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.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
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
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