Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (1/13/09)
Heavy is the burden that alternative-metal bands have to carry in this day and age. The poor guys just want to get their rawk on, and here all the hipster spokesmen just pound them to the ground, telling them to go back to 1999 and trash some once-proud outdoor music festival. It’s so easy to see it coming, and the sad part is that most of the time, the hipsters are right.
But wait, Ladyfinger (ne) isn’t playing by the rules. They aren’t painting targets on their chests and awaiting the media to fire flaming arrows at them. Maybe Saddle Creek Records, home of Bright Eyes and Tokyo Police Club, wasn’t so crazy to sign them after all. (In case you were wondering, the “ne” comes from Nebraska, their home state.)
The band practices no-frills riffage that is in line with Queens of the Stone Age or label-mates Cursive. The band has been compared with Motörhead, but while this is quite a kind gesture, it isn’t very accurate. Ladyfinger (ne) don’t have that brutish, grindhouse taste of rust in their sound. It’s more polished and clean, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy.
Nor does the band possess quite the sense of humor to have the tongue-in-cheek charm of Queens of the Stone Age, but they are almost as relentless, and sheer power often can go a long way. Consider back-to-back mortar shells “Little Things” and “Two Years” as an example, the former a standard but catchy gallop that catches aflame after its false ending and the latter a battle hymn that is served well by its understated solo.
By keeping things so straight-laced, Ladyfinger (ne) actually avoid the pitfalls so many of these post-grunge bands fell into. They don’t try to rap, they don’t have a DJ, they don’t wear make-up, they don’t build songs around guitar solos … no, they are pretty much just plain hard rock. Their vanillaness should be a criticism (in some ways, it still is), but since it seems to be the only remaining avenue not already ruined by passé ghosts of metal music past, it leaves rabid critics little ammunition against them. Bland, it seems, is the new black.
A perfect example of another band that has used this approach and survived is the Foo Fighters. FF actually labored on through the craze of nu metal and rap-rock and have managed to outlive all those bands, and they did it by refusing to cling to a niche or follow a fad. David Grohl must know something that surprisingly few rockers know: if you want to rock hard, just do it. Whether it is a subconscious understanding or a learnt fact, Ladyfinger (ne) know this, too, and it is the one thing that saves them from almost certain mediocrity.
– Andy Pareti
Monday, February 16, 2009
Review - Andrew Bird: Noble Beast
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (2/12/09)
Boy, does Andrew Bird make me feel stupid.
Having to look up words such as radiolarian and aubergine when Bird’s 2009 release, Noble Beast, is just three songs old makes me realize just how tiny a spec I am in this broad, vast universe of vocab mastery. But that universe can fit in the pocket of the expansive place that Bird creates with the music, a haunting warmth of quivering violins and slow-burning acoustic guitars that reverberates through the cranium like an open, unfurnished room. And that’s just it. No matter how grad-school-English-lit the lyrics get, the music beneath and above them sways with the same broad stroke of boundless, open-road freedom.
For every SAT Verbal wet dream of a lyric that Bird provides, there’ll be an analytical mind to digest it. I’m not one of those people, but I still feel like I get Noble Beast. Fat Possum Records, which is known more for servicing jagged blues personalities such as R.L. Burnside, Bob Log III, Junior Kimbrough and The Black Keys, have unleashed an uncharacteristically polished record in Noble Beast, an album that is as warm and welcoming as a log cabin in a snow storm.
Although Bird has developed his theatrical folk style over a career that spans more than a decade, this latest release recalls, more than any, a band that is every bit as green and unseasoned as Bird is reliable. That would be Fleet Foxes, whose mountainous sonic reach is matched valley for rolling valley by Bird here. Even Foxes lead vocalist Robin Pecknold shares an unmistakable similarity with Bird’s voice.
Whether it’s because Bird has developed a sort of expectation that he is supposed to meet or because his album just happened to come so soon after Fleet Foxes, Noble Beast will never reach the heights that album did. Alas, it doesn’t have to – despite the similarities, Bird’s creation still is its own unique animal.
For one, Bird takes his unparalleled violin skills through untraversed territory, avoiding the easy pitfalls of fiddle and bluegrass in favor of something that falls in between classical and Nick Drake-style folk. It’s demonstrated in all its beautiful, understated glory in “Masterswarm”. Bird finds other ways to keep things nuanced and fresh, such as the dynamic rhythms beneath “Not a Robot, But a Ghost” and the cheery whistling to close out “Oh No”.
Some albums are unfolding stories; some are emotions. Noble Beast is a painted landscape, a detailed panorama that isn’t so much inhabited as it is alive itself. With albums such as these, you might see better if you close your eyes.
-Andy Pareti
Boy, does Andrew Bird make me feel stupid.
Having to look up words such as radiolarian and aubergine when Bird’s 2009 release, Noble Beast, is just three songs old makes me realize just how tiny a spec I am in this broad, vast universe of vocab mastery. But that universe can fit in the pocket of the expansive place that Bird creates with the music, a haunting warmth of quivering violins and slow-burning acoustic guitars that reverberates through the cranium like an open, unfurnished room. And that’s just it. No matter how grad-school-English-lit the lyrics get, the music beneath and above them sways with the same broad stroke of boundless, open-road freedom.
For every SAT Verbal wet dream of a lyric that Bird provides, there’ll be an analytical mind to digest it. I’m not one of those people, but I still feel like I get Noble Beast. Fat Possum Records, which is known more for servicing jagged blues personalities such as R.L. Burnside, Bob Log III, Junior Kimbrough and The Black Keys, have unleashed an uncharacteristically polished record in Noble Beast, an album that is as warm and welcoming as a log cabin in a snow storm.
Although Bird has developed his theatrical folk style over a career that spans more than a decade, this latest release recalls, more than any, a band that is every bit as green and unseasoned as Bird is reliable. That would be Fleet Foxes, whose mountainous sonic reach is matched valley for rolling valley by Bird here. Even Foxes lead vocalist Robin Pecknold shares an unmistakable similarity with Bird’s voice.
Whether it’s because Bird has developed a sort of expectation that he is supposed to meet or because his album just happened to come so soon after Fleet Foxes, Noble Beast will never reach the heights that album did. Alas, it doesn’t have to – despite the similarities, Bird’s creation still is its own unique animal.
For one, Bird takes his unparalleled violin skills through untraversed territory, avoiding the easy pitfalls of fiddle and bluegrass in favor of something that falls in between classical and Nick Drake-style folk. It’s demonstrated in all its beautiful, understated glory in “Masterswarm”. Bird finds other ways to keep things nuanced and fresh, such as the dynamic rhythms beneath “Not a Robot, But a Ghost” and the cheery whistling to close out “Oh No”.
Some albums are unfolding stories; some are emotions. Noble Beast is a painted landscape, a detailed panorama that isn’t so much inhabited as it is alive itself. With albums such as these, you might see better if you close your eyes.
-Andy Pareti
Review - Andrew Bird: Noble Beast
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (2/12/09)
Boy, does Andrew Bird make me feel stupid.
Having to look up words such as radiolarian and aubergine when Bird’s 2009 release, Noble Beast, is just three songs old makes me realize just how tiny a spec I am in this broad, vast universe of vocab mastery. But that universe can fit in the pocket of the expansive place that Bird creates with the music, a haunting warmth of quivering violins and slow-burning acoustic guitars that reverberates through the cranium like an open, unfurnished room. And that’s just it. No matter how grad-school-English-lit the lyrics get, the music beneath and above them sways with the same broad stroke of boundless, open-road freedom.
For every SAT Verbal wet dream of a lyric that Bird provides, there’ll be an analytical mind to digest it. I’m not one of those people, but I still feel like I get Noble Beast. Fat Possum Records, which is known more for servicing jagged blues personalities such as R.L. Burnside, Bob Log III, Junior Kimbrough and The Black Keys, have unleashed an uncharacteristically polished record in Noble Beast, an album that is as warm and welcoming as a log cabin in a snow storm.
Although Bird has developed his theatrical folk style over a career that spans more than a decade, this latest release recalls, more than any, a band that is every bit as green and unseasoned as Bird is reliable. That would be Fleet Foxes, whose mountainous sonic reach is matched valley for rolling valley by Bird here. Even Foxes lead vocalist Robin Pecknold shares an unmistakable similarity with Bird’s voice.
Whether it’s because Bird has developed a sort of expectation that he is supposed to meet or because his album just happened to come so soon after Fleet Foxes, Noble Beast will never reach the heights that album did. Alas, it doesn’t have to – despite the similarities, Bird’s creation still is its own unique animal.
For one, Bird takes his unparalleled violin skills through untraversed territory, avoiding the easy pitfalls of fiddle and bluegrass in favor of something that falls in between classical and Nick Drake-style folk. It’s demonstrated in all its beautiful, understated glory in “Masterswarm”. Bird finds other ways to keep things nuanced and fresh, such as the dynamic rhythms beneath “Not a Robot, But a Ghost” and the cheery whistling to close out “Oh No”.
Some albums are unfolding stories; some are emotions. Noble Beast is a painted landscape, a detailed panorama that isn’t so much inhabited as it is alive itself. With albums such as these, you might see better if you close your eyes.
-Andy Pareti
Boy, does Andrew Bird make me feel stupid.
Having to look up words such as radiolarian and aubergine when Bird’s 2009 release, Noble Beast, is just three songs old makes me realize just how tiny a spec I am in this broad, vast universe of vocab mastery. But that universe can fit in the pocket of the expansive place that Bird creates with the music, a haunting warmth of quivering violins and slow-burning acoustic guitars that reverberates through the cranium like an open, unfurnished room. And that’s just it. No matter how grad-school-English-lit the lyrics get, the music beneath and above them sways with the same broad stroke of boundless, open-road freedom.
For every SAT Verbal wet dream of a lyric that Bird provides, there’ll be an analytical mind to digest it. I’m not one of those people, but I still feel like I get Noble Beast. Fat Possum Records, which is known more for servicing jagged blues personalities such as R.L. Burnside, Bob Log III, Junior Kimbrough and The Black Keys, have unleashed an uncharacteristically polished record in Noble Beast, an album that is as warm and welcoming as a log cabin in a snow storm.
Although Bird has developed his theatrical folk style over a career that spans more than a decade, this latest release recalls, more than any, a band that is every bit as green and unseasoned as Bird is reliable. That would be Fleet Foxes, whose mountainous sonic reach is matched valley for rolling valley by Bird here. Even Foxes lead vocalist Robin Pecknold shares an unmistakable similarity with Bird’s voice.
Whether it’s because Bird has developed a sort of expectation that he is supposed to meet or because his album just happened to come so soon after Fleet Foxes, Noble Beast will never reach the heights that album did. Alas, it doesn’t have to – despite the similarities, Bird’s creation still is its own unique animal.
For one, Bird takes his unparalleled violin skills through untraversed territory, avoiding the easy pitfalls of fiddle and bluegrass in favor of something that falls in between classical and Nick Drake-style folk. It’s demonstrated in all its beautiful, understated glory in “Masterswarm”. Bird finds other ways to keep things nuanced and fresh, such as the dynamic rhythms beneath “Not a Robot, But a Ghost” and the cheery whistling to close out “Oh No”.
Some albums are unfolding stories; some are emotions. Noble Beast is a painted landscape, a detailed panorama that isn’t so much inhabited as it is alive itself. With albums such as these, you might see better if you close your eyes.
-Andy Pareti
Monday, February 2, 2009
Review - Omar Rodriguez-Lopez: Old Money
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (1/26/09)
If there’s one thing that Old Money – the latest solo album by The Mars Volta guitarist/producer Omar Rodriguez-Lopez – proves, it is just how much that band is Rodriguez-Lopez’s above anyone else’s. Detach the other band members (which doesn’t really matter, since they all have a hand in this album anyway), and the sound doesn’t change much from the space-station prog rock that has built a strong following since the band’s 2003 debut, De-Loused in the Comatorium.
Old Money contains all the intergalactic chord progressions and scientific theorem time signatures that The Mars Volta are known for. But it has more patience than the band has shown in recent efforts, which may be a testament to Rodriguez-Lopez finally catering to nobody’s creative needs but his own. If The Bedlam in Goliath, Volta’s latest (released in January 2008) was a new start for the band after the self-indulgent and not-so-well-received Amputechture, Old Money is the Empire Strikes Back to Bedlam’s New Hope. It is darker and moodier – maybe not as flashy, but it ultimately has more meat on its bones. (Before fans jump on me, I know this isn’t a proper Mars Volta album, but it might as well be, considering its sonic similarities and involved personnel.)
There is a sad truth that has seemed to happen to The Mars Volta, though, and one that inevitably has carried over to Rodriguez-Lopez’s solo outings, as well. For the first time, we, as listeners, finally have come to know what to expect from the music. Scramble the brain enough times with the same mad-scientist riffs, and it eventually turns to mush.
Luckily, Rodriguez-Lopez seems to be conscious of this to some extent: for starters, like on Bedlam, the music is broken up into bite-sized four- and five-minute portions instead of the sprawling, 15-plus-minute epics of the past. But unlike Bedlam, this album is much more dynamic than Rodriguez-Lopez’s past work. Between the usual guitar and drum assaults are some true beauties of tension and mood. Ironically, they are presented more as short detours, like “1921” and “Vipers in the Bosom”, both under two minutes and both instrumentals, yet both incorporating some truly innovative new directions for the musician.
Unfortunately, none of the tricks that are still up the sleeves of Rodriguez-Lopez (or vocalist Cedric Bixler-Zavala, or even studio guitarist John Frusciante) could ever result in another progressive bitch slap across the face of mainstream music like De-Loused was. The more he tries, the more it seems apparent that it simply is not possible. It’s not the worst thing that could happen. The music still is interesting, even if it is usually self-congratulatory. But for the first time, it’s usual to be unusual – all the effects and bombast can’t make it new again. In fact, maybe the only way for Rodriguez-Lopez to come out and surprise everyone again is to start playing lo-fi indie rock. Sure, this is a musician who has made his career off of unpredictability, but somehow I just can’t wrap my mind around that one.
– Andy Pareti
If there’s one thing that Old Money – the latest solo album by The Mars Volta guitarist/producer Omar Rodriguez-Lopez – proves, it is just how much that band is Rodriguez-Lopez’s above anyone else’s. Detach the other band members (which doesn’t really matter, since they all have a hand in this album anyway), and the sound doesn’t change much from the space-station prog rock that has built a strong following since the band’s 2003 debut, De-Loused in the Comatorium.
Old Money contains all the intergalactic chord progressions and scientific theorem time signatures that The Mars Volta are known for. But it has more patience than the band has shown in recent efforts, which may be a testament to Rodriguez-Lopez finally catering to nobody’s creative needs but his own. If The Bedlam in Goliath, Volta’s latest (released in January 2008) was a new start for the band after the self-indulgent and not-so-well-received Amputechture, Old Money is the Empire Strikes Back to Bedlam’s New Hope. It is darker and moodier – maybe not as flashy, but it ultimately has more meat on its bones. (Before fans jump on me, I know this isn’t a proper Mars Volta album, but it might as well be, considering its sonic similarities and involved personnel.)
There is a sad truth that has seemed to happen to The Mars Volta, though, and one that inevitably has carried over to Rodriguez-Lopez’s solo outings, as well. For the first time, we, as listeners, finally have come to know what to expect from the music. Scramble the brain enough times with the same mad-scientist riffs, and it eventually turns to mush.
Luckily, Rodriguez-Lopez seems to be conscious of this to some extent: for starters, like on Bedlam, the music is broken up into bite-sized four- and five-minute portions instead of the sprawling, 15-plus-minute epics of the past. But unlike Bedlam, this album is much more dynamic than Rodriguez-Lopez’s past work. Between the usual guitar and drum assaults are some true beauties of tension and mood. Ironically, they are presented more as short detours, like “1921” and “Vipers in the Bosom”, both under two minutes and both instrumentals, yet both incorporating some truly innovative new directions for the musician.
Unfortunately, none of the tricks that are still up the sleeves of Rodriguez-Lopez (or vocalist Cedric Bixler-Zavala, or even studio guitarist John Frusciante) could ever result in another progressive bitch slap across the face of mainstream music like De-Loused was. The more he tries, the more it seems apparent that it simply is not possible. It’s not the worst thing that could happen. The music still is interesting, even if it is usually self-congratulatory. But for the first time, it’s usual to be unusual – all the effects and bombast can’t make it new again. In fact, maybe the only way for Rodriguez-Lopez to come out and surprise everyone again is to start playing lo-fi indie rock. Sure, this is a musician who has made his career off of unpredictability, but somehow I just can’t wrap my mind around that one.
– Andy Pareti
Review - The Flaming Lips: Christmas On Mars
Originally published in Soundcheck Magazine (1/26/09)
What are we to make of The Flaming Lips’ seven-plus-years-in-the-making maternity experiment in space, Christmas On Mars? It seems both too goofy to analyze critically and too philosophical to cast away as psychedelic nonsense. When put that way, I suppose it fits perfectly in The Flaming Lips’ universe.
Christmas On Mars is a (probably intentionally) low-budget, interstellar musing about humanity and, particularly, motherhood. The setting, a suspiciously terrestrial-looking space station on Mars, is stocked mostly with hallucinating male workers, dark, scary corridors and lots of gloom-and-doom atmosphere. Pink Floyd might have sang about the dark side of the moon, but according to The Flaming Lips, Mars is all dark, which is a bit surprising coming from the majestic, hopeful sound of the band’s lush musical repertoire.
Make no mistake, though. Christmas On Mars is not a musical, nor is it even a music-oriented film, regardless of the soundtrack created by the band. The music is far from the twisted pop melodies that fans are used to; it’s a proper film soundtrack, which means it is led solely by pacing and mood. This makes it both void of most of the splendor fans have come to expect from the band and, ultimately, irrelevant in their sonic catalog.
Band leader Wayne Coyne directs the film while he and the rest of the Lips either star or cameo in the movie, which may be the most direct and unadulterated exploration of Oedipal complexes and in-utero fantasies to come along in film in a long, long time. Most of the major players’ aforementioned hallucinations generalize around fetuses and vaginal imagery, which later is explained adequately in one of the film’s more interesting scenes. It all revolves around the colony’s lone female inhabitant, who has very little interaction with the men but whom the crew seems to look at as some kind of supernatural miracle worker.
The film sets up for a Christmas pageant of sorts that never actually happens. But there are elements of Christmas miracles that come into play, particularly when a rather ordinary-looking alien (played by Coyne) shows up. The film is too straight-laced to become a stoner classic and yet still is weird-for-the-sake-of-weird enough to suggest that Coyne and the gang felt compelled to meet some sort of universal expectation of them.
Christmas On Mars is one of those inexplicable passion projects that some artists become possessed by, and so it never can be appreciated by an audience as much as the creator appreciates making it. You definitely won’t see it trailing It’s A Wonderful Life on Thanksgiving weekend TV, and you probably won’t even see it in a college dorm room sandwiched between Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Trainspotting. It’s an interesting little film, but that’s about it. Its ambition certainly meets The Flaming Lips’ standards, but the end result falls a bit short.
– Andy Pareti
What are we to make of The Flaming Lips’ seven-plus-years-in-the-making maternity experiment in space, Christmas On Mars? It seems both too goofy to analyze critically and too philosophical to cast away as psychedelic nonsense. When put that way, I suppose it fits perfectly in The Flaming Lips’ universe.
Christmas On Mars is a (probably intentionally) low-budget, interstellar musing about humanity and, particularly, motherhood. The setting, a suspiciously terrestrial-looking space station on Mars, is stocked mostly with hallucinating male workers, dark, scary corridors and lots of gloom-and-doom atmosphere. Pink Floyd might have sang about the dark side of the moon, but according to The Flaming Lips, Mars is all dark, which is a bit surprising coming from the majestic, hopeful sound of the band’s lush musical repertoire.
Make no mistake, though. Christmas On Mars is not a musical, nor is it even a music-oriented film, regardless of the soundtrack created by the band. The music is far from the twisted pop melodies that fans are used to; it’s a proper film soundtrack, which means it is led solely by pacing and mood. This makes it both void of most of the splendor fans have come to expect from the band and, ultimately, irrelevant in their sonic catalog.
Band leader Wayne Coyne directs the film while he and the rest of the Lips either star or cameo in the movie, which may be the most direct and unadulterated exploration of Oedipal complexes and in-utero fantasies to come along in film in a long, long time. Most of the major players’ aforementioned hallucinations generalize around fetuses and vaginal imagery, which later is explained adequately in one of the film’s more interesting scenes. It all revolves around the colony’s lone female inhabitant, who has very little interaction with the men but whom the crew seems to look at as some kind of supernatural miracle worker.
The film sets up for a Christmas pageant of sorts that never actually happens. But there are elements of Christmas miracles that come into play, particularly when a rather ordinary-looking alien (played by Coyne) shows up. The film is too straight-laced to become a stoner classic and yet still is weird-for-the-sake-of-weird enough to suggest that Coyne and the gang felt compelled to meet some sort of universal expectation of them.
Christmas On Mars is one of those inexplicable passion projects that some artists become possessed by, and so it never can be appreciated by an audience as much as the creator appreciates making it. You definitely won’t see it trailing It’s A Wonderful Life on Thanksgiving weekend TV, and you probably won’t even see it in a college dorm room sandwiched between Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Trainspotting. It’s an interesting little film, but that’s about it. Its ambition certainly meets The Flaming Lips’ standards, but the end result falls a bit short.
– Andy Pareti
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
