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Though none of Andrew Bird's previous releases can be characterized as straightforward, Noble Beast is probably his most challenging and least immediately accessible record to date. Previous efforts like Weather Systems and The Mysterious Production of Eggs usually offered guideposts that suggested where the songs were heading; even though these songs weren't redundant, they were usually rooted in a common musical sensibility that allowed the listener to keep his bearings as he navigated the vagaries of Bird's bizarre and often darkly humorous musical world. Yet Noble Beast is a whole other, um, beast. If previous release Armchair Apocrypha occasionally found both Bird becoming more impressionistic and non-linear, Noble Beast pushes that approach considerably. Upon initial listens it sounds like the equivalent of being lost in the woods while being pursued by a whistling, ill-rhyming violin player prone to fits of lyrical abstraction.
The album walks a fine line between obliqueness and willful obtuseness. Certainly some of its songs never quite catch fire even after repeated airings, suggesting that a certain amount of self-editing on Bird's part might have improved the album. At a shade under 55 minutes, it's one of Bird's longest, and occasionally seems even longer. Mimicking the approach taken on his previous albums, a few short instrumentals are included; though these are all nice enough and remind the listener of Bird's well-documented musical training, at most they offer a brief respite from the album's more difficult moments. "Tenuousness" relies on Bird's tendency towards wordplay and rhyming to a fault and is too clever for its own good. Though Bird bristles at such comparisons, the vocals and instrumentals on "Not a Robot, But a Ghost" are overly reminiscent of Thom Yorke and Radiohead, though in Bird's case this probably more attributed to the quirks in his vocal delivery than any type of intentional homage to the band.
Noble Beast's charms unfold slowly, given time to settle in the listener's ears. While the album does require a certain degree of patience from the listener, a number of its songs are as inventive as anything Bird has recorded. Eventually the songs sound far less random and scattershot that they initially appear, with Bird's patented approach of violin, guitar, loops, and whistling - a helluva lot of whistling - utilized to good effect. Opening track "Oh No" begins with a violin melody that is soon accompanied by piano and a good bout of whistling, "Fitz and the Dizzyspells" is as up-tempo and danceable a song as it gets (for Suzuki-trained violinists at least), the near-epic "Nomenclature" features some of Bird's most urgent and soaring vocals, and the gorgeous arrangement of "Souverian" is built around a jaunty piano and vocal take that wouldn't sound out of place on Bird's previous albums. Other songs like "Effigy" are more subdued and almost acoustic; perhaps Noble Beast's most striking moment, it includes a pseudo-flamenco guitar melody and an old-timey violin arrangement that nicely augments Bird's sardonic and deadpan vocals.
Bird's lyrics are more cryptic than on his previous efforts, with specific evocative phrases suggesting various images and meanings. Only a fool would claim to fully understand the songs' themes or intentions; Tom Waits' well-worn concert joke that the only things adults talk about are food, sickness and death is somewhat applicable here. Bird's usual obsessions - flightless animals, personal reckonings, apocalypse, childhood memories, mortality, myths, superstitions, history's long-gone empires - are again present, often accompanied by rhyme schemes that are either brilliant or overly academic, depending on your point of view. Yet in many ways this lyrical ambiguity fits the songs well and gives them added depth. Though it's not the masterpiece Andrew Bird has hinted at since Weather Systems, there's a gradually unfolding mystery and beauty to Noble Beast.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Revisit: The Dismemberment Plan - Emergency and I
originally published at spectrumculture.com. go check that site out. show some love.
If the rotting corpses of the Jesus and Mary Chain can be taken out of storage and dusted off for a reunion tour that bizarrely includes some stage time with Scarlet Johansson, I suppose a Dismemberment Plan reunion is still possible. After calling it quits in 2003, the band reunited briefly in 2007, though this was little more than a one-off occasion and, unfortunately, not the triumphant return of one of indie rock's most sorely missed bands. If the Washington, D.C. band's history is indeed finished, their legacy as one of music's more creative and inventive bands seems assured, due in large part to their landmark album Emergency & I.
Now nearly 10 years after its initial release, back in those heady days when people actually paid for albums and carried their music around in cumbersome things called jewel cases, Emergency & I still sounds relevant and entirely original. Whereas other albums from around this time that received similar effusive praise - Midnite Vultures and Kid A come to mind - have since lost their appeal thanks in large part to their experimental excesses, Emergency & I still stands as one of those rare near-perfect albums. That the band had the good sense to get the hell out before they had a chance to wreck their legacy a la the Sex Pistols might have something to do with it; regardless, for those of us who have played the shit out of this album over the years, it never gets stale or repetitive.
The album mixes and blends a dizzying array of musical genres and styles, without coming across as a disjointed, schizophrenic mess. Indeed no two songs sound exactly the same; on Emergency &I the Plan distillates everything from hip-hop to R&B to mope rock into a whole other beast. In interviews, and perhaps with varying degrees of sincerity, lead singer Travis Morrison would compare the band's sound to acts such as Radiohead, Rage Against the Machine and Talking Heads. It was somehow both completely accurate and woefully inadequate.
Though Morrison's vocals often recall a less snarky version of Stephen Malkmus, the band's overall sound is much harder to define. It's subtly evocative of so many bands and genres, yet sounds exactly like none of them. Though the term "dance-punk" has occasionally been tossed around to describe Emergency & I, that's little more than a clever label that sounds nice and doesn't mean a damn thing. Certainly the album recalls a broad range of artists, including Television ("A Life of Possibilities"), a perverse mix of Pixies and Prince ("I Love a Magician"), and Pavement (closing track "Back and Forth," with its rapidly spoken vocals and insistent musical arrangement, sounds like a companion piece to Pavement's "Conduit for Sale"). The songs are stylistically diverse, often jumping from genre to genre. The sparse percussion that dominates the first few minutes of "You Are Invited" eventually gets swallowed up by drums and guitars, and "The City" builds slowly, ultimately peaking with Morrison's reedy and strained vocals. It's an album of studio wizardry and tricks whose songs incorporate elements of funk, hip hop, and hardcore. "I Love a Magician" and "Girl O'Clock" still defy categorization.
Beneath the album's mostly upbeat arrangements and frequent flashes of humor are fairly dour lyrics. Though it's not entirely accurate to describe Emergency & I as a breakup album, - such a term implies that it's something akin to Blood On the Tracks - several songs do focus on this theme. Sometimes this topic is addressed with humor. "Gyroscope" unfolds as a tale about how each combatant in a recently disintegrated relationship is handling the fallout. It's a song of mutual self-delusion; while the female copes by "wearing too much lipstick tonight/ A little black dress a little too tight" and the male convinces himself that "the reminders don't bother him in the least/ The Jekyll and Hyde shit will finally cease," it's merely a front, with Morrison promising some sour emotions later on: "If you spin fast enough than maybe the broken pieces of your heart will stay together/ But some things I've seen lately make me doubt it."Other songs are simply achingly sad. "The City" is perhaps the album's most wrenching song, equal parts regret and resignation.
Other songs are heavy with restlessness, boredom, loneliness, and apathy; anyone who spent their mid-twenties shuttling between a downtown office building and a shitty apartment can sympathize here. Two of the album's more reserved and melodic songs - "Spider In the Snow" and "The Jitters" - are also the album's bleakest. "Spider In the Snow" is a depiction of complete dissatisfaction with life's daily mundane routine; the song's character is essentially killing time, his primary comfort a heavy dose of cynicism. "The Jitters" expresses similar sentiments, with its narrator thoroughly beaten down and airing a laundry list of complaints: "Always tired, need a nap/ I have to make myself brush my teeth/ I've made a list of everything I've ever owned/ When the days bring nothing new/ and the sound of laughter makes you sick." Such images of indifference and resignation course throughout the album; now stare at your shoes and sob quietly.
Emergency & I remains one of the few albums where it's hard to not totally geek out like a drooling, hero-worshipping fanboy. Its musical influences are far-ranging and diverse, with these reference points distilled into a style that sounds as unique today as it did in 1999. Of course by now the album has been praised and analyzed to death by eager fans and critics alike, yet it somehow still seems insufficient. All these borderline psychotic reviews still can only hint at what makes this album so engaging and original.
by Eric Whelchel
If the rotting corpses of the Jesus and Mary Chain can be taken out of storage and dusted off for a reunion tour that bizarrely includes some stage time with Scarlet Johansson, I suppose a Dismemberment Plan reunion is still possible. After calling it quits in 2003, the band reunited briefly in 2007, though this was little more than a one-off occasion and, unfortunately, not the triumphant return of one of indie rock's most sorely missed bands. If the Washington, D.C. band's history is indeed finished, their legacy as one of music's more creative and inventive bands seems assured, due in large part to their landmark album Emergency & I.
Now nearly 10 years after its initial release, back in those heady days when people actually paid for albums and carried their music around in cumbersome things called jewel cases, Emergency & I still sounds relevant and entirely original. Whereas other albums from around this time that received similar effusive praise - Midnite Vultures and Kid A come to mind - have since lost their appeal thanks in large part to their experimental excesses, Emergency & I still stands as one of those rare near-perfect albums. That the band had the good sense to get the hell out before they had a chance to wreck their legacy a la the Sex Pistols might have something to do with it; regardless, for those of us who have played the shit out of this album over the years, it never gets stale or repetitive.
The album mixes and blends a dizzying array of musical genres and styles, without coming across as a disjointed, schizophrenic mess. Indeed no two songs sound exactly the same; on Emergency &I the Plan distillates everything from hip-hop to R&B to mope rock into a whole other beast. In interviews, and perhaps with varying degrees of sincerity, lead singer Travis Morrison would compare the band's sound to acts such as Radiohead, Rage Against the Machine and Talking Heads. It was somehow both completely accurate and woefully inadequate.
Though Morrison's vocals often recall a less snarky version of Stephen Malkmus, the band's overall sound is much harder to define. It's subtly evocative of so many bands and genres, yet sounds exactly like none of them. Though the term "dance-punk" has occasionally been tossed around to describe Emergency & I, that's little more than a clever label that sounds nice and doesn't mean a damn thing. Certainly the album recalls a broad range of artists, including Television ("A Life of Possibilities"), a perverse mix of Pixies and Prince ("I Love a Magician"), and Pavement (closing track "Back and Forth," with its rapidly spoken vocals and insistent musical arrangement, sounds like a companion piece to Pavement's "Conduit for Sale"). The songs are stylistically diverse, often jumping from genre to genre. The sparse percussion that dominates the first few minutes of "You Are Invited" eventually gets swallowed up by drums and guitars, and "The City" builds slowly, ultimately peaking with Morrison's reedy and strained vocals. It's an album of studio wizardry and tricks whose songs incorporate elements of funk, hip hop, and hardcore. "I Love a Magician" and "Girl O'Clock" still defy categorization.
Beneath the album's mostly upbeat arrangements and frequent flashes of humor are fairly dour lyrics. Though it's not entirely accurate to describe Emergency & I as a breakup album, - such a term implies that it's something akin to Blood On the Tracks - several songs do focus on this theme. Sometimes this topic is addressed with humor. "Gyroscope" unfolds as a tale about how each combatant in a recently disintegrated relationship is handling the fallout. It's a song of mutual self-delusion; while the female copes by "wearing too much lipstick tonight/ A little black dress a little too tight" and the male convinces himself that "the reminders don't bother him in the least/ The Jekyll and Hyde shit will finally cease," it's merely a front, with Morrison promising some sour emotions later on: "If you spin fast enough than maybe the broken pieces of your heart will stay together/ But some things I've seen lately make me doubt it."Other songs are simply achingly sad. "The City" is perhaps the album's most wrenching song, equal parts regret and resignation.
Other songs are heavy with restlessness, boredom, loneliness, and apathy; anyone who spent their mid-twenties shuttling between a downtown office building and a shitty apartment can sympathize here. Two of the album's more reserved and melodic songs - "Spider In the Snow" and "The Jitters" - are also the album's bleakest. "Spider In the Snow" is a depiction of complete dissatisfaction with life's daily mundane routine; the song's character is essentially killing time, his primary comfort a heavy dose of cynicism. "The Jitters" expresses similar sentiments, with its narrator thoroughly beaten down and airing a laundry list of complaints: "Always tired, need a nap/ I have to make myself brush my teeth/ I've made a list of everything I've ever owned/ When the days bring nothing new/ and the sound of laughter makes you sick." Such images of indifference and resignation course throughout the album; now stare at your shoes and sob quietly.
Emergency & I remains one of the few albums where it's hard to not totally geek out like a drooling, hero-worshipping fanboy. Its musical influences are far-ranging and diverse, with these reference points distilled into a style that sounds as unique today as it did in 1999. Of course by now the album has been praised and analyzed to death by eager fans and critics alike, yet it somehow still seems insufficient. All these borderline psychotic reviews still can only hint at what makes this album so engaging and original.
by Eric Whelchel
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Cut Off Your Hands - You and I
You and I has all the components to be an outstanding release: its songs are frenetic and punchy, with driving, hook-laden rhythms, ringing guitars, pounding drums and melodies too obvious to miss. Because of these qualities, it's not hard to imagine these songs being played to packed, sweaty clubs or even arenas full of 20-something fist-pumpers. The album is as arena rock friendly as indie pop gets. Now all that Cut Off Your Hands needs are the arenas.
Nevertheless, this debut album from the New Zealand-based foursome is overwhelmingly dull, listless and repetitive. It's often difficult to distinguish its songs from the work of other bands tramping similar ground, with the album resembling something that sounds like an immature, clumsy copulation between Bloc Party and Franz Ferdinand. The same formulaic and overly generic blueprint is utilized ad nauseam: songs like "Happy As Can Be," "It Doesn't Matter" and "Closed Eyes" sound like little more than a band going through the motions of what indie pop is expected to sound like. There's not necessarily anything wrong with a band sticking to a certain style - you could reasonably argue that this is actually what most artists do - but when that style offers few tricks or surprises, it makes for a bland and monotonous album.
Arena rock music carries with it the stigma of being impersonal, with anthemic chords and mailed-in lyrics substituted for where a heart should be. You and I frequently shares these flaws. Although the lyrics contain a narrative arc that explores heavy things like religious doubt, childhood nostalgia, death and failed, fucked up relationships, the songs sound as if they're sung from the point of view a distant, and entirely disconnected, observer. A thick layer of disinterest kills songs like "Oh Girl" and "Turn Cold," where Nick Johnston's vocals are practically robotic in their lack of emotion. Any momentum gained by the music is negated by this all-too-passive and detached vocal delivery.
Two songs veer dramatically in an acoustic direction and suggest that Cut Off Your Hands is capable of more than by-rote pastiche. "In the Name of Jesus Christ" features sparse guitars, strings and hushed background vocals as it reflects on the role of religion in childhood with a mixture of sincerity and mostly cynicism. Despite the sense of community mentioned in the song, the narrator can't help but sardonically note that the religious conversion of a "reformed thug" still didn't prevent his daughter from getting pregnant at 15 or his wife from getting cancer. Closing track "Daniel" likewise relies on a gentle guitar melody and minimal additional instrumentation; here, Johnston's singing is powerful and moving. The song expresses a fatalistic and bleak sentiment about both life and religion, with Johnston singing about someone who dies of cancer "despite the prayers of his church and of his wife and his kids."
You and I too often sounds like a mediocre distillation of recent indie music trends, with the majority of its songs adhering to this predictable template. Despite its undeniably catchy arrangements, the album creates the impression of a band trying to be willfully indifferent. Only when the band strips away this icy exterior does the album ever really connect with the listener.
Nevertheless, this debut album from the New Zealand-based foursome is overwhelmingly dull, listless and repetitive. It's often difficult to distinguish its songs from the work of other bands tramping similar ground, with the album resembling something that sounds like an immature, clumsy copulation between Bloc Party and Franz Ferdinand. The same formulaic and overly generic blueprint is utilized ad nauseam: songs like "Happy As Can Be," "It Doesn't Matter" and "Closed Eyes" sound like little more than a band going through the motions of what indie pop is expected to sound like. There's not necessarily anything wrong with a band sticking to a certain style - you could reasonably argue that this is actually what most artists do - but when that style offers few tricks or surprises, it makes for a bland and monotonous album.
Arena rock music carries with it the stigma of being impersonal, with anthemic chords and mailed-in lyrics substituted for where a heart should be. You and I frequently shares these flaws. Although the lyrics contain a narrative arc that explores heavy things like religious doubt, childhood nostalgia, death and failed, fucked up relationships, the songs sound as if they're sung from the point of view a distant, and entirely disconnected, observer. A thick layer of disinterest kills songs like "Oh Girl" and "Turn Cold," where Nick Johnston's vocals are practically robotic in their lack of emotion. Any momentum gained by the music is negated by this all-too-passive and detached vocal delivery.
Two songs veer dramatically in an acoustic direction and suggest that Cut Off Your Hands is capable of more than by-rote pastiche. "In the Name of Jesus Christ" features sparse guitars, strings and hushed background vocals as it reflects on the role of religion in childhood with a mixture of sincerity and mostly cynicism. Despite the sense of community mentioned in the song, the narrator can't help but sardonically note that the religious conversion of a "reformed thug" still didn't prevent his daughter from getting pregnant at 15 or his wife from getting cancer. Closing track "Daniel" likewise relies on a gentle guitar melody and minimal additional instrumentation; here, Johnston's singing is powerful and moving. The song expresses a fatalistic and bleak sentiment about both life and religion, with Johnston singing about someone who dies of cancer "despite the prayers of his church and of his wife and his kids."
You and I too often sounds like a mediocre distillation of recent indie music trends, with the majority of its songs adhering to this predictable template. Despite its undeniably catchy arrangements, the album creates the impression of a band trying to be willfully indifferent. Only when the band strips away this icy exterior does the album ever really connect with the listener.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Rediscover - Now It's Overhead - Fall Back Open
Originally published at spectrumculture.com. Go there.
Released in 2004 to lukewarm reviews, Fall Back Open offers up a heavy dose of postmodern emo anxiety. The sophomore effort from Now It's Overhead places an emphasis on atmospheric textures and production techniques that help accentuate the album's bleak lyrics and dark tone. Though it's certainly not a landmark album and its influences are readily apparent, it also never wanders off listlessly down the path of obtuse experimentation or bloated self-indulgence. Nearly five years after the fact, it sounds better and more relevant than it did upon its initial release.
The musicians that recorded the album under the moniker Now It's Overheard are perhaps best known for their work in other projects. Lead singer and lyricist Andy LeMaster has played as a member of Bright Eyes' backing band and has produced a horde of albums through his Chase Park Transduction recording studio. Athenians (studies show approximately 30% of all musicians are from Athens) Orenda Fink and Maria Taylor are members in Azure Ray, and drummer Clay Leverett has played in a number of Athens bands.
Still, Now It's Overhead circa Fall Back Open was primarily a vehicle for LeMaster's musical vision, which was hinted at on the band's debut album but more fully formed with this second release. In describing the album - and forgiving the hint of over-seriousness - LeMaster has stated that it "deals with seeking fulfillment and searching for something and realizing that what you've found isn't it." How an album with such a theme didn't ride a bullet to the top of the charts and land the band on TRL playing grabass with Carson Daly is beyond me.
Many of the lyrics drip with insecurity and an unhealthy mixture of futility, boredom and angst; the kicks sought after in these songs are short lived and usually result in serious mental anguish and brooding about mortality. Much of the album plays like a trip inside the psyche of someone who's damn close to, to use the clinical term, cracking up. With a nasal singing voice that sounds a restrained Jeff Mangum, LeMaster expresses these vulnerabilities without sounding excessively pansy-ass or melodramatic.
Opening track "Wait In a Line" evokes a sweaty nightclub scene of blinking lights and drunk chicks vomiting into seedy bathroom stalls, with LeMaster sardonically noting that despite the temporary diversions granted by these nighttime dalliances, "Gravity catches up." On its surface "Surrender" is an ambivalent love song, but also hints at an unspecified and seemingly inevitable personal disaster: Perhaps the album's most jarring track, "Reverse" lets the listener know that the bastards are at the gate and will probably break through. It's a picture of someone unable to fight off various unnamed threats; best just to admit defeat now before it gets any more difficult. Even the album's ballads wallow in such murk. Master of morose Conor Oberst provides backing vocals on the title track, a depiction of someone mired in a particularly unpleasant comedown. It's the morning after with all the shame, guilt, regret, and cuts and scrapes it brings.
The musical arrangements enhance the songs' textures and give them additional depth. Heavy with reverb and layered instruments (including synthesizers that don't massacre the songs), and occasionally reminiscent of bands like Spiritualized and My Bloody Valentine, the sound itself is still hard to neatly define. Songs like "Wait In a Line," "Surrender," "Profile," and "Reverse" are compressed and jittery, with stabbing guitars and pulsing rhythms that complement the tensions that are played out in the lyrics and contribute to the songs' dark undertones. Other songs are far more hazy and smoky. The title track, "Turn & Go," and album closer "A Little Consolation" feature more subtle and reserved arrangements that add some much needed variation to the album's sometimes too-uniform sound.
"It was a long year and I wasted it/ Now each breath's getting shorter," LeMaster laments above a mostly acoustic melody on "The Decision Made Itself." It's a nice summation of the album as a whole; tension and boredom surface time and time again. Any distractions - the searing club lights of "Wait In a Line" or the adults-only classifieds of "Profile" - are always temporary diversions that fix nothing. Successfully navigating that fine line between emo and overly emotional, Fall Back Open is an atmospheric snapshot of anxiety and the inability to escape it.
Released in 2004 to lukewarm reviews, Fall Back Open offers up a heavy dose of postmodern emo anxiety. The sophomore effort from Now It's Overhead places an emphasis on atmospheric textures and production techniques that help accentuate the album's bleak lyrics and dark tone. Though it's certainly not a landmark album and its influences are readily apparent, it also never wanders off listlessly down the path of obtuse experimentation or bloated self-indulgence. Nearly five years after the fact, it sounds better and more relevant than it did upon its initial release.
The musicians that recorded the album under the moniker Now It's Overheard are perhaps best known for their work in other projects. Lead singer and lyricist Andy LeMaster has played as a member of Bright Eyes' backing band and has produced a horde of albums through his Chase Park Transduction recording studio. Athenians (studies show approximately 30% of all musicians are from Athens) Orenda Fink and Maria Taylor are members in Azure Ray, and drummer Clay Leverett has played in a number of Athens bands.
Still, Now It's Overhead circa Fall Back Open was primarily a vehicle for LeMaster's musical vision, which was hinted at on the band's debut album but more fully formed with this second release. In describing the album - and forgiving the hint of over-seriousness - LeMaster has stated that it "deals with seeking fulfillment and searching for something and realizing that what you've found isn't it." How an album with such a theme didn't ride a bullet to the top of the charts and land the band on TRL playing grabass with Carson Daly is beyond me.
Many of the lyrics drip with insecurity and an unhealthy mixture of futility, boredom and angst; the kicks sought after in these songs are short lived and usually result in serious mental anguish and brooding about mortality. Much of the album plays like a trip inside the psyche of someone who's damn close to, to use the clinical term, cracking up. With a nasal singing voice that sounds a restrained Jeff Mangum, LeMaster expresses these vulnerabilities without sounding excessively pansy-ass or melodramatic.
Opening track "Wait In a Line" evokes a sweaty nightclub scene of blinking lights and drunk chicks vomiting into seedy bathroom stalls, with LeMaster sardonically noting that despite the temporary diversions granted by these nighttime dalliances, "Gravity catches up." On its surface "Surrender" is an ambivalent love song, but also hints at an unspecified and seemingly inevitable personal disaster: Perhaps the album's most jarring track, "Reverse" lets the listener know that the bastards are at the gate and will probably break through. It's a picture of someone unable to fight off various unnamed threats; best just to admit defeat now before it gets any more difficult. Even the album's ballads wallow in such murk. Master of morose Conor Oberst provides backing vocals on the title track, a depiction of someone mired in a particularly unpleasant comedown. It's the morning after with all the shame, guilt, regret, and cuts and scrapes it brings.
The musical arrangements enhance the songs' textures and give them additional depth. Heavy with reverb and layered instruments (including synthesizers that don't massacre the songs), and occasionally reminiscent of bands like Spiritualized and My Bloody Valentine, the sound itself is still hard to neatly define. Songs like "Wait In a Line," "Surrender," "Profile," and "Reverse" are compressed and jittery, with stabbing guitars and pulsing rhythms that complement the tensions that are played out in the lyrics and contribute to the songs' dark undertones. Other songs are far more hazy and smoky. The title track, "Turn & Go," and album closer "A Little Consolation" feature more subtle and reserved arrangements that add some much needed variation to the album's sometimes too-uniform sound.
"It was a long year and I wasted it/ Now each breath's getting shorter," LeMaster laments above a mostly acoustic melody on "The Decision Made Itself." It's a nice summation of the album as a whole; tension and boredom surface time and time again. Any distractions - the searing club lights of "Wait In a Line" or the adults-only classifieds of "Profile" - are always temporary diversions that fix nothing. Successfully navigating that fine line between emo and overly emotional, Fall Back Open is an atmospheric snapshot of anxiety and the inability to escape it.
Titus Andronicus - The Airing of Grievances
Originally published at spectrumculture.com. Go to that site. Now dammit.
Taking their name from one of Shakespeare's bloodiest plays -not from a porno queen - Titus Andronicus' debut effort The Airing of Grievances was an unrelenting and pounding album that played like repeated jack-booted kicks upside the head. Upon its original release on the Troubleman Unlimited label in 2008, it received effusive praise from a decent number of fans and critics. Violent, nihilistic, and exceedingly bleak, it was one of the year's most austere and uncompromising albums. With cultural references ranging from their hometown of Glen Rock, New Jersey to Albert Camus, Greek mythology, and Flemish painters, as well as containing enough existential dread to rival Ian Curtis, it was one of the year's most viscerally jarring albums. Now remastered (bullshit unless you have ears with the sensitivity of a bat, but no matter) and reissued by XL Recordings, indie music fans or those woefully angst-ridden suburban kids who are not yet familiar with the album have another chance to discover it.
Though the vocal traits of lead singer Patrick Stickles have been compared to Conor Oberst, to my ears he sounds closer to a more riled up cross between Paul Westerberg and David Yow. The vocals throughout Airing are tinny, muddy and occasionally indecipherable, with Stickles variously screaming, shouting and yelping above the band's manic playing. The lyrics are extraordinarily dark, often vacillating between moments of righteous anger, fuck-it-all boredom and morose brooding about mortality.
Opening track "Fear and Loathing in Mahwah, NJ" references Hunter S. Thompson's well-known novel as Stickles lobs his first grenade of the album: "Should the shit hit the fan, I just pray you will not be spared." On other songs Stickles sounds completely resigned and tired beyond his years. This monotony is acknowledged in the almost-melodramatic "No Future Part 1," with Stickles commenting that "I know that I say this every night/ But I don't think I've ever been so tired of life." And if this emo sentiment somehow escapes the listener's notice, Stickles drives the point home later in the song, cheerfully saying that, "This world seems like a nice place to visit/ But I don't want to live in it." On Airing such boredom strolls hand-in-hand with mordant comments about the meaningless of life.
The song's arrangements prevent these lyrics from reading like the overwrought work of a freshman Intro to Philosophy student who doesn't realize how miserable he is until Camus tells him so. Many songs begin deceptively quiet and almost acoustic in nature, but eventually dissolve into something far more sinister and jagged. The album begins with a simple guitar, before the gates are blown open and the song is swallowed up by swirling pianos and horns. This pattern is repeated often: "Joset of Nazareth's Blues" begins with a harmonica line reminiscent of Bruce Springsteen, but is soon jackknifed by Stickles' strained vocals, while "No Future Part 1" starts with an atmospheric rhythm that is eventually suffocated by the band's frantic sound. The arrangements are varied and expansive, evocative of many disparate musical trends without being derivative .
The band's home state of New Jersey is referenced several times and is used to accentuate the album's agitated and claustrophobic tone. Or, more accurately, the blue-collar, hardscrabble, industrial shithole image of the state that's been depicted in everything from the poetry of William Carlos Williams to the music of Springsteen to every "Cops" episode that seems to take place on the dingiest streets of Passaic. As listeners we'd probably be having a hardy, cynical indie laugh if these songs were written by a bunch of Abercrombie-clad rebels from Bel-Air. But with New Jersey as the backdrop - especially in lyrics that reminisce back to childhood, presumably before things got even more horribly derailed - the album's utter desolation is entirely believable.
The Airing of Grievances deals heavily in the dark stuff. Even its few instances of humor are meant to be taken with a mournful shrug, not a wry smile. Of course, the fatalistic ethos that runs through many of its songs isn't anything new in music. Where the album ultimately succeeds, and what makes it so compelling, is in its ability to convey this ethos without sounding laughably over-dramatic.
by Eric Whelchel
Taking their name from one of Shakespeare's bloodiest plays -not from a porno queen - Titus Andronicus' debut effort The Airing of Grievances was an unrelenting and pounding album that played like repeated jack-booted kicks upside the head. Upon its original release on the Troubleman Unlimited label in 2008, it received effusive praise from a decent number of fans and critics. Violent, nihilistic, and exceedingly bleak, it was one of the year's most austere and uncompromising albums. With cultural references ranging from their hometown of Glen Rock, New Jersey to Albert Camus, Greek mythology, and Flemish painters, as well as containing enough existential dread to rival Ian Curtis, it was one of the year's most viscerally jarring albums. Now remastered (bullshit unless you have ears with the sensitivity of a bat, but no matter) and reissued by XL Recordings, indie music fans or those woefully angst-ridden suburban kids who are not yet familiar with the album have another chance to discover it.
Though the vocal traits of lead singer Patrick Stickles have been compared to Conor Oberst, to my ears he sounds closer to a more riled up cross between Paul Westerberg and David Yow. The vocals throughout Airing are tinny, muddy and occasionally indecipherable, with Stickles variously screaming, shouting and yelping above the band's manic playing. The lyrics are extraordinarily dark, often vacillating between moments of righteous anger, fuck-it-all boredom and morose brooding about mortality.
Opening track "Fear and Loathing in Mahwah, NJ" references Hunter S. Thompson's well-known novel as Stickles lobs his first grenade of the album: "Should the shit hit the fan, I just pray you will not be spared." On other songs Stickles sounds completely resigned and tired beyond his years. This monotony is acknowledged in the almost-melodramatic "No Future Part 1," with Stickles commenting that "I know that I say this every night/ But I don't think I've ever been so tired of life." And if this emo sentiment somehow escapes the listener's notice, Stickles drives the point home later in the song, cheerfully saying that, "This world seems like a nice place to visit/ But I don't want to live in it." On Airing such boredom strolls hand-in-hand with mordant comments about the meaningless of life.
The song's arrangements prevent these lyrics from reading like the overwrought work of a freshman Intro to Philosophy student who doesn't realize how miserable he is until Camus tells him so. Many songs begin deceptively quiet and almost acoustic in nature, but eventually dissolve into something far more sinister and jagged. The album begins with a simple guitar, before the gates are blown open and the song is swallowed up by swirling pianos and horns. This pattern is repeated often: "Joset of Nazareth's Blues" begins with a harmonica line reminiscent of Bruce Springsteen, but is soon jackknifed by Stickles' strained vocals, while "No Future Part 1" starts with an atmospheric rhythm that is eventually suffocated by the band's frantic sound. The arrangements are varied and expansive, evocative of many disparate musical trends without being derivative .
The band's home state of New Jersey is referenced several times and is used to accentuate the album's agitated and claustrophobic tone. Or, more accurately, the blue-collar, hardscrabble, industrial shithole image of the state that's been depicted in everything from the poetry of William Carlos Williams to the music of Springsteen to every "Cops" episode that seems to take place on the dingiest streets of Passaic. As listeners we'd probably be having a hardy, cynical indie laugh if these songs were written by a bunch of Abercrombie-clad rebels from Bel-Air. But with New Jersey as the backdrop - especially in lyrics that reminisce back to childhood, presumably before things got even more horribly derailed - the album's utter desolation is entirely believable.
The Airing of Grievances deals heavily in the dark stuff. Even its few instances of humor are meant to be taken with a mournful shrug, not a wry smile. Of course, the fatalistic ethos that runs through many of its songs isn't anything new in music. Where the album ultimately succeeds, and what makes it so compelling, is in its ability to convey this ethos without sounding laughably over-dramatic.
by Eric Whelchel
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
A.C. Newman - Get Guilty
When the frontman of an indie band with a trademark style refined and polished over the course of several releases staggers out of the gates for a solo album, the temptation is to view such a release as little more than a vanity project. Is it fair? Of course not, but it makes for an easy starting point and potentially some obnoxiously lazy music journalism. For A.C. Newman, that reference point is indie juggernaut the New Pornographers, who on albums like Mass Romantic and Twin Cinema have developed their own unique brand of catchy and infectious indie pop. Just ask University of Phoenix.
Get Guilty is the second solo release from Newman. Recorded in the summer of 2008 at Brooklyn's Seaside Lounge and featuring contributions from John Wurster (Superchunk/Mountain Goats), Mates of State and Nicole Atkins, the album is unique enough to distinguish it as something more than an incidental one-off side project. Though the musical arrangements, vocals and production techniques are sometimes overly reminiscent of the New Pornographers, overall it's a solid album that includes enough variations to set it apart from Newman's work with the band.
Of course, these similarities to the New Pornographers aren't necessarily drawbacks; some of the songs that mine the band's up-tempo mix of guitars, keyboards, drums and backing vocals are catchy as hell. Newman clearly knows how to write and record memorable singles, even if none of these songs will ever get a whiff of mainstream commercial airplay. Songs like opener "There Are Maybe 10 or 12," "Changeling (Get Guilty)," "Prophets" and "Submarines of Stockholm" wouldn't sound out of place on a New Pornographers record. Accusations of potential complacency aside - Newman certainly isn't trying to create a new musical language or deal in wild experimentation on Get Guilty - most of the album's songs are well crafted enough to excuse any excessive similarities to his work with the New Pornographers.
Nevertheless there are several subtle stylistic differences that become more apparent after multiple listens. In general, Newman's vocals sound more up front in the mix and less treated than usual; when his voice isn't layered, it actually carries some emotion, in particular on "There are Maybe 10 or 12," Young Atlantis" and closer "All Of My Days and All Of My Days Off." The album also moves at a more relaxed pace than most New Pornographers songs, with the songs also being given more breathing room to develop. Whereas sometimes the New Pornographers can drown their songs with layers of instruments - with mediocre recent album Challengers being a frequent offender - Newman instead emphasizes individual instruments this time around. "Prophets" begins with a sparse piano and acoustic guitar, "Changeling (Get Guilty)" is built around a nice piano melody and punchy background vocals, violins mark the beginning of "Young Atlantis, and "Like a Hitman, Like a Dancer" uses acoustic guitars to create a driving, insistent rhythm.
Though Newman's lyrics sometimes tend to be somewhat obtuse and open-ended, a wry sense of humor and self-deprecation surfaces on some songs. "I will die with my foot in my mouth," Newman deadpans at one point. The opening song can be heard as either mocking or playful as it promises some helpful advice, but with a catch: "There are maybe 10 or 12 things I could teach you/ After that well I think you're on your own/ And that wasn't the opening line/ It was the tenth or the twelfth/make of that what you will." Other songs (specifically the album closer) are heavy on romantic sentiment; thankfully, these songs aren't maudlin and the nausea quotient remains low.
For the most part, Get Guilty doesn't really find A.C. Newman wandering too far from his comfort zone. Its style and vocal arrangements are mostly familiar, though there are some subtle shifts that those with sensitive ears will notice. Even so, Newman's ability to write catchy songs with recurring but not overly bombastic hooks hasn't diminished in the least.
Get Guilty is the second solo release from Newman. Recorded in the summer of 2008 at Brooklyn's Seaside Lounge and featuring contributions from John Wurster (Superchunk/Mountain Goats), Mates of State and Nicole Atkins, the album is unique enough to distinguish it as something more than an incidental one-off side project. Though the musical arrangements, vocals and production techniques are sometimes overly reminiscent of the New Pornographers, overall it's a solid album that includes enough variations to set it apart from Newman's work with the band.
Of course, these similarities to the New Pornographers aren't necessarily drawbacks; some of the songs that mine the band's up-tempo mix of guitars, keyboards, drums and backing vocals are catchy as hell. Newman clearly knows how to write and record memorable singles, even if none of these songs will ever get a whiff of mainstream commercial airplay. Songs like opener "There Are Maybe 10 or 12," "Changeling (Get Guilty)," "Prophets" and "Submarines of Stockholm" wouldn't sound out of place on a New Pornographers record. Accusations of potential complacency aside - Newman certainly isn't trying to create a new musical language or deal in wild experimentation on Get Guilty - most of the album's songs are well crafted enough to excuse any excessive similarities to his work with the New Pornographers.
Nevertheless there are several subtle stylistic differences that become more apparent after multiple listens. In general, Newman's vocals sound more up front in the mix and less treated than usual; when his voice isn't layered, it actually carries some emotion, in particular on "There are Maybe 10 or 12," Young Atlantis" and closer "All Of My Days and All Of My Days Off." The album also moves at a more relaxed pace than most New Pornographers songs, with the songs also being given more breathing room to develop. Whereas sometimes the New Pornographers can drown their songs with layers of instruments - with mediocre recent album Challengers being a frequent offender - Newman instead emphasizes individual instruments this time around. "Prophets" begins with a sparse piano and acoustic guitar, "Changeling (Get Guilty)" is built around a nice piano melody and punchy background vocals, violins mark the beginning of "Young Atlantis, and "Like a Hitman, Like a Dancer" uses acoustic guitars to create a driving, insistent rhythm.
Though Newman's lyrics sometimes tend to be somewhat obtuse and open-ended, a wry sense of humor and self-deprecation surfaces on some songs. "I will die with my foot in my mouth," Newman deadpans at one point. The opening song can be heard as either mocking or playful as it promises some helpful advice, but with a catch: "There are maybe 10 or 12 things I could teach you/ After that well I think you're on your own/ And that wasn't the opening line/ It was the tenth or the twelfth/make of that what you will." Other songs (specifically the album closer) are heavy on romantic sentiment; thankfully, these songs aren't maudlin and the nausea quotient remains low.
For the most part, Get Guilty doesn't really find A.C. Newman wandering too far from his comfort zone. Its style and vocal arrangements are mostly familiar, though there are some subtle shifts that those with sensitive ears will notice. Even so, Newman's ability to write catchy songs with recurring but not overly bombastic hooks hasn't diminished in the least.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The National - Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers
Rediscover: The National
Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers
Originally published at spectrumculture.com. Go visit that site. Don't make me tell you again.
Though The National's reputation is usually staked to recent albums Alligator and Boxer, many of the lyrical themes and musical styles that have garnered the band so much attention were first explored on sophomore release Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers. Released in 2003, the album marked a noticeable shift in both songwriting and instrumental dexterity for the band after their sometimes moving but clumsy self-titled debut. Whereas that debut effort was firmly grounded in Americana and country and sounded like a band still searching to find its own style, Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers marked the group's first great leap forward and laid the foundation for the widely praised albums that would later follow.
Essentially a series of sketches about relationships in various states of disintegration, many of the songs certainly live up to the album's title. Opener "Cardinal Song" immediately sets a bleak tone with its quiet backing vocals, deliberate pace, and mournful violins, as its narrator ostensibly talks to himself and offers advice that is probably less than helpful: "Never tell the one you want that you do/ Save it for the deathbed/ When you know you kept her wanting you/....Never say you miss her/ Never say a word." "90-Mile Water Wall" again relies on violins and Matt Berninger's weary baritone to craft a snapshot of a person either simply wanting to escape someone's steely gaze or to get the hell out of a crumbling mess of a relationship: "I'm waiting for a 90-mile water wall/ To take me out of your view/ I'm looking for a trap door trigger/ To drop me out of your view."
The album ends with two similar dark ballads. Against a disarmingly gentle melody, the wounded narrator of "Patterns of Fairytales" is left behind to pour over the wreckage of another failed go of it, even as he suspects his partner has other things to occupy her time: "Tonight there isn't any light under your door/ I guess you must be somewhere breathing/ Where skin and everything still know what they are for/ And blood remembers where to go." Closing song "Lucky You" displays a similar sense of bitterness. Backed by an acoustic guitar and piano that builds throughout the song, and featuring some of the band's most proficient playing, this time the man can only watch helplessly as another woman brazenly flaunts her infidelity in his face as she heads for the door: "You clean yourself to meet/ The man who isn't me/ You're putting on a shirt/ A shirt I'll never see/ The letter's in your coat/ But no one's in your head."
Yet what saves Sad Songs from devolving into an emo weep fest of overindulgent self-pity is the way both the lyrics and instruments are used to convey a wider range of complex and ugly emotions. Several songs evoke an aggression and violence in stark contrast to the torch burners mentioned previously; with their jagged guitars, insistent drums, and a heavy dose of screamed vocals, a trio of songs - "Slipping Husband," "Murder Me Rachael" and "Available" - burst with anger and rage.
Other songs exist uneasily in a space somewhere between these tales of loss and revenge. A general feeling of fatigue and resignation, which the band would later examine in Boxer, is palpable throughout the album. "We look younger than we feel/ And older than we are/ Now nobody's funny," Berninger deadpans in the atmospheric, country-tinged "It Never Happened." The subject in the lament of "Trophy Wife" discovers that promiscuity is tiresome and, in this case, debilitating: "One time you were a good rabbit/ To all the girls/ And all their lovely mothers/ You tried a piece of everything/ Now nothing turns you on." Similarly, the entendre of macho boasting in "Fashion Coat" sounds like wishful thinking from a man too worn out to care about his shortcomings: "I'll do everything to you," he brags, before the zinger comes, "but I can hardly come." The song closes with a sentiment of defeatism and boredom that contrasts with its shimmering melody, with Berninger singing "I die fast in this city/ Outside I die slow/ Everywhere I am is just another thing without you in it."
Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers is a lonely and angry album. Equal parts brooding and pissed off, its characters alternately react with resignation or rage at the various infidelities and insults lobbed like grenades into their lives. There's little sense of hope in these songs; those relationships that haven't yet mercifully ended are clearly heading toward disaster. Of course it's tempting to view these songs as Berninger exorcising his personal demons, but such an approach is narrow-minded and kills the universal emotions that are expressed in these songs. The band's playing also shows a confidence that was occasionally lacking on the debut album; it's the first time the band was able to consistently evoke often disparate moods through these arrangements. Though it never received as much critical attention or praise as either of those albums, Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers is a harrowing and brilliant album that explores the darker side of relationships.
Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers
Originally published at spectrumculture.com. Go visit that site. Don't make me tell you again.
Though The National's reputation is usually staked to recent albums Alligator and Boxer, many of the lyrical themes and musical styles that have garnered the band so much attention were first explored on sophomore release Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers. Released in 2003, the album marked a noticeable shift in both songwriting and instrumental dexterity for the band after their sometimes moving but clumsy self-titled debut. Whereas that debut effort was firmly grounded in Americana and country and sounded like a band still searching to find its own style, Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers marked the group's first great leap forward and laid the foundation for the widely praised albums that would later follow.
Essentially a series of sketches about relationships in various states of disintegration, many of the songs certainly live up to the album's title. Opener "Cardinal Song" immediately sets a bleak tone with its quiet backing vocals, deliberate pace, and mournful violins, as its narrator ostensibly talks to himself and offers advice that is probably less than helpful: "Never tell the one you want that you do/ Save it for the deathbed/ When you know you kept her wanting you/....Never say you miss her/ Never say a word." "90-Mile Water Wall" again relies on violins and Matt Berninger's weary baritone to craft a snapshot of a person either simply wanting to escape someone's steely gaze or to get the hell out of a crumbling mess of a relationship: "I'm waiting for a 90-mile water wall/ To take me out of your view/ I'm looking for a trap door trigger/ To drop me out of your view."
The album ends with two similar dark ballads. Against a disarmingly gentle melody, the wounded narrator of "Patterns of Fairytales" is left behind to pour over the wreckage of another failed go of it, even as he suspects his partner has other things to occupy her time: "Tonight there isn't any light under your door/ I guess you must be somewhere breathing/ Where skin and everything still know what they are for/ And blood remembers where to go." Closing song "Lucky You" displays a similar sense of bitterness. Backed by an acoustic guitar and piano that builds throughout the song, and featuring some of the band's most proficient playing, this time the man can only watch helplessly as another woman brazenly flaunts her infidelity in his face as she heads for the door: "You clean yourself to meet/ The man who isn't me/ You're putting on a shirt/ A shirt I'll never see/ The letter's in your coat/ But no one's in your head."
Yet what saves Sad Songs from devolving into an emo weep fest of overindulgent self-pity is the way both the lyrics and instruments are used to convey a wider range of complex and ugly emotions. Several songs evoke an aggression and violence in stark contrast to the torch burners mentioned previously; with their jagged guitars, insistent drums, and a heavy dose of screamed vocals, a trio of songs - "Slipping Husband," "Murder Me Rachael" and "Available" - burst with anger and rage.
Other songs exist uneasily in a space somewhere between these tales of loss and revenge. A general feeling of fatigue and resignation, which the band would later examine in Boxer, is palpable throughout the album. "We look younger than we feel/ And older than we are/ Now nobody's funny," Berninger deadpans in the atmospheric, country-tinged "It Never Happened." The subject in the lament of "Trophy Wife" discovers that promiscuity is tiresome and, in this case, debilitating: "One time you were a good rabbit/ To all the girls/ And all their lovely mothers/ You tried a piece of everything/ Now nothing turns you on." Similarly, the entendre of macho boasting in "Fashion Coat" sounds like wishful thinking from a man too worn out to care about his shortcomings: "I'll do everything to you," he brags, before the zinger comes, "but I can hardly come." The song closes with a sentiment of defeatism and boredom that contrasts with its shimmering melody, with Berninger singing "I die fast in this city/ Outside I die slow/ Everywhere I am is just another thing without you in it."
Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers is a lonely and angry album. Equal parts brooding and pissed off, its characters alternately react with resignation or rage at the various infidelities and insults lobbed like grenades into their lives. There's little sense of hope in these songs; those relationships that haven't yet mercifully ended are clearly heading toward disaster. Of course it's tempting to view these songs as Berninger exorcising his personal demons, but such an approach is narrow-minded and kills the universal emotions that are expressed in these songs. The band's playing also shows a confidence that was occasionally lacking on the debut album; it's the first time the band was able to consistently evoke often disparate moods through these arrangements. Though it never received as much critical attention or praise as either of those albums, Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers is a harrowing and brilliant album that explores the darker side of relationships.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Music Review - The Gourds - Haymaker!
Originally published at spectrumculture.com. Go visit that site. Every day. You will get a treat if you do.
Over the course of albums like Stadium Blitzer, Cow Fish Fowl or Pig and Noble Creatures, the Gourds have mapped out their own unique and often bizarre musical style. Though most commonly thrown into that giant vat of music described as "roots," the band's sonic palette is far more expansive than that and equally difficult to categorize. Elements of country and folk ride shotgun with snatches of bluegrass and blues, resulting in a concoction steeped in traditional music yet still highly original and inventive.
Though The Gourds' reputation is primarily staked to its energetic and raucous live shows - or perhaps to its cover version of Snoop Dogg's "Gin and Juice" - the band's studio work has always been solid and dependable. Now closing in on their 15th year as a band, The Gourds, still consisting of Jimmy Smith, Kevin 'Shinyribs' Russell, Keith Langford, Max Johnston, and Claude Bernard, clearly know their way around a recording studio. There still isn't a single dud album to their name.
The band's latest product, Haymaker!, keeps that streak going. A brisk-paced album of 14 songs, it's undeniably high energy and fast-moving; Russell recently commented that the band's goal for the album was to capture the feeling of their live shows in a studio environment. In this respect the album is mostly successful. Tracks like "Country Love," "Country Gal," "Shreveport," "Fossil Contender," and "New Dues" rock and sway with a looseness that gives the songs a live quality, minus of course the broken beer bottles and intoxicated trucker-hat-wearing fans that pop up at the band's concerts. Most of the songs nicely play to the band's ability to synthesize a world of various musical genres. "All the Way to Jericho" rolls along with an airy country arrangement and subtle background vocals and harmonies, the unabashedly romantic "Valentine" plays like a country slow dance in a dilapidated barn, and closing song "Tighter" is driven by a guitar melody that recalls the Byrds and early R.E.M.
Nevertheless, Haymaker! is somewhat disappointing. The band rarely ventures into uncharted waters; though the majority of the songs are good enough, the spirit of adventure and risk taking that The Gourds have brought to both previous releases and live shows is largely absent. For the band's more dedicated and hardcore fans - and really, is there any other kind when we're talking about The Gourds? - the album offers few surprises and it's hard not to feel like we've heard this story before. Occasionally Haymaker! also becomes tedious and repetitive; sometimes the songs blend into each other if the listener isn't paying careful attention. It's hard to tell where "Tex-Mex Mile" ends and where next song "Blanket Show" begins, while the character sketches of "Bridgett" and "Thurman" feature undeniably similar vocal and musical arrangements.
Still, any new release from The Gourds is worth hearing. To their credit, the band continues to operate on the fringes of so many different musical styles that it's still hard to neatly categorize or cynically typecast them. Though Haymaker! is less engaging and surprising than some of The Gourds' previous releases, at its best it still serves as a nice reminder of the band's unique ability to blend country, folk, bluegrass, and other various elements into something that somehow sounds both traditional and wholly original.
Over the course of albums like Stadium Blitzer, Cow Fish Fowl or Pig and Noble Creatures, the Gourds have mapped out their own unique and often bizarre musical style. Though most commonly thrown into that giant vat of music described as "roots," the band's sonic palette is far more expansive than that and equally difficult to categorize. Elements of country and folk ride shotgun with snatches of bluegrass and blues, resulting in a concoction steeped in traditional music yet still highly original and inventive.
Though The Gourds' reputation is primarily staked to its energetic and raucous live shows - or perhaps to its cover version of Snoop Dogg's "Gin and Juice" - the band's studio work has always been solid and dependable. Now closing in on their 15th year as a band, The Gourds, still consisting of Jimmy Smith, Kevin 'Shinyribs' Russell, Keith Langford, Max Johnston, and Claude Bernard, clearly know their way around a recording studio. There still isn't a single dud album to their name.
The band's latest product, Haymaker!, keeps that streak going. A brisk-paced album of 14 songs, it's undeniably high energy and fast-moving; Russell recently commented that the band's goal for the album was to capture the feeling of their live shows in a studio environment. In this respect the album is mostly successful. Tracks like "Country Love," "Country Gal," "Shreveport," "Fossil Contender," and "New Dues" rock and sway with a looseness that gives the songs a live quality, minus of course the broken beer bottles and intoxicated trucker-hat-wearing fans that pop up at the band's concerts. Most of the songs nicely play to the band's ability to synthesize a world of various musical genres. "All the Way to Jericho" rolls along with an airy country arrangement and subtle background vocals and harmonies, the unabashedly romantic "Valentine" plays like a country slow dance in a dilapidated barn, and closing song "Tighter" is driven by a guitar melody that recalls the Byrds and early R.E.M.
Nevertheless, Haymaker! is somewhat disappointing. The band rarely ventures into uncharted waters; though the majority of the songs are good enough, the spirit of adventure and risk taking that The Gourds have brought to both previous releases and live shows is largely absent. For the band's more dedicated and hardcore fans - and really, is there any other kind when we're talking about The Gourds? - the album offers few surprises and it's hard not to feel like we've heard this story before. Occasionally Haymaker! also becomes tedious and repetitive; sometimes the songs blend into each other if the listener isn't paying careful attention. It's hard to tell where "Tex-Mex Mile" ends and where next song "Blanket Show" begins, while the character sketches of "Bridgett" and "Thurman" feature undeniably similar vocal and musical arrangements.
Still, any new release from The Gourds is worth hearing. To their credit, the band continues to operate on the fringes of so many different musical styles that it's still hard to neatly categorize or cynically typecast them. Though Haymaker! is less engaging and surprising than some of The Gourds' previous releases, at its best it still serves as a nice reminder of the band's unique ability to blend country, folk, bluegrass, and other various elements into something that somehow sounds both traditional and wholly original.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Second Chance: The Clash - Give 'Em Enough Rope
Originally published at spectrumculture.com. Go visit that site. Go. Now.
A common assessment of Give 'Em Enough Rope usually goes something like this: after the fury and righteous anger of the Clash's landmark debut album, hot shot producer Sandy Pearlman got his AOR hooks into the band. Either overwhelmed by Pearlman, or cynically taking its first major crack at breaking into the mainstream (especially in the United States), or simply unable to match the focused aggression of their first release, the band eventually delivered a slick, meandering, and ultimately disappointing, sophomore effort.
There's only one problem with this evaluation of Give 'Em Enough Rope: it misses the point. Looking back on the band's career, the album should be seen as a stepping stone for the synthesis of musical styles that would be most fully realized on London Calling. It showed the Clash moving far beyond the narrow stylistic confines of punk, and serves as a bridge between their one-dimensional debut album and the epic sprawl of London Calling.
Though it might sound like heresy, 30 years after its release the band's self-titled and much revered debut album sounds dated and irrelevant. Whatever the album's merits, most of its songs are heavy on punk posturing and macho threats, circa 1976-1977. The various rants and screeds evoked on songs like "White Riot," "I'm So Bored with the USA" and "London's Burning" started a tradition of oversimplified (and, it could be argued, careless) political sloganeering that would plague the band throughout their career. Other songs now play as unrelentingly repetitive and tedious; punk ethos be damned, songs like "Janie Jones," "What's My Name," and "Career Opportunities" all sound like the work of a band trying to religiously adhere to the Year Zero concept that was fashionable at the time.
Now that I've probably lost whatever little credibility I have left among the Clash faithful by blasting a supposedly classic album, I'll at least try to explain why I consider Give 'Em Enough Rope a far more interesting and engaging album. I'll be the first to admit that this album has its share of dead weight: songs like "Guns On the Roof," "Last Gang In Town," and "Cheapskates" all take a silly badass stance and come across as innocuous and forced chest thumping.
Still, Give 'Em Enough Rope is far more musically experimental than their debut and has much in common with London Calling. With its keyboards and laid-back rhythm, "Julie's In the Drug Squad" sounds like an early version of "Jimmy Jazz", while "Drug-Stabbing Time" and "All the Young Punks (New Boots and Contracts)" wouldn't sound out of place on London Calling. Overtly political songs like "Safe European Home," "English Civil War," and "Tommy Gun" are more textured and developed than the majority of the songs from the debut album, where the band's social outrage was usually expressed through Joe Strummer's oh-so-punk snarling vocals.
There's a diversity of style, arrangements, and lyrical concepts here that are mostly absent from the Us Vs. Them mantras on The Clash. To astute listeners who weren't busy gobbing on their punk heroes, Give 'Em Enough Rope was a sign of things to come for the Clash. While many of their peers would remain mired in the punk maelstrom and never move past a musical vision that insisted musical proficiency and artistic expression couldn't co-exist (at least in UK punk), every one of the band's subsequent releases incorporated various genres and musical concepts.
Give 'Em Enough Rope isn't a perfect album; it displays some of the band's lack of self-editing that would later make Sandinista such a frustrating and bloated affair. Yet knowing the trajectory the band's career and later albums would take, it offers the first real hints of the Clash's ability to successfully meld disparate musical styles. If The Clash tried to create the impression of four British punks who couldn't play their instruments (only accurate in Paul Simonon's case), on Give 'Em Enough Rope the Clash took their initial steps in moving past the homogeneous sound that defined both that album and early UK punk.
by Eric Whelchel
A common assessment of Give 'Em Enough Rope usually goes something like this: after the fury and righteous anger of the Clash's landmark debut album, hot shot producer Sandy Pearlman got his AOR hooks into the band. Either overwhelmed by Pearlman, or cynically taking its first major crack at breaking into the mainstream (especially in the United States), or simply unable to match the focused aggression of their first release, the band eventually delivered a slick, meandering, and ultimately disappointing, sophomore effort.
There's only one problem with this evaluation of Give 'Em Enough Rope: it misses the point. Looking back on the band's career, the album should be seen as a stepping stone for the synthesis of musical styles that would be most fully realized on London Calling. It showed the Clash moving far beyond the narrow stylistic confines of punk, and serves as a bridge between their one-dimensional debut album and the epic sprawl of London Calling.
Though it might sound like heresy, 30 years after its release the band's self-titled and much revered debut album sounds dated and irrelevant. Whatever the album's merits, most of its songs are heavy on punk posturing and macho threats, circa 1976-1977. The various rants and screeds evoked on songs like "White Riot," "I'm So Bored with the USA" and "London's Burning" started a tradition of oversimplified (and, it could be argued, careless) political sloganeering that would plague the band throughout their career. Other songs now play as unrelentingly repetitive and tedious; punk ethos be damned, songs like "Janie Jones," "What's My Name," and "Career Opportunities" all sound like the work of a band trying to religiously adhere to the Year Zero concept that was fashionable at the time.
Now that I've probably lost whatever little credibility I have left among the Clash faithful by blasting a supposedly classic album, I'll at least try to explain why I consider Give 'Em Enough Rope a far more interesting and engaging album. I'll be the first to admit that this album has its share of dead weight: songs like "Guns On the Roof," "Last Gang In Town," and "Cheapskates" all take a silly badass stance and come across as innocuous and forced chest thumping.
Still, Give 'Em Enough Rope is far more musically experimental than their debut and has much in common with London Calling. With its keyboards and laid-back rhythm, "Julie's In the Drug Squad" sounds like an early version of "Jimmy Jazz", while "Drug-Stabbing Time" and "All the Young Punks (New Boots and Contracts)" wouldn't sound out of place on London Calling. Overtly political songs like "Safe European Home," "English Civil War," and "Tommy Gun" are more textured and developed than the majority of the songs from the debut album, where the band's social outrage was usually expressed through Joe Strummer's oh-so-punk snarling vocals.
There's a diversity of style, arrangements, and lyrical concepts here that are mostly absent from the Us Vs. Them mantras on The Clash. To astute listeners who weren't busy gobbing on their punk heroes, Give 'Em Enough Rope was a sign of things to come for the Clash. While many of their peers would remain mired in the punk maelstrom and never move past a musical vision that insisted musical proficiency and artistic expression couldn't co-exist (at least in UK punk), every one of the band's subsequent releases incorporated various genres and musical concepts.
Give 'Em Enough Rope isn't a perfect album; it displays some of the band's lack of self-editing that would later make Sandinista such a frustrating and bloated affair. Yet knowing the trajectory the band's career and later albums would take, it offers the first real hints of the Clash's ability to successfully meld disparate musical styles. If The Clash tried to create the impression of four British punks who couldn't play their instruments (only accurate in Paul Simonon's case), on Give 'Em Enough Rope the Clash took their initial steps in moving past the homogeneous sound that defined both that album and early UK punk.
by Eric Whelchel
Monday, January 05, 2009
Top 10 of 2003 - Five Years Later
www.spectrumculture.com published an interesting list today of the top ten albums of 2003, five years later.
Go check it out at the link below. Then go tell your friends and tell them to tell their friends and enemies about the site.
http://spectrumculture.com/2009/01/best-cds-of-2003.html
Go check it out at the link below. Then go tell your friends and tell them to tell their friends and enemies about the site.
http://spectrumculture.com/2009/01/best-cds-of-2003.html
Monday, December 15, 2008
Three Favorite Albums of 2008
Originally published at spectrumculture.com. Go check that site out, bookmark it, tell all your frends. Good karma for you.
3. J. Matthew Gerken, Christian Kiefer, and Jefferson Pitcher -
Of Great and Mortal Men: 43 Songs for 43 U.S. Presidencies [Standard Recording]
Authored by musicians J. Matthew Gerken, Christian Kiefer, and Jefferson Pitcher, and originally conceived as part of the February Album Writing Month project in 2006, Of Great and Mortal Men: 43 Songs for 43 U.S. Presidencies was an ambitious effort that explored the mythology and history of the American presidency and the men who have alternately honored or shat upon that office. Ranging from songs of sympathy to those of scathing criticism and satire, and featuring contributions from many indie musicians, it successfully avoided the overindulgence and self-importance that sometimes plagues concept albums.
The songs were often structured as either character portraits or deathbed confessionals, with many of the presidents judged harshly. Andrew Jackson, Zachary Taylor, and William Henry Harrison were dismissed as war profiteers, Chester Arthur was depicted as an egotistical bastard, and George W. Bush was derided as stubborn and uncompromising fundamentalist. Even George Washington reeked of cynicism and Machiavellian expediency, with Kiefer portraying him as a silver-tongued political shyster:
Yet there were still some genuine moments of compassion, sympathy, or praise. Bill Callahan transformed John Tyler into an object of pity who unintentionally fell ass-backwards into the presidency after his predecessor's unexpected death in 1841. Pitcher imagined Harry Truman as a morally conflicted man and a mess of warring emotions. In perhaps the album's best song, the gorgeous and aching "Helicopters above Oakland," U.S. Grant was presented as a tired former soldier looking back in dismay at the ruin caused by the Civil War.
As Americans we tend to mythologize the presidency into beyond-epic proportions. This release looked past that bullshit and instead focused on the nation's leaders as regular, and sometimes very flawed, people.
2. Wilderness - (k)no(w)here [Jagjaguwar]
Conceived as a single musical piece and inspired by a collaboration with artist Charles Long, (k)no(w)here was a foreboding and menacing release from the Baltimore collective. Songs bled into each other without any discernible break; to the listener it created an odd effect of being trapped inside a lunatic's mind. Throughout the album lead singer James Johnson yelped, barked and howled on top of the band's aggressive guitars and drums, his words oddly enunciated and often times unintelligible save for a few repeated phrases or snatches of lyrics. When Johnson's words were understandable, they almost always hinted at some type of upcoming but unnamed disaster, usually with a heavy dose of social or political undertones. Evocative of bands like PiL, Fugazi, and The Jesus Lizard, (k)no(w)here was both difficult to comprehend and yet, in the election year of a country with an economy going into the crapper and an outgoing administration that can't slink away soon enough, also somehow perfectly timely.
1. Vic Chesnutt, Elf Power, and the Amorphous Strums - Dark Developments [Orange Twin]
An album that combined Vic Chesnutt's ability to craft melodies and darkly humorous lyrics with his penchant for distortion and electricity, Dark Developments was the singer's best effort since The Salesman and Bernadette. Joined by Elf Power and frequent backing band the Amorphous Strums, Chesnutt set aside the plodding vocal arrangements and murky production that plagued Ghetto Bells and the bursts of random noises that made North Star Deserter sound too experimental for its own good in favor of tight songs that relied heavily on background vocals and melodies you could even hum.
The album served up a big helping of anger and cynicism. Chesnutt spat out insults in "Little Fucker;" though the target was never named, it was tempting to view the song as a much-deserved dismissal of any number of people from the outgoing Bush regime. Other songs like "Stop the Horse" and "Teddy Bear" were also fodder for similar political interpretations.
Yet the album never got bogged down in political polemics; the subject matter was specific enough to suggest a certain topic but vague enough to allow music fans and overzealous critics to speculate wildly about each song. Overall the album was a cohesive synthesis of what still makes Chesnutt's music so original and fascinating - a melody that lodges in your brain and won't get out, a disturbing or bleakly humorous lyric and a keen eye for the mundane details of life and death.
3. J. Matthew Gerken, Christian Kiefer, and Jefferson Pitcher -
Of Great and Mortal Men: 43 Songs for 43 U.S. Presidencies [Standard Recording]
Authored by musicians J. Matthew Gerken, Christian Kiefer, and Jefferson Pitcher, and originally conceived as part of the February Album Writing Month project in 2006, Of Great and Mortal Men: 43 Songs for 43 U.S. Presidencies was an ambitious effort that explored the mythology and history of the American presidency and the men who have alternately honored or shat upon that office. Ranging from songs of sympathy to those of scathing criticism and satire, and featuring contributions from many indie musicians, it successfully avoided the overindulgence and self-importance that sometimes plagues concept albums.
The songs were often structured as either character portraits or deathbed confessionals, with many of the presidents judged harshly. Andrew Jackson, Zachary Taylor, and William Henry Harrison were dismissed as war profiteers, Chester Arthur was depicted as an egotistical bastard, and George W. Bush was derided as stubborn and uncompromising fundamentalist. Even George Washington reeked of cynicism and Machiavellian expediency, with Kiefer portraying him as a silver-tongued political shyster:
Yet there were still some genuine moments of compassion, sympathy, or praise. Bill Callahan transformed John Tyler into an object of pity who unintentionally fell ass-backwards into the presidency after his predecessor's unexpected death in 1841. Pitcher imagined Harry Truman as a morally conflicted man and a mess of warring emotions. In perhaps the album's best song, the gorgeous and aching "Helicopters above Oakland," U.S. Grant was presented as a tired former soldier looking back in dismay at the ruin caused by the Civil War.
As Americans we tend to mythologize the presidency into beyond-epic proportions. This release looked past that bullshit and instead focused on the nation's leaders as regular, and sometimes very flawed, people.
2. Wilderness - (k)no(w)here [Jagjaguwar]
Conceived as a single musical piece and inspired by a collaboration with artist Charles Long, (k)no(w)here was a foreboding and menacing release from the Baltimore collective. Songs bled into each other without any discernible break; to the listener it created an odd effect of being trapped inside a lunatic's mind. Throughout the album lead singer James Johnson yelped, barked and howled on top of the band's aggressive guitars and drums, his words oddly enunciated and often times unintelligible save for a few repeated phrases or snatches of lyrics. When Johnson's words were understandable, they almost always hinted at some type of upcoming but unnamed disaster, usually with a heavy dose of social or political undertones. Evocative of bands like PiL, Fugazi, and The Jesus Lizard, (k)no(w)here was both difficult to comprehend and yet, in the election year of a country with an economy going into the crapper and an outgoing administration that can't slink away soon enough, also somehow perfectly timely.
1. Vic Chesnutt, Elf Power, and the Amorphous Strums - Dark Developments [Orange Twin]
An album that combined Vic Chesnutt's ability to craft melodies and darkly humorous lyrics with his penchant for distortion and electricity, Dark Developments was the singer's best effort since The Salesman and Bernadette. Joined by Elf Power and frequent backing band the Amorphous Strums, Chesnutt set aside the plodding vocal arrangements and murky production that plagued Ghetto Bells and the bursts of random noises that made North Star Deserter sound too experimental for its own good in favor of tight songs that relied heavily on background vocals and melodies you could even hum.
The album served up a big helping of anger and cynicism. Chesnutt spat out insults in "Little Fucker;" though the target was never named, it was tempting to view the song as a much-deserved dismissal of any number of people from the outgoing Bush regime. Other songs like "Stop the Horse" and "Teddy Bear" were also fodder for similar political interpretations.
Yet the album never got bogged down in political polemics; the subject matter was specific enough to suggest a certain topic but vague enough to allow music fans and overzealous critics to speculate wildly about each song. Overall the album was a cohesive synthesis of what still makes Chesnutt's music so original and fascinating - a melody that lodges in your brain and won't get out, a disturbing or bleakly humorous lyric and a keen eye for the mundane details of life and death.
Friday, December 12, 2008
David Byrne & Brian Eno: Everything That Happens Will Happen Today
A legacy is a hard thing to live up to. For David Byrne and Brian Eno, a large part of their legacy is tied to 1981's My Life In the Bush of Ghosts; a collaborative effort and landmark album that employed samples and random voices in place of traditional singing, it remains one of music's most influential albums and, for better or worse, has spawned a thousand cheap imitations and two-bit knockoffs.
Everything That Happens Will Happen Today marks the first collaborative album between Byrne and Eno in nearly 30 years. Described by Eno as "electronic gospel" and by Byrne as "more emotional than technical" in the liner notes, this release has little in common with Bush of Ghosts, both in terms of how it was created and how it sounds. Whereas Bush of Ghosts was born out of close collaboration between the two musicians around the same time as the making of the Talking Heads' album Remain In Light, this latest offering was essentially a long-distance affair, with Byrne providing lyrics and vocals to tracks Eno had previously recorded. The songs were eventually kicked back and forth and beaten into shape with session players and outside musicians.
This sort of impersonal collaboration inherently runs the risk of resulting in a disjointed album, but for the most part this isn't the case with Everything. With a few exceptions, it sounds like a single coherent effort, instead of something strung together from two separate parts. Byrne's lyrics and vocals fit Eno's tracks, which (at least by his unique standards) are straightforward and display little of the musician's more ambient or obtuse tendencies. The instrumentation is mostly understated and uncluttered, with an emphasis placed on simple, restrained melodies.
The first two songs, "Home" and "My Big Nurse," are both built around an acoustic guitar, while the melody and rhythm of "Everything That Happens," "Life Is Long" and closer "The Lighthouse" are at least partly set by pianos and keyboards. There are still plenty of electronic pops and clicks - this is Brian Eno we're talking about - but these are mixed nicely with the actual instrumentation. And though Byrne won't ever be mistaken for a smooth crooner, his singing on these songs, and throughout the album, is strong and direct; the twitchy vocal style most often associated with him are largely absent here.
The songs that stray from this approach are usually the least successful ones. "Wanted For Life" and "Poor Boy" are pretty frenetic and sound out of step with the other tracks. Both play out as some type of perverted mixture of 1980s synth music and modern hip-hop; the distorted and smothered vocals on "Poor Boy" in particular kill the song before it really even gets started.
Snarky fans out there could argue that Byrne's lyrics don't' really stray outside his comfort zone - more songs about buildings and food indeed - but there is a certain degree of Pleasant Valley Sunday nostalgia and optimism that is somewhat unique to the Byrne songbook. Byrne acknowledges as much in the liner notes, commenting on the album's "sanguine and heartening tone." In songs like "Home," "My Big Nurse," "One Fine Day," and "The River," Byrne uses images that evoke a definite sense of contentment. Though Byrne's penchant for social commentary and dark humor occasionally creeps in with some references to war, his neighbor's exploding car, and the litany of criminal activity in "Wanted for Life," the album is predominantly hopeful.
Aside from a few murky songs that primarily serve to indulge Eno's need for sonic experimentation, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today is an enjoyable album that reveals a bit more with each listen. It doesn't try to be a redux of My Life In the Bush of Ghosts. Sometimes, it's enough to acknowledge a legacy without the burden of trying to top it.
Everything That Happens Will Happen Today marks the first collaborative album between Byrne and Eno in nearly 30 years. Described by Eno as "electronic gospel" and by Byrne as "more emotional than technical" in the liner notes, this release has little in common with Bush of Ghosts, both in terms of how it was created and how it sounds. Whereas Bush of Ghosts was born out of close collaboration between the two musicians around the same time as the making of the Talking Heads' album Remain In Light, this latest offering was essentially a long-distance affair, with Byrne providing lyrics and vocals to tracks Eno had previously recorded. The songs were eventually kicked back and forth and beaten into shape with session players and outside musicians.
This sort of impersonal collaboration inherently runs the risk of resulting in a disjointed album, but for the most part this isn't the case with Everything. With a few exceptions, it sounds like a single coherent effort, instead of something strung together from two separate parts. Byrne's lyrics and vocals fit Eno's tracks, which (at least by his unique standards) are straightforward and display little of the musician's more ambient or obtuse tendencies. The instrumentation is mostly understated and uncluttered, with an emphasis placed on simple, restrained melodies.
The first two songs, "Home" and "My Big Nurse," are both built around an acoustic guitar, while the melody and rhythm of "Everything That Happens," "Life Is Long" and closer "The Lighthouse" are at least partly set by pianos and keyboards. There are still plenty of electronic pops and clicks - this is Brian Eno we're talking about - but these are mixed nicely with the actual instrumentation. And though Byrne won't ever be mistaken for a smooth crooner, his singing on these songs, and throughout the album, is strong and direct; the twitchy vocal style most often associated with him are largely absent here.
The songs that stray from this approach are usually the least successful ones. "Wanted For Life" and "Poor Boy" are pretty frenetic and sound out of step with the other tracks. Both play out as some type of perverted mixture of 1980s synth music and modern hip-hop; the distorted and smothered vocals on "Poor Boy" in particular kill the song before it really even gets started.
Snarky fans out there could argue that Byrne's lyrics don't' really stray outside his comfort zone - more songs about buildings and food indeed - but there is a certain degree of Pleasant Valley Sunday nostalgia and optimism that is somewhat unique to the Byrne songbook. Byrne acknowledges as much in the liner notes, commenting on the album's "sanguine and heartening tone." In songs like "Home," "My Big Nurse," "One Fine Day," and "The River," Byrne uses images that evoke a definite sense of contentment. Though Byrne's penchant for social commentary and dark humor occasionally creeps in with some references to war, his neighbor's exploding car, and the litany of criminal activity in "Wanted for Life," the album is predominantly hopeful.
Aside from a few murky songs that primarily serve to indulge Eno's need for sonic experimentation, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today is an enjoyable album that reveals a bit more with each listen. It doesn't try to be a redux of My Life In the Bush of Ghosts. Sometimes, it's enough to acknowledge a legacy without the burden of trying to top it.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Rediscover: The Triffids - Born Sandy Devotional
It starts with a suicide and ends with a man not wanting to drink alone. In the space between, the songs on the Triffids' masterpiece Born Sandy Devotional explore themes of violence, death, commitment, faithlessness and isolation set against the desolate backdrop of the band's native Australia. Drifters and drunkards, wronged by love, hurtle through the darkness of night pulsing with, and comforted by, thoughts of revenge.
First the boring technical details: At the time of the album's release in March 1986, the band consisted of Graham Lee (steel guitars), Martyn Casey (bass), Jill Birt (vocals and keyboards), Robert McComb (violin, guitar, and backing vocals), Alsy MacDonald (drums and backing vocals) and David McComb (lyrics, lead vocals, guitar, and occasional keyboards). The album was recorded in London and mixed in Liverpool. For those keeping score at home, it peaked at number 37 on the Australian charts, and, for some bizarre reason, scored even higher on the Swedish charts. Hell if I know why.
David McComb, who wrote all the album's lyrics, still remains one of music's more unheralded, fascinating, and, ultimately tragic, front men. Throughout this life he suffered from chronic back pain and addictions to a whole host of substances, including alcohol, amphetamines and heroin; his alcoholism was likely the catalyst for the heart condition he eventually developed. By all accounts, a heart transplant in 1996 still didn't cause McComb to scale back his drinking or drug use. In 1999, long after the band had split up and while McComb kept on with various musical projects, he was involved in an automobile accident and died a few days after being released from the hospital. The official cause of death was attributed to heroin and mild rejection of his transplant. McComb was only 36.
In various interviews McComb talked frequently about the autobiographical nature of Born Sandy Devotional; certainly it's tempting to see the album as McComb confronting and variously exorcising, accepting, or denying the sordid and messy details of his own life. But this also implies that the album is obtusely introspective or inaccessible, which it isn't. The various emotions expressed in these songs, most of which are ugly, bleak, and exceedingly dark, are usually addressed in narratives that do not limit themselves to a particular time, place, or person. Though both McComb and the rest of the band were clearly influenced by their homeland- the album is dotted with references to Australian locales, and the album cover depicts the west Australian city of Mandurah circa 1961 - the album's lyrics and music are not bound by that geography.
McComb once described Born Sandy Devotional as "following the idea of fidelity as a complete all-consuming faith." It's an interesting characterization, since most the album focuses on what happens when that fidelity is shattered. Nearly every song deals with relationships on the skids that are well past the point of either reconciliation or simple acceptance.
In these songs, the primary options are suicide, drinking to the point of numbness, ranting lunacy, or sweet revenge. Opening track "Seabirds," with its gorgeous melody and prominent strings, vividly chronicles the death of a man at the end of his rope, unable to find comfort in booze or the "total stranger lying next to him" in a ratty motel room bed. The man swims out to a reef and presumably jumps to his death, alone but for the impassive birds nearby: "They could pick the eye from any dying thing/ That lay within their reach/ But they would not touch the solitary figure/ Lying tossed up on the beach."
Other characters descend into batshit craziness. We never find out if the disturbed gun-toting maniac of "Chicken Killer" is even aware that the girl he's searching for "caught death as only lovers can ever catch can." Instead, he rants and rages as he searches for a girl who's clearly not going to be found north of the cold hard ground: "I ran through the crowd calling out your name/ To the blind the deaf the dumb the lame/ But they shook their heads and pointed to the sky/ Saying she's in His Hands now my boy." The driver in "Lonely Stretch" finds himself lost in a barren landscape, heavy with menacing vibes and a declining grasp of reality. Lost where "land was so flat, could well have been ocean/ no distinguishing feature in any direction," the driver is prone to hallucinations and drives aimlessly as he broods about a woman and realizes "you could die out here from a broken heart."
For McComb's characters who aren't interested in offing themselves or howling at the moon, offing someone else is a viable alternative; the possibility of retribution keeps these tormented souls going. The mostly gentle instrumentation and McComb's baritone voice in "Wide Open Road" betray the violence foreshadowed by its narrator. It's a picture of man gearing up for payback. Disconnecting himself from his personal connections ("I lost track of my friends, I lost my kin/ I cut them off as limbs") and coping with a fractured psyche ("Drums rolled off in my forehead/ And the guns went off in my chest"), he's got his eyes on a very specific prize before he keeps on down the road: "I drove out over the flatlands/ Hunting down you and him."
These various themes are most clearly woven together on "Stolen Property," perhaps the album's most startling, emotional and complex song. It's a devastating track with a funereal mix of keyboards and jagged strings, unflinching in its sense of despair, regret, anger and loss. What emerges is ostensibly a portrait of a man evaluating how little he's accomplished in life as he struggles to cope with being alone:
You just lie around waiting on a signal from heaven
Never had to heal any deep incision
Darling you are not moving any mountains
You are not seeing any visions
You are not freeing any people from prison
Just an aphorism for every occasion
The song ends without resolution; McComb doesn't let on whether the man will choose a self-inflicted ending like in "Seabirds" or pursue revenge as in "Wide Open Road." What's clear though is that he's worse off than before; the consolation that "she don't belong here anymore, learn this the hard way" is particularly sarcastic and biting. Like most of the songs, a violent ending is implied - "Pick yourself up! Hold yourself up to the light!/ Duck your head! Watch for the blade!" - though the target itself remains unclear.
The album isn't entirely dark. The country-tinged "Estuary Bed" implies a sense of devotion, and album closer "Tender Is the Night (The Long Fidelity)" is the most romantic and sentimental song on the album. Sung as a duet between McComb and Jill Birt, it's a mostly uplifting ending to the album, though the "gentle young man" described in the song has aged "years before his time" and his attraction to the woman is at least partially based on the fact that he doesn't' want to drink alone again.
Over 20 years on from its initial release, Born Sandy Devotional remains one of the music's true underappreciated albums. The lyrics are exceptional and moving, with recurring images that link the songs together. Coupled with McComb's evocative voice, the music is immediate and timeless and covers a wide spectrum of musical styles, whether it's the symphonic qualities of "Seabirds," the rolling keyboards of "Personal Things," or the sheer mad swirls of noise and howling echoes throughout "Lonely Stretch." It's an album of starkness, violence, beauty and death. Epic in scope and flawless in execution, it remains the Triffids' finest moment.
First the boring technical details: At the time of the album's release in March 1986, the band consisted of Graham Lee (steel guitars), Martyn Casey (bass), Jill Birt (vocals and keyboards), Robert McComb (violin, guitar, and backing vocals), Alsy MacDonald (drums and backing vocals) and David McComb (lyrics, lead vocals, guitar, and occasional keyboards). The album was recorded in London and mixed in Liverpool. For those keeping score at home, it peaked at number 37 on the Australian charts, and, for some bizarre reason, scored even higher on the Swedish charts. Hell if I know why.
David McComb, who wrote all the album's lyrics, still remains one of music's more unheralded, fascinating, and, ultimately tragic, front men. Throughout this life he suffered from chronic back pain and addictions to a whole host of substances, including alcohol, amphetamines and heroin; his alcoholism was likely the catalyst for the heart condition he eventually developed. By all accounts, a heart transplant in 1996 still didn't cause McComb to scale back his drinking or drug use. In 1999, long after the band had split up and while McComb kept on with various musical projects, he was involved in an automobile accident and died a few days after being released from the hospital. The official cause of death was attributed to heroin and mild rejection of his transplant. McComb was only 36.
In various interviews McComb talked frequently about the autobiographical nature of Born Sandy Devotional; certainly it's tempting to see the album as McComb confronting and variously exorcising, accepting, or denying the sordid and messy details of his own life. But this also implies that the album is obtusely introspective or inaccessible, which it isn't. The various emotions expressed in these songs, most of which are ugly, bleak, and exceedingly dark, are usually addressed in narratives that do not limit themselves to a particular time, place, or person. Though both McComb and the rest of the band were clearly influenced by their homeland- the album is dotted with references to Australian locales, and the album cover depicts the west Australian city of Mandurah circa 1961 - the album's lyrics and music are not bound by that geography.
McComb once described Born Sandy Devotional as "following the idea of fidelity as a complete all-consuming faith." It's an interesting characterization, since most the album focuses on what happens when that fidelity is shattered. Nearly every song deals with relationships on the skids that are well past the point of either reconciliation or simple acceptance.
In these songs, the primary options are suicide, drinking to the point of numbness, ranting lunacy, or sweet revenge. Opening track "Seabirds," with its gorgeous melody and prominent strings, vividly chronicles the death of a man at the end of his rope, unable to find comfort in booze or the "total stranger lying next to him" in a ratty motel room bed. The man swims out to a reef and presumably jumps to his death, alone but for the impassive birds nearby: "They could pick the eye from any dying thing/ That lay within their reach/ But they would not touch the solitary figure/ Lying tossed up on the beach."
Other characters descend into batshit craziness. We never find out if the disturbed gun-toting maniac of "Chicken Killer" is even aware that the girl he's searching for "caught death as only lovers can ever catch can." Instead, he rants and rages as he searches for a girl who's clearly not going to be found north of the cold hard ground: "I ran through the crowd calling out your name/ To the blind the deaf the dumb the lame/ But they shook their heads and pointed to the sky/ Saying she's in His Hands now my boy." The driver in "Lonely Stretch" finds himself lost in a barren landscape, heavy with menacing vibes and a declining grasp of reality. Lost where "land was so flat, could well have been ocean/ no distinguishing feature in any direction," the driver is prone to hallucinations and drives aimlessly as he broods about a woman and realizes "you could die out here from a broken heart."
For McComb's characters who aren't interested in offing themselves or howling at the moon, offing someone else is a viable alternative; the possibility of retribution keeps these tormented souls going. The mostly gentle instrumentation and McComb's baritone voice in "Wide Open Road" betray the violence foreshadowed by its narrator. It's a picture of man gearing up for payback. Disconnecting himself from his personal connections ("I lost track of my friends, I lost my kin/ I cut them off as limbs") and coping with a fractured psyche ("Drums rolled off in my forehead/ And the guns went off in my chest"), he's got his eyes on a very specific prize before he keeps on down the road: "I drove out over the flatlands/ Hunting down you and him."
These various themes are most clearly woven together on "Stolen Property," perhaps the album's most startling, emotional and complex song. It's a devastating track with a funereal mix of keyboards and jagged strings, unflinching in its sense of despair, regret, anger and loss. What emerges is ostensibly a portrait of a man evaluating how little he's accomplished in life as he struggles to cope with being alone:
You just lie around waiting on a signal from heaven
Never had to heal any deep incision
Darling you are not moving any mountains
You are not seeing any visions
You are not freeing any people from prison
Just an aphorism for every occasion
The song ends without resolution; McComb doesn't let on whether the man will choose a self-inflicted ending like in "Seabirds" or pursue revenge as in "Wide Open Road." What's clear though is that he's worse off than before; the consolation that "she don't belong here anymore, learn this the hard way" is particularly sarcastic and biting. Like most of the songs, a violent ending is implied - "Pick yourself up! Hold yourself up to the light!/ Duck your head! Watch for the blade!" - though the target itself remains unclear.
The album isn't entirely dark. The country-tinged "Estuary Bed" implies a sense of devotion, and album closer "Tender Is the Night (The Long Fidelity)" is the most romantic and sentimental song on the album. Sung as a duet between McComb and Jill Birt, it's a mostly uplifting ending to the album, though the "gentle young man" described in the song has aged "years before his time" and his attraction to the woman is at least partially based on the fact that he doesn't' want to drink alone again.
Over 20 years on from its initial release, Born Sandy Devotional remains one of the music's true underappreciated albums. The lyrics are exceptional and moving, with recurring images that link the songs together. Coupled with McComb's evocative voice, the music is immediate and timeless and covers a wide spectrum of musical styles, whether it's the symphonic qualities of "Seabirds," the rolling keyboards of "Personal Things," or the sheer mad swirls of noise and howling echoes throughout "Lonely Stretch." It's an album of starkness, violence, beauty and death. Epic in scope and flawless in execution, it remains the Triffids' finest moment.
Pavement: Brighten the Corners: Nicene Creedence Edition
As music fans, we've been conditioned to approach reissues with a healthy degree of skepticism. A label sexes up a landmark album, maybe one that you played at your wedding or that still reminds you of the time you lost your virginity in the pet cemetery, by adding a few scratchy demos, inferior outtakes, concert droppings, digital remastering, and "original artwork." For many music obsessives the lure of these unearthed treasures is too strong to resist; for the truly unlucky, a few years later that album is again repackaged with a few additional songs that could have been included on the original reissue, and foisted upon the masses for another quick cash grab. I'm looking in your direction, Mr. Costello, and please no more new editions of My Aim Is True or This Year's Model.
The Matador label's approach in reissuing the back catalog of indie heavyweight Pavement has been far more enlightened. With each original release expanded into two discs consisting of the original songs plus demos, outtakes, b-sides, radio sessions, and live performances, along with liner notes and packaging, this reissue campaign has offered listeners an expansive snapshot of the band at each phase of its history.
Though the band's legacy is usually staked to debut album Slanted and Enchanted and second release Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, Matador's reissue series has offered a pleasant opportunity to re-evaluate the band's later, allegedly inferior albums. The label's recent release of an expanded Wowee Zowee served as a reminder of how wonderfully sloppy and erratic that genre-hopping album still is.
The latest Pavement album to get the reissue treatment is 1997's Brighten the Corners. For the most part, it's aged very well, at least certainly better than Wowee Zowee. And though it might constitute indie heresy, I actually still find it more interesting and listenable than the supposedly untouchable Crooked Rain, which I will vehemently always maintain has several horrific songs on it (when's the last time you listened to "Newark Wilder" or "Fillmore Jive" without getting bored or skipping to the next track?).
Produced by Mitch Easter, Brighten the Corners still sounds cohesive, humorous and incredibly sarcastic. It's slower and more musically reserved than the band's previous albums; the random explosions of noise and Stephen Malkmus's screaming found on songs like "Chesley's Little Wrists" or "No Life Singed Her" is mostly absent. Singles like the sardonic "Shady Lane" and the dissonant "Stereo" still rank among the band's best work, while other songs like "Date With Ikea," "Transport Is Arranged," and "Type Slowly" show the band was also able to craft nice melodies in their more laid back moments. If this reissue confirms anything, it's that there's not a boring song to be found on the album.
Of course the real question surrounding any reissue is whether the bonus material necessitates another purchase by fans who have already shelled out money for the original album; this question becomes even more relevant given the current shithole economy we're all mired in. Quite simply, this reissue is more jammed up than a constipated septuagenarian. And that's a good thing. Disc one is rounded out with a number of b-sides and a couple unreleased songs from the Brighten the Corners sessions; of these, "Westie Can Drum" is the choice cut and features some real hardcore screaming from Malkmus.
The second disc is a Pavement fan's wet dream. It starts with four songs that comprised the b-sides to "Shady Lane," all of which would have fit nicely on the album. This disc also includes selections from various 1997 radio sessions for the BBC, the venerable "Morning Becomes Eclectic" show and John Peel. The MBE songs feature the band in full-on aggression mode, especially on "Maybe Maybe" and the Faust cover song "It's a Rainy Day, Sunshine Girl," while the Peel session includes a cover of The Fall's "The Classical" that amazingly doesn't blow. The disc is rounded out with a few other odds and ends, most notably a live version of "Type Slowly" and a cover version of Echo & the Bunnymen's "The Killing Moon."
Though some fickle fans will probably find flaws with this release - certainly a few more live songs or even a full concert similar to what was done for the repackaged Slanted and Enchanted would have been welcome - Matador's latest Pavement reissue is essential listening for both longtime fans as well as those younger affluent suburban kids just starting to get in touch with their angst and slackerdom. Other record labels and artist would be well served to follow this example.
The Matador label's approach in reissuing the back catalog of indie heavyweight Pavement has been far more enlightened. With each original release expanded into two discs consisting of the original songs plus demos, outtakes, b-sides, radio sessions, and live performances, along with liner notes and packaging, this reissue campaign has offered listeners an expansive snapshot of the band at each phase of its history.
Though the band's legacy is usually staked to debut album Slanted and Enchanted and second release Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, Matador's reissue series has offered a pleasant opportunity to re-evaluate the band's later, allegedly inferior albums. The label's recent release of an expanded Wowee Zowee served as a reminder of how wonderfully sloppy and erratic that genre-hopping album still is.
The latest Pavement album to get the reissue treatment is 1997's Brighten the Corners. For the most part, it's aged very well, at least certainly better than Wowee Zowee. And though it might constitute indie heresy, I actually still find it more interesting and listenable than the supposedly untouchable Crooked Rain, which I will vehemently always maintain has several horrific songs on it (when's the last time you listened to "Newark Wilder" or "Fillmore Jive" without getting bored or skipping to the next track?).
Produced by Mitch Easter, Brighten the Corners still sounds cohesive, humorous and incredibly sarcastic. It's slower and more musically reserved than the band's previous albums; the random explosions of noise and Stephen Malkmus's screaming found on songs like "Chesley's Little Wrists" or "No Life Singed Her" is mostly absent. Singles like the sardonic "Shady Lane" and the dissonant "Stereo" still rank among the band's best work, while other songs like "Date With Ikea," "Transport Is Arranged," and "Type Slowly" show the band was also able to craft nice melodies in their more laid back moments. If this reissue confirms anything, it's that there's not a boring song to be found on the album.
Of course the real question surrounding any reissue is whether the bonus material necessitates another purchase by fans who have already shelled out money for the original album; this question becomes even more relevant given the current shithole economy we're all mired in. Quite simply, this reissue is more jammed up than a constipated septuagenarian. And that's a good thing. Disc one is rounded out with a number of b-sides and a couple unreleased songs from the Brighten the Corners sessions; of these, "Westie Can Drum" is the choice cut and features some real hardcore screaming from Malkmus.
The second disc is a Pavement fan's wet dream. It starts with four songs that comprised the b-sides to "Shady Lane," all of which would have fit nicely on the album. This disc also includes selections from various 1997 radio sessions for the BBC, the venerable "Morning Becomes Eclectic" show and John Peel. The MBE songs feature the band in full-on aggression mode, especially on "Maybe Maybe" and the Faust cover song "It's a Rainy Day, Sunshine Girl," while the Peel session includes a cover of The Fall's "The Classical" that amazingly doesn't blow. The disc is rounded out with a few other odds and ends, most notably a live version of "Type Slowly" and a cover version of Echo & the Bunnymen's "The Killing Moon."
Though some fickle fans will probably find flaws with this release - certainly a few more live songs or even a full concert similar to what was done for the repackaged Slanted and Enchanted would have been welcome - Matador's latest Pavement reissue is essential listening for both longtime fans as well as those younger affluent suburban kids just starting to get in touch with their angst and slackerdom. Other record labels and artist would be well served to follow this example.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Music Review: Charlie Louvin - Charlie Louvin Sings Murder Ballads and Disaster Songs
Charlie Louvin Sings Murder Ballads and Disaster Songs is the second release in 2008 from the grizzled music veteran. Earlier this year Louvin got godly on Steps to Heaven, a strong collection of gospel songs that also included a sometimes-overzealous set of background singers. Showing a definite Christian religious conviction without being heavy-handed or dogmatic, it focused heavily on mortality, albeit with an uplifting underlying theme of the afterlife. Louvin’s latest album veers dramatically in the opposite direction; Sings Murder is far more morbid, bleak, violent, and darkly humorous than Steps to Heaven. Mixing a number of traditional folkie/bluegrass songs (some of which previously appeared on the excellent People Take Warning! box set) with other old-timey tunes that nevertheless still sound relevant today, the album also serves as a nice reminder of just how fascinating, bizarre, and strangely beautiful these aging ballads are. It also recalls Louvin’s earliest work; 1956’s ironically-titled Tragic Songs of Life dealt heavily in equally dark topics.
The album’s production serves Louvin’s ragged voice very well; under the guidance of producer Mark Nevers, the songs are warm and balanced. Each instrument is given enough space, the album never sounds cluttered or over saturated, and Louvin’s voice is just right in the mix. The record blends musical elements that play to Louvin’s strengths, whether it’s the upbeat country roll of “Darling Corey,” (which also features Andrew Bird on fiddle), the rustic spiritual arrangement of “Wreck On the Highway,” the subdued guitar work on “Dark as a Dungeon, or the steel guitars that dot most of the songs.
The album includes several ballads that are standards of American music. “Wreck of the Old 97” and “Dark as a Dungeon” are probably the two songs that listeners who aren’t hardcore music history wackos will even recognize, probably because those songs have been performed by other artists. Louvin’s take on the venerable train tragedy song is far more restrained than Johnny Cash’s speed-fuelled live versions, though Louvin’s performance here similarly relies on a rhythm and instrumental approach that is highly evocative of a train. Louvin approaches Merle Travis’ “Dungeon” with a vocal weariness that brings out the song’s gloom and doom far better than the shrill versions Joan Baez has subjected our ears to over the years.
Other songs show that Louvin remains a skilled interpreter of American ballads. The traditional “The Little Grave in Georgia” is the album’s most moving and emotional song, with a remarkably depressing violin and guitar melody underpinning the woeful tale about dead Mary and her grave “all covered in ivy.” It also features Louvin’s most assured and confident singing.
Sings Murder also serves as a nice primer on the images, metaphors, and plainly strange motifs that define the American songbook. In these songs people die of broken hearts and it’s entirely believable; the tragic couple of “Katy Dear” are forbidden to marry by their parents, so of course they do the most logical thing and kill themselves (hell if I know why they don’t just defy their parents and get hitched anyway). A father can coldly turn his back on his daughter and her newborn child, only to become overcome with grief and sorrow when she (big surprise) freezes to death outside his doorstep (“Mary of the Wild Moor”). And in these songs fatal highway wrecks come with “whiskey and blood all together mixed with the glass,” great ships sink, trains crash, village bells toll in mourning, a brother is killed in a freak hunting accident, the cotton crop goes to shit, and the hair of the dead underage beautiful girl is always dark and curly. Sings Murder isn’t for everyone; it won’t light up the charts and its best songs won’t be used in a promo for CSI Miami. But for music fans interested in the bizarre and beautiful nature of traditional songs, this is a welcome and worthwhile album.
The album’s production serves Louvin’s ragged voice very well; under the guidance of producer Mark Nevers, the songs are warm and balanced. Each instrument is given enough space, the album never sounds cluttered or over saturated, and Louvin’s voice is just right in the mix. The record blends musical elements that play to Louvin’s strengths, whether it’s the upbeat country roll of “Darling Corey,” (which also features Andrew Bird on fiddle), the rustic spiritual arrangement of “Wreck On the Highway,” the subdued guitar work on “Dark as a Dungeon, or the steel guitars that dot most of the songs.
The album includes several ballads that are standards of American music. “Wreck of the Old 97” and “Dark as a Dungeon” are probably the two songs that listeners who aren’t hardcore music history wackos will even recognize, probably because those songs have been performed by other artists. Louvin’s take on the venerable train tragedy song is far more restrained than Johnny Cash’s speed-fuelled live versions, though Louvin’s performance here similarly relies on a rhythm and instrumental approach that is highly evocative of a train. Louvin approaches Merle Travis’ “Dungeon” with a vocal weariness that brings out the song’s gloom and doom far better than the shrill versions Joan Baez has subjected our ears to over the years.
Other songs show that Louvin remains a skilled interpreter of American ballads. The traditional “The Little Grave in Georgia” is the album’s most moving and emotional song, with a remarkably depressing violin and guitar melody underpinning the woeful tale about dead Mary and her grave “all covered in ivy.” It also features Louvin’s most assured and confident singing.
Sings Murder also serves as a nice primer on the images, metaphors, and plainly strange motifs that define the American songbook. In these songs people die of broken hearts and it’s entirely believable; the tragic couple of “Katy Dear” are forbidden to marry by their parents, so of course they do the most logical thing and kill themselves (hell if I know why they don’t just defy their parents and get hitched anyway). A father can coldly turn his back on his daughter and her newborn child, only to become overcome with grief and sorrow when she (big surprise) freezes to death outside his doorstep (“Mary of the Wild Moor”). And in these songs fatal highway wrecks come with “whiskey and blood all together mixed with the glass,” great ships sink, trains crash, village bells toll in mourning, a brother is killed in a freak hunting accident, the cotton crop goes to shit, and the hair of the dead underage beautiful girl is always dark and curly. Sings Murder isn’t for everyone; it won’t light up the charts and its best songs won’t be used in a promo for CSI Miami. But for music fans interested in the bizarre and beautiful nature of traditional songs, this is a welcome and worthwhile album.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Guns N' Roses - Chines Democracy - Review
To my college roommate who I promised that I'd run circles buck-ass naked around the Arch if Chinese Democracy ever saw official release: I sure as hell hope you aren't reading this. After a 17-year tease that left many Guns N' Roses fans with a serious case of rock 'n' roll blue balls, what's left of the band best known for Appetite for Destruction and a seemingly single-minded focus on self-implosion and legacy dry humping has finally expurgated the oft-rumored album. And the music world yawns and scratches itself. Cue up the indifference.
What its primary conspirator, Axl Rose, probably envisioned as a grand musical masterpiece that would set the music world aflame is instead a dull, monotonous and intensely bland album. To be sure, the album was probably hyped and spoken about in hushed tones far more than it should have been. In the comedy of errors and false starts that has been the history of Chinese Democracy, it was mythologized and elevated into some sort of aural Holy Grail; the only problem is that this grail is filled with backwash. I wanted to like this album, but there's no other way to say it: Chinese Democracy is an overproduced and overwrought wreck.
Those GNR fans who want to disavow this as a genuine GNR release would be well served to speak up now, or, in deference to Rose's vocal approach, shriek their objections like a helium-sucking hooligan. Certainly they have plenty of ammunition to support this argument: Rose was the only original GNR member who, um, nursed this tubercular wheezing child along, countless musicians as well as an orchestra are "credited" as having contributed to it, and a small army of people were involved in engineering and ProTools tasks. I guess it's like Elephant 6 but with far worse results.
Surveying the wreckage that is Chinese Democracy, the album's major flaws are in its production. Songs like - oh hell, take your pick - are suffocated under layer after layer of ProTools add-ins, vocal distortions and treatments, mid-1990s industrial clichés and vintage 1980s power chords. It sounds like the strategy employed here was to throw a bunch of shit at a wall and see what stuck, and in a sense I suppose a lot of shit did stick. Without careful attention from the listener, songs like "Shackler's Revenge," "I.R.S," "Catcher in the Rye," "Scraped" and "Prostitute" quickly become indistinguishable from each other and blend into a solid block of auditory misery, drowned under a flood of disposable and redundant arrangements. For perverse fun, GNR aficionados are encouraged to play the iPod quiz game to see how quickly (or even if) they can differentiate these songs.
Rose's vocal approach doesn't do the songs any favors either. Though as a singer he's occasionally been prone to such exaggerated vocal quirks - what his singing did to "Knockin' On Heaven's Door" is unforgivable - these quirks were usually reigned in and in many ways gave GNR's songs a distinctive style that separated them from their contemporaries. On Chinese Democracy Rose alternates from line to line between his deep voice and its upper register bastard cousin. Coupled with the lyrics' macho posturing and the self-caricature, it's a bit like listening to someone with multiple personality disorder having a conversation with himself.
This review isn't meant to be Axl bashing; like many GNR fans, I was hopeful that Chinese Democracy would be a ballsy, aggressive and innovative record on par with Appetite for Destruction. And I'm sure there are some fans enjoying this release right now, channeling their inner Axl, frantically trying to score for some vintage Mr. Brownstone, and desperately convincing their wives or girlfriends to just let them borrow the "Welcome to the Jungle" mascara already. But there's very little newness or creativity here; worse, the album sounds like the work of a man stuck in a time warp, short on an ability to self-edit and armed with a Yankees-sized budget. As Chinese Democracy was delayed year after year and transformed itself from the band's missing masterpiece to a musical punch line, it was impossible for GNR fans not to become increasingly skeptical. Now we see why.
What its primary conspirator, Axl Rose, probably envisioned as a grand musical masterpiece that would set the music world aflame is instead a dull, monotonous and intensely bland album. To be sure, the album was probably hyped and spoken about in hushed tones far more than it should have been. In the comedy of errors and false starts that has been the history of Chinese Democracy, it was mythologized and elevated into some sort of aural Holy Grail; the only problem is that this grail is filled with backwash. I wanted to like this album, but there's no other way to say it: Chinese Democracy is an overproduced and overwrought wreck.
Those GNR fans who want to disavow this as a genuine GNR release would be well served to speak up now, or, in deference to Rose's vocal approach, shriek their objections like a helium-sucking hooligan. Certainly they have plenty of ammunition to support this argument: Rose was the only original GNR member who, um, nursed this tubercular wheezing child along, countless musicians as well as an orchestra are "credited" as having contributed to it, and a small army of people were involved in engineering and ProTools tasks. I guess it's like Elephant 6 but with far worse results.
Surveying the wreckage that is Chinese Democracy, the album's major flaws are in its production. Songs like - oh hell, take your pick - are suffocated under layer after layer of ProTools add-ins, vocal distortions and treatments, mid-1990s industrial clichés and vintage 1980s power chords. It sounds like the strategy employed here was to throw a bunch of shit at a wall and see what stuck, and in a sense I suppose a lot of shit did stick. Without careful attention from the listener, songs like "Shackler's Revenge," "I.R.S," "Catcher in the Rye," "Scraped" and "Prostitute" quickly become indistinguishable from each other and blend into a solid block of auditory misery, drowned under a flood of disposable and redundant arrangements. For perverse fun, GNR aficionados are encouraged to play the iPod quiz game to see how quickly (or even if) they can differentiate these songs.
Rose's vocal approach doesn't do the songs any favors either. Though as a singer he's occasionally been prone to such exaggerated vocal quirks - what his singing did to "Knockin' On Heaven's Door" is unforgivable - these quirks were usually reigned in and in many ways gave GNR's songs a distinctive style that separated them from their contemporaries. On Chinese Democracy Rose alternates from line to line between his deep voice and its upper register bastard cousin. Coupled with the lyrics' macho posturing and the self-caricature, it's a bit like listening to someone with multiple personality disorder having a conversation with himself.
This review isn't meant to be Axl bashing; like many GNR fans, I was hopeful that Chinese Democracy would be a ballsy, aggressive and innovative record on par with Appetite for Destruction. And I'm sure there are some fans enjoying this release right now, channeling their inner Axl, frantically trying to score for some vintage Mr. Brownstone, and desperately convincing their wives or girlfriends to just let them borrow the "Welcome to the Jungle" mascara already. But there's very little newness or creativity here; worse, the album sounds like the work of a man stuck in a time warp, short on an ability to self-edit and armed with a Yankees-sized budget. As Chinese Democracy was delayed year after year and transformed itself from the band's missing masterpiece to a musical punch line, it was impossible for GNR fans not to become increasingly skeptical. Now we see why.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Concert Review: Calexico
Nov 9, 2008
On Sunday nights in St. Louis, people tend to shut it down early, even more so when it's freezing-ass cold like it was this particular night. A bit of grousing about the completely hapless Rams, asking a random stranger where he went to high school, and incredulously still pondering how the hell Ralph Nader received 17,000 votes in Missouri, and it's time to call it a day. Anything on top of that is just too much.
With some exceptions, Sunday night concerts in this town also seem to reflect this malaise; after all, it is a work night. Sure the hardcore musos still turn out in force and stare mesmerized at their musical heroes, but casual fans that might be more inclined to see a show on Friday or Saturday seem to bunker down at home on Sunday nights.
Consequently it was nice to see the capacity turnout for Calexico's show at the Duck Room on a Sunday. Essentially a cold basement that would bear a disturbing similarity to the stage design for Samuel Beckett's Endgame were it not for the stuffed, framed and mounted ducks that line the walls; what the Duck Room lacks in acoustics it more than makes up for in intimacy. At capacity (or in this case, what seemed like damn near over capacity) it's a tight squeeze for both musicians and fans alike, but when the band is on and the fans are receptive and not solely focused on double-fisting Bud Lights, it ranks among the top music venues in the city.
With the majority of concertgoers bundled up in heavy coats or ratty but ever-so-indie hoodies, Calexico tore through a set that drew heavily from latest release Carried To Dust, with a few older songs and cover tunes added to the mix. It was a sweaty, raucous, and damn loud show; the ringing in my ears still hasn't faded and I kept hearing mariachi horns when stuck in traffic this morning.
On record, Calexico tends to be very polished, textured and carefully crafted, with melodies woven into the songs that reveal themselves slowly with multiple listens. This isn't a knock or criticism by any means; at their best there are few bands that can evoke specific locations, moods, or atmospheres the way Calexico can. Yet at the Duck Room they were a whole different beast: rough around the edges, the band approached the songs with a palpable aggressiveness largely absent from their albums. Songs like opener "Quattro (World Drifts In)" "Bend In the Road, and "House of Valparaiso" incorporated the trademark Calexico sound, but were just more manic and frenzied than their album versions. "Guero Canelo" was reworked as well, foregoing its somewhat over-produced album version for something far more jagged and loose.
Though a few downbeat songs were thrown in, probably to temporarily relieve our throbbing eardrums - the country roll of "Slowness" and a languid "Fractured Air" were particularly soothing - the show's best moments came when the band was pounding away on their instruments. A few covers were also given this treatment. Two Minutemen songs that have frequented the band's shows for years - "Corona" and "Jesus and Tequila" - were played at breakneck pace, though sadly, only a few brave souls earnestly pogoed. "Victor Jara's Hands" segued into a few verses of the Bob Dylan groaner "Silvio." Who knew that Calexico could make that song bearable?
For the most part the sound was good, though Joey Burns' vocals on "Two Silver Trees" and "Writer's Minor Holiday" were mostly inaudible. Still that's about the worst that could be set about this particular show. Although the many people raving at the show's conclusion that it was the best concert they'd ever seen can at least partly be attributed to semi-drunken post-concert euphoria, it was still a memorable and exciting show. Even if it was a work night.
On Sunday nights in St. Louis, people tend to shut it down early, even more so when it's freezing-ass cold like it was this particular night. A bit of grousing about the completely hapless Rams, asking a random stranger where he went to high school, and incredulously still pondering how the hell Ralph Nader received 17,000 votes in Missouri, and it's time to call it a day. Anything on top of that is just too much.
With some exceptions, Sunday night concerts in this town also seem to reflect this malaise; after all, it is a work night. Sure the hardcore musos still turn out in force and stare mesmerized at their musical heroes, but casual fans that might be more inclined to see a show on Friday or Saturday seem to bunker down at home on Sunday nights.
Consequently it was nice to see the capacity turnout for Calexico's show at the Duck Room on a Sunday. Essentially a cold basement that would bear a disturbing similarity to the stage design for Samuel Beckett's Endgame were it not for the stuffed, framed and mounted ducks that line the walls; what the Duck Room lacks in acoustics it more than makes up for in intimacy. At capacity (or in this case, what seemed like damn near over capacity) it's a tight squeeze for both musicians and fans alike, but when the band is on and the fans are receptive and not solely focused on double-fisting Bud Lights, it ranks among the top music venues in the city.
With the majority of concertgoers bundled up in heavy coats or ratty but ever-so-indie hoodies, Calexico tore through a set that drew heavily from latest release Carried To Dust, with a few older songs and cover tunes added to the mix. It was a sweaty, raucous, and damn loud show; the ringing in my ears still hasn't faded and I kept hearing mariachi horns when stuck in traffic this morning.
On record, Calexico tends to be very polished, textured and carefully crafted, with melodies woven into the songs that reveal themselves slowly with multiple listens. This isn't a knock or criticism by any means; at their best there are few bands that can evoke specific locations, moods, or atmospheres the way Calexico can. Yet at the Duck Room they were a whole different beast: rough around the edges, the band approached the songs with a palpable aggressiveness largely absent from their albums. Songs like opener "Quattro (World Drifts In)" "Bend In the Road, and "House of Valparaiso" incorporated the trademark Calexico sound, but were just more manic and frenzied than their album versions. "Guero Canelo" was reworked as well, foregoing its somewhat over-produced album version for something far more jagged and loose.
Though a few downbeat songs were thrown in, probably to temporarily relieve our throbbing eardrums - the country roll of "Slowness" and a languid "Fractured Air" were particularly soothing - the show's best moments came when the band was pounding away on their instruments. A few covers were also given this treatment. Two Minutemen songs that have frequented the band's shows for years - "Corona" and "Jesus and Tequila" - were played at breakneck pace, though sadly, only a few brave souls earnestly pogoed. "Victor Jara's Hands" segued into a few verses of the Bob Dylan groaner "Silvio." Who knew that Calexico could make that song bearable?
For the most part the sound was good, though Joey Burns' vocals on "Two Silver Trees" and "Writer's Minor Holiday" were mostly inaudible. Still that's about the worst that could be set about this particular show. Although the many people raving at the show's conclusion that it was the best concert they'd ever seen can at least partly be attributed to semi-drunken post-concert euphoria, it was still a memorable and exciting show. Even if it was a work night.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Interview: Michael Grace Jr. from The Secret History
The Secret History was formed by songwriter Michael Grace Jr., perhaps most widely known in indie circles for the album The Happiest Days of Our Lives, from his previous band My Favorite. The Secret History’s debut EP, Desolation Town, is an evocative and atmospheric release that incorporates a variety of genres and thematically unfolds across a landscape that encompasses Hiroshima, Palermo, Barcelona, and Iraq. In the following interview, Grace discusses the genesis of the EP and its major themes, ideas, and influences; explains why he’s not bothered if listeners misinterpret his songs; and subjects himself to more interviewer prodding than most people would be willing to endure. And he’s not shy about which classic albums he really cannot stand.
Desolation Town is drawing comparisons to the Patti Smith Group and The Smiths, among others. What are your thoughts on those types of comparisons?
I think it is fantastic. In fact, if only there were more artists with the word “Smith” in their name, than this point of reference could be expanded! No seriously, The Smiths will always be the band that made me want to throw my hat into the ring. They were the band that showed me that music could really paint a vulgar picture, could really make you feel something. I’ll always be a disciple of that. As far as Patti Smith, she’s everything great about New York, everything I miss about New York… that’s immensely flattering.
The way Lisa Ronson sings certain songs, especially “Our Lady of Pompeii” and “The Ballad of the Haunted Hearts,” reminds me of indie pop bands like The New Pornographers. Is that valid or should I have my ears examined?
All thoughts are valid! The New Pornographers are a fine group, whom our keyboard player Kurt, and our House Designer Laura really love. I need to make it my business to listen to them more. What I’ve heard I quite like. Lisa, though, has never listened to them. She does like Camera Obscura however.
Before we mercifully leave this topic, what bands that wouldn’t be apparent from listening to the EP would you cite as influences in making Desolation Town?
Oh I think I’m actually going to answer this honestly despite my reservations. There are things about Death In June that really intrigue me. There are also things that really repel me. But I’m kind of hypnotized. A bit of that gothic pastoralism probably seeped into “Palermo.” As if to outdo myself, I’m also going to admit that some of the stranger bits of Steely Dan’s “Kid Charlemagne” influenced a track or two somewhere. Ok, now that we’ve reduced our fanbase by 96%...
Each song on the EP tends to have its own unique musical style. One of the things I like about it is that it genre hops without coming across as unfocused or pointlessly random. Was it a conscious effort to shape the EP this way?
Yeah, well I really wanted to put the listener in this vaguely familiar place, somewhere in the past, like the setting of film. And I like how in cinema, the soundtrack is bound to the film by ideas or emotions… but it varies in sound and style, and often artist. I’d like to retain that flexibility. I like how things can change rapidly in dreams, but something of a narrative sustains. All the songs come together to form a sound, but no individual one says everything about us. I think David Bowie was very good at that also.
The song arrangements are credited to the entire band. Was it difficult reaching agreement on the arrangements among seven band members?
Sometimes, but not often. I think the songs only get better when you let people mess with them. I have some really talented blokes in this group, and what they add is what makes these songs what they are. I need that. I’m always surprised, but usually pleased when a song goes off a little in a direction I didn’t anticipate. I mean, I introduce them as folk songs and then say something like “I hear the intro to the Velvet Underground’s ‘Heroin.’” There’s a lot of room for interpretation after that.
Now I’m going to prod you about what the album means. The liner notes contain a few paragraphs about someone who leaves a ruined Hiroshima, wanders around Europe, and ends up in Palermo. Some of the songs on the EP hint at this story as well. Though I hesitate to call the EP strictly autobiographical or a concept album, it seems to have a definite story arc. Can you explain?
Well I’ve always liked atmospheric liner notes, whether from Dylan or Paul Weller or Stuart Murdoch. I’m a frustrated novelist, so I take what opportunities arise. What I will say is that my previous band ended with a song about Hiroshima, so I figured this one should start there. I’ve lived through disasters with a small “d” as we all have. Had things ruined, and have had to figure out how to survive. I’ve also been to Palermo. So there is always something of a writer’s life in his work, I’d hope. But on the other hand, “Pompeii” is set on the battlefields of Iraq, and although it means more than that, the specific experience of being a soldier is something I’ve thankfully not experienced.
One of the things I find most interesting about Desolation Town is that while there’s a definite geography and unity of place, the events within the song aren’t tied to a specific time or era.
Yeah, well I’m glad you said that! I’m really interested in a non-linear sense of time. That is to say, that the same character or heartbreak could happen simultaneously in different places at different times, like Wuthering Heights. So it could be New York City in 1979 or Palermo in 1879. Certain problems linger, don’t you agree?
There seems to be a sense of loss and regret throughout the EP.
Yes. I’ve lost some things, and regrets… I’ve had a few. Then again, too few to mention. But seriously, much art is lamentation. And this certainly is.
Does it bother you as a writer that listeners will possibly interpret these songs in a way that is different with what you intended? For example, I interpret “It’s Not the End of the World, Jonah” as cynical and sarcastic, but what you intended could be something else entirely.
No, quite the opposite, I’m thrilled when they do. I try to create songs with drama, and atmosphere and ornamentation… but songs that have the space within them to be explored, interpreted, rewritten in the listener’s image. That’s far more interesting than the sordid details of my life, don’t you think? Whatever a listener adds to a song in their mind is just as important as what I wrote. We’re partners, lovers in a long distance affair.
A writer once told me that when someone else sings his songs, he feels like a divorced man watching someone else play new daddy to his children. Though you wrote the songs on Desolation Town, you’re not the main vocalist. As a songwriter, are you protective of your songs and how they’re sung?
Well, I’ve always had another singer sing the bulk of my songs. I prefer it, for reasons that have a lot to do with my answer to the previous question. The more prisms a song can pass through, the better. But, it did take a while until I got comfortable with this particular prism, being Lisa. She is so different in so many ways from the vocalist in my previous group. But at this point, these songs are hers as much as mine. But in terms of being covered, one of my songs “Burning Hearts,” has been covered by the group Winterpills, and I do find that a strange pleasure.
Is a full-length album in the works, and will the band be touring anytime soon?
We are currently working on a full length, and hope to have it out by Spring '09. I’m not sure we will be touring till then, but we’d love to hit some east coast cities in the next few months while we finish.
What are your favorite albums of 2008?
I like My Teenage Stride’s Lesser Demons EP, the Evangelicals record. My brother often has to make mix cds for me, of new stuff, because I’m always playing old vinyl in my room. Nothing to boast about mind you.
What’s the one classic album you can’t stand?
There is probably a lot more than one. I actually had to look at the Rolling Stone top 500 records to figure out this answer. I decided to use the highest ranking record I could honestly say I did not like at all. Nirvana’s Nevermind at 17 is pretty ridiculous, it wouldn’t make my top 500, but I can stand it… barely. Billy Joel’s The Stranger at 67 is absolutely horrendous. But I probably secretly like it, or at least as a Long Islander have some conflicted emotion. Guns & Roses at 61, uggh… but I did like it as a troubled 15 year old. The Eagles at 35, well I do like the song “Hotel California,” but I hate that band. Does that disqualify them?
Oh this list is pissing me off so much. I can’t even answer this question. I think Derek & The Dominos at 117 is the first record I really hate. But the fact that The Red Hot Chili Peppers at 310 appear before The Smiths at 385 (or at all)… oh lord have mercy.
Desolation Town is drawing comparisons to the Patti Smith Group and The Smiths, among others. What are your thoughts on those types of comparisons?
I think it is fantastic. In fact, if only there were more artists with the word “Smith” in their name, than this point of reference could be expanded! No seriously, The Smiths will always be the band that made me want to throw my hat into the ring. They were the band that showed me that music could really paint a vulgar picture, could really make you feel something. I’ll always be a disciple of that. As far as Patti Smith, she’s everything great about New York, everything I miss about New York… that’s immensely flattering.
The way Lisa Ronson sings certain songs, especially “Our Lady of Pompeii” and “The Ballad of the Haunted Hearts,” reminds me of indie pop bands like The New Pornographers. Is that valid or should I have my ears examined?
All thoughts are valid! The New Pornographers are a fine group, whom our keyboard player Kurt, and our House Designer Laura really love. I need to make it my business to listen to them more. What I’ve heard I quite like. Lisa, though, has never listened to them. She does like Camera Obscura however.
Before we mercifully leave this topic, what bands that wouldn’t be apparent from listening to the EP would you cite as influences in making Desolation Town?
Oh I think I’m actually going to answer this honestly despite my reservations. There are things about Death In June that really intrigue me. There are also things that really repel me. But I’m kind of hypnotized. A bit of that gothic pastoralism probably seeped into “Palermo.” As if to outdo myself, I’m also going to admit that some of the stranger bits of Steely Dan’s “Kid Charlemagne” influenced a track or two somewhere. Ok, now that we’ve reduced our fanbase by 96%...
Each song on the EP tends to have its own unique musical style. One of the things I like about it is that it genre hops without coming across as unfocused or pointlessly random. Was it a conscious effort to shape the EP this way?
Yeah, well I really wanted to put the listener in this vaguely familiar place, somewhere in the past, like the setting of film. And I like how in cinema, the soundtrack is bound to the film by ideas or emotions… but it varies in sound and style, and often artist. I’d like to retain that flexibility. I like how things can change rapidly in dreams, but something of a narrative sustains. All the songs come together to form a sound, but no individual one says everything about us. I think David Bowie was very good at that also.
The song arrangements are credited to the entire band. Was it difficult reaching agreement on the arrangements among seven band members?
Sometimes, but not often. I think the songs only get better when you let people mess with them. I have some really talented blokes in this group, and what they add is what makes these songs what they are. I need that. I’m always surprised, but usually pleased when a song goes off a little in a direction I didn’t anticipate. I mean, I introduce them as folk songs and then say something like “I hear the intro to the Velvet Underground’s ‘Heroin.’” There’s a lot of room for interpretation after that.
Now I’m going to prod you about what the album means. The liner notes contain a few paragraphs about someone who leaves a ruined Hiroshima, wanders around Europe, and ends up in Palermo. Some of the songs on the EP hint at this story as well. Though I hesitate to call the EP strictly autobiographical or a concept album, it seems to have a definite story arc. Can you explain?
Well I’ve always liked atmospheric liner notes, whether from Dylan or Paul Weller or Stuart Murdoch. I’m a frustrated novelist, so I take what opportunities arise. What I will say is that my previous band ended with a song about Hiroshima, so I figured this one should start there. I’ve lived through disasters with a small “d” as we all have. Had things ruined, and have had to figure out how to survive. I’ve also been to Palermo. So there is always something of a writer’s life in his work, I’d hope. But on the other hand, “Pompeii” is set on the battlefields of Iraq, and although it means more than that, the specific experience of being a soldier is something I’ve thankfully not experienced.
One of the things I find most interesting about Desolation Town is that while there’s a definite geography and unity of place, the events within the song aren’t tied to a specific time or era.
Yeah, well I’m glad you said that! I’m really interested in a non-linear sense of time. That is to say, that the same character or heartbreak could happen simultaneously in different places at different times, like Wuthering Heights. So it could be New York City in 1979 or Palermo in 1879. Certain problems linger, don’t you agree?
There seems to be a sense of loss and regret throughout the EP.
Yes. I’ve lost some things, and regrets… I’ve had a few. Then again, too few to mention. But seriously, much art is lamentation. And this certainly is.
Does it bother you as a writer that listeners will possibly interpret these songs in a way that is different with what you intended? For example, I interpret “It’s Not the End of the World, Jonah” as cynical and sarcastic, but what you intended could be something else entirely.
No, quite the opposite, I’m thrilled when they do. I try to create songs with drama, and atmosphere and ornamentation… but songs that have the space within them to be explored, interpreted, rewritten in the listener’s image. That’s far more interesting than the sordid details of my life, don’t you think? Whatever a listener adds to a song in their mind is just as important as what I wrote. We’re partners, lovers in a long distance affair.
A writer once told me that when someone else sings his songs, he feels like a divorced man watching someone else play new daddy to his children. Though you wrote the songs on Desolation Town, you’re not the main vocalist. As a songwriter, are you protective of your songs and how they’re sung?
Well, I’ve always had another singer sing the bulk of my songs. I prefer it, for reasons that have a lot to do with my answer to the previous question. The more prisms a song can pass through, the better. But, it did take a while until I got comfortable with this particular prism, being Lisa. She is so different in so many ways from the vocalist in my previous group. But at this point, these songs are hers as much as mine. But in terms of being covered, one of my songs “Burning Hearts,” has been covered by the group Winterpills, and I do find that a strange pleasure.
Is a full-length album in the works, and will the band be touring anytime soon?
We are currently working on a full length, and hope to have it out by Spring '09. I’m not sure we will be touring till then, but we’d love to hit some east coast cities in the next few months while we finish.
What are your favorite albums of 2008?
I like My Teenage Stride’s Lesser Demons EP, the Evangelicals record. My brother often has to make mix cds for me, of new stuff, because I’m always playing old vinyl in my room. Nothing to boast about mind you.
What’s the one classic album you can’t stand?
There is probably a lot more than one. I actually had to look at the Rolling Stone top 500 records to figure out this answer. I decided to use the highest ranking record I could honestly say I did not like at all. Nirvana’s Nevermind at 17 is pretty ridiculous, it wouldn’t make my top 500, but I can stand it… barely. Billy Joel’s The Stranger at 67 is absolutely horrendous. But I probably secretly like it, or at least as a Long Islander have some conflicted emotion. Guns & Roses at 61, uggh… but I did like it as a troubled 15 year old. The Eagles at 35, well I do like the song “Hotel California,” but I hate that band. Does that disqualify them?
Oh this list is pissing me off so much. I can’t even answer this question. I think Derek & The Dominos at 117 is the first record I really hate. But the fact that The Red Hot Chili Peppers at 310 appear before The Smiths at 385 (or at all)… oh lord have mercy.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Column: My Life Could Be Your Band
of the bravest men I ever met was a guy who wore a T-shirt declaring "Your Favorite Band Sucks." This was at Built To Spill's St. Louis show at the now-defunct and much-lamented Mississippi Nights nightclub, way back in those heady days of 2004. I don't say he was brave because the crowd was particularly rough or violent that night; it's not difficult to be the toughest person among an indie crowd, which tends to consist of frail people sporting hoodies, black-framed glasses and heavy doses of mascara. Some of the women also wear mascara.
No, I say this man was brave for the simple and seemingly unremarkable act of wearing this shirt. Why? Because, with some exceptions, we music fans tend to take any criticism of our favorite artists as deeply personal insults on par with the most biting Yo Mamma jokes or the most inflammatory political rhetoric. Such criticism can open the critic up to a host of various insults, threats and suggestions to do something to himself that is physically impossible, often via the anonymity and safety net the Internet provides. If politics and religion are the two traditional hot button topics guaranteed to result in bruised feelings and bloodied noses, music should probably be added to that list.
Anyone noble or foolish enough to voice such dissent across the Internet's truly-disturbing global reach has probably felt such wrath. A couple years ago I wrote a facetious and, what I considered, utterly silly and entirely innocuous article that questioned why the Lynyrd Skynyrd standard-for-lousy-songs tune "Free Bird" tends to be eagerly requested by the more intoxicated or tone deaf elements of a concert crowd. Meant only to bring a chuckle or two to someone's dreary day, it instead resulted in a pretty impressive barrage of hate email from those Skynyrd disciples who walk anonymously among us. In a perverse way, I've actually started looking forward to these mails, which are usually sent from a culprit with a Southern-centric handle like george_wallace_fan or robert_e_lee_luver and generally take an amazingly vulgar Confederacy vs. Yankees approach in explaining why I'm missing the point about Skynyrd's brilliance.
I don't bring this up as any type of woe-is-me lament or for blatant and unrepentantly shameless self-promotion. Even worse, I'm guilty of the same hypocrisy and must admit that I have occasionally counted myself among this parade of fools. Take a shot at Born Sandy Devotional and I'm liable to lock onto your leg like a rabid pit bull. My brother and I have almost identical musical tastes, yet our differing views about R.E.M.'s Monster have threatened to create a rift between us usually reserved for ugly squabbles involving inheritances. He likes it; I know it's the aural equivalent of rotting Spam. When I tried to get my wife sufficiently prepped for an Elvis Costello concert, I requested that she listen to This Year's Model and Get Happy!!, two indisputable classics. When she recoiled in horror and cruelly dismissed both as "circus music, minus the elephants," I reacted as if I'd been smacked in the jewels with a ball peen hammer. Only our eventual mutual agreement about Okkervil River prevented an ugly, prolonged marital spat, though I still suspect she likes the drummer more than the band's music.
Which brings me back to the central question of this rambling article: why do so many music fans get so bothered, and in many cases grossly offended, when their favorite artists are either criticized or outright dismissed by those who don't worship at that particular altar? Certainly some music fans are off the reservation; these are the ones you see listening to their favorite musicians at the gym, on the bus, or at work with an awed expression of hero worship that clearly shows that in their minds there right up there on that stage with the band. These are the people who dress up like their favorite performers, think that every song was written as a coded message to them, and drive cross-country to attend concerts, work and family commitments be damned. Wait, I've done that; scratch that last one.
Clearly such die-hards are without any possibility of redemption and should thus be handled with kid gloves, patted gently on the top of the head and perhaps even relocated to a deserted island near the coast of Borneo for everyone's safety. Yet I've seen many cases where otherwise rational people react like vultures around a carcass when confronted with particularly pointed or satiric music criticism about their musical tastes.
The reasons for this are several: first (and please excuse this brief foray into armchair psychology), whether rightly or not, as music fans we tend to define who we are by the type of music we listen to. And when self-identify jumps into bed with musical preferences for a romping tango, it's not too surprising that fans sometimes react with such strong emotions in the face of these critiques. Essentially an individual's musical tastes become an extension of that individual; thus, there's a tendency to view such comments as personal attacks.
The other main reason is that music fans tend to identify music with particular milestones or important events in their lives ("In the Aeroplane Over the Sea helped me get through my unfortunate accident/divorce/third stint in rehab, so I'll brain you if you insult it"). Think about one of your personal favorite songs or albums; there's a good chance it will remind you of a very specific time and place in your life (you know, when you were young and naïve and didn't yet know life was a cruel, unforgiving whelp of a whore who brings nothing but disappointment). Such memories make us unintentionally defensive about slights directed at the music we hold so near and dear. Music shapes how many of us remember our past; is it therefore any wonder that we bristle when the music that frames this past is belittled or questioned?
Certainly there are numerous other reasons - some music fans just like to argue and play the roll of trolls on various websites, some critiques border on cheap personal attacks and deserve to be challenged, among others - but this somewhat unhealthy self-identification seems to be a large reason fans can react emotionally to perceived attacks about their musical preferences. Of course there are plenty of musos who can brush off such comments with a shrug, without it impacting their psyche or pissing them off.
Perhaps it's not surprising that music can often serve as a lightning rod for both reasoned debate and borderline psychotic, overly emotional arguments. Music defines who we are, how we perceive both ourselves and others, and shapes the memories we keep in our various addled brains.
Or maybe it's just that, as someone recently said to me, "All you music freaks are batshit crazy."
No, I say this man was brave for the simple and seemingly unremarkable act of wearing this shirt. Why? Because, with some exceptions, we music fans tend to take any criticism of our favorite artists as deeply personal insults on par with the most biting Yo Mamma jokes or the most inflammatory political rhetoric. Such criticism can open the critic up to a host of various insults, threats and suggestions to do something to himself that is physically impossible, often via the anonymity and safety net the Internet provides. If politics and religion are the two traditional hot button topics guaranteed to result in bruised feelings and bloodied noses, music should probably be added to that list.
Anyone noble or foolish enough to voice such dissent across the Internet's truly-disturbing global reach has probably felt such wrath. A couple years ago I wrote a facetious and, what I considered, utterly silly and entirely innocuous article that questioned why the Lynyrd Skynyrd standard-for-lousy-songs tune "Free Bird" tends to be eagerly requested by the more intoxicated or tone deaf elements of a concert crowd. Meant only to bring a chuckle or two to someone's dreary day, it instead resulted in a pretty impressive barrage of hate email from those Skynyrd disciples who walk anonymously among us. In a perverse way, I've actually started looking forward to these mails, which are usually sent from a culprit with a Southern-centric handle like george_wallace_fan or robert_e_lee_luver and generally take an amazingly vulgar Confederacy vs. Yankees approach in explaining why I'm missing the point about Skynyrd's brilliance.
I don't bring this up as any type of woe-is-me lament or for blatant and unrepentantly shameless self-promotion. Even worse, I'm guilty of the same hypocrisy and must admit that I have occasionally counted myself among this parade of fools. Take a shot at Born Sandy Devotional and I'm liable to lock onto your leg like a rabid pit bull. My brother and I have almost identical musical tastes, yet our differing views about R.E.M.'s Monster have threatened to create a rift between us usually reserved for ugly squabbles involving inheritances. He likes it; I know it's the aural equivalent of rotting Spam. When I tried to get my wife sufficiently prepped for an Elvis Costello concert, I requested that she listen to This Year's Model and Get Happy!!, two indisputable classics. When she recoiled in horror and cruelly dismissed both as "circus music, minus the elephants," I reacted as if I'd been smacked in the jewels with a ball peen hammer. Only our eventual mutual agreement about Okkervil River prevented an ugly, prolonged marital spat, though I still suspect she likes the drummer more than the band's music.
Which brings me back to the central question of this rambling article: why do so many music fans get so bothered, and in many cases grossly offended, when their favorite artists are either criticized or outright dismissed by those who don't worship at that particular altar? Certainly some music fans are off the reservation; these are the ones you see listening to their favorite musicians at the gym, on the bus, or at work with an awed expression of hero worship that clearly shows that in their minds there right up there on that stage with the band. These are the people who dress up like their favorite performers, think that every song was written as a coded message to them, and drive cross-country to attend concerts, work and family commitments be damned. Wait, I've done that; scratch that last one.
Clearly such die-hards are without any possibility of redemption and should thus be handled with kid gloves, patted gently on the top of the head and perhaps even relocated to a deserted island near the coast of Borneo for everyone's safety. Yet I've seen many cases where otherwise rational people react like vultures around a carcass when confronted with particularly pointed or satiric music criticism about their musical tastes.
The reasons for this are several: first (and please excuse this brief foray into armchair psychology), whether rightly or not, as music fans we tend to define who we are by the type of music we listen to. And when self-identify jumps into bed with musical preferences for a romping tango, it's not too surprising that fans sometimes react with such strong emotions in the face of these critiques. Essentially an individual's musical tastes become an extension of that individual; thus, there's a tendency to view such comments as personal attacks.
The other main reason is that music fans tend to identify music with particular milestones or important events in their lives ("In the Aeroplane Over the Sea helped me get through my unfortunate accident/divorce/third stint in rehab, so I'll brain you if you insult it"). Think about one of your personal favorite songs or albums; there's a good chance it will remind you of a very specific time and place in your life (you know, when you were young and naïve and didn't yet know life was a cruel, unforgiving whelp of a whore who brings nothing but disappointment). Such memories make us unintentionally defensive about slights directed at the music we hold so near and dear. Music shapes how many of us remember our past; is it therefore any wonder that we bristle when the music that frames this past is belittled or questioned?
Certainly there are numerous other reasons - some music fans just like to argue and play the roll of trolls on various websites, some critiques border on cheap personal attacks and deserve to be challenged, among others - but this somewhat unhealthy self-identification seems to be a large reason fans can react emotionally to perceived attacks about their musical preferences. Of course there are plenty of musos who can brush off such comments with a shrug, without it impacting their psyche or pissing them off.
Perhaps it's not surprising that music can often serve as a lightning rod for both reasoned debate and borderline psychotic, overly emotional arguments. Music defines who we are, how we perceive both ourselves and others, and shapes the memories we keep in our various addled brains.
Or maybe it's just that, as someone recently said to me, "All you music freaks are batshit crazy."
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Belle and Sebastian: The BBC Sessions
Belle and Sebastian's latest release, The BBC Sessions, is a collection of, that's right, BBC sessions culled from various radio performances from 1996-2001. Consisting of songs recorded for Mark Radcliffe, Steve Lamacq, and Saint John Peel, it's a solid but oftentimes bland and uninspiring release. Initial copies (for the cool kids, I suppose) also include a bonus disc of a 2001 Christmas concert from Belfast.
Though a couple of the songs included do venture away their album counterparts, the release's biggest drawback is that the majority of songs included are nearly identical to the studio versions, both lyrically and musically. In fact, anyone except the most dedicated and hardcore Belle and Sebastian fans would likely be hard pressed to easily distinguish these radio versions from those released on the band's studio albums.
Of course, most of the songs are good enough to allow the listener to occasionally look past this problem. Opening track "The State I Am In" is a solid start, if only for classic, despicable and selfishly hilarious lines like "My brother had confessed he was gay / It took the heat off me for a while" and "I was moved to kick the crutches from my crippled friend." "Like Dylan In the Movies," "Judy and the Dream of Horses," and "The Stars of Track and Field" - three songs from the band's most successful and obscenely worshiped album, If You're Feeling Sinister -follow, but are also damn near carbon copies of the versions from that indie object of reverence. Singer Stuart Murdoch's vocals and the band's arrangements are a bit like staring at your twin brother: The differences are hard to find without uncomfortably close scrutiny. Though I'm certainly not asking for any type of techno-thrash-pop interpretation of the songs, the performances come across as too staid and predictable.
One of the big attractions for the band's most dedicated fans here is the inclusion of four oft-bootlegged tracks recorded for Peel in 2001, with this release marking the first time these songs have been officially available. Each of these songs shows Belle and Sebastian evolving beyond their "signature" sound, with uneven and mixed results. "Shoot the Sexual Athlete" is kinda funky in a meek way, and also contains enough musical references to allow the listener to at least momentarily geek out. "The Magic of a Kind Word" is incredibly poppy and plays like a pastiche of bubblegum pop songs, or, perversely, something from The Brady Bunch or The Partridge Family. The final two previously unreleased songs, "Nothing In the Silence" and "(My Girl's Got) Miraculous Technique," are tedious and somewhat plodding.
This release is perhaps best left for the wee-bit twee completists out there. Though most of the song choices are solid (the less said about the saccharine, overly-nasal, so-tender-it-makes-James-Taylor-sound-like-a-badass "Seymour Stein" the better), this release isn't a landmark entry in Belle and Sebastian's catalog. Its primary shortcoming is that the quality of the songs isn't enough to shake the listener's from feeling that this road's been stomped before, and with much better flow and cohesiveness, on the band's studio releases. Of course there's a fine line between a band playing to its strengths by maintaining its style and that band butchering its songs in the name of experimentation and artistic growth. Still, The BBC Sessions relies too heavily on playing it safe; the end result is a collection of songs performed with very little sense of surprise or adventure.
Though a couple of the songs included do venture away their album counterparts, the release's biggest drawback is that the majority of songs included are nearly identical to the studio versions, both lyrically and musically. In fact, anyone except the most dedicated and hardcore Belle and Sebastian fans would likely be hard pressed to easily distinguish these radio versions from those released on the band's studio albums.
Of course, most of the songs are good enough to allow the listener to occasionally look past this problem. Opening track "The State I Am In" is a solid start, if only for classic, despicable and selfishly hilarious lines like "My brother had confessed he was gay / It took the heat off me for a while" and "I was moved to kick the crutches from my crippled friend." "Like Dylan In the Movies," "Judy and the Dream of Horses," and "The Stars of Track and Field" - three songs from the band's most successful and obscenely worshiped album, If You're Feeling Sinister -follow, but are also damn near carbon copies of the versions from that indie object of reverence. Singer Stuart Murdoch's vocals and the band's arrangements are a bit like staring at your twin brother: The differences are hard to find without uncomfortably close scrutiny. Though I'm certainly not asking for any type of techno-thrash-pop interpretation of the songs, the performances come across as too staid and predictable.
One of the big attractions for the band's most dedicated fans here is the inclusion of four oft-bootlegged tracks recorded for Peel in 2001, with this release marking the first time these songs have been officially available. Each of these songs shows Belle and Sebastian evolving beyond their "signature" sound, with uneven and mixed results. "Shoot the Sexual Athlete" is kinda funky in a meek way, and also contains enough musical references to allow the listener to at least momentarily geek out. "The Magic of a Kind Word" is incredibly poppy and plays like a pastiche of bubblegum pop songs, or, perversely, something from The Brady Bunch or The Partridge Family. The final two previously unreleased songs, "Nothing In the Silence" and "(My Girl's Got) Miraculous Technique," are tedious and somewhat plodding.
This release is perhaps best left for the wee-bit twee completists out there. Though most of the song choices are solid (the less said about the saccharine, overly-nasal, so-tender-it-makes-James-Taylor-sound-like-a-badass "Seymour Stein" the better), this release isn't a landmark entry in Belle and Sebastian's catalog. Its primary shortcoming is that the quality of the songs isn't enough to shake the listener's from feeling that this road's been stomped before, and with much better flow and cohesiveness, on the band's studio releases. Of course there's a fine line between a band playing to its strengths by maintaining its style and that band butchering its songs in the name of experimentation and artistic growth. Still, The BBC Sessions relies too heavily on playing it safe; the end result is a collection of songs performed with very little sense of surprise or adventure.
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