For their second full-length, the three members of New York's Robbers on High Street (after the 2005 Tree City debut, Jeremy Phillips and Tomer Danan left the band and Morgan King joined) called on Italian film composer Daniele Luppi, who had never worked with a rock band, hoping to capture a British Invasion sound that vibes with the band's power-pop energy. Although Grand Animals falls short of hitting that mark, but the album is more sophisticated than Robbers on High Street's one-dimensional debut.
The Robbers don't experiment with one particular sound, a testament to their progress. In the three-minute "Ramp," lead singer and guitarist Ben Trokan moves from a dry croon, gathers momentum and then closes on the piano. "Your Phantom Walks the Hall," where Luppi's influence is heavy, puts synths and strings to maximum cinematic effect to suit Trokan's moody lyrics. "You Don't Stand a Chance" infuses ska-style guitars and echoing vocals that evoke an Elvis Costello/Coldplay hybrid.
But there is much here that showed up on Tree City. The opening ballad, "Across Your Knee," jumps from a full-band effect to verses concentrated on Trokan strumming and wailing. "Crown Victoria" features dueling electric and acoustic guitars. And "Married Young" and "Nasty Numbers" locate the same energy upon which Trokan and Steve Mercado founded the band in their Poughkeepsie youth.
Trokan overindulges in "Guard at Your Heel" and "Keys to the Century" -- a forgettable closing tandem that once again shows the Robbers have plenty of room to improve. But with Luppi's influence, the band holds its ground in more sophisticated territory on Grand Animals than it has in the past.
Remember how refreshing all those indie-rock boy-bands sounded when they first rediscovered the slanted angles and spiky rhythms of post-punk four or five years ago? But, oh dear, look at how dull and diluted they have become as their lackluster second and third albums hammer this monochrome formula into joyless chart fodder. Which helps to explain why the sexy, arty grooves of New Young Pony Club feel not just exciting but necessary.
Like CSS, the Gossip, and other female-centric peers, this five-piece from London have not forgotten the playful mischief and glamor that fuels all the best pop music. They are already bigger than the "new rave" tag foisted on them by the music press, and their highly assured debut album crams a mini-riot of post-punk pastiche, bedsit electronica, reggae, funk and shouty attitude into 39 minutes.
The band's livewire singer, Tahita Bulmer, delivers her scattershot lyrics in a deadpan, semi-spoken staccato that lends attention-grabbing charisma to even the most robotic tracks. She sounds sulky and defiant on Get Lucky, moody and withdrawn on the nocturnal prowl of "Talking, Talking," and plain lascivious on the innuendo-laced lust anthem "Ice Cream": "Fantastic flavored fancy/ Sick like Sid and Nancy/ Wicked as a joyride jaunt," Bulmer squeals over a throbbing disco-rock backdrop that is bizarrely reminiscent of Rod Stewart’s "Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?". Which is a good thing, obviously.
Produced by the band's guitarist and the main songwriter, Andy Spence, Fantastic Playground is a crisp and bouncy affair. It contains teasing echoes of early 1980s New Wave legends including early New Order, Tom Tom Club, the B52s and Bow Wow Wow, but New Young Pony Club wear their retro references lightly. Judging by the sizzling urban-samba rhythms of "Hiding in the Staircase" and the stuttering percussive clatter of "Jerk Me," comparisons with the likes of No Doubt, Timbaland or Kelis would make just as much sense.
Crucially, Fantastic Playroom is not some in-joke collection for painfully hip rock historians. Brimming with smart, infectious, contemporary pop, this is the album of the summer and, so far, the best British debut of 2007.
The Cribs specialize in songs about staying out too late, embarrassing your friends and losing your heart to girls who are even drunker than you are but deserve better than you anyway. It's a theme that never gets old, and their third album is a holler-along Brit-punk gem. Three brothers from the mining town of Wakefield, the Cribs didn't make an impression at first, but despite abysmal sound quality, their melodies unfolded over time -- "We Can No Longer Cheat You" was one of 2005's great lost pop tunes. On Men's Needs, the Cribs give max boom and blast to snotty pub stomps like "Our Bovine Public," "My Life Flashed Before My Eyes" and "Girls Like Mystery." Franz Ferdinand's Alex Kapranos turns out to be a great producer, while Sonic Youth's Lee Ranaldo adds vocals to the spoken-word oddity "Be Safe." Finally, the Cribs deliver the tour de force they had in them, and it's about time.
At the core of the New Tragedies is husband-and-wife couple Aaron and Bev Weidner. They're joined by Jason Wright on drums, Dustin Kinsey on lead guitar, and Nate Hofer on pedal steel. Aaron writes the songs and plays rhythm, Bev plays bass, and they team up on singing in a virtually constant duet manner reminiscent of Low. And like the chair-kicking couple from Duluth, the Kansas City-based Weidners don't have the sunniest disposish of all the kids in day care. But they aren't the saddest, either.
It's a predictable combination for such an attractive duo -- so sweet, so pwetty and soooo saaad -- but on their latest EP, Souvenirs, Aaron and Bev show maturity and innovation in their songcraft with lyrics and melodies that are weary but not tiresome. "Chandelier" has simple and catchy electric licks Ryan Adams would've cut off his bangs to have written first. Other tracks include "Onward Christian Soldier," an anti-war song to turn the heads of people who didn't think protest could sound pretty, and "90 Proof," evoking Neil Young when he was angry and still young.
The South London borough of Wimbledon has had a fair few claims to fame over the years -- the 'Crazy Gang', Henman Hill, Mike Batt and his pointy nosed furry creatures - but it's been a bit scarce on the ground when it comes to musicians. Not for much longer though if Jamie Treays has his way. He's been one of the hippest names to drop for nearly a year now thanks to a steadily growing internet buzz, and the singles that he's produced so far have been greeted with critical acclaim and extensive radio play.
Treays has always been pretty difficult to pigeonhole. He's friends with artists such as Larrikin Love and Lily Allen, yet sounds like neither. He's been compared to The Streets, but his songs are a million miles away from the grimey raps of Mike Skinner. There's even been the odd mention of Billy Bragg, but there are no earnest political protest songs here.
One thing that Treays can be described as though is a great songwriter. He fills his songs with characters so well sketched you can almost picture them -- from the melancholic yet angry drunk in "Calm Down Dearest" to the underage girls going dancing in "Salvador." And with a single line like "girls singing on the bus, fellas kicking up a fuss", he can sum up the madness of a Friday night out in London.
He may not be for everyone though. The opening track of "Brand New Bass Guitar" is about as raw it comes, a slapdash punky rush with Treays accompanied on the acoustic bass of the title. Lyrically, it touches subjects such as drunk driving and gun control, and even cleverly swipes from '50s rock'n'roller The Big Bopper with its "helllooo baby." It's an exhilarating opener.
Musically, the album bounces all over the place. From the shuffling dance rhythms of "Dry Off Your Cheeks," through the scratchy acoustic folk of "Back in the Game" and singalong anthems such as "Sheila" and "If You Got the Money," each track buries itself expertedly in the memory.
Treays' lyrics guarantee they stand up to repeated listens as well -- "So Lonely Was the Ballad" is a brilliant examination of a menacing night out, complete with people who "talk with their fists and argue with their friends". By the time Treays is talking about the men who "steal your girlfriend -- take her round the back, she'll come back limping", you're completely riveted.
Salvador is similarly impressive, a dark tale of schoolgirls who lie to their fathers when they want to go out dancing, while the blistering "Pacemaker" even has some topical undertones, with mention of body bags coming back from Iraq. Each song is scattered with memorable phrases such as "Salvador"'s "bang bang Anglo Saxon at the disco" or "Calm Down Dearest"'s "I'll soak my fuckin' socks off." And we really can't forget "Sheila"'s winning opening couplet of "Sheila goes out with her mate Stella, it gets poured all over her fella".
Each song is littered with imaginative samples, such as John Betjeman in "Sheila" and lines from a self-help tape on panic attacks in "So Lonely Was the Ballad." There's even little hip-hop style skits in between tracks, mostly consisting of Treays swearing, but all of these are just a few seconds long and never outstay their welcome.
Although some long-term fans may be disappointed at the lack of new material (there have been demo versions of half the album floating around on the internet for the last few months), that doesn't stop Panic Prevention from being one of the year's early musical highlights. Move over Uncle Bulgaria and 'Tiger Tim,' there's a new kid in town.
John Vanderslice is ready to go sort-of political on his next album.
The American Four-Tracker's next effort, Emerald City, was written as his French girlfriend struggled to reverse the decision to deny her a visa to the United States, and operates in a world where the powers that be play heavily on the little guy. Emerald City, which arrives in stores July 24 from Barsuk Records, follows up 2005's Pixel Revolt. Like most of his albums, it was recorded in Vanderslice's own Tiny Telephone studios and produced by the singer/songwriter.
"Oh, wow! There's a pool here, man! On the boat!" shouts Dan Sartain, calling from the deck of a ferry leaving Amsterdam for England. "I'm gonna have to cut some jeans up and jump in!" Sartain, 25, just played to hyped crowds in the Dutch capital, where he also smoked a ton of primo weed. (He recommends the "AK-47" -- "a good, clean stone.") The native Alabaman -- who looks like a young Howard Hughes crossed with a gas-station attendant and writes songs that sound like the Stray Cats fronted by a cracked Southern troubadour -- has generated a growing fan base in the U.S. and a much bigger one in Europe.
"I just tell people I sound like Chris Isaak on acid, hooked up to jumper cables,"he muses. "Yeah, that seems about right." Join Dan Sartain, his latest record, modulates classically tuneful confessionals with jerky post-punk weirdness, a dollop of rockabilly, and whimsical lyrics about strange dreams, coy little girls, and boys with guns. "I don't just want to be a 'feelings' guy," he says. "Even Morrissey is funny. He makes fun of fat girls!" As a teenager, Sartain began writing songs at a time when smoking pot and huffing glue were his other favorite hobbies. He sent demos to Swami Records, owned by Rocket From the Crypt singer John Reis, who signed him in 2003. Even with a record deal, Sartain's songwriting MO isn't terribly professional. "I write stoned all the time," he says. "Weed has a weird effect on me. I smoke pot and get very productive. That's what I keep telling my drug counselor. Just kidding."
In the States, Sartain has often toured by himself, driving alone cross-country, sleeping in Burger King parking lots. But in Europe, he's already taken off. Sartain toured with hot Brit band the Kooks and was invited to perform at the NME Awards -- but only if the legendarily unreliable Pete Doherty didn't show. "Pete turned up, and I went back to my dressing room to get more pot, and there were all these Nation of Islam dudes with earpieces who wouldn't let me by," Sartain says. "I didn't get to play, I got harassed by these dudes, and I didn't even get to meet Kanye West!"
Sartain had issues with Alabama growing up, but he finds himself defending it whenever he leaves. "I mean, nobody walks down the street in a Grand Wizard outfit," Sartain says of Birmingham, where he and his wife just bought a house. "The craziest thing I ever saw was a guy in overalls beating the shit out of a pig with his bare hands." As a kid, Sartain fell in love with Sonic Youth, Bauhaus and the Wu-Tang Clan while zoning out in class. He finally dropped out of school in ninth grade and ended up working a slew of menial jobs -- dishwasher, pizza boy, janitor at the YMCA. "I was on mushrooms last night, and I was thinking I might be working the rest of my life to maintain what I have," he says. "But that's fine. I'm just happy not to have a real job, man."
It used to be that you could put your faith in, well, Faith. There was the notion that The Truth was everlasting, constant and handed down from the big dude himself. Then theologians started literally messing with the gospel: After figuring that dooming those unbaptized babies to an eternity of semi-existence was pretty cruel, Limbo was taken off the books. With mounting evidence for evolution, creationists changed their tune and came up with "intelligent design" as a less lunatic alternate to hard-core creationism. Let's not even get into how much trouble those ideas of a flat Earth and geocentricism gave the world as science deflated old-world ideas.
It sort of makes you want to put your faith elsewhere, doesn't it? Maybe Pop should be the rock upon which your day-to-day revolves. After all, science hasn't been able to discredit Pet Sounds and, at least to the best of our knowledge, there hasn't been any evidence suggesting that big, hooky arrangements aren't what we thought they should be.
Australia's Dappled Cities might be a good place to start your new worship. Granddance juggles bedroom-pop's coy vocals with arena-pop's knack for soaring melodies. It knows the nearly spiritual power of a jangly guitar, but isn't afraid to spruce up its tunes with fleshed-out, lush arrangements. And if Granddance doesn't exactly make a case to canonize Dappled Cities to join pop's saints, it could be enough to make a believer out of darn near everyone.
Dappled Cities' mix of bedroom pop's understated melodies with bigger ambitions takes a lot from Trembling Blue Stars' bag of tricks, though Granddance is a lot more than just another installment of indie-kid Bob Wratten-worship. For starters, "Fire Fire Fire" unwinds some shy, understated vocal melodies only to see them slowly blossom into nearly epic arrangements worthy of Snow Patrol. "Vision Bell" takes a whirring keyboard to add a dose of sci-fi weirdness to the band's ear candy. "Colour Coding" and "Granddance" get a little more conventional, as the band simply applies its spin on bedroom grandiosity to the tracks for big, layered arrangements with all the comforts of home-brewed basement pop.
The best thing about Granddance isn't the Aussies' ear for high-fructose melodies or their urbane arrangement powers. It's that knowing, no matter what science and mass culture throw at this record, it's going to be as credible five, 10 or 20 years from now. Now only if religion was that reliable.
Canadian indie-poppers Stars have put their new album, In Our Bedroom After the War, up for legal download -- even though it's not officially due until September 25 -- and their label, Arts & Crafts, is totally cool with it. A post on the label's site reads: "We hope you'll choose to support the band, and choose to pay for their album. However, we don't think it's fair you should have to wait until September 25 to do so. We believe that the line between the media and the public is now completely grey. What is the difference between a writer for a big glossy music magazine and a student writing about their favourite bands on their blog? ... As such, we are making the new Stars album available for legal download today, four days after its completion. ... We hope you will continue to support music retailers should a physical album in all its packaged glory be your choice of format." The band hits the road in support of the release starting October 17 in South Burlington, Vermont.
Wild Mercury Sound By John Mulvey, www.uncut.co.uk To be honest, the success of Rilo Kiley has been pretty bewildering to me up 'til now. Much as I liked Jenny Lewis' country solo album, Rabbit Fur Coat, I never grasped the appeal of her band. For all her likeable L.A. snarkiness, their music always sounded like a grey jangle; as if the American mainstream had embraced, what, the Sundays maybe, as the future of music. Quite strange, but in quite a dull way.
For the past couple of weeks, though, I've been hammering their forthcoming new album, Under the Blacklight, and now I understand. Not that, unless my memory is playing tricks on me, Under the Blacklight sounds much like Rilo Kiley's previous records. Instead, it's a bright, wry confection that resembles a clever indie kid's fantasy of L.A. pop music. Maybe you've never been to California, maybe you can't drive, maybe you're being a touch ironic, but surely this is the sort of record you should listen to while you're motoring along the Pacific Coast Highway?
Jenny Lewis, it transpires, is tremendously good at this sort of thing. Under the Blacklight is one of those albums which is simultaneously knowing and celebratory. She doesn't have indie guilt, exactly, but she's clearly smart enough to see the richness and the absurdities of her hometown and its signature pop sound.
There are vague hints of sleaze and misdemeanour amongst the silvery disco guitars, the dry, finickety funk. "Dreamworld," as you'd imagine, is a Fleetwood Mac homage lustrous enough to sit on "Tango in the Night," though the gently subversive Lewis contrives to sound more like Lindsey Buckingham than Stevie Nicks.
And beneath the precision gloss, each listen reveals a few odd things. "Close Call" is one of Lewis' elaborate, compelling narratives, which begins "She Was Born on Brighton Pier," while the guitars chime insouciantly in weird homage to the Stone Roses and "I Wanna Be Adored." There are little melodic echoes of things I don't like that much throughout: "Amazing Grace" on "Silver Lining," "La Isla Bonita" on "Dejalo," Rainbow's "Since You Been Gone" on "Breakin' Up." But these vague allusions help to make Under the Blacklight sound instantly familiar and ready for the charts -- or at least an indie idea of what the charts should be.
"Breakin' Up" is especially great, a brash and liberated song about separation with a chorus of, "Oh, it feels good to be free," that at once feels euphoric and calculated. It occurs to me, though, with the American mainstream's current indie fetish (for Arcade Fire, Modest Mouse, the Shins, et al) that Rilo Kiley might have made a theoretically commercial record at precisely the wrong time. It will be interesting to see how this one pans out.
The most surprising thing about Our Love to Admire (once you're over the initial shocks of: a) that willfully non-Interpolesque cover art; and b) Carlos D's new varmint-chewing facial hair) is the fact that for the first time the band have cracked open the shades long enough to allow a few rays of light to penetrate the ever-gloomy world which they inhabit.
Granted, it isn't quite a complete change of weather -- most of Our Love to Admire is still draped in the same perma-drizzle atmosphere which throttled Turn on the Bright Lights and Antics -- but when Paul Banks suddenly sounds borderline excited about "Giving something new a try" on "No I in Threesome" you do wonder if maybe, just maybe, they've started to find some fun in this rock stars lark. Or at the very least, in threesomes.
However, for each glimpse of a happier place there's still a shitload of foreboding waiting to bundle the good vibes up in a carpet and fling them off a bridge; it's hardly an album collecting glow sticks and boarding the bus bound for party-central. But then again, Interpol without the darkness would be like Editors with an original idea or the Fratellis' without a Leo Sayer lookalike upfront: unequivocally wrong.
It starts spectacularly. "Pioneer to the Falls" is a magnificently ominous thing, all skeletal guitar riffs writhing like landed eels, a rhythm section laying weighty footprints down in the back and Banks' spectral vocal floating wraith-like across the top. As a raspberry blown at those who speculated on the negative effects the move to major label backing may have produced, it's loud, long and pretty darn-tootin' decisive.
It's a archetypal Interpol song, albeit deeper, richer and more detailed than anything they've managed before. And that's a common thread. Something like "Pace is the Trick" would have been good on Antics, but here it's extraordinary. Utterly sure-footed, utterly beguiling and hypnotically meticulous in the manner it slowly unfolds each section.
Lead single "The Heinrich Maneuver" crackles with the freed energy only known to those who have extracted themselves from a crappy relationship. "Mammoth" is mean, spiteful, and delivered with mocking indifference by Banks. But for both, and indeed elsewhere, it's the way in which the elements of the track click into place with a Swiss watchmaker's precision and artistry that really hits home.
The tempo drops towards the end. They've always had a knack of closing things in suitably downbeat fashion and it's no different here. "While Wrecking Ball" swings a sad arc of despair with all the slow-building momentum of it's titular entity it's "Lighthouse" which really shows how far Interpol have come.
Washes of Daniel Kessler's shimmering guitars lap over solidly grandiose brass surfaces and Banks sings a torch song that peels back the taciturn veneer that normally cloaks his voice in icy detachment. Of course, it's cool as fuck, but there's a surprising amount of warmth in it too.
Pah. We leave Interpol alone for five minutes and they pull this trick on us. This isn't the same band we last saw in 2004. It's a louder, harder, bigger, bolder, smarter, happier, more confident, more innovative, better band then the one left behind. Screw the major label backing, screw the rumours of inter-band tension, Interpol are operating in another galaxy to the majority of those who claim to be their peers.
You'll get along just fine with Brendan Hangauer. The frontman of Lawrence, Kan., septet Fourth of July, Hangauer knows what it's like to be an under-30, hopelessly romantic Midwestern kid who likes to party and address last night's regrets in fleet verses and big, grinning choruses lined with rock'n'roll guitars and handclap rhythms. After all, Hangauer is an under-30 white kid from the Midwest, and so -- on Fourth of July's endearing debut, Fourth of July on the Plains -- that's exactly how he writes, sings and arranges. Even if you don't identify with his demographic or his particular plight -- trying to balance a long-distance romance and his own vices -- you'll likely understand the feelings they bring.
Hangauer's not a brainy writer, or at least that's what he wants you to think. He's fine settling for plainspoken aphorisms ("Goodbye's a hard word to use" and "Love can make you do some crazy things") and lazy end rhyme ("Do I still want her? Now that I'm free/ Like a tree/ And my roots so deep"), writing afternoon-after songs about getting way too drunk and trying not to fall in love with girls he shouldn't go home with. Instead, he watches movies where the characters look like her and himself or locks himself in his house and drinks until he calls her in France and says stupid things. Maybe you've been this person?
His band's not brilliant, either: The drums are simple, steadfast rock beats; the bass lines are roots and steps; horns slice in and above the best anthems; the guitars are, at their most effective, simple and predictable. When they're not, they sound uncomfortable, like an inexperienced Nels Cline twisting his way through Kicking Television without the tempering experience of Geraldine Fibbers. It's not a look Fourth of July wears well, so -- luckily -- they generally forego it. Rather, they do comfortable empathy the best, but they get away with twisting a lot of kinks into such simplicity. These are smartly arranged songs with multiple points of entry, fitting for a guy like Hangauer, who writes with ingenious wit and charm. Like, in "Surfer Dude", he imagines tracking his paramour to France, and finding her there, about to cheat. "I watch him help you with your French/ As the season skips the spring." There's the wink. "And he whispers he can teach you how to surf." The nod. "And I yell, 'I know what that means.'" And there's the massive headshake of anxiety. You know what he means, too, right?
Some will lament that Fourth of July isn't as good as the Weakerthans, and they'll be completely right. As a band, the Weakerthans -- sharp, expert, taut -- tried things Fourth of July doesn't even aspire to with On the Plains. And, lyrically, Weakerthans' frontman John K. Samson flexed smarts Hangauer would say he doesn't even have (he'd be lying?). When Samson needed to excuse himself from an awkward social encounter on Reconstruction Site, he explained his dogs needed to be fed before noting that his acquaintance looked like early 20th century explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton. Then things got interesting. When Hangauer's agitated, he drinks, picks up the phone, or thinks about making love.
But it is worth noting that Hangauer gets something right that Samson -- unlike many of his sloppier peers -- nails, too. Like a keen, imaginative novelist or a fastidious journalist, Samson drops tiny narrative details in his best songs like signposts -- batteries stolen from fire alarms, darker grays breaking through lighter ones, the sight of nervous hands in tense conversations. Similarly, Hangauer is obsessed with weather and memories. He notes that he was only half a mile from his house when he made the decision to drink with strangers instead of make out with his girlfriend, and, when he professes that the telephone makes him feel less alone during "She's in Love," you listen to Hangauer apologize to her in France. "Your dreams, they are more important than us," he sings, trapped in the melody and lying through his teeth. He's the same guy that notes the sun shines for her when she walks down the street or says that he can't cheat and claims that he'll help her move to New York when she's ready. Indeed, this Hangauer is a good guy. You'll get along just fine.
What's happened to disco between 2005 and now? Well, soon after Datarock released their debut for the first time, Madonna got in on the disco train with Confessions on a Dance Floor, so you knew this re-emergent genre had some legs and some cultural resonance. Then there was new Sophie Ellis-Bextor, new Sister Sisters, more from !!!, Sally Shapiro earlier this year, and... how could we forget Mika - Mika. I'm mentioning the commercial side of thing -- Lindstrom's doing disco in a much more inventive and idiosyncratic way -- because this is the sliding scale into which Datarock fits.
Bergen's fueled more than its share of musicians, and has really earned its stripes as the pop hotbed of Norway. There's a real sense of camaraderie in the little harbour between the hills, and Datarock's in the middle of it. It's romantic to think of Fredrik Saroea and Ketil Mosnes sitting around some way-cooler-than-you'd-ever-get-in bar with Annie, the guys of Röyksopp, and Kings of Convenience, and at least to some extent they share some twisted pop sensibility. Datarock are the most slyly ironic. From the very first, when they exploded in 2005, there was a natural coagulation with someone like Greenskeepers, whose Hannibal Lechter appropriation "Lotion" was just as kitschy, twice as creepy. How can you avoid it, on "Computer Camp Love"? If you haven't heard it, the song is modeled on "Summer Lovin'" but is twisted together with Revenge of the Nerds and with tongue firmly in cheek. "Did you put up a fight?... Idon'tthinkso." That song was written in 2003 and, of course, it got played out, and at its heart it is pretty much a novelty. It's strange to be still writing about it now, but the damn thing still makes you smile.
And that's kind of the problem. The U.S. version of Datarock Datarock may be somewhat pasteurized, ditching the über-gay "Night Flight to Uranus" and the commercial-baiting "Maybelline," but the bulk of the record is so familiar from a previous round of peri-release hype that, like last year's Mylo release, the album plays like a stream of familiar hits. It might be a case of too late to properly join the disco party, but that doesn't mean not worthwhile for those unfamiliar with the group. You'll just have to suspend some of the saturation you may have reached in the meantime... drift back to the heady days of 2005 for just 50 minutes and dance ironically, irony-free. Nod head to "Fa Fa Fa"'s dance-rock goodness; wiggle more to the deadpan disco pronouncements of "Sex Me Up." In this ever-changing musical landscape of ours, sometimes it's nice to return to an old friend.
The three new tracks included on out Datarock Datarock are slightly more sophisticated than the earlier material, but fit in neatly enough. "Gaburo Girl" is a half-winking, sweet ballad to Tokyo and the "Gaburo girls" -- is he talking about a prostitute? An underage girl? The strings are so lush you're hard-pressed to care much. "See What I Care" almost Fujiya & Miyagi-esque in its understated rock vibe, an easy synth background and smooth vocals building in texture to something more forceful, more anguished. And "New Song" crashes with real punk viciousness, except Saroea's shouting about MIT and EMI.
Datarock Datarock is still a sweet confection, but its subtleties make it a continued pleasure to listen to. The U.S. release is way past due, but to lament the fact and pass over the album again would be a graver mistake. It's no masterpiece complexity-wise but the flashy showmanship and carefree sexuality continue to stake a claim for relevance. In the mire of samey electro pop, at their best Datarock are a little bit of disco heaven.
The interestingly-named Joan as Police Woman (a.k.a. Joan Wasser) has already been moving in the right circles, quietly building up a reputation for her work with acclaimed artists such as Antony and the Johnsons, Rufus Wainwright, and Nick Cave. However, as latest single "Eternal Flame" can testify, it's her music rather than her respected associates that should earn her the plaudits that are gradually coming her way.
"Eternal Flame" does not follow a catchy formula but instead offers a multi-layered sound for the more sophisticated listener and a fresh melody, perfect for a whimsical summer day. It has a radio friendly quality too, proving that interesting music can be commercial. Her vocals are as distinct as they are delicious and glide over the musical arrangement effortlessly. It's a sound that has echoes of fellow New Yorker Regina Spektor.
Joan's music is similar to that of some of those who she has worked with, simply in the sense that it is indefinable. She has a sound that is very current, but certainly not disposable, as much of the guitar bands currently churned out on the radio airwaves are. Let's hope her sound is around for many more years to come.
Madison, Wisconsin, U.S.A. Jonk Music encourages you to buy your favorite music. If you like the sample you hear, please support the artists by purchasing their work and attending their shows.
