Broken Records
Let Me Come Home
Rating: 2.0/50
Label: 4AD
So what does over-the-top emotional pleading mixed with deadly serious earnestness sound like? A lot like Let Me Come Home, the latest album from Scottish band Broken Records. In much the same way as their debut effort Until the Earth Begins to Part, super-heavy feelings of dread and despair are laid on pretty thick in both Jamie Sutherland's vocals and the group's arena-ready instrumentals, but rarely are they remotely believable. That might sound a bit callous, as the group spends Home pouring its guts out and doing its damnedest to make its songs sound grave and important, but the record is too overblown and dramatic for its own good. If subtlety in music is your thing, best to stay away from this one.
A listener can often tell a lot about an album by its song titles; in Home's case, track names like "A Darkness Rises Up," "I Used To Dream" and "You Know You're Not Dead" make the record's intentions painfully obvious. It's dark out there in the cruel, cruel world, man, and Broken Records wants you to know it, song after song. Thus the lyrics speak of tired bodies, heavy hearts, hometown ghosts and the ubiquitous one true love. And that's just the first song. Elsewhere there are concerns about insomnia, unemployment, death, mental decline, various methods of burial and virtually all other topics reminiscent of a twentysomething intoxicated on existentialism. As a vocalist Sutherland is too often prone to bouts of grandiose theatricality; he sometimes sings in a falsetto on both "The Motorcycle Boy Reigns" and "You Know You're Not Dead" and bellows almost the rest of the time, particularly on "A Leaving Song" and "Modern Worksong." One is almost tempted to dismiss these exaggerated vocals as intentionally overdramatic, but clearly that wasn't the aim here. The arrangements aren't unique or varied enough to either fit with or compensate for Sutherland's vocal approach; instead, the band repeatedly opts for a mighty big indie rock sound and even bigger finishes that soon become predictable and tedious.
Now, the nice section. Good things happen when both Sutherland and the band reign in their excesses and show even the slightest bit of restraint. The bleakness of "Dia dos Namorados!" is plausible, as Sutherland asks to be buried in "the shallow soil/ The filth and grime." His vocals are measured and understated, while the song's arrangement is practically skeletal compared to most of Home. "I Used To Dream" ends not with a bang but with a whimper, and for the better; the song is wonderfully sparse and well-written, its keyboards and light touches of strings complementing Sutherland's almost-hushed vocals. But such moments are rare, and ultimately the album suffocates under the weight of its lyrical melodrama and musical indulgences.
On the strength of these two tracks as well as album closer "Home," it's possible that Broken Records might be capable of crafting a more nuanced, heartfelt record before long. The emotions in Home's songs just might be the real deal, but they're couched in so many layers of verbal and auditory bombast that the album too frequently comes across like an emotional basketcase crying fake tears while the world checks it out, yawns and then goes about its business.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Lucinda Williams: Sweet Old World
Revisit:
Lucinda Williams
Sweet Old World
1992
Revisit is a series of reviews highlighting past releases that now deserve a second look.
In the early 1990s, Lucinda Williams was a mostly unknown country-folk singer/songwriter, her self-titled 1988 album garnering enthusiastic reviews from critics and fellow musicians but only modest commercial attention. It took a damn-near-perfect album, Car Wheels on a Gravel Road (1998), to gain Williams a much larger fan base and establish her as one of music's leading lyricists. After Car Wheels, the singer faced a lifetime of critical hyperbole - even being inaccurately defined as the "female Bob Dylan" - and every album that followed would inevitably be judged against the mighty weight of that masterpiece.
All of which gives Sweet Old World a unique position in the musician's discography. It marks the final album in which Williams would be largely free of preconceived expectations from both critics and fans; it's also likely to be the last album in which the musician could work without facing comparisons to Car Wheels. It received consistently favorable reviews upon its release in 1992, though a complaint that continues to plague the artist - the amount of time it takes her to release a new record - can be found in some of these reviews. It's around the time of Sweet Old World that Williams gained a reputation as a truculent perfectionist in the studio; indeed, it would take another six years before its follow-up album was released.
The album is essentially split between tragic character studies - the one exception, "Little Angel, Little Brother," is commonly mistaken as a song about death, owing largely to its funereal arrangement and slow vocals - and relationship songs that emphasize specific details over grandiose, generalized statements about Love. In both cases the album is somewhat inconsistent, and pieces of it haven't aged particularly well. Still, Sweet Old World does contain two of Williams' finest written suicide songs: the title song and "Piñeola." Complete opposites in terms of execution - one is a tear-soaked ballad, the other mixes the blues with southern rock - both songs find Williams using specific images like the "sound of a midnight train," "dancing with no shoes," the cemetery in which Sonny is buried, a mourner dropping a "handful of dust" on a grave and parents removing blood-soaked sheets to make both songs and their sentiments tangible. We don't personally know the person or people she's singing about, but we almost feel like we do.
In a similar manner, both "Six Blocks Away" and "Memphis Pearl" are precise depictions of two people whose lives didn't turn out as they'd planned, though the subject of "Memphis Pearl" - a once-married and now presumably single mother whose eyes offer only a "vacant stare" - seems to be in a far more precarious situation than the lovesick fellow with the "regular job" and a "roof over his head and food to eat" in "Six Blocks Away." But Williams does occasionally falter. The lyrics to "He Never Got Enough Love" read like a bad Nebraska-era Springsteen parody, its central figure ultimately pulling his own Johnny 99 by shooting someone in a liquor store; the song's impact and believability are completely deadened by the excessively banal reason Williams gives for the man's actions (read the song title; if only it were that simple).
Sweet Old World is not purely dark, however. As she would on every album from Car Wheels to the present, Williams devotes plenty of disc space to that most frequent of song topics. The cynicism and dysfunction chronicled in her catalog starting with Car Wheels are mostly absent here, as she instead includes love songs that range from affectionate to raunchy. True there are some weepers - most notably "Sidewalks of the City," where Williams tracks someone's movements through a city of early afternoon boozers, bums and "crumbling buildings and graffiti" - but the love songs here are generally affectionate. There is an underlying sadness in the departure about to take place in "Something about What Happens When We Talk," but it's mixed with a bit of hope and nostalgia, while "Prove My Love" is a straightforward, unadorned song about fidelity and is notably free of Williams' sometimes-caustic tongue. Sometimes Sweet Old World is even a little dirty - on " Lines Around Your Eyes" and more so on "Hot Blood," a song of old folk music puns and sexual innuendo - but never do these songs approach the levels of bitterness and betrayal that would surface on Williams' later records.
Lucinda Williams was by no means a novice when she recorded Sweet Old World, but in retrospect it probably was the last time listeners didn't have preconceived notions about who she was or what her songs should sound like. Free of such expectations, Williams created an album that, though not perfect, has a number of remarkable songs and deserves some of the spotlight usually reserved for Car Wheels on a Gravel Road.
Lucinda Williams
Sweet Old World
1992
Revisit is a series of reviews highlighting past releases that now deserve a second look.
In the early 1990s, Lucinda Williams was a mostly unknown country-folk singer/songwriter, her self-titled 1988 album garnering enthusiastic reviews from critics and fellow musicians but only modest commercial attention. It took a damn-near-perfect album, Car Wheels on a Gravel Road (1998), to gain Williams a much larger fan base and establish her as one of music's leading lyricists. After Car Wheels, the singer faced a lifetime of critical hyperbole - even being inaccurately defined as the "female Bob Dylan" - and every album that followed would inevitably be judged against the mighty weight of that masterpiece.
All of which gives Sweet Old World a unique position in the musician's discography. It marks the final album in which Williams would be largely free of preconceived expectations from both critics and fans; it's also likely to be the last album in which the musician could work without facing comparisons to Car Wheels. It received consistently favorable reviews upon its release in 1992, though a complaint that continues to plague the artist - the amount of time it takes her to release a new record - can be found in some of these reviews. It's around the time of Sweet Old World that Williams gained a reputation as a truculent perfectionist in the studio; indeed, it would take another six years before its follow-up album was released.
The album is essentially split between tragic character studies - the one exception, "Little Angel, Little Brother," is commonly mistaken as a song about death, owing largely to its funereal arrangement and slow vocals - and relationship songs that emphasize specific details over grandiose, generalized statements about Love. In both cases the album is somewhat inconsistent, and pieces of it haven't aged particularly well. Still, Sweet Old World does contain two of Williams' finest written suicide songs: the title song and "Piñeola." Complete opposites in terms of execution - one is a tear-soaked ballad, the other mixes the blues with southern rock - both songs find Williams using specific images like the "sound of a midnight train," "dancing with no shoes," the cemetery in which Sonny is buried, a mourner dropping a "handful of dust" on a grave and parents removing blood-soaked sheets to make both songs and their sentiments tangible. We don't personally know the person or people she's singing about, but we almost feel like we do.
In a similar manner, both "Six Blocks Away" and "Memphis Pearl" are precise depictions of two people whose lives didn't turn out as they'd planned, though the subject of "Memphis Pearl" - a once-married and now presumably single mother whose eyes offer only a "vacant stare" - seems to be in a far more precarious situation than the lovesick fellow with the "regular job" and a "roof over his head and food to eat" in "Six Blocks Away." But Williams does occasionally falter. The lyrics to "He Never Got Enough Love" read like a bad Nebraska-era Springsteen parody, its central figure ultimately pulling his own Johnny 99 by shooting someone in a liquor store; the song's impact and believability are completely deadened by the excessively banal reason Williams gives for the man's actions (read the song title; if only it were that simple).
Sweet Old World is not purely dark, however. As she would on every album from Car Wheels to the present, Williams devotes plenty of disc space to that most frequent of song topics. The cynicism and dysfunction chronicled in her catalog starting with Car Wheels are mostly absent here, as she instead includes love songs that range from affectionate to raunchy. True there are some weepers - most notably "Sidewalks of the City," where Williams tracks someone's movements through a city of early afternoon boozers, bums and "crumbling buildings and graffiti" - but the love songs here are generally affectionate. There is an underlying sadness in the departure about to take place in "Something about What Happens When We Talk," but it's mixed with a bit of hope and nostalgia, while "Prove My Love" is a straightforward, unadorned song about fidelity and is notably free of Williams' sometimes-caustic tongue. Sometimes Sweet Old World is even a little dirty - on " Lines Around Your Eyes" and more so on "Hot Blood," a song of old folk music puns and sexual innuendo - but never do these songs approach the levels of bitterness and betrayal that would surface on Williams' later records.
Lucinda Williams was by no means a novice when she recorded Sweet Old World, but in retrospect it probably was the last time listeners didn't have preconceived notions about who she was or what her songs should sound like. Free of such expectations, Williams created an album that, though not perfect, has a number of remarkable songs and deserves some of the spotlight usually reserved for Car Wheels on a Gravel Road.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Iron and Wine: Kiss Each Other Clean
Iron & Wine
Kiss Each Other Clean
Rating: 3.3/5.0
Label: Warner Bros.
Sam Beam has stated that he wanted Kiss Each Other Clean to sound like the radio-ready pop songs of the early '70s. That it does, at least sporadically; elsewhere, the album wanders in various directions, using synthesizer, horns, distorted vocals and various other studio effects. Parts of it even apparently owe a debt to jazz, blues and prog rock. It's unarguably the most atypical record Beam has released - even more so than 2007's The Shepherd's Dog - and it marks a major stylistic shift from the gentle folk with which Beam is most commonly associated. Quite simply, it damn near makes The Creek Drank the Cradle and Our Endless Numbered Days sound like the work of an entirely different musician.
Whether this new style fully succeeds is open to debate. Even after spending a few weeks listening to Kiss Each Other Clean, I can't decide whether it's a work of unpredictable brilliance or a disorganized mess. Probably it falls somewhere in between. There is a mesmerizing vocal and instrumental consistency to much of the album; like lyrical masterpiece "The Trapeze Swinger" before them, "Walking Far From Home," "Tree By the River," "Half Moon," "Godless Brother in Love" and "Glad Man Singing" make frequent use background vocals and harmonies to accentuate Beam's narratives. Equally striking is Beam's singing; absent are the whispery, breathy, sometimes frail vocals of the first two Sub Pop albums, replaced by a more muscular and assured vocal delivery. The imagery is still prototypical Beam - lots of references to the past, memories, religion, life and death - though at times it tends to be far more surreal than before; the nightmarish visions of opening track "Walking Far From Home" include bridges collapsing, birds falling from the sky, a car crash, a praying widow and a "millionaire pissing on the lawn."
It's that pesky, sometimes perplexing other half where fans' opinion will likely be divided. In a similar way that The Age of Adz found another previously folk-based musician strolling into weirder, electronic pastures, pieces of Kiss Each Other Clean easily rank as the most bizarre stuff Beam's put to tape. "Me and Lazarus" is perhaps the most consistent of this new breed of Beam song; its synth and stately saxophone give the song personality as Beam imaginatively recasts the biblical figure as a mad dancing punk. But that dubby/trippy approach soon wears thin and, worse, starts to sound a little bit like a lark or a novelty. "Monkeys Uptown" and "Rabbit Will Run" are synth-dripping affairs that sound artificial and too manufactured - the latter song also contains distracting amounts of heavy percussion - while the funky, slightly sleazy horn that opens "Big Burned Hand" is soon overshadowed by the song's overly distorted vocals. Unique songs one and all, certainly, though it's debatable as to whether many listeners will return to these songs that frequently.
The fact that Beam managed to release his least immediately accessible album on a major label is a nice bit of irony and, aside from those oh-so-smooth songs mentioned earlier, Kiss Each Other Clean is a difficult listen and hardly as warmly inviting as Iron & Wine's previous work. Still, Beam deserves credit for at least pushing his music in new directions, even if it occasionally leads to synth and sax-laden dead ends that, much like the wistful narrator of "Tree By the River," might make some listeners dreamily nostalgic for the past.
Kiss Each Other Clean
Rating: 3.3/5.0
Label: Warner Bros.
Sam Beam has stated that he wanted Kiss Each Other Clean to sound like the radio-ready pop songs of the early '70s. That it does, at least sporadically; elsewhere, the album wanders in various directions, using synthesizer, horns, distorted vocals and various other studio effects. Parts of it even apparently owe a debt to jazz, blues and prog rock. It's unarguably the most atypical record Beam has released - even more so than 2007's The Shepherd's Dog - and it marks a major stylistic shift from the gentle folk with which Beam is most commonly associated. Quite simply, it damn near makes The Creek Drank the Cradle and Our Endless Numbered Days sound like the work of an entirely different musician.
Whether this new style fully succeeds is open to debate. Even after spending a few weeks listening to Kiss Each Other Clean, I can't decide whether it's a work of unpredictable brilliance or a disorganized mess. Probably it falls somewhere in between. There is a mesmerizing vocal and instrumental consistency to much of the album; like lyrical masterpiece "The Trapeze Swinger" before them, "Walking Far From Home," "Tree By the River," "Half Moon," "Godless Brother in Love" and "Glad Man Singing" make frequent use background vocals and harmonies to accentuate Beam's narratives. Equally striking is Beam's singing; absent are the whispery, breathy, sometimes frail vocals of the first two Sub Pop albums, replaced by a more muscular and assured vocal delivery. The imagery is still prototypical Beam - lots of references to the past, memories, religion, life and death - though at times it tends to be far more surreal than before; the nightmarish visions of opening track "Walking Far From Home" include bridges collapsing, birds falling from the sky, a car crash, a praying widow and a "millionaire pissing on the lawn."
It's that pesky, sometimes perplexing other half where fans' opinion will likely be divided. In a similar way that The Age of Adz found another previously folk-based musician strolling into weirder, electronic pastures, pieces of Kiss Each Other Clean easily rank as the most bizarre stuff Beam's put to tape. "Me and Lazarus" is perhaps the most consistent of this new breed of Beam song; its synth and stately saxophone give the song personality as Beam imaginatively recasts the biblical figure as a mad dancing punk. But that dubby/trippy approach soon wears thin and, worse, starts to sound a little bit like a lark or a novelty. "Monkeys Uptown" and "Rabbit Will Run" are synth-dripping affairs that sound artificial and too manufactured - the latter song also contains distracting amounts of heavy percussion - while the funky, slightly sleazy horn that opens "Big Burned Hand" is soon overshadowed by the song's overly distorted vocals. Unique songs one and all, certainly, though it's debatable as to whether many listeners will return to these songs that frequently.
The fact that Beam managed to release his least immediately accessible album on a major label is a nice bit of irony and, aside from those oh-so-smooth songs mentioned earlier, Kiss Each Other Clean is a difficult listen and hardly as warmly inviting as Iron & Wine's previous work. Still, Beam deserves credit for at least pushing his music in new directions, even if it occasionally leads to synth and sax-laden dead ends that, much like the wistful narrator of "Tree By the River," might make some listeners dreamily nostalgic for the past.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
No Peek Chicken
It's not music, but spectrumculture.com has great Food articles too. And we all need to eat.
No Peek Chicken
January 12, 2011 11:24 AM
It won't be mistaken for gourmet cuisine and, if it's possible for food to have a working class vibe, No Peek Chicken has exactly that. This dish might also have zero aesthetic appeal and food connoisseurs will likely cringe at its remarkably bland color palette, but with No Peek Chicken, such things are easily forgiven. It's a food idiot's best kind of meal: easy to prepare and even easier to wolf down in massive amounts.
Ingredients
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can cream of celery soup
2 cups milk
2 cups uncooked rice
1 large frying chicken, cut up
1 package onion soup mix (optional)
Heat oven to 350 F. Mix undiluted - man up people; massive doses of sodium are what your body craves - soups, milk and rice in 9x13 pan. Place the chicken skin side up on top and sprinkle with onion soup mix unless doing so will exacerbate your chronic halitosis.
Cover with heavy foil and bake for two hours. Do not lift the foil or peek while the chicken is baking; if you do the Old Testament God will turn you into a pillar of salt.
Carefully remove from oven and serve the chicken up or horde it for a solitary blowout meal. If you're the cautious type, before serving check the chicken and if there is any pink...well, a little salmonella never hurt anyone, right?
No Peek Chicken
January 12, 2011 11:24 AM
It won't be mistaken for gourmet cuisine and, if it's possible for food to have a working class vibe, No Peek Chicken has exactly that. This dish might also have zero aesthetic appeal and food connoisseurs will likely cringe at its remarkably bland color palette, but with No Peek Chicken, such things are easily forgiven. It's a food idiot's best kind of meal: easy to prepare and even easier to wolf down in massive amounts.
Ingredients
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can cream of celery soup
2 cups milk
2 cups uncooked rice
1 large frying chicken, cut up
1 package onion soup mix (optional)
Heat oven to 350 F. Mix undiluted - man up people; massive doses of sodium are what your body craves - soups, milk and rice in 9x13 pan. Place the chicken skin side up on top and sprinkle with onion soup mix unless doing so will exacerbate your chronic halitosis.
Cover with heavy foil and bake for two hours. Do not lift the foil or peek while the chicken is baking; if you do the Old Testament God will turn you into a pillar of salt.
Carefully remove from oven and serve the chicken up or horde it for a solitary blowout meal. If you're the cautious type, before serving check the chicken and if there is any pink...well, a little salmonella never hurt anyone, right?
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Rediscover: Vic Chesnutt: About to Choke
Rediscover:
Vic Chesnutt
About to Choke
1996
check out spectrumculture.com
Rediscover is a series of reviews highlighting past releases that have flown under the radar and now deserve a second look.
The fact that Vic Chesnutt was able to release even one album on a major label is still almost impossible to believe. The bulk of his songs - sparse, dark, grimly humorous - made for a lousy mainstream fit, and perhaps not surprisingly, his time with Capitol ended after About to Choke was issued in 1996. But seemingly every year a major likes to champion a left-of-the-dial artist as a sign of its indie credibility, and, thanks in large part to the Sweet Relief II tribute album that preceded About to Choke, Chesnutt was once, however briefly, that artist.
If Capitol had expected a polished, ready-for-the-masses record, they likely were sorely disappointed. Chesnutt gave up none of his rough-as-sandpaper edges on About to Choke, as several songs featured Chesnutt alone on vocals, guitar, piano and a Yamaha Portasound keyboard. Its subject matter was likewise vintage Chesnutt, with the artist again returning to the types of meditations about life - and, more frequently, death - that dominated Little through Is the Actor Happy?. Almost every aspect of About to Choke, from the out-of-focus cover shot of the wheelchair-bound Chesnutt in a strangely-lit room to the songs' somber content, signaled that he likely didn't give a damn which label was releasing the record.
There is a noticeable difference in Chesnutt's lyrical style throughout much of About to Choke, and several songs are more abstract and oblique than those of the musician's previous albums. On spectral opening track "Myrtle," the singer hints at some misdeed - "I'm horrified now I could do such a thing" - and possibly a resulting cataclysmic event whose impacts can't be understood; he ends the song with one of the album's most visceral images: "It was bigger than me/ And I felt like a sick child/ Dragged by a donkey/ Through the myrtle}." The subject of the equally skeletal "Tarragon" is likewise open to conjecture; Chesnutt had stated that the opening line about someone "suckin' on a toothpick soaked with cinnamon" was inspired by one of his earliest memories, but the rest of the song remains mysterious, most noticeable for the haunting tone it takes as Chesnutt repeats the phrase "the boys in the back room played on." "Swelters" is similarly evasive - the singer liked to say it was about sex, and with lines like "after the cool/ When it's wound on the spool/ When it is spent/ You're rarely glad it went," maybe he was being sincere. Elsewhere, references to illness and death punctuate the album; between "Giant Sands," "Threads" and "Hot Seat," there are mentions of a blood clot, a brain that feels like a "brittle fragile vessel," "secret tequila shots and a patch of morphine" and, in another of Chesnutt's brutally direct lines, "shallow rattling breath/ With a wee cough."
Chesnutt returns to his narrative style on two of the album's most poetic songs; both "New Town" and "See You Around" are as literate and expertly crafted as anything he had released on his first four records. "New Town" is far removed from the "filthy steps/ The cold concrete" and small-town Athens that underscored so many of the musician's previous songs; instead Chesnutt offers, one assumes, a satirical depiction of suburbia, complete with a green police force, smiling politicians and old ladies with busy social calendars. His vocals are almost too warm and polite, an effect that heightens the song's cynical humor.
"See You Around" matches this lyricism in "New Town" while sharing plenty of its cynicism; it also might be Chesnutt's defining fuck-off song. Never before had his bile been more focused or vitriolic, the song's insults mounting as he practically spits out the words. The song begins simply, congenially, with an apology, as Chesnutt vows civility - "I'll save us both the hassle and leave" - apparently willing to shoulder the blame. But in the song's final verse there is an abrupt shift; the apology gives way to classic Vic venom, his voice rising to a mocking sneer as he gets in a few final shots, ending with one of his most barbed insults to date: "Well I'm sorry/ But your routine is coming off a bit ragged."
About to Choke is commonly considered one of the musician's lesser works; Chesnutt himself was relatively ambivalent about the album, but then again he was frequently dismissive of almost everything he'd done. He really didn't have time for the niceties, including those about himself, and if praise for the record in 1996 was a little muted, in retrospect time has been good to it. There are a few throwaways - the distorted "It's No Secret (Satisfaction)" and the goofy "Little Vacation" don't really fit in well - but there are enough good songs here that warrant a better standing for the album. That it was done under the watchful eyes and big budget of a major label is incidental; it's the content that matters, and with About to Choke, Chesnutt can be seen evolving as a writer even as he reused elements of his Texas Hotel albums.
Vic Chesnutt
About to Choke
1996
check out spectrumculture.com
Rediscover is a series of reviews highlighting past releases that have flown under the radar and now deserve a second look.
The fact that Vic Chesnutt was able to release even one album on a major label is still almost impossible to believe. The bulk of his songs - sparse, dark, grimly humorous - made for a lousy mainstream fit, and perhaps not surprisingly, his time with Capitol ended after About to Choke was issued in 1996. But seemingly every year a major likes to champion a left-of-the-dial artist as a sign of its indie credibility, and, thanks in large part to the Sweet Relief II tribute album that preceded About to Choke, Chesnutt was once, however briefly, that artist.
If Capitol had expected a polished, ready-for-the-masses record, they likely were sorely disappointed. Chesnutt gave up none of his rough-as-sandpaper edges on About to Choke, as several songs featured Chesnutt alone on vocals, guitar, piano and a Yamaha Portasound keyboard. Its subject matter was likewise vintage Chesnutt, with the artist again returning to the types of meditations about life - and, more frequently, death - that dominated Little through Is the Actor Happy?. Almost every aspect of About to Choke, from the out-of-focus cover shot of the wheelchair-bound Chesnutt in a strangely-lit room to the songs' somber content, signaled that he likely didn't give a damn which label was releasing the record.
There is a noticeable difference in Chesnutt's lyrical style throughout much of About to Choke, and several songs are more abstract and oblique than those of the musician's previous albums. On spectral opening track "Myrtle," the singer hints at some misdeed - "I'm horrified now I could do such a thing" - and possibly a resulting cataclysmic event whose impacts can't be understood; he ends the song with one of the album's most visceral images: "It was bigger than me/ And I felt like a sick child/ Dragged by a donkey/ Through the myrtle}." The subject of the equally skeletal "Tarragon" is likewise open to conjecture; Chesnutt had stated that the opening line about someone "suckin' on a toothpick soaked with cinnamon" was inspired by one of his earliest memories, but the rest of the song remains mysterious, most noticeable for the haunting tone it takes as Chesnutt repeats the phrase "the boys in the back room played on." "Swelters" is similarly evasive - the singer liked to say it was about sex, and with lines like "after the cool/ When it's wound on the spool/ When it is spent/ You're rarely glad it went," maybe he was being sincere. Elsewhere, references to illness and death punctuate the album; between "Giant Sands," "Threads" and "Hot Seat," there are mentions of a blood clot, a brain that feels like a "brittle fragile vessel," "secret tequila shots and a patch of morphine" and, in another of Chesnutt's brutally direct lines, "shallow rattling breath/ With a wee cough."
Chesnutt returns to his narrative style on two of the album's most poetic songs; both "New Town" and "See You Around" are as literate and expertly crafted as anything he had released on his first four records. "New Town" is far removed from the "filthy steps/ The cold concrete" and small-town Athens that underscored so many of the musician's previous songs; instead Chesnutt offers, one assumes, a satirical depiction of suburbia, complete with a green police force, smiling politicians and old ladies with busy social calendars. His vocals are almost too warm and polite, an effect that heightens the song's cynical humor.
"See You Around" matches this lyricism in "New Town" while sharing plenty of its cynicism; it also might be Chesnutt's defining fuck-off song. Never before had his bile been more focused or vitriolic, the song's insults mounting as he practically spits out the words. The song begins simply, congenially, with an apology, as Chesnutt vows civility - "I'll save us both the hassle and leave" - apparently willing to shoulder the blame. But in the song's final verse there is an abrupt shift; the apology gives way to classic Vic venom, his voice rising to a mocking sneer as he gets in a few final shots, ending with one of his most barbed insults to date: "Well I'm sorry/ But your routine is coming off a bit ragged."
About to Choke is commonly considered one of the musician's lesser works; Chesnutt himself was relatively ambivalent about the album, but then again he was frequently dismissive of almost everything he'd done. He really didn't have time for the niceties, including those about himself, and if praise for the record in 1996 was a little muted, in retrospect time has been good to it. There are a few throwaways - the distorted "It's No Secret (Satisfaction)" and the goofy "Little Vacation" don't really fit in well - but there are enough good songs here that warrant a better standing for the album. That it was done under the watchful eyes and big budget of a major label is incidental; it's the content that matters, and with About to Choke, Chesnutt can be seen evolving as a writer even as he reused elements of his Texas Hotel albums.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Great Musicians Who Haven't Made a Great Album in At Least 10 Years
Go to spectrumculture.com to read our first List Inconsequential, please.
R.E.M.
Up. Reveal. Around the Sun. Accelerate. Those are the last four spectacularly mediocre albums R.E.M. has released since their last truly great record, New Adventures in Hi-Fi. The band hasn't exactly been directionless since Hi-Fi, but ever since Bill Berry's departure, Buck-Mills-Stipe haven't yet managed to craft a classic album. None of the trio's post-Berry records have been particularly awful, and each album contains a few decent tunes, but none are consistently solid from start to finish, and all of them reveal an amount of self-indulgence and filler the band's 1980s and early 1990s selves would never had stood for. They are, quite simply, average, middle of the road albums by a band we all know is capable of much better.
What's perhaps worse is that plenty of us have consequently lowered our expectations of the band. Listeners and critics generally went ape shit for Accelerate - some even had the stones to compare it to Lifes Rich Pageant and Document - but that's likely largely because its predecessors were so underwhelming. Upcoming album Collapse Into Now is planned for release this year, and maybe we all should prepare ourselves for a worst-case scenario. Today's R.E.M. is like watching a once-mighty athlete gimp through the twilight of a legendary career: despite the whiffs and errors, there's an occasional flash of brilliance, and we collectively still hold out hope for a glorious return to form. - Eric Dennis
R.E.M.
Up. Reveal. Around the Sun. Accelerate. Those are the last four spectacularly mediocre albums R.E.M. has released since their last truly great record, New Adventures in Hi-Fi. The band hasn't exactly been directionless since Hi-Fi, but ever since Bill Berry's departure, Buck-Mills-Stipe haven't yet managed to craft a classic album. None of the trio's post-Berry records have been particularly awful, and each album contains a few decent tunes, but none are consistently solid from start to finish, and all of them reveal an amount of self-indulgence and filler the band's 1980s and early 1990s selves would never had stood for. They are, quite simply, average, middle of the road albums by a band we all know is capable of much better.
What's perhaps worse is that plenty of us have consequently lowered our expectations of the band. Listeners and critics generally went ape shit for Accelerate - some even had the stones to compare it to Lifes Rich Pageant and Document - but that's likely largely because its predecessors were so underwhelming. Upcoming album Collapse Into Now is planned for release this year, and maybe we all should prepare ourselves for a worst-case scenario. Today's R.E.M. is like watching a once-mighty athlete gimp through the twilight of a legendary career: despite the whiffs and errors, there's an occasional flash of brilliance, and we collectively still hold out hope for a glorious return to form. - Eric Dennis
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Five Years Later: Black Sheep Boy
Go check out Spectrum Culture's always-amazing Five Years Later feature for the full list. Go now men and women.
8. Okkervil River
Black Sheep Boy
[Jagjaguwar]
Black Sheep Boy established Okkervil River as one of indie's most emotionally-wrenching and literate bands, marking both a massive musical and lyrical leap forward for the group and especially frontman Will Sheff. A pseudo-concept album inspired in part by the Tim Hardin song of the same name, Black Sheep Boy wove connected themes and topics together from song to song, an approach the band would later utilize on both The Stage Names and The Stand Ins. It mixed roughly-strewn American indie rock with ballads whose darkness dripped from every line and note; both types still sound remarkable five years later.
The violent and tragic world that unfolds in Black Sheep Boy is still vivid and palpable today, with references to childhood abduction and possible molestation, tragically unrequited love and victims being led "up the hill in chains." Its arrangements are expansive and precise, played out via guitar, brass, strings, keyboards and other instruments, while Sheff's vocals heighten each song's impact. Sometimes he lulls us in gently, his slowly-drawn vocals on "A Stone" paced perfectly as perhaps the album's saddest song unfolds and recedes in lovesick despair. In other places Sheff violently spits out his words, most menacingly on the revenge-and-murder fantasy of "Black" and the explosive last few moments of penultimate track "So Come Back, I Am Waiting."
Whether it's described as an allegory or simply a series of inter-related songs, Black Sheep Boy will likely stand as one of the past decade's most enduring albums. Music can rarely comfortably be described as poetry, but the record is precisely that. The ghosts of poets and porn stars would eventually haunt Okkervil River's later work, but their origins can be found here, in stunning detail. - Eric Dennis
8. Okkervil River
Black Sheep Boy
[Jagjaguwar]
Black Sheep Boy established Okkervil River as one of indie's most emotionally-wrenching and literate bands, marking both a massive musical and lyrical leap forward for the group and especially frontman Will Sheff. A pseudo-concept album inspired in part by the Tim Hardin song of the same name, Black Sheep Boy wove connected themes and topics together from song to song, an approach the band would later utilize on both The Stage Names and The Stand Ins. It mixed roughly-strewn American indie rock with ballads whose darkness dripped from every line and note; both types still sound remarkable five years later.
The violent and tragic world that unfolds in Black Sheep Boy is still vivid and palpable today, with references to childhood abduction and possible molestation, tragically unrequited love and victims being led "up the hill in chains." Its arrangements are expansive and precise, played out via guitar, brass, strings, keyboards and other instruments, while Sheff's vocals heighten each song's impact. Sometimes he lulls us in gently, his slowly-drawn vocals on "A Stone" paced perfectly as perhaps the album's saddest song unfolds and recedes in lovesick despair. In other places Sheff violently spits out his words, most menacingly on the revenge-and-murder fantasy of "Black" and the explosive last few moments of penultimate track "So Come Back, I Am Waiting."
Whether it's described as an allegory or simply a series of inter-related songs, Black Sheep Boy will likely stand as one of the past decade's most enduring albums. Music can rarely comfortably be described as poetry, but the record is precisely that. The ghosts of poets and porn stars would eventually haunt Okkervil River's later work, but their origins can be found here, in stunning detail. - Eric Dennis
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
Honorable Mention: The Secret History, The World That Never Was
read the full article at spectrum culture.
go now.
Many critics couldn't even be bothered to review The World That Never Was. Their loss, as the Secret History's debut LP is an altogether brilliant piece of indie pop that combines intelligent lyricism with flawless musicianship. Refining both the style and narrative structure of the Desolation Town EP - also mostly ignored - the band produced a complex and mature record that deserved far more recognition that it received.
World's songs sound immediately familiar but never derivative, inviting but never too polished; its shimmering arrangements hint at influences ranging from '50s girl groups and '60s folk rock to glam rock and '80s British indie. The album frequently sounds buoyant and hopeful, as seen in the intricate harmonies of "Our Lady of Stalingrad" and in Lisa Ronson's pitch-perfect vocals on "Love Theme." Other songs are understated in the sense of tragedy they evoke; songs of mourning like "God Save the Runaways" and "Sex with Ghosts" move at a tempo best suited for a funeral. EP holdover "Our Lady of Palermo" is similar in both style and substance, the loneliness of its "pilgrimage to where God's never been" accented by Ronson's carefully-paced vocals, a martial drumbeat and rising strings.
Dubbed a "requiem for young monsters," World's subject matter is almost always dark, primarily consisting of runaways, travelers, transients, musicians, monsters and dead horror film icons usually dealing with everyday sad shit. Themes of distance and mortality emerge in a vast geography of ghettos, grottoes, European landmarks and all points in between, with Michael Grace, Jr. and Darren Amadio's lyrics - precise lines like, "They buried her there in the garden/ Behind the refinery" - contrasting with Ronson's bright vocals while reinforcing the album's desolate landscapes. It's fitting that one of the album's characters walks "on the shadowy side of the street." So for now The World That Never Was remains an undiscovered masterpiece, and while numerous worthy albums went under the radar this year, it'd be difficult to find one better than this debut from the Secret History
go now.
Many critics couldn't even be bothered to review The World That Never Was. Their loss, as the Secret History's debut LP is an altogether brilliant piece of indie pop that combines intelligent lyricism with flawless musicianship. Refining both the style and narrative structure of the Desolation Town EP - also mostly ignored - the band produced a complex and mature record that deserved far more recognition that it received.
World's songs sound immediately familiar but never derivative, inviting but never too polished; its shimmering arrangements hint at influences ranging from '50s girl groups and '60s folk rock to glam rock and '80s British indie. The album frequently sounds buoyant and hopeful, as seen in the intricate harmonies of "Our Lady of Stalingrad" and in Lisa Ronson's pitch-perfect vocals on "Love Theme." Other songs are understated in the sense of tragedy they evoke; songs of mourning like "God Save the Runaways" and "Sex with Ghosts" move at a tempo best suited for a funeral. EP holdover "Our Lady of Palermo" is similar in both style and substance, the loneliness of its "pilgrimage to where God's never been" accented by Ronson's carefully-paced vocals, a martial drumbeat and rising strings.
Dubbed a "requiem for young monsters," World's subject matter is almost always dark, primarily consisting of runaways, travelers, transients, musicians, monsters and dead horror film icons usually dealing with everyday sad shit. Themes of distance and mortality emerge in a vast geography of ghettos, grottoes, European landmarks and all points in between, with Michael Grace, Jr. and Darren Amadio's lyrics - precise lines like, "They buried her there in the garden/ Behind the refinery" - contrasting with Ronson's bright vocals while reinforcing the album's desolate landscapes. It's fitting that one of the album's characters walks "on the shadowy side of the street." So for now The World That Never Was remains an undiscovered masterpiece, and while numerous worthy albums went under the radar this year, it'd be difficult to find one better than this debut from the Secret History
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