Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (12/15/08)
By Andy Pareti
The Meat Puppets shuffled onto the stage at Johnny Brenda’s on Friday like three guys that got lost on the way to the Salvation Army. Lead singer/guitarist Curt Kirkwood had his rat’s nest of tangled locks tied in a ponytail and sported a plain purple t-shirt as he led the band into an opening instrumental that included “I’m A Mindless Idiot”, off the band’s masterpiece sophomore album, 1984’s Meat Puppets II.
Opening the show with a pair of instrumentals was somewhat appropriate, as the band was short on words that night. They came to play, and play they did, indeed. There was very little mid-set banter, and even less pause between songs themselves as the trio stampeded through their discography, including a decent fistful of highlights from their back to back crowning achievements: the aforementioned second album and its follow up, Up On the Sun.
In fact, that album’s title track, which was one of the set’s best performances, epitomized the band’s trend that night, which was an acid-wash combination of whiskey-soaked bluegrass and flying-off-the-rails psychedelia including, but not limited to, covers of both country staple “My Baby’s Gone” (as delightfully sung like a mentally-imbalanced boozehound by bassist Cris Kirkwood) and the Beatles’ kaleidoscopic “Tomorrow Never Knows”, which was broken down into a punkish fury of crashing symbols and wah-wah guitar effects, rendering it all but unrecognizable if not for the lyrics.
About three-quarters of the way into the show, the Meat Puppets settled into an even flow of country twang that turned a good majority of the captivated audience back into chattering bar patrons, culminating in a hazy, extended version of “The Whistling Song” that stretched on a bit too long. This could have been, for all intensive purposes, intentional, because after some acoustic noodling by Curt, the band exploded abruptly into a high-intensity version of fan favorite “Lake of Fire” that stopped all conversations in their tracks. So hastily did the band blast through the song that Curt could only fit in one complete verse before the vocals crumbled into unintelligible noise above a firestorm of guitars and drums.
A cozy crowd at the multi-layered and personable Johnny Brenda’s was treated to a forceful and effective show by the SST veterans, which incidentally was preceded by an equally impressive opening act, the Philadelphia-based Adam & Dave’s Bloodline. Bloodline’s opening couplet of barnburners suggested a throwback to the Sex Pistols and other punk 101 acts, but further into the set the band conveyed a much deeper sense of texture and depth, like on the keyboard-led “It’s a Crime” (from their upcoming album Boycott Classics) and “Untouchable”, which evokes Let It Be-era Replacements. As Bloodline began their set, singer Adam Garbinski asked the crowd why they weren’t at the Neil Young show. It didn’t take long before they, and then the Meat Puppets, answered that question for him.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Humble Power of Glasvegas
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (12/1/08)
James Allan is not a rock star. Lead singer and songwriter for Scotland’s newest rising musical beacon, Glasvegas, Allan has not let the ascension of his band’s debut album to number two on the UK charts (scratching at Metallica’s trembling ankles) erode his seemingly impenetrable guilelessness. He speaks about the band’s sudden fame with the casual fluidity of a veteran, throwing around lots of “yea, mans” and “ya knows” like it’s all just some water cooler banter on another day at the office.
Allan’s voice, which on the record is an acute mix of Bono, Joe Strummer, Billie Joe Armstrong and Mel Gibson playing William Wallace, sounds a bit debilitated over the techni-crackle of my cell phone. “My throat’s a bit fucked,” he explains. It’s been a long week for Glasvegas, which also consists of Allan’s cousin Rab (same last name) on lead guitar, Paul Donoghue on bass, and Caroline McKay on drums. The band just had to cancel their first show of the US tour in Boston because Allan’s visa was late showing up and he couldn’t get across the border. The band doesn’t seem to be suffering the usual rookie rock-lag of world touring, though. They don’t seem to be overtly graceful about it, either. They are simply rhythmic, taking it all in stride.
It’s the simple formula that has made Glasvegas’ self-titled debut album, released in early September, an intimidating hit in Europe. In a world of decentralized networks, Glasvegas has a beating heart that drives their distorted tales of fractured families and bar brawls. The simplicity, Allan has realized, can be misleading. “They’re just poems,” he urges. “I take it as a compliment when everybody thinks that [the songs] are about me…but they’re not autobiographical.” His refusal to take credit adds to the band’s charm, which accrues in a sort of working class hero way every time Allan describes his songwriting in variations of trying to “make something not shit”. It’s almost as if Glasvegas don’t know they are a rock band. They make rock music, but that’s where the comparisons end. It may later turn out to end even before that, as Glasvegas has recently revealed their plans for a follow up - a Christmas album that will be recorded in Transylvania.
Even regarding this odd detour, Allan is comically matter-of-fact. “I just wanted to make some songs, you know?,” he shrugs. Don’t write off his wide-eyed streamlining as naivety, either. The band knows full well what they are potentially getting themselves into by using the holiday format for a sophomore effort. The long and short of it seems to be that they really don’t care. The beauty of, as Allan puts it, going from living at home and being unemployed to challenging for the top spot on the UK’s charts, is that the band doesn’t know how to answer to anyone else but themselves. And if you think there might be a deeper symbolism behind the choice of Transylvania as a recording locale, well, the band won’t admit to it. It was a place Allan has always wanted to see since growing up in Glasgow, and being in a rock and roll band is his opportunity.
It also seems to be an opportunity to illustrate life on Glasgow’s streets. “Geraldine,” the second track on Glasvegas, is the one song Allan admits is actually based on a life experience. The song begins as a blackened Cinderella fairy tale, complete with a fairy godmother who will “be at your side to console/When you’re standing on the window ledge/I’ll take you back from the edge/I will turn your tide”. It is later revealed that the “angel on your shoulder” is actually a social worker. Glasvegas’ sort of romanticized reality pumps life through the whole album, like on “Go Square Go”, which is sort of a “Saturday Night’s Alright (For Fighting)” as done by The Cure. The song is an orchestral pep rally before a street fight, both a jock jam and a goth ballad.
In fact, orchestral is a befitting if not unusual term for a rock band like Glasvegas. Trying to find Allan’s musical muse takes you on some crazy detours. When asked about his favorite new artists this year, he fawns about Elvis Presley. When talking about the Jesus and Mary Chain, he meanders into his love for Tchaikovsky and Mozart. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem his throat is bothering him anymore. And through it all, he keeps coming back to classical music, describing his backdrop to life as orchestral and trying to achieve a particular “fluidity” with the swaths of thick distortion that smear Glasvegas’ grounded pop songs into tapestries of rain, grit and sadness.
Not exactly the sound one would come to expect becoming the current obsession of magazines like NME. But that’s what happens with a little serendipity on your side, like how Scottish music mogul Alan McGee happened to catch the band play in a similar fashion to how he first discovered Oasis nearly two decades earlier. McGee’s backing of the band has propelled them ever since, entering them into a major label bidding war won by Columbia and thus placing them on that ever-precarious pedestal of potential. Glamor is a scary thing to happen to a band that is so practical, but these are things Allan insists Glasvegas doesn’t think about. “There’s a lot of things that you can’t help,” he admits. “But really, life’s so fucking mad, you know, that you can’t say what it’s gonna be. That’s the same for you as it is me, ya know?” And of course, after a bit of contemplation, he centers back on his ongoing mantra of how he just likes to write songs and be inspired, obliged to chip away at the totem of mystique built around a band all too humble to accept anything larger than life. It’s an attitude that has attracted fans everywhere the band goes. Sure, it’s gracious and polite, but it’s also very human. Glasvegas are the working man’s band - they clock in, make something gorgeous, and clock out. “After that, I just don’t know. Ya know?” Yeah. We know.
James Allan is not a rock star. Lead singer and songwriter for Scotland’s newest rising musical beacon, Glasvegas, Allan has not let the ascension of his band’s debut album to number two on the UK charts (scratching at Metallica’s trembling ankles) erode his seemingly impenetrable guilelessness. He speaks about the band’s sudden fame with the casual fluidity of a veteran, throwing around lots of “yea, mans” and “ya knows” like it’s all just some water cooler banter on another day at the office.
Allan’s voice, which on the record is an acute mix of Bono, Joe Strummer, Billie Joe Armstrong and Mel Gibson playing William Wallace, sounds a bit debilitated over the techni-crackle of my cell phone. “My throat’s a bit fucked,” he explains. It’s been a long week for Glasvegas, which also consists of Allan’s cousin Rab (same last name) on lead guitar, Paul Donoghue on bass, and Caroline McKay on drums. The band just had to cancel their first show of the US tour in Boston because Allan’s visa was late showing up and he couldn’t get across the border. The band doesn’t seem to be suffering the usual rookie rock-lag of world touring, though. They don’t seem to be overtly graceful about it, either. They are simply rhythmic, taking it all in stride.
It’s the simple formula that has made Glasvegas’ self-titled debut album, released in early September, an intimidating hit in Europe. In a world of decentralized networks, Glasvegas has a beating heart that drives their distorted tales of fractured families and bar brawls. The simplicity, Allan has realized, can be misleading. “They’re just poems,” he urges. “I take it as a compliment when everybody thinks that [the songs] are about me…but they’re not autobiographical.” His refusal to take credit adds to the band’s charm, which accrues in a sort of working class hero way every time Allan describes his songwriting in variations of trying to “make something not shit”. It’s almost as if Glasvegas don’t know they are a rock band. They make rock music, but that’s where the comparisons end. It may later turn out to end even before that, as Glasvegas has recently revealed their plans for a follow up - a Christmas album that will be recorded in Transylvania.
Even regarding this odd detour, Allan is comically matter-of-fact. “I just wanted to make some songs, you know?,” he shrugs. Don’t write off his wide-eyed streamlining as naivety, either. The band knows full well what they are potentially getting themselves into by using the holiday format for a sophomore effort. The long and short of it seems to be that they really don’t care. The beauty of, as Allan puts it, going from living at home and being unemployed to challenging for the top spot on the UK’s charts, is that the band doesn’t know how to answer to anyone else but themselves. And if you think there might be a deeper symbolism behind the choice of Transylvania as a recording locale, well, the band won’t admit to it. It was a place Allan has always wanted to see since growing up in Glasgow, and being in a rock and roll band is his opportunity.
It also seems to be an opportunity to illustrate life on Glasgow’s streets. “Geraldine,” the second track on Glasvegas, is the one song Allan admits is actually based on a life experience. The song begins as a blackened Cinderella fairy tale, complete with a fairy godmother who will “be at your side to console/When you’re standing on the window ledge/I’ll take you back from the edge/I will turn your tide”. It is later revealed that the “angel on your shoulder” is actually a social worker. Glasvegas’ sort of romanticized reality pumps life through the whole album, like on “Go Square Go”, which is sort of a “Saturday Night’s Alright (For Fighting)” as done by The Cure. The song is an orchestral pep rally before a street fight, both a jock jam and a goth ballad.
In fact, orchestral is a befitting if not unusual term for a rock band like Glasvegas. Trying to find Allan’s musical muse takes you on some crazy detours. When asked about his favorite new artists this year, he fawns about Elvis Presley. When talking about the Jesus and Mary Chain, he meanders into his love for Tchaikovsky and Mozart. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem his throat is bothering him anymore. And through it all, he keeps coming back to classical music, describing his backdrop to life as orchestral and trying to achieve a particular “fluidity” with the swaths of thick distortion that smear Glasvegas’ grounded pop songs into tapestries of rain, grit and sadness.
Not exactly the sound one would come to expect becoming the current obsession of magazines like NME. But that’s what happens with a little serendipity on your side, like how Scottish music mogul Alan McGee happened to catch the band play in a similar fashion to how he first discovered Oasis nearly two decades earlier. McGee’s backing of the band has propelled them ever since, entering them into a major label bidding war won by Columbia and thus placing them on that ever-precarious pedestal of potential. Glamor is a scary thing to happen to a band that is so practical, but these are things Allan insists Glasvegas doesn’t think about. “There’s a lot of things that you can’t help,” he admits. “But really, life’s so fucking mad, you know, that you can’t say what it’s gonna be. That’s the same for you as it is me, ya know?” And of course, after a bit of contemplation, he centers back on his ongoing mantra of how he just likes to write songs and be inspired, obliged to chip away at the totem of mystique built around a band all too humble to accept anything larger than life. It’s an attitude that has attracted fans everywhere the band goes. Sure, it’s gracious and polite, but it’s also very human. Glasvegas are the working man’s band - they clock in, make something gorgeous, and clock out. “After that, I just don’t know. Ya know?” Yeah. We know.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Review - Eagles of Death Metal: Heart On
Published in Soundcheck Magazine (11/22/08)
For the past five years or so, it has been silly to expect anything from Eagles of Death Metal aside from the semi-novelty that came with the band’s silly name, the members’ farcical fake nicknames, and especially the crotch-rocket testosterock that has driven the Jesse Hughes and Josh Homme project since the band’s inception. In some ways, they sound like an inhibition-less version of Homme’s other band, Queens of the Stone Age – they are to the Rolling Stones or Aerosmith what Spinal Tap was to W.A.S.P. or Ratt.
Considering that there aren’t very many inhibitions that contained QotSA in the first place, that’s saying a lot. It’s also saying a lot to discover that the band’s latest album, Heart On, is not just better than the Eagles’ other work, it’s genuinely enchanting as a serious cut of songs – in other words, you can now play their music not just for your Tenacious D-loving friends, but also for your Stones-loving friends, too.
That’s not to say Homme has lost his rock-jester charm, because this album is just as fun and silly (and, of course, as comically cocksure of itself) as the band’s previous two entries. But this time, the swagger is convincing, the power is tenfold, and the riffs are the stuff of the major leagues. “High Voltage”, for example, opens with an industrial-style beat before kicking the doors down with an aggressive one-note repeated riff while a venomous guitar solo dances around it all. That song isn’t as much a surprise as “Now I’m a Fool”, which completely lifts the verse melodies of Steely Dan’s “Only a Fool Would Say That”, setting it to the soaring, echoing guitar timbre of Heroes-era David Bowie. The heavy crutch on those two influences is forgivable if only for the reason that it is so unexpected.
There are various other surprises on Heart On, but they are a little more reserved. They emerge in fleeting glimpses, like the war chant effects on first single “Wannabe in LA” or the funk rhythm section of “(I Used to Couldn’t Dance) Tight Pants”. “Solo Flights” recalls another verse melody, this time of MC5’s “High School”, and the album closer, not-so-subtly-phallic “I’m Your Torpedo” is like a high-intensity Depeche Mode romp recorded in a steel mill.
There are some who will never give Eagles of Death Metal the light of day. There’s just too much goofing off for those people to really consider the band a serious listen. But for those who appreciate the tongue-in-cheek glee with which these comic book rockers paint their swagger-presence, this album is another hit of juiced-up “rawk.” That much shouldn’t be a surprise. But the clear and sudden musical relevance – now that is something new for the band.
– Andy Pareti
For the past five years or so, it has been silly to expect anything from Eagles of Death Metal aside from the semi-novelty that came with the band’s silly name, the members’ farcical fake nicknames, and especially the crotch-rocket testosterock that has driven the Jesse Hughes and Josh Homme project since the band’s inception. In some ways, they sound like an inhibition-less version of Homme’s other band, Queens of the Stone Age – they are to the Rolling Stones or Aerosmith what Spinal Tap was to W.A.S.P. or Ratt.
Considering that there aren’t very many inhibitions that contained QotSA in the first place, that’s saying a lot. It’s also saying a lot to discover that the band’s latest album, Heart On, is not just better than the Eagles’ other work, it’s genuinely enchanting as a serious cut of songs – in other words, you can now play their music not just for your Tenacious D-loving friends, but also for your Stones-loving friends, too.
That’s not to say Homme has lost his rock-jester charm, because this album is just as fun and silly (and, of course, as comically cocksure of itself) as the band’s previous two entries. But this time, the swagger is convincing, the power is tenfold, and the riffs are the stuff of the major leagues. “High Voltage”, for example, opens with an industrial-style beat before kicking the doors down with an aggressive one-note repeated riff while a venomous guitar solo dances around it all. That song isn’t as much a surprise as “Now I’m a Fool”, which completely lifts the verse melodies of Steely Dan’s “Only a Fool Would Say That”, setting it to the soaring, echoing guitar timbre of Heroes-era David Bowie. The heavy crutch on those two influences is forgivable if only for the reason that it is so unexpected.
There are various other surprises on Heart On, but they are a little more reserved. They emerge in fleeting glimpses, like the war chant effects on first single “Wannabe in LA” or the funk rhythm section of “(I Used to Couldn’t Dance) Tight Pants”. “Solo Flights” recalls another verse melody, this time of MC5’s “High School”, and the album closer, not-so-subtly-phallic “I’m Your Torpedo” is like a high-intensity Depeche Mode romp recorded in a steel mill.
There are some who will never give Eagles of Death Metal the light of day. There’s just too much goofing off for those people to really consider the band a serious listen. But for those who appreciate the tongue-in-cheek glee with which these comic book rockers paint their swagger-presence, this album is another hit of juiced-up “rawk.” That much shouldn’t be a surprise. But the clear and sudden musical relevance – now that is something new for the band.
– Andy Pareti
Review - Annuals: Such Fun
Published in Soundcheck Magazine (11/22/08)
Annuals’ newest release, Such Fun, is not a sophomore slump in the traditional sense. In theory, it does all the right things to expand and reaffirm the boundless creativity that leader Adam Baker demonstrated on the band’s fantastic 2006 debut, Be He Me. But unlike that album, Such Fun doesn’t exactly have the element of surprise on its side. That’s part of the reason this follow-up has garnered some unfairly tepid feedback. It’s true, the album doesn’t have that adrenaline rush of excitement its predecessor had, but perhaps the reason for this is that we’ve come to know what to expect from Annuals, which is sheer and utter radiance.
In the hands of a more finicky producer, Such Fun could have been sliced and diced down to about six or so songs and become one of the greatest EPs all year. Instead, it’s simply a very good long player – which isn’t such a terrible thing to settle for when it comes down to it. Baker is like the little girl who gets into her mom’s dresser and tries on all her clothes. The band snatches at a musical style, toys with it, and tosses it aside for another. This is more or less what drives Such Fun, which is sort of an ADD-inflicted instrumentalist’s wet dream.
But, as the saying goes, when you throw a bunch of ideas against the wall, some of them stick and some don’t. “Hot Night Hounds” is a stale, contained version of what has been one of the major highlights of Annuals’ live show for the past few years. On stage, it is usually part of the encore, and with good reason – it’s the band’s freest, wildest, and generally most liberating performance of the set. But on the album, it’s shortened, filed down to size, and turned into a toothless shadow of its live counterpart.
The band still manages to find ways to sneak up on its listener, though. “Hair Don’t Grow”, the album’s definite highlight, starts with a bobbing, acoustic riff that is then joined by Thin Lizzy-style electric guitars before exploding into a shower of strings, settling on a fake ending before the main theme reemerges once more from the haze of some electronic interference. Even the best moments on Be He Me don’t prepare one for the sheer theatricality of this song.
The good thing about Such Fun is that, in spite of itself, every reason you had to believe that Annuals could be something great after Be He Me is still here. Baker’s imagination is still a shaggy-haired lightning rod, the music is still erratic and joyful, and the band is still having fun. The album is extremely enjoyable, just not in the same knock-you-off-your-feet way as the debut. If this is Annuals settling into their sound, so be it. It’s a sound we can all get used to.
– Andy Pareti
Annuals’ newest release, Such Fun, is not a sophomore slump in the traditional sense. In theory, it does all the right things to expand and reaffirm the boundless creativity that leader Adam Baker demonstrated on the band’s fantastic 2006 debut, Be He Me. But unlike that album, Such Fun doesn’t exactly have the element of surprise on its side. That’s part of the reason this follow-up has garnered some unfairly tepid feedback. It’s true, the album doesn’t have that adrenaline rush of excitement its predecessor had, but perhaps the reason for this is that we’ve come to know what to expect from Annuals, which is sheer and utter radiance.
In the hands of a more finicky producer, Such Fun could have been sliced and diced down to about six or so songs and become one of the greatest EPs all year. Instead, it’s simply a very good long player – which isn’t such a terrible thing to settle for when it comes down to it. Baker is like the little girl who gets into her mom’s dresser and tries on all her clothes. The band snatches at a musical style, toys with it, and tosses it aside for another. This is more or less what drives Such Fun, which is sort of an ADD-inflicted instrumentalist’s wet dream.
But, as the saying goes, when you throw a bunch of ideas against the wall, some of them stick and some don’t. “Hot Night Hounds” is a stale, contained version of what has been one of the major highlights of Annuals’ live show for the past few years. On stage, it is usually part of the encore, and with good reason – it’s the band’s freest, wildest, and generally most liberating performance of the set. But on the album, it’s shortened, filed down to size, and turned into a toothless shadow of its live counterpart.
The band still manages to find ways to sneak up on its listener, though. “Hair Don’t Grow”, the album’s definite highlight, starts with a bobbing, acoustic riff that is then joined by Thin Lizzy-style electric guitars before exploding into a shower of strings, settling on a fake ending before the main theme reemerges once more from the haze of some electronic interference. Even the best moments on Be He Me don’t prepare one for the sheer theatricality of this song.
The good thing about Such Fun is that, in spite of itself, every reason you had to believe that Annuals could be something great after Be He Me is still here. Baker’s imagination is still a shaggy-haired lightning rod, the music is still erratic and joyful, and the band is still having fun. The album is extremely enjoyable, just not in the same knock-you-off-your-feet way as the debut. If this is Annuals settling into their sound, so be it. It’s a sound we can all get used to.
– Andy Pareti
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Review - El Guincho: Alegranza!
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (10/28/08)
Good lord! Has Panda Bear been bitten by Chupacabra? No need to call the World Wildlife Fund, it’s just Pablo Díaz-Reixa – better known as El Guincho. It’s easy to make that mistake, though – sort of. They both specialize in Animal Collective’s perfected style of what I like to call carousel rock – it goes around in circles, speeding around and around in maddening repetition until your pupils dilate and your head explodes (because, you know, all carousels do that).
The big difference is who’s riding the lead horse. For Panda Bear, there’s a clear and obvious Brian Wilson influence. For El Guincho’s debut, Alegranza!, it could be any number of Latin jazz and salsa heroes (Tito Puente? Mongo Santamaria? Gato Barbieri?). With Panda Bear, the blue-sky-and-surf style makes the music a slow, momentous, cheerful churn. But with the maraca-shaking fizz of El Guincho’s Spanish drive, the music comes off like a conga line of zombies from Night of the Living Dead. As you may or may not imagine, that makes it pretty awesome.
As a whole, Alegranza! is scarily hypnotizing. By the end of the five-and-a-half-minute “Antillas”, you may wonder why you listened to seemingly the same, looping riff over and over for that long. But you know you’ll do it again the moment the song comes on again. The reason is in the album’s subtleties – particularly the syncopated rhythms that keep a beat fresh even if you don’t consciously know it.
The album deserves further points for the song “Buenos Matrimonios Ahí Fuera”, which sounds like it finds the first successfully commercial use for a Chilean Rainmaker. (You know, they are those long, hollowed-out branches you see in the mall that make rain noises when you flip them upside-down – yes, the ones you always asked your parents for but that they never bought you.) There’s a whole smorgasbord of timbres to taste here, not the least of which are the whoops and yelps of whomever Díaz-Reixa had in the studio at the time.
El Guincho has created a world within an album. It has a pulse – and a fast one, at that. Listening to Alegranza! is like visiting a town market in Spain. You can swear you smell the paella cooking, the merchants laughing, the children playing. I’ve never been to a town market in Spain, and maybe they are nothing like this. But Alegranza! makes me hope that they are as fun as this album is.
– Andy Pareti
Good lord! Has Panda Bear been bitten by Chupacabra? No need to call the World Wildlife Fund, it’s just Pablo Díaz-Reixa – better known as El Guincho. It’s easy to make that mistake, though – sort of. They both specialize in Animal Collective’s perfected style of what I like to call carousel rock – it goes around in circles, speeding around and around in maddening repetition until your pupils dilate and your head explodes (because, you know, all carousels do that).
The big difference is who’s riding the lead horse. For Panda Bear, there’s a clear and obvious Brian Wilson influence. For El Guincho’s debut, Alegranza!, it could be any number of Latin jazz and salsa heroes (Tito Puente? Mongo Santamaria? Gato Barbieri?). With Panda Bear, the blue-sky-and-surf style makes the music a slow, momentous, cheerful churn. But with the maraca-shaking fizz of El Guincho’s Spanish drive, the music comes off like a conga line of zombies from Night of the Living Dead. As you may or may not imagine, that makes it pretty awesome.
As a whole, Alegranza! is scarily hypnotizing. By the end of the five-and-a-half-minute “Antillas”, you may wonder why you listened to seemingly the same, looping riff over and over for that long. But you know you’ll do it again the moment the song comes on again. The reason is in the album’s subtleties – particularly the syncopated rhythms that keep a beat fresh even if you don’t consciously know it.
The album deserves further points for the song “Buenos Matrimonios Ahí Fuera”, which sounds like it finds the first successfully commercial use for a Chilean Rainmaker. (You know, they are those long, hollowed-out branches you see in the mall that make rain noises when you flip them upside-down – yes, the ones you always asked your parents for but that they never bought you.) There’s a whole smorgasbord of timbres to taste here, not the least of which are the whoops and yelps of whomever Díaz-Reixa had in the studio at the time.
El Guincho has created a world within an album. It has a pulse – and a fast one, at that. Listening to Alegranza! is like visiting a town market in Spain. You can swear you smell the paella cooking, the merchants laughing, the children playing. I’ve never been to a town market in Spain, and maybe they are nothing like this. But Alegranza! makes me hope that they are as fun as this album is.
– Andy Pareti
Review - Dungen: 4
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (10/28/08)
I have a friend who uses a porcelain sculpture of a woman carrying a basket to hold his roach clips and who lights up Led Zeppelin-brand incense in his room. Needless to say, this friend would love Dungen’s new album, 4. But what about the rest of us?
The question is relevant because, up until this point, Dungen’s albums were dynamic enough to garner interest from many different standpoints despite the ease of labeling their sound as simply “vintage rock.” It always was a term of affection, though. Unlike other bands, who simply want to be their heroes, Dungen embodies all that is good about 1960s and 1970s psychedelic rock. In short, Dungen mastermind Gustav Ejstes is, above all, an unfortunate victim of time.
It doesn’t even seem logical that, in an age where a DJ simply can change the hairdo of an old classic and write it off as new and see success, something with the breadth and detail of Dungen’s psycho-jazz symphonies still has appeal. So far, they do. But this latest Dungen release is a bit different.
Consider the “Intro” track on 2007’s Tio Bitar: it is a terrific microburst of psychedelic madness and searing electric soloing, but it isn’t really a song as much as a brief detour. Not like the epic “Mon Amour”, a specimen that lived, breathed and died in a near-nine minute span. On 4, there are lots of “Intros” and not enough “Mon Amours”. Both the good and bad ideas on this album are never really fleshed out into substantial material. More often than not, they fade out prematurely, as though Ejstes couldn’t really think of where to take them next.
Instead of expanding his already-huge musical imagination, Ejstes fills out his album with spots of wholly irrelevant smooth jazz. And on the grand wavelength of bad-to-good jazz music, Dungen’s departures are maddeningly closer to Kenny G wankery than John Coltrane grace. Where are the beautiful Middle Eastern vistas such as “C Visar Vägen” or the unpredictable ventures of 2004’s Ta Det Lugnt’s title track?
They are there somewhere, hidden in the much-better second half of the album – buried in the piano-trot of “Fredag” and acoustic-electric harmony of “Mina Damer Och Fasaner”. But after two fantastic albums, expectations are far too high to let this spotty release go without a slight sigh of disappointment.
– Andy Pareti
I have a friend who uses a porcelain sculpture of a woman carrying a basket to hold his roach clips and who lights up Led Zeppelin-brand incense in his room. Needless to say, this friend would love Dungen’s new album, 4. But what about the rest of us?
The question is relevant because, up until this point, Dungen’s albums were dynamic enough to garner interest from many different standpoints despite the ease of labeling their sound as simply “vintage rock.” It always was a term of affection, though. Unlike other bands, who simply want to be their heroes, Dungen embodies all that is good about 1960s and 1970s psychedelic rock. In short, Dungen mastermind Gustav Ejstes is, above all, an unfortunate victim of time.
It doesn’t even seem logical that, in an age where a DJ simply can change the hairdo of an old classic and write it off as new and see success, something with the breadth and detail of Dungen’s psycho-jazz symphonies still has appeal. So far, they do. But this latest Dungen release is a bit different.
Consider the “Intro” track on 2007’s Tio Bitar: it is a terrific microburst of psychedelic madness and searing electric soloing, but it isn’t really a song as much as a brief detour. Not like the epic “Mon Amour”, a specimen that lived, breathed and died in a near-nine minute span. On 4, there are lots of “Intros” and not enough “Mon Amours”. Both the good and bad ideas on this album are never really fleshed out into substantial material. More often than not, they fade out prematurely, as though Ejstes couldn’t really think of where to take them next.
Instead of expanding his already-huge musical imagination, Ejstes fills out his album with spots of wholly irrelevant smooth jazz. And on the grand wavelength of bad-to-good jazz music, Dungen’s departures are maddeningly closer to Kenny G wankery than John Coltrane grace. Where are the beautiful Middle Eastern vistas such as “C Visar Vägen” or the unpredictable ventures of 2004’s Ta Det Lugnt’s title track?
They are there somewhere, hidden in the much-better second half of the album – buried in the piano-trot of “Fredag” and acoustic-electric harmony of “Mina Damer Och Fasaner”. But after two fantastic albums, expectations are far too high to let this spotty release go without a slight sigh of disappointment.
– Andy Pareti
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Soundbyte- Talkdemonic: Eyes at Half Mast
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (10/10/08)
Talkdemonic
Eyes at Half Mast
Arena Rock
Available Now
Behind Talkdemonic’s hardened lab coat shell - the same kind of cold experimentation that works for bands like Explosions in the Sky - is a great white, fiery ball of potential. On their latest album, Eyes at Half Mast, the band continues to affirm that potential without exactly reaching it. It’s like founder Kevin O’Conner and his musical assistant Lisa Molinaro can see the horizon and make out the shapes of the land ahead, but can’t quite seem to sail the ship to shore. Surrounding the banjo heartbeat with moaning violas, buzzing synths and shocking dashes of dissonance seems to be the scientific equation here, and it’s certainly an interesting listen. But this album suffers the same fate as Dungen’s new album, 4 - there are plenty of ideas, but none that are given any legs to stand on. Perhaps O’Conner is being too modest, and should indulge his inner-progger. The irresistible build of “Black Wood Crimson” sets up Talkdemonic for a symphony that never comes. I never thought I’d say this, but I want more pretension.
-Andy Pareti
Talkdemonic
Eyes at Half Mast
Arena Rock
Available Now
Behind Talkdemonic’s hardened lab coat shell - the same kind of cold experimentation that works for bands like Explosions in the Sky - is a great white, fiery ball of potential. On their latest album, Eyes at Half Mast, the band continues to affirm that potential without exactly reaching it. It’s like founder Kevin O’Conner and his musical assistant Lisa Molinaro can see the horizon and make out the shapes of the land ahead, but can’t quite seem to sail the ship to shore. Surrounding the banjo heartbeat with moaning violas, buzzing synths and shocking dashes of dissonance seems to be the scientific equation here, and it’s certainly an interesting listen. But this album suffers the same fate as Dungen’s new album, 4 - there are plenty of ideas, but none that are given any legs to stand on. Perhaps O’Conner is being too modest, and should indulge his inner-progger. The irresistible build of “Black Wood Crimson” sets up Talkdemonic for a symphony that never comes. I never thought I’d say this, but I want more pretension.
-Andy Pareti
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Review - TV on the Radio : Dear Science
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (9/30/08)
TV on the Radio may have the most appropriate band name in music today. They create music that is dynamic in all the ways you can only describe with visual adjectives: it is colorful, curvaceous, muscular, scintillating. This isn’t such a strange idea when you consider that the two hemispheres of the band’s brain are made up of two visual artists: stop-motion animator Tunde Adebimpe and painter/photographer David Andrew Sitek. Their latest release, Dear Science, is more music to look at, and its form is one of the most beautiful audible bodies all year.
TVOTR hinted at this with their second album, Return to Cookie Mountain, in 2006. But they still habitually hid behind some indie sensibilities such as occasional, thick fogs of feedback. Dear Science though, rips out its heart and puts it on a plate for you. The album is so much more calculated in its patience and its confidence that it’s like musical puzzle pieces falling effortlessly into place. This newfound up-frontness also is reflected in the band’s guest musicians. Consider the subtle backing vocals by David Bowie on Cookie Mountain’s “Province”, and compare Bowie’s soft ambiguity with the bold, blaring afrobeat engine that drives “Red Dress”, courtesy of Brooklyn’s Antibalas.
One thing that hasn’t changed is the careening variety in TVOTR’s gauntlet of styles. Opener “Halfway Home” rides a thick, My Bloody Valentine-esque wall of sound into a gorgeous, Loveless-inspired chorus. “Crying”, which comes next, pushes aside the shoegazing for some dancing shoes. The breathy coo of the vocals and the slick, accompanying guitar riff reinvent 1970s Rolling Stones; think the vocal style of “Fool To Cry” put to the sexy stomp of “Miss You”. With the rest of the album channeling everyone from Fela Kuti to the Pixies, the resultant stew is spirited and feels quite new.
As promising as TVOTR’s previous works were, Dear Science marks a leap in artistic growth so great that it exceeds even the lofty expectations the band members have been projected to reach since their 2003 Young Liars EP. It has the same tone and attitude that the band has had their whole career, but it’s sharper now – clearer somehow. The connection between the band and the listener has less interference.
This is the type of art that, when finished, the artist is overcome with a sense of pride until he can’t help but show it to all his friends. Well, TVOTR has many loyal friends already, and after Dear Science, they are likely to gain a whole lot more.
– Andy Pareti
TV on the Radio may have the most appropriate band name in music today. They create music that is dynamic in all the ways you can only describe with visual adjectives: it is colorful, curvaceous, muscular, scintillating. This isn’t such a strange idea when you consider that the two hemispheres of the band’s brain are made up of two visual artists: stop-motion animator Tunde Adebimpe and painter/photographer David Andrew Sitek. Their latest release, Dear Science, is more music to look at, and its form is one of the most beautiful audible bodies all year.
TVOTR hinted at this with their second album, Return to Cookie Mountain, in 2006. But they still habitually hid behind some indie sensibilities such as occasional, thick fogs of feedback. Dear Science though, rips out its heart and puts it on a plate for you. The album is so much more calculated in its patience and its confidence that it’s like musical puzzle pieces falling effortlessly into place. This newfound up-frontness also is reflected in the band’s guest musicians. Consider the subtle backing vocals by David Bowie on Cookie Mountain’s “Province”, and compare Bowie’s soft ambiguity with the bold, blaring afrobeat engine that drives “Red Dress”, courtesy of Brooklyn’s Antibalas.
One thing that hasn’t changed is the careening variety in TVOTR’s gauntlet of styles. Opener “Halfway Home” rides a thick, My Bloody Valentine-esque wall of sound into a gorgeous, Loveless-inspired chorus. “Crying”, which comes next, pushes aside the shoegazing for some dancing shoes. The breathy coo of the vocals and the slick, accompanying guitar riff reinvent 1970s Rolling Stones; think the vocal style of “Fool To Cry” put to the sexy stomp of “Miss You”. With the rest of the album channeling everyone from Fela Kuti to the Pixies, the resultant stew is spirited and feels quite new.
As promising as TVOTR’s previous works were, Dear Science marks a leap in artistic growth so great that it exceeds even the lofty expectations the band members have been projected to reach since their 2003 Young Liars EP. It has the same tone and attitude that the band has had their whole career, but it’s sharper now – clearer somehow. The connection between the band and the listener has less interference.
This is the type of art that, when finished, the artist is overcome with a sense of pride until he can’t help but show it to all his friends. Well, TVOTR has many loyal friends already, and after Dear Science, they are likely to gain a whole lot more.
– Andy Pareti
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Review - Kings of Leon: Only By the Night
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (9/24/08)
What are Kings of Leon? Their story and look seem more like some 1970s rock band biopic than an actual 21st century entity. They are like Stillwater from Almost Famous. When you try to come up with an idea in your head of what an American rock band is, chances are the image looks a lot like Kings of Leon. Is it even possible that they are a living, breathing unit – in 2008, no less?
Not only is it possible, but the Followill family has proven that it is a smashing success, as well. 2007’s Because of the Times dusted off your father’s crackling wax copies of U2’s The Joshua Tree, Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ Damn the Torpedoes and dropped them in a blender for a glorious frappe of echoed loneliness and tumbleweed dreams that became, despite all its contrivances and borrowed ideas, the best album of the year. This happened for two reasons: stark honesty and the striking, harrowing voice of Caleb Followill. Not since Big Brother & the Holding Company has a band been swept up and tossed into the starlight in such a way simply on the sheer muscular power of a set of pipes.
Here we are now, a year later, and Kings of Leon already have unleashed their “Fever Dog”. How do they follow it up? Only By the Night notions that it’s by doing it all over again. Night ultimately is not as consistently fulfilling as Times, but it continues musically where that album left off, following the same emotional unfolding of Times, from the moody, atmospheric opening track to the feel-good closure of the album’s finale.
Things don’t quite start out smoothly, though. Opener “Closer” – how’s that for irony? – is a bit meandering and is more of a preface than an opening chapter. The second track, “Crawl”, isn’t much better. It features Caleb at his most disinterested, and to make matters worse, the verse melodies strangely recall Toto’s 1982 soft-rock hit, “Rosanna”, which never is a good thing.
The album really starts to take off, though, on the band’s first single, “Sex on Fire”. Awful, slightly diva-esque music video aside, the infectious song sounds like a sequel to “California Waiting” from 2003’s Holy Roller Novocaine, and it is the perfect forum in which to showcase Caleb’s emotive, lost-puppy howl.
From there out, the album is quite consistent in its dusty, ramshackle excellence. There’s the bass-driven beauty of “Manhattan”, the lyrically-curious tale of a broken home in “17”, and the rumbling, steady build of “Be Somebody”, which finally culminates in a rage of grunge riffs and pounding drums that hark back to vintage Soundgarden.
Only By the Night doesn’t better its predecessor, but by no means does that make it a failure. It’s a solid album, one that continues developing a southern hybrid style that has proven to work for Kings of Leon and is quite unique among today’s generation of bands. And if nothing else, it gives us another chance to let that incredible voice send chills down our spines.
– Andy Pareti
What are Kings of Leon? Their story and look seem more like some 1970s rock band biopic than an actual 21st century entity. They are like Stillwater from Almost Famous. When you try to come up with an idea in your head of what an American rock band is, chances are the image looks a lot like Kings of Leon. Is it even possible that they are a living, breathing unit – in 2008, no less?
Not only is it possible, but the Followill family has proven that it is a smashing success, as well. 2007’s Because of the Times dusted off your father’s crackling wax copies of U2’s The Joshua Tree, Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ Damn the Torpedoes and dropped them in a blender for a glorious frappe of echoed loneliness and tumbleweed dreams that became, despite all its contrivances and borrowed ideas, the best album of the year. This happened for two reasons: stark honesty and the striking, harrowing voice of Caleb Followill. Not since Big Brother & the Holding Company has a band been swept up and tossed into the starlight in such a way simply on the sheer muscular power of a set of pipes.
Here we are now, a year later, and Kings of Leon already have unleashed their “Fever Dog”. How do they follow it up? Only By the Night notions that it’s by doing it all over again. Night ultimately is not as consistently fulfilling as Times, but it continues musically where that album left off, following the same emotional unfolding of Times, from the moody, atmospheric opening track to the feel-good closure of the album’s finale.
Things don’t quite start out smoothly, though. Opener “Closer” – how’s that for irony? – is a bit meandering and is more of a preface than an opening chapter. The second track, “Crawl”, isn’t much better. It features Caleb at his most disinterested, and to make matters worse, the verse melodies strangely recall Toto’s 1982 soft-rock hit, “Rosanna”, which never is a good thing.
The album really starts to take off, though, on the band’s first single, “Sex on Fire”. Awful, slightly diva-esque music video aside, the infectious song sounds like a sequel to “California Waiting” from 2003’s Holy Roller Novocaine, and it is the perfect forum in which to showcase Caleb’s emotive, lost-puppy howl.
From there out, the album is quite consistent in its dusty, ramshackle excellence. There’s the bass-driven beauty of “Manhattan”, the lyrically-curious tale of a broken home in “17”, and the rumbling, steady build of “Be Somebody”, which finally culminates in a rage of grunge riffs and pounding drums that hark back to vintage Soundgarden.
Only By the Night doesn’t better its predecessor, but by no means does that make it a failure. It’s a solid album, one that continues developing a southern hybrid style that has proven to work for Kings of Leon and is quite unique among today’s generation of bands. And if nothing else, it gives us another chance to let that incredible voice send chills down our spines.
– Andy Pareti
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
David Byrne @ Lehigh University, Bethlehem PA
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (9/22/08)
David Byrne at Lehigh University (Zoellner Arts Center); Sept. 16
By Andy Pareti
There’s a new star of Bethlehem, and he ain’t little. Riding the wake of his reunion with producer/musician Brian Eno, David Byrne and his jittery white brigade opened their fall tour in Lehigh University’s Zoellner Arts Center on Tuesday, September 16.
Sporting an ivory outfit to match his now electric-white hair, Byrne led his group through the musical history he and Eno shared, from their late ‘70s Talking Heads ventures to the 1981 slice of ambience My Life in the Bush of Ghosts to their latest collaboration, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today.
That latter title rings eerily prophetic for Tuesday’s performance, which sparkled with world-fusion rhythms, echoing gospel and, of course, some low-down, dirty dance grooves.
All of this was illuminated by Byrne’s constant visual dynamics. The combination of Zoellner’s cozy amphitheater with the jagged, exaggerated movements of Byrne’s backup dancers (who clearly graduated from Byrne’s school of the cocaine dance) made the set look a bit like some super high-budget talent show with, well, much better talent. Especially the more atmospheric, Eno-led pieces, like “I Feel My Stuff”, had all the charm of college performance art without any of the pretension.
The set was heavy on Everything That Happens material, which is unfortunate since much of the crowd didn’t seem to connect strongly with that album’s particular excellence. “Life is Long” was enhanced somewhat by the oddball addition of computer chairs on stage that resulted in what could only be described as a collective couch potato dance; “Strange Overtones” radiated warm, fuzzy feelings; and the group closed out a second and final encore with Everything That Happens’ title track - not the most obvious finale, but one that worked well nonetheless.
While Byrne’s latest material remained somewhat underappreciated (at least relatively-speaking), the audience was brought to their feet when the lineup ripped through some fabulous classic Heads cuts, particularly the one-two punch of “Once in a Lifetime” and “Life During Wartime”. The best interpretation of a classic, though, was clearly the first encore, “Take Me to the River”. Byrne’s backup singers, particularly the Aretha-inspired Kaïssa, shot a surge of gospel through the song’s pacing structure that made it bleed the soul of Al Green’s original more than the reinterpretation that appears on More Songs About Buildings and Food.
And at the center of this tense Molotov cocktail was Byrne, who continues even today to shudder around the stage with his spastic cockatoo dance like it’s still 1983 and Jonathan Demme’s behind the camera. Music seems to physically affect Byrne in the most curious of ways. When he sings, it’s like his very pores tighten with anticipation for the next note. That’s the kind of love that never goes away. And on a cool Tuesday night in Bethlehem, we all loved him back for it.
David Byrne at Lehigh University (Zoellner Arts Center); Sept. 16
By Andy Pareti
There’s a new star of Bethlehem, and he ain’t little. Riding the wake of his reunion with producer/musician Brian Eno, David Byrne and his jittery white brigade opened their fall tour in Lehigh University’s Zoellner Arts Center on Tuesday, September 16.
Sporting an ivory outfit to match his now electric-white hair, Byrne led his group through the musical history he and Eno shared, from their late ‘70s Talking Heads ventures to the 1981 slice of ambience My Life in the Bush of Ghosts to their latest collaboration, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today.
That latter title rings eerily prophetic for Tuesday’s performance, which sparkled with world-fusion rhythms, echoing gospel and, of course, some low-down, dirty dance grooves.
All of this was illuminated by Byrne’s constant visual dynamics. The combination of Zoellner’s cozy amphitheater with the jagged, exaggerated movements of Byrne’s backup dancers (who clearly graduated from Byrne’s school of the cocaine dance) made the set look a bit like some super high-budget talent show with, well, much better talent. Especially the more atmospheric, Eno-led pieces, like “I Feel My Stuff”, had all the charm of college performance art without any of the pretension.
The set was heavy on Everything That Happens material, which is unfortunate since much of the crowd didn’t seem to connect strongly with that album’s particular excellence. “Life is Long” was enhanced somewhat by the oddball addition of computer chairs on stage that resulted in what could only be described as a collective couch potato dance; “Strange Overtones” radiated warm, fuzzy feelings; and the group closed out a second and final encore with Everything That Happens’ title track - not the most obvious finale, but one that worked well nonetheless.
While Byrne’s latest material remained somewhat underappreciated (at least relatively-speaking), the audience was brought to their feet when the lineup ripped through some fabulous classic Heads cuts, particularly the one-two punch of “Once in a Lifetime” and “Life During Wartime”. The best interpretation of a classic, though, was clearly the first encore, “Take Me to the River”. Byrne’s backup singers, particularly the Aretha-inspired Kaïssa, shot a surge of gospel through the song’s pacing structure that made it bleed the soul of Al Green’s original more than the reinterpretation that appears on More Songs About Buildings and Food.
And at the center of this tense Molotov cocktail was Byrne, who continues even today to shudder around the stage with his spastic cockatoo dance like it’s still 1983 and Jonathan Demme’s behind the camera. Music seems to physically affect Byrne in the most curious of ways. When he sings, it’s like his very pores tighten with anticipation for the next note. That’s the kind of love that never goes away. And on a cool Tuesday night in Bethlehem, we all loved him back for it.
Soundbyte: Restiform Bodies - TV Loves You Back
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (9/22/08)
Restiform Bodies
TV Loves You Back
Anticon
Available Now
If there’s a such thing as prog-rap, Restiform Bodies could be hip-hop’s Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Assembling break-neck beats that are constantly nudging each other in and out of audibility like a schizophrenic disc jockey, Bodies’ TV Loves You Back follows in the path of beat trailblazers like El-P: every track is like a mini-album, metamorphosing between musical ideas, sometimes without warning or reason. Even as the walls that separate rap from the rest of the musical world slowly decay, Bodies are truly progressive: they sometimes veer out of rap completely and into the bedrooms of Sonic Youth fuzz-rock and Daft Punk electronica. “Pick It Up, Drop It” trades Martian synth lines with Psycho-style screaming violins, while the sex-frenzy lyrics of “Consumer Culture Wave” float above an erotic, percussive flurry of beeps and pops. Each song on TV Loves You Back is a carefully-concocted trip, and listening to the album in its entirety is delightful substance abuse.
-Andy Pareti
Restiform Bodies
TV Loves You Back
Anticon
Available Now
If there’s a such thing as prog-rap, Restiform Bodies could be hip-hop’s Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Assembling break-neck beats that are constantly nudging each other in and out of audibility like a schizophrenic disc jockey, Bodies’ TV Loves You Back follows in the path of beat trailblazers like El-P: every track is like a mini-album, metamorphosing between musical ideas, sometimes without warning or reason. Even as the walls that separate rap from the rest of the musical world slowly decay, Bodies are truly progressive: they sometimes veer out of rap completely and into the bedrooms of Sonic Youth fuzz-rock and Daft Punk electronica. “Pick It Up, Drop It” trades Martian synth lines with Psycho-style screaming violins, while the sex-frenzy lyrics of “Consumer Culture Wave” float above an erotic, percussive flurry of beeps and pops. Each song on TV Loves You Back is a carefully-concocted trip, and listening to the album in its entirety is delightful substance abuse.
-Andy Pareti
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Album Review: Brian Wilson - That Lucky Old Sun
Originally published in Freetime Magazine (9/16/08)
Well, it’s no SMiLE.
Now that that’s out of the way, we can talk about how Brian Wilson’s latest, That Lucky Old Sun, is a great, solid record in is own right. How does someone so crazy make music so universal? It’s one of music’s greatest mysteries, somewhere between Robert Johnson’s deal with the devil and the real face of Buckethead. However it’s done, Wilson still manages to bring the sun out on the dankest rainy day. In fact, at the end of it all, perhaps he is the lucky one.
That Lucky Old Sun plays like a sequel to SMiLE. It’s like the effects-laden, more action-ey follow-up to a classic film; it may not have as much substance but still gets the job done with the hooks and flashy melodies. And lord knows Wilson is the king of flashy melodies. It still has the same orchestral flowerbed sound that SMiLE had, and the songs are woven together into a musical concept album the same way that album was, right down to the reemerging themes that pops up in various spots throughout the tracklist.
Of course, That Lucky Old Sun has none of the mystique that surrounded SMiLE. But Wilson obviously approached it with this knowledge, and the result is a lighthearted, fun summer release - a popcorn album, if you will. It’s not all sunbeams and lollipops, though. We have to remember that this is Brian Wilson, and even now, behind the surfer rock riffs are the remnants of a beaten, broken heart. “Midnight’s Another Day,” in particular, drops the album to a somber tone as Wilson sings, “Took the diamond from my soul/And turned it back to coal.” It’s a bit of an ugly duckling on a mostly constant upbeat tone.
Even at 17 tracks, this album breaks faster than the California shoreline. It moves with an oiled fluidness, speckled with brief narrative section breaks that work more like spoken word poetry with musical accompaniment than as a story time session. It’s got the same, quirky spunk as SMiLE, it’s just a lighter meal. If SMiLE was the ascension to the top of a seemingly un-scalable mountain, That Lucky Old Sun is the ride back down. There isn’t as much satisfaction in the end, but it’s nice to just sit back and enjoy the accomplishment.
Well, it’s no SMiLE.
Now that that’s out of the way, we can talk about how Brian Wilson’s latest, That Lucky Old Sun, is a great, solid record in is own right. How does someone so crazy make music so universal? It’s one of music’s greatest mysteries, somewhere between Robert Johnson’s deal with the devil and the real face of Buckethead. However it’s done, Wilson still manages to bring the sun out on the dankest rainy day. In fact, at the end of it all, perhaps he is the lucky one.
That Lucky Old Sun plays like a sequel to SMiLE. It’s like the effects-laden, more action-ey follow-up to a classic film; it may not have as much substance but still gets the job done with the hooks and flashy melodies. And lord knows Wilson is the king of flashy melodies. It still has the same orchestral flowerbed sound that SMiLE had, and the songs are woven together into a musical concept album the same way that album was, right down to the reemerging themes that pops up in various spots throughout the tracklist.
Of course, That Lucky Old Sun has none of the mystique that surrounded SMiLE. But Wilson obviously approached it with this knowledge, and the result is a lighthearted, fun summer release - a popcorn album, if you will. It’s not all sunbeams and lollipops, though. We have to remember that this is Brian Wilson, and even now, behind the surfer rock riffs are the remnants of a beaten, broken heart. “Midnight’s Another Day,” in particular, drops the album to a somber tone as Wilson sings, “Took the diamond from my soul/And turned it back to coal.” It’s a bit of an ugly duckling on a mostly constant upbeat tone.
Even at 17 tracks, this album breaks faster than the California shoreline. It moves with an oiled fluidness, speckled with brief narrative section breaks that work more like spoken word poetry with musical accompaniment than as a story time session. It’s got the same, quirky spunk as SMiLE, it’s just a lighter meal. If SMiLE was the ascension to the top of a seemingly un-scalable mountain, That Lucky Old Sun is the ride back down. There isn’t as much satisfaction in the end, but it’s nice to just sit back and enjoy the accomplishment.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Album Review: Bloc Party - Intimacy
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (9/09/08)
Someone in Bloc Party must have made a mistake when issuing the names of their last two albums. Intimacy should have been the name of their 2007 sophomore effort, a lyrically driven, dark and moody album. That release, instead, was called A Weekend in the City, which is far more a fitting title for the gunshot nervous energy found here.
Intimacy is simply alive. It’s a caged animal, a speeding freight train that hustles along relentlessly, sometimes without thinking things through first. It’s very much like the band’s debut (Silent Alarm) in many ways, not the least of which is the return of Matt Tong’s assault rifle drumming.
The long and short of it is that this album beats A Weekend in the City firmly into the ground. Weekend was a definite leap forward lyrically for Kele Okereke, who was channeling some personal and emotional hurdles in his life at the time. However, the musicians around him seemed to be taking a vacation, as Bloc Party failed to give those songs the melodies they deserved.
Intimacy sees the band embrace electronica front and center, especially on songs like “Biko” and “Signs”, and for a band that’s trying on this style for the first time seriously (they dabbled with electronic elements on Weekend, but not as unabashedly as here), it fits them well. But Bloc Party hasn’t forgotten their rock roots, either.
Consider the opening two tracks, which may be the most pulverizing two-song opening combo in recent memory. First there’s “Ares”, which is hell-bent on being hell-bent: it flirts precariously with becoming muddled, but manages to barely avoid this pitfall. Following is “Mercury”, which is cinematic in its scope. The orchestral punches are even Matrix-esque in the way they seem to be independently choreographing some sonic fight scene.
Intimacy turns out to be a very reckless album. But after its predecessor, these risks are extremely refreshing. Okereke seems to have gotten over whatever demons possessed him in the past, because he’s traded in the heady subject matter for head banging beats. It’s impossible to ignore this album, and that tenaciousness turns out to be its best quality.
-Andy Pareti
Someone in Bloc Party must have made a mistake when issuing the names of their last two albums. Intimacy should have been the name of their 2007 sophomore effort, a lyrically driven, dark and moody album. That release, instead, was called A Weekend in the City, which is far more a fitting title for the gunshot nervous energy found here.
Intimacy is simply alive. It’s a caged animal, a speeding freight train that hustles along relentlessly, sometimes without thinking things through first. It’s very much like the band’s debut (Silent Alarm) in many ways, not the least of which is the return of Matt Tong’s assault rifle drumming.
The long and short of it is that this album beats A Weekend in the City firmly into the ground. Weekend was a definite leap forward lyrically for Kele Okereke, who was channeling some personal and emotional hurdles in his life at the time. However, the musicians around him seemed to be taking a vacation, as Bloc Party failed to give those songs the melodies they deserved.
Intimacy sees the band embrace electronica front and center, especially on songs like “Biko” and “Signs”, and for a band that’s trying on this style for the first time seriously (they dabbled with electronic elements on Weekend, but not as unabashedly as here), it fits them well. But Bloc Party hasn’t forgotten their rock roots, either.
Consider the opening two tracks, which may be the most pulverizing two-song opening combo in recent memory. First there’s “Ares”, which is hell-bent on being hell-bent: it flirts precariously with becoming muddled, but manages to barely avoid this pitfall. Following is “Mercury”, which is cinematic in its scope. The orchestral punches are even Matrix-esque in the way they seem to be independently choreographing some sonic fight scene.
Intimacy turns out to be a very reckless album. But after its predecessor, these risks are extremely refreshing. Okereke seems to have gotten over whatever demons possessed him in the past, because he’s traded in the heady subject matter for head banging beats. It’s impossible to ignore this album, and that tenaciousness turns out to be its best quality.
-Andy Pareti
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Album review: Alias - Resurgam
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (8/3/08)
It’s hard to make a great electronica album. It’s so easy to slip into contrivance or to fall into self-parody that the genre is in a constant fine-line straddle. Most who attempt the balance, understandably, fall squarely on their asses. Some of the better artists of the genre have a curious brotherhood in hip-hop: Rjd2, Danger Mouse, and El-P, to name three. Maybe there’s something in the marriage of dance’s neon and rap’s malevolence that’s absurdly attractive. Brendon Whitney, a.k.a. Alias, got started in rap before switching almost exclusively to production, releasing two instrumental albums in 2003 and 2004, respectively. With Resurgam, his latest release, he has demonstrated a mastery of aura and detail that puts him near the head of the production pack.
The two best electronica albums of last year were Justice’s Cross and Burial’s Untrue. The two albums couldn’t have been any more different—Cross dove headfirst into a sea of fluorescents, dance grooves and overall electric excess, while Untrue lurked in the shadows, a deeply poignant landscape of subtleties and atmospheres. Somehow, in a way only the men of Kraftwerk might understand, Alias has combined the qualities of both of these two albums. And, again, it must have something to do with hip-hop. Resurgam is a tug-of-war between acid-blast psychoses and gritty catharsis, the kind of grounded realism found in rap. And it transitions between the two styles gradually, as the album unfolds.
Things start out with “New To a Few”, a hip-shaking page out of the Chemical Brothers’ book that is obnoxious in an almost-delightful way…almost. Next is “I Heart Drum Machines”, which follows a Ratatat-like precision and sets the listener up for a series of systematic grooves. As the album progresses, though, the beats become less of a focal point and Alias begins to build upon sonic layers, adding a much-needed density to the album. It is here that Burial’s influence comes into play, as the music takes a turn for the serious. “Autumnal Ego” is a frostbitten lament that carries an affective dimension the earlier songs didn’t have, even going so far as to add such non-electronica elements as acoustic guitars and pianos.
Of the two contrasting styles, Alias works best when painting details. The more patient, refined tracks on Resurgam are the ones that leave the most lasting impression. It doesn’t seem Whitney’s strong point is cooking an all-out dance-a-thon. Like Rjd2, his mastery is triggering a deeper emotional poignancy. This works best on “Death Watch”, a song that has all the musical qualities of a dance song, but one that uses these tools to create an electronic epic that is entrancing, mysterious, and a little sad.
If Alias’ last two albums saw a transition period between genres, Resurgam is a transitional piece between two creative styles. The question is, which one will prevail? His blunt, inconstant dance beats, or his graceful, ambient nocturnes? The answer may determine his musical career.
It’s hard to make a great electronica album. It’s so easy to slip into contrivance or to fall into self-parody that the genre is in a constant fine-line straddle. Most who attempt the balance, understandably, fall squarely on their asses. Some of the better artists of the genre have a curious brotherhood in hip-hop: Rjd2, Danger Mouse, and El-P, to name three. Maybe there’s something in the marriage of dance’s neon and rap’s malevolence that’s absurdly attractive. Brendon Whitney, a.k.a. Alias, got started in rap before switching almost exclusively to production, releasing two instrumental albums in 2003 and 2004, respectively. With Resurgam, his latest release, he has demonstrated a mastery of aura and detail that puts him near the head of the production pack.
The two best electronica albums of last year were Justice’s Cross and Burial’s Untrue. The two albums couldn’t have been any more different—Cross dove headfirst into a sea of fluorescents, dance grooves and overall electric excess, while Untrue lurked in the shadows, a deeply poignant landscape of subtleties and atmospheres. Somehow, in a way only the men of Kraftwerk might understand, Alias has combined the qualities of both of these two albums. And, again, it must have something to do with hip-hop. Resurgam is a tug-of-war between acid-blast psychoses and gritty catharsis, the kind of grounded realism found in rap. And it transitions between the two styles gradually, as the album unfolds.
Things start out with “New To a Few”, a hip-shaking page out of the Chemical Brothers’ book that is obnoxious in an almost-delightful way…almost. Next is “I Heart Drum Machines”, which follows a Ratatat-like precision and sets the listener up for a series of systematic grooves. As the album progresses, though, the beats become less of a focal point and Alias begins to build upon sonic layers, adding a much-needed density to the album. It is here that Burial’s influence comes into play, as the music takes a turn for the serious. “Autumnal Ego” is a frostbitten lament that carries an affective dimension the earlier songs didn’t have, even going so far as to add such non-electronica elements as acoustic guitars and pianos.
Of the two contrasting styles, Alias works best when painting details. The more patient, refined tracks on Resurgam are the ones that leave the most lasting impression. It doesn’t seem Whitney’s strong point is cooking an all-out dance-a-thon. Like Rjd2, his mastery is triggering a deeper emotional poignancy. This works best on “Death Watch”, a song that has all the musical qualities of a dance song, but one that uses these tools to create an electronic epic that is entrancing, mysterious, and a little sad.
If Alias’ last two albums saw a transition period between genres, Resurgam is a transitional piece between two creative styles. The question is, which one will prevail? His blunt, inconstant dance beats, or his graceful, ambient nocturnes? The answer may determine his musical career.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Album review: G. Love and Special Sauce - Superhero Brother
Originally published in Freetime Magazine (8/26/08)
G. Love and Special Sauce’s Superhero Brother is what it is. The band’s fourth release under Jack Johnson’s Brushfire label sounds a lot like the Hawaiian beach bum with just a little more funk and a few more instruments. Otherwise, there isn’t a lot of variety; the type of sun-soaked beach rock that Johnson and G. Love have perfected in the past decade - all extracted from the vein of Jimmy Buffet - has always settled squarely in the realm of jammy, often aimless, sometimes dim, sloppy blues.
They absolutely eat this stuff up over on the west coast, there’s no doubt about that. But whether the coastal California natives know something I don’t, or they have just gotten too much sun poisoning over the years, there is something tersely repetitive about these breezy grooves. Oh, it’s enjoyable, much in the way a Corona is enjoyable while your feet sink into the sand on Long Beach. But like booze, there is only so much G. Love you can take before you want to pass out.
Fortunately, Superhero Brother goes down smooth in the mean time. How can it not? It is so safe, so unobjectionable, it’s like manufactured party music. It’s pretty perplexing, actually, how someone like G. Love (or even Johnson, for that matter) ever got famous in the first place. There’s nothing they do that any tanned, flip-flop-wearing bar band all over the country doesn’t do. Connections help, I suppose, as G. Love has proven with their laundry list of guest appearances in the past. Superhero Brother, though, avoids that game, focusing mostly on the regulars.
There are times when G. Love nails a bull’s eye. “What We Need” is sexy and aggressive, rolling along with a Flea-esque tumbling bassline. The title track, alternatively, brings the listener back to some grimy old delta blues, and while the sheen of the post-production ruins some of the effect, it’s still a great throwback to the Robert Johnsons and Blind Willie McTells of old.
But (there’s always a but), G. Love falls into some unapologetic cliché at times, like the completely unforgivable stoner anthem “Who’s Got the Weed”, which was much more effective when it was called “Smoke Two Joints” or “Kaya” or “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35” or…well, you get the point. As for “Peace, Love and Happiness”, the obligatory “save the world” song is probably a requirement at this point for any surfer trop-rock, so the song’s inclusion is less disappointing and more just annoying.
There’s really a narrow list of what you can come to expect from a new G. Love album, and if your tastes fall into that wavelength, than Superhero Brother is another success for the band. But that’s all you get. Take it or leave it, the beach looks the same every time you go back.
G. Love and Special Sauce’s Superhero Brother is what it is. The band’s fourth release under Jack Johnson’s Brushfire label sounds a lot like the Hawaiian beach bum with just a little more funk and a few more instruments. Otherwise, there isn’t a lot of variety; the type of sun-soaked beach rock that Johnson and G. Love have perfected in the past decade - all extracted from the vein of Jimmy Buffet - has always settled squarely in the realm of jammy, often aimless, sometimes dim, sloppy blues.
They absolutely eat this stuff up over on the west coast, there’s no doubt about that. But whether the coastal California natives know something I don’t, or they have just gotten too much sun poisoning over the years, there is something tersely repetitive about these breezy grooves. Oh, it’s enjoyable, much in the way a Corona is enjoyable while your feet sink into the sand on Long Beach. But like booze, there is only so much G. Love you can take before you want to pass out.
Fortunately, Superhero Brother goes down smooth in the mean time. How can it not? It is so safe, so unobjectionable, it’s like manufactured party music. It’s pretty perplexing, actually, how someone like G. Love (or even Johnson, for that matter) ever got famous in the first place. There’s nothing they do that any tanned, flip-flop-wearing bar band all over the country doesn’t do. Connections help, I suppose, as G. Love has proven with their laundry list of guest appearances in the past. Superhero Brother, though, avoids that game, focusing mostly on the regulars.
There are times when G. Love nails a bull’s eye. “What We Need” is sexy and aggressive, rolling along with a Flea-esque tumbling bassline. The title track, alternatively, brings the listener back to some grimy old delta blues, and while the sheen of the post-production ruins some of the effect, it’s still a great throwback to the Robert Johnsons and Blind Willie McTells of old.
But (there’s always a but), G. Love falls into some unapologetic cliché at times, like the completely unforgivable stoner anthem “Who’s Got the Weed”, which was much more effective when it was called “Smoke Two Joints” or “Kaya” or “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35” or…well, you get the point. As for “Peace, Love and Happiness”, the obligatory “save the world” song is probably a requirement at this point for any surfer trop-rock, so the song’s inclusion is less disappointing and more just annoying.
There’s really a narrow list of what you can come to expect from a new G. Love album, and if your tastes fall into that wavelength, than Superhero Brother is another success for the band. But that’s all you get. Take it or leave it, the beach looks the same every time you go back.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Concert Review: All Points West (Saturday concert)
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (8/13/08)
First, some food for though for next year’s All Points West:
1. Dickheads should be added to the long list of items not allowed inside the festival. That includes anyone who decides to plow through a giant crowd of people like it was an ant farm. Three times.
2. Camera men DO NOT need to so desperately scour the crowd for sweaty, teen girls in bikinis when Emily-freaking-Haines is performing on stage right next to them.
3. Scrap the cheesy, Windows 95-style video graphics. If you’re gonna give us eye candy, don’t settle for the stale, Walmart brand; we want Swedish Fish.
Okay, onto the review.
The first-ever All Points West festival was already a day old when the gates opened on Saturday, August 9. As the Simpsons-esque clouds drifted over the New York City skyline and dozens of dragonflies danced around the abstract sculptures that scattered Liberty State Park, it became apparent just how underrated the weather is when it comes to an outdoor music festival. This is something that few people really consider when they commit to a multi-day event like this one, but it can make or break the enjoyment level. Luckily, the Rock Gods were on our side that day, as the sun was mercifully doused out by some strategic clouds, and the breeze from the Upper New York Bay swam through the masses in cool waves. Technically speaking, things were impressively organized for a first-timer, apart from the poor decision to overload one of the three stages with nearly all of the big name bands.
Chromeo: There’s just something about listening to a pre-recorded saxophone solo at a live concert that makes me feel dirty inside. Especially when, on the same stage just hours later, Thom Yorke has a huge grand piano rolled out just for a few closing bars on “All I Need”. Chromeo opened things up with a sometimes-fun, generally Daft Punk-lite performance sprinkled with constant reminders that “We go by the name of Chromeo.” Thanks, I had already forgotten.
Metric: Those lucky enough to get to the Blue Comet Stage early were treated to a sound check by Emily Haines and co. that only hinted at the performance to come. I was only a semi-fan of Metric going into the show, but my expectations were more than surpassed by the volatile pixie in royal gold and her tractor-beam stage presence. Backed by a muscular, rocking band that churned out a thumping version of “Poster of a Girl” that far surpasses the studio cut, Haines was a dancing fiend for her band’s 45-minute set, eventually breaking the confines of the stage and mingling with the crowd at the performance’s end.
Animal Collective: This performance was the wildcard of the festival. Drawing from the band‘s well of interstellar insanity, the zoomorphic trio probably would have fared better under the night-light extravagance of Radiohead’s set pieces, but they nevertheless fought the fair weather to bring the crowd to a world where excess and minimalism coexist, all with the bass firmly turned up to 11. A definite highlight was the swaying rendition of Panda Bear‘s “Comfy in Nautica”.
Kings of Leon: The Nashville musicians stirred things up with the first-ever live performance of their new single, “Sex On Fire”, which most fans already knew the words to. They also opened the show with a passionate version of “Crawl”, another song off the soon-to-be-released follow-up to Because of the Times. Unfortunately, they didn’t sound as inspired when it came to their older material, judging by tepid performances of built-for-the-stage rockers “Black Thumbnail” and “California Waiting”. On the bright side, front man Caleb Followill is sporting a new, shorter haircut, which leads me to the assumption that his barber finally decided to spare him of the skanky cowgirl look.
Radiohead: “Give it up for Kings of Leon,” Thom Yorke wryly exclaimed between songs. “If we were that good looking, we’d be famous!” Yorke was clearly having fun, and so was everyone else. Under a veil of giant, multi-colored fluorescent lights, Radiohead ended the show on a staggeringly high note. Giving an In Rainbows-heavy set, the five-some came out for two encores and engaged the audience with their spellbinding electro-rock. You could hear a pin drop when Yorke and Jonny Greenwood acoustified the audience with “Exit Music (For a Film)”, and you couldn’t hear your own screaming voice during the fantastic performance of “The Bends”. When they were finally done, there were no screams for more, no demands for a third encore. The show was complete. It just felt right.
First, some food for though for next year’s All Points West:
1. Dickheads should be added to the long list of items not allowed inside the festival. That includes anyone who decides to plow through a giant crowd of people like it was an ant farm. Three times.
2. Camera men DO NOT need to so desperately scour the crowd for sweaty, teen girls in bikinis when Emily-freaking-Haines is performing on stage right next to them.
3. Scrap the cheesy, Windows 95-style video graphics. If you’re gonna give us eye candy, don’t settle for the stale, Walmart brand; we want Swedish Fish.
Okay, onto the review.
The first-ever All Points West festival was already a day old when the gates opened on Saturday, August 9. As the Simpsons-esque clouds drifted over the New York City skyline and dozens of dragonflies danced around the abstract sculptures that scattered Liberty State Park, it became apparent just how underrated the weather is when it comes to an outdoor music festival. This is something that few people really consider when they commit to a multi-day event like this one, but it can make or break the enjoyment level. Luckily, the Rock Gods were on our side that day, as the sun was mercifully doused out by some strategic clouds, and the breeze from the Upper New York Bay swam through the masses in cool waves. Technically speaking, things were impressively organized for a first-timer, apart from the poor decision to overload one of the three stages with nearly all of the big name bands.
Chromeo: There’s just something about listening to a pre-recorded saxophone solo at a live concert that makes me feel dirty inside. Especially when, on the same stage just hours later, Thom Yorke has a huge grand piano rolled out just for a few closing bars on “All I Need”. Chromeo opened things up with a sometimes-fun, generally Daft Punk-lite performance sprinkled with constant reminders that “We go by the name of Chromeo.” Thanks, I had already forgotten.
Metric: Those lucky enough to get to the Blue Comet Stage early were treated to a sound check by Emily Haines and co. that only hinted at the performance to come. I was only a semi-fan of Metric going into the show, but my expectations were more than surpassed by the volatile pixie in royal gold and her tractor-beam stage presence. Backed by a muscular, rocking band that churned out a thumping version of “Poster of a Girl” that far surpasses the studio cut, Haines was a dancing fiend for her band’s 45-minute set, eventually breaking the confines of the stage and mingling with the crowd at the performance’s end.
Animal Collective: This performance was the wildcard of the festival. Drawing from the band‘s well of interstellar insanity, the zoomorphic trio probably would have fared better under the night-light extravagance of Radiohead’s set pieces, but they nevertheless fought the fair weather to bring the crowd to a world where excess and minimalism coexist, all with the bass firmly turned up to 11. A definite highlight was the swaying rendition of Panda Bear‘s “Comfy in Nautica”.
Kings of Leon: The Nashville musicians stirred things up with the first-ever live performance of their new single, “Sex On Fire”, which most fans already knew the words to. They also opened the show with a passionate version of “Crawl”, another song off the soon-to-be-released follow-up to Because of the Times. Unfortunately, they didn’t sound as inspired when it came to their older material, judging by tepid performances of built-for-the-stage rockers “Black Thumbnail” and “California Waiting”. On the bright side, front man Caleb Followill is sporting a new, shorter haircut, which leads me to the assumption that his barber finally decided to spare him of the skanky cowgirl look.
Radiohead: “Give it up for Kings of Leon,” Thom Yorke wryly exclaimed between songs. “If we were that good looking, we’d be famous!” Yorke was clearly having fun, and so was everyone else. Under a veil of giant, multi-colored fluorescent lights, Radiohead ended the show on a staggeringly high note. Giving an In Rainbows-heavy set, the five-some came out for two encores and engaged the audience with their spellbinding electro-rock. You could hear a pin drop when Yorke and Jonny Greenwood acoustified the audience with “Exit Music (For a Film)”, and you couldn’t hear your own screaming voice during the fantastic performance of “The Bends”. When they were finally done, there were no screams for more, no demands for a third encore. The show was complete. It just felt right.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Album Review: Black Kids - Partie Traumatic
Originally published in Freetime Magazine (8/12/08)
2008 isn’t even over yet and we already have ourselves a new Vampire Weekend on our hands. We should be getting used to this whole internet exposure thing at this point, huh? Black Kids are part good band, part good salespeople. Whether they always had this sound and just sprouted out at the right time or they adapted to the current music scene, they sure smelled a trend brewing and went balls out with it on their debut, Partie Traumatic.
Considering the recent success of electro-pop on the indie scene, what with LCD Soundsystem, MGMT, !!! and the Rapture filling dance floors and shaking hipsters’ hips, it really isn’t such a shock that Black Kids have vaulted off the MySpace launch pad into the twilight in a matter of months. Like I said, they are good salespeople.
That term may seem ironic, since this whole thing started with a free EP released on MySpace. But to make, you have to spend, and Black Kids spent a lot of time convincing the blogosphere they are the next formidable flavor of the week in this candy-coated subgenre.
Flavor of the week might be a bit harsh, but Black Kids’ music is so bubblegum pop it might stick to your shoe if you aren’t careful. I can live with that, though, because this whole thing is one big anti-emo movement, anyway, and when it comes to kicking that dying musical style when it’s down, count me in!
Where do ya start? “Hurricane Jane” plays out like Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” if Cat Stevens was answering the question with “Another Saturday Night”. “I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You” combines Killers’ synth-fluff with a chanting chorus by the Mickey Mouse Club (not really). “You can’t treat women like hotels,” sings Reggie Youngblood on “Love Me Already.” I’m touched. Really.
Partie Traumatic is pretty fun music, but oh, God if it doesn’t make you embarrassed to listen to it in the process. Yea, they might say they are aiming for Bowie or Prince with their influences, but some of this stuff sounds like the most night feverish, leisure-suited disco of the ‘70s. It’s fun, but it’s really, really lame fun.
After listening to Partie Traumatic for the first time, I immediately had to follow it by popping in some MC5, just to reaffirm my masculinity. But ah, who am I kidding; I know the next time I’m at a party, I’ll sneakily try to plug my iPod into the stereo system and blast “I’m Making Eyes At You.”
2008 isn’t even over yet and we already have ourselves a new Vampire Weekend on our hands. We should be getting used to this whole internet exposure thing at this point, huh? Black Kids are part good band, part good salespeople. Whether they always had this sound and just sprouted out at the right time or they adapted to the current music scene, they sure smelled a trend brewing and went balls out with it on their debut, Partie Traumatic.
Considering the recent success of electro-pop on the indie scene, what with LCD Soundsystem, MGMT, !!! and the Rapture filling dance floors and shaking hipsters’ hips, it really isn’t such a shock that Black Kids have vaulted off the MySpace launch pad into the twilight in a matter of months. Like I said, they are good salespeople.
That term may seem ironic, since this whole thing started with a free EP released on MySpace. But to make, you have to spend, and Black Kids spent a lot of time convincing the blogosphere they are the next formidable flavor of the week in this candy-coated subgenre.
Flavor of the week might be a bit harsh, but Black Kids’ music is so bubblegum pop it might stick to your shoe if you aren’t careful. I can live with that, though, because this whole thing is one big anti-emo movement, anyway, and when it comes to kicking that dying musical style when it’s down, count me in!
Where do ya start? “Hurricane Jane” plays out like Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” if Cat Stevens was answering the question with “Another Saturday Night”. “I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You” combines Killers’ synth-fluff with a chanting chorus by the Mickey Mouse Club (not really). “You can’t treat women like hotels,” sings Reggie Youngblood on “Love Me Already.” I’m touched. Really.
Partie Traumatic is pretty fun music, but oh, God if it doesn’t make you embarrassed to listen to it in the process. Yea, they might say they are aiming for Bowie or Prince with their influences, but some of this stuff sounds like the most night feverish, leisure-suited disco of the ‘70s. It’s fun, but it’s really, really lame fun.
After listening to Partie Traumatic for the first time, I immediately had to follow it by popping in some MC5, just to reaffirm my masculinity. But ah, who am I kidding; I know the next time I’m at a party, I’ll sneakily try to plug my iPod into the stereo system and blast “I’m Making Eyes At You.”
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Album Review: Beck - Modern Guilt
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (08/05/08)
What happens when Beck, the eclectic, capricious Toys-R-Us kid of rock, realizes he’s gone and grown up all of a sudden? Modern Guilt happens. The stoned-mellow musician still sounds like a kid in a sonic candy store, but he has apparently spent a lot of time looking into the mirror since the days of breaking sexx laws and spawning Satan’s hairdresser. Beck’s music has always been a sonic patchwork of new and old with a bit of chaos sewn in the seams, but Modern Guilt is the Beck album that most radically leans towards, well, the modern.
Despite the neo-lava lamp psychedelia of the first two tracks, there is a fair amount of mechanization at work here. Beck has made a career out of dusting off old relics and making them sound new, but the compositions found on Modern Guilt recall more recent acts like Spoon (“Modern Guilt”) and Thom Yorke (“Replica”, which sounds like a lost cut from In Rainbows in all the right ways and none of the wrong ones).
Only a true adorer of music, not as a system of genres but as an organized reflection of the human emotions, could synthesize the kind of music Beck has over his career. His zeal for his craft always rubs off on the listener and, even here, when he begins doubting his body as it steadily stalks the big four-oh, his laments aren’t self-piteous. Beck lets his listeners laugh along at his modern guilt.
After all, there’s no way the same guy who wrote “Beercan” could complain about “riff-raff” with a serious face, right? Take “Gamma Ray”, where Beck gleams, “And my Chevrolet Terraplane/Going round, round, round”. You can almost see Lester Burnham (from American Beauty) fist-pump as he proudly declares, “1970 Pontiac Firebird. The car I've always wanted and now I have it. I rule!”
All the while, producer Danger Mouse mostly lurks in the background like a shadow, as he should, his seeds sprouting up occasionally in a few of the minimalist string arrangements (I know, that phrase is a bit oxymoronic) or tinny, computerized drum beats like on the aforementioned “Replica”.
It’s important to consider that if Modern Guilt had been the doing of a less-revered artist, it would undoubtedly be considered around the critics’ circle as one of the greatest albums of the year. As it stands, they still might make that claim. But that short, stunted, single syllable we all know as “Beck” automatically raises the bar so high. Maybe this pressure is part of the reason Beck has become so introspective on his new album. But even as he loses his youth, he’s proven he hasn’t lost his youthfulness or, even more importantly, his joy.
-Andy Pareti
What happens when Beck, the eclectic, capricious Toys-R-Us kid of rock, realizes he’s gone and grown up all of a sudden? Modern Guilt happens. The stoned-mellow musician still sounds like a kid in a sonic candy store, but he has apparently spent a lot of time looking into the mirror since the days of breaking sexx laws and spawning Satan’s hairdresser. Beck’s music has always been a sonic patchwork of new and old with a bit of chaos sewn in the seams, but Modern Guilt is the Beck album that most radically leans towards, well, the modern.
Despite the neo-lava lamp psychedelia of the first two tracks, there is a fair amount of mechanization at work here. Beck has made a career out of dusting off old relics and making them sound new, but the compositions found on Modern Guilt recall more recent acts like Spoon (“Modern Guilt”) and Thom Yorke (“Replica”, which sounds like a lost cut from In Rainbows in all the right ways and none of the wrong ones).
Only a true adorer of music, not as a system of genres but as an organized reflection of the human emotions, could synthesize the kind of music Beck has over his career. His zeal for his craft always rubs off on the listener and, even here, when he begins doubting his body as it steadily stalks the big four-oh, his laments aren’t self-piteous. Beck lets his listeners laugh along at his modern guilt.
After all, there’s no way the same guy who wrote “Beercan” could complain about “riff-raff” with a serious face, right? Take “Gamma Ray”, where Beck gleams, “And my Chevrolet Terraplane/Going round, round, round”. You can almost see Lester Burnham (from American Beauty) fist-pump as he proudly declares, “1970 Pontiac Firebird. The car I've always wanted and now I have it. I rule!”
All the while, producer Danger Mouse mostly lurks in the background like a shadow, as he should, his seeds sprouting up occasionally in a few of the minimalist string arrangements (I know, that phrase is a bit oxymoronic) or tinny, computerized drum beats like on the aforementioned “Replica”.
It’s important to consider that if Modern Guilt had been the doing of a less-revered artist, it would undoubtedly be considered around the critics’ circle as one of the greatest albums of the year. As it stands, they still might make that claim. But that short, stunted, single syllable we all know as “Beck” automatically raises the bar so high. Maybe this pressure is part of the reason Beck has become so introspective on his new album. But even as he loses his youth, he’s proven he hasn’t lost his youthfulness or, even more importantly, his joy.
-Andy Pareti
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Album Review: Sebadoh - Bubble and Scrape (Reissue)
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (7/30/08)
Ah, Sebadoh: lo-fi’s silver medalists. They are the Goodfellas to Pavement’s Godfather - no matter how much you love them, the other guys will always get the highest pedestal. Stephen Malkmus and company even beat them to the reissue punch back in 2002 with their Luxe and Reduxe version of Slanted and Enchanted. Whether this sibling rivalry is deserved or not is moot - in fact, lingering just adjacent to the spotlight has given Sebadoh a bit more mystique than their concrete co-stars.
Finally, though, Sebadoh has decided to release a much-deserved and much-needed reissue with a dust-off of their 1993 Sub Pop release, Bubble and Scrape. The reissue tacks 15 oddball extras onto the already-kaleidoscopic track list, and, rather expectedly, the bonus songs range from the lush to the ludicrous.
It’s difficult to compete with some of the original material, from the valium-folk of “Happily Divided” to the abrasive groove of “Emma Get Wild”. The bonus material kicks off with a striking cover of the Necros’ “Reject”, equipped with the same haunting sincerity and stuffy-closet recording quality as another ‘90s band’s “rarities” release: Nirvana’s With the Lights Out. Also recalling some of Kurt Cobain’s many hidden (until recently) introspections are the wistful acoustic rendering of “Soul and Fire” and an even looser version of “Flood”.
While these alternative cuts add depth to some already-loved songs, many of Sebadoh’s unreleased tracks are complete throwaways. A few, like the four consecutive, untitled tracks that are merely labeled “Part 1” through “4”, may leave some listeners wondering if they are even listening to music at all. The one exception is “Old Daze”, which sees singer-songwriter Lou Barlow cough out a rabid growl that is pushed along by, strangely enough, a killer blues riff.
As an entire unit, this new version of Bubble and Scrape is a bit much to swallow. For newcomers to the band, and even casual listeners, it’s probably better to stick with the original 17 tracks - or, even better yet, back up a couple albums and check out their masterpiece, Sebadoh III. Bubble and Scrape does have some emotional poignancy, though, in that it was the last album that co-founder Eric Gaffney participated in. While the albums that followed were mostly still good, they don’t carry the delightful delirium that habitually pulled listeners in strange, new directions in the past. As it stands, Bubble and Scrape is a worthy album to reissue, and the bonus songs, if nothing more, add new sonic textures to the oddball persona that is Sebadoh.
-Andy Pareti
Ah, Sebadoh: lo-fi’s silver medalists. They are the Goodfellas to Pavement’s Godfather - no matter how much you love them, the other guys will always get the highest pedestal. Stephen Malkmus and company even beat them to the reissue punch back in 2002 with their Luxe and Reduxe version of Slanted and Enchanted. Whether this sibling rivalry is deserved or not is moot - in fact, lingering just adjacent to the spotlight has given Sebadoh a bit more mystique than their concrete co-stars.
Finally, though, Sebadoh has decided to release a much-deserved and much-needed reissue with a dust-off of their 1993 Sub Pop release, Bubble and Scrape. The reissue tacks 15 oddball extras onto the already-kaleidoscopic track list, and, rather expectedly, the bonus songs range from the lush to the ludicrous.
It’s difficult to compete with some of the original material, from the valium-folk of “Happily Divided” to the abrasive groove of “Emma Get Wild”. The bonus material kicks off with a striking cover of the Necros’ “Reject”, equipped with the same haunting sincerity and stuffy-closet recording quality as another ‘90s band’s “rarities” release: Nirvana’s With the Lights Out. Also recalling some of Kurt Cobain’s many hidden (until recently) introspections are the wistful acoustic rendering of “Soul and Fire” and an even looser version of “Flood”.
While these alternative cuts add depth to some already-loved songs, many of Sebadoh’s unreleased tracks are complete throwaways. A few, like the four consecutive, untitled tracks that are merely labeled “Part 1” through “4”, may leave some listeners wondering if they are even listening to music at all. The one exception is “Old Daze”, which sees singer-songwriter Lou Barlow cough out a rabid growl that is pushed along by, strangely enough, a killer blues riff.
As an entire unit, this new version of Bubble and Scrape is a bit much to swallow. For newcomers to the band, and even casual listeners, it’s probably better to stick with the original 17 tracks - or, even better yet, back up a couple albums and check out their masterpiece, Sebadoh III. Bubble and Scrape does have some emotional poignancy, though, in that it was the last album that co-founder Eric Gaffney participated in. While the albums that followed were mostly still good, they don’t carry the delightful delirium that habitually pulled listeners in strange, new directions in the past. As it stands, Bubble and Scrape is a worthy album to reissue, and the bonus songs, if nothing more, add new sonic textures to the oddball persona that is Sebadoh.
-Andy Pareti
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Album review: Nine Inch Nails, The Slip
Originally published in Freetime Magazine (7/29/07)
What is this? Trent Reznor is actually releasing a formal CD? Say it ain’t so! Not only that, but Nine Inch Nails’ The Slip, which was dropped in listeners’ laps for free back in May and is just now being released on disc, is actually a straight-on rocker, a first for the meticulous mastermind behind the trademark sweeping industrial beats of Pretty Hate Machine and atmospheric creep show of The Downward Spiral.
This sure isn’t the same semi-self loathing dark angel of industrial rock that painted the nineties black. This is the sound of a man on a mission. Reznor has an agenda - a message - and he’s really pissed off. A notorious stickler for dynamics, atmosphere and gradation, Reznor throws all his little rules to the wind and smashes into The Slip with a cocksure aggression.
Cutting ties with his label, Interscope, was certainly a creative rebirth for Reznor in many ways. The songwriter has sounded wholly liberated as of late, speaking out against record labels, offering his music for free, and unleashing an unprecedented (for him) gamut of material in a very small amount of time (this from the same guy who took an average of five years to finish a new album back in the ‘90s)
The Slip is one big, angry, outburst of rage. Within his troubled soul, Reznor’s found a new purpose - the fight for creative freedom - that is so absolute and so simple, that his music is reflecting its directness. Maybe the most striking thing about The Slip is its drums, which are very straightforward and very rock and roll. After all the synth beats and manufactured sounds, Reznor has found an appropriate focal point in the primitive act of bashing the skins.
And then, like an electrical storm, it subsides, slowing to a rumbling smog of distant dread. It’s here that Reznor finally summons his inner composer, first on the stalking, brooding “Corona Radiata”, which swells from an appropriate plod to a demonic rumble over the course of seven and a half minutes.
The album ends, though, not with a clear night sky, but with an aftershock. “Demon Seed” brings NIN back to the dance club doom of past cuts like “Heresy” and “Head Like a Hole”. It’s another message - that even though Reznor may have been able to let off some steam with The Slip, there will certainly remain a steady supply to come.
What is this? Trent Reznor is actually releasing a formal CD? Say it ain’t so! Not only that, but Nine Inch Nails’ The Slip, which was dropped in listeners’ laps for free back in May and is just now being released on disc, is actually a straight-on rocker, a first for the meticulous mastermind behind the trademark sweeping industrial beats of Pretty Hate Machine and atmospheric creep show of The Downward Spiral.
This sure isn’t the same semi-self loathing dark angel of industrial rock that painted the nineties black. This is the sound of a man on a mission. Reznor has an agenda - a message - and he’s really pissed off. A notorious stickler for dynamics, atmosphere and gradation, Reznor throws all his little rules to the wind and smashes into The Slip with a cocksure aggression.
Cutting ties with his label, Interscope, was certainly a creative rebirth for Reznor in many ways. The songwriter has sounded wholly liberated as of late, speaking out against record labels, offering his music for free, and unleashing an unprecedented (for him) gamut of material in a very small amount of time (this from the same guy who took an average of five years to finish a new album back in the ‘90s)
The Slip is one big, angry, outburst of rage. Within his troubled soul, Reznor’s found a new purpose - the fight for creative freedom - that is so absolute and so simple, that his music is reflecting its directness. Maybe the most striking thing about The Slip is its drums, which are very straightforward and very rock and roll. After all the synth beats and manufactured sounds, Reznor has found an appropriate focal point in the primitive act of bashing the skins.
And then, like an electrical storm, it subsides, slowing to a rumbling smog of distant dread. It’s here that Reznor finally summons his inner composer, first on the stalking, brooding “Corona Radiata”, which swells from an appropriate plod to a demonic rumble over the course of seven and a half minutes.
The album ends, though, not with a clear night sky, but with an aftershock. “Demon Seed” brings NIN back to the dance club doom of past cuts like “Heresy” and “Head Like a Hole”. It’s another message - that even though Reznor may have been able to let off some steam with The Slip, there will certainly remain a steady supply to come.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Album Review: Wire - Object 47
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (7/27/08).
Wire
Object 47
Pink Flag
Available Now
Everything about this current version of Wire points to their past except for the music. The album name refers to the number of releases the band currently has, and their record label is named after their legendary debut album from 1977. But Object 47 is far removed from the raw, gritty style of that much-loved group of young punks. It’s a curious listen that sometimes bears fruit, like on the new wave-inspired “Four Long Years” and closer “All Fours”, the latter of which most closely resembles the relentlessness of their earlier work. The best track, though, is “Are You Ready”: of all the new directions Wire tries on Object 47, this one works excellently, fusing foot-stomping funk with Talking Heads-era post-punk. That sonic experiment works so well that it makes it even more of a shame that many of the musical detours found here result in dead ends.
-Andy Pareti
Wire
Object 47
Pink Flag
Available Now
Everything about this current version of Wire points to their past except for the music. The album name refers to the number of releases the band currently has, and their record label is named after their legendary debut album from 1977. But Object 47 is far removed from the raw, gritty style of that much-loved group of young punks. It’s a curious listen that sometimes bears fruit, like on the new wave-inspired “Four Long Years” and closer “All Fours”, the latter of which most closely resembles the relentlessness of their earlier work. The best track, though, is “Are You Ready”: of all the new directions Wire tries on Object 47, this one works excellently, fusing foot-stomping funk with Talking Heads-era post-punk. That sonic experiment works so well that it makes it even more of a shame that many of the musical detours found here result in dead ends.
-Andy Pareti
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Review - Siren Music Festival 2008
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (7/23/08)
Words by Andy Pareti
The ancient Greeks would be proud. In a time when indie fans in the five boroughs and beyond gather around the faded glory of the historic Coney Island park with unease and doubt in their minds for the Cyclone and other grandfathers of amusement park delight, the Village Voice delivered a free concert that, if just for one day, made everyone forget about the area’s potentially numbered days.
It seems, at this point, that every Siren Festival you attend could be your last. The controversy and red tape surrounding the potential redevelopment of the Coney Island area has spiked attendance at the attractions in recent years, and the Siren Festival has been no different. The free celebration of those overlooked, underappreciated, and simply undiscovered artists that we all love so dearly has been appropriated with the triple-threat of Greek mythology: a trio of bird-women-monsters who lure their victims in with an intoxicating, bewitching song. While the Siren Festival is, at least so far, non-fatal, many of the sun-scorched concert-goers could agree with the term metaphorically, under the corrosive, mid-July sun.
On Saturday, July 19, the eighth annual Siren Festival treated listeners to a great assortment of up-and-comers and established veterans. Headlining the day’s festivities were Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks and Broken Social Scene, but scattered around the nine hours of live music were great acts like Annuals, the Helio Sequence and Islands. They even had Ted Leo spinning records throughout the day. Here are a few of the highlights:
Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks: A slightly out-of-it Stephen Malkmus led his Jicks through one of the stranger sets of the day, ending with a very unexpected but somehow fitting cover of Eddie Money’s “Two Tickets to Paradise”. Malkmus stumbled through a few lyrics and even accidentally knocked his mic stand off the stage at one point, but the band still managed some great live translations of their latest indie opus, Real Emotional Trash. The Prince of Feedback (sorry, Stephen, but Sonic Youth are still king) sure delivered in that department, as his numerous amps shot darts of fuzz through the crowd, rattling the pavement (sorry, I couldn’t resist).
Islands: If there was one band that upstaged the headliners, it was the late addition Islands. These Montreal natives sure know a vacation spot when they see one, and this time they transported the crowd down to the Caribbean, where they offered a mix of calypso, neo-psychedelia and electro-string sections. Singer Nicholas Thorburn came out to the stage with a garbage can on his head, later claiming it was a way to beat the heat. It lay idle until the end of the set, when the band began literally “bangin’ on a trash can.” Doug Funnie would have enjoyed it.
Ra Ra Riot: “Fuck my ears just a little harder!” someone yelled during Ra Ra Riot’s performance. That seemed to be the general consensus for the other late addition to Siren Festival. The Riot presented a chamber pop performance that resembled Arcade Fire somewhat, heavily rooted in the electric strings of Alexandra Lawn’s cello and Rebecca Zeller’s violin. An impassioned rendition of the wistful stomp, “Each Year”, was one of the show’s highlights.
Annuals: 3:30 was a rough time. Early enough that the sun still stabbed you but late enough you just started to feel your sunburn, Annuals were a cool, North Carolina breeze. The sleeper hit of the festival, the band showed why they are one of the most underappreciated live acts today. Opening things off with “Complete or Completing”, Annuals treated the crowd to a downpour of beach balls. Adam Baker wins the award for widest-open-mouth-during-a-delirious-scream, and Anna Spence hunched so far over her piano her reddish locks completely covered her face - like a Cousin Itt with nicer legs.
Dragons of Zynth: Opening the show to a patchwork crowd of semi-curious passer-bys were experimental oddity outfit Dragons of Zynth. Their strange mash-up of jazz, funk and what most closely resembles sludge rock, Zynth initially sounded as if they bit off a bit more than they could chew - kinda like how a little kid tries to mix a whole bunch of finger-paints together and ultimately just comes up with brown. But after a muddled start, the band developed a focus, adding sharp keyboard melodies and some rambunctious stage antics that included jumping off the stage and throwing random objects into the crowd. Overall, a solid litmus test for the steadily-growing masses.
Words by Andy Pareti
The ancient Greeks would be proud. In a time when indie fans in the five boroughs and beyond gather around the faded glory of the historic Coney Island park with unease and doubt in their minds for the Cyclone and other grandfathers of amusement park delight, the Village Voice delivered a free concert that, if just for one day, made everyone forget about the area’s potentially numbered days.
It seems, at this point, that every Siren Festival you attend could be your last. The controversy and red tape surrounding the potential redevelopment of the Coney Island area has spiked attendance at the attractions in recent years, and the Siren Festival has been no different. The free celebration of those overlooked, underappreciated, and simply undiscovered artists that we all love so dearly has been appropriated with the triple-threat of Greek mythology: a trio of bird-women-monsters who lure their victims in with an intoxicating, bewitching song. While the Siren Festival is, at least so far, non-fatal, many of the sun-scorched concert-goers could agree with the term metaphorically, under the corrosive, mid-July sun.
On Saturday, July 19, the eighth annual Siren Festival treated listeners to a great assortment of up-and-comers and established veterans. Headlining the day’s festivities were Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks and Broken Social Scene, but scattered around the nine hours of live music were great acts like Annuals, the Helio Sequence and Islands. They even had Ted Leo spinning records throughout the day. Here are a few of the highlights:
Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks: A slightly out-of-it Stephen Malkmus led his Jicks through one of the stranger sets of the day, ending with a very unexpected but somehow fitting cover of Eddie Money’s “Two Tickets to Paradise”. Malkmus stumbled through a few lyrics and even accidentally knocked his mic stand off the stage at one point, but the band still managed some great live translations of their latest indie opus, Real Emotional Trash. The Prince of Feedback (sorry, Stephen, but Sonic Youth are still king) sure delivered in that department, as his numerous amps shot darts of fuzz through the crowd, rattling the pavement (sorry, I couldn’t resist).
Islands: If there was one band that upstaged the headliners, it was the late addition Islands. These Montreal natives sure know a vacation spot when they see one, and this time they transported the crowd down to the Caribbean, where they offered a mix of calypso, neo-psychedelia and electro-string sections. Singer Nicholas Thorburn came out to the stage with a garbage can on his head, later claiming it was a way to beat the heat. It lay idle until the end of the set, when the band began literally “bangin’ on a trash can.” Doug Funnie would have enjoyed it.
Ra Ra Riot: “Fuck my ears just a little harder!” someone yelled during Ra Ra Riot’s performance. That seemed to be the general consensus for the other late addition to Siren Festival. The Riot presented a chamber pop performance that resembled Arcade Fire somewhat, heavily rooted in the electric strings of Alexandra Lawn’s cello and Rebecca Zeller’s violin. An impassioned rendition of the wistful stomp, “Each Year”, was one of the show’s highlights.
Annuals: 3:30 was a rough time. Early enough that the sun still stabbed you but late enough you just started to feel your sunburn, Annuals were a cool, North Carolina breeze. The sleeper hit of the festival, the band showed why they are one of the most underappreciated live acts today. Opening things off with “Complete or Completing”, Annuals treated the crowd to a downpour of beach balls. Adam Baker wins the award for widest-open-mouth-during-a-delirious-scream, and Anna Spence hunched so far over her piano her reddish locks completely covered her face - like a Cousin Itt with nicer legs.
Dragons of Zynth: Opening the show to a patchwork crowd of semi-curious passer-bys were experimental oddity outfit Dragons of Zynth. Their strange mash-up of jazz, funk and what most closely resembles sludge rock, Zynth initially sounded as if they bit off a bit more than they could chew - kinda like how a little kid tries to mix a whole bunch of finger-paints together and ultimately just comes up with brown. But after a muddled start, the band developed a focus, adding sharp keyboard melodies and some rambunctious stage antics that included jumping off the stage and throwing random objects into the crowd. Overall, a solid litmus test for the steadily-growing masses.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Album Review: At the Spine - Vita
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (7/5/08)
At the Spine
Vita
Global Seepej
Available July 29
When a band goes out of their way to assure its listeners that their music does not imitate other artists - as At the Spine does on their official site - it usually means you can expect the musicians to do exactly that. These punk revivalists manage to stay true to their word for most of their latest release, Vita, though they experience some bumps and bruises and songs that fall flat along the way. However, singer Mike Toschi’s lyrical politicking always goes straight for the jugular (think Minutemen meet the Nightwatchman), specializing in a literal bluntness that recalls the good old days of protest rock when all you had to say was “give peace a chance.” Musically, the album also contains a few striking standouts, like the sarcastic trot of “Primrose Hill” and the explosive muscle of “Transylvania”. Vita is a somewhat uneven disk, but its highlights suggest a great deal of promise for these sermonizing Seattle rockers.
-Andy Pareti
At the Spine
Vita
Global Seepej
Available July 29
When a band goes out of their way to assure its listeners that their music does not imitate other artists - as At the Spine does on their official site - it usually means you can expect the musicians to do exactly that. These punk revivalists manage to stay true to their word for most of their latest release, Vita, though they experience some bumps and bruises and songs that fall flat along the way. However, singer Mike Toschi’s lyrical politicking always goes straight for the jugular (think Minutemen meet the Nightwatchman), specializing in a literal bluntness that recalls the good old days of protest rock when all you had to say was “give peace a chance.” Musically, the album also contains a few striking standouts, like the sarcastic trot of “Primrose Hill” and the explosive muscle of “Transylvania”. Vita is a somewhat uneven disk, but its highlights suggest a great deal of promise for these sermonizing Seattle rockers.
-Andy Pareti
Monday, June 16, 2008
Music Flashback: MC5 – Kick Out the Jams
Originally published in the Lamron (2/4/07)
Detroit’s MC5 were misfitted even by the misfits. When the band held concerts on the west coast, hippie audiences that identified with the pastel, kaleidoscopic psychedelia of the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane and Quicksilver Messenger Service gave blank, perplexed stares to the hard-rocking, no-holds-barred powerhouse sound of five Motor City natives who spent their childhoods competing with each other in how many note-for-note Chuck Berry solos they could pull off. “I think they all hated us because they had to play with us in Detroit, where we kicked all their asses,” explained original guitarist Wayne Kramer in the liner notes of the band’s greatest hits compilation, The Big Bang. But these rockabilly roots are barely noticeable under the layers of feedback and vocal chord-cracking screams that scatter MC5’s critically-acclaimed debut album, the 1969 live record Kick Out the Jams.
It’s anything but conventional to choose a live outing to record your first album, but MC5’s back-breaking energy was something that simply couldn’t be contained in the confines of a studio. The band may not have been the appropriate fit out west, but back home in Detroit, they had a rabid following, and with good reason. MC5 put on a show that rivaled the two most intense live bands of the decade – Led Zeppelin and the Who. But while Zeppelin decided to venture into the intricate incubation period of heavy metal and the Who tackled elaborate rock operas, MC5 remained stubbornly gritty, helping pave the way for the beginnings of the punk rock movement.
What made MC5 unique from punk itself were their influences. Instead of drawing from the well of three-chord, two-minute outbursts like the Ramones or the Sex Pistols, they had a much more interesting muse in the soul of Berry and James Brown, and the spacey acid-jazz of Sun Ra. They even close the set with a Ra cover, the eight-and-a-half minute epic, “Starship.”
Kick Out the Jams is a glorious mess. It’s sloppy, crude and unforgiving, but infinitely rewarding. The title track expresses this terrifically with the blood-curdling wails of vocalist Rob Tyner and wall-of-sound riffs of guitarists Kramer and Fred “Sonic” Smith. The album shows that the quintet wasn’t all muscle, either. There’s a certain finesse quality to the appropriately-timed guitar solos in tracks like “Ramblin’ Rose” and “Motor City is Burning,” the latter more a departure into blues territory than anything else present on the record. It’s performances like “Rocket Reducer No. 62 (Rama Lama Fa Fa Fa),” though, that solidify the band’s reputation for pulverizing its audience, and unapologetic self-praise like “Cause I’m a natural man/ I’m a born hell raiser/ And I don’t give a damn” paved the way for years of gangsta rap artists to come. The song comes to a close with another quality unorthodox to punk – a downright electrifying harmony of Smith and Kramer’s dueling guitar skills.
What’s even more impressive is that when MC5 finally garnered the courage to take their sound to the studio, the result was an equally-striking and powerful LP, 1970’s Back in the USA, a record that injected a grimy, trouncing quality to 50’s rock & roll. But it’s generally agreed that neither the MC5 nor most any other band, for that matter, could equal or surpass both the sonic brutality and beauty of Kick Out the Jams.
Detroit’s MC5 were misfitted even by the misfits. When the band held concerts on the west coast, hippie audiences that identified with the pastel, kaleidoscopic psychedelia of the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane and Quicksilver Messenger Service gave blank, perplexed stares to the hard-rocking, no-holds-barred powerhouse sound of five Motor City natives who spent their childhoods competing with each other in how many note-for-note Chuck Berry solos they could pull off. “I think they all hated us because they had to play with us in Detroit, where we kicked all their asses,” explained original guitarist Wayne Kramer in the liner notes of the band’s greatest hits compilation, The Big Bang. But these rockabilly roots are barely noticeable under the layers of feedback and vocal chord-cracking screams that scatter MC5’s critically-acclaimed debut album, the 1969 live record Kick Out the Jams.
It’s anything but conventional to choose a live outing to record your first album, but MC5’s back-breaking energy was something that simply couldn’t be contained in the confines of a studio. The band may not have been the appropriate fit out west, but back home in Detroit, they had a rabid following, and with good reason. MC5 put on a show that rivaled the two most intense live bands of the decade – Led Zeppelin and the Who. But while Zeppelin decided to venture into the intricate incubation period of heavy metal and the Who tackled elaborate rock operas, MC5 remained stubbornly gritty, helping pave the way for the beginnings of the punk rock movement.
What made MC5 unique from punk itself were their influences. Instead of drawing from the well of three-chord, two-minute outbursts like the Ramones or the Sex Pistols, they had a much more interesting muse in the soul of Berry and James Brown, and the spacey acid-jazz of Sun Ra. They even close the set with a Ra cover, the eight-and-a-half minute epic, “Starship.”
Kick Out the Jams is a glorious mess. It’s sloppy, crude and unforgiving, but infinitely rewarding. The title track expresses this terrifically with the blood-curdling wails of vocalist Rob Tyner and wall-of-sound riffs of guitarists Kramer and Fred “Sonic” Smith. The album shows that the quintet wasn’t all muscle, either. There’s a certain finesse quality to the appropriately-timed guitar solos in tracks like “Ramblin’ Rose” and “Motor City is Burning,” the latter more a departure into blues territory than anything else present on the record. It’s performances like “Rocket Reducer No. 62 (Rama Lama Fa Fa Fa),” though, that solidify the band’s reputation for pulverizing its audience, and unapologetic self-praise like “Cause I’m a natural man/ I’m a born hell raiser/ And I don’t give a damn” paved the way for years of gangsta rap artists to come. The song comes to a close with another quality unorthodox to punk – a downright electrifying harmony of Smith and Kramer’s dueling guitar skills.
What’s even more impressive is that when MC5 finally garnered the courage to take their sound to the studio, the result was an equally-striking and powerful LP, 1970’s Back in the USA, a record that injected a grimy, trouncing quality to 50’s rock & roll. But it’s generally agreed that neither the MC5 nor most any other band, for that matter, could equal or surpass both the sonic brutality and beauty of Kick Out the Jams.
Music Flashback: The Implosion of Big Star
Originally published in the Lamron (11/13/06)
Big Star began as the musical vessel of young songwriters Alex Chilton and Chris Bell, but almost from the start the two didn’t see eye to eye, perhaps a foreshadowing detail about where the band was eventually headed. On the surface, they were a band of few hits and a brief period of modest success, but their musical evolution through the 70’s provides a very deep and fascinating story. Despite their artistic differences, Chilton and Bell released a fantastic debut album, #1 Record, in 1972. That record contained one of the most enjoyable pop songs ever recorded by a rock band in “The Ballad of El Goodo.” It also included the lovable sing-a-long “In the Street,” a track most people today would recognize more easily as the theme song to the hit television series, “That 70’s Show.” Ironically, it is probably one of the less impressive cuts in their laconic catalog.
Two years later, with almost no contributions from Bell, Big Star churned out Radio City, an equally impressive sophomore effort. Those two initial releases stand out for including some of the utmost wonderfully catchy, exuberant pop songs of the era, equal parts Beatles, Byrds, and Badfinger. But despite gleeful cuts like “I’m in Love with a Girl” and “September Gurls,” Chilton’s increased influence on the direction of the band resulted in a slight resonance of cynicism.
While both of those previous albums may have ultimately been the band’s best work, their third release, 1978’s Third/Sister Lovers, is definitely the most interesting. It truly is the sonic equivalent of a musical mastermind in the midst of a severe nervous breakdown. It is no less than heartbreaking to hear the sheer rapture of their previous albums all but completely erased in turn for the contrasting misery found here. The album finds Chilton defacing all that made his music fun to listen to, to the extreme where he at one point snuck into the studio and recorded the vocals and guitar on the same track so producer Jim Dickinson had no way to separate the two and was forced to use the cut. But somehow, Chilton’s self-mutilation-through-song has the opposite effect, making Big Star’s music, as hopeless as it sounds, that much more fascinating.
The record is every bit as disjointed and haphazard as the Beatles’ White Album, but while that release was more adept musically, Big Star’s is more emotionally poignant. Even through the schizophrenic genre switches, the album retains the same feeling of despair. The upbeat songs even come off sounding quietly sardonic. Their cover of the Kinks’ “Till the End of the Day” twists the already-aggressive tune into a bullying blitzkrieg, and the bizarre “Downs” harbors a performance by Chilton that’s so destructive it’s the only track that’s actually unpleasant to listen to. The seventh song, “Holocaust,” gives new meaning to the term “swan song.” Chilton, who was never a bad singer, seems to have even given up on his voice, letting the verses in some sections droop down into an almost inaudible whisper.
It’s almost impossible to find another example of a band with so much potential implode so spectacularly, with such cinematic drama. What started as such a positive, jubilant project ended with such abrupt and acute defeat. Chilton is still alive today, enjoying a relatively unknown solo career, but what he recorded with Big Star, especially on Third/Sister Lovers, could be one of the saddest stories of emotional desolation, told with such vulnerable honesty, in rock music’s long and deep history.
Big Star began as the musical vessel of young songwriters Alex Chilton and Chris Bell, but almost from the start the two didn’t see eye to eye, perhaps a foreshadowing detail about where the band was eventually headed. On the surface, they were a band of few hits and a brief period of modest success, but their musical evolution through the 70’s provides a very deep and fascinating story. Despite their artistic differences, Chilton and Bell released a fantastic debut album, #1 Record, in 1972. That record contained one of the most enjoyable pop songs ever recorded by a rock band in “The Ballad of El Goodo.” It also included the lovable sing-a-long “In the Street,” a track most people today would recognize more easily as the theme song to the hit television series, “That 70’s Show.” Ironically, it is probably one of the less impressive cuts in their laconic catalog.
Two years later, with almost no contributions from Bell, Big Star churned out Radio City, an equally impressive sophomore effort. Those two initial releases stand out for including some of the utmost wonderfully catchy, exuberant pop songs of the era, equal parts Beatles, Byrds, and Badfinger. But despite gleeful cuts like “I’m in Love with a Girl” and “September Gurls,” Chilton’s increased influence on the direction of the band resulted in a slight resonance of cynicism.
While both of those previous albums may have ultimately been the band’s best work, their third release, 1978’s Third/Sister Lovers, is definitely the most interesting. It truly is the sonic equivalent of a musical mastermind in the midst of a severe nervous breakdown. It is no less than heartbreaking to hear the sheer rapture of their previous albums all but completely erased in turn for the contrasting misery found here. The album finds Chilton defacing all that made his music fun to listen to, to the extreme where he at one point snuck into the studio and recorded the vocals and guitar on the same track so producer Jim Dickinson had no way to separate the two and was forced to use the cut. But somehow, Chilton’s self-mutilation-through-song has the opposite effect, making Big Star’s music, as hopeless as it sounds, that much more fascinating.
The record is every bit as disjointed and haphazard as the Beatles’ White Album, but while that release was more adept musically, Big Star’s is more emotionally poignant. Even through the schizophrenic genre switches, the album retains the same feeling of despair. The upbeat songs even come off sounding quietly sardonic. Their cover of the Kinks’ “Till the End of the Day” twists the already-aggressive tune into a bullying blitzkrieg, and the bizarre “Downs” harbors a performance by Chilton that’s so destructive it’s the only track that’s actually unpleasant to listen to. The seventh song, “Holocaust,” gives new meaning to the term “swan song.” Chilton, who was never a bad singer, seems to have even given up on his voice, letting the verses in some sections droop down into an almost inaudible whisper.
It’s almost impossible to find another example of a band with so much potential implode so spectacularly, with such cinematic drama. What started as such a positive, jubilant project ended with such abrupt and acute defeat. Chilton is still alive today, enjoying a relatively unknown solo career, but what he recorded with Big Star, especially on Third/Sister Lovers, could be one of the saddest stories of emotional desolation, told with such vulnerable honesty, in rock music’s long and deep history.
New faces Annuals break through indie rock boundary
Originally published in the Lamron (11/26/06)
“Indie” is a funny word. Short for “independent,” in musical terms, it means nothing more than a band that, for whatever reason, isn’t signed to a major record label. Yet the word is thrown around like confetti when describing the style of bands like Arcade Fire, Bright Eyes and Sufjan Stevens. Clearly, there is a growing inclination as to what an independent band is supposed to sound like, which is why new arrivals Annuals are such a compelling listen. Their debut album, Be He Me, is dream pop for the new millennium; there are entrancing chants, weightlessness-inducing string arrangements and sweeping harmonies. In short, they don’t let their obscure record label limit their musical output. Not by a long shot.
One can dig deep and find roots in the surf pop of the Beach Boys, the experimental psychedelia of the Flaming Lips, and the progressive avant-garde of Iceland’s Sigur Rós. But then, just when the listener thinks he has their sound tied down, the North Carolina sextet will throw a sonic curveball, like with the fifth track, “Chase You Off,” whose wistful swooping melody is suddenly interrupted by a grizzly guitar chord and some hard rock howling by songwriter Adam Baker. And just like that, the fresh paint that spells out “indie rock” is smeared into an indecipherable blur.
The funny thing with Annuals, though, is they don’t sound like they are trying to say anything profound. Their music is layered and often complex, but not in a pretentious way, and the record gives off the impression they are just a bunch of friends that love music and are having fun in the studio. Records lacking this characteristic show the most common symptom of indie rockitus. Too often, these young kids try so hard to change the world they forget to enjoy themselves. Baker’s band will likely never change the world, but their music sure is a blast to listen to. In this respect, Baker, at 20 years of age, is a more mature songwriter than many of his older contemporaries.
From the dash of Caribbean flavor in “The Bull, and the Goat” to the Middle-Eastern sitar that highlights “Mama,” nearly all the bases are covered by Annuals. Listeners looking for the revelatory insight of Conor Oberst might be disappointed by the careless liberties the band takes with their music, but that would be approaching Be He Me all wrong. The music isn’t about elucidation or self-examination; they are one of those bands that try to create a landscape with their songs, and Be He Me is the Bahamas of the musical world. If this comparison seems strange, stop reading now and listen to the final track, “Sway.” It will make a true believer out of the most doubtful critics.
The opening of Annuals’ fourth track, “Carry Around,” has a completely delirious-sounding Baker screaming, “I got magic in my head, magic up my nose, magic coming out my fingers, magic crying out my eyes.” As nonsensical as the claim is, his feverish zeal makes it easy to believe him anyway. He shows no barrier of reticence to filter his passions, and neither does the rest of the band. This record is such a joy to the ear it makes one forget the political and cultural uses music has come to wield today and brings the listener back to a simpler time when songs were meant solely to make people happy. Did such a time ever exist? It doesn’t matter, because it’s the only world Annuals know. And if nothing else, that’s the only reason one needs to listen to this album. It makes people happy.
“Indie” is a funny word. Short for “independent,” in musical terms, it means nothing more than a band that, for whatever reason, isn’t signed to a major record label. Yet the word is thrown around like confetti when describing the style of bands like Arcade Fire, Bright Eyes and Sufjan Stevens. Clearly, there is a growing inclination as to what an independent band is supposed to sound like, which is why new arrivals Annuals are such a compelling listen. Their debut album, Be He Me, is dream pop for the new millennium; there are entrancing chants, weightlessness-inducing string arrangements and sweeping harmonies. In short, they don’t let their obscure record label limit their musical output. Not by a long shot.
One can dig deep and find roots in the surf pop of the Beach Boys, the experimental psychedelia of the Flaming Lips, and the progressive avant-garde of Iceland’s Sigur Rós. But then, just when the listener thinks he has their sound tied down, the North Carolina sextet will throw a sonic curveball, like with the fifth track, “Chase You Off,” whose wistful swooping melody is suddenly interrupted by a grizzly guitar chord and some hard rock howling by songwriter Adam Baker. And just like that, the fresh paint that spells out “indie rock” is smeared into an indecipherable blur.
The funny thing with Annuals, though, is they don’t sound like they are trying to say anything profound. Their music is layered and often complex, but not in a pretentious way, and the record gives off the impression they are just a bunch of friends that love music and are having fun in the studio. Records lacking this characteristic show the most common symptom of indie rockitus. Too often, these young kids try so hard to change the world they forget to enjoy themselves. Baker’s band will likely never change the world, but their music sure is a blast to listen to. In this respect, Baker, at 20 years of age, is a more mature songwriter than many of his older contemporaries.
From the dash of Caribbean flavor in “The Bull, and the Goat” to the Middle-Eastern sitar that highlights “Mama,” nearly all the bases are covered by Annuals. Listeners looking for the revelatory insight of Conor Oberst might be disappointed by the careless liberties the band takes with their music, but that would be approaching Be He Me all wrong. The music isn’t about elucidation or self-examination; they are one of those bands that try to create a landscape with their songs, and Be He Me is the Bahamas of the musical world. If this comparison seems strange, stop reading now and listen to the final track, “Sway.” It will make a true believer out of the most doubtful critics.
The opening of Annuals’ fourth track, “Carry Around,” has a completely delirious-sounding Baker screaming, “I got magic in my head, magic up my nose, magic coming out my fingers, magic crying out my eyes.” As nonsensical as the claim is, his feverish zeal makes it easy to believe him anyway. He shows no barrier of reticence to filter his passions, and neither does the rest of the band. This record is such a joy to the ear it makes one forget the political and cultural uses music has come to wield today and brings the listener back to a simpler time when songs were meant solely to make people happy. Did such a time ever exist? It doesn’t matter, because it’s the only world Annuals know. And if nothing else, that’s the only reason one needs to listen to this album. It makes people happy.
DiFranco’s Reprieve predictable, for better or for worse
Originally published in the Lamron (10/1/06)
Ani DiFranco opens her new record, Reprieve, with the now-nearly-cliché introductory line that sounds as if she is in mid-sentence and the listener is just now entering the conversation. “So that’s how you found me,” she declares in the starting track, “Hypnotized” – a sonically sparse folk item in a mellow tone, and also not a good representation of the album as a whole.
There is a fundamental problem in young folk singers like her, in that the niche they fall into is so inflexible, listeners know what to expect from them before they even pop in the disc. DiFranco doesn’t quite avoid this pitfall entirely, but her spin certainly does add new flavor to the typical folk-rock sound. She has a voice that is both innocent and courageous, and her acoustic guitar dances resiliently from track to track, managing most of the time to sound unsullied and authentic. This helps minimize critical dismissal of the album as just another elaboration on Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez.
DiFranco definitely has a musical theme running here. In front of the reverberating twang of her guitar and the rushing sway of the bass, she sounds as if she’s singing to the raindrops running down the window on a stormy afternoon, and she has the sensibility to make the occasional additions of harpsichord, organ, and string instruments sound subtle and appropriate. This atmosphere works best on the second track, “Subconscious,” which has certain roots in the off-kilter intro of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s “Déjà Vu.”
While DiFranco sets the stage for some very good folk rock, she runs into problems with her delivery, particularly when she tries to pull off the “tough girl” image; her snarly crooning almost always comes off sounding more like a sad Avril Lavigne clone. Luckily for her, there is a general trend of placidness on the album that doesn’t call for that style too much. But that doesn’t explain some unforgivably pedestrian imagery in her writing, like with “In the Margins,” where she sings, “You are a rare bird/The kind I wouldn’t mind/Writing in the margins of my books” (which is too bad, because it mars a particularly nice acoustic melody). Even worse, the spoken poetry of the title track fails miserably at making any sort of impression on the listener.
She has a tendency – the laughably-titled “78% H20” comes to mind – to overwhelm the listener with forced subtext. And what would a DiFranco record be without reoccurring messages about sexism, feminism, and individuality. Reprieve does an admittedly formidable job of avoiding the estrogenical overload of some of her alternative-rock contemporaries but can’t help at times from falling into the sticky stereotype of the female folk singer.
Ultimately, it all goes back to that fundamental problem DiFranco faces before she even begins recording: how do you pleasantly surprise your audience? There are really no surprises on Reprieve; it will probably please the fans that have followed her since her self-titled debut over ten years ago, but does little to reveal the artist as much more than “just another face” in the folk-rock crowd.
Ani DiFranco opens her new record, Reprieve, with the now-nearly-cliché introductory line that sounds as if she is in mid-sentence and the listener is just now entering the conversation. “So that’s how you found me,” she declares in the starting track, “Hypnotized” – a sonically sparse folk item in a mellow tone, and also not a good representation of the album as a whole.
There is a fundamental problem in young folk singers like her, in that the niche they fall into is so inflexible, listeners know what to expect from them before they even pop in the disc. DiFranco doesn’t quite avoid this pitfall entirely, but her spin certainly does add new flavor to the typical folk-rock sound. She has a voice that is both innocent and courageous, and her acoustic guitar dances resiliently from track to track, managing most of the time to sound unsullied and authentic. This helps minimize critical dismissal of the album as just another elaboration on Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez.
DiFranco definitely has a musical theme running here. In front of the reverberating twang of her guitar and the rushing sway of the bass, she sounds as if she’s singing to the raindrops running down the window on a stormy afternoon, and she has the sensibility to make the occasional additions of harpsichord, organ, and string instruments sound subtle and appropriate. This atmosphere works best on the second track, “Subconscious,” which has certain roots in the off-kilter intro of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s “Déjà Vu.”
While DiFranco sets the stage for some very good folk rock, she runs into problems with her delivery, particularly when she tries to pull off the “tough girl” image; her snarly crooning almost always comes off sounding more like a sad Avril Lavigne clone. Luckily for her, there is a general trend of placidness on the album that doesn’t call for that style too much. But that doesn’t explain some unforgivably pedestrian imagery in her writing, like with “In the Margins,” where she sings, “You are a rare bird/The kind I wouldn’t mind/Writing in the margins of my books” (which is too bad, because it mars a particularly nice acoustic melody). Even worse, the spoken poetry of the title track fails miserably at making any sort of impression on the listener.
She has a tendency – the laughably-titled “78% H20” comes to mind – to overwhelm the listener with forced subtext. And what would a DiFranco record be without reoccurring messages about sexism, feminism, and individuality. Reprieve does an admittedly formidable job of avoiding the estrogenical overload of some of her alternative-rock contemporaries but can’t help at times from falling into the sticky stereotype of the female folk singer.
Ultimately, it all goes back to that fundamental problem DiFranco faces before she even begins recording: how do you pleasantly surprise your audience? There are really no surprises on Reprieve; it will probably please the fans that have followed her since her self-titled debut over ten years ago, but does little to reveal the artist as much more than “just another face” in the folk-rock crowd.
Album Review: Vampire Weekend
Originally published in the Lamron (2/21/08)
Vampire Weekend’s Web site states the following declaration: “The name of this band is Vampire Weekend. We are specialists in the following styles: ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa’, ‘Upper West Side Soweto’, ‘Campus’, and ‘Oxford Comma Riddim.’ Self-proclaiming names for their musical styles, especially for a band whose debut album isn’t even a month old, is so arrogant it’s actually amusing. But while a better name for their style might be “Paul Simon’s Graceland Mimicry,” this bold cockiness is what they aim for. It’s that kind of tongue-in-cheek humor that makes this New York City quartet so fun and fresh.
Vampire Weekend, the band’s self-titled debut released late in January, takes its international influences and runs with them. “Oxford Comma” sounds like the Artic Monkeys after sharing a joint and a jam session with the late Peter Tosh. “A-Punk,” alternatively, speeds up the tempo to a Ska-pace while adding “Strawberry Fields”-esque flute arrangements. The band does indulge its roots in the city, though, like when frontman Ezra Koenig (what a great name for a musician) sings on “Walcott,” “All the way to New Jersey/All the way to the Garden State/Out of Cape Cod tonight.”
But the true Weekend trip is to Africa with a lot of driving music to the aforementioned Paul Simon. “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” is where Weekend really start to show their adoration for Simon’s exploration into Worldbeat and South African mbaqanga music. It immediately sounds like “Crazy Love” Vol. III (the track on Graceland is already labeled “Vol. II”).
The similarities between the two albums are often enough to question Weekend’s sincerity. But it’s the strangeness of this marriage with indie rock that keeps things afloat. While everybody in the indie scene is either reviving The Velvet Underground or impersonating Robert Smith, Afro-pop, of all things, has become the untapped resource that is bringing Vampire Weekend success.
Though, Vampire Weekend isn’t perfect (how could it be?). As if the band is self-conscious of their distinctive sound, they water it down on a few tracks, resulting in some stale, cookie-cutter throwaways (“Bryn,” a shadow of an attempt at a Shins song, is nearly saved by a fun guitar riff). Additionally, there is a lingering feeling behind the songs that Vampire Weekend proposes a great idea for a band, but it will likely take a bit of maturing before that idea is fully realized. There are too many close calls and “not quites” to make this a great debut instead of merely a very good one.
Nevertheless, Vampire Weekend is America’s answer to the Arctic Monkeys. Their thrifty, city sound, while not really punkish, is a smooth counterweight to the Monkeys’ mod revival. Resourceful and adept while remaining playful partiers, Vampire Weekend are an out-of-left-field hit manifested by a culmination of blog buzz and word-of-mouth. It’s a leap out of the gates with enough promise to suggest this is not just a one-trick pony.
Vampire Weekend’s Web site states the following declaration: “The name of this band is Vampire Weekend. We are specialists in the following styles: ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa’, ‘Upper West Side Soweto’, ‘Campus’, and ‘Oxford Comma Riddim.’ Self-proclaiming names for their musical styles, especially for a band whose debut album isn’t even a month old, is so arrogant it’s actually amusing. But while a better name for their style might be “Paul Simon’s Graceland Mimicry,” this bold cockiness is what they aim for. It’s that kind of tongue-in-cheek humor that makes this New York City quartet so fun and fresh.
Vampire Weekend, the band’s self-titled debut released late in January, takes its international influences and runs with them. “Oxford Comma” sounds like the Artic Monkeys after sharing a joint and a jam session with the late Peter Tosh. “A-Punk,” alternatively, speeds up the tempo to a Ska-pace while adding “Strawberry Fields”-esque flute arrangements. The band does indulge its roots in the city, though, like when frontman Ezra Koenig (what a great name for a musician) sings on “Walcott,” “All the way to New Jersey/All the way to the Garden State/Out of Cape Cod tonight.”
But the true Weekend trip is to Africa with a lot of driving music to the aforementioned Paul Simon. “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” is where Weekend really start to show their adoration for Simon’s exploration into Worldbeat and South African mbaqanga music. It immediately sounds like “Crazy Love” Vol. III (the track on Graceland is already labeled “Vol. II”).
The similarities between the two albums are often enough to question Weekend’s sincerity. But it’s the strangeness of this marriage with indie rock that keeps things afloat. While everybody in the indie scene is either reviving The Velvet Underground or impersonating Robert Smith, Afro-pop, of all things, has become the untapped resource that is bringing Vampire Weekend success.
Though, Vampire Weekend isn’t perfect (how could it be?). As if the band is self-conscious of their distinctive sound, they water it down on a few tracks, resulting in some stale, cookie-cutter throwaways (“Bryn,” a shadow of an attempt at a Shins song, is nearly saved by a fun guitar riff). Additionally, there is a lingering feeling behind the songs that Vampire Weekend proposes a great idea for a band, but it will likely take a bit of maturing before that idea is fully realized. There are too many close calls and “not quites” to make this a great debut instead of merely a very good one.
Nevertheless, Vampire Weekend is America’s answer to the Arctic Monkeys. Their thrifty, city sound, while not really punkish, is a smooth counterweight to the Monkeys’ mod revival. Resourceful and adept while remaining playful partiers, Vampire Weekend are an out-of-left-field hit manifested by a culmination of blog buzz and word-of-mouth. It’s a leap out of the gates with enough promise to suggest this is not just a one-trick pony.
Music Review: R.E.M., Accelerate
Originally published in the Lamron (4/24/08)
What a romantic idea: deeply-loved 80s college rock band rebounds after repeated failures with fresh new album that reinvents them. It’s easy to get lost in this fairy tale when listening to R.E.M.’s new release, Accelerate. But unfortunately for Michael Stipe and company, the band doesn’t quite get off that easy.
Ever since original drummer Bill Berry quit the band in 1997, R.E.M. has never seemed to quite pick up the pieces and deliver the next dandy of mandolin-jangle rock candy that everyone knows they are capable of. With Accelerate, R.E.M. does manage a sweet victory in that they finally sound like a cohesive band again. The album is blunt, to-the-point (at 36 minutes there sure isn’t any flab to cut off) and focused. Stipe’s voice has resisted the withering of age gallantly, and the three original members sound like they are enjoying themselves. Yet amongst all this, Accelerate simply manages to be good. No more, no less.
R.E.M. were late peakers, relatively. Their best album (among many great albums) was 1992’s Automatic for the People, a record that, in this writer’s opinion, stands as one of the greatest rock albums of all time. It took the poppy gallop of early gems Murmur and Reckoning and twisted it into a dark, sarcastic snicker tinged with themes of mortality and loss. But most of all, it was breathtakingly consistent – not a single song failed to be memorable.
Accelerate is the opposite. R.E.M. is a great band, and like all great bands, they will always be reliable to write great songs. Accelerate’s nuggets are made all the more obvious by its contrastingly sub-par tracks. They are memorable because there are less of them. Take “Sing for the Submarine,” a scarlet waltz of building momentum. It’s a beautiful song, and it’s sandwiched between the cheery yet two-dimensional “Mr. Richards” and the just plain forgettable “Horse to Water.” For another example, take the opening of the album. “Living Well is the Best Revenge” boasts the album’s one great guitar riff, and “Man-Sized Wreath” follows it up with a tumbling, gleeful, bass-led melody. But two tracks later is “Hollow Man,” which is, well, hollow.
Accelerate is a bittersweet release for R.E.M. It is, if such a thing is possible, an encouraging disappointment. Listening to it, especially at its better moments, makes you long for the memories of the band’s past masterpieces. After listening to Accelerate for the first time, I immediately popped in Automatic for the People just to remind myself how great this band truly is (or, if you’re a pessimist, was). But Accelerate is encouraging because it signals that the band is finally on the right track. It’s hardly fair to expect the band to make another Automatic or Reckoning, but if Accelerate accomplishes anything, it confirms the band is once again a momentous force. Expect its followup to be even better.
What a romantic idea: deeply-loved 80s college rock band rebounds after repeated failures with fresh new album that reinvents them. It’s easy to get lost in this fairy tale when listening to R.E.M.’s new release, Accelerate. But unfortunately for Michael Stipe and company, the band doesn’t quite get off that easy.
Ever since original drummer Bill Berry quit the band in 1997, R.E.M. has never seemed to quite pick up the pieces and deliver the next dandy of mandolin-jangle rock candy that everyone knows they are capable of. With Accelerate, R.E.M. does manage a sweet victory in that they finally sound like a cohesive band again. The album is blunt, to-the-point (at 36 minutes there sure isn’t any flab to cut off) and focused. Stipe’s voice has resisted the withering of age gallantly, and the three original members sound like they are enjoying themselves. Yet amongst all this, Accelerate simply manages to be good. No more, no less.
R.E.M. were late peakers, relatively. Their best album (among many great albums) was 1992’s Automatic for the People, a record that, in this writer’s opinion, stands as one of the greatest rock albums of all time. It took the poppy gallop of early gems Murmur and Reckoning and twisted it into a dark, sarcastic snicker tinged with themes of mortality and loss. But most of all, it was breathtakingly consistent – not a single song failed to be memorable.
Accelerate is the opposite. R.E.M. is a great band, and like all great bands, they will always be reliable to write great songs. Accelerate’s nuggets are made all the more obvious by its contrastingly sub-par tracks. They are memorable because there are less of them. Take “Sing for the Submarine,” a scarlet waltz of building momentum. It’s a beautiful song, and it’s sandwiched between the cheery yet two-dimensional “Mr. Richards” and the just plain forgettable “Horse to Water.” For another example, take the opening of the album. “Living Well is the Best Revenge” boasts the album’s one great guitar riff, and “Man-Sized Wreath” follows it up with a tumbling, gleeful, bass-led melody. But two tracks later is “Hollow Man,” which is, well, hollow.
Accelerate is a bittersweet release for R.E.M. It is, if such a thing is possible, an encouraging disappointment. Listening to it, especially at its better moments, makes you long for the memories of the band’s past masterpieces. After listening to Accelerate for the first time, I immediately popped in Automatic for the People just to remind myself how great this band truly is (or, if you’re a pessimist, was). But Accelerate is encouraging because it signals that the band is finally on the right track. It’s hardly fair to expect the band to make another Automatic or Reckoning, but if Accelerate accomplishes anything, it confirms the band is once again a momentous force. Expect its followup to be even better.
Hypunkracy!
Originally published in the Lamron (9/13/07)
There once was a time when the biggest punk band in the world could put out a record with influences in reggae, blues, and Chuck Berry and it would be looked upon as the greatest punk rock album of all time.
It’s been a long time since the Clash released their legendary album London Calling, and even longer in terms of musical evolution (or de-evolution) since then. But 28 years is only a generation’s length; have Joe Strummer and Mick Jones taught their children so poorly?
In short, what passes today as punk rock bares little to no resemblance to the origin of the twisted genre, hard rock’s uglier, bitterer younger brother. In fact, in all this time, it has more closely come to personify that which punk music so deftly fought against: the homogeny and standardization of popular culture, particularly in America. If the high school hard rockers were the ones spiking the juice at prom and scalping Deep Purple tickets, the punks were setting fires and starting riots. But what we have now are lots of eye-liner and cracked, semi-pubescent voices singing laments about lost loved ones.
In a way, early punk rock wasn’t too different in its ideals than the hippy movement. Both focused on individuality and rebellion from the common standard. But unlike the hippies, punks were intent on actually accomplishing something. The genre was more of an attitude than a style, so fringe artists like Iggy Pop or Television could appropriately fall under the category. That hierarchy has flip-flopped, though. If a dejected teen dresses in black and silver chains because he gets made fun of by the polo-wearing Hollister regulars at school, than Mr. Hollister would feel equally uncomfortable and rejected had he stumbled into a Misfits concert, say. What began as a melting pot of styles and personalities has now focused into a neat, tidy little clique no better or worse than the collar poppers.
The biggest problem is what’s on the horizon. Who are the young artists to save punk music (some say it’s already dead) from complete and utter assimilation? Heavy metal has Mastodon, the blues have Jack White and John Mayer, but punk, worse than any other offshoot of rock, is in desperate need of a miracle worker. If global unrest is the key ingredient in honest, raw punk, than the landscape is fertile. To whoever plants the first tree: there’s a lot of us waiting.
There once was a time when the biggest punk band in the world could put out a record with influences in reggae, blues, and Chuck Berry and it would be looked upon as the greatest punk rock album of all time.
It’s been a long time since the Clash released their legendary album London Calling, and even longer in terms of musical evolution (or de-evolution) since then. But 28 years is only a generation’s length; have Joe Strummer and Mick Jones taught their children so poorly?
In short, what passes today as punk rock bares little to no resemblance to the origin of the twisted genre, hard rock’s uglier, bitterer younger brother. In fact, in all this time, it has more closely come to personify that which punk music so deftly fought against: the homogeny and standardization of popular culture, particularly in America. If the high school hard rockers were the ones spiking the juice at prom and scalping Deep Purple tickets, the punks were setting fires and starting riots. But what we have now are lots of eye-liner and cracked, semi-pubescent voices singing laments about lost loved ones.
In a way, early punk rock wasn’t too different in its ideals than the hippy movement. Both focused on individuality and rebellion from the common standard. But unlike the hippies, punks were intent on actually accomplishing something. The genre was more of an attitude than a style, so fringe artists like Iggy Pop or Television could appropriately fall under the category. That hierarchy has flip-flopped, though. If a dejected teen dresses in black and silver chains because he gets made fun of by the polo-wearing Hollister regulars at school, than Mr. Hollister would feel equally uncomfortable and rejected had he stumbled into a Misfits concert, say. What began as a melting pot of styles and personalities has now focused into a neat, tidy little clique no better or worse than the collar poppers.
The biggest problem is what’s on the horizon. Who are the young artists to save punk music (some say it’s already dead) from complete and utter assimilation? Heavy metal has Mastodon, the blues have Jack White and John Mayer, but punk, worse than any other offshoot of rock, is in desperate need of a miracle worker. If global unrest is the key ingredient in honest, raw punk, than the landscape is fertile. To whoever plants the first tree: there’s a lot of us waiting.
Concert Review: Derek Trucks, Waterstreet Music Hall - November 12 2008,
Originally published in The Lamron (11/15/07)
A fog encircled the stage like an aqueous shell at Water Street on Monday as hundreds of plastered patrons crammed into the Rochester venue to witness acute talent Derek Trucks turn his Gibson SG into a child’s plaything. Rounded out by singer Mike Mattison, who sounds like a raspier John Mayer, bassist Todd Smallie, drummer Yonrico Scott, percussionist Count M’Butu and multi-talent Kofi Burbridge, the Derek Trucks Band played a seminal series of blues numbers and jam sequences over the course of a night of songs, smoke and spirits.
Built heavily around the band’s most recent (and strongest) studio record to date, Songlines, the Derek Trucks Band rocked incessantly for two strong hours of blues, eastern influences and slide guitar madness. Unfortunately, the fortitude of Trucks’ songs, themselves, just doesn’t hold up to the timelessness of his other band, the Allman Brothers. While Trucks pulled no punches, there just wasn’t quite enough variety, particularly in the middle portion of the show, to match the passionate individual performances, and at times the set even threatened to stumble into the realm of muddled instrumental noodling. That doesn’t mean the band wasn’t able to pull off some showstoppers, like the phenomenal rendition of blues legend Elmore James’ “It Hurts Me Too” as well as Songlines standouts “Volunteered Slavery” and an extended version of “Mahjoun” that showed off Burbridge’s exceptional flute-playing skills.
Luckily, the band got a shot of youthful exuberance for the finale as the opening act, Ryan Shaw, joined the stage to sing along with Trucks’ wailing electric expressionism. Shaw’s vocal talent simply has to be witnessed in person to be believed. Boasting a background in gospel, he matched Trucks’ twisting guitar lines lick for lick, drawing even more energy from the crowd with his maddening howl and staggering vocal range. Members of Shaw’s backing band, particularly his massive, lumbering bassist (aptly named “Tiny”) also added some surprising highlights to the show.
There is no denying Trucks’ talent, and as his career blossoms he proves more and more that he’s much more than just a replacement for a long-gone legend (Duane Allman). While the band’s songs themselves may have been lacking in character on Monday, the lineup found a way to compensate with a collective enthusiasm and unparalleled musical ability.
A fog encircled the stage like an aqueous shell at Water Street on Monday as hundreds of plastered patrons crammed into the Rochester venue to witness acute talent Derek Trucks turn his Gibson SG into a child’s plaything. Rounded out by singer Mike Mattison, who sounds like a raspier John Mayer, bassist Todd Smallie, drummer Yonrico Scott, percussionist Count M’Butu and multi-talent Kofi Burbridge, the Derek Trucks Band played a seminal series of blues numbers and jam sequences over the course of a night of songs, smoke and spirits.
Built heavily around the band’s most recent (and strongest) studio record to date, Songlines, the Derek Trucks Band rocked incessantly for two strong hours of blues, eastern influences and slide guitar madness. Unfortunately, the fortitude of Trucks’ songs, themselves, just doesn’t hold up to the timelessness of his other band, the Allman Brothers. While Trucks pulled no punches, there just wasn’t quite enough variety, particularly in the middle portion of the show, to match the passionate individual performances, and at times the set even threatened to stumble into the realm of muddled instrumental noodling. That doesn’t mean the band wasn’t able to pull off some showstoppers, like the phenomenal rendition of blues legend Elmore James’ “It Hurts Me Too” as well as Songlines standouts “Volunteered Slavery” and an extended version of “Mahjoun” that showed off Burbridge’s exceptional flute-playing skills.
Luckily, the band got a shot of youthful exuberance for the finale as the opening act, Ryan Shaw, joined the stage to sing along with Trucks’ wailing electric expressionism. Shaw’s vocal talent simply has to be witnessed in person to be believed. Boasting a background in gospel, he matched Trucks’ twisting guitar lines lick for lick, drawing even more energy from the crowd with his maddening howl and staggering vocal range. Members of Shaw’s backing band, particularly his massive, lumbering bassist (aptly named “Tiny”) also added some surprising highlights to the show.
There is no denying Trucks’ talent, and as his career blossoms he proves more and more that he’s much more than just a replacement for a long-gone legend (Duane Allman). While the band’s songs themselves may have been lacking in character on Monday, the lineup found a way to compensate with a collective enthusiasm and unparalleled musical ability.
Boundry-breaking Mars Volta stumble with third studio album
Originally published in the Lamron (10/17/06)
From their tenure as captains of the post-hardcore, indie vessel At the Drive-In to their recent psychedelic space-rock project The Mars Volta, the musical dynamic of Omar Rodriguez-Lopez and Cedric Bixler has always been about a sharp unpredictability, a revolving door into a musical world never before heard. And up until this year, they have been wildly successful, if a bit overlooked, at their goal. With the release this year of The Mars Volta’s latest studio album, Amputechture, the duo finds themselves in a realm they have valiantly avoided until now – familiarity. And while for any other young band this might just be the case of a group settling into their sound, The Mars Volta were never about that, and the streaks of prosaic predictability found on this disc are unsettling.
The opening track, “Vicarious Atonement” (a surprisingly straightforward title considering who we are talking about here), simply never gets off the ground. It is more of an atmospheric intro to the album than a full-fledged song, and at seven-plus minutes, this meddling is simply inexcusable. Compare this to the opening track of their last album, Frances the Mute; it opens with a mysterious acoustic melody before exploding into a gargantuan and complex guitar riff that blows the listener away. There’s no sense of urgency like that here – it’s as if the band recorded the album while in a trance, occasionally being subjected to brief electric shocks that are represented by the spattering of energy occasionally strewn about.
For a 76-minute album, there is just not enough going on. That’s not to say there isn’t the typically-superb musicianship one comes to expect from the band – the mind-bending time signatures are still there, as are the winding, careening guitar gymnastics courtesy mostly of Red Hot Chili Pepper John Frusciante – but the album seems stale at times, something all too glaring from a band bent on stuffing as much substance into their music as humanly possible. There is an overabundance of free-jazz saxophones and long sections of music that seem to have no direction. “Tetragrammaton,” for example, starts off with a wonderful melody accompanied by Bixler’s wolf-like howl, only to self-distruct into a steaming stew of distortion and white noise six minutes in. It finally picks up into a downright fabulous guitar solo later, but this is a song that is close to seventeen minutes long, and the occasional lapses of muscle grate on the listener after a while.
The only song on the album that shows that Rodriguez-Lopez and Bixler haven’t totally forgotten how to throw inhibition to the wind and just rock out is the seventh track, “Day of the Baphomets,” a musical enigma of seismic proportions, more of a schizophrenic medley of artistic genius then a single rock song. If nothing else, this song confirms that the band “still has it,” even if they have curiously avoided showing it for the remaining portions of the album. This reality is very frustrating for the listener, because everyone knows what these musicians are capable of if only they can manage to put aside their collective vanity long enough. Here’s hoping they learn to do it next time.
From their tenure as captains of the post-hardcore, indie vessel At the Drive-In to their recent psychedelic space-rock project The Mars Volta, the musical dynamic of Omar Rodriguez-Lopez and Cedric Bixler has always been about a sharp unpredictability, a revolving door into a musical world never before heard. And up until this year, they have been wildly successful, if a bit overlooked, at their goal. With the release this year of The Mars Volta’s latest studio album, Amputechture, the duo finds themselves in a realm they have valiantly avoided until now – familiarity. And while for any other young band this might just be the case of a group settling into their sound, The Mars Volta were never about that, and the streaks of prosaic predictability found on this disc are unsettling.
The opening track, “Vicarious Atonement” (a surprisingly straightforward title considering who we are talking about here), simply never gets off the ground. It is more of an atmospheric intro to the album than a full-fledged song, and at seven-plus minutes, this meddling is simply inexcusable. Compare this to the opening track of their last album, Frances the Mute; it opens with a mysterious acoustic melody before exploding into a gargantuan and complex guitar riff that blows the listener away. There’s no sense of urgency like that here – it’s as if the band recorded the album while in a trance, occasionally being subjected to brief electric shocks that are represented by the spattering of energy occasionally strewn about.
For a 76-minute album, there is just not enough going on. That’s not to say there isn’t the typically-superb musicianship one comes to expect from the band – the mind-bending time signatures are still there, as are the winding, careening guitar gymnastics courtesy mostly of Red Hot Chili Pepper John Frusciante – but the album seems stale at times, something all too glaring from a band bent on stuffing as much substance into their music as humanly possible. There is an overabundance of free-jazz saxophones and long sections of music that seem to have no direction. “Tetragrammaton,” for example, starts off with a wonderful melody accompanied by Bixler’s wolf-like howl, only to self-distruct into a steaming stew of distortion and white noise six minutes in. It finally picks up into a downright fabulous guitar solo later, but this is a song that is close to seventeen minutes long, and the occasional lapses of muscle grate on the listener after a while.
The only song on the album that shows that Rodriguez-Lopez and Bixler haven’t totally forgotten how to throw inhibition to the wind and just rock out is the seventh track, “Day of the Baphomets,” a musical enigma of seismic proportions, more of a schizophrenic medley of artistic genius then a single rock song. If nothing else, this song confirms that the band “still has it,” even if they have curiously avoided showing it for the remaining portions of the album. This reality is very frustrating for the listener, because everyone knows what these musicians are capable of if only they can manage to put aside their collective vanity long enough. Here’s hoping they learn to do it next time.
Songs of the Slave Triangle
Originally published in the Livingston County News (3/1/08)
Geneseo‘s Glenn McClure has helped turn a libretto about the “traingle of the slave trade“ into a multi-national, student-produced opera.
Imoinda, written by Joan Amin-Addo and based on the 17th century novel, Oroonoko, is set to debut on Thursday, May 1 at the School of the Arts in Rochester. It will run until Sunday, May 4. Constructed almost solely by high school students from the School of the Arts, the creation of Imoinda began with a simple conversation between McClure and Geneseo English professor Maria Lima.
Lima, who has been teaching Oroonoko to her Humanities II classes for over ten years, presented the libretto to McClure, who was immediately engaged.
“The libretto [is] so rich with history, imagery and beautiful language, that students of all ethnic backgrounds found something to get excited about,” said McClure.
Imoinda tells the tale of an African princess that is torn from her land during the Atlantic slave trade. Lima, who helped land the school a grant from The New York State Music Fund that made the project possible, said that after first reading the libretto, she “would not rest until seeing it produced.”
She lists its central themes as “the strength of the Caribbean woman, the survival of African diasporic peoples, and the creolization of the new world.”
Coincidentally, McClure was already planning a project that links students in America, England and Ghana in an attempt to study their corresponding histories in the slave trade. “It was the perfect fit,” McClure beamed. The two ideas were combined, and the opera of Imoinda was born.
The production is vastly different from typical high school plays. McClure composed the music (a mix of Caribbean, European and African styles), but writing and production credits belong almost solely to the School of the Arts community. In addition, the Rochester school has been in contact with schools in England and Ghana, and communication between the three has both shaped the progress of the project and will result in a multitude of feedback via online video.
McClure’s brother Wes Kennison, who assisted McClure on a student play in Buffalo last year that centered around the life of Galileo, described these kinds of projects as what is called “arts in education.” The term focuses on the idea of a piece of art that educates as well as stimulates the senses. While many people have a view of the artist as a “lonely isolated genius,” said Kennison, many historical artists like Michelangelo and Leonardo were actually in “constant negotiation with the community.” The idea of an artist creating for the benefit of the community is something that these arts in education projects aim to accomplish.
McClure’s Galileo oratorio, entitled “The Starry Messenger,” gained large critical acclaim last year and was featured at length on NPR’s radio segment, “All Things Considered.” It broke time barriers, which allowed famous historical figures like Aristotle, Einstein and Rosa Parks to all inhabit the same space on stage.
Student participation in Imoinda has grown extremely enthusiastic since its preparatory period. As McClure had hoped, the very subject matter of the opera has sparked conversation among the high schoolers about the importance of acceptance and the issues of racial inequalities.
Even casting the opera was not without its racial hurdles. Students struggled with the decision of either casting actors using accurate skin colors or making the roles “colorblind.” They eventually settled on a compromise, keeping the main characters’ skin tones accurate to the libretto while leaving all other spots open to anyone. As Kennison proudly described, it was a just one of the many challenges that the students recognized and solved completely on their own.
BriAnna Collier, a student at the School of the Arts who is involved with promoting Imoinda, suggested that the embracement of the opera by the students could be equated to its subject matter. “It’s really serious; not all slaves were African American. It really helps to understand the problems with different races.”
Another student, Daniel Broadus, called it “a learning experience for performers and viewers – a historical lesson.”
Kennison describes his brother as a performing musician who never wanted to move to a major city. According to the web site for McClure Productions Inc., McClure is known widely for his integration of ethnic music traditions into classical music. Among his many achievements, he offers 500-600 concerts and workshops annually and has done field research alongside Geneseo music professor James Kimball.
Imoinda will be performed at 7 p.m. from May 1 – 4, and also at 2 p.m. on May 3 and 4. Tickets can be purchased at the School of the Arts or at the Wegmans’ ticket counter.
Geneseo‘s Glenn McClure has helped turn a libretto about the “traingle of the slave trade“ into a multi-national, student-produced opera.
Imoinda, written by Joan Amin-Addo and based on the 17th century novel, Oroonoko, is set to debut on Thursday, May 1 at the School of the Arts in Rochester. It will run until Sunday, May 4. Constructed almost solely by high school students from the School of the Arts, the creation of Imoinda began with a simple conversation between McClure and Geneseo English professor Maria Lima.
Lima, who has been teaching Oroonoko to her Humanities II classes for over ten years, presented the libretto to McClure, who was immediately engaged.
“The libretto [is] so rich with history, imagery and beautiful language, that students of all ethnic backgrounds found something to get excited about,” said McClure.
Imoinda tells the tale of an African princess that is torn from her land during the Atlantic slave trade. Lima, who helped land the school a grant from The New York State Music Fund that made the project possible, said that after first reading the libretto, she “would not rest until seeing it produced.”
She lists its central themes as “the strength of the Caribbean woman, the survival of African diasporic peoples, and the creolization of the new world.”
Coincidentally, McClure was already planning a project that links students in America, England and Ghana in an attempt to study their corresponding histories in the slave trade. “It was the perfect fit,” McClure beamed. The two ideas were combined, and the opera of Imoinda was born.
The production is vastly different from typical high school plays. McClure composed the music (a mix of Caribbean, European and African styles), but writing and production credits belong almost solely to the School of the Arts community. In addition, the Rochester school has been in contact with schools in England and Ghana, and communication between the three has both shaped the progress of the project and will result in a multitude of feedback via online video.
McClure’s brother Wes Kennison, who assisted McClure on a student play in Buffalo last year that centered around the life of Galileo, described these kinds of projects as what is called “arts in education.” The term focuses on the idea of a piece of art that educates as well as stimulates the senses. While many people have a view of the artist as a “lonely isolated genius,” said Kennison, many historical artists like Michelangelo and Leonardo were actually in “constant negotiation with the community.” The idea of an artist creating for the benefit of the community is something that these arts in education projects aim to accomplish.
McClure’s Galileo oratorio, entitled “The Starry Messenger,” gained large critical acclaim last year and was featured at length on NPR’s radio segment, “All Things Considered.” It broke time barriers, which allowed famous historical figures like Aristotle, Einstein and Rosa Parks to all inhabit the same space on stage.
Student participation in Imoinda has grown extremely enthusiastic since its preparatory period. As McClure had hoped, the very subject matter of the opera has sparked conversation among the high schoolers about the importance of acceptance and the issues of racial inequalities.
Even casting the opera was not without its racial hurdles. Students struggled with the decision of either casting actors using accurate skin colors or making the roles “colorblind.” They eventually settled on a compromise, keeping the main characters’ skin tones accurate to the libretto while leaving all other spots open to anyone. As Kennison proudly described, it was a just one of the many challenges that the students recognized and solved completely on their own.
BriAnna Collier, a student at the School of the Arts who is involved with promoting Imoinda, suggested that the embracement of the opera by the students could be equated to its subject matter. “It’s really serious; not all slaves were African American. It really helps to understand the problems with different races.”
Another student, Daniel Broadus, called it “a learning experience for performers and viewers – a historical lesson.”
Kennison describes his brother as a performing musician who never wanted to move to a major city. According to the web site for McClure Productions Inc., McClure is known widely for his integration of ethnic music traditions into classical music. Among his many achievements, he offers 500-600 concerts and workshops annually and has done field research alongside Geneseo music professor James Kimball.
Imoinda will be performed at 7 p.m. from May 1 – 4, and also at 2 p.m. on May 3 and 4. Tickets can be purchased at the School of the Arts or at the Wegmans’ ticket counter.
Damon Albarn is three for three with The Good the Bad and the Queen
This piece was originally named a top-ten finalist in Rolling Stone Magazine's writing competition, "I'm From Rolling Stone" (2/18/07). Full list of the top ten can be found here
The genre-clashing turbulence of “History Song,” the first track off The Good, the Bad & the Queen’s self-titled debut, is the first indication that this latest British rock band goes against the musical grain. The song is a boiling stew of styles stirred into a thick, layered three minutes of sound that, to say the least, starts things off quite strong for the quartet.
The Good, the Bad & the Queen is the latest vehicle for Britpop mastermind Damon Albarn, who enjoyed previous success with his creations Blur and Gorillaz. Albarn is one of those musicians like Josh Homme (Kyuss, Queens of the Stone Age) and Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Foo Fighters) who have a seemingly endless stream of creativity that can transcend multiple bands and lineups. Whether it’s the Flaming Lips psychedelia and Beach Boys harmonies in “80’s Life” or the Danny Elfman-sounding Halloween gloom of “Bunting Song,” Albarn is creating his own boundaries and than perpetually destroying them.
The Good, the Bad & the Queen explores the different facets within rock, all the while throwing in such curveball styles as polka, classical, avant-garde and burlesque. Often the album feels like the soundtrack to some twisted, off-kilter cabaret. But despite the post-recording efforts – the record is produced magnificently by Danger Mouse – the set seems a bit more organic than, say, Gorillaz. Think Arcade Fire meets Postal Service, and you begin to see this distinctive marriage of sounds.
It’s simply nice to know there are people like Albarn making music in the world today. It’s not just the music he creates but the intensity and fervor that he possesses for this creation. That is why, no matter how many personas he takes on or styles he challenges himself with, Albarn’s music will always remain interesting.
The genre-clashing turbulence of “History Song,” the first track off The Good, the Bad & the Queen’s self-titled debut, is the first indication that this latest British rock band goes against the musical grain. The song is a boiling stew of styles stirred into a thick, layered three minutes of sound that, to say the least, starts things off quite strong for the quartet.
The Good, the Bad & the Queen is the latest vehicle for Britpop mastermind Damon Albarn, who enjoyed previous success with his creations Blur and Gorillaz. Albarn is one of those musicians like Josh Homme (Kyuss, Queens of the Stone Age) and Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Foo Fighters) who have a seemingly endless stream of creativity that can transcend multiple bands and lineups. Whether it’s the Flaming Lips psychedelia and Beach Boys harmonies in “80’s Life” or the Danny Elfman-sounding Halloween gloom of “Bunting Song,” Albarn is creating his own boundaries and than perpetually destroying them.
The Good, the Bad & the Queen explores the different facets within rock, all the while throwing in such curveball styles as polka, classical, avant-garde and burlesque. Often the album feels like the soundtrack to some twisted, off-kilter cabaret. But despite the post-recording efforts – the record is produced magnificently by Danger Mouse – the set seems a bit more organic than, say, Gorillaz. Think Arcade Fire meets Postal Service, and you begin to see this distinctive marriage of sounds.
It’s simply nice to know there are people like Albarn making music in the world today. It’s not just the music he creates but the intensity and fervor that he possesses for this creation. That is why, no matter how many personas he takes on or styles he challenges himself with, Albarn’s music will always remain interesting.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
