I love the musical and lyrical drama that Madison's Pale Young Gentlemen manage to pack into not even three minutes here. We first hear only a cello, playing a jerky line with what sounds like a mysterious rhythm until we understand that it's actually just accelerating into the right tempo for the song. Kinda fun. A crisp acoustic guitar joins in, and a violin (or maybe a viola? or both?). By the time front man Mike Reisenauer sings those not-your-typical-indie-fare opening lines — "You start to worry 'bout your health/As you reach a certain age" — this song has achieved liftoff (aided by a drum that enters with exquisite timing).
And it's really only just starting; the rest of the way, "The Crook of My Good Arm" all but explodes with melodic vigor and instrumental dexterity: the strings play rascally melodies and rhythms, a cowbell clangs at precisely the right moments, and Reisenauer, his voice vaguely processed, handles the theatrical rhyme scheme (check out the spiffy A-B-C-C-B pattern in the verse, leading into the titular phrase) with the casual authority of someone who's more interested in telling a story than simply singing. Sounding nothing like rock bands that are typically associated with the word, I'd say that Pale Young Gentlemen (a seven-person outfit that includes by the way three women) possess great swagger. This isn't "Wail on the electric guitar and scream bloody murder" swagger or "Dig my blues riff and my street cred" swagger or even "Be awed by my laptop skills" swagger — it's "We know exactly what we're doing and don't really sound like anyone else" swagger. The best kind, in other words.
"The Crook of My Good Arm" is a song from the band's second CD, Black Forest (Tra La La), which will be released in October on the Madison-based label Science of Sound.
Half-Icelandic, half-Italian singer-songwriter Emiliana Torrini is, along with chief collaborator Dan Carey, best known in pop circles as the co-writer and co-producer of Kylie Minogue's 2004 hit "Slow," and that same expertly crafted minimalism can be found in her third album's reggae-infused title track, which bounces along to a measured dub rhythm accented with small bursts of guitar and subtle laser-beam effects. With 2005's Fisherman's Woman, Torrini moved away from the electronic sound of her 1999 debut Love in the Time of Science, and though she smartly continues in that vein on Me and Armini, there are surprises to be found around the bend of every verse and hook. To wit, the creaky acoustic guitar and subliminal chirping of the exquisite "Birds" builds to a not-quite-crescendo of slightly shuffling percussion, foregrounded bass and spacey sonic atmosphere left over from trip-hop's heyday. There's no reason Torrini shouldn't be heaped with the kind of critical praise Robyn, Sally Shapiro, and Lykke Li have enjoyed in recent months. Lyrically, she's capable of being both poetically evocative ("Naked trees they dress in crows," she sings on the lush, string-filled closer "Bleeder") and uncomplicated (the chorus of the vindictive "Ha Ha" consists of dry, faked laughter), and she communicates her emotional agony by carefully and deliberately stretching out her words on "Hold Heart": "You're my king no more/With that mer-ci-less he-arrrrt." Torrini's voice is something to behold, twisting and turning as it does around her tale of passion, faith, infidelity and disappointment on "Heard It All Before." She has a playful, often youthful quality (the adjective "pixie-ish" comes to mind more than once throughout the album), but she also possesses a distinct swagger, particularly on the grisly "Gun," which recounts a murder-suicide from the point of view of the weapon: "Hey, look me in the barrel and tell me that you love me/Yes, this is a kiss that I swear will blow your mind." Accompanied by sultry electric guitar licks, reverb-y finger-snaps and breathy grunts, "Gun" might be one of the sexiest bloodbaths on record — and the highlight of an album that's filled with them.
Noel Gallagher has made his usual protestations that the new Oasis album a) is good and b) is not Britpop. The Quietus' Luke Turner has got his cynical hat on, but will he be forced to eat it?
1. "Bag It Up"
This opening salvo isn't a cover of the Geri Halliwell song or a "No Diggity"-esque chorus, but something to do with tea: the first two lines of this, Oasis' seventh album, contain a reference to pouring yourself a cup of lady grey, which all seems a little la-di-da for a band you'd imagine are more at home with a brew of PG that you could stand a spoon up in. Anyway, it's a solid start that'll do nothing to scare the Oasis faithful, sturdy blasts of chest-out noise, the bros G in duet on vocals, and ringing Noel Gallagher guitar lines that end in a suitably bombastic crescendo. So far, so expected.
2. "The Turning"
The first signs of a more adventurous Oasis appear here. The track opens with a drumbeat and a melody that, I jest not, isn't a million miles from a speeded up take on Radiohead's "Everything In Its Right Place." Perhaps the normally crackers Ryan Adams had a bit of point about the album sounding like Kid A? Let's not get ahead of ourselves, though. Liam's vocal begins and a whopping chorus drops in — so it's not the eureka moment when God's white beard appears on the computer screens of the Large Hadron Collider boffins, but in Oasis terms it's something of a progression. There's a fair amount of religious imagery present in the lyrics, the rapture and angels all putting in an appearance before the track fades into the sound of sea and sirens.
3. "Waiting for the Rapture"
Lyrically again, this has Big Themes, though they're doing that dangerous thing of the God/Love equation that Jason Pierce always gets in a muddle about. It's a pugnacious stomper, with a cracking chorus to boot, this time with Noel Gallagher at the vocal helm. Liam's voice might sound a lot better than his Brit Awards live bellow, (the five AM jogging sessions on Primrose Hill clearly getting some quality pre-rush hour London air into his lungs), but getting his older brother to do these higher parts on this one was certainly a wise move. Again, it does seem to represent a little more thought and breadth than Oasis' recent albums seem to have had — this all makes for a rather promising start.
4. "The Shock of the Lightning"
Dive bomber sounds give way to a sharp rat-at-ating from whoever fills the drum stool on these recordings (it seems unclear), before one of those battles between blugeoning guitars and Liam Gallagher's voice that marked Oasis' 1990s arrival begins. It's the sound of the band going back to where they began, bombastic and aspirational — "love is a time machine / up on the silver screen" — with a Beatles tic thrown in for good measure. There's a good keyboard breakdown before a fill you'd never have got from Tony McCarroll or Alan White, and we're clobbered with the full force of the track's core yet again. This sounds like it could have fitted in on Definitely Maybe or (What's the Story) Morning Glory?, an assured, ballsy stodge for men in raincoats to swagger down the road to. Actually, it is quite a lot like "Rock & Roll Star."
5. "I'm Outta Time"
And then, oh dear, a ballad. By Liam. Dedicated to John Lennon. This has been produced to within an inch of its life, the musical equivalent at that shockingly airbrushed NME cover of last week. Not really much to say more than that, except that it keeps trying to become "A Day in the Life" and the overall effect is that of Jeff Lynne's re-imagining of the Beatles. Oasis can do two ballads — the sort for blokes to hug to after a they've had a skinful, and the sort that said blokes use to apologise to their missus the morning after, and this fits neither. It's telling that this is the track that Liam penned in tribute to his hero John Lennon, a man more than capable of mawkish platitudes and balladeering insincerity.
6. "(Get Off Your) High Horse Lady"
Yet another shocking title (what's it about, those who criticised Noel's Best Groups Ever list for its lack of female artists?) for a track that sees Oasis strip things down to a rattle and a-handclap and slamming draws, a flick of bluesy guitar and Noel singing through effects... so he sounds like Liam. You get the impression Oasis probably think that this is their take on Tom Waits. It isn't, of course, it sounds like Phil Collins' "That's All," which is an interesting way to innovate, for sure.
7. "Falling Down"
Fucking hell, this one starts off sounding like Ride. Part of the great shame of Andy Bell spoiling late period Ride by turning them into an audition tape for Oasis was the instant demotion of the natural guitarist to bass as soon as he joined the ranks of the Mancs. He's not credited as a songwriter here, but still, it's even got some proper shoegazing lyrics, "catch the wind that breaks the butterflies," things like that. Noel calls this "krautpop" and says it's the song that he's been wanting to write for years. Why didn't you then, Parker? It displays Oasis' canny knack for hiding a good chorus amidst the skittish drums and strings, far better used here than the usual Oasis trick of bunging them on as an "emotive" afterthought.
8. "To Be Where There's Life"
Gem Archer (formerly of Heavy Stereo) channels George Harrison's patchouli ghoul via the sitar for this slow-burner. An Oasis track without guitars? What's the world coming to! The result is actually a lot less hackneyed than you might expect, creating the kind of burbling under-the-surface epic atmospherics that The Verve used to manage before they, er, tried to be Oasis. To be where there's life? For once, it can be found in a new Oasis album.
9. "Ain't Got Nothin'"
Another humdinger of a title with that double negative, and a fairly standard Who-influenced rocker penned by Liam. There's some harmonica and furious bluster here and there, while the melody takes a bit of a strange wander. There's also the problem that rhyming "fuse" and "lose," "groove" and "prove" always provokes a cringe when delivered in Liam's taut whine.
10. "The Nature of Reality"
Oasis get philosophical, though the music hardly aspires to intellectual heights. It starts with shaken maracas before settling into a bit of a blues plod, one-two drums and a vaguely glammy riff as Liam muses that "the nature of reality / is pure subjective fantasy." Someone on an Oasis messageboard isn't happy about this, though; "the one thing great about Oasis is that they aren't poetic saps like Bono or Chris Martin, and keep things simple and write songs that people can easily relate to," thunders one Notorious L4E. Could this be a problem for Oasis in Dig Out Your Soul? While their attempts to push their envelope might tickle the ears of a few post 1997 defectors, one imagines they're unlikely to win any new converts. Moreover, does the distinct lack of beery rockers or lighter wavers on this album risk alienating the more dunderheaded elements of their fanbase?
11. "Soldier On"
Don't be put off by the fact that The Coral found this on a hard drive at a studio used by Oasis, and none of the band could remember writing it until Andy Bell found it on his iPod. "Soldier On" is a sinuous and languid affair with melodica and multi-tracked echoing vocals, a pleasing counterpoint to the bluster of "Bag It Up" and a neat finish to a surprisingly good album.
I had expected, if truth be told, that getting through Dig Out Your Soul enough times to review it might have required the perseverance of a porridge taster. There's no shock of the new, of course, more a shock that Oasis have managed to climb up the wall at the end of their cul-de-sac to see what interesting pastures might lie beyond. Even if you can't help but wish they'd done this ten years ago after Morning Glory, credit where credit is due: by and large, Dig Out Your Soul, is a refreshing listen, both the sound of Oasis rediscovering some of the spirit that made them great, and attempting — finally — something different.
A combination of disbanded Alaskan groups — namely the post-hardcore outfit Anatomy of a Ghost — Portugal. The Man formed in 2005 and has been making quirky music ever since. Portugal. The Man's eccentric sound comes together once again on their third full-length album, Censored Colors.
Colorful is certainly a fitting adjective to describe Portugal. The Man's music, which ranges from lighthearted piano to ambient orchestral numbers to folkish, acoustic melodies. John Gourley's falsetto can be both beautiful and eerie, which gives the album a wide variety of sounds.
Portugal. The Man's blend of elements makes for an intriguing listen. Any band who can successfully transition from hints of electronic tones to progressive rock numbers to acoustic tunes backed by melodic piano and cello and still be true to themselves is surely doing something right.
The charming, playful chorus of "Lay Me Back Down" blends right into "Colors," with its beautiful, harmonized vocals against a backdrop of chords, strings and solemn melodies. With the conclusion of "Intermission" comes the more experimental half of the CD, jump started by "New Orleans," a jazzy track, and ending with "Our Way," which boasts feel-good reggae beats.
Truly a one-of-a-kind band, Portugal. The Man has created a fulfilling album, meshing distinctive, energetic sounds with several musical styles to create something truly unique.
Here's "the" record, the one that allows you to swoon and feel plugged in to hipness' oozing core. Olly Oxen Free, Mason Proper's second 2008 release after their similarly excellent digital EP Shorthand, could hardly fit more brilliance and understated creativity into its ten songs. Bandleader and wispy-voiced lyricist Jonathan Visger weaves us into entrancingly experimental post-pop music that sorta recalls indie greats The Dismemberment Plan, Menomena, and Islands. Additional touches of horns on "Downpour" or a child's voice on "Point A to Point B" create a full-bodied experience, one that will envelop the listener and carry them into a new, off kilter universe.
There's nary a misplaced moment during Olly Oxen Free. The planning these songs must have undergone is humbling; "Shiny" pushes the band's far-out boundaries with Visger taking Cold War Kids' Nathan Willett's delivery and twisting it into creepy yelps, which are then accompanied by raw, cutting guitar riffs and siren-like electronics. Each element serves to create a mood: "Fog" opens the album with supporting drum fills, hazy guitar tones and the lines, "My horoscope said pack your bags." The song continues to build into a chorus anchored by Zac Fineberg's subterranean bass and simple drumstick taps from Garrett Jones. But of course the real talent is Visger: He requires the musical equivalent of close reading. Sleep and you'll miss lines like, "In past lives I was wealthy / So probably unhealthy / Oh, I'm so glad I died," from the languid yet pulsing "Point A to Point B."
Olly Oxen Free is dark mid-tempo fare we seem to crave right as the leaves change. "Lock and Key" uses its angular riffs to create the perfect chill/dance vibe, while "Only a Moment" goes from sounding like every faux lo-fi indie song out there before turning into a post-punk carnival. Guitarist Brian Konicek and keyboardist Matt Thompson are supporting roles, sure, but their stinging parts (especially Konicek's noodling guitar tones) set the stage perfectly for Visger. Take away the menacingly simple keys in "Out Dragging the River" and lines like, "I think I'm through with the fighting / Chopped off my heavy, heavy hands," would sound almost silly. With music aimed at the intelligent few, each individual note must work as a partnership, as an efficient process. If one puzzle piece is missing (like the harmonic layers behind Visger's voice or the creepy outro laughs), this song may have failed. Lucky for us we'll never know.
Throughout the album's downward slope we hear through-the-telephone vocals and a folk influence on "In the Mirror." We hear "la la la's" and Dismemberment Plan-in-static stylings during "Alone." But the album's true genius shows itself in closer "Safe for the Time Being." The song takes its time in the buildup, making us yearn. It all explodes in claustrophobic noise, while Visger floats around in the upper register. He is commanding the troops right to the end. He's imploring us to listen, learn and pick his brain. We're all witnesses to a new powerhouse called Mason Proper.
The Delta Spirit's Matt Vasquez sings with an unabashed passion. On the barnstorming song "Trashcan," from the band's independently released 2007 album Ode to Sunshine — which received a wide release last month in a remastered edition from Rounder Records — Mr. Vasquez's alternating gritty howl and soulful wail ride a crest of piano, guitars, and percussion, something akin to The Band on an adrenalized night. Mr. Vasquez's vocal charisma, equal parts plainspoken troubadour and skyward-reaching believer, has earned the Sand Diego quintet its "Americana" tag. He's also the most immediate reason why the group's chugging sound clings to the ears days after listening.
Mr. Vasquez sings almost every song as if he's in a church choir, an energy that drapes a layer of blues over the Delta Spirit's fairly traditional folk rock. And it's not a shtick — the Delta Spirit is earnest above all. Its music unintentionally mingles two trends percolating through indie rock right now. One is a return to more traditional folk — minus the "freak" qualifier that is associated with Joanna Newsom and Devendra Banhart. The other is the conspicuous absence of irony, which has been a revered ideal since the Arcade Fire cropped up a few years ago sporting an avid sincerity. The Delta Spirit combines both methods into a stirring batch of rock that evokes Wilco circa Being There, even though Mr. Vasquez isn't as enamored with psychedelic pop songwriting.
The band is more interested in the emotions imbued in traditional American musical forms. As such, Ode to Sunshine runs from such foot-stomping electric fare as "Trashcan" and "Parade" (a song rooted in guitarist Sean Walker's gnarled riff), to gently galloping bluesy affairs such as "People, Turn Around" and the title track, which closes the album. Elsewhere, the band delves into slinky, funky folk ("Streetwalker") and piano-driven, closing-time ballads such as "Bleeding Bells," a lament that feels lifted from some obscure 1960s Western.
Musically, the Delta Spirit cranks out an immediate rush, guided by Mr. Vasquez's passionate holler, that will sweep up any interested party. Just don't pay attention to what he's saying. Lyrically, the group aims too much for the ambiguous profundity that mars a lot of contemporary sacred music. "If you're feeling what I'm feeling c'mon / All you soul searching people c'mon" is as deep as "People C'mon" gets. There's nothing wrong with belief in song — it's only been around since people started singing — but uncertain coyness feels insincere when wrapped in the Delta Spirit's music, which so reverentially conjures the emotional authenticity of the traditions that inspired it.
Manic, moving, and above all mellifluous, Mother Mother's O My Heart is a unique specimen in the genus of indie rock: it deals with big issues like existential dread, death, and love without resorting to maudlin clichés, and it gives the listener loads of pleasure in the meantime.
A five-piece from Vancouver, Mother Mother, helmed by guitarist/vocalist Ryan Guldemond, sound like they came of age on a steady diet of the Pixies, Mozart, and William Burroughs. The influence of the Pixies is especially strong on the opener, "O My Heart," which finds bassist Jeremy Page kicking things off with a line stolen straight from Kim Deal's playbook. The deeply enjoyable "Body of Years" can also credit a good deal of its appeal to the Pixies, as nearly the whole band gets in on the act. Guldemond himself does it best, channeling a slightly more sane version of Black Francis as he sings, "All the remains of a cadaver of days / I keep hidden away / Keep them there just in case."
The dark subject matter stands in contrast to the sonic tone of O My Heart, which is kaleidoscopically melodic and buoyed by the honey sweet accompanying vocals of Molly Guldemond (Ryan's sister) and Debra-Jean Creelman. Thematically, O My Heart is all perverse glee, punctuated by descents into sea-deep sadness. It spends much of its time lamenting the shortcomings of both life and those of us stuck living it. Take these opening lines from "Try to Change":
"Try to change, I try to change / I make a list of all the ways to change my ways / But I stay the same, I stay the same / I will try and try to change but I just stay the same ... / In a decadent age I try to change all my decadent ways but I just can't help but stay the same."
The repetitiveness of the lyrics illustrate the futility of the narrator's efforts while building to a payoff that, of course, ends up just being more of the same. These kind of clever writing tricks would probably be a little irritating were it not for the angelic presence of Molly Guldemond and Jean-Creelman. The appeal of their soft, cooing vocals can't be overstated, and without them, most of these songs would collapse under their own heavy, compositionally complex weight. The duo holds these songs aloft, though, especially darker ones like "Arms Tonight," a message from a dead woman to her still-living lover—the sunniest sounding song on the album.
It's that kind of witty juxtaposition, along with Mother Mother's uncommonly keen sense of melody, which sets the band apart from the dozens and dozens of other Canadian indie rock bands that have emerged over the past decade. Mother Mother have an appreciation for irony that goes well beyond words. It's similar to the kind of thing They Might Be Giants did during their best years, circa Lincoln and Flood, addressing bleak themes in a cheery way that belies the inherent despair. Mother Mother aren't quite as lyrically smart as They Might Be Giants, but as composers, they boast as much ingenuity as the Giants or any other band cut from the same cloth. Sure, certain moments sound lifted straight from Doolittle. But as T.S. Eliot said, "Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal."
One day, while the Oregon-based alt-country band Blitzen Trapper was beginning to record its fourth album, an old piano showed up inside the band's studio, a converted telegraph office near the Willamette River.
Despite lacking some keys and sounding out of tune, singer and songwriter Eric Earley used the piano to write most of the music for the band's upcoming Furr.
That, in part, explains why Blitzen Trapper doesn't sound much like other bands — and seems poised to get its big break about the time it can afford a real piano.
Piano aside, Blitzen Trapper was able to afford more technology this time around. After remaining independent since its birth in 2000, Blitzen Trapper will release Furr Sept. 23, its first album released on the acclaimed Sub Pop record label.
"[Furr] doesn't have that recorded-in-the-garage sound," Earley said. "We didn't use four-track tape this time."
"The songs are more cohesive," said Marty Marquis, guitarist and keyboardist. "It's not so much schizophrenic."
Schizophrenia is an apt description of the band's sound. The lo-fi approach that marks all of its records recalls the Rolling Stones' landmark album Exile on Main Street and makes the music sound slightly muffled, as if the instruments were wrapped in cheesecloth. But through that approach, the vocals and keyboard and drums and guitars meld together, as if they were all the same instrument, aiming at a single end.
In an interview, Earley resisted the urge to define his band's genre, saying that recent attempts by journalists to compare Blitzen Trapper to Tom Petty, ELO and even Queen mean nothing. "Add them to the list" of hundreds of other musicians the band has been compared to, he said.
Making the move to Sub Pop involved a little trepidation, Marquis said. In some music scenes, like Blitzen Trapper's homebase of Portland, fans and industry insiders start to shun musicians who move to big labels rather than staying within the do-it-yourself ethos of the indies.
"When we were teenagers, Sub Pop was legendary," Marquis said. "So far, so good. We're excited to see what [Sub Pop] can do."
If James & the Quiet wasn't a loud gunshot alerting trespassers that change was coming, the canon blast of Waiting in Vain should leave Toth's sonic shift reverberating through the valley.
James Toth's fascination with the creaky sounds of country continues to purge his earlier psychedelic fixations. Waiting in Vain, Toth's first solo effort out from under the Wooden Wand banner, continues down the beaten trails of out-of-the-way dirt roads and rolling green valleys intended to be scenery and pit stops for hurried travelers more accustomed to life on the interstate sprawl. Toth's younger days of capturing the big city and bright lights of pulsating psych rock and blistering free-folk have succumbed to his desire to escape to the quiet outskirts of Tennessee.
But Waiting in Vain doesn't completely shake off the bombastic sounds of Toth's not-so-distant past — those acid-washed moments find their way into Toth's country nostalgia. For every tear in his beer, there's also a Cheshire grin reflecting back from the half-empty pint. While loyal subjects may feel betrayed by the move from the commune to the tavern, it's Toth's desire to drink alone that has wrought on of the better juke joint albums of the decade. With good jukebox jams becoming scarce, Toth has taken it upon himself to make an album to which we can crawl into the bottom of a bottle, kiss on our loved ones, and reminisce without having to scour pages of bad bar songs. Toth gives us a taste of Charlie Pride country-soul ("Look In on Me"), Joni Mitchell confessional ("Do What You Can"), Conway Twitty longing ("Doreen"), and a bit from his abandoned alter-ego ("The Dome").
Waiting in Vain is the confident voice of a man happy to embrace his love of the classics of country, soul, and folk scattered in cheap bins at truck stops. Toth has turned fixation of the forgotten and neglected into an eclectic mix, unlike much of his earlier work. His time on endless highways has delivered Toth from his tunnel vision, revealing a world of sights and sounds often ignored in a world propped up by emerging technologies and tabloid sensationalism. Indeed, Waiting in Vain captures the modest landscape of America's backroads and countrysides. Not everything happens at the breakneck pace of the big city. Toth has stopped to run amongst the wildflowers and sip the bathtub gin; Waiting in Vain is his invitation for us to do the same.
Watching Jon Sunde over the last few years was akin to anxiously waiting for a pot to boil. A talented singer-songwriter, it was obvious Sunde was restless and unfulfilled playing small gigs by himself in and around Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Sunde's music was thoughtful and beautifully crafted yet it somehow seemed incomplete, as if Sunde was thinking beyond and ahead of himself, but was simply limited by his one-mandom.
Enter friend, Jesse Edgington, and brother, Jason Sunde. Together, they formed The Daredevil Christopher Wright in the summer of 2004 and Jon's songs grew into whimsical pop/folk creations bolstered with unconventional instrumentation and lush ballads enriched with gorgeous three-part harmonies.
The band's first full-length album In Deference to a Broken Back will be the band's third release and showcases more of the quirky, carefree writing that defines The Daredevil Christopher Wright's music. But often, their joyful sounding music masks weightier lyrics and concepts. Deference includes tracks titled "A Conversation about Cancer," "War Stories," and "Hospital" — pretty serious subjects for pop songs.
Similarly, the first single off the album, "The East Coast," is a delightful song whose lyrics have more depth than the sounds they are encased in. A biographical song about the third Sunde brother and his wife moving to New England, the track is laced with recorder, violin, and glockenspiel and punctuated by incidental wood block and tambourine. It is clear listening to this track that the trio knows one another well, musically and personally, and as a result Jon's songs have finally come to fruition.
If the opening chords of new single "Something Anything" suggest Travis have gone in a new, edgy, scuzzy-rock direction, then the song "J. Smith" confirms this.
Epic, orchestral rock — suffused with tough beats — is not how you would ever imagine Travis' music defined, but this is what they have achieved on their new album, set for release at the end of September.
The album Ode to J. Smith will be the Scottish band's sixth studio offering, but unlike previous offering The Boy with No Name, it was recorded in a mere 14 days, something drummer Neil Primrose allows himself to sound reasonably chuffed about when he speaks to the Limerick Leader.
"It was a reaction to spending two years making the last album, and being caught up in the machinations of record companies and media and marketing, which unfortunately — along with the celebrity crap we live in today — seems to dominate our society," says the Scot.
Songs for the album were written in two writing sessions and then toured live to gauge the response to them, before they were recorded in a "rush of creative energy" that Neil says he enjoyed.
"It was far more enjoyable, because it was instantaneous," he explains. "I'm quite hyperactive, I get bored easily, I don't like sitting about in recording studios. The songs were all ready, so when it came to the studio, when we pressed record, we basically had most of the songs in the second or first take."
Neil stresses that unlike most other bands of today, Travis recorded this offering on tape as opposed to digital format, and almost entirely live, playing together in the same room. The result is a brash and edgy album that is most un-Travis like, which might see them escape the category they have been pegged in for much of their later career, often dismissed as melodic pop-rockers responsible merely for spawning the likes of Coldplay and Keane.
Neil recognises just how different this album will be for the band. "There is a lot more variety," he explains. "There are two or three mellow tunes, one is really dark — it has a real, dare I say, Twin Peaks sound to it — some are more poppy, while others are more epic. I think 'J. Smith' is the most ambitious, but the album still has a real cohesive element in terms of the sound and there is something there for everyone, but generally it is a lot heavier and a lot more in your face."
This album will be released by the band themselves, through their own record label. "We got to the point where we were at a crossroads and had done our five albums that we were contracted to do, so we took control.
It is the way it has to be until the music industry sorts itself out, the only way that you will get anything done is to do it yourself.
"It's a pretty good place to be in, it does create more work and we do have to take more responsibility and pay for more things ourselves, but ultimately, what is coming out is a far more concentrated version."
In 2006, you couldn't open a music paper without seeing The Spinto Band being tipped for the top in one poll or another. It never really seemed to take off for them, though, despite the praise heaped on their Nice and Nicely Done album. Back next month with Moonwink, it's immediately obvious that they haven't made any sweeping changes to their sound. Spinto reference points include The Beatles and ELO, and the latter's influence is most obvious on the lead single "Summer Grof," which could well be the surprise hit of the season.
"Hazelton" from the albumHazeltons
2006 Unreleased
Bon Iver's Justin Vernon is one bad-ass dude. He grows beards, he pushes people around in the post, and he writes records that everyone loves and wants to buy. That's a big three-for-three. This is from an album he did before the glory (but when he was still pushing people around in the post). Vernon recorded and released this in Eau Claire back before DeYarmond Edison moved to Raleigh.
It's funny how much this bridges the gap between DeYarmond, both musically and ideologically. There is still the same loneliness, the same isolation that so many people have come to relate with Justin's current work, but there's still something folky and earthy about the Hazeltons recording as well. This is Justin stripping down, calling us out, and getting out before anything hits the fan. Oh, and the music is unstoppable too. That helps.
It's pretty hard to find this recording, but if by magic you find it, immediately pick it up. It's not only a portrait of the artist as a young man, but a portrait of the rest of us, too. Sheesh, who knows what I'm saying anymore. Just listen.
It took Los Angeles band Rilo Kiley the better part of a decade to rise through the indie rock ranks, but with her 2006 solo debut, Rabbit Fur Coat, the group's frontwoman, Jenny Lewis, quickly proved a force to be reckoned with.
Whether she's kicking ass in a sparkly jumpsuit onstage with Rilo Kiley or baring her soul with an acoustic guitar, Lewis has built a sizable base of fans and celebrity collaborators alike.
Now on the heels of Rilo Kiley's 2007 career best-seller, Under the Blacklight, Lewis is ready to unveil what else she's got up her sleeve with Acid Tongue, due September 23 via her band's current label, Warner Bros.
"It rocks a little harder," Lewis says of the new set. On Rabbit Fur Coat, which was released on pal Conor Oberst's label, Team Love, and has sold 129,000 copies, according to Nielsen SoundScan, she paired with the Watson Twins for a folk- and-soul-influenced collection of songs that showcased her intimate side.
But with Acid Tongue, her main objective going into the studio was to cut as many songs live as possible. In January, Lewis and co-producers Johnathan Rice, "Farmer" Dave Scher and Jason Leder retreated to Sound City Studios in Van Nuys, California, for three weeks of all-analog recording sessions. "The vibes were fantastic," she says.
The album features guest spots from a number of Lewis' friends, including Elvis Costello, who duets with her on "Carpetbaggers"; the Black Crowes' Chris Robinson; and her beau, Rice. Actress/singer Zooey Deschanel offers backing vocals on several tracks ("I love being flanked by hot brunettes," Lewis says), and Deschanel's She & Him collaborator M. Ward provides a moody guitar part on "Pretty Bird." Lewis' sister Leslie also supplies backing vocals, and her dad, Eddie Gordon, plays bass harp on the honky-tonk-ish "Jack Killed Mom."
One notable departure from Lewis' previous work is "The Next Messiah," a pulsating, nearly nine-minute cut that's "actually three different songs that Johnathan Rice and myself wrote together," she says. "I happen to be a Barbra Streisand fan, and Barbra Streisand fancies a medley, so we discussed stringing the three songs together."
Compared with writing material for Rilo Kiley, whose last album was polished with glittering studio sheen, Lewis says she uses the band's songs "as a reference point to go in the complete opposite direction" with her solo work.
Swedish group Marching Band is comprised of the simple guitar and drum pairing of Erik Sunbring and Jacob Lind — both of whom contribute vocals on their first full length album entitled Spark Large.
Formerly known as Second Language, the duo realized their musical affinity while attending college. It was at that creatively fertile time that they began to stray from the guitars and drum and embarked on recordings which experimented with an array of atypical indie-pop instruments. The result is found in their eclectic 12-track album Spark Large, where xylophones, banjos, marimbas, and vibraphones are all freely put to work.
After spending years on the dancefloor with Black Cherry and Supernature, Goldfrapp takes a breather with Seventh Tree. Allison Goldfrapp and Will Gregory slow down the beats and break out the acoustic guitars on a set of songs that suggest chilling out in a field during a hazy, watercolor summer; this is music for after the party, not after-parties.
"Clowns" opens the album with finger-picked acoustic guitar, birdsongs, and Allison's nearly wordless vocalizing, making a statement that's bold because it's so gentle — the effect is like stepping out into a sunny morning after spending all night in a club. At first, it's a shock, and then it feels great. Avoiding the glammy dance-pop of the duo's previous two albums is a bit of a risk, since Goldfrapp could probably make endless variations on "Ooh La La" and still have plenty of fans. However, Seventh Tree isn't so much a radical change for Goldfrapp as it is a shift in focus; even if it doesn't sound glam, it sounds glamorous.
Sonic luxury has been the only constant in the duo's sound, from Felt Mountain's darkly lavish soundscapes to Black Cherry's and Supernature's decadent dance hits, and there's plenty of it here, too. This is not Goldfrapp Unplugged, although acoustic guitars and strings waft in and out of the album effortlessly — if anything, Seventh Tree's electro hippie-chic is the duo's most polished and luxe work yet. "Little Bird"'s psychedelic trip-hop builds to a majesty that recalls "Strawberry Fields Forever," buoyed by layer upon layer of guitar, vocals, sparkling synths, and a massive, rolling bassline. "Caravan Girl" is some of Goldfrapp's finest escapist pop, capturing the irresistible appeal of running away with big hooks and an even bigger Wall of Sounds backing them up. Allison uses her voice more beautifully and expressively than she has since Felt Mountain, especially on "Eat Yourself" and the Air-esque "Cologne Cerrone Houdini," where her upper register shines.
Goldfrapp expands their emotional palette as well as their musical one on Seventh Tree, digging deeper into the vulnerable territory they explored with Supernature's "Number One." On "Monster Love" and "A&E," where Allison confesses "think I want you still, but it may be pills at work," the duo pulls off the confessional, folktronic singer/songwriter style with more flair than their peers. "Happiness," on the other hand, offers some surprisingly cheeky irony, pondering how to find "real love" (answer: "donate all your money") while coming across like a cheery cult anthem about trading your worldly possessions for colorful robes. With all the sounds and feelings Seventh Tree explores, it's clear that Goldfrapp doesn't miss the style the pair perfected on their last two albums, nor should they — this is some of their most varied, balanced, and satisfying work.
Appleton, Wisconsin is a tough place for an artist to make a living. Oddly enough, that's what Cory Chisel likes about it.
"It's very hard on the art community, in a way," he said. "It's not very supportive if it doesn't resonate. This is not an area that's made for people to run around and make art. This is a very steady town, built on the paper industry."
Chisel, a 26-year-old Appleton musician on the doorstep of hitting it big with a freshly signed RCA Records recording contract in his back pocket, never backed away from making his run at the big time from the confines of his hometown, and with hometown talent along for the ride.
There's something complex and not easily definable about Appleton that keeps him close by.
"I travel to other places and people like to make it like, 'Oh, it's beautiful and it's quaint.' It's not really any one of those things, you know?" he said. "It's a small town with a large-world sense. I wouldn't say this town is ignorant or cut off or simple. Our main exports are Harry Houdini and Willem Dafoe, you know? There's some oddness about the town that I really like. I think that's why I feel safe here. I'm not apple pie and baseball, that's for sure."
It's true that the most successful bands in the Fox Valley are the ones that play other people's music. But it's also true that when the Fox Valley does decide it likes an artist who's doing something a little different, it will support that artist unconditionally.
Chisel has been playing music seriously for about the last decade — he cut his first CD of original music when he was a sophomore at Appleton North High School — but it took six or seven years before people realized he wasn't kidding around. His persistence paid off — he's developed such a loyal following here that he can book concerts at venues such as the Lawrence Memorial Chapel and Fox Cities Performing Arts Center. Few local musicians have that kind of clout.
Now that he's signed to RCA, Chisel is often asked why he hasn't left Appleton for a larger market. He chooses to stay here, he says, because his roots in this town run deep.
"Something about our art is very much influenced by this town; it's art that's influenced by the textures and environment that we all grew up in," he said. "And (the community has) really gotten behind what I've done and just continues to support us."
The Midwestern songwriter vibe suits Chisel better, anyway. Many days he'd rather be relaxing and writing songs at his family's cabin in Elcho. When he's in town, his favorite place to eat is Galvan's, the mom-and-pop diner on Appleton's north side. And his favorite place to play, the place that has been the scene of some of The Wandering Sons' most memorable shows, is Cranky Pat's in Neenah.
Though he was born in northern Minnesota, Chisel has lived in Appleton for nearly twenty of his 26 years. He still lives in the same part of town where he grew up, and he married his best friend from childhood, Erin, who lived across the street when they were kids.
Chisel's family has supported his musical aspirations from the beginning. His mother is a pianist and his uncle, Roger Anderson, is a blues artist. Chisel counts him as a main influence on his musical growth. When Chisel formed the band Breathing Machine as a student at North, his parents bankrolled their first CD for $5,000.
When Chisel and The Wandering Sons shot a concert video in mid-April, they could have picked anywhere. But the record label wanted the shoot to feel authentic, so Appleton was the choice. The former Pilgrim's Cafe in the heart of the downtown was turned into an old juke joint and used for the venue. The shoot was directed by John Adams, a filmmaker originally from Appleton and one of Chisel's best friends. Brad Knapp, an Appleton graphic designer who also books shows at Cranky Pat's, shot photos. A number of local musicians joined Chisel on stage. And the invitation-only audience was made up of fans from the Fox Valley who have supported him and the band through the years.
Greg Sampson of Little Chute has been one of those longtime supporters.
"More than anything, everyone I know in the local music community really is behind those guys and everyone knows that nobody deserves it more than them," Sampson said in December. "They have worked hard to define their sound, collaborate with others and build a loyal fan base. I'm very proud of them and I will always be a fan of Cory Chisel & the Wandering Sons."
It's that relationship with his hometown that gives Chisel a feeling of comfort here. "As long as I make art for the same reasons I started making art, (the community) would support it, even if this record business fell down," Chisel said. "Maybe this is stupid to believe, but I sort of believe that I would have a career here with or without any of it."
You may remember the name David Vandervelde from last year. The Brooklyn (via Chicago and Nashville) singer-songwriter put out a record in 2007 called The Moonstation House Band, which received some positive press and fleeting blog attention (is blog attention anything but fleeting?) for its fresh take on glam rock. He's back now with a sophomore LP, Waiting for the Sunrise, which, though similarly inclined towards the past, is stylistically quite distinct. Instead of the nasal glissandi and funky basslines, Vandervelde has turned to more relaxed, rootsy source material for inspiration.
Unlike bands like The Magic Numbers, who look (further) back with a firmer sense of straight reproduction, Vandervelde is undoubtedly interested in our experience now. At any rate, he's in his 20s, and (as Keith Gessen tells us) when you're 20, or 21, or 22, or 23, what you want from life is inextricably tied up in what you think of yourself.
But then this time, unlike the debut on which Vendervelde wrote every part and played every instrument, members of Vandervelde's band, including Jay Bennett (Wilco), contributed to the composition process, and the result is more consistent, yet more homogenous. By about the fourth song on the record, things settle into a predictable groove, with rootsy guitars and layered vocals filtered through a soft-focus '70s haze. It's not repetitive so much as merely a comforting tour through tropes made entirely familiar by many "lite rock" stations. Still, there's plenty of pathos to be mined from this arrangement, and Vandervelde grasps this with a casual grace. As "Old Turns" fades out, he asks, "How long will it take me to understand how old turns to new?" It could be a justification for the whole backwards-facing attitude of the album, or a much more personal realisation about the effect of time on love.
The album is front-loaded with a series of sparkling tracks that strongly make Vandervelde's case for the relevance of nostalgia-rock. Opener and first single "I Will Be Fine" is so laid-back it almost doesn't exist — but then again, propulsion's not the point. Guitar lines wander around in the mud, in no hurry to emerge back to another verse; vocal parts cascade into echo at the end of a line.
Nonetheless, Waiting for the Sunrise is never boring. At worst it dips into 'pleasant' territory, and if that guitar jam comes precisely when you're expecting it, let's call it "classic" rather than "formulaic" songwriting. This album may not catapault Vandervelde into the mainstream, but it should cement his reputation as a somewhat nostalgic, but solid singer-songwriter with an ear for catchy melody.
There's a lot to say about Anni Rossi. She's been working with Steve Albini on her debut album proper, slated for release on 4AD in 2009. She's recorded a version of Radiohead's "Creep" that turns the self-loathing of the original inside out and upside down. She's loved by other artists like Electrelane and The Ting Tings, with whom she's toured Europe and the States. And she's apparently popular not just with artsy boho types, but with American heartland blue-collar construction workers, who think she's a cross between PJ Harvey and Paula Abdul.
And yet it's hard to know how to describe her. "Avant-folkie" sort of comes close, as does "neo-classical singer-songwriter with quirky voice." Luckily, the 22-year-old from Minnesota via Los Angeles has her own neat tag for who she is and what she does: "I'm a classical kid, turned viola-pop wunderkind," she says. So there you have it. For further idea of what to expect from her 4AD debut EP, Afton, imagine if Björk had been captured after leaving the Sugarcubes and locked in a darkened room with the viola player from the Brodksy Quartet. Rossi is that viola player.
Classically trained from a young age, she started out as a violinist before opting for its "lower register and larger-framed cousin." Now she plucks the poor thing with manic glee while whooping and shrieking like a hyped-up pixie. This is music for singing round the old Joanna — or maybe that should be Joanna Newsom? Rossi is like Newsom's kid sister. Or perhaps Devendra Banhart's brattish, precocious younger cousin. You'll either find her winningly girly and intoxicating, or irritating in her smug idiosyncratic strangeness.
On "Machine," the opening track on Afton, she eeks and grrs to denote joy unbound while the lyrics express a general wonderment at ice, snow, the natural world, and if that doesn't merit the epithet "Björkesque," we don't know what does. Most of Rossi's songs are sparse and spare, the spaces in the music filled by her panoply of vocal tics and imagistic imaginings. On "Arctic Swing," for example, she longs to be a beekeeper's daughter in the Himalayas. Where "Machine" finds her "swinging crazily like a stock exchange," "Ecology" is the closest she comes to a pop song, albeit an eccentric little one (it's 1:46 short, with guitar, woodwind, percussion and a driving beat). It sees her marvelling at caterpillars, her discovery that they're "concentric" eliciting a series of raar!s, hah!s and shriek!s. On "Venice," she alternates between long drawn-out moans and sharp ecstatic sighs before countering the classical viola runs that close the piece with a bizarre impression of a motorboat. Like we say, you're either going to love her or be filled with homicidal fury at her every gasp, wail and chirrup.
"White boys from Essex playing funk" — it's a phrase that conjures up all sorts of disturbing images from the mid-1980s.
Whether the band wear white socks is unknown. What we do know, though, is that they used to be a rather earnest Travis-like group called Echelon until they saw the error of their ways, bought a synth and discovered Curtis Mayfield, Sly Stone, and Stevie Wonder. According to their MySpace, they are planning to "infect the world with a groove like some out-of-control STD." Which is nice.
So another indie band gone dance? Well yes, but this lot do it with a bit more conviction than Klaxons, the group they're most likely to be compared to. The group's debut for XL Recordings, single "Make This Work," features the glorious Prince-like falsetto of vocalist Paul Usher and some scratchy guitar that's more Orange Juice than Level 42. It's the sort of off-centre pop you'd imagine Radio 1's schedulers will be sniffing around fairly soon.
It's still early days for the group, who recorded the single on a 16-track tape machine in guitarist Mark Brandon's bedroom. An album follows next year, after which we'll know whether they're the indie-funk superstars they aspire to be or simply Curiosity Killed The Cat for the noughties.
The cover of Throw Me the Statue's debut album, Moonbeams, features a topless swimmer arced in mid-air, turning a fall into a graceful dive. Taken by Norwegian photographer Heidi Johansen, the image has the feel of an unstaged vacation souvenir: There's a boat in the background, a towel draped loosely around another woman's head, and a big toe intruding into the lower-left hand corner. It's well chosen: The casual composition and playful flash of nudity say quite a bit about the music contained therein, despite not including the name of the band or the title of the album. Moonbeams is a collection of loosely staged fuzz-pop songs about travel and sexual treachery, possessing a lens flare of regret even as they portray the singer — or at least his first-person counterpart in these songs — as a "lusty" soul living from one hook-up to another.
Throw Me the Statue is the clunky pseudonym for Scott Reitherman, who plays almost every instrument on Moonbeams and even released it on his own label before signing with Secretly Canadian. He introduces opener "Young Sensualists" with a brief overture of bright synths, then fades into darker, droning chords for his tale of a beach-set love triangle. The simple plucked strings, programmed beat, and melodic guitar solo give the impression of one guy turning himself into a band. And yet, just as the title hints at youthful self-mythologizing, the vacation details suggest that the inspiration came not from a postcard tacked to a bedroom wall, but seemingly from real experience.
The rest of Moonbeams bolsters that impression. Reitherman comes across as far too social — and far too well-traveled — for such a solitary pursuit; as the cover art suggests, he's too worldly and musically curious to shut himself in. Moonbeams features a small backing band and a revolving roster of guests, including multi-instrumentalist/producer Casey Foubert, who has worked with Pedro the Lion and Sufjan Stevens. There are horns on "Groundswell," samples on "Yucatan Gold," and what sounds like an ambient accordion on the title track. Occasionally Throw Me the Statue's musical range seems like an end in itself, as if eclectica were its own genre, but generally Reitherman's range highlights his hooks and wordplay.
"About to Walk" begins with a static-crusted pong beat before Reitherman launches into a vocal melody that has him reaching into his upper range. "Yucatan Gold," another tale of a vacation dalliance, begins with a syncopated percussion sample that nods to Latin American music, but as the other instruments enter, all that remains of it is the cowbell, twitching on offbeats. "She's a crazy animal when she screams," Reitherman sings. Overly dramatic and more than a little self-satisfied, it's a silly refrain — an indie-pop nod to Girls Gone Wild.
Following the "juvie malaise" of "A Mutinous Dream" and the hopped-up horn section of stand-out "Groundswell," the Hallmark imagery and funereal trumpet on the title track sounds too pedestrian, even for a song about his dead grandfather (well, especially for a song about his dead grandfather). Sure, it leads Reitherman to realize he'll be dead a hundred years from now, but that's a well-worn idea. Moonbeams is best when it is least sentimental, when Reitherman's antihero coldly accounts for his own actions and confusions. Fortunately, the album doesn't end with Reitherman flipping through old family photos, but with him softly singing "The Happiest Man on This Plane," a drifting acoustic valedictory that confuses sex with love. Again. Adding a bit of carnality to an often asexual genre, Throw Me the Statue's candor is compelling.
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