Datasets:

statworx

/

pitchfork_album_reviews

like 0

Radiohead

The Best Of

Rock

Scott Plagenhoef

The week after Radiohead's OK Computer was released in the U.S., it debuted in the album charts at #21; bowing at #1 was the Prodigy's The Fat of the Land. In the U.S., the Prodigy were heralded as the bellwethers for electronica, while, in the face of this newly cobbled-together marketing schematic-- and exponentially rising sales of country and hip-hop-- Radiohead were charged by some with the task of "saving" rock music. Oddly, the two records seemed to have opposite effects. Throughout the late 1990s and early 00s, Thom Yorke practically functioned as a Warp publicist, embracing the possibilities and future of electronic music but retaining the charisma, scope, and grandeur of pop and, in the process, helping to expose rock fans to electronic textures and sounds. Meanwhile, the Prodigy-- along with Nine Inch Nails, Rage Against the Machine, and Korn-- inadvertently spawned the well-selling mook rock. Four years later, Radiohead had pushed too far in the "wrong" direction: The band's next two albums-- Kid A and Amnesiac-- strayed far left of the organic and "authentic" (read: instruments carved from wood) for many of those same people who had exalted the group the previous decade. Critics faced with having to either step outside of their historical comfort zones and recalibrate their sensibilities or retreat back to the familiar took the easy road and embraced a New Rock Revolution that, in the U.S., never came to fruition. In the wake of it all, Radiohead themselves retreated from the spotlight, becoming the sort of arena-sized DIY band that, oddly, Pearl Jam morphed into during the previous decade, and eventually leaving their record label, Capitol, altogether. Capitol's eventual response is, quite naturally, to collect the group's older material in a more pocket-sized package. To its credit, the label is going all-out with these releases, offering not only two different CD or digital versions of the set (a 17-track single disc or a 30-track 2xCD package), but also a 4xLP vinyl version that could be a nice addition to a fan's collection and pretty kickass DVD that even casual observers should love. Make no mistake then, the middling and low scores up there don't reflect a general dissatisfaction with the notion of carving up Radiohead's albums (though both the flow of Kid A and the tension of Amnesiac are masterstrokes of pacing), the very idea of career-spanning compilations, or even these records being compiled without the band's participation-- for one thing, avoiding the DVD on those grounds would be foolish. (And to be fair to Capitol, the label always seemed highly supportive of Radiohead, investing plenty of resources and marketing into their records-- especially OK Computer and Kid A.) No, it's much more utilitarian than that: Namely, for whom are these records meant? The question is easier to answer for the single-disc version, which functions as a Radiohead sampler. A crisp, 17-track collection, it features the band's most well-liked singles, plus Kid A tracks "Idioteque", "Everything in Its Right Place", and "Optimistic" (remember, there were no singles pulled from that LP), plus the title track to The Bends. All told it's a murderer's row-- "Paranoid Android", "Lucky", "Pyramid Song", "Street Spirit (Fade Out)", "No Surprises", "Creep", the aforementioned Kid A tracks, and many more. Only the sleepy "High and Dry" and requisite Hail to the Thief representative "2+2=5" are relative duds. If you've turned away from Radiohead this decade or if you aren't hooked by the more abstract pieces they've made since OK Computer, it's a good way to catch up. The tracks themselves are a 10, and if you're actually curious but unfamiliar with the group, by all means buy it. Yet even saying that, this isn't a band with a winding, difficult discography to navigate, and 10 of these 17 tracks are from The Bends and OK Computer. Assuming CDs exist in the near future, I suspect this compilation will become more useful in years to come, when younger listeners who haven't engaged with Radiohead throughout most of the group's lifetime want a place to sort out what the fuss is about. For the rest of us, it's just not needed. The 2xCD version, although a better value-for-money, does even less to justify its existence. Starting rather cleverly with "Airbag" and "I Might Be Wrong", aka the two lead tracks from Capitol's in-print Radiohead mini-LPs (hint, hint), it goes on to add another seven tracks from the 1995-2003 albums (great songs, but most of them weaker than the ones on CD1), a pair of clunkers from 1993 debut Pablo Honey, and the only two things here that come close to being rare: The B-side "Talk Show Host" and the live acoustic solo Thom Yorke version of "True Love Waits" from the previously hinted-at I Might Be Wrong: Live Recordings-- the only other time that song has appeared on record in any form. The packaging is merely a few promo photos and a long essay I didn't read (sorry). With little rhyme or reason to the songs that fill out this second disc, it becomes even more disappointing that a bonus isn't given over to an alternate view of the group-- B-sides or rarities, a collection which would be of great use, or their more adventurous work. Instead, this compilation is dominated by a pair of central ideas of what Radiohead sound like: emotionally nourishing, impressionistic balladeers, or crunchy, tech- and texture-savvy rockers. The outliers, moments when the band has dabbled more in mood, atmosphere, or a love of pure sound-- think "Kid A", "Climbing Up the Walls", or exquisite Amnesiac tracks like the clanging "Packt Like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Box", the prescient paranoia of "Life in a Glasshouse", the unsettlingly gorgeous "Like Spinning Plates", or the punchdrunk "You and Whose Army?"-- aren't represented at all. (Weirdly, I don't miss anything from Hail to the Thief, a collection of songs that works better live than on record.) So, sure, artistically this could be a much stronger 2xCD set, but it's rightfully in Capitol's interest to spread the love and highlight all of the band's releases, each of which the label has a monetary stake in promoting. The latest Radiohead album, In Rainbows, is of course not one of them. Radiohead's decision to first self-release that record was heralded as an early warning sign that the major-label system was faltering. In truth, it's more of a late sign: With so little creative energy engaged in the hope and promise of making grand, heroic rock music-- and so few reliable, national delivery systems for it now that MTV and radio have bec

Artist: Radiohead, Album: The Best Of, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 4.0 Album review: "The week after Radiohead's OK Computer was released in the U.S., it debuted in the album charts at #21; bowing at #1 was the Prodigy's The Fat of the Land. In the U.S., the Prodigy were heralded as the bellwethers for electronica, while, in the face of this newly cobbled-together marketing schematic-- and exponentially rising sales of country and hip-hop-- Radiohead were charged by some with the task of "saving" rock music. Oddly, the two records seemed to have opposite effects. Throughout the late 1990s and early 00s, Thom Yorke practically functioned as a Warp publicist, embracing the possibilities and future of electronic music but retaining the charisma, scope, and grandeur of pop and, in the process, helping to expose rock fans to electronic textures and sounds. Meanwhile, the Prodigy-- along with Nine Inch Nails, Rage Against the Machine, and Korn-- inadvertently spawned the well-selling mook rock. Four years later, Radiohead had pushed too far in the "wrong" direction: The band's next two albums-- Kid A and Amnesiac-- strayed far left of the organic and "authentic" (read: instruments carved from wood) for many of those same people who had exalted the group the previous decade. Critics faced with having to either step outside of their historical comfort zones and recalibrate their sensibilities or retreat back to the familiar took the easy road and embraced a New Rock Revolution that, in the U.S., never came to fruition. In the wake of it all, Radiohead themselves retreated from the spotlight, becoming the sort of arena-sized DIY band that, oddly, Pearl Jam morphed into during the previous decade, and eventually leaving their record label, Capitol, altogether. Capitol's eventual response is, quite naturally, to collect the group's older material in a more pocket-sized package. To its credit, the label is going all-out with these releases, offering not only two different CD or digital versions of the set (a 17-track single disc or a 30-track 2xCD package), but also a 4xLP vinyl version that could be a nice addition to a fan's collection and pretty kickass DVD that even casual observers should love. Make no mistake then, the middling and low scores up there don't reflect a general dissatisfaction with the notion of carving up Radiohead's albums (though both the flow of Kid A and the tension of Amnesiac are masterstrokes of pacing), the very idea of career-spanning compilations, or even these records being compiled without the band's participation-- for one thing, avoiding the DVD on those grounds would be foolish. (And to be fair to Capitol, the label always seemed highly supportive of Radiohead, investing plenty of resources and marketing into their records-- especially OK Computer and Kid A.) No, it's much more utilitarian than that: Namely, for whom are these records meant? The question is easier to answer for the single-disc version, which functions as a Radiohead sampler. A crisp, 17-track collection, it features the band's most well-liked singles, plus Kid A tracks "Idioteque", "Everything in Its Right Place", and "Optimistic" (remember, there were no singles pulled from that LP), plus the title track to The Bends. All told it's a murderer's row-- "Paranoid Android", "Lucky", "Pyramid Song", "Street Spirit (Fade Out)", "No Surprises", "Creep", the aforementioned Kid A tracks, and many more. Only the sleepy "High and Dry" and requisite Hail to the Thief representative "2+2=5" are relative duds. If you've turned away from Radiohead this decade or if you aren't hooked by the more abstract pieces they've made since OK Computer, it's a good way to catch up. The tracks themselves are a 10, and if you're actually curious but unfamiliar with the group, by all means buy it. Yet even saying that, this isn't a band with a winding, difficult discography to navigate, and 10 of these 17 tracks are from The Bends and OK Computer. Assuming CDs exist in the near future, I suspect this compilation will become more useful in years to come, when younger listeners who haven't engaged with Radiohead throughout most of the group's lifetime want a place to sort out what the fuss is about. For the rest of us, it's just not needed. The 2xCD version, although a better value-for-money, does even less to justify its existence. Starting rather cleverly with "Airbag" and "I Might Be Wrong", aka the two lead tracks from Capitol's in-print Radiohead mini-LPs (hint, hint), it goes on to add another seven tracks from the 1995-2003 albums (great songs, but most of them weaker than the ones on CD1), a pair of clunkers from 1993 debut Pablo Honey, and the only two things here that come close to being rare: The B-side "Talk Show Host" and the live acoustic solo Thom Yorke version of "True Love Waits" from the previously hinted-at I Might Be Wrong: Live Recordings-- the only other time that song has appeared on record in any form. The packaging is merely a few promo photos and a long essay I didn't read (sorry). With little rhyme or reason to the songs that fill out this second disc, it becomes even more disappointing that a bonus isn't given over to an alternate view of the group-- B-sides or rarities, a collection which would be of great use, or their more adventurous work. Instead, this compilation is dominated by a pair of central ideas of what Radiohead sound like: emotionally nourishing, impressionistic balladeers, or crunchy, tech- and texture-savvy rockers. The outliers, moments when the band has dabbled more in mood, atmosphere, or a love of pure sound-- think "Kid A", "Climbing Up the Walls", or exquisite Amnesiac tracks like the clanging "Packt Like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Box", the prescient paranoia of "Life in a Glasshouse", the unsettlingly gorgeous "Like Spinning Plates", or the punchdrunk "You and Whose Army?"-- aren't represented at all. (Weirdly, I don't miss anything from Hail to the Thief, a collection of songs that works better live than on record.) So, sure, artistically this could be a much stronger 2xCD set, but it's rightfully in Capitol's interest to spread the love and highlight all of the band's releases, each of which the label has a monetary stake in promoting. The latest Radiohead album, In Rainbows, is of course not one of them. Radiohead's decision to first self-release that record was heralded as an early warning sign that the major-label system was faltering. In truth, it's more of a late sign: With so little creative energy engaged in the hope and promise of making grand, heroic rock music-- and so few reliable, national delivery systems for it now that MTV and radio have bec"

Jupiter Jax

Visions

Patric Fallon

Like his label home 100% Silk, Jupiter Jax fetishizes the dance-music past, both in brazen broad strokes and sly details. The Maltese producer, born Rudi Agius, called his first solo release City Life '88: The title is a jumbled reference to Inner City's chart-climbing "Good Life" single from 1988, and its biggest highlight was an overt play on "Voodoo Ray", A Guy Called Gerald's acid-house classic, also from '88. Which is to say Agius practices legacy worship—music by classic house purists, for classic house purists—and he simply oozes the stuff from his arsenal of hardware. Every DJ set, SoundCloud sketch, remix, live show, tape, and 12" explores the potential of repurposing Chicago, Detroit, and London club scene histories. "House is a feeling," exclaims the '91 Todd Terry staple, to which Jupiter Jax seems to reply, "House is the feeling." So goes Visions, a generous debut album built on memories of house at its most euphonic and soft-focus. To his credit, Agius goes deep into the eras and locations he loves, even to the point of hosting Chicago house legend Merwyn Sanders, a founding member of Virgo Four, on the gliding single "The Light". And though the addition looks nice on paper, it winds up somewhat gimmicky and half-baked in practice: Sanders' words of mystic wisdom are mumbled and buried under grandiose flute samples, New Age synths, and hand drums, almost like the most important part of his contribution was the feature credit. Jupiter Jax treats guest appearances by Xosar and Mykle Anthony with more care and precision, producing tracks that actually play to and spotlight their vocal strengths. Visions shines brightest when vintage house is used to help materialize the artist's own ideas. Too often, "vintage house" is the idea, full stop. Suffice it to say the record could rightly be called a pastiche, albeit a varied one; nods to Larry Heard, Ron Trent, 808 State, the Orb, Kevin Saunderson, the Future Sound of London, and more pop up for those who are looking for them. Agius treats each familiar Roland synth patch and drum sample with reverence and tenderness, so when individual wrinkles appear, they make a big impact. "The Deepest" diverges into a low-lit '90s rave palette, and it initially comes off like a version of Zomby's "Tears in the Rain" after the clouds cleared away. But about halfway through, Agius introduces an ascendent melodic theme and headstrong bassline, effectively lifting the mix off the soaked concrete. In that turn, we see Jupiter Jax for who he is—specifically, a tuneful artist interested in creating overtly romantic and emotional dancefloor experiences. Agius has knowingly set himself up against titans, so it's his attention to detail, sleek production chops, and compositional prowess that ultimately have to win out, and they do. Visions makes smart use of space for the most part, never choking out a track's atmosphere and rarely losing its way in a dense fog. Jupiter Jax just about overextends his abilities on "Beyond the Walls", but opener "Armed for Peace" and cloud-hopping standout "Soul Searchin'" are prime examples of what makes Visions so immediately likeable: two weightless grooves that want nothing more than to paint constellations behind your eyes. It doesn't matter much what dusty singles the tracks remind you of when Jupiter Jax plays them in a dark, crowded room. What matters right then is just how good they make you feel.

Artist: Jupiter Jax, Album: Visions, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "Like his label home 100% Silk, Jupiter Jax fetishizes the dance-music past, both in brazen broad strokes and sly details. The Maltese producer, born Rudi Agius, called his first solo release City Life '88: The title is a jumbled reference to Inner City's chart-climbing "Good Life" single from 1988, and its biggest highlight was an overt play on "Voodoo Ray", A Guy Called Gerald's acid-house classic, also from '88. Which is to say Agius practices legacy worship—music by classic house purists, for classic house purists—and he simply oozes the stuff from his arsenal of hardware. Every DJ set, SoundCloud sketch, remix, live show, tape, and 12" explores the potential of repurposing Chicago, Detroit, and London club scene histories. "House is a feeling," exclaims the '91 Todd Terry staple, to which Jupiter Jax seems to reply, "House is the feeling." So goes Visions, a generous debut album built on memories of house at its most euphonic and soft-focus. To his credit, Agius goes deep into the eras and locations he loves, even to the point of hosting Chicago house legend Merwyn Sanders, a founding member of Virgo Four, on the gliding single "The Light". And though the addition looks nice on paper, it winds up somewhat gimmicky and half-baked in practice: Sanders' words of mystic wisdom are mumbled and buried under grandiose flute samples, New Age synths, and hand drums, almost like the most important part of his contribution was the feature credit. Jupiter Jax treats guest appearances by Xosar and Mykle Anthony with more care and precision, producing tracks that actually play to and spotlight their vocal strengths. Visions shines brightest when vintage house is used to help materialize the artist's own ideas. Too often, "vintage house" is the idea, full stop. Suffice it to say the record could rightly be called a pastiche, albeit a varied one; nods to Larry Heard, Ron Trent, 808 State, the Orb, Kevin Saunderson, the Future Sound of London, and more pop up for those who are looking for them. Agius treats each familiar Roland synth patch and drum sample with reverence and tenderness, so when individual wrinkles appear, they make a big impact. "The Deepest" diverges into a low-lit '90s rave palette, and it initially comes off like a version of Zomby's "Tears in the Rain" after the clouds cleared away. But about halfway through, Agius introduces an ascendent melodic theme and headstrong bassline, effectively lifting the mix off the soaked concrete. In that turn, we see Jupiter Jax for who he is—specifically, a tuneful artist interested in creating overtly romantic and emotional dancefloor experiences. Agius has knowingly set himself up against titans, so it's his attention to detail, sleek production chops, and compositional prowess that ultimately have to win out, and they do. Visions makes smart use of space for the most part, never choking out a track's atmosphere and rarely losing its way in a dense fog. Jupiter Jax just about overextends his abilities on "Beyond the Walls", but opener "Armed for Peace" and cloud-hopping standout "Soul Searchin'" are prime examples of what makes Visions so immediately likeable: two weightless grooves that want nothing more than to paint constellations behind your eyes. It doesn't matter much what dusty singles the tracks remind you of when Jupiter Jax plays them in a dark, crowded room. What matters right then is just how good they make you feel."

Common

Electric Circus

Rap

Scott Hreha

Why is it that hip-hop artists have so much trouble reinventing themselves once they're established in the game? In the rock and roll milieu, someone like David Bowie can adopt a different persona with each record he drops, and not only get away with it, but have it increase his marketability. With hip-hop, though, conventional wisdom is to stick with the tried-and-true as long as it moves units, then get the hell out. Think about it: Run-D.M.C.'s Back from Hell was based upon the premise that they went underground and re-emerged as hardened thugs, a ploy that got hip-hop's equivalent of the three wise men nearly laughed out of the kingdom. Meanwhile, others that have had drops in the bucket of post-revisionist success either possessed suspect credibility in the first place (can I get an Everlast?) or just changed the punchline to what was already a bad joke (that's you, Kid Rock). Upon first glance, it appeared Common may have achieved that kind of transformation with his follow-up to Like Water for Chocolate. From the Sgt. Common's Lonely Peeps Club Band cover art to an 8\xBD-minute ode to Jimi Hendrix, Electric Circus resonates with a lava lamp glow that's a lot more hip-pie than hip-hop. But that's Com's idea of where hip-hop should be headed-- to a land far, far away from the bling-blingity of his mainstream peers; if only his record hadn't been released so close to The Roots' Phrenology (note to MCA management: fire the person responsible for that little "oversight"), Common's three steps backward might not pale so harshly in comparison to his peers' two steps forward. The most difficult sword to swallow in this particular circus is the near-absence of noteworthy vocals. Though Common's never exactly been a top-shelf emcee, his previous records always had enough good ideas to cover up what he lacked in invention on the mic. This time out, Com comes off as alternately uncomfortable and downright lazy, half-speaking-- or worse, singing-- new-age revelations to the masses. Even on a crunk-ass Neptunes track like "I Got a Right Ta", he plods along with an awkward flow only to boast, "I'm the only cat in hip-hop/ That can go to a thrift shop/ Bring that get-up to the ghetto/ And get props," as if it's something to be proud of. But for better or worse, he still delivers some vintage Common flow on "I Am Music" and the equally imposing (and nonsensical) "Electric Wire Hustle Flower", making it impossible to write him off completely. Common's also always had a soft side, which has more often than not stood up in defense of his tendencies toward lyrical misogyny. Unfortunately, returning to that comfort zone on Electric Circus translates into some of the record's weakest moments. If "Star *69 (PS With Love)"-- a totally predictable phone-sex love song that reeks of cheap incense and leopard-print upholstery-- isn't example enough, Com's smarmy duet with Mary J. Blige on "Come Close" should be sufficient. With a line like, "The pimp in me may just have to die with you," Com invalidates any claims he might have to renaissance man status in a mere eleven syllables. Yet there's one crucial element to Electric Circus that salvages it from the razor-sharp ends of our three-pronged fork: listening to it on headphones is another experience altogether. The record has a mellow tide to it much like that of Like Water for Chocolate, with brief musical interludes that fuse even the sharpest stylistic changes together nicely. It all builds up like a slow fever to the two marathon-length tracks that dismantle the big top-- "Jimi Was a Rock Star" and "Heaven Somewhere"-- both of which are laudable for their ambition, even if they're not quite cohesive. If nothing else, Common does at least succeed in his mission to offer an alternative in a culture that, on the surface, values material wealth over spiritual well-being. Because even if Electric Circus isn't the sonic coup d'etat he might've intended, it does plant the seeds for future revolution within anyone who cares enough to kick back and listen.

Artist: Common, Album: Electric Circus, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Why is it that hip-hop artists have so much trouble reinventing themselves once they're established in the game? In the rock and roll milieu, someone like David Bowie can adopt a different persona with each record he drops, and not only get away with it, but have it increase his marketability. With hip-hop, though, conventional wisdom is to stick with the tried-and-true as long as it moves units, then get the hell out. Think about it: Run-D.M.C.'s Back from Hell was based upon the premise that they went underground and re-emerged as hardened thugs, a ploy that got hip-hop's equivalent of the three wise men nearly laughed out of the kingdom. Meanwhile, others that have had drops in the bucket of post-revisionist success either possessed suspect credibility in the first place (can I get an Everlast?) or just changed the punchline to what was already a bad joke (that's you, Kid Rock). Upon first glance, it appeared Common may have achieved that kind of transformation with his follow-up to Like Water for Chocolate. From the Sgt. Common's Lonely Peeps Club Band cover art to an 8\xBD-minute ode to Jimi Hendrix, Electric Circus resonates with a lava lamp glow that's a lot more hip-pie than hip-hop. But that's Com's idea of where hip-hop should be headed-- to a land far, far away from the bling-blingity of his mainstream peers; if only his record hadn't been released so close to The Roots' Phrenology (note to MCA management: fire the person responsible for that little "oversight"), Common's three steps backward might not pale so harshly in comparison to his peers' two steps forward. The most difficult sword to swallow in this particular circus is the near-absence of noteworthy vocals. Though Common's never exactly been a top-shelf emcee, his previous records always had enough good ideas to cover up what he lacked in invention on the mic. This time out, Com comes off as alternately uncomfortable and downright lazy, half-speaking-- or worse, singing-- new-age revelations to the masses. Even on a crunk-ass Neptunes track like "I Got a Right Ta", he plods along with an awkward flow only to boast, "I'm the only cat in hip-hop/ That can go to a thrift shop/ Bring that get-up to the ghetto/ And get props," as if it's something to be proud of. But for better or worse, he still delivers some vintage Common flow on "I Am Music" and the equally imposing (and nonsensical) "Electric Wire Hustle Flower", making it impossible to write him off completely. Common's also always had a soft side, which has more often than not stood up in defense of his tendencies toward lyrical misogyny. Unfortunately, returning to that comfort zone on Electric Circus translates into some of the record's weakest moments. If "Star *69 (PS With Love)"-- a totally predictable phone-sex love song that reeks of cheap incense and leopard-print upholstery-- isn't example enough, Com's smarmy duet with Mary J. Blige on "Come Close" should be sufficient. With a line like, "The pimp in me may just have to die with you," Com invalidates any claims he might have to renaissance man status in a mere eleven syllables. Yet there's one crucial element to Electric Circus that salvages it from the razor-sharp ends of our three-pronged fork: listening to it on headphones is another experience altogether. The record has a mellow tide to it much like that of Like Water for Chocolate, with brief musical interludes that fuse even the sharpest stylistic changes together nicely. It all builds up like a slow fever to the two marathon-length tracks that dismantle the big top-- "Jimi Was a Rock Star" and "Heaven Somewhere"-- both of which are laudable for their ambition, even if they're not quite cohesive. If nothing else, Common does at least succeed in his mission to offer an alternative in a culture that, on the surface, values material wealth over spiritual well-being. Because even if Electric Circus isn't the sonic coup d'etat he might've intended, it does plant the seeds for future revolution within anyone who cares enough to kick back and listen."

Midori Takada

Through the Looking Glass

Experimental,Global

Andy Beta

In a perfect world, Japanese composer Midori Takada and her works for percussion would be as revered and renowned as that of Steve Reich. Much like that world-renowned American composer, Takada drew influence from a study of African drumming and Asian music, and surmised how these sensibilities dovetailed with that of minimalism, serving as means to break with the Western classical tradition (she originally was a percussionist in the Berlin RIAS Symphonie Orchestra at the Berlin Philharmonic). But with only a handful of works to her name and all of it long out of print—be it with her groundbreaking percussion trio Mkwaju Ensemble, the group Ton-Klami or the three solo albums she released across nearly two decades—her music has been impossible to hear since the early 1990s. Only last year did two pieces from Takada’s Mkwaju Ensemble appear on last year’s crucial More Better Days compilation, revealing Takada’s singular approach to spartan yet euphoric percussion pieces. Touching on gamelan, kodo, and American minimalism (Takada founded the trio in part to perform the works of Reich, Terry Riley, and other 20th-century percussion pieces), each one built carefully to sublime effect. When Visible Cloaks’ member Spencer Doran released his influential mixes of Japanese music, selections from both Mkwaju and Takada’s solo percussion pieces appeared at crucial junctures. The rarest of all of Takada’s works though was her 1983 solo effort, Through the Looking Glass, never released on CD and fetching ludicrous sums online for an original vinyl copy. Unable to financially sustain Mkwaju, Takada disbanded the ensemble and entered the studio by herself to realize this music. Over the course of two days, she put to analog tape all four of the extended performances here as well as laying down the overdubs, producing and mixing (with help from an engineer) the album on her own. An astonishing feat in and of itself, Looking Glass is one of the most dazzling works of minimalism, be it from the East or West. “Mr. Henri Rousseau's Dream” is an assured opening, one that moves at its own slow, hushed pace. Takada astutely layers marimba, gongs, rattles and other ambient bits of chimes, recorder, tam-tam and mimics bird calls with an ocarina. In its understated pulsing of marimba, it brings to mind Gavin Bryars’ work from the same era, most notably Hommages on the Les Disques Du Crépuscule imprint. There appears to be little in the way of linear development as Takada instead crafts and sustains an entire landscape of these small sounds, letting them all levitate in mid-air for twelve heavenly minutes. With “Crossing,” a bit of momentum builds up from a single struck cowbell. Takada goes back over the original clonk and starts to layer interweaving lines on marimba, each successive line increasing the complexity of the lines. More cowbell comes in and suddenly Takada begins to simulate the ornate polyrhythms of Reich’s Drumming all by herself in the studio. And with the introduction of a crossing marimba pattern and the drone of a harmonium some five-and-a-half minutes into the piece, it moves into its own rarefied space. “Trompe-L’oeil” moves at a more relaxed pace, with Takada’s harmonium lines swaying like an accordion and her use of a Coke bottle as both reed and percussion giving the piece a playful air about it. It’s a breather before the finale of the album, the fifteen-minute pressure cooker of percussion, “Catastrophe Σ.” Using the harmonium to create a darker mood, Takada focuses on tom-tom, bongos, cymbal and a bit of piano to ratchet up and sustain tension over the course of the piece. There’s a breathlessness to the piece as it gathers momentum that makes it one of the most thrilling percussion pieces of its kind. While her American influences always had an exploratory aspect to their most famous works, there’s never a moment on, say, “Music for 18 Musicians” where you feel like Reich lets loose his rein even a millimeter. There’s something about Takada and the joy of creating this album that fully emerges in this last quarter-hour, as she builds energy up with her drums, her harmonium and that ever-present cowbell. In the liner notes to this reissue, Takada explained just what she learned in her studies of African and Asian music that led her to abandoned Western classical music as a pursuit way back when. “As a performer, this music asked you to personally examine your own physical transformation and to confirm and share this transformation with your counterpart, group or tribe,” she said. “The music stops short of imposing sovereignty or nationality.” And even as the finale builds to a glorious climax, it too stops short. Takada pulls it all away at the last possible moment, a thrill that allows her listeners—nearly thirty-five years on—to soar to a space well within themselves. It’s a space well worth rediscovery.

Artist: Midori Takada, Album: Through the Looking Glass, Genre: Experimental,Global, Score (1-10): 8.7 Album review: "In a perfect world, Japanese composer Midori Takada and her works for percussion would be as revered and renowned as that of Steve Reich. Much like that world-renowned American composer, Takada drew influence from a study of African drumming and Asian music, and surmised how these sensibilities dovetailed with that of minimalism, serving as means to break with the Western classical tradition (she originally was a percussionist in the Berlin RIAS Symphonie Orchestra at the Berlin Philharmonic). But with only a handful of works to her name and all of it long out of print—be it with her groundbreaking percussion trio Mkwaju Ensemble, the group Ton-Klami or the three solo albums she released across nearly two decades—her music has been impossible to hear since the early 1990s. Only last year did two pieces from Takada’s Mkwaju Ensemble appear on last year’s crucial More Better Days compilation, revealing Takada’s singular approach to spartan yet euphoric percussion pieces. Touching on gamelan, kodo, and American minimalism (Takada founded the trio in part to perform the works of Reich, Terry Riley, and other 20th-century percussion pieces), each one built carefully to sublime effect. When Visible Cloaks’ member Spencer Doran released his influential mixes of Japanese music, selections from both Mkwaju and Takada’s solo percussion pieces appeared at crucial junctures. The rarest of all of Takada’s works though was her 1983 solo effort, Through the Looking Glass, never released on CD and fetching ludicrous sums online for an original vinyl copy. Unable to financially sustain Mkwaju, Takada disbanded the ensemble and entered the studio by herself to realize this music. Over the course of two days, she put to analog tape all four of the extended performances here as well as laying down the overdubs, producing and mixing (with help from an engineer) the album on her own. An astonishing feat in and of itself, Looking Glass is one of the most dazzling works of minimalism, be it from the East or West. “Mr. Henri Rousseau's Dream” is an assured opening, one that moves at its own slow, hushed pace. Takada astutely layers marimba, gongs, rattles and other ambient bits of chimes, recorder, tam-tam and mimics bird calls with an ocarina. In its understated pulsing of marimba, it brings to mind Gavin Bryars’ work from the same era, most notably Hommages on the Les Disques Du Crépuscule imprint. There appears to be little in the way of linear development as Takada instead crafts and sustains an entire landscape of these small sounds, letting them all levitate in mid-air for twelve heavenly minutes. With “Crossing,” a bit of momentum builds up from a single struck cowbell. Takada goes back over the original clonk and starts to layer interweaving lines on marimba, each successive line increasing the complexity of the lines. More cowbell comes in and suddenly Takada begins to simulate the ornate polyrhythms of Reich’s Drumming all by herself in the studio. And with the introduction of a crossing marimba pattern and the drone of a harmonium some five-and-a-half minutes into the piece, it moves into its own rarefied space. “Trompe-L’oeil” moves at a more relaxed pace, with Takada’s harmonium lines swaying like an accordion and her use of a Coke bottle as both reed and percussion giving the piece a playful air about it. It’s a breather before the finale of the album, the fifteen-minute pressure cooker of percussion, “Catastrophe Σ.” Using the harmonium to create a darker mood, Takada focuses on tom-tom, bongos, cymbal and a bit of piano to ratchet up and sustain tension over the course of the piece. There’s a breathlessness to the piece as it gathers momentum that makes it one of the most thrilling percussion pieces of its kind. While her American influences always had an exploratory aspect to their most famous works, there’s never a moment on, say, “Music for 18 Musicians” where you feel like Reich lets loose his rein even a millimeter. There’s something about Takada and the joy of creating this album that fully emerges in this last quarter-hour, as she builds energy up with her drums, her harmonium and that ever-present cowbell. In the liner notes to this reissue, Takada explained just what she learned in her studies of African and Asian music that led her to abandoned Western classical music as a pursuit way back when. “As a performer, this music asked you to personally examine your own physical transformation and to confirm and share this transformation with your counterpart, group or tribe,” she said. “The music stops short of imposing sovereignty or nationality.” And even as the finale builds to a glorious climax, it too stops short. Takada pulls it all away at the last possible moment, a thrill that allows her listeners—nearly thirty-five years on—to soar to a space well within themselves. It’s a space well worth rediscovery."

Mark Kozelek

Like Rats

Rock

Stephen Deusner

"So I spent all yesterday hanging out by myself," says Mark Kozelek between songs on his new live album. "Went out last night... by myself. Spent today... by myself. It's alright. I spend a lot of time by myself." This might be one of the more revealing moments on any Kozelek/Sun Kil Moon/Red House Painters release: a complete and pointed dismissal of any romanticism that might still cling to the touring life. Rather than carouse around Melbourne or even see the sights, he admits, "I don't even know the name of the hotel I'm at. I just walked around the park, went to the 7-11, ate some nuts or something. I don't fucking know. I was bored out of my fucking mind." That disappointment-- the unbridgeable rift between how you dream your life will go and how it actually turns out-- is the subject of Kozelek's most recent studio album, last year's harrowing, weirdly humorous Among the Leaves. Song after song bemoans the fate of a cult musician in his 40s, a songwriter's songwriter who has put 20 years into a career that has leveled out, who has won glowing reviews but has very little to show for it except his name on a marquee. 7-11s in Melbourne look just like 7-11s everywhere else; a bag of nuts can be the highlight of your day. Expressing his extreme weariness with the touring life, Kozelek sounds better than he has in years-- more engaged, more personable, more observant, and more willing to describe the world around him, even if it tends to end at the stage lights. Live at Phoenix Public House Melbourne may be his most substantial live album in ages. It draws heavily from Among the Leaves, and makes a worthy addendum to the studio recording because it places these songs in what sounds like their natural setting: a small club sparsely filled with adoring fans clapping politely even after Kozelek laments the lop-sided male: female ratio. There's a sobering gravity here, a weird black humor accentuated by the relatively short run time: 12 tracks instead of Among the Leaves' 17, coming in at a reasonable 60 minutes instead of 80. Kozelek's guitar playing is precise and lovely, especially during the solo on "Heron Blue", and his voice retains its hangdog eloquence, effortlessly evoking his workaday loneliness on "Broken Wing" and the brutally candid "Track Number 8". Perhaps the standout on Phoenix, however, is the stage banter. Several of his previous live albums, including last year's On Tour, have excised his between-song ramblings, but they sound crucial to this set, a revealing counterpart to the songs. He exercises a sly humor that's at once gracious (commiserating with the staff who will lose their jobs when the Phoenix Public House closes) and biting (dedicating "The Moderately Talented Young Woman" to an audience member who describes herself as a musician and waitress). There's a great, weird, tense moment when Kozelek considers the irony of a fan who loves his music so much that he downloads it illegally. "I'm trying to understand. So you live in Melbourne, Australia, and you bought my music off a Russian web site. Why? Why'd you do that?" Kozelek sounds both touched and offended. That's the central conflict on Among the Leaves, but it's even more pronounced on Live at Phoenix Public House: Kozelek is grateful for his fans' dedication over the years, but on some level he resents them for leading him into such a lonely life. So maybe Like Rats is a peace offering. His previous covers albums have been fan favorites, presenting his melancholy takes on songs by AC/DC, John Denver, Low, and Stephen Sondheim, but this new collection may be his most varied and adventurous. The tracklist portrays a man with broad listening habits, who not only translates these songs into his own particular style but erases the distinctions between genres. "Time is Love", a silly concept song by Josh Turner, has the same rhythmic thrust as Ted Nugent's "Free-for-All", and the Descendents' "Silly Girl" proves just as melodic as the snappy "Right Back Where We Started From", the 1976 hit by UK singer Maxine Nightingale. Just as he brings these songs into his realm, they expand his realm, forcing him to rethink how he uses his voice and guitar. He opens Genesis' "Carpet Crawlers" in lush a cappella, layering his vocals in a way that expresses a profound, possibly narcotized wonder at the little creatures around him, and the one-two punch of Bad Brains' "I" and Godflesh's "Like Rats" redirects his signature low-key sound to express something like outrage and anger-- a wholly new mode for Kozelek. On the other hand, Bruno Mars' "Young Girls" wryly comments on all the tales of obsessive female fans on Among the Leaves, and Kozelek turns the hook into a wistfully descending melody. Any record that emphasizes variety will have a few tracks that fall just outside the artist's reach; not everything works quite so well, although that has more to do with song choice than execution. Despite his attempts to alter the melody, Kozelek's version of Danzig's "13" recalls Johnny Cash's similarly acoustic yet superior version, and he awkwardly truncates the Dayglo Abortions' "I Killed Mommy", as if he can't bring himself to sing some of the more extreme lyrics. While it does sound like the ultraviolent companion to Kozelek's understated serial killer rumination "Glenn Tipton" (which he revives on Live at Phoenix Public House), it ultimately sounds pointless and self-indulgent, intended perhaps to entertain himself more than his audience. But after so many bland hotels and anonymous convenience stores, who can blame him for making his own fun?

Artist: Mark Kozelek, Album: Like Rats, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: ""So I spent all yesterday hanging out by myself," says Mark Kozelek between songs on his new live album. "Went out last night... by myself. Spent today... by myself. It's alright. I spend a lot of time by myself." This might be one of the more revealing moments on any Kozelek/Sun Kil Moon/Red House Painters release: a complete and pointed dismissal of any romanticism that might still cling to the touring life. Rather than carouse around Melbourne or even see the sights, he admits, "I don't even know the name of the hotel I'm at. I just walked around the park, went to the 7-11, ate some nuts or something. I don't fucking know. I was bored out of my fucking mind." That disappointment-- the unbridgeable rift between how you dream your life will go and how it actually turns out-- is the subject of Kozelek's most recent studio album, last year's harrowing, weirdly humorous Among the Leaves. Song after song bemoans the fate of a cult musician in his 40s, a songwriter's songwriter who has put 20 years into a career that has leveled out, who has won glowing reviews but has very little to show for it except his name on a marquee. 7-11s in Melbourne look just like 7-11s everywhere else; a bag of nuts can be the highlight of your day. Expressing his extreme weariness with the touring life, Kozelek sounds better than he has in years-- more engaged, more personable, more observant, and more willing to describe the world around him, even if it tends to end at the stage lights. Live at Phoenix Public House Melbourne may be his most substantial live album in ages. It draws heavily from Among the Leaves, and makes a worthy addendum to the studio recording because it places these songs in what sounds like their natural setting: a small club sparsely filled with adoring fans clapping politely even after Kozelek laments the lop-sided male: female ratio. There's a sobering gravity here, a weird black humor accentuated by the relatively short run time: 12 tracks instead of Among the Leaves' 17, coming in at a reasonable 60 minutes instead of 80. Kozelek's guitar playing is precise and lovely, especially during the solo on "Heron Blue", and his voice retains its hangdog eloquence, effortlessly evoking his workaday loneliness on "Broken Wing" and the brutally candid "Track Number 8". Perhaps the standout on Phoenix, however, is the stage banter. Several of his previous live albums, including last year's On Tour, have excised his between-song ramblings, but they sound crucial to this set, a revealing counterpart to the songs. He exercises a sly humor that's at once gracious (commiserating with the staff who will lose their jobs when the Phoenix Public House closes) and biting (dedicating "The Moderately Talented Young Woman" to an audience member who describes herself as a musician and waitress). There's a great, weird, tense moment when Kozelek considers the irony of a fan who loves his music so much that he downloads it illegally. "I'm trying to understand. So you live in Melbourne, Australia, and you bought my music off a Russian web site. Why? Why'd you do that?" Kozelek sounds both touched and offended. That's the central conflict on Among the Leaves, but it's even more pronounced on Live at Phoenix Public House: Kozelek is grateful for his fans' dedication over the years, but on some level he resents them for leading him into such a lonely life. So maybe Like Rats is a peace offering. His previous covers albums have been fan favorites, presenting his melancholy takes on songs by AC/DC, John Denver, Low, and Stephen Sondheim, but this new collection may be his most varied and adventurous. The tracklist portrays a man with broad listening habits, who not only translates these songs into his own particular style but erases the distinctions between genres. "Time is Love", a silly concept song by Josh Turner, has the same rhythmic thrust as Ted Nugent's "Free-for-All", and the Descendents' "Silly Girl" proves just as melodic as the snappy "Right Back Where We Started From", the 1976 hit by UK singer Maxine Nightingale. Just as he brings these songs into his realm, they expand his realm, forcing him to rethink how he uses his voice and guitar. He opens Genesis' "Carpet Crawlers" in lush a cappella, layering his vocals in a way that expresses a profound, possibly narcotized wonder at the little creatures around him, and the one-two punch of Bad Brains' "I" and Godflesh's "Like Rats" redirects his signature low-key sound to express something like outrage and anger-- a wholly new mode for Kozelek. On the other hand, Bruno Mars' "Young Girls" wryly comments on all the tales of obsessive female fans on Among the Leaves, and Kozelek turns the hook into a wistfully descending melody. Any record that emphasizes variety will have a few tracks that fall just outside the artist's reach; not everything works quite so well, although that has more to do with song choice than execution. Despite his attempts to alter the melody, Kozelek's version of Danzig's "13" recalls Johnny Cash's similarly acoustic yet superior version, and he awkwardly truncates the Dayglo Abortions' "I Killed Mommy", as if he can't bring himself to sing some of the more extreme lyrics. While it does sound like the ultraviolent companion to Kozelek's understated serial killer rumination "Glenn Tipton" (which he revives on Live at Phoenix Public House), it ultimately sounds pointless and self-indulgent, intended perhaps to entertain himself more than his audience. But after so many bland hotels and anonymous convenience stores, who can blame him for making his own fun?"

Cosmin TRG

Gordian

Electronic

Nate Patrin

Bass music auteurs with wide-ranging interests have become more common in recent years, with up-and-comers routinely crossing over to deep house, tech house, classic techno or spaces in between. It's at the point where every DJ set and label sampler is like a bench stocked deep with utility players. Cosmin TRG (nee Cosmin Nicolae) is one rangy infielder among many, and it might be worth wondering how many of the converts he won over with his early-career dubstep sides or his 2010 breakthrough future garage single “See Other People/Groove Control” stuck around with him when his style-hopping moved further afield. If they held on through 2011's Simulat, a spare but spaced-out journey into tech house, they might be in for a letdown. With Gordian, Nicolae's gone from evolution to refinement, a paring down that feels like it's wringing every last idea out of the musical concepts he set into motion on his previous album. But what we get here is something more like dilution-- sacrificing its predecessor's stargazing character for the sake of being a sort of ambiguous, fill-in-the-picture take on techno. Granted, that's at least part of what Nicolae intended for Gordian. He's claimed that it's a low-key concept record about mythology, the differentiation between the genuine and the manufactured, perception versus truth, and all that existential good stuff. You'll have to trust him on that-- The titles hint at grand ideas (“New Structures for Loving”; “Desire is Sovereign”; “To Touch Is To Divert”) which evoke more than the attached songs actually do. As four-on-the-floor pulses go, they're hard to deny, and it's satisfying enough that the man knows how to make a kick drum sound pop your earbuds out. The title track's the best example of how he can build a lot with a little, kicks doubling as a de facto bassline that alternates between letting the beat ride and making it bubble. Giving in to the texture of the drum sounds on the whole is where most of the appeal comes from-- snares and hats distorted into reverberations that pull apart their structure and send flaked-off shards floating up into the air. And if you want a straightforward thump-thump-thump to work its way into your spine, there's some immediate pleasure here, especially when it gets into chord-driven buildups and breakdowns like the bell-shattering “Vertigo” or the heat glow of “Desire Is Sovereign”. But the emotional appeals, individualistic quirks and unexpected shifts that mark Nicolae's best work is unsettlingly scarce here. In a discography that's regularly brought more to the table than just a good groove, Gordian has an intermittent blankness about it that only occasionally recalls the warm retrofuturism of Simulat, even as it gingerly tries to retrace a lot of that album's steps. It can be attention-getting when a bassline drops out or a new melodic refrain works its way into the track, and there's a fine sense of timing to most of the songs. But it's not often that it registers as anything more than a new patch being cued up, especially in an inexpressive middle stretch that runs through the factory-floor churn of “Semipresent” or the drippy, burbling deadpan minimalism of “Noise Code”. Gordian is never boring, and none of the songs drag on past the point of entropy. That every listener might bring their own meaning to each song is an provocative approach on Nicolae's part-- but it'd be better if the songs made their own purpose just as clear.

Artist: Cosmin TRG, Album: Gordian, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Bass music auteurs with wide-ranging interests have become more common in recent years, with up-and-comers routinely crossing over to deep house, tech house, classic techno or spaces in between. It's at the point where every DJ set and label sampler is like a bench stocked deep with utility players. Cosmin TRG (nee Cosmin Nicolae) is one rangy infielder among many, and it might be worth wondering how many of the converts he won over with his early-career dubstep sides or his 2010 breakthrough future garage single “See Other People/Groove Control” stuck around with him when his style-hopping moved further afield. If they held on through 2011's Simulat, a spare but spaced-out journey into tech house, they might be in for a letdown. With Gordian, Nicolae's gone from evolution to refinement, a paring down that feels like it's wringing every last idea out of the musical concepts he set into motion on his previous album. But what we get here is something more like dilution-- sacrificing its predecessor's stargazing character for the sake of being a sort of ambiguous, fill-in-the-picture take on techno. Granted, that's at least part of what Nicolae intended for Gordian. He's claimed that it's a low-key concept record about mythology, the differentiation between the genuine and the manufactured, perception versus truth, and all that existential good stuff. You'll have to trust him on that-- The titles hint at grand ideas (“New Structures for Loving”; “Desire is Sovereign”; “To Touch Is To Divert”) which evoke more than the attached songs actually do. As four-on-the-floor pulses go, they're hard to deny, and it's satisfying enough that the man knows how to make a kick drum sound pop your earbuds out. The title track's the best example of how he can build a lot with a little, kicks doubling as a de facto bassline that alternates between letting the beat ride and making it bubble. Giving in to the texture of the drum sounds on the whole is where most of the appeal comes from-- snares and hats distorted into reverberations that pull apart their structure and send flaked-off shards floating up into the air. And if you want a straightforward thump-thump-thump to work its way into your spine, there's some immediate pleasure here, especially when it gets into chord-driven buildups and breakdowns like the bell-shattering “Vertigo” or the heat glow of “Desire Is Sovereign”. But the emotional appeals, individualistic quirks and unexpected shifts that mark Nicolae's best work is unsettlingly scarce here. In a discography that's regularly brought more to the table than just a good groove, Gordian has an intermittent blankness about it that only occasionally recalls the warm retrofuturism of Simulat, even as it gingerly tries to retrace a lot of that album's steps. It can be attention-getting when a bassline drops out or a new melodic refrain works its way into the track, and there's a fine sense of timing to most of the songs. But it's not often that it registers as anything more than a new patch being cued up, especially in an inexpressive middle stretch that runs through the factory-floor churn of “Semipresent” or the drippy, burbling deadpan minimalism of “Noise Code”. Gordian is never boring, and none of the songs drag on past the point of entropy. That every listener might bring their own meaning to each song is an provocative approach on Nicolae's part-- but it'd be better if the songs made their own purpose just as clear."

The Glass

Couples Therapy EP

Electronic

Liz Colville

The Glass kicks up the dust of recent bands like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club on the first song of this EP, "Mad at You". Someone absurdly called this record "metal" in a glowing web review, probably because of this first track. Apart from the dreadful repetition of the lyric, "Only one reason we're mad at you," this could be a less sexy cover of !!!'s "Must Be the Moon". It's a flitting, sparks-flying, and fist-pumping song, but the context is annoyingly understated. What could the band really be referring to, and could they at least give us a clue? Instruments can be voices, inferential in their illumination of what the singer is on about, but here, they're just as brain-dead as the words. The New York group, often compared to the Rapture, suffers from a penchant for dance-rock jams that sounded better four years ago (or 24). Heavy bass work, which is not so much noodling as rudimentary scale exercises, prevents the sultry hints of new wave created by "Fourteen Again"'s vocals from really sinking in. The repetition of the line-- you guessed it-- "fourteen again" convinces you that only electro-house and its cousins should be permitted to bathe in such monotony. The Glass tries too hard to create something emotive here, but the music doesn't really fit anywhere; you can't dance to it, and when listening alone, it's fuel for feeling a bit hopeless, either about life or the future of music. The best comes last: in a damp, anemic drawl, "4 Bytes" closes out the seven tracks with wah-wah guitar and a wandering, vertiginous pattern of glittering electronics. This soothing departure from the shin-kick rhythm of the majority of the songs nearly saves the entire EP: it's a small return to the band's earlier two releases, and itjourneys homogenously without dulling the senses. The only rival to "Bytes" is the pleasantly cloudy "Green Leaves", which garnishes its thundering bass line and feathery alto vocals with soaring fake strings and a simple electric guitar that settles down for a twinkle of peaceful decorative effects. Still, the longevity of such a track is questionable, especially with a nonexistent chorus and no hint of any emotion more powerful than longing.

Artist: The Glass, Album: Couples Therapy EP, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 5.3 Album review: "The Glass kicks up the dust of recent bands like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club on the first song of this EP, "Mad at You". Someone absurdly called this record "metal" in a glowing web review, probably because of this first track. Apart from the dreadful repetition of the lyric, "Only one reason we're mad at you," this could be a less sexy cover of !!!'s "Must Be the Moon". It's a flitting, sparks-flying, and fist-pumping song, but the context is annoyingly understated. What could the band really be referring to, and could they at least give us a clue? Instruments can be voices, inferential in their illumination of what the singer is on about, but here, they're just as brain-dead as the words. The New York group, often compared to the Rapture, suffers from a penchant for dance-rock jams that sounded better four years ago (or 24). Heavy bass work, which is not so much noodling as rudimentary scale exercises, prevents the sultry hints of new wave created by "Fourteen Again"'s vocals from really sinking in. The repetition of the line-- you guessed it-- "fourteen again" convinces you that only electro-house and its cousins should be permitted to bathe in such monotony. The Glass tries too hard to create something emotive here, but the music doesn't really fit anywhere; you can't dance to it, and when listening alone, it's fuel for feeling a bit hopeless, either about life or the future of music. The best comes last: in a damp, anemic drawl, "4 Bytes" closes out the seven tracks with wah-wah guitar and a wandering, vertiginous pattern of glittering electronics. This soothing departure from the shin-kick rhythm of the majority of the songs nearly saves the entire EP: it's a small return to the band's earlier two releases, and itjourneys homogenously without dulling the senses. The only rival to "Bytes" is the pleasantly cloudy "Green Leaves", which garnishes its thundering bass line and feathery alto vocals with soaring fake strings and a simple electric guitar that settles down for a twinkle of peaceful decorative effects. Still, the longevity of such a track is questionable, especially with a nonexistent chorus and no hint of any emotion more powerful than longing."

Title Fight

Hyperview

Rock

Zoe Camp

Baptized in Hot Water Music, schooled in bicoastal hardcore and post-punk, and supported by pizza-obsessed Tumblr kids and critics alike, Title Fight are living proof of the cherry-picking mores of modern punk bands and their audiences. The group’s formative years—namely, the period spanning from the early slew of EPs in the late aughts to their 2011 debut, Shed—painted a portrait of four working-class kids looking to start some skate-ready ruckus and slap some sense into the Warped Tour set. They proceeded to balance that might with melody on 2012’s excellent album Floral Green, and further refined the approach on 2013’s Spring Songs EP. A decade in, the labels aren’t sticking like they used to. For every "true pop punk" acolyte who groups them with Man Overboard and the Wonder Years, there’s a '90s-inclined listener who considers them the new Jawbreaker, or a former hardcore fan curious to see what’s coming next. When labels become irrelevant, then so do the expectations associated with them, and it is from this precipice that Title Fight leap into Hyperview, propelled forwards by disarming self-awareness and generous, generous use of the whammy bar. Title Fight have referred explicitly to the album as a work of "guitar music," and the effects-driven fretwork is the record’s most distinguishing trait, especially given the absence of the double-time drumming and in-your-face bass parts that dominated the band’s preceding albums. The boards are again manned by Will Yip, the band’s longtime producer; making a significant departure for an aural engineer typically inclined towards robust, no-nonsense punk, he swathes the chiming guitars in warped, shoegaze-y tones and sticks them at the very front of the mix, optimizing their dissonant effects. The textures are tactile; the steeled, gnashing strumming that opens "Chlorine" feels sharp enough to slice, while the cavalcade of prickly, chiming chords that kicks off "Trace Me Onto You" rushes in from all sides, bristling against the ears like steel wool. The relentless focus on guitar tone might be too strong, though: on songs like "Mrahc", and "Rose of Sharon", the bleached-out fretwork bleeds into the surrounding sonic space as to render Jamie Rhoden and Ned Russin’s vocals downright inaudible. It’s worth noting that in the case of the album’s delirious closer, "New Vision", the mistranslation actually adds to the experience. Rather, the seamless union of the singer's mumbles and the guitar’s moans constitutes a new language in itself, united in the gloaming. But without a strong vocal presence to bolster slow drifters like "Dizzy", the richness of the guitars steadily overwhelms until there’s nothing left. That’s a shame, because from a narrative standpoint, Hyperview’s lyrical concerns prove compelling, if only because they’re so relatable. "Trace Me Onto You" approaches the rage-fueled rush of makeup sex as a desperate attempt to reconnect with some form of the "we," thereby legitimizing the "I," a false union whose collapse is chronicled on "Liar’s Love". "Your Pain Is Mine Now", by contrast, seeks resolution in the form of emotional warfare, all Gatling guns and wasted tears. “Burned alive" and "tangled in the dark" at the same time, Rhoden renders the sadness of subject, singer and listener obsolete. His muffled whines of "Cry/ Die/Boo-hoo" are all but engulfed by the flange, a pretty little nihilistic touch. Some of the hardcore faithful criticize Hyperview as a naked stab at an "indie crossover"—a softer, watered-down version of Title Fight's melodic pop-punk peddled as transcendent, but hollow in character. To a large chunk of fans, the band's signing to Anti- (the Epitaph sister label behind releases from decidedly non-punk acts like Dr. Dog and Xavier Rudd) constitutes both a commercial cop-out and a slight against the kids who wanted to see one of the more promising pop-punk acts grow up into a moshpit machine rather than an underwater emo outfit. Title Fight may be young, muddy, and occasionally clunky with the wordplay, but they’re certainly not stupid: The proper assertion of one’s independence may very well lie in the subtle, steady subversion of genre rather than a grizzled scream or the crash of cymbals. As for the complicated equation balancing volume and dynamics with intent, it's safe to say that Hyperview packs just as much intensity as in past records, albeit with a cooler, softer flame; between "Rose of Sharon", "Mrahc", and "New Vision", even the most skeptical fan will be able to find a slow-burner that captures the thrill of any Shed song. Consistent, concise and stylistically compelling, Hyperview is a good set of tracks, and a worthy crossover attempt at that, provided you’re OK with consulting the lyrics booklet and willing to take a ride on the undertow.

Artist: Title Fight, Album: Hyperview, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Baptized in Hot Water Music, schooled in bicoastal hardcore and post-punk, and supported by pizza-obsessed Tumblr kids and critics alike, Title Fight are living proof of the cherry-picking mores of modern punk bands and their audiences. The group’s formative years—namely, the period spanning from the early slew of EPs in the late aughts to their 2011 debut, Shed—painted a portrait of four working-class kids looking to start some skate-ready ruckus and slap some sense into the Warped Tour set. They proceeded to balance that might with melody on 2012’s excellent album Floral Green, and further refined the approach on 2013’s Spring Songs EP. A decade in, the labels aren’t sticking like they used to. For every "true pop punk" acolyte who groups them with Man Overboard and the Wonder Years, there’s a '90s-inclined listener who considers them the new Jawbreaker, or a former hardcore fan curious to see what’s coming next. When labels become irrelevant, then so do the expectations associated with them, and it is from this precipice that Title Fight leap into Hyperview, propelled forwards by disarming self-awareness and generous, generous use of the whammy bar. Title Fight have referred explicitly to the album as a work of "guitar music," and the effects-driven fretwork is the record’s most distinguishing trait, especially given the absence of the double-time drumming and in-your-face bass parts that dominated the band’s preceding albums. The boards are again manned by Will Yip, the band’s longtime producer; making a significant departure for an aural engineer typically inclined towards robust, no-nonsense punk, he swathes the chiming guitars in warped, shoegaze-y tones and sticks them at the very front of the mix, optimizing their dissonant effects. The textures are tactile; the steeled, gnashing strumming that opens "Chlorine" feels sharp enough to slice, while the cavalcade of prickly, chiming chords that kicks off "Trace Me Onto You" rushes in from all sides, bristling against the ears like steel wool. The relentless focus on guitar tone might be too strong, though: on songs like "Mrahc", and "Rose of Sharon", the bleached-out fretwork bleeds into the surrounding sonic space as to render Jamie Rhoden and Ned Russin’s vocals downright inaudible. It’s worth noting that in the case of the album’s delirious closer, "New Vision", the mistranslation actually adds to the experience. Rather, the seamless union of the singer's mumbles and the guitar’s moans constitutes a new language in itself, united in the gloaming. But without a strong vocal presence to bolster slow drifters like "Dizzy", the richness of the guitars steadily overwhelms until there’s nothing left. That’s a shame, because from a narrative standpoint, Hyperview’s lyrical concerns prove compelling, if only because they’re so relatable. "Trace Me Onto You" approaches the rage-fueled rush of makeup sex as a desperate attempt to reconnect with some form of the "we," thereby legitimizing the "I," a false union whose collapse is chronicled on "Liar’s Love". "Your Pain Is Mine Now", by contrast, seeks resolution in the form of emotional warfare, all Gatling guns and wasted tears. “Burned alive" and "tangled in the dark" at the same time, Rhoden renders the sadness of subject, singer and listener obsolete. His muffled whines of "Cry/ Die/Boo-hoo" are all but engulfed by the flange, a pretty little nihilistic touch. Some of the hardcore faithful criticize Hyperview as a naked stab at an "indie crossover"—a softer, watered-down version of Title Fight's melodic pop-punk peddled as transcendent, but hollow in character. To a large chunk of fans, the band's signing to Anti- (the Epitaph sister label behind releases from decidedly non-punk acts like Dr. Dog and Xavier Rudd) constitutes both a commercial cop-out and a slight against the kids who wanted to see one of the more promising pop-punk acts grow up into a moshpit machine rather than an underwater emo outfit. Title Fight may be young, muddy, and occasionally clunky with the wordplay, but they’re certainly not stupid: The proper assertion of one’s independence may very well lie in the subtle, steady subversion of genre rather than a grizzled scream or the crash of cymbals. As for the complicated equation balancing volume and dynamics with intent, it's safe to say that Hyperview packs just as much intensity as in past records, albeit with a cooler, softer flame; between "Rose of Sharon", "Mrahc", and "New Vision", even the most skeptical fan will be able to find a slow-burner that captures the thrill of any Shed song. Consistent, concise and stylistically compelling, Hyperview is a good set of tracks, and a worthy crossover attempt at that, provided you’re OK with consulting the lyrics booklet and willing to take a ride on the undertow."

Boom Bip

Seed to Sun

Electronic,Rap

Sam Chennault

Boom Bip's Seed to Sun isn't hip-hop. Hip-hop is dirty, concrete, in-your-face visceral, and reflective of an on-going public discourse. Seed to Sun, which is a mostly instrumental offering, is tightly enclosed and intensely internal; the sound doesn't attempt to capture the public zeitgeist, instead preferring to meander through a cryptic inner space in search of slight, fleeting emotions and repressed memories. At its best, it works as a soundtrack to the prolonged moments of silence that accompany technological isolation. Yet this isn't another dry, droid-like testament to the dystopia of post-millennial life. Its focus is generally more human than it is mechanical, and it's more tenderly emotive than it is dryly disjointed. Although Seed to Sun is a very personal affair, the music is identifiably derivative. Boom Bip (aka Bryan Hollon) engages in what seems like incessant genre-hopping; suburban hip-hop, wankish laptop conceptualism, and cinematic post-rock are all indiscriminately plucked from Boom Bip's musical milieus and given generous footing on this record. Still, Hollon maintains a consistency throughout by constantly reinforcing his musical motifs. Looped, barely suppressed voices can be heard throughout, and a high-pitch ringing sound is never far off, acting as a musical highwire that the various breakbeats and synth lines cling to. Thematically, the album oscillates between three different moods: the intricate melancholy of monotony; the broad sweeping attempts to transcend the clutter; and what is perhaps the triumphant failure of the warring tensions: when Hollon abandons his attempts at transcendence and embraces the playful possibilities that flutter around the edges of the techno wasteland. Seed to Sun works best when it's either quirkily repetitive or resigning itself to funky experimentation. When it attempts to be anthemic and triumphant, it falls flat. "Roads Must Rule," which kicks off the album, contains a looping violin sample that comes across as forced, clichéd, and more than a little similar to disposable soundtrack music that denotes a victorious climax. The circus music quality of "Newly Weds" wouldn't feel out of place as one of the brief musical interludes on Tom Waits' Swordfishtrombones, while "U R Here," which follows "Newly Weds," resembles Múm, except with a juicier hip-hop beat. The static and transposed conversations of "Pulse All Over" are effective if a bit incidental. The discordant vibe carries itself through the first minute of the next track, "Awaiting an Accident," before giving way to a smoky, almost gothic beat that sounds something like a Depeche Mode remix. Hollon also offers a couple of vocal tracks which pop up sporadically throughout the album. "The Unthinkable," which features spoken-word artist Buck 65, boasts an ironically bouncy beat. "No matter what, I still can't sleep/ Everywhere I still see ghost," Buck 65 sings in the chorus, and the song feels like a half-awake recitation of random, eerie suburban imagery. The seemingly unrelated scenes that Buck 65 conjures are both mundane and magical, which can be said to inform Boom Bip's style in general. By extracting the minor aural nuances of everyday life and tinkering with them just enough to slightly skewer their context, Boom Bip conjures the artful from the mechanical like some wired snake charmer. At his best, he taps into the internal logic that guides the random beeps and squeaks that generally slide beneath our immediate consciousness. But when his hand is too strong, and he attempts to place the noises within a more traditional song structure, it's an embarrassing failure. Still, this is experimental music, and occasional failures can be forgiven.

Artist: Boom Bip, Album: Seed to Sun, Genre: Electronic,Rap, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Boom Bip's Seed to Sun isn't hip-hop. Hip-hop is dirty, concrete, in-your-face visceral, and reflective of an on-going public discourse. Seed to Sun, which is a mostly instrumental offering, is tightly enclosed and intensely internal; the sound doesn't attempt to capture the public zeitgeist, instead preferring to meander through a cryptic inner space in search of slight, fleeting emotions and repressed memories. At its best, it works as a soundtrack to the prolonged moments of silence that accompany technological isolation. Yet this isn't another dry, droid-like testament to the dystopia of post-millennial life. Its focus is generally more human than it is mechanical, and it's more tenderly emotive than it is dryly disjointed. Although Seed to Sun is a very personal affair, the music is identifiably derivative. Boom Bip (aka Bryan Hollon) engages in what seems like incessant genre-hopping; suburban hip-hop, wankish laptop conceptualism, and cinematic post-rock are all indiscriminately plucked from Boom Bip's musical milieus and given generous footing on this record. Still, Hollon maintains a consistency throughout by constantly reinforcing his musical motifs. Looped, barely suppressed voices can be heard throughout, and a high-pitch ringing sound is never far off, acting as a musical highwire that the various breakbeats and synth lines cling to. Thematically, the album oscillates between three different moods: the intricate melancholy of monotony; the broad sweeping attempts to transcend the clutter; and what is perhaps the triumphant failure of the warring tensions: when Hollon abandons his attempts at transcendence and embraces the playful possibilities that flutter around the edges of the techno wasteland. Seed to Sun works best when it's either quirkily repetitive or resigning itself to funky experimentation. When it attempts to be anthemic and triumphant, it falls flat. "Roads Must Rule," which kicks off the album, contains a looping violin sample that comes across as forced, clichéd, and more than a little similar to disposable soundtrack music that denotes a victorious climax. The circus music quality of "Newly Weds" wouldn't feel out of place as one of the brief musical interludes on Tom Waits' Swordfishtrombones, while "U R Here," which follows "Newly Weds," resembles Múm, except with a juicier hip-hop beat. The static and transposed conversations of "Pulse All Over" are effective if a bit incidental. The discordant vibe carries itself through the first minute of the next track, "Awaiting an Accident," before giving way to a smoky, almost gothic beat that sounds something like a Depeche Mode remix. Hollon also offers a couple of vocal tracks which pop up sporadically throughout the album. "The Unthinkable," which features spoken-word artist Buck 65, boasts an ironically bouncy beat. "No matter what, I still can't sleep/ Everywhere I still see ghost," Buck 65 sings in the chorus, and the song feels like a half-awake recitation of random, eerie suburban imagery. The seemingly unrelated scenes that Buck 65 conjures are both mundane and magical, which can be said to inform Boom Bip's style in general. By extracting the minor aural nuances of everyday life and tinkering with them just enough to slightly skewer their context, Boom Bip conjures the artful from the mechanical like some wired snake charmer. At his best, he taps into the internal logic that guides the random beeps and squeaks that generally slide beneath our immediate consciousness. But when his hand is too strong, and he attempts to place the noises within a more traditional song structure, it's an embarrassing failure. Still, this is experimental music, and occasional failures can be forgiven."

David Banner, 9th Wonder

Death of a Pop Star

Rap

Jess Harvell

For all the pre-release hype-- one of southern rap's more idiosyncratic auteurs spitting hard-eyed realism over beats from one of the key flame-keepers for golden age boom-bap-- Death of a Pop Star turned out to be a strange, slight, largely disappointing record. It should have been the album to reverse David Banner's creative slide. But instead of hellfire righteousness over back-to-basics bangers, we got 10 tracks heavy on drippy love raps, dumbly repetitive hooks, and beats suspiciously lacking in thump-value. Banner made a splash with 2003's Mississippi: The Album, a fascinating mix of amoral thugging and mournful moralizing. After that he mostly ditched the interesting side of his persona-- erudite everyman torn between Southern pride and sorrow over the down-and-out realities of Southern life-- in search of BEP-level hits. This quixotic quest reached an ugly apotheosis with 2008's The Greatest Story Ever Told, where the few moments of politicized rage were smothered and made facile by the icky, half-assed attempts to keep up with the Auto-Tuned Joneses. In that light, even the title, Death of a Pop Star, seemed promising, a chance for Banner to disavow his attempts to create top-selling ringtones and get back to the fury that once made him one of the quasi-mainstream's most interesting figures. The duo maybe even went into the studio intending to make their Illmatic: a dose of classicist rap intensity, one MC going hard over no-filler beats. What they turned out instead is, like all of Banner's albums since Mississippi, a muddled hybrid of styles that clash more often than they mesh. Many tracks have an awkwardly smooth R&B vibe that diffuses Banner's decidedly non-smooth energy. And Banner's version of "soul rap," his emotionally naked bluesy drawl, was already a hundred times more interesting than the antiseptic pop-soul stabs on Death, tracks like "Slow Down" which have as much grit as the Ace of Base tunes the song's hook recalls. The album as a whole is as overloaded with guest stars as the way longer Greatest Story Ever Told. True, Death of a Pop Star displays better taste in collaborations than Banner's last few albums. But what's the point of snagging Erykah Badu instead of Chris Brown if you're going to task her with a chorus as inane as "and I get real silly?" Throughout Death decent singers and rappers keep showing up to drop dashed-off hooks in what feels like a rather desperate attempt to turn these slickly produced loops into honest-to-god songs. And speaking of loops: Though 9th Wonder cements his well-earned rep for spotting the perfect fluttery soul samples to color a track, the actual beats on Death are mostly slight, skittery things, lacking the low-end force that made folks like Pete Rock and Dilla heroes to folks other than crate-diggers. Lyrically, the album's a mess. Banner's obviously a smart guy, but as soon as he starts kicking game his IQ seems to drop about 40 points. Entry-level come-ons like "Stutter"-- "look at your hips, look at your physique, you're so fine from behind girl, I be scared to speak"-- mark him as one of rap's least convincing lotharios. The saddest thing is that "Stutter" is Banner's flow at his best on Death, nimble in a way makes you wish he had something meatier to sink his skills into. And the few moments of overt social comment on Death feel like a pastiche of Banner's older, more committed songs. "They call it the trap because most hoods is just that" is the kind of water-weak insight you could expect from the most apolitical gangsta, but worse, Banner just doesn't sound as pained, engaged, or enraged as he once did on songs like "Mississippi" or "Fire Falling". There are moments throughout Death of a Pop Star that suggest the better album that might have resulted with a little more focus and intensity. You still hope Banner gets there again eventually; he's too odd and talented, too much his own man, to wind up an also-ran in hip-hop history.

Artist: David Banner, 9th Wonder, Album: Death of a Pop Star, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "For all the pre-release hype-- one of southern rap's more idiosyncratic auteurs spitting hard-eyed realism over beats from one of the key flame-keepers for golden age boom-bap-- Death of a Pop Star turned out to be a strange, slight, largely disappointing record. It should have been the album to reverse David Banner's creative slide. But instead of hellfire righteousness over back-to-basics bangers, we got 10 tracks heavy on drippy love raps, dumbly repetitive hooks, and beats suspiciously lacking in thump-value. Banner made a splash with 2003's Mississippi: The Album, a fascinating mix of amoral thugging and mournful moralizing. After that he mostly ditched the interesting side of his persona-- erudite everyman torn between Southern pride and sorrow over the down-and-out realities of Southern life-- in search of BEP-level hits. This quixotic quest reached an ugly apotheosis with 2008's The Greatest Story Ever Told, where the few moments of politicized rage were smothered and made facile by the icky, half-assed attempts to keep up with the Auto-Tuned Joneses. In that light, even the title, Death of a Pop Star, seemed promising, a chance for Banner to disavow his attempts to create top-selling ringtones and get back to the fury that once made him one of the quasi-mainstream's most interesting figures. The duo maybe even went into the studio intending to make their Illmatic: a dose of classicist rap intensity, one MC going hard over no-filler beats. What they turned out instead is, like all of Banner's albums since Mississippi, a muddled hybrid of styles that clash more often than they mesh. Many tracks have an awkwardly smooth R&B vibe that diffuses Banner's decidedly non-smooth energy. And Banner's version of "soul rap," his emotionally naked bluesy drawl, was already a hundred times more interesting than the antiseptic pop-soul stabs on Death, tracks like "Slow Down" which have as much grit as the Ace of Base tunes the song's hook recalls. The album as a whole is as overloaded with guest stars as the way longer Greatest Story Ever Told. True, Death of a Pop Star displays better taste in collaborations than Banner's last few albums. But what's the point of snagging Erykah Badu instead of Chris Brown if you're going to task her with a chorus as inane as "and I get real silly?" Throughout Death decent singers and rappers keep showing up to drop dashed-off hooks in what feels like a rather desperate attempt to turn these slickly produced loops into honest-to-god songs. And speaking of loops: Though 9th Wonder cements his well-earned rep for spotting the perfect fluttery soul samples to color a track, the actual beats on Death are mostly slight, skittery things, lacking the low-end force that made folks like Pete Rock and Dilla heroes to folks other than crate-diggers. Lyrically, the album's a mess. Banner's obviously a smart guy, but as soon as he starts kicking game his IQ seems to drop about 40 points. Entry-level come-ons like "Stutter"-- "look at your hips, look at your physique, you're so fine from behind girl, I be scared to speak"-- mark him as one of rap's least convincing lotharios. The saddest thing is that "Stutter" is Banner's flow at his best on Death, nimble in a way makes you wish he had something meatier to sink his skills into. And the few moments of overt social comment on Death feel like a pastiche of Banner's older, more committed songs. "They call it the trap because most hoods is just that" is the kind of water-weak insight you could expect from the most apolitical gangsta, but worse, Banner just doesn't sound as pained, engaged, or enraged as he once did on songs like "Mississippi" or "Fire Falling". There are moments throughout Death of a Pop Star that suggest the better album that might have resulted with a little more focus and intensity. You still hope Banner gets there again eventually; he's too odd and talented, too much his own man, to wind up an also-ran in hip-hop history."

Beauty Pill

Beauty Pill Describes Things As They Are

Metal

Jason Heller

There are two tracks titled "Ann the Word" on Beauty Pill Describes Things as They Are, the first album by Beauty Pill in 11 years. The difference between the two speaks volumes. The first "Ann the Word" is an original composition by Beauty Pill’s creative leader and core member, singer/guitarist/multi-instrumentalist Chad Clark; it features Clark’s longtime Beauty Pill partner Jean Cook on ghostly lead vocals as a shamisen is plucked, jōruri-style, in the background, accompanied by prickly dissonant and haywire electronics. The second "Ann the Word" is a cover of a song by Lungfish, a group that was Clark’s labelmate back when he fronted the Dischord Records outfit Smart Went Crazy in the late '90s; here, the primordial dread of the original is scooped out, and the void is filled with sample-heavy layering. After Clark chants Daniel Higgs’ eschatological poetry, Cook comes in at the end and gets angelic, repeating, "The world vanished in a gentle breeze." In recent years, Clark himself almost met his end, and not so gently. In 2007 he was diagnosed with a viral heart ailment that he battled, off and on, for the next few years—up to and including multiple open-heart surgeries. For months on end, he didn’t have the strength to play the guitar. His struggles put the brakes on Beauty Pill, whose lone full-length for Dischord, 2004’s The Unsustainable Lifestyle, continued in the art-pop direction that Clark had established in Smart Went Crazy—with muddled results. But in 2006, Clark began exploring a new direction for Pill with a demo of "Ann the Word" (his song, not the cover), which broke from guitar-bass-drums to probe the freer domain of laptop arrangement, electro-acoustics, and samples. On D**escribes Things as They Are, he finally fulfills the promise of this direction, which proves fruitful and wise. The album is a smorgasbord of angles, melodies, loops, pockets, and fractal surfaces that nonetheless refuse to deviate from Clark’s longstanding bailiwick: the mythic power of the pop hook. He loves to unfold his songs as if they’re some kind of four-dimensional puzzle; "Ain’t a Jury in the World Gon Convict You Baby" launches on an almost industrially severe beat before the organic squish of drones and symphonic surges trickle in. It’s a big-screen anthem that addresses nationalism in a cultural climate of paranoia and recrimination, but it also packs scads of auditory information into a streamlined slither. Rather than milk his life-threatening illness for all of its lyrical worth, Clark uses it here more as a catalyst than source of raw material. In fact, in the few instances where he does address his illness—as on "Near Miss Stories", where he sings breezily over disembodied guitar, "Stethoscope on my chest, he says we better do this fast/ One of these beats of your heart is gonna be the last"—he speaks through hints and distances, and even a punch line: "The surgeon once practiced on a blood orange in an art class." Clark performs his own kind of surgery all over Describes Things as They Are, which is filled with punchy, brassy scrambles of samples and skittering drums. *"*Drapetomania" sounds like Art of Noise spliced with New Jack Swing. But for every manic experiment there is a pulsing, pretty, pop collage like "Dog with Rabbit in Mouth Unharmed". Clark’s postmodern pedigree shows on "For Pretend", a clatter of percussion and pinging guitar that also sports one of Clark’s most arresting melodies. If there is a drawback to Describes, it is that a few songs rely a little too heavily on Beauty Pill’s limited back of sonic tricks, whose impact dims slightly after prolonged exposure. "Ann the Word" isn’t the only cover song on Describes Things as They Are. Clark and crew also offer a rendition of Arto Lindsay’s "The Prize"—only in this case, it’s highly faithful, right down to the muscular beat, lush strings, and faint brushes of Tropicália. Compare this reverent cover to his radically deconstructed take on Lungfish, the album's only visible link to Clark's past, and you can see where Clark's inclinations lie. In "Exit Without Saving", he sings, with taunting sweetness, "You recognize that this is noise, right?/ You still want it?" Clark had to wait over a decade to offer us his vision for what Beauty Pill could be, and he poses this question on Describes Things as They Are with delicacy and daring. The restless, breathless music makes clear that whatever the answer might be, he's not waiting around for it.

Artist: Beauty Pill, Album: Beauty Pill Describes Things As They Are, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "There are two tracks titled "Ann the Word" on Beauty Pill Describes Things as They Are, the first album by Beauty Pill in 11 years. The difference between the two speaks volumes. The first "Ann the Word" is an original composition by Beauty Pill’s creative leader and core member, singer/guitarist/multi-instrumentalist Chad Clark; it features Clark’s longtime Beauty Pill partner Jean Cook on ghostly lead vocals as a shamisen is plucked, jōruri-style, in the background, accompanied by prickly dissonant and haywire electronics. The second "Ann the Word" is a cover of a song by Lungfish, a group that was Clark’s labelmate back when he fronted the Dischord Records outfit Smart Went Crazy in the late '90s; here, the primordial dread of the original is scooped out, and the void is filled with sample-heavy layering. After Clark chants Daniel Higgs’ eschatological poetry, Cook comes in at the end and gets angelic, repeating, "The world vanished in a gentle breeze." In recent years, Clark himself almost met his end, and not so gently. In 2007 he was diagnosed with a viral heart ailment that he battled, off and on, for the next few years—up to and including multiple open-heart surgeries. For months on end, he didn’t have the strength to play the guitar. His struggles put the brakes on Beauty Pill, whose lone full-length for Dischord, 2004’s The Unsustainable Lifestyle, continued in the art-pop direction that Clark had established in Smart Went Crazy—with muddled results. But in 2006, Clark began exploring a new direction for Pill with a demo of "Ann the Word" (his song, not the cover), which broke from guitar-bass-drums to probe the freer domain of laptop arrangement, electro-acoustics, and samples. On D**escribes Things as They Are, he finally fulfills the promise of this direction, which proves fruitful and wise. The album is a smorgasbord of angles, melodies, loops, pockets, and fractal surfaces that nonetheless refuse to deviate from Clark’s longstanding bailiwick: the mythic power of the pop hook. He loves to unfold his songs as if they’re some kind of four-dimensional puzzle; "Ain’t a Jury in the World Gon Convict You Baby" launches on an almost industrially severe beat before the organic squish of drones and symphonic surges trickle in. It’s a big-screen anthem that addresses nationalism in a cultural climate of paranoia and recrimination, but it also packs scads of auditory information into a streamlined slither. Rather than milk his life-threatening illness for all of its lyrical worth, Clark uses it here more as a catalyst than source of raw material. In fact, in the few instances where he does address his illness—as on "Near Miss Stories", where he sings breezily over disembodied guitar, "Stethoscope on my chest, he says we better do this fast/ One of these beats of your heart is gonna be the last"—he speaks through hints and distances, and even a punch line: "The surgeon once practiced on a blood orange in an art class." Clark performs his own kind of surgery all over Describes Things as They Are, which is filled with punchy, brassy scrambles of samples and skittering drums. *"*Drapetomania" sounds like Art of Noise spliced with New Jack Swing. But for every manic experiment there is a pulsing, pretty, pop collage like "Dog with Rabbit in Mouth Unharmed". Clark’s postmodern pedigree shows on "For Pretend", a clatter of percussion and pinging guitar that also sports one of Clark’s most arresting melodies. If there is a drawback to Describes, it is that a few songs rely a little too heavily on Beauty Pill’s limited back of sonic tricks, whose impact dims slightly after prolonged exposure. "Ann the Word" isn’t the only cover song on Describes Things as They Are. Clark and crew also offer a rendition of Arto Lindsay’s "The Prize"—only in this case, it’s highly faithful, right down to the muscular beat, lush strings, and faint brushes of Tropicália. Compare this reverent cover to his radically deconstructed take on Lungfish, the album's only visible link to Clark's past, and you can see where Clark's inclinations lie. In "Exit Without Saving", he sings, with taunting sweetness, "You recognize that this is noise, right?/ You still want it?" Clark had to wait over a decade to offer us his vision for what Beauty Pill could be, and he poses this question on Describes Things as They Are with delicacy and daring. The restless, breathless music makes clear that whatever the answer might be, he's not waiting around for it."

Apollo Brown, Joell Ortiz

Mona Lisa

Rap

Dean Van Nguyen

It takes extreme dedication to the old school to keep your references on point. No self-respecting b-boy, after all, raps about data ownership, the Tide Pod Challenge, or “The Conners.” Certainly not Joell Ortiz, who’s less a golden-age hip-hop revivalist and more a hardened industry survivor. There’s a moment on “Decisions” when, in an attempt to assert his lack of interest in keeping up with fashionable young stars, Ortiz name-drops Lil Wayne. No disrespect to Weezy, who just put out his most vital album in years, but that the reference is probably about a decade out of date tells you more about Ortiz than the lyric itself. He goes on to advise listeners on where to buy their CDs, like a rap Jasper Beardly. Street-corner rhymes and grubby beats in 2018? What a time to be alive. Ortiz’ career so far has been nomadic. That his time on Dr. Dre’s Aftermath Entertainment failed to produce an album is no disgrace—the list of rappers who have struggled to hold the good doctor’s attention is long and distinguished (Rakim, for one). He hooked up with Joe Budden, Royce de 5’9”, and Kxng Crooked to form Slaughterhouse in the collective hope that the spectacle of four beaten-down rappers would be enough to gain some kind of traction. But Mona Lisa feels like Ortiz is done chasing ghosts. Dedicated to the core tenets of East Coast hip-hop, the album finds the Brooklynite incredibly content to bask in a sound as classic as the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. At just 38, he’s only a couple years older than Westside Gunn, one of the contemporary stars of cracked New York rap. Yet on Mona Lisa, Ortiz revels in his elder-statesman status. It’s as comfortable a fit as a pair of silk pajamas two sizes too big. To achieve this synthesis, you need a producer smothered in the original myths of hip-hop—a chop-up-the-soul symphonist who worships at the altar of DJ Premier. Enter Apollo Brown, the Detroit slinger of throwback boom-bap. Like Ortiz, Brown doesn’t pardon his old-fashioned proclivities, blazing a production style built on dusty samples, quick-hand scratches, and steady drum loops. With a batch of beats that sound like they came off the same production line as No Question, the equally solid joint record he put out this year with Locksmith, Mona Lisa won’t win awards for ingenuity or surprises, but it’s rarely hard on the ear. Ortiz’s affinity for Brown and this project is confirmed by how strikingly personal his writing is. The whimsical beat of “Reflection” finds Ortiz staring out onto the Hudson River, picturing the rap riches he might have achieved before peacefully reconciling with the career he has had (“My fans don’t expect me on the charts/Guess when you gifted, sometimes you rap yourself into a box”). Sometimes he uses his seniority to spin wisdom like a modern version of Ossie Davis’ Da Mayor from Do the Right Thing. After shouting out his Brooklyn roots on “Grace of God,” he unleashes a reminder of what the borough’s residents have dealt with with since time immemorial: “The police, they did the same shit y’all seeing now, ‘cept camera phones wasn’t out.” Not everything is as sweet. Ortiz sounds oafish on “Cocaine Fingertips,” which, among other things, has a vile double entendre that refers to cases of child sexual abuse by Catholic priests. Turns out he’s more Gilbert Gottfried than Action Bronson when it comes to oddball humor. Mona Lisa has few such obvious flaws, yet the album can sometimes feel overly snug. A little more tension would have been welcome—the kind that fellow mature-minded New Yorkers like Roc Marciano and Ka lean towards with their warped orchestration, or the Alchemist, with his affinity for more psychedelic sounds. But it’s hard to grumble too much about an album that speaks the eternal truths of boom-bap with such nostalgic romance. More importantly, it shows us that a clear-minded Ortiz, with no interested in proving anything to you or me, is well worth keeping around.

Artist: Apollo Brown, Joell Ortiz, Album: Mona Lisa, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "It takes extreme dedication to the old school to keep your references on point. No self-respecting b-boy, after all, raps about data ownership, the Tide Pod Challenge, or “The Conners.” Certainly not Joell Ortiz, who’s less a golden-age hip-hop revivalist and more a hardened industry survivor. There’s a moment on “Decisions” when, in an attempt to assert his lack of interest in keeping up with fashionable young stars, Ortiz name-drops Lil Wayne. No disrespect to Weezy, who just put out his most vital album in years, but that the reference is probably about a decade out of date tells you more about Ortiz than the lyric itself. He goes on to advise listeners on where to buy their CDs, like a rap Jasper Beardly. Street-corner rhymes and grubby beats in 2018? What a time to be alive. Ortiz’ career so far has been nomadic. That his time on Dr. Dre’s Aftermath Entertainment failed to produce an album is no disgrace—the list of rappers who have struggled to hold the good doctor’s attention is long and distinguished (Rakim, for one). He hooked up with Joe Budden, Royce de 5’9”, and Kxng Crooked to form Slaughterhouse in the collective hope that the spectacle of four beaten-down rappers would be enough to gain some kind of traction. But Mona Lisa feels like Ortiz is done chasing ghosts. Dedicated to the core tenets of East Coast hip-hop, the album finds the Brooklynite incredibly content to bask in a sound as classic as the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. At just 38, he’s only a couple years older than Westside Gunn, one of the contemporary stars of cracked New York rap. Yet on Mona Lisa, Ortiz revels in his elder-statesman status. It’s as comfortable a fit as a pair of silk pajamas two sizes too big. To achieve this synthesis, you need a producer smothered in the original myths of hip-hop—a chop-up-the-soul symphonist who worships at the altar of DJ Premier. Enter Apollo Brown, the Detroit slinger of throwback boom-bap. Like Ortiz, Brown doesn’t pardon his old-fashioned proclivities, blazing a production style built on dusty samples, quick-hand scratches, and steady drum loops. With a batch of beats that sound like they came off the same production line as No Question, the equally solid joint record he put out this year with Locksmith, Mona Lisa won’t win awards for ingenuity or surprises, but it’s rarely hard on the ear. Ortiz’s affinity for Brown and this project is confirmed by how strikingly personal his writing is. The whimsical beat of “Reflection” finds Ortiz staring out onto the Hudson River, picturing the rap riches he might have achieved before peacefully reconciling with the career he has had (“My fans don’t expect me on the charts/Guess when you gifted, sometimes you rap yourself into a box”). Sometimes he uses his seniority to spin wisdom like a modern version of Ossie Davis’ Da Mayor from Do the Right Thing. After shouting out his Brooklyn roots on “Grace of God,” he unleashes a reminder of what the borough’s residents have dealt with with since time immemorial: “The police, they did the same shit y’all seeing now, ‘cept camera phones wasn’t out.” Not everything is as sweet. Ortiz sounds oafish on “Cocaine Fingertips,” which, among other things, has a vile double entendre that refers to cases of child sexual abuse by Catholic priests. Turns out he’s more Gilbert Gottfried than Action Bronson when it comes to oddball humor. Mona Lisa has few such obvious flaws, yet the album can sometimes feel overly snug. A little more tension would have been welcome—the kind that fellow mature-minded New Yorkers like Roc Marciano and Ka lean towards with their warped orchestration, or the Alchemist, with his affinity for more psychedelic sounds. But it’s hard to grumble too much about an album that speaks the eternal truths of boom-bap with such nostalgic romance. More importantly, it shows us that a clear-minded Ortiz, with no interested in proving anything to you or me, is well worth keeping around."

Cornelius

Fantasma

Electronic

Patrick St. Michel

By the mid-‘90s, Japanese pop culture had peaked in global coolness. Anime and video games enthralled kids all over the globe, and author Haruki Murakami was starting to gain traction in the English-language world. And although it might not have been  quite as universal as Pokemon, Shibuya-kei music was winning praise from Western listeners. The genre’s mish-mash of sonic references and samples spanning the entire 20th century caught the ears of non-Japanese labels, leading to the ‘60s-swooning of Pizzicato Five and lounge-tronica of Fantastic Plastic Machine seeing widespread release. Nothing captured as much critical attention, however, as Keigo Oyamada’s Cornelius project, whose 1997 album Fantasma came out Stateside one year later via Matador Records. Soon after, the Shibuya-kei movement became oversaturated and its biggest names drifted to new sounds. Fantasma marked the high point for the movement, and has since been celebrated as the style’s ultimate triumph. The Japanese music media isn’t big on “all-time” lists, but when the mood strikes, Cornelius’ third proper album always winds up in the top ten. All this canonization has the side effect of making Fantasma feel like an artifact, a musical museum devoted to a scene that could never exist outside of ‘90s Tokyo. Portland-based imprint Lefse’s new vinyl reissue—featuring four enjoyable bonus tracks, albeit songs that aren’t on the album for a reason —reminds that what makes this set of songs special hasn’t aged. Like Endtroducing… or Discovery, Fantasma took the (often literal) sounds of the past to create something new and exciting, while also ending up a celebration of the process of finding, listening and creating music. It’s fitting Shibuya-kei’s finest statement came courtesy of one of the people most central to its emergence. Coming of age during Japan’s economically booming Bubble years, Oyamada had time to play in bands and spend hours exploring Tokyo’s well-stocked record stores. Alongside Kenji Ozawa in the group Flipper’s Guitar, he crafted songs drawing inspiration from all sorts of eclectic sources—the Scottish post-punk of Orange Juice, Madchester, bossa nova, the Monkees’ movie debut Head. Despite a tendency to swipe melodies wholesale, they pushed a slew of new sounds into the Japanese music conscience. Alongside Pizzicato Five and a few other groups introducing unfamiliar styles, Flipper’s Guitar’s CDs sold extremely well at Shibuya music stores—well enough that they snuck into the nation’s album charts. The media, smelling a trend, called it Shibuya-kei (literally, Shibuya style). From there, new artists emerged, not united by a specific sound but rather an ethos that writer W. David Marx pins as “pastiche and bricolage,” offering an alternative to mainstream J-pop. Oyamada launched a label, Trattoria, sharing music from names such as Kahimi Karie and Hideki Kaji, and started his solo career as Cornelius, releasing two albums that found him caught between singer-songwriter and musical curator. He also starred in a Shibuya-kei-tinged hair mousse ad. Fantasma, though, promised something different and more daring. Whereas previous Cornelius albums launched right into sunny horn fanfare, “Mic Check” begins with a faint click and a lot of space. Someone puffs a cigarette, a can cracks open, and somebody whistles a portion of Beethoven’s 5th. Early copies of Fantasma came packaged with earphones, and “Mic Check” quickly establishes why—it’s a producer’s album, one where every sound is labored over and plays a role in the greater journey. Oyamada wants the listener to be adequately ready for this—“can you hear me?” he asks in Japanese—so that they don’t miss any detail, before letting a semi-song bloom around them. From there, Oyamada treats listener to a smörgåsbord of musical thrills. His songs here frequently jump between headphone channels—the dizzying Speak & Spell rock of “Count Five or Six” being a great example of this technique—while going one step further by playing around with the idea of recording music. Side two of the record starts with “Chapter 8 (Seashore and Horizon),” which opens with Robert Schneider and Hilarie Sidney of the Apples in Stereo performing a very Apples-in-Stereo-sounding song. But before a minute can pass, someone hits the stop button on a cassette player, and Oyamada jumps in with his own interpretation of sweetly sung indie-pop, the sort of number that could easily slide into the Elephant 6 catalog. Then the player clicks again, the tape rewinds, and the Apples come back in frame. “Fantasma is a kind of album that only has one entrance and one exit. That is, you can’t listen to if from the middle,” Oyamada told a magazine around the album’s release. As the defining Shibuya-kei full-length, it’s loaded up with references to obscure older music spliced with styles that were, in 1997, fresh—drum ‘n’ bass drills through tropicália on album centerpiece “Star Fruits Surf Rider,” while “Monkey” jams samples sourced from R&B and an old record starring Mr. Magoo to create a playful romp that’s the most stereotypically Shibuya-kei-sounding thing here—but Oyamada wasn’t simply flexing his deep record collection. Sounds reappear frequently across Fantasma, songs referencing one another in subtle ways—early English-language reviews tended to knock Cornelius for having too much going on, but Oyamada knew exactly what he was doing with the rush of noises. Everything ends up in its right place, making for a more cohesive and intimate listen. And that’s fitting, as Fantasma celebrates the process of discovery and falling in love with music. Shibuya-kei was built on crate-digging discoveries, but oftentimes could come off as simplistic (or, at worst, trying to be too cool with nothing but some obscure records). But only Fantasma peers into the actual act of listening. Half of the songs here feature no coherent lyrics, but when words do come through, they capture the feeling of being at a concert (“Clash”) or shutting out the world via headphones (“New Music Machine”). Sudden shifts in style even make sense within Fantasma’s walls—the twinkling, childhood collage of “The Micro Disneycal World Tour” gives way to the feedback-soaked, adolescent thrash of “New Music Machine.” Nearly every song title on Fantasma references an existing musical group, obscure or world famous, but it feels like an act of grateful tribute rather than a hip name-check. With Flipper’s Guitar, Oyamada straight-up sampled chunks of the Beach Boys “God Only Knows,” but on his own “God Only Knows” he spends the track’s seven-min

Artist: Cornelius, Album: Fantasma, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 8.8 Album review: "By the mid-‘90s, Japanese pop culture had peaked in global coolness. Anime and video games enthralled kids all over the globe, and author Haruki Murakami was starting to gain traction in the English-language world. And although it might not have been  quite as universal as Pokemon, Shibuya-kei music was winning praise from Western listeners. The genre’s mish-mash of sonic references and samples spanning the entire 20th century caught the ears of non-Japanese labels, leading to the ‘60s-swooning of Pizzicato Five and lounge-tronica of Fantastic Plastic Machine seeing widespread release. Nothing captured as much critical attention, however, as Keigo Oyamada’s Cornelius project, whose 1997 album Fantasma came out Stateside one year later via Matador Records. Soon after, the Shibuya-kei movement became oversaturated and its biggest names drifted to new sounds. Fantasma marked the high point for the movement, and has since been celebrated as the style’s ultimate triumph. The Japanese music media isn’t big on “all-time” lists, but when the mood strikes, Cornelius’ third proper album always winds up in the top ten. All this canonization has the side effect of making Fantasma feel like an artifact, a musical museum devoted to a scene that could never exist outside of ‘90s Tokyo. Portland-based imprint Lefse’s new vinyl reissue—featuring four enjoyable bonus tracks, albeit songs that aren’t on the album for a reason —reminds that what makes this set of songs special hasn’t aged. Like Endtroducing… or Discovery, Fantasma took the (often literal) sounds of the past to create something new and exciting, while also ending up a celebration of the process of finding, listening and creating music. It’s fitting Shibuya-kei’s finest statement came courtesy of one of the people most central to its emergence. Coming of age during Japan’s economically booming Bubble years, Oyamada had time to play in bands and spend hours exploring Tokyo’s well-stocked record stores. Alongside Kenji Ozawa in the group Flipper’s Guitar, he crafted songs drawing inspiration from all sorts of eclectic sources—the Scottish post-punk of Orange Juice, Madchester, bossa nova, the Monkees’ movie debut Head. Despite a tendency to swipe melodies wholesale, they pushed a slew of new sounds into the Japanese music conscience. Alongside Pizzicato Five and a few other groups introducing unfamiliar styles, Flipper’s Guitar’s CDs sold extremely well at Shibuya music stores—well enough that they snuck into the nation’s album charts. The media, smelling a trend, called it Shibuya-kei (literally, Shibuya style). From there, new artists emerged, not united by a specific sound but rather an ethos that writer W. David Marx pins as “pastiche and bricolage,” offering an alternative to mainstream J-pop. Oyamada launched a label, Trattoria, sharing music from names such as Kahimi Karie and Hideki Kaji, and started his solo career as Cornelius, releasing two albums that found him caught between singer-songwriter and musical curator. He also starred in a Shibuya-kei-tinged hair mousse ad. Fantasma, though, promised something different and more daring. Whereas previous Cornelius albums launched right into sunny horn fanfare, “Mic Check” begins with a faint click and a lot of space. Someone puffs a cigarette, a can cracks open, and somebody whistles a portion of Beethoven’s 5th. Early copies of Fantasma came packaged with earphones, and “Mic Check” quickly establishes why—it’s a producer’s album, one where every sound is labored over and plays a role in the greater journey. Oyamada wants the listener to be adequately ready for this—“can you hear me?” he asks in Japanese—so that they don’t miss any detail, before letting a semi-song bloom around them. From there, Oyamada treats listener to a smörgåsbord of musical thrills. His songs here frequently jump between headphone channels—the dizzying Speak & Spell rock of “Count Five or Six” being a great example of this technique—while going one step further by playing around with the idea of recording music. Side two of the record starts with “Chapter 8 (Seashore and Horizon),” which opens with Robert Schneider and Hilarie Sidney of the Apples in Stereo performing a very Apples-in-Stereo-sounding song. But before a minute can pass, someone hits the stop button on a cassette player, and Oyamada jumps in with his own interpretation of sweetly sung indie-pop, the sort of number that could easily slide into the Elephant 6 catalog. Then the player clicks again, the tape rewinds, and the Apples come back in frame. “Fantasma is a kind of album that only has one entrance and one exit. That is, you can’t listen to if from the middle,” Oyamada told a magazine around the album’s release. As the defining Shibuya-kei full-length, it’s loaded up with references to obscure older music spliced with styles that were, in 1997, fresh—drum ‘n’ bass drills through tropicália on album centerpiece “Star Fruits Surf Rider,” while “Monkey” jams samples sourced from R&B and an old record starring Mr. Magoo to create a playful romp that’s the most stereotypically Shibuya-kei-sounding thing here—but Oyamada wasn’t simply flexing his deep record collection. Sounds reappear frequently across Fantasma, songs referencing one another in subtle ways—early English-language reviews tended to knock Cornelius for having too much going on, but Oyamada knew exactly what he was doing with the rush of noises. Everything ends up in its right place, making for a more cohesive and intimate listen. And that’s fitting, as Fantasma celebrates the process of discovery and falling in love with music. Shibuya-kei was built on crate-digging discoveries, but oftentimes could come off as simplistic (or, at worst, trying to be too cool with nothing but some obscure records). But only Fantasma peers into the actual act of listening. Half of the songs here feature no coherent lyrics, but when words do come through, they capture the feeling of being at a concert (“Clash”) or shutting out the world via headphones (“New Music Machine”). Sudden shifts in style even make sense within Fantasma’s walls—the twinkling, childhood collage of “The Micro Disneycal World Tour” gives way to the feedback-soaked, adolescent thrash of “New Music Machine.” Nearly every song title on Fantasma references an existing musical group, obscure or world famous, but it feels like an act of grateful tribute rather than a hip name-check. With Flipper’s Guitar, Oyamada straight-up sampled chunks of the Beach Boys “God Only Knows,” but on his own “God Only Knows” he spends the track’s seven-min"

Raekwon

Unexpected Victory

Rap

Paul Thompson

The avalanche of mixtapes that accompanies every new year has positively blanketed 2012 in rap music, with seasoned veterans and hungry newcomers alike sending 2011 off with one last test of the DatPiff download limit. While Rick Ross' grandiose Rich Forever mixtape, on sheer size alone, has threatened to blot out a lot of its Q1 competition, solid efforts abound for hip-hop fans-- this has been the single best month in what seems like years. It's here, in this overcrowded field, that Wu-Tang dynamo Raekwon has unleashed Unexpected Victory, essentially his first full-length release since 2011's fine Shaolin vs. Wu-Tang LP. In any other month, Victory might eke out a few more ways to live up to its title. But for Rae, spitting criminology raps over grimy orchestral stabs and murky slivers of soul isn't exactly unexpected, and-- armed with a crop of passable productions and an uneven roster of guest stars-- rarely smacks of anything like victory. Victory splits its time between fellow New York vets (Mobb Deep, Busta Rhymes, C.L. Smooth) and relative newbies (Fred Da Godson, Chicago's L.E.P. Bogus Boys), and holds to a fairly tight-knit stable of guest rappers and producers (Sauce Money, Scram Jones) eager to cook up a slinkier take on post-RZA muck at the Chef's behest. Flossy, almost Rossian widescreeners "Just a Toast" and "Luxury Rap", the sinewy, stretched-out soul of "Silk" and the Just Blaze-nodding "MTV Cribs" bring a little light to the proceedings, but the sound here mostly hangs out in the dank realm Rae's been favoring forever. Victory's greatest flaw is its wildly varying fidelity; listening, you'll have to get up every few minutes to work the volume knob, and even then, you may not be able to make out everything that's going on in, say, the hissy "The Brewery". Still, on a tape that could use a few more outliers, skits, practical jokes, something, this little bit of audience participation works wonders for engagement; you'd probably never hear Ceazar-n-Reason's lackluster "Brewery" verses if you didn't have to crank the song so loud to hear Raekwon at all. Couple that with the incongruous appearance of young Altrina Renee's post-Aaliyah/"E-Mail My Heart" lunger "Facetime", and you've got less mixtape, more data-dump: an anything-goes, congruity-be-damned assortment of whatever was lying around at the time. Ever since threatening defection from the Wu following 2007's intoxicatingly odd 8 Diagrams, Raekwon's revealed himself to be a key figure in the Wu-Tang's conservative wing. His much-lauded 2009 LP was, after all, the sequel to one of the more singular LPs in rap history, and while Cuban Linx II wasn't exactly a Xerox, you could certainly see where he'd laid down the tracing paper. Last year's Shaolin vs. Wu-Tang was similar, richly detailed, in-the-pocket mafioso talk over stark, gritty strings. It's a lane Rae absolutely owns, one he's ridden pretty much since the start, and while he should be congratulated for never bending to any whims but his own, his set-jaw consistency doesn't always make for the most dazzling music. He gets some good lines in all over Victory, of course; any Raekwon song with "Story" in the title is bound to be a good one, and both "Soldier Story" and the 9th Wonder-produced "A Pinebox Story" find his masterful narrative skills and unflinching brutality as sharp as ever, still stringing together bits of seemingly disconnected detail until a picture begins to take shape. But, when he drops a Twilight reference in his very first verse here, he seems a little lost without a plot. It can't all be smoke-filled backrooms or alleyway beatdowns, but elsewhere, Rae seems a little scattered, either resorting to stock phrases ("Riding at breakneck speed/ Gimme weed/ Gimme cheese/ I like cheddar") or finding a reference-- any reference-- that sorta works. (Raekwon, if you're wondering, is on Team Jacob.) The occasional line pops out, but it's rare that he grabs you for a whole verse that doesn't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Victory's guest roster hits more than it misses; the elder statesmen types bring about what you'd expect to the table, though Prodigy had me rolling with "you tacky like headrest TVs." It's rising star Fred Da Godson who fares best here, though, noting on "Luxury Rap" that he's "a phenomenon [like] Travolta with the tumor" who "should rhyme with some Wallabees on." But, apart from the irrepressible Busta and a few of the more excitable youths, these guys tend to trade in the kind of cold-eyed, unexcitable confidence Rae does, which-- coupled with Rae's own coolness of demeanor and the general steeliness of these beats-- leaves one with the weird feeling that there's both a lot of Raekwon on this record and not very much Raekwon at all. I was maybe three or four spins into Unexpected Victory before I realized something: I had no idea what exactly Rae meant to promote with its release, what gap he meant to stop by unleashing these songs into the world. I'm told Rae, Ghost, Cappadonna, and the LOX are at work on a collaborative LP called Wu-Block, and of course, there's talk of a new Wu-Tang LP by year's end. To prepare for the new Wu LP, GZA reportedly went to MIT to spend a few days studying mitochondria or something; you'll be pleased to hear there's been no talk of Raekwon shipping off to Le Cordon Bleu for a week of chef's training. Ultimately, you want Raekwon rapping; preferably, you want Raekwon rapping about the grisliest possible subjects, over crackling, cinematic RZA beats. Unexpected Victory's sound is too lousy-- and its stakes too low-- to ever possibly live up to his past glories. What's most frustrating, though, is how little Rae's adjusted to this brave new world of the mixtape-as-album; here's one of the premier album artists in hip-hop history, tossing out what amount to well-intentioned scraps without even bothering to check if the thing's mastered before it went live. Can you blame anybody for burning their first click on Rich Forever?

Artist: Raekwon, Album: Unexpected Victory, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "The avalanche of mixtapes that accompanies every new year has positively blanketed 2012 in rap music, with seasoned veterans and hungry newcomers alike sending 2011 off with one last test of the DatPiff download limit. While Rick Ross' grandiose Rich Forever mixtape, on sheer size alone, has threatened to blot out a lot of its Q1 competition, solid efforts abound for hip-hop fans-- this has been the single best month in what seems like years. It's here, in this overcrowded field, that Wu-Tang dynamo Raekwon has unleashed Unexpected Victory, essentially his first full-length release since 2011's fine Shaolin vs. Wu-Tang LP. In any other month, Victory might eke out a few more ways to live up to its title. But for Rae, spitting criminology raps over grimy orchestral stabs and murky slivers of soul isn't exactly unexpected, and-- armed with a crop of passable productions and an uneven roster of guest stars-- rarely smacks of anything like victory. Victory splits its time between fellow New York vets (Mobb Deep, Busta Rhymes, C.L. Smooth) and relative newbies (Fred Da Godson, Chicago's L.E.P. Bogus Boys), and holds to a fairly tight-knit stable of guest rappers and producers (Sauce Money, Scram Jones) eager to cook up a slinkier take on post-RZA muck at the Chef's behest. Flossy, almost Rossian widescreeners "Just a Toast" and "Luxury Rap", the sinewy, stretched-out soul of "Silk" and the Just Blaze-nodding "MTV Cribs" bring a little light to the proceedings, but the sound here mostly hangs out in the dank realm Rae's been favoring forever. Victory's greatest flaw is its wildly varying fidelity; listening, you'll have to get up every few minutes to work the volume knob, and even then, you may not be able to make out everything that's going on in, say, the hissy "The Brewery". Still, on a tape that could use a few more outliers, skits, practical jokes, something, this little bit of audience participation works wonders for engagement; you'd probably never hear Ceazar-n-Reason's lackluster "Brewery" verses if you didn't have to crank the song so loud to hear Raekwon at all. Couple that with the incongruous appearance of young Altrina Renee's post-Aaliyah/"E-Mail My Heart" lunger "Facetime", and you've got less mixtape, more data-dump: an anything-goes, congruity-be-damned assortment of whatever was lying around at the time. Ever since threatening defection from the Wu following 2007's intoxicatingly odd 8 Diagrams, Raekwon's revealed himself to be a key figure in the Wu-Tang's conservative wing. His much-lauded 2009 LP was, after all, the sequel to one of the more singular LPs in rap history, and while Cuban Linx II wasn't exactly a Xerox, you could certainly see where he'd laid down the tracing paper. Last year's Shaolin vs. Wu-Tang was similar, richly detailed, in-the-pocket mafioso talk over stark, gritty strings. It's a lane Rae absolutely owns, one he's ridden pretty much since the start, and while he should be congratulated for never bending to any whims but his own, his set-jaw consistency doesn't always make for the most dazzling music. He gets some good lines in all over Victory, of course; any Raekwon song with "Story" in the title is bound to be a good one, and both "Soldier Story" and the 9th Wonder-produced "A Pinebox Story" find his masterful narrative skills and unflinching brutality as sharp as ever, still stringing together bits of seemingly disconnected detail until a picture begins to take shape. But, when he drops a Twilight reference in his very first verse here, he seems a little lost without a plot. It can't all be smoke-filled backrooms or alleyway beatdowns, but elsewhere, Rae seems a little scattered, either resorting to stock phrases ("Riding at breakneck speed/ Gimme weed/ Gimme cheese/ I like cheddar") or finding a reference-- any reference-- that sorta works. (Raekwon, if you're wondering, is on Team Jacob.) The occasional line pops out, but it's rare that he grabs you for a whole verse that doesn't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Victory's guest roster hits more than it misses; the elder statesmen types bring about what you'd expect to the table, though Prodigy had me rolling with "you tacky like headrest TVs." It's rising star Fred Da Godson who fares best here, though, noting on "Luxury Rap" that he's "a phenomenon [like] Travolta with the tumor" who "should rhyme with some Wallabees on." But, apart from the irrepressible Busta and a few of the more excitable youths, these guys tend to trade in the kind of cold-eyed, unexcitable confidence Rae does, which-- coupled with Rae's own coolness of demeanor and the general steeliness of these beats-- leaves one with the weird feeling that there's both a lot of Raekwon on this record and not very much Raekwon at all. I was maybe three or four spins into Unexpected Victory before I realized something: I had no idea what exactly Rae meant to promote with its release, what gap he meant to stop by unleashing these songs into the world. I'm told Rae, Ghost, Cappadonna, and the LOX are at work on a collaborative LP called Wu-Block, and of course, there's talk of a new Wu-Tang LP by year's end. To prepare for the new Wu LP, GZA reportedly went to MIT to spend a few days studying mitochondria or something; you'll be pleased to hear there's been no talk of Raekwon shipping off to Le Cordon Bleu for a week of chef's training. Ultimately, you want Raekwon rapping; preferably, you want Raekwon rapping about the grisliest possible subjects, over crackling, cinematic RZA beats. Unexpected Victory's sound is too lousy-- and its stakes too low-- to ever possibly live up to his past glories. What's most frustrating, though, is how little Rae's adjusted to this brave new world of the mixtape-as-album; here's one of the premier album artists in hip-hop history, tossing out what amount to well-intentioned scraps without even bothering to check if the thing's mastered before it went live. Can you blame anybody for burning their first click on Rich Forever?"

Domenico Lancellotti

The Good Is a Big God

Global,Jazz

Marty Sartini Garner

The notion of place has always played an outsized role in Brazilian music. To read its history is to be confronted with a long and complicated answer to the question of what music originating from a particular place at a particular time should sound like, rather than a log of aesthetic revolutions—notwithstanding its genuinely revolutionary nature. Put differently, Brazilian music offers a resounding rebuke to the notion that engagement with the rest of the world means capitulating to its norms. It’s an argument that Rio-based multi-instrumentalist Domenico Lancellotti has absorbed for most of his life, and one that informs his new album, The Good Is a Big God. The son of bossa nova singer Ivor Lancellotti, Domenico has over the course of his career collaborated with a who’s who of legendary Brazilian musicians—Caetano Veloso, Gal Costa, Gilberto Gil—and in the early 2000s was a member of +2, a democratic trio with rotating leadership that also included Veloso’s son Moreno and Alexandre Kassin. It was with the latter group that he released his first record as a bandleader, 2004’s Sincerely Hot. With The Good Is a Big God, Lancellotti rarely wanders beyond his national borders, and in the process he quietly makes a case for giving in to the soft magnetism of home. It finds him hooking up once more with his +2 bandmates, along with frequent Stereolab and Cornelius collaborator Sean O’Hagan, for a thoughtfully arranged and powerfully executed set of songs that, for all of their breeziness, suggest a deep grounding in Rio’s sandy shores and the countryside’s humid crags. Throughout the record, Lancellotti draws clean melodic lines with his acoustic guitar, then complicates them with clattering percussion, deploying samples and electronics the way the tropicalistas used baroque and chamber-pop instrumentation. You can hear echoes of the elder Lancellotti’s melancholic songwriting updated with drifts of electronic fizzling and distant programming in opener “Voltar-Se,” while “Tudo ao Redor” recalls the sashaying existentialism of João Gilberto; O’Hagan’s string arrangement in the latter deftly shifts along with Lancellotti’s graceful phrasing, here resembling Rogério Duprat’s tropical filigree, there suggesting the well-pressed pluck of Mexican ranchera. As with Gil and Caetano Veloso before him, Lancellotti’s view of Brazil has only been enhanced by the time he’s spent outside of it. Nine of the album’s 14 tracks were composed for Rio Occupation, a 2012 London art exhibition meant to link the two Olympic cities. Lancellotti answers the flash of the moment with shushed reverence, painting still lifes of brief encounters that seem to take place just beyond earshot of the traffic outside. “The weight of light on your hand vibrates in the morning chill,” he sings in “Tudo ao Redor,” while in “Asas,” he embraces a lover and feels the electric pulse between them: “The left hand on the right hand/Your soul flush to mine/Both perfect/Sweet fusion/Beatitude that burns.” And where the view encompasses more than he can hold, he simply lets it go: The brief “Serra dos Órgãos,” named for the national park an hour north of Rio, is a showcase for O’Hagan’s strings, which fold in on themselves over and over, forming jagged crevasses and rounded peaks in a way that recalls Maurice Ravel, while the mostly instrumental “Shanti Luz” stutter-steps like the disco thump of a carioca William Onyeabor. Even as “Voltar-Se” threatens to drift irrevocably into interiority, Lancellotti gathers the cloudy programming and spins it into a whirlwind of drums, pounding his way out of his head and back into the rhythms of the real world. All of which makes The Good Is a Big God a political record powered more by context than content. The protest isn’t against regimes—though that occasion may soon arise again—but against the conditions of the globalized city and the Olympic-sized spectacle that, in its size and scale, blots out the importance of ordinary life and reduces the natural world to little more than an occasionally compelling background. Still, like the tropicalistas, Lancellotti is too engaged with what’s happening around him to turn to a reactionary regionalism. Instead, he places us at the top of the Serras, where the view is lofty enough to see for miles and miles.

Artist: Domenico Lancellotti, Album: The Good Is a Big God, Genre: Global,Jazz, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "The notion of place has always played an outsized role in Brazilian music. To read its history is to be confronted with a long and complicated answer to the question of what music originating from a particular place at a particular time should sound like, rather than a log of aesthetic revolutions—notwithstanding its genuinely revolutionary nature. Put differently, Brazilian music offers a resounding rebuke to the notion that engagement with the rest of the world means capitulating to its norms. It’s an argument that Rio-based multi-instrumentalist Domenico Lancellotti has absorbed for most of his life, and one that informs his new album, The Good Is a Big God. The son of bossa nova singer Ivor Lancellotti, Domenico has over the course of his career collaborated with a who’s who of legendary Brazilian musicians—Caetano Veloso, Gal Costa, Gilberto Gil—and in the early 2000s was a member of +2, a democratic trio with rotating leadership that also included Veloso’s son Moreno and Alexandre Kassin. It was with the latter group that he released his first record as a bandleader, 2004’s Sincerely Hot. With The Good Is a Big God, Lancellotti rarely wanders beyond his national borders, and in the process he quietly makes a case for giving in to the soft magnetism of home. It finds him hooking up once more with his +2 bandmates, along with frequent Stereolab and Cornelius collaborator Sean O’Hagan, for a thoughtfully arranged and powerfully executed set of songs that, for all of their breeziness, suggest a deep grounding in Rio’s sandy shores and the countryside’s humid crags. Throughout the record, Lancellotti draws clean melodic lines with his acoustic guitar, then complicates them with clattering percussion, deploying samples and electronics the way the tropicalistas used baroque and chamber-pop instrumentation. You can hear echoes of the elder Lancellotti’s melancholic songwriting updated with drifts of electronic fizzling and distant programming in opener “Voltar-Se,” while “Tudo ao Redor” recalls the sashaying existentialism of João Gilberto; O’Hagan’s string arrangement in the latter deftly shifts along with Lancellotti’s graceful phrasing, here resembling Rogério Duprat’s tropical filigree, there suggesting the well-pressed pluck of Mexican ranchera. As with Gil and Caetano Veloso before him, Lancellotti’s view of Brazil has only been enhanced by the time he’s spent outside of it. Nine of the album’s 14 tracks were composed for Rio Occupation, a 2012 London art exhibition meant to link the two Olympic cities. Lancellotti answers the flash of the moment with shushed reverence, painting still lifes of brief encounters that seem to take place just beyond earshot of the traffic outside. “The weight of light on your hand vibrates in the morning chill,” he sings in “Tudo ao Redor,” while in “Asas,” he embraces a lover and feels the electric pulse between them: “The left hand on the right hand/Your soul flush to mine/Both perfect/Sweet fusion/Beatitude that burns.” And where the view encompasses more than he can hold, he simply lets it go: The brief “Serra dos Órgãos,” named for the national park an hour north of Rio, is a showcase for O’Hagan’s strings, which fold in on themselves over and over, forming jagged crevasses and rounded peaks in a way that recalls Maurice Ravel, while the mostly instrumental “Shanti Luz” stutter-steps like the disco thump of a carioca William Onyeabor. Even as “Voltar-Se” threatens to drift irrevocably into interiority, Lancellotti gathers the cloudy programming and spins it into a whirlwind of drums, pounding his way out of his head and back into the rhythms of the real world. All of which makes The Good Is a Big God a political record powered more by context than content. The protest isn’t against regimes—though that occasion may soon arise again—but against the conditions of the globalized city and the Olympic-sized spectacle that, in its size and scale, blots out the importance of ordinary life and reduces the natural world to little more than an occasionally compelling background. Still, like the tropicalistas, Lancellotti is too engaged with what’s happening around him to turn to a reactionary regionalism. Instead, he places us at the top of the Serras, where the view is lofty enough to see for miles and miles."

Spokane

Little Hours

Folk/Country

Brian Howe

The members of Spokane hand-built a house while recording Little Hours, which isn't to say that the album is about the house they built. If it were, the place would be virtually uninhabitable: sprawling, drafty, and sparsely furnished, with hallways leading nowhere, gaps in the flooring, staircases petering out in mid-flight. It's more accurate to say that the house and the album are about each other, parallel expressions of the spiritual temperament that attends the constructive urge: If the house is just a house, Little Hours is its reflection on the surface of a pond. To build with one's hands has always been a spiritual act, and now, when so many of us no longer need to do so to survive, it's perhaps more so than ever. Maybe the title of Spokane's album intentionally refers to the Roman Catholic Church's daytime prayer hours, or maybe they just thought it sounded neat. Accidental or no, it's an apt title-- there's a sense of consecration in Spokane's humble altars of piano, strings, and guitar, a quiet air of unrushed ritual in their contemplative movement. Album opener "Singing", which features the sampled birdsong ubiquitous to this sort of atmospheric slowcore amid a wispy piano ballad sung by Rick Alverson, sounds more like an idea for a song, recorded with a jaw full of anesthetics, than a finished song. This music doesn't assert itself, it kneels, reverent as a worshiper, inside its own austere architecture. Like a house, Spokane's songs are assembled in plain view, over time, piece by modest piece. On "Minor Careers", sunken vocal harmonies and weary percussion lay like mortar between sequentially mounted bricks of arpeggiated acoustic guitar, hovering strings, and flecks of piano. Like a house built by hand, practical exigencies take precedence over flights of fancy-- the materials are functional and unembellished, fitted together with an eye toward structural integrity more than style, combined not wantonly but with deliberate care. "Building" holds real piano and toy piano in delicate counterbalance, the former tracing out a submerged melody, the latter bubbling up through it. Little Hours' strength lies in its stubborn consistency: This is a band that makes notes seem like widely-spaced campfires on a dark plain, tracing an intermittent path of life through the barren night, and they don't ever pull back from this imposing blankness. Nothing on the album breaks its somber, lonesome mood. But its weakness lies in the equivocal aura of the band's chosen style-- neither minimal enough to achieve the hypnotic quality of fellow piano-droners Library Tapes nor fleshed out enough to engage the listener more viscerally, Spokane's music can settle frustratingly into the ambiguous mid-range of our attention. Rare sonic embellishments, like the echo effect on the creeping piano of "Thankless Marriage", are welcome, but simply protract the structures through time in a way that doesn't meaningfully diversify them. The result is an album that's thoroughly pleasant without having any truly memorable moments, like Galaxie 500 without the buried pop chops. It's a fine house that Spokane has built, functional and rich with decorative potential. Maybe next time, they'll throw some pictures on the walls.

Artist: Spokane, Album: Little Hours, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "The members of Spokane hand-built a house while recording Little Hours, which isn't to say that the album is about the house they built. If it were, the place would be virtually uninhabitable: sprawling, drafty, and sparsely furnished, with hallways leading nowhere, gaps in the flooring, staircases petering out in mid-flight. It's more accurate to say that the house and the album are about each other, parallel expressions of the spiritual temperament that attends the constructive urge: If the house is just a house, Little Hours is its reflection on the surface of a pond. To build with one's hands has always been a spiritual act, and now, when so many of us no longer need to do so to survive, it's perhaps more so than ever. Maybe the title of Spokane's album intentionally refers to the Roman Catholic Church's daytime prayer hours, or maybe they just thought it sounded neat. Accidental or no, it's an apt title-- there's a sense of consecration in Spokane's humble altars of piano, strings, and guitar, a quiet air of unrushed ritual in their contemplative movement. Album opener "Singing", which features the sampled birdsong ubiquitous to this sort of atmospheric slowcore amid a wispy piano ballad sung by Rick Alverson, sounds more like an idea for a song, recorded with a jaw full of anesthetics, than a finished song. This music doesn't assert itself, it kneels, reverent as a worshiper, inside its own austere architecture. Like a house, Spokane's songs are assembled in plain view, over time, piece by modest piece. On "Minor Careers", sunken vocal harmonies and weary percussion lay like mortar between sequentially mounted bricks of arpeggiated acoustic guitar, hovering strings, and flecks of piano. Like a house built by hand, practical exigencies take precedence over flights of fancy-- the materials are functional and unembellished, fitted together with an eye toward structural integrity more than style, combined not wantonly but with deliberate care. "Building" holds real piano and toy piano in delicate counterbalance, the former tracing out a submerged melody, the latter bubbling up through it. Little Hours' strength lies in its stubborn consistency: This is a band that makes notes seem like widely-spaced campfires on a dark plain, tracing an intermittent path of life through the barren night, and they don't ever pull back from this imposing blankness. Nothing on the album breaks its somber, lonesome mood. But its weakness lies in the equivocal aura of the band's chosen style-- neither minimal enough to achieve the hypnotic quality of fellow piano-droners Library Tapes nor fleshed out enough to engage the listener more viscerally, Spokane's music can settle frustratingly into the ambiguous mid-range of our attention. Rare sonic embellishments, like the echo effect on the creeping piano of "Thankless Marriage", are welcome, but simply protract the structures through time in a way that doesn't meaningfully diversify them. The result is an album that's thoroughly pleasant without having any truly memorable moments, like Galaxie 500 without the buried pop chops. It's a fine house that Spokane has built, functional and rich with decorative potential. Maybe next time, they'll throw some pictures on the walls."

Drakeo the Ruler

Cold Devil

Rap

Paul A. Thompson

The second song on Cold Devil, Drakeo the Ruler’s excellent new album, is called “Flu Flamming,” its title a nod to the L.A. rapper’s vast and inscrutable vocabulary of code, slang, and shorthand. It opens with a nine-second riff without drums, where the syllables of each line are chopped finely or pushed to (and past) the end of a measure. It doesn’t sound as if it’s part of any conventional or recognizable flow. But at the 10-second mark, the drums kick in, and Drakeo plunges immediately into a pocket: “All mud in my kidneys, my plug is a Gypsy/This a fully automatic, I let my kids hold the semis.” From there, with only minor adjustments to that song’s opening run, he’s mud-walking in Christian Louboutins, coolly breaking wrists, holding heat like Luke Skywalker playing laser tag, all the while playing cat and mouse with the beat. Despite a low national profile, rap fans around Los Angeles have been eagerly awaiting the return of Drakeo’s avant deadpan. The South Central native, who spent 2015 and ‘16 garnering a reputation as one of the city’s most magnetic—and immediately influential—new artists, was incarcerated for much of 2017, following a January raid on a home that yielded weapons he maintains weren’t his. (The raid took place one day after his son was born, and until Drakeo was freed, he was only able to meet his child through bulletproof glass during visitation hours.) Cold Devil is not only a continuation of the momentum Drakeo’s been building for more than two years now, but a step forward in form, a distillation of what makes him such a compelling stylist. Drakeo’s adventurousness as a vocalist can at first recall West Coast legends like E-40 or Suga Free, but where those two would slip in and out of the drums to dazzle—they’re virtuosos—Drakeo will often use his voice percussively, as if creating a new rhythm track, separate from the percussion. See “Hood Trophy,” where he raps alternately against and with the drums, slowing to a laconic creep, then pushing the pace at will. Even with more familiar approaches, he transcends: on “Fool’s Gold,” Drakeo darts around in what sounds like a dream-state, his voice cutting through the din. As a writer, Drakeo works in short, impressionistic bursts. He can be wildly funny or rattle off bone-chilling threats without breaking character. Cold Devil’s centerpiece is “Neiman & Marcus Don’t Know You,” where Drakeo’s wearing “princess cuts on my wrist like an emo bitch,” and where the most scathing insult in L.A. county is that the clerks at Neiman Marcus don’t even recognize you. Some rappers are great for their ability to mimic an inner monologue in their writing; Drakeo is able to evoke powerful emotions with the same energy and cadence that you’d use to talk to yourself, under your breath. On previous works, like last December’s So Cold I Do ‘Em or 2016’s I Am Mr. Mosely 2, he positioned himself as a counterpoint to rap’s mainstream forces, applying his more difficult—and often more rewarding—style to industry beats. Cold Devil feels more like an important piece of an L.A. rap scene that’s become one of the country’s most vibrant. The album’s B-side sports back-to-back collaborations with 03 Greedo, the experimental rapper whose own Odyssean records have made him a cult hero in the city. (That working relationship, where Greedo’s vocals run hot to Drakeo’s icy cool, seems as if it could yield some truly stunning music.) There are also contributions from the likes of Drakeo’s brother, Ralfy the Plug, and two from Ohgeesy, from the rapidly breaking group Shoreline Mafia. That Drakeo’s flow has already been co-opted by other rappers around L.A. is a testament to its appeal, but it’s difficult to imagine someone accurately replicating his style. His mixture of the city’s street rap traditions and its most colorful fringe elements makes for a strange, irresistible alchemy, the kind that can’t be easily decoded.

Artist: Drakeo the Ruler, Album: Cold Devil, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "The second song on Cold Devil, Drakeo the Ruler’s excellent new album, is called “Flu Flamming,” its title a nod to the L.A. rapper’s vast and inscrutable vocabulary of code, slang, and shorthand. It opens with a nine-second riff without drums, where the syllables of each line are chopped finely or pushed to (and past) the end of a measure. It doesn’t sound as if it’s part of any conventional or recognizable flow. But at the 10-second mark, the drums kick in, and Drakeo plunges immediately into a pocket: “All mud in my kidneys, my plug is a Gypsy/This a fully automatic, I let my kids hold the semis.” From there, with only minor adjustments to that song’s opening run, he’s mud-walking in Christian Louboutins, coolly breaking wrists, holding heat like Luke Skywalker playing laser tag, all the while playing cat and mouse with the beat. Despite a low national profile, rap fans around Los Angeles have been eagerly awaiting the return of Drakeo’s avant deadpan. The South Central native, who spent 2015 and ‘16 garnering a reputation as one of the city’s most magnetic—and immediately influential—new artists, was incarcerated for much of 2017, following a January raid on a home that yielded weapons he maintains weren’t his. (The raid took place one day after his son was born, and until Drakeo was freed, he was only able to meet his child through bulletproof glass during visitation hours.) Cold Devil is not only a continuation of the momentum Drakeo’s been building for more than two years now, but a step forward in form, a distillation of what makes him such a compelling stylist. Drakeo’s adventurousness as a vocalist can at first recall West Coast legends like E-40 or Suga Free, but where those two would slip in and out of the drums to dazzle—they’re virtuosos—Drakeo will often use his voice percussively, as if creating a new rhythm track, separate from the percussion. See “Hood Trophy,” where he raps alternately against and with the drums, slowing to a laconic creep, then pushing the pace at will. Even with more familiar approaches, he transcends: on “Fool’s Gold,” Drakeo darts around in what sounds like a dream-state, his voice cutting through the din. As a writer, Drakeo works in short, impressionistic bursts. He can be wildly funny or rattle off bone-chilling threats without breaking character. Cold Devil’s centerpiece is “Neiman & Marcus Don’t Know You,” where Drakeo’s wearing “princess cuts on my wrist like an emo bitch,” and where the most scathing insult in L.A. county is that the clerks at Neiman Marcus don’t even recognize you. Some rappers are great for their ability to mimic an inner monologue in their writing; Drakeo is able to evoke powerful emotions with the same energy and cadence that you’d use to talk to yourself, under your breath. On previous works, like last December’s So Cold I Do ‘Em or 2016’s I Am Mr. Mosely 2, he positioned himself as a counterpoint to rap’s mainstream forces, applying his more difficult—and often more rewarding—style to industry beats. Cold Devil feels more like an important piece of an L.A. rap scene that’s become one of the country’s most vibrant. The album’s B-side sports back-to-back collaborations with 03 Greedo, the experimental rapper whose own Odyssean records have made him a cult hero in the city. (That working relationship, where Greedo’s vocals run hot to Drakeo’s icy cool, seems as if it could yield some truly stunning music.) There are also contributions from the likes of Drakeo’s brother, Ralfy the Plug, and two from Ohgeesy, from the rapidly breaking group Shoreline Mafia. That Drakeo’s flow has already been co-opted by other rappers around L.A. is a testament to its appeal, but it’s difficult to imagine someone accurately replicating his style. His mixture of the city’s street rap traditions and its most colorful fringe elements makes for a strange, irresistible alchemy, the kind that can’t be easily decoded."

ST 2 Lettaz

The G... The Growth & Development

Rap

Mike Madden

As recent breakups go, G-Side’s didn’t register with the same magnitude as that of the Mars Volta or Das Racist, but the tributes their split did garner were well earned. Though the Huntsville, Ala., rap duo's musical boldness pulled together various corners of the internet-- The ONE... COHESIVE’s “How Far” sampled Beach House’s “10 Mile Stereo”, while iSLAND’s “Gettin It” sliced up Tame Impala’s winding “Why Won’t You Make Up Your Mind?”-- ST 2 Lettaz and Yung Clova always had their feet cemented in the spongy, candy-coated stylings of early 8Ball & MJG and other Southern luminaries. It was an aesthetic that, if not exclusively theirs, no one else did better, and it provided the foundation of five satisfying (if commercially ineffectual) albums in barely four years, from 2007’s Sumthin 2 Hate to 2011’s iSLAND. While Clova, as the head of Athens, Ala.-based collective Lambo Music, has continued to release new material since he and ST officially parted ways, the latter has worked faster. Less than a week after the breakup came his debut EP, R.E.B.E.L., which proved to be the most sonically daring release ST’d been involved in yet. Sampling the Beastie Boys, Bone Thugs, Empire of the Sun, and Skrillex, much of it was as kinetic as any of the party-rap by his Huntsville pal Jackie Chain (albeit in a much different way). Not only did it suggest ST would be just fine without his former partner, its best moments justified G-Side’s dissolution in that it exposed a singular vision that might never have been achieved by the pair as, well, a pair. Originally planned to be G-Side’s sixth LP, The G... The Growth & Development wound up as ST’s full-length solo debut. It marks the first release of the 27-year-old’s career that doesn’t have much in the way of continuity. Three tracks approximate pure East Coast classicism-- “Trillmatic”’s first half, for example, could hardly be more reminiscent of that Nas album’s “Memory Lane (Sittin’ in Da Park)”-- and two more aim for the club nearly as overtly as G-Side’s “College Chicks” did in 2009. Of course, those make for two very distant poles, but given that ST has written both with unabashed hubris and of everyday struggles whose details wouldn’t sound out of place on some meditative Rhymesayers single, we know the guy has range. And everything on The G falls within that range. Besides those from the well-intentioned but occasionally goofy “Not a Luv Song”, these verses don’t show any sides of ST we haven’t seen before. Fortunately, he has no problems finding inventive ways to tread his usual topics. Here’s a note on his dope-dealing history from “Green Light District”: “Hit that bitch with P’s and O’s/ She flip them letters like Vanna White.” On “Flashlight”, ST steps back for a survey of the Big Picture, growing as pensive as ever in the process: “What good is having a voice if you only talk about yourself?/ What good is having a choice if you only choose to hurt somebody else?” Later on that same track, he looks at his surroundings and concludes, “This ain’t livin’, that’s why I’m livid.” Nothing worldview-shaking or stunningly pithy, maybe, but as per always, ST consistently gets the job done here. A few obstacles prevent The G from reaching a serious peak or sustaining any real hot streak: some elements that were surely appended to give the album a more expansive feel-- GMane’s interstitial musings, the longish in- and outros, the instrumental “Lighthouse”-- account for too much of the album’s 42-minute duration. (Those GMane interludes don’t serve the same narrative purpose as, say, Kendrick’s mom’s do on good kid, m.A.A.d city.) It’s also frustrating that ST insists on working with relative unknowns instead of collaborating with a heavyweight who might help draw him somewhere near the limelight of rap in a grand sense; Grilly and Bentley might sound a little like Big K.R.I.T. and a more restrained Gunplay, respectively, but they lack the intangibles those guys would bring if they were actually here. Barring the EP/pre-album teaser Prelude... To The G, The Growth & Development might be the feeblest release of ST’s career so far. It’s never bad, but it could have been more streamlined, and we should be hearing a little more ambition from a guy who, as he tells us on “Flashlight”, is hoping to be a star at some point.

Artist: ST 2 Lettaz, Album: The G... The Growth & Development, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "As recent breakups go, G-Side’s didn’t register with the same magnitude as that of the Mars Volta or Das Racist, but the tributes their split did garner were well earned. Though the Huntsville, Ala., rap duo's musical boldness pulled together various corners of the internet-- The ONE... COHESIVE’s “How Far” sampled Beach House’s “10 Mile Stereo”, while iSLAND’s “Gettin It” sliced up Tame Impala’s winding “Why Won’t You Make Up Your Mind?”-- ST 2 Lettaz and Yung Clova always had their feet cemented in the spongy, candy-coated stylings of early 8Ball & MJG and other Southern luminaries. It was an aesthetic that, if not exclusively theirs, no one else did better, and it provided the foundation of five satisfying (if commercially ineffectual) albums in barely four years, from 2007’s Sumthin 2 Hate to 2011’s iSLAND. While Clova, as the head of Athens, Ala.-based collective Lambo Music, has continued to release new material since he and ST officially parted ways, the latter has worked faster. Less than a week after the breakup came his debut EP, R.E.B.E.L., which proved to be the most sonically daring release ST’d been involved in yet. Sampling the Beastie Boys, Bone Thugs, Empire of the Sun, and Skrillex, much of it was as kinetic as any of the party-rap by his Huntsville pal Jackie Chain (albeit in a much different way). Not only did it suggest ST would be just fine without his former partner, its best moments justified G-Side’s dissolution in that it exposed a singular vision that might never have been achieved by the pair as, well, a pair. Originally planned to be G-Side’s sixth LP, The G... The Growth & Development wound up as ST’s full-length solo debut. It marks the first release of the 27-year-old’s career that doesn’t have much in the way of continuity. Three tracks approximate pure East Coast classicism-- “Trillmatic”’s first half, for example, could hardly be more reminiscent of that Nas album’s “Memory Lane (Sittin’ in Da Park)”-- and two more aim for the club nearly as overtly as G-Side’s “College Chicks” did in 2009. Of course, those make for two very distant poles, but given that ST has written both with unabashed hubris and of everyday struggles whose details wouldn’t sound out of place on some meditative Rhymesayers single, we know the guy has range. And everything on The G falls within that range. Besides those from the well-intentioned but occasionally goofy “Not a Luv Song”, these verses don’t show any sides of ST we haven’t seen before. Fortunately, he has no problems finding inventive ways to tread his usual topics. Here’s a note on his dope-dealing history from “Green Light District”: “Hit that bitch with P’s and O’s/ She flip them letters like Vanna White.” On “Flashlight”, ST steps back for a survey of the Big Picture, growing as pensive as ever in the process: “What good is having a voice if you only talk about yourself?/ What good is having a choice if you only choose to hurt somebody else?” Later on that same track, he looks at his surroundings and concludes, “This ain’t livin’, that’s why I’m livid.” Nothing worldview-shaking or stunningly pithy, maybe, but as per always, ST consistently gets the job done here. A few obstacles prevent The G from reaching a serious peak or sustaining any real hot streak: some elements that were surely appended to give the album a more expansive feel-- GMane’s interstitial musings, the longish in- and outros, the instrumental “Lighthouse”-- account for too much of the album’s 42-minute duration. (Those GMane interludes don’t serve the same narrative purpose as, say, Kendrick’s mom’s do on good kid, m.A.A.d city.) It’s also frustrating that ST insists on working with relative unknowns instead of collaborating with a heavyweight who might help draw him somewhere near the limelight of rap in a grand sense; Grilly and Bentley might sound a little like Big K.R.I.T. and a more restrained Gunplay, respectively, but they lack the intangibles those guys would bring if they were actually here. Barring the EP/pre-album teaser Prelude... To The G, The Growth & Development might be the feeblest release of ST’s career so far. It’s never bad, but it could have been more streamlined, and we should be hearing a little more ambition from a guy who, as he tells us on “Flashlight”, is hoping to be a star at some point."

The Dean Ween Group

The Deaner Album

Rock

Matthew Grosinger

Ween famously broke up in 2012 after Aaron Freeman told Rolling Stone—but not his bandmate Mickey Melchiondo—that he needed time to convalesce after a drug-related breakdown. This marked the first time since 1984 that the two childhood friends would ostensibly retire their alter egos, Gene and Dean Ween, for their civilian names. While Freeman made it to the other side of that dark period with a baptismally purgative album, Melchiondo remained the same technically gifted clown in all his endeavors. Now, this consistent energy extends to his solo debut with the Dean Ween Group, the first invocation of his original band on an album since its dissolution and recent reinstatement. And in its ambitious genre hopping and sometimes-hilarious-sometimes-cringeworthy childishness, *The Deaner Album *is the closest thing to a proper Ween album in a decade. Much like Ween’s early output—think God Ween Satan: The Oneness* *through Chocolate and Cheese—The Deaner Album is a collagist pursuit that simultaneously honors and apes the various styles it probes. “Mercedes Benz” experiments with the funky lurch of Parliament-Funkadelic, while “Shwartze Pete” celebrates Les Paul with the legend’s nasally, vintage guitar noodling. Lead track “Dickie Betts,” an instrumental highlight, is an improvisational southern rock tribute to the former Allman Brothers Band guitarist, and maybe even a self-referential nod to the guitarist’s leap from second to first in command. Most noticeably, however, The Deaner Album intuitively echoes songs that have populated Ween’s variegated discography, something that seems inevitable given the band’s self-perpetuating mythology—their “brownness.” The arena-primed “Garry” sounds like if Chocolate And Cheese’s “A Tear for Eddie” was reconfigured as a Lynyrd Skynyrd ballad, while “Gum,” a truly grating listening experience during which Melchiondo lists kinds of gum, is a close cousin to “Candi” and borrows the disquieting triangle jabs of “Spinal Meningitis.” And of course, this wouldn’t be a Ween-peripheral record without a shit reference so “Doo Doo Chasers” checks that box and ends the record on a particularly brown note, much the way “Poop Ship Destroyer” concludes Pure Guava. Puerile antics are seemingly foundational to what made Ween so great, but really it was the band’s delicate balance of sincerity and irreverent surrealism. This had everything to do with the dynamic between Gene and Dean, the former a more philosophically minded, if outlandish, songwriter, the latter the brash, instrumental wonk. So even though Dean’s album features guest appearances from the Meat Puppets’ Curt Kirkwood, and punk drummer Chuck Treece, The Deaner Album lacks a fundamental humaneness and veers toward uncouth, guitar face-inducing force. This pays dividends for the bar-rock and instrumental tracks on this record, but a lot of the lyrics and imagery can be ham-fisted (“Charlie Brown” is a song about being unlucky, for example), and in one case, crudely misogynistic. “Tammy” is a seedy tale whose chorus details using the song’s namesake as a sexual object and then murdering her with a shotgun: “Tammy, bring me my Shammy/So I can clean my shotgun and bury you below.” Ween occasionally made forays into politically incorrect territory, but Deaner’s latest entry isn’t so much funny as it is straightforwardly unnerving. The comedic and lyrical height of this record, however, belongs to “Exercise Man,” which paints a plainspoken portrait of a “fucking douchebag exercise man,” who works out every day even though he will “die at 57 of a heart attack.” It is a really quick, blunt song about the futility of constructive behavior and boasts the description: “He uses the weight room at the Motel 6,” which should have been a punchline about Drake’s softness three years ago. It’s aware that it’s aggro and is brutally funny. And perhaps that is the small magic of The Deaner Album: it makes you feel like you are in on a longstanding inside joke with an old friend. Even if the joke is super dumb and at times problematic, it is strangely comforting to know that the guy responsible hasn’t changed one iota.

Artist: The Dean Ween Group, Album: The Deaner Album, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.0 Album review: "Ween famously broke up in 2012 after Aaron Freeman told Rolling Stone—but not his bandmate Mickey Melchiondo—that he needed time to convalesce after a drug-related breakdown. This marked the first time since 1984 that the two childhood friends would ostensibly retire their alter egos, Gene and Dean Ween, for their civilian names. While Freeman made it to the other side of that dark period with a baptismally purgative album, Melchiondo remained the same technically gifted clown in all his endeavors. Now, this consistent energy extends to his solo debut with the Dean Ween Group, the first invocation of his original band on an album since its dissolution and recent reinstatement. And in its ambitious genre hopping and sometimes-hilarious-sometimes-cringeworthy childishness, *The Deaner Album *is the closest thing to a proper Ween album in a decade. Much like Ween’s early output—think God Ween Satan: The Oneness* *through Chocolate and Cheese—The Deaner Album is a collagist pursuit that simultaneously honors and apes the various styles it probes. “Mercedes Benz” experiments with the funky lurch of Parliament-Funkadelic, while “Shwartze Pete” celebrates Les Paul with the legend’s nasally, vintage guitar noodling. Lead track “Dickie Betts,” an instrumental highlight, is an improvisational southern rock tribute to the former Allman Brothers Band guitarist, and maybe even a self-referential nod to the guitarist’s leap from second to first in command. Most noticeably, however, The Deaner Album intuitively echoes songs that have populated Ween’s variegated discography, something that seems inevitable given the band’s self-perpetuating mythology—their “brownness.” The arena-primed “Garry” sounds like if Chocolate And Cheese’s “A Tear for Eddie” was reconfigured as a Lynyrd Skynyrd ballad, while “Gum,” a truly grating listening experience during which Melchiondo lists kinds of gum, is a close cousin to “Candi” and borrows the disquieting triangle jabs of “Spinal Meningitis.” And of course, this wouldn’t be a Ween-peripheral record without a shit reference so “Doo Doo Chasers” checks that box and ends the record on a particularly brown note, much the way “Poop Ship Destroyer” concludes Pure Guava. Puerile antics are seemingly foundational to what made Ween so great, but really it was the band’s delicate balance of sincerity and irreverent surrealism. This had everything to do with the dynamic between Gene and Dean, the former a more philosophically minded, if outlandish, songwriter, the latter the brash, instrumental wonk. So even though Dean’s album features guest appearances from the Meat Puppets’ Curt Kirkwood, and punk drummer Chuck Treece, The Deaner Album lacks a fundamental humaneness and veers toward uncouth, guitar face-inducing force. This pays dividends for the bar-rock and instrumental tracks on this record, but a lot of the lyrics and imagery can be ham-fisted (“Charlie Brown” is a song about being unlucky, for example), and in one case, crudely misogynistic. “Tammy” is a seedy tale whose chorus details using the song’s namesake as a sexual object and then murdering her with a shotgun: “Tammy, bring me my Shammy/So I can clean my shotgun and bury you below.” Ween occasionally made forays into politically incorrect territory, but Deaner’s latest entry isn’t so much funny as it is straightforwardly unnerving. The comedic and lyrical height of this record, however, belongs to “Exercise Man,” which paints a plainspoken portrait of a “fucking douchebag exercise man,” who works out every day even though he will “die at 57 of a heart attack.” It is a really quick, blunt song about the futility of constructive behavior and boasts the description: “He uses the weight room at the Motel 6,” which should have been a punchline about Drake’s softness three years ago. It’s aware that it’s aggro and is brutally funny. And perhaps that is the small magic of The Deaner Album: it makes you feel like you are in on a longstanding inside joke with an old friend. Even if the joke is super dumb and at times problematic, it is strangely comforting to know that the guy responsible hasn’t changed one iota."

Jason Holstrom

The Thieves of Kailua

Electronic

Eric Harvey

The song "Vamos a la Playa" fell on the second half of the eponymous 2004 debut from giddy Seattle electro-maximalists United State of Electronica. Over the three years since the group's sole release to date, U.S.E. contributor Jason Holstrom has bided his time taking that suggestion to heart. Inspired by a trip to the Hawaiian islands followed by a few years in the studio (appropriately dubbed "The Cabana"), Holstrom's latest flight of fancy is The Thieves of Kailua, a musicological experiment as socks-and-sandals 50th state getaway, told with the instrumental precision of a native session man. Although arguments could be made for Kailua's precursors in smart, luxuriant flip-flop-pop-- the Beach Boys' languid, sun-blanched harmonies, Ry Cooder's indigenous guitar-rock, the High Llamas' pith-helmet ethnography Hawaii-- Holstrom's songwriting and engineering keep the record from becoming a well-accompanied post-holiday slide-show. The tale is basic (love, Hawaiian-style) but as any travel agent or sunburned weekender will tell you, it's the journey itself that counts. "Crystal Green" opens the record with Holstrom gazing out of his plane window, noting the ocean's color. His weightless, echoed voice meshes with the thick swells of richly-recorded instrumentation around it: rolling bass drums, a guitar twanging a melody that recalls a TV Western, a whip-crack vocal effect straight from a Martin Denny or Esquivel record fade as the sound of a two-prop plane (a "real" plane, the liners indicate) fades into the horizon. A lap-steel guitar provides the atmosphere for "Hawaii She Calls", a late-album track that marks Holstrom's island conversion, and closer "Hula-Bye" is wordless acapella recalling the Pet Sounds box set extras. In between, however, Holstrom recalls with verve a pretty eventful vacation: he's mugged, falls in love with a girl, and does significant amounts of lounging about. We hear what sounds like the resort concierge on "Welcome-Clouds Roll in", informing us "the ukelele band is gonna play, just like they do it every single day." Later, the sax-accompanied Grease-style "Under Setting Sun" is a lovers' duet, on which Holstrom is accompanied by his paramour ("All there is to do is sit and dream of her/ And I'll dream of him too"), but sings alone the chorus, the giddy realization that "I'm falling in love." The five-minute title suite contains Kailua's other significant occurrrence: after experiencing the opposite of hospitality, and describing the perpetrators, Holstrom laments: "Now do I look like the purist tourist/ Look at my skin so white/ To the thieves of the island I ain't no native, but that don't make it right." Holstrom's wayfaring status on Kailua highlights the most significant connection between U.S.E. and his current conceit. Both aesthetically-divergent ventures rely on precisely-executed high-concept fantasy: U.S.E. was the work of some mashed-together Seattleite indie rockers pretending to be a German electro-outfit, and Kailua is a personal travelogue with a regionalized soundtrack. The fact that both records start sounding a bit samey after a few listens (the vocoder and uke have one thing in common: they both grate in large doses) indicates that Holstrom might just have a career here: making one-off, pleasure-seeking concept albums between production sessions for other artists. If his subsequent safaris are the enjoyable diversions the last two have been, why stop?

Artist: Jason Holstrom, Album: The Thieves of Kailua, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "The song "Vamos a la Playa" fell on the second half of the eponymous 2004 debut from giddy Seattle electro-maximalists United State of Electronica. Over the three years since the group's sole release to date, U.S.E. contributor Jason Holstrom has bided his time taking that suggestion to heart. Inspired by a trip to the Hawaiian islands followed by a few years in the studio (appropriately dubbed "The Cabana"), Holstrom's latest flight of fancy is The Thieves of Kailua, a musicological experiment as socks-and-sandals 50th state getaway, told with the instrumental precision of a native session man. Although arguments could be made for Kailua's precursors in smart, luxuriant flip-flop-pop-- the Beach Boys' languid, sun-blanched harmonies, Ry Cooder's indigenous guitar-rock, the High Llamas' pith-helmet ethnography Hawaii-- Holstrom's songwriting and engineering keep the record from becoming a well-accompanied post-holiday slide-show. The tale is basic (love, Hawaiian-style) but as any travel agent or sunburned weekender will tell you, it's the journey itself that counts. "Crystal Green" opens the record with Holstrom gazing out of his plane window, noting the ocean's color. His weightless, echoed voice meshes with the thick swells of richly-recorded instrumentation around it: rolling bass drums, a guitar twanging a melody that recalls a TV Western, a whip-crack vocal effect straight from a Martin Denny or Esquivel record fade as the sound of a two-prop plane (a "real" plane, the liners indicate) fades into the horizon. A lap-steel guitar provides the atmosphere for "Hawaii She Calls", a late-album track that marks Holstrom's island conversion, and closer "Hula-Bye" is wordless acapella recalling the Pet Sounds box set extras. In between, however, Holstrom recalls with verve a pretty eventful vacation: he's mugged, falls in love with a girl, and does significant amounts of lounging about. We hear what sounds like the resort concierge on "Welcome-Clouds Roll in", informing us "the ukelele band is gonna play, just like they do it every single day." Later, the sax-accompanied Grease-style "Under Setting Sun" is a lovers' duet, on which Holstrom is accompanied by his paramour ("All there is to do is sit and dream of her/ And I'll dream of him too"), but sings alone the chorus, the giddy realization that "I'm falling in love." The five-minute title suite contains Kailua's other significant occurrrence: after experiencing the opposite of hospitality, and describing the perpetrators, Holstrom laments: "Now do I look like the purist tourist/ Look at my skin so white/ To the thieves of the island I ain't no native, but that don't make it right." Holstrom's wayfaring status on Kailua highlights the most significant connection between U.S.E. and his current conceit. Both aesthetically-divergent ventures rely on precisely-executed high-concept fantasy: U.S.E. was the work of some mashed-together Seattleite indie rockers pretending to be a German electro-outfit, and Kailua is a personal travelogue with a regionalized soundtrack. The fact that both records start sounding a bit samey after a few listens (the vocoder and uke have one thing in common: they both grate in large doses) indicates that Holstrom might just have a career here: making one-off, pleasure-seeking concept albums between production sessions for other artists. If his subsequent safaris are the enjoyable diversions the last two have been, why stop?"

Gold-Bears

Are You Falling in Love?

Experimental,Rock

David Bevan

"Remember that night in 1993? That song made you weep. How could you be so mean, to the boy you longed to meet?" This is the first line of "Besides You", a late-album beauty on Are You Falling in Love?, the debut LP from Atlanta indie poppers Gold-Bears. A little bit emo, a little bit twee, this one lyric is actually striking more for its date-dropping than than its emotional overtones. It fits really well. These four share a lot of DNA with Slumberland labelmates the Pains of Being Pure at Heart. But where the latter initially couched their melodies in the "noise" of late-80s noise-pop (they've since swapped that out for the sear of Smashing Pumpkins' guitar squall), Gold-Bears favor the dreamy, moody, semi-blurry sounds Yo La Tengo built their reputation on in the early to mid-90s. All waves of revivalism and nostalgia aside, Are You Falling Love? sounds like it was beamed in straight from 1993. The band works within this particular framework exceedingly well. "Record Store" is a tear-streaked, full-tilt opener that leaves a whole lot of foam and fizz in its wake. "So Natural" boasts equal amounts of verve, save for a gentle bell melody in its second half. From there the title track coasts into a field of drone, a psychedelic space where Gold-Bears set themselves apart from a lot of their contemporaries. There's no shortage of energy here-- this band can zoom from one row of jangly, interlocking guitar melodies to the next, the sax-laced "East Station Attendant" and sugary peaks of "Totally Called It" one particularly great mark-- but when they make room to fuck around more intensely with volume and texture, the results can dazzle. Chief songwriter Jeremy Underwood doesn't leave a lot unsaid, packing his poetry in very tightly. And whether or not you've got a heart for the relatively twee, lovesick couplets he's letting loose, a change of pace suits him well. He sings the first several bars of closer "Yeah, Tonight" cloaked in echo, an acoustic guitar rattling around at his fingers. There's some word-blurring kick drum and a few spears of guitar noise sent through negative space, but for the most part, this is a stripped down version of most everything else you'll find here. But as this song gains momentum, it blooms into a less strained iteration of what they already do well. "Tonight we'll fall in love and love again," Underwood coos just before he up and pulls a Malkmus: "And then the drums come in..." What happens next is a lot like Gold-Bears and Are You Falling in Love?: a pleasant surprise.

Artist: Gold-Bears, Album: Are You Falling in Love?, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: ""Remember that night in 1993? That song made you weep. How could you be so mean, to the boy you longed to meet?" This is the first line of "Besides You", a late-album beauty on Are You Falling in Love?, the debut LP from Atlanta indie poppers Gold-Bears. A little bit emo, a little bit twee, this one lyric is actually striking more for its date-dropping than than its emotional overtones. It fits really well. These four share a lot of DNA with Slumberland labelmates the Pains of Being Pure at Heart. But where the latter initially couched their melodies in the "noise" of late-80s noise-pop (they've since swapped that out for the sear of Smashing Pumpkins' guitar squall), Gold-Bears favor the dreamy, moody, semi-blurry sounds Yo La Tengo built their reputation on in the early to mid-90s. All waves of revivalism and nostalgia aside, Are You Falling Love? sounds like it was beamed in straight from 1993. The band works within this particular framework exceedingly well. "Record Store" is a tear-streaked, full-tilt opener that leaves a whole lot of foam and fizz in its wake. "So Natural" boasts equal amounts of verve, save for a gentle bell melody in its second half. From there the title track coasts into a field of drone, a psychedelic space where Gold-Bears set themselves apart from a lot of their contemporaries. There's no shortage of energy here-- this band can zoom from one row of jangly, interlocking guitar melodies to the next, the sax-laced "East Station Attendant" and sugary peaks of "Totally Called It" one particularly great mark-- but when they make room to fuck around more intensely with volume and texture, the results can dazzle. Chief songwriter Jeremy Underwood doesn't leave a lot unsaid, packing his poetry in very tightly. And whether or not you've got a heart for the relatively twee, lovesick couplets he's letting loose, a change of pace suits him well. He sings the first several bars of closer "Yeah, Tonight" cloaked in echo, an acoustic guitar rattling around at his fingers. There's some word-blurring kick drum and a few spears of guitar noise sent through negative space, but for the most part, this is a stripped down version of most everything else you'll find here. But as this song gains momentum, it blooms into a less strained iteration of what they already do well. "Tonight we'll fall in love and love again," Underwood coos just before he up and pulls a Malkmus: "And then the drums come in..." What happens next is a lot like Gold-Bears and Are You Falling in Love?: a pleasant surprise."

Jesse Sykes & the Sweet Hereafter

Oh, My Girl

Folk/Country

Johnny Loftus

There's no way around that voice. On her second album leading The Sweet Hereafter, Jesse Sykes tries valiantly to showcase her crack backing band, favoring phrasing that leaves room for Phil Wandscher's meticulously crafted guitar peels, or a subtle mood affirmation from violinist Anne Marie Ruljancich. But the sailors know it's Sykes' alto dashing ships on the rocks, and challenging the alt-country tag at the same time. "Your black eyes remind me/ Of the dreaming dead," Sykes sings over some kind of reworked psych-folk rhythm, and she sounds like a suddenly un-shy Chan Marshall flirting dangerously with her inner Arthur Lee. Hailing from the wet winds of Seattle, Jesse and Wandscher-- together with Ruljancich, bassist Bill Herzog, and consistently understated drummer Kevin Warner-- have been crafting sleepy meditations on American music and the human condition since 2002's gorgeously strong-jawed Reckless Burning. Still, it's Oh, My Girl that will give them their due, since (paging Seth Cohen and Death Cab for Cutie) their new label, Barsuk, has promotional balls. Example? Girl recently broke through to the l'il smokies 'n' cocktails affluence crowd with a fawning review on NPR's All Things Considered. Damn right it was fawning-- with their new record, Sykes and The Sweet Hereafter easily trample the confining fences of y'allternative, instead aiming steadily for mystery salons held in the narthexes of brokedown cathedrals. "He took the fall/ 'Cause some things in life are still worth a good brawl." "Tell the Boys"' hard-hours morning light shuffle is only a blank page for Sykes' pointed suggestion of a lyric. The story doesn't finish-- there's regret, and people getting sober, and the title's resigned request-- but the images shuttle through Wandscher's guitar leads like otherworldly newsreels. On "You Are Not Gotten Here", Ruljancich's violin suggests the brittle melancholy of Nick Drake's "Cello Song", but there's something purer and darker in Sykes singing "there's fire on your tongue," backed up by guitars that are either sad drinking partners or friends enlisted to help bury a body. As striking and evocative as Jesse Sykes & The Sweet Hereafter can be, many will map their favorite spots. Yes, Oh, My Girl does continually return carrier pigeon-like to the warm comfort between Sykes' elongated vowels and Wandscher's inky twang leads. But isn't this is what we want? One or two notes of that prairie fire smoke and we're hooked on Sykes' vocal; her supporting players are proven soul-tweak pros. We want our Americana to resonate with a mixture of warmth and scratch, of death and love. And, like a trusty old radio, Oh, My Girl delivers. "Troubled Soul" and "Winter Hunter" are as tart as Washington apples, alive with feeling but sweetly, sultrily inviting. This is the album of sad beauty the Scud Mountain Boys were too suicidal to make; it's what happens when fronting on style is shunned in favor of inventive songwriting that focuses (perhaps too closely, but whatever) on the unique talents of a lineup. Throughout Oh, My Girl, it always seems like Sykes and her people are holding back, as if they might throw the cloak off a thundering acoustic version of Heart's "Magic Man" at any moment, and send us all caterwauling back to a time when genres weren't micro-managed, bras weren't worn, and evocation was a necessity borne with learning how to sing. This never quite happens, though the weird psychedelic overtones that keep welling up do wonders for overactive imaginations wishing to contextualize Girl as an understated look at the legacy of late-60s/early-70s rock. They could be Heart if they wanted to, no question. But Sykes, the amazing Wandscher, and their talented mates have chosen instead to make something wholly their own, settled on a shore of rocky emotions, sweeping, concealing dune grass, and caves that lead to sad echoes and who knows what else. In those dark places cut into the earth, Sykes' sinewy vocal is like a canary with a cigarette.

Artist: Jesse Sykes & the Sweet Hereafter, Album: Oh, My Girl, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "There's no way around that voice. On her second album leading The Sweet Hereafter, Jesse Sykes tries valiantly to showcase her crack backing band, favoring phrasing that leaves room for Phil Wandscher's meticulously crafted guitar peels, or a subtle mood affirmation from violinist Anne Marie Ruljancich. But the sailors know it's Sykes' alto dashing ships on the rocks, and challenging the alt-country tag at the same time. "Your black eyes remind me/ Of the dreaming dead," Sykes sings over some kind of reworked psych-folk rhythm, and she sounds like a suddenly un-shy Chan Marshall flirting dangerously with her inner Arthur Lee. Hailing from the wet winds of Seattle, Jesse and Wandscher-- together with Ruljancich, bassist Bill Herzog, and consistently understated drummer Kevin Warner-- have been crafting sleepy meditations on American music and the human condition since 2002's gorgeously strong-jawed Reckless Burning. Still, it's Oh, My Girl that will give them their due, since (paging Seth Cohen and Death Cab for Cutie) their new label, Barsuk, has promotional balls. Example? Girl recently broke through to the l'il smokies 'n' cocktails affluence crowd with a fawning review on NPR's All Things Considered. Damn right it was fawning-- with their new record, Sykes and The Sweet Hereafter easily trample the confining fences of y'allternative, instead aiming steadily for mystery salons held in the narthexes of brokedown cathedrals. "He took the fall/ 'Cause some things in life are still worth a good brawl." "Tell the Boys"' hard-hours morning light shuffle is only a blank page for Sykes' pointed suggestion of a lyric. The story doesn't finish-- there's regret, and people getting sober, and the title's resigned request-- but the images shuttle through Wandscher's guitar leads like otherworldly newsreels. On "You Are Not Gotten Here", Ruljancich's violin suggests the brittle melancholy of Nick Drake's "Cello Song", but there's something purer and darker in Sykes singing "there's fire on your tongue," backed up by guitars that are either sad drinking partners or friends enlisted to help bury a body. As striking and evocative as Jesse Sykes & The Sweet Hereafter can be, many will map their favorite spots. Yes, Oh, My Girl does continually return carrier pigeon-like to the warm comfort between Sykes' elongated vowels and Wandscher's inky twang leads. But isn't this is what we want? One or two notes of that prairie fire smoke and we're hooked on Sykes' vocal; her supporting players are proven soul-tweak pros. We want our Americana to resonate with a mixture of warmth and scratch, of death and love. And, like a trusty old radio, Oh, My Girl delivers. "Troubled Soul" and "Winter Hunter" are as tart as Washington apples, alive with feeling but sweetly, sultrily inviting. This is the album of sad beauty the Scud Mountain Boys were too suicidal to make; it's what happens when fronting on style is shunned in favor of inventive songwriting that focuses (perhaps too closely, but whatever) on the unique talents of a lineup. Throughout Oh, My Girl, it always seems like Sykes and her people are holding back, as if they might throw the cloak off a thundering acoustic version of Heart's "Magic Man" at any moment, and send us all caterwauling back to a time when genres weren't micro-managed, bras weren't worn, and evocation was a necessity borne with learning how to sing. This never quite happens, though the weird psychedelic overtones that keep welling up do wonders for overactive imaginations wishing to contextualize Girl as an understated look at the legacy of late-60s/early-70s rock. They could be Heart if they wanted to, no question. But Sykes, the amazing Wandscher, and their talented mates have chosen instead to make something wholly their own, settled on a shore of rocky emotions, sweeping, concealing dune grass, and caves that lead to sad echoes and who knows what else. In those dark places cut into the earth, Sykes' sinewy vocal is like a canary with a cigarette."

Lupe Fiasco

Friend of the People

Rap

Jayson Greene

Google "Lupe Fiasco sucks" and "Lupe Fiasco greatest rapper alive," and you will find yourself confronted, on both sides, with a whole lot of results. Even in rap music, where 90 percent of musical arguments begin and end with side-choosing and insult-hurling, Lupe is a lightning rod. What has he done to deserve such scorn? What has he done to warrant such blind devotion? The answer to both questions, unfortunately, is "not enough": Lupe's so gifted that he remains nearly impossible to tune out completely, but his career is a sad little parable about the danger of wasted talent. Perhaps he can sense this perception in the air. Because like most rappers who've made promises to the conscious-rap crowd that they have no intention of keeping, Lupe's music has grown increasingly sour, half-assed, and defensive as he's traveled further from the glow of his Chosen One days. Listening to Friend of the People, his wearying, dispiriting latest mixtape, you don't leave with the warm and fuzzy feeling promised in the title; you come away thinking that Lupe's underlying message these days feels closer to, "Here you are, you ungrateful motherfuckers; I've given you something else beautiful to tear apart." Friend of the People comes out a little more than a year after Lupe's last mixtape, Enemy of the State, but if there's a thematic link between them, it's beyond a dog's range of hearing. Enemy of the State was short, punchy, and highly enjoyable; for a third of Friend of the People, you feel actively punished for paying attention. Part of the problem is beat selection: On Enemy, he skip-roped nimbly over Radiohead's "The National Anthem" without embarrassing anybody, but on Friend's "Lupe Back", he allows UK bro-step goons Nero to assault us with endless, bowel-loosening bass drops. Fiasco sneaks in some eyebrow-raising rap-industry jabs-- producer deals, B.D.S., "only as hot as your last beat"-- but they disappear in the chaos. Production has always been an Achilles' heel for Lupe: He's nimble enough to make you listen to him rapping over anything, but his tin ear tests this hypothesis far too frequently. Mainstream, aggressively macho dubstep seems to be his latest thing: Besides Nero, we get Bassnectar's remix of Ellie Goulding's "Lights" for "Lightworks" and alpha-bro Skrillex on "SNDCLSH in Vegas". Lupe throws every flow he's got against these steel-beamed, charmless corporate-office structures, but his reedy voice slides harmlessly right off. He also goes out of his way to show us he's keeping up with indie, sampling "On'n'On" from Justice's garish hockey-prog new album, and skimming some starry-eyed shimmer off the top of M83's "Midnight City". I couldn't help but wish he would stop straining and find some tracks that work as viable rap beats. There are fleeting moments on Friend of the People where he encourages you to look past all these problems. "Joaquin Phoenix" is full of head-turning lines, both self-deprecating ("Fitted hat is Reynolds wrap/ Because I don't trust the government") and silly ("You be on that glory hole/ You don't know who you fuckin' with"). On the page, when he's engaged, Lupe is invincible. Even his quasi-philosophical nonsense comes with a poetic touch-- "Atheism's cheaper and accepts Visa" might not mean anything, but it's a sharply turned, gnomic phrase. He even drops an incredible floss rhyme on "Supercold" just to show us he can: "Christmastime diamonds singing carols on my chest/ Step up off the jet, lookin' like a pharaoh in the flesh." But he's just as likely to waste our time recounting the plots to 1990s gangsta movies ("Double Burger w/Cheese"). It cuts to the core of Lupe's problem: there's almost nothing he can't do. Sadly, he never does anything much.

Artist: Lupe Fiasco, Album: Friend of the People, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 4.8 Album review: "Google "Lupe Fiasco sucks" and "Lupe Fiasco greatest rapper alive," and you will find yourself confronted, on both sides, with a whole lot of results. Even in rap music, where 90 percent of musical arguments begin and end with side-choosing and insult-hurling, Lupe is a lightning rod. What has he done to deserve such scorn? What has he done to warrant such blind devotion? The answer to both questions, unfortunately, is "not enough": Lupe's so gifted that he remains nearly impossible to tune out completely, but his career is a sad little parable about the danger of wasted talent. Perhaps he can sense this perception in the air. Because like most rappers who've made promises to the conscious-rap crowd that they have no intention of keeping, Lupe's music has grown increasingly sour, half-assed, and defensive as he's traveled further from the glow of his Chosen One days. Listening to Friend of the People, his wearying, dispiriting latest mixtape, you don't leave with the warm and fuzzy feeling promised in the title; you come away thinking that Lupe's underlying message these days feels closer to, "Here you are, you ungrateful motherfuckers; I've given you something else beautiful to tear apart." Friend of the People comes out a little more than a year after Lupe's last mixtape, Enemy of the State, but if there's a thematic link between them, it's beyond a dog's range of hearing. Enemy of the State was short, punchy, and highly enjoyable; for a third of Friend of the People, you feel actively punished for paying attention. Part of the problem is beat selection: On Enemy, he skip-roped nimbly over Radiohead's "The National Anthem" without embarrassing anybody, but on Friend's "Lupe Back", he allows UK bro-step goons Nero to assault us with endless, bowel-loosening bass drops. Fiasco sneaks in some eyebrow-raising rap-industry jabs-- producer deals, B.D.S., "only as hot as your last beat"-- but they disappear in the chaos. Production has always been an Achilles' heel for Lupe: He's nimble enough to make you listen to him rapping over anything, but his tin ear tests this hypothesis far too frequently. Mainstream, aggressively macho dubstep seems to be his latest thing: Besides Nero, we get Bassnectar's remix of Ellie Goulding's "Lights" for "Lightworks" and alpha-bro Skrillex on "SNDCLSH in Vegas". Lupe throws every flow he's got against these steel-beamed, charmless corporate-office structures, but his reedy voice slides harmlessly right off. He also goes out of his way to show us he's keeping up with indie, sampling "On'n'On" from Justice's garish hockey-prog new album, and skimming some starry-eyed shimmer off the top of M83's "Midnight City". I couldn't help but wish he would stop straining and find some tracks that work as viable rap beats. There are fleeting moments on Friend of the People where he encourages you to look past all these problems. "Joaquin Phoenix" is full of head-turning lines, both self-deprecating ("Fitted hat is Reynolds wrap/ Because I don't trust the government") and silly ("You be on that glory hole/ You don't know who you fuckin' with"). On the page, when he's engaged, Lupe is invincible. Even his quasi-philosophical nonsense comes with a poetic touch-- "Atheism's cheaper and accepts Visa" might not mean anything, but it's a sharply turned, gnomic phrase. He even drops an incredible floss rhyme on "Supercold" just to show us he can: "Christmastime diamonds singing carols on my chest/ Step up off the jet, lookin' like a pharaoh in the flesh." But he's just as likely to waste our time recounting the plots to 1990s gangsta movies ("Double Burger w/Cheese"). It cuts to the core of Lupe's problem: there's almost nothing he can't do. Sadly, he never does anything much."

Leviathan

Massive Conspiracy Against All Life

Metal

Cosmo Lee

The one-man band has come a long way from the stereotypical busker laden with instruments from head to foot. With today's technology, individuals often surpass the capabilities and limits of full bands. Black metal, in particular, has embraced solo recording for aesthetic and practical reasons. The artform's venom is antisocial; recording at home is also cheaper and less hassle than practice spaces and bandmates. Lacking the metal-rich environment and close distances of their European counterparts, American black metallers have made the one-man format uniquely theirs. Lone wolves like Xasthur, Krohm, and Sapthuran turn black metal's explosive energy inwards; Leviathan is arguably the most potent of the lot. Like his colleagues, San Francisco's Leviathan (aka Wrest) deals with depressive/suicidal themes. But unlike them, he wields instrumental prowess that amplifies the personal into the epic. Drums are his first instrument, and they propel his songs through widely varied feels: light-speed blastbeats, mid-paced trudges, tricky math meters. On guitar, he fluently dials up the raw primitiveness of black metal's first wave, the romantic nihilism of the second wave, and shoegazer sheets of sound. His bass lines have an unmatched warmth and fluidity. He's also a celebrated tattoo artist; his wrenching artwork adorns albums by Heresi, Winterblut, and himself. In short, he is the total package. Massive Conspiracy Against All Life is aptly-titled; Wrest sounds like he's throwing everything and the kitchen sink against the world. His are the bitterest symphonies-- in a past life, he was probably a composer whose works caused riots-- and Conspiracy is his rage writ large. Leviathan's discography (three full-lengths, numerous demos and splits) has varied widely in production values; Conspiracy is the first time his apocalypse has had a sound to match. The record evokes both a missile attack and its aftermath. Eerie jangles swoop down on "Made as the Stale Wine of Wrath", paving the way for a ground assault of blastbeats. "Vesture Dipped in the Blood of Morning" has what sounds like a martial orchestral sample, as if Sousa had written not for triumph but for tragedy. "Noisome Ash Crown" deceptively meanders in a fog, then unleashes a stomping death march. Wrest's voice rises above the fray like a warlord general; unlike his colleagues, who often sound like malnourished witches, he declaims with a commanding growl. Yet his attack is not all blitzkrieg. Wrest adeptly conjures up wind-like sounds, whether through guitars or electronic means, and much of the record feels like a sepulchral cave. The Book of Revelation has many metal soundtracks, but few have channeled its torment this vividly. Lurker of Chalice is a project by Wrest that released an eponymous full-length in 2005. The release gained cult status, with accompanying eBay prices, and Southern Lord has reissued it with a bonus track. Lurker of Chalice is Leviathan's drugged-out cousin; black metal is still the starting point, but the departure points are more varied. "Wail"'s buzzing miasma is as if Angelo Badalamenti scored actual nightmares and not just hints of them. "Spectre As Valkerie Is" glows with a luminous shoegazer aura, with small shooting stars of melodies. Clean tones form a densely gorgeous web in "Vortex Chalice". "Minions" lays strips of twang atop slabs of doom. "This Blood Falls as Mortal, Pt. 3" has seasick, kazoo-like melodies and a curiously perky 808 hi-hat. Wrest even tries out actual singing in "Granite", but shrouds it in haunting echoes. But for all its dreaminess, Lurker still brings the hammer. The atonal glissandos of "Piercing Where They Might" resemble demonic vacuum cleaners; "Spectre" begins with wrecking balls for riffs. For unknown reasons, Wrest is retiring the Leviathan name, so his future output will be as Lurker of Chalice. Each project already has elements of the other, so their unification promises more of the same: the sound of the end of the world.

Artist: Leviathan, Album: Massive Conspiracy Against All Life, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "The one-man band has come a long way from the stereotypical busker laden with instruments from head to foot. With today's technology, individuals often surpass the capabilities and limits of full bands. Black metal, in particular, has embraced solo recording for aesthetic and practical reasons. The artform's venom is antisocial; recording at home is also cheaper and less hassle than practice spaces and bandmates. Lacking the metal-rich environment and close distances of their European counterparts, American black metallers have made the one-man format uniquely theirs. Lone wolves like Xasthur, Krohm, and Sapthuran turn black metal's explosive energy inwards; Leviathan is arguably the most potent of the lot. Like his colleagues, San Francisco's Leviathan (aka Wrest) deals with depressive/suicidal themes. But unlike them, he wields instrumental prowess that amplifies the personal into the epic. Drums are his first instrument, and they propel his songs through widely varied feels: light-speed blastbeats, mid-paced trudges, tricky math meters. On guitar, he fluently dials up the raw primitiveness of black metal's first wave, the romantic nihilism of the second wave, and shoegazer sheets of sound. His bass lines have an unmatched warmth and fluidity. He's also a celebrated tattoo artist; his wrenching artwork adorns albums by Heresi, Winterblut, and himself. In short, he is the total package. Massive Conspiracy Against All Life is aptly-titled; Wrest sounds like he's throwing everything and the kitchen sink against the world. His are the bitterest symphonies-- in a past life, he was probably a composer whose works caused riots-- and Conspiracy is his rage writ large. Leviathan's discography (three full-lengths, numerous demos and splits) has varied widely in production values; Conspiracy is the first time his apocalypse has had a sound to match. The record evokes both a missile attack and its aftermath. Eerie jangles swoop down on "Made as the Stale Wine of Wrath", paving the way for a ground assault of blastbeats. "Vesture Dipped in the Blood of Morning" has what sounds like a martial orchestral sample, as if Sousa had written not for triumph but for tragedy. "Noisome Ash Crown" deceptively meanders in a fog, then unleashes a stomping death march. Wrest's voice rises above the fray like a warlord general; unlike his colleagues, who often sound like malnourished witches, he declaims with a commanding growl. Yet his attack is not all blitzkrieg. Wrest adeptly conjures up wind-like sounds, whether through guitars or electronic means, and much of the record feels like a sepulchral cave. The Book of Revelation has many metal soundtracks, but few have channeled its torment this vividly. Lurker of Chalice is a project by Wrest that released an eponymous full-length in 2005. The release gained cult status, with accompanying eBay prices, and Southern Lord has reissued it with a bonus track. Lurker of Chalice is Leviathan's drugged-out cousin; black metal is still the starting point, but the departure points are more varied. "Wail"'s buzzing miasma is as if Angelo Badalamenti scored actual nightmares and not just hints of them. "Spectre As Valkerie Is" glows with a luminous shoegazer aura, with small shooting stars of melodies. Clean tones form a densely gorgeous web in "Vortex Chalice". "Minions" lays strips of twang atop slabs of doom. "This Blood Falls as Mortal, Pt. 3" has seasick, kazoo-like melodies and a curiously perky 808 hi-hat. Wrest even tries out actual singing in "Granite", but shrouds it in haunting echoes. But for all its dreaminess, Lurker still brings the hammer. The atonal glissandos of "Piercing Where They Might" resemble demonic vacuum cleaners; "Spectre" begins with wrecking balls for riffs. For unknown reasons, Wrest is retiring the Leviathan name, so his future output will be as Lurker of Chalice. Each project already has elements of the other, so their unification promises more of the same: the sound of the end of the world."

Guided by Voices

Bee Thousand: The Director's Cut

Rock

Eric Carr

Our Pollard, who art in Dayton, hallowed be thy name... man, look at that rating. The eighth deadly sin must surely be the curse of objectivity. By now, having been lucky enough to spill my guts all over this site on such diverse topics as the ghosts of GBVs past, present, and future, the myth of Robert Pollard, and a religious experience at a long-gone concert when it seemed like the band might just be the answer to any question rock 'n' roll wanted to ask, it may seem that my objectivity is in short supply. It is. The part of me that holds an irrational, almost baseless devotion to Robert Pollard's hissed-out anthems is screaming "10!" from the back of my brain, and it only takes a listen to the restless ghosts of "The Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory", or the rejuvenated arena dinosaurs of "Buzzards and Dreadful Crows" to weaken my resolve. But something's wrong, and every time that voice speaks up and asserts this album's perfection, it's shouted down by a simple, immutable truth: "If it's right, you can tell." Guided By Voices got it right back in 1994. Bee Thousand is the band's definitive moment, the point when the ringing Who-isms of Pollard's youth-- filtered through four-tracks and his own post-punk, X-Men, stream-of-consciousness quirks-- finally matured beyond the atonal growing pains of Vampire on Titus and Propeller. The distinction was slight but unmistakable-- like learning to harness all the jaw-dropping, stadium-quaking power of Propeller's triumphant exclamation ("I'm much greater than you think!") without all the run-up or refining the unworked defiance of "Exit Flagger". On Bee Thousand, GBV mastered all those fragments of greatness and assembled an entire album from them. Sure, it stumbles occasionally, and falters as only four spare-time, blue-collar bandmates from Dayton, Ohio can-- that is, humanly and forgivably-- but the original Bee Thousand simply stands alongside the greatest of the modern era. The original warrants a 10. So what of The Director's Cut? Shouldn't this just be a bionic Bee Thousand? In what parody of a just universe is this not every ounce of the original plus whatever else was left over? I feel faint... Track sequence, it turns out, is really, really important. This new, expanded version of the record includes an early, 33-track sequence. It's spread out over four vinyl sides, along with another record containing the standard B1000 tracks that weren't initially included, as well as The Grand Hour and I Am a Scientist EPs. Unfortunately, this original sequence is so bafflingly unsatisfying that it might've kept Guided by Voices in the basement for another decade had clearer heads not eventually prevailed. "I Am a Scientist" first earned GBV a measure of notoriety and in some small way helped legitimize the rise of lo-fi to minor prominence in the early 90s; sadly, it wouldn't even have been included on Bee Thousand (here, it's relegated to the extras and outtakes disc). And that's least of the original's tracklist problems: The "new" material in the early sequence is composed almost entirely of Suitcase and King Shit and the Golden Boys tracks-- material that was substandard even on those collections of outtakes. The burden is only slightly ameliorated by an older, thinner version of the otherwise classically bombastic concert staple "Postal Blowfish" (better reprised on the Brain Candy soundtrack), a four-track demo of "It's Like Soul Man", and a few lazy, acoustic charmers like "Indian Was a Angel" or "Supermarket the Moon". But for every new highlight, there's an equally inaccessible "Deathtrot and Warlock Riding a Rooster" or "Zoning the Planet"; the resultant load proves to be a little too heavy for even classics like "Echoes Myron" to completely bear. With the remains of the final cut haphazardly tacked on at the end, in addition to a thoroughly mixed bag like The Grand Hour, and almost-redundant alternates of both "Shocker in Gloomtown" (included twice in the span of four tracks, and yet still valuable for the energy infusion it provides both times) and "I Am a Scientist", the "bonus record" is as slapdash as The Director's Cut itself. Thankfully, a fantastic unreleased version of "My Valuable Hunting Knife" ends this ordeal on perhaps its highest note, dispensing with the haunting atmospherics found on the Alien Lanes version and plunging into a sea of churning guitar and a clipped, punchy vocal performance from Pollard. Of course, a phenomenal finish isn't quite enough to correct the confusing missteps of the previous hour. Despite containing the core of one of the most stunning, unexpectedly triumphant records ever recorded, and a few wonderful tracks besides, Bee Thousand: The Director's Cut manages the almost impossible feat of reducing itself to a merely good album with some incredible highlights-- maddeningly similar to almost every other album our beloved Fading Captain has ever tossed off. The slipshod nature of this expanded reissue serves only to prove two things: for better or worse, GBV is ever Robert Pollard's child (and thankfully Tobin Sprout was around to shepherd it, at least for a time), and that the final edit of Bee Thousand is every bit the miracle it sounds.

Artist: Guided by Voices, Album: Bee Thousand: The Director's Cut, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "Our Pollard, who art in Dayton, hallowed be thy name... man, look at that rating. The eighth deadly sin must surely be the curse of objectivity. By now, having been lucky enough to spill my guts all over this site on such diverse topics as the ghosts of GBVs past, present, and future, the myth of Robert Pollard, and a religious experience at a long-gone concert when it seemed like the band might just be the answer to any question rock 'n' roll wanted to ask, it may seem that my objectivity is in short supply. It is. The part of me that holds an irrational, almost baseless devotion to Robert Pollard's hissed-out anthems is screaming "10!" from the back of my brain, and it only takes a listen to the restless ghosts of "The Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory", or the rejuvenated arena dinosaurs of "Buzzards and Dreadful Crows" to weaken my resolve. But something's wrong, and every time that voice speaks up and asserts this album's perfection, it's shouted down by a simple, immutable truth: "If it's right, you can tell." Guided By Voices got it right back in 1994. Bee Thousand is the band's definitive moment, the point when the ringing Who-isms of Pollard's youth-- filtered through four-tracks and his own post-punk, X-Men, stream-of-consciousness quirks-- finally matured beyond the atonal growing pains of Vampire on Titus and Propeller. The distinction was slight but unmistakable-- like learning to harness all the jaw-dropping, stadium-quaking power of Propeller's triumphant exclamation ("I'm much greater than you think!") without all the run-up or refining the unworked defiance of "Exit Flagger". On Bee Thousand, GBV mastered all those fragments of greatness and assembled an entire album from them. Sure, it stumbles occasionally, and falters as only four spare-time, blue-collar bandmates from Dayton, Ohio can-- that is, humanly and forgivably-- but the original Bee Thousand simply stands alongside the greatest of the modern era. The original warrants a 10. So what of The Director's Cut? Shouldn't this just be a bionic Bee Thousand? In what parody of a just universe is this not every ounce of the original plus whatever else was left over? I feel faint... Track sequence, it turns out, is really, really important. This new, expanded version of the record includes an early, 33-track sequence. It's spread out over four vinyl sides, along with another record containing the standard B1000 tracks that weren't initially included, as well as The Grand Hour and I Am a Scientist EPs. Unfortunately, this original sequence is so bafflingly unsatisfying that it might've kept Guided by Voices in the basement for another decade had clearer heads not eventually prevailed. "I Am a Scientist" first earned GBV a measure of notoriety and in some small way helped legitimize the rise of lo-fi to minor prominence in the early 90s; sadly, it wouldn't even have been included on Bee Thousand (here, it's relegated to the extras and outtakes disc). And that's least of the original's tracklist problems: The "new" material in the early sequence is composed almost entirely of Suitcase and King Shit and the Golden Boys tracks-- material that was substandard even on those collections of outtakes. The burden is only slightly ameliorated by an older, thinner version of the otherwise classically bombastic concert staple "Postal Blowfish" (better reprised on the Brain Candy soundtrack), a four-track demo of "It's Like Soul Man", and a few lazy, acoustic charmers like "Indian Was a Angel" or "Supermarket the Moon". But for every new highlight, there's an equally inaccessible "Deathtrot and Warlock Riding a Rooster" or "Zoning the Planet"; the resultant load proves to be a little too heavy for even classics like "Echoes Myron" to completely bear. With the remains of the final cut haphazardly tacked on at the end, in addition to a thoroughly mixed bag like The Grand Hour, and almost-redundant alternates of both "Shocker in Gloomtown" (included twice in the span of four tracks, and yet still valuable for the energy infusion it provides both times) and "I Am a Scientist", the "bonus record" is as slapdash as The Director's Cut itself. Thankfully, a fantastic unreleased version of "My Valuable Hunting Knife" ends this ordeal on perhaps its highest note, dispensing with the haunting atmospherics found on the Alien Lanes version and plunging into a sea of churning guitar and a clipped, punchy vocal performance from Pollard. Of course, a phenomenal finish isn't quite enough to correct the confusing missteps of the previous hour. Despite containing the core of one of the most stunning, unexpectedly triumphant records ever recorded, and a few wonderful tracks besides, Bee Thousand: The Director's Cut manages the almost impossible feat of reducing itself to a merely good album with some incredible highlights-- maddeningly similar to almost every other album our beloved Fading Captain has ever tossed off. The slipshod nature of this expanded reissue serves only to prove two things: for better or worse, GBV is ever Robert Pollard's child (and thankfully Tobin Sprout was around to shepherd it, at least for a time), and that the final edit of Bee Thousand is every bit the miracle it sounds."

Shub Niggurath

Shub Niggurath

Metal

Dominique Leone

Shub Niggurath arose from the pollution of a skewered kettle of semen and snot, fires raging around its crusted edges, sparks screaming with brilliant depravity. Which is to say Shub Niggurath formed in the mid-80s in France, playing an engaging mixture of free-jazz, electroacoustic music and avant-prog. Thing is, it's pretty easy to forget this band was made of living, breathing people rather than a concoction brewed by some dark magus, obsessed with violent self-gratification and the color black. What's more, the band was named after a fertility demon created by master of the macabre/really strange horror, H.P. Lovecraft. "Ia! Ia!" was the Lovecraftian monster's cry, and it matches pretty well with the scratches, shrieks and subsonic bass growl of Shub Niggurath. 1986's Les Morts Vont Vite was their first full-length release (after a self-released cassette), and so says me: it is one of the finest releases of that decade. The tunes tended to stretch out to epic length, and the atmosphere was decidedly grotesque: flailing, dirge-like beats, moaning, atonal guitar solos and massively distorted bass painted a frightening picture filled with various indecencies, and one that but for Ann Stewart's wordless soprano leads, would be almost entirely devoid of light. The band's 1991 follow-up C'etaient de Tres Grands Vents went even further, removing any ties to rock and presenting their dark visions as full-on impressionistic overtures and group improvisations. Bassist Alain Ballaud died of cancer in 1995, and the band broke apart, but their recordings from 1992 until that time are now available on this self-titled release. The music here is generally of two varieties: dark and ugly. That said, it is a deep darkness, and an interesting ugliness, so if it at first you dox92t get a little queasy, try, try again. For the most part, group improvisation is the program, and the overall mix of sounds shouldx92t actually be terribly shocking for anyone used to freak-outs via the likes of Sonny Sharrock, Nurse With Wound or even early Sonic Youth. The difference lies in Shub Niggurath's way of making all their pieces (each of which is untitled, identified merely by its track length) seem less like meandering skronk than soundtracks for bondage films we werex92t meant to see. If you've heard records like Naked City's Heretic or Merzbow's 1930-- records that wrung seductive fear out of "noise"-- you'll find something to grab hold of here. My favorite track is actually the first, and, perhaps not coincidentally, it's the most structured. It's also the most cinematically horrific, the perfect soundtrack for plunging into darkness just after death. Omnipresent yet distant bass drones engulf a mix that also features scraped metallic percussion, low rolling toms, squealing guitar harmonics and a fine sonic approximation of the deep black sea. I've heard this pallet of sounds before, but always obscured by other elements and resolved too soon. Shub Niggurath milk this for all of its potency, and if it's a very bad trip you're looking for, they have you covered. The second track erases that uneasy tranquility with jagged jabs of guitar and tiger-roar bass, not to mention muscular jazz drums cracking anything in sight. It almost seems like a three-way fistfight, as cuts and scars are traded among the participants in rapid succession. If you can make through the gauntlet, I'd say you're threshold for pain is pretty high. Only the fifth track has anything close to a "beat"-- fractured and thudding as it is-- but it doesx92t really takeoff until the last couple of minutes, wherein the aggressive bass and guitar give way to precisely timed staccato hits. The piece dies away into silence, and leads directly into the next, featuring what sounds like the remains of barbed wire fence being shaken and Jean-Luc Herve's ornery, high-pitched six-string static. It eventually climaxes into a hectic drone thrash (which doesx92t quite bury the odd screaming in the background), not unlike something that might happen at the end of a particularly bleak Godspeed You! Black Emperor song. I guess the only thing keeping me from really flipping over this CD is the way it all melds together in my head after I'm done listening. Unlike their debut, Shub Niggurath's final recordings went for an admirably dense method of madness as opposed to something more varied; still, their persistence and talent for molding a small array of timbres into almost symphonic mass is impressive. I wish they'd been able to continue, because at the very least, this CD is a testament to a band who were quite obviously not done experimenting. Go for Les Morts Vont Vite first, but know there's something to unearth here too.

Artist: Shub Niggurath, Album: Shub Niggurath, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Shub Niggurath arose from the pollution of a skewered kettle of semen and snot, fires raging around its crusted edges, sparks screaming with brilliant depravity. Which is to say Shub Niggurath formed in the mid-80s in France, playing an engaging mixture of free-jazz, electroacoustic music and avant-prog. Thing is, it's pretty easy to forget this band was made of living, breathing people rather than a concoction brewed by some dark magus, obsessed with violent self-gratification and the color black. What's more, the band was named after a fertility demon created by master of the macabre/really strange horror, H.P. Lovecraft. "Ia! Ia!" was the Lovecraftian monster's cry, and it matches pretty well with the scratches, shrieks and subsonic bass growl of Shub Niggurath. 1986's Les Morts Vont Vite was their first full-length release (after a self-released cassette), and so says me: it is one of the finest releases of that decade. The tunes tended to stretch out to epic length, and the atmosphere was decidedly grotesque: flailing, dirge-like beats, moaning, atonal guitar solos and massively distorted bass painted a frightening picture filled with various indecencies, and one that but for Ann Stewart's wordless soprano leads, would be almost entirely devoid of light. The band's 1991 follow-up C'etaient de Tres Grands Vents went even further, removing any ties to rock and presenting their dark visions as full-on impressionistic overtures and group improvisations. Bassist Alain Ballaud died of cancer in 1995, and the band broke apart, but their recordings from 1992 until that time are now available on this self-titled release. The music here is generally of two varieties: dark and ugly. That said, it is a deep darkness, and an interesting ugliness, so if it at first you dox92t get a little queasy, try, try again. For the most part, group improvisation is the program, and the overall mix of sounds shouldx92t actually be terribly shocking for anyone used to freak-outs via the likes of Sonny Sharrock, Nurse With Wound or even early Sonic Youth. The difference lies in Shub Niggurath's way of making all their pieces (each of which is untitled, identified merely by its track length) seem less like meandering skronk than soundtracks for bondage films we werex92t meant to see. If you've heard records like Naked City's Heretic or Merzbow's 1930-- records that wrung seductive fear out of "noise"-- you'll find something to grab hold of here. My favorite track is actually the first, and, perhaps not coincidentally, it's the most structured. It's also the most cinematically horrific, the perfect soundtrack for plunging into darkness just after death. Omnipresent yet distant bass drones engulf a mix that also features scraped metallic percussion, low rolling toms, squealing guitar harmonics and a fine sonic approximation of the deep black sea. I've heard this pallet of sounds before, but always obscured by other elements and resolved too soon. Shub Niggurath milk this for all of its potency, and if it's a very bad trip you're looking for, they have you covered. The second track erases that uneasy tranquility with jagged jabs of guitar and tiger-roar bass, not to mention muscular jazz drums cracking anything in sight. It almost seems like a three-way fistfight, as cuts and scars are traded among the participants in rapid succession. If you can make through the gauntlet, I'd say you're threshold for pain is pretty high. Only the fifth track has anything close to a "beat"-- fractured and thudding as it is-- but it doesx92t really takeoff until the last couple of minutes, wherein the aggressive bass and guitar give way to precisely timed staccato hits. The piece dies away into silence, and leads directly into the next, featuring what sounds like the remains of barbed wire fence being shaken and Jean-Luc Herve's ornery, high-pitched six-string static. It eventually climaxes into a hectic drone thrash (which doesx92t quite bury the odd screaming in the background), not unlike something that might happen at the end of a particularly bleak Godspeed You! Black Emperor song. I guess the only thing keeping me from really flipping over this CD is the way it all melds together in my head after I'm done listening. Unlike their debut, Shub Niggurath's final recordings went for an admirably dense method of madness as opposed to something more varied; still, their persistence and talent for molding a small array of timbres into almost symphonic mass is impressive. I wish they'd been able to continue, because at the very least, this CD is a testament to a band who were quite obviously not done experimenting. Go for Les Morts Vont Vite first, but know there's something to unearth here too."

Matthew Sweet

Time Capsule: The Best of...

Rock

Rich Juzwiak

"You can't see how I matter in this world," sings Matthew Sweet on "You Don't Love Me," a track culled from his 1991 album, Girlfriend. Though Sweet is actually pleading to an unresponsive lover in the song, he might as well be singing directly to me. No, I've never been romantically involved with the guy; I'm just having a hard time grasping Sweet's significance to '90s music. It's true that with his modern rock radio breakthrough, "Girlfriend," Sweet immediately stood out as the premier power-popper of the decade. But three years later, Weezer came along, instantly seizing the crown with their perfection of the genre and pushing Sweet into runner-up position. In 2000, Sweet emerges as a somewhat inferior predecessor to Elliott Smith; they're both undoubtedly well versed in writing catchy melodies, and they both adore their own voices enough to multi-track virtually every vocal delivered, harmonizing with themselves throughout their hook-laden choruses. But whereas Smith comes off as a brooding troubadour that grew up listening to Lennon and Garfunkel, Sweet often seems like a smiley, shiny chap who was fed a steady diet of Zeppelin and Big Star. Matthew Sweet boldly embraces his influences, seemingly unconcerned about the highly derivative nature of his music. Not that there's any post-modernist mechanism at work; Sweet's music is far too simple to hold any grand, elusive meaning. In fact, Sweet's willingness to snatch ideas from his best-loved artists is often the very thing that frees his music. Let's face it: the stuff is pretty enjoyable, and doesn't pretentiously proclaim to be anything but that. And when Sweet is successful, he's truly masterful, like on the lovely mid-tempo shuffles, "We're the Same," "Sick of Myself," and "What Matters." When Sweet veers away from his usual mid-to-uptempo brand of arena pop, though, he's likely to fall on his face. The worst career highlights documented on Time Capsule include all-out ballads like the too-Phil Collins sap-fest "Until You Break," and the aforementioned "You Don't Love Me," which is redeemed only by its quotability. Here, Sweet does his best James Taylor, and predictably, winds up sounding... a lot like James Taylor. It's hard to say how history will remember Matthew Sweet. Less than a decade after the then-labeled "seminal" Girlfriend LP, there don't seem to be many people around who still care all that much about him. But at his best, Sweet made music that was at least fun, and Time Capsule suggests that while that may not secure him a place in the annals of Important '90s Rock, the attempt to get there sure was a blast.

Artist: Matthew Sweet, Album: Time Capsule: The Best of..., Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: ""You can't see how I matter in this world," sings Matthew Sweet on "You Don't Love Me," a track culled from his 1991 album, Girlfriend. Though Sweet is actually pleading to an unresponsive lover in the song, he might as well be singing directly to me. No, I've never been romantically involved with the guy; I'm just having a hard time grasping Sweet's significance to '90s music. It's true that with his modern rock radio breakthrough, "Girlfriend," Sweet immediately stood out as the premier power-popper of the decade. But three years later, Weezer came along, instantly seizing the crown with their perfection of the genre and pushing Sweet into runner-up position. In 2000, Sweet emerges as a somewhat inferior predecessor to Elliott Smith; they're both undoubtedly well versed in writing catchy melodies, and they both adore their own voices enough to multi-track virtually every vocal delivered, harmonizing with themselves throughout their hook-laden choruses. But whereas Smith comes off as a brooding troubadour that grew up listening to Lennon and Garfunkel, Sweet often seems like a smiley, shiny chap who was fed a steady diet of Zeppelin and Big Star. Matthew Sweet boldly embraces his influences, seemingly unconcerned about the highly derivative nature of his music. Not that there's any post-modernist mechanism at work; Sweet's music is far too simple to hold any grand, elusive meaning. In fact, Sweet's willingness to snatch ideas from his best-loved artists is often the very thing that frees his music. Let's face it: the stuff is pretty enjoyable, and doesn't pretentiously proclaim to be anything but that. And when Sweet is successful, he's truly masterful, like on the lovely mid-tempo shuffles, "We're the Same," "Sick of Myself," and "What Matters." When Sweet veers away from his usual mid-to-uptempo brand of arena pop, though, he's likely to fall on his face. The worst career highlights documented on Time Capsule include all-out ballads like the too-Phil Collins sap-fest "Until You Break," and the aforementioned "You Don't Love Me," which is redeemed only by its quotability. Here, Sweet does his best James Taylor, and predictably, winds up sounding... a lot like James Taylor. It's hard to say how history will remember Matthew Sweet. Less than a decade after the then-labeled "seminal" Girlfriend LP, there don't seem to be many people around who still care all that much about him. But at his best, Sweet made music that was at least fun, and Time Capsule suggests that while that may not secure him a place in the annals of Important '90s Rock, the attempt to get there sure was a blast."

Cheeseburger

Cheeseburger

Rock

Adam Moerder

Cheeseburger have got nothing up their sleeves, which makes the sting of their sucker punch all the more glorious. Don't try to look for it, there's no wink here to assure you this classic rock posturing is the least bit tongue-in-cheek. That said, judging this Brooklyn trio's debut by your first visceral impression may be the best way to enjoy them-- as long as you don't have a weak stomach. Everything about the band is pretty much what-you-see/what-you-get to the extreme: They're called Cheeseburger, they play greasy, sloppy, unapologetically American cock rock that goes well with beer (or a handle of Jack). They write a cry-for-help rocker called "Tiger", they make a video for it featuring singer Joe Bradley wearing a tiger suit. They're a rock band, so they craft an album completely obsessed with being in a rock band, sans the calculated commentary of similarly self-aware groups like Art Brut or Brakes. In fact, it's hard to imagine anything is calculated here. These schlubs simply pluck classic rock motifs from their subconscious and get 'em drunk. For example, you could accuse "Money For the Heart" of ripping the Who's "Can't Explain" riff, but guitarist Christy Karacas butchers it, essentially co-opting the guitar hook by mutilation. Bradley is hardly any more coherent, seemingly blacking out as he garbles inebriated battle cries ("Hey, hey, the gang's all here/ What a bunch of fucking queers!") and continuously preaching the rock 'n' roll lifestyle. The band has nabbed their fair share of Stooges comparisons, thanks in large part to Bradley's self-destructive Iggy Pop affectations. However, excepting shorter, unstable numbers like "Pirate" or "Rats", these songs roar with a rock 'n' roll majesty that's a little too unseemly for garage punk. Sure, it's just vocals, one guitar, and drums, but the back-to-back onslaught of "Easy Street" and "Hot Streets" could rock any arena with its meaty chord progressions and dramatic loud-soft dynamics. By "Do You Remember?", the band's punk ethics become irrevocably blurred, but the song's makeshift AOR hooks render the issue a moot point. As the decadent rock bacchanalia continues, though, the band's intensity falters, leaving you wishing they'd stretch their limits rather than thrashing through the same three-chord blitz. "Cocaine" feels like an uninspired, obligatory drug anthem, with Bradley not-so-cleverly feminizing the drug over a lagging guitar riff. Likewise, "Gang's All Here" retreads the album's bright spots, reeking of redundancy and diffusing any excitement the song's titular chorus tries to generate. In many ways, Cheeseburger is exactly what critics of innocuous, limp-wristed indie rock have been asking for, it's just that the band overcompensated a bit. For every soft-spoken indie group cooing about trees over keyboards, this debut tries to match it with ham-handed guitar heroics and a couple shouts of "motherfucker," and there's something honorable in their impossible struggle to do so, however garish the result.

Artist: Cheeseburger, Album: Cheeseburger, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Cheeseburger have got nothing up their sleeves, which makes the sting of their sucker punch all the more glorious. Don't try to look for it, there's no wink here to assure you this classic rock posturing is the least bit tongue-in-cheek. That said, judging this Brooklyn trio's debut by your first visceral impression may be the best way to enjoy them-- as long as you don't have a weak stomach. Everything about the band is pretty much what-you-see/what-you-get to the extreme: They're called Cheeseburger, they play greasy, sloppy, unapologetically American cock rock that goes well with beer (or a handle of Jack). They write a cry-for-help rocker called "Tiger", they make a video for it featuring singer Joe Bradley wearing a tiger suit. They're a rock band, so they craft an album completely obsessed with being in a rock band, sans the calculated commentary of similarly self-aware groups like Art Brut or Brakes. In fact, it's hard to imagine anything is calculated here. These schlubs simply pluck classic rock motifs from their subconscious and get 'em drunk. For example, you could accuse "Money For the Heart" of ripping the Who's "Can't Explain" riff, but guitarist Christy Karacas butchers it, essentially co-opting the guitar hook by mutilation. Bradley is hardly any more coherent, seemingly blacking out as he garbles inebriated battle cries ("Hey, hey, the gang's all here/ What a bunch of fucking queers!") and continuously preaching the rock 'n' roll lifestyle. The band has nabbed their fair share of Stooges comparisons, thanks in large part to Bradley's self-destructive Iggy Pop affectations. However, excepting shorter, unstable numbers like "Pirate" or "Rats", these songs roar with a rock 'n' roll majesty that's a little too unseemly for garage punk. Sure, it's just vocals, one guitar, and drums, but the back-to-back onslaught of "Easy Street" and "Hot Streets" could rock any arena with its meaty chord progressions and dramatic loud-soft dynamics. By "Do You Remember?", the band's punk ethics become irrevocably blurred, but the song's makeshift AOR hooks render the issue a moot point. As the decadent rock bacchanalia continues, though, the band's intensity falters, leaving you wishing they'd stretch their limits rather than thrashing through the same three-chord blitz. "Cocaine" feels like an uninspired, obligatory drug anthem, with Bradley not-so-cleverly feminizing the drug over a lagging guitar riff. Likewise, "Gang's All Here" retreads the album's bright spots, reeking of redundancy and diffusing any excitement the song's titular chorus tries to generate. In many ways, Cheeseburger is exactly what critics of innocuous, limp-wristed indie rock have been asking for, it's just that the band overcompensated a bit. For every soft-spoken indie group cooing about trees over keyboards, this debut tries to match it with ham-handed guitar heroics and a couple shouts of "motherfucker," and there's something honorable in their impossible struggle to do so, however garish the result."

Nellie McKay

Obligatory Villagers

Rock

Dominique Leone

If the craft of songwriting isn't necessarily the most glamorous aspect of being a musician, it's nonetheless a perpetually exercised artistic discipline-- especially for the breed of musician committed to coming up with good old popular song. Nellie McKay-- for all intents and purposes, a poster-child for the Old Masters of Song-- writes tunes that take advantage of any number of patterns and modulations used by her musical forefathers (Gershwin, Rodgers & Hart, Weill, Leiber & Stoller), yet manage to seem a little off-the-cuff. Part of this is down to her performances, but many of the songs themselves have an aspect of "I wrote this in 20 minutes, and I can do it again," while still being structurally sound, rarely betraying any musical corner-cutting. On her third record, Obligatory Villagers, McKay's craft is in full splendor. The credits read, "all songs written, arranged & orchestrated by Nellie McKay," and listening to the Technicolor, show-stopping ensemble figures in "Oversure", or the big Broadway rock of "Testify", it's very easy to marvel at the assured hand of the composer/arranger. Indeed, OV is McKay's best sounding disc yet, which is especially good news after occasionally flat production on both her debut and last year's mildly underrated (but still overstuffed) Pretty Little Head. Still, sheer craft and arranging chops can't always save her songs. I've listened to "Zombie" a dozen times, and I'm still not really sure what it's about. Best I can figure, McKay's protagonist (herself? It's possible the "I" in her songs takes a page out of fellow classic popateer Randy Newman's songbook, and doesn't ever actually refer to the singer) travels down South, possibly encounters a curse in a swamp, and is urged to "do the Zombie." (Other Pitchfork staffers insist it's a political song about our sleepwalking through the GWB years.) The light blues feel doesn't really help the song's cause, except to emphasize its showtune-without-a-show feel. "Testify" stuffs a whole show's worth of arranging into one song, going through brassy fanfare, double-lite rock-opera (uncomfortably similar to what Bill Conti might come up with to introduce Oscar presenters), faux gospel-- and though McKay's melodies are fool-proof, the familiar feeling that I'm hearing someone's private musical revue without the benefit of knowing any of the back story, or having any particular emotional nagging to investigate just why the protagonist is urging us to "testify, raise your hands up to the sky." My favorite stuff is on songs like the opener "Mother of Pearl", where McKay again recalls Newman by employing straight-faced irony and vague sarcasm to illustrate the absurdity of her subjects-- in this case, feminists ("feminists don't have a sense of humor… they have a tumor on their funny bone"). Sure, there's a tap-dance break in the middle, and the band's "funny" responses to her lines are hit and miss, but it's the still kind of song that makes it impossible for me to not at least be curious about how she develops as a songwriter. Likewise, "Oversure" is both the crown of McKay's arrangements, and the most musically interesting moment on Obligatory Villagers, speeding through be-bop changes, syncopated, stop/start rhythms, and even the first of several cameos by infamous songwriter/singer Bob Dorough. And even though the song could be heard as yet another song missing a musical, the visceral ride through all of its many detailed sections thrills my, er, muso bone. Of course, McKay starred on Broadway last year, playing Polly Peachum in a limited run of Weill/Brecht's classic Threepenny Opera. Given the theatrical nature of many of the songs on OV, it's not a stretch to forecast she'll be penning her own musicals in the not-too-distant future; as her senses of melody and harmonic movement (and perhaps most importantly, humor) seem more pronounced, more assured with each record, I really do look forward to hearing her try. I guess I just hope the content of her songs follows suit.

Artist: Nellie McKay, Album: Obligatory Villagers, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "If the craft of songwriting isn't necessarily the most glamorous aspect of being a musician, it's nonetheless a perpetually exercised artistic discipline-- especially for the breed of musician committed to coming up with good old popular song. Nellie McKay-- for all intents and purposes, a poster-child for the Old Masters of Song-- writes tunes that take advantage of any number of patterns and modulations used by her musical forefathers (Gershwin, Rodgers & Hart, Weill, Leiber & Stoller), yet manage to seem a little off-the-cuff. Part of this is down to her performances, but many of the songs themselves have an aspect of "I wrote this in 20 minutes, and I can do it again," while still being structurally sound, rarely betraying any musical corner-cutting. On her third record, Obligatory Villagers, McKay's craft is in full splendor. The credits read, "all songs written, arranged & orchestrated by Nellie McKay," and listening to the Technicolor, show-stopping ensemble figures in "Oversure", or the big Broadway rock of "Testify", it's very easy to marvel at the assured hand of the composer/arranger. Indeed, OV is McKay's best sounding disc yet, which is especially good news after occasionally flat production on both her debut and last year's mildly underrated (but still overstuffed) Pretty Little Head. Still, sheer craft and arranging chops can't always save her songs. I've listened to "Zombie" a dozen times, and I'm still not really sure what it's about. Best I can figure, McKay's protagonist (herself? It's possible the "I" in her songs takes a page out of fellow classic popateer Randy Newman's songbook, and doesn't ever actually refer to the singer) travels down South, possibly encounters a curse in a swamp, and is urged to "do the Zombie." (Other Pitchfork staffers insist it's a political song about our sleepwalking through the GWB years.) The light blues feel doesn't really help the song's cause, except to emphasize its showtune-without-a-show feel. "Testify" stuffs a whole show's worth of arranging into one song, going through brassy fanfare, double-lite rock-opera (uncomfortably similar to what Bill Conti might come up with to introduce Oscar presenters), faux gospel-- and though McKay's melodies are fool-proof, the familiar feeling that I'm hearing someone's private musical revue without the benefit of knowing any of the back story, or having any particular emotional nagging to investigate just why the protagonist is urging us to "testify, raise your hands up to the sky." My favorite stuff is on songs like the opener "Mother of Pearl", where McKay again recalls Newman by employing straight-faced irony and vague sarcasm to illustrate the absurdity of her subjects-- in this case, feminists ("feminists don't have a sense of humor… they have a tumor on their funny bone"). Sure, there's a tap-dance break in the middle, and the band's "funny" responses to her lines are hit and miss, but it's the still kind of song that makes it impossible for me to not at least be curious about how she develops as a songwriter. Likewise, "Oversure" is both the crown of McKay's arrangements, and the most musically interesting moment on Obligatory Villagers, speeding through be-bop changes, syncopated, stop/start rhythms, and even the first of several cameos by infamous songwriter/singer Bob Dorough. And even though the song could be heard as yet another song missing a musical, the visceral ride through all of its many detailed sections thrills my, er, muso bone. Of course, McKay starred on Broadway last year, playing Polly Peachum in a limited run of Weill/Brecht's classic Threepenny Opera. Given the theatrical nature of many of the songs on OV, it's not a stretch to forecast she'll be penning her own musicals in the not-too-distant future; as her senses of melody and harmonic movement (and perhaps most importantly, humor) seem more pronounced, more assured with each record, I really do look forward to hearing her try. I guess I just hope the content of her songs follows suit."

The Clientele

Strange Geometry

Rock

Mark Richardson

When I was in high school a friend drove a 1970 Impala that his gearhead dad had kept garaged for years. The radio was AM-only, and as luck would have it, reception was poor and the only station it could pull was Lansing, Mich.'s version of the "Golden Oldies" format. Oldies, yes, these were the songs to hear in this car. Tooling through the streets while listening to pop singles from the late 1950s and early '60s through that factory-original system, the production of the era made perfect sense. Songs like the Flamingos' "I Only Have Eyes for You" or the Association's "The Time it Is Today", with all their lush reverb, opened up the single in-dash speaker and kept us in the middle of the music as if it was Dolby 5.1. Those producers knew exactly what they were doing. Reverb gives the illusion of immersion, and immersion is what the Clientele is all about. Singer and guitarist Alasdair Maclean writes songs that work like songs are supposed to, but I've no desire to hear them covered by another artist. Clientele songs are bound tightly to the performance and production; to separate them would destroy the effect. Still, the band's signature sonic trick-- laying a thick coating of reverb Maclean's voice in tribute to the AM radio production of the '60s-- has in a sense been isolating; such a relentless stylization is bound to turn away some people. There's a subtle shift in that regard here on Strange Geometry, the Clientele's second full-length. The reverb is toned down considerably, strings have been added (courtesy of Louis Philippe), and the album as a whole is more direct and focused. This clarity foregrounds Maclean's songwriting talent, a poetic ear tuned into a more surreal world, with darker images bumping against the bucolic scenes of records past. The music retains its easy tunefulness, but inside many of the songs lurks a desperation that seems new to the Clientele world. "Crowds pulled you away, through the ribbons and the rain, and the ivy coiled around my hands" in "(I Can't Seem To) Make You Mine". And then on the catchy mid-tempo "E.M.P.T.Y.", Maclean sings, "Driving west, now half past five/ My skin is cut, my hands are knives." On previous Clientele records loneliness and romantic longing led to a hyper-aware state of quiet contemplation; here there's a vague suggestion of underlying violence. "The crowd" is mentioned throughout Strange Geometry but the narrator never seems part of it. Instead he wanders the streets seeing things--lifeless bodies in doorways, his own face inside trees-- that may or may not be there. Passages of blissed-out musical haiku like Suburban Light's "6 am Morningside" or The Violet Hour's "Haunted Melody" are nowhere to be found. It's not right to play up the differences too much, though; this is in most respects a classically "Clientele" record. The primary differences can be found by comparing the version of "Impossible" from last year's Ariadne EP with the one released here. On the former, Maclean's voice sounds like it's been bounced off the ionosphere an ocean away, and the band's instruments sound pinched and aged. The Strange Geometry version begins with a stately string arrangement as a lead-in to a much meatier sound, while sticking with the same basic arrangement. The slight nods to accessibility and the decreased stylization might disappoint some of the faithful at first, but Strange Geometry grows more appealing with repeated listening. On the whole, Strange Geometry does a better job than The Violet Hour translating the Clientele's aesthetic, which lends itself easily to the single or EP, to the demands of a full-length record. One of today's most consistently wonderful bands has kept up its long winning streak.

Artist: The Clientele, Album: Strange Geometry, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.6 Album review: "When I was in high school a friend drove a 1970 Impala that his gearhead dad had kept garaged for years. The radio was AM-only, and as luck would have it, reception was poor and the only station it could pull was Lansing, Mich.'s version of the "Golden Oldies" format. Oldies, yes, these were the songs to hear in this car. Tooling through the streets while listening to pop singles from the late 1950s and early '60s through that factory-original system, the production of the era made perfect sense. Songs like the Flamingos' "I Only Have Eyes for You" or the Association's "The Time it Is Today", with all their lush reverb, opened up the single in-dash speaker and kept us in the middle of the music as if it was Dolby 5.1. Those producers knew exactly what they were doing. Reverb gives the illusion of immersion, and immersion is what the Clientele is all about. Singer and guitarist Alasdair Maclean writes songs that work like songs are supposed to, but I've no desire to hear them covered by another artist. Clientele songs are bound tightly to the performance and production; to separate them would destroy the effect. Still, the band's signature sonic trick-- laying a thick coating of reverb Maclean's voice in tribute to the AM radio production of the '60s-- has in a sense been isolating; such a relentless stylization is bound to turn away some people. There's a subtle shift in that regard here on Strange Geometry, the Clientele's second full-length. The reverb is toned down considerably, strings have been added (courtesy of Louis Philippe), and the album as a whole is more direct and focused. This clarity foregrounds Maclean's songwriting talent, a poetic ear tuned into a more surreal world, with darker images bumping against the bucolic scenes of records past. The music retains its easy tunefulness, but inside many of the songs lurks a desperation that seems new to the Clientele world. "Crowds pulled you away, through the ribbons and the rain, and the ivy coiled around my hands" in "(I Can't Seem To) Make You Mine". And then on the catchy mid-tempo "E.M.P.T.Y.", Maclean sings, "Driving west, now half past five/ My skin is cut, my hands are knives." On previous Clientele records loneliness and romantic longing led to a hyper-aware state of quiet contemplation; here there's a vague suggestion of underlying violence. "The crowd" is mentioned throughout Strange Geometry but the narrator never seems part of it. Instead he wanders the streets seeing things--lifeless bodies in doorways, his own face inside trees-- that may or may not be there. Passages of blissed-out musical haiku like Suburban Light's "6 am Morningside" or The Violet Hour's "Haunted Melody" are nowhere to be found. It's not right to play up the differences too much, though; this is in most respects a classically "Clientele" record. The primary differences can be found by comparing the version of "Impossible" from last year's Ariadne EP with the one released here. On the former, Maclean's voice sounds like it's been bounced off the ionosphere an ocean away, and the band's instruments sound pinched and aged. The Strange Geometry version begins with a stately string arrangement as a lead-in to a much meatier sound, while sticking with the same basic arrangement. The slight nods to accessibility and the decreased stylization might disappoint some of the faithful at first, but Strange Geometry grows more appealing with repeated listening. On the whole, Strange Geometry does a better job than The Violet Hour translating the Clientele's aesthetic, which lends itself easily to the single or EP, to the demands of a full-length record. One of today's most consistently wonderful bands has kept up its long winning streak. "

Brooklyn Rider

Dominant Curve

Joe Tangari

The string quartet Brooklyn Rider is still relatively new-- they released their first recording on their own in 2008 after working with Yo Yo Ma's Silk Road Ensemble-- but they are making a name for themselves. For this kind of group, an easy way with both old and new, composed and improvised, is essential, and Brooklyn Rider has it. On Dominant Curve, they've chosen to unify the album thematically more than musically, and they focus on exploring how the ideas of French composer Claude Debussy, who lived from 1862 to 1918, have traveled forward through music to the modern day. To that end, they've chosen to perform Debussy's own "String Quartet in G Minor", and Rider violinist Colin Jacobsen has composed his own four-movement quartet titled "Achilles' Heel" (Debussy's given name was Achille-Claude), which effectively explores similar rhythmic and harmonic concepts to the Debussy piece. The quartet also commissioned original compositions from Japan's Kojiro Umezaki, Uzbekistan's Dmitri Yanov-Yanovsky, and American Justin Messina that explore some of those same ideas in very different ways. The reading of the old Debussy piece, originally written in 1893, is intense and lively, full of sharp dynamic shifts and subtly virtuoso playing that imparts amazing tonal and textural variety to the score. The third movement in particular is gorgeously ethereal. This piece is a natural choice for the group. When Debussy composed it, he was just embarking on his most celebrated phase, in which he became keenly interested in modal harmony, unusual scales and sound combinations, and ethnic music from outside Europe, including Indonesian gamelan, which informed some of his rhythmic ideas. Brooklyn Rider have built their repertoire on a restless interest in synthesizing global sounds and Western classical music. Jacobsen's piece, written to act as something of a descendant of "String Quartet in G Minor", also uses modal composition and shares some arranging sensibilities with its predecessor, making extensive use of pizzicato playing, rhythmic patterns, and non-standard bo [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| wing techniques-- the second movement is especially dramatic. The other pieces are steps further removed from Debussy but still share elements with his "String Quartet"-- notably the modal harmonic structures and tendency to call on the players to use odd techniques. Umezaki joins the quartet, playing a traditional Japanese wood flute called a shakuhachi-- his "Cycles (What Falls Must Rise)" is a textural piece that incorporates electronic manipulation. Messina also joins the quartet, controlling electronics on his own string quartet arrangement of John Cage's 1948 composition "In a Landscape", which was originally intended for piano or harp. It's a haunting piece to begin with, but this version, with its emphasis on high, sustained violin tones can make the hair stand up on your neck. It's Yanov-Yanovsky's "...Al Niente" that also strives for the drama inherent to Debussy's work, creating a harmonic smear that full-bodied violin runs can leap out of at its beginning and proceeding through odd rippling passages to a quiet and long decay. Dominant Curve succeeds in its attempt to bridge a classic work of a great composer with the work of that composer's stylistic descendants. Debussy's music and ideas still hold a lot of creative possibilities today. In performing the work of the man himself, Brooklyn Rider bring the "String Quartet in G Minor" vividly to life. On surrounding pieces, they extend invitations to listeners of modern minimalism and post-rock. With more work like this, Brooklyn Rider seem poised to earn attention on their own terms-- regardless of which composers they work with.

Artist: Brooklyn Rider, Album: Dominant Curve, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "The string quartet Brooklyn Rider is still relatively new-- they released their first recording on their own in 2008 after working with Yo Yo Ma's Silk Road Ensemble-- but they are making a name for themselves. For this kind of group, an easy way with both old and new, composed and improvised, is essential, and Brooklyn Rider has it. On Dominant Curve, they've chosen to unify the album thematically more than musically, and they focus on exploring how the ideas of French composer Claude Debussy, who lived from 1862 to 1918, have traveled forward through music to the modern day. To that end, they've chosen to perform Debussy's own "String Quartet in G Minor", and Rider violinist Colin Jacobsen has composed his own four-movement quartet titled "Achilles' Heel" (Debussy's given name was Achille-Claude), which effectively explores similar rhythmic and harmonic concepts to the Debussy piece. The quartet also commissioned original compositions from Japan's Kojiro Umezaki, Uzbekistan's Dmitri Yanov-Yanovsky, and American Justin Messina that explore some of those same ideas in very different ways. The reading of the old Debussy piece, originally written in 1893, is intense and lively, full of sharp dynamic shifts and subtly virtuoso playing that imparts amazing tonal and textural variety to the score. The third movement in particular is gorgeously ethereal. This piece is a natural choice for the group. When Debussy composed it, he was just embarking on his most celebrated phase, in which he became keenly interested in modal harmony, unusual scales and sound combinations, and ethnic music from outside Europe, including Indonesian gamelan, which informed some of his rhythmic ideas. Brooklyn Rider have built their repertoire on a restless interest in synthesizing global sounds and Western classical music. Jacobsen's piece, written to act as something of a descendant of "String Quartet in G Minor", also uses modal composition and shares some arranging sensibilities with its predecessor, making extensive use of pizzicato playing, rhythmic patterns, and non-standard bo [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| wing techniques-- the second movement is especially dramatic. The other pieces are steps further removed from Debussy but still share elements with his "String Quartet"-- notably the modal harmonic structures and tendency to call on the players to use odd techniques. Umezaki joins the quartet, playing a traditional Japanese wood flute called a shakuhachi-- his "Cycles (What Falls Must Rise)" is a textural piece that incorporates electronic manipulation. Messina also joins the quartet, controlling electronics on his own string quartet arrangement of John Cage's 1948 composition "In a Landscape", which was originally intended for piano or harp. It's a haunting piece to begin with, but this version, with its emphasis on high, sustained violin tones can make the hair stand up on your neck. It's Yanov-Yanovsky's "...Al Niente" that also strives for the drama inherent to Debussy's work, creating a harmonic smear that full-bodied violin runs can leap out of at its beginning and proceeding through odd rippling passages to a quiet and long decay. Dominant Curve succeeds in its attempt to bridge a classic work of a great composer with the work of that composer's stylistic descendants. Debussy's music and ideas still hold a lot of creative possibilities today. In performing the work of the man himself, Brooklyn Rider bring the "String Quartet in G Minor" vividly to life. On surrounding pieces, they extend invitations to listeners of modern minimalism and post-rock. With more work like this, Brooklyn Rider seem poised to earn attention on their own terms-- regardless of which composers they work with."

Gringo Star

All Y'All

Rock

Joshua Klein

It's not fair to judge a band by its moniker. If it were, even more great but stupidly named groups would fall by the wayside than do already. Even so, "Gringo Star" brings to mind no less than a novelty Tex-Mex Beatles cover band, and that's asking for trouble. (In my conception, Gringo is joined on stage by Juan, Pablo, y Jorge, each donning a sharp suit and wearing a lucha libre mask.) Granted, Gringo Star is already a better name than A Fir-Ju Well, the former nom de rock of the Atlanta band (a play on the last name of band brothers Peter and Nicholas Furgiuele). So that's progress. Yet Gringo Star aren't about progress so much as stylized regression to the expertly captured golden age of garage and British Invasion rock. In fact, it's easy to imagine catching Gringo Star one night and leaving persuaded you've witnessed the second coming. This kind of stuff-- packed with hooks, propelled by larger than life swagger-- tends to make converts when it's blasting in your face, and the band is doing everything in its power to make you pay attention. So: hooks, attitude, and a dead-on 1960s aesthetic-- what's not to like? On its otherwise solid debut, All Y'All , Gringo Star pretty much reveal everything you're going to get on the lead title track, which features all the usual 60s hallmarks and accoutrements-- handclaps, tambourine, tight harmonies, a thrilling riff here, a twangy lead there, a short but snarling solo tossed into the middle of it all-- each expertly shaped and assembled by producer Ben Allen into a perfect period reproduction. Then the band does it again with "Ask Me Why". And again with "Up and Down". And again with the infectious "Come On Now". And so on. After just a few songs in it begins to dawn upon you: this is good stuff, catchy and hyper-confident, but is it enough? More to the point, does it need to be? Expectations lowered, or at least tempered, what's left is to simply enjoy the disc as the throwback that it is, as if it were the first disc of a hypothetical boxed set that captures a band's early days before it gets even better. That the particular parallel band in this instance happens to be the Kinks doesn't necessarily do Gringo Star any favors, since lyrically the Gringos don't connect as easily as the guitars do. When the tempos slow, as they do on "Transmission", the words become more apparent, and while the reveal offers nothing to be ashamed of, it's a far cry from the wit and bite of Ray Davies. If it's unfair to judge a band by its name, it's just as unfair to judge a band by its primary influence, particularly that one influence. But when a band all but demands the comparison, it's setting itself up to fall short. After all, to attempt to match the Kinks is a losing proposition, since at best you're going to come close enough to emphasize how far you still are. Working in the band's favor, however, is the fact that (for the time being) Gringo Star exists and the Kinks do not, so every time the band hits the stage it can rest assured that in the uncontested Gringo Star/Kinks live showdown, Gringo will always end the night triumphant. The songs are strong, but it's the sweat that will need to do the convincing.

Artist: Gringo Star, Album: All Y'All, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "It's not fair to judge a band by its moniker. If it were, even more great but stupidly named groups would fall by the wayside than do already. Even so, "Gringo Star" brings to mind no less than a novelty Tex-Mex Beatles cover band, and that's asking for trouble. (In my conception, Gringo is joined on stage by Juan, Pablo, y Jorge, each donning a sharp suit and wearing a lucha libre mask.) Granted, Gringo Star is already a better name than A Fir-Ju Well, the former nom de rock of the Atlanta band (a play on the last name of band brothers Peter and Nicholas Furgiuele). So that's progress. Yet Gringo Star aren't about progress so much as stylized regression to the expertly captured golden age of garage and British Invasion rock. In fact, it's easy to imagine catching Gringo Star one night and leaving persuaded you've witnessed the second coming. This kind of stuff-- packed with hooks, propelled by larger than life swagger-- tends to make converts when it's blasting in your face, and the band is doing everything in its power to make you pay attention. So: hooks, attitude, and a dead-on 1960s aesthetic-- what's not to like? On its otherwise solid debut, All Y'All , Gringo Star pretty much reveal everything you're going to get on the lead title track, which features all the usual 60s hallmarks and accoutrements-- handclaps, tambourine, tight harmonies, a thrilling riff here, a twangy lead there, a short but snarling solo tossed into the middle of it all-- each expertly shaped and assembled by producer Ben Allen into a perfect period reproduction. Then the band does it again with "Ask Me Why". And again with "Up and Down". And again with the infectious "Come On Now". And so on. After just a few songs in it begins to dawn upon you: this is good stuff, catchy and hyper-confident, but is it enough? More to the point, does it need to be? Expectations lowered, or at least tempered, what's left is to simply enjoy the disc as the throwback that it is, as if it were the first disc of a hypothetical boxed set that captures a band's early days before it gets even better. That the particular parallel band in this instance happens to be the Kinks doesn't necessarily do Gringo Star any favors, since lyrically the Gringos don't connect as easily as the guitars do. When the tempos slow, as they do on "Transmission", the words become more apparent, and while the reveal offers nothing to be ashamed of, it's a far cry from the wit and bite of Ray Davies. If it's unfair to judge a band by its name, it's just as unfair to judge a band by its primary influence, particularly that one influence. But when a band all but demands the comparison, it's setting itself up to fall short. After all, to attempt to match the Kinks is a losing proposition, since at best you're going to come close enough to emphasize how far you still are. Working in the band's favor, however, is the fact that (for the time being) Gringo Star exists and the Kinks do not, so every time the band hits the stage it can rest assured that in the uncontested Gringo Star/Kinks live showdown, Gringo will always end the night triumphant. The songs are strong, but it's the sweat that will need to do the convincing."

Songs: Ohia

The Magnolia Electric Co.

Rock

Jason Heller

The late Jason Molina began his career by enduring constant comparisons to Will Oldham. The analogy became a lazy one, but its basis is understandable. Molina’s debut single under his Songs: Ohia moniker, 1996’s “Nor Cease Thou Never Now”, was released on Oldham’s own Palace Records, and his quivering, sing-speak cadence bears an unmistakable resemblance to Oldham’s. That association endured—up to and including a 2002 collaboration between Molina and Oldham (plus Appendix Out’s Alasdair Roberts) called Amalgamated Sons of Rest. But there are two other singing-songwriting contemporaries of Molina that make for equally apt comparisons: Ryan Adams and Elliott Smith. Adams’s Gold came out in 2001, and its unabashed ode to heartland-fueled classic rock emboldened a generation of punk-and-indie shitkickers to embrace their FM-radio roots. Smith had turned increasingly away from indie rock and toward a more organic classic-pop sound in the late 90s and early 00s—that is, until his suicide in 2003 cut that evolution short. That year also marked the release of Molina’s best and most pivotal album: The Magnolia Electric Co., which showcased his own strong shift toward rock populism. Imbued with a dust-under-the-fingernails weariness, the album is so representative of Molina’s sound and spirit, he subsequently took Magnolia Electric Co. as his new band’s name. Molina’s work on Magnolia wasn’t as cryptically oblique as Oldham, as stadium-sized as Adams, or as harmonically polished as Smith. It was, perhaps for the first time in his recording tenure, pure and full Molina. But the album installed itself into the American songwriter landscape circa '03 in a way that closed the circuit among his peers and secretly, quietly willed a pocket of the zeitgeist into being. The 10th anniversary of The Magnolia Electric Co. is upon us, hence the obligatory 10th-anniversary reissue. The album would have called for the deluxe retrospective treatment even if Molina hadn’t died earlier this year, of organ failure related to his long struggle with alcohol. The respectful euphemisms have flown. The bottom line, however, is harsh: Molina drank himself to death. But Magnolia is not a drunk record, nor is it a drinking record. While legions of alt-country troubadours have drained the tear-in-my-beer song of much of its traditionalist proof, Magnolia is sharp, clear-eyed, and savagely focused. Beginning the album with “Farewell Transmission” is more than an act of perversity. Molina lays out his blueprint not just for the rest of Magnolia Electric Co. the album*,* but for the rest of Magnolia Electric Co. the band. What once was jittery and hesitant in his delivery is now howlingly powerful; gone is Songs: Ohia’s push-and-pull between intimacy and stridency. In its place is red-blood, full-throated, post-hippie country rock, right down to a name that evokes both Quicksilver Messenger Service and the Grateful Dead’s “Sugar Magnolia”. Only this is Cosmic American Music scorched by the heat of reentry, space-cowboy romance for the year of the Columbia shuttle disaster. “Must be a big star about to fall,” Molina rasps in awestruck wonder over amber waves of twang and pedal-steel majesty. The sweetheart of the rodeo now works at a truck stop somewhere on Route 66, handing out the men’s room key and smiling crookedly to hide her missing teeth. Route 66 is mentioned by name on “John Henry Split My Heart”, and it’s more than just an obvious stab at harnessing American mythology. But it is that—an homage to the folk archetypes of a relatively young nation, yet one that hauls around so much weight. Calling Molina a death-obsessed singer-songwriter would be as off the mark as calling him a drunk singer-songwriter. Still, the gravity of “John Henry”—especially its bruising distortion and spiraling chords—hits like a Dust Bowl twister. And on “I’ve Been Riding with the Ghost”, a more hushed meditation on absence and regret builds into a stiff, inexorable shuffle toward death, complete with ghoulish backups by Molina’s frequent foil, Jennie Benford of Jim & Jennie and the Pinetops (the group with whom Molina recorded the sparse Didn’t It Rain in 2002). “Ghost” is almost Halloweenish in its spooky, oohing, voice-and-guitar refrain, but that dead-leaf brittleness raises gooseflesh. And when, on the churning threnody “Almost Was Good Enough”, Molina chants, “Almost no one makes it out,” it’s Crazy Horse galloping along the lip of a cliff. For every act of negation—self- or otherwise—on Magnolia, there’s an imperative. “Just Be Simple” is Molina’s lone commandment, only he wields his Occam’s razor with a gentle subtlety, even as his arrangements are far more textured and complex than they let on. “Everything you hated me for/ Honey, there was so much more,” he sings softly and cleanly; meanwhile, what he doesn’t sing screams volumes. The obvious reference is to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man”, only here there’s no external narrator, no motherly figure through which to filter homespun wisdom. This is a hard-earned, heart-damaged cautionary tale told far too late for caution to do any good, and Molina seems content to judge no one but himself. “Hold on Magnolia” also delivers an order, but again it’s directed inward. “You might be holding the last light I see/ Before the dark finally gets a hold of me,” he pleads over lonesome strums before adding doubtfully, “Hold on, Magnolia/ I know what a true friend you’ve been.” The eerie similarity between “Magnolia” and “Molina” isn’t lost on anyone. The dark-horse tracks of Magnolia have only gotten better with age. Presented back-to-back in the middle of the album, “The Old Black Hen” and “Peoria Lunch Box Blues” feature guests vocalists—grizzled country singer Lawrence Peters on the former and British-born singer Scout Niblett on the latter. Both are excellent. On “Black Hen”, Peters drawls like molasses across a honky-tonk funeral waltz; “Peoria”, on the other hand, conjures a mystic, distorted-folk lope worthy of Sandy Denny-era Fairport Convention. More than just being strong on their own, though, this one-two punch gives Molina a breather from all the turned-earth bleakness—plus it describes the entirety of the spectrum he draws from: orthodox Americana on one hand and otherworldly atmosphere on the other. When it comes to the bonus tracks, not a moment is wasted. The complete set of guitar-plus-vocals demos—originally included in a limited-edition run of Magnolia upon its first release—shows the bones of “Black Hen” and “Peoria” with Molina himself supplying the vocals, studies in haunted

Artist: Songs: Ohia, Album: The Magnolia Electric Co., Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.0 Album review: "The late Jason Molina began his career by enduring constant comparisons to Will Oldham. The analogy became a lazy one, but its basis is understandable. Molina’s debut single under his Songs: Ohia moniker, 1996’s “Nor Cease Thou Never Now”, was released on Oldham’s own Palace Records, and his quivering, sing-speak cadence bears an unmistakable resemblance to Oldham’s. That association endured—up to and including a 2002 collaboration between Molina and Oldham (plus Appendix Out’s Alasdair Roberts) called Amalgamated Sons of Rest. But there are two other singing-songwriting contemporaries of Molina that make for equally apt comparisons: Ryan Adams and Elliott Smith. Adams’s Gold came out in 2001, and its unabashed ode to heartland-fueled classic rock emboldened a generation of punk-and-indie shitkickers to embrace their FM-radio roots. Smith had turned increasingly away from indie rock and toward a more organic classic-pop sound in the late 90s and early 00s—that is, until his suicide in 2003 cut that evolution short. That year also marked the release of Molina’s best and most pivotal album: The Magnolia Electric Co., which showcased his own strong shift toward rock populism. Imbued with a dust-under-the-fingernails weariness, the album is so representative of Molina’s sound and spirit, he subsequently took Magnolia Electric Co. as his new band’s name. Molina’s work on Magnolia wasn’t as cryptically oblique as Oldham, as stadium-sized as Adams, or as harmonically polished as Smith. It was, perhaps for the first time in his recording tenure, pure and full Molina. But the album installed itself into the American songwriter landscape circa '03 in a way that closed the circuit among his peers and secretly, quietly willed a pocket of the zeitgeist into being. The 10th anniversary of The Magnolia Electric Co. is upon us, hence the obligatory 10th-anniversary reissue. The album would have called for the deluxe retrospective treatment even if Molina hadn’t died earlier this year, of organ failure related to his long struggle with alcohol. The respectful euphemisms have flown. The bottom line, however, is harsh: Molina drank himself to death. But Magnolia is not a drunk record, nor is it a drinking record. While legions of alt-country troubadours have drained the tear-in-my-beer song of much of its traditionalist proof, Magnolia is sharp, clear-eyed, and savagely focused. Beginning the album with “Farewell Transmission” is more than an act of perversity. Molina lays out his blueprint not just for the rest of Magnolia Electric Co. the album*,* but for the rest of Magnolia Electric Co. the band. What once was jittery and hesitant in his delivery is now howlingly powerful; gone is Songs: Ohia’s push-and-pull between intimacy and stridency. In its place is red-blood, full-throated, post-hippie country rock, right down to a name that evokes both Quicksilver Messenger Service and the Grateful Dead’s “Sugar Magnolia”. Only this is Cosmic American Music scorched by the heat of reentry, space-cowboy romance for the year of the Columbia shuttle disaster. “Must be a big star about to fall,” Molina rasps in awestruck wonder over amber waves of twang and pedal-steel majesty. The sweetheart of the rodeo now works at a truck stop somewhere on Route 66, handing out the men’s room key and smiling crookedly to hide her missing teeth. Route 66 is mentioned by name on “John Henry Split My Heart”, and it’s more than just an obvious stab at harnessing American mythology. But it is that—an homage to the folk archetypes of a relatively young nation, yet one that hauls around so much weight. Calling Molina a death-obsessed singer-songwriter would be as off the mark as calling him a drunk singer-songwriter. Still, the gravity of “John Henry”—especially its bruising distortion and spiraling chords—hits like a Dust Bowl twister. And on “I’ve Been Riding with the Ghost”, a more hushed meditation on absence and regret builds into a stiff, inexorable shuffle toward death, complete with ghoulish backups by Molina’s frequent foil, Jennie Benford of Jim & Jennie and the Pinetops (the group with whom Molina recorded the sparse Didn’t It Rain in 2002). “Ghost” is almost Halloweenish in its spooky, oohing, voice-and-guitar refrain, but that dead-leaf brittleness raises gooseflesh. And when, on the churning threnody “Almost Was Good Enough”, Molina chants, “Almost no one makes it out,” it’s Crazy Horse galloping along the lip of a cliff. For every act of negation—self- or otherwise—on Magnolia, there’s an imperative. “Just Be Simple” is Molina’s lone commandment, only he wields his Occam’s razor with a gentle subtlety, even as his arrangements are far more textured and complex than they let on. “Everything you hated me for/ Honey, there was so much more,” he sings softly and cleanly; meanwhile, what he doesn’t sing screams volumes. The obvious reference is to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man”, only here there’s no external narrator, no motherly figure through which to filter homespun wisdom. This is a hard-earned, heart-damaged cautionary tale told far too late for caution to do any good, and Molina seems content to judge no one but himself. “Hold on Magnolia” also delivers an order, but again it’s directed inward. “You might be holding the last light I see/ Before the dark finally gets a hold of me,” he pleads over lonesome strums before adding doubtfully, “Hold on, Magnolia/ I know what a true friend you’ve been.” The eerie similarity between “Magnolia” and “Molina” isn’t lost on anyone. The dark-horse tracks of Magnolia have only gotten better with age. Presented back-to-back in the middle of the album, “The Old Black Hen” and “Peoria Lunch Box Blues” feature guests vocalists—grizzled country singer Lawrence Peters on the former and British-born singer Scout Niblett on the latter. Both are excellent. On “Black Hen”, Peters drawls like molasses across a honky-tonk funeral waltz; “Peoria”, on the other hand, conjures a mystic, distorted-folk lope worthy of Sandy Denny-era Fairport Convention. More than just being strong on their own, though, this one-two punch gives Molina a breather from all the turned-earth bleakness—plus it describes the entirety of the spectrum he draws from: orthodox Americana on one hand and otherworldly atmosphere on the other. When it comes to the bonus tracks, not a moment is wasted. The complete set of guitar-plus-vocals demos—originally included in a limited-edition run of Magnolia upon its first release—shows the bones of “Black Hen” and “Peoria” with Molina himself supplying the vocals, studies in haunted "

Olga Bell

Край (Krai)

Pop/R&B

Jayson Greene

Край (Krai) is Olga Bell's fond tribute to backwaters, to half-forgotten towns.  In Russian, the album title means "edge" or "limit", referring to the areas away from cities and cultural centers where you can walk into a kitchen and find your grandparents' culture still very much alive. Bell's album, written entirely in Russian, evokes crowded rooms where the air is thick with unfamiliar food smells, where heated conversations you can't quite follow take place in a language you no longer quite remember. A composer and singer/songwriter who joined the ranks of Dirty Projectors for the tour behind 2012's Swing Lo Magellan, Bell moved to Alaska from the Soviet Union when she was younger. Край (Krai) is a dizzy collision of her past and her present, a meeting space where the oldest sounds she knows haunt the music she makes now. The result occupies some gnarly middle ground between Russian folk song, chamber music, and avant-garde rock music. The album is a stirring collection of strange, thrilling noises where it's difficult to know, exactly, what is going on at any given moment. Vibraphones and glockenspiel melt into synthesizers, and Bell's vocals dip, moan, and smear into lower registers with the help of pitch-shifting software. You can imagine you're hearing some of the Knife's last album in the blur, Holly Herndon's work with the sound of human breath caught in a digital blender, or an artfully curdled, Cubist take on Bell's current band. Bell scored the album for a colorful menagerie of instruments; cello, mallet percussion, guitar, electric bass, and more sample and more crawl across its surface. The instruments sound suspended on some steep dunking line between past and present that Bell's located—new sounds plunge into the deep and come up old, and old sounds become freshly strange. The synth on "Stavropol Krai" strongly resembles a wailing clarinet; on "Krasnoyarsk Krai", the vibes and glockenspiel tinkle in a minor key above a throbbing cello and Bell's ghostly, pitched-down vocals. A chiming electric guitar picks up the figure the vibes were playing and carries them around, dropping them all over the surface of the music like pulverized glass. Bell's voice, spread across in various octaves, plays the role of every single townsperson of every krai in her memory. Her multitracked vocals spread out to every corner of the mix. Many of the lyrics, translated into English, probe the feeling of being forgotten or left behind: "God's too high for us/Moscow's far too distant," she laments on "Primorsky Krai". "Kransnador Krai" tells the story of a Cossack warrior riding home on an old path: "Ancestral glory is gone/ New people are here/ Not a pleasant thought." The "blinking township lights" on "Krasnoyarsk Krai" are, implicitly, seen from a distance—and distance is what Bell is working to close on Край (Krai). Her mesmerizing, eventful, and strange album brings these remote voices close enough to feel their breath in our ears.

Artist: Olga Bell, Album: Край (Krai), Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Край (Krai) is Olga Bell's fond tribute to backwaters, to half-forgotten towns.  In Russian, the album title means "edge" or "limit", referring to the areas away from cities and cultural centers where you can walk into a kitchen and find your grandparents' culture still very much alive. Bell's album, written entirely in Russian, evokes crowded rooms where the air is thick with unfamiliar food smells, where heated conversations you can't quite follow take place in a language you no longer quite remember. A composer and singer/songwriter who joined the ranks of Dirty Projectors for the tour behind 2012's Swing Lo Magellan, Bell moved to Alaska from the Soviet Union when she was younger. Край (Krai) is a dizzy collision of her past and her present, a meeting space where the oldest sounds she knows haunt the music she makes now. The result occupies some gnarly middle ground between Russian folk song, chamber music, and avant-garde rock music. The album is a stirring collection of strange, thrilling noises where it's difficult to know, exactly, what is going on at any given moment. Vibraphones and glockenspiel melt into synthesizers, and Bell's vocals dip, moan, and smear into lower registers with the help of pitch-shifting software. You can imagine you're hearing some of the Knife's last album in the blur, Holly Herndon's work with the sound of human breath caught in a digital blender, or an artfully curdled, Cubist take on Bell's current band. Bell scored the album for a colorful menagerie of instruments; cello, mallet percussion, guitar, electric bass, and more sample and more crawl across its surface. The instruments sound suspended on some steep dunking line between past and present that Bell's located—new sounds plunge into the deep and come up old, and old sounds become freshly strange. The synth on "Stavropol Krai" strongly resembles a wailing clarinet; on "Krasnoyarsk Krai", the vibes and glockenspiel tinkle in a minor key above a throbbing cello and Bell's ghostly, pitched-down vocals. A chiming electric guitar picks up the figure the vibes were playing and carries them around, dropping them all over the surface of the music like pulverized glass. Bell's voice, spread across in various octaves, plays the role of every single townsperson of every krai in her memory. Her multitracked vocals spread out to every corner of the mix. Many of the lyrics, translated into English, probe the feeling of being forgotten or left behind: "God's too high for us/Moscow's far too distant," she laments on "Primorsky Krai". "Kransnador Krai" tells the story of a Cossack warrior riding home on an old path: "Ancestral glory is gone/ New people are here/ Not a pleasant thought." The "blinking township lights" on "Krasnoyarsk Krai" are, implicitly, seen from a distance—and distance is what Bell is working to close on Край (Krai). Her mesmerizing, eventful, and strange album brings these remote voices close enough to feel their breath in our ears."

Shamir

Northtown EP

Pop/R&B

Jamieson Cox

"I consistently felt myself to be not male or female, but the 11-year-old gender: protagonist." The words are poet Patricia Lockwood's, as quoted in a recent New York Times Magazine feature, and they come to mind when hearing the music made by Shamir Bailey. With a piercing countertenor somewhere between Prince masquerading as Camille and the cracking adolescent soul of the teenage Michael Jackson, the 19-year-old North Las Vegas native dismantles the expectations maintained for vocalists based on their gender, demanding instead that the focus be placed on his agile, fluttering performances. His debut EP, Northtown, is named for the dusty suburban neighborhood where he grew up; it finds Shamir moving back and forth between sweet, almost holy purity and unearthly hysteria over churning, minimal house tracks. Shamir is still a new hand at writing and recording dance music; raised on an omnivorous musical diet of rock, hip-hop, jazz, and R&B, the first explicitly beat-driven track he wrote ended up launching his career. “If It Wasn’t True” remains a stunning opening salvo, one that plays on the tension between Shamir’s slender vocal and lyrical naiveté and grimy, threatening instrumental tones before devolving into a chaotic mess, swallowed by a haphazardly firing synth corroding in real-time. It’s a contrast that’s employed several times throughout Northtown, and it manages to retain its effectiveness because it’s so stark and clear, as Shamir’s fragile, yearning voice is pitted against aggressive, hard-charging electronics that actively warp and decay as the songs develop. The toughness and rigidity of the instrumentation plays well against his lyrics, too. Shamir spends most of Northtown in a state of constant romantic turmoil, and thanks to the delicacy of his voice it sounds like he’s exploring new depths of disappointment with each new track. On “If It Wasn’t True”, he’s trying to process a relationship that quickly soured, eventually settling into a tenuous but deadened peace; the core of the filthy, pulsing “Sometimes a Man” is his resigned sigh, “Sometimes a man ain’t what he says he is/ Sometimes a man is just a man.” You can picture him rolling his eyes and exhaling slowly while a synth spirals out of control, leaping around like a Roomba gone rogue before falling into a dead-eyed pulse. The volatile electronics seem like windows into Shamir’s psyche: anger and resentment made into ferocious backing tracks, shielding his heartbreak. The one song on Northtown that deviates from the distorted electronics first glimpsed on “If It Wasn’t True” is its closer, a cover of Canadian country singer Lindi Ortega’s 2013 track “Lived and Died Alone” that Shamir cut with a single microphone in just one take. Accompanied by just an acoustic guitar, it’s a lonely lament that quickly blackens into something a little more sinister: resigned to a solitary existence, he journeys in the dead of night and excavates a bunch of graves, giving the deserted dead the love he never had the chance to receive himself. It’s strange, surprisingly tender, and blessed with an alien beauty; in other words, a perfect fit for Shamir.

Artist: Shamir, Album: Northtown EP, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: ""I consistently felt myself to be not male or female, but the 11-year-old gender: protagonist." The words are poet Patricia Lockwood's, as quoted in a recent New York Times Magazine feature, and they come to mind when hearing the music made by Shamir Bailey. With a piercing countertenor somewhere between Prince masquerading as Camille and the cracking adolescent soul of the teenage Michael Jackson, the 19-year-old North Las Vegas native dismantles the expectations maintained for vocalists based on their gender, demanding instead that the focus be placed on his agile, fluttering performances. His debut EP, Northtown, is named for the dusty suburban neighborhood where he grew up; it finds Shamir moving back and forth between sweet, almost holy purity and unearthly hysteria over churning, minimal house tracks. Shamir is still a new hand at writing and recording dance music; raised on an omnivorous musical diet of rock, hip-hop, jazz, and R&B, the first explicitly beat-driven track he wrote ended up launching his career. “If It Wasn’t True” remains a stunning opening salvo, one that plays on the tension between Shamir’s slender vocal and lyrical naiveté and grimy, threatening instrumental tones before devolving into a chaotic mess, swallowed by a haphazardly firing synth corroding in real-time. It’s a contrast that’s employed several times throughout Northtown, and it manages to retain its effectiveness because it’s so stark and clear, as Shamir’s fragile, yearning voice is pitted against aggressive, hard-charging electronics that actively warp and decay as the songs develop. The toughness and rigidity of the instrumentation plays well against his lyrics, too. Shamir spends most of Northtown in a state of constant romantic turmoil, and thanks to the delicacy of his voice it sounds like he’s exploring new depths of disappointment with each new track. On “If It Wasn’t True”, he’s trying to process a relationship that quickly soured, eventually settling into a tenuous but deadened peace; the core of the filthy, pulsing “Sometimes a Man” is his resigned sigh, “Sometimes a man ain’t what he says he is/ Sometimes a man is just a man.” You can picture him rolling his eyes and exhaling slowly while a synth spirals out of control, leaping around like a Roomba gone rogue before falling into a dead-eyed pulse. The volatile electronics seem like windows into Shamir’s psyche: anger and resentment made into ferocious backing tracks, shielding his heartbreak. The one song on Northtown that deviates from the distorted electronics first glimpsed on “If It Wasn’t True” is its closer, a cover of Canadian country singer Lindi Ortega’s 2013 track “Lived and Died Alone” that Shamir cut with a single microphone in just one take. Accompanied by just an acoustic guitar, it’s a lonely lament that quickly blackens into something a little more sinister: resigned to a solitary existence, he journeys in the dead of night and excavates a bunch of graves, giving the deserted dead the love he never had the chance to receive himself. It’s strange, surprisingly tender, and blessed with an alien beauty; in other words, a perfect fit for Shamir."

Hauschka

Abandoned City

Global

Brian Howe

As Hauschka, Volker Bertelmann writes fairly plain piano music that winds up sounding bewilderingly elaborate. What he plays matters less than what he does before playing it: shoving bits of junk (wood, foil, paper) in the harp or tacks in the hammers. He feeds this snaggletooth grin a diet of frantic minimalist ostinatos and sweetly lingering right-hand themes. Its digestion produces outlandish sounds, not just percussive but also melodic, thanks to live electronic effects. Even when he's playing alone, as he is on Abandoned City, we seem to hear everything from kick drums and rattles to synth arpeggios and violas. You'd swear there was a plucked lute on "Sanzhi Pod City", a runny music box on "Pripyat". I still can't quite believe there aren't strings on "Who Lived Here?". Bertelmann says he was unaware of John Cage when he had the idea, though someone must have clued him in after his first album, as his second was dutifully titled The Prepared Piano. Coming from a techno background, he basically wanted to make an acoustic synthesizer where each key could be programmed, after a fashion, with its own timbre. Quite different from the austerity of Cage, his songs have a clumsy grace, eagerly tripping over themselves as they rush between frolicsome and ominous moods. The latter gain ground on Abandoned City, as though Bertelmann were glimpsing a desolate future in the discarded places for which the songs are named. After learning his way around solo prepared piano improvisations, Bertelmann started branching out. Enlisting collaborators and adding electronics, he enshrined his knack for pert chamber froth on Ferndorf, perfected his acoustic house music concept on Salon des Amateurs, and tried out bracing modern chamber music with a world-renowned young classical violinist on Silfra. Abandoned City brings him full circle to solo piano, but with bits and pieces he's picked up along the way. It's often patterned like electronic dance music, its busy syncopation redoubled by a small fleet of clean and filtered microphones. Within its limits, the album is fairly diverse, though after so many records, the style might be wearing a bit thin. There's horror-movie buildup music like "Elizabeth Bay", acoustic IDM like "Pripyat", slowly sweeping melancholia like "Craco", techno in homespun disguise like the exhilarating "Agdam". But no matter what Bertelmann puts in his piano, every clever noise it makes necessarily deprives it of another, expanding timbral range at the expense of harmonic. All the skittering pizzicato, clenched syncopation and scudding bass overshadows distinctions in the compositions. When the convulsions relax on "Who Lived Here?", where Bertelmann lets a beautiful melodic structure unfold, it's a nice change of pace to hear more of his voice than his piano's.

Artist: Hauschka, Album: Abandoned City, Genre: Global, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "As Hauschka, Volker Bertelmann writes fairly plain piano music that winds up sounding bewilderingly elaborate. What he plays matters less than what he does before playing it: shoving bits of junk (wood, foil, paper) in the harp or tacks in the hammers. He feeds this snaggletooth grin a diet of frantic minimalist ostinatos and sweetly lingering right-hand themes. Its digestion produces outlandish sounds, not just percussive but also melodic, thanks to live electronic effects. Even when he's playing alone, as he is on Abandoned City, we seem to hear everything from kick drums and rattles to synth arpeggios and violas. You'd swear there was a plucked lute on "Sanzhi Pod City", a runny music box on "Pripyat". I still can't quite believe there aren't strings on "Who Lived Here?". Bertelmann says he was unaware of John Cage when he had the idea, though someone must have clued him in after his first album, as his second was dutifully titled The Prepared Piano. Coming from a techno background, he basically wanted to make an acoustic synthesizer where each key could be programmed, after a fashion, with its own timbre. Quite different from the austerity of Cage, his songs have a clumsy grace, eagerly tripping over themselves as they rush between frolicsome and ominous moods. The latter gain ground on Abandoned City, as though Bertelmann were glimpsing a desolate future in the discarded places for which the songs are named. After learning his way around solo prepared piano improvisations, Bertelmann started branching out. Enlisting collaborators and adding electronics, he enshrined his knack for pert chamber froth on Ferndorf, perfected his acoustic house music concept on Salon des Amateurs, and tried out bracing modern chamber music with a world-renowned young classical violinist on Silfra. Abandoned City brings him full circle to solo piano, but with bits and pieces he's picked up along the way. It's often patterned like electronic dance music, its busy syncopation redoubled by a small fleet of clean and filtered microphones. Within its limits, the album is fairly diverse, though after so many records, the style might be wearing a bit thin. There's horror-movie buildup music like "Elizabeth Bay", acoustic IDM like "Pripyat", slowly sweeping melancholia like "Craco", techno in homespun disguise like the exhilarating "Agdam". But no matter what Bertelmann puts in his piano, every clever noise it makes necessarily deprives it of another, expanding timbral range at the expense of harmonic. All the skittering pizzicato, clenched syncopation and scudding bass overshadows distinctions in the compositions. When the convulsions relax on "Who Lived Here?", where Bertelmann lets a beautiful melodic structure unfold, it's a nice change of pace to hear more of his voice than his piano's."

Bright Eyes, Neva Dinova

One Jug of Wine, Two Vessels

Rock

Ian Cohen

In a particularly direct part of one of Conor Oberst's most direct songs, the second verse of "Nothing Gets Crossed Out" imagines an escape from the pressures of recording as Bright Eyes: He describes calling his Omaha buddies, having a few (too many) drinks, and just seeing what they could lay on tape, even if it's just for them. So it's understandable that when he finally resurrects the Bright Eyes brand, he forgoes his beloved singer-songwriter releases to instead supersize One Jug of Wine, Two Vessels, a 2004 songwriting collaboration with Neva Dinova that found members of Cursive and Tilly and the Wall filling out the ranks. Surprisingly, Neva Dinova's Jake Bellows gets the better of Oberst on the new material. Perhaps it's a matter of relativity-- Neva's 2008 LP You May Already Be Dreaming was dreary, lacking anything near the Cure-like flanged bass and escalating melodies of One Jug's surprisingly celebratory leadoff track ("Rollerskating"). "Someone's Love" hews more toward Neva Dinova's typical barstool lamentations of busted romance, but it's far more ballsy than any of Dreaming's longfaced weepers. The results are decidedly more mixed on Oberst's contributions. Bright Eyes were never convincing as a rock band, and the transparency in which Desaparecidos tried to be a rock band always made it feel hollow. True to form, the distorted guitars prop up the chorus of "Happy Accident", but it can't help but come off as forced. Fortunately, Oberst is inspired to dip into the inkwell with his early-decade poison pen, dashing off brutal accusations at what could possibly be an abandoned young mother. But after that fit of inspired bile comes "I Know You", where Oberst gets all Colin Meloy with his diction and pronunciation ("brah-mbles") within a stultifying, heavy-handed rhyme scheme that could pass for a next-level po-mo exercise of Oberst parodying himself parodying Dylan. Don't confuse One Jug's surprising revival as a sign of it being an acknowledged lost classic: Its six tracks are the Saddle Creek collective trying to reconcile emo's mainlined communication with the realest of all musics (non-Nashville country, naturally). All of it holds up fine-- the found sounds never feel tacked-on, and it's a good freeze-frame of a time when Mike Mogis' production really turned a corner. Oberst, too, displays growth here: With its cynical view on companionship and blatant references to cocaine abuse, "I'll Be Your Friend" hints at the lyrical direction of Digital Ash in a Digital Urn. But while the brief resurrection of the Bright Eyes name and the reissue of a relatively obscure recording may seem like the Saddle Creek people throwing us a bone, for the most part, the pleasure in making the record is what feels like its enduring quality-- as songwriters, Oberst and Bellows sound more comfortable than challenged here. As a tribute to once prolific and unique songwriting community, One Jug is better served as a reminder of how much outstanding and original music Saddle Creek produced from 2000-2003 rather than a document of it.

Artist: Bright Eyes, Neva Dinova, Album: One Jug of Wine, Two Vessels, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 5.8 Album review: "In a particularly direct part of one of Conor Oberst's most direct songs, the second verse of "Nothing Gets Crossed Out" imagines an escape from the pressures of recording as Bright Eyes: He describes calling his Omaha buddies, having a few (too many) drinks, and just seeing what they could lay on tape, even if it's just for them. So it's understandable that when he finally resurrects the Bright Eyes brand, he forgoes his beloved singer-songwriter releases to instead supersize One Jug of Wine, Two Vessels, a 2004 songwriting collaboration with Neva Dinova that found members of Cursive and Tilly and the Wall filling out the ranks. Surprisingly, Neva Dinova's Jake Bellows gets the better of Oberst on the new material. Perhaps it's a matter of relativity-- Neva's 2008 LP You May Already Be Dreaming was dreary, lacking anything near the Cure-like flanged bass and escalating melodies of One Jug's surprisingly celebratory leadoff track ("Rollerskating"). "Someone's Love" hews more toward Neva Dinova's typical barstool lamentations of busted romance, but it's far more ballsy than any of Dreaming's longfaced weepers. The results are decidedly more mixed on Oberst's contributions. Bright Eyes were never convincing as a rock band, and the transparency in which Desaparecidos tried to be a rock band always made it feel hollow. True to form, the distorted guitars prop up the chorus of "Happy Accident", but it can't help but come off as forced. Fortunately, Oberst is inspired to dip into the inkwell with his early-decade poison pen, dashing off brutal accusations at what could possibly be an abandoned young mother. But after that fit of inspired bile comes "I Know You", where Oberst gets all Colin Meloy with his diction and pronunciation ("brah-mbles") within a stultifying, heavy-handed rhyme scheme that could pass for a next-level po-mo exercise of Oberst parodying himself parodying Dylan. Don't confuse One Jug's surprising revival as a sign of it being an acknowledged lost classic: Its six tracks are the Saddle Creek collective trying to reconcile emo's mainlined communication with the realest of all musics (non-Nashville country, naturally). All of it holds up fine-- the found sounds never feel tacked-on, and it's a good freeze-frame of a time when Mike Mogis' production really turned a corner. Oberst, too, displays growth here: With its cynical view on companionship and blatant references to cocaine abuse, "I'll Be Your Friend" hints at the lyrical direction of Digital Ash in a Digital Urn. But while the brief resurrection of the Bright Eyes name and the reissue of a relatively obscure recording may seem like the Saddle Creek people throwing us a bone, for the most part, the pleasure in making the record is what feels like its enduring quality-- as songwriters, Oberst and Bellows sound more comfortable than challenged here. As a tribute to once prolific and unique songwriting community, One Jug is better served as a reminder of how much outstanding and original music Saddle Creek produced from 2000-2003 rather than a document of it."

Menomena

Friend and Foe

Experimental,Rock

Joe Tangari

With Menomena, you always get a total package. Their first album, 2003's I Am the Fun Blame Monster, came with a hand-assembled flip book, complete with moving anagrams. The vinyl edition took the packaging a step further: It folded up into an origami monster with a moving mouth. Their second outing, a minimalist ballet score cutely titled Under an Hour, came in a stark, mostly white container that looked a lot like the music it contained. And Friend and Foe, their third, has possibly the most brilliantly executed cover art of the decade. Illustrated by Craig Thompson of "Blankets" fame, the front cover has eight possible permutations, four when the CD is in the case, and four when it's in the player (it'll be there a lot)-- and that's not counting all of the slight variations you can get by rotating the disc when it's in the tray. The drawings-- a hellish, humorous freak universe on their own-- are punched with holes to reveal other worlds behind them, full of characters, snippets of lyrics, and the record-fetching dog from the Barsuk logo. Most cover art frankly isn't even worth talking about in the CD age, but this is so unique that it warrants deeper discussion than I can give it here. And speaking of the total package, Menomena deliver just as spectacularly on record. While Under an Hour could rightly have been seen as a detour or stopgap after Blame Monster, Friend and Foe follows through on the potential of their unique sound, proving their wildly great debut was no fluke. Menomena don't even give you time to doubt them. Their signature modular pop is at its most effective on opener "Muscle'n Flo". Crashing drums lead you in, dropping out after just seconds in favor of a pulsating bassline and the prosodically delivered line, "In the morning I stumble towards the mirror." From this sparse beginning, the music blossoms with brimming intricacy, adding slashing guitar as the drums kick back in with a vengeance. The song is a total rollercoaster, eventually collapsing into a quiet interlude that sets up a brilliant moment where an organ figure that had been a barely noticeable background component suddenly rises to the fore and leads into a beautiful, floating passage of impassioned vocal harmonies. And that's just one of dozens of ingenious, spine-tingling details offered on the album. The band's technique of building songs from improvised loops arranged with custom software yields bigger, more developed compositions and stronger songwriting than on records past. "Wet and Rusting" is one of their most conventionally memorable songs to date, but also one of their most interestingly varied, as the textures that lie beneath the vocals constantly shift. It places the same rushing piano passage over two completely different rhythm tracks and makes it sound amazing both ways. "The Pelican" is a relentless stomp, nearly matched a few tracks later by "Weird", whose intense beat and ominous low-end groan slides through a tricky meter. With the exception of the majestic, fractured pop of "My My", the back half of the album is a great deal more abstract than the front, as it was on their debut. "Evil Bee" revolves around the refrain, "O, to be a machine/ O, to be wanted/ O, to be useful," and backs up the sentiment with strangely mechanical sounds that seem to have been created by processing recorded drum hits-- the bassline is crazy and intensely melodic, and they use the same vocal phrase about five different ways over all manner of instrumentation, including a heavy baritone sax riff and an fluidly ascendant, synth-saturated buildup. Once you've listened through a couple of times, it's stunning how many clever and exciting moments stick with you-- music this full of ideas, sections and material can come across as overstuffed, but this feels just right almost everywhere. Their previous two albums worked because of their stripped, immediate simplicity; Friend and Foe works just as well moving away from that approach and shows dimensions of the band-- especially in the vocal department-- that weren't apparent before. In fact, the biggest concern one might come away from Friend and Foe with is whether the band can top it next time.

Artist: Menomena, Album: Friend and Foe, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "With Menomena, you always get a total package. Their first album, 2003's I Am the Fun Blame Monster, came with a hand-assembled flip book, complete with moving anagrams. The vinyl edition took the packaging a step further: It folded up into an origami monster with a moving mouth. Their second outing, a minimalist ballet score cutely titled Under an Hour, came in a stark, mostly white container that looked a lot like the music it contained. And Friend and Foe, their third, has possibly the most brilliantly executed cover art of the decade. Illustrated by Craig Thompson of "Blankets" fame, the front cover has eight possible permutations, four when the CD is in the case, and four when it's in the player (it'll be there a lot)-- and that's not counting all of the slight variations you can get by rotating the disc when it's in the tray. The drawings-- a hellish, humorous freak universe on their own-- are punched with holes to reveal other worlds behind them, full of characters, snippets of lyrics, and the record-fetching dog from the Barsuk logo. Most cover art frankly isn't even worth talking about in the CD age, but this is so unique that it warrants deeper discussion than I can give it here. And speaking of the total package, Menomena deliver just as spectacularly on record. While Under an Hour could rightly have been seen as a detour or stopgap after Blame Monster, Friend and Foe follows through on the potential of their unique sound, proving their wildly great debut was no fluke. Menomena don't even give you time to doubt them. Their signature modular pop is at its most effective on opener "Muscle'n Flo". Crashing drums lead you in, dropping out after just seconds in favor of a pulsating bassline and the prosodically delivered line, "In the morning I stumble towards the mirror." From this sparse beginning, the music blossoms with brimming intricacy, adding slashing guitar as the drums kick back in with a vengeance. The song is a total rollercoaster, eventually collapsing into a quiet interlude that sets up a brilliant moment where an organ figure that had been a barely noticeable background component suddenly rises to the fore and leads into a beautiful, floating passage of impassioned vocal harmonies. And that's just one of dozens of ingenious, spine-tingling details offered on the album. The band's technique of building songs from improvised loops arranged with custom software yields bigger, more developed compositions and stronger songwriting than on records past. "Wet and Rusting" is one of their most conventionally memorable songs to date, but also one of their most interestingly varied, as the textures that lie beneath the vocals constantly shift. It places the same rushing piano passage over two completely different rhythm tracks and makes it sound amazing both ways. "The Pelican" is a relentless stomp, nearly matched a few tracks later by "Weird", whose intense beat and ominous low-end groan slides through a tricky meter. With the exception of the majestic, fractured pop of "My My", the back half of the album is a great deal more abstract than the front, as it was on their debut. "Evil Bee" revolves around the refrain, "O, to be a machine/ O, to be wanted/ O, to be useful," and backs up the sentiment with strangely mechanical sounds that seem to have been created by processing recorded drum hits-- the bassline is crazy and intensely melodic, and they use the same vocal phrase about five different ways over all manner of instrumentation, including a heavy baritone sax riff and an fluidly ascendant, synth-saturated buildup. Once you've listened through a couple of times, it's stunning how many clever and exciting moments stick with you-- music this full of ideas, sections and material can come across as overstuffed, but this feels just right almost everywhere. Their previous two albums worked because of their stripped, immediate simplicity; Friend and Foe works just as well moving away from that approach and shows dimensions of the band-- especially in the vocal department-- that weren't apparent before. In fact, the biggest concern one might come away from Friend and Foe with is whether the band can top it next time."

Memphis Bleek

534

Rap

Tom Breihan

With The Documentary, the Game proved that a thoroughly mediocre rapper can make a great rap album, given the right guests and producers. Memphis Bleek is, like Game, a derivative, artless MC with enormous resources, but he doesn't have a great album in him. Memphis Bleek has released four forgettable albums on Roc-A-Fella records while stronger artists like M.O.P. and Ol' Dirty Bastard moldered on the shelf. His greatest track and only hit remains "Is That Yo Bitch?", a song Jay-Z scrapped from his Vol. 3 album, and one that features Jigga and Missy Elliott in starring roles. Bleek has never gone platinum, and he probably never will. And yet Jay keeps him around. That's loyalty for you. Bleek has stood onstage for Jay for nearly a decade without ever absorbing any of his mentor's effortless, swaggering elan or thoughtful, melancholy eloquence. He has a harsh, urgent, forceful flow; it's good for guest verses on battle-rap posse tracks, but it wears thin over the course of a single song, let alone an album. 534 features A-list producers such as Just Blaze and 9th Wonder, but Bleek rarely holds up his part of the track. His voice sounds OK over the exploding drums and surging horns of Swizz Beatz' club banger "Like That", but he derails the track with his staggeringly lame party-rap lyrics ("Slow motion for me, like ya ass was screwed up / Make you move like The Matrix when dude was ducking slugs/ Bleek the Black Sheep, mami, now pick it up"). On a sweeping, cinematic track like 9th Wonder's "Alright", he's just bizarrely terrible ("Don't confuse M with none of the bullshit/ To the streets I'm tied like my mama's tubes is"). On an already lame track like Demi-Doc and Irv Gotti's tinkly, watery thug-love snoozer "Infatuated", he falls even flatter, failing to project even the slightest hint of affection. He doesn't switch his flow up once over the course of the album, and he can't write a hook. Only a few tracks on 534 play to Bleek's strengths. He's happiest spitting gutter battle stuff, and he sounds best when he has better rappers to play off of, and that's exactly what he gets on "First, Last and Only", sandwiched between berserk gun-talk of Lil Fame and Billy Danze of M.O.P. And along with his new protégé Livin' Proof, he murders Chad Hamilton's rippling old-school bounce track on "Get Low". (Proof has a greasy, desperate side-of-the-mouth delivery, and it's depressing to contemplate the possibility that Memphis Bleek may be the first rapper to be overshadowed by both his mentor and his protégé.) But 534's best track is "Dear Summer", wherein Jay-Z calmly and gracefully bids farewell to his favorite time of year over Just Blaze's dusty, Madlib-influenced lope. "Like all good things, we must come to an end/ Please show the same love to my friends," Jay pleads at the end of the track. Jay wants Bleek to succeed, and he usually gets what he wants, but the best thing about "Dear Summer" is that Bleek is nowhere to be found.

Artist: Memphis Bleek, Album: 534, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 4.3 Album review: "With The Documentary, the Game proved that a thoroughly mediocre rapper can make a great rap album, given the right guests and producers. Memphis Bleek is, like Game, a derivative, artless MC with enormous resources, but he doesn't have a great album in him. Memphis Bleek has released four forgettable albums on Roc-A-Fella records while stronger artists like M.O.P. and Ol' Dirty Bastard moldered on the shelf. His greatest track and only hit remains "Is That Yo Bitch?", a song Jay-Z scrapped from his Vol. 3 album, and one that features Jigga and Missy Elliott in starring roles. Bleek has never gone platinum, and he probably never will. And yet Jay keeps him around. That's loyalty for you. Bleek has stood onstage for Jay for nearly a decade without ever absorbing any of his mentor's effortless, swaggering elan or thoughtful, melancholy eloquence. He has a harsh, urgent, forceful flow; it's good for guest verses on battle-rap posse tracks, but it wears thin over the course of a single song, let alone an album. 534 features A-list producers such as Just Blaze and 9th Wonder, but Bleek rarely holds up his part of the track. His voice sounds OK over the exploding drums and surging horns of Swizz Beatz' club banger "Like That", but he derails the track with his staggeringly lame party-rap lyrics ("Slow motion for me, like ya ass was screwed up / Make you move like The Matrix when dude was ducking slugs/ Bleek the Black Sheep, mami, now pick it up"). On a sweeping, cinematic track like 9th Wonder's "Alright", he's just bizarrely terrible ("Don't confuse M with none of the bullshit/ To the streets I'm tied like my mama's tubes is"). On an already lame track like Demi-Doc and Irv Gotti's tinkly, watery thug-love snoozer "Infatuated", he falls even flatter, failing to project even the slightest hint of affection. He doesn't switch his flow up once over the course of the album, and he can't write a hook. Only a few tracks on 534 play to Bleek's strengths. He's happiest spitting gutter battle stuff, and he sounds best when he has better rappers to play off of, and that's exactly what he gets on "First, Last and Only", sandwiched between berserk gun-talk of Lil Fame and Billy Danze of M.O.P. And along with his new protégé Livin' Proof, he murders Chad Hamilton's rippling old-school bounce track on "Get Low". (Proof has a greasy, desperate side-of-the-mouth delivery, and it's depressing to contemplate the possibility that Memphis Bleek may be the first rapper to be overshadowed by both his mentor and his protégé.) But 534's best track is "Dear Summer", wherein Jay-Z calmly and gracefully bids farewell to his favorite time of year over Just Blaze's dusty, Madlib-influenced lope. "Like all good things, we must come to an end/ Please show the same love to my friends," Jay pleads at the end of the track. Jay wants Bleek to succeed, and he usually gets what he wants, but the best thing about "Dear Summer" is that Bleek is nowhere to be found."

Wrnlrd

Oneiromantical War

Metal

Marc Masters

It would be a stretch to call underground metal the new lo-fi. But just as there were droves of indie musicians in the early 1990s making bedroom pop on four-track recorders, there now seems to be a comparable amount of hooded heads grinding out CD-Rs of all kinds of sub-metal. Just check out some Aquarius Records mail-order updates from the past few years, and you'll see an array of names comprising a global army of basement metal-makers. Most of these subterranean volume-pushers are pretty good-- at least most of the ones Aquarius champions are. Always clued in to the metal fringe, the San Francisco store has long extolled the virtues of Virginia's one-man behemoth Wrnlrd (whose name "can be pronounced any way you like"), and with good reason. His first five releases (from a nine-part series whose numerical order is tied to a "hypercube" of mystical concepts) are intriguing mixes of distorted black metal, overloaded riffs, harsh noise, and haunting hints of backwoods acoustics. Entry number six (representing "mystery, fire, and dreams") is also release number one for Flingco Sound, the new vinyl-and-digital label helmed by ex-Kranky partner Bruce Adams. Though it's not quite as sludgy, Oneiromantical War evokes one of this year's best murky noise-metal LPs, the Goslings' Occasion. Both are drenched in bombed-out atmosphere and tinted with creepy acoustics (the man behind Wrnlrd apparently played bluegrass before he went black metal). But the six melted-together songs here can also be surprisingly straightforward. Every time you think Wrnlrd might have disappeared into noise quicksand, a tight riff and thunderous beat charge forward like a bicep-ripping workout. In fact, most of Wrnlrd's songs are built from basic metal blocks-- often they sound like 10 metal bands overlapping and blurring into howling abstraction. Most intriguing is how Wrnlrd's huge sound rarely relies on bottom end. Lots of metal uses deep, dark notes to create hypnotic power, but the tone here is generally mid-range, sometimes even trebly. Wrnlrd does visit the low register, as in the shaking "Breath of Doors". But even there, everything is bathed in burning fuzz, making it all sound a few octaves higher than whatever key the original chords came from. The effect is a fascinating disorientation-- Wrnlrd's distortion chimes more than it drills, buzzes more than it burrows, and creates a texture that has been rightly compared to the ambient sheens of Fennesz and Tim Hecker. At times this distortion-addiction can go from entrancing to grating, and it would be tough to call Oneiromantical War ground-breaking, steeped as it is in familiar metal riffs. Even "War", a 20-minute album-ending epic that dwarfs the preceding cuts, is more pastiche than original creation. But its journey from metal loops to near-classical bombast to fried atmosphere is intoxicating. It's also a strong indicator that, two-thirds of the way through his ambitious nine-point program, Wrnlrd's vault of ideas is nowhere near empty.

Artist: Wrnlrd, Album: Oneiromantical War, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "It would be a stretch to call underground metal the new lo-fi. But just as there were droves of indie musicians in the early 1990s making bedroom pop on four-track recorders, there now seems to be a comparable amount of hooded heads grinding out CD-Rs of all kinds of sub-metal. Just check out some Aquarius Records mail-order updates from the past few years, and you'll see an array of names comprising a global army of basement metal-makers. Most of these subterranean volume-pushers are pretty good-- at least most of the ones Aquarius champions are. Always clued in to the metal fringe, the San Francisco store has long extolled the virtues of Virginia's one-man behemoth Wrnlrd (whose name "can be pronounced any way you like"), and with good reason. His first five releases (from a nine-part series whose numerical order is tied to a "hypercube" of mystical concepts) are intriguing mixes of distorted black metal, overloaded riffs, harsh noise, and haunting hints of backwoods acoustics. Entry number six (representing "mystery, fire, and dreams") is also release number one for Flingco Sound, the new vinyl-and-digital label helmed by ex-Kranky partner Bruce Adams. Though it's not quite as sludgy, Oneiromantical War evokes one of this year's best murky noise-metal LPs, the Goslings' Occasion. Both are drenched in bombed-out atmosphere and tinted with creepy acoustics (the man behind Wrnlrd apparently played bluegrass before he went black metal). But the six melted-together songs here can also be surprisingly straightforward. Every time you think Wrnlrd might have disappeared into noise quicksand, a tight riff and thunderous beat charge forward like a bicep-ripping workout. In fact, most of Wrnlrd's songs are built from basic metal blocks-- often they sound like 10 metal bands overlapping and blurring into howling abstraction. Most intriguing is how Wrnlrd's huge sound rarely relies on bottom end. Lots of metal uses deep, dark notes to create hypnotic power, but the tone here is generally mid-range, sometimes even trebly. Wrnlrd does visit the low register, as in the shaking "Breath of Doors". But even there, everything is bathed in burning fuzz, making it all sound a few octaves higher than whatever key the original chords came from. The effect is a fascinating disorientation-- Wrnlrd's distortion chimes more than it drills, buzzes more than it burrows, and creates a texture that has been rightly compared to the ambient sheens of Fennesz and Tim Hecker. At times this distortion-addiction can go from entrancing to grating, and it would be tough to call Oneiromantical War ground-breaking, steeped as it is in familiar metal riffs. Even "War", a 20-minute album-ending epic that dwarfs the preceding cuts, is more pastiche than original creation. But its journey from metal loops to near-classical bombast to fried atmosphere is intoxicating. It's also a strong indicator that, two-thirds of the way through his ambitious nine-point program, Wrnlrd's vault of ideas is nowhere near empty."

Alex Zhang Hungtai

Divine Weight

Experimental

Stuart Berman

When Alex Zhang Hungtai made his live debut at the “Twin Peaks” Roadhouse last year, it felt like an appropriate grand prize for years of dedicated service in the realm of avant-garde noir. After all, when we first encountered Zhang, a decade ago, in his greased-up Dirty Beaches guise, he looked and sounded like the sort of enigmatic outlaw who would step off a David Lynch set—familiarly ’50s-retro yet eerily freakish. Now, he was getting to inhabit the role for real, even if it was with a fake band. But because it marked the first time in many years that we’d heard Zhang play anything resembling rock‘n’roll, the “Twin Peaks” cameo also underscored just how far he’d drifted since Dirty Beaches’ 2011 breakthrough, Badlands—and how the music he’s made since then has been too eclectic and audacious to conform to a pat descriptor like “Lynchian.” Since retiring the Dirty Beaches moniker in 2014, having completed the transition from songs to soundscaping, Zhang has fully indulged his newfound aesthetic freedom. Whether he’s releasing meditative piano instrumentals, forming violent free-jazz trios, or constructing dark, dissonant sound collages with Love Theme, Zhang is never afraid to expose his work’s jagged edges. He’s long favored a raw field-recording ambience that amplifies the overarching sense of improvised experiments being caught on tape in real time. But on his first proper release under his own name, Zhang refines past imperfections into something radiant and pure. Divine Weight is, in essence, a radical remix project. Dissatisfied with a recent cache of saxophone recordings, Zhang fed them through his laptop, manipulating the sounds into entirely new forms, like rusted copper piping stripped out of an abandoned building and melted down into shiny, interwoven wiring. Structurally, the album evokes the immersive, carefully orchestrated ambient set pieces of Dirty Beaches’ 2014 swan song, Stateless, but on a more cosmic scale. Philosophically speaking, he’s moved beyond Lynch toward Jodorowsky: Zhang has cited the Chilean auteur’s psychomagic teachings as a guiding influence on these recordings, and the music here mirrors their therapeutic mission to transform deep-seated, subconscious trauma into rapturous spiritual release. Even at its most abstract, Zhang’s music has historically drawn attention to its tactility: The instrumentation was readily identifiable, the mise-en-scène vivid, and you could practically feel his tape loops disintegrate before your ears. But Divine Weight revels in disorientation, blurring the line between sound and source, perception and reality, weaving an atmosphere that’s as oppressive as it is weightless. Sounding like Tim Hecker remixing Colin Stetson, “Pierrot” and “Matrimony” mutate their constituent parts into unrecognizable shapes; the former remolds its sax scraps to emulate the haunting hum of flutes, while the latter layers on frosty synth drones until they approximate the sound of a church choir frozen in a moment of ecstatic harmony. On “This Is Not My Country,” the debased brass serves as the raw material for a trembling, dissonant symphony that conjures our unsettled world today. Famously nomadic, Zhang lived in Los Angeles until the 2016 election influenced his permanent departure from the United States, and this track feels like a visit to the scorched-earth site of a home he no longer recognizes. Some emotional respite arrives in the form of “Yaumatei.” Though it bears no obvious resemblance to the Love Theme piece of the same name, it’s the track that feels most spiritually connected to Zhang’s past work. Honoring his penchants for geographic title references and raw field-recording ambience, “Yaumatei” feels both more grounded and less refined than anything else on the album. But following that impressionistic interstitial, Divine Weight climaxes with its colossal 20-minute title track, which answers all the hazy-headed music that preceded it with the clearest, most epically scaled statement of Zhang’s career. “Divine Weight” is indeed a perfect title for this ecclesiastic orgy of church-organ drones that rain down like sunbeams piercing 100-foot-high stained-glass windows. It’s a magnum opus that conveys both the solemnity of a funeral service and the everlasting joy of a soul crossing over to the other side in a blaze of white light. It’s a mountain of crescendoing chords piled one atop the other in perpetuity, grasping for a sky that’s always just out of reach. It’s that THX warm-up fanfare looped for all eternity at jet-engine volume. It is both gorgeous and grotesque. Throughout his career, Zhang has invited us to see the beauty in grit. But here, he presents us with a new challenge: to bear the crushing burden of relentless splendor.

Artist: Alex Zhang Hungtai, Album: Divine Weight, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "When Alex Zhang Hungtai made his live debut at the “Twin Peaks” Roadhouse last year, it felt like an appropriate grand prize for years of dedicated service in the realm of avant-garde noir. After all, when we first encountered Zhang, a decade ago, in his greased-up Dirty Beaches guise, he looked and sounded like the sort of enigmatic outlaw who would step off a David Lynch set—familiarly ’50s-retro yet eerily freakish. Now, he was getting to inhabit the role for real, even if it was with a fake band. But because it marked the first time in many years that we’d heard Zhang play anything resembling rock‘n’roll, the “Twin Peaks” cameo also underscored just how far he’d drifted since Dirty Beaches’ 2011 breakthrough, Badlands—and how the music he’s made since then has been too eclectic and audacious to conform to a pat descriptor like “Lynchian.” Since retiring the Dirty Beaches moniker in 2014, having completed the transition from songs to soundscaping, Zhang has fully indulged his newfound aesthetic freedom. Whether he’s releasing meditative piano instrumentals, forming violent free-jazz trios, or constructing dark, dissonant sound collages with Love Theme, Zhang is never afraid to expose his work’s jagged edges. He’s long favored a raw field-recording ambience that amplifies the overarching sense of improvised experiments being caught on tape in real time. But on his first proper release under his own name, Zhang refines past imperfections into something radiant and pure. Divine Weight is, in essence, a radical remix project. Dissatisfied with a recent cache of saxophone recordings, Zhang fed them through his laptop, manipulating the sounds into entirely new forms, like rusted copper piping stripped out of an abandoned building and melted down into shiny, interwoven wiring. Structurally, the album evokes the immersive, carefully orchestrated ambient set pieces of Dirty Beaches’ 2014 swan song, Stateless, but on a more cosmic scale. Philosophically speaking, he’s moved beyond Lynch toward Jodorowsky: Zhang has cited the Chilean auteur’s psychomagic teachings as a guiding influence on these recordings, and the music here mirrors their therapeutic mission to transform deep-seated, subconscious trauma into rapturous spiritual release. Even at its most abstract, Zhang’s music has historically drawn attention to its tactility: The instrumentation was readily identifiable, the mise-en-scène vivid, and you could practically feel his tape loops disintegrate before your ears. But Divine Weight revels in disorientation, blurring the line between sound and source, perception and reality, weaving an atmosphere that’s as oppressive as it is weightless. Sounding like Tim Hecker remixing Colin Stetson, “Pierrot” and “Matrimony” mutate their constituent parts into unrecognizable shapes; the former remolds its sax scraps to emulate the haunting hum of flutes, while the latter layers on frosty synth drones until they approximate the sound of a church choir frozen in a moment of ecstatic harmony. On “This Is Not My Country,” the debased brass serves as the raw material for a trembling, dissonant symphony that conjures our unsettled world today. Famously nomadic, Zhang lived in Los Angeles until the 2016 election influenced his permanent departure from the United States, and this track feels like a visit to the scorched-earth site of a home he no longer recognizes. Some emotional respite arrives in the form of “Yaumatei.” Though it bears no obvious resemblance to the Love Theme piece of the same name, it’s the track that feels most spiritually connected to Zhang’s past work. Honoring his penchants for geographic title references and raw field-recording ambience, “Yaumatei” feels both more grounded and less refined than anything else on the album. But following that impressionistic interstitial, Divine Weight climaxes with its colossal 20-minute title track, which answers all the hazy-headed music that preceded it with the clearest, most epically scaled statement of Zhang’s career. “Divine Weight” is indeed a perfect title for this ecclesiastic orgy of church-organ drones that rain down like sunbeams piercing 100-foot-high stained-glass windows. It’s a magnum opus that conveys both the solemnity of a funeral service and the everlasting joy of a soul crossing over to the other side in a blaze of white light. It’s a mountain of crescendoing chords piled one atop the other in perpetuity, grasping for a sky that’s always just out of reach. It’s that THX warm-up fanfare looped for all eternity at jet-engine volume. It is both gorgeous and grotesque. Throughout his career, Zhang has invited us to see the beauty in grit. But here, he presents us with a new challenge: to bear the crushing burden of relentless splendor."

Quasimoto

The Unseen

Rap

S. Murray

A few years ago, estimable hip-hop producer Peanut Butter Wolf did his part in heralding the new breed of old-school with My Vinyl Weighs a Ton. The album, his solo debut, featured an impressive number of MCs from the thriving San Francisco hip-hop scene. One of its first tracks, "Styles Crew Flows Beats," features the Lootpack crew. The group passes the mic dexterously, each doing his part to heighten the flava until the groove suddenly shifts and an eerily high- pitched voice strolls into the proceedings. Quasimoto, he calls himself, and the remainder of the track is little over a minute of the finest underground hip-hop on record. He seems hyperactive and ready to burst, yet his rhymes are laid-back and his tone remains almost resolutely monotone with limited inflections. Let it be known, then, that Quasimoto is no mere mortal. He is the brainchild/ alter ego of Lootpack member and producer Madlib, a sped-up manipulation of his own twisted rhymes. But injecting a little self-reflexive post-modernism into music never hurt anybody. Just ask David Bowie what it can do for a career. Instead of recording a proper solo album for Peanut Butter Wolf's Stones Throw imprint, Madlib decided to give his other persona top billing, and he pulls it off to a degree. His production generally mixes sparse loops of spoken samples with obscure funk and R&B; overtones, grounded by tight, snappy beats. "Return of the Loop Digga" is an engagingly funny paean to his mad production skills. Here, Madlib steps up to document his rise from stealing records from his auntie to laying down tracks for his man Quas. The 'Moto, for his part, starts strong as the "bad character" of the project: \x93I smoke a nigga with a brick/ Talking out of place/ Like I was sniffing paint/ Laced/ Lining up outta space." Damn! The delivery of lines like "dropping shit like some horses/ Irritate your mindstate/ Have you split like divorces/ Of course this is the new breed/ Fuckin' up the mainstream" are pure gold, but by the middle of the album, it becomes clear that Madlib decided to cheat his alter-ego out of ontological priority rather than simply let him be. As the man behind the boards and the squeaky little man up front, Madlib accords himself too many shout-outs, too many poorly disguised pats on the back, and makes too many appearances as himself for a character album. And while by no means fatal, this is the primary fault of the project. The Unseen is an above-average contribution to the resurgence of the old- school aesthetic, but it could have been better. The record is littered with great moments-- such as the sci-fi manifesto of "Astro Black" and the moving musical backing of "Come on Feet"-- that make me hope this isn't the last we'll hear from Quasimoto. But for Quasimoto to convince, Madlib has to chill. Let him record his own album.

Artist: Quasimoto, Album: The Unseen, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "A few years ago, estimable hip-hop producer Peanut Butter Wolf did his part in heralding the new breed of old-school with My Vinyl Weighs a Ton. The album, his solo debut, featured an impressive number of MCs from the thriving San Francisco hip-hop scene. One of its first tracks, "Styles Crew Flows Beats," features the Lootpack crew. The group passes the mic dexterously, each doing his part to heighten the flava until the groove suddenly shifts and an eerily high- pitched voice strolls into the proceedings. Quasimoto, he calls himself, and the remainder of the track is little over a minute of the finest underground hip-hop on record. He seems hyperactive and ready to burst, yet his rhymes are laid-back and his tone remains almost resolutely monotone with limited inflections. Let it be known, then, that Quasimoto is no mere mortal. He is the brainchild/ alter ego of Lootpack member and producer Madlib, a sped-up manipulation of his own twisted rhymes. But injecting a little self-reflexive post-modernism into music never hurt anybody. Just ask David Bowie what it can do for a career. Instead of recording a proper solo album for Peanut Butter Wolf's Stones Throw imprint, Madlib decided to give his other persona top billing, and he pulls it off to a degree. His production generally mixes sparse loops of spoken samples with obscure funk and R&B; overtones, grounded by tight, snappy beats. "Return of the Loop Digga" is an engagingly funny paean to his mad production skills. Here, Madlib steps up to document his rise from stealing records from his auntie to laying down tracks for his man Quas. The 'Moto, for his part, starts strong as the "bad character" of the project: \x93I smoke a nigga with a brick/ Talking out of place/ Like I was sniffing paint/ Laced/ Lining up outta space." Damn! The delivery of lines like "dropping shit like some horses/ Irritate your mindstate/ Have you split like divorces/ Of course this is the new breed/ Fuckin' up the mainstream" are pure gold, but by the middle of the album, it becomes clear that Madlib decided to cheat his alter-ego out of ontological priority rather than simply let him be. As the man behind the boards and the squeaky little man up front, Madlib accords himself too many shout-outs, too many poorly disguised pats on the back, and makes too many appearances as himself for a character album. And while by no means fatal, this is the primary fault of the project. The Unseen is an above-average contribution to the resurgence of the old- school aesthetic, but it could have been better. The record is littered with great moments-- such as the sci-fi manifesto of "Astro Black" and the moving musical backing of "Come on Feet"-- that make me hope this isn't the last we'll hear from Quasimoto. But for Quasimoto to convince, Madlib has to chill. Let him record his own album."

Thomas Brinkmann

Tokyo + 1

Electronic

Mark Richardson

For a time, one of Thomas Brinkmann's musical preoccupations was hand-carving crude loops into old vinyl, so we know how much he likes repetition. When he swims down to explore the depths of funk as Soul Center, he is often content to stand back and admire his perfect eight-bar rhythmic construction for minutes at a time. And why not? The dude is good at it. As a philosophically minded German with a bedrock faith in Detroit techno, Brinkmann sees the sequencer as a holy thing, and he has an unusual knack for distilling humanity from endlessly repeating blips and beeps. Tokyo + 1 is an audio travel diary of sorts, compiled from sounds Brinkmann recorded in Tokyo (with one track, the "+1", consisting of material recorded in the Greek city Ikaria). True to Brinkmann's nature, this is no drifting album of field recordings. Interludes of captured sound are there, but Brinkmann generally organizes his sources into tight coils of driving rhythm. On the surface of "109 Competition", for instance, chaos reigns, as clipped syllables and metallic clanks appear and vanish with no discernable pattern. But then, underneath, a steady pulse of noises have assembled themselves into something resembling house. The shuffle of "Mit Sugar" is more difficult to source. One moment it sounds like something a drum corps might march to, but then insertions of up-stroke synths morph the track into upbeat dub until unpredictable "slips" of the beat pull the listener out of a trance. Throughout Tokyo + 1, Brinkmann playfully varies the dance styles with which he organizes his sounds. "3 St. 2 Shinjuku" is hard techno, with relentlessly repetitive synth stabs, but the snippets of voice Brinkmann uses as a lead are soft and warm, providing balance and contrast. The harsh and unforgiving bang of "Lovesong", which explores the filthy corner where industrial meets techno, provides no such padding. Even when not shaping his files into danceable grooves, Brinkmann still lets the rhythm dictate. "Decoupe" consists mostly of chopped and processed bits of dialog, mostly in French, but a deeply buried synth drone and clicky beat ratchet up the tension. It feels like it could explode into violence at any moment, as the static grows noisier and more fucked up with each loop. "Mamas" is cruder in construction, as a series of voices and machine noises rush past like a film clip on the wrong speed fluttering uncontrollably. The closing "Ikaria" doubles up and loops fragments of speech, bringing to mind the early tape work of Steve Reich. Tokyo + 1 is not an easy listen but it packs a surprising amount of power considering how familiar this approach has become. Field recordings, loops, crashing dishes transformed into a drum kit-- we've heard it all before. But creative hands, whether bent over an old slab of vinyl with a pocketknife or guiding an optical mouse across a tabletop, have a way of making old things new.

Artist: Thomas Brinkmann, Album: Tokyo + 1, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "For a time, one of Thomas Brinkmann's musical preoccupations was hand-carving crude loops into old vinyl, so we know how much he likes repetition. When he swims down to explore the depths of funk as Soul Center, he is often content to stand back and admire his perfect eight-bar rhythmic construction for minutes at a time. And why not? The dude is good at it. As a philosophically minded German with a bedrock faith in Detroit techno, Brinkmann sees the sequencer as a holy thing, and he has an unusual knack for distilling humanity from endlessly repeating blips and beeps. Tokyo + 1 is an audio travel diary of sorts, compiled from sounds Brinkmann recorded in Tokyo (with one track, the "+1", consisting of material recorded in the Greek city Ikaria). True to Brinkmann's nature, this is no drifting album of field recordings. Interludes of captured sound are there, but Brinkmann generally organizes his sources into tight coils of driving rhythm. On the surface of "109 Competition", for instance, chaos reigns, as clipped syllables and metallic clanks appear and vanish with no discernable pattern. But then, underneath, a steady pulse of noises have assembled themselves into something resembling house. The shuffle of "Mit Sugar" is more difficult to source. One moment it sounds like something a drum corps might march to, but then insertions of up-stroke synths morph the track into upbeat dub until unpredictable "slips" of the beat pull the listener out of a trance. Throughout Tokyo + 1, Brinkmann playfully varies the dance styles with which he organizes his sounds. "3 St. 2 Shinjuku" is hard techno, with relentlessly repetitive synth stabs, but the snippets of voice Brinkmann uses as a lead are soft and warm, providing balance and contrast. The harsh and unforgiving bang of "Lovesong", which explores the filthy corner where industrial meets techno, provides no such padding. Even when not shaping his files into danceable grooves, Brinkmann still lets the rhythm dictate. "Decoupe" consists mostly of chopped and processed bits of dialog, mostly in French, but a deeply buried synth drone and clicky beat ratchet up the tension. It feels like it could explode into violence at any moment, as the static grows noisier and more fucked up with each loop. "Mamas" is cruder in construction, as a series of voices and machine noises rush past like a film clip on the wrong speed fluttering uncontrollably. The closing "Ikaria" doubles up and loops fragments of speech, bringing to mind the early tape work of Steve Reich. Tokyo + 1 is not an easy listen but it packs a surprising amount of power considering how familiar this approach has become. Field recordings, loops, crashing dishes transformed into a drum kit-- we've heard it all before. But creative hands, whether bent over an old slab of vinyl with a pocketknife or guiding an optical mouse across a tabletop, have a way of making old things new."

Kadhja Bonet

Childqueen

Pop/R&B

Stephen Kearse

Childhood used to be a phase. Now, it’s a lifestyle. Whether your inner child seeks coloring books, Capri Suns, or gourmet PB&J, those urges can easily be satiated. This surplus of nostalgia has become so normalized that we have a term for when responsibilities disrupt the sugar rush: adulting. You can only say it with a sigh. There’s an undercurrent of deep dissatisfaction with adulthood in all this childhood worship, but you won’t find it in Kadhja Bonet’s Childqueen. The psych-soul singer envisions childhood as a becoming rather than a refuge. To be a childqueen is to unearth the pneuma buried beneath adult insecurities and anxieties and self-effacement. The childqueen is not longed for or lost to time; always near, she is summoned. And it isn’t a coincidence that she’s a queen. “We have to be brave enough to bend or break our social inheritance. We have to teach our girls confidence. We have to teach our girls that it’s OK to be seen, to take up space, to use our voices and make mistakes,” Bonet told DIY in 2016, alluding to the gendered undertones of her own struggles with confidence. Shedding the self-conscious shell of her ornate but bashful 2016 debut, The Visitor, Bonet finds a voice that is expansive and engulfing on Childqueen. It swells, it ascends, it cuts, it carries. Lead single “Mother Maybe” casually sways between warm, balmy coos and surging, sustained shrieks. It is neither an ode to her own mother nor a song of herself, but in it Bonet treats motherhood with wide-eyed wonder, cherishing the mere capacity to produce life. Her voice curls deftly around the shared consonants in “mother” and “maybe,” blurring the words while dwelling on their differences. “Mother maybe/I may be mother,” she chants in the final bridge, scaling her vocal range as she appraises her innate power. The intimacy and joy of her self-recognition feel like a reversal of the movie trope of women looking in mirrors and crying. Arranged, performed, produced, and mixed by Bonet alone, Childqueen is a labor of willful independence. “Joy” takes full advantage of this autonomy, spinning chunks of frenzied violin, peppy flute, and guitar plucks into a yawning expanse. Even as she sings of lost joy, Bonet’s voice feels unyoked, floating in and out of the foreground. “...,” another near-instrumental, uses flute trills and stabs of bright synths to build to a blissful flicker. “La-lala-la-la,” Bonet sings absentmindedly. Shrouded in her own sounds, she luxuriates in quiet contentment. By themselves, these flights of indulgence might suggest a narcissistic wunderkind throwing jam sessions in her bedroom, but Childqueen often uses characters’ senses of self to explore relationships and the wider world. “Delphine,” sung from the perspective of an obsessive lover, uses the narrator’s fixation to expose the selfishness that can fuel desire. Bonet pronounces “Delphine” with a skillful, cloying tenderness that becomes sickening as the narrator loses sight of Delphine as a person. “I found your favorite ring/Behind the bed/What’s the matter?/Sweet sweet Delphine,” Bonet sings as Delphine drifts away. “Thoughts Around Tea” tells the story of a courtship that never progresses due to declined invitations and deferred meetups. As the story briskly unfolds, Bonet focuses on how the main characters, a worker from a city and a farmer from the countryside, are too afraid to leave their respective milieus. “And they would never meet again,” she snaps after their final missed connection. This is the thrill of Childqueen: Bonet lets her imaginative, polymath inner child run free—but she never loses sight of adult reality.

Artist: Kadhja Bonet, Album: Childqueen, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Childhood used to be a phase. Now, it’s a lifestyle. Whether your inner child seeks coloring books, Capri Suns, or gourmet PB&J, those urges can easily be satiated. This surplus of nostalgia has become so normalized that we have a term for when responsibilities disrupt the sugar rush: adulting. You can only say it with a sigh. There’s an undercurrent of deep dissatisfaction with adulthood in all this childhood worship, but you won’t find it in Kadhja Bonet’s Childqueen. The psych-soul singer envisions childhood as a becoming rather than a refuge. To be a childqueen is to unearth the pneuma buried beneath adult insecurities and anxieties and self-effacement. The childqueen is not longed for or lost to time; always near, she is summoned. And it isn’t a coincidence that she’s a queen. “We have to be brave enough to bend or break our social inheritance. We have to teach our girls confidence. We have to teach our girls that it’s OK to be seen, to take up space, to use our voices and make mistakes,” Bonet told DIY in 2016, alluding to the gendered undertones of her own struggles with confidence. Shedding the self-conscious shell of her ornate but bashful 2016 debut, The Visitor, Bonet finds a voice that is expansive and engulfing on Childqueen. It swells, it ascends, it cuts, it carries. Lead single “Mother Maybe” casually sways between warm, balmy coos and surging, sustained shrieks. It is neither an ode to her own mother nor a song of herself, but in it Bonet treats motherhood with wide-eyed wonder, cherishing the mere capacity to produce life. Her voice curls deftly around the shared consonants in “mother” and “maybe,” blurring the words while dwelling on their differences. “Mother maybe/I may be mother,” she chants in the final bridge, scaling her vocal range as she appraises her innate power. The intimacy and joy of her self-recognition feel like a reversal of the movie trope of women looking in mirrors and crying. Arranged, performed, produced, and mixed by Bonet alone, Childqueen is a labor of willful independence. “Joy” takes full advantage of this autonomy, spinning chunks of frenzied violin, peppy flute, and guitar plucks into a yawning expanse. Even as she sings of lost joy, Bonet’s voice feels unyoked, floating in and out of the foreground. “...,” another near-instrumental, uses flute trills and stabs of bright synths to build to a blissful flicker. “La-lala-la-la,” Bonet sings absentmindedly. Shrouded in her own sounds, she luxuriates in quiet contentment. By themselves, these flights of indulgence might suggest a narcissistic wunderkind throwing jam sessions in her bedroom, but Childqueen often uses characters’ senses of self to explore relationships and the wider world. “Delphine,” sung from the perspective of an obsessive lover, uses the narrator’s fixation to expose the selfishness that can fuel desire. Bonet pronounces “Delphine” with a skillful, cloying tenderness that becomes sickening as the narrator loses sight of Delphine as a person. “I found your favorite ring/Behind the bed/What’s the matter?/Sweet sweet Delphine,” Bonet sings as Delphine drifts away. “Thoughts Around Tea” tells the story of a courtship that never progresses due to declined invitations and deferred meetups. As the story briskly unfolds, Bonet focuses on how the main characters, a worker from a city and a farmer from the countryside, are too afraid to leave their respective milieus. “And they would never meet again,” she snaps after their final missed connection. This is the thrill of Childqueen: Bonet lets her imaginative, polymath inner child run free—but she never loses sight of adult reality."

Sin Ropas

Holy Broken

Folk/Country

Joe Tangari

Red Red Meat called it quits in 1997, but it wasn't your typical breakup. For one thing, the members all kept playing together. More importantly, each project that sprang up in the band's orbit and wake-- including Loftus, Califone, Orso, and Sin Ropas, as well as a lot of Brian Deck's production work-- carried on and expanded the band's aesthetic, making it a major part of the Chicago sound over the past decade. So Red Red Meat didn't so much die as fractalize. Sin Ropas, the project of former Red Red Meat bassist Tim Hurley, hasn't been as prolific as Califone, to which Hurley sometimes contributes, but their four albums have written interesting twists into Red Red Meat's noisy Americana legacy. Holy Broken comes five years after the band's third album, Fire Prizes, a record that sometimes sank under the weight of its own noisiness and strangely was a vinyl-only release in the U.S. Hurley and his primary partner in Sin Ropas, percussionist/multi-instrumentalist Danni Iosello, have come back from that break with their most direct and immediate album yet. That's not to say they've made a pop record-- this is still fuzzy indie rock that mixes noisier elements with acoustic folk instruments-- but they have left behind the long, slow, sludgy tracks of Fire Prizes for higher tempos, shorter songs, and brighter textures. Outside of Hurley's overdriven guitar, one of the most prominent sounds on the album is the wordless two-part harmonies of Hurley and Iosello. Whether cutting through a grungy guitar buzzsaw or gently interacting with acoustic guitar, quiet organ, and wandering banjo, their harmonies are oddly consistent. Their sweetness also serves as a foil for Hurley's dusty croon on the lead vocals, which works well in the context of the band's sound, but nowhere better than on album opener "The Fever You Fake", a thick rocker built on a teetering fuzz riff that's spiked with candy-colored piano and the occasional counterintuitive solo. One knock against the band is that their exceedingly basic vocal melodies tend to blur together, relying on the instrumental arrangements to differentiate them. That doesn't always work, but even on some of the slower, less dynamic songs that pad out the album, the band's sonic signature is strong. Holy Broken rests comfortably alongside Trick Boxes on the Pony Line among the best Sin Ropas releases and keeps a band that seemingly had faded away in the post-Red Red Meat conversation.

Artist: Sin Ropas, Album: Holy Broken, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Red Red Meat called it quits in 1997, but it wasn't your typical breakup. For one thing, the members all kept playing together. More importantly, each project that sprang up in the band's orbit and wake-- including Loftus, Califone, Orso, and Sin Ropas, as well as a lot of Brian Deck's production work-- carried on and expanded the band's aesthetic, making it a major part of the Chicago sound over the past decade. So Red Red Meat didn't so much die as fractalize. Sin Ropas, the project of former Red Red Meat bassist Tim Hurley, hasn't been as prolific as Califone, to which Hurley sometimes contributes, but their four albums have written interesting twists into Red Red Meat's noisy Americana legacy. Holy Broken comes five years after the band's third album, Fire Prizes, a record that sometimes sank under the weight of its own noisiness and strangely was a vinyl-only release in the U.S. Hurley and his primary partner in Sin Ropas, percussionist/multi-instrumentalist Danni Iosello, have come back from that break with their most direct and immediate album yet. That's not to say they've made a pop record-- this is still fuzzy indie rock that mixes noisier elements with acoustic folk instruments-- but they have left behind the long, slow, sludgy tracks of Fire Prizes for higher tempos, shorter songs, and brighter textures. Outside of Hurley's overdriven guitar, one of the most prominent sounds on the album is the wordless two-part harmonies of Hurley and Iosello. Whether cutting through a grungy guitar buzzsaw or gently interacting with acoustic guitar, quiet organ, and wandering banjo, their harmonies are oddly consistent. Their sweetness also serves as a foil for Hurley's dusty croon on the lead vocals, which works well in the context of the band's sound, but nowhere better than on album opener "The Fever You Fake", a thick rocker built on a teetering fuzz riff that's spiked with candy-colored piano and the occasional counterintuitive solo. One knock against the band is that their exceedingly basic vocal melodies tend to blur together, relying on the instrumental arrangements to differentiate them. That doesn't always work, but even on some of the slower, less dynamic songs that pad out the album, the band's sonic signature is strong. Holy Broken rests comfortably alongside Trick Boxes on the Pony Line among the best Sin Ropas releases and keeps a band that seemingly had faded away in the post-Red Red Meat conversation."

DIIV

Is the Is Are

Rock

Ian Cohen

When "Dopamine" dropped last year, it spent four minutes breaking nearly four years' worth of promises Zachary Cole Smith had made about DIIV’s sophomore album. There was no remnant of the San Francisco magic Smith hoped to conjure by working with Chet "J.R" White. It did not sound like Royal Trux and it definitely did not sound like Elliott Smith. It didn't signal that Smith would follow through on his proposed indictment of guitar-based music’s lack of originality and relevance. It was, however, the most sharply written DIIV song to date, making a promise Is the Is Are actually keeps: While it’s mostly about getting high and it sounds exactly like DIIV, it finds more interesting ways to do both of those things. Though not the Tago Mago or Tusk-style double album Smith originally planned, Is the Is Are makes unusual demands for an indie rock record. With each of the five singles in its protracted rollout, DIIV confirmed they were making their proprietary sound deeper and more immersive. The revelation of a 17-song tracklist promised scatter and sprawl, like a hybrid of Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me and Disintegration. However, this is more in the spirit of Seventeen Seconds to Pornography:  gray, gloomy textures, depressive fatalism. And like those records, Is the Is Are doesn’t engage in fantasy or open up new worlds—it builds a nearly impenetrable wall around the self. Call it Requiem for a Dream-pop, dedicated to a gorgeous yet unglamorous portrayal of addiction. DIIV's signature trick is conflating the treadmill momentum of habit with the false hope for escape, and this was about the only trick they had going on Oshin. Written and performed entirely by Smith with every instrument mixed evenly, Oshin relied on its cumulative effect, soft-selling its hooks. Whereas Oshin was meditative and static, "Dopamine" and "Under the Sun" are transportive and intricate, taking mid-song off-ramps to more interesting vistas. Even "(Fuck)" serves its purpose as an 17-second cleanse between the record’s murky midsection and its luminous final stretch. Now functioning as a road-tested, democratic band in the studio, every member of DIIV has to assert himself, and the slightest alteration to their usual sound brings out new features—a brief glimmer of piano cuts through an enveloping humidity on "Healthy Moon" similar to early R.E.M.; the jumped-up rhythm of "Valentine" is sourced from the Smiths while retaining DIIV’s clenched-teeth tension; Devin Perez’s melodic basslines function as a lead instrument and allows Smith and Andrew Bailey’s guitars to search out more interesting textures and harmonies. An hour of this ensures there are times where DIIV threaten to become too in love with their own sound, particularly toward the middle. But beyond lending Is the Is Are a necessary heft to back Smith’s claims, these songs are convincing portrayals of checked-out living. We don’t get to find out much about the Roi and Grant to whom "Bent" and "Mire" are dedicated; DIIV’s obsessive tinkering turns everything outside of Smith into a hall of mirrors, false friends and true loves reflecting back on his own struggles. On "Bent (Roi's Song)," Smith sighs, "When it feels right, you just lost the fight," a deflated admission of defeat before "Dopamine" echoes the same sentiment with a false sense defiance. "Mire" repeats "I was blind but now I see" as an epiphany, and Smith immediately regrets awareness thereafter by meeting the "Incarnate Devil." You can make legitimate guesses as to whom that song might be dedicated—scene guys in Brooklyn, drugs themselves, people once in his inner circle? Smith’s measure of quasi-celebrity might give him unfair advantage over his stylistic peers, but it’s an advantage all the same, so when his conversational lyrics feel insular, we at least know who’s having the conversation. Sky Ferreira contributes lead vocal on the exhaust-huffing "Blue Boredom," deadpanning sing-talk beat poetry that imagines the two as Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore rather than Kurt and Courtney. She’s just as present when DIIV allow themselves fleeting hope on the awestruck "Under the Sun" and resignation on the heartbreaking "Loose Ends"—"Does it feel watered down/ Do you feel older now?" appears in quotes on the lyrics sheet, implying it’s a talk between people stuck having the same conversation over and over again. Immediately after "Loose Ends," Is the Is Are goes on the opposite of a victory lap, trudging toward its finish with no hint of optimism. Penultimate track "Dust" has been kicking around since 2013, and the lyric "I’m fucked to die in a world of shit" immediately jumped out of their practice space. I expected it to be a placeholder, a sentiment to be expressed more artfully at a later date—unlike his heroes, Smith doesn't allow for humor or irony. But the line remains on "Dust" and introduces a hint of nihilistic sarcasm that, along with its title, evokes an unintentional grunge-era classic: Alice in Chains’ Dirt, the most harrowing document of smack-addled myopia to ever sell five million copies, the scariest aspect of which was its narrator’s utter refusal to acknowledge outside help, let alone seek it. And immediately after "Dust," Smith spends Is the Is Are’s eerie closer warding off interventions with a hopeless mantra: "It’s no good, it’d be a waste of breath." Even if DIIV turns its morose self-indulgence into a virtue, it’s unlikely to change the conversation amongst their detractors: those who see DIIV as an embodiment of everything insular and insufferable about Brooklyn indie rock will probably find that Smith is no more capable of filling his ambitions to be a true generational artist as he is one of his oversized T-shirts. But Smith’s willingness to open himself up to criticism by making statements—fashion, musical, or self-promoting—make discussions of DIIV more divisive and passionate than those surrounding similarly positioned bands like Wild Nothing, the War on Drugs, or Real Estate. This aspect of DIIV aligns with songs like "Dopamine," "Dust," and "Waste of Breath," ensuring that Is the Is Are hits on a visceral, teenage level similar to that of the Cure or Smashing Pumpkins, bands who were also mercilessly mocked in their day by gatekeepers of cool as both social climbing posers and "stuck in the terminal malaise of adolescent existentialism." It’s the same immediacy that inspires thousands of high schoolers to rock Unknown Pleasures and Nirvana T-shirts as well, even if they might not understand their cultural impact. But they relate to the disillusion, doubt, and confusio

Artist: DIIV, Album: Is the Is Are, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "When "Dopamine" dropped last year, it spent four minutes breaking nearly four years' worth of promises Zachary Cole Smith had made about DIIV’s sophomore album. There was no remnant of the San Francisco magic Smith hoped to conjure by working with Chet "J.R" White. It did not sound like Royal Trux and it definitely did not sound like Elliott Smith. It didn't signal that Smith would follow through on his proposed indictment of guitar-based music’s lack of originality and relevance. It was, however, the most sharply written DIIV song to date, making a promise Is the Is Are actually keeps: While it’s mostly about getting high and it sounds exactly like DIIV, it finds more interesting ways to do both of those things. Though not the Tago Mago or Tusk-style double album Smith originally planned, Is the Is Are makes unusual demands for an indie rock record. With each of the five singles in its protracted rollout, DIIV confirmed they were making their proprietary sound deeper and more immersive. The revelation of a 17-song tracklist promised scatter and sprawl, like a hybrid of Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me and Disintegration. However, this is more in the spirit of Seventeen Seconds to Pornography:  gray, gloomy textures, depressive fatalism. And like those records, Is the Is Are doesn’t engage in fantasy or open up new worlds—it builds a nearly impenetrable wall around the self. Call it Requiem for a Dream-pop, dedicated to a gorgeous yet unglamorous portrayal of addiction. DIIV's signature trick is conflating the treadmill momentum of habit with the false hope for escape, and this was about the only trick they had going on Oshin. Written and performed entirely by Smith with every instrument mixed evenly, Oshin relied on its cumulative effect, soft-selling its hooks. Whereas Oshin was meditative and static, "Dopamine" and "Under the Sun" are transportive and intricate, taking mid-song off-ramps to more interesting vistas. Even "(Fuck)" serves its purpose as an 17-second cleanse between the record’s murky midsection and its luminous final stretch. Now functioning as a road-tested, democratic band in the studio, every member of DIIV has to assert himself, and the slightest alteration to their usual sound brings out new features—a brief glimmer of piano cuts through an enveloping humidity on "Healthy Moon" similar to early R.E.M.; the jumped-up rhythm of "Valentine" is sourced from the Smiths while retaining DIIV’s clenched-teeth tension; Devin Perez’s melodic basslines function as a lead instrument and allows Smith and Andrew Bailey’s guitars to search out more interesting textures and harmonies. An hour of this ensures there are times where DIIV threaten to become too in love with their own sound, particularly toward the middle. But beyond lending Is the Is Are a necessary heft to back Smith’s claims, these songs are convincing portrayals of checked-out living. We don’t get to find out much about the Roi and Grant to whom "Bent" and "Mire" are dedicated; DIIV’s obsessive tinkering turns everything outside of Smith into a hall of mirrors, false friends and true loves reflecting back on his own struggles. On "Bent (Roi's Song)," Smith sighs, "When it feels right, you just lost the fight," a deflated admission of defeat before "Dopamine" echoes the same sentiment with a false sense defiance. "Mire" repeats "I was blind but now I see" as an epiphany, and Smith immediately regrets awareness thereafter by meeting the "Incarnate Devil." You can make legitimate guesses as to whom that song might be dedicated—scene guys in Brooklyn, drugs themselves, people once in his inner circle? Smith’s measure of quasi-celebrity might give him unfair advantage over his stylistic peers, but it’s an advantage all the same, so when his conversational lyrics feel insular, we at least know who’s having the conversation. Sky Ferreira contributes lead vocal on the exhaust-huffing "Blue Boredom," deadpanning sing-talk beat poetry that imagines the two as Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore rather than Kurt and Courtney. She’s just as present when DIIV allow themselves fleeting hope on the awestruck "Under the Sun" and resignation on the heartbreaking "Loose Ends"—"Does it feel watered down/ Do you feel older now?" appears in quotes on the lyrics sheet, implying it’s a talk between people stuck having the same conversation over and over again. Immediately after "Loose Ends," Is the Is Are goes on the opposite of a victory lap, trudging toward its finish with no hint of optimism. Penultimate track "Dust" has been kicking around since 2013, and the lyric "I’m fucked to die in a world of shit" immediately jumped out of their practice space. I expected it to be a placeholder, a sentiment to be expressed more artfully at a later date—unlike his heroes, Smith doesn't allow for humor or irony. But the line remains on "Dust" and introduces a hint of nihilistic sarcasm that, along with its title, evokes an unintentional grunge-era classic: Alice in Chains’ Dirt, the most harrowing document of smack-addled myopia to ever sell five million copies, the scariest aspect of which was its narrator’s utter refusal to acknowledge outside help, let alone seek it. And immediately after "Dust," Smith spends Is the Is Are’s eerie closer warding off interventions with a hopeless mantra: "It’s no good, it’d be a waste of breath." Even if DIIV turns its morose self-indulgence into a virtue, it’s unlikely to change the conversation amongst their detractors: those who see DIIV as an embodiment of everything insular and insufferable about Brooklyn indie rock will probably find that Smith is no more capable of filling his ambitions to be a true generational artist as he is one of his oversized T-shirts. But Smith’s willingness to open himself up to criticism by making statements—fashion, musical, or self-promoting—make discussions of DIIV more divisive and passionate than those surrounding similarly positioned bands like Wild Nothing, the War on Drugs, or Real Estate. This aspect of DIIV aligns with songs like "Dopamine," "Dust," and "Waste of Breath," ensuring that Is the Is Are hits on a visceral, teenage level similar to that of the Cure or Smashing Pumpkins, bands who were also mercilessly mocked in their day by gatekeepers of cool as both social climbing posers and "stuck in the terminal malaise of adolescent existentialism." It’s the same immediacy that inspires thousands of high schoolers to rock Unknown Pleasures and Nirvana T-shirts as well, even if they might not understand their cultural impact. But they relate to the disillusion, doubt, and confusio"

Iglooghost

Neō Wax Bloom

Electronic

Jay Balfour

There is barely a repeated moment on the bizarre Brainfeeder full-length debut from Irish producer Seamus Malliagh, aka Iglooghost. It’s a more radical prospect than it might seem. Put aside the bewildering nature of his actual sounds—painstaking maximalism on a shapeshifting grid—and Neō Wax Bloom is frantically composed. There are no loops at all, and there is rarely a sustained melody to latch onto; that many of his alien-sounding electronic bursts are immediately fleeting makes their novelty all the more jarring. Neō Wax Bloom is an insanely ambitious inversion of the comfort of repetition, and the whole album spills forward to unnerving effect. The audiovisual concept behind Iglooghost is a zany hallucination: an invented backstory replete with graphics of googly-eyed kitsch, which actually do help explain the neurosis of his sound. When Brainfeeder released the album’s second single, “White Gum,” Malliagh took to the YouTube comment section to explain himself: “PLS IMAGINE A MONK CALLED YOMI & A LITTLE BUG BOY IN A CLOAK CALLED USO HAVING A HUGE FIGHT - HOPPING OVER LEVITATING FRUIT & FIRING LASERS AT EACHOTHER [sic],” he wrote. Malliagh has earnestly designed a sound that belongs to Yomi’s laser and another that belongs to Little Bug Boy’s, and every moment on Neō Wax Bloom is ostensibly a prop or landscape element in their universe. Of course, none of that alleviates the confusing thrill of listening to the song itself, which seems to crumble and crackle under its own weight in a constant morph. Malliagh once said his first impulse, when he started making music, was towards “terrifying breakcore,” and he’s strayed well beyond that ambition with Neō Wax Bloom. But the album does carry that genre’s attendant fidgeting. Malliagh weaves manic combinations of footwork and techno for aggressively paced tracks. “Göd Grid” tops out at more than 220 BPM without ever settling into a groove, seemingly dozens of sounds flurrying forward to combine for the record’s harshest track. “Super Ink Burst” feels like a barrage of body punches despite its cartoony landscape: a frantic saxophone trickles up and down, a kick adds a breakneck thump, the invented synth sounds glitter relentlessly. On “Pale Eyes,” Malliagh pits that same saxophone alongside an anxious harpsichord sound, as bulbous little meeps and moops share background space with not-quite-human gasps and moans. Throughout, Malliagh injects manipulated vocal samples that are often twisted beyond recognition into a chipmunky gibberish. On “White Gum,” he flips the grime rapper AJ Tracey’s already relentless “Naila” vocals into a peculiar high-pitched attack. The ambiguous underground rapper Mr. Yote shows up for an original feature on “Teal Yomi / Olivine,” braving the storm of complexity with his own other-worldly pitch shifting. The pair have worked together before, and here they push avant-garde hip-hop that demands exacting listening. With an opposite approach, the Japanese dream-pop vocalist Cuushe glides over “Infinite Mint,” a succulent ballad that devolves into one of the album’s most soulful appendages. Malliagh softens his edge for moments like these without sacrificing the encompassing effect of his excess. There’s a glistening sheen to nearly everything Malliagh touches, and his songs blend together if for no other reason than their similar hue. He’s also self-referential, sampling his own work throughout the record as a rare bit of continuity. There’s a soaring, soulful vocal sample that needles its way throughout several tracks as a shimmering mirage of familiarity. It seems to have first appeared on a previous Malliagh production, last year’s “Gold Tea,” and it pops up throughout Neō Wax Bloom like a beaming signpost, a rare bit of human comfort in an otherwise austerely alien landscape. Even at its most elegant, the album unfurls like a sensory attack. This seems to be Malliagh’s odd equation as Iglooghost: filtering outlandish electronic music through his saccharine world-building to intensely emotional effect. To his credit, he’s architected a world entirely unto itself. It’s the type you might take deep a breath before jumping into, knowing that the strangeness of it all is not built to last.

Artist: Iglooghost, Album: Neō Wax Bloom, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "There is barely a repeated moment on the bizarre Brainfeeder full-length debut from Irish producer Seamus Malliagh, aka Iglooghost. It’s a more radical prospect than it might seem. Put aside the bewildering nature of his actual sounds—painstaking maximalism on a shapeshifting grid—and Neō Wax Bloom is frantically composed. There are no loops at all, and there is rarely a sustained melody to latch onto; that many of his alien-sounding electronic bursts are immediately fleeting makes their novelty all the more jarring. Neō Wax Bloom is an insanely ambitious inversion of the comfort of repetition, and the whole album spills forward to unnerving effect. The audiovisual concept behind Iglooghost is a zany hallucination: an invented backstory replete with graphics of googly-eyed kitsch, which actually do help explain the neurosis of his sound. When Brainfeeder released the album’s second single, “White Gum,” Malliagh took to the YouTube comment section to explain himself: “PLS IMAGINE A MONK CALLED YOMI & A LITTLE BUG BOY IN A CLOAK CALLED USO HAVING A HUGE FIGHT - HOPPING OVER LEVITATING FRUIT & FIRING LASERS AT EACHOTHER [sic],” he wrote. Malliagh has earnestly designed a sound that belongs to Yomi’s laser and another that belongs to Little Bug Boy’s, and every moment on Neō Wax Bloom is ostensibly a prop or landscape element in their universe. Of course, none of that alleviates the confusing thrill of listening to the song itself, which seems to crumble and crackle under its own weight in a constant morph. Malliagh once said his first impulse, when he started making music, was towards “terrifying breakcore,” and he’s strayed well beyond that ambition with Neō Wax Bloom. But the album does carry that genre’s attendant fidgeting. Malliagh weaves manic combinations of footwork and techno for aggressively paced tracks. “Göd Grid” tops out at more than 220 BPM without ever settling into a groove, seemingly dozens of sounds flurrying forward to combine for the record’s harshest track. “Super Ink Burst” feels like a barrage of body punches despite its cartoony landscape: a frantic saxophone trickles up and down, a kick adds a breakneck thump, the invented synth sounds glitter relentlessly. On “Pale Eyes,” Malliagh pits that same saxophone alongside an anxious harpsichord sound, as bulbous little meeps and moops share background space with not-quite-human gasps and moans. Throughout, Malliagh injects manipulated vocal samples that are often twisted beyond recognition into a chipmunky gibberish. On “White Gum,” he flips the grime rapper AJ Tracey’s already relentless “Naila” vocals into a peculiar high-pitched attack. The ambiguous underground rapper Mr. Yote shows up for an original feature on “Teal Yomi / Olivine,” braving the storm of complexity with his own other-worldly pitch shifting. The pair have worked together before, and here they push avant-garde hip-hop that demands exacting listening. With an opposite approach, the Japanese dream-pop vocalist Cuushe glides over “Infinite Mint,” a succulent ballad that devolves into one of the album’s most soulful appendages. Malliagh softens his edge for moments like these without sacrificing the encompassing effect of his excess. There’s a glistening sheen to nearly everything Malliagh touches, and his songs blend together if for no other reason than their similar hue. He’s also self-referential, sampling his own work throughout the record as a rare bit of continuity. There’s a soaring, soulful vocal sample that needles its way throughout several tracks as a shimmering mirage of familiarity. It seems to have first appeared on a previous Malliagh production, last year’s “Gold Tea,” and it pops up throughout Neō Wax Bloom like a beaming signpost, a rare bit of human comfort in an otherwise austerely alien landscape. Even at its most elegant, the album unfurls like a sensory attack. This seems to be Malliagh’s odd equation as Iglooghost: filtering outlandish electronic music through his saccharine world-building to intensely emotional effect. To his credit, he’s architected a world entirely unto itself. It’s the type you might take deep a breath before jumping into, knowing that the strangeness of it all is not built to last."

Kodak Black

Lil B.I.G. Pac

Rap

Matthew Ramirez

Nineteen-year-old Florida rapper Kodak Black has always been blessed with a slurred, frog-like croak—though he’s had trouble differentiating himself from similarly drawling Southern forefathers like Boosie Badazz and Gucci Mane. After making a splash with two viral hits, “No Flockin” and “SKRT,” he released three good-not-great mixtapes, all of them overlong and generally indistinguishable from many of his contemporaries. His latest tape, Lil B.I.G. Pac—recently released on his birthday as the young rapper sits behind bars—fixes this. It's punchier; the themes are weightier; the emotional range is more dynamic. And it finds Kodak Black sounding like nobody but himself. On the tape, Kodak offers a highly pleasurable mix of introspective, gripping street rap, free-flowing punchlines, youthful swagger, and even hints of an old soul. Though Gucci Mane and Boosie appear as guests, their presence does not lead to shallow comparisons; rather than being a copycat, Kodak is now living up to their legacies. His flow snakes its way through Southern-fried productions with a sleepy effervescence, where he drops punchlines and subtle turns of phrase with a Gucci-like sensibility: “Grinding for a mil’ and I ain’t talking ‘bout a combo/My mama need a crib, I been thinking ‘bout a condo,” he offers on mission statement “Everything 1K.” Oftentimes, food-based imagery lands the hardest: “Drop two ounces of codeine in my Minute Maid,” or “I be on that Little Ceasars shit, hot and ready,” or, on the buoyant, bristling “Today,” he raps, “I might lace the birthday cake with molly.” But it’s the thoughtful, throwback street raps that linger after the party has ended. On crawling summer anthem “Can I,” Kodak oozes pathos over a gorgeous beat co-produced by Honorable C.N.O.T.E. and Derelle Rideout: “Can I ball, can I chill? Can I stunt? Will I live long enough to raise my son?” Though he’s rapped like this before, the potent combo of his laconic delivery and his natural voice has never sounded so affecting. Penultimate track “Letter” twists a few new wrinkles into the idea of a hip-hop song written from the perspective of someone in prison: The first verse finds Kodak reflecting on a letter he receives while in jail, while the second sounds like the note itself. It’s a nuanced portrait of camaraderie, and by voicing his own feelings against the backdrop of what his friend is writing to him, the track illustrates the wistfulness and uncertainty of two young people living their lives apart. Kodak says fondly, “He remember them times going on them missions/Say he for real, he reminiscing.” Then later, from the other perspective: “You my lil nigga forever, just keep your head up.” In just about two and a half minutes, Kodak weaves the story, and you gain the full picture of friends struggling to stay afloat, drifting from jail to a tempestuous street life. It’s a disarming emotional display from someone so young. However, much like his stellar collaboration with French Montana earlier this year, “Lock Jaw,” it’s Kodak’s ability to keep up on any beat while flexing his lyricism and unique flow that makes him a compelling artist. This is evident on single “Vibin in this Bih,” where he handily floats atop a frisky instrumental. “Hittin’ licks, now I’m dropping hits, mouthpiece cost a brick,” he raps on the track, before Gucci responds, “Walk around the club like I walked around the yard.” It’s telling that Kodak is one of a handful of rappers Gucci has worked with following his recent release from prison; he sees the talent and vision in this kid. And with Lil B.I.G. Pac, that vision is clearer than ever.

Artist: Kodak Black, Album: Lil B.I.G. Pac, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.2 Album review: "Nineteen-year-old Florida rapper Kodak Black has always been blessed with a slurred, frog-like croak—though he’s had trouble differentiating himself from similarly drawling Southern forefathers like Boosie Badazz and Gucci Mane. After making a splash with two viral hits, “No Flockin” and “SKRT,” he released three good-not-great mixtapes, all of them overlong and generally indistinguishable from many of his contemporaries. His latest tape, Lil B.I.G. Pac—recently released on his birthday as the young rapper sits behind bars—fixes this. It's punchier; the themes are weightier; the emotional range is more dynamic. And it finds Kodak Black sounding like nobody but himself. On the tape, Kodak offers a highly pleasurable mix of introspective, gripping street rap, free-flowing punchlines, youthful swagger, and even hints of an old soul. Though Gucci Mane and Boosie appear as guests, their presence does not lead to shallow comparisons; rather than being a copycat, Kodak is now living up to their legacies. His flow snakes its way through Southern-fried productions with a sleepy effervescence, where he drops punchlines and subtle turns of phrase with a Gucci-like sensibility: “Grinding for a mil’ and I ain’t talking ‘bout a combo/My mama need a crib, I been thinking ‘bout a condo,” he offers on mission statement “Everything 1K.” Oftentimes, food-based imagery lands the hardest: “Drop two ounces of codeine in my Minute Maid,” or “I be on that Little Ceasars shit, hot and ready,” or, on the buoyant, bristling “Today,” he raps, “I might lace the birthday cake with molly.” But it’s the thoughtful, throwback street raps that linger after the party has ended. On crawling summer anthem “Can I,” Kodak oozes pathos over a gorgeous beat co-produced by Honorable C.N.O.T.E. and Derelle Rideout: “Can I ball, can I chill? Can I stunt? Will I live long enough to raise my son?” Though he’s rapped like this before, the potent combo of his laconic delivery and his natural voice has never sounded so affecting. Penultimate track “Letter” twists a few new wrinkles into the idea of a hip-hop song written from the perspective of someone in prison: The first verse finds Kodak reflecting on a letter he receives while in jail, while the second sounds like the note itself. It’s a nuanced portrait of camaraderie, and by voicing his own feelings against the backdrop of what his friend is writing to him, the track illustrates the wistfulness and uncertainty of two young people living their lives apart. Kodak says fondly, “He remember them times going on them missions/Say he for real, he reminiscing.” Then later, from the other perspective: “You my lil nigga forever, just keep your head up.” In just about two and a half minutes, Kodak weaves the story, and you gain the full picture of friends struggling to stay afloat, drifting from jail to a tempestuous street life. It’s a disarming emotional display from someone so young. However, much like his stellar collaboration with French Montana earlier this year, “Lock Jaw,” it’s Kodak’s ability to keep up on any beat while flexing his lyricism and unique flow that makes him a compelling artist. This is evident on single “Vibin in this Bih,” where he handily floats atop a frisky instrumental. “Hittin’ licks, now I’m dropping hits, mouthpiece cost a brick,” he raps on the track, before Gucci responds, “Walk around the club like I walked around the yard.” It’s telling that Kodak is one of a handful of rappers Gucci has worked with following his recent release from prison; he sees the talent and vision in this kid. And with Lil B.I.G. Pac, that vision is clearer than ever."

White Fence

Cyclops Reap

Rock

Evan Minsker

The initial plan for Cyclops Reap was to compile the scraps that didn't quite make the last four White Fence LPs. Apparently, Tim Presley has about 40 unreleased songs lying around, which, considering his backlog and work ethic, makes sense. Since 2010, he's released four solo LPs, one collaborative album with Ty Segall, a live cassette, and a handful of singles. And that doesn't even cover his tenure in other bands. His albums are all nearly overcrowded by sonic ideas and psychedelic twists. Even one of his simpler songs, the acoustic track "Balance Yr Heart" off Family Perfume Vol. 1, gives the impression that he spliced together two different-but-similar songs that were floating in his head. In just three years, he's managed to poise himself as a prolific artist in a town that runneth over with prolific artists (Segall, Sonny Smith, Thee Oh Sees mastermind and Castle Face head John Dwyer). While gathering up old stuff for Cyclops Reap, Presley's prolific instincts kicked in: "there were more coming. a better crop," he wrote in a press release. He wrote more songs, recorded them to the four-track in his bedroom, and scrapped the compilation altogether. The album ends up being a testament to what Presley has learned in terms of home recording: It's his best-sounding and most easily accessible album to date. It still comes packed with less-than-pristine production and some of the psychedelic tics that marked his previous work, but for the most part, these songs are marked by a surprising amount of clarity. For something with such modest origins, this thing sounds at least as good as Hair, which was made in the studio. And these songs don't ever feel overstuffed. Everything is faithful to White Fence's well-established aesthetic, but simplified. There's no jumping around or writing three melodies when there only needs to be one. It's a refreshingly streamlined record, and more so than his previous work, there's a slight-but-palpable country influence. Presley picks an acoustic guitar, adds the occasional Southern guitar lick, and sings sweet melodies. In places, this thing could pass for a straightforward singer/songwriter album. (An influence that would make sense, seeing as he started his label just to release Jessica Pratt's album.) "Beat" and "Only Man Alive", for example, are clear of fuzz and psych freakouts. He just delivers beautiful melodies backed by minimal percussion. This isn't to say that Presley's delivering shockingly intimate lyrics-- as usual, they're stories and phrases doused in abstractions and poeticisms. But sometimes, there's a warmth and familiarity in his words: The instrumentals and vocals in "Live on Genevieve" might sound cartoonishly warped and bleary, but the sentiment of "I wanna live on Genevieve Street with you" feels resonant. Of course, it's not all cooing and ginger acoustic guitar strumming. He balances the album's softer moments with "Pink Gorilla", the beefiest track of the bunch. It's a song slathered in acid-burnt fuzz where Presley stretches out with an echoing psych guitar solo after hammering out a simple, solid power chord hook. The songs here are lovely, but ultimately, this thing needed some heft-- something that keeps the album's airier material from melding together or, worse, floating by completely, and "Pink Gorilla" fits the bill. That's one of Presley's greatest strengths as a composer-- he anchors Reap's quieter songs with substantive sonics. There's only one old song on Cyclops Reap: "Make Them Dinner at Our Shoes", which is from 2009. Like every other track on the album, it's masked under a thin layer of hiss. It's hard to tell exactly what he's singing in places-- his vocals are occasionally eaten by his guitar or another sound-- but one phrase is always clear: "clear open sky." Those words are backed by bright major chords on an electric guitar and the soft, steady ambiance of a shaker. Like most of White Fence's lyrics, it's unclear what those words are trying to communicate in a literal sense, but packaged the way they are, the emotional connection is clear.

Artist: White Fence, Album: Cyclops Reap, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "The initial plan for Cyclops Reap was to compile the scraps that didn't quite make the last four White Fence LPs. Apparently, Tim Presley has about 40 unreleased songs lying around, which, considering his backlog and work ethic, makes sense. Since 2010, he's released four solo LPs, one collaborative album with Ty Segall, a live cassette, and a handful of singles. And that doesn't even cover his tenure in other bands. His albums are all nearly overcrowded by sonic ideas and psychedelic twists. Even one of his simpler songs, the acoustic track "Balance Yr Heart" off Family Perfume Vol. 1, gives the impression that he spliced together two different-but-similar songs that were floating in his head. In just three years, he's managed to poise himself as a prolific artist in a town that runneth over with prolific artists (Segall, Sonny Smith, Thee Oh Sees mastermind and Castle Face head John Dwyer). While gathering up old stuff for Cyclops Reap, Presley's prolific instincts kicked in: "there were more coming. a better crop," he wrote in a press release. He wrote more songs, recorded them to the four-track in his bedroom, and scrapped the compilation altogether. The album ends up being a testament to what Presley has learned in terms of home recording: It's his best-sounding and most easily accessible album to date. It still comes packed with less-than-pristine production and some of the psychedelic tics that marked his previous work, but for the most part, these songs are marked by a surprising amount of clarity. For something with such modest origins, this thing sounds at least as good as Hair, which was made in the studio. And these songs don't ever feel overstuffed. Everything is faithful to White Fence's well-established aesthetic, but simplified. There's no jumping around or writing three melodies when there only needs to be one. It's a refreshingly streamlined record, and more so than his previous work, there's a slight-but-palpable country influence. Presley picks an acoustic guitar, adds the occasional Southern guitar lick, and sings sweet melodies. In places, this thing could pass for a straightforward singer/songwriter album. (An influence that would make sense, seeing as he started his label just to release Jessica Pratt's album.) "Beat" and "Only Man Alive", for example, are clear of fuzz and psych freakouts. He just delivers beautiful melodies backed by minimal percussion. This isn't to say that Presley's delivering shockingly intimate lyrics-- as usual, they're stories and phrases doused in abstractions and poeticisms. But sometimes, there's a warmth and familiarity in his words: The instrumentals and vocals in "Live on Genevieve" might sound cartoonishly warped and bleary, but the sentiment of "I wanna live on Genevieve Street with you" feels resonant. Of course, it's not all cooing and ginger acoustic guitar strumming. He balances the album's softer moments with "Pink Gorilla", the beefiest track of the bunch. It's a song slathered in acid-burnt fuzz where Presley stretches out with an echoing psych guitar solo after hammering out a simple, solid power chord hook. The songs here are lovely, but ultimately, this thing needed some heft-- something that keeps the album's airier material from melding together or, worse, floating by completely, and "Pink Gorilla" fits the bill. That's one of Presley's greatest strengths as a composer-- he anchors Reap's quieter songs with substantive sonics. There's only one old song on Cyclops Reap: "Make Them Dinner at Our Shoes", which is from 2009. Like every other track on the album, it's masked under a thin layer of hiss. It's hard to tell exactly what he's singing in places-- his vocals are occasionally eaten by his guitar or another sound-- but one phrase is always clear: "clear open sky." Those words are backed by bright major chords on an electric guitar and the soft, steady ambiance of a shaker. Like most of White Fence's lyrics, it's unclear what those words are trying to communicate in a literal sense, but packaged the way they are, the emotional connection is clear."

Coldcut

Sound Mirrors

Electronic,Jazz

Jess Harvell

Coldcut were incredibly overrated. Past tense is critical here because the moment in which Coldcut were feted feels like a hundred million years ago now. Concepts like trip-hop, turntablism, etc., aren't quite past tense enough to stir warm feelings of nostalgia. They're "what the fuck were we thinking?" ideas in 2006, and no one wants to listen to records that give them the feeling of looking at old photos of themselves with bad haircuts and stupid clothes. Sure, no genre is completely devoid of good ideas-- or even, more importantly, good records-- but there's a landfill full of "abstract beats" out there that no one's stepped up to reclaim. If you want a real laugh, read the second half of the Rough Guide to Drum and Bass devoted to big beat/downtempo. What the fuck were we thinking? So, while, yes, better than the bulk of their Ninja Tune-affiliated peers, Coldcut were not as good as we once believed. That Eric B and Rakim remix that Eric B and Rakim hated-- it's really not that great, is it? I'd rather listen to "Pump Up the Volume" than "Beats and Pieces" for my kitschy sampladelic single fix. And while concepts like multimedia and chopping up the history of recorded music seemed like not just a good idea at the time but the very future itself, information overload isn't an exciting concept in 2006, it just is. (Plus their Journeys by DJ record is the most overrated DJ mix of all time.) So credit them for getting there first, but don't flog pioneer status to tell me why I should listen to the records. Sound Mirrors isn't a cut-and-paste DJ record per se, but it's constructed in the same way. Instead of slamming chunks of disparate records together via sampler or turntable, they wrangle a few albums' worth of guest stars and hop from genre to genre like Q*Bert. (The video game sprite, not the Skratch Pikl. At least I think so.) "Walk a Mile" tries on the shimmering fabric of smooth, gauzy deep house, complete with vocals from the original voice of post-coital, outerspace ennui, Robert Owens. Saul Williams hectors "Mr. Nichols" from an era where we thought poetry slams and poetry slams on rap records were a good idea, and "This Island Earth" reminds you just how hard people worked the thin concept of a female singer over a mid-tempo rap beat in the late-90s. If you've ever wanted to hear Jon Spencer and Mike Ladd on the same track, Sound Mirrors is for you, and the pairing, or even just the concept of the pairing, will tell you whether or not you need to hear it. Coldcut acquit themselves well, in the sense that they pull off all of their various generic sleights of hand. But, as per usual, whatever off-hand virtuosity Sound Mirrors displays, there's no center here. No one likes a show-off.

Artist: Coldcut, Album: Sound Mirrors, Genre: Electronic,Jazz, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Coldcut were incredibly overrated. Past tense is critical here because the moment in which Coldcut were feted feels like a hundred million years ago now. Concepts like trip-hop, turntablism, etc., aren't quite past tense enough to stir warm feelings of nostalgia. They're "what the fuck were we thinking?" ideas in 2006, and no one wants to listen to records that give them the feeling of looking at old photos of themselves with bad haircuts and stupid clothes. Sure, no genre is completely devoid of good ideas-- or even, more importantly, good records-- but there's a landfill full of "abstract beats" out there that no one's stepped up to reclaim. If you want a real laugh, read the second half of the Rough Guide to Drum and Bass devoted to big beat/downtempo. What the fuck were we thinking? So, while, yes, better than the bulk of their Ninja Tune-affiliated peers, Coldcut were not as good as we once believed. That Eric B and Rakim remix that Eric B and Rakim hated-- it's really not that great, is it? I'd rather listen to "Pump Up the Volume" than "Beats and Pieces" for my kitschy sampladelic single fix. And while concepts like multimedia and chopping up the history of recorded music seemed like not just a good idea at the time but the very future itself, information overload isn't an exciting concept in 2006, it just is. (Plus their Journeys by DJ record is the most overrated DJ mix of all time.) So credit them for getting there first, but don't flog pioneer status to tell me why I should listen to the records. Sound Mirrors isn't a cut-and-paste DJ record per se, but it's constructed in the same way. Instead of slamming chunks of disparate records together via sampler or turntable, they wrangle a few albums' worth of guest stars and hop from genre to genre like Q*Bert. (The video game sprite, not the Skratch Pikl. At least I think so.) "Walk a Mile" tries on the shimmering fabric of smooth, gauzy deep house, complete with vocals from the original voice of post-coital, outerspace ennui, Robert Owens. Saul Williams hectors "Mr. Nichols" from an era where we thought poetry slams and poetry slams on rap records were a good idea, and "This Island Earth" reminds you just how hard people worked the thin concept of a female singer over a mid-tempo rap beat in the late-90s. If you've ever wanted to hear Jon Spencer and Mike Ladd on the same track, Sound Mirrors is for you, and the pairing, or even just the concept of the pairing, will tell you whether or not you need to hear it. Coldcut acquit themselves well, in the sense that they pull off all of their various generic sleights of hand. But, as per usual, whatever off-hand virtuosity Sound Mirrors displays, there's no center here. No one likes a show-off."

Tigers Jaw

Charmer

Rock

Ian Cohen

Tigers Jaw claim to be “equal parts Fleetwood Mac and Brand New”, and what’s surprising is that the claim's true on multiple levels. To a certain extent, Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham are raging inside of Charmer, the Scranton band’s fourth album—Adam McIlwee, Brianna Collins and Ben Walsh’s harmonies have a glassy, disengaged quality and they’re situated amidst turbulent emotions and turbid guitars. But “equal parts Fleetwood Mac and Brand New” is even more accurate in describing what it was like to be in Tigers Jaw during its recording—like the latter, they're transitioning out of pop-punk and emo into straight-up indie rock, and the entire band was split into Rumours-esque factions while they made the album. But while three of the five members decided to quit before Charmer was recorded, they did everyone a solid by finishing the album as a parting gift—which possibly explains how Charmer still comes off like a smooth segue into a new incarnation of the band rather than a sudden, painful break or an awkward growth spurt. Though Tigers Jaw have been around for nearly a decade, remaining members Collins and Walsh just recently graduated college, the standard forum where pop-punk kids are not only expected to discover more “mature” and credible sources of independent rock music, but to completely sever themselves from their past. Fortunately, as with their Keystone State neighbors in Beach Slang, Balance and Composure, and Title Fight, Tigers Jaw are beating indie rock lifers at their own game by maintaining the appealing structural songwriting aspects of their roots—melodic quality control, instrumental economy, and the belief this stuff should be MTV-friendly even if that forum isn’t going anywhere near bands like them. True, you’ve probably heard the descending jangle progression of “Cool” and the minor key power chord riff of “Nervous Kids” hundreds of times in the past year alone, but rarely presented in a manner where the vocals are put so clearly to the fore, presented as a lead instrument rather than something custodially glommed onto fuzzy guitars. Beyond that, Tigers Jaw use sneaky ways to exhibit their pop smarts. Many of Charmer’s songs work the same riff throughout their entirety, with only small variations throughout, maybe a slight chord inversion or a harmonized lead riff or Collins’ pencil-thin synth colorings. But that one riff is usually so sturdy and easy to build off of, the end result is a song with all hook; while the glowing chorus of “Hum” only appears once, it’s more of a resolution than a climax. Those are the aspects of the album that take after the positive connotations of “charmer”: subtly ingratiating, enjoyable in a low-key kind of way. But Tigers Jaw turn Charmer into something more resonant by teasing out the negative connotations of its title: manipulative, emotionally callow, inauthentic. To put it bluntly, there isn’t a single nice person populating Tigers Jaw’s lyrics, and their varying exhibitions of misanthropic behavior are explained in the opener’s chorus: “It’s a cruel world, but it’s cool.” It could be read two ways; McIlwee is either conceding to cynicism as a natural state or reveling in it. My guess is the latter, judging from his deadpan disdain when delivering lines like “Don’t you wanna be my perfect bae instead?” and ”I’m out in California now/ And Ari gave me his new car/ And all the girls are so champagne.” Of course, none of Charmer should be taken as an endorsementof that kind of attitude, just a depiction of it. People primarily motivated by their sexual desires and loneliness can be self-absorbed and not all that concerned with their effects on other people. It happens, and it’s not like anyone onCharmer seems happy about it, as its dreary emotional state can be too convincingly mirrored by the music at times. However, those lulls end up creating the simmering tension that gets relieved on “Slow Come On” by a flurry of drum rolls and McIlwee’s vocals just nearing a scream. It’s a chilling example of an asshole revealing his true colors, telling someone who doesn’t turn him on about the kind of person who does—“I don’t even care how mean they are/ So I don't ever take your calls.” When McIlwee yells, “Why am I so cruel?” towards the end, it’s about as close as he gets to a confession or culpability, acknowledging himself as a man who wants the ones he can’t have, rejects the ones he can and internalizes the resulting loneliness as some kind of perverse pleasure. When his affections are returned, the other is seen as compromised for having sunk to his level. Closer “What Would You Do” is a total outlier, detailing a sad, codependent hookup over lumbering funk like a vintage Afghan Whigs track, while “Frame You” is just as candid—“You couldn’t leave me alone/ Because I was a wreck and you were the savior type.” All of which makes lead single “Hum” very misleading in retrospect. For one thing, it’s the sole track where Collins takes the lead. Also, when she sings, “You left a permanent scar”, the unforgettable reminiscences of basement shows and long walks home sound like positive nostalgia, or at least a romantic thought amidst the absorbing and near-constant anti-romanticism. Though it’s laced with "Twin Peaks" references, Charmer ends up sounding more influenced by another example of uber-90s television—the one where people stop being polite and start getting real.

Artist: Tigers Jaw, Album: Charmer, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Tigers Jaw claim to be “equal parts Fleetwood Mac and Brand New”, and what’s surprising is that the claim's true on multiple levels. To a certain extent, Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham are raging inside of Charmer, the Scranton band’s fourth album—Adam McIlwee, Brianna Collins and Ben Walsh’s harmonies have a glassy, disengaged quality and they’re situated amidst turbulent emotions and turbid guitars. But “equal parts Fleetwood Mac and Brand New” is even more accurate in describing what it was like to be in Tigers Jaw during its recording—like the latter, they're transitioning out of pop-punk and emo into straight-up indie rock, and the entire band was split into Rumours-esque factions while they made the album. But while three of the five members decided to quit before Charmer was recorded, they did everyone a solid by finishing the album as a parting gift—which possibly explains how Charmer still comes off like a smooth segue into a new incarnation of the band rather than a sudden, painful break or an awkward growth spurt. Though Tigers Jaw have been around for nearly a decade, remaining members Collins and Walsh just recently graduated college, the standard forum where pop-punk kids are not only expected to discover more “mature” and credible sources of independent rock music, but to completely sever themselves from their past. Fortunately, as with their Keystone State neighbors in Beach Slang, Balance and Composure, and Title Fight, Tigers Jaw are beating indie rock lifers at their own game by maintaining the appealing structural songwriting aspects of their roots—melodic quality control, instrumental economy, and the belief this stuff should be MTV-friendly even if that forum isn’t going anywhere near bands like them. True, you’ve probably heard the descending jangle progression of “Cool” and the minor key power chord riff of “Nervous Kids” hundreds of times in the past year alone, but rarely presented in a manner where the vocals are put so clearly to the fore, presented as a lead instrument rather than something custodially glommed onto fuzzy guitars. Beyond that, Tigers Jaw use sneaky ways to exhibit their pop smarts. Many of Charmer’s songs work the same riff throughout their entirety, with only small variations throughout, maybe a slight chord inversion or a harmonized lead riff or Collins’ pencil-thin synth colorings. But that one riff is usually so sturdy and easy to build off of, the end result is a song with all hook; while the glowing chorus of “Hum” only appears once, it’s more of a resolution than a climax. Those are the aspects of the album that take after the positive connotations of “charmer”: subtly ingratiating, enjoyable in a low-key kind of way. But Tigers Jaw turn Charmer into something more resonant by teasing out the negative connotations of its title: manipulative, emotionally callow, inauthentic. To put it bluntly, there isn’t a single nice person populating Tigers Jaw’s lyrics, and their varying exhibitions of misanthropic behavior are explained in the opener’s chorus: “It’s a cruel world, but it’s cool.” It could be read two ways; McIlwee is either conceding to cynicism as a natural state or reveling in it. My guess is the latter, judging from his deadpan disdain when delivering lines like “Don’t you wanna be my perfect bae instead?” and ”I’m out in California now/ And Ari gave me his new car/ And all the girls are so champagne.” Of course, none of Charmer should be taken as an endorsementof that kind of attitude, just a depiction of it. People primarily motivated by their sexual desires and loneliness can be self-absorbed and not all that concerned with their effects on other people. It happens, and it’s not like anyone onCharmer seems happy about it, as its dreary emotional state can be too convincingly mirrored by the music at times. However, those lulls end up creating the simmering tension that gets relieved on “Slow Come On” by a flurry of drum rolls and McIlwee’s vocals just nearing a scream. It’s a chilling example of an asshole revealing his true colors, telling someone who doesn’t turn him on about the kind of person who does—“I don’t even care how mean they are/ So I don't ever take your calls.” When McIlwee yells, “Why am I so cruel?” towards the end, it’s about as close as he gets to a confession or culpability, acknowledging himself as a man who wants the ones he can’t have, rejects the ones he can and internalizes the resulting loneliness as some kind of perverse pleasure. When his affections are returned, the other is seen as compromised for having sunk to his level. Closer “What Would You Do” is a total outlier, detailing a sad, codependent hookup over lumbering funk like a vintage Afghan Whigs track, while “Frame You” is just as candid—“You couldn’t leave me alone/ Because I was a wreck and you were the savior type.” All of which makes lead single “Hum” very misleading in retrospect. For one thing, it’s the sole track where Collins takes the lead. Also, when she sings, “You left a permanent scar”, the unforgettable reminiscences of basement shows and long walks home sound like positive nostalgia, or at least a romantic thought amidst the absorbing and near-constant anti-romanticism. Though it’s laced with "Twin Peaks" references, Charmer ends up sounding more influenced by another example of uber-90s television—the one where people stop being polite and start getting real."

Kane Strang

Blue Cheese

Rock

Stuart Berman

The Dunedin, New Zealand-based singer-guitarist Kane Strang traffics in off-the-cuff, off-kilter indie-rock songs that somehow sound like the products of great struggle and effort. Listening to Blue Cheese, his first North American release, feels like that hungover moment on a Sunday morning when you have to summon all your strength to hurl yourself out of bed and over to the bathroom. In the same way you might want to award yourself a medal for making it there without puking in the hallway, Blue Cheese's tousled charm has a way of making modest acts seem heroic. Blue Cheese was recorded by Strang while house-sitting his parents’ house, but it’s hardly a reservoir of sensitive, singer-songwriterly introspection. Rather, it’s the sound of a young, restless soul taking full advantage of the empty environs by making an inspired racket and broadcasting his innermost musings to no one in particular. Kane Strang isn't just this guy's name, it's also a handily onomatopoetic descriptin of the odd jangle of his guitar. Strang actually plays all the instruments here, a fact betrayed by the sludgy, rumbling bass lines, the lumbering, drum machines, and the one-finger synths that feel like placeholders for the brass and string sections he can’t yet afford. And though Blue Cheese is being billed as a proper debut in the wake of 2013’s demos collection, A Pebble and a Paper Crane, a certain slapdash aesthetic remains: songs have a tendency cut out before they even reach a chorus, and the uniformity of their sound, arrangements, and temperament suggests it was all cranked out sequentially in a single session, with the console settings untouched from one song to the next. Over its brief 28-minute run time, there are moments when you’ll be itching for a change of scenery, but Strang has a gift for pulling diamonds from the rough, and he’s careful not to let his winsome voice and finely cut melodies get overwhelmed by their surroundings. In his most inspired moments, Strang comes off like Panda Bear doing a one-man garage-band remount of Pixies slow jams. He shares both acts' penchant for twisting innocent sing-alongs into bizarro meditations: On the surface, "The Web" is an optimistic, wide-eyed ode to blossoming romance, but it soon becomes clear Strang’s paramour is an online connection he’s never met IRL. He never quite works up a sweat—even the album’s lone rave-up "Never Kissed a Blonde" is more of a wallow  than a romp. As per its DIY design, this album is about doing what you can with what you've got. But like the unattainable women Strang is fond of serenading, the album’s pop potential leaves you imagining all that could be under different circumstances.

Artist: Kane Strang, Album: Blue Cheese, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "The Dunedin, New Zealand-based singer-guitarist Kane Strang traffics in off-the-cuff, off-kilter indie-rock songs that somehow sound like the products of great struggle and effort. Listening to Blue Cheese, his first North American release, feels like that hungover moment on a Sunday morning when you have to summon all your strength to hurl yourself out of bed and over to the bathroom. In the same way you might want to award yourself a medal for making it there without puking in the hallway, Blue Cheese's tousled charm has a way of making modest acts seem heroic. Blue Cheese was recorded by Strang while house-sitting his parents’ house, but it’s hardly a reservoir of sensitive, singer-songwriterly introspection. Rather, it’s the sound of a young, restless soul taking full advantage of the empty environs by making an inspired racket and broadcasting his innermost musings to no one in particular. Kane Strang isn't just this guy's name, it's also a handily onomatopoetic descriptin of the odd jangle of his guitar. Strang actually plays all the instruments here, a fact betrayed by the sludgy, rumbling bass lines, the lumbering, drum machines, and the one-finger synths that feel like placeholders for the brass and string sections he can’t yet afford. And though Blue Cheese is being billed as a proper debut in the wake of 2013’s demos collection, A Pebble and a Paper Crane, a certain slapdash aesthetic remains: songs have a tendency cut out before they even reach a chorus, and the uniformity of their sound, arrangements, and temperament suggests it was all cranked out sequentially in a single session, with the console settings untouched from one song to the next. Over its brief 28-minute run time, there are moments when you’ll be itching for a change of scenery, but Strang has a gift for pulling diamonds from the rough, and he’s careful not to let his winsome voice and finely cut melodies get overwhelmed by their surroundings. In his most inspired moments, Strang comes off like Panda Bear doing a one-man garage-band remount of Pixies slow jams. He shares both acts' penchant for twisting innocent sing-alongs into bizarro meditations: On the surface, "The Web" is an optimistic, wide-eyed ode to blossoming romance, but it soon becomes clear Strang’s paramour is an online connection he’s never met IRL. He never quite works up a sweat—even the album’s lone rave-up "Never Kissed a Blonde" is more of a wallow  than a romp. As per its DIY design, this album is about doing what you can with what you've got. But like the unattainable women Strang is fond of serenading, the album’s pop potential leaves you imagining all that could be under different circumstances."

John Wizards

John Wizards

Mike Powell

John Wizards is one of those bright, restlessly creative albums that transitions from one idea to the next the way a kid reels off details of a made-up story without ever considering how it might end. The music-- which with the exception of some vocal lines by a Rwandan singer named Emmanuel Nzaramba was recorded entirely by 25-year-old Cape Town, South Africa resident John Withers-- is a bird's eye view of styles that are not only pan-African but, as goes the great promise of cultural consumption in the internet age, pan-global. Click down on one section of John Wizards and you'll hear the peppy end of Ghanaian highlife or the crisp optimism of Withers' native mbaqanga; click down on another and you'll hear 80s disco or swing-heavy instrumental hip-hop not all that far removed from Clams Casino, executed in compact, synthetic sounds that pop in the mix like foil-covered candy from a crystal dish. A self-diagnosed daydreamer who makes his living writing ad jingles, Withers breaks down music into short, catchy bursts. Most of the songs on John Wizards are under three minutes long, and even those rarely hold onto a single melody or idea for more than 30 seconds. There are high points-- all of the kaleidoscopic opener "Tet Lek Schrempf", most of "Lushoto", the sweet, Auto-Tuned vocal of "I'm Still a Serious Guy", or "iYongwe"'s guitar line, which once heard required active mental scrubbing to forget-- but the album's strength is ultimately in its breadth, not depth. Look too close and its songs crumble, but take them as pieces of a whole and the music takes on the playful energy of a mixtape: sweeping its diversity, charming in its curiosity, and generally more geared to the pleasure of the listener than the self-expression of the artist. All of which can sometimes make John Wizards feel slight or disposable-- a Tumblr-era album made by an artist who functions more as a shrewd organizer of style than a composer of indelible music. Toward the end of an interview he did with Pitchfork in June, Withers was asked two questions: One was if his employers in the ad business ever asked him to imitate other bands; the other was how he might feel if someone ever asked him to imitate John Wizards. The second question struck me as funny, because Withers still basically sounds like an imitative musician. What sets him apart is the range and fluidity of his imitations, and the unifying cheerfulness with which he executes them. Obviously African but easily fit into a conversation about contemporary American indie-pop, released on the mostly-techno label Planet Mu despite not being a techno album, satisfying an imagined ideal of post-internet globalism while remaining a personal and localized experience, arriving at a time when hot colors and wild geometric patterns remain fashionable, John Wizards is, to paraphrase the anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss' opinion on animals, "good to think with." But that won't make people want to listen to it. What will is its hip diversity, sunny disposition, and the fact that Withers never asks more of his audience than he's willing to give: A man of contract, he puts his clients first.

Artist: John Wizards, Album: John Wizards, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "John Wizards is one of those bright, restlessly creative albums that transitions from one idea to the next the way a kid reels off details of a made-up story without ever considering how it might end. The music-- which with the exception of some vocal lines by a Rwandan singer named Emmanuel Nzaramba was recorded entirely by 25-year-old Cape Town, South Africa resident John Withers-- is a bird's eye view of styles that are not only pan-African but, as goes the great promise of cultural consumption in the internet age, pan-global. Click down on one section of John Wizards and you'll hear the peppy end of Ghanaian highlife or the crisp optimism of Withers' native mbaqanga; click down on another and you'll hear 80s disco or swing-heavy instrumental hip-hop not all that far removed from Clams Casino, executed in compact, synthetic sounds that pop in the mix like foil-covered candy from a crystal dish. A self-diagnosed daydreamer who makes his living writing ad jingles, Withers breaks down music into short, catchy bursts. Most of the songs on John Wizards are under three minutes long, and even those rarely hold onto a single melody or idea for more than 30 seconds. There are high points-- all of the kaleidoscopic opener "Tet Lek Schrempf", most of "Lushoto", the sweet, Auto-Tuned vocal of "I'm Still a Serious Guy", or "iYongwe"'s guitar line, which once heard required active mental scrubbing to forget-- but the album's strength is ultimately in its breadth, not depth. Look too close and its songs crumble, but take them as pieces of a whole and the music takes on the playful energy of a mixtape: sweeping its diversity, charming in its curiosity, and generally more geared to the pleasure of the listener than the self-expression of the artist. All of which can sometimes make John Wizards feel slight or disposable-- a Tumblr-era album made by an artist who functions more as a shrewd organizer of style than a composer of indelible music. Toward the end of an interview he did with Pitchfork in June, Withers was asked two questions: One was if his employers in the ad business ever asked him to imitate other bands; the other was how he might feel if someone ever asked him to imitate John Wizards. The second question struck me as funny, because Withers still basically sounds like an imitative musician. What sets him apart is the range and fluidity of his imitations, and the unifying cheerfulness with which he executes them. Obviously African but easily fit into a conversation about contemporary American indie-pop, released on the mostly-techno label Planet Mu despite not being a techno album, satisfying an imagined ideal of post-internet globalism while remaining a personal and localized experience, arriving at a time when hot colors and wild geometric patterns remain fashionable, John Wizards is, to paraphrase the anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss' opinion on animals, "good to think with." But that won't make people want to listen to it. What will is its hip diversity, sunny disposition, and the fact that Withers never asks more of his audience than he's willing to give: A man of contract, he puts his clients first."

Mac McCaughan

Non-Believers

Rock

Stuart Berman

This year marks the 20th anniversary of Superchunk’s Here’s Where the Strings Come In, an album that contains no actual strings, but nonetheless found the Chapel Hill indie rockers ready to embrace what they signify: maturation, sophistication, evolution. When Mac McCaughan declared, "I think I’m hyper enough as it is" on the album’s opening salvo, the statement functioned as both a readymade bumper-sticker slogan for Superchunk’s patented pogo-pop, and an admission of fatigue, signalling the refinement process that would play out over the band’s subsequent, pre-hiatus discography. Not coincidentally, around the same time, McCaughan promoted his solo project Portastatic from scrappy, sporadic pursuit to an equally prolific going concern, allowing him to not just quiet down, but branch out and explore sounds—easy-listening pop, Tropicalia, jazz, incidental soundtrack music, Prefab Sprout covers—that even a mellowing Superchunk wouldn’t accommodate. Just as Superchunk sat out the 2000s—partly because their Merge Records imprint had transformed from beloved indie label to job-generating local-economy savior—Portastatic would likewise fall silent after 2006’s Be Still Please, its transformation from home-recording free-for-all to dignified, studio-smoothed art-pop outfit seemingly complete. But now that Superchunk have re-emerged this decade with two well-received, return-to-form albums, McCaughan finds himself in the same position as he was 20 years ago—eager to assert his lyrical voice without the risk of being overpowered by his primary band’s guitar roar. But this time, he’s not hiding behind a self-deprecating alias—with Non-Believers, he taps into a deeply personal, wistfully reflective mode of storytelling that demands putting his own name on the marquee for the first time in his 25-year career. This album could have easily been titled Here’s Where the Synths Come In: though McCaughan is no stranger to keyboards, their use here is more dramatically purposeful than the textural shading they provided throughout the Portastatic catalogue, and inextricably intertwined with Non-Believers’ thematic framework. This is an album about growing up in and out of punk, its small-scaled but vigorous sound emblematic of the music’s transition into mechanistic New Wave at the dawn of the '80s (when synths essentially became the punk equivalent of hiring a string section). But while the bright, buzzy, fuzzy tones are redolent of a bygone era when these machines really sounded like the future, McCaughan’s vivid lyrical vignettes ground us in the sobering everyday scenes—as the celestial ballad "Mystery Flu" blossoms, he’s pondering "the stripe of paint on pavement, the seam in cement, an easement to our coming loss" like someone’s who’s spent far too many late nights on the interstate en route to another $50 gig. Throughout McCaughan’s career, the lines separating his artistic, professional, and personal lives have been routinely blurred, so it’s fitting that the songs on Non-Believers double as pledges of romantic commitment and DIY self-sufficiency: The exultant chorus of "Only Do"—"there is no try/ there is only do"—is both an invitation to elope and an epitaph-worthy summation of McCaughan’s work ethic. Lyrically, McCaughan’s following in the footsteps of elders who aged gracefully out of punk before him, whether channelling the rich observational detail of the Go-Betweens on the high-school house-party reminiscences of "Your Hologram" or the hard-scrabble wisdom of latter-day Paul Westerberg on "Our Way Free" (a galloping, gently ascendent anthem that Arcade Fire should really select as their local-hero cover-song tribute the next time they roll through Durham). Like those forebears, McCaughan has a gift for capturing simple, affecting moments without tipping the scales to sentimentality. Even the sleek dream-pop R&B groove and smooth harmony hooks of "Real Darkness" are undercut by a despairing account of locked-in-the-bathroom teenage depression; "family friends and strangers lift your chin and go, ‘smile kid’," McCaughan sings, but the ache radiating from his falsetto suggests such well-meaning platitudes only hasten the downward spiral. But as much as Non-Believers mines memories of McCaughan’s formative years—be it the blown-out ghetto-blaster-fetishism of "Box Batteries" or the sight of "an '82 Honda getting its tapes stolen" on "Your Hologram"—it’s ultimately a portrait of his current condition, and how all those young-punk passions and problems made him the confident, principled, and industrious man he is today. On the latter song, he says, "I’ll be down in the basement/ I’ll be winding up wires," like an indie-rock lifer who’s got a permanent burn mark above his elbow from decades of spooling guitar cables around his arm at load-out. It’s a line he could’ve written when he was 15—and it sounds just as meaningful and virtuous on the cusp of 50.

Artist: Mac McCaughan, Album: Non-Believers, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "This year marks the 20th anniversary of Superchunk’s Here’s Where the Strings Come In, an album that contains no actual strings, but nonetheless found the Chapel Hill indie rockers ready to embrace what they signify: maturation, sophistication, evolution. When Mac McCaughan declared, "I think I’m hyper enough as it is" on the album’s opening salvo, the statement functioned as both a readymade bumper-sticker slogan for Superchunk’s patented pogo-pop, and an admission of fatigue, signalling the refinement process that would play out over the band’s subsequent, pre-hiatus discography. Not coincidentally, around the same time, McCaughan promoted his solo project Portastatic from scrappy, sporadic pursuit to an equally prolific going concern, allowing him to not just quiet down, but branch out and explore sounds—easy-listening pop, Tropicalia, jazz, incidental soundtrack music, Prefab Sprout covers—that even a mellowing Superchunk wouldn’t accommodate. Just as Superchunk sat out the 2000s—partly because their Merge Records imprint had transformed from beloved indie label to job-generating local-economy savior—Portastatic would likewise fall silent after 2006’s Be Still Please, its transformation from home-recording free-for-all to dignified, studio-smoothed art-pop outfit seemingly complete. But now that Superchunk have re-emerged this decade with two well-received, return-to-form albums, McCaughan finds himself in the same position as he was 20 years ago—eager to assert his lyrical voice without the risk of being overpowered by his primary band’s guitar roar. But this time, he’s not hiding behind a self-deprecating alias—with Non-Believers, he taps into a deeply personal, wistfully reflective mode of storytelling that demands putting his own name on the marquee for the first time in his 25-year career. This album could have easily been titled Here’s Where the Synths Come In: though McCaughan is no stranger to keyboards, their use here is more dramatically purposeful than the textural shading they provided throughout the Portastatic catalogue, and inextricably intertwined with Non-Believers’ thematic framework. This is an album about growing up in and out of punk, its small-scaled but vigorous sound emblematic of the music’s transition into mechanistic New Wave at the dawn of the '80s (when synths essentially became the punk equivalent of hiring a string section). But while the bright, buzzy, fuzzy tones are redolent of a bygone era when these machines really sounded like the future, McCaughan’s vivid lyrical vignettes ground us in the sobering everyday scenes—as the celestial ballad "Mystery Flu" blossoms, he’s pondering "the stripe of paint on pavement, the seam in cement, an easement to our coming loss" like someone’s who’s spent far too many late nights on the interstate en route to another $50 gig. Throughout McCaughan’s career, the lines separating his artistic, professional, and personal lives have been routinely blurred, so it’s fitting that the songs on Non-Believers double as pledges of romantic commitment and DIY self-sufficiency: The exultant chorus of "Only Do"—"there is no try/ there is only do"—is both an invitation to elope and an epitaph-worthy summation of McCaughan’s work ethic. Lyrically, McCaughan’s following in the footsteps of elders who aged gracefully out of punk before him, whether channelling the rich observational detail of the Go-Betweens on the high-school house-party reminiscences of "Your Hologram" or the hard-scrabble wisdom of latter-day Paul Westerberg on "Our Way Free" (a galloping, gently ascendent anthem that Arcade Fire should really select as their local-hero cover-song tribute the next time they roll through Durham). Like those forebears, McCaughan has a gift for capturing simple, affecting moments without tipping the scales to sentimentality. Even the sleek dream-pop R&B groove and smooth harmony hooks of "Real Darkness" are undercut by a despairing account of locked-in-the-bathroom teenage depression; "family friends and strangers lift your chin and go, ‘smile kid’," McCaughan sings, but the ache radiating from his falsetto suggests such well-meaning platitudes only hasten the downward spiral. But as much as Non-Believers mines memories of McCaughan’s formative years—be it the blown-out ghetto-blaster-fetishism of "Box Batteries" or the sight of "an '82 Honda getting its tapes stolen" on "Your Hologram"—it’s ultimately a portrait of his current condition, and how all those young-punk passions and problems made him the confident, principled, and industrious man he is today. On the latter song, he says, "I’ll be down in the basement/ I’ll be winding up wires," like an indie-rock lifer who’s got a permanent burn mark above his elbow from decades of spooling guitar cables around his arm at load-out. It’s a line he could’ve written when he was 15—and it sounds just as meaningful and virtuous on the cusp of 50."

Mick Turner

Moth

Rock

William Bowers

Say what you will about Pavement's noncommittal live performances; they always brought great opening acts with them. Before Malky's alkies semi-rocked the joint, concertgoers were treated to such stimuli as Rollerskate Skinny, Shudder to Think, David Kilgour, David Lowery's oompah outfit FSK, and-- prior to the release of the Australian band's debut-- Dirty Three. Warren Ellis would saw at his violin, gazing into his amp as if it were a mirror he was trying to smash with telekinesis. Jim White's drums served as a texture rather than a timekeeper, swishy and shimmying one minute, then pronouncing an on-guard pomp the next. I've watched the man drop a stick and continue unfazed, staring ahead like a piece of David Lynchian atmosphurniture listed in the end-credits as Weird Glaring Man. Guitarist Mick Turner, a beanstalky James Dean who appeared to be petting his hollow-bodied Gretsch, conveyed the band's blue cool. After Dirty Three's raw outpouring, Pavement's profile was reduced to that of the smirking DJs they once were. Over several albums Dirty Three perfected their style, which was to lilt a bit, only to erupt into violent über-crescendos that called to mind an Itzhak Perlman score for Spielberg's holocaust vigilante epic Schindler's Pissed. Members of the band became a kind of Funk Brothers for indie rock's dark horsepeople, backing such nihiluminaries as Nick Cave, Cat Power, Will Oldham and (Smog). On Dirty Three records, Ellis was always the madman scampering around Turner's garden. When that garden is undisturbed, though, it's a beautiful thing, as Turner has proven on releases with White as Tren Brothers, with Oldham (reciting excerpts from Rabindranath Tagore's Gitanjali) as Marquis de Tren, with an all-star cast as Boxhead Ensemble, and on three solo full-lengths, the newest of which is Moth. If Moth's nineteen untitled parts comprise a sequel to Marlan Rosa, that album's cresting ship is marooned somewhere, and its captain has carved himself out a domicile; barking dogs on "Part 1" help to ground the album. Rosa's violins and drums must have never washed ashore, but the island's other inhabitant, multi-instrumentalist (and Simon Joyner/Edith Frost/Pinetop Seven sideman) Mike Krassner, more than makes up for their absence with plaintive piano tones that would melt even David Grubbs' icy fingers. And how to describe Turner's playing? I don't know, "heroin-flamenco?" He strikes chords with a kind of rolling, prophetic brush. He plucks strings as if he's confidently repairing or cleaning them with nervous tools. Yet there's something "organic" about his leapfrogging tranquilly up the fretboard's stream. His arpeggios sound like they're stumbling home from ex-lovers' porches. Middle Eastern influences are detectable, but clouded with purposeful imprecisions. Here and there the songs seem composed, but Turner's apparently reading from Polaroids instead of sheet music. The pieces' only flaw is that they're often abbreviated, as if Turner fliply stopped the tape (though the same technique wasn't so problematic on Turner's more wholly fragmented solo debut Tren Phantasma). Moth is meditative, in a trance sense-- you can't concentrate to it, since its odd timing sidesteps willfulness, and its organs may leave you humming along like some guru's brain-spanked disciple. (Turner's word "Tren" might even be a shorthand for Zen trance, since "Zance" sounds stupid.) This album's baroque implosions prefigure what would happen if someone let the hot air out of Sigur Rós, and its dilapidated majesty suggests that it'd have made a fine soundtrack for the earthier moments in that popular, unflinchingly homoerotic trilogy about the gay wizard and the elves fighting to keep jewelry out of the penis-towers. (One of the Latin words for "ring," after all, is rectum.) The listener won't mind Moth's retreads of other Turner progressions. The listener will be treated to un-pedaled acoustic pieces as well as backward loops and dubs as fragile as a tapestry of overlaid spiderwebs. The listener will envision Nick Drake warming up for "Black Eyed Dog." The listener will feel like the dentist's assistant just adjusted the sweet nitrous knob. The listener will think a bunch of abstract hokum-- gag, I seriously wrote in my notes that "Part 12 traces the savage architecture of the snot-trails generated by a weeping deadbeat dad." The listener will forget how funny it is that web searches for Mick Turner result in lists of sites that reference Mick Jagger and Tina Turner (and that Bill "Smog" Callahan's web-presence is outsized by that of Bill Callahan the Oakland Raiders coach). The listener will be reminded, even by Moth's nineteen exhalations, of how Dirty Three flies in the face of all the instrumental trignometrists: Their emotiveness makes them a rock band.

Artist: Mick Turner, Album: Moth, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Say what you will about Pavement's noncommittal live performances; they always brought great opening acts with them. Before Malky's alkies semi-rocked the joint, concertgoers were treated to such stimuli as Rollerskate Skinny, Shudder to Think, David Kilgour, David Lowery's oompah outfit FSK, and-- prior to the release of the Australian band's debut-- Dirty Three. Warren Ellis would saw at his violin, gazing into his amp as if it were a mirror he was trying to smash with telekinesis. Jim White's drums served as a texture rather than a timekeeper, swishy and shimmying one minute, then pronouncing an on-guard pomp the next. I've watched the man drop a stick and continue unfazed, staring ahead like a piece of David Lynchian atmosphurniture listed in the end-credits as Weird Glaring Man. Guitarist Mick Turner, a beanstalky James Dean who appeared to be petting his hollow-bodied Gretsch, conveyed the band's blue cool. After Dirty Three's raw outpouring, Pavement's profile was reduced to that of the smirking DJs they once were. Over several albums Dirty Three perfected their style, which was to lilt a bit, only to erupt into violent über-crescendos that called to mind an Itzhak Perlman score for Spielberg's holocaust vigilante epic Schindler's Pissed. Members of the band became a kind of Funk Brothers for indie rock's dark horsepeople, backing such nihiluminaries as Nick Cave, Cat Power, Will Oldham and (Smog). On Dirty Three records, Ellis was always the madman scampering around Turner's garden. When that garden is undisturbed, though, it's a beautiful thing, as Turner has proven on releases with White as Tren Brothers, with Oldham (reciting excerpts from Rabindranath Tagore's Gitanjali) as Marquis de Tren, with an all-star cast as Boxhead Ensemble, and on three solo full-lengths, the newest of which is Moth. If Moth's nineteen untitled parts comprise a sequel to Marlan Rosa, that album's cresting ship is marooned somewhere, and its captain has carved himself out a domicile; barking dogs on "Part 1" help to ground the album. Rosa's violins and drums must have never washed ashore, but the island's other inhabitant, multi-instrumentalist (and Simon Joyner/Edith Frost/Pinetop Seven sideman) Mike Krassner, more than makes up for their absence with plaintive piano tones that would melt even David Grubbs' icy fingers. And how to describe Turner's playing? I don't know, "heroin-flamenco?" He strikes chords with a kind of rolling, prophetic brush. He plucks strings as if he's confidently repairing or cleaning them with nervous tools. Yet there's something "organic" about his leapfrogging tranquilly up the fretboard's stream. His arpeggios sound like they're stumbling home from ex-lovers' porches. Middle Eastern influences are detectable, but clouded with purposeful imprecisions. Here and there the songs seem composed, but Turner's apparently reading from Polaroids instead of sheet music. The pieces' only flaw is that they're often abbreviated, as if Turner fliply stopped the tape (though the same technique wasn't so problematic on Turner's more wholly fragmented solo debut Tren Phantasma). Moth is meditative, in a trance sense-- you can't concentrate to it, since its odd timing sidesteps willfulness, and its organs may leave you humming along like some guru's brain-spanked disciple. (Turner's word "Tren" might even be a shorthand for Zen trance, since "Zance" sounds stupid.) This album's baroque implosions prefigure what would happen if someone let the hot air out of Sigur Rós, and its dilapidated majesty suggests that it'd have made a fine soundtrack for the earthier moments in that popular, unflinchingly homoerotic trilogy about the gay wizard and the elves fighting to keep jewelry out of the penis-towers. (One of the Latin words for "ring," after all, is rectum.) The listener won't mind Moth's retreads of other Turner progressions. The listener will be treated to un-pedaled acoustic pieces as well as backward loops and dubs as fragile as a tapestry of overlaid spiderwebs. The listener will envision Nick Drake warming up for "Black Eyed Dog." The listener will feel like the dentist's assistant just adjusted the sweet nitrous knob. The listener will think a bunch of abstract hokum-- gag, I seriously wrote in my notes that "Part 12 traces the savage architecture of the snot-trails generated by a weeping deadbeat dad." The listener will forget how funny it is that web searches for Mick Turner result in lists of sites that reference Mick Jagger and Tina Turner (and that Bill "Smog" Callahan's web-presence is outsized by that of Bill Callahan the Oakland Raiders coach). The listener will be reminded, even by Moth's nineteen exhalations, of how Dirty Three flies in the face of all the instrumental trignometrists: Their emotiveness makes them a rock band."

Julia Holter

Have You In My Wilderness

Experimental

Winston Cook-Wilson

The composer, keyboardist and singer Julia Holter has pursued her strange, dreamlike visions across three albums of experimental pop, all released in the last three years. In that time, she's also worked with electro-pop act Nite Jewel and psych-folk cult favorite Linda Perhacs, and in all of this activity, you hear her restlessly pinpointing and subsuming new, piquant sounds. Those sounds range widely, from French impressionist classical music and 17th-century madrigals to Talk Talk's jazz-infused post-rock, from the avant music-drama of Robert Ashley and Meredith Monk, to the pop songwriting that evolved in the hills of her Los Angeles hometown in the 1970s. But though these names remain on the tip of your tongue as you listen to her music, none of them describe Holter; they are only points on a broader and more inscrutable map. Her latest album, Have You In My Wilderness, is by some measure her sunniest and most accessible. There is no overarching concept uniting the music, no references to Euripides or '50s MGM musicals. As Holter told Stereogum, she "[made] up stories for every song" for Have You, but this being Holter, our glimpses of each "story" are brief and foggy, and the vignettes themselves are often plagued by ambiguities ("I hear small words from the shore/No recognized pattern")  and moments of overpowering grief or wonder. More questions are asked than answers given in her often-unrhymed prose poems, and statements fold into themselves dizzyingly: "Figures pass so quickly that I realize my eyes know very well/It's impossible to see who I'm waiting for in my raincoat" ("Feel You"). Like a good student of the art music world, Holter clearly hopes that listeners will nurse their own impressions. The music has also shifted, gaining warmth and weight while remaining enigmatic. Lo**ud City Song was a mess of stylistic dissonances working in the service of one discrete story (borrowing mostly from the 1958 film for the musical Gigi), but Have You… is tied together by music so airy it feels in danger of floating right past you. Despite the heavy cloak of reverb,  the record has the clear sound of a small rock band playing the studio, highlighting the inventive but uninvasive upright bass and percussion of Devin Hoff, Corey Fogel and Kenny Gilmore. The haze is also dialed back on Holter’s vocals, making them crystal clear at crucial moments. Despite the breezy, poppy feeling of  the singles "Feel You" and "Sea Calls Me Home", the choruses are not as immediate as those on the earworm-heavy Ekstasis or Loud City Song. But in looser, through-composed songs like the sensual torch ballad "Night Song" and jazz-fusion-inflected "Vasquez," Holter find other, deeper ways to hold our attention. In "Betsy on the Roof" –  an inspired reworking of a song Holter previously recorded on 2010’s Live Recordings – she drifts in and out of muted speaksong, sliding from pealing, Newsom-like tones into throaty speech. The chorus ("’Uh oh,’ she said/What of this cloud?"), though, is belted and raw-sounding, and in the wordless coda her gossamer crooning recalls either Christine McVie or Judy Collins. But what ultimately makes Have You in My Wilderness transcendent – and unique in Holter’s catalogue – is its intimacy. The atmosphere is often light-hearted or even parodic: In the  giddy ‘70s singer/songwriter melismas of "Sea Calls Me Home," the husky, Marlene Dietrich-like delivery of "How Long?" or the jokey, clap-trap country shuffle of "Everytime Boots," you hear Holter trying on sounds like costumes, sometimes for only a bar or two. Ironically, the more she shapeshifts, the more we seem to get to know her. For an artist who could sometimes seem forbidding or remote, Have You In My Wilderness feels humane,  and with each new release, it seems like a bit more of the personal is teased out of Holter's stately, high-concept approach. Have You In My Wilderness embraces the specific, rather than the eternal, and in her narrowed focus you can sense a palpable self-confidence and a hard-won precision.

Artist: Julia Holter, Album: Have You In My Wilderness, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "The composer, keyboardist and singer Julia Holter has pursued her strange, dreamlike visions across three albums of experimental pop, all released in the last three years. In that time, she's also worked with electro-pop act Nite Jewel and psych-folk cult favorite Linda Perhacs, and in all of this activity, you hear her restlessly pinpointing and subsuming new, piquant sounds. Those sounds range widely, from French impressionist classical music and 17th-century madrigals to Talk Talk's jazz-infused post-rock, from the avant music-drama of Robert Ashley and Meredith Monk, to the pop songwriting that evolved in the hills of her Los Angeles hometown in the 1970s. But though these names remain on the tip of your tongue as you listen to her music, none of them describe Holter; they are only points on a broader and more inscrutable map. Her latest album, Have You In My Wilderness, is by some measure her sunniest and most accessible. There is no overarching concept uniting the music, no references to Euripides or '50s MGM musicals. As Holter told Stereogum, she "[made] up stories for every song" for Have You, but this being Holter, our glimpses of each "story" are brief and foggy, and the vignettes themselves are often plagued by ambiguities ("I hear small words from the shore/No recognized pattern")  and moments of overpowering grief or wonder. More questions are asked than answers given in her often-unrhymed prose poems, and statements fold into themselves dizzyingly: "Figures pass so quickly that I realize my eyes know very well/It's impossible to see who I'm waiting for in my raincoat" ("Feel You"). Like a good student of the art music world, Holter clearly hopes that listeners will nurse their own impressions. The music has also shifted, gaining warmth and weight while remaining enigmatic. Lo**ud City Song was a mess of stylistic dissonances working in the service of one discrete story (borrowing mostly from the 1958 film for the musical Gigi), but Have You… is tied together by music so airy it feels in danger of floating right past you. Despite the heavy cloak of reverb,  the record has the clear sound of a small rock band playing the studio, highlighting the inventive but uninvasive upright bass and percussion of Devin Hoff, Corey Fogel and Kenny Gilmore. The haze is also dialed back on Holter’s vocals, making them crystal clear at crucial moments. Despite the breezy, poppy feeling of  the singles "Feel You" and "Sea Calls Me Home", the choruses are not as immediate as those on the earworm-heavy Ekstasis or Loud City Song. But in looser, through-composed songs like the sensual torch ballad "Night Song" and jazz-fusion-inflected "Vasquez," Holter find other, deeper ways to hold our attention. In "Betsy on the Roof" –  an inspired reworking of a song Holter previously recorded on 2010’s Live Recordings – she drifts in and out of muted speaksong, sliding from pealing, Newsom-like tones into throaty speech. The chorus ("’Uh oh,’ she said/What of this cloud?"), though, is belted and raw-sounding, and in the wordless coda her gossamer crooning recalls either Christine McVie or Judy Collins. But what ultimately makes Have You in My Wilderness transcendent – and unique in Holter’s catalogue – is its intimacy. The atmosphere is often light-hearted or even parodic: In the  giddy ‘70s singer/songwriter melismas of "Sea Calls Me Home," the husky, Marlene Dietrich-like delivery of "How Long?" or the jokey, clap-trap country shuffle of "Everytime Boots," you hear Holter trying on sounds like costumes, sometimes for only a bar or two. Ironically, the more she shapeshifts, the more we seem to get to know her. For an artist who could sometimes seem forbidding or remote, Have You In My Wilderness feels humane,  and with each new release, it seems like a bit more of the personal is teased out of Holter's stately, high-concept approach. Have You In My Wilderness embraces the specific, rather than the eternal, and in her narrowed focus you can sense a palpable self-confidence and a hard-won precision."

No-Neck Blues Band

Qvaris

Experimental,Rock

Matthew Murphy

For more than a dozen years, Harlem-based ensemble No-Neck Blues Band have been issuing their inscrutable ripples across the face of the prevailing underground currents. And although the majority of the group's performances have occurred within the confines of the Hint House, their communal headquarters, echoes of their earthy, protean sprawl can be easily detected in the work of such contemporaries as Sunburned Hand of the Man, Wooden Wand and the Vanishing Voice, and the MV & EE Medicine Show, as can their policies of utilizing non-traditional venues and maintaining an inclusive membership. So too have No Neck (or NNCK) long been pioneers in the now-fashionable art of the unwieldy discography, as they've left an extensive and virtually untraceable trail of glorious, privately-pressed recordings in their wake. With the relatively high-profile release of the potent Qvaris, however, perhaps the time has come for the always-secretive group to allow a hint of revealing light to penetrate their fragrant, self-generated smokescreens. As with much of their recent work, Qvaris was again recorded at Hint House, and is at the very least the collective's most refined and convincing statement since their epic 2001 Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones on John Fahey's Revenant label. Obliquely informed by the supernatural texts of such early 20th century authors as H.P. Lovecraft, Algernon Blackwood, and Lord Dunsany, Qvaris is a shadowy hymn to imminent oblivion, with NNCK's familiar post-tribal landscapes coursing with some of their heaviest, most resolutely rock-centric streams to date. The album cracks open with the Sunburned-like, backwoods rumble of "The Doon", a title that Dunsany might've translated to mean "The End", before the choogle of "Live Your Myth in Grease" continues the ceremony with its burnished, intertwined guitar figures. From there the album quickly turns to directly address the void with "The Black Pope", a swirling eddy of spookhouse keyboards, scraped strings and unmoored spirits. Awaiting at the far end of this wormhole are the locomotive likes of "Boreal Gluts", a supercharged, Beefheartian tussle, and later the lyrical "Lugnagall", which carries a pure whiff of Avalon Ballroom psych on its tradewinds of guitar, organ, and far-off vocal ecstasies. Interspersed among these lengthier tracks are four distinct variations of the "Qvaris Theme", a quirky little tune first introduced with chirping keys and rattling hand percussion. By album's end, even this modest piece has expanded into the fractured electronics of "Vaticon Blue (Theme End)", a placid throb that sounds as if it might've strayed over from John Fell Ryan's NNCK spin-off, Excepter. The album's sole misstep-- and no NNCK album could be considered complete without one-- is "The Caterpillar Heart," a quietly tinkling 11-minute sequence of silverware percussion and miniature nibbling teeth that stands in unflattering contrast to many of the record's bolder movements. This overlong departure aside, Qvaris showcases its self-assured cast of veteran outlaws and wayfarers seamlessly conjoined in tireless pursuit of their unnameable quarry, and you'd do well to spend some quality hours awaiting oblivion in its presence.

Artist: No-Neck Blues Band, Album: Qvaris, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "For more than a dozen years, Harlem-based ensemble No-Neck Blues Band have been issuing their inscrutable ripples across the face of the prevailing underground currents. And although the majority of the group's performances have occurred within the confines of the Hint House, their communal headquarters, echoes of their earthy, protean sprawl can be easily detected in the work of such contemporaries as Sunburned Hand of the Man, Wooden Wand and the Vanishing Voice, and the MV & EE Medicine Show, as can their policies of utilizing non-traditional venues and maintaining an inclusive membership. So too have No Neck (or NNCK) long been pioneers in the now-fashionable art of the unwieldy discography, as they've left an extensive and virtually untraceable trail of glorious, privately-pressed recordings in their wake. With the relatively high-profile release of the potent Qvaris, however, perhaps the time has come for the always-secretive group to allow a hint of revealing light to penetrate their fragrant, self-generated smokescreens. As with much of their recent work, Qvaris was again recorded at Hint House, and is at the very least the collective's most refined and convincing statement since their epic 2001 Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones on John Fahey's Revenant label. Obliquely informed by the supernatural texts of such early 20th century authors as H.P. Lovecraft, Algernon Blackwood, and Lord Dunsany, Qvaris is a shadowy hymn to imminent oblivion, with NNCK's familiar post-tribal landscapes coursing with some of their heaviest, most resolutely rock-centric streams to date. The album cracks open with the Sunburned-like, backwoods rumble of "The Doon", a title that Dunsany might've translated to mean "The End", before the choogle of "Live Your Myth in Grease" continues the ceremony with its burnished, intertwined guitar figures. From there the album quickly turns to directly address the void with "The Black Pope", a swirling eddy of spookhouse keyboards, scraped strings and unmoored spirits. Awaiting at the far end of this wormhole are the locomotive likes of "Boreal Gluts", a supercharged, Beefheartian tussle, and later the lyrical "Lugnagall", which carries a pure whiff of Avalon Ballroom psych on its tradewinds of guitar, organ, and far-off vocal ecstasies. Interspersed among these lengthier tracks are four distinct variations of the "Qvaris Theme", a quirky little tune first introduced with chirping keys and rattling hand percussion. By album's end, even this modest piece has expanded into the fractured electronics of "Vaticon Blue (Theme End)", a placid throb that sounds as if it might've strayed over from John Fell Ryan's NNCK spin-off, Excepter. The album's sole misstep-- and no NNCK album could be considered complete without one-- is "The Caterpillar Heart," a quietly tinkling 11-minute sequence of silverware percussion and miniature nibbling teeth that stands in unflattering contrast to many of the record's bolder movements. This overlong departure aside, Qvaris showcases its self-assured cast of veteran outlaws and wayfarers seamlessly conjoined in tireless pursuit of their unnameable quarry, and you'd do well to spend some quality hours awaiting oblivion in its presence."

Sea Lions

Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sea Lions But Were Afraid to Ask

Rock

Martin Douglas

Out of all the post-millennial bands that have largely benefited from the C86 tape's renewed interest, Sea Lions are one of the few who actually sound like they were pulled directly from the compilation rather than a band adopting a vogue influence. The treble-heavy production is parallel to that of first-wave twee-punk. The guitars go way past indie pop's minimum quota for jangle. It's quite feasible that if you played Sea Lions for someone who wasn't aware the album was released near the end of 2011, they'd assume that they were a super-obscure band from the early or mid 1980s. There's a stigma that comes along with having a style that represents a very specific time period, a school of thought that says anything thoroughly nailing a past era is regressive and harmful to the forward movement of music. But those influences had to come from somewhere, so why not cut out the middleman and go straight to the source? Especially if you can find a way to infuse it with your own personality. In that sense, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sea Lions But Were Afraid to Ask makes for a boilerplate, but immensely satisfying, noise-pop record. Dissonant and angular instrumentals are scattered throughout, giving the album a light experimental edge. Major-key romps are punctuated with glockenspiel, woozy tremolo bar work, and noisy guitar chicken-scratch. The ballads shuffle like 1960s R&B classics. Frontman Adrian Pillado is a songwriter who closely adheres to the sensibilities of DIY twee. He has a playful and unsophisticated baritone that suggests either a less dour Ian Curtis or a more English Calvin Johnson. His lyrics focus on the awkwardness of young relationships, the allure of childhood, and burrowing his head underneath as many blankets and pillows as he can find. Sometimes he gets so caught up in his own neuroses that his voice trails off-key, but it's never in a way that feels like self-pity or melodrama. Pillado is charming and full enough of character to make his songs consistently entertaining, a trait he shares with the frontmen of all his influences, from the obvious ones (like Beat Happening and Orange Juice) to the less expected (like Crass). Part of Everything's success is that it follows the time-honored indie pop tradition of being short and sweet. Brevity and brisk pacing are characteristics the band seems quite familiar with: They manage to cram 15 tracks into a time frame of 29 minutes, with only three of the album's songs passing the 2:30 mark and none that even grazes three minutes. In fact, a few of the shorter tunes grind to a halt at completely unexpected endpoints, which is a jarring but effective way to get a listener's attention. The way these songs end doesn't make them sound unfinished in any way, but it's apparent that the band would rather not coast on a good riff or melody long enough to lose its luster. Almost any band could take only the basic elements of indie pop and make a listenable album. Many, many bands already have. What makes Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sea Lions But Were Afraid to Ask above-average is the band that made it, one willing to adjust its sound so it's slightly off-center, reverent of the past but not to the point where it completely hinders their ability to push things forward.

Artist: Sea Lions, Album: Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sea Lions But Were Afraid to Ask, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.4 Album review: "Out of all the post-millennial bands that have largely benefited from the C86 tape's renewed interest, Sea Lions are one of the few who actually sound like they were pulled directly from the compilation rather than a band adopting a vogue influence. The treble-heavy production is parallel to that of first-wave twee-punk. The guitars go way past indie pop's minimum quota for jangle. It's quite feasible that if you played Sea Lions for someone who wasn't aware the album was released near the end of 2011, they'd assume that they were a super-obscure band from the early or mid 1980s. There's a stigma that comes along with having a style that represents a very specific time period, a school of thought that says anything thoroughly nailing a past era is regressive and harmful to the forward movement of music. But those influences had to come from somewhere, so why not cut out the middleman and go straight to the source? Especially if you can find a way to infuse it with your own personality. In that sense, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sea Lions But Were Afraid to Ask makes for a boilerplate, but immensely satisfying, noise-pop record. Dissonant and angular instrumentals are scattered throughout, giving the album a light experimental edge. Major-key romps are punctuated with glockenspiel, woozy tremolo bar work, and noisy guitar chicken-scratch. The ballads shuffle like 1960s R&B classics. Frontman Adrian Pillado is a songwriter who closely adheres to the sensibilities of DIY twee. He has a playful and unsophisticated baritone that suggests either a less dour Ian Curtis or a more English Calvin Johnson. His lyrics focus on the awkwardness of young relationships, the allure of childhood, and burrowing his head underneath as many blankets and pillows as he can find. Sometimes he gets so caught up in his own neuroses that his voice trails off-key, but it's never in a way that feels like self-pity or melodrama. Pillado is charming and full enough of character to make his songs consistently entertaining, a trait he shares with the frontmen of all his influences, from the obvious ones (like Beat Happening and Orange Juice) to the less expected (like Crass). Part of Everything's success is that it follows the time-honored indie pop tradition of being short and sweet. Brevity and brisk pacing are characteristics the band seems quite familiar with: They manage to cram 15 tracks into a time frame of 29 minutes, with only three of the album's songs passing the 2:30 mark and none that even grazes three minutes. In fact, a few of the shorter tunes grind to a halt at completely unexpected endpoints, which is a jarring but effective way to get a listener's attention. The way these songs end doesn't make them sound unfinished in any way, but it's apparent that the band would rather not coast on a good riff or melody long enough to lose its luster. Almost any band could take only the basic elements of indie pop and make a listenable album. Many, many bands already have. What makes Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sea Lions But Were Afraid to Ask above-average is the band that made it, one willing to adjust its sound so it's slightly off-center, reverent of the past but not to the point where it completely hinders their ability to push things forward."

Suntanama

Another

Joe Tangari

If it's not from the South and it doesn't rock, can you still call it Southern Rock? This isn't the kind of question one might usually ask, but it's one that's been rudely thrust upon me by The Suntanama, a platoon of New Yorkers who fancy themselves the second coming of the Allman Brothers. The Allmans were always the best of the Southern Rockers-- the way they mixed in jazz and a good degree of strong, concise songwriting easily set them apart from their peers-- but The Suntanama don't have any of the sense of craft or impact that their predecessors did. The title of this album should tell you all you need to know: Another. That's all it is, really; another Suntanama album, nearly as formless and muddled as the self-titled trainwreck they released last year. There are improvements to be found on the band's sophomore disc, certainly-- vocalist Darren Zoltowski is only inhumanely irritating on a couple of songs, for instance-- but by and large, it's the same old dreck. Guitars that should be delivering incisive solos wander aimlessly, searching for melodic contour (this time with more delay!), and a competent rhythm section wastes itself backing a band that forgets to write a melody every time. Zoltowski has mellowed considerably in the year since The Suntanama debuted on an unsuspecting world-- last year's model was an entirely unintelligible, gravel-throated bleat; this year, he's settled down to the point where he's almost gotten around to singing real melodies, and even reaches for a Bob Dylan bark at times, usually even pronouncing the words he's singing. The band also works itself into enough of a focused frenzy at the end of "The 3 of 3's" that his multitracked shouting sounds kind of good for a few seconds. The more I listen to these guys, the harder it gets to tell if their ineptitude is unintentional or calculated-- they seem almost afraid of riffs and hooks, and the way they run away from anything interesting that starts to arise from their listless jamming makes it feel like some post-ironic joke only the band is in on. While Another isn't quite as horrific as their first album, it's only marginally better, and just as forgettable.

Artist: Suntanama, Album: Another, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 3.8 Album review: "If it's not from the South and it doesn't rock, can you still call it Southern Rock? This isn't the kind of question one might usually ask, but it's one that's been rudely thrust upon me by The Suntanama, a platoon of New Yorkers who fancy themselves the second coming of the Allman Brothers. The Allmans were always the best of the Southern Rockers-- the way they mixed in jazz and a good degree of strong, concise songwriting easily set them apart from their peers-- but The Suntanama don't have any of the sense of craft or impact that their predecessors did. The title of this album should tell you all you need to know: Another. That's all it is, really; another Suntanama album, nearly as formless and muddled as the self-titled trainwreck they released last year. There are improvements to be found on the band's sophomore disc, certainly-- vocalist Darren Zoltowski is only inhumanely irritating on a couple of songs, for instance-- but by and large, it's the same old dreck. Guitars that should be delivering incisive solos wander aimlessly, searching for melodic contour (this time with more delay!), and a competent rhythm section wastes itself backing a band that forgets to write a melody every time. Zoltowski has mellowed considerably in the year since The Suntanama debuted on an unsuspecting world-- last year's model was an entirely unintelligible, gravel-throated bleat; this year, he's settled down to the point where he's almost gotten around to singing real melodies, and even reaches for a Bob Dylan bark at times, usually even pronouncing the words he's singing. The band also works itself into enough of a focused frenzy at the end of "The 3 of 3's" that his multitracked shouting sounds kind of good for a few seconds. The more I listen to these guys, the harder it gets to tell if their ineptitude is unintentional or calculated-- they seem almost afraid of riffs and hooks, and the way they run away from anything interesting that starts to arise from their listless jamming makes it feel like some post-ironic joke only the band is in on. While Another isn't quite as horrific as their first album, it's only marginally better, and just as forgettable."

Panda Bear

A Day With the Homies

Electronic

Philip Sherburne

Even in 2018, when streaming’s juggernaut is thought to have steamrolled every alternative path to our ears, to release a record on vinyl and vinyl alone is no big thing. There’s no accurate count of how many such discs appear every year, but in electronic music alone, it’s likely to be thousands of titles. Still, to be an artist of a certain stature and to put out a record only on wax is a kind of statement. It might be to invoke simpler times; it might be to separate the true fans from the passive ones and reward the former for their faithfulness. (It might also simply be a way of saying, “I’m not crazy about the streaming companies’ payouts.”) In Panda Bear’s case, A Day With the Homies—a muggy, delirious five-track EP available only on vinyl—feels almost like a note scribbled on a scrap of paper and meant to be burned, buried, or swallowed. It sounds like he’s singing things that he needs to get off his chest yet doesn’t necessarily want finding their way into the digital slipstream. (In this sense, the 12” is strangely reminiscent, ironically enough, of Snapchat’s original utility as a repository of self-destructing messages.) There’s always been a dark side even to Noah Lennox’s sunniest work, but A Day With the Homies hides an especially toxic twinge beneath its sugar-coated crust. You might not notice at first because the music is typically ebullient: smeared with color and couched in his characteristic wordplay and deadpan humor. “Took a sock to the socket/We got a black eye/Sucks and everything,” he chirps early in the opening “Flight,” mimicking a petulant teenager’s slouch and sly grin. Bursting with swollen bass frequencies and overdriven drum machines, it’s the Beach Boys for a world in which the rising seas have turned coastal real estate into an oil-slicked hellscape. The background is forever threatening to swallow up the foreground: “Nod to the Folks” is framed with siren wails; “Shepard Tone,” named after a mind-bending auditory illusion, opens with what might be slowed-down helicopter rotors, sounding as disorienting and grandiose as Apocalypse Now’s Wagner-from-above as Lennox sings of deep throats, stinking bogs, and sucker punches. You wouldn’t necessarily guess it from the racing pulse, but it’s a song about endings: “Folks quit/when there’s nothing to quit on,” he intones, voicing one of the record’s major themes. “Fingers everyone,” runs the song’s endless chorus, as feedback wriggles and squirms. The opener, too, turns out to be a conflicted sort of farewell, if not a kiss-off, with cryptic messages to his “good crew” (“Can’t be goodbye/Goodbye good crew/So I won’t say goodbye/Goodbye to you”) encoded in sticky-sweet barbershop harmony. Track two, “Part of the Math,” starts off even darker, with a serrated guitar chord slicing ominously away for what seems like forever. When Lennox finally opens his mouth, it’s to sing, “It comes out of nowhere/Like a rope/Wrapping tighter and tighter/Round the throat.” The shuffling beat is a throwback to 1990s rock/electronic fusions, like Screamadelica-era Primal Scream; Lennox’s lyrical lapses into ironic hemming and hawing suggest a character that’s part George-Michael Bluth, part Donnie Darko. It can be hard to square the bleakness of the lyrics with the verdant excess of the sound, though its lo-fi sonics certainly match the rawness of the emotions contained within. And you might even occasionally wish Lennox would give free rein to his somber side. Is “Stop making it about your shit” a reproachful command, or a self-help mantra? Lennox has a way of making even the gloomiest pronouncements—“We’re all gonna be/Six feet in the coldest ground”—sound as giddy as a kid’s birthday party. He’s never shied from singing frankly of familial tragedy and personal travails, which will no doubt tempt some fans to parse Homies for biographical clues. The crickets on “Flight” sound like a callback to both Animal Collective’s campfire era and the group’s Meeting of the Waters EP, from last year, which Avey Tare and Geologist wrote on their own, holed up in some Amazonian backwater. That group has always been an elastic enterprise; is Homies about stretching wings, or breaking points? No one but Lennox knows, of course. The EP opens with the sound of keys being scooped up off the table, and to join him here is to follow him on a singular flight of fancy, to enter into his own hermetic world, where dejection meets exhilaration and jumbled thoughts run free. It exists only on wax because it’s a refuge; its purposeful clutter the antithesis of everything that’s streamlined, optimized, and accessible at the click of a button. “We don’t share at all/Why are we telling them to share it all,” he sings at the close of “Flight,” and it might as well be the raison d’etre for the whole record.

Artist: Panda Bear, Album: A Day With the Homies, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 6.6 Album review: "Even in 2018, when streaming’s juggernaut is thought to have steamrolled every alternative path to our ears, to release a record on vinyl and vinyl alone is no big thing. There’s no accurate count of how many such discs appear every year, but in electronic music alone, it’s likely to be thousands of titles. Still, to be an artist of a certain stature and to put out a record only on wax is a kind of statement. It might be to invoke simpler times; it might be to separate the true fans from the passive ones and reward the former for their faithfulness. (It might also simply be a way of saying, “I’m not crazy about the streaming companies’ payouts.”) In Panda Bear’s case, A Day With the Homies—a muggy, delirious five-track EP available only on vinyl—feels almost like a note scribbled on a scrap of paper and meant to be burned, buried, or swallowed. It sounds like he’s singing things that he needs to get off his chest yet doesn’t necessarily want finding their way into the digital slipstream. (In this sense, the 12” is strangely reminiscent, ironically enough, of Snapchat’s original utility as a repository of self-destructing messages.) There’s always been a dark side even to Noah Lennox’s sunniest work, but A Day With the Homies hides an especially toxic twinge beneath its sugar-coated crust. You might not notice at first because the music is typically ebullient: smeared with color and couched in his characteristic wordplay and deadpan humor. “Took a sock to the socket/We got a black eye/Sucks and everything,” he chirps early in the opening “Flight,” mimicking a petulant teenager’s slouch and sly grin. Bursting with swollen bass frequencies and overdriven drum machines, it’s the Beach Boys for a world in which the rising seas have turned coastal real estate into an oil-slicked hellscape. The background is forever threatening to swallow up the foreground: “Nod to the Folks” is framed with siren wails; “Shepard Tone,” named after a mind-bending auditory illusion, opens with what might be slowed-down helicopter rotors, sounding as disorienting and grandiose as Apocalypse Now’s Wagner-from-above as Lennox sings of deep throats, stinking bogs, and sucker punches. You wouldn’t necessarily guess it from the racing pulse, but it’s a song about endings: “Folks quit/when there’s nothing to quit on,” he intones, voicing one of the record’s major themes. “Fingers everyone,” runs the song’s endless chorus, as feedback wriggles and squirms. The opener, too, turns out to be a conflicted sort of farewell, if not a kiss-off, with cryptic messages to his “good crew” (“Can’t be goodbye/Goodbye good crew/So I won’t say goodbye/Goodbye to you”) encoded in sticky-sweet barbershop harmony. Track two, “Part of the Math,” starts off even darker, with a serrated guitar chord slicing ominously away for what seems like forever. When Lennox finally opens his mouth, it’s to sing, “It comes out of nowhere/Like a rope/Wrapping tighter and tighter/Round the throat.” The shuffling beat is a throwback to 1990s rock/electronic fusions, like Screamadelica-era Primal Scream; Lennox’s lyrical lapses into ironic hemming and hawing suggest a character that’s part George-Michael Bluth, part Donnie Darko. It can be hard to square the bleakness of the lyrics with the verdant excess of the sound, though its lo-fi sonics certainly match the rawness of the emotions contained within. And you might even occasionally wish Lennox would give free rein to his somber side. Is “Stop making it about your shit” a reproachful command, or a self-help mantra? Lennox has a way of making even the gloomiest pronouncements—“We’re all gonna be/Six feet in the coldest ground”—sound as giddy as a kid’s birthday party. He’s never shied from singing frankly of familial tragedy and personal travails, which will no doubt tempt some fans to parse Homies for biographical clues. The crickets on “Flight” sound like a callback to both Animal Collective’s campfire era and the group’s Meeting of the Waters EP, from last year, which Avey Tare and Geologist wrote on their own, holed up in some Amazonian backwater. That group has always been an elastic enterprise; is Homies about stretching wings, or breaking points? No one but Lennox knows, of course. The EP opens with the sound of keys being scooped up off the table, and to join him here is to follow him on a singular flight of fancy, to enter into his own hermetic world, where dejection meets exhilaration and jumbled thoughts run free. It exists only on wax because it’s a refuge; its purposeful clutter the antithesis of everything that’s streamlined, optimized, and accessible at the click of a button. “We don’t share at all/Why are we telling them to share it all,” he sings at the close of “Flight,” and it might as well be the raison d’etre for the whole record."

The Lemonheads

It's a Shame About Ray [Collector's Edition]

Rock

Stephen M. Deusner

I couldn't have given a shit about the Lemonheads in 1992, when I was a freshman in college and all the upperclass women were swooning over Evan Dando. For me, his pin-up status de-authenticated his music, which seemed mopey and unsubstantial. He sounded detached, like a stoner at a funeral, and the songs on the Lemonheads' break-out album, It's a Shame About Ray, were so short (several under two minutes) and the hooks so nonchalant they sounded accidental, all of which suggested a paucity of ideas and a short attention span reinforced by song titles like "Rudderless" and "My Drug Buddy". So, when Rhino's new reissue arrived in the mail a few weeks ago, I put it in my early 90s boombox out of pure nostalgia, mildly curious to hear how or if it had aged. Since then, I've kept playing it for very different reasons, which are more difficult to pinpoint and hopefully say as much about the music as they do about me. Almost 16 years after its initial release, Dando's slacker pop sounds almost Zen. Those short songs now seem concise and even disciplined. What was once mopey now plays as something much more complex and contradictory: exuberant pop melancholy. Some background: The Lemonheads formed in Boston during the mid-1980s and released three albums of fuzzy punk-pop on local label Taang! Records before signing to Atlantic in 1989. Their 1990 major-label debut, Lovey, wasn't a huge return on the investment, but in the two-year interval between that album and Ray, Nirvana and the ensuing alternative boom proved that smaller bands and unlikely signings could have enormous commercial prospects. The Lemonheads both benefited and suffered from this new pop cultural climate: Just as Ray found a more open-minded audience, it was also disregarded by so many kids like me, who were suddenly very serious about music, man, and saw only Dando's model looks, not his songcraft. Never mind that Ray is as much a junkie album as Nevermind, written and partly recorded during a particularly narcotic-heavy trip to Australia. No wonder Dando was a pin-up: He was handsome but damaged, a fixer-upper. If he was the Jordan Catalano before Jared Leto, then the do-they-or-don't-they controversy between him and roommate/bassist/kissing partner/self-professed virgin Juliana Hatfield made them the Ross and Rachel of the "120 Minutes" set. Now that all of that hubbub has died down and Dando is just another alt-act trying to make a comeback, Ray sounds nearly revelatory in its restlessness, mixing college pop with country flair and relocating Gus Van Sant's Portland atmosphere to New England. The most beguiling aspect of the title track, one of Dando's best compositions, is its impenetrability: It could be about anyone or pertain to almost any bad situation, and that ambiguity suggests some tragedy that can't be named or faced. "The Turnpike Down" descends on a tripping hook that sounds altogether too bubbly for the material, while "Alison's Starting to Happen", inspired by a friend's ecstasy trip, sounds genuinely excited, especially when Dando starts rushing his words towards the end. "Kitchen", with its handclaps and effervescent jangle, rubs elbows with the tense chords and casually manic repetitions of "Rudderless", where the acoustic guitar sounds spikier than the electric. And the bow on the package is the not-necessarily-ironic cover of "Frank Mills", a song from the musical Hair that Dando sings with a charmingly goofy bliss. This is, of course, a reissue of a reissue: Less than a year after its initial release, Ray was re-released with that cover of "Mrs. Robinson" as a bonus track. It was more of a marketing than a musical decision, some suit's confounding idea to commemorate the 25th anniversary of The Graduate. So, take a red fine-point Sharpie and write "(bonus track)" next to that song title, and pretend it's a curious rarity rather than the lame album closer it became. The song is more endearing as a lead-in to Rhino's unearthed bonus tracks, which sound like they've still got dust on them. Aside from the B-side "Shaky Ground", which doesn't need the full-band treatment to convey its slept-on melody, there are nine rough demo versions featuring mainly Dando accompanying himself on guitar. That's three-quarters of the album, which isn't bad. There's also a DVD of videos and live performances from the Lemonheads' Australian tour, showcasing the circle of friends who inspired the album as well as a dated title-track clip starring Johnny Depp. But the real attraction here is that set of demos: Dando's songs stand up exceptionally well stripped to their barest essentials, especially "My Drug Buddy" and "Bit Part", which loses Peggy Noonan's shouted intro but features tender backing vocals from Hatfield. Ultimately, these demos prove how much craft and care went into the album's unique blend of levity and gravity, which sounds so unaffected it could easily be missed.

Artist: The Lemonheads, Album: It's a Shame About Ray [Collector's Edition], Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "I couldn't have given a shit about the Lemonheads in 1992, when I was a freshman in college and all the upperclass women were swooning over Evan Dando. For me, his pin-up status de-authenticated his music, which seemed mopey and unsubstantial. He sounded detached, like a stoner at a funeral, and the songs on the Lemonheads' break-out album, It's a Shame About Ray, were so short (several under two minutes) and the hooks so nonchalant they sounded accidental, all of which suggested a paucity of ideas and a short attention span reinforced by song titles like "Rudderless" and "My Drug Buddy". So, when Rhino's new reissue arrived in the mail a few weeks ago, I put it in my early 90s boombox out of pure nostalgia, mildly curious to hear how or if it had aged. Since then, I've kept playing it for very different reasons, which are more difficult to pinpoint and hopefully say as much about the music as they do about me. Almost 16 years after its initial release, Dando's slacker pop sounds almost Zen. Those short songs now seem concise and even disciplined. What was once mopey now plays as something much more complex and contradictory: exuberant pop melancholy. Some background: The Lemonheads formed in Boston during the mid-1980s and released three albums of fuzzy punk-pop on local label Taang! Records before signing to Atlantic in 1989. Their 1990 major-label debut, Lovey, wasn't a huge return on the investment, but in the two-year interval between that album and Ray, Nirvana and the ensuing alternative boom proved that smaller bands and unlikely signings could have enormous commercial prospects. The Lemonheads both benefited and suffered from this new pop cultural climate: Just as Ray found a more open-minded audience, it was also disregarded by so many kids like me, who were suddenly very serious about music, man, and saw only Dando's model looks, not his songcraft. Never mind that Ray is as much a junkie album as Nevermind, written and partly recorded during a particularly narcotic-heavy trip to Australia. No wonder Dando was a pin-up: He was handsome but damaged, a fixer-upper. If he was the Jordan Catalano before Jared Leto, then the do-they-or-don't-they controversy between him and roommate/bassist/kissing partner/self-professed virgin Juliana Hatfield made them the Ross and Rachel of the "120 Minutes" set. Now that all of that hubbub has died down and Dando is just another alt-act trying to make a comeback, Ray sounds nearly revelatory in its restlessness, mixing college pop with country flair and relocating Gus Van Sant's Portland atmosphere to New England. The most beguiling aspect of the title track, one of Dando's best compositions, is its impenetrability: It could be about anyone or pertain to almost any bad situation, and that ambiguity suggests some tragedy that can't be named or faced. "The Turnpike Down" descends on a tripping hook that sounds altogether too bubbly for the material, while "Alison's Starting to Happen", inspired by a friend's ecstasy trip, sounds genuinely excited, especially when Dando starts rushing his words towards the end. "Kitchen", with its handclaps and effervescent jangle, rubs elbows with the tense chords and casually manic repetitions of "Rudderless", where the acoustic guitar sounds spikier than the electric. And the bow on the package is the not-necessarily-ironic cover of "Frank Mills", a song from the musical Hair that Dando sings with a charmingly goofy bliss. This is, of course, a reissue of a reissue: Less than a year after its initial release, Ray was re-released with that cover of "Mrs. Robinson" as a bonus track. It was more of a marketing than a musical decision, some suit's confounding idea to commemorate the 25th anniversary of The Graduate. So, take a red fine-point Sharpie and write "(bonus track)" next to that song title, and pretend it's a curious rarity rather than the lame album closer it became. The song is more endearing as a lead-in to Rhino's unearthed bonus tracks, which sound like they've still got dust on them. Aside from the B-side "Shaky Ground", which doesn't need the full-band treatment to convey its slept-on melody, there are nine rough demo versions featuring mainly Dando accompanying himself on guitar. That's three-quarters of the album, which isn't bad. There's also a DVD of videos and live performances from the Lemonheads' Australian tour, showcasing the circle of friends who inspired the album as well as a dated title-track clip starring Johnny Depp. But the real attraction here is that set of demos: Dando's songs stand up exceptionally well stripped to their barest essentials, especially "My Drug Buddy" and "Bit Part", which loses Peggy Noonan's shouted intro but features tender backing vocals from Hatfield. Ultimately, these demos prove how much craft and care went into the album's unique blend of levity and gravity, which sounds so unaffected it could easily be missed."

A Winged Victory for the Sullen

A Winged Victory for the Sullen

Experimental

Joe Tangari

When I heard Adam Wiltzie, known for his ambient work with Stars of the Lid, and Dustin O'Halloran, a Berlin-based pianist/composer and member of the dream pop band Devics, were teaming up for a new project, I knew what to expect. Which isn't a bad thing. Wiltzie makes sonorous and droning music with static harmonies in Stars of the Lid (and has played in Windsor for the Derby); O'Halloran writes melancholy piano music built around the repetition of chords and phrases. A Winged Victory for the Sullen, it turns out, is an exact halfway point between the two. What's interesting about the sound they've hit on isn't so much what the two musicians bring to each other's styles, as it is what each sacrifices from his own. In Stars of the Lid, Wiltzie and Brian McBride have a particular way of massing instruments into a big, pulmonary drone-- the individual timbres of the instruments rarely rise out of the overall shape. You can hear him do some of this on A Winged Victory for the Sullen, making new sounds out of many sub-sounds, but he also lets certain individual tones take over. It creates small, noticeable details in otherwise large, fairly monolithic compositions. O'Halloran is a synesthete, and I wonder what this music looks like to him. Certainly, it has different colors from his own work, though his usual palette is present. He's used to the repetitive harmonic structures favored by Wiltzie, but in his own music there is typically more movement. When his music includes more than piano, he's usually chosen those instruments for their unique timbres. Here, he's giving a bit of that away to Wiltzie. The strings-- and even to some extent the piano-- move in and out of focus. The duo did some of the principle recording at Berlin's Grunewald Church and overdubbed some of the strings in East Germany's old state radio studios, so some of this blurring and refocusing can be attributed to acoustic spaces in which the recordings were made-- like Wiltzie's other duo, A Winged Victory creates all these otherworldly sounds using only traditional instruments. The band was named in reference to a Greek statue in the Louvre called "Winged Victory of Samothrace," a long-beheaded depiction of Nike, the winged goddess of victory, found on the Greek island of Samothrace. It portrays the striding, triumphant figure, an image of arrested motion that ties nicely to this record: A Winged Victory's music, more active than drone and thicker than minimalism, captures movement and freezes it.

Artist: A Winged Victory for the Sullen, Album: A Winged Victory for the Sullen, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "When I heard Adam Wiltzie, known for his ambient work with Stars of the Lid, and Dustin O'Halloran, a Berlin-based pianist/composer and member of the dream pop band Devics, were teaming up for a new project, I knew what to expect. Which isn't a bad thing. Wiltzie makes sonorous and droning music with static harmonies in Stars of the Lid (and has played in Windsor for the Derby); O'Halloran writes melancholy piano music built around the repetition of chords and phrases. A Winged Victory for the Sullen, it turns out, is an exact halfway point between the two. What's interesting about the sound they've hit on isn't so much what the two musicians bring to each other's styles, as it is what each sacrifices from his own. In Stars of the Lid, Wiltzie and Brian McBride have a particular way of massing instruments into a big, pulmonary drone-- the individual timbres of the instruments rarely rise out of the overall shape. You can hear him do some of this on A Winged Victory for the Sullen, making new sounds out of many sub-sounds, but he also lets certain individual tones take over. It creates small, noticeable details in otherwise large, fairly monolithic compositions. O'Halloran is a synesthete, and I wonder what this music looks like to him. Certainly, it has different colors from his own work, though his usual palette is present. He's used to the repetitive harmonic structures favored by Wiltzie, but in his own music there is typically more movement. When his music includes more than piano, he's usually chosen those instruments for their unique timbres. Here, he's giving a bit of that away to Wiltzie. The strings-- and even to some extent the piano-- move in and out of focus. The duo did some of the principle recording at Berlin's Grunewald Church and overdubbed some of the strings in East Germany's old state radio studios, so some of this blurring and refocusing can be attributed to acoustic spaces in which the recordings were made-- like Wiltzie's other duo, A Winged Victory creates all these otherworldly sounds using only traditional instruments. The band was named in reference to a Greek statue in the Louvre called "Winged Victory of Samothrace," a long-beheaded depiction of Nike, the winged goddess of victory, found on the Greek island of Samothrace. It portrays the striding, triumphant figure, an image of arrested motion that ties nicely to this record: A Winged Victory's music, more active than drone and thicker than minimalism, captures movement and freezes it."

Oh No

The Disrupt

Pop/R&B,Rap

Jamin Warren

Being a little brother sucks. Just ask my youngest sib, who has to endure the nightmare of living in the shadow of the inventor of the non-fiction novel and author of The Presidential Papers. My name is Norman Mailer. (I also invented the goblin that returns your emails.) But Oh No, who coincidentally shares his real name with the other famous little bro/convict-to-be Michael Jackson, manages to rise above his elder sib Madlib's legacy and chalk one up for the bottom end of the birth order. Oh No acts as a veritable sponge, selectively absorbing the respective musical atmospheres of his contemporaries and squeezing out ample goodness. True, you get the sense that novelty is hardly Oh No's strength. At times, The Disrupt feels like Oh No's private Halloween party with each cut in fully bloomed apparel. "Stomp That" draws straight from the Jaylib playbook, ripe with gorilla pimp jungle thumps and the vocal intensity of a yet-to-be-quashed beef at Detroit BBQ. Likewise, "Perceptions" dishes a lovable, but easily imitable 70s Soul hustle as he recites standard criminal banter: "You got dollars/ Then come make cents with me." But Oh No deftly xeroxes and then wisely imbellishes; each recreation tantalizes with the greatness of its association while still forging a notably eclectic niche. Oh No's nimbleness on the mic is easily matched by his creativity in the booth. The Disrupt brims with an understated vibrance rarely found in a debut release. "Seventeen" swims in an ephemeral gloom as Oh No lends the obligatory Afterschool Special ode to the teen caught in the game. The album's opening volley, "I'm Here", presents Oh No's unabridged bio in less than three minutes, and does so against a sprinkle of keys and stuttering vibes. "Life in the Ox is like life out of the Ox," Oh No quips about his hometown, dispelling any belief that-- despite the number of musicians it has produced-- that it's anything special. Yet thematically, The Disrupt unfortunately lives up to its name-- Oh No seems to have pitched a collection of singles rather than a cohesive album. While each individual track demonstrates his strengths, the tempo and tone of the album explodes and subsides wildly and fails to build an interpretive framework. The pixilated, frenetic crescendos of "The Ride" barrels headlong into Aloe Blacc's sultry vocals and escapist mantra on "The Getaway". Perhaps the often jarring transitions are purposeful, but the gaps are still distracting and prevent the album from delivering closure. Nonetheless, the son of soulman Otis Jackson and nephew of trumpetist Jon Faddis proudly revists his fam's talented crest. And what's more, The Disrupt adds another gold star to Stones Throw's heavily adorned jacket.

Artist: Oh No, Album: The Disrupt, Genre: Pop/R&B,Rap, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "Being a little brother sucks. Just ask my youngest sib, who has to endure the nightmare of living in the shadow of the inventor of the non-fiction novel and author of The Presidential Papers. My name is Norman Mailer. (I also invented the goblin that returns your emails.) But Oh No, who coincidentally shares his real name with the other famous little bro/convict-to-be Michael Jackson, manages to rise above his elder sib Madlib's legacy and chalk one up for the bottom end of the birth order. Oh No acts as a veritable sponge, selectively absorbing the respective musical atmospheres of his contemporaries and squeezing out ample goodness. True, you get the sense that novelty is hardly Oh No's strength. At times, The Disrupt feels like Oh No's private Halloween party with each cut in fully bloomed apparel. "Stomp That" draws straight from the Jaylib playbook, ripe with gorilla pimp jungle thumps and the vocal intensity of a yet-to-be-quashed beef at Detroit BBQ. Likewise, "Perceptions" dishes a lovable, but easily imitable 70s Soul hustle as he recites standard criminal banter: "You got dollars/ Then come make cents with me." But Oh No deftly xeroxes and then wisely imbellishes; each recreation tantalizes with the greatness of its association while still forging a notably eclectic niche. Oh No's nimbleness on the mic is easily matched by his creativity in the booth. The Disrupt brims with an understated vibrance rarely found in a debut release. "Seventeen" swims in an ephemeral gloom as Oh No lends the obligatory Afterschool Special ode to the teen caught in the game. The album's opening volley, "I'm Here", presents Oh No's unabridged bio in less than three minutes, and does so against a sprinkle of keys and stuttering vibes. "Life in the Ox is like life out of the Ox," Oh No quips about his hometown, dispelling any belief that-- despite the number of musicians it has produced-- that it's anything special. Yet thematically, The Disrupt unfortunately lives up to its name-- Oh No seems to have pitched a collection of singles rather than a cohesive album. While each individual track demonstrates his strengths, the tempo and tone of the album explodes and subsides wildly and fails to build an interpretive framework. The pixilated, frenetic crescendos of "The Ride" barrels headlong into Aloe Blacc's sultry vocals and escapist mantra on "The Getaway". Perhaps the often jarring transitions are purposeful, but the gaps are still distracting and prevent the album from delivering closure. Nonetheless, the son of soulman Otis Jackson and nephew of trumpetist Jon Faddis proudly revists his fam's talented crest. And what's more, The Disrupt adds another gold star to Stones Throw's heavily adorned jacket."

Randy Newman

Dark Matter

Rock

Mike Powell

I can think of no songwriter as fruitfully unhappy as Randy Newman. Not angsty—there are angstier—and not depressed in the poetic, European sense, but unhappy: that cow-eyed state in which the good stuff doesn’t feel that good and the bad stuff you just learn to laugh at. For 50 years he has delivered us obliquely sentimental, trend-free music about racists, losers, lovelorn deadbeats (“Marie”) and children who tell their parents to come visit anytime—but do call first (“So Long Dad”). His jingoists dream of liberation through atomic war (“Political Science”) and his wife-beaters complain of having to sit down when they pee (“Shame”). His is a world in which it sucks to be at the bottom and sucks to be at the top but at least the people at the top are rich (“The World Isn’t Fair”). Did I mention most of these songs feature an orchestra? Randy Newman can get an orchestra to pull tears from you like a pickpocket. His sleight-of-hand is to bring out a monster and make you see the human underneath. He makes the better part of his living writing music for Pixar movies, and has been awarded several Grammys for the work. Newman’s new album is called Dark Matter, a phrase intended both in the scientific sense and the figurative one—“it’s a dark matter.” He has lost little of his bite and none of his humor. Comfortably into his 70s, with what many would call a very successful career behind him and still time ahead, he seems less interested in polemics than before, less interested in leveraging sentiment with disgust, giving over—ever so slightly—to a softer intention. Take “On the Beach,” a breezy piece of café jazz about a guy named Willie who just…never left the beach. Willie isn’t out to screw anyone and yet—like all Newman’s American losers—he will invariably screw himself. Decades on, he’s still talking about the advent of the Hobie Cat the way some boomers talk about the Beatles—harmless, lost, reconciled to a past that isn’t coming back to pick him up anytime soon. Elsewhere, set to a piece of high-striding brass-band music, “Sonny Boy” tells the true story of Sonny Boy Williamson, a blues singer who travels north only to find another blues singer making a living under the name Sonny Boy Williamson. Sonny Boy II ended up touring Europe and became royalty for white blues-rock bands like the Yardbirds and the Animals. Sonny Boy I was stabbed in the head with an icepick during a robbery in Chicago; his last words were reportedly “lord have mercy.” In Newman’s version, the lord does in fact have mercy, and Williamson becomes the first and ever blues singer to enter heaven, a mixed blessing that makes him feel lucky, lonely, and lame all at the same time. Smart but never intellectual, given more to the words we use over the words we know, Newman peppers these stories with little references to the Great Migration, climate change (the swells on Willie’s beach keep getting bigger), global politics, and American myth. Another song, “Brothers,” uses an imagined conversation between a worried John F. Kennedy and his brother Robert about the Bay of Pigs invasion as a pretext for John confessing his love for the music of Cuban singer Celia Cruz. Newman, whose songs have been successfully covered by walking moose knuckles like Tom Jones and Joe Cocker, continues to sing like a great writer. Does it even need to be said that the people who love him really love him and the people who don’t just think he’s weird? The centerpiece of the album is its opener, “The Great Debate.” An eight-minute piece of musical theater pitting ambassadors of science against those of religion, the song will at the very least serve as a stress test for anyone uncertain of whether or not they want to listen to a whole album by Randy Newman. As a sucker for irony, I admit I sometimes take too much pleasure in the simple contrast of Newman’s sweet, old-timey sound with the flat-footed cruelty of some of his lyrics. “The Great Debate” is, on that count, one of his most evolved musical jokes, one in which heathens—like Newman himself, who gets called out by name—are won over not by the wild, tambourine-beating sounds of a Pentecostal choir but the smooth, half-secularized thrust of soul. No longer the explicit, “I’ll take Jesus every time, yes I will,” the message becomes “Someone is watchin’ me”—God as a metaphor for reassurance, companionship, the friend who walks with you even when you walk alone. An atheist, history buff and avowed leftist, Newman is, as I take it, nodding to what he considers the universe’s true high power: music. Of course the church started to sing. Newman has often joked that he would’ve been more successful if he stuck to love songs. Probably true. Personally I can’t begrudge people their escape—the world is a terrible place. But then he writes something like “Wandering Boy.” Tough, tender, mysterious and sad, the song narrates a simple neighborhood party—the kind Newman, who has spent most of his life in the same area of Los Angeles, has been going to since he was a child, through adolescence, multiple marriages and children, the kind that innocently and without fanfare becomes a fulcrum for the vicissitudes of life. The scene is this: A father stands to thank everyone for coming, but strays quickly from his script into the memory of a son. “The Little Caboose, we called him, the light of her life. And that’s who I’m waiting for.” It’s not his only child—he mentions four others—but one is enough to lose. Death? No, he didn’t die. He’s still kicking around somewhere, maybe close, maybe far. Everyone at the party knows who the father is talking about—they remember him at five, standing on the diving board—but has been too polite, too ashamed to ask. Newman based the song in part on the memory of a neighborhood boy his daughter swore would be president one day. He ended up lost, addicted to heroin. Discussing the song with Pitchfork, he said, “There’s no net in this country. In Sweden, you can’t get down there to the gutter. But you can here. So I tried to imagine what it would be like if one of those homeless guys that I see on the street a little ways away from here were one of my sons.” Newman has often put himself in these situations, the voice for characters nobody should have to listen to, curator of moments nobody wants to name. It is a painful, interesting way to be. And if it isn’t love, then what does one call that feeling, and is there any more worth writing about.

Artist: Randy Newman, Album: Dark Matter, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "I can think of no songwriter as fruitfully unhappy as Randy Newman. Not angsty—there are angstier—and not depressed in the poetic, European sense, but unhappy: that cow-eyed state in which the good stuff doesn’t feel that good and the bad stuff you just learn to laugh at. For 50 years he has delivered us obliquely sentimental, trend-free music about racists, losers, lovelorn deadbeats (“Marie”) and children who tell their parents to come visit anytime—but do call first (“So Long Dad”). His jingoists dream of liberation through atomic war (“Political Science”) and his wife-beaters complain of having to sit down when they pee (“Shame”). His is a world in which it sucks to be at the bottom and sucks to be at the top but at least the people at the top are rich (“The World Isn’t Fair”). Did I mention most of these songs feature an orchestra? Randy Newman can get an orchestra to pull tears from you like a pickpocket. His sleight-of-hand is to bring out a monster and make you see the human underneath. He makes the better part of his living writing music for Pixar movies, and has been awarded several Grammys for the work. Newman’s new album is called Dark Matter, a phrase intended both in the scientific sense and the figurative one—“it’s a dark matter.” He has lost little of his bite and none of his humor. Comfortably into his 70s, with what many would call a very successful career behind him and still time ahead, he seems less interested in polemics than before, less interested in leveraging sentiment with disgust, giving over—ever so slightly—to a softer intention. Take “On the Beach,” a breezy piece of café jazz about a guy named Willie who just…never left the beach. Willie isn’t out to screw anyone and yet—like all Newman’s American losers—he will invariably screw himself. Decades on, he’s still talking about the advent of the Hobie Cat the way some boomers talk about the Beatles—harmless, lost, reconciled to a past that isn’t coming back to pick him up anytime soon. Elsewhere, set to a piece of high-striding brass-band music, “Sonny Boy” tells the true story of Sonny Boy Williamson, a blues singer who travels north only to find another blues singer making a living under the name Sonny Boy Williamson. Sonny Boy II ended up touring Europe and became royalty for white blues-rock bands like the Yardbirds and the Animals. Sonny Boy I was stabbed in the head with an icepick during a robbery in Chicago; his last words were reportedly “lord have mercy.” In Newman’s version, the lord does in fact have mercy, and Williamson becomes the first and ever blues singer to enter heaven, a mixed blessing that makes him feel lucky, lonely, and lame all at the same time. Smart but never intellectual, given more to the words we use over the words we know, Newman peppers these stories with little references to the Great Migration, climate change (the swells on Willie’s beach keep getting bigger), global politics, and American myth. Another song, “Brothers,” uses an imagined conversation between a worried John F. Kennedy and his brother Robert about the Bay of Pigs invasion as a pretext for John confessing his love for the music of Cuban singer Celia Cruz. Newman, whose songs have been successfully covered by walking moose knuckles like Tom Jones and Joe Cocker, continues to sing like a great writer. Does it even need to be said that the people who love him really love him and the people who don’t just think he’s weird? The centerpiece of the album is its opener, “The Great Debate.” An eight-minute piece of musical theater pitting ambassadors of science against those of religion, the song will at the very least serve as a stress test for anyone uncertain of whether or not they want to listen to a whole album by Randy Newman. As a sucker for irony, I admit I sometimes take too much pleasure in the simple contrast of Newman’s sweet, old-timey sound with the flat-footed cruelty of some of his lyrics. “The Great Debate” is, on that count, one of his most evolved musical jokes, one in which heathens—like Newman himself, who gets called out by name—are won over not by the wild, tambourine-beating sounds of a Pentecostal choir but the smooth, half-secularized thrust of soul. No longer the explicit, “I’ll take Jesus every time, yes I will,” the message becomes “Someone is watchin’ me”—God as a metaphor for reassurance, companionship, the friend who walks with you even when you walk alone. An atheist, history buff and avowed leftist, Newman is, as I take it, nodding to what he considers the universe’s true high power: music. Of course the church started to sing. Newman has often joked that he would’ve been more successful if he stuck to love songs. Probably true. Personally I can’t begrudge people their escape—the world is a terrible place. But then he writes something like “Wandering Boy.” Tough, tender, mysterious and sad, the song narrates a simple neighborhood party—the kind Newman, who has spent most of his life in the same area of Los Angeles, has been going to since he was a child, through adolescence, multiple marriages and children, the kind that innocently and without fanfare becomes a fulcrum for the vicissitudes of life. The scene is this: A father stands to thank everyone for coming, but strays quickly from his script into the memory of a son. “The Little Caboose, we called him, the light of her life. And that’s who I’m waiting for.” It’s not his only child—he mentions four others—but one is enough to lose. Death? No, he didn’t die. He’s still kicking around somewhere, maybe close, maybe far. Everyone at the party knows who the father is talking about—they remember him at five, standing on the diving board—but has been too polite, too ashamed to ask. Newman based the song in part on the memory of a neighborhood boy his daughter swore would be president one day. He ended up lost, addicted to heroin. Discussing the song with Pitchfork, he said, “There’s no net in this country. In Sweden, you can’t get down there to the gutter. But you can here. So I tried to imagine what it would be like if one of those homeless guys that I see on the street a little ways away from here were one of my sons.” Newman has often put himself in these situations, the voice for characters nobody should have to listen to, curator of moments nobody wants to name. It is a painful, interesting way to be. And if it isn’t love, then what does one call that feeling, and is there any more worth writing about."

Barry Adamson

Back to the Cat

Electronic,Rock

Joe Tangari

A few records back, Barry Adamson opened an album with a song called "Cinematic Soul", a phrase that seems destined to go down as the best way to describe his extensive solo discography. It captures what he does at least as well as another phrase sometimes used to describe his work, "soundtracks for films never made" (he's done some actual film work, too-- see David Lynch's Lost Highway). Either way, Adamson, who's spent a fair amount of his career in music as a sideman for Nick Cave and also played bass for Magazine in the late 1970s, follows his own script in his music, trends be damned. This unfortunately means that he's likely to work forever under the radar, but it seems that, with his dark songs that spend their time exploring life on the wrong side of the tracks, he'd rather have it that way. It's harder to get away with murder in a crowd, after all. Back to the Cat, Adamson's ninth album, is one of his most pop-friendly records, emphasizing compact, melodic songs that still bear the mark of his twin senses of humor and the macabre. It opens right in his wheelhouse, with the jazz noir gutter ballad "The Beaten Side of Town", complete with a horn arrangement topped by a muted trumpet and a flute hook. Like most of what he does, the song has a great feel-- you can sense the air between the notes, and the temperature of that air is cold. The cinematic soul tag fits like a glove, as it does a few tracks later on the instrumental "Shadow of Death Hotel". With a creeping funk beat, dramatic, occasionally dissonant horn section, and burbling Hammond organ, it's like a tossed salad of John Barry, Henry Mancini, and David Axelrod, with a number of great harmonic substitutions and surprises, including a short flute solo. The horn section turns up on nearly every song, and the arrangements are usually inventive. "Walk on Fire" does well expanding on the feel of "Shadow of Death Hotel", coming off like the theme for a future Bond movie with its strings, horns, and dueling guitar parts, one of which drops surfy lead lines while the other cranks out a "Shaft"-y chicken scratch. Even the title sounds like something Ian Fleming would've dreamed up-- either way, it'd be a kickass soundtrack to a tense game of mahjongg with a supervillain. In amongst all the moody material are two surprisingly boisterous pop songs, "Straight 'Til Sunrise" and "Civilization". The former matches a swinging, carefree beat and Adamson's cabaret-like vocal to lyrics about an irremediable breakup that may have crossed the line to murder-- the song also balances chilly passages topped with a police siren with an instrumental bridge straight out of Burt Bacharach's dreams, with vibes and a smooth-as-silk horn section. "Civilization", meanwhile, is a catchy pop tune that casually slips out lines like, "I wandered through a wasteland that was passing as a glimpse of Heaven's door." It's great to hear Adamson harness his talent for creating atmosphere to punchy, immediate songs like this. When he cheerfully sings "People/ They're no good" on "People", it makes an instant impression, and even when the album wanders a bit it still feels good.

Artist: Barry Adamson, Album: Back to the Cat, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "A few records back, Barry Adamson opened an album with a song called "Cinematic Soul", a phrase that seems destined to go down as the best way to describe his extensive solo discography. It captures what he does at least as well as another phrase sometimes used to describe his work, "soundtracks for films never made" (he's done some actual film work, too-- see David Lynch's Lost Highway). Either way, Adamson, who's spent a fair amount of his career in music as a sideman for Nick Cave and also played bass for Magazine in the late 1970s, follows his own script in his music, trends be damned. This unfortunately means that he's likely to work forever under the radar, but it seems that, with his dark songs that spend their time exploring life on the wrong side of the tracks, he'd rather have it that way. It's harder to get away with murder in a crowd, after all. Back to the Cat, Adamson's ninth album, is one of his most pop-friendly records, emphasizing compact, melodic songs that still bear the mark of his twin senses of humor and the macabre. It opens right in his wheelhouse, with the jazz noir gutter ballad "The Beaten Side of Town", complete with a horn arrangement topped by a muted trumpet and a flute hook. Like most of what he does, the song has a great feel-- you can sense the air between the notes, and the temperature of that air is cold. The cinematic soul tag fits like a glove, as it does a few tracks later on the instrumental "Shadow of Death Hotel". With a creeping funk beat, dramatic, occasionally dissonant horn section, and burbling Hammond organ, it's like a tossed salad of John Barry, Henry Mancini, and David Axelrod, with a number of great harmonic substitutions and surprises, including a short flute solo. The horn section turns up on nearly every song, and the arrangements are usually inventive. "Walk on Fire" does well expanding on the feel of "Shadow of Death Hotel", coming off like the theme for a future Bond movie with its strings, horns, and dueling guitar parts, one of which drops surfy lead lines while the other cranks out a "Shaft"-y chicken scratch. Even the title sounds like something Ian Fleming would've dreamed up-- either way, it'd be a kickass soundtrack to a tense game of mahjongg with a supervillain. In amongst all the moody material are two surprisingly boisterous pop songs, "Straight 'Til Sunrise" and "Civilization". The former matches a swinging, carefree beat and Adamson's cabaret-like vocal to lyrics about an irremediable breakup that may have crossed the line to murder-- the song also balances chilly passages topped with a police siren with an instrumental bridge straight out of Burt Bacharach's dreams, with vibes and a smooth-as-silk horn section. "Civilization", meanwhile, is a catchy pop tune that casually slips out lines like, "I wandered through a wasteland that was passing as a glimpse of Heaven's door." It's great to hear Adamson harness his talent for creating atmosphere to punchy, immediate songs like this. When he cheerfully sings "People/ They're no good" on "People", it makes an instant impression, and even when the album wanders a bit it still feels good."

Christopher Owens

A New Testament

Rock

Mark Richardson

Christopher Owens’ career is predicated on the idea that music is the healing force of the universe. The particulars of his own story—raised in a Christian cult, a struggle with heroin addiction—are less important than the notion that music has the power to lift the downtrodden, give strength to the weak, and help anyone feeling down to carry on. One of the tensions that made his band Girls so great is that Owens always seemed like both a performer and a member of the audience; by borrowing melodies and phrases from well known pop hits, he seemed like he was listening and creating at the same time and, by extension, using his music to help both his audience and himself. Because the music faced inward and outward, Girls felt especially communal, and those who clicked with the band connected to something ultra personal and intimate while also feeling like members of the Broken Dreams Club. Since Girls broke up, the context around Owens’ music has been in flux. His first album, Lysandre, was, he admitted, something he had to get out of his system, a series of themes and musical ideas that needed a home. It drew broadly from the image of the ‘70s singer-songwriter, with some baroque touches like flute and sax to signal “new direction.” If Girls was Owens’ Modern Lovers, Lysandre was his first unsteady step on his own, complete with goofy genre exercises and its own versions of “Ice Cream Man”, i.e. songs that sounded like they were written for children. A New Testament is much closer to the idea of Girls. It’s got simple songs about love and acceptance and singers steeped in gospel offer swelling background vocals that try to make these songs feel “universal”; the melodies are familiar, based on the most iconic chord progressions; there’s a notable country influence, mostly of the ’50s Bakersfield variety (“A Heart Akin the Wind” has echoes of Buck Owens), with hints of ’60s Memphis (the guitar part on “Oh My Love” is nicked from “Suspicious Minds”); song titles like “Stephen” and “Key to My Heart” have a familiar ring. At first listen, it comes over like a return to the approach that made Girls so great, but it turns out the connections are mostly on the surface. Owens’ tendency to borrow from classic pop is starting to catch up with him. These songs are so neat and tidy, with every walking bassline and nifty guitar fill exactly where you’d expect it to be, it starts to feel like watching someone assemble a jigsaw puzzle, snapping one piece after another into place. His vocals stay in his most relaxed register, where he sounds halfway between singing and whispering. Where his earlier music thrived on the contrast between that hushed delivery and more demonstrative musical elements, the operative word here is control. The obsession with form combined with the careful delivery lead to an album that often feels weirdly cold and distant. It’s obviously unfair to expect Owens to make music in the same vein as Girls—he’s entitled to move on, and we can choose to follow him or not. But The New Testament has so many parallels with his earlier band’s approach, it’s impossible to avoid the comparison. There are moments that transcend the record’s limitations, most notably the hymn-like “Stephen”, a song about the death of Owens’ young brother at age two. Though the choir vocals might be a little forced, “Stephen” works because of its specificity. It’s not so much that Owens is drawing from his own life as that he’s writing about people that feel real. But on the record as a whole, the plug-in lyrics like “my honeybee, you’re nothing more than everything to me” and “always and forever, you’ll be dear to me” and “I’ve got so much love for you, it’s running over” seem like empty signifiers, lines chosen because they sound like they belong in songs like these. Yes, Owens once wrote the line "You've got a lovely smile/  I could spend a while with that smile," but in the context of nervy indie rock, it felt fresh and surprising. He's a unique artist who surely has more great music in him, but Owens' work will always be a balancing act, getting the shading and contrast just so; The New Testament feels mostly like one just-OK thing, easy to enjoy on a pass but much harder to love.

Artist: Christopher Owens, Album: A New Testament, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "Christopher Owens’ career is predicated on the idea that music is the healing force of the universe. The particulars of his own story—raised in a Christian cult, a struggle with heroin addiction—are less important than the notion that music has the power to lift the downtrodden, give strength to the weak, and help anyone feeling down to carry on. One of the tensions that made his band Girls so great is that Owens always seemed like both a performer and a member of the audience; by borrowing melodies and phrases from well known pop hits, he seemed like he was listening and creating at the same time and, by extension, using his music to help both his audience and himself. Because the music faced inward and outward, Girls felt especially communal, and those who clicked with the band connected to something ultra personal and intimate while also feeling like members of the Broken Dreams Club. Since Girls broke up, the context around Owens’ music has been in flux. His first album, Lysandre, was, he admitted, something he had to get out of his system, a series of themes and musical ideas that needed a home. It drew broadly from the image of the ‘70s singer-songwriter, with some baroque touches like flute and sax to signal “new direction.” If Girls was Owens’ Modern Lovers, Lysandre was his first unsteady step on his own, complete with goofy genre exercises and its own versions of “Ice Cream Man”, i.e. songs that sounded like they were written for children. A New Testament is much closer to the idea of Girls. It’s got simple songs about love and acceptance and singers steeped in gospel offer swelling background vocals that try to make these songs feel “universal”; the melodies are familiar, based on the most iconic chord progressions; there’s a notable country influence, mostly of the ’50s Bakersfield variety (“A Heart Akin the Wind” has echoes of Buck Owens), with hints of ’60s Memphis (the guitar part on “Oh My Love” is nicked from “Suspicious Minds”); song titles like “Stephen” and “Key to My Heart” have a familiar ring. At first listen, it comes over like a return to the approach that made Girls so great, but it turns out the connections are mostly on the surface. Owens’ tendency to borrow from classic pop is starting to catch up with him. These songs are so neat and tidy, with every walking bassline and nifty guitar fill exactly where you’d expect it to be, it starts to feel like watching someone assemble a jigsaw puzzle, snapping one piece after another into place. His vocals stay in his most relaxed register, where he sounds halfway between singing and whispering. Where his earlier music thrived on the contrast between that hushed delivery and more demonstrative musical elements, the operative word here is control. The obsession with form combined with the careful delivery lead to an album that often feels weirdly cold and distant. It’s obviously unfair to expect Owens to make music in the same vein as Girls—he’s entitled to move on, and we can choose to follow him or not. But The New Testament has so many parallels with his earlier band’s approach, it’s impossible to avoid the comparison. There are moments that transcend the record’s limitations, most notably the hymn-like “Stephen”, a song about the death of Owens’ young brother at age two. Though the choir vocals might be a little forced, “Stephen” works because of its specificity. It’s not so much that Owens is drawing from his own life as that he’s writing about people that feel real. But on the record as a whole, the plug-in lyrics like “my honeybee, you’re nothing more than everything to me” and “always and forever, you’ll be dear to me” and “I’ve got so much love for you, it’s running over” seem like empty signifiers, lines chosen because they sound like they belong in songs like these. Yes, Owens once wrote the line "You've got a lovely smile/  I could spend a while with that smile," but in the context of nervy indie rock, it felt fresh and surprising. He's a unique artist who surely has more great music in him, but Owens' work will always be a balancing act, getting the shading and contrast just so; The New Testament feels mostly like one just-OK thing, easy to enjoy on a pass but much harder to love."

Sleigh Bells

Kid Kruschev

Pop/R&B

Sasha Geffen

Sleigh Bells are in a dark place these days, and who can blame them? The electroclash mélange of their first two records—2010’s Treats and 2012’s Reign of Terror—emerged during a period of comparatively little ambient stress, but in 2017, like everyone, the New York duo is feeling the weight of the world around them. While their early work tended to use lyrics as texturing tools, splicing in the words that sounded the best and brashest, they have since adopted a narrative thrust in their songs. The band’s newest release, the mini-album Kid Kruschev, offers perhaps the most thematic cohesion of any of their albums so far. After last year’s scattershot Jessica Rabbit, it feels like Sleigh Bells have narrowed in on the stories they want to tell and the leanest way to tell them. They still write lyrics with the winking flair that made early tracks like “Infinity Guitars” and “Rill Rill” addictive. Singer Alexis Krauss rhymes “gasoline” with “trampoline” within the first two minutes of opener “Blue Trash Mattress Fire,” but her vocals do more here than counterbalance guitarist and producer Derek Miller’s thrashing power chords and overdriven drum machines. She elongates her phrases throughout Kid Kruschev, letting the instrumentation follow the push of her voice rather than trailing Miller’s jarring tempo changes. Sleigh Bells have slowly cultivated that change in dynamic over the past few years, as Krauss began to belt more instead of lingering in her head, but by now it’s fully bloomed. She directs this show, and the space she occupies helps the lyrics stick. Kid Kruschev takes its name from the post-Stalin Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev, which is only the most superficial indication of what’s stirring inside this seven-track collection. After all, it’s hard not to hear the word “Russia” on a daily basis even if you only absorb the news peripherally, and the Cuban Missile Crisis lurks as an oblique historical precedent to the nuclear tensions of our own era. Sleigh Bells don’t delve into the specifics of their record’s sociopolitical contexts, but they allude to them: Krauss works the colors red, white, and blue into the agitated “Blue Trash Mattress Fire,” and on the more grounded, tuneful “Panic Drills,” she sings, “At the end of the war/What’s mine is yours.” The couplet could describe a nasty fight with a loved one, or it could point to a couple sharing resources in the post-nuclear hellscape—there’s a narrative thread running through the song, but it’s loose enough to wrap around fear on either an interpersonal or a global scale. Most of the songs on the record appear to operate on both scales at once. On “Show Me the Door,” Krauss sings, “You made it this far/Just a little bit more/Before we show you the door,” simultaneously as an encouragement and a threat. Her voice is high and clear at the chorus, but during the verses she’s echoed by a copy of her voice pitched down into a demonic range. Miller, for his part, reins in the guitars in favor of reverbed bass, synthesized vocal syllables, and incongruously cheery disco keys, playing up the song’s internal contradictions. Sleigh Bells rode for a while on the contrast between Miller’s hardcore-trained guitar playing and Krauss’s clean soprano, but by this point they have to dig up more subtle incongruities, scraping together sounds that don’t quite fit and leveraging them toward a broader sense of disquiet. The song that lingers the longest off Kid Kruschev, though, is also its most internally cohesive. “And Saints” punctuates the record with a more or less straight narrative: Everyone is worried about Krauss; even the delivery guy who comes to her door wants to know if she’s OK. She’s not, for the record. “I swear I’m the shell of a man,” she sings at the chorus, but at least she’s got someone in there with her to contradict her: “You said, ‘Nah, you’re a hell of a man.’” She cruises on a vocal melody that’s lovely in its simplicity while Miller accompanies her with little more than a single strobing synth. The frenetic pulses and tantrums that made Sleigh Bells songs instantly recognizable ebb away, leaving a surprising tenderness in their wake. When they push aside their usual bag of tricks, Krauss and Miller have it in them to write direct and disarming pop songs, the kind that reach out to comfort you in your helplessness. These longtime adherents to the school of “everything louder” have finally found their quiet place.

Artist: Sleigh Bells, Album: Kid Kruschev, Genre: Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.4 Album review: "Sleigh Bells are in a dark place these days, and who can blame them? The electroclash mélange of their first two records—2010’s Treats and 2012’s Reign of Terror—emerged during a period of comparatively little ambient stress, but in 2017, like everyone, the New York duo is feeling the weight of the world around them. While their early work tended to use lyrics as texturing tools, splicing in the words that sounded the best and brashest, they have since adopted a narrative thrust in their songs. The band’s newest release, the mini-album Kid Kruschev, offers perhaps the most thematic cohesion of any of their albums so far. After last year’s scattershot Jessica Rabbit, it feels like Sleigh Bells have narrowed in on the stories they want to tell and the leanest way to tell them. They still write lyrics with the winking flair that made early tracks like “Infinity Guitars” and “Rill Rill” addictive. Singer Alexis Krauss rhymes “gasoline” with “trampoline” within the first two minutes of opener “Blue Trash Mattress Fire,” but her vocals do more here than counterbalance guitarist and producer Derek Miller’s thrashing power chords and overdriven drum machines. She elongates her phrases throughout Kid Kruschev, letting the instrumentation follow the push of her voice rather than trailing Miller’s jarring tempo changes. Sleigh Bells have slowly cultivated that change in dynamic over the past few years, as Krauss began to belt more instead of lingering in her head, but by now it’s fully bloomed. She directs this show, and the space she occupies helps the lyrics stick. Kid Kruschev takes its name from the post-Stalin Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev, which is only the most superficial indication of what’s stirring inside this seven-track collection. After all, it’s hard not to hear the word “Russia” on a daily basis even if you only absorb the news peripherally, and the Cuban Missile Crisis lurks as an oblique historical precedent to the nuclear tensions of our own era. Sleigh Bells don’t delve into the specifics of their record’s sociopolitical contexts, but they allude to them: Krauss works the colors red, white, and blue into the agitated “Blue Trash Mattress Fire,” and on the more grounded, tuneful “Panic Drills,” she sings, “At the end of the war/What’s mine is yours.” The couplet could describe a nasty fight with a loved one, or it could point to a couple sharing resources in the post-nuclear hellscape—there’s a narrative thread running through the song, but it’s loose enough to wrap around fear on either an interpersonal or a global scale. Most of the songs on the record appear to operate on both scales at once. On “Show Me the Door,” Krauss sings, “You made it this far/Just a little bit more/Before we show you the door,” simultaneously as an encouragement and a threat. Her voice is high and clear at the chorus, but during the verses she’s echoed by a copy of her voice pitched down into a demonic range. Miller, for his part, reins in the guitars in favor of reverbed bass, synthesized vocal syllables, and incongruously cheery disco keys, playing up the song’s internal contradictions. Sleigh Bells rode for a while on the contrast between Miller’s hardcore-trained guitar playing and Krauss’s clean soprano, but by this point they have to dig up more subtle incongruities, scraping together sounds that don’t quite fit and leveraging them toward a broader sense of disquiet. The song that lingers the longest off Kid Kruschev, though, is also its most internally cohesive. “And Saints” punctuates the record with a more or less straight narrative: Everyone is worried about Krauss; even the delivery guy who comes to her door wants to know if she’s OK. She’s not, for the record. “I swear I’m the shell of a man,” she sings at the chorus, but at least she’s got someone in there with her to contradict her: “You said, ‘Nah, you’re a hell of a man.’” She cruises on a vocal melody that’s lovely in its simplicity while Miller accompanies her with little more than a single strobing synth. The frenetic pulses and tantrums that made Sleigh Bells songs instantly recognizable ebb away, leaving a surprising tenderness in their wake. When they push aside their usual bag of tricks, Krauss and Miller have it in them to write direct and disarming pop songs, the kind that reach out to comfort you in your helplessness. These longtime adherents to the school of “everything louder” have finally found their quiet place."

Ween

White Pepper

Experimental,Rock

Matt LeMay

White Pepper. It took me a while to get it. It wasn't until I opened up Ween's latest album and saw the insert, with one side whitewashed and the other covered in multicolored peppers, that I began to dissect the album's name, and eventually came upon my epiphany. "White Pepper. White. Pepper. White Album! Sgt. Pepper! White Pepper! Shit!" Either I'm reading way too much into this album's title, or Gene and Dean have spliced together the names of two of the greatest albums ever into a spicy, yet seemingly benign title. Right now, you are either seething with rage or chortling with glee. It all depends on whether or not you've actually heard this record. If you haven't heard the record, you probably fall into the former category. "What's that!" you say, "how dare a band compare itself to the greatest single rock and roll band ever! Gene and Dean are blasphemers! Death to them! Death I say!" Well, settle down. That was my initial reaction, too. But as I listened to the record more and more, I began to see just how clever this album's title is. For the record, this album does not sound like the Beatles, with the exception of maybe a few tracks. White Pepper's similarity to the Beatles lies not in its sound, but rather in its execution. White Pepper bears a much stronger resemblance to the first half of its moniker than to the second. The White Album covered all points on the stylistic map. Play it through once, and you can find the origins of almost every major modern musical style in at least one track; even with all the stylistic curveballs, though, it still sounded like a Beatles record. White Pepper continues Ween's quest to prove that they can cover just about any style of music with impeccable wit and accuracy. Like the White Album, White Pepper lacks the cohesiveness of earlier works, but it also demonstrates how a band can undergo some serious genre-bending, while still retaining a sound that is uniquely theirs. The first thing you'll probably notice about White Pepper is that, for the first time ever, Ween sounds like an entire band. While The Mollusk merely hinted at a bigger, fuller sound, White Pepper serves as the Do the Collapse to The Mollusk's Mag Earwhig!. Except good. But despite the new hi-fi sound, which is due in no small part to the presence of Gene's and Dean's touring band on the album, White Pepper is unquestionably Ween. Gene's unmistakable voice and impeccable sense of melody come off sounding even better than they did back in the days of 4-track recording. And Dean's guitar work is at its most versatile and enjoyable, ranging from jazz licks on "Pandy Fackler," a song about a retarded girl who "sucks dick under the promenade," to flamenco guitar on "Bananas and Blow." White Pepper kicks off with "Exactly Where I'm At," a rocking, if overly repetitive song featuring some classic psychedelic Dean Ween soloing. "Exactly Where I'm At" is rivaled in its arena-rocking status only by "Back to Basom," a thoroughly fucked-up power ballad about smiling waste, and dancers with lost legs. Or at least I think that's what it's about. "Even if you Don't," one of the two tracks on White Pepper that sound remotely like the Beatles, is a charming McCartney-esque piano-driven tune. But Ween finds itself at its most Beatlesque on "Ice Castles," a wobbly Strawberry Fields-ish instrumental that was originally titled simply "Baroque Jam." Unfortunately, White Pepper is a bit of a disappointment as compared to The Mollusk. First of all, a few tracks, like the hard rocking "Stroker Ace," just don't hold up with the rest of the album. And while many of the tracks are quite excellent, none of them approach the sheer brilliance of songs like "The Mollusk" or "Buckingham Green." Its lack of thematic consistency renders White Pepper incapable of making any vast statement such as The Mollusk did. And, let's face it, the lack of profanity, including the complete absence of the word "fuck," renders it incapable of being as funny as early Ween faves like "She Fucks Me," and the ever-popular "LMLYP." Still, White Pepper is hardly a step back for Gene and Dean. More like a lateral. Ween has taken on 70's prog, Prince, country, and now arena rock. And they've managed to do all of it well. So what does the future hold for Ween? Who knows. Maybe they'll take on techno. When "Everything is Beyond the Ultraworld" comes out, I'll buy it.

Artist: Ween, Album: White Pepper, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "White Pepper. It took me a while to get it. It wasn't until I opened up Ween's latest album and saw the insert, with one side whitewashed and the other covered in multicolored peppers, that I began to dissect the album's name, and eventually came upon my epiphany. "White Pepper. White. Pepper. White Album! Sgt. Pepper! White Pepper! Shit!" Either I'm reading way too much into this album's title, or Gene and Dean have spliced together the names of two of the greatest albums ever into a spicy, yet seemingly benign title. Right now, you are either seething with rage or chortling with glee. It all depends on whether or not you've actually heard this record. If you haven't heard the record, you probably fall into the former category. "What's that!" you say, "how dare a band compare itself to the greatest single rock and roll band ever! Gene and Dean are blasphemers! Death to them! Death I say!" Well, settle down. That was my initial reaction, too. But as I listened to the record more and more, I began to see just how clever this album's title is. For the record, this album does not sound like the Beatles, with the exception of maybe a few tracks. White Pepper's similarity to the Beatles lies not in its sound, but rather in its execution. White Pepper bears a much stronger resemblance to the first half of its moniker than to the second. The White Album covered all points on the stylistic map. Play it through once, and you can find the origins of almost every major modern musical style in at least one track; even with all the stylistic curveballs, though, it still sounded like a Beatles record. White Pepper continues Ween's quest to prove that they can cover just about any style of music with impeccable wit and accuracy. Like the White Album, White Pepper lacks the cohesiveness of earlier works, but it also demonstrates how a band can undergo some serious genre-bending, while still retaining a sound that is uniquely theirs. The first thing you'll probably notice about White Pepper is that, for the first time ever, Ween sounds like an entire band. While The Mollusk merely hinted at a bigger, fuller sound, White Pepper serves as the Do the Collapse to The Mollusk's Mag Earwhig!. Except good. But despite the new hi-fi sound, which is due in no small part to the presence of Gene's and Dean's touring band on the album, White Pepper is unquestionably Ween. Gene's unmistakable voice and impeccable sense of melody come off sounding even better than they did back in the days of 4-track recording. And Dean's guitar work is at its most versatile and enjoyable, ranging from jazz licks on "Pandy Fackler," a song about a retarded girl who "sucks dick under the promenade," to flamenco guitar on "Bananas and Blow." White Pepper kicks off with "Exactly Where I'm At," a rocking, if overly repetitive song featuring some classic psychedelic Dean Ween soloing. "Exactly Where I'm At" is rivaled in its arena-rocking status only by "Back to Basom," a thoroughly fucked-up power ballad about smiling waste, and dancers with lost legs. Or at least I think that's what it's about. "Even if you Don't," one of the two tracks on White Pepper that sound remotely like the Beatles, is a charming McCartney-esque piano-driven tune. But Ween finds itself at its most Beatlesque on "Ice Castles," a wobbly Strawberry Fields-ish instrumental that was originally titled simply "Baroque Jam." Unfortunately, White Pepper is a bit of a disappointment as compared to The Mollusk. First of all, a few tracks, like the hard rocking "Stroker Ace," just don't hold up with the rest of the album. And while many of the tracks are quite excellent, none of them approach the sheer brilliance of songs like "The Mollusk" or "Buckingham Green." Its lack of thematic consistency renders White Pepper incapable of making any vast statement such as The Mollusk did. And, let's face it, the lack of profanity, including the complete absence of the word "fuck," renders it incapable of being as funny as early Ween faves like "She Fucks Me," and the ever-popular "LMLYP." Still, White Pepper is hardly a step back for Gene and Dean. More like a lateral. Ween has taken on 70's prog, Prince, country, and now arena rock. And they've managed to do all of it well. So what does the future hold for Ween? Who knows. Maybe they'll take on techno. When "Everything is Beyond the Ultraworld" comes out, I'll buy it."

The Band

Music From Big Pink

Rock

Stephen Thomas Erlewine

Music From Big Pink went from album to legend decades before it reached its 50th anniversary this year, an occasion being celebrated with the release of a variety of splashy commemorative reissues, all featuring a startling new remix by Bob Clearmountain. Such a milestone offers an opportunity for a reassessment, but the striking thing about the Band’s debut album is how its story hasn’t been changed since its release in the summer of 1968, when it provided a tonic to the overblown psychedelia swamping the late 1960s. This narrative didn’t just come out of the blue. Journalist Al Aronowitz wrote three lovely portraits of the Band in 1968—appearing in Life, Rolling Stone, and Hullabaloo, covering every possible readership—that made hay of the many years the Band spent grinding out a living on the road. He treated Big Pink, the house the group shared with Bob Dylan in West Saugerties, New York, with a nearly mystical reverence. This framing persists to this day, buttressed by repetition and hagiographies, all citing elements of these initial stories as accepted fact, possibly because there is considerable supporting evidence that Music From Big Pink had a profound influence on the Band’s peers. At the time, George Harrison and Eric Clapton cited the album as the reason why they decided to abandon overdriven blues and psychedelia to pursue a path of quiet contemplation and authenticity. Authenticity is always a tricky thing regarding the Band. Music From Big Pink is often called the place where Americana starts even though every member, save drummer Levon Helm, hails from Canada. What’s harder to parse is how Music From Big Pink gets conflated with The Basement Tapes, the collection of homemade recordings Dylan cut with the Band during the summer of 1967. Intended as songwriting demos and self-amusement, those recordings wound up circulating as a bootleg for years, headed off by the 1975 release of a double-album which was loaded up with Band tracks not recorded at the Big Pink, giving the impression that the Band were equal players during this time, when the tapes were largely devoted to Dylan. Similarly, the very title of Music From Big Pink suggests that the album itself is a product of The Basement Tapes, which is true as far as its sensibility and many of its songs originate in the music Dylan and the Band made when nobody was listening during 1967. Music From Big Pink, in contrast, was very much made with an audience in mind. Because of their months of woodshedding with Dylan, the Band—who at that point were lacking even their plain Jane name—were a hot commodity within the music industry. They signed a deal with Capitol who put the group into high-end recording studios in Manhattan and Los Angeles with producer John Simon. While they were there, the Band didn’t follow standard procedures: Guitarist Robbie Robertson is fond telling an anecdote where the group insisted on removing studio baffles so they could play face to face. Because of, or perhaps despite all this, they wound up with an album so rich and complex it still sounds singular even on its 50th birthday. From the outset, its originality was described in terms of genre, how Music From Big Pink draws from a number of American roots musics—country, blues, gospel, folk, gospel, rockabilly—without ever sounding distinctly like one its inspirations. Such a hybrid has since become common, yet Music From Big Pink still sounds trapped out of time, lacking the simplicity of its predecessors or the po-faced sincerity of its disciples, and so much of this is due to how the album is executed with a casual disregard to authenticity. Robertson may have advocated for the Band to play as a unit, a savvy move that captures their elastic interplay, but Simon didn’t produce the group as if they were a mere bar band. The very presence of Garth Hudson, an organist who doubled on horns, removed the Band from the confines of three-chord rock’n’roll, with his waves of texture evoking not just gospel but the heady horizons of psychedelia the Band reportedly rejected. While it’s true that the 11 individual songs on Music From Big Pink are steeped in tradition, the album itself is resolutely modern, a studio concoction meant to expand the mind. Listen to how the album starts, not with a salvo, but with a dirge. “Tears of Rage” comes into focus with a guitar line phased so heavily it sounds like an organ, the piano chords piling up just as pianist Richard Manuel’s lonely voice begins to pine. It’s well over a minute before another voice is heard, with the song slowly expanding to encompass horns and harmonies, every sound in concert and every musician in communion. The tempo soon quickens with “To Kingdom Come,” where the supporting vocals of Rick Danko and Helm carry the shakey Robertson through to the end, setting the stage for the communal hymn of “The Weight.” Simultaneously the best example of the Band’s collective nature—Helm and Danko switch verses, everybody chimes in on the chorus—“The Weight” also is an outlier on Music From Big Pink, pointing the way to the lean and sinewy sound of their self-titled second album. The rest of the record contains so many textures, it nearly feels ornate: the plaintive “Lonesome Suzie” gains resonance with its washes of echo and horns, while “Chest Fever”—the hardest rocking number here—is a head trip, thanks to the roar of overdriven organ and indecipherable vocals. Music From Big Pink may be rooted in the earth but it exists entirely within the head. The way it makes roots music sound as impressionistic and idiosyncratic as any other kind of rock’n’roll is revolutionary. It casts a very distinct spell, which is why it’s so unsettling that the new Bob Clearmountain mix breaks this moody magic. Clearmountain takes pains to separate the elements that were previously inextricably intertwined, shattering the specific otherworldliness that has been retained in every reissue of the album over the past fifty years. Sometimes, certain parts are pushed to the forefront—the call and response on “We Can Talk” by Helm and Danko are isolated from each other—and sometimes, everything piles on to of each other, as on the cacophonic “This Wheel’s on Fire.” Worse, extraneous studio chatter has been added to “The Weight” and “Lonesome Suzie,” a move that punctures the illusion that Music From Big Pink materialized out of thin air from a cheap rental house in the woods of New York. Perhaps this super deluxe reissue accidentally deflates that myth, but the legend of Music From Big Pink is so deeply ingrained in musical cultur

Artist: The Band, Album: Music From Big Pink, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 9.4 Album review: "Music From Big Pink went from album to legend decades before it reached its 50th anniversary this year, an occasion being celebrated with the release of a variety of splashy commemorative reissues, all featuring a startling new remix by Bob Clearmountain. Such a milestone offers an opportunity for a reassessment, but the striking thing about the Band’s debut album is how its story hasn’t been changed since its release in the summer of 1968, when it provided a tonic to the overblown psychedelia swamping the late 1960s. This narrative didn’t just come out of the blue. Journalist Al Aronowitz wrote three lovely portraits of the Band in 1968—appearing in Life, Rolling Stone, and Hullabaloo, covering every possible readership—that made hay of the many years the Band spent grinding out a living on the road. He treated Big Pink, the house the group shared with Bob Dylan in West Saugerties, New York, with a nearly mystical reverence. This framing persists to this day, buttressed by repetition and hagiographies, all citing elements of these initial stories as accepted fact, possibly because there is considerable supporting evidence that Music From Big Pink had a profound influence on the Band’s peers. At the time, George Harrison and Eric Clapton cited the album as the reason why they decided to abandon overdriven blues and psychedelia to pursue a path of quiet contemplation and authenticity. Authenticity is always a tricky thing regarding the Band. Music From Big Pink is often called the place where Americana starts even though every member, save drummer Levon Helm, hails from Canada. What’s harder to parse is how Music From Big Pink gets conflated with The Basement Tapes, the collection of homemade recordings Dylan cut with the Band during the summer of 1967. Intended as songwriting demos and self-amusement, those recordings wound up circulating as a bootleg for years, headed off by the 1975 release of a double-album which was loaded up with Band tracks not recorded at the Big Pink, giving the impression that the Band were equal players during this time, when the tapes were largely devoted to Dylan. Similarly, the very title of Music From Big Pink suggests that the album itself is a product of The Basement Tapes, which is true as far as its sensibility and many of its songs originate in the music Dylan and the Band made when nobody was listening during 1967. Music From Big Pink, in contrast, was very much made with an audience in mind. Because of their months of woodshedding with Dylan, the Band—who at that point were lacking even their plain Jane name—were a hot commodity within the music industry. They signed a deal with Capitol who put the group into high-end recording studios in Manhattan and Los Angeles with producer John Simon. While they were there, the Band didn’t follow standard procedures: Guitarist Robbie Robertson is fond telling an anecdote where the group insisted on removing studio baffles so they could play face to face. Because of, or perhaps despite all this, they wound up with an album so rich and complex it still sounds singular even on its 50th birthday. From the outset, its originality was described in terms of genre, how Music From Big Pink draws from a number of American roots musics—country, blues, gospel, folk, gospel, rockabilly—without ever sounding distinctly like one its inspirations. Such a hybrid has since become common, yet Music From Big Pink still sounds trapped out of time, lacking the simplicity of its predecessors or the po-faced sincerity of its disciples, and so much of this is due to how the album is executed with a casual disregard to authenticity. Robertson may have advocated for the Band to play as a unit, a savvy move that captures their elastic interplay, but Simon didn’t produce the group as if they were a mere bar band. The very presence of Garth Hudson, an organist who doubled on horns, removed the Band from the confines of three-chord rock’n’roll, with his waves of texture evoking not just gospel but the heady horizons of psychedelia the Band reportedly rejected. While it’s true that the 11 individual songs on Music From Big Pink are steeped in tradition, the album itself is resolutely modern, a studio concoction meant to expand the mind. Listen to how the album starts, not with a salvo, but with a dirge. “Tears of Rage” comes into focus with a guitar line phased so heavily it sounds like an organ, the piano chords piling up just as pianist Richard Manuel’s lonely voice begins to pine. It’s well over a minute before another voice is heard, with the song slowly expanding to encompass horns and harmonies, every sound in concert and every musician in communion. The tempo soon quickens with “To Kingdom Come,” where the supporting vocals of Rick Danko and Helm carry the shakey Robertson through to the end, setting the stage for the communal hymn of “The Weight.” Simultaneously the best example of the Band’s collective nature—Helm and Danko switch verses, everybody chimes in on the chorus—“The Weight” also is an outlier on Music From Big Pink, pointing the way to the lean and sinewy sound of their self-titled second album. The rest of the record contains so many textures, it nearly feels ornate: the plaintive “Lonesome Suzie” gains resonance with its washes of echo and horns, while “Chest Fever”—the hardest rocking number here—is a head trip, thanks to the roar of overdriven organ and indecipherable vocals. Music From Big Pink may be rooted in the earth but it exists entirely within the head. The way it makes roots music sound as impressionistic and idiosyncratic as any other kind of rock’n’roll is revolutionary. It casts a very distinct spell, which is why it’s so unsettling that the new Bob Clearmountain mix breaks this moody magic. Clearmountain takes pains to separate the elements that were previously inextricably intertwined, shattering the specific otherworldliness that has been retained in every reissue of the album over the past fifty years. Sometimes, certain parts are pushed to the forefront—the call and response on “We Can Talk” by Helm and Danko are isolated from each other—and sometimes, everything piles on to of each other, as on the cacophonic “This Wheel’s on Fire.” Worse, extraneous studio chatter has been added to “The Weight” and “Lonesome Suzie,” a move that punctures the illusion that Music From Big Pink materialized out of thin air from a cheap rental house in the woods of New York. Perhaps this super deluxe reissue accidentally deflates that myth, but the legend of Music From Big Pink is so deeply ingrained in musical cultur"

Cabo Boing

Blob on a Grid

Experimental

Colin Joyce

Brian Esser—the songwriter behind the synth-pop act Cabo Boing—seems fascinated with clowns. Aside from the announcement of Blob on a Grid, his debut full-length under the moniker after years playing in the synth-based bands Yip-Yip and Moon Jelly, his Tumblr page is mostly dedicated to the constantly grinning jesters. They beckon menacingly, floating in bodies of water; they show off arcade cabinets to small children; they play the saxophone; or they sit—in ceramic bust form—next to half-consumed jugs of milk. The archive as a whole is surreal, whimsical, and unsettling—a shrine that imagines the clowns as mythical figures from a Jodorowskyan nightmare. It’s upsetting to say the least. But it’s also a strangely fitting accompaniment for the absurdist electronic music he’s made over the last couple of years as Cabo Boing—and especially the joy-buzzer beats that make up Blob on a Grid. He stuffs 12 tracks in just under 20 minutes, demonstrating a knack for slapstick comedy, garish colors, and even a few funny voices. These hallmarks of the art of clowning have turned the makeup-coated fools into figures of both wordless joy and unspeakable terror in the collective unconscious. The pranks start from the opening moments of the tape’s first track “Asleep in the Saddle,” which layers several interlocking synth lines in a woozy pattern as sickening as a carousel on a cruise ship. Esser pitch-shifts a human voice into a goofy monstrosity and sings self-assured platitudes like “progress comes from within” and “subdue yourself and return to what is right.” The emotional effect is something like a group of oompa loompas covering OMD or the Residents leading a self-help seminar, which is to say that it’s both hilarious and horrifying. That track, as well as a few of the album’s other longer tracks—like the neon vomit of the title track and “Nitwit of Gizmo”—show Esser’s predilection for writing pop songs in a long tradition of synth-toting goofballs. Like Mark Mothersbaugh’s electro-contortions or Animal Collective’s Sung Tongs-era surrealism or any of his many labelmates on the New York cassette imprint Haord, he has a keen ability to make music that’s both parasitically catchy and wholly unfamiliar. But Esser isn’t content to just write singles, however ridiculous they may be. A large portion of the album’s tracklist is dedicated to stuff like the 45-second long “Elevator Pitch.” Its wheedling synth line wheels around erratically, like a unicycle on freshly buffed linoleum, before careening into the next song. Just as you start nodding your head to “Blob on a Grid,” Esser emerges with with the saccharine vocal tics and splattering percussion of “What Am I Bid”—a pie in the face as a punctuation mark. Down to its title—and even the onomatopoetic prank of Esser’s moniker itself, which sounds something like an unfurling spring when you say it out loud—Blob on a Grid is an unrelenting collection of high-energy jokes. The way the intentionally gaudy synth lines fold into each other like a junkyard quiltwork can almost feel exhausting. But just when a song such as “Nitwit of Gizmo” begins to feel like a carnival ride gone on too long, Esser wisely cuts to another goofy composition. It’s proof in action that the difference between a good and a bad joke is… timing.

Artist: Cabo Boing, Album: Blob on a Grid, Genre: Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.5 Album review: "Brian Esser—the songwriter behind the synth-pop act Cabo Boing—seems fascinated with clowns. Aside from the announcement of Blob on a Grid, his debut full-length under the moniker after years playing in the synth-based bands Yip-Yip and Moon Jelly, his Tumblr page is mostly dedicated to the constantly grinning jesters. They beckon menacingly, floating in bodies of water; they show off arcade cabinets to small children; they play the saxophone; or they sit—in ceramic bust form—next to half-consumed jugs of milk. The archive as a whole is surreal, whimsical, and unsettling—a shrine that imagines the clowns as mythical figures from a Jodorowskyan nightmare. It’s upsetting to say the least. But it’s also a strangely fitting accompaniment for the absurdist electronic music he’s made over the last couple of years as Cabo Boing—and especially the joy-buzzer beats that make up Blob on a Grid. He stuffs 12 tracks in just under 20 minutes, demonstrating a knack for slapstick comedy, garish colors, and even a few funny voices. These hallmarks of the art of clowning have turned the makeup-coated fools into figures of both wordless joy and unspeakable terror in the collective unconscious. The pranks start from the opening moments of the tape’s first track “Asleep in the Saddle,” which layers several interlocking synth lines in a woozy pattern as sickening as a carousel on a cruise ship. Esser pitch-shifts a human voice into a goofy monstrosity and sings self-assured platitudes like “progress comes from within” and “subdue yourself and return to what is right.” The emotional effect is something like a group of oompa loompas covering OMD or the Residents leading a self-help seminar, which is to say that it’s both hilarious and horrifying. That track, as well as a few of the album’s other longer tracks—like the neon vomit of the title track and “Nitwit of Gizmo”—show Esser’s predilection for writing pop songs in a long tradition of synth-toting goofballs. Like Mark Mothersbaugh’s electro-contortions or Animal Collective’s Sung Tongs-era surrealism or any of his many labelmates on the New York cassette imprint Haord, he has a keen ability to make music that’s both parasitically catchy and wholly unfamiliar. But Esser isn’t content to just write singles, however ridiculous they may be. A large portion of the album’s tracklist is dedicated to stuff like the 45-second long “Elevator Pitch.” Its wheedling synth line wheels around erratically, like a unicycle on freshly buffed linoleum, before careening into the next song. Just as you start nodding your head to “Blob on a Grid,” Esser emerges with with the saccharine vocal tics and splattering percussion of “What Am I Bid”—a pie in the face as a punctuation mark. Down to its title—and even the onomatopoetic prank of Esser’s moniker itself, which sounds something like an unfurling spring when you say it out loud—Blob on a Grid is an unrelenting collection of high-energy jokes. The way the intentionally gaudy synth lines fold into each other like a junkyard quiltwork can almost feel exhausting. But just when a song such as “Nitwit of Gizmo” begins to feel like a carnival ride gone on too long, Esser wisely cuts to another goofy composition. It’s proof in action that the difference between a good and a bad joke is… timing."

Stereophonics

Language. Sex. Violence. Other?

Electronic,Rock

Adam Moerder

After two releases that most fans would describe as "totally pussy" and the departure of beloved drummer Stuart Cable, the Stereophonics needed a change. Their solution? Pump up frontman Kelly Jones' vocals, hire Argentinean drummer Javier Weyler, cut the sentimental shit, and get back to the beer-stained, pool-cue-wavin', leather-studded cock-rock roots of the late-90s 'Phonics album Britain drooled over. As the album title points out, Jones' lyrics deal with a motley cast of characters, all of which grounded in the basest barroom debauchery. The title character of opener "Superman" is drunk, plays poker, and wants to ditch Lois Lane for a "teenage blonde." Jones vents some sibling animosity on "Brother" by, well, beating up his brother. "Girl" is about fucking a girl. The whole bad boy bit gets pretty boring pretty fast, with Jones appearing especially ridiculous on "Doorman", a four-minute "fuck you" to some security guard he brawled with during a 2004 Seattle show: "You look like a monkey scowling at me/ Well suck my banana, suck it with cream". The biggest joke of the album, though, is the group's shameless appeal to today's new wave hipsters. Single "Dakota" is the big culprit here, with its high-school romanticism and sugary synth workings. Jones pines for summer nights and adolescent innocence until his emotions boil over into the not-so-immortal line: "You made me feel like the one." There they mimic New Order; elsewhere, the basslines of "Superman" and "Deadhead" rip off the Cure's "A Forest", while "Lolita" is the Stereophonics' ill-advised, half-assed stab at shoegazer. This unctuous new wave dabbling is the only departure from the album's otherwise humdrum Stereophonics sound. Jones still croaks out songs with that wretched voice of his, an amalgam of nicotine, alcohol and AOR. The guitars still churn out feeble riffs more appropriate for a Hot Wheels commercial than a grown-up's rock album, and even when they're on to something it feels like they're only fumbling with a good idea. It's Britain's cancerous version of Creed, Guns N' Roses, and Stone Temple Pilots rolled into one, though unfortunately lacking those bands' self-destructive tendencies.

Artist: Stereophonics, Album: Language. Sex. Violence. Other?, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 4.5 Album review: "After two releases that most fans would describe as "totally pussy" and the departure of beloved drummer Stuart Cable, the Stereophonics needed a change. Their solution? Pump up frontman Kelly Jones' vocals, hire Argentinean drummer Javier Weyler, cut the sentimental shit, and get back to the beer-stained, pool-cue-wavin', leather-studded cock-rock roots of the late-90s 'Phonics album Britain drooled over. As the album title points out, Jones' lyrics deal with a motley cast of characters, all of which grounded in the basest barroom debauchery. The title character of opener "Superman" is drunk, plays poker, and wants to ditch Lois Lane for a "teenage blonde." Jones vents some sibling animosity on "Brother" by, well, beating up his brother. "Girl" is about fucking a girl. The whole bad boy bit gets pretty boring pretty fast, with Jones appearing especially ridiculous on "Doorman", a four-minute "fuck you" to some security guard he brawled with during a 2004 Seattle show: "You look like a monkey scowling at me/ Well suck my banana, suck it with cream". The biggest joke of the album, though, is the group's shameless appeal to today's new wave hipsters. Single "Dakota" is the big culprit here, with its high-school romanticism and sugary synth workings. Jones pines for summer nights and adolescent innocence until his emotions boil over into the not-so-immortal line: "You made me feel like the one." There they mimic New Order; elsewhere, the basslines of "Superman" and "Deadhead" rip off the Cure's "A Forest", while "Lolita" is the Stereophonics' ill-advised, half-assed stab at shoegazer. This unctuous new wave dabbling is the only departure from the album's otherwise humdrum Stereophonics sound. Jones still croaks out songs with that wretched voice of his, an amalgam of nicotine, alcohol and AOR. The guitars still churn out feeble riffs more appropriate for a Hot Wheels commercial than a grown-up's rock album, and even when they're on to something it feels like they're only fumbling with a good idea. It's Britain's cancerous version of Creed, Guns N' Roses, and Stone Temple Pilots rolled into one, though unfortunately lacking those bands' self-destructive tendencies. "

Slow Six

Private Times in Public Places

Electronic,Experimental

Mike Powell

Brooklyn's Slow Six make the kind of glacial, pretty music that tends to drive people three places: to ecstasy, to sleep, or to the composition of indistinct poetry. It's also the kind of music often saddled with near-useless terms like "ambient" (not the same as "has reverb, does not have drums") or "minimal" (not the same as "has violins, is repetitious, is not a symphony.") Most of the time, it's the opposite: Slow Six aren't indifferent, they're intentional; they're not minimalistic, they're just understated. And despite the self-imposed limitations-- I say that pejoratively-- of a lot of "neo-classical" or "post-rock" bands, Slow Six's two albums, the recently reissued Private Times in Public Places and 2007's Nor'easter, are actually different, which is more than you can say for plenty of their peers. Though passages of Private Times move-- particularly the violin ricochets on "Evening Without Atonement" and some scattered lapses into soft, Reilly-like patterns-- it's a record focused on texture and atmosphere. Bandleader and composer Chris Tignor would be nothing without the chamber orchestra surrounding him, but it's the computerized glaze, the puffs and trails with which he ornaments the sounds, that makes the album what it is. And it works best when he manages to meld with the acoustic instruments-- when it's unclear whether a sigh is coming from a violin or the synth processing of it, or, like on the first section of "The Lines We Walked When We Walked Once Together", his synth patterns hop on Rhodes drones like a smooth stone on lake water. Nor'easter, like the storm it's named after, is colder and more difficult than Private Times. It's not dark so much as it is colorless; strings aren't abrasive, but they feel caught out in something (everyone knows storms are brutal; fewer acknowledge their loneliness). It's also an album that doesn't feel quite as genre-nebulous and noncommittal as Private Times, trading in that album's sometimes-damning lack of inertia for more straightforwardly concert-hall-style composition, more dissonance, and more movement. It's telling that Nor'easter came out on legendary West Coast classical label New Albion, while the Private Times reissue was released by Western Vinyl-- one's clearly a classical record, one's clearly an indie record with a few classical leanings. Which is why it's hard to come down hard on saying one's better than another. Private Times isn't without its share of wonderful moments, and "The Lines..." actually makes a case for half-hour-long tracks, but it's almost damned by how safe it is. Nor'easter is a less appealing listen, in a lot of ways, and certainly won't strike a chord with listeners fond of creamy, compulsively beautiful "indie composers" like, say, Max Richter. But it also sounds a little more distinctive than Private Times, which, in a genre that provokes some desperately vague music, is worth a nod-- maybe even a floral lyric or two.

Artist: Slow Six, Album: Private Times in Public Places, Genre: Electronic,Experimental, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Brooklyn's Slow Six make the kind of glacial, pretty music that tends to drive people three places: to ecstasy, to sleep, or to the composition of indistinct poetry. It's also the kind of music often saddled with near-useless terms like "ambient" (not the same as "has reverb, does not have drums") or "minimal" (not the same as "has violins, is repetitious, is not a symphony.") Most of the time, it's the opposite: Slow Six aren't indifferent, they're intentional; they're not minimalistic, they're just understated. And despite the self-imposed limitations-- I say that pejoratively-- of a lot of "neo-classical" or "post-rock" bands, Slow Six's two albums, the recently reissued Private Times in Public Places and 2007's Nor'easter, are actually different, which is more than you can say for plenty of their peers. Though passages of Private Times move-- particularly the violin ricochets on "Evening Without Atonement" and some scattered lapses into soft, Reilly-like patterns-- it's a record focused on texture and atmosphere. Bandleader and composer Chris Tignor would be nothing without the chamber orchestra surrounding him, but it's the computerized glaze, the puffs and trails with which he ornaments the sounds, that makes the album what it is. And it works best when he manages to meld with the acoustic instruments-- when it's unclear whether a sigh is coming from a violin or the synth processing of it, or, like on the first section of "The Lines We Walked When We Walked Once Together", his synth patterns hop on Rhodes drones like a smooth stone on lake water. Nor'easter, like the storm it's named after, is colder and more difficult than Private Times. It's not dark so much as it is colorless; strings aren't abrasive, but they feel caught out in something (everyone knows storms are brutal; fewer acknowledge their loneliness). It's also an album that doesn't feel quite as genre-nebulous and noncommittal as Private Times, trading in that album's sometimes-damning lack of inertia for more straightforwardly concert-hall-style composition, more dissonance, and more movement. It's telling that Nor'easter came out on legendary West Coast classical label New Albion, while the Private Times reissue was released by Western Vinyl-- one's clearly a classical record, one's clearly an indie record with a few classical leanings. Which is why it's hard to come down hard on saying one's better than another. Private Times isn't without its share of wonderful moments, and "The Lines..." actually makes a case for half-hour-long tracks, but it's almost damned by how safe it is. Nor'easter is a less appealing listen, in a lot of ways, and certainly won't strike a chord with listeners fond of creamy, compulsively beautiful "indie composers" like, say, Max Richter. But it also sounds a little more distinctive than Private Times, which, in a genre that provokes some desperately vague music, is worth a nod-- maybe even a floral lyric or two."

Dirty on Purpose

Hallelujah Sirens

Rock

Zach Baron

Hallelujah Sirens, a record that begins with things that won’t last-- a rising sun, a couple in a car, love-- gets to its close in a hurry: By the second track, the sun has set, the trip has ended, and the narrator’s alone. Later, the girl who looked beautiful in her summer dress will leave; at night, they’ll fight some more, and she’ll leave again; they’ll both take long drives and feel lousy and nostalgic under the stars but euphoric when the sun rises again. Dirty on Purpose create their moments out of little contradictions, in which hearts break to “Shiny Happy People” and the builds end up with guest vocalist Jaymay doing “Heart of Glass” instead of “Cattle and Cane”-- these things help them. Were they happy, they’d be insufferable; were they always as dark as the roads they travel, they wouldn’t have the will to make it through even one song. Their daytime-nighttime, on-off cycles sustain neither highs nor lows: They are as giddy and occasionally deadening as their subject matter. “Marfa Lights”, the best song on Hallelujah Sirens, is about flickering, colorful ghost lights in Texas, proved by skeptics to be generic automobile taillights from the nearby U.S. 67. In the song, the four bandmates chase the mystery lights off course and into the cold desert, while the guitars move from slow-motion delay to a grindingly bright, headlong four chords. On their other “light” song, single “Light Pollution”, they head out of town yet again but don’t get anywhere. The worst track here, they take the thinnest build you could find-- somebody banging on a snare-drum, basically-- and issue commands (“Take the long way home”) as if people wanted to be told what to do that late in the evening. It’s worth nothing that Dirty on Purpose come from Brooklyn, a place not known for appreciating a straightforward, genuine narrative or unadulterated hook-- where, for instance, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs were able to assassinate their ironclad brand with a few acoustic guitar strums and a little harmony. You’d never know from all the talk of seasons and driving that Dirty on Purpose live in a city with little of either. One song, “Car No Driver”, starts like Jawbreaker’s “Kiss the Bottle” (another song about love getting ruined at nighttime and then getting the fuck out of town by the morning), then makes all the driving into a metaphor for growing up and not quite knowing what you’re about. You break down, the car breaks down: It’s the most, er, Williamsburg moment on Sirens-- feeling young and passed-by. But that’s not the story here (except, maybe, only the young-and-passed-by get this melodramatic when the clock strikes 4 a.m. in Texas). Blurry, constantly in motion, Dirty on Purpose look to make sense of whatever drama that can be found in between coming down in the morning and waking up to it.

Artist: Dirty on Purpose, Album: Hallelujah Sirens, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Hallelujah Sirens, a record that begins with things that won’t last-- a rising sun, a couple in a car, love-- gets to its close in a hurry: By the second track, the sun has set, the trip has ended, and the narrator’s alone. Later, the girl who looked beautiful in her summer dress will leave; at night, they’ll fight some more, and she’ll leave again; they’ll both take long drives and feel lousy and nostalgic under the stars but euphoric when the sun rises again. Dirty on Purpose create their moments out of little contradictions, in which hearts break to “Shiny Happy People” and the builds end up with guest vocalist Jaymay doing “Heart of Glass” instead of “Cattle and Cane”-- these things help them. Were they happy, they’d be insufferable; were they always as dark as the roads they travel, they wouldn’t have the will to make it through even one song. Their daytime-nighttime, on-off cycles sustain neither highs nor lows: They are as giddy and occasionally deadening as their subject matter. “Marfa Lights”, the best song on Hallelujah Sirens, is about flickering, colorful ghost lights in Texas, proved by skeptics to be generic automobile taillights from the nearby U.S. 67. In the song, the four bandmates chase the mystery lights off course and into the cold desert, while the guitars move from slow-motion delay to a grindingly bright, headlong four chords. On their other “light” song, single “Light Pollution”, they head out of town yet again but don’t get anywhere. The worst track here, they take the thinnest build you could find-- somebody banging on a snare-drum, basically-- and issue commands (“Take the long way home”) as if people wanted to be told what to do that late in the evening. It’s worth nothing that Dirty on Purpose come from Brooklyn, a place not known for appreciating a straightforward, genuine narrative or unadulterated hook-- where, for instance, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs were able to assassinate their ironclad brand with a few acoustic guitar strums and a little harmony. You’d never know from all the talk of seasons and driving that Dirty on Purpose live in a city with little of either. One song, “Car No Driver”, starts like Jawbreaker’s “Kiss the Bottle” (another song about love getting ruined at nighttime and then getting the fuck out of town by the morning), then makes all the driving into a metaphor for growing up and not quite knowing what you’re about. You break down, the car breaks down: It’s the most, er, Williamsburg moment on Sirens-- feeling young and passed-by. But that’s not the story here (except, maybe, only the young-and-passed-by get this melodramatic when the clock strikes 4 a.m. in Texas). Blurry, constantly in motion, Dirty on Purpose look to make sense of whatever drama that can be found in between coming down in the morning and waking up to it."

Electric Light Orchestra

Out of the Blue

Rock

Rob Mitchum

Here's a shocking fact: 2007 marks the 25th anniversary of the compact disc. Considering how record companies love to sell you the same album multiple times, that's a bizarrely long tenure for the newest music industry-approved technology. Because the CD refuses to yield the throne to any other physical formats (DVDs? Minidiscs?), labels have long been forced to find other ways to repeatedly plunder their catalogs, most notably by releasing remastered and expanded versions of any album that was reasonably successful. In some cases, the cleaned-up sound and snazzier packaging of these records corrects lazy, negligent editions released in the CD's early days, but more often it's just a case of shaking loose change out of the couch cushions. That's not the case with Electric Light Orchestra, subjects of a lengthy restoration project that has reached Out of the Blue in time for its 30th anniversary. ELO may not immediately seem like an essential part of music history, but there's no denying they're a band well served by the fancy frills that accompany a reissue. For starters, ELO records hearken back to an era where album art meant Awesome Fucking Spaceships, and Out of the Blue has an especially fine one that resembles a cross between a jukebox and the old Simon games. It's a disservice to shrink such a cover down to CD-size packaging, but the reissue compensates by including a build-it-yourself punch-out space needle thingy and pictures of the band's ridiculous spaceship stage-set. More importantly, ELO records respond well to remastered sound, due to the band's entire aesthetic being based upon Jeff Lynne using approximately 250 tracks of instruments and vocals in every song. Out of the Blue is often thought to be the band's high water mark because, in many ways, it was the culmination of Lynne's ambitious original mission to blend rock'n'roll with orchestral flourishes, his presumptuous effort to "pick up where the Beatles left off." By this, his seventh album, Lynne had developed the idea far beyond the cheesy primordial mashups like his "Roll Over Beethoven" cover (excepting the silly throwback "Birmingham Blues"), and had even reached past the increasingly restrictive borders of 70s rock to embrace treble-heavy elements of the rising disco sound like liberal uses of falsetto, arcade synths, and melodramatic strings. Prophetic anticipation or dumb luck, Out of the Blue hit the zeitgeist jackpot in 1977, coming out within a month of Saturday Night Fever and reflecting, if not true disco, a perfect crossover gateway-drug to piggyback on the explosion of their fellow rock defectors, the Bee Gees. Though ELO's finest singles may have appeared on the two prior albums (can you argue with "Evil Woman" or "Livin' Thing"?), Out of the Blue has its share of greatest hits regulars sprinkled across its four vinyl sides: "Turn to Stone", "Sweet Talkin' Woman", "Wild West Hero". The side C four-song suite "Concerto for a Rainy Day" (god bless the 70s) even includes the triumphant "Mr. Blue Sky", deservedly exhumed in the past few years by the hipster cognoscenti as a perfectly weird slice of gaudy, over-the-top FM-dial pop. The deep cuts on Out of the Blue also hold their own alongside the hits, enough so to justify the double-album expanse (though its 70 minutes are routine by today's CD-enabled standards). "Across the Border" finds a way to cram mariachi horns into Lynne's already packed palette, and most of "Concerto for a Rainy Day" is an argument for art-rock excess, from the Boston-esque organ arpeggios of "Standin' in the Rain" to the army-of-Lynne choir that marks the balladic "Summer and Lightning". Lynne's symphonic addiction may be the kind of bloat punk was meant to eradicate, but it's hard not to appreciate his compositional skill, the ability to arrange string parts that do much more than merely play the song's chord progression, instead offering rich melodic counterpoints. This sharp learning curve makes it difficult for too many indie artists to draw lessons from ELO's successes; even if a songwriter possesses Lynne's orchestral skills, it's a pretty cost-prohibitive embellishment for most small-time acts. But other elements of the ELO sound are ripe for harvest, as shown by the Lynne-esque overdub-crazy vocal methods used on recent records from Of Montreal and Scissor Sisters. Maybe the best lesson from ELO's career is a more general advisory to let your ambition run wild, a topical piece of advice when everyone from My Chemical Romance to the Arcade Fire are currently aiming for stadium-size grandiosity with their own records. Calling in the string section and commissioning the spaceship cover-art may be a big gamble, but Out of the Blue is proof of how good it can sound when the grand approach works-- and gets the loving audio quality makeover it deserves.

Artist: Electric Light Orchestra, Album: Out of the Blue, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.1 Album review: "Here's a shocking fact: 2007 marks the 25th anniversary of the compact disc. Considering how record companies love to sell you the same album multiple times, that's a bizarrely long tenure for the newest music industry-approved technology. Because the CD refuses to yield the throne to any other physical formats (DVDs? Minidiscs?), labels have long been forced to find other ways to repeatedly plunder their catalogs, most notably by releasing remastered and expanded versions of any album that was reasonably successful. In some cases, the cleaned-up sound and snazzier packaging of these records corrects lazy, negligent editions released in the CD's early days, but more often it's just a case of shaking loose change out of the couch cushions. That's not the case with Electric Light Orchestra, subjects of a lengthy restoration project that has reached Out of the Blue in time for its 30th anniversary. ELO may not immediately seem like an essential part of music history, but there's no denying they're a band well served by the fancy frills that accompany a reissue. For starters, ELO records hearken back to an era where album art meant Awesome Fucking Spaceships, and Out of the Blue has an especially fine one that resembles a cross between a jukebox and the old Simon games. It's a disservice to shrink such a cover down to CD-size packaging, but the reissue compensates by including a build-it-yourself punch-out space needle thingy and pictures of the band's ridiculous spaceship stage-set. More importantly, ELO records respond well to remastered sound, due to the band's entire aesthetic being based upon Jeff Lynne using approximately 250 tracks of instruments and vocals in every song. Out of the Blue is often thought to be the band's high water mark because, in many ways, it was the culmination of Lynne's ambitious original mission to blend rock'n'roll with orchestral flourishes, his presumptuous effort to "pick up where the Beatles left off." By this, his seventh album, Lynne had developed the idea far beyond the cheesy primordial mashups like his "Roll Over Beethoven" cover (excepting the silly throwback "Birmingham Blues"), and had even reached past the increasingly restrictive borders of 70s rock to embrace treble-heavy elements of the rising disco sound like liberal uses of falsetto, arcade synths, and melodramatic strings. Prophetic anticipation or dumb luck, Out of the Blue hit the zeitgeist jackpot in 1977, coming out within a month of Saturday Night Fever and reflecting, if not true disco, a perfect crossover gateway-drug to piggyback on the explosion of their fellow rock defectors, the Bee Gees. Though ELO's finest singles may have appeared on the two prior albums (can you argue with "Evil Woman" or "Livin' Thing"?), Out of the Blue has its share of greatest hits regulars sprinkled across its four vinyl sides: "Turn to Stone", "Sweet Talkin' Woman", "Wild West Hero". The side C four-song suite "Concerto for a Rainy Day" (god bless the 70s) even includes the triumphant "Mr. Blue Sky", deservedly exhumed in the past few years by the hipster cognoscenti as a perfectly weird slice of gaudy, over-the-top FM-dial pop. The deep cuts on Out of the Blue also hold their own alongside the hits, enough so to justify the double-album expanse (though its 70 minutes are routine by today's CD-enabled standards). "Across the Border" finds a way to cram mariachi horns into Lynne's already packed palette, and most of "Concerto for a Rainy Day" is an argument for art-rock excess, from the Boston-esque organ arpeggios of "Standin' in the Rain" to the army-of-Lynne choir that marks the balladic "Summer and Lightning". Lynne's symphonic addiction may be the kind of bloat punk was meant to eradicate, but it's hard not to appreciate his compositional skill, the ability to arrange string parts that do much more than merely play the song's chord progression, instead offering rich melodic counterpoints. This sharp learning curve makes it difficult for too many indie artists to draw lessons from ELO's successes; even if a songwriter possesses Lynne's orchestral skills, it's a pretty cost-prohibitive embellishment for most small-time acts. But other elements of the ELO sound are ripe for harvest, as shown by the Lynne-esque overdub-crazy vocal methods used on recent records from Of Montreal and Scissor Sisters. Maybe the best lesson from ELO's career is a more general advisory to let your ambition run wild, a topical piece of advice when everyone from My Chemical Romance to the Arcade Fire are currently aiming for stadium-size grandiosity with their own records. Calling in the string section and commissioning the spaceship cover-art may be a big gamble, but Out of the Blue is proof of how good it can sound when the grand approach works-- and gets the loving audio quality makeover it deserves."

Damon & Naomi

False Beats and True Hearts

Rock

Matthew Murphy

Damon Krukowski and Naomi Yang are still most often celebrated as the rhythm section of Galaxie 500, two decades after that beloved group's demise. Perhaps then it is important to note that False Beats and True Hearts is the fourth studio album the duo has recorded in collaboration with guitarist Michio Kurihara, of the psych-folk Japanese powerhouse Ghost. This means that Damon & Naomi have now officially created more music with Kurihara than they ever did with Dean Wareham in Galaxie 500, and over a considerably longer stretch of time. So it seems accurate to say that this, then, is their true music: hushed, vibrant folk-rock punctuated by discreet electric guitar and quiet horns, all of which bear only the most passing resemblance to vintage Galaxie 500. In the time since Damon & Naomi's previous studio album, 2007's Within These Walls, the duo has kept itself characteristically busy. They've toured the world, released the video anthology 1001 Nights and the best-of compilation The Sub Pop Years, and overseen a lavish reissue of the Galaxie 500 catalog on their own 20/20/20 imprint. Given all that activity, it is somewhat surprising to hear how little has changed sonically on False Beats and True Hearts, and the album can give the impression that Damon & Naomi have used the recording process as a way to exhale and re-center themselves creatively. It's interesting to observe the range of sounds that have now become a regular presence in the duo's work. There was a time when it would have seemed wholly out of character for a Damon & Naomi album to open with a trebly burst of psychedelic guitar, or for one of their songs to feature a languid saxophone solo. But over the course of their past several albums, these elements have become such a familiar component of their music that here at times the duo can sound a bit too comfortable. In addition to Kurihara, the album features guest spots by Ghost's leader Masaki Batoh, trumpet player Greg Kelley, and multi-instrumentalist Bhob Rainey, and there are points where Damon & Naomi's quiet vocals and thoughtful lyrics risk getting lost within their own lush accompaniment. Damon & Naomi's recent archival activity has provided listeners with an excellent opportunity to investigate their entire musical timeline. The tempos have always been slow, and the volume still tends towards the hushed and intimate, but the overall texture of their music has undergone a gradual change. In Galaxie 500's music, Dean Wareham's voice and guitar, Naomi's melodic bass, and Damon's drums were each given a distinctive role to play, and each stood out in relative isolation in the group's spare production. On False Beats and True Hearts, however, the instruments are allowed to casually blur into one another, with acoustic guitars and piano and reeds uniting to create a single dense weave as Kurihara's hypnotic guitar soars in and out above everything. It's an inviting sound, yet one that often sacrifices sonic fireworks in favor of a general atmosphere of enveloping warmth. Beneath the album's placid surfaces there is a subtle but persistent tug of melancholy. The Naomi-sung "How Do I Say Goodbye" is a direct song of loss and mourning, and nearly every track on the album references the silent passing of time and the invisible power of memory and nostalgia. "The past is who we are but not what we may become," Damon sings on "Ophelia", articulating the theme of acceptance that echoes throughout the album. In typical fashion, Damon & Naomi's lyrics on False Beats and True Hearts read very well on the page but don't necessarily lend themselves to immediately memorable choruses or hooks. As with their other work with Michio Kurihara, False Beats and True Hearts is a slow bloom, an album whose rewards can become fully apparent only through thoughtful immersion.

Artist: Damon & Naomi, Album: False Beats and True Hearts, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.9 Album review: "Damon Krukowski and Naomi Yang are still most often celebrated as the rhythm section of Galaxie 500, two decades after that beloved group's demise. Perhaps then it is important to note that False Beats and True Hearts is the fourth studio album the duo has recorded in collaboration with guitarist Michio Kurihara, of the psych-folk Japanese powerhouse Ghost. This means that Damon & Naomi have now officially created more music with Kurihara than they ever did with Dean Wareham in Galaxie 500, and over a considerably longer stretch of time. So it seems accurate to say that this, then, is their true music: hushed, vibrant folk-rock punctuated by discreet electric guitar and quiet horns, all of which bear only the most passing resemblance to vintage Galaxie 500. In the time since Damon & Naomi's previous studio album, 2007's Within These Walls, the duo has kept itself characteristically busy. They've toured the world, released the video anthology 1001 Nights and the best-of compilation The Sub Pop Years, and overseen a lavish reissue of the Galaxie 500 catalog on their own 20/20/20 imprint. Given all that activity, it is somewhat surprising to hear how little has changed sonically on False Beats and True Hearts, and the album can give the impression that Damon & Naomi have used the recording process as a way to exhale and re-center themselves creatively. It's interesting to observe the range of sounds that have now become a regular presence in the duo's work. There was a time when it would have seemed wholly out of character for a Damon & Naomi album to open with a trebly burst of psychedelic guitar, or for one of their songs to feature a languid saxophone solo. But over the course of their past several albums, these elements have become such a familiar component of their music that here at times the duo can sound a bit too comfortable. In addition to Kurihara, the album features guest spots by Ghost's leader Masaki Batoh, trumpet player Greg Kelley, and multi-instrumentalist Bhob Rainey, and there are points where Damon & Naomi's quiet vocals and thoughtful lyrics risk getting lost within their own lush accompaniment. Damon & Naomi's recent archival activity has provided listeners with an excellent opportunity to investigate their entire musical timeline. The tempos have always been slow, and the volume still tends towards the hushed and intimate, but the overall texture of their music has undergone a gradual change. In Galaxie 500's music, Dean Wareham's voice and guitar, Naomi's melodic bass, and Damon's drums were each given a distinctive role to play, and each stood out in relative isolation in the group's spare production. On False Beats and True Hearts, however, the instruments are allowed to casually blur into one another, with acoustic guitars and piano and reeds uniting to create a single dense weave as Kurihara's hypnotic guitar soars in and out above everything. It's an inviting sound, yet one that often sacrifices sonic fireworks in favor of a general atmosphere of enveloping warmth. Beneath the album's placid surfaces there is a subtle but persistent tug of melancholy. The Naomi-sung "How Do I Say Goodbye" is a direct song of loss and mourning, and nearly every track on the album references the silent passing of time and the invisible power of memory and nostalgia. "The past is who we are but not what we may become," Damon sings on "Ophelia", articulating the theme of acceptance that echoes throughout the album. In typical fashion, Damon & Naomi's lyrics on False Beats and True Hearts read very well on the page but don't necessarily lend themselves to immediately memorable choruses or hooks. As with their other work with Michio Kurihara, False Beats and True Hearts is a slow bloom, an album whose rewards can become fully apparent only through thoughtful immersion."

Isis

Panopticon

Metal,Rock

Brandon Stosuy

When people mention "heavy metal," I still kneejerk and jump back to ultra-specific childhood associations: The Bon Jovi/Mötley Crüe diptych in my sister's purple room, watching "Headbangers Ball" with a pack of Party Mix and decorating my first shiny, black, mall-bought guitar with Slayer stickers, the trashy Maiden fans in my neighborhood with their toothpick legs, seeing pre-suck-ass Metallica in a mid-sized club with a friend of mine who wore a fake wig so he could feel more the part. These memories are just the tip of the Viking's iceberg; the stuff has leaked into my adulthood, especially via first-generation Norwegian black metal, Mastodon, High On Fire, the Polish rockers who ran my borrowed van into a Los Angeles parking deck last spring, and-- mightiest of all-- the glorious slow-release sprawl of Isis. An odd monster, the Boston quintet has toured with Ipecac rap artist Dälek; had their music tweaked on a series of 12-inches by (among others) label head Mike Patton, Godflesh's Justin Broadrick, Fennesz, Thomas Koner, and Khanate's James Plotkin; and have played both Mogwai's stage at 2004's All Tomorrow's Parties in East Sussex, England, and the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles. They're not your mulletted uncle's bar band. Their album Oceanic was all dark grandeur and waterlogged heaviness, and those qualities define the seven tracks on their follow up Panopticon. Even more epic and swirling than Oceanic, Isis's third full-length combines their velvety, slow avant-metal with Godspeed marathons and stately Ride-style shoegazing. Panopticon shares the crystalline production Matt Bayles (Mastodon, Pearl Jam) leant to Oceanic-- the drums and vocals are submerged, the riffs intricately monolithic-- but unlike on earlier efforts, the spare electronics are more seamlessly woven with the other instruments. A stronger record than its predecessor, Panopticon pummels but harnesses its sounds to a well-honed, diaphanous template. In the grand spirit of over-the-top metal, Isis named the album after Michel Foucault's take on of Jeremy Bentham's concept of the panopticon; the tracks are thematically connected via Foucault's Discipline & Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Because the lyrics are submerged in the mix they're fairly impenetrable, but Isis quote heavily from the French philosopher in the liner notes to make sure listeners don't think they chose the title at random: "The Panopticon is a machine for disassociating the see/being seen dyad: in the peripheric ring, one is totally seen, without ever seeing; in the central tower, one sees everything without ever being seen." (See also: The satellite spy cam photos decorating the album.) Considering the light/dark of the Patriot Act's ubiquitous surveillance, Panopticon feels more relevant than the science fiction of Queensryche's Operation: Mindcrime. Isis's instrumentation also evokes a sense of creeping voyeurism. Astute track placement adds to the slowly building tidal, trance-like rush: individual pieces blend over and flood to the next. With a shadowy sense of repetition-- comparisons to Neurosis and the Melvins make sense-- the shortest track is 6:47 and the longest just under 10 minutes. "Backlit" starts with a delicate intro and stuck-in-the-well melodies before ultimately dam-breaking with gruff whirlpools; the distortion then ducks for cover, allowing a slow, clear bass line, percussion, and cascading arpeggios to bubble to the surface. Such complex dynamics overtake each new wave. I remember in high school when a scruffy English teacher told me the word "awesome" should be saved for snow-capped mountain peaks not an AC/DC concert. I still don't agree with his Bob Ross-like language mangling-- both "awesome" and the equally 80s-rooted colloquilism "triumphant" are apt descriptions of Panopticon's intricacies. Plus, not to rain on Sir Shakespeare's parade: I grew up in swampy, dank New Jersey and have always preferred the angularity of flat, burnt-out fields to the obviousness of your purple mountains majesty. But for fans of such old-school sublime, Isis connect these overstated zero-oxygen heights with sludgy, brackish small-town waters, creating stellar classical music for kids with bad teenage mustaches-- and those of us who empathize with them.

Artist: Isis, Album: Panopticon, Genre: Metal,Rock, Score (1-10): 8.4 Album review: "When people mention "heavy metal," I still kneejerk and jump back to ultra-specific childhood associations: The Bon Jovi/Mötley Crüe diptych in my sister's purple room, watching "Headbangers Ball" with a pack of Party Mix and decorating my first shiny, black, mall-bought guitar with Slayer stickers, the trashy Maiden fans in my neighborhood with their toothpick legs, seeing pre-suck-ass Metallica in a mid-sized club with a friend of mine who wore a fake wig so he could feel more the part. These memories are just the tip of the Viking's iceberg; the stuff has leaked into my adulthood, especially via first-generation Norwegian black metal, Mastodon, High On Fire, the Polish rockers who ran my borrowed van into a Los Angeles parking deck last spring, and-- mightiest of all-- the glorious slow-release sprawl of Isis. An odd monster, the Boston quintet has toured with Ipecac rap artist Dälek; had their music tweaked on a series of 12-inches by (among others) label head Mike Patton, Godflesh's Justin Broadrick, Fennesz, Thomas Koner, and Khanate's James Plotkin; and have played both Mogwai's stage at 2004's All Tomorrow's Parties in East Sussex, England, and the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles. They're not your mulletted uncle's bar band. Their album Oceanic was all dark grandeur and waterlogged heaviness, and those qualities define the seven tracks on their follow up Panopticon. Even more epic and swirling than Oceanic, Isis's third full-length combines their velvety, slow avant-metal with Godspeed marathons and stately Ride-style shoegazing. Panopticon shares the crystalline production Matt Bayles (Mastodon, Pearl Jam) leant to Oceanic-- the drums and vocals are submerged, the riffs intricately monolithic-- but unlike on earlier efforts, the spare electronics are more seamlessly woven with the other instruments. A stronger record than its predecessor, Panopticon pummels but harnesses its sounds to a well-honed, diaphanous template. In the grand spirit of over-the-top metal, Isis named the album after Michel Foucault's take on of Jeremy Bentham's concept of the panopticon; the tracks are thematically connected via Foucault's Discipline & Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Because the lyrics are submerged in the mix they're fairly impenetrable, but Isis quote heavily from the French philosopher in the liner notes to make sure listeners don't think they chose the title at random: "The Panopticon is a machine for disassociating the see/being seen dyad: in the peripheric ring, one is totally seen, without ever seeing; in the central tower, one sees everything without ever being seen." (See also: The satellite spy cam photos decorating the album.) Considering the light/dark of the Patriot Act's ubiquitous surveillance, Panopticon feels more relevant than the science fiction of Queensryche's Operation: Mindcrime. Isis's instrumentation also evokes a sense of creeping voyeurism. Astute track placement adds to the slowly building tidal, trance-like rush: individual pieces blend over and flood to the next. With a shadowy sense of repetition-- comparisons to Neurosis and the Melvins make sense-- the shortest track is 6:47 and the longest just under 10 minutes. "Backlit" starts with a delicate intro and stuck-in-the-well melodies before ultimately dam-breaking with gruff whirlpools; the distortion then ducks for cover, allowing a slow, clear bass line, percussion, and cascading arpeggios to bubble to the surface. Such complex dynamics overtake each new wave. I remember in high school when a scruffy English teacher told me the word "awesome" should be saved for snow-capped mountain peaks not an AC/DC concert. I still don't agree with his Bob Ross-like language mangling-- both "awesome" and the equally 80s-rooted colloquilism "triumphant" are apt descriptions of Panopticon's intricacies. Plus, not to rain on Sir Shakespeare's parade: I grew up in swampy, dank New Jersey and have always preferred the angularity of flat, burnt-out fields to the obviousness of your purple mountains majesty. But for fans of such old-school sublime, Isis connect these overstated zero-oxygen heights with sludgy, brackish small-town waters, creating stellar classical music for kids with bad teenage mustaches-- and those of us who empathize with them."

Vijay Iyer, Mike Ladd

In What Language?

Jazz,Rap

Joe Tangari

O'Hare International Airport, Chicago, December, 2003 My wife and I are led down a long aisle away from the other passengers and asked to remove our shoes and place them in molded plastic tubs so that they may be x-rayed with our coats and bags. As I step through the metal detector, it says nothing, but I'm still shepherded to an enclosed space where I'm told to spread my arms as a security guard runs his wand over me. Nothing again, but I'm used to this now-- it's been this way for more than two years. The guard places my shoes on a table and looks at them, then glances at my aged OK Computer t-shirt and remarks, "Hey, that's a pretty good band." He stares at the floor and distantly mutters, "Alright, you can go ahead and put your shoes back on now." For me in my white skin, traveling through airports was never difficult before September 11th, 2001. Even today, any delay I encounter is never more than an inconvenience, a standard set of instructions to follow in the name of an abstract concept called "national security." Others aren't always so lucky. In April of 2001, Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi was merely passing through New York's JFK International Airport, in transit from a film festival in Hong Kong to another in Buenos Aires, when he was detained by the INS for refusing to be fingerprinted, and kept in a crowded holding cell for ten hours. He was ultimately returned to Hong Kong in handcuffs, famously attempting to explain himself to his fellow passengers: "I'm not a thief! I'm not a murderer! I am just an Iranian, a filmmaker. But how could I tell this, in what language?" Indian-American jazz pianist Vijay Iyer and underground hip-hop luminary Mike Ladd have seized upon this incident for both the title and inspiration for this collaboration, a cycle of songs about lives in transit, brown-skinned people from around the world living in unfamiliar places, passing through the world's airports in search of work, home and asylum. It's a world of businessmen, cab drivers, refugees, porn sellers and detainees, each of whom Ladd brings to life with his vivid poetry and spiraling rhymes, several of which he hands off to guest vocalists who inhabit their characters as needed. Ladd himself veers back and forth from the wide-eyed poetic delivery that he perfected on Welcome to the Afterfuture's "Feb. 4 '99 (For All Those Killed by Cops)," and his usual, unpredictable flow on his six lead vocal tracks, which he uses to lay out his thoughts on the topic at hand in broad terms. His actors, Allison Easter, Latasha N. Nevada Diggs and Ajay Naidu, are called upon to elaborate on these themes through narrative and dialogue. This kind of setup has plenty of potential for disaster, but Ladd keeps it all together with his wit and expansive knowledge of the subject matter. "Swipe the coded stripe and my name drops in ones and zeroes/ Somewhere a computer may know/ Ladd is to Pratt as Cawthorne is to Willis is to Pickett and on/ What it won't show are the moments/ Of love or lust that swirl through centuries/ And tan me here/ Making me one more memento/ Of a close-quartered world," he reels on the opening, "Color of My Circumference I", setting up a journey that is by turns harrowing and humorous. Naidu takes a hilariously acerbic turn as a thick-accented NYC cab driver from Mumbai, blasting through verses like, "My cab as amusement/ My cab as escape/ My cab is my job/ No tip? Then fuck off/ New York to Bombay/ BJP's Mumbai/ As Bloomberg is to play-pen is to/ I'm too tired/ 1010 WINS Radio/ 94.6/ WIN India's number one station, all hits," with liquid fluency, something that must be tough when delivering rhymes you didn't write. Ladd hits everything hard, feeding lines like "My language a threat as well as my limbs/ My skin a question/ My skin a critique" to Easter on "Asylum", wherein she plays a refugee from Sierra Leone forced to hide under beds from soldiers in sneakers and flip-flops through multiple countries only to be detained in her promised land. Naidu tears it up again on "Rentals" as he discusses his adult magazine stand: "I am a porn walla/ I mop Dahi for thirty dollars a day/ I can police shoplifts in four different languages/ Can they?/ They are cops/ I'm a cop/ A laser eye close-cam brain/ A lust proctor/ And they search me/ Green carded/ Legal as 18, baby." Indianapolis International Airport, November, 2001 The girl in front of me has syringes. Nine of them, with needles at least an inch long. She sets off the metal detector, but the guard, an old white man who seems to be in charge, ignores this, leaves his wand on the fold-out table and pores over the syringes in their case. The girl tries to explain that they're for her medicine, and that she needs to have them with her on the plane. The second guard, a young black woman perhaps 19 years old, waves me through the metal detector and I set it off. She tells me to stand aside and wait, but the man turns away from the syringes and yells at her: "Don't tell him to stand over there." He looks at me and says, "You can go." The guy behind me in line, a light-skinned black man who's maybe about 30 in a tie and glasses, has now come through the detector. It hasn't gone off. The guard allows the syringe girl to leave, and directs the man behind me to stand aside and spread his arms, picks up his wand and tells me to go again. I look at the female guard but she's too busy trying to explain that I should be getting wanded to the male guard to notice my glance. I pick up my bag and head into the terminal. Without a compelling backdrop, Ladd's words would still be compelling, but they wouldn't be much to listen to, and Iyer's arrangements range over a broad swath of improvisational and textural ground, flirting with hip-hop, ambient drone and jazz noir. Iyer's piano playing is expressionistic and cloudlike, more Edvard Munch than traditional jazz. He builds those clouds up to thunderheads on the four "Color of My Circumference" tracks, and creates a riverlike current for closer "Plastic Bag", with cellist Dana Leong floating amidst the eddies and whitecaps. "Asylum" is told over trumpets and piano clusters that hang like cobwebs, while drummer Trevor Holder explodes in whip-crack breakbeats on "TLC". One thing Iyer doesn't do is concern himself much with thematic development or melody, submitting his compositions solely to the service of Ladd's subject matter. This works surprisingly well, as there's already a lot to take in without the top of the mix getting any busier. The way Ladd constructs his rhymes also hints at melody more than most, s

Artist: Vijay Iyer, Mike Ladd, Album: In What Language?, Genre: Jazz,Rap, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "O'Hare International Airport, Chicago, December, 2003 My wife and I are led down a long aisle away from the other passengers and asked to remove our shoes and place them in molded plastic tubs so that they may be x-rayed with our coats and bags. As I step through the metal detector, it says nothing, but I'm still shepherded to an enclosed space where I'm told to spread my arms as a security guard runs his wand over me. Nothing again, but I'm used to this now-- it's been this way for more than two years. The guard places my shoes on a table and looks at them, then glances at my aged OK Computer t-shirt and remarks, "Hey, that's a pretty good band." He stares at the floor and distantly mutters, "Alright, you can go ahead and put your shoes back on now." For me in my white skin, traveling through airports was never difficult before September 11th, 2001. Even today, any delay I encounter is never more than an inconvenience, a standard set of instructions to follow in the name of an abstract concept called "national security." Others aren't always so lucky. In April of 2001, Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi was merely passing through New York's JFK International Airport, in transit from a film festival in Hong Kong to another in Buenos Aires, when he was detained by the INS for refusing to be fingerprinted, and kept in a crowded holding cell for ten hours. He was ultimately returned to Hong Kong in handcuffs, famously attempting to explain himself to his fellow passengers: "I'm not a thief! I'm not a murderer! I am just an Iranian, a filmmaker. But how could I tell this, in what language?" Indian-American jazz pianist Vijay Iyer and underground hip-hop luminary Mike Ladd have seized upon this incident for both the title and inspiration for this collaboration, a cycle of songs about lives in transit, brown-skinned people from around the world living in unfamiliar places, passing through the world's airports in search of work, home and asylum. It's a world of businessmen, cab drivers, refugees, porn sellers and detainees, each of whom Ladd brings to life with his vivid poetry and spiraling rhymes, several of which he hands off to guest vocalists who inhabit their characters as needed. Ladd himself veers back and forth from the wide-eyed poetic delivery that he perfected on Welcome to the Afterfuture's "Feb. 4 '99 (For All Those Killed by Cops)," and his usual, unpredictable flow on his six lead vocal tracks, which he uses to lay out his thoughts on the topic at hand in broad terms. His actors, Allison Easter, Latasha N. Nevada Diggs and Ajay Naidu, are called upon to elaborate on these themes through narrative and dialogue. This kind of setup has plenty of potential for disaster, but Ladd keeps it all together with his wit and expansive knowledge of the subject matter. "Swipe the coded stripe and my name drops in ones and zeroes/ Somewhere a computer may know/ Ladd is to Pratt as Cawthorne is to Willis is to Pickett and on/ What it won't show are the moments/ Of love or lust that swirl through centuries/ And tan me here/ Making me one more memento/ Of a close-quartered world," he reels on the opening, "Color of My Circumference I", setting up a journey that is by turns harrowing and humorous. Naidu takes a hilariously acerbic turn as a thick-accented NYC cab driver from Mumbai, blasting through verses like, "My cab as amusement/ My cab as escape/ My cab is my job/ No tip? Then fuck off/ New York to Bombay/ BJP's Mumbai/ As Bloomberg is to play-pen is to/ I'm too tired/ 1010 WINS Radio/ 94.6/ WIN India's number one station, all hits," with liquid fluency, something that must be tough when delivering rhymes you didn't write. Ladd hits everything hard, feeding lines like "My language a threat as well as my limbs/ My skin a question/ My skin a critique" to Easter on "Asylum", wherein she plays a refugee from Sierra Leone forced to hide under beds from soldiers in sneakers and flip-flops through multiple countries only to be detained in her promised land. Naidu tears it up again on "Rentals" as he discusses his adult magazine stand: "I am a porn walla/ I mop Dahi for thirty dollars a day/ I can police shoplifts in four different languages/ Can they?/ They are cops/ I'm a cop/ A laser eye close-cam brain/ A lust proctor/ And they search me/ Green carded/ Legal as 18, baby." Indianapolis International Airport, November, 2001 The girl in front of me has syringes. Nine of them, with needles at least an inch long. She sets off the metal detector, but the guard, an old white man who seems to be in charge, ignores this, leaves his wand on the fold-out table and pores over the syringes in their case. The girl tries to explain that they're for her medicine, and that she needs to have them with her on the plane. The second guard, a young black woman perhaps 19 years old, waves me through the metal detector and I set it off. She tells me to stand aside and wait, but the man turns away from the syringes and yells at her: "Don't tell him to stand over there." He looks at me and says, "You can go." The guy behind me in line, a light-skinned black man who's maybe about 30 in a tie and glasses, has now come through the detector. It hasn't gone off. The guard allows the syringe girl to leave, and directs the man behind me to stand aside and spread his arms, picks up his wand and tells me to go again. I look at the female guard but she's too busy trying to explain that I should be getting wanded to the male guard to notice my glance. I pick up my bag and head into the terminal. Without a compelling backdrop, Ladd's words would still be compelling, but they wouldn't be much to listen to, and Iyer's arrangements range over a broad swath of improvisational and textural ground, flirting with hip-hop, ambient drone and jazz noir. Iyer's piano playing is expressionistic and cloudlike, more Edvard Munch than traditional jazz. He builds those clouds up to thunderheads on the four "Color of My Circumference" tracks, and creates a riverlike current for closer "Plastic Bag", with cellist Dana Leong floating amidst the eddies and whitecaps. "Asylum" is told over trumpets and piano clusters that hang like cobwebs, while drummer Trevor Holder explodes in whip-crack breakbeats on "TLC". One thing Iyer doesn't do is concern himself much with thematic development or melody, submitting his compositions solely to the service of Ladd's subject matter. This works surprisingly well, as there's already a lot to take in without the top of the mix getting any busier. The way Ladd constructs his rhymes also hints at melody more than most, s"

Gucci Mane, Zaytoven

GucTiggy EP

Rap

Sheldon Pearce

The rapper-producer bond is at the center of rap symbiosis, but it’s a balance that’s difficult to maintain. Gucci Mane and Zaytoven have embodied that balance for over a decade now. It was Zaytoven who convinced Gucci to start rapping in his basement in the early 2000s, and the connection between the two was instantaneous: “Me and Gucci had a chemistry,” he told The Fader for their oral history of the storied street rapper. “Wherever he went or whoever he teamed up with, I was rocking with him.” The pair has been prolific, releasing hundreds of songs and forging modern trap music in their image. In addition to producing EA Sportscenter, which kickstarted Gucci’s strongest stretch in 2008, and appearing on several mixtapes throughout his career, Zaytoven is the only producer credited on all nine of Gucci’s studio albums. It isn’t an exaggeration to say they changed rap, in sound and disposition. But time changes everything, and the two aren’t the tag-team they once were. They’ve both strayed from their storied partnership in recent years, in part because of Gucci’s prison stint, but also just due to outright growth and progression. Zaytoven produced the middle work in Future’s rehabilitating mixtape trilogy, Beast Mode, along with hits like Migos’ breakout single “Versace,” and Gucci has worked with a host of producers including Mike WiLL Made-It and Metro Boomin, two guys heavily indebted to his influence who have gone on to shape the current rap landscape. Gucci and Zaytoven always existed outside of each other, but these days they’re no longer defined by it. Their latest joint EP, GucTiggy, is a salute to the decade-plus they’ve spent redefining rap and a testament to their fellowship. Gucci puts it plainly on “GucTiggy Vol. 3:” “Zay, that's my vato, yeah, yeah, that's my Preemo.” Likely recorded in the six days of sessions that created Everybody Looking, which was primarily produced by Zaytoven and Mike WiLL, GucTiggy is just as rushed as the album and even less polished. But this project isn’t meant to be some great, standalone work, an Everybody Looking companion piece, or even as an informal introduction to the upcoming Woptober project. It’s simply a token of a longstanding, working friendship. The production value is somewhat fitting, almost reminiscent of those early mixtapes that made them staples on the underground and Datpiff circuits. These songs are trinkets, collectibles for longtime fans and disposable Gucci-Zay ephemera for their rap scrapbook. If Everybody Looking was Gucci Mane and Zaytoven rediscovering their rhythm, this is their opportunity to smell the roses. Still, Gucci is shaking the prison rust off with every flow, working his way back into rapping shape, and even when he isn’t at his full power he’s a formidable presence. On “GucTiggy Vol. 2 (Woptober),” he chugs along steadily, letting his momentum build line by line. By “GucTiggy Vol. 4,” he’s capturing glints of past glory with gems like “I’m so Marilyn Manson, I’m so heinously handsome/I’m more dangerous than famous, I’ll take your grandson for ransom.” Zaytoven is about as dependable as they come, and he lines heavy 808 bass with prickly synths and accenting keys. Things are starting to come together, and on GucTiggy they build back a bit more of the chemistry lost to time served with each breath and keystroke. “I ain’t got not partners, I’m my own partner,” Gucci raps in the opening bar of “GucTiggy Vol. 1,” undoubtedly a swipe at a former comrade like Waka Flocka Flame. But such a bar overlooks his man behind the boards.

Artist: Gucci Mane, Zaytoven, Album: GucTiggy EP, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "The rapper-producer bond is at the center of rap symbiosis, but it’s a balance that’s difficult to maintain. Gucci Mane and Zaytoven have embodied that balance for over a decade now. It was Zaytoven who convinced Gucci to start rapping in his basement in the early 2000s, and the connection between the two was instantaneous: “Me and Gucci had a chemistry,” he told The Fader for their oral history of the storied street rapper. “Wherever he went or whoever he teamed up with, I was rocking with him.” The pair has been prolific, releasing hundreds of songs and forging modern trap music in their image. In addition to producing EA Sportscenter, which kickstarted Gucci’s strongest stretch in 2008, and appearing on several mixtapes throughout his career, Zaytoven is the only producer credited on all nine of Gucci’s studio albums. It isn’t an exaggeration to say they changed rap, in sound and disposition. But time changes everything, and the two aren’t the tag-team they once were. They’ve both strayed from their storied partnership in recent years, in part because of Gucci’s prison stint, but also just due to outright growth and progression. Zaytoven produced the middle work in Future’s rehabilitating mixtape trilogy, Beast Mode, along with hits like Migos’ breakout single “Versace,” and Gucci has worked with a host of producers including Mike WiLL Made-It and Metro Boomin, two guys heavily indebted to his influence who have gone on to shape the current rap landscape. Gucci and Zaytoven always existed outside of each other, but these days they’re no longer defined by it. Their latest joint EP, GucTiggy, is a salute to the decade-plus they’ve spent redefining rap and a testament to their fellowship. Gucci puts it plainly on “GucTiggy Vol. 3:” “Zay, that's my vato, yeah, yeah, that's my Preemo.” Likely recorded in the six days of sessions that created Everybody Looking, which was primarily produced by Zaytoven and Mike WiLL, GucTiggy is just as rushed as the album and even less polished. But this project isn’t meant to be some great, standalone work, an Everybody Looking companion piece, or even as an informal introduction to the upcoming Woptober project. It’s simply a token of a longstanding, working friendship. The production value is somewhat fitting, almost reminiscent of those early mixtapes that made them staples on the underground and Datpiff circuits. These songs are trinkets, collectibles for longtime fans and disposable Gucci-Zay ephemera for their rap scrapbook. If Everybody Looking was Gucci Mane and Zaytoven rediscovering their rhythm, this is their opportunity to smell the roses. Still, Gucci is shaking the prison rust off with every flow, working his way back into rapping shape, and even when he isn’t at his full power he’s a formidable presence. On “GucTiggy Vol. 2 (Woptober),” he chugs along steadily, letting his momentum build line by line. By “GucTiggy Vol. 4,” he’s capturing glints of past glory with gems like “I’m so Marilyn Manson, I’m so heinously handsome/I’m more dangerous than famous, I’ll take your grandson for ransom.” Zaytoven is about as dependable as they come, and he lines heavy 808 bass with prickly synths and accenting keys. Things are starting to come together, and on GucTiggy they build back a bit more of the chemistry lost to time served with each breath and keystroke. “I ain’t got not partners, I’m my own partner,” Gucci raps in the opening bar of “GucTiggy Vol. 1,” undoubtedly a swipe at a former comrade like Waka Flocka Flame. But such a bar overlooks his man behind the boards."

Nothing

Dance on the Blacktop

Rock

Jenn Pelly

Dream pop and shoegaze, with their diffuse atmospheres and negative space, invite us to fill in the blanks with our own baggage. The Philadelphia band Nothing do a lot of that filling-in for us—these shoegazers do not look down; they stare you in the eye. It can feel suspect, imposing too much of Nothing’s bleak history onto the blank canvas. But when the saga involves incarceration, pharmaceutical sadist Martin Shkreli, and permanent brain damage—as it does for Nothing frontman Domenic Palermo, who was jumped outside a show in Oakland in 2015 and barely survived—the narrative becomes knotted inextricably into the gentle music. Nothing’s dismal backstory both colors in their sound and accounts for its sadness, its heaviness, its palliative effect. A reputable magazine recently called Nothing “the world’s unluckiest band,” and a journalist once began an interview with the apt question: “Do you feel cursed?” If there’s a hex on Nothing, they embrace it. “I’m living in a dream world,” Palermo sang on 2016’s “Nineteen Ninety Heaven.” “Life’s a nightmare.” That could be Nothing’s manifesto. The title of Nothing’s third record, Dance on the Blacktop, is a phrase Palermo learned while serving two years in prison in the early 2000s (he stabbed someone in a brawl, claiming self-defense). It is slang for fighting, but Palermo adopts it to mean something like riding the inevitable chaos of existence with grace. Dance on the Blacktop tempers its self-defeatist lyrics with pummeling light, and while the songs here hew closer to billowing 1990s alt-rock than on previous records, there’s still an appealing minimalism to the sound. That might come from the band’s backgrounds in hardcore: Palermo was in Horror Show, on Deathwish; new bassist Aaron Heard also fronts the brutalist Jesus Piece; drummer Kyle Kimball was in the gothier Salvation. Dance’s tried-and-true arrangements—simmering and erupting, despondent and ecstatic—are not terribly original, but they are deeply felt. “Zero Day” is a decently melancholy Smashing Pumpkins impression, as Palermo sings of “infinity, oblivion” and his “empty sky of everlasting misfortune.” “You Wind Me Up” recalls Dinosaur Jr.’s dry, drawling “Feel the Pain” to an extreme (John Agnello produced both) though its raw character distinguishes it: “We were sitting in the sun/Smoldering a love/The drugs were never strong enough.” There’s an uncomplicated, slackerish romanticism to most Nothing lyrics, as Palermo sings of faded souls and inscrutable stars. Amid the thundering swirl of “I Hate the Flowers,” Palermo is “shook outta heaven, fell into hell.” The album contains some gorgeous, subtle shifts, almost micro-sized, as if feeling the world after a handful of edibles. With a disarmingly sweet vocal turn, the strummy dynamism of “Us/We/Are” oddly recalls Third Eye Blind’s Stephan Jenkins. “I know it sounds crazy/There’s static in my head/Everything red,” Palermo sings, likely reflecting on his brain trauma. “Blueline Baby” is the album’s highlight, exploding like green fireworks. Palermo wrote it, he says, “about a girl [he] knew who OD’d when she was 13,” and it is a work of pure pathos. On a deluxe edition of Dance, Nothing faithfully cover Grouper’s drone-folk mini-masterpiece “Heavy Water/I’d Rather Be Sleeping,” and if they learned something about the restorative qualities of music from it, “Blueline Baby” is proof. The cover art for Dance on the Blacktop features a photograph of the New York author Chelsea Hodson in a blank mask, looking hyperreal and obscured at once. Listening to Nothing, I think of a line from her excellent recent essay collection, Tonight I’m Someone Else, which presents a similar mix of elegance and destruction: “How much can a body endure?” she writes. “Almost everything.” Dance on the Blacktop is music at the edge of Hodson’s “everything.” Its theme might be resolve, tenacity, or redemption itself—the sound of hitting rock bottom, looking up, and still catching a glimpse of beauty above.

Artist: Nothing, Album: Dance on the Blacktop, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Dream pop and shoegaze, with their diffuse atmospheres and negative space, invite us to fill in the blanks with our own baggage. The Philadelphia band Nothing do a lot of that filling-in for us—these shoegazers do not look down; they stare you in the eye. It can feel suspect, imposing too much of Nothing’s bleak history onto the blank canvas. But when the saga involves incarceration, pharmaceutical sadist Martin Shkreli, and permanent brain damage—as it does for Nothing frontman Domenic Palermo, who was jumped outside a show in Oakland in 2015 and barely survived—the narrative becomes knotted inextricably into the gentle music. Nothing’s dismal backstory both colors in their sound and accounts for its sadness, its heaviness, its palliative effect. A reputable magazine recently called Nothing “the world’s unluckiest band,” and a journalist once began an interview with the apt question: “Do you feel cursed?” If there’s a hex on Nothing, they embrace it. “I’m living in a dream world,” Palermo sang on 2016’s “Nineteen Ninety Heaven.” “Life’s a nightmare.” That could be Nothing’s manifesto. The title of Nothing’s third record, Dance on the Blacktop, is a phrase Palermo learned while serving two years in prison in the early 2000s (he stabbed someone in a brawl, claiming self-defense). It is slang for fighting, but Palermo adopts it to mean something like riding the inevitable chaos of existence with grace. Dance on the Blacktop tempers its self-defeatist lyrics with pummeling light, and while the songs here hew closer to billowing 1990s alt-rock than on previous records, there’s still an appealing minimalism to the sound. That might come from the band’s backgrounds in hardcore: Palermo was in Horror Show, on Deathwish; new bassist Aaron Heard also fronts the brutalist Jesus Piece; drummer Kyle Kimball was in the gothier Salvation. Dance’s tried-and-true arrangements—simmering and erupting, despondent and ecstatic—are not terribly original, but they are deeply felt. “Zero Day” is a decently melancholy Smashing Pumpkins impression, as Palermo sings of “infinity, oblivion” and his “empty sky of everlasting misfortune.” “You Wind Me Up” recalls Dinosaur Jr.’s dry, drawling “Feel the Pain” to an extreme (John Agnello produced both) though its raw character distinguishes it: “We were sitting in the sun/Smoldering a love/The drugs were never strong enough.” There’s an uncomplicated, slackerish romanticism to most Nothing lyrics, as Palermo sings of faded souls and inscrutable stars. Amid the thundering swirl of “I Hate the Flowers,” Palermo is “shook outta heaven, fell into hell.” The album contains some gorgeous, subtle shifts, almost micro-sized, as if feeling the world after a handful of edibles. With a disarmingly sweet vocal turn, the strummy dynamism of “Us/We/Are” oddly recalls Third Eye Blind’s Stephan Jenkins. “I know it sounds crazy/There’s static in my head/Everything red,” Palermo sings, likely reflecting on his brain trauma. “Blueline Baby” is the album’s highlight, exploding like green fireworks. Palermo wrote it, he says, “about a girl [he] knew who OD’d when she was 13,” and it is a work of pure pathos. On a deluxe edition of Dance, Nothing faithfully cover Grouper’s drone-folk mini-masterpiece “Heavy Water/I’d Rather Be Sleeping,” and if they learned something about the restorative qualities of music from it, “Blueline Baby” is proof. The cover art for Dance on the Blacktop features a photograph of the New York author Chelsea Hodson in a blank mask, looking hyperreal and obscured at once. Listening to Nothing, I think of a line from her excellent recent essay collection, Tonight I’m Someone Else, which presents a similar mix of elegance and destruction: “How much can a body endure?” she writes. “Almost everything.” Dance on the Blacktop is music at the edge of Hodson’s “everything.” Its theme might be resolve, tenacity, or redemption itself—the sound of hitting rock bottom, looking up, and still catching a glimpse of beauty above."

Katy B

Danger EP

Electronic,Rock

Carrie Battan

The opening track on UK pop talent Katy B's new EP, Danger, is called "Aaliyah". At this point we generally know what we're in for when mention is made of the late singer-- some haphazard reappropriation of a vocal track or Timbaland beat, the trademark baby coos of "Are You That Somebody?" buried behind layers of echo or slapped onto somone else's production. But Katy flips expectations here by creating a song that sounds nothing like an Aaliyah original, instead paying homage by making her the subject of the track's lyrics. "Aaliyah, please-- this is green envy/ Why must you taunt me, girl?," she sings over a bass rhythm. Katy trades lines seamlessly with guest Jessie Ware, another UK breakout vocalist, crafting a lyrical love triangle that gazes at Aaliyah from a brand new angle. Together the singers take low-hanging fruit and make something complex from it. Ware joins a stacked lineup of collaborators on the four-song Danger EP that also includes producers Diplo, Jacques Greene, Geeneus, and Zinc, along with rappers Iggy Azalea and Wiley. Which could have very easily made for a crowded, linkbait-laden mess of an EP under another artist's jurisdiction (see: Charli XCX’s Super Ultra EP), but Katy B proves herself an excellent curator. Danger's a collective effort that's diverse but never motley, warm never weak, tough but never harsh, slick but never washed out. While Katy's the centerpiece of the release, she's also an expert chameleon who bends to accommodate her collaborators without sacrificing her vision of gentle UK bass-bred club music. She invites them to see things her way. On paper, the easy weak link appears to be "Light as a Feather", which pairs Diplo's "Set It Off" beat with notorious Australian rap robo-doll Iggy Azalea. It's a recipe for a capital-A annoying song, but Iggy makes what might be her least grating showing ever, adding a brief and subdued verse before passing the buck back to Katy. "Show me your wild side/ I'll be your Vegas/ Don't hold back/ It's yours for the taking," she raps, just as Katy swoops in and cleverly lifts the word "take" for her own part. "What does it take/ To make you feel/ To get you excited/ To see you smile?," she asks as the soft synth fizz percolates. As she did with On a Mission, Katy B uses the Danger EP to explore a softer, more forlorn aspect of nightlife, braiding the nuances of parties and relationships together. "Yeah you passed my love to the left-hand side/ Smoked it right down to the roach/ So I might as well put it out," she sings on the slinky Jacques Greene-produced ballad "Danger". She and Drake might get along well. But the message is clearest on Friday-night anthem "Got Paid": "Straight to the floor/ I let the beat mend my broken heart." Katy never sulks for long. Dropped out of the blue in the year's mid-December deadzone, Danger is another triumph of the EP-length release. Some of the year's best music-- Dum Dum Girls' End of Daze, TNGHT's self-titled debut, and Solange Knowles' new record True-- has been released in the brief, punchy form, and now we can add Danger to that list. In Katy's case, it serves several important purposes: It's a placeholder that reminds us of her existence and shows us she's established some exciting collaborative relationships since On a Mission. It gives us a sparkling peek into what she might have lined up for her scheduled full-length next year. Most of all, it just makes us want to dance.

Artist: Katy B, Album: Danger EP, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.8 Album review: "The opening track on UK pop talent Katy B's new EP, Danger, is called "Aaliyah". At this point we generally know what we're in for when mention is made of the late singer-- some haphazard reappropriation of a vocal track or Timbaland beat, the trademark baby coos of "Are You That Somebody?" buried behind layers of echo or slapped onto somone else's production. But Katy flips expectations here by creating a song that sounds nothing like an Aaliyah original, instead paying homage by making her the subject of the track's lyrics. "Aaliyah, please-- this is green envy/ Why must you taunt me, girl?," she sings over a bass rhythm. Katy trades lines seamlessly with guest Jessie Ware, another UK breakout vocalist, crafting a lyrical love triangle that gazes at Aaliyah from a brand new angle. Together the singers take low-hanging fruit and make something complex from it. Ware joins a stacked lineup of collaborators on the four-song Danger EP that also includes producers Diplo, Jacques Greene, Geeneus, and Zinc, along with rappers Iggy Azalea and Wiley. Which could have very easily made for a crowded, linkbait-laden mess of an EP under another artist's jurisdiction (see: Charli XCX’s Super Ultra EP), but Katy B proves herself an excellent curator. Danger's a collective effort that's diverse but never motley, warm never weak, tough but never harsh, slick but never washed out. While Katy's the centerpiece of the release, she's also an expert chameleon who bends to accommodate her collaborators without sacrificing her vision of gentle UK bass-bred club music. She invites them to see things her way. On paper, the easy weak link appears to be "Light as a Feather", which pairs Diplo's "Set It Off" beat with notorious Australian rap robo-doll Iggy Azalea. It's a recipe for a capital-A annoying song, but Iggy makes what might be her least grating showing ever, adding a brief and subdued verse before passing the buck back to Katy. "Show me your wild side/ I'll be your Vegas/ Don't hold back/ It's yours for the taking," she raps, just as Katy swoops in and cleverly lifts the word "take" for her own part. "What does it take/ To make you feel/ To get you excited/ To see you smile?," she asks as the soft synth fizz percolates. As she did with On a Mission, Katy B uses the Danger EP to explore a softer, more forlorn aspect of nightlife, braiding the nuances of parties and relationships together. "Yeah you passed my love to the left-hand side/ Smoked it right down to the roach/ So I might as well put it out," she sings on the slinky Jacques Greene-produced ballad "Danger". She and Drake might get along well. But the message is clearest on Friday-night anthem "Got Paid": "Straight to the floor/ I let the beat mend my broken heart." Katy never sulks for long. Dropped out of the blue in the year's mid-December deadzone, Danger is another triumph of the EP-length release. Some of the year's best music-- Dum Dum Girls' End of Daze, TNGHT's self-titled debut, and Solange Knowles' new record True-- has been released in the brief, punchy form, and now we can add Danger to that list. In Katy's case, it serves several important purposes: It's a placeholder that reminds us of her existence and shows us she's established some exciting collaborative relationships since On a Mission. It gives us a sparkling peek into what she might have lined up for her scheduled full-length next year. Most of all, it just makes us want to dance."

Uniform

Wake in Fright

Metal

Andy O'Connor

Uniform—the duo consisting of vocalist Michael Berdan and guitarist/programmer Ben Greenberg—started out obsessed with trying to make industrial order from punk chaos. Their debut, Perfect World, sounds like sinister master planning in its title alone; in some alternate universe even worse than ours, its cover would be a chic totalitarian symbol. In a short time, they’ve gotten angrier and let the chaos they tried to control run free. Perfect laid out what a gray dystopia would look like; their sophomore album Wake in Fright is Uniform fighting back, leaning more heavily towards their hardcore and metal heritage. Opener “Tabloid” sounds like Big Black embracing thrash, capturing the precision of a machine coming into conflict with the immeasurable energy of bodies flying through a crowd. Their last record featured a collaboration with Coil’s Drew McDowall; this song shows their ideal touring partners may be Power Trip. Greenberg’s abrasive industrial tone sounds elastic when applied to honest-to-evilness metal riffs, finding a flexibility in rigidity. Even so, he beats you down with select riffs instead of throwing them all out. Such is the case with “Bootlicker,” where thrash gets locked into a snarling loop; if Tom Araya was on vocals, it would be the best Slayer song in years. (Greenberg also nods to Kerry King and Jeff Hanneman’s reckless, borderline free soloing at the end of “The Killing of America.”) While it seems simplistic to equate “faster material” with “more urgent,” that’s Fright’s key strength. Greenberg has never sound angrier or more excited (and often, both), and the same can be said for Berdan. “The Light At the End (Cause)” is their most relentless track yet, the moment where both Greenberg and Berdan let a loss of control be their guiding force. It could be replicated by a proficient drummer, but it would sacrifice its jackhammer oppressiveness. They haven’t abandoned their slower industrial tracks, but flipping the ratio between those and hardcore works in their favor. “Night of Fear” is most like Perfect, aided by the tension between the militaristic drums and Berdan’s shouted urges to deprogram. “The Lost” is their first attempt at warping the poppier side of their industrial influences; it is their most danceable song, loosely speaking, a dimmer take on Cold Cave’s goth-via-hardcore. In terms of club potential, it leans closer to Prurient’s “You Show Great Spirit,” more of an unforgiving blacklight shone on after-hours sleaze. It is also liberating because it allows a light of joy in, however small, which is more radical than an onslaught of persistent negativity. Uniform couldn’t have predicted the future when they were making Fright, even though Perfect was itself a world-building exercise, but this is the kind of record we need now more than ever. They’re not more vicious by circumstance; their own uncoupling just happens to better reflect our future. Perfect was more of a reinvention for Greenberg, then fresh out of the Men, then it was for Berdan, whose screams didn’t sound much different than they did in Drunkdriver. With Fright, both have found new sides to themselves: Greenberg tapped into his inner metal kid, but Berdan has taken the self-apocalyptic energy of his past and turned it into a weapon for redemption and moving forward, much like Negative Approach did in the ’80s. Salvation may seem to be out of reach at this point, but that’s no reason to claw towards to it; the exercise may be the only thing to keep us sane in the years coming up.

Artist: Uniform, Album: Wake in Fright, Genre: Metal, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "Uniform—the duo consisting of vocalist Michael Berdan and guitarist/programmer Ben Greenberg—started out obsessed with trying to make industrial order from punk chaos. Their debut, Perfect World, sounds like sinister master planning in its title alone; in some alternate universe even worse than ours, its cover would be a chic totalitarian symbol. In a short time, they’ve gotten angrier and let the chaos they tried to control run free. Perfect laid out what a gray dystopia would look like; their sophomore album Wake in Fright is Uniform fighting back, leaning more heavily towards their hardcore and metal heritage. Opener “Tabloid” sounds like Big Black embracing thrash, capturing the precision of a machine coming into conflict with the immeasurable energy of bodies flying through a crowd. Their last record featured a collaboration with Coil’s Drew McDowall; this song shows their ideal touring partners may be Power Trip. Greenberg’s abrasive industrial tone sounds elastic when applied to honest-to-evilness metal riffs, finding a flexibility in rigidity. Even so, he beats you down with select riffs instead of throwing them all out. Such is the case with “Bootlicker,” where thrash gets locked into a snarling loop; if Tom Araya was on vocals, it would be the best Slayer song in years. (Greenberg also nods to Kerry King and Jeff Hanneman’s reckless, borderline free soloing at the end of “The Killing of America.”) While it seems simplistic to equate “faster material” with “more urgent,” that’s Fright’s key strength. Greenberg has never sound angrier or more excited (and often, both), and the same can be said for Berdan. “The Light At the End (Cause)” is their most relentless track yet, the moment where both Greenberg and Berdan let a loss of control be their guiding force. It could be replicated by a proficient drummer, but it would sacrifice its jackhammer oppressiveness. They haven’t abandoned their slower industrial tracks, but flipping the ratio between those and hardcore works in their favor. “Night of Fear” is most like Perfect, aided by the tension between the militaristic drums and Berdan’s shouted urges to deprogram. “The Lost” is their first attempt at warping the poppier side of their industrial influences; it is their most danceable song, loosely speaking, a dimmer take on Cold Cave’s goth-via-hardcore. In terms of club potential, it leans closer to Prurient’s “You Show Great Spirit,” more of an unforgiving blacklight shone on after-hours sleaze. It is also liberating because it allows a light of joy in, however small, which is more radical than an onslaught of persistent negativity. Uniform couldn’t have predicted the future when they were making Fright, even though Perfect was itself a world-building exercise, but this is the kind of record we need now more than ever. They’re not more vicious by circumstance; their own uncoupling just happens to better reflect our future. Perfect was more of a reinvention for Greenberg, then fresh out of the Men, then it was for Berdan, whose screams didn’t sound much different than they did in Drunkdriver. With Fright, both have found new sides to themselves: Greenberg tapped into his inner metal kid, but Berdan has taken the self-apocalyptic energy of his past and turned it into a weapon for redemption and moving forward, much like Negative Approach did in the ’80s. Salvation may seem to be out of reach at this point, but that’s no reason to claw towards to it; the exercise may be the only thing to keep us sane in the years coming up."

Neptune

Intimate Lightning

Experimental,Rock

Joe Tangari

If you were standing too close to them, you could have been severely injured. Neptune were crammed into the corner of Charlie's Kitchen in Cambridge, MA, ripping through a set of disgusting industrial post-punk, at once a tight, almost funky band and a piece of kinetic sculpture. Neptune aren't just another squad of noisy art-rockers-- they're a complete package, pulling up to venues in a psychedelic van painted with a giant merman (Neptune himself, one supposes), and emerging on stage (when the venue happens to have one) with unholy contraptions fashioned from scrap metal by guitarist/vocalist Jason Sidney Sanford. The drum sets are piles of oil cans, circular saw blades and assorted car parts, while the guitar and bass look more like medieval weaponry than traditional instruments. And that night in Charlie's Kitchen, after already being flattened by Tyondai Braxton's bracing solo set, Neptune bassist Mark William Pearson was swaying wildly back and forth, the jagged prongs that jutted from the neck of his scrap bass mere inches from flaying the intrepid souls standing at the front of the crowd. It was quite an introduction, and it nearly goes without saying that duplicating the intensity of a live performance like that on a record is a tough proposition at best. But on Intimate Lightning, the Boston band's third full-length, they almost manage it. The short review is that it sounds exactly like what you'd expect a band that plays their songs on scrap metal to sound like. The long review is a bit more complicated than that, but Neptune really do accurately approximate in their music the tragic and violent desolation of the auto graveyards from which they draw their raw materials. The fact that the guitar and bass are built from metal affects the timbre of the instruments, the bass sounding harsh, almost distorted, while the guitar rings with surprising clarity. Percussionists John Douglas Manson and Daniel Paul Boucher naturally sound like they're banging on archaic VCR casings, gutters and miter boxes, but they play their traps as though they were normal drum sets, with Boucher contributing occasional scrapings on a violinish contraption that's the most alien texture on the record. The cumulative effect of all this is a sound that's sort of familiar, but just off enough from a conventional arrangement to be disconcerting. The songs are tightly wound nailbombs of rapidly shifting meters, clanging rhythms, and mathtacular start/stop passages designed for maximum sensory damage. Sanford's vocals are secondary, it seems, to the grotesque clatter surrounding them-- he whispers and growls squarely in the middle of the mix, perfectly content to let the pummeling grooves overwhelm his Dadaist lyrics. As such, the songs have little overt melodic content, but pretty melodies and pop sensibility are clearly beside the point when you're working in the same destructive tradition as fellow New England weirdos Lightning Bolt and Zealous Fuel. It would be wrong to say that Neptune display a mastery of their craft, because in this context, the word "dominance" seems a lot more apropos than "mastery." Seriously, when the sick, militaristic groove of "Automatic" launches into its distorted reprise, there's no point in trying to resist; you just hunker down and let it roll over you like the sonic blitz it is. That night in Charlie's Kitchen, Neptune were more than dominant-- they were mesmerizing and seemingly omnipotent. Intimate Lightning can't compete with that, but it tries anyway, and it comes out brilliantly brutal for the effort.

Artist: Neptune, Album: Intimate Lightning, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "If you were standing too close to them, you could have been severely injured. Neptune were crammed into the corner of Charlie's Kitchen in Cambridge, MA, ripping through a set of disgusting industrial post-punk, at once a tight, almost funky band and a piece of kinetic sculpture. Neptune aren't just another squad of noisy art-rockers-- they're a complete package, pulling up to venues in a psychedelic van painted with a giant merman (Neptune himself, one supposes), and emerging on stage (when the venue happens to have one) with unholy contraptions fashioned from scrap metal by guitarist/vocalist Jason Sidney Sanford. The drum sets are piles of oil cans, circular saw blades and assorted car parts, while the guitar and bass look more like medieval weaponry than traditional instruments. And that night in Charlie's Kitchen, after already being flattened by Tyondai Braxton's bracing solo set, Neptune bassist Mark William Pearson was swaying wildly back and forth, the jagged prongs that jutted from the neck of his scrap bass mere inches from flaying the intrepid souls standing at the front of the crowd. It was quite an introduction, and it nearly goes without saying that duplicating the intensity of a live performance like that on a record is a tough proposition at best. But on Intimate Lightning, the Boston band's third full-length, they almost manage it. The short review is that it sounds exactly like what you'd expect a band that plays their songs on scrap metal to sound like. The long review is a bit more complicated than that, but Neptune really do accurately approximate in their music the tragic and violent desolation of the auto graveyards from which they draw their raw materials. The fact that the guitar and bass are built from metal affects the timbre of the instruments, the bass sounding harsh, almost distorted, while the guitar rings with surprising clarity. Percussionists John Douglas Manson and Daniel Paul Boucher naturally sound like they're banging on archaic VCR casings, gutters and miter boxes, but they play their traps as though they were normal drum sets, with Boucher contributing occasional scrapings on a violinish contraption that's the most alien texture on the record. The cumulative effect of all this is a sound that's sort of familiar, but just off enough from a conventional arrangement to be disconcerting. The songs are tightly wound nailbombs of rapidly shifting meters, clanging rhythms, and mathtacular start/stop passages designed for maximum sensory damage. Sanford's vocals are secondary, it seems, to the grotesque clatter surrounding them-- he whispers and growls squarely in the middle of the mix, perfectly content to let the pummeling grooves overwhelm his Dadaist lyrics. As such, the songs have little overt melodic content, but pretty melodies and pop sensibility are clearly beside the point when you're working in the same destructive tradition as fellow New England weirdos Lightning Bolt and Zealous Fuel. It would be wrong to say that Neptune display a mastery of their craft, because in this context, the word "dominance" seems a lot more apropos than "mastery." Seriously, when the sick, militaristic groove of "Automatic" launches into its distorted reprise, there's no point in trying to resist; you just hunker down and let it roll over you like the sonic blitz it is. That night in Charlie's Kitchen, Neptune were more than dominant-- they were mesmerizing and seemingly omnipotent. Intimate Lightning can't compete with that, but it tries anyway, and it comes out brilliantly brutal for the effort."

Various Artists

Ragga Ragga Ragga 2005

Jess Harvell

For most Americans, dancehall's relative health is down to two things. One is radio exposure. There've been major and minor U.S. dancehall hits since forever, from Shabba to Shaggy to Beanie. But the last few years have been a golden age for dancehall on the radio, as both "Diwali" and "Coolie Dance" ignited riddim mania for the first time in the U.S. The other is CD compilations, especially Greensleeves' Biggest Dancehall Anthems and Ragga Ragga Ragga series. The 2003 editions of both are among the best records released in the new millennium, accurately reflecting what a great year it was for dancehall. But, for me, 2004's editions failed to catch fire. Was something rotten in the state of dancehall? Well, yes and no. Both CDs lacked the same number of exciting riddims as their 2003 counterparts. But, if you managed to dig through even a bit of the yearly mudslide of JA-only singles and one-riddim albums, you'd find beats ("Bubble Up", "Dancehall Rock") that slew the immediately canonized ones. So, yes, it's foolish to attribute a creative slump to the licensing capabilities of a single label. But since most of you are A) American, B) not hardcore dancehall fans, and C) employed at least part-time, compilations it is. And to judge by 2005's RX3, the dilettantes are facing an even sketchier crop. Most of my annoyance with current dancehall stems from the continued influence of soca. Soca, for those who don't know, is the preferred Carnival soundtrack for many Caribbean nations. To the naked, untrained ear, soca seems close to dancehall, the way your grandma would hear no difference between Aesop Rock and Paul Wall. But soca is, if nothing else, faster than dancehall. Fast enough to make the LCD examples of it sound like cranked-up cruise ship commercials. Soca does have its more "innovative" aspects like a submerged bhangra influence that's surely had a little to do with dancehall's own far east fetishism. But, as artists like TOK began to mix up soca with their hardcore boy band ragga, they set in motion dancehall's current fascination with hypa-hypa 120bpm dance craze tunes. Call me a fun-hating old crank, but a lot of this stuff is really goddamn annoying. Worst offender here is Macka Diamond's "Lexus & Benz". Not only does it feature the de rigeur spastic oompah oompah beat, but includes...wait for it...a banjo. Really fast "Hee-Haw" banjo. I'm sorry but this is whimsy gone too far. Other subpar tracks include Voicemail (wtf), Delly Ranks, and Bogle's "Weh Di Time", another "do the yardie Mashed Potato" tune. (I should take a second here to say RIP to Bogle, who was like Bez crossed with MJ in his prime and something like a national deity. His death is the only reason I feel iffy dissing all the dance craziness here.) Macka Diamond's "Mr. Teki Back" has an annoying brapp-brapp military beat. (As does Sizzla's "I'm With the Girls".) Then that fucking banjo shows up again on Beenie's "Dance To the Chakka". Could we have more Junior Byles and less Junior Samples, please? But, as per Jamaica's per annual output, there are gems here. Beenie's "Ziggy Zung" is a soca-styled track that works, mostly due to the inclusion of the line "Peter Peter pum pum eater." Vybz Kartel's "Dutty Panty" is a nicely clonking old school groove with a bizarre injunction against sheer undies. On the other side of sanity, Vybz's "Spragga Connection" is a virulent diss track originally titled, uh, "Faggot Correction". You can hear the knot of tension forming in his neck as he (literally) spits the foul line about Foxy Brown pissing in Spragga's face. Mad Cobra's "Switch" answers my thwarted request post-"Allo Allo" for a dancehall track with an accordion, plus a clanging submarine alarm which I didn't ask for, but what they hey. Beenie Man's "Three Laws" is bleep and bass played at 140bpm, and with another argument against an oral sex contract in the mutual interest. (Really fellas, it ain't gonna bite you.) Vybz's "School Bus" has a vaguely eastern synth drone and avalanche drums with Vybz sagely advising the youth not to have sex on the bus but to instead study chemistry and ProTools. And who says ragga's all amoral gunplay and fassy bashing?

Artist: Various Artists, Album: Ragga Ragga Ragga 2005, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 6.7 Album review: "For most Americans, dancehall's relative health is down to two things. One is radio exposure. There've been major and minor U.S. dancehall hits since forever, from Shabba to Shaggy to Beanie. But the last few years have been a golden age for dancehall on the radio, as both "Diwali" and "Coolie Dance" ignited riddim mania for the first time in the U.S. The other is CD compilations, especially Greensleeves' Biggest Dancehall Anthems and Ragga Ragga Ragga series. The 2003 editions of both are among the best records released in the new millennium, accurately reflecting what a great year it was for dancehall. But, for me, 2004's editions failed to catch fire. Was something rotten in the state of dancehall? Well, yes and no. Both CDs lacked the same number of exciting riddims as their 2003 counterparts. But, if you managed to dig through even a bit of the yearly mudslide of JA-only singles and one-riddim albums, you'd find beats ("Bubble Up", "Dancehall Rock") that slew the immediately canonized ones. So, yes, it's foolish to attribute a creative slump to the licensing capabilities of a single label. But since most of you are A) American, B) not hardcore dancehall fans, and C) employed at least part-time, compilations it is. And to judge by 2005's RX3, the dilettantes are facing an even sketchier crop. Most of my annoyance with current dancehall stems from the continued influence of soca. Soca, for those who don't know, is the preferred Carnival soundtrack for many Caribbean nations. To the naked, untrained ear, soca seems close to dancehall, the way your grandma would hear no difference between Aesop Rock and Paul Wall. But soca is, if nothing else, faster than dancehall. Fast enough to make the LCD examples of it sound like cranked-up cruise ship commercials. Soca does have its more "innovative" aspects like a submerged bhangra influence that's surely had a little to do with dancehall's own far east fetishism. But, as artists like TOK began to mix up soca with their hardcore boy band ragga, they set in motion dancehall's current fascination with hypa-hypa 120bpm dance craze tunes. Call me a fun-hating old crank, but a lot of this stuff is really goddamn annoying. Worst offender here is Macka Diamond's "Lexus & Benz". Not only does it feature the de rigeur spastic oompah oompah beat, but includes...wait for it...a banjo. Really fast "Hee-Haw" banjo. I'm sorry but this is whimsy gone too far. Other subpar tracks include Voicemail (wtf), Delly Ranks, and Bogle's "Weh Di Time", another "do the yardie Mashed Potato" tune. (I should take a second here to say RIP to Bogle, who was like Bez crossed with MJ in his prime and something like a national deity. His death is the only reason I feel iffy dissing all the dance craziness here.) Macka Diamond's "Mr. Teki Back" has an annoying brapp-brapp military beat. (As does Sizzla's "I'm With the Girls".) Then that fucking banjo shows up again on Beenie's "Dance To the Chakka". Could we have more Junior Byles and less Junior Samples, please? But, as per Jamaica's per annual output, there are gems here. Beenie's "Ziggy Zung" is a soca-styled track that works, mostly due to the inclusion of the line "Peter Peter pum pum eater." Vybz Kartel's "Dutty Panty" is a nicely clonking old school groove with a bizarre injunction against sheer undies. On the other side of sanity, Vybz's "Spragga Connection" is a virulent diss track originally titled, uh, "Faggot Correction". You can hear the knot of tension forming in his neck as he (literally) spits the foul line about Foxy Brown pissing in Spragga's face. Mad Cobra's "Switch" answers my thwarted request post-"Allo Allo" for a dancehall track with an accordion, plus a clanging submarine alarm which I didn't ask for, but what they hey. Beenie Man's "Three Laws" is bleep and bass played at 140bpm, and with another argument against an oral sex contract in the mutual interest. (Really fellas, it ain't gonna bite you.) Vybz's "School Bus" has a vaguely eastern synth drone and avalanche drums with Vybz sagely advising the youth not to have sex on the bus but to instead study chemistry and ProTools. And who says ragga's all amoral gunplay and fassy bashing?"

Flashy Python

Skin and Bones

Rock

Eric Harvey

Refracted through rock mythology, the first chapter of Alec Ounsworth's story plays out in one of two stock ways. The first: Wanting nothing to do with the online hype typhoon attending Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's first album, he kills the band with a Difficult Second Album, 2007's Some Loud Thunder. The second, equally familiar way to frame the narrative comes from Ounsworth himself: "If I want to do something with a particular group of people, I will. And if I don't, I won't. If people are willing to work on those terms, that's good. If not, I'll just have to figure out a different way." Though I suspect his full story includes elements of both tropes, I'll give Ounsworth the benefit of the doubt-- at the least, it makes chapter two easier to understand. This latest stage sees Ounsworth as an itinerant songwriter, recruiting collaborators to flesh out a heap of previously written material. On Skin and Bones, credited to Flashy Python and available only from his website, he hires all manner of Philly indie luminaries/friends (members of Dr. Dog, Mazarin, the Walkmen, and Man Man appear) to collaborate on a wheezy, dark song cycle-cum-inebriated stumble down South Street. Mo Beauty, released on Anti-, is more a proper solo album as we know these things, yet also recorded with significant help: at New Orleans' Piety St. studio, with a dozen or so local pros. Thus, two fresh plot-twists: Bones is druggy rock'n'roll so uniform in sound and sentiment it feels like a one-off concept album; Beauty is more variegated and takes more chances: Ounsworth showing his chops. Lyrically, Skin and Bones is a sort of treatise on growing up and settling down while staying weird, cut with lamentations on the false consciousness of those who've chosen to follow the herd. The vibe is overwhelmingly woozy, with Wurlitzer and Hammond-laden arrangements spiked with jagged guitars and Ounsworth's instantly recognizable squawk, which more than ever evokes some anachronistic eccentric, twirling around a bar and liberally quoting Ezra Pound. On the title track, he bleats out a skewed requiem for life passing him by ("Nothing's wrong, the spaceship comes from inside!") before crying out to his wife Emily to take him home. "Cattle's New Clothes" is spiked with pedal steel, as Ounsworth lays into an ex-undergrounder-turned-square ("Look at him go down with the businessmen cattle"). Though it's possible to enjoy the atmosphere of Bones without worrying about lyrics, one does need a taste for murky and tipsy ambience. Ounsworth gets fucked up straightaway on the opening track, a giddy, staggering thing held up by Toby Leaman and Matt Barrick's muscular rhythm section. He free-associates for a few minutes before the piece trails off with Billy Dufala's skronking saxophone coda, the musical equivalent of belching loudly while getting pushed out of the bar. "Ichiban Blues", a sour take on exotic travel, is the most straightforward song on the album, and cinema ode "In the Darkness" will satiate those looking for a return to the gangly new wave of the CYHSY stuff. Like those lost evenings we've all had, Bones is a good time while it lasts, but not necessarily something to return to all that often. Ounsworth's likeness to David Byrne began with CYHSY's still lovely "Over and Over Again", and the comparisons won't stop with Mo Beauty-- though for slightly different reasons. Where Byrne himself once decamped in the Big Easy to work with the Dirty Dozen Brass Band for the spare, stately score of Knee Plays, Ounsworth went to New Orleans to hook up with former Meters bassist George Porter, Jr., keyboardist Robert Walter of the Greyboy Allstars, and a dozen or so others. "I've romanticized that city's aesthetic since I visited there when I was 12," he told our news section last August. "The music seems to just flow out of people naturally." The result of Ounsworth bottling this "flow" and working it into a set of songs is an album that showcases the breadth of his talents much more than the limited palettes of Flashy Python or CYHSY. Steve Berlin's crisp production highlights the collaborators' vibrant contributions while keeping Ounsworth front and center, resulting in a balanced, evocative work with a focus, appropriately enough, on place. Between the solemn, achingly pretty ballad "Holy, Holy, Holy Moses (Song for New Orleans)" and the jaunty, acoustic "South Philadelphia (Drug Days)", Ounsworth is able, like Byrne, to balance tics with songcraft, and play in opposite ends of the emotional spectrum (post-Katrina anomie, getting fucked up as a kid) with an aura of effortlessness. Elsewhere, "Idiots in the Rain" brings the brass to bear on a tune about the exuberance of a French Quarter band revving up, and "Bones in the Grave" is a creaky, spooky bit that by itself explains the LPs release on Anti-. Yet speaking about both records, Ounsworth told us that Skin and Bones was "more about me trying to erect some grand statement," while Mo Beauty is "going down to New Orleans for a short period of time and trying to piece something together based on a collection of mostly old songs." Hmmm, okay. But one of these "pieced-together old songs" happens to be "That Is Not My Home (After Bruegel)", a set of vignettes each beginning with "me and the wife," set to a wonderful blend of swoony new wave, punchy brass, and torrid string swells, which just might be the best song he's ever done. That's one of the ironies of authorship, though: Too often, the author himself can be his own worst enemy when it comes to his own real-life narrative, dismissing his most inspired work in lieu of something which, for whatever reason, he finds himself closer to. For our sake (and his), let's hope he relegates future Flashy Python work to footnote status, and continues staking his persona on more adventurous projects.

Artist: Flashy Python, Album: Skin and Bones, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 6.5 Album review: "Refracted through rock mythology, the first chapter of Alec Ounsworth's story plays out in one of two stock ways. The first: Wanting nothing to do with the online hype typhoon attending Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's first album, he kills the band with a Difficult Second Album, 2007's Some Loud Thunder. The second, equally familiar way to frame the narrative comes from Ounsworth himself: "If I want to do something with a particular group of people, I will. And if I don't, I won't. If people are willing to work on those terms, that's good. If not, I'll just have to figure out a different way." Though I suspect his full story includes elements of both tropes, I'll give Ounsworth the benefit of the doubt-- at the least, it makes chapter two easier to understand. This latest stage sees Ounsworth as an itinerant songwriter, recruiting collaborators to flesh out a heap of previously written material. On Skin and Bones, credited to Flashy Python and available only from his website, he hires all manner of Philly indie luminaries/friends (members of Dr. Dog, Mazarin, the Walkmen, and Man Man appear) to collaborate on a wheezy, dark song cycle-cum-inebriated stumble down South Street. Mo Beauty, released on Anti-, is more a proper solo album as we know these things, yet also recorded with significant help: at New Orleans' Piety St. studio, with a dozen or so local pros. Thus, two fresh plot-twists: Bones is druggy rock'n'roll so uniform in sound and sentiment it feels like a one-off concept album; Beauty is more variegated and takes more chances: Ounsworth showing his chops. Lyrically, Skin and Bones is a sort of treatise on growing up and settling down while staying weird, cut with lamentations on the false consciousness of those who've chosen to follow the herd. The vibe is overwhelmingly woozy, with Wurlitzer and Hammond-laden arrangements spiked with jagged guitars and Ounsworth's instantly recognizable squawk, which more than ever evokes some anachronistic eccentric, twirling around a bar and liberally quoting Ezra Pound. On the title track, he bleats out a skewed requiem for life passing him by ("Nothing's wrong, the spaceship comes from inside!") before crying out to his wife Emily to take him home. "Cattle's New Clothes" is spiked with pedal steel, as Ounsworth lays into an ex-undergrounder-turned-square ("Look at him go down with the businessmen cattle"). Though it's possible to enjoy the atmosphere of Bones without worrying about lyrics, one does need a taste for murky and tipsy ambience. Ounsworth gets fucked up straightaway on the opening track, a giddy, staggering thing held up by Toby Leaman and Matt Barrick's muscular rhythm section. He free-associates for a few minutes before the piece trails off with Billy Dufala's skronking saxophone coda, the musical equivalent of belching loudly while getting pushed out of the bar. "Ichiban Blues", a sour take on exotic travel, is the most straightforward song on the album, and cinema ode "In the Darkness" will satiate those looking for a return to the gangly new wave of the CYHSY stuff. Like those lost evenings we've all had, Bones is a good time while it lasts, but not necessarily something to return to all that often. Ounsworth's likeness to David Byrne began with CYHSY's still lovely "Over and Over Again", and the comparisons won't stop with Mo Beauty-- though for slightly different reasons. Where Byrne himself once decamped in the Big Easy to work with the Dirty Dozen Brass Band for the spare, stately score of Knee Plays, Ounsworth went to New Orleans to hook up with former Meters bassist George Porter, Jr., keyboardist Robert Walter of the Greyboy Allstars, and a dozen or so others. "I've romanticized that city's aesthetic since I visited there when I was 12," he told our news section last August. "The music seems to just flow out of people naturally." The result of Ounsworth bottling this "flow" and working it into a set of songs is an album that showcases the breadth of his talents much more than the limited palettes of Flashy Python or CYHSY. Steve Berlin's crisp production highlights the collaborators' vibrant contributions while keeping Ounsworth front and center, resulting in a balanced, evocative work with a focus, appropriately enough, on place. Between the solemn, achingly pretty ballad "Holy, Holy, Holy Moses (Song for New Orleans)" and the jaunty, acoustic "South Philadelphia (Drug Days)", Ounsworth is able, like Byrne, to balance tics with songcraft, and play in opposite ends of the emotional spectrum (post-Katrina anomie, getting fucked up as a kid) with an aura of effortlessness. Elsewhere, "Idiots in the Rain" brings the brass to bear on a tune about the exuberance of a French Quarter band revving up, and "Bones in the Grave" is a creaky, spooky bit that by itself explains the LPs release on Anti-. Yet speaking about both records, Ounsworth told us that Skin and Bones was "more about me trying to erect some grand statement," while Mo Beauty is "going down to New Orleans for a short period of time and trying to piece something together based on a collection of mostly old songs." Hmmm, okay. But one of these "pieced-together old songs" happens to be "That Is Not My Home (After Bruegel)", a set of vignettes each beginning with "me and the wife," set to a wonderful blend of swoony new wave, punchy brass, and torrid string swells, which just might be the best song he's ever done. That's one of the ironies of authorship, though: Too often, the author himself can be his own worst enemy when it comes to his own real-life narrative, dismissing his most inspired work in lieu of something which, for whatever reason, he finds himself closer to. For our sake (and his), let's hope he relegates future Flashy Python work to footnote status, and continues staking his persona on more adventurous projects."

Dylan LeBlanc

Paupers Field

Folk/Country

Joshua Klein

Dylan LeBlanc was born in 1990-- a lifetime past the peak of FAME studios in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. That's where his dad, country singer James LeBlanc, regularly cut sessions and also where young Dylan got an early musical education. You don't hear much Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding, or Wilson Pickett in LeBlanc's assured debut, Paupers Field, though-- let alone many of the dozens of other country, soul, or rock acts that recorded down there. You do, however, hear a depth of experience somewhat at odds with LeBlanc's age, his sad voice prematurely scarred with regret and haunted by demons (drugs and alcohol reportedly played a role). This palpable darkness helps what could have otherwise been another run-of-the-mill Americana disc rise above anonymity, its evocative textures and atmosphere a welcome respite from too many milquetoast troubadours. Paupers Field draws its name from the place where the poor were buried, and LeBlanc has likened his songs to headstones commemorating "things that have died in my life." Given such a heavy outlook, it's no shock the compelling intimacy of songs such as "5th Avenue Bar", "Emma Hartley", and "Death of Outlaw Billy John" resonates in a way that doesn't exactly foster passive background listening. A great storyteller, LeBlanc draws you deep into the world he's depicting-- you can practically smell the decay - but for those few minutes there's nowhere else you'd like to be. Unlike so many masters of gloom and doom, though, LeBlanc doesn't lay it on so thick as to be claustrophobic. His daguerreotype songs actually sway and breathe, and while it's easy to dismiss the familiar signifiers-- the weeping lap steel, the ghostly reverb on the vocals, the presence of Emmylou Harris doing a guest turn on backing vocals-- it's harder to dismiss LeBlanc's potential. If this is what the guy's doing just out of his teens, it's anyone guess what life further lived will evince. Whether it turns out to be a crutch or a launch platform, Paupers Field definitely paves the path forward.

Artist: Dylan LeBlanc, Album: Paupers Field, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "Dylan LeBlanc was born in 1990-- a lifetime past the peak of FAME studios in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. That's where his dad, country singer James LeBlanc, regularly cut sessions and also where young Dylan got an early musical education. You don't hear much Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding, or Wilson Pickett in LeBlanc's assured debut, Paupers Field, though-- let alone many of the dozens of other country, soul, or rock acts that recorded down there. You do, however, hear a depth of experience somewhat at odds with LeBlanc's age, his sad voice prematurely scarred with regret and haunted by demons (drugs and alcohol reportedly played a role). This palpable darkness helps what could have otherwise been another run-of-the-mill Americana disc rise above anonymity, its evocative textures and atmosphere a welcome respite from too many milquetoast troubadours. Paupers Field draws its name from the place where the poor were buried, and LeBlanc has likened his songs to headstones commemorating "things that have died in my life." Given such a heavy outlook, it's no shock the compelling intimacy of songs such as "5th Avenue Bar", "Emma Hartley", and "Death of Outlaw Billy John" resonates in a way that doesn't exactly foster passive background listening. A great storyteller, LeBlanc draws you deep into the world he's depicting-- you can practically smell the decay - but for those few minutes there's nowhere else you'd like to be. Unlike so many masters of gloom and doom, though, LeBlanc doesn't lay it on so thick as to be claustrophobic. His daguerreotype songs actually sway and breathe, and while it's easy to dismiss the familiar signifiers-- the weeping lap steel, the ghostly reverb on the vocals, the presence of Emmylou Harris doing a guest turn on backing vocals-- it's harder to dismiss LeBlanc's potential. If this is what the guy's doing just out of his teens, it's anyone guess what life further lived will evince. Whether it turns out to be a crutch or a launch platform, Paupers Field definitely paves the path forward."

G Perico

All Blue

Rap

Paul A. Thompson

If you’re unfamiliar, G Perico can seem like a contradiction in terms. He channels pimp rap legends, then calls into KDAY to dedicate slow jams to his girl. He opened a business near the same blocks where he used to earn all his money tax-free, then survived an assassination attempt after he’d gone legit. When he was a child, his grandmother gave tarot card readings out of the house; the rapper, born Jeremy Nash at the tail end of the ’80s, thought he could see his own future, one that ended in an early death. And when he makes his case against Donald Trump, he does it on a song built for the strip club—City Hall is too far north, anyway. But nothing about G Perico is a contradiction. His lived experience is that of someone who grew up in South Central Los Angeles in the ashes of crack and Reagan and the Riots. He wears his hair in a Jheri curl and could trade slicked-back shit-talk with anyone up to and including DJ Quik and Too $hort, and he always makes sure his lawyers are paid on time. On his debut album, All Blue, Perico funnels all of that and more into lean, shimmering songs that recall early ’90s G-funk but provide, well, a blueprint for the future. Last fall, Perico put out Shit Don’t Stop, an engrossing mixtape that made him a minor sensation on both sides of the 10 freeway. All Blue is Shit Don’t Stop blown up to its widescreen endpoint: more joy, more peril, more money. There are sunny afternoons interrupted by drive-by shootings, liquor-soaked parties with third strikes looming overhead. On the opener, “Power,” he raps, “My homies live forever, we ain’t never gonna die,” but the understanding that this might not be true underscores almost every song on the record. And when All Blue ends, with “Alive Tonight,” it breaks up fatalistic verses with a hook that doubles as a somber thank-you for another 24 hours free from handcuffs or bullet wounds. It’s hard to overstate how focused All Blue is. It clocks in barely longer than 35 minutes; of 13 tracks, only three surpass the three-minute mark. So rather than a first-person narrative, the LP plays as if G Perico is your friend you catch up with a few times a day, dispensing wisdom (don’t walk with the flow of traffic, in case killers try to pull up behind you) and summing up the grimmer part of his life in neat couplets (“I could’ve been lost my life, Crip/So fuck all that nice shit”). The songs are sleek and economical, from their tightly wound structures to remarkably straightforward storytelling (from “Can’t Play”: “My uncle smoked crack/I used to sell it to him/I used to drop it in his pipe and watch him go stupid/After every four zips, rubber banded cash/Grab some more and throw all the money in the stash”). The fat’s been cut away—all that’s left is bone, sinew, and curl activator. All Blue is the record you make when you can’t sit still. When he raps, Perico is constantly in motion, whether he’s skipping out of police custody before he sees the county jail (“Wit Me Or Not”), flying back and forth to Vegas just to play craps (“How You Feel”), or fucking, digging through her purse, and leaving (“Get My Staccs”). Physical spaces figure prominently in his work, and Perico renders them in such vivid detail that when he brags “made hundreds of thousands on West 104th Street,” your mind’s eye can populate the block with every actor. Perico’s at a point in his life where he can bounce back and forth between South Central and palaces in the Hills; he just happens to have his sharpest thoughts while in transit. Perico invites obvious comparisons to ’90s legends like Quik, but he’s not a revivalist. If anything, he seems to exist parallel to conversations about era and lineage in rap. In his writing, Perico’s world is populated by neighbors and enemies and smokers desperate to wash his cars—never other rappers. It’s refreshing, and it eases the weight of tradition and expectation, all while pulling liberally from the aesthetics of the early Clinton years. In that way, All Blue is a distinctly L.A. record, shaped by the city’s culture but not backward-gazing or needlessly reverent. And on “Bacc Forth”—the anti-Trump song Angelenos will hear all summer between midnight and last call—he boils his city’s ethos down into six words: “Looked at death and started dancing.”

Artist: G Perico, Album: All Blue, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 7.9 Album review: "If you’re unfamiliar, G Perico can seem like a contradiction in terms. He channels pimp rap legends, then calls into KDAY to dedicate slow jams to his girl. He opened a business near the same blocks where he used to earn all his money tax-free, then survived an assassination attempt after he’d gone legit. When he was a child, his grandmother gave tarot card readings out of the house; the rapper, born Jeremy Nash at the tail end of the ’80s, thought he could see his own future, one that ended in an early death. And when he makes his case against Donald Trump, he does it on a song built for the strip club—City Hall is too far north, anyway. But nothing about G Perico is a contradiction. His lived experience is that of someone who grew up in South Central Los Angeles in the ashes of crack and Reagan and the Riots. He wears his hair in a Jheri curl and could trade slicked-back shit-talk with anyone up to and including DJ Quik and Too $hort, and he always makes sure his lawyers are paid on time. On his debut album, All Blue, Perico funnels all of that and more into lean, shimmering songs that recall early ’90s G-funk but provide, well, a blueprint for the future. Last fall, Perico put out Shit Don’t Stop, an engrossing mixtape that made him a minor sensation on both sides of the 10 freeway. All Blue is Shit Don’t Stop blown up to its widescreen endpoint: more joy, more peril, more money. There are sunny afternoons interrupted by drive-by shootings, liquor-soaked parties with third strikes looming overhead. On the opener, “Power,” he raps, “My homies live forever, we ain’t never gonna die,” but the understanding that this might not be true underscores almost every song on the record. And when All Blue ends, with “Alive Tonight,” it breaks up fatalistic verses with a hook that doubles as a somber thank-you for another 24 hours free from handcuffs or bullet wounds. It’s hard to overstate how focused All Blue is. It clocks in barely longer than 35 minutes; of 13 tracks, only three surpass the three-minute mark. So rather than a first-person narrative, the LP plays as if G Perico is your friend you catch up with a few times a day, dispensing wisdom (don’t walk with the flow of traffic, in case killers try to pull up behind you) and summing up the grimmer part of his life in neat couplets (“I could’ve been lost my life, Crip/So fuck all that nice shit”). The songs are sleek and economical, from their tightly wound structures to remarkably straightforward storytelling (from “Can’t Play”: “My uncle smoked crack/I used to sell it to him/I used to drop it in his pipe and watch him go stupid/After every four zips, rubber banded cash/Grab some more and throw all the money in the stash”). The fat’s been cut away—all that’s left is bone, sinew, and curl activator. All Blue is the record you make when you can’t sit still. When he raps, Perico is constantly in motion, whether he’s skipping out of police custody before he sees the county jail (“Wit Me Or Not”), flying back and forth to Vegas just to play craps (“How You Feel”), or fucking, digging through her purse, and leaving (“Get My Staccs”). Physical spaces figure prominently in his work, and Perico renders them in such vivid detail that when he brags “made hundreds of thousands on West 104th Street,” your mind’s eye can populate the block with every actor. Perico’s at a point in his life where he can bounce back and forth between South Central and palaces in the Hills; he just happens to have his sharpest thoughts while in transit. Perico invites obvious comparisons to ’90s legends like Quik, but he’s not a revivalist. If anything, he seems to exist parallel to conversations about era and lineage in rap. In his writing, Perico’s world is populated by neighbors and enemies and smokers desperate to wash his cars—never other rappers. It’s refreshing, and it eases the weight of tradition and expectation, all while pulling liberally from the aesthetics of the early Clinton years. In that way, All Blue is a distinctly L.A. record, shaped by the city’s culture but not backward-gazing or needlessly reverent. And on “Bacc Forth”—the anti-Trump song Angelenos will hear all summer between midnight and last call—he boils his city’s ethos down into six words: “Looked at death and started dancing.”"

The Replacements

Don't You Know Who I Think I Was?: The Best of The Replacements

Rock

Mark Richardson

For anyone who spends too much time reading books and magazines about rock and roll, it can be difficult to hear the Replacements beyond the myth. Whether it was cultivated by the band or foisted upon them by journalists, the "Beautiful Loser" archetype was made for these guys, and it's been an inseparable part of their persona since the first shipment of Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash left the Twin-Tone offices. The Replacements were the perfect band for a certain breed of American rock critic. They started out vaguely punk, but nothing about them was threatening, political, or arty; they were regular guys-- scruffy, Midwestern, anti-fashion and anti-pop; they hid an emotional vulnerability beneath cases of beer and fuck-up hijinks; they should've been huge, but the record-buying public and the New York suits never figured out what they had. Etc. You can sense that the myth is starting to fade a bit. A slew of spotty Paul Westerberg solo albums, generally shoddy treatment of the back catalog, and indie rock's trending away from their trad brand of rock have caused the Replacements to slip from view relative to many of the bands they came up with in the 1980s. Of the bands in Michael Azzerad's essential Our Band Could Be Your Life, the Replacements seem particularly distant from what's happening now. In some quarters fans are trying to shore up The Replacements position by talking about influence. Nirvana is often mentioned, which makes some sense at first because they played loud rock and Kurt Cobain had a scratchy voice. The Replacements even had a song called "Nevermind". But the comparison doesn't stand up to scrutiny. Cobain was enamored of capital-a Art and all its pretensions; he thought of himself as a feminist and obsessed over childhood. Westerberg thought "art" was short for "Arthur" and values in his songs were traditional. Now Goo Goo Dolls and Ryan Adams, on the other hand... So if the myth is fading and the influence is questionable, all we're left with are the records. And Westerberg's best songs still resonate. This set collects 18 from the Replacements' original days and adds two recent songs cut with the surviving members. It's the first compilation to include tracks from both Twin-Tone (84 and before, indie) and Sire (85 and after, major), and is thus fated to replace the Sire-only singles and rarities two-fer All for Nothing/Nothing for All. The selection and sequencing of Don't You Know Who I Think I Was is generally smart, hitting most of the agreed-upon highs. The various albums are represented in their proper proportions based on quality, with Tim getting the most songs (four) and Stink and All Shook Down getting the fewest (one each). It's set up more like a mix-tape than a survey, leading to a couple of strange juxtapositions. Leading off the Tim selections with "Here Comes a Regular" is jarring; if any song was meant to be an album closer, it's this. With its crawling pace and downcast mood, it throws up a huge speedbump when listening to this comp straight through. Something else happens when "Alex Chilton" introduces the Pleased to Meet Me selections, as the booming drums seem to come from another world than the dinky snare of the Tommy Ramone-produced Tim. The Replacements never could figure out what sort of production worked with Westerberg's songs. Tim was a thin and trebly disaster, which was most apparent on rockers like "Bastards of Young", while Pleased to Meet Me and Don't Tell a Soul were overproduced in different ways. Their best-sounding stuff by far is the Twin-Tone material, which is too bad since Westerberg generally improved as a songwriter with each record. "Skyway" is one of the sharpest and most affecting ballads of the college rock era, and "I'll Be You" might be Westerberg's peak, with an entire world of feeling held inside the opening word "If". Oh yeah, two new songs. "Message to the Boys" essentially finishes writing the music to Westerberg's skeletal solo debut "Waiting for Somebody" from the Singles soundtrack. Pitchfork's Ryan Dombal described it as a loyal farewell rather than a new beginning, and that seems exactly right. It's warm and nostalgic and not trying too hard. "Pool and Dive" is almost as good, sounding more like a channeling of the Big Star influence, the brash power-pop side of the Replacements given room to breathe. Bands reuniting for new songs to stick on a best-of always puts fans on the edge of their seats, braced for embarrassment. But the Replacements get out quickly with dignity intact. Hearing the 18 songs from the band's original run, the consistency of Westerberg's themes stands out. He built his own little world brick-by-brick, populated it with original characters, and wrote some very catchy tunes about what goes on there. He was like an indie-rock Springsteen, relentlessly chronicling adolescence and early adulthood. In his world everyone is 17, 18, 19 or 20, the grown-ups sound like Charlie Brown's teacher, people gossip, the jobs stink, boredom is rampant, and escape is possible through music and love. Given the aching familiarity of this landscape and Westerberg's eye for detail, the Replacements will always be around.

Artist: The Replacements, Album: Don't You Know Who I Think I Was?: The Best of The Replacements, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.8 Album review: "For anyone who spends too much time reading books and magazines about rock and roll, it can be difficult to hear the Replacements beyond the myth. Whether it was cultivated by the band or foisted upon them by journalists, the "Beautiful Loser" archetype was made for these guys, and it's been an inseparable part of their persona since the first shipment of Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash left the Twin-Tone offices. The Replacements were the perfect band for a certain breed of American rock critic. They started out vaguely punk, but nothing about them was threatening, political, or arty; they were regular guys-- scruffy, Midwestern, anti-fashion and anti-pop; they hid an emotional vulnerability beneath cases of beer and fuck-up hijinks; they should've been huge, but the record-buying public and the New York suits never figured out what they had. Etc. You can sense that the myth is starting to fade a bit. A slew of spotty Paul Westerberg solo albums, generally shoddy treatment of the back catalog, and indie rock's trending away from their trad brand of rock have caused the Replacements to slip from view relative to many of the bands they came up with in the 1980s. Of the bands in Michael Azzerad's essential Our Band Could Be Your Life, the Replacements seem particularly distant from what's happening now. In some quarters fans are trying to shore up The Replacements position by talking about influence. Nirvana is often mentioned, which makes some sense at first because they played loud rock and Kurt Cobain had a scratchy voice. The Replacements even had a song called "Nevermind". But the comparison doesn't stand up to scrutiny. Cobain was enamored of capital-a Art and all its pretensions; he thought of himself as a feminist and obsessed over childhood. Westerberg thought "art" was short for "Arthur" and values in his songs were traditional. Now Goo Goo Dolls and Ryan Adams, on the other hand... So if the myth is fading and the influence is questionable, all we're left with are the records. And Westerberg's best songs still resonate. This set collects 18 from the Replacements' original days and adds two recent songs cut with the surviving members. It's the first compilation to include tracks from both Twin-Tone (84 and before, indie) and Sire (85 and after, major), and is thus fated to replace the Sire-only singles and rarities two-fer All for Nothing/Nothing for All. The selection and sequencing of Don't You Know Who I Think I Was is generally smart, hitting most of the agreed-upon highs. The various albums are represented in their proper proportions based on quality, with Tim getting the most songs (four) and Stink and All Shook Down getting the fewest (one each). It's set up more like a mix-tape than a survey, leading to a couple of strange juxtapositions. Leading off the Tim selections with "Here Comes a Regular" is jarring; if any song was meant to be an album closer, it's this. With its crawling pace and downcast mood, it throws up a huge speedbump when listening to this comp straight through. Something else happens when "Alex Chilton" introduces the Pleased to Meet Me selections, as the booming drums seem to come from another world than the dinky snare of the Tommy Ramone-produced Tim. The Replacements never could figure out what sort of production worked with Westerberg's songs. Tim was a thin and trebly disaster, which was most apparent on rockers like "Bastards of Young", while Pleased to Meet Me and Don't Tell a Soul were overproduced in different ways. Their best-sounding stuff by far is the Twin-Tone material, which is too bad since Westerberg generally improved as a songwriter with each record. "Skyway" is one of the sharpest and most affecting ballads of the college rock era, and "I'll Be You" might be Westerberg's peak, with an entire world of feeling held inside the opening word "If". Oh yeah, two new songs. "Message to the Boys" essentially finishes writing the music to Westerberg's skeletal solo debut "Waiting for Somebody" from the Singles soundtrack. Pitchfork's Ryan Dombal described it as a loyal farewell rather than a new beginning, and that seems exactly right. It's warm and nostalgic and not trying too hard. "Pool and Dive" is almost as good, sounding more like a channeling of the Big Star influence, the brash power-pop side of the Replacements given room to breathe. Bands reuniting for new songs to stick on a best-of always puts fans on the edge of their seats, braced for embarrassment. But the Replacements get out quickly with dignity intact. Hearing the 18 songs from the band's original run, the consistency of Westerberg's themes stands out. He built his own little world brick-by-brick, populated it with original characters, and wrote some very catchy tunes about what goes on there. He was like an indie-rock Springsteen, relentlessly chronicling adolescence and early adulthood. In his world everyone is 17, 18, 19 or 20, the grown-ups sound like Charlie Brown's teacher, people gossip, the jobs stink, boredom is rampant, and escape is possible through music and love. Given the aching familiarity of this landscape and Westerberg's eye for detail, the Replacements will always be around."

Fury

Paramount

Rock

Jason Heller

“Are these shouts in bravery/Or announced recklessness?” So screams Jeremy Stith at the start of “Death Yellows Life and Reason,” a high point of Fury’s debut full-length, Paramount. It’s one of the most powerful and passionate hardcore records of the year so far. Stith is raging, sure, but he’s just as apt to lash inward as outward. Bravery or recklessness? It’s not only a question to ask oneself as the frontman of a hardcore band—it’s a conundrum leveled at the hardcore subculture as a whole. But the beauty of Paramount is that it transcends the scene entirely. It is a devastating work of emotional, even philosophical inquisitiveness that, yes, you can totally punch shit to. Fury hails from California’s Orange County, and there’s weight to that. In the ’80s, youth crew hardcore had a stronghold in the area, thanks to the label Wishingwell and straightedge bands like Unity, Uniform Choice, Insted, and No for an Answer. Fury draw a lot from their geographic forebears: Paramount is built around the youth crew infrastructure of hoarse vocals, chunky riffs, and whiplash breakdowns, with trickles of melody bleeding through. On “Thin Line,” fluid chords flow into palm-muted tension; “In Extremis” slows the aggression to simmer. But as tight, tuneful, dynamic, and immaculately crafted as the music is, it’s Stith’s lyrics that elevate them. “Unworthy sculptors/Poor young knives/They’ll do what they’re told/Lost, unwanting,” goes the opening line of “In Extremis,” meshing cryptic symbolism with the howling, accusatory tone of vintage youth crew—a finger that stabs both ways. Paramount is a proud revival of that Orange County tradition, but oddly enough, the album more closely resembles two legendary East Coast bands from the ’80s: Youth of Today (who released their debut album on Wishingwell) and Bold (who almost released their debut album on Wishingwell). The lunging intro to Paramount’s “Duality of Man” calls to mind Youth of Today’s anthem “Break Down the Walls;” the unrelenting turmoil, pinpoint riffage, and dark undercurrent of Bold’s Speak Out infuses “Damage Is Done.” The youth crew paradox—pissed off and cathartic yet introspective and inspirational—is where Fury’s real reverence comes into play, though. They’re not going through the motions. They’re reimagining one of hardcore’s most vital, specific subgenres as something bigger and more universal, an exploration of what motivates us and holds us back, and what that costs us, as both members of tribes and as individuals. Or in the words of “Duality of Man:” “Lost and aweless/I paid to be free/Found solace in what’s ahead of me.” As progressive as the album is, “The Feeling” yanks it into another dimension entirely. The four-minute-plus closing track seem to pound along for 10 times that, and it still ends too soon. Churning and metallic—with a dive-bombing dogfight between guitarists Madison Woodward and Alfredo Gutierrez that ventures into early-Fugazi territory—it parallels the turn toward longer compositions, broader influences, and more intricate dynamics that hardcore took in the late ’80s, just before post-hardcore came into its own. The song simply seethes—a nest of exposed nerves clenched in check and spit out through some savage force of will. As always, though, Stith is on a quest. In a voice as big as oblivion, he ponders how open-heartedness can coexist with the pain it inevitably brings. Ultimately, it’s not the pain that wins. On the caustically euphoric “The Fury”— which might as well be the band’s theme—Stith urges, “Take the fury/Turn it into something positive,” chewing each syllable like it’s made of glass. He isn’t just tapping into the rich legacy of youth crew optimism, from Unity’s “Positive Mental Attitude” to Youth of Today’s “Positive Outlook;” he and the rest of Fury are walking it like they talk it, plunging headfirst into hardcore’s nihilism and clawing out a raw new hope for the future.

Artist: Fury, Album: Paramount, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.0 Album review: "“Are these shouts in bravery/Or announced recklessness?” So screams Jeremy Stith at the start of “Death Yellows Life and Reason,” a high point of Fury’s debut full-length, Paramount. It’s one of the most powerful and passionate hardcore records of the year so far. Stith is raging, sure, but he’s just as apt to lash inward as outward. Bravery or recklessness? It’s not only a question to ask oneself as the frontman of a hardcore band—it’s a conundrum leveled at the hardcore subculture as a whole. But the beauty of Paramount is that it transcends the scene entirely. It is a devastating work of emotional, even philosophical inquisitiveness that, yes, you can totally punch shit to. Fury hails from California’s Orange County, and there’s weight to that. In the ’80s, youth crew hardcore had a stronghold in the area, thanks to the label Wishingwell and straightedge bands like Unity, Uniform Choice, Insted, and No for an Answer. Fury draw a lot from their geographic forebears: Paramount is built around the youth crew infrastructure of hoarse vocals, chunky riffs, and whiplash breakdowns, with trickles of melody bleeding through. On “Thin Line,” fluid chords flow into palm-muted tension; “In Extremis” slows the aggression to simmer. But as tight, tuneful, dynamic, and immaculately crafted as the music is, it’s Stith’s lyrics that elevate them. “Unworthy sculptors/Poor young knives/They’ll do what they’re told/Lost, unwanting,” goes the opening line of “In Extremis,” meshing cryptic symbolism with the howling, accusatory tone of vintage youth crew—a finger that stabs both ways. Paramount is a proud revival of that Orange County tradition, but oddly enough, the album more closely resembles two legendary East Coast bands from the ’80s: Youth of Today (who released their debut album on Wishingwell) and Bold (who almost released their debut album on Wishingwell). The lunging intro to Paramount’s “Duality of Man” calls to mind Youth of Today’s anthem “Break Down the Walls;” the unrelenting turmoil, pinpoint riffage, and dark undercurrent of Bold’s Speak Out infuses “Damage Is Done.” The youth crew paradox—pissed off and cathartic yet introspective and inspirational—is where Fury’s real reverence comes into play, though. They’re not going through the motions. They’re reimagining one of hardcore’s most vital, specific subgenres as something bigger and more universal, an exploration of what motivates us and holds us back, and what that costs us, as both members of tribes and as individuals. Or in the words of “Duality of Man:” “Lost and aweless/I paid to be free/Found solace in what’s ahead of me.” As progressive as the album is, “The Feeling” yanks it into another dimension entirely. The four-minute-plus closing track seem to pound along for 10 times that, and it still ends too soon. Churning and metallic—with a dive-bombing dogfight between guitarists Madison Woodward and Alfredo Gutierrez that ventures into early-Fugazi territory—it parallels the turn toward longer compositions, broader influences, and more intricate dynamics that hardcore took in the late ’80s, just before post-hardcore came into its own. The song simply seethes—a nest of exposed nerves clenched in check and spit out through some savage force of will. As always, though, Stith is on a quest. In a voice as big as oblivion, he ponders how open-heartedness can coexist with the pain it inevitably brings. Ultimately, it’s not the pain that wins. On the caustically euphoric “The Fury”— which might as well be the band’s theme—Stith urges, “Take the fury/Turn it into something positive,” chewing each syllable like it’s made of glass. He isn’t just tapping into the rich legacy of youth crew optimism, from Unity’s “Positive Mental Attitude” to Youth of Today’s “Positive Outlook;” he and the rest of Fury are walking it like they talk it, plunging headfirst into hardcore’s nihilism and clawing out a raw new hope for the future."

Cult of Youth

Cult of Youth

Electronic,Folk/Country

David Raposa

Cult of Youth's eponymous LP is the group's second full-length, but it might be better (especially for newcomers) to treat it as a debut. For one, it's their first album as an honest-to-goodness group: previous Cult of Youth recordings (including the official full-length debut, Dais Records' A Stick to Bind, a Seed to Grow, currently out-of-print) were exclusively the work of frontman Sean Ragon. On these earlier works, Ragon didn't invite comparisons to neofolk progenitors like Death in June and Current 93 so much as demand them. The combination of Ragon's strident and sepulchral vocals -- which could bear a striking resemblance to those of Swans' Michael Gira-- with vigorously-strummed acoustic guitars and semi-industrial backing beats often made for an arresting experience, but even those attuned to Ragon's particular wavelength might find the original version of Cult of Youth hard to take for more than a few songs at a time. The four-person configuration presented on Cult of Youth goes a long way toward smoothing over those rough edges. During the album's first few tracks, it sounds like Ragon's simply found a way to successfully translate his previous work to a full-band setting. As the album progresses, though, it becomes clearer that this version of Cult of Youth (with the help of producer Chris Coady) has taken on an air associated with that small bundle of first-wave post-punk groups who opted to account for more rustic musics within their angles: think pre-Breakfast Club Simple Minds and (especially on "Through the Fear") or "Cattle and Cane"-era Go-Betweens. Replace Ragon's indomitable vocal presence on a song like "Casting Thorns" or "Weary" with a more soothing presence-- Marissa Nadler or Alela Diane, for example-- and you might think those songwriters were the ones responsible for writing the track. The updated, re-recorded version of A Stick to Bind track "Cold Black Earth" provides a perfect contrast between Cult of Youth's past and present. Originally, the song featured a multi-tracked Ragon bellowing the would-be anthem in a stiff and martial fashion, accompanied only by guitar and bass. On the new album, the track is given a propulsive rolling drum beat, which inspires Ragon (now singing by himself) to speed up his pace and lighten his touch. The addition of well-placed violin flurries (courtesy of Zola Jesus string arranger/full-time Cult member Christiana Key) also helps, turning a lugubrious dirge into something much more spry and palatable. However, those afraid Ragon has lost his edge amidst these more flattering surroundings don't need to worry: If anything, as his unhinged performances on "The Dead Sea" and "Weary" illustrate, he's more willing to risk absurdity as a vocalist now that he has a more robust musical backing to soften the blows. That goes double for Ragon and friends as musicians: It's hard to not listen to the band take the "The Lamb" from its modest acoustic introduction to its expansive semi-psychedelic end and think of what Cult of Youth could accomplish once they reconvene to make their second album.

Artist: Cult of Youth, Album: Cult of Youth, Genre: Electronic,Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 7.3 Album review: "Cult of Youth's eponymous LP is the group's second full-length, but it might be better (especially for newcomers) to treat it as a debut. For one, it's their first album as an honest-to-goodness group: previous Cult of Youth recordings (including the official full-length debut, Dais Records' A Stick to Bind, a Seed to Grow, currently out-of-print) were exclusively the work of frontman Sean Ragon. On these earlier works, Ragon didn't invite comparisons to neofolk progenitors like Death in June and Current 93 so much as demand them. The combination of Ragon's strident and sepulchral vocals -- which could bear a striking resemblance to those of Swans' Michael Gira-- with vigorously-strummed acoustic guitars and semi-industrial backing beats often made for an arresting experience, but even those attuned to Ragon's particular wavelength might find the original version of Cult of Youth hard to take for more than a few songs at a time. The four-person configuration presented on Cult of Youth goes a long way toward smoothing over those rough edges. During the album's first few tracks, it sounds like Ragon's simply found a way to successfully translate his previous work to a full-band setting. As the album progresses, though, it becomes clearer that this version of Cult of Youth (with the help of producer Chris Coady) has taken on an air associated with that small bundle of first-wave post-punk groups who opted to account for more rustic musics within their angles: think pre-Breakfast Club Simple Minds and (especially on "Through the Fear") or "Cattle and Cane"-era Go-Betweens. Replace Ragon's indomitable vocal presence on a song like "Casting Thorns" or "Weary" with a more soothing presence-- Marissa Nadler or Alela Diane, for example-- and you might think those songwriters were the ones responsible for writing the track. The updated, re-recorded version of A Stick to Bind track "Cold Black Earth" provides a perfect contrast between Cult of Youth's past and present. Originally, the song featured a multi-tracked Ragon bellowing the would-be anthem in a stiff and martial fashion, accompanied only by guitar and bass. On the new album, the track is given a propulsive rolling drum beat, which inspires Ragon (now singing by himself) to speed up his pace and lighten his touch. The addition of well-placed violin flurries (courtesy of Zola Jesus string arranger/full-time Cult member Christiana Key) also helps, turning a lugubrious dirge into something much more spry and palatable. However, those afraid Ragon has lost his edge amidst these more flattering surroundings don't need to worry: If anything, as his unhinged performances on "The Dead Sea" and "Weary" illustrate, he's more willing to risk absurdity as a vocalist now that he has a more robust musical backing to soften the blows. That goes double for Ragon and friends as musicians: It's hard to not listen to the band take the "The Lamb" from its modest acoustic introduction to its expansive semi-psychedelic end and think of what Cult of Youth could accomplish once they reconvene to make their second album."

Motion Sickness of Time Travel

Motion Sickness of Time Travel

Marc Masters

Though it's often gentle and reflective, there's a forcefulness to the drone-based music made by Rachel Evans, both as Motion Sickness of Time Travel and in Quiet Evenings, her duo with husband Grant. I'm not sure whether to call it drive or vision or presence, but something makes even her calmest moments propel forward and grab attention. She's kept that focus through many LPs, cassettes, CD-R's, and split releases, carving a path that's open to all sounds yet has a clear direction. Her next step on that path feels like the destination she's been traveling toward all along. Plainly titled and simply structured-- each of its four tracks take up an LP side-- Motion Sickness of Time Travel is a definitive 90 minutes of music that needs no novel angle or overt theme to hold interest. Which is not to say that it merely sums up what Evans has done before. There are new approaches here, the most noticeable being a shift from gritty, murky atmospheres to a cleaner, smoother sound. So what makes Motion Sickness of Time Travel definitive is not the qualities on its surface, but the confidence at its core. All kinds of moods and tones seem easily within Evans' reach, so she never has to worry about sustaining intensity over a 25-minute album side, or about picking a sound that's too light or too dark, too simple or too complicated. Bubbles, ripples, chirps, hums, moans: Many of the familiar sounds of ambient music are here, and Evans boldly breathes new life into them. They pulse and flow even when there's no discernible rhythm or movement. Her assuredness is reflected in simple, direct song titles: "The Dream", "The Center", "One Perfect Moment". And it allows Evans to journey around the sonic map without losing her way. In drone-based music there's often a fine line between sticking to one mode beyond its expiration point and pivoting prematurely out of fear of losing impatient listeners. But Evans' changes all feel natural, and the album's variety comes off as earned rather than contrived. When she drifts from whirring notes into wavy tones halfway through "The Dream", or when she sings in words you can actually make out (a rarity for her) near the end of "The Center", these moves seem logical, even inevitable. Comparisons are tempting-- after I listen, I think of the drift of Windy & Carl, the flights of Terry Riley, and the soar of Emeralds, whose John Elliott runs Spectrum Spools. But while the record's playing, Evans' own musical personality is what commands my attention. It's also tempting to call this music "spiritual," as its high-pitched, ethereal sound calls to mind religious hymns or New Age mysticism. But to me Motion Sickness of Time Travel evokes a different sense of spirit-- the kind of inner presence that separates humans from machines. Often drones can feel cold or automated, as if the gear were doing the work and the musician were just a conduit or a witness. That can produce interesting art too, but Evans' music is different. There's a guiding force behind it, a sense that everything happens for a reason. And that's not religion, because Motion Sickness of Time Travel is less about higher power than human power, and the way it can turn inanimate sound into moving experience.

Artist: Motion Sickness of Time Travel, Album: Motion Sickness of Time Travel, Genre: None, Score (1-10): 8.3 Album review: "Though it's often gentle and reflective, there's a forcefulness to the drone-based music made by Rachel Evans, both as Motion Sickness of Time Travel and in Quiet Evenings, her duo with husband Grant. I'm not sure whether to call it drive or vision or presence, but something makes even her calmest moments propel forward and grab attention. She's kept that focus through many LPs, cassettes, CD-R's, and split releases, carving a path that's open to all sounds yet has a clear direction. Her next step on that path feels like the destination she's been traveling toward all along. Plainly titled and simply structured-- each of its four tracks take up an LP side-- Motion Sickness of Time Travel is a definitive 90 minutes of music that needs no novel angle or overt theme to hold interest. Which is not to say that it merely sums up what Evans has done before. There are new approaches here, the most noticeable being a shift from gritty, murky atmospheres to a cleaner, smoother sound. So what makes Motion Sickness of Time Travel definitive is not the qualities on its surface, but the confidence at its core. All kinds of moods and tones seem easily within Evans' reach, so she never has to worry about sustaining intensity over a 25-minute album side, or about picking a sound that's too light or too dark, too simple or too complicated. Bubbles, ripples, chirps, hums, moans: Many of the familiar sounds of ambient music are here, and Evans boldly breathes new life into them. They pulse and flow even when there's no discernible rhythm or movement. Her assuredness is reflected in simple, direct song titles: "The Dream", "The Center", "One Perfect Moment". And it allows Evans to journey around the sonic map without losing her way. In drone-based music there's often a fine line between sticking to one mode beyond its expiration point and pivoting prematurely out of fear of losing impatient listeners. But Evans' changes all feel natural, and the album's variety comes off as earned rather than contrived. When she drifts from whirring notes into wavy tones halfway through "The Dream", or when she sings in words you can actually make out (a rarity for her) near the end of "The Center", these moves seem logical, even inevitable. Comparisons are tempting-- after I listen, I think of the drift of Windy & Carl, the flights of Terry Riley, and the soar of Emeralds, whose John Elliott runs Spectrum Spools. But while the record's playing, Evans' own musical personality is what commands my attention. It's also tempting to call this music "spiritual," as its high-pitched, ethereal sound calls to mind religious hymns or New Age mysticism. But to me Motion Sickness of Time Travel evokes a different sense of spirit-- the kind of inner presence that separates humans from machines. Often drones can feel cold or automated, as if the gear were doing the work and the musician were just a conduit or a witness. That can produce interesting art too, but Evans' music is different. There's a guiding force behind it, a sense that everything happens for a reason. And that's not religion, because Motion Sickness of Time Travel is less about higher power than human power, and the way it can turn inanimate sound into moving experience."

Nguzunguzu

Timesup EP

Electronic,Rap

Brandon Soderberg

Nguzunguzu's nervy approach to DJing and production is best exemplified by an edit of Monica and Brandy's "The Boy Is Mine" that appears on their Perfect Lullaby mix from the spring. They looped producer Darkchild's synth-harp intro from that 1998 hit and let it ride for about two minutes, turning it into a mediative electronic groove. The Los Angeles duo thrives on this type of sonic "aha!" moment, finding musical cues that expose the ways that mainstream rap and R&B aren't all that different from what's going on in the more explicitly experimental underground. Producers making footwork, Baltimore club, moombahton, post-dubstep, and more are toying with minimalism, repetition, and noise; but the urban music on the radio can similarly blow minds, and is often just as out-there. This isn't a new concept exactly (Timbaland at his peak was clearly an avant-pop genius), but Nguzunguzu are particularly skilled at bringing together disparate sounds-- as if their brains were missing the part that constructs binaries or identifies genre differences. They brought this to bear earlier this year when they stitched together M.I.A.'s demos and one-offs for Vicki Leekx, making something just as jagged as *///\Y/*, but way more more fun to hear. The only tangible divide in their work seems to be the conscious splitting up of how they approaching mixing and producing. While their mixes and live sets confidently bounce between genres with ease, their EPs (a self-titled one and Mirage from last year, and now, Timesup) have a different focus. Timesup's three songs and two remixes (by Kingdom and Total Freedom) don't deliver on the vibrant promise of Perfect Lullaby, but they aren't really supposed to do that. The fascinating and sometimes frustrating thing about this group is the unresolved tension between their wide-eyed, creative DJ mixes and their often insular original tracks. A good example here is "Timesup", which runs on an eerie, arpeggiated synth line, a cracking whip, and a baby cooing (homage to Timbaland's "Are You That Somebody?" beat, no doubt). In the middle, in lieu of dance breakdown, there is, for a few moments, a vocal sample from "Let Me Get That" by the awesome but unknown Baltimore club producer DJ Pierre, and right there is the Nguzunguzu recipe: mixing cutting-edge pop fighting with hyper-regional dance. "Water Bass Power" features a dark, menacing synth line that gets louder and louder before circling its melody, while vocal snippets, the ping! of a knife being unsheathed, and dub reggae noises clatter and stomp around. "Wake Sleep" slinks along like an Aaliyah single that never was, piling on increasingly avant-garde percussive noises (an opera sample, drips of water) and teasing the gorgeous hum of Art of Noise's "Moments In Love". It's difficult but rewarding stuff. A recent mix by the group for XLR8R however, features all of the music on Timesup and places it in conversation with the world of post-global dance at large. "Wake Sleep" talks to a sad-sack chipmunk soul remix of "Moments in Love" (Jodie's "Moments in Heartbreak (LOL Boys Edit)"); the title track provides an extended intro for "Everyday", a Chicago juke jam from DJ Deeon; and a raucous Baltimore club-like track called "Deep Inside Me Groove" announces the arrival of "Water Bass Power". Because their mixes are so effective, it's tempting to think of Nguzunguzu's standalone releases as track-oriented DJ tools. But Timesup is living, breathing music that appears to be forming as it goes along. Here, strange sound effects and samples are stacked on top of each other, teasing total chaos but ultimately staying on track because of the foresight of two producers who know exactly what they're doing.

Artist: Nguzunguzu, Album: Timesup EP, Genre: Electronic,Rap, Score (1-10): 7.6 Album review: "Nguzunguzu's nervy approach to DJing and production is best exemplified by an edit of Monica and Brandy's "The Boy Is Mine" that appears on their Perfect Lullaby mix from the spring. They looped producer Darkchild's synth-harp intro from that 1998 hit and let it ride for about two minutes, turning it into a mediative electronic groove. The Los Angeles duo thrives on this type of sonic "aha!" moment, finding musical cues that expose the ways that mainstream rap and R&B aren't all that different from what's going on in the more explicitly experimental underground. Producers making footwork, Baltimore club, moombahton, post-dubstep, and more are toying with minimalism, repetition, and noise; but the urban music on the radio can similarly blow minds, and is often just as out-there. This isn't a new concept exactly (Timbaland at his peak was clearly an avant-pop genius), but Nguzunguzu are particularly skilled at bringing together disparate sounds-- as if their brains were missing the part that constructs binaries or identifies genre differences. They brought this to bear earlier this year when they stitched together M.I.A.'s demos and one-offs for Vicki Leekx, making something just as jagged as *///\Y/*, but way more more fun to hear. The only tangible divide in their work seems to be the conscious splitting up of how they approaching mixing and producing. While their mixes and live sets confidently bounce between genres with ease, their EPs (a self-titled one and Mirage from last year, and now, Timesup) have a different focus. Timesup's three songs and two remixes (by Kingdom and Total Freedom) don't deliver on the vibrant promise of Perfect Lullaby, but they aren't really supposed to do that. The fascinating and sometimes frustrating thing about this group is the unresolved tension between their wide-eyed, creative DJ mixes and their often insular original tracks. A good example here is "Timesup", which runs on an eerie, arpeggiated synth line, a cracking whip, and a baby cooing (homage to Timbaland's "Are You That Somebody?" beat, no doubt). In the middle, in lieu of dance breakdown, there is, for a few moments, a vocal sample from "Let Me Get That" by the awesome but unknown Baltimore club producer DJ Pierre, and right there is the Nguzunguzu recipe: mixing cutting-edge pop fighting with hyper-regional dance. "Water Bass Power" features a dark, menacing synth line that gets louder and louder before circling its melody, while vocal snippets, the ping! of a knife being unsheathed, and dub reggae noises clatter and stomp around. "Wake Sleep" slinks along like an Aaliyah single that never was, piling on increasingly avant-garde percussive noises (an opera sample, drips of water) and teasing the gorgeous hum of Art of Noise's "Moments In Love". It's difficult but rewarding stuff. A recent mix by the group for XLR8R however, features all of the music on Timesup and places it in conversation with the world of post-global dance at large. "Wake Sleep" talks to a sad-sack chipmunk soul remix of "Moments in Love" (Jodie's "Moments in Heartbreak (LOL Boys Edit)"); the title track provides an extended intro for "Everyday", a Chicago juke jam from DJ Deeon; and a raucous Baltimore club-like track called "Deep Inside Me Groove" announces the arrival of "Water Bass Power". Because their mixes are so effective, it's tempting to think of Nguzunguzu's standalone releases as track-oriented DJ tools. But Timesup is living, breathing music that appears to be forming as it goes along. Here, strange sound effects and samples are stacked on top of each other, teasing total chaos but ultimately staying on track because of the foresight of two producers who know exactly what they're doing."

Mystery Jets

Radlands

Electronic,Rock

Larry Fitzmaurice

After a long hiatus marked by side projects and personal tragedy, the Killers are set to return later this year with a new album-- and I'd bet that Mystery Jets are disappointed by that news. Back in 2010, the British rockers released Serotonin, an album packed with sparkling, glammy stadium-pop gems to rival Brandon Flowers' most cocksure feather-jacketed highs. Taking into consideration the ramshackle funhouse guitar pop of the band's 2006 debut, Making Dens, the shift toward such shiny stuff was surprising-- the amount of added polish was especially noticeable (even for a band that's always sounded relatively put-together in the production department)-- but it was a new look that they wore well. They didn't become megastars, not even close, but they certainly did a decent job of sounding the part. Despite the fact that Mystery Jets have frequently worn their musical inspirations on their sleeves (see: the Cars-biting, JCPenney commercial-soundtracking "Two Doors Down", from 2008's uneven Twenty One), they've also always travelled at their own pace, out of step with everyone except their own whims and with moderate critical success. Naturally, then, their fourth album, Radlands, finds the band leaving the glitzy rafter-reaching attitude of Serotonin more or less in the dust. Ironically, in favor of more dust, since they chose to decamp to Texas to work on the lion's share of the album. As frontman Blaine Harrison explains in a press release, the album's title is a Pizza Hut/Taco Bell portmanteau of the names of enigmatic director Terence Malick's first film, 1973's Badlands, and the name of Keith Richards' notorious Redlands estate house. Despite its title, Radlands isn't breathtakingly cinematic, nor is it the scene of an urban legend concerning Marianne Faithfull and a candy bar; quite simply, it's a "Coming to America" statement, one that arrives with acoustic guitars, countryish melodies, gospel choirs, and a convoluted fictional narrative involving a nomadic cowboy-dressed musician that apparently needed its own limited-run comic book just to tell its story. If the idea of a British (and very British-sounding) band pairing its notions of Americana with a loosely drawn conceptual arc sounds like it's been done before, it's because it has been-- by the Killers. Those Actual Americans and British Big Deals previously attempted to conjure a Springsteenian vibe from their better-with-age 2006 LP Sam's Town, which was frequently felled by its own sword of false pretension. Harrison and his band's heads aren't as in-the-clouds as Flowers', so their approach on Radlands is decidedly more modest-- self-defeating, actually, when taking into account the first lyric uttered on the album's opening title track: "I've heard there's a place where we go to die/ It's a terribly overrated horseshit-shaped hole in the sky." Unfortunately, that opening salvo is as cheeky as things get in Radlands country, the other attempt at good-natured humor being "Greatest Hits", an obnoxious ripoff of Stealers Wheel's "Stuck in the Middle With You" that name-checks tons of album titles (that is, except the record itself that it rips off) while lamenting a failed relationship. The problem with Radlands is that, armed with the potential to go wild with a new bag of tricks, Mystery Jets often become as conservatively minded as parts of the state whose outline graces the album's cover. The limp, shuffling duet "Take Me Where the Roses Go" is as innocuously bland as the state flower anthem it could potentially pass for, the warm guitar bends of "The Ballad of Emmerson Lonestar" fail to hide the song's ill-fitting cowboy boots, and the limp, spacey "The Nothing" sounds exactly as its title suggests. Dan Carey, who's worked with artists like Franz Ferdinand and Kylie Minogue, manned the production boards for this one, and it's not impossible to imagine him daydreaming about the more interesting bullet points on his CV as the band plays on. There are a few reminders of past glories on Radlands-- specifically, the sassy glam jangle of "The Hale Bop", as well as the album's closing trio of pomp-rock histrionics, "Sister Everett", "Lost in Austin", and "Luminescence". Early on, "Someone Purer" serves nicely as a stop-start-stop-start-and-then-chug-on-and-on rocker, but one passionately delivered line that's let go from Harrison's lips rings cornily and loudly: "Deliver me from sin/ And give me rock'n'roll." Sadly, if there's irony hidden in that line, I can't find it.

Artist: Mystery Jets, Album: Radlands, Genre: Electronic,Rock, Score (1-10): 5.4 Album review: "After a long hiatus marked by side projects and personal tragedy, the Killers are set to return later this year with a new album-- and I'd bet that Mystery Jets are disappointed by that news. Back in 2010, the British rockers released Serotonin, an album packed with sparkling, glammy stadium-pop gems to rival Brandon Flowers' most cocksure feather-jacketed highs. Taking into consideration the ramshackle funhouse guitar pop of the band's 2006 debut, Making Dens, the shift toward such shiny stuff was surprising-- the amount of added polish was especially noticeable (even for a band that's always sounded relatively put-together in the production department)-- but it was a new look that they wore well. They didn't become megastars, not even close, but they certainly did a decent job of sounding the part. Despite the fact that Mystery Jets have frequently worn their musical inspirations on their sleeves (see: the Cars-biting, JCPenney commercial-soundtracking "Two Doors Down", from 2008's uneven Twenty One), they've also always travelled at their own pace, out of step with everyone except their own whims and with moderate critical success. Naturally, then, their fourth album, Radlands, finds the band leaving the glitzy rafter-reaching attitude of Serotonin more or less in the dust. Ironically, in favor of more dust, since they chose to decamp to Texas to work on the lion's share of the album. As frontman Blaine Harrison explains in a press release, the album's title is a Pizza Hut/Taco Bell portmanteau of the names of enigmatic director Terence Malick's first film, 1973's Badlands, and the name of Keith Richards' notorious Redlands estate house. Despite its title, Radlands isn't breathtakingly cinematic, nor is it the scene of an urban legend concerning Marianne Faithfull and a candy bar; quite simply, it's a "Coming to America" statement, one that arrives with acoustic guitars, countryish melodies, gospel choirs, and a convoluted fictional narrative involving a nomadic cowboy-dressed musician that apparently needed its own limited-run comic book just to tell its story. If the idea of a British (and very British-sounding) band pairing its notions of Americana with a loosely drawn conceptual arc sounds like it's been done before, it's because it has been-- by the Killers. Those Actual Americans and British Big Deals previously attempted to conjure a Springsteenian vibe from their better-with-age 2006 LP Sam's Town, which was frequently felled by its own sword of false pretension. Harrison and his band's heads aren't as in-the-clouds as Flowers', so their approach on Radlands is decidedly more modest-- self-defeating, actually, when taking into account the first lyric uttered on the album's opening title track: "I've heard there's a place where we go to die/ It's a terribly overrated horseshit-shaped hole in the sky." Unfortunately, that opening salvo is as cheeky as things get in Radlands country, the other attempt at good-natured humor being "Greatest Hits", an obnoxious ripoff of Stealers Wheel's "Stuck in the Middle With You" that name-checks tons of album titles (that is, except the record itself that it rips off) while lamenting a failed relationship. The problem with Radlands is that, armed with the potential to go wild with a new bag of tricks, Mystery Jets often become as conservatively minded as parts of the state whose outline graces the album's cover. The limp, shuffling duet "Take Me Where the Roses Go" is as innocuously bland as the state flower anthem it could potentially pass for, the warm guitar bends of "The Ballad of Emmerson Lonestar" fail to hide the song's ill-fitting cowboy boots, and the limp, spacey "The Nothing" sounds exactly as its title suggests. Dan Carey, who's worked with artists like Franz Ferdinand and Kylie Minogue, manned the production boards for this one, and it's not impossible to imagine him daydreaming about the more interesting bullet points on his CV as the band plays on. There are a few reminders of past glories on Radlands-- specifically, the sassy glam jangle of "The Hale Bop", as well as the album's closing trio of pomp-rock histrionics, "Sister Everett", "Lost in Austin", and "Luminescence". Early on, "Someone Purer" serves nicely as a stop-start-stop-start-and-then-chug-on-and-on rocker, but one passionately delivered line that's let go from Harrison's lips rings cornily and loudly: "Deliver me from sin/ And give me rock'n'roll." Sadly, if there's irony hidden in that line, I can't find it."

Aesop Rock

Labor Days

Rap

Nitsuh Abebe

Your humble reviewer is not hugely invested in the state or the fate of hip-hop. A lot of folks are, though, sometimes to an unfortunate extent-- hip-hop spends almost as much time drawing lines and fighting over its own image as the punk and hardcore zines do, albeit more entertainingly. One of the results of this is that a whole lot of hip-hop records are basically about hip-hop: the mainstream stuff (aka "real" hip-hop) offers up further meta-explorations of a few MC-persona archetypes, while the undie stuff (aka "real" hip-hop) dedicates itself to the Ancient Skillz of crate-digging, battle rhyming, and either picking on the mainstream or spitting abstract jumbles of wordplay. The former is how we get stuff like P. Diddy saying, "I don't write rhymes, I write checks"; the latter is how we get stuff like the Anti-Pop Consortium, who sound godlike in ten second snippets but prove mind-numbingly tedious by fifteen. Aesop Rock is one of those MCs who have stumbled upon a blindingly intelligent solution to this state of affairs: he's ignored all of that baggage and made a record that's mostly about something. That something is work. Labor-- effort in its broadest sense-- is a topic he treats sometimes pedantically but often more thought-provokingly than not only the bulk of hip-hop, but the bulk of any genre. It helps that Labor Days is as terrific a record as anyone could ask for, really, and you should buy it, and here's why. First: Aesop Rock is a terrific MC. His flow is rapid but clear; his interjections, double-time verses and sing-song bits are arranged with near-symphonic skill. He's also calm and confident, avoiding both the egomaniacal swagger of a lot of mainstream and the egomaniacal jerkiness of a lot of underground, while nicking their finer points as well. Better than that: Aesop Rock's flow is brilliant, a combination of mindbending wordplay ("Who am I?" he asks, then answers: "Jabberwocky Superfly!"), in-rhymed poetics ("You won't be laughing when the buzzards drag your brother's flags to rags"), and surgically sharp, eye-rolling dismissals of anyone he disapproves of: "If you had one more eye you'd be a cyclops," runs one, "which may explain your missing the premise." Aesop Rock says more astoundingly intelligent things per minute than the entire combined rosters of a lot of other labels. Second: Blockhead, who produces much of this record, does an equally terrific job. Labor Days is bound for constant comparisons to Cannibal Ox's The Cold Vein, the other Def Jux Edgy Intelligent NYC MCs with Stark Progressive Beats record to crop up on 2001's year-end lists. And while the comparisons are valid ones, lyrically and often sonically, Labor Days differs by trading in The Cold Vein's minimalist grind for an equally minimal but remarkably lush, cinematic spread of subtly weaving beats and sinuous, somber, minor-key instrumental arrangements that sound as if someone has been doing his crate-digging in the klezmer, bouzouki, and koto piles of the "World Classical" section. "Daylight," the record's initial standout, works from a long, plush melodic loop with a wood flute sighing over it (there are a lot of woody flutes on this record-- enough to make you wonder if Blockhead wouldn't have done a better job than RZA on the Ghost Dog soundtrack). Meanwhile, "Save Yourself," the record's real standout, consists of a slow-motion lope constructed from staccato bass blips, an east-Mediterranean guitar pluck, and wispy female cooing. "Battery" stretches the limits of hip-hop pastoralism with a bass-and-cello figure and more of those fluttering coos with Ace intoning, "Brother sun, sister moon, mother beautiful," and, "I painted a sunny day on the insides of my eyelids." If most hip-hop chases a futuristic, brightly lit city vitality, Labor Days is laid out peacefully on a rainy plain somewhere. And if The Cold Vein sounds like the grind of inscrutable machinery, Labor Days waits a couple hundred years for those machines to be covered with moss and vines. When it all comes together, on "9-5ers Anthem"-- a track which pairs a sprightly bassline with handbells (handbells!) with Ace in top form, spitting out brilliant parallel metaphors for quotidian employment-- it seems so all-consumingly right: hip-hop bouncing confidently along, actually saying something about something, and saying it well and smartly. Aesop Rock does have a message here, which you'd expect to be a bad thing but isn't, really, insofar as the message is a pretty reasonable one. Ace's message is that life can be hard but that's all the more reason to shut your mouth and work on something that makes you happy. Essentially. Labor Days gets cartoonish only once, on "No Regrets," which is still a decent and sensitive track but which we won't really get into here because on the other hand, it's the inherent pragmatism of Ace's theme that allows for his wonderfully apologetic complaints about 9-5 employment. Not to mention all those glorious eye-rolling disses: "Keep me posted," he says, "as to when you grasp something mature to sit and soak about, Mister, and I'll consider picking up your record." That last line's from "Save Yourself," which collects Ace's comments on the How We Do Hip-Hop question-- he's undie, of course, here with his sonically progressive Def Jux release, so clearly he's going to drop some invective on this Important Issue. His take, though? Forget it: "Maybe you ought to try saving something other than hip-hop," insightful advice no matter what genre you insert at the end. "Pistons pump perfect," he says, then, "what you're holding ain't really broken." And for the duration of Labor Days, it's pretty clear that in the hands of someone with something to use it for, it's not, not at all.

Artist: Aesop Rock, Album: Labor Days, Genre: Rap, Score (1-10): 8.7 Album review: "Your humble reviewer is not hugely invested in the state or the fate of hip-hop. A lot of folks are, though, sometimes to an unfortunate extent-- hip-hop spends almost as much time drawing lines and fighting over its own image as the punk and hardcore zines do, albeit more entertainingly. One of the results of this is that a whole lot of hip-hop records are basically about hip-hop: the mainstream stuff (aka "real" hip-hop) offers up further meta-explorations of a few MC-persona archetypes, while the undie stuff (aka "real" hip-hop) dedicates itself to the Ancient Skillz of crate-digging, battle rhyming, and either picking on the mainstream or spitting abstract jumbles of wordplay. The former is how we get stuff like P. Diddy saying, "I don't write rhymes, I write checks"; the latter is how we get stuff like the Anti-Pop Consortium, who sound godlike in ten second snippets but prove mind-numbingly tedious by fifteen. Aesop Rock is one of those MCs who have stumbled upon a blindingly intelligent solution to this state of affairs: he's ignored all of that baggage and made a record that's mostly about something. That something is work. Labor-- effort in its broadest sense-- is a topic he treats sometimes pedantically but often more thought-provokingly than not only the bulk of hip-hop, but the bulk of any genre. It helps that Labor Days is as terrific a record as anyone could ask for, really, and you should buy it, and here's why. First: Aesop Rock is a terrific MC. His flow is rapid but clear; his interjections, double-time verses and sing-song bits are arranged with near-symphonic skill. He's also calm and confident, avoiding both the egomaniacal swagger of a lot of mainstream and the egomaniacal jerkiness of a lot of underground, while nicking their finer points as well. Better than that: Aesop Rock's flow is brilliant, a combination of mindbending wordplay ("Who am I?" he asks, then answers: "Jabberwocky Superfly!"), in-rhymed poetics ("You won't be laughing when the buzzards drag your brother's flags to rags"), and surgically sharp, eye-rolling dismissals of anyone he disapproves of: "If you had one more eye you'd be a cyclops," runs one, "which may explain your missing the premise." Aesop Rock says more astoundingly intelligent things per minute than the entire combined rosters of a lot of other labels. Second: Blockhead, who produces much of this record, does an equally terrific job. Labor Days is bound for constant comparisons to Cannibal Ox's The Cold Vein, the other Def Jux Edgy Intelligent NYC MCs with Stark Progressive Beats record to crop up on 2001's year-end lists. And while the comparisons are valid ones, lyrically and often sonically, Labor Days differs by trading in The Cold Vein's minimalist grind for an equally minimal but remarkably lush, cinematic spread of subtly weaving beats and sinuous, somber, minor-key instrumental arrangements that sound as if someone has been doing his crate-digging in the klezmer, bouzouki, and koto piles of the "World Classical" section. "Daylight," the record's initial standout, works from a long, plush melodic loop with a wood flute sighing over it (there are a lot of woody flutes on this record-- enough to make you wonder if Blockhead wouldn't have done a better job than RZA on the Ghost Dog soundtrack). Meanwhile, "Save Yourself," the record's real standout, consists of a slow-motion lope constructed from staccato bass blips, an east-Mediterranean guitar pluck, and wispy female cooing. "Battery" stretches the limits of hip-hop pastoralism with a bass-and-cello figure and more of those fluttering coos with Ace intoning, "Brother sun, sister moon, mother beautiful," and, "I painted a sunny day on the insides of my eyelids." If most hip-hop chases a futuristic, brightly lit city vitality, Labor Days is laid out peacefully on a rainy plain somewhere. And if The Cold Vein sounds like the grind of inscrutable machinery, Labor Days waits a couple hundred years for those machines to be covered with moss and vines. When it all comes together, on "9-5ers Anthem"-- a track which pairs a sprightly bassline with handbells (handbells!) with Ace in top form, spitting out brilliant parallel metaphors for quotidian employment-- it seems so all-consumingly right: hip-hop bouncing confidently along, actually saying something about something, and saying it well and smartly. Aesop Rock does have a message here, which you'd expect to be a bad thing but isn't, really, insofar as the message is a pretty reasonable one. Ace's message is that life can be hard but that's all the more reason to shut your mouth and work on something that makes you happy. Essentially. Labor Days gets cartoonish only once, on "No Regrets," which is still a decent and sensitive track but which we won't really get into here because on the other hand, it's the inherent pragmatism of Ace's theme that allows for his wonderfully apologetic complaints about 9-5 employment. Not to mention all those glorious eye-rolling disses: "Keep me posted," he says, "as to when you grasp something mature to sit and soak about, Mister, and I'll consider picking up your record." That last line's from "Save Yourself," which collects Ace's comments on the How We Do Hip-Hop question-- he's undie, of course, here with his sonically progressive Def Jux release, so clearly he's going to drop some invective on this Important Issue. His take, though? Forget it: "Maybe you ought to try saving something other than hip-hop," insightful advice no matter what genre you insert at the end. "Pistons pump perfect," he says, then, "what you're holding ain't really broken." And for the duration of Labor Days, it's pretty clear that in the hands of someone with something to use it for, it's not, not at all."

Noxagt

The Iron Point

Experimental,Rock

Sam Ubl

Chaos: perhaps the most oft-misused word in the musical lexicon. The term, meaning a state of intense disorder or confusion, is commonly applied to loud bands who offer a somewhat masochistic listening experience. Load Records is an unfortunate victim of this naive branding. While many of its bands are excruciatingly loud, few fit the true definition of chaos. Even Lightning Bolt, one of the most unrepentantly ear-splitting groups ever, are far from chaotic: Their compositions weave in and out of rigidly preordained constructs, stretching the taut skin of rhythm to maximum tension, yet never breaking it. Noxagt are certain to be smote by the term in the wake of their second LP, The Iron Point, yet while many of the Norwegian trio's songs may be deafening, they're also often downright sublime. Continual high-volume pummeling can be quite soothing, particularly when a band is content not to overstuff their songs with breakneck changes and spitfire riffage. One more than one occasion, I've blasted this record on car trips, and the music has a surprisingly sobering effect. While an epileptic band like The Locust certainly isn't the best thing to drive to, Noxagt's behemoth soundscapes are easy to become immersed in: The Iron Point moves as one sprawling, ambient suite, albeit composed for glottal bass, metallic drums and palsied viola. While Lightning Bolt construct minimalist masterpieces by distilling the adrenal essence of rock, Noxagt's song structures are more finessed, and thus lose some of their intended potency. But such gracefulness and attention to detail isn't always a hindrance. "The Hebbex" is as anthemic as it is jarring, the stylistic double whammy that makes Lightning Bolt's music so toothsome. "Acasta Gneiss" stutters on a spasmodic bassline, replete with tremolo-heavy viola and primal tom-bashing, creating a textural kaleidoscope that makes for one of The Iron Point's most interesting moments. "Regions of May", another standout, shows a more sensitive band influenced equally by Loveless-style noisemaking and more dire hardcore and metal acts. "Thurmaston" illustrates the potentially hypnotic effect of exceptionally loud music. Beginning with a spliced viola whine that sounds redolent of a weedwhacker gone haywire, the song features an unflinching drum rhythm that starts entropic, before being finally pinioned by a dirgeful bassline. From there, the track gradually builds momentum, as the subtly mutating viola line provides the sole melodic underpinning. Four minutes later, not much has changed, but it's hard to imagine where the time went: Like the best ambient and drone music, "Thurmaston" seems to bend time, disintegrating our physical relation to the world around us. The primary difference between this and, say, Selected Ambient Works II, is the instrumentation and volume. A stringently singular coherence might be both this record's greatest asset and detractor. While appreciable as a whole, the songs on The Iron Point often blend into one another, offering no significant difference in tempo, instrumentation or volume. Additionally, some of the more searing numbers-- especially "Blood Thing" and "A Blast from the Past"-- seem like throwaways: Not only do they languor in the album's sequence, they're downright tedious in and of themselves. Still, The Iron Point has plenty of beatific moments within its just-right 33-minute runtime. Like the jagged, sun-drenched slab of granite that adorns its cover, the album poses a striking dichotomy that limns an unconventional beauty.

Artist: Noxagt, Album: The Iron Point, Genre: Experimental,Rock, Score (1-10): 7.7 Album review: "Chaos: perhaps the most oft-misused word in the musical lexicon. The term, meaning a state of intense disorder or confusion, is commonly applied to loud bands who offer a somewhat masochistic listening experience. Load Records is an unfortunate victim of this naive branding. While many of its bands are excruciatingly loud, few fit the true definition of chaos. Even Lightning Bolt, one of the most unrepentantly ear-splitting groups ever, are far from chaotic: Their compositions weave in and out of rigidly preordained constructs, stretching the taut skin of rhythm to maximum tension, yet never breaking it. Noxagt are certain to be smote by the term in the wake of their second LP, The Iron Point, yet while many of the Norwegian trio's songs may be deafening, they're also often downright sublime. Continual high-volume pummeling can be quite soothing, particularly when a band is content not to overstuff their songs with breakneck changes and spitfire riffage. One more than one occasion, I've blasted this record on car trips, and the music has a surprisingly sobering effect. While an epileptic band like The Locust certainly isn't the best thing to drive to, Noxagt's behemoth soundscapes are easy to become immersed in: The Iron Point moves as one sprawling, ambient suite, albeit composed for glottal bass, metallic drums and palsied viola. While Lightning Bolt construct minimalist masterpieces by distilling the adrenal essence of rock, Noxagt's song structures are more finessed, and thus lose some of their intended potency. But such gracefulness and attention to detail isn't always a hindrance. "The Hebbex" is as anthemic as it is jarring, the stylistic double whammy that makes Lightning Bolt's music so toothsome. "Acasta Gneiss" stutters on a spasmodic bassline, replete with tremolo-heavy viola and primal tom-bashing, creating a textural kaleidoscope that makes for one of The Iron Point's most interesting moments. "Regions of May", another standout, shows a more sensitive band influenced equally by Loveless-style noisemaking and more dire hardcore and metal acts. "Thurmaston" illustrates the potentially hypnotic effect of exceptionally loud music. Beginning with a spliced viola whine that sounds redolent of a weedwhacker gone haywire, the song features an unflinching drum rhythm that starts entropic, before being finally pinioned by a dirgeful bassline. From there, the track gradually builds momentum, as the subtly mutating viola line provides the sole melodic underpinning. Four minutes later, not much has changed, but it's hard to imagine where the time went: Like the best ambient and drone music, "Thurmaston" seems to bend time, disintegrating our physical relation to the world around us. The primary difference between this and, say, Selected Ambient Works II, is the instrumentation and volume. A stringently singular coherence might be both this record's greatest asset and detractor. While appreciable as a whole, the songs on The Iron Point often blend into one another, offering no significant difference in tempo, instrumentation or volume. Additionally, some of the more searing numbers-- especially "Blood Thing" and "A Blast from the Past"-- seem like throwaways: Not only do they languor in the album's sequence, they're downright tedious in and of themselves. Still, The Iron Point has plenty of beatific moments within its just-right 33-minute runtime. Like the jagged, sun-drenched slab of granite that adorns its cover, the album poses a striking dichotomy that limns an unconventional beauty."

The Libertines

Up the Bracket

Rock

Eric Carr

And so it's come to pass: the great wheel of revivalism spins, dredging up the next phase of music history to be paraded about-- it was only a matter of time before we came around to The Clash. But just as calling The Clash "punk" belittles how their sound had evolved by the movement's curtain call, it would be unfairly dismissive to brand The Libertines Clash knock-offs. You'd have to throw in a line or two about singer Pete Doherty sounding uncannily like an English Julian Casablancas to be more dismissive. British Strokes for British folks, as they say. All cards on the table, though: Up the Bracket does emulate, thanks in no small part to production care of ex-Clash founder Mick Jones, but it never truly imitates. Like The Clash before them, The Libertines draw primarily from decades of rock tradition-- blues, dub, a healthy whiff of the English countryside, and a few gorgeous rock riffs straight from the brainstem of Chuck Berry-- and fuse them into an unruly and triumphant monster of an album. The band burns through a range of emotions with fearless abandon, and just when one track seems about to split into pieces, they pull it all together only to threaten glorious collapse again on the next song. From their plaintive anthems to fuck-all barnburners, this is some of the most fun I've had with a CD in ages. Rarely does a band approach such a wide array of attitudes with equal proficiency. "Boys in the Band" traverses miles of territory in four short minutes; funk-fused riffs lend a dangerous swagger to Doherty's ultra-confident vocals before, curiously, the whole thing pulls a 180 into barbershop-style harmonies. It's not as crazy as it sounds, but it's twice as fun. Later, the band find themselves in the throes of a token heartfelt ballad-- even one that delivers unexpected quaintness and delicate folk sensibilities-- as old-time cymbal washes make such an obvious track better than it has any right to be. But before the glow fades, they take us right back to hook-laden rock with the title song, recalling The Clash's finest moments, complete with vocals lifted from Joe Strummer's back pocket. There's an almost indescribable wealth of rock lurking on Up the Bracket, and rarely is it less than blissfully entertaining. In just thirty-odd minutes, The Libertines pretty much do it all. Call it calculated, call it derivative-- hell, there's so much to this album, you can call it just about anything you like and probably not be too far from the truth-- but if you don't hear it, you'll be the one missing out.

Artist: The Libertines, Album: Up the Bracket, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 8.5 Album review: "And so it's come to pass: the great wheel of revivalism spins, dredging up the next phase of music history to be paraded about-- it was only a matter of time before we came around to The Clash. But just as calling The Clash "punk" belittles how their sound had evolved by the movement's curtain call, it would be unfairly dismissive to brand The Libertines Clash knock-offs. You'd have to throw in a line or two about singer Pete Doherty sounding uncannily like an English Julian Casablancas to be more dismissive. British Strokes for British folks, as they say. All cards on the table, though: Up the Bracket does emulate, thanks in no small part to production care of ex-Clash founder Mick Jones, but it never truly imitates. Like The Clash before them, The Libertines draw primarily from decades of rock tradition-- blues, dub, a healthy whiff of the English countryside, and a few gorgeous rock riffs straight from the brainstem of Chuck Berry-- and fuse them into an unruly and triumphant monster of an album. The band burns through a range of emotions with fearless abandon, and just when one track seems about to split into pieces, they pull it all together only to threaten glorious collapse again on the next song. From their plaintive anthems to fuck-all barnburners, this is some of the most fun I've had with a CD in ages. Rarely does a band approach such a wide array of attitudes with equal proficiency. "Boys in the Band" traverses miles of territory in four short minutes; funk-fused riffs lend a dangerous swagger to Doherty's ultra-confident vocals before, curiously, the whole thing pulls a 180 into barbershop-style harmonies. It's not as crazy as it sounds, but it's twice as fun. Later, the band find themselves in the throes of a token heartfelt ballad-- even one that delivers unexpected quaintness and delicate folk sensibilities-- as old-time cymbal washes make such an obvious track better than it has any right to be. But before the glow fades, they take us right back to hook-laden rock with the title song, recalling The Clash's finest moments, complete with vocals lifted from Joe Strummer's back pocket. There's an almost indescribable wealth of rock lurking on Up the Bracket, and rarely is it less than blissfully entertaining. In just thirty-odd minutes, The Libertines pretty much do it all. Call it calculated, call it derivative-- hell, there's so much to this album, you can call it just about anything you like and probably not be too far from the truth-- but if you don't hear it, you'll be the one missing out."

Björk

Biophilia

Electronic,Pop/R&B

Mark Pytlik

The most common caricatures of Björk tend to fixate on her outsized aesthetic sense. But for all the bonkers fashion choices, outré collaborators, and leftfield influences she pulls into her orbit, it's easy to forget that her worldview is also equally informed by a sympathy and awareness of the systems that guide us. From the "beats and strings" manifesto that shaped Homogenic to the "music for laptop speakers" mandate that drove Vespertine through to the vocals-only absolutism of Medúlla, her obsession with patterns and structure and conceptual boundaries has consistently been at the center of her work. Often, she has celebrated the messiness and the chaos implicit in these very things; in fact, the very first line of her very first single took a perverse delight in the lack of logic inherent in one of the biggest and most complex systems of all: human behavior. Biophilia marks Björk's eighth full-length release, and represents her definitive attempt to create an ecosystem around her work. Billed as her "most ambitious and interdisciplinary project yet" and boasting all the usual fixings of a Björk release (dazzling artwork, a Michel Gondry video, vanguard instrumentation, a bizarre list of collaborators), it also comes supported by a corresponding iPad application for each of its 10 tracks, a new website, a series of live shows and "music workshops", and a forthcoming 90-minute film documenting its creation. Beyond that, the album itself purports to engage with some pretty momentous themes, with song titles like "Thunderbolt", "Dark Matter", and "Cosmogony" and imagery focusing on time, space, and the natural world. (Note that editor Brandon Stosuy wrote press materials for this release prior to being hired by Pitchfork.) The stakes feel even higher in light of Björk's mottled output over the past decade. Between 2004's well-received but thin-sounding Medúlla and 2007's unfocused and sprawling Volta, Björk has arguably been unable to produce anything definitive since 2001's Vespertine. In its worst moments, Volta painted a picture of an artist whose quality control instincts had been eroded by indulgence. One would be forgiven if news of all the scaffolding around Biophilia sounded up alarm bells: Is this her coming back strong, or piling conceptual materials on top of her music in an effort to give it extra depth? If the songs themselves are any indication, the answer leans more toward the latter. While the promotional and conceptual packaging around Biophilia are as forward-thinking as ever, the sheer quality of Björk's songwriting remains problematic. It feels, once again, as if she's prioritized the superficial aspects of Biophilia's presentation over, well, the music. I can't imagine, for example, how a middle section as dull as "Dark Matter" and "Hollow" made the cut. Even slightly more realized compositions like the the music box plink of "Virus" and the twitching "Thunderbolt" are essentially just simple motifs stretched way beyond their limits. Too often, she combats the lack of any real structure or melody by over-singing, or lapsing into one of her familiar and increasingly lazy-sounding house vocal runs.  It too often feels as if Björk's songwriting process is now to sing arbitrarily over top of her collaborators' instrumental tracks rather than structure the music around a melody. Sure, there are highlights. When she does get a tune to sing, she attacks it with almost apologetic gusto. Lead single "Crystalline" features one of the album's best hooks, and as a result, one of Björk's best and most focused performances. Elsewhere, the gorgeous "Cosmogony" carries a faint hymnal quality and an immediacy that wouldn't sound totally out of place on Vespertine or even Homogenic. With its satisfyingly filthy electro skronk, the uptempo "Mutual Core" may be the album's best track overall. Although a big part of the PR story around Biophilia, the apps ultimately feel less than essential to the overall experience. Even after spending significant amounts of time with them, it's easy to separate them mentally from the music. They're well-designed and infused with appropriate amounts of playfulness and mystery, and a few have almost meditative properties that suit the music well, but ultimately they feel like they're there to support a concept rather than vice versa. Beyond that, in costing $1.99 apiece (or just under $10 for the full complement), the app gambit ultimately hits upon another latter-day Björk tendency, which is her seeming willingness to exploit all available revenue streams. Is it fair to fault Biophilia for failing to realize its own ambition? That's a tough question; Björk's curatorial acumen, her visual sense, and her vision are so beyond reproach that it feels almost churlish to complain about something as simple as a lack of melody, or the fact that she's an experimental music pioneer who might just be over-charging for her experimental iPad apps. Nonetheless, for an album ostensibly about the elements, there are some essential pieces missing here. As an innovator, she's as vibrant as ever, but as a songwriter, she sounds tired.

Artist: Björk, Album: Biophilia, Genre: Electronic,Pop/R&B, Score (1-10): 6.2 Album review: "The most common caricatures of Björk tend to fixate on her outsized aesthetic sense. But for all the bonkers fashion choices, outré collaborators, and leftfield influences she pulls into her orbit, it's easy to forget that her worldview is also equally informed by a sympathy and awareness of the systems that guide us. From the "beats and strings" manifesto that shaped Homogenic to the "music for laptop speakers" mandate that drove Vespertine through to the vocals-only absolutism of Medúlla, her obsession with patterns and structure and conceptual boundaries has consistently been at the center of her work. Often, she has celebrated the messiness and the chaos implicit in these very things; in fact, the very first line of her very first single took a perverse delight in the lack of logic inherent in one of the biggest and most complex systems of all: human behavior. Biophilia marks Björk's eighth full-length release, and represents her definitive attempt to create an ecosystem around her work. Billed as her "most ambitious and interdisciplinary project yet" and boasting all the usual fixings of a Björk release (dazzling artwork, a Michel Gondry video, vanguard instrumentation, a bizarre list of collaborators), it also comes supported by a corresponding iPad application for each of its 10 tracks, a new website, a series of live shows and "music workshops", and a forthcoming 90-minute film documenting its creation. Beyond that, the album itself purports to engage with some pretty momentous themes, with song titles like "Thunderbolt", "Dark Matter", and "Cosmogony" and imagery focusing on time, space, and the natural world. (Note that editor Brandon Stosuy wrote press materials for this release prior to being hired by Pitchfork.) The stakes feel even higher in light of Björk's mottled output over the past decade. Between 2004's well-received but thin-sounding Medúlla and 2007's unfocused and sprawling Volta, Björk has arguably been unable to produce anything definitive since 2001's Vespertine. In its worst moments, Volta painted a picture of an artist whose quality control instincts had been eroded by indulgence. One would be forgiven if news of all the scaffolding around Biophilia sounded up alarm bells: Is this her coming back strong, or piling conceptual materials on top of her music in an effort to give it extra depth? If the songs themselves are any indication, the answer leans more toward the latter. While the promotional and conceptual packaging around Biophilia are as forward-thinking as ever, the sheer quality of Björk's songwriting remains problematic. It feels, once again, as if she's prioritized the superficial aspects of Biophilia's presentation over, well, the music. I can't imagine, for example, how a middle section as dull as "Dark Matter" and "Hollow" made the cut. Even slightly more realized compositions like the the music box plink of "Virus" and the twitching "Thunderbolt" are essentially just simple motifs stretched way beyond their limits. Too often, she combats the lack of any real structure or melody by over-singing, or lapsing into one of her familiar and increasingly lazy-sounding house vocal runs.  It too often feels as if Björk's songwriting process is now to sing arbitrarily over top of her collaborators' instrumental tracks rather than structure the music around a melody. Sure, there are highlights. When she does get a tune to sing, she attacks it with almost apologetic gusto. Lead single "Crystalline" features one of the album's best hooks, and as a result, one of Björk's best and most focused performances. Elsewhere, the gorgeous "Cosmogony" carries a faint hymnal quality and an immediacy that wouldn't sound totally out of place on Vespertine or even Homogenic. With its satisfyingly filthy electro skronk, the uptempo "Mutual Core" may be the album's best track overall. Although a big part of the PR story around Biophilia, the apps ultimately feel less than essential to the overall experience. Even after spending significant amounts of time with them, it's easy to separate them mentally from the music. They're well-designed and infused with appropriate amounts of playfulness and mystery, and a few have almost meditative properties that suit the music well, but ultimately they feel like they're there to support a concept rather than vice versa. Beyond that, in costing $1.99 apiece (or just under $10 for the full complement), the app gambit ultimately hits upon another latter-day Björk tendency, which is her seeming willingness to exploit all available revenue streams. Is it fair to fault Biophilia for failing to realize its own ambition? That's a tough question; Björk's curatorial acumen, her visual sense, and her vision are so beyond reproach that it feels almost churlish to complain about something as simple as a lack of melody, or the fact that she's an experimental music pioneer who might just be over-charging for her experimental iPad apps. Nonetheless, for an album ostensibly about the elements, there are some essential pieces missing here. As an innovator, she's as vibrant as ever, but as a songwriter, she sounds tired."

DVA [Hi:Emotions]

NOTU_URONLINEU

Electronic

Louis Pattison

Leon Smart might not quite have the profile of Hyperdub’s bigger names, the likes of Laurel Halo and Burial, but it’s hard to think of a figure more emblematic of the UK label’s mission to short-circuit the familiar rhythms and grooves of dance music. As DVA, Smart came up through London’s grime scene, producing for figures like Wiley and becoming a familiar face at Rinse FM, where he was an energetic presence at the helm of the former pirate station’s Grimey Breakfast Show. For all this, Smart’s own productions have increasingly shunned category, exploring a liminal space between grime, house and UK funky—a space that, for want of a better term, we might as well call Hyperdub music. This is Smart’s first full-length album going under new handle DVA [Hi:Emotions], and it marks a break of sorts from what has come before. For one, there is a broad concept here—one encompassing, among other things, techno-futurism, corporate branding, and the interface between humans and machines. With this shift into conceptual territory comes a shift towards abstraction. These are not straightforward club tracks; Smart says he composed them in the dark, illuminated by the glow of his computer monitor—a process designed to emulate his early experiences as a music listener, headphones on beneath a duvet after lights-out. NOTU_URONLINEU is seldom functional, in that way that great dance music can often be, but it uses its conceptual grounding as a springboard to explore all manner of strange hybrids and surprising possibilities. The album’s sound is initially rather alien—relatively sparse, often light in bass frequencies, and characterized by twitchy rhythms, synth washes and all manner of blips and whooshes that ping around in the high registers. It can be body-moving stuff—most obviously on enjoyable “DAFUQ,” a cartoonish melding of TNGHT-style horn blasts, dubstep lollops and angelic arpeggios. Elsewhere, tracks combine unusual textural and rhythmic motifs. “SUZHOU” and “B IT” contain fragments of familiar genres—the frantic repetitions of footwork, the glossy sheen of vaporwave—but wriggle free of any familiar niche. Sometimes a voice will float through the mix, dispensing corporate soundbites and endorsing a fictional product line called “Hi:Emotions” with uncanny-valley chirpiness. “Have you ever been lost in translation or misunderstood in emails?” asks one. “Have you had a friendship end over the tone of your texts?” In the hands of some, this sort of conceptual conceit might be the seeds of a grim sci-fi dystopia; the robots taking over. But NOTU_URONLINEU explores its themes with delicate nuance, smearing the edges of the human and artificial, the organic and the electronic, as if trying to sketch out the dimensions of a digital self. “ALMOSTU,” featuring guest vocalists Rae Rae and Roses Gabor, is quiet storm R&B going out to a lover who may be merely virtual; while a particularly slippery eight-minute track titled “NOTU_URONLINEU” lines up slashing rhythms, blasts of modular synth slurry and an unexpected but delightful segment of Rhodes piano played by collaborator Danalogue that gives the track a twinkly jazz-funk flavor, like Herbie Hancock popping up in the middle of an Autechre workout. Throughout the track, a relationship drama plays out. “What’s wrong? I know something’s wrong,” it begins. It ends: “I don’t love you anymore.” It goes on to say, “I knew that wasn’t gonna sound good.” NOTU_URONLINEU feels of a piece with recent concept-powered projects like Kode9’s Nothing or Logos, Mumdance and Shapednoise’s modular project the Sprawl—a sort of speculative fiction in sound, mapping out a space of future possibilities. It feels somewhat embryonic in places, as if some of its ideas remain fragmentary or incomplete. But, importantly for an album grappling with ideas of identity, we never lose sight of Smart amidst his concept. Wait a few seconds after the album’s closing track (excluding the brief bonus song) and we’re beamed right into his studio, can hear him sniffling and exhaling as beats ping from the speakers and one of the album’s sales drones delivers a pitch: “Have you ever made up a song in your head but didn’t have the skills to execute it?” It’s tempting to imagine Smart posed this very question to himself, before rolling up his sleeves and resolving to do something about it. The result is a vision of a prospective future both strange and alluring, a journey through virtual spaces and experimental technologies that, at heart, feels human after all.

Artist: DVA [Hi:Emotions], Album: NOTU_URONLINEU, Genre: Electronic, Score (1-10): 7.1 Album review: "Leon Smart might not quite have the profile of Hyperdub’s bigger names, the likes of Laurel Halo and Burial, but it’s hard to think of a figure more emblematic of the UK label’s mission to short-circuit the familiar rhythms and grooves of dance music. As DVA, Smart came up through London’s grime scene, producing for figures like Wiley and becoming a familiar face at Rinse FM, where he was an energetic presence at the helm of the former pirate station’s Grimey Breakfast Show. For all this, Smart’s own productions have increasingly shunned category, exploring a liminal space between grime, house and UK funky—a space that, for want of a better term, we might as well call Hyperdub music. This is Smart’s first full-length album going under new handle DVA [Hi:Emotions], and it marks a break of sorts from what has come before. For one, there is a broad concept here—one encompassing, among other things, techno-futurism, corporate branding, and the interface between humans and machines. With this shift into conceptual territory comes a shift towards abstraction. These are not straightforward club tracks; Smart says he composed them in the dark, illuminated by the glow of his computer monitor—a process designed to emulate his early experiences as a music listener, headphones on beneath a duvet after lights-out. NOTU_URONLINEU is seldom functional, in that way that great dance music can often be, but it uses its conceptual grounding as a springboard to explore all manner of strange hybrids and surprising possibilities. The album’s sound is initially rather alien—relatively sparse, often light in bass frequencies, and characterized by twitchy rhythms, synth washes and all manner of blips and whooshes that ping around in the high registers. It can be body-moving stuff—most obviously on enjoyable “DAFUQ,” a cartoonish melding of TNGHT-style horn blasts, dubstep lollops and angelic arpeggios. Elsewhere, tracks combine unusual textural and rhythmic motifs. “SUZHOU” and “B IT” contain fragments of familiar genres—the frantic repetitions of footwork, the glossy sheen of vaporwave—but wriggle free of any familiar niche. Sometimes a voice will float through the mix, dispensing corporate soundbites and endorsing a fictional product line called “Hi:Emotions” with uncanny-valley chirpiness. “Have you ever been lost in translation or misunderstood in emails?” asks one. “Have you had a friendship end over the tone of your texts?” In the hands of some, this sort of conceptual conceit might be the seeds of a grim sci-fi dystopia; the robots taking over. But NOTU_URONLINEU explores its themes with delicate nuance, smearing the edges of the human and artificial, the organic and the electronic, as if trying to sketch out the dimensions of a digital self. “ALMOSTU,” featuring guest vocalists Rae Rae and Roses Gabor, is quiet storm R&B going out to a lover who may be merely virtual; while a particularly slippery eight-minute track titled “NOTU_URONLINEU” lines up slashing rhythms, blasts of modular synth slurry and an unexpected but delightful segment of Rhodes piano played by collaborator Danalogue that gives the track a twinkly jazz-funk flavor, like Herbie Hancock popping up in the middle of an Autechre workout. Throughout the track, a relationship drama plays out. “What’s wrong? I know something’s wrong,” it begins. It ends: “I don’t love you anymore.” It goes on to say, “I knew that wasn’t gonna sound good.” NOTU_URONLINEU feels of a piece with recent concept-powered projects like Kode9’s Nothing or Logos, Mumdance and Shapednoise’s modular project the Sprawl—a sort of speculative fiction in sound, mapping out a space of future possibilities. It feels somewhat embryonic in places, as if some of its ideas remain fragmentary or incomplete. But, importantly for an album grappling with ideas of identity, we never lose sight of Smart amidst his concept. Wait a few seconds after the album’s closing track (excluding the brief bonus song) and we’re beamed right into his studio, can hear him sniffling and exhaling as beats ping from the speakers and one of the album’s sales drones delivers a pitch: “Have you ever made up a song in your head but didn’t have the skills to execute it?” It’s tempting to imagine Smart posed this very question to himself, before rolling up his sleeves and resolving to do something about it. The result is a vision of a prospective future both strange and alluring, a journey through virtual spaces and experimental technologies that, at heart, feels human after all."

Nancy Wallace

Old Stories

Folk/Country

Mia Clarke

A longtime fixture in the British contemporary folk scene, east-Londoner Nancy Wallace originally cut her teeth as a vocalist with the shambolic, fiddle-driven folk collective the Memory Band before turning the musical spotlight on her solo material. Her debut album, Old Stories, follows 2005's Young Hearts EP, which featured elegantly pastoral covers of disco anthems by the likes of Candi Staton, Elton John, and Barry White, and indicated a promising beginning for Wallace's simple acoustic compositions. Combining something borrowed with something new, Old Stories features a handful of traditional songs tucked in between Wallace's original arrangements. Her interpretation of "The True Lovers Farewell", a Southern Appalachian folk ballad detailing the distress of a lover separated from the object of her devotion, is sung with a heart-wrenching sorrow that is eventually swept away by a cascade of accordions and the mournful sighs of a Busilacchio chord organ. The Celtic love song "I Live Not Where I Love" extends Wallace's reflections on distance and broken dreams over the clear pluck of strings, telling the story with her honeyed yet restrained vocal melodies, which naturally lilt with a slight Cockney warble. It's not all trouble and strife for Wallace, however. "Many Years" sparkles with the adventurous glow of a new beginning when she sings, "I'm going where the wind won't find me, I'm going where the seas lie calm." And "The Way You Lie" is an affectionate ode to a sweetheart that blossoms with the integral modesty that lies at the heart of the whole recording-- from the careful arrangements to her contemplative lyrical content. This deft mesh of old and new songs flows together so that Old Stories manages the impressive feat of sounding simultaneously timeless and modern. Wallace's skilful compositions flourish under her spare treatment, so that when she does choose to embellish particular patches, such as the addition of a violin solo in the middle of the traditional English folk song "The Drowned Lover" or the chromatic meandering of a concertina on "Sleeping Sickness", the result is suitably effective. It's proof that subtlety can be more dramatic than bravado, and testament to Wallace's knack for applying just the right amount of instrumentation to accompany her vivid tales of lovers walking to work through snowy woods or kicking stones around on a beach. That said, the songs on Old Stories have a tendency to sound a bit repetitive, despite being undeniably charming when listened to individually. Wallace's voice never really veers from the path she has set for it, her lyrics are unfailingly grounded in the theme of love and loss, and although instruments fashioned from bellows and buttons match her music well, on a nine-track album with few other dominant sounds, it can get a little irksome at times. However, these are minor issues compared to Wallace's substantial songwriting talent, which takes British folk traditions and reworks them into something just as authentic and beautiful.

Artist: Nancy Wallace, Album: Old Stories, Genre: Folk/Country, Score (1-10): 6.8 Album review: "A longtime fixture in the British contemporary folk scene, east-Londoner Nancy Wallace originally cut her teeth as a vocalist with the shambolic, fiddle-driven folk collective the Memory Band before turning the musical spotlight on her solo material. Her debut album, Old Stories, follows 2005's Young Hearts EP, which featured elegantly pastoral covers of disco anthems by the likes of Candi Staton, Elton John, and Barry White, and indicated a promising beginning for Wallace's simple acoustic compositions. Combining something borrowed with something new, Old Stories features a handful of traditional songs tucked in between Wallace's original arrangements. Her interpretation of "The True Lovers Farewell", a Southern Appalachian folk ballad detailing the distress of a lover separated from the object of her devotion, is sung with a heart-wrenching sorrow that is eventually swept away by a cascade of accordions and the mournful sighs of a Busilacchio chord organ. The Celtic love song "I Live Not Where I Love" extends Wallace's reflections on distance and broken dreams over the clear pluck of strings, telling the story with her honeyed yet restrained vocal melodies, which naturally lilt with a slight Cockney warble. It's not all trouble and strife for Wallace, however. "Many Years" sparkles with the adventurous glow of a new beginning when she sings, "I'm going where the wind won't find me, I'm going where the seas lie calm." And "The Way You Lie" is an affectionate ode to a sweetheart that blossoms with the integral modesty that lies at the heart of the whole recording-- from the careful arrangements to her contemplative lyrical content. This deft mesh of old and new songs flows together so that Old Stories manages the impressive feat of sounding simultaneously timeless and modern. Wallace's skilful compositions flourish under her spare treatment, so that when she does choose to embellish particular patches, such as the addition of a violin solo in the middle of the traditional English folk song "The Drowned Lover" or the chromatic meandering of a concertina on "Sleeping Sickness", the result is suitably effective. It's proof that subtlety can be more dramatic than bravado, and testament to Wallace's knack for applying just the right amount of instrumentation to accompany her vivid tales of lovers walking to work through snowy woods or kicking stones around on a beach. That said, the songs on Old Stories have a tendency to sound a bit repetitive, despite being undeniably charming when listened to individually. Wallace's voice never really veers from the path she has set for it, her lyrics are unfailingly grounded in the theme of love and loss, and although instruments fashioned from bellows and buttons match her music well, on a nine-track album with few other dominant sounds, it can get a little irksome at times. However, these are minor issues compared to Wallace's substantial songwriting talent, which takes British folk traditions and reworks them into something just as authentic and beautiful."

Fourth of July

On the Plains

Rock

Grayson Currin

You'll get along just fine with Brendan Hangauer. The frontman of Lawrence, Kan., septet Fourth of July, Hangauer knows what it's like to be an under-30, hopelessly romantic Midwestern kid who likes to party and address last night's regrets in fleet verses and big, grinning choruses lined with rock'n'roll guitars and handclap rhythms. After all, Hangauer is an under-30 white kid from the Midwest, and so-- on Fourth of July's endearing debut, Fourth of July on the Plains-- that's exactly how he writes, sings and arranges. Even if you don't identify with his demographic or his particular plight-- trying to balance a long-distance romance and his own vices-- you'll likely understand the feelings they bring. Hangauer's not a brainy writer, or at least that's what he wants you to think. He's fine settling for plainspoken aphorisms ("Goodbye's a hard word to use" and "Love can make you do some crazy things") and lazy end rhyme ("Do I still want her? Now that I'm free/ Like a tree/ And my roots so deep"), writing afternoon-after songs about getting way too drunk and trying not to fall in love with girls he shouldn't go home with. Instead, he watches movies where the characters look like her and himself or locks himself in his house and drinks until he calls her in France and says stupid things. Maybe you've been this person? His band's not brilliant, either: The drums are simple, steadfast rock beats; the bass lines are roots and steps; horns slice in and above the best anthems; the guitars are, at their most effective, simple and predictable. When they're not, they sound uncomfortable, like an inexperienced Nels Cline twisting his way through Kicking Television without the tempering experience of Geraldine Fibbers. It's not a look Fourth of July wears well, so-- luckily-- they generally forego it. Rather, they do comfortable empathy the best, but they get away with twisting a lot of kinks into such simplicity. These are smartly arranged songs with multiple points of entry, fitting for a guy like Hangauer, who writes with ingenious wit and charm. Like, in "Surfer Dude", he imagines tracking his paramour to France, and finding her there, about to cheat. "I watch him help you with your French/ As the season skips the spring." There's the wink. "And he whispers he can teach you how to surf." The nod. "And I yell, 'I know what that means.'" And there's the massive headshake of anxiety. You know what he means, too, right? Some will lament that Fourth of July isn't as good as the Weakerthans, and they'll be completely right. As a band, the Weakerthans-- sharp, expert, taut-- tried things Fourth of July doesn't even aspire to with On the Plains. And, lyrically, Weakerthans' frontman John K. Samson flexed smarts Hangauer would say he doesn't even have (he'd be lying?). When Samson needed to excuse himself from an awkward social encounter on Reconstruction Site, he explained his dogs needed to be fed before noting that his acquaintance looked like early 20th century explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton. Then things got interesting. When Hangauer's agitated, he drinks, picks up the phone, or thinks about making love. But it is worth noting that Hangauer gets something right that Samson-- unlike many of his sloppier peers-- nails, too. Like a keen, imaginative novelist or a fastidious journalist, Samson drops tiny narrative details in his best songs like signposts-- batteries stolen from fire alarms, darker grays breaking through lighter ones, the sight of nervous hands in tense conversations. Similarly, Hangauer is obsessed with weather and memories. He notes that he was only half a mile from his house when he made the decision to drink with strangers instead of make out with his girlfriend, and, when he professes that the telephone makes him feel less alone during "She's in Love", you listen to Hangauer apologize to her in France. "Your dreams, they are more important than us," he sings, trapped in the melody and lying through his teeth. He's the same guy that notes the sun shines for her when she walks down the street or says that he can't cheat and claims that he'll help her move to New York when she's ready. Indeed, this Hangauer is a good guy. You'll get along just fine.

Artist: Fourth of July, Album: On the Plains, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 7.0 Album review: "You'll get along just fine with Brendan Hangauer. The frontman of Lawrence, Kan., septet Fourth of July, Hangauer knows what it's like to be an under-30, hopelessly romantic Midwestern kid who likes to party and address last night's regrets in fleet verses and big, grinning choruses lined with rock'n'roll guitars and handclap rhythms. After all, Hangauer is an under-30 white kid from the Midwest, and so-- on Fourth of July's endearing debut, Fourth of July on the Plains-- that's exactly how he writes, sings and arranges. Even if you don't identify with his demographic or his particular plight-- trying to balance a long-distance romance and his own vices-- you'll likely understand the feelings they bring. Hangauer's not a brainy writer, or at least that's what he wants you to think. He's fine settling for plainspoken aphorisms ("Goodbye's a hard word to use" and "Love can make you do some crazy things") and lazy end rhyme ("Do I still want her? Now that I'm free/ Like a tree/ And my roots so deep"), writing afternoon-after songs about getting way too drunk and trying not to fall in love with girls he shouldn't go home with. Instead, he watches movies where the characters look like her and himself or locks himself in his house and drinks until he calls her in France and says stupid things. Maybe you've been this person? His band's not brilliant, either: The drums are simple, steadfast rock beats; the bass lines are roots and steps; horns slice in and above the best anthems; the guitars are, at their most effective, simple and predictable. When they're not, they sound uncomfortable, like an inexperienced Nels Cline twisting his way through Kicking Television without the tempering experience of Geraldine Fibbers. It's not a look Fourth of July wears well, so-- luckily-- they generally forego it. Rather, they do comfortable empathy the best, but they get away with twisting a lot of kinks into such simplicity. These are smartly arranged songs with multiple points of entry, fitting for a guy like Hangauer, who writes with ingenious wit and charm. Like, in "Surfer Dude", he imagines tracking his paramour to France, and finding her there, about to cheat. "I watch him help you with your French/ As the season skips the spring." There's the wink. "And he whispers he can teach you how to surf." The nod. "And I yell, 'I know what that means.'" And there's the massive headshake of anxiety. You know what he means, too, right? Some will lament that Fourth of July isn't as good as the Weakerthans, and they'll be completely right. As a band, the Weakerthans-- sharp, expert, taut-- tried things Fourth of July doesn't even aspire to with On the Plains. And, lyrically, Weakerthans' frontman John K. Samson flexed smarts Hangauer would say he doesn't even have (he'd be lying?). When Samson needed to excuse himself from an awkward social encounter on Reconstruction Site, he explained his dogs needed to be fed before noting that his acquaintance looked like early 20th century explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton. Then things got interesting. When Hangauer's agitated, he drinks, picks up the phone, or thinks about making love. But it is worth noting that Hangauer gets something right that Samson-- unlike many of his sloppier peers-- nails, too. Like a keen, imaginative novelist or a fastidious journalist, Samson drops tiny narrative details in his best songs like signposts-- batteries stolen from fire alarms, darker grays breaking through lighter ones, the sight of nervous hands in tense conversations. Similarly, Hangauer is obsessed with weather and memories. He notes that he was only half a mile from his house when he made the decision to drink with strangers instead of make out with his girlfriend, and, when he professes that the telephone makes him feel less alone during "She's in Love", you listen to Hangauer apologize to her in France. "Your dreams, they are more important than us," he sings, trapped in the melody and lying through his teeth. He's the same guy that notes the sun shines for her when she walks down the street or says that he can't cheat and claims that he'll help her move to New York when she's ready. Indeed, this Hangauer is a good guy. You'll get along just fine."

The Get Up Kids

Something to Write Home About

Rock

Brent DiCrescenzo

The cover depicts slumberous robots snuggling on a sofa, presumably watching banal television. Perhaps they're sluggishly digesting a Biggie Meal in a fast- food booth. A mechanized cupid hovers over their shoulders. Hues of gray and pastel depict the scene with high school strokes. It's fitting, since the music contained within merely cranks the greaseless gears of insipid, mind- numbingly uninspired, adolescent pop, bringing humanity a few inches closer to self- wrought destruction through resignation. When did pop become the Attention Deficit Disorder of rock music? These days, parents and teachers quickly diagnose students with A.D.D., when 90% of the time they're simply lazy, drug- hazed, or stupid. It's an insult to the children who truly suffer from A.D.D. Similarly, being "pop" has granted bands the luxury of not trying. And society merely throws record deals and Ritalin at the problem. Really, what qualifies as pop? Anything. If something is released to the general public and is theoretically consumable, it's pop. No longer will the excuse, "Oh, but it's just pop," be accepted. Erase that hate-mail. Hamburger Helper is pop. My sneaker from Target is pop. A Sprite jingle is pop. A coin- dispensed rubber glow- in- the- dark bouncing ball shaped like an alien head is pop. Naturally, I can't justly criticize anyone for indulging in pop without being hypocritical. But look around-- we're suspended in a homogenous gel of pop. Pop is free. You don't need to spend $12.99 on an R.D.A. of pop. Turn on the radio. Tune to any station marketed towards white people between the ages of 12 and 27. You're going to hear a song that can easily be substituted for any track off Something to Write Home About. Is it so much to ask for a shred of originality in music? A frustrated "Wrragh!" from the singer, or an unexpected car alarm would at least trigger a central nervous system response in the listener. The Get Up Kids write from assumption, not passion. Each song is about missing, wanting, or needing a girl who is typically "a world away." I'd like to get into the impossibilities and improbabilities of two people actually being "a world away," but I'll let the obviously empty cliché fight for itself. I'd rather focus on meaningless lyrics masquerading as poetic insight, such as "I smuggle myself into new nationalities." One can not smuggle oneself, excepting by stowing away in an antique schooner-- and those don't exist anymore. Further, a "nationality," which is an adjective or notion of self set by political boundaries, is not a physical object which can accept smuggled cargo. These flaws would be easier to swallow if delivered with soul or conviction. Instead we're left with the nasal whining of another pompadoured youth who recently received his degree from the Bratty School of Caucasian Nostril Singing, along with his classmates, the Guy from Lit, the Guy from Smash Mouth, the Guy from Blink 182, and the Guy from Showoff. The implementation of keyboards and acoustic guitars is predictable and unimpressive. Tinkling keys behind styrofoam riffs attempt to "mature" the sound. Instead, the clinical production scrubs the rock down to a smooth grain of clear sand which wedges unreachable into the crotch. Only after a repetitive process that borders on "brainwashing" can the melodies even began to tunnel into your brain like a chigger. The Get Up Kids quickly point to the large record deals they turned down to "stay independent." Most labels urged the band to re-record "Don't Hate Me" from the band's debut. So the Kids "kept it real" and recorded an entire album of songs which follow the same formula, yet never reach the quasi- memorable qualities of a radio hit. Yet, a merchandise catalog falls out of Something to Write Home About upon opening. The band's decision to not sign with a major just makes them seem financially inept in addition to their musical shortcoming. You guys, just sell out! Independent music does not need you. Pick out those leather pants and jump into the mill.

Artist: The Get Up Kids, Album: Something to Write Home About, Genre: Rock, Score (1-10): 2.0 Album review: "The cover depicts slumberous robots snuggling on a sofa, presumably watching banal television. Perhaps they're sluggishly digesting a Biggie Meal in a fast- food booth. A mechanized cupid hovers over their shoulders. Hues of gray and pastel depict the scene with high school strokes. It's fitting, since the music contained within merely cranks the greaseless gears of insipid, mind- numbingly uninspired, adolescent pop, bringing humanity a few inches closer to self- wrought destruction through resignation. When did pop become the Attention Deficit Disorder of rock music? These days, parents and teachers quickly diagnose students with A.D.D., when 90% of the time they're simply lazy, drug- hazed, or stupid. It's an insult to the children who truly suffer from A.D.D. Similarly, being "pop" has granted bands the luxury of not trying. And society merely throws record deals and Ritalin at the problem. Really, what qualifies as pop? Anything. If something is released to the general public and is theoretically consumable, it's pop. No longer will the excuse, "Oh, but it's just pop," be accepted. Erase that hate-mail. Hamburger Helper is pop. My sneaker from Target is pop. A Sprite jingle is pop. A coin- dispensed rubber glow- in- the- dark bouncing ball shaped like an alien head is pop. Naturally, I can't justly criticize anyone for indulging in pop without being hypocritical. But look around-- we're suspended in a homogenous gel of pop. Pop is free. You don't need to spend $12.99 on an R.D.A. of pop. Turn on the radio. Tune to any station marketed towards white people between the ages of 12 and 27. You're going to hear a song that can easily be substituted for any track off Something to Write Home About. Is it so much to ask for a shred of originality in music? A frustrated "Wrragh!" from the singer, or an unexpected car alarm would at least trigger a central nervous system response in the listener. The Get Up Kids write from assumption, not passion. Each song is about missing, wanting, or needing a girl who is typically "a world away." I'd like to get into the impossibilities and improbabilities of two people actually being "a world away," but I'll let the obviously empty cliché fight for itself. I'd rather focus on meaningless lyrics masquerading as poetic insight, such as "I smuggle myself into new nationalities." One can not smuggle oneself, excepting by stowing away in an antique schooner-- and those don't exist anymore. Further, a "nationality," which is an adjective or notion of self set by political boundaries, is not a physical object which can accept smuggled cargo. These flaws would be easier to swallow if delivered with soul or conviction. Instead we're left with the nasal whining of another pompadoured youth who recently received his degree from the Bratty School of Caucasian Nostril Singing, along with his classmates, the Guy from Lit, the Guy from Smash Mouth, the Guy from Blink 182, and the Guy from Showoff. The implementation of keyboards and acoustic guitars is predictable and unimpressive. Tinkling keys behind styrofoam riffs attempt to "mature" the sound. Instead, the clinical production scrubs the rock down to a smooth grain of clear sand which wedges unreachable into the crotch. Only after a repetitive process that borders on "brainwashing" can the melodies even began to tunnel into your brain like a chigger. The Get Up Kids quickly point to the large record deals they turned down to "stay independent." Most labels urged the band to re-record "Don't Hate Me" from the band's debut. So the Kids "kept it real" and recorded an entire album of songs which follow the same formula, yet never reach the quasi- memorable qualities of a radio hit. Yet, a merchandise catalog falls out of Something to Write Home About upon opening. The band's decision to not sign with a major just makes them seem financially inept in addition to their musical shortcoming. You guys, just sell out! Independent music does not need you. Pick out those leather pants and jump into the mill."