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The Coathangers

Scramble

Electronic,Rock

Marc Hogan

If the only good reason to overturn apple carts is for the fun of it, how 'bout them apples? Like Athens' Pylon before them, all-grrl Atlanta quartet the Coathangers are making sure the revolution will not be such a drag. On a rough 'n' rowdy self-titled 2007 debut via local label Rob's House Records, they swapped "Suck My Left One" for "Nestle in My Boobies", "Oh Bondage, Up Yours!" for "Shut the Fuck Up", hating Margaret Thatcher for sympathizing with "Tonya Harding". Word is their ramshackle live shows-- alongside the likes of Deerhunter, Black Lips, Jay Reatard, and, next month, Calvin Johnson-- have included loogies and My Little Pony.  Cue the premature backlash. The Coathangers keep the back-alley post-punk party going strong on a scratchy, shrieky, foul-mouthed sophomore album, Scramble, their first for Seattle-based Suicide Squeeze. The call-and-response vocals-- split between guitarist Julia Kugel, drummer Stephanie Luke, keyboard player Candice Jones, and Meredith Franco on bass-- are shrill. The politics aren't, even though technically everything-- from their beyond Fucked Up name to their overall fuck-you we're-not-the-Donnas stance-- is kind of political. Nope, the Coathangers aren't ones to let good intentions stand in for a good time. As with fellow Georgians the B-52s, their best songs play like should-be novelty hits. The Coathanger with the chirpy Snow White voice sings lead on a couple of the catchiest, including upstairs-neighbor rant "Stop Stomp Stompin'" and unrequited-love-at-first-sight song "143", both of which have enough quotidian sloganeering and goofy-but-true detail for UK shouters Art Brut. Pretty sure it's the same band member who threatens to break our "fucking face" on caterwauling garage-rocker "Gettin' Mad and Pumpin' Iron", too. But the Coathangers can also drop the tempo-- slow dancing with a dude who "ain't no sissy" on "Dreamboat", or missing a boy from outer space on keyboard-driven "Sonic You". There's even one for the olds: "Arthritis Sux". There's even one for tUne-YarDs: sloppy sound-effect collage "Bobby Knows Best". Put together enough novelty hits, and you have a pretty solid album. If off-kilter percussion can't quite overcome the whispery false ending on "Pussywillow", or "Time Passing" gets a little lost up its own indecipherable sci-fi squall, there's always the scuzzy pink frost of "Toomerhead" (he ain't an asshole, he's just sick), or the get-off-my-back hoarseness of "Bury Me". Particularly given the neanderthal sexual politics of much of the current indie music scene-- looking at you, Brooklyn Vegan comments section-- it's good politics when a girl group can declare, as a deeper-voiced Coathanger does on "Cheap Cheap", "You can just go fuck yourself." It's good entertainment when they can make us pretend they're not talking to us-- and that's probably smarter politics, too. As the Long Blondes once sang, you could have both.

Artist: The Coathangers, Album: Scramble, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "If the only good reason to overturn apple carts is for the fun of it, how 'bout them apples? Like Athens' Pylon before them, all-grrl Atlanta quartet the Coathangers are making sure the revolution will not be such a drag. On a rough 'n' rowdy self-titled 2007 debut via local label Rob's House Records, they swapped "Suck My Left One" for "Nestle in My Boobies", "Oh Bondage, Up Yours!" for "Shut the Fuck Up", hating Margaret Thatcher for sympathizing with "Tonya Harding". Word is their ramshackle live shows-- alongside the likes of Deerhunter, Black Lips, Jay Reatard, and, next month, Calvin Johnson-- have included loogies and My Little Pony.  Cue the premature backlash. The Coathangers keep the back-alley post-punk party going strong on a scratchy, shrieky, foul-mouthed sophomore album, Scramble, their first for Seattle-based Suicide Squeeze. The call-and-response vocals-- split between guitarist Julia Kugel, drummer Stephanie Luke, keyboard player Candice Jones, and Meredith Franco on bass-- are shrill. The politics aren't, even though technically everything-- from their beyond Fucked Up name to their overall fuck-you we're-not-the-Donnas stance-- is kind of political. Nope, the Coathangers aren't ones to let good intentions stand in for a good time. As with fellow Georgians the B-52s, their best songs play like should-be novelty hits. The Coathanger with the chirpy Snow White voice sings lead on a couple of the catchiest, including upstairs-neighbor rant "Stop Stomp Stompin'" and unrequited-love-at-first-sight song "143", both of which have enough quotidian sloganeering and goofy-but-true detail for UK shouters Art Brut. Pretty sure it's the same band member who threatens to break our "fucking face" on caterwauling garage-rocker "Gettin' Mad and Pumpin' Iron", too. But the Coathangers can also drop the tempo-- slow dancing with a dude who "ain't no sissy" on "Dreamboat", or missing a boy from outer space on keyboard-driven "Sonic You". There's even one for the olds: "Arthritis Sux". There's even one for tUne-YarDs: sloppy sound-effect collage "Bobby Knows Best". Put together enough novelty hits, and you have a pretty solid album. If off-kilter percussion can't quite overcome the whispery false ending on "Pussywillow", or "Time Passing" gets a little lost up its own indecipherable sci-fi squall, there's always the scuzzy pink frost of "Toomerhead" (he ain't an asshole, he's just sick), or the get-off-my-back hoarseness of "Bury Me". Particularly given the neanderthal sexual politics of much of the current indie music scene-- looking at you, Brooklyn Vegan comments section-- it's good politics when a girl group can declare, as a deeper-voiced Coathanger does on "Cheap Cheap", "You can just go fuck yourself." It's good entertainment when they can make us pretend they're not talking to us-- and that's probably smarter politics, too. As the Long Blondes once sang, you could have both."

Bicep

Bicep

Electronic

Jesse Weiss

The Irish DJ duo of Andrew Ferguson and Matthew McBriar, aka Bicep, have always had their hands directly on the pulse of the party. Since rising nearly a decade ago with their infamous Feel My Bicep blog-turned-party and record label, they’ve trotted the globe with their own ecstatic sound. Spanning styles like house, techno, disco, and jungle, Bicep are unbeholden to specific rhythms, scenes, or eras. Instead, their M.O. boils down to big moments in clubs. On their own tracks, they favor a boomy low-end balanced with a keen sense of melody, resulting in a range of dancefloor bombs—from notorious edits of forgotten 1990s classics to futuristic, crystalline anthems. Bicep are most easily bracketed under the house umbrella, but many of their tracks don’t adhere to the style’s typical 4/4 pulse. Instead, Bicep favor uptempo jungle breaks, bumping 808 electro and hip-hop beats, and grinding disco rhythms. Their eponymous debut album is a varied document drawing on the rich history and variety of UK dance music, updated with sleek, modern sounds, vibrant psychedelic textures, and impeccable production. At every turn, the melodies on Bicep display a grandiose shimmer. Opener “Orca” floats on a sun-dappled pool; its fluttering chords feel weightless as the even kick drum meets a crunchy breakbeat, providing a propulsive churn. A barely-there voice fractures and spreads across the sonic field, giving “Orca” a sense of psychedelia that sets the tone for the rest of an album that bounces and flutters like a summery wind. The dewey synths on “Ayaya” hang in the air and cascade over one another, while the syncopated rhythms on “Ayr” glide like ice. Even with such an immediate sound, Bicep strive for awe-inspiring cinematics in their design, with subtle flourishes that wow as they draw a smile across your face. The punchy highlight “Rain” recalls recent Four Tet singles, sneaking in a gorgeous Indian vocal beneath a sharp garage house beat, but Bicep enhance the formula with reverberant effects and a meticulously detailed mix. “Glue” offers a satisfying bit of smoked-out jungle, slowed to a more modest house tempo, but across its short four-and-a-half minutes, the track doesn’t transport listeners as convincingly as some of the jungle epics that inspire it. On “Vale,” Bicep veer into a more commercial lane, with washed out vocals and fuzzy bass connecting for a moody anthem in the vein of Disclosure. (It sounds like a deeper and more restrained update to their “You & Me” remix from 2013.) Bicep’s expansive production and compact song-lengths often lack the transportive and hypnotic potential that the best dance music offers. But it succeeds as a lean and consciously paced album. The strength of Bicep, as DJs, is their intuitive ability to structure songs into digestible morsels—with steady builds, bridges, and breakdowns—and it reflects in their arrangements here. This debut offers a crystal-clear view into the grooves that have captivated Ferguson and McBriar as their DJ careers have launched them into the upper echelon of dance music: shimmering, dramatic melodies, barreling breaks, and booming kicks that ensure their tunes are as hard-hitting as they are fun.

Artist: Bicep, Album: Bicep, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "The Irish DJ duo of Andrew Ferguson and Matthew McBriar, aka Bicep, have always had their hands directly on the pulse of the party. Since rising nearly a decade ago with their infamous Feel My Bicep blog-turned-party and record label, they’ve trotted the globe with their own ecstatic sound. Spanning styles like house, techno, disco, and jungle, Bicep are unbeholden to specific rhythms, scenes, or eras. Instead, their M.O. boils down to big moments in clubs. On their own tracks, they favor a boomy low-end balanced with a keen sense of melody, resulting in a range of dancefloor bombs—from notorious edits of forgotten 1990s classics to futuristic, crystalline anthems. Bicep are most easily bracketed under the house umbrella, but many of their tracks don’t adhere to the style’s typical 4/4 pulse. Instead, Bicep favor uptempo jungle breaks, bumping 808 electro and hip-hop beats, and grinding disco rhythms. Their eponymous debut album is a varied document drawing on the rich history and variety of UK dance music, updated with sleek, modern sounds, vibrant psychedelic textures, and impeccable production. At every turn, the melodies on Bicep display a grandiose shimmer. Opener “Orca” floats on a sun-dappled pool; its fluttering chords feel weightless as the even kick drum meets a crunchy breakbeat, providing a propulsive churn. A barely-there voice fractures and spreads across the sonic field, giving “Orca” a sense of psychedelia that sets the tone for the rest of an album that bounces and flutters like a summery wind. The dewey synths on “Ayaya” hang in the air and cascade over one another, while the syncopated rhythms on “Ayr” glide like ice. Even with such an immediate sound, Bicep strive for awe-inspiring cinematics in their design, with subtle flourishes that wow as they draw a smile across your face. The punchy highlight “Rain” recalls recent Four Tet singles, sneaking in a gorgeous Indian vocal beneath a sharp garage house beat, but Bicep enhance the formula with reverberant effects and a meticulously detailed mix. “Glue” offers a satisfying bit of smoked-out jungle, slowed to a more modest house tempo, but across its short four-and-a-half minutes, the track doesn’t transport listeners as convincingly as some of the jungle epics that inspire it. On “Vale,” Bicep veer into a more commercial lane, with washed out vocals and fuzzy bass connecting for a moody anthem in the vein of Disclosure. (It sounds like a deeper and more restrained update to their “You & Me” remix from 2013.) Bicep’s expansive production and compact song-lengths often lack the transportive and hypnotic potential that the best dance music offers. But it succeeds as a lean and consciously paced album. The strength of Bicep, as DJs, is their intuitive ability to structure songs into digestible morsels—with steady builds, bridges, and breakdowns—and it reflects in their arrangements here. This debut offers a crystal-clear view into the grooves that have captivated Ferguson and McBriar as their DJ careers have launched them into the upper echelon of dance music: shimmering, dramatic melodies, barreling breaks, and booming kicks that ensure their tunes are as hard-hitting as they are fun."

Pete Rock

Lost and Found: Hip-Hop Underground Soul Classics

Rap

Hartley Goldstein

The year was 1992. It was a time when Yo! MTV Raps would broadcast its irreverent brand of an early hip-hop DIY aesthetic into millions of bedrooms across the globe. It was a time when a five-mic review in a fledgling rap journal called The Source meant more than your record label making a check out to Benzino. It was a time when up and coming legends like Gang Starr would release career defining albums (Daily Operation) and a slew of fresh faces would soon after drop incendiary landmark debuts (In '93: Wu-Tang, Black Moon; In '94: Biggie, Nas). Most importantly though, 1992 was the year when a young duo named Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth flooded the airwaves with their rousing jazz-laced elegy, "They Reminisce Over You (T.R.O.Y.)". Featuring a remarkably agile and sincere vocal delivery from C.L. Smooth, and Pete Rock dropping haunting strands of interweaving horn melodies, stabbing sax blurts and a smooth snare-driven groove, "T.R.O.Y." would become one of the most stirring and beloved hip-hop songs of all time. Only two years later, the duo would call it quits, and though C.L. Smooth would seldom be heard from again, Pete Rock's foggy jazz-infused production would give birth to millions of imitators (if little commercial success). Though the legendary four-year period spanning 1992-1996 served as one of hip-hop's most creatively inspired eras, the music business was, at the time, completely clueless as to the genre's profitability and artistic value. The industry's prevailing ignorance over hip-hop (epitomized by the Wu-Tang lyric, "Who's your A&R;, a mountain climber who plays an electric guitar?") meant that, along with the many landmark albums that hit record store shelves, an ungodly amount of potential rap classics never got to see the light of day: Large Professor, for example, instructed listeners to "buy my album when I drop it," on A Tribe Called Quest's "Keep It Rollin'"-- and almost ten years later we're still waiting for its release. So hip-hop aficionados worldwide should tip their collective throwback jerseys to the British beat-centric label BBE for rescuing some of Pete Rock's finest mid-90s production moments from a death in obscurity. Collected here, in their entirety are two forgotten Pete Rock-produced gems: InI's Center of Attention and Deda's The Original Baby Pa. The infamously bootlegged Center of Attention, with its relentless, jaw-dropping sequence of solid instrumentals, is the real showstopper. "Think Twice" bounces by on a choppy bed of sublimely looped piano chords, guitar stabs, and a hazy, meditative Black Moon-influenced drum break. Tracks like "Step Up" and "Fakin' Jax" fare even better, all piano melodies submerged in a thick fog of sub-aquatic vapor, while armies of shimmering horns slice through the substantial haze in intoxicating loops. Additionally, a track like "To Each His Own" (which features guest spots from Q-Tip and Large Professor), with its drizzling vibe notes and flurrying horns seems to sonically billow open from out of the speaker fabric, like a dense trail of weed smoke swelling from out of the tip of a blunt only to be diffused in the surrounding air. But while the instrumentals on Deda's The Original Baby Pa are similarly inspired to the ones found on Center of Attention, both albums showcase a problem that's plagued Pete Rock's career from day one: the quality of his beats consistently overshadows the quality of his emcees' rhymes. It's no coincidence that 2001's instrumental affair, Petestrumentals, was one of Rock's greatest moments. On the Deda track "Blah Uno", Pete cooks up a dizzying brew of swirling horns, radiating, woofer-friendly bass notes, and the irresistible boom-bap of snare cracks and galloping ride cymbals only for Deda to inanely spit, "Blah Uno here to put suckers in the mix/ The music was fixed for me to bust wild dicks." While on "No More Words", InI's three members (Rob-O, Grap Luva, and Pete Rock himself) kick undeniably smooth verses with easygoing group chemistry bereft of any lasting inspired insight. Furthermore, a track like "Markd4Death" may showcase a debonair instrumental of pensively unraveling Rhodes notes, but Deda's predictable gangsterisms and humdrum threats sound about as moving as the drone of a computer fan. The glory of the early 90s will always hold a special place in the hearts of hip-hop listeners far and wide; they were the adolescent years before bling killed the urban anti-star. Of course, even while hip-hop fans are proverbially salivating like Pavlov's dogs for a planned Rock reunion with original partner-in-crime C.L. Smooth (and a possible sequel to 1998's Soul Survivor), Lost & Found's unearthed treasures provide an ideal soundtrack for nostalgia while successfully building anticipation for future material.

Artist: Pete Rock, Album: Lost and Found: Hip-Hop Underground Soul Classics, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.2 Album review: "The year was 1992. It was a time when Yo! MTV Raps would broadcast its irreverent brand of an early hip-hop DIY aesthetic into millions of bedrooms across the globe. It was a time when a five-mic review in a fledgling rap journal called The Source meant more than your record label making a check out to Benzino. It was a time when up and coming legends like Gang Starr would release career defining albums (Daily Operation) and a slew of fresh faces would soon after drop incendiary landmark debuts (In '93: Wu-Tang, Black Moon; In '94: Biggie, Nas). Most importantly though, 1992 was the year when a young duo named Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth flooded the airwaves with their rousing jazz-laced elegy, "They Reminisce Over You (T.R.O.Y.)". Featuring a remarkably agile and sincere vocal delivery from C.L. Smooth, and Pete Rock dropping haunting strands of interweaving horn melodies, stabbing sax blurts and a smooth snare-driven groove, "T.R.O.Y." would become one of the most stirring and beloved hip-hop songs of all time. Only two years later, the duo would call it quits, and though C.L. Smooth would seldom be heard from again, Pete Rock's foggy jazz-infused production would give birth to millions of imitators (if little commercial success). Though the legendary four-year period spanning 1992-1996 served as one of hip-hop's most creatively inspired eras, the music business was, at the time, completely clueless as to the genre's profitability and artistic value. The industry's prevailing ignorance over hip-hop (epitomized by the Wu-Tang lyric, "Who's your A&R;, a mountain climber who plays an electric guitar?") meant that, along with the many landmark albums that hit record store shelves, an ungodly amount of potential rap classics never got to see the light of day: Large Professor, for example, instructed listeners to "buy my album when I drop it," on A Tribe Called Quest's "Keep It Rollin'"-- and almost ten years later we're still waiting for its release. So hip-hop aficionados worldwide should tip their collective throwback jerseys to the British beat-centric label BBE for rescuing some of Pete Rock's finest mid-90s production moments from a death in obscurity. Collected here, in their entirety are two forgotten Pete Rock-produced gems: InI's Center of Attention and Deda's The Original Baby Pa. The infamously bootlegged Center of Attention, with its relentless, jaw-dropping sequence of solid instrumentals, is the real showstopper. "Think Twice" bounces by on a choppy bed of sublimely looped piano chords, guitar stabs, and a hazy, meditative Black Moon-influenced drum break. Tracks like "Step Up" and "Fakin' Jax" fare even better, all piano melodies submerged in a thick fog of sub-aquatic vapor, while armies of shimmering horns slice through the substantial haze in intoxicating loops. Additionally, a track like "To Each His Own" (which features guest spots from Q-Tip and Large Professor), with its drizzling vibe notes and flurrying horns seems to sonically billow open from out of the speaker fabric, like a dense trail of weed smoke swelling from out of the tip of a blunt only to be diffused in the surrounding air. But while the instrumentals on Deda's The Original Baby Pa are similarly inspired to the ones found on Center of Attention, both albums showcase a problem that's plagued Pete Rock's career from day one: the quality of his beats consistently overshadows the quality of his emcees' rhymes. It's no coincidence that 2001's instrumental affair, Petestrumentals, was one of Rock's greatest moments. On the Deda track "Blah Uno", Pete cooks up a dizzying brew of swirling horns, radiating, woofer-friendly bass notes, and the irresistible boom-bap of snare cracks and galloping ride cymbals only for Deda to inanely spit, "Blah Uno here to put suckers in the mix/ The music was fixed for me to bust wild dicks." While on "No More Words", InI's three members (Rob-O, Grap Luva, and Pete Rock himself) kick undeniably smooth verses with easygoing group chemistry bereft of any lasting inspired insight. Furthermore, a track like "Markd4Death" may showcase a debonair instrumental of pensively unraveling Rhodes notes, but Deda's predictable gangsterisms and humdrum threats sound about as moving as the drone of a computer fan. The glory of the early 90s will always hold a special place in the hearts of hip-hop listeners far and wide; they were the adolescent years before bling killed the urban anti-star. Of course, even while hip-hop fans are proverbially salivating like Pavlov's dogs for a planned Rock reunion with original partner-in-crime C.L. Smooth (and a possible sequel to 1998's Soul Survivor), Lost & Found's unearthed treasures provide an ideal soundtrack for nostalgia while successfully building anticipation for future material."

Ill Bill

What's Wrong with Bill?

Rap

Rollie Pemberton

The de facto leader of underground luminaries Non-Phixion, Ill Bill has steadily gained notoriety over the span of the last decade, and with this release, is the first of his crew to unleash a solo record. Produced entirely by shock rap magnate Necro, What's Wrong with Bill? is expectedly unflinching in its portrayal of the white ghetto experience with the feel of a dirty, limited run, behind-the-counter comic book. But does it really take to new ground or is it the same routine that the Uncle Howie label seems to be running ragged? Ill Bill seems to have two major precursors: Nas, and early Eminem, the latter of which is evident in his gruesome subject matter and aggressive, multi-syllabic lyrical style-- even his punchlines are macabre ("hotter than a crematorium"). Here, Ill Bill portrays a character that sees in monochrome, struggles in Technicolor, and speaks with blood scarlet letters, rapping about serial killers, drug dealing and illicit sexual encounters. Nas' influence, meanwhile, shows in Ill Bill's housing project observations-- though he goes a step further and commits as many of the crimes as he witnesses. Either way you cut it, Ill Bill raps like a Tarantino film: verbose and violent, with opinionated societal overtones. This is never more evident than on "American History X", where Bill spits vitriol over chimes, a jagged bass riff and a chopped soul vocal, detailing his disgust for the United States socio-political construct. Most of his dissension is pointed towards taking down the powers that be, but his choir-preaching here proves one of the most grounded moments on the album. Ill Bill raps like there's a bomb strapped to his chest, so his description of the American government hits hard when paired with his emphatic delivery: "A Roman Empire in the present tense/ Murder for corporations that they represent/ Whether democrat or republicans, it's the same scumbag government/ With scumbag ways of running shit." Considering the negative stigma that the music community holds for Necro as a sinister whoremonger, few will deny his ability as a producer. Distilling DJ Premier's processed drums, Pete Rock's seamless sample chops and the Automator's clean mixdowns, Necro amalgamates several pivotal elements in production to create a unique backdrop for Ill Bill to play across. Whether he's juxtaposing G-funk synth lasers with 70s bass grooves on "Glenwood Projects", crisscrossing suspended strings and shitkicking snares for "The Final Scene" or incorporating pedal-stomping guitar funk, hockey organ and barbershop choruses on "Unstoppable", Necro seems to have a delicate feel for the production that best suits his artist. Still, Ill Bill's got a few issue to overcome: His heavy dependence on adlibs, for one, tends to turn every verse into its own chorus. His songs also tend to settle for only two verses, which limits the album's length and conceptual development, and his disproportionate number of guest emcees can prove troublesome, depending on your taste (Goretex admittedly steals a song with "Elvis is dead, but Tupac is living in Queens"). Additionally (and ironically), it seems Ill Bill's most creative song concepts fare the worst: "Alien Workshop" is a painfully rehashed X-Files rerun and "The Anatomy of a School Shooting" fails not due to its expected tastelessness, but in the way it refuses to expound on its tired subject matter. That said, the production on What's Wrong with Bill? manages a surprising consistently across the span of the album, Bill's performances are always raw and tightly spun, and overall, his combination of intelligent gangster and masochistic serial killer is more effective here than ever before. Ill Bill closes a song, stating, "Fuck who's on top, 'cause I'm a lot hungrier than them." I'm inclined to agree.

Artist: Ill Bill, Album: What's Wrong with Bill?, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "The de facto leader of underground luminaries Non-Phixion, Ill Bill has steadily gained notoriety over the span of the last decade, and with this release, is the first of his crew to unleash a solo record. Produced entirely by shock rap magnate Necro, What's Wrong with Bill? is expectedly unflinching in its portrayal of the white ghetto experience with the feel of a dirty, limited run, behind-the-counter comic book. But does it really take to new ground or is it the same routine that the Uncle Howie label seems to be running ragged? Ill Bill seems to have two major precursors: Nas, and early Eminem, the latter of which is evident in his gruesome subject matter and aggressive, multi-syllabic lyrical style-- even his punchlines are macabre ("hotter than a crematorium"). Here, Ill Bill portrays a character that sees in monochrome, struggles in Technicolor, and speaks with blood scarlet letters, rapping about serial killers, drug dealing and illicit sexual encounters. Nas' influence, meanwhile, shows in Ill Bill's housing project observations-- though he goes a step further and commits as many of the crimes as he witnesses. Either way you cut it, Ill Bill raps like a Tarantino film: verbose and violent, with opinionated societal overtones. This is never more evident than on "American History X", where Bill spits vitriol over chimes, a jagged bass riff and a chopped soul vocal, detailing his disgust for the United States socio-political construct. Most of his dissension is pointed towards taking down the powers that be, but his choir-preaching here proves one of the most grounded moments on the album. Ill Bill raps like there's a bomb strapped to his chest, so his description of the American government hits hard when paired with his emphatic delivery: "A Roman Empire in the present tense/ Murder for corporations that they represent/ Whether democrat or republicans, it's the same scumbag government/ With scumbag ways of running shit." Considering the negative stigma that the music community holds for Necro as a sinister whoremonger, few will deny his ability as a producer. Distilling DJ Premier's processed drums, Pete Rock's seamless sample chops and the Automator's clean mixdowns, Necro amalgamates several pivotal elements in production to create a unique backdrop for Ill Bill to play across. Whether he's juxtaposing G-funk synth lasers with 70s bass grooves on "Glenwood Projects", crisscrossing suspended strings and shitkicking snares for "The Final Scene" or incorporating pedal-stomping guitar funk, hockey organ and barbershop choruses on "Unstoppable", Necro seems to have a delicate feel for the production that best suits his artist. Still, Ill Bill's got a few issue to overcome: His heavy dependence on adlibs, for one, tends to turn every verse into its own chorus. His songs also tend to settle for only two verses, which limits the album's length and conceptual development, and his disproportionate number of guest emcees can prove troublesome, depending on your taste (Goretex admittedly steals a song with "Elvis is dead, but Tupac is living in Queens"). Additionally (and ironically), it seems Ill Bill's most creative song concepts fare the worst: "Alien Workshop" is a painfully rehashed X-Files rerun and "The Anatomy of a School Shooting" fails not due to its expected tastelessness, but in the way it refuses to expound on its tired subject matter. That said, the production on What's Wrong with Bill? manages a surprising consistently across the span of the album, Bill's performances are always raw and tightly spun, and overall, his combination of intelligent gangster and masochistic serial killer is more effective here than ever before. Ill Bill closes a song, stating, "Fuck who's on top, 'cause I'm a lot hungrier than them." I'm inclined to agree."

Aa

GAame

Jessica Suarez

Aa is pronounced "Big A Little a." There's something worth noticing there: You see the signs representing a vowel sound, but you don't say "ahhh." Instead, this Brooklyn band decides how you should pronounce its name, and it upsets your expectations in the process. You feel the same displacement when listening to GAame (no pronunciation key given), Aa's debut LP. The band employs its own secret language across the record's 13 tracks, and because the group doesn't give the listener a key, its grunts, howls, and cries become part of the rhythm of GAame, an album where rhythm is privileged above all. Of course this remapping brings up comparisons to other rhythm-is-all, language-is-secondary bands, such as Animal Collective, Liars and OOIOO. While there is something (little-a) animal about Aa, GAame doesn't have the same sweaty, visceral propulsion of AC's Feels or the wildman roar of Liars. Instead the album is insect-like, full of seemingly chaotic rhythms that are, on closer inspection, guided by complex systems. Think of GAame as a container for different suites, each guided by their own pacing and palette of sounds. These tracks also bleed into one another-- a feature that the iPod ruins. Opener "Deathmask" is GAame's overture, a 30-second sampling that begins with the same eerie tension that ends the whole record. On "Time In", that palette is wet fingers on glass, flicking cicada wings, vespine drums that keep low to the soil. "Best of Seven" speaks in strident ringing school and sleigh bells. For "New Machine" and "Thirteen", Aa use synths as rhythm-- in the former they approximate chirps and chortles; they rise and fall like gentle respiration in the latter. "Manshake" shows the band at their best: Not just noise, not just drums, but something that reaches ecstatic, bombastic heights. Since GAame works as a suite, it also suffers from being a little too cohesive. Sometimes Aa draw the connections between songs too strongly, which means the record can drag toward its end, when the listener has long been ready to drop the repetition and move on. And sometimes the vocalizations are all wrong. Take the shouted opening to "Time In", in which the vocalist shouts out a list of puns, including, "You've got GAame." Its micro-rhythms and elephantine horns would have been better off alone. The vocal doesn't work because cliché doesn't suit Aa's intentions. GAame wants to function the same way the band's name does-- as a way to control your attention by forcing the unfamiliar. So the sounds we're used to hearing disrupt an otherwise strange experience. Move into the familiar and the structure collapses.

Artist: Aa, Album: GAame, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "Aa is pronounced "Big A Little a." There's something worth noticing there: You see the signs representing a vowel sound, but you don't say "ahhh." Instead, this Brooklyn band decides how you should pronounce its name, and it upsets your expectations in the process. You feel the same displacement when listening to GAame (no pronunciation key given), Aa's debut LP. The band employs its own secret language across the record's 13 tracks, and because the group doesn't give the listener a key, its grunts, howls, and cries become part of the rhythm of GAame, an album where rhythm is privileged above all. Of course this remapping brings up comparisons to other rhythm-is-all, language-is-secondary bands, such as Animal Collective, Liars and OOIOO. While there is something (little-a) animal about Aa, GAame doesn't have the same sweaty, visceral propulsion of AC's Feels or the wildman roar of Liars. Instead the album is insect-like, full of seemingly chaotic rhythms that are, on closer inspection, guided by complex systems. Think of GAame as a container for different suites, each guided by their own pacing and palette of sounds. These tracks also bleed into one another-- a feature that the iPod ruins. Opener "Deathmask" is GAame's overture, a 30-second sampling that begins with the same eerie tension that ends the whole record. On "Time In", that palette is wet fingers on glass, flicking cicada wings, vespine drums that keep low to the soil. "Best of Seven" speaks in strident ringing school and sleigh bells. For "New Machine" and "Thirteen", Aa use synths as rhythm-- in the former they approximate chirps and chortles; they rise and fall like gentle respiration in the latter. "Manshake" shows the band at their best: Not just noise, not just drums, but something that reaches ecstatic, bombastic heights. Since GAame works as a suite, it also suffers from being a little too cohesive. Sometimes Aa draw the connections between songs too strongly, which means the record can drag toward its end, when the listener has long been ready to drop the repetition and move on. And sometimes the vocalizations are all wrong. Take the shouted opening to "Time In", in which the vocalist shouts out a list of puns, including, "You've got GAame." Its micro-rhythms and elephantine horns would have been better off alone. The vocal doesn't work because cliché doesn't suit Aa's intentions. GAame wants to function the same way the band's name does-- as a way to control your attention by forcing the unfamiliar. So the sounds we're used to hearing disrupt an otherwise strange experience. Move into the familiar and the structure collapses."

Bell Biv Devoe

Three Stripes

Pop/R&B

Elias Leight

Few anticipated the trio Bell Biv Devoe’s sensational 1990 debut. All three members were in the important and longstanding R&B vocal group New Edition, but none were ever a central focus of the ensemble. They were consistently overshadowed by Ralph Tresvant, who provided lead vocals on most New Edition tracks; Johnny Gill, who joined the group in 1988 for their most fully realized album, Heart Break, but already had hits of his own; and even by former member Bobby Brown, who left New Edition in 1985 and hit No. 1 on the Hot 100 three years later. While Ricky Bell, Michael Bivins, and Ronnie Devoe were essential to the success of the group as a whole, they almost always served to support their more prominent co-stars. Until they didn't: heeding advice from the world-class production duo Jam & Lewis, Bell Biv Devoe formed a trio and released an album that was eventually certified quadruple platinum. Of the New Edition diaspora, Brown enjoyed the most sales and notoriety, Tresvant approached one-note perfection with “Sensitivity,” and Gill built an enviable collection of ballads, but it was the underdogs in Bell Biv Devoe who came up with that elusive thing, a crossover standard which everyone will know for eternity: “Poison.” President Obama recently invited the group to the White House to perform the track, confirming its designation as a piece of universal American pop culture. That honor makes it a fine time for Bell Biv Devoe to reemerge with Three Stripes. They're also likely to benefit from New Edition’s high level of visibility at the moment: the group returned to the radio for the first time in over a decade last year, credited as featured vocalists on Johnny Gill’s No. 1 R&B hit “This One’s For Me And You,” and a three-part New Edition biopic is slated to air on BET the same week that Three Stripes hits the shelves. This is the first Bell Biv Devoe album in 16 years, and early on, it feels like the trio is stepping gingerly, with continuity in mind above all else. Despite their time away from the studio, Bivins and Devoe still rap in the end-rhyme-heavy style of the late ’80s. And since the majority of the group's early hits were smutty accounts of the group's interactions with the opposite sex, similar narratives guide several songs on Three Stripes. “I’ll say a bunch of slick shit to get between your thighs,” Devoe promises in “I’m Betta,” a pushy, hurry-up-and-leave-him-number which reminds listeners that 49 year-olds have the right to be juvenile, too. But despite these allusions, Three Stripes rarely crackles in the manner of early Bell Biv Devoe—the Poison album is resiliently pesky, like an especially pugnacious welterweight, but there's little of that scrappy spirit here. As they did in 1990, the trio calls on hip-hop producers for help: Erick Sermon of the famous New York hip-hop duo EPMD crafted “Run,” and other beat makers here include DJ Battlecat (Snoop Dogg, Xzibit) and Doug E. Fresh. But the tracks are mostly either pedestrian and unmemorable, or memorable for the wrong reasons. This is exemplified by the lead single, “Run,” which redundantly interpolates Notorious B.I.G.’s “Hypnotize,” a song too molded to Biggie to provide a favorable look for anyone else. It’s a pair of the least energetic moments, though, which turn out to be the richest on the record. While Bell Biv Devoe classics mostly eschewed harmony, a New Edition hallmark, in favor of skeletal thwack, the trio embraces the full-group approach on the back half of Three Stripes. When Bell trades verses with SWV’s scene-stealing Coko on the ballad “Finally,” her full, trembling tone nourishes his lancing falsetto. And Boyz II Men, who owe their name to a New Edition song, appear on “One More Try,” helping create a benign, slender number based around Jerry Butler’s “I Could Write A Book” from 1970. Plummy as these tracks are, they make you wonder why Bell Biv Devoe didn’t recruit from the crack platoon of contemporary songwriters most adept at balancing R&B tradition with the requirements of today's production practices. This coterie includes Babyface, who writes nearly as well as he did two decades ago (see 2015’s “Love and Devotion”); Gregg Pagani, who helped pen Gill’s No. 1 last year; and the duo of Pop & Oak, who gifted the world with Usher’s “Good Kisser” and Tamia’s “Sandwich and a Soda.” But Bell Biv Devoe aren’t looking for that kind of help, and who says they need it? “Run” is currently a top ten record at Urban AC radio: once again, this underdog trio is enjoying unexpected success.

Artist: Bell Biv Devoe, Album: Three Stripes, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.5 Album review: "Few anticipated the trio Bell Biv Devoe’s sensational 1990 debut. All three members were in the important and longstanding R&B vocal group New Edition, but none were ever a central focus of the ensemble. They were consistently overshadowed by Ralph Tresvant, who provided lead vocals on most New Edition tracks; Johnny Gill, who joined the group in 1988 for their most fully realized album, Heart Break, but already had hits of his own; and even by former member Bobby Brown, who left New Edition in 1985 and hit No. 1 on the Hot 100 three years later. While Ricky Bell, Michael Bivins, and Ronnie Devoe were essential to the success of the group as a whole, they almost always served to support their more prominent co-stars. Until they didn't: heeding advice from the world-class production duo Jam & Lewis, Bell Biv Devoe formed a trio and released an album that was eventually certified quadruple platinum. Of the New Edition diaspora, Brown enjoyed the most sales and notoriety, Tresvant approached one-note perfection with “Sensitivity,” and Gill built an enviable collection of ballads, but it was the underdogs in Bell Biv Devoe who came up with that elusive thing, a crossover standard which everyone will know for eternity: “Poison.” President Obama recently invited the group to the White House to perform the track, confirming its designation as a piece of universal American pop culture. That honor makes it a fine time for Bell Biv Devoe to reemerge with Three Stripes. They're also likely to benefit from New Edition’s high level of visibility at the moment: the group returned to the radio for the first time in over a decade last year, credited as featured vocalists on Johnny Gill’s No. 1 R&B hit “This One’s For Me And You,” and a three-part New Edition biopic is slated to air on BET the same week that Three Stripes hits the shelves. This is the first Bell Biv Devoe album in 16 years, and early on, it feels like the trio is stepping gingerly, with continuity in mind above all else. Despite their time away from the studio, Bivins and Devoe still rap in the end-rhyme-heavy style of the late ’80s. And since the majority of the group's early hits were smutty accounts of the group's interactions with the opposite sex, similar narratives guide several songs on Three Stripes. “I’ll say a bunch of slick shit to get between your thighs,” Devoe promises in “I’m Betta,” a pushy, hurry-up-and-leave-him-number which reminds listeners that 49 year-olds have the right to be juvenile, too. But despite these allusions, Three Stripes rarely crackles in the manner of early Bell Biv Devoe—the Poison album is resiliently pesky, like an especially pugnacious welterweight, but there's little of that scrappy spirit here. As they did in 1990, the trio calls on hip-hop producers for help: Erick Sermon of the famous New York hip-hop duo EPMD crafted “Run,” and other beat makers here include DJ Battlecat (Snoop Dogg, Xzibit) and Doug E. Fresh. But the tracks are mostly either pedestrian and unmemorable, or memorable for the wrong reasons. This is exemplified by the lead single, “Run,” which redundantly interpolates Notorious B.I.G.’s “Hypnotize,” a song too molded to Biggie to provide a favorable look for anyone else. It’s a pair of the least energetic moments, though, which turn out to be the richest on the record. While Bell Biv Devoe classics mostly eschewed harmony, a New Edition hallmark, in favor of skeletal thwack, the trio embraces the full-group approach on the back half of Three Stripes. When Bell trades verses with SWV’s scene-stealing Coko on the ballad “Finally,” her full, trembling tone nourishes his lancing falsetto. And Boyz II Men, who owe their name to a New Edition song, appear on “One More Try,” helping create a benign, slender number based around Jerry Butler’s “I Could Write A Book” from 1970. Plummy as these tracks are, they make you wonder why Bell Biv Devoe didn’t recruit from the crack platoon of contemporary songwriters most adept at balancing R&B tradition with the requirements of today's production practices. This coterie includes Babyface, who writes nearly as well as he did two decades ago (see 2015’s “Love and Devotion”); Gregg Pagani, who helped pen Gill’s No. 1 last year; and the duo of Pop & Oak, who gifted the world with Usher’s “Good Kisser” and Tamia’s “Sandwich and a Soda.” But Bell Biv Devoe aren’t looking for that kind of help, and who says they need it? “Run” is currently a top ten record at Urban AC radio: once again, this underdog trio is enjoying unexpected success."

Idlewild

The Remote Part

Rock

Rob Mitchum

I remember when people thought I was going to be the next Radiohead. From morning to night, I was tailed by writers from NME, Mojo and Uncut, who shouted questions from fast-moving vehicles about my favorite soccer players, who I was dating, and what Joy Division meant to me. I spent a day in Trafalgar Square as part of a photo spread with Coldplay's Chris Martin, Travis' Francis Healy, and Placebo's Brian Molko. Then they found out that my guitar skills never progressed beyond "Blister in the Sun" and my falsetto closely approximates the frequency that causes everyone within earshot to lose control of their bowels. Before you could say "Manic Street Preachers," my own personal media circus had left town. So I can kinda empathize with the boys of Idlewild, who've had to deal with their own fair share of R-head comparisons and Yorkeian accusations. Never mind the fact that the Scottish quartet doesn't sound like anything Radiohead has produced since the anthemic days of The Bends; they're from the UK (Scotland, to be precise), and that's all that it takes to be thrown into a compare-and-contrast table by my limey colleagues. The superbly named Roddy Woomble and his humble bandmates don't want to change the world or open peoples' minds to foreign electronic soundscapes; they just want their songs to be used in episodes of Seventh Heaven. Because let's get right down to it: Idlewild is a radio band, writing and performing pop/rock songs that are negligibly challenging and designed to be hits. Standard Pitchfork policy says I should therefore spend the next 800 words using my considerable skills in the art of the mock, but you know, I'm not really feeling that salty today. So instead I'll dust off my trusty mainstream listening helmet... let's see, I think it's crammed under my bed here next to those Soundgarden and Oasis discs I couldn't sell back... there it is. Alright, let the popist perspective commence! Mainstream listening helmet or no, I have to admit that The Remote Part contains a lot of potential alt-rock hits, to these ears. It's one of those albums where each and every song could be a single, be it driving guitar salvos like "A Modern Way of Letting Go" and "(I Am) What I Am Not" or purty falsetto-slide ballads like "American English". Idlewild also has that particular shapeshifting ability to sound like a gaggle of popular bands at once, be it Sugar or Matthew Sweet in their more uppity moments, to Wheat or occasionally-- and unfortunately-- the (sigh) Goo Goo Dolls when they get all sensitive. Thing is, Idlewild are just too good at what they're doing to get out the critical brass knuckles. The Remote Part might strip away a lot of the instrumental variety of their last take-home product, 100 Broken Windows, but even that album was pretty kiddie-pool shallow when it came to experimentalism. Besides, directness suits Idlewild well, be it the taut melancholy "I Never Wanted", the near-Velveeta-but-not big chorus of "Live in a Hiding Place" or the top-down abandon of the crunchy "Out of Routine". Now you're probably wondering why, if I'm so high on elements of The Remote Part, the rating still resides in decidedly lukewarm point-system territory. Well, it's not a desperate indie-cred preservation move, honest. No, really. Scout's honor. The point dockage is due here because the album starts to wear thin by the homestretch, with "Century after Century" and "Tell Me Ten Words" shooting past my tolerance for drollness. Blame it on the album being more a collection of singles more than a cohesive whole, kind of like Jay-Z's The Blueprint (world's first Idlewild/Jay-Z comparison, ding!). But the fairly standard fast-song/slow-song dichotomy of the album has serious luster-degrading effects, even over its brief forty-minute runtime. The Remote Part still makes it up to the sunny side of 5.0, however, if only because a good third of the album has been stuck in my head throughout the rigorous Mitchum listening analysis. Idlewild falls into that select group of rock acts that wouldn't provoke a reflexive stab for the 'scan' button if it came on the radio, and I wouldn't be surprised if "American English" has already hit a few alternative-demographic playlists. Perhaps it's not an album for the more staid, discerning listener (or for those without a mainstream listening helmet), but it's a strong fort in guilty-pleasure territory for those who enjoy a few straight-up, no-frills sticky melodies now and then.

Artist: Idlewild, Album: The Remote Part, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "I remember when people thought I was going to be the next Radiohead. From morning to night, I was tailed by writers from NME, Mojo and Uncut, who shouted questions from fast-moving vehicles about my favorite soccer players, who I was dating, and what Joy Division meant to me. I spent a day in Trafalgar Square as part of a photo spread with Coldplay's Chris Martin, Travis' Francis Healy, and Placebo's Brian Molko. Then they found out that my guitar skills never progressed beyond "Blister in the Sun" and my falsetto closely approximates the frequency that causes everyone within earshot to lose control of their bowels. Before you could say "Manic Street Preachers," my own personal media circus had left town. So I can kinda empathize with the boys of Idlewild, who've had to deal with their own fair share of R-head comparisons and Yorkeian accusations. Never mind the fact that the Scottish quartet doesn't sound like anything Radiohead has produced since the anthemic days of The Bends; they're from the UK (Scotland, to be precise), and that's all that it takes to be thrown into a compare-and-contrast table by my limey colleagues. The superbly named Roddy Woomble and his humble bandmates don't want to change the world or open peoples' minds to foreign electronic soundscapes; they just want their songs to be used in episodes of Seventh Heaven. Because let's get right down to it: Idlewild is a radio band, writing and performing pop/rock songs that are negligibly challenging and designed to be hits. Standard Pitchfork policy says I should therefore spend the next 800 words using my considerable skills in the art of the mock, but you know, I'm not really feeling that salty today. So instead I'll dust off my trusty mainstream listening helmet... let's see, I think it's crammed under my bed here next to those Soundgarden and Oasis discs I couldn't sell back... there it is. Alright, let the popist perspective commence! Mainstream listening helmet or no, I have to admit that The Remote Part contains a lot of potential alt-rock hits, to these ears. It's one of those albums where each and every song could be a single, be it driving guitar salvos like "A Modern Way of Letting Go" and "(I Am) What I Am Not" or purty falsetto-slide ballads like "American English". Idlewild also has that particular shapeshifting ability to sound like a gaggle of popular bands at once, be it Sugar or Matthew Sweet in their more uppity moments, to Wheat or occasionally-- and unfortunately-- the (sigh) Goo Goo Dolls when they get all sensitive. Thing is, Idlewild are just too good at what they're doing to get out the critical brass knuckles. The Remote Part might strip away a lot of the instrumental variety of their last take-home product, 100 Broken Windows, but even that album was pretty kiddie-pool shallow when it came to experimentalism. Besides, directness suits Idlewild well, be it the taut melancholy "I Never Wanted", the near-Velveeta-but-not big chorus of "Live in a Hiding Place" or the top-down abandon of the crunchy "Out of Routine". Now you're probably wondering why, if I'm so high on elements of The Remote Part, the rating still resides in decidedly lukewarm point-system territory. Well, it's not a desperate indie-cred preservation move, honest. No, really. Scout's honor. The point dockage is due here because the album starts to wear thin by the homestretch, with "Century after Century" and "Tell Me Ten Words" shooting past my tolerance for drollness. Blame it on the album being more a collection of singles more than a cohesive whole, kind of like Jay-Z's The Blueprint (world's first Idlewild/Jay-Z comparison, ding!). But the fairly standard fast-song/slow-song dichotomy of the album has serious luster-degrading effects, even over its brief forty-minute runtime. The Remote Part still makes it up to the sunny side of 5.0, however, if only because a good third of the album has been stuck in my head throughout the rigorous Mitchum listening analysis. Idlewild falls into that select group of rock acts that wouldn't provoke a reflexive stab for the 'scan' button if it came on the radio, and I wouldn't be surprised if "American English" has already hit a few alternative-demographic playlists. Perhaps it's not an album for the more staid, discerning listener (or for those without a mainstream listening helmet), but it's a strong fort in guilty-pleasure territory for those who enjoy a few straight-up, no-frills sticky melodies now and then."

Eleanor Friedberger

New View

Rock

Hazel Cills

This past October, Eleanor Friedberger released "False Alphabet City," a groovy one-off single all about the "city that betrayed her." Like many musicians before her, Friedberger has long made New York City her favorite stage. Her songs, which roll with a bouncy '70s pop nostalgia, are peppered with stories of getting sick riding the Coney Island Cyclone, snapping pictures in front of a sweet Lamborghini on Manhattan Avenue, and the small, poignant act of muting Taxi TV. But with a bitter edge in its tone, "False Alphabet City" played like an earnest goodbye, to the noise, to whoever hurt her, to the false glamour of urban spaces. So after over a decade of Brooklyn dwelling, Friedberger moved to upstate New York and wrote her third solo album New View. And while Personal Record was populated with energized, electric rock songs and party-hopping anthems, New View’s territory is far more easygoing, more traditional in its structure. The record’s no-fuss, featherlight acoustic pop songs weave into one another seamlessly, Friedberger’s melodies familiar and redolent of artists like Harry Nilsson and Neil Young without playing like nostalgia. But even if New View’s overall aesthetic may pair nicely with your laziest summer Sunday morning, there’s an undercurrent of serious melancholia in Friedberger’s writing here, setting it apart tonally from her previous two records. What’s palpable on New View is a sense of loneliness. You might even say hermitry, as Friedberger’s writing here suggests, at times, a mindset distanced from physical society. The hazy "Open Season" plays like Friedberger writing a letter to a long-lost friend or lover whose whereabouts she doesn’t know. "Is it freezing over there? I’m opening a tree museum, that’s my new hobby," she sings, seemingly poking fun at how settled her life has become. On "Cathy With the Curly Hair," a bopping, synth-laden outlier, Friedberger goes through the calendar months recounting memories of an unraveled relationship. In a year when catching up on an old friend’s whereabouts is as easy as Googling their name, New View’s ponderings might seem anachronistic, too reliant on in-person communication. But perhaps we all know by now that loneliness can be just as prevalent in a hyper-connected present. An interesting thread throughout New View’s equal parts wistful and frustrated tales of breakups is how often Friedberger explicitly refers to writing about them. She mentions that she knows she'll write about someone, to the experience of listening to her own songs when she has nothing more to say, to her own stage fright. On "Never Is a Long Time," Friedberger invokes the cynical energy of Lindsey Buckingham’s Tusk cuts, particularly "Walk a Thin Line," as she sings of a relationship's undoing in an uncharacteristically low and trembling voice, a single drum banging haphazardly in the background. "We are less than nothing, nothing is a perfect rhyme," she sings. In the past, Friedberger has loaded her music with little pedestrian anecdotes that feel specific to her songwriting, bits of wordplay and vivid descriptions of acquaintances and locations. Sometimes she gets there on New View, particularly on "Does Turquoise Work?" and "All Known Things" which includes kissing in a mausoleum, but the album is largely devoid of these lyrical quirks. In their place is a kind of self-aware storytelling that plays like Friedberger is letting us in to a very personal process. At times New View can seem like a concept record detailing Friedberger's ambivalence about her main gift: spinning fragile memories and feelings into accessible songs.

Artist: Eleanor Friedberger, Album: New View, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "This past October, Eleanor Friedberger released "False Alphabet City," a groovy one-off single all about the "city that betrayed her." Like many musicians before her, Friedberger has long made New York City her favorite stage. Her songs, which roll with a bouncy '70s pop nostalgia, are peppered with stories of getting sick riding the Coney Island Cyclone, snapping pictures in front of a sweet Lamborghini on Manhattan Avenue, and the small, poignant act of muting Taxi TV. But with a bitter edge in its tone, "False Alphabet City" played like an earnest goodbye, to the noise, to whoever hurt her, to the false glamour of urban spaces. So after over a decade of Brooklyn dwelling, Friedberger moved to upstate New York and wrote her third solo album New View. And while Personal Record was populated with energized, electric rock songs and party-hopping anthems, New View’s territory is far more easygoing, more traditional in its structure. The record’s no-fuss, featherlight acoustic pop songs weave into one another seamlessly, Friedberger’s melodies familiar and redolent of artists like Harry Nilsson and Neil Young without playing like nostalgia. But even if New View’s overall aesthetic may pair nicely with your laziest summer Sunday morning, there’s an undercurrent of serious melancholia in Friedberger’s writing here, setting it apart tonally from her previous two records. What’s palpable on New View is a sense of loneliness. You might even say hermitry, as Friedberger’s writing here suggests, at times, a mindset distanced from physical society. The hazy "Open Season" plays like Friedberger writing a letter to a long-lost friend or lover whose whereabouts she doesn’t know. "Is it freezing over there? I’m opening a tree museum, that’s my new hobby," she sings, seemingly poking fun at how settled her life has become. On "Cathy With the Curly Hair," a bopping, synth-laden outlier, Friedberger goes through the calendar months recounting memories of an unraveled relationship. In a year when catching up on an old friend’s whereabouts is as easy as Googling their name, New View’s ponderings might seem anachronistic, too reliant on in-person communication. But perhaps we all know by now that loneliness can be just as prevalent in a hyper-connected present. An interesting thread throughout New View’s equal parts wistful and frustrated tales of breakups is how often Friedberger explicitly refers to writing about them. She mentions that she knows she'll write about someone, to the experience of listening to her own songs when she has nothing more to say, to her own stage fright. On "Never Is a Long Time," Friedberger invokes the cynical energy of Lindsey Buckingham’s Tusk cuts, particularly "Walk a Thin Line," as she sings of a relationship's undoing in an uncharacteristically low and trembling voice, a single drum banging haphazardly in the background. "We are less than nothing, nothing is a perfect rhyme," she sings. In the past, Friedberger has loaded her music with little pedestrian anecdotes that feel specific to her songwriting, bits of wordplay and vivid descriptions of acquaintances and locations. Sometimes she gets there on New View, particularly on "Does Turquoise Work?" and "All Known Things" which includes kissing in a mausoleum, but the album is largely devoid of these lyrical quirks. In their place is a kind of self-aware storytelling that plays like Friedberger is letting us in to a very personal process. At times New View can seem like a concept record detailing Friedberger's ambivalence about her main gift: spinning fragile memories and feelings into accessible songs."

Graham Coxon

Happiness in Magazines

Electronic,Rock

Sam Ubl

When Graham Coxon parted ways with Blur prior to the group's 2003 release, Think Tank, it was evident the lead axe-man had experienced quite enough of Blur's frivolous, occasionally groundbreaking genre-hopping and cause celebre sophistry. Happiness in Magazines emphatically dispels any remaining speculation, proving Coxon as stubbornly fond of American-style power-pop as his former band seemed to be before they cozied up to the commodious confines of international stardom. As it happens, Coxon's solo releases have proven him not only the most prolific member of Blur, but also the least adventurous. Fortunately, with Happiness in Magazines, his by-the-numbers approach to songcraft has finally yielded its most copious rewards. Exploring the vacated ghosts of stale forms, Coxon has breathed new life into some of rock's most bankable clichés. Throughout its 12 tracks, Happiness in Magazines shudders to deviate far from its core triptych of guitar, bass and drums. Only during the radio-ready ballad "All Over Me" is the textural stasis broken by the presence of strings and a sporadic synth arpeggio-- so it's a good thing that Coxon's dexterous, liberally multi-tracked guitar playing is diffuse and virtuosic enough to maintain interest. On the structurally staid blues riffing of "Girl Done Gone", his humid, fuzzed-out playing compensates for an uninspired vocal performance, while slyly contradicting the minimalist approach to blues-rock favored by bands like The White Stripes or The Black Keys. In fact, Happiness in Magazines is a record full of contradictions. Sidestepping the mainstream by dint of utter familiarity, Coxon has found a harmonious paradox. Of course, there are dry spots. "Hopeless Friend" shamelessly quotes The Who's "A Quick One (While He's Away)" verbatim, a technique favored in jazz, but an awkward fit in rock for the form's historical irreverence. Elsewhere, the bullhorn-belted vocals and irascible post-punk of "People of the Earth" recall The Fall, yet the song ultimately falls flat, feeling like a haggard anachronism. Still, in an era where revivalists are often pitifully short on ideas, frontloading records to the point of redundancy, Coxon has managed a seemingly obsolete feat: a blockbuster middle section. From the opening guitar peals of "Girl Done Gone" through the readily anthemic chorus of "Freakin' Out", Happiness in Magazines loses nary a step, turning in a handful of candidates for Rock Single of the Year. "Bittersweet Bundle of Misery", replete with blithe acoustic strumming, rudimentary vocal harmonizing, and two-step bassline, is one of the most charmingly ironic love songs to grace record this year-- even if it does bear a remarkable similarity to Blur's Coxon-penned "Coffee and TV". "Freakin' Out" spins an unduly filched riff and a paltry lyrical cadence into an indulgent nugget of pop bliss. But the pinnacle is clearly "All Over Me", the album's most visceral song and its best stab at constructing something wholly new from entirely recycled parts. As Picasso said, "Bad artists copy. Good artists steal." It's obvious that Graham Coxon follows no beat but that of his own drummer. And if that means brazenly copping riffs from rock's rapidly mummifying origins, so be it: Happiness in Magazines, while spotty, maintains balance on rocky ground, acknowledging history while firmly establishing itself in the present.

Artist: Graham Coxon, Album: Happiness in Magazines, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "When Graham Coxon parted ways with Blur prior to the group's 2003 release, Think Tank, it was evident the lead axe-man had experienced quite enough of Blur's frivolous, occasionally groundbreaking genre-hopping and cause celebre sophistry. Happiness in Magazines emphatically dispels any remaining speculation, proving Coxon as stubbornly fond of American-style power-pop as his former band seemed to be before they cozied up to the commodious confines of international stardom. As it happens, Coxon's solo releases have proven him not only the most prolific member of Blur, but also the least adventurous. Fortunately, with Happiness in Magazines, his by-the-numbers approach to songcraft has finally yielded its most copious rewards. Exploring the vacated ghosts of stale forms, Coxon has breathed new life into some of rock's most bankable clichés. Throughout its 12 tracks, Happiness in Magazines shudders to deviate far from its core triptych of guitar, bass and drums. Only during the radio-ready ballad "All Over Me" is the textural stasis broken by the presence of strings and a sporadic synth arpeggio-- so it's a good thing that Coxon's dexterous, liberally multi-tracked guitar playing is diffuse and virtuosic enough to maintain interest. On the structurally staid blues riffing of "Girl Done Gone", his humid, fuzzed-out playing compensates for an uninspired vocal performance, while slyly contradicting the minimalist approach to blues-rock favored by bands like The White Stripes or The Black Keys. In fact, Happiness in Magazines is a record full of contradictions. Sidestepping the mainstream by dint of utter familiarity, Coxon has found a harmonious paradox. Of course, there are dry spots. "Hopeless Friend" shamelessly quotes The Who's "A Quick One (While He's Away)" verbatim, a technique favored in jazz, but an awkward fit in rock for the form's historical irreverence. Elsewhere, the bullhorn-belted vocals and irascible post-punk of "People of the Earth" recall The Fall, yet the song ultimately falls flat, feeling like a haggard anachronism. Still, in an era where revivalists are often pitifully short on ideas, frontloading records to the point of redundancy, Coxon has managed a seemingly obsolete feat: a blockbuster middle section. From the opening guitar peals of "Girl Done Gone" through the readily anthemic chorus of "Freakin' Out", Happiness in Magazines loses nary a step, turning in a handful of candidates for Rock Single of the Year. "Bittersweet Bundle of Misery", replete with blithe acoustic strumming, rudimentary vocal harmonizing, and two-step bassline, is one of the most charmingly ironic love songs to grace record this year-- even if it does bear a remarkable similarity to Blur's Coxon-penned "Coffee and TV". "Freakin' Out" spins an unduly filched riff and a paltry lyrical cadence into an indulgent nugget of pop bliss. But the pinnacle is clearly "All Over Me", the album's most visceral song and its best stab at constructing something wholly new from entirely recycled parts. As Picasso said, "Bad artists copy. Good artists steal." It's obvious that Graham Coxon follows no beat but that of his own drummer. And if that means brazenly copping riffs from rock's rapidly mummifying origins, so be it: Happiness in Magazines, while spotty, maintains balance on rocky ground, acknowledging history while firmly establishing itself in the present."

H.E.R.

I Used to Know Her: Part 2 EP

Pop/R&B

Jackson Howard

At the age of 19, Gabi Wilson seemed to arrive fully formed as H.E.R., an emotive but guarded R&B artist with songs that keyed in on supernatural perspective, profound vulnerability, and what felt like decades of experience. Upon arrival in 2016, the songs on H.E.R. Volume 1 were instantly familiar, and not just because they were so indebted to the likes of the Weeknd. They felt lived-in—intimate, personal, infectious, so much so that you began to internalize the words with one spin. During Volume 1’s glittering opener, “Losing,” H.E.R. sings as if she were mid-sentence, and we just happened to overhear: “My ambition is attractive/My aggression isn’t passive/I promise with you/The butterflies in my stomach are active,” she tells a lover with the ease of rare self-assurance. In 2017, both Volume 2 and a handful of assorted tracks confirmed that H.E.R. wasn’t a fluke, but those songs didn’t hint at much growth or many next steps, either. August’s I Used to Know Her: The Prelude offered a serviceable retread of old ideas that likewise failed to produce a grand statement. But if that EP’s lack of urgency suggested H.E.R. was starting to tire of her trademark sound, this month’s I Used to Know Her: Part 2 feels like a complete existential crisis. Uneven and occasionally confounding, this is the work of an artist trying to slip from her pigeonhole style but struggling to find a viable exit. Remember how it took trial and error for the Weeknd to learn how to translate what made his 2011 trilogy of mixtapes into something with broad appeal? H.E.R., it seems, is stuck in a similar moment of creative transition. Quiet-storm drums, melancholic synths, and magnetic R&B hooks defined Volume 1 and Volume 2, recalling the best of SWV and Toni Braxton. H.E.R. was also convincing over uptempo instrumentals that ferried along bits of nostalgia and melodrama. I Used to Know Her: Part 2 trades much of that for acoustic guitar. Yes, she sounded radiant on last year’s “Best Part,” her breakout acoustic collaboration with Daniel Caesar, but the arrangements here aren’t morning strums of glory. Instead, these guitars conjure Florida Georgia Line and an open-mic night in a college town. They warp the dynamism and depth of H.E.R.’s voice into an adult-contemporary mess. During “Carried Away,” H.E.R. sings blandly about loneliness over perky, hoedown-ready licks and handclaps. It is a beat better suited for Natasha Bedingfield, and it yields the worst H.E.R. song yet. This carries over to “Can’t Help Me,” which at least shows some mercy with the help of 808s and more evocative songwriting. “Sorry that I’ve been yelling at your face/I know you hate when I speak to you this way,” she sings. The guitar comes closest to sounding natural and conducive to H.E.R.’s voice during “Hard Place,” produced by legendary R&B architect Darkchild. It threatens to soundtrack some finding-myself montage in an upcoming rom-com, but there’s at least a measure of tension and an enormous chorus. Questionable sequencing otherwise plagues I Used to Know Her. The 15 collected songs of Volume 1 and Volume 2 bled into one another, a collage of intimate snapshots inside the H.E.R. orbit. But these eight tracks have no business being in the same room. When she’s not trying to honor Sheryl Crow, H.E.R. returns to her roots on “I’m Not OK” and “Take You There,” sharing narratives that remind you what a special lyricist she can be: “Feel a little guilty/I feel like it’s written all over me/Tryna find a balance/Trusting you, trusting me,” she sings on “I’m Not OK,” examining the effects of a decaying relationship with audible desperation. Alongside the bland guitar of “Can’t Help Me,” though, such throwbacks are so out of place they grate. I Used to Know Her: Part Two ends with the jumbled “Lord Is Coming,” where Wilson, now 21, ponders social ills from war and religious persecution to economic anxiety and inequality in a miserable spoken-word preamble. “It’s a World War III, corruption versus greed/Not you versus me/But do we ever think of the need for inner peace?” she asks before talking about the price of one’s soul. It’s cringeworthy. The growing pains are evident. But at least H.E.R. is venturing into new subject matter. Despite the major-label contract and the devoted fanbase, she isn’t afraid to take some kind of stand or chance, even if the result is her first full flop.

Artist: H.E.R., Album: I Used to Know Her: Part 2 EP, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "At the age of 19, Gabi Wilson seemed to arrive fully formed as H.E.R., an emotive but guarded R&B artist with songs that keyed in on supernatural perspective, profound vulnerability, and what felt like decades of experience. Upon arrival in 2016, the songs on H.E.R. Volume 1 were instantly familiar, and not just because they were so indebted to the likes of the Weeknd. They felt lived-in—intimate, personal, infectious, so much so that you began to internalize the words with one spin. During Volume 1’s glittering opener, “Losing,” H.E.R. sings as if she were mid-sentence, and we just happened to overhear: “My ambition is attractive/My aggression isn’t passive/I promise with you/The butterflies in my stomach are active,” she tells a lover with the ease of rare self-assurance. In 2017, both Volume 2 and a handful of assorted tracks confirmed that H.E.R. wasn’t a fluke, but those songs didn’t hint at much growth or many next steps, either. August’s I Used to Know Her: The Prelude offered a serviceable retread of old ideas that likewise failed to produce a grand statement. But if that EP’s lack of urgency suggested H.E.R. was starting to tire of her trademark sound, this month’s I Used to Know Her: Part 2 feels like a complete existential crisis. Uneven and occasionally confounding, this is the work of an artist trying to slip from her pigeonhole style but struggling to find a viable exit. Remember how it took trial and error for the Weeknd to learn how to translate what made his 2011 trilogy of mixtapes into something with broad appeal? H.E.R., it seems, is stuck in a similar moment of creative transition. Quiet-storm drums, melancholic synths, and magnetic R&B hooks defined Volume 1 and Volume 2, recalling the best of SWV and Toni Braxton. H.E.R. was also convincing over uptempo instrumentals that ferried along bits of nostalgia and melodrama. I Used to Know Her: Part 2 trades much of that for acoustic guitar. Yes, she sounded radiant on last year’s “Best Part,” her breakout acoustic collaboration with Daniel Caesar, but the arrangements here aren’t morning strums of glory. Instead, these guitars conjure Florida Georgia Line and an open-mic night in a college town. They warp the dynamism and depth of H.E.R.’s voice into an adult-contemporary mess. During “Carried Away,” H.E.R. sings blandly about loneliness over perky, hoedown-ready licks and handclaps. It is a beat better suited for Natasha Bedingfield, and it yields the worst H.E.R. song yet. This carries over to “Can’t Help Me,” which at least shows some mercy with the help of 808s and more evocative songwriting. “Sorry that I’ve been yelling at your face/I know you hate when I speak to you this way,” she sings. The guitar comes closest to sounding natural and conducive to H.E.R.’s voice during “Hard Place,” produced by legendary R&B architect Darkchild. It threatens to soundtrack some finding-myself montage in an upcoming rom-com, but there’s at least a measure of tension and an enormous chorus. Questionable sequencing otherwise plagues I Used to Know Her. The 15 collected songs of Volume 1 and Volume 2 bled into one another, a collage of intimate snapshots inside the H.E.R. orbit. But these eight tracks have no business being in the same room. When she’s not trying to honor Sheryl Crow, H.E.R. returns to her roots on “I’m Not OK” and “Take You There,” sharing narratives that remind you what a special lyricist she can be: “Feel a little guilty/I feel like it’s written all over me/Tryna find a balance/Trusting you, trusting me,” she sings on “I’m Not OK,” examining the effects of a decaying relationship with audible desperation. Alongside the bland guitar of “Can’t Help Me,” though, such throwbacks are so out of place they grate. I Used to Know Her: Part Two ends with the jumbled “Lord Is Coming,” where Wilson, now 21, ponders social ills from war and religious persecution to economic anxiety and inequality in a miserable spoken-word preamble. “It’s a World War III, corruption versus greed/Not you versus me/But do we ever think of the need for inner peace?” she asks before talking about the price of one’s soul. It’s cringeworthy. The growing pains are evident. But at least H.E.R. is venturing into new subject matter. Despite the major-label contract and the devoted fanbase, she isn’t afraid to take some kind of stand or chance, even if the result is her first full flop."

Swans

The Seer

Rock

Mike Powell

Swans are a band that conjure primal forms of power: thunder and lightning, fire and brimstone, master over slave, predator over prey. Their earliest albums came out in the wake of New York's no wave scene, a loose, radical contest to see who could make rock'n'roll sound as ugly as possible while still retaining the rhythms and forms that made it rock'n'roll. Swans, not central to the scene, countered with the possibility of wiping out rock altogether. The result was something that sounds sort of like monks chanting in front of a jet engine. Frontman Michael Gira once compared being in the band to "trudging up a sand hill wearing a hair shirt, being sprayed with battery acid, with a midget taunting you"-- a description that could just as easily describe listening to them. During the late 1980s and early 90s, Swans went through a goth phase, incorporating sparkly synths, reverb, acoustic guitars, and other signposts of what most people would call "music." But whenever things felt too comfortable, Gira would flatly drop lines like, "You never say you know me when I'm inside you," or, "I'm so glad I'm better than you are." Beauty and ugliness have never been as relevant to their music as the possibility of turning music into a space of confrontation. In the parlance of reality television, Swans aren't-- and never have been-- here to make friends. After a nearly 15-year break during which Gira focused on the dark Americana project Angels of Light, Swans reformed. Since then, they've released two albums, one studio (2010's My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky) and one live (2012's We Rose From Your Bed With the Sun in Our Head). "[The reunion] is not repeating the past," Gira said in 2010. He is currently 58 years old and often photographed in a cowboy hat, not smiling. At two hours, The Seer is among the group's longest studio albums and, in a sweeping gesture that only the most confident and egocentric artists can pull off, it manages to expand on their sound while simultaneously summarizing everything they've ever recorded before. The band's current palette includes a whole trunkload of acoustic instruments: bells, accordion, clarinet, dulcimer, a chorus of bagpipes, and what's referred to cryptically as "handmade violin thing." With the exception of some amplifier distortion, the album puts incredible emphasis on the human body's capacity to beat the shit out of an instrument in a far more satisfying way than machines ever could. (As an instructive gesture, Gira spends the first four-and-a-half minutes of "Mother of the World" panting in rhythm.) Noise has never been as much of a concern in Swans' music as pure dissonance; of the way certain combinations of notes literally cause the air to vibrate more violently than others. At its most chaotic, like the climax of "The Seer", the band doesn't just sound aggressive, it sounds like it's bursting apart. The tracks on The Seer aren't songs but incantations, riffs piled on riffs shifting and evolving for as long as half an hour at a time. Sometimes Gira sings; often, there's a zombie-like chorus behind him. One section fades into the next in ways more reminiscent of a soundtrack than an album, and even relatively contained tracks like "Lunacy" start and end with winding, immersive passages as the band comes to a boil. Like airplanes, Swans take their taxiing and descent as seriously as their flight. Stylistically, the album draws a jagged line through a universe of serious, apocalyptic music, from country blues to free jazz to drone and the brutal, hypnotic guitar rock Glenn Branca and Sonic Youth made while Gira was still moaning into the void. A big group of guests are important here. Former Swan Jarboe contributes, as do Karen O, and Ben Frost on my personal favorite credit, "fire sounds (acoustic and synthetic)." The bigger the group, the more familial the feeling and the more heightened the illusion is that the music is not coming from inside its players but existing, like a spirit, somewhere outside and between them. In the same way it would be hard to get the full experience of a good movie by only watching half of it, The Seer demands its two hours. To paraphrase something the author Ben Marcus said in a trenchant conversation with Jonathan Franzen about the value of experimental fiction, it is not a record for someone deciding whether or not they'd rather be listening to music or playing paintball. Of course this doesn't mean you need to peel off your own skin while listening to enjoy it. It has made my experience of cleaning the house, for example, feel very, very consequential. At each step of Swans' career, they've been somehow tied to whatever "dark" genre was most culturally prominent, but The Seer affirms what they really are and what their legacy will probably be: A psychedelic band that rejects the musical template of psychedelia the 60s gave us. Vision has always been a metaphor for both political counterculture and religious mysticism. Prophets, pulling back the veil, "seeing through" things in an interest of revealing what they believe to be the raw, burning truth-- this is what Swans have always been about, and what The Seer seems more explicitly occupied with than anything they've ever done before. Gira had come out of art school, and even Swans' most mature sounding music is rooted in the kind of catharsis through self-negation that was at the conceptual heart of 70s performance and body art. One piece from his student days involved him being blindfolded and led naked into a roomful of strangers with a tape player strapped to his body, playing a prerecorded confession of his sexual desires. The piece's coordinators had found women willing to do the same. The crux of the piece was Gira and the stranger crawling around in the room until they found each other, at which point, they'd have sex. In the world of Swans, the pain of catharsis is always in service of elevating to some higher plane of being. Granted, most people probably prefer to find this in exercise and not public sex, but when sifting through Swans' apparent bleakness, it's important to recognize that their goals are and always have been to remind us of the ways extreme states of being, however intense, a unique kind of blessing. One of their live albums was called Feel Good Now, which is as succinct a self-summary as any artist could offer: Later, Swans bluntly suggest, you'll be dead. Is this music primal? Yes. Intense? Absurdly so. On "A Piece of the Sky", Gira sings that "the sun fucks the dawn." Why the sun can't just come out normally is uncle

Artist: Swans, Album: The Seer, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.0 Album review: "Swans are a band that conjure primal forms of power: thunder and lightning, fire and brimstone, master over slave, predator over prey. Their earliest albums came out in the wake of New York's no wave scene, a loose, radical contest to see who could make rock'n'roll sound as ugly as possible while still retaining the rhythms and forms that made it rock'n'roll. Swans, not central to the scene, countered with the possibility of wiping out rock altogether. The result was something that sounds sort of like monks chanting in front of a jet engine. Frontman Michael Gira once compared being in the band to "trudging up a sand hill wearing a hair shirt, being sprayed with battery acid, with a midget taunting you"-- a description that could just as easily describe listening to them. During the late 1980s and early 90s, Swans went through a goth phase, incorporating sparkly synths, reverb, acoustic guitars, and other signposts of what most people would call "music." But whenever things felt too comfortable, Gira would flatly drop lines like, "You never say you know me when I'm inside you," or, "I'm so glad I'm better than you are." Beauty and ugliness have never been as relevant to their music as the possibility of turning music into a space of confrontation. In the parlance of reality television, Swans aren't-- and never have been-- here to make friends. After a nearly 15-year break during which Gira focused on the dark Americana project Angels of Light, Swans reformed. Since then, they've released two albums, one studio (2010's My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky) and one live (2012's We Rose From Your Bed With the Sun in Our Head). "[The reunion] is not repeating the past," Gira said in 2010. He is currently 58 years old and often photographed in a cowboy hat, not smiling. At two hours, The Seer is among the group's longest studio albums and, in a sweeping gesture that only the most confident and egocentric artists can pull off, it manages to expand on their sound while simultaneously summarizing everything they've ever recorded before. The band's current palette includes a whole trunkload of acoustic instruments: bells, accordion, clarinet, dulcimer, a chorus of bagpipes, and what's referred to cryptically as "handmade violin thing." With the exception of some amplifier distortion, the album puts incredible emphasis on the human body's capacity to beat the shit out of an instrument in a far more satisfying way than machines ever could. (As an instructive gesture, Gira spends the first four-and-a-half minutes of "Mother of the World" panting in rhythm.) Noise has never been as much of a concern in Swans' music as pure dissonance; of the way certain combinations of notes literally cause the air to vibrate more violently than others. At its most chaotic, like the climax of "The Seer", the band doesn't just sound aggressive, it sounds like it's bursting apart. The tracks on The Seer aren't songs but incantations, riffs piled on riffs shifting and evolving for as long as half an hour at a time. Sometimes Gira sings; often, there's a zombie-like chorus behind him. One section fades into the next in ways more reminiscent of a soundtrack than an album, and even relatively contained tracks like "Lunacy" start and end with winding, immersive passages as the band comes to a boil. Like airplanes, Swans take their taxiing and descent as seriously as their flight. Stylistically, the album draws a jagged line through a universe of serious, apocalyptic music, from country blues to free jazz to drone and the brutal, hypnotic guitar rock Glenn Branca and Sonic Youth made while Gira was still moaning into the void. A big group of guests are important here. Former Swan Jarboe contributes, as do Karen O, and Ben Frost on my personal favorite credit, "fire sounds (acoustic and synthetic)." The bigger the group, the more familial the feeling and the more heightened the illusion is that the music is not coming from inside its players but existing, like a spirit, somewhere outside and between them. In the same way it would be hard to get the full experience of a good movie by only watching half of it, The Seer demands its two hours. To paraphrase something the author Ben Marcus said in a trenchant conversation with Jonathan Franzen about the value of experimental fiction, it is not a record for someone deciding whether or not they'd rather be listening to music or playing paintball. Of course this doesn't mean you need to peel off your own skin while listening to enjoy it. It has made my experience of cleaning the house, for example, feel very, very consequential. At each step of Swans' career, they've been somehow tied to whatever "dark" genre was most culturally prominent, but The Seer affirms what they really are and what their legacy will probably be: A psychedelic band that rejects the musical template of psychedelia the 60s gave us. Vision has always been a metaphor for both political counterculture and religious mysticism. Prophets, pulling back the veil, "seeing through" things in an interest of revealing what they believe to be the raw, burning truth-- this is what Swans have always been about, and what The Seer seems more explicitly occupied with than anything they've ever done before. Gira had come out of art school, and even Swans' most mature sounding music is rooted in the kind of catharsis through self-negation that was at the conceptual heart of 70s performance and body art. One piece from his student days involved him being blindfolded and led naked into a roomful of strangers with a tape player strapped to his body, playing a prerecorded confession of his sexual desires. The piece's coordinators had found women willing to do the same. The crux of the piece was Gira and the stranger crawling around in the room until they found each other, at which point, they'd have sex. In the world of Swans, the pain of catharsis is always in service of elevating to some higher plane of being. Granted, most people probably prefer to find this in exercise and not public sex, but when sifting through Swans' apparent bleakness, it's important to recognize that their goals are and always have been to remind us of the ways extreme states of being, however intense, a unique kind of blessing. One of their live albums was called Feel Good Now, which is as succinct a self-summary as any artist could offer: Later, Swans bluntly suggest, you'll be dead. Is this music primal? Yes. Intense? Absurdly so. On "A Piece of the Sky", Gira sings that "the sun fucks the dawn." Why the sun can't just come out normally is uncle"

Señor Coconut

El Gran Baile

Electronic,Pop/R&B

Mark Richard-San

Uwe Schmidt, also known as Atom Heart, Señor Coconut, and several dozen other aliases (he's released more than 100 albums), is quite a puzzle. His last record as Señor Coconut, El Baile Aleman, found him sampling traditional Latin American instruments and arranging them to play straight Kraftwerk covers. It was a fun record that I ultimately found a little hollow, and I've barely listened to it since I reviewed it. Little did I know then that El Gran Baile, Schmidt's first album of original material as Señor Coconut (and in the UK, technically Coconut's debut), borders on brilliant. This remastered and augmented version of the record is just now seeing its first stateside release, after European distribution on Schmidt's own Rather Interesting label in 1997. Unlike El Baile Aleman, I hear very little kitsch on this album. Schmidt is able to extract concentrate the inherently pleasurable Latin rhythms and textures, but he transposes the familiar music to the digital realm, and adds a fascinating layer of playfulness and unpredictability. It's seriously fun music. As with many of his recent projects, Schmidt seems to delight in confounding expectations about sound sources. Some of these rhumba, mambo and salsa beats are likely lifted directly from records; others are painstakingly constructed from microscopic samples on Schmidt's computer; still others might contain live drums and xylophones. And flitting through all the traditional Latin paraphernalia are glitches, synth stabs, scratches and the like. Any individual track might be constructed from any combination of these sources. Some have only the slightest "Latin" feel, while others offer straighter interpretations of the sound. "El Coco Baile" could just be the result of a pitch-shifted salsa record spun on 78, if it weren't for the stuttering digital stutters that threaten to knock the dancing girls off their zapatas. "Suavito" is four parts Acapulco lounge band and one part Autechre, as some of the sounds occasionally get "stuck" and go off into infinite loops. Further removed from the record's theme is "Diarios Clave," which has a kind of woodblock percussion and vibes happening on one level, but features punishing bass sounds and dirty funk snares that seem to have been brought in from entirely different musical worlds. The fun here, and throughout all of El Gran Baile, is tuning in to see what happens when these musical worlds collide. Even further from homage to the music of Central and South America is "La Noche Cool." It begins as a gorgeous drone, and then expands to include some unidentifiable hums and buzzes. Eventually, a piano pattern and some lazy percussion fade up, finally revealing the slight Latin connection. The woozy, modulating tone that swims through the remainder of the track is not far from the breathtaking textures of Jan Jenelik's Loop-Finding Jazz Records; of course, this version was laid down four years earlier. For the adventurous abstract DJ, this track would make for one cool night, indeed. Had I heard this record before El Baile Aleman, I might have had some deeper insight into what Schmidt was doing with that Kraftwerk business. I'm not sure how much it would have affected my enjoyment, exactly, but this record has tuned me into the idea that he makes records as Señor Coconut to explore the idea of choosing a viewpoint and then seeing how he might look at other music through it. None of this kind of speculation is necessary, of course; just listen to El Gran Baile and enjoy.

Artist: Señor Coconut, Album: El Gran Baile, Genre: Electronic,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Uwe Schmidt, also known as Atom Heart, Señor Coconut, and several dozen other aliases (he's released more than 100 albums), is quite a puzzle. His last record as Señor Coconut, El Baile Aleman, found him sampling traditional Latin American instruments and arranging them to play straight Kraftwerk covers. It was a fun record that I ultimately found a little hollow, and I've barely listened to it since I reviewed it. Little did I know then that El Gran Baile, Schmidt's first album of original material as Señor Coconut (and in the UK, technically Coconut's debut), borders on brilliant. This remastered and augmented version of the record is just now seeing its first stateside release, after European distribution on Schmidt's own Rather Interesting label in 1997. Unlike El Baile Aleman, I hear very little kitsch on this album. Schmidt is able to extract concentrate the inherently pleasurable Latin rhythms and textures, but he transposes the familiar music to the digital realm, and adds a fascinating layer of playfulness and unpredictability. It's seriously fun music. As with many of his recent projects, Schmidt seems to delight in confounding expectations about sound sources. Some of these rhumba, mambo and salsa beats are likely lifted directly from records; others are painstakingly constructed from microscopic samples on Schmidt's computer; still others might contain live drums and xylophones. And flitting through all the traditional Latin paraphernalia are glitches, synth stabs, scratches and the like. Any individual track might be constructed from any combination of these sources. Some have only the slightest "Latin" feel, while others offer straighter interpretations of the sound. "El Coco Baile" could just be the result of a pitch-shifted salsa record spun on 78, if it weren't for the stuttering digital stutters that threaten to knock the dancing girls off their zapatas. "Suavito" is four parts Acapulco lounge band and one part Autechre, as some of the sounds occasionally get "stuck" and go off into infinite loops. Further removed from the record's theme is "Diarios Clave," which has a kind of woodblock percussion and vibes happening on one level, but features punishing bass sounds and dirty funk snares that seem to have been brought in from entirely different musical worlds. The fun here, and throughout all of El Gran Baile, is tuning in to see what happens when these musical worlds collide. Even further from homage to the music of Central and South America is "La Noche Cool." It begins as a gorgeous drone, and then expands to include some unidentifiable hums and buzzes. Eventually, a piano pattern and some lazy percussion fade up, finally revealing the slight Latin connection. The woozy, modulating tone that swims through the remainder of the track is not far from the breathtaking textures of Jan Jenelik's Loop-Finding Jazz Records; of course, this version was laid down four years earlier. For the adventurous abstract DJ, this track would make for one cool night, indeed. Had I heard this record before El Baile Aleman, I might have had some deeper insight into what Schmidt was doing with that Kraftwerk business. I'm not sure how much it would have affected my enjoyment, exactly, but this record has tuned me into the idea that he makes records as Señor Coconut to explore the idea of choosing a viewpoint and then seeing how he might look at other music through it. None of this kind of speculation is necessary, of course; just listen to El Gran Baile and enjoy."

Il Sogno del Marinaio

La Busta Gialla

Paul Thompson

Mike Watt formed a group called Il Sogno del Marinaio with guitarist Stefano Pilia and drummer Andrea Belfi in 2009, days before the trio set off on a short tour of Italy. Between gigs, the three decamped to the north to record La Busta Gialla, committing to tape the oddly assembled jams and elaborate latticework with which they'd been peppering their otherwise Watt-heavy sets. The quickly constructed La Busta Gialla makes for a rickety listen, teetering, as it does, between tautly composed prog and loosely formed grooves that seem to fall apart as they totter along. What's most impressive about La Busta Gialla is how much proper band-stuff-- how does this one go, who takes which lead, that sort of thing-- these three managed to work out in just a few days. Watt-- Minutemen co-founder, fIREHOSE frontman, human dynamo, bassist extraordinaire, and one-man embodiment of all of punk's highest ideals-- will talk your ear off about music's ability to bring down the boundaries of language, distance, unfamiliarity. And at its best, La Busta Gialla feels like a conversation between three musicians working towards something communal while still feeling each other out. Like most of the music Watt's made over the years, La Busta Gialla is at its best when it's on the move. Opener "Zoom" and immediate follower "Partisan Song" are both the album's busiest and best songs; the slightly silly "Zoom" plays a Battles-style game of brickbreaker, while "Partisan" is all post-rock corrosion. The sound here is in constant flux, passing blithely through section after section, and each move keeps you guessing. Watt's playing-- virtuosic but unflashy, melodically daring but never untethered to the tune-- has filtered down through pretty much all the non-cheesy progressive rock that's come in its wake, echoes of which pop up throughout La Busta Gialla. The eternally ageless Watt has always kept an ear to the ground, so it's a thrill to hear him not only in conversation with these two fine young musicians, but with a lot of the music he's inspired (indirectly or otherwise), and he plays the stuff with intensity and drive. He's always been willing to set ego aside to benefit the greater good, but here, he seems especially absorbed into the group dynamic; the bass tends to take the melodic lead, but it's rarely the focal point of these songs. The three read each other remarkably well, moving in lockstep, constantly rearranging themselves. Things take a turn with "The Tiger Princess". After a few minutes of snaky bass, Watt sidles in, doing his best Randall "Tex" Cobb, imparting a little road-dog wisdom through a mouthful of gravel. It's so grave, so serious, it's borderline silly; mostly, though, it's just a momentum-killer, as all movement seems to halt while Watt does his spiel. Things get a little dicey whenever anyone in Il Sogno opens their mouths; "Il Guardino del Faro" is another Watt rap, this one translated into Italian, delivered over a barely-there bass-and-drone wash. It's not bad once, and I'm sure it was fun live, but amidst the instrumental tug-of-war that surrounds it, "Guardino" just feels limp. Still, the real sticking point here is "Messed-Up Machine". As the name suggests, it's a deeply troubled groove, a driving-on-a-flat wobble that barely holds itself together through seven increasingly excruciating minutes. It's a glorified rehearsal snippet, more exercise than song, the kind of thing that it's hard to imagine making the LP if Watt had had a few more days on his work visa. As a record, La Busta Gialla's not great, just a hair more curious than pleasurable. Still, you've got to give a guy like Watt credit for his willingness to make a peculiar mistake like "Machine," to link up with young, far-flung talents like Pilia and Belfi just to see how that'd go. At the heart of Watt's legendary raps, there's this notion about the importance of engagement: with your convictions, with your community, with something larger than yourself. So when so many of his contemporaries seem content to sit by the phone and wait for the next documentarian to come calling, Watt's off in Italy, making strange records with near-strangers, forever engaged.

Artist: Il Sogno del Marinaio, Album: La Busta Gialla, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.7 Album review: "Mike Watt formed a group called Il Sogno del Marinaio with guitarist Stefano Pilia and drummer Andrea Belfi in 2009, days before the trio set off on a short tour of Italy. Between gigs, the three decamped to the north to record La Busta Gialla, committing to tape the oddly assembled jams and elaborate latticework with which they'd been peppering their otherwise Watt-heavy sets. The quickly constructed La Busta Gialla makes for a rickety listen, teetering, as it does, between tautly composed prog and loosely formed grooves that seem to fall apart as they totter along. What's most impressive about La Busta Gialla is how much proper band-stuff-- how does this one go, who takes which lead, that sort of thing-- these three managed to work out in just a few days. Watt-- Minutemen co-founder, fIREHOSE frontman, human dynamo, bassist extraordinaire, and one-man embodiment of all of punk's highest ideals-- will talk your ear off about music's ability to bring down the boundaries of language, distance, unfamiliarity. And at its best, La Busta Gialla feels like a conversation between three musicians working towards something communal while still feeling each other out. Like most of the music Watt's made over the years, La Busta Gialla is at its best when it's on the move. Opener "Zoom" and immediate follower "Partisan Song" are both the album's busiest and best songs; the slightly silly "Zoom" plays a Battles-style game of brickbreaker, while "Partisan" is all post-rock corrosion. The sound here is in constant flux, passing blithely through section after section, and each move keeps you guessing. Watt's playing-- virtuosic but unflashy, melodically daring but never untethered to the tune-- has filtered down through pretty much all the non-cheesy progressive rock that's come in its wake, echoes of which pop up throughout La Busta Gialla. The eternally ageless Watt has always kept an ear to the ground, so it's a thrill to hear him not only in conversation with these two fine young musicians, but with a lot of the music he's inspired (indirectly or otherwise), and he plays the stuff with intensity and drive. He's always been willing to set ego aside to benefit the greater good, but here, he seems especially absorbed into the group dynamic; the bass tends to take the melodic lead, but it's rarely the focal point of these songs. The three read each other remarkably well, moving in lockstep, constantly rearranging themselves. Things take a turn with "The Tiger Princess". After a few minutes of snaky bass, Watt sidles in, doing his best Randall "Tex" Cobb, imparting a little road-dog wisdom through a mouthful of gravel. It's so grave, so serious, it's borderline silly; mostly, though, it's just a momentum-killer, as all movement seems to halt while Watt does his spiel. Things get a little dicey whenever anyone in Il Sogno opens their mouths; "Il Guardino del Faro" is another Watt rap, this one translated into Italian, delivered over a barely-there bass-and-drone wash. It's not bad once, and I'm sure it was fun live, but amidst the instrumental tug-of-war that surrounds it, "Guardino" just feels limp. Still, the real sticking point here is "Messed-Up Machine". As the name suggests, it's a deeply troubled groove, a driving-on-a-flat wobble that barely holds itself together through seven increasingly excruciating minutes. It's a glorified rehearsal snippet, more exercise than song, the kind of thing that it's hard to imagine making the LP if Watt had had a few more days on his work visa. As a record, La Busta Gialla's not great, just a hair more curious than pleasurable. Still, you've got to give a guy like Watt credit for his willingness to make a peculiar mistake like "Machine," to link up with young, far-flung talents like Pilia and Belfi just to see how that'd go. At the heart of Watt's legendary raps, there's this notion about the importance of engagement: with your convictions, with your community, with something larger than yourself. So when so many of his contemporaries seem content to sit by the phone and wait for the next documentarian to come calling, Watt's off in Italy, making strange records with near-strangers, forever engaged."

A-Trak

Tuna Melt EP

Electronic,Rap

Miles Raymer

Alain Macklovitch is a young dude with a musical career that already spans a decade and a half and has gone through several distinct phases. He started out as a baby-faced turntablist savant who won the most prestigious DJ competition in the world before he could legally drive a car. After that came the Sunglasses Is a Must era, where he left the insular world of turntablism for a gig as Kanye's tour DJ, and to figure out how to incorporate his hip-hop-derived skills into the emergent post-indie dance music culture. We are now well into phase three, where he established himself as a legitimate EDM heavyweight with at least one certified rave anthem ("Barbra Streisand", which he recorded with Armand Van Helden under the name Duck Sauce) under his belt, as well as an eye for talent that's made Fool's Gold, the label he runs with the DJ/producer Nick Catchdubs, one of the most influential indies in the music business. Phase-three A-Trak is not only the most successful of his incarnations but also by far the funnest. The turntablist scene he came up in has a marked tendency to emphasize technical chops over pleasure, but over the years he's evolved into a full-on hedonist who's not afraid to skirt the line of what some might call cheesiness, and has fully embraced the place in arena-filling quasi-mainstream EDM culture that "Barbra Streisand" helped earn him. After years of near-constant gigging in nearly every shape and size of venue imaginable, Macklovitch has developed a very clear idea of what qualities a song needs to move a crowd, and his new four-song EP is definitely intended to put that knowledge to work producing yet another signature track capable of making tens of thousands of people lose their shit at the same time. It's possible that either "Jumbo" or "Disco Nap" could end up being that track. The former, produced with the Swedish EDM supergroup Galantis, has a frenetic, 90s-cyberpunk feel, and enough tweaky rhythmic breakdowns to appeal to an audience predisposed to dubstep. The latter, a collaboration with LA DJ duo Oliver, offers a popping electro-funk groove, acid-house-style buildups, and a vocal hook that pays tribute to the popular and highly recommended practice of getting a nap in before going clubbing. But odds are it'll be either "Tuna Melt" or "Landline" that becomes the kind of inescapable song that’ll show up in every set of a multiple-DJ bill without anyone in the crowd complaining. Both are precisely engineered to move bodies, to the point where it almost feels manipulative and unfair, as if you barely have a choice in the matter. Aspiring dance music producers should consider drawing out diagrams for their structures to learn where to add sounds, where to take them away, when to switch the tone of the synth playing the lead melody, and other essential qualities that a rave anthem needs. "Landline", a collaboration with production duo GTA, has several lessons to impart, including how one can manipulate a retro sound like a booming 90s-style synth piano using modern ideas such as the glitchy clusters of notes popular with trap music producers, or where to shift the gears on the tempo from half-time to double-time (and where to shift back), as well as the potential of a ridiculous sample (in this case of Woody Woodpecker's laugh) to push a song well over the edge of sanity. "Tuna Melt" is as immaculately and meticulously crafted as one of his DMC-winning turntablism sets. There isn't a superfluous sound in its nearly six minute span, nothing-- from the stunningly simple but inescapable main riff to the chopped-up, diva-style female vocal sample-- that doesn't have a clear role in motivating the listener to dance. It has the ruthlessly efficient grace of an Alien xenomorph, and it doesn't require any chemical assistance to move an EDM fan to a place of total rave bliss. I suspect Macklovich won't have to write another arena-sized anthem for at least a few more years.

Artist: A-Trak, Album: Tuna Melt EP, Genre: Electronic,Rap, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Alain Macklovitch is a young dude with a musical career that already spans a decade and a half and has gone through several distinct phases. He started out as a baby-faced turntablist savant who won the most prestigious DJ competition in the world before he could legally drive a car. After that came the Sunglasses Is a Must era, where he left the insular world of turntablism for a gig as Kanye's tour DJ, and to figure out how to incorporate his hip-hop-derived skills into the emergent post-indie dance music culture. We are now well into phase three, where he established himself as a legitimate EDM heavyweight with at least one certified rave anthem ("Barbra Streisand", which he recorded with Armand Van Helden under the name Duck Sauce) under his belt, as well as an eye for talent that's made Fool's Gold, the label he runs with the DJ/producer Nick Catchdubs, one of the most influential indies in the music business. Phase-three A-Trak is not only the most successful of his incarnations but also by far the funnest. The turntablist scene he came up in has a marked tendency to emphasize technical chops over pleasure, but over the years he's evolved into a full-on hedonist who's not afraid to skirt the line of what some might call cheesiness, and has fully embraced the place in arena-filling quasi-mainstream EDM culture that "Barbra Streisand" helped earn him. After years of near-constant gigging in nearly every shape and size of venue imaginable, Macklovitch has developed a very clear idea of what qualities a song needs to move a crowd, and his new four-song EP is definitely intended to put that knowledge to work producing yet another signature track capable of making tens of thousands of people lose their shit at the same time. It's possible that either "Jumbo" or "Disco Nap" could end up being that track. The former, produced with the Swedish EDM supergroup Galantis, has a frenetic, 90s-cyberpunk feel, and enough tweaky rhythmic breakdowns to appeal to an audience predisposed to dubstep. The latter, a collaboration with LA DJ duo Oliver, offers a popping electro-funk groove, acid-house-style buildups, and a vocal hook that pays tribute to the popular and highly recommended practice of getting a nap in before going clubbing. But odds are it'll be either "Tuna Melt" or "Landline" that becomes the kind of inescapable song that’ll show up in every set of a multiple-DJ bill without anyone in the crowd complaining. Both are precisely engineered to move bodies, to the point where it almost feels manipulative and unfair, as if you barely have a choice in the matter. Aspiring dance music producers should consider drawing out diagrams for their structures to learn where to add sounds, where to take them away, when to switch the tone of the synth playing the lead melody, and other essential qualities that a rave anthem needs. "Landline", a collaboration with production duo GTA, has several lessons to impart, including how one can manipulate a retro sound like a booming 90s-style synth piano using modern ideas such as the glitchy clusters of notes popular with trap music producers, or where to shift the gears on the tempo from half-time to double-time (and where to shift back), as well as the potential of a ridiculous sample (in this case of Woody Woodpecker's laugh) to push a song well over the edge of sanity. "Tuna Melt" is as immaculately and meticulously crafted as one of his DMC-winning turntablism sets. There isn't a superfluous sound in its nearly six minute span, nothing-- from the stunningly simple but inescapable main riff to the chopped-up, diva-style female vocal sample-- that doesn't have a clear role in motivating the listener to dance. It has the ruthlessly efficient grace of an Alien xenomorph, and it doesn't require any chemical assistance to move an EDM fan to a place of total rave bliss. I suspect Macklovich won't have to write another arena-sized anthem for at least a few more years."

Race Horses

Furniture

Rock

Stuart Berman

For their inspired 2010 debut, Goodbye Falkenburg, Welsh pop fops Race Horses entrusted themselves with the modest but commendable task of honoring the madcap legacy of ancestral countrymen Super Furry Animals and Gorky's Zygotic Mynci. Now, they're ready to take on the rest of the British isles: Furniture handily displaces the loopy 60s-psychedelic and 70s-glam influences of their debut for a bright 80s New Pop sheen and the skyscraping grandeur that defined mid-90s Britpop. But the shift is philosophical as music as it is sonic: Where Goodbye Falkenburg spoke of love and courtship in cheeky, suggestive language, Furniture-- in the arch, observational tradition of ABC and Pulp-- uses its sleek sophistication not just to gloss over the straight-faced tales of emotional woe described within, but as an analogue to the procedural, commoditized nature of modern romance. On the opening title track, frontman Meilyr Jones sounds the death knell for a failing relationship by declaring, "We are furniture." By that token, listening to Furniture feels not unlike flipping through an IKEA catalog-- it's easy to get lured in by the pretty surfaces and marvel at the inventiveness at play but, after a while, a certain sterility starts to take hold. At least Race Horses ease you into the album's more despairing worldview-- from the outset, the band is game to play up the knowing contrast between what's being said and how they're saying it. The aforementioned chorus of "we are furniture" is delivered less as an insult than a cathartic first step toward post-break-up liberation, while on the winsome "Mates", Jones begs an ex to revert to the platonic terms of their pre-hook-up friendship. And in lieu of a new post-reunion Pulp album, we have "Sisters", which vividly evokes both the breezy, pop-romantique flair of His N Hers and Jarvis Cocker's voyeuristic, borderline-pervy intimations. But while it's inevitable that a young band brimming with manic energy will buckle up and simmer down, on Furniture, Race Horses' rapid maturation can feel a little jarring: The synth-speckled piano march "Nobody's Son" boasts the kind of instantly anthemic chorus that could spark a football stadium full of cigarette lighters, but it's also the most incongruous track here, as it sacrifices the band's peculiar personality for arena-rock proficiency. And their attempts to get serious yield mixed results: While "Bad Blood" successfully channels its anxieties through an intensifying, start-stop structure and ticking synthetic cymbal effect, the equally agitated "My Year Abroad" and "See No Green" are bogged down by overwrought, repetitive choruses. So it's fitting that this transitory album, preoccupied as it is with romantic upheaval, should close with an somber, affecting piano ballad titled "Old and New", with an extended one-chord outro that effectively conjures the titular state of purgatory, and the difficulty of letting go and moving on. It's a sentiment that applies equally to Furniture's emotionally stagnant protagonists as to Race Horses themselves-- it's better to attempt great strides and risk stumbling than to get left in the dust.

Artist: Race Horses, Album: Furniture, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "For their inspired 2010 debut, Goodbye Falkenburg, Welsh pop fops Race Horses entrusted themselves with the modest but commendable task of honoring the madcap legacy of ancestral countrymen Super Furry Animals and Gorky's Zygotic Mynci. Now, they're ready to take on the rest of the British isles: Furniture handily displaces the loopy 60s-psychedelic and 70s-glam influences of their debut for a bright 80s New Pop sheen and the skyscraping grandeur that defined mid-90s Britpop. But the shift is philosophical as music as it is sonic: Where Goodbye Falkenburg spoke of love and courtship in cheeky, suggestive language, Furniture-- in the arch, observational tradition of ABC and Pulp-- uses its sleek sophistication not just to gloss over the straight-faced tales of emotional woe described within, but as an analogue to the procedural, commoditized nature of modern romance. On the opening title track, frontman Meilyr Jones sounds the death knell for a failing relationship by declaring, "We are furniture." By that token, listening to Furniture feels not unlike flipping through an IKEA catalog-- it's easy to get lured in by the pretty surfaces and marvel at the inventiveness at play but, after a while, a certain sterility starts to take hold. At least Race Horses ease you into the album's more despairing worldview-- from the outset, the band is game to play up the knowing contrast between what's being said and how they're saying it. The aforementioned chorus of "we are furniture" is delivered less as an insult than a cathartic first step toward post-break-up liberation, while on the winsome "Mates", Jones begs an ex to revert to the platonic terms of their pre-hook-up friendship. And in lieu of a new post-reunion Pulp album, we have "Sisters", which vividly evokes both the breezy, pop-romantique flair of His N Hers and Jarvis Cocker's voyeuristic, borderline-pervy intimations. But while it's inevitable that a young band brimming with manic energy will buckle up and simmer down, on Furniture, Race Horses' rapid maturation can feel a little jarring: The synth-speckled piano march "Nobody's Son" boasts the kind of instantly anthemic chorus that could spark a football stadium full of cigarette lighters, but it's also the most incongruous track here, as it sacrifices the band's peculiar personality for arena-rock proficiency. And their attempts to get serious yield mixed results: While "Bad Blood" successfully channels its anxieties through an intensifying, start-stop structure and ticking synthetic cymbal effect, the equally agitated "My Year Abroad" and "See No Green" are bogged down by overwrought, repetitive choruses. So it's fitting that this transitory album, preoccupied as it is with romantic upheaval, should close with an somber, affecting piano ballad titled "Old and New", with an extended one-chord outro that effectively conjures the titular state of purgatory, and the difficulty of letting go and moving on. It's a sentiment that applies equally to Furniture's emotionally stagnant protagonists as to Race Horses themselves-- it's better to attempt great strides and risk stumbling than to get left in the dust."

Banjo or Freakout

Banjo or Freakout

Pop/R&B

Paul Thompson

Banjo or Freakout's harmony-kissed bedroom music languishes in negative space. The songs that Banjo principal Alessio Natalizia lets peek out above the grey float along somewhere between the haunted bygone pop of Bradford Cox's Atlas Sound and the ponderous swirl of Panda Bear, their tempos and hooks decidedly impressionistic. In his review of Banjo or Freakout's Way Slow odds and sods compilation last year, Pitchfork's Zach Kelly pegged Natalizia's songs as "ghosted": You can make out their vague outlines and maybe a sense of their spirit, but what's missing often seems more striking than what's actually there. The music's wave machine textures and gently lulling half-songs wash over you, and your thoughts will inevitably wander. Sometimes it's bliss; others, boredom. Natalizia recorded Banjo or Freakout with Nic Vernhes at the Rare Book Room in Brooklyn, and Vernhes' naturalistic production style deepens the expanses in Natalizia's sound while maintaining its clean lines and immersive chill. What seems at first like a steely, almost surgical minimalism reveals rippling textural undercurrents throughout, lots for the ear to work out. But once you've wandered out into Natalizia's haze a few times and grown accustomed to the fog, you start to realize there's not always much behind it. Natalizia sings in a sustain-laden, slightly otherworldly pitch not unlike Brad Cox or Noah Lennox, but he's got little of the former's slippery delivery and only a touch of the latter's bell-like clarity, with a nasty habit of swallowing syllables all his own. His self-harmonizing can be lovely and semi-narcotic, but Natalizia's voice doesn't have quite enough character to drive his ineffectual songs. "Go Ahead" and "Move Out" fare well enough and the throaty "Can't Be Mad For Nothing" feels like "My Girls" in greyscale. But save a few darker flutters that cop a move or two from Amnesiac-era Radiohead and the gorgeous up-from-underneath gurgle of closer "I Don't Want to Start All Over Again", the rest of the songs feel meek, unwilling to assert themselves over the music's delicate swirl. Beyond a tricky turnaround here and a nice little vocal double-up there, these tracks feel frail, mostly just sort of whisking by, as though they'd float away were they not weighed down by the translucent synth film. But if you take Banjo or Freakout as an ambient record first and a pop album second, the balance starts to shift in its favor. Natalizia's got a ways to go as a songwriter, but with the help of Vernhes, he's quite a sensualist, his snowdrift sonics capable of both delicacy and heft. There's a lot of territory covered between the shimmering shuffle of "Idiot Rain" and the epic Jesu-like crunch of "Black Scratches", and even if the hooks of either won't exactly knock you out-- and chances are they won't-- the luxuriant production does help push along the more melodically wanting material. Once Natalizia writes some songs better flattered by his sonic sense, I suspect he'll really have something here.

Artist: Banjo or Freakout, Album: Banjo or Freakout, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 5.6 Album review: "Banjo or Freakout's harmony-kissed bedroom music languishes in negative space. The songs that Banjo principal Alessio Natalizia lets peek out above the grey float along somewhere between the haunted bygone pop of Bradford Cox's Atlas Sound and the ponderous swirl of Panda Bear, their tempos and hooks decidedly impressionistic. In his review of Banjo or Freakout's Way Slow odds and sods compilation last year, Pitchfork's Zach Kelly pegged Natalizia's songs as "ghosted": You can make out their vague outlines and maybe a sense of their spirit, but what's missing often seems more striking than what's actually there. The music's wave machine textures and gently lulling half-songs wash over you, and your thoughts will inevitably wander. Sometimes it's bliss; others, boredom. Natalizia recorded Banjo or Freakout with Nic Vernhes at the Rare Book Room in Brooklyn, and Vernhes' naturalistic production style deepens the expanses in Natalizia's sound while maintaining its clean lines and immersive chill. What seems at first like a steely, almost surgical minimalism reveals rippling textural undercurrents throughout, lots for the ear to work out. But once you've wandered out into Natalizia's haze a few times and grown accustomed to the fog, you start to realize there's not always much behind it. Natalizia sings in a sustain-laden, slightly otherworldly pitch not unlike Brad Cox or Noah Lennox, but he's got little of the former's slippery delivery and only a touch of the latter's bell-like clarity, with a nasty habit of swallowing syllables all his own. His self-harmonizing can be lovely and semi-narcotic, but Natalizia's voice doesn't have quite enough character to drive his ineffectual songs. "Go Ahead" and "Move Out" fare well enough and the throaty "Can't Be Mad For Nothing" feels like "My Girls" in greyscale. But save a few darker flutters that cop a move or two from Amnesiac-era Radiohead and the gorgeous up-from-underneath gurgle of closer "I Don't Want to Start All Over Again", the rest of the songs feel meek, unwilling to assert themselves over the music's delicate swirl. Beyond a tricky turnaround here and a nice little vocal double-up there, these tracks feel frail, mostly just sort of whisking by, as though they'd float away were they not weighed down by the translucent synth film. But if you take Banjo or Freakout as an ambient record first and a pop album second, the balance starts to shift in its favor. Natalizia's got a ways to go as a songwriter, but with the help of Vernhes, he's quite a sensualist, his snowdrift sonics capable of both delicacy and heft. There's a lot of territory covered between the shimmering shuffle of "Idiot Rain" and the epic Jesu-like crunch of "Black Scratches", and even if the hooks of either won't exactly knock you out-- and chances are they won't-- the luxuriant production does help push along the more melodically wanting material. Once Natalizia writes some songs better flattered by his sonic sense, I suspect he'll really have something here."

Desiigner

New English

Rap

Matthew Ramirez

On the face of it, Desiigner seems like he might be intriguing: A nobody just a few months ago, the 19-year-old rapper is fresh off collaborating with one of the most famous musicians on the planet. And on top of that, his entire persona is built off another one of the most famous rappers alive? That’s some alternate universe, sci-fi shit, forget about Gucci Mane being a clone. His mixtape New English, unfortunately, is a lot less intriguing to listen to: It sounds like the last five years of hip-hop watered down. New English is so woefully derivative it almost builds itself a new vocabulary from the Lego blocks of other rappers it stands on. There’s Waka Flocka Flame’s and Lex Luger’s maximalism; the overwhelming, in-the-red sing-song mayhem of Chief Keef, and, of course, the distinct promethazine-enhanced drawl of Future. Aside from his Brooklyn-borne lilt, there’s nothing separating what Desiigner’s doing from any of these artists. Travis Scott has gotten away with a lot of Desiigner’s sins because some of his textures are nice, and Mike Dean and a gang of wizard producers turned Rodeo into something occasionally enjoyable. But there’s nothing you can do here to redeem this material—which is maybe why it’s stuffed with a needlessly lush intro and several interludes, a consummate filler move so Tidal users could enjoy strings in high-def. There are a few times the sheer audacity of this thing works. There’s “Caliber,” whose hook is just “caliber” a bunch of times, and is such a baldfaced Future rip it’s galling (yet addicting). “Monstas & Villains” sounds like a 2012 drill track (specifically, it sounds almost exactly like this deep King Beece/Lil Reese cut). “Overnight” lurches like a good Future song, and is actually pretty decent, a spacey bit of pathos like *EVOL**’*s “Lie to Me,” but unfortunately that's the catch: it’s more of a “decent 2016 Future song” than a “good 2013 Future song.” There’s an almost experimental quality to these flagrant stylistic excursions, like when you zoom in closer and closer on a photo until you see the Ben-Day dots. You're looking at the elements, and they create a nice pattern, but you miss the artwork's essence. Desiigner just turned 19, which means when Waka and all those guys first broke in 2009/2010, followed up with drill’s 2012 moment (to say nothing of Gucci’s ascent years before that), he was anywhere from 12-15. I imagine that plays a huge role into how he creates, but if age were an excuse, how do you explain Kodak Black, who cops a Boosie flow but transcends his easy comparison checkpoint with engaging music? I want to applaud the Desiigner that writes a song called “Pluto,” performs like this on national TV, and crashes the BET Awards, off sheer gumption, but where are those tendencies on this tape? I never thought “Panda” sounded like Future. If I cocked my head a certain way, yes, I heard it, but his stuttering, double-time flow is something not really in Future’s toolbox, and the more I listened, I thought the song's twists and turns, light on its feet like a boxer, was enough to make it more than a novelty. “What is he saying? Why does he sound like that?” Those two questions can get you pretty far in rap. This was even more true with his now infamous XXL Freestyle, dubbed “Timmy Turner.” Over finger snaps, Desiigner sang in a playground cadence with a thick patois: there was something there, a melodic sense of unease, a tease of a dark story delivered with the menace of a troubled adolescent. It had personality. It stuck in your mind. It did more in 45 seconds than New English does in 36 minutes.

Artist: Desiigner, Album: New English, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 4.7 Album review: "On the face of it, Desiigner seems like he might be intriguing: A nobody just a few months ago, the 19-year-old rapper is fresh off collaborating with one of the most famous musicians on the planet. And on top of that, his entire persona is built off another one of the most famous rappers alive? That’s some alternate universe, sci-fi shit, forget about Gucci Mane being a clone. His mixtape New English, unfortunately, is a lot less intriguing to listen to: It sounds like the last five years of hip-hop watered down. New English is so woefully derivative it almost builds itself a new vocabulary from the Lego blocks of other rappers it stands on. There’s Waka Flocka Flame’s and Lex Luger’s maximalism; the overwhelming, in-the-red sing-song mayhem of Chief Keef, and, of course, the distinct promethazine-enhanced drawl of Future. Aside from his Brooklyn-borne lilt, there’s nothing separating what Desiigner’s doing from any of these artists. Travis Scott has gotten away with a lot of Desiigner’s sins because some of his textures are nice, and Mike Dean and a gang of wizard producers turned Rodeo into something occasionally enjoyable. But there’s nothing you can do here to redeem this material—which is maybe why it’s stuffed with a needlessly lush intro and several interludes, a consummate filler move so Tidal users could enjoy strings in high-def. There are a few times the sheer audacity of this thing works. There’s “Caliber,” whose hook is just “caliber” a bunch of times, and is such a baldfaced Future rip it’s galling (yet addicting). “Monstas & Villains” sounds like a 2012 drill track (specifically, it sounds almost exactly like this deep King Beece/Lil Reese cut). “Overnight” lurches like a good Future song, and is actually pretty decent, a spacey bit of pathos like *EVOL**’*s “Lie to Me,” but unfortunately that's the catch: it’s more of a “decent 2016 Future song” than a “good 2013 Future song.” There’s an almost experimental quality to these flagrant stylistic excursions, like when you zoom in closer and closer on a photo until you see the Ben-Day dots. You're looking at the elements, and they create a nice pattern, but you miss the artwork's essence. Desiigner just turned 19, which means when Waka and all those guys first broke in 2009/2010, followed up with drill’s 2012 moment (to say nothing of Gucci’s ascent years before that), he was anywhere from 12-15. I imagine that plays a huge role into how he creates, but if age were an excuse, how do you explain Kodak Black, who cops a Boosie flow but transcends his easy comparison checkpoint with engaging music? I want to applaud the Desiigner that writes a song called “Pluto,” performs like this on national TV, and crashes the BET Awards, off sheer gumption, but where are those tendencies on this tape? I never thought “Panda” sounded like Future. If I cocked my head a certain way, yes, I heard it, but his stuttering, double-time flow is something not really in Future’s toolbox, and the more I listened, I thought the song's twists and turns, light on its feet like a boxer, was enough to make it more than a novelty. “What is he saying? Why does he sound like that?” Those two questions can get you pretty far in rap. This was even more true with his now infamous XXL Freestyle, dubbed “Timmy Turner.” Over finger snaps, Desiigner sang in a playground cadence with a thick patois: there was something there, a melodic sense of unease, a tease of a dark story delivered with the menace of a troubled adolescent. It had personality. It stuck in your mind. It did more in 45 seconds than New English does in 36 minutes."

Cold Specks

I Predict a Graceful Expulsion

Jayson Greene

Cold Specks is Al Spx, a 24-year-old singer/songwriter from Etobicoke, Ontario who was signed to Mute earlier this year on the strength of an arresting demo. Spx-- the peculiar name is a pseudonym, invented to protect a devout and apparently disapproving family-- has the disoriented air of someone who's come further than she expected, and sooner: In interviews, she's shown some difficulty recalling the names of all her new bandmates and confesses she still occasionally gets ill before live performances. When she begins singing, you understand the fuss: If you were, say, Frankie Sharp from Sharp Records, this is the sort of voice that makes you whip the big limo around. Rough-edged and dark but still velvety, with fluid hints of gospel-- it's a transfixing instrument, and it's the single ember glowing at the center of her chilly debut, the enigmatically titled I Predict a Graceful Expulsion. Her band, with the ingrained tact of session pros, defer to her, surrounding her with muted-gray washes of piano, guitar, cello, and distant horns. The songs gather weight slowly and gracefully, and the atmosphere feels instantly familiar from the last two National records. It's similarly comforting; this is a peerless Sunday-afternoon record, the kind you cradle like a chipped mug of tea in a heatless apartment. What elevates I Predict a Graceful Expulsion above pure comfort food, however, is how it subtly tugs against the big, major-network-drama payoff for which it feels custom-built. There's a naggingly elusive quality to the songs that troubles as much as it soothes; Spx's voice is elemental, and her pleas tap into universal language-- bad seeds, sons and daughters, dying leaves. But there's a sense of snow-blind disorientation, of standing in the middle of a featureless expanse, that deepens the record's loneliness and heightens the sense of emotional stakes. "Every map is blank," Spx mutters on "Blank Maps". "I put my hands over my chest/ Sons and daughters," goes the refrain on the swelling, spellbinding "Winter Solstice", and though it's howled like gospel, its meaning remains as private as silent prayer. The big chorus to "Blank Maps" is Spx howling "I am, I am/ A goddamn believer," and even though you have no sense what she believes, you feel swept up completely, borne along by her strange ardor.

Artist: Cold Specks, Album: I Predict a Graceful Expulsion, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Cold Specks is Al Spx, a 24-year-old singer/songwriter from Etobicoke, Ontario who was signed to Mute earlier this year on the strength of an arresting demo. Spx-- the peculiar name is a pseudonym, invented to protect a devout and apparently disapproving family-- has the disoriented air of someone who's come further than she expected, and sooner: In interviews, she's shown some difficulty recalling the names of all her new bandmates and confesses she still occasionally gets ill before live performances. When she begins singing, you understand the fuss: If you were, say, Frankie Sharp from Sharp Records, this is the sort of voice that makes you whip the big limo around. Rough-edged and dark but still velvety, with fluid hints of gospel-- it's a transfixing instrument, and it's the single ember glowing at the center of her chilly debut, the enigmatically titled I Predict a Graceful Expulsion. Her band, with the ingrained tact of session pros, defer to her, surrounding her with muted-gray washes of piano, guitar, cello, and distant horns. The songs gather weight slowly and gracefully, and the atmosphere feels instantly familiar from the last two National records. It's similarly comforting; this is a peerless Sunday-afternoon record, the kind you cradle like a chipped mug of tea in a heatless apartment. What elevates I Predict a Graceful Expulsion above pure comfort food, however, is how it subtly tugs against the big, major-network-drama payoff for which it feels custom-built. There's a naggingly elusive quality to the songs that troubles as much as it soothes; Spx's voice is elemental, and her pleas tap into universal language-- bad seeds, sons and daughters, dying leaves. But there's a sense of snow-blind disorientation, of standing in the middle of a featureless expanse, that deepens the record's loneliness and heightens the sense of emotional stakes. "Every map is blank," Spx mutters on "Blank Maps". "I put my hands over my chest/ Sons and daughters," goes the refrain on the swelling, spellbinding "Winter Solstice", and though it's howled like gospel, its meaning remains as private as silent prayer. The big chorus to "Blank Maps" is Spx howling "I am, I am/ A goddamn believer," and even though you have no sense what she believes, you feel swept up completely, borne along by her strange ardor."

Hammock

Chasing After Shadows... Living With the Ghosts

Electronic

Joe Tangari

The first four people thanked in the acknowledgements of Hammock's fourth album are two members of Australian rock band the Church and the two members of Texas ambient duo Stars of the Lid. If you know both groups, you could probably piece together a bit of a picture of the music on Chasing After Shadows... Living With the Ghosts. It's diaphanous music, with one foot in the deep ambient textures of Stars of the Lid, and another in the more traditional, anthemic, and slightly psychedelic rock of the Church. It doesn't sound quite like either group-- Hammock have a unique sound that lies in the space between, and as with their previous albums, the group focuses here on constructing a sound world you can sink into, a place where the audio captures the feeling invoked by a title like "The World We Knew as Children". The Church's Tim Powles is one of the acknowledged parties, and he's one of three drummers that helps augment the duo of Andrew Thompson and Marc Byrd on several tracks-- drums feature more prominently here than on any of the band's prior releases. Most of the vocals, sung by Christine Glass Byrd, are wordless, bleeding into the glassy texture of strings, guitars, keyboards, and horns as a sort of ghost-like echo of a human presence. The band gets close to sounding like a rock group in places. The chiming rhythm guitar and arcing, contrail-like lead guitar coax melody out of the album-- like Ride or Slowdive slowed down and blissed a lot further out. On "You Lost the Starlight in Your Eyes", they actually wrap their voices around some lyrics, an evocative repeated couplet. For every song like that, though, there's another that sounds like an orchestra breathing or an echo crossing an abyss. Those blurred figures floating in the water on the album cover are a visual analog for the sense of unmoored drift or float created by the album's most ethereal and ambient moments. I try to imagine music videos for it, and all I come up with is slow-motion images of sand blowing off the tops of dunes and seaweed swaying with the tide. It's intensely visual music-- you really get the sense of shapes shifting and forms moving. Anyone who has liked Hammock in the past will like this. They've made a slight move toward more conventional rock structures here, but not enough to turn off past followers, and probably plenty to draw in a few people who they might not have hooked before. It's a long record, occupying a full CD, and one that's easy to luxuriate in for its full run time. It also leaves open a lot of possibilities for the band's future direction; if they're itching to write more conventional songs without giving up their identity, what they've accomplished here indicates they could do it.

Artist: Hammock, Album: Chasing After Shadows... Living With the Ghosts, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "The first four people thanked in the acknowledgements of Hammock's fourth album are two members of Australian rock band the Church and the two members of Texas ambient duo Stars of the Lid. If you know both groups, you could probably piece together a bit of a picture of the music on Chasing After Shadows... Living With the Ghosts. It's diaphanous music, with one foot in the deep ambient textures of Stars of the Lid, and another in the more traditional, anthemic, and slightly psychedelic rock of the Church. It doesn't sound quite like either group-- Hammock have a unique sound that lies in the space between, and as with their previous albums, the group focuses here on constructing a sound world you can sink into, a place where the audio captures the feeling invoked by a title like "The World We Knew as Children". The Church's Tim Powles is one of the acknowledged parties, and he's one of three drummers that helps augment the duo of Andrew Thompson and Marc Byrd on several tracks-- drums feature more prominently here than on any of the band's prior releases. Most of the vocals, sung by Christine Glass Byrd, are wordless, bleeding into the glassy texture of strings, guitars, keyboards, and horns as a sort of ghost-like echo of a human presence. The band gets close to sounding like a rock group in places. The chiming rhythm guitar and arcing, contrail-like lead guitar coax melody out of the album-- like Ride or Slowdive slowed down and blissed a lot further out. On "You Lost the Starlight in Your Eyes", they actually wrap their voices around some lyrics, an evocative repeated couplet. For every song like that, though, there's another that sounds like an orchestra breathing or an echo crossing an abyss. Those blurred figures floating in the water on the album cover are a visual analog for the sense of unmoored drift or float created by the album's most ethereal and ambient moments. I try to imagine music videos for it, and all I come up with is slow-motion images of sand blowing off the tops of dunes and seaweed swaying with the tide. It's intensely visual music-- you really get the sense of shapes shifting and forms moving. Anyone who has liked Hammock in the past will like this. They've made a slight move toward more conventional rock structures here, but not enough to turn off past followers, and probably plenty to draw in a few people who they might not have hooked before. It's a long record, occupying a full CD, and one that's easy to luxuriate in for its full run time. It also leaves open a lot of possibilities for the band's future direction; if they're itching to write more conventional songs without giving up their identity, what they've accomplished here indicates they could do it."

Kim Kashkashian

J.S. Bach: Six Suites for Viola Solo

Jayson Greene

There are as many ways to play Bach cello suites as there are to draw breath. You can treat these pieces as a map to anywhere you want to go. You can play them inexorably as if you are being mowed down like a holy instrument. You can play them as if you are being haunted by the memory of previous interpretations. You can play them like a series of private philosophical musings. Or, if you are Kim Kashkashian, you can play them on viola. Kashkashian has been exploring the outer reaches of the viola for years, building up a dense thicket of recordings where she casts the instrument in a series of meaty roles: In Morton Feldman’s “Rothko Chapel,” her viola was a bony branch scraping a window, a voice calling out nervously into gaping silence. In Hungarian composer György Kurtág’s “Signs, Games, and Messages”, her viola filtered into blackness like vents peeking into a collapsed mine shaft. Her decision to tackle Bach’s cello suites is an ambitious one, but in the context of her career, it is just the latest audacious leap in an unbroken series. The viola can never have the cello’s resonance, but it has a nearly-human tone that will always make it an excellent character actor—the aural equivalent of a lined, stern-browed face that grabs the camera. Kashkashian’s tone has a mournful, woody tang, dark and foreboding and ink-dipped, that makes it a beguiling Bach interpreter. There are moments in these pieces where the instrument’s peculiarities poke through—the string crossings in the opening of the famous Suite 1 are slightly stiff-legged—but they help give defining markings to pieces that might otherwise wear smooth from familiarity. The most radical aspect of playing Bach is how exposed it leaves you. There are no obscuring pyrotechnics to dazzle with, nowhere to hide a moment of faltering uncertainty. Unlike a concerto, where a single instrument hurls itself up against the massed forces or the orchestra and beats it back, they offer no hero’s triumph to applaud. Solo Bach is inherently private music, insofar as truly holy experiences tend to be private, and for classical musicians, they are the most hallowed of proving grounds—you don’t turn to them to show the world how you play. You turn to them to show how you exist. Kashkashian steps into this unforgiving spotlight with grace and poise. There is something very corporeal in her interpretations: In her hands, these works are body music, rooted in breath and wood and muscle. This relationship is underlined by the intimacy of the close mic’ing: You often hear her breathing in between phrases, the slight flutter of the string crossings and the dry rasp of the bow. The Courante movement of the G Major bristles with ungainly and infectious energy—the courante is a light-stepping dance, but Kashkashian turns it into an invigorating chorus of heavy-thudding peasant boots. The mood of her interpretation is searching, earthbound, human—she doesn’t treat solo Bach like divine math out of reach of mortal understanding. Her tone is sumptuous, moaning, throaty, with a catch of ache snagged in the instrument’s midrange. Her phrasing in the Préludes always seems to be worrying away at a nagging question—you can feel urgency in the way she presses up against her own tempo slightly in the Prelude to the D Minor suite. Her Bach is furrowed-brow Bach, crisis-of-faith Bach, toiling Bach. Her instrument has never sounded lovelier or humbler than it does here.

Artist: Kim Kashkashian, Album: J.S. Bach: Six Suites for Viola Solo, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "There are as many ways to play Bach cello suites as there are to draw breath. You can treat these pieces as a map to anywhere you want to go. You can play them inexorably as if you are being mowed down like a holy instrument. You can play them as if you are being haunted by the memory of previous interpretations. You can play them like a series of private philosophical musings. Or, if you are Kim Kashkashian, you can play them on viola. Kashkashian has been exploring the outer reaches of the viola for years, building up a dense thicket of recordings where she casts the instrument in a series of meaty roles: In Morton Feldman’s “Rothko Chapel,” her viola was a bony branch scraping a window, a voice calling out nervously into gaping silence. In Hungarian composer György Kurtág’s “Signs, Games, and Messages”, her viola filtered into blackness like vents peeking into a collapsed mine shaft. Her decision to tackle Bach’s cello suites is an ambitious one, but in the context of her career, it is just the latest audacious leap in an unbroken series. The viola can never have the cello’s resonance, but it has a nearly-human tone that will always make it an excellent character actor—the aural equivalent of a lined, stern-browed face that grabs the camera. Kashkashian’s tone has a mournful, woody tang, dark and foreboding and ink-dipped, that makes it a beguiling Bach interpreter. There are moments in these pieces where the instrument’s peculiarities poke through—the string crossings in the opening of the famous Suite 1 are slightly stiff-legged—but they help give defining markings to pieces that might otherwise wear smooth from familiarity. The most radical aspect of playing Bach is how exposed it leaves you. There are no obscuring pyrotechnics to dazzle with, nowhere to hide a moment of faltering uncertainty. Unlike a concerto, where a single instrument hurls itself up against the massed forces or the orchestra and beats it back, they offer no hero’s triumph to applaud. Solo Bach is inherently private music, insofar as truly holy experiences tend to be private, and for classical musicians, they are the most hallowed of proving grounds—you don’t turn to them to show the world how you play. You turn to them to show how you exist. Kashkashian steps into this unforgiving spotlight with grace and poise. There is something very corporeal in her interpretations: In her hands, these works are body music, rooted in breath and wood and muscle. This relationship is underlined by the intimacy of the close mic’ing: You often hear her breathing in between phrases, the slight flutter of the string crossings and the dry rasp of the bow. The Courante movement of the G Major bristles with ungainly and infectious energy—the courante is a light-stepping dance, but Kashkashian turns it into an invigorating chorus of heavy-thudding peasant boots. The mood of her interpretation is searching, earthbound, human—she doesn’t treat solo Bach like divine math out of reach of mortal understanding. Her tone is sumptuous, moaning, throaty, with a catch of ache snagged in the instrument’s midrange. Her phrasing in the Préludes always seems to be worrying away at a nagging question—you can feel urgency in the way she presses up against her own tempo slightly in the Prelude to the D Minor suite. Her Bach is furrowed-brow Bach, crisis-of-faith Bach, toiling Bach. Her instrument has never sounded lovelier or humbler than it does here."

Jacques Greene

Concealer EP

Electronic

Ryan Dombal

Young Montreal producer Jacques Greene is very good at one thing: extracting a vocal snippet from some all-but-forgotten R&B star of the recent past (Ashanti, Brandy, Ciara) and then proceeding to build a shiny and modern combination of house and two-step underneath it. His best tracks thus far are like graduate-level versions of Billboard busters David Guetta and Calvin Harris' shame-free fist pumpers; they're subtle and spacey, but Greene leaves in enough kick and hook to keep everything floor-friendly. In his world, voices are repeating ghosts caught between the beat. And, depending on the time of day, they can sound euphoric or a little lonely. Just look at the video for his track "Tell Me". There are two tipsy models heading back to their very expensive, very solitary hotel rooms after what we can only assume is a night of $28 Midori sours-- it's not a hangover clip as much as a still-sorta-buzzed-at-6-a.m. clip. Jacques Greene makes music for models to stumble back to their suites to. Nothing wrong with that. Last year had him perfecting this formula across two excellent LuckyMe EPs, The Look and Another Girl, when he wasn't convincingly turning Thom Yorke into a proper diva and filling the geek-chic quota in pal Azealia Banks' "212" video. But Concealer, the inaugural release on his new Vase imprint, changes things up. The two A sides find Greene indulging his R&B tendencies more than ever before, with opener "Flatline" even featuring original vocals from fellow Montrealer Ango. But the track doesn't sound like a savvy spin on radio also-rans as much as a wannabe also-ran itself; the ironically flat lead vocal comes off like sub-par Drake karaoke while the skittering instrumental recalls Timbaland in latter-day "Apologize" mode. Clearly, it's one thing to gush about R&B heavies like The-Dream and Drake in interviews and cannily slip them into DJ mixes-- both of which Greene has done-- but quite another to successfully emulate them. Much better is "These Days", where the 21-year-old once again squeezes the most out of a well-chosen sample-- Mario's 2004 album cut "Couldn't Say No"-- while also moving forward, switching out standard kicks for bottom-crawling tom hits. On the flip side are two more traditional two-step tracks, "Clark" and "Arrow", both unfortunately not quite living up to the lofty rep Greene has quickly earned. Whereas The Look and "Another Girl" displayed a tidy sense of dynamics and a just-right ear for attention-getting sonic finery, these two simply glide by on their own blandly classy ambiance. For someone who has nailed that exquisite limbo between foreground and background, Greene lets "Clark" and "Arrow" drift away too easily. To reiterate: Jacques Greene is very good at one thing. That one thing is unique and not easy to pull off. And there are still undiscovered corners for this producer to take his sample-based club sound before he jumps into the realm of more traditional song structures and vocals (which probably shouldn't be thought of as a be-all, end-all anyhow) or extended instrumentals, à la the nine-minute "Arrow". So Concealer has all the marks of a transitional release, a feeler. While constant reinvention is a nice ideal, it's not for everyone.

Artist: Jacques Greene, Album: Concealer EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Young Montreal producer Jacques Greene is very good at one thing: extracting a vocal snippet from some all-but-forgotten R&B star of the recent past (Ashanti, Brandy, Ciara) and then proceeding to build a shiny and modern combination of house and two-step underneath it. His best tracks thus far are like graduate-level versions of Billboard busters David Guetta and Calvin Harris' shame-free fist pumpers; they're subtle and spacey, but Greene leaves in enough kick and hook to keep everything floor-friendly. In his world, voices are repeating ghosts caught between the beat. And, depending on the time of day, they can sound euphoric or a little lonely. Just look at the video for his track "Tell Me". There are two tipsy models heading back to their very expensive, very solitary hotel rooms after what we can only assume is a night of $28 Midori sours-- it's not a hangover clip as much as a still-sorta-buzzed-at-6-a.m. clip. Jacques Greene makes music for models to stumble back to their suites to. Nothing wrong with that. Last year had him perfecting this formula across two excellent LuckyMe EPs, The Look and Another Girl, when he wasn't convincingly turning Thom Yorke into a proper diva and filling the geek-chic quota in pal Azealia Banks' "212" video. But Concealer, the inaugural release on his new Vase imprint, changes things up. The two A sides find Greene indulging his R&B tendencies more than ever before, with opener "Flatline" even featuring original vocals from fellow Montrealer Ango. But the track doesn't sound like a savvy spin on radio also-rans as much as a wannabe also-ran itself; the ironically flat lead vocal comes off like sub-par Drake karaoke while the skittering instrumental recalls Timbaland in latter-day "Apologize" mode. Clearly, it's one thing to gush about R&B heavies like The-Dream and Drake in interviews and cannily slip them into DJ mixes-- both of which Greene has done-- but quite another to successfully emulate them. Much better is "These Days", where the 21-year-old once again squeezes the most out of a well-chosen sample-- Mario's 2004 album cut "Couldn't Say No"-- while also moving forward, switching out standard kicks for bottom-crawling tom hits. On the flip side are two more traditional two-step tracks, "Clark" and "Arrow", both unfortunately not quite living up to the lofty rep Greene has quickly earned. Whereas The Look and "Another Girl" displayed a tidy sense of dynamics and a just-right ear for attention-getting sonic finery, these two simply glide by on their own blandly classy ambiance. For someone who has nailed that exquisite limbo between foreground and background, Greene lets "Clark" and "Arrow" drift away too easily. To reiterate: Jacques Greene is very good at one thing. That one thing is unique and not easy to pull off. And there are still undiscovered corners for this producer to take his sample-based club sound before he jumps into the realm of more traditional song structures and vocals (which probably shouldn't be thought of as a be-all, end-all anyhow) or extended instrumentals, à la the nine-minute "Arrow". So Concealer has all the marks of a transitional release, a feeler. While constant reinvention is a nice ideal, it's not for everyone."

Regina Spektor

Remember Us to Life

Rock

Katherine St. Asaph

Nobel Prize precedent aside, this is not a particularly great time to be a pop singer-songwriter. Royalty pay is underneath the toilet for most songwriters for hire, and solo songwriters aren’t faring much better. What used to be, for better or worse, its own genre—a solo acoustic, piano or guitar, maybe some strings—is practically nonexistent in today’s market. The pop chart has drowned it out for years. The alternative music charts are capricious, but lean rock and male. The adult contemporary chart is basically just the pop chart, minus rap. It’s not that these artists have stopped making music. That music’s just been decontextualized and diluted-down and flung in a dozen directions. You can succeed with traditional singer-songwriter fare if you're male—see Ed Sheeran, or Jake Bugg, or whoever else is being heralded as the savior of musical authenticity this year—but if not, your niche is dead of a thousand market fluctuations and Lilith Fair insults, and your options are limited. The closest things in the past few years to traditional singer-songwriter hits are Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song,” which sounds basically like Katy Perry, or Ruth B’s “Lost Boy,” which is literally four-and-a-half minutes of Vines. Such a market doesn’t allow singer-songwriters much of a legacy. The 2000s had no shortage of talent, much of it sharp enough to resist dumbing-down and some of it rewarded commercially, but it hasn’t produced a mainstream household name, a Fiona Apple or a Tori Amos. In an alternate universe one of them might have been Regina Spektor, whose 15-year career deserves much more recognition than it's gotten. The problem is, there are two Regina Spektors: the public perception and the actual musician. The actual musician records character studies, often set to dizzying classical-piano gusts like “The Flowers” and “Aprés Moi,” and writes with an earnestness not often seen these days. You can draw a direct line from Spektor’s albums to artists working today like Sara Bareilles or Ingrid Michaelson. The public perception takes that earnestness and recasts it as one-dimensional quirk—it’s probably not coincidental that this style of music peaked around the same time the “manic pixie dream girl” archetype did—in order to dismiss it. This has actually been an incredibly good few years for Spektor; her theme song to “Orange Is the New Black” was nominated for a Grammy in 2013, and she’s recorded with artists like zeitgeist-y Chance the Rapper. But it’s been a low-key kind of success, one that hasn’t resulted in any inescapable singles like “Fidelity” or “Samson.” And yet, Spektor has continued to release, every couple of years, some pretty decent albums. Remember Us to Life is another pretty decent album, but a more somber affair. Spektor recorded it with a full orchestra—“I almost felt like the subconscious of the record was strings,” she told *Rolling Stone—*and it lends the album a certain weightiness. There are undertones of preoccupation with one’s legacy throughout. It often rises from subtext to actual text, as on the resigned “Obsolete” (“This is how I feel right now: obsolete manuscript no one reads and no one needs”) or “Tornadoland,” which sets Spektor’s plainspoken line against a blossoming orchestral swell that at one point resolves itself into something resembling the THX intro. Against this, Spektor’s piano line becomes an almost cartoonish downward dive, matching the lyrics: “Everybody’s time has come, it’s everybody’s moment except yours.” The mood is one of panic, restrained until the moment it no longer can be; see also single “Bleeding Heart,” about pain tamped down, featuring a bridge that shouts and claps and exults until it too is snuffed out. The biggest buy-in with Spektor’s music has been that earnestness, its requiring you to be OK with songs that talk about rowboats feeling trapped in paintings, or laughing at God as one of us, or ditching your corporate job to take off your shoes and splash around in puddles. Remember Us to Life doesn't dispense with these nostrums, but it does rewrite them in a minor key. “The Trapper and the Furrier" is much like “Ghost of Corporate Future,” but the shoe-splashing of the former is replaced by a funeral dirge in which the rich only get more, more. If that sounds dreary, “Small Bill$” is what passes for upbeat: the same message (pretty much *Discworld’*s Sam Vimes theory, rewritten to include weed and Coca-Cola and an implied 99% uprising), just in the form of funhouse cabaret with bitterly lilting backup vocals. (If that sounds equally intolerable, Spektor’s probably never going to be for you.) Remember Us to Life suffers from inconsistency; against the weightier atmosphere, less adorned, more traditionally Spektor songs like “Older and Taller” or “The Light” sound like they come from an entirely different album. But Spektor’s albums have always been tonally inconsistent—Begin to Hope had classical pieces “Aprés Moi” next to ballads next to electronic moves like “Edit” next to fizzy and (yes) quirky singles like “Fidelity” and “On the Radio,” and it all was perfectly fine. In Spektor’s catalogue, Remember Us to Life balances comfort food for Spektor fans with the maturity and wisdom you'd expect from a singer-songwriter passing the 15th year of her career. CORRECTION: The original version of this piece used an incorrect title and insinuated that Spektor received a Grammy nomination in 2016.

Artist: Regina Spektor, Album: Remember Us to Life, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "Nobel Prize precedent aside, this is not a particularly great time to be a pop singer-songwriter. Royalty pay is underneath the toilet for most songwriters for hire, and solo songwriters aren’t faring much better. What used to be, for better or worse, its own genre—a solo acoustic, piano or guitar, maybe some strings—is practically nonexistent in today’s market. The pop chart has drowned it out for years. The alternative music charts are capricious, but lean rock and male. The adult contemporary chart is basically just the pop chart, minus rap. It’s not that these artists have stopped making music. That music’s just been decontextualized and diluted-down and flung in a dozen directions. You can succeed with traditional singer-songwriter fare if you're male—see Ed Sheeran, or Jake Bugg, or whoever else is being heralded as the savior of musical authenticity this year—but if not, your niche is dead of a thousand market fluctuations and Lilith Fair insults, and your options are limited. The closest things in the past few years to traditional singer-songwriter hits are Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song,” which sounds basically like Katy Perry, or Ruth B’s “Lost Boy,” which is literally four-and-a-half minutes of Vines. Such a market doesn’t allow singer-songwriters much of a legacy. The 2000s had no shortage of talent, much of it sharp enough to resist dumbing-down and some of it rewarded commercially, but it hasn’t produced a mainstream household name, a Fiona Apple or a Tori Amos. In an alternate universe one of them might have been Regina Spektor, whose 15-year career deserves much more recognition than it's gotten. The problem is, there are two Regina Spektors: the public perception and the actual musician. The actual musician records character studies, often set to dizzying classical-piano gusts like “The Flowers” and “Aprés Moi,” and writes with an earnestness not often seen these days. You can draw a direct line from Spektor’s albums to artists working today like Sara Bareilles or Ingrid Michaelson. The public perception takes that earnestness and recasts it as one-dimensional quirk—it’s probably not coincidental that this style of music peaked around the same time the “manic pixie dream girl” archetype did—in order to dismiss it. This has actually been an incredibly good few years for Spektor; her theme song to “Orange Is the New Black” was nominated for a Grammy in 2013, and she’s recorded with artists like zeitgeist-y Chance the Rapper. But it’s been a low-key kind of success, one that hasn’t resulted in any inescapable singles like “Fidelity” or “Samson.” And yet, Spektor has continued to release, every couple of years, some pretty decent albums. Remember Us to Life is another pretty decent album, but a more somber affair. Spektor recorded it with a full orchestra—“I almost felt like the subconscious of the record was strings,” she told *Rolling Stone—*and it lends the album a certain weightiness. There are undertones of preoccupation with one’s legacy throughout. It often rises from subtext to actual text, as on the resigned “Obsolete” (“This is how I feel right now: obsolete manuscript no one reads and no one needs”) or “Tornadoland,” which sets Spektor’s plainspoken line against a blossoming orchestral swell that at one point resolves itself into something resembling the THX intro. Against this, Spektor’s piano line becomes an almost cartoonish downward dive, matching the lyrics: “Everybody’s time has come, it’s everybody’s moment except yours.” The mood is one of panic, restrained until the moment it no longer can be; see also single “Bleeding Heart,” about pain tamped down, featuring a bridge that shouts and claps and exults until it too is snuffed out. The biggest buy-in with Spektor’s music has been that earnestness, its requiring you to be OK with songs that talk about rowboats feeling trapped in paintings, or laughing at God as one of us, or ditching your corporate job to take off your shoes and splash around in puddles. Remember Us to Life doesn't dispense with these nostrums, but it does rewrite them in a minor key. “The Trapper and the Furrier" is much like “Ghost of Corporate Future,” but the shoe-splashing of the former is replaced by a funeral dirge in which the rich only get more, more. If that sounds dreary, “Small Bill$” is what passes for upbeat: the same message (pretty much *Discworld’*s Sam Vimes theory, rewritten to include weed and Coca-Cola and an implied 99% uprising), just in the form of funhouse cabaret with bitterly lilting backup vocals. (If that sounds equally intolerable, Spektor’s probably never going to be for you.) Remember Us to Life suffers from inconsistency; against the weightier atmosphere, less adorned, more traditionally Spektor songs like “Older and Taller” or “The Light” sound like they come from an entirely different album. But Spektor’s albums have always been tonally inconsistent—Begin to Hope had classical pieces “Aprés Moi” next to ballads next to electronic moves like “Edit” next to fizzy and (yes) quirky singles like “Fidelity” and “On the Radio,” and it all was perfectly fine. In Spektor’s catalogue, Remember Us to Life balances comfort food for Spektor fans with the maturity and wisdom you'd expect from a singer-songwriter passing the 15th year of her career. CORRECTION: The original version of this piece used an incorrect title and insinuated that Spektor received a Grammy nomination in 2016."

Kurt Vile, Sore Eros

Jamaica Plain EP

Rock

Jayson Greene

It's become part of Kurt Vile's small mythology, insofar as he has one: The few post-high school years he lived in Boston, away from his childhood friends in Philly. This brief purgatory—spent discovering John Fahey, driving a forklift to make ends meet, and wondering where all his friends had gone—was a formative, fertile period, the years in which he discovered and honed his inimitable finger-picking style and zeroed in on the wry, cosmic loneliness that would become his defining sound. He came back to Philly from what he once called his "weird little exile" with his first fully formed songs intact. The Jamaica Plain EP is an artifact from those earliest days. It's a collaboration with Robert Robinson, whose solo home-recording project, Sore Eros, concerned itself mostly with sad, blobby tangles of finger-picked guitars and tape manipulation. You can hear some of these same interests in Vile's earliest work, specifically the water-logged instrumental pieces that dot 2008's Constant Hitmaker. Vile has mostly left his interest in extreme tape manipulation and soggy lo-fi charm behind him, but the Jamaica Plain EP offers a brief and fitfully pretty glance backwards. Its three songs are inchoate, modestly lovely, and largely inconsequential, hinting at a time when Vile was starting to figure out his aesthetic. On "Serum", Robinson's vocals poke their way through a mix of acoustic guitars, ambient electronics, and tape hiss, blurred together and melted down. The title track has sleepy slide guitar that feels like an early sketch of the little waiting-room-of-the-soul painted on "Goldtone". The solo guitar piece "Calling Out of Work" is closest to the Vile we recognize today—the chord progression is meandering and gently sad, the electric guitars at the top of the track trail occasionally into firefly wisps. It goes on, unnecessarily, for six minutes, but the late-summer-sky light rays of Vile's breakthrough Hitmaker peek through, in shafts and glints. That said, it's hard to imagine who to recommend it to: ephemera and early works can be interesting, even if they're unsatisfying or mediocre, if they help add to our sense of the artist, suggesting a larger puzzle about how they became great. it's a big world out there (and i am scared), an EP of newer material, is pocket lint, to put it bluntly, dug out of the corners of the masterful Wakin On A Pretty Daze. Vile's a prolific songwriter; there are usually three or four revelatory songs from each album that hit the cutting room floor. His 2011 EP So Outta Reach, drawing on the Smoke Ring For My Halo sessions, gave us a lot of extra meat to chew on—his cover of Bruce Springsteen's "Downbound Train", for instance. There is less to dig into on it's a big world—are you excited at the prospect of owning a version of Wakin's "Never Run Away" with synth strings, with two reprises? How about an extended version of that album's "Snowflakes", or an instrumental version of "Airbud"? No? To be fair, there are two bona-fide new Kurt Vile songs on it's a big world out there. "Feel My Pain" sounds like a working draft that he later pried apart into two, better songs—"Was All Talk" and "Pure Pain"—when he realized it wasn't working on its own. "The Ghost of Freddie Roach", meanwhile, is peak Vile, six slowly unfurling minutes of a coughing drum machine and guitars upon guitars upon guitars—guitars murmuring to each other, guitars strumming off in a corner to themselves, high chiming solos that move so slowly and aimlessly over the top of the mix they blur into texture. It's an ocean of sound, one that Vile seems to summon as effortlessly as yawning by now. It's not quite enough to justify both of the appearance of these globs, half-heartedly tossed out onto the pile at the end of a release year, but it's close.

Artist: Kurt Vile, Sore Eros, Album: Jamaica Plain EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.4 Album review: "It's become part of Kurt Vile's small mythology, insofar as he has one: The few post-high school years he lived in Boston, away from his childhood friends in Philly. This brief purgatory—spent discovering John Fahey, driving a forklift to make ends meet, and wondering where all his friends had gone—was a formative, fertile period, the years in which he discovered and honed his inimitable finger-picking style and zeroed in on the wry, cosmic loneliness that would become his defining sound. He came back to Philly from what he once called his "weird little exile" with his first fully formed songs intact. The Jamaica Plain EP is an artifact from those earliest days. It's a collaboration with Robert Robinson, whose solo home-recording project, Sore Eros, concerned itself mostly with sad, blobby tangles of finger-picked guitars and tape manipulation. You can hear some of these same interests in Vile's earliest work, specifically the water-logged instrumental pieces that dot 2008's Constant Hitmaker. Vile has mostly left his interest in extreme tape manipulation and soggy lo-fi charm behind him, but the Jamaica Plain EP offers a brief and fitfully pretty glance backwards. Its three songs are inchoate, modestly lovely, and largely inconsequential, hinting at a time when Vile was starting to figure out his aesthetic. On "Serum", Robinson's vocals poke their way through a mix of acoustic guitars, ambient electronics, and tape hiss, blurred together and melted down. The title track has sleepy slide guitar that feels like an early sketch of the little waiting-room-of-the-soul painted on "Goldtone". The solo guitar piece "Calling Out of Work" is closest to the Vile we recognize today—the chord progression is meandering and gently sad, the electric guitars at the top of the track trail occasionally into firefly wisps. It goes on, unnecessarily, for six minutes, but the late-summer-sky light rays of Vile's breakthrough Hitmaker peek through, in shafts and glints. That said, it's hard to imagine who to recommend it to: ephemera and early works can be interesting, even if they're unsatisfying or mediocre, if they help add to our sense of the artist, suggesting a larger puzzle about how they became great. it's a big world out there (and i am scared), an EP of newer material, is pocket lint, to put it bluntly, dug out of the corners of the masterful Wakin On A Pretty Daze. Vile's a prolific songwriter; there are usually three or four revelatory songs from each album that hit the cutting room floor. His 2011 EP So Outta Reach, drawing on the Smoke Ring For My Halo sessions, gave us a lot of extra meat to chew on—his cover of Bruce Springsteen's "Downbound Train", for instance. There is less to dig into on it's a big world—are you excited at the prospect of owning a version of Wakin's "Never Run Away" with synth strings, with two reprises? How about an extended version of that album's "Snowflakes", or an instrumental version of "Airbud"? No? To be fair, there are two bona-fide new Kurt Vile songs on it's a big world out there. "Feel My Pain" sounds like a working draft that he later pried apart into two, better songs—"Was All Talk" and "Pure Pain"—when he realized it wasn't working on its own. "The Ghost of Freddie Roach", meanwhile, is peak Vile, six slowly unfurling minutes of a coughing drum machine and guitars upon guitars upon guitars—guitars murmuring to each other, guitars strumming off in a corner to themselves, high chiming solos that move so slowly and aimlessly over the top of the mix they blur into texture. It's an ocean of sound, one that Vile seems to summon as effortlessly as yawning by now. It's not quite enough to justify both of the appearance of these globs, half-heartedly tossed out onto the pile at the end of a release year, but it's close."

Women

Women

Experimental,Rock

Andrew Gaerig

There is an irony to Women's moniker-- the most un-Google-able name in rock since the Music-- that extends beyond the fact that the band is actually four dudes: Like many of their peers and forbears in the worlds of lo-fi psych-rock and industrial post-punk, Women make boys' club music, treehouse rock. Their debut deftly uses tape hiss as both a stylistic aid and compositional element, resulting in stocky blasts of melody. But where peers Deerhunter veer into amorphous song-globs and Times New Viking threaten to come unglued at any moment, Women has the cool, hard weight of something created under duress. You're reminded of how This Heat recorded their songs in a meat factory; Women’s cover-- a creepily synchronized group tai chi exercise-- recalls the sleeves for Reagan-era punk, released at a time when everything seemed vaguely politicized. Women was recorded by Sub Pop artist Chad VanGaalen in his basement, at least partially on boom boxes. The jangly whoosh of opener "Cameras" seems like a direct product of those bohemian environs: Quivering voices are propped up by picks scraping against strings, even when an exacted synth squiggle-- the first of several compositional left-turns-- betrays the rugged surroundings. "Cameras" lasts a mere 60 seconds and segues seamlessly into the steel-wool industrial sounds of "Lawncare", and from there, Women is deceptively easy and oddly energizing. Standout "Black Rice"'s guitars rapidly approach and fall off little cliffs. "Group Transport Hall" is paisley-wallpapered psych, its hasty acoustic march a textural curveball. It's on tracks like these that singer Patrick Flegel's voice-- a sour monotone throughout much of the album-- gains unexpected contour, admirably navigating "Black Rice"'s sighing chorus. Elsewhere, Women draws from a deceptive range of styles: "Upstairs" sounds like a mathematical composite of the breezier half of Chairs Missing. Instrumental "Sag Harbor Bridge" is almost John Fahey-esque in the way that its distorted, weaving fretboard runs conjure its namesake. On "Woodbine", another instrumental, a long drone sits impatiently as tittering electronics accumulate at its edges. By Women's end, the band's guitars have rusted: "January 8th" is fevered paranoia, its guitars angrily panning between speakers. "Flashlights" slows the pace momentarily before ramping up to a Sonic Youth-style jamboree. It's a brash, youthful ending for a band that spent most of the album avoiding such bludgeoning. Also strange is "Shaking Hand", jittery, Dischord-style precision-rock; at just under five minutes, it's the longest track on the album. Women do spend a tad too much time flexing their way through their instrumentals-- a shame since, when they bother with songcraft, they rarely miss: concise, nuanced statements with idiosyncratic arrangements. Awkward, youthful moments exist, but Women tire of them almost before you do. What's left are the best of post-punk ingredients: curiosity, noise, and sly artifice.

Artist: Women, Album: Women, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "There is an irony to Women's moniker-- the most un-Google-able name in rock since the Music-- that extends beyond the fact that the band is actually four dudes: Like many of their peers and forbears in the worlds of lo-fi psych-rock and industrial post-punk, Women make boys' club music, treehouse rock. Their debut deftly uses tape hiss as both a stylistic aid and compositional element, resulting in stocky blasts of melody. But where peers Deerhunter veer into amorphous song-globs and Times New Viking threaten to come unglued at any moment, Women has the cool, hard weight of something created under duress. You're reminded of how This Heat recorded their songs in a meat factory; Women’s cover-- a creepily synchronized group tai chi exercise-- recalls the sleeves for Reagan-era punk, released at a time when everything seemed vaguely politicized. Women was recorded by Sub Pop artist Chad VanGaalen in his basement, at least partially on boom boxes. The jangly whoosh of opener "Cameras" seems like a direct product of those bohemian environs: Quivering voices are propped up by picks scraping against strings, even when an exacted synth squiggle-- the first of several compositional left-turns-- betrays the rugged surroundings. "Cameras" lasts a mere 60 seconds and segues seamlessly into the steel-wool industrial sounds of "Lawncare", and from there, Women is deceptively easy and oddly energizing. Standout "Black Rice"'s guitars rapidly approach and fall off little cliffs. "Group Transport Hall" is paisley-wallpapered psych, its hasty acoustic march a textural curveball. It's on tracks like these that singer Patrick Flegel's voice-- a sour monotone throughout much of the album-- gains unexpected contour, admirably navigating "Black Rice"'s sighing chorus. Elsewhere, Women draws from a deceptive range of styles: "Upstairs" sounds like a mathematical composite of the breezier half of Chairs Missing. Instrumental "Sag Harbor Bridge" is almost John Fahey-esque in the way that its distorted, weaving fretboard runs conjure its namesake. On "Woodbine", another instrumental, a long drone sits impatiently as tittering electronics accumulate at its edges. By Women's end, the band's guitars have rusted: "January 8th" is fevered paranoia, its guitars angrily panning between speakers. "Flashlights" slows the pace momentarily before ramping up to a Sonic Youth-style jamboree. It's a brash, youthful ending for a band that spent most of the album avoiding such bludgeoning. Also strange is "Shaking Hand", jittery, Dischord-style precision-rock; at just under five minutes, it's the longest track on the album. Women do spend a tad too much time flexing their way through their instrumentals-- a shame since, when they bother with songcraft, they rarely miss: concise, nuanced statements with idiosyncratic arrangements. Awkward, youthful moments exist, but Women tire of them almost before you do. What's left are the best of post-punk ingredients: curiosity, noise, and sly artifice."

Marie Davidson

Adieux Au Dancefloor

Electronic

Kevin Lozano

For a brief pocket of time in the beginning of the 2010s, spoken-word poetry was surprisingly prevalent in music. Spanning Jamie xx’s remixes of Gil Scott-Heron, to Brian Eno and the poet Rick Holland’s *Drums Between the Bells**, *and the lowbrow masterpiece of Paris Hilton’s “Drunk Text,” this little bumper crop did not go unnoticed: The Guardian clunkily called the shared musical space “poetronica.” While reading poetry over sweet-toned beats always felt kitschy, there is something undeniable linking the two forms: As the poet Jodi Ann Bickley has said, the forms are exceptional at creating a sense of “place,” and both inherently are dictated by a primordial sense of rhythm. One of the most successful and captivating practitioners of spoken-word electronic has been Marie Davidson, one half of the Montreal coldwave duo Essaie Pas. Her two previous solo releases (Perte D'Identité and Un Autre Voyage) mingled gothic ambient music, poetic repetitions, and analog synthpop to great success. Her work has never felt campy, but is darkly rendered, probing, and redolent of Lizzy Mercier Descloux. In her third solo release, Adieux Au Dancefloor, Davidson presents a project that indicates exciting and near-exponential growth in her ability as a writer and producer. The project started to gestate last year, after Davidson returned to Montreal from Berlin, having completed a recent European tour with Essaie Pas. She says that the music was informed by a dualistic relationship to “dance music and club culture”; a fascination and disgust that emerged after the conclusion of her trip. “Touring and playing live late at night can lead to destructive habits and behaviors,” she said. *Adieux Au Dancefloor *(“Farewell to the Dancefloor”) is the result of redirecting the chaotic energy of constant clubbing towards creative ends. In line with it’s inspiration, *Adieux Au Dancefloor is much more informed by club music than her previous releases. The sounds and their presentation are pleasing and spacious and and made to appeal to a dancefloor sensibility, aligning it with Essaie Pas’ recent release Demain Est Une Autre Nuit, *a fantastically shadowy and phantasmagoric album of analog dance music. In the album’s opening moment, “Dedicate My Life,” Davidson conjures the beautifully unhinged spirit of Throbbing Gristle, with pointillist synths, relentless drums, and needles of heated noise that recall the profane and industrial heartbeat of “Hot on the Heels of Love.” When Davidson begins reciting her poem, she introduces the album’s narrator, an empowered, effortlessly cool, feminist badass. “People ask me/What I do with my time/Listen/I dedicate my life,” Davidson says. At one point her voice disappears beneath the swirling noise, as a tempo change provokes ecstatic body motion. It might feature a poet as its narrator, but this is not a "contemplative" album; this is dynamic, kinetic music wants to provoke a flurry of action. The album retains this speedball excitement as it weaves it’s way through instrumental tracks and poems in both English in French. In tracks like “Denial,” Davidson explores the upper limits of her analog gear, pumping up the pace and pulsations of her synth to a point that finds the song almost unravel on itself. It reminded me of the chaotic beauty of watching viral videos of washing machines self-destructing. Even in its drapery of fog and acid, Adieux Au Dancefloor consistently finds feel-good moments. Take for example, “Good Vibes,” which lifts up Davidson’s call to arms (“This song is dedicated to all the jealous people”) with a pleasantly jarring and rough-hewn synth loop. Or “Naive to the Bone,” the album’s funniest and most writerly number with lines like “Let me picture my future, a large room where you can hear the silence/No space for arrogance, no pain in my chest/Just the beating of my heart” conjuring Anne Sexton. She also flashes a sharp and quotidian sense of humor, castigating an unnamed enemy’s fashion choices: “In The Middle Ages, people used to wear clocks, it's 2016, get real.” The album culminates in its title track, which gathers together her wit into an unreal screed and personal exorcism of nightlife’s inescapable vapidity. Singing in French, she starts the song by painting a hellish scene: “A stranger taking a picture of himself with his phone/A girl lying on the floor, her eyes rolled upwards.” She shrouds the burn of her words with the most exciting and seedy sounds of the album. It smartly distorts the content of her poem with the sensation her music produces, making those lines seem even more affecting. As the song reaches it’s at end, Davidson says “There are no more reasons to celebrate/Who will pity me in the morning if I lose my mind?,” presenting a hard question for the brain already sapped of serotonin. Throughout Adieux Au Dancefloor, Davidson constantly turns these moments of powerful doubt and bad mojo into joyous dance music, making the album a strenuous mental and physical exercise. The music here presents a criticism of the very place it is meant to live. What Davidson does here is not just a piece of music, or a set of poems, but a critical dialogue framed as a brooding electronic epic.

Artist: Marie Davidson, Album: Adieux Au Dancefloor, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "For a brief pocket of time in the beginning of the 2010s, spoken-word poetry was surprisingly prevalent in music. Spanning Jamie xx’s remixes of Gil Scott-Heron, to Brian Eno and the poet Rick Holland’s *Drums Between the Bells**, *and the lowbrow masterpiece of Paris Hilton’s “Drunk Text,” this little bumper crop did not go unnoticed: The Guardian clunkily called the shared musical space “poetronica.” While reading poetry over sweet-toned beats always felt kitschy, there is something undeniable linking the two forms: As the poet Jodi Ann Bickley has said, the forms are exceptional at creating a sense of “place,” and both inherently are dictated by a primordial sense of rhythm. One of the most successful and captivating practitioners of spoken-word electronic has been Marie Davidson, one half of the Montreal coldwave duo Essaie Pas. Her two previous solo releases (Perte D'Identité and Un Autre Voyage) mingled gothic ambient music, poetic repetitions, and analog synthpop to great success. Her work has never felt campy, but is darkly rendered, probing, and redolent of Lizzy Mercier Descloux. In her third solo release, Adieux Au Dancefloor, Davidson presents a project that indicates exciting and near-exponential growth in her ability as a writer and producer. The project started to gestate last year, after Davidson returned to Montreal from Berlin, having completed a recent European tour with Essaie Pas. She says that the music was informed by a dualistic relationship to “dance music and club culture”; a fascination and disgust that emerged after the conclusion of her trip. “Touring and playing live late at night can lead to destructive habits and behaviors,” she said. *Adieux Au Dancefloor *(“Farewell to the Dancefloor”) is the result of redirecting the chaotic energy of constant clubbing towards creative ends. In line with it’s inspiration, *Adieux Au Dancefloor is much more informed by club music than her previous releases. The sounds and their presentation are pleasing and spacious and and made to appeal to a dancefloor sensibility, aligning it with Essaie Pas’ recent release Demain Est Une Autre Nuit, *a fantastically shadowy and phantasmagoric album of analog dance music. In the album’s opening moment, “Dedicate My Life,” Davidson conjures the beautifully unhinged spirit of Throbbing Gristle, with pointillist synths, relentless drums, and needles of heated noise that recall the profane and industrial heartbeat of “Hot on the Heels of Love.” When Davidson begins reciting her poem, she introduces the album’s narrator, an empowered, effortlessly cool, feminist badass. “People ask me/What I do with my time/Listen/I dedicate my life,” Davidson says. At one point her voice disappears beneath the swirling noise, as a tempo change provokes ecstatic body motion. It might feature a poet as its narrator, but this is not a "contemplative" album; this is dynamic, kinetic music wants to provoke a flurry of action. The album retains this speedball excitement as it weaves it’s way through instrumental tracks and poems in both English in French. In tracks like “Denial,” Davidson explores the upper limits of her analog gear, pumping up the pace and pulsations of her synth to a point that finds the song almost unravel on itself. It reminded me of the chaotic beauty of watching viral videos of washing machines self-destructing. Even in its drapery of fog and acid, Adieux Au Dancefloor consistently finds feel-good moments. Take for example, “Good Vibes,” which lifts up Davidson’s call to arms (“This song is dedicated to all the jealous people”) with a pleasantly jarring and rough-hewn synth loop. Or “Naive to the Bone,” the album’s funniest and most writerly number with lines like “Let me picture my future, a large room where you can hear the silence/No space for arrogance, no pain in my chest/Just the beating of my heart” conjuring Anne Sexton. She also flashes a sharp and quotidian sense of humor, castigating an unnamed enemy’s fashion choices: “In The Middle Ages, people used to wear clocks, it's 2016, get real.” The album culminates in its title track, which gathers together her wit into an unreal screed and personal exorcism of nightlife’s inescapable vapidity. Singing in French, she starts the song by painting a hellish scene: “A stranger taking a picture of himself with his phone/A girl lying on the floor, her eyes rolled upwards.” She shrouds the burn of her words with the most exciting and seedy sounds of the album. It smartly distorts the content of her poem with the sensation her music produces, making those lines seem even more affecting. As the song reaches it’s at end, Davidson says “There are no more reasons to celebrate/Who will pity me in the morning if I lose my mind?,” presenting a hard question for the brain already sapped of serotonin. Throughout Adieux Au Dancefloor, Davidson constantly turns these moments of powerful doubt and bad mojo into joyous dance music, making the album a strenuous mental and physical exercise. The music here presents a criticism of the very place it is meant to live. What Davidson does here is not just a piece of music, or a set of poems, but a critical dialogue framed as a brooding electronic epic."

Hinds

Leave Me Alone

Rock

Quinn Moreland

The Madrid-based quartet Hinds makes fuzzy garage pop that seems as intrinsically linked to the warmth and sunshine of their home as California-infused idleness is to many Burger Records bands. They began as a duo called Deers after Carlotta Cosials and Ana Perrote met back in 2011. Inspired by bands like the Black Lips, Mac DeMarco, and the Strokes, the pair wrote woozy pop tracks about love, partying, and the complicated problems that occur when mixing the two. After releasing their first single, 2014's DEMO, Hinds completed their lineup with Ade Martin on bass and Amber Grimbergen on drums, and soon after were forced to change their name due to legal issues (Hinds means a female deer). Hinds may be aware that their casual origin story and goofy demeanor (catch them cracking beers and dancing on tables in their videos) may cause some to think they are not a serious project, so the foursome chose to challenge themselves on their debut LP Leave Me Alone, and the decision pays off. Hinds have described the 12 tracks on Leave Me Alone as the various "faces of love" they experienced while writing their debut, and therefore is more emotionally varied than their previously lighthearted singles. While the title indicates detachment, a majority of the songs suggest the opposite, pleading quite literally on "Fat Calmed Kiddos" "please don't leave me." Leave Me Alone is a record of human contradictions, of the admissions of vulnerability, and the realization that these things are beautiful. It's no coincidence that the phrase "You're on my mind" appears on several songs; for better or worse, Hinds realize that there are some feelings that cannot be escaped. Leave Me Alone's singles focus on their purely poppy side, from the smooth opener "Garden" to the glorious jangle of "San Diego" to the wailing harmonies of "Bamboo." The previously released "Castigadas En El Granero," which translates to "punished in the barn," is perhaps the most frenzied track on the album, which is only amplified by rapid-fire, somewhat absurd observations like "All I see is a big cow/ And now I'm eating all your corn." Another particular standout is "Fat Calmed Kiddos," a sunny whirlpool of a song with a particularly poignant chorus: "And I needed to risk 'cause I needed to try/ And I needed a breath 'cause you were out tonight." These tracks show off what truly sets Hinds apart: Cosials and Perrote's shared vocal responsibilities, which fit together perfectly. Cosials' voice switches between a silky drawl and a Joplin-like howl while Perrote's is grounding and steady. When one is singing, the other often emphasizes or counters, the Ego and Id so to speak. The best moments on Leave Me Alone occur when Cosials and Perrote are going all-out, belting together without restraint. But even on the "slower" songs (there isn't really a lull on Leave Me Alone, except for the midway instrumental interlude "Solar Gap") the possibility exists for the energy to be cranked up all the way. After a few final mellow jams like the spacey "And I Will Send Your Flowers Back" and "I'll Be Your Man", Hinds conclude with "Walking Home", a fuzzy and almost-tropical declaration of love. The song embraces silly metaphors like "You're the map to my toe" and "You're the rice of my bowl" before softly fading out with the words, "You're the love of my life." "Walking Home" is a lovely reminder of two important facts: that love does not need to be complicated and that Hinds are not afraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves.

Artist: Hinds, Album: Leave Me Alone, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "The Madrid-based quartet Hinds makes fuzzy garage pop that seems as intrinsically linked to the warmth and sunshine of their home as California-infused idleness is to many Burger Records bands. They began as a duo called Deers after Carlotta Cosials and Ana Perrote met back in 2011. Inspired by bands like the Black Lips, Mac DeMarco, and the Strokes, the pair wrote woozy pop tracks about love, partying, and the complicated problems that occur when mixing the two. After releasing their first single, 2014's DEMO, Hinds completed their lineup with Ade Martin on bass and Amber Grimbergen on drums, and soon after were forced to change their name due to legal issues (Hinds means a female deer). Hinds may be aware that their casual origin story and goofy demeanor (catch them cracking beers and dancing on tables in their videos) may cause some to think they are not a serious project, so the foursome chose to challenge themselves on their debut LP Leave Me Alone, and the decision pays off. Hinds have described the 12 tracks on Leave Me Alone as the various "faces of love" they experienced while writing their debut, and therefore is more emotionally varied than their previously lighthearted singles. While the title indicates detachment, a majority of the songs suggest the opposite, pleading quite literally on "Fat Calmed Kiddos" "please don't leave me." Leave Me Alone is a record of human contradictions, of the admissions of vulnerability, and the realization that these things are beautiful. It's no coincidence that the phrase "You're on my mind" appears on several songs; for better or worse, Hinds realize that there are some feelings that cannot be escaped. Leave Me Alone's singles focus on their purely poppy side, from the smooth opener "Garden" to the glorious jangle of "San Diego" to the wailing harmonies of "Bamboo." The previously released "Castigadas En El Granero," which translates to "punished in the barn," is perhaps the most frenzied track on the album, which is only amplified by rapid-fire, somewhat absurd observations like "All I see is a big cow/ And now I'm eating all your corn." Another particular standout is "Fat Calmed Kiddos," a sunny whirlpool of a song with a particularly poignant chorus: "And I needed to risk 'cause I needed to try/ And I needed a breath 'cause you were out tonight." These tracks show off what truly sets Hinds apart: Cosials and Perrote's shared vocal responsibilities, which fit together perfectly. Cosials' voice switches between a silky drawl and a Joplin-like howl while Perrote's is grounding and steady. When one is singing, the other often emphasizes or counters, the Ego and Id so to speak. The best moments on Leave Me Alone occur when Cosials and Perrote are going all-out, belting together without restraint. But even on the "slower" songs (there isn't really a lull on Leave Me Alone, except for the midway instrumental interlude "Solar Gap") the possibility exists for the energy to be cranked up all the way. After a few final mellow jams like the spacey "And I Will Send Your Flowers Back" and "I'll Be Your Man", Hinds conclude with "Walking Home", a fuzzy and almost-tropical declaration of love. The song embraces silly metaphors like "You're the map to my toe" and "You're the rice of my bowl" before softly fading out with the words, "You're the love of my life." "Walking Home" is a lovely reminder of two important facts: that love does not need to be complicated and that Hinds are not afraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves."

The Court & Spark

Dead Diamond River EP

Folk/Country

Sam Ubl

Twang: the plight of any alt-country musician. From Jeff Tweedy's inauspicious beginnings in Uncle Tupelo, to dusty latter day folksters like David Pajo and Will Oldham, the genre has always been haunted by detractors who yield the word like incriminating evidence. If the indie music press shares one thing in common with the right-wing media juggernaut, it's its eager defamation of this innocuous onomatopoetic device. Much like "liberal" in today's so-called political journalism, twang has come to mean something dirty among the critical elite. Aside from the obvious imbecility of the idea that any singular element can be inherently bad in music, twang is a relatively harmless quality to vilify. After all, the last thing one could call Ry Cooder's slide guitar meditations is pretentious. In fact, alt-country was founded in part to counter the sort of discreet braggadocio so virulent in underground music. The Court & Spark certainly belong to this category, albeit cast down a somewhat more experimental tributary. Conceived and reared in San Francisco, the band are as indebted to Cooder et al as anyone, and their vast soundscapes evoke untainted portraits of an Ol' West less steeped in folklore than shear, elemental love of life. And yes, their songs twang along with the best of 'em; see their tender "National Lights", off 2001's Bless You, one of the exemplary y'allternative songs of the last few years, for proof. But The Court & Spark are so much more than twang, and it only takes a few bars of "Invercargill", the opening cut off the group's new EP, Dead Diamond River, for them to reiterate it. Three years removed from their last full-length effort, the California quintet have had sufficient time to explore, hone, and expand their sound, and if this concise five-song collection is any indication, their forthcoming Witch Season LP should provide a more nuanced companion to the band's erstwhile work. Of course, given the band's rootsy aesthetic, there are the haggard old tricks-- dolorous tempos, heart-rending vocal deliveries, and plenty of pedal steel ("Bar the Door, Davy" even intercepts, verbatim, a riff from The Decemberists' "Clementine")-- but the band are adventurous enough in their retreads to revere a long lineage of forebears while simultaneously taking steps toward an advanced sound. Aforementioned "Invercargill" dabbles in mesmeric psych-folk atmospherics before performing an abrupt turnabout, dissolving inwardly, and emerging with a drowned-out rag that it rides to an anti-climax. Before long, the amicable "Lucia" cozies up to some bucolic acoustic fingering, and The Court & Spark are back to being their humble old selves again. But don't be fooled. The Court & Spark are a very sophisticated animal, and any intimations at simplicity are readily dispelled by the finesse of their arrangements. What saves songs like "Lucia" from succumbing to vapidity is a keen sense of dynamics, and a killer knack for arranging familiar instruments. Throughout Dead Diamond River, acoustic guitars, vibraphones, glockenspiels, pedal steels, organs, and analog synths intermingle with harmonious fluidity, resulting in a sum much greater than its parts. You don't need to have seen San Francisco to appreciate their visceral orchestrations; like any successfully evocative folk music, the portraits the band etch are almost better than the real thing for their fictitiously preserved perfection.

Artist: The Court & Spark, Album: Dead Diamond River EP, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Twang: the plight of any alt-country musician. From Jeff Tweedy's inauspicious beginnings in Uncle Tupelo, to dusty latter day folksters like David Pajo and Will Oldham, the genre has always been haunted by detractors who yield the word like incriminating evidence. If the indie music press shares one thing in common with the right-wing media juggernaut, it's its eager defamation of this innocuous onomatopoetic device. Much like "liberal" in today's so-called political journalism, twang has come to mean something dirty among the critical elite. Aside from the obvious imbecility of the idea that any singular element can be inherently bad in music, twang is a relatively harmless quality to vilify. After all, the last thing one could call Ry Cooder's slide guitar meditations is pretentious. In fact, alt-country was founded in part to counter the sort of discreet braggadocio so virulent in underground music. The Court & Spark certainly belong to this category, albeit cast down a somewhat more experimental tributary. Conceived and reared in San Francisco, the band are as indebted to Cooder et al as anyone, and their vast soundscapes evoke untainted portraits of an Ol' West less steeped in folklore than shear, elemental love of life. And yes, their songs twang along with the best of 'em; see their tender "National Lights", off 2001's Bless You, one of the exemplary y'allternative songs of the last few years, for proof. But The Court & Spark are so much more than twang, and it only takes a few bars of "Invercargill", the opening cut off the group's new EP, Dead Diamond River, for them to reiterate it. Three years removed from their last full-length effort, the California quintet have had sufficient time to explore, hone, and expand their sound, and if this concise five-song collection is any indication, their forthcoming Witch Season LP should provide a more nuanced companion to the band's erstwhile work. Of course, given the band's rootsy aesthetic, there are the haggard old tricks-- dolorous tempos, heart-rending vocal deliveries, and plenty of pedal steel ("Bar the Door, Davy" even intercepts, verbatim, a riff from The Decemberists' "Clementine")-- but the band are adventurous enough in their retreads to revere a long lineage of forebears while simultaneously taking steps toward an advanced sound. Aforementioned "Invercargill" dabbles in mesmeric psych-folk atmospherics before performing an abrupt turnabout, dissolving inwardly, and emerging with a drowned-out rag that it rides to an anti-climax. Before long, the amicable "Lucia" cozies up to some bucolic acoustic fingering, and The Court & Spark are back to being their humble old selves again. But don't be fooled. The Court & Spark are a very sophisticated animal, and any intimations at simplicity are readily dispelled by the finesse of their arrangements. What saves songs like "Lucia" from succumbing to vapidity is a keen sense of dynamics, and a killer knack for arranging familiar instruments. Throughout Dead Diamond River, acoustic guitars, vibraphones, glockenspiels, pedal steels, organs, and analog synths intermingle with harmonious fluidity, resulting in a sum much greater than its parts. You don't need to have seen San Francisco to appreciate their visceral orchestrations; like any successfully evocative folk music, the portraits the band etch are almost better than the real thing for their fictitiously preserved perfection."

Various Artists

Who's That Man: A Tribute to Conny Plank

Andy Beta

Whether you read On Some Faraway Beach, author David Sheppard’s biography of Brian Eno, or writer Geeta Dayal’s in-depth investigation of Eno’s 1975 watermark Another Green World, at one point, you’ll come upon Eno’s comment about an early King Tubby record: On King Tubby Meets the Upsetter, the artwork features "a picture of the consoles instead of 'the stars'"; the producer championed as artist in their own right. That sort of realization would turn the one-time glam rocker into a studio sage over the course of the 1970s, but just as crucial was his understanding that one producer had already taken the lessons of Jamaica to heart in Germany, utilizing the mixing board to re-structure the music he was producing. The man born Konrad Plank, and the music he captured to tape in the 70s and 80s, wholly altered both the trajectories of German kosmische music and the Neue Deutsche Welle; British punk, new wave and New Romanticism; electro and industrial music; and-- years after his passing from cancer-- alternative rock. There may be no more daunting task than to encapsulate the man in a box set tribute. Who’s That Man makes that attempt across four CDs, courtesy of the Grönland label, who were also responsible for ending decades of Neu! bootlegs by properly reissuing the German band’s massively influential three studio albums. The reason Neu! was so influential on the likes of Radiohead, Sonic Youth, and the Sex Pistols is due in no small part to Plank, who captured the magma-like intensity of the band on tape. Described by Sheppard as “ursine and lank-haired, dressed like a Viking and [a] ‘mad scientist,’” by the time Plank began to make his name as a producer, he had already studied under Karlheinz Stockhausen and recorded Marlene Dietrich. To trace his production credits from 1969 onward is to follow the lineage of krautrock itself. Plank was behind the earliest Kraftwerk, Cluster, Ash Ra Tempel, and Guru Guru albums along with innumerable others. (Can, Amon Düül, and Faust were among the few genre proponents not bearing his fingerprints.) Eno himself encountered Plank when he ventured to the German countryside to collaborate with Moebius and Roedelius of Cluster, and his is the first voice you hear on the box set, on the woozy pop Eno & Cluster collaboration “Broken Head”. Plank’s studio was in a converted farmhouse in Neunkirchen, 30km east of Cologne. “His mixing desk had been modified so that with one finger he could simultaneously deploy echo and panning effects,” Sheppard wrote. “For Plank, mixing was a matter of quixotic performance as it was technical application.” While his cues might have been taken from the likes of Lee “Scratch” Perry and King Tubby, Plank’s productions eschewed easy earmarks. And while his influence on the likes of Martin Hannett is evident, the box shows that there was no singular “Plank sound.” For one disc at least, Man captures some of Plank’s essence. Spiky no-wave electro noise from Japan rendered with half of Can that anticipates Silent Shout? Check Phew’s “Signal.” Joy Division-style punk? That would be D.A.F.’s rumbling “Alles Ist Gut”. A dark, cavernous b-side on a debut single from an act that would become one of the 80s most revered pop acts? See Eurythmics’ “La Sinistre”. Beatific oceanic ambience? Cue up closer “Leb Wohl!” In a three-song span, the set shows how Plank moved from the producer’s chair onto a more active, collaborative presence in the studio: from the jittery and jangly noise courtesy of Plank’s collaboration with Moebius to a proto-industrial spoken word piece with Red Krayola’s Mayo Thompson, and onto an alien yet ebullient proto-techno track from Moebius-Plank-Neumeier (of Guru Guru). Yes, the producer could be more than just a finger pressing record, a participant in the very sound he was rendering to tape. But by the second disc, the man, his sense of capturing space, and his great oeuvre fall woefully out of focus. His groundbreaking work harnessing the unfettered electronics of early Kluster and Kraftwerk is wholly missing (with the latter’s disavowal of their first four albums leading up to Autobahn acutely felt). Same goes with his New Romanticism work alongside Ultravox and John Foxx. His stranger 80s work, producing the likes of A Flock of Seagulls, Les Rita Mitsouko, and Whodini, is also noticeably absent. Instead, one has to suffer through a stodgy and useless cover of “Eleanor Rigby” and the man’s own drunken bellowing of “Silent Night” at the disc’s end. And why Bluepoint Underground’s namechecking of the man in the late 90s warrants inclusion here is beyond me. The last disc comprises a live set, featuring Plank fully transitioned to performer down in Mexico in 1986, unleashing squalls of industrial noise alongside Dieter Moebius and Arno Steffen, less than a year before he succumbed to cancer in 1987. Worse still is the entire disc of underwhelming remixes. Automat’s “Broken Head” remix is serviceable, but Justus Köhncke’s flatulent remix of Michael Rother’s “Feuerland” only detracts from the original’s eloquence. Günther Lause reducing Phew to the sound of jingling jewelry while music plays two rooms over need not take up 10 minutes. Same goes for a sleep-inducing remix from Crato that’s also past the double-digit mark. Eye from Boredoms does a cartoonish, whiplash remix that goes to the other extreme, giving the impression that none of the remixers involved really understand Plank. After four discs, one comes no nearer to understanding who that man was. Refined and impish, noisy and tranquil, grotesque and resplendent, Plank’s handiwork feels at once ineffable and instantaneous. When the jackhammering of Neu!’s “Hallogallo” ruptures the proceedings midway through disc two, the effect remains startling. One remains hard-pressed to identify specifically what Plank contributed and what sprang from Rother-Dinger, but the close partnership is evident. And it sounds nuts four decades later. "Craziness is something holy," Plank said in an interview with Electronic Musician magazine shortly before his death, and yet the set conveys only the merest glimpse of the man’s insanity.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Who's That Man: A Tribute to Conny Plank, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "Whether you read On Some Faraway Beach, author David Sheppard’s biography of Brian Eno, or writer Geeta Dayal’s in-depth investigation of Eno’s 1975 watermark Another Green World, at one point, you’ll come upon Eno’s comment about an early King Tubby record: On King Tubby Meets the Upsetter, the artwork features "a picture of the consoles instead of 'the stars'"; the producer championed as artist in their own right. That sort of realization would turn the one-time glam rocker into a studio sage over the course of the 1970s, but just as crucial was his understanding that one producer had already taken the lessons of Jamaica to heart in Germany, utilizing the mixing board to re-structure the music he was producing. The man born Konrad Plank, and the music he captured to tape in the 70s and 80s, wholly altered both the trajectories of German kosmische music and the Neue Deutsche Welle; British punk, new wave and New Romanticism; electro and industrial music; and-- years after his passing from cancer-- alternative rock. There may be no more daunting task than to encapsulate the man in a box set tribute. Who’s That Man makes that attempt across four CDs, courtesy of the Grönland label, who were also responsible for ending decades of Neu! bootlegs by properly reissuing the German band’s massively influential three studio albums. The reason Neu! was so influential on the likes of Radiohead, Sonic Youth, and the Sex Pistols is due in no small part to Plank, who captured the magma-like intensity of the band on tape. Described by Sheppard as “ursine and lank-haired, dressed like a Viking and [a] ‘mad scientist,’” by the time Plank began to make his name as a producer, he had already studied under Karlheinz Stockhausen and recorded Marlene Dietrich. To trace his production credits from 1969 onward is to follow the lineage of krautrock itself. Plank was behind the earliest Kraftwerk, Cluster, Ash Ra Tempel, and Guru Guru albums along with innumerable others. (Can, Amon Düül, and Faust were among the few genre proponents not bearing his fingerprints.) Eno himself encountered Plank when he ventured to the German countryside to collaborate with Moebius and Roedelius of Cluster, and his is the first voice you hear on the box set, on the woozy pop Eno & Cluster collaboration “Broken Head”. Plank’s studio was in a converted farmhouse in Neunkirchen, 30km east of Cologne. “His mixing desk had been modified so that with one finger he could simultaneously deploy echo and panning effects,” Sheppard wrote. “For Plank, mixing was a matter of quixotic performance as it was technical application.” While his cues might have been taken from the likes of Lee “Scratch” Perry and King Tubby, Plank’s productions eschewed easy earmarks. And while his influence on the likes of Martin Hannett is evident, the box shows that there was no singular “Plank sound.” For one disc at least, Man captures some of Plank’s essence. Spiky no-wave electro noise from Japan rendered with half of Can that anticipates Silent Shout? Check Phew’s “Signal.” Joy Division-style punk? That would be D.A.F.’s rumbling “Alles Ist Gut”. A dark, cavernous b-side on a debut single from an act that would become one of the 80s most revered pop acts? See Eurythmics’ “La Sinistre”. Beatific oceanic ambience? Cue up closer “Leb Wohl!” In a three-song span, the set shows how Plank moved from the producer’s chair onto a more active, collaborative presence in the studio: from the jittery and jangly noise courtesy of Plank’s collaboration with Moebius to a proto-industrial spoken word piece with Red Krayola’s Mayo Thompson, and onto an alien yet ebullient proto-techno track from Moebius-Plank-Neumeier (of Guru Guru). Yes, the producer could be more than just a finger pressing record, a participant in the very sound he was rendering to tape. But by the second disc, the man, his sense of capturing space, and his great oeuvre fall woefully out of focus. His groundbreaking work harnessing the unfettered electronics of early Kluster and Kraftwerk is wholly missing (with the latter’s disavowal of their first four albums leading up to Autobahn acutely felt). Same goes with his New Romanticism work alongside Ultravox and John Foxx. His stranger 80s work, producing the likes of A Flock of Seagulls, Les Rita Mitsouko, and Whodini, is also noticeably absent. Instead, one has to suffer through a stodgy and useless cover of “Eleanor Rigby” and the man’s own drunken bellowing of “Silent Night” at the disc’s end. And why Bluepoint Underground’s namechecking of the man in the late 90s warrants inclusion here is beyond me. The last disc comprises a live set, featuring Plank fully transitioned to performer down in Mexico in 1986, unleashing squalls of industrial noise alongside Dieter Moebius and Arno Steffen, less than a year before he succumbed to cancer in 1987. Worse still is the entire disc of underwhelming remixes. Automat’s “Broken Head” remix is serviceable, but Justus Köhncke’s flatulent remix of Michael Rother’s “Feuerland” only detracts from the original’s eloquence. Günther Lause reducing Phew to the sound of jingling jewelry while music plays two rooms over need not take up 10 minutes. Same goes for a sleep-inducing remix from Crato that’s also past the double-digit mark. Eye from Boredoms does a cartoonish, whiplash remix that goes to the other extreme, giving the impression that none of the remixers involved really understand Plank. After four discs, one comes no nearer to understanding who that man was. Refined and impish, noisy and tranquil, grotesque and resplendent, Plank’s handiwork feels at once ineffable and instantaneous. When the jackhammering of Neu!’s “Hallogallo” ruptures the proceedings midway through disc two, the effect remains startling. One remains hard-pressed to identify specifically what Plank contributed and what sprang from Rother-Dinger, but the close partnership is evident. And it sounds nuts four decades later. "Craziness is something holy," Plank said in an interview with Electronic Musician magazine shortly before his death, and yet the set conveys only the merest glimpse of the man’s insanity."

Christian Scott aTunde Adjuah

Stretch Music

Jazz

Brad Nelson

Stretch music, according to New Orleans jazz musician Christian Scott, is an approach that engenders a more absorbent and sensitive kind of jazz. "We are attempting to stretch—not replace—jazz's rhythmic, melodic and harmonic conventions to encompass as many musical forms/languages/cultures as we can," he says on his website. He titled his fifth album after the concept, but this sensibility is visible even in his earliest work as a leader; the title track of 2007's Anthem is jazz in its instrumentation, but it also obeys the rhythms and structures of post-hardcore, a series of contrasting shapes which build an atomically tense and spectral space, like a cathedral at night. His description of "stretch music" somewhat resembles the omnivorous jazz approaches of bassist/singer Esperanza Spalding and pianist Robert Glasper. It's similarly collaborative and elastic. But Scott's genre splicing is not as mosaic as Glasper's. It’s doesn’t lock different genres together in unusual patterns as much as it melts them down into asymmetrical and indivisible sculpture. It's almost curious to call it "stretch music" when it feels as if jazz isn’t so much expanded here as collapsed into small, oblique jewels. Later in his mission statement, Scott describes his intention to draw unusual instruments through distortion. This is how Stretch Music begins: A piano, played by Lawrence Fields, struggles through noise, as if pressing and blurring against a force field. Instruments undergo a kind of metamorphosis in Scott’s aesthetic, which is reflected in the album cover: his trumpet bends and warps into elastic shapes. On record, Scott’s playing is patient and crisp, and it seems the product of spatial reasoning, more concerned with the area around his notes than their actual occurrence. He is sometimes accompanied by the ribbony flute phrases of Elena Pinderhughes, which contrast pleasingly with the routine collapse of the backdrop. This collapse is occasioned by the percussion, played by Corey Fonville and Joe Dyson, Jr., alternately on drums and SPD-SX pads. Snare rolls are enhanced into dense exaggerations, glitching in and out of compressed rattles which physically approach vortexes of static. It lends the songs the accelerated yet organized rhythms of accident; it reminds me of sparks convulsing from a severed cable. Sometimes the instrumentation is more obscure, as on "Tantric" and "Perspectives", each chord landing and shimmering with a kind of blurred phosphorescence. There are also more typical fusion exercises, as on "West of the West", where Matthew Stevens’ guitar recalls the metallic echo of Sonny Sharrock. When Scott played at this year’s New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, he said "West of the West" describes the sense of dislocation he felt when he lived in L.A., a place that seems unlocked from its own geography, released into imaginary and aggressively blank space. His music is the opposite of dislocated; it is thoroughly articulated, busy and compressed. The reach of Stretch Music can often feel literal—even as the threads warp and drift a deeply woven structure is preserved.

Artist: Christian Scott aTunde Adjuah, Album: Stretch Music, Genre: Jazz, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Stretch music, according to New Orleans jazz musician Christian Scott, is an approach that engenders a more absorbent and sensitive kind of jazz. "We are attempting to stretch—not replace—jazz's rhythmic, melodic and harmonic conventions to encompass as many musical forms/languages/cultures as we can," he says on his website. He titled his fifth album after the concept, but this sensibility is visible even in his earliest work as a leader; the title track of 2007's Anthem is jazz in its instrumentation, but it also obeys the rhythms and structures of post-hardcore, a series of contrasting shapes which build an atomically tense and spectral space, like a cathedral at night. His description of "stretch music" somewhat resembles the omnivorous jazz approaches of bassist/singer Esperanza Spalding and pianist Robert Glasper. It's similarly collaborative and elastic. But Scott's genre splicing is not as mosaic as Glasper's. It’s doesn’t lock different genres together in unusual patterns as much as it melts them down into asymmetrical and indivisible sculpture. It's almost curious to call it "stretch music" when it feels as if jazz isn’t so much expanded here as collapsed into small, oblique jewels. Later in his mission statement, Scott describes his intention to draw unusual instruments through distortion. This is how Stretch Music begins: A piano, played by Lawrence Fields, struggles through noise, as if pressing and blurring against a force field. Instruments undergo a kind of metamorphosis in Scott’s aesthetic, which is reflected in the album cover: his trumpet bends and warps into elastic shapes. On record, Scott’s playing is patient and crisp, and it seems the product of spatial reasoning, more concerned with the area around his notes than their actual occurrence. He is sometimes accompanied by the ribbony flute phrases of Elena Pinderhughes, which contrast pleasingly with the routine collapse of the backdrop. This collapse is occasioned by the percussion, played by Corey Fonville and Joe Dyson, Jr., alternately on drums and SPD-SX pads. Snare rolls are enhanced into dense exaggerations, glitching in and out of compressed rattles which physically approach vortexes of static. It lends the songs the accelerated yet organized rhythms of accident; it reminds me of sparks convulsing from a severed cable. Sometimes the instrumentation is more obscure, as on "Tantric" and "Perspectives", each chord landing and shimmering with a kind of blurred phosphorescence. There are also more typical fusion exercises, as on "West of the West", where Matthew Stevens’ guitar recalls the metallic echo of Sonny Sharrock. When Scott played at this year’s New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, he said "West of the West" describes the sense of dislocation he felt when he lived in L.A., a place that seems unlocked from its own geography, released into imaginary and aggressively blank space. His music is the opposite of dislocated; it is thoroughly articulated, busy and compressed. The reach of Stretch Music can often feel literal—even as the threads warp and drift a deeply woven structure is preserved."

John Digweed

Fabric20

Electronic

Jess Harvell

This one is problematic. Fabric-- with its slickster graphics, awkward metal tins, and terminal hesitation between hauteur and crowd-pleasing-- is as responsible as anything for the continuing gentrification of dance music as hipster lifestyle accessory. Friends rave (no pun intended, swear to God) about the London club for which the series is named, and a few of these mixes you can't beat with a wiffleball bat. But there's something off-putting about what basically amounts to ultra-cheesy Ministry of Sound Annual comps (big up DJ Sammy and Darude) with a kind of i-D/Nylon/Wallpaper sheen superimposed. Fabric20 is probably the most blatant case yet of this series wanting it both ways. Let's get one of the biggest, blandest DJs in the world and give him a crate of microhouse we boosted from the Voigt brothers' yard sale. Godlike genius producer Ewan Pearson probably didn't know Fabric was planning this when he ribbed on his blog that a new Perlon track could be played "safe in the knowledge that in nine months time Erick Morillo et al won't. Hurrah!" But there's a strain of "underground house" that's getting closer and closer to "big room" prog/trance on its own, much of it spearheaded by Kompakt. (Bite your tongue.) So it's not surprising Michael Mayer's remix of Superpitcher's "Happiness" mopes in after the disc's climax. What is surprising is that Digweed didn't go with even trancier Kompakt gear like Magnet's "Rising Sun" or Mayer's "Privat". We join our program already in progress with the gorgeously stereo-sensitive atmospherics of Pete Moss' "Strive To Live (16b Mix)". (Next time I'm over at Ashton and Demi's in the isolation tank, I'll request this.) Then the beats arrive before we've put our makeup on and we're gliding through Adam Johnson's unobtrusive "Traber" (zzz) before Richard Davis gets his Martin Gore on to Repair's "Forgive & Forget". Then Diggy sends me all funny by dropping the breakbeat and tuff little sax riff of DJ RaSoul's "True Science". The rest of the mix isn't particularly micro-- or even that hip-- just "solid" (in the same sense that a Ford Taurus is) house music that doesn't earn a differentiated genre tag. (Solid House would be wholly redundant without the existence of the adobe.) I couldn't remember a single thing about it when it came time to write this review, but, then again, I usually nod off after "Fascination Street" and that doesn't make Disintegration any less of a stone classic. Err...

Artist: John Digweed, Album: Fabric20, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "This one is problematic. Fabric-- with its slickster graphics, awkward metal tins, and terminal hesitation between hauteur and crowd-pleasing-- is as responsible as anything for the continuing gentrification of dance music as hipster lifestyle accessory. Friends rave (no pun intended, swear to God) about the London club for which the series is named, and a few of these mixes you can't beat with a wiffleball bat. But there's something off-putting about what basically amounts to ultra-cheesy Ministry of Sound Annual comps (big up DJ Sammy and Darude) with a kind of i-D/Nylon/Wallpaper sheen superimposed. Fabric20 is probably the most blatant case yet of this series wanting it both ways. Let's get one of the biggest, blandest DJs in the world and give him a crate of microhouse we boosted from the Voigt brothers' yard sale. Godlike genius producer Ewan Pearson probably didn't know Fabric was planning this when he ribbed on his blog that a new Perlon track could be played "safe in the knowledge that in nine months time Erick Morillo et al won't. Hurrah!" But there's a strain of "underground house" that's getting closer and closer to "big room" prog/trance on its own, much of it spearheaded by Kompakt. (Bite your tongue.) So it's not surprising Michael Mayer's remix of Superpitcher's "Happiness" mopes in after the disc's climax. What is surprising is that Digweed didn't go with even trancier Kompakt gear like Magnet's "Rising Sun" or Mayer's "Privat". We join our program already in progress with the gorgeously stereo-sensitive atmospherics of Pete Moss' "Strive To Live (16b Mix)". (Next time I'm over at Ashton and Demi's in the isolation tank, I'll request this.) Then the beats arrive before we've put our makeup on and we're gliding through Adam Johnson's unobtrusive "Traber" (zzz) before Richard Davis gets his Martin Gore on to Repair's "Forgive & Forget". Then Diggy sends me all funny by dropping the breakbeat and tuff little sax riff of DJ RaSoul's "True Science". The rest of the mix isn't particularly micro-- or even that hip-- just "solid" (in the same sense that a Ford Taurus is) house music that doesn't earn a differentiated genre tag. (Solid House would be wholly redundant without the existence of the adobe.) I couldn't remember a single thing about it when it came time to write this review, but, then again, I usually nod off after "Fascination Street" and that doesn't make Disintegration any less of a stone classic. Err..."

Everything Everything

Man Alive

Rock

Ian Cohen

There's a recurring gag on "The Simpsons" based around Homer's gluttony leading to all manner of culinary curiosities: sometimes the results work, as with his patented Space-Age Out-of-This-World Moon Waffles (caramel, waffle batter, a stick of butter, liquid smoke); more often than not, he finds out the hard way that a combination of, say, Tom Collins mix, cloves, and a frozen pie crust is no substitute for a decent breakfast. Like that disaster, Everything Everything's debut LP, Man Alive, is proof that enthusiastic experimentation can't save your end product when the underlying elements are so incompatible and unappetizing. Even before you consider their name, song titles like "My Kz, Ur Bf", "Qwerty Finger", and "Photoshop Handsome" imply EE are a product of media overload and social-networking culture-- the self-absorbed musical equivalent of having 12 browsers open at the same time. To apparently a lot of people this is a good thing. (Sample prerelease hype: EE sound like the Futureheads and Animal Collective.) But stuffing everything humanly possible into your songs can be overwhelming, if not identity-sapping. The first 10 or so seconds of this record is pretty much the only span with any negative space-- and even that resembles the obelisk-staring intro of Coldplay's "Square One". From there on, Man Alive is jacked up with bizarre key changes, superfluous time-signature switches, electro noodling, and half-rap lyrics delivered in run-on melodies, and you ultimately think, "hey, what would happen if Dismemberment Plan got a crash course in Pro Tools and a record deal with Fueled By Ramen?" Everything Everything aren't afraid to answer those tough questions. All jokes aside, it actually is an interesting gambit to find a continuum within all of those coordinates in terms of bands interacting with personal computing-- after all, D-Plan had a frontman who was essentially a poptimist blogger before we knew what to call it. But even crediting Everything Everything's unclassifiable combination of itchy art-rock, pop-locking electro, and straight-up Brit indie to musical omnivorism, there's a problem that is impossible to get around: If anyone's got a more irritating voice than Jonathan Everything, they probably also have a harp and a few good stories to tell. It's not the constant falsetto that's the problem-- Passion Pit and the Darkness had that, but they also owned their own ridiculousness (not to mention songwriting chops). Jonathan Everything merely inflicts wispy, intrusive papercuts on your eardrums. Hearing it for the first time is akin to seeing a roach-- unpleasant and unexpected, but then you start to worry about where you'll find the next one. And Man Alive is absolutely infested. And yet, I'd still recommend at least a cursory shot at "My Kz, Ur Bf", because even if it's a particularly annoying song and you can't quite pick out whether Everything is seeking to get caught in flagrante with your boyfriend or your girlfriend, it does have something of a pleasant whiff of 90s alternative radio. Granted, it comes on way too strong and is a complete mess, but it's certainly *their mess. *Credit Everything Everything for finding their own niche, but it's one that's been unoccupied for good reason.

Artist: Everything Everything, Album: Man Alive, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 3.8 Album review: "There's a recurring gag on "The Simpsons" based around Homer's gluttony leading to all manner of culinary curiosities: sometimes the results work, as with his patented Space-Age Out-of-This-World Moon Waffles (caramel, waffle batter, a stick of butter, liquid smoke); more often than not, he finds out the hard way that a combination of, say, Tom Collins mix, cloves, and a frozen pie crust is no substitute for a decent breakfast. Like that disaster, Everything Everything's debut LP, Man Alive, is proof that enthusiastic experimentation can't save your end product when the underlying elements are so incompatible and unappetizing. Even before you consider their name, song titles like "My Kz, Ur Bf", "Qwerty Finger", and "Photoshop Handsome" imply EE are a product of media overload and social-networking culture-- the self-absorbed musical equivalent of having 12 browsers open at the same time. To apparently a lot of people this is a good thing. (Sample prerelease hype: EE sound like the Futureheads and Animal Collective.) But stuffing everything humanly possible into your songs can be overwhelming, if not identity-sapping. The first 10 or so seconds of this record is pretty much the only span with any negative space-- and even that resembles the obelisk-staring intro of Coldplay's "Square One". From there on, Man Alive is jacked up with bizarre key changes, superfluous time-signature switches, electro noodling, and half-rap lyrics delivered in run-on melodies, and you ultimately think, "hey, what would happen if Dismemberment Plan got a crash course in Pro Tools and a record deal with Fueled By Ramen?" Everything Everything aren't afraid to answer those tough questions. All jokes aside, it actually is an interesting gambit to find a continuum within all of those coordinates in terms of bands interacting with personal computing-- after all, D-Plan had a frontman who was essentially a poptimist blogger before we knew what to call it. But even crediting Everything Everything's unclassifiable combination of itchy art-rock, pop-locking electro, and straight-up Brit indie to musical omnivorism, there's a problem that is impossible to get around: If anyone's got a more irritating voice than Jonathan Everything, they probably also have a harp and a few good stories to tell. It's not the constant falsetto that's the problem-- Passion Pit and the Darkness had that, but they also owned their own ridiculousness (not to mention songwriting chops). Jonathan Everything merely inflicts wispy, intrusive papercuts on your eardrums. Hearing it for the first time is akin to seeing a roach-- unpleasant and unexpected, but then you start to worry about where you'll find the next one. And Man Alive is absolutely infested. And yet, I'd still recommend at least a cursory shot at "My Kz, Ur Bf", because even if it's a particularly annoying song and you can't quite pick out whether Everything is seeking to get caught in flagrante with your boyfriend or your girlfriend, it does have something of a pleasant whiff of 90s alternative radio. Granted, it comes on way too strong and is a complete mess, but it's certainly *their mess. *Credit Everything Everything for finding their own niche, but it's one that's been unoccupied for good reason."

Steve Earle

Transcendental Blues

Rock

Ryan Kearney

I could begin this review by invoking one or two of the more renowned transcendentalists of the 19th century. You know how it would it go: "In Walden, his masterpiece of transcendent ideology, Henry David Thoreau wrote, 'I went to the woods because I wished--" I don't even need to finish the sentence, do I? Quoting from Ralph Waldo Emerson's Nature might be more tactful, but barely. His lecture, The Transcendentalist, is a more obvious, if less-cited source, but the quotes are all too vague. Invoking these writers would be too easy, too obvious, and certainly too academic, not to mention slightly inaccurate: "Transcendentalism" was a spiritual movement; Steve Earle simply has "transcendental blues," which is quite different. Therefore, I'm not going to start my review in such a way. Now, I could pull out Webster and define "transcendental" for you, but that wouldn't suffice because the definition, by its very nature, precludes a definitive definition. Earle, likewise, struggles with the idea of transcendence in his liner notes. He humorously contests one definition-- "the act of going through something"-- by writing, "Ouch. I see plate glass windows and divorces." Finally, he arrives at the conclusion that "transcendence is about being still enough long enough to know when it's time to move on." But I don't want to start with liner notes, either. So maybe I should tell a personal story of dubious relevance, as is my wont. There's the time I awoke at midnight at 11,000 feet on Mt Rainier. The full, blue moon ignited the top layer of the endless cloud a few hundred feet below us-- a sight I've never seen outside of an airplane. Or maybe I could tell the story about when I hallucinated atop a cemetery hill. I walked in a tight circle for almost an hour because, as I explained later, "I needed to reassure myself of my physical presence in the world." But that's my literary crutch, so I musn't indulge. Which leaves me with a final instance of transcendence: the album itself. The title track opens the record with a harmonium that's quickly interrupted by-- yes-- a bleep. But after some soft thumping reminiscent of Yo La Tengo's latest, the song progresses into the exemplary roots-rock that one expects from Earle, replete with lines like, "Happy ever after 'til the day you die/ Careful what you ask for, you don't know 'til you try." Maybe because he doesn't want to surprise the listener, Earle waits a bit before displaying his expanded sound. The next two tracks continue in a similar roots-rock vein, although each is decidedly unique. Then, in a single stroke of apparent ease, Earle delivers "I Can Wait," a dead-on excursion into the reflective, laid-back country groove the Jayhawks have made a career of. Earle finally breaks out with the Cash-ian ballad "The Boy Who Never Cried." As Earle's unaccompanied voice establishes the story of the boy, a harmonium again rises up, soon joined by a unobtrusive 12-string. But as the song builds, Earle slowly infuses it with perfectly placed, emotive orchestral hooks. Then, all is stripped down as he delivers the clincher in a strained, Dylan-esque fashion: the boy lived alone until death, at which point, "He shed a single tear for a boy who never cried." After a couple of Irish jigs (of sorts), the pace slows down again for "Lonelier Than This," which, in its subtle power, is on par with early Springsteen. Likewise for "Halo 'Round the Moon," a song that checks in after a few more top-shelf roots-rockers. "Until the Day I Die" is another valiant attempt at creating a bluegrass classic worthy of Mr. Monroe (one of Earle's professed goals). After "All of My Life," an invigorating italicized rock song, the album is rounded out by "Over Yonder (Jonathan's Song)," a plaintive, mandola-sprinkled epitaph of sorts with a fitting, regretful conclusion: "Shinin' down on all of them that hate me/ I hope goin' brings 'em peace." Earle's music doesn't simply mirror the transcendence of its creator; it lends transcendence to the listener as well, as all excellent music will. But what truly makes this one of Earle's best records is that he refuses to be pulled down by musical decisions. It's as if he never faced a problem of whether or not to add this or that instrument, or to veer off in this or that direction. He simply had the idea and went with it. This is one manifestation of transcendent thought: there's no such thing as indecision because an idea necessarily ignites action.

Artist: Steve Earle, Album: Transcendental Blues, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "I could begin this review by invoking one or two of the more renowned transcendentalists of the 19th century. You know how it would it go: "In Walden, his masterpiece of transcendent ideology, Henry David Thoreau wrote, 'I went to the woods because I wished--" I don't even need to finish the sentence, do I? Quoting from Ralph Waldo Emerson's Nature might be more tactful, but barely. His lecture, The Transcendentalist, is a more obvious, if less-cited source, but the quotes are all too vague. Invoking these writers would be too easy, too obvious, and certainly too academic, not to mention slightly inaccurate: "Transcendentalism" was a spiritual movement; Steve Earle simply has "transcendental blues," which is quite different. Therefore, I'm not going to start my review in such a way. Now, I could pull out Webster and define "transcendental" for you, but that wouldn't suffice because the definition, by its very nature, precludes a definitive definition. Earle, likewise, struggles with the idea of transcendence in his liner notes. He humorously contests one definition-- "the act of going through something"-- by writing, "Ouch. I see plate glass windows and divorces." Finally, he arrives at the conclusion that "transcendence is about being still enough long enough to know when it's time to move on." But I don't want to start with liner notes, either. So maybe I should tell a personal story of dubious relevance, as is my wont. There's the time I awoke at midnight at 11,000 feet on Mt Rainier. The full, blue moon ignited the top layer of the endless cloud a few hundred feet below us-- a sight I've never seen outside of an airplane. Or maybe I could tell the story about when I hallucinated atop a cemetery hill. I walked in a tight circle for almost an hour because, as I explained later, "I needed to reassure myself of my physical presence in the world." But that's my literary crutch, so I musn't indulge. Which leaves me with a final instance of transcendence: the album itself. The title track opens the record with a harmonium that's quickly interrupted by-- yes-- a bleep. But after some soft thumping reminiscent of Yo La Tengo's latest, the song progresses into the exemplary roots-rock that one expects from Earle, replete with lines like, "Happy ever after 'til the day you die/ Careful what you ask for, you don't know 'til you try." Maybe because he doesn't want to surprise the listener, Earle waits a bit before displaying his expanded sound. The next two tracks continue in a similar roots-rock vein, although each is decidedly unique. Then, in a single stroke of apparent ease, Earle delivers "I Can Wait," a dead-on excursion into the reflective, laid-back country groove the Jayhawks have made a career of. Earle finally breaks out with the Cash-ian ballad "The Boy Who Never Cried." As Earle's unaccompanied voice establishes the story of the boy, a harmonium again rises up, soon joined by a unobtrusive 12-string. But as the song builds, Earle slowly infuses it with perfectly placed, emotive orchestral hooks. Then, all is stripped down as he delivers the clincher in a strained, Dylan-esque fashion: the boy lived alone until death, at which point, "He shed a single tear for a boy who never cried." After a couple of Irish jigs (of sorts), the pace slows down again for "Lonelier Than This," which, in its subtle power, is on par with early Springsteen. Likewise for "Halo 'Round the Moon," a song that checks in after a few more top-shelf roots-rockers. "Until the Day I Die" is another valiant attempt at creating a bluegrass classic worthy of Mr. Monroe (one of Earle's professed goals). After "All of My Life," an invigorating italicized rock song, the album is rounded out by "Over Yonder (Jonathan's Song)," a plaintive, mandola-sprinkled epitaph of sorts with a fitting, regretful conclusion: "Shinin' down on all of them that hate me/ I hope goin' brings 'em peace." Earle's music doesn't simply mirror the transcendence of its creator; it lends transcendence to the listener as well, as all excellent music will. But what truly makes this one of Earle's best records is that he refuses to be pulled down by musical decisions. It's as if he never faced a problem of whether or not to add this or that instrument, or to veer off in this or that direction. He simply had the idea and went with it. This is one manifestation of transcendent thought: there's no such thing as indecision because an idea necessarily ignites action."

Monolake

Silence

Electronic

Philip Sherburne

Every high-end audio equipment showroom ought to have a few Monolake CDs on hand. Just as vendors of big-screen HD televisions bank images that bristle with detail-- rustling fields of crimson poppies, sparkling seascapes-- sellers of hi-fi systems could use Monolake's sub-bass throb and pin-prick highs to show off their painstakingly engineered products. The Berlin musician's work has always been attuned to shiveringly precise sonics, but Silence represents a new pinnacle of sound as full-spectrum embrace. (Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Monolake's production notes emphasize that the album was recorded and mastered without compression, making this a welcome counter-offensive in the "loudness wars.") That's not to say that this is merely music for hi-fi nerds. Blending elements of techno, dubstep, and ambient into an hour of suggestive, idiosyncratic drift, Silence presents programmed electronic music at its most sensually expressive. Monolake knows his way around sound design, of course. Also known as Robert Henke, he was one of the original developers of Ableton Live, the popular performance and production software, making him not only something of a legend, but also a rarity: very few figures have achieved a similar degree of success in both recording and instrument design. To give you an idea of his impact, imagine a latter-day Robert Moog or Tom Oberheim, but with a discography as deep as his list of patents. (Monolake is actually a shifting, collaborative project; it began as a duo of Henke and fellow Ableton co-founder Gerhard Behles, who later left the group; since the mid-2000s, Monolake has occasionally comprised Henke and Torsten Pröfrock, aka T++. Silence, however, is credited as a solo Henke production.) Ableton Live takes a fair amount of flak on producers' forums for delivering sound quality allegedly inferior to that of Logic Pro-- a claim that I've never seen substantiated. In any case, Silence, which was composed, edited, and mixed entirely in Live, offers ample evidence to the contrary. I can't think of a single piece of contemporary electronic music that sounds fuller, richer, or more nuanced. But this also isn't "pure" computer music; according to Henke's production notes, along with its synthesized sounds the album incorporates a wide range of real-world sonics-- metal percussion, dripping water, architectural acoustics, and all manner of field recordings-- that place it in a long tradition of musique concrète. This isn't an academic distinction; it's that openness to the world of sound that gives Silence such immersive depth. Crucial to the success of the album is the way that Henke blurs the line between the sampled and the synthetic. One of the album's central elements is a recurring sound like mallets bouncing on metal cable-- whether it's "real" or "artificial" I don't know, or care-- whose fluid, regular/irregular bounce lends a delicious gravity. They might be the record's most radical achievement, counterbalancing techno's rigidity with rippling, quicksilver grace. In essence, these patterns translate Henke's interest in granular sound to the realm of rhythm: over and over, textures become patterns and vice versa. Silence is a masterful exploration of the vagaries of scale, one that-- quite unlike your HD plasma screen-- rewards equally whether witnessed close up, far away, or deep inside.

Artist: Monolake, Album: Silence, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Every high-end audio equipment showroom ought to have a few Monolake CDs on hand. Just as vendors of big-screen HD televisions bank images that bristle with detail-- rustling fields of crimson poppies, sparkling seascapes-- sellers of hi-fi systems could use Monolake's sub-bass throb and pin-prick highs to show off their painstakingly engineered products. The Berlin musician's work has always been attuned to shiveringly precise sonics, but Silence represents a new pinnacle of sound as full-spectrum embrace. (Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Monolake's production notes emphasize that the album was recorded and mastered without compression, making this a welcome counter-offensive in the "loudness wars.") That's not to say that this is merely music for hi-fi nerds. Blending elements of techno, dubstep, and ambient into an hour of suggestive, idiosyncratic drift, Silence presents programmed electronic music at its most sensually expressive. Monolake knows his way around sound design, of course. Also known as Robert Henke, he was one of the original developers of Ableton Live, the popular performance and production software, making him not only something of a legend, but also a rarity: very few figures have achieved a similar degree of success in both recording and instrument design. To give you an idea of his impact, imagine a latter-day Robert Moog or Tom Oberheim, but with a discography as deep as his list of patents. (Monolake is actually a shifting, collaborative project; it began as a duo of Henke and fellow Ableton co-founder Gerhard Behles, who later left the group; since the mid-2000s, Monolake has occasionally comprised Henke and Torsten Pröfrock, aka T++. Silence, however, is credited as a solo Henke production.) Ableton Live takes a fair amount of flak on producers' forums for delivering sound quality allegedly inferior to that of Logic Pro-- a claim that I've never seen substantiated. In any case, Silence, which was composed, edited, and mixed entirely in Live, offers ample evidence to the contrary. I can't think of a single piece of contemporary electronic music that sounds fuller, richer, or more nuanced. But this also isn't "pure" computer music; according to Henke's production notes, along with its synthesized sounds the album incorporates a wide range of real-world sonics-- metal percussion, dripping water, architectural acoustics, and all manner of field recordings-- that place it in a long tradition of musique concrète. This isn't an academic distinction; it's that openness to the world of sound that gives Silence such immersive depth. Crucial to the success of the album is the way that Henke blurs the line between the sampled and the synthetic. One of the album's central elements is a recurring sound like mallets bouncing on metal cable-- whether it's "real" or "artificial" I don't know, or care-- whose fluid, regular/irregular bounce lends a delicious gravity. They might be the record's most radical achievement, counterbalancing techno's rigidity with rippling, quicksilver grace. In essence, these patterns translate Henke's interest in granular sound to the realm of rhythm: over and over, textures become patterns and vice versa. Silence is a masterful exploration of the vagaries of scale, one that-- quite unlike your HD plasma screen-- rewards equally whether witnessed close up, far away, or deep inside."

P:ano

Brigadoon

Rock

Marc Hogan

First off, name's P:ano. The music, like the moniker, is unnatural, an aberration: Diverse Fiery Furnaces hyperprog with the high-school theatricality of the Decemberists or Antony & the Johnsons and the pop-classicist impulses of Heikki, Hercules, Camera Obscura, or Fan Modine. Hazlewood and Sinatra! Rodgers and Hammerstein! Architecture and Helsinki! On the first few listens, the songs wash by, disembodied like an ocean. They pass over as a wave of ephemeral cleverness. Eventually strong, if eccentric, songwriting emerges, establishing the band as a more-remote cousin to recent Memphis Industries baroque-pop signing Field Music. (Why haven't you downloaded that yet, BTW?) If the references seem dizzying, it's surely by P:ano's design. On Brigadoon, their third album, the Vancouver-based group of Nick Krgovich, Larissa Loyva, Justin Kellam, and Julia Chirka bask in 22 songs for 54 minutes, spanning at least as many influences along with instruments ranging from primitive Magnetic Fields electro-bleeps to strings, horns, handclaps and zithers. So when Krgovich intones slowly, in a Ben Foldsian everydude voice, "I turned the orchestra loose," on the fabulous "O.C.", the sadness is palpable. "You would've off and left me anyway, believe me," he adds in unconsoling consolation, which the ghostly "Cameroon" echoes a track later. Horse-like clip-clops provide additional ornamentation on songs like "You the Widow" and "Sweets", developing a ridiculously quirky theme that builds into Mancini-swoon centerpiece "Georgey the Horsey" (a reference to Vancouver predecessor Good Horsey?) and Krgovich's slyly disconsolate, "Will you trade me in for a new Shetland pony friend?" To complicate matters, the songs sometimes unfold at the deliberate pace of Low. Given the capriciousness here and the occasional "rumpa-pum-pum", think Christmas EP, particularly on the album's standout, "The Snow", with a tin-pan alley verse and a jingling, reverb-laden chorus. Co-lead vocalist Loyva sings with the quiet, gorgeously real whisper of Yo La Tengo's drummer/singer Georgia Hubley, quaintly adapted for stage (the album title is, after all, a reference to a Lerner & Loewe musical). Above the swooping guitars of "Candy Is Nice", she steers the band into dreamy chamber-pop, Krgovich's backing vocals echoing like those of My Morning Jacket's Jim James. Yet Loyva has the humor to proclaim, "Take me to funky town!" on faster-paced potential single "Leave Me With the Boy". (Don't worry, the room's spinning for me, too.) On "Pure Evil", the words "Fleetwood Mac" and "Christine McVie" spring to mind, pleasantly. Though the album has a few tracks too many-- "The Rescuer" drags and "The Ghost Pirates" cloys-- it's hard to fault this band for their ambition. With a train-like rhythm, "Light o' Love" hearkens romantically to a turn-of-the-20th-century America that probably never really existed-- despite the Mind Games-era Lennon saxophone, "Somebody Get Me Annette" is strangely fascinating (bassoon!), and the meticulously cool (temperature-wise) "Dark Hills" hits like a half-remembered Alan Parsons production from '80s soft-rock radio, aside from the ethereal backing vocals and marching-band martiality. A few stronger choruses, and P:ano, despite their strange appellation and forbidding obtuseness, could go on to fashion the album of next year. Or they could end up another vaguely celebrated post-Elephant 6 omnivourous weirdness collective. Dudes, I just write shit.

Artist: P:ano, Album: Brigadoon, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "First off, name's P:ano. The music, like the moniker, is unnatural, an aberration: Diverse Fiery Furnaces hyperprog with the high-school theatricality of the Decemberists or Antony & the Johnsons and the pop-classicist impulses of Heikki, Hercules, Camera Obscura, or Fan Modine. Hazlewood and Sinatra! Rodgers and Hammerstein! Architecture and Helsinki! On the first few listens, the songs wash by, disembodied like an ocean. They pass over as a wave of ephemeral cleverness. Eventually strong, if eccentric, songwriting emerges, establishing the band as a more-remote cousin to recent Memphis Industries baroque-pop signing Field Music. (Why haven't you downloaded that yet, BTW?) If the references seem dizzying, it's surely by P:ano's design. On Brigadoon, their third album, the Vancouver-based group of Nick Krgovich, Larissa Loyva, Justin Kellam, and Julia Chirka bask in 22 songs for 54 minutes, spanning at least as many influences along with instruments ranging from primitive Magnetic Fields electro-bleeps to strings, horns, handclaps and zithers. So when Krgovich intones slowly, in a Ben Foldsian everydude voice, "I turned the orchestra loose," on the fabulous "O.C.", the sadness is palpable. "You would've off and left me anyway, believe me," he adds in unconsoling consolation, which the ghostly "Cameroon" echoes a track later. Horse-like clip-clops provide additional ornamentation on songs like "You the Widow" and "Sweets", developing a ridiculously quirky theme that builds into Mancini-swoon centerpiece "Georgey the Horsey" (a reference to Vancouver predecessor Good Horsey?) and Krgovich's slyly disconsolate, "Will you trade me in for a new Shetland pony friend?" To complicate matters, the songs sometimes unfold at the deliberate pace of Low. Given the capriciousness here and the occasional "rumpa-pum-pum", think Christmas EP, particularly on the album's standout, "The Snow", with a tin-pan alley verse and a jingling, reverb-laden chorus. Co-lead vocalist Loyva sings with the quiet, gorgeously real whisper of Yo La Tengo's drummer/singer Georgia Hubley, quaintly adapted for stage (the album title is, after all, a reference to a Lerner & Loewe musical). Above the swooping guitars of "Candy Is Nice", she steers the band into dreamy chamber-pop, Krgovich's backing vocals echoing like those of My Morning Jacket's Jim James. Yet Loyva has the humor to proclaim, "Take me to funky town!" on faster-paced potential single "Leave Me With the Boy". (Don't worry, the room's spinning for me, too.) On "Pure Evil", the words "Fleetwood Mac" and "Christine McVie" spring to mind, pleasantly. Though the album has a few tracks too many-- "The Rescuer" drags and "The Ghost Pirates" cloys-- it's hard to fault this band for their ambition. With a train-like rhythm, "Light o' Love" hearkens romantically to a turn-of-the-20th-century America that probably never really existed-- despite the Mind Games-era Lennon saxophone, "Somebody Get Me Annette" is strangely fascinating (bassoon!), and the meticulously cool (temperature-wise) "Dark Hills" hits like a half-remembered Alan Parsons production from '80s soft-rock radio, aside from the ethereal backing vocals and marching-band martiality. A few stronger choruses, and P:ano, despite their strange appellation and forbidding obtuseness, could go on to fashion the album of next year. Or they could end up another vaguely celebrated post-Elephant 6 omnivourous weirdness collective. Dudes, I just write shit."

Call Super

Arpo

Electronic

Andy Beta

A totality of vision surfaces on every production Joe Seaton releases as Call Super, from the music to the artwork. That’s true of the slithering tracks he made in collaboration with Beatrice Dillon, as well as his adventurous entry in the Fabric mix series earlier this year. In advance of Seaton’s second full-length, Arpo, that ardor even extended to hand-inking 200 7” sleeves for the album’s first single. Arpo was preceded by a run of crisp yet quicksand-y EPs that thrillingly moved between techno, electro and house brought Seaton more notoriety. But Arpo refines and then traipses further afield than anything else in his discography. At first listen, it might seem to exist in the shadow of his thrilling debut, 2014’s Suzi Ecto. That album situated Seaton among the likes of Actress and Lee Gamble, straining against the confines of modern dance music tropes. But while that album featured a muggy atmosphere, groggy tones and a metallic menace at its edges, Arpo provides a rush of effervescence instead. The album’s biggest beats rattle around like BBs in a can or clack like a pencil against a Coke bottle; Seaton’s bass tones bear tactile properties closer to being gummy than beefy. Full of such small, playful turns (Seaton cites the silent harp-strumming Marx Brother, Harpo, as inspiration for the title) it makes more sense as soundtrack for strolls through Volkspark Friedrichshain than the wee hours at Berghain. From the opening theme of “Arpo,” Seaton takes a filigree of woodwind and winds it around an iridescent line and a globule of bass. That theme returns again midway through on “Arpo Sunk,” now cloaked in warm hiss and just a dab of echo, the melodic line of the reed taking the track off to wander far from any typical dance beat. The clarinet and oboe come courtesy of Seaton’s father, painter and Dixieland player David Seaton. His horn arose on both Suzi Ecto and Seaton’s fourth world ambient tracks made as Ondo Fudd, while also providing the fluttering shriek at the core of “Fluo.” The ductile tone that the elder Seaton provides on these tracks—by turns frisky, tuneful, droney and shrieking—keeps the music from ever staying pat on the grid or rolling out in a predictable manner. The first half of Arpo contains all the heady, mushy sounds of early 1990s ambient house, but it comes in tightly coiled, two-minute bursts. The array of sounds that crop up on the minute-long “Any Pill” might have comprised a 10-minute Orb track some 20 years previous. An iridescent sheen glimmers across the surface of “Music Stand,” making the track feel like a sculpture made entirely out of soap bubbles. Sounds swell and pop, bubble up anew and shift shapes, yet the cumulative effect is one of ineffable airiness. Small rustling, blipping, twinkling details pop up on longer tracks like “No Wonder We Go Under” and standout “I Look Like I Look in a Tinfoil Mirror.” Such sounds percolate and nip around the headphone space, helixing into new shapes before Seaton pulls them apart again and arranges them anew. The dizzying attention to detail and design rivals that of Seaton’s close mate Objekt (TJ Hertz), but his touch feels less intense and bewildering, more childlike and immersive. Certain instances of Arpo might hearken back to rhythms associated with tech-house, electro, and harsher variants on each (especially the metallic shrieks that cry-out on “Trokel”), but no track sounds like it’d readily slot into a club set. There’s something squishy and slippery about every component here, each moving into the other so that markers and track distinctions begin to feel wholly irrelevant to the listening experience. “The music and spaces of a time past that preoccupies you can be shaped into something that can drive your own visions,” Seaton wrote in advance of a weekend party he curated for December at Amsterdam’s De School, speaking of dance music histories and places he’s obsessed over but never visited. There’s a sense here that Seaton is seeking to move beyond such tropes in dance music towards something not yet defined. Seaton then adds: “Don’t take me there. Just let me learn and dream.” Arpo might just soundtrack such a speculative night out.

Artist: Call Super, Album: Arpo, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "A totality of vision surfaces on every production Joe Seaton releases as Call Super, from the music to the artwork. That’s true of the slithering tracks he made in collaboration with Beatrice Dillon, as well as his adventurous entry in the Fabric mix series earlier this year. In advance of Seaton’s second full-length, Arpo, that ardor even extended to hand-inking 200 7” sleeves for the album’s first single. Arpo was preceded by a run of crisp yet quicksand-y EPs that thrillingly moved between techno, electro and house brought Seaton more notoriety. But Arpo refines and then traipses further afield than anything else in his discography. At first listen, it might seem to exist in the shadow of his thrilling debut, 2014’s Suzi Ecto. That album situated Seaton among the likes of Actress and Lee Gamble, straining against the confines of modern dance music tropes. But while that album featured a muggy atmosphere, groggy tones and a metallic menace at its edges, Arpo provides a rush of effervescence instead. The album’s biggest beats rattle around like BBs in a can or clack like a pencil against a Coke bottle; Seaton’s bass tones bear tactile properties closer to being gummy than beefy. Full of such small, playful turns (Seaton cites the silent harp-strumming Marx Brother, Harpo, as inspiration for the title) it makes more sense as soundtrack for strolls through Volkspark Friedrichshain than the wee hours at Berghain. From the opening theme of “Arpo,” Seaton takes a filigree of woodwind and winds it around an iridescent line and a globule of bass. That theme returns again midway through on “Arpo Sunk,” now cloaked in warm hiss and just a dab of echo, the melodic line of the reed taking the track off to wander far from any typical dance beat. The clarinet and oboe come courtesy of Seaton’s father, painter and Dixieland player David Seaton. His horn arose on both Suzi Ecto and Seaton’s fourth world ambient tracks made as Ondo Fudd, while also providing the fluttering shriek at the core of “Fluo.” The ductile tone that the elder Seaton provides on these tracks—by turns frisky, tuneful, droney and shrieking—keeps the music from ever staying pat on the grid or rolling out in a predictable manner. The first half of Arpo contains all the heady, mushy sounds of early 1990s ambient house, but it comes in tightly coiled, two-minute bursts. The array of sounds that crop up on the minute-long “Any Pill” might have comprised a 10-minute Orb track some 20 years previous. An iridescent sheen glimmers across the surface of “Music Stand,” making the track feel like a sculpture made entirely out of soap bubbles. Sounds swell and pop, bubble up anew and shift shapes, yet the cumulative effect is one of ineffable airiness. Small rustling, blipping, twinkling details pop up on longer tracks like “No Wonder We Go Under” and standout “I Look Like I Look in a Tinfoil Mirror.” Such sounds percolate and nip around the headphone space, helixing into new shapes before Seaton pulls them apart again and arranges them anew. The dizzying attention to detail and design rivals that of Seaton’s close mate Objekt (TJ Hertz), but his touch feels less intense and bewildering, more childlike and immersive. Certain instances of Arpo might hearken back to rhythms associated with tech-house, electro, and harsher variants on each (especially the metallic shrieks that cry-out on “Trokel”), but no track sounds like it’d readily slot into a club set. There’s something squishy and slippery about every component here, each moving into the other so that markers and track distinctions begin to feel wholly irrelevant to the listening experience. “The music and spaces of a time past that preoccupies you can be shaped into something that can drive your own visions,” Seaton wrote in advance of a weekend party he curated for December at Amsterdam’s De School, speaking of dance music histories and places he’s obsessed over but never visited. There’s a sense here that Seaton is seeking to move beyond such tropes in dance music towards something not yet defined. Seaton then adds: “Don’t take me there. Just let me learn and dream.” Arpo might just soundtrack such a speculative night out."

Songs: Ohia

Hecla & Griper EP

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

When Songs: Ohia signed with Secretly Canadian in 1996, the label was barely even a label. It was just a couple of college kids who had heard and fallen in love with the single Jason Molina had recorded for Palace Records earlier that year. But both the singer-songwriter and the label hit the ground running: In 1997, they released Songs: Ohia's self-titled debut album as well as its first LP, Hecla & Griper. Molina released at least one-- and very often two or three-- albums every year until 2003, when Songs: Ohia morphed into Magnolia Electric Co. It was largely on the strength of Molina’s keening and affecting vocals as well as his poignant and probing songwriting that both the band and the label flourished throughout the late 1990s and into the 21st century. At the time of his death this past March, Molina and Secretly Canadian were planning to reissue releases from the darker corners of his catalog, and the first to see the light is the Hecla & Griper EP, which appears on vinyl for the first time. Molina, a Ohio native, took a short break from touring to stop off in Bloomington, Indiana, and cut a few tracks with Daniel Burton. The result is a set of songs that are disarmingly raw and unbounded, less polished than even Songs: Ohia from that same year. Burton’s production is spartan to match the arrangements, which feature Molina’s signature tenor guitar and only occasional contributions from a handful of musicians. Hecla & Griper sounds suitably lonely and beleaguered, two moods Molina conveyed with innate conviction. Especially compared to his later work with Magnolia Electric Co., his voice pierces through these songs almost violently, high-pitched as usual but with a sharper nasal quality that suggests an unassuming, untrained performer: a regular guy who simply stepped up to the mic and started speaking his mind. Except there were some dark thoughts in that mind. At times Hecla plays like a statement of purpose, a prologue to his career: “If I decide to smile and fake it, the lord would ne’er forgive that sin,” Molina sings on the opener “Pass”, a slip of a song-- barely a minute long. “I take the words the angels tell me, and I’m singing it from my conscience.” And yet, there is some humor on here. Molina was hardly one to crack a joke mid-song, but you can get a sense of his casual humor just by reading a few interviews. “I first chose you for my all-star team,” he claims on “Easts Last Heart”, which uses a baseball metaphor to decry the wealth divide: “Rich kid, I’m talking to you!” he concludes, as if you might have missed his target. Molina ends Hecla with a Conway Twitty cover, “Darling…” (popularly known as “Hello Darling”), and seems to relish the opportunity to sing someone else’s words. Considering that this EP was recorded just after the height of the 90s alt-country movement-- when upstart acts often played the part of rough-and-tumble hayseeds-- Molina doesn’t condescend to the song or its source material, which is not to say he doesn’t have a little fun with it. He speaks the vocal hook with resignation, suggesting the song is only an imaginary conversation-- what he wishes he had the guts to say to his darlin’. This 15th anniversary edition includes two unreleased tracks, as well as early versions of songs that would show up on Impala in 1998. “Debts” and “Pilot & Friend” show just how deep Molina’s catalog goes; especially the former, with its curious organ lines, could have been the centerpiece of this or another EP, although “Pilot & Friend” sounds too halting, as Molina’s howl turns into a caterwaul that tests the limits of the microphone. The two Impala tracks are the fullest numbers here: “Hearts Newly Arrived” sounds more frayed and jittery here than it does on Impala, as Molina navigates the tempo changes with a frantic energy and galloping guitars. Insistent drums drive “One of Those Uncertain Heads”, which features a more pointed vocal from Molina that hard-sells the songs’ apocalyptic visions. Overall, there’s a scratchy, isolated feel to Hecla & Griper that’s similar to Autumn Bird Songs, the final release of new material in Molina’s lifetime. Without suggesting too perfect a circle or too tidy a conclusion to his working life, that comparison does reveal a certain aesthetic that carried through his entire 16-year career. Molina believed in the song at its most primal and most austere, understanding that he could get his point across better with minimal adornment. For him, the power of these songs comes through in the spaces between syllables and notes, where Molina can catch a breath and simply let the silence say its peace. Hecla & Griper is a minor release in his sprawling catalog, yet that does not mean it’s insignificant: This is the sound of a man who was only just getting started.

Artist: Songs: Ohia, Album: Hecla & Griper EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "When Songs: Ohia signed with Secretly Canadian in 1996, the label was barely even a label. It was just a couple of college kids who had heard and fallen in love with the single Jason Molina had recorded for Palace Records earlier that year. But both the singer-songwriter and the label hit the ground running: In 1997, they released Songs: Ohia's self-titled debut album as well as its first LP, Hecla & Griper. Molina released at least one-- and very often two or three-- albums every year until 2003, when Songs: Ohia morphed into Magnolia Electric Co. It was largely on the strength of Molina’s keening and affecting vocals as well as his poignant and probing songwriting that both the band and the label flourished throughout the late 1990s and into the 21st century. At the time of his death this past March, Molina and Secretly Canadian were planning to reissue releases from the darker corners of his catalog, and the first to see the light is the Hecla & Griper EP, which appears on vinyl for the first time. Molina, a Ohio native, took a short break from touring to stop off in Bloomington, Indiana, and cut a few tracks with Daniel Burton. The result is a set of songs that are disarmingly raw and unbounded, less polished than even Songs: Ohia from that same year. Burton’s production is spartan to match the arrangements, which feature Molina’s signature tenor guitar and only occasional contributions from a handful of musicians. Hecla & Griper sounds suitably lonely and beleaguered, two moods Molina conveyed with innate conviction. Especially compared to his later work with Magnolia Electric Co., his voice pierces through these songs almost violently, high-pitched as usual but with a sharper nasal quality that suggests an unassuming, untrained performer: a regular guy who simply stepped up to the mic and started speaking his mind. Except there were some dark thoughts in that mind. At times Hecla plays like a statement of purpose, a prologue to his career: “If I decide to smile and fake it, the lord would ne’er forgive that sin,” Molina sings on the opener “Pass”, a slip of a song-- barely a minute long. “I take the words the angels tell me, and I’m singing it from my conscience.” And yet, there is some humor on here. Molina was hardly one to crack a joke mid-song, but you can get a sense of his casual humor just by reading a few interviews. “I first chose you for my all-star team,” he claims on “Easts Last Heart”, which uses a baseball metaphor to decry the wealth divide: “Rich kid, I’m talking to you!” he concludes, as if you might have missed his target. Molina ends Hecla with a Conway Twitty cover, “Darling…” (popularly known as “Hello Darling”), and seems to relish the opportunity to sing someone else’s words. Considering that this EP was recorded just after the height of the 90s alt-country movement-- when upstart acts often played the part of rough-and-tumble hayseeds-- Molina doesn’t condescend to the song or its source material, which is not to say he doesn’t have a little fun with it. He speaks the vocal hook with resignation, suggesting the song is only an imaginary conversation-- what he wishes he had the guts to say to his darlin’. This 15th anniversary edition includes two unreleased tracks, as well as early versions of songs that would show up on Impala in 1998. “Debts” and “Pilot & Friend” show just how deep Molina’s catalog goes; especially the former, with its curious organ lines, could have been the centerpiece of this or another EP, although “Pilot & Friend” sounds too halting, as Molina’s howl turns into a caterwaul that tests the limits of the microphone. The two Impala tracks are the fullest numbers here: “Hearts Newly Arrived” sounds more frayed and jittery here than it does on Impala, as Molina navigates the tempo changes with a frantic energy and galloping guitars. Insistent drums drive “One of Those Uncertain Heads”, which features a more pointed vocal from Molina that hard-sells the songs’ apocalyptic visions. Overall, there’s a scratchy, isolated feel to Hecla & Griper that’s similar to Autumn Bird Songs, the final release of new material in Molina’s lifetime. Without suggesting too perfect a circle or too tidy a conclusion to his working life, that comparison does reveal a certain aesthetic that carried through his entire 16-year career. Molina believed in the song at its most primal and most austere, understanding that he could get his point across better with minimal adornment. For him, the power of these songs comes through in the spaces between syllables and notes, where Molina can catch a breath and simply let the silence say its peace. Hecla & Griper is a minor release in his sprawling catalog, yet that does not mean it’s insignificant: This is the sound of a man who was only just getting started."

Ross From Friends

Aphelion EP

Electronic

Ezra Marcus

Dance music loves a tempest in a teapot, and few have whistled louder over the last few years than the dust-up over lo-fi house. The term popped up around 2015 to describe a wave of producers like DJ Boring, DJ Seinfeld, and Ross From Friends, who lacquered moody vocal house in tape hiss and racked up millions of plays practically overnight. Their memetic nostalgia attracted the kind of extremely online fans who were probably commenting “a e s t h e t i c” on Chuck Person videos six months prior, and rankled the usual suspects, who picked up a whiff of ironic detachment. A little fun never hurt anyone, but purists had a point when they argued that this scene seemed more like an exercise in re-branding familiar house tropes for Gen Z audiences than a truly fresh sound. In fact, lo-fi offered a fascinating case study of how songs that fuse several common genre elements—say, house beats and nostalgic R&B samples—receive an advantage from the machine learning algorithms that drive music discovery on streaming platforms. That’s why Ross from Friends’ “Talk To Me You’ll Understand” pops up so often in your recommended tab on YouTube. Despite their initial struggle to be taken seriously, the lo-fi producers’ schtick masked real ambition. “I think my name is very far down on my list of ‘things that are important about my music,’” Ross wrote during one climactic battle (read: Twitter spat with a blogger) in the lo-fi wars. In fact, his real name is Felix Weatherall, and he’s from Colchester, UK, but he’s right that this is beside the point. Arguments about whether he and his peers “really mean it” have faded over the last 18 months, as they’ve released a stream of solid tracks on crucial labels and emerged as genuine stars on the club circuit. Weatherall, for his part, recently signed to Brainfeeder and played live at Berghain’s hallowed Panorama Bar. He’s in the big leagues now, and the four-track Aphelion EP feels like an attempt to class up his goofy moniker with la-di-da cover art and a Greek non sequitur. (An aphelion is “the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet at which it is furthest from the sun,” FYI.) The effect is of a self-conscious bro trying on his dad’s itchy tweed blazer before an intimidating date. That’s fine—artists deserve the chance to reposition their brand upmarket, as long as they have the tunes to back it up. Weatherall’s older material used sepia-toned tape hiss to gesture at nostalgia. Yet the simplistic compositions never seemed to pin down what exactly he was nostalgic for, beyond a blurry idea of “the ’90s, man.” On Aphelion, he wipes the fog off his lens and a widescreen vision blossoms into focus. Keys drip with detail. Synths shimmer. Kicks and snares land with a 4K thwack. Lead single “John Cage” is a holdover from an old hip-hop project that Weatherall started with a friend named Guy. The song’s moving parts unfold with a patient logic. A sample from a daffy guided meditation exercise introduces billowing new age textures. Pitch-shifted vocals, via Guy, warble a jazzy lullaby. Seagulls squawk in the background. Synth streaks accent the mix with oversaturated hues familiar to anyone who’s ever spent a psychedelic afternoon at the beach, staring at the sky. The most forgettable track is the one most indebted to lo-fi tropes. “There’s a Hole In My Heart” has a sweet, yearning vocal, but its 4/4 shuffle never really goes anywhere, and Weatherall falls back on drowsy chords you’ll recognize from a zillion Soundcloud mixes. I prefer the limpid electro bauble “March,” which is basically a DJ Stingray tune in relaxed-fit sweatpants. Some may be partial to electro with more gas in the tank, but in Weatherall’s hands a little syncopation goes a long way. Best of all is “Don’t Wake Dad.” The beat flirts with R&B; in fact, it sounds like a friendly ghost that’s crawled into the warm hollow of a memory-foam mattress only recently vacated by N.E.R.D.’s 2010 masterpiece “Hypnotize U.” I couldn’t stop humming “touch it girl, touch it girl, touch it girl, ahhh” when the break comes in. Then, just when you think you’ve got it figured out, Weatherall unleashes a blast of beatific sax. It’s schmaltzy and totally disarming, like something you’d hear at a rave thrown by the Life Is Good™ stick figures. Here we have the clearest picture yet of what a Ross From Friends track should sound like: hands in the air, tongue in cheek, heart pulsing on its sleeve.

Artist: Ross From Friends, Album: Aphelion EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Dance music loves a tempest in a teapot, and few have whistled louder over the last few years than the dust-up over lo-fi house. The term popped up around 2015 to describe a wave of producers like DJ Boring, DJ Seinfeld, and Ross From Friends, who lacquered moody vocal house in tape hiss and racked up millions of plays practically overnight. Their memetic nostalgia attracted the kind of extremely online fans who were probably commenting “a e s t h e t i c” on Chuck Person videos six months prior, and rankled the usual suspects, who picked up a whiff of ironic detachment. A little fun never hurt anyone, but purists had a point when they argued that this scene seemed more like an exercise in re-branding familiar house tropes for Gen Z audiences than a truly fresh sound. In fact, lo-fi offered a fascinating case study of how songs that fuse several common genre elements—say, house beats and nostalgic R&B samples—receive an advantage from the machine learning algorithms that drive music discovery on streaming platforms. That’s why Ross from Friends’ “Talk To Me You’ll Understand” pops up so often in your recommended tab on YouTube. Despite their initial struggle to be taken seriously, the lo-fi producers’ schtick masked real ambition. “I think my name is very far down on my list of ‘things that are important about my music,’” Ross wrote during one climactic battle (read: Twitter spat with a blogger) in the lo-fi wars. In fact, his real name is Felix Weatherall, and he’s from Colchester, UK, but he’s right that this is beside the point. Arguments about whether he and his peers “really mean it” have faded over the last 18 months, as they’ve released a stream of solid tracks on crucial labels and emerged as genuine stars on the club circuit. Weatherall, for his part, recently signed to Brainfeeder and played live at Berghain’s hallowed Panorama Bar. He’s in the big leagues now, and the four-track Aphelion EP feels like an attempt to class up his goofy moniker with la-di-da cover art and a Greek non sequitur. (An aphelion is “the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet at which it is furthest from the sun,” FYI.) The effect is of a self-conscious bro trying on his dad’s itchy tweed blazer before an intimidating date. That’s fine—artists deserve the chance to reposition their brand upmarket, as long as they have the tunes to back it up. Weatherall’s older material used sepia-toned tape hiss to gesture at nostalgia. Yet the simplistic compositions never seemed to pin down what exactly he was nostalgic for, beyond a blurry idea of “the ’90s, man.” On Aphelion, he wipes the fog off his lens and a widescreen vision blossoms into focus. Keys drip with detail. Synths shimmer. Kicks and snares land with a 4K thwack. Lead single “John Cage” is a holdover from an old hip-hop project that Weatherall started with a friend named Guy. The song’s moving parts unfold with a patient logic. A sample from a daffy guided meditation exercise introduces billowing new age textures. Pitch-shifted vocals, via Guy, warble a jazzy lullaby. Seagulls squawk in the background. Synth streaks accent the mix with oversaturated hues familiar to anyone who’s ever spent a psychedelic afternoon at the beach, staring at the sky. The most forgettable track is the one most indebted to lo-fi tropes. “There’s a Hole In My Heart” has a sweet, yearning vocal, but its 4/4 shuffle never really goes anywhere, and Weatherall falls back on drowsy chords you’ll recognize from a zillion Soundcloud mixes. I prefer the limpid electro bauble “March,” which is basically a DJ Stingray tune in relaxed-fit sweatpants. Some may be partial to electro with more gas in the tank, but in Weatherall’s hands a little syncopation goes a long way. Best of all is “Don’t Wake Dad.” The beat flirts with R&B; in fact, it sounds like a friendly ghost that’s crawled into the warm hollow of a memory-foam mattress only recently vacated by N.E.R.D.’s 2010 masterpiece “Hypnotize U.” I couldn’t stop humming “touch it girl, touch it girl, touch it girl, ahhh” when the break comes in. Then, just when you think you’ve got it figured out, Weatherall unleashes a blast of beatific sax. It’s schmaltzy and totally disarming, like something you’d hear at a rave thrown by the Life Is Good™ stick figures. Here we have the clearest picture yet of what a Ross From Friends track should sound like: hands in the air, tongue in cheek, heart pulsing on its sleeve."

Various Artists

Sound Signature Presents: These Songs That Should've Been Out on Wax By Now - Part One

Andy Beta

In a feature about the adversities facing the vinyl resurgence back in 2014, Joel Oliphint wrote: “Everyone is competing with everyone to get their records made and, at this rate, there won’t be enough presses to meet demand for some time, if ever.” Even with the good news that vinyl sales are at a 28-year high for 2016 and Third Man’s new pressing plant in Detroit, anyone who is not a major label is still feeling the squeeze at the presses. And if you’re a small, African-American-owned dance label out of Detroit doing runs in the hundreds like Theo Parrish’s Sound Signature, you might be screwed entirely. Enter Sound Signature Presents: These songs should've been on wax by now. Due to back up at pressing plants we bring them to you in a somewhat inferior format that at least exists in a physical world! enjoy! Inferior format sure (these are CD-Rs), but since it’s almost impossible to keep up with the label and its scattershot 12”s, their pressing plant woes are to our benefit, as the two compilations provide a handy overview of Theo’s soundworld as well as that of his friends and neighbors. Not that it’s too easy, as these 18 tracks are bereft of artist credits. Instead, there’s just a list of people who appear: Afrobeat legend Tony Allen, Detroit session man Amp Fiddler, underground house forces like Marcellus Pittman, Kyle Hall, and Kai Alce, as well as Parrish himself. Guess them all, the CD case says, and you might win “even a new car even!” Despite the wide range of artists, the music most closely reflects Parrish’s own sensibilities, as moving, diffuse, spare, soul-deep and withholding of payoffs as the man’s own productions. A mysterious female singer purrs over a piano vamp “Somewhere Inbetween” but the beat never comes. An incessant hi-hat and flurry of electric piano might be the only elements of “Whachawannado (Instrumental),” but the track never loses steam. Jazz fusion licks power “Hanna’s Waltz” while “Arrivals” and “Faucet” have the heady, heavy kick of Theo’s best tracks. “Wayshimoovs rx” sounds like it’s from the same sessions that brought together Theo and Tony Allen. This easeful neo-soul track features the latter’s skittering shuffle beat paired to Theo’s spare keys and Andrew Ashong’s D’Angelo-esque purr. The two discs offer similar rewards, but the slowed-to-a-crawl “Greazy Spoonwalk” bogs down the first disc (and makes you wish for a vinyl version so as to pitch it up +8) and most of the heavier beats reside on the second volume. Volume 1 ends with a remembrance of old Detroit, a bit of dialogue talking about seeing the old Motown revue for $2 as a horn plays in the background. Not much happens on the track, but it nevertheless informs all of the music. While all the tracks are new, they carry within them the history of the Motor City. Even if they don’t have the same star wattage, the voices on “Digital Love” and “Whachawannado” hearken back to the heyday of Motown soul singers like Marvin Gaye and Mary Wells. “Caddylack Steam Theme” delivers ‘70s funk with Blaxploitation swag, right down to the horns and rippling guitar licks. With its undeniable bass, stomping kick, cresting organ, vocal hums and crisp claps, “Ooohbass” is one of the set’s highlights, showing just how a producer like Parrish (or Pittman, Hall, etc.) draws on their hometown’s heritage for their own tracks. Sound Signature showcases Detroit house music at its dustiest, undeniable best, showing that even in the 21st century, dance music is at its most evocative when it’s the perfect triangulation of gospel, soul and funk.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Sound Signature Presents: These Songs That Should've Been Out on Wax By Now - Part One, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "In a feature about the adversities facing the vinyl resurgence back in 2014, Joel Oliphint wrote: “Everyone is competing with everyone to get their records made and, at this rate, there won’t be enough presses to meet demand for some time, if ever.” Even with the good news that vinyl sales are at a 28-year high for 2016 and Third Man’s new pressing plant in Detroit, anyone who is not a major label is still feeling the squeeze at the presses. And if you’re a small, African-American-owned dance label out of Detroit doing runs in the hundreds like Theo Parrish’s Sound Signature, you might be screwed entirely. Enter Sound Signature Presents: These songs should've been on wax by now. Due to back up at pressing plants we bring them to you in a somewhat inferior format that at least exists in a physical world! enjoy! Inferior format sure (these are CD-Rs), but since it’s almost impossible to keep up with the label and its scattershot 12”s, their pressing plant woes are to our benefit, as the two compilations provide a handy overview of Theo’s soundworld as well as that of his friends and neighbors. Not that it’s too easy, as these 18 tracks are bereft of artist credits. Instead, there’s just a list of people who appear: Afrobeat legend Tony Allen, Detroit session man Amp Fiddler, underground house forces like Marcellus Pittman, Kyle Hall, and Kai Alce, as well as Parrish himself. Guess them all, the CD case says, and you might win “even a new car even!” Despite the wide range of artists, the music most closely reflects Parrish’s own sensibilities, as moving, diffuse, spare, soul-deep and withholding of payoffs as the man’s own productions. A mysterious female singer purrs over a piano vamp “Somewhere Inbetween” but the beat never comes. An incessant hi-hat and flurry of electric piano might be the only elements of “Whachawannado (Instrumental),” but the track never loses steam. Jazz fusion licks power “Hanna’s Waltz” while “Arrivals” and “Faucet” have the heady, heavy kick of Theo’s best tracks. “Wayshimoovs rx” sounds like it’s from the same sessions that brought together Theo and Tony Allen. This easeful neo-soul track features the latter’s skittering shuffle beat paired to Theo’s spare keys and Andrew Ashong’s D’Angelo-esque purr. The two discs offer similar rewards, but the slowed-to-a-crawl “Greazy Spoonwalk” bogs down the first disc (and makes you wish for a vinyl version so as to pitch it up +8) and most of the heavier beats reside on the second volume. Volume 1 ends with a remembrance of old Detroit, a bit of dialogue talking about seeing the old Motown revue for $2 as a horn plays in the background. Not much happens on the track, but it nevertheless informs all of the music. While all the tracks are new, they carry within them the history of the Motor City. Even if they don’t have the same star wattage, the voices on “Digital Love” and “Whachawannado” hearken back to the heyday of Motown soul singers like Marvin Gaye and Mary Wells. “Caddylack Steam Theme” delivers ‘70s funk with Blaxploitation swag, right down to the horns and rippling guitar licks. With its undeniable bass, stomping kick, cresting organ, vocal hums and crisp claps, “Ooohbass” is one of the set’s highlights, showing just how a producer like Parrish (or Pittman, Hall, etc.) draws on their hometown’s heritage for their own tracks. Sound Signature showcases Detroit house music at its dustiest, undeniable best, showing that even in the 21st century, dance music is at its most evocative when it’s the perfect triangulation of gospel, soul and funk."

Gossip

Movement

Electronic,Rock

Brandon Stosuy

I'm supposing anyone who's read even a couple lines about this Arkansas-born, Olympia-based trio must know that their not-so-secret weapon is 22-year-old front-woman Beth Ditto, whose blistering, blues-reeling yowl has established some goddamn fully realized roots for the band's punk-inflected garage rock. It's Ditto who pushes the Gossip above the majority of their genre's not-so-great, middling pretenders. You need go no further than "Nite", the grinding opener on their second full-length Movement, to realize these shaggy, Ramones-loving stylistics are channel surfing Etta James, Janis Joplin, Bessie Smith, and dusty country roads-- not Nina Hagen, like so much of the pack. Ozark garage rock! Queer-positive Leadbelly! My adoration isx92t unadulterated. I do indeed like dirty, swaggering music, but beyond Ditto's substantial vocal prowess, the band doesn't often push the artistic envelope. I'm not stubbornly naïve enough to think every band needs to pull out the analog tape-loop machine and KK Null back catalogue, but when these guys opt to compliment Ditto's voice by swerving left and experimenting with their relatively bare instrumentation, the off-kilter results raise the band's output to a different level of sweet-home goodness. Conversely, when they stick hard and fast to standard formations, these enfant terribles lose steam and dissolve inertly into to the white-striped background. I grew up wearing a Royal Trux t-shirt and playing drums in a shaky teenage band that covered Flipper's "Sex Bomb". Ever since I was that high-school chump with a confused head for taking apart instruments, I knew half the battle with my beloved genre was overcoming similarity. The essential aspect of seminal noise-fuck bands like Pussy Galore and Royal Trux was a preternatural ability to incorporate punk and art-rock into standard 1960's garage and a lifetime of cribbed rhythm and blues. Sadly, at this point, even one side of Dial M For Motherfucker or Twin Infinitives still out-punches the entire oeuvres of so many of today's well-dressed hacks. I'm blabbering about composition because the cracks in the Gossip's straightforward sheen point toward a previously unseen horizon splattered orange, pink, and dark purple. What if they upped their already substantial ante by making their work more patchwork? Ditto's vocal acrobatics tank when the music behind her doesn't progress from Olympia style bass-less guitar mush backed by primitive drums. When you rely on one guitar you should take a nod from Mecca Normal: develop a mile-high stack of riffs. As of now, I'm left picking at guitar god scraps. Movement's best moments are transitions: the slice of guitar noise at the end of the beautifully distraught "Yesterday's News"; "Gone" becomes an unaccompanied hand-clap sing-a-long at its coda, transforming the track into a wonderfully anonymous punk-rock spiritual; after a pause at the end of "Light Light Sleep", a repetitive guitar chops it up, and Ditto's notes explode, taking flight. Though there are only a few of these shifts in recording textures and gradations, these glitches in tonal quality impart a beautiful dissymmetry to the sermon, adding a muddy Tower Recordings underbelly to the band's approach. The Gossip sound best when flowing through lo-fi constraints: when they dox92t have a hi-hat, and the down-tuned guitar is missing string. When the music's boxier, Ditto's voice soars; when the guitar and bass evoke a boom-box recording, the muck of the dank room warps into a golden treasure trove. In the spirit of shitty recordings, I look forward to their upcoming live release on Dim Mak, which was culled from Non-Dead In NYC (a cassette the band ran only 50 copies of themselves). Maybe they could use that raw tape hiss and a razor blade to create a complexly recalibrated remix album? Whatever. Even if my experimental pipe dream doesx92t come to fruition, I really like it when people make music out of junk, and the Gossip do indeed concoct boozy sun-drunk music, its rust mined from anthills, rising rivers, dirty lemonade, and the brassy patches of grass in a broken southern sidewalk. I just wish the soul was as fractured.

Artist: Gossip, Album: Movement, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "I'm supposing anyone who's read even a couple lines about this Arkansas-born, Olympia-based trio must know that their not-so-secret weapon is 22-year-old front-woman Beth Ditto, whose blistering, blues-reeling yowl has established some goddamn fully realized roots for the band's punk-inflected garage rock. It's Ditto who pushes the Gossip above the majority of their genre's not-so-great, middling pretenders. You need go no further than "Nite", the grinding opener on their second full-length Movement, to realize these shaggy, Ramones-loving stylistics are channel surfing Etta James, Janis Joplin, Bessie Smith, and dusty country roads-- not Nina Hagen, like so much of the pack. Ozark garage rock! Queer-positive Leadbelly! My adoration isx92t unadulterated. I do indeed like dirty, swaggering music, but beyond Ditto's substantial vocal prowess, the band doesn't often push the artistic envelope. I'm not stubbornly naïve enough to think every band needs to pull out the analog tape-loop machine and KK Null back catalogue, but when these guys opt to compliment Ditto's voice by swerving left and experimenting with their relatively bare instrumentation, the off-kilter results raise the band's output to a different level of sweet-home goodness. Conversely, when they stick hard and fast to standard formations, these enfant terribles lose steam and dissolve inertly into to the white-striped background. I grew up wearing a Royal Trux t-shirt and playing drums in a shaky teenage band that covered Flipper's "Sex Bomb". Ever since I was that high-school chump with a confused head for taking apart instruments, I knew half the battle with my beloved genre was overcoming similarity. The essential aspect of seminal noise-fuck bands like Pussy Galore and Royal Trux was a preternatural ability to incorporate punk and art-rock into standard 1960's garage and a lifetime of cribbed rhythm and blues. Sadly, at this point, even one side of Dial M For Motherfucker or Twin Infinitives still out-punches the entire oeuvres of so many of today's well-dressed hacks. I'm blabbering about composition because the cracks in the Gossip's straightforward sheen point toward a previously unseen horizon splattered orange, pink, and dark purple. What if they upped their already substantial ante by making their work more patchwork? Ditto's vocal acrobatics tank when the music behind her doesn't progress from Olympia style bass-less guitar mush backed by primitive drums. When you rely on one guitar you should take a nod from Mecca Normal: develop a mile-high stack of riffs. As of now, I'm left picking at guitar god scraps. Movement's best moments are transitions: the slice of guitar noise at the end of the beautifully distraught "Yesterday's News"; "Gone" becomes an unaccompanied hand-clap sing-a-long at its coda, transforming the track into a wonderfully anonymous punk-rock spiritual; after a pause at the end of "Light Light Sleep", a repetitive guitar chops it up, and Ditto's notes explode, taking flight. Though there are only a few of these shifts in recording textures and gradations, these glitches in tonal quality impart a beautiful dissymmetry to the sermon, adding a muddy Tower Recordings underbelly to the band's approach. The Gossip sound best when flowing through lo-fi constraints: when they dox92t have a hi-hat, and the down-tuned guitar is missing string. When the music's boxier, Ditto's voice soars; when the guitar and bass evoke a boom-box recording, the muck of the dank room warps into a golden treasure trove. In the spirit of shitty recordings, I look forward to their upcoming live release on Dim Mak, which was culled from Non-Dead In NYC (a cassette the band ran only 50 copies of themselves). Maybe they could use that raw tape hiss and a razor blade to create a complexly recalibrated remix album? Whatever. Even if my experimental pipe dream doesx92t come to fruition, I really like it when people make music out of junk, and the Gossip do indeed concoct boozy sun-drunk music, its rust mined from anthills, rising rivers, dirty lemonade, and the brassy patches of grass in a broken southern sidewalk. I just wish the soul was as fractured."

Naomi Punk

The Feeling

Rock

Martin Douglas

Olympia/Seattle's Naomi Punk are at least partly inspired by their grunge forbearers. The genre's basic elements are well-represented: The sludgy erosion over the guitars, the drums blasting with machine-grade heaviness. Since the old formula goes "one part metal, two parts punk, and one part psychedelic weird shit," it's not a stretch by any means to consider Naomi Punk a grunge band. And while they're clearly a part of a long lineage of bands taking their influence from the Seattle rock scene of the early 1990s, Naomi Punk's songs are not cheaply manufactured recreations of Soundgarden or even TAD. The Feeling, originally released on vinyl and now being issued by Captured Tracks digitally and on CD, captures the trio studying the grunge rulebook just to tear it in half. Naomi Punk's approach to grunge is one of deconstruction and rebuilding in different places with fewer parts. Most of the album's songs change tempos at the drop of flannel, breaking into a dense wall of meticulously controlled chaos. Guitars are not delivered with a steady stream of chords; they come in blasts along with the crash cymbal, often at irregular points in the song. There's almost a need to keep up with them rhythmically over the first few listens, because the phrasing of the chords and beats zig zag through a motley course, unintentionally using empty space as every bit the weapon their guitars and drums are. Despite the grunge signifiers, Naomi Punk seem to be working under a template like slowcore, art-punk, or no wave played at half-speed. They've given themselves a narrow palette to work with in this sense, but The Feeling's funeral-march tempos and unrelenting heaviness don't detract from what makes the album compelling. Aside from three quasi-classical guitar interludes, the record comes packed top-to-bottom with total bruisers, and for most of its 35 minutes, the music is hitting you with pummeling force, every bit as visceral as your favorite punk album from this year. Most of the songs come with a cathartic breakdown of some sort, whether it's the rollicking finish of "Trashworld" or the chorus of "Burned Body". Not only does The Feeling connect on a purely visceral level, it's got plenty of emotional resolve. For a band whose poppiest song's titled "Burned Body" and for all of the lyrics about charred flesh and self-immolation, Naomi Punk are good at injecting a bit of hope and optimism into their music. "I am the sun/ I am the shooting star" goes the opening lyric of "The Spell". The title track takes that optimism and shoots it into anthemic territory. Playing out like the battle scene climax of your favorite war movie, "The Feeling" starts out scaling back to hold the tension, but rolls into explosion after explosion. The chorus, the sedate tease of the middle eight, and then the climax-- "And now I know that I can find a way"-- triumphantly rise above the din. Monolithic and seemingly impenetrable at first, The Feeling has a number of these moments, subtler details that offer plenty of rewards for whoever can stand being pummeled for almost 40 minutes.

Artist: Naomi Punk, Album: The Feeling, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Olympia/Seattle's Naomi Punk are at least partly inspired by their grunge forbearers. The genre's basic elements are well-represented: The sludgy erosion over the guitars, the drums blasting with machine-grade heaviness. Since the old formula goes "one part metal, two parts punk, and one part psychedelic weird shit," it's not a stretch by any means to consider Naomi Punk a grunge band. And while they're clearly a part of a long lineage of bands taking their influence from the Seattle rock scene of the early 1990s, Naomi Punk's songs are not cheaply manufactured recreations of Soundgarden or even TAD. The Feeling, originally released on vinyl and now being issued by Captured Tracks digitally and on CD, captures the trio studying the grunge rulebook just to tear it in half. Naomi Punk's approach to grunge is one of deconstruction and rebuilding in different places with fewer parts. Most of the album's songs change tempos at the drop of flannel, breaking into a dense wall of meticulously controlled chaos. Guitars are not delivered with a steady stream of chords; they come in blasts along with the crash cymbal, often at irregular points in the song. There's almost a need to keep up with them rhythmically over the first few listens, because the phrasing of the chords and beats zig zag through a motley course, unintentionally using empty space as every bit the weapon their guitars and drums are. Despite the grunge signifiers, Naomi Punk seem to be working under a template like slowcore, art-punk, or no wave played at half-speed. They've given themselves a narrow palette to work with in this sense, but The Feeling's funeral-march tempos and unrelenting heaviness don't detract from what makes the album compelling. Aside from three quasi-classical guitar interludes, the record comes packed top-to-bottom with total bruisers, and for most of its 35 minutes, the music is hitting you with pummeling force, every bit as visceral as your favorite punk album from this year. Most of the songs come with a cathartic breakdown of some sort, whether it's the rollicking finish of "Trashworld" or the chorus of "Burned Body". Not only does The Feeling connect on a purely visceral level, it's got plenty of emotional resolve. For a band whose poppiest song's titled "Burned Body" and for all of the lyrics about charred flesh and self-immolation, Naomi Punk are good at injecting a bit of hope and optimism into their music. "I am the sun/ I am the shooting star" goes the opening lyric of "The Spell". The title track takes that optimism and shoots it into anthemic territory. Playing out like the battle scene climax of your favorite war movie, "The Feeling" starts out scaling back to hold the tension, but rolls into explosion after explosion. The chorus, the sedate tease of the middle eight, and then the climax-- "And now I know that I can find a way"-- triumphantly rise above the din. Monolithic and seemingly impenetrable at first, The Feeling has a number of these moments, subtler details that offer plenty of rewards for whoever can stand being pummeled for almost 40 minutes."

Foals

What Went Down

Rock

Ian Cohen

Unlike Foals’ two previous albums, What Went Down does not require a drawn-out introduction to explain its intentions. "Blue Blood" captured the surprising progression of Total Life Forever in miniature, slowly evolving from the pinging, prickly riffs that defined Antidotes to a cloudbursting crescendo. By 2013's Holy Fire, Foals were a legitimate arena act and acted like they've been there before, hence, the four-minute, crowd-stoking "Prelude". At this point, Foals have nothing left to prove—they are a big-ticket rock band until further notice, so the opening title track of What Went Down gets right to it with blunt-force, pitch-shifted riffs and Yannis Philippakis promising that you’re gonna hype him up and make him catch a body like that: "So don’t step to me kid, you’ll never be found." The lyrical aggression is curious, but the confidence is warranted—after planning on an extended hiatus after Holy Fire, What Went Down came together in relatively quick fashion after something "clicked" during preliminary sessions. No surprise that they’re locked in, as Foals are basically a genre of one at this point. This appears more obvious when you consider the bands who’ve ascended to their level in the UK over the past few years; if they’re not adhering to the most obvious NME-bait lad-rock template, they’re following some kind of obvious precedent. Meanwhile, Foals have mastered an arena-funk hybrid that others have only touched on—post-Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me Cure when they wanted to be silly, latter day Red Hot Chili Peppers when they wanted to be serious. But unlike those bands, Foals aren’t fronted by a self-fashioned icon. The presumptive medley of "London Thunder" and "Lonely Hunter" find Philippakis jetsetting between gigs and considering the ocean as a reflection of his emotional emptiness, the first time he’s directly addressed what it means to be The Guy in Foals. But while Foals are considered the "thinking person’s alternative" to most mainstream UK guitar bands by default, the knuckle-dragging of the title track and "Snake Oil" isn’t that much more cerebral than Royal Blood or Drenge. More often, Foals are a "feeling person’s alternative"—"Mountain at My Gates" and "Birch Tree" are defined by an all-purpose spiritual and/or romantic longing and spacious production, meaning they’re walking the same path as Coldplay ca. X&Y with more pep in their step. What Went Down revels in lurid imagery—love is a gun in Philippakis’ hand, he runs through the streets bloodied from a fistfight, his heart is an old pole dancer and an old black panther. In that regard, What Went Down feels like the completion of an unplanned trilogy—Total Life Forever embraced commitment, Holy Fire yearned for liberation, and this is Philippakis recoiling from the blowback. "Give It All" initially comes off like an inert songwriting exercise in lyrical juxtaposition, before Philippakis cleverly twists the title into an ironic burn ("Give me the time but not an age/ Give me the look but not the rage...you give me it all"). But by "Lonely Hunter", the tables have turned on Philippakis—he gets lost in foreign cities and makes perfunctory late night calls, only to get back and recognize how it’s not the same as being there ("why must I wait in line for what is mine?"). It’s not a particularly unique viewpoint, though it’s unique in relation to other Foals records. In fact, it’s about the only way to truly distinguish What Went Down from Holy Fire and Total Life Forever. There are superficial differences in aggression—slightly more electronic buzzing, harsher vocals, gristly guitars. It’s Foals’ raw record, but it’s still filet mignon tartare, as raw as you can get when your producer’s two other gigs in 2015 were Florence and the Machine and Mumford & Sons. Otherwise, What Went Down is the latest example of Foals’ uncanny ability to make records whose basic musical trajectory and quality are nearly equal regardless of the band's intentions going in. And What Went Downis their most consistent, steady-handed work yet—the distance between their purest pop moments ("Miami", "My Number") and their opulent ballads ("Spanish Sahara") has virtually disappeared. It's also significantly less exciting than Total Life Forever and Holy Fire, dynamic records because of their unevenness and ambitious strain—while Foals have realized a sound that's truly their own, they sound far too comfortable in it.

Artist: Foals, Album: What Went Down, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Unlike Foals’ two previous albums, What Went Down does not require a drawn-out introduction to explain its intentions. "Blue Blood" captured the surprising progression of Total Life Forever in miniature, slowly evolving from the pinging, prickly riffs that defined Antidotes to a cloudbursting crescendo. By 2013's Holy Fire, Foals were a legitimate arena act and acted like they've been there before, hence, the four-minute, crowd-stoking "Prelude". At this point, Foals have nothing left to prove—they are a big-ticket rock band until further notice, so the opening title track of What Went Down gets right to it with blunt-force, pitch-shifted riffs and Yannis Philippakis promising that you’re gonna hype him up and make him catch a body like that: "So don’t step to me kid, you’ll never be found." The lyrical aggression is curious, but the confidence is warranted—after planning on an extended hiatus after Holy Fire, What Went Down came together in relatively quick fashion after something "clicked" during preliminary sessions. No surprise that they’re locked in, as Foals are basically a genre of one at this point. This appears more obvious when you consider the bands who’ve ascended to their level in the UK over the past few years; if they’re not adhering to the most obvious NME-bait lad-rock template, they’re following some kind of obvious precedent. Meanwhile, Foals have mastered an arena-funk hybrid that others have only touched on—post-Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me Cure when they wanted to be silly, latter day Red Hot Chili Peppers when they wanted to be serious. But unlike those bands, Foals aren’t fronted by a self-fashioned icon. The presumptive medley of "London Thunder" and "Lonely Hunter" find Philippakis jetsetting between gigs and considering the ocean as a reflection of his emotional emptiness, the first time he’s directly addressed what it means to be The Guy in Foals. But while Foals are considered the "thinking person’s alternative" to most mainstream UK guitar bands by default, the knuckle-dragging of the title track and "Snake Oil" isn’t that much more cerebral than Royal Blood or Drenge. More often, Foals are a "feeling person’s alternative"—"Mountain at My Gates" and "Birch Tree" are defined by an all-purpose spiritual and/or romantic longing and spacious production, meaning they’re walking the same path as Coldplay ca. X&Y with more pep in their step. What Went Down revels in lurid imagery—love is a gun in Philippakis’ hand, he runs through the streets bloodied from a fistfight, his heart is an old pole dancer and an old black panther. In that regard, What Went Down feels like the completion of an unplanned trilogy—Total Life Forever embraced commitment, Holy Fire yearned for liberation, and this is Philippakis recoiling from the blowback. "Give It All" initially comes off like an inert songwriting exercise in lyrical juxtaposition, before Philippakis cleverly twists the title into an ironic burn ("Give me the time but not an age/ Give me the look but not the rage...you give me it all"). But by "Lonely Hunter", the tables have turned on Philippakis—he gets lost in foreign cities and makes perfunctory late night calls, only to get back and recognize how it’s not the same as being there ("why must I wait in line for what is mine?"). It’s not a particularly unique viewpoint, though it’s unique in relation to other Foals records. In fact, it’s about the only way to truly distinguish What Went Down from Holy Fire and Total Life Forever. There are superficial differences in aggression—slightly more electronic buzzing, harsher vocals, gristly guitars. It’s Foals’ raw record, but it’s still filet mignon tartare, as raw as you can get when your producer’s two other gigs in 2015 were Florence and the Machine and Mumford & Sons. Otherwise, What Went Down is the latest example of Foals’ uncanny ability to make records whose basic musical trajectory and quality are nearly equal regardless of the band's intentions going in. And What Went Downis their most consistent, steady-handed work yet—the distance between their purest pop moments ("Miami", "My Number") and their opulent ballads ("Spanish Sahara") has virtually disappeared. It's also significantly less exciting than Total Life Forever and Holy Fire, dynamic records because of their unevenness and ambitious strain—while Foals have realized a sound that's truly their own, they sound far too comfortable in it."

Supersilent

13

Experimental

Brian Howe

Supersilent's music exists beyond any normal human activity, any comprehensible emotion. It's hard to imagine partying, housecleaning, or commuting with it, as its screeches, melted horn riffs, and creep-show keyboards bombard the edge of reason. Its rhythms hint at continuity and then peel off in whatever direction, perversely arbitrary, shunting the flow. Imagine straining to hear a rustling through the keyhole of a door that might burst open to unleash a terrible racket at any moment—that's 13. When you listen to it, you can't really do anything but listen to it. That's an advantage if you consider it as a sign of vividness, but perhaps a limitation if you think about how often you sit by yourself and do nothing but listen intently to music. The precise numbering of Supersilent's recordings almost humorously belies their spontaneous nature—every album is improvised. On 13, the trio moves from Rune Grammofon to Oslo's other leading electronic jazz label, Smalltown Supersound, but the sequence and the style are unbroken. The group's distant roots are in free jazz, which they still stitch into abstract patchworks of ambient music and arrhythmic noise. Roughly, Arve Henriksen coaxes strange tones from trumpets and woodwinds; Ståle Storløkken pounds vintage keyboards; and Helge Sten, who also makes dark ambient music as Deathprod, at once encases and engages the improvisations with rich electro-acoustic atmospheres. 13 was performed over a PA system in a shared space, and it benefits from a sense of presence even at its most daunting. Though Supersilent has gone without a drummer since 2009, they remain a highly percussive outfit because of the pops and crackles of the electronics and the extended techniques used by the players. 13's opening track is described as "Indonesian ritual music heard from a Scandinavian mountaintop," but you couldn't be blamed for imagining a rhythm section falling down the stairs into a basement full of broken computers instead. "13.1" lands on just the right side of the line between exploring and getting lost. Not every track does. These improvisers are good enough to bend something as unruly as "13.3" into an arc, but it's still a gruelingly disjunctive go at it. And on the bumptious "13.5," we remember, as we wholly forget during the most captivating passages, that this is essentially just some dudes getting together and jamming. Luckily, "13.5" is followed by one those velvety, far-off, lyrical trumpet solos familiar from Henriksen's wonderful solo albums, and there are other songs like it here—smaller, shorter, and more subtle. Not a one is unwelcome. Aptly for such extreme music, 13 is most potent when Supersilent either goes inward, as on "13.6," or goes all out, staying well clear of the noncommittal region in between. "13.7" might take this dictum a tad far; a screaming fireball that takes six minutes to strike spends six more wreaking almost unlistenable havoc. "13.9" is just as big and twice as perfect, rewarding anyone who's made it to the end with a cool-toned, hard-won, and not at all unnecessary refresher course on what music is and why people like it. That's the fascination and the frustration of Supersilent: it's like they keep destroying the lineaments of form just for the pleasure of vouchsafing them to us again.

Artist: Supersilent, Album: 13, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Supersilent's music exists beyond any normal human activity, any comprehensible emotion. It's hard to imagine partying, housecleaning, or commuting with it, as its screeches, melted horn riffs, and creep-show keyboards bombard the edge of reason. Its rhythms hint at continuity and then peel off in whatever direction, perversely arbitrary, shunting the flow. Imagine straining to hear a rustling through the keyhole of a door that might burst open to unleash a terrible racket at any moment—that's 13. When you listen to it, you can't really do anything but listen to it. That's an advantage if you consider it as a sign of vividness, but perhaps a limitation if you think about how often you sit by yourself and do nothing but listen intently to music. The precise numbering of Supersilent's recordings almost humorously belies their spontaneous nature—every album is improvised. On 13, the trio moves from Rune Grammofon to Oslo's other leading electronic jazz label, Smalltown Supersound, but the sequence and the style are unbroken. The group's distant roots are in free jazz, which they still stitch into abstract patchworks of ambient music and arrhythmic noise. Roughly, Arve Henriksen coaxes strange tones from trumpets and woodwinds; Ståle Storløkken pounds vintage keyboards; and Helge Sten, who also makes dark ambient music as Deathprod, at once encases and engages the improvisations with rich electro-acoustic atmospheres. 13 was performed over a PA system in a shared space, and it benefits from a sense of presence even at its most daunting. Though Supersilent has gone without a drummer since 2009, they remain a highly percussive outfit because of the pops and crackles of the electronics and the extended techniques used by the players. 13's opening track is described as "Indonesian ritual music heard from a Scandinavian mountaintop," but you couldn't be blamed for imagining a rhythm section falling down the stairs into a basement full of broken computers instead. "13.1" lands on just the right side of the line between exploring and getting lost. Not every track does. These improvisers are good enough to bend something as unruly as "13.3" into an arc, but it's still a gruelingly disjunctive go at it. And on the bumptious "13.5," we remember, as we wholly forget during the most captivating passages, that this is essentially just some dudes getting together and jamming. Luckily, "13.5" is followed by one those velvety, far-off, lyrical trumpet solos familiar from Henriksen's wonderful solo albums, and there are other songs like it here—smaller, shorter, and more subtle. Not a one is unwelcome. Aptly for such extreme music, 13 is most potent when Supersilent either goes inward, as on "13.6," or goes all out, staying well clear of the noncommittal region in between. "13.7" might take this dictum a tad far; a screaming fireball that takes six minutes to strike spends six more wreaking almost unlistenable havoc. "13.9" is just as big and twice as perfect, rewarding anyone who's made it to the end with a cool-toned, hard-won, and not at all unnecessary refresher course on what music is and why people like it. That's the fascination and the frustration of Supersilent: it's like they keep destroying the lineaments of form just for the pleasure of vouchsafing them to us again."

The Dead C

Trouble

Experimental,Rock

Jason Heller

Age, according to conventional wisdom, is supposed to bring some measure of contentment. Edges have been worn off, battles have been won (or forfeited), and the prickly dissatisfaction of youth has given way to a philosophical cultivation of stability. Real life seldom turns out that way, of course. But with age, our impulse to see everything as an all-or-nothing binary means real life’s messy mix of war and peace becomes, at least, embraceable. It’s a familiar perspective for the Dead C. Formed thirty years ago in Dunedin, New Zealand, the trio of Bruce Russell, Michael Morley, and Robbie Yeats has spent the overwhelming majority of their lives carving a cruel, transcendent path through the tangle of the noise-rock underground. Sometimes corrosive, sometimes constructive, the band’s output has remained as steady as it is volatile. *Trouble *is the Dead C’s first full-length since 2013’s Armed Courage, and while the band has only aged three years since then, the accumulated weight of decades is everywhere. That weight, though, is no hindrance. Instead, it’s wielded like an industrial machine on “One,” the first of the album’s five, number-titled tracks. Extrusions of static and microaggressive twitches of dissonance, courtesy of the guitars of Russell and Morley, dot a minefield rife with Yeats’ percussive skitter. Halfway through its twenty-minute sprawl, the song splits open just wide enough to hear Morley’s ghost-moaned vocals, a sound halfway between a mumble and a hymn. Similarly long, “Four” is more taut—a strangulated barrage of wah-pedal feedback washed in jazzy, impressionistic cymbal-work. As it picks up steam, it collapses spectacularly under its own mass. Though Trouble is nimble and fluid, the Dead C draw mainly on the gravity of their years. There’s a mournful air to “Two” after the opening drumbeat crawls to a momentary halt. The guitars helix around a sour melody, curling in the empty space where something used to be. Here, the album’s utilitarian non-titles make sense, as if to avoid conferring any context or intent. Likewise, a vague sense of loss howls through “Three,” which is also the record’s only true interval of fragility; the ten-minute middle of the song lapses into unhinged, human-like cries of confusion, weariness, surrender, and ultimately rage. It’s an uncanny-valley effect that captures a primordial eeriness, ancient and unsettling. “I think of myself as the Jimi Hendrix of no technique,” Russell told *Wire *in a 2013 interview. As self-deprecating as he was, his offhand comment is as true now as it was then. And it applies to the Dead C as a whole. At just over five minutes, “Four” is the briefest track on Trouble, but it’s also the album’s heaviest and most conventionally accessible. Motifs, if not outright riffs, abound; the song’s play of rhythm, texture, and dynamic borders on the metallic. It’s enough to make you imagine the Dead C, men in their fifties, embarking on a new career as a doom band. Not that they’d need to. With Trouble, Russell, Morley, and Yeats have dug one foot deeper into the thick, sludgy, noise-strewn topsoil they’ve long called home. Call it a trench, if you will, but it isn’t is a grave.

Artist: The Dead C, Album: Trouble, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Age, according to conventional wisdom, is supposed to bring some measure of contentment. Edges have been worn off, battles have been won (or forfeited), and the prickly dissatisfaction of youth has given way to a philosophical cultivation of stability. Real life seldom turns out that way, of course. But with age, our impulse to see everything as an all-or-nothing binary means real life’s messy mix of war and peace becomes, at least, embraceable. It’s a familiar perspective for the Dead C. Formed thirty years ago in Dunedin, New Zealand, the trio of Bruce Russell, Michael Morley, and Robbie Yeats has spent the overwhelming majority of their lives carving a cruel, transcendent path through the tangle of the noise-rock underground. Sometimes corrosive, sometimes constructive, the band’s output has remained as steady as it is volatile. *Trouble *is the Dead C’s first full-length since 2013’s Armed Courage, and while the band has only aged three years since then, the accumulated weight of decades is everywhere. That weight, though, is no hindrance. Instead, it’s wielded like an industrial machine on “One,” the first of the album’s five, number-titled tracks. Extrusions of static and microaggressive twitches of dissonance, courtesy of the guitars of Russell and Morley, dot a minefield rife with Yeats’ percussive skitter. Halfway through its twenty-minute sprawl, the song splits open just wide enough to hear Morley’s ghost-moaned vocals, a sound halfway between a mumble and a hymn. Similarly long, “Four” is more taut—a strangulated barrage of wah-pedal feedback washed in jazzy, impressionistic cymbal-work. As it picks up steam, it collapses spectacularly under its own mass. Though Trouble is nimble and fluid, the Dead C draw mainly on the gravity of their years. There’s a mournful air to “Two” after the opening drumbeat crawls to a momentary halt. The guitars helix around a sour melody, curling in the empty space where something used to be. Here, the album’s utilitarian non-titles make sense, as if to avoid conferring any context or intent. Likewise, a vague sense of loss howls through “Three,” which is also the record’s only true interval of fragility; the ten-minute middle of the song lapses into unhinged, human-like cries of confusion, weariness, surrender, and ultimately rage. It’s an uncanny-valley effect that captures a primordial eeriness, ancient and unsettling. “I think of myself as the Jimi Hendrix of no technique,” Russell told *Wire *in a 2013 interview. As self-deprecating as he was, his offhand comment is as true now as it was then. And it applies to the Dead C as a whole. At just over five minutes, “Four” is the briefest track on Trouble, but it’s also the album’s heaviest and most conventionally accessible. Motifs, if not outright riffs, abound; the song’s play of rhythm, texture, and dynamic borders on the metallic. It’s enough to make you imagine the Dead C, men in their fifties, embarking on a new career as a doom band. Not that they’d need to. With Trouble, Russell, Morley, and Yeats have dug one foot deeper into the thick, sludgy, noise-strewn topsoil they’ve long called home. Call it a trench, if you will, but it isn’t is a grave."

Pauline Oliveros

Four Meditations / Sound Geometries

Electronic,Experimental,Rock

Marc Masters

Pauline Oliveros is a virtuoso at creating environments for musicians to explore. The legendary 84-year old composer, accordionist, and electronic pioneer is perhaps best known for her tape experiments from the ’60s, but her musical scores are just as innovative. Most of them contain text rather than musical notation, and eschew hard-and-fast directions in favor of poetic guidelines to be interpreted. In other words, she doesn’t tell people what to play, but how to play—and just as importantly, how to listen. Given this creative freedom, her collaborators often respond with something that’s less like music to passively listen to than spaces your mind can enter and probe. The two lengthy pieces on *Four Meditations / Sound Geometries *are prime examples of how Oliveros conjures three-dimensional worlds from simple words on a page. In the case of “Sound Geometries,” the music is literally 3-D, as Oliveros filters the sounds of Belgian ensemble Musique Nouvelles through her surround-sound based Expanded Instrument System. “Four Meditations” is wide and deep, too, due in part to the liberty she grants the musicians. As Oliveros puts it in her score, “Since there is no written part to watch, all the performers’ attention can be given to sound and invention.” The main focus of attention for listeners of “Four Meditations” will likely be the voice of Ione, Oliveros’ long-time collaborator. Though her fellow musicians all make vital contributions, Ione’s vocals are like a bright star around which all other sounds orbit. She’s adept at glossolalia-like stretches of abstract sound, improvising in the same league as expert voice experimenters such as Yoko Ono and C. Spencer Yeh. But her use of literal language is just as important. At one point Ione slowly intones “I am who I am,” then flips that into “I am who you are,” seeming to comment on music that inverts definitions and blurs boundaries. In fact, much of “Four Meditations” is about convergence and divergence, as the musicians continually connect and separate. In that sense, Oliveros’ guidelines for a section called “The Tuning Meditation”*—*where she gives musicians the option of “playing a pitch that no one else is playing,” “just listening,” or “tuning in unison”—pretty well characterizes the entirety of “Four Meditations.” A similar dynamic marks “Sound Geometries,” but its effects are subtler. Compared to “Four Mediations,” it’s more familiar sounding, at times evoking a well-honed jazz group. All the rolling horns, pointillist piano, and moaning strings are continually inventive, though sometimes easy to lose track of (one movement bears the apt title “Arriving Anywhere, Nowhere, Somewhere”). But that just means you have to listen closely to discover the riches of “Sound Geometries,” something that Oliveros—who, after all, created an entire institute called Deep Listening—surely intended. It’s rather stunning that work this open and free of constraint can sound so calm. Though the tension that comes from loud, energetic improv can be thrilling, there’s something equally compelling about music that applies pressure while maintaining patience. The best word for it is probably “hypnotic,” but that doesn’t do justice to the way Oliveros puts a spell on your ears. She draws you so far into the environment of *Four Meditations / Sound Geometries *that you might forget you don’t actually live there.

Artist: Pauline Oliveros, Album: Four Meditations / Sound Geometries, Genre: Electronic,Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Pauline Oliveros is a virtuoso at creating environments for musicians to explore. The legendary 84-year old composer, accordionist, and electronic pioneer is perhaps best known for her tape experiments from the ’60s, but her musical scores are just as innovative. Most of them contain text rather than musical notation, and eschew hard-and-fast directions in favor of poetic guidelines to be interpreted. In other words, she doesn’t tell people what to play, but how to play—and just as importantly, how to listen. Given this creative freedom, her collaborators often respond with something that’s less like music to passively listen to than spaces your mind can enter and probe. The two lengthy pieces on *Four Meditations / Sound Geometries *are prime examples of how Oliveros conjures three-dimensional worlds from simple words on a page. In the case of “Sound Geometries,” the music is literally 3-D, as Oliveros filters the sounds of Belgian ensemble Musique Nouvelles through her surround-sound based Expanded Instrument System. “Four Meditations” is wide and deep, too, due in part to the liberty she grants the musicians. As Oliveros puts it in her score, “Since there is no written part to watch, all the performers’ attention can be given to sound and invention.” The main focus of attention for listeners of “Four Meditations” will likely be the voice of Ione, Oliveros’ long-time collaborator. Though her fellow musicians all make vital contributions, Ione’s vocals are like a bright star around which all other sounds orbit. She’s adept at glossolalia-like stretches of abstract sound, improvising in the same league as expert voice experimenters such as Yoko Ono and C. Spencer Yeh. But her use of literal language is just as important. At one point Ione slowly intones “I am who I am,” then flips that into “I am who you are,” seeming to comment on music that inverts definitions and blurs boundaries. In fact, much of “Four Meditations” is about convergence and divergence, as the musicians continually connect and separate. In that sense, Oliveros’ guidelines for a section called “The Tuning Meditation”*—*where she gives musicians the option of “playing a pitch that no one else is playing,” “just listening,” or “tuning in unison”—pretty well characterizes the entirety of “Four Meditations.” A similar dynamic marks “Sound Geometries,” but its effects are subtler. Compared to “Four Mediations,” it’s more familiar sounding, at times evoking a well-honed jazz group. All the rolling horns, pointillist piano, and moaning strings are continually inventive, though sometimes easy to lose track of (one movement bears the apt title “Arriving Anywhere, Nowhere, Somewhere”). But that just means you have to listen closely to discover the riches of “Sound Geometries,” something that Oliveros—who, after all, created an entire institute called Deep Listening—surely intended. It’s rather stunning that work this open and free of constraint can sound so calm. Though the tension that comes from loud, energetic improv can be thrilling, there’s something equally compelling about music that applies pressure while maintaining patience. The best word for it is probably “hypnotic,” but that doesn’t do justice to the way Oliveros puts a spell on your ears. She draws you so far into the environment of *Four Meditations / Sound Geometries *that you might forget you don’t actually live there."

Shearwater

The Golden Archipelago

Rock

Joe Tangari

Some claim albums as a format are dying out, and I keep refusing to believe it. I don't think economics or the slipperiness of mp3s will save it, so much as musicians who like the format will. It lets them say something a single track often can't, and it's hard to figure a better way to capture a snapshot of where a band is in its creative life. Based on The Golden Archipelago, Shearwater are perfectly served by the medium. The record has just a couple of tracks that would be especially striking outside of their context on the LP, and nothing on the level of the huge highs of 2008's Rook, "Snow Leopard" and "Rooks". But it's still thoroughly captivating and confident-- and one of the best recent examples of effective sequencing. The placement of every song is so precise that it almost sounds as though they were recorded in order. The listener feels an impeccable sense of balance as the album's loudest guitars follow its quietest whisper of a song during the transition from "Hidden Lake" to "Corridors". "Castaways" is deliberate and mannered and achieves the sort of restrained grandiosity that distinguishes Shearwater from nearly everyone else-- it carries you to a peak, and the song that follows gently carries you away from it as it bobs in on a swaying, natural beat. The album's first three songs feel almost like a suite. Hovering over all the perfect transitions is songwriter Jonathan Meiburg's loose unifying theme, islands. That seems simple enough for a concept, but it's a natural extension of Meiburg's fellowship work studying daily life in remote communities, as well as his well-documented interest in ornithology and academic work focusing on migration patterns. Indeed, the record is introduced by a field recording of what sounds like an island choir, before the band kicks in with an oceanic swell of guitar and imagery of waves on the shore. Meiburg's voice is finely honed, and it's the primary reason the band is frequently (and justifiably) compared to Talk Talk-- he has the same richness, range, and inexact enunciation that made Mark Hollis so enigmatic and interesting. He belts powerfully on the intro to "Black Eyes" before he's joined by a weighty beat that subtly shifts beneath him as the bass line evolves and the drums gradually change their emphasis. It's a sharp arrangement that doesn't do anything overtly odd but makes the song captivating and exciting nonetheless. The only parts of the album that don't feel quite as balanced as their surroundings are "God Made Me", which lacks the fluency of the record's other songs and weighs down the middle a bit, and the final two tracks: "Uniforms" is okay on its own, but its extreme dynamic range and slow start leaves the already wispy closer "Missing Islands" feeling, well, like an island, divorced from the rest of the record. Even so, it's a great piece of work, capturing a band at a moment of creative confidence and maturity. The band's organic incorporation of marimbas and other mallet percussion, its use of acoustic instruments to create textures, its sense of restraint-- these are all well on display on The Golden Archipelago. It's an album you can spend time with and understand as a whole work, and one that grows on you with each listen, revealing yet more detail and nuance.

Artist: Shearwater, Album: The Golden Archipelago, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Some claim albums as a format are dying out, and I keep refusing to believe it. I don't think economics or the slipperiness of mp3s will save it, so much as musicians who like the format will. It lets them say something a single track often can't, and it's hard to figure a better way to capture a snapshot of where a band is in its creative life. Based on The Golden Archipelago, Shearwater are perfectly served by the medium. The record has just a couple of tracks that would be especially striking outside of their context on the LP, and nothing on the level of the huge highs of 2008's Rook, "Snow Leopard" and "Rooks". But it's still thoroughly captivating and confident-- and one of the best recent examples of effective sequencing. The placement of every song is so precise that it almost sounds as though they were recorded in order. The listener feels an impeccable sense of balance as the album's loudest guitars follow its quietest whisper of a song during the transition from "Hidden Lake" to "Corridors". "Castaways" is deliberate and mannered and achieves the sort of restrained grandiosity that distinguishes Shearwater from nearly everyone else-- it carries you to a peak, and the song that follows gently carries you away from it as it bobs in on a swaying, natural beat. The album's first three songs feel almost like a suite. Hovering over all the perfect transitions is songwriter Jonathan Meiburg's loose unifying theme, islands. That seems simple enough for a concept, but it's a natural extension of Meiburg's fellowship work studying daily life in remote communities, as well as his well-documented interest in ornithology and academic work focusing on migration patterns. Indeed, the record is introduced by a field recording of what sounds like an island choir, before the band kicks in with an oceanic swell of guitar and imagery of waves on the shore. Meiburg's voice is finely honed, and it's the primary reason the band is frequently (and justifiably) compared to Talk Talk-- he has the same richness, range, and inexact enunciation that made Mark Hollis so enigmatic and interesting. He belts powerfully on the intro to "Black Eyes" before he's joined by a weighty beat that subtly shifts beneath him as the bass line evolves and the drums gradually change their emphasis. It's a sharp arrangement that doesn't do anything overtly odd but makes the song captivating and exciting nonetheless. The only parts of the album that don't feel quite as balanced as their surroundings are "God Made Me", which lacks the fluency of the record's other songs and weighs down the middle a bit, and the final two tracks: "Uniforms" is okay on its own, but its extreme dynamic range and slow start leaves the already wispy closer "Missing Islands" feeling, well, like an island, divorced from the rest of the record. Even so, it's a great piece of work, capturing a band at a moment of creative confidence and maturity. The band's organic incorporation of marimbas and other mallet percussion, its use of acoustic instruments to create textures, its sense of restraint-- these are all well on display on The Golden Archipelago. It's an album you can spend time with and understand as a whole work, and one that grows on you with each listen, revealing yet more detail and nuance."

The Plot to Blow Up the Eiffel Tower

Love in the Fascist Brothel

Experimental,Metal,Rock

Adam Moerder

Don't be frightened by the violent fucking and fascism on The Plot's second LP, Love in the Fascist Brothel. These guys are Huck Finns dropping the n-word before they're neo-Nazis pushing an F&F; agenda. They're four San Diego Dada-dudes with trad hardcore beefs-- macho guys, stupid girls, and authority figures-- and when singer Brandon Welchez shrieks, "We French-kissed in a holding cell and licked our flames in birthday Hell," he's only describing love using the terms of the twisted metalcore realm he dwells in. The Plot deftly navigate through jazz, punk, and metal with pinpoint precision, willfully mangling their songs while still retaining a sense of structure. Opener "Reichstag Rock" collapses from Tourette's before a steady, colossal metal riff restores order and brings the song home. Midway through "Lipstick SS", everyone forgets how to play their instruments for almost a minute when suddenly the band stumbles across a dance-punk groove. The energy's huge, but the Plot's key strength is guitar melodies. "Vulture Kontrol" churns on a cheeky bassline until it's interrupted by-- am I about to say this?-- a nasty riff reminiscent of Castlevania 3 for NES. Before the song unwinds into a collage of piano pounding, "Angry, Young, and Rich" packs plenty of guitar arpeggios and a staccato, drama-charged pre-chorus. Complaining about unintelligible hardcore vocals is a lost cause, but it's a shame here: lines like "You want a reaper that's handsome and abusive," believe it or not, would add a lot more personality to the Plot's already proactive songs. Then again, maybe Welchez intended to conceal lines like "Kisses sweet as heroin yet cold like teenage sex" because he thought the metaphor was too sappy. Whatever the reason, Welchez's lack of clarity only increases the role of the other members, which is perfectly fine. On "Failure on Vain Street", the derisive guitar parody of "Pomp and Circumstance" and tongue-in-cheek cowbells manage to convey the same fuck-the-system attitude of Welchez's garbled voice: "Nail any uniform coffin black/ Want my hair as short as nails/ March, march, march." With personification like this, it won't be long before the FCC starts handing out "Warning: Explicit Instruments" stickers and kids can't buy a saxophone without showing some ID.

Artist: The Plot to Blow Up the Eiffel Tower, Album: Love in the Fascist Brothel, Genre: Experimental,Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Don't be frightened by the violent fucking and fascism on The Plot's second LP, Love in the Fascist Brothel. These guys are Huck Finns dropping the n-word before they're neo-Nazis pushing an F&F; agenda. They're four San Diego Dada-dudes with trad hardcore beefs-- macho guys, stupid girls, and authority figures-- and when singer Brandon Welchez shrieks, "We French-kissed in a holding cell and licked our flames in birthday Hell," he's only describing love using the terms of the twisted metalcore realm he dwells in. The Plot deftly navigate through jazz, punk, and metal with pinpoint precision, willfully mangling their songs while still retaining a sense of structure. Opener "Reichstag Rock" collapses from Tourette's before a steady, colossal metal riff restores order and brings the song home. Midway through "Lipstick SS", everyone forgets how to play their instruments for almost a minute when suddenly the band stumbles across a dance-punk groove. The energy's huge, but the Plot's key strength is guitar melodies. "Vulture Kontrol" churns on a cheeky bassline until it's interrupted by-- am I about to say this?-- a nasty riff reminiscent of Castlevania 3 for NES. Before the song unwinds into a collage of piano pounding, "Angry, Young, and Rich" packs plenty of guitar arpeggios and a staccato, drama-charged pre-chorus. Complaining about unintelligible hardcore vocals is a lost cause, but it's a shame here: lines like "You want a reaper that's handsome and abusive," believe it or not, would add a lot more personality to the Plot's already proactive songs. Then again, maybe Welchez intended to conceal lines like "Kisses sweet as heroin yet cold like teenage sex" because he thought the metaphor was too sappy. Whatever the reason, Welchez's lack of clarity only increases the role of the other members, which is perfectly fine. On "Failure on Vain Street", the derisive guitar parody of "Pomp and Circumstance" and tongue-in-cheek cowbells manage to convey the same fuck-the-system attitude of Welchez's garbled voice: "Nail any uniform coffin black/ Want my hair as short as nails/ March, march, march." With personification like this, it won't be long before the FCC starts handing out "Warning: Explicit Instruments" stickers and kids can't buy a saxophone without showing some ID."

De La Soul

Smell the D.A.I.S.Y.

Rap

Nate Patrin

When De La Soul released Stakes Is High in 1996, the MCs were at a significant crossroads—and so was James Yancey, whose work as J Dilla helped define their transition from the Prince Paul-produced lightheartedness of their first three albums. The producer's credited on that album's stirring title track, which flipped jazz pianist Ahmad Jamal's early '70s cut “Swahililand” in ways unheard of since DJ Premier turned the first few bars of “Misdemeanor” into the pacing tension of Gang Starr's “Soliloquy of Chaos”. But the relationship between De La and Dilla went deeper than that: when Posdnuos declared that “The Native Tongues have officially been reinstated,” he might as well have been predicting the Dilla-heavy braintrust of the Soulquarians that the alt-rap baton would be passed to. 2004's The Grind Date featured the Dilla-produced single “Shoomp”, but after a year and a half passed, De La's future was uncertain and James Yancey passed away. In the eight years since, it's easy to wonder what might have been. De La Soul's maturing, grown-wiser Art Official Intelligence years and Dilla's early '00s expansions into avant-funk brilliance should've overlapped more than they actually did; it's possible that such an affiliation would've provided a stable identity for a group that was already rejecting pigeonholes and preconceptions by their death-declaring sophomore album. So the new mixtape featuring unreleased Dilla beats and reworked lyrics from De La Soul's catalog, *Smell the D.A.I.S.Y.—*the acronym retrofitting their '89 iconography to stand for “DA Inner Soul of Yancey”—provides an alternate-history look into a meaningful partnership. "Alternate history,” in this case, means alternate takes on material that fans have already long since familiarized themselves with—a scenario that's less enticing than all-new lyrics over super-obscure Dilla beats. It's disorienting to hear the much-loved verses from “Plug Tunin'” or “Fanatic of the B Word” rattled off by the gruffer, heavier voices of '00s-and-later Pos and Dove, especially when they've been tweaked with switched-up flows, altered lyrics, and even shifted sentiments. So it makes more sense to think of Smell the D.A.I.S.Y. as a studio-bound tribute show-slash-remix album; cast in this light, the reinterpretations are refreshing, proving that even lyrics written a quarter-century ago hold up without too much rewritten interference. The classic material sounds simultaneously tougher and more reflective, less hyped-up but no less smartassed. De La Soul Is Dead's leadoff cut “Oodles of O's” feels leaner and more tense over Dilla's sparse, deceptively simple minor-key bass-and-drums beat, while “Leave Your Cares Behind” is a sly, airy, neo-soulful parallel of the Chic-interpolating “A Roller Skating Jam Named 'Saturdays'” that switches its mood from low-lit free-skate session to sunny barbecue vibes, closing on a preposterous flip of the "Spongebob Squarepants" theme song. After this year's minor debacle that was De La Soul's 25-hour free-album giveaway—filled with filesharing timeouts and the revelation that the downloads were sourced from an MP3 pirate blog—it's tempting to pick this package apart for flaws as well. You could gripe that Dilla's family name is misspelled “Yancy” in some of the promotional material, but that's the limit of skepticism this project deserves. Along with the album itself, there's a brief “audio letter” that pays necessary, sincere tribute (“Dilla didn't just produce for us, he was an inspiration, and often a kickstart to many De La albums”). A 39-minute 2006 documentary project Still Shining, largely assembled with footage made around and shortly after Dilla's funeral service, is included in better-than-YouTube quality and serves as an important time capsule where friends, family, and collaborators pay tribute and come to terms with where his legacy was headed. The only money-making enterprise involved with Smell the D.A.I.S.Y. is a web bookmark directing people to a PayPal link for a donation to De La's fundraising efforts towards that legacy. As a record, Smell the D.A.I.S.Y. is a fine diversion—a brisk 29 minutes, none of which feels superfluous—and a good stopgap in a busy-looking 2014 for De La that promises a Pete Rock/Premier-produced EP and their first full-length in ten years. But as an effort to keep the spirit of a good friend and musical inspiration alive? That's where this is made to last.

Artist: De La Soul, Album: Smell the D.A.I.S.Y., Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "When De La Soul released Stakes Is High in 1996, the MCs were at a significant crossroads—and so was James Yancey, whose work as J Dilla helped define their transition from the Prince Paul-produced lightheartedness of their first three albums. The producer's credited on that album's stirring title track, which flipped jazz pianist Ahmad Jamal's early '70s cut “Swahililand” in ways unheard of since DJ Premier turned the first few bars of “Misdemeanor” into the pacing tension of Gang Starr's “Soliloquy of Chaos”. But the relationship between De La and Dilla went deeper than that: when Posdnuos declared that “The Native Tongues have officially been reinstated,” he might as well have been predicting the Dilla-heavy braintrust of the Soulquarians that the alt-rap baton would be passed to. 2004's The Grind Date featured the Dilla-produced single “Shoomp”, but after a year and a half passed, De La's future was uncertain and James Yancey passed away. In the eight years since, it's easy to wonder what might have been. De La Soul's maturing, grown-wiser Art Official Intelligence years and Dilla's early '00s expansions into avant-funk brilliance should've overlapped more than they actually did; it's possible that such an affiliation would've provided a stable identity for a group that was already rejecting pigeonholes and preconceptions by their death-declaring sophomore album. So the new mixtape featuring unreleased Dilla beats and reworked lyrics from De La Soul's catalog, *Smell the D.A.I.S.Y.—*the acronym retrofitting their '89 iconography to stand for “DA Inner Soul of Yancey”—provides an alternate-history look into a meaningful partnership. "Alternate history,” in this case, means alternate takes on material that fans have already long since familiarized themselves with—a scenario that's less enticing than all-new lyrics over super-obscure Dilla beats. It's disorienting to hear the much-loved verses from “Plug Tunin'” or “Fanatic of the B Word” rattled off by the gruffer, heavier voices of '00s-and-later Pos and Dove, especially when they've been tweaked with switched-up flows, altered lyrics, and even shifted sentiments. So it makes more sense to think of Smell the D.A.I.S.Y. as a studio-bound tribute show-slash-remix album; cast in this light, the reinterpretations are refreshing, proving that even lyrics written a quarter-century ago hold up without too much rewritten interference. The classic material sounds simultaneously tougher and more reflective, less hyped-up but no less smartassed. De La Soul Is Dead's leadoff cut “Oodles of O's” feels leaner and more tense over Dilla's sparse, deceptively simple minor-key bass-and-drums beat, while “Leave Your Cares Behind” is a sly, airy, neo-soulful parallel of the Chic-interpolating “A Roller Skating Jam Named 'Saturdays'” that switches its mood from low-lit free-skate session to sunny barbecue vibes, closing on a preposterous flip of the "Spongebob Squarepants" theme song. After this year's minor debacle that was De La Soul's 25-hour free-album giveaway—filled with filesharing timeouts and the revelation that the downloads were sourced from an MP3 pirate blog—it's tempting to pick this package apart for flaws as well. You could gripe that Dilla's family name is misspelled “Yancy” in some of the promotional material, but that's the limit of skepticism this project deserves. Along with the album itself, there's a brief “audio letter” that pays necessary, sincere tribute (“Dilla didn't just produce for us, he was an inspiration, and often a kickstart to many De La albums”). A 39-minute 2006 documentary project Still Shining, largely assembled with footage made around and shortly after Dilla's funeral service, is included in better-than-YouTube quality and serves as an important time capsule where friends, family, and collaborators pay tribute and come to terms with where his legacy was headed. The only money-making enterprise involved with Smell the D.A.I.S.Y. is a web bookmark directing people to a PayPal link for a donation to De La's fundraising efforts towards that legacy. As a record, Smell the D.A.I.S.Y. is a fine diversion—a brisk 29 minutes, none of which feels superfluous—and a good stopgap in a busy-looking 2014 for De La that promises a Pete Rock/Premier-produced EP and their first full-length in ten years. But as an effort to keep the spirit of a good friend and musical inspiration alive? That's where this is made to last."

Future Pilot AKA

Secrets From the Clockhouse

Liz Colville

Even without knowledge of the collaborations that comprise Secrets From the Clockhouse, each song feels like the work of a supergroup. From the get-go, opener "Nothing Without You (Tery Bina)", the listener is flooded with the image of close to a dozen musicians hanging out together under the baton of Sushil K. Dade (Soup Dragon, Telstar Ponies, BMX Bandits). Since 1997 Dade has been writing work drawn from dozens of collaborations and here Belle & Sebastian's Stuart Murdoch, and Sarah Martin, Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon, Damo Suzuki, and many more align their experiences to suit Dade's reverential folk vision. The result is a series of elegant interludes, infused as much with Dade's vision as with the oeuvres of the musicians he's brought on board. "Nothing Without You", a twinkling folk rendition of Pakistani song by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, makes a fine opening point for a record full of songs with similar languorous flourishes. The angelic counterpoints between guitar, banjo, and reverbing vocals are thank-you notes to a 1960s folk rock aesthetic, implacably nostalgic without being trite. What directly follows, "The City of Lights", is a robust song with a piano as its backbone: The fluid chordal movements across the keyboard even get their own cadenza in the midst of a jam that's, in the end, another interlude. A BMX Bandits fan site astutely calls Dade "the bloke who puts those great interludes" on BMX Bandits albums, and indeed, the brevity and fluidity of Secrets' tracks ensures their standalone, episodic nature. One of the longer tracks, "Nuclear War", is a free jazz undertaking, with short, percussive utterances, muttered lines like "Kiss your ass goodbye," slippery special effects, and a smattering of saxophones and bass reaching through a smoky, whirling atmosphere commit themselves rapaciously to our memory without the slightest affectation and little tonal emphasis. One of the most improvisational tracks, the song is an interlude within an interlude, a piece of thought reflection less traditional than its companions. Dade posits "Shenandoah", an early 19th century sea chantey (elsewhere covered by Bob Dylan), within the highland tradition, emphasizing in spite of the song's Stateside origin that much of this album and its contributors are culling their inspiration from the flavors of the British Isles. The c&w flavor of "A-N-U-R-U-D-H", with a looping guitar trot in 2/2 and a wash of slide guitar throughout, draws in cool, aerated female vocals lost in the fog of subtle effects and quiet additions from an organ, making it a gem that stands out, but not isolated from its relatives. As emphasized by the hilarious track "Word Association", Dade's interest is in the playful interlocutions between his special guests; what's furthering these interlocutions are homages to traditions that succeed in part because of the guests' longstanding relationships to them. The genre hoarding and blending exemplified by the pairing of say, the tingling pop song "Eyes of Love" (featuring two Belle and Sebastians) with the free-form "Nuclear War" emphasizes this album's progressive flavor; its historical celebration is created by seasoned believers and innovators, whose evident pleasure in referencing a colorful trajectory is the only requirement-- besides talent-- of making this work relevant.

Artist: Future Pilot AKA, Album: Secrets From the Clockhouse, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Even without knowledge of the collaborations that comprise Secrets From the Clockhouse, each song feels like the work of a supergroup. From the get-go, opener "Nothing Without You (Tery Bina)", the listener is flooded with the image of close to a dozen musicians hanging out together under the baton of Sushil K. Dade (Soup Dragon, Telstar Ponies, BMX Bandits). Since 1997 Dade has been writing work drawn from dozens of collaborations and here Belle & Sebastian's Stuart Murdoch, and Sarah Martin, Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon, Damo Suzuki, and many more align their experiences to suit Dade's reverential folk vision. The result is a series of elegant interludes, infused as much with Dade's vision as with the oeuvres of the musicians he's brought on board. "Nothing Without You", a twinkling folk rendition of Pakistani song by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, makes a fine opening point for a record full of songs with similar languorous flourishes. The angelic counterpoints between guitar, banjo, and reverbing vocals are thank-you notes to a 1960s folk rock aesthetic, implacably nostalgic without being trite. What directly follows, "The City of Lights", is a robust song with a piano as its backbone: The fluid chordal movements across the keyboard even get their own cadenza in the midst of a jam that's, in the end, another interlude. A BMX Bandits fan site astutely calls Dade "the bloke who puts those great interludes" on BMX Bandits albums, and indeed, the brevity and fluidity of Secrets' tracks ensures their standalone, episodic nature. One of the longer tracks, "Nuclear War", is a free jazz undertaking, with short, percussive utterances, muttered lines like "Kiss your ass goodbye," slippery special effects, and a smattering of saxophones and bass reaching through a smoky, whirling atmosphere commit themselves rapaciously to our memory without the slightest affectation and little tonal emphasis. One of the most improvisational tracks, the song is an interlude within an interlude, a piece of thought reflection less traditional than its companions. Dade posits "Shenandoah", an early 19th century sea chantey (elsewhere covered by Bob Dylan), within the highland tradition, emphasizing in spite of the song's Stateside origin that much of this album and its contributors are culling their inspiration from the flavors of the British Isles. The c&w flavor of "A-N-U-R-U-D-H", with a looping guitar trot in 2/2 and a wash of slide guitar throughout, draws in cool, aerated female vocals lost in the fog of subtle effects and quiet additions from an organ, making it a gem that stands out, but not isolated from its relatives. As emphasized by the hilarious track "Word Association", Dade's interest is in the playful interlocutions between his special guests; what's furthering these interlocutions are homages to traditions that succeed in part because of the guests' longstanding relationships to them. The genre hoarding and blending exemplified by the pairing of say, the tingling pop song "Eyes of Love" (featuring two Belle and Sebastians) with the free-form "Nuclear War" emphasizes this album's progressive flavor; its historical celebration is created by seasoned believers and innovators, whose evident pleasure in referencing a colorful trajectory is the only requirement-- besides talent-- of making this work relevant."

Florene

Homemade Extacy

Electronic

Larry Fitzmaurice

Florene are a duo from Denton, Texas, and their debut, Homemade Extacy, pulls from a few different sounds. At times, it recalls Fuck Buttons' dance-imbued static throb, the grinding industrial rock of HEALTH, Holy Fuck's electro post-rock patchwork, and to a lesser extent, Trans Am's stadium-rock pranksterisms. Music in his vein thrives when it focuses on the tension between noise and melody. Florene's tracks seem to be searching for that sweet spot that comes when visceral electronics meet sweeping arrangements. There are moments on Homemade Extacy where Florene show some promise. The stretched-out vocals on "Street Caring" work well enough paired with the track's zig-zagging synth lines, while the electronic screams that take out album closer "Space Cadets" or the awesomely raved-out shouts that open "Invitation to Sailing" might have you seeing stars, if you're in the right headspace. But these moments are just that-- small bits of something interesting that never manage to coalesce or build momentum. Despite the basic immediacy of their splatter-electro approach, Homemade Extacy winds up feeling a bit faceless. The biggest issue is that the melodies aren't built on strong foundations. "Deal With It" and the opening title track repeat the same ultra-jacked theme endlessly, without much development or variation. Elsewhere, the fogged moans and low tones of "Depth" just seem to hover on the surface, and the nearly six-minute track, like so many others here, fails to justify its length. All of these complaints are just minor quibbles, though, next to the album's greatest weakness: it sounds terrible. Every element of every song is mixed way, way into the red. Throughout, nuance and layering are discarded in favor of an annoying sonic antagonism. By using this ear-bleeding technique exclusively, Florene miss the thing that gives the best noise music its force, using harsh sounds in a way that highlights shifts in dynamics and allows for some surprise. Despite the small bits of potential that crop up here and there, for most of Homemade Extacy, the music never hints at transcendence, which in this world is everything.

Artist: Florene, Album: Homemade Extacy, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 5.4 Album review: "Florene are a duo from Denton, Texas, and their debut, Homemade Extacy, pulls from a few different sounds. At times, it recalls Fuck Buttons' dance-imbued static throb, the grinding industrial rock of HEALTH, Holy Fuck's electro post-rock patchwork, and to a lesser extent, Trans Am's stadium-rock pranksterisms. Music in his vein thrives when it focuses on the tension between noise and melody. Florene's tracks seem to be searching for that sweet spot that comes when visceral electronics meet sweeping arrangements. There are moments on Homemade Extacy where Florene show some promise. The stretched-out vocals on "Street Caring" work well enough paired with the track's zig-zagging synth lines, while the electronic screams that take out album closer "Space Cadets" or the awesomely raved-out shouts that open "Invitation to Sailing" might have you seeing stars, if you're in the right headspace. But these moments are just that-- small bits of something interesting that never manage to coalesce or build momentum. Despite the basic immediacy of their splatter-electro approach, Homemade Extacy winds up feeling a bit faceless. The biggest issue is that the melodies aren't built on strong foundations. "Deal With It" and the opening title track repeat the same ultra-jacked theme endlessly, without much development or variation. Elsewhere, the fogged moans and low tones of "Depth" just seem to hover on the surface, and the nearly six-minute track, like so many others here, fails to justify its length. All of these complaints are just minor quibbles, though, next to the album's greatest weakness: it sounds terrible. Every element of every song is mixed way, way into the red. Throughout, nuance and layering are discarded in favor of an annoying sonic antagonism. By using this ear-bleeding technique exclusively, Florene miss the thing that gives the best noise music its force, using harsh sounds in a way that highlights shifts in dynamics and allows for some surprise. Despite the small bits of potential that crop up here and there, for most of Homemade Extacy, the music never hints at transcendence, which in this world is everything."

Young Thug

Barter 6

Rap

Meaghan Garvey

Young Thug is not into literalism. He thrives in gray areas, animated by the electricity generated by the tension of his own contradictions, and he never, ever offers a straightforward explanation. Look how he handled the most surreal rap beef of 2015 in a recent Instagram message to Lil Wayne. "This is my idol. I won’t ever in my life swap words with him," Thug pledged—days away from releasing his imminent debut album, Carter 6, a title hijacked from Wayne, whose own Carter V languished in Cash Money purgatory. But then, in closing: "Ha haaa," punctuated with a trollish tongue wag. Like most everything Thugger has done in the last year and a half, it made people confused: What kind of god-level shade was this? Is he taking any of this remotely seriously? And what in fuck’s sake is his endgame with this album, the name of which changed days before its release to Barter 6 after Wayne threatened to sue? Barter 6 was already the year’s most controversial rap album—or "retail mixtape," as if the distinction really matters—before it even dropped. But Barter 6 has almost nothing to do with Lil Wayne, save its provocative title (which I’m saying is more Treachery of Images than aimless troll, anyway) and a handful of scattered lyrical shots. Idol or not, Thug hasn’t directly emulated Wayne since his debut tape, 2011’s I Came From Nothing. But he’s always seemed to delight in playful misdirection, quietly reveling in the chaos provoked by his mere existence, from the vaguely gender-bending fashions to the pet names for his friends. Thug seems to recognize the power of his own mystique, headline-grabbing yet somehow unknowable: "Every time I dress myself, I go muhfucking viral," he crows, bemused, on "Halftime". And on Barter 6, Thug yet again dodges any easy narrative. Far from a public idol-killing, or zany sideshow, it’s composed, patient, even subtle—an album neither fans nor detractors saw coming. Over the course of his three-part I Came From Nothing tape series, Thug’s now-singular voice took shape. The projects often felt like extended stylistic experiments, ranging wildly in quality—but when inspiration struck, it sounded like nothing else coming out of his Atlanta hometown, from guileless outsider-pop ballads to completely unclassifiable vocal performance clinics. By 2013’s 1017 Thug, Thug’s "weirdness" had become an easy hook, a rapper who sang and hollered odes to lean and compared his jewelry to Pokémon. Early 2014 singles "Stoner" and "Danny Glover" plopped Thug on the threshold of the mainstream, and Rich Gang, the Birdman-conceived duo of Thug and kindred spirit Rich Homie Quan, spawned the radiant single "Lifestyle". There is no "Lifestyle" on Barter 6, nor is it particularly "weird." Opening track "Constantly Hating" unfurls gently, its impressionistic Wheezy beat leaving space between bass tremors for Thug to explore.  There are hardly any big-name collaborators here: "Can’t Tell", with its T.I. and Boosie appearances, is the least integral track, despite its star power. It reflects none of the clamor of Thugger’s dramatic 2015. Instead, Barter 6 argues that his greatest asset all along was not his wackiness, his "outsider" status, or his surprising inner hitmaker—it’s not even his voice, or at least, not entirely. It’s Thug’s uncanny and singular way of piecing a song together, a skill he has doubled down on with this release: a way with vocal technique, melody, and detail-oriented composition that makes the bizarre seem approachable and the familiar feel new. He plies those compositional talents here to the cohesive rap album, a format Thug had shown very little prior indication he was interested in at all. He treats the smallest compositional details with the care and craftsmanship of a chorus—everything here is a hook, from the ad-libs (a term that feels insufficient—Thug’s "ad-libs" are fully integrated into the song’s structure, to the point where we should probably just call them backing vocals) to the individual bars to the empty spaces. Barter 6 is not a world-conquering album; instead, it digs tunnels. More than anything, Barter 6 feels like a 50-minute performance of what rap, as a form, can do: rap that need not transcend itself, towards High Art on one hand or commercial art on the other, in order to succeed in 2015. Thug’s rapping itself, known for its unpredictability, is sharper than ever; his voice feels clarified, strengthened. Take "Halftime", the most thrilling technical display here, on which Thug seamlessly snaps into a dozen different flows: casually extending the second syllable of "re-cy-cles" so that it threatens to throw the song off track entirely, pausing a beat, unleashing a quick guffaw, snapping back on beat. It's an almost-reckless balance-beam routine. He pauses only for an ingenious vocoder breakdown that melts his cries of "Havin’ the time of my muhfuckin’ liiiiiife" into semiotic ooze, suddenly giving the blood-red backdrop of the cover art an almost Lynchian cast, like the velveteen Black Lodge interior. Every element exists for a reason, fitting like puzzle pieces into place over multiple listens: even the guest spots from presumable weed carriers like Duke (formerly MPA) and Yak Gotti put in work. Haunting, virtuosic final act "Just Might Be" gives Thug’s moments of silence the primacy of a hook: "That’s called breathing, that’s how you let that bitch breathe," he sighs after a verse of rapid-fire double-time, leading into a cathartic exhale that spans a full eight bars. This is the anti-"Let the Beat Build", on an album that’s the anti-Carter III. And as for Thug’s widely-touted unintelligibility, Barter 6 argues that all we need to do is listen a bit more carefully: what may not be legible at first glance reveals itself patiently over time. In this sense, you are doing it wrong by asking Young Thug his thoughts on Ferguson point-blank, as one reporter did last fall. Thug bristled then, responding with what looked like apathy. But there is no ambiguity on "OD" when he cries, "RIP Mike Brown, fuck the cops" (nor was there, for that matter, on his gut-wrenching 2013 Trayvon Martin tribute). He will speak when he’s ready, and on his own terms: abstracted, maybe, but ultimately loud and clear.

Artist: Young Thug, Album: Barter 6, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "Young Thug is not into literalism. He thrives in gray areas, animated by the electricity generated by the tension of his own contradictions, and he never, ever offers a straightforward explanation. Look how he handled the most surreal rap beef of 2015 in a recent Instagram message to Lil Wayne. "This is my idol. I won’t ever in my life swap words with him," Thug pledged—days away from releasing his imminent debut album, Carter 6, a title hijacked from Wayne, whose own Carter V languished in Cash Money purgatory. But then, in closing: "Ha haaa," punctuated with a trollish tongue wag. Like most everything Thugger has done in the last year and a half, it made people confused: What kind of god-level shade was this? Is he taking any of this remotely seriously? And what in fuck’s sake is his endgame with this album, the name of which changed days before its release to Barter 6 after Wayne threatened to sue? Barter 6 was already the year’s most controversial rap album—or "retail mixtape," as if the distinction really matters—before it even dropped. But Barter 6 has almost nothing to do with Lil Wayne, save its provocative title (which I’m saying is more Treachery of Images than aimless troll, anyway) and a handful of scattered lyrical shots. Idol or not, Thug hasn’t directly emulated Wayne since his debut tape, 2011’s I Came From Nothing. But he’s always seemed to delight in playful misdirection, quietly reveling in the chaos provoked by his mere existence, from the vaguely gender-bending fashions to the pet names for his friends. Thug seems to recognize the power of his own mystique, headline-grabbing yet somehow unknowable: "Every time I dress myself, I go muhfucking viral," he crows, bemused, on "Halftime". And on Barter 6, Thug yet again dodges any easy narrative. Far from a public idol-killing, or zany sideshow, it’s composed, patient, even subtle—an album neither fans nor detractors saw coming. Over the course of his three-part I Came From Nothing tape series, Thug’s now-singular voice took shape. The projects often felt like extended stylistic experiments, ranging wildly in quality—but when inspiration struck, it sounded like nothing else coming out of his Atlanta hometown, from guileless outsider-pop ballads to completely unclassifiable vocal performance clinics. By 2013’s 1017 Thug, Thug’s "weirdness" had become an easy hook, a rapper who sang and hollered odes to lean and compared his jewelry to Pokémon. Early 2014 singles "Stoner" and "Danny Glover" plopped Thug on the threshold of the mainstream, and Rich Gang, the Birdman-conceived duo of Thug and kindred spirit Rich Homie Quan, spawned the radiant single "Lifestyle". There is no "Lifestyle" on Barter 6, nor is it particularly "weird." Opening track "Constantly Hating" unfurls gently, its impressionistic Wheezy beat leaving space between bass tremors for Thug to explore.  There are hardly any big-name collaborators here: "Can’t Tell", with its T.I. and Boosie appearances, is the least integral track, despite its star power. It reflects none of the clamor of Thugger’s dramatic 2015. Instead, Barter 6 argues that his greatest asset all along was not his wackiness, his "outsider" status, or his surprising inner hitmaker—it’s not even his voice, or at least, not entirely. It’s Thug’s uncanny and singular way of piecing a song together, a skill he has doubled down on with this release: a way with vocal technique, melody, and detail-oriented composition that makes the bizarre seem approachable and the familiar feel new. He plies those compositional talents here to the cohesive rap album, a format Thug had shown very little prior indication he was interested in at all. He treats the smallest compositional details with the care and craftsmanship of a chorus—everything here is a hook, from the ad-libs (a term that feels insufficient—Thug’s "ad-libs" are fully integrated into the song’s structure, to the point where we should probably just call them backing vocals) to the individual bars to the empty spaces. Barter 6 is not a world-conquering album; instead, it digs tunnels. More than anything, Barter 6 feels like a 50-minute performance of what rap, as a form, can do: rap that need not transcend itself, towards High Art on one hand or commercial art on the other, in order to succeed in 2015. Thug’s rapping itself, known for its unpredictability, is sharper than ever; his voice feels clarified, strengthened. Take "Halftime", the most thrilling technical display here, on which Thug seamlessly snaps into a dozen different flows: casually extending the second syllable of "re-cy-cles" so that it threatens to throw the song off track entirely, pausing a beat, unleashing a quick guffaw, snapping back on beat. It's an almost-reckless balance-beam routine. He pauses only for an ingenious vocoder breakdown that melts his cries of "Havin’ the time of my muhfuckin’ liiiiiife" into semiotic ooze, suddenly giving the blood-red backdrop of the cover art an almost Lynchian cast, like the velveteen Black Lodge interior. Every element exists for a reason, fitting like puzzle pieces into place over multiple listens: even the guest spots from presumable weed carriers like Duke (formerly MPA) and Yak Gotti put in work. Haunting, virtuosic final act "Just Might Be" gives Thug’s moments of silence the primacy of a hook: "That’s called breathing, that’s how you let that bitch breathe," he sighs after a verse of rapid-fire double-time, leading into a cathartic exhale that spans a full eight bars. This is the anti-"Let the Beat Build", on an album that’s the anti-Carter III. And as for Thug’s widely-touted unintelligibility, Barter 6 argues that all we need to do is listen a bit more carefully: what may not be legible at first glance reveals itself patiently over time. In this sense, you are doing it wrong by asking Young Thug his thoughts on Ferguson point-blank, as one reporter did last fall. Thug bristled then, responding with what looked like apathy. But there is no ambiguity on "OD" when he cries, "RIP Mike Brown, fuck the cops" (nor was there, for that matter, on his gut-wrenching 2013 Trayvon Martin tribute). He will speak when he’s ready, and on his own terms: abstracted, maybe, but ultimately loud and clear."

Vieux Farka Touré

Vieux Farka Touré

Global

Joe Tangari

Vieux Farka Touré's debut album is a transitional work, representing the passing of a standard from a father to a son. Some of Malian guitar legend Ali Farka Touré's final recordings are here on his son's debut, which takes the signature desert guitar style of Ali and subtly builds on it. It's difficult for a young musician to step out from the shadow a parent so revered in the same field, but to his credit Vieux is content to move slowly and find his own approach to the style. Vieux and Ali play together on two tracks, and their interaction-- the son plays rhythm guitar and gives his father's unmistakable leads free reign, with interjections from ngoni player Bassekou Kouyaté-- is not surprisingly marked by deference and respect. "Tabara" is a slow and meditative instrumental spotlighted by a mellifluous lead from Ali, into which Vieux perfectly slips his minimal backing rhythm. The other collaboration, "Diallo", is a conversation between Vieux's wizened, parched vocals and Ali's electric guitar, which carries his distinctive pinched tone. The rhythm is propelled by hand percussion, which is this case means sound actually created by the hands, without drums or blocks. As if to draw a line in the Saharan sand between father and son, "Tabara" is immediately followed on the record by "Ana", a song that unites Mali and Jamaica, bringing desert guitar to the funky upstroke of reggae. At first, it feels like a minor excursion, but then the horns and bassline hit and drive the groove home all the way for a stunningly effective synthesis of the humid and the arid. "Courage" features an even more thrilling fusion, beginning in a sort of desert modal jazz fashion, with an acoustic guitar part that recalls the bassline of Miles Davis' "So What", but jumping into a straight-ahead rock groove a minute and a half in. Guest vocalist Issa Sory Bamba lets loose a crazed melismatic wail worthy of the most full-throated muezzin, and later harmonizes with album co-producer Eric Herman while Hassey Sarré's violin-like njarka lets loose fluttering phrases that sound a bit like backwards guitars. At the other end of the spectrum lie Touré's two instrumental duets with another elder statesman of Malian music, kora virtuoso Toumani Diabaté. "Touré de Niafunké" and "Diabaté", both tributes to the respective families of the men, display a deeply subliminal connection between the musicians. Diabaté's kora playing is delicate and precise, his glissandos traversing Touré's rich guitar lines as if held to them by gravity. The two close the album with nine minutes of slowly churning mind-meld that shivers with intensity. Touré dedicates the whole album to the memory of his father, who clearly is the single greatest influence present here. Listening, though, it's obvious that the younger Touré is itching to move on, experiment, and build something new of his own. He's not far from something truly progressive on his debut, and there are moments where he blows down barriers with frightening ease. His father's legacy may loom large, but Vieux Farka Touré stands well on his own.

Artist: Vieux Farka Touré, Album: Vieux Farka Touré, Genre: Global, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Vieux Farka Touré's debut album is a transitional work, representing the passing of a standard from a father to a son. Some of Malian guitar legend Ali Farka Touré's final recordings are here on his son's debut, which takes the signature desert guitar style of Ali and subtly builds on it. It's difficult for a young musician to step out from the shadow a parent so revered in the same field, but to his credit Vieux is content to move slowly and find his own approach to the style. Vieux and Ali play together on two tracks, and their interaction-- the son plays rhythm guitar and gives his father's unmistakable leads free reign, with interjections from ngoni player Bassekou Kouyaté-- is not surprisingly marked by deference and respect. "Tabara" is a slow and meditative instrumental spotlighted by a mellifluous lead from Ali, into which Vieux perfectly slips his minimal backing rhythm. The other collaboration, "Diallo", is a conversation between Vieux's wizened, parched vocals and Ali's electric guitar, which carries his distinctive pinched tone. The rhythm is propelled by hand percussion, which is this case means sound actually created by the hands, without drums or blocks. As if to draw a line in the Saharan sand between father and son, "Tabara" is immediately followed on the record by "Ana", a song that unites Mali and Jamaica, bringing desert guitar to the funky upstroke of reggae. At first, it feels like a minor excursion, but then the horns and bassline hit and drive the groove home all the way for a stunningly effective synthesis of the humid and the arid. "Courage" features an even more thrilling fusion, beginning in a sort of desert modal jazz fashion, with an acoustic guitar part that recalls the bassline of Miles Davis' "So What", but jumping into a straight-ahead rock groove a minute and a half in. Guest vocalist Issa Sory Bamba lets loose a crazed melismatic wail worthy of the most full-throated muezzin, and later harmonizes with album co-producer Eric Herman while Hassey Sarré's violin-like njarka lets loose fluttering phrases that sound a bit like backwards guitars. At the other end of the spectrum lie Touré's two instrumental duets with another elder statesman of Malian music, kora virtuoso Toumani Diabaté. "Touré de Niafunké" and "Diabaté", both tributes to the respective families of the men, display a deeply subliminal connection between the musicians. Diabaté's kora playing is delicate and precise, his glissandos traversing Touré's rich guitar lines as if held to them by gravity. The two close the album with nine minutes of slowly churning mind-meld that shivers with intensity. Touré dedicates the whole album to the memory of his father, who clearly is the single greatest influence present here. Listening, though, it's obvious that the younger Touré is itching to move on, experiment, and build something new of his own. He's not far from something truly progressive on his debut, and there are moments where he blows down barriers with frightening ease. His father's legacy may loom large, but Vieux Farka Touré stands well on his own."

TTC

Ceci N'Est Pas un Disque

Rap

Brad Haywood

Still looking for romance? Here's why: you're not French. Perhaps it's not the only reason, but no matter how scrawny, ugly or foul-smelling you are, if your lips manage to pronounce those delicate, lilting tones of the language of love, it is on. Promise. Some of my best friends are French-- they have, like, ten dates a night, usually three or four at a time. Unfortunately for TTC, though, hip-hop isn't about romance. Unlike making love, French language skills tend to be a liability in the world of beats and rhymes. You know what I mean; just imagine a French accent on badasses like Rakim or Jay-Z: "how you say-- errr-- Beeg Peemping?" Not quite. Despite the disability, hip-hop has followed in the footsteps of another traditionally African-American art form-- jazz-- in gaining a substantial following with the Gauls. But probably owing to the reasons noted above, American audiences have yet to pay a return favor to French acts, notwithstanding the critical acclaim showered on torch-bearers like MC Solaar. TTC hopes to put an end to the trend with their first-rate sophomore effort, Ceci N'est Pas un Disque. Chances are, if you're considering a TTC purchase, you won't be making it for the lyrics. In light of that, allow me to brief you for a moment on the beats. They're a superb and diverse bunch, evidencing influence of American old-school and underground hip-hop alike. From the playfulness of the opener, "Nonscience," to the spooky sci-fi of the El-P inflected "Subway," it's all inventive and surprisingly well-produced. The DJ Vadim-helmed "De Pauvres Riches" utilizes a sparse, quirky beat built on a curious bass clarinet melody and accompanied by almost comically intermittent orchestral embellishments. The unique "Pollutions" opens with four measures of a bass-lipped human beatbox, which is joined by an organ melody that is almost the exact replica of the background music from Abba's "Dancing Queen," as well as the crackles and pops of vintage vinyl. The odd blend of two worlds (disco and hip-hop) delightfully provokes concurrent nostalgia and head-nodding. The album's finest beat appears on "Ensoulevant le Couvercle," knee-deep in thick production. The dark, ominous beat rests on a foundation of simple, downtempo drums, with synth horns and organ insinuating a chilling background "melody," if you can call it that (it sounds more like an echo). The song plods along, a more pervasive pipe organ gurgling intermittently along with the rhythmic ambience of creaky floorboards. It's better described by the emotions evoked: doom, confusion, and funk. In terms of lyrics, it's anyone's guess. I can tell you this: one of the MC's, who I dubbed "Ad-Rocque", struck me as rather annoying. He sounds like your run-of-the-mill white-boy MC who tries to affect a voice he doesn't have. As for the others, I have no problems with them, even though I don't understand a damn word. Which brings us back to the opening point; except for two English cameos (Dose One on "Pas D'Armure" and Yara Bravo on "Ensoulevant Le Couvercle") the album is entirely in French, so don't expect the kids in Bushwick and Bed-Stuy to be stocking up on copies of TTC. But should you? Think of it this way: TTC scores an 8.0 on beats alone. Hand the mic to Del, and we're probably staring at a 9.5. Hand it to Gwen Stefani, and we're back down to 7.0. Either way, you get the point-- you like beats, you buy this album. End of story.

Artist: TTC, Album: Ceci N'Est Pas un Disque, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Still looking for romance? Here's why: you're not French. Perhaps it's not the only reason, but no matter how scrawny, ugly or foul-smelling you are, if your lips manage to pronounce those delicate, lilting tones of the language of love, it is on. Promise. Some of my best friends are French-- they have, like, ten dates a night, usually three or four at a time. Unfortunately for TTC, though, hip-hop isn't about romance. Unlike making love, French language skills tend to be a liability in the world of beats and rhymes. You know what I mean; just imagine a French accent on badasses like Rakim or Jay-Z: "how you say-- errr-- Beeg Peemping?" Not quite. Despite the disability, hip-hop has followed in the footsteps of another traditionally African-American art form-- jazz-- in gaining a substantial following with the Gauls. But probably owing to the reasons noted above, American audiences have yet to pay a return favor to French acts, notwithstanding the critical acclaim showered on torch-bearers like MC Solaar. TTC hopes to put an end to the trend with their first-rate sophomore effort, Ceci N'est Pas un Disque. Chances are, if you're considering a TTC purchase, you won't be making it for the lyrics. In light of that, allow me to brief you for a moment on the beats. They're a superb and diverse bunch, evidencing influence of American old-school and underground hip-hop alike. From the playfulness of the opener, "Nonscience," to the spooky sci-fi of the El-P inflected "Subway," it's all inventive and surprisingly well-produced. The DJ Vadim-helmed "De Pauvres Riches" utilizes a sparse, quirky beat built on a curious bass clarinet melody and accompanied by almost comically intermittent orchestral embellishments. The unique "Pollutions" opens with four measures of a bass-lipped human beatbox, which is joined by an organ melody that is almost the exact replica of the background music from Abba's "Dancing Queen," as well as the crackles and pops of vintage vinyl. The odd blend of two worlds (disco and hip-hop) delightfully provokes concurrent nostalgia and head-nodding. The album's finest beat appears on "Ensoulevant le Couvercle," knee-deep in thick production. The dark, ominous beat rests on a foundation of simple, downtempo drums, with synth horns and organ insinuating a chilling background "melody," if you can call it that (it sounds more like an echo). The song plods along, a more pervasive pipe organ gurgling intermittently along with the rhythmic ambience of creaky floorboards. It's better described by the emotions evoked: doom, confusion, and funk. In terms of lyrics, it's anyone's guess. I can tell you this: one of the MC's, who I dubbed "Ad-Rocque", struck me as rather annoying. He sounds like your run-of-the-mill white-boy MC who tries to affect a voice he doesn't have. As for the others, I have no problems with them, even though I don't understand a damn word. Which brings us back to the opening point; except for two English cameos (Dose One on "Pas D'Armure" and Yara Bravo on "Ensoulevant Le Couvercle") the album is entirely in French, so don't expect the kids in Bushwick and Bed-Stuy to be stocking up on copies of TTC. But should you? Think of it this way: TTC scores an 8.0 on beats alone. Hand the mic to Del, and we're probably staring at a 9.5. Hand it to Gwen Stefani, and we're back down to 7.0. Either way, you get the point-- you like beats, you buy this album. End of story."

AraabMuzik

Dream World

Electronic

Kathy Iandoli

It’s easy to forget that AraabMuzik has successfully been making beats for close to a decade. The Providence producer's widespread allure arrived near 2010 when pop music fell head-first into the EDM scene. His 2011 debut LP Electronic Dream capitalized heavily off that trend, with woozy dreamscapes that ultimately trickled into the humble rap beginnings from which he came (primarily Cam’ron and his Dipset dynasty). It would be remiss to say AraabMuzik (born Abraham Orellana) invented the subgenre cloud rap, but he provided a sturdier framework for it, while producers like Clams Casino and Harry Fraud unlocked a bevy of samples often ignored by Araab in exchange for his rapid-fire MPC flexing. Videos circulated of him flapping his arms over the device like a Hindu deity, solidifying his dexterity as both a hip-hop producer and a catchy electronic one. A flood of mixtapes and EPs arrived in the sizable gap between Electronic Dream and Dream World, yet AraabMuzik’s place in beat-making feels uncertain right now. They say to tailor your resume for every different job that you want, so going by that theory, Dream World would land AraabMuzik in any career field. The experience is there, but the project breathes an unspoken awareness that his signature sound is no longer just his. Clams and Fraud have popularized that atmospheric aesthetic, but other producers have taken to wedging random electronic blips into their work in an effort ride the trap house movement. So what we’re left with on Dream World is a solid project that flies in multiple directions. Thankfully, the dreamier cuts are there—and arguably the best parts of the album. Opener “Adonis” blends Araab’s MPC proficiency against choir chants and electronic key tones, reflecting a cult-meets-church vibe. “Mind Trip” and “Faded” bring it back to the Electronic Dream era, pairing the producer’s knack for ethereal voice samples with his hip-hop bassline foundation. A collaboration with producer !llmind proves successful, as “Dream” highlights the vocals of newcomer Vchaney on a track that travels along the same vein as a Tinashe or Jhene Aiko joint. Araab even traipses smoothly into house territory on “Chasing Pirates,” while his collaboration with Dvnk Sinatrv (“Waiting For”) is near perfect minus the Zedd-ish build-up synths—the same crime is committed on “Stadium House.” A few tracks are begging for any one of the rappers in AraabMuzik’s rolodex, from the subtle boom-bappery of “Train Wreck” to “Left Side,” which recalls Scott Storch's stint with the Roots on keys. But on the flip side, there are other tracks where the vocal features seem extraneous. “50 Box Of Swishers” could have done without Kobe, despite his “I came to get fucked up” crooning over a hard hip-hop beat like he’s Tony Sunshine during the Terror Squad reign. Speaking of throwbacks that don't really work, Araab inexplicably revisits dubstep with “Try Me” and “A.M.”, where the genre's signature “womp womps” are literally just that. It’s understandable to approach Dream World with demands for the mind-fuck AraabMuzik delivered on his debut. But for a producer who's now sailing along a flooded production market, his only buoy here is to try anything once. He could become David Guetta after this; he could also become DJ Mustard. But honestly, we just want AraabMuzik back. At this point, that’s the real dream.

Artist: AraabMuzik, Album: Dream World, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.1 Album review: "It’s easy to forget that AraabMuzik has successfully been making beats for close to a decade. The Providence producer's widespread allure arrived near 2010 when pop music fell head-first into the EDM scene. His 2011 debut LP Electronic Dream capitalized heavily off that trend, with woozy dreamscapes that ultimately trickled into the humble rap beginnings from which he came (primarily Cam’ron and his Dipset dynasty). It would be remiss to say AraabMuzik (born Abraham Orellana) invented the subgenre cloud rap, but he provided a sturdier framework for it, while producers like Clams Casino and Harry Fraud unlocked a bevy of samples often ignored by Araab in exchange for his rapid-fire MPC flexing. Videos circulated of him flapping his arms over the device like a Hindu deity, solidifying his dexterity as both a hip-hop producer and a catchy electronic one. A flood of mixtapes and EPs arrived in the sizable gap between Electronic Dream and Dream World, yet AraabMuzik’s place in beat-making feels uncertain right now. They say to tailor your resume for every different job that you want, so going by that theory, Dream World would land AraabMuzik in any career field. The experience is there, but the project breathes an unspoken awareness that his signature sound is no longer just his. Clams and Fraud have popularized that atmospheric aesthetic, but other producers have taken to wedging random electronic blips into their work in an effort ride the trap house movement. So what we’re left with on Dream World is a solid project that flies in multiple directions. Thankfully, the dreamier cuts are there—and arguably the best parts of the album. Opener “Adonis” blends Araab’s MPC proficiency against choir chants and electronic key tones, reflecting a cult-meets-church vibe. “Mind Trip” and “Faded” bring it back to the Electronic Dream era, pairing the producer’s knack for ethereal voice samples with his hip-hop bassline foundation. A collaboration with producer !llmind proves successful, as “Dream” highlights the vocals of newcomer Vchaney on a track that travels along the same vein as a Tinashe or Jhene Aiko joint. Araab even traipses smoothly into house territory on “Chasing Pirates,” while his collaboration with Dvnk Sinatrv (“Waiting For”) is near perfect minus the Zedd-ish build-up synths—the same crime is committed on “Stadium House.” A few tracks are begging for any one of the rappers in AraabMuzik’s rolodex, from the subtle boom-bappery of “Train Wreck” to “Left Side,” which recalls Scott Storch's stint with the Roots on keys. But on the flip side, there are other tracks where the vocal features seem extraneous. “50 Box Of Swishers” could have done without Kobe, despite his “I came to get fucked up” crooning over a hard hip-hop beat like he’s Tony Sunshine during the Terror Squad reign. Speaking of throwbacks that don't really work, Araab inexplicably revisits dubstep with “Try Me” and “A.M.”, where the genre's signature “womp womps” are literally just that. It’s understandable to approach Dream World with demands for the mind-fuck AraabMuzik delivered on his debut. But for a producer who's now sailing along a flooded production market, his only buoy here is to try anything once. He could become David Guetta after this; he could also become DJ Mustard. But honestly, we just want AraabMuzik back. At this point, that’s the real dream."

Windy & Carl

We Will Always Be

Rock

Nick Neyland

There's a disarming honesty to the way Michigan-based husband and wife duo Windy & Carl communicate with one another. A blog post from Windy, published in late 2011, describes the making of We Will Always Be, framing it in the context of their relationship. "Yeah, we have had bumps in the road, and on occasion it seems as if we may never recover from these bumps, but we do," she wrote. That type of candor doesn't stop at the written word; it also bleeds through into the duo's music. Often their work is collaborative, at other times there are vast expanses of sound featuring Carl playing alone. Either way, this album, their first since Songs for the Broken Hearted in 2008, is executed with openness and sincerity, making it feel as if the usual barriers between audience and performer simply aren't there. When Windy & Carl lock together, it's like being privy to a great secret, imparted in a moment of intensely personal creativity. This record shifts through three distinct phases, with a definitive beginning, middle, and end. It travels from temperate ripples at the start through craggy rock faces in the center. The close is like an impossibly smooth glide across freshly laid snow. As with most of Windy & Carl's music, the lyrics are frequently indecipherable. The emotional impact is torn from the overall feel, which shifts from rueful acoustic work ("For Rosa") to forceful, repetitive drone rock ("Fainting in the Presence of the Lord"). The spaces in-between those extremes are smudged with color, sometimes bearing the kind of drifty essence My Bloody Valentine mustered up on "To Here Knows When". Like Kevin Shields and Bilinda Butcher, Windy & Carl's work often resembles the sound of a couple retreating from the world in order to understand their place within it. The way We Will Always Be is put together only adds to that feeling. It resembles an orderly dissection of the relationship cycle, where unruffled, carefree beginnings melt into discord and conflict, ultimately settling into the strange kind of parity that outsiders to any long-term relationship find hard to fathom. Their musical assimilation of that rocky mid-section, where the delicate framework of understanding built up around a couple feels as if it could crash and fall at any minute, is the most spectacular. It begins in the climb out of "Remember" and into "Fainting in the Presence of the Lord". The latter, almost 19 minutes long, is full of cadaverous twirls of processed noise, which get sucked into an atom-smashing guitar loop that trudges into the middle of the song, heaving it to a lumbering close. Whatever Windy & Carl are working out here, which even Windy's candid blog posts don't reveal, it's clearly taken them to some dark places. Despite feeling like the work of a couple laying themselves bare, it's also music to get lost in, to block out the real world. You could stretch out for days in the quiet whirr of Carl's ring-shaped instrumental passages. That duality of purpose is one of the greatest strengths Windy & Carl possess-- the ability to conjure up contrasting feelings through their work. It's what makes an album like We Will Always Be worth returning to often, with different aspects of it coming to light depending on mood, setting, and personal circumstance. In a heartbeat it can flick from the sinister whispered vocals of "Nature of Memory" to the serene ice-drones of "Looking Glass". But it never feels like forced change. There's always a natural bridge taking you from one world to the next, like a guide taking you through Windy & Carl's singular ways, providing this album with the conceptual heft it feeds on to flourish.

Artist: Windy & Carl, Album: We Will Always Be, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "There's a disarming honesty to the way Michigan-based husband and wife duo Windy & Carl communicate with one another. A blog post from Windy, published in late 2011, describes the making of We Will Always Be, framing it in the context of their relationship. "Yeah, we have had bumps in the road, and on occasion it seems as if we may never recover from these bumps, but we do," she wrote. That type of candor doesn't stop at the written word; it also bleeds through into the duo's music. Often their work is collaborative, at other times there are vast expanses of sound featuring Carl playing alone. Either way, this album, their first since Songs for the Broken Hearted in 2008, is executed with openness and sincerity, making it feel as if the usual barriers between audience and performer simply aren't there. When Windy & Carl lock together, it's like being privy to a great secret, imparted in a moment of intensely personal creativity. This record shifts through three distinct phases, with a definitive beginning, middle, and end. It travels from temperate ripples at the start through craggy rock faces in the center. The close is like an impossibly smooth glide across freshly laid snow. As with most of Windy & Carl's music, the lyrics are frequently indecipherable. The emotional impact is torn from the overall feel, which shifts from rueful acoustic work ("For Rosa") to forceful, repetitive drone rock ("Fainting in the Presence of the Lord"). The spaces in-between those extremes are smudged with color, sometimes bearing the kind of drifty essence My Bloody Valentine mustered up on "To Here Knows When". Like Kevin Shields and Bilinda Butcher, Windy & Carl's work often resembles the sound of a couple retreating from the world in order to understand their place within it. The way We Will Always Be is put together only adds to that feeling. It resembles an orderly dissection of the relationship cycle, where unruffled, carefree beginnings melt into discord and conflict, ultimately settling into the strange kind of parity that outsiders to any long-term relationship find hard to fathom. Their musical assimilation of that rocky mid-section, where the delicate framework of understanding built up around a couple feels as if it could crash and fall at any minute, is the most spectacular. It begins in the climb out of "Remember" and into "Fainting in the Presence of the Lord". The latter, almost 19 minutes long, is full of cadaverous twirls of processed noise, which get sucked into an atom-smashing guitar loop that trudges into the middle of the song, heaving it to a lumbering close. Whatever Windy & Carl are working out here, which even Windy's candid blog posts don't reveal, it's clearly taken them to some dark places. Despite feeling like the work of a couple laying themselves bare, it's also music to get lost in, to block out the real world. You could stretch out for days in the quiet whirr of Carl's ring-shaped instrumental passages. That duality of purpose is one of the greatest strengths Windy & Carl possess-- the ability to conjure up contrasting feelings through their work. It's what makes an album like We Will Always Be worth returning to often, with different aspects of it coming to light depending on mood, setting, and personal circumstance. In a heartbeat it can flick from the sinister whispered vocals of "Nature of Memory" to the serene ice-drones of "Looking Glass". But it never feels like forced change. There's always a natural bridge taking you from one world to the next, like a guide taking you through Windy & Carl's singular ways, providing this album with the conceptual heft it feeds on to flourish."

Arlo

Stab the Unstoppable Hero

Pop/R&B

Eric Carr

"Nature is always stronger than principle," could very roughly be translated to, "Fuck it-- fun is fun, mindless or otherwise, so gimme back my Guided by Voices pogs." Now, David Hume was an intelligent man, but does that really claim have anything to do with music? Well, maybe a little (though he might not have intended it to), since it pretty much sums up the entire justification for all things pop since Haydn's final symphony, "Girls are Neat, in D Minor." It has spawned the often dreadful 'mindless fun' defense, going to win innumerable precedents in the court of public opinion. Certainly, some of the records defended by this argument are triumphs, but for every Daft Punk, there's an O.J.-style travesty like I Get Wet that's just waiting to trot out the same brainless defense. So, Dave, mindless fun may be all well and good, like underage drinking (hilarious), but it can get out of hand, like being arrested for Heroin possession (still funny, but only if it's not me). When that time comes, in the equally classic words of Abe Lincoln, "the hammer's gotta come down." Oh, hey, Arlo! I was just talking about you. Stab the Unstoppable Hero, the second outing from this L.A. four-piece, is numbingly catchy, and with lyrics like, "Are you made of salt?/ Or are you sour?/ Do you fall apart/ In the shower?," no one's going to nominate a song like "Little American" for the new Mensa theme. Yeah, Arlo's newest chunky, garage-style mess has the nature of pure power-pop and the hooks to ensure that no brain cells get out alive. Often, it can play almost as well as Weezer, or, more commonly, Walt Mink, but... goddammit, here's where the principles have to come in. Did I say like Mink or the Weez? Yep. Arlo reads right off their script-- and the script of every other garage-pop act in the last decade, for that matter-- they're just not quite up to the part. For roughly 75% of this album, Arlo is content to show off its best impression of much better bands, and, to be fair, it can be a fairly slick impersonation. I mean, Riv Cuomo hasn't penned a song as innocent or apparently effortless as "Too Sick to Tango" or "Linger On" in two albums, and yet, somehow Stab still isn't any fun. The problem is, where this album ought to have the sweet consistency of bubblegum there's nothing but the acidic taste of blatant, heavy-handed derivation. "Working Title" could blend in seamlessly with any of the outtakes from the Miss Happiness sessions-- there's not an ounce of invention in it. Likewise, the streamlined guitar fuzz and soaring harmonies of "Temperature" are easy on the ears, but even that was done a hell of a lot better on El Producto. So why bother? It's a question of craftsmanship versus straight sonics, and the fine line between influence and rip-off is crossed here throughout. Hell, the White Stripes haven't played a single glorious note that hasn't been found elsewhere, but no one could sensibly accuse them of shoplifting from influences like Zep and, you know, all blues ever written. I'm not saying that of Arlo, either, but they'd have a much harder time clearing themselves if that was the charge. Let me be direct: when Arlo are wearing their masks, they may sound derivative, but at least they sound pretty good; they're taking cues from some great acts, after all. And as much of a difficulty as it is, it's better than the alternative. Sadly, for about a quarter of this farce, Arlo sounds like plain old Arlo, and I'll tell you, that's a prospect that won't be well-received. The most original shots they've got in them are muddy barrages that lean more towards grunge sludge ("Runaround") or limp-wristed alt-country ("Up"), songs notable only for their absolute nondescriptness and predictability. Stab the Unstoppable Hero even contains the single most obvious "we're rocking so hard that we can't even play the music properly" outro in recent memory. Though, to their credit, at least it sounds like they wrote it. This album is just one more round in the inevitable victory of nature over principles-- it's not easy to resist some of the more entertaining pop kernels lingering on Stab the Unstoppable Hero. Which is a real shame. Hume might not have known what he was excusing, but that doesn't mean that this sort of pap can slide. These songs were written on tracing paper, leading to some amazingly troubling pop. Oh, and I guess since 'troubling pop' isn't a phrase that's likely to see much use, Arlo might be notable for that, too.

Artist: Arlo, Album: Stab the Unstoppable Hero, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 3.8 Album review: ""Nature is always stronger than principle," could very roughly be translated to, "Fuck it-- fun is fun, mindless or otherwise, so gimme back my Guided by Voices pogs." Now, David Hume was an intelligent man, but does that really claim have anything to do with music? Well, maybe a little (though he might not have intended it to), since it pretty much sums up the entire justification for all things pop since Haydn's final symphony, "Girls are Neat, in D Minor." It has spawned the often dreadful 'mindless fun' defense, going to win innumerable precedents in the court of public opinion. Certainly, some of the records defended by this argument are triumphs, but for every Daft Punk, there's an O.J.-style travesty like I Get Wet that's just waiting to trot out the same brainless defense. So, Dave, mindless fun may be all well and good, like underage drinking (hilarious), but it can get out of hand, like being arrested for Heroin possession (still funny, but only if it's not me). When that time comes, in the equally classic words of Abe Lincoln, "the hammer's gotta come down." Oh, hey, Arlo! I was just talking about you. Stab the Unstoppable Hero, the second outing from this L.A. four-piece, is numbingly catchy, and with lyrics like, "Are you made of salt?/ Or are you sour?/ Do you fall apart/ In the shower?," no one's going to nominate a song like "Little American" for the new Mensa theme. Yeah, Arlo's newest chunky, garage-style mess has the nature of pure power-pop and the hooks to ensure that no brain cells get out alive. Often, it can play almost as well as Weezer, or, more commonly, Walt Mink, but... goddammit, here's where the principles have to come in. Did I say like Mink or the Weez? Yep. Arlo reads right off their script-- and the script of every other garage-pop act in the last decade, for that matter-- they're just not quite up to the part. For roughly 75% of this album, Arlo is content to show off its best impression of much better bands, and, to be fair, it can be a fairly slick impersonation. I mean, Riv Cuomo hasn't penned a song as innocent or apparently effortless as "Too Sick to Tango" or "Linger On" in two albums, and yet, somehow Stab still isn't any fun. The problem is, where this album ought to have the sweet consistency of bubblegum there's nothing but the acidic taste of blatant, heavy-handed derivation. "Working Title" could blend in seamlessly with any of the outtakes from the Miss Happiness sessions-- there's not an ounce of invention in it. Likewise, the streamlined guitar fuzz and soaring harmonies of "Temperature" are easy on the ears, but even that was done a hell of a lot better on El Producto. So why bother? It's a question of craftsmanship versus straight sonics, and the fine line between influence and rip-off is crossed here throughout. Hell, the White Stripes haven't played a single glorious note that hasn't been found elsewhere, but no one could sensibly accuse them of shoplifting from influences like Zep and, you know, all blues ever written. I'm not saying that of Arlo, either, but they'd have a much harder time clearing themselves if that was the charge. Let me be direct: when Arlo are wearing their masks, they may sound derivative, but at least they sound pretty good; they're taking cues from some great acts, after all. And as much of a difficulty as it is, it's better than the alternative. Sadly, for about a quarter of this farce, Arlo sounds like plain old Arlo, and I'll tell you, that's a prospect that won't be well-received. The most original shots they've got in them are muddy barrages that lean more towards grunge sludge ("Runaround") or limp-wristed alt-country ("Up"), songs notable only for their absolute nondescriptness and predictability. Stab the Unstoppable Hero even contains the single most obvious "we're rocking so hard that we can't even play the music properly" outro in recent memory. Though, to their credit, at least it sounds like they wrote it. This album is just one more round in the inevitable victory of nature over principles-- it's not easy to resist some of the more entertaining pop kernels lingering on Stab the Unstoppable Hero. Which is a real shame. Hume might not have known what he was excusing, but that doesn't mean that this sort of pap can slide. These songs were written on tracing paper, leading to some amazingly troubling pop. Oh, and I guess since 'troubling pop' isn't a phrase that's likely to see much use, Arlo might be notable for that, too."

Isis

In the Absence of Truth

Metal,Rock

Brandon Stosuy

Isis's elegant fourth full-length, In the Absence of Truth, comes packed with surprises. As might be expected following their 2004 breakthrough and subsequent big-time tour with Tool, the Los Angeles quintet expands the template solidified (and some would say mastered) on Oceanic and pushed to the outer limits amid Panopticon's sloshy trenches. I**n the Absence of Truth goes further than those albums, but without ditching the signature elements-- sharp, delayed/chorused guitar notes (the underwater bunker sound), swirling and ambient keyboards, crisp and dynamic drum and bass, Aaron Turner's meditational chants and drowning-man growls. Everything's more expansive and exploratory here, and fresh off Blood Mountain, Isis's regular recordist Matt Bayles buffs each of the nine tracks with some hazy gauze, lodging a truly sleek, sumptuous, fathomless recording. In fact, the set's so finely wound that on the first few listens it seemed like the steady diet of Tool had perhaps transformed Isis into an emaciated, innocuous version of their older selves. Not at all, kneejerks-- these songs just require close (and repeated) listening to initiate an unravelling (It took me two months before I felt the background music become total immersion). The band's never been ham-fisted, but In the Absence offers fewer crowd-pleasing quiet-to-loud dynamics-- though they are there-- and there are plenty of unexpected inversions: Excellent opener "Wrist of Kings" displays a three-minute tension-grabbing intro that slows and swivels instead of cresting, allowing Turner to soar, almost a whisper, over math-y drums. Smashing expectations, a few minutes later the crush and vocal growl emerge, long after the initial build has recoiled. Isis continue to embrace the epic-- this is their longest outing, the majority of songs in the seven/eight-minute range. There are also techy upgrades. Injected with a dose of croon, Turner's broadened his vocal approach (and Bayles mixes the growls more smoothly). He seems less afraid to just sing. Sure, he gets a tad alt at the start of "Holy Tears", but the song finds redemption in its complex arpeggios, monster outro, and pretty, breathless keys. Or, to see a more interesting moment in his development, as well as Bayles' increased array of vocal effects, look at the psychedelically waterlogged "1000 Shards", which builds to a sloshy mosh part and some powerfully hoarse scowls, before sinking into whispers and the instrumental set piece "All Out of Time, All Into Space"'s distorted wind, flange, and aquatic firestorms. Not every expansion's a hit, however. Named for Hassan-i-Sabbah's garden, "Firdous E Bareen" is a montage that ostensibly approximates the feel of an acolyte coming to in the mountainous faux-Eden, thinking he'd died and been reborn: dub percussion, electro, backwards spinning tape, tribalism, bird sounds, acoustic strums, sitar, hand drums collide. It's a tad like Isis from the Oceanic Remixes / Reinterpretations album, though they're adding the extraneous elements themselves. Recovering the gravity and beauty of the rest of the album, the final, longest track, "Garden of Light", starts with a pleasing languor and moves to that blue-tinted Panopticon rock, before ushering in an uproarious Disintegration shoe-gaze-- Heaven truly attained? For those who chaff at these sorts of shoe-gazer references, listen to the last few minutes of "Garden of Light" and then download some Ride. I'll wait here a few minutes. Conceptually, Hassan-i-Sabbah, the 11th/12th Century Persian mystic, shows up throughout these pieces. Pig Destroyer (and countless other rockers) have recently reminded us, "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted," but it is interesting to watch how far (and personally) Turner takes it. Plus, folks usually discover the idea with William S. Burroughs-- Turner unearthed it in Mark Danielewski's postmodern staple, House of Leaves. There is some WSB: "All Out of Time, All Into Space" shows most famously, to this young punk geek at least, in "The Last Words of Hassan Sabbah" (and, uh, can you guess the real Sabbah's supposed last words?). From a different side of the bookshelf, note the romantic resonances of "Dulcinea", named after the apple of reality-blind Don Quixote's eye (or that old Toad the Wet Sprocket record). In interviews Turner has also mentioned Borges' Labyrinths (which includes a character rewriting Don Quixote) and the Bible among other textual inspirations. These intertwining references might be fun, but despite that "heady metal" tag, they aren't integral to the experience. If Turner was just opening his mouth and spitting empty syllables (which may be the case!), In the Absence of Truth would still prove one of the year's most compelling, moving listens. Really, despite a couple brief dull spots, the ingredients are so carefully selected and masterfully performed that the collection creates a pretty endlessness, existing at its best as one long take of dark-n-stormy post-rock. You should be in quiet awe, not destroying the moment by running to Wikipedia.

Artist: Isis, Album: In the Absence of Truth, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Isis's elegant fourth full-length, In the Absence of Truth, comes packed with surprises. As might be expected following their 2004 breakthrough and subsequent big-time tour with Tool, the Los Angeles quintet expands the template solidified (and some would say mastered) on Oceanic and pushed to the outer limits amid Panopticon's sloshy trenches. I**n the Absence of Truth goes further than those albums, but without ditching the signature elements-- sharp, delayed/chorused guitar notes (the underwater bunker sound), swirling and ambient keyboards, crisp and dynamic drum and bass, Aaron Turner's meditational chants and drowning-man growls. Everything's more expansive and exploratory here, and fresh off Blood Mountain, Isis's regular recordist Matt Bayles buffs each of the nine tracks with some hazy gauze, lodging a truly sleek, sumptuous, fathomless recording. In fact, the set's so finely wound that on the first few listens it seemed like the steady diet of Tool had perhaps transformed Isis into an emaciated, innocuous version of their older selves. Not at all, kneejerks-- these songs just require close (and repeated) listening to initiate an unravelling (It took me two months before I felt the background music become total immersion). The band's never been ham-fisted, but In the Absence offers fewer crowd-pleasing quiet-to-loud dynamics-- though they are there-- and there are plenty of unexpected inversions: Excellent opener "Wrist of Kings" displays a three-minute tension-grabbing intro that slows and swivels instead of cresting, allowing Turner to soar, almost a whisper, over math-y drums. Smashing expectations, a few minutes later the crush and vocal growl emerge, long after the initial build has recoiled. Isis continue to embrace the epic-- this is their longest outing, the majority of songs in the seven/eight-minute range. There are also techy upgrades. Injected with a dose of croon, Turner's broadened his vocal approach (and Bayles mixes the growls more smoothly). He seems less afraid to just sing. Sure, he gets a tad alt at the start of "Holy Tears", but the song finds redemption in its complex arpeggios, monster outro, and pretty, breathless keys. Or, to see a more interesting moment in his development, as well as Bayles' increased array of vocal effects, look at the psychedelically waterlogged "1000 Shards", which builds to a sloshy mosh part and some powerfully hoarse scowls, before sinking into whispers and the instrumental set piece "All Out of Time, All Into Space"'s distorted wind, flange, and aquatic firestorms. Not every expansion's a hit, however. Named for Hassan-i-Sabbah's garden, "Firdous E Bareen" is a montage that ostensibly approximates the feel of an acolyte coming to in the mountainous faux-Eden, thinking he'd died and been reborn: dub percussion, electro, backwards spinning tape, tribalism, bird sounds, acoustic strums, sitar, hand drums collide. It's a tad like Isis from the Oceanic Remixes / Reinterpretations album, though they're adding the extraneous elements themselves. Recovering the gravity and beauty of the rest of the album, the final, longest track, "Garden of Light", starts with a pleasing languor and moves to that blue-tinted Panopticon rock, before ushering in an uproarious Disintegration shoe-gaze-- Heaven truly attained? For those who chaff at these sorts of shoe-gazer references, listen to the last few minutes of "Garden of Light" and then download some Ride. I'll wait here a few minutes. Conceptually, Hassan-i-Sabbah, the 11th/12th Century Persian mystic, shows up throughout these pieces. Pig Destroyer (and countless other rockers) have recently reminded us, "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted," but it is interesting to watch how far (and personally) Turner takes it. Plus, folks usually discover the idea with William S. Burroughs-- Turner unearthed it in Mark Danielewski's postmodern staple, House of Leaves. There is some WSB: "All Out of Time, All Into Space" shows most famously, to this young punk geek at least, in "The Last Words of Hassan Sabbah" (and, uh, can you guess the real Sabbah's supposed last words?). From a different side of the bookshelf, note the romantic resonances of "Dulcinea", named after the apple of reality-blind Don Quixote's eye (or that old Toad the Wet Sprocket record). In interviews Turner has also mentioned Borges' Labyrinths (which includes a character rewriting Don Quixote) and the Bible among other textual inspirations. These intertwining references might be fun, but despite that "heady metal" tag, they aren't integral to the experience. If Turner was just opening his mouth and spitting empty syllables (which may be the case!), In the Absence of Truth would still prove one of the year's most compelling, moving listens. Really, despite a couple brief dull spots, the ingredients are so carefully selected and masterfully performed that the collection creates a pretty endlessness, existing at its best as one long take of dark-n-stormy post-rock. You should be in quiet awe, not destroying the moment by running to Wikipedia."

Rihanna

ANTI

Pop/R&B

Amanda Petrusich

Part of Rihanna’s appeal is aspirational: survey the photographic evidence, and she seems to spend a pretty good chunk of her time wearing jewelry on yachts, smoking terrifically robust marijuana cigarettes, and making goofball faces at jokers trying to stealth-snap pics of her as she parties deep into the night. Yet somehow, those hijinks don’t lessen her seriousness; they merely amplify it. Rihanna’s sureness regarding her presence in the world—in the work that she’s made, in the ways in which she has earned the right to palm a cocktail and chill on a beach—is bold and motivating, like Actual Confidence always is. Hearing her deliver a line like "Don’t act like you forgot/ I call the shot-shot-shots" (from 2015’s "Bitch Better Have My Money") with a kind of preternatural calm—it’s hard to imagine anything ever feeling better than that. It is hard to imagine anyone inhabiting a pop career with more ease or aplomb. Still, ANTI—her very-long-awaited eighth LP—arrived tentatively, almost meekly. The build-up, of course, was extraordinary. There’d been rascally fake-outs, three singles (none of which made it onto the actual album), whole social media accounts teasing its release. Then, last Wednesday afternoon, a track listing appeared (that a gang of disembodied song titles still constitutes a noteworthy breach surely indicates something about our desperate times), followed by the announcement that ANTI would be streaming exclusively on Tidal for its first week of release (who cares)—two meager dribbles of intel that were quickly overshadowed, perhaps rightly, by Kanye West hollering about pants. Then, suddenly, the album appeared in full. Anyone hoping its delayed release might suggest something about its ambition, that the three-years-in-the-making ANTI might be Rihanna’s opus, a grand declaration of intent, is likely to be underwhelmed. ANTI is a rich and conflicted pop record, at its most interesting when it’s at its most idiosyncratic. It’s not crammed with bloodthirsty, dance-oriented jams and feels distinctly smaller, more inward-facing than her previous records, as if it were intended as a kind of spiritual stock-taking, a moment of reckoning for both Rihanna and her fans. Her grainy, mesmerizing voice is paramount here, the sun in ANTI’s universe, the thing everything else orbits: "I got to do things my own way, darling," she announces over a stuttering, distorted beat in opener "Consideration," a prickly collaboration with the R&B singer SZA. The sentiment feels deliberately placed, meant as a way to read everything that follows. Ironically, if the album has a narrative arc buried underneath the fuck-off, broad-strokes empowerment now so omnipresent on pop radio, it’s about disappointment: The ways in which the people you trust can still come up short in the end, and how catastrophically lonesome that can feel. It’s also about self-isolation, and how being good at being on your own ("I can be a lone wolf," she sings on "Desperado," her vocals deep, crackly) can become its own kind of albatross, a cage that bars from the inside. The dancehall and dub-indebted single "Work" hints at an intimacy in what is otherwise a fairly transactional Rihanna single: Drake is here, sounding weirdly buttoned-up and too articulate, like a grown man wandering onto the beach in a pair of ill-fitting jeans. The hook is Rihanna babbling about getting it done—"work-work-work-work-work-work"—her vocals devolving into something more instinctive than language, as if it gushed forth from some underground spring instead of her throat. But the words suggest that another Rihanna, a more wounded and wary version, is hovering nearby. Do we need access to that girl? Maybe not—there’s plenty here that feels high-stakes and revealing. Rihanna talks more convincingly about sex than almost any other pop star, and some of ANTI’s most striking tracks are also its nastiest: "Love on the Brain" is a retro-leaning doo-wop jam with a crew of backing vocalists that takes an unexpected turn toward the dark: "It beats me black and blue, but it fucks me so good," Rihanna chants, her voice suddenly flinty. Her deployment of "it" feels deliberate, painting her partner as a disembodied force, less a person than a ghost she can’t escape. "Yeah, I Said It," co-written and co-produced by Timbaland, is a crawling, steamy ode to two people slamming up against a wall (literally): "Yeah, I said it, boy, get up inside it/ I want you to homicide it," Rihanna purrs over a sparse, hazy beat. "Never Ending," which nicks a vocal melody from Dido’s "Thank You," is a gooey, vulnerable dirge that reiterates how Rihanna experiences love, how it helps her navigate and recognize her physical self, the way she feels its absence physically: "I knew your face once, but now it’s unclear," she sings. "And I can’t feel my body now." But it’s "Higher," the record’s penultimate track—it really should be its coda—a two-minute imploration to a distant lover, asking him to just come over, already, that feels the most revelatory. The track was co-written by Bibi Bourelly, the 20-year-old electropop artist from Berlin who also wrote "Bitch Better Have My Money." "This whiskey got me feelin’ pretty, so pardon if I’m impolite," Rihanna sings, her voice raked, raspy, desperate over collapsing strings. Whatever had been holding her together until then—it broke. "I wanna go back to the old way," she admits. "But I’m drunk and still with a full ashtray, with a little bit too much to say." And then, as if it had never happened—as if she deleted the text, pulled the blankets up and went to sleep—the song ends, unresolved. Correction (2/1/16 at 11:44 a.m.): The original version of this review misquoted a lyric from “Work” that has since been removed.

Artist: Rihanna, Album: ANTI, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Part of Rihanna’s appeal is aspirational: survey the photographic evidence, and she seems to spend a pretty good chunk of her time wearing jewelry on yachts, smoking terrifically robust marijuana cigarettes, and making goofball faces at jokers trying to stealth-snap pics of her as she parties deep into the night. Yet somehow, those hijinks don’t lessen her seriousness; they merely amplify it. Rihanna’s sureness regarding her presence in the world—in the work that she’s made, in the ways in which she has earned the right to palm a cocktail and chill on a beach—is bold and motivating, like Actual Confidence always is. Hearing her deliver a line like "Don’t act like you forgot/ I call the shot-shot-shots" (from 2015’s "Bitch Better Have My Money") with a kind of preternatural calm—it’s hard to imagine anything ever feeling better than that. It is hard to imagine anyone inhabiting a pop career with more ease or aplomb. Still, ANTI—her very-long-awaited eighth LP—arrived tentatively, almost meekly. The build-up, of course, was extraordinary. There’d been rascally fake-outs, three singles (none of which made it onto the actual album), whole social media accounts teasing its release. Then, last Wednesday afternoon, a track listing appeared (that a gang of disembodied song titles still constitutes a noteworthy breach surely indicates something about our desperate times), followed by the announcement that ANTI would be streaming exclusively on Tidal for its first week of release (who cares)—two meager dribbles of intel that were quickly overshadowed, perhaps rightly, by Kanye West hollering about pants. Then, suddenly, the album appeared in full. Anyone hoping its delayed release might suggest something about its ambition, that the three-years-in-the-making ANTI might be Rihanna’s opus, a grand declaration of intent, is likely to be underwhelmed. ANTI is a rich and conflicted pop record, at its most interesting when it’s at its most idiosyncratic. It’s not crammed with bloodthirsty, dance-oriented jams and feels distinctly smaller, more inward-facing than her previous records, as if it were intended as a kind of spiritual stock-taking, a moment of reckoning for both Rihanna and her fans. Her grainy, mesmerizing voice is paramount here, the sun in ANTI’s universe, the thing everything else orbits: "I got to do things my own way, darling," she announces over a stuttering, distorted beat in opener "Consideration," a prickly collaboration with the R&B singer SZA. The sentiment feels deliberately placed, meant as a way to read everything that follows. Ironically, if the album has a narrative arc buried underneath the fuck-off, broad-strokes empowerment now so omnipresent on pop radio, it’s about disappointment: The ways in which the people you trust can still come up short in the end, and how catastrophically lonesome that can feel. It’s also about self-isolation, and how being good at being on your own ("I can be a lone wolf," she sings on "Desperado," her vocals deep, crackly) can become its own kind of albatross, a cage that bars from the inside. The dancehall and dub-indebted single "Work" hints at an intimacy in what is otherwise a fairly transactional Rihanna single: Drake is here, sounding weirdly buttoned-up and too articulate, like a grown man wandering onto the beach in a pair of ill-fitting jeans. The hook is Rihanna babbling about getting it done—"work-work-work-work-work-work"—her vocals devolving into something more instinctive than language, as if it gushed forth from some underground spring instead of her throat. But the words suggest that another Rihanna, a more wounded and wary version, is hovering nearby. Do we need access to that girl? Maybe not—there’s plenty here that feels high-stakes and revealing. Rihanna talks more convincingly about sex than almost any other pop star, and some of ANTI’s most striking tracks are also its nastiest: "Love on the Brain" is a retro-leaning doo-wop jam with a crew of backing vocalists that takes an unexpected turn toward the dark: "It beats me black and blue, but it fucks me so good," Rihanna chants, her voice suddenly flinty. Her deployment of "it" feels deliberate, painting her partner as a disembodied force, less a person than a ghost she can’t escape. "Yeah, I Said It," co-written and co-produced by Timbaland, is a crawling, steamy ode to two people slamming up against a wall (literally): "Yeah, I said it, boy, get up inside it/ I want you to homicide it," Rihanna purrs over a sparse, hazy beat. "Never Ending," which nicks a vocal melody from Dido’s "Thank You," is a gooey, vulnerable dirge that reiterates how Rihanna experiences love, how it helps her navigate and recognize her physical self, the way she feels its absence physically: "I knew your face once, but now it’s unclear," she sings. "And I can’t feel my body now." But it’s "Higher," the record’s penultimate track—it really should be its coda—a two-minute imploration to a distant lover, asking him to just come over, already, that feels the most revelatory. The track was co-written by Bibi Bourelly, the 20-year-old electropop artist from Berlin who also wrote "Bitch Better Have My Money." "This whiskey got me feelin’ pretty, so pardon if I’m impolite," Rihanna sings, her voice raked, raspy, desperate over collapsing strings. Whatever had been holding her together until then—it broke. "I wanna go back to the old way," she admits. "But I’m drunk and still with a full ashtray, with a little bit too much to say." And then, as if it had never happened—as if she deleted the text, pulled the blankets up and went to sleep—the song ends, unresolved. Correction (2/1/16 at 11:44 a.m.): The original version of this review misquoted a lyric from “Work” that has since been removed."

Alias

Fever Dream

Electronic,Rock

Eric Grandy

In the late 1990s, the anticon. collective emerged as a unique label dedicated to bursting the boundaries of what could be reasonably considered hip hop: Battle freestyles reconstructed as abstruse beat poetry, hip hop production smeared into ambient drone, rap cadences and phrasings bent to indie folk ends. They were leaders with, at first, few followers. But as anticon.'s own recombinant styles began to calcify-- as Why? became more of a straightforward indie rock band, say, or Themselves increasingly spiraled up their own archly-inflected, hyper-syllabic ass-- the label began to seem less like leaders and more like merely idiosyncratic outliers. Even as one of anticon.'s founding members, Alias has always maintained a decidedly low profile on the adventurous label: just a guy and his drum machines holed up in the home studio in Maine. And that's not only compared to big personality MCs like Doseone or Why?'s Yoni Wolf, but even to other in-house producers, such as the relatively flash, TV Carnage-abetted analog screwball Tobacco. Alias seems to relish a certain hermitic anonymity-- right down to the blank-faced moniker-- and it's an attitude reflected in his beats: moody, introspective tracks whose athletic drumming and melancholy melodies make for heavy head-nodders but that can begin to feel a bit faceless. Latest album Fever Dream aims to disrupt Alias' comfortable patterns as a producer-- the one sheet talks of being "reborn"-- but it doesn't succeed in making the artist any more familiar, and the change of course feels less like a visionary renewal than it does a well-played catch-up. From the first beat drop, Fever Dream is obviously informed by the vaporized, off-kilter instrumentals of Flying Lotus and likeminded contemporaries: beats shuffle and scatter, bass hits low and leaves space in its wake, samples hiss and dissipate like the air is being sucked out of them, synth lines falter and wobble. This is most true of the album’s opening tracks "Goinswimmin" and "Wanna Let it Go". Deeper into the album, amidst the adaptation, Alias teases out some of his typically thick grooves and understated but staying melodies-- culminating with the one-two combination of the in-the-pocket acoustic drum break that lights up the latter half of "Dahorses" and gives way to the dreamy "la-di-da" vocal echoes of "Lady Lambin'". Elsewhere, and to lesser effect, Alias calls in fellow anticon. collaborators Why? (whose starring turn in "Well Water Black" gave 2008 LP Resurgam an unlikely single) and Subtle's Dax Pierson. The former contributes a stretched, monosyllabic nasal wail to the chunky beat routine of "Boom Boom Boom", while Pierson plays keys and sings lead on the bloodless R&B drift of "Talk in Technicolor". So, no, Fever Dream's new direction doesn't quite recapture the genre-dissolving days of anticon.'s youth or remake Alias into a soon-to-be household name. It does, however, stand as another fine, frequently very satisfying effort from a dependable producer and deft beat-maker.

Artist: Alias, Album: Fever Dream, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "In the late 1990s, the anticon. collective emerged as a unique label dedicated to bursting the boundaries of what could be reasonably considered hip hop: Battle freestyles reconstructed as abstruse beat poetry, hip hop production smeared into ambient drone, rap cadences and phrasings bent to indie folk ends. They were leaders with, at first, few followers. But as anticon.'s own recombinant styles began to calcify-- as Why? became more of a straightforward indie rock band, say, or Themselves increasingly spiraled up their own archly-inflected, hyper-syllabic ass-- the label began to seem less like leaders and more like merely idiosyncratic outliers. Even as one of anticon.'s founding members, Alias has always maintained a decidedly low profile on the adventurous label: just a guy and his drum machines holed up in the home studio in Maine. And that's not only compared to big personality MCs like Doseone or Why?'s Yoni Wolf, but even to other in-house producers, such as the relatively flash, TV Carnage-abetted analog screwball Tobacco. Alias seems to relish a certain hermitic anonymity-- right down to the blank-faced moniker-- and it's an attitude reflected in his beats: moody, introspective tracks whose athletic drumming and melancholy melodies make for heavy head-nodders but that can begin to feel a bit faceless. Latest album Fever Dream aims to disrupt Alias' comfortable patterns as a producer-- the one sheet talks of being "reborn"-- but it doesn't succeed in making the artist any more familiar, and the change of course feels less like a visionary renewal than it does a well-played catch-up. From the first beat drop, Fever Dream is obviously informed by the vaporized, off-kilter instrumentals of Flying Lotus and likeminded contemporaries: beats shuffle and scatter, bass hits low and leaves space in its wake, samples hiss and dissipate like the air is being sucked out of them, synth lines falter and wobble. This is most true of the album’s opening tracks "Goinswimmin" and "Wanna Let it Go". Deeper into the album, amidst the adaptation, Alias teases out some of his typically thick grooves and understated but staying melodies-- culminating with the one-two combination of the in-the-pocket acoustic drum break that lights up the latter half of "Dahorses" and gives way to the dreamy "la-di-da" vocal echoes of "Lady Lambin'". Elsewhere, and to lesser effect, Alias calls in fellow anticon. collaborators Why? (whose starring turn in "Well Water Black" gave 2008 LP Resurgam an unlikely single) and Subtle's Dax Pierson. The former contributes a stretched, monosyllabic nasal wail to the chunky beat routine of "Boom Boom Boom", while Pierson plays keys and sings lead on the bloodless R&B drift of "Talk in Technicolor". So, no, Fever Dream's new direction doesn't quite recapture the genre-dissolving days of anticon.'s youth or remake Alias into a soon-to-be household name. It does, however, stand as another fine, frequently very satisfying effort from a dependable producer and deft beat-maker."

Jason Anderson

The Wreath

Electronic,Rock

Brian Howe

K Records-- the standard-bearer of all things touchy and feely-- is an apt home for the almost pathologically earnest Jason Anderson. In interviews, he's perennially enthusiastic about unexceptional people and places; about the joys of music for trains, campfire songs, and handholding sing-alongs. His is the rare personality where a Zen-like awareness of the sanctity of the moment, an unremitting gratitude for the gift of existence, and an ostensibly genuine capacity to love strangers are combined into a sort of super-empathy that verges on the grotesque. This deep-seated sensitivity courses sweetly through Anderson's music, which pulls no punches in its pursuit of the bittersweet: Only one song, "I Was Wrong", actually has a doleful harmonica, but you can almost hear those spectral strains tacitly bleating over the others. "Spectral" is the watchword for The Wreath, which is all about the phantom distance between memory and experience. Anderson is concerned with cataloging what's been lost, what's left behind, and what never was; and with trying to hew meaning from the tropes that float aimlessly through these void spaces. On "O, Jac!", a slow-burning lament flickering over a handful of guitar and piano chords, the symbolic language is articulated: an albatross, a bracelet, a noose, a millstone, "a weird heavy amulet of expectation," ghost weights that alchemically transmute the heart from flesh to lead. Like most of the album's more winning songs, it achieves its peak force in its transition from simple quietude to shuddering incandescence, as Anderson trades impassioned cries of "Where are you?" with guest vocalist Rachael Jensen. "If I'm Waiting" finds Andersen "slowly embracing the concept of you as a ghost", a "never-was and never-will", as he returns from the thrift store "to tear through the caller ID". This is another guitar and piano number embellished with elegiac brass-- ever since Anderson dropped his Wolf Colonel moniker and became self-titled, he's veered away from Guided By Voices style indie rock and toward emo-folk in the vein of Bright Eyes, David Dondero, and Son, Ambulance, all of whom he evokes with remarkable fidelity, down to his confessional / narrative lyrics, his occasional ventures out of key, his penchant for crescendos, swooning blue notes, and febrile vocal vibratos. But in music so intent on preserving the past, nothing can truly disappear, and the old Wolf Colonel still rears his head on lo-fi rockers like "Citizen's Arrest" and "Our Winter". If it seems odd that someone so attuned to joy sings such gloomy songs, consider what it means to truly love the world and to live with the knowledge that it will all be spirited away. The friction between bliss and the inevitability of bliss's end lies at the heart of The Wreath, a pasteboard carton filled with dog-eared books, a shabby scarf, an unlabelled mix tape, and a sheaf of yellowing letters, holding fast to its secrets in the corner of a bare room. This is mo(u)rning music, where hope and bereavement collide.

Artist: Jason Anderson, Album: The Wreath, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "K Records-- the standard-bearer of all things touchy and feely-- is an apt home for the almost pathologically earnest Jason Anderson. In interviews, he's perennially enthusiastic about unexceptional people and places; about the joys of music for trains, campfire songs, and handholding sing-alongs. His is the rare personality where a Zen-like awareness of the sanctity of the moment, an unremitting gratitude for the gift of existence, and an ostensibly genuine capacity to love strangers are combined into a sort of super-empathy that verges on the grotesque. This deep-seated sensitivity courses sweetly through Anderson's music, which pulls no punches in its pursuit of the bittersweet: Only one song, "I Was Wrong", actually has a doleful harmonica, but you can almost hear those spectral strains tacitly bleating over the others. "Spectral" is the watchword for The Wreath, which is all about the phantom distance between memory and experience. Anderson is concerned with cataloging what's been lost, what's left behind, and what never was; and with trying to hew meaning from the tropes that float aimlessly through these void spaces. On "O, Jac!", a slow-burning lament flickering over a handful of guitar and piano chords, the symbolic language is articulated: an albatross, a bracelet, a noose, a millstone, "a weird heavy amulet of expectation," ghost weights that alchemically transmute the heart from flesh to lead. Like most of the album's more winning songs, it achieves its peak force in its transition from simple quietude to shuddering incandescence, as Anderson trades impassioned cries of "Where are you?" with guest vocalist Rachael Jensen. "If I'm Waiting" finds Andersen "slowly embracing the concept of you as a ghost", a "never-was and never-will", as he returns from the thrift store "to tear through the caller ID". This is another guitar and piano number embellished with elegiac brass-- ever since Anderson dropped his Wolf Colonel moniker and became self-titled, he's veered away from Guided By Voices style indie rock and toward emo-folk in the vein of Bright Eyes, David Dondero, and Son, Ambulance, all of whom he evokes with remarkable fidelity, down to his confessional / narrative lyrics, his occasional ventures out of key, his penchant for crescendos, swooning blue notes, and febrile vocal vibratos. But in music so intent on preserving the past, nothing can truly disappear, and the old Wolf Colonel still rears his head on lo-fi rockers like "Citizen's Arrest" and "Our Winter". If it seems odd that someone so attuned to joy sings such gloomy songs, consider what it means to truly love the world and to live with the knowledge that it will all be spirited away. The friction between bliss and the inevitability of bliss's end lies at the heart of The Wreath, a pasteboard carton filled with dog-eared books, a shabby scarf, an unlabelled mix tape, and a sheaf of yellowing letters, holding fast to its secrets in the corner of a bare room. This is mo(u)rning music, where hope and bereavement collide."

Head Wound City

A New Wave of Violence

Rock

Mehan Jayasuriya

Conservative regimes have always provided a boon for punk rock. The Reagan and Thatcher years famously birthed hardcore as we know it; more recently, George W. Bush’s two terms spurred on a generation of bands that expanded the boundaries of post-hardcore, screamo and grindcore. With right-wing demagoguery making headlines and xenophobia on the rise around the globe, another musical backlash could be just around the corner. That might be the idea behind the reunion of Head Wound City, a supergroup whose lineup includes some of the Bush era's most forward-thinking punk musicians: Jordan Blilie and Cody Votolato of the Blood Brothers, Justin Pearson and Gabe Serbian of the Locust and the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s Nick Zinner. Up until now, the band’s only formal output was a 10-minute EP written and recorded in the span of a week in 2005. Following some reunion shows in 2014, Head Wound City have now produced A New Wave of Violence, their fittingly-titled full-length debut. More so than in the past, Blilie and Votolato seem to take the lead on A New Wave of Violence--these songs all bear a close resemblance to the Blood Brothers’ work circa Burn Piano Island, Burn. Of course, Johnny Whitney’s high-pitched squeal and glam affectations are dearly missed, but many of that band’s other signature elements are here: Blilie's dark humor and throat-shredding screams, the pummeling rhythms, songs that barrel forward with a punishing intensity. Votolato, as always, manages to make an impressive racket, with guitars that alternately crash down in waves of fuzz, roar like a jet engine and buzz like a cloud of hornets. As with Piano Island, Ross Robinson returns to the boards, lending his skilled hand to the proceedings--few producers can capture the live energy of hardcore bands with the sort of fidelity that Robinson does. The upgrade is immediately apparent; where the Head Wound City EP’s sound was defined by DIY muddiness, A New Wave of Violence brings each element in the mix into sharp focus, even as the overall effect is one of crushing heaviness. These songs are felt as much as they’re heard, with every riff, scream and drum hit practically leaping out of the speakers. Opener “Old Age Takes Too Long” provides a representative sample: a steady march of floor toms, chugging, palm-muted guitars that give way to thunderous choruses and an almost Misfits-like sing-along refrain of “Whoaaa-ohhhh.” “Born to Burn” and “Palace of Love and Hate” are scorched earth campaigns that sprint through multiple verses and choruses in under two minutes (only three of the ten songs here extend beyond the three-minute mark). Longer tracks like “I Cast a Shadow for You,”“Avalanche in Heaven” and “Love is Best” recall some of the Blood Brothers’ best-loved songs–multi-part miniature epics like “Cecilia and the Silhouette Saloon” and “Camouflage, Camouflage”—but in keeping with Head Wound City’s proclivity for brevity, are much more tightly scripted. If you’re looking for a hardcore record that fires on all cylinders, you won’t be disappointed by A New Wave of Violence: here you’ll find a set of skilled players tearing through 25 minutes of music with relentless energy. That said, the latest incarnation of Head Wound City does feel both more straightforward and less ambitious than nearly all of these musicians’ previous projects. You’ll find few of the Locust’s loopy synth lines or breakneck tempos; Zinner seems content to let his guitar follow rather than lead and in the absence of Whitney, it’s hard not to hear Blilie as vaudevillian straight man in search of a foil. That’s only by way of comparison to the band members’ past work, though and Head Wound City is clearly a vehicle for these guys to let their hair down and play some explosive music free of any expectations. Judged on its own merits, A New Wave of Violence is a fine hardcore record, one that manages to balance chaotic intensity with a workmanlike precision that few punk bands can muster.

Artist: Head Wound City, Album: A New Wave of Violence, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "Conservative regimes have always provided a boon for punk rock. The Reagan and Thatcher years famously birthed hardcore as we know it; more recently, George W. Bush’s two terms spurred on a generation of bands that expanded the boundaries of post-hardcore, screamo and grindcore. With right-wing demagoguery making headlines and xenophobia on the rise around the globe, another musical backlash could be just around the corner. That might be the idea behind the reunion of Head Wound City, a supergroup whose lineup includes some of the Bush era's most forward-thinking punk musicians: Jordan Blilie and Cody Votolato of the Blood Brothers, Justin Pearson and Gabe Serbian of the Locust and the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s Nick Zinner. Up until now, the band’s only formal output was a 10-minute EP written and recorded in the span of a week in 2005. Following some reunion shows in 2014, Head Wound City have now produced A New Wave of Violence, their fittingly-titled full-length debut. More so than in the past, Blilie and Votolato seem to take the lead on A New Wave of Violence--these songs all bear a close resemblance to the Blood Brothers’ work circa Burn Piano Island, Burn. Of course, Johnny Whitney’s high-pitched squeal and glam affectations are dearly missed, but many of that band’s other signature elements are here: Blilie's dark humor and throat-shredding screams, the pummeling rhythms, songs that barrel forward with a punishing intensity. Votolato, as always, manages to make an impressive racket, with guitars that alternately crash down in waves of fuzz, roar like a jet engine and buzz like a cloud of hornets. As with Piano Island, Ross Robinson returns to the boards, lending his skilled hand to the proceedings--few producers can capture the live energy of hardcore bands with the sort of fidelity that Robinson does. The upgrade is immediately apparent; where the Head Wound City EP’s sound was defined by DIY muddiness, A New Wave of Violence brings each element in the mix into sharp focus, even as the overall effect is one of crushing heaviness. These songs are felt as much as they’re heard, with every riff, scream and drum hit practically leaping out of the speakers. Opener “Old Age Takes Too Long” provides a representative sample: a steady march of floor toms, chugging, palm-muted guitars that give way to thunderous choruses and an almost Misfits-like sing-along refrain of “Whoaaa-ohhhh.” “Born to Burn” and “Palace of Love and Hate” are scorched earth campaigns that sprint through multiple verses and choruses in under two minutes (only three of the ten songs here extend beyond the three-minute mark). Longer tracks like “I Cast a Shadow for You,”“Avalanche in Heaven” and “Love is Best” recall some of the Blood Brothers’ best-loved songs–multi-part miniature epics like “Cecilia and the Silhouette Saloon” and “Camouflage, Camouflage”—but in keeping with Head Wound City’s proclivity for brevity, are much more tightly scripted. If you’re looking for a hardcore record that fires on all cylinders, you won’t be disappointed by A New Wave of Violence: here you’ll find a set of skilled players tearing through 25 minutes of music with relentless energy. That said, the latest incarnation of Head Wound City does feel both more straightforward and less ambitious than nearly all of these musicians’ previous projects. You’ll find few of the Locust’s loopy synth lines or breakneck tempos; Zinner seems content to let his guitar follow rather than lead and in the absence of Whitney, it’s hard not to hear Blilie as vaudevillian straight man in search of a foil. That’s only by way of comparison to the band members’ past work, though and Head Wound City is clearly a vehicle for these guys to let their hair down and play some explosive music free of any expectations. Judged on its own merits, A New Wave of Violence is a fine hardcore record, one that manages to balance chaotic intensity with a workmanlike precision that few punk bands can muster."

Various Artists

But Then Again

Cameron Macdonald

Many thought Stefan Betke's busted Waldorf 4-Pole filter was revolutionary. Why did "Pole" have to retire his vinyl-mastering machine? It had so much poetry. The harmonies of a stylus bludgeoning vinyl surfaces to death as narcotic dub basslines and guitar jangles trudge through the hallways of an ex-Eastern Bloc housing project-- that was all virgin territory back in '99. Most of the earliest artists on Betke's ~scape label seemed to extend our man's glitches-- including Kit Clayton's ectoplasmic subterranean-dub and Jan Jelinek's loops, which robotized soul-jazz records. "Glitches" are barely heard on But Then Again, ~scape's fifth-anniversary release. That's because the album collects work from the label's current roster, a group that now focus on contorting rhythms and harmonies into new, yet rather familiar shapes. Given ~scape's feted advancements of yore, few risks are taken here, but But Then Again still entertains. Opener, Cappablack's "5th Dimension (Anti-imperialism Disco)" shoves the listener against the wall with its sample of a lady shouting about her inability to solve a math problem. A post-Neptunes crunk beat follows as their rapper struggles to teach astrophysics. What this has to do with "anti-imperialism" is up to you. Bus & Dabrye's "What Is Paris?" is better rooted in b-boy culture thanks to its electro-funk moogs and stubbed-toe beats that sound like a hungover Kraftwerk. John Tejada's "And Many More" is a curious microhouse ballad that laments over Nintendo GameBoy melodies-- ultimately evoking the experience of staring at tombstone apartments at dusk. The artists who say the most with the slightest gestures create But Then Again's highlights. Jan Jelinek's "Western Mimikry" brilliantly dangles a loop of a sleepwalking jazz-guitar riff in the breeze. Andrew Pekler's "Unidentified" is fine, absthine-jazz that flickers obtuse rhythms-- as if Teo Macero produced Miles Davs in 2072. And then there is Mike Shannon's "Remembrance" which lets a geothermal dub rhythm find its way in the dark, while guest chanteuse June scolds, "You promised heaven far, far away!" The record's mid-lights are civil and pay their taxes. In "We Like It Slow and Steady", Deadbeat remixes his older dub thunderclaps into R&B; that encircles a streetlight. System's "Hu Ra!!" clicky-clacks to a toy solider cadence with a melodica and clarinet duet frowning at the world. Headset & Soulo's "The Fall of Knee High" scores a few brownie points for its Tom Waits-mused, chain-gang beats and squealing harmonicas. Let's just hope that ~scape doesn't see gold mines in the AOR-dub of Triola's "Neuland" and the Starbucks-friendly, lite-jazz of Epo's "Doorstep", on which their frontwoman sings "sweet, sweet cherry pie" in an herbal tea-watered croon. Hey, wait a minute. Where did Pole go? Mr. Betke didn't even show up at his own party. But then again, maybe it's best to leave broken machines alone.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: But Then Again, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Many thought Stefan Betke's busted Waldorf 4-Pole filter was revolutionary. Why did "Pole" have to retire his vinyl-mastering machine? It had so much poetry. The harmonies of a stylus bludgeoning vinyl surfaces to death as narcotic dub basslines and guitar jangles trudge through the hallways of an ex-Eastern Bloc housing project-- that was all virgin territory back in '99. Most of the earliest artists on Betke's ~scape label seemed to extend our man's glitches-- including Kit Clayton's ectoplasmic subterranean-dub and Jan Jelinek's loops, which robotized soul-jazz records. "Glitches" are barely heard on But Then Again, ~scape's fifth-anniversary release. That's because the album collects work from the label's current roster, a group that now focus on contorting rhythms and harmonies into new, yet rather familiar shapes. Given ~scape's feted advancements of yore, few risks are taken here, but But Then Again still entertains. Opener, Cappablack's "5th Dimension (Anti-imperialism Disco)" shoves the listener against the wall with its sample of a lady shouting about her inability to solve a math problem. A post-Neptunes crunk beat follows as their rapper struggles to teach astrophysics. What this has to do with "anti-imperialism" is up to you. Bus & Dabrye's "What Is Paris?" is better rooted in b-boy culture thanks to its electro-funk moogs and stubbed-toe beats that sound like a hungover Kraftwerk. John Tejada's "And Many More" is a curious microhouse ballad that laments over Nintendo GameBoy melodies-- ultimately evoking the experience of staring at tombstone apartments at dusk. The artists who say the most with the slightest gestures create But Then Again's highlights. Jan Jelinek's "Western Mimikry" brilliantly dangles a loop of a sleepwalking jazz-guitar riff in the breeze. Andrew Pekler's "Unidentified" is fine, absthine-jazz that flickers obtuse rhythms-- as if Teo Macero produced Miles Davs in 2072. And then there is Mike Shannon's "Remembrance" which lets a geothermal dub rhythm find its way in the dark, while guest chanteuse June scolds, "You promised heaven far, far away!" The record's mid-lights are civil and pay their taxes. In "We Like It Slow and Steady", Deadbeat remixes his older dub thunderclaps into R&B; that encircles a streetlight. System's "Hu Ra!!" clicky-clacks to a toy solider cadence with a melodica and clarinet duet frowning at the world. Headset & Soulo's "The Fall of Knee High" scores a few brownie points for its Tom Waits-mused, chain-gang beats and squealing harmonicas. Let's just hope that ~scape doesn't see gold mines in the AOR-dub of Triola's "Neuland" and the Starbucks-friendly, lite-jazz of Epo's "Doorstep", on which their frontwoman sings "sweet, sweet cherry pie" in an herbal tea-watered croon. Hey, wait a minute. Where did Pole go? Mr. Betke didn't even show up at his own party. But then again, maybe it's best to leave broken machines alone."

City Center

City Center

Electronic,Rock

Ian Cohen

Last year, Grouper released Dragging a Dead Deer Up a Hill, a record that was not only a personal breakthrough for Liz Harris, but arguably for the Type label as a whole-- an LP so insidiously ingratiating that it just had to be pop at its core, right? So what now that Fred Thomas, he of the erstwhile retro-pop outfit Saturday Looks Good to Me, is now recording as part of City Center on the same imprint? City Center doesn't necessarily come off like a true pop record, but where Grouper made a point of sounding fully submerged, City Center never go so far that they can't come up for air. Somewhere between early Paw Tracks' folk abstractions and the recent outpouring of lo-fi dream beat, most of City Center is content to drift in and out of its aqueous surroundings like a buoy. The major chords and ringing ambience of "Killer Whale" make for a welcoming entrance point, though Thomas' vocals sound like they've been suspended in some kind of gelatin. If you're looking for a commonality between Coldplay's "Yellow", Bonnie "Prince" Billy's "So Everyone", and Animal Collective's "Who Could Win a Rabbit", it's the same ringing B-major chord that begins "Open/House"-- likewise here, amidst punchy synth kicks, it heralds an unusual display of scrutability even while erratic panning, processed steel drums and plate reverb give it distance. You hear echoes of Thomas' past work on "Gladest" and "Summer School", which hide otherwise sure-footed progressions under bobbing, waterlogged percussion and bell-timbres. Lyrics are, at best, implications and vocal melodies are content to eddy away with no plans of return. Ultimately, it's the dynamic between melodic resonance ("Young Diamond") and found-sound obfuscation (the four minutes of "You Are a Force" are pregnant with stay amp hum) that defines a debut that I'd call "promising," if only it gave any sort of indication that it was looking to become a part of some sort of artistic arc, as opposed to a stasis with plenty of breathing room-- even when City Center may appear impenetrable, it's still welcoming. C'mon in, the water's great.

Artist: City Center, Album: City Center, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Last year, Grouper released Dragging a Dead Deer Up a Hill, a record that was not only a personal breakthrough for Liz Harris, but arguably for the Type label as a whole-- an LP so insidiously ingratiating that it just had to be pop at its core, right? So what now that Fred Thomas, he of the erstwhile retro-pop outfit Saturday Looks Good to Me, is now recording as part of City Center on the same imprint? City Center doesn't necessarily come off like a true pop record, but where Grouper made a point of sounding fully submerged, City Center never go so far that they can't come up for air. Somewhere between early Paw Tracks' folk abstractions and the recent outpouring of lo-fi dream beat, most of City Center is content to drift in and out of its aqueous surroundings like a buoy. The major chords and ringing ambience of "Killer Whale" make for a welcoming entrance point, though Thomas' vocals sound like they've been suspended in some kind of gelatin. If you're looking for a commonality between Coldplay's "Yellow", Bonnie "Prince" Billy's "So Everyone", and Animal Collective's "Who Could Win a Rabbit", it's the same ringing B-major chord that begins "Open/House"-- likewise here, amidst punchy synth kicks, it heralds an unusual display of scrutability even while erratic panning, processed steel drums and plate reverb give it distance. You hear echoes of Thomas' past work on "Gladest" and "Summer School", which hide otherwise sure-footed progressions under bobbing, waterlogged percussion and bell-timbres. Lyrics are, at best, implications and vocal melodies are content to eddy away with no plans of return. Ultimately, it's the dynamic between melodic resonance ("Young Diamond") and found-sound obfuscation (the four minutes of "You Are a Force" are pregnant with stay amp hum) that defines a debut that I'd call "promising," if only it gave any sort of indication that it was looking to become a part of some sort of artistic arc, as opposed to a stasis with plenty of breathing room-- even when City Center may appear impenetrable, it's still welcoming. C'mon in, the water's great."

Wet

Don't You

Pop/R&B

Katherine St. Asaph

At some point during the past year or so, adult contemporary R&B became au courant—blame nostalgia, blame retromania, blame folks in their twenties jonesing for the music they loved when they were eight—and it’s been disorienting. Some good can come of this: smashing up the canon, rediscovering some classics that got left out of pop culture’s ongoing "I Love the '90s"*-*ization, recognizing that Diane Warren is actually kind of a national treasure. Some good albums have come of it too—Solange’s True, Jessie Ware’s Tough Love, Dornik’s self-titled. But this stuff is harder than it sounds. Done right, you salvage everything timeless and nocturnal about the genre and leave the fustiness behind. Done wrong, you’ve written more of the filler songs you’d have found buried around track 12 of a Monica album, or the ballads that used to be near-contractual requirements for pop starlets needing "mature" cuts for their records. Enter Wet, a Brooklyn three-piece that has flitted around synthpop, Cat Power-ish folk, '90s R&B, and modern alt-R&B without quite committing to any of them, which nevertheless positions them perfectly for starring roles in Baby’s All Right showcases, BBC Radio 1 playlists, and hair-whipping clips on Khloe Kardashian’s Instagram. (This is how we 2016.) The uninformed listener might think Wet would be fun. Their band name may or may not be a gag. Their former online presence, squashed for legal reasons, was @kanyewet—it’s goofy! It’s Yeezy! It’s maybe a grab for those typo clicks, if you want to get all cynical about it! Debut album Don’t You, however, is a downbeat, decidedly unfun affair—this is the kind of album where early single "U Da Best" turns into "You’re the Best," from which you can extrapolate a lot. The main problem with Don’t You: if you set out to be an amalgam of beloved styles, you’d better equal and preferably outdo at least a couple of them once. Wet cite Usher and SWV as touchpoints in almost every press story, but seem to have forgotten all their exciting songs, as well as everything uptempo; most of Don’t You aims for Babyface but lands somewhere around Surfacing-era Sarah McLachlan, except nowhere near as good. Instrumentalists Joe Valle and Marty Sulkow reproduce the slick sounds of background music—synth pads, polite rhythm guitar, vague drum pitter-patter—with sample-replay fidelity. Vocalist Kelly Zutrau’s thin voice has none of the sighing wispiness of Romy Madley-Croft, Tracey Thorn, or even Jennifer Paige, nor the melisma or force of basically any R&B artist Don’t You emulates; her go-to tricks are (admittedly pretty and sometimes inspired) double-tracked harmonies or a Banks-y quaver that’s plaintive the first couple times you hear it. Their songs are near-identical takes on the wallow phase of a breakup, each rendered in passive, beige indifference—one misses the emotional peaks of '90s R&B, which go all the way up to "If You Died I Wouldn’t Cry." Yet telling-not-showing lines like "when you hold me, I still feel lonely" (responsible for perhaps the best/worst Genius annotation in recent memory) are nevertheless preferable to the likes of "today, New York feels like an island," a metaphor that manages the remarkable feat of being clichéd and geographically hilarious. (Perhaps they meant upstate?) Don’t You isn’t without standouts. "Deadwater" is well-constructed, though better as a standalone single, and skittery "All the Ways" is a standout purely by dint of having a higher tempo. But two-for-eleven does not an album make. "Don’t Wanna Be Your Girl" drowns Brian McKnight’s "Back at One" and Cat Power’s "Good Woman" in a puddle of reverb and repetition. "Weak" is an approximation of what it might sound like if Meghan Trainor traded her poodle-skirt-costume versions of the '50s for roller-rink-costume versions on "Waterfalls." Either everyone involved with "You’re the Best" developed iron deficiencies before its re-recording, or it simply blends in with the rest of the album’s downtempo sulk. Wet, to their credit and detriment, know they’ve got competition. "Our music plays into the more general trend of artists incorporating certain elements of R&B and pop into their sound and creating something really unique," Zutrau told Interview. But of those on-trend artists, Haim have more exuberance and better studio players; the xx have more space and ambition; almost any contemporary R&B act has more imagination, more rhythm, and more interesting blues. Wet know this too: "[We’re] now adults in a time when the music playing on Hot 97 is some of the most exciting music being made right now," Zutrau said. Perhaps the future might capture a bit of that excitement; some names floated as future Wet collaborators include Clams Casino (whose "Weak" remix is more sonically interesting alone than anything on this record) and Drake producer Nineteen85. As it stands, Wet may as well be directing readers toward better versions of them. And there have never been more to choose from.

Artist: Wet, Album: Don't You, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 4.0 Album review: "At some point during the past year or so, adult contemporary R&B became au courant—blame nostalgia, blame retromania, blame folks in their twenties jonesing for the music they loved when they were eight—and it’s been disorienting. Some good can come of this: smashing up the canon, rediscovering some classics that got left out of pop culture’s ongoing "I Love the '90s"*-*ization, recognizing that Diane Warren is actually kind of a national treasure. Some good albums have come of it too—Solange’s True, Jessie Ware’s Tough Love, Dornik’s self-titled. But this stuff is harder than it sounds. Done right, you salvage everything timeless and nocturnal about the genre and leave the fustiness behind. Done wrong, you’ve written more of the filler songs you’d have found buried around track 12 of a Monica album, or the ballads that used to be near-contractual requirements for pop starlets needing "mature" cuts for their records. Enter Wet, a Brooklyn three-piece that has flitted around synthpop, Cat Power-ish folk, '90s R&B, and modern alt-R&B without quite committing to any of them, which nevertheless positions them perfectly for starring roles in Baby’s All Right showcases, BBC Radio 1 playlists, and hair-whipping clips on Khloe Kardashian’s Instagram. (This is how we 2016.) The uninformed listener might think Wet would be fun. Their band name may or may not be a gag. Their former online presence, squashed for legal reasons, was @kanyewet—it’s goofy! It’s Yeezy! It’s maybe a grab for those typo clicks, if you want to get all cynical about it! Debut album Don’t You, however, is a downbeat, decidedly unfun affair—this is the kind of album where early single "U Da Best" turns into "You’re the Best," from which you can extrapolate a lot. The main problem with Don’t You: if you set out to be an amalgam of beloved styles, you’d better equal and preferably outdo at least a couple of them once. Wet cite Usher and SWV as touchpoints in almost every press story, but seem to have forgotten all their exciting songs, as well as everything uptempo; most of Don’t You aims for Babyface but lands somewhere around Surfacing-era Sarah McLachlan, except nowhere near as good. Instrumentalists Joe Valle and Marty Sulkow reproduce the slick sounds of background music—synth pads, polite rhythm guitar, vague drum pitter-patter—with sample-replay fidelity. Vocalist Kelly Zutrau’s thin voice has none of the sighing wispiness of Romy Madley-Croft, Tracey Thorn, or even Jennifer Paige, nor the melisma or force of basically any R&B artist Don’t You emulates; her go-to tricks are (admittedly pretty and sometimes inspired) double-tracked harmonies or a Banks-y quaver that’s plaintive the first couple times you hear it. Their songs are near-identical takes on the wallow phase of a breakup, each rendered in passive, beige indifference—one misses the emotional peaks of '90s R&B, which go all the way up to "If You Died I Wouldn’t Cry." Yet telling-not-showing lines like "when you hold me, I still feel lonely" (responsible for perhaps the best/worst Genius annotation in recent memory) are nevertheless preferable to the likes of "today, New York feels like an island," a metaphor that manages the remarkable feat of being clichéd and geographically hilarious. (Perhaps they meant upstate?) Don’t You isn’t without standouts. "Deadwater" is well-constructed, though better as a standalone single, and skittery "All the Ways" is a standout purely by dint of having a higher tempo. But two-for-eleven does not an album make. "Don’t Wanna Be Your Girl" drowns Brian McKnight’s "Back at One" and Cat Power’s "Good Woman" in a puddle of reverb and repetition. "Weak" is an approximation of what it might sound like if Meghan Trainor traded her poodle-skirt-costume versions of the '50s for roller-rink-costume versions on "Waterfalls." Either everyone involved with "You’re the Best" developed iron deficiencies before its re-recording, or it simply blends in with the rest of the album’s downtempo sulk. Wet, to their credit and detriment, know they’ve got competition. "Our music plays into the more general trend of artists incorporating certain elements of R&B and pop into their sound and creating something really unique," Zutrau told Interview. But of those on-trend artists, Haim have more exuberance and better studio players; the xx have more space and ambition; almost any contemporary R&B act has more imagination, more rhythm, and more interesting blues. Wet know this too: "[We’re] now adults in a time when the music playing on Hot 97 is some of the most exciting music being made right now," Zutrau said. Perhaps the future might capture a bit of that excitement; some names floated as future Wet collaborators include Clams Casino (whose "Weak" remix is more sonically interesting alone than anything on this record) and Drake producer Nineteen85. As it stands, Wet may as well be directing readers toward better versions of them. And there have never been more to choose from."

Chance

In Search

Rock

Stuart Berman

Through the 1970s, Chance Martin had the sort of connections in Nashville that most aspiring rhinestone cowboys would kill for. He was Johnny Cash’s most trusted stagehand, a drinking buddy of Tanya Tucker, and he served as a sound engineer for director Robert Altman’s Oscar-nominated Music City masterpiece. And when, toward the end of the decade, Chance decided to make the leap from being an assistant to the stars to becoming one himself, he had no less a Nashville legend than “Cowboy” Jack Clement behind the boards. There was just one thing holding Chance back from certain country-music celebrity: The music he made sounded like absolutely nothing else coming out of Nashville at the time, or anywhere else in America for that matter. Even by the standards of lost cult classics, Chance’s 1981 debut album, In Search, was so overlooked when it was released that it may as well have never existed. (And, according to Wikipedia, it still doesn't). Recorded piecemeal over a span of five years in a kitted-out home studio-cum-clubhouse located above Martins’ parents’ garage, the album was initially issued through a private-press run that barely cracked triple digits. But In Search defies the romantic, outsider-art associations that so often get attached to amateur DIY recording projects, whether it’s that of unassuming innocents naively chasing pop-star aspirations (see: The Shaggs), or day-jobbers living out their rock ‘n’ roll fantasies on a blue-collar budget (see: Guided by Voices). In Search, by contrast, is a master-class in the art of Going For It, proffering a high-concept, cinematically scaled hodgepodge of loverman soul, outlaw country, blaxpoitation funk, arena-rock pyrotechnics, and Zappa-esque meta-prog that sounds just as confounding and bizarre today as it no doubt did to the few who got to hear it 32 years ago. On first approach, you could be forgiven for thinking this was all a big elaborate ruse, like some salvaged mid-90s Ween album released under a pseudonym. (Indeed, Chocolate and Cheese chestnuts like "Take Me Away" and "Voodoo Lady" would sound right at home here.) As a singer, Chance makes for a good auctioneer, with a lower-register sing-speak that frequently degenerates into the sort of improvised, self-aggrandizing spiel Jon Spencer would no doubt appreciate; when hitched to the rolling and tumbling rhythms of “High Test” and the “Peter Gunn” pastiche “Sunn of Gunn", Chance comes off less as bandleader than the booze-blitzed conductor of a runaway train that’s perilously close to careening off the rails. And even when Chance cedes lead vocals to some guest female singers, his peculiar presence is still felt: the smooth, knickers-shedding soul ballad “Love by Chance” works as both a heartfelt ode to serendipitous romance, and a cheeky jingle for his own imaginary brand of aphrodisiac perfume. But while Chance is fond of joking, this album is no joke. As In Search plays out, it becomes increasingly clear that the record’s scatterbrained eclecticism and frantic energy is less a product of eccentricity-for-eccentricity’s sake than a manifestation of the very real anxieties fuelling this endeavor. For all the musical bravado on display here (the climactic guitar solos on “Angel” and “Drema” are practically “Comfortably Numb”-worthy), Chance’s lyrics continually suggest his failure is certain (“everyone tells me I’m a loser”; “I’m on the outside looking in”; “the buzzards flying high over me”), and that this record amounts to a knowing act of career suicide, if not the prelude to a real one. (In this light, the “give you all the love that I can” hook of “Mr. Freedom Man” seems less the command of a horny superhero than the delusional fantasy of an insecure Clark Kent.) In Search hits its delirious peak with “Dead Medley,” a shot of southern-rock funk that ruminates on the deaths of Jimi Hendrix, Buddy Holly, and Hank Williams while extrapolating liberal quotes from The Doors’ “When the Music’s Over” to emphasize the do-or-die stakes at play here; in Chance’s hands, Jim Morrison’s “cancel my subscription to the resurrection” becomes “cancel my subscription to the Rolling Stone,” as if he were already resigned to his wholesale rejection by the rock establishment. In Search’s swift slip into oblivion didn’t exactly ruin Chance-- he continues to record today under the alias of Alamo Jones and, for the past eight years, he and Clement have hosted a popular country-music radio show on Sirius XM. But now that his most painstaking, singular musical achievement has been rescued from history’s dustbin, Chance is in a much better position to answer a question he asks himself deep into In Search: “Have you ever felt like a loser until you win”?

Artist: Chance, Album: In Search, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Through the 1970s, Chance Martin had the sort of connections in Nashville that most aspiring rhinestone cowboys would kill for. He was Johnny Cash’s most trusted stagehand, a drinking buddy of Tanya Tucker, and he served as a sound engineer for director Robert Altman’s Oscar-nominated Music City masterpiece. And when, toward the end of the decade, Chance decided to make the leap from being an assistant to the stars to becoming one himself, he had no less a Nashville legend than “Cowboy” Jack Clement behind the boards. There was just one thing holding Chance back from certain country-music celebrity: The music he made sounded like absolutely nothing else coming out of Nashville at the time, or anywhere else in America for that matter. Even by the standards of lost cult classics, Chance’s 1981 debut album, In Search, was so overlooked when it was released that it may as well have never existed. (And, according to Wikipedia, it still doesn't). Recorded piecemeal over a span of five years in a kitted-out home studio-cum-clubhouse located above Martins’ parents’ garage, the album was initially issued through a private-press run that barely cracked triple digits. But In Search defies the romantic, outsider-art associations that so often get attached to amateur DIY recording projects, whether it’s that of unassuming innocents naively chasing pop-star aspirations (see: The Shaggs), or day-jobbers living out their rock ‘n’ roll fantasies on a blue-collar budget (see: Guided by Voices). In Search, by contrast, is a master-class in the art of Going For It, proffering a high-concept, cinematically scaled hodgepodge of loverman soul, outlaw country, blaxpoitation funk, arena-rock pyrotechnics, and Zappa-esque meta-prog that sounds just as confounding and bizarre today as it no doubt did to the few who got to hear it 32 years ago. On first approach, you could be forgiven for thinking this was all a big elaborate ruse, like some salvaged mid-90s Ween album released under a pseudonym. (Indeed, Chocolate and Cheese chestnuts like "Take Me Away" and "Voodoo Lady" would sound right at home here.) As a singer, Chance makes for a good auctioneer, with a lower-register sing-speak that frequently degenerates into the sort of improvised, self-aggrandizing spiel Jon Spencer would no doubt appreciate; when hitched to the rolling and tumbling rhythms of “High Test” and the “Peter Gunn” pastiche “Sunn of Gunn", Chance comes off less as bandleader than the booze-blitzed conductor of a runaway train that’s perilously close to careening off the rails. And even when Chance cedes lead vocals to some guest female singers, his peculiar presence is still felt: the smooth, knickers-shedding soul ballad “Love by Chance” works as both a heartfelt ode to serendipitous romance, and a cheeky jingle for his own imaginary brand of aphrodisiac perfume. But while Chance is fond of joking, this album is no joke. As In Search plays out, it becomes increasingly clear that the record’s scatterbrained eclecticism and frantic energy is less a product of eccentricity-for-eccentricity’s sake than a manifestation of the very real anxieties fuelling this endeavor. For all the musical bravado on display here (the climactic guitar solos on “Angel” and “Drema” are practically “Comfortably Numb”-worthy), Chance’s lyrics continually suggest his failure is certain (“everyone tells me I’m a loser”; “I’m on the outside looking in”; “the buzzards flying high over me”), and that this record amounts to a knowing act of career suicide, if not the prelude to a real one. (In this light, the “give you all the love that I can” hook of “Mr. Freedom Man” seems less the command of a horny superhero than the delusional fantasy of an insecure Clark Kent.) In Search hits its delirious peak with “Dead Medley,” a shot of southern-rock funk that ruminates on the deaths of Jimi Hendrix, Buddy Holly, and Hank Williams while extrapolating liberal quotes from The Doors’ “When the Music’s Over” to emphasize the do-or-die stakes at play here; in Chance’s hands, Jim Morrison’s “cancel my subscription to the resurrection” becomes “cancel my subscription to the Rolling Stone,” as if he were already resigned to his wholesale rejection by the rock establishment. In Search’s swift slip into oblivion didn’t exactly ruin Chance-- he continues to record today under the alias of Alamo Jones and, for the past eight years, he and Clement have hosted a popular country-music radio show on Sirius XM. But now that his most painstaking, singular musical achievement has been rescued from history’s dustbin, Chance is in a much better position to answer a question he asks himself deep into In Search: “Have you ever felt like a loser until you win”?"

Black Dog and Black Sifichi

Unsavoury Products

Paul Cooper

Before he releases his travel guide to Interzone, Ken Downie (aka The Black Dog) gives the world a twenty-track intelligent techno appreciation of the essence of William Burroughs. Aiding Downie in this meticulously wrought homage is performance artist/poet and fellow traveler on the Road to the Western Lands, Black Sifichi. Downie put together Unsavoury Products as he was constructing his as-yet-unreleased album featuring Burroughs himself. But this album is far from just a bric-a-brac jumble. Unsavoury Products shows that there's more to the Black Dog/Black Sifichi partnership than just a shared admiration for the darkest swatch in the Pantone color chart. Neither takes center stage; free of ego, the pair allow the album to impart its provocative energy unhindered. Avoiding gauche parody or drooling idolatry, Sifichi's spoken word contributions are unmistakably Burroughsian. Yet nowhere on Unsavoury Products can I justifiably accuse Sifichi of ripping off Burroughs' idiosyncratic delivery nor his emotionally distant factional narratives. In fact, Sifichi's voice sounds more like an amalgam of Ken Nordine and James Mason! Sifichi possesses Burroughs' canny ability to present unreal phantasmagoric events as incontrovertible truth. From expositions on musical theory ("Let's Talk Music") to enthusiastically goofy parodies of catalog shopping ("Inconspicuous Audiometric") via comic routines in questionable taste ("Mental Health Hotline"), I find myself challenging Sifichi's narratives. Is he really informing me of undisputable facts, or just yanking my chain? Which is exactly how I respond to Burroughs' works. Referencing the time Burroughs spent in Tangiers and Morocco in which he and Paul Bowles became devoted listeners of the mystical Master Musicians of Joujouka, Downie surrounds some of Sifichi's expositions of possible parallel realities in mock Arabic accents. The prime example of this on Unsavoury Products is "Dogbite," in which Downie introduces an oud and the Maghreb wail of a female devotee to his AI techno. Downie's contribution is not all quarter-tones and ululations, though. "Secret Biscuits" and "Interview" nod to the industrial funk of Michael Franti's Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy and that act's collaboration with Burroughs, Spare Ass Annie and Other Tales. "If I Were King" is distinctly UK techno in origin, with spindly synth lines and Venusian jazz chords. But instead of constructing a Derrick May rhythm pattern, Downie surprises by dropping some dread hip-hop weight. "B4 The Sky Was Built" is as dense as kif smoke and just as hallucinogenic-- indistinct voices mumble as trap drums beat out a dubby bassline. A solo violin swoops through this disturbing vapor, bringing to mind the repetitive forms of waterless dunes. Since the tinny "Invisible Things" sounds self-consciously like early-90s techno, I'm convinced Downie's joining Sifichi in kidding the listener, especially when he brings in the rinky-dinkiest vibraphone solo of all time. "Science Tells Us" takes the skippy rhythm of "Invisible Things" and transforms it into something far more serious. As the rhythm patters along, Downie surrounds it in twisting microtonal movements of primitive reed instruments to produce squalls not unlike feedback. Buried in the mix, Sifichi's barely formed vocals populate the soundspace abandoned by sanity, driven unintelligible by the ceaseless cruelty of the desert sun. Rather than bearing the offensive stench of rotting meat, Unsavoury Products is a heady blend of spices and aromas. However, I find that it's often too much for me to take in one sitting. This is more a criticism of me than of Downie and Sifichi. But if I'm to give this album its due, I can't just put it on in the background and potter about my business. It demands undistracted concentration. For Unsavoury Products is a fascinating and multi-layered album, and one the Black Dog will have to enlist the wildest of Interzone trippers to better.

Artist: Black Dog and Black Sifichi, Album: Unsavoury Products, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.7 Album review: "Before he releases his travel guide to Interzone, Ken Downie (aka The Black Dog) gives the world a twenty-track intelligent techno appreciation of the essence of William Burroughs. Aiding Downie in this meticulously wrought homage is performance artist/poet and fellow traveler on the Road to the Western Lands, Black Sifichi. Downie put together Unsavoury Products as he was constructing his as-yet-unreleased album featuring Burroughs himself. But this album is far from just a bric-a-brac jumble. Unsavoury Products shows that there's more to the Black Dog/Black Sifichi partnership than just a shared admiration for the darkest swatch in the Pantone color chart. Neither takes center stage; free of ego, the pair allow the album to impart its provocative energy unhindered. Avoiding gauche parody or drooling idolatry, Sifichi's spoken word contributions are unmistakably Burroughsian. Yet nowhere on Unsavoury Products can I justifiably accuse Sifichi of ripping off Burroughs' idiosyncratic delivery nor his emotionally distant factional narratives. In fact, Sifichi's voice sounds more like an amalgam of Ken Nordine and James Mason! Sifichi possesses Burroughs' canny ability to present unreal phantasmagoric events as incontrovertible truth. From expositions on musical theory ("Let's Talk Music") to enthusiastically goofy parodies of catalog shopping ("Inconspicuous Audiometric") via comic routines in questionable taste ("Mental Health Hotline"), I find myself challenging Sifichi's narratives. Is he really informing me of undisputable facts, or just yanking my chain? Which is exactly how I respond to Burroughs' works. Referencing the time Burroughs spent in Tangiers and Morocco in which he and Paul Bowles became devoted listeners of the mystical Master Musicians of Joujouka, Downie surrounds some of Sifichi's expositions of possible parallel realities in mock Arabic accents. The prime example of this on Unsavoury Products is "Dogbite," in which Downie introduces an oud and the Maghreb wail of a female devotee to his AI techno. Downie's contribution is not all quarter-tones and ululations, though. "Secret Biscuits" and "Interview" nod to the industrial funk of Michael Franti's Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy and that act's collaboration with Burroughs, Spare Ass Annie and Other Tales. "If I Were King" is distinctly UK techno in origin, with spindly synth lines and Venusian jazz chords. But instead of constructing a Derrick May rhythm pattern, Downie surprises by dropping some dread hip-hop weight. "B4 The Sky Was Built" is as dense as kif smoke and just as hallucinogenic-- indistinct voices mumble as trap drums beat out a dubby bassline. A solo violin swoops through this disturbing vapor, bringing to mind the repetitive forms of waterless dunes. Since the tinny "Invisible Things" sounds self-consciously like early-90s techno, I'm convinced Downie's joining Sifichi in kidding the listener, especially when he brings in the rinky-dinkiest vibraphone solo of all time. "Science Tells Us" takes the skippy rhythm of "Invisible Things" and transforms it into something far more serious. As the rhythm patters along, Downie surrounds it in twisting microtonal movements of primitive reed instruments to produce squalls not unlike feedback. Buried in the mix, Sifichi's barely formed vocals populate the soundspace abandoned by sanity, driven unintelligible by the ceaseless cruelty of the desert sun. Rather than bearing the offensive stench of rotting meat, Unsavoury Products is a heady blend of spices and aromas. However, I find that it's often too much for me to take in one sitting. This is more a criticism of me than of Downie and Sifichi. But if I'm to give this album its due, I can't just put it on in the background and potter about my business. It demands undistracted concentration. For Unsavoury Products is a fascinating and multi-layered album, and one the Black Dog will have to enlist the wildest of Interzone trippers to better."

The Caribbean

William of Orange EP

Rock

Joe Tangari

It's not terribly often that a band's website is good enough to make me want to recommend it along with their music, but The Caribbean's remarkably professional online domain is such a resoundingly brilliant sendup of a bland, mission statement-touting corporate website (replete with two generic employees mugging in the header and loads of meaningless business nothingspeak) that I initially thought I had the wrong URL. Given that I spend all week breathing a Fortune 500 company's recirculated air and cynically deconstructing the grammar and vocabulary of memos explaining to me why giving me less money is good for the company, I found this all quite hilarious. This kind of satire only works if you do it to the hilt, honing the vocabulary and patterning the entire site after the same concept, and to their credit, The Caribbean haven't missed a single detail. And fortunately, The Caribbean are just as detail-oriented in their music. They've even brought some of their website into their packaging for this, their second EP, styling the recording credits after a W2 form. The sense of space between the airtight drums and the colder, more open sound of the remaining instruments is immense, and it frames their occasionally obtuse lyrics in a weird, urban texture that nicely echoes the slideshow of outdoor urban photographs by cover artist Sara Padgett included on the disc. Of course, you could always argue that couplets like, "The only way the teletype gets out is by the bounty of my merciful soul/ I'm the one who has the code," make a lot more sense than the average corporate memo. Actually, Michael Kentoff's lyrics have grown significantly more focused since his stint in the mid-90s with D.C.'s Townies, and he delivers a couple of great narratives on William of Orange, the best being "The Druggist's", a tale of summer job ennui. Kentoff's Gibbardish tenor is doubled by a piano as he lays out a scenario in which he obtains his driver's license, and a job to go with it. The way he describes a 16-year-old's real (if petty) concerns is fantastically inventive, despite its very simplicity: "Delivering prescriptions posed a special problem with the manual transmission/ The druggist's car, a Rabbit, smelled like oil and coffee/ Had no radio or tape deck/ Begged my mom to let me drive our Chevy wagon." The opening title track sets the mood nicely with Tony Dennison, late of Smart Went Crazy, laying down a busy yet relaxed drum part which the band coats in carefully placed electronic textures and rich, room-temperature acoustic guitars. Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service are apt comparison points, especially now that Kentoff has developed his knack for evocative imagery and inexact rhyme. The Caribbean do much to move themselves to the forefront of pop fit for late-night headphone sessions in wood-paneled dens on William of Orange, and if they can stretch this consistency over their next album, we have much to look forward to.

Artist: The Caribbean, Album: William of Orange EP, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "It's not terribly often that a band's website is good enough to make me want to recommend it along with their music, but The Caribbean's remarkably professional online domain is such a resoundingly brilliant sendup of a bland, mission statement-touting corporate website (replete with two generic employees mugging in the header and loads of meaningless business nothingspeak) that I initially thought I had the wrong URL. Given that I spend all week breathing a Fortune 500 company's recirculated air and cynically deconstructing the grammar and vocabulary of memos explaining to me why giving me less money is good for the company, I found this all quite hilarious. This kind of satire only works if you do it to the hilt, honing the vocabulary and patterning the entire site after the same concept, and to their credit, The Caribbean haven't missed a single detail. And fortunately, The Caribbean are just as detail-oriented in their music. They've even brought some of their website into their packaging for this, their second EP, styling the recording credits after a W2 form. The sense of space between the airtight drums and the colder, more open sound of the remaining instruments is immense, and it frames their occasionally obtuse lyrics in a weird, urban texture that nicely echoes the slideshow of outdoor urban photographs by cover artist Sara Padgett included on the disc. Of course, you could always argue that couplets like, "The only way the teletype gets out is by the bounty of my merciful soul/ I'm the one who has the code," make a lot more sense than the average corporate memo. Actually, Michael Kentoff's lyrics have grown significantly more focused since his stint in the mid-90s with D.C.'s Townies, and he delivers a couple of great narratives on William of Orange, the best being "The Druggist's", a tale of summer job ennui. Kentoff's Gibbardish tenor is doubled by a piano as he lays out a scenario in which he obtains his driver's license, and a job to go with it. The way he describes a 16-year-old's real (if petty) concerns is fantastically inventive, despite its very simplicity: "Delivering prescriptions posed a special problem with the manual transmission/ The druggist's car, a Rabbit, smelled like oil and coffee/ Had no radio or tape deck/ Begged my mom to let me drive our Chevy wagon." The opening title track sets the mood nicely with Tony Dennison, late of Smart Went Crazy, laying down a busy yet relaxed drum part which the band coats in carefully placed electronic textures and rich, room-temperature acoustic guitars. Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service are apt comparison points, especially now that Kentoff has developed his knack for evocative imagery and inexact rhyme. The Caribbean do much to move themselves to the forefront of pop fit for late-night headphone sessions in wood-paneled dens on William of Orange, and if they can stretch this consistency over their next album, we have much to look forward to."

Eleanor Friedberger

Rebound

Rock

Jonah Bromwich

Eleanor Friedberger is making steady progress inward. Over the course of three strong solo albums, she has interrogated her emotions and experiences with a focus so sharp that her insistent self-examination has become an act of sociology more than narcissism. In Friedberger’s relentless investigations of her day-to-day existence, listeners can recognize themselves, their friends, and the particulars of their own lives. Her terrific fourth album, Rebound, set in a post-2016 Greece, provides plenty more of the same. But there are times on the record when Friedberger’s writing turns elliptical and the narrative becomes more difficult than usual to piece together. The Illinois-born artist has been nothing if not consistent since she and her brother Matt stopped making music together as the Fiery Furnaces, and the shift on Rebound isn’t seismic—longtime fans will have no trouble cozying up to many of these songs. There are elements, however, that separate the album from its predecessors and suggest some tentative movement toward a new way of working. It’s as if Friedberger is cautiously extending a leg, searching for a foothold to help her swing to another, more daring, form of songwriting. Though it’s not the best song of the bunch, opener “My Jesus Phase” may be the best example. As has been written about the novels of Rachel Cusk, it’s a “mosaic of fragments,” a picture formed from broken poetry, backed by rhythm guitar and simmering, ominous synths. The track begins with a plea for amnesia—“Let me forget the words/Let me forget the time”—as Friedberger loses the plot in an Athens hotel bar, figuratively and literally. She has a gift for narrative density: Reading the Iris Murdoch novel The Nice and the Good and struggling to follow the story becomes an analogy for the sudden wild spinning of our collective moral compass after the 2016 election. Friedberger had always wanted to go to Greece, so after months of touring followed by that bleak November, she escaped to Athens and assembled a band. But she didn’t write many of the songs on Rebound until she visited a club of the same name, which had been described to her as “an ’80s goth disco where everyone does the chicken dance.” The sound she discovered there resembled a Mediterranean knockoff of Joy Division or the Cure, and she imbued the new record with that spooky, dancy vibe, lacing its gentle psychedelia with a dash of foreboding. Like famous artistic pilgrimages to Ionia from Cusk’s novel Outline to Joni Mitchell’s dalliance with the goat-dancing redneck Cary Raditz on Crete, Rebound has the bleached, hazy feel of a sun-damaged Polaroid with a blurred figure in the corner. After “My Jesus Phase,” though, it takes awhile for Friedberger to return to her more outré exploration. Before that come some of the strongest songs on the record, in a more familiar, sharply drawn and narratively coherent, mode. The chorus of “The Letter” reverberates with regret: “The opposite of what he thought he thought/The opposite of what she wanted.” One of the danciest songs she’s ever recorded, “Everything” is a cathartic anthem of defiance with a subtle current of ennui running underneath. Even on those songs, though, Friedberger radiates ambivalence, often through double entendre. “When the pain ended I won a prize,” she sings on “The Letter,” after recounting how she took some pills found by the side of the road and was soon lying prone on a wharf. What a lyric! It could be entirely literal, it could refer to some event that goes undescribed in the song, or it could simply be that the release from pain was the prize. The title and refrain of “Are We Good?” uses a similar trick, with the familiar check-in question sharing space with the larger question about the nature of humanity. Friedberger explicitly acknowledges how difficult it is to determine whether you’re doing the right thing on “It’s Hard”—a song that, like “My Jesus Phase,” laments the impossibility of making life make sense. Set atop a creaky rhythm and shot through with seesaw synths, the track is set at Rebound, where a song within a song that recalls the Cure rings out. Friedberger tries to find its pulse: “Walk back and forth with my head held low,” she sings. “Arms swing in time to the tune that I don’t know. And it's hard.” The haunting closer, “Rule of Action,” finds Friedberger equally lost, calling herself “a writer on the edge” as she endures “days with no structure and nights of bad dreams.” For so many people, the 2016 election activated a sense of uncertainty or inspired aimless wandering. There’s something closer to home happening to Friedberger on Rebound, though. On “Everything” she sings of a coveted romance, “a man in Greece, a girlfriend in Italy.” “Are We Good?” gives her an approximation of what that relationship might be like: “I proposed to a woman for a man last night.” But the experience is remote and dissatisfying. Friedberger isn’t exactly part of the action. While it continues her project of self-investigation, Rebound does not quite feature the Eleanor Friedberger we’ve come to know from her first three albums. It’s as though part of her has receded from view, as she tries to figure out—as we all do, all the time—what happens next.

Artist: Eleanor Friedberger, Album: Rebound, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "Eleanor Friedberger is making steady progress inward. Over the course of three strong solo albums, she has interrogated her emotions and experiences with a focus so sharp that her insistent self-examination has become an act of sociology more than narcissism. In Friedberger’s relentless investigations of her day-to-day existence, listeners can recognize themselves, their friends, and the particulars of their own lives. Her terrific fourth album, Rebound, set in a post-2016 Greece, provides plenty more of the same. But there are times on the record when Friedberger’s writing turns elliptical and the narrative becomes more difficult than usual to piece together. The Illinois-born artist has been nothing if not consistent since she and her brother Matt stopped making music together as the Fiery Furnaces, and the shift on Rebound isn’t seismic—longtime fans will have no trouble cozying up to many of these songs. There are elements, however, that separate the album from its predecessors and suggest some tentative movement toward a new way of working. It’s as if Friedberger is cautiously extending a leg, searching for a foothold to help her swing to another, more daring, form of songwriting. Though it’s not the best song of the bunch, opener “My Jesus Phase” may be the best example. As has been written about the novels of Rachel Cusk, it’s a “mosaic of fragments,” a picture formed from broken poetry, backed by rhythm guitar and simmering, ominous synths. The track begins with a plea for amnesia—“Let me forget the words/Let me forget the time”—as Friedberger loses the plot in an Athens hotel bar, figuratively and literally. She has a gift for narrative density: Reading the Iris Murdoch novel The Nice and the Good and struggling to follow the story becomes an analogy for the sudden wild spinning of our collective moral compass after the 2016 election. Friedberger had always wanted to go to Greece, so after months of touring followed by that bleak November, she escaped to Athens and assembled a band. But she didn’t write many of the songs on Rebound until she visited a club of the same name, which had been described to her as “an ’80s goth disco where everyone does the chicken dance.” The sound she discovered there resembled a Mediterranean knockoff of Joy Division or the Cure, and she imbued the new record with that spooky, dancy vibe, lacing its gentle psychedelia with a dash of foreboding. Like famous artistic pilgrimages to Ionia from Cusk’s novel Outline to Joni Mitchell’s dalliance with the goat-dancing redneck Cary Raditz on Crete, Rebound has the bleached, hazy feel of a sun-damaged Polaroid with a blurred figure in the corner. After “My Jesus Phase,” though, it takes awhile for Friedberger to return to her more outré exploration. Before that come some of the strongest songs on the record, in a more familiar, sharply drawn and narratively coherent, mode. The chorus of “The Letter” reverberates with regret: “The opposite of what he thought he thought/The opposite of what she wanted.” One of the danciest songs she’s ever recorded, “Everything” is a cathartic anthem of defiance with a subtle current of ennui running underneath. Even on those songs, though, Friedberger radiates ambivalence, often through double entendre. “When the pain ended I won a prize,” she sings on “The Letter,” after recounting how she took some pills found by the side of the road and was soon lying prone on a wharf. What a lyric! It could be entirely literal, it could refer to some event that goes undescribed in the song, or it could simply be that the release from pain was the prize. The title and refrain of “Are We Good?” uses a similar trick, with the familiar check-in question sharing space with the larger question about the nature of humanity. Friedberger explicitly acknowledges how difficult it is to determine whether you’re doing the right thing on “It’s Hard”—a song that, like “My Jesus Phase,” laments the impossibility of making life make sense. Set atop a creaky rhythm and shot through with seesaw synths, the track is set at Rebound, where a song within a song that recalls the Cure rings out. Friedberger tries to find its pulse: “Walk back and forth with my head held low,” she sings. “Arms swing in time to the tune that I don’t know. And it's hard.” The haunting closer, “Rule of Action,” finds Friedberger equally lost, calling herself “a writer on the edge” as she endures “days with no structure and nights of bad dreams.” For so many people, the 2016 election activated a sense of uncertainty or inspired aimless wandering. There’s something closer to home happening to Friedberger on Rebound, though. On “Everything” she sings of a coveted romance, “a man in Greece, a girlfriend in Italy.” “Are We Good?” gives her an approximation of what that relationship might be like: “I proposed to a woman for a man last night.” But the experience is remote and dissatisfying. Friedberger isn’t exactly part of the action. While it continues her project of self-investigation, Rebound does not quite feature the Eleanor Friedberger we’ve come to know from her first three albums. It’s as though part of her has receded from view, as she tries to figure out—as we all do, all the time—what happens next."

Rachid Taha

Diwan 2

Global

Joshua Klein

On the cover of Rachid Taha's 1998 album Diwan, the singer's caught in the throes of ecstasy, his head tossed back and his shaggy hair arching through the air. His eyes are closed and he's smiling. He's wearing a shimmering red shirt. He could be dancing on stage, or maybe even at a party. The cover of Taha's belated sequel Diwan 2 features the singer somber and unsmiling. He's wearing a rumpled suit. He's bearded, and a carefully wrapped turban covers his hair. His eyes are cold, hard, tired. He could be at a funeral. To say Taha straddles two different cultures would be an understatement. In Algeria or even France (his home in exile) he's a Molotov cocktail firebrand, a populist punk with his ear to the streets. In the Western realm, he's relegated to the nebulous "world music" gulag. On one hand, he's as cosmopolitan a pop star as they come, an international figure on the Rai scene of nearly unrivaled popularity. On the other, to much of the world, he's an Arab first and foremost-- a "person of interest," as it were-- whose appearance supplants his considerable talents as a singer, writer, and performer. Taha's always been a little pissed off and politically outspoken, but the timing of Diwan 2 clearly relates to current events. Just as 2004's Tékitoi reclaimed the Arabic melodic underpinnings of the Clash's "Rock the Casbah" (notoriously blasted by U.S. troops during raids in Baghdad), Diwan 2 proudly embraces traditional North African music when said music arguably signifies more than ever before, albeit often cast through Taha's distinctly modernist, polyglot spectrum. And yet, at a time that calls for anger and outrage, the subjects of the songs on Diwan 2-- mostly covers from the likes of formative Taha influences Blaoui Houari and Dahmane El Harrachi, sung primarily in Arabic and French-- tackle the more universal themes of love and loneliness. It's the timeless soundtrack of exile, given Taha's and longtime co-conspirator Steve Hillage's distinctly modern interpretations, rife with traditional instrumentation and ancient melodies but never shirking its commitment to contemporary pop. That means the programmed dance beats pulsing beneath songs such as "Rani" and "Mataouel Dellil" are less contrivances than an emphasis of implied or subtle rhythmic elements already inherent to the songs. Even as recorded here, "Kifache Rah" could be 50 years old, but it's hard to imagine anyone sitting completely still through the song, either then or now. For that matter, two Taha originals, "Josephine" and "Ah Mon Amour" (prominently featuring Kadi Bouguenaya's wheezing, oddly funky reed flute), fit seamlessly among the other tracks on the album, both musically and thematically, with the former a character piece whose minimally sketched-out protagonist confesses, "my native country is missing me." Thanks to the included translations, the sadness and resignation of many of the other songs comes through loud and clear as well. Taha obviously feels close to the sentiments of such songs as the equally lost and hopeful "Maydoum", written by El Harrachi (whose Algerian anthem "Ya Rayah" led off the first Diwan). "Only truth, but also faithfulness and purity, stand time," sings Taha, underscoring the implied mission of both Diwan discs. Taha's music, for all its radical twists and turns, is part of a long musical journey, and Taha, rather than hide or flee his heritage and whatever mislaid stigma comes attached to it, is compelled to make obvious and apparent the debt he owes the Rai and Chaâbi pioneers who came before him. Don't be surprised if, in 50 years, people start doing the same for Taha.

Artist: Rachid Taha, Album: Diwan 2, Genre: Global, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "On the cover of Rachid Taha's 1998 album Diwan, the singer's caught in the throes of ecstasy, his head tossed back and his shaggy hair arching through the air. His eyes are closed and he's smiling. He's wearing a shimmering red shirt. He could be dancing on stage, or maybe even at a party. The cover of Taha's belated sequel Diwan 2 features the singer somber and unsmiling. He's wearing a rumpled suit. He's bearded, and a carefully wrapped turban covers his hair. His eyes are cold, hard, tired. He could be at a funeral. To say Taha straddles two different cultures would be an understatement. In Algeria or even France (his home in exile) he's a Molotov cocktail firebrand, a populist punk with his ear to the streets. In the Western realm, he's relegated to the nebulous "world music" gulag. On one hand, he's as cosmopolitan a pop star as they come, an international figure on the Rai scene of nearly unrivaled popularity. On the other, to much of the world, he's an Arab first and foremost-- a "person of interest," as it were-- whose appearance supplants his considerable talents as a singer, writer, and performer. Taha's always been a little pissed off and politically outspoken, but the timing of Diwan 2 clearly relates to current events. Just as 2004's Tékitoi reclaimed the Arabic melodic underpinnings of the Clash's "Rock the Casbah" (notoriously blasted by U.S. troops during raids in Baghdad), Diwan 2 proudly embraces traditional North African music when said music arguably signifies more than ever before, albeit often cast through Taha's distinctly modernist, polyglot spectrum. And yet, at a time that calls for anger and outrage, the subjects of the songs on Diwan 2-- mostly covers from the likes of formative Taha influences Blaoui Houari and Dahmane El Harrachi, sung primarily in Arabic and French-- tackle the more universal themes of love and loneliness. It's the timeless soundtrack of exile, given Taha's and longtime co-conspirator Steve Hillage's distinctly modern interpretations, rife with traditional instrumentation and ancient melodies but never shirking its commitment to contemporary pop. That means the programmed dance beats pulsing beneath songs such as "Rani" and "Mataouel Dellil" are less contrivances than an emphasis of implied or subtle rhythmic elements already inherent to the songs. Even as recorded here, "Kifache Rah" could be 50 years old, but it's hard to imagine anyone sitting completely still through the song, either then or now. For that matter, two Taha originals, "Josephine" and "Ah Mon Amour" (prominently featuring Kadi Bouguenaya's wheezing, oddly funky reed flute), fit seamlessly among the other tracks on the album, both musically and thematically, with the former a character piece whose minimally sketched-out protagonist confesses, "my native country is missing me." Thanks to the included translations, the sadness and resignation of many of the other songs comes through loud and clear as well. Taha obviously feels close to the sentiments of such songs as the equally lost and hopeful "Maydoum", written by El Harrachi (whose Algerian anthem "Ya Rayah" led off the first Diwan). "Only truth, but also faithfulness and purity, stand time," sings Taha, underscoring the implied mission of both Diwan discs. Taha's music, for all its radical twists and turns, is part of a long musical journey, and Taha, rather than hide or flee his heritage and whatever mislaid stigma comes attached to it, is compelled to make obvious and apparent the debt he owes the Rai and Chaâbi pioneers who came before him. Don't be surprised if, in 50 years, people start doing the same for Taha."

The Appleseed Cast

Peregrine

Rock

Brian Howe

Let me play devil's advocate for a minute vis-à-vis emo and post-rock. People who hate emo often do so for reasons that have little to do with the music-- they hate its cliquey cachet, its asymmetrical haircuts, its Hot Topic couture and predictable tattoos. An aversion to the music itself-- the stock dynamic changes, monochromatic vocals, oblivious self-obsession, and an obviousness that borders on emotional manipulation-- is almost an afterthought. Where emo is stylish, post-rock cultivates an anti-style, and people who are into vibrancy might find themselves turned off by its drab trappings and grave seriousness, not to mention the stuffy pretensions that can mar the music. To take the negative view, post-rock is cold, sterile, overly cerebral, and gives itself too much credit for rote gestures masquerading as innovations. Appleseed Cast's latest picks up more or less where Two Conversations left off-- if there's any difference, Peregrine is even more stately and impressionistic than its predecessor. I want to call this album "post-emo," as it blends the better traits of each genre-- emo's warmth but not its grating bombast; post-rock's ambition but not its obscurity-- allowing them to temper one another. Whether the record scans as unusually adventurous emo or as unusually melodic post-rock is up to you, but I find this happy medium to be much more palatable than the lion's share of what each genre produces by its own lights. Despite its atmospheric trappings and intricate arrangements, Peregrine never loses sight of its grand melodies, which unfold with patience and restraint. The ice-blue arpeggios of "Ceremony" ring out bell-clear; offset by shuddering washes of noise in the background, they begin to wrap around themselves and are soon shattered by pounding drums. The shards coalesce like rewinding film several times before they blow apart into a final, triumphant cacophony. On "Woodland Hunter (Part I)", warm guitar chords and a muffled vocal melody levitate in the middle distance, then leap to the foreground for an outsized verse. The glitchy, staticky drums hop adroitly between channels; sonorous feedback stutters and blinks like reflected light, and one wants to make a crack about the emo Dntel, if the Postal Service didn't render it redundant. "Here We Are (Family in the Hallways)" strongly evokes Death Cab's "Title and Registration", from its tripping guitar line to its dreamy vocal melody to its floating, syncopated percussion. It still might be a little too gooey for post-rock diehards, but with Peregrine, Appleseed Cast just might have made an emo record for people who hate emo.

Artist: The Appleseed Cast, Album: Peregrine, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Let me play devil's advocate for a minute vis-à-vis emo and post-rock. People who hate emo often do so for reasons that have little to do with the music-- they hate its cliquey cachet, its asymmetrical haircuts, its Hot Topic couture and predictable tattoos. An aversion to the music itself-- the stock dynamic changes, monochromatic vocals, oblivious self-obsession, and an obviousness that borders on emotional manipulation-- is almost an afterthought. Where emo is stylish, post-rock cultivates an anti-style, and people who are into vibrancy might find themselves turned off by its drab trappings and grave seriousness, not to mention the stuffy pretensions that can mar the music. To take the negative view, post-rock is cold, sterile, overly cerebral, and gives itself too much credit for rote gestures masquerading as innovations. Appleseed Cast's latest picks up more or less where Two Conversations left off-- if there's any difference, Peregrine is even more stately and impressionistic than its predecessor. I want to call this album "post-emo," as it blends the better traits of each genre-- emo's warmth but not its grating bombast; post-rock's ambition but not its obscurity-- allowing them to temper one another. Whether the record scans as unusually adventurous emo or as unusually melodic post-rock is up to you, but I find this happy medium to be much more palatable than the lion's share of what each genre produces by its own lights. Despite its atmospheric trappings and intricate arrangements, Peregrine never loses sight of its grand melodies, which unfold with patience and restraint. The ice-blue arpeggios of "Ceremony" ring out bell-clear; offset by shuddering washes of noise in the background, they begin to wrap around themselves and are soon shattered by pounding drums. The shards coalesce like rewinding film several times before they blow apart into a final, triumphant cacophony. On "Woodland Hunter (Part I)", warm guitar chords and a muffled vocal melody levitate in the middle distance, then leap to the foreground for an outsized verse. The glitchy, staticky drums hop adroitly between channels; sonorous feedback stutters and blinks like reflected light, and one wants to make a crack about the emo Dntel, if the Postal Service didn't render it redundant. "Here We Are (Family in the Hallways)" strongly evokes Death Cab's "Title and Registration", from its tripping guitar line to its dreamy vocal melody to its floating, syncopated percussion. It still might be a little too gooey for post-rock diehards, but with Peregrine, Appleseed Cast just might have made an emo record for people who hate emo."

Scissor Sisters

Scissor Sisters

Electronic,Pop/R&B

Scott Plagenhoef

There's something about the kitchen-sink approach to music that makes me suspicious. Excessive genre-hopping or wearing stylistic flexibility as a badge is often considered honorable or even proof of an artist's restless, boundless talent. Yet when this approach is put under a microscope, the choice to aim for a variety of different sounds often seems like a mask for artists unable to do any one thing particularly well. A lot of the initial praise garnered by Scissor Sisters stemmed from their oscillation between what many consider to be disparate styles: To be reductive, those are rollicking early 70s Elton John-esque pop songs and buoyant disco. However, on their self-titled debut, Scissor Sisters not only do quite a few genres justice-- not least of which is witty, irreverent pop songs-- but both their idiosyncratic approach to music and their sensibilities seem to have common roots in glam-era rock or Philly soul. On the face of it, that's an odd blend. Unless you're Ryan Adams, Homer Simpson, or those bearded fellows in Kings of Leon, you aren't likely of the mindset that rock achieved perfection in 1974. But the Sisters embrace the playfulness and panache of that era's artists-- from Sparks and Elton, to 10cc and Mott the Hoople, to The Spinners and, um, Pink Floyd-- and come out smelling like roses. Here, the Sisters skip smartly through glam's linear history, and stray far enough from the beaten path to discover a sound of their own, all while resisting the sacrifice of context for pantomime. With one part arched eyebrows and droll wit, and one part melancholia and sharp social observation, the Sisters' debut is bursting with golden moments. To the disappointment of some, large portions of the Scissor Sisters' highly circulated and heavily dancefloor-leaning demo has been either re-recorded or exorcised from the final cut, but the retail version outstrips the demo by a mile. "Doctor (I'm Only Seeing Dark)", "Backwoods", and "Bicycling with the Devil" in particular are missed, but with their inclusion, the finished product would likely have been a far more schizophrenic affair. Instead, the Sisters' debut hangs together well, despite sounding at times more like a career-spanning singles compilation than a cohesive work. (Although, in this MP3 era, where's the harm in that?) Debut single "Laura", with its overflow of rollicking piano and wah-wah guitar, is the hyper-jovial opener. Break-up song "Better Luck" and the falsetto-drenched disco cover of "Comfortably Numb" (what might have been had Pink Floyd followed their classic rock contemporaries into late 70s disco tourism) are the dancing-with-tears-in-your-eyes tracks. "Tits on the Radio" is New York's best protest dance song since !!!, and "Lovers in the Backseat" is a gold lamé-draped take on voyeurism. "Mary" and "It Can't Come Quickly Enough", meanwhile, are the 4 a.m. ballads, contenders for the night's penultimate spin before "Last Dance" soundtracks the queue at the coat check. Best of all are "Take Your Mama" and "Return to Oz". The former is a clever Primal Scream-meets-"Freedom '90" suggestion to come out to your mother during a night on the town. The latter is a weary, hungover ballad lamenting the influence of crystal meth on the gay nightclub scene ("What once was Emerald City's/ Now a crystal town"). In combination, those two tracks delightfully reveal that under Scissor Sisters' sheen of fabulousness and irresistible hooks beats a heart that breaks as easily as it bursts, and that's a sort of versatility that can't be easily concocted.

Artist: Scissor Sisters, Album: Scissor Sisters, Genre: Electronic,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "There's something about the kitchen-sink approach to music that makes me suspicious. Excessive genre-hopping or wearing stylistic flexibility as a badge is often considered honorable or even proof of an artist's restless, boundless talent. Yet when this approach is put under a microscope, the choice to aim for a variety of different sounds often seems like a mask for artists unable to do any one thing particularly well. A lot of the initial praise garnered by Scissor Sisters stemmed from their oscillation between what many consider to be disparate styles: To be reductive, those are rollicking early 70s Elton John-esque pop songs and buoyant disco. However, on their self-titled debut, Scissor Sisters not only do quite a few genres justice-- not least of which is witty, irreverent pop songs-- but both their idiosyncratic approach to music and their sensibilities seem to have common roots in glam-era rock or Philly soul. On the face of it, that's an odd blend. Unless you're Ryan Adams, Homer Simpson, or those bearded fellows in Kings of Leon, you aren't likely of the mindset that rock achieved perfection in 1974. But the Sisters embrace the playfulness and panache of that era's artists-- from Sparks and Elton, to 10cc and Mott the Hoople, to The Spinners and, um, Pink Floyd-- and come out smelling like roses. Here, the Sisters skip smartly through glam's linear history, and stray far enough from the beaten path to discover a sound of their own, all while resisting the sacrifice of context for pantomime. With one part arched eyebrows and droll wit, and one part melancholia and sharp social observation, the Sisters' debut is bursting with golden moments. To the disappointment of some, large portions of the Scissor Sisters' highly circulated and heavily dancefloor-leaning demo has been either re-recorded or exorcised from the final cut, but the retail version outstrips the demo by a mile. "Doctor (I'm Only Seeing Dark)", "Backwoods", and "Bicycling with the Devil" in particular are missed, but with their inclusion, the finished product would likely have been a far more schizophrenic affair. Instead, the Sisters' debut hangs together well, despite sounding at times more like a career-spanning singles compilation than a cohesive work. (Although, in this MP3 era, where's the harm in that?) Debut single "Laura", with its overflow of rollicking piano and wah-wah guitar, is the hyper-jovial opener. Break-up song "Better Luck" and the falsetto-drenched disco cover of "Comfortably Numb" (what might have been had Pink Floyd followed their classic rock contemporaries into late 70s disco tourism) are the dancing-with-tears-in-your-eyes tracks. "Tits on the Radio" is New York's best protest dance song since !!!, and "Lovers in the Backseat" is a gold lamé-draped take on voyeurism. "Mary" and "It Can't Come Quickly Enough", meanwhile, are the 4 a.m. ballads, contenders for the night's penultimate spin before "Last Dance" soundtracks the queue at the coat check. Best of all are "Take Your Mama" and "Return to Oz". The former is a clever Primal Scream-meets-"Freedom '90" suggestion to come out to your mother during a night on the town. The latter is a weary, hungover ballad lamenting the influence of crystal meth on the gay nightclub scene ("What once was Emerald City's/ Now a crystal town"). In combination, those two tracks delightfully reveal that under Scissor Sisters' sheen of fabulousness and irresistible hooks beats a heart that breaks as easily as it bursts, and that's a sort of versatility that can't be easily concocted."

Il Sogno del Marinaio

Canto Secondo

Jason Heller

Mike Watt is legendary for many things, most of them having to do with his time as the bassist of Minutemen, fIREHOSE, and the reformed Stooges. But he’s also renowned for being so approachable, a humbly gregarious guy who’s likely to be standing around his equally legendary van after a solo show, shooting the shit with whomever feels like hanging out. He’s even been known to let fans hop in the van and go for a ride—anyone who’s ever seen the Minutemen documentary We Jam Econo can attest to the fact that he loves to drive and hold forth at the same time—and that open-door policy is reflected in the generosity of soul his playing has always possessed. Watt’s current band Il Sogna del Marinaio is the musical equivalent of one of those shit-shooting sessions. Along with a pair of Italians, guitarist Stefano Pilia and drummer Andrea Belfi, he recorded 2013’s La Busta Gialla, a promising workout of sinewy rock that nonetheless felt halting and awkward. It was a prelude to Canto Secondo, the trio’s superior second album. Where La Busta Gialla was made over long stretches of time, and almost entirely across long distances, by a band that started recording only a week into its existence, Canto Secondo flaunts an ease and familiarity that can only come through collaboration and experience, not to mention proximity. The bulk of Canto Secondo was recorded with all three members in the same room at the same time, and it shows in tracks like the instrumental “Alain”, with its lopsided prog ambulation propped up by Watt’s melted-rubber low-end, and “Mountain Top”, a circular, gently jangled meditation that has the feel of a post-punk koan. “Sailor Blues” is Canto Secondo’s longest track, and at a trim five-minutes-plus, it demonstrates just how concentrated and concise the trio’s internal language has become. From Pilia’s knotty yet fluid guitar lines to Watt’s punching, dancing bass, the song descends into an ethereal wash of soft-focus distortion and playfully unresolved bends of melody. The touchstones become more sharply defined on “Us in Their Land”; in a start-stop fit of squealing virtuosity that anxiously mashes My War-era Black Flag into Starless and Bible Black-era King Crimson, the song hastily builds a scaffolding, clambers up it, then pulls it out from under its feet. Pilia’s whispery, heavily accented poetry not only clicks, it evokes a strange kind of dreamy menace, working strictly on a level of phonetic atmosphere. The problem with any musicians Watt might pick up, here and in the future, is that they’re drawn to Watt because of his legacy, and rightly so. But that also means they’re playing in his shadow, and that they’re fans first and foremost—which can lead to songs like “Animal Farm Tango”. “Humans are not welcome in the sick animal farm tango,” Watt recites in a gravelly, avuncular, spoken-word segment as dry as post-apocalyptic dust, sounding for all the world like Allen Ginsberg on The Clash’s “Ghetto Defendant”. The music itself, though, is reminiscent of something much closer to home: the Minutemen’s “Do You Want New Wave Or Do You Want the Truth?”, all fluttery notes and swaying spaces. But Canto Secondo’s strength is in its effortless balance between Watt’s formidable past and his still potent future. Better yet, that balance feels instinctual, and at times downright spiritual. Il Sogna del Marinaio may not have come anywhere near Watt’s formative bands in terms of sheer songwriting, or the ability to rattle the heart and mind—but on Canto Secondo, they’ve settled into a groove that’s taken on the gabby pattern of a classic Watt spiel.

Artist: Il Sogno del Marinaio, Album: Canto Secondo, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Mike Watt is legendary for many things, most of them having to do with his time as the bassist of Minutemen, fIREHOSE, and the reformed Stooges. But he’s also renowned for being so approachable, a humbly gregarious guy who’s likely to be standing around his equally legendary van after a solo show, shooting the shit with whomever feels like hanging out. He’s even been known to let fans hop in the van and go for a ride—anyone who’s ever seen the Minutemen documentary We Jam Econo can attest to the fact that he loves to drive and hold forth at the same time—and that open-door policy is reflected in the generosity of soul his playing has always possessed. Watt’s current band Il Sogna del Marinaio is the musical equivalent of one of those shit-shooting sessions. Along with a pair of Italians, guitarist Stefano Pilia and drummer Andrea Belfi, he recorded 2013’s La Busta Gialla, a promising workout of sinewy rock that nonetheless felt halting and awkward. It was a prelude to Canto Secondo, the trio’s superior second album. Where La Busta Gialla was made over long stretches of time, and almost entirely across long distances, by a band that started recording only a week into its existence, Canto Secondo flaunts an ease and familiarity that can only come through collaboration and experience, not to mention proximity. The bulk of Canto Secondo was recorded with all three members in the same room at the same time, and it shows in tracks like the instrumental “Alain”, with its lopsided prog ambulation propped up by Watt’s melted-rubber low-end, and “Mountain Top”, a circular, gently jangled meditation that has the feel of a post-punk koan. “Sailor Blues” is Canto Secondo’s longest track, and at a trim five-minutes-plus, it demonstrates just how concentrated and concise the trio’s internal language has become. From Pilia’s knotty yet fluid guitar lines to Watt’s punching, dancing bass, the song descends into an ethereal wash of soft-focus distortion and playfully unresolved bends of melody. The touchstones become more sharply defined on “Us in Their Land”; in a start-stop fit of squealing virtuosity that anxiously mashes My War-era Black Flag into Starless and Bible Black-era King Crimson, the song hastily builds a scaffolding, clambers up it, then pulls it out from under its feet. Pilia’s whispery, heavily accented poetry not only clicks, it evokes a strange kind of dreamy menace, working strictly on a level of phonetic atmosphere. The problem with any musicians Watt might pick up, here and in the future, is that they’re drawn to Watt because of his legacy, and rightly so. But that also means they’re playing in his shadow, and that they’re fans first and foremost—which can lead to songs like “Animal Farm Tango”. “Humans are not welcome in the sick animal farm tango,” Watt recites in a gravelly, avuncular, spoken-word segment as dry as post-apocalyptic dust, sounding for all the world like Allen Ginsberg on The Clash’s “Ghetto Defendant”. The music itself, though, is reminiscent of something much closer to home: the Minutemen’s “Do You Want New Wave Or Do You Want the Truth?”, all fluttery notes and swaying spaces. But Canto Secondo’s strength is in its effortless balance between Watt’s formidable past and his still potent future. Better yet, that balance feels instinctual, and at times downright spiritual. Il Sogna del Marinaio may not have come anywhere near Watt’s formative bands in terms of sheer songwriting, or the ability to rattle the heart and mind—but on Canto Secondo, they’ve settled into a groove that’s taken on the gabby pattern of a classic Watt spiel."

Future Islands

Singles

Rock

Jeremy D. Larson

Future Islands frontman Samuel T. Herring has an energy, a physical aura, that moves along a single line. On one end is a hangdog character with tucked-in shirt and pleated khakis and on the other is an ursine man-monster wresting primordial sounds from his heart. Until recently, we could find Herring only in the small clubs where Future Islands relentlessly toured. With Herring as ringleader, these shows got pretty rowdy for a three-piece synth pop band. Everyone would push around to his metal vocals of “Tin Man” and sway along to “Inch of Dust” — their former marquee song from 2010’s In Evening Air — all while Herring waved his arms like a man conducting a symphony of giants. When Future Islands recently performed their new marquee song on “Letterman”, the stunning “Seasons (Waiting On You)”, the secret was out: Here’s this guy, this dude with a tucked-in shirt, khakis, and a receding hairline bobbing and weaving, grinding gears in his throat, giving a “fuck yeah” gesture before a perfect pop modulation takes him to the chorus. He had that kind of uninhibited spirit the internet loves to protect and preserve. If he had a more garrulous social media brand, no doubt he could take this moment and amass an army of fans, the hashtag Herring Task Force, retweeting Vines of people wearing tucked-in shirts and khakis doing “The Herring”. The landmark performance was far and away the most viewed musical segment on “Late Show With David Letterman” and it was certainly the most surprising moment of Future Islands’ career. And now, following the storied live shows, the memes, and their move from Thrill Jockey to 4AD comes their fourth and possibly best album, Singles. These songs finally invite us to participate in Herring’s world, one shaped by geological heartbreak events and their epochal reflection periods, told with nothing more than the simple truth. It’s pop music distilled, something Future Islands have been working at since their earliest lo-fi electro-punk recordings. Singles is a great balance of pop and melodrama. It’s built around the sturdy new wave beat, almost always four on the floor, giving Herring a comfortable frame in which to sing. Its themes are also symmetrical, as Herring plays with antithesis like an eager English student: day and night, sun and moon, summer and winter, man and woman. His words are the sort of thing that would tumble out of your mouth if you were told to write a love poem right now in eight seconds. “She looks like the moon/ So close and yet so far” or “My sun every morning/ My star of the evening” are just two couplets that look goopy on the page but sound so impulsively romantic when he sings them. Which is to say that the setting for these songs is nothing fancy, but if they were any busier than cool nights in the tall grass with the moon hanging just so, it would ruin the music’s delicate relationship with Herring. Herring’s presence draws from Wham City’s theatrical charm, but Future Islands also work on a much grander scale. From their debut up to 2011’s On The Water, bassist William Cashion was the group’s Peter Hook, as he offered distinctive lines with an actual personality behind it. But on Singles, Cashion and the band nod toward the stadium-ready anthems of early U2. The moody synth drones have been replaced with ergonomic melody and the band has tightened up accordingly. On songs like “Spirit” and the parting words of “A Dream Of You And Me”, when Herring’s passionate delivery carries him into those heavenly choruses, you can all but see the flood lights flash in the arena when he gets there. He sings with his eyes open, still searching, still trying to reconcile love, and still a little pissed off. The album isn’t as taut as it could be in the back half—“Like the Moon”, for example, is a predictable and rather long four-and-a-half minutes. But Future Islands compensate for the occasional dull patch. Just after “Like the Moon” comes the album’s highpoint, the post-mortem ballad “Fall From Grace”. It could be a Beach House song with its below-freezing tempo and a spotlight on Cashion’s guitars, but then Herring gets to thinking about one of those heartbreak events and it all comes rushing back above this overdriven baritone guitar. He unknots all the emotion that has only bubbled up until now and asks one last question about their love and basically Hulks out: “was it ALL INSIDE OF ME?” The moment is arresting, and in the context of the sometimes mushy poetry of the album, these four words are blinding and absolutely unforgettable. If this all seems a bit much, well, it is. That’s the point of Future Islands, to invite this impulsive and unfettered behavior into the lives of listeners, both at home and at their shows. Singles is risky, but the strength of the songwriting carries it over. It reminds me of that video from Sasquatch 2009 of the shirtless guy dancing to Santigold, which has since gone mega viral. Herring acts on impulse—at no point does he sound calculated or clever—offering an open invitation to the uninhibited, to the goofy, and the sentimental.

Artist: Future Islands, Album: Singles, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Future Islands frontman Samuel T. Herring has an energy, a physical aura, that moves along a single line. On one end is a hangdog character with tucked-in shirt and pleated khakis and on the other is an ursine man-monster wresting primordial sounds from his heart. Until recently, we could find Herring only in the small clubs where Future Islands relentlessly toured. With Herring as ringleader, these shows got pretty rowdy for a three-piece synth pop band. Everyone would push around to his metal vocals of “Tin Man” and sway along to “Inch of Dust” — their former marquee song from 2010’s In Evening Air — all while Herring waved his arms like a man conducting a symphony of giants. When Future Islands recently performed their new marquee song on “Letterman”, the stunning “Seasons (Waiting On You)”, the secret was out: Here’s this guy, this dude with a tucked-in shirt, khakis, and a receding hairline bobbing and weaving, grinding gears in his throat, giving a “fuck yeah” gesture before a perfect pop modulation takes him to the chorus. He had that kind of uninhibited spirit the internet loves to protect and preserve. If he had a more garrulous social media brand, no doubt he could take this moment and amass an army of fans, the hashtag Herring Task Force, retweeting Vines of people wearing tucked-in shirts and khakis doing “The Herring”. The landmark performance was far and away the most viewed musical segment on “Late Show With David Letterman” and it was certainly the most surprising moment of Future Islands’ career. And now, following the storied live shows, the memes, and their move from Thrill Jockey to 4AD comes their fourth and possibly best album, Singles. These songs finally invite us to participate in Herring’s world, one shaped by geological heartbreak events and their epochal reflection periods, told with nothing more than the simple truth. It’s pop music distilled, something Future Islands have been working at since their earliest lo-fi electro-punk recordings. Singles is a great balance of pop and melodrama. It’s built around the sturdy new wave beat, almost always four on the floor, giving Herring a comfortable frame in which to sing. Its themes are also symmetrical, as Herring plays with antithesis like an eager English student: day and night, sun and moon, summer and winter, man and woman. His words are the sort of thing that would tumble out of your mouth if you were told to write a love poem right now in eight seconds. “She looks like the moon/ So close and yet so far” or “My sun every morning/ My star of the evening” are just two couplets that look goopy on the page but sound so impulsively romantic when he sings them. Which is to say that the setting for these songs is nothing fancy, but if they were any busier than cool nights in the tall grass with the moon hanging just so, it would ruin the music’s delicate relationship with Herring. Herring’s presence draws from Wham City’s theatrical charm, but Future Islands also work on a much grander scale. From their debut up to 2011’s On The Water, bassist William Cashion was the group’s Peter Hook, as he offered distinctive lines with an actual personality behind it. But on Singles, Cashion and the band nod toward the stadium-ready anthems of early U2. The moody synth drones have been replaced with ergonomic melody and the band has tightened up accordingly. On songs like “Spirit” and the parting words of “A Dream Of You And Me”, when Herring’s passionate delivery carries him into those heavenly choruses, you can all but see the flood lights flash in the arena when he gets there. He sings with his eyes open, still searching, still trying to reconcile love, and still a little pissed off. The album isn’t as taut as it could be in the back half—“Like the Moon”, for example, is a predictable and rather long four-and-a-half minutes. But Future Islands compensate for the occasional dull patch. Just after “Like the Moon” comes the album’s highpoint, the post-mortem ballad “Fall From Grace”. It could be a Beach House song with its below-freezing tempo and a spotlight on Cashion’s guitars, but then Herring gets to thinking about one of those heartbreak events and it all comes rushing back above this overdriven baritone guitar. He unknots all the emotion that has only bubbled up until now and asks one last question about their love and basically Hulks out: “was it ALL INSIDE OF ME?” The moment is arresting, and in the context of the sometimes mushy poetry of the album, these four words are blinding and absolutely unforgettable. If this all seems a bit much, well, it is. That’s the point of Future Islands, to invite this impulsive and unfettered behavior into the lives of listeners, both at home and at their shows. Singles is risky, but the strength of the songwriting carries it over. It reminds me of that video from Sasquatch 2009 of the shirtless guy dancing to Santigold, which has since gone mega viral. Herring acts on impulse—at no point does he sound calculated or clever—offering an open invitation to the uninhibited, to the goofy, and the sentimental."

Jake One

White Van Music

Pop/R&B,Rap

Nate Patrin

If reading rap-related internet message boards has taught us anything (aside from how to wildly and inaccurately judge a person's character based on their record collection), it's that you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who'll go to bat for De La Soul, G-Unit, and the rap career of WWE wrestler John Cena in equal measure. But Seattle-based producer Jake One actually did beats for all of them, and the further you go into his résumé, the more confounding it gets: last year alone he contributed beats to Young Buck's thugged-out Buck the World, Lifesavas' conscious-rap concept album Gutterfly and Turf Talk's hyphy hit West Coast Vaccine (The Cure). But can a producer who's that versatile and mercenary manage to come up with an album's worth of beats that coheres enough to give you a one-shot sense of what it is he actually does stylistically? Turns out that he can, if White Van Music is any indication. The good thing about Jake One cultivating such a diverse Rolodex is that he works like he's broken every stylistic and regional niche into its compound elements. The way the beat knocks is priority-- typified by densely-packed drums and thick, skulking basslines-- while everything else he incorporates, from simple piano and synth loops to shards of melodic vocal snippets to heavy funk guitar, is just there to be ushered along by the rhythm. There's enough diversity of mood from track to track-- foreboding gospel soul, spy-flick twang, slow-rolling electric-piano iciness-- but it's all tied together using that elemental 85-95 BPM 4/4 rhythmic backbone that anyone from any scene can rock over. And if you want a litmus test or two, he's brought on a ridiculously wide range of regional voices to prove he can back up damn near anyone's lyrics. This lineup almost looks like the names brought up in an unusually open-minded rap fan's shuffle mode: MF Doom muttering intricately blunted phraseology ("Trap Door", which boasts the aforementioned 007 vibe) followed up by Young Buck sneering workmanlike death threats (vague David Banner homage "Dead Wrong"), a lyrical contortionist's field day in an Elzhi/Royce Da 5'9" Detroit double-feature (the gleaming, brassy soul of "Glow") delivered after a slow-spitting showcase for the gravel-voiced hyphy pioneer Keak da Sneak (the sparsely twinkling "Soil Raps"), Dilla-heir Black Milk and neo-g-funk vet Nottz put together on the same track ("I'm Coming") just because they were two of Jake's favorite rapping producers. ("Maybe if I wasn't a terrible rapper I would have done a verse too," he jokes in the liner notes.) That kitchen-sink approach also makes for a couple inspired team-ups, even if two of the best ones were thrown together after the fact: Freeway recorded his verse for "The Truth" in the unfulfilled hopes that Jay-Z and Kanye would show up, and Jake One plugged in a blazing verse from Brother Ali instead; an unused beat meant for Nas ("Oh Really") got turned over to Posdnous from De La and had a typically smart-assed verse from Slug appended to it. And even if Prodigy's verse on "White Van" only lasts about twenty seconds, hearing him on the same track as Alchemist and Evidence means that tenuous connection between Dilated Peoples and Mobb Deep gets a little more solidified. The flaw with White Van Music is that the lineup of lyricists just about guarantees that most heads will run across at least one track featuring an MC they can't stand. But the quality of the beats easily overcomes the somewhat odd novelty of hearing backpackers in close quarters with hardcore rappers, and with each listen it starts feeling more and more natural to have an all-star CD where M.O.P. and Little Brother both have hot tracks. Jake One isn't a household name-- yet-- and his beats might not be instantly recognizable as the work of a singular visionary, but if he can get all these disparate artists under the same roof and come out of it with a consistently enjoyable album, he's pulled off a hell of a feat nonetheless

Artist: Jake One, Album: White Van Music, Genre: Pop/R&B,Rap, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "If reading rap-related internet message boards has taught us anything (aside from how to wildly and inaccurately judge a person's character based on their record collection), it's that you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who'll go to bat for De La Soul, G-Unit, and the rap career of WWE wrestler John Cena in equal measure. But Seattle-based producer Jake One actually did beats for all of them, and the further you go into his résumé, the more confounding it gets: last year alone he contributed beats to Young Buck's thugged-out Buck the World, Lifesavas' conscious-rap concept album Gutterfly and Turf Talk's hyphy hit West Coast Vaccine (The Cure). But can a producer who's that versatile and mercenary manage to come up with an album's worth of beats that coheres enough to give you a one-shot sense of what it is he actually does stylistically? Turns out that he can, if White Van Music is any indication. The good thing about Jake One cultivating such a diverse Rolodex is that he works like he's broken every stylistic and regional niche into its compound elements. The way the beat knocks is priority-- typified by densely-packed drums and thick, skulking basslines-- while everything else he incorporates, from simple piano and synth loops to shards of melodic vocal snippets to heavy funk guitar, is just there to be ushered along by the rhythm. There's enough diversity of mood from track to track-- foreboding gospel soul, spy-flick twang, slow-rolling electric-piano iciness-- but it's all tied together using that elemental 85-95 BPM 4/4 rhythmic backbone that anyone from any scene can rock over. And if you want a litmus test or two, he's brought on a ridiculously wide range of regional voices to prove he can back up damn near anyone's lyrics. This lineup almost looks like the names brought up in an unusually open-minded rap fan's shuffle mode: MF Doom muttering intricately blunted phraseology ("Trap Door", which boasts the aforementioned 007 vibe) followed up by Young Buck sneering workmanlike death threats (vague David Banner homage "Dead Wrong"), a lyrical contortionist's field day in an Elzhi/Royce Da 5'9" Detroit double-feature (the gleaming, brassy soul of "Glow") delivered after a slow-spitting showcase for the gravel-voiced hyphy pioneer Keak da Sneak (the sparsely twinkling "Soil Raps"), Dilla-heir Black Milk and neo-g-funk vet Nottz put together on the same track ("I'm Coming") just because they were two of Jake's favorite rapping producers. ("Maybe if I wasn't a terrible rapper I would have done a verse too," he jokes in the liner notes.) That kitchen-sink approach also makes for a couple inspired team-ups, even if two of the best ones were thrown together after the fact: Freeway recorded his verse for "The Truth" in the unfulfilled hopes that Jay-Z and Kanye would show up, and Jake One plugged in a blazing verse from Brother Ali instead; an unused beat meant for Nas ("Oh Really") got turned over to Posdnous from De La and had a typically smart-assed verse from Slug appended to it. And even if Prodigy's verse on "White Van" only lasts about twenty seconds, hearing him on the same track as Alchemist and Evidence means that tenuous connection between Dilated Peoples and Mobb Deep gets a little more solidified. The flaw with White Van Music is that the lineup of lyricists just about guarantees that most heads will run across at least one track featuring an MC they can't stand. But the quality of the beats easily overcomes the somewhat odd novelty of hearing backpackers in close quarters with hardcore rappers, and with each listen it starts feeling more and more natural to have an all-star CD where M.O.P. and Little Brother both have hot tracks. Jake One isn't a household name-- yet-- and his beats might not be instantly recognizable as the work of a singular visionary, but if he can get all these disparate artists under the same roof and come out of it with a consistently enjoyable album, he's pulled off a hell of a feat nonetheless"

A$AP Ferg

Always Strive and Prosper

Rap

Kathy Iandoli

When they first came on the scene, A$AP Ferg and A$AP Rocky offered two very different perspectives on rap’s new Harlem. In Rocky’s case, he brought a strong sense of fashion, with musical branches extending to Houston and Atlanta. Ferg stayed with the conventions of trap music, though his cadence and lyricism diverted from the genre’s formulaic sound. And just like that, the Trap Lord was born. His debut was aptly titled, full of chest-beating cuts that suggested Ferg was artsier than Rocky and slightly more overbearing—the Kanye to his Jay. But what happens when you’ve run out of superlatives for yourself and self-reflection kicks in? Well, you work in reverse, which is exactly where Ferg resides on his follow-up project Always Strive and Prosper. If Ferg secured a strong group of followers off Trap Lord, then his new album will surely lock them down as a cult. An argument could be made that ASAP is the prequel to Trap Lord, where we’re finally understanding the Bruce Wayne before the Batman. But the underlying self-awareness suggests that Ferg has tasted fame and rejected the poisonous parts. The opener “Rebirth” makes that declaration in no uncertain terms. Over a joint production effort of DJ Khalil and Clams Casino, a chopped-and-screwed Ferg talks to himself: “Now that you’re no longer a lord that’s trapped/ You have graduated to the Hood Pope/ You have made it to represent your people/ Show them another way/ Be the voice of the people who couldn’t make it out the hood.” This is no longer about A$AP Ferg, but Darold Ferguson, Jr. (Ferg’s given name), who came back home after being out in the world to report on what he’s seen. Production-value is high, with Ferg enlisting top-tier beatmakers like the aforementioned DJ Khalil but also No I.D., DJ Mustard, and even Skrillex. But the beats take a backseat to the lyrics. The overall sound remains intact, but he’s even more invested in what he’s saying. The track “Strive” brings a deep house vibe—compliments of Mustard and Stelios Phili—as Ferg shares the cautionary tale of sitting at a basic job with bigger dreams but refusing to trap like the rest of them. Missy Elliott is the icing on the cake, bringing an evenly ambitious verse, turning what could have been a simple dance track into something so much more. Missy isn’t the only notable collaborator on the project. ASAP boasts an all-star lineup ranging from Chris Brown and Ty Dolla $ign on the breezy “I Love You” to Rick Ross on the violently spacey “Swipe Life” and even Chuck D on “Beautiful People,” also featuring his Mama Ferg. The family theme runs throughout Always Strive and Prosper. The idea of affording luxuries for his mother remains at the forefront (buying his mama a house on “Swipe Life”), but so does his family in general. His Uncle “Psycho” gets his own song, as does his “Grandma,” and there’s a strong desire on Ferg’s part to be a family man. Stargate makes a smart appearance, producing “Let You Go,” which has the capacity to own the summer on beat alone, as does “Let It Bang” with ScHoolboy Q, only in an entirely different part of town. The deluxe version caps off Always Strive and Prosper with one vital cut—the quintessential New York joint “Don’t Mine” with French Montana and Fabolous—and one recklessly unnecessary one, the aggressively average “Back Hurt” with Migos. While Ferg is aware of his new station in music, there a few slip-ups where he falls back on style over substance. But not nearly enough to disqualify his epiphany. There’s an important allegory woven through the fabric of A$AP Ferg’s Always Strive and Prosper: A$AP Ferg likes his fame, but doesn’t need it. He’s making this transition from Trap Lord to Hood Pope, attempting to address his congregation of all the perils that come with celebrity. It’s a vulnerable position in which to be in, following a self-proclaimed lord status. But strip away the features, strip the beats, strip the quirky nicknames, and you’re left with Darold’s wise words, coming through loud and clear.

Artist: A$AP Ferg, Album: Always Strive and Prosper, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "When they first came on the scene, A$AP Ferg and A$AP Rocky offered two very different perspectives on rap’s new Harlem. In Rocky’s case, he brought a strong sense of fashion, with musical branches extending to Houston and Atlanta. Ferg stayed with the conventions of trap music, though his cadence and lyricism diverted from the genre’s formulaic sound. And just like that, the Trap Lord was born. His debut was aptly titled, full of chest-beating cuts that suggested Ferg was artsier than Rocky and slightly more overbearing—the Kanye to his Jay. But what happens when you’ve run out of superlatives for yourself and self-reflection kicks in? Well, you work in reverse, which is exactly where Ferg resides on his follow-up project Always Strive and Prosper. If Ferg secured a strong group of followers off Trap Lord, then his new album will surely lock them down as a cult. An argument could be made that ASAP is the prequel to Trap Lord, where we’re finally understanding the Bruce Wayne before the Batman. But the underlying self-awareness suggests that Ferg has tasted fame and rejected the poisonous parts. The opener “Rebirth” makes that declaration in no uncertain terms. Over a joint production effort of DJ Khalil and Clams Casino, a chopped-and-screwed Ferg talks to himself: “Now that you’re no longer a lord that’s trapped/ You have graduated to the Hood Pope/ You have made it to represent your people/ Show them another way/ Be the voice of the people who couldn’t make it out the hood.” This is no longer about A$AP Ferg, but Darold Ferguson, Jr. (Ferg’s given name), who came back home after being out in the world to report on what he’s seen. Production-value is high, with Ferg enlisting top-tier beatmakers like the aforementioned DJ Khalil but also No I.D., DJ Mustard, and even Skrillex. But the beats take a backseat to the lyrics. The overall sound remains intact, but he’s even more invested in what he’s saying. The track “Strive” brings a deep house vibe—compliments of Mustard and Stelios Phili—as Ferg shares the cautionary tale of sitting at a basic job with bigger dreams but refusing to trap like the rest of them. Missy Elliott is the icing on the cake, bringing an evenly ambitious verse, turning what could have been a simple dance track into something so much more. Missy isn’t the only notable collaborator on the project. ASAP boasts an all-star lineup ranging from Chris Brown and Ty Dolla $ign on the breezy “I Love You” to Rick Ross on the violently spacey “Swipe Life” and even Chuck D on “Beautiful People,” also featuring his Mama Ferg. The family theme runs throughout Always Strive and Prosper. The idea of affording luxuries for his mother remains at the forefront (buying his mama a house on “Swipe Life”), but so does his family in general. His Uncle “Psycho” gets his own song, as does his “Grandma,” and there’s a strong desire on Ferg’s part to be a family man. Stargate makes a smart appearance, producing “Let You Go,” which has the capacity to own the summer on beat alone, as does “Let It Bang” with ScHoolboy Q, only in an entirely different part of town. The deluxe version caps off Always Strive and Prosper with one vital cut—the quintessential New York joint “Don’t Mine” with French Montana and Fabolous—and one recklessly unnecessary one, the aggressively average “Back Hurt” with Migos. While Ferg is aware of his new station in music, there a few slip-ups where he falls back on style over substance. But not nearly enough to disqualify his epiphany. There’s an important allegory woven through the fabric of A$AP Ferg’s Always Strive and Prosper: A$AP Ferg likes his fame, but doesn’t need it. He’s making this transition from Trap Lord to Hood Pope, attempting to address his congregation of all the perils that come with celebrity. It’s a vulnerable position in which to be in, following a self-proclaimed lord status. But strip away the features, strip the beats, strip the quirky nicknames, and you’re left with Darold’s wise words, coming through loud and clear."

Sam Binga

Wasted Days

Electronic

Andrew Gaerig

Sam Binga's defining characteristic as a producer seems to be generosity. To his fans—he's maintained a frenetic release pace since early last decade (often under his Baobinga alias)—but mostly to other artists, as the majority of those releases feature collaborations with vocalists or other producers. This tends to be the first thing anyone mentions about Binga, and while it's refreshing, especially in electronic music, to see an artistic approach other than Genius Lone Wolf, it's also resulted in a highly variable catalog that has obscured anything resembling a signature touch or sound. Wasted Days, Binga's proper debut record, again features a host of MCs and offers a robust 17 tracks (a four-sided LP version is trimmer) but stands as his most realized and bountiful work yet, synthesizing two decades of UK bass music into something vigorous and modern. Binga is a child of UK rave culture, and his production style has flitted between drum'n'bass, grime, and dubstep. Grime's resurgence, as both a pop and underground phenomenon, has refocused UK music's relationship with dancehall culture, as MCs have increasingly stepped back into the booth. Before grime, though, MCs played a large role in DJ sets, toasting over jungle and UK garage sets. It's this loose, improvisational feel that defines Wasted Days, as vocalists shuffle through tracks Binga has tailored to showcase their slurring patois. Their muddied taunts and boasts offer crucial texture and melody to Binga’s drum-heavy chambers, leaving the tracks in a liminal space between structured song craft and narrative-driven rap. Putting a precise name on Binga’s productions proves difficult. They have the tempos and streamlined tech-y-ness of modern-day drum’n’bass (the album is on Critical Recordings, the pre-eminent home for underground drum’n’bass in 2015), eschewing cut-up breakbeats in favor of sound design. Its slithering melodies and dub-heavy sound recall grime and dubstep, and rap and footwork has seeped into Binga’s work just as it has general UK dance culture. It’s the rare record for which the imprecision of the term "bass music" is a positive. At times Wasted Days feels like someone shined a spotlight into whatever dungy corner Kevin Martin’s the Bug project has inhabited the past few years, fumigating the living room and disinfecting the kitchen. The two share a love for UK soundsystem culture, but Binga’s version is far less blunted and menacing. On tracks like "Mind and Spirit" and the title cut (featuring frequent Martin collaborator Warrior Queen) Binga’s productions advance in sustained, athletic bursts, moving explosively between verses. Opener "Believe" largely consists of a rapid bursts of sub-kicks, leaving plenty of headroom for MCs Redders and Rider Shafique’s id-driven swagger. On "Stormy Weather" and "Reclaim" (which features fellow bass explorer Om Unit) Binga manages to ease off the gas and offer more contemplative work without sounding lame or maudlin. They offer just enough variety, even if the combination of Binga and the MCs suggests harder/better/faster/stronger is the correct impulse. What’s remarkable though is how well Wasted Days comes together, and how easy it is to return to a 17-track collaborative album of indeterminate style; the degree of difficulty in actually pulling this off shouldn’t be understated, and you need look no further than the last Bug album to see how easily this kind of project can bog down. Wasted Days manages to provide a grand stage not just for the MCs but, at last, for Binga’s talents as well.

Artist: Sam Binga, Album: Wasted Days, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Sam Binga's defining characteristic as a producer seems to be generosity. To his fans—he's maintained a frenetic release pace since early last decade (often under his Baobinga alias)—but mostly to other artists, as the majority of those releases feature collaborations with vocalists or other producers. This tends to be the first thing anyone mentions about Binga, and while it's refreshing, especially in electronic music, to see an artistic approach other than Genius Lone Wolf, it's also resulted in a highly variable catalog that has obscured anything resembling a signature touch or sound. Wasted Days, Binga's proper debut record, again features a host of MCs and offers a robust 17 tracks (a four-sided LP version is trimmer) but stands as his most realized and bountiful work yet, synthesizing two decades of UK bass music into something vigorous and modern. Binga is a child of UK rave culture, and his production style has flitted between drum'n'bass, grime, and dubstep. Grime's resurgence, as both a pop and underground phenomenon, has refocused UK music's relationship with dancehall culture, as MCs have increasingly stepped back into the booth. Before grime, though, MCs played a large role in DJ sets, toasting over jungle and UK garage sets. It's this loose, improvisational feel that defines Wasted Days, as vocalists shuffle through tracks Binga has tailored to showcase their slurring patois. Their muddied taunts and boasts offer crucial texture and melody to Binga’s drum-heavy chambers, leaving the tracks in a liminal space between structured song craft and narrative-driven rap. Putting a precise name on Binga’s productions proves difficult. They have the tempos and streamlined tech-y-ness of modern-day drum’n’bass (the album is on Critical Recordings, the pre-eminent home for underground drum’n’bass in 2015), eschewing cut-up breakbeats in favor of sound design. Its slithering melodies and dub-heavy sound recall grime and dubstep, and rap and footwork has seeped into Binga’s work just as it has general UK dance culture. It’s the rare record for which the imprecision of the term "bass music" is a positive. At times Wasted Days feels like someone shined a spotlight into whatever dungy corner Kevin Martin’s the Bug project has inhabited the past few years, fumigating the living room and disinfecting the kitchen. The two share a love for UK soundsystem culture, but Binga’s version is far less blunted and menacing. On tracks like "Mind and Spirit" and the title cut (featuring frequent Martin collaborator Warrior Queen) Binga’s productions advance in sustained, athletic bursts, moving explosively between verses. Opener "Believe" largely consists of a rapid bursts of sub-kicks, leaving plenty of headroom for MCs Redders and Rider Shafique’s id-driven swagger. On "Stormy Weather" and "Reclaim" (which features fellow bass explorer Om Unit) Binga manages to ease off the gas and offer more contemplative work without sounding lame or maudlin. They offer just enough variety, even if the combination of Binga and the MCs suggests harder/better/faster/stronger is the correct impulse. What’s remarkable though is how well Wasted Days comes together, and how easy it is to return to a 17-track collaborative album of indeterminate style; the degree of difficulty in actually pulling this off shouldn’t be understated, and you need look no further than the last Bug album to see how easily this kind of project can bog down. Wasted Days manages to provide a grand stage not just for the MCs but, at last, for Binga’s talents as well."

Susumu Yokota

The Boy and the Tree

Electronic,Global

Mark Richardson

There is a massive iceberg looming underneath the music we know from Susumu Yokota's work with Leaf. In his native Japan he's released an uncountable number of records under many different names in every dance music style imaginable, and this IDM/ambient stuff is seen as an esoteric side project. Meanwhile, though he's never made much of an impact on the stateside dance scene, those interested in more abstract electronics have shown an increasing interest in the ambient series started in the last few years, highlights of which include Sakura and Grinning Cat. I mention Yokota's tangled history to point up that, despite his prodigious output, he never makes the same album twice. Though his records on Leaf sometimes share certain moods and qualities, Yokota is constantly varying arrangements and instrumental textures. With The Boy and the Tree, Yokota discards completely the hushed, patient melodies of Sakura and Grinning Cat and builds most tracks around sampled percussion. The dynamic range is still flat enough for many of these tracks to sound calm and internal, but I would hesitate to use the word "ambient" to describe a good half of this record. Yokota's primary interest on The Boy and the Tree seems to be the emotional quality of percussion as it inhabits an acoustic space. The woodblocks, djembe, and metallic bells that fill up "Live Echo" aren't ordered into particularly interesting patterns, but the way they seem to bounce off the stone enclosures that surround them is intriguing. "Grass, Tree and Stone" has similarly steady and repetitive drums at its core, and it adds the kind of twitching guitar reverb one associates with Ennio Morricone. Both these tracks have buried somewhere in the percussion wailing tribal voices of indeterminate origin. "Plateau on Plateau" also uses loops of processed guitar and voices, but the percussion here comes from bells and what sounds like hands beating on thick leather pads. A few other tracks on The Boy and the Tree follow the same template as the ones I've mentioned, and for the most part, I find this lot to be on the dull side. The tight, unwavering way Yokota has sequenced these loops makes it too easy for them to slip completely into the background. Once the layers fall in and the sounds are set in motion, the pattern basically repeats until Yokoto pulls the plug. The drum sounds chosen come from the family of percussion most of us would associate with collective activity-- improvisations, celebrations, drum circles and the like. And without the variation that comes from communication, the tracks seem flat and lifeless, if sonically impressive. But The Boy in the Tree has a handful of stunning tracks-- Yokota is just too talented for it to be otherwise. The cooing voices on "Secret Garden", though set against an overly repetitive acoustic guitar pattern, are haunting, and Yokota wisely cuts the almost too-beautiful voices with odd swells of noise. And while I can't say "Thread Leads to Heaven" is the most original of tracks (it's basically a minimalist canon thing played on what sounds like a toy organ), I am utterly powerless to resist its wide-eyed charm and simple sense of wonder. So, the mildly curious shouldn't worry about missing this Yokota release. Besides, there will certainly be another one along shortly.

Artist: Susumu Yokota, Album: The Boy and the Tree, Genre: Electronic,Global, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "There is a massive iceberg looming underneath the music we know from Susumu Yokota's work with Leaf. In his native Japan he's released an uncountable number of records under many different names in every dance music style imaginable, and this IDM/ambient stuff is seen as an esoteric side project. Meanwhile, though he's never made much of an impact on the stateside dance scene, those interested in more abstract electronics have shown an increasing interest in the ambient series started in the last few years, highlights of which include Sakura and Grinning Cat. I mention Yokota's tangled history to point up that, despite his prodigious output, he never makes the same album twice. Though his records on Leaf sometimes share certain moods and qualities, Yokota is constantly varying arrangements and instrumental textures. With The Boy and the Tree, Yokota discards completely the hushed, patient melodies of Sakura and Grinning Cat and builds most tracks around sampled percussion. The dynamic range is still flat enough for many of these tracks to sound calm and internal, but I would hesitate to use the word "ambient" to describe a good half of this record. Yokota's primary interest on The Boy and the Tree seems to be the emotional quality of percussion as it inhabits an acoustic space. The woodblocks, djembe, and metallic bells that fill up "Live Echo" aren't ordered into particularly interesting patterns, but the way they seem to bounce off the stone enclosures that surround them is intriguing. "Grass, Tree and Stone" has similarly steady and repetitive drums at its core, and it adds the kind of twitching guitar reverb one associates with Ennio Morricone. Both these tracks have buried somewhere in the percussion wailing tribal voices of indeterminate origin. "Plateau on Plateau" also uses loops of processed guitar and voices, but the percussion here comes from bells and what sounds like hands beating on thick leather pads. A few other tracks on The Boy and the Tree follow the same template as the ones I've mentioned, and for the most part, I find this lot to be on the dull side. The tight, unwavering way Yokota has sequenced these loops makes it too easy for them to slip completely into the background. Once the layers fall in and the sounds are set in motion, the pattern basically repeats until Yokoto pulls the plug. The drum sounds chosen come from the family of percussion most of us would associate with collective activity-- improvisations, celebrations, drum circles and the like. And without the variation that comes from communication, the tracks seem flat and lifeless, if sonically impressive. But The Boy in the Tree has a handful of stunning tracks-- Yokota is just too talented for it to be otherwise. The cooing voices on "Secret Garden", though set against an overly repetitive acoustic guitar pattern, are haunting, and Yokota wisely cuts the almost too-beautiful voices with odd swells of noise. And while I can't say "Thread Leads to Heaven" is the most original of tracks (it's basically a minimalist canon thing played on what sounds like a toy organ), I am utterly powerless to resist its wide-eyed charm and simple sense of wonder. So, the mildly curious shouldn't worry about missing this Yokota release. Besides, there will certainly be another one along shortly."

PARTYNEXTDOOR

PARTYNEXTDOOR 3 (P3)

Pop/R&B

Renato Pagnani

As an aspiring songwriter, Jahron Brathwaite signed a publishing deal with Warner/Chappell at 18. The songs the Mississauga-born artist wrote for other artists before assuming the moniker PARTYNEXTDOOR never found much traction, but after darkening his sound Brathwaite caught the ear of OVO co-founder Oliver El-Khatib in early 2013. Fast-forward a few months and his vocals were floating in the background on Drake’s Nothing Was the Same. Since then, Brathwaite has become one of Drake’s closest collaborators, with writing credits and/or appearances on each of his last three solo releases. Earlier this year, Brathwaite scored his first Billboard No. 1, penning Rihanna’s humid Drake-featuring summer jam “Work,” which spent nine consecutive weeks at the top of the charts. The island vibes of “Work” soak Brathwaite’s third studio album, PARTYNEXTDOOR 3. The album helps prove he’s a lot more than just Drake’s patois advisor. Clothes that don’t quite fit his boss feel effortlessly tailored to Brathwaite: “You heard a lot about Jamaicans, and you wanna know what it’d be like,” he sings with an infectious assuredness on “Don’t Know How;” “Only U” is three minutes of sweat and anticipation erected on top of a skeletal swing; on the cavernous “Not Nice,” he expresses his need to “hold the corner and then slow whine it.” The way physical pleasures intertwine with emotional turmoil encompasses most of Brathwaite’s focus on the album—in Brathwaite’s world, sex is not as a shortcut to intimacy but a reflection of it, even if he has a tendency to latch onto carnality in the absence of intimacy. Given the time PARYNEXTDOOR 3 dedicates to the aftermath of infidelity, that’s pretty often. “Come and See Me” is tuned to more a nuanced frequency, disguising a lament about uneven give-and-take in a relationship in the clothes of an “R U up?” booty-call anthem. Unfortunately, he’s not always as tuned to his partners. “Why do you act like I’m sexist or something, just for calling you sexy?” Brathwaite asks with genuine confusion on “Nothing Easy to Please,” a line suggesting some of his relationship woes might stem from not understanding women quite as well as he thinks. When he claims that “she knows what I have to calm her down” on “Don’t Run,” it’s both a reference to his sexual prowess and the mindful attention of a supportive partner. Once again, helping elevate Brathwaite’s lust is his production. He tucks unexpected elements in spots they may go unnoticed at first—you might not catch the whistling littered throughout “You’ve Been Missed” until the fifth listen, but once registered, it’s just another memorable hook amongst a litany of others. These are the rewards of a studio rat given free reign, where awe is found in the novel arrangement of sounds in space. PARTYNEXTDOOR 3 is stuffed with such moments: the random drops of water punctuating “High Hopes;” the rusted pipes that act as percussion on “Nobody;” the Carlos Santana-esque guitars that weave in and out of “Spiteful. ”And then there’s “Brown Skin,” which could go toe to toe with anything from Fade to Mind’s catalog, and Brathwaite never once sounds unsure of his footing on the track’s ever-shifting surface. The downside: left unchecked, this freedom can devolve into self-indulgence. There’s absolutely no need for opener “High Hopes” to be over seven minutes long, and on “Problems & Selfless” the atmosphere crosses the line that separates intoxicating from suffocating. When Brathwaite decides to let a song breathe, though, it usually works to his advantage, giving something that clicks room to simmer a bit longer without overstaying its welcome.  On P3, he has earned the right to stretch the edges of a sound that now feels uniquely his.

Artist: PARTYNEXTDOOR, Album: PARTYNEXTDOOR 3 (P3), Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "As an aspiring songwriter, Jahron Brathwaite signed a publishing deal with Warner/Chappell at 18. The songs the Mississauga-born artist wrote for other artists before assuming the moniker PARTYNEXTDOOR never found much traction, but after darkening his sound Brathwaite caught the ear of OVO co-founder Oliver El-Khatib in early 2013. Fast-forward a few months and his vocals were floating in the background on Drake’s Nothing Was the Same. Since then, Brathwaite has become one of Drake’s closest collaborators, with writing credits and/or appearances on each of his last three solo releases. Earlier this year, Brathwaite scored his first Billboard No. 1, penning Rihanna’s humid Drake-featuring summer jam “Work,” which spent nine consecutive weeks at the top of the charts. The island vibes of “Work” soak Brathwaite’s third studio album, PARTYNEXTDOOR 3. The album helps prove he’s a lot more than just Drake’s patois advisor. Clothes that don’t quite fit his boss feel effortlessly tailored to Brathwaite: “You heard a lot about Jamaicans, and you wanna know what it’d be like,” he sings with an infectious assuredness on “Don’t Know How;” “Only U” is three minutes of sweat and anticipation erected on top of a skeletal swing; on the cavernous “Not Nice,” he expresses his need to “hold the corner and then slow whine it.” The way physical pleasures intertwine with emotional turmoil encompasses most of Brathwaite’s focus on the album—in Brathwaite’s world, sex is not as a shortcut to intimacy but a reflection of it, even if he has a tendency to latch onto carnality in the absence of intimacy. Given the time PARYNEXTDOOR 3 dedicates to the aftermath of infidelity, that’s pretty often. “Come and See Me” is tuned to more a nuanced frequency, disguising a lament about uneven give-and-take in a relationship in the clothes of an “R U up?” booty-call anthem. Unfortunately, he’s not always as tuned to his partners. “Why do you act like I’m sexist or something, just for calling you sexy?” Brathwaite asks with genuine confusion on “Nothing Easy to Please,” a line suggesting some of his relationship woes might stem from not understanding women quite as well as he thinks. When he claims that “she knows what I have to calm her down” on “Don’t Run,” it’s both a reference to his sexual prowess and the mindful attention of a supportive partner. Once again, helping elevate Brathwaite’s lust is his production. He tucks unexpected elements in spots they may go unnoticed at first—you might not catch the whistling littered throughout “You’ve Been Missed” until the fifth listen, but once registered, it’s just another memorable hook amongst a litany of others. These are the rewards of a studio rat given free reign, where awe is found in the novel arrangement of sounds in space. PARTYNEXTDOOR 3 is stuffed with such moments: the random drops of water punctuating “High Hopes;” the rusted pipes that act as percussion on “Nobody;” the Carlos Santana-esque guitars that weave in and out of “Spiteful. ”And then there’s “Brown Skin,” which could go toe to toe with anything from Fade to Mind’s catalog, and Brathwaite never once sounds unsure of his footing on the track’s ever-shifting surface. The downside: left unchecked, this freedom can devolve into self-indulgence. There’s absolutely no need for opener “High Hopes” to be over seven minutes long, and on “Problems & Selfless” the atmosphere crosses the line that separates intoxicating from suffocating. When Brathwaite decides to let a song breathe, though, it usually works to his advantage, giving something that clicks room to simmer a bit longer without overstaying its welcome.  On P3, he has earned the right to stretch the edges of a sound that now feels uniquely his."

Wolf Eyes

I Am a Problem: Mind in Pieces

Experimental

Marc Masters

Wolf Eyes have always had a B-movie aura. They’re like the Roger Corman of underground music, churning out releases, inspiring other low-budget noise-auteurs, galvanizing scenes both locally in Michigan and globally in festivals and collaborations. Many of their blunt album titles have a schlock-horror feel: Slicer, Dread, Burned Mind, Human Animal. That feel is in the music too. At turns scary, funny, dramatic, and transfixing, Wolf Eyes’ morphing sound has one constant: creepy, thick tension. The trio’s B-movie game is in full effect on I Am a Problem: Mind in Pieces, whose title sounds like either a pulpy confessional or a campy drug-education filmstrip. Song names feel like lost movies too: "T.O.D.D." as killer-robot sci-fi, "Asbestos Youth" as mean-streets teen flick, "Cynthia Vortex AKA Trip Memory Illness" as LSD-soaked journey into madness. Lyrics reference drowning heads, toxic thoughts, burning hairs, suffocation cages. If this album getting released the day before Halloween is a coincidence, it sure is a lucky one. Most importantly, the music on I Am a Problem: Mind in Pieces contains all the ominous suspense of a classic horror movie. Each track oozes with eerie tones and seat-edge momentum, such that something terrifying seems to always lurk around the corner. The album even mimics the narrative arc of a thriller: the first few tracks gradually heighten the plot, until action explodes in the damaged-punk climax of "Enemy Ladder" and its tale of "twisted lands of severed hands." The denouement of "Cynthia Vortex" follows, ending with singer Nate Young’s chopped-up groans that evoke a victim’s final gasps of air. Though he’s an equal partner in sound-crime with bandmates John Olson and James Baljo, Young is the star of I Am a Problem’s cinematic tremors. His jaw-clenched snarls and subliminal seething get under your skin. Razor-like moans in "Twister Nightfall" curl sharply around a monster-march beat and Baljo’s guitar grind, while Olson’s creaky noises on "T.O.D.D." rhyme with Young’s yelps. Even on "Enemy Ladder", where frantic rhythms swirl into a cloud, Young's bark center things like the piercing eye of a pulsing storm. Beyond his own vocal dexterity, Young’s recent move toward more subdued music in his solo work (often under the name Regression) has steered Wolf Eyes to a place where small shifts can make huge ripples, and hypnosis is as powerful as confrontation. One of the best Regression albums is aptly titled Stay Asleep, and Young has developed a keen knack for sonically replicating nightmares—"I burn my dreams just to stay warm," he sings in "T.O.D.D."—and making gripping music from dark shadows and subtle motion. In fact, I Am a Problem: Mind in Pieces may be too somnambulant for noise-hounding Wolf Eyes heads, or newcomers impatient for quicker cuts to the chase. You have to sit still a while and let the trio’s sonic images wash over you before their musical zombies rise from the dead to terrorize the stereo space. But give this album a fraction of the patience and attention that Wolf Eyes have put into it—effort on a par with their excellent previous effort, No Answer: Lower Floors—and you’ll be glad you stayed up late enough to see how it ends.

Artist: Wolf Eyes, Album: I Am a Problem: Mind in Pieces, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Wolf Eyes have always had a B-movie aura. They’re like the Roger Corman of underground music, churning out releases, inspiring other low-budget noise-auteurs, galvanizing scenes both locally in Michigan and globally in festivals and collaborations. Many of their blunt album titles have a schlock-horror feel: Slicer, Dread, Burned Mind, Human Animal. That feel is in the music too. At turns scary, funny, dramatic, and transfixing, Wolf Eyes’ morphing sound has one constant: creepy, thick tension. The trio’s B-movie game is in full effect on I Am a Problem: Mind in Pieces, whose title sounds like either a pulpy confessional or a campy drug-education filmstrip. Song names feel like lost movies too: "T.O.D.D." as killer-robot sci-fi, "Asbestos Youth" as mean-streets teen flick, "Cynthia Vortex AKA Trip Memory Illness" as LSD-soaked journey into madness. Lyrics reference drowning heads, toxic thoughts, burning hairs, suffocation cages. If this album getting released the day before Halloween is a coincidence, it sure is a lucky one. Most importantly, the music on I Am a Problem: Mind in Pieces contains all the ominous suspense of a classic horror movie. Each track oozes with eerie tones and seat-edge momentum, such that something terrifying seems to always lurk around the corner. The album even mimics the narrative arc of a thriller: the first few tracks gradually heighten the plot, until action explodes in the damaged-punk climax of "Enemy Ladder" and its tale of "twisted lands of severed hands." The denouement of "Cynthia Vortex" follows, ending with singer Nate Young’s chopped-up groans that evoke a victim’s final gasps of air. Though he’s an equal partner in sound-crime with bandmates John Olson and James Baljo, Young is the star of I Am a Problem’s cinematic tremors. His jaw-clenched snarls and subliminal seething get under your skin. Razor-like moans in "Twister Nightfall" curl sharply around a monster-march beat and Baljo’s guitar grind, while Olson’s creaky noises on "T.O.D.D." rhyme with Young’s yelps. Even on "Enemy Ladder", where frantic rhythms swirl into a cloud, Young's bark center things like the piercing eye of a pulsing storm. Beyond his own vocal dexterity, Young’s recent move toward more subdued music in his solo work (often under the name Regression) has steered Wolf Eyes to a place where small shifts can make huge ripples, and hypnosis is as powerful as confrontation. One of the best Regression albums is aptly titled Stay Asleep, and Young has developed a keen knack for sonically replicating nightmares—"I burn my dreams just to stay warm," he sings in "T.O.D.D."—and making gripping music from dark shadows and subtle motion. In fact, I Am a Problem: Mind in Pieces may be too somnambulant for noise-hounding Wolf Eyes heads, or newcomers impatient for quicker cuts to the chase. You have to sit still a while and let the trio’s sonic images wash over you before their musical zombies rise from the dead to terrorize the stereo space. But give this album a fraction of the patience and attention that Wolf Eyes have put into it—effort on a par with their excellent previous effort, No Answer: Lower Floors—and you’ll be glad you stayed up late enough to see how it ends."

Buraka Som Sistema

Black Diamond

Electronic

Tom Ewing

Buraka Som Sistema play kuduro, an Angolan take on dance music that's an example of what British critic Matt Ingram calls "Shanty House": urbanized, globalized street and club music splicing hip-hop and rave DNA with local mutations to create dynamic pidgin sounds. Kuduro, which mixes rai and soca rhythms with local MCing and salvaged electronics, is the product of the same kind of environment and pressure that produced baile funk in Rio and kwaito in South Africa-- musics which make good touchpoints for kuduro's breakneck appeal. It was born in the Angolan capital Luanda and quickly jumped along post-colonial transmission lines to Lisbon, home of Buraka Som Sistema. The Buraka sound has been picked up by global tastemakers like Diplo and M.I.A., and debut album Black Diamond gives the crew an opportunity to show how kuduro works at fuller stretch-- and whether it can survive outside its specific locality. Kuduro is a pun on Angola slang for "hard ass"-- much of Black Diamond takes this as an operating principle. Buraka Som Sistema tracks often have the marvelous thickness of early jungle, that sense of pushing through electronic thickets, senses on hyper-alert. But their rhythmic template is more often the relentless bounce of soca. Soca's perpetual chirpiness makes it an acquired taste, but there's no denying its kinetic power, and blended with Buraka's harder beats and harsher sounds it becomes a fearsome engine for their music. The first few tracks are both introduction and pummeling workout-- the frantic M.I.A. team-up "Sound of Kuduro" sets the tone for highlights "Aqui Para Voces" and "Kalemba (Wegue Wegue)", which are less chaotic but even more exhilarating. Opener "Luanda/Lisboa" starts with a keyboard throb that sounds like a generator powering up to the band can get enough juice to even play, and what's so attractive about the album is its constant flirtation with collapse-- everything's so furious, so quick-changing, so ramshackle that its tracks sound half-improvised. New riffs, bleeps and blurts constantly intrude, upsetting a tune's direction: the transitions between tracks are more like collisions. A song like "IC19" spends a while groping for a viable rhythm before rattling off on a chassis built from old school rave, dodging blasts of electro like oncoming traffic, before suddenly switching into the trancier, dirtier "Tiroza". Which in turn breaks down into what sounds like Portuguese folk music played on a crackly radio, a tune that becomes the digitally-tweaked basis for "General"-- a song that halfway through bursts into a gloriously goofy ringtone melody. "General" is a good example of the group's more playful and atmospheric side, which emerges again when the tempo drops on the two-part "New Africas": their rumbling drum patterns show that the group's electro-world fusions survive a change in pace, but the somewhat mystical voiceover is an uneasy fit with the rest of the record's sharpness. Then again, not speaking Portuguese means I can't get the political references which are a big part of kuduro's Angolan appeal. As a sop to tourists like me, DJ Lil John has talked in interviews about how the band treat the voice as a percussive instrument, and it's an approach that works, with Kano's anglophone guest spot on "Skank & Move" an unwelcome spell-breaker. But even if you don't have the language skills to get their full story, Buraka Som Sistema are worth your time: Black Diamond is one of the fiercest dance records in recent memory.

Artist: Buraka Som Sistema, Album: Black Diamond, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Buraka Som Sistema play kuduro, an Angolan take on dance music that's an example of what British critic Matt Ingram calls "Shanty House": urbanized, globalized street and club music splicing hip-hop and rave DNA with local mutations to create dynamic pidgin sounds. Kuduro, which mixes rai and soca rhythms with local MCing and salvaged electronics, is the product of the same kind of environment and pressure that produced baile funk in Rio and kwaito in South Africa-- musics which make good touchpoints for kuduro's breakneck appeal. It was born in the Angolan capital Luanda and quickly jumped along post-colonial transmission lines to Lisbon, home of Buraka Som Sistema. The Buraka sound has been picked up by global tastemakers like Diplo and M.I.A., and debut album Black Diamond gives the crew an opportunity to show how kuduro works at fuller stretch-- and whether it can survive outside its specific locality. Kuduro is a pun on Angola slang for "hard ass"-- much of Black Diamond takes this as an operating principle. Buraka Som Sistema tracks often have the marvelous thickness of early jungle, that sense of pushing through electronic thickets, senses on hyper-alert. But their rhythmic template is more often the relentless bounce of soca. Soca's perpetual chirpiness makes it an acquired taste, but there's no denying its kinetic power, and blended with Buraka's harder beats and harsher sounds it becomes a fearsome engine for their music. The first few tracks are both introduction and pummeling workout-- the frantic M.I.A. team-up "Sound of Kuduro" sets the tone for highlights "Aqui Para Voces" and "Kalemba (Wegue Wegue)", which are less chaotic but even more exhilarating. Opener "Luanda/Lisboa" starts with a keyboard throb that sounds like a generator powering up to the band can get enough juice to even play, and what's so attractive about the album is its constant flirtation with collapse-- everything's so furious, so quick-changing, so ramshackle that its tracks sound half-improvised. New riffs, bleeps and blurts constantly intrude, upsetting a tune's direction: the transitions between tracks are more like collisions. A song like "IC19" spends a while groping for a viable rhythm before rattling off on a chassis built from old school rave, dodging blasts of electro like oncoming traffic, before suddenly switching into the trancier, dirtier "Tiroza". Which in turn breaks down into what sounds like Portuguese folk music played on a crackly radio, a tune that becomes the digitally-tweaked basis for "General"-- a song that halfway through bursts into a gloriously goofy ringtone melody. "General" is a good example of the group's more playful and atmospheric side, which emerges again when the tempo drops on the two-part "New Africas": their rumbling drum patterns show that the group's electro-world fusions survive a change in pace, but the somewhat mystical voiceover is an uneasy fit with the rest of the record's sharpness. Then again, not speaking Portuguese means I can't get the political references which are a big part of kuduro's Angolan appeal. As a sop to tourists like me, DJ Lil John has talked in interviews about how the band treat the voice as a percussive instrument, and it's an approach that works, with Kano's anglophone guest spot on "Skank & Move" an unwelcome spell-breaker. But even if you don't have the language skills to get their full story, Buraka Som Sistema are worth your time: Black Diamond is one of the fiercest dance records in recent memory."

Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, and Ray Price

Last of the Breed

Stephen M. Deusner

Between them, Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, and Ray Price have been recording and touring for more than 150 years: Nelson made his name as a DJ and songwriter in the 1950s, when Ray was establishing his own career as a smooth crooner and Haggard was getting ready to parlay his prison experience into one of the most successful country careers of the 60s and 70s. During that time they've collaborated repeatedly, most notably on Nelson and Haggard's Pancho & Lefty in 1980 and Nelson and Price's San Antonio Rose in 1990 and Run That By Me One More Time in 2003. They're so woven into the fabric of country music and popular culture that the title Last of the Breed doesn't come off as a self-aggrandizing boast. In fact, that title might as well apply to the 22 tracks on this 2xCD set instead of the artists singing them. Besides the two new-ish compositions by Nelson and Haggard, these songs are calculable in age by decades, credited to the swinging pens of Cindy Walker, Lefty Frizzell, Floyd Tillman, Jesse Ashlock, and Harlan Howard, among others. In such company, Kris Kristofferson, represented here by "Why Me", counts as a young buck. These are simple, direct songs with easy melodies, witty lyrics, and true-to-life sentiments-- generally perceived to be the kind spurned by mainstream country musicians. Nashville still has its share of talented songwriters, but the myth of the good ol' days is nice and reassuring, allowing listeners to disregard contemporary country wholesale. On Last of the Breed, which accompanies a well-received joint tour with Asleep at the Wheel as their backing band, these three grizzled vets sound supremely comfortable, trading verses and songs with easy camaraderie. Even at 81, Price still sounds robust, especially on "My Life's Been a Pleasure", and the grizzled texture just adds seen-it-all authority to Merle's voice, especially on his new composition "Sweet Jesus". Willie's infamous against-the-meter phrasing has always sounded extemporaneous, as if even he doesn't know what his voice will do next; even when he slurs his lines on "My Mary" and "Mom and Dad's Waltz", he still shows an intuitively loose control that hasn't diminished with age. Their distinct voices combine gracefully on "Sweet Memories" and "I Love You Because", but they sound best on Kristofferson's "Why Me". That song has always seemed like a solitary prayer (especially on Johnny Cash's lonely American Recordings version), but sung by a veteran trio, it almost sounds like a career retrospective, as if they're humbled by their large audience, long legacies, and close friendship. Producer Fred Foster, returning after Nelson's 2006 Cindy Walker tribute, shows a light touch on these songs, creating a light, loping backdrop that lacks the snap of his previous work. Despite the presence of a crack backing band that includes pedal steel master Buddy Emmons and backing vocals by the Jordanaires, Last of the Breed never seems as good as it should be: there are fine versions of strong songs, but not a single definitive take. "Lost Highway" comes close, as do "Heartaches by the Number" and "Goin' Away Party", but most of these songs sound like the trio are trying to re-create a style long past rather anchor these songs in the here and now. That retrospective orientation is strange because none of these artists could be accused of being stuck in the past; in fact, their willingness to adapt to new styles without compromising their standards is partly what makes them the last of their breed. So it's a shame Last of the Breed isn't better-- not only do they have a lot to say about these old songs, they also have a lot to say through them.

Artist: Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, and Ray Price, Album: Last of the Breed, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "Between them, Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, and Ray Price have been recording and touring for more than 150 years: Nelson made his name as a DJ and songwriter in the 1950s, when Ray was establishing his own career as a smooth crooner and Haggard was getting ready to parlay his prison experience into one of the most successful country careers of the 60s and 70s. During that time they've collaborated repeatedly, most notably on Nelson and Haggard's Pancho & Lefty in 1980 and Nelson and Price's San Antonio Rose in 1990 and Run That By Me One More Time in 2003. They're so woven into the fabric of country music and popular culture that the title Last of the Breed doesn't come off as a self-aggrandizing boast. In fact, that title might as well apply to the 22 tracks on this 2xCD set instead of the artists singing them. Besides the two new-ish compositions by Nelson and Haggard, these songs are calculable in age by decades, credited to the swinging pens of Cindy Walker, Lefty Frizzell, Floyd Tillman, Jesse Ashlock, and Harlan Howard, among others. In such company, Kris Kristofferson, represented here by "Why Me", counts as a young buck. These are simple, direct songs with easy melodies, witty lyrics, and true-to-life sentiments-- generally perceived to be the kind spurned by mainstream country musicians. Nashville still has its share of talented songwriters, but the myth of the good ol' days is nice and reassuring, allowing listeners to disregard contemporary country wholesale. On Last of the Breed, which accompanies a well-received joint tour with Asleep at the Wheel as their backing band, these three grizzled vets sound supremely comfortable, trading verses and songs with easy camaraderie. Even at 81, Price still sounds robust, especially on "My Life's Been a Pleasure", and the grizzled texture just adds seen-it-all authority to Merle's voice, especially on his new composition "Sweet Jesus". Willie's infamous against-the-meter phrasing has always sounded extemporaneous, as if even he doesn't know what his voice will do next; even when he slurs his lines on "My Mary" and "Mom and Dad's Waltz", he still shows an intuitively loose control that hasn't diminished with age. Their distinct voices combine gracefully on "Sweet Memories" and "I Love You Because", but they sound best on Kristofferson's "Why Me". That song has always seemed like a solitary prayer (especially on Johnny Cash's lonely American Recordings version), but sung by a veteran trio, it almost sounds like a career retrospective, as if they're humbled by their large audience, long legacies, and close friendship. Producer Fred Foster, returning after Nelson's 2006 Cindy Walker tribute, shows a light touch on these songs, creating a light, loping backdrop that lacks the snap of his previous work. Despite the presence of a crack backing band that includes pedal steel master Buddy Emmons and backing vocals by the Jordanaires, Last of the Breed never seems as good as it should be: there are fine versions of strong songs, but not a single definitive take. "Lost Highway" comes close, as do "Heartaches by the Number" and "Goin' Away Party", but most of these songs sound like the trio are trying to re-create a style long past rather anchor these songs in the here and now. That retrospective orientation is strange because none of these artists could be accused of being stuck in the past; in fact, their willingness to adapt to new styles without compromising their standards is partly what makes them the last of their breed. So it's a shame Last of the Breed isn't better-- not only do they have a lot to say about these old songs, they also have a lot to say through them."

Mr. Lif

I Heard It Today

Rap

Jayson Greene

If Kanye West came into the game as "the first with a Benz and a backpack," then Mr. Lif was surely "the first with dreadlocks and Harry Potter glasses." The thoughtful, earnest, and unapologetically cerebral Bostonian might be a prototypical "rapper that liberal arts kids like," but he's also ferociously on-point and prodigiously skilled. His last full-length, Mo'Mega, winningly mixed warnings about government conspiracies and mind control with disarming odes to his unborn children and truly unexpected feminine-hygiene advice. On new album I Heard It Today, he takes this autobiographical tack a step further, fashioning each song as a sort of unfiltered blog-entry reaction to the news as it happens. He wrote, recorded, and released to blogs the songs on the record over the course of fall 2008, as the economy plummeted, election fever set in, and Barack Obama won the Presidency. Lif's intentions-- to heat up his politics with personal immediacy-- are admirable, but the result, unfortunately, recreates a bit too successfully how it might feel to read a Mr. Lif Huffington Post column. The successes and failures divide pretty evenly into songs that benefit from the sense they were spilled out in one long breath and ones that feel like they were written on a napkin minutes before recording. "Welcome to the World" and "What About Us?" were penned, as Lif tells us in the liner notes, as responses to the collapse of the world economy and the bailout plan, respectively, and they are sincerely aggrieved, gut-level blasts that benefit from the surging beats (by some dude named, no joke, Batsauce) that nicely recreate the sort of muscular apocalypse-rap Lif was rhyming over on the Emergency Rations EP. Other songs fall prey to the Cornel West rap-album-as-seminar problem, where Lif get so worked up he sort of forgets he's supposed to be rapping: "It hurts that even our most prestigious leaders cannot shun what these centuries of hatred have done" or "They were willing to give people with bad credit loans because they knew within a few years, we're out of our homes and they can buy up all the same properties" might be salient points, but they don't exactly make for natural-sounding lines. Which brings us to the other problem: Lif's always had passion and verbal dexterity to burn, but his lyrics typically don't offer much that you can't gather from your first Propagandhi album or an Alan Moore graphic novel. It doesn't help that he still insists on saying things like "We should use our mind power to collapse the walls." He also remains touchingly convinced that his decision to wear dreadlocks is controversial in any way, shape, or form: "While I'm walking down the street, I see it all the time/ People looking at me like my dreads are a crime/ They signify the fact that I refuse to conform/ And I rock 'em real thick, cuz I'm allergic to the norm." His most thoughtful moment on I Heard It Today comes on "Head High", where his indignation cools a bit and and he gets reflective: "It hurts me to the marrow when I drive through the ghetto/ And see my peoples caught up in a life that won't let go/ And what's weird is/Few of them will hear this/ Melody I'm pouring from my heart so fearless." It's moments like these that make Lif so appealing: he might be touring the Seven Sisters college circuit for the rest of his career, but he embraces his turf wholeheartedly and raps with palpable zeal and conviction. Unfortunately, the ratio of thoughtful zeal to clunky screed this time around is decidedly not in his favor.

Artist: Mr. Lif, Album: I Heard It Today, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 5.3 Album review: "If Kanye West came into the game as "the first with a Benz and a backpack," then Mr. Lif was surely "the first with dreadlocks and Harry Potter glasses." The thoughtful, earnest, and unapologetically cerebral Bostonian might be a prototypical "rapper that liberal arts kids like," but he's also ferociously on-point and prodigiously skilled. His last full-length, Mo'Mega, winningly mixed warnings about government conspiracies and mind control with disarming odes to his unborn children and truly unexpected feminine-hygiene advice. On new album I Heard It Today, he takes this autobiographical tack a step further, fashioning each song as a sort of unfiltered blog-entry reaction to the news as it happens. He wrote, recorded, and released to blogs the songs on the record over the course of fall 2008, as the economy plummeted, election fever set in, and Barack Obama won the Presidency. Lif's intentions-- to heat up his politics with personal immediacy-- are admirable, but the result, unfortunately, recreates a bit too successfully how it might feel to read a Mr. Lif Huffington Post column. The successes and failures divide pretty evenly into songs that benefit from the sense they were spilled out in one long breath and ones that feel like they were written on a napkin minutes before recording. "Welcome to the World" and "What About Us?" were penned, as Lif tells us in the liner notes, as responses to the collapse of the world economy and the bailout plan, respectively, and they are sincerely aggrieved, gut-level blasts that benefit from the surging beats (by some dude named, no joke, Batsauce) that nicely recreate the sort of muscular apocalypse-rap Lif was rhyming over on the Emergency Rations EP. Other songs fall prey to the Cornel West rap-album-as-seminar problem, where Lif get so worked up he sort of forgets he's supposed to be rapping: "It hurts that even our most prestigious leaders cannot shun what these centuries of hatred have done" or "They were willing to give people with bad credit loans because they knew within a few years, we're out of our homes and they can buy up all the same properties" might be salient points, but they don't exactly make for natural-sounding lines. Which brings us to the other problem: Lif's always had passion and verbal dexterity to burn, but his lyrics typically don't offer much that you can't gather from your first Propagandhi album or an Alan Moore graphic novel. It doesn't help that he still insists on saying things like "We should use our mind power to collapse the walls." He also remains touchingly convinced that his decision to wear dreadlocks is controversial in any way, shape, or form: "While I'm walking down the street, I see it all the time/ People looking at me like my dreads are a crime/ They signify the fact that I refuse to conform/ And I rock 'em real thick, cuz I'm allergic to the norm." His most thoughtful moment on I Heard It Today comes on "Head High", where his indignation cools a bit and and he gets reflective: "It hurts me to the marrow when I drive through the ghetto/ And see my peoples caught up in a life that won't let go/ And what's weird is/Few of them will hear this/ Melody I'm pouring from my heart so fearless." It's moments like these that make Lif so appealing: he might be touring the Seven Sisters college circuit for the rest of his career, but he embraces his turf wholeheartedly and raps with palpable zeal and conviction. Unfortunately, the ratio of thoughtful zeal to clunky screed this time around is decidedly not in his favor."

Lee Fields & the Expressions

My World

Pop/R&B

Joe Tangari

Lee Fields is the real deal. The revival of old-school funk and soul sounds that began with Desco Records in New York and bands like Germany's Poets of Rhythm in the 1990s has produced a lot of fantastic throwback music, some of which stands right alongside the real thing from the late 60s and early 70s. Sharon Jones may be the queen of American revivalist soul, but what's easy to forget is that Jones was discovered by Phillip Lehman and Gabriel Roth singing backup for Fields on a session in the mid-90s. Fields cut his first 45 in 1969, a series of follow-ups on tiny labels in the 70s, then recorded an album in 1979 before disappearing for most of the 80s. He recorded a few albums for Ace in the 90s before landing at Desco and its offspring, Daptone and Soul Fire. Now he's with Truth & Soul, and that crew, led by Leon (aka El) Michels, has helped him create one smoking mother of an old-sound soul record. There's a subtle hint of hip-hop in this brand of deep soul, but for the most part, it sounds like something that easily could have come out of some imaginary mid-point between Stax, Muscle Shoals, and Philadelphia International in about 1971. A few of the Southern-style ballads on My World are simply stunning, especially "Honey Dove". This is at least the third time he's recorded the song, and this version is a total bomb-- Fields sweats through every second as the guitar channels Steve Cropper, horns and a small string section drift through the languid rhythm, and Homer Steinweiss lays down a perfectly understated and sharp drum part. Steinweiss and the rest of the Expressions clearly feel this music and don't sound like mere imitators. They serve up an inventive arrangement on the moralistic funk track "Money I$ King", which is essentially through-composed-- the horns constantly shift, working up to a dissonant finale. The haunting backing vocals, bells, and shivering strings that color the cover of the Supremes' "My World Is Empty Without You" show a lot of imagination and a willingness to interpret a stone classic rather than simply parroting it. "Love Comes and Goes", with its big harmony vocal on the chorus, also takes the form out of its box a little. Fields has been sampled a number of times by hip-hop artists, and he and the Expressions seem to invite another heist on the title track, offering up a tasty drum break and a supremely moody rhythm track that drips with vibraphone and pitch-black guitar. Even the instrumental "Expressions Theme" is solid, playing like a descendant of Young-Holt Unlimited's "Soulful Strut" and Willie Mitchell's solo LPs for Hi. For about 40 minutes, My World is like taking a trip back almost five decades. It loses a bit of steam at the end, but if there was any doubt Fields was still the real deal 40 years after his first record, this should obliterate it. My World is a throwback done right.

Artist: Lee Fields & the Expressions, Album: My World, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Lee Fields is the real deal. The revival of old-school funk and soul sounds that began with Desco Records in New York and bands like Germany's Poets of Rhythm in the 1990s has produced a lot of fantastic throwback music, some of which stands right alongside the real thing from the late 60s and early 70s. Sharon Jones may be the queen of American revivalist soul, but what's easy to forget is that Jones was discovered by Phillip Lehman and Gabriel Roth singing backup for Fields on a session in the mid-90s. Fields cut his first 45 in 1969, a series of follow-ups on tiny labels in the 70s, then recorded an album in 1979 before disappearing for most of the 80s. He recorded a few albums for Ace in the 90s before landing at Desco and its offspring, Daptone and Soul Fire. Now he's with Truth & Soul, and that crew, led by Leon (aka El) Michels, has helped him create one smoking mother of an old-sound soul record. There's a subtle hint of hip-hop in this brand of deep soul, but for the most part, it sounds like something that easily could have come out of some imaginary mid-point between Stax, Muscle Shoals, and Philadelphia International in about 1971. A few of the Southern-style ballads on My World are simply stunning, especially "Honey Dove". This is at least the third time he's recorded the song, and this version is a total bomb-- Fields sweats through every second as the guitar channels Steve Cropper, horns and a small string section drift through the languid rhythm, and Homer Steinweiss lays down a perfectly understated and sharp drum part. Steinweiss and the rest of the Expressions clearly feel this music and don't sound like mere imitators. They serve up an inventive arrangement on the moralistic funk track "Money I$ King", which is essentially through-composed-- the horns constantly shift, working up to a dissonant finale. The haunting backing vocals, bells, and shivering strings that color the cover of the Supremes' "My World Is Empty Without You" show a lot of imagination and a willingness to interpret a stone classic rather than simply parroting it. "Love Comes and Goes", with its big harmony vocal on the chorus, also takes the form out of its box a little. Fields has been sampled a number of times by hip-hop artists, and he and the Expressions seem to invite another heist on the title track, offering up a tasty drum break and a supremely moody rhythm track that drips with vibraphone and pitch-black guitar. Even the instrumental "Expressions Theme" is solid, playing like a descendant of Young-Holt Unlimited's "Soulful Strut" and Willie Mitchell's solo LPs for Hi. For about 40 minutes, My World is like taking a trip back almost five decades. It loses a bit of steam at the end, but if there was any doubt Fields was still the real deal 40 years after his first record, this should obliterate it. My World is a throwback done right."

Wiz Khalifa

Blacc Hollywood

Rap

Craig Jenkins

Wiz Khalifa’s half-decade tenure as Snoop Dogg’s weed rap heir apparent has been restless: after scoring his first hit with the Pittsburgh Steelers anthem “Black and Yellow”, he followed up with Cabin Fever, a collaboration with Flockaveli architect Lex Luger, and Rolling Papers, with ebullient pop-minded production from ‘Burgh locals I.D. Labs and dance-pop whizzes StarGate. Cabin Fever 2 matched wares with Bay Area production squad The Invasion and L.A. rapper Problem, then O.N.I.F.C. traded it all in for plush, moneyed cloud rap. On this spring’s 28 Grams, it was back to the trap, and Wiz’s third album Blacc Hollywood nobly attempts to pin these rangy genre excursions down onto a single album. From the smooth jack of Ghost Loft’s Kitsuné America 2 single “So High” to ace placements from radio titan Dr. Luke and usual suspects I.D. Labs and Sledgren, Blacc Hollywood’s production choices are inspired—but you could never mistake it for possessing an adventurous streak, thanks to the waxen array of prurient drug raps at center stage. It’s possible for an artist to be too on brand, and Wiz’s music is almost monomaniacally obsessed with outlining how much weed he has amassed and his plans for burning through it. He’s got his own strain of Afghan kush (“KK”), he breaks it up with a grinder (“So High”), he smokes it out of his own brand of rolling papers (“Raw”), he does this every day (“Stayin Out All Night”), sometimes in his car. (“We Dem Boyz”). Blacc Hollywood is a blur of late night bottle service orders and wake-n-bake seshes that imparts more elite weedhead bonafides than hopes or dreams. But people don’t come to a Wiz Khalifa album to plunder the mysteries of the heart—they come to party. The issue, then, is that Wiz doesn’t sound like the guy rocking the party so much as the one out back baked as shit and melting into a couch. There’s a wispy resignation in his voice and a faint, noncommittal thread in the songwriting that sends a few of these songs across the line from pop accessibility to plasticity. “Hope” invites a group of gold-digging clubgoers to “Come fuck with the stoner and get stoned.” “The Sleaze” informs us that Wiz “Just copped the newest thing” and “did it with ease,” without divulging what, exactly, he bought. “So High” caps every line with an enthused “Uh-huh” refrain, but rather than wringing humor or menace from the device (a la Juvenile’s classic “Ha”) Wiz hurtles a stream of minutiae about what happens after he lights up. (“In my car, uh-huh/ Cruisin’ down the street, uh-huh/ So stoned I’ma need something to eat, uh-huh”) Sometimes the pared down songwriting approach succeeds. “Raw” rides twinkling synths and 808s with a spirited Gucci Mane flow so in pocket you forget it’s kind of a commercial. Lead single “We Dem Boyz” delivers the album’s biggest, easiest thrill by dispensing with rapping almost entirely, sliding into a pillowy Detail production with a dash of Auto-Tune and a lyric sheet largely comprised of the titular chant: “Hol’ up, hol’ up, hol’ up, we dem boyz!” Wiz isn’t a character possessed of the right mixture of slapstick and real danger to pull this kind of rarefied goon posturing off without a wink, but the absurdity is easily half the fun. Elsewhere, Khalifa wins when he calls in a friend. “House in the Hills” reunites him with How Fly costar Curren$y for an aspirational banger that’s home to some of the album’s best pure rapping. “KK” avoids disaster by turning its second half over to Memphis drug rap legends Juicy J and Project Pat. Taylor Gang newbie Ty Dolla $ign’s blithe hooks on “Hope” and “Still Down” are among the album’s best, and Nicki Minaj’s assist on verse three of album closer “True Colors” curtly immolates just about everything that came before it. Wiz fares much better when challenged, and the more real estate he cedes to guests, the less opportunities he’s afforded to trip himself up. Blacc Hollywood is peak Khalifa—bleary eyed, genteel and, eager to please—but these qualities are just as often foibles as strengths, as a glut of pop-rap neck-massages bears out. Melodies coast, but they don’t always stick; everything’s too mannered, too clean, and the album is marred by a clinicality further punctuated by its bonus tracks. Cuts like “You and Your Friends” and “On Me” are looser and dirtier than anything on the album proper, and while the “We Dem Boyz” remix guts much of what made the original great, and “Incense” is essentially a bath of half-intelligible Auto-Tuned vocalizing, they stand out for taking risks. With Blacc Hollywood, Wiz has an easier time locating a pliable median between the varied whims of a fickle national audience than crafting a singular persona that draws them to him.

Artist: Wiz Khalifa, Album: Blacc Hollywood, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 5.6 Album review: "Wiz Khalifa’s half-decade tenure as Snoop Dogg’s weed rap heir apparent has been restless: after scoring his first hit with the Pittsburgh Steelers anthem “Black and Yellow”, he followed up with Cabin Fever, a collaboration with Flockaveli architect Lex Luger, and Rolling Papers, with ebullient pop-minded production from ‘Burgh locals I.D. Labs and dance-pop whizzes StarGate. Cabin Fever 2 matched wares with Bay Area production squad The Invasion and L.A. rapper Problem, then O.N.I.F.C. traded it all in for plush, moneyed cloud rap. On this spring’s 28 Grams, it was back to the trap, and Wiz’s third album Blacc Hollywood nobly attempts to pin these rangy genre excursions down onto a single album. From the smooth jack of Ghost Loft’s Kitsuné America 2 single “So High” to ace placements from radio titan Dr. Luke and usual suspects I.D. Labs and Sledgren, Blacc Hollywood’s production choices are inspired—but you could never mistake it for possessing an adventurous streak, thanks to the waxen array of prurient drug raps at center stage. It’s possible for an artist to be too on brand, and Wiz’s music is almost monomaniacally obsessed with outlining how much weed he has amassed and his plans for burning through it. He’s got his own strain of Afghan kush (“KK”), he breaks it up with a grinder (“So High”), he smokes it out of his own brand of rolling papers (“Raw”), he does this every day (“Stayin Out All Night”), sometimes in his car. (“We Dem Boyz”). Blacc Hollywood is a blur of late night bottle service orders and wake-n-bake seshes that imparts more elite weedhead bonafides than hopes or dreams. But people don’t come to a Wiz Khalifa album to plunder the mysteries of the heart—they come to party. The issue, then, is that Wiz doesn’t sound like the guy rocking the party so much as the one out back baked as shit and melting into a couch. There’s a wispy resignation in his voice and a faint, noncommittal thread in the songwriting that sends a few of these songs across the line from pop accessibility to plasticity. “Hope” invites a group of gold-digging clubgoers to “Come fuck with the stoner and get stoned.” “The Sleaze” informs us that Wiz “Just copped the newest thing” and “did it with ease,” without divulging what, exactly, he bought. “So High” caps every line with an enthused “Uh-huh” refrain, but rather than wringing humor or menace from the device (a la Juvenile’s classic “Ha”) Wiz hurtles a stream of minutiae about what happens after he lights up. (“In my car, uh-huh/ Cruisin’ down the street, uh-huh/ So stoned I’ma need something to eat, uh-huh”) Sometimes the pared down songwriting approach succeeds. “Raw” rides twinkling synths and 808s with a spirited Gucci Mane flow so in pocket you forget it’s kind of a commercial. Lead single “We Dem Boyz” delivers the album’s biggest, easiest thrill by dispensing with rapping almost entirely, sliding into a pillowy Detail production with a dash of Auto-Tune and a lyric sheet largely comprised of the titular chant: “Hol’ up, hol’ up, hol’ up, we dem boyz!” Wiz isn’t a character possessed of the right mixture of slapstick and real danger to pull this kind of rarefied goon posturing off without a wink, but the absurdity is easily half the fun. Elsewhere, Khalifa wins when he calls in a friend. “House in the Hills” reunites him with How Fly costar Curren$y for an aspirational banger that’s home to some of the album’s best pure rapping. “KK” avoids disaster by turning its second half over to Memphis drug rap legends Juicy J and Project Pat. Taylor Gang newbie Ty Dolla $ign’s blithe hooks on “Hope” and “Still Down” are among the album’s best, and Nicki Minaj’s assist on verse three of album closer “True Colors” curtly immolates just about everything that came before it. Wiz fares much better when challenged, and the more real estate he cedes to guests, the less opportunities he’s afforded to trip himself up. Blacc Hollywood is peak Khalifa—bleary eyed, genteel and, eager to please—but these qualities are just as often foibles as strengths, as a glut of pop-rap neck-massages bears out. Melodies coast, but they don’t always stick; everything’s too mannered, too clean, and the album is marred by a clinicality further punctuated by its bonus tracks. Cuts like “You and Your Friends” and “On Me” are looser and dirtier than anything on the album proper, and while the “We Dem Boyz” remix guts much of what made the original great, and “Incense” is essentially a bath of half-intelligible Auto-Tuned vocalizing, they stand out for taking risks. With Blacc Hollywood, Wiz has an easier time locating a pliable median between the varied whims of a fickle national audience than crafting a singular persona that draws them to him."

Mount Eerie

Mount Eerie Pts. 6 & 7

Rock

Matthew Solarski

Since 2003's Mount Eerie LP, Phil Elverum has kept a relatively low profile, yet remained busy. He's toured a fair deal, worked extensively with his label, P.W. Elverum & Sun, retired and later exhumed the Microphones moniker, dropped a couple of LPs and scattered releases as Mount Eerie, and smuggled an extra "e" into his given name. (He's credited on Mount Eerie and earlier albums as "Phil Elvrum"; note that "verum" means "truth" in Latin.) And now, four years after Mount Eerie, he returns with this self-professed sequel: Two additional chapters (or are they epilogues?) to the saga laid out on Mount Eerie, pressed onto a 10" picture disc and tucked between the pages of a massive, 132-page photobook. Mount Eerie represented a seemingly complete cycle-- birth/creation on part 1, "The Sun", death on part 4, "Mt. Eerie", and an afterlife of sorts on part 5. So...what comes after the afterlife? A few guitar and organ drones into Pts. 6 & 7's first track (of four, all unlabeled), Elverum's opening line gives us an idea: "Waking up in the known world/ There's something that's left over," he declares with his vulnerable quaver. Where Mount Eerie's closing track seemed to offer resolution, doubt and ambiguity have again crept in here. "The light that does get in is unconvincing," intones Elverum. The galloping, piano-accented groove on the second track would seem to suggest decisiveness, but that soon dissolves into the lonesome sound of rain upon a tin roof. Even when the fourth track-- with its heavenly choir, thundering drums, and firmament-penetrating organ,--presents itself as some grand, conclusive statement, Elverum isn't so sure. Clouds break only to reveal other clouds, and rather than fade out, the chorus swells to a precipice and drops off fairly abruptly. "Mount Eerie revealed, in the breaking of clouds/ And then gone again," he laments. His apparent new mantra, more mature if less satisfying: Clarity comes and goes, and all we can be certain of is uncertainty. Ah, but the book? The photographs, all taken with antique cameras on expired film, are given large-format full pages upon which to breathe, and they're not constricted by borders, captions, or even page numbers. Indeed, the book's interior is entirely void of text; the title and other essential info appear only on the tome's spine, which is covered by a dust jacket, blank save for the words "Mount Eerie". (Those who've held the UK edition of Cocteau Twins' Lullabies to Violaine collection will recognize the jacket's odd, mossy paper stock.) The photos primarily address the natural world-- one vista even gets a three-page centerfold-- creating an overall feel of detachment, isolation, and, yes, eeriness. Even when figures do show up (most often Elverum himself), they're double-exposed, strangely lit, or out of focus, made to look like ghosts. A webpage created as a "supplement" to the book offers descriptions and recollections alongside thumbnail reproductions of the photographs. (The irony that a book celebrating the natural world must draw blood from it in order to be made is not lost on Elverum, and in an effort to account for it, he hooked up with an eco-friendly, highly-regarded printer based out of British Columbia to bring his vision to life-- 20 full grown trees saved, boasts his website). At a time when indie artists are increasingly diversifying their assets, embracing commercial work, soundtracks, and network television, Pts. 6 & 7-- an extravagantly priced book/vinyl combo-- feels like a defiantly anachronistic gesture. But at what cost to fans? The book carries a hefty price tag. Still, it's difficult not to admire Elverum's ambition, and the romantics out there may delight in imagining that somebody out there is going to work a few extra shifts at Kinko's-- and forego buying some six CDs (or, better yet, 60 mp3s)-- just to take this thing home, to hold it in his/her hands, and, above all, to cherish it. After all, you can't very well cherish mp3s.

Artist: Mount Eerie, Album: Mount Eerie Pts. 6 & 7, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Since 2003's Mount Eerie LP, Phil Elverum has kept a relatively low profile, yet remained busy. He's toured a fair deal, worked extensively with his label, P.W. Elverum & Sun, retired and later exhumed the Microphones moniker, dropped a couple of LPs and scattered releases as Mount Eerie, and smuggled an extra "e" into his given name. (He's credited on Mount Eerie and earlier albums as "Phil Elvrum"; note that "verum" means "truth" in Latin.) And now, four years after Mount Eerie, he returns with this self-professed sequel: Two additional chapters (or are they epilogues?) to the saga laid out on Mount Eerie, pressed onto a 10" picture disc and tucked between the pages of a massive, 132-page photobook. Mount Eerie represented a seemingly complete cycle-- birth/creation on part 1, "The Sun", death on part 4, "Mt. Eerie", and an afterlife of sorts on part 5. So...what comes after the afterlife? A few guitar and organ drones into Pts. 6 & 7's first track (of four, all unlabeled), Elverum's opening line gives us an idea: "Waking up in the known world/ There's something that's left over," he declares with his vulnerable quaver. Where Mount Eerie's closing track seemed to offer resolution, doubt and ambiguity have again crept in here. "The light that does get in is unconvincing," intones Elverum. The galloping, piano-accented groove on the second track would seem to suggest decisiveness, but that soon dissolves into the lonesome sound of rain upon a tin roof. Even when the fourth track-- with its heavenly choir, thundering drums, and firmament-penetrating organ,--presents itself as some grand, conclusive statement, Elverum isn't so sure. Clouds break only to reveal other clouds, and rather than fade out, the chorus swells to a precipice and drops off fairly abruptly. "Mount Eerie revealed, in the breaking of clouds/ And then gone again," he laments. His apparent new mantra, more mature if less satisfying: Clarity comes and goes, and all we can be certain of is uncertainty. Ah, but the book? The photographs, all taken with antique cameras on expired film, are given large-format full pages upon which to breathe, and they're not constricted by borders, captions, or even page numbers. Indeed, the book's interior is entirely void of text; the title and other essential info appear only on the tome's spine, which is covered by a dust jacket, blank save for the words "Mount Eerie". (Those who've held the UK edition of Cocteau Twins' Lullabies to Violaine collection will recognize the jacket's odd, mossy paper stock.) The photos primarily address the natural world-- one vista even gets a three-page centerfold-- creating an overall feel of detachment, isolation, and, yes, eeriness. Even when figures do show up (most often Elverum himself), they're double-exposed, strangely lit, or out of focus, made to look like ghosts. A webpage created as a "supplement" to the book offers descriptions and recollections alongside thumbnail reproductions of the photographs. (The irony that a book celebrating the natural world must draw blood from it in order to be made is not lost on Elverum, and in an effort to account for it, he hooked up with an eco-friendly, highly-regarded printer based out of British Columbia to bring his vision to life-- 20 full grown trees saved, boasts his website). At a time when indie artists are increasingly diversifying their assets, embracing commercial work, soundtracks, and network television, Pts. 6 & 7-- an extravagantly priced book/vinyl combo-- feels like a defiantly anachronistic gesture. But at what cost to fans? The book carries a hefty price tag. Still, it's difficult not to admire Elverum's ambition, and the romantics out there may delight in imagining that somebody out there is going to work a few extra shifts at Kinko's-- and forego buying some six CDs (or, better yet, 60 mp3s)-- just to take this thing home, to hold it in his/her hands, and, above all, to cherish it. After all, you can't very well cherish mp3s."

DILL

WYHIWYG

Electronic,Rock

Dominique Leone

Self-respecting journalists pick up on the details of their subjects the first time around, and if they don't, they make them up. The objective interpretation of reporting isn't so far off the subjective work of discussing music; certainly the demand for information is the same, and if one favors hard facts above plain fiction, it's only by a small margin. I could have presented a story about how Japan's DILL (Yuji Inoue) was apparently unaware that his static-y music-- spliced, cut and pasted like the best turn-of-the-millennium electronica-- was at least three years too late to make a difference, and it might very well have been good journalism. There are plenty of musical examples to support that claim, not least of which are covered in Pitchfork reviews of Autechre, Squarepusher, Aphex Twin, Plaid and Hecker. But sometimes, it's worth missing the obvious in favor of catching something better. WYHIWYG's details are minute but endearing. DILL's music seems complicated in its construction, but comes out flawed instead of "glitch," live instead of quantized, and modern instead of post-modern. The cuts and actual glitches are often reminiscent of considerably colder efforts by Autechre or Markus Popp, though are less experiments in electronically controlled chaos than the carvings and angles of sharp, ambitious ambient music. Inoue uses cello, piano and soft female vocals modestly, placing them strategically throughout the album's 37-minute program; he uses enough organic source material that the songs seem only just out of reach for a particularly precise chamber pop ensemble. In fact, the minimalist arrangements often exploit so few elements that I'm reminded of his cousins in Onkyo, who approach improvisation with the same knack for naturalism and understatement. Inoue's music is a lot closer to Brian Eno's classically informed ambience than Otomo Yoshihide's space-age free improvisation, but is just as Spartan and strangely attractive. The tracks with vocals stand out immediately; Inoue has a knack for supporting clear, seductive melodies with restless, jittery glitch. The brief "Tena" features the rounded, vocoder-affected alto of Akiko Sasaki over a minimal bassline and collage-style backdrop. Radio static comes and goes, and on the second verse I can hear bits of Eastern percussion, a falling siren and near atonal synthesizer clips. Yet, despite potential overcrowding, the track feels barely there. "Up Down to There" is similarly, deceptively busy, but uses its glitched pitter-patter to form the hint of a beat. A looped succession of sine waves introduces a two-chord progression and simple synth melody that wouldn't sound out of place on one of the Cluster/Eno records. However, the cut-up vocals about 6 minutes in remind me of Prefuse 73, or some such practitioner of digital-age voice design. The song also makes the case that Björk should have listened to DILL prior to recording the vocally obsessed Medulla. The anatomies of the individual tracks should interest fans of that good old dead IDM, especially those who felt its apex was Autechre's Confield. DILL's beats favor seemingly random successions of hi-hat and bass drum, and nary a backbeat within earshot. "Onpotts", with still more ingeniously manipulated vocal, pipes in a soft, jazzy shuffle (not schaffel, Cologners), and the shoegazed "Won Noefte Jam" features live drumming and a melancholy vocal duet. However, Inoue is hardly content to while away into gray bliss, opting to rinse the beat under his software and letting the singer carry the tune over a single-note-obsessed guitar. Dozens of things like this happen on each track on WYHIWYG, and in the hands of a lesser artist, could easily overwhelm the senses. DILL is more interested in revealing things few people notice, and in the process, creates something obviously beautiful.

Artist: DILL, Album: WYHIWYG, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "Self-respecting journalists pick up on the details of their subjects the first time around, and if they don't, they make them up. The objective interpretation of reporting isn't so far off the subjective work of discussing music; certainly the demand for information is the same, and if one favors hard facts above plain fiction, it's only by a small margin. I could have presented a story about how Japan's DILL (Yuji Inoue) was apparently unaware that his static-y music-- spliced, cut and pasted like the best turn-of-the-millennium electronica-- was at least three years too late to make a difference, and it might very well have been good journalism. There are plenty of musical examples to support that claim, not least of which are covered in Pitchfork reviews of Autechre, Squarepusher, Aphex Twin, Plaid and Hecker. But sometimes, it's worth missing the obvious in favor of catching something better. WYHIWYG's details are minute but endearing. DILL's music seems complicated in its construction, but comes out flawed instead of "glitch," live instead of quantized, and modern instead of post-modern. The cuts and actual glitches are often reminiscent of considerably colder efforts by Autechre or Markus Popp, though are less experiments in electronically controlled chaos than the carvings and angles of sharp, ambitious ambient music. Inoue uses cello, piano and soft female vocals modestly, placing them strategically throughout the album's 37-minute program; he uses enough organic source material that the songs seem only just out of reach for a particularly precise chamber pop ensemble. In fact, the minimalist arrangements often exploit so few elements that I'm reminded of his cousins in Onkyo, who approach improvisation with the same knack for naturalism and understatement. Inoue's music is a lot closer to Brian Eno's classically informed ambience than Otomo Yoshihide's space-age free improvisation, but is just as Spartan and strangely attractive. The tracks with vocals stand out immediately; Inoue has a knack for supporting clear, seductive melodies with restless, jittery glitch. The brief "Tena" features the rounded, vocoder-affected alto of Akiko Sasaki over a minimal bassline and collage-style backdrop. Radio static comes and goes, and on the second verse I can hear bits of Eastern percussion, a falling siren and near atonal synthesizer clips. Yet, despite potential overcrowding, the track feels barely there. "Up Down to There" is similarly, deceptively busy, but uses its glitched pitter-patter to form the hint of a beat. A looped succession of sine waves introduces a two-chord progression and simple synth melody that wouldn't sound out of place on one of the Cluster/Eno records. However, the cut-up vocals about 6 minutes in remind me of Prefuse 73, or some such practitioner of digital-age voice design. The song also makes the case that Björk should have listened to DILL prior to recording the vocally obsessed Medulla. The anatomies of the individual tracks should interest fans of that good old dead IDM, especially those who felt its apex was Autechre's Confield. DILL's beats favor seemingly random successions of hi-hat and bass drum, and nary a backbeat within earshot. "Onpotts", with still more ingeniously manipulated vocal, pipes in a soft, jazzy shuffle (not schaffel, Cologners), and the shoegazed "Won Noefte Jam" features live drumming and a melancholy vocal duet. However, Inoue is hardly content to while away into gray bliss, opting to rinse the beat under his software and letting the singer carry the tune over a single-note-obsessed guitar. Dozens of things like this happen on each track on WYHIWYG, and in the hands of a lesser artist, could easily overwhelm the senses. DILL is more interested in revealing things few people notice, and in the process, creates something obviously beautiful."

Trans Am

You Can Always Get What You Want

Metal,Rock

Ryan Schreiber

Once I had a keyboard. A little Casio keyboard. It had cheap plastic drum pads and goofy preprogrammed "computer" sounds. Unfortunately, I had to give it back to the kid I borrowed it from, but while the fun lasted, I got a huge kick out of its 100-instrument tone-bank. And from the sound of it, Trans Am did, too. Their new Japanese b-sides collection, You Can Always Get What You Want, employs that same preprogrammed Casio "computer" patch as the primary structure for the opening track, "American Kooter." Essentially, the track, which originally appeared in nine-minute studio form on their excellent self-titled 1995 debut, is a demo of all the cool sounds that very Casio can generate. The buzzing "airplane" sound, the emergency faux-"ambulance" siren, the "piano"-- it's all here in tinny, distorted glory, backed by a thunderous drum section and confused bass line. And though the track's low-fidelity epileptic funk is powerful enough to move crowds of uptight, arty Chicago scenesters, "American Kooter" remains both one of the band's least inspired songs to date. You Can Always Get What You Want assembles 65 minutes of Trans Am's massive catalog of import-only and previously unreleased tracks, and opens and closes with live performances. The first three songs, "American Kooter," "Simulacrum" and "Man-Machine," are culled from a 1993 EP on UK-based SKAM records, and were recorded live at the Cave in Chapel Hill, North Carolina during that summer. But regardless of the fact that these are some of the band's earliest recordings, they're performed with an intensity that the band has rarely been able to achieve on subsequent studio albums-- guitars pick on frayed nerve-endings, hi-hats click with robotic precision, and crowd cheers reverberate in drunken frenzies. Strangely, the album's final tracks-- live versions of four songs from 1996's Surrender to the Night, recorded that fall at Washington, D.C.'s Black Cat-- are much closer to their studio counterparts and considerably less engaging. The majority of this record is composed of lost studio cuts yanked from the several hard-to-find releases of Trans Am lore-- a 1995 Strength Magazine split 7", Tuba Frenzy #3, the rare Australian comp In Flux Us-- alongside stray vault tracks like the beautifully haywire "Nazi/Hippie Empire," a chopped-up "Party Mix" of Futureworld's "Am Rhein," and the ambient, kraut-inflected "Monica's Story." It's during these tracks that Trans Am provide fans with their most promising music to date, and hopefully, foreshadow future albums. Despite this compilation's general lack of cohesiveness and its seemingly aimless live closers, You Can Always Get What You Want hits more than it misses. And in the end, it fulfills its purpose to save fans hundreds of dollars on overseas postage and import mark-ups. No longer will Trans Am junkies tirelessly search eBay in hopes of encountering a $30 copy of the band's Illegal Ass 12" or scrounge through racks of disorganized 7"s in New York record stores. If you're looking for a place to start with these guys, though, go for their 1995 debut or 1998's The Surveillance.

Artist: Trans Am, Album: You Can Always Get What You Want, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Once I had a keyboard. A little Casio keyboard. It had cheap plastic drum pads and goofy preprogrammed "computer" sounds. Unfortunately, I had to give it back to the kid I borrowed it from, but while the fun lasted, I got a huge kick out of its 100-instrument tone-bank. And from the sound of it, Trans Am did, too. Their new Japanese b-sides collection, You Can Always Get What You Want, employs that same preprogrammed Casio "computer" patch as the primary structure for the opening track, "American Kooter." Essentially, the track, which originally appeared in nine-minute studio form on their excellent self-titled 1995 debut, is a demo of all the cool sounds that very Casio can generate. The buzzing "airplane" sound, the emergency faux-"ambulance" siren, the "piano"-- it's all here in tinny, distorted glory, backed by a thunderous drum section and confused bass line. And though the track's low-fidelity epileptic funk is powerful enough to move crowds of uptight, arty Chicago scenesters, "American Kooter" remains both one of the band's least inspired songs to date. You Can Always Get What You Want assembles 65 minutes of Trans Am's massive catalog of import-only and previously unreleased tracks, and opens and closes with live performances. The first three songs, "American Kooter," "Simulacrum" and "Man-Machine," are culled from a 1993 EP on UK-based SKAM records, and were recorded live at the Cave in Chapel Hill, North Carolina during that summer. But regardless of the fact that these are some of the band's earliest recordings, they're performed with an intensity that the band has rarely been able to achieve on subsequent studio albums-- guitars pick on frayed nerve-endings, hi-hats click with robotic precision, and crowd cheers reverberate in drunken frenzies. Strangely, the album's final tracks-- live versions of four songs from 1996's Surrender to the Night, recorded that fall at Washington, D.C.'s Black Cat-- are much closer to their studio counterparts and considerably less engaging. The majority of this record is composed of lost studio cuts yanked from the several hard-to-find releases of Trans Am lore-- a 1995 Strength Magazine split 7", Tuba Frenzy #3, the rare Australian comp In Flux Us-- alongside stray vault tracks like the beautifully haywire "Nazi/Hippie Empire," a chopped-up "Party Mix" of Futureworld's "Am Rhein," and the ambient, kraut-inflected "Monica's Story." It's during these tracks that Trans Am provide fans with their most promising music to date, and hopefully, foreshadow future albums. Despite this compilation's general lack of cohesiveness and its seemingly aimless live closers, You Can Always Get What You Want hits more than it misses. And in the end, it fulfills its purpose to save fans hundreds of dollars on overseas postage and import mark-ups. No longer will Trans Am junkies tirelessly search eBay in hopes of encountering a $30 copy of the band's Illegal Ass 12" or scrounge through racks of disorganized 7"s in New York record stores. If you're looking for a place to start with these guys, though, go for their 1995 debut or 1998's The Surveillance."

Trembling Blue Stars

Alive to Every Smile

Rock

Joe Tangari

Modern technology sure is swell, isn't it? Today, modern aircraft technology got me from Indianapolis to Boston in six hours, with a stop in Newark in between. Modern airport security technology let the people in charge know that I was carrying metal objects. To my amazement, they ignored it and waved me through without checking me. Luckily for them, I didn't have a revolver strapped to my hip-- rather, I was merely making use of the slightly more archaic pants-retaining technology known as a belt buckle. I guess you could say that all of this falls under the umbrella of using technology for good, even if human misjudgment sometimes interferes with its purpose. Of course, human mismanagement spoils a lot of potentially promising technology on a regular basis-- just look at the music industry. Somewhere along the line, bigshot producers seem to have picked up the idea that if you take a terrible song and dress it up in enough shiny electronic packaging, it will become a good song. At some point, the public apparently confirmed that this idea generates large amounts of income, because it's become fairly standard practice. That's just my theory, of course. Naturally, I have a lot of corollary theories to that one, principle among them being that if overproduction can mask a piece of crap, then it can also mask a gem. Upon listening to Alive to Every Smile, Trembling Blue Stars' fourth album, I found that second theory being proven, and I grinned like the smug bastard that I am. Head Star Robert Wratten (formerly of Field Mice) writes some pretty decent songs, when you break them down to their base elements. The melodies are fine, if unspectacular, and the lyrics are better than average broken heart stories-- suffice to say, Wratten probably has his navel pretty much memorized by now. Unfortunately, producer Ian Catt seems intent on giving Alive to Every Smile a bigger sound than it really needs to get its point across. A lot of bands venture close to soft-rock territory and come out unscathed. Trembling Blue Stars aren't so lucky. The two greatest offenders come back-to-back in the middle of the album. "Here All Day" opens with some syrupy organs, over which Wratten intones in his unbelievably fey voice, "Someone stop the hands of time/ Every tick's a cruel blow." Multi-tracked female backing vocals swim in Lexicon reverb, invading the second verse before big, booming toms ripped straight from a 1984 top 40 station provide the final scuttling blow. "Until the Dream Gets Broken" follows with programmed bongos and the same backing vocals, both featured more prominently this time. The gloss is so blinding that it's difficult to see the song underneath. Those bloody backing vocals pop up all over the place, too, and they never once truly add anything necessary to the song in question. They're just a distracting background texture on the otherwise good "Ghost of an Unkissed Kiss." The rest of the arrangement is fine, though, drawing from 80s jangle pop and adding in a nicely executed backward guitar solo for good measure. The refrain of, "Dry eyes, dry eyes/ It was never going to end with dry eyes," is probably the catchiest thing on the album. With a slightly dryer mix, though, it could be more immediate. One improvement Wratten and the band have made since their last effort, 2000's Broken by Whispers, is the fact that their songs now flow a little more smoothly from section to section. A lot of the songs on that album were plagued by jarring transitions from quiet verses to loud, seemingly unrelated choruses. Here, only one song suffers from that affliction. "Maybe After All" opens with quietly strummed verses drenched in reverb (there's actually a rather neat little bit of processed hi-hat embedded low in the mix, too), and suddenly transitions after a couple of minutes into a dry verse complete with drums, bass and some nice countermelodic guitar parts. And of course, before long, those damn backing vocals are back, taking up the space that would have sounded better empty. One of the main reasons Alive to Every Smile turns out so disappointing is that it begins on such an interesting note. "Under Lock and Key" opens the record with distorted drums and varied tape speeds before a guitar loop enters and Wratten actually says something assertive for once. "You've got to stop fucking her up/ You've got to grow up," he sings to a guy who presumably isn't treating his girlfriend very well. Wratten's guitar tone is thick and commanding-- it reminds you that he can actually really play the thing well. He also handles the backing vocals himself, which is a plus. "With Every Story" actually carries on fairly well from there, with Wratten pulling out a good chord progression and a nice, Bernard Sumner-inspired guitar sound, but the sheen that plagues the rest of album begins to creep in, and by the third song there's really no going back. Closer "Little Gunshots" makes something of an attempt to darken things a bit with a brooding synth figure, but the textures turn a little too new age-y to be really engaging. By the time the album ends, it's easy to find yourself somewhat sick of Wratten's merciless self-pity, too. He ends things with the lines, "You're waving from a leaving train/ And every part of me screams your name/ Think again, please think again," and it's a bit of a relief knowing that he's finally done complaining. Fans of past Trembling Blue Stars efforts will probably find a lot to enjoy about Alive to Every Smile, even with the overproduction. Most other people would be pretty well-advised to stay away, unless you're desperately seeking an indie-approved gateway into the world of lite FM. Ultimately, the band and their producer fall into the trap of placing too much stock in technology, sadly failing to trust Wratten's songwriting to work on its own. In the end, the surface has become so smooth that there's almost nothing left to grip at all. In the future, Wratten & co. would do well to put yet another theory to work for them: less is more.

Artist: Trembling Blue Stars, Album: Alive to Every Smile, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "Modern technology sure is swell, isn't it? Today, modern aircraft technology got me from Indianapolis to Boston in six hours, with a stop in Newark in between. Modern airport security technology let the people in charge know that I was carrying metal objects. To my amazement, they ignored it and waved me through without checking me. Luckily for them, I didn't have a revolver strapped to my hip-- rather, I was merely making use of the slightly more archaic pants-retaining technology known as a belt buckle. I guess you could say that all of this falls under the umbrella of using technology for good, even if human misjudgment sometimes interferes with its purpose. Of course, human mismanagement spoils a lot of potentially promising technology on a regular basis-- just look at the music industry. Somewhere along the line, bigshot producers seem to have picked up the idea that if you take a terrible song and dress it up in enough shiny electronic packaging, it will become a good song. At some point, the public apparently confirmed that this idea generates large amounts of income, because it's become fairly standard practice. That's just my theory, of course. Naturally, I have a lot of corollary theories to that one, principle among them being that if overproduction can mask a piece of crap, then it can also mask a gem. Upon listening to Alive to Every Smile, Trembling Blue Stars' fourth album, I found that second theory being proven, and I grinned like the smug bastard that I am. Head Star Robert Wratten (formerly of Field Mice) writes some pretty decent songs, when you break them down to their base elements. The melodies are fine, if unspectacular, and the lyrics are better than average broken heart stories-- suffice to say, Wratten probably has his navel pretty much memorized by now. Unfortunately, producer Ian Catt seems intent on giving Alive to Every Smile a bigger sound than it really needs to get its point across. A lot of bands venture close to soft-rock territory and come out unscathed. Trembling Blue Stars aren't so lucky. The two greatest offenders come back-to-back in the middle of the album. "Here All Day" opens with some syrupy organs, over which Wratten intones in his unbelievably fey voice, "Someone stop the hands of time/ Every tick's a cruel blow." Multi-tracked female backing vocals swim in Lexicon reverb, invading the second verse before big, booming toms ripped straight from a 1984 top 40 station provide the final scuttling blow. "Until the Dream Gets Broken" follows with programmed bongos and the same backing vocals, both featured more prominently this time. The gloss is so blinding that it's difficult to see the song underneath. Those bloody backing vocals pop up all over the place, too, and they never once truly add anything necessary to the song in question. They're just a distracting background texture on the otherwise good "Ghost of an Unkissed Kiss." The rest of the arrangement is fine, though, drawing from 80s jangle pop and adding in a nicely executed backward guitar solo for good measure. The refrain of, "Dry eyes, dry eyes/ It was never going to end with dry eyes," is probably the catchiest thing on the album. With a slightly dryer mix, though, it could be more immediate. One improvement Wratten and the band have made since their last effort, 2000's Broken by Whispers, is the fact that their songs now flow a little more smoothly from section to section. A lot of the songs on that album were plagued by jarring transitions from quiet verses to loud, seemingly unrelated choruses. Here, only one song suffers from that affliction. "Maybe After All" opens with quietly strummed verses drenched in reverb (there's actually a rather neat little bit of processed hi-hat embedded low in the mix, too), and suddenly transitions after a couple of minutes into a dry verse complete with drums, bass and some nice countermelodic guitar parts. And of course, before long, those damn backing vocals are back, taking up the space that would have sounded better empty. One of the main reasons Alive to Every Smile turns out so disappointing is that it begins on such an interesting note. "Under Lock and Key" opens the record with distorted drums and varied tape speeds before a guitar loop enters and Wratten actually says something assertive for once. "You've got to stop fucking her up/ You've got to grow up," he sings to a guy who presumably isn't treating his girlfriend very well. Wratten's guitar tone is thick and commanding-- it reminds you that he can actually really play the thing well. He also handles the backing vocals himself, which is a plus. "With Every Story" actually carries on fairly well from there, with Wratten pulling out a good chord progression and a nice, Bernard Sumner-inspired guitar sound, but the sheen that plagues the rest of album begins to creep in, and by the third song there's really no going back. Closer "Little Gunshots" makes something of an attempt to darken things a bit with a brooding synth figure, but the textures turn a little too new age-y to be really engaging. By the time the album ends, it's easy to find yourself somewhat sick of Wratten's merciless self-pity, too. He ends things with the lines, "You're waving from a leaving train/ And every part of me screams your name/ Think again, please think again," and it's a bit of a relief knowing that he's finally done complaining. Fans of past Trembling Blue Stars efforts will probably find a lot to enjoy about Alive to Every Smile, even with the overproduction. Most other people would be pretty well-advised to stay away, unless you're desperately seeking an indie-approved gateway into the world of lite FM. Ultimately, the band and their producer fall into the trap of placing too much stock in technology, sadly failing to trust Wratten's songwriting to work on its own. In the end, the surface has become so smooth that there's almost nothing left to grip at all. In the future, Wratten & co. would do well to put yet another theory to work for them: less is more."

Correcto

Correcto

Rock

Adam Moerder

They've been dubbed a Scottish indie supergroup, but for those not subscribed to either contemporary Glaswegian rock or Domino's mailing list, just call Correcto as you see 'em-- another plucky indie rock band. Hiring Franz Ferdinand drummer Paul Thomson nets these guys some catchet, and ex-Royal We bassist Patrick Doyle will rile up hometown crowds, but in reality Correcto's little more than a vessel for little-known singer/songwriter Danny Saunders. Unfortunately, the band fancies its tenuous supergroup status a little too strongly, and there's little built-in intrigue here to hedge the threadbare compositions and lackadaisical attitude. On the bright side, these guys clearly dig all the bands you do. From the windmill power chords of Townsend-esque opener "Inuit" to the tear-in-beer-glass drawl of fake Libertines ballad "When You Get Away From Me", this debut provides a walking tour of Great Britain's rich rock history. That said, the tour's a look-don't-touch deal, with many of the hit-and-run genre shifts feeling brusque and unfulfilling. Saunders exudes an airtight ennui in his vocals, a nice tactic to use when blatantly copping your influences, but his versatility gets stretched to its limits. Sure, he can rough up the Buzzcock-y melody of no-brainer single "Joni", but on mellower tracks like "Walking To Town" or "Even Though", Saunders can't decide whether to go off-pitch completely or hope all his cussing and self-loating distracts the listener from otherwise cutesy melodies. When they're not dragging their feet through droopy Britpop dirges, Correcto bag some noteworthy rawk tracks, each one pumping its fist in its own nuanced way. "Do It Better" accurately captures Wire's twitchy guitar work, but the barked vocals claim the song for Correcto. Even when they get sloppy and act all irreverent, the band can't hide the fact that they want these hooks to sound huge. Saunders may let his delivery sag on "Here It Comes", but the epic opening guitar riff belies his tongue-in-cheek understatement. "Something Or Nothing" almost sounds like Pavement, tranquilizing a Stooges-style power chord flurry until it lapses into a jazzy, laid back chorus of "ooh's." Even considering these highlights, though, Correcto's debut feels sparse and indifferent, and it has little to do with Saunders' fuck-'em-all demeanor. The tracks follow a typical rock album progression for rock album's sake, with little indication of any higher artistic aim. There's a big opener, a pair of singles, then mashers neatly separated by ballads until the half hour's up. Obviously the band's middling in low stakes territory here, but the filler could at least be a lot more fun if it's not going to be challenging. Maybe for Glaswegian scenesters, this outfit is their Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young or Cream, but most outsiders will find this supergroup sounding pretty mortal.

Artist: Correcto, Album: Correcto, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "They've been dubbed a Scottish indie supergroup, but for those not subscribed to either contemporary Glaswegian rock or Domino's mailing list, just call Correcto as you see 'em-- another plucky indie rock band. Hiring Franz Ferdinand drummer Paul Thomson nets these guys some catchet, and ex-Royal We bassist Patrick Doyle will rile up hometown crowds, but in reality Correcto's little more than a vessel for little-known singer/songwriter Danny Saunders. Unfortunately, the band fancies its tenuous supergroup status a little too strongly, and there's little built-in intrigue here to hedge the threadbare compositions and lackadaisical attitude. On the bright side, these guys clearly dig all the bands you do. From the windmill power chords of Townsend-esque opener "Inuit" to the tear-in-beer-glass drawl of fake Libertines ballad "When You Get Away From Me", this debut provides a walking tour of Great Britain's rich rock history. That said, the tour's a look-don't-touch deal, with many of the hit-and-run genre shifts feeling brusque and unfulfilling. Saunders exudes an airtight ennui in his vocals, a nice tactic to use when blatantly copping your influences, but his versatility gets stretched to its limits. Sure, he can rough up the Buzzcock-y melody of no-brainer single "Joni", but on mellower tracks like "Walking To Town" or "Even Though", Saunders can't decide whether to go off-pitch completely or hope all his cussing and self-loating distracts the listener from otherwise cutesy melodies. When they're not dragging their feet through droopy Britpop dirges, Correcto bag some noteworthy rawk tracks, each one pumping its fist in its own nuanced way. "Do It Better" accurately captures Wire's twitchy guitar work, but the barked vocals claim the song for Correcto. Even when they get sloppy and act all irreverent, the band can't hide the fact that they want these hooks to sound huge. Saunders may let his delivery sag on "Here It Comes", but the epic opening guitar riff belies his tongue-in-cheek understatement. "Something Or Nothing" almost sounds like Pavement, tranquilizing a Stooges-style power chord flurry until it lapses into a jazzy, laid back chorus of "ooh's." Even considering these highlights, though, Correcto's debut feels sparse and indifferent, and it has little to do with Saunders' fuck-'em-all demeanor. The tracks follow a typical rock album progression for rock album's sake, with little indication of any higher artistic aim. There's a big opener, a pair of singles, then mashers neatly separated by ballads until the half hour's up. Obviously the band's middling in low stakes territory here, but the filler could at least be a lot more fun if it's not going to be challenging. Maybe for Glaswegian scenesters, this outfit is their Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young or Cream, but most outsiders will find this supergroup sounding pretty mortal."

Agoraphobic Nosebleed

Agorapocalypse

Metal

Cosmo Lee

Agoraphobic Nosebleed were one of the few metal bands that actually were extreme. Their 1998 debut, Honky Reduction, helped inspire the "drum machine grind" subgenre. With minute-long bouts of smashing everything into nothing, grindcore was already absurd. Replacing human drummers with machines added an extra layer of absurdity. Now bands could crank speeds up to inhuman levels. As plastic percussion flailed away below thrash and death metal riffs, the various vocalists of Agoraphobic Nosebleed extolled drugs, guns, and fucking. It was the sound of civilization's decline, sold at Toys "R" Us with hazardous metal parts. This aesthetic culminated in 2003's Altered States of America, which crammed 100 songs into 20 minutes. It was not an album so much as a temper tantrum. Songs ended just as they started. Drum machines came to life, administered brutal tattooings, and went to sleep, all in the space of seconds. The multiplicity of tracks challenged notions of what constituted a song. In its own cheap way, Agoraphobic Nosebleed shredded time into shards. Artists as diverse as Merzbow, Justin Broadrick, and Delta 9 picked up these pieces and reconfigured them on two remix efforts, ANbRX and ANbRX II. Agoraphobic Nosebleed the idea had become as important as Agoraphobic Nosebleed the band. Agorapocalypse is disappointingly listenable. Song lengths are up, exceeding two and three minutes, and the songwriting has diversified. Instead of simply beating listeners into a pulp, songs now speed up, slow down, and breathe. Katherine Katz, of doom metallers Salome, adds refreshingly aggressive female vocals. Male yellers Jay Randall and Richard Johnson still laud the usual taboos, with lurid artwork to match, but the setting feels much more mature. Scott Hull's drum programming now resembles human playing. The album opens with a faux live show lead-in; digital wooden drumsticks count in passages; "Question of Integrity" features an impressively realistic drum solo. Hull's guitar playing has also become more conventional, with extended (for grindcore, anyway) leads that don't get much airtime in his other gig, Pig Destroyer. Maturity and humanity don't befit grindcore. The genre is about pushing limits and pursuing the perverse. Now, instead of an overheated drum machine, the beats could be played by a human (albeit an insanely athletic one). Even with fairly developed songwriting, as is the case here, one truth remains immutable: grindcore drags after about a minute. This record should be a jackhammer beatdown, but it merely feels like a very competent metal demo. Ten years ago, this record might have blown minds. But Agoraphobic Nosebleed has become a victim of its own innovation. Having pushed the envelope so far, it now sounds normal. In grindcore, that's a failure.

Artist: Agoraphobic Nosebleed, Album: Agorapocalypse, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 5.0 Album review: "Agoraphobic Nosebleed were one of the few metal bands that actually were extreme. Their 1998 debut, Honky Reduction, helped inspire the "drum machine grind" subgenre. With minute-long bouts of smashing everything into nothing, grindcore was already absurd. Replacing human drummers with machines added an extra layer of absurdity. Now bands could crank speeds up to inhuman levels. As plastic percussion flailed away below thrash and death metal riffs, the various vocalists of Agoraphobic Nosebleed extolled drugs, guns, and fucking. It was the sound of civilization's decline, sold at Toys "R" Us with hazardous metal parts. This aesthetic culminated in 2003's Altered States of America, which crammed 100 songs into 20 minutes. It was not an album so much as a temper tantrum. Songs ended just as they started. Drum machines came to life, administered brutal tattooings, and went to sleep, all in the space of seconds. The multiplicity of tracks challenged notions of what constituted a song. In its own cheap way, Agoraphobic Nosebleed shredded time into shards. Artists as diverse as Merzbow, Justin Broadrick, and Delta 9 picked up these pieces and reconfigured them on two remix efforts, ANbRX and ANbRX II. Agoraphobic Nosebleed the idea had become as important as Agoraphobic Nosebleed the band. Agorapocalypse is disappointingly listenable. Song lengths are up, exceeding two and three minutes, and the songwriting has diversified. Instead of simply beating listeners into a pulp, songs now speed up, slow down, and breathe. Katherine Katz, of doom metallers Salome, adds refreshingly aggressive female vocals. Male yellers Jay Randall and Richard Johnson still laud the usual taboos, with lurid artwork to match, but the setting feels much more mature. Scott Hull's drum programming now resembles human playing. The album opens with a faux live show lead-in; digital wooden drumsticks count in passages; "Question of Integrity" features an impressively realistic drum solo. Hull's guitar playing has also become more conventional, with extended (for grindcore, anyway) leads that don't get much airtime in his other gig, Pig Destroyer. Maturity and humanity don't befit grindcore. The genre is about pushing limits and pursuing the perverse. Now, instead of an overheated drum machine, the beats could be played by a human (albeit an insanely athletic one). Even with fairly developed songwriting, as is the case here, one truth remains immutable: grindcore drags after about a minute. This record should be a jackhammer beatdown, but it merely feels like a very competent metal demo. Ten years ago, this record might have blown minds. But Agoraphobic Nosebleed has become a victim of its own innovation. Having pushed the envelope so far, it now sounds normal. In grindcore, that's a failure."

Madvillain

Remixes: Four Tet

Rap

Ryan Dombal

On several occasions last year, I was slighty thrown by the curious ambient intro to Madvillainy opener "Illest Villains". Before giving way to a Pink Panther-style bassline and some patently brilliant vocal sampling, the bubbling 10-second prelude to 2004's most accomplished hip-hop disc doesn't sound like hip-hop at all. The blippy pulse kind of sounds like static from some interplanetary radio station. It kind of sounds like Four Tet, who proves to be quite the unconventional rap producer on his tag team effort with that cagey masked marauder MF Doom. Originally slated to drop last summer soon after the release of Madvillainy, these remix EPs were delayed at first due to creative feeling-out and nitpicking. Both Doom and Madlib wanted to tweak a couple of the remixes and-- thanks to their famously-hectic schedules-- the wait inevitably snowballed. After a botched test pressing, the songs finally broke free recently, albeit only on iTunes (due to contractual fine-print, these mixes will only get a physical release in Europe on wax). Still, the downtime has its benefits: With more distance between the originals and the new mixes, it's easier to consider these tracks on their own, and they'll inevitably have you going back to the source with a refreshed, slightly skewed perspective. Four Tet mastermind Kieran Hebden may not be the most obvious choice to take on such classic material but, based on his six-song collection, he's an inspired pick. Although psych-scratching Stone Thrower Koushik would seem like a more suitable candidate on paper, it's Hebden's far-reaching reimaginings ("remix" doesn't quite do these painstaking tracks justice) that truly impress. Employing his trademark free-jazz-inspired, electro-acoustic patterns, the laptop guru amasses small armies of saxophone squawks and looping synths all marching to some of the hardest drums he's ever programmed. Ever the sonic neat-freak, Hebden somehow tames his cacophonies and makes everything bump like a batch of Interstellar Coltrane-approved boom-bap. Though best known for his laid-back Volvo-ad-ready beat-suites, Hebden's always had traces of Shadow-esque hip-hop soaked into his background fabrics. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that Hebden was a big Madvillain supporter early on. Nearly a year before Madvillainy's official release, he was praising retarded hard copies in a self-penned Pitchfork Artist List: "MF Doom also has a record coming out with Madlib soon," he wrote in May 2003, "[it's] so good I pretty much shit my pants every time I hear it." The guy's Doom obsession obviously borders on near-stalker levels, and his familiarity with Madlib's original thunder proves invaluable. Hebden's focused instrumentals strip away any and all sonic traces of Lib's ashed-out, quick-fix soul, but they match the West Coast beatminer's unflappable adventurousness. Paired with Doom's jigsaw narratives, Hebden doesn't necessarily improve upon the original tracks as much as he offers a supplemental shade of depth to a much-loved masterwork. Both physically and stylistically, Hebden and Doom make an odd couple ripe with "hilarious" buddy-cop potential. In the passenger seat sits a hunched-over laptop guru who's known to perform with a glowing Banzai tree next to his console, and driving the wheel (and chomping the donuts, of course) is Doom's most-blunted, beer-bellied dictionary-snob. The free-form mood is set from the beginning as opener "Meat Grinder" twitches and spurts for a good 30 seconds of utter randomness. A lazy clarinet surfaces at one point. Cut up saxophones share their confusion with pulsating factory noises. Then Hebden cracks the beat and acts as pied piper to the aural odds and ends, which quickly fall in line and suddenly make total sense. It's like a Magic Eye poster for the ears. "Money Folder" gets the banger treatment, drums train-clacking across the speakers over a sinister synth line. And, of course, Hebden takes full advantage of Doom's "old jazz standard" break invitation, setting off an entire Ornette Coleman symphony. The most intriguing track is "Great Day," where the producer translates Madlib's lackadaisical stroll into a brooding patchwork of whizzing acoustic guitar effects that gently bend against the beat's downtempo grain. Lines like "It's easy as Pi, three point one four/ One more one false move and they done for," take on a new gloomy resonance as the track turns Doom's peculiar boasts into those of a sullen bully with a conscience. Psychedelic mish-mash DJ Koushik's eight-track EP runs just under 10 minutes long, staying true to Madvillain's haphazard punk-rock pace. He goes lengths to emulate Madvillainy's canny blend of comic-book-inspired dialogue (Dr. Doom creator Stan Lee pops in, pontificating in his unmistakable growl, "You can not be arrested for wanting to conquer the world-and that's all that Doom wants.") and loose, soulful loops. Flutes float in and out of "Strange Ways" and cooing back-ups help "Curls" find a decent groove, but most tracks fly by at such a quick clip, they hardly leave an impression. More of a logical continuation than a total revamp, Koushik's EP is competent, but doesn't add anything new to Doom and Lib's wily formula, ultimately reading like an engaging-but-kinda-empty Cliff's Notes version. Since he's working with everyone from Danger Mouse to Ghostface nowadays, is it too early to propose a full-fledged DoomTet long player? Then he can move onto a DualDisc collabo with Animal Collective and Will Oldham. Make it happen, Doom.

Artist: Madvillain, Album: Remixes: Four Tet, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "On several occasions last year, I was slighty thrown by the curious ambient intro to Madvillainy opener "Illest Villains". Before giving way to a Pink Panther-style bassline and some patently brilliant vocal sampling, the bubbling 10-second prelude to 2004's most accomplished hip-hop disc doesn't sound like hip-hop at all. The blippy pulse kind of sounds like static from some interplanetary radio station. It kind of sounds like Four Tet, who proves to be quite the unconventional rap producer on his tag team effort with that cagey masked marauder MF Doom. Originally slated to drop last summer soon after the release of Madvillainy, these remix EPs were delayed at first due to creative feeling-out and nitpicking. Both Doom and Madlib wanted to tweak a couple of the remixes and-- thanks to their famously-hectic schedules-- the wait inevitably snowballed. After a botched test pressing, the songs finally broke free recently, albeit only on iTunes (due to contractual fine-print, these mixes will only get a physical release in Europe on wax). Still, the downtime has its benefits: With more distance between the originals and the new mixes, it's easier to consider these tracks on their own, and they'll inevitably have you going back to the source with a refreshed, slightly skewed perspective. Four Tet mastermind Kieran Hebden may not be the most obvious choice to take on such classic material but, based on his six-song collection, he's an inspired pick. Although psych-scratching Stone Thrower Koushik would seem like a more suitable candidate on paper, it's Hebden's far-reaching reimaginings ("remix" doesn't quite do these painstaking tracks justice) that truly impress. Employing his trademark free-jazz-inspired, electro-acoustic patterns, the laptop guru amasses small armies of saxophone squawks and looping synths all marching to some of the hardest drums he's ever programmed. Ever the sonic neat-freak, Hebden somehow tames his cacophonies and makes everything bump like a batch of Interstellar Coltrane-approved boom-bap. Though best known for his laid-back Volvo-ad-ready beat-suites, Hebden's always had traces of Shadow-esque hip-hop soaked into his background fabrics. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that Hebden was a big Madvillain supporter early on. Nearly a year before Madvillainy's official release, he was praising retarded hard copies in a self-penned Pitchfork Artist List: "MF Doom also has a record coming out with Madlib soon," he wrote in May 2003, "[it's] so good I pretty much shit my pants every time I hear it." The guy's Doom obsession obviously borders on near-stalker levels, and his familiarity with Madlib's original thunder proves invaluable. Hebden's focused instrumentals strip away any and all sonic traces of Lib's ashed-out, quick-fix soul, but they match the West Coast beatminer's unflappable adventurousness. Paired with Doom's jigsaw narratives, Hebden doesn't necessarily improve upon the original tracks as much as he offers a supplemental shade of depth to a much-loved masterwork. Both physically and stylistically, Hebden and Doom make an odd couple ripe with "hilarious" buddy-cop potential. In the passenger seat sits a hunched-over laptop guru who's known to perform with a glowing Banzai tree next to his console, and driving the wheel (and chomping the donuts, of course) is Doom's most-blunted, beer-bellied dictionary-snob. The free-form mood is set from the beginning as opener "Meat Grinder" twitches and spurts for a good 30 seconds of utter randomness. A lazy clarinet surfaces at one point. Cut up saxophones share their confusion with pulsating factory noises. Then Hebden cracks the beat and acts as pied piper to the aural odds and ends, which quickly fall in line and suddenly make total sense. It's like a Magic Eye poster for the ears. "Money Folder" gets the banger treatment, drums train-clacking across the speakers over a sinister synth line. And, of course, Hebden takes full advantage of Doom's "old jazz standard" break invitation, setting off an entire Ornette Coleman symphony. The most intriguing track is "Great Day," where the producer translates Madlib's lackadaisical stroll into a brooding patchwork of whizzing acoustic guitar effects that gently bend against the beat's downtempo grain. Lines like "It's easy as Pi, three point one four/ One more one false move and they done for," take on a new gloomy resonance as the track turns Doom's peculiar boasts into those of a sullen bully with a conscience. Psychedelic mish-mash DJ Koushik's eight-track EP runs just under 10 minutes long, staying true to Madvillain's haphazard punk-rock pace. He goes lengths to emulate Madvillainy's canny blend of comic-book-inspired dialogue (Dr. Doom creator Stan Lee pops in, pontificating in his unmistakable growl, "You can not be arrested for wanting to conquer the world-and that's all that Doom wants.") and loose, soulful loops. Flutes float in and out of "Strange Ways" and cooing back-ups help "Curls" find a decent groove, but most tracks fly by at such a quick clip, they hardly leave an impression. More of a logical continuation than a total revamp, Koushik's EP is competent, but doesn't add anything new to Doom and Lib's wily formula, ultimately reading like an engaging-but-kinda-empty Cliff's Notes version. Since he's working with everyone from Danger Mouse to Ghostface nowadays, is it too early to propose a full-fledged DoomTet long player? Then he can move onto a DualDisc collabo with Animal Collective and Will Oldham. Make it happen, Doom."

Isaac Hayes

Ultimate Isaac Hayes-- Can You Dig It?

Pop/R&B

Joe Tangari

Today, Isaac Hayes resides indelibly in the mainstream American consciousness primarily for two things: the "Theme from Shaft", and his recurring role as an over-sexed school cafeteria chef on "South Park", where he essentially poked fun at his own lover-man image. As much as they've become cultural touchstones, these two things hardly epitomize the man's career or indicate the length of the shadow he cast on r&b.; Here was a guy who cut a few obscure sides and then spent the next five years of his career as a session musician and songwriter for Stax Records, plying his craft in the service of others, and who also turned out to be a ridiculously charismatic performer in his own right. His booming baritone and sweeping Spector-squared arrangements set the tone for a whole generation of r&b; in the 1960s, while his 70s Blaxploitation soundtracks largely defined the genre with their chicken-scratch wah guitars, stabbing strings, and tough vocals. And of course he had his monologues-- long, sometimes rambling speeches that he unapologetically used to preface the meat of many of his songs. Can You Dig It? packs two discs wall-to-wall with 32 of the best tracks Hayes recorded under his own name, understandably leaving out the significant portion of his career he spent laboring for Stax, though you could certainly focus an interesting compilation on his early work backing and writing for other performers-- the guy co-wrote "Soul Man", after all. The whole extravaganza kicks off with that familiar twittering hi-hat, joined by one of the coolest rhythm guitar parts ever, and...is it possible not to like the "Theme From Shaft"? It gets something of a novelty rap, mostly as a result of innumerable terrible karaoke performances, but this is a truly badass piece of music, heinous funk rhythms and an entire symphony orchestra all building to a casually awesome drum fill that drops you into that ultra-smooth sing-rap. "Who's the black private dick that's a sex machine to all the chicks?" Hayes was talking about the Richard Roundtree character, but much of it applies to himself as well. A Google image search for the man reveals a gallery of way-too-cool shots of Hayes with his shaved head, perpetual sunglasses and shirtless displays of gold body hardware, but Hayes did more than his share to live up to that image in his music. The cross-section of that music captured in this tracklisting is about as good as it gets. Highlights from Hayes' other soundtrack work-- his theme from Tough Guys is sweet 'n' nasty proto-disco with a synth bass part from another planet-- mingle with album cuts, minor hits, and a few edits of his longest tracks, including a seven-minute reduction of his epic reading of Jimmy Webb's "By the Time I Get to Phoenix". Thankfully, the compilers have left intact the entire 12 minutes of his definitive take on Bacharach/David's "Walk on By", a psychedelic funk odyssey filled with scorching fuzz guitar solos and grandiose string arrangements that's as close to perfect as any song of that length could be. It's hard for anything to top "Walk on By", but Hayes hardly needs to worry about that when his second tier includes songs like "Do Your Thing", an essential slab of languid bongo funk, the throbbing, horn-soaked instrumental "Disco Connection", and "Hyperbolicsyllabic-sesquadelymistic", a nine-minute funk crawl capped by an out-of-this world piano solo that Public Enemy later snipped a portion of for the basis of "Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos". "Joy, pt. 1" went a long way toward establishing him as a master of seductive r&b;, wrapping direct sexuality in a pillowy love song packed with flutes, strings and horns. It's actually a little jarring sitting next to the plaintive live version of the traditional gospel song "His Eye Is on the Sparrow." There are only a few places in the two-plus hours of music here where not everything works. "For the Good Times" is a little too smooth, while the five-minute monologue that opens "I Stand Accused" is practically self-parody, and boring to boot. The need to edit down a few of the longer tracks is unfortunate, but understandable (if anything they could have lopped the intro of "I Stand Accused"), and anyone who wants the full-length versions of "By the Time I Get to Phoenix" or "Do Your Thing" can simply scoop up Hot-Buttered Soul or the Shaft soundtrack-- you'll want to own them anyway. Regardless, this is a phenomenal introduction to a man whose career was positively elemental both to 70s r&b; and funk and to the development of the album as a forum for stretching out and experimenting.

Artist: Isaac Hayes, Album: Ultimate Isaac Hayes-- Can You Dig It?, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Today, Isaac Hayes resides indelibly in the mainstream American consciousness primarily for two things: the "Theme from Shaft", and his recurring role as an over-sexed school cafeteria chef on "South Park", where he essentially poked fun at his own lover-man image. As much as they've become cultural touchstones, these two things hardly epitomize the man's career or indicate the length of the shadow he cast on r&b.; Here was a guy who cut a few obscure sides and then spent the next five years of his career as a session musician and songwriter for Stax Records, plying his craft in the service of others, and who also turned out to be a ridiculously charismatic performer in his own right. His booming baritone and sweeping Spector-squared arrangements set the tone for a whole generation of r&b; in the 1960s, while his 70s Blaxploitation soundtracks largely defined the genre with their chicken-scratch wah guitars, stabbing strings, and tough vocals. And of course he had his monologues-- long, sometimes rambling speeches that he unapologetically used to preface the meat of many of his songs. Can You Dig It? packs two discs wall-to-wall with 32 of the best tracks Hayes recorded under his own name, understandably leaving out the significant portion of his career he spent laboring for Stax, though you could certainly focus an interesting compilation on his early work backing and writing for other performers-- the guy co-wrote "Soul Man", after all. The whole extravaganza kicks off with that familiar twittering hi-hat, joined by one of the coolest rhythm guitar parts ever, and...is it possible not to like the "Theme From Shaft"? It gets something of a novelty rap, mostly as a result of innumerable terrible karaoke performances, but this is a truly badass piece of music, heinous funk rhythms and an entire symphony orchestra all building to a casually awesome drum fill that drops you into that ultra-smooth sing-rap. "Who's the black private dick that's a sex machine to all the chicks?" Hayes was talking about the Richard Roundtree character, but much of it applies to himself as well. A Google image search for the man reveals a gallery of way-too-cool shots of Hayes with his shaved head, perpetual sunglasses and shirtless displays of gold body hardware, but Hayes did more than his share to live up to that image in his music. The cross-section of that music captured in this tracklisting is about as good as it gets. Highlights from Hayes' other soundtrack work-- his theme from Tough Guys is sweet 'n' nasty proto-disco with a synth bass part from another planet-- mingle with album cuts, minor hits, and a few edits of his longest tracks, including a seven-minute reduction of his epic reading of Jimmy Webb's "By the Time I Get to Phoenix". Thankfully, the compilers have left intact the entire 12 minutes of his definitive take on Bacharach/David's "Walk on By", a psychedelic funk odyssey filled with scorching fuzz guitar solos and grandiose string arrangements that's as close to perfect as any song of that length could be. It's hard for anything to top "Walk on By", but Hayes hardly needs to worry about that when his second tier includes songs like "Do Your Thing", an essential slab of languid bongo funk, the throbbing, horn-soaked instrumental "Disco Connection", and "Hyperbolicsyllabic-sesquadelymistic", a nine-minute funk crawl capped by an out-of-this world piano solo that Public Enemy later snipped a portion of for the basis of "Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos". "Joy, pt. 1" went a long way toward establishing him as a master of seductive r&b;, wrapping direct sexuality in a pillowy love song packed with flutes, strings and horns. It's actually a little jarring sitting next to the plaintive live version of the traditional gospel song "His Eye Is on the Sparrow." There are only a few places in the two-plus hours of music here where not everything works. "For the Good Times" is a little too smooth, while the five-minute monologue that opens "I Stand Accused" is practically self-parody, and boring to boot. The need to edit down a few of the longer tracks is unfortunate, but understandable (if anything they could have lopped the intro of "I Stand Accused"), and anyone who wants the full-length versions of "By the Time I Get to Phoenix" or "Do Your Thing" can simply scoop up Hot-Buttered Soul or the Shaft soundtrack-- you'll want to own them anyway. Regardless, this is a phenomenal introduction to a man whose career was positively elemental both to 70s r&b; and funk and to the development of the album as a forum for stretching out and experimenting."

Cave

Threace

Rock

Aaron Leitko

Chicago psych-rock troupe Cave have always been capable of striking a middle path between free-sailing wah-pedal-fueled abandon and good taste, but the quartet’s third album, Threace, finds them exercising even more restraint than usual. Formed in 2006, Cave has cycled through two cities—relocating to Chicago from Columbia, Missouri—and a number of musicians, but its sound has remained fairly consistent. The quartet draws heavy inspiration from German experimental rock music of the late 60s and early 70s, particularly rhythm-driven outfits like Can and Neu!. Cave’s compositions are sprawling, but tightly focused, employing simple major-key melodies to sustain the rhythms section’s hypnotic grooves. On previous LPs like Psychic Psummer and Neverendless, the band perfectly emulated its idols—nailing the recording techniques, the tonalities, and the playing style of continental Europe’s finest vintage head-music. On Threace, the group’s second full-length for Drag City, Cave’s heart still beats to the motorik pulse, but they’ve broadened out their repertoire to include some of the other groovy, stoney sounds of the 70s. “Arrow’s Myth” begins with a driving groove, but the guitars quickly give way to a rhodes-driven ambient zone-out that carries more than a whiff of fusion-era Miles Davis. “Silver Headband” opens with odd-time krautrock homage, but the heavy rave-up that closes the song owes some of its steely grind to progressive blues rock records. Cave’s music is rooted in minimalism and the band has never been guilty of over-playing, but on Threace, the group holds back even more than usual. In the past, the band relied heavily on loud-soft dynamics to create urgency, pivoting from delicate to distorted in order to drive a song forward. On many of the compositions here, they establish a groove and hover in place. The last third of twelve-minute album opener, “Sweaty Fingers", is made up of staccato guitars scratching out supplemental percussion for a hi-hat groove. One psychedelic staple that you seldom hear in Cave’s music is echo. Guitarists Jeremy Freeze and Cooper Crain keep their riffs dry, leaving no atmosphere or texture to cloud their interlocking melodies or hide smudged rhythms. Because krautrock downplayed harmony in favor of rhythm, the music has a certain mechanical connotations. Yet, it’s never monotonous. The notes are simple and repetitive, but there’s a subtle human feel in the rhythm section that keeps the music flowing forward. It’s an element that many revivalists sideline, because it’s tough to do. Cave nail it, though. On Threace, they prove to be excellent players on a technical level, who can zero in on minute detail and keep stasis interesting. They’re not just guys with really great record collections, they’re excellent musicians.

Artist: Cave, Album: Threace, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Chicago psych-rock troupe Cave have always been capable of striking a middle path between free-sailing wah-pedal-fueled abandon and good taste, but the quartet’s third album, Threace, finds them exercising even more restraint than usual. Formed in 2006, Cave has cycled through two cities—relocating to Chicago from Columbia, Missouri—and a number of musicians, but its sound has remained fairly consistent. The quartet draws heavy inspiration from German experimental rock music of the late 60s and early 70s, particularly rhythm-driven outfits like Can and Neu!. Cave’s compositions are sprawling, but tightly focused, employing simple major-key melodies to sustain the rhythms section’s hypnotic grooves. On previous LPs like Psychic Psummer and Neverendless, the band perfectly emulated its idols—nailing the recording techniques, the tonalities, and the playing style of continental Europe’s finest vintage head-music. On Threace, the group’s second full-length for Drag City, Cave’s heart still beats to the motorik pulse, but they’ve broadened out their repertoire to include some of the other groovy, stoney sounds of the 70s. “Arrow’s Myth” begins with a driving groove, but the guitars quickly give way to a rhodes-driven ambient zone-out that carries more than a whiff of fusion-era Miles Davis. “Silver Headband” opens with odd-time krautrock homage, but the heavy rave-up that closes the song owes some of its steely grind to progressive blues rock records. Cave’s music is rooted in minimalism and the band has never been guilty of over-playing, but on Threace, the group holds back even more than usual. In the past, the band relied heavily on loud-soft dynamics to create urgency, pivoting from delicate to distorted in order to drive a song forward. On many of the compositions here, they establish a groove and hover in place. The last third of twelve-minute album opener, “Sweaty Fingers", is made up of staccato guitars scratching out supplemental percussion for a hi-hat groove. One psychedelic staple that you seldom hear in Cave’s music is echo. Guitarists Jeremy Freeze and Cooper Crain keep their riffs dry, leaving no atmosphere or texture to cloud their interlocking melodies or hide smudged rhythms. Because krautrock downplayed harmony in favor of rhythm, the music has a certain mechanical connotations. Yet, it’s never monotonous. The notes are simple and repetitive, but there’s a subtle human feel in the rhythm section that keeps the music flowing forward. It’s an element that many revivalists sideline, because it’s tough to do. Cave nail it, though. On Threace, they prove to be excellent players on a technical level, who can zero in on minute detail and keep stasis interesting. They’re not just guys with really great record collections, they’re excellent musicians."

Teengirl Fantasy

Tracer

Electronic

Jayson Greene

Naming your group Teengirl Fantasy suggests a self-conscious interest in someone else's idea of joyful abandon. Or at least, it does if the group in question is a pair of male twentysomethings. Since they formed, Oberlin buddies Nick Weiss and Logan Takahashi have treated hedonistic, crowd-moving dance music this way: as something colorful, captivating, and too delicate to handle roughly. The fragility of their music has helped make them interesting, but so far, it has also kept them from being great. Their second full-length, Tracer, is a step deeper into a fantasy Teengirl might call their own. But there remains a gap between fiddling creatively with the music you love and making music that succeeds as clearly on its own terms, and Weiss and Takahashi haven't quite closed it yet. In some ways, their defining statement remains Weiss' slowing down of Mariah Carey's "Touch My Body" past the point of recognizability, a calling-card moment that heightened expectations for their debut, 7AM. That record never quite fought its way out of the middle-- the middle of the road, the middle of the dynamic range, the aesthetic midpoint between the drama of the records they loved and the remove they approached them from. The best song, "Cheaters", once again hitched its star to a super-heated vocal performance, the churchy Philly-soul grit of Love Committee's "Cheaters Never Win". On Tracer, they take another step away from the music of the past, bringing in a handful of guest vocalists, including Panda Bear, Kelela, and Laurel Halo, with mixed results. Laurel Halo's voice is awfully close to a synth tone already, and it floats weightlessly around the synth programming on "Mist of Time". Panda Bear's voice fraternizes uncomfortably with the pistoning rubbery drum and mechanical Detroit-house atmosphere on "Pyjama". "EFX", featuring Kelela, doesnt work at all. The vocals are simply thin, and the song's disparate parts-- the meandering chorus melody, the tinny sixteenth-note hi-hats, the uncertain, shuddering rhythm of the synths, the syncopated finger pops-- just don't cohere. It isn't a shrewd recasting of a standard R&B song; it's simply an ineptly made example of one. On the rest of the record, however, Weiss and Takahashi lay out their visions in purely instrumental terms, and the production is sumptuous and beautifully tactile. This is what Teengirl Fantasy do best: They craft immaculate headphones music, full of enveloping small details. The panning synth on "Orbit" hits like sunlight on a river, while the watery blub of the drums and the little whispers that strafe across the mix all suggest an environment alive with tiny sounds of life. "Vector Spray" is built on a beat that sounds like feet splashing in shallow water and then wraps perspective-bending synth prisms around it. "Eternal" surrounds a breath-caught heartbeat pulse with a firefly storm of soft lights. On tracks like these, Teengirl build a world that feels very much their own, a place where industrial soot and grime mixes with blinding rainbow light.  The music is both layered and weightless, misty and bright. If Tracer has significant replay value, it's for the parsing of the details of its light-filled surface, for the sounds themselves. During these moments, the music that inspired Weiss and Takahashi to start making music in the first place feels pleasantly remote.

Artist: Teengirl Fantasy, Album: Tracer, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Naming your group Teengirl Fantasy suggests a self-conscious interest in someone else's idea of joyful abandon. Or at least, it does if the group in question is a pair of male twentysomethings. Since they formed, Oberlin buddies Nick Weiss and Logan Takahashi have treated hedonistic, crowd-moving dance music this way: as something colorful, captivating, and too delicate to handle roughly. The fragility of their music has helped make them interesting, but so far, it has also kept them from being great. Their second full-length, Tracer, is a step deeper into a fantasy Teengirl might call their own. But there remains a gap between fiddling creatively with the music you love and making music that succeeds as clearly on its own terms, and Weiss and Takahashi haven't quite closed it yet. In some ways, their defining statement remains Weiss' slowing down of Mariah Carey's "Touch My Body" past the point of recognizability, a calling-card moment that heightened expectations for their debut, 7AM. That record never quite fought its way out of the middle-- the middle of the road, the middle of the dynamic range, the aesthetic midpoint between the drama of the records they loved and the remove they approached them from. The best song, "Cheaters", once again hitched its star to a super-heated vocal performance, the churchy Philly-soul grit of Love Committee's "Cheaters Never Win". On Tracer, they take another step away from the music of the past, bringing in a handful of guest vocalists, including Panda Bear, Kelela, and Laurel Halo, with mixed results. Laurel Halo's voice is awfully close to a synth tone already, and it floats weightlessly around the synth programming on "Mist of Time". Panda Bear's voice fraternizes uncomfortably with the pistoning rubbery drum and mechanical Detroit-house atmosphere on "Pyjama". "EFX", featuring Kelela, doesnt work at all. The vocals are simply thin, and the song's disparate parts-- the meandering chorus melody, the tinny sixteenth-note hi-hats, the uncertain, shuddering rhythm of the synths, the syncopated finger pops-- just don't cohere. It isn't a shrewd recasting of a standard R&B song; it's simply an ineptly made example of one. On the rest of the record, however, Weiss and Takahashi lay out their visions in purely instrumental terms, and the production is sumptuous and beautifully tactile. This is what Teengirl Fantasy do best: They craft immaculate headphones music, full of enveloping small details. The panning synth on "Orbit" hits like sunlight on a river, while the watery blub of the drums and the little whispers that strafe across the mix all suggest an environment alive with tiny sounds of life. "Vector Spray" is built on a beat that sounds like feet splashing in shallow water and then wraps perspective-bending synth prisms around it. "Eternal" surrounds a breath-caught heartbeat pulse with a firefly storm of soft lights. On tracks like these, Teengirl build a world that feels very much their own, a place where industrial soot and grime mixes with blinding rainbow light.  The music is both layered and weightless, misty and bright. If Tracer has significant replay value, it's for the parsing of the details of its light-filled surface, for the sounds themselves. During these moments, the music that inspired Weiss and Takahashi to start making music in the first place feels pleasantly remote."

Cex

Oops, I Did It Again

Electronic

Matt LeMay

I'm all for keeping it real. As shelf-picked rockstar personas seem to impress more easily than sincerity and unpretentiousness, any artist who seeks to let his work speak for itself has to deal with the distinct possibility of his music going unnoticed. As the number of records being released monthly increases at a seemingly exponential rate, being a musician without a gimmick (even if it is a weak, done-to-death gimmick) means running the risk of getting lost in the shuffle. Ryan Kidwell (aka Rjyan, aka Cex) isn't one to let his music speak for itself. Cex's live show has, in recent years, developed into one of the single most entertaining spectacles I've ever experienced. Lots of performers manipulate their onstage personas to make themselves appear more interesting or more mysterious. But the true brilliance of Kidwell's show is that his whole act seems totally sincere. Playing equal parts mad rapper and welcoming host, Kidwell drops tight, witty, and endearing rhymes about balls, bicycles, and "Bad Dudes" over skittery beats, peppered with clever between-song banter ("This next song has some violins-- an instrument invented by Radiohead"). So, in the interest of keeping it real, I'll say I'm pretty disappointed by Oops, I Did It Again. The Cex I saw in concert was a truly original entertainer, putting the best parts of his personality to work for him. The Cex I hear on Oops, I Did It Again sounds like he's trying to incorporate a pretty wide spectrum of influences with the fun IDM that's been the bread and butter of his career this far. And while the result is certainly well executed, it lacks the personality that makes Cex such an appealing character in the first place. For the most part, Oops, I Did It Again is relatively standard IDM fare, with a much greater focus on rhythm than on melody. Most of the sounds on the album have already been used hundreds of times-- chopped-up drum samples, synthesizers with sweeping filters and the occasional odd bit of noise. The beats that make up the core of Oops, I Did It Again are certainly top-notch-- at this point, there's no question that Kidwell knows how to put together a song. The problem is, there isn't much on Oops, I Did It Again that's particularly riveting. Take the warm acoustic guitars that fill out "(You're) Off the Food Chain," a track that sounds almost like the Microphones. Elements like these are never really integrated, and all are worked into similarly deliberate, repetitive song structures. In concert, Cex's rhythmically interesting and consistently amusing rhymes bring his music to life. Far too much of this record is simply boring. It's a testament to Cex's inherent talent that the most uninteresting and typical aspects of Oops, I Did It Again are also the ones that seem the most forced.

Artist: Cex, Album: Oops, I Did It Again, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "I'm all for keeping it real. As shelf-picked rockstar personas seem to impress more easily than sincerity and unpretentiousness, any artist who seeks to let his work speak for itself has to deal with the distinct possibility of his music going unnoticed. As the number of records being released monthly increases at a seemingly exponential rate, being a musician without a gimmick (even if it is a weak, done-to-death gimmick) means running the risk of getting lost in the shuffle. Ryan Kidwell (aka Rjyan, aka Cex) isn't one to let his music speak for itself. Cex's live show has, in recent years, developed into one of the single most entertaining spectacles I've ever experienced. Lots of performers manipulate their onstage personas to make themselves appear more interesting or more mysterious. But the true brilliance of Kidwell's show is that his whole act seems totally sincere. Playing equal parts mad rapper and welcoming host, Kidwell drops tight, witty, and endearing rhymes about balls, bicycles, and "Bad Dudes" over skittery beats, peppered with clever between-song banter ("This next song has some violins-- an instrument invented by Radiohead"). So, in the interest of keeping it real, I'll say I'm pretty disappointed by Oops, I Did It Again. The Cex I saw in concert was a truly original entertainer, putting the best parts of his personality to work for him. The Cex I hear on Oops, I Did It Again sounds like he's trying to incorporate a pretty wide spectrum of influences with the fun IDM that's been the bread and butter of his career this far. And while the result is certainly well executed, it lacks the personality that makes Cex such an appealing character in the first place. For the most part, Oops, I Did It Again is relatively standard IDM fare, with a much greater focus on rhythm than on melody. Most of the sounds on the album have already been used hundreds of times-- chopped-up drum samples, synthesizers with sweeping filters and the occasional odd bit of noise. The beats that make up the core of Oops, I Did It Again are certainly top-notch-- at this point, there's no question that Kidwell knows how to put together a song. The problem is, there isn't much on Oops, I Did It Again that's particularly riveting. Take the warm acoustic guitars that fill out "(You're) Off the Food Chain," a track that sounds almost like the Microphones. Elements like these are never really integrated, and all are worked into similarly deliberate, repetitive song structures. In concert, Cex's rhythmically interesting and consistently amusing rhymes bring his music to life. Far too much of this record is simply boring. It's a testament to Cex's inherent talent that the most uninteresting and typical aspects of Oops, I Did It Again are also the ones that seem the most forced."

Connan Mockasin

Jassbusters

Rock

Andy Beta

Since the late 1970s, New Zealand has produced an array of skewed pop savants, from Martin Phillipps to the Kilgour brothers, Chris Knox to Lorde. But is there another Kiwi who has inveigled themselves and their peculiarities into the modern indie-rock stratosphere quite like Connan Mockasin? Carrying the air of an alien beamed down to earth, Mockasin has popped up alongside some of indie music’s most revered figures: James Blake, Charlotte Gainsbourg, MGMT, John Cale, and Dev Hynes, to name a few. No matter the artist, he brings a surrealist bent to the proceedings. He’s a naturally helium-huffed crooner, and his songs meander like a stroll in the park, his warped guitar lines as knee-bending as a good curveball pitcher. But his proximity to bigger pop acts hasn’t done much to alter Mockasin’s approach to his own music. Five years after Caramel, Mockasin’s third album, Jassbusters, finds him to be just as squishy, unmoored, and diaphanous as he was when he debuted with 2010’s Forever Dolphin Love. On Jassbusters, Mockasin and bandmates drift in and out of songs shaped like murky pools, full of submerged pulses, noodly reveries, and murmured lyrics that briefly bewitch and then wiggle right beyond remembrance. While its title might titillate, “Charlotte’s Thong” instead wanders a far different path. The groove is slack, unformed, and stoned as an early-’70s country-rock session; as the band nods along, it summons memories of Fleetwood Mac and Michael Nesmith, Mockasin’s guitar lines by turns lethargic and tart. It’s appealingly hazy, but Mockasin’s marble-mouthed delivery (is he singing about thongs or songs?) comes dangerously close to dissolving into gibberish. The album is apparently intended as a companion piece to Bostyn ’n Dobsyn, a “five-part melodrama” directed by and starring Mockasin. But it’s hard to imagine any plot or visuals making the album cohere any better. Does it matter who Momo or Con Conn actually are? The bits of dialogue that crop up (“You can do anything to get good grades,” or “Your grades are slipping, every subject except for music”) don’t help clarify matters much. As a result, a strange, slow fog settles in over the course of the record, which comes to feel like an album-length exercise in torpor, clouding over some unabashedly gorgeous turns by Mockasin. He has James Blake and his fragile falsetto take the lead on “Momo’s,” a languorous song that floats like exhaled smoke. “Last Night” also moves at the speed of deep breathing, a gently tapped ride cymbal providing the subtle pulse as Mockasin does his best Brothers Gibb quiver. It has all the makings of a heartbreaking, slow-burning soul ballad, were it not for the weird squeaking-balloon sounds that continually disrupt the setting. “Con Conn Was Impatient” also smolders, even as Mockasin’s pleas slowly crumble into ululations and wordless ash. Rather than convey a sense of melodrama, Jassbusters often feels like the wispy, lite-rock tribute that Ween never got around to making.

Artist: Connan Mockasin, Album: Jassbusters, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Since the late 1970s, New Zealand has produced an array of skewed pop savants, from Martin Phillipps to the Kilgour brothers, Chris Knox to Lorde. But is there another Kiwi who has inveigled themselves and their peculiarities into the modern indie-rock stratosphere quite like Connan Mockasin? Carrying the air of an alien beamed down to earth, Mockasin has popped up alongside some of indie music’s most revered figures: James Blake, Charlotte Gainsbourg, MGMT, John Cale, and Dev Hynes, to name a few. No matter the artist, he brings a surrealist bent to the proceedings. He’s a naturally helium-huffed crooner, and his songs meander like a stroll in the park, his warped guitar lines as knee-bending as a good curveball pitcher. But his proximity to bigger pop acts hasn’t done much to alter Mockasin’s approach to his own music. Five years after Caramel, Mockasin’s third album, Jassbusters, finds him to be just as squishy, unmoored, and diaphanous as he was when he debuted with 2010’s Forever Dolphin Love. On Jassbusters, Mockasin and bandmates drift in and out of songs shaped like murky pools, full of submerged pulses, noodly reveries, and murmured lyrics that briefly bewitch and then wiggle right beyond remembrance. While its title might titillate, “Charlotte’s Thong” instead wanders a far different path. The groove is slack, unformed, and stoned as an early-’70s country-rock session; as the band nods along, it summons memories of Fleetwood Mac and Michael Nesmith, Mockasin’s guitar lines by turns lethargic and tart. It’s appealingly hazy, but Mockasin’s marble-mouthed delivery (is he singing about thongs or songs?) comes dangerously close to dissolving into gibberish. The album is apparently intended as a companion piece to Bostyn ’n Dobsyn, a “five-part melodrama” directed by and starring Mockasin. But it’s hard to imagine any plot or visuals making the album cohere any better. Does it matter who Momo or Con Conn actually are? The bits of dialogue that crop up (“You can do anything to get good grades,” or “Your grades are slipping, every subject except for music”) don’t help clarify matters much. As a result, a strange, slow fog settles in over the course of the record, which comes to feel like an album-length exercise in torpor, clouding over some unabashedly gorgeous turns by Mockasin. He has James Blake and his fragile falsetto take the lead on “Momo’s,” a languorous song that floats like exhaled smoke. “Last Night” also moves at the speed of deep breathing, a gently tapped ride cymbal providing the subtle pulse as Mockasin does his best Brothers Gibb quiver. It has all the makings of a heartbreaking, slow-burning soul ballad, were it not for the weird squeaking-balloon sounds that continually disrupt the setting. “Con Conn Was Impatient” also smolders, even as Mockasin’s pleas slowly crumble into ululations and wordless ash. Rather than convey a sense of melodrama, Jassbusters often feels like the wispy, lite-rock tribute that Ween never got around to making."

Hot Snakes

Automatic Midnight

Rock

Judson Picco

Ain't nothing wrong with a little predictability every now and again. Let's face it: when you pick up a record by a band with cover art like this, and a name like Hot Snakes, you have a pretty good idea what you're getting yourself into. Automatic Midnight is no feast for the eyes. And judging by those first couple of sentences, this review's nothing special, either. To do justice to Hot Snakes, though, it's got to do its job predictably-- and do it predictably well. This particular breed of Hot Snake could hardly come from a better line of descent. John Reis and Rick Fork (aka Speedo and Eric Froeberg, respectively) are the boys that brought you Rocket from the Crypt and Drive Like Jehu, and drummer Jason Kourkounis of The Delta 72 adds a percussive x-factor to the proceedings. These three mesh like well-worn gears, dousing the machines of their history with fresh oil. Hot Snakes commit a revival, and one not too conceptually distant from the Credence Clearwater camp. These guys refuse to be anything but what they are. The opener, "If Credit's What Matters I'll Take Credit", betrays a bit of Fork's Fogarty leanings. Where Reis once tied his CCR to vintage-sounding roots-rock perfection and took all the blame and fame, Hot Snakes confidently delve deep into the proven past of Rocket from the Crypt and Drive Like Jehu, certain they'll turn up gold. "I'll Take Credit" showcases Fork's signature falsetto bawl; his unintelligible exhortations achieve meaning through sheer ferocity. The drums may ache more than Fork's throat at the end of this one. "No Hands" crunchingly juxtaposes Jehu-styled guitar arithmetic with Kourkounis' metronomic devastation; his simple power derives from the Russell Simins school of might over matter. By this point in the record, it's clear that the mathy time-keeping of Drive's Mark Trombino have succumbed to a less kind, less gentle momentum. Kourkounis manages to come off more rock, more real, and somehow more America. "Salton City" speaks of Fork's "civic duty" and that he's "read up on Bergen/ Belsen," just before a distant female yells, "Give us a kiss," a call echoed in some vague '60s bubblegum pop classic. Cleverly buried Americanisms litter Automatic Midnight throughout. "Apartment 0," heavy on toms, less so on direction, wants badly to recall instrumental surf-punk. Instead, it lurks the San Diego shore in shark-like search of a fallen surfer. A similar pound on "Our Work Fills the Pews" introduces a lyric/retort sermon, preaching the kind of swagger that's kept Royal Trux's collection plate full for so long. In the end, Automatic Midnight makes you want to drive a littler faster down a potholed road, turn the stereo up a notch higher than usual, and nod minutely at anyone annoyed by your raucous passing. The smashing of the millennial barrier hasn't broken anything in Reis and Fork's model for San Diegan dominance. And what ain't broke, Hot Snakes ain't fixin' here.

Artist: Hot Snakes, Album: Automatic Midnight, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Ain't nothing wrong with a little predictability every now and again. Let's face it: when you pick up a record by a band with cover art like this, and a name like Hot Snakes, you have a pretty good idea what you're getting yourself into. Automatic Midnight is no feast for the eyes. And judging by those first couple of sentences, this review's nothing special, either. To do justice to Hot Snakes, though, it's got to do its job predictably-- and do it predictably well. This particular breed of Hot Snake could hardly come from a better line of descent. John Reis and Rick Fork (aka Speedo and Eric Froeberg, respectively) are the boys that brought you Rocket from the Crypt and Drive Like Jehu, and drummer Jason Kourkounis of The Delta 72 adds a percussive x-factor to the proceedings. These three mesh like well-worn gears, dousing the machines of their history with fresh oil. Hot Snakes commit a revival, and one not too conceptually distant from the Credence Clearwater camp. These guys refuse to be anything but what they are. The opener, "If Credit's What Matters I'll Take Credit", betrays a bit of Fork's Fogarty leanings. Where Reis once tied his CCR to vintage-sounding roots-rock perfection and took all the blame and fame, Hot Snakes confidently delve deep into the proven past of Rocket from the Crypt and Drive Like Jehu, certain they'll turn up gold. "I'll Take Credit" showcases Fork's signature falsetto bawl; his unintelligible exhortations achieve meaning through sheer ferocity. The drums may ache more than Fork's throat at the end of this one. "No Hands" crunchingly juxtaposes Jehu-styled guitar arithmetic with Kourkounis' metronomic devastation; his simple power derives from the Russell Simins school of might over matter. By this point in the record, it's clear that the mathy time-keeping of Drive's Mark Trombino have succumbed to a less kind, less gentle momentum. Kourkounis manages to come off more rock, more real, and somehow more America. "Salton City" speaks of Fork's "civic duty" and that he's "read up on Bergen/ Belsen," just before a distant female yells, "Give us a kiss," a call echoed in some vague '60s bubblegum pop classic. Cleverly buried Americanisms litter Automatic Midnight throughout. "Apartment 0," heavy on toms, less so on direction, wants badly to recall instrumental surf-punk. Instead, it lurks the San Diego shore in shark-like search of a fallen surfer. A similar pound on "Our Work Fills the Pews" introduces a lyric/retort sermon, preaching the kind of swagger that's kept Royal Trux's collection plate full for so long. In the end, Automatic Midnight makes you want to drive a littler faster down a potholed road, turn the stereo up a notch higher than usual, and nod minutely at anyone annoyed by your raucous passing. The smashing of the millennial barrier hasn't broken anything in Reis and Fork's model for San Diegan dominance. And what ain't broke, Hot Snakes ain't fixin' here."

Paul Westerberg

Stereo

Rock

Ryan Schreiber & Alison Fields

Paul! Good god, man, it's been a while. Last I heard, you were wasting away in some piss-gutter on Minneapolis' north side, regaling the local liquor slobs with tales of 7th Street glory and Tommy Stinson's bitchin' hair parades. Hey, how about that solo career? Yeah, you blew it right from the start. Christ, dude, "Silver Naked Ladies"? Suicaine Gratifaction?? What'd, you have an aneurysm? Ahh, no offense, pal. Heard your new records-- fuckin' shocker, man! Thought we'd heard the last of you after that career-ender back in '99. But that's all history now, buddy. Get up on that barstool and talk some noise about Pete Jesperson. You still owe me a rum-and-coke for "World Class Fad". Such is how a conversation between myself and olde Paul Westerberg might've gone had we hooked up for a drink at the Turf Club a couple of months ago for an interview I just dreamt up to make this transition smoother. Yeah, I could be like the rest of you cynical half-breeds and feign disinterest, write this weathered codger off and tell you to save yourself the worry and pick up a Sorry Ma reissue. After all, I've got the practice, having spent the last ten years bored to tears by Westerberg's post-Replacements solo schlock. 14 Songs and Eventually have long since left my memory banks, forgettable like the phrase "adult contemporary singer/songwriter." Yet, after getting the boot from two major labels in the past four years, Westy's back on the minor circuit with a sense of confidence so renewed it produced two full-length records. But what shocks even more than his sudden resurgence in popularity is the fact that these albums mark the first time since about 1987 that Westerberg's released anything worth more than a 5.0. And while I'm on a roll here, I'll go ahead and be controversial: Stereo and Mono are the best work Paul's done ir like fifteen years. And yeah, I'm just as surprised as the rest of you skeptics. Stereo's a collection of low-key, country-tinged acoustic ballads, sad love songs, and bluesy rock beaters that were reputedly self-recorded in the basement of Westerberg's house over the course of two years. The amateurish production announces its presence with abruptly ending songs and occasional, unintentional background racket. Westerberg plays all the instruments, occasionally flubs lyrics, and gets defensive in the liner notes: "Unprofessional? Perhaps. Real? Unquestionably." Cocky? Yep. But the man's got a right. This here's the inventor of cock, the guy who shared a town with the already well-established Hüsker Dü and openly mocked them in a song on his band's debut album! That cockiness fights its way onto both Stereo and Mono, and solely on the basis of the man rediscovering his testicles, these records are worth a listen. But there's more: reverting to his trademark graveled vocals and veering off the path of predictability by dropping some genuinely loud material along the way, Westerberg's conviction is nearly as strong now as it was in his prime. And, spared the studio polish and complex arrangements of the rest of his solo catalog, these songs are simply solid-- proving that when he's inspired, he can still bring home the magic. Unquestionably. The disc opens with "Baby Learns to Crawl," with its spacious guitar and muted accordion effects fading into "Dirt to Mud," a plaintive, acoustic Dylan-esque paean to regret. The excellent, waltz-timed "Got You Down" even recalls the sparse intimacy of Nebraska-era Springsteen. For an album conceived and recorded with a modicum of slick production toys, it does a great job manipulating atmosphere from song to song. Take the downtempo blues-pop of "No Place for You," which, for its spatial expanse, is remarkably intimate (likewise the lo-fi rock of "Unlisted Track"). Makes one wonder about the acoustics of Westerberg's basement. Included with the original pressings of Stereo comes Mono (released under that cheeseball moniker Grandpaboy), and seen as a double album, Stereo/Mono is particularly effective. If the Paul Westerberg of Stereo is a seasoned musician putting his sorrows to music in the basement, Grandpaboy is his incorrigible alter-ego, playing spacious, low-fidelity Stones-stampin' rock 'n' rule that evokes his Replacements days without pandering to nostalgia. Westerberg's even joined by a tight backing band on Mono, and claims to have recorded the album in a state of hurried, sweaty-handed irrationality-- something some of you digital perfectionists out there might take a cue from. As on Stereo, Mono moves fairly seamlessly across genres without disrupting the essential tone of the album: the bar-brawling "High Time" kicks things off somewhere between rootsy Americana and power-pop; "Let's Not Belong Together" is a reverb-heavy, imperfect rockabilly number; "Anything But That" pits Jagger swagger against Westerberg's best 'Mats yowl. And of the two, Mono holds up as the stronger album throughout. But only by a hair. Both of these records are considerable accomplishments, considering that the last time we heard from this guy it was on the cut-out bin damnation of Suicaine's abysmal "Bookmark." Westerberg's influence was planted ir this fertile indie rock soil back in 1982, and whether it's been bastardized through the generations or not, you can still hear echoes of his rasped tone deep in the mixes of today's greatest counter-cultural masterpieces. Mono and Stereo would be fine records from any musician-- that Westerberg himself is the source makes it all the sweeter. These albums, if nothing else, serve as a reminder of all he's done, and all he's yet to do. Congrats, Paul. Didn't think you had it in you.

Artist: Paul Westerberg, Album: Stereo, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Paul! Good god, man, it's been a while. Last I heard, you were wasting away in some piss-gutter on Minneapolis' north side, regaling the local liquor slobs with tales of 7th Street glory and Tommy Stinson's bitchin' hair parades. Hey, how about that solo career? Yeah, you blew it right from the start. Christ, dude, "Silver Naked Ladies"? Suicaine Gratifaction?? What'd, you have an aneurysm? Ahh, no offense, pal. Heard your new records-- fuckin' shocker, man! Thought we'd heard the last of you after that career-ender back in '99. But that's all history now, buddy. Get up on that barstool and talk some noise about Pete Jesperson. You still owe me a rum-and-coke for "World Class Fad". Such is how a conversation between myself and olde Paul Westerberg might've gone had we hooked up for a drink at the Turf Club a couple of months ago for an interview I just dreamt up to make this transition smoother. Yeah, I could be like the rest of you cynical half-breeds and feign disinterest, write this weathered codger off and tell you to save yourself the worry and pick up a Sorry Ma reissue. After all, I've got the practice, having spent the last ten years bored to tears by Westerberg's post-Replacements solo schlock. 14 Songs and Eventually have long since left my memory banks, forgettable like the phrase "adult contemporary singer/songwriter." Yet, after getting the boot from two major labels in the past four years, Westy's back on the minor circuit with a sense of confidence so renewed it produced two full-length records. But what shocks even more than his sudden resurgence in popularity is the fact that these albums mark the first time since about 1987 that Westerberg's released anything worth more than a 5.0. And while I'm on a roll here, I'll go ahead and be controversial: Stereo and Mono are the best work Paul's done ir like fifteen years. And yeah, I'm just as surprised as the rest of you skeptics. Stereo's a collection of low-key, country-tinged acoustic ballads, sad love songs, and bluesy rock beaters that were reputedly self-recorded in the basement of Westerberg's house over the course of two years. The amateurish production announces its presence with abruptly ending songs and occasional, unintentional background racket. Westerberg plays all the instruments, occasionally flubs lyrics, and gets defensive in the liner notes: "Unprofessional? Perhaps. Real? Unquestionably." Cocky? Yep. But the man's got a right. This here's the inventor of cock, the guy who shared a town with the already well-established Hüsker Dü and openly mocked them in a song on his band's debut album! That cockiness fights its way onto both Stereo and Mono, and solely on the basis of the man rediscovering his testicles, these records are worth a listen. But there's more: reverting to his trademark graveled vocals and veering off the path of predictability by dropping some genuinely loud material along the way, Westerberg's conviction is nearly as strong now as it was in his prime. And, spared the studio polish and complex arrangements of the rest of his solo catalog, these songs are simply solid-- proving that when he's inspired, he can still bring home the magic. Unquestionably. The disc opens with "Baby Learns to Crawl," with its spacious guitar and muted accordion effects fading into "Dirt to Mud," a plaintive, acoustic Dylan-esque paean to regret. The excellent, waltz-timed "Got You Down" even recalls the sparse intimacy of Nebraska-era Springsteen. For an album conceived and recorded with a modicum of slick production toys, it does a great job manipulating atmosphere from song to song. Take the downtempo blues-pop of "No Place for You," which, for its spatial expanse, is remarkably intimate (likewise the lo-fi rock of "Unlisted Track"). Makes one wonder about the acoustics of Westerberg's basement. Included with the original pressings of Stereo comes Mono (released under that cheeseball moniker Grandpaboy), and seen as a double album, Stereo/Mono is particularly effective. If the Paul Westerberg of Stereo is a seasoned musician putting his sorrows to music in the basement, Grandpaboy is his incorrigible alter-ego, playing spacious, low-fidelity Stones-stampin' rock 'n' rule that evokes his Replacements days without pandering to nostalgia. Westerberg's even joined by a tight backing band on Mono, and claims to have recorded the album in a state of hurried, sweaty-handed irrationality-- something some of you digital perfectionists out there might take a cue from. As on Stereo, Mono moves fairly seamlessly across genres without disrupting the essential tone of the album: the bar-brawling "High Time" kicks things off somewhere between rootsy Americana and power-pop; "Let's Not Belong Together" is a reverb-heavy, imperfect rockabilly number; "Anything But That" pits Jagger swagger against Westerberg's best 'Mats yowl. And of the two, Mono holds up as the stronger album throughout. But only by a hair. Both of these records are considerable accomplishments, considering that the last time we heard from this guy it was on the cut-out bin damnation of Suicaine's abysmal "Bookmark." Westerberg's influence was planted ir this fertile indie rock soil back in 1982, and whether it's been bastardized through the generations or not, you can still hear echoes of his rasped tone deep in the mixes of today's greatest counter-cultural masterpieces. Mono and Stereo would be fine records from any musician-- that Westerberg himself is the source makes it all the sweeter. These albums, if nothing else, serve as a reminder of all he's done, and all he's yet to do. Congrats, Paul. Didn't think you had it in you."

Vaura

The Missing

Grayson Currin

If you’re checking résumés, the New York quartet Vaura probably seems daunting. Two of its members, bassist Toby Driver and guitarist Kevin Hufnagel, have logged recent time in some of heavy metal’s more dense and complicated units. Hufnagel counters Luc Lemay in the relaunched version of Gorguts and plays guitar with perpetually knotty instrumental trio Dysrhythmia. Driver, meanwhile, is the mastermind of the ever-recondite Kayo Dot and a survivor of the wonderfully exploratory maudlin of the Well. The pedigree of the band’s other half—drummer Charlie Schmid and leader, vocalist and guitarist Josh Strawn—is less metallic but nevertheless impressive and important: They both played in the lightly gothic Religious to Damn. That band’s hypnotic rock mirrored, at least in part, Strawn’s chilling post-punk standouts in Blacklist. So, just how intricate and truculent can Vaura be? No matter what the credits might suggest, The Missing—Vaura’s second album in as many years and first for Profound Lore—is not altogether intimidating, either stylistically or technically. Sure, there are blast beats and wave-of-treble black metal guitars. There’s some doom lurch and even a touch of industrial disorientation. And the compositions aren’t exactly simple. “Passage to Vice” is a Rube Goldberg contraption of rhythms, with pianos and drums, guitars and vocals bouncing off of one another at just the right angles and moments to bloom into a chorus. During a late-song break, “Incomplete Burning” sprints down a spiral staircase of complication, colorful riffs wrapping like quickly growing vines around the structure. The eight-minute closer moves through slinking post-rock and pulsing New Wave, with Strawn lifting lyrics liberally from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. But there’s a core of incandescent pop at the center of The Missing, too, an anchor that pulls its songs together as Vaura bridges post-punk and black metal, feathered atmospherics and cavalier dexterity. Though The Missing is intense enough to remind you of its members’ respective histories, it is at times disarmingly catchy and surprisingly bright. There’s perhaps no better summary of Vaura’s success here than “Passage to Vice”, a tune so metrically poised that every piece seems to move in reaction to another. But Strawn speak-sings his way through the verses and stretches out in the hooks. He handles the words with the sort of cool aplomb that suggests the best work of Pinback. Gloom notwithstanding, you’ll want to follow him through the various slinks and soars, to sing along. And there’s “The Fire”, which shrieks open after a lengthy introduction with the most aggressive guitar layers and drum blitzes on the album. The beat is heavy during the verses, but it flares upward as it enters the chorus, dual guitars retrenching the obsidian escalation—that is, the parts you’d normally expect to be the most abrasive and potentially off-putting only bolster Strawn’s exquisite refrain. It’s not a novel technique, as you can hear similar moves from most every atmospheric black metal act. It does, however, illustrate Vaura’s aim of accessibility on The Missing. Alternately, “Incomplete Burning” eases up on its torrent of drums and guitars as it enters the chorus, finding an unexpected middle point between metal and mid-90s college rock. It does not sound altogether unlike the Gin Blossoms’ “Hey Jealousy”. Selenelion, Vaura’s very good 2012 debut, was a touch longer than The Missing, in part because it incorporated more disparate elements. There was downtrodden folk and a little Sonic Youth-style squall, unabashed deathrock homage, and a touch of tech-metal maul. It felt almost like a DJ mix of its members’ interests, pivoting from one look to another competently, but without too much worry about making it all work as a whole. The Missing not only better integrates these elements but dispatches with some of the more superfluous ones. There’s no folksy interlude, and there are no unnecessary solos. As the record pushes toward its more doleful back half, Strawn’s gothic past wedges toward the spotlight, especially on the excellent and gray “The Things That We All Hide”. It doesn’t feel abrupt. Rather, without those previous distractions, all of these pieces fit into a more cohesive picture, and the melodies ring out that much clearer. Watching the rollout of reactions to The Missing has offered an intriguing look at the expectations placed upon artists because of their past. To wit, Metal Sucks dismissed The Missing outright for its seeming omission of heaviness, decrying its “fake smoke and eyeliner, lacking any of the blood and sweat and grit that infuses raw life into metal.” But at Echoes and Dust, a reviewer commended the hints of the National and U2 nestled into its heaviness. Writing for Decibel, Adrien Begrand lauded its ambitious mix of post-punk and black metal and Strawn’s “high-gloss 1986-87” gothic tendencies. He called it a “challenging listen,” though, but here I am mentioning Armistead Burwell Smith IV, the Gin Blossoms, and Mogwai. The Missing, then, seems like a meticulous collage, where the parts that mean the most to you are the parts you’ll find the fastest. Maybe there won’t be enough metal or enough solos or enough eyeliner, or maybe there will be too much of all of it. I sometimes wish it dipped down into mid-tempo trods a bit less. Still, on The Missing, Vaura’s stylistic composite is decisive and deliberate, putting those pedigrees to use in a surprising and somehow entirely sensible fashion.

Artist: Vaura, Album: The Missing, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "If you’re checking résumés, the New York quartet Vaura probably seems daunting. Two of its members, bassist Toby Driver and guitarist Kevin Hufnagel, have logged recent time in some of heavy metal’s more dense and complicated units. Hufnagel counters Luc Lemay in the relaunched version of Gorguts and plays guitar with perpetually knotty instrumental trio Dysrhythmia. Driver, meanwhile, is the mastermind of the ever-recondite Kayo Dot and a survivor of the wonderfully exploratory maudlin of the Well. The pedigree of the band’s other half—drummer Charlie Schmid and leader, vocalist and guitarist Josh Strawn—is less metallic but nevertheless impressive and important: They both played in the lightly gothic Religious to Damn. That band’s hypnotic rock mirrored, at least in part, Strawn’s chilling post-punk standouts in Blacklist. So, just how intricate and truculent can Vaura be? No matter what the credits might suggest, The Missing—Vaura’s second album in as many years and first for Profound Lore—is not altogether intimidating, either stylistically or technically. Sure, there are blast beats and wave-of-treble black metal guitars. There’s some doom lurch and even a touch of industrial disorientation. And the compositions aren’t exactly simple. “Passage to Vice” is a Rube Goldberg contraption of rhythms, with pianos and drums, guitars and vocals bouncing off of one another at just the right angles and moments to bloom into a chorus. During a late-song break, “Incomplete Burning” sprints down a spiral staircase of complication, colorful riffs wrapping like quickly growing vines around the structure. The eight-minute closer moves through slinking post-rock and pulsing New Wave, with Strawn lifting lyrics liberally from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. But there’s a core of incandescent pop at the center of The Missing, too, an anchor that pulls its songs together as Vaura bridges post-punk and black metal, feathered atmospherics and cavalier dexterity. Though The Missing is intense enough to remind you of its members’ respective histories, it is at times disarmingly catchy and surprisingly bright. There’s perhaps no better summary of Vaura’s success here than “Passage to Vice”, a tune so metrically poised that every piece seems to move in reaction to another. But Strawn speak-sings his way through the verses and stretches out in the hooks. He handles the words with the sort of cool aplomb that suggests the best work of Pinback. Gloom notwithstanding, you’ll want to follow him through the various slinks and soars, to sing along. And there’s “The Fire”, which shrieks open after a lengthy introduction with the most aggressive guitar layers and drum blitzes on the album. The beat is heavy during the verses, but it flares upward as it enters the chorus, dual guitars retrenching the obsidian escalation—that is, the parts you’d normally expect to be the most abrasive and potentially off-putting only bolster Strawn’s exquisite refrain. It’s not a novel technique, as you can hear similar moves from most every atmospheric black metal act. It does, however, illustrate Vaura’s aim of accessibility on The Missing. Alternately, “Incomplete Burning” eases up on its torrent of drums and guitars as it enters the chorus, finding an unexpected middle point between metal and mid-90s college rock. It does not sound altogether unlike the Gin Blossoms’ “Hey Jealousy”. Selenelion, Vaura’s very good 2012 debut, was a touch longer than The Missing, in part because it incorporated more disparate elements. There was downtrodden folk and a little Sonic Youth-style squall, unabashed deathrock homage, and a touch of tech-metal maul. It felt almost like a DJ mix of its members’ interests, pivoting from one look to another competently, but without too much worry about making it all work as a whole. The Missing not only better integrates these elements but dispatches with some of the more superfluous ones. There’s no folksy interlude, and there are no unnecessary solos. As the record pushes toward its more doleful back half, Strawn’s gothic past wedges toward the spotlight, especially on the excellent and gray “The Things That We All Hide”. It doesn’t feel abrupt. Rather, without those previous distractions, all of these pieces fit into a more cohesive picture, and the melodies ring out that much clearer. Watching the rollout of reactions to The Missing has offered an intriguing look at the expectations placed upon artists because of their past. To wit, Metal Sucks dismissed The Missing outright for its seeming omission of heaviness, decrying its “fake smoke and eyeliner, lacking any of the blood and sweat and grit that infuses raw life into metal.” But at Echoes and Dust, a reviewer commended the hints of the National and U2 nestled into its heaviness. Writing for Decibel, Adrien Begrand lauded its ambitious mix of post-punk and black metal and Strawn’s “high-gloss 1986-87” gothic tendencies. He called it a “challenging listen,” though, but here I am mentioning Armistead Burwell Smith IV, the Gin Blossoms, and Mogwai. The Missing, then, seems like a meticulous collage, where the parts that mean the most to you are the parts you’ll find the fastest. Maybe there won’t be enough metal or enough solos or enough eyeliner, or maybe there will be too much of all of it. I sometimes wish it dipped down into mid-tempo trods a bit less. Still, on The Missing, Vaura’s stylistic composite is decisive and deliberate, putting those pedigrees to use in a surprising and somehow entirely sensible fashion."

Sidney Gish

No Dogs Allowed

Rock

Nina Corcoran

Sidney Gish’s story so far is a familiar one. By day, the 20-year-old singer-songwriter studies music business at Boston’s Northeastern University; by night, she digs deep into lo-fi bedroom pop, anti-folk, and uptempo rock jingles, adding to the wealth of catchy, oddball songs she’s been posting on Bandcamp since 2015. The next step, as everyone from Frankie Cosmos to Car Seat Headrest can tell you, is widespread acclaim and a record deal. No Dogs Allowed, Gish’s second proper full-length, just might be the album that gets her there. Listening to this self-released gem feels like stepping into the brain of an insecure, hyper-aware, gifted young person who may or may not be totally oblivious to how endearing they are. As a solo artist, Gish is versatile enough to serve as her own backing band. Over the album’s 13 tracks, she uses electric guitar, melodica, MIDI instruments, and assorted percussion to evoke a one-woman show full of clever melodies, inventive hooks, and borderline-jazz guitar licks. (“i’m not studying jazz guitar i just looked up a ii V I tutorial once and want to get ok at it before i die LMAO,” she says in a typically self-deprecating note on her Bandcamp page.) Her rich vocal harmonies cascade on “Where the Sidewalk Ends” and encourage sing-along moments on “Impostor Syndrome.” Gish has credited her knack for complex arrangements to her naturally having perfect pitch—“If a car beeps in an F sharp, then I’ll know it’s an F sharp,” she told The Boston Globe—but the ingenuity of her songwriting is about much more than luck. Just listen to “Not But For You, Bunny,” where she introduces contrapuntal, almost contradictory vocal parts and channels Tom Tom Club to serenade her pet rabbit. Moments like this show that she’s been honing her virtuosic skills for years, with or without an audience. Gish’s uniquely skewed sense of humor is the album’s best hook of all. On “Good Magicians,” she twists a story of manipulation and emotional sleight-of-hand into a flirtatious ode to a trickster: “I would end up with Trix cereal’s mascot suffocated in a hat/And half a torso cut in half...” she muses. “That, the rabbit, and a non-comedic lawsuit on top of that.” Later, she mocks dull conventionality with titles like “I’m Filled With Steak, And Cannot Dance.” But most of the time, she’s just trying to point out her weaknesses before someone else does. “Two-faced bitches never lie/And therefore I never lie,” she sings on the guitar-scaling highlight “Sin Triangle,” using tongue-in-cheek phrasing to suggest something subtler than a garden-variety melodramatic sulk. On the same song, she puts her noncommittal attitude in geopolitical terms to satirize the benefits of distance (“Maybe I wanna see him/But then again, I’m an isolationist”). Elsewhere, she chides herself for mispronouncing a Greek goddess’s name as “purse-a-phone” and questions her individuality through the eyes of a city rat, nodding to solipsistic philosophy, The Matrix and video-game NPCs as she goes. It’s as if Gish is standing atop a pile of books, so overcome with nerves that she repurposes their facts into self-effacing darts. Yet the more she does this, the more she stands out as a smart, plainspoken, entirely relatable young person in the post-Tumblr era. In the year that followed her 2016 album Ed Buys Houses, which earned her acclaim as one of Boston’s best new artists, Gish strengthened her approach to production. She’s still using a USB microphone to record, but there’s an invigorating new clarity and sense of fun to her sound. Between guitar scuffs and synth notes, Gish will throw finger snaps, a camera shutter, or an old recording about teaching parakeets to talk into the mix. Sometimes these intrusions clog the flow of the record—campy vintage vocal samples occasionally enter without any real purpose and obstruct her guitarwork—but mostly they just add to the engaging eccentricity that’s earned Gish comparisons to Regina Spektor. Despite her habit of describing herself as unsure or erratic on No Dogs Allowed, Gish is remarkably consistent in capturing what it’s like to enter your twenties without a clear sense of whether you’re living life correctly, or what living life correctly even means. Midway through “I Eat Salads Now,” she quotes the opening line of Frankie Cosmos’ 2016 song “I’m 20,” a nod to the universality of feeling young and washed-up. But where Frankie Cosmos sounds whimsical, Gish finds herself at a crossroads with no roadmap, standing on her toes to better find direction. Melodically, the song is bubbly and dips its chorus in falsetto. Lyrically, it’s full of masked dread and laughed-off anxiety. This is Gish’s trademark: She confronts challenges with erudite analogies, then conceals them with earnest, unaffected charm. With No Dogs Allowed, she pinpoints the feeling of entering the adult world as a creative person who’s not yet scarred by jadedness, but far from immune to doubt.

Artist: Sidney Gish, Album: No Dogs Allowed, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Sidney Gish’s story so far is a familiar one. By day, the 20-year-old singer-songwriter studies music business at Boston’s Northeastern University; by night, she digs deep into lo-fi bedroom pop, anti-folk, and uptempo rock jingles, adding to the wealth of catchy, oddball songs she’s been posting on Bandcamp since 2015. The next step, as everyone from Frankie Cosmos to Car Seat Headrest can tell you, is widespread acclaim and a record deal. No Dogs Allowed, Gish’s second proper full-length, just might be the album that gets her there. Listening to this self-released gem feels like stepping into the brain of an insecure, hyper-aware, gifted young person who may or may not be totally oblivious to how endearing they are. As a solo artist, Gish is versatile enough to serve as her own backing band. Over the album’s 13 tracks, she uses electric guitar, melodica, MIDI instruments, and assorted percussion to evoke a one-woman show full of clever melodies, inventive hooks, and borderline-jazz guitar licks. (“i’m not studying jazz guitar i just looked up a ii V I tutorial once and want to get ok at it before i die LMAO,” she says in a typically self-deprecating note on her Bandcamp page.) Her rich vocal harmonies cascade on “Where the Sidewalk Ends” and encourage sing-along moments on “Impostor Syndrome.” Gish has credited her knack for complex arrangements to her naturally having perfect pitch—“If a car beeps in an F sharp, then I’ll know it’s an F sharp,” she told The Boston Globe—but the ingenuity of her songwriting is about much more than luck. Just listen to “Not But For You, Bunny,” where she introduces contrapuntal, almost contradictory vocal parts and channels Tom Tom Club to serenade her pet rabbit. Moments like this show that she’s been honing her virtuosic skills for years, with or without an audience. Gish’s uniquely skewed sense of humor is the album’s best hook of all. On “Good Magicians,” she twists a story of manipulation and emotional sleight-of-hand into a flirtatious ode to a trickster: “I would end up with Trix cereal’s mascot suffocated in a hat/And half a torso cut in half...” she muses. “That, the rabbit, and a non-comedic lawsuit on top of that.” Later, she mocks dull conventionality with titles like “I’m Filled With Steak, And Cannot Dance.” But most of the time, she’s just trying to point out her weaknesses before someone else does. “Two-faced bitches never lie/And therefore I never lie,” she sings on the guitar-scaling highlight “Sin Triangle,” using tongue-in-cheek phrasing to suggest something subtler than a garden-variety melodramatic sulk. On the same song, she puts her noncommittal attitude in geopolitical terms to satirize the benefits of distance (“Maybe I wanna see him/But then again, I’m an isolationist”). Elsewhere, she chides herself for mispronouncing a Greek goddess’s name as “purse-a-phone” and questions her individuality through the eyes of a city rat, nodding to solipsistic philosophy, The Matrix and video-game NPCs as she goes. It’s as if Gish is standing atop a pile of books, so overcome with nerves that she repurposes their facts into self-effacing darts. Yet the more she does this, the more she stands out as a smart, plainspoken, entirely relatable young person in the post-Tumblr era. In the year that followed her 2016 album Ed Buys Houses, which earned her acclaim as one of Boston’s best new artists, Gish strengthened her approach to production. She’s still using a USB microphone to record, but there’s an invigorating new clarity and sense of fun to her sound. Between guitar scuffs and synth notes, Gish will throw finger snaps, a camera shutter, or an old recording about teaching parakeets to talk into the mix. Sometimes these intrusions clog the flow of the record—campy vintage vocal samples occasionally enter without any real purpose and obstruct her guitarwork—but mostly they just add to the engaging eccentricity that’s earned Gish comparisons to Regina Spektor. Despite her habit of describing herself as unsure or erratic on No Dogs Allowed, Gish is remarkably consistent in capturing what it’s like to enter your twenties without a clear sense of whether you’re living life correctly, or what living life correctly even means. Midway through “I Eat Salads Now,” she quotes the opening line of Frankie Cosmos’ 2016 song “I’m 20,” a nod to the universality of feeling young and washed-up. But where Frankie Cosmos sounds whimsical, Gish finds herself at a crossroads with no roadmap, standing on her toes to better find direction. Melodically, the song is bubbly and dips its chorus in falsetto. Lyrically, it’s full of masked dread and laughed-off anxiety. This is Gish’s trademark: She confronts challenges with erudite analogies, then conceals them with earnest, unaffected charm. With No Dogs Allowed, she pinpoints the feeling of entering the adult world as a creative person who’s not yet scarred by jadedness, but far from immune to doubt."

Theologian

Finding Comfort in Overwhelming Negativity

Grayson Currin

During the past few years, the intersection of the Venn diagram linking noise, electronica, and heavy metal has been improbably rewarding: From Ben Frost's irascible compositions to Author & Punisher's turbocharged industrial menace, from Tri Angle Records' cadre of crawlers to Vatican Shadow's damaged tumbles, from witch house's pop-bound menace to Demdike Stare's intricate pattern corruption, musicians working as magpies between those sometimes distant forms have made some of the most intriguing records of the still-new decade. The concept of such a mix isn't necessarily new, but it does seem particularly rewarding right now, due in large part to the finesse and subtlety that many such acts are affording the work. For the last two decades, Lee M. Bartow has hovered near that nexus, making aggressive and often misanthropic noise-cum-industrial as Leech and Navicon Torture Technologies. During the last three years, though, he's worked under the name Theologian, inching closer toward that aforementioned common ground. This year, he's firmly made his claim by releasing the EP Finding Comfort in Overwhelming Negativity and the LP The Chasms of My Heart, records that make his alliances and interests abundantly clear: Beneath a sculpted surface of static and sustained tones, Bartow has added massive beats and, at some turns, veritable (if rarely decipherable) singing. During the EP's "All I See Is You", streams of noise wrap around each other in amoeboid motion as the concussive electronics of a drum machine hammer a cacophony into the sounds from below. In the background, Bartow slows and shifts his intonations, suggesting Jónsi Birgisson fracturing a Nitzer Ebb song into pieces only to sing behind the bedlam. "Abandon All Hope", which opens Chasms, builds from a distorted whir into an impossibly dense plea, Bartow howling like Jesu's Justin K. Broadrick. Simple, stentorian percussion pounds beneath it all. The results of Bartow's broadened palette are consistently interesting. Still, after so many years of monolithic noise bludgeons, Bartow is adjusting to the pacing demands of beat-driven music, a handicap that is as pervasive as it is detracting. Indeed, the critical hiccup of Bartow's refreshed approach is his obsequy to longevity. Taken together, Chasms and Comfort clock in at just beyond two hours, creating a gauntlet of self-defeating intensity. Bartow's dynamics consist largely of loud and louder, conditions that make hearing much of his music at once a tad exhausting. The four-track format of Comfort mitigates the problem by creating a rather seamless and immersive environment that, though still quite taxing, provides one obvious entrance and exit. It's possible to think of the slow, grainy lift of opener "Fighting for Nothing" as the takeoff and the noise-decay denouement of closer "In the Moral Leper Colony" as the landing. Chasms, however, jerks between pieces of four and 15 minutes for more than an hour, with the divisions-- and possible departure gates-- more clearly demarcated. To hear the damaged and deep techno throb of either set’s best piece, "The Chasms of My Heart", you'll need to make it through a stack of four eight-minute-plus tracks; the payoff is there, but you'll suffer for it. Given Bartow's past and his tendency for lyrical nihilism, it's possible to interpret that draining structure as some broad eschatological statement. That doesn't make the listening itself any better. What's more, Bartow tends to striate his textures and parts, stacking them in rather large and simple layers rather than stitching them together like more electronica-oriented counterparts Demdike Stare or Voices from the Lake. That impulse is a vestige of his tenure as a strict noise artist, and it decreases the possibilities of repeat listens. That is, after a couple of passes, you've heard most everything Theologian has to offer, at least on Comfort and Chasms. Still, in places, that's quite a bit: Theologian revives the tenacity and force of Bartow's earlier work with unexpected elements. He's still learning how to control those latest additions, but there's enough here to recommend paying attention to that future pursuit.

Artist: Theologian, Album: Finding Comfort in Overwhelming Negativity, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "During the past few years, the intersection of the Venn diagram linking noise, electronica, and heavy metal has been improbably rewarding: From Ben Frost's irascible compositions to Author & Punisher's turbocharged industrial menace, from Tri Angle Records' cadre of crawlers to Vatican Shadow's damaged tumbles, from witch house's pop-bound menace to Demdike Stare's intricate pattern corruption, musicians working as magpies between those sometimes distant forms have made some of the most intriguing records of the still-new decade. The concept of such a mix isn't necessarily new, but it does seem particularly rewarding right now, due in large part to the finesse and subtlety that many such acts are affording the work. For the last two decades, Lee M. Bartow has hovered near that nexus, making aggressive and often misanthropic noise-cum-industrial as Leech and Navicon Torture Technologies. During the last three years, though, he's worked under the name Theologian, inching closer toward that aforementioned common ground. This year, he's firmly made his claim by releasing the EP Finding Comfort in Overwhelming Negativity and the LP The Chasms of My Heart, records that make his alliances and interests abundantly clear: Beneath a sculpted surface of static and sustained tones, Bartow has added massive beats and, at some turns, veritable (if rarely decipherable) singing. During the EP's "All I See Is You", streams of noise wrap around each other in amoeboid motion as the concussive electronics of a drum machine hammer a cacophony into the sounds from below. In the background, Bartow slows and shifts his intonations, suggesting Jónsi Birgisson fracturing a Nitzer Ebb song into pieces only to sing behind the bedlam. "Abandon All Hope", which opens Chasms, builds from a distorted whir into an impossibly dense plea, Bartow howling like Jesu's Justin K. Broadrick. Simple, stentorian percussion pounds beneath it all. The results of Bartow's broadened palette are consistently interesting. Still, after so many years of monolithic noise bludgeons, Bartow is adjusting to the pacing demands of beat-driven music, a handicap that is as pervasive as it is detracting. Indeed, the critical hiccup of Bartow's refreshed approach is his obsequy to longevity. Taken together, Chasms and Comfort clock in at just beyond two hours, creating a gauntlet of self-defeating intensity. Bartow's dynamics consist largely of loud and louder, conditions that make hearing much of his music at once a tad exhausting. The four-track format of Comfort mitigates the problem by creating a rather seamless and immersive environment that, though still quite taxing, provides one obvious entrance and exit. It's possible to think of the slow, grainy lift of opener "Fighting for Nothing" as the takeoff and the noise-decay denouement of closer "In the Moral Leper Colony" as the landing. Chasms, however, jerks between pieces of four and 15 minutes for more than an hour, with the divisions-- and possible departure gates-- more clearly demarcated. To hear the damaged and deep techno throb of either set’s best piece, "The Chasms of My Heart", you'll need to make it through a stack of four eight-minute-plus tracks; the payoff is there, but you'll suffer for it. Given Bartow's past and his tendency for lyrical nihilism, it's possible to interpret that draining structure as some broad eschatological statement. That doesn't make the listening itself any better. What's more, Bartow tends to striate his textures and parts, stacking them in rather large and simple layers rather than stitching them together like more electronica-oriented counterparts Demdike Stare or Voices from the Lake. That impulse is a vestige of his tenure as a strict noise artist, and it decreases the possibilities of repeat listens. That is, after a couple of passes, you've heard most everything Theologian has to offer, at least on Comfort and Chasms. Still, in places, that's quite a bit: Theologian revives the tenacity and force of Bartow's earlier work with unexpected elements. He's still learning how to control those latest additions, but there's enough here to recommend paying attention to that future pursuit."