Gaye—I’ve got style, and I’m misunderstood!”) ring all too familiar in an era of toxic, #GHBTP-grade masculinity and #alternativefacts. (Though the two groups are aesthetic opposites, I wouldn’t be surprised if fellow Nottinghammers Sleaford Mods learned a few lessons in bile-spewing from this record.) But as much as The Closer You Get unleashes Six by Seven’s latent aggression, there’s a part of Olley that’s holding out hope to commune with the masses—and for all its buckshot cultural critique, the album doesn’t sacrifice Olley’s flair for melancholy and impassioned appeals to the heart. The desperate sentiments of “New Year”—“give me something I can live for/Give me something to believe in”—come couched in a psych-pop sway before a string-swept chorus shoots the song skyward, while the fuzzed-out mid-album double shot of “Don’t Wanna Stop” and “Slab Square” burns like the sound of a band raging against the dying of the light. By contrast, The Closer You Get’s tent-pole ballads—“England and a Broken Radio” and “100 and Something Foxhall Road”—are more like flickering, short-wicked candles that nonetheless illuminate a path out of the darkness. The former communicates its music-as-salvation message through mellow, Mogwai-esque atmospherics; the latter is both a love letter and farewell note—to an old flame, to Nottingham, to the possibility of happiness itself. As Olley’s more famous peers once wrote, “Don’t get sentimental/It always ends up drivel.” But what makes The Closer You Get more than just a delirious dive through modern life’s rubbish is Olley’s desire to forge an emotional connection with those who feel weighed down by it. And if that means occasionally getting sentimental, then, for Olley, it’s a risk worth taking."

Open Mike Eagle

Dark Comedy

Rap

Nate Patrin

Somewhere between Richard Pryor going platinum and the latest episode of Louie, the establishment of comedy as a filter between the outside world and an individual's churning-brain anxiety took a deep hold in the mainstream pop-culture consciousness. The more that once-uncommon voices are allowed to speak as themselves, the likelier it is that they'll slip their grievances and worries in under the cover of slyly built jokes. Open Mike Eagle's solo career pushed him from Project Blowed cog to a spotlight that gave him space to ruminate over his fights against orthodoxy, starting with hip-hop's (his first two album titles: Unapologetic Art Rap and Rappers Will Die of Natural Causes) and working his way outwards from there. In the process, he's found a strong lane as an MC who cracks wise in both senses of the term. For each handful of fans that came to him through a connection with the Los Angeles underground hip-hop community, there's at least one who heard about him through stand-up stars like Hannibal Buress or Paul F. Tompkins. So his latest album, Dark Comedy, pipes in a laugh track on its semi-titular opening track, "Dark Comedy Morning Show," and Mike Eagle makes sure it comes in clear after the more raw-nerved lines—"I flew off the handle, and boy are my arms tired"; "If another dude calls me a racist, I'm'a snap"; "There's mad shootings on the news/ Unless it's in the Chi, cause blacks and Mexicans can die". The song sums up the whole album's "on that laugh to keep from crying tip" operating mode in just three verses, but there are new angles and transformative concepts that keep the balance unpredictably gallows-humored throughout. "Informations" sets up some *Tetsuo the Iron Man-*meets-Videodrome body horror that plays to smartphone-addiction fears, then leavens it with scatological humor ("When I pass gas it sounds like a fax machine") and a sense that he's actually thrilled with the man-machine fusion. The line in "Doug Stamper (Advice Raps)" where he admonishes white rappers to "Quit rappin' in your hood voice/ Sound like a clown 100-pounder that took 'roids" both cuts closer and leans goofier when he actually imitates it as a dopey "HARR RAAR RAAR RAAR RAAAGH". Even when he threatens to lean towards unadulterated stress-rap, he undercuts it by titling his most severe bout of venting "Sadface Penance Raps" and cutting it off after less than a minute and a half under the pretext that the beat malfunctioned. The sung hook, lifted from They Might Be Giants' "Don't Let's Start", that falls victim to this truncated ending: "No one in the world ever gets what they want, and that is beautiful." Mike is an artist who thrives on working through some potentially inaccessible or confrontational thoughts and feelings using a very upfront and deceptively easygoing way with jokes and wordplay. That's not just in the references he throws around ("Thirsty Ego Raps" gives not-entirely-non sequitur nods to Dave Gahan and Michel'le in consecutive lines), or his knack for internal rhymes and verse construction that actually scan like well-timed improv asides; it's also in how he builds up a self-portrait that establishes his own agency while still opening himself up to the possibilities of camaraderie and community. "Qualifiers," which he recorded a live version of in a laundromat, should stand as his newest signature song for that reason. He pits party-rocking impulses alongside unglamorous but important fatherhood work by rhyming "get up and dance" with "I wipe my son's ass and get shit on my hands," jabs at hood-pass-hungry vultures questioning his cred ("Fuck you if you're a white man that assumes I speak for black folks/ Fuck you if you're a white man who thinks I can't speak for black folks"), and builds a hook that upends ego-tripping with weasel words: "we the best, mostly/ Sometimes the freshest rhymers/ We the tightest kinda/ Respect my qualifiers". It's frank modesty in terms that any independent artist ever prone to self-second-guessing should recognize. That nervous energy radiates through everyone in Mike's orbit, whether it's a characteristically mellow/jittery Kool A.D. feigning ignorance and riffing absurdist logic on "Informations" or Buress turning basic common courtesy into snarky older-brother wisdom on "Doug Stamper (Advice Raps)" with a Biz-caliber rap verse. (Sample line: "Wash your hands when you touch your l'il dirty dick/ And dry 'em off before you come tryin' to shake my shit".) Even the beats—Ultra Combo's Cloud Rap for Airports-esque "Very Much Money (Ice King Dream)", Dibia$e's chunky synths bouncily ambling in low-g on the dream gig with a catch story "Jon Lovitz (Fantasy Booking Yarn)", Jeremiah Jae laying down treated strings that sound like aluminum being table sawed on "A History of Modern Dance"—hang on a precipice between whimsical irreverence and real to-the-gut emotional immediacy. It all builds off a feeling that this anxiety touches everyone, that even if Mike's a singular kind of weirdo, his worries are our worries. So he's feeling out the process of coming to happy terms with the weirdness he and his friends inhabit, while still wishing it came with easy communication or self-sufficient success. Whether it's through casual observation or the to-the-bone identity struggles, Open Mike Eagle's overlap between amusing insights and uncomfortable truths makes for one of the most compelling indie-rap listens of the year so far.

Artist: Open Mike Eagle, Album: Dark Comedy, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Somewhere between Richard Pryor going platinum and the latest episode of Louie, the establishment of comedy as a filter between the outside world and an individual's churning-brain anxiety took a deep hold in the mainstream pop-culture consciousness. The more that once-uncommon voices are allowed to speak as themselves, the likelier it is that they'll slip their grievances and worries in under the cover of slyly built jokes. Open Mike Eagle's solo career pushed him from Project Blowed cog to a spotlight that gave him space to ruminate over his fights against orthodoxy, starting with hip-hop's (his first two album titles: Unapologetic Art Rap and Rappers Will Die of Natural Causes) and working his way outwards from there. In the process, he's found a strong lane as an MC who cracks wise in both senses of the term. For each handful of fans that came to him through a connection with the Los Angeles underground hip-hop community, there's at least one who heard about him through stand-up stars like Hannibal Buress or Paul F. Tompkins. So his latest album, Dark Comedy, pipes in a laugh track on its semi-titular opening track, "Dark Comedy Morning Show," and Mike Eagle makes sure it comes in clear after the more raw-nerved lines—"I flew off the handle, and boy are my arms tired"; "If another dude calls me a racist, I'm'a snap"; "There's mad shootings on the news/ Unless it's in the Chi, cause blacks and Mexicans can die". The song sums up the whole album's "on that laugh to keep from crying tip" operating mode in just three verses, but there are new angles and transformative concepts that keep the balance unpredictably gallows-humored throughout. "Informations" sets up some *Tetsuo the Iron Man-*meets-Videodrome body horror that plays to smartphone-addiction fears, then leavens it with scatological humor ("When I pass gas it sounds like a fax machine") and a sense that he's actually thrilled with the man-machine fusion. The line in "Doug Stamper (Advice Raps)" where he admonishes white rappers to "Quit rappin' in your hood voice/ Sound like a clown 100-pounder that took 'roids" both cuts closer and leans goofier when he actually imitates it as a dopey "HARR RAAR RAAR RAAR RAAAGH". Even when he threatens to lean towards unadulterated stress-rap, he undercuts it by titling his most severe bout of venting "Sadface Penance Raps" and cutting it off after less than a minute and a half under the pretext that the beat malfunctioned. The sung hook, lifted from They Might Be Giants' "Don't Let's Start", that falls victim to this truncated ending: "No one in the world ever gets what they want, and that is beautiful." Mike is an artist who thrives on working through some potentially inaccessible or confrontational thoughts and feelings using a very upfront and deceptively easygoing way with jokes and wordplay. That's not just in the references he throws around ("Thirsty Ego Raps" gives not-entirely-non sequitur nods to Dave Gahan and Michel'le in consecutive lines), or his knack for internal rhymes and verse construction that actually scan like well-timed improv asides; it's also in how he builds up a self-portrait that establishes his own agency while still opening himself up to the possibilities of camaraderie and community. "Qualifiers," which he recorded a live version of in a laundromat, should stand as his newest signature song for that reason. He pits party-rocking impulses alongside unglamorous but important fatherhood work by rhyming "get up and dance" with "I wipe my son's ass and get shit on my hands," jabs at hood-pass-hungry vultures questioning his cred ("Fuck you if you're a white man that assumes I speak for black folks/ Fuck you if you're a white man who thinks I can't speak for black folks"), and builds a hook that upends ego-tripping with weasel words: "we the best, mostly/ Sometimes the freshest rhymers/ We the tightest kinda/ Respect my qualifiers". It's frank modesty in terms that any independent artist ever prone to self-second-guessing should recognize. That nervous energy radiates through everyone in Mike's orbit, whether it's a characteristically mellow/jittery Kool A.D. feigning ignorance and riffing absurdist logic on "Informations" or Buress turning basic common courtesy into snarky older-brother wisdom on "Doug Stamper (Advice Raps)" with a Biz-caliber rap verse. (Sample line: "Wash your hands when you touch your l'il dirty dick/ And dry 'em off before you come tryin' to shake my shit".) Even the beats—Ultra Combo's Cloud Rap for Airports-esque "Very Much Money (Ice King Dream)", Dibia$e's chunky synths bouncily ambling in low-g on the dream gig with a catch story "Jon Lovitz (Fantasy Booking Yarn)", Jeremiah Jae laying down treated strings that sound like aluminum being table sawed on "A History of Modern Dance"—hang on a precipice between whimsical irreverence and real to-the-gut emotional immediacy. It all builds off a feeling that this anxiety touches everyone, that even if Mike's a singular kind of weirdo, his worries are our worries. So he's feeling out the process of coming to happy terms with the weirdness he and his friends inhabit, while still wishing it came with easy communication or self-sufficient success. Whether it's through casual observation or the to-the-bone identity struggles, Open Mike Eagle's overlap between amusing insights and uncomfortable truths makes for one of the most compelling indie-rap listens of the year so far."

Uncle Tupelo

No Depression: Legacy Edition

Rock

Amanda Petrusich

As far as genre-decrees go, alt-country’s an especially prickly one. The phrase was never really championed by the artists it was applied to, in part because its premise was cumbersome and vague, but mostly because it was tied to a particular moment in which country music was understood—briefly and mistakenly—as inherently mainstream. (That idea, at least, has dissipated: anyone who’s ever spent any time pawing through a Used Country LPs bin or listening to “Drinks After Work” knows that country music, as a whole, is completely insane.) Still, in January 1990, when Uncle Tupelo steered a dented Chevy van to Boston’s Fort Apache South and recorded their debut full-length, No Depression, traditional country music seemed antithetical to contemporary punk-rock, and the notion that the two might comingle—might be symbiotic bedfellows, even—required a deep philological reimagining. Our musical imaginations have become larger, the membranes more permeable; now, being equally invested in the Minutemen and Hank Williams doesn’t seem remotely incongruous. Still, No Depression, which takes its name from J.D. Vaughan’s “No Depression in Heaven”, a gospel track first made famous by the Carter Family in 1936 and then by the New Lost City Ramblers in 1959, and which later inspired a magazine dedicated loosely to alt-country and its analogues, is a heady reminder that genre hasn’t always been so fluid. It’s also a reminder of how strange and turbulent an act Uncle Tupelo was: Country and punk are both vulnerable, impassioned, tenuous enterprises, and the places where they overlap are especially combustible. Uncle Tupelo is typically evoked in discussions of the two outfits it birthed (Wilco and Son Volt), but No Depression is a significant record independent of its fallout. Uncle Tupelo liked to play fast, but even their slower songs are imbued with a kind of frantic inertia, like some wild-eyed goon sprinting across a tightrope, knowing that if he slows down for even a second, he’ll topple. Part of that can be attributed to the experience of being young and loose in the world—Jeff Tweedy and drummer Mike Heidorn were 22 and Jay Farrar was 23 when they arrived at Fort Apache—but the tangling of sensibilities both musical and extra-musical yielded something remarkable: a raw, lonesome clatter, the singular sound of Midwestern kids getting loud and desperate. There were a handful of other bands doing comparable work (Jason and the Scorchers were blending country and punk rock as early as 1981; in Britain, the Pogues were fusing elements of Irish vernacular music with a rebellious, adolescent ache), but Uncle Tupelo reached a certain cultural flashpoint first. This reissue—which differentiates itself from a 2003 version by collecting 22 previously unavailable demos and live tracks—proffers a good sense of the band’s trajectory, from the halls and parking lots of Belleville, Ill., through stints opening for Warren Zevon and the Band. The bonus material is demo-heavy (it includes all of 1989’s Not Forever, Just for Now, five songs from the 1987 demo Colorblind and Rhymeless, and two songs from Live and Otherwise, a self-released tape from 1988), which will satisfy Uncle Tupelo completists but likely won’t do much for new fans, who might be better served by just listening to the re-mastered record. Farrar and Tweedy, who share most of the songwriting credits, alternate between earnest, romantic confessions (“I woke up to realize it didn’t mean a thing… Give me back that year,” Tweedy hollers in “That Year”) and a populist, blue-collar righteousness likely nipped from Woody Guthrie (even the cover emulates an old Folkways LP). In both instances, whiskey is fundamental (“I got drunk and I fell down,” Farrar and Tweedy sing in an especially effortless bit of harmony). Nodding to their predecessors (and supposed foes) in Nashville—where writing isn’t necessarily tantamount to performance, and songs are constantly reclaimed, apportioned, sold—Uncle Tupelo never eschewed a good cover, and their take on the Flying Burrito Brothers’ “Sin City” is especially doleful, heavy with a particular kind of resignation: Farrar’s voice sounds sodden, acquiescent, like a kid who’s just been hit in the face with a water balloon. “It seems like this whole town’s insane,” he sings, his voice glum. What Gram Parsons imbued with a mystical, West Coast incredulity, Farrar handles more like a shrug: “The scientists say it’ll all wash away, but we don’t believe anymore.” The sentiment’s sanguine enough, except that Farrar treats the “but” a lot more like “because”: we’ve sinned ourselves into oblivion, and nothing’s gonna keep out the Lord’s burning rain. Ultimately, worry is the thing that animates No Depression and what, 24 years out, still resonates the most: it’s a part-panicked, part-dispirited, part-defiant reaction to broad social injustices and personal defeats, all the things that make the world seem untenable. The circumstances might reconfigure, but the sentiment remains: life is unfair. Uncle Tupelo made No Depression for just $3,500 (the studio’s house producers, Sean Slade and Paul Kolderie, lent Farrar the same 1961 Les Paul guitar J. Mascis jammed on Dinosaur Jr.’s Bug). The band released three more records before splitting—acrimoniously—in 1994. Farrar and Tweedy both went on to lead successful bands, and in the two decades since they parted, reimagining Americana has become its own cottage industry, a fury of wool vests and reconditioned banjos and oiled beards. Alt-country doesn’t mean much anymore because country doesn’t mean much anymore; genre feels like a relic of the record store era, back when hand-labeled plastic dividers still parsed sound into neat categories. It’s challenging, then, to appreciate the boldness of No Depression, the extent to which the members of Uncle Tupelo insisted on interdependency, on an American story. We don’t have to do that anymore—folks don’t self-identify in the same way, and hardly anyone loves just one genre monogamously—but there’s still something furious and prideful here, something worth hearing.

Artist: Uncle Tupelo, Album: No Depression: Legacy Edition, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "As far as genre-decrees go, alt-country’s an especially prickly one. The phrase was never really championed by the artists it was applied to, in part because its premise was cumbersome and vague, but mostly because it was tied to a particular moment in which country music was understood—briefly and mistakenly—as inherently mainstream. (That idea, at least, has dissipated: anyone who’s ever spent any time pawing through a Used Country LPs bin or listening to “Drinks After Work” knows that country music, as a whole, is completely insane.) Still, in January 1990, when Uncle Tupelo steered a dented Chevy van to Boston’s Fort Apache South and recorded their debut full-length, No Depression, traditional country music seemed antithetical to contemporary punk-rock, and the notion that the two might comingle—might be symbiotic bedfellows, even—required a deep philological reimagining. Our musical imaginations have become larger, the membranes more permeable; now, being equally invested in the Minutemen and Hank Williams doesn’t seem remotely incongruous. Still, No Depression, which takes its name from J.D. Vaughan’s “No Depression in Heaven”, a gospel track first made famous by the Carter Family in 1936 and then by the New Lost City Ramblers in 1959, and which later inspired a magazine dedicated loosely to alt-country and its analogues, is a heady reminder that genre hasn’t always been so fluid. It’s also a reminder of how strange and turbulent an act Uncle Tupelo was: Country and punk are both vulnerable, impassioned, tenuous enterprises, and the places where they overlap are especially combustible. Uncle Tupelo is typically evoked in discussions of the two outfits it birthed (Wilco and Son Volt), but No Depression is a significant record independent of its fallout. Uncle Tupelo liked to play fast, but even their slower songs are imbued with a kind of frantic inertia, like some wild-eyed goon sprinting across a tightrope, knowing that if he slows down for even a second, he’ll topple. Part of that can be attributed to the experience of being young and loose in the world—Jeff Tweedy and drummer Mike Heidorn were 22 and Jay Farrar was 23 when they arrived at Fort Apache—but the tangling of sensibilities both musical and extra-musical yielded something remarkable: a raw, lonesome clatter, the singular sound of Midwestern kids getting loud and desperate. There were a handful of other bands doing comparable work (Jason and the Scorchers were blending country and punk rock as early as 1981; in Britain, the Pogues were fusing elements of Irish vernacular music with a rebellious, adolescent ache), but Uncle Tupelo reached a certain cultural flashpoint first. This reissue—which differentiates itself from a 2003 version by collecting 22 previously unavailable demos and live tracks—proffers a good sense of the band’s trajectory, from the halls and parking lots of Belleville, Ill., through stints opening for Warren Zevon and the Band. The bonus material is demo-heavy (it includes all of 1989’s Not Forever, Just for Now, five songs from the 1987 demo Colorblind and Rhymeless, and two songs from Live and Otherwise, a self-released tape from 1988), which will satisfy Uncle Tupelo completists but likely won’t do much for new fans, who might be better served by just listening to the re-mastered record. Farrar and Tweedy, who share most of the songwriting credits, alternate between earnest, romantic confessions (“I woke up to realize it didn’t mean a thing… Give me back that year,” Tweedy hollers in “That Year”) and a populist, blue-collar righteousness likely nipped from Woody Guthrie (even the cover emulates an old Folkways LP). In both instances, whiskey is fundamental (“I got drunk and I fell down,” Farrar and Tweedy sing in an especially effortless bit of harmony). Nodding to their predecessors (and supposed foes) in Nashville—where writing isn’t necessarily tantamount to performance, and songs are constantly reclaimed, apportioned, sold—Uncle Tupelo never eschewed a good cover, and their take on the Flying Burrito Brothers’ “Sin City” is especially doleful, heavy with a particular kind of resignation: Farrar’s voice sounds sodden, acquiescent, like a kid who’s just been hit in the face with a water balloon. “It seems like this whole town’s insane,” he sings, his voice glum. What Gram Parsons imbued with a mystical, West Coast incredulity, Farrar handles more like a shrug: “The scientists say it’ll all wash away, but we don’t believe anymore.” The sentiment’s sanguine enough, except that Farrar treats the “but” a lot more like “because”: we’ve sinned ourselves into oblivion, and nothing’s gonna keep out the Lord’s burning rain. Ultimately, worry is the thing that animates No Depression and what, 24 years out, still resonates the most: it’s a part-panicked, part-dispirited, part-defiant reaction to broad social injustices and personal defeats, all the things that make the world seem untenable. The circumstances might reconfigure, but the sentiment remains: life is unfair. Uncle Tupelo made No Depression for just $3,500 (the studio’s house producers, Sean Slade and Paul Kolderie, lent Farrar the same 1961 Les Paul guitar J. Mascis jammed on Dinosaur Jr.’s Bug). The band released three more records before splitting—acrimoniously—in 1994. Farrar and Tweedy both went on to lead successful bands, and in the two decades since they parted, reimagining Americana has become its own cottage industry, a fury of wool vests and reconditioned banjos and oiled beards. Alt-country doesn’t mean much anymore because country doesn’t mean much anymore; genre feels like a relic of the record store era, back when hand-labeled plastic dividers still parsed sound into neat categories. It’s challenging, then, to appreciate the boldness of No Depression, the extent to which the members of Uncle Tupelo insisted on interdependency, on an American story. We don’t have to do that anymore—folks don’t self-identify in the same way, and hardly anyone loves just one genre monogamously—but there’s still something furious and prideful here, something worth hearing."

7 Year Rabbit Cycle

Ache Hornes

Zach Baron

The OG of the animal name game, Rob Fisk's responsible for a label, Free Porcupine Society, and at least three bands-- Deerhoof, Badgerlore, 7 Year Rabbit Cycle-- that pay homage to whatever's wild in wilderness. Fisk has described his project as "eco-terrorist hobbit rock": Like elephants at the circus rising up against their trainers, or Wolf Eyes, it's the kind of outdoors where the primary export isn't flowers. Ache Hornes, the newest from Fisk and his wife Kelly Goode-- 7YRC's guitar'n'vocals core-- adds Zorn-Cline-Bungle collaborator Ches Smith (on drums) and Xiu Xiu's Jamie Stewart (vocals, guitar), to jazz up the bare family improv. The quartet moves from minimalism, in its Warren Burt tuning fork/xylophone sections, to startlingly conventional rock elements as tight and spare as Slint or Hoover. "Wren" showcases Goode's Kimya Dawson sour-sweet vocals, marching from dubbed out and minimal bass and drum into jokes courtesy of Shel Silverstein-- "Now I see that you don't care, don't care, don't care." "This Makes Me a Barn Burner" is a tiny harmonic explosion that breaks the deadpan, while songs like "Untitled" and "Magic Yam Part 2" bounce on single trebly notes, pausing to stop, take stock, and start again. The pacing's immaculate and glacial-- the track breaks often signal a change only in the song's title, not its progression-- as the music flowers into something bigger. Tracks like "4321" take Slint's willingness to bleed simple progressions dry, circling around similar sounds for 10 minutes and more. 7YRC, like Badgerlore, give the vibe of existing in a space where the rules are theirs: Time goes at their speed, sounds blend where they desire them, and there's more than a hint of escapism chasing their quiet guitar calls and sparse free-jazz drumming. Ache Hornes repeats itself constantly, without resolution, or even much catharsis. Fisk's restraint is almost complete and, like his songs, verging on self-parody. Now that Deerhoof's down a member, maybe he could get back with them and let the demons out again?

Artist: 7 Year Rabbit Cycle, Album: Ache Hornes, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "The OG of the animal name game, Rob Fisk's responsible for a label, Free Porcupine Society, and at least three bands-- Deerhoof, Badgerlore, 7 Year Rabbit Cycle-- that pay homage to whatever's wild in wilderness. Fisk has described his project as "eco-terrorist hobbit rock": Like elephants at the circus rising up against their trainers, or Wolf Eyes, it's the kind of outdoors where the primary export isn't flowers. Ache Hornes, the newest from Fisk and his wife Kelly Goode-- 7YRC's guitar'n'vocals core-- adds Zorn-Cline-Bungle collaborator Ches Smith (on drums) and Xiu Xiu's Jamie Stewart (vocals, guitar), to jazz up the bare family improv. The quartet moves from minimalism, in its Warren Burt tuning fork/xylophone sections, to startlingly conventional rock elements as tight and spare as Slint or Hoover. "Wren" showcases Goode's Kimya Dawson sour-sweet vocals, marching from dubbed out and minimal bass and drum into jokes courtesy of Shel Silverstein-- "Now I see that you don't care, don't care, don't care." "This Makes Me a Barn Burner" is a tiny harmonic explosion that breaks the deadpan, while songs like "Untitled" and "Magic Yam Part 2" bounce on single trebly notes, pausing to stop, take stock, and start again. The pacing's immaculate and glacial-- the track breaks often signal a change only in the song's title, not its progression-- as the music flowers into something bigger. Tracks like "4321" take Slint's willingness to bleed simple progressions dry, circling around similar sounds for 10 minutes and more. 7YRC, like Badgerlore, give the vibe of existing in a space where the rules are theirs: Time goes at their speed, sounds blend where they desire them, and there's more than a hint of escapism chasing their quiet guitar calls and sparse free-jazz drumming. Ache Hornes repeats itself constantly, without resolution, or even much catharsis. Fisk's restraint is almost complete and, like his songs, verging on self-parody. Now that Deerhoof's down a member, maybe he could get back with them and let the demons out again?"

Blind Man's Colour

Wooden Blankets EP

Experimental,Rock

Paul Thompson

Blind Man's Colour are getting there. These two Florida youngsters are shedding influences and playing to strengths. They're also smartly packaging their ideas at an unusually brisk pace-- their Wooden Blankets EP arrives less than a year after their debut, Season Dreaming. They'd still do well to match their shimmering synth-pop textures with a more dazzling group of tunes, but their hues have intensified and their patterns grown more complex, which counts as significant progress for a fresh-faced ambient-pop band such as this. Of course, my colleague Joe Colly's assertion in his review of Season Dreaming that BMC "owes everything to Animal Collective" still has more than a ring of truth to it. The songs on Wooden Blankets are all enveloped in a damp murk, a sharp contrast from Season Dreaming's sunkissed feel; the effect is not unlike Strawberry Jam's fizzy "#1", and just as with the AC track, tunes here take a backseat to texture. But they've opted to trade Feels-era shiftiness for a mellower, sparkly Person Pitch pastiche, and the resulting textures are richer, more vivid, and far prettier. There's evidence of a few more trips to the record store, too; the synths have a blocky Brian Eno quality, the drift floats like spacey Phaedra-era Tangerine Dream, and the alternately swooping and soporific vocals smack of Frog Eyes' Carey Mercer and Deerhunter's Bradford Cox, respectively. The challenge BMC still don't seem quite up to is matching these impressive textures to songs you can carry with you once they're finished-- something most of their influences took years to manage. These melodies don't put up much of a fight through the dense haze on display here, and when they do-- as on mantra-like closer "Sleeping Bag"-- they lose much of the sonic richness that seems at the moment like their best asset. That balance between tune and texture isn't an easy one to strike, and they still need to work on the former; these songs do feel more distinctly theirs, but they still don't quite have the gestures of songwriting down well enough to get away with being quite this gestural as songsmiths, and no amount of sonic wallpapering can cover over the holes in these tunes. But Wooden Blankets is a series of small successes, with evidence of progress and promise; they may still have a ways to go, but it's plain as day which way they're headed.

Artist: Blind Man's Colour, Album: Wooden Blankets EP, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Blind Man's Colour are getting there. These two Florida youngsters are shedding influences and playing to strengths. They're also smartly packaging their ideas at an unusually brisk pace-- their Wooden Blankets EP arrives less than a year after their debut, Season Dreaming. They'd still do well to match their shimmering synth-pop textures with a more dazzling group of tunes, but their hues have intensified and their patterns grown more complex, which counts as significant progress for a fresh-faced ambient-pop band such as this. Of course, my colleague Joe Colly's assertion in his review of Season Dreaming that BMC "owes everything to Animal Collective" still has more than a ring of truth to it. The songs on Wooden Blankets are all enveloped in a damp murk, a sharp contrast from Season Dreaming's sunkissed feel; the effect is not unlike Strawberry Jam's fizzy "#1", and just as with the AC track, tunes here take a backseat to texture. But they've opted to trade Feels-era shiftiness for a mellower, sparkly Person Pitch pastiche, and the resulting textures are richer, more vivid, and far prettier. There's evidence of a few more trips to the record store, too; the synths have a blocky Brian Eno quality, the drift floats like spacey Phaedra-era Tangerine Dream, and the alternately swooping and soporific vocals smack of Frog Eyes' Carey Mercer and Deerhunter's Bradford Cox, respectively. The challenge BMC still don't seem quite up to is matching these impressive textures to songs you can carry with you once they're finished-- something most of their influences took years to manage. These melodies don't put up much of a fight through the dense haze on display here, and when they do-- as on mantra-like closer "Sleeping Bag"-- they lose much of the sonic richness that seems at the moment like their best asset. That balance between tune and texture isn't an easy one to strike, and they still need to work on the former; these songs do feel more distinctly theirs, but they still don't quite have the gestures of songwriting down well enough to get away with being quite this gestural as songsmiths, and no amount of sonic wallpapering can cover over the holes in these tunes. But Wooden Blankets is a series of small successes, with evidence of progress and promise; they may still have a ways to go, but it's plain as day which way they're headed."

Telekinesis

12 Desperate Straight Lines

Rock

Larry Fitzmaurice

On the one hand, Michael Lerner's Telekinesis comes over like boilerplate mid-aughts indie rock, slotting easily next to everything that draws a line to The Photo Album-era Death Cab For Cutie. But his sound can be traced back further; when he's playing spirted power pop, you could see his music working well between Matthew Sweet and Better Than Ezra (if you think the latter is an insult, perhaps you haven't listened to 1996's underrated Friction, Baby). But while Telekinesis' catalog brings to mind a handful of musical eras, it can sound a little odd in the present. What Lerner has been up to for the last few years isn't exactly fashionable, which is probably why he and labelmate contemporaries like the Love Language haven't yet received the type of recognition they might have only five years ago. Good for Lerner, then, that he's stuck with his sound and kept at it with Telekinesis' second LP, 12 Desperate Straight Lines. The record has some of his strongest, catchiest tunes to date (especially the sugared-up anthem "Car Crash"), despite the continued reliance on silly lyrics (see the observation on "50 Ways" that "Paul Simon probably said it the best"-- I'll give you a hint, he's not referencing "Graceland"). But though this is his most consistent record, it might be too much so for its own good. On last year's stopgap Parallel Seismic Conspiracies EP, Lerner toyed with a rougher, frayed-edges sound; the experimentation resulted in a particularly terrible cover of pre-Joy Division band Warsaw's "The Drawback", but it also added vitality to a sound that too often seemed to coast on Telekines' self-titled debut. On 12 Desperate Straight Lines, the guitars occasionally get abrasive, particularly on the stomper "Palm of Your Hand". But otherwise, slickness is the move here, as even the previous EP highlight "Dirty Thing" transforms from lovably slack to precisely ordered. But his approach could use some experimentation beyond just throwing in new wave guitar sounds, which sound foreign and out of place on the Cure-striving "Please Ask For Help". But if Lerner just keeps on doing his thing, he's clearly getting better at it.

Artist: Telekinesis, Album: 12 Desperate Straight Lines, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "On the one hand, Michael Lerner's Telekinesis comes over like boilerplate mid-aughts indie rock, slotting easily next to everything that draws a line to The Photo Album-era Death Cab For Cutie. But his sound can be traced back further; when he's playing spirted power pop, you could see his music working well between Matthew Sweet and Better Than Ezra (if you think the latter is an insult, perhaps you haven't listened to 1996's underrated Friction, Baby). But while Telekinesis' catalog brings to mind a handful of musical eras, it can sound a little odd in the present. What Lerner has been up to for the last few years isn't exactly fashionable, which is probably why he and labelmate contemporaries like the Love Language haven't yet received the type of recognition they might have only five years ago. Good for Lerner, then, that he's stuck with his sound and kept at it with Telekinesis' second LP, 12 Desperate Straight Lines. The record has some of his strongest, catchiest tunes to date (especially the sugared-up anthem "Car Crash"), despite the continued reliance on silly lyrics (see the observation on "50 Ways" that "Paul Simon probably said it the best"-- I'll give you a hint, he's not referencing "Graceland"). But though this is his most consistent record, it might be too much so for its own good. On last year's stopgap Parallel Seismic Conspiracies EP, Lerner toyed with a rougher, frayed-edges sound; the experimentation resulted in a particularly terrible cover of pre-Joy Division band Warsaw's "The Drawback", but it also added vitality to a sound that too often seemed to coast on Telekines' self-titled debut. On 12 Desperate Straight Lines, the guitars occasionally get abrasive, particularly on the stomper "Palm of Your Hand". But otherwise, slickness is the move here, as even the previous EP highlight "Dirty Thing" transforms from lovably slack to precisely ordered. But his approach could use some experimentation beyond just throwing in new wave guitar sounds, which sound foreign and out of place on the Cure-striving "Please Ask For Help". But if Lerner just keeps on doing his thing, he's clearly getting better at it."

Voigt & Voigt

Die zauberhafte Welt der Anderen

Miles Raymer

The title of the latest collaboration between brothers Wolfgang and Reinhard Voigt translates as "The Magical World of Others". It fits in a sense: Die zauberhafte Welt der Anderen is less the straightforward collection of minimal techno that you might expect from the pair's individual catalogs than an hour-long immersion into a universe that the Voigts have been building for ages, but only occasionally allow outsiders inside. It's a world with its own unique dynamic. The tracks don't present themselves up front, but rather unspool without hurry, changing shape dramatically in the process. "Intro König" opens with droning, electronically generated textures, then layers on lush, spookily dissonant strings before suddenly transforming into a strangely psychedelic house track piled with backwards guitar loops, a barking dog, and weird, unidentifiable amusical sounds flickering across the spectrum. The ambiguous Eastern drone that makes up the two-minute-long "Akira" reappears at the end of the album in the form of the 26-minute "Akira Mantra". Throughout the LP there are repeated vague hints that the Voigt brothers' world has some sort of storyline running through it, like we're hearing the score to a film that only exists in their shared imagination. Near its end, the Euroclubby "Hotel Noki" breaks down into twinkling piano and a recording of someone pulling up on a motorcycle, then pulling away again. If there's not a narrative element to the song, the Voigts are very cleverly messing with our heads by strongly implying that there is. A narrative would help explain some of the odder choices that the pair makes throughout the album. Even after spending half the record making it clear that they intended to stretch outside of their usual aesthetic territoriy, with tracks that reference industrial music, hard rock, and even a little bit of blues, the mid-album detour into electronic smooth jazz on "Sozial" (complete with flute solo) is a jarring surprise. The dissonant drone that enters part-way through the song to add a hint of menace to the schmaltz makes it a weirdly discomfiting listen. That discomfort, and wondering why the Voigts would want to unsettle their listeners with such a sinister track, are intriguing. "Sozial" would be perfect as the soundtrack to a particularly sleazy scene in a David Lynch movie, but otherwise I can't think of a good reason to spend several minutes listening to malefic electro smooth jazz. There are a few other missteps: A couple of tracks offer the tasteful, Germanic approach to house music that's generally associated with the lobbies of boutique hotels. And "Akira Mantra" is 26 minutes of just one loop that never seems to evolve in any way, which isn't meditative but maddening. It's not all bad, though. "Der Keil NRW" has the glossy black sheen of an 80s John Carpenter soundtrack. The plump synthesizers and Teutonically rigid rhythm of "Triplychon Nummer 7" are pleasantly reminiscent of vintage European EBM. And "Intro König" is just fascinatingly weird. Die zauberhafte Welt der Anderen works best if you go ahead and make up the movie that you want it to be the soundtrack to. It's unlikely to be a magical one, but it's certainly got transportive potential.

Artist: Voigt & Voigt, Album: Die zauberhafte Welt der Anderen, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.6 Album review: "The title of the latest collaboration between brothers Wolfgang and Reinhard Voigt translates as "The Magical World of Others". It fits in a sense: Die zauberhafte Welt der Anderen is less the straightforward collection of minimal techno that you might expect from the pair's individual catalogs than an hour-long immersion into a universe that the Voigts have been building for ages, but only occasionally allow outsiders inside. It's a world with its own unique dynamic. The tracks don't present themselves up front, but rather unspool without hurry, changing shape dramatically in the process. "Intro König" opens with droning, electronically generated textures, then layers on lush, spookily dissonant strings before suddenly transforming into a strangely psychedelic house track piled with backwards guitar loops, a barking dog, and weird, unidentifiable amusical sounds flickering across the spectrum. The ambiguous Eastern drone that makes up the two-minute-long "Akira" reappears at the end of the album in the form of the 26-minute "Akira Mantra". Throughout the LP there are repeated vague hints that the Voigt brothers' world has some sort of storyline running through it, like we're hearing the score to a film that only exists in their shared imagination. Near its end, the Euroclubby "Hotel Noki" breaks down into twinkling piano and a recording of someone pulling up on a motorcycle, then pulling away again. If there's not a narrative element to the song, the Voigts are very cleverly messing with our heads by strongly implying that there is. A narrative would help explain some of the odder choices that the pair makes throughout the album. Even after spending half the record making it clear that they intended to stretch outside of their usual aesthetic territoriy, with tracks that reference industrial music, hard rock, and even a little bit of blues, the mid-album detour into electronic smooth jazz on "Sozial" (complete with flute solo) is a jarring surprise. The dissonant drone that enters part-way through the song to add a hint of menace to the schmaltz makes it a weirdly discomfiting listen. That discomfort, and wondering why the Voigts would want to unsettle their listeners with such a sinister track, are intriguing. "Sozial" would be perfect as the soundtrack to a particularly sleazy scene in a David Lynch movie, but otherwise I can't think of a good reason to spend several minutes listening to malefic electro smooth jazz. There are a few other missteps: A couple of tracks offer the tasteful, Germanic approach to house music that's generally associated with the lobbies of boutique hotels. And "Akira Mantra" is 26 minutes of just one loop that never seems to evolve in any way, which isn't meditative but maddening. It's not all bad, though. "Der Keil NRW" has the glossy black sheen of an 80s John Carpenter soundtrack. The plump synthesizers and Teutonically rigid rhythm of "Triplychon Nummer 7" are pleasantly reminiscent of vintage European EBM. And "Intro König" is just fascinatingly weird. Die zauberhafte Welt der Anderen works best if you go ahead and make up the movie that you want it to be the soundtrack to. It's unlikely to be a magical one, but it's certainly got transportive potential."

Roc Marciano

Marci Beaucoup

Rap

Renato Pagnani

Roc Marciano works in details rather than large, dramatic brush strokes. Like fellow New York MC Ka, Marciano's voice rarely rises above a conversational purr—you need to really lean in close to get the full effect. He doesn't build narratives as much as construct small, distinct images and then stack them on top of each other. Even his beats are designed to shade, rather than color, his songs. Over the course of his first two albums, he's established himself as one of the foremost purveyors of classicist New York slick-talk, digging into a very specific sound and exploring just how far down he can go. His latest release, Marci Beaucoup, finds Marciano stepping out of the spotlight ever so slightly and instead focusing more on his production chops than his already-proven lyrical skills. Whereas 2012's Reloaded was a comparatively lighter sonic affair than its predecessor, the bleaker Marcberg, Marci Beaucoup hews closer to the grimier aesthetic of Marciano's debut, where the production felt more off-the-cuff and rougher around the edges. Like that album, the beats on Marci Beaucoup are handled entirely by Marciano, and they alternate between minimalist RZA-esque menace and monochromatic soul. As a producer, Marciano shares the same penchant for bite-sized vocal loops that were J Dilla's bread and butter, and he's able to create a palpable tension by drawing out the hypnotic qualities in them. "Love Means" is only allowed to unspool during its brief hook—otherwise, it's all creeping dread masquerading as a serenade. These sorts of little touches can be found everywhere: horns lazily snake into the corners of "Squeeze"; shouts from what sound like children on a playground litter "Dollar Bitch"; elsewhere, a single bleat from an ill-timed chop signals the end of each loop on the loping "War Scars". These beats are insistent and physical, even when they're made out of lullabies twisted into unnatural shapes, as is the case with "Didn't Know", an example of Marciano's willingness to think outside of the box as a producer. Like every track on the album, a few friends pop by to help out, but only Freeway sounds totally out of his element here, his verse only made worse by the virulent homophobia contained within it. Because there's not a single track where Marciano raps on his own, Marci Beaucoup feel like a compilation curated by Marciano more than a true solo effort. And as solid as these beats are, they best fit the kind of rappers who operate in a headspace similar to Marciano's, but that's not always who ends up on them. Those with tightly-coiled deliveries fare best—Boldy James scrapes the bottom of "Trying to Come Up" as if he hasn't eaten in a month, and Action Bronson adds some much welcome levity to "456". Perhaps unsurprisingly, it's Ka, the rapper who best compliments Marciano, who steals the tracks he shows up on with his blank-faced gravitas. Unfortunately, too many appearances from third-stringers like Knowledge the Pirate and Maffew Ragazino just made me wish Marciano was rapping instead, and a few more solo cuts would've helped alleviate the frequent soggy stretches. As a proper third album, Marci Beaucoup doesn't stack up to its precursors, but as an advertisement for Marciano's services as a beatsmith, it's much more successful.

Artist: Roc Marciano, Album: Marci Beaucoup, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Roc Marciano works in details rather than large, dramatic brush strokes. Like fellow New York MC Ka, Marciano's voice rarely rises above a conversational purr—you need to really lean in close to get the full effect. He doesn't build narratives as much as construct small, distinct images and then stack them on top of each other. Even his beats are designed to shade, rather than color, his songs. Over the course of his first two albums, he's established himself as one of the foremost purveyors of classicist New York slick-talk, digging into a very specific sound and exploring just how far down he can go. His latest release, Marci Beaucoup, finds Marciano stepping out of the spotlight ever so slightly and instead focusing more on his production chops than his already-proven lyrical skills. Whereas 2012's Reloaded was a comparatively lighter sonic affair than its predecessor, the bleaker Marcberg, Marci Beaucoup hews closer to the grimier aesthetic of Marciano's debut, where the production felt more off-the-cuff and rougher around the edges. Like that album, the beats on Marci Beaucoup are handled entirely by Marciano, and they alternate between minimalist RZA-esque menace and monochromatic soul. As a producer, Marciano shares the same penchant for bite-sized vocal loops that were J Dilla's bread and butter, and he's able to create a palpable tension by drawing out the hypnotic qualities in them. "Love Means" is only allowed to unspool during its brief hook—otherwise, it's all creeping dread masquerading as a serenade. These sorts of little touches can be found everywhere: horns lazily snake into the corners of "Squeeze"; shouts from what sound like children on a playground litter "Dollar Bitch"; elsewhere, a single bleat from an ill-timed chop signals the end of each loop on the loping "War Scars". These beats are insistent and physical, even when they're made out of lullabies twisted into unnatural shapes, as is the case with "Didn't Know", an example of Marciano's willingness to think outside of the box as a producer. Like every track on the album, a few friends pop by to help out, but only Freeway sounds totally out of his element here, his verse only made worse by the virulent homophobia contained within it. Because there's not a single track where Marciano raps on his own, Marci Beaucoup feel like a compilation curated by Marciano more than a true solo effort. And as solid as these beats are, they best fit the kind of rappers who operate in a headspace similar to Marciano's, but that's not always who ends up on them. Those with tightly-coiled deliveries fare best—Boldy James scrapes the bottom of "Trying to Come Up" as if he hasn't eaten in a month, and Action Bronson adds some much welcome levity to "456". Perhaps unsurprisingly, it's Ka, the rapper who best compliments Marciano, who steals the tracks he shows up on with his blank-faced gravitas. Unfortunately, too many appearances from third-stringers like Knowledge the Pirate and Maffew Ragazino just made me wish Marciano was rapping instead, and a few more solo cuts would've helped alleviate the frequent soggy stretches. As a proper third album, Marci Beaucoup doesn't stack up to its precursors, but as an advertisement for Marciano's services as a beatsmith, it's much more successful."

Obituary

Obituary

Metal

Andy O'Connor

Of the bands that define Florida death metal, which also strongly defines American Death Metal as a whole, Obituary remain a beacon of consistency. Beginning in 1984 under the Executioner moniker, Obituary built their sound around stripping the Gothic cobwebs off Celtic Frost’s mid-paced riffing. They let the guitars become a humid swamp, thick and airy. Singer John Tardy defined death metal vocals by getting as guttural as guitarist Trevor Peres’ rhythms, removing any last vestiges of thrashy snarling. Obituary have been held as models for keeping it simple, and for fans, the idea of a new album from them can seem predictable. But their self-titled 10th record proves Obituary don’t suffer for sticking to their identity. Peres and drummer Donald Tardy remain at the heart of Obituary and feed off each other in a way few death metal bands do. Peres sounds more mangled when Donald speeds up, and already thick riffs feel impenetrable as his drumming slows. As such, Peres’ low, groveling guitar tone is more flexible than it seems. Obituary begins with two faster numbers, “Brave” and “Sentence Day”—affirmations that they’re not giving up anytime soon. Both are busy for a band who prefers to let a groovy riff sink in, and John in particular lunges with a youthfulness that rivals the band’s heyday in the late ’80s and early ’90s. Some of Obituary’s best work has come from letting flashiness creep in. In 1990, for example, Cause of Death had its sludge punctured by James Murphy’s divebombs and neoclassically-influenced soloing. That album contained their most developed songwriting in terms of leads. Likewise, thanks to Ken Andrews’ lead work here, Obituary is their most energetic record since reforming in 2003 (they originally disbanded in ’97). On “shredder” records, the disconnect between the fireworks of the guitarist and the tepid rhythm section can be jarring. But Peres and Donald’s strong foundation keeps that from happening. Andrews can also bow to death metal tradition, as he does with the spaced-out, Death-like leads in “Kneel Before Me.” Meanwhile, “Sentence” ends with a one-man guitar battle, as Andrews heralds not just the dueling harmonies of Judas Priest’s Glenn Tipton and K.K. Downing but also Slayer’s chaotic interplay between Jeff Hanneman and Kerry King. He’s not just versatile; he sounds like he’s genuinely excited. And that exuberance doesn’t arise from nowhere—Donald and Andrews were once members of Andrew W.K.’s backing band. This record honors all of Obituary’s history by not compromising. Its reliability is peppered with unrest. Obituary ends the opposite of how it began—slow and yet somehow impatient. “Straight to Hell” recalls the dim flickering-light riffs of 1992’s “The End Complete,” resulting in a seediness that’s constantly promised in death metal and rarely achieved. “Turned Into Stone” centers their Celtic Frost worship, a more gradual unsettling than some of the record’s faster pillages. With these contrasts, Obituary show they’re keenly aware of dynamics in a way most bands could stand to afford. In 2017, the challenge for a veteran metal act is to not relentlessly innovate, but to mine any small new parts of their sound. Kreator and Immolation have proved successful in this regard already, and Obituary, while sticking closer to their roots, have also proven their vitality here.

Artist: Obituary, Album: Obituary, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Of the bands that define Florida death metal, which also strongly defines American Death Metal as a whole, Obituary remain a beacon of consistency. Beginning in 1984 under the Executioner moniker, Obituary built their sound around stripping the Gothic cobwebs off Celtic Frost’s mid-paced riffing. They let the guitars become a humid swamp, thick and airy. Singer John Tardy defined death metal vocals by getting as guttural as guitarist Trevor Peres’ rhythms, removing any last vestiges of thrashy snarling. Obituary have been held as models for keeping it simple, and for fans, the idea of a new album from them can seem predictable. But their self-titled 10th record proves Obituary don’t suffer for sticking to their identity. Peres and drummer Donald Tardy remain at the heart of Obituary and feed off each other in a way few death metal bands do. Peres sounds more mangled when Donald speeds up, and already thick riffs feel impenetrable as his drumming slows. As such, Peres’ low, groveling guitar tone is more flexible than it seems. Obituary begins with two faster numbers, “Brave” and “Sentence Day”—affirmations that they’re not giving up anytime soon. Both are busy for a band who prefers to let a groovy riff sink in, and John in particular lunges with a youthfulness that rivals the band’s heyday in the late ’80s and early ’90s. Some of Obituary’s best work has come from letting flashiness creep in. In 1990, for example, Cause of Death had its sludge punctured by James Murphy’s divebombs and neoclassically-influenced soloing. That album contained their most developed songwriting in terms of leads. Likewise, thanks to Ken Andrews’ lead work here, Obituary is their most energetic record since reforming in 2003 (they originally disbanded in ’97). On “shredder” records, the disconnect between the fireworks of the guitarist and the tepid rhythm section can be jarring. But Peres and Donald’s strong foundation keeps that from happening. Andrews can also bow to death metal tradition, as he does with the spaced-out, Death-like leads in “Kneel Before Me.” Meanwhile, “Sentence” ends with a one-man guitar battle, as Andrews heralds not just the dueling harmonies of Judas Priest’s Glenn Tipton and K.K. Downing but also Slayer’s chaotic interplay between Jeff Hanneman and Kerry King. He’s not just versatile; he sounds like he’s genuinely excited. And that exuberance doesn’t arise from nowhere—Donald and Andrews were once members of Andrew W.K.’s backing band. This record honors all of Obituary’s history by not compromising. Its reliability is peppered with unrest. Obituary ends the opposite of how it began—slow and yet somehow impatient. “Straight to Hell” recalls the dim flickering-light riffs of 1992’s “The End Complete,” resulting in a seediness that’s constantly promised in death metal and rarely achieved. “Turned Into Stone” centers their Celtic Frost worship, a more gradual unsettling than some of the record’s faster pillages. With these contrasts, Obituary show they’re keenly aware of dynamics in a way most bands could stand to afford. In 2017, the challenge for a veteran metal act is to not relentlessly innovate, but to mine any small new parts of their sound. Kreator and Immolation have proved successful in this regard already, and Obituary, while sticking closer to their roots, have also proven their vitality here."

Mellow

Perfect Colors

Electronic

Derek Miller

I think Mellow like the Beatles. It's not in their bio or anything, but I think I'm onto something here. Oh, and I think they like Pink Floyd, too. And as long as we're playing where-have-I-heard-this-before, let's throw Air and Gainsbourg in the mix. OK, yeah, so The Beatles are an obvious critical hinge-point. It's a fair tantrum, but one listen to Mellow's Perfect Colors and you'll understand the need to view the band through the hyperkinetic acid-scapes of their forebears-- a lysergic costume parade fronted by the Walrus, Taxman, and lonely Ms. Rigby. Fortunately for Patrick Woodcock and rest of the neo-psych Frenchmen in Mellow, they're quite adept at hero worship. It wasn't always this way: Their 2001 LP Another Mellow Spring was a still-born genre exercise with a handful of carbon copys. "Another Mellow Winter", for example, quoted "Baby You're a Rich Man" with enough larceny to bring charges. On their follow-up, Perfect Colors, Mellow escape the trap of making merely referential music thanks to grand electronic sweeps and plenty of psych-parody. The opening title track swoons with Meddle-era acoustic guitar and nachtmusik atmospherics. They admit the absurdity in their retro-adoration, but their senses of irony, humor, and excess make grand rehashings of should-be tired sounds. On the rest of the album, Mellow continue to reform the golden era of psychedelia with post-modern production flourishes that are smooth and cantankerous in all the right places. They twist the leftfield post-millenial world as dreamt by 20th century sci-fi into cartoonish snapshots that acknowledge their contortions. Here, Woodcock insists, lies the future I fully realize will never be. "It Was Raining" is the grotesque Wurlitzer-spiked folk song David Gilmour couldn't convince Roger Waters to put on Atom Heart Mother. As that gloomy organ sets the pace for psychotic background mumblings and a classic-rock drum roll, Woodcock jokes "Don't know her name/ So I won't take the blame" with space-cadet drollery. Somewhere, fellow Frenchmen Nicolas Godin & Jean-Benoit Dunckel are checking their back catalogue for missing material. "In the Meantime" retreats into a Gainsbourgian ramble, with enough grumbling guitar strokes and amorphous atmospherics to fill its empty spaces. Woodcock's lyricism is an acerbic drift that tackles scientology, drug addiction, and hippie vagrancy. A symphony to misanthropy, its wry understatings centerpiece an album that laughs at its own nostalgia and invites you to do the same. In the end, how much you enjoy Perfect Colors will depend on how much emphasis you place on ingenuity or how much reverence you have for the past. The glamorous thrash of "Out of Reach", for example, will be a little too Warhol-schlock for many, but where else can you hear a grand orchestral intro dissolve into a demonic Orff-worthy chorus ("Drifting Out of Sight/ A Place for Meditation")?

Artist: Mellow, Album: Perfect Colors, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "I think Mellow like the Beatles. It's not in their bio or anything, but I think I'm onto something here. Oh, and I think they like Pink Floyd, too. And as long as we're playing where-have-I-heard-this-before, let's throw Air and Gainsbourg in the mix. OK, yeah, so The Beatles are an obvious critical hinge-point. It's a fair tantrum, but one listen to Mellow's Perfect Colors and you'll understand the need to view the band through the hyperkinetic acid-scapes of their forebears-- a lysergic costume parade fronted by the Walrus, Taxman, and lonely Ms. Rigby. Fortunately for Patrick Woodcock and rest of the neo-psych Frenchmen in Mellow, they're quite adept at hero worship. It wasn't always this way: Their 2001 LP Another Mellow Spring was a still-born genre exercise with a handful of carbon copys. "Another Mellow Winter", for example, quoted "Baby You're a Rich Man" with enough larceny to bring charges. On their follow-up, Perfect Colors, Mellow escape the trap of making merely referential music thanks to grand electronic sweeps and plenty of psych-parody. The opening title track swoons with Meddle-era acoustic guitar and nachtmusik atmospherics. They admit the absurdity in their retro-adoration, but their senses of irony, humor, and excess make grand rehashings of should-be tired sounds. On the rest of the album, Mellow continue to reform the golden era of psychedelia with post-modern production flourishes that are smooth and cantankerous in all the right places. They twist the leftfield post-millenial world as dreamt by 20th century sci-fi into cartoonish snapshots that acknowledge their contortions. Here, Woodcock insists, lies the future I fully realize will never be. "It Was Raining" is the grotesque Wurlitzer-spiked folk song David Gilmour couldn't convince Roger Waters to put on Atom Heart Mother. As that gloomy organ sets the pace for psychotic background mumblings and a classic-rock drum roll, Woodcock jokes "Don't know her name/ So I won't take the blame" with space-cadet drollery. Somewhere, fellow Frenchmen Nicolas Godin & Jean-Benoit Dunckel are checking their back catalogue for missing material. "In the Meantime" retreats into a Gainsbourgian ramble, with enough grumbling guitar strokes and amorphous atmospherics to fill its empty spaces. Woodcock's lyricism is an acerbic drift that tackles scientology, drug addiction, and hippie vagrancy. A symphony to misanthropy, its wry understatings centerpiece an album that laughs at its own nostalgia and invites you to do the same. In the end, how much you enjoy Perfect Colors will depend on how much emphasis you place on ingenuity or how much reverence you have for the past. The glamorous thrash of "Out of Reach", for example, will be a little too Warhol-schlock for many, but where else can you hear a grand orchestral intro dissolve into a demonic Orff-worthy chorus ("Drifting Out of Sight/ A Place for Meditation")?"

Nao

Saturn

Pop/R&B

Eric Torres

Saturn, the second album from London singer-songwriter Nao, is based on the Saturn return, that specter haunting all horoscopic astrology nerds in their late twenties, when the planet Saturn comes back to meet the same spot it was at your birth. Nao, loosely within that age bracket, is a shrewd observer of the phenomenon, which is said to leave all kinds of interpersonal grief and transformation in its wake. As the astrologer Chani Nicholas explained earlier this year, the Saturn return is a time when “we aren’t so innocent, unformed, or new anymore”—a time when, “if we are lucky, we realize that no one is going to save us. And if they tried it wouldn’t feel right.” The album drifts through a mindset in flux, largely focusing on heartbreak and the regenerative bliss that comes after. Following her 2016 debut, For All We Know, Saturn draws from R&B, pop, and funk influences with considerable self-assurance. It also reveals a newfound precision in her production, choice of collaborators, and the fine-tuned intimacy of her lyrics—all of which throw the album’s themes of personal growth and astrology into sharp, gorgeous relief. Nao’s voice, capable of quickly shifting between a husky lower register and a mellifluous, piercing falsetto, remains a vitalizing force over Saturn’s meditations on love and loss. On “Orbit,” the album’s shapeshifting centerpiece, she traces the state of mental unsteadiness that follows a breakup, anchored by plucked electric guitar and spacious programmed beats. The track takes its time meandering from a sung, broad-stroke depiction of the end of a relationship (“I lost you in dreams, now I’m falling”) to a pitch-shifted rap that chisels its failings down to minute detail (“I don’t care about this dog and you know I can’t afford it”). Unsparing yet emotionally generous, “Orbit” adds a new wrinkle to Nao’s songwriting without sacrificing any of its tenderness. That she calls out D’Angelo here (“You can give me the voodoo/Like D’Angelo said, ‘How does it, how does it feel?’”) seems especially apt—“Orbit” moves with the same pointed intention as the neo-soul forebear’s most balanced compositions. But Nao doesn’t wallow for long. Highlights “If You Ever” and “Yellow of the Sun” are balmy, sunlit odes to dizzying romance, while the proto-funk of “Gabriel” and the icy, restrained “Curiosity” explore sultry new depths. Tapping familiars like Mura Masa, LOXE, and GRADES for production duties, with background players ranging from Daniel Caesar to the Chineke! Orchestra, Nao enlists musicians that help her deftly transition between lean future-pop and sparse, levitating R&B. She even indulges listeners with radio-oriented fare like the silky, SiR-featuring, straight-R&B cut “Make It Out Alive.” Regrettably, when Nao slows things down too much the occasional clumsy turn of phrase becomes obvious. The title track, despite a lovely vocal feature by UK singer-songwriter Kwabs and an expansive, strings-enhanced backdrop, doesn’t add much nuance to the album’s astrological motif, and its lyrics are graceless: “Your constellation circulating me/Like a Capricorn, you’re hard to release.” Nao trips over a similar problem on the forgettable “Drive and Disconnect”: Over a guitar line and insistent Afropop beats, she vaguely intimates an escape from “too many crimes” while elaborating on approximately none of them. Yet even for its sometimes awkward lyrics, Saturn is tempered with enough dynamic songwriting that these instances feel less like artistic failures than growing pains. Between Nao’s lush voice and the album’s glossy production, it’s easy to get lost in Saturn. A worthy successor to For All We Know, it homes in on a specific, if occasionally ham-fisted, conceit while expanding on her sound in clear, vibrant ways.

Artist: Nao, Album: Saturn, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Saturn, the second album from London singer-songwriter Nao, is based on the Saturn return, that specter haunting all horoscopic astrology nerds in their late twenties, when the planet Saturn comes back to meet the same spot it was at your birth. Nao, loosely within that age bracket, is a shrewd observer of the phenomenon, which is said to leave all kinds of interpersonal grief and transformation in its wake. As the astrologer Chani Nicholas explained earlier this year, the Saturn return is a time when “we aren’t so innocent, unformed, or new anymore”—a time when, “if we are lucky, we realize that no one is going to save us. And if they tried it wouldn’t feel right.” The album drifts through a mindset in flux, largely focusing on heartbreak and the regenerative bliss that comes after. Following her 2016 debut, For All We Know, Saturn draws from R&B, pop, and funk influences with considerable self-assurance. It also reveals a newfound precision in her production, choice of collaborators, and the fine-tuned intimacy of her lyrics—all of which throw the album’s themes of personal growth and astrology into sharp, gorgeous relief. Nao’s voice, capable of quickly shifting between a husky lower register and a mellifluous, piercing falsetto, remains a vitalizing force over Saturn’s meditations on love and loss. On “Orbit,” the album’s shapeshifting centerpiece, she traces the state of mental unsteadiness that follows a breakup, anchored by plucked electric guitar and spacious programmed beats. The track takes its time meandering from a sung, broad-stroke depiction of the end of a relationship (“I lost you in dreams, now I’m falling”) to a pitch-shifted rap that chisels its failings down to minute detail (“I don’t care about this dog and you know I can’t afford it”). Unsparing yet emotionally generous, “Orbit” adds a new wrinkle to Nao’s songwriting without sacrificing any of its tenderness. That she calls out D’Angelo here (“You can give me the voodoo/Like D’Angelo said, ‘How does it, how does it feel?’”) seems especially apt—“Orbit” moves with the same pointed intention as the neo-soul forebear’s most balanced compositions. But Nao doesn’t wallow for long. Highlights “If You Ever” and “Yellow of the Sun” are balmy, sunlit odes to dizzying romance, while the proto-funk of “Gabriel” and the icy, restrained “Curiosity” explore sultry new depths. Tapping familiars like Mura Masa, LOXE, and GRADES for production duties, with background players ranging from Daniel Caesar to the Chineke! Orchestra, Nao enlists musicians that help her deftly transition between lean future-pop and sparse, levitating R&B. She even indulges listeners with radio-oriented fare like the silky, SiR-featuring, straight-R&B cut “Make It Out Alive.” Regrettably, when Nao slows things down too much the occasional clumsy turn of phrase becomes obvious. The title track, despite a lovely vocal feature by UK singer-songwriter Kwabs and an expansive, strings-enhanced backdrop, doesn’t add much nuance to the album’s astrological motif, and its lyrics are graceless: “Your constellation circulating me/Like a Capricorn, you’re hard to release.” Nao trips over a similar problem on the forgettable “Drive and Disconnect”: Over a guitar line and insistent Afropop beats, she vaguely intimates an escape from “too many crimes” while elaborating on approximately none of them. Yet even for its sometimes awkward lyrics, Saturn is tempered with enough dynamic songwriting that these instances feel less like artistic failures than growing pains. Between Nao’s lush voice and the album’s glossy production, it’s easy to get lost in Saturn. A worthy successor to For All We Know, it homes in on a specific, if occasionally ham-fisted, conceit while expanding on her sound in clear, vibrant ways."

Parts & Labor

Mapmaker

Experimental,Rock

Jason Crock

With Mapmaker, Parts & Labor display a newfound matur-- wait, come back! I know what you're thinking. "Maturity" means new heights for some, and a slower and duller version of the same for most. For noiseniks like Parts & Labor-- a band that wears its hardcore roots on its sleeves-- maturity would likely mean the latter. I wouldn't blame anyone who read that and immediately thought of all the *Sandinista!*s and Candy Apple Greys crowding the used bins of record stores worldwide. P&L have the same members as on last year's Stay Afraid, as well as the same basic sound: uptempo noise punk with the irrepressible drums of Chris Weingarten, blurting and squealing keyboards to replace guitars, and the vocals always set to a strident, monotone bellow. However, Mapmaker does everything else it can to diversify their sound without sacrificing the winning formula they've established. On paper, these new flourishes are signals of a band that's probably spinning its wheels: horn sections, more vocal harmonies, more open space, more slow songs... but bear with me. Stay Afraid wasn't just exhilarating, it was exhausting and bordered on uncomfortable in its relentlessly treble-heavy attack. A little open space does wonders for the band, especially on tracks like "Ghosts Will Burn", where the death rattle of a cheap keyboard precedes vicious stabs of distorted bass and a precise drum beat that murders the fourth bar while letting an ominous air fill the other three. Plenty of inadvisable influences killed punk bands, but a little bit of funk never hurt. "The Gold We're Digging" adds a bit of rave-era rhythm to its sober sloganeering, and "Long Way Down" is makes more stunning use of space with firing-line percussion and ringing high notes that nearly falls apart before rising up in a wave of cacaphony and thundering low-end. The growth extends to second vocalist BJ Warshaw, whose "Brighter Days" is his best spotlight track thus far, unaccompanied vocals juxtaposed with rhythmless noise interludes, all grounded by the album's most calculated melody. Elsewhere, the dominating textures on "Fake Rain" and "New Crimes" are their nimble clean guitar lines. Even the more obvious dynamic tricks, like the disorienting attack-and-retreat of "Camera Shy" or the simmering tension of "Unexplosions", still have plenty of mileage when in their hands. As for those horns, opening track "Fractured Skies" tucks them into a final gasp on its gargantuan final chorus, spending every moment of its frenetic drumming and counterpoint keyboard squeals building up to that one moment-- they know you gotta earn those horns, and they do. The band didn't need to grow up in any way, especially as it's only been a year between releases. Regardless, Parts & Labor took cues from their forebears and tried their hand at a more diverse record without losing the thread, leaving the more wildly experimental work for their tour EPs and pushing at the walls of the box they established with Stay Afraid. By now, we know there doesn't have to be a binary between young and reckless or old and slow-- it's a balancing act, and Parts & Labor balanced it pretty well here.

Artist: Parts & Labor, Album: Mapmaker, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "With Mapmaker, Parts & Labor display a newfound matur-- wait, come back! I know what you're thinking. "Maturity" means new heights for some, and a slower and duller version of the same for most. For noiseniks like Parts & Labor-- a band that wears its hardcore roots on its sleeves-- maturity would likely mean the latter. I wouldn't blame anyone who read that and immediately thought of all the *Sandinista!*s and Candy Apple Greys crowding the used bins of record stores worldwide. P&L have the same members as on last year's Stay Afraid, as well as the same basic sound: uptempo noise punk with the irrepressible drums of Chris Weingarten, blurting and squealing keyboards to replace guitars, and the vocals always set to a strident, monotone bellow. However, Mapmaker does everything else it can to diversify their sound without sacrificing the winning formula they've established. On paper, these new flourishes are signals of a band that's probably spinning its wheels: horn sections, more vocal harmonies, more open space, more slow songs... but bear with me. Stay Afraid wasn't just exhilarating, it was exhausting and bordered on uncomfortable in its relentlessly treble-heavy attack. A little open space does wonders for the band, especially on tracks like "Ghosts Will Burn", where the death rattle of a cheap keyboard precedes vicious stabs of distorted bass and a precise drum beat that murders the fourth bar while letting an ominous air fill the other three. Plenty of inadvisable influences killed punk bands, but a little bit of funk never hurt. "The Gold We're Digging" adds a bit of rave-era rhythm to its sober sloganeering, and "Long Way Down" is makes more stunning use of space with firing-line percussion and ringing high notes that nearly falls apart before rising up in a wave of cacaphony and thundering low-end. The growth extends to second vocalist BJ Warshaw, whose "Brighter Days" is his best spotlight track thus far, unaccompanied vocals juxtaposed with rhythmless noise interludes, all grounded by the album's most calculated melody. Elsewhere, the dominating textures on "Fake Rain" and "New Crimes" are their nimble clean guitar lines. Even the more obvious dynamic tricks, like the disorienting attack-and-retreat of "Camera Shy" or the simmering tension of "Unexplosions", still have plenty of mileage when in their hands. As for those horns, opening track "Fractured Skies" tucks them into a final gasp on its gargantuan final chorus, spending every moment of its frenetic drumming and counterpoint keyboard squeals building up to that one moment-- they know you gotta earn those horns, and they do. The band didn't need to grow up in any way, especially as it's only been a year between releases. Regardless, Parts & Labor took cues from their forebears and tried their hand at a more diverse record without losing the thread, leaving the more wildly experimental work for their tour EPs and pushing at the walls of the box they established with Stay Afraid. By now, we know there doesn't have to be a binary between young and reckless or old and slow-- it's a balancing act, and Parts & Labor balanced it pretty well here."

Cerebral Ballzy

Cerebral Ballzy

Metal,Rock

David Raposa

Punk rock has a long tradition of taking the counter-culture vibe that rock'n'roll cultivated back when hip-shaking was a crime against propriety and cranking up the volume to intentionally offend every possible denomination: the fans, the critics, the outcasts, the bigots, the sell-outs, the scenesters, and so on. Some bands had a well-reasoned method to their misanthropic madness, and some just wanted to piss people off (or, in special cases, actually piss on people). What's most 0ffensive about Cerebral Ballzy's attempts at "edgy" provocation isn't tastelessness or insensitivity-- it's the blandness. To be fair to these five guys, it's not like they're aiming for any sort of lofty artistic goal. They just want to be a punk rock band, with their own stupid band name, with their own songs about getting fucked up and telling various authority figures and peers to fuck off, and with their own Raymond Pettibon cover art (complete with bonus photo-copier fuzz at the edge of the image, for that extra bit of D.I.Y. verisimilitude). Granted, it's on the music-label offshoot of the studio famous for a lot of Cartoon Network's Adult Swim content-- it's the label's first non-compilation full-length that has nothing to do with one of their shows, actually-- but let's leave the scene politics to the Maximumrocknroll's of the world. And it's not like they're necessarily bad at it. They know the moves (the spoken-word intro, the slow-into-fast start-up, the "bridge"), they know the rules (the album proper is only 20 minutes long, with only one song clocking in at over 150 seconds, and to hell with a guitar solo), and they hit their marks. "Singles" like "Cutting Class" and "Insufficient Fare" are perfectly OK punk songs. So are the other 10 "official" album tracks, as well as whatever non-live bonus tracks come with the various different versions of the album. "OK" is about where these guys top off, though-- subject matter notwithstanding, the songs are pretty interchangeable, meaning there's not much that distinguishes anti-establishment tracks like "Anthem" and "Don't Tell Me What to Do" with pass-the-pipe tracks like "Drug Myself Dumb" and "Puke Song". This album features perfectly serviceable and perfectly competent, middle-of-the-road punk rock music that probably sounds much better live than it ever could in a recording studio. If it weren't being released at a time when groups like Off!, Double Negative, Trash Talk, and any number of hardcore-flavored punk groups are putting their own individualistic spins on the well-worn, three-chord monte, Cerebral Ballzy's paint-by-numbers take would possibly stand out. And if it weren't for the countless number of precedents that have done exactly what CB are doing here, their faithful-to-a-fault homage might actually seem quaint. In this day and age, though, what these kids are doing, and the way they're doing it, means that their only truly distinguishing feature is their band name. And when all you've got going for yourself is that you're called Cerebral Ballzy, you've got your work cut out for you.

Artist: Cerebral Ballzy, Album: Cerebral Ballzy, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 4.8 Album review: "Punk rock has a long tradition of taking the counter-culture vibe that rock'n'roll cultivated back when hip-shaking was a crime against propriety and cranking up the volume to intentionally offend every possible denomination: the fans, the critics, the outcasts, the bigots, the sell-outs, the scenesters, and so on. Some bands had a well-reasoned method to their misanthropic madness, and some just wanted to piss people off (or, in special cases, actually piss on people). What's most 0ffensive about Cerebral Ballzy's attempts at "edgy" provocation isn't tastelessness or insensitivity-- it's the blandness. To be fair to these five guys, it's not like they're aiming for any sort of lofty artistic goal. They just want to be a punk rock band, with their own stupid band name, with their own songs about getting fucked up and telling various authority figures and peers to fuck off, and with their own Raymond Pettibon cover art (complete with bonus photo-copier fuzz at the edge of the image, for that extra bit of D.I.Y. verisimilitude). Granted, it's on the music-label offshoot of the studio famous for a lot of Cartoon Network's Adult Swim content-- it's the label's first non-compilation full-length that has nothing to do with one of their shows, actually-- but let's leave the scene politics to the Maximumrocknroll's of the world. And it's not like they're necessarily bad at it. They know the moves (the spoken-word intro, the slow-into-fast start-up, the "bridge"), they know the rules (the album proper is only 20 minutes long, with only one song clocking in at over 150 seconds, and to hell with a guitar solo), and they hit their marks. "Singles" like "Cutting Class" and "Insufficient Fare" are perfectly OK punk songs. So are the other 10 "official" album tracks, as well as whatever non-live bonus tracks come with the various different versions of the album. "OK" is about where these guys top off, though-- subject matter notwithstanding, the songs are pretty interchangeable, meaning there's not much that distinguishes anti-establishment tracks like "Anthem" and "Don't Tell Me What to Do" with pass-the-pipe tracks like "Drug Myself Dumb" and "Puke Song". This album features perfectly serviceable and perfectly competent, middle-of-the-road punk rock music that probably sounds much better live than it ever could in a recording studio. If it weren't being released at a time when groups like Off!, Double Negative, Trash Talk, and any number of hardcore-flavored punk groups are putting their own individualistic spins on the well-worn, three-chord monte, Cerebral Ballzy's paint-by-numbers take would possibly stand out. And if it weren't for the countless number of precedents that have done exactly what CB are doing here, their faithful-to-a-fault homage might actually seem quaint. In this day and age, though, what these kids are doing, and the way they're doing it, means that their only truly distinguishing feature is their band name. And when all you've got going for yourself is that you're called Cerebral Ballzy, you've got your work cut out for you."

Frog Eyes

Carey's Cold Spring

Rock

Devon Maloney

One of the greatest favors and greatest injuries an artist can give his music is to give it a story before releasing it. It's a habit employed frequently these days, when setting up and talking up context has become increasingly easier to amplify: The secluded cabin. The intense personal trauma. The soul-searching sailboat adventure. On one hand, these narratives create a world around the music, painting a lush backdrop. But sometimes the backstory can be deceiving, a crutch that distorts a work's value. Considering how often we impart our own meanings on the music we love, should it matter at all? In the case of Carey Mercer's Carey's Cold Spring, the latest album from his frenetic, prolific project Frog Eyes, it's hard to know how his own heartbreaking preview affects how it's heard. Last month, the Victoria, B.C., native announced the record with a letter explaining that (a) this, unlike many of his previous releases, would not be a concept album; (b) his father recently died and he played the record's final track "Claxxon's Lament" for him in hospice as "the last song that went into his ears," subsequently adding the song to the album at the last minute; and (c) no sooner had Mercer finished the record than he was diagnosed with throat cancer, prompting him to self-release the album and postpone touring indefinitely. A few weeks later, the record was dropped on Bandcamp, along with a FAQ. It was an intimate and honest introduction that is now nearly impossible to separate from Cold Spring itself, regardless of how incidental the tragedies might have been to the actual record-making process. Without those words to contextualize the record, Carey's Cold Spring is probably the most straightforward album Frog Eyes have ever released. Excepting a typically long-winded opener in "The Road Is Long", the album's tracks have settled into surprisingly consistent, manageable lengths. Melanie Campbell's idiosyncratic drumming is absent, replaced by more traditional percussion; songs have recognizable bridges, even lines that pass for choruses. The music is still rife with the imagery and thick, twisty metaphors that have endeared Mercer to critics. Themes like the evils of materialism and war power it; women pepper its landscape like wispy, mythological creatures. (Either he has revived one of the supporting characters from Paul's Tomb: A Triumph opener "A Flower in a Glove", or he knows multiple skittish women named Judith.) "Don't Give Up Your Dreams" is the saccharine ballad; its beginning is its most gripping moment, its closer the most important. But on Cold Spring, Frog Eyes' carefully crafted fever dreams have been replaced by orderly instrumentals and disordered almost-thoughts. Without Frog Eyes' conceptual concentration, it all becomes slack and rambling, its mumbled poetry less crucial to grasp. It's less inventive, less urgent, almost incidental; Mercer's wild-eyed, commanding sermons have softened, and the only true bombast lies in the album's first 60 seconds. It's an awfully quiet album, especially for one "made over a period of three years" with a mind on "riots, occupy, revolutions, storms, floods, melodramatic gestures, leftist factions, mass marches in the streets, the sheer and shocking crookedness of our political and economic system, fear of the right, fear of torture, of murder, of future firing squads, of the consequences of idealism, of the consequences of having no ideals or ideas." If you refuse to separate Mercer's life from his art, the record's discontent is eerily weighted by events that came to pass after its recording. On "The Road Is Long," when he sings, "Evil, I want you to know that I know that you have no plans," it feels like a new challenge. And on "Claxxon's Lament", the song that now belongs to the late Mr. Mercer, he repeats "nobody shall die" and it's crushing; even if he wrote it long before he lost him, the heartbreak is fresh and palpable. In his FAQ, Mercer writes that he is "supposed to get better," and has "the kind of cancer you fight." When he returns, Carey's Cold Spring, an album that gazes uncertainly toward an uncertain future, should serve as an appropriate turning point.

Artist: Frog Eyes, Album: Carey's Cold Spring, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "One of the greatest favors and greatest injuries an artist can give his music is to give it a story before releasing it. It's a habit employed frequently these days, when setting up and talking up context has become increasingly easier to amplify: The secluded cabin. The intense personal trauma. The soul-searching sailboat adventure. On one hand, these narratives create a world around the music, painting a lush backdrop. But sometimes the backstory can be deceiving, a crutch that distorts a work's value. Considering how often we impart our own meanings on the music we love, should it matter at all? In the case of Carey Mercer's Carey's Cold Spring, the latest album from his frenetic, prolific project Frog Eyes, it's hard to know how his own heartbreaking preview affects how it's heard. Last month, the Victoria, B.C., native announced the record with a letter explaining that (a) this, unlike many of his previous releases, would not be a concept album; (b) his father recently died and he played the record's final track "Claxxon's Lament" for him in hospice as "the last song that went into his ears," subsequently adding the song to the album at the last minute; and (c) no sooner had Mercer finished the record than he was diagnosed with throat cancer, prompting him to self-release the album and postpone touring indefinitely. A few weeks later, the record was dropped on Bandcamp, along with a FAQ. It was an intimate and honest introduction that is now nearly impossible to separate from Cold Spring itself, regardless of how incidental the tragedies might have been to the actual record-making process. Without those words to contextualize the record, Carey's Cold Spring is probably the most straightforward album Frog Eyes have ever released. Excepting a typically long-winded opener in "The Road Is Long", the album's tracks have settled into surprisingly consistent, manageable lengths. Melanie Campbell's idiosyncratic drumming is absent, replaced by more traditional percussion; songs have recognizable bridges, even lines that pass for choruses. The music is still rife with the imagery and thick, twisty metaphors that have endeared Mercer to critics. Themes like the evils of materialism and war power it; women pepper its landscape like wispy, mythological creatures. (Either he has revived one of the supporting characters from Paul's Tomb: A Triumph opener "A Flower in a Glove", or he knows multiple skittish women named Judith.) "Don't Give Up Your Dreams" is the saccharine ballad; its beginning is its most gripping moment, its closer the most important. But on Cold Spring, Frog Eyes' carefully crafted fever dreams have been replaced by orderly instrumentals and disordered almost-thoughts. Without Frog Eyes' conceptual concentration, it all becomes slack and rambling, its mumbled poetry less crucial to grasp. It's less inventive, less urgent, almost incidental; Mercer's wild-eyed, commanding sermons have softened, and the only true bombast lies in the album's first 60 seconds. It's an awfully quiet album, especially for one "made over a period of three years" with a mind on "riots, occupy, revolutions, storms, floods, melodramatic gestures, leftist factions, mass marches in the streets, the sheer and shocking crookedness of our political and economic system, fear of the right, fear of torture, of murder, of future firing squads, of the consequences of idealism, of the consequences of having no ideals or ideas." If you refuse to separate Mercer's life from his art, the record's discontent is eerily weighted by events that came to pass after its recording. On "The Road Is Long," when he sings, "Evil, I want you to know that I know that you have no plans," it feels like a new challenge. And on "Claxxon's Lament", the song that now belongs to the late Mr. Mercer, he repeats "nobody shall die" and it's crushing; even if he wrote it long before he lost him, the heartbreak is fresh and palpable. In his FAQ, Mercer writes that he is "supposed to get better," and has "the kind of cancer you fight." When he returns, Carey's Cold Spring, an album that gazes uncertainly toward an uncertain future, should serve as an appropriate turning point."

Egyptrixx

A/B til Infinity

Electronic

Ruth Saxelby

There's much to be said for exploring opposites. With Bible Eyes, his 2011 debut album as Egyptrixx, Toronto-based producer David Psutka took a widescreen approach to his mining of the fertile, boundary-less ground of London dance music label Night Slugs. Bible Eyes ran the gamut from lush to harsh, juxtaposed bass and synth in various contortions, and even toyed with guest vocals. Most importantly, it established his knack for seemingly effortless, deeply evocative arpeggiated melodies. On A/B til Infinity, he flips the mode to zoom. The album focuses in on a specific realm—one he hinted at but abandoned with Bible Eyes’ opener “Start From The Beginning”—and comes off like a study or a soundtrack. Repeated motifs of rain and sirens, metallic surfaces and a sense of impending doom, point to a space between film noir and dystopian sci-fi. It is an underbelly world he traverses, one caught between the audible fizz of digital distraction and the sharp demand for material possessions. Water drips, signals fail, desires echo. The album’s evocations are overwhelmingly literary, if somewhat familiar. The subdued grandiosity of “Bad Boy” calls to mind Alan Moore’s iconic graphic novel Watchmen, while its sister “Adult” invokes the dual feeling of intrigue and unease that is central to the work of J.G. Ballard. The synthetic choral voices of “Disorbital” stir a feeling of absence, one that Blade Runner fans might associate with the replicant’s fate to mourn memories it never had. That’s not to say A/B til Infinity doesn’t have musical bedfellows. Atmosphere-wise, lines can be drawn to Kuedo’s majestic Severant (which also riffed on some of the same themes), while “Adult” feels in conversation with the taut conceptualization of Night Slugs comrade Jam City’s debut Classical Curves. While Psutka’s self-proclaimed love of black metal and his recent experience as one half of experimental post-rock/psychedelic duo Hiawatha aren’t exactly strikingly evident on this second Egyptrixx album, there is a newfound single-minded moodiness that could be credited to the influence of both. There’s no question that A/B til Infinity marks a distinct evolution: it has a stronger, more cohesive identity than Bible Eyes, but where it falls down is when it wallows in that guise. Both “Water” and “My Life is Vivid, My Eyes are Open” feel a little sludgy: their pulse is quicker but the blood runs cold. Rather, in keeping with the titular theme, the record’s crowning glories are two sides of a flipped coin: the title track’s searing arpeggio that swims closest to the exquisite melodies of Bible Eyes (“Rooks Theme” and “Naples”) and the ambient elevation of final track “A.C.R.R.”. The latter closes the circle on the film noir ambience, shutting out the rain to embark on an internal journey. There is a sense of limbs and lungs stretching, followed by the triumphant punch through to a higher plane.

Artist: Egyptrixx, Album: A/B til Infinity, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "There's much to be said for exploring opposites. With Bible Eyes, his 2011 debut album as Egyptrixx, Toronto-based producer David Psutka took a widescreen approach to his mining of the fertile, boundary-less ground of London dance music label Night Slugs. Bible Eyes ran the gamut from lush to harsh, juxtaposed bass and synth in various contortions, and even toyed with guest vocals. Most importantly, it established his knack for seemingly effortless, deeply evocative arpeggiated melodies. On A/B til Infinity, he flips the mode to zoom. The album focuses in on a specific realm—one he hinted at but abandoned with Bible Eyes’ opener “Start From The Beginning”—and comes off like a study or a soundtrack. Repeated motifs of rain and sirens, metallic surfaces and a sense of impending doom, point to a space between film noir and dystopian sci-fi. It is an underbelly world he traverses, one caught between the audible fizz of digital distraction and the sharp demand for material possessions. Water drips, signals fail, desires echo. The album’s evocations are overwhelmingly literary, if somewhat familiar. The subdued grandiosity of “Bad Boy” calls to mind Alan Moore’s iconic graphic novel Watchmen, while its sister “Adult” invokes the dual feeling of intrigue and unease that is central to the work of J.G. Ballard. The synthetic choral voices of “Disorbital” stir a feeling of absence, one that Blade Runner fans might associate with the replicant’s fate to mourn memories it never had. That’s not to say A/B til Infinity doesn’t have musical bedfellows. Atmosphere-wise, lines can be drawn to Kuedo’s majestic Severant (which also riffed on some of the same themes), while “Adult” feels in conversation with the taut conceptualization of Night Slugs comrade Jam City’s debut Classical Curves. While Psutka’s self-proclaimed love of black metal and his recent experience as one half of experimental post-rock/psychedelic duo Hiawatha aren’t exactly strikingly evident on this second Egyptrixx album, there is a newfound single-minded moodiness that could be credited to the influence of both. There’s no question that A/B til Infinity marks a distinct evolution: it has a stronger, more cohesive identity than Bible Eyes, but where it falls down is when it wallows in that guise. Both “Water” and “My Life is Vivid, My Eyes are Open” feel a little sludgy: their pulse is quicker but the blood runs cold. Rather, in keeping with the titular theme, the record’s crowning glories are two sides of a flipped coin: the title track’s searing arpeggio that swims closest to the exquisite melodies of Bible Eyes (“Rooks Theme” and “Naples”) and the ambient elevation of final track “A.C.R.R.”. The latter closes the circle on the film noir ambience, shutting out the rain to embark on an internal journey. There is a sense of limbs and lungs stretching, followed by the triumphant punch through to a higher plane."

Jimmy Eat World

Futures

Rock

Marc Hogan

Three years after their commercial breakthrough, Bleed American, Jimmy Eat World's fifth full-length represents what I hope is the final stage in emo's devolution. The songs have deep titles like "Work", "Kill", and "Pain". They're about girls, girls, and (possibly) painkillers. They range from ponderous ballads ("Drugs or Me") to navel-gazing, midtempo tunes (the title track) to rockers that sound like watered-down versions of the band's earlier rockers ("Nothing Wrong", "Just Tonight"). I guess you could call "Night Drive", with its late-period Folk Implosion beats, an example of a band "maturing." But then singer/guitarist Jim Adkins opens his mouth: "Do you feel bad like I feel bad?" Lyrically, the rest of the album isn't much better. To a drug-addled lover, Adkins croons, "Stay with me/ You're the one I need." To an apathetic lover: "Your votes can mean something." To an easy lover: "Lay back, baby, and we'll do this right." To no one in particular: "Baby, this is who I am/ Sorry, but I can't just go turn off how I feel." If that's not bad enough, he even conjures the least-poetic expression of jealous ever: "I'm sure your kiss remains employed." Things haven't always been quite this bad from Jimmy Eat World. The best moments on earlier albums such as Static Prevails and Clarity weren't Shakespeare, but they communicated universes of longing to awkward kids. "The Middle" is also an obscenely catchy bit of pop, despite the greater indie community's cred-conscious dismissal of it. But there's none of that here. Futures is like a rotten onion, revealing layer upon layer of foulness. Musically, Jimmy Eat World have gone overboard with the trick they learned from U2: keep something somewhere jingling the same notes over and over again. Adkins' vocals are as whiny as ever, but here they sound canned as well. And then there's the would-be hipster nod to Heatmiser's "Not Half Right" on the swooning Smallville balladry of "Kill" ("like your favorite Heatmiser song said/ It's just like being alone"). Elliott Smith's only been dead for a year, guys-- a little respect, please. "I'm in love with the ordinary," Adkins acknowledges on "The World You Love". That's not necessarily a bad thing; one of the year's finest album's, The Streets' A Grand Don't Come for Free, is kicked off by nothing more earth-shattering than a broken TV. Yet there's a difference between romanticizing the ordinary-- a bad cell phone connection, say, or that feeling on a first date that goes really, really well-- and being, well, ordinary. And it's hard to think of an album more mundane than Futures.

Artist: Jimmy Eat World, Album: Futures, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 3.0 Album review: "Three years after their commercial breakthrough, Bleed American, Jimmy Eat World's fifth full-length represents what I hope is the final stage in emo's devolution. The songs have deep titles like "Work", "Kill", and "Pain". They're about girls, girls, and (possibly) painkillers. They range from ponderous ballads ("Drugs or Me") to navel-gazing, midtempo tunes (the title track) to rockers that sound like watered-down versions of the band's earlier rockers ("Nothing Wrong", "Just Tonight"). I guess you could call "Night Drive", with its late-period Folk Implosion beats, an example of a band "maturing." But then singer/guitarist Jim Adkins opens his mouth: "Do you feel bad like I feel bad?" Lyrically, the rest of the album isn't much better. To a drug-addled lover, Adkins croons, "Stay with me/ You're the one I need." To an apathetic lover: "Your votes can mean something." To an easy lover: "Lay back, baby, and we'll do this right." To no one in particular: "Baby, this is who I am/ Sorry, but I can't just go turn off how I feel." If that's not bad enough, he even conjures the least-poetic expression of jealous ever: "I'm sure your kiss remains employed." Things haven't always been quite this bad from Jimmy Eat World. The best moments on earlier albums such as Static Prevails and Clarity weren't Shakespeare, but they communicated universes of longing to awkward kids. "The Middle" is also an obscenely catchy bit of pop, despite the greater indie community's cred-conscious dismissal of it. But there's none of that here. Futures is like a rotten onion, revealing layer upon layer of foulness. Musically, Jimmy Eat World have gone overboard with the trick they learned from U2: keep something somewhere jingling the same notes over and over again. Adkins' vocals are as whiny as ever, but here they sound canned as well. And then there's the would-be hipster nod to Heatmiser's "Not Half Right" on the swooning Smallville balladry of "Kill" ("like your favorite Heatmiser song said/ It's just like being alone"). Elliott Smith's only been dead for a year, guys-- a little respect, please. "I'm in love with the ordinary," Adkins acknowledges on "The World You Love". That's not necessarily a bad thing; one of the year's finest album's, The Streets' A Grand Don't Come for Free, is kicked off by nothing more earth-shattering than a broken TV. Yet there's a difference between romanticizing the ordinary-- a bad cell phone connection, say, or that feeling on a first date that goes really, really well-- and being, well, ordinary. And it's hard to think of an album more mundane than Futures."

George Michael

Faith

Pop/R&B

Brad Nelson

In 1986, George Michael wandered deep into himself. He realized that, at some point in the five years he had recorded and toured with his bandmate Andrew Ridgeley in Wham!, he had completely lost track of who he was. With Wham!, Michael had achieved his childhood dream of becoming unreasonably famous; he glided across stages, and fans’ eyes waded in his direction. His enormous blonde hair looked like a work of relief sculpture, and his voice pulsed with brightness, like a lightbulb about to burst in its socket. He was one of the world’s biggest pop stars by the time his retro-pop duo fell apart; he was also 23, only just beginning to figure out who he was and what kind of music he wanted to make. Michael felt isolated, anxious over what to do next—the future seemed elusive and unstable, as precarious as a song’s placement on the pop charts. He was sinking into what he would later characterize as an eight-month long-depression, wondering if he even wanted to return to music. In the spring of ’86, two months before the final Wham! Show at London’s Wembley Stadium, Michael released a solo single called “A Different Corner.” Accompanied by a stark, black-and-white video, it was a sad and strange song that seemed to disappear as it happened, the brief snowflakes of synth and Michael’s tenor evaporating into air. It’s as gorgeous as it is uncertain of itself, quietly stealing back every emotion it offers, leaving behind a crumpled blankness. “The problem was just that I had developed a character for the outside world that wasn’t me,” he said. “So I made the decision to uncreate the person I had created and become more real.” A little over a year later, he drew a thick, Princely scribble in empty space. It would become the first single for his solo debut, 1987’s Faith, a song called “I Want Your Sex.” A near-total photonegative of “A Different Corner”’s lustless vacuum, built out of the boiling dark of the clubs Michael loved to dance in, “I Want Your Sex” employed a sudden fluency with sexuality to define his post-boy band maturity. He fastidiously programmed every detail of the song—even the mummified sub-rhythms that kick like pistons underneath it, which were produced by an error in a synthesizer pattern from a different track. Michael was so charmed by the accidental thicket of snares and kicks that he built “I Want Your Sex” directly on top of it. “I’ve danced to records like this for years and I buy records like this all the time but I’ve never really had the courage to make one,” he said. The song was immediately banned by the BBC and strategically suppressed by radio, but it eventually blossomed as a single on MTV once Michael added a safe sex disclaimer to the beginning of the video. The clip focused almost inflexibly on Michael’s face, shadowed by an unfocused haze of stubble, singing in a frayed sub-frequency of his former boyish tenor, all interchanged with shots of body parts: legs walking in a garter belt, water cascading over feet and torsos, Michael writing “EXPLORE MONOGAMY” in lipstick on his then-girlfriend Kathy Jeung’s thigh and back. In interviews about “I Want Your Sex” and its video, Michael always redirected the subject toward monogamy. He didn’t want the song to be misconstrued as an untamed celebration of casual sex in the midst of the AIDS epidemic; at the time, monogamy seemed to Michael not only a thoughtful response to AIDS but dimensionally sexy in and of itself. “I wanted to write a song which sounded dirty but which was applicable to someone that I really cared about,” he told Interview in 1988. “I mean, it is the perfect situation to really love someone to death and to want to rip their clothes off at the same time, isn’t it?” But it’s a song so sunken into its desire for someone that Michael’s cautious exploration of safe sex gets lost among the chorus’ seductive synth wobbles and the liquid blend of lust and angst with which he sings the word “sex.” Michael himself seemed unable to glimpse “I Want Your Sex” beyond its controversy, already looking to exchange it for a different song, a different impression, a different corner of himself to exhibit to the world. In the video for his next single, Faith’s title track, a jukebox needle skates away from “Sex” and gently lowers onto the surface of a new disc. The chorus of an old Wham! single, “Freedom,” bruises slowly into the silence, played on a Yamaha DX7 synth tuned to its “cathedral organ” setting. The melody is funereal instead of flourescent, as if Michael were entombing his teen-pop past in the bellows of a vast pipe organ. It’s among the first instances of Michael commenting on his music as he made it, embedding his songs with footnotes and reprised themes that connected with his early career. Michael became fascinated with continuity, with how things could change when they were revisited, sometimes revising his songs whole-cloth (“Freedom ’90”) or lightly modernizing them for a new decade (“I’m Your Man ’96”), making his form of pop music a rich and intertextual network of references and repeating motifs. Out of the deep mournful glow of the organ, emerges… an acoustic guitar? Strumming the Bo Diddley beat? It sounds almost frail playing against a rhythmic skeleton of snaps, handclaps, and whispers across the snare rim. The camera drifts over Michael’s new image: leather jacket shrugging loosely from his shoulders, his gaze buried somewhere beneath impenetrable sunglasses, pretending to strum a sunburst archtop guitar. In 1987, popular rock music was trying fill arenas with enormous waves of echo; “Faith”’s chords sounded crisp as the blue jeans pasted to Michael’s ass in the video. He was employing rock as a texture, as a signifier of history and depth, absorbing the guitar rhythms of the ’50s and ’60s just as he embedded the drums of the Motown songs from his youth in tracks like Wham!’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” It made Michael’s work as serious as it was playful, taking established songforms and converting them into modern pop. The rest of Faith embodies this approach, a montage of different colors and tempos from pop’s unabridged past—the fluttering rockabilly of the title track, the deluxe synthetic bath of “Father Figure,” and the hardboiled synth funk of “I Want Your Sex” all occur on the same side of an album, like alternate histories talking to each other through time, all before “One More Try” wafts in like wind through an empty cathedral. During the sessions for Faith, Michael and engineer Chris Porter occasionally recorded songs measure by measure, with Michael singing fragments of

Artist: George Michael, Album: Faith, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.7 Album review: "In 1986, George Michael wandered deep into himself. He realized that, at some point in the five years he had recorded and toured with his bandmate Andrew Ridgeley in Wham!, he had completely lost track of who he was. With Wham!, Michael had achieved his childhood dream of becoming unreasonably famous; he glided across stages, and fans’ eyes waded in his direction. His enormous blonde hair looked like a work of relief sculpture, and his voice pulsed with brightness, like a lightbulb about to burst in its socket. He was one of the world’s biggest pop stars by the time his retro-pop duo fell apart; he was also 23, only just beginning to figure out who he was and what kind of music he wanted to make. Michael felt isolated, anxious over what to do next—the future seemed elusive and unstable, as precarious as a song’s placement on the pop charts. He was sinking into what he would later characterize as an eight-month long-depression, wondering if he even wanted to return to music. In the spring of ’86, two months before the final Wham! Show at London’s Wembley Stadium, Michael released a solo single called “A Different Corner.” Accompanied by a stark, black-and-white video, it was a sad and strange song that seemed to disappear as it happened, the brief snowflakes of synth and Michael’s tenor evaporating into air. It’s as gorgeous as it is uncertain of itself, quietly stealing back every emotion it offers, leaving behind a crumpled blankness. “The problem was just that I had developed a character for the outside world that wasn’t me,” he said. “So I made the decision to uncreate the person I had created and become more real.” A little over a year later, he drew a thick, Princely scribble in empty space. It would become the first single for his solo debut, 1987’s Faith, a song called “I Want Your Sex.” A near-total photonegative of “A Different Corner”’s lustless vacuum, built out of the boiling dark of the clubs Michael loved to dance in, “I Want Your Sex” employed a sudden fluency with sexuality to define his post-boy band maturity. He fastidiously programmed every detail of the song—even the mummified sub-rhythms that kick like pistons underneath it, which were produced by an error in a synthesizer pattern from a different track. Michael was so charmed by the accidental thicket of snares and kicks that he built “I Want Your Sex” directly on top of it. “I’ve danced to records like this for years and I buy records like this all the time but I’ve never really had the courage to make one,” he said. The song was immediately banned by the BBC and strategically suppressed by radio, but it eventually blossomed as a single on MTV once Michael added a safe sex disclaimer to the beginning of the video. The clip focused almost inflexibly on Michael’s face, shadowed by an unfocused haze of stubble, singing in a frayed sub-frequency of his former boyish tenor, all interchanged with shots of body parts: legs walking in a garter belt, water cascading over feet and torsos, Michael writing “EXPLORE MONOGAMY” in lipstick on his then-girlfriend Kathy Jeung’s thigh and back. In interviews about “I Want Your Sex” and its video, Michael always redirected the subject toward monogamy. He didn’t want the song to be misconstrued as an untamed celebration of casual sex in the midst of the AIDS epidemic; at the time, monogamy seemed to Michael not only a thoughtful response to AIDS but dimensionally sexy in and of itself. “I wanted to write a song which sounded dirty but which was applicable to someone that I really cared about,” he told Interview in 1988. “I mean, it is the perfect situation to really love someone to death and to want to rip their clothes off at the same time, isn’t it?” But it’s a song so sunken into its desire for someone that Michael’s cautious exploration of safe sex gets lost among the chorus’ seductive synth wobbles and the liquid blend of lust and angst with which he sings the word “sex.” Michael himself seemed unable to glimpse “I Want Your Sex” beyond its controversy, already looking to exchange it for a different song, a different impression, a different corner of himself to exhibit to the world. In the video for his next single, Faith’s title track, a jukebox needle skates away from “Sex” and gently lowers onto the surface of a new disc. The chorus of an old Wham! single, “Freedom,” bruises slowly into the silence, played on a Yamaha DX7 synth tuned to its “cathedral organ” setting. The melody is funereal instead of flourescent, as if Michael were entombing his teen-pop past in the bellows of a vast pipe organ. It’s among the first instances of Michael commenting on his music as he made it, embedding his songs with footnotes and reprised themes that connected with his early career. Michael became fascinated with continuity, with how things could change when they were revisited, sometimes revising his songs whole-cloth (“Freedom ’90”) or lightly modernizing them for a new decade (“I’m Your Man ’96”), making his form of pop music a rich and intertextual network of references and repeating motifs. Out of the deep mournful glow of the organ, emerges… an acoustic guitar? Strumming the Bo Diddley beat? It sounds almost frail playing against a rhythmic skeleton of snaps, handclaps, and whispers across the snare rim. The camera drifts over Michael’s new image: leather jacket shrugging loosely from his shoulders, his gaze buried somewhere beneath impenetrable sunglasses, pretending to strum a sunburst archtop guitar. In 1987, popular rock music was trying fill arenas with enormous waves of echo; “Faith”’s chords sounded crisp as the blue jeans pasted to Michael’s ass in the video. He was employing rock as a texture, as a signifier of history and depth, absorbing the guitar rhythms of the ’50s and ’60s just as he embedded the drums of the Motown songs from his youth in tracks like Wham!’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” It made Michael’s work as serious as it was playful, taking established songforms and converting them into modern pop. The rest of Faith embodies this approach, a montage of different colors and tempos from pop’s unabridged past—the fluttering rockabilly of the title track, the deluxe synthetic bath of “Father Figure,” and the hardboiled synth funk of “I Want Your Sex” all occur on the same side of an album, like alternate histories talking to each other through time, all before “One More Try” wafts in like wind through an empty cathedral. During the sessions for Faith, Michael and engineer Chris Porter occasionally recorded songs measure by measure, with Michael singing fragments of"

Tyga

Careless World: Rise of the Last King

Rap

Joe Colly

Until recently, there wasn't much reason to care about Tyga. The 22-year-old Compton-born MC's biggest claim to fame was that his cousin is that guy Travie McCoy from the emo-rap band Gym Class Heroes. His 2008 debut album, No Introduction, was executive produced by Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy and was a weird, mall-punk take on Black Eyed Peas-ian hip-hop. He signed to Young Money a few years back, but apart from appearing on the label's 2009 posse album, he mostly stayed quiet, releasing a string of mixtapes into the ether. Lacking the star power of fellow YMCMBers Nicki Minaj and Drake, Tyga seemed destined to remain on the sidelines. But then "Rack City" happened. Originally released on his Well Done 2 mixtape, the slithering ode to Bay Area twerk music became a massive hit. There is everything to like about the song. It's futuristic but simple, sexy but silly, quotable ("Got your grandma on my dick") and ingratiatingly catchy. "Rack City" is on some level a genius pop moment, and at this point it's also a meme: There are Tumblr homages, a version that serves as the Los Angeles Clippers unofficial theme song, and urban myths about its creator being forced to dance to the track at gunpoint. Now all of a sudden, people are reassessing Tyga. Does he have any other songs-- let alone a whole album's worth-- anywhere near that good? Careless World: Rise of the Last King tries its damndest to answer this question in the affirmative. Tyga isn't a gifted lyricist, but he has a few key things going in his favor: a workmanlike ability to ride a beat, a solid singing voice, and a great ear for melody. Executive producer Jess Jackson (previously an unknown UK garage guy who asserts himself as an emerging hitmaker here), leverages this by giving him juicy, hook-laden cuts. These songs don't reinvent the wheel and sometimes openly cop from existing hits. "Muthafucka Up" is basically "6'7"" Part Two, "Black Crowns" takes a moody page out of Noah "40" Shebib's playbook, and so forth. Still, they sound big and sturdy, built for the radio. In terms of persona, Tyga goes a long way here to establish himself as a complicated and sensitive dude. Clearly he's seen Drake's success and understands the value of adding some introspection into the mix. So while there is no shortage of flossed-out hedonism (not only "Rack City" but the equally gooey Lil Wayne collaboration "Faded"), you've also got several lovelorn jams. Occasionally this feels forced, and he's clearly not operating on a "Marvins Room" level, but for the most part he pulls it off. "And when I said I love you, yeah, I fuckin' meant it, and we ain't gotta bring your moms and your sister in it," goes one line in "Love Game" that feels like a specific bad memory from a specific bad argument. Pair these moments with elegant summertime jams like "This Is Like" (featuring the poor man's Justin Timberlake, Robin Thicke) and you've got yourself a surprisingly solid pop-rap effort. Its one major flaw, aside from a few cringe-inducing moments-- there is at least one brostep breakdown, one track features a voicemail from Tyga's mom telling him how awesome he is, and that inexplicable MLK sample-- is that it's way, way too long. Twenty-one tracks at nearly one-and-a-half hours is an insane length for an album with this kind of pop instinct. Set aside that complaint, though, and I'm left without much to pick at. "Rack City": Not a fluke.

Artist: Tyga, Album: Careless World: Rise of the Last King, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Until recently, there wasn't much reason to care about Tyga. The 22-year-old Compton-born MC's biggest claim to fame was that his cousin is that guy Travie McCoy from the emo-rap band Gym Class Heroes. His 2008 debut album, No Introduction, was executive produced by Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy and was a weird, mall-punk take on Black Eyed Peas-ian hip-hop. He signed to Young Money a few years back, but apart from appearing on the label's 2009 posse album, he mostly stayed quiet, releasing a string of mixtapes into the ether. Lacking the star power of fellow YMCMBers Nicki Minaj and Drake, Tyga seemed destined to remain on the sidelines. But then "Rack City" happened. Originally released on his Well Done 2 mixtape, the slithering ode to Bay Area twerk music became a massive hit. There is everything to like about the song. It's futuristic but simple, sexy but silly, quotable ("Got your grandma on my dick") and ingratiatingly catchy. "Rack City" is on some level a genius pop moment, and at this point it's also a meme: There are Tumblr homages, a version that serves as the Los Angeles Clippers unofficial theme song, and urban myths about its creator being forced to dance to the track at gunpoint. Now all of a sudden, people are reassessing Tyga. Does he have any other songs-- let alone a whole album's worth-- anywhere near that good? Careless World: Rise of the Last King tries its damndest to answer this question in the affirmative. Tyga isn't a gifted lyricist, but he has a few key things going in his favor: a workmanlike ability to ride a beat, a solid singing voice, and a great ear for melody. Executive producer Jess Jackson (previously an unknown UK garage guy who asserts himself as an emerging hitmaker here), leverages this by giving him juicy, hook-laden cuts. These songs don't reinvent the wheel and sometimes openly cop from existing hits. "Muthafucka Up" is basically "6'7"" Part Two, "Black Crowns" takes a moody page out of Noah "40" Shebib's playbook, and so forth. Still, they sound big and sturdy, built for the radio. In terms of persona, Tyga goes a long way here to establish himself as a complicated and sensitive dude. Clearly he's seen Drake's success and understands the value of adding some introspection into the mix. So while there is no shortage of flossed-out hedonism (not only "Rack City" but the equally gooey Lil Wayne collaboration "Faded"), you've also got several lovelorn jams. Occasionally this feels forced, and he's clearly not operating on a "Marvins Room" level, but for the most part he pulls it off. "And when I said I love you, yeah, I fuckin' meant it, and we ain't gotta bring your moms and your sister in it," goes one line in "Love Game" that feels like a specific bad memory from a specific bad argument. Pair these moments with elegant summertime jams like "This Is Like" (featuring the poor man's Justin Timberlake, Robin Thicke) and you've got yourself a surprisingly solid pop-rap effort. Its one major flaw, aside from a few cringe-inducing moments-- there is at least one brostep breakdown, one track features a voicemail from Tyga's mom telling him how awesome he is, and that inexplicable MLK sample-- is that it's way, way too long. Twenty-one tracks at nearly one-and-a-half hours is an insane length for an album with this kind of pop instinct. Set aside that complaint, though, and I'm left without much to pick at. "Rack City": Not a fluke."

Studio OST

Scenes 2012-2015

Electronic

Philip Sherburne

Like a lot of things related to White Material, the vinyl-only New York techno label founded by DJ Richard and Young Male, Studio OST's debut album deliberately keeps a low profile. The unassuming title, Scenes 2012-2015, suggests a hodgepodge; it also suggests that the material inside is old news (and there's nothing worse in electronic music, which is generally thought to evolve at lightning speed). Likewise, the project's generic-sounding alias, with its air of anonymous work-for-hire, sounds less like an artist's name than an obscure bit of metadata, and it leaves out any indication that White Material's Alvin Aronson and Galcher Lustwerk are involved, despite the substantial weight that the latter's name carries as one of the most hotly buzzed-about artists in recent underground American dance music. But Scenes 2012-2015, which the two RISD grads recorded over three years in a handful of home studios around New York, is no hodgepodge. It's a proper album—the kind that conventional wisdom says that dance music is no good at producing. It's got a beginning, a middle, and an end, and its A and B sides tell slightly different stories; it's meant to be listened to in one sitting, all the way through. And while the album's nine tracks are plenty diverse, encompassing ambient sketches, techno and electro patterns pitched at a wide range of tempos, and even a flickering, 144-BPM study in juke's full-throttle skip, they're also unusually cohesive. They make do with a pared-down set of sounds that give the impression of coming from a modest set of gear, and they avoid samples, advanced digital sound design, and intricate computer trickery in favor of long, linear synthesizer and drum machine patterns, loosely and elegantly woven together. The palette is muted but not self-consciously lo-fi, and the mood oscillates between dreamy and melancholy, though not without a playful undercurrent. Unlike Lustwerk's music, all nine tracks are instrumental, aside from the occasional garbled hint of ring-modulated speech buried deep in the mix, like an intercepted transmission from across the cosmos. The two musicians' respective styles surface in shifting proportions: "Above the Waves," with its squelchy funk bass and almost jazzy Rhodes keys, recalls Lustwerk's solo productions; "ITCZ," a fuzzed-out daydream for wispy chords and a clunky vintage CR-78 drum machine, shares the hazy vibes of Aronson's "Fog City," from last year's City EP. What predominates is their shared appreciation for ’90s electronic music: Much of the album brings to mind the sound of R&S Records and its Apollo sub-label from the mid ’90s, when artists like Ken Ishii and Biosphere were fusing ambient and techno in exciting ways. "Session" has the crisp, sparkling quality of artists like Morgan Geist and Titonton Duvanté; the stunning "Whitesands," which closes the album with a moody swirl of plangent fifths and crunchy percussion, might be a lost Aphex Twin or Autechre demo circa 1994. The centerpieces of the album are "ITCZ" and "Unnatural City," which spin mechanical clatter, shimmering chords, and deep-diving bass frequencies—in the latter, there's no bassline to speak of, just an 808 kick plunging unfathomably low—into sedate, hypnotic configurations. "ITCZ," rolling out ceaseless son clave rhythms, is plodding and steady, while "Unnatural City" moves at a fleet, rolling clip, but what they share in common is an unusual balance between stasis and dynamism. No single element dominates; every sound has equal weight, from quicksilver pings to chalky snares. They're not so much songs as spatial fields: You enter and walk around, admiring the ingenious architecture, and five minutes later, you leave—albeit somewhat reluctantly. But Aronson and Lustwerk are smart enough to know when to hold back, and as a result, they've come up with one of the year's most generously proportioned techno long-players—one far more sumptuous than its modest profile would ever suggest.

Artist: Studio OST, Album: Scenes 2012-2015, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "Like a lot of things related to White Material, the vinyl-only New York techno label founded by DJ Richard and Young Male, Studio OST's debut album deliberately keeps a low profile. The unassuming title, Scenes 2012-2015, suggests a hodgepodge; it also suggests that the material inside is old news (and there's nothing worse in electronic music, which is generally thought to evolve at lightning speed). Likewise, the project's generic-sounding alias, with its air of anonymous work-for-hire, sounds less like an artist's name than an obscure bit of metadata, and it leaves out any indication that White Material's Alvin Aronson and Galcher Lustwerk are involved, despite the substantial weight that the latter's name carries as one of the most hotly buzzed-about artists in recent underground American dance music. But Scenes 2012-2015, which the two RISD grads recorded over three years in a handful of home studios around New York, is no hodgepodge. It's a proper album—the kind that conventional wisdom says that dance music is no good at producing. It's got a beginning, a middle, and an end, and its A and B sides tell slightly different stories; it's meant to be listened to in one sitting, all the way through. And while the album's nine tracks are plenty diverse, encompassing ambient sketches, techno and electro patterns pitched at a wide range of tempos, and even a flickering, 144-BPM study in juke's full-throttle skip, they're also unusually cohesive. They make do with a pared-down set of sounds that give the impression of coming from a modest set of gear, and they avoid samples, advanced digital sound design, and intricate computer trickery in favor of long, linear synthesizer and drum machine patterns, loosely and elegantly woven together. The palette is muted but not self-consciously lo-fi, and the mood oscillates between dreamy and melancholy, though not without a playful undercurrent. Unlike Lustwerk's music, all nine tracks are instrumental, aside from the occasional garbled hint of ring-modulated speech buried deep in the mix, like an intercepted transmission from across the cosmos. The two musicians' respective styles surface in shifting proportions: "Above the Waves," with its squelchy funk bass and almost jazzy Rhodes keys, recalls Lustwerk's solo productions; "ITCZ," a fuzzed-out daydream for wispy chords and a clunky vintage CR-78 drum machine, shares the hazy vibes of Aronson's "Fog City," from last year's City EP. What predominates is their shared appreciation for ’90s electronic music: Much of the album brings to mind the sound of R&S Records and its Apollo sub-label from the mid ’90s, when artists like Ken Ishii and Biosphere were fusing ambient and techno in exciting ways. "Session" has the crisp, sparkling quality of artists like Morgan Geist and Titonton Duvanté; the stunning "Whitesands," which closes the album with a moody swirl of plangent fifths and crunchy percussion, might be a lost Aphex Twin or Autechre demo circa 1994. The centerpieces of the album are "ITCZ" and "Unnatural City," which spin mechanical clatter, shimmering chords, and deep-diving bass frequencies—in the latter, there's no bassline to speak of, just an 808 kick plunging unfathomably low—into sedate, hypnotic configurations. "ITCZ," rolling out ceaseless son clave rhythms, is plodding and steady, while "Unnatural City" moves at a fleet, rolling clip, but what they share in common is an unusual balance between stasis and dynamism. No single element dominates; every sound has equal weight, from quicksilver pings to chalky snares. They're not so much songs as spatial fields: You enter and walk around, admiring the ingenious architecture, and five minutes later, you leave—albeit somewhat reluctantly. But Aronson and Lustwerk are smart enough to know when to hold back, and as a result, they've come up with one of the year's most generously proportioned techno long-players—one far more sumptuous than its modest profile would ever suggest."

MHD

19

Rap

Jonah Bromwich

A person researching the best places to stay in Paris might come away from a Google search with a mixed impression of the city’s 19th arrondissement. The 19th has one of the city’s largest concentrations of North African immigrants, including one of Paris’ fastest-rising musical stars. The rapper MHD, born to Senegalese and Guinean immigrants, has become a platinum-selling artist over the last several years, thanks to an ear for infectious, melodic beats and a talent for branding. On his second album, 19, the rapper born Mohamed Sylla attempts to demystify his home and proclaim his pride in it, joining the soccer player Kylian Mbappé as a young star hoping to change the national perception of what a Frenchman looks like. MHD has cannily labeled his music Afro-trap, linking it to the dominant strain of hip-hop in the world’s cultural superpower, but for the most part it bears little resemblance to the Atlanta sound. The songs on 19 rarely convey menace or even ennui; they are joyous, accessible, and highly melodic, making use of analog instruments, including more guitar than I’ve heard on a rap album in quite some time. The opening track features a lovely passage from Mali’s Salif Keita, a legend of Afropop—a sound that MHD raps over on the next song, “Encore,” claiming all the city’s neighborhood for himself and his crew. “Encore” is the first of many highlights, but it leads into a somewhat generic set of songs. 19 truly hits its stride on its sixth track, “Papalé,” which kicks off a series of infectious melodies that runs all the way through to “Bella,” another five tracks later. (The record is 19 tracks long; MHD is somewhat overcommitted to the concept.) He’s a more than competent rapper but what sets his songs apart is the same pleasurable eclecticism that made the fusion group the Very Best so exciting when they first emerged in 2008. MHD’s music has a similar rough, happy energy, as if cheer is a natural byproduct when two cultural styles speak on equal terms. He doesn’t always match his raps to the the beat—on “Papalé,” for instance, he’s in double time, ignoring the more moderate tempo of the drums—but his excellent ear for original, highly engaging instrumental work saves him any serious criticism on that front. He is at his strongest when displaying his softer side, often in collaboration with singers. “Bébé,” which features the Congolese-French singer Dadju, is filled with sweet nothings, but the breezy clicking beat comes alive during the hook, with a flute backing a powerful earworm of a hook. “Bella,” the song that features Wizkid, is similarly catchy, and MHD displays some narrative strength on the first verse, telling the story of a forbidden love. That Wizkid’s verse, delivered in English, is no more compelling than MHD’s underscores the charisma of the young Frenchman, who only uses a few English cognates, ones that generally belie his abilities on the mic. (“One two three for the money”; “Artist, businessman.”) Even when MHD adopts a tougher posture, some element of the music always betrays him as the fun-loving 20-something that he is. “Afro Trap Pt. 10,” part of a long-running series, may sound a touch more aggy, but a playful beat and hook make it clear that the track just represents a slightly different flavor of party music. Production on the record was mostly handled by Parisian producers including DSK on the Beat, Dany Synthé, and S2Keyz. But Diplo, who helped market MHD to an international audience with a series of Mad Decent remixes, steps in to Diplo things up on “Fuego.” It’s a strong song that nonetheless does a disservice to MHD, its jaded professionalism lacking the spirit that characterizes the best tracks on 19. The way MHD’s raps are grafted onto Malian, Nigerian, and other North African sounds on other tracks speaks to something more original than Diplo can offer at this point in his career: a specificity of place and taste. It’s what’s refreshing about 19 more generally. Though many may slot it under the meaningless term “world music,” the lyrics and the beats have a character that evokes not a world but a locale. The sound is not trap as we know it. But as the writer and academic Jesse McCarthy recently argued, “Trap is the only music that sounds like what living in contemporary America feels like.” 19 has that same truth in representation: It’s the sound of MHD’s life as lived—the perspective of a young man eager to take his story into his own hands. Correction: A previous version of this article included a misleading aside about the 19th arrondissement.

Artist: MHD, Album: 19, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "A person researching the best places to stay in Paris might come away from a Google search with a mixed impression of the city’s 19th arrondissement. The 19th has one of the city’s largest concentrations of North African immigrants, including one of Paris’ fastest-rising musical stars. The rapper MHD, born to Senegalese and Guinean immigrants, has become a platinum-selling artist over the last several years, thanks to an ear for infectious, melodic beats and a talent for branding. On his second album, 19, the rapper born Mohamed Sylla attempts to demystify his home and proclaim his pride in it, joining the soccer player Kylian Mbappé as a young star hoping to change the national perception of what a Frenchman looks like. MHD has cannily labeled his music Afro-trap, linking it to the dominant strain of hip-hop in the world’s cultural superpower, but for the most part it bears little resemblance to the Atlanta sound. The songs on 19 rarely convey menace or even ennui; they are joyous, accessible, and highly melodic, making use of analog instruments, including more guitar than I’ve heard on a rap album in quite some time. The opening track features a lovely passage from Mali’s Salif Keita, a legend of Afropop—a sound that MHD raps over on the next song, “Encore,” claiming all the city’s neighborhood for himself and his crew. “Encore” is the first of many highlights, but it leads into a somewhat generic set of songs. 19 truly hits its stride on its sixth track, “Papalé,” which kicks off a series of infectious melodies that runs all the way through to “Bella,” another five tracks later. (The record is 19 tracks long; MHD is somewhat overcommitted to the concept.) He’s a more than competent rapper but what sets his songs apart is the same pleasurable eclecticism that made the fusion group the Very Best so exciting when they first emerged in 2008. MHD’s music has a similar rough, happy energy, as if cheer is a natural byproduct when two cultural styles speak on equal terms. He doesn’t always match his raps to the the beat—on “Papalé,” for instance, he’s in double time, ignoring the more moderate tempo of the drums—but his excellent ear for original, highly engaging instrumental work saves him any serious criticism on that front. He is at his strongest when displaying his softer side, often in collaboration with singers. “Bébé,” which features the Congolese-French singer Dadju, is filled with sweet nothings, but the breezy clicking beat comes alive during the hook, with a flute backing a powerful earworm of a hook. “Bella,” the song that features Wizkid, is similarly catchy, and MHD displays some narrative strength on the first verse, telling the story of a forbidden love. That Wizkid’s verse, delivered in English, is no more compelling than MHD’s underscores the charisma of the young Frenchman, who only uses a few English cognates, ones that generally belie his abilities on the mic. (“One two three for the money”; “Artist, businessman.”) Even when MHD adopts a tougher posture, some element of the music always betrays him as the fun-loving 20-something that he is. “Afro Trap Pt. 10,” part of a long-running series, may sound a touch more aggy, but a playful beat and hook make it clear that the track just represents a slightly different flavor of party music. Production on the record was mostly handled by Parisian producers including DSK on the Beat, Dany Synthé, and S2Keyz. But Diplo, who helped market MHD to an international audience with a series of Mad Decent remixes, steps in to Diplo things up on “Fuego.” It’s a strong song that nonetheless does a disservice to MHD, its jaded professionalism lacking the spirit that characterizes the best tracks on 19. The way MHD’s raps are grafted onto Malian, Nigerian, and other North African sounds on other tracks speaks to something more original than Diplo can offer at this point in his career: a specificity of place and taste. It’s what’s refreshing about 19 more generally. Though many may slot it under the meaningless term “world music,” the lyrics and the beats have a character that evokes not a world but a locale. The sound is not trap as we know it. But as the writer and academic Jesse McCarthy recently argued, “Trap is the only music that sounds like what living in contemporary America feels like.” 19 has that same truth in representation: It’s the sound of MHD’s life as lived—the perspective of a young man eager to take his story into his own hands. Correction: A previous version of this article included a misleading aside about the 19th arrondissement."

Courtney Barnett

The Double EP: A Sea of Split Peas

Rock

Lindsay Zoladz

The word "slacker" usually conjures somebody who spends all day in front of the TV, but Courtney Barnett can do them all one better: Her TV has been broken for four years and she’s been too lazy to fix it. She reveals this detail and further underachiever credentials in a long, charismatically ambling song off her double EP A Sea of Split Peas, called "Are You Looking After Yourself." The song—which pairs a few jangly chords with Barnett’s lazy-Tuesday drawl—alternates between the questions of a concerned parent ("Are you working hard my darling?/ We’re so worried") and Barnett’s libertine responses ("I don’t want no 9 to 5/ Telling me that I’m alive/ And 'Man, you’re doing well!'"). About halfway through, Barnett’s guilty conscience emerges: Maybe she should get a job, or a husband, or at the very least a dog. But then the song goes on for another carefree three-and-a-half minutes, as if she’s put off these life decisions in favor of playing guitar a little while longer. Barnett is 25 years old and from Melbourne, Australia; when she sings "My friends play in bands, they are better than everything on radio," she is likely referring to the roster of Milk Records, "a little independent label" she started running out of her bedroom last year. Milk’s first release was Barnett’s debut EP I’ve Got a Friend Called Emily Ferris, which she’s now combined with her 2013 EP How to Carve a Carrot into a Rose and re-released under the characteristically long-winded name The Double EP: A Sea of Split Peas. The 12 songs in this collection are often wordy, articulate, and dazzlingly witty, but they’re always down-to-earth; Barnett comes across like a slightly less urbane Jens Lekman, or Eleanor Friedberger if her songs took place not in bustling cities but in small, sleepy towns. "It’s a Monday, it’s so mundane," Barnett sighs in a hilarious deadpan on Split Peas’ best song, "Avant Gardener". "What exciting things will happen today?" The irony, though, is that the song soon becomes quite exciting. Barnett has a gift for turning mundane scenarios into gripping stories—she animates each one with genial asides and jokey tangents, like she’s recounting it for you at the pub later that night. "Avant Gardener" chronicles an ill-fated attempt to get some gardening done in a heat wave, and ends with Barnett having a panic attack in the back of an ambulance ("The paramedic thinks I’m clever cos I play guitar/ I think she’s clever cos she stops people dying.") Another standout, "History Eraser", has a similar momentum, but this time Barnett doesn’t even have to get out of bed: It describes a breathless, drunken daydream in which Barnett and the object of her affection joyride on a tractor, catch a riverboat to a casino, and spontaneously sprout straw where their hair used to be—all to the tune of some rollicking, 1960s-inspired folk. It might as well be called "Courtney Barnett’s 115th Dream". As the more up-beat numbers prove, Barnett’s comically eponymous ("Courtney Barnett and the Courtney Barnetts") backing band complements her style perfectly: they match the frontwomans’ shambling energy without taking the emphasis off her clever lyrics. A few of Split Peas’ slower, older songs [“Porcelain”, “Canned Tomatoes (Whole)”] do stall the momentum, but Barnett herself says she didn’t conceive the collection as a cohesive statement. "I don’t want people to misinterpret it as an album," she said in a recent Pitchfork interview, "An album is a thing you take time out and go work on. I can’t wait to make an album. I’ve got a bunch of songs half-ready to go, and I might start on it early next year." Classic slacker rhetoric, maybe, but on this occasionally brilliant (pre-)debut Barnett proves there’s more to the stereotype than meets the eye. When you’ve got an imagination this wild, who even needs a TV?

Artist: Courtney Barnett, Album: The Double EP: A Sea of Split Peas, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "The word "slacker" usually conjures somebody who spends all day in front of the TV, but Courtney Barnett can do them all one better: Her TV has been broken for four years and she’s been too lazy to fix it. She reveals this detail and further underachiever credentials in a long, charismatically ambling song off her double EP A Sea of Split Peas, called "Are You Looking After Yourself." The song—which pairs a few jangly chords with Barnett’s lazy-Tuesday drawl—alternates between the questions of a concerned parent ("Are you working hard my darling?/ We’re so worried") and Barnett’s libertine responses ("I don’t want no 9 to 5/ Telling me that I’m alive/ And 'Man, you’re doing well!'"). About halfway through, Barnett’s guilty conscience emerges: Maybe she should get a job, or a husband, or at the very least a dog. But then the song goes on for another carefree three-and-a-half minutes, as if she’s put off these life decisions in favor of playing guitar a little while longer. Barnett is 25 years old and from Melbourne, Australia; when she sings "My friends play in bands, they are better than everything on radio," she is likely referring to the roster of Milk Records, "a little independent label" she started running out of her bedroom last year. Milk’s first release was Barnett’s debut EP I’ve Got a Friend Called Emily Ferris, which she’s now combined with her 2013 EP How to Carve a Carrot into a Rose and re-released under the characteristically long-winded name The Double EP: A Sea of Split Peas. The 12 songs in this collection are often wordy, articulate, and dazzlingly witty, but they’re always down-to-earth; Barnett comes across like a slightly less urbane Jens Lekman, or Eleanor Friedberger if her songs took place not in bustling cities but in small, sleepy towns. "It’s a Monday, it’s so mundane," Barnett sighs in a hilarious deadpan on Split Peas’ best song, "Avant Gardener". "What exciting things will happen today?" The irony, though, is that the song soon becomes quite exciting. Barnett has a gift for turning mundane scenarios into gripping stories—she animates each one with genial asides and jokey tangents, like she’s recounting it for you at the pub later that night. "Avant Gardener" chronicles an ill-fated attempt to get some gardening done in a heat wave, and ends with Barnett having a panic attack in the back of an ambulance ("The paramedic thinks I’m clever cos I play guitar/ I think she’s clever cos she stops people dying.") Another standout, "History Eraser", has a similar momentum, but this time Barnett doesn’t even have to get out of bed: It describes a breathless, drunken daydream in which Barnett and the object of her affection joyride on a tractor, catch a riverboat to a casino, and spontaneously sprout straw where their hair used to be—all to the tune of some rollicking, 1960s-inspired folk. It might as well be called "Courtney Barnett’s 115th Dream". As the more up-beat numbers prove, Barnett’s comically eponymous ("Courtney Barnett and the Courtney Barnetts") backing band complements her style perfectly: they match the frontwomans’ shambling energy without taking the emphasis off her clever lyrics. A few of Split Peas’ slower, older songs [“Porcelain”, “Canned Tomatoes (Whole)”] do stall the momentum, but Barnett herself says she didn’t conceive the collection as a cohesive statement. "I don’t want people to misinterpret it as an album," she said in a recent Pitchfork interview, "An album is a thing you take time out and go work on. I can’t wait to make an album. I’ve got a bunch of songs half-ready to go, and I might start on it early next year." Classic slacker rhetoric, maybe, but on this occasionally brilliant (pre-)debut Barnett proves there’s more to the stereotype than meets the eye. When you’ve got an imagination this wild, who even needs a TV?"

BØRNS

Blue Madonna

Pop/R&B

Katherine St. Asaph

If you’ve encountered any commercials in the past couple years, you’ve likely heard “Electric Love,” off of Garrett Borns’ synthy 2015 album Dopamine. Even if you haven’t, you could probably guess it came from an ad for something or other. Such is the nature of the beast: acts that combine synth-pop and rock and a not-overly-generous spritz of funk, straining to be liked by as many people as possible, commissioned and talked about in terms of utility: “could slot in a playlist or festival lineup alongside MGMT and Currents-era Tame Impala.” Blue Madonna, BØRNS’ follow-up to Dopamine, differs from its predecessor mostly by having a less atrocious cover. Where Dopamine boasted big-name producers like Jeff Bhasker and Emile Haynie, Blue Madonna only brings back one, Tommy English (Ladyhawke, Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness). But the expensive sheen with which he coats most of the tracks here makes these songs more or less indistinguishable. Mirroring the turn toward gloom in pop on and just outside the charts, Borns said earlier this year the album came out of a “melancholy feeling of departure,” but while there certainly are breakup songs, they’re nothing that’d harsh a festival crowd too much. And like all of Borns’ work, Blue Madonna’s main value over replacement synth-pop is his falsetto, capable of reaching a glam-rock frenzy but constrained in songs that never quite allow him to go there. Another difference: a guest artist, Lana Del Rey, with whom Borns shares a couple ideas about aesthetics and the moody side of L.A. Unfortunately, while Lana’s been surprisingly lively on other guest spots, Borns got her at her most soporific, and the two are rather bloodless for a track called “God Save Our Young Blood.” At almost four minutes, it’s no longer than anything else on the album, but it feels endless. Similarly languid is “Second Night of Summer,” basically a classed-up Maroon 5 song. They even crash and skid at the exact same part of the chorus: Levine with “motherfucker,” Borns with a “throwing me that shade like I’m not cool enough.” (Mourn, once again, the loss of Shade Court.) Better are the likes of the synth buzz of “Faded Heart,” however canned, or the rock riffs of “We Don’t Care,” though they’ve gone through so much processing they’re practically taxidermied, or the surprisingly decent groove of “Iceberg,” although once it gets going it abruptly stops. And for a genre that’s by definition safe, Blue Madonna does have one pleasant surprise: “Supernatural” features a theremin interlude by self-taught virtuoso Armen Ra. “I feel like he crash-landed into the album from his star,” Borns said earlier this month. “I had to summon him from the cosmos.” He’s not wrong; the bridge is sumptuous, given all the room it needs, and made of totally different stuff than the rest of the album. It’s a glimpse, however fleeting, of the album that might result if BØRNS spent as much time teasing out the weirdness in his ideas as smoothing out the wrinkles in his luxe suit.

Artist: BØRNS, Album: Blue Madonna, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.7 Album review: "If you’ve encountered any commercials in the past couple years, you’ve likely heard “Electric Love,” off of Garrett Borns’ synthy 2015 album Dopamine. Even if you haven’t, you could probably guess it came from an ad for something or other. Such is the nature of the beast: acts that combine synth-pop and rock and a not-overly-generous spritz of funk, straining to be liked by as many people as possible, commissioned and talked about in terms of utility: “could slot in a playlist or festival lineup alongside MGMT and Currents-era Tame Impala.” Blue Madonna, BØRNS’ follow-up to Dopamine, differs from its predecessor mostly by having a less atrocious cover. Where Dopamine boasted big-name producers like Jeff Bhasker and Emile Haynie, Blue Madonna only brings back one, Tommy English (Ladyhawke, Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness). But the expensive sheen with which he coats most of the tracks here makes these songs more or less indistinguishable. Mirroring the turn toward gloom in pop on and just outside the charts, Borns said earlier this year the album came out of a “melancholy feeling of departure,” but while there certainly are breakup songs, they’re nothing that’d harsh a festival crowd too much. And like all of Borns’ work, Blue Madonna’s main value over replacement synth-pop is his falsetto, capable of reaching a glam-rock frenzy but constrained in songs that never quite allow him to go there. Another difference: a guest artist, Lana Del Rey, with whom Borns shares a couple ideas about aesthetics and the moody side of L.A. Unfortunately, while Lana’s been surprisingly lively on other guest spots, Borns got her at her most soporific, and the two are rather bloodless for a track called “God Save Our Young Blood.” At almost four minutes, it’s no longer than anything else on the album, but it feels endless. Similarly languid is “Second Night of Summer,” basically a classed-up Maroon 5 song. They even crash and skid at the exact same part of the chorus: Levine with “motherfucker,” Borns with a “throwing me that shade like I’m not cool enough.” (Mourn, once again, the loss of Shade Court.) Better are the likes of the synth buzz of “Faded Heart,” however canned, or the rock riffs of “We Don’t Care,” though they’ve gone through so much processing they’re practically taxidermied, or the surprisingly decent groove of “Iceberg,” although once it gets going it abruptly stops. And for a genre that’s by definition safe, Blue Madonna does have one pleasant surprise: “Supernatural” features a theremin interlude by self-taught virtuoso Armen Ra. “I feel like he crash-landed into the album from his star,” Borns said earlier this month. “I had to summon him from the cosmos.” He’s not wrong; the bridge is sumptuous, given all the room it needs, and made of totally different stuff than the rest of the album. It’s a glimpse, however fleeting, of the album that might result if BØRNS spent as much time teasing out the weirdness in his ideas as smoothing out the wrinkles in his luxe suit."

Charles Bradley

Black Velvet

Pop/R&B

Stephen Thomas Erlewine

Charles Bradley lucked into the kind of third act that few people could ever imagine. His early years were filled with neglect and poverty, buoyed by his discovery of James Brown when he was 14. As an adult, he drifted back and forth across North America, working odd jobs and singing on the side. In 2002, Bradley finally happened to be in the right place at the right time—in New York City, just as Daptone’s retro-soul empire began to rise. Bradley heard about Daptone’s success with Sharon Jones, another singer specializing in soul from another era. He was in his mid-50s and moonlighting as a James Brown impersonator named “Black Velvet,” one of many monikers he used in service of his JB tribute. Bradley introduce himself to Daptone co-founder Gabriel Roth, who heard something within that gravelly rasp. He signed Bradley to Daptone, linked him with producer and guitarist Tom Brenneck, and released the single “Take It As It Come,” launching a partnership that lasted until Bradley’s death from stomach and liver cancer in September 2017. Black Velvet rounds up the stray tracks Bradley made during his last decade, apart from his three studio albums for Daptone. Despite his illness, diagnosed just months after the release of 2016’s Changes, Brenneck didn’t abandon the idea of creating new music with Bradley. He wrote and recorded “Black Velvet” with his Menahan Street Band, the group that backed Bradley since his 2011 debut, No Time for Dreaming. But Bradley couldn’t muster the energy to sing it, so the instrumental plays here as a mid-album elegy: soft, slow, and sweet, a song in search of a singer. The presence of the unsung “Black Velvet” suggests Bradley didn’t leave much in the vaults. Black Velvet runs a scant 10 tracks, just three of which are newly unearthed and completely finished: “Can’t Fight the Feeling,” “Fly Little Girl,” and “I Feel a Change,” each dating from a different phase of his brief career. Otherwise, the compilation gathers songs stranded on singles or released as bonus tracks; a deluxe edition contains “Stripped Down Mixes” of songs from Bradley’s first two albums, spare variations on the original recordings designed to showcase his voice. This may lessen the feeling of discovery for longtime Bradley watchers, but Bradley’s music was always about maintaining tradition, not discovery. To that end, Black Velvet is a fitting tribute to the late singer, perhaps capturing the breadth of his appeal better than any of his actual albums. Black Velvet isn’t as cohesive or tight as 2013’s Victim of Love or the emotionally charged Changes. But its sampler nature showcases how Bradley could ease himself into any style of the classic soul era. The closest nod to Brown comes through the guttural growls of a deeply funky cover of Nirvana’s “Stay Away,” but the arrangement pulsates to fuzzy guitar more reminiscent of the paisley-bedecked Temptations than the Godfather Of Soul. Bradley leans closer to Otis Redding here, especially on a slightly stiff reading of Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold.” Brenneck and the Menahan Street Band shake things up by adopting any number of sounds from the golden age of AM radio. Black Velvet plays a little like a compilation of obscure vintage 45s. But listen closely, and the illusion dissipates. The production is a little too tidy, reliant on affectionate signifiers of classic soul that don’t necessarily allow the music to breathe. Paradoxically, the songwriting is loose. Bradley eschews lyrical precision for free-flowing imagery, as on “(I Hope You Find) The Good Life,” where he interpolates Barbra Streisand’s “The Way We Were.” The melodies can follow similarly elliptical routes. Such slips didn’t happen on stage, where Bradley could rely on the tricks he honed through years of hard work. But that can be said of every one of his records: They’re crafted artifacts that never quite captured his live charisma. Still, his weathered, yearning voice provided a focal point for Brenneck’s retro fantasias and helped freshen them. If anything, this farewell helps preserve the singer’s charms by illustrating how his revivalism wasn’t pure. He could adapt to whatever Brenneck gave him, making music that sounds tantalizingly out of time—a quality that will not fade as the years roll on without him.

Artist: Charles Bradley, Album: Black Velvet, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "Charles Bradley lucked into the kind of third act that few people could ever imagine. His early years were filled with neglect and poverty, buoyed by his discovery of James Brown when he was 14. As an adult, he drifted back and forth across North America, working odd jobs and singing on the side. In 2002, Bradley finally happened to be in the right place at the right time—in New York City, just as Daptone’s retro-soul empire began to rise. Bradley heard about Daptone’s success with Sharon Jones, another singer specializing in soul from another era. He was in his mid-50s and moonlighting as a James Brown impersonator named “Black Velvet,” one of many monikers he used in service of his JB tribute. Bradley introduce himself to Daptone co-founder Gabriel Roth, who heard something within that gravelly rasp. He signed Bradley to Daptone, linked him with producer and guitarist Tom Brenneck, and released the single “Take It As It Come,” launching a partnership that lasted until Bradley’s death from stomach and liver cancer in September 2017. Black Velvet rounds up the stray tracks Bradley made during his last decade, apart from his three studio albums for Daptone. Despite his illness, diagnosed just months after the release of 2016’s Changes, Brenneck didn’t abandon the idea of creating new music with Bradley. He wrote and recorded “Black Velvet” with his Menahan Street Band, the group that backed Bradley since his 2011 debut, No Time for Dreaming. But Bradley couldn’t muster the energy to sing it, so the instrumental plays here as a mid-album elegy: soft, slow, and sweet, a song in search of a singer. The presence of the unsung “Black Velvet” suggests Bradley didn’t leave much in the vaults. Black Velvet runs a scant 10 tracks, just three of which are newly unearthed and completely finished: “Can’t Fight the Feeling,” “Fly Little Girl,” and “I Feel a Change,” each dating from a different phase of his brief career. Otherwise, the compilation gathers songs stranded on singles or released as bonus tracks; a deluxe edition contains “Stripped Down Mixes” of songs from Bradley’s first two albums, spare variations on the original recordings designed to showcase his voice. This may lessen the feeling of discovery for longtime Bradley watchers, but Bradley’s music was always about maintaining tradition, not discovery. To that end, Black Velvet is a fitting tribute to the late singer, perhaps capturing the breadth of his appeal better than any of his actual albums. Black Velvet isn’t as cohesive or tight as 2013’s Victim of Love or the emotionally charged Changes. But its sampler nature showcases how Bradley could ease himself into any style of the classic soul era. The closest nod to Brown comes through the guttural growls of a deeply funky cover of Nirvana’s “Stay Away,” but the arrangement pulsates to fuzzy guitar more reminiscent of the paisley-bedecked Temptations than the Godfather Of Soul. Bradley leans closer to Otis Redding here, especially on a slightly stiff reading of Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold.” Brenneck and the Menahan Street Band shake things up by adopting any number of sounds from the golden age of AM radio. Black Velvet plays a little like a compilation of obscure vintage 45s. But listen closely, and the illusion dissipates. The production is a little too tidy, reliant on affectionate signifiers of classic soul that don’t necessarily allow the music to breathe. Paradoxically, the songwriting is loose. Bradley eschews lyrical precision for free-flowing imagery, as on “(I Hope You Find) The Good Life,” where he interpolates Barbra Streisand’s “The Way We Were.” The melodies can follow similarly elliptical routes. Such slips didn’t happen on stage, where Bradley could rely on the tricks he honed through years of hard work. But that can be said of every one of his records: They’re crafted artifacts that never quite captured his live charisma. Still, his weathered, yearning voice provided a focal point for Brenneck’s retro fantasias and helped freshen them. If anything, this farewell helps preserve the singer’s charms by illustrating how his revivalism wasn’t pure. He could adapt to whatever Brenneck gave him, making music that sounds tantalizingly out of time—a quality that will not fade as the years roll on without him."

Hair Police

Obedience Cuts

Experimental,Rock

Brandon Stosuy

There are probably numerous reasons-- bloody foreign policies, the jock's need for extremism, urban and suburban decay, small-town ennui-- but whatever's behind the ascension, cathartic post-hardcore noise has, in the past couple of years, careened a bit towards the mainstream. Surely these feedbacking subtexts and threadbare codes will bat nary an eye amid commercial radio pablum or earn even sub-sub-par digitalis at Billboard, but still, the crunk of wires and modulators slouches towards greater recognition: Wolf Eyes have become the most raucous act on the big-time Sub Pop roster, suburban teens sport spankin' new CBGB's tees at Lightning Bolt & Black Dice & Locust throwdowns, Carlos Giffoni's three-day No Fun festival was pleasantly packed with folks boogying along with To Live and Shave in L.A. like they were Outkast, and now Hair Police are taking their slash-and-burn to the Solar Stage at Lollapalooza. These are baby steps one and all, but allow ye olde timers a flashback to more than a decade of spectacularly unattended shows by Harry Pussy, Pengo, Blowhole, Shadow Ring, Borbetomagus, Climax Golden Twins, or Noggin and the attention bespeaks a full-on revolution. Hair Police formed in Lexington, KY 2001; Obedience Cuts, their first full-length since 2002's Blow Out Your Blood, features guitarist and vocalist Mike Connelly at the helm, Robert Beatty on electronics, and Trevor Tremaine pounding drums and tapes. For this particularly mesmerizing effort they say they're "chronicling the relationship between inside/outside and signaling a call to arms for the GNARLY TIMES." I'm not entirely sure about that platform, but there's certainly something bubbling within the album's violently ecstatic nine tracks. Obedience Cuts wrangles and wrestles with carcinogens and pops sonic blisters, festering a la Aaron Dilloway's solo Wolf Eyes' jaunts, soundtracks for the decomposition of vermin; throughout, the percussion's intense, the sounds ring and shatter. There are less Negative Approach scowls than the lupine Ann Arbor supergroup, but Connelly offers how own paranormal howls on the unforgiving monster mash "Boneless", and Spencer Yeh of Burning Star Core Death Beam on hellfire violin. Elsewhere, Connelly transforms himself into a possessed and baying hound, informed by the Jesus Lizard's back catalog, on the absolutely searing percussive spin-cycle "Open Body". Innards receive a lot of lip here, both in title and all-out musical evisceration. The facile Wolf Eyes comparison isn't to say this is a mere simulation. You could as easily namedrop a less groove-oriented Throbbing Gristle, Cock ESP, and extra especially, an organic rock 'n' roll take on Whitehouse. The overdriven opener, "Let's See Who's Here and Who's Not", is a spastic roll call built upon instrumental crescendo sandwiches and distorted howls and yelps. On a more mellow tip, "The Empty Socket" is a sweaty gong shower scene, complete with a dose of hacking and choking on what I imagine to be bloody meat stew. From the drowned (and somehow peaceful) rodent on the cover to the explosive product, Obedience Cuts solicits a well-paced ebb and flow. The album doesn't tire or lag; it ends up nicely clipped and even danceable (for the mad) at points. Released on CD by the Minneapolis' label Freedom From it's also available also on LP via Gods of Tundra in an edition of 500 copies with a silkscreened chipboard foldover cover. (Noise has always been so collectible.) For those with extra ducats, there are also upcoming releases on Hanson (including a DVD), Hospital Productions, and Liquid Death/Hello. But, to bring the initial comparison full circle and to come to a typical refrain with this sort of kudzu-vine growth pattern, Hair Police might not have as many releases as Wolf Eyes, but it's safe to say they're catching up, and Obedience Cuts is a more than adequate spot to start your vision quest.

Artist: Hair Police, Album: Obedience Cuts, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "There are probably numerous reasons-- bloody foreign policies, the jock's need for extremism, urban and suburban decay, small-town ennui-- but whatever's behind the ascension, cathartic post-hardcore noise has, in the past couple of years, careened a bit towards the mainstream. Surely these feedbacking subtexts and threadbare codes will bat nary an eye amid commercial radio pablum or earn even sub-sub-par digitalis at Billboard, but still, the crunk of wires and modulators slouches towards greater recognition: Wolf Eyes have become the most raucous act on the big-time Sub Pop roster, suburban teens sport spankin' new CBGB's tees at Lightning Bolt & Black Dice & Locust throwdowns, Carlos Giffoni's three-day No Fun festival was pleasantly packed with folks boogying along with To Live and Shave in L.A. like they were Outkast, and now Hair Police are taking their slash-and-burn to the Solar Stage at Lollapalooza. These are baby steps one and all, but allow ye olde timers a flashback to more than a decade of spectacularly unattended shows by Harry Pussy, Pengo, Blowhole, Shadow Ring, Borbetomagus, Climax Golden Twins, or Noggin and the attention bespeaks a full-on revolution. Hair Police formed in Lexington, KY 2001; Obedience Cuts, their first full-length since 2002's Blow Out Your Blood, features guitarist and vocalist Mike Connelly at the helm, Robert Beatty on electronics, and Trevor Tremaine pounding drums and tapes. For this particularly mesmerizing effort they say they're "chronicling the relationship between inside/outside and signaling a call to arms for the GNARLY TIMES." I'm not entirely sure about that platform, but there's certainly something bubbling within the album's violently ecstatic nine tracks. Obedience Cuts wrangles and wrestles with carcinogens and pops sonic blisters, festering a la Aaron Dilloway's solo Wolf Eyes' jaunts, soundtracks for the decomposition of vermin; throughout, the percussion's intense, the sounds ring and shatter. There are less Negative Approach scowls than the lupine Ann Arbor supergroup, but Connelly offers how own paranormal howls on the unforgiving monster mash "Boneless", and Spencer Yeh of Burning Star Core Death Beam on hellfire violin. Elsewhere, Connelly transforms himself into a possessed and baying hound, informed by the Jesus Lizard's back catalog, on the absolutely searing percussive spin-cycle "Open Body". Innards receive a lot of lip here, both in title and all-out musical evisceration. The facile Wolf Eyes comparison isn't to say this is a mere simulation. You could as easily namedrop a less groove-oriented Throbbing Gristle, Cock ESP, and extra especially, an organic rock 'n' roll take on Whitehouse. The overdriven opener, "Let's See Who's Here and Who's Not", is a spastic roll call built upon instrumental crescendo sandwiches and distorted howls and yelps. On a more mellow tip, "The Empty Socket" is a sweaty gong shower scene, complete with a dose of hacking and choking on what I imagine to be bloody meat stew. From the drowned (and somehow peaceful) rodent on the cover to the explosive product, Obedience Cuts solicits a well-paced ebb and flow. The album doesn't tire or lag; it ends up nicely clipped and even danceable (for the mad) at points. Released on CD by the Minneapolis' label Freedom From it's also available also on LP via Gods of Tundra in an edition of 500 copies with a silkscreened chipboard foldover cover. (Noise has always been so collectible.) For those with extra ducats, there are also upcoming releases on Hanson (including a DVD), Hospital Productions, and Liquid Death/Hello. But, to bring the initial comparison full circle and to come to a typical refrain with this sort of kudzu-vine growth pattern, Hair Police might not have as many releases as Wolf Eyes, but it's safe to say they're catching up, and Obedience Cuts is a more than adequate spot to start your vision quest. "

Foot Village

Make Memories

Experimental,Rock

Marc Masters

It’s tempting, and not inaccurate, to call L.A. quartet Foot Village a concept band. After all, they billed their first three albums as a trilogy about a futuristic community (named Foot Village, naturally) that survives and thrives after the end of the world. Live, their musical approach seems conceptual too: all drums and singing, with no other instruments in sight. But on that count they’re not hard-liners-- each of their albums includes sounds created by something other than percussion or voice. On Make Memories, their first album since 2009’s Anti-Magic, Foot Village have gone a step further and loosened the thematic concepts too. Even though one song is called “The End of The World”, and there are plenty of the group’s trademark anthemic chants, strident declarations, and cryptic slogans, there’s no discernible overarching conceit here. Instead, swells of pure sound have become paramount, taking equal footing to urgent lyrical imperatives. Hence on a track like opener “1600 Dolla Bill”, Foot Village can comfortably ride waves of cymbals and synth (courtesy of Beak>’s Matthew Loveridge) for long stretches without ever singing at all. There’s nothing else that abstract and expansive on Make Memories. But even though the remaining five tracks sit more in the established Foot Village wheelhouse of high-octane drumming and high-energy shouting, there’s something different going on this time. The hyper-kinetic pounding and stop-start bursts are sharper and more purposeful. Where in the past, parts of certain songs were merely transitional, here everything counts. The ironic result is that the first concept-free Foot Village album has their most narrative structure yet, filled with beginnings, middles, and ends. There’s also a heightened focus on texture that gives these songs multiple levels. You can still jerk your head and beat your chest to Foot Village’s militaristic stomps, but at the same time it’s easy to get lost in their well-woven layers of sound. So the overlapping screams on “Warlock” feel as much like a drone as a war chant. And when clouds of cymbal wash and snare roll melt into echoing yells on “New Jersey”, the pulse-quickening effect is as psychedelic as it is visceral. Foot Village’s brand of humor, a kind of gleeful insanity, remains intact too. Though their tribal multi-drum sound has been rightfully compared to Boredoms, I think they’re even closer to those Japanese legends in how oddly funny they can be-- in the way they simultaneously sound frantically nuts, naively simple, and absurdly self-aware. Take one track with the Boredoms-like title “AIDS Sucks, Make Money”, wherein the group bluntly boasts “We’ll never, we’ll never, we’ll never stop dreaming/ We’ll never, we’ll never, we’ll never stop screaming.” At this point, given the level of confidence and clarity that Foot Village’s music has risen to, that’s all the concept they need.

Artist: Foot Village, Album: Make Memories, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "It’s tempting, and not inaccurate, to call L.A. quartet Foot Village a concept band. After all, they billed their first three albums as a trilogy about a futuristic community (named Foot Village, naturally) that survives and thrives after the end of the world. Live, their musical approach seems conceptual too: all drums and singing, with no other instruments in sight. But on that count they’re not hard-liners-- each of their albums includes sounds created by something other than percussion or voice. On Make Memories, their first album since 2009’s Anti-Magic, Foot Village have gone a step further and loosened the thematic concepts too. Even though one song is called “The End of The World”, and there are plenty of the group’s trademark anthemic chants, strident declarations, and cryptic slogans, there’s no discernible overarching conceit here. Instead, swells of pure sound have become paramount, taking equal footing to urgent lyrical imperatives. Hence on a track like opener “1600 Dolla Bill”, Foot Village can comfortably ride waves of cymbals and synth (courtesy of Beak>’s Matthew Loveridge) for long stretches without ever singing at all. There’s nothing else that abstract and expansive on Make Memories. But even though the remaining five tracks sit more in the established Foot Village wheelhouse of high-octane drumming and high-energy shouting, there’s something different going on this time. The hyper-kinetic pounding and stop-start bursts are sharper and more purposeful. Where in the past, parts of certain songs were merely transitional, here everything counts. The ironic result is that the first concept-free Foot Village album has their most narrative structure yet, filled with beginnings, middles, and ends. There’s also a heightened focus on texture that gives these songs multiple levels. You can still jerk your head and beat your chest to Foot Village’s militaristic stomps, but at the same time it’s easy to get lost in their well-woven layers of sound. So the overlapping screams on “Warlock” feel as much like a drone as a war chant. And when clouds of cymbal wash and snare roll melt into echoing yells on “New Jersey”, the pulse-quickening effect is as psychedelic as it is visceral. Foot Village’s brand of humor, a kind of gleeful insanity, remains intact too. Though their tribal multi-drum sound has been rightfully compared to Boredoms, I think they’re even closer to those Japanese legends in how oddly funny they can be-- in the way they simultaneously sound frantically nuts, naively simple, and absurdly self-aware. Take one track with the Boredoms-like title “AIDS Sucks, Make Money”, wherein the group bluntly boasts “We’ll never, we’ll never, we’ll never stop dreaming/ We’ll never, we’ll never, we’ll never stop screaming.” At this point, given the level of confidence and clarity that Foot Village’s music has risen to, that’s all the concept they need."

Tegan and Sara

Sainthood

Rock

Joshua Klein

Carefully selected case studies could convince you anyone can be a star with a well-timed leak, blog post, or P2P push, but there are still few substitutes for good ol' fashioned hard work. Case in point: Tegan and Sara, who have worked their way up from cult status to wider prominence through a steady regimen of touring and a gradual musical evolution and maturation that's made it harder to ignore their increasingly impressive achievements. Those achievements peaked to date with 2007's The Con, but that shouldn't negate the merits of the Canadian Quin sisters' somewhat likeminded follow-up, Sainthood. The Con, sympathetically produced by Chris Walla, found Tegan and Sara trading the occasional preciousness and banal power-pop tropes of their earlier work for something more eclectic and personal, and Sainthood, which once again enlists Walla, continues to showcase the pair's confidence and peculiarities. What's different is that the Quins have closed the aperture ever so slightly, retaining some of the character of the album's predecessor while applying a slightly sharper focus to the songs and their musical scope. In theory, tracks like "Don't Rush", "Hell", "The Cure", and "The Ocean" count as power-pop, but tightly wound as they are, they're closer to high-strung 1980s new wave (think: Missing Persons), albeit thankfully short on the attendant affectations and coursing with subtly dark undercurrents. "I've got the cure for you," sings Tegan in "The Cure", and in fact, given the enigmatic lyrics, it's unclear if the object of her attention should accept or refuse the help. Or whether they even have a choice. Those aforementioned songs, incidentally, are Tegan's-- the more pop-oriented of the pair. But to set up such a dialectic does a disservice to sister Sara, whose own pop instincts clear the quirkier hurdles of songs like "Arrow" or "Red Belt". Certainly, "On Directing" or "Alligator"-- two obvious album highlights, the latter playing like a late-night backroom flip of Madonna's "Holiday"-- don't lack in hooks, but they're developed with a welcome austerity and Sara's disinclination for easy "big moment" build up and release. Sara's "Sentimental Tune" is no less restrained; it could easily go for Kelly Clarkson bombast, and maybe would even be better for it, but kept in check, that song-- like Sainthood as a whole-- achieves a less immediate but perhaps more gratifying impact. The album's infectious, but with enough edge to temper its undeniable desire to connect. Which it does, just on its own terms, a broadcast from two idiosyncratic musical minds whose biggest talent may be in making their most eccentric traits sound downright normal. After all, from the Quin twins' perspective it's the audience that's accessible, and they know just how to reach them.

Artist: Tegan and Sara, Album: Sainthood, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Carefully selected case studies could convince you anyone can be a star with a well-timed leak, blog post, or P2P push, but there are still few substitutes for good ol' fashioned hard work. Case in point: Tegan and Sara, who have worked their way up from cult status to wider prominence through a steady regimen of touring and a gradual musical evolution and maturation that's made it harder to ignore their increasingly impressive achievements. Those achievements peaked to date with 2007's The Con, but that shouldn't negate the merits of the Canadian Quin sisters' somewhat likeminded follow-up, Sainthood. The Con, sympathetically produced by Chris Walla, found Tegan and Sara trading the occasional preciousness and banal power-pop tropes of their earlier work for something more eclectic and personal, and Sainthood, which once again enlists Walla, continues to showcase the pair's confidence and peculiarities. What's different is that the Quins have closed the aperture ever so slightly, retaining some of the character of the album's predecessor while applying a slightly sharper focus to the songs and their musical scope. In theory, tracks like "Don't Rush", "Hell", "The Cure", and "The Ocean" count as power-pop, but tightly wound as they are, they're closer to high-strung 1980s new wave (think: Missing Persons), albeit thankfully short on the attendant affectations and coursing with subtly dark undercurrents. "I've got the cure for you," sings Tegan in "The Cure", and in fact, given the enigmatic lyrics, it's unclear if the object of her attention should accept or refuse the help. Or whether they even have a choice. Those aforementioned songs, incidentally, are Tegan's-- the more pop-oriented of the pair. But to set up such a dialectic does a disservice to sister Sara, whose own pop instincts clear the quirkier hurdles of songs like "Arrow" or "Red Belt". Certainly, "On Directing" or "Alligator"-- two obvious album highlights, the latter playing like a late-night backroom flip of Madonna's "Holiday"-- don't lack in hooks, but they're developed with a welcome austerity and Sara's disinclination for easy "big moment" build up and release. Sara's "Sentimental Tune" is no less restrained; it could easily go for Kelly Clarkson bombast, and maybe would even be better for it, but kept in check, that song-- like Sainthood as a whole-- achieves a less immediate but perhaps more gratifying impact. The album's infectious, but with enough edge to temper its undeniable desire to connect. Which it does, just on its own terms, a broadcast from two idiosyncratic musical minds whose biggest talent may be in making their most eccentric traits sound downright normal. After all, from the Quin twins' perspective it's the audience that's accessible, and they know just how to reach them."

Spencer Dickinson

The Man Who Lives for Love

Stephen M. Deusner

Like a family of circus performers executing daring feats of acrobatics-- only with blues-- the Dickinson boys Luther and Cody form an unbelievably tight two-man band, assaying riffs inspired by regional bluesmen like Junior Kimbrough and R.L. Burnside and hitting head-of-a-pin grooves like nobody's business. The Dickinsons got together with Jon Spencer, and the result is The Man Who Lives for Love, which was originally released exclusively in Japan in 2001 but is finally available in the States with six bonus tracks. Honestly, it's difficult to see what all the fuss is about. The album is fairly predictable and only intermittently exciting, a sprawling record that showcases what the Dickinson boys do best and what Spencer does all the damn time. Sounding livelier here than they did as John Hiatt's backing band on last year's Master of Disaster-- which should surprise exactly no one-- Luther and Cody open things up with the galloping rhythm of "It's a Drag" and generally try to make each song snap perfectly into a groove. They create a considerable commotion on "Flood (The Awful Truth, The Living End)", which sounds like those symbols cartoonists use for f$%^(@#$kin' cuss words. In fact, the brothers sound fiercer and more dangerous here than they are with their full-time band the North Mississippi All-Stars, who have since sunk into lackadaisical Southern jamming. And dear old dad-- that's legendary producer Jim Dickinson to you-- captures all the texture in Luther's bottleneck squalls on "I'm Not Ready" and Cody's snappy snare groove on "Cryin'". If the Dickinson boys sound bolder, Spencer just sounds the same, bringing the old tics and mockabilly mannerisms that he's been working for years and years. He's like Jack Nicholson, but not in a good way: He always plays himself, no matter what the part calls for. Spencer always sounds best when the music is abrasively raw and spontaneous, with an unrehearsed amateurishness to its skuzzy noise-- see his original band Pussy Galore or his early Blues Explosion albums. However, when the music's cleaner and the musicians more capable-- here as on last year's Heavy Trash-- Spencer comes across as a cartoon, an aged Elvis impersonator drained of his musical and sexual charisma. The first time he barks one of his "Yeah!"'s over Luther's guitar riffs on "That's a Drag" is, admittedly, pretty electrifying, but he uses that very same "Yeah!" to punctuate nearly every track, each grunt identical to the previous one. Midway through the 10-minute ham-epic "I'm So Alone", you may wonder why the hell you ever took him seriously in the first place.

Artist: Spencer Dickinson, Album: The Man Who Lives for Love, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 4.4 Album review: "Like a family of circus performers executing daring feats of acrobatics-- only with blues-- the Dickinson boys Luther and Cody form an unbelievably tight two-man band, assaying riffs inspired by regional bluesmen like Junior Kimbrough and R.L. Burnside and hitting head-of-a-pin grooves like nobody's business. The Dickinsons got together with Jon Spencer, and the result is The Man Who Lives for Love, which was originally released exclusively in Japan in 2001 but is finally available in the States with six bonus tracks. Honestly, it's difficult to see what all the fuss is about. The album is fairly predictable and only intermittently exciting, a sprawling record that showcases what the Dickinson boys do best and what Spencer does all the damn time. Sounding livelier here than they did as John Hiatt's backing band on last year's Master of Disaster-- which should surprise exactly no one-- Luther and Cody open things up with the galloping rhythm of "It's a Drag" and generally try to make each song snap perfectly into a groove. They create a considerable commotion on "Flood (The Awful Truth, The Living End)", which sounds like those symbols cartoonists use for f$%^(@#$kin' cuss words. In fact, the brothers sound fiercer and more dangerous here than they are with their full-time band the North Mississippi All-Stars, who have since sunk into lackadaisical Southern jamming. And dear old dad-- that's legendary producer Jim Dickinson to you-- captures all the texture in Luther's bottleneck squalls on "I'm Not Ready" and Cody's snappy snare groove on "Cryin'". If the Dickinson boys sound bolder, Spencer just sounds the same, bringing the old tics and mockabilly mannerisms that he's been working for years and years. He's like Jack Nicholson, but not in a good way: He always plays himself, no matter what the part calls for. Spencer always sounds best when the music is abrasively raw and spontaneous, with an unrehearsed amateurishness to its skuzzy noise-- see his original band Pussy Galore or his early Blues Explosion albums. However, when the music's cleaner and the musicians more capable-- here as on last year's Heavy Trash-- Spencer comes across as a cartoon, an aged Elvis impersonator drained of his musical and sexual charisma. The first time he barks one of his "Yeah!"'s over Luther's guitar riffs on "That's a Drag" is, admittedly, pretty electrifying, but he uses that very same "Yeah!" to punctuate nearly every track, each grunt identical to the previous one. Midway through the 10-minute ham-epic "I'm So Alone", you may wonder why the hell you ever took him seriously in the first place."

Botch

An Anthology of Dead Ends EP

Metal

Isaiah Violante

A few weeks back, I happened upon an old interview with god rock timber Creed on MTV2. After suffering through bible-thumper extraordinaire and vocalist Scott Stapp waxing rhapsodic on Matthew 3:12 and its significance in contemporary media, Stapp was asked how the band felt about Radiohead. "Yes, we are definitely Radiohead fans. When interviewers ask you what your favorite band is, Radiohead is a really good thing to say to them." As a general guideline, I try to avoid reviews before I've fully absorbed an album. In the case of the new Botch EP, however, ignoring the swell of overwhelming praise from my cluster of devoted intellimetal friends proved impossible. I'd heard so much hyperbole from armchair reviewers on the quality of * An Anthology of Dead Ends * that I quickly pushed it to the front of my Pitchfork priorities list. Little did I know that I'd already heard all of these songs before and, surprisingly, from shittier mainstream bands with less indie cred. As I sat down to draft this review, I had a startling revelation: Botch, Isis, Converge, the Dillinger Escape Plan, Cave In, and most of the Hydra Head crew, while not on a commercial par with Radiohead by any means, are names typically dropped because they sound good to the fairweather metal fan: hard rock that's loud, brash, and angry, but without any of those nasty Satanism questions from your folks. In case they've managed to fly under your radar for the past nine years, Botch was a four-piece hardcore-metal meld out of Seattle with guitarist David Knudson, vocalist Dave Verellen, drummer Tim Latona, and bassist Brian Cook. Botch released two fantastic metalcore albums in 1999 and 2000 entitled * American Nervoso * and * We Are the Romans * , respectively. Both albums pushed mathematical metal to a wider audience, crafting dense walls of sound with off-kilter rhythms and snarling vocals in a more accessible manner than their Hydra Head counterparts. Through jilted tempos, filthy riffs, and even an improbable cover of "Rock Lobster", Botch carved out a solid niche with a loyal fanbase. Picking up my copy of * An Anthology of a Dead End * , my attention was immediately drawn to the track titles: "Spaim", "Japam", "Framce", "Vietmam", "Afghamistam", and "Micaragua"-- the kind of nursery school cipher that might have come from a book on combinations and permutations authored by Richard Scarry. Opening with a 14-second guitar intro, "Spaim" signals Botch's entrance to a professional downward spiral that concludes with a fiery crash into a mountain twenty minutes later. Where the Dillinger Escape Plan at least hinted at the possibility of a creative future with their four-track EP, * Irony is a Dead Scene * , earlier this year, Botch opted for a series of safe plays to close out their career in the least offensive, and more importantly, least memorable way possible. Make no mistake, * Anthology * is undoubtedly a hardcore album; despite a handful of prodigious flashes, this is math-metal for kids on the short bus. All the middle-class, white-male posturing and angst is very much in place but minus the intrigue. "Japam" is short attention span theatre at its worst, crashing through a number of uninspired chord changes between hardcore and lazy pulse with violent wails, churning pop punk riffs, and insipid drums. It's all so predictable that one could train the ear to identify this supposed experimentation as Botch's brand of verse/chorus/verse. Sure, it's all negative, ominous, and assuredly very angry but where's the weenie? Guess what-- there isn't one. Spend two minutes with the first actual song on the disc and you've got a master's understanding of all the tricks and textural and temporal variation present on * An Anthology of Dead Ends * . "Framce" and "Vietmam" are the two closest approximations to Botch circa 2000. While the desire to embrace conventionality is still present, it's handled in a more organic way. In the case of "Vietmam", the methodical approach pays off. Through a poetic mechanism of guitar and bass, the track plods ahead with far more minimal orchestration and greater flexibility. Strong colors, harmonizing riffs, false starts, false stops, and taste abound, elements sorely lacking on most of * Anthology * . Knudson's guitar work is liquid and naturalistic while Cook and Latona move solidly through an unorthodox cadence with ease and intricacy. "Afghamistam"-- which could as easily have been titled "Smore", "Borimg", or "Pomderous"-- marks Botch's lone foray into post-four-minute territory. Not only does this track fail miserably as an attempt at multi-dimensionality, but it's so chockfull of pretension that one might expect a grinning, fawning Burt Bacharach to emerge from the bombed-out rubble of Kamdahar. Replete with piano, sullen lyrics, and schmaltzy string orchestration, this track would try the patience of even the most devoted fanboy. Botch's career comes to a close with "Micaragua", another cute and ineffectual hardcore ditty-- including a suitably unimpressive drum solo from Cook-- with the stamp of trivial alterna-metal trash a la Mudvayne and Mushroomhead. It's worth highlighting that every note on the album is produced exceptionally well for a self-avowed DIY band. In addition to possessing an extremely tight dynamic, the nuances of every instrument are clear and distinct (translation: slick and phony). This album so blatantly panders to a moderate, fail-safe audience it couldn't be packaged any other way. I'll readily admit that I've never been in love with Dave Verellen's purposefully awkward metaphors, or any of the band's calculated noisecore pretexts. Still, it seemed plausible that the same band who had recorded the menacingly vague "Mondrian Was Liar", invoked Dali and John Woo on * American Nervosa * , and Orff's "Carmina Burana" on * The Unifying Themes of Sex, Death and Religion * didn't shoot its wad two years ago. In the course of listening to the same six tracks for nearly four weeks, I realized that Botch had simply exhausted their capabilities as a unit. Mercifully, Knudson and Verellen recognized their limitations, forced out a contrived and forgettable 20 minutes of music, and decided to move on to greener pastures. To all you tepid metalheads fond of referencing this fallen pack of übergeeks-with-attitude, fear not, you've still got several dozen pariahs with overdrive pedals to cling to.

Artist: Botch, Album: An Anthology of Dead Ends EP, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 4.5 Album review: "A few weeks back, I happened upon an old interview with god rock timber Creed on MTV2. After suffering through bible-thumper extraordinaire and vocalist Scott Stapp waxing rhapsodic on Matthew 3:12 and its significance in contemporary media, Stapp was asked how the band felt about Radiohead. "Yes, we are definitely Radiohead fans. When interviewers ask you what your favorite band is, Radiohead is a really good thing to say to them." As a general guideline, I try to avoid reviews before I've fully absorbed an album. In the case of the new Botch EP, however, ignoring the swell of overwhelming praise from my cluster of devoted intellimetal friends proved impossible. I'd heard so much hyperbole from armchair reviewers on the quality of * An Anthology of Dead Ends * that I quickly pushed it to the front of my Pitchfork priorities list. Little did I know that I'd already heard all of these songs before and, surprisingly, from shittier mainstream bands with less indie cred. As I sat down to draft this review, I had a startling revelation: Botch, Isis, Converge, the Dillinger Escape Plan, Cave In, and most of the Hydra Head crew, while not on a commercial par with Radiohead by any means, are names typically dropped because they sound good to the fairweather metal fan: hard rock that's loud, brash, and angry, but without any of those nasty Satanism questions from your folks. In case they've managed to fly under your radar for the past nine years, Botch was a four-piece hardcore-metal meld out of Seattle with guitarist David Knudson, vocalist Dave Verellen, drummer Tim Latona, and bassist Brian Cook. Botch released two fantastic metalcore albums in 1999 and 2000 entitled * American Nervoso * and * We Are the Romans * , respectively. Both albums pushed mathematical metal to a wider audience, crafting dense walls of sound with off-kilter rhythms and snarling vocals in a more accessible manner than their Hydra Head counterparts. Through jilted tempos, filthy riffs, and even an improbable cover of "Rock Lobster", Botch carved out a solid niche with a loyal fanbase. Picking up my copy of * An Anthology of a Dead End * , my attention was immediately drawn to the track titles: "Spaim", "Japam", "Framce", "Vietmam", "Afghamistam", and "Micaragua"-- the kind of nursery school cipher that might have come from a book on combinations and permutations authored by Richard Scarry. Opening with a 14-second guitar intro, "Spaim" signals Botch's entrance to a professional downward spiral that concludes with a fiery crash into a mountain twenty minutes later. Where the Dillinger Escape Plan at least hinted at the possibility of a creative future with their four-track EP, * Irony is a Dead Scene * , earlier this year, Botch opted for a series of safe plays to close out their career in the least offensive, and more importantly, least memorable way possible. Make no mistake, * Anthology * is undoubtedly a hardcore album; despite a handful of prodigious flashes, this is math-metal for kids on the short bus. All the middle-class, white-male posturing and angst is very much in place but minus the intrigue. "Japam" is short attention span theatre at its worst, crashing through a number of uninspired chord changes between hardcore and lazy pulse with violent wails, churning pop punk riffs, and insipid drums. It's all so predictable that one could train the ear to identify this supposed experimentation as Botch's brand of verse/chorus/verse. Sure, it's all negative, ominous, and assuredly very angry but where's the weenie? Guess what-- there isn't one. Spend two minutes with the first actual song on the disc and you've got a master's understanding of all the tricks and textural and temporal variation present on * An Anthology of Dead Ends * . "Framce" and "Vietmam" are the two closest approximations to Botch circa 2000. While the desire to embrace conventionality is still present, it's handled in a more organic way. In the case of "Vietmam", the methodical approach pays off. Through a poetic mechanism of guitar and bass, the track plods ahead with far more minimal orchestration and greater flexibility. Strong colors, harmonizing riffs, false starts, false stops, and taste abound, elements sorely lacking on most of * Anthology * . Knudson's guitar work is liquid and naturalistic while Cook and Latona move solidly through an unorthodox cadence with ease and intricacy. "Afghamistam"-- which could as easily have been titled "Smore", "Borimg", or "Pomderous"-- marks Botch's lone foray into post-four-minute territory. Not only does this track fail miserably as an attempt at multi-dimensionality, but it's so chockfull of pretension that one might expect a grinning, fawning Burt Bacharach to emerge from the bombed-out rubble of Kamdahar. Replete with piano, sullen lyrics, and schmaltzy string orchestration, this track would try the patience of even the most devoted fanboy. Botch's career comes to a close with "Micaragua", another cute and ineffectual hardcore ditty-- including a suitably unimpressive drum solo from Cook-- with the stamp of trivial alterna-metal trash a la Mudvayne and Mushroomhead. It's worth highlighting that every note on the album is produced exceptionally well for a self-avowed DIY band. In addition to possessing an extremely tight dynamic, the nuances of every instrument are clear and distinct (translation: slick and phony). This album so blatantly panders to a moderate, fail-safe audience it couldn't be packaged any other way. I'll readily admit that I've never been in love with Dave Verellen's purposefully awkward metaphors, or any of the band's calculated noisecore pretexts. Still, it seemed plausible that the same band who had recorded the menacingly vague "Mondrian Was Liar", invoked Dali and John Woo on * American Nervosa * , and Orff's "Carmina Burana" on * The Unifying Themes of Sex, Death and Religion * didn't shoot its wad two years ago. In the course of listening to the same six tracks for nearly four weeks, I realized that Botch had simply exhausted their capabilities as a unit. Mercifully, Knudson and Verellen recognized their limitations, forced out a contrived and forgettable 20 minutes of music, and decided to move on to greener pastures. To all you tepid metalheads fond of referencing this fallen pack of übergeeks-with-attitude, fear not, you've still got several dozen pariahs with overdrive pedals to cling to."

120 Days

120 Days II

Rock

Brian Howe

As future robot historians will inevitably note, a plague swept through the society of machines in the third millennium. In chillwave and drag house, in post-dubstep and R&B, in neo-IDM and electronic psychedelia, palsied drum machines lurched and staggered. Ailing synths with gummy keys coughed out sickly pitches. As the precision of machines tightened around us, we forced them to be everything that didn't come naturally to them: faulty, erratic, human. But the robots decisively rally on the new album by 120 Days, where an armada of hardware fires on all circuits, larger than life and possibly out for revenge. 120 Days II is contiguous with the Norwegian electro-rockers' eponymous 2006 record, where they built the gleaming chrome architecture of optimistic krautrockers such as Neu! on the scorched earth of nihilistic droners Spacemen 3. But this time, the emphasis is definitely on the electro side, as announced by opening track "Spacedoubt", where a discreetly grinding guitar is dwarfed by a glowing, rippling grid straight out of Jan Hammer. Throughout the record, rapacious currents of house and trance, blasted out with pre-minimal Teutonic bluster, relegate the guitar to a more supportive role. The drums thunder along on motorik rails, but they're intricately syncopated with miles of arpeggiated synthesizer. 120 Days aren't just pulling this stuff off a spool. Instead, they tie space into strange loops and curves, fanciful and whooshing like baroque banisters. Which is a relief, since it took them six years to make. 120 Days are attracted to some of the same tropes as their countrymen Casiokids: the oily skid of a bass synthesizer, the tropical melody couched in a wintry timbre. But where Casiokids are all light and fun and humility, 120 Days are much darker and grander; a jam band for stern-faced MPC wizards. But for all their hellbent grandiosity, they think to provide a little something for everybody. Like to hear tensions gathered and discharged at great, spine-tingling length? There's "Dahle Disco", a lunging house track wrapped in a growling and shimmering FX fantasia. Prefer to dive into the rainbow? "Lucid Dreams Part 1" is a pleasantly streaky drone interstitial. Fiery prog, pitch-shifting bass workouts, dreamy interludes; they're all here, finely sequenced into one mammoth arc. The dark euphoria notably dips on "Sleepless Nights #4", a Beatles-y longueur, but it gets fizzy again on "Sunkissed", where popping bubbles serve as a delightful and untypically delicate kind of percussion. The machines on 120 Days II are so holographically vivid that the human element can't help but seem wan, especially since Ã…dne Meisfjord is such a nondescript singer whose vocal presence does neither harm nor good. The exception to the rule is closing track "Osaka". With nasty synthesizers hammering away at snarled boasts such as "5:15, I'm sharp and clean," it's like the Strokes as Scandinavian electro-rockers, and has tons of the personality lacking elsewhere. Still, it's not just the record's title that smacks of an underdeveloped conceptual imagination, however well-compensated by a robust technical one. Though it's a ripping good time, this Krauty idiom already has the propensity to feel dated. Such a towering and square-cornered version feels especially so, in this time of mechanical plague.

Artist: 120 Days, Album: 120 Days II, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "As future robot historians will inevitably note, a plague swept through the society of machines in the third millennium. In chillwave and drag house, in post-dubstep and R&B, in neo-IDM and electronic psychedelia, palsied drum machines lurched and staggered. Ailing synths with gummy keys coughed out sickly pitches. As the precision of machines tightened around us, we forced them to be everything that didn't come naturally to them: faulty, erratic, human. But the robots decisively rally on the new album by 120 Days, where an armada of hardware fires on all circuits, larger than life and possibly out for revenge. 120 Days II is contiguous with the Norwegian electro-rockers' eponymous 2006 record, where they built the gleaming chrome architecture of optimistic krautrockers such as Neu! on the scorched earth of nihilistic droners Spacemen 3. But this time, the emphasis is definitely on the electro side, as announced by opening track "Spacedoubt", where a discreetly grinding guitar is dwarfed by a glowing, rippling grid straight out of Jan Hammer. Throughout the record, rapacious currents of house and trance, blasted out with pre-minimal Teutonic bluster, relegate the guitar to a more supportive role. The drums thunder along on motorik rails, but they're intricately syncopated with miles of arpeggiated synthesizer. 120 Days aren't just pulling this stuff off a spool. Instead, they tie space into strange loops and curves, fanciful and whooshing like baroque banisters. Which is a relief, since it took them six years to make. 120 Days are attracted to some of the same tropes as their countrymen Casiokids: the oily skid of a bass synthesizer, the tropical melody couched in a wintry timbre. But where Casiokids are all light and fun and humility, 120 Days are much darker and grander; a jam band for stern-faced MPC wizards. But for all their hellbent grandiosity, they think to provide a little something for everybody. Like to hear tensions gathered and discharged at great, spine-tingling length? There's "Dahle Disco", a lunging house track wrapped in a growling and shimmering FX fantasia. Prefer to dive into the rainbow? "Lucid Dreams Part 1" is a pleasantly streaky drone interstitial. Fiery prog, pitch-shifting bass workouts, dreamy interludes; they're all here, finely sequenced into one mammoth arc. The dark euphoria notably dips on "Sleepless Nights #4", a Beatles-y longueur, but it gets fizzy again on "Sunkissed", where popping bubbles serve as a delightful and untypically delicate kind of percussion. The machines on 120 Days II are so holographically vivid that the human element can't help but seem wan, especially since Ã…dne Meisfjord is such a nondescript singer whose vocal presence does neither harm nor good. The exception to the rule is closing track "Osaka". With nasty synthesizers hammering away at snarled boasts such as "5:15, I'm sharp and clean," it's like the Strokes as Scandinavian electro-rockers, and has tons of the personality lacking elsewhere. Still, it's not just the record's title that smacks of an underdeveloped conceptual imagination, however well-compensated by a robust technical one. Though it's a ripping good time, this Krauty idiom already has the propensity to feel dated. Such a towering and square-cornered version feels especially so, in this time of mechanical plague."

Ted Leo and the Pharmacists

The Tyranny of Distance

Electronic,Rock

Kristin Sage Rockermann & Chip Chanko

Dear bosom friend, Kindly trust me that it is in your best interest to go buy the new Ted Leo record. It's called The Tyranny of Distance, and it's one of the best pop albums of the year. You won't be able to stop whistling the first song. Sincerely, Kristin Sage --- And that's all you have to say to a bosom friend. But I wanted to tell more people about this album, so I decided to write my first Pitchfork review in nine months about it. I felt out of the groove, and articulating my feelings about The Tyranny of Distance wasn't coming easily, so I played Madonna's "Into the Groove" for inspiration. It worked. The material girl's lifeless vocals, supported by a canned beat and slap-bass, reminded me of what was at stake. There's too much vacant, formulaic pop being pushed out of vocoders and onto the airwaves for people not to hear this record. Ted Leo's latest offers ample hooks, a uniquely expressive voice, and a perfect single that, in a just universe, would be all over the radio. I wanted to tell the world of the album's riches! Riches of song! Plus, most days I'd rather write a review than prove my love to Madonna. After Leo's impressive work with Chisel and his legendary performances with his brother Danny in the Sin Eaters, Ted Leo's solo work has been anything but consistent. It's ranged from unlistenable tape experiments to a great cover of Thin Lizzy's "Little Girl in Bloom." This album could have sounded like anything. As it turns out, it sounds like everything. The first few chords of "My Vien Ilin" instantly reminded me of the MTV theme that used to come on behind the astronaut. "The Gold Finch and the Red Oak Tree" uses the metaphor of a message sent through a bird's simple song, and recalls the Beatles' "Blackbird." The last segment of "Stove by a Whale" sounds like it should be played by Uilleann pipes. When I saw Ted perform with the Sin Eaters, he was decked out in a denim jacket with Rush scrawled on the back in magic marker, and the arena rock sound is certainly a common denominator in Ted's equation. Backing him here are the Pharmacists, who probably sport similar jackets with "The Who" and "Wire" marked on the sleeves. The guys seem to have gotten a kick out of passing the sticks around the studio-- the tracks featuring Danny Leo's drumming become fist pumping anthems, while James Canty's kit harkens back to Keith Moon showmanship. James' brother Brendan (who produced the album and can usually be found playing in Fugazi) even lends a hand on "The Great Communicator." Pete Kerlin and Alex Minoff round out the line-up on bass, and Amy Dominguez from Telegraph Melts guests on cello. This could all have easily turned into a giant mess, but as Ted sings on "Parallel or Together," "So I gather around me all the pieces of a song/ And fit them where they belong." And it really isn't any more complicated than that-- Leo might be influenced by the Jam, Wire, and Thin Lizzy, but he's got a guitar that never sounds confused, and an amazing talent to combine these elements into something that sounds distinctly Ted Leo. If I had to register a complaint, it's that "Timorous Me" could only be described as "very John Cougar," even if the first line wasn't, "Me and Johnny sittin' in the green grass." It opens with dueling guitars that could take on the Allman Brothers in a bare-knuckles fight (and get the girl) before settling into lyrics that seem nostalgic and forced. But let's face it: many songs on this album are simply poignant and earnest. The fact that only one turned to cheese is a testament the record's general ability to deliver. Two of the album's lyrical themes seem to reflect the fork-in-the-road Leo's songwriting has approached: taking a step back to look at things in a simple way, and finding songs in what he hears all around him. In the past, it seemed like Leo had to actively attempt to obscure his clear vision and effortless pop songwriting in the name of experimentation or deconstruction. That's not always necessarily a bad thing, sure. But now, in "Biomusicology," Ted sets the record straight: "All the songs you hear down there/ They have a purpose/ All in all, we cannot stop singing/ We cannot start sinking.../ We swim until it ends." Well, I can't stop whistling the damn song, so let's hope Ted keeps swimming. Maybe next time he'll leave Johnny Cougar out of it.

Artist: Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, Album: The Tyranny of Distance, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "Dear bosom friend, Kindly trust me that it is in your best interest to go buy the new Ted Leo record. It's called The Tyranny of Distance, and it's one of the best pop albums of the year. You won't be able to stop whistling the first song. Sincerely, Kristin Sage --- And that's all you have to say to a bosom friend. But I wanted to tell more people about this album, so I decided to write my first Pitchfork review in nine months about it. I felt out of the groove, and articulating my feelings about The Tyranny of Distance wasn't coming easily, so I played Madonna's "Into the Groove" for inspiration. It worked. The material girl's lifeless vocals, supported by a canned beat and slap-bass, reminded me of what was at stake. There's too much vacant, formulaic pop being pushed out of vocoders and onto the airwaves for people not to hear this record. Ted Leo's latest offers ample hooks, a uniquely expressive voice, and a perfect single that, in a just universe, would be all over the radio. I wanted to tell the world of the album's riches! Riches of song! Plus, most days I'd rather write a review than prove my love to Madonna. After Leo's impressive work with Chisel and his legendary performances with his brother Danny in the Sin Eaters, Ted Leo's solo work has been anything but consistent. It's ranged from unlistenable tape experiments to a great cover of Thin Lizzy's "Little Girl in Bloom." This album could have sounded like anything. As it turns out, it sounds like everything. The first few chords of "My Vien Ilin" instantly reminded me of the MTV theme that used to come on behind the astronaut. "The Gold Finch and the Red Oak Tree" uses the metaphor of a message sent through a bird's simple song, and recalls the Beatles' "Blackbird." The last segment of "Stove by a Whale" sounds like it should be played by Uilleann pipes. When I saw Ted perform with the Sin Eaters, he was decked out in a denim jacket with Rush scrawled on the back in magic marker, and the arena rock sound is certainly a common denominator in Ted's equation. Backing him here are the Pharmacists, who probably sport similar jackets with "The Who" and "Wire" marked on the sleeves. The guys seem to have gotten a kick out of passing the sticks around the studio-- the tracks featuring Danny Leo's drumming become fist pumping anthems, while James Canty's kit harkens back to Keith Moon showmanship. James' brother Brendan (who produced the album and can usually be found playing in Fugazi) even lends a hand on "The Great Communicator." Pete Kerlin and Alex Minoff round out the line-up on bass, and Amy Dominguez from Telegraph Melts guests on cello. This could all have easily turned into a giant mess, but as Ted sings on "Parallel or Together," "So I gather around me all the pieces of a song/ And fit them where they belong." And it really isn't any more complicated than that-- Leo might be influenced by the Jam, Wire, and Thin Lizzy, but he's got a guitar that never sounds confused, and an amazing talent to combine these elements into something that sounds distinctly Ted Leo. If I had to register a complaint, it's that "Timorous Me" could only be described as "very John Cougar," even if the first line wasn't, "Me and Johnny sittin' in the green grass." It opens with dueling guitars that could take on the Allman Brothers in a bare-knuckles fight (and get the girl) before settling into lyrics that seem nostalgic and forced. But let's face it: many songs on this album are simply poignant and earnest. The fact that only one turned to cheese is a testament the record's general ability to deliver. Two of the album's lyrical themes seem to reflect the fork-in-the-road Leo's songwriting has approached: taking a step back to look at things in a simple way, and finding songs in what he hears all around him. In the past, it seemed like Leo had to actively attempt to obscure his clear vision and effortless pop songwriting in the name of experimentation or deconstruction. That's not always necessarily a bad thing, sure. But now, in "Biomusicology," Ted sets the record straight: "All the songs you hear down there/ They have a purpose/ All in all, we cannot stop singing/ We cannot start sinking.../ We swim until it ends." Well, I can't stop whistling the damn song, so let's hope Ted keeps swimming. Maybe next time he'll leave Johnny Cougar out of it."

Dino Felipe

No Fun Demo

Electronic

Marc Masters

Miami-based sound wizard Dino Felipe has made a lot of records-- more than 30 in the past decade, if you count his various groups and compilation appearances-- but very few of them sound alike. His primary M.O. is electronic noise, but he's also good at droning ambience, fractured punk, sample-heavy frivolity, and weirdo bedroom pop. He's made a subterranean career out of dodging definition, so it figures that his first record for No Fun, the noise label run by his friend and colleague Carlos Giffoni, would be his poppiest to date. It may not also be his best, but it's up there. Of course, pop is a relative term when it comes to Felipe. There are melodic, structured songs here, but his approach is still hazy, off-kilter, and weird. Most of his tunes sport skewed hooks and off-key riffs which get dipped in fuzz and echo, half-hidden by distortion, pitch shifting, and ghostly distance. This puts No Fun Demo in the same ballpark as the AM-radio lo-fi of Ariel Pink, but Felipe's songs are more sturdy, and the album is more consistent than any Pink record save the underrated House Arrest. In that sense, its title is deceptive: These tracks may initially sound like four-track demos made alone in a basement, but they hold up as well-crafted songs, the kind that couldn't have been whipped up in a single lonesome evening. Take "Found 2 Photos"-- its mid-tempo drum machine, loping bass line, and two-chord organ seem to follow one simple idea. But a closer listen reveals clever guitar flourishes, random percussion, and a vocal line that sounds like Silver Jews filled with helium. The same goes for "Working on Not", a looping electronic piece that's like a pop take on Can or Excepter, and "Rabbit Head", whose sneaky melody at first seems lethargic, but eventually becomes energetic and almost tight. A few of Felipe's songs are just flat-out, unfiltered pop. "I Wanna Feel Better" bends and twists around a syrupy hook, while the bouncing "Chandeliers" (a Haunted House cover) features scorched chanting over a driving piano line. Felipe only falters when he gets too retro-clever-- check the blatant 80s-synth exercise "What's Wrong With Me?"-- or repeats himself (a few of the slower pieces feel identical). But at least No Fun Demo is stylistically consistent. Felipe rarely deviates from his own oddball logic, and if his worst sin is not enough variety to give his music a wider appeal, well, maybe that's just another feather in his bulging cap.

Artist: Dino Felipe, Album: No Fun Demo, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Miami-based sound wizard Dino Felipe has made a lot of records-- more than 30 in the past decade, if you count his various groups and compilation appearances-- but very few of them sound alike. His primary M.O. is electronic noise, but he's also good at droning ambience, fractured punk, sample-heavy frivolity, and weirdo bedroom pop. He's made a subterranean career out of dodging definition, so it figures that his first record for No Fun, the noise label run by his friend and colleague Carlos Giffoni, would be his poppiest to date. It may not also be his best, but it's up there. Of course, pop is a relative term when it comes to Felipe. There are melodic, structured songs here, but his approach is still hazy, off-kilter, and weird. Most of his tunes sport skewed hooks and off-key riffs which get dipped in fuzz and echo, half-hidden by distortion, pitch shifting, and ghostly distance. This puts No Fun Demo in the same ballpark as the AM-radio lo-fi of Ariel Pink, but Felipe's songs are more sturdy, and the album is more consistent than any Pink record save the underrated House Arrest. In that sense, its title is deceptive: These tracks may initially sound like four-track demos made alone in a basement, but they hold up as well-crafted songs, the kind that couldn't have been whipped up in a single lonesome evening. Take "Found 2 Photos"-- its mid-tempo drum machine, loping bass line, and two-chord organ seem to follow one simple idea. But a closer listen reveals clever guitar flourishes, random percussion, and a vocal line that sounds like Silver Jews filled with helium. The same goes for "Working on Not", a looping electronic piece that's like a pop take on Can or Excepter, and "Rabbit Head", whose sneaky melody at first seems lethargic, but eventually becomes energetic and almost tight. A few of Felipe's songs are just flat-out, unfiltered pop. "I Wanna Feel Better" bends and twists around a syrupy hook, while the bouncing "Chandeliers" (a Haunted House cover) features scorched chanting over a driving piano line. Felipe only falters when he gets too retro-clever-- check the blatant 80s-synth exercise "What's Wrong With Me?"-- or repeats himself (a few of the slower pieces feel identical). But at least No Fun Demo is stylistically consistent. Felipe rarely deviates from his own oddball logic, and if his worst sin is not enough variety to give his music a wider appeal, well, maybe that's just another feather in his bulging cap."

Gatekeeper

Young Chronos EP

Electronic,Rock

Nick Neyland

Matthew Arkell and Aaron David Ross, the New York duo who record as Gatekeeper, produce planet-sized electronic works. At present their audience is relatively small, setting up a marked contrast between where they find themselves and where they'd seemingly like to be heading. Their last LP, the Hippos in Tanks release Exo, wilted under the strain of ideas at times, ultimately forging an uncertain path between acid house-inspired club jams and a fondness for the bombast of rock. On the Young Chronos EP, a free Pirate Bay torrent that's also available for 300 USB tokens from the Italian label Presto!?, they've kept the central tenets of their sound intact while solidifying their overall vision. This material is tighter and more expansive than what came before, with the sense of absurdity deliriously heightened. If you've ever wondered what Montserrat Caballé would sound like if she necked a fistful of pills and teamed up with A Guy Called Gerald, this is as close as you'll ever get. Operatic vocals are threaded in and out of the EP, along with enough dramatic élan for Hollywood to finally consider giving up on "The Ride of The Valkyries". Essentially this is the sound of Gatekeeper capitalizing on the closing track of Exo, "Encarta", where they blew everything wide open via imposing choirs, a healthy sense of pretense, and beats that sounded like they were storming the palace at Versailles. One of the tracks on Young Chronos, the fantastically titled "Sword of the Gathering Clouds of Heaven", begins with the kind of vigorous chanting that Exo closed out with, setting up a neat loop between one work and the other. Another tie that binds this with prior Gatekeeper output is the feeling of high concept pranksters at work, albeit ones with a meagre budget compared to artists they’re obviously indebted to, such as the KLF and Malcolm McLaren. McLaren even tried his hand at opera fusion on the 1984 record Fans, to uneven effect. The tracks here are anything but backward looking, instead taking elements of dance music's past (knotty twists of acid, thundering jungle-inspired drum programing) and spewing them out in an unholy mangle that's uniquely theirs. It works better as a representation of Gatekeeper's vision than Exo, partly because it's a quickie EP with half the tracks under the three-minute mark. But it's also because the pomposity is so well executed. There are grand plans here, hatched with a sense of ridiculous self importance, and humor. The different shades of Young Chronos include patient builds ("Imperatix"), wonderfully ludicrous slow-burn tracks ("Flame of Displeasure"), and something that resembles incidental music from a lost arthouse feature ("The Soil Has Soured"). The highs and lows come rattling so fast that it's frequently disorienting, with "Harvest" and "Hanseatic" both dipping into disappointingly straight acid grooves just when they appeared to be leaning further into eccentricity. Fortunately, Arkell and Ross keep acting on extravagant ideas throughout, upping the sense of scale and ambition from Exo to a point where it's difficult to imagine how loud and wide they could go next time out. At the very least this is a strong step in the right direction. A search for the Pirate Bay torrent at the time of writing indicates Young Chronos has 11 seeds and one leecher. Such grandiose dreams need a far bigger stage than that.

Artist: Gatekeeper, Album: Young Chronos EP, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Matthew Arkell and Aaron David Ross, the New York duo who record as Gatekeeper, produce planet-sized electronic works. At present their audience is relatively small, setting up a marked contrast between where they find themselves and where they'd seemingly like to be heading. Their last LP, the Hippos in Tanks release Exo, wilted under the strain of ideas at times, ultimately forging an uncertain path between acid house-inspired club jams and a fondness for the bombast of rock. On the Young Chronos EP, a free Pirate Bay torrent that's also available for 300 USB tokens from the Italian label Presto!?, they've kept the central tenets of their sound intact while solidifying their overall vision. This material is tighter and more expansive than what came before, with the sense of absurdity deliriously heightened. If you've ever wondered what Montserrat Caballé would sound like if she necked a fistful of pills and teamed up with A Guy Called Gerald, this is as close as you'll ever get. Operatic vocals are threaded in and out of the EP, along with enough dramatic élan for Hollywood to finally consider giving up on "The Ride of The Valkyries". Essentially this is the sound of Gatekeeper capitalizing on the closing track of Exo, "Encarta", where they blew everything wide open via imposing choirs, a healthy sense of pretense, and beats that sounded like they were storming the palace at Versailles. One of the tracks on Young Chronos, the fantastically titled "Sword of the Gathering Clouds of Heaven", begins with the kind of vigorous chanting that Exo closed out with, setting up a neat loop between one work and the other. Another tie that binds this with prior Gatekeeper output is the feeling of high concept pranksters at work, albeit ones with a meagre budget compared to artists they’re obviously indebted to, such as the KLF and Malcolm McLaren. McLaren even tried his hand at opera fusion on the 1984 record Fans, to uneven effect. The tracks here are anything but backward looking, instead taking elements of dance music's past (knotty twists of acid, thundering jungle-inspired drum programing) and spewing them out in an unholy mangle that's uniquely theirs. It works better as a representation of Gatekeeper's vision than Exo, partly because it's a quickie EP with half the tracks under the three-minute mark. But it's also because the pomposity is so well executed. There are grand plans here, hatched with a sense of ridiculous self importance, and humor. The different shades of Young Chronos include patient builds ("Imperatix"), wonderfully ludicrous slow-burn tracks ("Flame of Displeasure"), and something that resembles incidental music from a lost arthouse feature ("The Soil Has Soured"). The highs and lows come rattling so fast that it's frequently disorienting, with "Harvest" and "Hanseatic" both dipping into disappointingly straight acid grooves just when they appeared to be leaning further into eccentricity. Fortunately, Arkell and Ross keep acting on extravagant ideas throughout, upping the sense of scale and ambition from Exo to a point where it's difficult to imagine how loud and wide they could go next time out. At the very least this is a strong step in the right direction. A search for the Pirate Bay torrent at the time of writing indicates Young Chronos has 11 seeds and one leecher. Such grandiose dreams need a far bigger stage than that."

Built to Spill

You in Reverse

Rock

Matt LeMay

It had seemed as if the story of Built to Spill was already more or less written: Indie pop band forgoes simple, summery perfection of early work to craft epic, melodic guitar-rock. From 1996's Perfect From Now On through 2001's Ancient Melodies of the Future, Built to Spill records served as a reliable platform for Doug Martsch's plaintive and layered songwriting, brought to life by a band whose talent and proficiency at times seemed boundless. You in Reverse marks the first steps of an unexpected third chapter in the group's saga, casting off the usual meticulous guitar overdubs and studio polish in favor of a less refined, more spontaneous approach. While the results are spotty, the change itself is welcome. Ancient Melodies of the Future was short on inspiration but flawlessly executed; tracks like "You Are" showed that the band could still make good on a paucity of musical ideas. By contrast, they sound downright energized on You in Reverse. The first Built to Spill album in a decade not to feature Phil Ek's crystalline production, You in Reverse wastes no time in establishing itself as its own distinct entity within the band's catalog: As the album begins, drummer Scott Plouf lays down an urgent backbeat that immediately blasts away the band's recent complacency, establishing opener "Goin' Against Your Mind" as one of their most insistent and muscular songs. That same spirit is evident on "Conventional Wisdom", which evokes the best of 1999's Keep It Like a Secret by pairing an explosive guitar hook with a characteristically strong Martsch vocal melody. While Ek might have pushed "Conventional Wisdom" toward restrained transcendence, here it conveys an unchecked exuberance that hasn't graced a Built to Spill record since There's Nothing Wrong With Love. Or at least, it does so for about two minutes, at which point Martsch stops singing and a totally unnecessary four-minute guitar jam ensues. Long songs are by no means new for Built to Spill but You in Reverse suffers from a lack of structure that leaves much of it sounding indulgent and extraneous. The longer songs on the classic Perfect From Now On invariably included a few grand but unobtrusive structural changes, as well as subtle shifts in dymanics and feel-- "Velvet Waltz", with its layers of shimmering guitar and reverberating percussion, seems downright economical at eight minutes. Most of the songs on You in Reverse start at full-blast, and the band often seems to have trouble figuring out where to go from there-- when the chorus rolls around at minute five of "Wherever You Go", not much has changed since the chorus three minutes prior. Aside from its abundance of overlong songs, You in Reverse is marred by a lack of strong melody when compared to Built to Spill's other records; aside from "Conventional Wisdom", nothing on You in Reverse approaches the seamless melodic dexterity of the band's best work. And yet this is also their most promising statement in years; far from the lovely stagnation of Ancient Melodies, You in Reverse suffers from the awkwardness of new beginnings.

Artist: Built to Spill, Album: You in Reverse, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "It had seemed as if the story of Built to Spill was already more or less written: Indie pop band forgoes simple, summery perfection of early work to craft epic, melodic guitar-rock. From 1996's Perfect From Now On through 2001's Ancient Melodies of the Future, Built to Spill records served as a reliable platform for Doug Martsch's plaintive and layered songwriting, brought to life by a band whose talent and proficiency at times seemed boundless. You in Reverse marks the first steps of an unexpected third chapter in the group's saga, casting off the usual meticulous guitar overdubs and studio polish in favor of a less refined, more spontaneous approach. While the results are spotty, the change itself is welcome. Ancient Melodies of the Future was short on inspiration but flawlessly executed; tracks like "You Are" showed that the band could still make good on a paucity of musical ideas. By contrast, they sound downright energized on You in Reverse. The first Built to Spill album in a decade not to feature Phil Ek's crystalline production, You in Reverse wastes no time in establishing itself as its own distinct entity within the band's catalog: As the album begins, drummer Scott Plouf lays down an urgent backbeat that immediately blasts away the band's recent complacency, establishing opener "Goin' Against Your Mind" as one of their most insistent and muscular songs. That same spirit is evident on "Conventional Wisdom", which evokes the best of 1999's Keep It Like a Secret by pairing an explosive guitar hook with a characteristically strong Martsch vocal melody. While Ek might have pushed "Conventional Wisdom" toward restrained transcendence, here it conveys an unchecked exuberance that hasn't graced a Built to Spill record since There's Nothing Wrong With Love. Or at least, it does so for about two minutes, at which point Martsch stops singing and a totally unnecessary four-minute guitar jam ensues. Long songs are by no means new for Built to Spill but You in Reverse suffers from a lack of structure that leaves much of it sounding indulgent and extraneous. The longer songs on the classic Perfect From Now On invariably included a few grand but unobtrusive structural changes, as well as subtle shifts in dymanics and feel-- "Velvet Waltz", with its layers of shimmering guitar and reverberating percussion, seems downright economical at eight minutes. Most of the songs on You in Reverse start at full-blast, and the band often seems to have trouble figuring out where to go from there-- when the chorus rolls around at minute five of "Wherever You Go", not much has changed since the chorus three minutes prior. Aside from its abundance of overlong songs, You in Reverse is marred by a lack of strong melody when compared to Built to Spill's other records; aside from "Conventional Wisdom", nothing on You in Reverse approaches the seamless melodic dexterity of the band's best work. And yet this is also their most promising statement in years; far from the lovely stagnation of Ancient Melodies, You in Reverse suffers from the awkwardness of new beginnings."

Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra

Liberation Afro Beat Vol. 1

Global,Pop/R&B

Jonny Pietin

Music is a political statement. This fact is inescapable. All forms of music, regardless of national origin or temporal placement, have in some way reflected the struggle and separation, the spaces in which artistic expression is allowed, as well as the spaces between those spaces, of the particular societies that bore them. In America, politics are mostly, if not entirely, about economics; oddly, we often make much of the emotional content of a particular piece of music, but rarely, especially in what is known as the "indie" community, examine its economic context. Antibalas want to destroy capitalism. Really. They say so right in their liner notes: "Time to destroy capitalism before it destroys us." A holy imperative. And they have the beginnings of an army to back it up: fourteen people contributed musically to this record. Based out of Brooklyn, Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra is a collective of like-minded revolutionaries bent on liberating minds from the bounds of a free-market economy through the performance of mostly instrumental funk in the tradition of Fela Kuti. Failing that, they hope to create a space beyond in which they and others are not held down by "corrupt institutions like governments, armies, and banks," and can start anew, cooperatively rather than competitively. As they state in the less Mumia-esque-than-Metaphysical Graffiti-ish spoken-word intro to the album closer, "World War IV," this struggle is just that: a war. Liberation Afro Beat Vol. 1 is their first missile. So where's the explosion? Certainly not in that ultimate track, recorded live at the Jazz Café in London. In an unexpected turn, both the live tracks on the record emphasize how much stronger Antibalas is in the studio. Thankfully, it's not the rhythm section that falters in performance situations (what would a funk band be without a rock-solid beat?), but the horns. While the brassists and reeders do manage to piece together some nice soloing when they're in the glass booth, they end up faltering mightily when playing out live, letting their lines trail off into unexciting sighs. Or, at least, that's what happened during the Jazz Café show. In any case, the live recordings are about the least explosive thing on Liberation Afro Beat Vol. 1, which is a bit like saying sparklers are the least explosive things in a box full of caps. The album begins with a noise that sounds a bit like a distant bomb going off; an organ enters, then screams, then a rhythm. And it's a very good rhythm, but not an explosive one; it does not fulfill the promise of the bomb-noise. The song itself, a nearly ten-minute workout titled "Si, Se Puede," goes a little somewhere, eventually, but not very far into that somewhere. There's a funky groove, that's true; there's some nice horn solos, yes; but is there any fire? The answer there would have to be a resounding maybe. The truth is, for a band that makes so much noise about being political revolutionaries, they end up coming off, musically, rather boring. This is not to say that the music itself is tepid; played for a party full of open-minded friends, it would cause more than one head to bob. It's just that Liberation Afro Beat Vol. 1 should be so much more than head-bobbing music. It should grab you by the heart and the loins, lift you out of your chair, and force you to fuck with the world. Songs like "N.E.S.T.A. (Never Ever Submit to Authority)" promise, in their titles, that kind of experience; in their execution, however, they become seven-minute exercises in Fela Kuti/James Brown worship. And these two artists, at their pinnacles, could achieve this kind of affective artistry by translating a type of music that was, in itself and its time, politically incendiary, into an even more radically politicized context. All Antibalas do is take the gestures of afro-funk and graft them onto the current political climate; in doing so, they end up speaking for no one. Hip-hop is the music of the politically oppressed now; Jay-Z has more to say than Antibalas about the dangers of complacency in a corporate-ruled world, and he does it by acting as a case study. We can't forget, of course, that rap has its roots in funk, dating back to the first Kool Herc James Brown breakbeat; however, it would be truly something for a group like Antibalas to capture some of the emotional heat generated by hip-hop and "sample" it, integrating a real magma flow into their currently dormant volcanoes. Then maybe they could live up to their liner-note goals. Antibalas is a band that, in their concept and through their words, makes you want to be revolutionized. There is so much promise, so much possibility in their music, and in music in general; they could not only make a statement about the world as it is, but also be a trigger-force for change. It's regrettable, then, that Antibalas do not fulfill this promise, nor take this possibility and turn it into a weapon. I really wanted them to.

Artist: Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra, Album: Liberation Afro Beat Vol. 1, Genre: Global,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Music is a political statement. This fact is inescapable. All forms of music, regardless of national origin or temporal placement, have in some way reflected the struggle and separation, the spaces in which artistic expression is allowed, as well as the spaces between those spaces, of the particular societies that bore them. In America, politics are mostly, if not entirely, about economics; oddly, we often make much of the emotional content of a particular piece of music, but rarely, especially in what is known as the "indie" community, examine its economic context. Antibalas want to destroy capitalism. Really. They say so right in their liner notes: "Time to destroy capitalism before it destroys us." A holy imperative. And they have the beginnings of an army to back it up: fourteen people contributed musically to this record. Based out of Brooklyn, Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra is a collective of like-minded revolutionaries bent on liberating minds from the bounds of a free-market economy through the performance of mostly instrumental funk in the tradition of Fela Kuti. Failing that, they hope to create a space beyond in which they and others are not held down by "corrupt institutions like governments, armies, and banks," and can start anew, cooperatively rather than competitively. As they state in the less Mumia-esque-than-Metaphysical Graffiti-ish spoken-word intro to the album closer, "World War IV," this struggle is just that: a war. Liberation Afro Beat Vol. 1 is their first missile. So where's the explosion? Certainly not in that ultimate track, recorded live at the Jazz Café in London. In an unexpected turn, both the live tracks on the record emphasize how much stronger Antibalas is in the studio. Thankfully, it's not the rhythm section that falters in performance situations (what would a funk band be without a rock-solid beat?), but the horns. While the brassists and reeders do manage to piece together some nice soloing when they're in the glass booth, they end up faltering mightily when playing out live, letting their lines trail off into unexciting sighs. Or, at least, that's what happened during the Jazz Café show. In any case, the live recordings are about the least explosive thing on Liberation Afro Beat Vol. 1, which is a bit like saying sparklers are the least explosive things in a box full of caps. The album begins with a noise that sounds a bit like a distant bomb going off; an organ enters, then screams, then a rhythm. And it's a very good rhythm, but not an explosive one; it does not fulfill the promise of the bomb-noise. The song itself, a nearly ten-minute workout titled "Si, Se Puede," goes a little somewhere, eventually, but not very far into that somewhere. There's a funky groove, that's true; there's some nice horn solos, yes; but is there any fire? The answer there would have to be a resounding maybe. The truth is, for a band that makes so much noise about being political revolutionaries, they end up coming off, musically, rather boring. This is not to say that the music itself is tepid; played for a party full of open-minded friends, it would cause more than one head to bob. It's just that Liberation Afro Beat Vol. 1 should be so much more than head-bobbing music. It should grab you by the heart and the loins, lift you out of your chair, and force you to fuck with the world. Songs like "N.E.S.T.A. (Never Ever Submit to Authority)" promise, in their titles, that kind of experience; in their execution, however, they become seven-minute exercises in Fela Kuti/James Brown worship. And these two artists, at their pinnacles, could achieve this kind of affective artistry by translating a type of music that was, in itself and its time, politically incendiary, into an even more radically politicized context. All Antibalas do is take the gestures of afro-funk and graft them onto the current political climate; in doing so, they end up speaking for no one. Hip-hop is the music of the politically oppressed now; Jay-Z has more to say than Antibalas about the dangers of complacency in a corporate-ruled world, and he does it by acting as a case study. We can't forget, of course, that rap has its roots in funk, dating back to the first Kool Herc James Brown breakbeat; however, it would be truly something for a group like Antibalas to capture some of the emotional heat generated by hip-hop and "sample" it, integrating a real magma flow into their currently dormant volcanoes. Then maybe they could live up to their liner-note goals. Antibalas is a band that, in their concept and through their words, makes you want to be revolutionized. There is so much promise, so much possibility in their music, and in music in general; they could not only make a statement about the world as it is, but also be a trigger-force for change. It's regrettable, then, that Antibalas do not fulfill this promise, nor take this possibility and turn it into a weapon. I really wanted them to."

Six Organs of Admittance

Compathia

Experimental

Dominique Leone

When I was in high school, they forced us to read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I thought the book was mostly a manual for baby-boomer self-importance, but one passage about how the author thought his friend was refusing to accept technology because it wasn't cool stuck with me. There is a whole culture of people out there who don't seem to exist on the same plane as the rest of us. I don't really believe these people are getting into holistic medicine and going back to the country because they think it's "cool," but there is certainly something they're tapping into (consciously or not), in direct opposition to the information overloaded M.O. we're supposed to be all about. There are artists in music, like Six Organs of Admittance, Charalambides, and Richard Youngs, who reflect this mindstate. While they've hardly cracked the mainstream, they have all participated in some strange continuum of space-folk that goes back some 40 years-- probably not coincidentally when the 60s counterculture really got going. In particular, Ben Chasny's Six Organs project is the statement of someone in tune with the history of underground folk and psychedelic music, and only too willing to ignore the conventions of his own time to bring them further back into the collective experience, as he did so well on last year's Dark Noontide. And I guess that's my complaint with Six Organs' latest, Compathia: rather than expand on the strange, rustic eccentricity of Dark Noontide, Chasny has opted to emphasize his singer/songwriter tendencies. Not that Compathia is a pop record, but its roots are much nearer here to early Marc Bolan or even Donovan. The melodies don't necessarily guide a narrative as drift through loose arrangements (which usually consist only of multiple acoustic guitars), but there is significance in the notion that those melodies are the heart of this music. In many ways, Chasny is traveling down a similar path to Devendra Banhart, except that Banhart is able to make his songs sound as bizarre and unique as most other peoples' freakouts. The music of this record is hardly so out there, and that wouldn't be so much a criticism if Chasny's songs had a bit more meat to them. "Only the Sun Knows" encapsulates the sound of Compathia, illuminating the simplistic, elongated melodic phrasing Chasny prefers, as well as revealing the nearly omnipresent drone still very close to his music. It isn't likely his modest tune you'll remember, though-- it's Comets on Fire multi-instrumentalist Ethan Miller's searing, completely on-the-mark guitar solo. What I'd always hoped Six Organs would deliver was a kind of apocalyptic, epic-strength acid-folk, and when Miller blasts off and Chasny injects the odd layer of wheezing electronic mush, my hope is realized. Of course, it's a far cry from most of the low-key balladry of the rest of the album, and when the final verse appears, this fiery, chaotic vision suddenly seems distant. More typical for the album are songs like "Close to the Sky", "Run!" and the instrumental title track. These are short, sweet examples of folk informed by psychedelic music (and lifestyle), but still grounded enough to work in non-chemically enhanced states. The first tune in particular even approaches the almost-catchy acoustic pop of the Elephant 6 bands, if they'd been more in love with Donovan than The Beatles. The tambourine and handclaps (?!!) tighten up his arrangement, but for some reason, it seems strange to hear a Six Organs' song with something like a chorus. Chasny's vocals are much more out in front on Compathia, and but for a slight warble-- and a slighter detour into space-guitar at the end-- "Close to the Sky" could very much pass for straightforward folk-pop. Not everything is so cut and dry: "Somewhere Between" (perfect title) begins as a dark, calm-before-the-storm lament but gradually transforms into Eastern-tinged repeated mantra, featuring droned guitars and all manner of jingling percussion. It's a very cool sound, and one that I wish Six Organs would explore more in the future. Ultimately, Compathia is an accomplished, heartfelt record, if not necessarily the one to define Chasny's artistic voice. I get the feeling he's either taking it easy or making a transition to an altogether smoother plane; in either case, an appreciation for pastoral, lightly burnt acoustic pop is what you really need to enjoy his stuff.

Artist: Six Organs of Admittance, Album: Compathia, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "When I was in high school, they forced us to read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I thought the book was mostly a manual for baby-boomer self-importance, but one passage about how the author thought his friend was refusing to accept technology because it wasn't cool stuck with me. There is a whole culture of people out there who don't seem to exist on the same plane as the rest of us. I don't really believe these people are getting into holistic medicine and going back to the country because they think it's "cool," but there is certainly something they're tapping into (consciously or not), in direct opposition to the information overloaded M.O. we're supposed to be all about. There are artists in music, like Six Organs of Admittance, Charalambides, and Richard Youngs, who reflect this mindstate. While they've hardly cracked the mainstream, they have all participated in some strange continuum of space-folk that goes back some 40 years-- probably not coincidentally when the 60s counterculture really got going. In particular, Ben Chasny's Six Organs project is the statement of someone in tune with the history of underground folk and psychedelic music, and only too willing to ignore the conventions of his own time to bring them further back into the collective experience, as he did so well on last year's Dark Noontide. And I guess that's my complaint with Six Organs' latest, Compathia: rather than expand on the strange, rustic eccentricity of Dark Noontide, Chasny has opted to emphasize his singer/songwriter tendencies. Not that Compathia is a pop record, but its roots are much nearer here to early Marc Bolan or even Donovan. The melodies don't necessarily guide a narrative as drift through loose arrangements (which usually consist only of multiple acoustic guitars), but there is significance in the notion that those melodies are the heart of this music. In many ways, Chasny is traveling down a similar path to Devendra Banhart, except that Banhart is able to make his songs sound as bizarre and unique as most other peoples' freakouts. The music of this record is hardly so out there, and that wouldn't be so much a criticism if Chasny's songs had a bit more meat to them. "Only the Sun Knows" encapsulates the sound of Compathia, illuminating the simplistic, elongated melodic phrasing Chasny prefers, as well as revealing the nearly omnipresent drone still very close to his music. It isn't likely his modest tune you'll remember, though-- it's Comets on Fire multi-instrumentalist Ethan Miller's searing, completely on-the-mark guitar solo. What I'd always hoped Six Organs would deliver was a kind of apocalyptic, epic-strength acid-folk, and when Miller blasts off and Chasny injects the odd layer of wheezing electronic mush, my hope is realized. Of course, it's a far cry from most of the low-key balladry of the rest of the album, and when the final verse appears, this fiery, chaotic vision suddenly seems distant. More typical for the album are songs like "Close to the Sky", "Run!" and the instrumental title track. These are short, sweet examples of folk informed by psychedelic music (and lifestyle), but still grounded enough to work in non-chemically enhanced states. The first tune in particular even approaches the almost-catchy acoustic pop of the Elephant 6 bands, if they'd been more in love with Donovan than The Beatles. The tambourine and handclaps (?!!) tighten up his arrangement, but for some reason, it seems strange to hear a Six Organs' song with something like a chorus. Chasny's vocals are much more out in front on Compathia, and but for a slight warble-- and a slighter detour into space-guitar at the end-- "Close to the Sky" could very much pass for straightforward folk-pop. Not everything is so cut and dry: "Somewhere Between" (perfect title) begins as a dark, calm-before-the-storm lament but gradually transforms into Eastern-tinged repeated mantra, featuring droned guitars and all manner of jingling percussion. It's a very cool sound, and one that I wish Six Organs would explore more in the future. Ultimately, Compathia is an accomplished, heartfelt record, if not necessarily the one to define Chasny's artistic voice. I get the feeling he's either taking it easy or making a transition to an altogether smoother plane; in either case, an appreciation for pastoral, lightly burnt acoustic pop is what you really need to enjoy his stuff."

Apes

The Fugue in the Fog

Rock

Matt LeMay

Gorillas are the nice ones. You can teach a gorilla to speak in sign language, like the world-famous Koko. You can give a gorilla a kitten, and it will love and nurture it. It will give it a cute name like "all ball" or "smoky." Apes, on the other hand, are fucking vicious. You can sing to an ape, but it will only fling its dung in your face, pound its chest, and masturbate furiously. You can give an ape a kitten, but it will only beat it into a bloody, lifeless pulp, and then consume that pulp like a tasty milkshake. Or maybe my perception of Apes has been altered by this, the debut record from the sneering, posturing rockers bearing the name of the oft-maligned primates. For those of you who'd think it impossible to cock-rock without a guitar, the The Apes prove that having a chick with an organ (er...) can incline a band towards rocking out just as much as having a dirty guy with a ponytail on "lead" guitar. In fact, the organ works wonders for The Apes, filling out their sound to the point where it becomes a massive, towering entity that provides perfect backing for lead singer Paul Weil's spitting quasi-antics. I use the term "quasi-antics" because The Apes still seem to be working out what exactly their antics are. They like to say "The Apes" a lot. A lot of their songs have the word "ape" in them. At live shows, they speak of "Sugar Mountain." They wear camouflage gear, sometimes capes. Weil takes off his shirt, revealing his fine, chiseled body. No, really, he does have a fine, chiseled body, but that only makes the shirt-removal seem more gratuitous than that conducted by the less chiseled Tim Harrington of Les Savy Fav. Indeed, Les Savy Fav have some very close ties to The Apes-- they signed the band to bassist Syd Butler's Frenchkiss label, and are thanked in The Apes' final "thank you's" track, "Apes Salute." But musically, The Apes follow a path much more straightforward than that of their mentors. Les Savy Fav have an amazing knack for crafting dynamic, off-kilter punk songs; The Apes just want to rock. And rock they do. At its heart, The Fugue in the Fog is a simple riff-rock album. There's really not all that much in the way of vocal melody, as most of the vocals here are practically spoken and highly distorted. So the issue really comes down to the quality of the riffs themselves, and the songs containing these riffs. Unfortunately, The Fugue in the Fog doesn't succeed in its execution as much as it does in its setup. At times, the band's sheer energy carries the songs. And at other times, the songs are simply pretty damned good. "Blood and Light," the album's most engaging track is, like most of the tracks here, based around a basic central riff. Thankfully, it varies enough to hold your interest. Quite simply put, it's a well-crafted rock song. The album's opener, "Black Tears," is another fine example of The Apes fully exploring the potential of a single riff. Elsewhere on the album, however, the band tends to rely too heavily on the same played-out pentatonic scale techniques that have been rock staples pretty much since its inception. Led Zeppelin could get away with it 30 years ago, but today's demanding listener expects a bit more. As far as straight-up rock records go, though, The Fugue in the Fog is damned good. The Apes have forged a relatively distinctive sound, and cranked out a few seriously awesome songs. There's a ridiculous amount of potential here, but oftentimes that potential goes unexplored. Still, The Apes are, without question, entertaining. If they paid a little more attention to actually writing their songs, they could be downright dangerous.

Artist: Apes, Album: The Fugue in the Fog, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Gorillas are the nice ones. You can teach a gorilla to speak in sign language, like the world-famous Koko. You can give a gorilla a kitten, and it will love and nurture it. It will give it a cute name like "all ball" or "smoky." Apes, on the other hand, are fucking vicious. You can sing to an ape, but it will only fling its dung in your face, pound its chest, and masturbate furiously. You can give an ape a kitten, but it will only beat it into a bloody, lifeless pulp, and then consume that pulp like a tasty milkshake. Or maybe my perception of Apes has been altered by this, the debut record from the sneering, posturing rockers bearing the name of the oft-maligned primates. For those of you who'd think it impossible to cock-rock without a guitar, the The Apes prove that having a chick with an organ (er...) can incline a band towards rocking out just as much as having a dirty guy with a ponytail on "lead" guitar. In fact, the organ works wonders for The Apes, filling out their sound to the point where it becomes a massive, towering entity that provides perfect backing for lead singer Paul Weil's spitting quasi-antics. I use the term "quasi-antics" because The Apes still seem to be working out what exactly their antics are. They like to say "The Apes" a lot. A lot of their songs have the word "ape" in them. At live shows, they speak of "Sugar Mountain." They wear camouflage gear, sometimes capes. Weil takes off his shirt, revealing his fine, chiseled body. No, really, he does have a fine, chiseled body, but that only makes the shirt-removal seem more gratuitous than that conducted by the less chiseled Tim Harrington of Les Savy Fav. Indeed, Les Savy Fav have some very close ties to The Apes-- they signed the band to bassist Syd Butler's Frenchkiss label, and are thanked in The Apes' final "thank you's" track, "Apes Salute." But musically, The Apes follow a path much more straightforward than that of their mentors. Les Savy Fav have an amazing knack for crafting dynamic, off-kilter punk songs; The Apes just want to rock. And rock they do. At its heart, The Fugue in the Fog is a simple riff-rock album. There's really not all that much in the way of vocal melody, as most of the vocals here are practically spoken and highly distorted. So the issue really comes down to the quality of the riffs themselves, and the songs containing these riffs. Unfortunately, The Fugue in the Fog doesn't succeed in its execution as much as it does in its setup. At times, the band's sheer energy carries the songs. And at other times, the songs are simply pretty damned good. "Blood and Light," the album's most engaging track is, like most of the tracks here, based around a basic central riff. Thankfully, it varies enough to hold your interest. Quite simply put, it's a well-crafted rock song. The album's opener, "Black Tears," is another fine example of The Apes fully exploring the potential of a single riff. Elsewhere on the album, however, the band tends to rely too heavily on the same played-out pentatonic scale techniques that have been rock staples pretty much since its inception. Led Zeppelin could get away with it 30 years ago, but today's demanding listener expects a bit more. As far as straight-up rock records go, though, The Fugue in the Fog is damned good. The Apes have forged a relatively distinctive sound, and cranked out a few seriously awesome songs. There's a ridiculous amount of potential here, but oftentimes that potential goes unexplored. Still, The Apes are, without question, entertaining. If they paid a little more attention to actually writing their songs, they could be downright dangerous."

The Pipettes

Earth vs. the Pipettes

Pop/R&B

Marc Hogan

The 1960s girl groups went overlooked for so long in part because of their failure, often through no fault of their own, to establish successful long-term careers as album artists. We remember the young women featured on essential box sets like Phil Spector compilation Back to Mono or Rhino's more recent One Kiss Can Lead to Another not for their full-lengths or their larger-than-life exploits, but for their singles. In some cases, as with the Crystals, the artists you heard singing over your car's AM radio weren't even the same ones who came to town to perform. Initially dreamed up as a modern girl group, the Pipettes have defied this grim logic once before. On 2006 debut We Are the Pipettes, the Brighton, England-based indie-poppers improbably managed a full-length's worth of cheeky, refreshingly contemporary, and wholeheartedly catchy songs to match their polka-dot dresses and choreographed moves. They were "the prettiest girls you've ever met." Your kisses were wasted on them. They were playful, they were divisive, but they were memorable and, to many, instantly appealing. Four years later, the Pipettes are an almost entirely different group. Unfortunately, at least on Earth vs. the Pipettes, they're also a much, much worse one. It doesn't help that the rotating lineup of vocalists, now down to the sister act of Gwenno and Ani Saunders, trades the breezy, conversational singing style of the debut for a brassy, over-emotive approach that probably wouldn't make it far on a TV talent contest. It doesn't help, either, that what Pitchfork's Ryan Dombal called the "DIY-Spector flourishes" of We Are the Pipettes now give way to synths, disco-funk guitars, clattering bongos, and Miami Sound Machine horns, with plenty of strings and 60s sha-la-la backing vocals still there to clutter the over-crowded mix. It definitely doesn't help that the last few tracks tack on a vague interplanetary conceit, complete with robot vocals proving once and for all that T-Pain has a harder job than you might've thought. What makes Earth vs. the Pipettes irredeemable, however, is an utter lack of what the Pipettes and their girl-group predecessors once understood so well: distinctive, emotionally affecting pop songs. Self-destructive crushes are nothing new to the girl-group genre, of course, and can be at least as artistically compelling as healthier romances, but tracks like the U2-echoing "Thank You" or redundant soft-rocker "I Always Planned to Stay" ("It's nothing less than what was expected") are full of generic, boring girls pining blandly for generic, boring boys. The rhymes, melodies, and brutally obvious key changes used to stretch weak ideas to an acceptable length-- you've heard them all before. Hell, the outer-space conceit might be fitting, after all, because there's nothing like an actual human being anywhere in these songs; it seems important that the only character with a name is the eponymous officer of the T. Rex-shuffling "Captain Rhythm". Worst of all, Earth vs. the Pipettes sounds like not just a different group, not just a lesser group but, in sadly off-putting ways, almost an opposite group. "I don't want to hold your hand," sang the 2006 Pipettes, but on this album they ask us to give it to them on at least two separate songs (please "understand"). Where "Pull Shapes" insisted, "Just don't let the music stop," the new single begs for somebody to "Stop the Music". Speaking of "Pull Shapes", for fun slang this time we get "I Vibe You"-- about which the less said the better.

Artist: The Pipettes, Album: Earth vs. the Pipettes, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 3.2 Album review: "The 1960s girl groups went overlooked for so long in part because of their failure, often through no fault of their own, to establish successful long-term careers as album artists. We remember the young women featured on essential box sets like Phil Spector compilation Back to Mono or Rhino's more recent One Kiss Can Lead to Another not for their full-lengths or their larger-than-life exploits, but for their singles. In some cases, as with the Crystals, the artists you heard singing over your car's AM radio weren't even the same ones who came to town to perform. Initially dreamed up as a modern girl group, the Pipettes have defied this grim logic once before. On 2006 debut We Are the Pipettes, the Brighton, England-based indie-poppers improbably managed a full-length's worth of cheeky, refreshingly contemporary, and wholeheartedly catchy songs to match their polka-dot dresses and choreographed moves. They were "the prettiest girls you've ever met." Your kisses were wasted on them. They were playful, they were divisive, but they were memorable and, to many, instantly appealing. Four years later, the Pipettes are an almost entirely different group. Unfortunately, at least on Earth vs. the Pipettes, they're also a much, much worse one. It doesn't help that the rotating lineup of vocalists, now down to the sister act of Gwenno and Ani Saunders, trades the breezy, conversational singing style of the debut for a brassy, over-emotive approach that probably wouldn't make it far on a TV talent contest. It doesn't help, either, that what Pitchfork's Ryan Dombal called the "DIY-Spector flourishes" of We Are the Pipettes now give way to synths, disco-funk guitars, clattering bongos, and Miami Sound Machine horns, with plenty of strings and 60s sha-la-la backing vocals still there to clutter the over-crowded mix. It definitely doesn't help that the last few tracks tack on a vague interplanetary conceit, complete with robot vocals proving once and for all that T-Pain has a harder job than you might've thought. What makes Earth vs. the Pipettes irredeemable, however, is an utter lack of what the Pipettes and their girl-group predecessors once understood so well: distinctive, emotionally affecting pop songs. Self-destructive crushes are nothing new to the girl-group genre, of course, and can be at least as artistically compelling as healthier romances, but tracks like the U2-echoing "Thank You" or redundant soft-rocker "I Always Planned to Stay" ("It's nothing less than what was expected") are full of generic, boring girls pining blandly for generic, boring boys. The rhymes, melodies, and brutally obvious key changes used to stretch weak ideas to an acceptable length-- you've heard them all before. Hell, the outer-space conceit might be fitting, after all, because there's nothing like an actual human being anywhere in these songs; it seems important that the only character with a name is the eponymous officer of the T. Rex-shuffling "Captain Rhythm". Worst of all, Earth vs. the Pipettes sounds like not just a different group, not just a lesser group but, in sadly off-putting ways, almost an opposite group. "I don't want to hold your hand," sang the 2006 Pipettes, but on this album they ask us to give it to them on at least two separate songs (please "understand"). Where "Pull Shapes" insisted, "Just don't let the music stop," the new single begs for somebody to "Stop the Music". Speaking of "Pull Shapes", for fun slang this time we get "I Vibe You"-- about which the less said the better."

Mark Kozelek

What's Next to the Moon

Rock

Ryan Kearney

Mark Kozelek needed a change. Over the course of four years and six albums in the '90s, the Red House Painters frontman penned enough slow, open-hearted tunes to satiate even the most severely-afflicted melancholic patient. But they were so pleasant that most of us were willing to overlook Kozelek's numbing consistency-- or, at least, we couldn't bring ourselves to criticize such an apparently delicate man. Kozelek, after all, was addicted to drugs by the age of ten. Ten, people! I think he has the right to bleed onto every record, if he so desires. Of course, Kozelek kicked his drug habit before forming the Red House Painters, and in 1992 he began a new love/hate relationship: with London's respected 4AD imprint. The "hate" part came in 1996, when label head Ivo-Watts Russell wanted to edit the long guitar jams on Songs for a Blue Guitar. Kozelek didn't yield, and took the record to Supreme Recordings, which released the album as it was. Unfortunately, not everything was resolved by this maneuver. In 1998, Red House Painters recorded Old Ramon, which will finally see release in late April through Sub Pop after years of being tied to contractual obligations with the now-defunct Supreme. So Kozelek needed a change. He split off from his band, recorded an acoustic potpourri of covers (John Denver, AC/DC) and original material, and released the album through the Badman Recording Co. in 2000. But Rock 'N' Roll Singer hardly sounded like a change. And while the covers may seem unusual to some fans, they're no surprise to those aware of Kozelek's history with odd remakes; in the past, he's refashioned the likes of Kiss, the Cars, and Yes, to name a few. But something must have really hit home with those three AC/DC covers, because now they've appeared on a whole album's worth of acoustic interpretations of Bon Scott-era AC/DC. Cock rock, meet your new partner: wuss folk. Admittedly, I've never been a big fan of AC/DC, but I have heard enough of their '70s output-- capped off by 1979's Highway to Hell-- to know that this is a strange marriage. Surprisingly, though, Kozelek makes the hard classics sound introspective simply by placing their lyrics in a plaintive musical context. If there's one positive remark to be made about What's Next to the Moon, it's that it sheds revelatory light on the subjective nature of lyrics. Yet, that might be the only truly positive remark this album deserves. Sure, Kozelek's voice is still smooth and sad, and his guitarwork is still deft, yet modest. But these are standard factory settings. Once again, he's made music that just about everyone would describe as "pleasant." Except, that is, for die-hard AC/DC fans, who would most certainly be appalled at what Kozelek has done to their sex anthems. Suddenly, "Love at First Feel" isn't about statutory rape, but about a falling in love in spite of reason. And "Bad Boy Boogie" is the fatalistic admissions of a helpless rebel, not the sexual boasts of a misogynist. Fooled me. Not that some sentiments here don't seem written for Kozelek. The first number, "Up to My Neck in You," begins, "Well, I've been up to my neck in trouble/ Up to my neck in strife/ Up to my neck in misery/ For most of my life." Here, his languid delivery suits the material. But when he exerts the same energy for, say, "Walk All Over You" or "If You Want Blood," he's no longer convincing. And other times, the lyrics just don't fit Kozelek, as hard as he tries to sensitize them. On "Love at First Feel," for instance, he sings, "I don't know what your name is/ I don't know what your game is/ I'm gonna take you tonight, animal appetite." Go get 'em, foxy. In the liner notes to his latest part-covers album, Johnny Cash wrote, "I worked on these songs until it felt like they were my own." Kozelek doesn't seem to have done this at all. Instead, these tracks seem to have been worked on less than most "MTV Unplugged" sets. There are a couple high points: the bluesy title track, which sounds like a cut from Mark Lanegan's infinitely more successful covers album, I'll Take Care of You. And Kozelek's vocals hit previously uncharted highs on "You Ain't Got a Hold on Me," where he briefly inhabits the ghost of the sane Brian Wilson. But overall this is Red House Painters lite, with one of Kozelek's most vital assets-- his confessional honesty-- entirely absent. Now he really needs a change if he wants to keep our interest. A big change, like reinterpreting his own songs as testosterone-fueled arena rock.

Artist: Mark Kozelek, Album: What's Next to the Moon, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Mark Kozelek needed a change. Over the course of four years and six albums in the '90s, the Red House Painters frontman penned enough slow, open-hearted tunes to satiate even the most severely-afflicted melancholic patient. But they were so pleasant that most of us were willing to overlook Kozelek's numbing consistency-- or, at least, we couldn't bring ourselves to criticize such an apparently delicate man. Kozelek, after all, was addicted to drugs by the age of ten. Ten, people! I think he has the right to bleed onto every record, if he so desires. Of course, Kozelek kicked his drug habit before forming the Red House Painters, and in 1992 he began a new love/hate relationship: with London's respected 4AD imprint. The "hate" part came in 1996, when label head Ivo-Watts Russell wanted to edit the long guitar jams on Songs for a Blue Guitar. Kozelek didn't yield, and took the record to Supreme Recordings, which released the album as it was. Unfortunately, not everything was resolved by this maneuver. In 1998, Red House Painters recorded Old Ramon, which will finally see release in late April through Sub Pop after years of being tied to contractual obligations with the now-defunct Supreme. So Kozelek needed a change. He split off from his band, recorded an acoustic potpourri of covers (John Denver, AC/DC) and original material, and released the album through the Badman Recording Co. in 2000. But Rock 'N' Roll Singer hardly sounded like a change. And while the covers may seem unusual to some fans, they're no surprise to those aware of Kozelek's history with odd remakes; in the past, he's refashioned the likes of Kiss, the Cars, and Yes, to name a few. But something must have really hit home with those three AC/DC covers, because now they've appeared on a whole album's worth of acoustic interpretations of Bon Scott-era AC/DC. Cock rock, meet your new partner: wuss folk. Admittedly, I've never been a big fan of AC/DC, but I have heard enough of their '70s output-- capped off by 1979's Highway to Hell-- to know that this is a strange marriage. Surprisingly, though, Kozelek makes the hard classics sound introspective simply by placing their lyrics in a plaintive musical context. If there's one positive remark to be made about What's Next to the Moon, it's that it sheds revelatory light on the subjective nature of lyrics. Yet, that might be the only truly positive remark this album deserves. Sure, Kozelek's voice is still smooth and sad, and his guitarwork is still deft, yet modest. But these are standard factory settings. Once again, he's made music that just about everyone would describe as "pleasant." Except, that is, for die-hard AC/DC fans, who would most certainly be appalled at what Kozelek has done to their sex anthems. Suddenly, "Love at First Feel" isn't about statutory rape, but about a falling in love in spite of reason. And "Bad Boy Boogie" is the fatalistic admissions of a helpless rebel, not the sexual boasts of a misogynist. Fooled me. Not that some sentiments here don't seem written for Kozelek. The first number, "Up to My Neck in You," begins, "Well, I've been up to my neck in trouble/ Up to my neck in strife/ Up to my neck in misery/ For most of my life." Here, his languid delivery suits the material. But when he exerts the same energy for, say, "Walk All Over You" or "If You Want Blood," he's no longer convincing. And other times, the lyrics just don't fit Kozelek, as hard as he tries to sensitize them. On "Love at First Feel," for instance, he sings, "I don't know what your name is/ I don't know what your game is/ I'm gonna take you tonight, animal appetite." Go get 'em, foxy. In the liner notes to his latest part-covers album, Johnny Cash wrote, "I worked on these songs until it felt like they were my own." Kozelek doesn't seem to have done this at all. Instead, these tracks seem to have been worked on less than most "MTV Unplugged" sets. There are a couple high points: the bluesy title track, which sounds like a cut from Mark Lanegan's infinitely more successful covers album, I'll Take Care of You. And Kozelek's vocals hit previously uncharted highs on "You Ain't Got a Hold on Me," where he briefly inhabits the ghost of the sane Brian Wilson. But overall this is Red House Painters lite, with one of Kozelek's most vital assets-- his confessional honesty-- entirely absent. Now he really needs a change if he wants to keep our interest. A big change, like reinterpreting his own songs as testosterone-fueled arena rock."

Hercules and Love Affair

DJ-Kicks

Electronic

Tim Finney

Andy Butler's Hercules and Love Affair project probably needed to throw a good party. Last year's Blue Songs offered streamlined, moody, and frequently muted dance-pop, studiously treading the disco/house tightrope in the service of a higher cause of emotional, songwriterly dance-pop. By contrast, Butler's entry in the DJ-Kicks series pledges itself openly and unabashedly to debauched, dancefloor-centric old house music, in all its sped-up, chunky and percussive glory. But haven't we been here before, on countless DJ mixes from an endless succession of eclectic, strip-mining DJs who've trod these spangled boards over the past decade or so? Well, yes. And it's less a problem of the well running dry-- the supply of half-forgotten dance classics and would-be-classics for DJs like Butler to liberate seems inexhaustible-- than of maintaining the shock of the new-old. Like a well-crafted TV show whose later seasons are doomed to repeat in mildly new constellations the same storylines and relationship dynamics, disco and early house revivalism has reached the stage where, even if the tracks aren't familiar, the music's character arc certainly is: the now-faded futurism, the bloated sonic excess, the sudden U-turns from deeper-than-deep obscurantism to unabashed populism, the single-minded splendor of the disco and carnality of the house. It's a vibe that the Glimmers had already conquered seven years ago, and Playgroup's Trevor Jackson more than 10. At first, DJ-Kicks seems destined, even content, to offer another pitch-perfect parade of retro dance-pop signifiers. This approach is typified by Hercules and Love Affairs' own stately "Release Me", whose tumbling Chicago house piano, chattering percussion, grainy orchestral synth hits, and smooth Bananarama vocals seem to hit every retro dance-pop button simultaneously. Their formal stylistic diversity notwithstanding, early inclusions such as the primitive, overstuffed UK house of Rhythm Mode:D's "Can You Feel It (Reach to the Top)" and the by turns stern and silly new beat of Fax Yourself's "Strut Your Techno Stuff" simply entrench the emergent collage: scenes from a dozen great parties from the late-80s/early-90s interzone-- though, of course, it's not immediately apparent what would be wrong with such a thing. But there's a broader and more interesting idea being promulgated here that doesn't become clear until the disc's middle third, which alights on a winning streak of bumping New York garage (Klubb Kidz's "Don't Want to Hurt You (Skool Flava Dub)"; the Solution's "Feels So Right"; Cloud 9's "Do You Want Me"), peaking with DJ Duke's darkly stuttering "Love Don't Come Easy (Power Dub)", which deploys a series of fractured diva invocations over a mysterious bassline and deliberately rudimentary, flailing snares. Much more than on his own productions, Butler's mix leans hard (and progressively harder) into 90s house's clattering counter-rhythms, the skipping snares and bustling hi-hats and general sense of so-wrong-it's-right rhythmic awkwardness that becomes less about the cheerful exhumation of retro signifiers and more about the science of dancing-- a concern that feels modern regardless of the timestamp on the music that gives voice to it. In its final stretch DJ-Kicks pursues this target with less regard to questions of old versus new. In the contemporary corner, Haze Factory's "A Bit of Redemption" fashions a jaunty tango strut out of a mordant techno synth melody, while In Flagranti's "Magojiro" concocts a fluttering and disorienting boogie, like a caffeine-wired update of Cultural Vibe's "Ma Foom Bey". But more fully modern than both is Jump "Chico" Slamm's confounding, intoxicating "second wave" Chicago obscurity "Feel Free" from 1993, all relentless machine loops, bustling house syncopation, and effete, sighing vocals-- familiar ingredients combined in a manner that renders them utterly alien. While it's always startling to stumble across a 20-year-old tune that still sounds totally fresh, I can't help but feel it would be even more exciting if "Feel Free" was new, a signpost of where we might go next rather than a snapshot of a path not travelled. Still, in its focus on the past's knack for concocting rhythms that dance around (rather than to) the beat, DJ-Kicks makes a decent case for retracing our steps. If Butler falls slightly short of convincing that this particular brand of old will be made new again, it remains hard to find fault with his survey of all the fun we could have had.

Artist: Hercules and Love Affair, Album: DJ-Kicks, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Andy Butler's Hercules and Love Affair project probably needed to throw a good party. Last year's Blue Songs offered streamlined, moody, and frequently muted dance-pop, studiously treading the disco/house tightrope in the service of a higher cause of emotional, songwriterly dance-pop. By contrast, Butler's entry in the DJ-Kicks series pledges itself openly and unabashedly to debauched, dancefloor-centric old house music, in all its sped-up, chunky and percussive glory. But haven't we been here before, on countless DJ mixes from an endless succession of eclectic, strip-mining DJs who've trod these spangled boards over the past decade or so? Well, yes. And it's less a problem of the well running dry-- the supply of half-forgotten dance classics and would-be-classics for DJs like Butler to liberate seems inexhaustible-- than of maintaining the shock of the new-old. Like a well-crafted TV show whose later seasons are doomed to repeat in mildly new constellations the same storylines and relationship dynamics, disco and early house revivalism has reached the stage where, even if the tracks aren't familiar, the music's character arc certainly is: the now-faded futurism, the bloated sonic excess, the sudden U-turns from deeper-than-deep obscurantism to unabashed populism, the single-minded splendor of the disco and carnality of the house. It's a vibe that the Glimmers had already conquered seven years ago, and Playgroup's Trevor Jackson more than 10. At first, DJ-Kicks seems destined, even content, to offer another pitch-perfect parade of retro dance-pop signifiers. This approach is typified by Hercules and Love Affairs' own stately "Release Me", whose tumbling Chicago house piano, chattering percussion, grainy orchestral synth hits, and smooth Bananarama vocals seem to hit every retro dance-pop button simultaneously. Their formal stylistic diversity notwithstanding, early inclusions such as the primitive, overstuffed UK house of Rhythm Mode:D's "Can You Feel It (Reach to the Top)" and the by turns stern and silly new beat of Fax Yourself's "Strut Your Techno Stuff" simply entrench the emergent collage: scenes from a dozen great parties from the late-80s/early-90s interzone-- though, of course, it's not immediately apparent what would be wrong with such a thing. But there's a broader and more interesting idea being promulgated here that doesn't become clear until the disc's middle third, which alights on a winning streak of bumping New York garage (Klubb Kidz's "Don't Want to Hurt You (Skool Flava Dub)"; the Solution's "Feels So Right"; Cloud 9's "Do You Want Me"), peaking with DJ Duke's darkly stuttering "Love Don't Come Easy (Power Dub)", which deploys a series of fractured diva invocations over a mysterious bassline and deliberately rudimentary, flailing snares. Much more than on his own productions, Butler's mix leans hard (and progressively harder) into 90s house's clattering counter-rhythms, the skipping snares and bustling hi-hats and general sense of so-wrong-it's-right rhythmic awkwardness that becomes less about the cheerful exhumation of retro signifiers and more about the science of dancing-- a concern that feels modern regardless of the timestamp on the music that gives voice to it. In its final stretch DJ-Kicks pursues this target with less regard to questions of old versus new. In the contemporary corner, Haze Factory's "A Bit of Redemption" fashions a jaunty tango strut out of a mordant techno synth melody, while In Flagranti's "Magojiro" concocts a fluttering and disorienting boogie, like a caffeine-wired update of Cultural Vibe's "Ma Foom Bey". But more fully modern than both is Jump "Chico" Slamm's confounding, intoxicating "second wave" Chicago obscurity "Feel Free" from 1993, all relentless machine loops, bustling house syncopation, and effete, sighing vocals-- familiar ingredients combined in a manner that renders them utterly alien. While it's always startling to stumble across a 20-year-old tune that still sounds totally fresh, I can't help but feel it would be even more exciting if "Feel Free" was new, a signpost of where we might go next rather than a snapshot of a path not travelled. Still, in its focus on the past's knack for concocting rhythms that dance around (rather than to) the beat, DJ-Kicks makes a decent case for retracing our steps. If Butler falls slightly short of convincing that this particular brand of old will be made new again, it remains hard to find fault with his survey of all the fun we could have had."

Various Artists

Clicks and Cuts

Matt LeMay

Contrary to popular belief, there's a difference between minimalism and laziness. Sure, minimalist pioneers like Steve Reich and Philip Glass used simple patterns and constant repetition, but every subtle change in the music was carefully thought out. Each theme was left unchanged long enough to create an enthralling rhythm, and rarely hung around long enough to become stagnant. Each tiny shift in the music seemed greatly magnified, and took on huge significance. I'm a big fan of early minimalist works, most notably Steve Reich's 1970-71 masterwork, Drumming. Over the course of its 55 minutes, Drumming takes a simple rhythmic figure, and expands upon and mutates it. On Clicks and Cuts, each track averages about four minutes-- hardly enough time for the type of development that makes minimalism interesting. And while the variety of artists mixes up the sound, the real beauty of minimalist music, the subtle shifts and transitions, is almost completely lost. Of course, this album is not without its interesting moments. Ester Brinkmann's "Maschine" could have been a fascinating piece, with its rhythmically complex static patterns and distant synthesizer noises. About halfway through the track, though, an intolerably simple drum machine beat instantly robs the piece of its intricacy, and some guy who sounds like Doctor Strangelove enters the mix with an annoying refrain in that passionate, romantic language of love, German. Interesting though they may be, these pieces are hard to take. Rhythmically manipulated analog noise can be interesting, but it rarely makes for a truly compelling listen. The only track on Clicks and Cuts that seems truly awe-inspiring is All's "Ãœberall," a beautifully layered piece of music that commands every iota of your attention with its contrasting rhythms, and hypnotizes with its ever-repeating bassline. But again, at only four minutes, it leaves you craving more. What hurts is that there's so much potential in this music. A few of these pieces could present a truly intriguing future for electronic minimalism. Unfortunately, too many of these tracks follow the same dreadfully uninteresting formula: cheesy drum machine beats, grating hisses, and nondescript beeps repeating into infinity. Sure, sometimes less is more. On Clicks and Cuts, less is just less.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Clicks and Cuts, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.0 Album review: "Contrary to popular belief, there's a difference between minimalism and laziness. Sure, minimalist pioneers like Steve Reich and Philip Glass used simple patterns and constant repetition, but every subtle change in the music was carefully thought out. Each theme was left unchanged long enough to create an enthralling rhythm, and rarely hung around long enough to become stagnant. Each tiny shift in the music seemed greatly magnified, and took on huge significance. I'm a big fan of early minimalist works, most notably Steve Reich's 1970-71 masterwork, Drumming. Over the course of its 55 minutes, Drumming takes a simple rhythmic figure, and expands upon and mutates it. On Clicks and Cuts, each track averages about four minutes-- hardly enough time for the type of development that makes minimalism interesting. And while the variety of artists mixes up the sound, the real beauty of minimalist music, the subtle shifts and transitions, is almost completely lost. Of course, this album is not without its interesting moments. Ester Brinkmann's "Maschine" could have been a fascinating piece, with its rhythmically complex static patterns and distant synthesizer noises. About halfway through the track, though, an intolerably simple drum machine beat instantly robs the piece of its intricacy, and some guy who sounds like Doctor Strangelove enters the mix with an annoying refrain in that passionate, romantic language of love, German. Interesting though they may be, these pieces are hard to take. Rhythmically manipulated analog noise can be interesting, but it rarely makes for a truly compelling listen. The only track on Clicks and Cuts that seems truly awe-inspiring is All's "Ãœberall," a beautifully layered piece of music that commands every iota of your attention with its contrasting rhythms, and hypnotizes with its ever-repeating bassline. But again, at only four minutes, it leaves you craving more. What hurts is that there's so much potential in this music. A few of these pieces could present a truly intriguing future for electronic minimalism. Unfortunately, too many of these tracks follow the same dreadfully uninteresting formula: cheesy drum machine beats, grating hisses, and nondescript beeps repeating into infinity. Sure, sometimes less is more. On Clicks and Cuts, less is just less."

Dark Sky

Imagin

Electronic,Rock

Patric Fallon

Pity the 12" producer. Their releases are compartmentalized into a tier somehow less important than a full-length, treated as mere precursors to something bigger and better; they face pressure to translate their art into the ironclad LP format, and to satisfy general expectations of what an album is supposed to be. So pity Dark Sky, because they are, at the least, three consistent 12" producers who had little choice but to issue their first full-length five years into a respectable career built solely on short-form records. Carlo Anderson, Matthew Benyayer, and Thomas Edwards are among the few remaining vestiges of UK bass music, 2009's cryptic genre tag meant to encompass dubstep, house, and techno ideas via their most physical frequencies. After originators like Joy Orbison and the Night Slugs camp gradually shifted focus to singular elements of the hybridized genre, Dark Sky continued to hone their knack for hyperreal sound design and rattling subs well into 2013. It wasn't until the In Brackets EP, which saw release on Mister Saturday Night in April of last year, that the trio seemed at all interested in a less aggressive palette. From the title track on down, this iteration of Dark Sky took a moodier, contemplative, and even jazzy approach to bass-loaded soundsystem music—an exciting growth spurt for a group whose only moments of reflection ever materialized in the passing seconds before a massive drop. Dark Sky were broadening their horizons, gracefully. An extensive and reliable discography like Dark Sky's is entirely why Imagin, their debut album for the Modeselektor-helmed Monkeytown label, should work—but it's also entirely why it doesn't. The three producers have sidestepped their natural upward trajectory in exchange for some of the riskiest and most predictable moves an established electronic artist can make on the first LP. Needless, anticlimactic intro? Check. Uninspired vocal tracks? Check. Shoehorned pandering to longtime fans? Check. Tepid flirtations with previously unexplored genres? Check. Between scattered glimpses of what made these producers worth keeping tabs on, Imagin falters because it sounds like Dark Sky second guessed their strengths in the face of delivering an album on someone else's terms. In contrast, Imagin shines whenever it isn't contorting to fit preconceived notions of format. After two false starts, "Voyages" breathes life into the tracklist with its percussive clatter and slippery synth acrobatics, sounding like the best possible outtake from Four Tet's Beautiful Rewind sessions. Brawny banger "Odyssey"—a spacious, electro-slanted production that has been floating around since 2012—reclaims your attention after "Lucid", "Vivid", and "Nothing Changes" spend 10-plus minutes meandering between placid trip-hop references and narcotic electronica. These scattered resurgences aren't weakened by the valleys that bookend them, but Dark Sky's fleeting moments of clarity make for a record which feels like two-thirds setup and one-third delivery. "Manuka" epitomizes the largest issue at the core of Imagin. Donning snappy drums and a snaking bassline, the track is easily among the record's strongest moments; with a little editing, it could go blow for blow with past heavy hitters like "Zoom" and "Shades". But right in the middle of Dark Sky's slick, well-calibrated tune is a pitch-shifted vocal sample mucking about like a scratched disco 45 spinning 12 RPMs too slow. It's a gratuitous bit of production work that cheapens "Manuka" whenever it appears, and this practice of garnishing perfectly capable songs with mismatched bells & whistles—that is, pursuing a supposedly mature sound through indistinguishable singers and superficial lyrics—bogs down music that would otherwise thrive on its dynamic structure and engaging sound design.

Artist: Dark Sky, Album: Imagin, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "Pity the 12" producer. Their releases are compartmentalized into a tier somehow less important than a full-length, treated as mere precursors to something bigger and better; they face pressure to translate their art into the ironclad LP format, and to satisfy general expectations of what an album is supposed to be. So pity Dark Sky, because they are, at the least, three consistent 12" producers who had little choice but to issue their first full-length five years into a respectable career built solely on short-form records. Carlo Anderson, Matthew Benyayer, and Thomas Edwards are among the few remaining vestiges of UK bass music, 2009's cryptic genre tag meant to encompass dubstep, house, and techno ideas via their most physical frequencies. After originators like Joy Orbison and the Night Slugs camp gradually shifted focus to singular elements of the hybridized genre, Dark Sky continued to hone their knack for hyperreal sound design and rattling subs well into 2013. It wasn't until the In Brackets EP, which saw release on Mister Saturday Night in April of last year, that the trio seemed at all interested in a less aggressive palette. From the title track on down, this iteration of Dark Sky took a moodier, contemplative, and even jazzy approach to bass-loaded soundsystem music—an exciting growth spurt for a group whose only moments of reflection ever materialized in the passing seconds before a massive drop. Dark Sky were broadening their horizons, gracefully. An extensive and reliable discography like Dark Sky's is entirely why Imagin, their debut album for the Modeselektor-helmed Monkeytown label, should work—but it's also entirely why it doesn't. The three producers have sidestepped their natural upward trajectory in exchange for some of the riskiest and most predictable moves an established electronic artist can make on the first LP. Needless, anticlimactic intro? Check. Uninspired vocal tracks? Check. Shoehorned pandering to longtime fans? Check. Tepid flirtations with previously unexplored genres? Check. Between scattered glimpses of what made these producers worth keeping tabs on, Imagin falters because it sounds like Dark Sky second guessed their strengths in the face of delivering an album on someone else's terms. In contrast, Imagin shines whenever it isn't contorting to fit preconceived notions of format. After two false starts, "Voyages" breathes life into the tracklist with its percussive clatter and slippery synth acrobatics, sounding like the best possible outtake from Four Tet's Beautiful Rewind sessions. Brawny banger "Odyssey"—a spacious, electro-slanted production that has been floating around since 2012—reclaims your attention after "Lucid", "Vivid", and "Nothing Changes" spend 10-plus minutes meandering between placid trip-hop references and narcotic electronica. These scattered resurgences aren't weakened by the valleys that bookend them, but Dark Sky's fleeting moments of clarity make for a record which feels like two-thirds setup and one-third delivery. "Manuka" epitomizes the largest issue at the core of Imagin. Donning snappy drums and a snaking bassline, the track is easily among the record's strongest moments; with a little editing, it could go blow for blow with past heavy hitters like "Zoom" and "Shades". But right in the middle of Dark Sky's slick, well-calibrated tune is a pitch-shifted vocal sample mucking about like a scratched disco 45 spinning 12 RPMs too slow. It's a gratuitous bit of production work that cheapens "Manuka" whenever it appears, and this practice of garnishing perfectly capable songs with mismatched bells & whistles—that is, pursuing a supposedly mature sound through indistinguishable singers and superficial lyrics—bogs down music that would otherwise thrive on its dynamic structure and engaging sound design."

The Snails

Songs From the Shoebox

Rock

Allison Hussey

In April 2013, a little band out of Baltimore called the Snails put out a double 7'' EP called Worth the Wait. Two of the band’s members, bassist William Cashion and frontman Sam Herring, had higher profiles with their band Future Islands, but that outfit had yet to take off, and the Snails were just another venture with a different pack of pals. All of the Snails’ personnel committed to the group’s big bit: Onstage in Raleigh, N.C., band members donned colorful headpieces that looked like snails’ eye stalks, and Herring thanked a friend of the band for making sure the Snails got to the venue safely from Baltimore in a shoebox stashed under the passenger seat. Later, the Snails would lay down a full LP, but Future Islands’ sudden wave of success in 2014 meant the Snails and their Songs From the Shoebox were more or less shelved—until now, that is. Songs From the Shoebox is a rough-around-the-edges record that bursts at the seams with excitement. The record feels like it could fall apart at any moment, but it somehow never does: Everything sounds a little fried, from the fuzz-caked guitar and bass riffs that dominate to the slick, squealy saxophone parts that work their way in. Herring doesn’t so much sing as he shouts, with his vocals sometimes bordering on outright screeching. Where Future Islands has always done well at delivering sad songs you can kind of dance to, the Snails mostly focus on fun. "Tight Side of Life" is a thick, rollicking opener, with Herring bellowing, "We’re on the tight side of life, everything is going to be all right." The song is so forceful that you feel like you have no choice to believe it’s the truth. The tracklisting is loopy, but in a way that suits the project. "Flames" makes for an appropriately named scorcher late in the record before sliding into the droopy instrumental "Do Like You Do." The downer tune feels out of step with the rest of the album, but the band picks back up again with "Snails Christmas (I Want a New Shell)." It’s a non sequitur, but then again, the band’s over-arching concept is songs by and about snails—so, sure, why not a Christmas song, too? Though Songs From the Shoebox’s completion was delayed by Future Islands’ massive touring schedule in 2014, the timing of its release is perfect. We’re in the agonizing home stretch of winter, and the album carries the promise that summertime’s carefree, sunburnt Saturday afternoons are right around the corner. With Songs From the Shoebox, then, the Snails offer a brief opportunity to escape to that happiest place.

Artist: The Snails, Album: Songs From the Shoebox, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "In April 2013, a little band out of Baltimore called the Snails put out a double 7'' EP called Worth the Wait. Two of the band’s members, bassist William Cashion and frontman Sam Herring, had higher profiles with their band Future Islands, but that outfit had yet to take off, and the Snails were just another venture with a different pack of pals. All of the Snails’ personnel committed to the group’s big bit: Onstage in Raleigh, N.C., band members donned colorful headpieces that looked like snails’ eye stalks, and Herring thanked a friend of the band for making sure the Snails got to the venue safely from Baltimore in a shoebox stashed under the passenger seat. Later, the Snails would lay down a full LP, but Future Islands’ sudden wave of success in 2014 meant the Snails and their Songs From the Shoebox were more or less shelved—until now, that is. Songs From the Shoebox is a rough-around-the-edges record that bursts at the seams with excitement. The record feels like it could fall apart at any moment, but it somehow never does: Everything sounds a little fried, from the fuzz-caked guitar and bass riffs that dominate to the slick, squealy saxophone parts that work their way in. Herring doesn’t so much sing as he shouts, with his vocals sometimes bordering on outright screeching. Where Future Islands has always done well at delivering sad songs you can kind of dance to, the Snails mostly focus on fun. "Tight Side of Life" is a thick, rollicking opener, with Herring bellowing, "We’re on the tight side of life, everything is going to be all right." The song is so forceful that you feel like you have no choice to believe it’s the truth. The tracklisting is loopy, but in a way that suits the project. "Flames" makes for an appropriately named scorcher late in the record before sliding into the droopy instrumental "Do Like You Do." The downer tune feels out of step with the rest of the album, but the band picks back up again with "Snails Christmas (I Want a New Shell)." It’s a non sequitur, but then again, the band’s over-arching concept is songs by and about snails—so, sure, why not a Christmas song, too? Though Songs From the Shoebox’s completion was delayed by Future Islands’ massive touring schedule in 2014, the timing of its release is perfect. We’re in the agonizing home stretch of winter, and the album carries the promise that summertime’s carefree, sunburnt Saturday afternoons are right around the corner. With Songs From the Shoebox, then, the Snails offer a brief opportunity to escape to that happiest place."