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Fennesz

Black Sea

Experimental

Mark Richardson

Christian Fennesz is one of a handful of people from experimental electronic music's late-1990s halcyon days still kicking around. Where others have disappeared (Oval), taken on a curatorial role (Gas), or resigned themselves to arms-length abstraction (Autechre), Fennesz has evolved his aesthetic and found new avenues of expression. In the last few years he's released two albums with Ryuichi Sakamoto, collaborated with Mike Patton and guitarist Burkhard Stangl, knocked out some remixes, and created music for dance and films. He's been busy, but people who don't follow this music closely probably haven't noticed. They've been waiting for a new solo album, preferably something that might cross over from the "electronic music" racks in the way that 2001's monumental Endless Summer did. But Fennesz's unhurried approach to his solo work has yielded dividends. Since he takes so long between proper Fennesz records, the release of a new one still feels like an event. Black Sea, which again finds Fennesz working primarily with guitar and computer, is his first solo album since 2004's Venice, the follow-up to Endless Summer. It's tempting to compare this record with its predecessor based on the characteristically striking cover art, once again by Touch label founder Jon Wozencroft. Where the Venice sleeve featured a lone rowboat bobbing in rich and impossibly blue water, Black Sea sports a shot of an industrial skyline across a filthy-bottomed straight at low tide. The image and title suggest that we're in for something colder and comparatively grim, and even though that's only partly true, such subtle shading via imagery has always been important with Fennesz albums. What is apparent right off the bat is that Black Sea finds Fennesz painting on an especially large canvas. While some may hope for a partial return to the pop-like miniatures of Endless Summer, tracks that could be thought of as "songs," these feel more like classical pieces-- sweeping and symphonic and patiently unfolding. It's not just that several tracks are longer, with three running over eight minutes. Fennesz has also sequenced the record to give parts of it a suite-like feel. Opener "Black Sea" bleeds into "The Colour of Three" without a pause, joining the tracks with the sort of howling, finely granulated drone he specializes in. Together the cuts add up to an 18-minute epic, one that moves from stirring rumbles of low static to a buzzing assault that sounds like it was recorded inside a helicopter's engine to a resigned acoustic guitar figure that feels like wind brushing past an abandoned building. In other words it feels like a ride, like the music transports you bodily from one place to the next rather than creating an "environment." And it's best heard loud when given lots of attention. Indeed, Black Sea is an intensely physical album, even for Fennesz, which is ironic considering that he's always put digital signifiers-- glitches, pops, crackles-- in the foreground. The guitar, a common thread throughout, offers an anchor of familiarity. But it's the relentless experiments with the emotional possibilities of texture-- experiments only possible with a computer-- that give the album its weight. So the physicality is focused in very precise and specific ways. Where Fennesz's more abstract early material could be wild and chaotic-- you pictured an unsteady hand on the lever, struggling to control the torrent of sound-- he's at a place now where everything is extremely careful and ordered, with nothing left to chance. This cerebral approach doesn't diminish the impact of the raw, enveloping moments on Black Sea's second half. "Glide", a standout that ranks with anything Fennesz has created, gets over primarily on carefully sculpted volume as it builds to a hair-raising peak. An edit of a live collaboration with fellow Touch artist Rosy Parlane, "Glide" proceeds along a single line for nine minutes, as a tense held chord is obscured by a cloud of white noise. Both the prickly wash of sound and the underlying drone gather steadily until the piece pivots on a bass tone and then finally bursts open like an overfilled balloon, allowing a gleaming synth, almost shocking in its tenderness, to come pouring out. It's here that Fennesz's mastery of pacing and structure, honed over the last decade, is so apparent. The following "Vacuum", a melodic soundscape piece that sounds like it could have come from Venice, is pleasant but comparatively slight, while "Glass Ceiling" combines thin, piercing tones, bell-like figures, and processed guitar in an appealingly disorienting way. The closing "Saffron Revolution" feels like a summing up of the record's best moments, as it gradually moves from cavernous gurgles, dissonant, sawing chords, and spidery bits of guitar into an immense drone that completely dominates whatever space its heard in. In a sense Black Sea feels like a more self-consciously "sophisticated" version of Fennesz, as if his time playing concert halls and opera houses inspired him to compose music suitable for such grand settings. But he's a composer up to the task and Black Sea ultimately proves to be worth the long wait. And in the end, the wider scope suits him. In 1995, Fennesz debuted on Mego with an EP called Instrument, which found him probing the musical properties of the guitar/computer interface. Each of its four pieces sounded like the work of a guy tinkering with a single idea, seeing how vibrating strings and feedback might be bent and twisted to create a particular effect. Despite the thick force of these tracks, Instrument is small-scale music, a scribbled note passed from one insider to the next. Heard next to it, Black Sea is positively huge while also being much more accessible. You get a sense here of how far Fennesz has come, how far his music reaches, and the unexplored possibilities that still exist.

Artist: Fennesz, Album: Black Sea, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "Christian Fennesz is one of a handful of people from experimental electronic music's late-1990s halcyon days still kicking around. Where others have disappeared (Oval), taken on a curatorial role (Gas), or resigned themselves to arms-length abstraction (Autechre), Fennesz has evolved his aesthetic and found new avenues of expression. In the last few years he's released two albums with Ryuichi Sakamoto, collaborated with Mike Patton and guitarist Burkhard Stangl, knocked out some remixes, and created music for dance and films. He's been busy, but people who don't follow this music closely probably haven't noticed. They've been waiting for a new solo album, preferably something that might cross over from the "electronic music" racks in the way that 2001's monumental Endless Summer did. But Fennesz's unhurried approach to his solo work has yielded dividends. Since he takes so long between proper Fennesz records, the release of a new one still feels like an event. Black Sea, which again finds Fennesz working primarily with guitar and computer, is his first solo album since 2004's Venice, the follow-up to Endless Summer. It's tempting to compare this record with its predecessor based on the characteristically striking cover art, once again by Touch label founder Jon Wozencroft. Where the Venice sleeve featured a lone rowboat bobbing in rich and impossibly blue water, Black Sea sports a shot of an industrial skyline across a filthy-bottomed straight at low tide. The image and title suggest that we're in for something colder and comparatively grim, and even though that's only partly true, such subtle shading via imagery has always been important with Fennesz albums. What is apparent right off the bat is that Black Sea finds Fennesz painting on an especially large canvas. While some may hope for a partial return to the pop-like miniatures of Endless Summer, tracks that could be thought of as "songs," these feel more like classical pieces-- sweeping and symphonic and patiently unfolding. It's not just that several tracks are longer, with three running over eight minutes. Fennesz has also sequenced the record to give parts of it a suite-like feel. Opener "Black Sea" bleeds into "The Colour of Three" without a pause, joining the tracks with the sort of howling, finely granulated drone he specializes in. Together the cuts add up to an 18-minute epic, one that moves from stirring rumbles of low static to a buzzing assault that sounds like it was recorded inside a helicopter's engine to a resigned acoustic guitar figure that feels like wind brushing past an abandoned building. In other words it feels like a ride, like the music transports you bodily from one place to the next rather than creating an "environment." And it's best heard loud when given lots of attention. Indeed, Black Sea is an intensely physical album, even for Fennesz, which is ironic considering that he's always put digital signifiers-- glitches, pops, crackles-- in the foreground. The guitar, a common thread throughout, offers an anchor of familiarity. But it's the relentless experiments with the emotional possibilities of texture-- experiments only possible with a computer-- that give the album its weight. So the physicality is focused in very precise and specific ways. Where Fennesz's more abstract early material could be wild and chaotic-- you pictured an unsteady hand on the lever, struggling to control the torrent of sound-- he's at a place now where everything is extremely careful and ordered, with nothing left to chance. This cerebral approach doesn't diminish the impact of the raw, enveloping moments on Black Sea's second half. "Glide", a standout that ranks with anything Fennesz has created, gets over primarily on carefully sculpted volume as it builds to a hair-raising peak. An edit of a live collaboration with fellow Touch artist Rosy Parlane, "Glide" proceeds along a single line for nine minutes, as a tense held chord is obscured by a cloud of white noise. Both the prickly wash of sound and the underlying drone gather steadily until the piece pivots on a bass tone and then finally bursts open like an overfilled balloon, allowing a gleaming synth, almost shocking in its tenderness, to come pouring out. It's here that Fennesz's mastery of pacing and structure, honed over the last decade, is so apparent. The following "Vacuum", a melodic soundscape piece that sounds like it could have come from Venice, is pleasant but comparatively slight, while "Glass Ceiling" combines thin, piercing tones, bell-like figures, and processed guitar in an appealingly disorienting way. The closing "Saffron Revolution" feels like a summing up of the record's best moments, as it gradually moves from cavernous gurgles, dissonant, sawing chords, and spidery bits of guitar into an immense drone that completely dominates whatever space its heard in. In a sense Black Sea feels like a more self-consciously "sophisticated" version of Fennesz, as if his time playing concert halls and opera houses inspired him to compose music suitable for such grand settings. But he's a composer up to the task and Black Sea ultimately proves to be worth the long wait. And in the end, the wider scope suits him. In 1995, Fennesz debuted on Mego with an EP called Instrument, which found him probing the musical properties of the guitar/computer interface. Each of its four pieces sounded like the work of a guy tinkering with a single idea, seeing how vibrating strings and feedback might be bent and twisted to create a particular effect. Despite the thick force of these tracks, Instrument is small-scale music, a scribbled note passed from one insider to the next. Heard next to it, Black Sea is positively huge while also being much more accessible. You get a sense here of how far Fennesz has come, how far his music reaches, and the unexplored possibilities that still exist."

Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra

Hang On to Each Other EP

Nick Neyland

In 2005 the ever-revolving lineup of Thee Silver Mt. Zion briefly settled and released “Hang On to Each Other” as part of Horses in the Sky. Taking the “campfire song” descriptor quite literally, the band recorded the track around a campfire, which can be heard crackling away in the background. It’s mostly a vocal piece, aside from the rasping harmonium planted firmly in the distance. Thee Silver Mt. Zion loosely compartmentalized sections of Horses in the Sky when writing notes on the record, with “Hang On to Each Other” bracketed in the “love songs” portion. The original has an earthy, agrarian texture to it—a feeling eradicated on these two new versions of the track, which are about as close as this band will presumably ever come to producing a club banger. “The chords to that tune are like house music chords,” they claim, explaining the desire to suddenly get their arpeggiator on. Something that’s clear from the outset of the first version of the song, retitled “Any Fucking Thing You Love”, is that this isn’t some jokey dalliance with dance music. Nor is it coming from a place of naivety. “Most important thing = No irony,” they write. “Because we love that kind of music, and impromptu dance parties, too.” It’s an unabashedly nostalgic work based around zigzagging analog synth patterns and an ancient drum machine, topped off by a euphoric club diva vocal from Ariel Engle of AroarA. Both versions of the song exceed 10 minutes, but there’s a feel for pacing that stops it from toppling into overkill. There’s nothing here that suggests Thee Silver Mt. Zion have an affinity for current developments in this field—if anything, it closely resembles the point where bands such as Primal Scream laid down their guitars circa 1990 and headed out onto the dancefloor, albeit with an overriding feeling that this is a more temporary arrangement. The better of the two versions is “Birds Toss Precious Flowers”, mainly because it has a darker, nastier edge to it. Here, Thee Silver Mt. Zion get close to filtering their familiar sound through an overtly electronic template. The keyboards are firmly set to distress when the song begins, but a more tender underbelly emerges as it progresses, edging toward that part of clubland that’s less about nihilistic “losing yourself” thrills and more about getting in touch with feelings. Engle’s vocal makes more sense here, often dipping close to melancholy as analog sounds grind and pulse behind her. If “Any Fucking Thing You Love” is their “Loaded”, “Birds Toss Precious Flowers” is their XTRMNTR, bringing with it a huge industrial grind that suggests some of the visceral oppression of Thee Silver Mt. Zion tracks like “Take Away These Early Grave Blues” from last year’s Fuck Off Get Free We Pour Light on Everything. There are usually channels of optimistic thought that surface in Thee Silver Mt. Zion records, as Pitchfork’s Stuart Berman noted in his review of Fuck Off Get Free. In a sense this release isn’t so different in mood from their other work, bringing in equal shades of light and dark, and seeing hope amid all the dreams tossed carelessly to the roadside. It’s just that the tools used here are very different, to the point where it’s easy to feel like you’ve been transported to an alien place. Something Hang On to Each Other demonstrates, perhaps unwittingly, is how hard it is for musicians to let go of the core ideas that guide them, even when branching out in this manner. Still, there’s a strange comfort in seeing this band work this way, bringing their strong sense of dynamics into a different sphere in a move that’s both bold and—a word not often associated with Thee Silver Mt. Zion—fun.

Artist: Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra, Album: Hang On to Each Other EP, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "In 2005 the ever-revolving lineup of Thee Silver Mt. Zion briefly settled and released “Hang On to Each Other” as part of Horses in the Sky. Taking the “campfire song” descriptor quite literally, the band recorded the track around a campfire, which can be heard crackling away in the background. It’s mostly a vocal piece, aside from the rasping harmonium planted firmly in the distance. Thee Silver Mt. Zion loosely compartmentalized sections of Horses in the Sky when writing notes on the record, with “Hang On to Each Other” bracketed in the “love songs” portion. The original has an earthy, agrarian texture to it—a feeling eradicated on these two new versions of the track, which are about as close as this band will presumably ever come to producing a club banger. “The chords to that tune are like house music chords,” they claim, explaining the desire to suddenly get their arpeggiator on. Something that’s clear from the outset of the first version of the song, retitled “Any Fucking Thing You Love”, is that this isn’t some jokey dalliance with dance music. Nor is it coming from a place of naivety. “Most important thing = No irony,” they write. “Because we love that kind of music, and impromptu dance parties, too.” It’s an unabashedly nostalgic work based around zigzagging analog synth patterns and an ancient drum machine, topped off by a euphoric club diva vocal from Ariel Engle of AroarA. Both versions of the song exceed 10 minutes, but there’s a feel for pacing that stops it from toppling into overkill. There’s nothing here that suggests Thee Silver Mt. Zion have an affinity for current developments in this field—if anything, it closely resembles the point where bands such as Primal Scream laid down their guitars circa 1990 and headed out onto the dancefloor, albeit with an overriding feeling that this is a more temporary arrangement. The better of the two versions is “Birds Toss Precious Flowers”, mainly because it has a darker, nastier edge to it. Here, Thee Silver Mt. Zion get close to filtering their familiar sound through an overtly electronic template. The keyboards are firmly set to distress when the song begins, but a more tender underbelly emerges as it progresses, edging toward that part of clubland that’s less about nihilistic “losing yourself” thrills and more about getting in touch with feelings. Engle’s vocal makes more sense here, often dipping close to melancholy as analog sounds grind and pulse behind her. If “Any Fucking Thing You Love” is their “Loaded”, “Birds Toss Precious Flowers” is their XTRMNTR, bringing with it a huge industrial grind that suggests some of the visceral oppression of Thee Silver Mt. Zion tracks like “Take Away These Early Grave Blues” from last year’s Fuck Off Get Free We Pour Light on Everything. There are usually channels of optimistic thought that surface in Thee Silver Mt. Zion records, as Pitchfork’s Stuart Berman noted in his review of Fuck Off Get Free. In a sense this release isn’t so different in mood from their other work, bringing in equal shades of light and dark, and seeing hope amid all the dreams tossed carelessly to the roadside. It’s just that the tools used here are very different, to the point where it’s easy to feel like you’ve been transported to an alien place. Something Hang On to Each Other demonstrates, perhaps unwittingly, is how hard it is for musicians to let go of the core ideas that guide them, even when branching out in this manner. Still, there’s a strange comfort in seeing this band work this way, bringing their strong sense of dynamics into a different sphere in a move that’s both bold and—a word not often associated with Thee Silver Mt. Zion—fun."

SBTRKT

Live

Electronic,Rock

Nate Patrin

SBTRKT's 2011 self-titled debut was a welcome breakthrough. In a year when bass music was getting further acquainted with the charts on both sides of the Atlantic, SBTRKT found a way to streamline producer Aaron Jerome's clean, rhythmically intricate yet suitably catchy style into a sound that felt distinctly aboveground. And while guest spots from singers like Jessie Ware and Little Dragon's Yukimi Nagano took SBTRKT's compatibility with R&B and indie pop to its logical conclusion, it was the yearning, gentle murmuring of regular collaborator Sampha that proved to be the most characteristic and distinct voice on the record. In the following year, SBTRKT took his show on the road, and a real sense of showmanship-- elaborate masks, quick shifts from programmed to live percussion, Sampha's presence as a singer and multi-instrumentalist-- made those concerts a sensory-overload experience. That energy's visually borne out in the two videos that come with the LP/DVD version of Live, an album culled from a pair of shows recorded at London venue Shepherds Bush Empire last October. But unfortunately those video excerpts are the closest this set comes to doing justice to what seems like it could've been an exciting series of shows. Because if there's one thing that threatens to ruin the atmosphere of a really tight performance like this, it's a foggy recording, mixing, or mastering job that fails to capture the dynamic pop of SBTRKT's drums, whether programmed or behind the kit. It's not quite bootleg cameraphone-recording quality, but from the outset of "Surely" it's clear something's up-- what should be crisp, resonant snares sound like cardboard, kicks feel mushy, and hi-hats have the weak timbre of rattling chain link fences. It's a shame, because this version takes what was a fairly forgettable bonus 7" from the LP version of SBTRKT and ups its tempo, using it as a good base to rhythmically improvise some glitchy freeform beats and turning an afterthought into an anthem. Sampha's voice suffers, too-- its strength is in his subtlety, and while he sounds powerful over minimal accompaniment, a lot of nuance is lost when he sings over heavy instrumentation. What should be the most emotional moments on "Never Never" and "Trials of the Past" give the unfair illusion that he's short of breath and trying to catch up. Everything else about Live seems almost secondary to the cruddy sound quality, but it'd be a shame to detract from what SBTRKT was going for here. The addition of London's Heritage Orchestra on tracks like "Trials of the Past" and "Go Bang" isn't your typical class-up-the-joint schmaltz move; the strings really do wring out some additional emotional highs. The version of "Wildfire" is deliriously inspired, as SBTRKT takes Nagano's voice and chops it up into a stammering percussive riff, extending one of his signature singles into a high-energy sprawl. And one previously unheard track, the surprisingly techno-indebted "Migration" (a segue out of SBTRKT highlight "Hold On"), definitely gives followup-hungry fans something more to look forward to for the next release. This concert album's heart is in the right place. It's too bad that the mics weren't.

Artist: SBTRKT, Album: Live, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.5 Album review: "SBTRKT's 2011 self-titled debut was a welcome breakthrough. In a year when bass music was getting further acquainted with the charts on both sides of the Atlantic, SBTRKT found a way to streamline producer Aaron Jerome's clean, rhythmically intricate yet suitably catchy style into a sound that felt distinctly aboveground. And while guest spots from singers like Jessie Ware and Little Dragon's Yukimi Nagano took SBTRKT's compatibility with R&B and indie pop to its logical conclusion, it was the yearning, gentle murmuring of regular collaborator Sampha that proved to be the most characteristic and distinct voice on the record. In the following year, SBTRKT took his show on the road, and a real sense of showmanship-- elaborate masks, quick shifts from programmed to live percussion, Sampha's presence as a singer and multi-instrumentalist-- made those concerts a sensory-overload experience. That energy's visually borne out in the two videos that come with the LP/DVD version of Live, an album culled from a pair of shows recorded at London venue Shepherds Bush Empire last October. But unfortunately those video excerpts are the closest this set comes to doing justice to what seems like it could've been an exciting series of shows. Because if there's one thing that threatens to ruin the atmosphere of a really tight performance like this, it's a foggy recording, mixing, or mastering job that fails to capture the dynamic pop of SBTRKT's drums, whether programmed or behind the kit. It's not quite bootleg cameraphone-recording quality, but from the outset of "Surely" it's clear something's up-- what should be crisp, resonant snares sound like cardboard, kicks feel mushy, and hi-hats have the weak timbre of rattling chain link fences. It's a shame, because this version takes what was a fairly forgettable bonus 7" from the LP version of SBTRKT and ups its tempo, using it as a good base to rhythmically improvise some glitchy freeform beats and turning an afterthought into an anthem. Sampha's voice suffers, too-- its strength is in his subtlety, and while he sounds powerful over minimal accompaniment, a lot of nuance is lost when he sings over heavy instrumentation. What should be the most emotional moments on "Never Never" and "Trials of the Past" give the unfair illusion that he's short of breath and trying to catch up. Everything else about Live seems almost secondary to the cruddy sound quality, but it'd be a shame to detract from what SBTRKT was going for here. The addition of London's Heritage Orchestra on tracks like "Trials of the Past" and "Go Bang" isn't your typical class-up-the-joint schmaltz move; the strings really do wring out some additional emotional highs. The version of "Wildfire" is deliriously inspired, as SBTRKT takes Nagano's voice and chops it up into a stammering percussive riff, extending one of his signature singles into a high-energy sprawl. And one previously unheard track, the surprisingly techno-indebted "Migration" (a segue out of SBTRKT highlight "Hold On"), definitely gives followup-hungry fans something more to look forward to for the next release. This concert album's heart is in the right place. It's too bad that the mics weren't."

Hamilton Leithauser, Rostam

I Had a Dream That You Were Mine

Rock,Pop/R&B

Jillian Mapes

“I retired from my fight,” Hamilton Leithauser crooned with a smirk on his first great solo tune. “I Retired”’s very existence confirms that the singer didn’t actually give up, but Leithauser’s point about getting older and figuring out how to keep creating felt like a painfully self-aware revelation upon arrival, six months after his longtime band the Walkmen announced an indefinite hiatus. “All the fire in your heart won’t help/All the smoke up in your head,” he continued, figuring that “as long as [he] can keep the train rolling, then all [his] friends will always know they’ll never be alone.” Consider it a self-fulfilling prophecy tucked inside a nugget of irony: A song called “I Retired” directly spawned Leithauser’s next musical direction. “I Retired” was one of two songs from Leithauser’s 2014 solo debut, Black Hours, that he worked on with Rostam Batmanglij. Leithauser and the former Vampire Weekend multi-instrumentalist/producer apparently bonded over shooby doo wops, their deadpan version of which sounds like the Flamingos came down with a case of urban malaise. That vocal technique is all over “I Retired” and again on I Had a Dream That You Were Mine, emblematic of what makes Leithauser and Batmanglij’s first collaborative full-length the rare release that looks backwards without falling victim to retro pastiche. With Batmanglij’s piano and Leithauser’s voice as their guiding forces, the duo answer a question that has eluded many a musician before: How do you incorporate the music of the past without losing yourself in what’s already been done? Even those beloved harmonies represent just one tool in a deep kit, right alongside Spanish guitar, Disney strings, bawdy horns, tender banjo, airy vocal loops, and cinematic reverb. Together, Leithauser and Batmanglij work their way through nearly seven decades of musical history—from doo-wop and country-rock to Leonard Cohen-style torch songs and the George Martin-indebted baroque-pop Rostam often used to make VW twinkle—but they also don’t forget who they are in the process: one of ’00s indie rock’s most charismatic singers, alongside one of its most creative songwriter-producers. If there was any lingering doubt that Rostam was Vampire Weekend’s special sauce (before his departure earlier this year), look to I Had a Dream That You Were Mine. The convincing ease with which the duo weaves disparate musical styles together seems distinctly Rostam—the work of someone who made Afropop, calypso, ’80s synth-pop, samples from M.I.A. to Toots and the Maytals, and a half-dozen other global styles fit together within music that often was held up as the indie rock zeitgeist. Here on “You Ain’t That Young Kid,” a spirited Dylan-on-piano-and-harmonica act turns towards pleading slide guitar, then an echo chamber of angel voices, then a slow dance of ’60s organ and steel drum, then a tidy harpsichord minuet—then, impossibly, all at once. The five-minute standout ends as a gilded acoustic singalong, the overwhelming sentimentality of which is amplified by an Instagram-filter of a synth line growing underneath. Rostam’s production is highly visual, and listening to this record, you get a sense of all the colors he must see when he’s behind the boards. But RostHam is an equal partnership, and Leithauser reminds you why you were drawn to the Walkmen in the first place. He gives what has to be his strongest and most wide-ranging collection of vocal performances on record to date, spanning from talk-crooning to punkish howling to folk-balladeering to heavenly harmonizing to raspily brooding about as he first perfected on “The Rat.” Black Hours’ primary flaw was that it alternated sharply between Leithauser going Bublé in his own way and simply channeling his old band. I Had a Dream That You Were Mine manages to incorporate these two modes in the larger context of its 20th-century-pop scrapbook—on songs about longing and looking back, no less. And it’s the songs where Leithauser loses himself in what was and what could be that his voice sounds best. On “Rough Going (I Won’t Let Up),” atop a creaking piano line and a spiraling sax solo, Leithauser screams like a man possessed that he won’t let up, but he holds it together, and the song never lets its barroom singalong quality devolve into total shambles. This is a slightly more mature Leithauser, but that life experience can also be a curse. Over the course of the album, the streets of downtown New York become littered with memories, and even the good ones hurt a little because they’re faded now. The album is drenched in this wistful feeling, the crowning achievement of which is “When the Truth Is…” There are many moving parts that go into making this song work, from the echoing swirl of percussion and piano to the snippet of film dialogue at the end, but they’re rendered so perfectly, all you hear by the end is straight swoon. The main thing Rostam and Hamilton get right about doo-wop is that it often makes romantic yearning shimmer like a slow-moving disco ball. Towards the beginning of the album—on “Sick as a Dog,” the song that sounds the most modern (and a little like Spoon)—Leithauser harmonizes with himself, “I use the same voice I always had.” Indeed, it’s not that Leithauser has dramatically changed since his days in the Walkmen; rather, pairing with Rostam has brought out the best in him. It’s rare for collaborative albums between known entities to feel like equal reflections of both parties, but RostHam find a middle-ground in mutual longing for the past. It’s the kind of album Leithauser can be proud of—you know, once he’s old enough to actually retire.

Artist: Hamilton Leithauser, Rostam, Album: I Had a Dream That You Were Mine, Genre: Rock,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "“I retired from my fight,” Hamilton Leithauser crooned with a smirk on his first great solo tune. “I Retired”’s very existence confirms that the singer didn’t actually give up, but Leithauser’s point about getting older and figuring out how to keep creating felt like a painfully self-aware revelation upon arrival, six months after his longtime band the Walkmen announced an indefinite hiatus. “All the fire in your heart won’t help/All the smoke up in your head,” he continued, figuring that “as long as [he] can keep the train rolling, then all [his] friends will always know they’ll never be alone.” Consider it a self-fulfilling prophecy tucked inside a nugget of irony: A song called “I Retired” directly spawned Leithauser’s next musical direction. “I Retired” was one of two songs from Leithauser’s 2014 solo debut, Black Hours, that he worked on with Rostam Batmanglij. Leithauser and the former Vampire Weekend multi-instrumentalist/producer apparently bonded over shooby doo wops, their deadpan version of which sounds like the Flamingos came down with a case of urban malaise. That vocal technique is all over “I Retired” and again on I Had a Dream That You Were Mine, emblematic of what makes Leithauser and Batmanglij’s first collaborative full-length the rare release that looks backwards without falling victim to retro pastiche. With Batmanglij’s piano and Leithauser’s voice as their guiding forces, the duo answer a question that has eluded many a musician before: How do you incorporate the music of the past without losing yourself in what’s already been done? Even those beloved harmonies represent just one tool in a deep kit, right alongside Spanish guitar, Disney strings, bawdy horns, tender banjo, airy vocal loops, and cinematic reverb. Together, Leithauser and Batmanglij work their way through nearly seven decades of musical history—from doo-wop and country-rock to Leonard Cohen-style torch songs and the George Martin-indebted baroque-pop Rostam often used to make VW twinkle—but they also don’t forget who they are in the process: one of ’00s indie rock’s most charismatic singers, alongside one of its most creative songwriter-producers. If there was any lingering doubt that Rostam was Vampire Weekend’s special sauce (before his departure earlier this year), look to I Had a Dream That You Were Mine. The convincing ease with which the duo weaves disparate musical styles together seems distinctly Rostam—the work of someone who made Afropop, calypso, ’80s synth-pop, samples from M.I.A. to Toots and the Maytals, and a half-dozen other global styles fit together within music that often was held up as the indie rock zeitgeist. Here on “You Ain’t That Young Kid,” a spirited Dylan-on-piano-and-harmonica act turns towards pleading slide guitar, then an echo chamber of angel voices, then a slow dance of ’60s organ and steel drum, then a tidy harpsichord minuet—then, impossibly, all at once. The five-minute standout ends as a gilded acoustic singalong, the overwhelming sentimentality of which is amplified by an Instagram-filter of a synth line growing underneath. Rostam’s production is highly visual, and listening to this record, you get a sense of all the colors he must see when he’s behind the boards. But RostHam is an equal partnership, and Leithauser reminds you why you were drawn to the Walkmen in the first place. He gives what has to be his strongest and most wide-ranging collection of vocal performances on record to date, spanning from talk-crooning to punkish howling to folk-balladeering to heavenly harmonizing to raspily brooding about as he first perfected on “The Rat.” Black Hours’ primary flaw was that it alternated sharply between Leithauser going Bublé in his own way and simply channeling his old band. I Had a Dream That You Were Mine manages to incorporate these two modes in the larger context of its 20th-century-pop scrapbook—on songs about longing and looking back, no less. And it’s the songs where Leithauser loses himself in what was and what could be that his voice sounds best. On “Rough Going (I Won’t Let Up),” atop a creaking piano line and a spiraling sax solo, Leithauser screams like a man possessed that he won’t let up, but he holds it together, and the song never lets its barroom singalong quality devolve into total shambles. This is a slightly more mature Leithauser, but that life experience can also be a curse. Over the course of the album, the streets of downtown New York become littered with memories, and even the good ones hurt a little because they’re faded now. The album is drenched in this wistful feeling, the crowning achievement of which is “When the Truth Is…” There are many moving parts that go into making this song work, from the echoing swirl of percussion and piano to the snippet of film dialogue at the end, but they’re rendered so perfectly, all you hear by the end is straight swoon. The main thing Rostam and Hamilton get right about doo-wop is that it often makes romantic yearning shimmer like a slow-moving disco ball. Towards the beginning of the album—on “Sick as a Dog,” the song that sounds the most modern (and a little like Spoon)—Leithauser harmonizes with himself, “I use the same voice I always had.” Indeed, it’s not that Leithauser has dramatically changed since his days in the Walkmen; rather, pairing with Rostam has brought out the best in him. It’s rare for collaborative albums between known entities to feel like equal reflections of both parties, but RostHam find a middle-ground in mutual longing for the past. It’s the kind of album Leithauser can be proud of—you know, once he’s old enough to actually retire."

David Kauffman, Eric Caboor

Songs From Suicide Bridge

Folk/Country

Stephen M. Deusner

How many albums like Songs From Suicide Bridge are out there in the world? Hundreds? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? In 1982, two aspiring singer-songwriters named David Kauffman (from Madison, N.J.) and Eric Caboor (from Burbank, Calif.) met at a venue called the Basement in Los Angeles, threw together a couple of their best tunes, pressed a couple hundred copies of a record, and then went their separate ways. Since then the only album they made under their own names has been consigned to estate sales and flea markets, waiting for subsequent generations of cratediggers to fish it out, dust it off, and find something that resonates across the decades. Private-press records such as Songs From Suicide Bridge are relics of an age of physical media, but in the digital age, it’s easier than ever to get lost works back in print. Labels like Light in the Attic, Paradise of Bachelors, Numero Group, and Delmore Recordings are doing the important work of unearthing these artifacts, even if the market seems to be increasingly saturated with reissues of the undiscovered and the uncelebrated, the obscure and the unconsidered. These reissues are as much about what might have been as they are about what actually was. What if Songs had heralded a long and prolific career instead of an obscure cratedigger treasure? What if it was the first of many albums made by Caboor and Kauffman rather than the only one? In this case, I doubt their fortunes would have changed significantly—which shouldn’t be read as an insult. Caboor and Kauffman aren’t a pair of forgotten geniuses, and this new reissue flatly rejects the notion that they could have been stars: "Fame and fortune demanded certain qualities and it became increasingly obvious that they had none," writes Sam Sweet in the liner notes. And yet, that only makes these songs more powerful: As its title suggests, Songs From Suicide Bridge is about depression and despair, about the gnawing suspicion that you don’t belong in this world, and their professional frustrations only reinforced that sense of alienation. The austerity of their sound may have been a product of their limited resources—much of the album was recorded in a makeshift studio in Caboor’s backyard—but they managed to create something distinctive in its spareness, with a bit of reverb in the vocals and a crisp, at times percussive acoustic guitar sound that intensifies the songs intense isolation. Songs From Suicide Bridge doesn’t sound like a product of the hedonistic '80s. Instead, it seems to predict the dire introspection of the '90s. "I have nothing but the end inside of me," Caboor sings on "Angel of Mercy", nearly a decade before Nine Inch Nails and Nirvana would ride similarly dark thoughts into the mainstream. As often happens with this kind of subject matter, the drama occasionally lapses into melodrama, especially on "Life and Times on the Beach". The song begins with Kauffman reminiscing about his childhood—playing baseball, going on family vacations—but the memories grow less sweet as he proceeds—dropping out of college, moving to L.A., getting nowhere close to realizing his dreams. As the guitars grow tenser and the pace quickens, he admits, "What I need to end it all is right… within my reach." You might expect to hear a gunshot or a last exhalation in the brief ellipsis, something to signal that the song and the life have ended. Instead, the music starts back up again, quiet and tentative yet offering no resolution to Kauffman’s story. It’s a startling moment, yet there’s something lurid about the way it takes you right up to that life-or-death decision and just abandons you. On the other hand, it also sounds like a pivotal passage on the album, the point to which the first side of the album has been building. The intensity of that experience lends the second side a new and necessary lightness. Caboor and Kauffman play "Midnight Willie' as a parody of coffeehouse singers, cracking up as they compare their woes to those of a crippled hobo playing for change outside the Monterey Hotel. And closer "One More Day (You’ll Fly Again)" expresses something in short supply on this album: actual honest-to-God hope. Fortunately, neither Caboor nor Kauffman took his own life. Both of them did, however, sacrifice their dreams of stardom for less glamorous but more reliable work. So Songs becomes a suicide note to the music industry explaining why these two talented singer-songwriters decided to end their careers. (Eventually, they did reunite in the late 1980s for a pair of album as the Drovers.) On this would-be swan song, they managed to express these dire emotions with startling candor, eloquence, and directness, soundtracking their worst fears with furious acoustic strumming. Yet, the great discrepancy between their musical and their professional accomplishments lends Songs From Suicide Bridge a sense of gravity and impossibly high stakes, as though they knew they had only one chance to get everything right. Ultimately, the album thrives on its own obscurity, which 30 years later thrums in the background behind all that strumming.

Artist: David Kauffman, Eric Caboor, Album: Songs From Suicide Bridge, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "How many albums like Songs From Suicide Bridge are out there in the world? Hundreds? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? In 1982, two aspiring singer-songwriters named David Kauffman (from Madison, N.J.) and Eric Caboor (from Burbank, Calif.) met at a venue called the Basement in Los Angeles, threw together a couple of their best tunes, pressed a couple hundred copies of a record, and then went their separate ways. Since then the only album they made under their own names has been consigned to estate sales and flea markets, waiting for subsequent generations of cratediggers to fish it out, dust it off, and find something that resonates across the decades. Private-press records such as Songs From Suicide Bridge are relics of an age of physical media, but in the digital age, it’s easier than ever to get lost works back in print. Labels like Light in the Attic, Paradise of Bachelors, Numero Group, and Delmore Recordings are doing the important work of unearthing these artifacts, even if the market seems to be increasingly saturated with reissues of the undiscovered and the uncelebrated, the obscure and the unconsidered. These reissues are as much about what might have been as they are about what actually was. What if Songs had heralded a long and prolific career instead of an obscure cratedigger treasure? What if it was the first of many albums made by Caboor and Kauffman rather than the only one? In this case, I doubt their fortunes would have changed significantly—which shouldn’t be read as an insult. Caboor and Kauffman aren’t a pair of forgotten geniuses, and this new reissue flatly rejects the notion that they could have been stars: "Fame and fortune demanded certain qualities and it became increasingly obvious that they had none," writes Sam Sweet in the liner notes. And yet, that only makes these songs more powerful: As its title suggests, Songs From Suicide Bridge is about depression and despair, about the gnawing suspicion that you don’t belong in this world, and their professional frustrations only reinforced that sense of alienation. The austerity of their sound may have been a product of their limited resources—much of the album was recorded in a makeshift studio in Caboor’s backyard—but they managed to create something distinctive in its spareness, with a bit of reverb in the vocals and a crisp, at times percussive acoustic guitar sound that intensifies the songs intense isolation. Songs From Suicide Bridge doesn’t sound like a product of the hedonistic '80s. Instead, it seems to predict the dire introspection of the '90s. "I have nothing but the end inside of me," Caboor sings on "Angel of Mercy", nearly a decade before Nine Inch Nails and Nirvana would ride similarly dark thoughts into the mainstream. As often happens with this kind of subject matter, the drama occasionally lapses into melodrama, especially on "Life and Times on the Beach". The song begins with Kauffman reminiscing about his childhood—playing baseball, going on family vacations—but the memories grow less sweet as he proceeds—dropping out of college, moving to L.A., getting nowhere close to realizing his dreams. As the guitars grow tenser and the pace quickens, he admits, "What I need to end it all is right… within my reach." You might expect to hear a gunshot or a last exhalation in the brief ellipsis, something to signal that the song and the life have ended. Instead, the music starts back up again, quiet and tentative yet offering no resolution to Kauffman’s story. It’s a startling moment, yet there’s something lurid about the way it takes you right up to that life-or-death decision and just abandons you. On the other hand, it also sounds like a pivotal passage on the album, the point to which the first side of the album has been building. The intensity of that experience lends the second side a new and necessary lightness. Caboor and Kauffman play "Midnight Willie' as a parody of coffeehouse singers, cracking up as they compare their woes to those of a crippled hobo playing for change outside the Monterey Hotel. And closer "One More Day (You’ll Fly Again)" expresses something in short supply on this album: actual honest-to-God hope. Fortunately, neither Caboor nor Kauffman took his own life. Both of them did, however, sacrifice their dreams of stardom for less glamorous but more reliable work. So Songs becomes a suicide note to the music industry explaining why these two talented singer-songwriters decided to end their careers. (Eventually, they did reunite in the late 1980s for a pair of album as the Drovers.) On this would-be swan song, they managed to express these dire emotions with startling candor, eloquence, and directness, soundtracking their worst fears with furious acoustic strumming. Yet, the great discrepancy between their musical and their professional accomplishments lends Songs From Suicide Bridge a sense of gravity and impossibly high stakes, as though they knew they had only one chance to get everything right. Ultimately, the album thrives on its own obscurity, which 30 years later thrums in the background behind all that strumming."

Catherine Wheel

Wishville

Rock

Beatty & Garrett

R.I.P. Here lies Catherine Wheel, an exceptional band for nearly 10 years, owner of several masterful albums, ranging from the propulsive shoegazing of Ferment and Chrome to the psychedelic brit-rock of Adam and Eve. The band managed not only to adapt their sound as popular tastes changed, but performed the even rarer feat of leaving an indelible mark on each style as they went. With each subsequent album, Catherine Wheel expanded their sonic palate and grew more willing to experiment with their signature sound. (Even if the cost of that increased musical experimentation meant lyrical regression.) When word came that Catherine Wheel was releasing their fifth proper LP, Wishville, we figured it'd be a slam dunk. After all, this was a band that had survived the inevitable shoegazer backlash by reinventing themselves as a powerhouse neo-grunge outfit. Perhaps more to their credit, they made the transition so credible and seamless that it seemed downright preposterous to suggest that they had ever been anything else. Given that audacious transformation, there remained little doubt in our minds that Catherine Wheel could emerge from a label change and a split with their longtime bassist unscathed. We were grievously mistaken. The record's opening track, which rather fittingly also serves as the lead single, captures all of the album's flaws in its four interminable minutes. "Sparks are Gonna Fly" relies on one monotonous riff repeated ad nauseam for the duration of the song. No amount of layering or studio wizardry can hide how paper-thin the song is. The same basic problem plagues all of these nine songs: the production and layering effects are used in an attempt to mask the shortcomings rather than to enhance the melodies. Many of the additional instruments thrown into the mix feel forced, whether it's the harmonica on "Ballad of a Running Man" or the violin on "Gasoline." This is in sharp contrast to the function of the extra instruments on Adam and Eve, which seemed both effortless and integral to the overall song structures. If anything positive can be said about the band at this stage, it's that they haven't rested on their laurels. Catherine Wheel have indeed morphed their sound once again. Yet unlike their previous efforts, the new sound sees them pushing into some pretty unsavory territory. "What We Want to Believe In" sounds like, as its title suggests, the work of a drunken Christian rock band (if one actually existed). Even more embarrassing is "Mad Dog," a song that wouldn't sound out of place on a compilation of Collective Soul b-sides. But even when Catherine Wheel manage to stumble into a mildly engaging melody, they successfully sully any possible pleasure with laughable couplets like: "Fuel of fathers' sweat/ Sweet like baby's breath," or, "Strong like Superman/ Stinking up the streets I am." Other inadvertently hilarious lyrics come at the start of "Idle Life," where Rob Dickinson comatosely mutters, "Give me soap to shave around/ With my guts exposed and slippy," without the aid of any instrumentation. Yeah, trust us, it sounds even worse than it reads. In case some of you haven't quite gotten the message, or it hasn't been made perfectly clear yet: this album is absolutely terrible, a total abomination. It's a loss in every sense of the word. Ah, well, guys, it's been a great run of it. Most bands never make it to nine years, let alone enjoy a consistently superb output. But now, in the interest of good taste, it's time to pack it in and call it quits. Services will be held at daybreak.

Artist: Catherine Wheel, Album: Wishville, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 1.7 Album review: "R.I.P. Here lies Catherine Wheel, an exceptional band for nearly 10 years, owner of several masterful albums, ranging from the propulsive shoegazing of Ferment and Chrome to the psychedelic brit-rock of Adam and Eve. The band managed not only to adapt their sound as popular tastes changed, but performed the even rarer feat of leaving an indelible mark on each style as they went. With each subsequent album, Catherine Wheel expanded their sonic palate and grew more willing to experiment with their signature sound. (Even if the cost of that increased musical experimentation meant lyrical regression.) When word came that Catherine Wheel was releasing their fifth proper LP, Wishville, we figured it'd be a slam dunk. After all, this was a band that had survived the inevitable shoegazer backlash by reinventing themselves as a powerhouse neo-grunge outfit. Perhaps more to their credit, they made the transition so credible and seamless that it seemed downright preposterous to suggest that they had ever been anything else. Given that audacious transformation, there remained little doubt in our minds that Catherine Wheel could emerge from a label change and a split with their longtime bassist unscathed. We were grievously mistaken. The record's opening track, which rather fittingly also serves as the lead single, captures all of the album's flaws in its four interminable minutes. "Sparks are Gonna Fly" relies on one monotonous riff repeated ad nauseam for the duration of the song. No amount of layering or studio wizardry can hide how paper-thin the song is. The same basic problem plagues all of these nine songs: the production and layering effects are used in an attempt to mask the shortcomings rather than to enhance the melodies. Many of the additional instruments thrown into the mix feel forced, whether it's the harmonica on "Ballad of a Running Man" or the violin on "Gasoline." This is in sharp contrast to the function of the extra instruments on Adam and Eve, which seemed both effortless and integral to the overall song structures. If anything positive can be said about the band at this stage, it's that they haven't rested on their laurels. Catherine Wheel have indeed morphed their sound once again. Yet unlike their previous efforts, the new sound sees them pushing into some pretty unsavory territory. "What We Want to Believe In" sounds like, as its title suggests, the work of a drunken Christian rock band (if one actually existed). Even more embarrassing is "Mad Dog," a song that wouldn't sound out of place on a compilation of Collective Soul b-sides. But even when Catherine Wheel manage to stumble into a mildly engaging melody, they successfully sully any possible pleasure with laughable couplets like: "Fuel of fathers' sweat/ Sweet like baby's breath," or, "Strong like Superman/ Stinking up the streets I am." Other inadvertently hilarious lyrics come at the start of "Idle Life," where Rob Dickinson comatosely mutters, "Give me soap to shave around/ With my guts exposed and slippy," without the aid of any instrumentation. Yeah, trust us, it sounds even worse than it reads. In case some of you haven't quite gotten the message, or it hasn't been made perfectly clear yet: this album is absolutely terrible, a total abomination. It's a loss in every sense of the word. Ah, well, guys, it's been a great run of it. Most bands never make it to nine years, let alone enjoy a consistently superb output. But now, in the interest of good taste, it's time to pack it in and call it quits. Services will be held at daybreak."

Radiohead

In Rainbows [CD 2]

Rock

Chris Dahlen

The "pay what you want" fire sale that launched In Rainbows in October wasn't a new idea so much as a perfect amalgamation of distribution tactics that bands large (Smashing Pumpkins) and small (the thousands on MySpace) have tried since the birth of the mp3. As technorati, Radiohead are to indie bands what Led Zeppelin were to broke old bluesmen: They took the ideas and got people to scream about them. Three months later, the questions keep flying about their business: How many people bought the download? What was the average sum they chucked in the tip jar? Is it true that, even though Radiohead basically gave the files away, a slim majority of listeners went ahead and stole them out of habit? It's fair to say that the shop talk eclipses interest in the B-sides record tucked into Radiohead's $80 discbox (which it packs in alongside In Rainbows on both CD and vinyl, plus pix, artwork, lyrics-- and if you have to ask if that's all worth the price, it's clearly not meant for you). Like the main LP, this bonus disc could not be mistaken for the work of a band other than Radiohead-- from Thom Yorke's nerve's-edge balladeering, to ever-slighter splashes of experimentalism, to guitar tones as fussed over as other band's hairdos. But it also catches the band at its most maudlin: Not only did Radiohead cram their leftovers onto this bonus disc, but they also gather all the mopey, overplayed tropes their last album left behind. Radiohead have always capitalized on tension, but here, that tension turns to exhaustion. The playlist wades from one slice of paranoia to another, the ear going most often to the incessant horror film piano-- and to Yorke's voice. His strained falsetto and near-soul-singing on "Down Is the New Up" deliver the risk-taking you'd expect from an odds-and-ends release, but the cynical/alienated rut into which he grinds himself has the persistence of a toothache. "Up on the Ladder", which has been under construction since the 1990s, is all climb, no teeter-- and elsewhere bare lines like "I can't face the evening straight/ And you can offer me escape" sound like the guy at the next bar stool that you've been turning your back to all night. Here, Yorke sounds like neither a post-millennial prophet nor an uncanny empathist, so much as a crank. Still, the thick fog that hangs over the album doesn't obscure all its gems. Though it goes nowhere, "Go Slowly"'s slow burn would have fit on the proper album-- for that matter, it could've been an outtake from any of their last four records. The pristine "Last Flowers" may be a textbook Yorke ballad, but at least it's a pretty one. As the album's only wake-up call, "Bangers & Mash"'s antic drums grab your attention until Yorke's crude snarling lets it go again-- although the itchy, uncomfortable feeling it gives you is an interesting break from an otherwise sweatless set. Best-of-EP honors go to "Four Minute Warning", a breath-catching little campfire song about (what else?) taking cover from an aerial attack: Radiohead have predicted World War III for so long, it's no surprise they'd stay calm when it shows up. But its weaknesses notwithstanding, this bonus disc isn't meant for the public at large; it's for the fans, who've studied these songs through bootlegs, YouTube clips, and clues on websites. To them, it's an extra goodie in the luxurious Discbox stocking. And as net-savvy as Radiohead may be-- and for as many goofy webcasts and sketchy websites as they've posted over the years-- they still seem to love their hard, physical packages. These aren't just the studio versions of "Up on the Ladder", et al.: They're the canonical, compact disc editions, polished and packaged as official versions. A lesser band might have crammed some bootlegs and demo takes in here, but when Radiohead put something on disc, they want it to count. For a band with so many ideas about digital life, they still treat the record as king.

Artist: Radiohead, Album: In Rainbows [CD 2], Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "The "pay what you want" fire sale that launched In Rainbows in October wasn't a new idea so much as a perfect amalgamation of distribution tactics that bands large (Smashing Pumpkins) and small (the thousands on MySpace) have tried since the birth of the mp3. As technorati, Radiohead are to indie bands what Led Zeppelin were to broke old bluesmen: They took the ideas and got people to scream about them. Three months later, the questions keep flying about their business: How many people bought the download? What was the average sum they chucked in the tip jar? Is it true that, even though Radiohead basically gave the files away, a slim majority of listeners went ahead and stole them out of habit? It's fair to say that the shop talk eclipses interest in the B-sides record tucked into Radiohead's $80 discbox (which it packs in alongside In Rainbows on both CD and vinyl, plus pix, artwork, lyrics-- and if you have to ask if that's all worth the price, it's clearly not meant for you). Like the main LP, this bonus disc could not be mistaken for the work of a band other than Radiohead-- from Thom Yorke's nerve's-edge balladeering, to ever-slighter splashes of experimentalism, to guitar tones as fussed over as other band's hairdos. But it also catches the band at its most maudlin: Not only did Radiohead cram their leftovers onto this bonus disc, but they also gather all the mopey, overplayed tropes their last album left behind. Radiohead have always capitalized on tension, but here, that tension turns to exhaustion. The playlist wades from one slice of paranoia to another, the ear going most often to the incessant horror film piano-- and to Yorke's voice. His strained falsetto and near-soul-singing on "Down Is the New Up" deliver the risk-taking you'd expect from an odds-and-ends release, but the cynical/alienated rut into which he grinds himself has the persistence of a toothache. "Up on the Ladder", which has been under construction since the 1990s, is all climb, no teeter-- and elsewhere bare lines like "I can't face the evening straight/ And you can offer me escape" sound like the guy at the next bar stool that you've been turning your back to all night. Here, Yorke sounds like neither a post-millennial prophet nor an uncanny empathist, so much as a crank. Still, the thick fog that hangs over the album doesn't obscure all its gems. Though it goes nowhere, "Go Slowly"'s slow burn would have fit on the proper album-- for that matter, it could've been an outtake from any of their last four records. The pristine "Last Flowers" may be a textbook Yorke ballad, but at least it's a pretty one. As the album's only wake-up call, "Bangers & Mash"'s antic drums grab your attention until Yorke's crude snarling lets it go again-- although the itchy, uncomfortable feeling it gives you is an interesting break from an otherwise sweatless set. Best-of-EP honors go to "Four Minute Warning", a breath-catching little campfire song about (what else?) taking cover from an aerial attack: Radiohead have predicted World War III for so long, it's no surprise they'd stay calm when it shows up. But its weaknesses notwithstanding, this bonus disc isn't meant for the public at large; it's for the fans, who've studied these songs through bootlegs, YouTube clips, and clues on websites. To them, it's an extra goodie in the luxurious Discbox stocking. And as net-savvy as Radiohead may be-- and for as many goofy webcasts and sketchy websites as they've posted over the years-- they still seem to love their hard, physical packages. These aren't just the studio versions of "Up on the Ladder", et al.: They're the canonical, compact disc editions, polished and packaged as official versions. A lesser band might have crammed some bootlegs and demo takes in here, but when Radiohead put something on disc, they want it to count. For a band with so many ideas about digital life, they still treat the record as king."

Lil Wayne

Dedication 3

Rap

Tom Breihan

Lil Wayne's been calling himself the best rapper alive since way before anyone took the claim seriously. On Dedication 2, the second in the series of reputation-cementing mixtapes Wayne made with DJ Drama, he explained: "I am better than everybody. I'm a competitor. I hope everybody else feel the same way about their craft. If you do, it makes it better for the people." So that was it: In an era of hustlers-not-rappers, Wayne was one of the few who took his occupation seriously, who put in 16-hour days coming up with the sort of word-drunk, out-there punchlines that made the world take him seriously. In a few years' time, Wayne went from a goofy Southern kiddie-rapper to a force of nature. Fast forward to this year: Tha Carter III is the biggest-selling album of 2008 and also one of the most acclaimed-- in part because Wayne put so much work in. Note the past tense: Wayne no longer has anything to prove, and Dedication 3, his new Drama mixtape, sounds like it. Wayne is very good at a few things: rapping, picking beats, making goofy facial expressions in videos. He's not especially good at playing guitar or singing or selecting rappers for his record label. But those other things seem to be monopolizing his attention these days. There's no guitar on Dedication 3, thank God, but we get a whole lot more of Wayne's off-key Auto-Tuned warbling than we get of his actual rapping, and he mostly leaves the rhyming to his Young Money Entertainment signees, which anyone who's heard Mack Maine's shockingly clumsy guest-verse on the "Got Money" video knows is a bad thing. When Wayne does get around to rapping, he usually sounds like he's fried his brain on so much cough syrup that he can barely bring himself to stick to the beat or come up with more than one good line. This is a circa-2008 DJ Drama mixtape, which means the beats, both new and vintage, will be top-notch and well-sequenced, but it also means Drama's own weed-carriers Willie the Kid and L.A. the Darkman will be along for the ride. The title track sets the tone: Over Drama associate Don Cannon's pretty-great beat for Outkast's "Da Art of Storytelling, Part 4", Wayne gargles out an unmemorable chorus while Willie, Mack Maine, and Gudda Gudda spit boringness; Wayne jumps on at the end for a quick afterthought of a verse. This is the first track, and it goes on for nearly seven minutes. Things don't get a lot better from there. Every big-name rapper these days has a crew of associates, but only a few-- T.I. and Kanye-- have ones worth hearing. But, hey, these guys need to rap somewhere, so it might as well be on a free online mixtape. Still this is a Dedication mixtape, and listening to all three of them in order tells a sad story. The last two featured Wayne, hungry and fearsome, ready to take over the world through whacked-out genius and force of will. This time, he's barely paying attention. Example: "Get Bizzy". The track snatches the simple, spacey, orchestra-hit-heavy beat to V.I.C.'s "Get Silly", exactly the sort of low-budget novelty-hit that the Wayne of two years ago would've just annihilated, the way he did to Dem Franchize Boyz' "I Think They Like Me" on Dedication 2 or DJ Unk's "Walk It Out" on Da Drought 3. This time he drools all over the track in a half-conscious Auto-Tuned slur, loses the beat a couple of times, comes up with exactly one slick line ("Red scarf on my neck/ Red diamonds looking like red barf on my neck, uhh"), then turns the whole thing over to the unbelievably shitty Plies sound-alike Gudda Gudda. Epic fail. More bad decisions: Tyga, the squeaky-voiced younger cousin of Gym Class Hero Travis McCoy, gets pole position on Drumma Boy's gothically churning beat for Young Jeezy's "Put On" and he absolutely sucks. Nondescript protégé Nikki Minaj, meanwhile, gets to defile the beat to T.I.'s "No Matter What" so she can complain (in Auto-Tune, guh) about the haters she's not famous enough to have. And for the first time, a Wayne signee-- Jae Millz, journeyman veteran of the New York mixtape and battle circuits-- upstages his boss. Millz isn't a great rapper, but he's got a no-bullshit monotone flow and a way with punchlines: "Y'all nothing like me, fuck boy, don't be outlandish/ We gorillas in the mist, y'all just some kung fu pandas." Here and there, we get brief flashes of the truly nasty Wayne, but we have to wade through so much bullshit to find these gems that it's barely worth the effort. One of Wayne's most entertaining moments comes on a non-rapping skit where he's just talking about Sarah Palin-- and he even loses focus near the end of that. We've been here before. The first time Wayne started fucking around with Auto-Tune was on another near-unlistenable mixtape released near the end of last year, Empire's unlicensed Da Drought Is Over, Part 4. When I heard that, I wrote that Wayne might need to slow down, that his appetites and his volume of output were finally starting to bring down the quality of his work. Wayne pulled it together for Tha Carter III, and a handful of post-album guest-appearances (Drake's "Ransom", Keri Hilson's "Turnin' Me On") show that he's still a monster when he wants to be. But when he stops wanting it, we get bullshit like Dedication 3.

Artist: Lil Wayne, Album: Dedication 3, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 3.7 Album review: "Lil Wayne's been calling himself the best rapper alive since way before anyone took the claim seriously. On Dedication 2, the second in the series of reputation-cementing mixtapes Wayne made with DJ Drama, he explained: "I am better than everybody. I'm a competitor. I hope everybody else feel the same way about their craft. If you do, it makes it better for the people." So that was it: In an era of hustlers-not-rappers, Wayne was one of the few who took his occupation seriously, who put in 16-hour days coming up with the sort of word-drunk, out-there punchlines that made the world take him seriously. In a few years' time, Wayne went from a goofy Southern kiddie-rapper to a force of nature. Fast forward to this year: Tha Carter III is the biggest-selling album of 2008 and also one of the most acclaimed-- in part because Wayne put so much work in. Note the past tense: Wayne no longer has anything to prove, and Dedication 3, his new Drama mixtape, sounds like it. Wayne is very good at a few things: rapping, picking beats, making goofy facial expressions in videos. He's not especially good at playing guitar or singing or selecting rappers for his record label. But those other things seem to be monopolizing his attention these days. There's no guitar on Dedication 3, thank God, but we get a whole lot more of Wayne's off-key Auto-Tuned warbling than we get of his actual rapping, and he mostly leaves the rhyming to his Young Money Entertainment signees, which anyone who's heard Mack Maine's shockingly clumsy guest-verse on the "Got Money" video knows is a bad thing. When Wayne does get around to rapping, he usually sounds like he's fried his brain on so much cough syrup that he can barely bring himself to stick to the beat or come up with more than one good line. This is a circa-2008 DJ Drama mixtape, which means the beats, both new and vintage, will be top-notch and well-sequenced, but it also means Drama's own weed-carriers Willie the Kid and L.A. the Darkman will be along for the ride. The title track sets the tone: Over Drama associate Don Cannon's pretty-great beat for Outkast's "Da Art of Storytelling, Part 4", Wayne gargles out an unmemorable chorus while Willie, Mack Maine, and Gudda Gudda spit boringness; Wayne jumps on at the end for a quick afterthought of a verse. This is the first track, and it goes on for nearly seven minutes. Things don't get a lot better from there. Every big-name rapper these days has a crew of associates, but only a few-- T.I. and Kanye-- have ones worth hearing. But, hey, these guys need to rap somewhere, so it might as well be on a free online mixtape. Still this is a Dedication mixtape, and listening to all three of them in order tells a sad story. The last two featured Wayne, hungry and fearsome, ready to take over the world through whacked-out genius and force of will. This time, he's barely paying attention. Example: "Get Bizzy". The track snatches the simple, spacey, orchestra-hit-heavy beat to V.I.C.'s "Get Silly", exactly the sort of low-budget novelty-hit that the Wayne of two years ago would've just annihilated, the way he did to Dem Franchize Boyz' "I Think They Like Me" on Dedication 2 or DJ Unk's "Walk It Out" on Da Drought 3. This time he drools all over the track in a half-conscious Auto-Tuned slur, loses the beat a couple of times, comes up with exactly one slick line ("Red scarf on my neck/ Red diamonds looking like red barf on my neck, uhh"), then turns the whole thing over to the unbelievably shitty Plies sound-alike Gudda Gudda. Epic fail. More bad decisions: Tyga, the squeaky-voiced younger cousin of Gym Class Hero Travis McCoy, gets pole position on Drumma Boy's gothically churning beat for Young Jeezy's "Put On" and he absolutely sucks. Nondescript protégé Nikki Minaj, meanwhile, gets to defile the beat to T.I.'s "No Matter What" so she can complain (in Auto-Tune, guh) about the haters she's not famous enough to have. And for the first time, a Wayne signee-- Jae Millz, journeyman veteran of the New York mixtape and battle circuits-- upstages his boss. Millz isn't a great rapper, but he's got a no-bullshit monotone flow and a way with punchlines: "Y'all nothing like me, fuck boy, don't be outlandish/ We gorillas in the mist, y'all just some kung fu pandas." Here and there, we get brief flashes of the truly nasty Wayne, but we have to wade through so much bullshit to find these gems that it's barely worth the effort. One of Wayne's most entertaining moments comes on a non-rapping skit where he's just talking about Sarah Palin-- and he even loses focus near the end of that. We've been here before. The first time Wayne started fucking around with Auto-Tune was on another near-unlistenable mixtape released near the end of last year, Empire's unlicensed Da Drought Is Over, Part 4. When I heard that, I wrote that Wayne might need to slow down, that his appetites and his volume of output were finally starting to bring down the quality of his work. Wayne pulled it together for Tha Carter III, and a handful of post-album guest-appearances (Drake's "Ransom", Keri Hilson's "Turnin' Me On") show that he's still a monster when he wants to be. But when he stops wanting it, we get bullshit like Dedication 3."

Christian Kiefer

To All Dead Sailors

Folk/Country

Brian Howe

Christian Kiefer and Jefferson Pitcher aren't the most obvious of collaborators. Kiefer is an indie-folk balladeer that parlays his gentle voice and dusky acoustic guitar into haunting blurs of tone and melody (think a dronier Iron & Wine). Pitcher is a Northern Californian sound artist that explores the possibilities of field recordings, feedback, and prepared guitars. Then again, Kiefer habitually renders the naturalistic strange, while Pitcher makes the strange sound natural. On this nautically themed collaboration, which purportedly draws inspiration from the poetry of Pablo Neruda and the fiction of Jose Saramago, Kiefer and Pitcher find each other precisely at the seam where their mirror-image aesthetics meet. As a result, there are no jarring moments when one collaborator overtakes the other. To All Dead Sailors displays a fluid undulation from starry indie-folk to inert sound collage and back again, never breaking its lulling wave-like motion along the way. Kiefer and Pitcher share vocal duties on the album, and their voices will make or break this project for most listeners: In a mostly understated record, they're as overt as a neon signs, and their inflections can be tender to the point of preciosity. But as long as you've a decently high threshold for the saccharine, they're terrific-- both singers sound gracefully open and velvety, playing off of each other so seamlessly that it's difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. The vocal presence on this album can evoke Rufus Wainwright when it's low, with subtle vibrato; Ben Gibbard when it's high and airy; Holopaw's John Orth when tensed and straining, always moving without friction between these modes. To All Dead Sailors, mirroring the singers' tone, is dense with longing. Each song seems to strain against the boundary of its simple instrumental palette, as if the depth of feeling contained inside exceeds the size of the well. After a mood-setting field recording of waves and seagulls, "Ship Under Sand" slowly gathers a melancholy electric guitar figure and bending foghorn-like tones into an ominous dirge, which spills into "The Captain", a chiming hymn that features the first instance of the recurring lyrical and melodic motif, "Oh Captain, bring me home." Kiefer and Pitcher invoke this captain throughout the album, alternately in tones of salvation and damnation: "The Captain leads the ship into the rocks/ The watchmen will sleep there with the fishes," Kiefer warns on the banjo-flecked lullaby "Carpenters and Sailors". "Erendira and the Ocean" features the first reprise of the "Oh Captain" refrain, this time amid bright flashes of nylon strings. The sparse instrumentation and existential despair of "Burial at Sea" evoke Damien Jurado at his most retiring, and "Astrolabe" is a churning trail song (although the trail happens to lead to Mars). Pitcher's experimental presence flickers through all of these otherwise trad tunes, and becomes overt in the elegant abstract passages that interleave them. "Marconi Brings the Cypher" finds Kiefer's thinned-out voice tracing a fragile melody through vanishing chimes; it's equal parts the submerged rumble of Sailor Winters and the nebulous discomfort of early Nick Drake. "The Engineer's Dream" barely exists; it's just a music box tinkle buried in a distant roar. The curtains of reverb-heavy guitar on "The Mermaid and the Drunks" grind down nauseously, like a radio expending the last of its battery charge. Given the glut of indie-folk records that render the sea's mysteries in similar trappings-- sampled birds, weary harmonies, and dusty acoustic strings-- you couldn't be blamed for finding the conceit a bit tiresome by now. But this duo's sly embellishments, potent voices, and weighty songwriting makes To All Dead Sailors well-worth enlisting for one more voyage. Bonus points for not succumbing to the siren song of the sea chantey, one of indie music's most overused tricks as of late.

Artist: Christian Kiefer, Album: To All Dead Sailors, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Christian Kiefer and Jefferson Pitcher aren't the most obvious of collaborators. Kiefer is an indie-folk balladeer that parlays his gentle voice and dusky acoustic guitar into haunting blurs of tone and melody (think a dronier Iron & Wine). Pitcher is a Northern Californian sound artist that explores the possibilities of field recordings, feedback, and prepared guitars. Then again, Kiefer habitually renders the naturalistic strange, while Pitcher makes the strange sound natural. On this nautically themed collaboration, which purportedly draws inspiration from the poetry of Pablo Neruda and the fiction of Jose Saramago, Kiefer and Pitcher find each other precisely at the seam where their mirror-image aesthetics meet. As a result, there are no jarring moments when one collaborator overtakes the other. To All Dead Sailors displays a fluid undulation from starry indie-folk to inert sound collage and back again, never breaking its lulling wave-like motion along the way. Kiefer and Pitcher share vocal duties on the album, and their voices will make or break this project for most listeners: In a mostly understated record, they're as overt as a neon signs, and their inflections can be tender to the point of preciosity. But as long as you've a decently high threshold for the saccharine, they're terrific-- both singers sound gracefully open and velvety, playing off of each other so seamlessly that it's difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. The vocal presence on this album can evoke Rufus Wainwright when it's low, with subtle vibrato; Ben Gibbard when it's high and airy; Holopaw's John Orth when tensed and straining, always moving without friction between these modes. To All Dead Sailors, mirroring the singers' tone, is dense with longing. Each song seems to strain against the boundary of its simple instrumental palette, as if the depth of feeling contained inside exceeds the size of the well. After a mood-setting field recording of waves and seagulls, "Ship Under Sand" slowly gathers a melancholy electric guitar figure and bending foghorn-like tones into an ominous dirge, which spills into "The Captain", a chiming hymn that features the first instance of the recurring lyrical and melodic motif, "Oh Captain, bring me home." Kiefer and Pitcher invoke this captain throughout the album, alternately in tones of salvation and damnation: "The Captain leads the ship into the rocks/ The watchmen will sleep there with the fishes," Kiefer warns on the banjo-flecked lullaby "Carpenters and Sailors". "Erendira and the Ocean" features the first reprise of the "Oh Captain" refrain, this time amid bright flashes of nylon strings. The sparse instrumentation and existential despair of "Burial at Sea" evoke Damien Jurado at his most retiring, and "Astrolabe" is a churning trail song (although the trail happens to lead to Mars). Pitcher's experimental presence flickers through all of these otherwise trad tunes, and becomes overt in the elegant abstract passages that interleave them. "Marconi Brings the Cypher" finds Kiefer's thinned-out voice tracing a fragile melody through vanishing chimes; it's equal parts the submerged rumble of Sailor Winters and the nebulous discomfort of early Nick Drake. "The Engineer's Dream" barely exists; it's just a music box tinkle buried in a distant roar. The curtains of reverb-heavy guitar on "The Mermaid and the Drunks" grind down nauseously, like a radio expending the last of its battery charge. Given the glut of indie-folk records that render the sea's mysteries in similar trappings-- sampled birds, weary harmonies, and dusty acoustic strings-- you couldn't be blamed for finding the conceit a bit tiresome by now. But this duo's sly embellishments, potent voices, and weighty songwriting makes To All Dead Sailors well-worth enlisting for one more voyage. Bonus points for not succumbing to the siren song of the sea chantey, one of indie music's most overused tricks as of late."

Wampire

Curiosity

Stuart Berman

Portland five-piece Wampire's debut, Curiosity, casts the familiar gold sounds of a bygone and misspent youth (1960s psychedelia, 70s soft rock, 80s new wave) as something foreign and, at times, a little unsettling. It's nostalgic, but with the reflection seen through a funhouse mirror. Like Ariel Pink, Foxygen, and Unknown Mortal Orchestra before them, Wampire's emergence seems to have benefitted from the trail blazed by MGMT’s Congratulations. Although the Brooklyn band’s second album may have been deemed a disappointment by major label standards, in retrospect, its glam-smeared, hyper-frazzled psych pop anticipated alt-rock’s subsequent turn towards the strange. Recorded by UMO bassist Jacob Portrait, Curiosity doesn’t shy away from its retro allusions, from the bizarro-world Sears-family-portrait cover art to the dust-covered production, which approximates the fidelity of an overly over-dubbed cassette. Wampire first formed in 2007 as a beat-driven electronic project to soundtrack Portland house parties; that it’s taken the core members, Eric Phipps and Rocky Tinder, six years to issue a proper debut album hints at both the elastic, evolutionary qualities of their sound and a patient approach to organzing the album's seemingly random elements. While the surface haziness lends Curiosity a sloppy, off-the-cuff appearance, it’s very much by design. Wampire’s attention to craft is immediately apparent in lead single “The Hearse”, which opens the album with a blissful blur of synth-powered dream-pop. Suddenly, they drop the beat and dissolve into an eerie organ drone that’s used as the foundation for the song’s heart-racing, motorik climax. But if “The Hearse” packs an impressive amount of drama and dynamic range into its four-and-a-half minutes, much of Curiosity finds Wampire a bit too comfortable and self-satisfied within their washed-out aesthetic, and the premeditated haziness of the recordings-- and obvious attempts to weird them up, through squeaky synth settings and effete vocal tics-- ultimately undermines the duo’s songwriting ambitions. “Giants” is the busiest of all-- comprising a rumbling surf-punk riff, waves of wah-wah-ed guitars, haunted-house organs, a bop-along Beach Boys-via-Panda Bear melody, a melancholic mid-song breakdown-- but the metronomic rhythm and compressed dimensions sap the song of its delirious potential, plotting all the action on a straight line. And though the anxious energy underpinning Phipps’ and Tinder’s vocals is palpable throughout, whenever they get too close to opening up emotionally, they resort to affectation: The sad-eyed sentiments of “Outta Money” are communicated through a comically droopy warble, while Curiosity’s most resonant song, “Trains”, could practically pass for vintage Jackson Browne, if not for a self-consciously cheeky delivery that diminishes the romantic longing expressed within. Since their inauspicious, experimental beginnings, Wampire have obviously matured greatly as songwriters; now, they just need to channel that same confidence and daring into the execution.

Artist: Wampire, Album: Curiosity, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Portland five-piece Wampire's debut, Curiosity, casts the familiar gold sounds of a bygone and misspent youth (1960s psychedelia, 70s soft rock, 80s new wave) as something foreign and, at times, a little unsettling. It's nostalgic, but with the reflection seen through a funhouse mirror. Like Ariel Pink, Foxygen, and Unknown Mortal Orchestra before them, Wampire's emergence seems to have benefitted from the trail blazed by MGMT’s Congratulations. Although the Brooklyn band’s second album may have been deemed a disappointment by major label standards, in retrospect, its glam-smeared, hyper-frazzled psych pop anticipated alt-rock’s subsequent turn towards the strange. Recorded by UMO bassist Jacob Portrait, Curiosity doesn’t shy away from its retro allusions, from the bizarro-world Sears-family-portrait cover art to the dust-covered production, which approximates the fidelity of an overly over-dubbed cassette. Wampire first formed in 2007 as a beat-driven electronic project to soundtrack Portland house parties; that it’s taken the core members, Eric Phipps and Rocky Tinder, six years to issue a proper debut album hints at both the elastic, evolutionary qualities of their sound and a patient approach to organzing the album's seemingly random elements. While the surface haziness lends Curiosity a sloppy, off-the-cuff appearance, it’s very much by design. Wampire’s attention to craft is immediately apparent in lead single “The Hearse”, which opens the album with a blissful blur of synth-powered dream-pop. Suddenly, they drop the beat and dissolve into an eerie organ drone that’s used as the foundation for the song’s heart-racing, motorik climax. But if “The Hearse” packs an impressive amount of drama and dynamic range into its four-and-a-half minutes, much of Curiosity finds Wampire a bit too comfortable and self-satisfied within their washed-out aesthetic, and the premeditated haziness of the recordings-- and obvious attempts to weird them up, through squeaky synth settings and effete vocal tics-- ultimately undermines the duo’s songwriting ambitions. “Giants” is the busiest of all-- comprising a rumbling surf-punk riff, waves of wah-wah-ed guitars, haunted-house organs, a bop-along Beach Boys-via-Panda Bear melody, a melancholic mid-song breakdown-- but the metronomic rhythm and compressed dimensions sap the song of its delirious potential, plotting all the action on a straight line. And though the anxious energy underpinning Phipps’ and Tinder’s vocals is palpable throughout, whenever they get too close to opening up emotionally, they resort to affectation: The sad-eyed sentiments of “Outta Money” are communicated through a comically droopy warble, while Curiosity’s most resonant song, “Trains”, could practically pass for vintage Jackson Browne, if not for a self-consciously cheeky delivery that diminishes the romantic longing expressed within. Since their inauspicious, experimental beginnings, Wampire have obviously matured greatly as songwriters; now, they just need to channel that same confidence and daring into the execution."

Idaho

Levitate

Rock

Brad Haywood

The American Revolution, as we all learned in fourth grade, was rooted in the notion of personal liberty; self-determination, the triumph of freedom, and most of all, independence from tyrants. The American Patriots loved liberty so much that they were willing to risk their lives to free themselves from the despotic grip of the British monarchy. So, with the help of French people, the Patriots took it upon themselves to beat some ass, after which everything was better. God bless America. As the sole member of Idaho, Martin's love of independence mirrors that of our noble forefathers. Give Martin liberty or give him death-- just take a look at the liner notes for Idaho's sixth and latest LP, Levitate: "Produced by Jeff Martin. All instruments by Jeff Martin. All songs by Jeff Martin." The bastard even "reserves all of his rights" (oh wait... does everyone do that?). As if he weren't already overburdened with the writing, the production, the performing, and the rights-reserving, Martin's music bears his own imprint, Idaho Music. It's easy to be cynical of self-reliant rock stars. Often they're assholes, like Billy Corgan or Jason Pierce of Spiritualized, who fired his whole band via letter. Others we regard as perhaps a little abnormal; Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse, for example, whose idea of creativity escapes all but the most intoxicated. But, having owned a few Idaho albums and seen them in concert, I feel that Jeff Martin's reasons for independence differ from those of his self-reliant peers. The biggest reason may be simply that Martin really is more talented than anyone he knows. Besides for his obvious ability as an instrumentalist (Martin is a classically trained pianist and wields a four-string guitar), what's most striking about Levitate is the production quality; like last year's Hearts of Palm, the precise, stripped-down approach on Levitate is remarkably effective at communicating emotions of longing, loneliness and distance. It tends towards a more organic sound than Hearts of Palm; the piano remains mostly acoustic, and figures prominently on almost every song. But Levitate keeps the innovative guitar, vocal and piano effects and manipulations that lent a profound haunting quality to Idaho's prior releases. "On the Shore," for example, includes a lightly played acoustic piano joined by Martin's lazy, gentle vocals, and simple percussion that almost mimics rainfall. Distorted guitar feedback brings the composition to a halt, leading into "Levitate Pt. 2," a preview to the plainly beautiful piano theme of the album's title track and finale. "Santa Claus is Weird" takes the emotion of distance literally; it sounds as if the drum kit is being played on the opposite side of a warehouse. You also have little moments like the wispy, spectral voices in the break between verses on "20 Years" (one of three rock numbers on the disc) that tell you Martin is paying attention to detail. Levitate isn't all roses for Martin, though. His lyrics occasionally leave something to be desired, as on "Casa Mia." Like much of the rest of the album, the orchestration of the song effectively communicates loss and regret, but Martin then over-enunciates awkward words like "bougainvillea" (as in the plant) and "hollow point" (as in the bullet), both of which stand out as contrived. Hardcore "lyrics people" may have difficulties with this and a few other tracks. In addition, the songwriting on Levitate isn't quite as compelling as prior releases-- it tempers some of Martin's passion and intensity, and in doing so, loses a bit of its edge. It's easy for sad-rockers to sound melancholy, but it's hard to do it with as much elegance as Jeff Martin. Levitate is not Idaho's best release (see Three Sheets to the Wind or Hearts of Palm), but it is one of their most coherent and complete, palatable from start to finish. Kudos to Jeff Martin for creating another fine album on his own, embodying our forefathers' ideals of independence and personal liberty, and most importantly, for doing it without the aid of the French.

Artist: Idaho, Album: Levitate, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "The American Revolution, as we all learned in fourth grade, was rooted in the notion of personal liberty; self-determination, the triumph of freedom, and most of all, independence from tyrants. The American Patriots loved liberty so much that they were willing to risk their lives to free themselves from the despotic grip of the British monarchy. So, with the help of French people, the Patriots took it upon themselves to beat some ass, after which everything was better. God bless America. As the sole member of Idaho, Martin's love of independence mirrors that of our noble forefathers. Give Martin liberty or give him death-- just take a look at the liner notes for Idaho's sixth and latest LP, Levitate: "Produced by Jeff Martin. All instruments by Jeff Martin. All songs by Jeff Martin." The bastard even "reserves all of his rights" (oh wait... does everyone do that?). As if he weren't already overburdened with the writing, the production, the performing, and the rights-reserving, Martin's music bears his own imprint, Idaho Music. It's easy to be cynical of self-reliant rock stars. Often they're assholes, like Billy Corgan or Jason Pierce of Spiritualized, who fired his whole band via letter. Others we regard as perhaps a little abnormal; Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse, for example, whose idea of creativity escapes all but the most intoxicated. But, having owned a few Idaho albums and seen them in concert, I feel that Jeff Martin's reasons for independence differ from those of his self-reliant peers. The biggest reason may be simply that Martin really is more talented than anyone he knows. Besides for his obvious ability as an instrumentalist (Martin is a classically trained pianist and wields a four-string guitar), what's most striking about Levitate is the production quality; like last year's Hearts of Palm, the precise, stripped-down approach on Levitate is remarkably effective at communicating emotions of longing, loneliness and distance. It tends towards a more organic sound than Hearts of Palm; the piano remains mostly acoustic, and figures prominently on almost every song. But Levitate keeps the innovative guitar, vocal and piano effects and manipulations that lent a profound haunting quality to Idaho's prior releases. "On the Shore," for example, includes a lightly played acoustic piano joined by Martin's lazy, gentle vocals, and simple percussion that almost mimics rainfall. Distorted guitar feedback brings the composition to a halt, leading into "Levitate Pt. 2," a preview to the plainly beautiful piano theme of the album's title track and finale. "Santa Claus is Weird" takes the emotion of distance literally; it sounds as if the drum kit is being played on the opposite side of a warehouse. You also have little moments like the wispy, spectral voices in the break between verses on "20 Years" (one of three rock numbers on the disc) that tell you Martin is paying attention to detail. Levitate isn't all roses for Martin, though. His lyrics occasionally leave something to be desired, as on "Casa Mia." Like much of the rest of the album, the orchestration of the song effectively communicates loss and regret, but Martin then over-enunciates awkward words like "bougainvillea" (as in the plant) and "hollow point" (as in the bullet), both of which stand out as contrived. Hardcore "lyrics people" may have difficulties with this and a few other tracks. In addition, the songwriting on Levitate isn't quite as compelling as prior releases-- it tempers some of Martin's passion and intensity, and in doing so, loses a bit of its edge. It's easy for sad-rockers to sound melancholy, but it's hard to do it with as much elegance as Jeff Martin. Levitate is not Idaho's best release (see Three Sheets to the Wind or Hearts of Palm), but it is one of their most coherent and complete, palatable from start to finish. Kudos to Jeff Martin for creating another fine album on his own, embodying our forefathers' ideals of independence and personal liberty, and most importantly, for doing it without the aid of the French."

Kate Simko

Music From the Atom Smashers

Electronic

Brian Howe

Great science is full of intuitive leaps, but the producers of The Atom Smashers, a documentary about physicists at Fermilab, employed a strictly rational approach for the soundtrack: They sought out an electronic musician who already works in evanescent particles and focused beams. It doesn't downplay Kate Simko's considerable talents to say that she was born to make this score, although perhaps you could say that of any techno producer as steeped in ambient and modernist music as she. Music From the Atom Smashers simply gives her a template on which to do what she does: one that nudges her away from crisp dancefloor fare like "She Said", toward the mysterious realms of Steve Reich, Wolfgang Voigt, and Brian Eno. In fact, almost half of the album expires before we hear the first real house track, "God Particle". This is the particle for which the physicists are searching, and appropriately, the song seethes on the verge of an epiphany, with a melodic feeling of anticipation and bass so elastic it seems to be trying to mutter a revelation. Only "Sociber", an intestinal tunnel with drums that whiz and ping, similarly threatens to move your body. On most of the album, Simko is instead more interested in moving your space-time continuum. It would be tautological to call this "pattern music," but it's certainly pattern-conscious. Outside of the dance tracks and the anomalous but excellent "The Creative Part", a Philip Glass-indebted composition for burnished ostinatos and piano sunbursts, Simko works in layered pulses, like she’s breaking billiards racks in slow motion. She makes you feel the weave, not the line. A number of recurring motifs betray the record's soundtrack status: skittering palpitations, sifting shards of broken china, cosmic slide-whistles, shamanistic rattles, and striated rumbles roughing up bloops, snaps, crackles, and pops. A lot of Rice Krispies, to be sure, but Simko remembers to cut in plenty of fruit: warm blurs of melodica on the splintering dirge "Quiet Daydream", lingering symphonic chords on "Nature Surreal". More interesting than the sounds themselves are the intelligence and sensitivity of their deployment, the constant attention to weight, color, and direction. You never get the feeling that Simko cued up a few devices, hit record, and kicked back with a crossword puzzle. She hovers over the album, alert and meticulous, fitting a bass line with anti-gravity boots here, skewing the angle of a comet's tail there. As a result, the repetitive nature of the sounds subsides from your attention, as you marvel about how they penetrate sonic spaces you couldn't perceive until they were filled.

Artist: Kate Simko, Album: Music From the Atom Smashers, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Great science is full of intuitive leaps, but the producers of The Atom Smashers, a documentary about physicists at Fermilab, employed a strictly rational approach for the soundtrack: They sought out an electronic musician who already works in evanescent particles and focused beams. It doesn't downplay Kate Simko's considerable talents to say that she was born to make this score, although perhaps you could say that of any techno producer as steeped in ambient and modernist music as she. Music From the Atom Smashers simply gives her a template on which to do what she does: one that nudges her away from crisp dancefloor fare like "She Said", toward the mysterious realms of Steve Reich, Wolfgang Voigt, and Brian Eno. In fact, almost half of the album expires before we hear the first real house track, "God Particle". This is the particle for which the physicists are searching, and appropriately, the song seethes on the verge of an epiphany, with a melodic feeling of anticipation and bass so elastic it seems to be trying to mutter a revelation. Only "Sociber", an intestinal tunnel with drums that whiz and ping, similarly threatens to move your body. On most of the album, Simko is instead more interested in moving your space-time continuum. It would be tautological to call this "pattern music," but it's certainly pattern-conscious. Outside of the dance tracks and the anomalous but excellent "The Creative Part", a Philip Glass-indebted composition for burnished ostinatos and piano sunbursts, Simko works in layered pulses, like she’s breaking billiards racks in slow motion. She makes you feel the weave, not the line. A number of recurring motifs betray the record's soundtrack status: skittering palpitations, sifting shards of broken china, cosmic slide-whistles, shamanistic rattles, and striated rumbles roughing up bloops, snaps, crackles, and pops. A lot of Rice Krispies, to be sure, but Simko remembers to cut in plenty of fruit: warm blurs of melodica on the splintering dirge "Quiet Daydream", lingering symphonic chords on "Nature Surreal". More interesting than the sounds themselves are the intelligence and sensitivity of their deployment, the constant attention to weight, color, and direction. You never get the feeling that Simko cued up a few devices, hit record, and kicked back with a crossword puzzle. She hovers over the album, alert and meticulous, fitting a bass line with anti-gravity boots here, skewing the angle of a comet's tail there. As a result, the repetitive nature of the sounds subsides from your attention, as you marvel about how they penetrate sonic spaces you couldn't perceive until they were filled."

Sonic Youth

Sonic Nurse

Rock

Sam Ubl

How? It's a question elicited by any great album, but one that accompanied Sonic Youth's 2002 return to glory, Murray Street, in particular, and will likely arise in response to any remotely decent effort from the group herein. It might have dawned on some fans only after hearing Murray Street that Sonic Youth's mean age was then roughly 45, and that the group arguably hadn't produced a record of such caliber since they were in their late 20s. And while age is certainly unavoidable, as sensitive fifty-something poets constantly remind us, it shouldn't come as any great surprise that the band still pack some alternately-tuned potency in their aging physiognomies: There are manifold examples of musicians in most every genre, besides younglings rock and hip-hop, who have continued playing, if not composing, masterfully, well into their 70s. Like the best jazz musicians, Sonic Youth have turned their love for experimental rock into a habit; perhaps more so than any other band, they've transcended the temporality of quality output in rock music. While bands like the Rolling Stones and the Grateful Dead continue to take the stage in a larkish clamber, Sonic Youth are still alive in the studio, where the process of making music is somewhat more draining than regurgitating old hits every once in a well-publicized while. With centenarianism becoming more of an improbable reality and less of a tall tale, it's no longer inconceivable that rock composers might thrive into their latter days, especially now that the relatively young genre has been given time to produce a few elder masters. In short, Sonic Youth aren't an exception; they're a pioneer example of a nascent rule. That said, while Sonic Nurse isn't quite as strong as its predecessor, it's equally as imbued with instrumental dexterity and impressively coherent ideas. Unlike Murray Street, the album isn't so much an expansion of form as a return to it: Here, Sonic Youth harken back to the noisome atmospherics of their late-80s work, only handing it a more crystalline production treatment that smacks of more recent releases like A Thousand Leaves. Whether the implications of the line are intentional or not is difficult to say, but when, on "Paper Cup Exit", Lee Ranaldo sings, "It's later than it seems," the band seem to be keenly aware of their age and relevance. That self-awareness, both of an appreciably long canon and the four lives it has traversed, makes Sonic Nurse all the more remarkable. Throughout their career, Sonic Youth have indulged in as much avant-garde experimentation as they have ground out formal studio albums. If anything, the lesson taught by mishaps such as the infamous NYC Ghosts & Flowers is that Sonic Youth are best at being themselves. Fortunately, that "self" is an enormously vibrant and sophisticated entity, capable of evoking a broad range of moods and tones, and continually learning from its mistakes. As atrocious as NYC Ghosts & Flowers was, they never repeated its missteps, and for that it can be conveniently forgotten. Conversely, when the group hits their stride, they know to run with it, as they do here, swimmingly riding the ample momentum generated by Murray Street. "Pattern Recognition" opens, touching down on a well-trodden playing field of heady, arpeggiated riffage. After a brief, almost proggy intro, the song descends into a perilous odd-time build redolent of "Candle", as Kim Gordon brays "you're the one" in wontedly Daydream fashion, forgoing the bloodless beat poetry whining that often made her presence an annoyance in recent years. 16 years later, her pipes are still as seductively smoke-tinged as they were on "Kissability", and the opener marks the first of several pleasant appearances by Gordon on Nurse. "Unmade Bed", the record's only sub-four-minute endeavor, recalls the nocturnal second half of Murray Street, casting beacons of beautifully melodic guitar as it builds to a gloriously intertwined climax. As with many of the band's best songs, it takes a few listens for the riffs to sink in, but once they have, they're indelible. Dynamically, however, not every track on Sonic Nurse is as striking as the band have proved themselves capable. Murray Street's "Rain on Tin" was a euphoric rollercoaster ride that seemed to capsulize to the band's entire career. "Stones", perhaps this album's closest parallel to that song, erupts with an insurgent guitar melody after a rocky climb, and features more than its fair share of strong riffs. Yet, while doubtless a strong number, the track isn't nearly as dramatic as career highlights like "Washing Machine" and "Expressway to Yr Skull". Additionally, "Mariah Carey and the Arthur Doyle Handcream" is a more traditional Kim Gordon screed that extends about two minutes too long in its monotonous din to be as effective as Murray Street's similar "Plastic Sun". However, while those tracks do belabor the flow of the record slightly, their impotency is more accurately attributable to Sonic Nurse's questionable sequencing. While many of these songs exemplify the band in top form, they're sometimes inhibited by the record's somewhat scatterbrained narrative arch. "Peace Attack", in particular, suffers from mishandling. Played in isolation, the track is clever and wistful, but in its role as closing song, it feels awkwardly contrived and anticlimactic. Meanwhile, "Pattern Recognition", another one of the band's finest recent tracks, seems too bold an opening statement for this deeply cogitative collection. And unlike Murray Street, which was anchored by the towering middle track, "Karen Revisited", this issue lacks a similar axis to corral the disparate tones and give them direction. Of course, considering these minor bones of contention, Sonic Nurse is hardly what one might call a disappointment. "The Dripping Dream" adheres to the familiar tension/release/jam formula typified by "Rain on Tin", but manages to keep fresh with a reliably brilliant guitar apex before receding into a hazy wash that recalls the deliquescent waning minutes of "The Sprawl". "I Love Golden Blue" features a formless, protracted intro that points to the band's one-time relationship with seminal avant-garde composer/no-wave icon Glenn Branca. And "Peace Attack", despite its placement, is quietly poignant in contrast with erstwhile monoliths such as "Trilogy" and "The Diamond Sea". Even the staunchest pundits should find something to like on Sonic Nurse, while steadfast devotees are well accounted for by the record's sheer canonical breadth. Though its ultimate placement in the band's legacy is

Artist: Sonic Youth, Album: Sonic Nurse, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "How? It's a question elicited by any great album, but one that accompanied Sonic Youth's 2002 return to glory, Murray Street, in particular, and will likely arise in response to any remotely decent effort from the group herein. It might have dawned on some fans only after hearing Murray Street that Sonic Youth's mean age was then roughly 45, and that the group arguably hadn't produced a record of such caliber since they were in their late 20s. And while age is certainly unavoidable, as sensitive fifty-something poets constantly remind us, it shouldn't come as any great surprise that the band still pack some alternately-tuned potency in their aging physiognomies: There are manifold examples of musicians in most every genre, besides younglings rock and hip-hop, who have continued playing, if not composing, masterfully, well into their 70s. Like the best jazz musicians, Sonic Youth have turned their love for experimental rock into a habit; perhaps more so than any other band, they've transcended the temporality of quality output in rock music. While bands like the Rolling Stones and the Grateful Dead continue to take the stage in a larkish clamber, Sonic Youth are still alive in the studio, where the process of making music is somewhat more draining than regurgitating old hits every once in a well-publicized while. With centenarianism becoming more of an improbable reality and less of a tall tale, it's no longer inconceivable that rock composers might thrive into their latter days, especially now that the relatively young genre has been given time to produce a few elder masters. In short, Sonic Youth aren't an exception; they're a pioneer example of a nascent rule. That said, while Sonic Nurse isn't quite as strong as its predecessor, it's equally as imbued with instrumental dexterity and impressively coherent ideas. Unlike Murray Street, the album isn't so much an expansion of form as a return to it: Here, Sonic Youth harken back to the noisome atmospherics of their late-80s work, only handing it a more crystalline production treatment that smacks of more recent releases like A Thousand Leaves. Whether the implications of the line are intentional or not is difficult to say, but when, on "Paper Cup Exit", Lee Ranaldo sings, "It's later than it seems," the band seem to be keenly aware of their age and relevance. That self-awareness, both of an appreciably long canon and the four lives it has traversed, makes Sonic Nurse all the more remarkable. Throughout their career, Sonic Youth have indulged in as much avant-garde experimentation as they have ground out formal studio albums. If anything, the lesson taught by mishaps such as the infamous NYC Ghosts & Flowers is that Sonic Youth are best at being themselves. Fortunately, that "self" is an enormously vibrant and sophisticated entity, capable of evoking a broad range of moods and tones, and continually learning from its mistakes. As atrocious as NYC Ghosts & Flowers was, they never repeated its missteps, and for that it can be conveniently forgotten. Conversely, when the group hits their stride, they know to run with it, as they do here, swimmingly riding the ample momentum generated by Murray Street. "Pattern Recognition" opens, touching down on a well-trodden playing field of heady, arpeggiated riffage. After a brief, almost proggy intro, the song descends into a perilous odd-time build redolent of "Candle", as Kim Gordon brays "you're the one" in wontedly Daydream fashion, forgoing the bloodless beat poetry whining that often made her presence an annoyance in recent years. 16 years later, her pipes are still as seductively smoke-tinged as they were on "Kissability", and the opener marks the first of several pleasant appearances by Gordon on Nurse. "Unmade Bed", the record's only sub-four-minute endeavor, recalls the nocturnal second half of Murray Street, casting beacons of beautifully melodic guitar as it builds to a gloriously intertwined climax. As with many of the band's best songs, it takes a few listens for the riffs to sink in, but once they have, they're indelible. Dynamically, however, not every track on Sonic Nurse is as striking as the band have proved themselves capable. Murray Street's "Rain on Tin" was a euphoric rollercoaster ride that seemed to capsulize to the band's entire career. "Stones", perhaps this album's closest parallel to that song, erupts with an insurgent guitar melody after a rocky climb, and features more than its fair share of strong riffs. Yet, while doubtless a strong number, the track isn't nearly as dramatic as career highlights like "Washing Machine" and "Expressway to Yr Skull". Additionally, "Mariah Carey and the Arthur Doyle Handcream" is a more traditional Kim Gordon screed that extends about two minutes too long in its monotonous din to be as effective as Murray Street's similar "Plastic Sun". However, while those tracks do belabor the flow of the record slightly, their impotency is more accurately attributable to Sonic Nurse's questionable sequencing. While many of these songs exemplify the band in top form, they're sometimes inhibited by the record's somewhat scatterbrained narrative arch. "Peace Attack", in particular, suffers from mishandling. Played in isolation, the track is clever and wistful, but in its role as closing song, it feels awkwardly contrived and anticlimactic. Meanwhile, "Pattern Recognition", another one of the band's finest recent tracks, seems too bold an opening statement for this deeply cogitative collection. And unlike Murray Street, which was anchored by the towering middle track, "Karen Revisited", this issue lacks a similar axis to corral the disparate tones and give them direction. Of course, considering these minor bones of contention, Sonic Nurse is hardly what one might call a disappointment. "The Dripping Dream" adheres to the familiar tension/release/jam formula typified by "Rain on Tin", but manages to keep fresh with a reliably brilliant guitar apex before receding into a hazy wash that recalls the deliquescent waning minutes of "The Sprawl". "I Love Golden Blue" features a formless, protracted intro that points to the band's one-time relationship with seminal avant-garde composer/no-wave icon Glenn Branca. And "Peace Attack", despite its placement, is quietly poignant in contrast with erstwhile monoliths such as "Trilogy" and "The Diamond Sea". Even the staunchest pundits should find something to like on Sonic Nurse, while steadfast devotees are well accounted for by the record's sheer canonical breadth. Though its ultimate placement in the band's legacy is"

Auburn Lull

Begin Civil Twilight

Electronic,Rock

Andrew Gaerig

Auburn Lull have proven surprisingly hard to forget. Minor members of Michigan's minor space rock scene-- think Burnt Hair Records, Windy and Carl, Mahogany; call it suburbgaze-- the Lansing quartet are now on their fourth Darla release: a reissued 1999 debut, a rarities comp, and two proper full-lengths. And like the copy of Alone I Admire I copped so many years ago in one of those same Michigan suburbs, Begin Civil Twilight reminds of a time when I very nearly bought a Landing record every time I entered a record store and when I actually did buy a used Flying Saucer Attack album every time I entered a record store. Auburn Lull sell a particularly dense, nurtured form of dream-pop that acts as an admirably neutral standard for a genre and scene whose survival instincts have proven cockroach-like. Auburn Lull sport a perfectly shoegaze-y name-- well, perfectly American anyway, as those E'd-up cross-pond Brits wouldn't be caught dead in something so drearily Midwestern-- but even that genre would imply too much grit: Begin Civil Twilight takes far more cues from ambient or even new age music. Guitarist/vocalist Sean Heenan captains the band with a sadistically slow metronome; drummer Jason Wiesinger possesses either otherworldly patience or mountains of sedatives. Along with guitarists/bassists Jason Kolb and Eli Wekenman they resist any and all temptation to create friction or to amass tension. Apply all standard music-critic buzzwords to the guitars: float, drift, languish, glide. Drum patterns are whisked away like accumulated rain from a windshield. Compared to their peers, Auburn Lull are relatively less willing to blur their sounds-- guitars and keyboards mostly meld, but there are traceable lines drawn between the vocals, bass, and drums. The difference seems to arise less out of a desire to produce proper pop music than to not let Heenan's understated delivery and actual melodies go to waste. Opener "Light Through the Canopy" peels away to reveal a heavily reverberated Heenan worming his way through a contoured melody: "This is how it's supposed to go," he claims, light/lite guitars wearing threadbare behind him in confirmation. "Broken Heroes", Twilight's most overt pop stab, relies on little more than intermittent bass gurgles during the verse, allowing Heenan and wife Elsa room to mourn in unison. "November's Long Shadows" (stereotypical song title alert level: Orange) features a curlicue lead guitar that cuts through the ever-present sheen and gives the song a vague college-rock feel. "Coasts", ironically, is the closest Twilight comes to propulsion, dancing with a skittish high-hat before stumbling into a jog, little guitar bends and stabs darting in and out of a tastefully martial drum pattern. While the band's lack of saturation has heretofore worked to its advantage, with each successive release Auburn Lull sound less like squirreled-away torch-guarders and more like a veteran group of studio wizards retracing their steps very, very, very slowly. Twilight contains plenty of Auburn Lull autopilot: little tone poems with vague clips of dialogue ("Geneva"), four and five minute swaths of effected guitar ("Civil Twilight"), or blank soundscapes that serve only as cots for pretty acoustic noodling ("Stanfield Echo" and, most egregiously, the untitled nine-minute closer). These are not offensive compositions, just extraneous ones that seem like dead weight for a band three albums in and capable of lovingly muted pop. Auburn Lull remain charmingly unswayed by time; hearts grow fonder, sure, but metal rusts and shelves dust over, too.

Artist: Auburn Lull, Album: Begin Civil Twilight, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Auburn Lull have proven surprisingly hard to forget. Minor members of Michigan's minor space rock scene-- think Burnt Hair Records, Windy and Carl, Mahogany; call it suburbgaze-- the Lansing quartet are now on their fourth Darla release: a reissued 1999 debut, a rarities comp, and two proper full-lengths. And like the copy of Alone I Admire I copped so many years ago in one of those same Michigan suburbs, Begin Civil Twilight reminds of a time when I very nearly bought a Landing record every time I entered a record store and when I actually did buy a used Flying Saucer Attack album every time I entered a record store. Auburn Lull sell a particularly dense, nurtured form of dream-pop that acts as an admirably neutral standard for a genre and scene whose survival instincts have proven cockroach-like. Auburn Lull sport a perfectly shoegaze-y name-- well, perfectly American anyway, as those E'd-up cross-pond Brits wouldn't be caught dead in something so drearily Midwestern-- but even that genre would imply too much grit: Begin Civil Twilight takes far more cues from ambient or even new age music. Guitarist/vocalist Sean Heenan captains the band with a sadistically slow metronome; drummer Jason Wiesinger possesses either otherworldly patience or mountains of sedatives. Along with guitarists/bassists Jason Kolb and Eli Wekenman they resist any and all temptation to create friction or to amass tension. Apply all standard music-critic buzzwords to the guitars: float, drift, languish, glide. Drum patterns are whisked away like accumulated rain from a windshield. Compared to their peers, Auburn Lull are relatively less willing to blur their sounds-- guitars and keyboards mostly meld, but there are traceable lines drawn between the vocals, bass, and drums. The difference seems to arise less out of a desire to produce proper pop music than to not let Heenan's understated delivery and actual melodies go to waste. Opener "Light Through the Canopy" peels away to reveal a heavily reverberated Heenan worming his way through a contoured melody: "This is how it's supposed to go," he claims, light/lite guitars wearing threadbare behind him in confirmation. "Broken Heroes", Twilight's most overt pop stab, relies on little more than intermittent bass gurgles during the verse, allowing Heenan and wife Elsa room to mourn in unison. "November's Long Shadows" (stereotypical song title alert level: Orange) features a curlicue lead guitar that cuts through the ever-present sheen and gives the song a vague college-rock feel. "Coasts", ironically, is the closest Twilight comes to propulsion, dancing with a skittish high-hat before stumbling into a jog, little guitar bends and stabs darting in and out of a tastefully martial drum pattern. While the band's lack of saturation has heretofore worked to its advantage, with each successive release Auburn Lull sound less like squirreled-away torch-guarders and more like a veteran group of studio wizards retracing their steps very, very, very slowly. Twilight contains plenty of Auburn Lull autopilot: little tone poems with vague clips of dialogue ("Geneva"), four and five minute swaths of effected guitar ("Civil Twilight"), or blank soundscapes that serve only as cots for pretty acoustic noodling ("Stanfield Echo" and, most egregiously, the untitled nine-minute closer). These are not offensive compositions, just extraneous ones that seem like dead weight for a band three albums in and capable of lovingly muted pop. Auburn Lull remain charmingly unswayed by time; hearts grow fonder, sure, but metal rusts and shelves dust over, too."

Horse Feathers

So It Is With Us

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

There’s no way Horse Feathers could live up to a song title like “Violently Wild”, the track that opens their fifth album. Over the last decade the Portland chamber-folk group, led by singer-songwriter Justin Ringle, has perfected a gently gothic sound reliant on stringed instruments, painstaking compositions, and muted emotions, as though in direct opposition to the strummy histrionics of the Lumineers and Mumford & Sons. There’s always been something dignified in Horse Feathers’ restraint, even if that didn’t make them an especially exciting band to follow. And the wear of so many depressive tunes apparently began to weigh on Ringle, who followed up the tour for 2012’s Cynic’s New Year with an 18-month hiatus from music. That break was productive, as So It Is With Us finds Horse Feathers tinkering with new sounds, major keys, faster tempos, and different emotional textures. There are even drums here. So, all things being relative, “Violently Wild” is certainly the most violently wild the band has ever been. Rather than mopey, Ringle’s vocals are heraldic. The music is more celebratory than mournful. The rhythm section sounds like it can actually hold a groove and make the song a kinetic show opener or closer. It’s a joyful noise: Horse Feathers perform the song like they’ve just discovered a new superpower. On each of their four previous albums, all except debut Words Are Dead released on Kill Rock Stars, Horse Feathers have emphasized rigid song structures and careful arrangements that blend guitar, violin, cello, and voice into melancholy rural song suites. Broadening the tone of the music has opened up new possibilities, which means Horse Feathers play more like a band and less like a Ringle solo project. Their palette is more expansive and more ambitious, drawing elements from tango and doo-wop, jazz and '50s pop. They plays songs like “Old Media” and “Small Melody” with real enthusiasm. “Dead End Thanks” in particular thrums with energy, as Nathan Crockett’s violin spirals around Dustin Dybvig’s piano and pulls the song in unexpected directions. This is still a Horse Feathers album, which means that underneath the liveliness lurks the same darkness that has informed all of the group’s material. “We’re out of tune, you’ll be gone, and I’ll be leaving soon,” Ringle promises on the sing-along chorus to “Violently Wild”, singing darkly of marriage and commitment and the inevitable end that quells all arguments. Throughout his tenure, Ringle has written eloquently—sometimes too eloquently—about gnawing disaffection and thwarted desires, but the relative sunniness of the music on So It Is With Us suggests higher stakes: The dark makes the lighter sound lighter, and the light makes the dark sound darker. “Tell me why do you try hangin’ on?” Ringle asks on “Why Do I Try” sounding like a man who might just stop. It’s arguably the most downcast song on the album, as he wonders about the fate of his children, yet it’s one of the band’s most subtly adventurous arrangements. Ringle lays down sharp staccato guitar licks that summon Steve Cropper, and the band moves with a steadiness that gives the song a hymnlike feel, at least until the woozy piano comes in like the ghost of Buddy Holly. As Ringle hits the high notes on the bridge, the song reveals itself as Pacific Northwest soul—which is something completely unexpected from Horse Feathers and a fine answer to the song’s central question. He sounds like a man with renewed faith.

Artist: Horse Feathers, Album: So It Is With Us, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "There’s no way Horse Feathers could live up to a song title like “Violently Wild”, the track that opens their fifth album. Over the last decade the Portland chamber-folk group, led by singer-songwriter Justin Ringle, has perfected a gently gothic sound reliant on stringed instruments, painstaking compositions, and muted emotions, as though in direct opposition to the strummy histrionics of the Lumineers and Mumford & Sons. There’s always been something dignified in Horse Feathers’ restraint, even if that didn’t make them an especially exciting band to follow. And the wear of so many depressive tunes apparently began to weigh on Ringle, who followed up the tour for 2012’s Cynic’s New Year with an 18-month hiatus from music. That break was productive, as So It Is With Us finds Horse Feathers tinkering with new sounds, major keys, faster tempos, and different emotional textures. There are even drums here. So, all things being relative, “Violently Wild” is certainly the most violently wild the band has ever been. Rather than mopey, Ringle’s vocals are heraldic. The music is more celebratory than mournful. The rhythm section sounds like it can actually hold a groove and make the song a kinetic show opener or closer. It’s a joyful noise: Horse Feathers perform the song like they’ve just discovered a new superpower. On each of their four previous albums, all except debut Words Are Dead released on Kill Rock Stars, Horse Feathers have emphasized rigid song structures and careful arrangements that blend guitar, violin, cello, and voice into melancholy rural song suites. Broadening the tone of the music has opened up new possibilities, which means Horse Feathers play more like a band and less like a Ringle solo project. Their palette is more expansive and more ambitious, drawing elements from tango and doo-wop, jazz and '50s pop. They plays songs like “Old Media” and “Small Melody” with real enthusiasm. “Dead End Thanks” in particular thrums with energy, as Nathan Crockett’s violin spirals around Dustin Dybvig’s piano and pulls the song in unexpected directions. This is still a Horse Feathers album, which means that underneath the liveliness lurks the same darkness that has informed all of the group’s material. “We’re out of tune, you’ll be gone, and I’ll be leaving soon,” Ringle promises on the sing-along chorus to “Violently Wild”, singing darkly of marriage and commitment and the inevitable end that quells all arguments. Throughout his tenure, Ringle has written eloquently—sometimes too eloquently—about gnawing disaffection and thwarted desires, but the relative sunniness of the music on So It Is With Us suggests higher stakes: The dark makes the lighter sound lighter, and the light makes the dark sound darker. “Tell me why do you try hangin’ on?” Ringle asks on “Why Do I Try” sounding like a man who might just stop. It’s arguably the most downcast song on the album, as he wonders about the fate of his children, yet it’s one of the band’s most subtly adventurous arrangements. Ringle lays down sharp staccato guitar licks that summon Steve Cropper, and the band moves with a steadiness that gives the song a hymnlike feel, at least until the woozy piano comes in like the ghost of Buddy Holly. As Ringle hits the high notes on the bridge, the song reveals itself as Pacific Northwest soul—which is something completely unexpected from Horse Feathers and a fine answer to the song’s central question. He sounds like a man with renewed faith."

Franklin Bruno

Local Currency: Solo 1992-1998

Folk/Country,Pop/R&B

David Raposa

Usually the liner notes to a compilation of hard-to-find or out-of-print material from an obscure musician includes an essay that makes (or overstates) a case for the artist's worthiness. In the case of Local Currency, a collection of vinyl releases and compilation appearances made in the mid-to-late 1990s by Franklin Bruno, the honor is given to award-winning poet and The Nation. columnist Ange Mlinko. In addition to offering many kind words in Bruno's behalf, Mlinko compares his brand of musical erudition (specifically his lyrics) with the ouevres proffered by a rather daunting Mount Rushmore: Elvis Costello, Morrissey, Jonathan Richman, and Bob Dylan. Impressive company, to be sure, even if it's company that one would be hard pressed to weigh any songwriter against. For those a little suspect of such lofty praise, you're not alone: The liner notes also include some words from Bruno himself, a self-administered roast to Mlinko's well-meaning toast. Going through this album track by track, he leads listeners down this decade-old memory lane, never hesitating to point out the overgrown lawns and dilapidated storefronts that dot the landscape. Of course, an artist is often his fiercest critic, especially when it comes to their earlier works, as this description of one of Local Currency's few low points ("Soggy Girl") demonstrates: "Imitate Calvin Johnson over a borrowed Public Enemy cassette and gratuitous key changes? Sign me up." Bruno also makes unflattering mention of his penchant for arcane references (cf. the shout-out to "goddamn" Joseph Cornell on "In a Sourceless Light"), his less-than-robust singing voice, his more-than-robust vocabulary, and even, as he describes it, "my disinclination to distinguish between 'pop' and 'experimental,' thus resulting in releases no one could enjoy straight through." And while there are a small handful of examples on Local Currency where Bruno's impeccable melodic instincts clash less favorably with his more experimental impulses-- the mish-mash of feedback, lo-fi tape-splice chicanery, and all-but-spoken-word meandering on "About You I'd Ask" come to mind-- it's those potentially questionable digressions that inform and strengthen his more traditional verse-chorus work. As growing-pain portraits go, Local Currency is the sort of warts-and-all release that most songwriters would love to call their own. In many ways, this compilation serves as a microcosm of Bruno's musical growth, running the gamut from his days fronting the power-poptastic Nothing Painted Blue (with "Wholly Heavy Heart" sounding just like a lost 0PB cut) to his modern-day dalliances with more traditional forms of songwriting (exhibited by the solo-piano Tin-Pan-Alleyisms of "News From Cupid"). In between these poles, Bruno offers some of the more thoughtful songs, love and otherwise, that the Amerindie underground had to offer. Bruno himself politely mocks this practice in one of the tunes here-- "The 101st", with the number in the title referring to the number of songs the narrator has written (or is about to write) about a certain special someone. But there's not much to mock if the songs in question are as heartbreaking as "Keeping the Weekend Free", or as despairing as "Pointless Triangle". Both these tunes were given flattering higher-fidelity interpretations by former Tsunami bandleader/Simple Machines labelhead Jenny Toomey-- the former on Liquorice's Listening Cap; the latter on Toomey's Bruno-abetted Tempting-- and while those versions might be prettier and shinier, there's something to be said for hearing these sentiments and songs in the writer's original voice. What could get lost while admiring Bruno's lyrical knack is that his way with a tune, and his knack for getting form and fucntion to work together, is equally impressive. "In a Sourceless Light" finds Bruno playfully prodding someone who'd look better in the titular light-- "if your shadow didn't follow you around"-- with a chiming Rickenbacker echoing his spry wit, while "Shooting Past Me" is an embittered and eloquent kiss-off whose starkness feeds into the song's autumnal pallor. Bruno also manages to pull off a "pop"/"experimental" coup of sorts with "Medium of Exchange", melding one of his sweeter melodies and seemingly sweeter lyrics ("If I could wave a magic wand/ I would cross every lily pond") to a Frankensteinian backing track that's anything but sweet. Even when he tackles subjects less fraught with pathos, like his own medical misfortunes on the whimsical "Cat-Scratch Fever", there's no lacking for musical or lyrical cleverness-- it's rare for a track here not to offer the listener something worth holding onto. In the decade-plus since the newest tune on this compilation was originally released, Franklin Bruno's songwriting has grown immeasurably, exchanging the more pronounced flourishes of skill and smarts with more subtle, yet no less effective, shows of intellectual force-- it's evident on Bruno's last solo album (A Cat May Look at a Queen), and on Civics, the first album from his new band, the Human Hearts. Some that are fond of the songs from Bruno's salad days might see this newer work as a step back from what's on display in Local Currency, while others are more in tune with where Bruno's muse is currently leading him. But regardless of where fans stand, it's safe to say that Bruno himself won't ever be complacent with what he's done-- in regards to the final track on Local Currency, "Dream Worth Dreaming", the usually effusive Bruno has only two words: "Still looking."

Artist: Franklin Bruno, Album: Local Currency: Solo 1992-1998, Genre: Folk/Country,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Usually the liner notes to a compilation of hard-to-find or out-of-print material from an obscure musician includes an essay that makes (or overstates) a case for the artist's worthiness. In the case of Local Currency, a collection of vinyl releases and compilation appearances made in the mid-to-late 1990s by Franklin Bruno, the honor is given to award-winning poet and The Nation. columnist Ange Mlinko. In addition to offering many kind words in Bruno's behalf, Mlinko compares his brand of musical erudition (specifically his lyrics) with the ouevres proffered by a rather daunting Mount Rushmore: Elvis Costello, Morrissey, Jonathan Richman, and Bob Dylan. Impressive company, to be sure, even if it's company that one would be hard pressed to weigh any songwriter against. For those a little suspect of such lofty praise, you're not alone: The liner notes also include some words from Bruno himself, a self-administered roast to Mlinko's well-meaning toast. Going through this album track by track, he leads listeners down this decade-old memory lane, never hesitating to point out the overgrown lawns and dilapidated storefronts that dot the landscape. Of course, an artist is often his fiercest critic, especially when it comes to their earlier works, as this description of one of Local Currency's few low points ("Soggy Girl") demonstrates: "Imitate Calvin Johnson over a borrowed Public Enemy cassette and gratuitous key changes? Sign me up." Bruno also makes unflattering mention of his penchant for arcane references (cf. the shout-out to "goddamn" Joseph Cornell on "In a Sourceless Light"), his less-than-robust singing voice, his more-than-robust vocabulary, and even, as he describes it, "my disinclination to distinguish between 'pop' and 'experimental,' thus resulting in releases no one could enjoy straight through." And while there are a small handful of examples on Local Currency where Bruno's impeccable melodic instincts clash less favorably with his more experimental impulses-- the mish-mash of feedback, lo-fi tape-splice chicanery, and all-but-spoken-word meandering on "About You I'd Ask" come to mind-- it's those potentially questionable digressions that inform and strengthen his more traditional verse-chorus work. As growing-pain portraits go, Local Currency is the sort of warts-and-all release that most songwriters would love to call their own. In many ways, this compilation serves as a microcosm of Bruno's musical growth, running the gamut from his days fronting the power-poptastic Nothing Painted Blue (with "Wholly Heavy Heart" sounding just like a lost 0PB cut) to his modern-day dalliances with more traditional forms of songwriting (exhibited by the solo-piano Tin-Pan-Alleyisms of "News From Cupid"). In between these poles, Bruno offers some of the more thoughtful songs, love and otherwise, that the Amerindie underground had to offer. Bruno himself politely mocks this practice in one of the tunes here-- "The 101st", with the number in the title referring to the number of songs the narrator has written (or is about to write) about a certain special someone. But there's not much to mock if the songs in question are as heartbreaking as "Keeping the Weekend Free", or as despairing as "Pointless Triangle". Both these tunes were given flattering higher-fidelity interpretations by former Tsunami bandleader/Simple Machines labelhead Jenny Toomey-- the former on Liquorice's Listening Cap; the latter on Toomey's Bruno-abetted Tempting-- and while those versions might be prettier and shinier, there's something to be said for hearing these sentiments and songs in the writer's original voice. What could get lost while admiring Bruno's lyrical knack is that his way with a tune, and his knack for getting form and fucntion to work together, is equally impressive. "In a Sourceless Light" finds Bruno playfully prodding someone who'd look better in the titular light-- "if your shadow didn't follow you around"-- with a chiming Rickenbacker echoing his spry wit, while "Shooting Past Me" is an embittered and eloquent kiss-off whose starkness feeds into the song's autumnal pallor. Bruno also manages to pull off a "pop"/"experimental" coup of sorts with "Medium of Exchange", melding one of his sweeter melodies and seemingly sweeter lyrics ("If I could wave a magic wand/ I would cross every lily pond") to a Frankensteinian backing track that's anything but sweet. Even when he tackles subjects less fraught with pathos, like his own medical misfortunes on the whimsical "Cat-Scratch Fever", there's no lacking for musical or lyrical cleverness-- it's rare for a track here not to offer the listener something worth holding onto. In the decade-plus since the newest tune on this compilation was originally released, Franklin Bruno's songwriting has grown immeasurably, exchanging the more pronounced flourishes of skill and smarts with more subtle, yet no less effective, shows of intellectual force-- it's evident on Bruno's last solo album (A Cat May Look at a Queen), and on Civics, the first album from his new band, the Human Hearts. Some that are fond of the songs from Bruno's salad days might see this newer work as a step back from what's on display in Local Currency, while others are more in tune with where Bruno's muse is currently leading him. But regardless of where fans stand, it's safe to say that Bruno himself won't ever be complacent with what he's done-- in regards to the final track on Local Currency, "Dream Worth Dreaming", the usually effusive Bruno has only two words: "Still looking.""

Saâda Bonaire

Saâda Bonaire

Andy Beta

In 1984, one of EMI’s A&R men—notorious for going over budget on recordings—went well over schedule with singles from two of his artists. One was Tina Turner, on her way to 80s multi-platinum success with “Private Dancer”, which the company was willing to forgive. But the other act, Saâda Bonaire, which featured two model-esque non-singers Stefanie Lange and Claudia Hossfeld, had their lone single released, only to be immediately dropped from the label, never to be heard from again. As this unexpected reissue from Captured Tracks (released under their new Fantasy Memory subsidiary) reveals though, Saâda Bonaire was the concoction of Ralph “Von” Richtoven, a Bremen club DJ who fancied himself a Svengali, never mind that his vision for the group included upwards of 20 musicians at any one time who didn’t speak the same language—much less played the same musical scale—backing up his non-musical fiancée, Stefanie Lange and her friend, both women clad in Bedouin wear. For a group that had one single, this reissue unearths an entire album’s worth of material, produced by dubmaster Dennis Bovell in Kraftwerk’s Cologne studios. As the aforementioned names might attest, it makes for a curious early 80s mutant sound. When Richtoven first conceived of the group, he had a local German reggae band he managed enter a studio to cover both J.J. Cale’s “Ride Me High” and James Brown’s “It’s a Man World” (unfortunately these covers were left off this reissue). He then set about overdubbing some Kurdish folk musicians he met via a Turkish Communist community center, adding his fiancée and her friend last. Trainwreck though it might scan, the results were intriguing to say the least, convincing EMI to let them record some more. Enter that none-hit wonder, “You Could Be More As You Are”, which remains a curious beast: rubbery reggae bass, growling gong hits, synth stabs and jerky rhythms from hand drum and drum machine, featuring an assortment of whistles, saxophones, Turkish saz, and ney flute, all of it topped by the icy monotones of Lange and Hossfeld, who recall their memories of a German friend who sold her body for money at a young age, hit every club every night, and died too soon. It was idiosyncratic in their native Germany in the age of Neu Deautsche Welle groups, yet somehow became a club hit in Greece, and soon after became a holy grail for Balearic DJs around the world, where it fetches upwards of $170 a copy online. It’s unfortunate that the album never saw the light of day back in the early 80s, as Saâda Bonaire had plenty of kindred spirits from that era. Over the percolating congas, pliant basslines, upstroked guitar, and saz licks of “More Women”, they sound a bit like Tom Tom Club. The snappy and spare “Heart Over Head” finds a middle ground between the Flying Lizards’ cover of “Money” and Soft Cell’s take on “Tainted Love”. The synth bass on “Invitation” emulates Imagination’s dancefloor smash “Just An Illusion”, though it’s shot through with ney flute and a vocal delivered as if Lange and Hossfeld were instead auditioning for that notorious Calvin Klein Obsession commercial. The presence of Bovell, the Barbados-born, yet London-based dub producer who produced Linton Kwesi Johnson’s iconic 70s reggae albums as well as post-punk classics like the Slits’ Cut and the Pop Group’s Y, helps tie together what should have been a total mess. It’s easy to hear post-punk’s DNA here and from the vantage point of 30 years, one can imagine how Saâda Bonaire might have been an influence on the icy minimal wave sound, the talk-sing grooves of Peaking Lights, not to mention the vocals of Glass Candy’s Ida No. In another dimension, maybe Saâda Bonaire’s multi-culti dancepunk tracks would have influenced someone like M.I.A., or else their gender-bending lyrics could have been behind the Knife’s Shaking the Habitual. Alas, this rescued album can only show that Saâda Bonaire could have been more than they were.

Artist: Saâda Bonaire, Album: Saâda Bonaire, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "In 1984, one of EMI’s A&R men—notorious for going over budget on recordings—went well over schedule with singles from two of his artists. One was Tina Turner, on her way to 80s multi-platinum success with “Private Dancer”, which the company was willing to forgive. But the other act, Saâda Bonaire, which featured two model-esque non-singers Stefanie Lange and Claudia Hossfeld, had their lone single released, only to be immediately dropped from the label, never to be heard from again. As this unexpected reissue from Captured Tracks (released under their new Fantasy Memory subsidiary) reveals though, Saâda Bonaire was the concoction of Ralph “Von” Richtoven, a Bremen club DJ who fancied himself a Svengali, never mind that his vision for the group included upwards of 20 musicians at any one time who didn’t speak the same language—much less played the same musical scale—backing up his non-musical fiancée, Stefanie Lange and her friend, both women clad in Bedouin wear. For a group that had one single, this reissue unearths an entire album’s worth of material, produced by dubmaster Dennis Bovell in Kraftwerk’s Cologne studios. As the aforementioned names might attest, it makes for a curious early 80s mutant sound. When Richtoven first conceived of the group, he had a local German reggae band he managed enter a studio to cover both J.J. Cale’s “Ride Me High” and James Brown’s “It’s a Man World” (unfortunately these covers were left off this reissue). He then set about overdubbing some Kurdish folk musicians he met via a Turkish Communist community center, adding his fiancée and her friend last. Trainwreck though it might scan, the results were intriguing to say the least, convincing EMI to let them record some more. Enter that none-hit wonder, “You Could Be More As You Are”, which remains a curious beast: rubbery reggae bass, growling gong hits, synth stabs and jerky rhythms from hand drum and drum machine, featuring an assortment of whistles, saxophones, Turkish saz, and ney flute, all of it topped by the icy monotones of Lange and Hossfeld, who recall their memories of a German friend who sold her body for money at a young age, hit every club every night, and died too soon. It was idiosyncratic in their native Germany in the age of Neu Deautsche Welle groups, yet somehow became a club hit in Greece, and soon after became a holy grail for Balearic DJs around the world, where it fetches upwards of $170 a copy online. It’s unfortunate that the album never saw the light of day back in the early 80s, as Saâda Bonaire had plenty of kindred spirits from that era. Over the percolating congas, pliant basslines, upstroked guitar, and saz licks of “More Women”, they sound a bit like Tom Tom Club. The snappy and spare “Heart Over Head” finds a middle ground between the Flying Lizards’ cover of “Money” and Soft Cell’s take on “Tainted Love”. The synth bass on “Invitation” emulates Imagination’s dancefloor smash “Just An Illusion”, though it’s shot through with ney flute and a vocal delivered as if Lange and Hossfeld were instead auditioning for that notorious Calvin Klein Obsession commercial. The presence of Bovell, the Barbados-born, yet London-based dub producer who produced Linton Kwesi Johnson’s iconic 70s reggae albums as well as post-punk classics like the Slits’ Cut and the Pop Group’s Y, helps tie together what should have been a total mess. It’s easy to hear post-punk’s DNA here and from the vantage point of 30 years, one can imagine how Saâda Bonaire might have been an influence on the icy minimal wave sound, the talk-sing grooves of Peaking Lights, not to mention the vocals of Glass Candy’s Ida No. In another dimension, maybe Saâda Bonaire’s multi-culti dancepunk tracks would have influenced someone like M.I.A., or else their gender-bending lyrics could have been behind the Knife’s Shaking the Habitual. Alas, this rescued album can only show that Saâda Bonaire could have been more than they were."

Radiohead

In Rainbows

Rock

Mark Pytlik

Like many music lovers of a certain age, I have a lot of warm memories tied up with release days. I miss the simple ritual of making time to buy a record. I also miss listening to something special for the first time and imagining, against reason, the rest of the world holed up in their respective bedrooms, having the same experience. Before last Wednesday, I can't remember the last time I had that feeling. I also can't remember the last time I woke up voluntarily at 6 a.m. either, but like hundreds of thousands of other people around the world, there I was, sat at my computer, headphones on, groggy, but awake, and hitting play. Such a return to communal exchange isn't something you'd expect to be orchestrated by a band who's wrung beauty from alienation for more than a decade. But if the past few weeks have taught us anything, it's that Radiohead revel, above all else, in playing against type. It's written in their discography; excluding the conjoined twins that were Kid A and Amnesiac, each of their albums constitutes a heroic effort to debunk those that came before it. Although 2003's Hail to the Thief was overlong and scattershot, it was important insofar as it represented the full band's full-circle digestion and synthesis of the sounds and methods they first toyed with on OK Computer. So, after a decade of progression, where do we go from here? If the 2006 live renditions of their new material were anything to go by, not much further. With few exceptions, the roughly 15 songs introduced during last year's tour gave the impression that after five searching records, Radiohead had grown tired of trying to outrun themselves. Taken as a whole, the guitar-centric compositions offered a portrait of a band who, whether subconsciously or not, looked conciliatory for the first time in its career. Although a wonderful surprise, their early October album announcement only lent further credence to the theory. Where they'd previously had the confidence to precede albums like OK Computer and Kid A with marketing fanfare worthy of a classic-in-making, this sneak attack felt like a canny strategy to prepare fans for an inevitable downshift. The brilliant In Rainbows represents no such thing. Nonetheless, it's a very different kind of Radiohead record. Liberated from their self-imposed pressure to innovate, they sound-- for the first time in ages-- user-friendly; the glacial distance that characterized their previous records melted away by dollops of reverb, strings, and melody. From the inclusion and faithful rendering of longtime fan favorite "Nude" to the classic pop string accents on "Faust Arp" to the uncharacteristically relaxed "House of Cards", Radiohead's sudden willingness to embrace their capacity for uncomplicated beauty might be In Rainbows' most distinguishing quality, and one of the primary reasons it's an improvement on Hail to the Thief. Now that singer Thom Yorke has kickstarted a solo career-- providing a separate venue for the solo electronic material he used to shoehorn onto Radiohead albums-- Radiohead also sound like a full band again. Opener "15 Step"'s mulched-up drum intro represents the album's only dip into Kid A-style electronics; from the moment Jonny Greenwood's zestful guitar line takes over about 40 seconds in, In Rainbows becomes resolutely a five-man show. (For all of Yorke's lonely experimental pieces, it's easy to forget how remarkably the band play off each other; the rhythm section of Phil Selway and Colin Greenwood are especially incredible, supplying between them for a goldmine of one-off fills, accents, and runs over the course of the record.) A cut-up in the spirit of "Airbag"-- albeit with a jazzier, more fluid guitar line-- "15 Step" gives way to "Bodysnatchers", which, like much of In Rainbows, eschews verse/chorus/verse structure in favor of a gradual build. Structured around a sludgy riff, it skronks along noisily until about the two-minute mark, when the band veers left with a sudden acoustic interlude. By now, Radiohead are experts at tearing into the fabric of their own songs for added effect, and In Rainbows is awash in those moments. The band's big-hearted resurrection of "Nude" follows. The subject of fervent speculation for more than a decade, its keening melodies and immutable prettiness had left it languishing behind Kid A's front door. Despite seeming ambivalent about the song even after resurrecting it for last year's tour, this album version finds Yorke wrenching as much sweetness out of it as he possibly can, in turn giving us our first indication that he's in generous spirits. Another fan favorite, "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi" brandishes new drums behind its drain-circling arpeggios, but sounds every bit as massive in crescendoing as its live renditions suggested it might. "All I Need", meanwhile, concludes the album's first side by dressing up what begins as a skeletal rhythm section in cavernous swaths of glockenspiel, synths, pianos, and white noise. With its fingerpicked acoustic guitars and syrupy strings, "Faust Arp" begs comparisons to some of the Beatles' sweetest two-minute interludes, while the stunning "Reckoner" takes care of any lingering doubt about Radiohead's softer frame of mind: Once a violent rocker worthy of its title, this version finds Yorke's slinky, elongated falsetto backed by frosty, clanging percussion and a meandering guitar line, onto which the band pile a chorus of backing harmonies, pianos, and-- again-- swooping strings. It may not be the most immediate track on the album, but over the course of several listens, it reveals itself to be among the most woozily beautiful things the band has ever recorded. With its lethargic, chipped-at guitar chords, "House of Cards" is a slow, R.E.M.-shaped ballad pulled under by waves of reverbed feedback. While it's arguably the one weak link in the album's chain, it provides a perfect lead-in to the spry guitar workout of "Jigsaw Falling Into Place". Like "Bodysnatchers" and "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi" before it, "Jigsaw" begins briskly and builds into a breakneck conclusion, this time with Yorke upshifting from low to high register to supply a breathless closing rant. Finally, the closer. Another fan favorite, Yorke's solo versions of "Videotape" suggested another "Pyramid Song" in the making. Given the spirit of In Rainbows, you'd be forgiven for assuming its studio counterpart might comprise some sort of epic finale, but to the disappointment of fans, it wasn't to be. Instead, we get a circling piano coda and a bassline that seems to promise a climax that never comes. "This is

Artist: Radiohead, Album: In Rainbows, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.3 Album review: "Like many music lovers of a certain age, I have a lot of warm memories tied up with release days. I miss the simple ritual of making time to buy a record. I also miss listening to something special for the first time and imagining, against reason, the rest of the world holed up in their respective bedrooms, having the same experience. Before last Wednesday, I can't remember the last time I had that feeling. I also can't remember the last time I woke up voluntarily at 6 a.m. either, but like hundreds of thousands of other people around the world, there I was, sat at my computer, headphones on, groggy, but awake, and hitting play. Such a return to communal exchange isn't something you'd expect to be orchestrated by a band who's wrung beauty from alienation for more than a decade. But if the past few weeks have taught us anything, it's that Radiohead revel, above all else, in playing against type. It's written in their discography; excluding the conjoined twins that were Kid A and Amnesiac, each of their albums constitutes a heroic effort to debunk those that came before it. Although 2003's Hail to the Thief was overlong and scattershot, it was important insofar as it represented the full band's full-circle digestion and synthesis of the sounds and methods they first toyed with on OK Computer. So, after a decade of progression, where do we go from here? If the 2006 live renditions of their new material were anything to go by, not much further. With few exceptions, the roughly 15 songs introduced during last year's tour gave the impression that after five searching records, Radiohead had grown tired of trying to outrun themselves. Taken as a whole, the guitar-centric compositions offered a portrait of a band who, whether subconsciously or not, looked conciliatory for the first time in its career. Although a wonderful surprise, their early October album announcement only lent further credence to the theory. Where they'd previously had the confidence to precede albums like OK Computer and Kid A with marketing fanfare worthy of a classic-in-making, this sneak attack felt like a canny strategy to prepare fans for an inevitable downshift. The brilliant In Rainbows represents no such thing. Nonetheless, it's a very different kind of Radiohead record. Liberated from their self-imposed pressure to innovate, they sound-- for the first time in ages-- user-friendly; the glacial distance that characterized their previous records melted away by dollops of reverb, strings, and melody. From the inclusion and faithful rendering of longtime fan favorite "Nude" to the classic pop string accents on "Faust Arp" to the uncharacteristically relaxed "House of Cards", Radiohead's sudden willingness to embrace their capacity for uncomplicated beauty might be In Rainbows' most distinguishing quality, and one of the primary reasons it's an improvement on Hail to the Thief. Now that singer Thom Yorke has kickstarted a solo career-- providing a separate venue for the solo electronic material he used to shoehorn onto Radiohead albums-- Radiohead also sound like a full band again. Opener "15 Step"'s mulched-up drum intro represents the album's only dip into Kid A-style electronics; from the moment Jonny Greenwood's zestful guitar line takes over about 40 seconds in, In Rainbows becomes resolutely a five-man show. (For all of Yorke's lonely experimental pieces, it's easy to forget how remarkably the band play off each other; the rhythm section of Phil Selway and Colin Greenwood are especially incredible, supplying between them for a goldmine of one-off fills, accents, and runs over the course of the record.) A cut-up in the spirit of "Airbag"-- albeit with a jazzier, more fluid guitar line-- "15 Step" gives way to "Bodysnatchers", which, like much of In Rainbows, eschews verse/chorus/verse structure in favor of a gradual build. Structured around a sludgy riff, it skronks along noisily until about the two-minute mark, when the band veers left with a sudden acoustic interlude. By now, Radiohead are experts at tearing into the fabric of their own songs for added effect, and In Rainbows is awash in those moments. The band's big-hearted resurrection of "Nude" follows. The subject of fervent speculation for more than a decade, its keening melodies and immutable prettiness had left it languishing behind Kid A's front door. Despite seeming ambivalent about the song even after resurrecting it for last year's tour, this album version finds Yorke wrenching as much sweetness out of it as he possibly can, in turn giving us our first indication that he's in generous spirits. Another fan favorite, "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi" brandishes new drums behind its drain-circling arpeggios, but sounds every bit as massive in crescendoing as its live renditions suggested it might. "All I Need", meanwhile, concludes the album's first side by dressing up what begins as a skeletal rhythm section in cavernous swaths of glockenspiel, synths, pianos, and white noise. With its fingerpicked acoustic guitars and syrupy strings, "Faust Arp" begs comparisons to some of the Beatles' sweetest two-minute interludes, while the stunning "Reckoner" takes care of any lingering doubt about Radiohead's softer frame of mind: Once a violent rocker worthy of its title, this version finds Yorke's slinky, elongated falsetto backed by frosty, clanging percussion and a meandering guitar line, onto which the band pile a chorus of backing harmonies, pianos, and-- again-- swooping strings. It may not be the most immediate track on the album, but over the course of several listens, it reveals itself to be among the most woozily beautiful things the band has ever recorded. With its lethargic, chipped-at guitar chords, "House of Cards" is a slow, R.E.M.-shaped ballad pulled under by waves of reverbed feedback. While it's arguably the one weak link in the album's chain, it provides a perfect lead-in to the spry guitar workout of "Jigsaw Falling Into Place". Like "Bodysnatchers" and "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi" before it, "Jigsaw" begins briskly and builds into a breakneck conclusion, this time with Yorke upshifting from low to high register to supply a breathless closing rant. Finally, the closer. Another fan favorite, Yorke's solo versions of "Videotape" suggested another "Pyramid Song" in the making. Given the spirit of In Rainbows, you'd be forgiven for assuming its studio counterpart might comprise some sort of epic finale, but to the disappointment of fans, it wasn't to be. Instead, we get a circling piano coda and a bassline that seems to promise a climax that never comes. "This is"

Seefeel

Faults

Electronic,Rock

Andrew Gaerig

Seefeel used to be smooth. In the 1990s, they ably blended rave's currents of sound with shoegaze's tempos and wash. At their best they were light and bliss-y without feeling insubstantial, providing excellent fodder for remixes. Writing for Melody Maker in 1993, Simon Reynolds cleverly called them "womb-adelic." The Faults EP is Seefeel's first recording since 1996, with principals Mark Clifford and Sarah Peacock convening with Shigeru Ishihara and Iida Kazuhisa, a former Boredoms drummer. Most notably, it's not very smooth: rather than gracelessly grasping at their old sound, Seefeel have taken a stab at something new. It's an unexpected, difficult path that has yielded unexpected, difficult music. If Clifford and Peacock still have theirs ears tied to British electronic music-- it seems likely they do-- then a new direction makes perfect sense, as UK techno has changed immeasurably in the last 15 years. Faults at times approximates the blocky, ornate musicality of Britain's promising post-dubstep scene: Darkstar, Untold, and Mount Kimbie come to mind. The similarities are not necessarily born of execution-- Faults doesn't sound exactly like those young artists-- but in the way Seefeel use sound: piecing it together, stacking it. Where previous Seefeel recordings often sounded like purees of their source elements, Faults finds the band pre-blend. You can chalk some of the difference up to the new personnel. Kazuhisa paces the band with choppy, concentrated drumming; gone are the whirring palpitations of the younger Seefeel. On the title track, everything comes together: ghostly, pitch-shifted vocals balance on the crevasses between bass drum kicks as the song builds to a chalky, sour anti-climax. It is charmingly indecisive and unpredictable, as the song feels like it could develop in many ways but instead just teeters on its axis. The remaining three songs are cut from similar sonic cloth but don't feel as restless. They are too content to let keyboard noise sink into drum patterns or to knob-twiddle into knots. Still, Faults feels like a band working on something. They seem creative, full of new blood and old friendships. Faults is airy and tactile, its failures full of queasy keyboards and structural percussion. In an era that has seen dozens of 1990s bands reunite, Seefeel have done so under the impression not that their old material is relevant and worthwhile (though it is), but rather that their new material might be. More, please.

Artist: Seefeel, Album: Faults, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Seefeel used to be smooth. In the 1990s, they ably blended rave's currents of sound with shoegaze's tempos and wash. At their best they were light and bliss-y without feeling insubstantial, providing excellent fodder for remixes. Writing for Melody Maker in 1993, Simon Reynolds cleverly called them "womb-adelic." The Faults EP is Seefeel's first recording since 1996, with principals Mark Clifford and Sarah Peacock convening with Shigeru Ishihara and Iida Kazuhisa, a former Boredoms drummer. Most notably, it's not very smooth: rather than gracelessly grasping at their old sound, Seefeel have taken a stab at something new. It's an unexpected, difficult path that has yielded unexpected, difficult music. If Clifford and Peacock still have theirs ears tied to British electronic music-- it seems likely they do-- then a new direction makes perfect sense, as UK techno has changed immeasurably in the last 15 years. Faults at times approximates the blocky, ornate musicality of Britain's promising post-dubstep scene: Darkstar, Untold, and Mount Kimbie come to mind. The similarities are not necessarily born of execution-- Faults doesn't sound exactly like those young artists-- but in the way Seefeel use sound: piecing it together, stacking it. Where previous Seefeel recordings often sounded like purees of their source elements, Faults finds the band pre-blend. You can chalk some of the difference up to the new personnel. Kazuhisa paces the band with choppy, concentrated drumming; gone are the whirring palpitations of the younger Seefeel. On the title track, everything comes together: ghostly, pitch-shifted vocals balance on the crevasses between bass drum kicks as the song builds to a chalky, sour anti-climax. It is charmingly indecisive and unpredictable, as the song feels like it could develop in many ways but instead just teeters on its axis. The remaining three songs are cut from similar sonic cloth but don't feel as restless. They are too content to let keyboard noise sink into drum patterns or to knob-twiddle into knots. Still, Faults feels like a band working on something. They seem creative, full of new blood and old friendships. Faults is airy and tactile, its failures full of queasy keyboards and structural percussion. In an era that has seen dozens of 1990s bands reunite, Seefeel have done so under the impression not that their old material is relevant and worthwhile (though it is), but rather that their new material might be. More, please."

Son, Ambulance

Someone Else's Deja Vu

Folk/Country,Rock

Ian Cohen

I guess it's sort of a buzzkill to start off this way, but Someone Else's Déjà Vu is more interesting as a state-of-music-criticism case study than a collection of songs: If we're really doing our jobs here, this sentence will feature the last time you see "Ben Folds" in a Son, Ambulance review. On previous outings, Mr. Battle of Who Could Care Less (can't believe Brian Howe used "Brick"-layer before I had a chance to) and Son, Ambulance's Joe Knapp were namedropped in an approximate 1:1.5 ratio, but not only has Knapp given us nearly four years to dig up different piano man comparisons, he's pretty much ditched the ivories altogether. But even if one of Saddle Creek's most quietly ambitious artists is flying without a net, it's hard to call it thrilling, since Knapp forsook that adjective when he punned on his band name. Which just gives us another easy way out while dealing with Son, Ambulance's third LP, which is intermittently fluid and challenging in its arrangements and occasionally gorgeous-- but a lot of times, it just feels like you can't possibly finish it in a wakeful state. For the first couple of listens, Knapp's willingness to play dress up carries the day. "A Girl in New York City" is a bit tough to trace lyrically, but it does an admirable job capturing the essence of its saucer-eyed title character, reflecting all sorts of wonder and culture-vulture consumption in its constantly morphing, light-loafered samba arrangement; the brief forays into buzzy guitar soloing even brings to mind Hissing of Summer Lawns-era Joni Mitchell, before the fever-dreamy "Legend of Lizeth" takes a soak in Canterbury Calgon. But Son, Ambulance is too laidback to be out of a comfort zone for long, and the wafting major chords of "Quand Tu Marches Seul" finds "technically proficient Piano Magic" and "heavily narcotized Dears" as the borders. What ties all of it together is Knapp's modest everydude voice, which rarely is intrusive but even more rarely sounds like it's operating from a position of strength. "Wild Roses" goes for a real-talk romance in the manner of "Something" (down to the George Harrison-worshipping guitar solo), but it's more suited for "Nashville Star" where an appropriately outsized voice can realistically compete with the beyond-shlocky lyrics ("You can take her out dancing/ Spend all night drinking beer") and gooey instrumentation-- Knapp tries to kick things up with an ill-fitting backwards echo effect that sounds like his larynx getting shredded. But he also lacks the grit that could sell the rootsier material- the hangover balladry of "Yesterday Morning" simply stews when it's trying to simmer, and it's not so much an anchor as an albatross-- there are points where you wonder if it's ever going to end. Occasionally, Someone Else's Déjà Vu is focused enough to be effective-- the off-time strums of "Horizons" manages to kickstart an otherwise terribly drowsy midsection, while "Juliet's Son" provides the most luminous passage through gauzy, low-key harmonies despite the words not really hitting like they should. But such concision is a rare find on a record that Knapp likely considers to be his Lifted, an Americana feeding frenzy that considers its sprawl as much of an end as the means. But more than any pedal steel touch or straight-shooter lyric, what made that record is something sorely lacking here, namely being young and full of shit enough to see limitations as hurdles instead of ceilings. The proof's in the title: Someone Else's Déjà Vu would've benefitted from Knapp making a stronger claim of ownership to his lofty visions.

Artist: Son, Ambulance, Album: Someone Else's Deja Vu, Genre: Folk/Country,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.4 Album review: "I guess it's sort of a buzzkill to start off this way, but Someone Else's Déjà Vu is more interesting as a state-of-music-criticism case study than a collection of songs: If we're really doing our jobs here, this sentence will feature the last time you see "Ben Folds" in a Son, Ambulance review. On previous outings, Mr. Battle of Who Could Care Less (can't believe Brian Howe used "Brick"-layer before I had a chance to) and Son, Ambulance's Joe Knapp were namedropped in an approximate 1:1.5 ratio, but not only has Knapp given us nearly four years to dig up different piano man comparisons, he's pretty much ditched the ivories altogether. But even if one of Saddle Creek's most quietly ambitious artists is flying without a net, it's hard to call it thrilling, since Knapp forsook that adjective when he punned on his band name. Which just gives us another easy way out while dealing with Son, Ambulance's third LP, which is intermittently fluid and challenging in its arrangements and occasionally gorgeous-- but a lot of times, it just feels like you can't possibly finish it in a wakeful state. For the first couple of listens, Knapp's willingness to play dress up carries the day. "A Girl in New York City" is a bit tough to trace lyrically, but it does an admirable job capturing the essence of its saucer-eyed title character, reflecting all sorts of wonder and culture-vulture consumption in its constantly morphing, light-loafered samba arrangement; the brief forays into buzzy guitar soloing even brings to mind Hissing of Summer Lawns-era Joni Mitchell, before the fever-dreamy "Legend of Lizeth" takes a soak in Canterbury Calgon. But Son, Ambulance is too laidback to be out of a comfort zone for long, and the wafting major chords of "Quand Tu Marches Seul" finds "technically proficient Piano Magic" and "heavily narcotized Dears" as the borders. What ties all of it together is Knapp's modest everydude voice, which rarely is intrusive but even more rarely sounds like it's operating from a position of strength. "Wild Roses" goes for a real-talk romance in the manner of "Something" (down to the George Harrison-worshipping guitar solo), but it's more suited for "Nashville Star" where an appropriately outsized voice can realistically compete with the beyond-shlocky lyrics ("You can take her out dancing/ Spend all night drinking beer") and gooey instrumentation-- Knapp tries to kick things up with an ill-fitting backwards echo effect that sounds like his larynx getting shredded. But he also lacks the grit that could sell the rootsier material- the hangover balladry of "Yesterday Morning" simply stews when it's trying to simmer, and it's not so much an anchor as an albatross-- there are points where you wonder if it's ever going to end. Occasionally, Someone Else's Déjà Vu is focused enough to be effective-- the off-time strums of "Horizons" manages to kickstart an otherwise terribly drowsy midsection, while "Juliet's Son" provides the most luminous passage through gauzy, low-key harmonies despite the words not really hitting like they should. But such concision is a rare find on a record that Knapp likely considers to be his Lifted, an Americana feeding frenzy that considers its sprawl as much of an end as the means. But more than any pedal steel touch or straight-shooter lyric, what made that record is something sorely lacking here, namely being young and full of shit enough to see limitations as hurdles instead of ceilings. The proof's in the title: Someone Else's Déjà Vu would've benefitted from Knapp making a stronger claim of ownership to his lofty visions."

David Grubbs

The Spectrum Between

Experimental

Matt LeMay

I've always been a firm believer in the value of early education. Not because it teaches children state capitals or multiplication tables, but because of the one truly invaluable piece of information you can attain from it: life is unfair. Adults can be completely indifferent or downright evil. Your worth as a human being can be judged entirely on spelling bees and long division, and your intelligence can be your own worst enemy. Sure, one of the tenets of education is the encouragement of natural intelligence. But being pegged a "brain" can be devastating, and not just because of the impact it has on your social life. No, when you're a "brain", a certain level of work is expected of you. God help you if your first written assignment in third grade sounds like a college dissertation-- everything you ever write after that will be held to ridiculously high standards. While you're getting scorned for an A-, the kid who sits in the back of class and flings boogers at the wall gets a pat on the back and a candy bar for a C+. Had The Spectrum Between been released by anybody other than David Grubbs, it would garner instant critical acclaim for its impeccable songwriting and instant accessibility. The artist would be declared the new John Denver, and whimsical yuppies around the world would instantly make it a best-selling record. But this is David Grubbs. This is the man responsible for Gastr del Sol and 1998's brilliant The Thicket. As much as any other musician to come along in the past ten or so years, Grubbs has pioneered new ground for pop music by combining inventive instrumentation and dynamics with cryptic, staggeringly intelligent lyrics and always-impeccable songwriting. With The Spectrum Between, Grubbs breaks away from any kind of avant-garde aesthetic, leaving him with his voice, his acoustic guitar, and 36 minutes' worth of delightful pop songs. And while the record is thoroughly enjoyable, one can't help but feel that Grubbs is capable of something more. Even if a bit flimsy in comparison to other Grubbs releases, The Spectrum Between provides us with a liberal dose of amazing moments. "Gloriette", the record's undeniable standout, begins innocently enough, with Grubbs strumming his acoustic guitar and singing a pretty vocal melody at a relaxed pace. About halfway through the song, John McEntire contributes his patented inventive drumming, increasing the song's tempo two-fold and completely shifting its groove. McEntire's welcome entrance is followed by a brief, squealing saxophone solo from Swedish reed player Mats Gustafsson and some additional guitar meandering courtesy of jazz guitarist Noël Akchoté. Somehow, all these distinct elements combine to create a blissful and compelling song. "Whirlweek" and "Show Me Who to Love" follow a similar formula to a lesser extent, due mainly to McEntire's percussion. The rest of The Spectrum Between consists largely of mellow acoustic numbers such as "Seagull and Eagull" and "A Shiver in the Timber", and experimental, drone-laden instrumentals like "Stanwell Perpetual" and "Preface". The acoustic tracks never fail to please, with Grubbs' expressive guitar work and occasionally John Denver-esque vocals always remaining agreeable. And the more streamlined nature of these songs make them instantly enjoyable. The two instrumentals are quite good as well, but seem extraneous and displaced in comparison to the rest of the record. It's hard to find any outstanding flaws in The Spectrum Between. It's a lovely record, and perhaps the first David Grubbs album that your parents will like as much as you do-- maybe more. Still, rather than forging a new future for pop music, the record's roots are firmly planted in the past, relying on more traditional arrangements and verse/chorus/verse structures. Thus, this thoroughly enjoyable piece of work receives a 7.9, with a heartfelt "I know you can do better" attached.

Artist: David Grubbs, Album: The Spectrum Between, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "I've always been a firm believer in the value of early education. Not because it teaches children state capitals or multiplication tables, but because of the one truly invaluable piece of information you can attain from it: life is unfair. Adults can be completely indifferent or downright evil. Your worth as a human being can be judged entirely on spelling bees and long division, and your intelligence can be your own worst enemy. Sure, one of the tenets of education is the encouragement of natural intelligence. But being pegged a "brain" can be devastating, and not just because of the impact it has on your social life. No, when you're a "brain", a certain level of work is expected of you. God help you if your first written assignment in third grade sounds like a college dissertation-- everything you ever write after that will be held to ridiculously high standards. While you're getting scorned for an A-, the kid who sits in the back of class and flings boogers at the wall gets a pat on the back and a candy bar for a C+. Had The Spectrum Between been released by anybody other than David Grubbs, it would garner instant critical acclaim for its impeccable songwriting and instant accessibility. The artist would be declared the new John Denver, and whimsical yuppies around the world would instantly make it a best-selling record. But this is David Grubbs. This is the man responsible for Gastr del Sol and 1998's brilliant The Thicket. As much as any other musician to come along in the past ten or so years, Grubbs has pioneered new ground for pop music by combining inventive instrumentation and dynamics with cryptic, staggeringly intelligent lyrics and always-impeccable songwriting. With The Spectrum Between, Grubbs breaks away from any kind of avant-garde aesthetic, leaving him with his voice, his acoustic guitar, and 36 minutes' worth of delightful pop songs. And while the record is thoroughly enjoyable, one can't help but feel that Grubbs is capable of something more. Even if a bit flimsy in comparison to other Grubbs releases, The Spectrum Between provides us with a liberal dose of amazing moments. "Gloriette", the record's undeniable standout, begins innocently enough, with Grubbs strumming his acoustic guitar and singing a pretty vocal melody at a relaxed pace. About halfway through the song, John McEntire contributes his patented inventive drumming, increasing the song's tempo two-fold and completely shifting its groove. McEntire's welcome entrance is followed by a brief, squealing saxophone solo from Swedish reed player Mats Gustafsson and some additional guitar meandering courtesy of jazz guitarist Noël Akchoté. Somehow, all these distinct elements combine to create a blissful and compelling song. "Whirlweek" and "Show Me Who to Love" follow a similar formula to a lesser extent, due mainly to McEntire's percussion. The rest of The Spectrum Between consists largely of mellow acoustic numbers such as "Seagull and Eagull" and "A Shiver in the Timber", and experimental, drone-laden instrumentals like "Stanwell Perpetual" and "Preface". The acoustic tracks never fail to please, with Grubbs' expressive guitar work and occasionally John Denver-esque vocals always remaining agreeable. And the more streamlined nature of these songs make them instantly enjoyable. The two instrumentals are quite good as well, but seem extraneous and displaced in comparison to the rest of the record. It's hard to find any outstanding flaws in The Spectrum Between. It's a lovely record, and perhaps the first David Grubbs album that your parents will like as much as you do-- maybe more. Still, rather than forging a new future for pop music, the record's roots are firmly planted in the past, relying on more traditional arrangements and verse/chorus/verse structures. Thus, this thoroughly enjoyable piece of work receives a 7.9, with a heartfelt "I know you can do better" attached."

Ghost

In Stormy Nights

Metal

Matthew Murphy

Masaki Batoh, vocalist and spiritual leader of Japan's enigmatic collective Ghost, has a stated aversion to such mundane activities as recording and touring, with his interest in music almost entirely limited to the moment of creation itself. As a consequence, the increasingly infrequent arrival of a new Ghost album has begun to feel like a monumental event. Such is certainly the case for In Stormy Nights, the group's first collection of new material since its majestic 2004 prog-epic Hypnotic Underworld. Throughout their mystery-steeped, two decade-plus career, the members of Ghost have steadfastly refused to acknowledge divisions between their seemingly incompatible styles of psych-folk, Krautrock, free jazz, and a limitless variety of indigenous Japanese and world musics. On their latest tablet from the mount, Batoh and a core sextet that includes veteran psych guitarist Michio Kurihara, multi-instrumentalist Kazuo Ogino, and percussionist Junzo Tateiwa have again decided to move their sound outward in all directions at once. In Stormy Night progresses with a solemn yet utterly savage authority, with its turbulent mixture of organic stoner-folk, cumbrous experimentation and near-martial rhythms sounding like an invocation to counteract the government-led turmoil of its times. The album's cornerstone-- and the piece most likely to divide opinions-- is the self-contained 28-minute behemoth "Hemicyclic Anthelion". Painstakingly edited by Batoh from a number of live recordings, this track appears in essence to be a double measure of free improvisation, first in the live performances themselves and later at the mixing desk. Due to its rather episodic construction, at points the piece can recall the more meditative moments of The Faust Tapes, but Ghost is also careful to allow the music to unfold as if an evolving, real-time performance. Underpinned by a recurring pattern of feedback and amp distortion, "Hemicyclic Anthelion" travels patiently through interludes of pastoral folk and dusky, smoked-glass jazz, while still allowing Kurihara ample space to rip off several radiant acid guitar leads. At points it seems Batoh has made some curious editing decisions: There are several quiet stretches of virtual inactivity as the musicians appear a little too content to dawdle within their time-collapsing idyll. Perhaps as a corrective, Ghost immediately follows "Anthelion" with a trio of tympani-driven rock songs that are as furiously precise and martial as the preceding epic is diffuse. "Water Door Yellow Gate" layers its taut riff with orchestral percussion, analog synth, and a spectral backing choir, while Batoh gravely intones his nightmarish visions of a scorched-earth no man's land. Even wilder and more massive is the group's ferocious cover of the tribal anthem "Caledonia", originally recorded by ESP Disk pagans Cromagnon. Given the rampant experimentation elsewhere on the album, Ghost give this cover a surprisingly faithful and reverent treatment, with Batoh delivering what is likely his most shredded vocal on record beneath a feverish torrent of Celtic flutes and recorder drones. Bookending all this chaotic activity are two of Ghost's loveliest avant-folk tracks to date, "Motherly Bluster" and the stunning closer "Grisaille". Carried gently aloft by its gorgeous arrangement of medieval strings, flutes, and yet another sky-melting Kurihara solo, "Grisaille" is further evidence that Ghost can still return to the exquisite psych-folk territories of past triumphs like 1999's Snuffbox Immanence any time they so choose. And though In Stormy Nights-- with its numerous false leads, over-the-top presentation and undisguised self-indulgence-- can hardly be said to be a perfect work, one has to admire and celebrate Ghost's determination never to step in the same river twice.

Artist: Ghost, Album: In Stormy Nights, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Masaki Batoh, vocalist and spiritual leader of Japan's enigmatic collective Ghost, has a stated aversion to such mundane activities as recording and touring, with his interest in music almost entirely limited to the moment of creation itself. As a consequence, the increasingly infrequent arrival of a new Ghost album has begun to feel like a monumental event. Such is certainly the case for In Stormy Nights, the group's first collection of new material since its majestic 2004 prog-epic Hypnotic Underworld. Throughout their mystery-steeped, two decade-plus career, the members of Ghost have steadfastly refused to acknowledge divisions between their seemingly incompatible styles of psych-folk, Krautrock, free jazz, and a limitless variety of indigenous Japanese and world musics. On their latest tablet from the mount, Batoh and a core sextet that includes veteran psych guitarist Michio Kurihara, multi-instrumentalist Kazuo Ogino, and percussionist Junzo Tateiwa have again decided to move their sound outward in all directions at once. In Stormy Night progresses with a solemn yet utterly savage authority, with its turbulent mixture of organic stoner-folk, cumbrous experimentation and near-martial rhythms sounding like an invocation to counteract the government-led turmoil of its times. The album's cornerstone-- and the piece most likely to divide opinions-- is the self-contained 28-minute behemoth "Hemicyclic Anthelion". Painstakingly edited by Batoh from a number of live recordings, this track appears in essence to be a double measure of free improvisation, first in the live performances themselves and later at the mixing desk. Due to its rather episodic construction, at points the piece can recall the more meditative moments of The Faust Tapes, but Ghost is also careful to allow the music to unfold as if an evolving, real-time performance. Underpinned by a recurring pattern of feedback and amp distortion, "Hemicyclic Anthelion" travels patiently through interludes of pastoral folk and dusky, smoked-glass jazz, while still allowing Kurihara ample space to rip off several radiant acid guitar leads. At points it seems Batoh has made some curious editing decisions: There are several quiet stretches of virtual inactivity as the musicians appear a little too content to dawdle within their time-collapsing idyll. Perhaps as a corrective, Ghost immediately follows "Anthelion" with a trio of tympani-driven rock songs that are as furiously precise and martial as the preceding epic is diffuse. "Water Door Yellow Gate" layers its taut riff with orchestral percussion, analog synth, and a spectral backing choir, while Batoh gravely intones his nightmarish visions of a scorched-earth no man's land. Even wilder and more massive is the group's ferocious cover of the tribal anthem "Caledonia", originally recorded by ESP Disk pagans Cromagnon. Given the rampant experimentation elsewhere on the album, Ghost give this cover a surprisingly faithful and reverent treatment, with Batoh delivering what is likely his most shredded vocal on record beneath a feverish torrent of Celtic flutes and recorder drones. Bookending all this chaotic activity are two of Ghost's loveliest avant-folk tracks to date, "Motherly Bluster" and the stunning closer "Grisaille". Carried gently aloft by its gorgeous arrangement of medieval strings, flutes, and yet another sky-melting Kurihara solo, "Grisaille" is further evidence that Ghost can still return to the exquisite psych-folk territories of past triumphs like 1999's Snuffbox Immanence any time they so choose. And though In Stormy Nights-- with its numerous false leads, over-the-top presentation and undisguised self-indulgence-- can hardly be said to be a perfect work, one has to admire and celebrate Ghost's determination never to step in the same river twice."

Rob Swift

Sound Event

Rap

Sam Chennault

Allow me to preface this review by stating my extreme admiration and unqualified respect for turntablists. Watching a master work the wheels is every bit as inspiring and transcendent as witnessing Tony Williams or Andres Segovia at their prime. If you've ever seen Q-Bert dissect an original break, draw out an individual beat from that break, and reconstruct that beat on the spot to build a wholly different rhythm, you know what I'm talking about. If you understand the myriad of scratches employed over the course of a DJ set, and how they build and play off one another, you know what I'm talking about. Although there are still those who would argue that the manipulation of prerecorded music doesn't require the same technical virtuosity as that of a traditional musician, I would argue that creatively harnessing an almost limitless sound palette is every bit as involved and difficult as moving your fingers up and down a guitar neck. With that said, I also understand why turntablist albums have yet to garner as much commercial attention as other forms of hip-hop. For one thing, the art form is relatively new and the artistry behind it remains largely esoteric; for the most part, neither the mainstream music consumer nor the high-art, traditional music establishment has yet to grasp the nuances of turntablism. The deconstructive approach to rhythm and the cubist, cut-n-paste compositional arrangements sound cacophonous and random to the uninitiated and lack the rhythmic thump or lyrical immediacy of other forms of hip-hop. With Sound Event, Rob Swift, who is one of the genre's greats, has succeeded in creating an album that has as much visceral impact as it does technical virtuosity, as much soul as it does science. It reaches for innovation while paying respect to the genre's conventions. It alternates between the round and soulful resonance of early 90s NYC hip-hop (e.g. Pete Rock and DITC) and the more mathematical angles of late-90s, ISP-inspired turntablism. Perhaps the greatest strength of Sound Events, though, is its ability to incorporate other genres without diluting its own. On "The Great Caper", Swift enlists the help of Dujeous? guitarist Taylor Rivelli and bassist Alex Gale for a sweaty jazzy number that's a testament to Swift's ability to trade chops with the best of 'em. "Salsa Scratch", featuring legendary Spanish music pianist Bob James, may be the most satisfying turntablist composition in years. It's a family affair, paying homage to Swift's father, who came to the United States from Columbia, and featuring his mother on the track's introduction. The limitlessly talented D-Styles shows up and lays down a series of sublimely expressionistic scratches, and Bob James, who's worked with Freddie Hubbard and Grover Washington among others, graces the keys with his trademark Latino flavor. Sure, we've seen the turntable incorporated into countless xFC-metal, R&B;, and "experimental" jazz compositions, but rarely has the turntable been used as a primary instrument and mingled with other genres more naturally, or with as much subtly as it is on "Salsa Scratch". "The Ghetto" finds Swift reflecting the paranoia, crime, and poverty that have claimed his friends. It may be a somewhat cliched theme, but Swift draws water from dry ground with his brilliant use of vocal samples. "Sub-Level", featuring J-Live, may be the most immediately accessible track on the album. Swift once again proves that he knows how to produce for an emcee, a skill that seems to elude lesser turntablists. He lays down a frantic, constantly morphing beat as the super-hot J-Live offers his opinions on the current state of underground hip-hop: "The rich act poor and the poor claim rich/ ...When you fronting on the mic, you still the industry's bitch." The genius of this album is not only Rob Swift's skill, but also the restraint he shows in displaying his considerable talent. While every scratch and rhythmic twist is on point, Swift never allows his skills to overwhelm his compositions. The scratches are chosen and inserted for emotional resonance, and not as a self-indulgent display of turntable mastery. "Once you have an understanding that scratches are a form of communication," Swift explains in the liner notes, "you gradually realize that scratches are like words. Using long, dictionary words doesn't necessarily make you a great speaker. It's about knowing your audience and understanding that sometimes simple words make the greatest impact." I couldn't have said it better.

Artist: Rob Swift, Album: Sound Event, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Allow me to preface this review by stating my extreme admiration and unqualified respect for turntablists. Watching a master work the wheels is every bit as inspiring and transcendent as witnessing Tony Williams or Andres Segovia at their prime. If you've ever seen Q-Bert dissect an original break, draw out an individual beat from that break, and reconstruct that beat on the spot to build a wholly different rhythm, you know what I'm talking about. If you understand the myriad of scratches employed over the course of a DJ set, and how they build and play off one another, you know what I'm talking about. Although there are still those who would argue that the manipulation of prerecorded music doesn't require the same technical virtuosity as that of a traditional musician, I would argue that creatively harnessing an almost limitless sound palette is every bit as involved and difficult as moving your fingers up and down a guitar neck. With that said, I also understand why turntablist albums have yet to garner as much commercial attention as other forms of hip-hop. For one thing, the art form is relatively new and the artistry behind it remains largely esoteric; for the most part, neither the mainstream music consumer nor the high-art, traditional music establishment has yet to grasp the nuances of turntablism. The deconstructive approach to rhythm and the cubist, cut-n-paste compositional arrangements sound cacophonous and random to the uninitiated and lack the rhythmic thump or lyrical immediacy of other forms of hip-hop. With Sound Event, Rob Swift, who is one of the genre's greats, has succeeded in creating an album that has as much visceral impact as it does technical virtuosity, as much soul as it does science. It reaches for innovation while paying respect to the genre's conventions. It alternates between the round and soulful resonance of early 90s NYC hip-hop (e.g. Pete Rock and DITC) and the more mathematical angles of late-90s, ISP-inspired turntablism. Perhaps the greatest strength of Sound Events, though, is its ability to incorporate other genres without diluting its own. On "The Great Caper", Swift enlists the help of Dujeous? guitarist Taylor Rivelli and bassist Alex Gale for a sweaty jazzy number that's a testament to Swift's ability to trade chops with the best of 'em. "Salsa Scratch", featuring legendary Spanish music pianist Bob James, may be the most satisfying turntablist composition in years. It's a family affair, paying homage to Swift's father, who came to the United States from Columbia, and featuring his mother on the track's introduction. The limitlessly talented D-Styles shows up and lays down a series of sublimely expressionistic scratches, and Bob James, who's worked with Freddie Hubbard and Grover Washington among others, graces the keys with his trademark Latino flavor. Sure, we've seen the turntable incorporated into countless xFC-metal, R&B;, and "experimental" jazz compositions, but rarely has the turntable been used as a primary instrument and mingled with other genres more naturally, or with as much subtly as it is on "Salsa Scratch". "The Ghetto" finds Swift reflecting the paranoia, crime, and poverty that have claimed his friends. It may be a somewhat cliched theme, but Swift draws water from dry ground with his brilliant use of vocal samples. "Sub-Level", featuring J-Live, may be the most immediately accessible track on the album. Swift once again proves that he knows how to produce for an emcee, a skill that seems to elude lesser turntablists. He lays down a frantic, constantly morphing beat as the super-hot J-Live offers his opinions on the current state of underground hip-hop: "The rich act poor and the poor claim rich/ ...When you fronting on the mic, you still the industry's bitch." The genius of this album is not only Rob Swift's skill, but also the restraint he shows in displaying his considerable talent. While every scratch and rhythmic twist is on point, Swift never allows his skills to overwhelm his compositions. The scratches are chosen and inserted for emotional resonance, and not as a self-indulgent display of turntable mastery. "Once you have an understanding that scratches are a form of communication," Swift explains in the liner notes, "you gradually realize that scratches are like words. Using long, dictionary words doesn't necessarily make you a great speaker. It's about knowing your audience and understanding that sometimes simple words make the greatest impact." I couldn't have said it better."

Ricardo Donoso

A Song for Echo

Philip Sherburne

A Song for Echo is something new for Ricardo Donoso. Since 2011, the solo recordings of the Brazilian-born composer and producer, a Berklee graduate and sometimes death-metal drummer, have been concerned primarily with the expressive potential of synthesizers. Progress Chance, Assimilating the Shadow, and As Iron Sharpens Iron, One Verse Sharpens Another brim with quicksilver frequencies, gravelly formants, and shimmering, mirage-like washes of tone. Sometimes his sounds are reminiscent of physical instruments like pipe organs; more often, they feel like signals picked up by a radio telescope, or pure electricity poured through a sieve. Those records were just as concerned with the expressive potential of sequencers—hardware devices, and sometimes virtual instruments, used for triggering arpeggiated patterns of notes as well as the filters and effects that color them. Reduced to simple contrapuntal phrases, Donoso's sequences came across like glistening series of dewdrops arrayed across spiders' webs vibrating in midair. Shorn of the drums that would scan as "techno," they felt less like dance music and more like perpetual motion machines. Earlier this year, with Nitrogen Narcosis, released under his Scuba Death alias on Seattle's Further label, he delved more explicitly into dancefloor aesthetics—albeit slowed down by half and still almost percussion-free, save for a dull kick drum buried deep in the mix. But here, on the inaugural release for his own Kathexis label, he switches up his process, eschewing the safety net of repetitive beats and expanding his palette to include a wealth of electro-acoustic material of uncertain provenance. Divided into seven roman-numeraled parts, the 29-minute album feels very much like a film score; it proceeds seamlessly from one segment to the next, and it's heavy on atmosphere but light on song-like structure. And, in fact, it is a film score; Donoso's music is the accompaniment to Julie Nymann's film of the same name, a re-telling of the Echo and Narcissus myth created specifically for a 360-degree surround-image projection in the Boston Museum of Science's Charles Hayden Planetarium. That immersive dimension helps contextualize the music's slow, shifting movements. The album opens with resonant drones reminiscent of Seefeel's Succour; bells and plucked-metal synthesizers chime against a backdrop that might be airplanes buzzing high overhead. A thudding pulse lends a hint of dub techno; midrange arpeggios, echoing Monolake's carefully sculpted arrangements, flash like goldfish darting through muddy ponds. It's occasionally reminiscent of Vladislav Delay's early, abstracted work; the massing drones and bowed bass and scraping sheets of metal also suggest the Haxan Cloak's waxy horror. As the album proceeds, it builds into something almost overpowering—an enormous basso throb accompanied by the grating sound of knives being sharpened, metal gates swinging back and forth in the wind; swollen reverb sings the wind-tunnel blues. And then, like a storm passing overhead, it all fades to silence. Speaking to Marc Masters and Grayson Currin for their column The Out Door, Donoso described A Song for Echo as "a springboard," noting, "all the ideas on it are still very much segregated, naked & exposed—much like Progress Chance was. Slowly, over the next few releases—these building blocks will evolve into much deeper & developed structures." There's plenty of room for him to develop the ideas broached here; rhythmically and texturally, A Song for Echo sounds like he's just beginning to blaze a trail that leads beyond the limits of the Digitalis trilogy. But it's exciting to hear Donoso reconnecting, however tentatively, with the intensity of his metal band, Ehnahre. If Echo is the sound of stormclouds massing, perhaps the deluge is just around the corner.

Artist: Ricardo Donoso, Album: A Song for Echo, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "A Song for Echo is something new for Ricardo Donoso. Since 2011, the solo recordings of the Brazilian-born composer and producer, a Berklee graduate and sometimes death-metal drummer, have been concerned primarily with the expressive potential of synthesizers. Progress Chance, Assimilating the Shadow, and As Iron Sharpens Iron, One Verse Sharpens Another brim with quicksilver frequencies, gravelly formants, and shimmering, mirage-like washes of tone. Sometimes his sounds are reminiscent of physical instruments like pipe organs; more often, they feel like signals picked up by a radio telescope, or pure electricity poured through a sieve. Those records were just as concerned with the expressive potential of sequencers—hardware devices, and sometimes virtual instruments, used for triggering arpeggiated patterns of notes as well as the filters and effects that color them. Reduced to simple contrapuntal phrases, Donoso's sequences came across like glistening series of dewdrops arrayed across spiders' webs vibrating in midair. Shorn of the drums that would scan as "techno," they felt less like dance music and more like perpetual motion machines. Earlier this year, with Nitrogen Narcosis, released under his Scuba Death alias on Seattle's Further label, he delved more explicitly into dancefloor aesthetics—albeit slowed down by half and still almost percussion-free, save for a dull kick drum buried deep in the mix. But here, on the inaugural release for his own Kathexis label, he switches up his process, eschewing the safety net of repetitive beats and expanding his palette to include a wealth of electro-acoustic material of uncertain provenance. Divided into seven roman-numeraled parts, the 29-minute album feels very much like a film score; it proceeds seamlessly from one segment to the next, and it's heavy on atmosphere but light on song-like structure. And, in fact, it is a film score; Donoso's music is the accompaniment to Julie Nymann's film of the same name, a re-telling of the Echo and Narcissus myth created specifically for a 360-degree surround-image projection in the Boston Museum of Science's Charles Hayden Planetarium. That immersive dimension helps contextualize the music's slow, shifting movements. The album opens with resonant drones reminiscent of Seefeel's Succour; bells and plucked-metal synthesizers chime against a backdrop that might be airplanes buzzing high overhead. A thudding pulse lends a hint of dub techno; midrange arpeggios, echoing Monolake's carefully sculpted arrangements, flash like goldfish darting through muddy ponds. It's occasionally reminiscent of Vladislav Delay's early, abstracted work; the massing drones and bowed bass and scraping sheets of metal also suggest the Haxan Cloak's waxy horror. As the album proceeds, it builds into something almost overpowering—an enormous basso throb accompanied by the grating sound of knives being sharpened, metal gates swinging back and forth in the wind; swollen reverb sings the wind-tunnel blues. And then, like a storm passing overhead, it all fades to silence. Speaking to Marc Masters and Grayson Currin for their column The Out Door, Donoso described A Song for Echo as "a springboard," noting, "all the ideas on it are still very much segregated, naked & exposed—much like Progress Chance was. Slowly, over the next few releases—these building blocks will evolve into much deeper & developed structures." There's plenty of room for him to develop the ideas broached here; rhythmically and texturally, A Song for Echo sounds like he's just beginning to blaze a trail that leads beyond the limits of the Digitalis trilogy. But it's exciting to hear Donoso reconnecting, however tentatively, with the intensity of his metal band, Ehnahre. If Echo is the sound of stormclouds massing, perhaps the deluge is just around the corner."

G Herbo

Ballin Like I’m Kobe

Rap

David Drake

Can street rap really raise alarm bells? Or are profit-minded artists merely preaching to the sociological choir—did you know the hood is fucked up?—while affirming and banking off conservative America's worst stereotypes? Certainly it would be difficult to suggest gangster rap tropes are winning a PR war over middle America. But at the same time, the implicit realism of Chicago's street rap scene makes armchair cynicism about its stars' motives impossible: Ballin Like I'm Kobe is no lazy b-ball double entendre, but a reference to Jacobi D. Herring, a friend of G Herbo's who was killed in 2013, and over whose tombstone he crouches on the tape's cover. Likewise, "I'm Rollin", the tape's underground smash single, opens with a roll call of lost friends, and the drug they'd do with Herb if they were here today. That Southside-produced track comes near the tape's conclusion, and it's the most structurally compelling on the album. This isn't the kind of hit you can force; it just happens. It sounds as if it were hewn from craggy granite, each segment of the song—the beat, the backgrounds, the chorus, Herb's rapping—grinding into place, sparks flying. It takes up an aggressive amount of space, forcing listeners to open themselves to its heft and rough edges. Formally, the record is his most innovative, one which ambitiously reimagines the rules of songcraft. Thematically, it captures the strange dissonances of what's been called drill music, its heightened stakes and tragic context contrasting starkly with its artists' armored detachment. No other song on Ballin Like I'm Kobe feels quite so one-of-a-kind. Sometimes it's pro forma; drill records like the DJ L-produced "Gang" sound as if they could have been recorded any time within the past three years. But outside of "I'm Rollin", Herbo's doesn't traffic in the kind of pioneering stylistic breakthroughs common to the first wave of drill artists—King Louie, Lil Durk, or Chief Keef. He is not drill's most versatile talent, preferring to play to his own strengths. His more traditional approach is an ability to wring narrative pathos from the song without letting his voice's cracked shell fully break. His vocal style is ragged but forceful, and in contrast with the East Coast influences to which it might be readily compared—the LOX, say—there's a sense of Herbo's words scratching past the lines, moving with a looser, less precise rhythm, as if to suggest an anxious undercurrent. And likewise, his subject matter seldom moves toward the humor of classic New York mixtape artists, preferring to shift from the autobiographical to very real-seeming threats. There's a tendency to approach Herb—in contrast with other artists on the scene—as if he were his genre's moral conscience, the Manichean good to drill's unmitigated baseline of evil. This reduces the genre's complexity to a simplistic binary. Herb's strength is less about moralism than it is about showing a complete human being in your speakers—an honest rendering of a morally compromised soul. These are the album's best moments. There is the DJ L-produced "Eastside", with scribbled double-time verses and contradictory tones of resignation and pride. It's an approach that works similarly on opener "L's": "The shit I been through made me heartless, all my feelings on this glock." And it's readily apparent on the melancholy "Bottom of the Bottom", which frames the rapper's aggressive approach with a crying string sample, which lends an echoing power to an atypically pointed chorus: "Now the judge hang us with a hundred years, used to hang us with a tree."

Artist: G Herbo, Album: Ballin Like I’m Kobe, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Can street rap really raise alarm bells? Or are profit-minded artists merely preaching to the sociological choir—did you know the hood is fucked up?—while affirming and banking off conservative America's worst stereotypes? Certainly it would be difficult to suggest gangster rap tropes are winning a PR war over middle America. But at the same time, the implicit realism of Chicago's street rap scene makes armchair cynicism about its stars' motives impossible: Ballin Like I'm Kobe is no lazy b-ball double entendre, but a reference to Jacobi D. Herring, a friend of G Herbo's who was killed in 2013, and over whose tombstone he crouches on the tape's cover. Likewise, "I'm Rollin", the tape's underground smash single, opens with a roll call of lost friends, and the drug they'd do with Herb if they were here today. That Southside-produced track comes near the tape's conclusion, and it's the most structurally compelling on the album. This isn't the kind of hit you can force; it just happens. It sounds as if it were hewn from craggy granite, each segment of the song—the beat, the backgrounds, the chorus, Herb's rapping—grinding into place, sparks flying. It takes up an aggressive amount of space, forcing listeners to open themselves to its heft and rough edges. Formally, the record is his most innovative, one which ambitiously reimagines the rules of songcraft. Thematically, it captures the strange dissonances of what's been called drill music, its heightened stakes and tragic context contrasting starkly with its artists' armored detachment. No other song on Ballin Like I'm Kobe feels quite so one-of-a-kind. Sometimes it's pro forma; drill records like the DJ L-produced "Gang" sound as if they could have been recorded any time within the past three years. But outside of "I'm Rollin", Herbo's doesn't traffic in the kind of pioneering stylistic breakthroughs common to the first wave of drill artists—King Louie, Lil Durk, or Chief Keef. He is not drill's most versatile talent, preferring to play to his own strengths. His more traditional approach is an ability to wring narrative pathos from the song without letting his voice's cracked shell fully break. His vocal style is ragged but forceful, and in contrast with the East Coast influences to which it might be readily compared—the LOX, say—there's a sense of Herbo's words scratching past the lines, moving with a looser, less precise rhythm, as if to suggest an anxious undercurrent. And likewise, his subject matter seldom moves toward the humor of classic New York mixtape artists, preferring to shift from the autobiographical to very real-seeming threats. There's a tendency to approach Herb—in contrast with other artists on the scene—as if he were his genre's moral conscience, the Manichean good to drill's unmitigated baseline of evil. This reduces the genre's complexity to a simplistic binary. Herb's strength is less about moralism than it is about showing a complete human being in your speakers—an honest rendering of a morally compromised soul. These are the album's best moments. There is the DJ L-produced "Eastside", with scribbled double-time verses and contradictory tones of resignation and pride. It's an approach that works similarly on opener "L's": "The shit I been through made me heartless, all my feelings on this glock." And it's readily apparent on the melancholy "Bottom of the Bottom", which frames the rapper's aggressive approach with a crying string sample, which lends an echoing power to an atypically pointed chorus: "Now the judge hang us with a hundred years, used to hang us with a tree.""

GZA

Pro Tools

Rap

Nate Patrin

In a crew filled with acrobatic swordsmen, drunken boxers, and masters of the flying guillotine, GZA always struck me as the type of dude who kills opponents with carefully placed acupuncture needles: not quite as flashy, but just as impressive considering the pinpoint precision it requires. GZA possesses a well-worn, refined delivery that packs a lot of calculating wordplay behind a relaxed, almost deadpan façade. It's a smooth presence that makes workmanlike beats sound like taut head-nodders and meticulously crafted production like pure cinema. His new album, Pro Tools, is another in a line of notoriously delayed Wu-Tang-affiliated records; as a result, instead of being greeted with excitement it's being considered the work of a guy with something to prove. What Pro Tools does prove is that the Genius is still lyrically sharp. The conceptual rhymes he's known for work well without getting too overbearing, and GZA still has a knack for building metaphors without stretching them thin. Sometimes it's simple, like the chorus to "Alphabets", which fuses Five Percenter linguistic mysticism and show-off vocab in a divine trip through the ABCs ("Universe, Victory, Wisdom, unknown/(why/Y), zig zag zig, and now back home"). Other times he runs through every possible twist of phraseology, as in "0% Finance", which runs with the girl-as-car metaphor and throws in enough make and model name references to fill an issue of Road & Track. And the title of "Columbian Ties" looks like a typo until it becomes clear that he's switched the rise-and-fall-of-a-hustler references from victims of Bogota cartels to people killed from D.C.'s foreign policy, and it's a cutting joke that he didn't have to change the scenario too much ("A place where the majority is goin' for self/ With the agenda not far beyond personal wealth"). Like most upper-tier MCs, GZA can still sound compelling big-upping his own skills ("Pencil") or taunting his foes, as he does in G-Unit dis track "Paper Plates"-- which is actually pretty damn funny. But aside from his lyrics, his biggest asset is the pull of his voice and how it bolsters even the most perfunctory, cheap-ass-sounding production-- which is fortunate, because there's not much here that you'll remember for the beats. Most of them are passable enough, even if they consist largely of textbook digital-era RZA mannerisms and the occasional derivative knockoff (particularly Jose "Choco" Reynoso's beat for "0% Financing", which sounds like a Xerox of Arabian Knight's beat for Legend of the Liquid Sword cut "Stay in Line"). And they compare semi-favorably to the two tracks that the RZA himself contributes-- the tinny but sinister "Paper Plate" and "Life Is a Movie", which liberally incorporates Gary Numan's "Films" to compellingly weird effect. But it's hard to overlook how ordinary they sound when the voice connected to them is the same one that spit over some of the most immaculate beats ever put together by the RZA (Liquid Swords) or DJ Muggs (Grandmasters), and even production-by-committee records like Beneath the Surface and Legend of the Liquid Sword had more stylistic cohesion to them. As a pure lyrical record goes, Pro Tools doesn't disappoint, but fans who want everything to be a banger will be let down to find that there's not a lot of headknock here. The buzz around Pro Tools is that GZA just sounds too tired to get people amped, and while that's a more negative assessment than he deserves, this still doesn't really sound like the kind of album you'd call on to fill anyone's late-summer barbeque party soundtracking duties. But high-energy anthems aren't what made GZA great in the first place, and if you're into his most characteristic attributes-- high-concept extended-metaphor lyrics, hard-boiled storytelling, that calmly authoritative voice-- Pro Tools is still sharp enough to draw blood.

Artist: GZA, Album: Pro Tools, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "In a crew filled with acrobatic swordsmen, drunken boxers, and masters of the flying guillotine, GZA always struck me as the type of dude who kills opponents with carefully placed acupuncture needles: not quite as flashy, but just as impressive considering the pinpoint precision it requires. GZA possesses a well-worn, refined delivery that packs a lot of calculating wordplay behind a relaxed, almost deadpan façade. It's a smooth presence that makes workmanlike beats sound like taut head-nodders and meticulously crafted production like pure cinema. His new album, Pro Tools, is another in a line of notoriously delayed Wu-Tang-affiliated records; as a result, instead of being greeted with excitement it's being considered the work of a guy with something to prove. What Pro Tools does prove is that the Genius is still lyrically sharp. The conceptual rhymes he's known for work well without getting too overbearing, and GZA still has a knack for building metaphors without stretching them thin. Sometimes it's simple, like the chorus to "Alphabets", which fuses Five Percenter linguistic mysticism and show-off vocab in a divine trip through the ABCs ("Universe, Victory, Wisdom, unknown/(why/Y), zig zag zig, and now back home"). Other times he runs through every possible twist of phraseology, as in "0% Finance", which runs with the girl-as-car metaphor and throws in enough make and model name references to fill an issue of Road & Track. And the title of "Columbian Ties" looks like a typo until it becomes clear that he's switched the rise-and-fall-of-a-hustler references from victims of Bogota cartels to people killed from D.C.'s foreign policy, and it's a cutting joke that he didn't have to change the scenario too much ("A place where the majority is goin' for self/ With the agenda not far beyond personal wealth"). Like most upper-tier MCs, GZA can still sound compelling big-upping his own skills ("Pencil") or taunting his foes, as he does in G-Unit dis track "Paper Plates"-- which is actually pretty damn funny. But aside from his lyrics, his biggest asset is the pull of his voice and how it bolsters even the most perfunctory, cheap-ass-sounding production-- which is fortunate, because there's not much here that you'll remember for the beats. Most of them are passable enough, even if they consist largely of textbook digital-era RZA mannerisms and the occasional derivative knockoff (particularly Jose "Choco" Reynoso's beat for "0% Financing", which sounds like a Xerox of Arabian Knight's beat for Legend of the Liquid Sword cut "Stay in Line"). And they compare semi-favorably to the two tracks that the RZA himself contributes-- the tinny but sinister "Paper Plate" and "Life Is a Movie", which liberally incorporates Gary Numan's "Films" to compellingly weird effect. But it's hard to overlook how ordinary they sound when the voice connected to them is the same one that spit over some of the most immaculate beats ever put together by the RZA (Liquid Swords) or DJ Muggs (Grandmasters), and even production-by-committee records like Beneath the Surface and Legend of the Liquid Sword had more stylistic cohesion to them. As a pure lyrical record goes, Pro Tools doesn't disappoint, but fans who want everything to be a banger will be let down to find that there's not a lot of headknock here. The buzz around Pro Tools is that GZA just sounds too tired to get people amped, and while that's a more negative assessment than he deserves, this still doesn't really sound like the kind of album you'd call on to fill anyone's late-summer barbeque party soundtracking duties. But high-energy anthems aren't what made GZA great in the first place, and if you're into his most characteristic attributes-- high-concept extended-metaphor lyrics, hard-boiled storytelling, that calmly authoritative voice-- Pro Tools is still sharp enough to draw blood."

The Joy Formidable

The Big Roar

Rock

Stuart Berman

The Joy Formidable's long-gestating debut full-length opens with roughly 45 seconds of some unspecified, arrhythmic clatter-- it could be hail stones pelting a cold tin roof, or a door opening and closing, or fireworks, or just the over-amplified sound of typewriter keys hitting paper. On their own terms, these noises might feel jarring and bothersome, but compared to what transpires over the next 49 minutes, they seem like an oddly naturalistic, curiously imprecise element on album that sounds otherwise scientifically engineered to make the Joy Formidable sound like the Biggest Band in the World, rendering traditional metrics like No. 1 chart rankings and platinum records as mere formalities. After a decade that saw Britpop break down into Franz Ferdinandian funk, Arctic Monkeys insolence, and xx-ian austerity, the Joy Formidable project a certain guileless bravado rarely heard since the mid-1990s. For this Welsh trio, a Glastonbury main-stage headlining slot doesn't represent some distant career goal to gradually aspire to, but a deeply ingrained spiritual state of mind. This notion informs every rocket-launcher riff and back-of-the-bleacher chorus heard throughout The Big Roar, the title of which is but a surface indication of the band's wanton disregard for subtlety. The deliberate nature of the Joy Formidable's aesthetic can be evinced by the fact that four of the songs here first appeared in alternate form on the 2009 mini-LP A Balloon Called Moaning and have been retooled for this big-league debut on Atlantic. And in some cases rather dramatically: the sprightly pop single "Whirring" now comes appended with an extended, accelerated and supremely arse-kicking coda-- complete will dual bass-drum triggers-- that suggests "You Made Me Realise"-era My Bloody Valentine with a young Lars Ulrich behind the kit. But with her Corgan-like tendency to slather the songs with infinite layers of grungy guitar gloss, Ritzy Bryan at times comes perilously close to overpowering her own bracing voice, which becomes an increasingly important humanizing element amid The Big Roar's in-the-red onslaught. It's somewhat telling that the album's massive opener "The Everchanging Spectrum of a Lie" fades out rather uneventfully after a dramatic seven-minute build, as if the band members suddenly lost their place in its thickening thundercloud of noise and didn't know where else to go. The Joy Formidable are wise to offset their more colossal tracks with shorter, snappier, new-wavy numbers ("I Don't Want to See You Like This", "Cradle"), but even in smaller doses, they rarely relent in their pedal-through-the-metal ballast. As a result, songs like the dancefloor-bound "Austere" and the slow-motion lurch of "Buoy" are robbed of their dynamic variation and definition. The atmospheric late-album ballad "Llaw = Wall"-- the lone vocal turn by bassist Rhydian Dafydd-- initially marks a change of pace, but even that cedes to an inevitable quiet-to-loud mid-song eruption. (A he-said/she-said duet along the lines of 2010's spirited Paul Draper collab "Greyhounds in the Slips" would've added a welcome new dimension to the sound here.) There's no denying the Joy Formidable's passion, vigor, and pop smarts; it would just be easier to appreciate those qualities if The Big Roar didn't so often sound like a big blur.

Artist: The Joy Formidable, Album: The Big Roar, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "The Joy Formidable's long-gestating debut full-length opens with roughly 45 seconds of some unspecified, arrhythmic clatter-- it could be hail stones pelting a cold tin roof, or a door opening and closing, or fireworks, or just the over-amplified sound of typewriter keys hitting paper. On their own terms, these noises might feel jarring and bothersome, but compared to what transpires over the next 49 minutes, they seem like an oddly naturalistic, curiously imprecise element on album that sounds otherwise scientifically engineered to make the Joy Formidable sound like the Biggest Band in the World, rendering traditional metrics like No. 1 chart rankings and platinum records as mere formalities. After a decade that saw Britpop break down into Franz Ferdinandian funk, Arctic Monkeys insolence, and xx-ian austerity, the Joy Formidable project a certain guileless bravado rarely heard since the mid-1990s. For this Welsh trio, a Glastonbury main-stage headlining slot doesn't represent some distant career goal to gradually aspire to, but a deeply ingrained spiritual state of mind. This notion informs every rocket-launcher riff and back-of-the-bleacher chorus heard throughout The Big Roar, the title of which is but a surface indication of the band's wanton disregard for subtlety. The deliberate nature of the Joy Formidable's aesthetic can be evinced by the fact that four of the songs here first appeared in alternate form on the 2009 mini-LP A Balloon Called Moaning and have been retooled for this big-league debut on Atlantic. And in some cases rather dramatically: the sprightly pop single "Whirring" now comes appended with an extended, accelerated and supremely arse-kicking coda-- complete will dual bass-drum triggers-- that suggests "You Made Me Realise"-era My Bloody Valentine with a young Lars Ulrich behind the kit. But with her Corgan-like tendency to slather the songs with infinite layers of grungy guitar gloss, Ritzy Bryan at times comes perilously close to overpowering her own bracing voice, which becomes an increasingly important humanizing element amid The Big Roar's in-the-red onslaught. It's somewhat telling that the album's massive opener "The Everchanging Spectrum of a Lie" fades out rather uneventfully after a dramatic seven-minute build, as if the band members suddenly lost their place in its thickening thundercloud of noise and didn't know where else to go. The Joy Formidable are wise to offset their more colossal tracks with shorter, snappier, new-wavy numbers ("I Don't Want to See You Like This", "Cradle"), but even in smaller doses, they rarely relent in their pedal-through-the-metal ballast. As a result, songs like the dancefloor-bound "Austere" and the slow-motion lurch of "Buoy" are robbed of their dynamic variation and definition. The atmospheric late-album ballad "Llaw = Wall"-- the lone vocal turn by bassist Rhydian Dafydd-- initially marks a change of pace, but even that cedes to an inevitable quiet-to-loud mid-song eruption. (A he-said/she-said duet along the lines of 2010's spirited Paul Draper collab "Greyhounds in the Slips" would've added a welcome new dimension to the sound here.) There's no denying the Joy Formidable's passion, vigor, and pop smarts; it would just be easier to appreciate those qualities if The Big Roar didn't so often sound like a big blur."

Twine

Violets

Electronic

Andrew Gaerig

The artwork of Violets features scenes from a building in pleasant disrepair. Papers scattered and walls sea-green in morning light, it's the type of squat-able city residence you'd expect to find an art collective haunting. The photos serve Twine's inviting electronic scribbles well, but unlike some of their sound-art peers-- Fennesz, Tim Hecker, Gastr Del Sol-- whose work suggests entropy or decay, Twine's compositions sound like careful reconstructions of the decayed. A mix of twitching electronics, long, semi-coherent samples, and lapping melodic figures, Violets suggests painting a wall to peel or building stairs to creak. Like a peek into the off-limits bedroom of a high school crush, much of Violets serves as fascinating melancholy. Snippets of voice, both sampled and recorded, float in and out of the album's chambers, vying for time with doped-down rhythm tracks and slo-mo guitar. On their fourth album and second for Ghostly International, Greg Malcolm and Chad Mossholder have mastered these atmosphere-heavy pills, to the point where "there's nothing new under the sun" would be apt criticism if any part of Violets-- save its cover art-- suggested the sun would come out tomorrow. The penultimate "Lightrain" uses a now-anachronistic answering machine, the device's junkyard destiny straining its recordings far more than the curtain of buzz and dewy piano they're forced to fight through. Two female guest vocalists-- Alison Shaw (of Cranes) and Gail Schadt-- offer mostly seamless cooing as a windy reprieve from Violets' claustrophobia. But while Twine clearly seek to ply their doom with disconnected voices, their discordant, mordant guitar work is the battery that powers Violets. "Disconnected" is the simplest track here, but it offers a weird inversion of melody/rhythm relationship: a pendulous electric guitar-- one that wouldn't be out of place on one of fellow Ohioan Jason Molina's doom-folk records-- strains out chords in slow-clap time while a combustible beat sputters on like its drum machine blew a sparkplug. The title track places a preacher under trance-metal guitar while a xylophone-synth line offers the tiniest of sonic counterpoints. It is indicative of Violets' overarching mood that opener "Small" features a barely ascendant melody line that plays under a recording of heavy rain. Whatever its pieces, Twine's compositions rarely disguise their origins: instruments, voices, and electronics remain mostly separate. Violets can seem fatigued and depressed without reason or release, but its hardships are lessened because Twine always allow listeners insight into their structure. "Longsided" condenses Twine's strengths and failings: the track begins with a rough male voice bitching about lodging over a phone. Over the next seven minutes the track ping-pongs between industrial noise, ominous drone, and glitchy beats. It's a fucking mess, and it highlights a sense of restlessness that runs through Violets: tracks like "Counting Off Again" and "Piano" from Twine's eponymous 2003 album found a hard-won compromise between familiar atmosphere and sonic ingenuity. Violets seems to abandon the latter half of that deal, sounding relatively conventional, or at least as conventional as a band can be inside the realm of sweaty, mush-brained sound dramas. At their best, Twine can sound like they're matting Silly Putty against the Books and then stretching and distorting the resultant print, using their beefy track lengths to elongate the silences between words and flirt with numbing repetition. Violets offers plenty more of these weirdly personal in-betweens, but they're starting to feel less weird.

Artist: Twine, Album: Violets, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "The artwork of Violets features scenes from a building in pleasant disrepair. Papers scattered and walls sea-green in morning light, it's the type of squat-able city residence you'd expect to find an art collective haunting. The photos serve Twine's inviting electronic scribbles well, but unlike some of their sound-art peers-- Fennesz, Tim Hecker, Gastr Del Sol-- whose work suggests entropy or decay, Twine's compositions sound like careful reconstructions of the decayed. A mix of twitching electronics, long, semi-coherent samples, and lapping melodic figures, Violets suggests painting a wall to peel or building stairs to creak. Like a peek into the off-limits bedroom of a high school crush, much of Violets serves as fascinating melancholy. Snippets of voice, both sampled and recorded, float in and out of the album's chambers, vying for time with doped-down rhythm tracks and slo-mo guitar. On their fourth album and second for Ghostly International, Greg Malcolm and Chad Mossholder have mastered these atmosphere-heavy pills, to the point where "there's nothing new under the sun" would be apt criticism if any part of Violets-- save its cover art-- suggested the sun would come out tomorrow. The penultimate "Lightrain" uses a now-anachronistic answering machine, the device's junkyard destiny straining its recordings far more than the curtain of buzz and dewy piano they're forced to fight through. Two female guest vocalists-- Alison Shaw (of Cranes) and Gail Schadt-- offer mostly seamless cooing as a windy reprieve from Violets' claustrophobia. But while Twine clearly seek to ply their doom with disconnected voices, their discordant, mordant guitar work is the battery that powers Violets. "Disconnected" is the simplest track here, but it offers a weird inversion of melody/rhythm relationship: a pendulous electric guitar-- one that wouldn't be out of place on one of fellow Ohioan Jason Molina's doom-folk records-- strains out chords in slow-clap time while a combustible beat sputters on like its drum machine blew a sparkplug. The title track places a preacher under trance-metal guitar while a xylophone-synth line offers the tiniest of sonic counterpoints. It is indicative of Violets' overarching mood that opener "Small" features a barely ascendant melody line that plays under a recording of heavy rain. Whatever its pieces, Twine's compositions rarely disguise their origins: instruments, voices, and electronics remain mostly separate. Violets can seem fatigued and depressed without reason or release, but its hardships are lessened because Twine always allow listeners insight into their structure. "Longsided" condenses Twine's strengths and failings: the track begins with a rough male voice bitching about lodging over a phone. Over the next seven minutes the track ping-pongs between industrial noise, ominous drone, and glitchy beats. It's a fucking mess, and it highlights a sense of restlessness that runs through Violets: tracks like "Counting Off Again" and "Piano" from Twine's eponymous 2003 album found a hard-won compromise between familiar atmosphere and sonic ingenuity. Violets seems to abandon the latter half of that deal, sounding relatively conventional, or at least as conventional as a band can be inside the realm of sweaty, mush-brained sound dramas. At their best, Twine can sound like they're matting Silly Putty against the Books and then stretching and distorting the resultant print, using their beefy track lengths to elongate the silences between words and flirt with numbing repetition. Violets offers plenty more of these weirdly personal in-betweens, but they're starting to feel less weird."

Bexar Bexar

Haralambos

Electronic

William Bowers

At the risk of sounding woefully unsophisticated, I must assert that the majority of instrumental pop releases strike me as, the Brits would say, poncey. Though my jaw dropped along with Millions Now Living Will Never Die, though I've exfoliated triumphantly in a clawfoot tub to Don Cab's American Don, and though the post-hardcore fusion of Guinness-world-record hopefuls Hella astounds me, I can barely bring myself to spend money on the stuff, which makes being a promo-entitled critic pretty bitchin'. If you can't admit that a large proportion of vocal-less CDs wallow in Louisville/Chicago plodnamics, then you must live in a library or a sex lounge. Which is, of course, a way of saying that these albums best befit either studying or, as PG movies in the 80s would say, the making of whoopee. The borderlands minimalism of Bexar Bexar seems to subvert the limitations of instru-pop via variety and hypnotic (but not numbing) repetition. Their sound is as urbane as it is provincial, equal parts Fennesz and Jay Farrar's score for The Slaughter Rule. I'd normally flinch at how Bexar Bexar hints rather than goads, falling in line with instru-pop's creed of circuitousness, but they are the rare act that pulls off being scions of Mick Turner pedal-flexing and Martin Gore echo-sonics, and so subtly that they make Calexico's vocal-less numbers seem Limp Biskitesque. "Aidos" forges a gorgeous Frankensong out of laptoppery and sentimental guitar, suggesting a sublimi-core U2. Any rookie Ghostbuster could detect Jeff Tweedy's desire to strum over the blip-loops and hesitant piano of "Where She Lives Every Day". The Flintstones percussion of "Esther's Vice" entrances the listener as the plucking rises and fades in the mix, silencing anyone whose previous position on instru-pop was "Hey mang, wake me when Cerberus Shoal is finished." Full truth-in-advertising legislation would require that Bexar Bexar label their disc with a warning that it might take people back to that one particular adolescent autumn when sports seemed spiritual and the prom seemed like performance art. Their whittled sound is a Battlefield:Earth between synthesizers and six-strings in which no winner is declared. Only their late-blooming, pokier compositions lend credence to the idea that instru-pop is a tad Cirque de Soleil, or for people bored with debating how Philip Glass' symphony of David Bowie's Low ripped off his own Mishima soundtrack. Consciously fending off instru-pop dismissals by flouting how much they are loved by NPR's This American Life may be a poncey-bunk move, but a quick consultation of Bexar Bexar's "Red R.O.T" and "Blue R.O.T" should qualify them to accompany the day that cancer is considered a natural cause.

Artist: Bexar Bexar, Album: Haralambos, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "At the risk of sounding woefully unsophisticated, I must assert that the majority of instrumental pop releases strike me as, the Brits would say, poncey. Though my jaw dropped along with Millions Now Living Will Never Die, though I've exfoliated triumphantly in a clawfoot tub to Don Cab's American Don, and though the post-hardcore fusion of Guinness-world-record hopefuls Hella astounds me, I can barely bring myself to spend money on the stuff, which makes being a promo-entitled critic pretty bitchin'. If you can't admit that a large proportion of vocal-less CDs wallow in Louisville/Chicago plodnamics, then you must live in a library or a sex lounge. Which is, of course, a way of saying that these albums best befit either studying or, as PG movies in the 80s would say, the making of whoopee. The borderlands minimalism of Bexar Bexar seems to subvert the limitations of instru-pop via variety and hypnotic (but not numbing) repetition. Their sound is as urbane as it is provincial, equal parts Fennesz and Jay Farrar's score for The Slaughter Rule. I'd normally flinch at how Bexar Bexar hints rather than goads, falling in line with instru-pop's creed of circuitousness, but they are the rare act that pulls off being scions of Mick Turner pedal-flexing and Martin Gore echo-sonics, and so subtly that they make Calexico's vocal-less numbers seem Limp Biskitesque. "Aidos" forges a gorgeous Frankensong out of laptoppery and sentimental guitar, suggesting a sublimi-core U2. Any rookie Ghostbuster could detect Jeff Tweedy's desire to strum over the blip-loops and hesitant piano of "Where She Lives Every Day". The Flintstones percussion of "Esther's Vice" entrances the listener as the plucking rises and fades in the mix, silencing anyone whose previous position on instru-pop was "Hey mang, wake me when Cerberus Shoal is finished." Full truth-in-advertising legislation would require that Bexar Bexar label their disc with a warning that it might take people back to that one particular adolescent autumn when sports seemed spiritual and the prom seemed like performance art. Their whittled sound is a Battlefield:Earth between synthesizers and six-strings in which no winner is declared. Only their late-blooming, pokier compositions lend credence to the idea that instru-pop is a tad Cirque de Soleil, or for people bored with debating how Philip Glass' symphony of David Bowie's Low ripped off his own Mishima soundtrack. Consciously fending off instru-pop dismissals by flouting how much they are loved by NPR's This American Life may be a poncey-bunk move, but a quick consultation of Bexar Bexar's "Red R.O.T" and "Blue R.O.T" should qualify them to accompany the day that cancer is considered a natural cause."

Made Out of Babies

The Ruiner

Metal,Rock

Cosmo Lee

Julie Christmas has one of rock's most versatile voices. Technical range does not necessarily equal emotional range, and Christmas is one of a select few who have both. Like Björk, Jarboe, and Diamanda Galas, Christmas can plummet within seconds from sweet nothings to feral growls. Even at her lightest, she retains an edge. Her voice is tart and taut, and her screams feel more like inevitabilities than conscious extensions of range. Unlike her counterparts in heavy music, who often replicate male roles, Christmas' presence is quite feminine; Babes in Toyland's Kat Bjelland comes to mind. A vocal instrument as magnificent as Christmas' requires a suitable context. She has had problems finding one. Her main band, Brooklyn's Made Out of Babies, has been hit-or-miss. At best, they coalesce into fearsome heavy metal thunder. At worst, they devolve into aimless, plodding sludge. Christmas' other band, Battle of Mice, often has the same problem. Battle of Mice's last record, A Day of Nights, was musically earnest, lyrically honest, and virtually unlistenable. Christmas' projects have tended to over-emphasize her voice's abrasive side. The Ruiner is the first record that truly harnesses Christmas' range. This is because it's the first that truly harnesses Made Out of Babies' range. Due to time constraints, the band's writing process fractured, with members working individually or in small combinations. This produced their most varied, nuanced record to date. For the first time, Christmas has a backing palette with colors to match. Guitars unspool jangly curlicues; drums and bass joust with the suppleness of Jesus Lizard. "Stranger" dangles eerie dewdrops of melody over abstract chords. The song perches precariously between dark and light, as Christmas lashes it with throat-shredding howls. "Peew" likewise plays with balance. Wordless cooings course over chugging riffs, which burst open with punishing percussive flurries. "The Major" recasts Björk as a doom metal diva, while "Invisible Ink" is a tour de force of melisma and major thirds à la Trent Reznor. Noise-rock and metal comprise much of The Ruiner, but it's really the heir to PJ Harvey's Rid of Me. That record's Led Zeppelin-esque bombast (recorded by Steve Albini, who also engineered The Ruiner's predecessor, Coward) appears here in big, boxy drums and Christmas' dramatic vocals. Like Harvey, she sings, screams, and seduces all at once. In "Cooker", the words "Run, run for your life" repeatedly erupt from her throat like napalm. They feel like something Charlie McGee might have said in Firestarter before she set the world alight.

Artist: Made Out of Babies, Album: The Ruiner, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Julie Christmas has one of rock's most versatile voices. Technical range does not necessarily equal emotional range, and Christmas is one of a select few who have both. Like Björk, Jarboe, and Diamanda Galas, Christmas can plummet within seconds from sweet nothings to feral growls. Even at her lightest, she retains an edge. Her voice is tart and taut, and her screams feel more like inevitabilities than conscious extensions of range. Unlike her counterparts in heavy music, who often replicate male roles, Christmas' presence is quite feminine; Babes in Toyland's Kat Bjelland comes to mind. A vocal instrument as magnificent as Christmas' requires a suitable context. She has had problems finding one. Her main band, Brooklyn's Made Out of Babies, has been hit-or-miss. At best, they coalesce into fearsome heavy metal thunder. At worst, they devolve into aimless, plodding sludge. Christmas' other band, Battle of Mice, often has the same problem. Battle of Mice's last record, A Day of Nights, was musically earnest, lyrically honest, and virtually unlistenable. Christmas' projects have tended to over-emphasize her voice's abrasive side. The Ruiner is the first record that truly harnesses Christmas' range. This is because it's the first that truly harnesses Made Out of Babies' range. Due to time constraints, the band's writing process fractured, with members working individually or in small combinations. This produced their most varied, nuanced record to date. For the first time, Christmas has a backing palette with colors to match. Guitars unspool jangly curlicues; drums and bass joust with the suppleness of Jesus Lizard. "Stranger" dangles eerie dewdrops of melody over abstract chords. The song perches precariously between dark and light, as Christmas lashes it with throat-shredding howls. "Peew" likewise plays with balance. Wordless cooings course over chugging riffs, which burst open with punishing percussive flurries. "The Major" recasts Björk as a doom metal diva, while "Invisible Ink" is a tour de force of melisma and major thirds à la Trent Reznor. Noise-rock and metal comprise much of The Ruiner, but it's really the heir to PJ Harvey's Rid of Me. That record's Led Zeppelin-esque bombast (recorded by Steve Albini, who also engineered The Ruiner's predecessor, Coward) appears here in big, boxy drums and Christmas' dramatic vocals. Like Harvey, she sings, screams, and seduces all at once. In "Cooker", the words "Run, run for your life" repeatedly erupt from her throat like napalm. They feel like something Charlie McGee might have said in Firestarter before she set the world alight."

Unicycle Loves You

Unicycle Loves You

Rock

Ian Cohen

For a band in a nascent stage of their career, Unicycle Loves You was lucky enough to get Brian Deck behind the boards, and for the first 30 seconds of their self-titled record, you're ticking off his sonic calling cards-- clattering, junkyard percussion, odd time signatures, squiggly keyboards. The record has everything but Tim Rutili. Then again, Unicycle Loves You are confident enough to snatch it right back and turn the next half hour or so into the kind of ebullient indie pop record you'd never associate with the guy. They're a band with a vision, sure, even if said vision is a quick-cutting highlight reel through nearly every indie-pop hook of the past 20 years. "Great Bargains for Seniors" is almost a sonic thesis statement; in quick succession, Unicycle Loves You reveals a deep (if not a little narrow) knowledge of craft within its cramped confines-- male/female harmonies, old-fashioned palm muting, cyclical melodies, all within a sort of riff-rocky martial shuffle usually attributable to Ted Leo. It's a real nice problem for a band at this stage to have, matching youthful hunger with opening-act eagerness to please. Second song "Kiki Bridges" ups the tempo with a cocktail of faux-glam sass and popular-kid emo; for its first eight minutes, the album passes the "American Bandstand" test. But this is a situation where you start thinking to yourself way too early, "Wow-- do these guys already have enough hooks to last a whole album?" unaware of just how right you are. Take enough left turns and you ultimately start going in a circle-- as the record progresses, the melodies become doughier, and ULY gets progressively caught in a comfort zone of girls & booze indie-- in lieu of quoting any other lyrics, it's all but wrapped up in the line that sells "Dangerous Decade"-- "And she sold me out/ Now I'm gonna hit the bottle." Without running through a list of ULY's artistic creditors, it can be hard to distinguish the latter half of the record from the dozens of other guys doing the same exact thing. "$ + ¢" is where the record starts to get overripe, Jim Carroll's barfly lyrics and strong hook fighting for space amidst an unusually crowded mix of keyboard presets. The casual misogyny of "Under 18" is the least of its concerns-- check your gag reflex before enduring the spoken-word breakdown and check your Dramamine supply before the band careens between time signatures. Any of its jagged offroading-- some B-52's synth jazz, faux-Aerosmith riffing, etc.-- could have made at least an interesting song if explored further, but as a mashed-up stew, it's almost like the Mae Shi in fast forward. Meanwhile, "Yum Pla Muk" is a misguided trip into minor keys, and ULY show they can't really navigate shadowlands at this point. Classic debut problem, in that if Unicycle Loves You have more worries about being understood than merely being heard, they have trouble conveying it. The question now is whether Unicycle Loves You will make more sense with time or whether Unicycle Loves You will.

Artist: Unicycle Loves You, Album: Unicycle Loves You, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "For a band in a nascent stage of their career, Unicycle Loves You was lucky enough to get Brian Deck behind the boards, and for the first 30 seconds of their self-titled record, you're ticking off his sonic calling cards-- clattering, junkyard percussion, odd time signatures, squiggly keyboards. The record has everything but Tim Rutili. Then again, Unicycle Loves You are confident enough to snatch it right back and turn the next half hour or so into the kind of ebullient indie pop record you'd never associate with the guy. They're a band with a vision, sure, even if said vision is a quick-cutting highlight reel through nearly every indie-pop hook of the past 20 years. "Great Bargains for Seniors" is almost a sonic thesis statement; in quick succession, Unicycle Loves You reveals a deep (if not a little narrow) knowledge of craft within its cramped confines-- male/female harmonies, old-fashioned palm muting, cyclical melodies, all within a sort of riff-rocky martial shuffle usually attributable to Ted Leo. It's a real nice problem for a band at this stage to have, matching youthful hunger with opening-act eagerness to please. Second song "Kiki Bridges" ups the tempo with a cocktail of faux-glam sass and popular-kid emo; for its first eight minutes, the album passes the "American Bandstand" test. But this is a situation where you start thinking to yourself way too early, "Wow-- do these guys already have enough hooks to last a whole album?" unaware of just how right you are. Take enough left turns and you ultimately start going in a circle-- as the record progresses, the melodies become doughier, and ULY gets progressively caught in a comfort zone of girls & booze indie-- in lieu of quoting any other lyrics, it's all but wrapped up in the line that sells "Dangerous Decade"-- "And she sold me out/ Now I'm gonna hit the bottle." Without running through a list of ULY's artistic creditors, it can be hard to distinguish the latter half of the record from the dozens of other guys doing the same exact thing. "$ + ¢" is where the record starts to get overripe, Jim Carroll's barfly lyrics and strong hook fighting for space amidst an unusually crowded mix of keyboard presets. The casual misogyny of "Under 18" is the least of its concerns-- check your gag reflex before enduring the spoken-word breakdown and check your Dramamine supply before the band careens between time signatures. Any of its jagged offroading-- some B-52's synth jazz, faux-Aerosmith riffing, etc.-- could have made at least an interesting song if explored further, but as a mashed-up stew, it's almost like the Mae Shi in fast forward. Meanwhile, "Yum Pla Muk" is a misguided trip into minor keys, and ULY show they can't really navigate shadowlands at this point. Classic debut problem, in that if Unicycle Loves You have more worries about being understood than merely being heard, they have trouble conveying it. The question now is whether Unicycle Loves You will make more sense with time or whether Unicycle Loves You will."

June Panic

Songs From Purgatory: Cassette Recordings 1991-1996

Rock

Joe Tangari

Now that just about any schmuck with a guitar can make a reasonably professional-sounding recording of himself and slap it on a MySpace page for all the world to hear, the days of four-track bedroom recording seem like ancient history, even though the medium still exists and its heyday only ended about ten years ago. Home four-track recording began life as a crude means to an end, a way to make that record no one would pay you to make, but by the early 1990s, it had become its own ethos, essentially a different medium from professional recording studios. It had limitations but also possibilities, and an entire indie rock subculture grew up around lo-fi aesthetics. June Panic recorded about a dozen cassette releases on his four-track in the first six years of the 90s, distributed mostly by hand to local record stores, friends, and friends of friends. He was adventurous in his use of the medium, recording himself and occasional friends on a band's worth of instruments and working on a vast array of ways to layer his voice and complete a mix. His output ranged from pensive folk to indie rock with the occasional spike of feedback, ultra-distortion, or screaming punk fury. Here, Secretly Canadian has shown its commitment to its artists by allowing Panic to compile three whole discs worth of his cassette recordings, which had been rescued from flood waters in North Dakota and meticulously restored in his kitchen. They also let him narrate the compilation with a set of liner notes that build up to a theory that purgatory is where souls can most easily be themselves (interesting stuff in light of his spiritually-themed recent output). Theological concerns aside, the 53 tracks compiled here form a scrapbook of Panic's early artistic life that will be interesting for his fans and hardcore 90s lo-fi buffs but really no one else. There's frankly not much that transcends the medium or begs to be listened to out of context. It's a record that really needs to be listened to on a moment-to-moment basis rather than a track-by-track one, because the interesting bits are often right up alongside tiresome, ponderous, and obnoxious bits within the same song. For a quick example, "Fountain of Youth" has a nice Spanish-tinged acoustic guitar part moving in tandem with a totally forgettable vocal that's undersung to a fault (it's rather slurred, actually), and then sticks a lovely, crystal-clear acoustic guitar solo in the middle. Panic had a strange penchant for making his already nasal vocals even more pinched by speeding them up. He also liked recording loud, driving indie rock songs with the guitar pushed all the way into the red-- there are quite a few of them scattered across the set, and none of them is particularly satisfying. He was much more suited to quiet, tense songs like "There Is a Tool", which backs up his voice with sparse guitar, mandolin, bass, and organ for a floating effect-- it still doesn't have a grabbing melody or much else to hang your hat on, but it's at least an intriguing sonic environment. The tracks with exceptionally clear sound and a few comments in the liners make it clear that Panic was one of the first to view lack of fidelity as a stylistic choice rather than an economic necessity (for him, it was really both). It's hard to recommend this to anyone but devotees of the lo-fi ethos and extremely dedicated June Panic fans. For everyone else, subjecting yourself to the excesses of the set is probably not worth it-- you'll find your mind wandering quickly, and the sheer volume of material makes it unlikely you'll ever get to know it well without really working at it.

Artist: June Panic, Album: Songs From Purgatory: Cassette Recordings 1991-1996, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.0 Album review: "Now that just about any schmuck with a guitar can make a reasonably professional-sounding recording of himself and slap it on a MySpace page for all the world to hear, the days of four-track bedroom recording seem like ancient history, even though the medium still exists and its heyday only ended about ten years ago. Home four-track recording began life as a crude means to an end, a way to make that record no one would pay you to make, but by the early 1990s, it had become its own ethos, essentially a different medium from professional recording studios. It had limitations but also possibilities, and an entire indie rock subculture grew up around lo-fi aesthetics. June Panic recorded about a dozen cassette releases on his four-track in the first six years of the 90s, distributed mostly by hand to local record stores, friends, and friends of friends. He was adventurous in his use of the medium, recording himself and occasional friends on a band's worth of instruments and working on a vast array of ways to layer his voice and complete a mix. His output ranged from pensive folk to indie rock with the occasional spike of feedback, ultra-distortion, or screaming punk fury. Here, Secretly Canadian has shown its commitment to its artists by allowing Panic to compile three whole discs worth of his cassette recordings, which had been rescued from flood waters in North Dakota and meticulously restored in his kitchen. They also let him narrate the compilation with a set of liner notes that build up to a theory that purgatory is where souls can most easily be themselves (interesting stuff in light of his spiritually-themed recent output). Theological concerns aside, the 53 tracks compiled here form a scrapbook of Panic's early artistic life that will be interesting for his fans and hardcore 90s lo-fi buffs but really no one else. There's frankly not much that transcends the medium or begs to be listened to out of context. It's a record that really needs to be listened to on a moment-to-moment basis rather than a track-by-track one, because the interesting bits are often right up alongside tiresome, ponderous, and obnoxious bits within the same song. For a quick example, "Fountain of Youth" has a nice Spanish-tinged acoustic guitar part moving in tandem with a totally forgettable vocal that's undersung to a fault (it's rather slurred, actually), and then sticks a lovely, crystal-clear acoustic guitar solo in the middle. Panic had a strange penchant for making his already nasal vocals even more pinched by speeding them up. He also liked recording loud, driving indie rock songs with the guitar pushed all the way into the red-- there are quite a few of them scattered across the set, and none of them is particularly satisfying. He was much more suited to quiet, tense songs like "There Is a Tool", which backs up his voice with sparse guitar, mandolin, bass, and organ for a floating effect-- it still doesn't have a grabbing melody or much else to hang your hat on, but it's at least an intriguing sonic environment. The tracks with exceptionally clear sound and a few comments in the liners make it clear that Panic was one of the first to view lack of fidelity as a stylistic choice rather than an economic necessity (for him, it was really both). It's hard to recommend this to anyone but devotees of the lo-fi ethos and extremely dedicated June Panic fans. For everyone else, subjecting yourself to the excesses of the set is probably not worth it-- you'll find your mind wandering quickly, and the sheer volume of material makes it unlikely you'll ever get to know it well without really working at it."

Phosphorescent

C’est La Vie

Rock

Jesse Jarnow

Maybe it was Pro Tools. Perhaps it was the post-Napster access explosion. Or it may have been the slow spread of Neutral Milk Hotel, Wilco, or even Bright Eyes. But at some point after the turn of the millenium, every block and every burgh seemed to sprout its own home-recording, achy-voiced strummer, ready to reorient their tunes with field recordings, hip-hop edits, swirling arrangements, Max/MSP processes, or a personal Wrecking Crew of session musicians. It was all personal and wonderful—or, sometimes, simply forgettable. Matthew Houck emerged into into a moment seemingly glutted with often-bearded songwriters eager to deconstruct and expand themselves, from Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon to Iron & Wine’s Sam Beam. Houck arrived with a thin but instantly recognizable creak, somewhere in the neighborhood of Will Oldham, and an Elephant 6 auteur’s sense of scope. For the past 15 years, Phosphorescent’s discography has pivoted among arrangement concepts for that voice, from the spare colors of his 2003 debut to the ambitious countrypolitan landscapes of 2013’s much-loved Muchacho. Houck’s tone and songs could disappear into his well-built, tasteful atmospheres. At least for me, Phosphorescent often fell safely in the realm of perhaps-incorrect stereotypes—enjoyable, but ultimately failing to stick. But on C’est La Vie—the first Phosphorescent studio album in a half-decade and since Houck left Brooklyn for fatherhood in Nashville—his voice cuts through inventive settings with a confidence, clarity, and sensibility that can vividly and unexpectedly recall 1980s Paul Simon, minus the global beats and entitled boomerness. “New Birth in New England” bounces irresistibly, not too far removed from Vampire Weekend, either, but counterbalanced by Ricky Ray Jackson’s luminous pedal steel. Though nothing else on the album quite sounds like that first single (or hits the same giddiness), the Simon similarity runs deep. Houck’s narrator is often sly, wry, and conversational. “‘C’est la vie,’ she says/But I don’t know what she means,” he sings on the chorus of “C’est La Vie No.2.” Like Simon, Houck casts himself as a slightly befuddled subject, his internal monologues tumbling into melody. As far removed from Phosphorescent’s bedroom folk days as Simon’s 1986 Graceland was from his singer-songwriter debut, C’est La Vie is a mirror of Houck’s own maturation, its similarities to Simon perhaps as structural as they are sonic. In places, it sounds like a late-30s check-in for Houck and his listeners, as “My Beautiful Boy” attests. The type of open-hearted dad-dom, that might make a younger songwriter sneer (or blush), it floats on a cloud of gorgeous ambient percussion that keeps the arrangement from drifting into nebulous string-synths. Though Houck has relocated to Nashville, C’est La Vie’s most compelling music is perhaps its least C&W, finding new uses for all that pedal steel. Some of the album’s best moments are more Lambchop than George Jones, especially the vocoder-touched R&B float of “Christmas Down Under.” It would have been unthinkable on Houck’s earliest work. Sometimes C’est La Vie is a bit too on-the-nose, much like 2010’s middle-of-the-road Here’s to Taking It Easy. “These Rocks” recalls Daniel Lanois’ work with Bob Dylan. Serving as a piece of late-album heaviness, with Houck condensing life’s battles into a refrain, the music seems to strain to match the gravity of the central lyric—“These rocks, they are heavy/Been carrying them around all my days.” But it does underscore the bittersweet, top-loaded sense of fun possessed by the rest of C’est La Vie, exemplified by the moment that Jackson’s pedal steel locks into the kosmische pulse of “Around the Horn.” The music suddenly soars beyond the land of songs. It’s the kind of turn on the kind of album that might even make a previously unimpressed listener reevaluate how Houck arrived here. Maybe it was Pro Tools. Or maybe it was daddom.

Artist: Phosphorescent, Album: C’est La Vie, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Maybe it was Pro Tools. Perhaps it was the post-Napster access explosion. Or it may have been the slow spread of Neutral Milk Hotel, Wilco, or even Bright Eyes. But at some point after the turn of the millenium, every block and every burgh seemed to sprout its own home-recording, achy-voiced strummer, ready to reorient their tunes with field recordings, hip-hop edits, swirling arrangements, Max/MSP processes, or a personal Wrecking Crew of session musicians. It was all personal and wonderful—or, sometimes, simply forgettable. Matthew Houck emerged into into a moment seemingly glutted with often-bearded songwriters eager to deconstruct and expand themselves, from Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon to Iron & Wine’s Sam Beam. Houck arrived with a thin but instantly recognizable creak, somewhere in the neighborhood of Will Oldham, and an Elephant 6 auteur’s sense of scope. For the past 15 years, Phosphorescent’s discography has pivoted among arrangement concepts for that voice, from the spare colors of his 2003 debut to the ambitious countrypolitan landscapes of 2013’s much-loved Muchacho. Houck’s tone and songs could disappear into his well-built, tasteful atmospheres. At least for me, Phosphorescent often fell safely in the realm of perhaps-incorrect stereotypes—enjoyable, but ultimately failing to stick. But on C’est La Vie—the first Phosphorescent studio album in a half-decade and since Houck left Brooklyn for fatherhood in Nashville—his voice cuts through inventive settings with a confidence, clarity, and sensibility that can vividly and unexpectedly recall 1980s Paul Simon, minus the global beats and entitled boomerness. “New Birth in New England” bounces irresistibly, not too far removed from Vampire Weekend, either, but counterbalanced by Ricky Ray Jackson’s luminous pedal steel. Though nothing else on the album quite sounds like that first single (or hits the same giddiness), the Simon similarity runs deep. Houck’s narrator is often sly, wry, and conversational. “‘C’est la vie,’ she says/But I don’t know what she means,” he sings on the chorus of “C’est La Vie No.2.” Like Simon, Houck casts himself as a slightly befuddled subject, his internal monologues tumbling into melody. As far removed from Phosphorescent’s bedroom folk days as Simon’s 1986 Graceland was from his singer-songwriter debut, C’est La Vie is a mirror of Houck’s own maturation, its similarities to Simon perhaps as structural as they are sonic. In places, it sounds like a late-30s check-in for Houck and his listeners, as “My Beautiful Boy” attests. The type of open-hearted dad-dom, that might make a younger songwriter sneer (or blush), it floats on a cloud of gorgeous ambient percussion that keeps the arrangement from drifting into nebulous string-synths. Though Houck has relocated to Nashville, C’est La Vie’s most compelling music is perhaps its least C&W, finding new uses for all that pedal steel. Some of the album’s best moments are more Lambchop than George Jones, especially the vocoder-touched R&B float of “Christmas Down Under.” It would have been unthinkable on Houck’s earliest work. Sometimes C’est La Vie is a bit too on-the-nose, much like 2010’s middle-of-the-road Here’s to Taking It Easy. “These Rocks” recalls Daniel Lanois’ work with Bob Dylan. Serving as a piece of late-album heaviness, with Houck condensing life’s battles into a refrain, the music seems to strain to match the gravity of the central lyric—“These rocks, they are heavy/Been carrying them around all my days.” But it does underscore the bittersweet, top-loaded sense of fun possessed by the rest of C’est La Vie, exemplified by the moment that Jackson’s pedal steel locks into the kosmische pulse of “Around the Horn.” The music suddenly soars beyond the land of songs. It’s the kind of turn on the kind of album that might even make a previously unimpressed listener reevaluate how Houck arrived here. Maybe it was Pro Tools. Or maybe it was daddom."

Condo Fucks

Fuckbook

Experimental,Rock

Paul Thompson

Though the youthful exuberance that carried their Condo Fucks City Rockers EP and high water mark Straight Outta Connecticut to modern-classic status during their mid-1990s heyday is now noticeably muted, Fuckbook, the latest LP from New London, Conn., trio the Condo Fucks is nevertheless the veteran band's pinnacle... Oh, what the hell am I on about. Fuckbook is, despite outward appearances, the new record by Yo La Tengo. But the bait-and-switch goes a little deeper than pseudonym, itself a (pretty funny!) dozen-year-old joke from the booklet of the band's 1997 effort I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One. See, Fuckbook is a covers record, even more so than 1990's Fakebook (thus concludes the gag portion of our program). Yo La Tengo touch on about a million things in their music with varying degrees of success; the Condo Fucks, however, only do the one: Fuckbook gathers 11 mostly garage-borne rockers from the likes of the Troggs, Slade, the Kinks, Richard Hell, and others and, from the sound of things, runs 'em all through a shredder. If you've heard a Yo La Tengo record, you've probably heard a Yo La Tengo cover, but rarely if ever like these; so often the band adds its fine-tuned tumble to whatever they interpret, and the results are often reverent and, with some notable exceptions, inessential. But even the least jagged edge of this Fuckbook might give you a papercut. The thing rips-- its closest sonic counterpart is the Stooges' Fun House. You ever think you'd see a sentence like that about a Yo La Tengo record? This gnarly, live-in-a-room sound isn't unprecedented: You could easily cherrypick a dozen similarly scuzzy rockers from the past four or five Yo La Tengo records proper, albeit with a generally higher production standard. But Fuckbook is leaner than a typical Yo La Tengo record in every way: It halves its predecessor's length and triples its volume, resulting in the most cohesive thing they've released since Painful. But while a singularity of purpose hasn't always worked out for Yo La-- see the sleepy The Sounds of the Sounds of Science or the haphazard live-on-air covers set Yo La Tengo Is Murdering the Classics-- Fuckbook's lazer focus makes it  the most immediately enjoyable, endlessly replayable entry in their catalog in some time. Though not all radio hits, these tunes are clearly familiar favorites to the band-- and, since no Yo La Tengo review would be complete without mentioning Ira's tenure as a rock critic, here's that part; to that end, the song selection's pretty impeccable, too. A false start marks the beginning of their opening take on the Small Faces' "Whatcha Gonna Do About It", and from there it's on; for the next 30 minutes and change, drums pound, guitars spill every which way, and a few voices you might recognize bleat out a tune or two you know by heart. Though they gleefully slop up every song here, quite a few stay close to their source material in tempo and timbre. For most bands, playing it that close to the hip would earn them a mark in the bad column, but even on the most reverent cover here-- the Georgia-sung "With a Girl Like You"-- they sound like they're having a blast, like something like this was just what they needed. When they start to veer off the beaten path, Fuckbook really gets going. Their take on the Flamin' Groovies' "Dog Meat" actually manages to bring out the surfy central riff even further to the forefront, and James McNew's vocals throughout the disc-- and on their closing cover of Slade's "Gudbuy T'Jane" especially-- are a perfect fit with the material. Ira, a supremely underrated guitarist, gets his best showcase in forever here, and Georgia's as rock solid as ever behind the kit. She and Ira still aren't the most natural singers for this particular stripe of rock'n'roll, but their willingness to go for it adds a lot of Fuckbook's appeal. And, frankly, because the whole thing's so out of character, a lot of the charm of these somewhat unlikely lo-fi heroes-- who, even with Times New Viking, Fucked Up, and Sonic Youth as labelmates might be the single skronkiest band current signed to Matador-- lies in the fact that they just up and did this thing without provocation, and it worked. Sure, it's a covers record and a fairly unambitious one at that, unless "being confusing" and "being loud" are ambitions. And maybe for Yo La Tengo, they oughta be; as much as I'm looking forward to the next one from Ira, Georgia, and James proper, it's gonna have to work awfully hard to match the effortless blast that is Fuckbook.

Artist: Condo Fucks, Album: Fuckbook, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Though the youthful exuberance that carried their Condo Fucks City Rockers EP and high water mark Straight Outta Connecticut to modern-classic status during their mid-1990s heyday is now noticeably muted, Fuckbook, the latest LP from New London, Conn., trio the Condo Fucks is nevertheless the veteran band's pinnacle... Oh, what the hell am I on about. Fuckbook is, despite outward appearances, the new record by Yo La Tengo. But the bait-and-switch goes a little deeper than pseudonym, itself a (pretty funny!) dozen-year-old joke from the booklet of the band's 1997 effort I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One. See, Fuckbook is a covers record, even more so than 1990's Fakebook (thus concludes the gag portion of our program). Yo La Tengo touch on about a million things in their music with varying degrees of success; the Condo Fucks, however, only do the one: Fuckbook gathers 11 mostly garage-borne rockers from the likes of the Troggs, Slade, the Kinks, Richard Hell, and others and, from the sound of things, runs 'em all through a shredder. If you've heard a Yo La Tengo record, you've probably heard a Yo La Tengo cover, but rarely if ever like these; so often the band adds its fine-tuned tumble to whatever they interpret, and the results are often reverent and, with some notable exceptions, inessential. But even the least jagged edge of this Fuckbook might give you a papercut. The thing rips-- its closest sonic counterpart is the Stooges' Fun House. You ever think you'd see a sentence like that about a Yo La Tengo record? This gnarly, live-in-a-room sound isn't unprecedented: You could easily cherrypick a dozen similarly scuzzy rockers from the past four or five Yo La Tengo records proper, albeit with a generally higher production standard. But Fuckbook is leaner than a typical Yo La Tengo record in every way: It halves its predecessor's length and triples its volume, resulting in the most cohesive thing they've released since Painful. But while a singularity of purpose hasn't always worked out for Yo La-- see the sleepy The Sounds of the Sounds of Science or the haphazard live-on-air covers set Yo La Tengo Is Murdering the Classics-- Fuckbook's lazer focus makes it  the most immediately enjoyable, endlessly replayable entry in their catalog in some time. Though not all radio hits, these tunes are clearly familiar favorites to the band-- and, since no Yo La Tengo review would be complete without mentioning Ira's tenure as a rock critic, here's that part; to that end, the song selection's pretty impeccable, too. A false start marks the beginning of their opening take on the Small Faces' "Whatcha Gonna Do About It", and from there it's on; for the next 30 minutes and change, drums pound, guitars spill every which way, and a few voices you might recognize bleat out a tune or two you know by heart. Though they gleefully slop up every song here, quite a few stay close to their source material in tempo and timbre. For most bands, playing it that close to the hip would earn them a mark in the bad column, but even on the most reverent cover here-- the Georgia-sung "With a Girl Like You"-- they sound like they're having a blast, like something like this was just what they needed. When they start to veer off the beaten path, Fuckbook really gets going. Their take on the Flamin' Groovies' "Dog Meat" actually manages to bring out the surfy central riff even further to the forefront, and James McNew's vocals throughout the disc-- and on their closing cover of Slade's "Gudbuy T'Jane" especially-- are a perfect fit with the material. Ira, a supremely underrated guitarist, gets his best showcase in forever here, and Georgia's as rock solid as ever behind the kit. She and Ira still aren't the most natural singers for this particular stripe of rock'n'roll, but their willingness to go for it adds a lot of Fuckbook's appeal. And, frankly, because the whole thing's so out of character, a lot of the charm of these somewhat unlikely lo-fi heroes-- who, even with Times New Viking, Fucked Up, and Sonic Youth as labelmates might be the single skronkiest band current signed to Matador-- lies in the fact that they just up and did this thing without provocation, and it worked. Sure, it's a covers record and a fairly unambitious one at that, unless "being confusing" and "being loud" are ambitions. And maybe for Yo La Tengo, they oughta be; as much as I'm looking forward to the next one from Ira, Georgia, and James proper, it's gonna have to work awfully hard to match the effortless blast that is Fuckbook."

Caroline Says

No Fool Like an Old Fool

Folk/Country

Jillian Mapes

A friend recently admitted that she hadn’t listened to Caroline Says because the Austin band is named after a Lou Reed song (itself a sequel to a Velvet Underground song). My friend likes Berlin plenty, it’s more about the reference being too on the nose, too eager to broadcast a sensibility before the listener has heard a note. You can’t really blame a band to for sticking its foot in the door before you slam it shut by skipping to the next YouTube video or whatever, but Caroline Says’ sophomore album is anything but pushy. It’s almost funny how much the introspective whisperings of the project’s sole songwriter, performer, and producer, Caroline Sallee, do not sound like one of Reed’s most tragic songs. But No Fool Like an Old Fool does recall a number of other bands and borrow a few song titles. Reference points, it seems, are kind of Sallee’s thing. The story on Sallee is that she moved from her hometown of Huntsville, Alabama, to Austin in 2013 to pursue a career in film and the following year put out a tape inspired by her interim travels out West. Titled 50,000,000 Million Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong (after the King’s 1959 compilation), the record of gorgeous surf-pop and psych-folk songs was reissued last year as a prelude to No Fool Like an Old Fool. Sallee made the album as she was settling in Austin and gaining perspective on her hometown, all of which casts a dreamy, dreary feeling on the record. Informed by her new surroundings (a basement apartment where she could hear her crazy landlords’ every move), Sallee recorded the guitar, drum machine, and various other parts during the day and murmured the vocals at night. From its muted-color harmonies to its overly padded beats, much of the album sounds like it’s trying to hide in plain sight. Even when Sallee fills her quiet rooms with troubled characters, she evokes overwhelming beauty and understated humor. In one of the record’s darkest moments, “A Good Thief Steals Clean,” Sallee coos in ominous reference to a love affair with a heroin addict (inspired by the 1971 film Panic in Needle Park), but her sentiment of half-knowing someone you thought you loved rings true well beyond the admittedly Reedian scenario she hints at. Over a drowsy drum-machine drone, she ends with this ironic but poignant metaphor: “But a person can love a song without knowing all the words/Some people even think words don’t matter much at all.” Perhaps the references strewn throughout No Fool Like an Old Fool are borrowed wisdom, but the crucial knowing wink is all Sallee’s. This is an album that sounds familiar but feels new in its specific way of manifesting dread. That seems to be the case on the album’s first single, “Sweet Home Alabama,” a swirling, soulful, ’60s-ish homage to realizing you have to leave your hometown. Even as the song twinkles with its looping riffs and gauzy la-la-las, Sallee plods along in her sad little town until she realizes there’s nothing left for her. Like the other standouts on No Fool Like an Old Fool, the sad-happy juxtaposition on “Sweet Home Alabama” is perfectly balanced. Sallee does not wallow in overwhelming uncertainty, but it is something you can drop in on by listening more closely to the cloudy passages in otherwise sunny songs. With its conjuring of Parisian sidewalk cafes, “I Tried” hides someone falling apart just under the surface of its eternal breeziness, pausing the pop jangle just long enough to show a patch of grey. Occasionally the songs feel a little less her own, recalling the sedated swoon of Real Estate (“Mea Culpa”), the cinematic folk of Grizzly Bear (“First Song”), or the updated surf-pop of the Drums (“Cool Jerk”). Initially off balance, the latter gives way to a less jittery interlude of dejected chanting that suggests how Sallee really feels. The way she’s able to inject these quietly pretty, happy styles of music with an underlying weariness and a clever touch is what makes No Fool Like an Old Fool stand out among the many musicians currently borrowing similar sets of sounds. Caroline Sallee isn’t any band’s mirror—she’s too busy reflecting herself, in case you didn’t know.

Artist: Caroline Says, Album: No Fool Like an Old Fool, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "A friend recently admitted that she hadn’t listened to Caroline Says because the Austin band is named after a Lou Reed song (itself a sequel to a Velvet Underground song). My friend likes Berlin plenty, it’s more about the reference being too on the nose, too eager to broadcast a sensibility before the listener has heard a note. You can’t really blame a band to for sticking its foot in the door before you slam it shut by skipping to the next YouTube video or whatever, but Caroline Says’ sophomore album is anything but pushy. It’s almost funny how much the introspective whisperings of the project’s sole songwriter, performer, and producer, Caroline Sallee, do not sound like one of Reed’s most tragic songs. But No Fool Like an Old Fool does recall a number of other bands and borrow a few song titles. Reference points, it seems, are kind of Sallee’s thing. The story on Sallee is that she moved from her hometown of Huntsville, Alabama, to Austin in 2013 to pursue a career in film and the following year put out a tape inspired by her interim travels out West. Titled 50,000,000 Million Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong (after the King’s 1959 compilation), the record of gorgeous surf-pop and psych-folk songs was reissued last year as a prelude to No Fool Like an Old Fool. Sallee made the album as she was settling in Austin and gaining perspective on her hometown, all of which casts a dreamy, dreary feeling on the record. Informed by her new surroundings (a basement apartment where she could hear her crazy landlords’ every move), Sallee recorded the guitar, drum machine, and various other parts during the day and murmured the vocals at night. From its muted-color harmonies to its overly padded beats, much of the album sounds like it’s trying to hide in plain sight. Even when Sallee fills her quiet rooms with troubled characters, she evokes overwhelming beauty and understated humor. In one of the record’s darkest moments, “A Good Thief Steals Clean,” Sallee coos in ominous reference to a love affair with a heroin addict (inspired by the 1971 film Panic in Needle Park), but her sentiment of half-knowing someone you thought you loved rings true well beyond the admittedly Reedian scenario she hints at. Over a drowsy drum-machine drone, she ends with this ironic but poignant metaphor: “But a person can love a song without knowing all the words/Some people even think words don’t matter much at all.” Perhaps the references strewn throughout No Fool Like an Old Fool are borrowed wisdom, but the crucial knowing wink is all Sallee’s. This is an album that sounds familiar but feels new in its specific way of manifesting dread. That seems to be the case on the album’s first single, “Sweet Home Alabama,” a swirling, soulful, ’60s-ish homage to realizing you have to leave your hometown. Even as the song twinkles with its looping riffs and gauzy la-la-las, Sallee plods along in her sad little town until she realizes there’s nothing left for her. Like the other standouts on No Fool Like an Old Fool, the sad-happy juxtaposition on “Sweet Home Alabama” is perfectly balanced. Sallee does not wallow in overwhelming uncertainty, but it is something you can drop in on by listening more closely to the cloudy passages in otherwise sunny songs. With its conjuring of Parisian sidewalk cafes, “I Tried” hides someone falling apart just under the surface of its eternal breeziness, pausing the pop jangle just long enough to show a patch of grey. Occasionally the songs feel a little less her own, recalling the sedated swoon of Real Estate (“Mea Culpa”), the cinematic folk of Grizzly Bear (“First Song”), or the updated surf-pop of the Drums (“Cool Jerk”). Initially off balance, the latter gives way to a less jittery interlude of dejected chanting that suggests how Sallee really feels. The way she’s able to inject these quietly pretty, happy styles of music with an underlying weariness and a clever touch is what makes No Fool Like an Old Fool stand out among the many musicians currently borrowing similar sets of sounds. Caroline Sallee isn’t any band’s mirror—she’s too busy reflecting herself, in case you didn’t know."

Balmorhea

Rivers Arms

Rock

Grayson Currin

The 14 tracks on Rivers Arms, the second album from twenty-something Texas duo Balmorhea, sound much like the band's list of influences probably reads. For that matter, such a strong, select lexicon could be a subset of most 2007 bands making instrumental music with folk, classical, jazz, and 20th-century classical inspirations: There are the swells of Stravinsky, the mercurial keyboard majesty of Debussy, the triad-based romanticism of Arvo Pärt, the clangorous sensuality of Keith Jarrett, the electronics-meet-acoustics approach of Max Richter, and the beaming melodic flashes of the Takoma Records cartel (from John Fahey to George Winston, mind you). If those names don't mean much, think of Balmorhea as a freshman-level seminar in making pretty music that works on multiple levels. Most everyone should make it through class and carry something away, while others may use it as an inlet into deeper lessons: On the surface, Balmorhea's music is gorgeous, dynamic, and emotive, a bit like Sigur Rós with an interest in understatement. Rivers Arms combines piano, acoustic and electric guitars, banjo, strings, and samples into short passes, so that nothing's too consuming or exhausting. Though it lasts just less than an hour, Rivers Arms cycles through motifs without wasting many seconds or losing interest. A closer look, though, reveals accomplished mechanics that allow (perhaps old and familiar) influences to filter into something refreshing. Michael Muller and Rob Lowe (not the 90 Day Man/Singer/Lichen or the sex-tape teen idol/George Stephanopoulos stand-in) are Balmorhea, and they're assisted here by violinist Aisha Burns, cellist Erin Lance, and bassist Jacob Glenn-Levin. Rivers Arms charms so easily because Muller and Lowe separate and integrate so many styles and ideas in small spaces. Several songs based in ivories and bows ("Baleen Morning", "Barefoot Pilgrims") hint at the dramatic climaxes of fuck-all, quiet-loud Texas post-rock. Balmorhea, though, always tug the reins just right, insuring that any incandescence doesn't torch the more journeyman guitar tracks, like the Six Organs-shadowing "Greyish Tapering Ash" or the Album Leaf electronics of "Process". The pieces fit, and the colors blend. Rivers Arms offers little in terms of technical or compositional innovation, but it does capitalize on a facet of instrumental music that's constantly suggested but rarely accomplished: Despite its often elegiac turns and always graceful maneuvers, the music here leaves itself open to individual interpretation. The songs certainly have their moods, and titles taken from seasons or places suggest inspirations and implications. But these songs never exist in a vacuum, and any dominant air always makes room for the counterpart that's just around the bend. Like "The Winter": All twinkling guitars, fleeting sheets of strings, and piano lines that drift downward in diagonal columns, it feels like the season it proclaims. But traces of hope flicker from twinkling guitars, lining the melancholy. The melody is handled meticulously, too, creating stillness and movement in the same space. "The Summer", which precedes "The Winter", opens with atonal cello sustains. Even though a duet of bucolic acoustic guitars eventually dances above those strings, the foreboding drones hover at the brink, threatening from a distance like a surprise Texas snow cloud. Such is Balmorhea: Texas gets a rough (if deserved) rap for its extremes, from Plano football games and their cinematic scores to obstinate world leaders and their stubborn ideas. But Balmorhea flashes brilliance only to highlight a slow-burning constancy that's at the core of one of the year's early slow wonders.

Artist: Balmorhea, Album: Rivers Arms, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "The 14 tracks on Rivers Arms, the second album from twenty-something Texas duo Balmorhea, sound much like the band's list of influences probably reads. For that matter, such a strong, select lexicon could be a subset of most 2007 bands making instrumental music with folk, classical, jazz, and 20th-century classical inspirations: There are the swells of Stravinsky, the mercurial keyboard majesty of Debussy, the triad-based romanticism of Arvo Pärt, the clangorous sensuality of Keith Jarrett, the electronics-meet-acoustics approach of Max Richter, and the beaming melodic flashes of the Takoma Records cartel (from John Fahey to George Winston, mind you). If those names don't mean much, think of Balmorhea as a freshman-level seminar in making pretty music that works on multiple levels. Most everyone should make it through class and carry something away, while others may use it as an inlet into deeper lessons: On the surface, Balmorhea's music is gorgeous, dynamic, and emotive, a bit like Sigur Rós with an interest in understatement. Rivers Arms combines piano, acoustic and electric guitars, banjo, strings, and samples into short passes, so that nothing's too consuming or exhausting. Though it lasts just less than an hour, Rivers Arms cycles through motifs without wasting many seconds or losing interest. A closer look, though, reveals accomplished mechanics that allow (perhaps old and familiar) influences to filter into something refreshing. Michael Muller and Rob Lowe (not the 90 Day Man/Singer/Lichen or the sex-tape teen idol/George Stephanopoulos stand-in) are Balmorhea, and they're assisted here by violinist Aisha Burns, cellist Erin Lance, and bassist Jacob Glenn-Levin. Rivers Arms charms so easily because Muller and Lowe separate and integrate so many styles and ideas in small spaces. Several songs based in ivories and bows ("Baleen Morning", "Barefoot Pilgrims") hint at the dramatic climaxes of fuck-all, quiet-loud Texas post-rock. Balmorhea, though, always tug the reins just right, insuring that any incandescence doesn't torch the more journeyman guitar tracks, like the Six Organs-shadowing "Greyish Tapering Ash" or the Album Leaf electronics of "Process". The pieces fit, and the colors blend. Rivers Arms offers little in terms of technical or compositional innovation, but it does capitalize on a facet of instrumental music that's constantly suggested but rarely accomplished: Despite its often elegiac turns and always graceful maneuvers, the music here leaves itself open to individual interpretation. The songs certainly have their moods, and titles taken from seasons or places suggest inspirations and implications. But these songs never exist in a vacuum, and any dominant air always makes room for the counterpart that's just around the bend. Like "The Winter": All twinkling guitars, fleeting sheets of strings, and piano lines that drift downward in diagonal columns, it feels like the season it proclaims. But traces of hope flicker from twinkling guitars, lining the melancholy. The melody is handled meticulously, too, creating stillness and movement in the same space. "The Summer", which precedes "The Winter", opens with atonal cello sustains. Even though a duet of bucolic acoustic guitars eventually dances above those strings, the foreboding drones hover at the brink, threatening from a distance like a surprise Texas snow cloud. Such is Balmorhea: Texas gets a rough (if deserved) rap for its extremes, from Plano football games and their cinematic scores to obstinate world leaders and their stubborn ideas. But Balmorhea flashes brilliance only to highlight a slow-burning constancy that's at the core of one of the year's early slow wonders."

Various Artists

Face a Frowning World: An E.C. Ball Memorial Album

Stephen M. Deusner

That album cover up there is misleading: When E.C. Ball faced a frowning world, he did so with a smile. Or at least that's the impression his songs give-- that the stern-voiced singer and songwriter took immense joy in praising the Lord through music. When he wasn't driving a school bus and running a service station in Rugby, Virginia, the folk-gospel artist and his wife Orna traveled around Appalachia, playing churches of all denominations and radio stations of all wattages. Ball was no fire-and-brimstone scold, though, nor did he fashion himself as a God-appointed teacher with special moral authority. Instead, he remained humble, content, and hopeful, writing simple songs with simple messages. Even at his darkest, his songs celebrate faith: "Lord, I want more religion," he sings on one of his most famous compositions. "Religion makes me happy." Not that every song is upbeat, but Ball preached salvation more than damnation. By and large, the artists on Face a Frowning World, which declares itself a "memorial album" rather than a tribute (I'm guessing for reasons of Christian humility), revere this aspect of Ball's music, and in covering his songs, they also consider his faith-- whether they share it or not. Dave Bird testifies proudly on "He's My God", and Bonnie "Prince" Billy extols the stalwartness of "John the Baptist" before keening ostentatiously over Catherine Irwin's earthy vocals on "Beautiful Star of Bethlehem". By contrast, Rayna Gellert's soft-spoken "Lord, I Want More Religion" is a ruminative, plainspoken prayer, a subdued take that suggests a one-on-one with the Big Man Himself. Even on "Tribulations", sung here by Joe Manning and Glen Dentinger, Ball's depiction of the apocalypse contrasts dramatically with the promise of rescue and reward: "When the fire come down from heaven and the blood shall fill the sea, I'll be carried home by Jesus and forever with him be." The two Louisville musicians sing those lines steadfastly, with a content resignation bolstered by the band's spare arrangement. Face a Frowning World has the feel of a jubilee, as Louisville's Health & Happiness Family Gospel Band back a range of Ball fans and followers with the enthusiasm of a Sunday morning pick-up band. On the whole, they keep things loose and lively, although at times their energy gets the better of them: They liven up Jon Langford's "When I Get Home I'm Gonna Be Satisfied", but while the spirit is willing, their cover is too loud, too lusty, too worldly. Not that Ball was strictly a religious singer. In fact, he and his wife had a sprawling repertoire that included secular songs, and Face a Frowning World strains to make room for a few of them. Michael Hurley smocks through "The Early Bird Always Gets the Worm" as if he wrote it himself, and Pokey LaFarge turns "Poor Old Country Lad" into a jumpin' C&W romp. On the other hand, the Handsome Family inexplicably transform the playful children's rhyme "Jenny Jenkins" into a slow, dour duet that sucks all the fun out of the song's jumble of syllables. They turn Ball's smile upside down.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Face a Frowning World: An E.C. Ball Memorial Album, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "That album cover up there is misleading: When E.C. Ball faced a frowning world, he did so with a smile. Or at least that's the impression his songs give-- that the stern-voiced singer and songwriter took immense joy in praising the Lord through music. When he wasn't driving a school bus and running a service station in Rugby, Virginia, the folk-gospel artist and his wife Orna traveled around Appalachia, playing churches of all denominations and radio stations of all wattages. Ball was no fire-and-brimstone scold, though, nor did he fashion himself as a God-appointed teacher with special moral authority. Instead, he remained humble, content, and hopeful, writing simple songs with simple messages. Even at his darkest, his songs celebrate faith: "Lord, I want more religion," he sings on one of his most famous compositions. "Religion makes me happy." Not that every song is upbeat, but Ball preached salvation more than damnation. By and large, the artists on Face a Frowning World, which declares itself a "memorial album" rather than a tribute (I'm guessing for reasons of Christian humility), revere this aspect of Ball's music, and in covering his songs, they also consider his faith-- whether they share it or not. Dave Bird testifies proudly on "He's My God", and Bonnie "Prince" Billy extols the stalwartness of "John the Baptist" before keening ostentatiously over Catherine Irwin's earthy vocals on "Beautiful Star of Bethlehem". By contrast, Rayna Gellert's soft-spoken "Lord, I Want More Religion" is a ruminative, plainspoken prayer, a subdued take that suggests a one-on-one with the Big Man Himself. Even on "Tribulations", sung here by Joe Manning and Glen Dentinger, Ball's depiction of the apocalypse contrasts dramatically with the promise of rescue and reward: "When the fire come down from heaven and the blood shall fill the sea, I'll be carried home by Jesus and forever with him be." The two Louisville musicians sing those lines steadfastly, with a content resignation bolstered by the band's spare arrangement. Face a Frowning World has the feel of a jubilee, as Louisville's Health & Happiness Family Gospel Band back a range of Ball fans and followers with the enthusiasm of a Sunday morning pick-up band. On the whole, they keep things loose and lively, although at times their energy gets the better of them: They liven up Jon Langford's "When I Get Home I'm Gonna Be Satisfied", but while the spirit is willing, their cover is too loud, too lusty, too worldly. Not that Ball was strictly a religious singer. In fact, he and his wife had a sprawling repertoire that included secular songs, and Face a Frowning World strains to make room for a few of them. Michael Hurley smocks through "The Early Bird Always Gets the Worm" as if he wrote it himself, and Pokey LaFarge turns "Poor Old Country Lad" into a jumpin' C&W romp. On the other hand, the Handsome Family inexplicably transform the playful children's rhyme "Jenny Jenkins" into a slow, dour duet that sucks all the fun out of the song's jumble of syllables. They turn Ball's smile upside down."

Julian Lynch

Terra

Rock

Mike Powell

The most impressive thing about Terra, Julian Lynch's third album, is how much stylistic ground it covers while sounding like it barely gets off the collapsible camping chair. Taken as a whole, it's folksy post-rock, but broken down into parts, there are elements of Pharaoh Sanders' meditative jazz; blossoming, Eno-like song structures; George Harrison's Eastern flirtations; the monastic drones of mid-70s German music; and the hippyish optimism of a group like the Incredible String Band. (There's probably more, too, but I'll leave room for the geeks and trainspotters.) Lynch's talent as a writer-- and as a listener before that-- is to hear how all these sounds essentially exist on the same spectrum: They're earthy, unhurried, and occupied by a hypnotic kind of beauty. Lynch is a 26-year-old PhD student in ethnomusicology, which I weigh more as a biographical curiosity than some kind of key as to why he's able to make good music. He's not particularly phenomenal or technically capable as an instrumentalist (or if he is, he's not rubbing our noses in it), but he handles everything-- whether it's piano, drums, saxophone, or synthesizer-- without a twitch or fumble. And despite the variety of the instruments, everything on the album sounds like it's riding backseat. If anything sticks out, it's his voice-- it's a little nasal and attention-getting, though I can't imagine him letting someone else sing, either. Lynch's music is essentially nice, which Pitchforker Joe Colly hinted at when reviewing last year's Mare: "For how druggy and narcotized it sounds, it doesn't come across as sad or tuned-out." I'd argue that it is tuned-out, but I agree that it's not sad: Terra doesn't ever feel like it's staring down the void or opening a space for the listener's loneliness (whether it's the warm or the cold kind [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| ). Most of the album stays just above resting pulse-- at its most agitated, it's a hootenanny in slow motion. Lynch gets a lot of "front"/"back porch" in his reviews, which I generally agree with, but would choose to add: warm weather, fading daylight, bird twitter, and your relaxant of choice. It's hard to know what to make of Lynch, Matt Mondanile from Ducktails, and other shorts-and-sandal bros that have gotten popular in the indiesphere during the last few years. Terra is almost relentlessly benign. It's not music of struggle, or even music of depth. That's one thing that definitely makes it feel different from its antecedents: unlike, say, Pharaoh Sanders or the Incredible String Band or even Sung Tongs-era Animal Collective, Lynch never stretches for transcendence or intensity. It's the musical equivalent of "beer in the fridge if you want it, dude." That's not criticism, just a mild skepticism. Terra's reclamation of a low-stakes domestic space is ultimately more comforting than it is naive-- a counterweight to the impulse to make something glossy, agitated, and, well, young. It makes me think of what one of my favorite composers, David Behrman, said when asked about the therapeutic qualities of his music: "The world is filled with busy, noisy music-- and noise in general-- and I'd rather contribute to the quieter end of the spectrum." Terra doesn't just contribute to the quieter end of the spectrum, it reminds me of the boundaries of that spectrum, and all the sounds murmuring inside them.

Artist: Julian Lynch, Album: Terra, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "The most impressive thing about Terra, Julian Lynch's third album, is how much stylistic ground it covers while sounding like it barely gets off the collapsible camping chair. Taken as a whole, it's folksy post-rock, but broken down into parts, there are elements of Pharaoh Sanders' meditative jazz; blossoming, Eno-like song structures; George Harrison's Eastern flirtations; the monastic drones of mid-70s German music; and the hippyish optimism of a group like the Incredible String Band. (There's probably more, too, but I'll leave room for the geeks and trainspotters.) Lynch's talent as a writer-- and as a listener before that-- is to hear how all these sounds essentially exist on the same spectrum: They're earthy, unhurried, and occupied by a hypnotic kind of beauty. Lynch is a 26-year-old PhD student in ethnomusicology, which I weigh more as a biographical curiosity than some kind of key as to why he's able to make good music. He's not particularly phenomenal or technically capable as an instrumentalist (or if he is, he's not rubbing our noses in it), but he handles everything-- whether it's piano, drums, saxophone, or synthesizer-- without a twitch or fumble. And despite the variety of the instruments, everything on the album sounds like it's riding backseat. If anything sticks out, it's his voice-- it's a little nasal and attention-getting, though I can't imagine him letting someone else sing, either. Lynch's music is essentially nice, which Pitchforker Joe Colly hinted at when reviewing last year's Mare: "For how druggy and narcotized it sounds, it doesn't come across as sad or tuned-out." I'd argue that it is tuned-out, but I agree that it's not sad: Terra doesn't ever feel like it's staring down the void or opening a space for the listener's loneliness (whether it's the warm or the cold kind [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| ). Most of the album stays just above resting pulse-- at its most agitated, it's a hootenanny in slow motion. Lynch gets a lot of "front"/"back porch" in his reviews, which I generally agree with, but would choose to add: warm weather, fading daylight, bird twitter, and your relaxant of choice. It's hard to know what to make of Lynch, Matt Mondanile from Ducktails, and other shorts-and-sandal bros that have gotten popular in the indiesphere during the last few years. Terra is almost relentlessly benign. It's not music of struggle, or even music of depth. That's one thing that definitely makes it feel different from its antecedents: unlike, say, Pharaoh Sanders or the Incredible String Band or even Sung Tongs-era Animal Collective, Lynch never stretches for transcendence or intensity. It's the musical equivalent of "beer in the fridge if you want it, dude." That's not criticism, just a mild skepticism. Terra's reclamation of a low-stakes domestic space is ultimately more comforting than it is naive-- a counterweight to the impulse to make something glossy, agitated, and, well, young. It makes me think of what one of my favorite composers, David Behrman, said when asked about the therapeutic qualities of his music: "The world is filled with busy, noisy music-- and noise in general-- and I'd rather contribute to the quieter end of the spectrum." Terra doesn't just contribute to the quieter end of the spectrum, it reminds me of the boundaries of that spectrum, and all the sounds murmuring inside them."

Joe Henry

Civilians

Rock

Joshua Klein

Joe Henry has a love/hate relationship with traditional American music. He started his career as an alt-country troubadour, akin to his cohorts the Jayhawks, but turned away from the movement just as it was gaining steam. While countless other artists began exploring their inner twang, Henry started releasing strange and atmospheric albums like Trampoline and Fuse, discs more likely to nod to Sly Stone than bow at the throne of Gram Parsons. Before getting the boot from his longtime major label home, he even managed to lure no less than Ornette Coleman in for a cameo, appropriate enough for a songwriter whose music has as much in common with jazz as it does with rock or folk. Yet at the same time, Henry's love of traditional American music seemed to flourish. Between producing records for peers such as Aimee Mann and Ani DiFranco, Henry helmed comeback discs for Solomon Burke and Bettye LaVette, splitting the difference with Elvis Costello's The River in Reverse, which featured Costello paired with Allen Toussaint (himself a vet of the soul supergroup Henry assembled for 2005's I Believe to My Soul). Around the time Henry released his 2003 disc Tiny Voices, he told me one of his dream collaborators was Dr. Dre. It's four years later, so where does Joe Henry fit today? Apparently in a kind of introspective, back-to-basics frame of mind. There are no horns and few outré flourishes on Civilians, not that Henry's all alone, left to deal with those ghosts and demons alone. He's surrounded himself with a cadre of capable studio hands, including such usual unusual suspects as guitarist Bill Frisell and Van Dyke Parks as well as old friends Patrick Warren, Greg Leisz and drummer Jay Bellerose. The result is Henry's most "traditional" album in years, at least in the words-and-music-come-first sense. It's also, unfortunately, a bit dull, like a cross between current Tom Waits and Bob Dylan without that ineffable quality that makes even their clichés so compelling. That's not to say Henry hasn't left some room to play with that relationship between words and music. "Loose lips, desperation and convenient morality might make for tense dinner conversation, but put them in waltz time and even the young people lay down their assault rifles and start crowding up next to the stage," he writes in the notes, and he makes a good point. Lyrically, Civilians finds Joe Henry at his poetic best, his words the stuff of hardboiled fiction, the Beats, and the heart. Stick with them, and he takes you on an evocative trip down (bad) memory lane. "Every truth carries blame/ And every light reveals some shame/ Progress rides with thieves and whores/ The stowaways of civil war," he sings in "Civil War", an oblique take on domestic conflict (and indeed a sort-of waltz). "God is in the details/ Of the smoke in the air/ The devil, he's a pauper prince/ Nesting in your hair," goes another bit in "Parker's Mood". Indeed, God is in the details, literally, as the Almighty makes at least a passing appearance in just about every Civilians track. But God in this context is little more than a cipher, a passive presence. It's something else that seems to be compelling Henry to create in the face of the hopelessness that surrounds around him. "I turn my face from all the rage/ Playing on the grim, dark stage/ But you've shown me an open page," he sings in "I Will Write My Book", and while he could be singing about divine intervention as inspiration, it sounds more like Henry is singing about a connection made with an actual corporeal human being when all the forces of the world are conspiring to draw us apart. It's on this note that Civilians falters. The sound is as warm and rich as could be expected from a craftsman of this caliber-- David Piltch's upright bass tone alone should be bottled and sold to the highest bidder-- but musically and melodically Civilians falls short of making much of a connection itself. There's real weight (and when need be, weightlessness) to Henry's lyrics, but wait as you might for some force to back it up, the disc never dislodges from its doggedly midtempo (and slower) groove and oppressively dour vibe. It's all sparks, shooting up and out into the night sky, but no fire.

Artist: Joe Henry, Album: Civilians, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "Joe Henry has a love/hate relationship with traditional American music. He started his career as an alt-country troubadour, akin to his cohorts the Jayhawks, but turned away from the movement just as it was gaining steam. While countless other artists began exploring their inner twang, Henry started releasing strange and atmospheric albums like Trampoline and Fuse, discs more likely to nod to Sly Stone than bow at the throne of Gram Parsons. Before getting the boot from his longtime major label home, he even managed to lure no less than Ornette Coleman in for a cameo, appropriate enough for a songwriter whose music has as much in common with jazz as it does with rock or folk. Yet at the same time, Henry's love of traditional American music seemed to flourish. Between producing records for peers such as Aimee Mann and Ani DiFranco, Henry helmed comeback discs for Solomon Burke and Bettye LaVette, splitting the difference with Elvis Costello's The River in Reverse, which featured Costello paired with Allen Toussaint (himself a vet of the soul supergroup Henry assembled for 2005's I Believe to My Soul). Around the time Henry released his 2003 disc Tiny Voices, he told me one of his dream collaborators was Dr. Dre. It's four years later, so where does Joe Henry fit today? Apparently in a kind of introspective, back-to-basics frame of mind. There are no horns and few outré flourishes on Civilians, not that Henry's all alone, left to deal with those ghosts and demons alone. He's surrounded himself with a cadre of capable studio hands, including such usual unusual suspects as guitarist Bill Frisell and Van Dyke Parks as well as old friends Patrick Warren, Greg Leisz and drummer Jay Bellerose. The result is Henry's most "traditional" album in years, at least in the words-and-music-come-first sense. It's also, unfortunately, a bit dull, like a cross between current Tom Waits and Bob Dylan without that ineffable quality that makes even their clichés so compelling. That's not to say Henry hasn't left some room to play with that relationship between words and music. "Loose lips, desperation and convenient morality might make for tense dinner conversation, but put them in waltz time and even the young people lay down their assault rifles and start crowding up next to the stage," he writes in the notes, and he makes a good point. Lyrically, Civilians finds Joe Henry at his poetic best, his words the stuff of hardboiled fiction, the Beats, and the heart. Stick with them, and he takes you on an evocative trip down (bad) memory lane. "Every truth carries blame/ And every light reveals some shame/ Progress rides with thieves and whores/ The stowaways of civil war," he sings in "Civil War", an oblique take on domestic conflict (and indeed a sort-of waltz). "God is in the details/ Of the smoke in the air/ The devil, he's a pauper prince/ Nesting in your hair," goes another bit in "Parker's Mood". Indeed, God is in the details, literally, as the Almighty makes at least a passing appearance in just about every Civilians track. But God in this context is little more than a cipher, a passive presence. It's something else that seems to be compelling Henry to create in the face of the hopelessness that surrounds around him. "I turn my face from all the rage/ Playing on the grim, dark stage/ But you've shown me an open page," he sings in "I Will Write My Book", and while he could be singing about divine intervention as inspiration, it sounds more like Henry is singing about a connection made with an actual corporeal human being when all the forces of the world are conspiring to draw us apart. It's on this note that Civilians falters. The sound is as warm and rich as could be expected from a craftsman of this caliber-- David Piltch's upright bass tone alone should be bottled and sold to the highest bidder-- but musically and melodically Civilians falls short of making much of a connection itself. There's real weight (and when need be, weightlessness) to Henry's lyrics, but wait as you might for some force to back it up, the disc never dislodges from its doggedly midtempo (and slower) groove and oppressively dour vibe. It's all sparks, shooting up and out into the night sky, but no fire."

Abilene

Abilene

Metal,Rock

Camilo Arturo Leslie

The Portland Trailblazers, Christmas fruitcakes, and the cast ofThe Man in the Iron Mask all suffer from the same malady: each is considerably less than the sum of its parts. You might blame the Blazers' woes on weak coaching. And you could pin that insufferable failure of a movie on the presence of not one, but two Dicaprios. So why is it that, even though the individual ingredients of fruitcake are generally palatable, the final product is so repulsive? Abilene, a moody, pensive outfit from Chicago benefits from a cohesion and synergy that elevate them far above the working of their individual components. Gerard Depardieu and Rasheed Wallace take note. For a trio, Abilene fill a great deal of space, and for the simplicity of their guitar/drums/bass arrangement, they're a remarkably dynamic group. They're busy, yet, at the same time, exemplars of the less-is-more school of songwriting. The seedy, post-rock noir of the album's opening track, "Detroit Locker," utilizes a quirky time signature and sparse, hushed vocals while relying heavily on the constant ting-ting of the ride cymbal and a sharp, foreboding guitar riff. This 35-minute, six-song semi-album was recorded by Bill Skibbe, and Juan Carrera of the lamentably long-defunct Warmers from Washington, D.C. But lest you assume otherwise, Abilene aren't as fixated on the D.C. sound, coming off more like a less self-consciously art-oriented "Chicago band." Even at their relaxed, stoner tempo, Abilene kind of rock. The oil that keeps this act running is, without a doubt, its mood. The music, even in its most rhythmically jagged moments, sways in slow, opioid motions. Credit the sound mixing for this effect. When not carrying on a melody of its own, the warm, well-phrased bass parts are buried deep in the mix, just loud enough to anchor the guitar parts, but never enough to infringe on Scott Adamson's bright, expressive drumming. "October" is perhaps the album's best moment from a sonic perspective. Only towards the song's end are the players allowed to come together at full volume to create a climactic din and provide a supporting fabric for a rare instance of yelling by Alex Dunham. Abilene brings to mind June of 44, and to some degree, its off-shoot the Letter E; it recalls the quiet but tenser moments of the former, and does so well what the latter could never pull of at all. A veritable musical gelding, the Letter E has, to date, sounded sterile, bloodless and totally devoid of passion; Abilene resides at the opposite end of the quality spectrum, playing a similarly "jammy" brand of music, but one that conveys feeling and a unified stance. And there are very few vocals here, so it goes without saying that I'm not talking about a lyrical or philosophical stance. The instruments do seem to be "speaking" from the same place, functioning organically, and displaying a unity of purpose. The songs all have a strong sense of drama, nice interesting shapes, and a sort of narrative quality to them, too. All that said, this is just a taste of, hopefully, more impressive things to come. So far, the trio has only shown that they work very well together. Though Dunham's vocals are pleasant and judiciously spaced, you sometimes get the feeling that the low sound levels are meant to mask his shortcomings rather than create a dramatic effect. The music has enough going for it to pique my interest and is strong enough in its execution to warrant respect. I hope they keep following whatever it is that brought them to this point to a more confidently delineated musical identity.

Artist: Abilene, Album: Abilene, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "The Portland Trailblazers, Christmas fruitcakes, and the cast ofThe Man in the Iron Mask all suffer from the same malady: each is considerably less than the sum of its parts. You might blame the Blazers' woes on weak coaching. And you could pin that insufferable failure of a movie on the presence of not one, but two Dicaprios. So why is it that, even though the individual ingredients of fruitcake are generally palatable, the final product is so repulsive? Abilene, a moody, pensive outfit from Chicago benefits from a cohesion and synergy that elevate them far above the working of their individual components. Gerard Depardieu and Rasheed Wallace take note. For a trio, Abilene fill a great deal of space, and for the simplicity of their guitar/drums/bass arrangement, they're a remarkably dynamic group. They're busy, yet, at the same time, exemplars of the less-is-more school of songwriting. The seedy, post-rock noir of the album's opening track, "Detroit Locker," utilizes a quirky time signature and sparse, hushed vocals while relying heavily on the constant ting-ting of the ride cymbal and a sharp, foreboding guitar riff. This 35-minute, six-song semi-album was recorded by Bill Skibbe, and Juan Carrera of the lamentably long-defunct Warmers from Washington, D.C. But lest you assume otherwise, Abilene aren't as fixated on the D.C. sound, coming off more like a less self-consciously art-oriented "Chicago band." Even at their relaxed, stoner tempo, Abilene kind of rock. The oil that keeps this act running is, without a doubt, its mood. The music, even in its most rhythmically jagged moments, sways in slow, opioid motions. Credit the sound mixing for this effect. When not carrying on a melody of its own, the warm, well-phrased bass parts are buried deep in the mix, just loud enough to anchor the guitar parts, but never enough to infringe on Scott Adamson's bright, expressive drumming. "October" is perhaps the album's best moment from a sonic perspective. Only towards the song's end are the players allowed to come together at full volume to create a climactic din and provide a supporting fabric for a rare instance of yelling by Alex Dunham. Abilene brings to mind June of 44, and to some degree, its off-shoot the Letter E; it recalls the quiet but tenser moments of the former, and does so well what the latter could never pull of at all. A veritable musical gelding, the Letter E has, to date, sounded sterile, bloodless and totally devoid of passion; Abilene resides at the opposite end of the quality spectrum, playing a similarly "jammy" brand of music, but one that conveys feeling and a unified stance. And there are very few vocals here, so it goes without saying that I'm not talking about a lyrical or philosophical stance. The instruments do seem to be "speaking" from the same place, functioning organically, and displaying a unity of purpose. The songs all have a strong sense of drama, nice interesting shapes, and a sort of narrative quality to them, too. All that said, this is just a taste of, hopefully, more impressive things to come. So far, the trio has only shown that they work very well together. Though Dunham's vocals are pleasant and judiciously spaced, you sometimes get the feeling that the low sound levels are meant to mask his shortcomings rather than create a dramatic effect. The music has enough going for it to pique my interest and is strong enough in its execution to warrant respect. I hope they keep following whatever it is that brought them to this point to a more confidently delineated musical identity."

T.K. Webb & The Visions

Ancestor

Rock

David Bevan

Dutiful research tells us that Thomas Kelly Webb has been rocking and rolling for a long time, since his then-tiny fingers could first flip through Jimmy Page's mighty riffbook. Since relocating from Kansas City to Brooklyn in the late 1990s, Webb has developed a name downtown for his fire-breathing guitar heroics, laying lonely Delta sounds to tape but often busting amps and heads when the dedicated come to see him plug in and make with the shred. But anyone ready to hear more of the empty suitcase blues that inhabited Webb's previous outing, 2006's Phantom Parade, should prepare for a superfuzzed-out departure of redwood-sized proportions. Ancestor is the fitting title of Webb and his newly christened Visions' first offering. Formed last summer, the Visions feature ex-members of Love as Laughter and Blood on the Wall, the most noticeable addition being second guitarist Brian Hale. Alongside the Visions, Webb's sound and songwriting vision (not intended) have taken a King Kong leap towards achieving a breadth that mirrors his talents, even if the result occasionally misses its mark. Maybe it's not such a leap after all. From the first few groans and juggernaut kicks of opener "Teen Is Still Shaking", it becomes clear that Webb has come back to his first love: hard rock. Ancestor is a Porterhouse-thick compendium on rock: From the golden 1970s to the muddy 90s, J Mascis to Kim Thayil, leather to denim, David Allan Coe rebel honky-tonk to Paul Westerberg's scrappy white boy blues, Webb is all over the map here and much of the album's fun is found in spotting footnotes, every lick and flourish arriving to as much sweet bewilderment as many of the pop snippets sewn together on a Girl Talk party jam. If you're a guitar rock junkie. If not, Ancestor's still impressive. Though he flirts dangerously with rock's pitfalls, Webb's developed a strong ear for fusing all these elements and styles together his own way without coming off like a cornball. This, from a man with a catcher's mitt voice like Mellencamp's (Don't run! It's awesome!) and a gift for radioactive solos that could both unzip dresses and leave shiners. Two of said solos bookend the monstrous "God Bless the Little Angels"; more sensible men would probably place an eight-minute study in psychedelic uppercuts somewhere in the waning breaths of an album, but the Visions switch to kill fairly quickly. "Patience & Fortitude" is a great name for an acoustic sigh that requires both, while "Isle of Grizzly White" and "Shame" feel like throwaways unable to subsist on faceless crunch alone. Which is precisely why closer "Time to Go" saves the day by showing some restraint. Clocking in at just over three minutes but still containing all the lard-less dreamweaving you'd expect, it's a nice parting gift that even features vocals from Love as Laughter's Sam Jayne. Webb's dalliances with purist blues were a respectful, accurate channeling but this feels more like home. Where Phantom Parade tapped that vein so specifically, Ancestor opens floodgates similar to the giant door that sits front and center on its cover. Just consider growing your hair out a bit longer before you head inside.

Artist: T.K. Webb & The Visions, Album: Ancestor, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Dutiful research tells us that Thomas Kelly Webb has been rocking and rolling for a long time, since his then-tiny fingers could first flip through Jimmy Page's mighty riffbook. Since relocating from Kansas City to Brooklyn in the late 1990s, Webb has developed a name downtown for his fire-breathing guitar heroics, laying lonely Delta sounds to tape but often busting amps and heads when the dedicated come to see him plug in and make with the shred. But anyone ready to hear more of the empty suitcase blues that inhabited Webb's previous outing, 2006's Phantom Parade, should prepare for a superfuzzed-out departure of redwood-sized proportions. Ancestor is the fitting title of Webb and his newly christened Visions' first offering. Formed last summer, the Visions feature ex-members of Love as Laughter and Blood on the Wall, the most noticeable addition being second guitarist Brian Hale. Alongside the Visions, Webb's sound and songwriting vision (not intended) have taken a King Kong leap towards achieving a breadth that mirrors his talents, even if the result occasionally misses its mark. Maybe it's not such a leap after all. From the first few groans and juggernaut kicks of opener "Teen Is Still Shaking", it becomes clear that Webb has come back to his first love: hard rock. Ancestor is a Porterhouse-thick compendium on rock: From the golden 1970s to the muddy 90s, J Mascis to Kim Thayil, leather to denim, David Allan Coe rebel honky-tonk to Paul Westerberg's scrappy white boy blues, Webb is all over the map here and much of the album's fun is found in spotting footnotes, every lick and flourish arriving to as much sweet bewilderment as many of the pop snippets sewn together on a Girl Talk party jam. If you're a guitar rock junkie. If not, Ancestor's still impressive. Though he flirts dangerously with rock's pitfalls, Webb's developed a strong ear for fusing all these elements and styles together his own way without coming off like a cornball. This, from a man with a catcher's mitt voice like Mellencamp's (Don't run! It's awesome!) and a gift for radioactive solos that could both unzip dresses and leave shiners. Two of said solos bookend the monstrous "God Bless the Little Angels"; more sensible men would probably place an eight-minute study in psychedelic uppercuts somewhere in the waning breaths of an album, but the Visions switch to kill fairly quickly. "Patience & Fortitude" is a great name for an acoustic sigh that requires both, while "Isle of Grizzly White" and "Shame" feel like throwaways unable to subsist on faceless crunch alone. Which is precisely why closer "Time to Go" saves the day by showing some restraint. Clocking in at just over three minutes but still containing all the lard-less dreamweaving you'd expect, it's a nice parting gift that even features vocals from Love as Laughter's Sam Jayne. Webb's dalliances with purist blues were a respectful, accurate channeling but this feels more like home. Where Phantom Parade tapped that vein so specifically, Ancestor opens floodgates similar to the giant door that sits front and center on its cover. Just consider growing your hair out a bit longer before you head inside."

Daft Punk, Leiji Matsumoto

Interstella 5555: The 5tory of the 5ecret 5tar 5ystem

Electronic

Nick Sylvester

Nearly three years later, Daft Punk's 2001 gem Discovery, for better or worse, refuses to fade away. For worse, the atrocious Discovery remix project, Daft Club, found the release it never should have earlier this year, and instantly became the frontrunner for 2004's most dire audio abortion. For (much) better, the French duo debuted Interstella 5555: The 5tory of the 5ecret 5tar 5ystem at the in-Cannes film festival Quinzaine des Realisateurs in May 2003. The duo had worked for two years on the film with Leiji Matsumoto, one of Japan's most celebrated manga and anime artists, and the result was an animated musical with Discovery as its score, which mixed "science-fiction with the decadent world of show-business, limousines with spaceships." It was finally released on DVD in December. Like Pink Floyd's The Wall, the music for Discovery and the storyline for Interstella 5555 were conceived simultaneously. The videos for "One More Time" and "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger", which had both seen a fair bit of MTV rotation around the time of the album's release, were not simply clever vignettes for the songs, nor was Discovery purely a film score-- in fact, Interstella 5555 makes clear the degree to which each influenced the shape of the other. Ultimately, Daft Punk intended Discovery to be heard in the context of Interstella 5555, and it's no wonder: Matsumoto's animation enlivens some of the less formidable tracks, and the details of scenes in Interstella 5555 often are inspired by the music itself. The project was an ambitious undertaking for both Daft Punk and Matsumoto, who were forced to communicate through a bilingual friend. For the uninformed, it's worth noting how enormous an accomplishment it was that Daft Punk were able to enlist Matsumoto. The 66 year-old, who was awarded the Japanese Cultural Award in 2001 for outstanding national contribution (Matsumoto is responsible for 25 years of film productions, including Galaxy Express 999, Arcadia, and Star Blazers, which, after Akira, are some of the country's most revered anime), legitimates Interstella 5555 as a serious anime film, replete with subtle intertextual references to other series and Matsumoto's own work. Each of Interstella 5555's character betrays the different styles of animation Matsumoto has taken up throughout his career, and Stella, the female guitarist and lead heroine, is practically a scarless Emeraldas. Scenes follow the sequence and corresponding moods of Discovery's original tracklist; the opening concert scene of "One More Time" boasts lush Jem-rock colors and, more interestingly, what seems to be Matsumoto's first bout with animating characters who speak English. The words themselves do not correspond perfectly to how they're mouthed, lending a certain vulnerability to the characters that stays with them throughout the musical. Matsumoto does not have any of the Crescendolls speak thereafter, and since the track sequencing has more or less been determined, the burden is on him to communicate the story entirely through his animation and its interaction with the music as it changes tenor. His facility reveals itself right away, as the band is kidnapped to the moody second track Aerodynamic, and perhaps most perfectly during "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger", as the band is systematically dismantled, reprocessed, and spit out onto Earth as The Crescendolls. For the song, Matsumoto chooses to highlight the simple mechanics of the factory machines operating on the band, offering a formidable interpretation of the song's robotic lyrics and commercial implications. The record industry and its stereotypical abuse of the artist comprises the main topos of Interstella 5555, and indeed the main antagonist, Earl de Darkwood, is a perfectly stodgy, heartless profiteer who cares less about supporting music and artists than racking up enough gold album awards to-- so the plot goes-- conquer the entire universe. That said, it would be rash to accuse Daft Punk of biting the Virgin hand that feeds it, or to say that Interstella 5555 exists purely as a careful subversion of the record industry's supposedly shifty practices. If anything, the film is a sensational execution of a relevant stereotype; Daft Punk and Leiji Matsumoto are less concerned with making some cultural critique than they are with telling a story. How well Matsumoto is able to overcome the lack of dialogue is truly fascinating, as he instead relies on his ability to craft extremely nuanced body language for the characters. The Crescendolls' entire career on Earth happens without a smile; Stella is always on the verge of tears; when Darkwood forces Stella to shake the hand of a fan (she is reluctant, of course, since is being forced to make physical contact with an entirely alien species), the frame becomes still, and she stares at her own hand in utter despair. Countless moments find Matsumoto exhibiting levels of artistic consideration on par with some of his best work. Moreover, his delicate use of humor keeps the film from a tempting degree of melodrama that Matsumoto knows when to restrain and when to let loose. Put simply, Interstella 5555 is both fine anime and the ultimate context for its more-than-soundtrack Discovery. Taken as a whole, it's the fantastic culmination of years of artistic dedication.

Artist: Daft Punk, Leiji Matsumoto, Album: Interstella 5555: The 5tory of the 5ecret 5tar 5ystem, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Nearly three years later, Daft Punk's 2001 gem Discovery, for better or worse, refuses to fade away. For worse, the atrocious Discovery remix project, Daft Club, found the release it never should have earlier this year, and instantly became the frontrunner for 2004's most dire audio abortion. For (much) better, the French duo debuted Interstella 5555: The 5tory of the 5ecret 5tar 5ystem at the in-Cannes film festival Quinzaine des Realisateurs in May 2003. The duo had worked for two years on the film with Leiji Matsumoto, one of Japan's most celebrated manga and anime artists, and the result was an animated musical with Discovery as its score, which mixed "science-fiction with the decadent world of show-business, limousines with spaceships." It was finally released on DVD in December. Like Pink Floyd's The Wall, the music for Discovery and the storyline for Interstella 5555 were conceived simultaneously. The videos for "One More Time" and "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger", which had both seen a fair bit of MTV rotation around the time of the album's release, were not simply clever vignettes for the songs, nor was Discovery purely a film score-- in fact, Interstella 5555 makes clear the degree to which each influenced the shape of the other. Ultimately, Daft Punk intended Discovery to be heard in the context of Interstella 5555, and it's no wonder: Matsumoto's animation enlivens some of the less formidable tracks, and the details of scenes in Interstella 5555 often are inspired by the music itself. The project was an ambitious undertaking for both Daft Punk and Matsumoto, who were forced to communicate through a bilingual friend. For the uninformed, it's worth noting how enormous an accomplishment it was that Daft Punk were able to enlist Matsumoto. The 66 year-old, who was awarded the Japanese Cultural Award in 2001 for outstanding national contribution (Matsumoto is responsible for 25 years of film productions, including Galaxy Express 999, Arcadia, and Star Blazers, which, after Akira, are some of the country's most revered anime), legitimates Interstella 5555 as a serious anime film, replete with subtle intertextual references to other series and Matsumoto's own work. Each of Interstella 5555's character betrays the different styles of animation Matsumoto has taken up throughout his career, and Stella, the female guitarist and lead heroine, is practically a scarless Emeraldas. Scenes follow the sequence and corresponding moods of Discovery's original tracklist; the opening concert scene of "One More Time" boasts lush Jem-rock colors and, more interestingly, what seems to be Matsumoto's first bout with animating characters who speak English. The words themselves do not correspond perfectly to how they're mouthed, lending a certain vulnerability to the characters that stays with them throughout the musical. Matsumoto does not have any of the Crescendolls speak thereafter, and since the track sequencing has more or less been determined, the burden is on him to communicate the story entirely through his animation and its interaction with the music as it changes tenor. His facility reveals itself right away, as the band is kidnapped to the moody second track Aerodynamic, and perhaps most perfectly during "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger", as the band is systematically dismantled, reprocessed, and spit out onto Earth as The Crescendolls. For the song, Matsumoto chooses to highlight the simple mechanics of the factory machines operating on the band, offering a formidable interpretation of the song's robotic lyrics and commercial implications. The record industry and its stereotypical abuse of the artist comprises the main topos of Interstella 5555, and indeed the main antagonist, Earl de Darkwood, is a perfectly stodgy, heartless profiteer who cares less about supporting music and artists than racking up enough gold album awards to-- so the plot goes-- conquer the entire universe. That said, it would be rash to accuse Daft Punk of biting the Virgin hand that feeds it, or to say that Interstella 5555 exists purely as a careful subversion of the record industry's supposedly shifty practices. If anything, the film is a sensational execution of a relevant stereotype; Daft Punk and Leiji Matsumoto are less concerned with making some cultural critique than they are with telling a story. How well Matsumoto is able to overcome the lack of dialogue is truly fascinating, as he instead relies on his ability to craft extremely nuanced body language for the characters. The Crescendolls' entire career on Earth happens without a smile; Stella is always on the verge of tears; when Darkwood forces Stella to shake the hand of a fan (she is reluctant, of course, since is being forced to make physical contact with an entirely alien species), the frame becomes still, and she stares at her own hand in utter despair. Countless moments find Matsumoto exhibiting levels of artistic consideration on par with some of his best work. Moreover, his delicate use of humor keeps the film from a tempting degree of melodrama that Matsumoto knows when to restrain and when to let loose. Put simply, Interstella 5555 is both fine anime and the ultimate context for its more-than-soundtrack Discovery. Taken as a whole, it's the fantastic culmination of years of artistic dedication."

Iron & Wine

The Sea and The Rhythm EP

Folk/Country

Jascha Hoffman

It struck everyone as a little weird that Sub Pop would be the one to issue Sam Beam's hushed folk debut. From a distance, Beam's lo-fi compositions sounded like a Harry Smith field recording plucked away by Nick Drake with Crosby, Stills & Nash on backup. But close up it was all about the poetry: concrete, ambiguous, and laced with tender irony. Since Beam compares himself to J.J. Cale, and I'd even compare his lyrical style to Beck's Apollinaire-grade symbolism on Mutations, maybe it's not so weird that he's on Nirvana's label after all. "I think I work with the visual a lot when I write," the part-time musician and full-time Miami film teacher once said. And The Creek Drank the Cradle was unabashedly concrete, studded with disarming pick-up lines like, "The water's there to warm you/ And the earth is warmer/ When you laugh," and, "Needlework and seedlings/ In the way you're walking." Its songs also sank into little moments still warm with loss-- small enough to get inside you, but general enough to fill you with an after-the-fact numbness recognizable as love. Mothers lost sons, daughters lost fathers, lovers lost love, and each song somehow contained a bit of each. Strikingly, the singers on The Creek Drank the Cradle keep losing their religion, too: outgrowing the bonds of belief, losing their fear of the Lord, letting their mothers' bibles burn. One of them even looks back to see a long-extinct love as a kind of unrecoverable faith: "Found your rosary broken to pieces/ Every night by the bed you'd kiss the beads." Still, the crucifixion is the greatest myth of loss we have, and it's no shock that a lyricist soaked in southern allegory should adapt it for his own purposes. There's even a defiantly un-Christian ring to resurrection one-liners like, "Frozen, the ground refused to die/ And the guitar rose again." But while the textures, tempos, and diction of the five short songs on The Sea & The Rhythm EP are consistent with what Iron & Wine has been-- and probably will always be-- the theme of loss has itself gone. In its place, Beam pushes trembling expectation, ecstatic abandon, and plain-faced repentance. Now, not one of these faded songs screams old-time religion, but it seems fair to wonder if there is a little revival going on here. "Beneath the Balcony" is a loping folk ballad telling the grim story of a warrior reduced to begging while some kids wait out a storm and "make sure the king won't grant the dead man one more day." At this point, it's an ambiguous parable with a crypto-Christian vibe worthy of C.S. Lewis. But when the Mother Mary appears begging with Christ on her lap, there's no question we're dealing with a gospel story. The song ends with a kid crouched behind a garbage can "who waits for the king to come/ And holds his sweating hand." Salvation, anyone? The super-sweet title track, a hymn to sensual connection, is driven by its rare present-tense setting, but still sags. It draws its force from an ambiguity (is the "we" here lover/lover or mother/infant?) all a little too cheaply bought by come-ons like, "The milk from your breast is on my lips." Maybe the singer gets off by playing baby Jesus with grown women. Or maybe I just had to get a Jesus reference in for every song. At least I won't have to try for the last two. The next track is a parable of sin and redemption masquerading as a nursery rhyme. Some Mexican kid-- called, you guessed it, Jesus-- was born in a truck on the fourth of July. A mobile manger for an American nativity scene. With fireworks blooming above like a star in the East, this selfless little immigrant gives the singer the best playing card in his grubby little deck. Such a pure act opens a space for Beam's trademark muffled irony, the kind of brutal understatement common on the LP but up to now absent on this EP: "He never wanted nothing I remember/ Maybe a broken bottle if I had two." Jesus covers for the singer, lets him break a five-dollar bet, and generally assumes his sins. Then, in an oddly specific twist, when the singer succumbs to temptation by secretly eloping to Vegas with Jesus' sister, the beatific child-god is there to greet them: "Naked, the Judas in me/ Fell by the tracks but he lifted me high/ Kissing my head like a brother and never asking why." Unmistakably salvific. The last track goes down easy but is extremely hard to digest. "Someday the Waves" opens with a man waking at dawn to look down on his lover's face in wonder. The chorus seems like a sober display of faithfulness ("You pick a place that's where I'll be") until some cryptic and perverse forbearance slips in, Matthew-style: "Time, like your cheek, has turned for me." This could mean a number of things: the singer is marking time by his sleeping lover's tossing and turning; the lover's pallid complexion means the singer is running out of time; or, as the lover has patiently taken a beating, the singer has simply gotten older. The next verse promises a pie-in-the-sky day of redemption when "every aching old machine will feel no pain," but neglects to follow through with a credible image of relief. It's the last verse that adds an oddly appropriate twist: "Waking before you I'm like the Lord/ Who sees his love though we don't know." Sure, it's a simile, but if you think about it, Sam Beam would make a great Holy Spirit. With a full-length album out by next Easter, he's got this Jew's vote for American Jesus in 2004.

Artist: Iron & Wine, Album: The Sea and The Rhythm EP, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "It struck everyone as a little weird that Sub Pop would be the one to issue Sam Beam's hushed folk debut. From a distance, Beam's lo-fi compositions sounded like a Harry Smith field recording plucked away by Nick Drake with Crosby, Stills & Nash on backup. But close up it was all about the poetry: concrete, ambiguous, and laced with tender irony. Since Beam compares himself to J.J. Cale, and I'd even compare his lyrical style to Beck's Apollinaire-grade symbolism on Mutations, maybe it's not so weird that he's on Nirvana's label after all. "I think I work with the visual a lot when I write," the part-time musician and full-time Miami film teacher once said. And The Creek Drank the Cradle was unabashedly concrete, studded with disarming pick-up lines like, "The water's there to warm you/ And the earth is warmer/ When you laugh," and, "Needlework and seedlings/ In the way you're walking." Its songs also sank into little moments still warm with loss-- small enough to get inside you, but general enough to fill you with an after-the-fact numbness recognizable as love. Mothers lost sons, daughters lost fathers, lovers lost love, and each song somehow contained a bit of each. Strikingly, the singers on The Creek Drank the Cradle keep losing their religion, too: outgrowing the bonds of belief, losing their fear of the Lord, letting their mothers' bibles burn. One of them even looks back to see a long-extinct love as a kind of unrecoverable faith: "Found your rosary broken to pieces/ Every night by the bed you'd kiss the beads." Still, the crucifixion is the greatest myth of loss we have, and it's no shock that a lyricist soaked in southern allegory should adapt it for his own purposes. There's even a defiantly un-Christian ring to resurrection one-liners like, "Frozen, the ground refused to die/ And the guitar rose again." But while the textures, tempos, and diction of the five short songs on The Sea & The Rhythm EP are consistent with what Iron & Wine has been-- and probably will always be-- the theme of loss has itself gone. In its place, Beam pushes trembling expectation, ecstatic abandon, and plain-faced repentance. Now, not one of these faded songs screams old-time religion, but it seems fair to wonder if there is a little revival going on here. "Beneath the Balcony" is a loping folk ballad telling the grim story of a warrior reduced to begging while some kids wait out a storm and "make sure the king won't grant the dead man one more day." At this point, it's an ambiguous parable with a crypto-Christian vibe worthy of C.S. Lewis. But when the Mother Mary appears begging with Christ on her lap, there's no question we're dealing with a gospel story. The song ends with a kid crouched behind a garbage can "who waits for the king to come/ And holds his sweating hand." Salvation, anyone? The super-sweet title track, a hymn to sensual connection, is driven by its rare present-tense setting, but still sags. It draws its force from an ambiguity (is the "we" here lover/lover or mother/infant?) all a little too cheaply bought by come-ons like, "The milk from your breast is on my lips." Maybe the singer gets off by playing baby Jesus with grown women. Or maybe I just had to get a Jesus reference in for every song. At least I won't have to try for the last two. The next track is a parable of sin and redemption masquerading as a nursery rhyme. Some Mexican kid-- called, you guessed it, Jesus-- was born in a truck on the fourth of July. A mobile manger for an American nativity scene. With fireworks blooming above like a star in the East, this selfless little immigrant gives the singer the best playing card in his grubby little deck. Such a pure act opens a space for Beam's trademark muffled irony, the kind of brutal understatement common on the LP but up to now absent on this EP: "He never wanted nothing I remember/ Maybe a broken bottle if I had two." Jesus covers for the singer, lets him break a five-dollar bet, and generally assumes his sins. Then, in an oddly specific twist, when the singer succumbs to temptation by secretly eloping to Vegas with Jesus' sister, the beatific child-god is there to greet them: "Naked, the Judas in me/ Fell by the tracks but he lifted me high/ Kissing my head like a brother and never asking why." Unmistakably salvific. The last track goes down easy but is extremely hard to digest. "Someday the Waves" opens with a man waking at dawn to look down on his lover's face in wonder. The chorus seems like a sober display of faithfulness ("You pick a place that's where I'll be") until some cryptic and perverse forbearance slips in, Matthew-style: "Time, like your cheek, has turned for me." This could mean a number of things: the singer is marking time by his sleeping lover's tossing and turning; the lover's pallid complexion means the singer is running out of time; or, as the lover has patiently taken a beating, the singer has simply gotten older. The next verse promises a pie-in-the-sky day of redemption when "every aching old machine will feel no pain," but neglects to follow through with a credible image of relief. It's the last verse that adds an oddly appropriate twist: "Waking before you I'm like the Lord/ Who sees his love though we don't know." Sure, it's a simile, but if you think about it, Sam Beam would make a great Holy Spirit. With a full-length album out by next Easter, he's got this Jew's vote for American Jesus in 2004."

Calexico, Iron & Wine

In the Reins EP

Rock,Folk/Country

Joe Tangari

Why didn't somebody think of this sooner? It's not a fair question, but it's an easy one to ask once you've heard the seven-track In the Reins, the first in what, if we're all very lucky, will be a series of collaborations between Iron & Wine and Calexico. Iron & Wine's Beam and Calexico's Joey Burns sound heavenly harmonizing with each other, especially when guest vocalist Natalie Wyants joins them. Neither is an exceptional vocalist on his own, both occasionally lapsing to a whisper, but those hushed, gently melodic cords singing in unison make magic. Beam is the principle songwriter and vocalist on the album, and he's written some A material for the record, admirably putting his all into it instead of offering up some throwaway stuff and hoping Calexico can do something with it. What ultimately ends up happening is Calexico's sense of cinematic grandeur and eclecticism imbues Beam's melodies and lyrics with an expansiveness that his humid Floridian folk doesn't usually have. Shades of jazz and country creep in, and they even tackle straightahead California pop on "History of Lovers". The only ingredients from Calexico's usual recipe that are absent are dub and mariachi, but they employ their arsenal so sympathetically to Beam's vision that an unschooled listener might never guess that this wasn't a proper, working band. Calexico are no strangers to backing other singers-- Burns and drummer John Convertino began playing together as Howe Gelb's rhythm section in Giant Sand, and they've contributed to dozens of LPs by other artists over the years. The core duo of Calexico brings along most of the collective of Southwestern musicians that enlivens their own albums-- Paul Niehaus's lap steel, in particular, helps to shape the sound of the album. "Prison on Route 41" and "16, Maybe Less" both traffic in hushed country 'n' western tones, but are arranged in such a way that vocals give way to instrumental passages so smoothly that the solos don't feel at all like showcases. There isn't a disappointing song on the EP (mini-album might actually be a better word for it), but it's worth noting a couple of stand-outs. Opener "He Lays in the Reins" is a subtle waltz stuffed with flourishes of acoustic guitar and brushed drums that almost two minutes in introduces the operatic Spanish vocals of Salvador Duran, a complete leftfield move that proves as inspired on subsequent listens as it does jarring on the first listen. But the real highlight is also the biggest shock: "History of Lovers" is what Fleetwood Mac's Rumours might have sounded like if it had been recorded in Memphis, complete with steel guitar trim and a great horn arrangement to go with some stunning harmonies and an unbelievable vocal melody. Whether or not Iron & Wine and Calexico ever choose to follow this up with another collaboration (fingers crossed), it's clear that both acts are stronger for having worked with the other. It'll be interesting to see what comes next for Iron & Wine and Calexico and how this affects their work apart from each other. In the meantime, we can hope that this isn't a one-time-only engagement.

Artist: Calexico, Iron & Wine, Album: In the Reins EP, Genre: Rock,Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "Why didn't somebody think of this sooner? It's not a fair question, but it's an easy one to ask once you've heard the seven-track In the Reins, the first in what, if we're all very lucky, will be a series of collaborations between Iron & Wine and Calexico. Iron & Wine's Beam and Calexico's Joey Burns sound heavenly harmonizing with each other, especially when guest vocalist Natalie Wyants joins them. Neither is an exceptional vocalist on his own, both occasionally lapsing to a whisper, but those hushed, gently melodic cords singing in unison make magic. Beam is the principle songwriter and vocalist on the album, and he's written some A material for the record, admirably putting his all into it instead of offering up some throwaway stuff and hoping Calexico can do something with it. What ultimately ends up happening is Calexico's sense of cinematic grandeur and eclecticism imbues Beam's melodies and lyrics with an expansiveness that his humid Floridian folk doesn't usually have. Shades of jazz and country creep in, and they even tackle straightahead California pop on "History of Lovers". The only ingredients from Calexico's usual recipe that are absent are dub and mariachi, but they employ their arsenal so sympathetically to Beam's vision that an unschooled listener might never guess that this wasn't a proper, working band. Calexico are no strangers to backing other singers-- Burns and drummer John Convertino began playing together as Howe Gelb's rhythm section in Giant Sand, and they've contributed to dozens of LPs by other artists over the years. The core duo of Calexico brings along most of the collective of Southwestern musicians that enlivens their own albums-- Paul Niehaus's lap steel, in particular, helps to shape the sound of the album. "Prison on Route 41" and "16, Maybe Less" both traffic in hushed country 'n' western tones, but are arranged in such a way that vocals give way to instrumental passages so smoothly that the solos don't feel at all like showcases. There isn't a disappointing song on the EP (mini-album might actually be a better word for it), but it's worth noting a couple of stand-outs. Opener "He Lays in the Reins" is a subtle waltz stuffed with flourishes of acoustic guitar and brushed drums that almost two minutes in introduces the operatic Spanish vocals of Salvador Duran, a complete leftfield move that proves as inspired on subsequent listens as it does jarring on the first listen. But the real highlight is also the biggest shock: "History of Lovers" is what Fleetwood Mac's Rumours might have sounded like if it had been recorded in Memphis, complete with steel guitar trim and a great horn arrangement to go with some stunning harmonies and an unbelievable vocal melody. Whether or not Iron & Wine and Calexico ever choose to follow this up with another collaboration (fingers crossed), it's clear that both acts are stronger for having worked with the other. It'll be interesting to see what comes next for Iron & Wine and Calexico and how this affects their work apart from each other. In the meantime, we can hope that this isn't a one-time-only engagement."

Franco & le Tout Puissant OK Jazz

Francophonic, Vol. 1: 1953 - 1980

Mike Powell

This is the story of François Luambo Makiadi, who was born to a Congolese breadbaker in 1938, built a guitar when he was seven, released his first single at 15 (after peers nicknamed him Franco), became one of the most popular bandleaders in his country's history (before Mobutu Sese Seko's dictatorship nicknamed him le Grand Maître), fathered 18 kids, and burned a mark so indelible that state-run radio played his records for four days straight after he died in 1989. More than a businessman, lyricist, and guitarist, Franco was a musically innovative bandleader: someone who worked over old traditions, someone who refocused trends through own vision, someone who built genres. In his compositions, Afro-Cuban rumba that always sounded brittle and formulaic to me sounds pliant and flush with possibility. By slowing down a dance rhythm for "Likambo Ya Nana", he isn't just writing a slow dance, he's revealing and reengineering where accents in the music fall, he's changing its character and breathing patterns. Other recordings, like "Kinsiona", unfold in strange, protracted waltzes filled with the chatter of syncopated percussion-- styles that sound approachable but almost without precedent. The difference isn't between good and bad music, because there's plenty of expertly played music that follows formula-- it's between the work of musical thinkers and of musical entertainers . As far as I can tell, Franco was both. Not that I hush and murmur over Francophonic-- it's not always that poetic. Franco records are, primarily, music for the masses and their asses, even if his arrangements seem to give asses undue philosophical consideration. There's "AZDA", which I later found out was used as an ad for a Congolese Volkswagen dealership-- fortunate for them because it's exhaustingly catchy. There are children's choirs and snatches of conversation that remind me of hip-hop skits. He didn't just have a broad ear for great melodies; he had a mind to be sneaky with them, delaying the listener's gratification, stretching tunes out until they wind down somewhere you didn't expect them to. Though I don't know Lingala, I understand, second-hand, that Franco wasn't bad with lyrics, either, punning about how great his band, OK Jazz, was; cataloging the evils lovers do (force-feeding each other feces, apparently); flashing dialects that upset the government; and singing about AIDS just as people started realizing what it was (but after, as most agree, he started dying from it). OK Jazz were full of brilliant musicians and had a slew of vocalists, so Franco's presence can sometimes feel secondary. He sidestepped the center of attention to assume the subtler, more controlling role of directing where the audience's attention would focus. He occasionally sang, but the guitar was his true voice. On some songs-- first to memory is "Tcha Tcha Tcha de mi Amor"-- his playing suddenly sputters over the arrangement as if to remind his band who the fucking boss is. Francophonic , which spans two discs and the best years of his career, is an essential release, whether you know Franco's music or not, or even whether you know central African music or not. It does the important service of collecting his greatest music released stateside with stuff most of America has never heard.

Artist: Franco & le Tout Puissant OK Jazz, Album: Francophonic, Vol. 1: 1953 - 1980, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.8 Album review: "This is the story of François Luambo Makiadi, who was born to a Congolese breadbaker in 1938, built a guitar when he was seven, released his first single at 15 (after peers nicknamed him Franco), became one of the most popular bandleaders in his country's history (before Mobutu Sese Seko's dictatorship nicknamed him le Grand Maître), fathered 18 kids, and burned a mark so indelible that state-run radio played his records for four days straight after he died in 1989. More than a businessman, lyricist, and guitarist, Franco was a musically innovative bandleader: someone who worked over old traditions, someone who refocused trends through own vision, someone who built genres. In his compositions, Afro-Cuban rumba that always sounded brittle and formulaic to me sounds pliant and flush with possibility. By slowing down a dance rhythm for "Likambo Ya Nana", he isn't just writing a slow dance, he's revealing and reengineering where accents in the music fall, he's changing its character and breathing patterns. Other recordings, like "Kinsiona", unfold in strange, protracted waltzes filled with the chatter of syncopated percussion-- styles that sound approachable but almost without precedent. The difference isn't between good and bad music, because there's plenty of expertly played music that follows formula-- it's between the work of musical thinkers and of musical entertainers . As far as I can tell, Franco was both. Not that I hush and murmur over Francophonic-- it's not always that poetic. Franco records are, primarily, music for the masses and their asses, even if his arrangements seem to give asses undue philosophical consideration. There's "AZDA", which I later found out was used as an ad for a Congolese Volkswagen dealership-- fortunate for them because it's exhaustingly catchy. There are children's choirs and snatches of conversation that remind me of hip-hop skits. He didn't just have a broad ear for great melodies; he had a mind to be sneaky with them, delaying the listener's gratification, stretching tunes out until they wind down somewhere you didn't expect them to. Though I don't know Lingala, I understand, second-hand, that Franco wasn't bad with lyrics, either, punning about how great his band, OK Jazz, was; cataloging the evils lovers do (force-feeding each other feces, apparently); flashing dialects that upset the government; and singing about AIDS just as people started realizing what it was (but after, as most agree, he started dying from it). OK Jazz were full of brilliant musicians and had a slew of vocalists, so Franco's presence can sometimes feel secondary. He sidestepped the center of attention to assume the subtler, more controlling role of directing where the audience's attention would focus. He occasionally sang, but the guitar was his true voice. On some songs-- first to memory is "Tcha Tcha Tcha de mi Amor"-- his playing suddenly sputters over the arrangement as if to remind his band who the fucking boss is. Francophonic , which spans two discs and the best years of his career, is an essential release, whether you know Franco's music or not, or even whether you know central African music or not. It does the important service of collecting his greatest music released stateside with stuff most of America has never heard."

Junglepussy

Pregnant With Success

Rap

Anupa Mistry

Junglepussy is working within a lineage of comedic rappers, from Biz Markie to Ghostface Killah to Cam'ron and Action Bronson, rappers who elevate the muck and mundanity of life with zany non-sequiturs, ad libs, and references. In terms of sharp-witted artists who led to the increasingly rare seismic belly laughs on the subway this year, she's up there with novelist Paul Beatty, whose 2015 book The Sellout sent up American politics and culture in a way that proves good satire can change your truth. Junglepussy's Pregnant With Success is another reminder of how humor can bring the audience closer and form an emotional connection. It's as bright as Beatty's novel is dark, but they're both charmingly demented, sharp-witted, and necessary social critiques. They remind me how humor can transform literature and music, forms that often aren't as empirically funny as film and television, bringing the audience closer and forming an emotional connection. She has a rare confidence that's rooted in playfulness: "This pussy don't pop for you," she gloats on "Pop For You", a song with watery snares and a glitchy melody. The hook feels like she's playing a character, a parody of contemporary male rappers, but it's more of a roast that has its roots on the surreal experience of being a woman in 2015. It also riffs on the language of the oppressor, so to speak. Junglepussy spits: "You look up to these dudes to tell you who to screw/ What she'll look like if she your type/ Compliment her if she's light/ If she's black don't get her hype." The joke comes at the end, when she compares a guy who takes her to the zoo versus one who buys her leopard print lingerie: "I got niggas taking me to see live animals and you're pulling up with animal prints?" It's her perspective as a black woman, a regular woman, from New York City that makes this album transgressive. She raps as much about her voracious appetite as she does about fashion and sex. She references Money and Violence and haute Japanese eatery Nobu over a series of glossy melodies and booming bass courtesy of producer Shy Guy. She swiftly cycles through cadences that approximate the balloon-lunged bellowing of Ludacris and a spiky Da Brat flow. On "Country Boy", a song that feels like a nod to her Trinidadian and Jamaican roots, she channels Lady Saw's squawk and the grim commands of Buju Banton before issuing a whimsical sign-off: "I be dutty winin' down the Yellow Brick Road!" The beat on "Get to Steppin'" is the album's most aggressive: a synthetic Orientalist synth loop fights with battering bass and Junglepussy is in your face, exhorting you to step off whilst bigging herself up ("I was fuckin' with me when you wasn't"). It ends with a hilarious outro, a dorky jingle about online shopping and a rush of true swagger: "When your Fendi boots come in the mail, time to front on everyone in here." But mostly Junglepussy is pure idiosyncratic id; she is unapologetically crass ("If your face ain't a sitting place, fuck up out my face") and freewheeling. Pregnant With Success*'* appeal lies largely in hearing Junglepussy talk shit like one of the girls, with the aim of pulling apart the patriarchy as she experiences it. She uses humor, the voice curling with every joke, to replicate the situations and street corners of her own life. And when you're listening and laughing out loud on the subway, that's Junglepussy's smart truth-telling finding its way into yours.

Artist: Junglepussy, Album: Pregnant With Success, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Junglepussy is working within a lineage of comedic rappers, from Biz Markie to Ghostface Killah to Cam'ron and Action Bronson, rappers who elevate the muck and mundanity of life with zany non-sequiturs, ad libs, and references. In terms of sharp-witted artists who led to the increasingly rare seismic belly laughs on the subway this year, she's up there with novelist Paul Beatty, whose 2015 book The Sellout sent up American politics and culture in a way that proves good satire can change your truth. Junglepussy's Pregnant With Success is another reminder of how humor can bring the audience closer and form an emotional connection. It's as bright as Beatty's novel is dark, but they're both charmingly demented, sharp-witted, and necessary social critiques. They remind me how humor can transform literature and music, forms that often aren't as empirically funny as film and television, bringing the audience closer and forming an emotional connection. She has a rare confidence that's rooted in playfulness: "This pussy don't pop for you," she gloats on "Pop For You", a song with watery snares and a glitchy melody. The hook feels like she's playing a character, a parody of contemporary male rappers, but it's more of a roast that has its roots on the surreal experience of being a woman in 2015. It also riffs on the language of the oppressor, so to speak. Junglepussy spits: "You look up to these dudes to tell you who to screw/ What she'll look like if she your type/ Compliment her if she's light/ If she's black don't get her hype." The joke comes at the end, when she compares a guy who takes her to the zoo versus one who buys her leopard print lingerie: "I got niggas taking me to see live animals and you're pulling up with animal prints?" It's her perspective as a black woman, a regular woman, from New York City that makes this album transgressive. She raps as much about her voracious appetite as she does about fashion and sex. She references Money and Violence and haute Japanese eatery Nobu over a series of glossy melodies and booming bass courtesy of producer Shy Guy. She swiftly cycles through cadences that approximate the balloon-lunged bellowing of Ludacris and a spiky Da Brat flow. On "Country Boy", a song that feels like a nod to her Trinidadian and Jamaican roots, she channels Lady Saw's squawk and the grim commands of Buju Banton before issuing a whimsical sign-off: "I be dutty winin' down the Yellow Brick Road!" The beat on "Get to Steppin'" is the album's most aggressive: a synthetic Orientalist synth loop fights with battering bass and Junglepussy is in your face, exhorting you to step off whilst bigging herself up ("I was fuckin' with me when you wasn't"). It ends with a hilarious outro, a dorky jingle about online shopping and a rush of true swagger: "When your Fendi boots come in the mail, time to front on everyone in here." But mostly Junglepussy is pure idiosyncratic id; she is unapologetically crass ("If your face ain't a sitting place, fuck up out my face") and freewheeling. Pregnant With Success*'* appeal lies largely in hearing Junglepussy talk shit like one of the girls, with the aim of pulling apart the patriarchy as she experiences it. She uses humor, the voice curling with every joke, to replicate the situations and street corners of her own life. And when you're listening and laughing out loud on the subway, that's Junglepussy's smart truth-telling finding its way into yours."

Philip Jeck

Cardinal

Experimental

Grayson Haver Currin

At their best, the records of experimental British composer and producer Philip Jeck can make you reimagine the way you hear the world. For most of his career, Jeck has used the record and the record player as both primary inspiration and chief instrument. He processes the static sounds archived on forgotten LPs, sampling and obfuscating the source material until it yields and blurs into new pieces. Though he uses little but effects pedals and processors to transmogrify the music, it can seem at times that Jeck physically warps the grooves themselves, turning concentric circles into Catherine wheels or paisley vectors or interconnected figure eights. If hip-hop’s architects sampled aging sounds to create their own modern world, Jeck uses many of the same tools to create an alternate, individual one that he then invites you to enter. Jeck had been at this for decades when, 13 years ago, he seemed to find an enviable stride. Released between 2002 and 2008, a triptych of records—Stoke, 7, and Sand—turned his tests into solo turntable symphonies, fully formed compositions meant to be inhabited and analyzed. Jeck merged the audio on the records with the essence of the records, creating new music that popped and cracked beneath the charm of vinyl antiquity. The process seemed to break linear time by giving a universe of lost voices and performances new life at once. You, the listener, went away with Jeck and his record-store finds for a pleasant spell. But on Cardinal, Jeck’s first new album in five years, that motion and those feelings have calcified a bit. The edges of his sources and samples have hardened, as though he’s confronting the harsh exigencies of the moment rather than escaping to the drift and peace of fantasy. The voices and instruments Jeck once built around slink into the background here, ceding instead to an unexpectedly discomfiting vision. Brittle dins and soft tones, beautiful drones and static shocks participate in a theater of revolving reality and intentional violence. Jeck indeed created Cardinal with turntables, a technique best heard here through the fractured loop that anchors "Broke Up" or the sunbaked wobble that defines "The Station View". These 13 tracks, however, often feel powered more by their accessories—"Casio keyboards, Ibanez bass guitar, Sony MiniDisc players, Ibanez and Zoom effects pedals, assorted percussion, a Behringer mixer," he lists—than the source records. There are jarring moments, as during the menacing "Brief" or the lurid "Called In", that suggest Jeck has suddenly slammed his palm against a distortion pedal, like some much younger noise lord gunning for the set’s climax. During "Saint Pancras", he seems to shake sleigh bells in the distance; pitted against the neon whirr of his electronics, the addition is strangely disconcerting, like a threat voiced from the lips of a longtime ally. That is the prevailing sentiment of Cardinal, an album where Jeck’s general sense of wonder slips toward dystopian bewilderment. The move makes for a more fragmented listen than expected from Jeck, whose albums are typically immersive and enchanting. Still, the transition comes with unlikely rewards. Rendered in short spans that overlap until they form casual rhythms, the hovering bass and shredded treble of the terrific, terrifying "…bends the knee 1" recall the successes of the Haxan Cloak’s Excavation. During "Barrow in Furness (open thy hand wide)", Jeck slowly mutates a simple carousel melody until it becomes a dense web of ghastly oscillations, a little like Prurient’s electro phase. Yes, those are surprising references for a British sexagenarian with highbrow bona fides, but again, Jeck’s music has always recast the established world in a singular image. Does it come as any mystery that, now more than ever, he would conjure a setting as or more odious than our own? Records are now in vogue in ways they’ve never been during Jeck's career. For decades, he repurposed a medium that seemed bound for obsolescence. At times, his use of the LP felt like a moral imperative, a valiant attempt to spin voices and ideas and forms that might be lost. But records, of course, have become such desirable commodities that it’s now difficult to have them made due to an overburdened market that once seemed destined for dismantling. It’s fitting, then, that this is one of the least turntable-centric albums of Jeck’s career, rendered so that you may be able to hear it all without guessing at the signal path at all. Rather than try to stake some here-first claim with vinyl or turn his past with it into new cachet or credibility, Jeck has used the turntable as a platform for exploring larger sounds and asking bigger questions. Cardinal is a break in his once clear direction, and it’s not his most cohesive album. But it is a logical and necessary leap for Jeck, who has always turned at oblique angles so as to reorder the sounds around him.

Artist: Philip Jeck, Album: Cardinal, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "At their best, the records of experimental British composer and producer Philip Jeck can make you reimagine the way you hear the world. For most of his career, Jeck has used the record and the record player as both primary inspiration and chief instrument. He processes the static sounds archived on forgotten LPs, sampling and obfuscating the source material until it yields and blurs into new pieces. Though he uses little but effects pedals and processors to transmogrify the music, it can seem at times that Jeck physically warps the grooves themselves, turning concentric circles into Catherine wheels or paisley vectors or interconnected figure eights. If hip-hop’s architects sampled aging sounds to create their own modern world, Jeck uses many of the same tools to create an alternate, individual one that he then invites you to enter. Jeck had been at this for decades when, 13 years ago, he seemed to find an enviable stride. Released between 2002 and 2008, a triptych of records—Stoke, 7, and Sand—turned his tests into solo turntable symphonies, fully formed compositions meant to be inhabited and analyzed. Jeck merged the audio on the records with the essence of the records, creating new music that popped and cracked beneath the charm of vinyl antiquity. The process seemed to break linear time by giving a universe of lost voices and performances new life at once. You, the listener, went away with Jeck and his record-store finds for a pleasant spell. But on Cardinal, Jeck’s first new album in five years, that motion and those feelings have calcified a bit. The edges of his sources and samples have hardened, as though he’s confronting the harsh exigencies of the moment rather than escaping to the drift and peace of fantasy. The voices and instruments Jeck once built around slink into the background here, ceding instead to an unexpectedly discomfiting vision. Brittle dins and soft tones, beautiful drones and static shocks participate in a theater of revolving reality and intentional violence. Jeck indeed created Cardinal with turntables, a technique best heard here through the fractured loop that anchors "Broke Up" or the sunbaked wobble that defines "The Station View". These 13 tracks, however, often feel powered more by their accessories—"Casio keyboards, Ibanez bass guitar, Sony MiniDisc players, Ibanez and Zoom effects pedals, assorted percussion, a Behringer mixer," he lists—than the source records. There are jarring moments, as during the menacing "Brief" or the lurid "Called In", that suggest Jeck has suddenly slammed his palm against a distortion pedal, like some much younger noise lord gunning for the set’s climax. During "Saint Pancras", he seems to shake sleigh bells in the distance; pitted against the neon whirr of his electronics, the addition is strangely disconcerting, like a threat voiced from the lips of a longtime ally. That is the prevailing sentiment of Cardinal, an album where Jeck’s general sense of wonder slips toward dystopian bewilderment. The move makes for a more fragmented listen than expected from Jeck, whose albums are typically immersive and enchanting. Still, the transition comes with unlikely rewards. Rendered in short spans that overlap until they form casual rhythms, the hovering bass and shredded treble of the terrific, terrifying "…bends the knee 1" recall the successes of the Haxan Cloak’s Excavation. During "Barrow in Furness (open thy hand wide)", Jeck slowly mutates a simple carousel melody until it becomes a dense web of ghastly oscillations, a little like Prurient’s electro phase. Yes, those are surprising references for a British sexagenarian with highbrow bona fides, but again, Jeck’s music has always recast the established world in a singular image. Does it come as any mystery that, now more than ever, he would conjure a setting as or more odious than our own? Records are now in vogue in ways they’ve never been during Jeck's career. For decades, he repurposed a medium that seemed bound for obsolescence. At times, his use of the LP felt like a moral imperative, a valiant attempt to spin voices and ideas and forms that might be lost. But records, of course, have become such desirable commodities that it’s now difficult to have them made due to an overburdened market that once seemed destined for dismantling. It’s fitting, then, that this is one of the least turntable-centric albums of Jeck’s career, rendered so that you may be able to hear it all without guessing at the signal path at all. Rather than try to stake some here-first claim with vinyl or turn his past with it into new cachet or credibility, Jeck has used the turntable as a platform for exploring larger sounds and asking bigger questions. Cardinal is a break in his once clear direction, and it’s not his most cohesive album. But it is a logical and necessary leap for Jeck, who has always turned at oblique angles so as to reorder the sounds around him."

Nicolas Jaar

Pomegranates

Electronic

Mark Richardson

Nicolas Jaar has had the kind of career only possible in the digital era. After putting out a few singles, he released his one and only solo album, 2011's Space Is Only Noise, when he was 21 and still a student at Brown University. That record introduced a unique sensibility that centered on Jaar's expertly constructed slow-burn rhythms and his unusual voice, which looms between speaking, singing, and chanting in an almost comically low register. He had an aesthetic connection to minimal techno and its attendant fascination with dub, but his voice lent his music a pop sensibility that drew fans from outside electronic music circles. In the four years since, Jaar has done everything but follow up Space's success with another solo full-length. He steered the Other People label, which has a busy release schedule (including Jaar's own EPs) and has experimented with a subscription service. For a while he focused on Darkside, his psych-jam project with guitarist Dave Harrington, which got relatively huge until Jaar left it behind. He created installations and film soundtracks, started yet another duo, pulled off a full-album remix—Jaar's a multimedia artist, and the traditional album cycle doesn't fit his m.o. Pomegranates, an alternate soundtrack to Sergei Parajanov's 1969 avant-garde film* The Colour of Pomegranates*, is the producer's latest excursion, and it's one of his most unusual projects to date. The film, a non-linear depiction of the life of Armenian poet Sayat-Nova, has an ornate surrealism that for me brings to mind Matthew Barney, and the soundtrack often serves as a minimal contrast to the onscreen grandeur. Heard just as an album, Pomegranates often sounds like Jaar's version of musique concrète, with buzzing electronics, warped orchestral samples, and jittery recordings of scrapes and rustles coursing through the mix. Jaar's description of it as "a weird collage of the ambient music I had made over the last 2 years" is apt; it's an album of fragments, ranging from abstract sound design to pretty piano solos. There are long stretches, particularly in the early going, where it's more of a sound piece than what is usually described as "music", but the album's second half contains some of Jaar's loveliest tunes. While Jaar has always had a great ear for texture, his music has been defined by its rhythmic sense, a loping swing that has become his signature. Beats only crop up in a few places, and when they do, they snap you back to the producer's organizing aesthetic. "Shame", for example, with its processed vocal and slow groove, could easily be an interlude on a Darkside release. But the bulk of the record is filled with drifting tracks that defy classification. "Pass the Time" mixes room tone with a pinched vocal sample that sounds like it's been crumpled up and is being dragged around on a string. "The Fool and His Harem" sounds like broken Middle Eastern instruments half-playing a modal melody amid bursts of hiss. "Beasts of This Earth" brings to mind the near-music of Nuno Canavarro's Plux Quba, where tracks half feel like something that was found on the ground. If it's not always easy to locate Jaar in these soundscapes, there is always a lot to explore within them. Pomegranates' other notable element is something we've heard from Jaar since the beginning—piano, sometimes heard in isolation and sometimes mixed in with the electronics. "Nothingness" is almost unbearably delicate, as single notes are played and then electronically stretched into long and thin tendrils of sound. And the record's back half features the piano more prominently, most notably on the solo "Muse", which comes over like a nocturne mixed with a jazz ballad. The piano tracks serves as a kind of tentpole on the record, pulling it back whenever it threatens to seem too much like a collection of sound design without any particular shape. After the textures and the flow lure you in, the melodies rise to the surface, slowly, giving Pomegranates a quiet lingering power.

Artist: Nicolas Jaar, Album: Pomegranates, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Nicolas Jaar has had the kind of career only possible in the digital era. After putting out a few singles, he released his one and only solo album, 2011's Space Is Only Noise, when he was 21 and still a student at Brown University. That record introduced a unique sensibility that centered on Jaar's expertly constructed slow-burn rhythms and his unusual voice, which looms between speaking, singing, and chanting in an almost comically low register. He had an aesthetic connection to minimal techno and its attendant fascination with dub, but his voice lent his music a pop sensibility that drew fans from outside electronic music circles. In the four years since, Jaar has done everything but follow up Space's success with another solo full-length. He steered the Other People label, which has a busy release schedule (including Jaar's own EPs) and has experimented with a subscription service. For a while he focused on Darkside, his psych-jam project with guitarist Dave Harrington, which got relatively huge until Jaar left it behind. He created installations and film soundtracks, started yet another duo, pulled off a full-album remix—Jaar's a multimedia artist, and the traditional album cycle doesn't fit his m.o. Pomegranates, an alternate soundtrack to Sergei Parajanov's 1969 avant-garde film* The Colour of Pomegranates*, is the producer's latest excursion, and it's one of his most unusual projects to date. The film, a non-linear depiction of the life of Armenian poet Sayat-Nova, has an ornate surrealism that for me brings to mind Matthew Barney, and the soundtrack often serves as a minimal contrast to the onscreen grandeur. Heard just as an album, Pomegranates often sounds like Jaar's version of musique concrète, with buzzing electronics, warped orchestral samples, and jittery recordings of scrapes and rustles coursing through the mix. Jaar's description of it as "a weird collage of the ambient music I had made over the last 2 years" is apt; it's an album of fragments, ranging from abstract sound design to pretty piano solos. There are long stretches, particularly in the early going, where it's more of a sound piece than what is usually described as "music", but the album's second half contains some of Jaar's loveliest tunes. While Jaar has always had a great ear for texture, his music has been defined by its rhythmic sense, a loping swing that has become his signature. Beats only crop up in a few places, and when they do, they snap you back to the producer's organizing aesthetic. "Shame", for example, with its processed vocal and slow groove, could easily be an interlude on a Darkside release. But the bulk of the record is filled with drifting tracks that defy classification. "Pass the Time" mixes room tone with a pinched vocal sample that sounds like it's been crumpled up and is being dragged around on a string. "The Fool and His Harem" sounds like broken Middle Eastern instruments half-playing a modal melody amid bursts of hiss. "Beasts of This Earth" brings to mind the near-music of Nuno Canavarro's Plux Quba, where tracks half feel like something that was found on the ground. If it's not always easy to locate Jaar in these soundscapes, there is always a lot to explore within them. Pomegranates' other notable element is something we've heard from Jaar since the beginning—piano, sometimes heard in isolation and sometimes mixed in with the electronics. "Nothingness" is almost unbearably delicate, as single notes are played and then electronically stretched into long and thin tendrils of sound. And the record's back half features the piano more prominently, most notably on the solo "Muse", which comes over like a nocturne mixed with a jazz ballad. The piano tracks serves as a kind of tentpole on the record, pulling it back whenever it threatens to seem too much like a collection of sound design without any particular shape. After the textures and the flow lure you in, the melodies rise to the surface, slowly, giving Pomegranates a quiet lingering power."

Jamie Lidell

Multiply

Pop/R&B

Mark Pytlik

I first heard Multiply a few months ago, via mp3, without any accompanying press releases or literature to help contextualize it. A significant break from Jamie Lidell's prior work both as a solo laptop artist on Warp and as one half of Super_Collider (Chilean techno terrorist Christian Vogel carries the other half of that amulet), its breezy soul had me dreaming up back stories. Maybe these were all guest vocalists. Maybe Warp's promobot purposely mislabelled some old Stax record to put me off the scent. Maybe Lidell did some Logic voodoo on a vault of old soul reels and repurposed a bunch of lesser-heard Motown gems to fit a glitchier, Warp-friendly palette. The real answer was simpler than that. Nearly five years in the making, Multiply represents Lidell's dramatic transformation from a knob-twiddling laptopper to a red-blooded soul singer. Where Lidell's prior solo work enjoyed a well-earned reputation for being difficult and forbidding, Multiply is among the most accessible records Warp has ever released. Backed by instrumentation from the likes of Berlinite squatters such as Mocky and Gonzales, and fleshed out by Lidell's robust, full-bodied voice, Multiply has the spirit of classic Motown and Stax. Whether in the breezy, sun-drenched title track, the soulful creep of "This Time" or the closing ballad "Game For Fools", it's obvious that Lidell isn't afraid of channeling (or repeating) history. But while the song structures and Lidell's vocal style owe boatloads to the 60s and 70s, there's also a modern programming style at work here that separates him from modern day revivalists like, say, Sharon Jones. Listen to Multiply once and you'll be struck by how reverent it is; listen to it three times and you'll start to notice the microscopic digital artifacts and subtle tweaks that give it personality and pop. For all the talk about it being a throwback record, it's also true that a handful of these tracks probably couldn't have been made in 1995, much less '65. The wet funk of first single "When I Come Around" takes glitchy liberties with its percussion track and includes a stunning middle-8 where Lidell's vocal gets chopped, sliced and sprinkled over a merry-go-round; the goofy "A Little Bit More" sounds like nu-soul run through a slapstick plugin; the delirious funk of "Newme" is a nine-layer cake of boom-bap, Rhodes and horns, about six levels of which had to have been built after the fact, in the studio, on a computer. Anyway, if the Maximo Park record wasn't enough to signify the end of days for the Warp of old, this should do the trick. Not just because it's one of the label's most commercially viable releases in forever, but because it goes to great lengths to lovingly namecheck the very strands of soul (i.e. Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Stevie Wonder, etc.) that the old Warp very fastidiously avoided. While I'm not sure that people have as strong a sense of brand loyalty to Warp anymore, this is probably still going to go down in electronic music circles as one of the year's most polarizing records. But don't let the naysayers keep you from hearing this before the winter rolls around; boasting 10 gorgeous songs over a trim 40 minutes, this is exactly the kind of record you need in your summer.

Artist: Jamie Lidell, Album: Multiply, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "I first heard Multiply a few months ago, via mp3, without any accompanying press releases or literature to help contextualize it. A significant break from Jamie Lidell's prior work both as a solo laptop artist on Warp and as one half of Super_Collider (Chilean techno terrorist Christian Vogel carries the other half of that amulet), its breezy soul had me dreaming up back stories. Maybe these were all guest vocalists. Maybe Warp's promobot purposely mislabelled some old Stax record to put me off the scent. Maybe Lidell did some Logic voodoo on a vault of old soul reels and repurposed a bunch of lesser-heard Motown gems to fit a glitchier, Warp-friendly palette. The real answer was simpler than that. Nearly five years in the making, Multiply represents Lidell's dramatic transformation from a knob-twiddling laptopper to a red-blooded soul singer. Where Lidell's prior solo work enjoyed a well-earned reputation for being difficult and forbidding, Multiply is among the most accessible records Warp has ever released. Backed by instrumentation from the likes of Berlinite squatters such as Mocky and Gonzales, and fleshed out by Lidell's robust, full-bodied voice, Multiply has the spirit of classic Motown and Stax. Whether in the breezy, sun-drenched title track, the soulful creep of "This Time" or the closing ballad "Game For Fools", it's obvious that Lidell isn't afraid of channeling (or repeating) history. But while the song structures and Lidell's vocal style owe boatloads to the 60s and 70s, there's also a modern programming style at work here that separates him from modern day revivalists like, say, Sharon Jones. Listen to Multiply once and you'll be struck by how reverent it is; listen to it three times and you'll start to notice the microscopic digital artifacts and subtle tweaks that give it personality and pop. For all the talk about it being a throwback record, it's also true that a handful of these tracks probably couldn't have been made in 1995, much less '65. The wet funk of first single "When I Come Around" takes glitchy liberties with its percussion track and includes a stunning middle-8 where Lidell's vocal gets chopped, sliced and sprinkled over a merry-go-round; the goofy "A Little Bit More" sounds like nu-soul run through a slapstick plugin; the delirious funk of "Newme" is a nine-layer cake of boom-bap, Rhodes and horns, about six levels of which had to have been built after the fact, in the studio, on a computer. Anyway, if the Maximo Park record wasn't enough to signify the end of days for the Warp of old, this should do the trick. Not just because it's one of the label's most commercially viable releases in forever, but because it goes to great lengths to lovingly namecheck the very strands of soul (i.e. Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Stevie Wonder, etc.) that the old Warp very fastidiously avoided. While I'm not sure that people have as strong a sense of brand loyalty to Warp anymore, this is probably still going to go down in electronic music circles as one of the year's most polarizing records. But don't let the naysayers keep you from hearing this before the winter rolls around; boasting 10 gorgeous songs over a trim 40 minutes, this is exactly the kind of record you need in your summer."

Drive-By Truckers

English Oceans

Rock

Ian Cohen

Drive-By Truckers don’t owe us shit. They’ve never made a bad or even a mediocre album in their two decades, even though they’ve given themselves many opportunities to do so. And considering their occasionally acrimonious lineup changes and bold conceptual gambits, they’d have many valid excuses if that fate were to come to pass. But depending on your affinity for 2008’s generous-to-a-fault Brighter Than Creation’s Dark, it’s either been six years or 10 since their last truly great album. English Oceans isn’t great, but it’s not mediocre and certainly not bad—but its reception most likely will be predicated on whether or not you think Drive-By Truckers owe you anything more than a “Drive-By Truckers album.” They seemed due for a shake up, particularly after the hiatus occurring following 2011’s Go-Go Boots. Bassist Shonna Tucker (who started contributing songs and vocals on Brighter) and pedal-steel specialist John Neff left the band, while founding members Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley both made solo records. And in several aspects, this is a return to form; English Oceans is much more of a “rock” record than the Muscle Shoals-influenced Go-Go Boots, though DBT have retained enough groove to the point where there’s just as much Stones in their sound as there is Skynyrd, probably more so. And that’s a good thing, as they had the tendency to be a lumbering musical entity even during their peak days. It’s also the first time since their 2001 breakthrough Southern Rock Opera where the songwriting duties are split solely between Cooley and Hood. More pointedly, it’s the first time the songwriting duties have been split equally. And that allows you to hear Drive-By Truckers in a completely different way, because not only does Cooley reestablish himself after being relegated to a bit player on Go-Go Boots and The Big To-Do, he actually puts this album on his back. In the past, he hasn’t been underrated so much as overshadowed. Hood’s been often seen as DBT’s head and heart, whereas Cooley operates more from the gut and groin, the sidekick, the comic relief. Cooley still comes up with some instantly quotable, real-talk snark about the sad sex lives of white-collar supervisors (“Trophy tail wives taking boner pill rides for the price of a Happy Meal”) and a henpecked friend (“Said she only hollered when she'd stood as much as she could stand/ Jimmy's ego can take it ‘baby go on and fake it loud as you can’"). But he’s also developed a kind of redneck, cosmic profundity to rival that of early Isaac Brock. While still spoken in plain language, Cooley gets at the kind of accidental enlightenment available to intelligent, if undereducated men given repetitive tasks and a lot of time to mull over things. The construction worker on the shit-hot “Shit Shots Count” notes “Meat’s just meat and it's all born dying.../ Somebody's gotta mop up the A-1 somebody's gotta mop up the blood,” while a tumultuous relationship on “Natural Light” is “As cold as a loveless embrace/ Or hot like a low seething rage.” Cooley’s superlative performance on English Oceans would be more worthy of celebration if it wasn’t negated by Hood’s most non-committal songwriting to date. “When He’s Gone”, “Til He’s Dead or Rises”, and “Pauline Hawkins” are all variations on the same inert gender dynamics, pro forma Dixie rock with gawky choruses that I suppose one could applaud for being lyrically succinct: “She can't stand to have him around/ But she always misses him when he's gone,” “love is like cancer/ And I am immune,” “She’ll ride him until he’s dead/ Or rises to the occasion.” But Hood never uses these sturdy, nondescript phrases to bear any additional detail or personality, and that’s problematic for a songwriter of his nature: there’s never been a strong melody or a killer riff that’s saved a lyrically weak DBT song. The gap is even more clear when the duo delve into politics. Cooley’s “Made Up English Oceans” alternates the surreal and hyper-real in a manner similar to PJ Harvey’s Let England Shake, invoking right-wing zealots and god-fearing religious factions while leaving worlds open to the interpretation. Conversely, Hood’s “The Part of Him” recalls the strawmanning that marred The Dirty South, leaning hard on stilted rhymes (“His integrity was phoning in/ Totally Nixonian”) and shrugged jokes about wingnuts and teabags. As with “Pauline Hawkins” and “When He’s Gone”, there’s no sense of place or humanity; it’s something Hood could’ve cooked up after a jag of "House of Cards", to say nothing of the likely inspiration for “When Walter Went Crazy”. Which is to say that the truly great Drive-By Truckers albums may have been unified by a concept, but the great songs they’ve made throughout their career are inspired by real people, whether it’s “The Living Bubba”, George Wallace, the only people in America imprisoned for consensual incest, Buford Pusser, or Craig Lieske. If you don’t know the last name, he served as DBT’s merch guy, was a fixture in Athens’ music scene, and was remembered fondly by his community upon his death in January 2013. He’s the inspiration for English Oceans’ showstopping closer “Grand Canyon”, and it’s DBT’s most musically rich and expansive song to date, seven-minutes of acoustic guitars and vocals that positively gleam in waltz time. Hood’s lyrics are equally up to the task, a meditation on their last great memories with Lieske, the therapeutic value of the road and the supernatural. It’ll probably be their closer for the next decade, and if Drive-By Truckers are still touring in 10 years, that’s a good thing. For now, English Oceans ensures they’ll back on the road, where they’re still one of the best things going and Drive-By Truckers probably don’t owe us much more than that.

Artist: Drive-By Truckers, Album: English Oceans, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Drive-By Truckers don’t owe us shit. They’ve never made a bad or even a mediocre album in their two decades, even though they’ve given themselves many opportunities to do so. And considering their occasionally acrimonious lineup changes and bold conceptual gambits, they’d have many valid excuses if that fate were to come to pass. But depending on your affinity for 2008’s generous-to-a-fault Brighter Than Creation’s Dark, it’s either been six years or 10 since their last truly great album. English Oceans isn’t great, but it’s not mediocre and certainly not bad—but its reception most likely will be predicated on whether or not you think Drive-By Truckers owe you anything more than a “Drive-By Truckers album.” They seemed due for a shake up, particularly after the hiatus occurring following 2011’s Go-Go Boots. Bassist Shonna Tucker (who started contributing songs and vocals on Brighter) and pedal-steel specialist John Neff left the band, while founding members Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley both made solo records. And in several aspects, this is a return to form; English Oceans is much more of a “rock” record than the Muscle Shoals-influenced Go-Go Boots, though DBT have retained enough groove to the point where there’s just as much Stones in their sound as there is Skynyrd, probably more so. And that’s a good thing, as they had the tendency to be a lumbering musical entity even during their peak days. It’s also the first time since their 2001 breakthrough Southern Rock Opera where the songwriting duties are split solely between Cooley and Hood. More pointedly, it’s the first time the songwriting duties have been split equally. And that allows you to hear Drive-By Truckers in a completely different way, because not only does Cooley reestablish himself after being relegated to a bit player on Go-Go Boots and The Big To-Do, he actually puts this album on his back. In the past, he hasn’t been underrated so much as overshadowed. Hood’s been often seen as DBT’s head and heart, whereas Cooley operates more from the gut and groin, the sidekick, the comic relief. Cooley still comes up with some instantly quotable, real-talk snark about the sad sex lives of white-collar supervisors (“Trophy tail wives taking boner pill rides for the price of a Happy Meal”) and a henpecked friend (“Said she only hollered when she'd stood as much as she could stand/ Jimmy's ego can take it ‘baby go on and fake it loud as you can’"). But he’s also developed a kind of redneck, cosmic profundity to rival that of early Isaac Brock. While still spoken in plain language, Cooley gets at the kind of accidental enlightenment available to intelligent, if undereducated men given repetitive tasks and a lot of time to mull over things. The construction worker on the shit-hot “Shit Shots Count” notes “Meat’s just meat and it's all born dying.../ Somebody's gotta mop up the A-1 somebody's gotta mop up the blood,” while a tumultuous relationship on “Natural Light” is “As cold as a loveless embrace/ Or hot like a low seething rage.” Cooley’s superlative performance on English Oceans would be more worthy of celebration if it wasn’t negated by Hood’s most non-committal songwriting to date. “When He’s Gone”, “Til He’s Dead or Rises”, and “Pauline Hawkins” are all variations on the same inert gender dynamics, pro forma Dixie rock with gawky choruses that I suppose one could applaud for being lyrically succinct: “She can't stand to have him around/ But she always misses him when he's gone,” “love is like cancer/ And I am immune,” “She’ll ride him until he’s dead/ Or rises to the occasion.” But Hood never uses these sturdy, nondescript phrases to bear any additional detail or personality, and that’s problematic for a songwriter of his nature: there’s never been a strong melody or a killer riff that’s saved a lyrically weak DBT song. The gap is even more clear when the duo delve into politics. Cooley’s “Made Up English Oceans” alternates the surreal and hyper-real in a manner similar to PJ Harvey’s Let England Shake, invoking right-wing zealots and god-fearing religious factions while leaving worlds open to the interpretation. Conversely, Hood’s “The Part of Him” recalls the strawmanning that marred The Dirty South, leaning hard on stilted rhymes (“His integrity was phoning in/ Totally Nixonian”) and shrugged jokes about wingnuts and teabags. As with “Pauline Hawkins” and “When He’s Gone”, there’s no sense of place or humanity; it’s something Hood could’ve cooked up after a jag of "House of Cards", to say nothing of the likely inspiration for “When Walter Went Crazy”. Which is to say that the truly great Drive-By Truckers albums may have been unified by a concept, but the great songs they’ve made throughout their career are inspired by real people, whether it’s “The Living Bubba”, George Wallace, the only people in America imprisoned for consensual incest, Buford Pusser, or Craig Lieske. If you don’t know the last name, he served as DBT’s merch guy, was a fixture in Athens’ music scene, and was remembered fondly by his community upon his death in January 2013. He’s the inspiration for English Oceans’ showstopping closer “Grand Canyon”, and it’s DBT’s most musically rich and expansive song to date, seven-minutes of acoustic guitars and vocals that positively gleam in waltz time. Hood’s lyrics are equally up to the task, a meditation on their last great memories with Lieske, the therapeutic value of the road and the supernatural. It’ll probably be their closer for the next decade, and if Drive-By Truckers are still touring in 10 years, that’s a good thing. For now, English Oceans ensures they’ll back on the road, where they’re still one of the best things going and Drive-By Truckers probably don’t owe us much more than that."

Joker

The Vision

Electronic

Andrew Gaerig

Pop music amplifies and lionizes its creators by default, while empathy comes from the capital-M music and the community. This has remained true as the music industry has changed and it has remained true as DJs-- Daft Punk, David Guetta, Deadmau5-- have risen to pop-culture prominence. It's why so much of the coverage of an artist like Robyn focuses on her smallness and approachability; it is not the norm. On his debut album, Bristol-based producer Joker (Liam McLean) wants to be a hero. The Vision, arriving after years of delays and false starts, is not for the industrial streets of Bristol, London's maturing club culture, or the small pockets of hyper-aware American undergrounders eager for bombast that doesn't result in our getting wedgied in a mosh pit. All of those scenes are made to feel small next to the righteous blockbuster-ing of The Vision, an album so impressed with itself that there's little need for the listener to be so. It's not hard to figure out how Joker arrived here. As part of the "purple" (post-) dubstep movement, Joker (along with Gemmy and Guido) suggested that the end-game for dubstep's engorged bass rumble did not have to be masculine aggression. He unleashed a nearly bulletproof string of singles and for well over a year did seem heroic-- his superpower a Magneto-like control of your mid-range dial, his age proof that there were skills yet to harness. His breakout came as dubstep was graduating from pervasive force to ubiquitous cultural presence (in England) and seemed to cement his status as a comer. That The Vision is more pop-oriented, more streamlined, and more self aware won't be a surprise to anyone who has paid attention. It paints the picture of a producer who not only missed his moment but whose verve and craft dissolved as he waited. The Vision buckles, repeatedly, under a mass of unwieldy guest appearances, pandering pop moves, and Joker's ever-present, oxygen-eating synths. An album meant to display a producer's power and confidence-- from the title to the cover art on down-- instead reveals a reliance on formula and a crippling indecisiveness. Grime, R&B, stadium pop, and dubstep all come in for the most tepid of updates. Most of the collaborators-- on board to tease out those genre plays-- are ill-chosen and marginally talented. With the exception of Jessie Ware (Santigold to Katy B's M.I.A., right down to her bigger voice and handful of kickass tunes), they serve as haughty ciphers, funneling heaps of entitlement and no small amount of paranoia into these tracks. Silas, on the functionally widescreen "Slaughter House": "They wrap you up in plastic and ship it to the store." Who? 4AD? (More damning still, from Silas: "You can hang around and see what the hook brings." I can!) "On My Mind" is "Love in this Wal-Mart" for the post-Timbaland set. It features the line, "Rumor has it that you want a man with a big di-di-[ed. note: wait for it] digital following." This is presented without a hint of humor or irony; somewhere Lonely Island's number three is slapping his forehead. Joker's most fruitful and charming vocal collaboration-- "Music (4am)"-- perplexingly misses the cut. What's most distressing is that The Vision doesn't sound like Joker's version of R&B and hip-hop ruined by less talented collaborators; it sounds like Joker's version of the same ruined by Joker. He has strip-mined his chewy, mid-range melodies for their largess, applying it liberally to standard verse-chorus-bridge structures. Removing the cast of self-aggrandizing twits from "Back in the Days" doesn't get you to "Digidesign"; the children's choir on "Lost" is a far cry from the whirling-dervish-house of "Snake Eater". The best "classic" Joker track included is "Tron", an early-2010 offering that preceded the unrelated Hollywood remake that you've already forgotten about and was thought at the time to be among his weakest tracks. The comparison I keep coming back to for The Vision is Canibus' Can-I-Bus, American hip-hop's nuclear option for unrealized potential and perceived slights. Like Can-I-Bus, The Vision required a perfect storm of bad advice, arrogance, and wretched timing. It irks that a series of Joker's peers-- among them SBTRKT, Rustie, and Magnetic Man-- have established a blueprint for bass producers looking to go pop without sacrificing direction or personality. On "Slaughter House" Silas finishes his rhyme: "They wrap you up in plastic and ship it to the store/ But deep in your bones you know you were made for something more." On an album of terrible, throwaway lines, this is the worst: Joker was absolutely made for this. He arrived fully formed, a shy kid buried in synthesizers and video games, born for music. Whatever has transpired since, The Vision seems to be exactly what Joker wants: UK pop&B of the vainest and most vacuous possible variety.

Artist: Joker, Album: The Vision, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 4.2 Album review: "Pop music amplifies and lionizes its creators by default, while empathy comes from the capital-M music and the community. This has remained true as the music industry has changed and it has remained true as DJs-- Daft Punk, David Guetta, Deadmau5-- have risen to pop-culture prominence. It's why so much of the coverage of an artist like Robyn focuses on her smallness and approachability; it is not the norm. On his debut album, Bristol-based producer Joker (Liam McLean) wants to be a hero. The Vision, arriving after years of delays and false starts, is not for the industrial streets of Bristol, London's maturing club culture, or the small pockets of hyper-aware American undergrounders eager for bombast that doesn't result in our getting wedgied in a mosh pit. All of those scenes are made to feel small next to the righteous blockbuster-ing of The Vision, an album so impressed with itself that there's little need for the listener to be so. It's not hard to figure out how Joker arrived here. As part of the "purple" (post-) dubstep movement, Joker (along with Gemmy and Guido) suggested that the end-game for dubstep's engorged bass rumble did not have to be masculine aggression. He unleashed a nearly bulletproof string of singles and for well over a year did seem heroic-- his superpower a Magneto-like control of your mid-range dial, his age proof that there were skills yet to harness. His breakout came as dubstep was graduating from pervasive force to ubiquitous cultural presence (in England) and seemed to cement his status as a comer. That The Vision is more pop-oriented, more streamlined, and more self aware won't be a surprise to anyone who has paid attention. It paints the picture of a producer who not only missed his moment but whose verve and craft dissolved as he waited. The Vision buckles, repeatedly, under a mass of unwieldy guest appearances, pandering pop moves, and Joker's ever-present, oxygen-eating synths. An album meant to display a producer's power and confidence-- from the title to the cover art on down-- instead reveals a reliance on formula and a crippling indecisiveness. Grime, R&B, stadium pop, and dubstep all come in for the most tepid of updates. Most of the collaborators-- on board to tease out those genre plays-- are ill-chosen and marginally talented. With the exception of Jessie Ware (Santigold to Katy B's M.I.A., right down to her bigger voice and handful of kickass tunes), they serve as haughty ciphers, funneling heaps of entitlement and no small amount of paranoia into these tracks. Silas, on the functionally widescreen "Slaughter House": "They wrap you up in plastic and ship it to the store." Who? 4AD? (More damning still, from Silas: "You can hang around and see what the hook brings." I can!) "On My Mind" is "Love in this Wal-Mart" for the post-Timbaland set. It features the line, "Rumor has it that you want a man with a big di-di-[ed. note: wait for it] digital following." This is presented without a hint of humor or irony; somewhere Lonely Island's number three is slapping his forehead. Joker's most fruitful and charming vocal collaboration-- "Music (4am)"-- perplexingly misses the cut. What's most distressing is that The Vision doesn't sound like Joker's version of R&B and hip-hop ruined by less talented collaborators; it sounds like Joker's version of the same ruined by Joker. He has strip-mined his chewy, mid-range melodies for their largess, applying it liberally to standard verse-chorus-bridge structures. Removing the cast of self-aggrandizing twits from "Back in the Days" doesn't get you to "Digidesign"; the children's choir on "Lost" is a far cry from the whirling-dervish-house of "Snake Eater". The best "classic" Joker track included is "Tron", an early-2010 offering that preceded the unrelated Hollywood remake that you've already forgotten about and was thought at the time to be among his weakest tracks. The comparison I keep coming back to for The Vision is Canibus' Can-I-Bus, American hip-hop's nuclear option for unrealized potential and perceived slights. Like Can-I-Bus, The Vision required a perfect storm of bad advice, arrogance, and wretched timing. It irks that a series of Joker's peers-- among them SBTRKT, Rustie, and Magnetic Man-- have established a blueprint for bass producers looking to go pop without sacrificing direction or personality. On "Slaughter House" Silas finishes his rhyme: "They wrap you up in plastic and ship it to the store/ But deep in your bones you know you were made for something more." On an album of terrible, throwaway lines, this is the worst: Joker was absolutely made for this. He arrived fully formed, a shy kid buried in synthesizers and video games, born for music. Whatever has transpired since, The Vision seems to be exactly what Joker wants: UK pop&B of the vainest and most vacuous possible variety."

Eddie Vedder

Ukulele Songs

Rock

Jayson Greene

If you include the soundtrack album he recorded for Into the Wild, Ukulele Songs is only Eddie Vedder's second solo album. Considering the size and devotion of his cult, coupled with Pearl Jam's "No, you really shouldn't have" over-generosity when it comes to releases, it's remarkable he hasn't put out five by now. This makes Ukulele Songs even more of a curiosity: As its title makes clear, the album consists of 16 tracks of Vedder pawing the tiny, four-stringed Hawaiian instrument and warbling love songs. That's it. In a way, it's as clear-cut a proposition as you're going to get these days. You either instantly know you need 35 minutes of this in your life or are already backing slowly away. The songs themselves date back, in some cases, 10 years or more-- presumably from around the same time Vedder wrote "Soon Forget", the two-minute ukulele ditty from Binaural. The rest of the songs occupy that same headspace. They are casual, sweet, and disarmingly unaffected, and you can practically smell the campus green wafting off them. That Vedder is putting Ukulele Songs out during this Big Blowout Year of Pearl Jam (Documentary! Festival! Reissue! Tour!) makes it seem even less of a solo project and more like a a souvenir for longtime Pearl Jam fans. It works best that way. Indeed, in small doses, Ukulele Songs is lovely. Vedder has always been affecting when he's lovelorn, and here he's more or less curled up in a ball of bewildered hurt. "As I move myself out of your sight/ I'll be sleeping by myself tonight," he croons on "Sleeping By Myself". The album's best moments-- "Sleeping By Myself", "Without You", "Longing to Belong"-- tap the same quietly wounded melancholy as Paul McCartney's 1971 proto-indie pop masterpiece Ram. Alas, 34 minutes is a perilously long time for most to to spend alone with just Eddie Vedder, a ukulele, and his feelings for company. Vedder's precious side has never been his best one (see: No Code's "Sometimes"), and Ukulele Songs is so determinedly twee and relentlessly self-effacing that it can feel like watching a grown man attempting to morph into a baby koala before your eyes. By itself, hearing Chan Marshall playing Bernadette Peters to Vedder's Steve Martin for the duet "Tonight You Belong to Me" is winning and funny; in the context of a full ukulele album, it is slightly cloying. Vedder has said he wants this record to inspire people to pick up the instrument and sing with their friends, an old-fashioned sentiment impossible not to be charmed by. Like a lot of Vedder's experiments, the spirit is easier to admire than the final product. The ukulele might be a great campfire instrument, but sometimes what works best at the campfire should stay there.

Artist: Eddie Vedder, Album: Ukulele Songs, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "If you include the soundtrack album he recorded for Into the Wild, Ukulele Songs is only Eddie Vedder's second solo album. Considering the size and devotion of his cult, coupled with Pearl Jam's "No, you really shouldn't have" over-generosity when it comes to releases, it's remarkable he hasn't put out five by now. This makes Ukulele Songs even more of a curiosity: As its title makes clear, the album consists of 16 tracks of Vedder pawing the tiny, four-stringed Hawaiian instrument and warbling love songs. That's it. In a way, it's as clear-cut a proposition as you're going to get these days. You either instantly know you need 35 minutes of this in your life or are already backing slowly away. The songs themselves date back, in some cases, 10 years or more-- presumably from around the same time Vedder wrote "Soon Forget", the two-minute ukulele ditty from Binaural. The rest of the songs occupy that same headspace. They are casual, sweet, and disarmingly unaffected, and you can practically smell the campus green wafting off them. That Vedder is putting Ukulele Songs out during this Big Blowout Year of Pearl Jam (Documentary! Festival! Reissue! Tour!) makes it seem even less of a solo project and more like a a souvenir for longtime Pearl Jam fans. It works best that way. Indeed, in small doses, Ukulele Songs is lovely. Vedder has always been affecting when he's lovelorn, and here he's more or less curled up in a ball of bewildered hurt. "As I move myself out of your sight/ I'll be sleeping by myself tonight," he croons on "Sleeping By Myself". The album's best moments-- "Sleeping By Myself", "Without You", "Longing to Belong"-- tap the same quietly wounded melancholy as Paul McCartney's 1971 proto-indie pop masterpiece Ram. Alas, 34 minutes is a perilously long time for most to to spend alone with just Eddie Vedder, a ukulele, and his feelings for company. Vedder's precious side has never been his best one (see: No Code's "Sometimes"), and Ukulele Songs is so determinedly twee and relentlessly self-effacing that it can feel like watching a grown man attempting to morph into a baby koala before your eyes. By itself, hearing Chan Marshall playing Bernadette Peters to Vedder's Steve Martin for the duet "Tonight You Belong to Me" is winning and funny; in the context of a full ukulele album, it is slightly cloying. Vedder has said he wants this record to inspire people to pick up the instrument and sing with their friends, an old-fashioned sentiment impossible not to be charmed by. Like a lot of Vedder's experiments, the spirit is easier to admire than the final product. The ukulele might be a great campfire instrument, but sometimes what works best at the campfire should stay there."

Radiohead

TKOL RMX 1234567

Rock

Jess Harvell

Radiohead has a reputation for studio perfectionism and have been known to tinker with arrangements for years on tour, but they've rarely delivered an album as obsessive as The King of Limbs. Their most single-minded record, TKOL is an itchy and restless foray into making songs out of almost nothing except whizzing bits of rhythm. Even accounting for the brief dip into balladry toward the end, bands don't generally come up with something this uniformly dense and tense by tweaking over multiple sessions. But as longtime students of Can's Holger Czukay, Radiohead also know that fevered and compulsive-sounding records can be the product of painstaking editing, stitching multiple takes into one bristling rush. Little of the band's careful detail work, or their general sense of passion, makes it onto TKOL RMX 1234567, a listenable but ultimately bloodless collection of remixes of songs from The King of Limbs. Whether intimidated by the thought of reinterpreting a band renowned for experimentation or unsure how to take apart and reassemble the band's tightly-wound recent material, too many of these 19 artists seem content to settle for bland beauty, or simply apply their usual sonic tricks without pushing themselves in the slightest. The highlights are the tracks that take TKOL's joy in rhythm to new places. Acclaimed UK neo-rave producer Lone turns out a typically brilliant take on "Feral" that somehow keeps the original percussion pattern intact while recasting it as an early-1990s ambient house record, giving us TKOL RMX's most bizarrely enjoyable image: Radiohead gone to Ibiza. Pearson Sound, the alter-ego of dubstep progenitor and Hessle Audio label head Ramadanman, pulls a fantastic bait-and-switch, opening with an extended drone intro that shifts into a punchy mix of early Detroit techno and jagged jungle breaks. These two, along with a small handful of other acts-- Anstam squeezing drama from just a handful of skeletal drum patterns, SBTRKT recasting Thom Yorke as a forlorn garage diva, Caribou returning to his roots as a left-field beatmaker-- are fearless enough to recreate the feeling of TKOL in a new form. And a few do get by on sheer loveliness alone, like Four Tet spinning "Separator" into an old-school IDM lullaby. But a far greater number of these remixes flatten out the complexity of TKOL's grooves in favor of commonplace arrangements. Instead of Radiohead's pinpoint editing, we get generically "wonky" takes on house and techno filled with stuttering drums and formless synth goo, whether aggressive like Blawan's take on "Bloom" or shoegaze-lite like Nathan Fake doing "Morning Mr Magpie". And some of the most touted names fail to deliver the craft we've come to expect from them: On his "Bloom" rework, Jamie xx ditches his minimalist gloom-funk for gauzy, forgettable ambience. More ethereal or abstract remixes of such anxious music could have been interesting, but few seem up to the task here, instead doling out placid and perfectly pleasant background noise. For a while, until its complex grooves revealed the songs beneath, I dismissed TKOL as a brave but opaque attempt to remake Radiohead as just individual components in a roiling rhythm machine. In other words, it seemed like the perfect Radiohead album for remixing. Who would better understand that everything-is-rhythm impulse than dance music producers? If anything, wouldn't they take it further, make it wilder, go funkier? The lack of rhythmic invention here could be forgiven if most of TKOL RMX displayed any kind of invention. Failing to match TKOL's peculiar vibe-- aggressive rhythms made out of dainty bits of digital detritus, robotically repetitive yet humanly off-kilter, parched thickets of drumming graced with fleeting moments of melodic relief -- is one thing. Failing to replace it with anything that similarly rewards listening deeper and harder is quite another.

Artist: Radiohead, Album: TKOL RMX 1234567, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Radiohead has a reputation for studio perfectionism and have been known to tinker with arrangements for years on tour, but they've rarely delivered an album as obsessive as The King of Limbs. Their most single-minded record, TKOL is an itchy and restless foray into making songs out of almost nothing except whizzing bits of rhythm. Even accounting for the brief dip into balladry toward the end, bands don't generally come up with something this uniformly dense and tense by tweaking over multiple sessions. But as longtime students of Can's Holger Czukay, Radiohead also know that fevered and compulsive-sounding records can be the product of painstaking editing, stitching multiple takes into one bristling rush. Little of the band's careful detail work, or their general sense of passion, makes it onto TKOL RMX 1234567, a listenable but ultimately bloodless collection of remixes of songs from The King of Limbs. Whether intimidated by the thought of reinterpreting a band renowned for experimentation or unsure how to take apart and reassemble the band's tightly-wound recent material, too many of these 19 artists seem content to settle for bland beauty, or simply apply their usual sonic tricks without pushing themselves in the slightest. The highlights are the tracks that take TKOL's joy in rhythm to new places. Acclaimed UK neo-rave producer Lone turns out a typically brilliant take on "Feral" that somehow keeps the original percussion pattern intact while recasting it as an early-1990s ambient house record, giving us TKOL RMX's most bizarrely enjoyable image: Radiohead gone to Ibiza. Pearson Sound, the alter-ego of dubstep progenitor and Hessle Audio label head Ramadanman, pulls a fantastic bait-and-switch, opening with an extended drone intro that shifts into a punchy mix of early Detroit techno and jagged jungle breaks. These two, along with a small handful of other acts-- Anstam squeezing drama from just a handful of skeletal drum patterns, SBTRKT recasting Thom Yorke as a forlorn garage diva, Caribou returning to his roots as a left-field beatmaker-- are fearless enough to recreate the feeling of TKOL in a new form. And a few do get by on sheer loveliness alone, like Four Tet spinning "Separator" into an old-school IDM lullaby. But a far greater number of these remixes flatten out the complexity of TKOL's grooves in favor of commonplace arrangements. Instead of Radiohead's pinpoint editing, we get generically "wonky" takes on house and techno filled with stuttering drums and formless synth goo, whether aggressive like Blawan's take on "Bloom" or shoegaze-lite like Nathan Fake doing "Morning Mr Magpie". And some of the most touted names fail to deliver the craft we've come to expect from them: On his "Bloom" rework, Jamie xx ditches his minimalist gloom-funk for gauzy, forgettable ambience. More ethereal or abstract remixes of such anxious music could have been interesting, but few seem up to the task here, instead doling out placid and perfectly pleasant background noise. For a while, until its complex grooves revealed the songs beneath, I dismissed TKOL as a brave but opaque attempt to remake Radiohead as just individual components in a roiling rhythm machine. In other words, it seemed like the perfect Radiohead album for remixing. Who would better understand that everything-is-rhythm impulse than dance music producers? If anything, wouldn't they take it further, make it wilder, go funkier? The lack of rhythmic invention here could be forgiven if most of TKOL RMX displayed any kind of invention. Failing to match TKOL's peculiar vibe-- aggressive rhythms made out of dainty bits of digital detritus, robotically repetitive yet humanly off-kilter, parched thickets of drumming graced with fleeting moments of melodic relief -- is one thing. Failing to replace it with anything that similarly rewards listening deeper and harder is quite another."

Molina and Johnson

Molina and Johnson

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

Between Memphis and Little Rock runs a particularly unscenic stretch of American highway. Neither hilly nor flat, verdant nor desert, this section of I-40 feels like a time trap: You can drive for what seems like hours through the blank fields and past service stations that dot the roadside, but once you look at the clock, you'll find that only a few minutes have passed. On their first collaboration together, Jason Molina and Will Johnson have made the musical equivalent of that length of Arkansas highway. The 14 tracks on Molina and Johnson comprise an especially slow drive through somber countryside, windows up and speed limit carefully maintained. It's especially disappointing from these two prolific indie lifers, who have painted such distinctive American landscapes throughout their careers. An underrated singer and decoder-ring-demanding lyricist, Johnson oversees a range of projects, from the relatively pop-motivated Centro-Matic to the dustily atmospheric South San Gabriel, each playing off hardscrabble Lone Star rock to create something unique and accessible. Molina, on the other hand, has grown only more direct in his songs, abandoning the avant-Americana outfit Songs: Ohia for the more straightforward classic rock of Magnolia Electric Co., which tends to work best in big, broad landscapes (the box set ­Sojourner) rather than in life-size portraiture (Josephine, from earlier this year). The duo wrote and recorded Molina and Johnson during a 10-day respite in Johnson's home base of Denton, Texas, where they drank, smoked, and reportedly shot BB guns. Rather than showcasing any of that genial amity, the result is a sleepy, soundtracky, unexcitable record. Slow and subdued are legitimate musical choices, but an album of such low-key songs, especially from a pair of musicians who have displayed a broader palette in the past, seems like a missed opportunity, as if each is narrowing instead of expanding the possibilities for the other. Especially in its middle third, Molina and Johnson lags sluggishly, packing in too many gravely austere and relentlessly funereal numbers, like Johnson's slow-moving "In the Avalon/The Killer" and Molina's studiously stark "Each Star Marks a Day". There are hints of intriguing contrast on songs on the album-- Johnson's gritty rasp, wandering piano, and earthy imagery versus Molina's airy tenor, sparking guitar licks, and celestial navigations-- but they're never explored or examined in any interesting way. There are a few bright spots on this otherwise monochromatic album, most crammed toward the beginning. With its shuffling percussion and mournful guitar, opener "Twenty Cycles to the Ground" delivers a hook forged from hard syllables and mixes their voices evocatively. The hummed "Now, Divide" sounds like Dylan's Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid soundtrack played at the wrong speed, and "All Gone, All Gone" is positively Oldham-esque as a hitchhiking Sarah Jaffe shows up to wrap her voice around Johnson's. But these moments never coalesce into anything larger or more sustained, nor do they make the scenery all that intriguing, which is a shame considering the wanderlust of their previous projects. They have always been curious to see what's around the next bend or over the next hill, but Molina and Johnson too often sounds like it can barely make it up the incline to enjoy the view.

Artist: Molina and Johnson, Album: Molina and Johnson, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.1 Album review: "Between Memphis and Little Rock runs a particularly unscenic stretch of American highway. Neither hilly nor flat, verdant nor desert, this section of I-40 feels like a time trap: You can drive for what seems like hours through the blank fields and past service stations that dot the roadside, but once you look at the clock, you'll find that only a few minutes have passed. On their first collaboration together, Jason Molina and Will Johnson have made the musical equivalent of that length of Arkansas highway. The 14 tracks on Molina and Johnson comprise an especially slow drive through somber countryside, windows up and speed limit carefully maintained. It's especially disappointing from these two prolific indie lifers, who have painted such distinctive American landscapes throughout their careers. An underrated singer and decoder-ring-demanding lyricist, Johnson oversees a range of projects, from the relatively pop-motivated Centro-Matic to the dustily atmospheric South San Gabriel, each playing off hardscrabble Lone Star rock to create something unique and accessible. Molina, on the other hand, has grown only more direct in his songs, abandoning the avant-Americana outfit Songs: Ohia for the more straightforward classic rock of Magnolia Electric Co., which tends to work best in big, broad landscapes (the box set ­Sojourner) rather than in life-size portraiture (Josephine, from earlier this year). The duo wrote and recorded Molina and Johnson during a 10-day respite in Johnson's home base of Denton, Texas, where they drank, smoked, and reportedly shot BB guns. Rather than showcasing any of that genial amity, the result is a sleepy, soundtracky, unexcitable record. Slow and subdued are legitimate musical choices, but an album of such low-key songs, especially from a pair of musicians who have displayed a broader palette in the past, seems like a missed opportunity, as if each is narrowing instead of expanding the possibilities for the other. Especially in its middle third, Molina and Johnson lags sluggishly, packing in too many gravely austere and relentlessly funereal numbers, like Johnson's slow-moving "In the Avalon/The Killer" and Molina's studiously stark "Each Star Marks a Day". There are hints of intriguing contrast on songs on the album-- Johnson's gritty rasp, wandering piano, and earthy imagery versus Molina's airy tenor, sparking guitar licks, and celestial navigations-- but they're never explored or examined in any interesting way. There are a few bright spots on this otherwise monochromatic album, most crammed toward the beginning. With its shuffling percussion and mournful guitar, opener "Twenty Cycles to the Ground" delivers a hook forged from hard syllables and mixes their voices evocatively. The hummed "Now, Divide" sounds like Dylan's Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid soundtrack played at the wrong speed, and "All Gone, All Gone" is positively Oldham-esque as a hitchhiking Sarah Jaffe shows up to wrap her voice around Johnson's. But these moments never coalesce into anything larger or more sustained, nor do they make the scenery all that intriguing, which is a shame considering the wanderlust of their previous projects. They have always been curious to see what's around the next bend or over the next hill, but Molina and Johnson too often sounds like it can barely make it up the incline to enjoy the view."

Pillow

Three Henries

Rock

David M. Pecoraro

Chicago has become something of a target of late. Critics everywhere stand poised and alert, eager to be the one that drives the first nails into the coffin of a once-great music scene. They say they've grown tired of this "post-rock" nonsense-- the hybrid of Louisville-style rock, Chicago/AACM-style jazz, unusual instrumentation, and heavy experimental leanings that the city has prided itself on for the past ten years. The term itself a confused and failed attempt to ground a genre whose only constant is change. They claim that Chicago has gone stagnant, and grown too comfortable and reliant on the same formula of lazy-but-upbeat songs, pointing to a market overstuffed with TNT rip-offs where once there had been such variety. And all this was before Jim O'Rourke-- once a lynchpin of Windy City musical circles-- went east, accepted a full-fledged membership in Sonic Youth, and started ranting to glossy-paged hipster music magazines abut the death of creative music in Chicago. The fact is, if post-rock was all Chicago has to offer, I'd be right in line with the other naysayers. After Scott Herren's dead-on imitation of the genre (under the name Savath and Savalas), it's hard to argue that the sound hasn't grown a bit stale. But the city by the lake is one whose music is as diverse as is its people. Contrary to popular belief, there is far more to the Chicago sound than Tortoise imposters and math-rock. Even so, the critics wait, saliva hanging from their loosed jowls, and Diamond Jim dons his finest bunny suit for photo shoots on Brooklyn rooftops. Yet, despite its many detractors, the Chicago scene is holding its own, preparing for an attack against supposed monotony, and allowing new leaders to step into the limelight, to grow and develop at their own pace. In Chicago's war against boring music, Fred Lonberg-Holm stands on the front lines, armed with nothing but a bow, an ordinary cello and a bag of tricks to put the best of clowns to shame. Every bit as likely to contribute lush accompaniment for Freakwater as he is to play squealing noise (Lonberg-Holm did time in Weasel Walter's constantly evolving free-jazz/metal/noise/performance ensemble the Flying Luttenbachers) or to stretch the limits of avant-improvisation (take, for example, a duet this summer wherein Lonberg-Holm jammed action figures in between his strings and struck them with a modified electric toothbrush, while Michael Zerang placed cymbals atop a snare and bashed them with a vibrating dildo), there's no accusing Lonberg-Holm of solidarity. This is a man who's played with everyone. On Three Henries, "everyone" is narrowed down to Ben Vida and Liz Payne-- one-half of the sleepy post-rock/jazz group Town and Country-- and reedist and fellow-former-Luttenbacher Michael Corrigan. It's an interesting grouping; two artists from one of the quietest groups in town making music with two compatriots of Weasel Walter. Yet, it works; the musicians are well aware of their diverse musical lineage, and, like an interracial couple who make public their love despite the screams and objections of their inherently racist families, Pillow stands unafraid to flaunt them. It's this very willingness to experiment that leads me to maintain that Chicago is still a more alive and exciting place to make music than most. For those whose exposure to Chicago music ends with the closing notes of Standards, the sounds contained on Three Henries might be surprising. The album begins with what sounds like a distant alarm clock (I can only assume this is the dry ice and tubes Corrigan is credited with playing, though really, who knows?) and a random pluck of a guitar. Corrigan jumps in with sparse toots arranged in Spiritual-era Art Ensemble style, while Lonberg-Holm alternates between long strokes and seemingly random plucks. Ben Vida's guitar lays a background-- his playing reminiscent of the slow-building style of Brise-Glace, the musical equivalent of treading water-- while Liz Payne's bass lingers in the corner, barely audible. As the movement progresses, these dynamics shift, one overtaking the other, dynamics shifting like mad, every instrument battling all the others for the listener's ear. Surprising to some, yes. But for those of us every bit as familiar with Jeff Parker and Co.'s frequent jazz outings, this is nothing too unusual. The eight improvisations recorded here, all untitled, juggle each player's idiosyncrasies well. It is at times slow-moving and dreamy like a Town and Country record, and at others unforgivingly discordant and jarring like so much of Lonberg-Holm's other work. Vida plays guitar and accordion. Lonberg-Holm switches off, at points, to something called the nyckelharpa. Slow moving, yet interlocking with undeniable precision, Pillow comes off as a Chicago-based tribute to John Zorn's Naked City. It's an intriguing prospect, and one that's hit or miss. For every moment that excites, there's one that lulls. This is the nature of the improvisation-- some parts will naturally be more interesting than others-- but Three Henries is improvisation properly executed; the slow parts serving only make us appreciate the exciting parts even more. Even though Pillow's Three Henries may not be the saving grace that sets Chicago back on track, it stands as a fine reminder that the city is unlikely to go down with out a fight. It seems everyone in Chicago has played with everyone else at least once, and still the vast majority of players here-- all members of Pillow included-- maintain a remarkably intuitive grasp on their fellow musicians' explorations. This makes for interesting music, where even the less inspired moments are still worthy of a close listen. Is Three Henries likely to start another underground movement as did Tortoise's TNT? Naaaah. But it will intrigue those with an open ear, and excite those who know deep in their hearts that there's more to the Windy City than post-schlock.

Artist: Pillow, Album: Three Henries, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Chicago has become something of a target of late. Critics everywhere stand poised and alert, eager to be the one that drives the first nails into the coffin of a once-great music scene. They say they've grown tired of this "post-rock" nonsense-- the hybrid of Louisville-style rock, Chicago/AACM-style jazz, unusual instrumentation, and heavy experimental leanings that the city has prided itself on for the past ten years. The term itself a confused and failed attempt to ground a genre whose only constant is change. They claim that Chicago has gone stagnant, and grown too comfortable and reliant on the same formula of lazy-but-upbeat songs, pointing to a market overstuffed with TNT rip-offs where once there had been such variety. And all this was before Jim O'Rourke-- once a lynchpin of Windy City musical circles-- went east, accepted a full-fledged membership in Sonic Youth, and started ranting to glossy-paged hipster music magazines abut the death of creative music in Chicago. The fact is, if post-rock was all Chicago has to offer, I'd be right in line with the other naysayers. After Scott Herren's dead-on imitation of the genre (under the name Savath and Savalas), it's hard to argue that the sound hasn't grown a bit stale. But the city by the lake is one whose music is as diverse as is its people. Contrary to popular belief, there is far more to the Chicago sound than Tortoise imposters and math-rock. Even so, the critics wait, saliva hanging from their loosed jowls, and Diamond Jim dons his finest bunny suit for photo shoots on Brooklyn rooftops. Yet, despite its many detractors, the Chicago scene is holding its own, preparing for an attack against supposed monotony, and allowing new leaders to step into the limelight, to grow and develop at their own pace. In Chicago's war against boring music, Fred Lonberg-Holm stands on the front lines, armed with nothing but a bow, an ordinary cello and a bag of tricks to put the best of clowns to shame. Every bit as likely to contribute lush accompaniment for Freakwater as he is to play squealing noise (Lonberg-Holm did time in Weasel Walter's constantly evolving free-jazz/metal/noise/performance ensemble the Flying Luttenbachers) or to stretch the limits of avant-improvisation (take, for example, a duet this summer wherein Lonberg-Holm jammed action figures in between his strings and struck them with a modified electric toothbrush, while Michael Zerang placed cymbals atop a snare and bashed them with a vibrating dildo), there's no accusing Lonberg-Holm of solidarity. This is a man who's played with everyone. On Three Henries, "everyone" is narrowed down to Ben Vida and Liz Payne-- one-half of the sleepy post-rock/jazz group Town and Country-- and reedist and fellow-former-Luttenbacher Michael Corrigan. It's an interesting grouping; two artists from one of the quietest groups in town making music with two compatriots of Weasel Walter. Yet, it works; the musicians are well aware of their diverse musical lineage, and, like an interracial couple who make public their love despite the screams and objections of their inherently racist families, Pillow stands unafraid to flaunt them. It's this very willingness to experiment that leads me to maintain that Chicago is still a more alive and exciting place to make music than most. For those whose exposure to Chicago music ends with the closing notes of Standards, the sounds contained on Three Henries might be surprising. The album begins with what sounds like a distant alarm clock (I can only assume this is the dry ice and tubes Corrigan is credited with playing, though really, who knows?) and a random pluck of a guitar. Corrigan jumps in with sparse toots arranged in Spiritual-era Art Ensemble style, while Lonberg-Holm alternates between long strokes and seemingly random plucks. Ben Vida's guitar lays a background-- his playing reminiscent of the slow-building style of Brise-Glace, the musical equivalent of treading water-- while Liz Payne's bass lingers in the corner, barely audible. As the movement progresses, these dynamics shift, one overtaking the other, dynamics shifting like mad, every instrument battling all the others for the listener's ear. Surprising to some, yes. But for those of us every bit as familiar with Jeff Parker and Co.'s frequent jazz outings, this is nothing too unusual. The eight improvisations recorded here, all untitled, juggle each player's idiosyncrasies well. It is at times slow-moving and dreamy like a Town and Country record, and at others unforgivingly discordant and jarring like so much of Lonberg-Holm's other work. Vida plays guitar and accordion. Lonberg-Holm switches off, at points, to something called the nyckelharpa. Slow moving, yet interlocking with undeniable precision, Pillow comes off as a Chicago-based tribute to John Zorn's Naked City. It's an intriguing prospect, and one that's hit or miss. For every moment that excites, there's one that lulls. This is the nature of the improvisation-- some parts will naturally be more interesting than others-- but Three Henries is improvisation properly executed; the slow parts serving only make us appreciate the exciting parts even more. Even though Pillow's Three Henries may not be the saving grace that sets Chicago back on track, it stands as a fine reminder that the city is unlikely to go down with out a fight. It seems everyone in Chicago has played with everyone else at least once, and still the vast majority of players here-- all members of Pillow included-- maintain a remarkably intuitive grasp on their fellow musicians' explorations. This makes for interesting music, where even the less inspired moments are still worthy of a close listen. Is Three Henries likely to start another underground movement as did Tortoise's TNT? Naaaah. But it will intrigue those with an open ear, and excite those who know deep in their hearts that there's more to the Windy City than post-schlock."

Keiji Haino

Black Blues (Acoustic) / (Electric)

Experimental

Brandon Stosuy

If you've caught Keiji Haino live, you've likely seen the old master build a sturdy wall of sound and look pretty fucking amazing while doing it. The 50-something Japanese musician's a legend in the noise/improv scene, and though his hair's taken on gray streaks, he seems otherwise ageless in his trademark black leather and black sunglasses. Often pigeonholed as a shadowy guitar screamer, Haino claims to have mastered over 80 noisemakers including digital theremin, air synth, hurdy-gurdy, wave drum, all sorts of percussion, and various indigenous instruments. His inclusive aesthetic blows between minimalism, folk, medievalism, and sublime drone; he also leads his own cover band, Aihiyo, and the psych-rock power duo Fushitsusha. Comfortable alone or with an avant posse, he's collaborated with Ruins, Faust, Boris, Charles Gayle, Merzbow, Jim O'Rourke, and Derek Bailey, among others. On his most recent pair of enigmatic recordings, Haino keeps to himself, showcasing his vocal prowess alongside often surprisingly clean, mostly processed guitar. Focusing on African-American blues, Black Blues is a pair of albums, though they aren't packaged together. It's unclear why Haino didn't opt for a double disc, but fans will want to hear both. The tracklists are identical and the only difference in the packaging are reversed/mirrored covers. Musically, one's quiet ("acoustic"), the other loud ("electric"). If you need help in the store, print out the following and bring it with you: On the "acoustic" version Haino's looking to the left and on the "electric" version he's looking to the right. Keeping them apart's fine (the confusion's kinda great), but it's also worthwhile experiencing the loud and soft in interaction, observing how intentionality can morph and then re-shred even a recognizable standard like Blind Lemon Jefferson's "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean". Whether enjoyed together or singularly, the albums make great use of silence and space (the electric in a more jarring, less pin drop manner). On the "acoustic" collection, Haino's spacious playing brings to mind Loren Connors (a past collaborator) and New Zealander Roy Montgomery. It can get very quiet: Parts of 13-minute "Black Eyes" are so immensely whispered, the stereo needs to be pinned as high as possible to catch the ambience. Vocally, Haino's a psychedelic solitaire exhaling black and white. In "The Town in Black Fog" he whispers evocatively into your ear, a guitar strumming in the distance. Some tracks aren't as secretive: Everything's upfront on "I Don't Want to Know", a ballad with chords that drift across into each other no matter how carefully they're spaced. Haino's voice is often evocative, even pretty. The tour de force is the previously mentioned "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean". (As on a few of the tracks, the guitar doesn't sound especially "acoustic.") His voice registers as near falsetto while he lethargically strums; when Haino brings it down a notch, it's amazing to witness one of our noisiest guitarists turns out moth-wing ethereality. When he "plugs in" for set two, an angry demon emerges in a different part of the graveyard. Seconds into "Black Petal"'s opening chords there are already stab wounds; eventually Haino unleashes absolutely anguished screams. The electro "Black Eyes"'s three minutes briefer than its acoustic-minded sister; Haino knows how to play loud softly, so its guitars are layered and sustained but subtle. He approaches Mecca Normal slashing on the catchy "I Don't Want To Know", which is as rock as it gets. And the best? Again, it's "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean". This take explodes with an anguished vocal aneurysm and deliberate, reverberating guitar waves. It delivers a fitting purification rite before a high-pitched swath of feedback punk slaps the finale. To say Black Blues are mysterious records is an understatement. That they aren't for everyone is redundant. The vicious loudness delivers a few wonders of texture, raw rasp, and might be recognized first in the crowd due to its forceful attitude. But, really, it's the delicate acoustic movement-- subtle, enormous, secretive, inaudible-- that best channels and transmogrifies classic blues into exorcism.

Artist: Keiji Haino, Album: Black Blues (Acoustic) / (Electric), Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "If you've caught Keiji Haino live, you've likely seen the old master build a sturdy wall of sound and look pretty fucking amazing while doing it. The 50-something Japanese musician's a legend in the noise/improv scene, and though his hair's taken on gray streaks, he seems otherwise ageless in his trademark black leather and black sunglasses. Often pigeonholed as a shadowy guitar screamer, Haino claims to have mastered over 80 noisemakers including digital theremin, air synth, hurdy-gurdy, wave drum, all sorts of percussion, and various indigenous instruments. His inclusive aesthetic blows between minimalism, folk, medievalism, and sublime drone; he also leads his own cover band, Aihiyo, and the psych-rock power duo Fushitsusha. Comfortable alone or with an avant posse, he's collaborated with Ruins, Faust, Boris, Charles Gayle, Merzbow, Jim O'Rourke, and Derek Bailey, among others. On his most recent pair of enigmatic recordings, Haino keeps to himself, showcasing his vocal prowess alongside often surprisingly clean, mostly processed guitar. Focusing on African-American blues, Black Blues is a pair of albums, though they aren't packaged together. It's unclear why Haino didn't opt for a double disc, but fans will want to hear both. The tracklists are identical and the only difference in the packaging are reversed/mirrored covers. Musically, one's quiet ("acoustic"), the other loud ("electric"). If you need help in the store, print out the following and bring it with you: On the "acoustic" version Haino's looking to the left and on the "electric" version he's looking to the right. Keeping them apart's fine (the confusion's kinda great), but it's also worthwhile experiencing the loud and soft in interaction, observing how intentionality can morph and then re-shred even a recognizable standard like Blind Lemon Jefferson's "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean". Whether enjoyed together or singularly, the albums make great use of silence and space (the electric in a more jarring, less pin drop manner). On the "acoustic" collection, Haino's spacious playing brings to mind Loren Connors (a past collaborator) and New Zealander Roy Montgomery. It can get very quiet: Parts of 13-minute "Black Eyes" are so immensely whispered, the stereo needs to be pinned as high as possible to catch the ambience. Vocally, Haino's a psychedelic solitaire exhaling black and white. In "The Town in Black Fog" he whispers evocatively into your ear, a guitar strumming in the distance. Some tracks aren't as secretive: Everything's upfront on "I Don't Want to Know", a ballad with chords that drift across into each other no matter how carefully they're spaced. Haino's voice is often evocative, even pretty. The tour de force is the previously mentioned "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean". (As on a few of the tracks, the guitar doesn't sound especially "acoustic.") His voice registers as near falsetto while he lethargically strums; when Haino brings it down a notch, it's amazing to witness one of our noisiest guitarists turns out moth-wing ethereality. When he "plugs in" for set two, an angry demon emerges in a different part of the graveyard. Seconds into "Black Petal"'s opening chords there are already stab wounds; eventually Haino unleashes absolutely anguished screams. The electro "Black Eyes"'s three minutes briefer than its acoustic-minded sister; Haino knows how to play loud softly, so its guitars are layered and sustained but subtle. He approaches Mecca Normal slashing on the catchy "I Don't Want To Know", which is as rock as it gets. And the best? Again, it's "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean". This take explodes with an anguished vocal aneurysm and deliberate, reverberating guitar waves. It delivers a fitting purification rite before a high-pitched swath of feedback punk slaps the finale. To say Black Blues are mysterious records is an understatement. That they aren't for everyone is redundant. The vicious loudness delivers a few wonders of texture, raw rasp, and might be recognized first in the crowd due to its forceful attitude. But, really, it's the delicate acoustic movement-- subtle, enormous, secretive, inaudible-- that best channels and transmogrifies classic blues into exorcism."

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard

Polygondwanaland

Rock

Nina Corcoran

The psych rock band King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard chose to release its fourth album of the year—with a fifth supposedly en route—as a free digital download, encouraging fans to create as many copies as they please. “Make tapes, make CD’s, make records,” reads a note accompanying the album’s release. “Ever wanted to start your own record label? GO for it! Employ your mates, press wax, pack boxes. We do not own this record. You do. Go forth, share, enjoy.” Whether they're trying to scale back record expenses, or it’s an altruistic transfer of power to fans, King Gizzard’s decision to surrender control over this album’s physical reach is a comical one. Polygondwanaland is the farthest the seven-piece has strayed from their usual psych sci-fi roots. The band still employ lyrical nerdiness and wigged-out guitar in the album, but whereas King Gizzard’s last records got knee deep in prog rock, Polygondwanaland slinks into those waters until it’s waist high and loses the usual gnarly riffs. Like its mouthful of a title, Polygondwanaland delivers a 10-course meal without dividers between its dishes. Songs seep into one another for an immersive listen. The stirring, quiet percussion of “Inner Cell” tiptoes into “Loyalty” for a slow buildup, before it splashes into the punctuated vocals of “Horology,” a sea of guitar tapping and rich, warm woodwinds. As usual, transitions are key in King Gizzard’s work, but they add a smoothness to Polygondwanaland that makes it particularly digestible, so that every vocal sigh and gaudy synth acts as a complementary flavor. Like the euphoric peaks of 1970s-era Yes or the melodic sections of Emerson, Lake & Palmer’s discography, a solid first impression and a memorable farewell make these type of dense records impactful. King Gizzard put the majority of their stock in this. Polygondwanaland opens with 10 minutes of painstakingly recorded instrumentation on “Crumbling Castle.” Syncopated drumming and clean guitar scales part ways for bandleader Stu Mackenzie and his gentle voice. The song’s vague rumination on sickness and fragility parallels the instruments gently blowing behind him: backing guitars harmonize with one another, a flute solo fades in, and barely-discernable keyboards whirr in the distance. Then, in the song’s final minute, the band trades that for a wall of stoner-metal sludge. Closing track “The Fourth Colour” opts for the same dazzling effect. After endless, bright guitar trills and a rhythmic drone, a risible drum fill prompts the band to wreak havoc in the song's final minute, exploding with the psych rock frenzy of Flying Microtonal Banana or I’m in Your Mind Fuzz. King Gizzard tend to get roped up in the flourishes on Polygondwanaland, before giving way to an instinctive simplicity. At times, it works to their advantage, like when they moderate the dynamics of a feverish tempo on “Deserted Dunes Welcome Weary Feet.” Elsewhere, the band dulls itself by overthinking a section and losing their knack for natural flow. King Gizzard try their hand at hocketing—a technique where multiple singers share a single melody, alternating delivery across multiple notes—near the end of the album, but the focus on how they deliver the syllables loses the spark of the technique’s erratic feel. If there's nowhere left to push their envelope of indie rock ridiculousness, then prying into a genre rarely savored, nevertheless understood, in the 21st century is a bold step. Had they indulged in the campiness, it could have sharpened their own voice within the genre. At the very least, King Gizzard’s decision to give listeners control over the record’s physical production reflects the album’s musical shift. Prog rock is a genre known for disregarding traditional structures and often failing to land perfectly, so King Gizzard drag it out of the basement and into broad daylight with Polygondwanaland to make every triumph and flaw visible. Even if they don’t complete it in time, releasing five albums in a year is cheeky and fun, and they’re smart for giving listeners a way to participate. The album positions King Gizzard as a band more concerned with experimenting openly than with clearing the goal without getting scratched, which any adrenaline-seeker would tell you is the whole point. “P.s. If u wanna make cassettes I don’t really know what you would do,” the end of their note reads. “Be creative. We did it once but it sounded really shit.”

Artist: King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard, Album: Polygondwanaland, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "The psych rock band King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard chose to release its fourth album of the year—with a fifth supposedly en route—as a free digital download, encouraging fans to create as many copies as they please. “Make tapes, make CD’s, make records,” reads a note accompanying the album’s release. “Ever wanted to start your own record label? GO for it! Employ your mates, press wax, pack boxes. We do not own this record. You do. Go forth, share, enjoy.” Whether they're trying to scale back record expenses, or it’s an altruistic transfer of power to fans, King Gizzard’s decision to surrender control over this album’s physical reach is a comical one. Polygondwanaland is the farthest the seven-piece has strayed from their usual psych sci-fi roots. The band still employ lyrical nerdiness and wigged-out guitar in the album, but whereas King Gizzard’s last records got knee deep in prog rock, Polygondwanaland slinks into those waters until it’s waist high and loses the usual gnarly riffs. Like its mouthful of a title, Polygondwanaland delivers a 10-course meal without dividers between its dishes. Songs seep into one another for an immersive listen. The stirring, quiet percussion of “Inner Cell” tiptoes into “Loyalty” for a slow buildup, before it splashes into the punctuated vocals of “Horology,” a sea of guitar tapping and rich, warm woodwinds. As usual, transitions are key in King Gizzard’s work, but they add a smoothness to Polygondwanaland that makes it particularly digestible, so that every vocal sigh and gaudy synth acts as a complementary flavor. Like the euphoric peaks of 1970s-era Yes or the melodic sections of Emerson, Lake & Palmer’s discography, a solid first impression and a memorable farewell make these type of dense records impactful. King Gizzard put the majority of their stock in this. Polygondwanaland opens with 10 minutes of painstakingly recorded instrumentation on “Crumbling Castle.” Syncopated drumming and clean guitar scales part ways for bandleader Stu Mackenzie and his gentle voice. The song’s vague rumination on sickness and fragility parallels the instruments gently blowing behind him: backing guitars harmonize with one another, a flute solo fades in, and barely-discernable keyboards whirr in the distance. Then, in the song’s final minute, the band trades that for a wall of stoner-metal sludge. Closing track “The Fourth Colour” opts for the same dazzling effect. After endless, bright guitar trills and a rhythmic drone, a risible drum fill prompts the band to wreak havoc in the song's final minute, exploding with the psych rock frenzy of Flying Microtonal Banana or I’m in Your Mind Fuzz. King Gizzard tend to get roped up in the flourishes on Polygondwanaland, before giving way to an instinctive simplicity. At times, it works to their advantage, like when they moderate the dynamics of a feverish tempo on “Deserted Dunes Welcome Weary Feet.” Elsewhere, the band dulls itself by overthinking a section and losing their knack for natural flow. King Gizzard try their hand at hocketing—a technique where multiple singers share a single melody, alternating delivery across multiple notes—near the end of the album, but the focus on how they deliver the syllables loses the spark of the technique’s erratic feel. If there's nowhere left to push their envelope of indie rock ridiculousness, then prying into a genre rarely savored, nevertheless understood, in the 21st century is a bold step. Had they indulged in the campiness, it could have sharpened their own voice within the genre. At the very least, King Gizzard’s decision to give listeners control over the record’s physical production reflects the album’s musical shift. Prog rock is a genre known for disregarding traditional structures and often failing to land perfectly, so King Gizzard drag it out of the basement and into broad daylight with Polygondwanaland to make every triumph and flaw visible. Even if they don’t complete it in time, releasing five albums in a year is cheeky and fun, and they’re smart for giving listeners a way to participate. The album positions King Gizzard as a band more concerned with experimenting openly than with clearing the goal without getting scratched, which any adrenaline-seeker would tell you is the whole point. “P.s. If u wanna make cassettes I don’t really know what you would do,” the end of their note reads. “Be creative. We did it once but it sounded really shit.”"

Magic Trick

The Glad Birth of Love

Aaron Leitko

Hand it to Tim Cohen: He's got his routine down. Perched high above the streets of San Francisco in the group-house tower that serves as his bedroom and recording studio, the Fresh & Onlys front-man whips off three-chord pop songs with the kind of habitude that normal people reserve for coffee drinking, prayer, and "Law & Order" re-runs. With every change in the weather a new set of songs arrives, each collection pressed to limited edition vinyl and packaged in his trademark scary-clown/blood-weeping-eagle artwork. Except, not this time. The Glad Birth of Love breaks the steady solo-record routine that Cohen has established over the last several years. Rather than a smattering of scruffy psych-pop cast-offs, it's a record of long-form suites-- four songs in 45 minutes. The fuzz guitars are, mostly, absent. Another change: It's billed under the name of his live backing band, Magic Trick, rather than his own. In the past, Cohen's solo material has been raw and off the cuff-- a steady stream of downcast sing-alongs jammed out straight to tape and passed on to the world with minimal afterthought. But The Glad Birth of Love is more intricately arranged, slipping from baroque picking to mystical oud-fueled zone-outs. Cohen handles most of the instruments, but there are plenty of guests, including Jonas Reinhardt's Diego Gonzalez (droney stuff), the Sandwiches' Grace Cooper (vocals), and Thee Oh Sees' Jon Dwyer, now the Bay Area's go-to session flautist. Between the multi-movement song cycles and the oboe overdubs, there's more than a hint of prog to The Glad Birth of Love. But Cohen's ambition skews closer to Skip Spence than Rick Wakeman. Though they're ornately embellished, Cohen's epic ballads are basically just a bunch of his regular songs, only strung together stream-of-conciousness style. On "Clyde"-- a sort of surrealist father-and-son tale-- Cohen keeps the mood mellow, skipping through an endless series of finger style guitar figures, never looking back to a melody or motif once discarded. It peaks in the middle, with Clyde's sea-born demise, where Cohen-- who, despite his stoney demeanor, is strangely accomplished at channeling biblical wrath-- shouts, "God's great everlasting realm is forever," over a single thundering chord. At 13 minutes, album opener "Cherished One" is just one really, really, really long love song. In both his solo work and his songs with the Fresh & Onlys, simplicity was key to Cohen's charm. He had a perfect grasp on just how many riffs it took to make a snack-size lo-fi garage rock song sound huge. Even in his solo work, there was always a chorus on the horizon. The Glad Birth of Love throws everything out on the table. It's a summation of Cohen's music-- his psych-rock output, but also the out-folk exercises of his old, unheralded band, Black Fiction. Sing-along moments are scarce, and sometimes the narrative gets foggy. But The Glad Birth of Love's scale gives Cohen room to stretch, letting his weirdo lyrical ambitions run wild amid a jumble of pastoral plucking.

Artist: Magic Trick, Album: The Glad Birth of Love, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Hand it to Tim Cohen: He's got his routine down. Perched high above the streets of San Francisco in the group-house tower that serves as his bedroom and recording studio, the Fresh & Onlys front-man whips off three-chord pop songs with the kind of habitude that normal people reserve for coffee drinking, prayer, and "Law & Order" re-runs. With every change in the weather a new set of songs arrives, each collection pressed to limited edition vinyl and packaged in his trademark scary-clown/blood-weeping-eagle artwork. Except, not this time. The Glad Birth of Love breaks the steady solo-record routine that Cohen has established over the last several years. Rather than a smattering of scruffy psych-pop cast-offs, it's a record of long-form suites-- four songs in 45 minutes. The fuzz guitars are, mostly, absent. Another change: It's billed under the name of his live backing band, Magic Trick, rather than his own. In the past, Cohen's solo material has been raw and off the cuff-- a steady stream of downcast sing-alongs jammed out straight to tape and passed on to the world with minimal afterthought. But The Glad Birth of Love is more intricately arranged, slipping from baroque picking to mystical oud-fueled zone-outs. Cohen handles most of the instruments, but there are plenty of guests, including Jonas Reinhardt's Diego Gonzalez (droney stuff), the Sandwiches' Grace Cooper (vocals), and Thee Oh Sees' Jon Dwyer, now the Bay Area's go-to session flautist. Between the multi-movement song cycles and the oboe overdubs, there's more than a hint of prog to The Glad Birth of Love. But Cohen's ambition skews closer to Skip Spence than Rick Wakeman. Though they're ornately embellished, Cohen's epic ballads are basically just a bunch of his regular songs, only strung together stream-of-conciousness style. On "Clyde"-- a sort of surrealist father-and-son tale-- Cohen keeps the mood mellow, skipping through an endless series of finger style guitar figures, never looking back to a melody or motif once discarded. It peaks in the middle, with Clyde's sea-born demise, where Cohen-- who, despite his stoney demeanor, is strangely accomplished at channeling biblical wrath-- shouts, "God's great everlasting realm is forever," over a single thundering chord. At 13 minutes, album opener "Cherished One" is just one really, really, really long love song. In both his solo work and his songs with the Fresh & Onlys, simplicity was key to Cohen's charm. He had a perfect grasp on just how many riffs it took to make a snack-size lo-fi garage rock song sound huge. Even in his solo work, there was always a chorus on the horizon. The Glad Birth of Love throws everything out on the table. It's a summation of Cohen's music-- his psych-rock output, but also the out-folk exercises of his old, unheralded band, Black Fiction. Sing-along moments are scarce, and sometimes the narrative gets foggy. But The Glad Birth of Love's scale gives Cohen room to stretch, letting his weirdo lyrical ambitions run wild amid a jumble of pastoral plucking."

James Pants

Welcome

Electronic,Pop/R&B,Rap

Nate Patrin

This usually isn't something readers (or writers) take into account when it comes to this site's reviews, but you might want to consider that rating up there a purely vestigial placeholder this time around. A 5.0-- basically 2.5/5 stars-- is essentially "not good, but not awful," which is an evaluation that kept coming to mind on the first few listens to this debut from the Stones Throw intern-turned-roster member. But it's also supposed to mean "mediocre"-- and nothing this willfully odd can really be considered mediocre. Welcome is a one-man show that emphasizes the DIY basement-band side to synthesizer funk, that rides hooks and grooves so relentlessly that they transmute from catchy to grating to hypnotic, that draws from Prince and Sly Stone and Beck and Pharrell Williams but amplifies the stuff that made them eccentrics well over the stuff that made them pop. Take Pants' labelmate, the notorious borderline-outsider artist Gary Wilson, replace lounge-jazz with 1980s r&b, remove the thematic obsessions over mystery girls and phrases like "bitch" and "chrome," and you've got a start. A damn weird start. Chances are that this album will alienate the shit out of you quite a bit before you start catching on to its fucked-up charm, and you might even give up before you get to that point. There's something kind of obvious and silly about the sounds on this record, particularly the synths, which seem to be chosen specifically for how dated they sound. And few of these songs really get much further than the establishment of a catchy riff and a steady, heavy drumbeat (live or synthesized) with some wailing Moog noises and the odd half-shouted lyric laid over the top. There's actually a fair shot that you'll be horribly repelled by this music, much in the same way and for the same reasons a lot of people seem to have this seething, boiling hatred for "Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!" But it's hard to actually consider Welcome a bad album, mostly because it has this inexplicable likability: It's bizarrely comic without coming across as cheap irony, and it's pretty clear Pants lays down these semi-instrumental jams because he wants to have fun and make noise with some once-expensive, now-dated (and, subsequently, currently underheard) musical machinery. It helps when he has someone else along for the ride-- like Deon Davis, who contributes silky-smooth vocals to two of the tracks, including the wobbly Holiday Inn soul harmonies of offbeat debut single "Ka$h", or 70s/80s electro-funk obscurity Gary Davis, who co-produces the affably dopey but backbone-slipping "You're the One". Yet even on his own, James Pants is capable of laying down some jams when he wants to: for every afterthought-sounding Casio-demo-button-gone-wrong semicomposition like "My Tree" or inebriated, rhythmically hinky roller-boogie botch job like "I Choose You", there's a song that puts weirdness to its advantage: Opener "Theme From Paris" sounds legitimately exciting in its overenthusiasm, all thundering drums and seething synthesizers like a 13-year-old John Bonham pitted against the soundtrack to Sega's arcade classic "OutRun", and the damaged on-the-fly rapping of "We're Through" has the same low-budget naifish whimsy as some of the better stuff from the similarly Prince-minded indie-electro goofs in Sexual Harassment. I can't unreservedly call this album good-- yet-- but I can definitely recommend that you listen to it, because there's not much out there that really sounds like it, and for every moment where you think its sheer whacked-out sloppiness is going to give you a headache, it delivers a flash or two of giddy brilliance. You know why this gets a 5.0? Because I can't give it a picture of Roger Troutman giving a flying elbow drop to the animatronic gorilla from the Rock-afire Explosion band.

Artist: James Pants, Album: Welcome, Genre: Electronic,Pop/R&B,Rap, Score (1-10): 5.0 Album review: "This usually isn't something readers (or writers) take into account when it comes to this site's reviews, but you might want to consider that rating up there a purely vestigial placeholder this time around. A 5.0-- basically 2.5/5 stars-- is essentially "not good, but not awful," which is an evaluation that kept coming to mind on the first few listens to this debut from the Stones Throw intern-turned-roster member. But it's also supposed to mean "mediocre"-- and nothing this willfully odd can really be considered mediocre. Welcome is a one-man show that emphasizes the DIY basement-band side to synthesizer funk, that rides hooks and grooves so relentlessly that they transmute from catchy to grating to hypnotic, that draws from Prince and Sly Stone and Beck and Pharrell Williams but amplifies the stuff that made them eccentrics well over the stuff that made them pop. Take Pants' labelmate, the notorious borderline-outsider artist Gary Wilson, replace lounge-jazz with 1980s r&b, remove the thematic obsessions over mystery girls and phrases like "bitch" and "chrome," and you've got a start. A damn weird start. Chances are that this album will alienate the shit out of you quite a bit before you start catching on to its fucked-up charm, and you might even give up before you get to that point. There's something kind of obvious and silly about the sounds on this record, particularly the synths, which seem to be chosen specifically for how dated they sound. And few of these songs really get much further than the establishment of a catchy riff and a steady, heavy drumbeat (live or synthesized) with some wailing Moog noises and the odd half-shouted lyric laid over the top. There's actually a fair shot that you'll be horribly repelled by this music, much in the same way and for the same reasons a lot of people seem to have this seething, boiling hatred for "Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!" But it's hard to actually consider Welcome a bad album, mostly because it has this inexplicable likability: It's bizarrely comic without coming across as cheap irony, and it's pretty clear Pants lays down these semi-instrumental jams because he wants to have fun and make noise with some once-expensive, now-dated (and, subsequently, currently underheard) musical machinery. It helps when he has someone else along for the ride-- like Deon Davis, who contributes silky-smooth vocals to two of the tracks, including the wobbly Holiday Inn soul harmonies of offbeat debut single "Ka$h", or 70s/80s electro-funk obscurity Gary Davis, who co-produces the affably dopey but backbone-slipping "You're the One". Yet even on his own, James Pants is capable of laying down some jams when he wants to: for every afterthought-sounding Casio-demo-button-gone-wrong semicomposition like "My Tree" or inebriated, rhythmically hinky roller-boogie botch job like "I Choose You", there's a song that puts weirdness to its advantage: Opener "Theme From Paris" sounds legitimately exciting in its overenthusiasm, all thundering drums and seething synthesizers like a 13-year-old John Bonham pitted against the soundtrack to Sega's arcade classic "OutRun", and the damaged on-the-fly rapping of "We're Through" has the same low-budget naifish whimsy as some of the better stuff from the similarly Prince-minded indie-electro goofs in Sexual Harassment. I can't unreservedly call this album good-- yet-- but I can definitely recommend that you listen to it, because there's not much out there that really sounds like it, and for every moment where you think its sheer whacked-out sloppiness is going to give you a headache, it delivers a flash or two of giddy brilliance. You know why this gets a 5.0? Because I can't give it a picture of Roger Troutman giving a flying elbow drop to the animatronic gorilla from the Rock-afire Explosion band."

Television Personalities

Beautiful Despair

Rock

Calum Marsh

In his prime, Television Personalities frontman Dan Treacy was perhaps the most unconventional figure in post-punk. Indeed, the usual procedures of writing, recording and performing music seemed to bore him so much he could hardly be bothered to try. In concert, Treacy refused to write setlists or announce titles, leaving his bandmates to identify each new mystery song as he launched into it; Television Personalities rehearsals, meanwhile, were virtually nonexistent. “I remember us rehearsing once in late 1983,” Treacy’s friend and collaborator Jowe Head recalled to The Brag in 2016. “We did another one five years later, and that was about it.” So averse was Treacy to the obligatory drudgery of being a musician that it sometimes seemed as if he’d prefer to do anything else. “In fact music is probably not the right medium for me to express myself,” he confessed in an interview in the mid-’80s. “I like films and books more.” But music was what he chose. Over more than 30 years and nearly a dozen celebrated albums, Treacy expressed his suffering with his music until the suffering overwhelmed him. (He expressed his joy and humor when he felt them, too, but the pain won out.) In the ’90s, he vanished for more than half a decade, whereabouts unknown: it would later transpire he’d been serving time on a prison barge, convicted for shoplifting. Addiction tormented him. In 2011, after a short-lived mid-aughts comeback, he disappeared again—this time owing to a blood clot in the brain that required extensive surgery. Since then, reportedly, he has been recovering under professional care in a nursing home. With not much prospect now of new music, the arrival of a lost Television Personalities album would seem to be cause for celebration—we’re getting more Dan Treacy just when we need him. Beautiful Despair was recorded at Jowe Head’s flat at Glading Terrace in Stoke Newington over a number of sessions in 1989 and 1990, after the release of the acclaimed Privilege and before the recording of the mid-career classic Closer to God—the latter of which contains so many of these songs in more complete form that it seems more accurate to describe Beautiful Despair as a first draft of Closer to God than a proper standalone LP. It is a true “lost album” in one literal sense: Head admitted recently that he had “mislaid the tapes” from these sessions and simply happened upon them while looking for something else. But it is not as though 48 minutes’ worth of never-before-heard vintage Television Personalities material has been unearthed after all these years. Beautiful Despair is a rough sketch, and its worth extends only as far as one’s interest in such a document. If it’s true of the best Television Personalities songs that, as NME said in a review of the band’s 1981 debut, And Don’t the Kids Just Love It, “their particular magic lies in their half-formed nature, their humble hesitancy,” then Beautiful Despair has that virtue. Indeed, the familiar tracks here sound cruder and less refined than their finalized Closer to God counterparts, ramshackle in a manner that can be quite appealing. “Hard Luck Story Number 39” and “Razor Blades and Lemonade,” two of Treacy’s best songs from this period, have the pleasant dreaminess of bedroom pop—a stark change from their full-band rock arrangements and robust production on the better-known record. A simplified “I Hope You Have a Nice Day” seems in particular an improvement over the original: shorn of its brass and wall-of-noise guitar, it’s revealed as a charming, breezy pop gem, precisely the sort of thing Treacy did well. Beautiful Despair does boast a handful of bona-fide discoveries. The finest, a downtempo number called “If You Fly Too High,” was recorded after a show at the Ecstasy Madhouse club in Berlin in 1989; the Television Personalities were playing with the Lemonheads, and the song was conceived as a parody of Evan Dando. (It includes such memorably Treacian witticisms as “Have I told you I know Alan McGee?”) Another, “Love is a Four Letter Word,” went on to become “Love is Better Than War,” a b-side to a single from 1992. The song is a test case for the merit of much of this album. Probably it’s good that “Love is a Four Letter Word” exists in this incarnation, as a matter of historical interest and a gift for dedicated fans. But is it significant? Frankly, no. It shares with most of Beautiful Despair the unfortunate condition of superfluousness. “It just amuses me,” Treacy told Scottish fanzine Slow Dazzle in 1984, asked how he felt when epithets like “art pop” and “psychedelic” were used to describe his style. “I can hardly be accused of jumping on the bandwagon though, can I? A couple of years ago people were saying, ‘What the hell are they doing?’” It was an old story for him even then. His band always seemed out of harmony with fashion, either too early or too late for what was popular at the moment. In 1976, aged 17, he went to his first punk-rock show, but left because he found it too violent. So he made up his own genre, and ridiculed the punk kids with defiantly uncool cheer. The world would catch up with Treacy eventually: his witty, lo-fi pop influenced everyone from Pavement to the Jesus and Mary Chain. Only by then he’d moved on to something else that wasn’t trendy—ever the prescient artist, never a man with much luck.

Artist: Television Personalities, Album: Beautiful Despair, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "In his prime, Television Personalities frontman Dan Treacy was perhaps the most unconventional figure in post-punk. Indeed, the usual procedures of writing, recording and performing music seemed to bore him so much he could hardly be bothered to try. In concert, Treacy refused to write setlists or announce titles, leaving his bandmates to identify each new mystery song as he launched into it; Television Personalities rehearsals, meanwhile, were virtually nonexistent. “I remember us rehearsing once in late 1983,” Treacy’s friend and collaborator Jowe Head recalled to The Brag in 2016. “We did another one five years later, and that was about it.” So averse was Treacy to the obligatory drudgery of being a musician that it sometimes seemed as if he’d prefer to do anything else. “In fact music is probably not the right medium for me to express myself,” he confessed in an interview in the mid-’80s. “I like films and books more.” But music was what he chose. Over more than 30 years and nearly a dozen celebrated albums, Treacy expressed his suffering with his music until the suffering overwhelmed him. (He expressed his joy and humor when he felt them, too, but the pain won out.) In the ’90s, he vanished for more than half a decade, whereabouts unknown: it would later transpire he’d been serving time on a prison barge, convicted for shoplifting. Addiction tormented him. In 2011, after a short-lived mid-aughts comeback, he disappeared again—this time owing to a blood clot in the brain that required extensive surgery. Since then, reportedly, he has been recovering under professional care in a nursing home. With not much prospect now of new music, the arrival of a lost Television Personalities album would seem to be cause for celebration—we’re getting more Dan Treacy just when we need him. Beautiful Despair was recorded at Jowe Head’s flat at Glading Terrace in Stoke Newington over a number of sessions in 1989 and 1990, after the release of the acclaimed Privilege and before the recording of the mid-career classic Closer to God—the latter of which contains so many of these songs in more complete form that it seems more accurate to describe Beautiful Despair as a first draft of Closer to God than a proper standalone LP. It is a true “lost album” in one literal sense: Head admitted recently that he had “mislaid the tapes” from these sessions and simply happened upon them while looking for something else. But it is not as though 48 minutes’ worth of never-before-heard vintage Television Personalities material has been unearthed after all these years. Beautiful Despair is a rough sketch, and its worth extends only as far as one’s interest in such a document. If it’s true of the best Television Personalities songs that, as NME said in a review of the band’s 1981 debut, And Don’t the Kids Just Love It, “their particular magic lies in their half-formed nature, their humble hesitancy,” then Beautiful Despair has that virtue. Indeed, the familiar tracks here sound cruder and less refined than their finalized Closer to God counterparts, ramshackle in a manner that can be quite appealing. “Hard Luck Story Number 39” and “Razor Blades and Lemonade,” two of Treacy’s best songs from this period, have the pleasant dreaminess of bedroom pop—a stark change from their full-band rock arrangements and robust production on the better-known record. A simplified “I Hope You Have a Nice Day” seems in particular an improvement over the original: shorn of its brass and wall-of-noise guitar, it’s revealed as a charming, breezy pop gem, precisely the sort of thing Treacy did well. Beautiful Despair does boast a handful of bona-fide discoveries. The finest, a downtempo number called “If You Fly Too High,” was recorded after a show at the Ecstasy Madhouse club in Berlin in 1989; the Television Personalities were playing with the Lemonheads, and the song was conceived as a parody of Evan Dando. (It includes such memorably Treacian witticisms as “Have I told you I know Alan McGee?”) Another, “Love is a Four Letter Word,” went on to become “Love is Better Than War,” a b-side to a single from 1992. The song is a test case for the merit of much of this album. Probably it’s good that “Love is a Four Letter Word” exists in this incarnation, as a matter of historical interest and a gift for dedicated fans. But is it significant? Frankly, no. It shares with most of Beautiful Despair the unfortunate condition of superfluousness. “It just amuses me,” Treacy told Scottish fanzine Slow Dazzle in 1984, asked how he felt when epithets like “art pop” and “psychedelic” were used to describe his style. “I can hardly be accused of jumping on the bandwagon though, can I? A couple of years ago people were saying, ‘What the hell are they doing?’” It was an old story for him even then. His band always seemed out of harmony with fashion, either too early or too late for what was popular at the moment. In 1976, aged 17, he went to his first punk-rock show, but left because he found it too violent. So he made up his own genre, and ridiculed the punk kids with defiantly uncool cheer. The world would catch up with Treacy eventually: his witty, lo-fi pop influenced everyone from Pavement to the Jesus and Mary Chain. Only by then he’d moved on to something else that wasn’t trendy—ever the prescient artist, never a man with much luck."

Mia Doi Todd

Zeroone

Folk/Country

Jason Nickey

After landing on a handful of critics' year-end top ten lists with her 1997 debut, Come Out of Your Mine, and with just as many midsize record labels vying for her signature, Los Angeles-based singer/songwriter Mia Doi Todd went and did a very brave thing-- some may call it very stupid. She decided to turn down all offers, formed her own label, and self-released her follow-up album. That album, Zeroone, the first release on City Zen Records, was released to significantly less fanfare than it would have received if it came out on, say, Sub Pop, which is too bad because it's at least as good as her debut, although not much of a progression. Harrowing, introspective, bare-bones voice and guitar, with emphasis on complex lyrical interplay, Zeroone is brimming with verbal puns and extended metaphors, all delivered with a voice that will stop you cold and send you running to either the repeat or stop button, depending what you look for in a vocalist. Imagine Tim Buckley meets Nico and you'll be in the ballpark of her sultry croons. Operatic, wavering, and ethereal, but also sullen and detached, Todd's voice is the first thing anyone approaching her music will notice. The second thing-- and the second potential obstacle-- is her lyrics. Yes, they're replete with literary complexity, but they're also sometimes full of literary preciousness. Some of her songs will surely come off as just a bit too cute, even pretentious, to some listeners-- even listeners like me who happen to like many of her songs. "Digital" is, unfortunately, Zeroone's lead-off track, and a good example of her over-wrought, over-refined, overly grad-school songcrafting. Hovering above her typical but adequate guitar accompaniment, Todd repeats such wordy insights as "digital, binary system, ones and zeros, dark versus light, yin and yang," and so on and so on and so on. It just tries too hard to make some kind of, like, deep observation about life, man. I don't buy it. It sounds like the work of someone who just finished reading her first book on, say, entropic heat-death-- or maybe her first Thomas Pynchon novel-- and was inspired too try her hand at this whole po-mo gig. And don't even get me started on "Ziggurat." Its opening verse speaks for itself: "Ziggurats are built only to crumble/ We approach the gods then prepare to tumble down." Now I'll tolerate this kind of heavy-handed grandiosity in my heavy metal, or even in my hip-hop, but I'll be damned if I'm going to put up with it in acoustic balladry. But all is forgiven when a song like "Can I?" rolls around. Sounding much like something off Buckley's Lorca or Starsailor albums, to call it haunting would be an understatement. And simply quoting a line or two wouldn't even come close to conveying its power and mystery-- most of that comes from her delivery-- but suffice it to say she uses a refrain ("Can I?/ I think I can/ I can I think/ Think I can") to weave a elaborate nexus connecting the various meanings within the song to stunning effect. Although the track is nearly ten minutes long and constructed simply from voice and guitar, I can't remember ever losing interest for a moment, even after multiple times through. "Can I?" alone is worth the price of the album. It makes me willing to trudge through the wordy muck constituting some of her other songs, and willing to test her future releases, in hope of finding something else so powerful. But if you aren't into dropping $13 for ten minutes of greatness, you can check her out on any number of fully Pitchfork-approved releases, like Dntel's Life is Full of Possibilities and Dublab's Freeways compilation.

Artist: Mia Doi Todd, Album: Zeroone, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "After landing on a handful of critics' year-end top ten lists with her 1997 debut, Come Out of Your Mine, and with just as many midsize record labels vying for her signature, Los Angeles-based singer/songwriter Mia Doi Todd went and did a very brave thing-- some may call it very stupid. She decided to turn down all offers, formed her own label, and self-released her follow-up album. That album, Zeroone, the first release on City Zen Records, was released to significantly less fanfare than it would have received if it came out on, say, Sub Pop, which is too bad because it's at least as good as her debut, although not much of a progression. Harrowing, introspective, bare-bones voice and guitar, with emphasis on complex lyrical interplay, Zeroone is brimming with verbal puns and extended metaphors, all delivered with a voice that will stop you cold and send you running to either the repeat or stop button, depending what you look for in a vocalist. Imagine Tim Buckley meets Nico and you'll be in the ballpark of her sultry croons. Operatic, wavering, and ethereal, but also sullen and detached, Todd's voice is the first thing anyone approaching her music will notice. The second thing-- and the second potential obstacle-- is her lyrics. Yes, they're replete with literary complexity, but they're also sometimes full of literary preciousness. Some of her songs will surely come off as just a bit too cute, even pretentious, to some listeners-- even listeners like me who happen to like many of her songs. "Digital" is, unfortunately, Zeroone's lead-off track, and a good example of her over-wrought, over-refined, overly grad-school songcrafting. Hovering above her typical but adequate guitar accompaniment, Todd repeats such wordy insights as "digital, binary system, ones and zeros, dark versus light, yin and yang," and so on and so on and so on. It just tries too hard to make some kind of, like, deep observation about life, man. I don't buy it. It sounds like the work of someone who just finished reading her first book on, say, entropic heat-death-- or maybe her first Thomas Pynchon novel-- and was inspired too try her hand at this whole po-mo gig. And don't even get me started on "Ziggurat." Its opening verse speaks for itself: "Ziggurats are built only to crumble/ We approach the gods then prepare to tumble down." Now I'll tolerate this kind of heavy-handed grandiosity in my heavy metal, or even in my hip-hop, but I'll be damned if I'm going to put up with it in acoustic balladry. But all is forgiven when a song like "Can I?" rolls around. Sounding much like something off Buckley's Lorca or Starsailor albums, to call it haunting would be an understatement. And simply quoting a line or two wouldn't even come close to conveying its power and mystery-- most of that comes from her delivery-- but suffice it to say she uses a refrain ("Can I?/ I think I can/ I can I think/ Think I can") to weave a elaborate nexus connecting the various meanings within the song to stunning effect. Although the track is nearly ten minutes long and constructed simply from voice and guitar, I can't remember ever losing interest for a moment, even after multiple times through. "Can I?" alone is worth the price of the album. It makes me willing to trudge through the wordy muck constituting some of her other songs, and willing to test her future releases, in hope of finding something else so powerful. But if you aren't into dropping $13 for ten minutes of greatness, you can check her out on any number of fully Pitchfork-approved releases, like Dntel's Life is Full of Possibilities and Dublab's Freeways compilation."

Roy Montgomery

Music from the Film Hey Badfinger

Rock

Marc Masters

In the avant rock underground of the 1980s and 90s, New Zealander Roy Montgomery was as significant an artist as you could find. His work with vital post-punk outfit the Pin Group through his dronier trio Dadamah into his diverse solo guitar work overflowed with innovative sounds. But around the turn of the century, he practically disappeared. After 2001's Silver Wheel of Prayer, signs of musical life-- a few new tracks on a retrospective, a split with Grouper, an EP by his duo, Torlesse Super Group-- became small and rare. So for Montgomery followers, Music from the Film Hey Badfinger, his first truly new solo album in over 10 years, is a big event. But it's also a mixed blessing. Its 23 short tunes, conceived as the score to an imaginary movie about 60s Britrockers Badfinger, are energetic and thoughtful. But he chose to play every one with the same chiming, trebly tone, presumably using a chorus effect pedal. The results can be evocative, but the narrow, low end-avoiding sound is also tiring. It's an odd choice considering the sonic variety of Montgomery's previous work. Whether or not you find this new sound grating, it takes at least some suspension of disbelief to think it's the best mode for every one of his ideas. Montgomery's decision reminds me of a similar one made by John Fahey on his 1998 live album, Georgia Stomps, Atlanta Struts, and Other Contemporary Dance Favorites. That record also offered interesting ideas wrapped in tinny, ear-testing treble. But at that point, Fahey was pretty prolific, so the album could at least be seen as a tangent in the midst of a diverse oeuvre. Montgomery's decision after a decade-plus of relative silence is harder to figure. Paradoxically, Montgomery's self-imposed sonic straitjacket makes Hey Badfinger impressive as an exercise. He manages to coax a good bit of creative variety from this deliberate monotony. In that sense, the album recalls another late 90s record by a guitar legend, Loren Connors' Airs. That record also focused on short pieces and simple, recurring ideas, producing a suite of motifs that felt less like repetitions than variations on a theme. Montgomery catches a similar vibe on Hey Badfinger. Some of the songs rhyme with each other, sharing chords or structures that get subtly altered between tracks. And there are times when the album does feel like a soundtrack, albeit less to a band bio-pic than some kind of robotic Western. But where Connors' Airs was sonically rich and not beholden to a single mode, Montgomery's relentless tone flattens some of his ideas until they sound dull and identical. Still, there are a lot of those ideas here, and Montgomery clearly has more to say. Hopefully he thinks of this album as a first step back (most of it was recorded several years ago), and plans to employ the rest of his sonic arsenal soon. That would make his approach this time around easier to accept, because taken solely on its own, Music From the Film Hey Badfinger can be tough to swallow.

Artist: Roy Montgomery, Album: Music from the Film Hey Badfinger, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "In the avant rock underground of the 1980s and 90s, New Zealander Roy Montgomery was as significant an artist as you could find. His work with vital post-punk outfit the Pin Group through his dronier trio Dadamah into his diverse solo guitar work overflowed with innovative sounds. But around the turn of the century, he practically disappeared. After 2001's Silver Wheel of Prayer, signs of musical life-- a few new tracks on a retrospective, a split with Grouper, an EP by his duo, Torlesse Super Group-- became small and rare. So for Montgomery followers, Music from the Film Hey Badfinger, his first truly new solo album in over 10 years, is a big event. But it's also a mixed blessing. Its 23 short tunes, conceived as the score to an imaginary movie about 60s Britrockers Badfinger, are energetic and thoughtful. But he chose to play every one with the same chiming, trebly tone, presumably using a chorus effect pedal. The results can be evocative, but the narrow, low end-avoiding sound is also tiring. It's an odd choice considering the sonic variety of Montgomery's previous work. Whether or not you find this new sound grating, it takes at least some suspension of disbelief to think it's the best mode for every one of his ideas. Montgomery's decision reminds me of a similar one made by John Fahey on his 1998 live album, Georgia Stomps, Atlanta Struts, and Other Contemporary Dance Favorites. That record also offered interesting ideas wrapped in tinny, ear-testing treble. But at that point, Fahey was pretty prolific, so the album could at least be seen as a tangent in the midst of a diverse oeuvre. Montgomery's decision after a decade-plus of relative silence is harder to figure. Paradoxically, Montgomery's self-imposed sonic straitjacket makes Hey Badfinger impressive as an exercise. He manages to coax a good bit of creative variety from this deliberate monotony. In that sense, the album recalls another late 90s record by a guitar legend, Loren Connors' Airs. That record also focused on short pieces and simple, recurring ideas, producing a suite of motifs that felt less like repetitions than variations on a theme. Montgomery catches a similar vibe on Hey Badfinger. Some of the songs rhyme with each other, sharing chords or structures that get subtly altered between tracks. And there are times when the album does feel like a soundtrack, albeit less to a band bio-pic than some kind of robotic Western. But where Connors' Airs was sonically rich and not beholden to a single mode, Montgomery's relentless tone flattens some of his ideas until they sound dull and identical. Still, there are a lot of those ideas here, and Montgomery clearly has more to say. Hopefully he thinks of this album as a first step back (most of it was recorded several years ago), and plans to employ the rest of his sonic arsenal soon. That would make his approach this time around easier to accept, because taken solely on its own, Music From the Film Hey Badfinger can be tough to swallow."

Luna

Live

Rock

Michael Sandlin

Most great bands know when to break up. The Beatles, the Sex Pistols, the Velvet Underground, the Replacements, Television, the Stooges, and Eddie and the Cruisers all acknowledged their own death knells and instinctively grasped when to pack it in. Of course, we all know what happens to the bands that linger on in the face of old age: these human relics become live nostalgia acts sharing double bills with Dylan's kids, or hobbling into the studio every two years leaking geezer-drool like Pop, Voodoo Lounge and Two Against Nature. Then again, there are always more demented geriatric tendencies: inexplicably befriending Burt Bacharach, hiring underfunded symphony orchestras, or even teaching adult education courses such as "How to Make It in the Rock Biz." Sadly, Luna seems like just another once-great, now-aging band enduring a slow disintegration, and thus sorely in need of the proverbial "bitter break-up." After being dropped by Elektra subsequent to 1997's non-million selling Pup Tent, they've been floating in artistic limbo without even a permanent label to call home. Original drummer Stanley Demeski is long gone, as is bassist Justin Harwood. Dean Wareham is trying his hand at acting. Sean Eden has a side project called the Weeds of Eden. And unfortunately, Luna live shows are simply not as thrilling as they once were. Besides, Dean just isn't all that funny anymore. Where's all the witty between-song chatter? Is it really enough to say, "Thanks!" and "Are you guys French?" Not to mention that the band's cover of the iconic 80's white-trash anthem, "Sweet Child O' Mine," only retains its knee-slapping Ivy League irony for one listen, if that. In the mid-90's just after the release of the critically lauded Penthouse, Luna were at their peak, both as a live unit and studio band. After having spent years on the road opening for everyone from the briefly reunited Velvet Underground to the Cocteau Twins, Wareham and Eden's inspired guitar synergy began to achieve a surprising intensity in concert. In fact, the band often achieved a rare quality musicologists often refer to as "rocking." Lately, Luna's been touring incessantly without writing much new material. I guess they figured, hey, why not play live in support of a live album? Logical. So, Luna released this no-big-deal live affair on the Brooklyn-based Arena Rock Records, as a partial justification of their continued existence as semi-functional band. Sadly, the album is a few years too late in coming. As an example, the guys, while opening for Lou Reed sometime back in 1996, pulled off an amazing rendition of the Velvets' "Ride into the Sun" with Reed and Wareham handling the vocals together. Where were all the tape recorders back then? On Live, Dean sings with a tired and less charming sort of "let's get this over with" detachment. Sean Eden's guitar lacks the creative spark it once had, as he now plays second-fiddle to Wareham as a soloist-- although Eden does manage to gets away with rambling Tom Verlaine mimicry during the endless guitar break in "23 Minutes in Brussels." Oddly though, Wareham seems to be in top form as a lead guitarist. He turns in some great scratch-acid wah-wah playing and other effects-enhanced psychedelic fuzz-outs. The understated lines on "Tiger Lily," and the loose, extended workouts on "Friendly Advice" channel the ghost of Sterling Morrison. He even gives a little history lesson to Luna fans with a rare Galaxie 500 live cut, "4th of July." But-- speaking of friendly advice-- you might want to do yourself a favor and ignore the newer songs included here: "Hello Little One," and "4000 Days." They only serve to suggest that Wareham will probably never write another "Slash Your Tires." New bassist Britta Phillips doesn't play with the authority that Justin Harwood did, but she's easier to look at. And hearing her speak French during the band's sexy cover of Serge Gainsbourg's "Bonnie and Clyde" just may be the only known aural cure for erectile dysfunction. Still, don't expect some stratospheric Live at Leeds-evoking performance. Then again, Live isn't as dismal a live affair as many of the historic failed live albums of the last thirty years: the Stones' criminal Flashpoint, the notorious 1971 Chicago IV recorded at Carnegie Hall, and 1976's Wings over America. So, if you're already in the habit of buying Luna albums, may as well add this to your collection. If you reside in Greenland or Antarctica, and don't get to see the band play much, Live is adequately representative of what the band sounds like onstage in front of an animate audience. I guess it's at least worth pinching from your local multimedia megamart.

Artist: Luna, Album: Live, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "Most great bands know when to break up. The Beatles, the Sex Pistols, the Velvet Underground, the Replacements, Television, the Stooges, and Eddie and the Cruisers all acknowledged their own death knells and instinctively grasped when to pack it in. Of course, we all know what happens to the bands that linger on in the face of old age: these human relics become live nostalgia acts sharing double bills with Dylan's kids, or hobbling into the studio every two years leaking geezer-drool like Pop, Voodoo Lounge and Two Against Nature. Then again, there are always more demented geriatric tendencies: inexplicably befriending Burt Bacharach, hiring underfunded symphony orchestras, or even teaching adult education courses such as "How to Make It in the Rock Biz." Sadly, Luna seems like just another once-great, now-aging band enduring a slow disintegration, and thus sorely in need of the proverbial "bitter break-up." After being dropped by Elektra subsequent to 1997's non-million selling Pup Tent, they've been floating in artistic limbo without even a permanent label to call home. Original drummer Stanley Demeski is long gone, as is bassist Justin Harwood. Dean Wareham is trying his hand at acting. Sean Eden has a side project called the Weeds of Eden. And unfortunately, Luna live shows are simply not as thrilling as they once were. Besides, Dean just isn't all that funny anymore. Where's all the witty between-song chatter? Is it really enough to say, "Thanks!" and "Are you guys French?" Not to mention that the band's cover of the iconic 80's white-trash anthem, "Sweet Child O' Mine," only retains its knee-slapping Ivy League irony for one listen, if that. In the mid-90's just after the release of the critically lauded Penthouse, Luna were at their peak, both as a live unit and studio band. After having spent years on the road opening for everyone from the briefly reunited Velvet Underground to the Cocteau Twins, Wareham and Eden's inspired guitar synergy began to achieve a surprising intensity in concert. In fact, the band often achieved a rare quality musicologists often refer to as "rocking." Lately, Luna's been touring incessantly without writing much new material. I guess they figured, hey, why not play live in support of a live album? Logical. So, Luna released this no-big-deal live affair on the Brooklyn-based Arena Rock Records, as a partial justification of their continued existence as semi-functional band. Sadly, the album is a few years too late in coming. As an example, the guys, while opening for Lou Reed sometime back in 1996, pulled off an amazing rendition of the Velvets' "Ride into the Sun" with Reed and Wareham handling the vocals together. Where were all the tape recorders back then? On Live, Dean sings with a tired and less charming sort of "let's get this over with" detachment. Sean Eden's guitar lacks the creative spark it once had, as he now plays second-fiddle to Wareham as a soloist-- although Eden does manage to gets away with rambling Tom Verlaine mimicry during the endless guitar break in "23 Minutes in Brussels." Oddly though, Wareham seems to be in top form as a lead guitarist. He turns in some great scratch-acid wah-wah playing and other effects-enhanced psychedelic fuzz-outs. The understated lines on "Tiger Lily," and the loose, extended workouts on "Friendly Advice" channel the ghost of Sterling Morrison. He even gives a little history lesson to Luna fans with a rare Galaxie 500 live cut, "4th of July." But-- speaking of friendly advice-- you might want to do yourself a favor and ignore the newer songs included here: "Hello Little One," and "4000 Days." They only serve to suggest that Wareham will probably never write another "Slash Your Tires." New bassist Britta Phillips doesn't play with the authority that Justin Harwood did, but she's easier to look at. And hearing her speak French during the band's sexy cover of Serge Gainsbourg's "Bonnie and Clyde" just may be the only known aural cure for erectile dysfunction. Still, don't expect some stratospheric Live at Leeds-evoking performance. Then again, Live isn't as dismal a live affair as many of the historic failed live albums of the last thirty years: the Stones' criminal Flashpoint, the notorious 1971 Chicago IV recorded at Carnegie Hall, and 1976's Wings over America. So, if you're already in the habit of buying Luna albums, may as well add this to your collection. If you reside in Greenland or Antarctica, and don't get to see the band play much, Live is adequately representative of what the band sounds like onstage in front of an animate audience. I guess it's at least worth pinching from your local multimedia megamart."

Melody’s Echo Chamber

Melody's Echo Chamber

Rock

Lindsay Zoladz

At a Tame Impala show in Paris two years ago, Melody Prochet, French pop aficionado and multi-instrumentalist for the band My Bee's Garden, became intrigued by the Aussie psych-rockers' scuzzy sonics. She struck up a conversation with the band's Kevin Parker after the show about how he achieved the band's signature, blown-out bass sound in particular, and a while later he asked My Bee's Garden to support Tame Impala on a European leg of their tour. Though her own band's sound was clean and somewhat precious, Prochet remained drawn to the Tame Impala aesthetic. So when she decided to go solo, she asked Parker to produce, and to push her out of her comfort zone a bit. "I tend to write songs with pretty chords and arpeggios, and I was kind of boring myself," she recalled. "So I asked Kevin to destroy everything." Mission accomplished. Recorded mostly at Parker's home studio in Perth, the resulting self-titled debut from Melody's Echo Chamber is a record of psych-tinged pop with just the right amount of thematic darkness and grime around the edges. Prochet has a way with melody and a voice that places her among the top-tier graduates of the Trish Keenan and Laetitia Sadier school of dream pop, but it's Parker's signature production that helps this record transcend its forever-in-vogue 1960s pop influences. ("This record was my dream sound," Prochet said in a recent interview. "I've tried for years to get it but finally found the right hands to sculpt it.") Full of immersive textures that give off an echoey depth and prismatic riffs that tumble through space, Parker's production grants this record its own laws of gravity. The record's best songs tease out tension between soft and hard edges-- a combination of beauty and brittleness. Excellent lead-off single "I Follow You" pairs an exquisitely sugary melody with a fuzzy, syncopated riff, while the dreamy "Crystallized" detonates in its final moments into a kraut-y electro freak-out. Beginning with a toy-soldier beat and warmly warped synth tones, "You Won't Be Missing That Part of Me" blooms into one of the record's best moments, a kiss-off song that flips the usual script and takes the perspective of the heartbreaker rather than the heartbreak ("Because I lied with all my heart, because it's time to change my life... Hold on, you'll see it won't be that hard to forget me.") Parker's production is perhaps at its most stunning on "Some Time Alone, Alone", on which Prochet's arpeggios rain down like a chandelier being hit with a sledgehammer in slow-motion. The shards occasionally prick: "Mount Hopeless" is fittingly gloomy, and there's even a song about post-plane crash cannibalism called "Snowcapped Andes Crash". But for as odd and chilling as that song sounds on paper, it falls flat in execution, languishing on a Side B that doesn't quite have enough ideas or surprises to save from some repetitive lulls. Prochet hasn't quite figured out how to do anything interesting with the macabre that lurks somewhere in this record's sound, and it leaves you wishing she'd explored Melody's dark side a little more, à la Broadcast's creepy masterpiece Tender Buttons. Of course, Prochet's melodies can't quite fill the Broadcast-shaped void left in the wake of Keenan's untimely death, but Melody's Echo Chamber is one of the more satisfying records to bear that band's influence in recent years. For a collaboration between a songwriter and a producer who helped push her to the outer limits of her vision, Melody's Echo Chamber is an impressively immersive debut.

Artist: Melody’s Echo Chamber, Album: Melody's Echo Chamber, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "At a Tame Impala show in Paris two years ago, Melody Prochet, French pop aficionado and multi-instrumentalist for the band My Bee's Garden, became intrigued by the Aussie psych-rockers' scuzzy sonics. She struck up a conversation with the band's Kevin Parker after the show about how he achieved the band's signature, blown-out bass sound in particular, and a while later he asked My Bee's Garden to support Tame Impala on a European leg of their tour. Though her own band's sound was clean and somewhat precious, Prochet remained drawn to the Tame Impala aesthetic. So when she decided to go solo, she asked Parker to produce, and to push her out of her comfort zone a bit. "I tend to write songs with pretty chords and arpeggios, and I was kind of boring myself," she recalled. "So I asked Kevin to destroy everything." Mission accomplished. Recorded mostly at Parker's home studio in Perth, the resulting self-titled debut from Melody's Echo Chamber is a record of psych-tinged pop with just the right amount of thematic darkness and grime around the edges. Prochet has a way with melody and a voice that places her among the top-tier graduates of the Trish Keenan and Laetitia Sadier school of dream pop, but it's Parker's signature production that helps this record transcend its forever-in-vogue 1960s pop influences. ("This record was my dream sound," Prochet said in a recent interview. "I've tried for years to get it but finally found the right hands to sculpt it.") Full of immersive textures that give off an echoey depth and prismatic riffs that tumble through space, Parker's production grants this record its own laws of gravity. The record's best songs tease out tension between soft and hard edges-- a combination of beauty and brittleness. Excellent lead-off single "I Follow You" pairs an exquisitely sugary melody with a fuzzy, syncopated riff, while the dreamy "Crystallized" detonates in its final moments into a kraut-y electro freak-out. Beginning with a toy-soldier beat and warmly warped synth tones, "You Won't Be Missing That Part of Me" blooms into one of the record's best moments, a kiss-off song that flips the usual script and takes the perspective of the heartbreaker rather than the heartbreak ("Because I lied with all my heart, because it's time to change my life... Hold on, you'll see it won't be that hard to forget me.") Parker's production is perhaps at its most stunning on "Some Time Alone, Alone", on which Prochet's arpeggios rain down like a chandelier being hit with a sledgehammer in slow-motion. The shards occasionally prick: "Mount Hopeless" is fittingly gloomy, and there's even a song about post-plane crash cannibalism called "Snowcapped Andes Crash". But for as odd and chilling as that song sounds on paper, it falls flat in execution, languishing on a Side B that doesn't quite have enough ideas or surprises to save from some repetitive lulls. Prochet hasn't quite figured out how to do anything interesting with the macabre that lurks somewhere in this record's sound, and it leaves you wishing she'd explored Melody's dark side a little more, à la Broadcast's creepy masterpiece Tender Buttons. Of course, Prochet's melodies can't quite fill the Broadcast-shaped void left in the wake of Keenan's untimely death, but Melody's Echo Chamber is one of the more satisfying records to bear that band's influence in recent years. For a collaboration between a songwriter and a producer who helped push her to the outer limits of her vision, Melody's Echo Chamber is an impressively immersive debut."

Entrance

Prayer of Death

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

If Baltimore indie bluesman Guy Blakeslee previously got his blues direct from the source, then on Prayer of Death, his third full-length as Entrance, he orders through a middleman-- namely, 60s psychedelia. Here, he electrifies his blues riffs with strong doses of Jimi Hendrix and the Rolling Stones, which strengthens instead of dilutes them. By emphasizing this aspect of his music, Blakeslee is essentially trading his white blues jones-- which at best was a hard sell, at worst insufferable-- for a new set of pretensions, and whether he's taking a short detour or cutting a new trail for himself remains to be seen. However, as a psychedelic shaman bringing us news from other planes of existence (dig that album cover), he sounds much more persuasive, and his tweaked aspirations keep the mix of blues and rock on Prayer of Death from sounding slick, calculated, or Eric Clapton. In fact, the tangles of guitar noise on these eight songs give Blakeslee more opportunities to emphasize his vocals. He peppers "Pretty Baby" and the eight-minute epic "Lost in the Dark" with feral grunts that are part mortal cough, part rock'n'roll yell, and his unhinged howl rises above the electrified din even as it becomes part of it. It helps that Blakeslee has assembled an adventurous group of collaborators to back him up. Creating a maelstrom from which he can wail feverishly, the band-- which includes A Perfect Circle's Paz Lenchantin, filmmaker Maximilla Lukacs, and Derek James-- isn't just loud, it's intense. Lenchantin's string arrangements add unbearable tension to "Silence on a Crowded Train" and "Pretty Baby", and his downlow bass licks provide a densely melodic bottom end over which the guitars can twist and swirl and drone frantically. In this setting, even the lone acoustic blues number, "Prayer of Death", sounds better, more directed and controlled, a break from the bands' doomy force. Perhaps most importantly, Entrance's combination of blues riffs and psychedelic drone reinforces the fears of mortality and annihilation that course through the lyrics and thread the songs into a powerful statement about deathly dread. "Your head's in the grave", he wails on "Pretty Baby", "but you still don't know why." Reportedly inspired by "the daily death-vibrations of the Modern World", Prayer of Death kicks off with the amped-up "Grim Reaper Blues", which rides a muddy blues riff and an effective call-and-response between singer and band, followed by "Silence on a Crowded Train", its paranoia offset by its immense, edge-of-the-precipice sound. And "Requiem for Sandy Bull (R.I.P.)" is noteworthy less for its sitar drone tribute to the late musician than for the fact that it's a memorial. For Blakeslee, death is the ultimate psychedelic, erasing the mind completely instead of expanding it-- and by the closing track, Blakeslee has made some sort of peace with the idea, which makes the album sound like a journey instead of a tract. His final words are "When you think about death every morning, don't you ever be afraid!" If only it were that easy.

Artist: Entrance, Album: Prayer of Death, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "If Baltimore indie bluesman Guy Blakeslee previously got his blues direct from the source, then on Prayer of Death, his third full-length as Entrance, he orders through a middleman-- namely, 60s psychedelia. Here, he electrifies his blues riffs with strong doses of Jimi Hendrix and the Rolling Stones, which strengthens instead of dilutes them. By emphasizing this aspect of his music, Blakeslee is essentially trading his white blues jones-- which at best was a hard sell, at worst insufferable-- for a new set of pretensions, and whether he's taking a short detour or cutting a new trail for himself remains to be seen. However, as a psychedelic shaman bringing us news from other planes of existence (dig that album cover), he sounds much more persuasive, and his tweaked aspirations keep the mix of blues and rock on Prayer of Death from sounding slick, calculated, or Eric Clapton. In fact, the tangles of guitar noise on these eight songs give Blakeslee more opportunities to emphasize his vocals. He peppers "Pretty Baby" and the eight-minute epic "Lost in the Dark" with feral grunts that are part mortal cough, part rock'n'roll yell, and his unhinged howl rises above the electrified din even as it becomes part of it. It helps that Blakeslee has assembled an adventurous group of collaborators to back him up. Creating a maelstrom from which he can wail feverishly, the band-- which includes A Perfect Circle's Paz Lenchantin, filmmaker Maximilla Lukacs, and Derek James-- isn't just loud, it's intense. Lenchantin's string arrangements add unbearable tension to "Silence on a Crowded Train" and "Pretty Baby", and his downlow bass licks provide a densely melodic bottom end over which the guitars can twist and swirl and drone frantically. In this setting, even the lone acoustic blues number, "Prayer of Death", sounds better, more directed and controlled, a break from the bands' doomy force. Perhaps most importantly, Entrance's combination of blues riffs and psychedelic drone reinforces the fears of mortality and annihilation that course through the lyrics and thread the songs into a powerful statement about deathly dread. "Your head's in the grave", he wails on "Pretty Baby", "but you still don't know why." Reportedly inspired by "the daily death-vibrations of the Modern World", Prayer of Death kicks off with the amped-up "Grim Reaper Blues", which rides a muddy blues riff and an effective call-and-response between singer and band, followed by "Silence on a Crowded Train", its paranoia offset by its immense, edge-of-the-precipice sound. And "Requiem for Sandy Bull (R.I.P.)" is noteworthy less for its sitar drone tribute to the late musician than for the fact that it's a memorial. For Blakeslee, death is the ultimate psychedelic, erasing the mind completely instead of expanding it-- and by the closing track, Blakeslee has made some sort of peace with the idea, which makes the album sound like a journey instead of a tract. His final words are "When you think about death every morning, don't you ever be afraid!" If only it were that easy."

Summer Hymns

A Celebratory Arm Gesture

Rock

Matt LeMay

Right now, I'm smiling. It's a shame you can't see this; cynical, embittered individuals like myself are rarely subject to ear-to-ear Cheshire Cat grins. But listening to A Celebratory Arm Gesture, I can't help but be happy. Really happy. Another beautiful record has entered my life, and I have no intention of letting it go any time soon. This isn't the first time Summer Hymns has done this to me. In the year or so since it was released, Summer Hymns' brilliant debut album, Voice Brother and Sister, has become not only one of my favorite albums in recent memory, but one of the few albums that can make me feel good every time I listen to it. Voice Brother and Sister remains, in many ways, the perfect summer record-- the hazy, gorgeous melodies and slurred psychedelic production affords it an inexplicable quality of heat and comfort. Considering all this, it's not surprising my expectations for A Celebratory Arm Gesture were ridiculously high. It's one of the few albums I've actually spent a good deal of time worrying about before hearing. Voice Brother and Sister seemed like such a perfect one-shot album-- the band name, the album art, and the beautiful songs, some of which had been floating around in lead singer, guitarist, and songwriter Zachary Gresham's head since high school. Honestly, I wasn't sure if they'd be able to pull it off again. And in some ways, I was right. A Celebratory Arm Gesture is certainly not a sequel to Voice Brother and Sister. The production is much cleaner and the album as a whole seems decidedly less psychedelic. More importantly, perhaps, A Celebratory Arm Gesture sounds much more like a band record than Voice Brother and Sister, with each individual musician contributing his or her own unique influence to the record's sound. Though the production on A Celebratory Arm Gesture is cleaner than on Voice Brother and Sister, the songs have grown more complex. But never do they sacrifice the seamless melodies and diverse instrumentation that truly made their debut great. "Something's Going On," the song that originally bore the title of the album itself, manages to be both tremendously sophisticated and instantly accessible. Derek Almstead's flowing, highly melodic basslines are a key part of A Celebratory Arm Gesture's sound, and "Something's Going On" features two of his finest. But Almstead's playing is only icing on the sweet, sweet cake of Zachary Gresham's songwriting skills. "Something's Going On," like many of the album's finer tracks, has several distinct parts, including a flat-out gorgeous bridge with a flute melody and lyrics like, "As long as there are words/ And one breath left in me/ There will always be one more song for you." On the slower and more melancholy side of A Celebratory Arm Gesture are two hazy, contemplative ballads, "I Could Give the World Away" and "Closure Eyes." The former features an almost Mazzy Star-ish wash of slide guitar, harmonica, organ, and strummed acoustic guitar-- one of the most affecting, bittersweet moments of A Celebratory Arm Gesture. "Closure Eyes" opens with a fluttering piano melody, swells of slide guitar, and a descending bassline that perfectly matches Gresham's sad, enchanting lyrics. At the four minute mark, the song shifts into a tottering guitar drone with marching band-inspired snare drum fills. Soon, a burbling analog synth comes in, segueing perfectly into the record's most surprising track, the melodic IDM of "The Daybreak." Glitchy and warm, "The Daybreak" would actually be more at home on a Boards of Canada LP. Just as Voice Brother and Sister was a perfectly constructed album, every aspect of A Celebratory Arm Gesture seems to fit together without flaw. The sequencing begins with more upbeat numbers and gradually segues into the complex "Something's Going On," and finishes with the bittersweet beauty of "I Could Give the World Away" and "Closure Eyes," each track interspersed with other gorgeous songs and instrumentals. Also, as with its predecessor, A Celebratory Arm Gesture's cover art seems perfectly matched to the album itself, combining nature and wildlife with hazy urban landscapes. Rather than falling into the dreaded sophomore slump, Summer Hymns have accomplished a truly impressive feat: transcending their bandname to create a perfect record for all seasons.

Artist: Summer Hymns, Album: A Celebratory Arm Gesture, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.8 Album review: "Right now, I'm smiling. It's a shame you can't see this; cynical, embittered individuals like myself are rarely subject to ear-to-ear Cheshire Cat grins. But listening to A Celebratory Arm Gesture, I can't help but be happy. Really happy. Another beautiful record has entered my life, and I have no intention of letting it go any time soon. This isn't the first time Summer Hymns has done this to me. In the year or so since it was released, Summer Hymns' brilliant debut album, Voice Brother and Sister, has become not only one of my favorite albums in recent memory, but one of the few albums that can make me feel good every time I listen to it. Voice Brother and Sister remains, in many ways, the perfect summer record-- the hazy, gorgeous melodies and slurred psychedelic production affords it an inexplicable quality of heat and comfort. Considering all this, it's not surprising my expectations for A Celebratory Arm Gesture were ridiculously high. It's one of the few albums I've actually spent a good deal of time worrying about before hearing. Voice Brother and Sister seemed like such a perfect one-shot album-- the band name, the album art, and the beautiful songs, some of which had been floating around in lead singer, guitarist, and songwriter Zachary Gresham's head since high school. Honestly, I wasn't sure if they'd be able to pull it off again. And in some ways, I was right. A Celebratory Arm Gesture is certainly not a sequel to Voice Brother and Sister. The production is much cleaner and the album as a whole seems decidedly less psychedelic. More importantly, perhaps, A Celebratory Arm Gesture sounds much more like a band record than Voice Brother and Sister, with each individual musician contributing his or her own unique influence to the record's sound. Though the production on A Celebratory Arm Gesture is cleaner than on Voice Brother and Sister, the songs have grown more complex. But never do they sacrifice the seamless melodies and diverse instrumentation that truly made their debut great. "Something's Going On," the song that originally bore the title of the album itself, manages to be both tremendously sophisticated and instantly accessible. Derek Almstead's flowing, highly melodic basslines are a key part of A Celebratory Arm Gesture's sound, and "Something's Going On" features two of his finest. But Almstead's playing is only icing on the sweet, sweet cake of Zachary Gresham's songwriting skills. "Something's Going On," like many of the album's finer tracks, has several distinct parts, including a flat-out gorgeous bridge with a flute melody and lyrics like, "As long as there are words/ And one breath left in me/ There will always be one more song for you." On the slower and more melancholy side of A Celebratory Arm Gesture are two hazy, contemplative ballads, "I Could Give the World Away" and "Closure Eyes." The former features an almost Mazzy Star-ish wash of slide guitar, harmonica, organ, and strummed acoustic guitar-- one of the most affecting, bittersweet moments of A Celebratory Arm Gesture. "Closure Eyes" opens with a fluttering piano melody, swells of slide guitar, and a descending bassline that perfectly matches Gresham's sad, enchanting lyrics. At the four minute mark, the song shifts into a tottering guitar drone with marching band-inspired snare drum fills. Soon, a burbling analog synth comes in, segueing perfectly into the record's most surprising track, the melodic IDM of "The Daybreak." Glitchy and warm, "The Daybreak" would actually be more at home on a Boards of Canada LP. Just as Voice Brother and Sister was a perfectly constructed album, every aspect of A Celebratory Arm Gesture seems to fit together without flaw. The sequencing begins with more upbeat numbers and gradually segues into the complex "Something's Going On," and finishes with the bittersweet beauty of "I Could Give the World Away" and "Closure Eyes," each track interspersed with other gorgeous songs and instrumentals. Also, as with its predecessor, A Celebratory Arm Gesture's cover art seems perfectly matched to the album itself, combining nature and wildlife with hazy urban landscapes. Rather than falling into the dreaded sophomore slump, Summer Hymns have accomplished a truly impressive feat: transcending their bandname to create a perfect record for all seasons."

The Tyde

Once

Rock

Joe Tangari

So there we were, sitting around waiting for the hallucinations to start. "Man, this is going to be so cool!" I said to Jimmy, who was leaning on a pine tree, looking at the fire. Neither of us had ever tripped on mushrooms before. "Yeah, dude," he said. "Way cooler than that time we ate raw Kool-Aid and I puked on your sister's shoe." "Yeah, way cooler than that," I said. "Turn the music on, man. We need a little atmosphere if this is going to work correctly." Jimmy put the Tyde's debut album in the stereo and hit play. "Dude, I hear this is, like, totally psychedelic. Three of these guys are in Beachwood Sparks." "Aren't they a country band or something?" I asked. "I thought they were basically a throwback to the Flying Burrito Brothers." "Well, kinda." But it's just the drummer, the lap steel guy and the bassist. The other half of the band is different, so it's not really the same band." The album's first song, "All My Bastard Children," wafted out of the speakers. Big, clean guitars arpeggiated over a leisurely drumbeat before being joined by Darren Rademaker's baritone musings on cheating lovers and drug abuse. It was pleasant, but I couldn't see it enhancing the mood much. "Hey, this is pretty good," said Jimmy. "It's nice and mellow. This song, 'New Confessions,' is close to Beachwood Sparks, with all the swelling steel guitars." "The melody sounds like it came from a Blue Oyster Cult song, though," I said. "Either way, these guys are stuck in 1972." "Strangers Again" began to play. "Whoa! If I didn't know better, I'd say that intro was lifted from an early Flaming Lips song or something. Ann Do's warbly, pitch-altered keyboards and the strained falsettos are pretty psychedelic, I guess. But I'm still not seeing anything." "Yeah, me neither," intoned Jimmy, reaching for the bong. He took a big, long puff and immediately started coughing like crazy. "Ugh. I don't know if this is working like it's supposed to. This smoke is really weird." "It smells kind of like a French restaurant," I offered, as the "Get Around Too," yet another ode to lovers going everywhere but to their own bed, swooned from the stereo. "Wow, when the cymbal-heavy drums finally kick in and those guitars start the slow, raking strums, it's pretty cool. I think this is my favorite part so far. It's pretty psychedelic, but man, I'm still not seeing anything." "You know what I don't like about this stuff?" Jimmy asked, suddenly looking more focused than usual. "Every song uses the same types of scales. It's all this pentatonic stuff over and over again." "You can't really fault them for that, though, dude. Every other psychedelic song ever recorded is pentatonic, be it British, American, or... I don't know... Italian. It just sounds spacy. Which makes this music kind of weird. The Tyde sound like a country band from space. They should all go live on a space ranch or something." "Whoa. Space ranch! That'd be so cool!" Jimmy sat back and gazed at the stars for a second. "Damn! I'm fucking still not seeing anything. What about you, spaceboy?" "Well, I made that stupid space ranch remark a little easier than I'd like to admit, but, no, I don't think I'm seeing anything. You'd think with all the phaser on that organ in 'The Dawn' we'd be seeing all kinds of crazy stuff by now." "Phasers are cool," mused Jimmy, throwing a stick onto the fire. "We should have brought marshmallows, you know that?" "The Dawn" petered out in a wash of phasers, harmonies and buzzy organs. A slightly chill breeze blew through the woods. You could hear the highway in the distance. The sky was so clear. You could see the band of the Milky Way stretching out in both directions, 100,000 light years thick. If I was going to have my first trip, this was the place to do it. Of course, the trip was refusing to materialize. "Are you sure we're doing this right?" I asked. "Is the bong set up properly? Are you even supposed to smoke mushrooms? I heard you're supposed to eat them." "This is how my friend Al said to do it!" defended Jimmy. "I don't know why it's not working. Maybe the music's not psychedelic enough. I should have brought Disraeli Gears." "The music's plenty psychedelic, Jimmy. I think we're doing it wrong. You kind of have a point about the music, now that I think about it, though. It's psychedelic in a very American way, with those California steel guitars and the loose, jammy vibe. It's the kind of music that'd probably be enhanced by hallucinations, but it's not the kind of stuff that'd ever produce them. 'Improper' even sounds a bit like Crooked Rain-era Pavement, only more produced." "Hey, I think I'm starting to see stuff!" said Jimmy, getting excited. "Oh, wait, that's just a smudge on my glasses." I took another puff from the bong. "Dude, nothing's happening. What kind of mushrooms are these, anyway?" "They're Portuguese. I think they're called 'portabello.'" "What?! You idiot! You can't trip on fuckin' portabello mushrooms! My mom serves these when we have important company over!" There was an awkward silence between the two of us as "Your Tattoos" played in the background. It was a pleasant little mid-tempo number just like most of the rest of the record, filled out with subtle steel guitar flourishes and some understated two-part harmonies. "Well, I guess that explains the French restaurant smell," said Jimmy dejectedly. He pulled the collar of his flannel shirt up a bit to ward off the breeze. "Damn, we should have brought marshmallows." "Shit. Well, man, it's no big deal. There'll be other times for this. Let's just listen to the last song and go home." "Yeah, okay," said Jimmy. "I suppose it wasn't a totally wasted evening." "Silver's Okay Michelle" opened with quiet strumming and delayed guitars echoing in the background. Rademaker entered sounding a lot like Seven Percent Solution's Reese Beeman-- appropriate given how much the music sounded like modern Texas psych with a steel guitar. It was good. A regular chip off the chocolate fireball. As the body of the song gave way to an extended coda, full of rumbling drums, freaked-out guitars and swirling keyboards, I swear I had a little, four-second hallucination-- a sunset in the middle of the forest. The Tyde's pastoral psych had finally hit me where it wanted to, and with no drugs at all. "Hey, let's go," said Jimmy as the laser slid back across its track in the player. "Make sure we've got everything." "Yeah, it's all here," I said. I threw the remaining mushrooms into the woods and stamped out the fire. "Next time, we'll bring marshmallows."

Artist: The Tyde, Album: Once, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "So there we were, sitting around waiting for the hallucinations to start. "Man, this is going to be so cool!" I said to Jimmy, who was leaning on a pine tree, looking at the fire. Neither of us had ever tripped on mushrooms before. "Yeah, dude," he said. "Way cooler than that time we ate raw Kool-Aid and I puked on your sister's shoe." "Yeah, way cooler than that," I said. "Turn the music on, man. We need a little atmosphere if this is going to work correctly." Jimmy put the Tyde's debut album in the stereo and hit play. "Dude, I hear this is, like, totally psychedelic. Three of these guys are in Beachwood Sparks." "Aren't they a country band or something?" I asked. "I thought they were basically a throwback to the Flying Burrito Brothers." "Well, kinda." But it's just the drummer, the lap steel guy and the bassist. The other half of the band is different, so it's not really the same band." The album's first song, "All My Bastard Children," wafted out of the speakers. Big, clean guitars arpeggiated over a leisurely drumbeat before being joined by Darren Rademaker's baritone musings on cheating lovers and drug abuse. It was pleasant, but I couldn't see it enhancing the mood much. "Hey, this is pretty good," said Jimmy. "It's nice and mellow. This song, 'New Confessions,' is close to Beachwood Sparks, with all the swelling steel guitars." "The melody sounds like it came from a Blue Oyster Cult song, though," I said. "Either way, these guys are stuck in 1972." "Strangers Again" began to play. "Whoa! If I didn't know better, I'd say that intro was lifted from an early Flaming Lips song or something. Ann Do's warbly, pitch-altered keyboards and the strained falsettos are pretty psychedelic, I guess. But I'm still not seeing anything." "Yeah, me neither," intoned Jimmy, reaching for the bong. He took a big, long puff and immediately started coughing like crazy. "Ugh. I don't know if this is working like it's supposed to. This smoke is really weird." "It smells kind of like a French restaurant," I offered, as the "Get Around Too," yet another ode to lovers going everywhere but to their own bed, swooned from the stereo. "Wow, when the cymbal-heavy drums finally kick in and those guitars start the slow, raking strums, it's pretty cool. I think this is my favorite part so far. It's pretty psychedelic, but man, I'm still not seeing anything." "You know what I don't like about this stuff?" Jimmy asked, suddenly looking more focused than usual. "Every song uses the same types of scales. It's all this pentatonic stuff over and over again." "You can't really fault them for that, though, dude. Every other psychedelic song ever recorded is pentatonic, be it British, American, or... I don't know... Italian. It just sounds spacy. Which makes this music kind of weird. The Tyde sound like a country band from space. They should all go live on a space ranch or something." "Whoa. Space ranch! That'd be so cool!" Jimmy sat back and gazed at the stars for a second. "Damn! I'm fucking still not seeing anything. What about you, spaceboy?" "Well, I made that stupid space ranch remark a little easier than I'd like to admit, but, no, I don't think I'm seeing anything. You'd think with all the phaser on that organ in 'The Dawn' we'd be seeing all kinds of crazy stuff by now." "Phasers are cool," mused Jimmy, throwing a stick onto the fire. "We should have brought marshmallows, you know that?" "The Dawn" petered out in a wash of phasers, harmonies and buzzy organs. A slightly chill breeze blew through the woods. You could hear the highway in the distance. The sky was so clear. You could see the band of the Milky Way stretching out in both directions, 100,000 light years thick. If I was going to have my first trip, this was the place to do it. Of course, the trip was refusing to materialize. "Are you sure we're doing this right?" I asked. "Is the bong set up properly? Are you even supposed to smoke mushrooms? I heard you're supposed to eat them." "This is how my friend Al said to do it!" defended Jimmy. "I don't know why it's not working. Maybe the music's not psychedelic enough. I should have brought Disraeli Gears." "The music's plenty psychedelic, Jimmy. I think we're doing it wrong. You kind of have a point about the music, now that I think about it, though. It's psychedelic in a very American way, with those California steel guitars and the loose, jammy vibe. It's the kind of music that'd probably be enhanced by hallucinations, but it's not the kind of stuff that'd ever produce them. 'Improper' even sounds a bit like Crooked Rain-era Pavement, only more produced." "Hey, I think I'm starting to see stuff!" said Jimmy, getting excited. "Oh, wait, that's just a smudge on my glasses." I took another puff from the bong. "Dude, nothing's happening. What kind of mushrooms are these, anyway?" "They're Portuguese. I think they're called 'portabello.'" "What?! You idiot! You can't trip on fuckin' portabello mushrooms! My mom serves these when we have important company over!" There was an awkward silence between the two of us as "Your Tattoos" played in the background. It was a pleasant little mid-tempo number just like most of the rest of the record, filled out with subtle steel guitar flourishes and some understated two-part harmonies. "Well, I guess that explains the French restaurant smell," said Jimmy dejectedly. He pulled the collar of his flannel shirt up a bit to ward off the breeze. "Damn, we should have brought marshmallows." "Shit. Well, man, it's no big deal. There'll be other times for this. Let's just listen to the last song and go home." "Yeah, okay," said Jimmy. "I suppose it wasn't a totally wasted evening." "Silver's Okay Michelle" opened with quiet strumming and delayed guitars echoing in the background. Rademaker entered sounding a lot like Seven Percent Solution's Reese Beeman-- appropriate given how much the music sounded like modern Texas psych with a steel guitar. It was good. A regular chip off the chocolate fireball. As the body of the song gave way to an extended coda, full of rumbling drums, freaked-out guitars and swirling keyboards, I swear I had a little, four-second hallucination-- a sunset in the middle of the forest. The Tyde's pastoral psych had finally hit me where it wanted to, and with no drugs at all. "Hey, let's go," said Jimmy as the laser slid back across its track in the player. "Make sure we've got everything." "Yeah, it's all here," I said. I threw the remaining mushrooms into the woods and stamped out the fire. "Next time, we'll bring marshmallows.""

Bear in Heaven

Time Is Over One Day Old

Rock

Ian Cohen

Bear in Heaven are a difficult band to describe, which actually made them easy to categorize at one point. When Animal Collective was indie rock’s undisputed, reigning MVP in 2009, a record like Beast Rest Forth Mouth could elevate a promising prospect to All-Star status: there was a demand for bands that were percussive and electronic with some basis in rock-band composition, bearing boyish vocals that were still handsome and masculine. The Brooklyn-via-Atlanta trio, like most in their position, got more urbane and technophilic on their follow-up I Love You, It’s Cool, a solid record but also a holding pattern that established staying power at the sake of artistic momentum. Animal Collective's 2012 album Centipede Hz clearly signaled the end of an indie rock era, so Bear in Heaven have more incentive and maybe even a necessity to define themselves on their own terms. And in a way, Time Is Over One Day Old does that—if you've kept up with them to this point, you know it’s Bear in Heaven that you're listening to—but while they remain difficult to describe, in this context, it’s for less flattering reasons. In 2014, it's hard to say what makes Bear in Heaven stand out. As it turns out, that still makes Time Is Over One Day Old easy to categorize—as with Yeasayer and Hooray For Earth’s most recent releases, it’s a notable example of a band ostensibly trying to figure out where they fit in as festival-going indie fans have simultaneously embraced more esoteric material alongside the most overt pop and R&B. So Time Is Over One Day Old comes across as being not quite centrist enough to qualify as pop, but nowhere near experimental enough to appeal to the fringe. In the current state, Bear in Heaven’s left-of-center translates to “middle of the road.” Of all the things Time Is Over One Day Old strips away from Bear in Heaven, foremost is the upward propulsion. The tone of the band's rhythm section is strapping and muscular, yet most of these songs begin by finding a cruising speed and end with Bear in Heaven having maintained a straight line throughout. Upon arriving at their choruses, “Time Between” and “Memory Heart” are given the chance to take the same thrilling leap as “Lovesick Teenagers” and “Ultimate Satisfaction”, but they politely demur and step back. “If I Were to Lie” and “Demons” bear interesting texture and try to work up same perpetual motion as “The Reflection of You”, but they end up simply running in place. Even in their earliest days, Bear in Heaven were more economical and precise than their peers, so it’s not surprising that their leanest album yet reveals what often amounts to a prim and trim krautrock band. Jon Philpot’s diction is clean and legible, his melodies are clearly enunciated, and opener “Autumn” sounds like a distant, colorless cousin of Caribou’s The Milk of Human Kindness. When Bear in Heaven steer off-track, the results are intriguing but unrealized: “Time Between” attaches itself to an alt-hip-hop beat distractingly similar to Lenny Kravitz’s “Fly Away”, and halfway through “They Dream”, Bear in Heaven veer off into a beatless coda that stops Time completely. When “Way Off” and “Dissolve the Walls” make similar moves toward the record’s closure, Bear in Heaven sound like they're running on fumes. Still, Time Is Over One Day Old knows how to fill a room. It’s tasteful, electronic indie as ambient music, and when you lean into it, it rarely pushes back. The evenness of Philpott’s delivery ensures that lines such as “You told me lies and I believed you”, “Suicide or stay alive...you decide to stay alive hopeless as a virgin”, and “Holy cluster fuck, you love a lot” all register at the same level of impact. Meanwhile, the uncanny, luminous production of “The Sun and the Moon and the Stars” puts it at odds with Philpot muttering with stony casualness, “the sun and the moon and the stars are hanging out with me.” On Time Is Over One Day Old, any emotional extreme or attempted musical shift just ends up sounding like stasis.

Artist: Bear in Heaven, Album: Time Is Over One Day Old, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.9 Album review: "Bear in Heaven are a difficult band to describe, which actually made them easy to categorize at one point. When Animal Collective was indie rock’s undisputed, reigning MVP in 2009, a record like Beast Rest Forth Mouth could elevate a promising prospect to All-Star status: there was a demand for bands that were percussive and electronic with some basis in rock-band composition, bearing boyish vocals that were still handsome and masculine. The Brooklyn-via-Atlanta trio, like most in their position, got more urbane and technophilic on their follow-up I Love You, It’s Cool, a solid record but also a holding pattern that established staying power at the sake of artistic momentum. Animal Collective's 2012 album Centipede Hz clearly signaled the end of an indie rock era, so Bear in Heaven have more incentive and maybe even a necessity to define themselves on their own terms. And in a way, Time Is Over One Day Old does that—if you've kept up with them to this point, you know it’s Bear in Heaven that you're listening to—but while they remain difficult to describe, in this context, it’s for less flattering reasons. In 2014, it's hard to say what makes Bear in Heaven stand out. As it turns out, that still makes Time Is Over One Day Old easy to categorize—as with Yeasayer and Hooray For Earth’s most recent releases, it’s a notable example of a band ostensibly trying to figure out where they fit in as festival-going indie fans have simultaneously embraced more esoteric material alongside the most overt pop and R&B. So Time Is Over One Day Old comes across as being not quite centrist enough to qualify as pop, but nowhere near experimental enough to appeal to the fringe. In the current state, Bear in Heaven’s left-of-center translates to “middle of the road.” Of all the things Time Is Over One Day Old strips away from Bear in Heaven, foremost is the upward propulsion. The tone of the band's rhythm section is strapping and muscular, yet most of these songs begin by finding a cruising speed and end with Bear in Heaven having maintained a straight line throughout. Upon arriving at their choruses, “Time Between” and “Memory Heart” are given the chance to take the same thrilling leap as “Lovesick Teenagers” and “Ultimate Satisfaction”, but they politely demur and step back. “If I Were to Lie” and “Demons” bear interesting texture and try to work up same perpetual motion as “The Reflection of You”, but they end up simply running in place. Even in their earliest days, Bear in Heaven were more economical and precise than their peers, so it’s not surprising that their leanest album yet reveals what often amounts to a prim and trim krautrock band. Jon Philpot’s diction is clean and legible, his melodies are clearly enunciated, and opener “Autumn” sounds like a distant, colorless cousin of Caribou’s The Milk of Human Kindness. When Bear in Heaven steer off-track, the results are intriguing but unrealized: “Time Between” attaches itself to an alt-hip-hop beat distractingly similar to Lenny Kravitz’s “Fly Away”, and halfway through “They Dream”, Bear in Heaven veer off into a beatless coda that stops Time completely. When “Way Off” and “Dissolve the Walls” make similar moves toward the record’s closure, Bear in Heaven sound like they're running on fumes. Still, Time Is Over One Day Old knows how to fill a room. It’s tasteful, electronic indie as ambient music, and when you lean into it, it rarely pushes back. The evenness of Philpott’s delivery ensures that lines such as “You told me lies and I believed you”, “Suicide or stay alive...you decide to stay alive hopeless as a virgin”, and “Holy cluster fuck, you love a lot” all register at the same level of impact. Meanwhile, the uncanny, luminous production of “The Sun and the Moon and the Stars” puts it at odds with Philpot muttering with stony casualness, “the sun and the moon and the stars are hanging out with me.” On Time Is Over One Day Old, any emotional extreme or attempted musical shift just ends up sounding like stasis."

Cobra High

Sunset in the Eye of the Hurricane

Brandon Stosuy

To catch the various, knobs, keys, and gauges lightly imprinted on the stark white cover of Sunset in the Eye of the Hurricane, tilt it around a bit, locate a bright enough angle in the room-- perhaps changing locations-- and let each ghostly marking catch the sun. On their first full length, Cobra High's willingness to insert such detail and to mesh equally subtle sonic layers into compositions pushes them beyond the faux-dark edginess of such overdressed lightweights as the Faint. Avoding the pompous caricatures of their paper-thin brethren, Cobra High's aesthetic know-how deepens upon repeated listens, their understated hooks lodging themselves into your frontal lobe through their integral placement. Featuring eight tracks roaming in and around analog synth and drum machine, all spun through guitar, bass, and actual drums, this two-year-old Seattle four piece channels New Order, Roxy Music, Cabaret Voltaire, Pere Ubu, and some less vaunted 1980s Midwestern scavengers. The album begins with three solid tracks that don't stutter anywhere in their pronunciation of that decade's more interesting half. "Paper Gods" inaugurates the underkill with a flashback sounding much like The Damned's "Smash It Up". Beyond this ringing synth introduction, the track shifts focus to a rave-up akin to the vastly forgotten Naked Raygun. In fact, Naked Raygun vocalist Jeff Pezzati is one of the better comparisons for Justin Schwartz's resonantly dusted baritone. The second track, "White Diamond", is a lyrically psychedelic dream-quest about a river; here Schwartz's smokey delivery brings to mind the stand-off cool of early Urge Overkill. Blend this with the rhythmically sublime Mission of Burma rocking along to New Order's stark ministrations and you'll get a sense of the track's overall arc. Rounding out the triad, the ridiculously titled prog instrumental, "Awesomology" packs a Wire meets King Crimson wallop, though, admittedly, post Trans Am's agonizingly ironic posturing, I can muster no love for the vocorder. Still, with two strikes against it, the track is a sloppily pretty whirling dervish that would've been better served if named after the evocative album title. But Cobra High set the bar too high, and much of the remainder of Sunset in the Eye of the Hurricane falters. "Black Boomerang", for example, errs noticeably on the side of that particular Luxx brand of new wave. Here, the rock resonances of "Paper Gods" and "White Diamond" are ditched in favor of mewling Faint-styled ponderousness; like much of that abyssmal genre, it sounds like incidental music to low-budget film noir. "El Fang Dorado", on the other hand, does bring the rock, but by fixating on naval-gazing math dynamics and not the outward-looking old-school charisma of the stronger work, it turns into anonymous Breadwinner aping by guys with too much time on their hands to practice their scales. Worst of all, the album peters out sourly with "A Leaded Trace", a maudlin dear-mom-and-dad bit centered around piano, distant "angelic" vocals, and a half-assed sing-a-long. The wimpiest XTC was more explosive. Not that it's all shit after the handshake: "A Cut of the Money" smartly manages the band's varied ingredients, treading a rich liminal space between each layer, carving-out five minutes of hooky artiness honing-in on and honoring the furious noisemaking of Pere Ubu's Pennsylvania. Moments like this confirm suspicions that the stronger tracks weren't a fluke. Despite the missteps, Cobra High make it plainly obvious that too many over-determined contemporary pretenders are pillaging the wrong paths through borrowed '80s record collections. For those who've always like more rock and less hairspray, you'd do yourself some historical good if you searched out Sunset in the Eye of the Hurricane along with the band's self-titled EP on Grand Mal. While you're at it, why not absorb a bit of the band's smartly evoked influences?

Artist: Cobra High, Album: Sunset in the Eye of the Hurricane, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "To catch the various, knobs, keys, and gauges lightly imprinted on the stark white cover of Sunset in the Eye of the Hurricane, tilt it around a bit, locate a bright enough angle in the room-- perhaps changing locations-- and let each ghostly marking catch the sun. On their first full length, Cobra High's willingness to insert such detail and to mesh equally subtle sonic layers into compositions pushes them beyond the faux-dark edginess of such overdressed lightweights as the Faint. Avoding the pompous caricatures of their paper-thin brethren, Cobra High's aesthetic know-how deepens upon repeated listens, their understated hooks lodging themselves into your frontal lobe through their integral placement. Featuring eight tracks roaming in and around analog synth and drum machine, all spun through guitar, bass, and actual drums, this two-year-old Seattle four piece channels New Order, Roxy Music, Cabaret Voltaire, Pere Ubu, and some less vaunted 1980s Midwestern scavengers. The album begins with three solid tracks that don't stutter anywhere in their pronunciation of that decade's more interesting half. "Paper Gods" inaugurates the underkill with a flashback sounding much like The Damned's "Smash It Up". Beyond this ringing synth introduction, the track shifts focus to a rave-up akin to the vastly forgotten Naked Raygun. In fact, Naked Raygun vocalist Jeff Pezzati is one of the better comparisons for Justin Schwartz's resonantly dusted baritone. The second track, "White Diamond", is a lyrically psychedelic dream-quest about a river; here Schwartz's smokey delivery brings to mind the stand-off cool of early Urge Overkill. Blend this with the rhythmically sublime Mission of Burma rocking along to New Order's stark ministrations and you'll get a sense of the track's overall arc. Rounding out the triad, the ridiculously titled prog instrumental, "Awesomology" packs a Wire meets King Crimson wallop, though, admittedly, post Trans Am's agonizingly ironic posturing, I can muster no love for the vocorder. Still, with two strikes against it, the track is a sloppily pretty whirling dervish that would've been better served if named after the evocative album title. But Cobra High set the bar too high, and much of the remainder of Sunset in the Eye of the Hurricane falters. "Black Boomerang", for example, errs noticeably on the side of that particular Luxx brand of new wave. Here, the rock resonances of "Paper Gods" and "White Diamond" are ditched in favor of mewling Faint-styled ponderousness; like much of that abyssmal genre, it sounds like incidental music to low-budget film noir. "El Fang Dorado", on the other hand, does bring the rock, but by fixating on naval-gazing math dynamics and not the outward-looking old-school charisma of the stronger work, it turns into anonymous Breadwinner aping by guys with too much time on their hands to practice their scales. Worst of all, the album peters out sourly with "A Leaded Trace", a maudlin dear-mom-and-dad bit centered around piano, distant "angelic" vocals, and a half-assed sing-a-long. The wimpiest XTC was more explosive. Not that it's all shit after the handshake: "A Cut of the Money" smartly manages the band's varied ingredients, treading a rich liminal space between each layer, carving-out five minutes of hooky artiness honing-in on and honoring the furious noisemaking of Pere Ubu's Pennsylvania. Moments like this confirm suspicions that the stronger tracks weren't a fluke. Despite the missteps, Cobra High make it plainly obvious that too many over-determined contemporary pretenders are pillaging the wrong paths through borrowed '80s record collections. For those who've always like more rock and less hairspray, you'd do yourself some historical good if you searched out Sunset in the Eye of the Hurricane along with the band's self-titled EP on Grand Mal. While you're at it, why not absorb a bit of the band's smartly evoked influences?"

Moth

Provisions, Fiction and Gear

Rock

Eric Carr

Moths are so freakin' disappointing. After a lifetime of hardship and struggle, the caterpillar emerges from its cocoon, soaring majestically over all of creation. The world is its oyster, and what does it do? It flies off to the nearest bug-zapper and incinerates itself, or gets eaten by something. There aren't many bigger letdowns in the animal kingdom. With Moth's debut, Provisions, Fiction and Gear, rock imitates life as an album that emerges as a solid, infectious effort, but eventually collapses under its own weight, unable to keep all its stylistic efforts coherent. Moth's basic nature is fairly simple. Bristling, guitar-driven melodies and sometimes-too-cutesy, only slightly irritating vocals are their primary tools for survival, in addition to ex-Rocket From the Crypt drummer Atom Willard's exceptional percussion (and awesome name). However, being clever creatures, Moth camouflages their sound throughout Provisions with plenty of variations on this theme in order to confound potential critics. Constantly alternating between crunchy and smooth, loud and soft, bouncy and sober, the album never sits still long enough to let listeners settle in or second-guess. This sonically varied defense mechanism works to prevent Moth from being easily pigeonholed, but leads to a few forays into some ugly territory. No matter what a person's tastes, it's tough to imagine that anyone will be pleased by every track if taken sequentially. In its larval stage, Moth has a soul of solid pogo punk, which they combine with the brains and sensibilities of art-rockers like Les Savy Fav. Provisions barrels out of the gate with "I See Sound" and "Thinking Please," two mighty anthems of pop energy that immediately set a blistering pace. "Burning Down My Sanity" really starts to show signs of this entity's development, building slowly on top of a pulsing drum rhythm that absolutely owns your hips until it's punctuated by a Yankee Stadium-sized guitar solo. The faint hint of southern drawl in the vocals gives the song a surreal edge, somewhat akin to the otherworldly experience of watching Ron Popeil hock food dehydrators at four in the morning. At its zenith, Provisions is all set to metamorph into something truly spectacular with "Lovers Quarrel." Here, a Merritt-esque song about feelings gets into a fight with a massive, bass-spewing robot, while droning guitars and piano cheer them on. The resulting brawl is the auditory high-water mark, some of the impact of which is lessened with the paranoid schizophrenic "Cocaine Star" that immediately follows. A touching tale of love, drug abuse, and snowplow killing sprees, this song and "Lovers Quarrel" are like matter and anti-matter colliding. It's a jarring, not-altogether-pleasant experience, but the resulting emission of rock power is still pretty impressive. Like a gyroscope faltering before completely losing its axis, Moth now puts on the air brakes and steers Provisions directly into the ground. I might be exaggerating a bit-- the last three tracks aren't really awful; they just let the upbeat, slightly absurdist tone that works so well in the earlier tracks fall by the wayside. No, wait, that's not entirely true either. "Straight Line" is pretty damn bad-- if you check, you might be able to find it in heavy rotation on KSUK 66.6 bookended by the latest Papa Roach single, "We're Rich and It's All Your Fault (Verizon Wireless Mix)," and the Enrique Iglesias hit, "I'm Talentless (No Tengo Ningún Talento)." Also, the chorus to "Not Really" reminds me so much of the opening seconds of "Bohemian Rhapsody" that it triggers eighth-grade Wayne's World acid flashbacks. (Queen, from Lucifer's heart, I stab at thee!) In and of themselves, these closing tracks are semi-palatable, but together they're truly hard to stomach. There's a lot to like about this album, and these guys might have what it takes to make it in the wild somewhere on down the line. But for now, like their ill-fated namesake, Moth's Provisions, Fiction and Gear moves into the light just when it finally starts to get somewhere. I couldn't bring myself to downgrade it too harshly since most of the album is pretty enjoyable, but be warned: this album is all over the place. If you're like me-- and for your sake, I hope not-- you hate disappointment, and Moth's debut never quite finishes what it starts.

Artist: Moth, Album: Provisions, Fiction and Gear, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "Moths are so freakin' disappointing. After a lifetime of hardship and struggle, the caterpillar emerges from its cocoon, soaring majestically over all of creation. The world is its oyster, and what does it do? It flies off to the nearest bug-zapper and incinerates itself, or gets eaten by something. There aren't many bigger letdowns in the animal kingdom. With Moth's debut, Provisions, Fiction and Gear, rock imitates life as an album that emerges as a solid, infectious effort, but eventually collapses under its own weight, unable to keep all its stylistic efforts coherent. Moth's basic nature is fairly simple. Bristling, guitar-driven melodies and sometimes-too-cutesy, only slightly irritating vocals are their primary tools for survival, in addition to ex-Rocket From the Crypt drummer Atom Willard's exceptional percussion (and awesome name). However, being clever creatures, Moth camouflages their sound throughout Provisions with plenty of variations on this theme in order to confound potential critics. Constantly alternating between crunchy and smooth, loud and soft, bouncy and sober, the album never sits still long enough to let listeners settle in or second-guess. This sonically varied defense mechanism works to prevent Moth from being easily pigeonholed, but leads to a few forays into some ugly territory. No matter what a person's tastes, it's tough to imagine that anyone will be pleased by every track if taken sequentially. In its larval stage, Moth has a soul of solid pogo punk, which they combine with the brains and sensibilities of art-rockers like Les Savy Fav. Provisions barrels out of the gate with "I See Sound" and "Thinking Please," two mighty anthems of pop energy that immediately set a blistering pace. "Burning Down My Sanity" really starts to show signs of this entity's development, building slowly on top of a pulsing drum rhythm that absolutely owns your hips until it's punctuated by a Yankee Stadium-sized guitar solo. The faint hint of southern drawl in the vocals gives the song a surreal edge, somewhat akin to the otherworldly experience of watching Ron Popeil hock food dehydrators at four in the morning. At its zenith, Provisions is all set to metamorph into something truly spectacular with "Lovers Quarrel." Here, a Merritt-esque song about feelings gets into a fight with a massive, bass-spewing robot, while droning guitars and piano cheer them on. The resulting brawl is the auditory high-water mark, some of the impact of which is lessened with the paranoid schizophrenic "Cocaine Star" that immediately follows. A touching tale of love, drug abuse, and snowplow killing sprees, this song and "Lovers Quarrel" are like matter and anti-matter colliding. It's a jarring, not-altogether-pleasant experience, but the resulting emission of rock power is still pretty impressive. Like a gyroscope faltering before completely losing its axis, Moth now puts on the air brakes and steers Provisions directly into the ground. I might be exaggerating a bit-- the last three tracks aren't really awful; they just let the upbeat, slightly absurdist tone that works so well in the earlier tracks fall by the wayside. No, wait, that's not entirely true either. "Straight Line" is pretty damn bad-- if you check, you might be able to find it in heavy rotation on KSUK 66.6 bookended by the latest Papa Roach single, "We're Rich and It's All Your Fault (Verizon Wireless Mix)," and the Enrique Iglesias hit, "I'm Talentless (No Tengo Ningún Talento)." Also, the chorus to "Not Really" reminds me so much of the opening seconds of "Bohemian Rhapsody" that it triggers eighth-grade Wayne's World acid flashbacks. (Queen, from Lucifer's heart, I stab at thee!) In and of themselves, these closing tracks are semi-palatable, but together they're truly hard to stomach. There's a lot to like about this album, and these guys might have what it takes to make it in the wild somewhere on down the line. But for now, like their ill-fated namesake, Moth's Provisions, Fiction and Gear moves into the light just when it finally starts to get somewhere. I couldn't bring myself to downgrade it too harshly since most of the album is pretty enjoyable, but be warned: this album is all over the place. If you're like me-- and for your sake, I hope not-- you hate disappointment, and Moth's debut never quite finishes what it starts."

Kate Wax

Dust Collision

Electronic

Andrew Ryce

James Holden's Border Community is a label known for its between-genre dislocation, an imprint that takes dance-music influences, warms them over on the stove, and then buries them in fuzzy pink noise. Home to artists like Nathan Fake, Luke Abbott, and, of course Holden himself, it has a habit of drenching techno in longing nostalgia and stasis, music caught in some dimensional rift between dance and pop. It seems a likely home for Swiss artist Kate Wax then, who made her name six years ago on bizarre spoken-word electronica on Mental Groove, but whose sound has slowly gelled into something more palatable, and certainly more traditionally pop. On her first album for Border Community and second overall, Aisha Devi Enz buries herself in a dark, claustrophobic world blanketed with careful textures both prickly and enticing, and tries to tunnel her way back using mostly her elastic but childlike voice. With Dust Collision, Enz refigures herself as an alien vixen à la Karin Dreijier, her intensely smoky sensuality problematized by intense vocal processing and pitch manipulation. Vocals are Collision's key feature, its only constant and the element that haunts its darkest corners. "I Knit You"-- all chugging but suppressed arpeggios and layer after layer of tweaked vocal gasping-- makes an attractive, suitably weird opener, with lyrics about "heathen scars" and carving names into kitchen walls. The menacing verses are underlaid by a catchy falsetto chorus. Even when her vocals are the primary focus, they're still occluded, weaving in and out of each other and interrogating several different moods and states at once. By keeping her untouched cadence in tow ("Human Twin"), the manipulation only serves to emphasize her quavering vulnerability. It's gasping innocence versus jaded hostility, and this sort of dynamic push-and-pull, defines Dust Collision, an album that feels permanently at odds with itself and never quite comfortable in its own skin. Part of that contrast manifests itself in an ongoing duel between the organic and the artificial, an unstable gradient that constantly tugs the album in opposite directions. Moving past the rubbery "Dancing on Your Scalp", Collision enters a phase of unnervingly stark sparsity. "Human Twin" and "Archetype" are driven mostly by piano, relatively simple singer-songwriter material quietly vandalized by synths, metronomic drums, or fits of distortion. It all leads toward the fantastic "Maze Rider (Live From the Cave)", an embellished live recording complete with sumptuous reverb, microphone feedback, and Enz's most riveting vocal melody. It feels uncharacteristically natural-- bar the ever-present vocal processing-- and it stands boldly naked at the center of the album, all strong, pure melody with little else to back it up. It's almost enough to make us question whether the heavy-handed effects are necessary in the first place. But when the electronics do return, they're on the fritz-- "Echoes and the Light" sounds like it's shorting out with each brutal chord stab-- until the record strips itself down again and crawls back into its pseudo-acoustic cubbyhole, more fragile than ever. (Enz's personality begins to splinter across anxious soliloquies as she cries lyrics like "mad thinker get out of my head.")  The closer "Les Djinns" is where the album's ever-edging tension finally gives way, and the uplifting but gentle melody explodes into bursts of harsh static and guitar moans before just fizzling out. It's just the kind of incongruous and torturously quick ending you'd expect from an album that feels like an hour of emotional infighting. (It's the burn-out of that album, one that exhausts itself trying to express emotions with such an odd and unintuitive palette.) Just as it exhausts itself, Dust Collision can have a similar effect on its listeners. Breathing indulgently in and out without regard for how much space it takes up, Collision takes its sweet time to get its fraught message across, ever a rarity in an age of instant gratification. While her sound isn't quite fully developed yet-- the second half owes a lot to the Knife's Silent Shout-- she's impressively ambitious, toeing the line between two stratified worlds and refusing to give into the confines of either. She can pull off accessibly bare songwriting as well as textural tone-poems, finding formidable power in her singing both when it's untouched and heavily damaged. Damage courses throughout Dust Collision, and it's not the easiest listen, but like most difficult albums, it's eventually rewarding, and her vortex of haywire synths, quaking guitar, and unsettling helium squawks is powerfully magnetic.

Artist: Kate Wax, Album: Dust Collision, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "James Holden's Border Community is a label known for its between-genre dislocation, an imprint that takes dance-music influences, warms them over on the stove, and then buries them in fuzzy pink noise. Home to artists like Nathan Fake, Luke Abbott, and, of course Holden himself, it has a habit of drenching techno in longing nostalgia and stasis, music caught in some dimensional rift between dance and pop. It seems a likely home for Swiss artist Kate Wax then, who made her name six years ago on bizarre spoken-word electronica on Mental Groove, but whose sound has slowly gelled into something more palatable, and certainly more traditionally pop. On her first album for Border Community and second overall, Aisha Devi Enz buries herself in a dark, claustrophobic world blanketed with careful textures both prickly and enticing, and tries to tunnel her way back using mostly her elastic but childlike voice. With Dust Collision, Enz refigures herself as an alien vixen à la Karin Dreijier, her intensely smoky sensuality problematized by intense vocal processing and pitch manipulation. Vocals are Collision's key feature, its only constant and the element that haunts its darkest corners. "I Knit You"-- all chugging but suppressed arpeggios and layer after layer of tweaked vocal gasping-- makes an attractive, suitably weird opener, with lyrics about "heathen scars" and carving names into kitchen walls. The menacing verses are underlaid by a catchy falsetto chorus. Even when her vocals are the primary focus, they're still occluded, weaving in and out of each other and interrogating several different moods and states at once. By keeping her untouched cadence in tow ("Human Twin"), the manipulation only serves to emphasize her quavering vulnerability. It's gasping innocence versus jaded hostility, and this sort of dynamic push-and-pull, defines Dust Collision, an album that feels permanently at odds with itself and never quite comfortable in its own skin. Part of that contrast manifests itself in an ongoing duel between the organic and the artificial, an unstable gradient that constantly tugs the album in opposite directions. Moving past the rubbery "Dancing on Your Scalp", Collision enters a phase of unnervingly stark sparsity. "Human Twin" and "Archetype" are driven mostly by piano, relatively simple singer-songwriter material quietly vandalized by synths, metronomic drums, or fits of distortion. It all leads toward the fantastic "Maze Rider (Live From the Cave)", an embellished live recording complete with sumptuous reverb, microphone feedback, and Enz's most riveting vocal melody. It feels uncharacteristically natural-- bar the ever-present vocal processing-- and it stands boldly naked at the center of the album, all strong, pure melody with little else to back it up. It's almost enough to make us question whether the heavy-handed effects are necessary in the first place. But when the electronics do return, they're on the fritz-- "Echoes and the Light" sounds like it's shorting out with each brutal chord stab-- until the record strips itself down again and crawls back into its pseudo-acoustic cubbyhole, more fragile than ever. (Enz's personality begins to splinter across anxious soliloquies as she cries lyrics like "mad thinker get out of my head.")  The closer "Les Djinns" is where the album's ever-edging tension finally gives way, and the uplifting but gentle melody explodes into bursts of harsh static and guitar moans before just fizzling out. It's just the kind of incongruous and torturously quick ending you'd expect from an album that feels like an hour of emotional infighting. (It's the burn-out of that album, one that exhausts itself trying to express emotions with such an odd and unintuitive palette.) Just as it exhausts itself, Dust Collision can have a similar effect on its listeners. Breathing indulgently in and out without regard for how much space it takes up, Collision takes its sweet time to get its fraught message across, ever a rarity in an age of instant gratification. While her sound isn't quite fully developed yet-- the second half owes a lot to the Knife's Silent Shout-- she's impressively ambitious, toeing the line between two stratified worlds and refusing to give into the confines of either. She can pull off accessibly bare songwriting as well as textural tone-poems, finding formidable power in her singing both when it's untouched and heavily damaged. Damage courses throughout Dust Collision, and it's not the easiest listen, but like most difficult albums, it's eventually rewarding, and her vortex of haywire synths, quaking guitar, and unsettling helium squawks is powerfully magnetic."

Conan

Monnos

Metal,Rock

Kim Kelly

Referring to a new or obscure band as a "best kept secret" is one of the lazier tropes in music writing and, in most cases, a faulty one at that. Nobody's keeping secrets; the writer in question just hasn't been digging deep enough. And the band isn't part of a silent movement deadset on keeping its every move hush-hush-- that sort of behavior would be a bit self-defeating, no? Plus, messageboard culture wouldn't allow for it: too many territorial pissings over who's heard things first and who was able to grab the demo before it disappeared. Cult is as cult does. That said, it's almost certain a good number of Monnos reviews will describe Conan with that very phrase. After all, how else to explain the fact that a band this good is so unknown on this side of the pond? Joining a proud tradition of English doom, Conan have been smoldering away in the trenches since 2006, tantalizing the faithful with sporadic live gigs and a minuscule discography. All's been quiet on the northwestern front since their 2011 split with Slomatics, but they've returned with a vengeance, wielding a crushing new full-length. From the first moment of "Hawk as Weapon", it's clear that this is no ordinary doom album. Many are those who have sacrificed years of their lives to the search of the perfect guitar tone, and this Liverpudlian trio has put them all to shame with a note. The thick, suffocating, undeniable heaviness is distorted to death and resurrected over and over again. Stoner doom lords Electric Wizard also understood the idea of tone as a weapon, and Tom G. Warrior achieved a similar feat with Triptykon's bleak, unrelenting heft. In the world of doom, tone is worshiped and revered, lusted after and idolized, and Conan have found their holy grail. Conveniently enough, the riffs sepulchered within that blissed-out fuzz are minted from pure gold as well. Simple yet effective, hypnotic without overstaying their welcome, burly without overstepping bounds, the guitars drip with distortion and waver between shades of Electric Wizard and Sleep's acid stomp and a stripped-down take on the mournful chords of their forebears My Dying Bride and Anathema. The rhythm section is infinitely important here and makes its presence known. (You can almost see the bassist pounding away at the low end, flinging drips of sweat across the stage as the drummer deals out punishing blows from behind his jeweled throne.) Again, simplicity is the key. Sometimes it's not about what you're playing, but how you're playing it. Conan understand this. The tone does the talking. Vocals are sparse but engaging, floating above the murk, acting as a complement to the guitars rather than a centerpiece. A higher-pitched stoned wail is accompanied by a deeper intonation; both are drenched in unholy amounts of reverb and are also allowed to breathe. It's a similar approach to what's transpired in Georgia trio Zoroaster's more recent material or even a bit of the Brooklyn doomhaulers Hull's sound-- the lost soul in a wind tunnel approach. Monnos is uniform in execution; each song follows a similar pattern, and there are no massive surprises or unexpected flourishes. They have no time for such things. "Golden Axe" is the only track to break the mold, offering a lush, plaintive instrumental break from the constant wall of sound. The eye of the storm. To strip the flesh from the bones is to find a band bent on replicating and revering the heavy sounds that came before them. To label them "stoner doom" does them a disservice. At their core, Conan are a doom band with repetitive song structures, and windswept clean vocals; the devil, however, is in the details, and the extra layers of effects and mechanical wizardry they heap upon their pure-hearted compositions elevate them to the next level. Monnos is their most solid, well-developed, and impressive effort yet, and those who walk the doomed path would do well to join their ranks.

Artist: Conan, Album: Monnos, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Referring to a new or obscure band as a "best kept secret" is one of the lazier tropes in music writing and, in most cases, a faulty one at that. Nobody's keeping secrets; the writer in question just hasn't been digging deep enough. And the band isn't part of a silent movement deadset on keeping its every move hush-hush-- that sort of behavior would be a bit self-defeating, no? Plus, messageboard culture wouldn't allow for it: too many territorial pissings over who's heard things first and who was able to grab the demo before it disappeared. Cult is as cult does. That said, it's almost certain a good number of Monnos reviews will describe Conan with that very phrase. After all, how else to explain the fact that a band this good is so unknown on this side of the pond? Joining a proud tradition of English doom, Conan have been smoldering away in the trenches since 2006, tantalizing the faithful with sporadic live gigs and a minuscule discography. All's been quiet on the northwestern front since their 2011 split with Slomatics, but they've returned with a vengeance, wielding a crushing new full-length. From the first moment of "Hawk as Weapon", it's clear that this is no ordinary doom album. Many are those who have sacrificed years of their lives to the search of the perfect guitar tone, and this Liverpudlian trio has put them all to shame with a note. The thick, suffocating, undeniable heaviness is distorted to death and resurrected over and over again. Stoner doom lords Electric Wizard also understood the idea of tone as a weapon, and Tom G. Warrior achieved a similar feat with Triptykon's bleak, unrelenting heft. In the world of doom, tone is worshiped and revered, lusted after and idolized, and Conan have found their holy grail. Conveniently enough, the riffs sepulchered within that blissed-out fuzz are minted from pure gold as well. Simple yet effective, hypnotic without overstaying their welcome, burly without overstepping bounds, the guitars drip with distortion and waver between shades of Electric Wizard and Sleep's acid stomp and a stripped-down take on the mournful chords of their forebears My Dying Bride and Anathema. The rhythm section is infinitely important here and makes its presence known. (You can almost see the bassist pounding away at the low end, flinging drips of sweat across the stage as the drummer deals out punishing blows from behind his jeweled throne.) Again, simplicity is the key. Sometimes it's not about what you're playing, but how you're playing it. Conan understand this. The tone does the talking. Vocals are sparse but engaging, floating above the murk, acting as a complement to the guitars rather than a centerpiece. A higher-pitched stoned wail is accompanied by a deeper intonation; both are drenched in unholy amounts of reverb and are also allowed to breathe. It's a similar approach to what's transpired in Georgia trio Zoroaster's more recent material or even a bit of the Brooklyn doomhaulers Hull's sound-- the lost soul in a wind tunnel approach. Monnos is uniform in execution; each song follows a similar pattern, and there are no massive surprises or unexpected flourishes. They have no time for such things. "Golden Axe" is the only track to break the mold, offering a lush, plaintive instrumental break from the constant wall of sound. The eye of the storm. To strip the flesh from the bones is to find a band bent on replicating and revering the heavy sounds that came before them. To label them "stoner doom" does them a disservice. At their core, Conan are a doom band with repetitive song structures, and windswept clean vocals; the devil, however, is in the details, and the extra layers of effects and mechanical wizardry they heap upon their pure-hearted compositions elevate them to the next level. Monnos is their most solid, well-developed, and impressive effort yet, and those who walk the doomed path would do well to join their ranks."

Ursprung

Ursprung

Jess Harvell

As Pantha du Prince, Hendrik Weber's music is made up of sharp but delicate sounds, digitally sheared slivers of drum or bell that ring out crystal clear against the inky emptiness of his tracks. PdP records sound as if all of their percussion instruments are made of extraterrestrial glass and recorded in the vast hull of some abandoned starship. It is painstaking stuff, but the music unfolds as if it's alive rather than carefully cut-and-pasted, as if Weber were less programming beats than growing little self-directing universes in bottles. Even the occasional snatches of natural or industrial noise, which should remind you of the messy outside world, can't break the tracks' hermetic, otherworldly spell. Pantha du Prince tracks are also very uniform, but that's no bad thing. When one works up a sonic signature that seems to allow for infinite (and inviting) small variations, you're wise not to abandon it too quickly. Which makes the new pseudonym, the restless dance producer's friend, all the more important, especially if that fresh moniker comes attached to a collaboration that prods the artist out of comfortable habits. There are moments on Ursprung, Weber's casual, and sometimes casually brilliant, new project with Stephan Abry, one half of the krautrock-as-indie-pop act Workshop with the artist Kai Althoff, that recall Pantha du Prince, most especially the whirlpools of percussive noise that bubble up every so often. But while Ursprung retains Weber's organic minimalism-- this is an album of tiny gestures that seem to evolve of their own accord as much as be directed-- it mostly abandons his bright and glacial digital palette. The alternating warm and wistful, uneasy and muted tone of Workshop's guitar-band set-up is more in evidence, even if Ursprung strays far from "songcraft," however broadly you may define a song. As for even the most tenuous connection to dance music, forget it. The comforting tick-tock beats that drive much of Ursprung are there strictly for some semblance of structure, motorik rhythms dragged down to tempos DJ Screw might appreciate, even less interested in funk or forward momentum than Pantha du Prince's eddies of tinkle and clink. Long stretches of Ursprung remind me of Jan Jelinek's underrated Kosmischer Pitch, another record where an avant-dance producer, known for building insular digital worlds out of unnatural sounds, gets his hands dirty merging live instruments with editing software, affirming that the hairy hippie history of Germanic art-rock somehow led to highbrow modern electronic music. Wanting to both (gently) engage you and to just trance out, Ursprung is ambient where the gnarled textures and spooked vibe keep you from being able to relax entirely, which is almost always the best kind of ambient. As is S.O.P., Weber and Abry cite Brian Eno as an inspiration point, but if so it's the haunted woodlands and abandoned beaches Eno conjured with On Land, rather than the soothingly inert repetitions of Music for Airports. There's also a lot of guitar that actually resembles what 99% of humanity wants from a guitar, rather than a guitar used as a machine for generating sound washes, but don't go expecting a rock record. Sometimes on Ursprung we get Fahey-signs-to-Factory guitars, and sometimes we get Michael Rother-in-an-autumnal-mood guitars. So we're talking plangent-but-hypnotic grooves rather than the immediacy of riffs, and miniature jams that split the difference between pastoral meandering and freeform noodling. Affecting, but in a way that stirs what Robert Christgau once derisively called the "vaguer emotions." Ursprung's guitar sounds like a guy plucking strings, but they're still using it to conjure ambient's abstract moods. Maybe think Bon Iver's spacier stretches of fingerpicking, if Justin Vernon abandoned every last earthy hint of the blues. The guitar work may seesaw between pleasant mindlessness and the mindfulness of a craftsman, but the album's production sounds like the work of two fully engaged brains. No idea how the workload was split, but the environment-creating detail and attention to goosebump-raising fluctuations in timbre and grain certainly feels like Weber. This mix of gauze and grit, ear-grabbing and wombing, is one of Ursprung's biggest draws, especially in a genre that too often tends toward formless gloop. Even when the melodic ideas feel undercooked, or almost drowned in pools of electronic haze, the guitars retain a fingers-on-frets tactility that's wonderful. And the electronic elements likewise have a crispness and snap that plays almost psychedelically again the tracks' gauzy aether. Ambient's always had an uneasy relationship with traditional ideas of musical effort. (Get too interesting, and suddenly you're in a different zone entirely.) But the last few years have seen a lot of lazy reverb abuse, mushy beats, and mood muzak trying to pass itself off as exploratory music-making, from both the indie rock and electronic worlds. Weber and Abry are two brave souls in attempting reintroduce ideas, sometimes a positively bounteous three or four ideas per track, into a genre where eight minutes of a muddy synth loop gets you hailed as a genius. That they don't treat ambient as empty-headed fluff for relaxation is laudable, but it also doesn't make Ursprung any less of a record for a self-selecting coterie of sound-art aficionados. If you still require things like hooks, humor, and human emoting in your music, all that hard work may make you wonder where Ursprung could go if they applied this simultaneously bracing and blissed-out blend, the sun-warped woozy atmosphere and sharp detail, to an actual band writing actual songs. Maybe they can helm the next Real Estate album?

Artist: Ursprung, Album: Ursprung, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "As Pantha du Prince, Hendrik Weber's music is made up of sharp but delicate sounds, digitally sheared slivers of drum or bell that ring out crystal clear against the inky emptiness of his tracks. PdP records sound as if all of their percussion instruments are made of extraterrestrial glass and recorded in the vast hull of some abandoned starship. It is painstaking stuff, but the music unfolds as if it's alive rather than carefully cut-and-pasted, as if Weber were less programming beats than growing little self-directing universes in bottles. Even the occasional snatches of natural or industrial noise, which should remind you of the messy outside world, can't break the tracks' hermetic, otherworldly spell. Pantha du Prince tracks are also very uniform, but that's no bad thing. When one works up a sonic signature that seems to allow for infinite (and inviting) small variations, you're wise not to abandon it too quickly. Which makes the new pseudonym, the restless dance producer's friend, all the more important, especially if that fresh moniker comes attached to a collaboration that prods the artist out of comfortable habits. There are moments on Ursprung, Weber's casual, and sometimes casually brilliant, new project with Stephan Abry, one half of the krautrock-as-indie-pop act Workshop with the artist Kai Althoff, that recall Pantha du Prince, most especially the whirlpools of percussive noise that bubble up every so often. But while Ursprung retains Weber's organic minimalism-- this is an album of tiny gestures that seem to evolve of their own accord as much as be directed-- it mostly abandons his bright and glacial digital palette. The alternating warm and wistful, uneasy and muted tone of Workshop's guitar-band set-up is more in evidence, even if Ursprung strays far from "songcraft," however broadly you may define a song. As for even the most tenuous connection to dance music, forget it. The comforting tick-tock beats that drive much of Ursprung are there strictly for some semblance of structure, motorik rhythms dragged down to tempos DJ Screw might appreciate, even less interested in funk or forward momentum than Pantha du Prince's eddies of tinkle and clink. Long stretches of Ursprung remind me of Jan Jelinek's underrated Kosmischer Pitch, another record where an avant-dance producer, known for building insular digital worlds out of unnatural sounds, gets his hands dirty merging live instruments with editing software, affirming that the hairy hippie history of Germanic art-rock somehow led to highbrow modern electronic music. Wanting to both (gently) engage you and to just trance out, Ursprung is ambient where the gnarled textures and spooked vibe keep you from being able to relax entirely, which is almost always the best kind of ambient. As is S.O.P., Weber and Abry cite Brian Eno as an inspiration point, but if so it's the haunted woodlands and abandoned beaches Eno conjured with On Land, rather than the soothingly inert repetitions of Music for Airports. There's also a lot of guitar that actually resembles what 99% of humanity wants from a guitar, rather than a guitar used as a machine for generating sound washes, but don't go expecting a rock record. Sometimes on Ursprung we get Fahey-signs-to-Factory guitars, and sometimes we get Michael Rother-in-an-autumnal-mood guitars. So we're talking plangent-but-hypnotic grooves rather than the immediacy of riffs, and miniature jams that split the difference between pastoral meandering and freeform noodling. Affecting, but in a way that stirs what Robert Christgau once derisively called the "vaguer emotions." Ursprung's guitar sounds like a guy plucking strings, but they're still using it to conjure ambient's abstract moods. Maybe think Bon Iver's spacier stretches of fingerpicking, if Justin Vernon abandoned every last earthy hint of the blues. The guitar work may seesaw between pleasant mindlessness and the mindfulness of a craftsman, but the album's production sounds like the work of two fully engaged brains. No idea how the workload was split, but the environment-creating detail and attention to goosebump-raising fluctuations in timbre and grain certainly feels like Weber. This mix of gauze and grit, ear-grabbing and wombing, is one of Ursprung's biggest draws, especially in a genre that too often tends toward formless gloop. Even when the melodic ideas feel undercooked, or almost drowned in pools of electronic haze, the guitars retain a fingers-on-frets tactility that's wonderful. And the electronic elements likewise have a crispness and snap that plays almost psychedelically again the tracks' gauzy aether. Ambient's always had an uneasy relationship with traditional ideas of musical effort. (Get too interesting, and suddenly you're in a different zone entirely.) But the last few years have seen a lot of lazy reverb abuse, mushy beats, and mood muzak trying to pass itself off as exploratory music-making, from both the indie rock and electronic worlds. Weber and Abry are two brave souls in attempting reintroduce ideas, sometimes a positively bounteous three or four ideas per track, into a genre where eight minutes of a muddy synth loop gets you hailed as a genius. That they don't treat ambient as empty-headed fluff for relaxation is laudable, but it also doesn't make Ursprung any less of a record for a self-selecting coterie of sound-art aficionados. If you still require things like hooks, humor, and human emoting in your music, all that hard work may make you wonder where Ursprung could go if they applied this simultaneously bracing and blissed-out blend, the sun-warped woozy atmosphere and sharp detail, to an actual band writing actual songs. Maybe they can helm the next Real Estate album?"

Simon Joyner

Lost with the Lights On

Rock

Joe Tangari

Turning a book of poetry into effective music isn't as easy as it might seem, but Simon Joyner insists on doing it every time he cuts an album. Joyner puts down page upon page of stuff like, "Up in the hot air balloon the priest of lime blessed the wind and gave it reason to cover everything that dies/ But you weren't surprised the mirror had advised you to look no further for a villain/ Still the Senator's thug is sucking your thumb/ Trying to turn a black hat into a white one." When he's done, he hits the studio with friends like Michael Krassner, Fred Lonberg-Holm and Jim White, where suddenly he becomes the lost son of Leonard Cohen, spreading his words across a skeletal backing with his temperamental baritone. The Cohen comparison comes as much from the dour, literate tone of Joyner's work as it does from the sound of the music itself. Joyner's poems become sprawling, broken ballads, the individual songs almost incidental to the overall epic arc of the whole album. Whereas his last two albums of original compositions, 2001's Hotel Lives and 1999's The Lousy Dance, employed fairly broad instrumental palettes, Lost with the Lights On (his seventh, if you include his covers album) is immersed in gothic folk with occasional steel guitar flourishes. Piano and cello provide most of the album's color, and songs unfold at a pace a 90-year-old man would feel comfortable driving at, lingering for seven and eight minutes with no concessions to such widely employed songwriting conventions as choruses and bridges. In the three years since his last album, Joyner seems to have found more time for, if not outright optimism, then at least lightness. "Flying Dreams" is almost joyous, with a buoyant melody and nearly whimsical delivery-- though it's important to note that all of the happiness in the song occurs while he sleeps. And, of course, there's still disaster around the corner: "Flying dreams can turn ugly, too/ The plane nosedives out of the blue/ And spirals out of control/ When everything was so still before." The album's most startling song is easily its closer, "Forgotten Blues", whose backing sounds essentially like a parlor blues band melting, the instruments combining with Beefheartian random precision as White drops two and three snare hits at a time from his drum part to leave huge gaps of open space for the wandering electric guitars to fall into. As the busted blues staggers sideways and Joyner's poetry book slams shut, the album feels remarkably complete for something uses none of the bookending techniques that so often make records feel like tidy statements. Structurally, Lost with the Lights On is more like a modernist novel than an album, a glimpse into a point in someone's life somewhere between fulfillment and despair with no real beginning middle or end, and somehow it works.

Artist: Simon Joyner, Album: Lost with the Lights On, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Turning a book of poetry into effective music isn't as easy as it might seem, but Simon Joyner insists on doing it every time he cuts an album. Joyner puts down page upon page of stuff like, "Up in the hot air balloon the priest of lime blessed the wind and gave it reason to cover everything that dies/ But you weren't surprised the mirror had advised you to look no further for a villain/ Still the Senator's thug is sucking your thumb/ Trying to turn a black hat into a white one." When he's done, he hits the studio with friends like Michael Krassner, Fred Lonberg-Holm and Jim White, where suddenly he becomes the lost son of Leonard Cohen, spreading his words across a skeletal backing with his temperamental baritone. The Cohen comparison comes as much from the dour, literate tone of Joyner's work as it does from the sound of the music itself. Joyner's poems become sprawling, broken ballads, the individual songs almost incidental to the overall epic arc of the whole album. Whereas his last two albums of original compositions, 2001's Hotel Lives and 1999's The Lousy Dance, employed fairly broad instrumental palettes, Lost with the Lights On (his seventh, if you include his covers album) is immersed in gothic folk with occasional steel guitar flourishes. Piano and cello provide most of the album's color, and songs unfold at a pace a 90-year-old man would feel comfortable driving at, lingering for seven and eight minutes with no concessions to such widely employed songwriting conventions as choruses and bridges. In the three years since his last album, Joyner seems to have found more time for, if not outright optimism, then at least lightness. "Flying Dreams" is almost joyous, with a buoyant melody and nearly whimsical delivery-- though it's important to note that all of the happiness in the song occurs while he sleeps. And, of course, there's still disaster around the corner: "Flying dreams can turn ugly, too/ The plane nosedives out of the blue/ And spirals out of control/ When everything was so still before." The album's most startling song is easily its closer, "Forgotten Blues", whose backing sounds essentially like a parlor blues band melting, the instruments combining with Beefheartian random precision as White drops two and three snare hits at a time from his drum part to leave huge gaps of open space for the wandering electric guitars to fall into. As the busted blues staggers sideways and Joyner's poetry book slams shut, the album feels remarkably complete for something uses none of the bookending techniques that so often make records feel like tidy statements. Structurally, Lost with the Lights On is more like a modernist novel than an album, a glimpse into a point in someone's life somewhere between fulfillment and despair with no real beginning middle or end, and somehow it works."

Willie Nelson

Songbird

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

When Willie Nelson began his ascent to country music stardom in the 1970s, he managed to corral two types of fans. The first group was the rednecks, drawn to Willie's country sound and perhaps even his pedigree as the guy who wrote "Crazy" for Patsy Cline; and the second group was the hippies, who saw Willie as one of their own: a long-haired, scruffy-bearded pot-smoker with a propensity for traditional music. Thirty years later, Nelson's audience has expanded beyond those two polar demographics, and the man himself has become such an icon that he can put out lackluster albums like Milk Cow Blues or Countryman without taking a hit. So he's free to follow his muse wherever it leads, whether it's to Jamaica or to the Delta. Or to Ryan Adams' doorstep. The former Whiskeytown frontman and indie gadfly has a little redneck in him, but a lot of hippie, and he's fashioned himself squarely in Willie's shadow: decisively rejecting genre tags, following his own schedule, and taking up the outlaw mantle. He makes for an interesting match for Willie-- not always a good match, but an interesting one. Songbird, which features Willie's typical assortment of covers and new takes on his own songs, shouldn't be as good as it is. Its flaws are obvious and mistakable, and yet, after a few listens, it becomes increasingly difficult to deny its warm vibe and easy, anything-goes sensibility. Up close, it's a real mess. Adams' gloppy production disregards the natural rise and fall of Willie's distinctive voice and the odd cadence of his phrasing. As a producer, Adams adds too many guitars and just too much sound to these songs, such that Willie seems to get lost in the Grateful Dead cover "Stella Blue" and Gram Parsons' "$1000 Wedding". And the gospel choir on "Blue Hotel" and "Hallelujah" (more on the latter later) seems crassly over the top. Furthermore, Adams' backing band, the Cardinals, create a sound as shaggy as Adams' haircut, taking as many liberties with meter and melody as Willie does but without exhibiting his grace, control, and subtlety. Too often they barrel over his vocals and guitar solos, especially toward the end of "Hallelujah". Only harmonica player Mickey Raphael seems attuned to Willie's style, but then, they've been playing together for decades. So on one level, Songbird should be as much a disaster as last year's woeful reggae album Countryman, which seemed like just an excuse for Willie to get down to Jamaica. Part of this album's success is to Adams' credit. Honestly, I've always thought his off-the-cuff disposition was a put-on: His lack of an act seemed like an act in itself, and the messy spontaneity seemed more like an aesthetic choice than an unassuming, unpolished approach. But on Songbird, the spontaneity really does sound spontaneous. These songs have the warts-and-all demeanor of Willie's live show, mixing professionalism with creative joy as the musicians get caught up in the moment. "We Don't Run" and "Rainy Day Blues" are loose, percolating jams that sound like they were devised for demanding audiences. And credit Adams too with avoiding easy reverence: The redux of Willie's classic "Sad Songs and Waltzes" sheds the forlornness of the original and recasts it as a sly career commentary from a 73-year-old outlaw. But most of the credit belongs to Willie, who remains admirably game for any creative detour or experiment. I wouldn't be surprised if he teamed up with Timbaland next. Adams gives him an electric guitar and places him in a rock setting, but Willie meets him more than halfway. He alters his vocal approach dramatically, reaching a heartbroken climax on "$1000 Wedding" and a grim hopefulness on the closing "Amazing Grace". Fleetwood Mac's "Songbird" and his own composition "Back to Earth" force him to hew closer to the melody, despite roughening up his voice. Like cohort Johnny Cash, Willie has made an impossibly long career by turning his limitations into strengths: His voice is thin but tender and surprisingly dexterous, and it hasn't aged a bit. So, the one song that seems most beyond his abilities is the most interesting on the album, if only for the challenges it presents. Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" may be the most overused song of the past few years, solemnly covered by Jeff Buckley, John Cale, Bono, and Chris Botti, and montaged to death on "Scrubs", "House", and "The O.C." Another interpretation by anyone, even Willie Nelson-- hell, especially Willie Nelson-- should be unbearable. However, with Raphael's harmonica setting the tone in the intro and the band recalling Willie's cover of "A Whiter Shade of Pale" from 1982's Always on My Mind, this "Hallelujah" is noticeably different. And it's more than just the country-rock sound: Willie sings as though he deliberately wants to reinterpret the song, to claim its message of creativity and inspiration as his own. He makes great use of his lower register as he talks out the verses, and instead of sustaining the syllables on the chorus, he lets his voice waver into silence, reinstating the song's precarious sense of resignation and uncertain defiance. Here's where a less-is-more musical approach would seem like a no-brainer, but Adams mucks up the production, creating a wall of sound that towers over Willie. Atop that is a gospel choir that intones the song's chorus, but they sound completely out of place: This is a song for a lone singer, a solitary voice crying out for and against God. For a few minutes that's exactly what Willie gives us, and then that plaintive minimalism is exactly what Adams confounds. The song sounds unsettled, unsure of what either artist wants it to be. This collaboration is much the same: Nothing here sounds like it's been fully thought out or planned, and Songbird sounds all the better for it.

Artist: Willie Nelson, Album: Songbird, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "When Willie Nelson began his ascent to country music stardom in the 1970s, he managed to corral two types of fans. The first group was the rednecks, drawn to Willie's country sound and perhaps even his pedigree as the guy who wrote "Crazy" for Patsy Cline; and the second group was the hippies, who saw Willie as one of their own: a long-haired, scruffy-bearded pot-smoker with a propensity for traditional music. Thirty years later, Nelson's audience has expanded beyond those two polar demographics, and the man himself has become such an icon that he can put out lackluster albums like Milk Cow Blues or Countryman without taking a hit. So he's free to follow his muse wherever it leads, whether it's to Jamaica or to the Delta. Or to Ryan Adams' doorstep. The former Whiskeytown frontman and indie gadfly has a little redneck in him, but a lot of hippie, and he's fashioned himself squarely in Willie's shadow: decisively rejecting genre tags, following his own schedule, and taking up the outlaw mantle. He makes for an interesting match for Willie-- not always a good match, but an interesting one. Songbird, which features Willie's typical assortment of covers and new takes on his own songs, shouldn't be as good as it is. Its flaws are obvious and mistakable, and yet, after a few listens, it becomes increasingly difficult to deny its warm vibe and easy, anything-goes sensibility. Up close, it's a real mess. Adams' gloppy production disregards the natural rise and fall of Willie's distinctive voice and the odd cadence of his phrasing. As a producer, Adams adds too many guitars and just too much sound to these songs, such that Willie seems to get lost in the Grateful Dead cover "Stella Blue" and Gram Parsons' "$1000 Wedding". And the gospel choir on "Blue Hotel" and "Hallelujah" (more on the latter later) seems crassly over the top. Furthermore, Adams' backing band, the Cardinals, create a sound as shaggy as Adams' haircut, taking as many liberties with meter and melody as Willie does but without exhibiting his grace, control, and subtlety. Too often they barrel over his vocals and guitar solos, especially toward the end of "Hallelujah". Only harmonica player Mickey Raphael seems attuned to Willie's style, but then, they've been playing together for decades. So on one level, Songbird should be as much a disaster as last year's woeful reggae album Countryman, which seemed like just an excuse for Willie to get down to Jamaica. Part of this album's success is to Adams' credit. Honestly, I've always thought his off-the-cuff disposition was a put-on: His lack of an act seemed like an act in itself, and the messy spontaneity seemed more like an aesthetic choice than an unassuming, unpolished approach. But on Songbird, the spontaneity really does sound spontaneous. These songs have the warts-and-all demeanor of Willie's live show, mixing professionalism with creative joy as the musicians get caught up in the moment. "We Don't Run" and "Rainy Day Blues" are loose, percolating jams that sound like they were devised for demanding audiences. And credit Adams too with avoiding easy reverence: The redux of Willie's classic "Sad Songs and Waltzes" sheds the forlornness of the original and recasts it as a sly career commentary from a 73-year-old outlaw. But most of the credit belongs to Willie, who remains admirably game for any creative detour or experiment. I wouldn't be surprised if he teamed up with Timbaland next. Adams gives him an electric guitar and places him in a rock setting, but Willie meets him more than halfway. He alters his vocal approach dramatically, reaching a heartbroken climax on "$1000 Wedding" and a grim hopefulness on the closing "Amazing Grace". Fleetwood Mac's "Songbird" and his own composition "Back to Earth" force him to hew closer to the melody, despite roughening up his voice. Like cohort Johnny Cash, Willie has made an impossibly long career by turning his limitations into strengths: His voice is thin but tender and surprisingly dexterous, and it hasn't aged a bit. So, the one song that seems most beyond his abilities is the most interesting on the album, if only for the challenges it presents. Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" may be the most overused song of the past few years, solemnly covered by Jeff Buckley, John Cale, Bono, and Chris Botti, and montaged to death on "Scrubs", "House", and "The O.C." Another interpretation by anyone, even Willie Nelson-- hell, especially Willie Nelson-- should be unbearable. However, with Raphael's harmonica setting the tone in the intro and the band recalling Willie's cover of "A Whiter Shade of Pale" from 1982's Always on My Mind, this "Hallelujah" is noticeably different. And it's more than just the country-rock sound: Willie sings as though he deliberately wants to reinterpret the song, to claim its message of creativity and inspiration as his own. He makes great use of his lower register as he talks out the verses, and instead of sustaining the syllables on the chorus, he lets his voice waver into silence, reinstating the song's precarious sense of resignation and uncertain defiance. Here's where a less-is-more musical approach would seem like a no-brainer, but Adams mucks up the production, creating a wall of sound that towers over Willie. Atop that is a gospel choir that intones the song's chorus, but they sound completely out of place: This is a song for a lone singer, a solitary voice crying out for and against God. For a few minutes that's exactly what Willie gives us, and then that plaintive minimalism is exactly what Adams confounds. The song sounds unsettled, unsure of what either artist wants it to be. This collaboration is much the same: Nothing here sounds like it's been fully thought out or planned, and Songbird sounds all the better for it."

Elliott Smith

New Moon

Rock

Matt LeMay

Elliott Smith's legacy is best spoken by his records. For all the emphasis placed on his unhappy backstory and the distressing nature of his death, Smith left behind a body of work that defies and exceeds any stereotyping. Sadness may be the easiest emotional current to pick up on in his songs, but Smith's expressive range was as wide as it was subtle; his music could be angry, funny, hopeful, and despondent, often at the same time. New Moon collects two CDs' worth of material recorded around the same time as 1995's Elliott Smith and its 1997 follow-up Either/Or, and unlike typical posthumous releases (not to mention second ones), is a genuinely worthy addition to a stunningly consistent catalog. Part of what makes both Either/Or and 1998's XO so essential is Smith's avoidance of "classic album" compartmentalization; you don 't get "the sad song," followed by "the experimental song," followed by "the upbeat song." Smith didn't record specifically towards any album, he just recorded-- more or less constantly. At their inception, the songs compiled for New Moon were no less significant than those that wound up making the cut for Elliott Smith and Either/Or, and for the most part they're no less developed. Smith's signature style is more musical than it is aesthetic; from the lo-fi folk of Roman Candle through the muscular chamber-pop of Figure 8, Smith's songwriting tics remain completely recognizable. New Moon is overflowing with characteristic melodic turns and unexpected chord changes, yet still covers a good deal of ground stylistically. The chugging acoustic guitar of "Big Decision" conjures Johnny Cash, while "New Monkey" subtly nods to a similarly titled Beatles song. Each song seems fully realized in its own right; for a 2xCD posthumous compilation, it's unbelievably refreshing to not pick up even the slightest whiff of exploitative barrel-scraping. Like much of Smith's material from this era, New Moon is by and large quiet, acoustic, and emotionally complicated. It's easy to see why Smith's music earned him a reputation as a "sad sack," but such dismissals don't really hold up to any scrutiny. When asked whether he considered himself a "lo-fi" artist, Smith once responded that he simply didn't want the recording process to be "a drag." Smith's interest in the the expressive potential of recording comes through loud and clear on New Moon; even when the subject or tone of a song is depressing, it still carries an unmistakable note of joy. Which is certainly not to say that New Moon finds him sounding "happy." Many of the songs here are almost unbearably melancholy, but their weight is the product of expert craft, not wanton self-indulgence. The coda of "Talking to Mary", in which Smith repeatedly intones "One day she'll go/ I told you so," would not be nearly as powerful without the subtle tension and movement in Smith's guitar part. "All Cleaned Out", which hints at the musical and lyrical concerns that Smith took up with XO, is made all the more affecting by a second vocal line that injects well-placed harmonies into an already memorable melody. Every musical decision on New Moon feels both intuitive and considered; never obtrusive or distracting, but thoroughly rewarding when examined in depth. Nowhere is this clearer than on an early version of the career-making "Miss Misery". This is the fourth, and earliest, version of this song that I've heard, and it speaks to the incredible care and refinement that went into Smith's recordings. The melodic backbone of the song is definitely present on this version, as are formative fragments of the lyrics, harmonies, and arrangements. It's fascinating to hear this track in such an early stage, but downright humbling to connect the dots to the song it eventually became. Smith had an uncanny and arguably unmatched talent for developing his music to suit his ever-evolving arrangement and production techniques, and every intermediate version of "Miss Misery" makes perfect sense the way it's performed and recorded. Phrases like "rare talent" are thrown around all the time these days, but this compilation makes painfully clear just how unique and valuable this music is. Smith's visionary qualities were not terribly flashy or transgressive, and his great musical gifts were not those of innovation. Instead, he steadily and quietly wrote, honed, and recorded a body of beautifully executed, deeply moving records not quite like any others. Consider him the patron saint of hobbyists, a talented and dedicated craftsman with a tireless love of the creative process.

Artist: Elliott Smith, Album: New Moon, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.7 Album review: "Elliott Smith's legacy is best spoken by his records. For all the emphasis placed on his unhappy backstory and the distressing nature of his death, Smith left behind a body of work that defies and exceeds any stereotyping. Sadness may be the easiest emotional current to pick up on in his songs, but Smith's expressive range was as wide as it was subtle; his music could be angry, funny, hopeful, and despondent, often at the same time. New Moon collects two CDs' worth of material recorded around the same time as 1995's Elliott Smith and its 1997 follow-up Either/Or, and unlike typical posthumous releases (not to mention second ones), is a genuinely worthy addition to a stunningly consistent catalog. Part of what makes both Either/Or and 1998's XO so essential is Smith's avoidance of "classic album" compartmentalization; you don 't get "the sad song," followed by "the experimental song," followed by "the upbeat song." Smith didn't record specifically towards any album, he just recorded-- more or less constantly. At their inception, the songs compiled for New Moon were no less significant than those that wound up making the cut for Elliott Smith and Either/Or, and for the most part they're no less developed. Smith's signature style is more musical than it is aesthetic; from the lo-fi folk of Roman Candle through the muscular chamber-pop of Figure 8, Smith's songwriting tics remain completely recognizable. New Moon is overflowing with characteristic melodic turns and unexpected chord changes, yet still covers a good deal of ground stylistically. The chugging acoustic guitar of "Big Decision" conjures Johnny Cash, while "New Monkey" subtly nods to a similarly titled Beatles song. Each song seems fully realized in its own right; for a 2xCD posthumous compilation, it's unbelievably refreshing to not pick up even the slightest whiff of exploitative barrel-scraping. Like much of Smith's material from this era, New Moon is by and large quiet, acoustic, and emotionally complicated. It's easy to see why Smith's music earned him a reputation as a "sad sack," but such dismissals don't really hold up to any scrutiny. When asked whether he considered himself a "lo-fi" artist, Smith once responded that he simply didn't want the recording process to be "a drag." Smith's interest in the the expressive potential of recording comes through loud and clear on New Moon; even when the subject or tone of a song is depressing, it still carries an unmistakable note of joy. Which is certainly not to say that New Moon finds him sounding "happy." Many of the songs here are almost unbearably melancholy, but their weight is the product of expert craft, not wanton self-indulgence. The coda of "Talking to Mary", in which Smith repeatedly intones "One day she'll go/ I told you so," would not be nearly as powerful without the subtle tension and movement in Smith's guitar part. "All Cleaned Out", which hints at the musical and lyrical concerns that Smith took up with XO, is made all the more affecting by a second vocal line that injects well-placed harmonies into an already memorable melody. Every musical decision on New Moon feels both intuitive and considered; never obtrusive or distracting, but thoroughly rewarding when examined in depth. Nowhere is this clearer than on an early version of the career-making "Miss Misery". This is the fourth, and earliest, version of this song that I've heard, and it speaks to the incredible care and refinement that went into Smith's recordings. The melodic backbone of the song is definitely present on this version, as are formative fragments of the lyrics, harmonies, and arrangements. It's fascinating to hear this track in such an early stage, but downright humbling to connect the dots to the song it eventually became. Smith had an uncanny and arguably unmatched talent for developing his music to suit his ever-evolving arrangement and production techniques, and every intermediate version of "Miss Misery" makes perfect sense the way it's performed and recorded. Phrases like "rare talent" are thrown around all the time these days, but this compilation makes painfully clear just how unique and valuable this music is. Smith's visionary qualities were not terribly flashy or transgressive, and his great musical gifts were not those of innovation. Instead, he steadily and quietly wrote, honed, and recorded a body of beautifully executed, deeply moving records not quite like any others. Consider him the patron saint of hobbyists, a talented and dedicated craftsman with a tireless love of the creative process."

Dusted

Total Dust

Stuart Berman

Brian Borcherdt will be spending this weekend sharing backstage catering with the likes of Skrillex, Simian Mobile Disco, and Bassnectar at Disco Biscuits' massive Camp Bisco blowout in upstate New York. And that's just another day at the office for Borcherdt and his band Holy Fuck, whose juddering synth-rock is just funky enough to land them regular bookings at EDM festivals. But it's a circumstance that would've seemed preposterous 10 years ago, when Borcherdt first settled in Toronto after moving from his native Nova Scotia. Back then, Borcherdt was first and foremost Leslie Feist's replacement in Toronto power-pop perennials By Divine Right, whose membership also once included a pre-Broken Social Scene Brendan Canning. But, having also launched his own label, Dependent Music, back home, Borcherdt proved to be the industrious sort who threw himself into all manner of recording projects and concept bands; Holy Fuck-- originally a one-off experiment built from effects-pedal loops and film-projector noises-- was the one that just happened to stick, and lent him a steady touring gig that took him beyond Canadian borders. But throughout all this, Borcherdt has stuck to a rigid exorcise regimen, releasing solo albums of unflinchingly intimate and confessional lo-fi indie pop, the first of which, 2002's Moth, was written in response to the sudden passing of a close friend. The scepter of death-- and the cruelly fleeting nature of life-- has haunted Borcherdt's solo work ever since, as indicated by the monikers he's adopted over the years. In 2004 to 2005, he released two albums as the Remains of Brian Borcherdt; the name attached to his latest project, Dusted, takes that theme of post-mortem decay to even more literal, unnerving extremes. Technically, Dusted is a duo endeavor with Leon Taheny, aka Owen Pallett's go-to producer, and drummer for Death From Above 1979 stickman Sebastian Grainger's side band, the Mountains. But Total Dust undeniably taps into the same raw-nerved emotion that defined Borcherdt's previous solo efforts, wrapping its cutting sentiments in a grotty guitar fuzz that sounds like it was scraped off the heads on Lou Barlow's old four-track. Total Dust is an album that's consumed with mortality, the fear that "something could go wrong," and the imperative of making the most of your time here. But in Taheny, Borcherdt has found a worthy foil who can help him steer clear of sad-bastard solipsism, introducing luminous textures that lend these recordings a greater sense of space and levity: The mid-album moper "Bruises" may boast Borcherdt's most disaffected vocal on the record, but the song's desolate chill is gradually leavened by sunrise-summoning synths and trippy tremolo effects, while the plaintive "Pale Light" cuts through its surface griminess with spirited violin sweeps. Total Dust is a record of subtle gestures, to be sure-- the slow-creeping rocker "Property Lines" is the only thing here that sounds like it was meant to be played outside the bedroom. But the album's exploratory ethos manifests itself in Borcherdt's own performances, which see him oscillating between a conversational monotone and childlike coo, bringing a refreshingly playful quality to what could be a sullen songbook: while "(Into the) Atmosphere" grimly implies we're all destined to be reduced to airborne particles, its helium-high hook and spirited shuffle suggests a corner-busker version of the Flaming Lips. If Borcherdt has spent much of his solo career staring down the inevitability of death, on Total Dust he sounds more accepting of that fate. "I'm not sure how long it'll last... the whole thing could collapse," he admits near the album's end, but his chill, cheery demeanor suggests he's happy to let the pieces fall where they may.

Artist: Dusted, Album: Total Dust, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Brian Borcherdt will be spending this weekend sharing backstage catering with the likes of Skrillex, Simian Mobile Disco, and Bassnectar at Disco Biscuits' massive Camp Bisco blowout in upstate New York. And that's just another day at the office for Borcherdt and his band Holy Fuck, whose juddering synth-rock is just funky enough to land them regular bookings at EDM festivals. But it's a circumstance that would've seemed preposterous 10 years ago, when Borcherdt first settled in Toronto after moving from his native Nova Scotia. Back then, Borcherdt was first and foremost Leslie Feist's replacement in Toronto power-pop perennials By Divine Right, whose membership also once included a pre-Broken Social Scene Brendan Canning. But, having also launched his own label, Dependent Music, back home, Borcherdt proved to be the industrious sort who threw himself into all manner of recording projects and concept bands; Holy Fuck-- originally a one-off experiment built from effects-pedal loops and film-projector noises-- was the one that just happened to stick, and lent him a steady touring gig that took him beyond Canadian borders. But throughout all this, Borcherdt has stuck to a rigid exorcise regimen, releasing solo albums of unflinchingly intimate and confessional lo-fi indie pop, the first of which, 2002's Moth, was written in response to the sudden passing of a close friend. The scepter of death-- and the cruelly fleeting nature of life-- has haunted Borcherdt's solo work ever since, as indicated by the monikers he's adopted over the years. In 2004 to 2005, he released two albums as the Remains of Brian Borcherdt; the name attached to his latest project, Dusted, takes that theme of post-mortem decay to even more literal, unnerving extremes. Technically, Dusted is a duo endeavor with Leon Taheny, aka Owen Pallett's go-to producer, and drummer for Death From Above 1979 stickman Sebastian Grainger's side band, the Mountains. But Total Dust undeniably taps into the same raw-nerved emotion that defined Borcherdt's previous solo efforts, wrapping its cutting sentiments in a grotty guitar fuzz that sounds like it was scraped off the heads on Lou Barlow's old four-track. Total Dust is an album that's consumed with mortality, the fear that "something could go wrong," and the imperative of making the most of your time here. But in Taheny, Borcherdt has found a worthy foil who can help him steer clear of sad-bastard solipsism, introducing luminous textures that lend these recordings a greater sense of space and levity: The mid-album moper "Bruises" may boast Borcherdt's most disaffected vocal on the record, but the song's desolate chill is gradually leavened by sunrise-summoning synths and trippy tremolo effects, while the plaintive "Pale Light" cuts through its surface griminess with spirited violin sweeps. Total Dust is a record of subtle gestures, to be sure-- the slow-creeping rocker "Property Lines" is the only thing here that sounds like it was meant to be played outside the bedroom. But the album's exploratory ethos manifests itself in Borcherdt's own performances, which see him oscillating between a conversational monotone and childlike coo, bringing a refreshingly playful quality to what could be a sullen songbook: while "(Into the) Atmosphere" grimly implies we're all destined to be reduced to airborne particles, its helium-high hook and spirited shuffle suggests a corner-busker version of the Flaming Lips. If Borcherdt has spent much of his solo career staring down the inevitability of death, on Total Dust he sounds more accepting of that fate. "I'm not sure how long it'll last... the whole thing could collapse," he admits near the album's end, but his chill, cheery demeanor suggests he's happy to let the pieces fall where they may."

Laibach

Spectre

Experimental

Douglas Wolk

The Slovenian group Laibach are fundamentally a performance-art project, with a single barbed joke they've been repeating for over 30 years: observing how art becomes a tool of totalitarianism, and pushing it as far as it can go in that direction. Their work is deliberate kitsch—music for stomping around in jackboots, slickly polished and martial, drawing on imagery and slogans from both Communist and Fascist history. In that context, the title of Spectre is very clearly an allusion to the opening line of *The Communist Manifesto—*but it's also a description of the current state of the band. Once dangerous political dissidents (they were banned in Yugoslavia for several years), they've gradually become grumpy subcultural fixtures. Laibach are also, historically, very cagey about who's in the band and who's not: they're a collective, don'tcha know. Nonetheless, it's reasonable to assume that these days they're basically stentorian lead mutterer Milan Fras and whoever else happens to be around. On Spectre, there's a woman with a less prominent accent than Fras' who gets about as much microphone time as he does; is it the group's occasional vocalist Anja Rupel? Cease your impertinent questions, cur. It's a member of Laibach. For those attuned to the joke, Laibach's music (and the work of the Neue Slowenische Kunst collective with which they're affiliated) is a perpetually jabbing finger aimed at the aesthetic fetishes of military power. For anyone who's not paying attention as closely, it just sounds fetish-y—hence their popularity in goth clubs in the late 80s and early 90s, when they were recording Laibach-ized covers of songs like "Sympathy for the Devil" and "The Final Countdown". Covers, in general, have been Laibach's calling card—their previous non-soundtrack album was 2006's Volk, for which their repertoire was national anthems. Spectre, though, is all new songs, and nobody listens to Laibach for songs; their selling point is attitude, the snarling demands and airbrushed electronic stomp they settled on several decades ago. (A stray name-drop of Occupy Wall Street in "No History" is nearly the only sign here that they've been paying attention to the past decade or so; "Walk With Me" and "Resistance Is Futile" both sound like musical ideas Depeche Mode would have left on the outtake reel circa 1986.) There are some clever arrangements here, like the "Colonel Bogey March"-ish whistle that opens the album (the song's called "The Whistleblowers", and yes, that's an elbow jabbing your ribs), or the chants of "liver liver liver liver liver" in "Eat Liver!", which otherwise comes off like what would happen if the Russian Police Choir followed up "Get Lucky" with a rendition of Suicide's "Rocket USA". Still, the stiffly prefabricated industrial-dance grooves that Laibach habitually fall back on don't quite cut it any more, and without a monolithic state to serve as the object of their satire, they're reduced to mocking political fatuity. The result is sometimes all but indistinguishable from what they're mocking. A lot of Spectre's lyrics are meaningless up-with-the-people sentiments like "We're rising higher/ Come don't look back now/ Let's reach the stars" or "If you wanna change the world/ You'd better do it with a thrill/ 'Cause if you don't no one else will," or equally meaningless intimations of disaster, as when Fras and a synth choir declare "Europe is falling apart" in "Eurovision" (there's that elbow again). When Spectre plays its vocalists against each other—Laibach are wise to dialectic if any band is—it sometimes manages to work up a bit of the band's old dissonant dissidence. "Koran" contrasts Laibach Woman intoning platitudes ("I believe in a better world... I believe in brotherhood, equality, and freedom") with Fras growling "Words are nice/ Words are memories of pain." The group clearly has plenty of painful memories, but they haven't found new battles they can fight.

Artist: Laibach, Album: Spectre, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 4.9 Album review: "The Slovenian group Laibach are fundamentally a performance-art project, with a single barbed joke they've been repeating for over 30 years: observing how art becomes a tool of totalitarianism, and pushing it as far as it can go in that direction. Their work is deliberate kitsch—music for stomping around in jackboots, slickly polished and martial, drawing on imagery and slogans from both Communist and Fascist history. In that context, the title of Spectre is very clearly an allusion to the opening line of *The Communist Manifesto—*but it's also a description of the current state of the band. Once dangerous political dissidents (they were banned in Yugoslavia for several years), they've gradually become grumpy subcultural fixtures. Laibach are also, historically, very cagey about who's in the band and who's not: they're a collective, don'tcha know. Nonetheless, it's reasonable to assume that these days they're basically stentorian lead mutterer Milan Fras and whoever else happens to be around. On Spectre, there's a woman with a less prominent accent than Fras' who gets about as much microphone time as he does; is it the group's occasional vocalist Anja Rupel? Cease your impertinent questions, cur. It's a member of Laibach. For those attuned to the joke, Laibach's music (and the work of the Neue Slowenische Kunst collective with which they're affiliated) is a perpetually jabbing finger aimed at the aesthetic fetishes of military power. For anyone who's not paying attention as closely, it just sounds fetish-y—hence their popularity in goth clubs in the late 80s and early 90s, when they were recording Laibach-ized covers of songs like "Sympathy for the Devil" and "The Final Countdown". Covers, in general, have been Laibach's calling card—their previous non-soundtrack album was 2006's Volk, for which their repertoire was national anthems. Spectre, though, is all new songs, and nobody listens to Laibach for songs; their selling point is attitude, the snarling demands and airbrushed electronic stomp they settled on several decades ago. (A stray name-drop of Occupy Wall Street in "No History" is nearly the only sign here that they've been paying attention to the past decade or so; "Walk With Me" and "Resistance Is Futile" both sound like musical ideas Depeche Mode would have left on the outtake reel circa 1986.) There are some clever arrangements here, like the "Colonel Bogey March"-ish whistle that opens the album (the song's called "The Whistleblowers", and yes, that's an elbow jabbing your ribs), or the chants of "liver liver liver liver liver" in "Eat Liver!", which otherwise comes off like what would happen if the Russian Police Choir followed up "Get Lucky" with a rendition of Suicide's "Rocket USA". Still, the stiffly prefabricated industrial-dance grooves that Laibach habitually fall back on don't quite cut it any more, and without a monolithic state to serve as the object of their satire, they're reduced to mocking political fatuity. The result is sometimes all but indistinguishable from what they're mocking. A lot of Spectre's lyrics are meaningless up-with-the-people sentiments like "We're rising higher/ Come don't look back now/ Let's reach the stars" or "If you wanna change the world/ You'd better do it with a thrill/ 'Cause if you don't no one else will," or equally meaningless intimations of disaster, as when Fras and a synth choir declare "Europe is falling apart" in "Eurovision" (there's that elbow again). When Spectre plays its vocalists against each other—Laibach are wise to dialectic if any band is—it sometimes manages to work up a bit of the band's old dissonant dissidence. "Koran" contrasts Laibach Woman intoning platitudes ("I believe in a better world... I believe in brotherhood, equality, and freedom") with Fras growling "Words are nice/ Words are memories of pain." The group clearly has plenty of painful memories, but they haven't found new battles they can fight."

Salt-N-Pepa

Very Necessary

Rap

Claire Lobenfeld

In 1990, Salt-N-Pepa walked onto the Hollywood set of “The Arsenio Hall Show” ready to spread awareness about HIV and AIDS. The men in the audience were fervently doing the signature Hall bark well beyond the call of the show. The Queens trio—Cheryl “Salt” James, Sandy “Pepa” Denton and Deidra “Spinderella” Roper—were there to promote their spot in a fundraising traveling tour of Heart Strings, a new musical about AIDS and HIV featuring Cher and Magic Johnson, where they would perform their PSA-rework of “Let’s Talk About Sex” titled,  “Let’s Talk About AIDS.”  Maintaining its message that if you’re having sex, you have to talk about “all the good things, all the bad things,” the alternate version fine-tuned the song so that its focus on sexual health was more explicit. But it was hard to tell who in the audience was there to hear Salt-N-Pepa and who was just there to look. “We’ve talked about the image of female rappers in the past,” said Hall. “Your image is a lot more lady-like. Do you think that’s the reason for these guys?” A clearly frustrated Salt responded, “We’ve gotten a lot of flack about that.” She looked exasperated. “I’ve heard people say we’ve gotten over on our looks. First of all, I ain’t know I look that good. To get over for six years on your looks? We’ve been around for awhile and if it’s just looks, then that’s messed up.” If their fan base included dudes who just had crushes, they only made up a sliver. The rest were there because S-N-P were spearheading a movement toward take-no-shit femininity that didn’t require them to dress like B-boys. “We’re not soft, we’re not hard,” Spinderella explained it to Arsenio. Salt lifted her Docs over his coffee table and told him their style was all lipstick and combat boots. So much of the first decade of Salt-N-Pepa forged a path for women to follow for the next twenty years, both in rap and pop music, as well with social and sexual mores. The whole map of their conquest is laid out on their 1993 album Very Necessary. The confidence of “Push It”—which Pepa has insisted is about dancing, not about sex—and the emotional intelligence of “Let’s Talk About Sex” are present, but the womanly conviction here is far more plentiful than it had been in their music before. It was a palliative to the hyper-misogyny spewing from their male contemporaries. If Snoop Dogg and friends were going to harangue hoes, then in Salt-N-Pepa’s world, words like “hoe” and “hooker” were just as applicable to men. They maintained their themes of sexuality and empowerment—and were in good company with Queen Latifah’s “U.N.I.T.Y.” and TLC’s “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg”—but it got a new look. Whether in combat boots or pum pum shorts, their message was still clear: women need to have agency over their sexuality and, if she’s safe, she can express it however the hell she wants. The album’s lead single “Shoop,” in particular, is unintentionally prescient about the contemporary inverted misogyny so many feminists engage in now, in jest or otherwise. In the video, Pepa tells Salt and Spin about her weakness—“men!” they chant in unison—while she scours guys on Coney Island playing dice. It is reverse catcalling, a playful way of leveling the field of objectification. In a 1995 conversation with Mary Wilson of the Supremes for Interview, Salt conceded that the perception of the group changed once they started talking more frequently about their own sexuality instead forecasting what goes on behind other people’s closed doors. “When we get raw and sexy some people say, ‘Why do you have to go there?’ I feel like, as long as you’re letting the world know that you're intelligent and you're to be respected and you have a mind of your own and you're taking care of business, ain’t nothing wrong with showing off what you got, especially when you work out almost every day to get it. Of course, you have to show it with taste and with class. It’s about having an attitude of your own.” Part of that attitude was putting men like the ones in the “Arsenio” audience squarely in their place: sometimes women get to do the barking and no one gets to judge them for it. Very Necessary is packed with anthems that are unafraid to look at men with the same ogling eye and do not accept being told it’s unladylike. “None of Your Business,” the album’s third single, denounced slut-shaming before it even had a name and is stridently dedicated to pushing a message that no matter how desperately you want to judge women, it will not matter to them. Spinderella calmly raps, “How many rules am I to break before you understand/That your double standards don't mean shit to me?” Just as combative, “Somebody’s Gettin’ on My Nerves” is one of the album’s finer (and fiercer) points. Salt-N-Pepa make club records, but this track shows off they fare just as well when the bars are the focal point. Salt raps with a sober precision that only comes with a particularly refined and potent fury (it is not dissimilar to Ice Cube’s bite on N.W.A. diss “No Vaseline”). It is also the perfect playground for knockout punches like Pepa’s “You rolled up on me in your man's Beemer/And I could look at you and tell you was a meat-beatin' daydreamer.” Some of this ferocity is bolstered by the production handled by Hurby “Luv Bug” Azor. While quips like, “Get off my bra strap, boy/Stop sweatin’ me” are part of S-N-P’s power, the track’s menacing bass is what keeps it ice cold. Azor had been mentoring the group since he put Pepa and Salt together as the duo Super Nature in the early ’80s. He had seen them through their four preceding albums, but after relinquishing production control to Salt for the Coltrane-sampling single “Expression” from their 1990 album Blacks’ Magic and a toxic romance between Salt and Azor ended, the women wanted more say in what went into Very Necessary. A 1994 New York cover story reveals that Azor found “Shoop” uncompelling and that he wanted the group to take an even softer approach. Despite how much of a hand Azor had in the album production, Salt-N-Pepa's interest in keeping it more "street" endured. Songs like “Nerves” and “None of Your Business,” do have the trappings of the gangster rap that was populating the charts, its toughness mainly comes from the take-no-shit vocality delivered by the group. The album’s textures are as sundry as the city they are from: Opener “Groove Me” is indebted to the outer boroughs’ West Indian populations; “Break of Dawn” lifts the ecstatic sax from the J.B.s’ James Brown-produced “The Grunt” and takes Joe Tex’s funky “Papa Was Too” and pounds them into Queens Boul

Artist: Salt-N-Pepa, Album: Very Necessary, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "In 1990, Salt-N-Pepa walked onto the Hollywood set of “The Arsenio Hall Show” ready to spread awareness about HIV and AIDS. The men in the audience were fervently doing the signature Hall bark well beyond the call of the show. The Queens trio—Cheryl “Salt” James, Sandy “Pepa” Denton and Deidra “Spinderella” Roper—were there to promote their spot in a fundraising traveling tour of Heart Strings, a new musical about AIDS and HIV featuring Cher and Magic Johnson, where they would perform their PSA-rework of “Let’s Talk About Sex” titled,  “Let’s Talk About AIDS.”  Maintaining its message that if you’re having sex, you have to talk about “all the good things, all the bad things,” the alternate version fine-tuned the song so that its focus on sexual health was more explicit. But it was hard to tell who in the audience was there to hear Salt-N-Pepa and who was just there to look. “We’ve talked about the image of female rappers in the past,” said Hall. “Your image is a lot more lady-like. Do you think that’s the reason for these guys?” A clearly frustrated Salt responded, “We’ve gotten a lot of flack about that.” She looked exasperated. “I’ve heard people say we’ve gotten over on our looks. First of all, I ain’t know I look that good. To get over for six years on your looks? We’ve been around for awhile and if it’s just looks, then that’s messed up.” If their fan base included dudes who just had crushes, they only made up a sliver. The rest were there because S-N-P were spearheading a movement toward take-no-shit femininity that didn’t require them to dress like B-boys. “We’re not soft, we’re not hard,” Spinderella explained it to Arsenio. Salt lifted her Docs over his coffee table and told him their style was all lipstick and combat boots. So much of the first decade of Salt-N-Pepa forged a path for women to follow for the next twenty years, both in rap and pop music, as well with social and sexual mores. The whole map of their conquest is laid out on their 1993 album Very Necessary. The confidence of “Push It”—which Pepa has insisted is about dancing, not about sex—and the emotional intelligence of “Let’s Talk About Sex” are present, but the womanly conviction here is far more plentiful than it had been in their music before. It was a palliative to the hyper-misogyny spewing from their male contemporaries. If Snoop Dogg and friends were going to harangue hoes, then in Salt-N-Pepa’s world, words like “hoe” and “hooker” were just as applicable to men. They maintained their themes of sexuality and empowerment—and were in good company with Queen Latifah’s “U.N.I.T.Y.” and TLC’s “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg”—but it got a new look. Whether in combat boots or pum pum shorts, their message was still clear: women need to have agency over their sexuality and, if she’s safe, she can express it however the hell she wants. The album’s lead single “Shoop,” in particular, is unintentionally prescient about the contemporary inverted misogyny so many feminists engage in now, in jest or otherwise. In the video, Pepa tells Salt and Spin about her weakness—“men!” they chant in unison—while she scours guys on Coney Island playing dice. It is reverse catcalling, a playful way of leveling the field of objectification. In a 1995 conversation with Mary Wilson of the Supremes for Interview, Salt conceded that the perception of the group changed once they started talking more frequently about their own sexuality instead forecasting what goes on behind other people’s closed doors. “When we get raw and sexy some people say, ‘Why do you have to go there?’ I feel like, as long as you’re letting the world know that you're intelligent and you're to be respected and you have a mind of your own and you're taking care of business, ain’t nothing wrong with showing off what you got, especially when you work out almost every day to get it. Of course, you have to show it with taste and with class. It’s about having an attitude of your own.” Part of that attitude was putting men like the ones in the “Arsenio” audience squarely in their place: sometimes women get to do the barking and no one gets to judge them for it. Very Necessary is packed with anthems that are unafraid to look at men with the same ogling eye and do not accept being told it’s unladylike. “None of Your Business,” the album’s third single, denounced slut-shaming before it even had a name and is stridently dedicated to pushing a message that no matter how desperately you want to judge women, it will not matter to them. Spinderella calmly raps, “How many rules am I to break before you understand/That your double standards don't mean shit to me?” Just as combative, “Somebody’s Gettin’ on My Nerves” is one of the album’s finer (and fiercer) points. Salt-N-Pepa make club records, but this track shows off they fare just as well when the bars are the focal point. Salt raps with a sober precision that only comes with a particularly refined and potent fury (it is not dissimilar to Ice Cube’s bite on N.W.A. diss “No Vaseline”). It is also the perfect playground for knockout punches like Pepa’s “You rolled up on me in your man's Beemer/And I could look at you and tell you was a meat-beatin' daydreamer.” Some of this ferocity is bolstered by the production handled by Hurby “Luv Bug” Azor. While quips like, “Get off my bra strap, boy/Stop sweatin’ me” are part of S-N-P’s power, the track’s menacing bass is what keeps it ice cold. Azor had been mentoring the group since he put Pepa and Salt together as the duo Super Nature in the early ’80s. He had seen them through their four preceding albums, but after relinquishing production control to Salt for the Coltrane-sampling single “Expression” from their 1990 album Blacks’ Magic and a toxic romance between Salt and Azor ended, the women wanted more say in what went into Very Necessary. A 1994 New York cover story reveals that Azor found “Shoop” uncompelling and that he wanted the group to take an even softer approach. Despite how much of a hand Azor had in the album production, Salt-N-Pepa's interest in keeping it more "street" endured. Songs like “Nerves” and “None of Your Business,” do have the trappings of the gangster rap that was populating the charts, its toughness mainly comes from the take-no-shit vocality delivered by the group. The album’s textures are as sundry as the city they are from: Opener “Groove Me” is indebted to the outer boroughs’ West Indian populations; “Break of Dawn” lifts the ecstatic sax from the J.B.s’ James Brown-produced “The Grunt” and takes Joe Tex’s funky “Papa Was Too” and pounds them into Queens Boul"

Nicholas Szczepanik

Please Stop Loving Me

Rock

Marc Masters

When I first started listening to Nicholas Szczepanik's latest album, its title felt off by 180 degrees. Its single, 48-minute track is warm, reverent, and emotional. Compared to some recent trends in drone, which tend more toward the dark and cavernous, Please Stop Loving Me's bright organ tones are practically hymn-like. In other words, this is music that sounds like it wants you to love it. The further I got into the album, though, the more Szczepanik's wry choice of name made sense. Whenever you try to get too comfortable with his drones-- to glide across their surface or ride them like a soft cloud-- he pushes back. His sounds constantly twist, dive, and circle, avoiding complacency and requiring you to do the same. Innumerable shifts in volume, tone, and tempo occur with sneaky unpredictability. Often Szczepanik will lull you into calm waters before tossing you into choppy waves. There is a lot to love here, much of it mesmerizing, even soothing. Just don't turn your brain off, because Szczepanik is more interested in challenging than hypnotizing. The beauty of Please Stop Loving Me is that he manages to do both consistently. There's really no point along Szczepanik's journey-- which doesn't feel long or short, but more outside of time-- where the music's meditative qualities outstrip its thought-provoking ones or vice versa. In that sense, his material reminds me most of the careful work of Kyle Bobby Dunn. There's an intangible similarity between the ways both musicians turn sounds and patterns into wordless emotional language. But where Dunn is a master at massaging his tones toward quietude, Szczepanik excels at finding subtlety and nuance in immersive volumes. Even at his softest here, he could fill an airplane hangar with his music. Szczepanik's work conjures lots of images like that one. Whenever I listen, I find myself thinking in pictures and metaphors, giving shapes and colors to his sounds the way I imagine the faces and voices of characters in a book. So it's tempting to concoct a narrative that could accompany this sonic epic, and claim that its arcs and curves are scene changes and plot twists. Maybe they are, but what impresses most about Szczepanik's story is that it could be told only with sound, and only through his particular, engrossing way with it.

Artist: Nicholas Szczepanik, Album: Please Stop Loving Me, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "When I first started listening to Nicholas Szczepanik's latest album, its title felt off by 180 degrees. Its single, 48-minute track is warm, reverent, and emotional. Compared to some recent trends in drone, which tend more toward the dark and cavernous, Please Stop Loving Me's bright organ tones are practically hymn-like. In other words, this is music that sounds like it wants you to love it. The further I got into the album, though, the more Szczepanik's wry choice of name made sense. Whenever you try to get too comfortable with his drones-- to glide across their surface or ride them like a soft cloud-- he pushes back. His sounds constantly twist, dive, and circle, avoiding complacency and requiring you to do the same. Innumerable shifts in volume, tone, and tempo occur with sneaky unpredictability. Often Szczepanik will lull you into calm waters before tossing you into choppy waves. There is a lot to love here, much of it mesmerizing, even soothing. Just don't turn your brain off, because Szczepanik is more interested in challenging than hypnotizing. The beauty of Please Stop Loving Me is that he manages to do both consistently. There's really no point along Szczepanik's journey-- which doesn't feel long or short, but more outside of time-- where the music's meditative qualities outstrip its thought-provoking ones or vice versa. In that sense, his material reminds me most of the careful work of Kyle Bobby Dunn. There's an intangible similarity between the ways both musicians turn sounds and patterns into wordless emotional language. But where Dunn is a master at massaging his tones toward quietude, Szczepanik excels at finding subtlety and nuance in immersive volumes. Even at his softest here, he could fill an airplane hangar with his music. Szczepanik's work conjures lots of images like that one. Whenever I listen, I find myself thinking in pictures and metaphors, giving shapes and colors to his sounds the way I imagine the faces and voices of characters in a book. So it's tempting to concoct a narrative that could accompany this sonic epic, and claim that its arcs and curves are scene changes and plot twists. Maybe they are, but what impresses most about Szczepanik's story is that it could be told only with sound, and only through his particular, engrossing way with it."

Vito Ricci

I Was Crossing a Bridge

Experimental

Philip Sherburne

Vito Ricci has composed some 80-odd pieces over the last 36 years: among them are string partitas written for Kronos Quartet; harmolodic studies inspired by his former teacher Ornette Coleman; a work sampling the sound of Japanese cicadas; and a microtonal composition for bassoon, two Theremins, and something called wrench guitar. You can get a sense of the circles Ricci has inhabited from a 1982 compilation on which he features alongside John Lurie, Peter Blegvad, Arto Lindsay, Christian Marclay, Martin Bisi, and Spalding Gray, among other Downtown N.Y. fixtures. If you don't pay close attention to New York's independent theater and new-music scenes, you may never have heard of Ricci, but he is a cult figure to some. An Amsterdam label that specializes in reissues of overlooked electronic musicians, like the Italian ambient outsider Gigi Masin and the Balearic oddball Joan Bibiloni, named itself after Ricci's 1985 album Music From Memory. (The LP's fans are a dedicated bunch: a batch of deadstock copies recently sold out at $85 a pop.) Now, Music From Memory is paying back the debt with a collection of Ricci's work. Most of it is drawn from the 1980s, rescued from tapes made for theater works by playwrights like Matthew Maguire, Jeffrey M. Jones, and Susan Mosakowski. There are plangent synthesizers and gently pealing guitars; there are chiming echoes of classical minimalism and even synthetic strings descended from the vernacular heritage of Charles Ives. "Hollywood" sounds every bit like the incidental music its title would suggest, with its limpid synth pads and ersatz jazz keyboards; the slap-bass-infused "Dub It" doesn't have much to do with reggae, though it's certainly indicative of how what we might call "rainforest noir" ruled cinematic imaginations in the '80s. As electronic music goes, it's a hard-to-place sound, lacking in the usual stylistic signifiers and now-canonical instruments. (The album notes detail a gear list of mostly forgotten devices like the Octave Plateau Voyetra 8 synthesizer, E-mu Proteus sound module, and Yamaha RX11 drum machine.) The music here sometimes brings to mind Craig Leon's Nommos and the early '80s recordings of the Seattle ambient musician K. Leimer. It shares, at least in part, their technology—long-since outmoded synthesizers, unvarnished drum machines, springy delay that wreathes the music with a hint of fizz—and their aesthetics, a mixture of proto-ambient, late-night television soundtracks, and homebrewed avant-gardism. Both of those artists released electronic music that sounded completely otherworldly in the '80s, and both, like Ricci, have recently been rediscovered, via reissues like this one. In that sense, the compilation says as much about what listeners find value in now as it does the lasting value of the music itself. Today, sounds that even five years ago might have seemed unfashionable suddenly sound fresh. That's not to take away from Ricci's accomplishments: much of I Was Crossing a Bridge is wonderful stuff, even the incidental bits. One of the highlights is "Commie Stories (Part 9)", one of a pair of sketches written for Susan Mosakowski's play of the same name. Less than two minutes long, it consists of a single arpeggio played—by hand, from the sound of it—through a delay unit, evoking a burbling water fountain; it's easy to imagine it as the foundation for a transporting techno jam on a label like L.I.E.S. or The Trilogy Tapes. And if "Inferno (Part 1)", an eight-and-a-half-minute fugue for shuddering percussion and chirping analog delay, were released on either of those labels today, passed off as a new production from a bedroom studio in Los Angeles or Berlin, nobody would bat an eye. That the opening track, "The Ship Was Sailing", sounds like a companion piece to Maxmillion Dunbar's "Woo", from the Future Times co-founder's 2013 album House of Woo, speaks to the uncanny timeliness of Ricci's work. It's as though gardens planted in vacant lots in the '80s, long left untended, were finally being harvested, and their heirloom seeds put back into circulation. Two songs on the anthology date from the past few years, and they are, perhaps appropriately, among the album's most musically and conceptually developed selections. "Deep Felt Music", nearly 13 minutes long, evokes both Durutti Column and Tony Conrad in its flickering hints of plucked guitar and its shimmering drones, while "Dox E Koo", for solo voice and delay, stakes out a position somewhere between Meredith Monk and the haunting tones of Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares. The very finest piece is "Riverflow (Electronic)". Plucked acoustic guitar cuts against coolly bowed lines and dissolves into a galaxy of delay and faint percussion; dissonant and arrhythmic, it could almost be mistaken for a Gastr Del Sol outtake. No date is given in the album notes, so I don't know when it was recorded. There's a different version on YouTube, dated 1970, but the album version, sparklier and in much higher fidelity, is almost certainly a more recent recording. But perhaps it doesn't really matter when it was made. The best material on this compilation sounds like it stands outside of time entirely. Unlike linear time, this river flows both ways.

Artist: Vito Ricci, Album: I Was Crossing a Bridge, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Vito Ricci has composed some 80-odd pieces over the last 36 years: among them are string partitas written for Kronos Quartet; harmolodic studies inspired by his former teacher Ornette Coleman; a work sampling the sound of Japanese cicadas; and a microtonal composition for bassoon, two Theremins, and something called wrench guitar. You can get a sense of the circles Ricci has inhabited from a 1982 compilation on which he features alongside John Lurie, Peter Blegvad, Arto Lindsay, Christian Marclay, Martin Bisi, and Spalding Gray, among other Downtown N.Y. fixtures. If you don't pay close attention to New York's independent theater and new-music scenes, you may never have heard of Ricci, but he is a cult figure to some. An Amsterdam label that specializes in reissues of overlooked electronic musicians, like the Italian ambient outsider Gigi Masin and the Balearic oddball Joan Bibiloni, named itself after Ricci's 1985 album Music From Memory. (The LP's fans are a dedicated bunch: a batch of deadstock copies recently sold out at $85 a pop.) Now, Music From Memory is paying back the debt with a collection of Ricci's work. Most of it is drawn from the 1980s, rescued from tapes made for theater works by playwrights like Matthew Maguire, Jeffrey M. Jones, and Susan Mosakowski. There are plangent synthesizers and gently pealing guitars; there are chiming echoes of classical minimalism and even synthetic strings descended from the vernacular heritage of Charles Ives. "Hollywood" sounds every bit like the incidental music its title would suggest, with its limpid synth pads and ersatz jazz keyboards; the slap-bass-infused "Dub It" doesn't have much to do with reggae, though it's certainly indicative of how what we might call "rainforest noir" ruled cinematic imaginations in the '80s. As electronic music goes, it's a hard-to-place sound, lacking in the usual stylistic signifiers and now-canonical instruments. (The album notes detail a gear list of mostly forgotten devices like the Octave Plateau Voyetra 8 synthesizer, E-mu Proteus sound module, and Yamaha RX11 drum machine.) The music here sometimes brings to mind Craig Leon's Nommos and the early '80s recordings of the Seattle ambient musician K. Leimer. It shares, at least in part, their technology—long-since outmoded synthesizers, unvarnished drum machines, springy delay that wreathes the music with a hint of fizz—and their aesthetics, a mixture of proto-ambient, late-night television soundtracks, and homebrewed avant-gardism. Both of those artists released electronic music that sounded completely otherworldly in the '80s, and both, like Ricci, have recently been rediscovered, via reissues like this one. In that sense, the compilation says as much about what listeners find value in now as it does the lasting value of the music itself. Today, sounds that even five years ago might have seemed unfashionable suddenly sound fresh. That's not to take away from Ricci's accomplishments: much of I Was Crossing a Bridge is wonderful stuff, even the incidental bits. One of the highlights is "Commie Stories (Part 9)", one of a pair of sketches written for Susan Mosakowski's play of the same name. Less than two minutes long, it consists of a single arpeggio played—by hand, from the sound of it—through a delay unit, evoking a burbling water fountain; it's easy to imagine it as the foundation for a transporting techno jam on a label like L.I.E.S. or The Trilogy Tapes. And if "Inferno (Part 1)", an eight-and-a-half-minute fugue for shuddering percussion and chirping analog delay, were released on either of those labels today, passed off as a new production from a bedroom studio in Los Angeles or Berlin, nobody would bat an eye. That the opening track, "The Ship Was Sailing", sounds like a companion piece to Maxmillion Dunbar's "Woo", from the Future Times co-founder's 2013 album House of Woo, speaks to the uncanny timeliness of Ricci's work. It's as though gardens planted in vacant lots in the '80s, long left untended, were finally being harvested, and their heirloom seeds put back into circulation. Two songs on the anthology date from the past few years, and they are, perhaps appropriately, among the album's most musically and conceptually developed selections. "Deep Felt Music", nearly 13 minutes long, evokes both Durutti Column and Tony Conrad in its flickering hints of plucked guitar and its shimmering drones, while "Dox E Koo", for solo voice and delay, stakes out a position somewhere between Meredith Monk and the haunting tones of Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares. The very finest piece is "Riverflow (Electronic)". Plucked acoustic guitar cuts against coolly bowed lines and dissolves into a galaxy of delay and faint percussion; dissonant and arrhythmic, it could almost be mistaken for a Gastr Del Sol outtake. No date is given in the album notes, so I don't know when it was recorded. There's a different version on YouTube, dated 1970, but the album version, sparklier and in much higher fidelity, is almost certainly a more recent recording. But perhaps it doesn't really matter when it was made. The best material on this compilation sounds like it stands outside of time entirely. Unlike linear time, this river flows both ways."

Arrange

New Memory

Electronic,Rock

Brian Howe

Under the shyly nondescript moniker Arrange, Malcom Lacey sets his impulses for abjection and redemption spinning against each other, unleashing turbulent energies. His style of ambient electro-pop hums with quiet urgency, belying its dreamy pace and softly blended pastel tones. This self-therapeutic approach to music might explain Lacey's high yield: This is the third Arrange review I've written in the span of one year. But his productivity is tempered by an uncommon degree of thoughtfulness in the construction of his releases-- he never phones it in. Each record retunes the balance of elusion and revelation. New Memory is the boldest version of Lacey's sound to date, though just by a hair, fitting his track record of growth by dogged increments. New Memory is consistent with prior albums in its methods of imparting restrained turmoil and distressed beauty. Tenderly pulsing soft synths gravitate toward near-vocal timbres. Their fluent eloquence is a rather ingenious way for Lacey to offset his halting manner of confession and the dignified limp of his rhythm programming. Distant nature sounds flow around the melodies and runaway reverberations engulf them, but sweetening traces of guitar and piano make the drift feel purposeful. In its plentiful transitions, the music gently shreds like tissue underwater and delicately reforms. Lacey deploys his voice judiciously, frequently displacing the emotive peaks onto one of his languid synthesizer solos, etched in the tracks like glowing signatures. A cursory listen might divulge more of the same for people without my apparently inexhaustible taste for Arrange. But closely following the project this past year has been like watching a picture develop very slowly, a small figure resolving more clearly in the smear of landscape. On prior records, the singer/songwriter quotient was often buried, almost apologetically, under nocturnal ambiance, if not simply banished to make way for instrumentals of striking emotional clarity. These are still important facets of New Memory, but the reticent aura Lacey holds around his singing and songwriting dissipates considerably. This is particularly affecting to witness from someone whose music so often deals with shame. On a purely technical level, Lacey has gotten better at recording himself, capturing fine textures and clear shapes that were sometimes diffused in blown-out distortions on Plantation, though it didn't harm to songs as indelible as "When'd You Find Me?" and "Tiny Little Boy". More importantly, the relative exposure of Lacey's lyrics reveals them to be even more unnervingly private and distinctively sung than before. The record's leitmotif is hands, often Lacey's own, which on "Caves" are said to be "porous things/ Filled up by anyfing." This is an inexplicable accent for a young South Floridian-- who also sings "with" as "wiv"-- but it's strangely appealing. It's like a negative image of Jeff Mangum's voice, the diction deformed by internal pressures, but excessively hushed and clipped rather than loud and elongated. Two songs in particular will seem brave or embarrassing according to your temperament, which is why they strike me as brave. After dealing with his relationship with an incarcerated father on Plantation, Lacey directs the denuded benediction "Where I Go at Night" to his mother, pouring his heart out through a clenched jaw. The best part is how pathos turns to delight when the misty piano suddenly leaps into a pertly gated synthesizer, a prime example of Lacey's knack for drawing dark and light into unity. The upbeat conclusion adds rhetorical force to the words of healing. Meanwhile, the title track is a spoken-word performance where we can fully appreciate the natural resonance of Lacey's voice as he exhorts himself "past my own insecurities and rage" to eventually concede, "I can't create a new person/ But I'll create new memories." In a video promoting the successful Kickstarter campaign to crowdfund the vinyl edition of New Memory, Lacey spends most of his time self-consciously mugging for the camera rather than brooding in shadow, the stock image that would go with his music. What he has to offer is a particularly unvarnished kind of ingenuousness, quite distinct from the more common and flowery varieties, paired with a sensitive touch for making computer music move in free-feeling currents. He's still not flashy enough to be a buzz band. Instead, and hopefully for a long time to come, he holds an intimate space in a clamorous musical marketplace, with a potentially lethal earnestness that becomes a virtue by dint of his humility and honesty.

Artist: Arrange, Album: New Memory, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Under the shyly nondescript moniker Arrange, Malcom Lacey sets his impulses for abjection and redemption spinning against each other, unleashing turbulent energies. His style of ambient electro-pop hums with quiet urgency, belying its dreamy pace and softly blended pastel tones. This self-therapeutic approach to music might explain Lacey's high yield: This is the third Arrange review I've written in the span of one year. But his productivity is tempered by an uncommon degree of thoughtfulness in the construction of his releases-- he never phones it in. Each record retunes the balance of elusion and revelation. New Memory is the boldest version of Lacey's sound to date, though just by a hair, fitting his track record of growth by dogged increments. New Memory is consistent with prior albums in its methods of imparting restrained turmoil and distressed beauty. Tenderly pulsing soft synths gravitate toward near-vocal timbres. Their fluent eloquence is a rather ingenious way for Lacey to offset his halting manner of confession and the dignified limp of his rhythm programming. Distant nature sounds flow around the melodies and runaway reverberations engulf them, but sweetening traces of guitar and piano make the drift feel purposeful. In its plentiful transitions, the music gently shreds like tissue underwater and delicately reforms. Lacey deploys his voice judiciously, frequently displacing the emotive peaks onto one of his languid synthesizer solos, etched in the tracks like glowing signatures. A cursory listen might divulge more of the same for people without my apparently inexhaustible taste for Arrange. But closely following the project this past year has been like watching a picture develop very slowly, a small figure resolving more clearly in the smear of landscape. On prior records, the singer/songwriter quotient was often buried, almost apologetically, under nocturnal ambiance, if not simply banished to make way for instrumentals of striking emotional clarity. These are still important facets of New Memory, but the reticent aura Lacey holds around his singing and songwriting dissipates considerably. This is particularly affecting to witness from someone whose music so often deals with shame. On a purely technical level, Lacey has gotten better at recording himself, capturing fine textures and clear shapes that were sometimes diffused in blown-out distortions on Plantation, though it didn't harm to songs as indelible as "When'd You Find Me?" and "Tiny Little Boy". More importantly, the relative exposure of Lacey's lyrics reveals them to be even more unnervingly private and distinctively sung than before. The record's leitmotif is hands, often Lacey's own, which on "Caves" are said to be "porous things/ Filled up by anyfing." This is an inexplicable accent for a young South Floridian-- who also sings "with" as "wiv"-- but it's strangely appealing. It's like a negative image of Jeff Mangum's voice, the diction deformed by internal pressures, but excessively hushed and clipped rather than loud and elongated. Two songs in particular will seem brave or embarrassing according to your temperament, which is why they strike me as brave. After dealing with his relationship with an incarcerated father on Plantation, Lacey directs the denuded benediction "Where I Go at Night" to his mother, pouring his heart out through a clenched jaw. The best part is how pathos turns to delight when the misty piano suddenly leaps into a pertly gated synthesizer, a prime example of Lacey's knack for drawing dark and light into unity. The upbeat conclusion adds rhetorical force to the words of healing. Meanwhile, the title track is a spoken-word performance where we can fully appreciate the natural resonance of Lacey's voice as he exhorts himself "past my own insecurities and rage" to eventually concede, "I can't create a new person/ But I'll create new memories." In a video promoting the successful Kickstarter campaign to crowdfund the vinyl edition of New Memory, Lacey spends most of his time self-consciously mugging for the camera rather than brooding in shadow, the stock image that would go with his music. What he has to offer is a particularly unvarnished kind of ingenuousness, quite distinct from the more common and flowery varieties, paired with a sensitive touch for making computer music move in free-feeling currents. He's still not flashy enough to be a buzz band. Instead, and hopefully for a long time to come, he holds an intimate space in a clamorous musical marketplace, with a potentially lethal earnestness that becomes a virtue by dint of his humility and honesty."

Ben Gibbard

Former Lives

Ian Cohen

For a guy whose band is often held up as the epitome of beta-male wimpiness, Benjamin Gibbard writes a lot of mean songs; not passive-aggressive, but genuinely cruel. Death Cab For Cutie managed to pull off "Cath…", "Styrofoam Plates", and especially "Tiny Vessels" because Gibbard rarely writes in a way that makes you think he's talking about himself; Codes & Keys generated most of its lyrics from autobiography, and it's the happiest Death Cab album. This sets up Former Lives in an interesting way. It's the first LP Gibbard is releasing under his own name and also the first music he's released since a very public split with Zooey Deschanel, the inspiration for much of Codes & Keys, which is now an album that's actually way more interesting in hindsight. If there was ever a time for Gibbard to get mean and get personal, it's here. Instead, Former Lives collects 12 songs that span "eight years, three relationships, living in two different places, drinking then not drinking," but somehow feel impersonal, like their main goal was to sound like they could come from someone other than Ben Gibbard. It's probably coincidental that the cover art of Former Lives bears a strange resemblance to that of 2008's Narrow Stairs, though the juxtaposition of these two records does help elucidate Gibbard's shift in songwriting as a solo artist. In 2009, he attempted to connect with a darker, more intoxicated source of inspiration by communing with the spirit of Jack Kerouac at Big Sur on One Fast Move or I'm Gone, a collaboration with Son Volt's Jay Farrar. On Former Lives, he travels further down the 101 for Los Angeles and specifically the Largo nightclub, agora for the city's mature singer-songwriters and their accomplices, people like Aimee Mann, Jon Brion, and Grant Lee Phillips. They're often called "classicist" and "mature" artists, and with the glaring exception of Fiona Apple, carry themselves more like artisans than artistes. Mann is one of the L.A.-based well-wishers who contribute to Former Lives, and from the outset, it feels like Gibbard is trying to make them feel at home. The minute-long intro "Shepherd's Bush Lullaby" has a couple of lines that are tempting to read into ("As you sleep an ocean away/ Know that I love you/ My every thought is of you/ The clouds are beginning to break"), yet the focus is entirely on its comparatively outré a cappella harmonies. Same with "Dream Song"; lyrically, it's pure Gibbard, a winding yarn of a couple's sleep states that deals completely in the unsaid and never leaves the space between his own ears. But the tack pianos, stuffy Britpop shuffle, and up-front vocals recall the production on Elliott Smith's "Los Angeles" album Figure 8, the one where his jones for canonical songwriting similarly left his usually candid lyrics prone to glib formula. Likewise, on the he-said/she-said, post-marital post-mortem of "Bigger Than Love", Mann's voice is ingrained with typically hard-won wisdom and disappointment, whereas Gibbard sounds like he has since the beginning, which is to say, boyish and innocent; the dissonance in age makes for an inspired, but miscast duet. Still, the songs on Former Lives boast an undeniable melodic sense. Even as he shifts from his typically elliptical songwriting to more structure-bound forms, he never sounds overly fussy. It makes Former Lives a brisk listen even when the songs themselves aren't particularly innovative; "Lily" and "A Hard One to Know" are Gibbard's shots at silly and sweet McCartney-styled love songs that are ephemerally enjoyable and vanish on contact due to an aggressive lack of specifics. Especially with "Lily", you're tempted to sub in a pretty similar first name so that puffy lyrics like "Lily's the Pacific Ocean and I'm standing at her shore" can scan as something other than puffy poetry. Elsewhere, "Teardrop Windows" boasts a superb, instantly memorable verse melody and a conceit that's wholly Gibbard's own; granting Seattle's Smith Tower the capability of being catatonically depressed might initially appear like the most blatant example of Gibbard's self-conscious attempts to be selfless, but then again, here's a guy who was able to survey the entire dissolution of a relationship in the time it took to look in his glove compartment. It's a shame he has to tack on "he's lonely just like me and you" to underline what was a fairly obvious premise. Even more blatant is "Oh, Woe" which tries to personify sadness in the same manner as the National's "Sorrow" did, but ends up zealously overwritten and equally underdeveloped. And that's really what Former Lives comes down to, that Gibbard's eight years of solo writing is content to manifest as an application into Largo's Singer-Songwriter Finishing School rather than anything that packs the idiosyncrasy, resonance, or mannered experimentation that he's capable of. Whereas Gibbard uses gloopy metaphor and cloying rhyme within Death Cab to open up new possibilities for emotional expression, Former Lives employs the same methods to ultimately insulate songs that don't have much of a core. You don't get to really know the subject of "Duncan, Where Have You Gone?"; you feel happy for Gibbard that he's getting to work with Aimee Mann. The ambiguity of Gibbard's southern sojourn "Something's Rattling (Cowpoke)" leaves you little to connect with other than the wafts of Tex-Mex horns. Who knows if this would've been better or far worse had Gibbard gone all Heartbreaker on us, but I can't help but remember his cruelest line to date when it comes to Former Lives' pretty vacancy: It's beautiful, but it don't mean a thing to me.

Artist: Ben Gibbard, Album: Former Lives, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "For a guy whose band is often held up as the epitome of beta-male wimpiness, Benjamin Gibbard writes a lot of mean songs; not passive-aggressive, but genuinely cruel. Death Cab For Cutie managed to pull off "Cath…", "Styrofoam Plates", and especially "Tiny Vessels" because Gibbard rarely writes in a way that makes you think he's talking about himself; Codes & Keys generated most of its lyrics from autobiography, and it's the happiest Death Cab album. This sets up Former Lives in an interesting way. It's the first LP Gibbard is releasing under his own name and also the first music he's released since a very public split with Zooey Deschanel, the inspiration for much of Codes & Keys, which is now an album that's actually way more interesting in hindsight. If there was ever a time for Gibbard to get mean and get personal, it's here. Instead, Former Lives collects 12 songs that span "eight years, three relationships, living in two different places, drinking then not drinking," but somehow feel impersonal, like their main goal was to sound like they could come from someone other than Ben Gibbard. It's probably coincidental that the cover art of Former Lives bears a strange resemblance to that of 2008's Narrow Stairs, though the juxtaposition of these two records does help elucidate Gibbard's shift in songwriting as a solo artist. In 2009, he attempted to connect with a darker, more intoxicated source of inspiration by communing with the spirit of Jack Kerouac at Big Sur on One Fast Move or I'm Gone, a collaboration with Son Volt's Jay Farrar. On Former Lives, he travels further down the 101 for Los Angeles and specifically the Largo nightclub, agora for the city's mature singer-songwriters and their accomplices, people like Aimee Mann, Jon Brion, and Grant Lee Phillips. They're often called "classicist" and "mature" artists, and with the glaring exception of Fiona Apple, carry themselves more like artisans than artistes. Mann is one of the L.A.-based well-wishers who contribute to Former Lives, and from the outset, it feels like Gibbard is trying to make them feel at home. The minute-long intro "Shepherd's Bush Lullaby" has a couple of lines that are tempting to read into ("As you sleep an ocean away/ Know that I love you/ My every thought is of you/ The clouds are beginning to break"), yet the focus is entirely on its comparatively outré a cappella harmonies. Same with "Dream Song"; lyrically, it's pure Gibbard, a winding yarn of a couple's sleep states that deals completely in the unsaid and never leaves the space between his own ears. But the tack pianos, stuffy Britpop shuffle, and up-front vocals recall the production on Elliott Smith's "Los Angeles" album Figure 8, the one where his jones for canonical songwriting similarly left his usually candid lyrics prone to glib formula. Likewise, on the he-said/she-said, post-marital post-mortem of "Bigger Than Love", Mann's voice is ingrained with typically hard-won wisdom and disappointment, whereas Gibbard sounds like he has since the beginning, which is to say, boyish and innocent; the dissonance in age makes for an inspired, but miscast duet. Still, the songs on Former Lives boast an undeniable melodic sense. Even as he shifts from his typically elliptical songwriting to more structure-bound forms, he never sounds overly fussy. It makes Former Lives a brisk listen even when the songs themselves aren't particularly innovative; "Lily" and "A Hard One to Know" are Gibbard's shots at silly and sweet McCartney-styled love songs that are ephemerally enjoyable and vanish on contact due to an aggressive lack of specifics. Especially with "Lily", you're tempted to sub in a pretty similar first name so that puffy lyrics like "Lily's the Pacific Ocean and I'm standing at her shore" can scan as something other than puffy poetry. Elsewhere, "Teardrop Windows" boasts a superb, instantly memorable verse melody and a conceit that's wholly Gibbard's own; granting Seattle's Smith Tower the capability of being catatonically depressed might initially appear like the most blatant example of Gibbard's self-conscious attempts to be selfless, but then again, here's a guy who was able to survey the entire dissolution of a relationship in the time it took to look in his glove compartment. It's a shame he has to tack on "he's lonely just like me and you" to underline what was a fairly obvious premise. Even more blatant is "Oh, Woe" which tries to personify sadness in the same manner as the National's "Sorrow" did, but ends up zealously overwritten and equally underdeveloped. And that's really what Former Lives comes down to, that Gibbard's eight years of solo writing is content to manifest as an application into Largo's Singer-Songwriter Finishing School rather than anything that packs the idiosyncrasy, resonance, or mannered experimentation that he's capable of. Whereas Gibbard uses gloopy metaphor and cloying rhyme within Death Cab to open up new possibilities for emotional expression, Former Lives employs the same methods to ultimately insulate songs that don't have much of a core. You don't get to really know the subject of "Duncan, Where Have You Gone?"; you feel happy for Gibbard that he's getting to work with Aimee Mann. The ambiguity of Gibbard's southern sojourn "Something's Rattling (Cowpoke)" leaves you little to connect with other than the wafts of Tex-Mex horns. Who knows if this would've been better or far worse had Gibbard gone all Heartbreaker on us, but I can't help but remember his cruelest line to date when it comes to Former Lives' pretty vacancy: It's beautiful, but it don't mean a thing to me."

Hepcat

Out of Nowhere

Rock

Jonathan Zwickel

It's strange how, in discussing modern ska, talk often wafts into the dreaded subject of America's brief, ill-advised affair with swing music in the mid-1990s. We can all agree on neo-swing's pointless reanimation-- it was a style that was so deeply rooted in the period of its inception that fast-forwarding it to the post-grunge era and adorning it with tattoos and wallet chains smudged the dapper snap it possessed in its heyday. Plus, the music lacked soul, even in its prime; a whitewashing of the jitterbugging jump blues that steamed up many a segregated juke joint, swing just wasn't dangerous music. Ska, even in its revivalism, is a different story. Ska was soul, channeled from studios in New Orleans and Memphis, through transistor radios in the streets of Kingston in the early 60s, and then tilted onto the upbeat. Bands like The Melodians, The Skatalites, and Toots & The Maytals crafted the original Jamaican dance music, which of course was mellowed by age and ganja smoke to become reggae. The ska revival bands of late 1970s England added a brash, lefty political element and interracial Wayfarered cool, keeping the sound fresh even as it was appropriated. Some contention, however, arises in the mid-90s when the third wave crashed onto MTV, first spiking California pop/punk with a little Two-Tone two-step, then forsaking the skank altogether. So, that's the rough timeline of ska's evolution. Hepcat stands proudly outside it all. With syrupy three-part harmonies and horn-laced swoop, L.A.'s Hepcat hit the scene in the early 90s and immediately gained a reputation for their faithful re-heating of old-school Jamaican flavors. Their attention to the originators was immediately apparent in their buttery shoo-wop vocals, jazzy horns, and stylish, laid-back posture. For these guys, the term "derivative" was the greatest compliment, and their well-studied approach, coalesced during a tour with The Skatalites in '92, yielded some fantastic music that would fit comfortably on a '62 Studio One comp. After two early releases on small labels, the band was picked up by Epitaph in '98, released two more albums, and enjoyed limited mainstream success. Epitaph recently reissued Hepcat's hard-to-find '93 debut, Out of Nowhere, on its Hellcat subsidiary, a thrilling prospect for fans of the band and the genre. With its detailed liner notes and photos, this reissue is an intimate glimpse into the roots of modern ska's greatest roots band. While perhaps not as memorable as some of the group's later, greater tracks, these songs still show the same soulful, playful charge that made the band such a fan favorite. A joyful innocence pervades the record, present in the golden vocal harmonies their bubblegum subject matter. The band shows a bit of the reggae, Latin, and Caribbean influence that would be more fleshed out on later works like Scientific and Right on Time, but even songs introduced by an exotic dub echo or fancy piano trill quickly settle into that skittering, shuffling beat that serves as the happy-footed rhythmic foundation of their sound. A few songs ("The Secret", "Nigel", "Clarence Thomas") are presently here in early versions that would show up fully realized on successive releases, and within these comparisons listeners can gauge the band's progression-- for the most part, Hepcat's arrangements, basslines, and overall passion only improved with experience. Still, Out of Nowhere stands as an early expression from a band that managed to remain forever young, looking back to the old days to keep their sound fresh when it really mattered.

Artist: Hepcat, Album: Out of Nowhere, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "It's strange how, in discussing modern ska, talk often wafts into the dreaded subject of America's brief, ill-advised affair with swing music in the mid-1990s. We can all agree on neo-swing's pointless reanimation-- it was a style that was so deeply rooted in the period of its inception that fast-forwarding it to the post-grunge era and adorning it with tattoos and wallet chains smudged the dapper snap it possessed in its heyday. Plus, the music lacked soul, even in its prime; a whitewashing of the jitterbugging jump blues that steamed up many a segregated juke joint, swing just wasn't dangerous music. Ska, even in its revivalism, is a different story. Ska was soul, channeled from studios in New Orleans and Memphis, through transistor radios in the streets of Kingston in the early 60s, and then tilted onto the upbeat. Bands like The Melodians, The Skatalites, and Toots & The Maytals crafted the original Jamaican dance music, which of course was mellowed by age and ganja smoke to become reggae. The ska revival bands of late 1970s England added a brash, lefty political element and interracial Wayfarered cool, keeping the sound fresh even as it was appropriated. Some contention, however, arises in the mid-90s when the third wave crashed onto MTV, first spiking California pop/punk with a little Two-Tone two-step, then forsaking the skank altogether. So, that's the rough timeline of ska's evolution. Hepcat stands proudly outside it all. With syrupy three-part harmonies and horn-laced swoop, L.A.'s Hepcat hit the scene in the early 90s and immediately gained a reputation for their faithful re-heating of old-school Jamaican flavors. Their attention to the originators was immediately apparent in their buttery shoo-wop vocals, jazzy horns, and stylish, laid-back posture. For these guys, the term "derivative" was the greatest compliment, and their well-studied approach, coalesced during a tour with The Skatalites in '92, yielded some fantastic music that would fit comfortably on a '62 Studio One comp. After two early releases on small labels, the band was picked up by Epitaph in '98, released two more albums, and enjoyed limited mainstream success. Epitaph recently reissued Hepcat's hard-to-find '93 debut, Out of Nowhere, on its Hellcat subsidiary, a thrilling prospect for fans of the band and the genre. With its detailed liner notes and photos, this reissue is an intimate glimpse into the roots of modern ska's greatest roots band. While perhaps not as memorable as some of the group's later, greater tracks, these songs still show the same soulful, playful charge that made the band such a fan favorite. A joyful innocence pervades the record, present in the golden vocal harmonies their bubblegum subject matter. The band shows a bit of the reggae, Latin, and Caribbean influence that would be more fleshed out on later works like Scientific and Right on Time, but even songs introduced by an exotic dub echo or fancy piano trill quickly settle into that skittering, shuffling beat that serves as the happy-footed rhythmic foundation of their sound. A few songs ("The Secret", "Nigel", "Clarence Thomas") are presently here in early versions that would show up fully realized on successive releases, and within these comparisons listeners can gauge the band's progression-- for the most part, Hepcat's arrangements, basslines, and overall passion only improved with experience. Still, Out of Nowhere stands as an early expression from a band that managed to remain forever young, looking back to the old days to keep their sound fresh when it really mattered."

The Posies

Alive Before the Iceberg

Rock

Chip Chanko

"Live albums always offer a precarious task for musicians. If a band merely fills the studio molds with too-perfect clarity, fans want for the lack of stage improv. If the band jams on the closing riff for six minutes, the fans yawn. So what's the perfect balance of fiddling and play-by-numbers? If you've ever exclaimed, "Man, the guitarist adds a little vibrato to the one note in the hook! And the riff has this little extra stutter," ask yourself why this really matters. Do five subtle changes really warrant praise? And if it's freeform re-interpretation you want, go like Phish." The above sentiments appeared verbatim in Brent DiCrescenzo's review of Built to Spill's Live. They also appeared in his review of Sunny Day Real Estate's Live. Now I'm using them for my own purposes because this Posies album is also live and he used it twice so it must mean something. This record's not called Live, though. I bet you gathered that from the information up there at the top. Did you? If you did, then you also saw that it says stuff about icebergs and being alive. Yeah, this is a postmortem release capturing the Posies at what they consider to be their greatest moment before sinking (and resurfacing in places like Big Star, Sunny Day Real Estate and Fountains of Wayne). Alive Before the Iceberg was recorded in Barcelona on a July night in 1998. Judging from guitarist Ken Stringfellow's liner notes, the Posies seemed to, uh, like playing in Spain. From what I gather (actually, he spells it out in lurid detail) they drank a lot, passed out a lot, woke up not knowing where they were a lot, and Fucking Rocked a lot. The Posies did this? But they do such nice harmonies! My mom likes them! (She doesn't really, but I bet she would). They fucking rocked?! They did. And maybe that's their point with this release: "Listen up people, we fucking rocked! It's all right there. Listen you assholes!" Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow's harmonies are belted out like they're playing Giants' Stadium without mics as they try to stay in tune and presumably, stay standing. The guitar is all over the place while keeping to the confines of each song. There's no unnecessary soloing on the tracks, which combine songs from the band's last three albums and a gut-punching cover of Cheap Trick's "Surrender." Recorded before the release of Success, it "premiers" songs from that album; the perfect opener (here and on Success), "Somehow Everything," the cyclic guitar triplets of "Start a Life," and the mesmerizing grandfather clock harmonies on "You're the Beautiful One" are captured in a previously undocumented state. Iceberg pulls mostly from the Posies' 1996 album, Amazing Disgrace, with a light-speed rendition of "Grant Hart" splitting the set in two and leading straight into an equally energized "Flavour of the Month." Iceberg's track listing largely serves as a selection of some of the band's better lesser-known songs (despite the inclusion of their restrained hit "Dream all Day") and as a sign of the Posies' impending destruction. Before the chain-gang staccato guitars of "Broken Record," Auer announces, "Maybe you can get off the damn dance floor for this one." I can just picture a crowd in front of the stage taking that as an invitation to pound a giant crater into the floor. I think that's what he pictured, too. The band knew exactly what they were doing, even then. They knew they were close to the end and that's what they captured here. Alive Before the Iceberg is the Posies summing up their career up with 12 songs played half-drunk in front of a crowd of Spaniards who probably didn't know that a posie is a bunch of flowers. It didn't matter. What mattered to them was the moment-- the energy of a band wound so tight they would explode later that year. They didn't care about freeform re-interpretation here, and I didn't either. If that's what I want, I'll go see Phish next month at Radio City Music Hall.

Artist: The Posies, Album: Alive Before the Iceberg, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: ""Live albums always offer a precarious task for musicians. If a band merely fills the studio molds with too-perfect clarity, fans want for the lack of stage improv. If the band jams on the closing riff for six minutes, the fans yawn. So what's the perfect balance of fiddling and play-by-numbers? If you've ever exclaimed, "Man, the guitarist adds a little vibrato to the one note in the hook! And the riff has this little extra stutter," ask yourself why this really matters. Do five subtle changes really warrant praise? And if it's freeform re-interpretation you want, go like Phish." The above sentiments appeared verbatim in Brent DiCrescenzo's review of Built to Spill's Live. They also appeared in his review of Sunny Day Real Estate's Live. Now I'm using them for my own purposes because this Posies album is also live and he used it twice so it must mean something. This record's not called Live, though. I bet you gathered that from the information up there at the top. Did you? If you did, then you also saw that it says stuff about icebergs and being alive. Yeah, this is a postmortem release capturing the Posies at what they consider to be their greatest moment before sinking (and resurfacing in places like Big Star, Sunny Day Real Estate and Fountains of Wayne). Alive Before the Iceberg was recorded in Barcelona on a July night in 1998. Judging from guitarist Ken Stringfellow's liner notes, the Posies seemed to, uh, like playing in Spain. From what I gather (actually, he spells it out in lurid detail) they drank a lot, passed out a lot, woke up not knowing where they were a lot, and Fucking Rocked a lot. The Posies did this? But they do such nice harmonies! My mom likes them! (She doesn't really, but I bet she would). They fucking rocked?! They did. And maybe that's their point with this release: "Listen up people, we fucking rocked! It's all right there. Listen you assholes!" Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow's harmonies are belted out like they're playing Giants' Stadium without mics as they try to stay in tune and presumably, stay standing. The guitar is all over the place while keeping to the confines of each song. There's no unnecessary soloing on the tracks, which combine songs from the band's last three albums and a gut-punching cover of Cheap Trick's "Surrender." Recorded before the release of Success, it "premiers" songs from that album; the perfect opener (here and on Success), "Somehow Everything," the cyclic guitar triplets of "Start a Life," and the mesmerizing grandfather clock harmonies on "You're the Beautiful One" are captured in a previously undocumented state. Iceberg pulls mostly from the Posies' 1996 album, Amazing Disgrace, with a light-speed rendition of "Grant Hart" splitting the set in two and leading straight into an equally energized "Flavour of the Month." Iceberg's track listing largely serves as a selection of some of the band's better lesser-known songs (despite the inclusion of their restrained hit "Dream all Day") and as a sign of the Posies' impending destruction. Before the chain-gang staccato guitars of "Broken Record," Auer announces, "Maybe you can get off the damn dance floor for this one." I can just picture a crowd in front of the stage taking that as an invitation to pound a giant crater into the floor. I think that's what he pictured, too. The band knew exactly what they were doing, even then. They knew they were close to the end and that's what they captured here. Alive Before the Iceberg is the Posies summing up their career up with 12 songs played half-drunk in front of a crowd of Spaniards who probably didn't know that a posie is a bunch of flowers. It didn't matter. What mattered to them was the moment-- the energy of a band wound so tight they would explode later that year. They didn't care about freeform re-interpretation here, and I didn't either. If that's what I want, I'll go see Phish next month at Radio City Music Hall."

Various Artists

The Believer 2005 Music Issue CD

Rob Mitchum

If you're not already aware of it, *The Believer is the life partner of Dave Eggers' literary journal * McSweeney's, a monthly collection of essays, reviews, interviews, and somewhat random columns. Populated by the likes of Nick Hornby, Rick Moody, artist Charles Burns, and the occasional Sedaris, it rather quickly and effortlessly assumed the position of periodical meeting place for the young, hip, and literary. Given that we aspire to be all of the above, you might imagine that a lot of Pitchfork staffers are on the subscription rolls of The Believer, and if it didn't cost so much, you'd be right. Nevertheless, the mutual publication love party only goes so far. The Believer planted its flag on the lit-crit scene with an essay by editor-in-chief Heidi Julavits declaring an end to "snark," the practice of being a big mean bully hiding behind a byline and an artsy NYTBR illustration. Pitchfork, of course, is The House that Snark Built, and you'll have to pry the snark out of our Cold. Dead. Haaaaaands. Due to our different territories, these irreconcilable differences aren't a problem 11 months out of the year, but every June an invading party is sent with The Believer Music Issue and its accompanying compact disc supplement. Now if there were ever an example of the narcissism of small differences, it's this; the CD included with the 2004 music issue was like a mix disc predicting our 2004 Top Albums list, featuring as it did folks like the Books, Ted Leo, the Walkmen, and TV on the Radio. This year's installment is likewise packed with Fork-friendly artists, although this time with a twist-- rather than simply throwing together the old previously-released material, The Believer challenges the participants to share the gift of royalties and cover a peer's composition. 'Tis a noble concept, allowing artists to pay rare tribute to contemporaries while keeping them from dusting off that cover of "Blue Jay Way" they recorded the night the bass player was too drunk to pluck. On the other hand, the stable of musicians selected for inclusion-- and the material they, in turn, decide to remake-- encapsulates the dullness of this strain of indie, a drab made exponentially stronger by the enforced cross-pollination. For The Believer has a fetish for indie rock that's literate (no duh) and guitar-based, and so we get a collection every bit as singer-songwriter-heavy as Starbuck's music except with a lower profile-- call it independent-coffee-store-down-the-street-from-Starbuck's music. Who else could open a literary journal's music issue compilation than the Decemberists? Covering Joanna Newsom's "Bridges and Balloons", Colin Meloy sets the tone for the hour to come by performing it as a one-man acoustical jam, replacing Newsom's Lisa Simpson with his own Professor Frink. It's good; I prefer Newsom's compositions with a little more foundation. Also good on the sim-busking front is The Mountain Goats' cover of the Silver Jews' "Pet Politics", about as perfect a musical match as you can find. Other unplugged moments do little to rebut my coffee-shop impressions, such as the Cat Power clone two-fer in the middle (Josephine Foster and Cynthia G. Mason) or somebody named Two Gallants picking up the Neil Diamond worship where Crooked Fingers left off. There's little to write 10-page essays about in terms of full-band performances either, with Spoon absolutely sleepwalking through Yo La Tengo's "Decora" (not that somnambulant isn't perhaps the appropriate means of addressing YLT) and the reappearance of the Shins' listless version of the Postal Service's "We Will Become Silhouettes". Only a couple tracks stand out as more than novelty and rarities-comp filler: Jim Guthrie's take on the Constantines' "Nighttime/Anytime (It's Alright)", which remakes the testosterone-rock of the original as a slow-burn violin funk, and CocoRosie's no-fi reinvention of Damien Jurado's "Ohio". Then there's Devendra Banhart taking on Antony & The Johnson's "Fistful of Love", which depending on your taste for unique vocal stylings, is either the sound of hell incarnate or a warbly dream come true. So apologies to Snarkwatch, but this collection does little to increase its value beyond free handout. While the concept is noble, the editors would be advised to go with a less one-dimensional roster for next year's issue, to stretch out beyond the tight boundaries of acoustic-folk, freak-folk, and indie pop. A collection of contemporary covers like this one might work with a greater variety of sounds, or at least artists who listen to a greater variety of sounds-- why is the music world covered by The Believer devoid of hip-hop, electronic, or anything not made by (usually acoustic) guitars or the occasional harp? While the magazine is usually adept at pointing people towards wrongfully neglected corners of literature and art, this insular compilation does nothing but point at itself.

Artist: Various Artists, Album: The Believer 2005 Music Issue CD, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "If you're not already aware of it, *The Believer is the life partner of Dave Eggers' literary journal * McSweeney's, a monthly collection of essays, reviews, interviews, and somewhat random columns. Populated by the likes of Nick Hornby, Rick Moody, artist Charles Burns, and the occasional Sedaris, it rather quickly and effortlessly assumed the position of periodical meeting place for the young, hip, and literary. Given that we aspire to be all of the above, you might imagine that a lot of Pitchfork staffers are on the subscription rolls of The Believer, and if it didn't cost so much, you'd be right. Nevertheless, the mutual publication love party only goes so far. The Believer planted its flag on the lit-crit scene with an essay by editor-in-chief Heidi Julavits declaring an end to "snark," the practice of being a big mean bully hiding behind a byline and an artsy NYTBR illustration. Pitchfork, of course, is The House that Snark Built, and you'll have to pry the snark out of our Cold. Dead. Haaaaaands. Due to our different territories, these irreconcilable differences aren't a problem 11 months out of the year, but every June an invading party is sent with The Believer Music Issue and its accompanying compact disc supplement. Now if there were ever an example of the narcissism of small differences, it's this; the CD included with the 2004 music issue was like a mix disc predicting our 2004 Top Albums list, featuring as it did folks like the Books, Ted Leo, the Walkmen, and TV on the Radio. This year's installment is likewise packed with Fork-friendly artists, although this time with a twist-- rather than simply throwing together the old previously-released material, The Believer challenges the participants to share the gift of royalties and cover a peer's composition. 'Tis a noble concept, allowing artists to pay rare tribute to contemporaries while keeping them from dusting off that cover of "Blue Jay Way" they recorded the night the bass player was too drunk to pluck. On the other hand, the stable of musicians selected for inclusion-- and the material they, in turn, decide to remake-- encapsulates the dullness of this strain of indie, a drab made exponentially stronger by the enforced cross-pollination. For The Believer has a fetish for indie rock that's literate (no duh) and guitar-based, and so we get a collection every bit as singer-songwriter-heavy as Starbuck's music except with a lower profile-- call it independent-coffee-store-down-the-street-from-Starbuck's music. Who else could open a literary journal's music issue compilation than the Decemberists? Covering Joanna Newsom's "Bridges and Balloons", Colin Meloy sets the tone for the hour to come by performing it as a one-man acoustical jam, replacing Newsom's Lisa Simpson with his own Professor Frink. It's good; I prefer Newsom's compositions with a little more foundation. Also good on the sim-busking front is The Mountain Goats' cover of the Silver Jews' "Pet Politics", about as perfect a musical match as you can find. Other unplugged moments do little to rebut my coffee-shop impressions, such as the Cat Power clone two-fer in the middle (Josephine Foster and Cynthia G. Mason) or somebody named Two Gallants picking up the Neil Diamond worship where Crooked Fingers left off. There's little to write 10-page essays about in terms of full-band performances either, with Spoon absolutely sleepwalking through Yo La Tengo's "Decora" (not that somnambulant isn't perhaps the appropriate means of addressing YLT) and the reappearance of the Shins' listless version of the Postal Service's "We Will Become Silhouettes". Only a couple tracks stand out as more than novelty and rarities-comp filler: Jim Guthrie's take on the Constantines' "Nighttime/Anytime (It's Alright)", which remakes the testosterone-rock of the original as a slow-burn violin funk, and CocoRosie's no-fi reinvention of Damien Jurado's "Ohio". Then there's Devendra Banhart taking on Antony & The Johnson's "Fistful of Love", which depending on your taste for unique vocal stylings, is either the sound of hell incarnate or a warbly dream come true. So apologies to Snarkwatch, but this collection does little to increase its value beyond free handout. While the concept is noble, the editors would be advised to go with a less one-dimensional roster for next year's issue, to stretch out beyond the tight boundaries of acoustic-folk, freak-folk, and indie pop. A collection of contemporary covers like this one might work with a greater variety of sounds, or at least artists who listen to a greater variety of sounds-- why is the music world covered by The Believer devoid of hip-hop, electronic, or anything not made by (usually acoustic) guitars or the occasional harp? While the magazine is usually adept at pointing people towards wrongfully neglected corners of literature and art, this insular compilation does nothing but point at itself."

The New Pornographers

Electric Version

Rock

Matt LeMay

Generally speaking, "supergroup" isn't a word that gets thrown around a lot. The term is usually reserved for one-off vanity projects by famous people with too much time on their hands. And besides, the results of the supergroup collaboration are almost invariably doomed to be regarded as secondary and inconsequential. If David Lee Roth, Keanu Reeves, and the Olsen Twins made an album together, it would not only be a surefire sign that Earth had finally become a true Gomorrah, but also would undoubtedly fail to generate the revenues and public acclaim of Van Halen's 1984, The Matrix, or the July 2006 issue of Hustler. It seems odd, then, that a pack of talented but largely overlooked Canadians and one up-and-coming, Canadian-by-way-of-Virginia alt-country chanteuse would come to be spoken of as if they were indie rock's answer to The Traveling Wilburys. But listening to The New Pornographers' stunning debut, Mass Romantic, the term "supergroup" seems surprisingly fitting, if not in the traditional sense of the word. Certainly, Mass Romantic was as far from an insubstantial vanity project as one can imagine-- but, just as certainly, it doesn't sound like the product of just some average, run-of-the-mill "group." That record was the result of years of sporadic tinkering by a rotating cast of insanely talented individuals. Each song seemed to showcase a different permutation of the members' talents, and registered like a perfectly constructed sonic artifact, rather than just a recording of some people playing their instruments in a room. Since its release, the Pornographers have become the main project for primary songwriter Carl Newman, bassist John Collins, keyboardist Blaine Thurier, drummer Kurt Dahle, and recently acquired multi-instrumentalist Todd Fancey. The band has toured extensively, and over the past two years, written and recorded this, their sophomore album. In other words, The New Pornographers have become a real band. Accordingly, the most substantial difference between Mass Romantic and Electric Version is that the latter sounds much more like an album by a band than a collective. On Mass Romantic, every sonic nook and cranny was filled by a whirring synthesizer, a buzzing acoustic guitar, or a five-part harmony vocal. Electric Version, on the other hand, is a much more live-sounding and spacious record, with instrumentation kept relatively straightforward and a minimum of evident studio embellishments. And yet, The New Pornographers have retained their signature sound-- in short, Electric Version is a more streamlined and spontaneous incarnation of the same catchy, harmony-laden power-pop that provided the foundation for Mass Romantic. Even more so than Mass Romantic, Electric Version sounds like Carl Newman's record. The frenetic-verse-and-anthemic-chorus formula that Newman toyed with last time around constitutes the core of this record, and provides the format for some of its greatest moments, but also a few of its most forgettable. "The End of Medicine", which was included as a B-side on the "Letter from an Occupant" single, gets a fantastic reworking here, as Newman turns a fragile vocal hook into the centerpiece for a perfectly concise pop gem. On "July Jones", Newman inflects his bouncy, melodic songwriting with a kind of reflective melancholy that Mass Romantic never even hinted at, with absolutely gorgeous results. In fact, the more spacious sound of Electric Version allows for a lot of low-key moments that Mass Romantic simply didn't have room for: "From Blown Speakers", another standout, subtly develops to a powerful and bittersweet finale, weaving the threads of nostalgia that run throughout the song into a shimmering coda. As was the case with Mass Romantic, Newman makes some of his most powerful statements on Electric Version through the silvery pipes of Neko Case. "The Laws Have Changed", in which Case and Newman trade off lead vocals, may very well be the best song here. Hooks within hooks are exchanged between the two singers, and the contrast between Newman's smirking disaffection and Case's effortless resonance is played up to great effect. Since 2000, Dan Bejar has amicably given up his position as a full-time member of the band. Nevertheless, he's offered three contributions to Electric Version, and they're absolutely superb, as his obtuse, nonlinear songwriting provides a welcome counterpoint to Newman's classicist leanings. On "Chump Change", Newman's power-pop machine turns a typical Bejar ditty into a chugging anthem, effortlessly transforming a line like "the saints and the desert use their heads" from an abstract lyrical nugget into one of the most indelible hooks on the record. "Testament to Youth in Verse", Bejar's best on Electric Version, is host to a two-minute vocal round coda that really has to be heard to be believed. Of course, strong though it may be, Electric Version is not without its low points. Sometimes Newman's propensity for writing verses crammed full of chord changes works against him, especially when such verses fail to effectively segue into a rousing chorus. Those expecting the dense, powerful, and insistently upbeat onslaught of Mass Romantic will no doubt react to Electric Version with some degree of initial disappointment. Repeated listens, however, reveal that Electric Version not only displays Carl Newman's brilliant and unique pop sensibility, but allows it enough space to reveal previously obstructed layers of emotional depth. Indeed, the overall success of this record suggests that The New Pornographers are anything but a one-off project; with any luck, it will mark the beginning of the band's metamorphosis from "supergroup" to, simply, "great band."

Artist: The New Pornographers, Album: Electric Version, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "Generally speaking, "supergroup" isn't a word that gets thrown around a lot. The term is usually reserved for one-off vanity projects by famous people with too much time on their hands. And besides, the results of the supergroup collaboration are almost invariably doomed to be regarded as secondary and inconsequential. If David Lee Roth, Keanu Reeves, and the Olsen Twins made an album together, it would not only be a surefire sign that Earth had finally become a true Gomorrah, but also would undoubtedly fail to generate the revenues and public acclaim of Van Halen's 1984, The Matrix, or the July 2006 issue of Hustler. It seems odd, then, that a pack of talented but largely overlooked Canadians and one up-and-coming, Canadian-by-way-of-Virginia alt-country chanteuse would come to be spoken of as if they were indie rock's answer to The Traveling Wilburys. But listening to The New Pornographers' stunning debut, Mass Romantic, the term "supergroup" seems surprisingly fitting, if not in the traditional sense of the word. Certainly, Mass Romantic was as far from an insubstantial vanity project as one can imagine-- but, just as certainly, it doesn't sound like the product of just some average, run-of-the-mill "group." That record was the result of years of sporadic tinkering by a rotating cast of insanely talented individuals. Each song seemed to showcase a different permutation of the members' talents, and registered like a perfectly constructed sonic artifact, rather than just a recording of some people playing their instruments in a room. Since its release, the Pornographers have become the main project for primary songwriter Carl Newman, bassist John Collins, keyboardist Blaine Thurier, drummer Kurt Dahle, and recently acquired multi-instrumentalist Todd Fancey. The band has toured extensively, and over the past two years, written and recorded this, their sophomore album. In other words, The New Pornographers have become a real band. Accordingly, the most substantial difference between Mass Romantic and Electric Version is that the latter sounds much more like an album by a band than a collective. On Mass Romantic, every sonic nook and cranny was filled by a whirring synthesizer, a buzzing acoustic guitar, or a five-part harmony vocal. Electric Version, on the other hand, is a much more live-sounding and spacious record, with instrumentation kept relatively straightforward and a minimum of evident studio embellishments. And yet, The New Pornographers have retained their signature sound-- in short, Electric Version is a more streamlined and spontaneous incarnation of the same catchy, harmony-laden power-pop that provided the foundation for Mass Romantic. Even more so than Mass Romantic, Electric Version sounds like Carl Newman's record. The frenetic-verse-and-anthemic-chorus formula that Newman toyed with last time around constitutes the core of this record, and provides the format for some of its greatest moments, but also a few of its most forgettable. "The End of Medicine", which was included as a B-side on the "Letter from an Occupant" single, gets a fantastic reworking here, as Newman turns a fragile vocal hook into the centerpiece for a perfectly concise pop gem. On "July Jones", Newman inflects his bouncy, melodic songwriting with a kind of reflective melancholy that Mass Romantic never even hinted at, with absolutely gorgeous results. In fact, the more spacious sound of Electric Version allows for a lot of low-key moments that Mass Romantic simply didn't have room for: "From Blown Speakers", another standout, subtly develops to a powerful and bittersweet finale, weaving the threads of nostalgia that run throughout the song into a shimmering coda. As was the case with Mass Romantic, Newman makes some of his most powerful statements on Electric Version through the silvery pipes of Neko Case. "The Laws Have Changed", in which Case and Newman trade off lead vocals, may very well be the best song here. Hooks within hooks are exchanged between the two singers, and the contrast between Newman's smirking disaffection and Case's effortless resonance is played up to great effect. Since 2000, Dan Bejar has amicably given up his position as a full-time member of the band. Nevertheless, he's offered three contributions to Electric Version, and they're absolutely superb, as his obtuse, nonlinear songwriting provides a welcome counterpoint to Newman's classicist leanings. On "Chump Change", Newman's power-pop machine turns a typical Bejar ditty into a chugging anthem, effortlessly transforming a line like "the saints and the desert use their heads" from an abstract lyrical nugget into one of the most indelible hooks on the record. "Testament to Youth in Verse", Bejar's best on Electric Version, is host to a two-minute vocal round coda that really has to be heard to be believed. Of course, strong though it may be, Electric Version is not without its low points. Sometimes Newman's propensity for writing verses crammed full of chord changes works against him, especially when such verses fail to effectively segue into a rousing chorus. Those expecting the dense, powerful, and insistently upbeat onslaught of Mass Romantic will no doubt react to Electric Version with some degree of initial disappointment. Repeated listens, however, reveal that Electric Version not only displays Carl Newman's brilliant and unique pop sensibility, but allows it enough space to reveal previously obstructed layers of emotional depth. Indeed, the overall success of this record suggests that The New Pornographers are anything but a one-off project; with any luck, it will mark the beginning of the band's metamorphosis from "supergroup" to, simply, "great band.""

Rhye

Blood

Pop/R&B

Philip Sherburne

A few things have changed in the five years since Rhye laid a rose and a lace blindfold on pop music’s pillow. Producer Robin Hannibal quietly left the duo sometime around the release of their debut album, Woman. Under remaining member Michael Milosh’s command, the project has evolved from a studio confection into a real band, its members’ resumes bulleted with former employers like Kelis, Jhené Aiko, and David Byrne. Milosh also broke up with his wife, to whom Woman’s raptures and ecstasies were dedicated. He has a new love now, and she appears on the cover of Blood, rendered once again in artful black and white, even more naked than the woman on the cover of Woman. Musically, though, Rhye remains very much the same, and Blood picks up where Woman left off: the tempos slow, the decibels soft, the heft negligible. Funk guitars twist like orchids’ tendrils. Disco basslines rarely rise above a muted thump. Textures—a close-miked hi-hat, the rustling hammers of a Rhodes keyboard—are as vivid as fingernails scraping raw silk. The mood is set with grace and ease. The band’s reference points also remain the same paragons of soft, smooth, and sensuous as before: Talk Talk, for the attention they lavish on the minutiae of empty space, Al Green for his devotion and his sighs, and Sade, for, well, everything. It’s not just that Milosh’s voice often sounds uncannily like Helen Adu’s, it’s that Rhye’s whole bedroom R&B vibe draws heavily upon the sound of Sade albums like Stronger Than Pride and Love Deluxe, with crisp, rock-steady drumming perforating velvety blue keyboards and wordless coos. (Milosh has claimed that he’s “not a big Sade fan,” which, I mean, sure.) If Woman sometimes felt like a pastiche of Sade, Blood feels like a pastiche of Woman. Every detail is accentuated, every gesture exaggerated. Layered handclaps crackle like logs in the fire. Slinky riffs move across electric piano, guitar, clarinet, viola, and French horn. And Milosh’s voice is more delicate and more expressive than ever; it often sounds like he’s trying to locate the precise point along his vocal cords where a syllable vaporizes into a sigh. His concerns may be carnal, but he is forever on the edge of disappearing into a cloud of breath. Rhye’s soft-pop revivalism is not quite as radical as it once felt. But Blood’s hi-def panorama of feathers and pearls is even more finely detailed than on Woman, and it helps that the band switches up its footsteps frequently without ever breaking the mood. The opening three songs go from languid slow dance to waist-winding funk to a sleek disco skip—though their unvarying palette and Milosh’s insistent whisper also mean that they tend to blend together. “Sinful,” the album’s dramatic closer, borrows from John Williams’ soundtracks and Ali Farka Touré’s desert blues; “Phoenix,” a late-album highlight, exemplifies everything thrilling about the band’s touch. The action on the Rhodes is so tactile it gives goosebumps; overdriven blues guitar riffs twitch and curl like a bitten lip. And Milosh packs real oomph into his vocalizations, even when you can’t quite figure out what he’s singing. If you could bottle the way he mutters “Oh my God,” you could make a mint. It is the sound of sex distilled. If only he’d left it at those three words, because the more attention you pay to the lyrics, the less enjoyable the album becomes. Milosh fixates upon words with a long “a” sound: waste, waiting, space, changes, cave, awake, face, away, babe, taste, waist, painful, unstable, place, race, face, fable, chase, play, change—the assonant rhymes pile up at the ends of his lines like heaps of scarlet letters. That’s fine; they lend Blood a sort of ruby-colored uniformity. It’s an approach that treats writing as a kind of tone painting. But his sweet nothings (“I kinda love your vain”) are often truly insubstantial. His single-minded devotion to lewd double entendres can leave a sour taste, too. “Surrender to your needs” turns into “Surrender to your knees,” while in “Taste” he flips the scenario, “licking wounds” while his lover sleeps. And the “rising” that happens in “Phoenix” is almost certainly not a bird. Which is fine; sexy music can be fun! But when all this heavy breathing isn’t flat-out corny, there’s a creepy undercurrent running underneath, a menacing sluice of blood and tears that makes sex and romance sound not very fun at all. It’s a shame, because Blood is a marvel of engineering, of both sounds and moods. With nearly 500 shows under their belt at this point, Rhye have evolved into a formidable machine, but this album often sounds like a studio-crafted simulacrum of a full-band performance, every element a bit too polished. Like a retouched photo, it scans as just a little too perfect—a formalist exercise made primarily just to show that it can be done. Emotionally, it is stunted, a vision of desire as shallow as its cover.

Artist: Rhye, Album: Blood, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.3 Album review: "A few things have changed in the five years since Rhye laid a rose and a lace blindfold on pop music’s pillow. Producer Robin Hannibal quietly left the duo sometime around the release of their debut album, Woman. Under remaining member Michael Milosh’s command, the project has evolved from a studio confection into a real band, its members’ resumes bulleted with former employers like Kelis, Jhené Aiko, and David Byrne. Milosh also broke up with his wife, to whom Woman’s raptures and ecstasies were dedicated. He has a new love now, and she appears on the cover of Blood, rendered once again in artful black and white, even more naked than the woman on the cover of Woman. Musically, though, Rhye remains very much the same, and Blood picks up where Woman left off: the tempos slow, the decibels soft, the heft negligible. Funk guitars twist like orchids’ tendrils. Disco basslines rarely rise above a muted thump. Textures—a close-miked hi-hat, the rustling hammers of a Rhodes keyboard—are as vivid as fingernails scraping raw silk. The mood is set with grace and ease. The band’s reference points also remain the same paragons of soft, smooth, and sensuous as before: Talk Talk, for the attention they lavish on the minutiae of empty space, Al Green for his devotion and his sighs, and Sade, for, well, everything. It’s not just that Milosh’s voice often sounds uncannily like Helen Adu’s, it’s that Rhye’s whole bedroom R&B vibe draws heavily upon the sound of Sade albums like Stronger Than Pride and Love Deluxe, with crisp, rock-steady drumming perforating velvety blue keyboards and wordless coos. (Milosh has claimed that he’s “not a big Sade fan,” which, I mean, sure.) If Woman sometimes felt like a pastiche of Sade, Blood feels like a pastiche of Woman. Every detail is accentuated, every gesture exaggerated. Layered handclaps crackle like logs in the fire. Slinky riffs move across electric piano, guitar, clarinet, viola, and French horn. And Milosh’s voice is more delicate and more expressive than ever; it often sounds like he’s trying to locate the precise point along his vocal cords where a syllable vaporizes into a sigh. His concerns may be carnal, but he is forever on the edge of disappearing into a cloud of breath. Rhye’s soft-pop revivalism is not quite as radical as it once felt. But Blood’s hi-def panorama of feathers and pearls is even more finely detailed than on Woman, and it helps that the band switches up its footsteps frequently without ever breaking the mood. The opening three songs go from languid slow dance to waist-winding funk to a sleek disco skip—though their unvarying palette and Milosh’s insistent whisper also mean that they tend to blend together. “Sinful,” the album’s dramatic closer, borrows from John Williams’ soundtracks and Ali Farka Touré’s desert blues; “Phoenix,” a late-album highlight, exemplifies everything thrilling about the band’s touch. The action on the Rhodes is so tactile it gives goosebumps; overdriven blues guitar riffs twitch and curl like a bitten lip. And Milosh packs real oomph into his vocalizations, even when you can’t quite figure out what he’s singing. If you could bottle the way he mutters “Oh my God,” you could make a mint. It is the sound of sex distilled. If only he’d left it at those three words, because the more attention you pay to the lyrics, the less enjoyable the album becomes. Milosh fixates upon words with a long “a” sound: waste, waiting, space, changes, cave, awake, face, away, babe, taste, waist, painful, unstable, place, race, face, fable, chase, play, change—the assonant rhymes pile up at the ends of his lines like heaps of scarlet letters. That’s fine; they lend Blood a sort of ruby-colored uniformity. It’s an approach that treats writing as a kind of tone painting. But his sweet nothings (“I kinda love your vain”) are often truly insubstantial. His single-minded devotion to lewd double entendres can leave a sour taste, too. “Surrender to your needs” turns into “Surrender to your knees,” while in “Taste” he flips the scenario, “licking wounds” while his lover sleeps. And the “rising” that happens in “Phoenix” is almost certainly not a bird. Which is fine; sexy music can be fun! But when all this heavy breathing isn’t flat-out corny, there’s a creepy undercurrent running underneath, a menacing sluice of blood and tears that makes sex and romance sound not very fun at all. It’s a shame, because Blood is a marvel of engineering, of both sounds and moods. With nearly 500 shows under their belt at this point, Rhye have evolved into a formidable machine, but this album often sounds like a studio-crafted simulacrum of a full-band performance, every element a bit too polished. Like a retouched photo, it scans as just a little too perfect—a formalist exercise made primarily just to show that it can be done. Emotionally, it is stunted, a vision of desire as shallow as its cover."

Akira Kosemura

Polaroid Piano

Electronic

Brian Howe

As the title suggests, Akira Kosemura's entrancing Polaroid Piano is a wistful meditation for minimal piano and field recordings, bleached out with old light. The glitchy electronics of Kosemura's prior work are gone. The music is so hushed you can hear the action of the pedals, the keyboard shifting in the body of the piano. This quiet rumpus serves as a relaxed rhythm track-- one suspects Kosemura mic'd the piano to capture these extraneous sounds, drawing them purposefully into the music. The gesture is Cagean, but the questioning, wonder-filled style is pure Satie. The cover art captures the mood perfectly, although a blue sky filled with kites and balloons would have been just as apt. Music described approvingly as "childlike" strives for a rich, timeless simplicity that makes us forget about the constructed world we worry over. Polaroid Piano is stuffed with this feeling, not to mention some more blatant signifiers. A toy xylophone plinks through the sustained piano and softly rubbed acoustic guitar strings of "Higari". On "Sign", birdsong twitters above the tentative piano phrases, while the faint sound of acoustic guitar ripples forward and backward. On "Tale", Kosemura cuts to the chase with a field recording of children playing over xylophone and sleigh bells. Bound to be the most divisive moment on the record, "Tale" will make your eyes either roll or tear up. A few pieces break Polaroid Piano's mold in careful ways. On "Tyme", the busiest piece here, the greater speed and density of the notes makes the clunks and creaks of the piano sound like an old copy machine. On "Guitar", guitar and piano notes blur amid crackling, fiery sounds and lightly scratched strings. And closer "Venice", the album's longest piece, is contrastingly liquid, with piano swirling against the lulling sound of water flowing calmly. Because it's so transient and mild-- 10 pieces flow by in less than half an hour-- the album, paradoxically, expands with multiple listens. It feels impossible to get tired of, circumscribed and boundless at once, and it's so subtle that you might let it spin two or three times before you start to notice the repetition.

Artist: Akira Kosemura, Album: Polaroid Piano, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "As the title suggests, Akira Kosemura's entrancing Polaroid Piano is a wistful meditation for minimal piano and field recordings, bleached out with old light. The glitchy electronics of Kosemura's prior work are gone. The music is so hushed you can hear the action of the pedals, the keyboard shifting in the body of the piano. This quiet rumpus serves as a relaxed rhythm track-- one suspects Kosemura mic'd the piano to capture these extraneous sounds, drawing them purposefully into the music. The gesture is Cagean, but the questioning, wonder-filled style is pure Satie. The cover art captures the mood perfectly, although a blue sky filled with kites and balloons would have been just as apt. Music described approvingly as "childlike" strives for a rich, timeless simplicity that makes us forget about the constructed world we worry over. Polaroid Piano is stuffed with this feeling, not to mention some more blatant signifiers. A toy xylophone plinks through the sustained piano and softly rubbed acoustic guitar strings of "Higari". On "Sign", birdsong twitters above the tentative piano phrases, while the faint sound of acoustic guitar ripples forward and backward. On "Tale", Kosemura cuts to the chase with a field recording of children playing over xylophone and sleigh bells. Bound to be the most divisive moment on the record, "Tale" will make your eyes either roll or tear up. A few pieces break Polaroid Piano's mold in careful ways. On "Tyme", the busiest piece here, the greater speed and density of the notes makes the clunks and creaks of the piano sound like an old copy machine. On "Guitar", guitar and piano notes blur amid crackling, fiery sounds and lightly scratched strings. And closer "Venice", the album's longest piece, is contrastingly liquid, with piano swirling against the lulling sound of water flowing calmly. Because it's so transient and mild-- 10 pieces flow by in less than half an hour-- the album, paradoxically, expands with multiple listens. It feels impossible to get tired of, circumscribed and boundless at once, and it's so subtle that you might let it spin two or three times before you start to notice the repetition."

Wymond Miles

Call by Night

Rock

Raymond Cummings

The Fresh & Onlys guitarist Wymond Miles cultivates an arch air of high drama in his solo songwriting. On releases like 2012’s Under the Pale Moon* *and 2013’s Cut Yourself Free, he combined baroque compositional tics and faux-English intonations, suggesting a muted Robert Smith backed by the world’s most chilled-out post-punk band. His best songs cultivate a perfect and patient balance between darkness and buoyancy, and the insinuating aftertaste lingers. The songs on* Call by Night* evince the gentle intimacy of the instrument upon which they were written: the piano. If his prior material befit festival stages, this album’s austerity cries out for tiny venues so cramped that you watch beads of condensation form upon and streak down the performers’ water bottles. Some of them have the quality of madrigals: “Protection” establishes Night’s aesthetic: pronounced, theatrical talk-singing; vocals wreathed in echo. Undulating acoustic strums, tom toms, and slicing strings accompany the oblique advice he doles out on the title track, which borders on the avuncular. On the sloshing, epic “Divided In Two,” Miles sets fire to family trees. The staggering Americana gem “Rear View Mirror” and stately anti-ballad “Stand Before Me” very nearly justify coining the phrase “post-Malkmus drinking song.” Elsewhere, lumbering kiss-off “Summer Rains” makes a hopeful, widescreen case for new beginnings. Despite its traditionalist instrumentation, its slightly retro reference points, *Call by Night *is an album striving to stand apart, to take deeper root. It’s a statement of intent that serves to elevate Miles above his back catalogue. In these modest-seeming songs, he touches on the strange exhilaration we occasionally feel in moments of sadness and uncertainty. It's a feeling we’ve become increasingly familiar with in society, and from his modest perch, Miles brings it to brilliant, stinging life.

Artist: Wymond Miles, Album: Call by Night, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "The Fresh & Onlys guitarist Wymond Miles cultivates an arch air of high drama in his solo songwriting. On releases like 2012’s Under the Pale Moon* *and 2013’s Cut Yourself Free, he combined baroque compositional tics and faux-English intonations, suggesting a muted Robert Smith backed by the world’s most chilled-out post-punk band. His best songs cultivate a perfect and patient balance between darkness and buoyancy, and the insinuating aftertaste lingers. The songs on* Call by Night* evince the gentle intimacy of the instrument upon which they were written: the piano. If his prior material befit festival stages, this album’s austerity cries out for tiny venues so cramped that you watch beads of condensation form upon and streak down the performers’ water bottles. Some of them have the quality of madrigals: “Protection” establishes Night’s aesthetic: pronounced, theatrical talk-singing; vocals wreathed in echo. Undulating acoustic strums, tom toms, and slicing strings accompany the oblique advice he doles out on the title track, which borders on the avuncular. On the sloshing, epic “Divided In Two,” Miles sets fire to family trees. The staggering Americana gem “Rear View Mirror” and stately anti-ballad “Stand Before Me” very nearly justify coining the phrase “post-Malkmus drinking song.” Elsewhere, lumbering kiss-off “Summer Rains” makes a hopeful, widescreen case for new beginnings. Despite its traditionalist instrumentation, its slightly retro reference points, *Call by Night *is an album striving to stand apart, to take deeper root. It’s a statement of intent that serves to elevate Miles above his back catalogue. In these modest-seeming songs, he touches on the strange exhilaration we occasionally feel in moments of sadness and uncertainty. It's a feeling we’ve become increasingly familiar with in society, and from his modest perch, Miles brings it to brilliant, stinging life."

Deco

Timescales

Nate Patrin

As electronic musicians go, Deco's lucked out: he's had the opportunity to keep his early feeling-out process largely under the radar. He hasn't been invisible—far from it, thanks to the benefit of DJing in L.A. club circles and on internet radio. But his debut full-length Timescales comes as a surprise, albeit a kind of scattershot and amorphous one. It's largely because it synthesizes so many familiar pieces so well—abstracted West Coast G-funk, reverbed microhouse, vintage-Hyperdub space bass—that it leaves no clue as to where his further directions could even go. It's a rare moment of fully-formed emergence from a musician who's more or less announcing himself to the wider world with a pastiche that sounds like an endpoint, the kind of thing that comes from a decade's worth of evolution rather than the breakthrough release of someone who's practically unfindable on Discogs right now. The big "what next" can wait, though. Even if Timescales threatens to revert to weathered ideas of what it means to hybridize the last few innovations in L.A.-via-wherever underground dance music, the record makes no pretense of acting like it's a forward-thinking revolution. Deco shows off that DJ/curator's sense of knowing his context and history and how to merge those ideas into something evocative, even if it's not necessarily evocative of something you haven't heard before. In short, it's comfort sound for beat heads. Working with a bunch of known quantities doesn't keep Timescales from actually harboring some subtle resonance or deeper feeling, however. Bait-and-switch is a crucial part of the formula, as expectations dredged up by the best songs' early moments are gradually twisted around or otherwise tweaked in mood-altering ways. "Skyline 3040" teems with ambient digital-mechanical bleeps and burbles, anticipating some glimmery future-kitsch manipulation of cyberpunk landscape as Apple-interface utopia—until the deep buzzing chords come in and cast a harsher, lonelier light on its gradually intensifying Kode9-lineage snares. That dynamic cuts the other way, too, the looming dread of "Late Night Fading" breaking apart and settling into tranquility thanks to a canny sample flip of Cymande's "Dove" that plays up its guitar tone's floaty qualities. Given enough comfortable genre signifiers to work with, Deco has a lot of precedent he can manipulate to unexpected ends. At least, he does when it suits him—sometimes, going right down the middle with a straightforward take on dark, stripped-down dubstep ("Musical Family", "Trenchtown") or coolly simmering deep house ("At Most Sphere", "Power Transfer") is effective enough. But it's clear that the more leftfield moments work best, balancing out subtle, technical grooves with jolting chords that find anxiety somewhere in the soulfulness. Zone in on the hypnotic, dubbed-out buildups that lead State Route 1 to Studio One on "Cali Trunk Rattle" or the title track's bracing incorporation of tight-packed drumline fills, and the odd minor-key synth hits and slippery counter-beats can bolt right out at you. A few more cuts like those, where thematic about-faces and joy-buzzer fills are snuck in under the cover of tradition-minded accessibility, and Deco could turn out to be some kind of low-key iconoclast.

Artist: Deco, Album: Timescales, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "As electronic musicians go, Deco's lucked out: he's had the opportunity to keep his early feeling-out process largely under the radar. He hasn't been invisible—far from it, thanks to the benefit of DJing in L.A. club circles and on internet radio. But his debut full-length Timescales comes as a surprise, albeit a kind of scattershot and amorphous one. It's largely because it synthesizes so many familiar pieces so well—abstracted West Coast G-funk, reverbed microhouse, vintage-Hyperdub space bass—that it leaves no clue as to where his further directions could even go. It's a rare moment of fully-formed emergence from a musician who's more or less announcing himself to the wider world with a pastiche that sounds like an endpoint, the kind of thing that comes from a decade's worth of evolution rather than the breakthrough release of someone who's practically unfindable on Discogs right now. The big "what next" can wait, though. Even if Timescales threatens to revert to weathered ideas of what it means to hybridize the last few innovations in L.A.-via-wherever underground dance music, the record makes no pretense of acting like it's a forward-thinking revolution. Deco shows off that DJ/curator's sense of knowing his context and history and how to merge those ideas into something evocative, even if it's not necessarily evocative of something you haven't heard before. In short, it's comfort sound for beat heads. Working with a bunch of known quantities doesn't keep Timescales from actually harboring some subtle resonance or deeper feeling, however. Bait-and-switch is a crucial part of the formula, as expectations dredged up by the best songs' early moments are gradually twisted around or otherwise tweaked in mood-altering ways. "Skyline 3040" teems with ambient digital-mechanical bleeps and burbles, anticipating some glimmery future-kitsch manipulation of cyberpunk landscape as Apple-interface utopia—until the deep buzzing chords come in and cast a harsher, lonelier light on its gradually intensifying Kode9-lineage snares. That dynamic cuts the other way, too, the looming dread of "Late Night Fading" breaking apart and settling into tranquility thanks to a canny sample flip of Cymande's "Dove" that plays up its guitar tone's floaty qualities. Given enough comfortable genre signifiers to work with, Deco has a lot of precedent he can manipulate to unexpected ends. At least, he does when it suits him—sometimes, going right down the middle with a straightforward take on dark, stripped-down dubstep ("Musical Family", "Trenchtown") or coolly simmering deep house ("At Most Sphere", "Power Transfer") is effective enough. But it's clear that the more leftfield moments work best, balancing out subtle, technical grooves with jolting chords that find anxiety somewhere in the soulfulness. Zone in on the hypnotic, dubbed-out buildups that lead State Route 1 to Studio One on "Cali Trunk Rattle" or the title track's bracing incorporation of tight-packed drumline fills, and the odd minor-key synth hits and slippery counter-beats can bolt right out at you. A few more cuts like those, where thematic about-faces and joy-buzzer fills are snuck in under the cover of tradition-minded accessibility, and Deco could turn out to be some kind of low-key iconoclast."

Numbers

We're Animals

Rock

Adam Moerder

Since the dust from the great Chris Ott vs. William Bowers battle settled, the buzz around Numbers has been pretty drab. Back in 2002, you had a blast either shellacking or safeguarding the San Fran trio's fidgety post-punk debut Life, respectively aligning with the Ott or Bowers camps. Question is: How did Numbers ever cause such ballyhoo? Perhaps with the upsurge of "The ____s" bands, indie gatekeepers felt obligated to strike preemptively. Whether that meant sabotaging any possible cash-in with retro-crazed MTV2 and NME or being the first to herald tomorrow's potential "it" band, Numbers dubiously pitted brother against brother in a war way bigger than its cause. So that's the history; here's the neatly packaged blurb: Numbers gleefully rehash excitable late 70s bands like Devo and XTC, their buoyancy unfazed by the unoriginal, derivative material. Considering Numbers' lack of divulged material (their first two true LP's combine for less than 45 minutes), We're Animals feels like the long-awaited main event after two sneak previews, and the payoff is-- power-pop, sort of. It's like suddenly these guys believe they're the New Pornographers. We're Animals comes chock full of bubblegum hooks, vocal harmonies, and tripartite rock song structures (Gasp...bridges!). Unfortunately, Numbers' newfound Ritalin-treated sound doesn't mean more ideas, just longer ones, and the result is about as fun as an overstretched Slinky. Topographically, the album resembles a grim cardiogram printout-- generally flat with a few spiked moments of nervy chaos. Opener "Beast Life" jerks you from point A to B, though the actual sections they divide play it safe technically. Lead singer Indra Dunis's incoherent squalls are also scrapped, supplanted by droning nursery rhyme cadences similar to Deerhoof's Satomi. "Funny But Sad" goes sing-song, Kim Deal-style, recalling the airy, simple verses of "I Bleed" and "Invisible Man". Despite a helter-skelter breakdown, the track ends with a campy call-and-answer titular chorus complemented by intermittent shouts of "I laughed!/ I cried!" The emphasis to melody on We're Animals is reminiscent of off-kilter mutant disco hits such as "I Know What Boys Like". On "The Fuck You Garage", Dunis stoically half-sings, half-chants "I know it well/ It looks like hell" over a clumsy moog riff, eventually crash landing the song headfirst into a catatonic anti-chorus. Here, the struggle between saccharine pop, deceptively saccharine pop and classic bloody nose punk becomes most apparent. We're Animals still has haywire guitars, bushwhacking rhythms, and those homemade synthesizers we're always hearing about, but the real story is the band's conflicted strategy for melody. Sadly, Numbers too often chicken-hearts, stifling catchiness immediately after having blunted a song's jittery fun beyond repair.

Artist: Numbers, Album: We're Animals, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Since the dust from the great Chris Ott vs. William Bowers battle settled, the buzz around Numbers has been pretty drab. Back in 2002, you had a blast either shellacking or safeguarding the San Fran trio's fidgety post-punk debut Life, respectively aligning with the Ott or Bowers camps. Question is: How did Numbers ever cause such ballyhoo? Perhaps with the upsurge of "The ____s" bands, indie gatekeepers felt obligated to strike preemptively. Whether that meant sabotaging any possible cash-in with retro-crazed MTV2 and NME or being the first to herald tomorrow's potential "it" band, Numbers dubiously pitted brother against brother in a war way bigger than its cause. So that's the history; here's the neatly packaged blurb: Numbers gleefully rehash excitable late 70s bands like Devo and XTC, their buoyancy unfazed by the unoriginal, derivative material. Considering Numbers' lack of divulged material (their first two true LP's combine for less than 45 minutes), We're Animals feels like the long-awaited main event after two sneak previews, and the payoff is-- power-pop, sort of. It's like suddenly these guys believe they're the New Pornographers. We're Animals comes chock full of bubblegum hooks, vocal harmonies, and tripartite rock song structures (Gasp...bridges!). Unfortunately, Numbers' newfound Ritalin-treated sound doesn't mean more ideas, just longer ones, and the result is about as fun as an overstretched Slinky. Topographically, the album resembles a grim cardiogram printout-- generally flat with a few spiked moments of nervy chaos. Opener "Beast Life" jerks you from point A to B, though the actual sections they divide play it safe technically. Lead singer Indra Dunis's incoherent squalls are also scrapped, supplanted by droning nursery rhyme cadences similar to Deerhoof's Satomi. "Funny But Sad" goes sing-song, Kim Deal-style, recalling the airy, simple verses of "I Bleed" and "Invisible Man". Despite a helter-skelter breakdown, the track ends with a campy call-and-answer titular chorus complemented by intermittent shouts of "I laughed!/ I cried!" The emphasis to melody on We're Animals is reminiscent of off-kilter mutant disco hits such as "I Know What Boys Like". On "The Fuck You Garage", Dunis stoically half-sings, half-chants "I know it well/ It looks like hell" over a clumsy moog riff, eventually crash landing the song headfirst into a catatonic anti-chorus. Here, the struggle between saccharine pop, deceptively saccharine pop and classic bloody nose punk becomes most apparent. We're Animals still has haywire guitars, bushwhacking rhythms, and those homemade synthesizers we're always hearing about, but the real story is the band's conflicted strategy for melody. Sadly, Numbers too often chicken-hearts, stifling catchiness immediately after having blunted a song's jittery fun beyond repair."

Tussle

Telescope Mind

Electronic

Mark Richardson

Here on their second full length, San Francisco's Tussle's M.O. hasn't changed, despite some personnel shifts. They're still an instrumental outfit-- two drummers, bass, electronics-- who would love nothing more than to be headlining Dancetaria in 1982, except maybe playing a festival in Munich in 1972. At their best, they create deep-in-the-pocket grooves that penetrate with catchy basslines and terrific drumming, all captured with beautiful fidelity. But if you listen at the wrong time, they can strike you as a rhythm section in search of a song-- half of a newly unearthed Average White Band multi-track recording. Their tracks can be a bit like looking at a two-dimensional representation of a cube, as these two parallel realities, both equally valid, keep flipping back and forth in your perception. No question, though, that Telescope Mind improves on Tussle's debut, Kling Klang. It's both less dubby and more spacious; the air that was clouded with reverb on the debut having been honed into a clear, sharp-edged rhythm instrument. It's all in the simplicity of a song like "Warning", which begins with a completely naked six-note bass refrain-- you can almost hear the grips of the players' fingerprints sliding across the wound string-- that sounds like it's live in your room even over computer speakers. That the "melody" driving the song is just three notes a whole step apart repeating over and over again on a keyboard doesn't diminish its sheer hookiness. The following "Second Guessing" is even better, and provides further evidence as to why the sound of this thing-- props to engineer Quinn Luke and mastering engineer Kit Clayton-- is so central to its appeal. It begins with a quick bass ostinato, a bass drum, and a single crash cymbal that hits and remains audible for the length of its fade, a full five seconds of sizzle that allows you to picture the room the track was recorded in and imagine the movement happening around the instruments. The sound quality is as essential to the impact here as it is with any production by the DFA. The serious syncopation and polyrhythms on "Elephants" are another highlight, and the closing "Pow!" brings in Sal Principato and Dennis Young from Liquid Liquid to jam for a cross-generational match up of the downtown 1980s O.G.s and their talented acolytes. But the title of this track hints at a potential problem, bringing to mind the Beastie Boys instrumental of the same name from Check Your Head and later collected on The In Sound From Way Out. Like those Beastie Boys interludes, Tussle can come across as too steeped in history, concerned only to create some new rare grooves, and playing in a style that doesn't allow them to add anything new without becoming something else. Then again, if this year's ESG album sounded half as good as this, I would have been thrilled.

Artist: Tussle, Album: Telescope Mind, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Here on their second full length, San Francisco's Tussle's M.O. hasn't changed, despite some personnel shifts. They're still an instrumental outfit-- two drummers, bass, electronics-- who would love nothing more than to be headlining Dancetaria in 1982, except maybe playing a festival in Munich in 1972. At their best, they create deep-in-the-pocket grooves that penetrate with catchy basslines and terrific drumming, all captured with beautiful fidelity. But if you listen at the wrong time, they can strike you as a rhythm section in search of a song-- half of a newly unearthed Average White Band multi-track recording. Their tracks can be a bit like looking at a two-dimensional representation of a cube, as these two parallel realities, both equally valid, keep flipping back and forth in your perception. No question, though, that Telescope Mind improves on Tussle's debut, Kling Klang. It's both less dubby and more spacious; the air that was clouded with reverb on the debut having been honed into a clear, sharp-edged rhythm instrument. It's all in the simplicity of a song like "Warning", which begins with a completely naked six-note bass refrain-- you can almost hear the grips of the players' fingerprints sliding across the wound string-- that sounds like it's live in your room even over computer speakers. That the "melody" driving the song is just three notes a whole step apart repeating over and over again on a keyboard doesn't diminish its sheer hookiness. The following "Second Guessing" is even better, and provides further evidence as to why the sound of this thing-- props to engineer Quinn Luke and mastering engineer Kit Clayton-- is so central to its appeal. It begins with a quick bass ostinato, a bass drum, and a single crash cymbal that hits and remains audible for the length of its fade, a full five seconds of sizzle that allows you to picture the room the track was recorded in and imagine the movement happening around the instruments. The sound quality is as essential to the impact here as it is with any production by the DFA. The serious syncopation and polyrhythms on "Elephants" are another highlight, and the closing "Pow!" brings in Sal Principato and Dennis Young from Liquid Liquid to jam for a cross-generational match up of the downtown 1980s O.G.s and their talented acolytes. But the title of this track hints at a potential problem, bringing to mind the Beastie Boys instrumental of the same name from Check Your Head and later collected on The In Sound From Way Out. Like those Beastie Boys interludes, Tussle can come across as too steeped in history, concerned only to create some new rare grooves, and playing in a style that doesn't allow them to add anything new without becoming something else. Then again, if this year's ESG album sounded half as good as this, I would have been thrilled."

Kings of Convenience

Declaration of Dependence

Rock

Marc Hogan

Kings of Convenience made headlines last month. No, wait, Leslie Feist did. It's been an eventful five years since the Norwegian duo's previous album, Riot on an Empty Street, featured the Canadian songstress on two tracks. After Erlend Øye and Eirik Glambæk Bøe's recent New York show, that a surprise Feist guest appearance got top media billing underscores just how eventful. Sorry, guys, I guess royalty isn't what it used to be. No longer does Quiet Is the New Loud, the title of Øye and Bøe's 2001 Astralwerks debut, sound like such an appealing mantra. The hushed politeness that Kings of Convenience and, earlier, Belle and Sebastian reintroduced to indie listeners around the turn of the millennium must've lost its fresh feeling somewhere between Natalie Portman big-upping the Shins and the Decemberists doing a prog-folk rock opera. Then there's the more than 400,000 copies Riot sold in Europe, a number that looks virtually impossible for a group of such modest stature today. Throw in Øye's two mostly solid albums fronting dance-poppers the Whitest Boy Alive, and, well, what do Kings of Convenience have left to say? "Quieter is the new quiet," apparently. Despite calls for the whisper-folk pair to make Øye's house and techno background more apparent, Declaration of Dependence doubles down on hushed Scandinavian understatement. No drums, unless you count slapped fretboards or squeaking fingers: just two voices, two acoustic guitars, and occasional cello, viola, or one-finger piano plinks. Along with sharper songwriting focus, this go-for-broke softness makes for the most durable, rewarding Kings of Convenience album yet-- a Pink Moon to past efforts' Five Leaves Left. Barring a last-minute José González surprise, it's also probably the best new full-length of its style you'll hear this year. The songs on Declaration of Dependence reveal everyday tensions with a cool, undemonstrative reserve. You can hear the spare but descriptive verses as about romance, the band itself, or global politics, depending on your preference. Where Riot opener "Homesick" offered the suggestive image of "two soft voices blended in perfection," the new album's first track, tender "24-25", declares, "What we build is bigger than the sum of two." Slowly shuffling "Renegade" uses bold, vivid brush strokes to carry out that old maxim, "If you love something, let it go"; "Why are you whispering when the bombs are falling?" a solitary voice asks, between slightly dissonant strums. "Riot on an Empty Street", a holdover since years before the album of that same name, finds a traveling singer lost for words, but not for delicate melodies. Rather than become more electronic, Kings of Convenience here choose simply to apply dance music's minimalism and sense of texture more fully to their chosen acoustic-pop form. Bittersweet single "Mrs. Cold" has been compared to Jack Johnson, probably because both use percussive hand slapping, but the popular surfer-turned-singer has never recorded anything so perfectly poised, so deceptively depressing; a ringing lead guitar line repeats like a looped sample. "Boat Behind", a single in other countries, floats a melancholy violin line over a tangled tale about reuniting with someone but never belonging to them, sounding almost like another lost Arthur Russell demo. "Rule My World", which follows Sweden's González into forceful denunciations of theocratic zealotry, has the bouncy upswing of French house. Øye's smoky falsetto fills in for the absent Feist on songs like "Freedom and Its Owner". "Power of Not Knowing" neatly echoes Simon & Garfunkel's "April Come She Will". Both halves of the duo now live back home in Bergen, Norway, after a multi-year absence by the Whitest Boy Alive singer. Whether inspired by lovers, each other, or the warmongers of the world, Kings of Convenience's latest is ultimately just what its title says: a bold and beautiful assertion that we are better off together than apart. Or, as "My Ship Isn't Pretty" wonderfully puts it: a series of "quiet protests against loneliness." If the album cover had you expecting 2009's umpteenth nu-Balearic cruise, be glad we got this eloquent message in a bottle instead.

Artist: Kings of Convenience, Album: Declaration of Dependence, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "Kings of Convenience made headlines last month. No, wait, Leslie Feist did. It's been an eventful five years since the Norwegian duo's previous album, Riot on an Empty Street, featured the Canadian songstress on two tracks. After Erlend Øye and Eirik Glambæk Bøe's recent New York show, that a surprise Feist guest appearance got top media billing underscores just how eventful. Sorry, guys, I guess royalty isn't what it used to be. No longer does Quiet Is the New Loud, the title of Øye and Bøe's 2001 Astralwerks debut, sound like such an appealing mantra. The hushed politeness that Kings of Convenience and, earlier, Belle and Sebastian reintroduced to indie listeners around the turn of the millennium must've lost its fresh feeling somewhere between Natalie Portman big-upping the Shins and the Decemberists doing a prog-folk rock opera. Then there's the more than 400,000 copies Riot sold in Europe, a number that looks virtually impossible for a group of such modest stature today. Throw in Øye's two mostly solid albums fronting dance-poppers the Whitest Boy Alive, and, well, what do Kings of Convenience have left to say? "Quieter is the new quiet," apparently. Despite calls for the whisper-folk pair to make Øye's house and techno background more apparent, Declaration of Dependence doubles down on hushed Scandinavian understatement. No drums, unless you count slapped fretboards or squeaking fingers: just two voices, two acoustic guitars, and occasional cello, viola, or one-finger piano plinks. Along with sharper songwriting focus, this go-for-broke softness makes for the most durable, rewarding Kings of Convenience album yet-- a Pink Moon to past efforts' Five Leaves Left. Barring a last-minute José González surprise, it's also probably the best new full-length of its style you'll hear this year. The songs on Declaration of Dependence reveal everyday tensions with a cool, undemonstrative reserve. You can hear the spare but descriptive verses as about romance, the band itself, or global politics, depending on your preference. Where Riot opener "Homesick" offered the suggestive image of "two soft voices blended in perfection," the new album's first track, tender "24-25", declares, "What we build is bigger than the sum of two." Slowly shuffling "Renegade" uses bold, vivid brush strokes to carry out that old maxim, "If you love something, let it go"; "Why are you whispering when the bombs are falling?" a solitary voice asks, between slightly dissonant strums. "Riot on an Empty Street", a holdover since years before the album of that same name, finds a traveling singer lost for words, but not for delicate melodies. Rather than become more electronic, Kings of Convenience here choose simply to apply dance music's minimalism and sense of texture more fully to their chosen acoustic-pop form. Bittersweet single "Mrs. Cold" has been compared to Jack Johnson, probably because both use percussive hand slapping, but the popular surfer-turned-singer has never recorded anything so perfectly poised, so deceptively depressing; a ringing lead guitar line repeats like a looped sample. "Boat Behind", a single in other countries, floats a melancholy violin line over a tangled tale about reuniting with someone but never belonging to them, sounding almost like another lost Arthur Russell demo. "Rule My World", which follows Sweden's González into forceful denunciations of theocratic zealotry, has the bouncy upswing of French house. Øye's smoky falsetto fills in for the absent Feist on songs like "Freedom and Its Owner". "Power of Not Knowing" neatly echoes Simon & Garfunkel's "April Come She Will". Both halves of the duo now live back home in Bergen, Norway, after a multi-year absence by the Whitest Boy Alive singer. Whether inspired by lovers, each other, or the warmongers of the world, Kings of Convenience's latest is ultimately just what its title says: a bold and beautiful assertion that we are better off together than apart. Or, as "My Ship Isn't Pretty" wonderfully puts it: a series of "quiet protests against loneliness." If the album cover had you expecting 2009's umpteenth nu-Balearic cruise, be glad we got this eloquent message in a bottle instead."

Trevor de Brauw

Uptown

Rock

Grayson Haver Currin

For almost 20 years, the guitarist Trevor de Brauw has anchored the stalwart instrumental rock band Pelican. His chiseled riffs, stretching skyward from a crust of doom metal toward the wide skies of post-rock, have long been its real hook. As prolific as that band has been, de Brauw has kept busy with a litany of side-projects, too, from his new trio RLYR to the slow-motion creep of the drone collective Chord. Still, as late as last summer, de Brauw confessed to a lack of confidence in his guitar prowess, doubtful even of his ability to reproduce songs onstage. Making music, he said, was an emotional and mental necessity, not some chance to flex his technical abilities. That compulsive approach is critical to Uptown, de Brauw’s solo debut. Instead of serving as a showcase, Uptown instead collects six open-ended, marvelously textured guitar instrumentals written during the last decade. Sure, there is a certain level of wizardry here, especially with guitar loops that wrap into Moebius strips of sound or the army of ways de Brauw warps the signals from his six strings. During the record’s tremendous finale, the twelve-minute beauty “From the Black Soil Poetry and Song Sprang,” de Brauw manages to conjure and control a symphony of guitars by himself. The piece suggests the choir-like calm of Rhys Chatham’s A Crimson Grail or Growing in its prime a decade ago. There’s sophistication, too, in the ways that de Brauw patiently peels layers apart or puts them together. “Distinct Frequency” is little more than three minutes of a powerful drone and a broadcast of what might be the evening news, pitted against one another. But de Brauw pulls them apart so slowly that the music is dramatic and demanding, as if always on the verge of some major revelation. But Uptown is a subtle record, and both signals just fade into silence. Indeed, the complexity and real delight of Uptown stem more from its commingled, nuanced emotions than its instrumental execution. These six songs are, alternately, messy webs of anxiety and comfort, frustration and hopefulness, fatigue and energy, together always pushing past simple binaries of happy or sad, light or dark. The deliberate chords of “They Keep Bowing,” for instance, seem at first caustic. But as they decay, they blossom into something beautiful, with individual notes suddenly circling above like halos. Likewise, “Turn Up for What” (who said solo guitar records couldn’t have a sense of humor?) transitions from chimes and bells into a loud electric groan into, finally, a riff that aims for liftoff. The boundary between each phase is fuzzy, implying that each state is linked to the others. Like the intertwined loops and nested layers, there are no discrete or easy feelings to Uptown. It is, de Brauw says without a word, complicated. The world of solo guitar records isn’t really the domain of urgent, timely statements. They are, more often, practiced steps on a continuum, sometimes speaking only to like-minded practitioners and listeners. Despite its long gestation, though, Uptown feels surprisingly necessary and somehow reassuring. There’s confusion and clarity within these songs, an understanding that these ideas and emotions only make sense in the presence of each other. During Uptown, the darkest parts sometimes allow for flickers of light, though other times the darkness swallows the light whole. It is an apt soundtrack for the start of 2017, then, when signs of pending apocalypse and revolution seem to bleed into one.

Artist: Trevor de Brauw, Album: Uptown, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "For almost 20 years, the guitarist Trevor de Brauw has anchored the stalwart instrumental rock band Pelican. His chiseled riffs, stretching skyward from a crust of doom metal toward the wide skies of post-rock, have long been its real hook. As prolific as that band has been, de Brauw has kept busy with a litany of side-projects, too, from his new trio RLYR to the slow-motion creep of the drone collective Chord. Still, as late as last summer, de Brauw confessed to a lack of confidence in his guitar prowess, doubtful even of his ability to reproduce songs onstage. Making music, he said, was an emotional and mental necessity, not some chance to flex his technical abilities. That compulsive approach is critical to Uptown, de Brauw’s solo debut. Instead of serving as a showcase, Uptown instead collects six open-ended, marvelously textured guitar instrumentals written during the last decade. Sure, there is a certain level of wizardry here, especially with guitar loops that wrap into Moebius strips of sound or the army of ways de Brauw warps the signals from his six strings. During the record’s tremendous finale, the twelve-minute beauty “From the Black Soil Poetry and Song Sprang,” de Brauw manages to conjure and control a symphony of guitars by himself. The piece suggests the choir-like calm of Rhys Chatham’s A Crimson Grail or Growing in its prime a decade ago. There’s sophistication, too, in the ways that de Brauw patiently peels layers apart or puts them together. “Distinct Frequency” is little more than three minutes of a powerful drone and a broadcast of what might be the evening news, pitted against one another. But de Brauw pulls them apart so slowly that the music is dramatic and demanding, as if always on the verge of some major revelation. But Uptown is a subtle record, and both signals just fade into silence. Indeed, the complexity and real delight of Uptown stem more from its commingled, nuanced emotions than its instrumental execution. These six songs are, alternately, messy webs of anxiety and comfort, frustration and hopefulness, fatigue and energy, together always pushing past simple binaries of happy or sad, light or dark. The deliberate chords of “They Keep Bowing,” for instance, seem at first caustic. But as they decay, they blossom into something beautiful, with individual notes suddenly circling above like halos. Likewise, “Turn Up for What” (who said solo guitar records couldn’t have a sense of humor?) transitions from chimes and bells into a loud electric groan into, finally, a riff that aims for liftoff. The boundary between each phase is fuzzy, implying that each state is linked to the others. Like the intertwined loops and nested layers, there are no discrete or easy feelings to Uptown. It is, de Brauw says without a word, complicated. The world of solo guitar records isn’t really the domain of urgent, timely statements. They are, more often, practiced steps on a continuum, sometimes speaking only to like-minded practitioners and listeners. Despite its long gestation, though, Uptown feels surprisingly necessary and somehow reassuring. There’s confusion and clarity within these songs, an understanding that these ideas and emotions only make sense in the presence of each other. During Uptown, the darkest parts sometimes allow for flickers of light, though other times the darkness swallows the light whole. It is an apt soundtrack for the start of 2017, then, when signs of pending apocalypse and revolution seem to bleed into one."

Shania Twain

Now

Folk/Country

Jamieson Cox

Shania Twain’s return to public life and performance is the foundation of one of this decade’s most remarkable comeback stories. If it seems ludicrous that an artist with three diamond-certified albums could possibly need a “comeback,” much less a remarkable one, it’s worth taking a minute to review the one-two punch that threw Twain’s life into quiet disarray. Her vocal cords were ravaged by dysphonia, a physical disorder induced by Lyme disease and exacerbated by stress that left her unsure if she’d ever be able to sing again. And while she lost her voice, she also lost her partner: her marriage to super-producer Mutt Lange fell apart in 2008 after Twain learned about his affair with her best friend. It’s not like Twain had anything left to prove: her album sales are unimpeachable, and her influence has grown to encompass almost every musician with a passing interest in pop—Taylor Swift to Sheer Mag. (Listen to Haim’s “You Never Knew” and try to imagine it existing without “Love Gets Me Every Time.”) The skepticism she weathered from country traditionalists made it easier for contemporary boundary-pushers like Sam Hunt and Maren Morris to blaze their own trails. She would’ve earned plaudits just for settling into a comfortable Las Vegas residency and the occasional charming cameo on “American Idol” or “Broad City”. It’s in this light that Now, her fifth studio album and first in 15 years, feels courageous: a woman who’s enjoyed several careers’ worth of success and pain is searching for a place in a musical landscape that’s unrecognizable compared to her salad days. It’s the kind of leap you don’t take unless you have something you really need to say. Now is a pure expression of Twain’s intent: she wrote and produced every song on the album, curated its additional four producers, and laid down strict guidelines regarding their involvement and the album’s sound. “I told anyone getting involved musically to forget about my other records,” she told Rolling Stone in February. “I didn’t want it to be related to Mutt’s productions at all. I wanted a more organic approach.” To appreciate the creative risk this decision represents, you have to understand the nature of Twain and Lange’s partnership. Their collaboration on mega-smashes like The Woman in Me and Come on Over reflected their romantic connection: they had a deep respect for each other and a sincere belief in the work they were doing, even if no one else did. ”Mutt was incredible with the feel and groove of a song,” Twain wrote in her intense 2011 memoir From This Moment On, “and my challenge was to write lyrics and melody to his phrasing.” This division of labor made Twain one of the best-selling artists in musical history, so it’s hard to argue with the results. She and Lange would alternate scraps of lyric and ideas on a single notepad, their two minds coming together as one. “As much as I loved Mutt as my husband, it’s possible I admired him even more for the unique way his musical mind worked,” wrote Twain. “It was as though the only person who really had the whole thing in his head all at one time was Mutt.” Left to her own devices, Twain’s album touches on her past glories without leaning too heavily on them. Its eclecticism is an extension of her work with Lange on 2002’s Up!—an album famously released in “country,” “pop,” and “world” mixes to capture the greatest possible international market share—but there’s nothing about Now that feels cynical or even boardroom-tested, even with songs that sound like clear descendants of the Chainsmokers (the aching “Poor Me”) and OMI’s summer 2015 hit “Cheerleader” (”Let’s Kiss and Make Up”). Instead, it sounds like the work of an artist who’s written and spoken frankly about country as a means to an end rather than an abiding passion. Twain is still putting together load-bearing vocal arrangements: hooks like the ones at the heart of “Swingin’ With My Eyes Closed” or the Motown-lite romp “You Can’t Buy Love” throw off as much light as anything on Come on Over— but she isn’t going out of her way to cover up the combined effects of illness and age on her voice. The top of her range has been sanded down, and the residual grit is pebbled through a voice that was once uniformly crisp and clean. And while Now still rings with Twain’s irrepressible optimism, its most impactful songs explore what happens when that unstoppable force meets heart-shattering, life-changing betrayal. Twain is adamant that Now isn’t a “divorce album.” Her marriage to Lange ended nearly a decade ago, and she’s long since moved on and found happiness with her ex-best friend’s own jilted lover. This isn’t her version of Lemonade. She’s never been able to summon that kind of righteous fury. Yet the specter of her life’s temporary collapse hangs over the album like a shadow. She sounds a world away from the sassy, effervescent icon of “That Don’t Impress Me Much” on songs like “I’m Alright” and “Where Do You Think You’re Going,” piercing and desperate even as they end on hopeful notes. (Her writing is particularly bleak on the former: “I tried to scream/But silence haunted/Me in my sleep/Oh, and probably always will.”) Even at her bubbliest, darkness is always just outside the rear-view mirror. “Let’s Kiss and Make Up” is a plea for communication masquerading as lightweight tropical house: “Let’s be honest, let’s be open/We’re not broken, not yet.” And on lead single “Life’s About to Get Good,” jaunty strumming belies extreme vulnerability: “I trusted you so much, you’re all that mattered/You no longer loved me and I sang like a sad bird/I couldn’t move on and I think you were flattered.” Twain never quite reaches jubilance. She has to settle for relief. Now can’t help but suffer by comparison to Twain’s absolute zenith, both in terms of musical potency and commercial performance. These are pleasant songs, but Twain and Lange’s perfectionism meant even the weakest cuts on The Woman in Me and Come on Over were weapons-grade pop; her label is already brushing off her recent singles’ poor showing at radio and on the charts. (”[Radio is] the magnifier,” said UMG Nashville president Cindy Mabe to The New York Times, “but frankly, does she need it? No. She’s a global icon.”) There’s an air of inevitability to Twain’s upcoming world tour: she’ll play the hits to legions of adoring fans, and they’ll hit the concession stands as soon as they hear an unfamiliar note. This album deserves more, if only because it successfully conveys Twain’s one immutable strength: her personality. Her space in our collective cultural memory has

Artist: Shania Twain, Album: Now, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "Shania Twain’s return to public life and performance is the foundation of one of this decade’s most remarkable comeback stories. If it seems ludicrous that an artist with three diamond-certified albums could possibly need a “comeback,” much less a remarkable one, it’s worth taking a minute to review the one-two punch that threw Twain’s life into quiet disarray. Her vocal cords were ravaged by dysphonia, a physical disorder induced by Lyme disease and exacerbated by stress that left her unsure if she’d ever be able to sing again. And while she lost her voice, she also lost her partner: her marriage to super-producer Mutt Lange fell apart in 2008 after Twain learned about his affair with her best friend. It’s not like Twain had anything left to prove: her album sales are unimpeachable, and her influence has grown to encompass almost every musician with a passing interest in pop—Taylor Swift to Sheer Mag. (Listen to Haim’s “You Never Knew” and try to imagine it existing without “Love Gets Me Every Time.”) The skepticism she weathered from country traditionalists made it easier for contemporary boundary-pushers like Sam Hunt and Maren Morris to blaze their own trails. She would’ve earned plaudits just for settling into a comfortable Las Vegas residency and the occasional charming cameo on “American Idol” or “Broad City”. It’s in this light that Now, her fifth studio album and first in 15 years, feels courageous: a woman who’s enjoyed several careers’ worth of success and pain is searching for a place in a musical landscape that’s unrecognizable compared to her salad days. It’s the kind of leap you don’t take unless you have something you really need to say. Now is a pure expression of Twain’s intent: she wrote and produced every song on the album, curated its additional four producers, and laid down strict guidelines regarding their involvement and the album’s sound. “I told anyone getting involved musically to forget about my other records,” she told Rolling Stone in February. “I didn’t want it to be related to Mutt’s productions at all. I wanted a more organic approach.” To appreciate the creative risk this decision represents, you have to understand the nature of Twain and Lange’s partnership. Their collaboration on mega-smashes like The Woman in Me and Come on Over reflected their romantic connection: they had a deep respect for each other and a sincere belief in the work they were doing, even if no one else did. ”Mutt was incredible with the feel and groove of a song,” Twain wrote in her intense 2011 memoir From This Moment On, “and my challenge was to write lyrics and melody to his phrasing.” This division of labor made Twain one of the best-selling artists in musical history, so it’s hard to argue with the results. She and Lange would alternate scraps of lyric and ideas on a single notepad, their two minds coming together as one. “As much as I loved Mutt as my husband, it’s possible I admired him even more for the unique way his musical mind worked,” wrote Twain. “It was as though the only person who really had the whole thing in his head all at one time was Mutt.” Left to her own devices, Twain’s album touches on her past glories without leaning too heavily on them. Its eclecticism is an extension of her work with Lange on 2002’s Up!—an album famously released in “country,” “pop,” and “world” mixes to capture the greatest possible international market share—but there’s nothing about Now that feels cynical or even boardroom-tested, even with songs that sound like clear descendants of the Chainsmokers (the aching “Poor Me”) and OMI’s summer 2015 hit “Cheerleader” (”Let’s Kiss and Make Up”). Instead, it sounds like the work of an artist who’s written and spoken frankly about country as a means to an end rather than an abiding passion. Twain is still putting together load-bearing vocal arrangements: hooks like the ones at the heart of “Swingin’ With My Eyes Closed” or the Motown-lite romp “You Can’t Buy Love” throw off as much light as anything on Come on Over— but she isn’t going out of her way to cover up the combined effects of illness and age on her voice. The top of her range has been sanded down, and the residual grit is pebbled through a voice that was once uniformly crisp and clean. And while Now still rings with Twain’s irrepressible optimism, its most impactful songs explore what happens when that unstoppable force meets heart-shattering, life-changing betrayal. Twain is adamant that Now isn’t a “divorce album.” Her marriage to Lange ended nearly a decade ago, and she’s long since moved on and found happiness with her ex-best friend’s own jilted lover. This isn’t her version of Lemonade. She’s never been able to summon that kind of righteous fury. Yet the specter of her life’s temporary collapse hangs over the album like a shadow. She sounds a world away from the sassy, effervescent icon of “That Don’t Impress Me Much” on songs like “I’m Alright” and “Where Do You Think You’re Going,” piercing and desperate even as they end on hopeful notes. (Her writing is particularly bleak on the former: “I tried to scream/But silence haunted/Me in my sleep/Oh, and probably always will.”) Even at her bubbliest, darkness is always just outside the rear-view mirror. “Let’s Kiss and Make Up” is a plea for communication masquerading as lightweight tropical house: “Let’s be honest, let’s be open/We’re not broken, not yet.” And on lead single “Life’s About to Get Good,” jaunty strumming belies extreme vulnerability: “I trusted you so much, you’re all that mattered/You no longer loved me and I sang like a sad bird/I couldn’t move on and I think you were flattered.” Twain never quite reaches jubilance. She has to settle for relief. Now can’t help but suffer by comparison to Twain’s absolute zenith, both in terms of musical potency and commercial performance. These are pleasant songs, but Twain and Lange’s perfectionism meant even the weakest cuts on The Woman in Me and Come on Over were weapons-grade pop; her label is already brushing off her recent singles’ poor showing at radio and on the charts. (”[Radio is] the magnifier,” said UMG Nashville president Cindy Mabe to The New York Times, “but frankly, does she need it? No. She’s a global icon.”) There’s an air of inevitability to Twain’s upcoming world tour: she’ll play the hits to legions of adoring fans, and they’ll hit the concession stands as soon as they hear an unfamiliar note. This album deserves more, if only because it successfully conveys Twain’s one immutable strength: her personality. Her space in our collective cultural memory has "

Bright Eyes

Motion Sickness

Rock

Brian Howe

Bright Eyes' new live album, cobbled together from recordings of the I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning tour, opens with the requisite applause. Buried in this applause a female voice shouts, "Conor, I love you!". Not "you rock," not "I love your music," but "I love you." It's a helpful clue toward understanding his widespread popularity-- Oberst's intimate, earnest music is calibrated for maximum personal identification; it's an invitation for fans to feel not just privy to his private life, but complicit in it. The magnetism of the music is in its jolts of recognition, those moments when mental states that one thought were private, from within the solipsism of youth, are revealed as universal. Another telling audience response occurs during the quiet rendition of "Landlocked Blues", when a smattering of cheers follows the line "If you love something, give it away." It could refer to Oberst's songs, with their tacit promise to not simply entertain, but to unveil something of the messy humanity of their author. In fact, it's a summary of Oberst's entire lyrical perspective and the collective twentysomething suburban worldview it excavates, an expression of the tension between two conflicting desires: For lasting security and galvanizing change. Musically, Oberst finds himself in a similarly transitional state, somewhere between the tortured no-fi manqué he was and the mellowed country singer he's becoming, and the same tension that enriches his lyrics creates some minor hitches in his musical delivery. The Bright Eyes I grew up with-- literally, we being the same age-- was always best on his own. I must've seen him play at least 10 times in my late teens and early twenties, and the most memorable performance of them all was a post-Fevers and Mirrors solo show where he shuddered, sweated, whispered, and howled over shattered-glass chords. Emotional and musical nudity make good bedfellows. And while all those vocal tics are still intact, they've been subdued-- probably for the best, in the long run. But for now, he sounds like he's still working out a new way of singing that suits the thicker country-rock arrangements he began to favor on Lifted, sometimes faltering in a sort of stifled mid-range. His band is tight, but Oberst sounds a bit tense and weighed down on heavily embellished tracks like "At the Bottom of Everything" and Lua B-side "True Blue". The tuneless protest song "When the President Talks to God" is another hat that doesn't quite fit, although it's pretty clearly included for political and not musical reasons, and draws approving screams from the audience. Oberst trips over a cover of Feist's wonderful "Mushaboom", failing to really own its tripping melody, faring better on Elliot Smith's "The Biggest Lie". But the most glaring example of Oberst attempting to overwrite the old Bright Eyes comes with Fevers and Mirrors' "A Scale, a Mirror and Those Indifferent Clocks", here tellingly billed simply as "Scale". Instead of reproducing its original muzziness, he couches it in I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning's genial country style, and it sounds good, if a little defanged. Barring "True Blue" and "When the President Talks to God", each of which weds overly clever lyrics to lackluster arrangements, nothing on Motion Sickness falls terribly flat-- the several uncertain-sounding tunes are simply a bit tepid, and the remainder are lovely. Oberst sounds great on "Make War", against its lean backdrop of guitar, pedal steel and light percussion, working the dreamy melody with aplomb and timing his screams effectively with the musical crescendos. On "Landlocked Blues" he seems relaxed, comfortable amid the barely-there guitars. His voice softens and opens up, threading a tremulous quaver through its easy melody. When the horn section makes a late appearance, it's effective, punctuating the quiet expanse that came before it. "Method Acting" plays well, avoiding swollen gestures in favor of sharp, driving rock, and "Southern State" is terrific, as Oberst sings confidently over a gentle arrangement including a horn solo that's expressive, not bombastic. He simply doesn't wear bombast as convincingly as he once did, and seems to know it-- this album finds him maneuvering toward a new equilibrium, one that's shaping up, judging from its most successful tracks, to be as measured and deliberate as his old songs were anarchic and accidental.

Artist: Bright Eyes, Album: Motion Sickness, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "Bright Eyes' new live album, cobbled together from recordings of the I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning tour, opens with the requisite applause. Buried in this applause a female voice shouts, "Conor, I love you!". Not "you rock," not "I love your music," but "I love you." It's a helpful clue toward understanding his widespread popularity-- Oberst's intimate, earnest music is calibrated for maximum personal identification; it's an invitation for fans to feel not just privy to his private life, but complicit in it. The magnetism of the music is in its jolts of recognition, those moments when mental states that one thought were private, from within the solipsism of youth, are revealed as universal. Another telling audience response occurs during the quiet rendition of "Landlocked Blues", when a smattering of cheers follows the line "If you love something, give it away." It could refer to Oberst's songs, with their tacit promise to not simply entertain, but to unveil something of the messy humanity of their author. In fact, it's a summary of Oberst's entire lyrical perspective and the collective twentysomething suburban worldview it excavates, an expression of the tension between two conflicting desires: For lasting security and galvanizing change. Musically, Oberst finds himself in a similarly transitional state, somewhere between the tortured no-fi manqué he was and the mellowed country singer he's becoming, and the same tension that enriches his lyrics creates some minor hitches in his musical delivery. The Bright Eyes I grew up with-- literally, we being the same age-- was always best on his own. I must've seen him play at least 10 times in my late teens and early twenties, and the most memorable performance of them all was a post-Fevers and Mirrors solo show where he shuddered, sweated, whispered, and howled over shattered-glass chords. Emotional and musical nudity make good bedfellows. And while all those vocal tics are still intact, they've been subdued-- probably for the best, in the long run. But for now, he sounds like he's still working out a new way of singing that suits the thicker country-rock arrangements he began to favor on Lifted, sometimes faltering in a sort of stifled mid-range. His band is tight, but Oberst sounds a bit tense and weighed down on heavily embellished tracks like "At the Bottom of Everything" and Lua B-side "True Blue". The tuneless protest song "When the President Talks to God" is another hat that doesn't quite fit, although it's pretty clearly included for political and not musical reasons, and draws approving screams from the audience. Oberst trips over a cover of Feist's wonderful "Mushaboom", failing to really own its tripping melody, faring better on Elliot Smith's "The Biggest Lie". But the most glaring example of Oberst attempting to overwrite the old Bright Eyes comes with Fevers and Mirrors' "A Scale, a Mirror and Those Indifferent Clocks", here tellingly billed simply as "Scale". Instead of reproducing its original muzziness, he couches it in I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning's genial country style, and it sounds good, if a little defanged. Barring "True Blue" and "When the President Talks to God", each of which weds overly clever lyrics to lackluster arrangements, nothing on Motion Sickness falls terribly flat-- the several uncertain-sounding tunes are simply a bit tepid, and the remainder are lovely. Oberst sounds great on "Make War", against its lean backdrop of guitar, pedal steel and light percussion, working the dreamy melody with aplomb and timing his screams effectively with the musical crescendos. On "Landlocked Blues" he seems relaxed, comfortable amid the barely-there guitars. His voice softens and opens up, threading a tremulous quaver through its easy melody. When the horn section makes a late appearance, it's effective, punctuating the quiet expanse that came before it. "Method Acting" plays well, avoiding swollen gestures in favor of sharp, driving rock, and "Southern State" is terrific, as Oberst sings confidently over a gentle arrangement including a horn solo that's expressive, not bombastic. He simply doesn't wear bombast as convincingly as he once did, and seems to know it-- this album finds him maneuvering toward a new equilibrium, one that's shaping up, judging from its most successful tracks, to be as measured and deliberate as his old songs were anarchic and accidental."

Flying

Faces of the Night

Experimental,Rock

Andrew Gaerig

Movin' on up/ To the Upper West Side/ To that club gig show in the sky. It's a familiar script: Brooklyn quartet Flying broke out in 2006 with their self-recorded debut Just-One-Second-Ago Broken Eggshell, which crackled with the sort of electricity that occurs when too many kids-- well, three, anyway-- enter a room with too many instruments. What follows is a new label-- Menlo Park-- a sophomore effort, Faces of the Night, recorded out of pocket at Illinois' Keyclub Recording Co., and presumably a larger touring profile. The hangup, of course, is Flying sound slower, denser, and less like a dynamic Brooklyn skewering of twee and more properly like wannabe residents of Athens, Geo., or Olympia, Wash. This isn't selling out, of course, but the refinements are disappointing. Vocals are introduced in entirely conventional manners; there seem to be "vehicles" for each of the band members-- Sara Magenheimer's adolescent coo and then the three more indistinguishable males: Eliot Krimsky, Eben Portnoy, and new member Mike Johnson-- rather than the tactical "if you're near a mic, sing"-approach of the first album. Out-of-tune bits sound less like interludes gone haywire and more like songs sung out of tune. No longer do woodpeckers interrupt or claptrap drums rock, then roll. The arrangement scream "A lot of thought went into this!"; creating art this way is noble but it ultimately distances Flying from their most productive impulses. Faces is not devoid of sparkly, inspired moments. "Stains" is built on a funk riff that stops only for Mt. Eerie-lite harmonies. "One-Eyed Son" opens the album with a cartoony boing-ing sound effect promptly mimicked by a festive acoustic guitar and a vocal melody that sounds like it's rocking in a chair with an uneven leg. On "Draw It in the Dark" Magenheimer does her best Moe Tucker impression over a pleasantly arepeggiating guitar: "I'm Sticking to You" airbrushed onto a Lisa Frank folder. Still, too many reminders of how weirdly linear Flying have become: "Fear of Flying" switches from a beatific drum machine pat to Sufjan Stevens' plaintive piano chording to a major key organ drone and finally to choppy guitar strumming, but each section's execution is Catholic. "Firetruck"'s bassline sounds like corkscrewed big-tent music but it carries on for four minutes before an electric guitar and some reverberated "ahh ahh"'s ride the song out for another two, producing the sort of watch-glancing length the Flying wisely avoid elsewhere. Other songs-- "Poor Simone", "The Wrong Hearts", "Double-Hearted Clown"-- plod without event. Flying are well within their rights attempting this transformation, of course, but their move from avant-pop that fused Brooklyn's best out-music tendencies to four-track bedroom twee to careerist indie pop is an acutely stinging injustice. The most disappointing aspect of Faces of the Night-- especially in light of their debut-- is that it seems sustainable. Probably good for them, you know, in the long run.

Artist: Flying, Album: Faces of the Night, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "Movin' on up/ To the Upper West Side/ To that club gig show in the sky. It's a familiar script: Brooklyn quartet Flying broke out in 2006 with their self-recorded debut Just-One-Second-Ago Broken Eggshell, which crackled with the sort of electricity that occurs when too many kids-- well, three, anyway-- enter a room with too many instruments. What follows is a new label-- Menlo Park-- a sophomore effort, Faces of the Night, recorded out of pocket at Illinois' Keyclub Recording Co., and presumably a larger touring profile. The hangup, of course, is Flying sound slower, denser, and less like a dynamic Brooklyn skewering of twee and more properly like wannabe residents of Athens, Geo., or Olympia, Wash. This isn't selling out, of course, but the refinements are disappointing. Vocals are introduced in entirely conventional manners; there seem to be "vehicles" for each of the band members-- Sara Magenheimer's adolescent coo and then the three more indistinguishable males: Eliot Krimsky, Eben Portnoy, and new member Mike Johnson-- rather than the tactical "if you're near a mic, sing"-approach of the first album. Out-of-tune bits sound less like interludes gone haywire and more like songs sung out of tune. No longer do woodpeckers interrupt or claptrap drums rock, then roll. The arrangement scream "A lot of thought went into this!"; creating art this way is noble but it ultimately distances Flying from their most productive impulses. Faces is not devoid of sparkly, inspired moments. "Stains" is built on a funk riff that stops only for Mt. Eerie-lite harmonies. "One-Eyed Son" opens the album with a cartoony boing-ing sound effect promptly mimicked by a festive acoustic guitar and a vocal melody that sounds like it's rocking in a chair with an uneven leg. On "Draw It in the Dark" Magenheimer does her best Moe Tucker impression over a pleasantly arepeggiating guitar: "I'm Sticking to You" airbrushed onto a Lisa Frank folder. Still, too many reminders of how weirdly linear Flying have become: "Fear of Flying" switches from a beatific drum machine pat to Sufjan Stevens' plaintive piano chording to a major key organ drone and finally to choppy guitar strumming, but each section's execution is Catholic. "Firetruck"'s bassline sounds like corkscrewed big-tent music but it carries on for four minutes before an electric guitar and some reverberated "ahh ahh"'s ride the song out for another two, producing the sort of watch-glancing length the Flying wisely avoid elsewhere. Other songs-- "Poor Simone", "The Wrong Hearts", "Double-Hearted Clown"-- plod without event. Flying are well within their rights attempting this transformation, of course, but their move from avant-pop that fused Brooklyn's best out-music tendencies to four-track bedroom twee to careerist indie pop is an acutely stinging injustice. The most disappointing aspect of Faces of the Night-- especially in light of their debut-- is that it seems sustainable. Probably good for them, you know, in the long run."

Jawbreaker

Live 4/30/96

Metal,Rock

Brent DiCrescenzo

It's an interesting study in voice to compare Jets to Brazil to Jawbreaker; the throaty Blake Schwarzenbach fronts both groups. Backed by the taut, hyperkinetic rhythm section of Chris Bauermeister and Adam Pfaler in Jawbreaker, Blake's vocals seemed to sneer and spit in frustration. But in Jets to Brazil, backed by That Guy From That Band That Had That Guy From Quicksand and That Guy That Drummed In That Emo Band Named After That Misfits Songs, Blake's voice comes across as a forced Oxford affectation-- a bad Richard Butler impersonation. The difference is a testiment to the power of punk rock, and more importantly Chris and Adam. Let's be honest-- the world needs a Jawbreaker song (perhaps even the Queensrychian "Jet Black") over any Jets to Brazil keyboard ballad. The continued trend of making live albums exclusively from one late- career performance has given the world some impotent live records. This basic bootlegging seems rather effortless. For Jawbreaker fans, it means sitting through the slower, over- thought material from Dear You instead of "Want," "Chesterfield King," or "Incomplete." "Save Your Generation" and "Accident Prone" are not bad songs-- and hearing them here is more economically beneficial than dropping $30 for a copy of the out- of- print Dear You on eBay-- but they're not exactly representative of Jawbreaker's greatest moments. It also baffles that a band would release live material recorded so close to their break-up. This period of a band's career has never been the most fruitful for "classic live performances"-- especially when the show is a shortened set from a Rock for Choice benefit with the Foo Fighters. This being said, Live 4/30/96 merits purchase for three unreleased songs. "Gemini" shows that the band was leaning more towards the sound of 24 Hour Revenge Therapy's thick punk after the mildly disappointing Dear You, and "Shirt" similarly smokes with bratty energy. Thankfully, these songs' velocity never afford Blake his heavy- handed lyrical tendencies. The line, "You're not punk and I'm telling everyone/ Save your breath I never was one" from "Boxcar" punches harder than "I have a present: It is the present/ You have to learn to find it within you." Blake's attempt at stage banter is pretty unintentionally amusing, too. "It's a thrill for us to play here... and have it be... fun," he mumbles between songs, stumbling through the worst segue of all time: "Because we live here and it can be scary sometimes... this is about a scary time we had last year." His stage presence is comparable to a shy ninth- grader's advanced- placement science project presentation or a disorganized DJ on low bandwidth college radio. The stammering nearly discredits his songwriting. Fortunately, the bubbly, larynx- booting rhythm section kicks in. The representation of 24 Hour Revenge Therapy-- namely "Jinx Removing," "Ashtray Monument," and "Boxcar"-- still sharpen the point on Jawbreaker's flagpole claiming the land of Greatest Punk Band of the '90s. Then again, you can get those songs on the classic 24 Hour Revenge Therapy. And so we come again to the tired Live Album dismissal: for fans only.

Artist: Jawbreaker, Album: Live 4/30/96, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "It's an interesting study in voice to compare Jets to Brazil to Jawbreaker; the throaty Blake Schwarzenbach fronts both groups. Backed by the taut, hyperkinetic rhythm section of Chris Bauermeister and Adam Pfaler in Jawbreaker, Blake's vocals seemed to sneer and spit in frustration. But in Jets to Brazil, backed by That Guy From That Band That Had That Guy From Quicksand and That Guy That Drummed In That Emo Band Named After That Misfits Songs, Blake's voice comes across as a forced Oxford affectation-- a bad Richard Butler impersonation. The difference is a testiment to the power of punk rock, and more importantly Chris and Adam. Let's be honest-- the world needs a Jawbreaker song (perhaps even the Queensrychian "Jet Black") over any Jets to Brazil keyboard ballad. The continued trend of making live albums exclusively from one late- career performance has given the world some impotent live records. This basic bootlegging seems rather effortless. For Jawbreaker fans, it means sitting through the slower, over- thought material from Dear You instead of "Want," "Chesterfield King," or "Incomplete." "Save Your Generation" and "Accident Prone" are not bad songs-- and hearing them here is more economically beneficial than dropping $30 for a copy of the out- of- print Dear You on eBay-- but they're not exactly representative of Jawbreaker's greatest moments. It also baffles that a band would release live material recorded so close to their break-up. This period of a band's career has never been the most fruitful for "classic live performances"-- especially when the show is a shortened set from a Rock for Choice benefit with the Foo Fighters. This being said, Live 4/30/96 merits purchase for three unreleased songs. "Gemini" shows that the band was leaning more towards the sound of 24 Hour Revenge Therapy's thick punk after the mildly disappointing Dear You, and "Shirt" similarly smokes with bratty energy. Thankfully, these songs' velocity never afford Blake his heavy- handed lyrical tendencies. The line, "You're not punk and I'm telling everyone/ Save your breath I never was one" from "Boxcar" punches harder than "I have a present: It is the present/ You have to learn to find it within you." Blake's attempt at stage banter is pretty unintentionally amusing, too. "It's a thrill for us to play here... and have it be... fun," he mumbles between songs, stumbling through the worst segue of all time: "Because we live here and it can be scary sometimes... this is about a scary time we had last year." His stage presence is comparable to a shy ninth- grader's advanced- placement science project presentation or a disorganized DJ on low bandwidth college radio. The stammering nearly discredits his songwriting. Fortunately, the bubbly, larynx- booting rhythm section kicks in. The representation of 24 Hour Revenge Therapy-- namely "Jinx Removing," "Ashtray Monument," and "Boxcar"-- still sharpen the point on Jawbreaker's flagpole claiming the land of Greatest Punk Band of the '90s. Then again, you can get those songs on the classic 24 Hour Revenge Therapy. And so we come again to the tired Live Album dismissal: for fans only."

The Range

Potential

Electronic

Mark Richardson

James Hinton uses samples like he invented the entire concept. The Brooklyn-based producer, who just released his second album as the Range, doesn’t do anything with the technique we haven’t heard before. Quite the opposite in fact—the songs on Potential touch on instrumental hip-hop, dubstep, twinkling electro-pop, and more, and they’re defined above else by their immediate familiarity. But Hinton dives into his samples with the verve of a producer who just this morning discovered the jolt of creative joy that comes from flipping a vocal fragment just so and finding a way to repeat it that brings a cascading wave of emotion. His work may not feel new, but it crackles with a sense of discovery. Hinton got to this point by honoring the act of listening. Most of the tracks on Potential were built around samples of people he found singing on YouTube. But he didn’t focus on the pop stars, or even the viral sensations, but the amateur performers whose work survives deep, deep down search holes, the videos that were uploaded in a rush of expression and were subsequently seen by almost no one. As he described in an interview with Pitchfork, Hinton found these videos, assembling phrases from them that had a certain musicality but also carried an ineffable feeling. Though he transforms the voices with the usual techniques of pitch-shifting, echo, reverb, and so on, you can get the tiniest sense of the individual behind each utterance. Pay attention to the feeling of yearning in a young person saying “Right now I don’t have a backup plan for if I don’t make it,” in “Regular,” or the extra tug of effort around each R&B-inflected phrase in “Superimpose.” The voices feel anonymous but somehow closer because of that; they are faces in the crowd, just like us. Around these voices, Hinton crafts songs, full of house piano loops, clapping drum sounds, and tightly sequenced synth patches. This is music designed for uplift, with carefully plotted builds yielding to big choruses, and it taps into electronic music's sense of possibility not by pushing things further, but by simplifying and paring back. Hinton brings to mind specific eras not from direct reference or slavish devotion to genre, but by striving to remember the historical moment when a specific element of sound first clicked—the squelching synth in “Genius of Love,” the ghost vocal loop in “Xtal,” the piano in “Building Steam With a Grain of Salt.” Because of this bedrock positivity (and, probably, because so many of the voices come from the UK) it also obliquely recalls the optimistic rave moment when the right combination of people and the right DJ could make you feel like you were part of something that mattered. All of this positivity means, naturally, there’s not a lot of darkness to explore in this music. The only pain present seems like the kind that that music is able to zero in on and explode, which is certainly not true of every kind of pain. At times, this uniformity of mood threatens to blunt the emotional pull of the album, but then there’s always a clever turn-around or defiantly catchy vocal loop to snap attention back in place. Perhaps unusually, Hinton tracked down the forgotten sources of his YouTube samples and signed them on for a share of his publishing. It may or may not lead to financial gain (though it’s pretty easy to imagine many of these tracks sounding good on TV in any number of contexts), but the gesture affirms the interconnectedness of life at this moment, how watching a random homemade video on YouTube can be thought of as a collaborative act. Hinton has an ability, not unlike the Books when they first hit the scene 14 years ago, of making shopworn techniques in sound manipulations seem strangely fresh, and Potential is the kind of music that makes you think about what your own part in a seemingly passive musical transaction of music might mean.

Artist: The Range, Album: Potential, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "James Hinton uses samples like he invented the entire concept. The Brooklyn-based producer, who just released his second album as the Range, doesn’t do anything with the technique we haven’t heard before. Quite the opposite in fact—the songs on Potential touch on instrumental hip-hop, dubstep, twinkling electro-pop, and more, and they’re defined above else by their immediate familiarity. But Hinton dives into his samples with the verve of a producer who just this morning discovered the jolt of creative joy that comes from flipping a vocal fragment just so and finding a way to repeat it that brings a cascading wave of emotion. His work may not feel new, but it crackles with a sense of discovery. Hinton got to this point by honoring the act of listening. Most of the tracks on Potential were built around samples of people he found singing on YouTube. But he didn’t focus on the pop stars, or even the viral sensations, but the amateur performers whose work survives deep, deep down search holes, the videos that were uploaded in a rush of expression and were subsequently seen by almost no one. As he described in an interview with Pitchfork, Hinton found these videos, assembling phrases from them that had a certain musicality but also carried an ineffable feeling. Though he transforms the voices with the usual techniques of pitch-shifting, echo, reverb, and so on, you can get the tiniest sense of the individual behind each utterance. Pay attention to the feeling of yearning in a young person saying “Right now I don’t have a backup plan for if I don’t make it,” in “Regular,” or the extra tug of effort around each R&B-inflected phrase in “Superimpose.” The voices feel anonymous but somehow closer because of that; they are faces in the crowd, just like us. Around these voices, Hinton crafts songs, full of house piano loops, clapping drum sounds, and tightly sequenced synth patches. This is music designed for uplift, with carefully plotted builds yielding to big choruses, and it taps into electronic music's sense of possibility not by pushing things further, but by simplifying and paring back. Hinton brings to mind specific eras not from direct reference or slavish devotion to genre, but by striving to remember the historical moment when a specific element of sound first clicked—the squelching synth in “Genius of Love,” the ghost vocal loop in “Xtal,” the piano in “Building Steam With a Grain of Salt.” Because of this bedrock positivity (and, probably, because so many of the voices come from the UK) it also obliquely recalls the optimistic rave moment when the right combination of people and the right DJ could make you feel like you were part of something that mattered. All of this positivity means, naturally, there’s not a lot of darkness to explore in this music. The only pain present seems like the kind that that music is able to zero in on and explode, which is certainly not true of every kind of pain. At times, this uniformity of mood threatens to blunt the emotional pull of the album, but then there’s always a clever turn-around or defiantly catchy vocal loop to snap attention back in place. Perhaps unusually, Hinton tracked down the forgotten sources of his YouTube samples and signed them on for a share of his publishing. It may or may not lead to financial gain (though it’s pretty easy to imagine many of these tracks sounding good on TV in any number of contexts), but the gesture affirms the interconnectedness of life at this moment, how watching a random homemade video on YouTube can be thought of as a collaborative act. Hinton has an ability, not unlike the Books when they first hit the scene 14 years ago, of making shopworn techniques in sound manipulations seem strangely fresh, and Potential is the kind of music that makes you think about what your own part in a seemingly passive musical transaction of music might mean."